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Ignis makes a shallow cut, in the meat of Noctis' thigh and avoiding the major veins and arteries. He drags it, slow and precise, a clean thin line that could challenge a papercut; but then he presses harder, and a brilliant thread of crimson follows his trail. It buds into pearls of red, collecting until they spill down, staining fair skin and left to clot and dry.
Ignis looks up, to gauge his beloved's threshold.
Gladio has Noctis, gently holding him from behind and pressing a kiss to their prince's hair, one arm wrapped around his stomach. Noctis holds his hand, trembling ever so but not wringing him in a death grip.
"Not enough," Noctis breathes out, words shaky but still there. And it’s true, not a brave front made to protect himself from the public’s eyes — or anyone’s eyes, for that matter. For here, he’s able to let his walls down, peel away his layers until all that’s left is raw need and honest pleas. For here, Ignis could take his knife and carve it through Noctis’ chest, and Gladio could simply slip his hand in and reveal that heart’s desire.
Ignis obliges, taking to another patch of clean, unmarried skin and pressing his blade there. He takes it slow but deeper, slicing through flesh like a hot knife to butter with blood melting through from the line. It’s precise, clean. A straight cut through. He remembers, once upon a time, when he had first done this and how his trembling left jagged wounds in their wake. How he could have sworn he had done more harm than good but Noctis’ resulting bliss soon had him singing a different tune.
A particular slice has Noctis hissing and bucking up, but Gladio keeps him in place, pinning Noctis' back to his broad chest. There's no protest, no tapping out or safewords. So Ignis continues, keeps his breath slow and hands steady, ready to stop for that signal.
Ignis would be afraid, remorseful, perhaps panic-stricken to see such pain contort his love's dear face. To see the unshed tears budding off his eyelashes, where the only tears deserving to grace them should be of joy. To see the quiver on his skin and the sweat on his neck, when such trembling should be made during passionate love and not from a passionate red. But Noctis needs this. And in a way, Ignis too — a sort of self-indulgence and pride that Noctis allows them this, has given them his life in their hands and Ignis could even press his blade against his prince’s throat with absolutely no qualm.
And if Noctis needs a pain worse than the one that constantly plagues him, to make him forget the nightmare that follows him into day, then Ignis would rather be the one to provide that cruel relief. As if he'd allow anyone else but him and Gladio to do this.
They've tried their hand at everything, from medication to massages to herbal concoctions, nearly every trick in the book to alleviate the burn of the Scourge that still ran in his veins, eating away at the nerves in his back and lighting his spine on fire. But without Luna to heal him of the disease, they discovered the best tactic was to fight pain with even more pain — a distraction to keep his mind off the Starscourge.
So when Noctis had texted him that morning, a simple message of two words that read 'My back,' Ignis dashed to his closet and snatched up the very bag he had prepared for this sole reason, calling up Gladiolus to say their prince had a flare-up. They had nearly arrived at the same time, Ignis only steps behind Gladio as they entered the apartment to find Noctis curled up in his bed and with the all too familiar face of agony.
"C'mon, breathe for me."
Gladio whispers into the crown of Noctis' hair, voice so soft as if they're not literally hurting him themselves. Out of the two, he had been the more hesitant, the last of the three to join in on this "pain therapy," as Noctis likes to call it. It had been an accident, Gladio walking in during a session with Noctis tearing at the sheets and bleeding underneath Ignis. He had snarled, ripping Ignis off and roaring out accusations as he tried to gather Noctis up and away, only to discover the entire thing was consensual and desired and flat-out necessary.
There was a good talk after that, once the sheets were changed and potions used up, and they determined Gladio had every right to either refuse or accept.
"You know me better than that, Noct," Gladio had sighed, lightly brushing his hands over the healed, nearly invisible wounds, "I'm with you through thick and thin. I'm your Shield, this body belongs to you — and my heart. There's more than one way to protect you, and there's no way in hell I'm gonna half-ass things."
And that was that.
Eyes screwed tight, Noctis tips his head back onto the man's shoulder, Adam's apple bobbing as he takes in a struggling breath. Gladio dips his head down to kiss his neck, gentle and light butterflies, and nuzzles his bare shoulder with soothing affection.
If only the public saw them now. Ignis, the butler, the mother hen who likes to fuss and baby his prince; mercilessly carving away at his dear heart's flesh despite the tears and cries. Gladiolus, the battle-hardened warrior who shoves Noctis to the dirt in their spars, bruises him with relentless strikes and force; coddling him like a precious egg and murmuring sweet reassurances through it all.
There's a joke somewhere in that, probably.
But none of them have the time of day to think about it. Noctis, especially, with his desperation to seek out this other pain, to feel Ignis’ burning hands leave his skin scorched and bleeding, to forget the venom in his back in favor of Gladio pressing against him and keeping him still as they torment him in just the right places. He doesn’t even have the chance to think — finally, fucking finally — when Ignis marks the inside of his thighs, that sensitive area of skin that has him wailing in the most exquisite way and that noise in his head gets drowned out by his own cries and Gladio’s low voice.
Ignis cracks the last of their potions, watches as the magic fizzles away and turns the open wounds into faint pink marks. In time, they’ll fade away to nothing, leaving no trace or hint of what they once were. But Ignis runs reverent fingers over them, leaves a featherlight kiss at each healing mark.
Noctis laughs, tired but soft, and wiggles underneath the tickling. His face has gained back a bit of color, no longer pale and stark against the pain of blood and blades, the small lilt of his lips a welcomed sight once more. He’s still propped up against Gladio, who also still has his arms wrapped around Noctis, but less as a sturdy vice and more of a cozy cocoon of comfort and warmth.
“How’re you feeling, champ?” Gladio asks, lightly resting his chin on top of the other’s head.
“Sleepy, better.” Noctis ignores the weight on top of his skull, too worn to make any protest. Just the way he likes it. “Loads better.”
“And your back?” Ignis asks, glancing up from his place at their prince’s knees.
“Numb.” That is to say, as good it would get for the remainder of the night.
But Noctis looks at peace, and none of them are willing to be choosing beggars. Ignis clears away their things — wraps, empty flasks, towels and disinfectant — and piles them neatly at the foot of the bed; they’ll clean everything up come the morning. Gladio is already shuffling Noctis and himself beneath the covers, gathering the pillows underneath them and fluffing them up just right, making sure not to jostle their prince too much as he tucks themselves in. He leaves a spot for Ignis though, to the left of Noctis so they can sandwich him in between.
Noctis makes no peep, aside from the sleepy yet content sigh he makes when Gladio slides his arm underneath his head and Ignis runs a soothing hand along the curve of his waist. He'll be sore, as always, when the sun rises and Ignis wakes him to take his morning prescription, before Gladio carefully turns him over to work therapeutic hands down his spine and muscle.
But most importantly, the thorn in his back isn't driving him crazy with agony, now only a slow thrumming after redirecting his energy and nerves elsewhere. Noctis feels little more than a ragdoll, limp and exhausted after being pulled apart at his seams and stitched together again, a good sort of ache lingering where Ignis worked his magic.
He’s warm, content, smothered with affection and trapped between his two lovers, Ignis rubbing a slow circle into the meat of his hip while Gladio goes on a quiet tangent on the recent novella he’s picked up. It’s easy to fall asleep like this, listening to the low rumble of a deep voice and feeling the once cruel hands turn tender and mild along his bare skin.
It’ll all happen again, when the pain becomes too much to bear and he needs that distraction once more, in a week or a month or a few days. But Noctis will sleep soundly, knowing he’ll have them both all the same.