For the first year after the sun goes down, Ignis' dreams don't change much. He wasn't born blind, and the way his memory works keeps details crisp and vivid, an aspect of his life he's not sure he likes; every morning means realizing all over again why he's so disoriented, why it feels like he can't get his eyes to open. Over time, the impression of people and places he's only seen a handful of times glaze over, get blurrier. He can hear Talcott's voice starting to change, but the ten year old boy Ignis will always picture runs at the edges.
Even as his dreams become more like his daily (nightly, he supposes) life, the slow slide into wakefulness still sets off a plume of question marks before his brain catches up to his body. A year after that, which is altogether 742 days without sunlight (Ignis has been keeping track; it's useful to practice the numbers in Braille)--he doesn't know if he'll ever really stop having to claw his way to clarity through that paralyzing instant, but having another body in the bed helps. Familiarity like an anchor, waking to warmth and that faint aftermath of rain always clinging to Noct's hair and skin: the only clear sky he's ever going to know again. Ignis has decided it must be an offshoot of Lucian magic and-it's good. A length of red thread wound around his finger to remind him where and who he is, that he's where he's meant to be.
When he blinks out of dreams this time, a time that might be morning, afternoon...it barely matters, time is measured by how they all just go until they can't anymore--deep rhythmic breathing and sleep-heated deadweight tucked back to chest with him says he's awake before Noct. This is in no way unusual, but also means he could have slept anywhere from eight hours to twenty minutes; the light hasn't changed enough to signify a shift in what he can still sense. Whatever time it is he doesn't think he's getting back to sleep, so for some while he just indulges the paranoid impulse that strikes like lighting more often than he would admit to anyone, just reveling in all the little things that mean Noct is alive, heartbeat and breath and tiny shifts that clang like thunderclaps in the ears he's learning slowly to rely on more each day.
If he could ever really let himself relax he'd probably be content to do that for hours, but Ignis is still too much himself to idle for too long; eventually he kisses the nape of Noct's neck and disentangles, gently, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand before remembering he doesn't really need them in their house, and deciding to go without. It's not as if Noct is suddenly going to come over all questions about the scar.
He feels his way to the hall, trailing fingers finding the lightswitch just in case Noct does wake up, walks the route to the kitchen familiar enough now that he doesn't need much in the way of assistance from walls or step counting. His initial intentions are mostly to get a glass of water, take a piss and try for sleep a second time, but--the heel of his hand against the kitchen counter brings back, without warning, what had connected all his dreams in a string of beads: the smell of...of something, it won't quite crystallize, but he knows it was familiar, that it felt like a time he trusted his own hands around sharp things and open flame.
Whatever it is they surely don't have the ingredients to make it, Noct's culinary skills having by necessity graduated to Competent but Still Rudimentary, and the thing is, Ignis has only ever really missed cooking a handful of times. The point wasn't the act itself, it was the look, the vicarious pleasure of Feeling Fed; without that this echo of emptiness welled up every time he thought about it. But if he learns for himself, just to take that back and to make it his again, then maybe he can live without seeing those smiles.
So. As sound a sleeper as Noct is, even he shall be awakened by all the slamming around that's going on in the kitchen. Ignis has not, to this point, dedicated much time into knowing where anything is, sans what is most basic, and it can probably go without saying he and Noct have vastly different organizational styles.
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.
The conviction that it barely matters Noct's reappearance and the return of the sun turned out to be less intrinsically linked than prophesied is, to be sure, not popular opinion; Ignis certainly wishes it were so (though--were he aware of the cost that might waver), and yet. If he could have one or the other he knows what he'd choose, which may be the single most selfish certainty he's ever allowed himself, especially on the grounds that were the dawn to return significantly less would change for Ignis. What set his world spinning back on an axis that made sense happened a year ago. In some ways that's selfish too; he knows what feels like failure hurts Noct, whereas Ignis himself is more inclined to blame whatever, or whoever decided to put that insane plan into motion in the first place.
Meanwhile. It's never a bad idea to announce oneself with input Ignis can actually process (the number of times he's nearly injured someone who startled him is ...higher than he'd like), even if generally he's more than used to the collection of sounds that typically accompany Noct's doings. In the midst of dragging out a skillet, more mixing bowls than he actually needs - more everything than he actually needs, really - various utensils, however, he doesn't consciously register the young man's presence before he speaks. As per usual and as will be, to Ignis' understanding, forever, he stops what he's doing, gravitating toward Noct's voice like a sunflower.
Of course, that also means he completely disregards why the counter is covered with things (notably, arranged in very specific lines from largest to smallest) for a moment, reaching out to settle a hand on Noct's waist, very sightly high of his mark at first. "Apologies, love."
Rueful, but with a lemony twist of humor; he is mildly embarrassed only because: "I suspect I've been causing rather more ruckus than I realized, ah--waking you wasn't among my intentions."
He touches their foreheads together because he can, because when a person can get that he should remind himself as often as possible, then steps back enough to aim his eye in Noct's general direction. "All this is... well. Perhaps an exercise in futility, but I thought I might attempt a simple culinary endeavor. An omelette, if we've any vegetables in the house."
Despite that gentle little dig and sparkle of humor underneath it, this is probably the most apprehensive Noct has ever seen him looking when no one was slowly bleeding to death.
Accepting that this darkness isn't his fault will be a long, arduous journey, a crumbling road stretching on farther than the eye can see and then some. He knows, in the crux of his soul, that he has—or he had—what it would take to fix everything, to take the tapestries from his youth and make them realities, but he can't find a way to access that essential something. And when he is not listening to soft words of reassurance or focusing his energy on not blaming himself, he can hear the whispers, voices that sometimes sound familiar and other times not. There's no shaking the sense that something has gone catastrophically wrong by his hand, and yet there is no way of repairing the damage.
