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Halfway through a rousing hour of sitting in bed and doing nothing but playing King’s Knight after work, Prompto turns to Noctis and asks, “Hey, wanna help me make a cake tomorrow?”
He can’t help but whisper. Their new bedroom is gigantic compared to their old one. They didn’t have enough stuff to fill it with and so everything echoes. He wants this to be a surprise, though.
Noctis scrunches his nose up and looks at the big calendar pinned on the other side of the room. “For what? Did we miss a birthday? Shit, who’s birthday--”
“Nobody’s birthday. I wanna make a big cake, though.” Prompto’s thinking chocolate. Sweet enough to kill a grown man. For reasons.
Noctis squints at the calendar again. “I’m off tomorrow. Let’s do it.”
“Nice.”
They go to sleep soon after. They both worked and then Ignis made a sick pasta dish, so Noctis falls asleep with his phone on his face and Prompto stays up for another half hour with the jitters.
Ignis and Gladio are both working in the morning. It’s prime time to take over the kitchen to make the cake of the century and then clean it all up before Ignis sees the mess. He can’t wait.
*
He’s got a recipe. He’s got all the ingredients. For some reason, chocolate cakes call for coffee, so Ebony is fine, right? Sure. He’s got his chocobo apron and he’s got Noctis in a kiss the chef apron. Ignis and Gladio have been gone for twenty minutes and it’s show time for Prompto’s very first baking adventure in the new kitchen.
Noctis apparently can’t decide between laughing and sputtering when he sees the size of the pan Prompto whips out, so he settles for choking.
“Oh, so you mean business,” he says.
Prompto beams. “Hell yeah, you betcha. Let’s get crackin’, babe.”
They divvy up the ingredients so that they can take turns adding them. Prompto is distracted part way through as he heats up the contents of a whole can of Ebony, but when he looks in the mixing bowl next it doesn’t look like Noctis has made any measurement mistakes with the baking powder, so he lets Noctis go to town with the mixer.
The Ebony smells weird when it warms up but the recipe says that it won’t affect the taste, so they dump it right in. They accidentally spill some of the batter after that, but it’s fine, it’s cool. It fills the pan and having a little bit less just means it’ll be less likely to rise too far. Yeah.
Prompto preps his icing tube while they wait. Noctis plays games on his phone and doesn’t come back to the baking zone until smoke starts drifting out of the oven.
“Uh,” he says with the utmost eloquence. “Is it supposed to be doing that?”
Prompto whips around and--oh no. They’re already ruining Ignis’ nice oven. Oh no.
They both make a mad dash to see what the problem and Noctis gets a face full of smoke for their troubles. Their cake looks like Ifrit came and spat on it. The batter’s rising too much and it hasn’t solidified yet, so it’s dripping and burning and going very bad overall.
Prompto has no idea how to fix it so he slaps the stop button and struggles to get the pan out, and then they stare at it in the sink, the only safe place for it now.
“What happened?” Noctis asks, poking it like a kid pokes a sad, sad bug.
Prompto’s knowledge of baking tips and tricks is very limited, but there’s only so much that could have gone wrong.
“Noct,” he says with all the dawning horror of someone who’s realized they made a grave error of judgement concerning their boyfriend’s culinary expertise. “How much baking powder did you put in?”
Noctis puts his finger on his chin and hums and that’s really all Prompto needs. “I might have put too much. I was distracted.”
Okay. Yep. Well.
Prompto looks at the clock. They still have plenty of time.
“We can save this,” he says immediately before he gestures at the poor cake too wildly and knocks their cocoa powder into the floor.
Noctis scoops up Ignis II before the cat can get its nose in the powder. He then stares at the pile on the floor with the sorrow of a thousand men.
“Let’s go to the store,” he says.
*
They come back from the store with a chocolate sheet cake and oven cleaner. Prompto takes the cleaning unto himself and tells Noctis what to write on the cake.
“Now I feel bad about messing up the other one,” Noctis says as he squeezes icing onto the cake.
Ignis II watches all the while and Prompto’s pretty sure cats shouldn’t be able to look so judgemental. Ignis II takes a leaf out of Gladio II’s book and ignores him entirely.
*
They hide the cake in the fridge until Ignis and Gladio are home. Gladio comes home first and Prompto very nearly gives up the secret, but Ignis is home and taking over the kitchen no more than an hour later, and he does the cover blowing all by himself.
“Where did this come from?” he asks before taking the cake out and reading the messy writing on it. Then he makes a dismayed sound and puts it back.
“What was that?” Gladio asks from the living room.
“Nothing,” Ignis lies. He turns to Prompto and Noctis, who can only offer him the twin smiles of two people just trying their best.
*
“Leave room for dessert,” Ignis says as they sit down for dinner.
“I love your desserts,” Gladio says, pleased.
