Chapter Text
With the jingle of his keys, Ignis pops the trunk open and grabs at his scant belongings: a single large suitcase and a duffel bag. The parking garage echoes loudly as he firmly shuts the trunk and locks his car, and he slings his bag over his shoulder while he takes to the elevator, rolling his suitcase behind him.
It’s a quiet ride up to the fifth floor, alone as he is during this afternoon. Limbs weary and dry eyes blinking from his six-hour drive from Insomnia to Delia — a quaint little seaside town in Cleigne — he manages a tired smile when he plucks his phone from his pocket, scrolling through the texts shared with his uncle. He shoots a quick message to the man, to let him know he’s arrived safely at the condominium and was now riding up the elevator, before pocketing his phone again.
The elevator slows, chiming sharply when it finally stops, and Ignis winces just slightly at the shift in gravity that needles at his head — he's always hated that. Though all things considered, there’s not much choice aside from getting used to it, he supposes. He’ll be living here for a while. When the metal doors part to let him through, he steps over to the directory, perched on the wall just across from him, and searches for his unit number. ‘Units 500-510 to the left… 511-520 on the right.’
He follows the right hallway, eyes keeping track of the plaques next to the doors. He quickly passes by units 514 and 515, pauses at 516 to fumble through his keys and find the one his uncle handed him — a bronze key with a tiny cactuar sticker on it — and turns it in the heavy lock of the door. A click. And he’s home.
Ignis steps through into the foyer, quickly foregoing his manners and kicking his shoes off, and makes a bee line for the couch in the living area.
He tosses his keys onto the coffee table, but he miscalculates and it skids across the surface to fall onto the floor. He thinks nothing of it and lets the handle of his suitcase fall out of his hand, lets his bag slip off his shoulder and down his arm, as he all but throws himself into the couch. Ignis rolls onto his back, props his feet and head up on either ends as he throws his arms and stretches with a loud groan. He can feel and hear his spine pop and stretch and decompress and whatever the hell bones and joints do, and he receives it all with gratitude and relief. He’s never made such a long drive before, especially not a straight course distance with no breaks, and he silently chastises himself for not stopping at the rest area when he had the chance. It was killer on his back and legs.
Well, lesson learned.
He allows himself this moment’s respite, stretched and sprawled out on the couch with his eyes closed, until a chime from his phone interrupts the silence. He fishes it out of his pants and looks at the screen. A reply from his uncle. Ignis swipes his finger across the notification and reads the entire message, a short thank you and some reminders. He taps out a message of his own, assuring that it was no problem at all and that in fact, he’s rather excited for this new venture. There’s a few more texts sent back and forth until he puts the phone down on his chest.
“Alright,” Ignis huffs after a few more minutes of idling, lightly patting down his cheeks, “Time for work.”
He swings his legs over the couch and plants his feet on the floor, standing with his hands held squarely onto his hips. He crosses the living space and opens a small closet, finds a vacuum, a mop and bucket, some disinfectants and sprays. He goes for the vacuum first, plugging it into the nearest outlet. Then goes to town on the condo.
It’s early evening by the time he’s done scrubbing down the walls and floors, done dusting the shelves and airing out the sheets. He finishes the last of his housekeeping when he puts away the last of his folded shirts into the drawer, and he checks the time to see if it’s not too early for dinner. Between making a homemade meal for tonight or trying out the local fare instead, he chooses the latter. While his unit is completely furnished and decorated, the refrigerator and pantry are bare and dry. Ignis thinks it’s too much of a goal to completely stock his kitchen, too many trips in the elevator that he cares for in one go, so he may as well start with a small trip and work his way from there.
He’s locking up his door when he meets his first neighbor, the resident in 515 by the looks of it. Immediately his first impression is that of a spunky young blonde, more of a boy than a young adult, with his naive but inviting smile that threatens to blind Ignis with all the strength of a midday sun.
“Hey there!” The man is loud too. He trots over to Ignis, a distinct pep in his gait, and offers a hand. “Just moved in?”
“Indeed. Pleased to meet your acquaintance,” Ignis takes the offer in a quick handshake. “Ignis Scientia.”
“Prompto Argentum here,” the blonde replies, raising his eyebrows, “And like, Scientia? Like Vincent Scientia?”
