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1.
When Noctis mentions, one day, that Prompto had taken a bite of the pastry Ignis had packed in his lunch, Ignis hums mildly and asks, “Oh? And what did he think?”
The answer is, Prompto had thought it was really good. Noctis tells Ignis so, and from then on, whenever Ignis makes a new batch, there are two pastries in his lunch instead of the usual one. It’s nice that now Noctis can slide Prompto his own pastry rather than suffer through Prompto’s hungry puppy dog eyes and weirdly deflective oh-no-I-really-can’ts, so he doesn’t think much of it. It’s just another new routine among many that come with having a best friend.
Anyway, it’s not like Prompto is in on this little routine of theirs, where Ignis makes a full batch of practically professional pastries and Noctis mulls over mouthfuls of them to find some way to direct Ignis’s experimentations. Prompto can’t exactly add anything like “the berries are too sweet” or “the pastry’s too thin”, so his contributions are pretty much limited to effusive praise and happy moans.
Maybe too many happy moans. Enough that Noctis has to wad up his paper napkin and throw it at him across the table, because his best friend is a weirdo and deserves to be told so from time to time, and Prompto laughs as he dodges it.
When Noctis finally gets Prompto the security clearance to come to his apartment, it doesn’t surprise him that Ignis is in the kitchen when they arrive. The subtle scent of warm pastry may be cloying, but Ignis is also a highly skilled member of the crownsguard, and Noctis’s security detail apparently extends to playing video games on the couch with his best friend. Still, as they make their way inside, Prompto’s face is turned up and he’s taking deep, noisy, obviously appreciative sniffs.
“Oh, man,” he sighs, “that smells incredible.”
“Yeah, well,” Noctis says, and gestures out with one arm while steadying himself against the wall with the other to toe off his shoes, “Prompto, meet Ignis. Iggy, Prompto.”
Ignis, summoned, stands at the end of the hallway, wiping his hands on the hem of his apron. He bows slightly, stiffly, just low enough to be polite and formal enough to be off-putting, and says, “Pleasure.” He puts out a hand to shake Prompto’s, but it’s no use.
Prompto, putting the puzzle pieces of name, scent, and apron all together, gets this big grin on his face, bumbles down the hall to face Ignis at a Prompto-appropriate distance of way-too-close, and gushes, “Oh my gosh, you’re the same Iggy who makes those pastries, right? Those are so good, man! Like, so, so good! Seriously, dude, I’ve never had anything so delicious ever in, like, my whole life. Even if they’re always different, it’s like they just get better every time, even though every time it’s always the best! Which, obviously, should be impossible, haha, you know what I mean though. Dude, how do you do it?”
Noctis snorts. He feels no regret for the expression of carefully-restrained shock on Ignis’s face, his feet still in one place but body bent back as Prompto steadily leans further into his personal space, lighting it up with all that signature bubbly joy of his. And if Ignis’s face is a little red, then, well, good. He deserves it.
Ignis opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it to try again. Rather than answer Prompto’s little word avalanche, he says, “I’ve actually just finished a new batch, which you’re both welcome to come and try,” then turns back into the kitchen. The invitation sends Prompto into a rush to kick his shoes off and follow, trailing after Ignis like he usually does Noctis. Noctis huffs in amusement and follows.
“Oh, man, these look great,” Prompto enthuses. He delicately snatches a pastry off the cooling rack; it’s too hot to hold, but he’s unwilling to set it back down, so now he juggles it between his fingers.
“Let’s hope they live up to their appearances,” Ignis says, but he sounds distracted. His eyes seem to be caught up with Prompto’s fingers as the pastry gets tossed around, and yeah, Noctis guesses it is pretty funny to watch his friend struggle between his eagerness to eat and self-preservation of his fingertips.
Prompto grins, though, and says, “I’m sure it will! There’s no way you could make something that won’t be amazing!” He blows on the pastry, as if that will help, and takes a bite.
