Chapter Text
His first mistake is to trust the day's forecast.
The weather in Insomnia is capricious at best, as fickle as the moods of the legendary Hydraean, and doubly so in the autumn. Ignis scarcely makes it a block from the Citadel before a threatening rumble shakes the heavens. By the time he pulls up to Noct's high-rise, the sky has opened up, and the rain is pouring down in sheets heavy enough to drown a fish. Not even an undignified dash from the parking garage to Noct’s building can spare his hair or his clothing, and his only consolation is that, even had he an umbrella, he wouldn’t have enough hands to handle it, laden down as he is with the day's groceries, pastries, and council reports.
“Whoa,” Noct says when he opens the door. His eyes travel up and down Ignis’s dripping frame before settling somewhere in the vicinity of Ignis’s collarbones. “Um. Wow.”
“Quite,” Ignis says, blinking the water from his eyes. When Noct doesn’t budge, he clears his throat. “Noct, if you would…”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry,” Noct says, snapping out of his stupor. He snatches the bags from Ignis and disappears into the kitchen while Ignis toes off his sodden shoes. He leaves them outside to dry and wrings out his jacket as best he can in the hallway before hanging it on the coatrack by the door.
“Didn’t know it was coming down that hard outside,” Noct says when Ignis joins him in the kitchen. He’s in the middle of unpacking the groceries and fishes out a pack of mushrooms, nose wrinkling. Ignis hears him mutter, “Seriously?” before shoving it in the refrigerator. “So what’s the plan?” he says, straightening up.
Ignis pointedly retrieves the mushrooms, deposits them back on the counter, and rolls up his sleeves. “I was thinking a creamy fowl sauté today, with sheep’s milk and funguar—”
“Nuh-uh,” Noct says. “You can’t—you’re not cooking like that.”
Ignis blinks. “Like…?”
Noct, not meeting his eyes, gestures at him.
Ignis looks down at himself and is suddenly, and painfully, aware of the sight he must make, dripping rainwater in Noct’s kitchen, clothes and hair plastered uncomfortably to his skin. “Ah. Right,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Might I bother you for a towel?”
“A towel?" Noct says. "No. I mean, yeah. But—go take a shower or something. We can order takeout.”
“I’m perfectly capable of cooking—”
“You’re gonna catch a cold,” Noct says. He casually reaches for the mushrooms and slides them out of Ignis’s reach. “Seriously, take a load off for a while.”
It is rather chilly, now that Noct’s mentioned it, and the thought of a hot shower and warm food prepared by hands other than his own is beginning to sound exquisite and significantly more important than winning today’s Battle of the Shrooms. “Well,” Ignis says, conceding defeat, “don’t mind if I do, then.”
“Yeah, like I ever mind,” Noct says, grinning as he shoves the mushrooms back into the fridge, battle won. “I’ll leave some clothes outside the bathroom for you and call for pizza.” When Ignis hesitates, he rolls his eyes. “Specs, just go. I can handle ordering pizza by myself, don’t you think?”
It’s a nice and thoughtful gesture, Ignis thinks later as he undresses in the restroom, even if it is motivated by a desire to avoid eating vegetables. Only a year ago, Noct was moody, recalcitrant, and withdrawn on account of his father’s declining health, but lately, he’s been conducting himself in a manner that almost befits, well, a prince. His marks have been high, and while he invariably leaves the cooking to Ignis, he’s begun to clean his own apartment and to do his own laundry. It is, all in all, remarkable progress, especially in light of the fact that last year, Noct almost certainly would have expired in this very building, surrounded by heaps of his own trash, were it not for Ignis’s intervention.
That, of course, does not mean Noct is on top of everything, which Ignis realizes when he turns on the showerhead and notices that there’s no soap to be found in the restroom.
“Noct?” he calls.
There’s no answer; either his words are lost to the spray, or Noct is on the phone. Sighing, Ignis rebuttons his shirt. The water’s still cold, so he leaves it running as he pads out of the restroom, past the promised bundle of clothing, and towards the storage closet at the end of the hall.
