Hati-Skoll

He tries to picture in his mind how Ignis works the kitchen, how his painfully suave advisor deftly slices up slabs of meat, a comfortable grip on the knife's handle; how he expertly kneads dough, muscles taut along his forearm; how he handles that intimidatingly large iron wok he keeps on the top shelf of Noctis’ kitchen, flicking his wrist with an enviable grace that Noctis will probably never muster in this lifetime.

“Hey, buddy, what'cha doing?”

Noctis very nearly tosses his phone out the window, but catches himself at the last minute so it instead clatters noisily where it lands on his desk. He hears someone cooing over his disastrous, ‘adorkable’ lack of hand-eye coordination from outside the classroom.

Prompto blinks, before plopping into the seat in front of his. “Uh, okay. Was gonna ask if you wanna head by the arcade later, but you look busy.”

“It's just this Thing.”

Promp glances down at the phone, then back up at Noctis. “Thing.”

“You know,” Noctis sighs, half-aggrieved as he makes a vague hand gesture that's supposed to mean sad-attempt-at-writing-food-porn-featuring-himself-and-his-ridiculously-handsome-charming-chivalrous-competent-all-round-amazeballs-advisor, “The Thing.”

“Oh!” Prompto exclaims, “The Secret-”

“Thing. Yes, the Secret Thing that no one should ever find out I was involved in.”

“Right. Gotcha,” Prompto nods, deadly serious, “Secret Thing.”

Noctis looks back down at his phone, re-reads his pathetic three lines and resists the urge to face-plant into his desk. Why did he ever think it was a good idea to sign up for this year’s Ignoct secret santa? Okay, so maybe he’s been furtively lurking in the fandom for ages — ever since he overheard a couple of girls whispering about it in phys ed class.

He still remembers their incredibly unlikely hypothesis about Iggy bending him over the gym bleachers, which is... hot as hell, but unlikely. Public sex is just not going to be on the table with his advisor. Because ‘that would be a recipe for disaster, Noct, can you imagine what the press would cook up?’ He’s not even sure if sex is ever going to be on the table — both figuratively and literally.

His dining table is definitely large enough to accommodate some spontaneous fucking, but… he’s obviously been looking at too much PWP lately. And it’s not like he’s going through these incredibly detailed imaginings of him and his advisor just to get off. Not really. Well, he gets off to them sometimes. Rarely. Once a week. Seriously, these artists and authors come up with extremely creative scenarios— That’s not the point.

The point is, It’s kind of heartening to know that somewhere, out there, there are a lot of other someones, random someones who aren’t Promp, rooting for him and Iggy and his stupid, hopeless crush. And it sort of… gives him hope, you know. Makes him feel like it might actually be possible, like they might actually work, if he could just work up the courage to ask Iggy out. One day.

“Just kill me,” Noctis says, unfortunately aloud.

“Woah, woah. Aren’t you, like, not supposed to joke about suicide in public?”

That’s right, he’s not. “It’s a euphemism.”

“Uh,” Promp does the awkward half-laugh that generally functions as an indicator for Noctis to shut up before he shoves that foot further into his mouth, “I don’t think that’s how euphemisms work.”

“It is if whatever I’m thinking of is worse than dying.” Yeap, he’s swallowing that foot. Whole. There’s probably an Ignoct fic about foot fetish somewhere.

“Are you allowed to say that?” Promp whispers, loudly — loud enough for the guy three tables down to not-so-inconspicuously don headphones in an attempt to give them an illusion of privacy.

Which is how they end up relocating to the roof, like every other highschool cliche out there. And Noctis half-feels like the school bully, because unlike every other highschool cliche, there’s actually a decent number of people on the roof, who... promptly make themselves scarce when Noctis and Prompto show up — and look, they’re obviously not leaving because of Promp. He’d have to be more delusional than maybe-my-too-perfect-advisor-slash-childhood-playmate-might-actually-like-me-back to think that anyone’s escaping because of Promp .

“So… nice and quiet here,” Promp says, after the last of them has filed out.

“Mmghf.”

“Very… zen,” Promp continues, “Zen’s good for inspiration, right?”

It’s not working for his. “Maybe?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so either,” Promp sighs deeply in commiseration, “Hey, you could always write a smutty one-shot about Iggy and you getting hot and heavy up here. Can’t go wrong with hot roof sex.”

“We’ve fucked on the roof dozens of times,” well, in fics, “Also why would Iggy be in our school?”

“Because… Oh! Because he’s your alpha and you’ve gone into heat, so the school clinic rung him to pick you up. And then because you’re oozing omega pheromones, Iggy loses control and drags you up here to have his sordid way with you.”

“I’m not writing an ABO,” a beat, “Why am I an omega?”

“I can’t see Iggy being an omega, have you seen the thing he does with his knives?”

“He cooks .”

“I’m gonna have to stop you there, buddy, that sorta alpha-omega-stereotyping is uncalled for.”

“What?”

“You can’t just say Iggy’s an omega because he cooks.”

“That’s not what I— They’re not even real!”

“Yeah, and so isn’t Santa,” Promp proclaims, “But look where we are, in the middle of a Secret Santa. I rest my case.”

Noctis lasts for all of three seconds before the incredulity of it all gets to him and he shoves his awful best friend. “I’m not bearing any babies for Iggy.”