And then, he does that dumb moaning thing, and Noctis groans because he doesn’t even have any napkins on him to use as anti-moaning projectiles. He’s about to ask Ignis if he can ball up his apron and throw it at Prompto’s head, but looking over he notices Ignis’s eyes have gone a little wide, his cheeks a little red, his lips slightly parted. Noctis has never known Ignis to be prone to second-hand embarrassment, but Prompto has a special talent in bringing things like that out in people, so Noctis slaps his hand on Ignis’s shoulder and in an attempt to commiserate says, “Don’t worry, he always does this.”
Ignis snaps his mouth shut and starts wiping his — clean, so far as Noctis can tell — hands on his apron again. “Does he, now?”
“Does not!” Prompto squawks, muffled by pastry.
“Gross, dude, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Noctis says.
“I don’t!” Prompto says, then realizes he still has pastry in his mouth and swallows. “Even if I do, can you blame me? It’s really, really good! Best thing I’ve ever tasted. My compliments to the chef!” He turns a big, cheesy grin right at Ignis, who startles and then opens the refrigerator door and ducks behind it.
“Will you be staying for dinner, Prompto?” Ignis asks from behind the door.
Prompto chirps, “Sure!” and Noctis, already mentally preparing for the worst sounds he'll ever have to hear, groans.
After that point, rarely a day goes by that Noctis’s lunch doesn’t also include an extra portion for Prompto, and an extra place is set at the table whenever Prompto comes by to visit.
2.
From what Cor knows about Ignis Scientia, watching him grow up within the Citadel walls over the past two decades, he’s grown up to be a ruthlessly duty-bound man. He’s dangerously clever at a negotiation table, and twice as deadly with a pair of daggers in his hands. Even in training, he carries himself with the same serious dignity as every other Scientia that Cor’s come across does. He’s known his life’s mission since he was given it by the king himself at six years old, and it shows in everything he does.
This all makes it doubly as surprising when Cor runs across him sneaking around in the locker room during a training session for the new recruits.
“Ignis,” he barks, and Ignis even flinches — flinches — as he comes to attention before him, guilt flashing across his face before he can school his features into the cool composure Cor’s used to seeing. “What are you doing here? You don’t have a training session today.”
Ignis clears his throat and Cor raises an eyebrow at the nervous tell. Ignis is not one to give anything away, but now he just looks weirdly twitchy under the rushed calm facade he’s put up. “Marshall,” he says, tone formal and a little too stiff for guiltless, “I was, er, that is — I left something — behind. Last time. When I was here last.” Ignis must hear how bad he sounds himself, because he honest to the Six grimaces.
“You know security clears this room out every night,” Cor says flatly.
“Right,” Ignis says, sounding pained. “Of course. Must have… slipped my mind.”
“Nothing slips your mind, Ignis,” Cor responds. “Now why don’t you tell me what you’re actually doing here before I’m forced to investigate.” And there’s no reason to make those sorts of threats, but damn it if Cor isn’t curious now, and formal procedure is about all he can think of that Ignis would respond to.
And he’s right about that, because Ignis shifts between his feet for two more seconds before pulling his hands from behind his back and is that — candy? It is — chocolates, to be exact. It’s incredibly well-made, of course, most likely hand-crafted, and set into brightly-colored but still elegant packaging, with a sweeping bow tying it all together. Cor spots more than a few hearts integrated into the design, and that’s when it hits him. Ignis wasn’t in here rifling through anyone’s belongings. He’s making a delivery.
“I had,” Ignis says, speaking slowly to give himself time to choose his words and to keep his voice even, “hoped to make it a surprise.”
“I see,” Cor says. He can’t help that there’s a small smile threatening to break through his stern expression. If Ignis sneaking around had seemed out of character, Ignis doing that sort of thing because he’s smitten for some new recruit feels even more bizarre. “Well, we can’t have you going through every recruits’ locker.” Cor catches how Ignis’s face falls a little, just like he notices how his fingers tighten around his offering, clutching it a little closer to his chest.
“Ah,” Ignis says, looking like he’s had a rug pulled from under him. “I understand.”
“However,” Cor proposes, lips twitching only slightly, “if you were to tell me who exactly that’s intended for, I could just point out which locker you need.”