And that’s when he hears it.
It’s a soft sound, slick and wet, accompanied by quiet gasps and sharp, stifled groans. Ignis’s brow furrows in consternation when he realizes it’s coming from Noct’s room, and before he can stop himself, he makes his second mistake of the day: He looks.
The door is shut but for a small crack, but even that small window is enough to ruin him. The lights are on, and Noct is sprawled on his bed, head tipped back and eyes closed. His cheeks are flushed pink, and his trousers are unbuttoned, pushed midway down his thighs so as to allow his hand enough space to dip beneath the band of his underwear. For a split-second, Ignis can’t quite grasp what he’s seeing—but then, as Noct’s hand strokes down and he catches a glimpse of Noct’s cock, wet and glistening in the light, understanding dawns on him with a dizzying lurch.
Oh, he thinks faintly, reaching out to catch himself on the wall. Noct is masturbating.
It’s an activity that Ignis knows about theoretically but has never witnessed, nor personally indulged in. Although he’s had his fair share of morning wood and nocturnal emissions, he’s never “rubbed one out,” as Gladio might put it. For one thing, he’s always found the act to be unseemly and indecent, a waste of time and cleaning supplies. For another, arousal rarely strikes him, and when it does, it’s more easily ignored than taken into hand.
It’s more difficult (Harder, his brain supplies unhelpfully) to ignore now. His groin feels hot and heavy, and he can’t help but lean forward as Noct slips a hand beneath his button-down, rucking it up to reveal smooth, pale skin. And then, when Noct arches up and whimpers, Ignis’s thoughts go ragged.
He should leave, he knows. He should turn on his heels, return to the restroom, and promptly forget everything he’s seen. It’s wildly inappropriate to be standing here in the hallway, outside of Noct’s room (outside of his prince’s room, he reminds himself desperately), watching him masturbate.
He should, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Not even when Noct’s gasps grow louder and headier, nor when his hand speeds up and his hips begin to rock upwards in short, frantic thrusts. Ignis watches, mesmerized by the expression of pleasure on Noct’s face and the harsh, desperate sounds escaping from his throat.
And that is his third, and most fatal, mistake of the evening, because as he stands there, rooted in place, he hears Noct grit out, “Ig—”
No. No.
Snapping out of his daze, Ignis flees back down the hall to the restroom, soap all but forgotten. Locking the door, he undresses quickly, fingers working shakily at the buttons of his shirt. The water is hot by now, but he twists the knob all the way back to cold and ducks in under the spray.
It’s a crude method, but effective. Even so, he finds he can’t clear his mind of Noct thrusting into his fist, of his body arching off the bed, his mouth open, throat working, and eyes squeezed shut. Ignis’s hand twitches towards his cock, but with a groan of frustration he forces it away and wills himself to focus instead on the shock of the cold water pummeling his body.
He can’t. Not while thinking of Noct. Not while thinking of his prince.
He stays in the shower until his erection subsides, then shuts off the water and leans his head against the tiles, shivering. After several minutes, he hears a tentative knock on the door.
“Hey, Specs. You fall asleep in there?”
Ignis clears his throat. “Apologies,” he says, and is surprised at how steady and normal his voice sounds. “I’ll be but a moment.”
“Cool. App says pizza's out for delivery.”
Ignis takes a deep breath. “Understood.”
When he finally returns to the kitchen, Noct is lounging on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table as he types on his phone. It’s a scene of complete normalcy, and yet Ignis can’t help but feel off-kilter, especially when he notices that, while Noct still hasn’t changed out of his school uniform, his tie is askew, his trousers are creased from his earlier attentions, and his shirt is riding up a tad on his stomach. Ignis swiftly makes a tactical decision to busy himself with the dishes and cutlery before he can spend too much time studying the sliver of skin showing beneath Noct’s shirt. Or contemplating what that skin might feel like under his palms.
