will you, won't you

Ignis is ready to throw his dinner in Ardyn’s face, for all the good it would do. “What is it you want, Chancellor?”

“Why, company, of course! This eternal darkness can get so lonely… Though I suppose you might know better than anyone, yes?”

Why does Ignis put up with this? Why does he engage? He knows Gladio still attacks on sight, swinging uselessly until he exhausts himself and Ardyn departs, laughing. He knows Prompto gave up on wasting ammunition years ago: now he covers his ears and sings to himself until he’s alone again. Why does Ignis let Ardyn speak?

Because sometimes he says something useful, of course. Because from a handful of thoughtless words scattered over the years, Ignis has been able to piece together a story corroborated by the royal tombs. Because listening is all he can do.

That doesn’t make it easy.

“You aren’t welcome here,” Ignis says flatly.

Ardyn laughs, delighted. “My, my… You are unshakable, aren’t you?  I suspect you may find the idea of death rather agreeable. Or is there truly nothing you fear?” 

Ignis smiles bitterly. "Do you expect me to fear you?”

“And why not?”

“You ran out of ways to hurt me in Gralea, Chancellor.”

The title is the best weapon he has, perhaps the only weapon. If the theory Ignis has labored over is correct, then being conflated with the Empire will always be a thorn in Ardyn’s side, regardless of how long it’s been since Niflheim’s collapse.

“Always dear Noct, isn’t it?”

Ignis nearly flinches. He isn’t the only one armed with pointed words. He tries so hard not to let their conversations drift this way, but Ardyn must sense his weakness - they always end up here, sooner or later.

“Come now, be honest.” Ardyn can be so disgustingly conspiratorial. “It’s a relief, isn’t it, to be free of the endless babysitting? It must be.”

“You are not as all-knowing as you think.”

Ardyn scoffs. “Please, there’s no need for rudeness. You’ve simply piqued my curiosity. What is it you see in your Chosen King? Are you so eager to cook his dinners and wipe his nose?”

Ignis’s hands go tight on his soup bowl.

“Ah, not fond of such jokes? They do seem accurate, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”

“They are not accurate. I assure you.”

“You would say more, but you don’t wish to speak of him to me. So private. In all things, so I’ve gathered, but in none so much as…” Ardyn makes a deeply concerning sound of realization. He lets out a long breath, almost a whistle. “Oh, Ignis. You’re right. It’s taken me far too long.”

No.

Ignis stands up abruptly.

Ardyn laughs. There’s a strange sound in the air, a pulsing chill, and suddenly Ignis can’t move. His body goes rigid. His fingers straighten unbidden, every muscle flexing and straining like he’s been struck by lightning. He drops his bowl. It shatters against the hard ground at his feet with a heart-stopping crack. 

Ignis tries not to panic.

“Perhaps you should thank me,” Ardyn drawls. “If I’d left well enough alone, he’d be married, now.”

“You think-” Ignis knows he shouldn’t keep talking. But his heart is racing, he’s flooded with useless adrenaline, and it’s not as though he can do anything else. “You think I wouldn’t prefer to see him and Lady Lunafreya alive and well? To see him happy? At peace?”

“How admirably selfless.” Ardyn’s voice is closer now. The dark amusement is as constricting as the magic, unbearable.

Ignis cannot take much more of this. He’s been so careful not to let on about what he’s learned from the tombs, so diligent in not tipping his hand. But the potential consequences his rational mind understands feel like nothing at all compared to having a way to push back.

“We do not all expect payment for our love, Chancellor. Nor do we all desire to harm others when we, ourselves, are hurt.”

Ardyn is even closer, now. Ignis can feel the amusement rolling off him in waves. “Are you lecturing me?”

“Yes. Noctis’s story surpasses yours a hundredfold. Even were he never to return, he would still be a far greater king than you have proven.”

The deadly silence is all the confirmation Ignis needs. Rash as it was to tip his hand, it’s so satisfying to make the unexpected move for once. For a single moment, he feels like a strategist again.

In the next moment, there’s a hand around his throat.  

