Chapter Text
Three years into the darkness, Prompto leaves their apartment in Lestallum for more permanent lodgings near Hammerhead. It only makes sense—he already spends much of his time out there, whether participating in hunts or lending a hand at Cid’s garage. The night before his departure, Ignis cooks him a meal of daggerquill rice, and they share a half-empty bottle of wine Gladio persuaded another hunter to trade for twelve potions. After, Prompto packs all of his belongings into a single bag, hugs them both, and then he goes, letting the door click softly closed behind him.
It doesn’t feel like a goodbye, though. Prompto has always spent more time out of their home than in it, and they won’t be parting ways forever. He’ll be just a phone call away. He’ll return to Lestallum for hunts. They’ll always be a family, even if the realities of their world keep them apart for months on end.
A week after that, Iris and Talcott move in, taking the spare room Ignis occupied before he made his place in Gladio’s bed permanent. Gladio grumbles about privacy and personal space, but Ignis likes the company. These days, Gladio is almost never home. He works long hours at the gym, training fledgling hunters to fight, and spends still more hours away from Lestallum in pursuit of daemons. Sometimes, when he can’t stand to listen to Iris’s begging any longer, he takes her with him on hunts.
But he never takes Ignis. They’ve discussed it, of course, more times than he can count, but Gladio always asks him to stay behind, imprisoned by the safety of Lestallum’s lights. It doesn’t matter to him that Ignis is still bound by his duty to Noct, that Ignis must be ready to fight when Noct returns. As far as he’s concerned, Ignis has already sacrificed enough of himself for Noct’s sake. You need a little more training, Iggy, he’ll say, his voice soft and conflicted. It’s too dangerous out there. Maybe next time.
But next time never comes.
He can’t stay upset, though, when Gladio comes home to him in one piece and gathers him into his arms, kissing him like they haven’t seen each other in a decade. As Gladio lays him down and worships his body, he forgets all about the darkness and the daemons and their petty arguments. No, he lives for the quiet, tender way Gladio makes love to him so Iris and Talcott won’t hear. They stifle each other’s sounds with kisses. He buries his face in Gladio’s hair and surrenders to the oblivion of pleasure.
Afterwards, when they’re both still slick from their exertions, he holds Gladio, counting each of his breaths as he falls asleep.
It’s hard to be the one left behind. He wants to fight by Gladio’s side, and not just because he feels useless puttering around the apartment. It’s because too many hunters have come home under white sheets and in pine boxes. Some don’t come home at all. Every time he kisses Gladio goodbye, a part of him wonders if it’s the last embrace they’ll share.
What if he loses Gladio to the darkness, as he is destined to someday lose Noct?
He tries to occupy his mind, to stop himself from thinking those thoughts. When Gladio is away, Talcott reads to him, and in return, Ignis teaches him how to cook. They make pastries together—butter tarts and ulwaat scones and cheese biscuits that Talcott sells at the market on Sundays. Even though they only bring in a few hundred gil each month, Ignis feels like he’s contributing to their household in some tangible way, so that Gladio doesn’t have to shoulder it all on his own.
It’s an easy life, especially in these hard times. But sometimes, he sits at the open window in their living room, listening to the sounds of Lestallum, and he longs for something more than this.
*
Gladio won’t take him hunting, but he still brings Ignis to the gym every other day. He understands, at least, that Ignis needs the exercise, and that knowing how to defend himself is essential in a world growing more and more desperate by the day.
They always come after hours, when they can be alone, and where Ignis has the space and privacy to make mistakes. They spar, at times with weapons, at others with their bare hands. Gladio always holds back with him. Ignis wishes he wouldn’t. He’s not as competent with his daggers as he used to be, and without a challenge, he never will be again.
He learns to rely on sound in combat. Despite his size, Gladio moves with the finesse of a coeurl, his quiet steps inaudible above the whirring of the fan that hangs from the ceiling. He gives himself away with the little things—the susurration of his pant leg on the floor, or an indrawn breath as he hefts his sword. Ignis fights barefoot so he can feel the vibrations of movement, so he can judge Gladio’s distance and the speed of his approach.
And he improves. Slowly, but surely, with Gladio’s encouragement, he improves.
Today, the gym swelters. The ceiling fan does nothing to cool down the room, only pushes the humid air around, draping it over them like an oppressive cloak. Ignis has already stripped down to a pair of jogging shorts and a loose tank top. His sweat beads on his skin, drips sluggish trails down his chest and spine.
He holds himself perfectly still, his pulse elevated, and listens as Gladio circles him. He turns his head to follow the sticky sound of his bare feet on the mat. There’s a thump, and then those footsteps charge right at him. It’s all the warning Ignis needs to do a back handspring out of the path of Gladio’s practice blade. He acts without thinking, letting muscle memory take control. His hand bears his full weight, and he launches himself off of it, his body twisting in mid-air before he finds his feet again.