“Pups,” Promp corrects, very seriously, before he cracks up too.

They’re both giggling like desperate F2Ps after a godly gacha roll and Noctis is feeling slightly better about his trainwreck of food-kink fic, which is why he makes the incredibly questionable decision of showing Promp his Work-In-Progress. Prompto blinks at it owlishly for several seconds. And Noctis regrets everything.

“It’s not bad,” Promp declares determinedly, after several more seconds of owlish blinking.

“It’s bad.”

“It’s not! It’s… evocative. That’s good.”

“Noctis rips open a bag of enoki mushrooms,” Noctis reads aloud, “He gallantly pounds a clove of garlic into submission. You winced. Right there.”

“I was empathising with the clove of garlic!”

“Then he manfully wrestles—”

“Okay, okay, stop,” Promp says with a shaky breath, “Maybe… Maybe it could be better. Why are you… manfully wrestling an avocado?”

“An onion. I’m manfully wrestling an onion, because that’s what it says in this really detailed recipe forkingandspooning114 included in the prompt. In which I’m supposed to prepare a meal for Iggy — sexily — and amaze him with my — sexy — cooking prowess, after which we have a hot dinner — and hotter sex.”

“A cereal food fetishist, huh.”

“Yeah, the wurst case I’ve come across,” Noctis makes a face, “There are fifty pages worth of recipes. It’s practically a cookbook.”

“Yikes,” Promp scrolls down to look at recipes. “That’s… hold up. Wait. I have an idea.”

Noctis isn’t sure if he likes that glint in Promp’s eyes but he nods anyway for his best friend to continue.

“Why don’t you ask Iggy for advice?”

“Ask Iggy for advice on seducing him with my non-existent sexy cooking skills?”

“Hypothetically,” Promp says, “And he doesn’t need to know about the seducing. Not when he sexy-cooks naturally, you know, according to you. You can just ask for a demonstration or something, for the recipes. And... maybe bring an extra serving for me tomorrow?”

Well... Noctis mulls, it isn’t a half-bad idea, even if it’s as obvious as Uncle Ardyn’s purposefully obtuse — and painfully cringey — misuse of teenage slang, that Promp’s suggestion is more or less motivated by his stomach. Noctis shrugs at his best friend, plays it cool because it’s kinda ridiculous that his future with Iggy is now at the mercy of Promp’s stomach. “Huh. I’ll think about it.”

He pretends not to see Promp’s little victory jiggle as they make their way down the roof.

*

He’s still trying to figure out how to ask Specs for a cooking demonstration without sounding really suspicious — and also without hurting Iggy’s feelings, because asking Iggy to work with another person’s recipe is just… kinda in bad taste when he takes so much pride in his own.  Of course, the man of the hour is already in the kitchen, whipping up a batch of something-or-other that’ll taste like heaven and sin all wrapped into one, as Noctis steps into his apartment.

“Welcome home, Noct,” Iggy calls, and Noctis’ heart gives a traitorous little flutter because that was just so domestic — come to think of it, that domestic AU he's been following just updated earlier today, he’ll have to read it later, “Productive day at school, I hope?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, we did. Math.”

“That sounds truly invigorating.”

Noctis suddenly feels the need to defend his math class — which he totally did not spend brooding about his secret santa prompt. “Yeah? It’s supposed to lend us magnitude and direction.”

Iggy’s brows rise. “Ah, perhaps I should have said it was in-vector-ating instead?”

Noctis deigns that awful pun with a groan and plops himself down at the table, where Iggy’s delivering an entire tray of freshly baked pastries. He knows better than to snag a piece without Iggy’s go-ahead, though — after all, he’ll only end up with a scalded tongue and a disappointed talking-to from his advisor.

Iggy sets one aside on a plate, adding a generous helping of whipped cream. He looks strangely put together for someone who’s been working away at the kitchen, like does he even sweat? Noctis squints at his advisor’s dry, smooth, slightly flushed skin, so he nearly misses it when Iggy says, “You’re awfully tensed today. I don't suppose there's anyway I can be of service?”

Okay, wow, loaded question. “Uh. No. I mean. Yes. Sorta.”

“Well, you know I’m always happy to help, Noct. What do you need?”

No sex thoughts. Don't think sex thoughts. “I have this… recipe I need you to try.”

“Recipe,” Iggy repeats.

“From the internet,” technically, not a lie, “A-” friend of mine? He only has one friend, literally, one, “Promp. Yeah. Promp wanted to ask for your advice on a couple of recipes. Because... they've not been turning out too well for him, but he was too intimidated to ask in person.”

“Oh. Certainly,” Iggy seems to have bought into his fibbing, “I can take a look at them in my spare time.”

“No.”

Iggy blinks. “No?”

“He um wants a demonstration. Physical demonstration.”

“I can’t see how that’s achievable if he’s too intimidated to show up.”

“Yeah, so you can,” Noctis tries to recall how fic!him goes about asking Iggy favours, cooking demonstrations or otherwise, he seriously doesn’t remember ever being this tongue-tied in fics, “Demonstrate to me, how it’s done. And I’ll demonstrate to Promp.”

“You’ll demonstrate to Prompto,” Iggy’s spoon clatters onto the table, there’s a pause and then, “I’m not sure if that’s wise.”

You char a wok one time. “I just have to do whatever you do, right? Piece of cake,” Noctis says with a confidence he can only muster because he’s not actually going to do any cooking.

