They make something of a mirrored reflection when it comes to waking, sharing an almost instinctual apprehension for the moment consciousness rises to the surface in place of dreams, but for opposite reasons. Ignis is disquieted by what he doesn't find when eye opens; Noct, while teetering on the edge on awareness, is disquieted by what he might find.
A year ago now he'd woken to damp stone, ice on his breath, the violent crush of wind and waves the only sound hauling him up from the deep crater of a sleep that seemed to make a home for itself in every limb and bone. His hands, once they'd stopped feeling so useless at his sides, had sought to understand how long it had been, finding his hair grown out inches longer but the skin of his face mostly unchanged, unmarred by new wrinkles or faint indentations. He didn't know what he expected, knew even less what should count as a good sign or a bad sign. Yet even through the uncertainty, the lost memory of the crystal's insides like thin wisps of dreams through his fingers seemed a bad sign. There was no feeling of clarity, no great purpose driving him with surety to the boat on the island's battered shore. Instead, confusion and desperation and little else.
He has had months in the safety of Ignis's arms to reassure him, but he still finds himself expecting that bitter air again, terrified and yet to some extent hopeful that this has all been a vision distorted through glass while he'd slumbered under the watchful gaze of an astral. At least in some new reality he might find himself changed, prepared at long last to banish the darkness. Except—
Except he can barely allow himself to dignify the idea that perhaps Ignis is not real with anything besides an urgent and all-encompassing denial. As difficult as it may be for Noctis to accept that he has failed to call back the sun, that he may never succeed, he has Ignis, a tether and a shield and a heart which reminds him that goodness still exists even here. If he could give the world back its light while remaining in the dark with Ignis and Ignis only, he would.
It's unsurprising that he should feel a moment's fluttering panic when he wakes to a lack of heat at his back, no fingers entwined with his and no gentle breath against his neck or ghosting over his ear. He is fairly used to finding himself alone in the "mornings," but it's the combination of solitude and the noise that he thinks for a moment must be thunder over roiling seas that sets fear ablaze between his ribs. And then of course, it's not, just the clatter of more mundane things, and his heart remembers to pause between beats.
He fumbles as he will always fumble in the bleariness of rising for his phone on the nightstand, the only indicator of time when days and nights are just a consistent sweep of darkness. It is, in fact, 6am, which really offers no explanation for the distant noise in the kitchen, but Noct has to assume there's no danger. If there were, Ignis would be here, protecting him.
Noct drags himself from the bed with a speed that he only seems to exhibit when Ignis is involved (though to be fair, anyone that does not know Noct and his relationship with sleep would feel no reason to apply the word speed here), padding out into the hall to investigate. The light is on as it is always on when Ignis leaves the bedroom first, and that small familiarity soothes the last remaining tightness in his chest.
The sight in the kitchen makes him pause on the threshold, hazy eyes opening wider to take in the collection of ironware and utensils being arranged on the countertop.
"Hey," comes the delayed greeting; it was lost for a moment in surprise. He hovers in the doorway a second longer, then moves with some measure of hesitance simply as a result of this now foreign scene to Ignis's side, bare feet scuffing over linoleum. "What's all this?"
Noct's fingers brush Ignis's elbow, the touch solid yet gentle.
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A year ago now he'd woken to damp stone, ice on his breath, the violent crush of wind and waves the only sound hauling him up from the deep crater of a sleep that seemed to make a home for itself in every limb and bone. His hands, once they'd stopped feeling so useless at his sides, had sought to understand how long it had been, finding his hair grown out inches longer but the skin of his face mostly unchanged, unmarred by new wrinkles or faint indentations. He didn't know what he expected, knew even less what should count as a good sign or a bad sign. Yet even through the uncertainty, the lost memory of the crystal's insides like thin wisps of dreams through his fingers seemed a bad sign. There was no feeling of clarity, no great purpose driving him with surety to the boat on the island's battered shore. Instead, confusion and desperation and little else.
He has had months in the safety of Ignis's arms to reassure him, but he still finds himself expecting that bitter air again, terrified and yet to some extent hopeful that this has all been a vision distorted through glass while he'd slumbered under the watchful gaze of an astral. At least in some new reality he might find himself changed, prepared at long last to banish the darkness. Except—
Except he can barely allow himself to dignify the idea that perhaps Ignis is not real with anything besides an urgent and all-encompassing denial. As difficult as it may be for Noctis to accept that he has failed to call back the sun, that he may never succeed, he has Ignis, a tether and a shield and a heart which reminds him that goodness still exists even here. If he could give the world back its light while remaining in the dark with Ignis and Ignis only, he would.
It's unsurprising that he should feel a moment's fluttering panic when he wakes to a lack of heat at his back, no fingers entwined with his and no gentle breath against his neck or ghosting over his ear. He is fairly used to finding himself alone in the "mornings," but it's the combination of solitude and the noise that he thinks for a moment must be thunder over roiling seas that sets fear ablaze between his ribs. And then of course, it's not, just the clatter of more mundane things, and his heart remembers to pause between beats.
He fumbles as he will always fumble in the bleariness of rising for his phone on the nightstand, the only indicator of time when days and nights are just a consistent sweep of darkness. It is, in fact, 6am, which really offers no explanation for the distant noise in the kitchen, but Noct has to assume there's no danger. If there were, Ignis would be here, protecting him.
Noct drags himself from the bed with a speed that he only seems to exhibit when Ignis is involved (though to be fair, anyone that does not know Noct and his relationship with sleep would feel no reason to apply the word speed here), padding out into the hall to investigate. The light is on as it is always on when Ignis leaves the bedroom first, and that small familiarity soothes the last remaining tightness in his chest.
The sight in the kitchen makes him pause on the threshold, hazy eyes opening wider to take in the collection of ironware and utensils being arranged on the countertop.
"Hey," comes the delayed greeting; it was lost for a moment in surprise. He hovers in the doorway a second longer, then moves with some measure of hesitance simply as a result of this now foreign scene to Ignis's side, bare feet scuffing over linoleum. "What's all this?"
Noct's fingers brush Ignis's elbow, the touch solid yet gentle.