But he lands in a puddle of sweat, and his foot skids out from under him. The wind leaves his lungs as he falls hard on his back.
“Shit. You okay?” Gladio’s footsteps run to him, then a hand takes his arm and tugs him to his feet.
“Yes.” He sucks in a breath, cursing his poor form as his ankle twinges with pain. He must have twisted it in the fall. “I slipped. That’s all.”
Gladio chuckles, pulling him in to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Maybe we should call it a day.”
“I’m all right, Gladio. I’m not made of glass.”
Gladio releases him, and Ignis takes a few tentative steps, feeling along the mats with his toes for his discarded daggers. He winces as pain again throbs through his ankle, radiating up into his leg.
“You’re limping,” Gladio says. “We should get some ice on that.”
“It’s nothing,” Ignis insists, “truly.”
“Iggy…”
“Just fifteen more minutes, Gladio, if you don’t mind.” Ignis bends to collect his daggers from the floor, wiping his clammy face on the front of his shirt. He tries to keep his voice light. “I made a chiffon cake for dessert. I need to work off a few more calories before I can say I’ve earned it.”
Gladio is silent for a moment before he responds, “Whatever you want.”
They end up going longer than fifteen minutes. Ignis alternately defends and attacks, favouring his injured leg. Some rounds, he lets Gladio come to him, gracefully sidestepping his blows before they can land. Others, he listens for Gladio’s movements, then lets his daggers fly. He’s rewarded with a surprised yelp from Gladio, or a muttered curse, on those occasions where they find their mark. They only stop when Gladio tackles Ignis from the side, rolling him safely to the mats with his arms and legs locked tight around him.
“Gotcha,” he murmurs.
“So it would seem.” Ignis lets his muscles go slack in Gladio’s arms, relaxing against the damp warmth of his bare chest. “You won’t be so lucky next time, I can assure you.”
“Aw, c’mon. You like it.” Ignis can feel Gladio’s grin against his ear.
“Perhaps,” Ignis says, smiling in return. “But I’d like a shower more.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Gladio drops a kiss on the back of his neck before helping him to his feet, and they retreat to the locker room. Ignis pulls his sweat-soaked shirt over his head and kicks off his shorts, dropping them both in a sodden heap on the bench. He feels his way along the wall until he reaches the showers, reassured by Gladio’s padding footsteps on the tiles behind him.
He turns one of the taps on and stands, unflinching, under the cold spray. It’s the only relief from the heat he’s had in thirty-six hours. On most days, their apartment feels like a sauna. Even the walls perspire when he touches them. After three years without the sun, it shouldn’t be this warm. All life on Eos should be dead. But perhaps there’s something to the scourge that keeps the atmosphere as it should be.
Perhaps even daemons can’t survive in a world without warmth.
The shower next to him hisses to life, and then he hears Gladio lathering up. A moment later, strong, soapy hands slide up his back from waist to shoulder blades, washing the sweat from his skin.
“You’re tense,” Gladio says.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” Gladio’s thumbs knead into the knots in his shoulders, and Ignis can’t help the pained moan that slips out of him. “Maybe I can work some of these out for you later.”
“You’re doing a fine job of it now,” Ignis murmurs.
“I’d do a better job if you were lying down.” Gladio’s lips graze the side of his neck, then press into his hair, just behind his ear. His hands still work slowly at Ignis’s shoulders, more soothing than sensual. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. I’ve just been thinking about how much I’m looking forward to that chiffon cake.”
Gladio laughs and slips his arms down to twine around him. Ignis leans back into his embrace, letting himself be cradled. This is the only place he truly feels safe anymore. When he’s in Gladio’s arms, he doesn’t have to worry about the dangers around him. “Guess we should hurry it up, huh? Wouldn’t want to deprive you.”
Ignis smiles, dropping his head back against Gladio’s chest. “It’s all right. I’m rather enjoying myself here.”
Gladio chuckles. “Can’t say I disagree. I’m all wound up after seeing you in action out there.”
“Is that so?”
Gladio pulls him closer, and the evidence of his desire slides between Ignis’s thighs, slippery and hard. Ignis sucks in a sharp breath at the sensation, as Gladio brushes his lips against his ear. “Yeah. Gettin’ all physical like that makes me think about fucking you.”
They really shouldn’t be doing this here, of all places. Even though they’re alone, Gladio isn’t the only one with a key to the gym. The owner or one of the other trainers could come by unannounced, and the showers are open to the rest of the locker room. If anyone were to enter, they would see Gladio and Ignis right away. Yet in spite of that—or perhaps because of it—Ignis feels his body responding, goaded by Gladio’s admission of desire.