“I do hope his house is insured.”

Oh, come on. “His house will survive my cooking perfectly fine, Specs. Just show me. Please.”

Iggy pushes the whip-creamed pastry at him, and Noctis digs into the dessert, enjoying the perfect marrying of flaky, sugared crust and rich, chocolate ganache. Everything Iggy makes is perfect — well, not the vegetables, but... everything else. He watches for Iggy’s reaction, sees the exact moment his advisor capitulates in the set of his shoulders and that look of fond exasperation on his face… tempered by something… harder this time, something Noctis doesn’t quite recognise. But the emotion is gone in a flash, as Iggy says, “Well, I suppose I have my work cut out for me if I’m to make a decent cook out of you. You’d like to try one of these recipes out for dinner today, I presume?”

“Yeah,” Noctis quickly gets the document open, scrolls to the entry that’s titled, Creamy Fowl Saute, “This one.”

Iggy glances at it briefly. “Ah, a classic. And it looks remarkably similar to a recipe of mine. I think your pantry and refrigerator are well-stocked with what we need.”

“Cool,” Noctis says.

He finishes the pastry while Iggy preps his kitchen, magically conjures up ingredients and utensils from spaces he hadn't known existed in his cupboards. Then the stage is set, and the tart consumed, and Iggy’s considering him with a serious sort of look that Noctis will probably be flustered by if it didn’t exactly say how-do-I-get-you-to-not-burn-down-the-kitchen in subtext.

So instead he’s slightly miffed. “Can we get on with it, Specs?”

“Perhaps an apron before we commence?”

He’s not wearing an apron. “But I’m just observing.”

“Nonsense, you’re not going to learn anything by just observing,” Iggy somehow produces a second apron with a flourish, “I’d be loathe to see ‘Crown Prince Commits Arson’ on tomorrow’s seven-o-clock. And roll up your sleeves.”

“Why do I have to—” He nearly bites his tongue because Iggy’s thrown the apron over his head, and now Iggy’s arms are going around his waist in a pseudo-hug to secure the ties at the back. And hopefully, his expression is more coolly composed than astrals-save-me-my-crush-is-sorta-hugging-me-what-do-I-do mortified.

Iggy finally — unfortunately — steps away. “There we are,” a pause, and Iggy’s lips are twitching when he says, “I think this is a good look for you, Noct.”

“Shut up.”

They get started on the recipe, and Iggy puts him in charge of measuring the chicken broth and heavy cream. Noctis is proud to say he aced that, solid 5 out of 7. He’s great at pouring things into measuring cups. He’s kind of warming up to the idea of cooking, maybe, uh well, he’s not cringing away from the counter at least, but then Iggy puts a knife and an onion in his hands and suddenly it feels like they’ve jumped from tutorial mode to boss battle.

“Maybe you should do this,” he tells Iggy.

“You just have to chop the onion, Noct.”

“I’m allergic to onions. They make my eyes water.”

“That happens to everyone,” Iggy says, “And just think of it like it’s weapons training with Gladio. You’ve handled bigger blades than this.”

Noctis’ retort dies in his throat when he notices the unintended euphemism, his next words are out of his mouth before he thinks them through. “Well, maybe you should help me with this blade then. You know, correct my form, the way Gladio does at practice.”

Okay. Someone kill him. Now.

Thankfully, the disastrously cheesy line seems to fly over Iggy’s head, because he just nods at Noctis and says, “If you think it’ll help you.”

What? “Uh. Yeah?”

Which is how Iggy ends up getting into position behind Noctis, one hand over Noctis’ where he’s grasping the knife, the other carefully positioning the onion on the board. And Noctis is both congratulating and cursing at himself for his horrendous foot-in-mouth syndrome. “I’ve already peeled and washed it, so you can start by cutting it into two. Right through the root, but we don’t want to cut that off, lest the onion bleeds.”

Okay, he can feel Iggy’s body heat all the way down the line of his back and— “The onion bleeds?”

“Sulphuric acid, sulphur dioxide and hydrogen sulphide. The latter irritates our eyes.”

“Oh, okay.” Iggy is guiding his hand through the motion, creating an incision, then cleanly slicing through. “Wow. Okay, we’re done?”

He feels Iggy’s chest rumble in a gentle chuckle. “Not quite. Hold the onion like this. Use your knuckle to guide the knife, point it towards the root, and cut. That’s right. Nice, long strokes.”

Nice, long strokes, seriously?

“Not too deep,” Iggy tuts, “If I’d known you’d be so enthusiastic about cutting onions, I would have enlisted your help years ago.”

“I’m not,” Noctis objects, “I just want to—” finish this before I pop an awkward boner, “Get it right for Promp.”

Iggy abruptly releases his hand and of course Noctis stabs himself in the pinky in the next second. “Ouch, damn. Iggy, wha—”

“My apologies,” okay, now Iggy looks like he’s going to flagellate himself or something, “You’re bleeding, we’ll have to run that under the tap.”

“Specs, it’s not a big deal,” he tries to protest, but they’re evidently still running his pinky under the tap, “I’ve had worse cuts from chopstick splinters than this.”

“Your chopstick splinters were not of my doing,” Iggy pauses, “Were they?”

“No.”

