Chapter Text
It's just a cough.
"You okay?" Noctis asks him, looking up from where he's slouched over the counter, chin in his palm, and working his way through a bag of BBQ chips. Never mind the fact that Ignis is cooking and that Noctis has pointedly ignored all his comments about ruining his dinner. He’s not annoyed by it today, the banter relaxing in its familiarity and welcome in that way because Ignis has been feeling a little strange. Strange in ways he can’t quite specify, only knows that he doesn’t feel right and any little bit of ritual brings him comfort. He coughs into the crook of his arm.
“I’m fine,” he says, a reflexive response out of his mouth before he can think about it, but no matter because he is fine, really.
It’s most likely his allergies causing the tickle in his throat, always worse this time of year. It doesn’t help that he pushed himself so hard in training earlier that day, but Nyx Ulric had been there right at the end, and Ignis could feel him watching all his pathetic attempts at calling on the magic he’d just started learning. It felt impossible to concentrate, aware of eyes on him when all he wanted to do was focus . He wasn’t one to show off, but yes, maybe it wouldn’t have been a little bit nice to establish he could execute an elemental attack just as well as the rest of them, and maybe it felt like he had a bit of something to prove when any of the combat-tried veterans were anywhere near his vicinity, making their silent judgements. Except it was his face on fire instead of his daggers, even more so when Nyx called out to him, crooked smile and amusement in his eyes as he walked over and offered to help. But it fell short of mockery and Ignis, for all his pride, knew when to defer to those with more knowledge and experience. It didn’t change the fact that Ignis could not meet Nyx’s eyes when he agreed, a Glaive taking pity on him, teaching him some beginner fire tricks just because he was bored. But when he looked up, Nyx had appeared so satisfied with his agreement, and he said, we’ll have you shooting fire in no time , right before he took one of Ignis’s hands in his own, sweaty palm with a white-knuckled death grip on his dagger.
Ignis coughs. He clears his throat, and carries on.
“Feeling alright?” Gladio asks, and stops just short of putting a hand on Ignis’s shoulder, even though he looks like he very much would like to. Ignis coughs into a closed fist, and then straightens his back and fixes his glasses not one for disheveled appearances or misplaced pity. A cold hasn’t made him incompetant.
“I’m fine,” Ignis says, coming out a little harsher than intended, not just due to the rasp in his voice. It’s mostly Noctis to blame for that. He’s told Ignis to take a few days off, to rest up and nip whatever illness this is in the bud, but Ignis won’t have it. Not when he’s perfectly capable of functioning as he is, and a touch of a cold is hardly enough to stop him.
“You sure?” Gladio pries again, never letting things go when he’s concerned. “You kept coughing during the meeting today. It’s not like you to get sick.”
The meeting, that had lasted two hours too long, and everyone at their highest formalities while they were hosting a Diplomat from Accredo. The room had felt maddeningly stuffy as Ignis had watched the rays of sunlight shift in the windows from morning in to afternoon, and because it was a high profile meeting, the King had been present and Glaives had lined the walls in their silent vigil. The pressure was on to be perfect, to make a flawless impression and Ignis had been stifling his cough the whole time, sweat on his back and at his temples, made worse when he felt the prickle of being watched, a look of concern from Nyx across the room as he was embarrassed and overheated and wishing with every itch in his lungs that he could stop drawing attention to himself, even if that meant not drawing breath all together. How humiliating, that he should be there to sit quiet and take notes and be the eyes and ears for the Prince and instead he was there stifling cough after cough after cough.
“It’s nothing, really,” Ignis says to Gladio, uncomfortable all over again at the thought of his concern. And the idea that Gladio had been watching him just as intently during the meeting, but that Ignis hadn’t even noticed. That isn’t like him, but he won’t admit that something is wrong.
“We should go easy on your training this week,” Gladio tells him and Ignis agrees, mostly to placate him and get him out the office door. He waits for Gladio’s heavy footsteps to retreat before letting out another muted cough against his arm.
“Better,” Nyx says, after Ignis pushes back against his blades, getting his weapons out of the lock they were in. There’s sweat on Nyx’s forehead, sweat on his shirt, making the black turn dark in a rorschach pattern imprint down his back, and Ignis licks his lips and looks away. Not all could be so lucky to make exertion look effortless and…
(appealing)
Mostly Ignis just feels sticky. His hair is damp on his face and judging by the sore tremble starting in his thighs and arms, he’s been pushing it too far today. But he hasn’t wanted to leave.