Ignis’s eyes go a little pained, like if he were anyone else he might whine at the unfair spot Cor’s put him in — well, that he got himself into, really. Cor waits, amused, as he weighs his options, and eventually settles on, “Alright, Marshall. But I expect total discretion from you in this matter.” His gaze is firmer now. Ever the negotiator, Cor thinks, not unkindly.
“Of course,” Cor agrees.
Ignis is now gripping the gift like a lifeline, staring down at it as if to remind himself the reason why he’s here. “I’m looking for the locker of, er, Cadet Argentum. Prompto Argentum.”
Cor can’t help but tense a little at that. Of all the recruits, Argentum is the one with the strongest connection to the prince, and by extension his advisor. But it still makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up a little, makes him think of deep chills and long days spent in some far off tundra, and barcodes set into freshly-born skin, a crying newborn tucked into his jacket like contraband.
For a moment, a ridiculous wave of paternal protectiveness washes through him, and Cor narrows his eyes and his looks at Ignis Scientia, really looks at him: cutthroat, cold, ruthless advisor to the crown prince that he is, now standing in the middle of a locker room, riddled with nervous energy kept just under his skin, gripping a box of chocolates and bravely facing down his superior officer just for the chance to see them delivered. It’s a side of the man Cor never expected to see, but it’s what convinces him.
“Number thirty-nine,” Cor says, and the breath of relief that rushes out of Ignis is worth a chuckle. “And I won’t make it my business to go airing your secrets, Ignis, so long as you make it yours not to play games with the boy.”
“Yes, of course, I would never — I would not dream of it,” Ignis says. “Sir.”
Cor watches, arms crossed over his chest and grudgingly fond, Ignis find the locker (in the corner, bottom row, out of the way, easy for Prompto to grab his clothes from and duck into a changing stall before anyone else can catch up, Cor’s noticed) and gently place his gift inside without rearranging anything else, and then he’s gone.
Cor also watches, more surreptitiously, as Prompto rushes to his locker only to freeze when he opens the door, and how wide his eyes go as he cradles the gift in his hands, like he’ll drop or break it if he’s not very careful. The kid even glances around, like maybe somehow after months of using this locker he’s suddenly in the wrong place, or maybe one of his neighbors will notice something intended for them has gotten misplaced, but he checks the little card attached to Ignis’s pristinely-tied bow and his eyes go impossibly wider. Cor watches and he brings the thing close to his chest, in much the same way Ignis had just an hour ago, then tucks it safely away in his gym bag, looking giddy beyond belief.
Cor tells himself to remember to show Ignis one of his trickier dagger maneuvers during their next practice session.
3.
To Iris, Lestallum is about as different from the Citadel as a place could be. Sure, it’s about as busy, but the people bustling down the streets and hanging around the marketplace always smile without any hint of reservation, and greet each other with loud shouts and wide-armed embraces, and dress in colors so bright it makes her head spin. It’s different, but it’s definitely not unpleasant, and Iris spends as much time as she can acclimating to what she supposes will be her new home for a while.
She’s just about got the maze of streets memorized, and she’s going to go check on the curiosity stall to see if they’ve got any cactuar statuettes she can grab for Talcott, when she spots Ignis — which isn’t hard, since he stands out like a sore thumb in a place like this. Growing up in the Citadel, Ignis fit in perfectly with his perfect posture, pressed suits, and sharp, serious expressions. Here in Lestallum, all those traits just make him look out of place.
“Ignis!” she calls out, waving and grinning.
“Hello, Iris,” Ignis says once he’s spotted her, smiling and dipping politely at the shoulders. “What brings you out here?”
“I was just gonna ask you the same thing,” Iris says. “You look lost. Were you looking for something?”
“I wouldn’t say I was lost,” Ignis says, only a touch defensively. “Just — taking in our new surroundings. Trying to gain a greater appreciation for everything Lestallum has to offer.”
Iris grins at him and, because she grew up with Ignis practically being like a second big brother to her, she says, “You’re always a man with a plan, Ignis. Why don’t you tell me what you were looking for and I can help you find it?”
“I really am just looking around —“
“I know the area better than you do. Wouldn’t it be strategic, to get help from an ally?” she teases.
Ignis looks at her, clearly amused. “You Amicitias are certainly a stubborn bunch.”