He avoids contemplating it so much that he completely misses Noct’s question. “—ey, Eos to Specs.”
Ignis blinks. “Apologies,” he says, setting down the glass he was washing and turning about. “Could you repeat that?”
Noct gives him a strange look. “I said, Gladio’s in the neighborhood and wants to know if he can stop by for dinner.”
“Ah. Yes, of course,” Ignis says, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “You ordered enough pizza, I trust?”
“Yeah,” Noct says, then pauses. “You okay? You seem kinda…”
“I’m fine,” Ignis says quickly. Too quickly, if Noct’s frown is anything to go by.
Thankfully, before Noct can pursue the topic, the pizza arrives. Ignis leaves to retrieve it and to get a much-needed breath of fresh air. By the time he returns, the moment has passed, and he spends the rest of the evening studiously avoiding Noct’s eyes.
Two days later, Ignis is forced to acknowledge that his … that these feelings aren’t a one-off fluke, conjured up by unhealthy levels of Ebony consumption or his gradually accruing sleep debt. Neither of those would explain his sudden interest in the soft cut of Noct’s jaw, the growing breadth of his shoulders, or the trim lines of his waist. More to the point, they don’t explain the vivid dreams Ignis has been having since the Incident, the last of which ends with him jolting awake Saturday morning, gasping, to the fleeting fantasy of Noct swallowing him down.
It takes him a second to orient himself and to get his breathing under control, after which he checks the clock on his nightstand. It winks back at him, bright and cheery: 4:56. Groaning, Ignis presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. Then he flips off his covers, stares at the wet spot staining the front of his boxer briefs, and drops his head back down onto his pillow.
This is wrong. Inappropriate. Noct is seventeen, for goodness’ sake, and still in high school. Moreover, he’s the prince. And Ignis—Ignis is his advisor. His Majesty himself entrusted Noct to his care when Ignis was six; he’s to take care of Noct, to stand by him and advise him, not to… not to…
His phone rings. Ignis swipes off the alarm, then stumbles out of bed and to the restroom, where he washes away the sticky evidence of his crime beneath a spray of cold water.
It’s Saturday, which means Ignis is to bring Noct to the Citadel for the morning session of today’s council meetings. Noct is predictably still abed when Ignis arrives at his apartment. Just as well, as it allows Ignis some precious time to collect himself. He sets about brewing the coffee, allowing the nutty and tantalizing aroma to calm his mind as he works. Then, slipping his mask into place, he raps on the door of Noct’s bedroom.
“Noct?” he says. Upon receiving no response, he knocks more insistently.
“Mrhhhhf.”
“It’s Saturday, so unless you’d like to keep the council waiting, I suggest you rouse yourself.”
Ignis hears a muffled groan that sends an entirely inappropriate message to his groin. “Go ‘way.”
There’s no way around it. Ignis takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Then he opens the door.
Do not stare. Do not—
He stares.
It isn’t as if he hasn’t noticed that Noct has been growing into a handsome young man. The papers and gossip magazines chatter about him incessantly, after all, proclaiming him a “teenage heartthrob” or a “sizzling Noct-out,” and Ignis has always known Noct to be exceedingly easy on the eyes. But before the Incident, he never once considered Noct in a sexual light, either as an object of lust or someone who lusted after others. He’s always simply been Noct—his prince and closest friend, his charge, his duty and, in so many ways, his life’s purpose.
Now, greeted by the sight of Noct’s naked back from where his shirt rode up during the night, Ignis’s throat goes dry. His eyes follow the teasing dip of his waist and trace the raised flesh of the scar carved across his skin. He’s halfway to the bed, captivated by the thought of touching it, smoothing it with his lips and tongue, before he catches himself. With an effort, he redirects his feet towards the windows and yanks open the blinds with more force than is necessary.
A whine of dismay comes from the tangle of limbs and blankets behind him. “Five more minutes?” Noct says, voice hoarse from sleep.
