we are only mortal;

[intermediaries]

Waking had been a flurry- a phone call in the middle of the night, alternating between demanding information and soothing a shaken and startled Prince, swallowing down the painful lumps of worry and tension as he haphazardly threw clothes on and rushed out the door. The drive to where they were had been focused- having a goal, having a means to get there, and having Noctis on the line of distract him, until the Prince had settled enough to accept that Ignis would arrive shortly, that he could finally relax from the constant adrenaline high.

And then the waiting was torture, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the realization that this is what it means to be Crownsguard. This is what it means to serve the Royal family.

This is the danger of harboring entirely-too-powerful feelings for the man who had been raised to serve as a willing sacrifice to ensure his liege's survival.

(He's still not quite clear on what had happened. When he'd retired for the evening, he'd known that Noctis had wanted to hit up a bar, that Gladio was going with him to look after their charge- Prompto might be tagging along, who knew. And that had been fine. But somewhere along the line things had gone sideways, and he'd been awoken to a frantic call of Noctis expressing 'Gladio's hurt I mean I think he'll be okay, he's getting looked at, but the guy had a knife--')

His fingers unconsciously tense, breath catching as he tries to piece it all together uselessly. He never was able to stop his mind from running circles.

After confirmation that, yes, the Prince's Shield would be alright, that the laceration had been clean and straight and easily stitched back together, that his eye had been undamaged- Noctis had finally been able to see him and then been escorted home by another Crownsguard member who had arrived. Ignis had no doubt that Clarus, Lord Amicitia, would be by eventually as well-- but i the interim, it gives him the opportunity to flit back and finally see the man himself.

(He has no right to it, he knows. Not compared to the man's father and sister, not compared to the Prince Gladio had taken the blow for, not compared to anyone else who might be by at any moment. But his heart aches and his muscles tense and his stomach wrenches and he's scared at the sudden realization of mortality, though he'd never dare let the words out into the world. This man belongs to the Crown, just as he does.

But he wants. Wants so much to just see him alright, to confirm that everything he'd been told was true and accurate.)

And so he steals into the medical room quietly, and looking what might be the messiest he's ever allowed himself to be seen. Wrinkled trousers and shirt underneath a far-too-casual jacket. Everything he has on was the first he'd been able to grab. Even his socks are slouched and bunched around his ankles with the lack of those stupid garters, his hair wispy and frizzed up from the amount of times he's unconsciously run his fingers through it. His lips press together, and he keeps back everything he's aching to express immediately- that worry and concern and frustrated sort of misplaced anger at Gladio letting something like this happen.

Instead he starts simple. Approaches the other man and presses his glasses back up on his nose, those brightly verdant eyes glancing up and down him. The specks of dried blood, the thick gauze covering the wound. It makes the thick lump in his throat grow more swollen, more painful, and he tries to swallow past it.

"....I hear you saved Noct's life."