Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Don’t tell Noct,” Prompto blurts. It’s the first thing out of his mouth, which is torn and bleeding at the corner, and Ignis gives him the slow look that deserves.

The boy’s face turns pink beneath his freckles, eyes half-buried beneath an untidy fringe, but to his credit he manages not to squirm under Ignis’ silent scrutiny.

“Please,” he adds as an afterthought.

“I worry about your priorities,” Ignis says mildly, pressing a clean handkerchief into Prompto’s palm and doing his level best to crush the anger still simmering in the front of his mind. “Don’t drip on your uniform.”

Prompto fumbles with it, as clumsy as he is earnest, and mutters a quiet thank you. They’re attracting the occasional odd stare as Ignis leads the way off campus -- one hand on the small of Prompto’s back to keep him from peeling away with a half-formed excuse before they’ve had a chance to talk -- but no one interrupts their steady progress.

They don’t even make it halfway down the hall before Prompto adds, nervously, “How come you’re -- I mean. Noct wasn’t at school today, but you probably knew that already? So why’re you here?”

“He asked me to make sure you had a ride home,” Ignis replies. “And to tell you he’s sorry for cancelling whatever plans the two of you had this afternoon.”

Prompto smiles into the handkerchief pressed to his mouth. It’s stained already, the blood blooming against his fingers like rich flowers. The tender red around his eye where the older student hit him will become a colorful bruise in a day or so if left unattended. The shoulder of his jacket is torn along the hem from where he was grabbed.

But his expression is warm and fragile with affection when he says, “What a loser. Like I’d be mad at him for that.”

Ignis has seen firsthand, as of fifteen minutes ago, that Prompto would be well-within his rights to be angry for a lot of reasons.

When Prompto was late to meet him by the curb where he and Noctis usually did, Ignis had parked the car and gone in looking for him. Orders were orders, and he wasn’t particularly keen to leave the boy stranded when the sky was gray with oncoming rain. He found Prompto in the second place he looked -- the library wing where he's confessed to skipping lecture with Noctis more than once -- surrounded by no less than four other students, all of them much taller than he was and all of them sneering past cruel exteriors.

When one of the unfamiliar faces drawled something unkind that included Noctis’ name, Prompto surged a furious step forward, straining against the large hand holding him back against a shelf, and Ignis didn’t move fast enough to spare him the first two blows.

“Would you care to explain what happened back there?” Ignis asks. Prompto waffles visibly, shoulders curving tightly in a way that makes him appear smaller. “If it involves Noctis, I need to know,” he goes on, purposefully vague. He’s not above playing that card, not when it works.

And predictably, Prompto relents with a sigh. Runs his clean hand through his hair and says, “It’s just -- it’s dumb.”

“I’ll brace myself.”

That brings a crooked grin to Prompto’s face, there and gone quickly.

“Those guys from before, they’re jerks. They talk a lot of trash about Noct behind his back ‘cause they think he’s stuck-up or whatever. And I’m stuck-up by proxy I guess,” he adds with a soft laugh. “That’s all it is. They suck, but they’re not, like. Dangerous, or anything.”

Ignis forcibly steels himself against pointing out that they certainly are, considering the state of Prompto’s face. He knows that doing so would only result in some variation of “That’s not what I meant, I meant dangerous when it matters, like with Noct!” and that wouldn’t do wonders for his temper.

Prompto is agreeable almost to a fault. Even when Noctis is at his most sullen or surly, when they fight the way friends sometimes do, Prompto forgives and forgives and forgives. He’s already moving past his bloodied lip and bruising eye even while they must still hurt, and Ignis finds himself in the peculiar position of wishing the boy would hold a grudge for once in his life.

He’s going over what he should say and what he would like to when they reach the front doors. He pushes one open and gestures for Prompto to step out first but they don’t get much farther than that, because the world is as good as underwater outside.

“Oh,” Prom says, peering up past the overhang at all the rain. “I wouldn’t even have made it to the station in this.”

“Luckily we only have to make it to the street,” Ignis says, and laments leaving the umbrella in the backseat. Prompto looks up at him with a grin.

“Let’s run for it,” he says, as playfully competitive as when he and Noctis are up all night with their video games. There’s an energy to him that’s hard to ignore, a brightness that Ignis finds himself accommodating time and time again for no better reason than to see the resulting smile.

So he says, “Very well,” and follows Prompto’s enthusiastic dash outside. They’re soaked within moments, and the interior of his car will probably be ruined after today, but Prompto is laughing when they pile inside and somehow that makes the state of Ignis’ suit and leather seats a worry for another time.

He takes his glasses off with a sigh and knows he looks a mess. If the council could see me now, he thinks wryly.

“I won’t tell Noctis about this afternoon as long as you give me your word you’ll be forthcoming with incidents like these in the future,” Ignis says, cleaning his glasses with a spare kerchief from the glove compartment. “If there is no one else you feel comfortable talking to, come to me. I’ll see that it doesn’t happen again. I won’t have you getting into unfavorable fights over our prince’s character,” he adds with a touch of humor to lighten the scolding. “I’m afraid that’s Gladio’s job.”

When he turns to glance at his rather quiet companion, he finds Prompto with a wide-eyed look on his face, torn lips parted in something like wonder. It’s a familiar expression, this sudden ignition of Prompto’s inner artist, and Ignis is prepared for the way the boy’s hands dart to his bag.

