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[armorials]

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—igster

[armorials]

[ noctis is getting used to mornings like these. he wakes for the first time as he always does from one of the others' urging, grumbling assurances that he's awake while he squeezes his eyes shut against the light attempting to filter in through the tent's thin walls and open door. ignis's hand or wrist is always close, leaning into noctis's palm or against his fingertips in a subtle, dangerous good morning that never lasts long enough. he slips back into sleep almost immediately, and when he wakes for the second time, the tent is empty, the sheer lack enough to rouse him, encourage him into tugging on his boots and hauling himself outside.

this morning, though, prompto announces he wants photos in the golden hour and volunteers gladio as his model with the shrugged explanation of muscles, dude. noct makes a halfhearted attempt to defend his own tragically underappreciated toning through a yawn, eyes cutting towards ignis where he tends to something on the portable stove and away again, but it's not nearly enough to make prompto reconsider. as planned. the two of them go trotting off through the trees, camera in hand and tripod over shoulder, and it's like they take all the sound in the campsite with them.

which leaves noctis to admire ignis in the rosy light, the soft glow behind his cheek and the glint against the skinny chain at his neck. none of it helps the want that settles heavy in noctis's stomach, a want that threatens to turn itself into a need as the realization that they're alone, however briefly, makes its slow way to clarity.

this careful dancing around the other two, around people milling about the parking lots of every pit stop along the way, around every friendly face that might recognize noctis for who he is back home has become the trend out of necessity, but the temptation to shake himself of the secrecy becomes harder and harder to shove down. oddly enough, the thing that makes him want to abandon responsibility and safety and sense is the one thing keeping all of those things together. ignis, with his calm and clear head, is perhaps too good at this.

they have a moment, though, and so noctis fights through the blur of sleep that hasn't quite cleared and eases himself into ignis's space, eyes trained on the eggs bubbling in the pan as he leans against ignis hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, a question. there is sound here, oil popping and low fire humming and steady breathing, and it's— it's so ignis, noctis aches. ]

Hey. [ comes the loaded greeting, voice deep and crackling this early in the morning. ignis's free hand rests on the table top next to the edge of the stove and noctis's own finds it easily, palm settling over the back of his knuckles and fingers sliding into the spaces between fingers in a less ambiguous question. it's needy and it's childish and he just doesn't have the energy to care. ]