“You know it!” she says brightly and loops her arm through his. He immediately adjusts his posture to suit her, and she giggles at how impeccable his manners are, even now. “So, where to?”
“I’d been hoping to find a restaurant,” Ignis starts, and Iris looks up at him with faint confusion.
“Didn’t you guys see the ones in the market?”
“Ah,” Ignis says, looking directly down the street and not down at where Iris is gazing up at him with critical curiosity. “I had hoped to find something a touch… quieter.”
“Quieter,” Iris repeats.
“Yes, somewhere I can enjoy the local cuisine without too much noise to, er, drown out my thoughts.”
Iris narrows her eyes at him. “You can think just fine in council meetings and in the middle of fighting daemons, but not a restaurant?” she prods doubtfully.
“Well, I had hoped for more,” he clears his throat a little, voice dropping slightly when he says, “privacy.”
Oh, Iris thinks excitedly, and a big grin stretches across her face. “Privacy, huh?” she says, unable to keep the undertone of an excited squeal from running through her words. “Maybe somewhere with good lighting, too? And a pretty view?”
Ignis’s face is undeniably getting a little red, and Iris is delighted. “Preferably.”
“I’ve got just the place,” Iris says, now using her grip on Ignis’s arm to practically drag him down the streets. As they turn corners and bound up steps, she asks, “So who is it, huh? You can tell me, I won’t make fun of you. Ooh, is it someone you met in town here? I never took you as a love-at-first-sight kind of guy, but I guess everyone has their moments!”
Ignis sputters a little. “I wouldn’t — go so far as to call it love, per se,” he manages.
“Sure, of course,” Iris consoles him, but her enthusiasm doesn’t waver. “Anyway, you gotta tell me who! Wait, does Gladdy already know?”
“I — well, I haven’t said as much. To anyone. Yet,” Ignis says, stumbling a little over his feet and his words. It’s so unlike him, to be nervous. Iris grins, because that must mean that whatever this is is special, and whoever this is must mean a lot to him, to make him lose that carefully curated composure, even just a little.
“Why not?” Iris pries.
“The timing has not been ideal,” Ignis points out, as they slow down. “Things have been stressful, for us all, and to spring this Prompto now would be—“ He halts, skidding right to a stop, as he realizes his slip up. Iris is thrilled.
“Prompto?” she squeals happily. “It is Prompto, right, you’re going to take Prompto out for a nice, romantic, candlelit dinner? Wine and dine and the whole deal? Like, a real date?”
“That — had been the plan. Er, eventually,” Ignis says, a little meekly.
Iris doesn’t want Ignis to feel meek, though. She wants Ignis to have the same self-assured confidence with this that he does with everything else. She thinks that, maybe, if Ignis knew how Prompto looks at him (with the same quiet awe and fondness she feels looking at Noct), maybe he would. But she can’t say that, so instead she grips his arm a little tighter and says, “Then this place will be perfect. It’s got an awesome view out over the town, great for photos. He’ll love it, ok?”
Ignis finally looks her in the eye, and must see how genuinely happy and eager to help she is, because he grins (maybe a little shaky, but if a crush can’t shake even the great Ignis Scientia then it wouldn’t be called a “crush”) and nods and says, “Then lead on.”
Iris gives his arm a bracing clap and says, “You better remember me when you’re planning your wedding, ok?” With Ignis caught up in his sputtering again, she maneuvers him around one last corner to the restaurant.
4.
“You got anything you want to tell me?” Gladio says one night, voice soft but gruff as he approaches Ignis where he’s chopping vegetables into extremely fine, extremely easy to hide pieces. Ignis doesn’t jump, because Ignis never jumps, but his shoulders stiffen just slightly and Gladio smirks about it.
“Regarding what?” Ignis asks, scraping his little pile of celery into a neat row.
Gladio glances over at where Noctis and Prompto are, over by the fire messing around on their phones. Prompto’s leaning against his chocobo, who’s dozing happily, and rubs a hand briefly across his chest as he laughs brightly at some in-game failure of Noctis’s. Peaceful, happy, distracted. Gladio turns his attention back to Ignis. “Well,” and now he leans up against the countertop and crosses his arms, tilting his head for full big brotherly effect, “this is the third time we’ve had green curry this week.”