“Can I take a picture of you like this?” he says quickly. He always asks, even though Gladio always rolls his eyes and Noctis always says “just do it, you dork,” and it’s one of the many facets of Prompto’s character that Ignis finds charming.

And suffice it to say, Ignis has a busy schedule. This little misadventure already has him running behind. He doesn’t have very minutes to spare, but... there’s something golden and wonderful in Prompto’s face, in his voice, when he can share this talent of his with people he can count on not to be cruel.

Gladio would say I’m going soft, Ignis thinks with an inward sigh. “Certainly,” he says, without an inch of impatience.

The camera is in Prompto’s hands a second later, and with a few quick adjustments that Ignis can’t make sense of, the boy twists in his seat to get a better angle. It’s only a moment’s work, the camera shutter firing a handful of times in rapid succession, and Prompto straightens again with a delighted smile after a short time. It takes so little to indulge him.

“Wanna see?” he says, offering the camera. It’s second-hand at best and gleams with good care, held together with tape and good intention. Ignis handles it more carefully than it deserves when it passes into his hands, and turns it around to see the screen.

And he has to look a little closer than he thought, surprise creeping into him from all sides as he studies the shot, because that doesn’t even look like him.

Somehow, Prompto made the shape of Ignis’ wrist and the simple tilt of his head as he put his glasses back on into a work of art, something a person might want to look at more than once. His likeness in the photos is disheveled, hair damp and in disarray, jacket darker at the shoulders where the rain fell against him the hardest, eyes a startling green in contrast to the grayness of the weather outside.  

Ignis has never seen himself like this before.

“I know, right?” Prompto says without guile. “You look amazing!”

Ignis looks at him, and tries to see him the way Prompto sees people. He’s rumpled and wet, and colorful with the beginnings of bruises. His eyes are closer to violet than blue in this light. He lifts a hand to push the wet blond hair out of his face, and the whole of him is soft and unguarded and pleasant to look at.

Oh, Ignis thinks, and something inside him trembles.

He’s not quite daring enough to turn the camera around and take a picture of his own, but he won’t forget. This moment is one he’ll keep until it sits in his memory the way Prompto’s camera sits in his hands; well-loved and weathered from being picked up and admired over and over and over again.

Chapter Text

Noctis 3:27pm
SOS we have a situation

Noctis 3:27pm
I need u here yesterday specs

Sending texts like these out of the blue and then refusing to answer one’s phone should be punishable by law, Ignis thinks with no small amount of aggravation. It can’t be a true emergency -- they have a protocol for that -- but nonetheless, Ignis finds himself rushing as if it were.

The prince’s location is turned on, proving him to be at a city park near his school, and it’s only a matter of about seventeen minutes to get there from the Citadel. Ignis is prepared for just about anything when he arrives, and these boys still manage to surprise him.

“Prompto fell off the bridge,” a harried Noctis says in lieu of hello. He’s clutching both their bookbags and Prompto’s battered camera like someone hoarding collateral in the middle of a hostage negotiation. “Now his wrist is broken and he’s being stupid.”

Ignis stares at him, then at Prompto, who has his face buried in his unharmed hand.

“I told him not to call you,” the blond moans. “It’s not broken it’s fine. It’s probably just a sprain.”

When he looks up, his blue eyes are bright with pain. Ignis is moving before he makes any conscious decision to, sitting on the bench beside him. It takes real effort not to reach for the hair hanging into his eyes, and reach for his hand instead.

“Let me see,” Ignis says, extracting the wrist in question from where Prompto has it curled protectively against his chest.

It’s already swelling, the skin an angry, tender red. Ignis’ touch is gentle but Prompto still flinches from it, and Ignis decides they’re better off not testing whether or not he can still flex the joint without pain.

“Noctis was right. You need to see a doctor,” he says, concerned.

Prompto looks at him sharply. “Oh, no way.”

“Ah,” Ignis says mildly, “I’m afraid that wasn’t a request.”

“But I,” he starts, helplessly. “It’s expensive, and my parents aren’t -- “

“You’re best friends with the prince of the entire country and you’re worried about how to afford a doctor?” Noctis bites out, worried and upset and losing his patience. “Is that what’s happening right now?”

“Enough,” Ignis says, shooting Noctis a sharp look. The prince scowls but subsides, and a shamefaced Prompto doesn’t offer anymore resistance.

The earlier panic has cooled, but it isn’t easy to look at Prompto and see him in distress. Ignis stands and draws Prompto up with him carefully, the shorter boy a warm, solid weight where their bodies line up, and starts leading him back toward the car.

“Is it worth asking how you fell off a bridge?” Ignis asks, and feels it when Prompto turns into a board against his side.

“Oh, it’s definitely worth asking,” Noctis says, keeping pace on Ignis’ other side. “He’s been obsessed with finding this particular shade of green, like it’s his life mission or something, and he wanted to get a shot of this tree from a certain angle. So Prom decided to climb up on the rail and almost died for a photo opportunity.”

Ignis stops walking to look at Prompto, alarmed and furious.

“He’s exaggerating,” Prompto says quickly. His face is pink, and he looks as though he has no idea what he’s doing, standing there in the circle of Ignis’ arm. “It’s not -- I mean, it sounds bad, but I knew what I was doing!”

