In Ravus's grip - no, not even that, merely the faintest of pressure to which their bodies acknowledge one another's existence, fingers to wrist - Ignis's hand clenches tightly. Clenches as though he can grasp at all of the emotions which threaten to overwhelm him, and pin them in place, like his claws through his palm.

It is not going particularly well.

...Still, he doesn't pull away. Not at all.

This comes back to bite him in short order, for it is not only emotions that threaten to overwhelm him. Ignis doesn't realize it at first, thinking the tightening in his chest is from his own passion... and it is far too late when he opens his mouth to hiss, "How could i-"

But then the feeling becomes more than physical, churns up through his throat and rolls over his tongue. Ignis tries to snap his teeth shut tight over it, but he's too late. Pale greens smoke, paler by far than any of the scales he wears now, washes over them in a cloud, and even more still manages to pour out in the little gaps of his teeth before his lips press tightly together.

If there is anything to be thankful for, although Ignis does not yet know it, it is that the smoke is thin and not nearly as much as it could be for the time being. A beginner's breath.

...That is, however, still enough for its.... initial effects.