At least, not to the world. As Ignis had made it abundantly clear, however, Noct's heart does not need to be another casualty. It's aching a little now, but that's only because nostalgia is a blunt fist that batters weakly against his ribs at the way Ignis's fingers hover over the utensils like he's trying, through sheer force of will, to reclaim the ease in which he use to handle them. Given Ignis's track record for unbreakable determination, Noct half expects that to work. Still, he has no complaints to offer when Ignis's hand temporarily abandons its task and comes to rest at his side instead, sliding down in search of the subtle curve of Noct's waist, a curve his hands know incredibly well. Welcome electricity bridges down his spine at the term love as it always seems to, nevermind the fact that he hears it now at least once every day, and double that every night. Habit does very little to wear away meaning; when coming from Ignis, it increases tenfold, proof that he deems it important enough to repeat and practice and hone to the best of his abilities. While the word itself does not get thrown around often in casual conversation with others, Noct can still discern the difference in the sound when it's offered to him. Just to him.
To be honest, Noct is surprised he'd woken at all having spent his life falling asleep in the most unorthodox of places and sleeping through the world's noise, and that's before counting the most recent and most notable events regarding sleep, but perhaps by now Noctis and Ignis are simply too attuned to one another to go about ignoring even the smallest disturbances.
"It's okay," he says once their foreheads are touching, and it is okay. His tone may drift up into a light curiosity, but he is unquestionably earnest. Perhaps because he can sense one of those tiny disturbances now like a faint buzz in the air, and he'd like to do whatever he can to help Ignis quiet the nerves. It seems only right after Ignis has spent his entire life offering to quiet Noct's.
He looks at Ignis closely, watching as the traces of timidness make themselves known in the shape of his mouth and the lift of his brow, and Noct knows, instantly, how much this matters. Because cooking and all it entails has become something of a lost art, and Noct could probably think of a hundred reasons why Ignis might like to reclaim it. He can't even care about the bizarre timing.
He swallows around a sudden lump of pride as his eyes skip to the counter, and then his hand lifts Ignis's from his waist, brings it up to press Ignis's fingertips to the corner of his mouth so he can feel the slant of Noct's smile; a reassurance, in case Ignis did not expect it.
"I like eggs," he offers, benign in a way that hopefully conveys to Ignis that Noct won't demand an explanation of his impulses. Though his lips do pucker slightly in what is a mockery of actual disgruntlement at the mention of vegetables, soft skin pressing close to the pads of Ignis's fingers. His voice drops down a note for effect. "Might have a pepper."
The bizarre timing is probably the other thing inducing just that splash of sheepishness; it hasn't been all that long since the much less complicated times when a chocobo stealing his glasses flustered Ignis to no end. He likes the events of his life well in hand, if not safely predictable; impulse simply does not strike him often. Rationally he knows that the world they inhabit, as well as his disability (though he oscillates back and forth on calling it that), means adaptability is key, and yet. Even with Noct, having suddenly crashed into the determination to reteach himself a skill he's had since he was ten--he's starkly aware that comprises an abrupt spike on the Ignis scale.
Extra reassurance is therefore, more than worth the time; a question mark pops over his expression when Noct takes his hand, smoothing out and out until his whole body visibly, palpably relaxes against the shape he can recognize, the smile curved like a cradle. He adjusts his hand inside Noct's just enough to tuck thumb and forefinger around his chin, expression sweetening so subtly it would take the prince's proximity and experience to discern it's changed at all, let alone all the flotsam and jetsam underneath, the little twist a prelude to a moment of quiet, instead of the thicket of not particularly adequate responses all tangled up on his tongue.
Maybe that's just a moment of shock that they might have a pepper, though. There's a beat where Ignis clearly comes close to saying something, then strikes whatever it was to square up his shoulders and thumb Noct's lower lip before their foreheads touch again, functional eyelid closing. Actual vocalization doesn't come until he's tipped back, releasing Noct's chin and backing carefully up the step it takes for the counter to line along the small of his back. Because otherwise maybe they'll just kiss in the kitchen for an hour, and it would be all too easy, Ignis is aware, to retreat to something he's confident he excels at, after two years of practice.
"If you intend to remain amongst the waking I could use your help," he finally says, after a space that seemed like throat clearing despite the audible lack of it. It's not as if he hasn't solicited a pair of extra hands many times in their acquaintance, it's just that in this case the request wanted to emerge apologetically, tinged with shame that Noct is pressed to live with, care for someone who needs so much. It's probably a tossup as to which of them hates the idea more, even if suppressing it is as constant for Ignis as pushing down all the world's guilt is for Noct.
After a moment the feeling passes, Ignis' knuckles going white on the counter with it and then flooding pink with new circulation, his mouth quirking in unforced dry humor. "Starting with the pepper that enthuses you so."
A list of 'also, whatever they have in the fridge that they will both eat and would be good in an omelette' goes here, for ease of convenience.
Noct can, after a lifetime of getting to know one another, recognize even the most subtle micro-expressions that come and go on Ignis's face as he sorts through thoughts, feelings, and no doubt long and eloquent words. This time spent in even deeper, more sensitive intimacy has only proved to be further enlightening, as ironic as that may be considering the state of everything that is not the two of them, and so Noct catches the gentle lift of Ignis's features at the meeting of fingers and lips, thumb and chin. He'd been watching for it specifically, waiting to feel that familiar ballooning in his chest. He only gets lighter as Ignis traces the swell of his bottom lip with practiced precision, then leans to touch their foreheads together, a demonstration of understanding that can't simply be conveyed through the meeting of eyes anymore. If pressed, Noct might admit he prefers this method, taking comfort in the closeness and the trust inherent in that. He breathes in at the touch, like Ignis has put the air in his lungs himself.