“You threw your camera to me when you lost your balance,” Noctis goes on, deadpan. “You literally yelled ‘save my camera’ as you went over.”

“Bones can be replaced. My camera can’t.”

Noctis looks at Ignis as if to say do you see what I have to deal with?

Ignis, for his part, doesn’t know if he wants to shake Prompto or hold him. He settles for securing his grip on Prompto’s shoulders and all but marching him the rest of the way to the car. He can decide how to feel about this once a doctor tells them how severe it is or isn’t.

It’s fairly severe. Trust Prompto not to do things by halves.

After a thorough exam and a series of X-rays, Prompto is administered a heavy anesthesia, his broken wrist is reset and casted, and he’s given a bottle of prescription painkillers to take home with him and strict instructions that Ignis will take upon himself to see that he follows.

“He’s all loopy,” Noctis whispers from the backseat, where Prompto is finally dozing against his shoulder, blue eyes muddy and disoriented. “Gladio’s gonna be so pissed he missed this. Are you sure we can’t record a quick -- “

“Yes,” Ignis says, “I’m sure.”

They’ll have to go by Prompto’s house at some point to pack him a bag, but for now Ignis takes him straight to Noctis’ apartment. Noctis hurries ahead to open the door, leaving Ignis to manhandle an uncooperative Prompto inside.

“Honestly,” he says, the third time Prompto nearly slips out of his hands, “how is it you were easier to handle when you had a broken bone?”

Prompto’s eyes trail from the overhead lights in the hall to Ignis’ face. His face is open and soft when he says, “Iggy, you’re here.”

“Yes, Prompto,” Ignis says patiently, "I'm here."

Ignis nods his thanks as Noctis closes the apartment door behind them, and all but carries Prompto into the bedroom. They make quick work of getting him settled, stacking pillows to keep his wrist immobile and elevated, and then Ignis sends a flagging Noctis to sleep on the sofa.

“I tried to find you before,” Prompto tells him. “I couldn’t, though. Everything else was the wrong color.”

There are plenty other things he could -- should -- be doing, but instead Ignis sits on the side of the bed. Prompto’s head rolls to follow him, as if taking his eyes off of Ignis for even a moment would cause Ignis to disappear.

“You know where to find me,” Ignis says gently. “You’re just not thinking clearly.”

“No, before, ” Prompto stresses. “I couldn’t before. In the pictures.”

“I see,” Ignis says, though he doesn’t really. This time he allows his fingers to find Prompto’s hair, brushing the bangs out of his eyes carefully. “We’ll need to talk about that, you know. When you’re feeling better.”

It would be a waste of time to scold him now, and Ignis knows his heart wouldn’t truly be in it. Not with the way Prompto leans into his hand with a content sigh.

“We can talk about whatever you want,” he promises, slurring a bit. “I like talking to you.”

Ignis smiles at him. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He’s right on the cusp of sleep, each blink heavier than the last. “You’re nice. You’re the first person I ever wanted who was nice to me."

The room seems to reverberate with those words, and Ignis feels himself go very still. He takes his hand out of Prompto's hair slowly, and the boy chases it with a soft whine. Ignis folds his hand around Prompto's uninjured one instead and squeezes gently, a reassurance, even while his mind is spinning. 

"Hush," Ignis says quietly. "I'm still here."

His phone vibrates in his pocket as Prompto finally drifts to sleep. 

Noctis 6:49pm
So the walls arent exactly soundproof

Noctis 6:49pm
And i just wanted to let u know

Noctis 6:50pm
He means it exactly the way ur hoping he does

Well, then. 

Chapter Text

Prompto stumbles into the kitchen the next morning with bedhead and an anxious expression.

He’s holding his injured wrist against his center in a way that has Ignis reaching automatically for the prescription medicine the doctor sent home with him. He passes over two, along with a glass of milk, and Prompto downs them agreeably.

“Did I say anything weird yesterday?” he asks as if it's a matter of life and death.

Ignis pauses where he’s preparing breakfast, and looks at Prompto carefully. He’s suddenly, intensely grateful that Noctis is still deeply asleep on the sofa, because otherwise he never would have gotten away with a succinct, “Not that I can recall.”

Prompto studies his face intently, eyes remarkably blue in the early morning sun. There’s such stark worry in his expression that Ignis wonders for a moment whether or not he’ll believe him. And if not for the incoherent confession last night, Ignis would have to wonder what on earth Prompto was so worried about in the first place.

As it is, he knows. And while he’s warm with the knowledge of Prompto’s affection, Ignis is certain it would be wrong of him to act on it. Prompto clearly doesn’t remember saying what he did, and he would be mortified if Ignis were to tell him now.

He was heavily medicated, Ignis reminds himself sternly, and hardly lucid. He could have said anything in such a state of mind, and it’s irresponsible to so much as consider holding him to it.

“Oh,” Prompto says, blinking. He blows out a slow sigh that takes the steel out of his spine and adds, “That’s… that’s good.”

He stands there looking out of place for a moment, as though he’s too tired to stand up straight without that worry to prop him up. Ignis thinks of the way Prompto leaned into his hands the night before, and very carefully doesn’t reach out to guide him into a chair the way he would like to.