He turns in Gladio’s arms, until they’re facing each other, and Gladio kisses Ignis with an urgency that excites him all the more. They stumble against the wall, still under the lukewarm spray of the shower, and cling to each other, a tangle of arms and lips and legs. It’s disorienting. All he can feel is Gladio’s mouth, pressing kisses to his face, his neck, his shoulders, as if he’s desperate to taste every last part of Ignis’s body. Their arousals rub together between their bellies.
“Every time?” Ignis pants.
Gladio draws back. “What?”
“Do you think about this every time we spar?”
“Oh.” Gladio grinds his hips forward, hard, and Ignis lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Can’t help it, when you get all sweaty and red-faced like that. It’s the same way you look when I’m going down on you.”
Gods. The way Gladio says it makes his knees weak. Ignis hooks a leg around Gladio’s thighs and pulls him closer, kissing him deeply, introducing his tongue to the inside of Gladio’s mouth. Gladio kisses him back with the same hunger. One of his hands holds Ignis’s backside, locking him in place as they rut against each other. The other goes between them and takes him in hand, working him with light strokes. It feels so good that Ignis has to break the kiss with a moan.
“Hurry,” he says. He’s thinking too much about where they are and who might see them.
Gladio laughs, but he also obliges, tightening his grip and stroking faster. After two years of intimacy, he knows exactly how to make Ignis’s body sing. And Ignis is all too willing to return the favour. They bring each other off like that, with their hands, against the shower wall, panting into each other’s mouths. Ignis shudders when he comes, and he has to cling to Gladio’s shoulder to stay upright. Gladio follows with a stifled groan.
For a moment, they lean on each other under the spray, breathing hard, letting the water rinse the spend from their hands. Ignis feels so pleasantly warm that he doesn’t want to move. But then Gladio kisses him softly and pulls away. “C’mon. Let’s wash up and get home.”
When they’re bathed and dressed, they sling their gym bags over their shoulders and emerge onto the streets of Lestallum, now eerily quiet. The years of hardship have subdued the city. He can no longer hear the traffic that once rushed along the main street; besides hunters, no one can afford to drive, and there’s nowhere to go, anyway. Most of Lestallum’s nightclubs have closed, silencing the music that pulsed through their open doors. Alcohol has become a precious commodity. The greenhouses surrounding Lestallum are primarily used to grow food, but some have allocated space for wheat and maize, and so a few bars cling to life, buoyed by the patrons who have the coin to spare for it. But they are few and far between.
Gladio takes his hand as they walk. He always does, whenever they’re together outside of the apartment. The gesture is only half affectionate. It’s a practicality, too, to guide Ignis and keep him from tripping over debris in the street.
“You did good in there,” Gladio says.
“Did I?”
“Yeah. You’re getting more accurate with your throws.” He chuckles, tugging on Ignis’s hand to steer him up onto the sidewalk. “I think you nailed me eight times. Three more than last week.”
It isn’t a lot to show for three years’ worth of training. “It’s been hard work.”
“Yeah, but you don’t let it get you down. You just get on with business.”
They stop outside the apartment. He hears a jingle as Gladio takes the keys out of his pocket, then the sound of metal slotting into the lock.
“If I’m doing so well,” Ignis says, “then perhaps we could revisit the possibility of hunting together.”
The jingle of Gladio’s keys goes suddenly quiet. Gladio doesn’t open the door, but Ignis hears the scrape of his soles on the pavement as he turns to look at him, and his stomach clenches. He already knows what Gladio is going to say.
“Iggy…” he says.
Ignis presses on before Gladio can deny him again. “I have skill enough, Gladio. You said it yourself—my accuracy is improving, and I’m landing blows, even though you can anticipate my movements.”
“We’ve talked about this, Ignis.” All the warmth and humour have gone from Gladio’s voice, replaced by unease.
“Not recently.”
“Recently enough. I haven’t changed my mind.”
“But if you think I’ve improved—”
“Iggy, listen.” Gladio sighs, and warm hands settle on his shoulders for a moment before sliding up to gently cup the sides of his neck. “I’ve seen some really bad shit out there. Things I never, ever wanna see happen to you.”
“You won’t,” Ignis says, though a shiver runs through him. This isn’t the first he’s heard of horrific injuries sustained by hunters. Gladio has never told him about them directly, but he’s heard whispers in the market of men parted from their limbs or burned beyond recognition. He places his hands over Gladio’s wrists, squeezing gently. “You’ll be there with me. It will be just like it was before Altissia.”
“C’mon, Iggy, you know that’s not true,” Gladio says slowly. “There are a ton more daemons out there now, and they’re aggressive. Way more aggressive than they used to be.” He pauses. “And they ain’t the only danger, either. It’s every man for himself. I’ve seen hunters step on their buddies to get to a potion.”
“Are you planning to step on me?” Ignis murmurs.
“Of course not.” The hands release him, leaving Ignis feeling oddly bereft. “But some guys would take one look at you and start planning how to fuck you over. I can’t protect you from them and the daemons.”