The next stroke of Ignis’s knife hits the cutting board a little harder than usual, but Ignis doesn’t break pace. “Yes, well,” he says, “this region naturally produces the necessary ingredients for the recipe. You’re a resourceful man, Gladio; you ought to understand the benefits of using what one finds at one’s disposal.”
“Right,” Gladio says agreeably. “It’s totally not because Blondie got three daemon blades to the chest today and we had to use a Phoenix Down to get him back up.”
It has the desired effect. Ignis’s jaw tenses and he presses the blade of the knife into the cutting board like he’s consciously trying to keep it there and not swing it around. “While unfortunate,” he says, “such events are to be expected. We are all here as Noctis’s guard, and that comes with the expectation of putting our lives on the line.”
Gladio snorts. “No one’s saying it’s not, but that doesn’t make watching it any easier.”
Ignis’s hand squeezes the knife’s handle a little, and then he deliberately places it down and braces his weight against the countertop. “No,” he sighs. “No, it does not.”
Gladio pats Ignis’s tense shoulders reassuringly. “He signed up for this, same as you and me.”
“It’s not the same, though,” Ignis bites out. “Gladio, you and I were born into our roles. Our lives have always been forfeit to the throne. Prompto’s — his life shouldn’t — he needn’t —“
“Hey now,” Gladio says sternly, “give the kid the respect he’s due. He didn’t swear an oath just for you to decide he’s not crownsguard, same as you or me.”
Ignis sighs, even runs a hand briskly through the hair behind his ear. “I know, I know,” he says, like he’s trying to remind himself. “It just seems — wrong, somehow, that he should have to die when —“
“When Noct’s already got two perfectly good meat shields in us?” Gladio says. Ignis gives him a half-pained look, but Gladio laughs it off and pushes his shoulder. “C’mon Iggy, even you’re allowed to have irrational thoughts sometimes. Crushes can make us kinda crazy sometimes, there’s nothing wrong with them. Anyway, I know you, and I trust you to make the right choices in the end.”
Ignis opens his mouth as if he’s going to protest, thinks better of it, and closes his mouth and nods instead. “I will,” he promises, serious as ever. He looks over at where Noctis and Prompto are playing a little more sedately on their phones, at where Prompto has taken to absently and tenderly running his fingers through the soft down-like feathers on his sleeping chocobo’s cheek, and his eyes get soft.
“Good,” Gladio says. “As long as your irrational thinking only gets as bad as curry three times a week, I think crown and country are in good hands.” Ignis splutters a little, stuttering out something about “availability of ingredients” again, so Gladio rolls his eyes and puts him in a headlock to remind him that Gladio will always be able to see through his bullshit.
5.
It’s been a year since the darkness fell, and loud noises in the night still scare Talcott, so when he wakes up to a sharp, metal banging he fears the worst. Even here, in the relative safety of Lestallum, tucked behind a wall of lights and in the secure space of the Leville, where many hunters make their home, he worries that somehow a daemon has made its way in, and he shoots a hand under his pillow to find the gun Prompto had given him, “just in case.” He holds it between both hands and slips from his bed, legs shaking as he creeps towards the bedroom door and into the main area of the suite. It’s dark, but his young eyes adjust easily, and he budges the door open quietly, and finds —
Finds Ignis, standing in the kitchenette, a pan on the ground and precious spice bottles tipped over, cursing quietly as he attempts to sort himself out. He catches brief snippets of what he’s muttering, something that sounds like “can’t even do this right” and “how could I even ask now”, but it’s enough to know that it’s definitely Ignis’s low, accented voice he’s hearing. Talcott breathes out his relief and turns the safety of the gun back on before setting it on the table. Of course it’s dark in here; why would Ignis need to turn on the light?
“Hey,” he says softly, because Ignis doesn’t seem to have heard him over his frustrated mumbling.
Ignis swivels his head in his general direction. He doesn’t have his glasses on, and Talcott is only a little unnerved at how Ignis’s gaze lands right above his head. He’s gotten good at that, over time: using his other sense to adjust for the loss of sight. Talcott glances at the mess on the kitchen floor. Maybe not perfect, not yet, but really good.