“Have a seat,” he says instead, turning back to the counter. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”

The smell of cooked eggs and sausage isn’t enough to rouse Noctis on its own, so Prompto coaxes him to the table with all the prowess of someone with years of practice. The prince is barely coherent until after they've eaten and the dishes have been cleared away, at which point he's giving Ignis and Prompto both curious sidelong looks. 

'Well?' he mouths behind Prompto's back at one point, and Ignis gives him a withering glare which he hopes is answer enough. 

Prompto nods off at the table a few times, the pain medication strong enough to make him drowsy, and is summarily sent back into the bedroom for a nap. 

"I just woke up," he whines, but he doesn't put up much of a fight. "I can go a few hours at a time without sleeping, I'm not Noct."

The moment he's gone, the bedroom door left ajar behind him, Noctis whirls on Ignis.

"What are you doing?" he demands.

"I don't know that it's any of your concern," Ignis starts, stiffly, and Noctis cuts him off with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. Honestly, teenagers.

"It's you, and it's Prom. It's like, entirely my concern. Seriously, Specs," he goes on, sobering a little. "What are you doing?"

Ignis rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger, the rim of his glasses pressing into his forehead painfully. "You and I both know," he says with emphasis on each word, "that Prompto wasn't aware of himself yesterday. It would be taking advantage of him to act on anything he might have said when he was out of sorts."

Noctis frowns. "I mean, I guess so? But --"

"I know so. No, your highness," Ignis says, when Noctis looks ready to argue further, "last night is best left forgotten. I won't hear any more about it."

The prince looks mutinous, glaring at Ignis without anger. He curls his hands into fists then looses them, looks over his shoulder toward the bedroom door, and then says, "A lot of people have been awful to him. You get that, don't you?"

'You're the first person I ever wanted who was nice to me,' Prom said so sweetly, just a handful of hours ago. Ignis may have stuck on the first half of that statement initially, but in no way did he forget the connotations connected to the rest of it. He nods, and Noctis nods back, as if they've come to some agreement. 

"I know you wouldn't be," the boy stresses, unbearably earnest. "Not on purpose, anyway. So don't blow this, for either of you. Okay?"

Ignis can't help but think of Prompto, stubbornly defending Noctis' good name in face of four bigger students, even with no one around he needed to prove himself to. That protective streak seems to be shared between them, and it's a good look on the future ruler of Lucis. He's weathering an uncomfortable conversation for Prompto's benefit, and for Ignis' too, when perhaps three years ago he wouldn't have bothered to get involved.

Ignis relents, not quite smiling. He can agree with the sentiment Noctis' argument is born from, even if he can't agree with anything else. 

"I'll think about it," he concedes. It's not as though it won't occupy a large part of his mind anyway. 

An hour later, after preparing a light meal for the boys to assemble on their own for lunch, Ignis gathers his things and prepares to spend the rest of the day in his office. He says goodbye to Noctis, who doesn't look up from his video game when he raises his eyebrows and says, "You're not gonna say bye to Prom? Careful, or he'll start to think you don't want him around."

Ignis frowns at him, unamused. Noctis looks remarkably unbothered, eyes glued to the television screen. 

Ignis loses thar particular battle of wills, and turns on his heel to head back into the bedroom with as much dignity as he can muster. He pretends not to hear Noctis snort behind him, but if the prince's schedule in the upcoming week is particularly unpleasant, he only has himself to blame.

The bedroom is dim, and Prompto is fast asleep in Noctis' bed. Ignis feels a little foolish to have been goaded into a goodbye with Prompto nowhere close to waking up, but he sits on the side of the bed anyway. 

It feels remarkably like it did the night before. 

"My life is much more complicated with you in it," he tells the boy, fond and hopeless both, "but I'm afraid you're worth every second."

Prompto doesn't stir, fair lashes still against freckled skin. Emboldened, Ignis picks up his unimpaired hand. Prompto's fingers belong to an artist, slender against Ignis' work-calloused palm. Ignis bends just low enough to press a fleeting kiss to Prompto's knuckles.

"A promise," he says, for no one's benefit but his own. 

Chapter Text

“You didn’t have to drop me off,” Prompto says for the third time. He’s trying to take up as little room in Ignis’ passenger seat as possible, as though that might make up for all the time he’s so certain he’s wasting. “I know you’re, like, stupid busy. I could have taken the train, no problem.”

“With a broken wrist?” Ignis says mildly, pulling up to the curb in front of Prompto’s building. “I think not. Come along, let’s get you inside.”

Prompto protests that he doesn’t need any help and Ignis ignores the protest in short order, shouldering both bags waiting for them in the backseat and then gesturing expansively for Prompto to lead the way inside.

“Consider me at your service this evening,” Ignis tells him.

The boy grumbles as he struggles one-handedly with his keys, but even the tips of his ears are pink. Ignis very carefully smothers a fond smile, and steps politely inside when the front door finally swings open.

The single-story home is small, the size of one of the modest apartments closer to the city center. It’s dark until Prompto flips on the hallway light, and still. It’s obviously been sitting empty in the days Prompto has been gone.

Does Prompto come home to this every day?

“Are your parents still away?” Ignis asks, following Prompto into the living room. He sets the bags down on the listing sofa. Prompto picks at the cast on his arm and doesn’t quite look at him.

“Yeah, they’re. Probably gonna be gone for awhile. Why?”