Ignis folds his arms, raising an eyebrow. “And if I go to Monica asking to be assigned to a hunt? What then? You couldn’t stop me, Gladio.”
“Ignis…” Gladio blows out a frustrated breath. “Look, I wouldn’t have to stop you, because the other hunters wouldn’t even let you on the truck.”
Ignis’s heart skips a beat, the words stinging more than he’d care to admit. “Why would you say that?”
“‘Cause I already asked about bringing you along,” Gladio says impatiently.
He lapses into silence after that, which becomes more uncomfortable as the implications dawn on Ignis. The admission stings—that so many see him as weak, as a liability, and worse, that Gladio might see him that way as well. Wounded, he crosses his arms, and Gladio heaves another sigh.
“Look, Iggy, when I get back from my next mission—”
“The one near Hammerhead?”
“Yeah,” Gladio says. “When I’m back, maybe I’ll bring you along on a hunt with Iris.”
Ignis counts the days in his head. Gladio is supposed to leave for that mission next week, and he’ll likely be gone for two weeks after that. “That’s nearly a month from now, Gladio.”
“A month ain’t that long.”
“Then I want more than a maybe,” Ignis says. “I want a promise.”
“No promises,” Gladio says firmly. “We’ll see how you’re doing with your training, then I’ll decide.” He pulls Ignis into his arms, kissing him softly on the forehead. It’s tender, but it also relays an uncompromising message: this conversation is over. “Come on, Iggy. Let’s get inside. There’s a chiffon cake with your name on it.”
*
Three days after Gladio leaves, Ignis decides he can wait no longer. He knows what Gladio’s maybes mean; he’s heard them a dozen times before. There will be no hunt when Gladio returns from Hammerhead. He’ll put it off as long as he can—not out of malice, but out of fear—perhaps in the hope that Ignis will stop pushing the matter.
So he asks Iris to hunt with him instead. He brings it up once they’ve finished supper, while he and Iris stand in the kitchen, clearing up after their meal, listening to the evening news on the radio.
“I don’t know, Ignis…” she says. The clatter of dishes in the sink intensifies, as if she can mask her apprehension with cacophony. “Gladdy would kill me. We should wait until he gets back.”
“We need not tell him.”
“You think he won’t find out?”
Carefully, Ignis scrapes leftover potatoes into a container and holds out the dirty pan for her to take. “How would he find out?”
“People talk. Someone might see you out there with us and make an innocent comment to him, and then boom, he’s pissed.” The pan clatters in the sink and the tap runs. “And anyway, are you planning to just…stop hunting once he gets back?”
“No. I was thinking I’d sit him down and explain my actions.”
“Like I said, he’s gonna be pissed.”
With a sigh of exasperation, Ignis snaps a plastic lid onto the container of potatoes. “Why does Gladio get to dictate what I can and cannot do with my life?”
“Ignis…” She puts a hand on his arm, soaking his sleeve with lukewarm dishwater. “He’s just worried about you. Losing Mom and Dad was really hard on him. He doesn’t want to lose you, too.”
“Yet he takes you along on hunts with him.”
“That’s different.”
Ignis draws a steadying breath through his nose. It’s bad enough that Gladio treats him like a child, but coming from Iris, it’s more than he can stand. “With respect, Iris, I have been fighting daemons for many more years than you. I am confident I can handle myself.”
She lets out an exasperated sigh, sounding so much like her brother. “You’re not gonna take ‘no’ for an answer, are you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She seems to hesitate for a moment. Ignis listens as she puts the last pan on the drying rack and pulls the stopper. The water sputters as it drains. “I can ask Dave tomorrow if there are any open contracts. Something local, that we can do in one night.”
Ignis nods, exhaling slowly. “Thank you, Iris.”
“Well, don’t thank me yet. We may not be able to get a contract. And if Gladdy finds out…”
“I’ll take full responsibility.”
She gives him a light jab in the shoulder. “You’d better.”
*
During the two weeks Gladio is gone, it becomes a routine. They hunt together—he, Iris, and Dave—every other day. It’s too dangerous to bring other hunters along with them; the more people who know he’s hunting, the greater the risk that it will get back to Gladio. They stay close to home, and they’re never gone for more than a night.
Every daemon has a distinct scent. Ignis catalogues them all. Iron giants stink of burning phosphorus as they crawl from the earth. Flans, of ozone. Necromancers, of rot and freshly turned soil. He memorizes the sounds they make, too—the groan of rusted parts moving, a gelatinous wobble, a whisper like wind rustling through leaves. They aren’t intelligent creatures. They act on instinct. That, perhaps, is what makes them so dangerous. Still, by using his remaining senses, he learns how to predict their movements and patterns of attack.
It helps to have Iris and Dave supporting him. Whenever his energy starts to flag, Iris is by his side, pushing a potion into his hand. He’s lost count of how many times Dave has deflected a daemon’s claws when he was too preoccupied with another to notice it. They shout strategies to each other so Ignis knows exactly what they’re about to do—knows whether he should get out of the way or participate in the attack.
