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Prompto does not marry in haste. In fact, it takes him five years after dawn returns to even coax Cindy into a date. Ignis knows a little of their courtship, he tracks it through conversations he has with Prompto via telephone. The pitch of his voice increases in excitement as he speaks of her over time. In the very beginnings of their relationship, Ignis recognizes the newness of their coupling in the timbre of speech – a time when devotion and longing border on obsession.
He recognizes it, but it’s been a long time since he’s felt that way about Gladio. It doesn’t keep him from perfect recollection, however, nor does it stop him from conjuring up the emblazoned memories of pushing Gladios’s leathers from his shoulders in a rush, or of fixing his mouth against the hollow of his throat because the urge to taste him was too strong to ignore. The first flush of his love for Gladiolus is an indelible mark on him. He’s glad to see the reflection in Prompto. He’s glad that his friend has found joy and happiness in equal measure.
Neither he or Gladio actually see Prompto much. The blonde takes up residence in Hammerhead, while Gladio and Ignis wander. Home, as it was, no longer exists. Though the Citadel is rebuilt, it houses ghosts neither want to taunt. It holds a new government, the antithesis of one the one they were forged in. There is no room for shields or advisors there. It shines as a beacon of new democracy and burgeoning capitalism. And so, they become nomads, strangers to any familiarity which isn’t each other or the tenuous threads of relationships formed in a life that seems long dead. Hunting becomes their new existence, dealing with both monsters and the monstrosity of men. It becomes both preoccupation and employment. They travel in a junked jalopy of a truck, one which runs on hope, astral prayers, and on the salient sweetness of diesel fuel. It’s a green eyesore of a thing, Gladio tells him, one which rattles when they speed it past sixty, or when a turn is taken too sharply. But it’s theirs and it purrs, loud enough that Ignis can hear it. It shudders hard enough that he can feel it, too. It shakes his bones as he grinds his teeth to meet the feeling.
They change in large and small ways, both together and apart. They divest themselves of the past, ripping skull motifs from pant legs and shirts, replacing the heaviness of ceremonial jewelry with the light, aluminum of dogs tags. Ignis never wears black again, but he does tailor his clothing even more closely to his body. It clings to the lithe line of his shoulders, holds tight to the sway of his back and the curve of his ass. He finds he enjoys the feeling of the fabric moving with him, rather than against him, relishing the stretch and the economy of movement it provides. One evening, he hears Gladio hum, a considering noise that usually means he has something of import to say.
“What is it,” Ignis asked.
“Your ass in those pants.”
“Am a distracting you?”
Another considering noise follows.
“Yeah.”
Ignis smiles, nimble and quick fingers reaching for the button fly of his pants. “Then show me how much.”
They make love often. Gladio covers him with kisses and a tenderness that he thought might have worn out its welcome over time; it never does. Gladio knows how long it takes to prepare him, how many fingers, how long to tease, how much lubricant, but it’s always a surprise when he thrusts home. He stays tight around him. His body keeps a vice, as tight as their emotional connection. Gladio always comes with his name on his lips. It sounds like reverence and Ignis venerates him in kind.
Sometimes, when the emotions are too complex, they fuck instead. In such situations, Ignis is usually the one to take control. Such encounters are usually angry, born of foolishness in battle that left one or both slightly injured. The worst it ever was happened on Noctis’ birthday, some four years after his death. Ignis, not prone to drinking at all, returned to his paramour soused and mean. He’d missed a hunt, dragging himself into bars instead, leaving Gladio on his own.
“I hate you sometimes,” Ignis said.
“I know you do.”
He quickly back peddles, his hands sliding into Gladio’s hair to hold tight when he realizes, horrified, what he had said.
“That’s not true, I love you, I do, I….”
Gladio was on him, swift as grace, pressing him against the kitchen cabinets of the room they rented, shaking them on their hinges.
“It is true, and sometimes I hate you, too.”
They kissed as if it were a competition, all lips and teeth. The clothing was discarded, coming away in rips and tears and by the time they were done Ignis moved more gingerly, feeling the palpable hurt of the meeting.
“I hate you sometimes, Iggy,” Gladio clarified. “I can’t believe the shit you pull but,” and he paused, Ignis tilting his head, awaiting the rest.
“But then, I remember I love you more.”
When he considered love before, he had never thought it would feel like this. He never imagined that the idea of being without Gladio was as anathema to him as the death of their lost king. He didn’t consider that there was a complacency of being with someone for so long that days flit by, that weeks sometimes passed before you remember you loved them at all, days when they were simply in your space, disavowing your personal bubble, wiping sweat from their forehead with the clothing you just washed, tracking mud into the tent you slept it. Then, suddenly, as a cloudburst might, the sky opened up to remind you how softly a hand at your forehead felt in checking for a fever, or the tenderness of finding cases of ebony stored in the truck so he’d never be without them, or the unconscious way Gladio stepped in front of danger not because Ignis could not defend himself but because Gladio wanted to protect him. This was love. It wasn’t always terribly romantic but it was enduring, and Ignis felt complete with Gladio.
They sit in the front row of tent they erect to marry Prompto and Cindy beneath. Gladio finds his hand and holds it. He knows those hands, every edge and every spot of roughened skin. He knows the softness of his fingers and the way they feel ghosting across the top of his own. He squeezes his hand, feels him lean in to whisper quietly to him.
“You ever sorry we didn’t do this?”
He answers quickly. “No, not for a moment.”
A sharp intake of breath has Ignis sidling closer, explaining before Gladio gets the wrong idea. “I don’t need a ceremony to know I love you, Gladiolus. In my heart, I married you years ago.”
He felt a smile against his cheek, their entwined hands settling on Ignis’ lap, easy as breathing. “Til death do us part, huh?”
He turned towards him, time having given him an alacrity of movement, knowing exactly the way to angle his face to meet Gladiolus’ lips. “If you think I’d let death separate us you’ve oversimplified a great deal.”
They kiss amidst applause and the announcement of Cindy and Prompto being officially wed. Ignis turns in the direction of the noise, and smiles. There are many ways to love, many ways to commit. Not every one was right for every person. Ignis and Gladio had forged their own path, years ago, and he suspected they would do so until their tenure ended, until they were too old and too grey to heft swords and daggers. Then, they would find another way to be, find new purpose, but always together.