Chapter Text
On the way to Caem, they don’t talk about the way they held hands on the beach of Galdin. Noctis doesn’t inform Ignis that the mere thought of it sends red flushing to his cheeks, or that whenever Ignis turns his head in his direction, smiling at him even though he can’t see him smile in return, the calm from the night before seeps back into his veins.
Noctis pulls in front of Caem’s rusted chocobo rental sign hours before the Altissian boats are set to dock. The grass at the foot of the hill is taller than he’d imagined on the way over. It’s not quite as green as it had been, but he can almost pretend like it’s because of autumn instead of the long night. He sees the lighthouse standing just as proudly as it had ten years ago, a steady compass to the shore. He smiles, and he reaches for Ignis’s hand to hold as they climb the hill.
Ignis surprises him by taking his arm instead, pulling him in tightly, like they’re climbing the steepest part of Ravatogh instead of the slighter path. Maybe to a blind man it’d be a more difficult climb, but the inkling that he’s not gripping onto Noctis for guidance instead of pleasure warms his heart. Their ascent is clumsy and slow, but they don’t separate the whole way up.
As they near the old cabin, Noctis surveys the changes with interest. The wood paneling on the outside used to be missing whole planks, and the fact that the patio was still standing each time they visited was a defiance of physics. Now, the peeling paint of the exterior was replaced with sturdy, freshly-coated wood, and the patio was expanded to house a small bench that Weskham sits on. He can't wait to see what they'd done to the inside.
"How does it look?" Ignis asks, and Noctis leans a little more into his shoulder.
"Like a whole new place," he answers. "They replaced the wood and painted it this nice blue, like the sky. And you should see the patio.”
“No more deathtrap?” his companion infers.
“No more deathtrap. I’m gonna miss Prompto tripping over that thing,” Noctis admits, wistful.
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll still find a way.”
They share good-natured chuckles at their friend’s expense as they walk. Weskham spots them, his face lighting up as he stands to welcome them.
“Well, if it isn’t His Majesty himself! I must say, when I asked for volunteers, I hadn’t expected the rulers of Lucis themselves to come all the way out here.”
“It’s been a long time coming for me,” Noctis says. He’d offer a hand for the man to shake, but he doesn’t want to disentangle himself from Ignis just yet. “Had to see it for myself. For a while, this place was all we had to come back to. It’s good to see it looking so new.”
Weskham turns to admire the building with him, placing his hands on his hips. “Yes, it’s like a brand-new house. The inside is mostly the same, but we might expand it in the future. Dustin recommended turning it into a hotel for the port way back when.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“You know, I considered it my home for some time, too, when I had to leave Maagho behind. I was downright miserable at first. I’d worked hard to build that restaurant, and I had so many plans… Then the Leviathan threw her fit, and Altissia was all but abandoned after the sun stopped coming up. Welcoming what few refugees were able to make it over wasn’t the glamorous retirement I was expecting, either. Eventually, though, when the time came to head back across the sea, I just couldn’t leave this place behind the way it was,” he explains. “Had to return the favor it paid me this whole time.”
Noctis would never be able to know what it was really like to survive those ten years, but he feels like he understands what Weskham is saying, just a little. He can still see Prompto chase Iris and Talcott out the front door, waving at the rest of them to catch up with the hand not reserved for his camera. Gladio smacks a yawning younger Noctis over the head as they traipse over, and Ignis would ensure the door is shut properly before following them.
These versions of them are ghosts, haunting worn photographs in Prompto’s office and the wizened eyes of men who carried these moments with them in the darkest of nights, when the sun seemed like it was never coming up again. But it did, and in the light, Noctis cherishes the ghosts and the living alike—who they’ve been, and whoever they’ll grow to be. He wants to be there to meet every version of them he can along the way.
“Oh, the other volunteers showed up a couple hours ago,” Weskham informs them. “They were getting a tad restless waiting for your arrival, so I sent them inside the cabin for a late lunch. Why don’t you two run in and make sure they haven’t demolished all our hard work in fixing up the kitchen?”
To be fair, Noctis doesn’t really know the people they sent to help work in Caem, but they hadn’t seemed to be the rowdy type from their work in the city. Ignis doesn’t seem to think that of them, either, judging by the small furrow to his brow. Thinking it’s probably just Weskham’s idea of humor, he steps up the sturdier patio and opens the door.
“I looked it up!” a familiar voice cries from inside the cabin. “It’s, like, eight months at the latest.”
“That’s just for the flavor and texture to not be as good,” a deeper voice argues.
“Cup Noodles expire! Look here: ‘Sell by June 5, 758’!”
“Don’t talk to me like you didn’t shove the first Reeve’s Peanut Butter Cup you saw down your throat three years into supply runs.”
“That was one time, and it was a really low point for me, so if we could just forget that ever happened—”
“Prompto? Gladio?” Noctis’s cries of disbelief cut into their argument, the missing half of their party turning from their debate at the end of the dining room table to look at them.
“Noct! Iggy!” Prompto springs out of his seat, which topples onto its side in his excitement. He vaults over the table with an energy that’s impressive for a thirty-one-year-old man to sling an arm around his king’s neck.
Noctis would be impressed if he wasn’t so confused. “Wh...How are you guys even here?”
“Aranea owed me a favor, so she dropped us off in her ship,” Prompto answers.
“But why?”
“Well, someone couldn’t wait a few days to get out on the open road.” The blond elbowed him. “So you show up at Hammerhead without me, and poor Cindy wonders ‘whatever happened to the handsome one of the group? Is the king not cool enough for him anymore?’ Now, we have to come out and salvage your kingly reputation before the Altissians show up.”
