iginis’ hands are always cold, especially at the very tips of his fingers. it isn’t an uncomfortable cold, and noctis doesn’t flinch when he feels them brush his skin, but it is something that is very distinctly ignis, something noctis has come to expect, to love, to crave. because they ground him when he’s feeling overwhelmed, lungs tight and ribs tense, shoulders rigid with the weight of regality; they calm him when he wakes with a sharp gasp and a vicious start, flesh trembling and breath fragmented, strands of ink clinging to his temples; they soothe him when his leg starts to ache after a long day: a deep, dull, dense sort of pain, fingers digging into stiff muscle and working the soreness from it in careful, calculated circles.