The request for help is predictably light; it's not in Ignis nature to demand things of Noct. There's something more to it than that, however, and Noct knows it comes with the territory of asking for assistance with what might be considered more superfluous tasks. Over time, it seems Ignis has grown accustomed to the necessity of appealing to his king for help in retrieving lost weapons or sorting laundry, things that did not sit right before. This, in contrast, is Ignis wanting to do something for himself, and Noctis can sense the hesitance in that bare pause, in the delivery of the words.
"Sure," he says whilst withholding the urge to clutch Ignis's face and tell him that he is not and never has been and never will be a burden. Noct could tell him that having to offer his hands in guidance and support is nothing—nothing—compared to the weight that would have overtaken him had he returned to a world without Ignis at all.
Even if it deserves to be heard and said, that all seems a little overwhelming so early in the morning when Noct's mind and mouth cannot quite be trusted to work in harmony. Later, though, he promises himself as Ignis smiles. In an effort to keep things mercifully light for the time being, Noctis hmm's a flat, opposing note to the concept of enthusiasm. Still, he has every intention of raiding their fridge, but first he takes a deliberate step towards Ignis so that he might stand on his toes and kiss the corner of Ignis's mouth, perhaps in an effort to make this feel closer to how they start most days, or perhaps because he desperately wants to. He pulls back before it can become too leisurely, knowing full well the temptation that even the briefest meeting of mouths can launch.
Doing his best to ignore the cold that conflicts with the warmth still clinging to him from the soft cocoon of their bed, Noct collects up the necessary ingredients, carrying them over to the counter and setting them out in a line just adjacent to the one Ignis has made with his cooking tools. As he goes: "Eggs, ham, half a pepper, cheese. That enough?"
Hopefully so. Their other options consist mostly of pasta and coffee grounds.
"It should be." Without pause: "You'd feel the chill less if you consented to wear shoes once a while," Ignis teases, light and seemingly without looking; he's maneuvered his way over to the sink and is carefully running water into his hand, waiting for the temperature, speaking of, to get warm enough to scald without like, literally scalding. He washes his hands with probably far more vigor than necessary, but given how he makes his way in the rest of the world, it's immediately apparent he's going to be doing a lot more direct handling of food, and it wasn't exactly a hands-off activity sighted.
So he's deliberately keeping things up on the level they seem to have established without speaking directly to it, as in synch as ever. In contrast to, perhaps, the way he touched the corner of his mouth with two fingers, as if in surprise, a conceit not all that untrue, for all that that might seem absurd. Noct clapping his shoulder had been the first thing to tell Ignis for good and for all he was really here; he's not sure, as close as they get, as easily physical as they are, he's ever going to stop being surprised.
Meanwhile, once he finishes rinses his hands and finds a dishtowel to dry them on, he inclines his head in what he guesses to be the vague direction of the living room. "And if I'm not mistaken I've left my jacket hanging just there."
His formidable memory would bet that's where he left the hooded sweatshirt he'd worn the night before, but--well, best to be flexible, in case it's been moved. Either way he knows how Noct feels about wearing his clothes, although he laughingly suspects it's somehow better when they are directly stolen, rather than just loaned with Ignis' permission.
While Noct acquires these things Ignis opens the egg carton, running his fingers over the cool, bumpy line their tops make, squashing with relative success the trepidation he feels. Wax paper is set out under the mixing bowl to catch whatever mess he makes in breaking the eggs, and after a moment of consideration leaves the pepper for Noct to cut. Next time, he promises himself.
Noct's eyes drop momentarily to his bare feet, then settle again on Ignis's back with a fond incredulity at his ability to know, to not only make use of all his other senses but to draw upon years worth of knowing Noctis inside and out with such accuracy. Coincidentally, Ignis surely knows Noct is smiling even though he's moved to the sink and the water partially covers the little huff of both wonder and harmless vexation. Noct would argue that shoes are simply not for indoor wear, especially when his propensity to nap just about anywhere hardly accommodates them. There would be dirt on all the house's soft surfaces.
Articles from Ignis's wardrobe hold much more appeal than shoes, proof of which can be found in the way Noct swivels loosely to the doorway to the living room at the mention of one such article. The sweatshirt is there. Noctis has never been terribly adept at returning things to their proper places, that is closets or drawers, and so most of what Ignis puts down remains where he's left it, an arrangement that seems to suit them quite well.
"You're not," Noct offers, nonplussed.
Another thing Ignis is correct about: there is something particularly satisfying about stealing a shirt or a sweater and allowing Ignis to discover the theft on his own, hands smoothing over fabric at Noct's collar or wrist and face lifting with pleased surprise. It helps that affectionate kisses usually reward such antics. But there's something equally fulfilling about being invited, and he moves to gather up the sweatshirt from where it's been draped across the back of the couch and tugs it on, pushing the long sleeves up to his elbows as he returns to the kitchen and Ignis's side. He offers some of that easy contact now, elbow brushing elbow in a small greeting while Ignis prepares his station for the breaking of eggs. While it's entirely possible that touch will always ignite a flicker of gracious awe, Noct intends to offer Ignis ample opportunity to get used to it, touch an even more intrinsic form of communication than it was before. It helps that he'll never tire of touching Ignis.
He assumes his job without being asked, retrieving a knife from the wooden block and taking it to the pepper, a spirited cut that may have something to do with his utter distaste for it and its kind, but whatever gets the job done. His way of cooking is blunt and to the point, lacking all signs of competence and finesse that Ignis has always clearly demonstrated. And continues to demonstrate as he cracks the eggs, the only difference being the fingers he smooths along the edge of the bowl before each efficient hit. It warms something in Noct to see that familiarity, beats back a shadow of uncertainty he hadn't even noticed was there.