Not while Nyx is still there with him.
He tells himself that these are learning opportunities he cannot miss. Training with Gladio has taught him immeasurable amounts, but Gladio is a Shield. His focus is unstoppable strength, close quarters combat and protection. He’s not built for a battle field, and his best strategy is to crush the opponent before they’re given a chance to do damage to the Prince. But Ignis is strategy. He thinks in terms of weakness and exploitation where brute strength would fail him, lacking the muscle mass, the bulk to use those methods, and he dabbles in magic to utilize his own abilities in his personal fighting style. That ice might freeze up magitek joints or lightning might fry wires. Gladio can’t help him with that, but Nyx? Nyx can.
Nyx lifts the bottom of his shirt, using it to wipe off his dripping forehead, then gives up entirely, tugging the whole thing up and off, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. A natural thing for him to do, and something Gladio’s done in the training room a hundred times before, but Ignis’s eyes catch on the scars; the lightning veins across his chest, the deep cut turned a line of puckered skin down his hip. He looks at the floor instead.
“You been practicing what I showed you last time?”
Ignis nods and says “Of course,” because yes, yes he has, with the single minded determination that got him his position as Prince’s Chamberlain all those years ago. Ignis does not do things by halves. And he does not like to disappoint.
“So lets see it then,” Nyx says and crosses his arms, humored in his own challenge and ready to play the teacher as he so often has lately, correcting and critiquing. Ignis thinks its out of boredom, teaching the Princes gofer a little bit of magic here and there when they both happened to be training. That’s alright, he thinks, it’s alright, so long as Ignis is learning it makes every meeting worthwhile and Nyx has never been cruel, never given Ignis a reason to walk away, sure as he knows that Nyx hangs around because he has nothing else better to do. He gives Ignis the same playful remarks he would to anyone else. Nyx is Nyx. He sarcastic and a worse flirt than Gladio and none of it means anything when they’re alone in the training room, but Ignis pushes all of those thoughts away because he’ll have to concentrate if he wants to do this right.
He’s made the mistake of holding his breath in the past and Nyx has scolded him for it. He closed his eyes in the past to help him concentrate and Nyx has scolded him for that too.
You can’t close your eyes in a fight, you can’t fling lightning blind and hope for the best. Eyes open Ignis, deep breath, eyes open .
So Ignis takes a deep breath and he keeps his eyes open, and he’s exhausted and sweating, but he goes cold all over and his throat goes tight, focusing energy, sapping up any and all strength that he has left and-
Fire . There’s a flash of it in the palm of his hand, a burst at first, too wild and out of control, but it dies off quickly into a little blue flame that takes all his willpower to keep burning, and even then it still fizzles out all too soon. He keeps staring at his hand after, frowning because he’d been able to do it so much better before, he wanted to show Nyx just how good he’s gotten and instead his sloppy burst of fire had barely lasted seconds. He’s waiting for a response that doesn’t come, a little bit of praise and a little bit of scolding from Nyx, as was his way to never be outright negative, and tips on how to do it better next time, but it doesn’t come, so he looks up in confusion. And Nyx smiles.
He smiles, and it’s so disarmingly open and pleased at the fire Ignis had made in his hand. For every quip and irreverent remark, he gives praise where it’s due. He has a kind heart, he’s never been malicious, and Ignis knows he’s not being mocked; not now, not ever. Nyx smiles and Ignis can see the faint dimples in his cheeks, hidden among the stubble that he never seems to shave off entirely, but that’s okay because Ignis finds he very much likes the way that it looks.
Nyx smiles.
His cough gets worse.
It gets worse no matter the remedies Ignis tries and tries. Tea doused in honey and lemon that he drinks while it’s still boarderline scalding, drug store cough syrup and allergy relief, steaming bowls of water filled with herbs; peppermint, eucalyptus, and lavender. Any relief is temporary, but Ignis can’t justifiably take time off or visit a doctor. Not when his symptoms are, by and large, manageable, and he has so many other things to do. He can pointedly ignore the looks that Noctis gives him every time he coughs in the crook of his arm, and when Noctis tries to insist that he’s sick he says, “ I’m not ,” in a tone that will not harbor argument.
“Noctis,” he says, “if I were sick, I’d be showing other symptoms.”