Still, he’d rather have Gladio by his side.
He’s missed the high of battle. It’s different from his sparring matches with Gladio—more thrilling, more perilous. It’s given him something lose. Something to fight for. It sets his blood on fire, knowing his life could be snuffed out in an instant.
This arrangement lasts for three months before his luck runs out.
*
It happens when they’re fighting a horde of imps just a twenty-minute drive east of Lestallum, the day before Gladio is due back from Hammerhead. They thought it would be an easy contract. In and out in a half hour, and home in time for supper.
But Dave curses when they crawl up to the hill overlooking the nest. Ignis listens for a moment, trying to count their numbers. He can hear them snorting and grunting below, an unholy racket. Are there three? Four? He can’t pick out one imp from the next, so he gives up after a minute, turning instead to Dave.
“How many are there?” he asks.
“About twelve of ‘em,” Dave says.
That’s four imps apiece. They’ve never taken on odds like that before.
“Do you have any explosives?” Ignis asks.
“Got one grenade.”
“Are they clustered close enough that we can destroy all of them with it?”
“Might take out a couple.”
Ignis bites his lip. A couple isn’t good enough. Not when it’s just the three of them. But if he were to pair an elemental attack with Dave’s grenade, it might widen the blast radius and cut their numbers down to something more manageable.
“Dave,” he says, “let’s use your grenade and my fire attack simultaneously. It should create a bigger explosion.”
Dave grunts. “Yeah. And then what?”
“The blast should concuss some of the others. We can rush in and send them on their way while they’re still disoriented.”
“It’s not the worst plan I’ve ever heard,” Iris chimes in, close to his right.
“Could work,” Dave admits, “but it’s a risk. The ones that aren’t concussed’ll know we’re here.”
“Do you have any other suggestions?” Ignis asks.
“Guess not.” Ignis hears a clank that must be Dave unhooking the grenade from his belt. “This is what we’ll do. Ignis, on the count of three, I’ll throw my grenade and you’ll use your magic.” A pair of rough hands take his shoulders, turning him a little to his left. “Aim for twelve o’clock. Then we’ll rush ‘em.”
Ignis nods, and beside him, Iris makes a small sound of assent. He holds his breath as he waits for Dave to give the signal, focusing as he gathers energy in the palm of his hand, his heart thundering in his chest. He dreads the chaos they’re about to unleash just as much as he craves it.
“Three,” Dave whispers.
Ignis flexes his fingers, feeling the flames seethe in his palm.
“Two.”
He lets out his breath, draws another.
“One.”
Next to him, there’s a clink as Dave pulls the pin. Ignis winds up and tosses his fireball, then throws himself down on his belly to shield himself as best he can from the blast. When it comes, his ears ring, and he can feel its heat on the side of his face. Below, the imps shriek, their flesh crackling in the blaze. The stink of it burns his nostrils.
“Now!” Dave bellows.
Gravel crunches as Iris and Dave scramble to their feet on either side of him. He follows them down the slope, summoning his daggers, spinning to throw one when he hears an imp chitter behind him. The blade finds its mark with a wet sucking sound, and as the daemon falls, the life slipping from it, Ignis’s dagger returns to his hand.
All around him, it’s pandemonium. Between Iris shouting and the daemons screeching, he can’t quite get his bearings. He pivots when he hears a shuffle behind him, raising his blades in defense, but nothing comes. He holds himself still and listens. Somewhere nearby, Dave curses. Something heavy strikes flesh. A daemon bellows, and something rushes past him, close enough that he feels the air move.
Then a secondary explosion goes off. He staggers, momentarily deafened, and that’s when it happens.
Pain flares bright and hot and sudden in his shoulder. It wrenches a cry out of him, sends him stumbling, sick and disoriented, into the dirt. It’s the most bitter agony he’s felt in a long while, perhaps since losing his eyesight. Distantly, like he’s been shell-shocked, he hears Iris shouting his name. He puts a shaking hand to the wound, and wetness oozes between his fingers. His shirt is torn, the flesh beneath it rent.
He doesn’t remember much after that. There are vague snatches of Dave’s voice and a muscular arm around him. More piercing pain in his shoulder, relentless, then something tugging at his skin. The numbing coolness of a potion. The rumble of a truck’s engine.
For a while, he drifts in and out of consciousness, hardly knowing or caring where he is. When he finally comes to, it’s slowly, his cheek pressed against cool vinyl. Whatever he’s lying on is vibrating. It takes him a moment to realize he’s in Dave’s truck, sprawled out in the backseat.
“Ignis?” Iris says in a hushed, worried voice.
He groans, groggily reaching out a hand to get his bearings. A cold pane of glass meets his bare fingertips. “What happened?”