"Should I make coffee?" he asks as he slices the last of the pepper into bite-sized chunks, the question accompanied by an appropriate yawn, the first of many if this morning is to be anything similar to most mornings. He'd never really taken to Ebony in a concrete way when they were still traversing the countryside under the sun's reliable shine, but it's slowly growing on him, undoubtedly because the smell and taste have Ignis written all over them.
If not shoes, surely socks, then. There must be a middle ground between dirt on all the furniture and Noct's feet like ice cubes when he inevitably puts them up on Ignis.
Either way, Ignis certainly isn't contemplating as much right now; he does have to concentrate to break eggs, and listening to Noct chop a pepper like it's personally offended him makes for soothing background noise. He murmurs a faint affirmative noise in response to the question, which he really only half hears (we can all probably assume Ignis processes anything involving coffee with all the awareness of his own breathing), then lifts his head at the yawn, expression focusing and softening at the same time.
"If you'd be so kind." He, you know, elects to actually vocalize, radiating fondness in Noct's direction. As per previous mention elsewhere, even if Noct is the one who makes the coffee out of practicality vis a vis hot liquids, Ignis likes the routine. The reliability of domesticity when very little else can be relied on these days. "And set this on the front left burner, please. Lowest setting."
"This" referring to the skillet set out amongst his organized jumble of kitchen things. Meanwhile he will be attempting to whisk eggs, brain clacking ahead to what spices they might have. One thing at a time. He can do this. With assistance, speaking of, dryly: "Do let me know if I'm about to walk into it."
Socks are certainly more tempting than shoes. Ignis's socks would surely get a firm yes, and there's really no reason for Noct not to extend his borrowing habits beyond shirts and sweaters. Maybe he'll have to raid a drawer or two once they're given a breather between chopping and whisking.
For now, he has his responsibilities, the kind that don't carry with them the fate of an entire world. Just their private, gentle world, weighing similarly in importance but as a burden Noct feels more confident in bearing. He spends a moment absorbing that fondness having long since learned to recognize it in the subtle shift of Ignis's posture or the quirk of his smile rather than in a look, then grabs up the skillet and moves to set it on the stove as instructed. He turns up the heat with a click.
"All set," he says, making a point to turn the handle in over the counter. "You should be safe."
Noct is here to ensure it, after all.
Coffee is the next priority as Ignis seems to be doing just fine on his own with the eggs, so Noct shuffles over to the coffee maker and begins measuring out enough for what will constitute as strong for Ignis. Which means Noct himself will probably only be indulging in half a mug's worth.
He glances over his shoulder as he rearranges the filter, watches with sentimental curiosity the way Ignis's hands move, the way his head inclines somewhat towards the sound of the whisk skimming the bowl and yolks mixing. Part of his curiosity is about what exactly had changed to make Ignis want to try this now. In an effort not to disturb his focus, Noct opts for a question not unusual for their morning routine.
"Sleep ok?" It's light and yet clearly awaiting an honest answer. Neither of them are immune to nightmares, well-accustomed to waking with arms wrapped round them or a hand settled over their own. This verbal check-in is common no matter the circumstances.
As long as he doesn't try for a pair of Ignis' trousers; the knees would come down to his feet.
Anyway. The result of Noct absorbing his overwhelming fondness is that Ignis can more or less feel him doing it, and though he doesn't look up from his important egg related mission, they are apparently just going to keep passing back an adorable call and response of "I love you so much," "No, I love you so much," unto infinity. Until the sun comes back up. It's occurred to him in the process of whisking his blindness presents a small challenge he's not sure he can do on his own without sticking both hands into the eggs, and he's just--not ready for that kind of hamfisted groping. Irrationally, still embarrassing.
"As well as ever," he answers with the lift of one shoulder; it's a pretty noncommittal answer, but Ignis has never slept well and probably will never. Though he'd be the first to admit he stays asleep longer and more deeply tucked around Noct's warm and lulled by the steadiness of his breathing. "Would you mind--"
He is trying his hardest not to be hesitant, to just ask for help where he needs it without feeling as though that's demonstrative of some deficiency, but even with Noct things are literally going to change overnight. "If you could check for errant bits of shell. Wouldn't want to come upon a crunch of the unpleasant sort."
(Nothing should crunch in omelets. Anyone who says otherwise is cooking their vegetables wrong!!)
"I expect I won't always require so much help," he offers, uselessly, knowing full well Noctis is in no way burdened by playing kitchen assistant; the only real burden here is the lingering traces of his own pride. Maybe coffee will help!! Somehow. Coffee solves everything.
As well as ever is the kind of answer Noct has now become accustomed to receiving; it doesn't say much but it still says enough. Noct himself has found sleep to be far less of a comfort since his return, even if it still remains one of his few escapes. He knows Ignis never took well to dreams even before Noctis disappeared and the world as they knew it went with him, and so now, when nightmares seem to come more frequently than ever, he can't possibly rest easy during their nights.
Though it doesn't slip Noct's mind to imagine Ignis sleeps better now that Noct has returned again. He may not have noted it himself, always the first one to fall to sleep and the last one to rise, but it only makes sense.
In the end, what all this means in the practical sense is that Noctis should focus on the coffee, the lifeblood that will get them both going after even the worst dark and clinging dreams. He pours in the water and sets the machine to start before turning to Ignis and striding back to his side again, smile a near ever-present thing when Ignis is being so... careful. And he knows it has to do with his need not to bother, not to appear helpless or unprofessional, even now; that part hurts a little, because the idea that he could possibly bother Noct is unthinkable. But for the most part, he's endeared to an immeasurable degree, because it's simply so Ignis. He'll never change, really. Nothing like sight could ever touch who he is.