The ribbing from his best friend should be a balm to his displaced soul, the parts of him that clung to any semblance of belonging this world can offer him, and he’ll appreciate it later on. But whether it’s post-driving brain fog or the sheer shock of finding them waiting in Caem, Noctis’s body can’t choose an emotion to respond with and gives up entirely.
He doesn’t get a chance to step back and pick one for himself. Gladio, being Gladio, doesn’t bother with the pleasant small talk, and marches right up to him with an expression that sobered Prompto’s mischievous grin.
“I’m here to set the record straight. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I don’t want to be your shield,” he says, and the words punch Noctis right in the chest. “I know I’ve been distant lately—more like you’ve been distant, and I didn’t want to push. Every time I try to fix things with you I end up pushing them too far and breaking them all over again, and I don’t want to do that. So I sat back and gave you space. But maybe I should have pushed, because it’s better than you thinking I don’t care. So, I’m sorry.”
Noctis tries to digest the words, to formulate an intelligent response, but every word dissipates except the words he can’t recall hearing his shield say to him in his life: I’m sorry. He didn't say them to Noctis before he ascended the steps to his death, or after their fight in Cartanica, or anytime after Gladio realized Noctis wasn’t the one actually at fault for Iris going missing that fateful day in the Citadel. They had plenty of arguments since the day they met, but they never really talked about them after they both took time to fizzle out; they just showed their forgiveness by resuming life as normal. It’s always worked for Noctis, who never enjoys dwelling in his own failures, anyway.
Gladio’s act of saying these words now, after everything—spelling them out so Noctis can’t possibly misconstrue them—is enough to make his eyes burn. He isn’t used to this Gladio. He doesn’t know how to respond. But, if Ignis has taught him anything these past few days, it’s that he should start with the truth.
“It’s not your fault, I just…” Noctis feels Ignis’s hand on his arm, and he takes a shaky breath before he continues. “Everyone’s moved on, these ten years. Everyone except me. You’ve all been running around and saving the world piece by piece, living your lives without having to protect me. I don’t want to take that away from you—from any of you—because I’m some relic dug up from a different time. You deserve to be able to choose what you want to do.”
“Then let us choose,” Gladio counters, straightening his shoulders. “I’m right where I want to be.”
“Me, too,” Prompto jumps in. “Ever at your side, remember?”
“I’m afraid you’re stuck with us,” Ignis adds.
Tears finally break through. Noctis laughs a little--at himself for hiding himself away from these guys for so long, and also for getting so emotional over things they’d already implied on their final night together before his death. He had been so certain that they’d follow him to his death, but he overlooked how hard it’d be to follow him into his new life.
He’s not alone. His friends have suffered endlessly, but maybe they can all heal together.
“You guys…”
Are the best.
No, what he wanted to say: “I love you, guys.”
Maybe it’s the way he says it: Gladio’s jaw drops for just a second before he chuckles, Ignis smiles brightly, and Prompto smacks him in the arm before hastily wiping something from his face.
They have a lot to catch up on. They sit at the old dining room table in the cabin, and Noctis scooches his chair a little closer to Ignis, whose arm is soon slung over the back of his seat. Noctis leans in. Yeah, a lot to catch up on.
Ignis knocks on the door and waits for Noctis’s permission before entering the room. It’s a habit he’s kept these past two weeks, even though every other tradition between the two of them has changed somehow.
“Your Majesty.” He nods his head toward his king before stepping toward the desk.
“What, no bowing this time?” Noctis teases.
“Even I’ve had enough royal protocol these past two weeks,” Ignis says. “As such, I hope you won’t put it on record that I am glad the Altissians have finally set sail.”
Ignis offers Noctis the thermos of coffee he brought for him, and his liege’s hand lingers a few seconds longer than necessary.
He waits a moment for Noctis to take a sip. “Well?”
“Hmm…”
“Does it not merit the Royal Seal of Approval?”
“Actually,” Noctis says, sounding surprised, “I think I could get used to this. Gladio owes you two hundred gil.”
Ignis smirks. “Were we that obvious with our bet?”
“I don’t think Gladio’s ever learned how to whisper. You guys were right across the table.”
“Drat.”
“Look at it this way: you won’t have to brew another pot each morning.”
“Yes, because I’ll be sharing my precious coffee supply with you.”
“Hey. Don’t make bets you don’t want to commit to.”
“I always commit.”
“Yeah.” Noctis hasn’t moved away this whole time, Ignis realizes absently as he feels the breath on his skin. “You always have.”
It’s gotten harder, recently, to ignore that nagging impulse to just lean in--to broach that form of physical affection they haven’t yet. A part of him still fears he’s misread Noctis’s intentions. His king has attended more lunches and dinners, sometimes with only the two of them. Sometimes, he still hides a bit of himself away.
Ignis has grown accustomed to the hand in his from their roadtrip, however. He’s heard Noctis laugh, talk on end about subjects other than royal business, and greet him and the others with genuine delight. Noctis is alive, and he’s once again become a constant in Ignis’s life in a way he’s yearned for a whole decade. Ignis doesn’t think he could be happier than he’s been these past few weeks.
Then, Noctis says, voice low, “I do, too.”
Slowly and carefully, fingers brush against the side of his face. Ignis swallows.
“And I hope you’re committed to telling me the truth, because I… I’ve been really wanting to kiss you, but I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
Ignis reaches for Noctis’s arm, pulling him a little closer. “It’s as you said: I’ve always been committed.”
They lean in at the same time.