Iggy heaves out a sigh that sounds like part relief and part dismay, like is he seriously going to blame himself for not inspecting every pair of disposable chopsticks that passes into Noctis’ hands? Noctis is about to say something, something reassuring hopefully, but then Iggy stops glaring at the tiny barely-a-quarter-inch cut like it’s a personal affront and looks up at him with a frazzled sort of smile — which is… wow, be still, heart, don’t fucking give me away with your loud thumping. Iggy clears his throat. “Perhaps you should sit the rest of the session out. And we ought to put a bandaid on that.”

“On this?”

They put a bandaid on it. Well, they kind of just swathe his pinky in a bandaid. Gladio is going to be absolutely merciless with his teasing if he sees it at training the day after. Thus, Noctis resolves to quietly ditch it in a couple of hours. And he tries to tell Iggy he’s perfectly fit to continue cooking, but Iggy’s starting to look sorta stressed out, so Noctis goes back to observing — the original plan, which kinda seems less fun now, but he gets to unabashedly eyeball Iggy so that’s a plus.

His advisor’s a force to be reckoned with in the kitchen, his actions quick, sure and precise. He’s efficient, the way he is with everything else in his — well, Noct’s — life. It’s kind of amazing to watch. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Noctis knows he’s supposed to be taking notes for his secret santa. It’s just, Iggy’s like a storm when he’s on a mission, brutal, arresting, awe-inspiring. It’s all part of what Noctis finds sexy, and Noctis can’t exactly imagine being that for Iggy, which is a little depressing but... maybe Iggy has a thing for clumsy and socially inept. He’s not sure how that’s going to fly with forkingandspooning114, though.

Does clumsy qualify as sexy?

He’s still trying to figure that out, when Iggy slides a plate in front of him. “Dinner is served.”

Noctis blinks at the dish. It looks good, kinda familiar, but then Iggy made it, so ditto. “Thanks, Specs.”

“Have you gotten everything you needed for Prompto?” Iggy asks solicitously, as he seats himself opposite Noctis.

“Uh, yeah. We’re good.”

Iggy considers him. “Would it be helpful if I made a couple of notes on the recipe?”

Noctis shrugs as he digs into the chicken. The meat's tender, and the sauce creamy but not too creamy. “Yeah, sure.”

“Then you shan’t be attempting this on your own in Prompto’s kitchen?”

“Specs.”

Iggy delicately cuts a portion of his own fillet, spears it with his fork, then tears a chunk off with his teeth. Okay, that’s weirdly hot. Noctis stares at Iggy’s bobbing adam's apple as he swallows. “I’m serious, Noct.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Noctis agrees, distracted by Iggy’s adam’s apple, but it’s not like he’s been planning to go burn down Promp’s kitchen in the first place. Iggy seems somewhat mollified by his answer and drops the subject, so Noctis is left to enjoy the meal in silence for the next couple of minutes. He scarfs it down with relish, but there’s just something about it that feels... Hm. “Hey, Specs? This tastes sorta familiar.”

Iggy pauses, fork in mid-air as he replies, “Well, of course. The recipe’s an exact copy of mine. If you hadn’t told me otherwise, I’d have thought Prompto took it straight out of my notebook.”

Wait. “Really?” Noctis stops chewing. Because that’s just—

“It’s a common enough dish,” Iggy shrugs, “And it’s something I’ve adapted off existing recipes. I’d say it’s certainly possible for someone to have made the same adjustments as I. No cause for alarm.”

“Do you wanna check the rest of the recipes? See if they’re yours? What if someone stole—”

“In your own words, Noct, it’s not a big deal.”

How is that not a big deal? Iggy’s worked his ass off on those recipes. “Just check them.”

Iggy accepts Noctis’ phone and scrolls through the recipes, expression politely neutral as he does so, which annoys Noctis because that usually means he thinks Noct’s being stupid or unreasonable or whatever. He stops scrolling after a while. “Well, they’re all rather similar.”

“So someone stole your recipes?”

“They’re just recipes,” yeah, recipes Iggy created for Noct.

And Noctis is about to demand they call up the citadel’s security and have them pull up footage from the Private Secretary’s Office, but then his wrath is promptly derailed by the sudden realisation that someone in the citadel stole Iggy’s recipes for the Ignoct secret santa, and that’s… That’s… Well, he’s a little conflicted, because one, stealing is bad, but two, someone close to home ships them hard enough to go to such lengths, and that’s kind of, sort of heartwarming in a… weirdly, intrusive sort of way. Well, at least, he’s got someone’s support if he and Iggy work out and Noctis declares his plans to beget heirs via surrogacy or something.

“Do you know who it might be?” Noctis asks after a while.

Iggy stares at him for a moment. “Perhaps a Glaive or a Crownsguard.”

Great, he’ll have to ask Nyx or Gladio. Noctis finishes the rest of his dinner in a hurry.

“Is there anything else I can help you with tonight?” Iggy asks, while clearing the table.

Noctis blinks. Another loaded question. He tries to think of puppies and chocobos and anything but Iggy in a leather collar. “Uh. Nah, I’m good. Thanks for dinner, Specs. We should do the cooking together thing again sometime.”

“Certainly,” Iggy says.

"You really think we'll find Promp in Gralea?" Gladiolus asks when he ends the call.

He's not a hundred percent sure, but he believes the probability high enough to be statistically significant. He wouldn't lie to Noctis and get his hopes up, only to have him brutally disappointed. "I think it's likely, going by the chancellor's past behaviour."