"Ew," is the low reply to the idea of unexpected crunches, but the evidence of the smile he wears doesn't escape his voice. He swirls the eggs a little, looking closely for anything that shouldn't be in the mixture, but there's nothing to find. "All clear."
He lets his fingers slide over the back of Ignis's hand after he trades off the whisk again, the tips of his fingers mapping out knuckles and tendons and prominent veins lightly. Maybe he's impressed by what they've done so far, maybe he's just so drawn to touch that he can't help himself. He turns his head to look up at Ignis.
"I'm happy to help."
Which Ignis must know, but it seems worth putting in such terms, frank and sincere.
Ignis does know, and yet. And yet, tension leaks from his posture like a
breath he didn't realize he was holding, half his mouth ticking upwards in
what is, at least, not a humorless smile. Those are the dangerous ones,
blunt like a bludgeon, that sit alongside his bleakest self-directed jokes;
with Noct in the room, looking at him the way Ignis can tell he is, he
can't be that unkind to himself. His highness wouldn't tolerate it. "I
know," he returns, if they're being frank and sincere; because it's Noct
his voice warms and eases a little, if only for those two syllables before
he sighs in frustration and shifts his hand to hold the one tracing his so
lightly, grip seeking in the same motion to somehow provide and to
find an anchor. He doesn't know which side of the coin he hopes
flips up.
"And I'm happy to accept." That's ... true, if simplistically; in the old
days it had felt like something boldly stolen, to have Noct all to himself
in the early hours on those mornings he could be convinced to help with
breakfast. "It's the needing to ask I find difficult to swallow."
For a turn of something else they both already know, but--saying it aloud
is different. "Still a bit of a work in progress. An acquired taste, so
to speak."
His still functioning eyebrow hikes a touch upward; please note that
despite the precarious emotional situation he just managed two food
puns in three sentences. Since Noct's hand is already in his he lifts it
to his mouth, nuzzles the back of his knuckles and presses a kiss to the
center of curled closed palm, cloudy eye dropped closed to process all the
little notes in his skin. Speaking of smell he tilts his chin up, then
remarks: "Ah--they're playing our song."
... oh, the coffee maker is starting to drip, that's what that
means. If both hearing and smell are used more acutely now, of course
Ignis uses them to sense coffee. While Noct gets mugs he's just going to
pour the egg mixture into the skillet already, before he loses his bloody
nerve altogether.
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Even as his dreams become more like his daily (nightly, he supposes) life, the slow slide into wakefulness still sets off a plume of question marks before his brain catches up to his body. A year after that, which is altogether 742 days without sunlight (Ignis has been keeping track; it's useful to practice the numbers in Braille)--he doesn't know if he'll ever really stop having to claw his way to clarity through that paralyzing instant, but having another body in the bed helps. Familiarity like an anchor, waking to warmth and that faint aftermath of rain always clinging to Noct's hair and skin: the only clear sky he's ever going to know again. Ignis has decided it must be an offshoot of Lucian magic and-it's good. A length of red thread wound around his finger to remind him where and who he is, that he's where he's meant to be.
When he blinks out of dreams this time, a time that might be morning, afternoon...it barely matters, time is measured by how they all just go until they can't anymore--deep rhythmic breathing and sleep-heated deadweight tucked back to chest with him says he's awake before Noct. This is in no way unusual, but also means he could have slept anywhere from eight hours to twenty minutes; the light hasn't changed enough to signify a shift in what he can still sense. Whatever time it is he doesn't think he's getting back to sleep, so for some while he just indulges the paranoid impulse that strikes like lighting more often than he would admit to anyone, just reveling in all the little things that mean Noct is alive, heartbeat and breath and tiny shifts that clang like thunderclaps in the ears he's learning slowly to rely on more each day.
If he could ever really let himself relax he'd probably be content to do that for hours, but Ignis is still too much himself to idle for too long; eventually he kisses the nape of Noct's neck and disentangles, gently, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand before remembering he doesn't really need them in their house, and deciding to go without. It's not as if Noct is suddenly going to come over all questions about the scar.
He feels his way to the hall, trailing fingers finding the lightswitch just in case Noct does wake up, walks the route to the kitchen familiar enough now that he doesn't need much in the way of assistance from walls or step counting. His initial intentions are mostly to get a glass of water, take a piss and try for sleep a second time, but--the heel of his hand against the kitchen counter brings back, without warning, what had connected all his dreams in a string of beads: the smell of...of something, it won't quite crystallize, but he knows it was familiar, that it felt like a time he trusted his own hands around sharp things and open flame.
Whatever it is they surely don't have the ingredients to make it, Noct's culinary skills having by necessity graduated to Competent but Still Rudimentary, and the thing is, Ignis has only ever really missed cooking a handful of times. The point wasn't the act itself, it was the look, the vicarious pleasure of Feeling Fed; without that this echo of emptiness welled up every time he thought about it. But if he learns for himself, just to take that back and to make it his again, then maybe he can live without seeing those smiles.
So. As sound a sleeper as Noct is, even he shall be awakened by all the slamming around that's going on in the kitchen. Ignis has not, to this point, dedicated much time into knowing where anything is, sans what is most basic, and it can probably go without saying he and Noct have vastly different organizational styles.
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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.
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Meanwhile. It's never a bad idea to announce oneself with input Ignis can actually process (the number of times he's nearly injured someone who startled him is ...higher than he'd like), even if generally he's more than used to the collection of sounds that typically accompany Noct's doings. In the midst of dragging out a skillet, more mixing bowls than he actually needs - more everything than he actually needs, really - various utensils, however, he doesn't consciously register the young man's presence before he speaks. As per usual and as will be, to Ignis' understanding, forever, he stops what he's doing, gravitating toward Noct's voice like a sunflower.
