the trick is to keep breathing

People seem to think that Gladio's the one with a temper. He looks the type, he guesses. Big muscles, big tattoos. He can feel it in the air, sometimes, when he walks in—the other three will be haggling with a shopkeeper or a hunt tipster over a fair price, then Gladio slots in, and boom, the other guy folds just like that.

So that’s useful. Gladio doesn’t mind. But still: it’s so obvious to him that Ignis is the short fuse around here. Ten years of poise training or cotillion or whatever they put the scions of House Scientia through can’t hide the way his shoulders hitch up whenever Prompto's tapping out some obnoxious little ditty on the dashboard, or that fleeting twist of his lip when someone cuts him off in traffic, or the way-too-tight grip on the steering wheel and wonky turns that tell Gladio that, deep down, Iggy's still irked over the shopkeeper who gave them lip some hundred miles back, in some inane exchange that Gladio'd already half-forgotten.

And that’s leaving out all the times Iggy's been pissed on Noct’s behalf, astrals alive—there’s moments Gladio’s pretty sure Ignis would slit a guy’s throat just to prevent their precious prince from enduring some snide passing remark.

But no one else seems to notice. Guess that's how it is, when you're hanging around the same three people 24-7. You start noticing things. Though Noct doesn’t seem to get it, not with his tendency to whine when Ignis is already maxed out, and neither does Prompto, though in his case it’s more a doe-eyed aren’t-we-all-getting-along-great naiveté—

And sure, it’s Ignis, so it's not like he ever blows his top or anything. But Gladio winces just watching him hold it together. All that grinding his teeth can’t be good for his jaw. It’s like listening to a kettle just coming to boil that never quite gets there: one long low warning hiss, going on and on all day long.

Gladio thinks he can help with that.

He starts at dinner, while Iggy's cooking and after the campsite's all set up. "You got a whole spice rack in here or something?" he says, when Ignis pulls out some paprika from one of his impeccably-organized plastic containers, then roots around and messes all that organization right up. He keeps offering to help chop or stir something, even though he knows full well that Ignis hates that, hates anything that intrudes on his little culinary fiefdom. Generally he's just being a pest on purpose. And it's working; Ignis even grimaces at one point. Nice to see a face that's not all plastered-over perfection.

"Let's go a round, Iggy," he says, offhanded, once they're all sitting down to eat. "I'm still stiff from sitting in the car all day. I could use a spar."

Ignis raises an eyebrow. "Certainly," he says, like he's humoring him, but Gladio can hear the flecks of flint in his voice. Ignis isn't agreeing out of any good humor. He's agreeing because he thinks he can pulverize him.

Perfect.

Prompto shoots off somewhere the second he’s cleared his plate, prattling on about the golden hour and landscape photography and some perfect shot he missed earlier from this sick viewpoint a couple miles upstream. Noctis goes with him.

Which means they're all alone by the time they finally get their weapons out, and Gladio gives the guy a few minutes to warm up. Ignis’s first few jabs are embarrassing, overstiff and overextended, and he flushes because he can see that Gladio sees it. But Gladio doesn’t mind. He gives his sword a couple leisurely swings, just to keep the ol’ blood pumping, and watches and waits. When Ignis finally parries one of those lazy swings, that’s time for Gladio to pay attention. And when Ignis lands his first hit, a hard strike with the flat of his knife, that’s when Gladio makes his move—ducking fast, sliding forward, and swinging out his leg to trip Ignis.

Ignis only just misses falling on his face, making a stumbling recovery that still leaves him wide open to a thwack from the dull end of Gladio's glaive. “Gladio,” he hisses, with a quick fervent glare over the rim of his glasses. “This is a spar.”

“It sure is,” Gladio says, with his best shit-eating grin, and pivots to get another kick in. It lands: one quick hit to the kneecap, and Ignis is all wobbly on his right leg, backpedaling to recover.

There’s a stupid argument they’ve had before, about their little practice fights. Ignis gets all hung up on technique, and says the whole point of sparring is to drill specific things, the sorts of things that don’t come up every battle—parries and counters and such—and if you turn it into an anything-goes brawl, it defeats the whole point. It’s a stupid argument, because real fighting isn’t bound by any rules so why should they be, and for such a smart guy Ignis is strangely nearsighted (ha) about this sort of thing, Gladio's so obviously right—and there it is. When Ignis kneels quick, Gladio’s expecting a low stab, and moves his guard accordingly—which leaves him completely unguarded when Ignis instead throws a fistful of dirt into his face. It's a square hit, too; the dust stings. When he backpedals and finally blinks the stinging dirt away, the fire-bright glint in Ignis’s eyes jolts him exactly like a shot of whiskey—water finally boiling over, fury at last allowed into the fore.

