Prompto wakes in slow stages from a dream of chocobo chicks and behemoths and groggily brushes away at the feathers smothering his face until he figures out it’s just Noctis’ hair. Trying to pull himself up so he can breath again leads to the further realisation that there really isn’t a behemoth trying to brood the chicks after all - it’s just Gladio sprawled out on top of him, all 260lbs of him.
The storm from his dream seems real enough, though. There’s a loud rattle of rain against the windows and the rumble of thunder in the distance. Prompto closes his eyes and tries to sink back to sleep, but Gladio and Noctis just crowd him in closer and there’s a bony lump digging into his back that’s probably Ignis’ knee.
Back before anything had actually happened Prompto used to worry he’d freak the others out when they found out what clingy sleeper he was. It was hard enough to try and keep himself from touching them all the time while he was awake. While he was asleep and at the mercy of his subconscious, well . . .
And then it had turned out he was worried for nothing because they were all embarrassingly clingy sleepers. Whenever the four of them slept together in the same bed it was like it was the gods-damned All-Insomnia Sleep-Cuddler Contest, Gold Medal Round.
Prompto rolls his eyes at his past self as he tries to wiggle free without waking the others. Luckily he can do this mostly by ruthlessly shoving Noctis aside, Noctis just grumbling softly before snuggling into the warm spot Prompto left behind.
Noctis’ battered and much-abused alarm-clock tells Prompto it’s much later in the morning than he thought, nearly 7, the storm’s just making the sky look a lot darker.
He sits at the foot of the bed and considers his options. His morning wood’s feeling pretty insistent and a Noctis getting gently fucked awake is one of the most beautiful sights in Lucis. Then a soft sigh from behind him draws his attention and he turns his head to watch Ignis curl in closer against Noctis, Gladio shifting his arm to cover them both, and suddenly he’s got an even better idea.
Prompto pads into the kitchen and cracks a yawn as he opens the fridge and rummages around. There’s a covered jug full of egg-whites, left-over from Ignis’ baking-spree yesterday, half an onion, a neglected-looking package of spinach and some odds and ends of ham and cheese.
He’s not a fraction of the chef Ignis is but Prompto’s had to learn to cook for himself at home and he thinks he does a decent egg-white omelette. And, hey, it’s pretty much never that Ignis gets to sleep-in.
He hums the Kenny Crow jingle to himself as he gets out the frying-pan.
Prompto cooks for himself first, making his with spinach and enough chili flakes to kill a wyvern, and then starts in on washing last night’s dishes. He’s almost done when Ignis shuffles into the kitchen, just before 8, and Prompto can’t help grinning because half-asleep Ignis, with his soft eyes and his disheveled hair, is a rare and precious sight.
“Morning, Iggy,” Prompto says, drying his hands and putting a clean coffee-cup on the counter, “How do you want your omelette?”
Ignis takes the cup mutely and gives him a kiss on the cheek, then shuffles over to the gleaming silver coffee machine. Prompto waits patiently and goes back to washing the last few plates. It’s only once Ignis is half-way through his second cup that he blinks and looks up, “I’m sorry, Prompto, I believe I may have missed a question?”
“I’m making omelettes, would you like one?” Prompto says and the smile Ignis rewards him with was worth waiting for.
“Ham and cheese would be lovely, thank you,” Ignis says.
“No veg?” Prompto asks, surprised.
“Gods, no, not in an omelette,” Ignis says with a shudder, pouring himself a third cup of coffee, “Besides, I’m sure any evidence against me will be consumed long before Noctis wakes up.”
Prompto laughs and turns the stove back on, “Yeah, good point.”
By the time the omelette is cooked Ignis has already colonised the table with an assortment of files and notepads and one extremely impressive-looking book covered in tooled and gilded leather.
Prompto sets the plate down in the one clear spot he can find and then sits down next to him and nudges Ignis’ leg with his foot, “Hey, Iggy, you know it’s okay to take a break once in awhile, right?”
Ignis chuckles and sets aside his notebook, “It’s not actually work, but I suppose I should take a break for breakfast anyway. “
Prompto holds his breath as Ignis takes the first bite of his omelette and the appreciative noise Ignis makes makes something warm blossom in his heart, “It’s okay, right?”
