Chapter Text
The facts are these.
Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, full-time baker, part-time private investigator’s assistant and generally a reasonable, logical man - is about to make the most unreasonable, illogical decision of his short and uneventfully eventful life.
To understand his peculiar circumstances, the unfortunately fortunate series of events that brought him to this moment, one must start at the beginning.
The facts were these.
Ignis Scientia - despite the oddness of his name - grew up an ordinary, average boy.
He lived in an ordinary, average house in an ordinary, average neighborhood with an ordinary, average mother. The only things not ordinary or average about him were his intelligence (“above average” as his mother liked to boast) and his choice in friends.
Friend, rather. Singular.
Prompto was the only child his age on the block and by extension, his first and dearest friend.
And as far as young Ignis was concerned, he wasn’t ordinary or average in any way.
He called him ‘Iggy,’ had a penchant for running places and climbing things, and always wore a bright yellow chocobo print kerchief around his neck. Even brighter than his accessory was his laughter, his grin as he’d drag Ignis off to do mundane things masked as noble and fantastic adventures. Together, they’d crossed the ocean (waded across a little stream), befriended a talking wolf (pet the neighbor’s dog) and raced the wind (ran together down the street).
Ignis’ favorite of these adventures was when they’d climbed the beanstalk to Neverland (scaled a tree to sit on the upper branches in the light of the setting sun). The fact that Prompto had gotten his stories mixed up, that if this was a beanstalk they should logically be in a Giant’s castle, was inconsequential, what with the way the fading light illuminated Prompto’s blond hair. Ignis wished this was some fantasy land. He wished this moment would last forever.
He didn’t realize it at the moment, but this afternoon was the first scene of the story of his first love. And if Ignis was truly an ordinary, average boy, then this first love might have grown into something bigger than the young, nervous thing it was.
Perhaps they could have grown into something more than friends, with all the ordinary, average hallmarks of a not ordinary, not average, exciting and wonderful relationship. Maybe they would have held hands longer than usual one day as teens, maybe they would have blushed. Maybe one day they would have kissed on the lips and become what people who kissed on the lips became.
Maybe.
But Ignis’ wish wasn’t granted. This wasn’t a fantasy land, and this moment had to end.
Because, after all, Ignis was less ordinary and average than he thought.
He found out how strange and extraordinary he truly was over the course of one strange and extraordinarily unfortunate night.
His mother called him in from a long day of play and they’d had a nice dinner full of light conversation before a blood vessel burst in her brain and she dropped dead on her plate.
Ignis was scared and confused, but his young brain knew what death was. His young brain didn’t know what to do in the face of it, though. So, little and alone, he did all he could think to do and touched her hand.
To his surprise, a jolt of electricity jumped between their skin and his mother sat upright, very much alive.
“Oh dear,” she’d said, wiping at the remnants of dinner that stuck to her face when she’d fallen in it. “I must have fallen asleep. Let’s get ourselves cleaned up, shall we? Your eyes are a little red, darling. Are you feeling ill? Why don’t we try to sleep early, hm?”
And so Ignis went through the night in a daze, not understanding what he’d done. He couldn’t have known what was to come.
He couldn’t have known that a minute, exactly a minute after he’d brought his mother back from the dead, Prompto’s father would take her place there. He couldn’t have known that when his mother touched him again - a kiss on the forehead to say goodnight, perhaps - there’d be another spark, like a circuit being closed, and she’d drop to the ground dead, never to be raised again.
But, unfortunately, ignorance was not bliss for young Ignis, and the fact that he couldn’t have known didn’t stop either of these things from happening.
If Ignis was an ordinary and average boy, then maybe the first time he and Prompto kissed would have been under happier circumstances. But reality found the both of them parentless and confused, found Ignis pressing his trembling lips to Prompto’s trembling forehead in a desperate attempt at comfort behind the big oak tree of the cemetery where both their parents were now buried.
That afternoon Prompto would move in with a family down the street with a last name starting with an A and Ignis’ father would send him off to boarding school.