Ignis reaches out on instinct for his weapons. He can move again, but he can’t reach Noctis’s arsenal. Ardyn’s doing, it has to be, because Noctis isn’t- can’t be-

Frantically, Ignis clutches at Ardyn’s arm.

Ardyn laughs. It starts quietly, barely a chuckle, and builds until it seems to echo back from all around them. “So ingenious, aren’t you?”

Ignis gasps, growing lightheaded.

“If you know my story,” Ardyn says softly, his breath against Ignis’s face, “then surely you know my title? My true title.”

Ardyn removes his hand, but the suffocating pressure remains. Ignis wraps his hands uselessly around his own throat. Dizzy, he falls to his knees.

“Oh, what a magnificent start! I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. This should all be so familiar to you, after all.” Ardyn threads his fingers through Ignis’s hair, a mockery of benevolence. “Go on: Your Majesty.”

This is not how Ignis wants to die.

That’s the thought he holds on to in the midst of his fear, his anger, his pride: he’s waited nearly eight years against the hope that Noctis will come back to him. He’ll wait eight more, and then eight more after that, he’ll wait as long as he has to.

He’ll do whatever he must.

Ignis reaches out in his mind to the wall of Noctis’s arsenal, the wall he can’t breach with Ardyn blocking him. He presses himself as close as he can get, willing Noctis to hear, to forgive him, to understand who he’s truly calling out for as he whispers, “Your Majesty.”

Ardyn lets him drop.

Ignis lands face-down in the dirt, gasping, his arms too weak and shaky to push himself up.

“There,” Ardyn says pleasantly, “now we understand one another. Such an important thing between friends, don’t you think?”

We are not friends, Ignis thinks viciously. But the fact that he’s still alive certainly means something.

Ignis manages to prop himself into a slightly more upright position. “You won’t kill me, will you?” His voice is raspy and painful. “You won’t kill any of us.”

Ardyn hums blithely. “Won’t I?”

“How else would you hurt him, while he’s out of your reach? How else would you vent your petty rage?”

“Adorable,” Ardyn purrs.

“You subsist on hatred.” Every word hurts, every second is a fight to stay lucid. “Do you think you can turn us into men like you? Break us and twist our hearts?”

“Oh, perish the thought! You are far better men than that.” The poisonous mockery is a fog in the air. “No matter how the years of darkness stretch out before you, you will never waver in your precious hope. Your love.” Ardyn laughs.

Ignis shakes his head, willing himself not to be sick. “It will not happen.”

“Hmm. For argument’s sake, I might invite you to look around at the world my petty hatred has wrought. But I’m afraid your stalwart devotion has left you… unable.”

Ignis’s arms finally give out. He rolls clumsily onto his back, breathing hard.

Ardyn kneels beside him. Very slowly, almost gently, he removes the visor from Ignis’s face. Ignis turns his head away, vulnerable, wincing.

“I might have killed him already, have you thought of that?” Ardyn traces idly over Ignis’s scarred eye. “Perhaps that’s why you couldn’t reach your weapons just now. Oh, imagine if you’d passed him bleeding on the roadside while he choked out your name? How it must have felt to watch you leave him behind, as he once refused to leave you…”

“No,” Ignis whispers, beyond any semblance of rationality. There are tears on his face: desperate, ashamed. “I would know. If he were near… I would know.”

“Thank you for your company, Ignis,” Ardyn says, a smile in his voice. “You’ve been a charming host.”

By the time he arrives at King Regis’s door, nodding his way past the guards and checking one more time to make sure his shirt is tucked in after dressing in the dark, Ignis has come up with no less than seven completely disastrous reasons he might have been called. None of them seem particularly likely, but it’s always important to be prepared for the worst.

“Come in, Ignis.”

Ignis does, closing the door quietly behind him.

King Regis is in his armchair, still dressed, his head resting on one hand. He looks exhausted.

Ignis bows in greeting.

No greeting is forthcoming  in return.

“I need your opinion.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

King Regis studies him with heavy, tired eyes. “If you were to select a personal retinue for Noctis, a Crownsguard, whom would it contain?”

A Crownsguard? There’s already a Crownsguard, one which has been carefully vetted and trained. Why would Noctis require a separate one? “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Ignis says carefully.

