(Written for @wildixia -- inspirations, of course, are THIS and THIS.)
Quick Fic Pick 35: the spectrum of us
"All right, that's the fourth time," he hears Aranea say, when the fifth and last chime cuts through the conversational buzz on the teleconference line.
"I'm right on time, what are you picking on me for," is Noctis's reply, and he sounds both outraged and sleepy, mostly because he doesn't muffle his mic in time, and they can all hear him yawn.
"That's contagious!" is Cindy's complaint --
Gladio drinks some more wine, and keeps on scrolling through his emails, half an eye on the flatscreen TV on the wall where the global stocks tickers are still on the move.
"Can we call this meeting to order?" And that's Lunafreya, and all the others immediately go quiet, and Gladio sits up a little and switches to one of his note-taking apps. "Thank you. Good to talk to everyone again. As of this very minute we have four weeks to the summit, so if you haven't already switched over to crisis mode, this is your official reminder. Get your tasks sorted and in order, everyone, because I promise you we'll be clocking up the overtime."
"And we do this on a regular basis, why do we volunteer for this shit, or why do we get volunteered for this shit," Noctis mutters.
"Because we're damn good at it," and Aranea snorts and there's a chorus of sighs and put-upon sounds.
And Gladio keys on his mic, and says, "The sooner we get through this, the sooner we can get finished and then we can all get blind drunk."
"Right, and it's your turn to host us again," Lunafreya says. "Still have any of that wine we were drinking last time?"
"An entire cellarful," he promises. "And more where it came from. So again. Motivation, if you need it."
"Yes and please," she says, and then she launches into a rundown of confirmations.
"Speakers," he hears Cindy say, next. "You want the good news first or the bad news first?"
"Ugh, bad news first," Aranea says.
He rolls his eyes and mutters along with the others, and somewhere in the conversation he hears the quiet chime that means someone's coming into the loft, and he runs his eyes over the clutter of his desk, makes sure everything's on mute, before looking over his shoulder. "You're back early."
The lean shape that pads toward him smells of sweat and petrichor and salt on the breeze. "Believe it or not, it was a good day."
Gladio switches the lamp on his desk on.
Dash of pale-lavender boxer shorts and the glint of a pearl-white button: these are the only things that interrupt the expanses of ink and muscle and skin.
Ignis with his hair down, one black-plastic temple tip dangling from his mouth, and his discarded clothes bunched and dangling from his hand, as he hitches himself noiselessly onto the desk, right next to the speakers where the others are still conducting the meeting.
Gladio smiles, and beckons him in just as silently, and he kisses Ignis's eyebrow, and the studs there are warm.
Phone in Ignis's hand: as Gladio watches, he opens one of the instant-messaging apps and starts typing: You're not listening to them.
He smiles, and loosens the knot on his tie, and offers his wine glass in exchange for the phone, and he erases Ignis's draft message and types in his own. We already finished talking about what I'm doing this year. Summit's here, so my part has to do with making sure they're all capable of functioning for a week.
Wine-stain on Ignis's mouth. Hosting duties. I see.
He watches as Ignis reaches for the wine bottle, and pours again, and drinks again. "Hey."
"I'm not drinking to forget anything. Quite the opposite. It was a good day." Ignis's whisper, that never fails to thrill Gladio. "But finish your meeting. It'll keep, I'm certain."
He doesn't know what to do, when Ignis laughs and walks off with both the wine glass and the bottle.
Gladio swears, and laughs, and tunes back in, just in time for Noctis to finish with his updates: "...and whoever thought it was a good idea to schedule this particular summit for the rainy season ought to get taken out back and shot."
He rolls his eyes at the jibe. "We didn't pick the time, remember, that's all them, all those important shits coming here," he says. "Anyway we shouldn't be complaining, we'll be indoors all the way. Won't be missing anything."
"That leaves you, Gladio," he hears Lunafreya say.
"Holding down the fort here," and he makes a note to review the various reservations and contingency plans. "And I have a few tricks up my sleeve in case the gods decide to play tricks on us."
"Good. At least one thing's going well. Any other matters at this time?"
"None from me," he says, and his words are echoed by the others.
"We'll move the next meeting up. Ten days from now, same time. Thank you, everyone."
And he can finally get to his feet and stretch, and he pulls his suit jacket off. Shakes his hair out of its sleek tail. Toes off his shoes.
His working day is finally done, and he's going to have to start the whole process over again in a little less than seven hours, and he quickens his pace as he moves through the loft.
Straight up the stairs to the master bedroom and -- he hesitates, torn, as always, between the soft sweet ache and the sharp edge of need.
The shape of Ignis, the lines of him, where he's sleeping right on top of the bed and the dark-red sheets set off the colors of him.
Gladio sets his own clothes aside and allows himself this time, this quiet moment.
Ignis: the canvas of him, the rich ornamentation of him. Right arm flung out to the side, the better to display the foliage and the flowers, the beautiful and dense tattooed sleeve. Thorny vines linking lush roses, no two of them alike.
On his back, below the left shoulder-blade, a fantastic cat-like creature with a complicated pattern of spots, intricate detail of its tail and its paws and its eyes. The animal seems to breathe out sparks of lightning, and it's curled in wary lines, as if to guard his heart.
Gladio almost hesitates, but he reaches out anyway, and he reaches for Ignis's right wrist: startling connection, there, the vital pulse of him, and -- Ignis shivers all over, languidly, and opens his eyes.
Green, green like a thousand secret gardens, a forest of legends and myths.
And he says, "I think I'll take you up on your offer."
Ignis unfurls, or uncoils -- he rises from the bed and his whole face is lit up with wonder, and his voice is lovely and even and rich. "Tell me."
"Green," Gladio murmurs, and kisses him. Pulls away, and guides Ignis's fingertips to the piercings in his left ear. "Green, like your eyes. Maybe a little bit darker."
His reward is the spark and the smile and the weight of Ignis in his lap, and he runs his hands down Ignis's sides and pulls him closer. "I know you have, ah, discerning tastes. So I'll be careful to find you something you'll truly like."
"Got that right here," he says, and kisses him.