Of course, that also means he completely disregards why the counter is covered with things (notably, arranged in very specific lines from largest to smallest) for a moment, reaching out to settle a hand on Noct's waist, very sightly high of his mark at first. "Apologies, love."
Rueful, but with a lemony twist of humor; he is mildly embarrassed only because: "I suspect I've been causing rather more ruckus than I realized, ah--waking you wasn't among my intentions."
He touches their foreheads together because he can, because when a person can get that he should remind himself as often as possible, then steps back enough to aim his eye in Noct's general direction. "All this is... well. Perhaps an exercise in futility, but I thought I might attempt a simple culinary endeavor. An omelette, if we've any vegetables in the house."
Despite that gentle little dig and sparkle of humor underneath it, this is probably the most apprehensive Noct has ever seen him looking when no one was slowly bleeding to death.
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At least, not to the world. As Ignis had made it abundantly clear, however, Noct's heart does not need to be another casualty. It's aching a little now, but that's only because nostalgia is a blunt fist that batters weakly against his ribs at the way Ignis's fingers hover over the utensils like he's trying, through sheer force of will, to reclaim the ease in which he use to handle them. Given Ignis's track record for unbreakable determination, Noct half expects that to work. Still, he has no complaints to offer when Ignis's hand temporarily abandons its task and comes to rest at his side instead, sliding down in search of the subtle curve of Noct's waist, a curve his hands know incredibly well. Welcome electricity bridges down his spine at the term love as it always seems to, nevermind the fact that he hears it now at least once every day, and double that every night. Habit does very little to wear away meaning; when coming from Ignis, it increases tenfold, proof that he deems it important enough to repeat and practice and hone to the best of his abilities. While the word itself does not get thrown around often in casual conversation with others, Noct can still discern the difference in the sound when it's offered to him. Just to him.
To be honest, Noct is surprised he'd woken at all having spent his life falling asleep in the most unorthodox of places and sleeping through the world's noise, and that's before counting the most recent and most notable events regarding sleep, but perhaps by now Noctis and Ignis are simply too attuned to one another to go about ignoring even the smallest disturbances.
"It's okay," he says once their foreheads are touching, and it is okay. His tone may drift up into a light curiosity, but he is unquestionably earnest. Perhaps because he can sense one of those tiny disturbances now like a faint buzz in the air, and he'd like to do whatever he can to help Ignis quiet the nerves. It seems only right after Ignis has spent his entire life offering to quiet Noct's.
He looks at Ignis closely, watching as the traces of timidness make themselves known in the shape of his mouth and the lift of his brow, and Noct knows, instantly, how much this matters. Because cooking and all it entails has become something of a lost art, and Noct could probably think of a hundred reasons why Ignis might like to reclaim it. He can't even care about the bizarre timing.
He swallows around a sudden lump of pride as his eyes skip to the counter, and then his hand lifts Ignis's from his waist, brings it up to press Ignis's fingertips to the corner of his mouth so he can feel the slant of Noct's smile; a reassurance, in case Ignis did not expect it.
"I like eggs," he offers, benign in a way that hopefully conveys to Ignis that Noct won't demand an explanation of his impulses. Though his lips do pucker slightly in what is a mockery of actual disgruntlement at the mention of vegetables, soft skin pressing close to the pads of Ignis's fingers. His voice drops down a note for effect. "Might have a pepper."
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Extra reassurance is therefore, more than worth the time; a question mark pops over his expression when Noct takes his hand, smoothing out and out until his whole body visibly, palpably relaxes against the shape he can recognize, the smile curved like a cradle. He adjusts his hand inside Noct's just enough to tuck thumb and forefinger around his chin, expression sweetening so subtly it would take the prince's proximity and experience to discern it's changed at all, let alone all the flotsam and jetsam underneath, the little twist a prelude to a moment of quiet, instead of the thicket of not particularly adequate responses all tangled up on his tongue.
Maybe that's just a moment of shock that they might have a pepper, though. There's a beat where Ignis clearly comes close to saying something, then strikes whatever it was to square up his shoulders and thumb Noct's lower lip before their foreheads touch again, functional eyelid closing. Actual vocalization doesn't come until he's tipped back, releasing Noct's chin and backing carefully up the step it takes for the counter to line along the small of his back. Because otherwise maybe they'll just kiss in the kitchen for an hour, and it would be all too easy, Ignis is aware, to retreat to something he's confident he excels at, after two years of practice.
"If you intend to remain amongst the waking I could use your help," he finally says, after a space that seemed like throat clearing despite the audible lack of it. It's not as if he hasn't solicited a pair of extra hands many times in their acquaintance, it's just that in this case the request wanted to emerge apologetically, tinged with shame that Noct is pressed to live with, care for someone who needs so much. It's probably a tossup as to which of them hates the idea more, even if suppressing it is as constant for Ignis as pushing down all the world's guilt is for Noct.
After a moment the feeling passes, Ignis' knuckles going white on the counter with it and then flooding pink with new circulation, his mouth quirking in unforced dry humor. "Starting with the pepper that enthuses you so."
A list of 'also, whatever they have in the fridge that they will both eat and would be good in an omelette' goes here, for ease of convenience.
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The request for help is predictably light; it's not in Ignis nature to demand things of Noct. There's something more to it than that, however, and Noct knows it comes with the territory of asking for assistance with what might be considered more superfluous tasks. Over time, it seems Ignis has grown accustomed to the necessity of appealing to his king for help in retrieving lost weapons or sorting laundry, things that did not sit right before. This, in contrast, is Ignis wanting to do something for himself, and Noctis can sense the hesitance in that bare pause, in the delivery of the words.