King Regis doesn’t seem surprised at his confusion. “I’m asking for a small group, perhaps three or four. People of balanced abilities, able to support Noctis in whatever situations may arise.”

Something is very wrong, here. But what? “Gladiolus Amicitia has trained all his life to protect His Highness,” Ignis says, giving the obvious answer to play for time.

King Regis motions for him to continue talking. “And you approve of the result?”

“I do. He is a fine warrior, and deeply loyal. He has been a close companion to His Highness, and I consider him a friend as well.” 

“Good,” King Regis nods. “I would have chosen him anyway. Who else?”

Ignis frowns, thinking. It’s difficult to choose given so little context. There are guards and attendants, people of ability, but their loyalty is to the crown first and foremost. Most of them have no relationship with Noctis as a person, and thus Ignis can’t in good conscience entrust Noctis to them. There honestly aren’t many people Noctis gets along with. 

Or-? Well… Why not? 

“Prompto Argentum.”

King Regis raises his eyebrows. “A name I would not have thought of.”

“His combat experience is… minimal,” Ignis admits. “But Your Majesty requested a balance of skills.”

“And what is Prompto’s skill in?”

“Lifting His Highness’s spirits.”

King Regis smiles. 

“There are few so adept,” Ignis says, feeling more confident in his choice by the second. “If Your Majesty suspects challenges ahead, I would not suggest passing him over.”

“Could he be trained?”

“I believe so.”

“Very well.” King Regis adjusts himself in his chair, sitting up straighter. “I notice you have not yet named yourself.”

…Oh. Like an imbecile, Ignis had considered himself a given. Whatever King Regis was planning for Noctis, Ignis hadn’t been able to envision being left out. Now, he’s envisioning it acutely. 

Is he expected to make a case for himself? Would it matter? Surely his qualifications are already known. “I would include myself, Your Majesty.”

King Regis sets his hands on his armrests, and Ignis suddenly feels like they’re in the throne room instead of a bedchamber. His heart rate picks up. He’s been preparing for disaster since he first got this message, and the change in the air indicates that his expectations may finally be fulfilled.

“Am I right in assuming,” King Regis says quietly, “that your feelings for Noctis are beyond those which duty requires?”

Seven potential disasters.

This one hadn’t even crossed his mind.

He thought he’d been so careful, never letting himself look too long, finding believable excuses for every visit and gift and touch. Drawing back whenever he had to, never giving Noctis the chance to notice his struggle or close the distance between them. Denying himself innocent moments, afraid of what the press might do even with too soft a smile.

He can’t do anything about the fact that his chest aches sometimes when Noctis says his name.

“His Highness has been- is-” damn it, damn it, “has always been… dear to me. As he is to many who know him, I have no doubt.”

King Regis hums, his face unreadable. “But perhaps not in the same way?”

Ignis will be removed from duty, that isn’t even a question. 

Is that what this has been? Was King Regis looking for Ignis’s input regarding his own replacement? People who could support Noctis until a new advisor could be arranged?

He’ll be sent away from the Citadel.

God. He’ll never see Noctis again.

“Your Majesty, please,” Ignis says, head swimming in desperation. “I have never acted out of accordance with my position, I swear it. I am a faithful steward to His Highness. I hope to have done well by him, and by you. I would never-”

“Peace,” King Regis says, looking genuinely surprised at Ignis’s outburst. “I did not call you here to condemn you.”

Then, why? Why? What has this been about? What need is there for a specialized guard? What does it matter whether Ignis is so pathetically in love that he could cry? 

Ignis prides himself on maintaining an understanding of both world politics and the affairs of Insomnia, but he’s lightheaded and his face is hot and he cannot figure out why he was called to this meeting.

“The Empire has called for a peace treaty. It requires a marriage between Noctis and Lady Lunafreya of Tenebrae.”

Oh.

Ignis has been choosing an escort. 

To Noctis’s wedding.

“The press will know, come morning,” King Regis says, almost gently.

So, this was a kindness. Ignis will be spared dealing with his shock in public. He’s grateful - or, as grateful as can be managed in his current state.

King Regis rubs at his eyes. “There is another provision, as well.”