“Actually, this one is courtesy of Noct and Prompto, I believe,” Ignis corrects him.
Gladio puts a valiant effort into not letting his face fall. Prompto pats his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, big guy. It’s store bought. Completely edible.”
“Should I get that in writing?” Gladio asks, looking at Ignis for an answer.
“It should be edible,” Ignis replies. Only then is the mystery dessert accepted, which, okay, fair.
Gladio still sends them all weird looks throughout dinner, though, because they’re all doing a spectacular job of keeping a secret. Which is to say they aren’t because Ignis won’t make eye contact for longer than a second, Noctis won’t stop kicking his chair legs, and Prompto imagines he looks like he’s discovered an unhealthy love for his reflection in his spoon.
But then Ignis gives him the all clear to clear the dishes away and he can’t get up fast enough, which is really the moment that Gladio catches on to the fact that they’re all hiding something in the fridge. He almost gets up to look, too, but Ignis and Noctis beat him to it. Ignis moves to the fridge and Noctis just stands up and then uses Gladio’s shoulder as an armrest.
“Okay, guys,” Gladio says, rolling his eyes. “You’re all about as subtle as a garula in Altissia. What’s going on?”
Ignis puts the cake down in front of him and everyone goes quiet, waiting for a reaction. It still smells like a grocery store freezer. Noctis wrote Sorry We Ditched You Gladdy on it in giant icing letters, except he started too big and so Gladdy is all squished into a corner.
Gladio stares at it with a completely blank face, reading the words over and over again for five, ten, fifteen seconds. Then he looks up at Ignis, repentant behind his glasses, then Prompto, sheepish under his flushed cheeks, and then Noctis, so, so regretful.
He sniffs and then doesn’t make any other sound for a while.
“Surprise?” Prompto says. His jazz hands look more like dying leaf hands. “Sorry--just. Y’know. Sorry. About everything.”
Gladio reaches up and puts his hand flat on the back of Noctis’ neck. He must do some comforting squeeze or something because Noctis starts to relax again.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“I know,” Gladio replies. And then he yanks Noctis down by the neck and Noctis’ face hits the middle of the cake with a thick splat. Noctis immediately starts making a muffled sound that kind of sounds like a cat yowling. Gladio laughs. “I know, buddy.”
Noctis surfaces with a face full of icing and chocolate. He digs his fingers into the crater left by his head and shouts, “Fuck you!” before smearing a handful of cake across Gladio’s face.
“Astrals,” Ignis exclaims. He and Prompto jump back at the same time, trying to get some distance between them and the cake fight, but then Gladio launches himself out of his seat and drags Prompto back by the neck of his shirt.
“You’re not getting away from me,” he growls into Prompto’s ear. Prompto would be very afraid if it weren’t for the laughter that runs through it. It’s okay, he thinks, right before the side of his face smushes the iced Gladdy irreparably.
“You’re next, Iggy!” he hears out of the ear that isn’t clogged by chocolate.
“Oh, dear,” Ignis says. Prompto thinks he tries to bolt because then there’s a cacophonous clattering sound and when he’s finally able to lift his head up again, Ignis is on the floor with Noctis wrapped around his legs, and Gladio is hauling them both up with chocolate-stained hands.
“I got ‘im, boss,” Noctis is saying through his laughter.
Ignis manages to pull his glasses off before Gladio shoves him down. Noctis keep laughing until Ignis comes back up quicker than anything Prompto’s ever seen and smacks him upside the head with a handful of cake. And Iggy’s fingers are pretty long so there’s a lot tumbling down Noctis’ neck and down his shirt after that.
Noctis shrieks. Prompto laughs. There’s chocolate sticking to his face, his hair, his clothes and his hands. It’s spread across the table and in footprints around the floor. Ignis’ glasses are smudged with it and Gladio’s tattoo has new colour. Prompto can’t see for a long time because he’s crying like a baby, but he’s not the only one so there’s nothing to feel bad about.
In the end, Gladio locks Noctis in a headlock and sits with him on the floor. He tugs on Ignis’ pant leg with his sugary hands and Ignis goes down with more grace than someone covered in cake should legally be able to have. Prompto just shuffles over on his knees. He’s tired. They’re tired, bones weight down by store-bought confections.
And yet, he feels lighter.
“Thank, guys,” Gladio says. He ruffles Noctis’ hair which makes it stick up in all directions like the worst hair gel in existence. “We should make this a thing.”
“We are not making cake fights a thing,” Ignis says.
It’s way too soft a tone to convince Noctis, who slaps the floor and says, “I bought that cake. Prom’s buying the next one.”
“I’m thinking vanilla,” Prompto says. “And something a little more moist so I can throw some and actually hit one of you assholes.”
Ignis rolls his eyes and asks the ceiling lights for mercy. “We are not making projectile cake fights a thing.”
“That means regular cake fights are still in the running. Sick.”