“An imp,” she says. She puts a hand on his shoulder—the good one—to help him sit up. “Got you with its claws. I was so worried, Ignis.”
“He’s fine,” Dave says curtly from the front seat.
“Dave stitched you up while you were still out of it,” Iris says.
Tentatively, Ignis touches his wounded shoulder. Beneath the shredded fabric, he feels the raised threads of the suture and the slick, pulpy flesh where the imp tore him open. There’s no pain when he touches it. The potion must still be working its magic.
“Quit putting your hands in it,” Iris chides. “You’re gonna make it worse.”
“How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad. It’s gonna scar. Gladdy’s gonna notice.”
Gladio.
Ignis has no intention of lying about the hunts, but he knows his lover will take one look at him and decide he’ll never be fit to pick up his daggers outside of the gymnasium. This is what Gladio always feared—that in his urgency to fight, Ignis would get himself hurt, or worse, nearly killed. There’s no way to hide it, either. Ignis can’t very well refuse to take his clothes off in front of Gladio ever again. That would be absurd.
Dave sighs in the front seat. “Better start thinking up your excuses.”
“It’s gonna be okay,” Iris says, but she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself as much as him. “Gladdy’s not supposed to get back until tomorrow night. That gives us time to clean you up. We’ll tell him you were attacked by a stray cat.”
Dave snorts. “Sure. A stray cat. He’s definitely gonna believe that.”
*
Dave parks in the lot down the street from their apartment, and once they pull Ignis out of the back seat, he and Iris each sling an arm around him to help him walk. He still feels weak, nauseous. The potion has begun to wear off, and his shoulder throbs with a warm, dull pain. He doesn’t trust himself to stand on his own feet yet.
Getting up the narrow staircase behind the junk shop is a challenge, but they manage, Dave cursing and muttering all the way. At the top, they pause just long enough for Iris to dig the keys out of her pocket. There’s a jangle as she finds the right one and fits it into the lock. The door opens with a creak.
And then Iris and Dave both go quiet, halting abruptly as soon as they cross the threshold. Iris’s arm tenses around Ignis’s waist, her hand curling in the fabric of his shirt. She presses in closer against his side. Next to him, Dave stiffens.
“Hey, guys. Where have you been?” Gladio’s voice comes from the living room.
Ignis’s stomach drops into his feet. Gladio isn’t supposed to be back so soon.
“Gladdy—” Iris begins.
“Fuck. Is Ignis bleeding?” The springs in the couch creak. Swift, heavy footsteps cross the floor, and Gladio’s hand suddenly seizes his arm, squeezing it in an iron grasp. Ignis winces as it pulls at his stitches. “Were you hunting?”
Iris tries placate him. “I’m sorry, Gladdy, we—”
“I asked them to take me,” Ignis cuts in. His voice comes out weaker than he intended. But he’s so tired. Dizzy. He just wants to sit down. “Don’t blame them, Gladio. Iris tried to talk me out of it. It isn’t her fault.”
The room goes so quiet that Ignis can hear his own blood dripping onto the floorboards. He wishes he could see Gladio’s face. At least then, he could try to decipher what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, beneath the anger. But all he has to go on is Gladio’s hand gripping his arm, the agitated staccato of his breaths, the absolute silence of the others.
“Iris, go to Monica’s,” Gladio says. His voice is too calm, too steady. Ignis has never heard him speak with such a cold fury before. “Stay there until I call you.”
“But Gladdy—”
“I said go,” Gladio snaps.
“Gladio—”
“Shut up, Dave. Get out.”
A sullen silence ensues, and then a shuffle of footsteps, followed by the finality of the apartment door closing. They’re alone. Ignis has always prided himself on his ability to navigate uncomfortable conversations, but now, all he wants to do is turn on his heel and run. They aren’t even touching, but Gladio’s hostility is as tangible as steam from a boiling pot.
Just as he’s about to open his mouth to speak again, Gladio tugs him into the kitchen, pulls out a chair, and sits him at the table.
“What the hell were you thinking?” A cupboard door creaks open—the one over the refrigerator, where they keep all their first aid supplies. Even the shuffle of boxes sounds furious as Gladio rummages through them. “You put my sister in danger.” The tap runs, and a moment later, the chair next to him scrapes across the linoleum, Gladio’s knee knocking against his as he sits. “You put yourself in danger.”
“Dave was with us—”
Gladio tears his sleeve in half with his bare hands, all the way to the collar, parting the fabric to get to the wound. “I don’t give a shit about Dave. You had no right.”
“To put myself in danger?”
“To put Iris in that position,” Gladio snaps, dabbing at the wound with a wet cloth.
Ignis bites his lip as the fabric chafes his raw flesh. “Iris is a perfectly capable hunter—”
“How the hell would you know?” Gladio says sharply. “You can’t even see her.”