“Talcott,” Ignis says. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”
“It’s fine,” Talcott says, and shrugs even though he knows Ignis can’t see that. “Watcha making?”
Ignis sighs. “Nothing now, I suppose. It’s not important. Why don’t you go back to bed?”
“I can help you clean up,” Talcott offers, and as he approaches the kitchenette he can read the labels for the spice bottles as he rights them again. Chili powder, cayenne, paprika — Talcott doesn’t know much about cooking, but he knows these are used for spicier foods, and the smell of the spilt spices on the countertop tickles his nose. “Ignis, do you like spicy food?”
“Not especially,” Ignis says vaguely, hands still hovering over the ground, looking for the pan. He finds it and grips the handle.
Talcott furrows his brows. “Then why try to make one? Especially at,” he glances at the clock on the microwave, “uh, four in the morning.”
“I had hoped to,” Ignis takes a breath, “practice readjusting to cooking, just as I have with combat.”
“Oh,” Talcott says, because at least that part makes sense. “But why wouldn’t you make something you like to eat?”
Ignis has started cleaning the pan he had dropped, and the gentle sounds of running water almost drowns the soft tone he’s taken when he says, “I never much liked cooking when I did it for myself. The enjoyment I derive from it comes from doing something that others might appreciate.”
Talcott uses his fingers to make a little pile out of the spilt spices. Spice is a valuable resource, he knows, even with the food production efforts Ignis and the others have put in place holding up well. “So who were you cooking for now?”
He knows Ignis must have heard him, but there’s a long enough pause that Talcott wonders if he should repeat himself anyway. He waits it out, though, until Ignis shuts off the water and says, “Did you know Prompto has always been terribly fond of spicy food? The hotter the better, so far as he’s concerned.”
Talcott smiles a little. Prompto has been out at Hammerhead for nearly a month, now, and even though he’s used to all his friends being in different places at once these days, it feels good to know he’s not the only one missing them.
“We should really get you back to bed now,” Ignis says, drying his hand on the tea towel hanging over the sink. “Don’t worry about the rest, I’ll clean it all up later —“
“I can help you,” Talcott says. “If you want. I’m not even tired. And — and I want to try cooking something for someone, too.”
Ignis looks at him — or, looks two inches above his forehead — for a few seconds, then smiles softly. “Would you?”
Talcott nods enthusiastically. “Yes, sir! If anyone deserves a good meal, it’s Prompto.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Ignis says, pulling the pan from the rack so he can dry it with the towel.
6.
As painful as the coming of the Dawn is, to feel the warmth of sunlight on his skin and to sense its bright glow in the darkness of his vision is a relief. He has mourned Noct’s fate for a full ten years, but he will not waste the gift his King has given them.
He stands on the Citadel steps and faces the sunrise. “There it is,” Gladio rasps, words simple but heavy with meaning. He hears Prompto gasp, both pained and relieved, somewhere to his right, and longs to offer his hand to him. Together, the three of them face a new day.
Plans had already been set into place, a protocol for what would happen when the sun rose on Eos once again, because there had never been a doubt for Ignis that it would happen and he had to be prepared to take on a new purpose when it did. Work projects are organized, reconstruction begun, as abandoned sites are first examined for possible threats and then repaired to be made ready for new life. Seed stores are distributed for farming, stock animals set out for rehabilitation, and the world is given life again.
Gladio marries his fiancé, and Ignis bakes the cake for the wedding with flour harvested from new fields. He makes Talcott a roast for his birthday. He teaches Iris how to make meringue. He teaches Cor’s recruits how to make square meals from limited ingredients.
He invites Prompto to once-weekly dinners at his new apartment, down the street from the Citadel where construction is being done to house a new government, and Prompto accepts every time, no matter what kind of technical projects he’s busy with at the time. Ignis distracts himself from a promise he made himself more than a decade ago, about making a formal confession at the end of their journey, because what he has now is enough.
He’s working through seasoning a cut of meat when he hears a key in his door, and calls out, “Hello, Prompto,” when he hears it swing open.