The doctor who treated Prompto’s arm tried to contact them and couldn’t get through. Ignis purses his lips but leaves the subject for another time, heading into the kitchen.

“Um,” Prompto says behind him.

Ignis ignores him, opening a cabinet at random. A handful of canned vegetables sit inside. The next door reveals a few boxes of elbow noodles. Suspicions confirmed, Ignis checks the fridge anyway. The milk inside is expired and aside from a half-dozen eggs the only things cluttering the shelves are the styrofoam containers of leftover takeout.

“I haven’t had a chance to go shopping recently,” Prompto says defensively. “You’re the one who kidnapped me, you should know I’ve been a hostage at Noct’s apartment for the last week.”

“Hm. Was it that miserable for you?”

“Ugh,” Prompto says, with feeling. “Don’t even. I know a guilt trip when I hear one. I have the frequent flier miles to prove it.”

Ignis can’t help but laugh quietly, closing the door on his inspection of the fridge. When he turns around, Prompto is staring at him as intently as if he’s taking a mental picture. Even wide eyes and a loose jaw manages to look charming on his face, Ignis despairs inwardly.

He came here this evening with a plan in mind to keep his promise to himself and tell Prompto in no uncertain terms that Ignis would very much be interested in taking him out to dinner.

He can feel that plan crumbling away now, another idea standing up in its place.

“As it so happens,” he says smoothly, “I have a proposition for you.”

Prompto swallows, visibly rallies himself. “What kind of proposition?”

“I’ve seen your attempts at cooking for yourself,” Ignis tells him, with enough warmth to take any sting out of the words, “and frankly, you’re abysmal.”

That startles a laugh out of the boy, shakes the heavy air between them into a familiar lightness. “Jeez, Iggy, tell me what you really think.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to teaching you,” Ignis says. “I’m a fair hand at cooking, myself.”

“You’re way more than a fair hand,” Prompto says, leaning on the wall behind him. His words are shaped like his lingering smile. There’s something open and earnest in his face, something hopeful, but what he says is, “You have way more important stuff to do with your free time than make sure I don’t starve.”

Ignis would like to know why Prompto seems incapable of accepting any small kindness. He would like to know who conditioned him to believe he was always the lesser of two choices.

“What on Eos could be more important than that?” Ignis says crisply, pulling out his phone. “When are you free this week?”

Gladio, closet romantic that he is, finds the whole thing as amusing as Ignis knew he would.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you with that kid,” he says, lounging in one of the chairs in front of Ignis’ desk. “They don’t make ‘em more oblivious than Prom.”

“It’s not his fault,” Noctis interjects predictably. After a moment he adds, “He really is dumb about this stuff, though. A girl in our homeroom tried to ask him out once, back when we were sophomores, and he thought she was inviting him to a study session. He asked if I could come with.”

Gladio guffaws, and Ignis’ lips twitch in reluctant amusement.

“It’s just,” Noctis goes on, eyes dropping back to his phone. “I don’t think he thinks anyone could look at him like that for real. For a joke, maybe, but not for keeps.”

“Self-preservation at its finest,” Gladio says. He’s still grinning, but Ignis has no doubt what Gladio would do if he ever came face to face with someone who thought it was good fun to be cruel to his jogging partner. “Good luck, Specs.”

“And don’t screw it up,” Noctis adds, reabsorbed in King’s Knight.

“Thank you both for the show of confidence,” Ignis says coolly. “Prompto and I will be just fine.”

“Oh,” Prompto says two nights later, eyes like blue moons. As if the sight of Ignis standing on his stoop at the agreed-upon time with a paper bag full of groceries is the last thing he expected to see. “You actually came.”

Self-preservation Gladio’s voice reminds him, and Ignis knows better than to feel slighted by Prompto’s owlish surprise that Ignis kept his word.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he says instead, raising an eyebrow.

Prompto scrambles back and pushes the door open wider with his good hand. He’s soft in worn T-shirt and faded jeans, barefoot on the cold hardwood, and his face is pink as Ignis sets the groceries on the table and shrugs out of his coat.

The house is too empty to be in disarray, but it’s clear Prompto made an extra effort to clean the place up. The air smells fresh with a cleaner of some sort, a pan and a few utensils already set out on the kitchen counter. Ignis takes note, and smiles down at his hands as he unpacks the food.

“You’re well-prepared,” Ignis says, with a nod to the cutlery waiting for them by the stove. “I thought I would teach you how to make peppery daggerquill rice. You enjoyed that when we had it last week, and it’s easy enough to start with.”  

And Prompto drifts right over, darting sidelong looks at Ignis all the while. His eyes are bright, the way they usually are behind the viewfinder of his camera.

“Dude,” he says, mock serious, “if I can make rice taste half as good as you can, I’m gonna sign up for one of those cooking competitions on TV.”

“I have no doubts in your abilities. When you win, I expect a cut.”

“Duh! Sixty-forty, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Ignis passes Prompto one of the aprons he brought from home. “Let’s not count our fish before they’re caught. Put this on, and we’ll get to work.”

Prompto is limited with only one hand to work with, but he watches avidly as Ignis sets out spices and details how to cook rice without scorching the bottom of the pot, how to cook and season the meat. It’s an easy dish for a beginner, a little spicier than Ignis usually makes it to suit Prompto’s palate, and they eat together at his small kitchen table under a warm, low-hanging light.

