reloadable disposable

It starts with a photograph that Ignis holds up in front of Noctis one day when he's sixteen, seventeen soon, a drowsy, clumsy, scowling Sunday morning crumpled in bed, the kind Ignis always drops by on to make sure Noctis's done his homework for the dreary Monday to come. Noctis takes a couple blinks to register it in the shades-down sunlight of his apartment bedroom, and then snatches the phone out of Ignis's hand, bolting up, hair standing on end, incensed and red in the face. "That was private," Noctis hisses. "You, Highness, are a public figure," Ignis says mildly. "Nothing in your life is private." (Prompto and Noctis, and the years nobody will remember.)