“Hey, Iggy!” he hears back, along with the shuffle of shoes being kicked off and a deep inhale followed by a dreamy sigh. “Everything already smells great.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Ignis grins to himself, placing the meat into a pan to sear. In these moments, cheerfully domestic, he could almost pretend he was a braver man so many years ago, that what he wanted then is what he has now.
“Rib steak? You sure know how to make a guy feel special, Igster.” There’s a smile in Prompto’s voice, now right beside him at the kitchen counter.
“And somehow I do it without increasingly ridiculous nicknames,” Ignis replies, hoping his expression isn’t giving him away.
“Yeah, well, not all of us are culinary geniuses,” Prompto says. “We gotta rely on our good looks and charming personalities instead.”
“Oh?” Ignis says, heart beating a little fast as they fall into comfortable banter. “I wasn’t sure if you still had either of those.”
“Iggy,” Prompto whines, “I set your table for you and you repay me with rudeness! What kind of host are you anyway, huh?”
“Apologies. You do look exceptionally handsome these days.” Prompto makes a strained noise and Ignis grins. “Dinner will be done soon, why don’t you take a seat?”
But, strangely, Ignis doesn’t hear the scrape of chair legs on the floor; Prompto doesn’t drop into his seat and start chattering about his latest foray in experimental mechanics over at Hammerhead. He doesn’t — do anything, really. So far as Ignis can tell, he’s still standing in the kitchen, lingering.
“Prompto?” Ignis tries, at a bit of a loss. “Something wrong?”
“Uh, haha, nothing,” Prompto says, but his friendly tone has lost some of its usual ease. Ignis feels a flare of worry; did he cross the line, with that last remark? He starts to put together an apology in his mind, but then Prompto blurts out, “I brought dessert!”
“You —“ Ignis’s brow furrows, trying to reason out why Prompto would be so nervous about that. “That was very thoughtful of you, Prompto, you didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he chuckles a little self-deprecatingly. “I, uh, made it myself.”
“Did you now?” Ignis feels his heart speeding up, and mentally scolds it along with the hope rising up in his chest. “Then I am very excited to try it.”
There’s a slight rustling, then footsteps growing closer. Ignis is pressed with his back to the counter, but he’s not sure he’d want to step back to distance himself even if he had the room. Prompto’s close enough that Ignis can abstractly feel the heat of him in the air around him (or, at least, he hopes it’s Prompto’s body heat and not his own blush that he’s feeling). He can smell gunpowder and citrus and — and sugar.
Prompto’s fingers brush against the back of Ignis’s hand, an old habit so he can guide Ignis’s hand where it needs to be, which in this instance is flat and facing upwards so he can place a box in it. The box is warm from the heat of Prompto’s own hands and there’s even a ribbon tied around it.
“Iris, uh, helped me get my hands on some of the sweet potatoes from the recent harvest,” Prompto explains softly. “You gave Talcott your recipe book a while ago, and he let me borrow it. Gladio pointed out which one was your favorite. The ribbon — I kept that from a gift I got years ago. Cor told me some secret admirer left it for me but he would never say who. Noct used to tease me about it, you know,” Ignis realizes Prompto’s voice has dropped to a whisper, and that he’s been holding his breath so he can hear it over his heartbeat. “I really, really hoped it was you,” Prompto confesses quietly, because he’s the bravest person Ignis knows.
“You made me a fluffy chiffon cake,” Ignis says dazedly.
“The fluffiest,” Prompto says with a faint chuckle.
Ignis reaches back to gently place the box on the countertop so that he can free his shaky hands to cup the sides of Prompto’s face, to trace his thumbs over the gentle curve of his jaw, and guide his face carefully in to kiss him with all the deeply held and constantly growing affection he’s had for years. Prompto’s own hands come up to his chest and grip the front of his shirt, and he sighs shakily before pressing into Ignis’s mouth with all the sweet enthusiasm he approaches anything with.
“You made me a cake,” Ignis laughs a little breathlessly. He can feel the smile on Prompto’s lips brush up against his own.
“Sure did,” Prompto says, easy as anything. “Made it with love.”