Look at that serious little face, Gladio. The itty bitty pinch in his brow. The way he knows he was still gathering information, but doesn't want to quite admit it. It could almost be a pout. Certainly it's the Ignis equivalent of one.

Ignis has always been a serious sort, the one to remind them of the time and mundane necessities they all needed. But he really was at his most severe when he was so young like this.

One could wonder just what helped facilitate that change to help him relax a little more, besides the simple passage of time, and if it were perhaps healing from tattoos around this stage in Ignis's life.

"Then if that's the case, try to make it back soon enough, and I should still have something for you to do," he says, deciding to ignore all the commentary about his inclination to take on everything, forever, until he dies. "There are a lot of dishes I plan on making, after all."

And something else, as well. That hand, returning right back into Gladio's hair as though he can't get enough, pressure tugging him downwards.

Lips, pressing right against his but for a moment.

"...And I will want to see you again as well."