"That so," Gladiolus says, crossing his arms and pausing for a moment before he adds,"You've been weird ever since Noct got the Tidemother's blessings."

"Weird," Ignis repeats.

"Yeah, pricklier than usual. Is it a dragon thing? Do you need a hug or something?"

Ignis actually laughs at that, he hasn't had reason to laugh for a while now. "I suppose you could say it's a dragon thing. But rest assured, I've yet to completely succumb to my baser instincts. I'm not in need of constant physical validation."

Gladiolus shrugs. "I think Noct'll appreciate a hug too."

"If Noct voluntarily requests a hug from me, then I will be most happy to oblige," Ignis says, "But there will be no prodding from your quarter, I trust. Nor will there be meaningful elbowing, or… eyebrow communicating."

Gladiolus snorts at that, and Ignis assumes that'll be the end to the matter, but he's surprised a moment later as Gladiolus grudgingly presses on, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"About my 'dragon thing'," Ignis clarifies — he gets a short nod from Gladiolus, "Well. I'm not opposed if you aren't. Truthfully, I'm afraid it might put you off your dinner."

"I'm all ears."

He stifles a laugh at that familiar mix of dread and determination in the set of Gladiolus' jaw — he's been the unfortunate audience to one too many of Ignis' "I-will-snap-his-bones-divest-them-of-flesh-and-use-them-for-broth" spiels. It isn't a coincidence, of course, he's freer with his words around Noctis' Shield because Gladiolus' one of the most open-minded about their… cultural differences.

"I'm sorry, that was a jest. It's nothing so gruesome, I promise."

Gladiolus heaves out a sigh, visibly relieved. "You snake."

"Dragon," Ignis corrects, "And what you're witnessing is merely a dragonborn's over-sensitive fight-or-flight instinct kicking into overdrive, so to speak."

Gladiolus nods. "It's been a stressful couple of days."

"Our enemies are vast and numerous, some of them unseen. My… less sensible, reptilian side is hankering for a fight, but there's nothing to fight here. Which leaves us the option to flee, you understand.

"It wants to take him away from all of this.  Somewhere far away, a place where the scourge, the daemons and the astrals can't touch him," Ignis pauses, wonders how much he ought to divulge to Noctis' Shield, "But I know I mustn't. And I know I can't. It's just… there are two dragons fighting inside of me."

Gladiolus grins, because that folk tale's been repeated to them dozens of times — every child in Lucis grows up hearing it. "One of violence and darkness, the other of peace and light. Which one wins?"

"The one I feed."

Gladiolus pats him on the shoulder. "You'll do alright."

Ignis raises a brow, feels the odd burn in his gut, the uncomfortable itch just beneath his skin, and doesn't tell Gladiolus he's not sure which dragon he's been feeding — whichever it is, it's clawing its way out of him.

*

He opens his eyes and finds himself standing in the middle of what looks suspiciously like Lucis' throne room, but doused in a luminescent, ghostly blue. He's surrounded on all sides by imposingly armoured men and women, robed in shadows and a general air of weary contempt. He knows he's awaiting their judgement, remembers putting on their ring, the Ring of Lucii and praying for divine intervention. And here they are.

"Ignis Scientia," the tallest amongst them says, "Child of Bahamut."

"Your Majesty," Ignis sketches a bow.

"You challenge the Chosen's claim on the power of the Lucii."

"No," Ignis says, "No, I'm neither brave nor foolhardy enough to do so. The power of the Lucii belongs solely to Noct, but he lies unconscious and vulnerable. I only wish to use it in his stead, to bear his burdens when he's unable to bear them on his own."

"Your kind's always had a silver tongue," another king tuts.

"And a mythril heart," someone else interjects, "A dragonborn's loyalty is unquestionable. You ought to know that better than anyone here, Pervolo."

The other king snorts. "I wasn't questioning his loyalty. I was simply poking a bit of fun at the stereotypical draconic traits he's so zealously exuding. Honestly, Zephyr, your lack of a sense of humour is dreadfully tedious."

"Well, your bit of fun was hardly humorous."

"Children."

They quiet and Ignis ventures a polite cough. "Your Majesties, will you grant me this one impropriety, in light of the extenuating circumstances?"

The tallest of the kings nods. "Had you been human, you would not have been capable of bearing our boon without great sacrifice. But a dragonborn — especially one tied so closely to the Chosen — ought to be hardy enough to wield our ring without lasting damage. Go, but know that there will come a time when his burdens grow too great to shoulder, even for you, child of Bahamut."

He's about to thank them, profusely, but those terribly foreboding words stall his gratitude, and he remembers the odd vision that flashed before him while he was stumbling his way through the Tidemother's altar. He remembers the long darkness, the despair, the desperation. He remembers seeing Noctis pinned to the throne with a sword through his chest, like a butterfly on a collector's board. He remembers the heartbreak, pain lancing through him as real as a stab wound or a broken bone, the dragon in him whining, shrill, because it hurts. It hurts.

"Dragonborn," a woman's voice distracts him from the pain — one of Lucis' few reigning queens.

Ignis startles and momentarily forgets his manners. "Will it all come to pass?"

A discomfiting murmur goes through the room, setting him on edge. Eventually, one of the kings from before — Zephyr, he recalls — sighs. "It will."