“Thanks for this,” Prompto says, smiling down at his plate. “For keeping me company. You didn’t have to.”

“It was my pleasure,” Ignis says firmly. And truly, it was. “Next week,” he adds, “we’ll try our luck at green curry soup.”

“Next week,” Prompto parrots, that shy expression blooming into a blinding grin. “It’s a date!”

He says it without any sweet stammering, which only proves he didn’t mean it any other way but technically, pleased at the prospect of cooking with his friend again and nothing more.

Ignis smiles helplessly back at him.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says sincerely.

Chapter Text

“Prom, watch it! It’s right on top of you!”

“Dude, where -- shit -- where’d it even come from?”

“Don’t use that, the serpentess is immune to fire. Use the -- oh.”

“No!”

Ignis steps in from the kitchen in time to watch Prompto slump bonelessly against the arm of the couch. Noctis curses colorfully, twisting in his seat as he mashes a button on his controller.

“A new mod came out where the boss monster spawns, like, every five minutes," he explains shortly. "Prom’s been turned into a frog six times.”

“Yeah, ‘cause Noct’s hogging the stupid ribbon.”

On the upper half of the screen, Noctis’ avatar is still valiantly fighting a monster with the body of a snake and a grossly enlarged human head. On the lower half, where Prompto’s fluffy-haired avatar usually bounces about, a small green toad is hopping around the side of the battle aimlessly.

“I see," Ignis says, though he doesn't really.

“Hey, Iggy,” Prompto says, looking at him upside-down. “You’re a member of the royal guard, right? Have you ever been in a fight like that?”

He points at the screen, where Noctis’ avatar summons a sword from thin air in a burst of glittering magic. Ignis smiles.

“Real life isn’t quite so exciting,” he says. “There hasn’t been true magic in the world for centuries. And on that note, I may be a bodyguard, but I’ve never had cause to fight.”

“It’s mostly politics,” Noctis supplies without looking away from the screen. “Boring court stuff. I told you my life is dull, dude, you just don’t believe me.”

“Huh,” Prompto says. “So no epic quests?”

“I’m afraid not.” Ignis moves to join him on the sofa. Prompto’s arms curl around his middle like a wall, though his face is pleased pink by their proximity. This boy, Ignis thinks with fond exasperation. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Prompto says slowly, “we’re done with high school in a couple weeks, you know? And I don’t really -- have any big plans. Except, uh. Well, Noct was saying I should give the Crownsguard training a try.”

Noctis is listening intently, hands still around his controller. The game is paused on some sort of items menu. Prompto colors at the collective attention and looks at his hands, picking anxiously at the cast on his wrist.

“I guess I thought it was a dumb idea ‘cause I couldn’t do anything like, like go to war, or fight monsters. I’m nothing special, all I do well is run, and I can take pictures, but.” He rubs a hand through his hair, mussing his bangs. “I mean, I’m just not really soldier material, you know? But maybe I could be. If I tried.”

“Prom, I’ve told you a hundred times, they’re not gonna put a sword in your hand on day one,” Noctis says, turning bodily around to face him. “It’s a ton of classwork before you even get to the physical stuff. No one’s gonna throw you to the wolves, it’s not like that.”

“And you have Gladio and myself to help you,” Ignis says. His chest is constricting painfully at the stark, earnest want on Prompto’s face. “Noctis, as well. And the king is certainly fond of you. If this is what you want to do, you’ll have plenty of support.”

While it would be nice, a small, secret part of Ignis’ heart decides, to keep Prompto somewhere safe, at an arm’s length from any potential danger or hardship, Ignis knows better. He would wither within days if walls were put up around him.

Like a flower leaning toward the sun, Prompto gravitates toward light and sound. He needs very much to be a part of things, to see them, to go places and meet people. He would chase freedom well into danger’s open jaws without looking back even once, for all that he doubts his own courage, and he would do it with his camera glued to his face every step of the way.  

“I still have one open spot left in my personal guard,” Noctis is saying, stubborn and bright-eyed. “And it’s gonna stay open forever, or it’s gonna be yours.”

“But there are probably, like, a thousand people with way more experience and better credentials?”

“So? Between you and anybody else, I’d pick you.”

“You’re biased,” Prompto says, but he’s grinning helplessly. He looks at Ignis, the hope in his face something painful to watch. “You really think it could happen? If I worked really hard?”

“If I can do it, I’ve no doubt that you can, too,” Ignis says, and he means it.

“Then I’ll do it,” Prompto decides. “I mean, I’ll try. I wanna go with you guys, wherever you go.”

He looks from Noctis, to Ignis, blue burning with something very close to devotion. He’s always been a loyal friend, but this is something new. As though his loyalty is growing up with him, into something tall and proud.

The golden moment is there and gone again quickly, Prompto’s nerves catching up to him. He ducks his head self-consciously and adds, “Even if it’s just boring court stuff.”

Noctis is grinning, big and silly, his face practically shining with relief and gratitude and pride. But he turns around again and picks up his controller, letting his friend save face.

“You never know,” he says conversationally, “I might have a quest to fulfill someday. Then the four of us would have to go on a journey together. We’d hunt monsters and help people and come home heroes, walking tall.”

