hold my hand when you leave

[blindsider]

[ It's difficult. Unbearably so, at first. He'll think he's making progress and then be forcefully reminded of his loss - the scent of the product Noctis used to drag through his hair to sculpt his perpetual bedhead into something that at least looked intentional, yet another child named for their saviour, the King of Light. Or he'll dream of him, of being twined together under the sheets and just holding one another for the joy of being close, and wake to the empty reality of his bed and feel as if he's been flayed and every part of him is raw and exposed.

It never truly gets easier, but it gets simpler. He fills his days with things that need to be done, with making the kinds of changes he imagines Noctis would have wanted made. It's made clear that there's a position in the new fledgling government for him should he want it, but like Gladio and Prompto he declines. There's no appeal to all of that now that Noctis is gone. He finds comfort in cooking instead; opens a small diner and uses enough of the skills his former life gave him (and calls in enough favours) to ensure that there is always adequate food to stretch to feeding people who can't pay and who wouldn't eat otherwise. It keeps him busy enough that the pain in the places that Noctis belongs ache rather than sear. And on the mornings after he dreams of Noctis he usually finds Astra curled close to him, purring and nudging at his chin with her face.

She's particularly insistent this morning. Her purr is as loud as the diesel generators they'd all grown used to, her headbutts determined. That's probably less to do with any urge to comfort him than the fact that she wants breakfast, but he can't bring himself to rise just yet. The content of the dream is fast escaping him, but it must have been vivid; he could swear he still feels Noctis in the room. Reason enough to lay in bed a moment longer, wrapped in warm sheets and memories. ]

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[blindsider]

[ Oh. His hand bunches reflexively in the sheets at the sound of that voice. It's so familiar, so clear that for a moment Ignis almost thinks he's still dreaming. He's not, and the alternative is that he's going mad but that almost seems a fair trade. He can feel himself smiling in spite of that thought, his useless eyes fluttering open as he turns his face to nudge gently against Astra. He's surprised she stuck around, really - she'd always been Noct's cat, devoted to him no matter how many slivers of fish Ignis snuck her - but it pleases him to think that maybe she feels it too. The thought pulls a little huff from him, something that's half a laugh and half a sigh as he shifts under the covers. ]

Noct.

[ It's a quiet thing, full of love and longing, his voice low and rough with sleep. He hasn't said it since the dawn; now when he speaks of him it's always The King, or very occasionally Noctis.

He'll regret it later, when he's up and showered and cooking for the day, feeling foolish for giving in to it. But for now, it feels good to say it again.]