His heart stops then, before picking up again in a galloping sprint. "There must be another way."

"The Crystal requires a sacrifice," someone says.

Of course it does. Of course it does. But why does it have to be Noct?

"I am Ignis Scientia, heir of Bahamut's first children, last descendant of the great dragons. My ancestor traded our claws for diplomacy, our scales for friendship, our wings for a home," Ignis breathes in slow, struggles to keep his voice level, "We have broken bread with the line of Lucis and prospered under the roof of Lucis Caelum. In respect and admiration for the cause of Lucis and its Chosen King," for Noctis, my pearl, my love, Ignis keeps those epithets to himself, "We humbly request to pay his toll with our lives."

One of the slighter figures, armed with a star and masked with a dragon's skull, tilts her face to him. "We are impressed by your steadfast devotion, child of Bahamut. But not a hundred— no, not even a thousand dragons can take the place of the King of Light. His price is too steep for you, my dear."

"It's not!" he doesn't mean to shout at all past Lucian kings, doesn't mean any disrespect, "It's not, my lieges. There must be something. I'll give anything. I'll do anything. But Noct… Let him live. Please."

"Ignis," the figure closest to him says — familiar, kind, but resigned. King Regis.

"Anything. Name the price for his freedom."

"Ignis, there is none," King Regis says.

"Your Majesty, please."

"There is one," the man in the middle declares, voice thundering with command, yet heavy with regret, "Bahamut left us one other option."

"What is it?" King Regis asks, before Ignis manages to, "You've never mentioned this."

"I was not to mention it, unless the option finds its way to us," the oldest of the kings replies, "And now it has."

The rest of them are deathly still, and Ignis nearly bursts out laughing at that awful pun. Instead, he asks, "What is it?"

"The Crystal will not take your lives," Somnus Lucis Caelum, the Mystic, the First, tells him, "But it does have a vested interest in your—"

*

"Specs," Noctis calls, warping to his side through the crowd of shell-shocked passengers milling about Tenebrae's train station. Ignis forces away the urge to run his hands over his pearl, but he finds his self-restraint unnecessary, because Noctis' arms are around him in the next moment, head tucked into the crook of Ignis' neck. It lasts for all of three seconds, and then Noctis is stepping away, abashed.

Ignis frowns. While he's appreciative of the physical contact, it's unusual for Noctis to be so outwardly demonstrative in his affections. "Are you alright, Noct?"

"'M fine," Noctis shrugs, "You? Gladio?"

"We're fine," Ignis assures him, "I told you over the phone."

"Just wanted to be sure."

Ignis nods. He understands. He's been frantic with worry himself. It's only normal, of course, a dragonborn's natural response to their hoard under threat. Noctis, on the other hand, is human, and has no such instinct written into his genetic code, but his capacity for kindness transcends self-preservation. Ahead of them, Gladiolus is cautiously picking his way through Tenebrae's charred sylleblossoms — the once lavish royal garden, now repurposed as a refugees' camp. Ignis mourns the loss of a national treasure. But he thinks Lady Lunafreya will have been glad to know the ashes of her beloved flowers served as hearth for the straggling remains of her people when they most needed it.

"Scientia, Highness," Commodore Highwind waves them over. "Fancy seeing you three here. Where's your fourth?"

Ignis shakes his head and the commodore wisely aborts that line of conversation. She updates them on the situation in Tenebrae instead, tells them of how the empire torched everything, now that the oracle and high commander have both fallen out of favour. When she hears that they're making their way to Gralea, she offers up the services of Biggs and Wedge — and while Noctis and Gladiolus may seem appropriately grateful for the gesture, Ignis doesn't think they truly understand the gravity of her decision. But he does. He knows just how much it means for a dragonborn to be voluntarily separated from their hoard.

Then the commodore sends Noctis off to speak with one of the surviving retainers from House Fleuret, and none too subtly pulls him to a side. Gladiolus doesn't notice, deep in conversation with Biggs and Wedge about their upcoming travel plans.

"How many dragonborns were there," Commodore Highwind asks, "Back in Lucis?"

He considers the question. "The most recent census indicates there were slightly over two hundred of us registered with the Crown. Of course, with the fall of Insomnia, I suspect our numbers have dwindled. Non-registered, non-Insomnian dragonborns ought to make up the bulk of our current population, but even then, they're few and far between. I can't give you a good estimate, I'm afraid."

"So… a hundred if we're highballing?" she presses on.

He thinks back on his conversation with the Lucii, remembers one of them telling him, 'Not a hundred dragons can take the place of the King of Light' and he nods. "That should be accurate."

Commodore Highwind meets his eyes, her gaze unfathomable, jaw tensed. "A hundred."

"I hope you're not attempting to militarise all of us. Adept as you and I are at battle, I'm not certain if that's nature or nurture."

That startles a laugh out of the commodore. "Nah, that's not it."

"Then why the sudden interest in our numbers?"

"It's nothing, just," Commodore Highwind falls silent, "Do you… feel different? Gods, it's stupid, probably just the darkness and daemons throwing off my senses, but—"

"It's different."

"You feel it too," Commodore Highwind says, tone a curious mix of relief and dread, "Damn. I thought it was all in my head."

"It is in your head," Ignis says, "But it's trying to get out, isn't it?"