“Wow,” Prompto says, threaded along. Ignis thinks his heart might give at the awe on that freckled face. “We’d be just like characters in an RPG.”

“It surprised me, you know,” Prompto says some time later, sitting on the kitchen counter with a mixing bowl in his lap. “That you’d be so on board with it. Me joining the Crownsguard, I mean.”

“Did it?” Ignis says. “Why is that?”

“I’m not royalty, and I’m not strong. I’m nothing, really. I guess I kind of got used to the idea that you’d have to leave me behind,” Prompto says. “Not that you’d want to,” he goes on quickly, sensing danger as he gets a good look at whatever Ignis’ expression is doing. “Just that you’d have to.”

‘We would never,’ is what Ignis means to say, but what passes his lips instead is a fierce and furious, “I would never.”

He takes the bowl away and sets it aside, dinner preparation suddenly the farthest thing from his mind. He picks up Prompto’s hands, the whole one and the casted one both, and holds them. Prompto’s face heats up but he doesn’t pull away.

Ignis thinks of the foolhardy way Prompto was willing to fight bigger bodies and bigger numbers for his friend, the empty house he goes home to, the conviction he carries that any love for him must be a joke.

“You’re important to Noctis, and to Gladio,” Ignis says, slowly, giving each word meaning. “And you’re very important to me.”

“I know, I think.” Prompto kicks a stocking foot against the counter, smiling crookedly. “I’m trying.”

Ignis squeezes their joined hands and says, “My dear, that’s all I ask.”

Chapter Text

“Are you free this Saturday?” Prompto asks, loud, and with such determination that Ignis is momentarily taken aback.

He straightens the official reports in his hands idly, buying himself a moment to think. He hasn’t had a free Saturday in what feels like years, something Prompto should be intimately aware of after how long they’ve been friends, but Ignis has a good idea what this might be about.

“I certainly could be,” he says smoothly, giving nothing away. “Why do you ask?”

Prompto’s posture is ramrod straight, shoulders back, hands curled into fists at his sides. It’s as if he’s keeping himself rooted to the spot out of sheer force of will and with one wrong move all his daring would flee the room.

There’s very tightly controlled panic in his bright eyes but his voice is measured when he says, “My neighborhood is throwing a block party. Remember, you helped me get a permit for it?”

“Ah, yes. That sounds like quite the event.”

“I want you to come with me,” Prompto blurts, almost cutting him off. “Just the two of us.” He goes bright red, visibly backtracking. “Because! Noctis and Gladio are busy! And I wanted to thank you for how much you’ve helped me with my Crownsguard training!”

So Ignis resigns himself to shuffling his schedule around, and working very long nights for the rest of the week.

“What did you say?” Noctis demands less than an hour later, looking two seconds from springing across Ignis’ desk and shaking the answer out of him. “Prom asked you, right? Did you say yes?”

“I suppose it’s a waste of my breath remind you at this point that my romantic affairs are none of your business,” Ignis says dryly, “so I’ll spare myself and humor you: yes, I said yes.”

Noctis slumps back, looking some complicated combination of exhausted and exhilarated. “So,” he hazards, “it’s official, then?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Ignis does, in fact, know what he means. “Prompto invited me to his neighborhood block party, as a friend, to thank me for my advice since he joined our ranks.”

He taps a stack of papers together decisively and sets them to one side.

After a long moment Noctis says, quietly and with feeling, “Oh my gods.”

Prompto has a tight grip on Ignis’ hand, so not to lose him in the crowd.

Ignis has frequented this side of town more recently in the past five years than he ever did in his youth, but only to pick Prompto up at home, or drop him off, or, more recently, to spend the evening in his kitchen cooking dinners with him. He’s known it not to be a very nice neighborhood, has worried late into the night about crime rates and Prompto’s broken window locks more than once.

He’s never seen it look like this.

There are lights strung up overhead, beginning to glow in the red-orange dusk sponged across the evening sky, and dozens of kiosks, and a temporary stage built at the end of the street. That must be where the music is coming from, a pleasant mixture of strings and guitar and a low, heavy bass, loud enough that Ignis can feel it in his bones.

There are people dancing, drinking, singing. Children chase each other with light-up toys and painted faces. Food vendors pass kabobs and meat pies on paper plates to eager hands.

Prompto only lets go of his hand to pass him a drink, or a sweet, or to lift the camera hanging around his neck and snap a picture. It feels as though they’re very pointedly dancing around the idea now, and Ignis can’t think of any other reason to keep the charade going.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Ignis says, very gently, “but this rather feels like a date.”

Prompto goes abruptly still, his fingers frozen where they’re still tangled with Ignis’ own. He darts a look at Ignis’ face, as if to gauge what else he might have meant by that, as if to make sure there’s no way he heard wrong.

Ignis gazes at him with all the fondness he feels. They’re standing still but his heart is jumping. He’s as breathless as if they’ve spent the evening dancing.

He sees it when bravery wins over cultivated doubt, when Prompto takes a breath and lets it go, gathers up all his hope in both hands and holds tight to it.

“It kind of was one,” he says with a ghost of his usual good humor. He smiles, a tentative, crooked thing, and it’s devastating. Ignis has never loved anyone like this. “I probably should have mentioned that in the first place, huh?”

“Why didn’t you?”