“He would be my uncle, yes. Do you know him?”
“Oh, duh. I technically pay my rent to him. He owns all the units on this floor, y’know.”
Ignis knew his uncle had made investments here and there, that his sizeable wealth wasn’t coming only from the little cafe he owned. He knew his uncle owned the unit he just moved into, that he had extra furnishings delivered solely for Ignis’s new residence, that he refused to have his nephew pay rent for the condo. But he didn’t know his uncle owned all the units on the fifth floor.
“Plus, his pumpkin croissants are to die for, man.”
And he didn’t know that his uncle’s croissants were apparently famous. It was Ignis’ turn to raise his eyebrows. “I didn’t know his oven was so popular.”
“And his coffee. He has the best little coffee shop around here. I only worked there part time, but it was like, the greatest employee perk to take home the day’s leftovers. Everyone was so sad when we heard about the stroke too. Is the old guy okay?” Prompto’s bright smile lost its radiance then, concern etching along his eyes and mouth.
“He’s faring quite well, thank you. He won’t be returning to work for a while, but they’re optimistic.” While Ignis is genuinely appreciative of the care and worry over his uncle’s wellbeing, he wonders just how much of a mini celebrity his uncle is. And of what else he has yet to tell Ignis.
“Oh, that’s good. It’s a shame we’ll have to settle for Starbucks now, but it’s great that he’s doing okay.”
“Ah, about that.” Ignis smiles. “It’s why I’ve moved here.”
As they make down the elevator, he explains his whole motive for coming to Cleigne in the first place. How Uncle Vincent, once he was able, had called Ignis and asked if his darling nephew was interested in putting his recent business degree to use, if he would like to try his hand at running his cafe over in Cleigne. That the trip from Insomnia may be long, but room and board would be covered and free, that his ever-wise and ever-humble uncle had a condo open and free for a new tenant named Ignis. That he knew his nephew would be bored out of his mind working in an office cubicle in a stuffy suit and tie, that coming over to Delia and running the ovens and espresso machines would be leagues more fun.
And that he agreed with his uncle, that kneading his fingers into dough while surrounded by the strong aroma of coffee was more of his element, that his business degree was something he had earned only because his parents were iffy on sending him to culinary school.
“And, if you have the time, would you be interested in working at the cafe again? As eager as I am, I’m afraid I’ve little real-life experience in managing a business,” Ignis says, as they walk along the sidewalk outside the condominium. “Your insight would be extremely helpful and appreciated, Prompto. And it goes without saying you’ll be paid for your work. We could discuss a raise, even.”
“Dude, hell yeah I’ll work again. Between my classes and finals, I haven’t found the time to go job hunting. Man, if not for the paycheck, then I’ll do it for those sweet, sweet pumpkin croissants, baby.” Prompto winks and throws a pair of sidelong finger-guns at Ignis.
Ignis cracks a smile, amused at the other’s light-hearted fun. They discuss possible work hours, wages, responsibilities, and so forth, even as they walk into the local Crow's Mart. Eventually, of course, their conversation turns away from work and leans toward Prompto giving Ignis a rundown of the town, what restaurants to check out and which ones to avoid like the Scourge, or which neighbors to keep away from “like that weird lady who has this creepy taxidermy hobby and probably has five stuffed cats in her bedroom.”
Ignis cooks dinner for two that night, and he tries not to gloat too much when Prompto stuffs his face with rice and chicken, eyes sparkling as he showers the man with nothing but praise muffled between forkfulls of food.
While Ignis found himself pleasantly surprised with such a friendly and outgoing neighbor in Prompto, he didn't expect the same for the rest of the fifth floor tenants. Didn’t expect for the next three mornings, for more neighbors to come knocking at his door. For them to come bearing gifts in their hands and warm welcomes on their lips.
Gladio was a mountain of a man, a scar over his left eye and an impressive tattoo over his muscled arms and chest, the sight enough to scare off any petty thug. Ignis was almost startled out of his mind when he opened his door to see the hulking man in nothing but a tight tank top, until he saw Prompto at his side with his typical blinding smile. Gladio held up a gift basket with a small bouquet of flowers and a small box of chocolates, at which Ignis thought would be more suited given to a potential date than a welcome gift. Gladio seemed to read his mind, admitting that this was on short notice and the florist's he worked at had nothing better. But Ignis was grateful nonetheless, and he carefully placed the flowers in a decorative vase he rinsed out and placed in the kitchen.