Peace with Niflheim. Noctis engaged. And there’s more? Ignis stares at the far wall, clutching his hands behind his back, trying to school his expression.

“You have no interest?” The bitter tone is a surprise. Ignis looks at King Regis, who isn’t looking back at him. The king’s hand is still over his eyes. “As advisor to the crown,” he continues, voice distant and frustrated, “you have no opinion on this treaty?”

Ignis doesn’t know what his king expects from him. It’s all he can do to keep his face impassive. “I would not presume-”

“By all means, presume!” King Regis laughs, a sound as dry as paper tearing. “You have always been dutiful. Tell me, Ignis, remind me. What is my duty?”

Ignis cannot do this right now. Not when he’s already wondering what Noctis will look like on his wedding day. Not when he’s imagining a lifetime of training heirs to the throne in history and etiquette, children with their mother’s healing hands and Noctis’s beautiful eyes. He feels like someone’s carved a portion out of his chest, the part that dealt with breathing. “The line of Lucis protects the Crystal until the King of Light comes,” he recites numbly.

“The Crystal,” King Regis says, almost snaps. “The Prophecy. And my son? My people? Do I not have an obligation to them?”

“Your Majesty,” Ignis says slowly, fighting for competence, “I don’t know what choices you may be facing, nor do I expect you to confide in me. Your people trust you to fulfill your duties in the best way you know. As I will fulfill mine to your son.”

King Regis stares at him for a long moment, then seems to settle, fatigue draining the tension from his features once more. “We must all make our sacrifices. Is that what you mean to say?” He sighs and passes his hand over his face. “You have been good to him, Ignis. In ways I could never have hoped for. I pray that you will continue to stand by him in the days ahead.”

“Always,” Ignis says. “In all things.”

“A promise not made lightly now, with the future uncertain.”

“The future has never been certain. And I have never been one to take things lightly, Your Majesty.”

King Regis nods to him in gratitude. “You may go,” he says quietly.

As desperate as he is to leave, Ignis stops with one hand on the door. He turns back. It would be impertinent to ask, but… “Have you told him?”

“No,” King Regis says.

Ignis bristles invisibly. “Do you intend to?”

“If I don’t, you will, won’t you? Even if asked not to.”

Yes. Yes, he will. As much as Ignis has just panicked about being fired and thrown out… Noctis is not going to find out about his own engagement from the news. 

King Regis smiles sadly. “Don’t answer, please. I’d hate to have a member of the new Crownsguard penalized for misconduct.”

Even after the utter mess this conversation has been, at least Ignis still has his place by Noctis’s side. If sixteen years in the palace have earned him the leniency shown tonight, perhaps he can push it just a bit further. Just this once. “You should be the one to tell him, Your Majesty.”

King Regis knows this, surely. It still takes him a long time to nod. “Bring him to me.”

—

Ignis lets himself into Noctis’s apartment. It’s so familiar, the routine of it, the reassurance of having the key. He’s spent more of his waking life here than in his own rooms, these last few years. He knows every shelf and cupboard, knows the view from the balcony, knows the haphazard organization of the spare closet where his extra clothes are hung beside Noctis’s formal suits.

He doesn’t bother with the lights - he can find his way around in the dark.

It’s so strange to think this life is almost over.

Noctis is asleep, as Ignis had suspected, but he apparently didn’t make it to his bed. He’s curled up on the sofa like a cat, still in his clothes, the lights of the city casting shadows across his face.

Ignis kneels beside him. He’d like to smooth back Noctis’s hair from his forehead, or touch his cheek. He’d like to stave off waking him, to take a few moments and memorize how peaceful he looks.

Indulgences he won’t allow himself.

“Noct,” he says gently, one hand on Noctis’s shoulder. “Wake up, please.”

That won’t do it. It never has. At least Ignis can convince himself he’s trying, though.

“Noctis,” Ignis repeats, rubbing his hand up and down Noctis’s arm. “Your father wants to speak with you.”

Noctis blinks up at him through his messy hair, his eyes bleary. “Huh?”

Of course. The one time in their lives Ignis doesn’t want him to wake up.

How many more chances like this will he get? They’ll be few and far between after the wedding, surely.