"Sure," he says whilst withholding the urge to clutch Ignis's face and tell him that he is not and never has been and never will be a burden. Noct could tell him that having to offer his hands in guidance and support is nothing—nothing—compared to the weight that would have overtaken him had he returned to a world without Ignis at all.
Even if it deserves to be heard and said, that all seems a little overwhelming so early in the morning when Noct's mind and mouth cannot quite be trusted to work in harmony. Later, though, he promises himself as Ignis smiles. In an effort to keep things mercifully light for the time being, Noctis hmm's a flat, opposing note to the concept of enthusiasm. Still, he has every intention of raiding their fridge, but first he takes a deliberate step towards Ignis so that he might stand on his toes and kiss the corner of Ignis's mouth, perhaps in an effort to make this feel closer to how they start most days, or perhaps because he desperately wants to. He pulls back before it can become too leisurely, knowing full well the temptation that even the briefest meeting of mouths can launch.
Doing his best to ignore the cold that conflicts with the warmth still clinging to him from the soft cocoon of their bed, Noct collects up the necessary ingredients, carrying them over to the counter and setting them out in a line just adjacent to the one Ignis has made with his cooking tools. As he goes: "Eggs, ham, half a pepper, cheese. That enough?"
Hopefully so. Their other options consist mostly of pasta and coffee grounds.
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So he's deliberately keeping things up on the level they seem to have established without speaking directly to it, as in synch as ever. In contrast to, perhaps, the way he touched the corner of his mouth with two fingers, as if in surprise, a conceit not all that untrue, for all that that might seem absurd. Noct clapping his shoulder had been the first thing to tell Ignis for good and for all he was really here; he's not sure, as close as they get, as easily physical as they are, he's ever going to stop being surprised.
Meanwhile, once he finishes rinses his hands and finds a dishtowel to dry them on, he inclines his head in what he guesses to be the vague direction of the living room. "And if I'm not mistaken I've left my jacket hanging just there."
His formidable memory would bet that's where he left the hooded sweatshirt he'd worn the night before, but--well, best to be flexible, in case it's been moved. Either way he knows how Noct feels about wearing his clothes, although he laughingly suspects it's somehow better when they are directly stolen, rather than just loaned with Ignis' permission.
While Noct acquires these things Ignis opens the egg carton, running his fingers over the cool, bumpy line their tops make, squashing with relative success the trepidation he feels. Wax paper is set out under the mixing bowl to catch whatever mess he makes in breaking the eggs, and after a moment of consideration leaves the pepper for Noct to cut. Next time, he promises himself.
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Articles from Ignis's wardrobe hold much more appeal than shoes, proof of which can be found in the way Noct swivels loosely to the doorway to the living room at the mention of one such article. The sweatshirt is there. Noctis has never been terribly adept at returning things to their proper places, that is closets or drawers, and so most of what Ignis puts down remains where he's left it, an arrangement that seems to suit them quite well.
"You're not," Noct offers, nonplussed.
Another thing Ignis is correct about: there is something particularly satisfying about stealing a shirt or a sweater and allowing Ignis to discover the theft on his own, hands smoothing over fabric at Noct's collar or wrist and face lifting with pleased surprise. It helps that affectionate kisses usually reward such antics. But there's something equally fulfilling about being invited, and he moves to gather up the sweatshirt from where it's been draped across the back of the couch and tugs it on, pushing the long sleeves up to his elbows as he returns to the kitchen and Ignis's side. He offers some of that easy contact now, elbow brushing elbow in a small greeting while Ignis prepares his station for the breaking of eggs. While it's entirely possible that touch will always ignite a flicker of gracious awe, Noct intends to offer Ignis ample opportunity to get used to it, touch an even more intrinsic form of communication than it was before. It helps that he'll never tire of touching Ignis.
He assumes his job without being asked, retrieving a knife from the wooden block and taking it to the pepper, a spirited cut that may have something to do with his utter distaste for it and its kind, but whatever gets the job done. His way of cooking is blunt and to the point, lacking all signs of competence and finesse that Ignis has always clearly demonstrated. And continues to demonstrate as he cracks the eggs, the only difference being the fingers he smooths along the edge of the bowl before each efficient hit. It warms something in Noct to see that familiarity, beats back a shadow of uncertainty he hadn't even noticed was there.
"Should I make coffee?" he asks as he slices the last of the pepper into bite-sized chunks, the question accompanied by an appropriate yawn, the first of many if this morning is to be anything similar to most mornings. He'd never really taken to Ebony in a concrete way when they were still traversing the countryside under the sun's reliable shine, but it's slowly growing on him, undoubtedly because the smell and taste have Ignis written all over them.
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Either way, Ignis certainly isn't contemplating as much right now; he does have to concentrate to break eggs, and listening to Noct chop a pepper like it's personally offended him makes for soothing background noise. He murmurs a faint affirmative noise in response to the question, which he really only half hears (we can all probably assume Ignis processes anything involving coffee with all the awareness of his own breathing), then lifts his head at the yawn, expression focusing and softening at the same time.
"If you'd be so kind." He, you know, elects to actually vocalize, radiating fondness in Noct's direction. As per previous mention elsewhere, even if Noct is the one who makes the coffee out of practicality vis a vis hot liquids, Ignis likes the routine. The reliability of domesticity when very little else can be relied on these days. "And set this on the front left burner, please. Lowest setting."
"This" referring to the skillet set out amongst his organized jumble of kitchen things. Meanwhile he will be attempting to whisk eggs, brain clacking ahead to what spices they might have. One thing at a time. He can do this. With assistance, speaking of, dryly: "Do let me know if I'm about to walk into it."