Cindy was a pleasant woman, with all her southern charm and hospitality. Ignis was eating the chocolates when he had heard her playful knocking at the door. She stepped right on in and gushed about how homey his place was, that she particularly liked the little coeurl statue sitting on the shelf. He could barely give his thanks when she turned on him and took both his hands to drop a gift bag in them, before pulling him into a tight hug, and surely a lesser man would have blushed as her… Gifts pressed against him. He offered her some coffee but was declined, saying her father needed her at the auto shop, but that Ignis could definitely drop by at the mechanics if “Yer gal's ever needin’ a fixin’, sweetie. Or if ya need a guinea pig to taste test ol’ Vince's brew.”
Or at least, that's what Ignis thought she said. The gift bag was a mini assortment of shower gels and lotions, all with a hint of citrus, and two sets of face masks, and were set in the bathroom, though Ignis wasn't sure if he'd ever use the masks. (His five-step routine did the job quite well at the moment.)
Takka was an older fellow and not even from the fifth floor but from the second. His visit was short, though he greeted Ignis with a chickatrice and beans casserole. He learned the man owned the diner a couple blocks down, and Takka boasted he cooked the best damn homemade meals in this side of Delia. Ignis humored him and promised to taste his food there one day, even if he had his doubts about the cook's claims. Takka only asked to let him know when the Cafe would be up and running again, because he sure missed those pumpkin croissants. (Ignis really wondered if those croissants were as delicious as everyone kept making them out to be.) When Ignis took his first bite of the casserole, he was determined to weasel the recipe out of Takka the next time they met.
A few old ladies even came by — none of them the one Prompto had warned him about — and brought cookies and a knitted scarf and well wishes. An old couple gave him candles and a blanket, a young man a bottle of wine and a tupperware set, another some more flowers in a glass vase.
It was all very heartwarming. And as much as he appreciated their gestures, it was also almost overwhelming.
Which is why he makes sure to wake up at the crack of dawn this morning, foregoing his casual but sleek attire for a set of loose sweats. Breakfast is a dull affair, simply eggs and buttered toast, and he makes a hasty trip to the elevators in case someone spots him and lays down more gifts before him.
He chooses the thirty-minute walk over the car ride, and strolls along comfortably in the cool mist of the rising sun, admiring the humble town. It's just a bit chilly this spring morning, but the walk and rising temperatures warm him enough and the sights are sufficiently distracting. The well worn buildings are nothing compared to Insomnia's high-rising towers and neon billboards, but there's still a touch of modern and urban living. Delia looks to be an old town with its wood and stone eroded from years of salt and moisture, yet it's still very much alive and kicking.
The sign reads “Bervenia” in a simple large script, perched right in the center and above the door. He peers in through the wide glass windows, smiles at the nostalgia of it all, and unlocks the front door. It's a bit dark, considering the lights are off and the sun has yet risen to its full glory, and the chairs are set atop the few tables, but it's mostly as he remembers it all those years ago, when he visited his uncle during his childhood. His memory of Bervenia may be a little fuzzy, but he remembers the patchwork tiles and the soft lavender wallpaper quite clearly. The refrigerated display, though, is new. He only remembers his uncle offering goods to eat warm or at room temperature. But to be frank, he expected more changes and additions other than a display case, given all the years.
Heading to the back, Ignis checks the time on his phone and swipes through his contacts. He shoots a quick text to Prompto, asking if he'd be willing to help clean up the cafe should he have the time. It's still a bit early in the morning and a Saturday, so he hopes his text doesn't interrupt his neighbor's sleep. A short beat later and his screen at least confirms Prompto is awake.
Sure! B there in 20
No use in dilly dallying in the meantime. Ignis rolls up his sleeves and sets to work.
He’s immensely thankful for Prompto’s help, who promptly (Heh) came in with a thin sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s a runner, he told Ignis, and that he’s typically up at these hours for his morning jogs. Meaning, Ignis didn’t need to worry about waking him up at Saturday’s early hours.