“I’m afraid not,” Ignis says, thankful his voice doesn’t waver. He tries to focus on the skyline and not Noct’s reflection in the glass until he collects himself, then turns and tugs at the pillow Noct has pulled over his head. “Chop, chop, breakfast is waiting.”
After a few seconds of tug-of-war, Noct finally relinquishes his grip and flops over. “Fine. I’m up, I’m up!”
As Noct drags himself through his lengthy morning routine, Ignis decidedly does not think about Noct naked and wet in the shower. Instead, he occupies himself with cooking breakfast: two omelettes, one for each of them, with ham, cheese, and diced tomatoes, funguar, and onions, so finely minced such that even Noct can’t possibly complain. The coffee does wonders for his mind, and as he sets the table and sits down, he skims through the morning papers, pen in hand, circling items of interest for Noct, which span from articles that concern matters related in the council reports to upcoming video game conferences. When he finishes that task, he pulls up his phone, scrolls through his emails, and finds a pdf titled Rules and Regulations for Crownsguard Employees. He’s partway through the section that addresses fraternization and permissible relationships before he turns off the screen and presses his fingers to his eyes, thinking, What am I doing?
He remains like that until Noct returns, toweling his hair dry.
“Headache?” Noct says as he joins Ignis at the table. He begins to shovel the omelette into his mouth, heedless of the drop of water trailing its way down the side of his neck.
“A minor migraine, I’m afraid,” Ignis says, clearing his throat. He shifts in his chair. “Nothing a few painkillers won’t fix.”
“Ever think maybe you should just lighten up and get more sleep?”
At Noct’s pointed look, Ignis forces a pained smile. “And allow you to sleep in?” he says lightly. “I think not.”
Noct grumbles something unpleasant under his breath at that but polishes off the rest of his breakfast in short order. When he’s finished, Ignis gathers up the dishes and deposits them in the sink. He waits until Noct leaves to fix his hair. Then, when the coast is clear, he reaches down to surreptitiously adjust his slacks, hissing in guilty relief.
Unfortunately, the situation downstairs doesn’t improve much over the next week. Despite Ignis’s hopes that his hormones will run their course and leave him well enough alone, just as they had when he was a teenager, he catches himself daydreaming about Noct incessantly, which is equal parts irritating and horrifying. During university lectures, he remembers Noct beside him, leaning in over a calculus textbook, allowing Ignis a marvelous view of his throat and a heady whiff of his cologne. At council meetings, he recalls Noct in a well-fitted suit and tie, cheek propped against his fist and eyelids half-lidded in boredom as he twirls a pen between dexterous fingers. Even the training hall is rife with danger; whenever he stops to catch his breath in between his forms, he finds himself fantasizing idly about the way Noct’s shirt, dark with perspiration, clings to his skin whenever Ignis goes to pick him up after Gladio’s weapons practice.
The evenings are even worse. In those drowsy, vulnerable moments between climbing into bed and falling asleep, he wonders about matters that almost certainly don’t concern him. Is Noct seeing someone? (He is about that age, and he’s become rather close to that Prompto lad.) Has he had sex before? (Astrals, he hopes Noct has been using condoms.) Does he actually want Ignis, or was Ignis simply a convenient body for his imagination to latch onto that one evening? (Noct’s behavior towards him doesn’t seem to have changed even after that fateful evening, which might suggest the latter, but …)
It’s those unguarded realms of sleep, however, that try him the most. Before the week is over, he’s quite certain he’s dreamed of Noct in every conceivable position and in varying states of undress. There’s even one particularly shameful dream that involves him walking into the throne room to find Noct lounging naked on the throne, Gladio standing fully-clothed at the bottom of the steps in a chain and collar and the statues of the Lucii arrayed around them, stony-faced and judgmental; Noct beckons Ignis forward, and Ignis wakes to his hips rutting awkwardly against the mattress and the thought of sinking to his knees before the throne, Noct’s fingers twining through his hair.