“Prompto, it is absolutely delicious,” Ignis says, taking another bite.
Prompto blushes, flustered, and tries to change the subject, “So, what are you working on that’s not actually work?”
“Family records, mostly,” Ignis says between bites, “My second-cousin-twice-removed has just announced a late-in-life pregnancy and as the Earldom of Scientia descends by agnatic primogeniture and because my third-cousin-once-removed is an absolute idiot it falls to me to explain why this new child would bump him from third to fourth in line.”
“Um,” Prompto says.
“I’d leave my uncle to do it but I’m afraid he just may haul-off and punch the man. Honestly,” Ignis shakes his head, “It’s not that hard to understand the difference between agnatic and absolute primogeniture.”
Ignis glances at him, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, and Prompto gasps and punches him in the shoulder, “You asshole, you totally did that on purpose!”
“Only a little,” Ignis chuckles, “In my defense it is genuinely what I’m working on right now . . . but I will admit it does get a little convoluted.”
“Convoluted?” Prompto huffs, “I didn’t even know you had an Earldom, I thought you family were Counts.”
“We do,” Ignis says, “but the titles are equal in rank and the second holder of the title was female and there’s no such thing as an Earlless. The 2nd Countess of Scientia was succeeded by her daughter and then her granddaughter and when her great-grandson took his position as a mark of respect to his . . . I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”
Prompto shakes his head hurriedly, “No, no, I . . . this is really interesting, the whole nobility thing. I’ve been thinking I should learn more about it!”
Then he replays the words he just said in his head and winces.
“Really now,” Ignis says, mouth twitching again, “Well, luckily for you I’m just the man to help with that. Any pressing questions you have that I might answer?”
Prompto flounders for a few moments before it occurs to him that wait, yes, yes he does have questions. He actually has a lot of questions, “Well, okay, so . . . you’re your uncle’s heir, right?”
“Yes,” Ignis says, between mouthfuls of omelette.
“So why don’t you have a title?” Prompto asks, “Cause I kind of remember back when your grandmother was alive the news used to call your Uncle . . . Baron Stupid? Something like that? I kinda assumed it was just a weird noble thing that’d make more sense in context.”
“Baron Stupio,” Ignis corrects, covering his laugh with a cough, “It’s the courtesy title my family uses for the heir but I’m only what’s called a ‘heir presumptive’, it means I can be displaced from succession. If my uncle were to have a child they’d become what’s called a ‘heir apparent’ and only a heir apparent should use a courtesy title.”
“Ignis,” Prompto says, “Your uncle is 65 and owns seven cats, he’s not going to have any kids.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m worried about my prospects specifically but in theory it could still happen,” Ignis says, taking a sip of coffee, “Though I admit I’m not exactly crushed to not be Baron Stupio.”
The lapse into silence again, Ignis eating the omelette with every sign of appreciation and Prompto just sitting next to him, quietly thrilled. It’s all so warm and cozy and the wet grey skies outside only make it better.
Ignis picks up his coffee cup to take a sip and looks at him, “Was that your only question?”
“Um, no,” Prompto says, blushing again, “I . . . I may have a few more.”
“Then ask away,” Ignis smiles.
Prompto ducks his head down and tries to get his thoughts in order, “Yeah, actually, so . . . Gladio?”
Ignis swallows another forkful of egg and ham before he answers, “You’re going to have to be somewhat more specific, I’m afraid.”
“I mean,” Prompto waves his hand about as he tries to figure out how to phrase this, “Glaido’s actually, like, SUPER-noble, right?”
Ignis actually does laugh this time, “If you mean to say he’s high-ranked, yes. As heir to the King’s Shield only his father and the royal family themselves out-rank him.”
“But . . . he doesn’t have a title either?”
Ignis’ smile takes on an edge, “Well, formally he’s addressed as Lord Gladiolus . . . but I don’t recommend doing on a regular basis unless you to want be bench-pressed.”
“Er, yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” Prompto says, filing it away for reference while trying not to blush even more. He actually kind of likes getting manhandled by Gladio, “How come he’s not called Prince’s Shield or something like that?”