“Hello,” Ignis whispers, his throat thick. He doesn’t pull his hand away.

Noctis frowns, pushing himself back against the sofa’s armrest. “Iggy?”

Ignis shuts his eyes. That ache in his chest, again. Does Noctis know? He has no idea. There have been moments, handfuls of heartbeats where he’s felt there might have been something…

Not that it matters now. Not that it ever did.

Noctis’s hand settles tentatively atop Ignis’s.

Ignis opens his eyes, grateful for the dark room, sure that his face is crumpling.

“You okay?” Noctis asks quietly. Still soft and half-asleep, but so sincere.

“Yes,” Ignis says. “Yes, of course.” He draws his hand back slowly, Noctis’s fingers trailing over his own as he pulls away. God, he wishes he could feel it. His damned gloves - never mind that this is precisely the sort of thing they’re meant to protect against. “You’ve been summoned.”

Noctis’s face goes tight. He rubs at his eyes. “You know why?”

“I do,” Ignis says, feeling horribly guilty. “But I think your father should be the one to tell you.”

Noctis looks like he wants to argue. “It’s bad, huh?”

Ignis has no idea whether Noctis will consider it ‘bad.’ Perhaps he’ll be perfectly content with the news. “I don’t have all the details.”

“It’s fine,” Noctis says, in a flat voice that means it isn’t. He sits up and starts scanning the room, presumably looking for his shoes. “I know you’d get in trouble.”

It’s not about that. Not at all. But Ignis can’t explain.

He finds Noctis’s shoes at the side of the sofa, where they always are. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly as he hands them over.

Noctis pauses before putting them on, staring at Ignis’s face. “It… really is bad.”

Ignis curses himself, forcing his expression back to neutrality. “I recommended Prompto for an official position.”

Noctis knows he’s changing the subject. It works anyway. His eyes brighten and the corners of his mouth turn up. “Yeah?”

“Do you suppose he’ll accept? He’ll have to be fitted for a uniform…” 

Noctis laughs, his face warm and bright and beautiful as he leans over to tie his shoes. “Oh, he’s gonna lose it.”

Gladio shrugs and settles back in his seat. "Whatever. You can count me out."

Noctis snaps his head around to stare, affronted. "Well, fine."

"Don't look at me like that," Gladio scoffs. "I'm your security, remember? I gotta be able to move around the room, if I need to."

"Oh. Right. Just… Make sure you're somewhere I can see you, okay?"

"What, you gonna make me cue you how to put a ring on?"

"Shut up," Noctis grumbles.

"I'll be right there, Prince Charmless. No worries."

Prompto is fidgeting in his seat. "I, uh."

"Prompto?"

"It's stupid. I just- I mean, I know it's a big royal wedding, there's no way there won't already be a bunch of official ones, right? But I figured, if you gave me permission, I could- Mine wouldn't end up in the papers or anything, you know? They could just be yours. If you want."

Noctis frowns. "I… don't know what you're talking about."

"Heh." Prompto runs his hand through his hair, his face red. "Yeah."

"I believe," Ignis says slowly, "Prompto may be asking to be your photographer."

Prompto shrugs helplessly. "Dumb, I know."

"No, that'd be great," Noctis says, relieved. "I hate the reporters. Can we- Can it just be Prompto? At least during the ceremony? You think we can keep the rest back?"

Ignis and Gladio make the same half-laughing sound. Both their smiles are a little terrifying, the way they always get when dealing with the press. "We sure can," Gladio says.

Noctis relaxes visibly.

"Aw, great!" Prompto looks absolutely thrilled with the idea of his new job. "And it looks like you've got your best man," he grins, poking Ignis in the shoulder.

"Makes sense," Gladio says. "He's been with you the longest."

"Since we were kids, yeah," Noctis mumbles.

Ignis catches his eye in the rearview mirror. They both smile. They both look away.

Gladio shrugs. "I'm happy with it from the Crownsguard angle. I'll watch the crowds, Iggy can watch you."

Ignis frowns just slightly at the phrasing, but says nothing.

Noctis rubs the back of his neck. "You… okay with that, Specs?"