She looks away, fear stripping away the bravado she's donned like a second suit of armour. And Ignis doesn't regret the choice he's had to make — he'll make the same a thousand times over — but he does feel sorry. Eventually, Commodore Highwind breaks the uneasy silence between them. "Have you got anything in your history textbooks that'll clue us in on what to expect?"

"I'm not sure how much stock you'd want to put in Lucian propaganda."

"It's gotta be better than the stories that trickle down to Niflheim I figure," Commodore Highwind shrugs, "We only ever hear about dragons burning down entire villages and eating people. Can't say I'm looking forward to either of that."

"Well, there has been documentation citing draconic aggression as the primary factor for significant property damage," Ignis says, "Burning down entire villages may not be quite so far a stretch from the truth."

"You're kidding."

"I am."

"Scientia."

Ignis raises a hand, placating. "We won't be mindless beasts, if that's what you're asking. Dragons have always been intelligent. The great dragons were Bahamut's first children, as far as religious doctrine's concerned. They've an entire chapter dedicated to us in the cosmogony — I was under the impression that we share a similar creationist mythos, for all of Lucis and Niflheim's differences."

"Oh, they took you out of Niflheim's edition."

"Pity. Noct declared that the best chapter."

Commodore Highwind gives him a look, but then her shoulders sag in relief and she says, "Guess suicide won't be necessary then."

"Suicide?" Ignis blinks, "That seems a little drastic."

"Yeah, well, look. I'd pick death over murder and arson," Commodore Highwind says, "The world's fucked as it is. It doesn't need another hundred rampaging, fire-breathing monsters. You'd think your astral god-father and his pals would've thrown us a bone with this massive shitfest going down."

"They have."

"Yeah? And what have they done, now that the bibbidi-bobbidi-boo they put on us is expiring?" Commodore Highwind snorts, derisive — Ignis is so very tempted to lay it all out for her, lay out the future they have in store, the sacrifices he's promised the Crystal in exchange for Noctis' life, but he doesn't. He doesn't need to, anyway, she reads it on his face, sees the apology he can't afford to verbalise and her eyes narrow. "What have you done?"

*

"You've done us a great service, child of Bahamut," Somnus Lucis Caelum announces and the old kings let out a collective sigh — some grateful, others resigned. The Crystal exacts a hefty price for the life of the Chosen, not all of them thought it worthwhile. But Ignis thinks it is, anything is — for Noct's life, anything. "By your hand, the Chosen King shall live to see the light of dawn."

"I'm grateful for it," Ignis says, meeting the Mystic's grave blue eyes through his helmet, "If the love of a great king has soothed the fire in our hearts and granted all dragons reprieve to savour humanity's potential for compassion, then it is only fitting that the love for a great king shall return all dragonborns to our ways of old."

"Your brethren will not all be pleased with your choice, Ignis Scientia," another king tells him.

"No," Ignis says, "But they'll understand."

"Should they take umbrage at your choice nevertheless?"

"Then so be it."

His vision blurs and Ignis hurries to get his next words out before the kings send him away. "My kings, I ask to serve the Chosen as I currently am, until he no longer has need of me."

"You ask for time?"

"If I may be so bold."

"Your kind has always been bold," one of the kings who spoke earlier — Pervolo, he guesses — laughs, "We will buy you what time we can afford, great dragon. But the Crystal is anxious for its guerdon. And we can only hold it off for so long."

"Thank you," Ignis says, the throne room dissipating before his eyes, "Your generosity will not be in vain, my—"

*

"Noct!" The dragon in him howls as a snaga slashes at his treasure of treasures, and Ignis feels the silent cry reverberating down his spine, feels his bones creak and shift unnaturally. Then he's there, bodily shielding his pearl, and calling his daggers from the armiger, but his hands remain empty.

The train creaks in protest as daemons lay siege on them from all sides. He sees them ramming their grotesque, deformed bodies against the glass windows, hears the odd tappity-tap of too many clawed feet on the roof overhead. Gods. There's so many.

"The armiger's stuck," Noctis shouts.

"Then we run," Gladiolus snaps.

They run.

Ignis keeps pace with his hoard, even though he can outstrip them by at least a mile if he so chooses. They force their way through one cabin, then another, and another, and another. The Regalia's all the way at the back and the train feels like it's going on forever. But it's not.

They get to their car eventually. Noctis dives for the driver's seat and Ignis only has a moment to worry about his pearl's reprehensible skills behind the wheel before they're revving the engine and shooting off like a bullet.

Somehow, the Regalia holds out all the way to Gralea. It feels like King Regis is looking out for them from the beyond — well, Ignis knows for a fact he is. But their relief lasts only for a moment, because Ignis soon finds himself separated from Noct by a crashing train carriage. It lands right smack in their path to Zegnautus Keep, which just stinks of the Chancellor's meddling.

"We'll find another way in," Gladiolus has the nerve to suggest, "Noct can go up ahead."

"Absolutely not."

"It's safer that way. We're sitting ducks for the daemons if we hang about any longer."

Ignis knows it's true. He knows Gladiolus only means the best for them, the best for Noct, but. But he hates it. He hates the idea of sending his pearl away, when they're right in the daemon's den. He hates that they're helpless and dancing to the Chancellor's slippery tune. He hates it, hates it, hates it so much he feels his flesh smouldering, blood simmering, heart burning. He blinks, surprised to find his eyes wet as Gladiolus eyeballs him with stricken concern.