“This is ridiculous,” he says hoarsely to his ceiling. Then he makes for his now customary cold shower.
He touches himself just the once, late one night while browsing LuciXXX on his personal laptop. He’s never been one for pornography, but there’s a first time for everything, and he reasons that if he can redirect his attentions in a more… suitable direction, perhaps he can find some relief. But when he reaches down to palm himself through his sweatpants, his mind substitutes Noct and himself for the actors in the video, and all he can think of is how it might feel to have Noct’s legs wrapped around his waist and what it would be like to press into Noct’s body. He has to stop almost as soon as his hand settles over the shape of his erection, hard and hot beneath his pants. Then, with a shaky breath, Ignis closes his laptop, sets it aside, and covers his eyes with his forearm, waiting for sleep to claim him.
His only consolation is that Noct appears to be none the wiser as regards his feelings. And Ignis, for his part, fully intends to keep it that way. What he wants is irrelevant. And what Noct wants…
It doesn’t bear contemplating. Impropriety aside, Noct isn’t his to have or to keep. He’s destined for more, a political marriage befitting his station as prince and future king, and to tease Noct with the possibility of something lasting between the two of them is unthinkably cruel.
No. Far better to let any attraction that Noct might feel towards him fade quietly away.
And if that thought sends a pang through Ignis’s chest—well, time heals all wounds.
His well-intentioned plan is foiled the following Tuesday—and by Gladio, no less.
“Finally,” Noct says when Ignis arrives at the training hall. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, stripped down to a dark form-fitting t-shirt that does little to hide his developing frame. “You took your time.”
Ignis pries his eyes away from Noct’s chest. Really, he’s been putting on quite a bit of muscle lately, courtesy of a Gladio’s strength-training regime. “My apologies,” he says. “The council session ran late.”
It isn’t even a lie, though Ignis has recently been delaying his visits to the hall so as to minimize the amount of time he has to spend staring at a sweat-damp and panting Noctis Lucis Caelum. It doesn’t do to tempt himself; he has enough trouble keeping Noct out of his mind when they’re apart, and giving his brain more material to work with is clearly inadvisable.
Gladio, the fiend, doesn’t appear to share his sentiments, however. “Nuh-uh,” he says as Noct stands and starts brushing himself off. “We’re not done yet. Iggy, catch!”
“Says who?” Noct grumbles as Ignis, moving on autopilot, snatches the wooden staff from the air.
“Says your Shield. You two, practice bout.”
Noct groans. “Thought my Shield was s’posed to protect me, not make me drop dead from exhaustion.”
“Can it. You’re not gonna die.”
Ignis sighs even as he hefts the weapon, testing the weight of it in his palms. “Gladio, really. Is this truly necessary?”
“Yeah, it is.” Gladio says, unmoved. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I haven’t seen you spar in ages since you started training with the Glaives. We’ve got to start practicing together if we’re gonna be fighting together, don’t you think?”
Ignis’s brows draw together. What Gladio says is reasonable enough, but he isn’t attired appropriately for a go in the proverbial ring, dressed as he is for a day in the office. Not to mention, there are other more pressing reasons why he wishes to avoid close quarters combat with Noct—reasons he can’t exactly admit to out loud. “Gladio, I’m afraid—”
Gladio bares his teeth, amused. “‘Fraid Princess here’ll show you up? Gone too soft behind the desk?”
Ignis clenches his jaw, fixing Gladio with a glare. The problem isn’t so much a fear of having gone soft as it is possibly going hard, Ignis wants to respond acerbically, but he bites his tongue. “Very well,” he says icily, taking the bait. He leans the staff against the wall and begins undoing the buttons on his shirt cuffs. “Noct?”
Noct’s face falls. “Ughh. Fine.”
“Attaboy,” Gladio says. He slaps Noct on the back and deftly steps out of range of Noct’s retaliatory swipe. “First to three. Keep it clean.”
Clean, Ignis thinks as he takes up position and eyes the sweaty outline of Noct’s pectorals through his shirt, may be difficult.