“Technically Gladio protects Noctis as an expression of his loyalty to the King, not to Noct.” Ignis says, “Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.”
“Huh,” Prompto says, turning it over in his head. He’s never really worried about where Gladio’s loyalties lay but now that he tries to think it through all he’s getting is the mental image of Gladio running out of a burning building with Noctis tucked under one arm and Ignis slung over his shoulder. Then he imagines the indignant look that Ignis would have on his face and he bursts out laughing.
“What?” Ignis asks, but it’s not really a question. He’s too used to Prompto by now.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s nothing,” Prompto says, “Man, look at me. I make you food then I keep interrupting you while you’re trying to eat it.”
“Not at all,” Ignis says, “it tastes all the better for your company.”
Prompto grins and slumps a little in his chair, enough so that he has the excuse to nudge his leg against Ignis’, and watches the storm pour down outside as Ignis finishes off the last of the omelette.
Weather this violent is rare in Insomnia, the New Wall dampens all but the strongest storms. It brings Prompto back to fuzzy, half-forgotten memories of when he was very small, staring out of a window at a world of bitter white cold. It’s not a happy memory and he tries to jolt it out of his mind, casting about for a distraction, “So, um. Gladio’s title?”
“Yes?” Ignis says, putting his fork down on an empty plate.
Prompto tries to get the thought in order, “Actually, I guess I mean his dad’s title? It’s not Baron Clarus or Earl Clarus or anything, it’s just ‘King’s Shield’, right? Or is he a Grand Duke or something like that and I missed it?”
“No,” Ignis shakes his head, “by tradition the King’s Shield may never hold a fiefdom. A fief is something you have responsibilities to, something you have to protect, and that would only conflict with their responsibilities to protect the King.”
“Kind of sensing a theme here.” Prompto says, frowning, but this isn’t a conversation he wants Gladio to walk in on so he quickly changes the subject, “Well, at least Noct’s simple. It’s just Your Highness, right?”
“Actually,” Ignis says and Prompto groans theatrically because he knows that smirk, “Noct’s full title is His Royal Highness The Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, Star of Lucis, Duke of Cauthess, Duke of Alstor, Marquess of Ravatogh, Earl of Kelbass, Baron Caem, Baron Galdin, Lord of Angelgard, Most Royal Knight of the Noble Order of the Crownsguard.”
Prompto stares at him for a second and then says, flatly, “You’re shitting me.”
“Absolutely not,” Ignis says, picking up his coffee mug to take the smuggest sip Prompto’s ever seen.
“How does he even remember that all?” Prompto asks, “Wait, does he remember that all?”
“Amazingly, yes, he does.” Ignis says, “he told me once it was like memorising a street address. And before you ask, no, it’s too early in the morning for me to remember what his full title will be when he’s King.”
“Hah! For once, I’ll believe that,” Prompto laughs, “Wait, so what’s Luna’s?”
Ignis pauses with his cup halfway to his lips, then gives a soft sigh, “ . . . of the top of my head? I believe her full title is Her Most Royal Highness, The Royal Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Lady of the Sacred Grove of Fenestala, Princess of Tenebrae, Daughter of Eos, Servant of the Trident, Voice of the Hexatheon, by the Blessings of the Six, Oracle. In a better world she’d be addressed as Her Most Gracious Majesty but the Crown of Tenebrae’s somewhat in abeyance right now.”
Prompto winces at himself as the mood turns dour again, way to go, self! But before he can latch onto another topic Ignis beats him there.
“You could be Sir Prompto, you know, if you joined the Crownsguard.”
“Hah, seriously?” Prompto laughs, “You know that’s never going to happen, Iggy, you’ve seen me fight.”
“Gladio says you’re getting better,” Ignis says softly, almost cautiously, “he’s got faith in you.”
It’s a long-running discussion, not quite an argument, not yet. Prompto doesn’t want to join the Crownsguard, he’s not a good fighter and he hates killing anything, even just bugs. He wants his future to be behind his camera, he wants to be a photojournalist and travel the world.
But Prompto’s the only one who’s got the freedom to make a choice. Noctis and Gladio and Ignis, they’ve all had their lives planned for them since they were born, and if Prompto leaves Insomnia it’ll be without them.