Ignis’s blood goes cold, raising the hair on the back of his neck. This isn’t the first time Gladio has brought up his condition in an argument—it’s always been the reason he shouldn’t hunt, shouldn’t put his life on the line to help his fellow man—but Gladio has never thrown it in his face like this. He’s never been that cruel.
“If anything’d happened to you, I don’t know if I—” Gladio breaks off, letting out a ragged breath. Paper crinkles as he tears open a package of gauze. “Three inches to the right and you’d be dead,” he says, his voice rough now.
“But I’m not.”
“Yeah, and you were fucking lucky.” A strong hand takes his arm, turning him in his seat, perhaps so Gladio can see the wound better. “Tell me how it happened.”
Ignis sighs, leaning on the table with his free elbow. “We ambushed a nest of imps, but there were more of them than we expected.”
“How many?”
“Twelve,” Ignis murmurs.
“Twelve fucking imps, and it didn’t occur to you guys to back off?” Gladio laughs without humour, parting the torn fabric of Ignis’s shirt sleeve. “You that fucking anxious to get yourself killed?”
“I merely wanted to do my part.”
“I told you I’d take you hunting after my trip to Hammerhead.” Gladio applies the bandage to the edge of the wound, where the claws tore open the flesh over his collarbone, and smooths it down over his shoulder with gentle hands. “You didn’t have to go sneaking around behind my back.”
Somewhere under his fatigue, irritation flickers to life. “On the contrary, I rather think sneaking around was my only option.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve made such a promise to me—”
“I never promised anything, I said maybe—”
“Because you never had any intention of taking me on a hunt!” Ignis says, his voice rising. “You make excuse after excuse for keeping me here, where I can be of no use to anyone. I don’t understand. I fought by your side after Altissia, and you never objected.”
“It’s not the same. There were a hell of a lot less daemons back then.”
“But we hunted together as a team, and we prevailed. Why can’t we do the same now?”
“Because I can’t protect you!” The table jolts as Gladio’s palm smacks against it. “I can’t watch your back and my own at the same time. Not anymore. Fuck, Ignis.” Gladio’s chair scrapes backward, and Ignis flinches at the hard edge of disgust in his voice. “Why can’t you just do what I ask for once?”
Ignis turns his head, following the sound of Gladio’s footsteps as he begins to pace their kitchen. “I wasn’t aware I had to answer to you,” he says coolly.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Ignis shakes his head. “That’s not your job, Gladio. I have to fight. For Noct.”
“Yeah, well, I got news for you. He ain’t here,” Gladio snaps. “It’s just you and me.”
“It won’t be that way forever. I have a duty, a mission. I must fulfill it.”
“Your life is more important to me than any of that,” Gladio says, taking Ignis’s hands in his own. The familiar heat of his skin is almost enough to make Ignis second guess his resolve. Almost. “You keep going down this path, and you’re not gonna be around to see Noct when he comes back. If he ever comes back.”
“He will come back.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.” He pulls his hands out of Gladio’s grasp. “You should have more faith.”
“Faith?” Gladio snorts and resumes his pacing, his feet whispering over the linoleum floor. “It’s been three goddamn years. I’m just being realistic.”
“It sounds more like pessimism to me,” Ignis says sharply.
“Call it what you want, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re gonna get yourself killed if you go back out there.”
Ignis shakes his head, feeling sick with pain and fatigue and heartbreak. “Listen to me, Gladio. Before all this, I had a career. I had duties. I was needed. Now I have nothing.”
“Nothing? You have your life. You have me and Prompto, and Talcott and Iris. You have a family. Ain’t that enough?”
Ignis wishes he could live his life for Gladio alone. He wishes he could be content to read with him on the couch and fall asleep in his arms and wake him in the morning with a kiss. But his life belongs to Noct, and it will until his dying day. That’s how it’s been since he was a boy. That’s how it always shall be.
“Are you, of all people, telling me to put my obligations to Noct aside?” he says.
From somewhere near the sink, Gladio lets out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you fucking dare lecture me about duty.”
It isn’t his intention to lecture. More than any of them, Gladio has worn the shackles of his obligations without complaint. He’s never questioned his role as Noct’s Shield, never protested his own expendability. That’s why it seems so unfair that he can’t put himself in Ignis’s shoes.
“I apologize for putting Iris in danger,” he says, fighting to keep his voice calm, “but I will not apologize for making my own choices. It’s my life. You can’t tell me what I can and cannot do with it.”
“Why do you have to be so goddamn bullheaded?”
Because, he wants to say.
Because Noct will die, and Ignis will have spent all these years doing nothing to stop it.
Because even if he finds there’s nothing to be done, at least he will have tried.
Because it isn’t Gladio’s place to hold him back. And no matter how much of his life he’s shared with Gladio these past three years, he can’t bring himself to tell him of Noct’s fate. It would destroy him, knowing the duty he always pushed Noct to fulfill could only result in his death.