Noctis doesn’t argue. He doesn’t agree with him either. And the most unfortunate downside of all of it, is that Noctis has a point. Just enough to set the seed of doubt into his own mind.
Because, no, Ignis has not been displaying any other symptoms, of that he is sure, keeping careful stock of how he feels as days pass and his cough doesn’t go away. But, nothing makes the cough go away, no matter how much time passes or what he does or doesn’t do. Ignis decides, after a point, that in truth it seems to be getting worse. Which is not something he plans on mentioning.
Not to anyone. Not ever.
“Hey, alright there? Need some water?”
Nyx’s hand lands on the top of his shoulder blade as Ignis bends in half, dagger’s dropped to the floor, raw coughing echoing from the back of his throat out into the nearly empty training hall. It’s late, which is good because it means it’s just Ignis and Nyx and no one else is there to witness the spectacle. Ignis is humiliated all the same. Nyx seeing him like this is enough.
He waves a hand in a way that he hopes is dismissive. He doesn’t want water, water won’t help as long as the coughing fit lasts, it only just might soothe his throat afterwards, and even that’s not for certain.
“It’s nothing,” Ignis croaks when he can, afflicted with more embarrassed than any detriment to his health. It’s been a wonder that this hasn’t happened in front of him sooner, and Ignis should have known his good luck would evaporate eventually, never one that could get away with pleasant outcomes on happenstance alone. His cough feels like it always gets worse later on nights when he sees Nyx, and when he thinks about it (which he doesn’t), he thinks that it’s the exhaustion setting in, his body sapped and drained from the exertion of learning magic. Must be, because his training session with Gladio never end the same way, no matter the physicality involved. So magic it is then, exacerbating this strange cough, that’s making Nyx look at him with concern and Ignis’s stomach does a slow roll. He wants to wriggle away from that look, but he’s a butterfly pinned to the board. Nowhere to run, and only so many excuses to be had.
They pick up again, Ignis grabbing his daggers as soon as the fit stops, and Nyx looks on the verge of arguing, but he humors Ignis right up until the coughing starts again only moments later.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Nyx says and he doesn’t let Ignis argue. “Get some rest, alright? You’ve been pushing pretty hard lately.” His hand is extended out, landing back on Ignis’s shoulder again, a heavy weight of comfort, but the contact makes Ignis feel like he’s overheating, already dripping sweat from their fight. He coughs into a tight fist, hard enough to make his chest burn with the effort and he nods to keep from having to say anything else. He would disagree, argue, tell Nyx that he was fine on any other occasion, but his pride can take the hit today when he feels another episode coming.
A quick duck and he’s out of Nyx’s hand, still coughing and he grabs his bottle of water, his daggers, and he’s flying out the door. He coughs over something Nyx calls to him before he disappears into the locker room, breathing coming heavier with each step and it echoes off the tiled floors and bare walls, drowns out the steady dripping of the showers. He coughs, rough and deep and he feels like he can taste copper penny blood in the back of his throat. Getting breath in is a challenge as Ignis coughs, falling against his locker panic seizing him because it feels like he’s choking.
He can’t breath.
There’s something welling in the back of his throat and his body tries to cough it out, harder and harding until he’s doubled over with the effort, mouth clogged and feeling too full of his tongue, practically gagging when he tries to inhale.
He coughs and something comes loose, finally letting him gasp for air and a pause in the incessant coughing, mouth open and saliva welling in his mouth. There’s something there
He spits it out into the palm of his shaking hand.
Crumpled, bruised dark shades of blue and covered in spit, but it doesn’t matter. Ignis knows what it is.
A flower petal. He stares at it like it might just go away, disappear, like he imagined the whole thing because this cannot be happening. Not to him. Not now.
Ignis knows what this is, and he knows what it means. For someone like him, the petal sitting in the palm of his hand is a death sentence.
Some call it the Oracle’s Blessing.
Not Ignis. Because he knows Lady Lunafreya and can picture her face and the well hidden look of hurt and self consciousness that would surely wash over someone with as good of a heart as hers. She would take the blame upon herself, no matter how unintentional or uncontrollable any connection between her and the illness might be, and truly, Ignis himself thinks that connection is dubious at best. Even if the Oracle represents something like love, faith, and devotion to the people. Even if her symbol is the Sylleblossom.