He knows, already, what choice he’s going to make, it’s just that he’s not ready to make it yet.
“Oh hey, you’re out of coffee. Let me get that,” he says brightly, trying to change the subject again as he snags the empty cup from Ignis.
It’s only when he gets to the coffee machine that Prompto remembers, oh yeah, Ignis is the only one who knows how to use the damn thing. It’s the only machine Prompto’s never really gotten along with and he’s actually a little terrified of it.
His finger hovers over a button he thinks might be the one that makes the coffee happen and then there’s a solid warmth at his back as Ignis reaches past him to press a completely different button.
“That was the buttom for the steamer, by the way,” Ignis says, breath stirring the hairs on the back of Prompto’s neck. The hand currently not punching in a complicated sequence into the machine curls around Prompto’s middle, pulling him tight against Ignis’ chest.
“Can’t I just be, I don’t know, Noct’s Royal Mistress? Is there a title for that?” Prompto says with a sigh, leaning back against Ignis.
Ignis huffs a laugh, “Mistress is the female title. You’d be the Royal Favourite.”
“Wait, really?” Prompto twists around to look up at him, “. . . because I think I like the sound of that.”
“Personally I’d find it bloody inconvenient,” Ignis says, leaning down to briefly kiss him before pulling away, “trifling with the Royal Favourite is considered an act of treason, you see.”
“Okay, I can see how that might be slight a problem,” Prompto says as he tucks his hands in the waistband of Ignis’ pajama-pants.
There’s a clinking sound behind Prompto as Ignis sets the coffee-cup down and then a warm hand is running up his side, rucking up his t-shirt.
“Besides,” Ignis says softly, “the title’s been out of use for more than a century.”
“We’ll get Noct to make a new title,” Prompto says, a little breathlessly, “I can be Royal Companion or Crownsguard Groupie or His Majesty’s Complication or . . .”
Ignis closes his eyes, as if in pain, and Prompto stretches up to kiss him until he’s smiling again.
FILL: Chocobros, titles (1 of 2)
The storm from his dream seems real enough, though. There’s a loud rattle of rain against the windows and the rumble of thunder in the distance. Prompto closes his eyes and tries to sink back to sleep, but Gladio and Noctis just crowd him in closer and there’s a bony lump digging into his back that’s probably Ignis’ knee.
Back before anything had actually happened Prompto used to worry he’d freak the others out when they found out what clingy sleeper he was. It was hard enough to try and keep himself from touching them all the time while he was awake. While he was asleep and at the mercy of his subconscious, well . . .
And then it had turned out he was worried for nothing because they were all embarrassingly clingy sleepers. Whenever the four of them slept together in the same bed it was like it was the gods-damned All-Insomnia Sleep-Cuddler Contest, Gold Medal Round.
Prompto rolls his eyes at his past self as he tries to wiggle free without waking the others. Luckily he can do this mostly by ruthlessly shoving Noctis aside, Noctis just grumbling softly before snuggling into the warm spot Prompto left behind.
Noctis’ battered and much-abused alarm-clock tells Prompto it’s much later in the morning than he thought, nearly 7, the storm’s just making the sky look a lot darker.
He sits at the foot of the bed and considers his options. His morning wood’s feeling pretty insistent and a Noctis getting gently fucked awake is one of the most beautiful sights in Lucis. Then a soft sigh from behind him draws his attention and he turns his head to watch Ignis curl in closer against Noctis, Gladio shifting his arm to cover them both, and suddenly he’s got an even better idea.
Prompto pads into the kitchen and cracks a yawn as he opens the fridge and rummages around. There’s a covered jug full of egg-whites, left-over from Ignis’ baking-spree yesterday, half an onion, a neglected-looking package of spinach and some odds and ends of ham and cheese.
He’s not a fraction of the chef Ignis is but Prompto’s had to learn to cook for himself at home and he thinks he does a decent egg-white omelette. And, hey, it’s pretty much never that Ignis gets to sleep-in.
He hums the Kenny Crow jingle to himself as he gets out the frying-pan.