"Shit. Iggy, are you okay—"

"Stay back," he tells Gladiolus, wiping at the tear tracks on his cheeks, and coming away with blood.

"What's going on?" Noctis shouts from the other side of the carriage. The sound grounds him, cools some of his fire but not all of it. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in and out, in and out. Still, the heat pours down his back and Ignis has never once experienced a burn in his life, but he knows how it feels like now. It hurts. It blisters and aches and brings him to his knees, but not even a whimper leaves his lips, because he doesn't want Noctis to panic. The way Gladiolus is. Definitely panicking.

A delirious sort of laughter threatens to bubble out of him, but it's interrupted by a loud, wet rip. Hot. Ignis sucks in a breath. It's hot, he realises. And then… it's not. He feels… fine. Weakened by the pain, but fine. And Gladiolus is staring… not quite at him, but behind him.

"Wings," Gladiolus says, stupidly, "I didn't know you could do that."

Ignis glances over his shoulder to blink at his newfound appendages. "They'll come in handy."

"Specs," Noctis is still shouting, "What's going on?"

The pain's almost worth the look on Noctis' face, as Ignis flies both he and Gladiolus over. "Nothing to worry about, Noct," Ignis replies, "We're just winging it."

That happy awe is immediately tempered with exasperation. "You just ruined the moment, Iggy."

"Truly? I was certain I'd heightened it myself."

"What? How is that a pun?"

"Haven't you noticed I'm currently scaled up in size?"

Noctis reaches out with a tentative hand to stroke the sinewy underside, and Ignis feels something like pleasure unfurl in his gut. He lifts his wing to give his pearl better access. Emboldened, Noctis pets the membrane more firmly, lips trembling with an almost-grin as he says with faux solemnity, "I think that one's a bit of a stretch."

Zegnautus poses less of a problem for them than expected, now that Ignis is in possession of wings. He's been looking forward to the Chancellor's ire at having his plans derailed, but the man only seems strangely bemused.

"Are those wings a prize, dragonborn?" Chancellor Izunia chuckles from over the speakers, "Or a price?"

Noctis turns to him, confused, and Ignis straightens, wings unfolding to hide his pearl away from sight. "They're proof of a promise."

"You should be wary of what promises you make with the gods. They won't be to your benefit."

"Anything to the benefit of my pearl is to mine."

That declaration is greeted with an unusually sombre silence, the Chancellor unforthcoming with barbed quips for once. Ignis wonders if he's said something wrong, because Noctis shuffles, visibly uncomfortable, and Gladiolus bristles at his back. They're tensed and quiet as Ignis leads the charge to Prompto's holding cell, with Noctis sending worried glances his way every so often and Gladiolus responding in terse tsks. So it's a breath of fresh air to have their attentions diverted when they finally come to Prompto, whose blubbering is only stemmed upon sight of Ignis' extra limbs.

"Wicked wings, Iggy," Prompto blurts.

"Thank you, Prompto. I was a little worried they'd give you the vapours."

"The what? You mean they vaporize people?" Prompto eyes them with a childish sort of worship, "That's awesome."

"He means he's worried you'll faint from shock," Noctis says.

"Oh. So no vaporizing. That's okay, they're still awesome."

Ignis laughs. "Your vote of confidence is incredibly gratifying."

"What? Did Noct and Gladio piss themselves when you sprouted those?"

"No," Noctis huffs.

"Of course not," Gladiolus snaps, affronted.

"Somewhat," Ignis says.

"Hah!"

"There was no pissing," Noctis insists, "I thought the wings were s— Uh."

"Strong," Gladiolus pitches in, "And useful."

"Bet you were kicking daemon butt with these."

"He laid a Gargantua flat," Gladiolus crows, "With just one swipe."

"Shit. Really?"

Gladiolus crosses his arms over his chest, looking oddly proud. "They're built for agility too. Iggy flies faster than the Regalia, even with the extra weight of two people."

"Strong, fast," Prompto checks the words off his fingers, "Noct? I don't hear anything coming from your corner."

Noctis grimaces, a little red-faced, and Ignis is about to stop their banter even though it's been brilliant for his ego, but then Noctis coughs out, "Sexy. I think they look sexy."

There's a beat of silence. And Ignis doesn't really know how he's supposed to react — all his interactions in polite society have never socialised him for this, but the dragon in him preens. It's absolutely ecstatic his Noct finds him sexually appealing. He's still considering his course of action when Prompto too-emphatically enthuses, "Yeah, totally sexy."

"Ladies dig that bad boy look," Gladiolus quickly adds.

Ignis blinks, staring from one of them to the other, before delicately replying, "I've little care for what ladies may think about my visage," Prompto's eyes fall, Gladio stiffens and Noct gets the look that says he's internally wishing for the ground to swallow him whole; Ignis quickly continues, "But I'm glad that you find my new limbs agreeable enough."

"More than agreeable, Specs," Noctis says, sounding as if he's having an existential crisis, "They're sexy."

He risks a blatant breach of propriety by initiating a winged hug, a tiny part of him waiting for divine retribution, but no. Nothing explodes, there's no random bolt of lightning falling from the skies, no astral-mediated smiting as he cradles Noctis close. He lowers his voice so it's only for his pearl's ears. "I'm very flattered."