Ignis can call it whatever he likes, it won’t change his situation any more than wishing on stars, just like Lady Lunafreya’s healing touch can’t cure the sickness inside of him. Proof, some say, that it’s not a sickness at all, but something beautiful. Something romantic , to grow a flower of his own body, blooming deep inside the dark cavern of his chest, fueled by those romantic feelings hidden and secret as everything else he keeps locked up. How romantic , to be crushed by love, to breathe your final breath with but one person’s name on your lips and in your mind, the seed the growth grew from.
So romantic Ignis didn’t even know he was in love.
The signs were always there in hindsight. It’s hard to know love when you’ve never felt it before, even when it’s staring you straight in the face, with a dimpled smirk and bright blue eyes. Ignis has always been analytical. Leads with his head and not his heart, the surest way, so he thought, to always have the most objective grasp of the situation. To always be in control.
He wakes up the next night, gasping and choking and hot all over. A coughing fit stronger than any before and tears well at the corners of his eyes as he tries to breath, blanket balled up around his ankles and nothing but hazy darkness around him, the blurry red numbers on his alarm clock reading 3:36.
He doesn’t stop coughing until they’re all out. One petal after another, he can feel passing up his throat and out his mouth, hacked up in the most ungraceful manner, spit running down his chin. But it slows and then it stops. Eventually. After nearly 10 minutes, during which he was rendered completely useless and Ignis is left spent and raw and feeling drained, not sure if the taste of blood in his mouth is real or imagined. He’s too weak to get up, as much as he’s desperate for a drink of water so instead he falls back into the embrace of his bed, sweaty and uncomfortable but without the energy to do anything about it, left in a state of half-sleep and exhaustion for too long afterwards.
He wakes up the next morning, bleary and still feeling like all of his energy has been sapped, and surrounding him the bed is littered with flower petals, wilting in the morning sun.
So much for control.
He has options. Limited though they might be, Ignis knows he has a choice to make because letting this continue will carry him down a very dark road that has no return. It doesn’t matter much that none of his options are things he particularly wants to do.
He can see a doctor.
The Citadel medical staff is discreet as they are talented, the best in the business because sickly Royalty will not do. They won’t be able to do much to slow the spread of roots across his lungs and pain management will be minimal at best, but he could make an appointment. And have them tell him what Ignis already knows. There is no stopping something like this half way. He’ll have to get it removed, and that means saying goodbye to all those feelings he’s been harboring, emotions severed and extracted with everything else. It’s a funny thought that he should resist the idea so much when he hasn’t even know what those feelings were until it was too late, but somehow the idea of absence fills him with a hollowness. To never look at Nyx the same way. To never feel his heart race again, when their hands brush or Nyx grins when he learns a new trick with his daggers.
Would Nyx even notice? If his mind suddenly went clinical where Nyx was concerned, would it change things? Ignis can’t imagine it would, but thinking about Nyx’s indifference brought on a tickle in his throat so he stopped.
He can do nothing.
And let this growth overwhelm him until he breaths less and less and then stops breathing all together, lungs covered in roots and twisting sprigs curling around his esophagus, petals clogging his throat and full flowers sprouting from his mouth.
Romantic . Death by love. He has too many responsibilities to let that happen, and even if the longing in his heart belongs to Nyx, the rest of him as a duty to Prince Noctis. To stand by his side. Thoughts of Noctis, his long time friend, sometimes only friend, losing Ignis to a secret that he couldn’t tell, to a sickness that he could have stopped… it fills Ignis with such revulsion for himself he needs to stop thinking about that too.
He can tell Nyx.
Somehow the prospect of it fills Ignis with more trepidation than doing nothing and there’s no guarantee it will fix things anyway. It’s more probable that if anything, staring at Nyx’s crestfallen face, the pity he would try to hide as he tells Ignis there’s nothing there, it’ll only make things worse, and Ignis would rather not suffer the additional mortification. He knows how Nyx is. He knows he’s a charming flirt that treats Ignis the same as he would treat anybody else.
Nyx feels nothing for him. He knows it with a certainty he feels down to his bones and certifies the fact that he won’t be making any admissions of love, but he can’t move on from it either, can’t make himself see a doctor or do something to help himself. He needs to think. He needs to consider his options and think things through. He just needs time; to sort things out, to determine the best course, to come to terms with severing those feelings from himself with finality, like cutting out a cancer, but one that blooms in Sylleblossoms.
His cough gets worse.