Prompto cooks for himself first, making his with spinach and enough chili flakes to kill a wyvern, and then starts in on washing last night’s dishes. He’s almost done when Ignis shuffles into the kitchen, just before 8, and Prompto can’t help grinning because half-asleep Ignis, with his soft eyes and his disheveled hair, is a rare and precious sight.
“Morning, Iggy,” Prompto says, drying his hands and putting a clean coffee-cup on the counter, “How do you want your omelette?”
Ignis takes the cup mutely and gives him a kiss on the cheek, then shuffles over to the gleaming silver coffee machine. Prompto waits patiently and goes back to washing the last few plates. It’s only once Ignis is half-way through his second cup that he blinks and looks up, “I’m sorry, Prompto, I believe I may have missed a question?”
“I’m making omelettes, would you like one?” Prompto says and the smile Ignis rewards him with was worth waiting for.
“Ham and cheese would be lovely, thank you,” Ignis says.
“No veg?” Prompto asks, surprised.
“Gods, no, not in an omelette,” Ignis says with a shudder, pouring himself a third cup of coffee, “Besides, I’m sure any evidence against me will be consumed long before Noctis wakes up.”
Prompto laughs and turns the stove back on, “Yeah, good point.”
By the time the omelette is cooked Ignis has already colonised the table with an assortment of files and notepads and one extremely impressive-looking book covered in tooled and gilded leather.
Prompto sets the plate down in the one clear spot he can find and then sits down next to him and nudges Ignis’ leg with his foot, “Hey, Iggy, you know it’s okay to take a break once in awhile, right?”
Ignis chuckles and sets aside his notebook, “It’s not actually work, but I suppose I should take a break for breakfast anyway. “
Prompto holds his breath as Ignis takes the first bite of his omelette and the appreciative noise Ignis makes makes something warm blossom in his heart, “It’s okay, right?”
“Prompto, it is absolutely delicious,” Ignis says, taking another bite.
Prompto blushes, flustered, and tries to change the subject, “So, what are you working on that’s not actually work?”
“Family records, mostly,” Ignis says between bites, “My second-cousin-twice-removed has just announced a late-in-life pregnancy and as the Earldom of Scientia descends by agnatic primogeniture and because my third-cousin-once-removed is an absolute idiot it falls to me to explain why this new child would bump him from third to fourth in line.”
“Um,” Prompto says.
“I’d leave my uncle to do it but I’m afraid he just may haul-off and punch the man. Honestly,” Ignis shakes his head, “It’s not that hard to understand the difference between agnatic and absolute primogeniture.”
“Is it?” Prompto blurts out, then coughs, “I mean, yeah, completely agree.”
Ignis glances at him, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, and Prompto gasps and punches him in the shoulder, “You asshole, you totally did that on purpose!”
“Only a little,” Ignis chuckles, “In my defense it is genuinely what I’m working on right now . . . but I will admit it does get a little convoluted.”
“Convoluted?” Prompto huffs, “I didn’t even know you had an Earldom, I thought you family were Counts.”
“We do,” Ignis says, “but the titles are equal in rank and the second holder of the title was female and there’s no such thing as an Earlless. The 2nd Countess of Scientia was succeeded by her daughter and then her granddaughter and when her great-grandson took his position as a mark of respect to his . . . I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”
Prompto shakes his head hurriedly, “No, no, I . . . this is really interesting, the whole nobility thing. I’ve been thinking I should learn more about it!”
Then he replays the words he just said in his head and winces.
“Really now,” Ignis says, mouth twitching again, “Well, luckily for you I’m just the man to help with that. Any pressing questions you have that I might answer?”
Prompto flounders for a few moments before it occurs to him that wait, yes, yes he does have questions. He actually has a lot of questions, “Well, okay, so . . . you’re your uncle’s heir, right?”
“Yes,” Ignis says, between mouthfuls of omelette.
“So why don’t you have a title?” Prompto asks, “Cause I kind of remember back when your grandmother was alive the news used to call your Uncle . . . Baron Stupid? Something like that? I kinda assumed it was just a weird noble thing that’d make more sense in context.”