Prompto ducks his head. There isn’t enough courage in the world, it would seem, for him to look Ignis in the eye now. His grip on Ignis’ hand is tight enough to bruise, and he swallows like it hurts.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t say yes to this,” he says with terrible caution, “if you knew it was ‘cause I was in love with you. I was gonna see how it went, and maybe work up the nerve -- unless it was a total trainwreck, which it kind of seems like it is now -- I’m really sorry, Iggy -- “

Ignis takes a step in that closes the short distance between them.

Prompto’s eyes are wide and endless as Ignis frames his face in both hands, and tilts his head back, and kisses him. And kisses him, and kisses him, under hundreds of bright string lights.  

One second stretches into two, into an hour, into the rest of his life. The world is a portrait in soft focus, its edges fuzzy and colors blending.

It only becomes solid when Prompto leans into his hands and throws himself into the kiss the way a fish spared the hook will throw itself back into the sea. A moment long in the making, and it doesn’t disappoint.

Far from it.

“Oh,” Prompto says at last, thoroughly flustered. He looks seconds away from burying his face in his hands. Ignis hums, and presses his lips against Prompto’s hairline, and smiles when the boy stutters sweetly. “I-- that was-- so you-- “

“I enjoyed our date immensely,” Ignis says solemnly, his voice warm with good humor, “and would go so far as to say it was one of the best I’ve ever had.”

Prompto is leaning in again, strung along by him, the way he always is. There’s wonder in his eyes, and mountains of relief, and such ridiculous affection that Ignis couldn’t have missed it even if he went blind.  

“Only one of the best?” Prompto says, sounding very much like himself.

“Well, you haven’t asked me to dance yet,” Ignis points out. He wants to laugh at the rapid brightening of Prompto’s face -- the way he so easily outshines the rest of the whole party all around them in his delight -- and instead puts out a hand. “After that, I should think, it will have been absolutely perfect.”

Chapter Text

Prompto is sworn into the Crownsguard in front of the royal family and the court on a bright afternoon in the middle of an earnest summer.

Looking smart in his new uniform, bowing the way he was taught, reciting his oath without a single fumble. For all that he was convinced he would make an utter fool of himself on the dais in front of the gods and everyone, Prompto does better than well.

"That was terrifying," he says hoarsely, allowing Noctis to tug him along by the wrist. They're escaping the ceremony early, making their long and winding way back to the prince's rooms. "You guys said it 'wouldn't be that bad', that's what you said. You liars."

Gladio barks a laugh, and Noctis says, "Stop crying about it, you baby. You were fine."

"You were wonderful," Ignis amends at once. Now that it's the four of them, he lets go of the smile he's been smothering all the while. It feels like getting in a good stretch after being confined to close quarters for too long, his heart yawning a few sizes wider. "I'm so proud of you."

"Ugh. We're gonna party, obviously, but if you two need time to be gross, me and Gladio can go get the food."

Noctis sounds put-upon, but he's fooling exactly no one. It's not every day one's best friend joins one's royal guard, after all, and Noctis has been more excited about today than even Prompto probably was. Sure enough, he gives himself away with the fond shove he aims at Prompto's shoulder a moment later.

"Just don't hog him, Ignis. That's an order from your prince."

"Six," Prompto breaths, red in the face. "Noct, seriously, I would die for you, but I also hate you."

"Sure, buddy."

When Noctis and Gladio are gone, disappearing around the corner, Prompto speaks up before Ignis has a chance to.

"Hey, while I've got you alone," Prompto says, reaching for his hand, "I wanted to say thanks."

Ignis softens for him, tangling their fingers together comfortably. "Whatever for?"

"Um, a million things? But mostly -- for this. For me being here. I don't think this would have happened without you. Maybe I would have gone into the training anyway, and maybe I would have made it into Noctis' guard on my own somehow, but -- I wouldn't be the guy I am right now, you know?" 

Prompto's smile turns a little bashful. 

"And it's new and weird and all, but -- I like the guy I am now."

Ignis' heart is a solid weight in his chest, beating too quickly. He's short of breath, for all that he's just standing here, looking across a handful of inches at beaming blue eyes.

Prompto is unfailingly lovely, golden in the royal halls, fair hair and freckles and an open, honest face. 

"I like you, too," Ignis says gently.

"Gods, I hope so! Otherwise the last year we've been dating has been super one-sided."

Ignis lets go of his hands to reach into the bag at his side. He had planned to wait until the private celebration between the four of them in the prince's rooms, but he can't let this moment go. Ignis withdraws the new camera, a beautiful, gleaming thing-- as different from Prompto's current battered, half-dead tool of the trade as any two of the same thing could be-- and watches Prompto's eyes go round and awed. 

"Oh, Iggy. Iggy, you gotta let me -- " 

"It's for you," he says fondly. "But firstly, my dear-- can I take a picture of you like this?" 

Prompto blinks at him, surprised. And whether he's thinking the same thing or not -- whether he remembers that rainy day from so long ago, sitting in Ignis' car and bowing their heads together over the tiny digital screen on his camera -- doesn't matter. Because after a moment he's smiling, and spreading his hands, and saying with sweet succinctness, "You can take whatever you want of me."

"Oh?" Ignis says mildly, lifting the camera to his eye. "That's a careless thing to say. I might want a lot of you." 

"C'mon, Ignis,” Prompto laughs, unburdened, "you know I'm yours."