Only a month out of commission and the poor thing was covered in dust; not to mention the fridge’s contents had gone rancid. That had been a smelly affair, much to the blonde’s dramatics. But with their combined efforts, they managed to clean up for the most part. Prompto had left an hour ago, much to Ignis’ insistence, considering he kept the poor man far past lunch time.
Ignis finishes wiping down the espresso machines and throws the dirty rag into a bin, finishing up the day’s cleaning. He takes a quick peruse of their inventory, taking into consideration what needs to be restocked or replaced. He has yet to test all their machines, but he’s confident they’re all in working order. In any case, he’ll make sure to confirm everything’s functional in the following days; no need to rush since he has to wait to restock their shelves first.
As he takes a gander through their supplies, he notices there’s just enough ingredients to try his hand at baking. He remembers the little box of recipes in the office, so he rummages through the drawers for the small wooden box and searches through the laminated cards for a muffin recipe.
‘How old fashioned,’ he thinks, smiling to himself as he brings the card over to the counters. He makes a mental note to make a digital copy of all the recipes, just in case; he’d hate to lose them all in a fire or storm, and a back-up is always a good idea.
Ignis makes a quick trip to the gas station down the street, to pick up the perishables that the recipe calls for, and makes it back to the cafe in quick order. He skims over the ingredients and puts the card aside, reaching into the cabinets for bowls and flour and whatever else his uncle instructed. It’s simple enough, a standard muffin batter, with just a few personal flairs that make it unique, though Ignis isn’t sure about the dash of hulldagh nutmeg. He adds it anyway, because surely there’s a reason his uncle underlined it in bold green highlighter.
By the time the chocolate muffins are done, the sun had already set. He cleans up quickly as he lets them cool on a rack, then gathers them all in a couple paper bags once he’s done putting everything away. When he locks up Bervenia for the night, the fresh cool air hits him all at once and already he finds himself missing the aroma of the oven and spices. It’s something he could easily find himself falling in love with for sure.
The streets light up as the sun dips ever lower into the horizon, its orange and yellow hues disappearing into the dark of the night sky. Ignis wants to believe in the peace and safety of the town, but he can’t help but keep his pace brisk as he avoids the growing shadows and dubious corners. It’s safe for all his uncle has told him, but his time in Insomnia tells him otherwise. The Crown City may be a bright glistening thing with all its lights and sounds and thrumming engines, but not even its neon lights could ward off the dangers that lurk in her dark streets and narrow alleyways.
The stars have just begun to peek out when he makes it to the condominium. He knocks on Prompto’s door, to offer him a bag of muffins for his help today, but no response has him carrying both bags back to his condo. He’s searching through his cabinets for the smaller tupperware gifted to him, so that he can drop them off to Prompto in the morning, when he hears a suspicious rattling from his balcony. He automatically thinks cat, but he remembers there are no trees that reach above the third floor; and pets aren't allowed. There's a possibility that someone's hiding one anyway, but the long distance between the adjacent balconies makes him doubt it. Birds maybe? It's night, however, and they should all be roosting.
It could be an owl. But then it's a distinctive knocking — three bold raps — and Ignis nearly jumps out of his skin at the sheer loudness of it. He gingerly steps over to the balcony door, his phone in hand just in case he needs to call security, and he pulls the heavy curtain aside with a sharp rattle and. Oh.
Hm.
A young man stands there, one hand in his jacket pocket and the other waving at him. Ignis is so thrown out of his zone that he barely catches the “Hi” the stranger-possibly-burglar-slash-serial-killer mouths to him.
Common sense dictates he calls security, right now. But Ignis is too busy wondering how and why and where. There's no trees to climb, no ladder to reach up so far, and there's too large a distance from the neighboring balcony to even think of making the jump. And unless this man is some sort of professional stuntman who is deeply invested in parkour, it's almost impossible he climbed down from above without sporting some broken ankles or other bones. And he looked perfectly fine with his sheepish grin and bright eyes, no sign of injury or pain anywhere.