Ignis fights fast from there. When he finally overwhelms him—and Gladio knew from the start that Ignis would would, he’s no match for a pissed-off Scientia, not when he doesn’t want to actually hurt the guy at least—when Ignis overwhelms him, it’s almost too quick to follow. One second, Gladio's still matching him steel for steel; the next, he’s missed a guard and is now skipping back from Ignis’s knives with every single step, without even the fraction of a second he'd need for a proper recovery; and the next moment after that, Gladio trips backward over some stray stone, falling hard on his back and then Ignis is right there on top of him. There’s a struggle—an exquisite struggle; he grins when he manages to knock Ignis's glasses clean off his face—but it ends when Ignis knees him in the stomach, knocking all the breath out of him, then sloppily braces one arm across Gladio’s chest, and uses the other to press a dagger against his throat. That’s not the flat edge, either, Gladio notes with amused interest; he feels the teeniest little prick where the blade meets his skin. Poor Iggy must be really wrung out.

“Uncle,” Gladio says, laughing, feeling the weight of Ignis on his chest as he laughs. Ignis drops his dagger at once, like it's suddenly scalded him. He stares where it fell a moment, then back to Gladio. He doesn't move to get up.

“There,” Gladio purrs, “now didn't that feel good?”

“No,” Ignis says, with all the stiff dignity he can muster. Which isn’t much, The guy’s glasses are kicked into the dirt and the faint tan lines left behind make him look like a raccoon.

Gladio cranes his neck up and kisses Ignis, then, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it peck, quick as a pickpocket. A stolen kiss. See if Iggy can say “no” to that.

And Ignis doesn’t, of course, just works his jaw a moment, the same way he does every time they do this little dance, like he’s trying to decide something.

Gladio waits a beat—he can do that, he’s not the one who's still simmering—waits, then does his best oh-gee-I-must’ve-overstepped look. “Really? No?” and he makes a motion like a shrug, like he’s going to squirm out from under him. “Alright then, better luck next time—“

Ignis pins his wrists before Gladio can squirm so much as an inch. Pins him with all the subtlety of a damn nail gun, precise and powerful and bound to leave a bruise. “No,” Ignis says Except now no means something different, means no don’t leave, means maybe Gladio’s getting lucky after all—

When Ignis kisses Gladio back, Gladio’s stifling a laugh the whole time, with how absurdly earnest the guy is. There’s too much tongue, too much teeth, too much, in general, and with anyone else that’d be Gladio’s cue to politely peel away, get back to the bar and find a better lay, except he knows Ignis better than that. The guy’s just getting warmed up, same as the spar. What comes next is worth the wait. He feels it in a breath, a great long shuddering sigh when Ignis finally lets go, and when he kisses Gladio again it’s supple and purposeful and so so good—

—and, just as suddenly, Ignis pulls away, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and whispers, “Not out here.”

“Oh, come on,” Gladio shouts, and now it’s his turn to be pissed. “No one else is around for miles—“

“Gladio.” He’s retrieved his glasses, he’s standing up straight, and he’s almost looking dignified again. Fucker can pull himself together so fast. “We left Insomnia,” he says. “We didn’t leave Eos.”

Iggy's got this idea that no one’s ever fucked outside. Another stupid running argument of theirs. In Insomnia, sure, get a fucking room, everyone’s living on top of each other, it’s the least you can do—but they’re in the middle of a forest, no civilization in sight, he doesn’t think the damn garulas wandering in the distance care either way, and anyway there’s trees around them, they can be quick about it—

But he’s used to losing this one. Ignis has already retreated into their tent, and if he wastes too much time bitching, then Noctis and Prompto will get back before they’ve had a chance at the real fun—

“Gladio,” Ignis calls, impatient and imperious at once. Obnoxious as hell. Good thing he's pretty enough to make up for it.

"Just a sec," he says, pushing himself upright, dusting himself off, and jogging after.