[ Ah, that's definitely struck a nerve. Ignis might not let on -- he rarely ever does; the man has iron control over his emotions and moods, and Noctis can almost swear that he's never seen him lose his temper. Well, there was that one time, long ago, when Noctis had taken crayons and defaced a priceless portrait, and the look of horror on Ignis' face had been so profoundly, intensely genuine that Noctis had never tried it again.
He remembers. He remembers when he'd first met Ignis, clasped his hand with both of his. He remembers the first taste of that fluffy pastry, and all the others that came after -- ones that didn't quite taste right but Noctis didn't mind tasting one after another, offering honest feedback, enjoying the pastries all the same; after all, Ignis was the one who made them, and they were delicious.
He frowns. Someone said that before. Someone he shared one of Ignis' tarts with, at school. Someone he remembers in flashes, and frowns. Then Ignis mentions tattoos. Tattoos. He remembers tattoos, as well -- a glimpse of dark hair and tawny eyes, the smell of sand and canvas, the sizzling of meat on a grill. Noctis tries to remember, grasping at straws, but the details are fuzzy, and Noctis is looking at down at the neat words, small and definitely readable.
Trust Ignis to have thought of this, too, and he nods like the addendum is the most natural thing in the world; it is, if you ask Noctis. He trusts him with his life, and as his oldest, closest companion, he more than has the right to make that assertion. Ignis has earned it, over and over again -- his devotion and loyalty second to none, a harbor in stormy seas. ]
No, it sounds good. [ Noctis can't help a flutter of apprehension: maybe it only sounds good because he's forgotten what to add. ] And if you forget anything, I'll just remind you, okay? C'mon, let's go.
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He remembers. He remembers when he'd first met Ignis, clasped his hand with both of his. He remembers the first taste of that fluffy pastry, and all the others that came after -- ones that didn't quite taste right but Noctis didn't mind tasting one after another, offering honest feedback, enjoying the pastries all the same; after all, Ignis was the one who made them, and they were delicious.
He frowns. Someone said that before. Someone he shared one of Ignis' tarts with, at school. Someone he remembers in flashes, and frowns. Then Ignis mentions tattoos. Tattoos. He remembers tattoos, as well -- a glimpse of dark hair and tawny eyes, the smell of sand and canvas, the sizzling of meat on a grill. Noctis tries to remember, grasping at straws, but the details are fuzzy, and Noctis is looking at down at the neat words, small and definitely readable.
Trust Ignis to have thought of this, too, and he nods like the addendum is the most natural thing in the world; it is, if you ask Noctis. He trusts him with his life, and as his oldest, closest companion, he more than has the right to make that assertion. Ignis has earned it, over and over again -- his devotion and loyalty second to none, a harbor in stormy seas. ]
No, it sounds good. [ Noctis can't help a flutter of apprehension: maybe it only sounds good because he's forgotten what to add. ] And if you forget anything, I'll just remind you, okay? C'mon, let's go.