“Baron Stupio,” Ignis corrects, covering his laugh with a cough, “It’s the courtesy title my family uses for the heir but I’m only what’s called a ‘heir presumptive’, it means I can be displaced from succession. If my uncle were to have a child they’d become what’s called a ‘heir apparent’ and only a heir apparent should use a courtesy title.”
“Ignis,” Prompto says, “Your uncle is 65 and owns seven cats, he’s not going to have any kids.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m worried about my prospects specifically but in theory it could still happen,” Ignis says, taking a sip of coffee, “Though I admit I’m not exactly crushed to not be Baron Stupio.”
Prompto snorts, “Yeah right, I’m sure you’re really secretly heart-broken.”
“Alas, utterly bereft,” Ignis says dryly.
The lapse into silence again, Ignis eating the omelette with every sign of appreciation and Prompto just sitting next to him, quietly thrilled. It’s all so warm and cozy and the wet grey skies outside only make it better.
Ignis picks up his coffee cup to take a sip and looks at him, “Was that your only question?”
“Um, no,” Prompto says, blushing again, “I . . . I may have a few more.”
“Then ask away,” Ignis smiles.
Prompto ducks his head down and tries to get his thoughts in order, “Yeah, actually, so . . . Gladio?”
Ignis swallows another forkful of egg and ham before he answers, “You’re going to have to be somewhat more specific, I’m afraid.”
“I mean,” Prompto waves his hand about as he tries to figure out how to phrase this, “Glaido’s actually, like, SUPER-noble, right?”
Ignis actually does laugh this time, “If you mean to say he’s high-ranked, yes. As heir to the King’s Shield only his father and the royal family themselves out-rank him.”
“But . . . he doesn’t have a title either?”
Ignis’ smile takes on an edge, “Well, formally he’s addressed as Lord Gladiolus . . . but I don’t recommend doing on a regular basis unless you to want be bench-pressed.”
“Er, yeah, I’ll keep that in mind,” Prompto says, filing it away for reference while trying not to blush even more. He actually kind of likes getting manhandled by Gladio, “How come he’s not called Prince’s Shield or something like that?”
“Technically Gladio protects Noctis as an expression of his loyalty to the King, not to Noct.” Ignis says, “Or at least, that’s how it’s supposed to work.”
“Huh,” Prompto says, turning it over in his head. He’s never really worried about where Gladio’s loyalties lay but now that he tries to think it through all he’s getting is the mental image of Gladio running out of a burning building with Noctis tucked under one arm and Ignis slung over his shoulder. Then he imagines the indignant look that Ignis would have on his face and he bursts out laughing.
“What?” Ignis asks, but it’s not really a question. He’s too used to Prompto by now.
“Sorry, sorry, it’s nothing,” Prompto says, “Man, look at me. I make you food then I keep interrupting you while you’re trying to eat it.”
“Not at all,” Ignis says, “it tastes all the better for your company.”
Prompto grins and slumps a little in his chair, enough so that he has the excuse to nudge his leg against Ignis’, and watches the storm pour down outside as Ignis finishes off the last of the omelette.
Weather this violent is rare in Insomnia, the New Wall dampens all but the strongest storms. It brings Prompto back to fuzzy, half-forgotten memories of when he was very small, staring out of a window at a world of bitter white cold. It’s not a happy memory and he tries to jolt it out of his mind, casting about for a distraction, “So, um. Gladio’s title?”
“Yes?” Ignis says, putting his fork down on an empty plate.
Prompto tries to get the thought in order, “Actually, I guess I mean his dad’s title? It’s not Baron Clarus or Earl Clarus or anything, it’s just ‘King’s Shield’, right? Or is he a Grand Duke or something like that and I missed it?”
“No,” Ignis shakes his head, “by tradition the King’s Shield may never hold a fiefdom. A fief is something you have responsibilities to, something you have to protect, and that would only conflict with their responsibilities to protect the King.”
“Kind of sensing a theme here.” Prompto says, frowning, but this isn’t a conversation he wants Gladio to walk in on so he quickly changes the subject, “Well, at least Noct’s simple. It’s just Your Highness, right?”