“It’s my life,” he repeats, his voice hardening. “If you can’t accept that, then perhaps our living arrangement has run its course.”
There’s a moment of heavy silence before Gladio growls, “That really what you want, Ignis?”
Ignis doesn’t answer, something acidic curling in the base of his throat. He never imagined he might someday part ways with Gladio, but his responsibilities toward his king come before his affections for the Shield of Lucis. The future of the nation—of the world—is more important than his personal pain.
“Answer me, goddammit,” Gladio barks.
“I want to be with someone who respects me and my choices,” Ignis says, “and you’ve made it eminently clear that person isn’t you.”
The words hang like a caustic vapour between them, more cruel than he intended. He swallows and leans back in his chair.
“You don’t mean that,” Gladio says softly, dangerously.
“Don’t I? You’ve sabotaged my every attempt to put my training to use on a hunt, under the misguided belief that you’re protecting me,” Ignis snaps.
“I didn’t sabotage—”
“I never asked for your protection. I wanted your support.”
They’re both shouting now, insistent on being heard. Ignis’s pulse flutters fast and hard in his throat. His fingers are tingling. He curls and uncurls them in his lap, over and over, his thoughts racing as he wonders—dreads—how this conversation will end.
Yet there’s a certain exhilaration in finally speaking his mind, in letting out the frustrations he’s kept bottled up for so long.
“Yeah, and you’ve had it,” Gladio throws back at him. “I’ve given you everything I’ve got. I carried you off that altar and sat by your bed day and night until you woke up, and then I stood by your side all the way to Niflheim and back. You know I’ve had my reservations about training with you, but I’ve been working with you at the gym anyway.”
Ignis laughs bitterly, picturing Gladio counting each of these self-proclaimed accomplishments off on his fingers, as if Ignis should be grateful that Gladio did what anyone with a conscience would do. “Yet you insist on imprisoning me in Lestallum.”
“Imprisoning you?” Gladio makes a sound of incredulous disgust, and his palm smacks against the countertop. “I ain’t imprisoning you, I’m just askin’ for a little bit of caution. You think your life’s the only one you’re putting on the line when you go out on a hunt? Well, it ain’t. The more everyone’s gotta look out for you, the less they’ll have their eyes on the daemons.”
Ignis’s nostrils flare. He won’t be lectured like this. “Then I’ll hunt alone.”
“You know what? Fine,” Gladio snarls. “If you’re so eager to fight, you go right on ahead, but I ain’t gonna stand here and watch you throw your life away.”
Footsteps storm past him and out of the kitchen. He hears the door of their shared bedroom banging open against the wall, then the heavy zip of his duffel bag as Gladio opens it. Hangers screech on the metal rod in their closet. Drawers slam. Clothes rustle as they’re shoved into the duffel bag. Gladio mutters furiously under his breath, but Ignis can’t make out the words.
The footsteps return. Ignis lifts his head, listening as Gladio puts his boots on. Perhaps he should say something to put a stop to this, to appeal for a cease-fire until they’ve both had time to cool down, but he’s shaking with adrenaline, too angry to speak.
“If I walk out that door, I ain’t coming back,” Gladio threatens.
“Then go,” Ignis says sharply.
Ignis expects him to make a barbed riposte, to draw this discussion out and delay the moment of his departure, but Gladio doesn’t say anything else. The door opens, then slams shut again, the force of it sending a magnet clattering off the refrigerator to the floor. And Ignis remains behind, sitting in the oppressive silence of their apartment. There’s no Gladio at his side, no Talcott at the stove, no Iris sprawled on the couch, chattering away at him. He’s truly alone, perhaps for the first time in years.
The clock on the bookshelf announces it’s eleven o’clock. Gradually, his anger subsides, leaving him with a curious feeling of deflation. He’s said what he wanted to say, but there’s no victory in it, no catharsis. He’s free to do with his life as he pleases—free to hunt, to seek a way to stop the scourge without sacrificing Noct—but at the cost of the one he loves.
A cost that seems so high, now that Gladio is gone.
He reaches into the pocket of his pants, wincing as the movement tugs at his stitches, and withdraws his phone. Perhaps it isn’t too late to talk it out. Perhaps he can make Gladio see reason. Perhaps he can call Gladio and—
No.
Ignis puts the phone down on the table. Sending Gladio away was the right choice. He held Ignis back from hunting for three years; an eleventh hour appeal won’t change his mind.
Body leaden, weary and heart-sick, he struggles to his feet and feels his way down the hall to their bedroom, where Gladio’s scent lingers. He drops onto the bed they shared and presses his face into the sheets, inhaling, smelling strawberry shampoo and warm leather. For a moment, it feels as if Gladio is there with him, but the illusion is broken when a strong arm doesn’t go around him, holding him close.
Heart aching, he pulls the blanket over himself, curling up around the emptiness inside of him where Gladio used to be.