It’s a special hell reserved just for him, though Ignis supposes he deserves it after all the inappropriate thoughts he’s been having about Noct over the past two weeks. The only mercy is that Gladio handed him a staff and not his signature daggers; the latter would have forced him to engage with Noct in close quarters—and for an instant, Ignis can’t help but entertain the brief fantasy of the two of them tangled up on the gym floor, weapons and clothes strewn about them while they kiss, bodies joined—but polearms are designed to create space and function optimally at a distance. If he plays this correctly, he should be able to stay out of Noct’s reach for the entire bout and to avoid any sort of physical contact that might exacerbate his … problem.
Noct, of course, isn’t privy to any of Ignis’s thoughts. Thankfully. But it also means that he has no such compunction against physical contact. As soon as Gladio calls for the bout to start, Noct closes the distance between the two of them with a speed that belies his earlier grousing. One moment, he’s slouching a respectable five meters away, and the next, his sword’s flying through the air, the space around him folding together with a crackle of sparks. Recognizing the warp-strike for what it is, Ignis twists to the side and brings down his staff hard. It lands flat across the back of Noct’s shoulders as he rematerializes, sending him sprawling to the floor.
“Shit.”
“Saw that coming.” Grimly satisfied, Ignis goes for another tap. Best to end this quickly.
Unfortunately, Noct rolls away at the last moment, collecting his sword from the ground as he passes over it. He scrambles upright and ghosts through Ignis’s next few strikes in quick succession. Spectral blue afterimages waver in the air before fading.
“Impressive,” Ignis says, disengaging. Even the Glaives can’t phase, and while it’s been said His Majesty has the ability, Ignis has never witnessed it firsthand before today.
Noct’s grin is fierce and savage as he swipes his bangs from his forehead. “Yeah? Plenty more where that came from.”
Bravado really shouldn’t be quite so attractive or endearing. “Oh, I’m sure,” Ignis says dryly.
But true to word, Noct pulls out all the tricks from his book after that. Most of them are familiar, but his execution has improved markedly. His attacks are more precise, and he moves with a speed that rivals that of the Glaives. More than once, Ignis finds himself on the defensive, springing away to Noct’s groan of frustration. Eventually, he drops a point when Noct phases through a strike and lunges through one of his distracting holograms with a warp-aided riposte.
“What’d I say?” Noct says smugly as the tip of his sword grazes Ignis’s chest. “That one’s mine.” Then, eyes widening as Ignis’s staff jabs at his throat, “Whoa!”
From the sidelines, Gladio growls, “Get your head in the game, Noct!”
“Easy for you to say, you’re not—dammit—” Their weapons collide with another clack. Noct staggers out of reach again before Ignis can land a hit. “Not gonna go easy on me, huh, Specs?”
Ignis pushes his glasses up his nose. “And deny either of us the satisfaction of a bout well-fought? I think not.”
Noct huffs out a laugh. “Gods, you’re worse than Gladio.”
“Oi, less yapping, more fighting!”
Noct rolls his eyes. “I take that back,” he mutters, then launches himself into a flurry of attacks. Ignis retreats even as he meets each blow with his staff, but on the seventh, Noct lunges in far enough to catch the midpoint of Ignis’s staff in the crook of his hilt. For a moment, Noct pushes, trying to shove forward with all of his weight. Then the pressure disappears, and Ignis staggers forward. Blue wisps brush against his skin, crackling with energy. Another phase. Where—?
Movement to his left. There!
He spins and just barely manages to catch the side of Noct’s ankle with his staff as the sword comes down.
The blade misses him, but Noct’s body does not. They crash to the ground, and the impact jolts through Ignis’s bones as their weapons go clattering away across the gym floor.
“Crap, didn’t mean to do that,” Noct gasps. He’s splayed on top of Ignis, eyes bright and chest jumping with breathless laughter, the ends of his hair tickling Ignis’s face. He’s sweaty, warm, solid, and close, hips nestled between Ignis’s legs, and Ignis, horrified, feels a small thrill of arousal curl in his gut.