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For now, he has his responsibilities, the kind that don't carry with them the fate of an entire world. Just their private, gentle world, weighing similarly in importance but as a burden Noct feels more confident in bearing. He spends a moment absorbing that fondness having long since learned to recognize it in the subtle shift of Ignis's posture or the quirk of his smile rather than in a look, then grabs up the skillet and moves to set it on the stove as instructed. He turns up the heat with a click.
"All set," he says, making a point to turn the handle in over the counter. "You should be safe."
Noct is here to ensure it, after all.
Coffee is the next priority as Ignis seems to be doing just fine on his own with the eggs, so Noct shuffles over to the coffee maker and begins measuring out enough for what will constitute as strong for Ignis. Which means Noct himself will probably only be indulging in half a mug's worth.
He glances over his shoulder as he rearranges the filter, watches with sentimental curiosity the way Ignis's hands move, the way his head inclines somewhat towards the sound of the whisk skimming the bowl and yolks mixing. Part of his curiosity is about what exactly had changed to make Ignis want to try this now. In an effort not to disturb his focus, Noct opts for a question not unusual for their morning routine.
"Sleep ok?" It's light and yet clearly awaiting an honest answer. Neither of them are immune to nightmares, well-accustomed to waking with arms wrapped round them or a hand settled over their own. This verbal check-in is common no matter the circumstances.
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Anyway. The result of Noct absorbing his overwhelming fondness is that Ignis can more or less feel him doing it, and though he doesn't look up from his important egg related mission, they are apparently just going to keep passing back an adorable call and response of "I love you so much," "No, I love you so much," unto infinity. Until the sun comes back up. It's occurred to him in the process of whisking his blindness presents a small challenge he's not sure he can do on his own without sticking both hands into the eggs, and he's just--not ready for that kind of hamfisted groping. Irrationally, still embarrassing.
"As well as ever," he answers with the lift of one shoulder; it's a pretty noncommittal answer, but Ignis has never slept well and probably will never. Though he'd be the first to admit he stays asleep longer and more deeply tucked around Noct's warm and lulled by the steadiness of his breathing. "Would you mind--"
He is trying his hardest not to be hesitant, to just ask for help where he needs it without feeling as though that's demonstrative of some deficiency, but even with Noct things are literally going to change overnight. "If you could check for errant bits of shell. Wouldn't want to come upon a crunch of the unpleasant sort."
(Nothing should crunch in omelets. Anyone who says otherwise is cooking their vegetables wrong!!)
"I expect I won't always require so much help," he offers, uselessly, knowing full well Noctis is in no way burdened by playing kitchen assistant; the only real burden here is the lingering traces of his own pride. Maybe coffee will help!! Somehow. Coffee solves everything.
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Though it doesn't slip Noct's mind to imagine Ignis sleeps better now that Noct has returned again. He may not have noted it himself, always the first one to fall to sleep and the last one to rise, but it only makes sense.
In the end, what all this means in the practical sense is that Noctis should focus on the coffee, the lifeblood that will get them both going after even the worst dark and clinging dreams. He pours in the water and sets the machine to start before turning to Ignis and striding back to his side again, smile a near ever-present thing when Ignis is being so... careful. And he knows it has to do with his need not to bother, not to appear helpless or unprofessional, even now; that part hurts a little, because the idea that he could possibly bother Noct is unthinkable. But for the most part, he's endeared to an immeasurable degree, because it's simply so Ignis. He'll never change, really. Nothing like sight could ever touch who he is.
"Ew," is the low reply to the idea of unexpected crunches, but the evidence of the smile he wears doesn't escape his voice. He swirls the eggs a little, looking closely for anything that shouldn't be in the mixture, but there's nothing to find. "All clear."
He lets his fingers slide over the back of Ignis's hand after he trades off the whisk again, the tips of his fingers mapping out knuckles and tendons and prominent veins lightly. Maybe he's impressed by what they've done so far, maybe he's just so drawn to touch that he can't help himself. He turns his head to look up at Ignis.
"I'm happy to help."
Which Ignis must know, but it seems worth putting in such terms, frank and sincere.
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Ignis does know, and yet. And yet, tension leaks from his posture like a breath he didn't realize he was holding, half his mouth ticking upwards in what is, at least, not a humorless smile. Those are the dangerous ones, blunt like a bludgeon, that sit alongside his bleakest self-directed jokes; with Noct in the room, looking at him the way Ignis can tell he is, he can't be that unkind to himself. His highness wouldn't tolerate it. "I know," he returns, if they're being frank and sincere; because it's Noct his voice warms and eases a little, if only for those two syllables before he sighs in frustration and shifts his hand to hold the one tracing his so lightly, grip seeking in the same motion to somehow provide and to find an anchor. He doesn't know which side of the coin he hopes flips up.
"And I'm happy to accept." That's ... true, if simplistically; in the old days it had felt like something boldly stolen, to have Noct all to himself in the early hours on those mornings he could be convinced to help with breakfast. "It's the needing to ask I find difficult to swallow."
For a turn of something else they both already know, but--saying it aloud is different. "Still a bit of a work in progress. An acquired taste, so to speak."
His still functioning eyebrow hikes a touch upward; please note that despite the precarious emotional situation he just managed two food puns in three sentences. Since Noct's hand is already in his he lifts it to his mouth, nuzzles the back of his knuckles and presses a kiss to the center of curled closed palm, cloudy eye dropped closed to process all the little notes in his skin. Speaking of smell he tilts his chin up, then remarks: "Ah--they're playing our song."
... oh, the coffee maker is starting to drip, that's what that means. If both hearing and smell are used more acutely now, of course Ignis uses them to sense coffee. While Noct gets mugs he's just going to pour the egg mixture into the skillet already, before he loses his bloody nerve altogether.