“Actually,” Ignis says and Prompto groans theatrically because he knows that smirk, “Noct’s full title is His Royal Highness The Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, Star of Lucis, Duke of Cauthess, Duke of Alstor, Marquess of Ravatogh, Earl of Kelbass, Baron Caem, Baron Galdin, Lord of Angelgard, Most Royal Knight of the Noble Order of the Crownsguard.”
Prompto stares at him for a second and then says, flatly, “You’re shitting me.”
“Absolutely not,” Ignis says, picking up his coffee mug to take the smuggest sip Prompto’s ever seen.
“How does he even remember that all?” Prompto asks, “Wait, does he remember that all?”
“Amazingly, yes, he does.” Ignis says, “he told me once it was like memorising a street address. And before you ask, no, it’s too early in the morning for me to remember what his full title will be when he’s King.”
“Hah! For once, I’ll believe that,” Prompto laughs, “Wait, so what’s Luna’s?”
Ignis pauses with his cup halfway to his lips, then gives a soft sigh, “ . . . of the top of my head? I believe her full title is Her Most Royal Highness, The Royal Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Lady of the Sacred Grove of Fenestala, Princess of Tenebrae, Daughter of Eos, Servant of the Trident, Voice of the Hexatheon, by the Blessings of the Six, Oracle. In a better world she’d be addressed as Her Most Gracious Majesty but the Crown of Tenebrae’s somewhat in abeyance right now.”
Prompto winces at himself as the mood turns dour again, way to go, self! But before he can latch onto another topic Ignis beats him there.
“You could be Sir Prompto, you know, if you joined the Crownsguard.”
“Hah, seriously?” Prompto laughs, “You know that’s never going to happen, Iggy, you’ve seen me fight.”
“Gladio says you’re getting better,” Ignis says softly, almost cautiously, “he’s got faith in you.”
It’s a long-running discussion, not quite an argument, not yet. Prompto doesn’t want to join the Crownsguard, he’s not a good fighter and he hates killing anything, even just bugs. He wants his future to be behind his camera, he wants to be a photojournalist and travel the world.
But Prompto’s the only one who’s got the freedom to make a choice. Noctis and Gladio and Ignis, they’ve all had their lives planned for them since they were born, and if Prompto leaves Insomnia it’ll be without them.
He knows, already, what choice he’s going to make, it’s just that he’s not ready to make it yet.
“Oh hey, you’re out of coffee. Let me get that,” he says brightly, trying to change the subject again as he snags the empty cup from Ignis.
It’s only when he gets to the coffee machine that Prompto remembers, oh yeah, Ignis is the only one who knows how to use the damn thing. It’s the only machine Prompto’s never really gotten along with and he’s actually a little terrified of it.
His finger hovers over a button he thinks might be the one that makes the coffee happen and then there’s a solid warmth at his back as Ignis reaches past him to press a completely different button.
“That was the buttom for the steamer, by the way,” Ignis says, breath stirring the hairs on the back of Prompto’s neck. The hand currently not punching in a complicated sequence into the machine curls around Prompto’s middle, pulling him tight against Ignis’ chest.
“Can’t I just be, I don’t know, Noct’s Royal Mistress? Is there a title for that?” Prompto says with a sigh, leaning back against Ignis.
Ignis huffs a laugh, “Mistress is the female title. You’d be the Royal Favourite.”
“Wait, really?” Prompto twists around to look up at him, “. . . because I think I like the sound of that.”
“Personally I’d find it bloody inconvenient,” Ignis says, leaning down to briefly kiss him before pulling away, “trifling with the Royal Favourite is considered an act of treason, you see.”
“Okay, I can see how that might be slight a problem,” Prompto says as he tucks his hands in the waistband of Ignis’ pajama-pants.
There’s a clinking sound behind Prompto as Ignis sets the coffee-cup down and then a warm hand is running up his side, rucking up his t-shirt.
“Besides,” Ignis says softly, “the title’s been out of use for more than a century.”
“We’ll get Noct to make a new title,” Prompto says, a little breathlessly, “I can be Royal Companion or Crownsguard Groupie or His Majesty’s Complication or . . .”
Ignis closes his eyes, as if in pain, and Prompto stretches up to kiss him until he’s smiling again.