Maybe he's hallucinating, maybe it's all the fumes from the detergents he used while cleaning up Bervenia , or maybe instead of nutmeg, his uncle had stashed away some sort of hallucinogenic drug in the spice rack, and he had inadvertently laced his chocolate muffins because this made absolutely no sense and —
The man's tapping pulls him out of his bout of panic. Again, logic tells him he really should just call security , but instead he makes a completely absurd decision and unlatches the sliding door, cracking it open just enough to fit a man's finger through.
“Hey, is Vincent here?” the intruder asks.
Vincent. Uncle Vincent.
“…No.” Ignis answers before he can stop himself, and he silently berates himself for his chain of bad decisions. It’s that terrifyingly disarming smile, he tells himself, that the man offers him.
“Oh. Really? I thought I smelled his muffins,” he says, his posture suddenly turning awkward. He shifts his weight between his feet, one hand reaching back to idly scratch at his neck. “Sorry, my bad.”
“I baked them.” Okay. Ignis visibly cringed at how quickly he responded. “They’re my uncle’s, ah, Vincent’s recipe.”
He purposely ignores the fact that this man claimed the smell of his chocolate muffins as the reason for this unannounced visit. Ignores that it was not at all normal to knock at someone’s (fifth floor) balcony instead of the front door. And especially ignores that, on closer inspection, his skin looks so pallid it’s almost translucent, his hair so black it melts into the night sky and stars danced among his locks. He looks almost ethereal .
“Oh! You’re his nephew then. He mentioned you a few times, just graduated from university and all that, yeah?”
“Yes, I’m here to take care of the shop in his stead.”
“That explains it.” The man’s chest puffs up visibly as he takes in a deep breath. “You smell like Bervenia, so I thought he was back.”
“Would you… perhaps like a muffin?” he said, against his better judgment — which could strangle him right now if it had hands.
“Hell yes.”
Ignis turns his back — a death wish if this man truly meant any harm — and plucks out the treat from the bag. He quickly returns to the door, relieved and delighted that the balcony intruder didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to see through with any heinous plans he may have had. Ignis widens the door, just enough to slip his hand through, and drops it off in the other’s palm.
“Thanks a bunch. I’ve been craving his goodies lately, been really missing his pumpkin croissants. Can you make those too?”
Again, those pumpkin croissants.
“I’ve never tried, but I don’t see why I can’t.”
“Cool, thanks again for the muffin. Say hi to Vincent for me, too.”
Ignis barely got the time to nod when the man backed away to place one hand on the railing and then —
Jumps over the fucking railing.
Ignis throws open the door and takes the three fastest steps he had ever taken in his entire life, a lightning speed compared to Field Day at high school when he had been delegated as the final runner in the baton pass. His torso lurches over the edge, and he half expects to see a blood splatter on the concrete, to maybe call emergency services after all.
But there’s nothing. Everything is still, quiet. No body, no blood, not even a passerby walking down the sidewalk.
“Uncle, this condo wouldn’t happen to be haunted, would it? I believe I’ve just met a ghost.”
“Oh, Ignis my boy, of course not. Only a vampire.”
“Ah, yes, of course… Pardon?”
After a riveting half hour spent on the phone with his uncle, Ignis tries through the motions, to recreate his normal, typical nightly routine, and charges his phone on the nightstand. He returns to the kitchen, boils some water in his electric kettle, and spoons in some loose-leaf tea into a steel filter. He takes a sip out of his mug, warm and comforting in both his hands. Then one more.
Alright, no. This isn’t working.
So instead of trying to feign normalcy, he dumps his tea down the sink and heads back to his bedroom, where he sinks into the mattress and stares at the ceiling. Ignis breathes in deep and reviews what his uncle had told him, instead of trying to shove it away and ignore it all.
And according to his uncle, the not-burglar-slash-serial-killer is a vampire. A friendly vampire, the little voice in his head corrects, who really likes Vincent’s pumpkin croissants. (At this point, did anyone not like his croissants?) His uncle had pointed out the vampire had a sweet tooth in general, but he was partial to whatever Vincent baked up. Also, that the vampire had been in Delia long before Vincent moved in himself.
“But he’s like a friendly cat, don’t worry about him. Just don’t try to feed him vegetables, and he won’t bite… Probably,” Vincent had said, hanging up before Ignis could question the ‘Probably’ part.
Okay. Alright. He could deal with this. Probably.