Immovable

     Ignis always took his training far too seriously to let nerves affect him — and the surprise, that odd offense he’d taken to those clipped words, didn’t quite make it to his expression. But it flashes in his eyes, briefly and barely noticeable to the unobservant.

     He can feel himself withdrawing already, and it takes all his might to combat the urge to pull away, to dismiss it and leave Gladio alone in the tent, accompanied only by whatever odd thoughts occupy his mind. Ignis doesn’t want to admit that he might be foolishly holding out on that hope after all these years, after he thought he’d convinced himself it wouldn’t work, it wouldn’t happen and– for a moment again he can’t find the words.

          “How this works,” he intones, and his volume lowers, words… softened, almost. “Is that if you trust me, you tell me. Whatever this is — what this is that’s bothering you, because it is fairly obvious, Gladio. You were never particularly skilled at hiding things. Much less from me.”

     Ignis knows that he shouldn’t in good conscious put him, his friend, in that sort of position. But the man is so damned stubborn at times that, in all honesty, the adviser isn’t utterly sure he’s another choice to make.

It pulls his head from where it had hung, eyes finally meeting the other man’s and he lets out a huff of indignance, as if frustrated that Ignis somehow knew exactly what to say, precisely what corner to back him into to get what he wanted out of Gladio and it was infuriating but also one of the endless reasons he loved Ignis so fiercely. 

“You’re fucking insufferable sometimes, you know that?” 

He relents though, running a hand through knotted hair, brows drawing together as he lowers his voice to an almost whisper. The last thing he wanted was for the others to hear him, to know just how truly weak he was behind that wall he’d fashioned to bear the brunt of his destiny. 

“It’s... You.” He lifts a hand to loosely gesture at the man, shaking his head. “Everything about you. Your damned smile, that stupid thing you do with your hair, how you fuss over everyone and ignore yourself and Gods, Ignis, it’s the fact that seven years have passed and I still can’t get past how much I want you.” 

There’s a beat and he continues. “And I don’t fucking mean sex, I want you. All the little parts that make up the incredibly infuriating package.” 

I love you. 

          “Tch. ‘Forget about it’.” He still sounds unnerved, but the words come easier to him now in his exasperation; that is something, at the very least. For a long few moments he seems to hesitate, hands twitching at his sides before he lowers himself to sit, palms on his knees.

          “You kiss me and expect me to forget about it,” he says, as if to make certain he’s heard right… even saying it doesn’t quite hit it home for Ignis, not just yet. But the hints of a smile shine in his eyes, in the slight twitch of his lips; a wry attempt at humor, at making light of their… incident. “I’m fairly certain that isn’t how it works.”

     Perhaps he’s… simply too unwilling to get his own hopes up. Ignis recalls with an upsetting clarify the turmoil he’d subjected himself to when he was younger, that silent and pathetic… well, pining. For lack of a better word, he had crushed on Gladio once they’d started getting along better. once the shield had treated him more kindly, friendlier. 

“The how does it work, pray tell?” His tone is almost biting but he tempers it, holds the aggression in as always, refusing to meet eyes with Ignis. He’s reminded in that moment how wholly out of Ignis’ league he is, and it makes him pinch his brows in frustration. 

Maybe once this would have come easy, days when there wasn’t the weight of the entire future hanging on his shoulders, the burden of protection a cage as much as it was an honor and Gladiolus continued to stare at the floor of the tent, wishing he could bore a hole right in the ground and dissolve. 

“Because I sure as hell don’t have a clue.” 

Something had picked the old wounds raw, the memories of Ignis wandering with boys from his school and Gladio had never felt so jealous in his life when he’d watched them kiss before ducking into the training hall. There was a possessiveness in Gladiolus, he was well aware of the clawing desire to call Ignis his own and he’d wanted it for so long that it’d become a silently understood dream, just barely out of his reach. 

          “You… just.” There’s confusion written across his face, brows drawn close, lips pursed when not falling open at his own lack of words. What… does he say to that? Part of him can’t help but consider that maybe, just perhaps it might be… better to pretend it hadn’t actually happened. But they can’t quite afford the space and time to avoid one another on a trip like this.

          “I– why did you–?” He feels his own fingers brushing again at the corner of his lips; he has to avert his eyes once he feels himself flushing, and for once he– Ignis isn’t sure of what to say, has no clue.

“I...” It was his turn to be at a loss for words. Why had he? Impulse, mostly, but that was a thinly veiled excuse for the years, all of the times before this that were the textbook definition of almost...

“Shit, specs.” 

He collapsed, legs crossing and he ran a hand down his face, groaning quietly in exasperation. He’d never been good at expressing much of anything; it’d been frowned upon in the face of his duty but Ignis was expecting some kind of solid fact to put behind the kiss and he couldn’t produce one. 

     He’s frozen. And a hand lifts, brushing against the corner of his lips and– he spins, about to question, or drag him back if he must, their friends lingering around the campsite be damned. But he’s already disappearing behind the tent flap, and Ignis’ nostrils flare as he trails after, crouching and climbing inside.

     He keeps his voice low, out of earshot of the other two, and rather gracelessly does he drop the blankets and pillows into a heap at his feet. “–Gladio.”

There is certainly surprise on his features and he looks first to the pile of blankets, dropped carelessly in a fashion rather unusual for Ignis. Had he crossed some sort of line? 

          “There are far less turbulent ways of managing, Gladio,” Ignis answers curtly, his tone gentle in its chiding. “I have dealt with far worse; no use in fretting so greatly over it.” And yet… a failed attempt is an attempt nevertheless. Gently he pries the bedclothes from the shield.

          “Mm. Come along. No use in staying up so much later… it can wait until morning, yes?”

“Suppose so.” 

He allows Ignis to take the garments, stopping him when he tries to step away; it’s a momentary impulse, fingers brushing his jaw and then lips pressed to his cheekbone; they descend to the corner of his mouth before he properly kisses Ignis-- 

     … oh, damn it.

          “… Gladio.” He reaches a hand out, catches him by the arm — and gives him a disdainful, if not mildly concerned look. “I suppose… that I am not that cruel. Stay. I won’t make you sleep outside.”

There’s a flicker of a smile on Gladio’s features at his words and he leans into Ignis’ touch, letting out a long sigh. 

“Only tryin’ to make you smile, specs. All this...” He gestures broadly, from the darkened forest to the sleeping boys in the tent. “It’s weighing on you. Just wanted you to laugh.”