No. This cannot be happening.
“Think that counts as a point?” Noct’s saying, oblivious. His breath puffs across Ignis’s cheek, and Ignis wants to groan.
“Noct,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound too desperate. “If you would—”
“I know you got my ankle first, but how ‘bout you tell Gladio it was three-two instead of—instead of—” Noct shifts, which causes the problem to worsen. Dramatically. He freezes. Then his eyes widen, his face goes red, and he says, “Uh.”
Ignis doesn’t respond for fear of what his voice might sound like. Instead, he tips his head back, closes his eyes, and prays for Ramuh to strike him dead.
Ramuh doesn’t answer his prayers, but Gladio does, ironically enough. It must only be a few seconds—an agonizing eternity—before he ambles up to where the two of them are sprawled on the ground. Then, like a switch has been flipped, Noct jerks away as if Ignis is a particularly unappetizing vegetable. Mumbling something about needing to hit the showers, he takes off towards the locker room without so much as a backwards glance.
“Huh,” Gladio says. He glances down at Ignis, sitting up now with one leg folded so as to conceal his insistent arousal, and raises a knowing eyebrow. “Guess that’s puberty for ya.”
Breathing hard, Ignis doesn’t deign to reply, senses still awash with memories of Noct—the smell of his sweat, heady and masculine; the solid heat of his body fitted against his own; and the hot weight of Noct’s own erection awakening against his thigh.
That evening, they don’t speak of what transpired in the training hall.
Ignis waits for Noct outside by the car in the chill autumn air of the approaching dusk, browsing his schedule on his phone for the umpteenth time. Council session, dance lesson, magic class, combat drills, PLSC 20301, haircut… The words scroll past his eyes, but he pays them no heed. Rather, he’s more occupied with what he’ll say to Noct—Noct, who is right now, perhaps, wet and slippery with soap, touching himself in a locker room shower to thoughts of Ignis. Noct, who felt so good, so perfect lying there on top of him, alight with exertion and laughter, breath hot and moist against his throat.
Noct, who is seventeen, still in high school, and heir to the kingdom of Lucis. The prince. (His prince.)
Ignis pockets his phone, letting out a shaky breath. Overhead, the Citadel looms over him, lights glaring in silent judgment.
He’ll have to apologize, of course, though for what exactly, he’s uncertain. For making Noct uncomfortable. For his lack of propriety. For wanting beyond his station. For, for…
Approaching footsteps interrupt his thoughts. Ignis looks up.
“Hey.” Noct, hair still damp from the shower, sweeps past him. His shoulders are tense, and he doesn’t meet Ignis’s eyes as he yanks open the rear door and piles in. “Ready when you are.”
Ignis, briefly disconcerted at how strongly he reacts to Noct’s clean, fresh scent, shakes himself. “Right,” he says, getting into the driver’s seat. “Off we go.”
He pulls out of the parking lot. The car’s interior is quiet but for the rush of the traffic, the distant honking of cars and blaring sirens. Ignis steals glances through the rearview mirror at Noct, who’s staring out the window, cheek resting against his hand as the city lights play softly across his features. He looks achingly beautiful in the half-light, uncertain and vulnerable. Ignis’s heart throbs (as do other, more obstinate parts of his body), and sudden shame washes through him. Here he is, thinking only of assuaging his own guilt rather than alleviating Noct’s embarrassment.
They stop at a traffic light. Ignis tightens his grip on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. “You needn’t feel ashamed,” he begins.
Noct jerks and makes a noise like he’s being force-fed a carrot. “Specs—”
“It’s a perfectly healthy and natural reaction—”
Noct groans. “Can we not talk about this?” he says loudly.
The light turns green. Ignis pulls his eyes back to the road and eases the car into motion. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Noct, reduced to a dark shape shrinking in on himself in the backseat, doesn’t respond.