[ Ignis laughs, one of those low, rich sounds he's not particularly stingy with, yet carry this certain timbre when they're for Noct. Possibly, he imagines, the state of being utterly besotted has a curious effect on the vocal cords. Or Noct, singularly, has a curious effect on him, that's more to the point. Especially when this laugh is effectively into his mouth, Ignis responding to that urgency like someone struck a bell. It never feels like they have enough time, behind gas stations and in motel bathrooms and every other kind of stolen moment, but at the same time, any moment to be with Noct like this seems an embarrassment of riches. Kissing him is finding, in much loved, long familiar territory, a place completely off the map; Ignis wants to make that mystery so well known to him he could draw it in the dark.

So yes, he knows the sharp, starving edge is mutual; it surprises him every time he realizes. He drops his glasses to the tabletop, the fingers of his free hand threading through Noct's hair: this early in the morning it's a less intentionally disheveled mess, soft like cat's fur; in contrast Ignis is of course impeccable, like he sprang from the sleeping bag perfectly groomed. (In a sentiment so treacley it's nearly absurd, Ignis thinks there is nothing up here lovelier than the prince regardless.) ]

I could, [ he manages in a break between kisses ] lay a trail of shiny objects to throw him off the scent, but my dissatisfaction with myself won't be dissipated nearly so easily.

[ Perhaps Noct might think that means they're going to stop kissing; in fact it means nothing of the kind, rather that Ignis gropes somewhat blindly behind him to turn the stove down to less perilous temperature. Where he can ignore it in favor of reeling Noct in closer, kisses traveling from the corner of his mouth to the joint of his jaw. ]

Now then. Where were we?