By the time they’d said goodbye, Ignis thought he’d never see Prompto again, thought maybe he didn’t deserve to see him again.
See, it didn’t take long for him to put the pieces together, to see past the coincidence.
After all, he’d always had above average intelligence. And now, it seemed, he wasn’t average in any way at all.
The facts are these.
Ignis Scientia - now twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and three days old - has spent the better part of a decade forming as few personal attachments as possible, out of fear of what he would do when someone he loved died, out of fear of what he could do in general.
This fear had been useful in boarding school, where it had paired with his natural curiosity to ensure he’d meticulously studied the strength and range of his ability to raise the dead. The following were the fruits of his studies.
One. That he could raise the dead for sixty seconds, exactly, without consequence.
Two. That keeping anything alive past those sixty seconds would result in a nearby living being’s untimely death.
Two, subset a. That the exchange that takes place is roughly equivalent based on weight and category. (A reraised orchid only produced a dead house fern and a very tense experiment with the groundskeeper’s elderly cat yielded no dead humans, merely the demise of a particularly stubborn raccoon.)
Two, subset b. That a living thing raised by the one touch seemed to be particularly unaffected by what would be typically fatal processes. (The orchid survived a fatal fungal infection that killed all it’s brethren and to his knowledge, Sir Meow Meow lives happily to this day.)
Three. That a second touch would result in a permanent, unfixable death.
And Four. Unexpectedly, that he had a confidant and friend in another student who seemed equally reluctant on forming personal attachments.
This friendship with a certain Noctis Lucis Caelum, son of Regis Lucis Caelum of Caelum Enterprises, would result in the bakery that he owns now, a little thing on the aptly named Baker street that Noctis had helped him set up across from the Caelum Enterprises branch in this town.
A bakery where all the fruits were always fresh and full of life, having only been touched the once. The flowers on the windowsill never seemed to survive for very long, though. Ignis’ fear of what he could do with a touch may have been enough to alienate him from most of his peers, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from finding some way to use his particular set of skills. Whether the thought occurred to him in a stroke of genius or bitterness, he doesn’t know himself.
Either way, he’s not just plumping strawberries for pies anymore.
After all, this is the same bakery that finds Iris coming in with a fresh box of flowers that she sets in the windowsill before taking a seat at her usual booth. Iris had first started coming in because she had a crush on Ignis, then because she had a crush on Noctis, and now because Ignis can’t manage to keep a single flower alive and one other reason.
“Hey, so Gladdy’s coming by today,” she says as she slides into her booth. She doesn’t need to order, Ignis already has her usual - an opera cake with a single candied strawberry, stolen from the top of a vanilla profiterole - ready when he sees her walk through the door. “Just thought you should know ahead of time. This case is getting a lot of press, so he’s been kind of cranky. You know how he hates competition.”
The one other reason Iris comes by the bakery is that they share an employer; her older brother - Gladiolus Amicitia, Private Investigator - is one of the only two people who are not Ignis that know Ignis’ secret.
He’d found out one unfortunate afternoon when a “perp” he’d been chasing had slipped off the roof of the building next to where Ignis Scientia, young baker and dead-raiser, was trying to take out the garbage. Said perp had died on impact, but he also happened to bounce and impact again with Ignis, young dead-raiser and baker, which lead to a mad scramble before the sixty seconds was up.
Since that day, Gladiolus Amicitia, Private Investigator, has made it a habit to pass by The Baker on Baker Street for a profiterole (sans one candied strawberry) and a consultation. That’s what they’d started calling it for the paperwork. Iris - who was in her second year at the local high school - was on the books as ‘secretary’ and Ignis - who could raise the dead - was listed as ‘consultant.’
After all, it’s a little gruesome, but the fastest way to solve a murder is to ask the victim. Ordinary, average people can’t do this, of course.
But Ignis Scientia, young consultant and dead-raiser, most certainly can.
So when there’s a case he can’t solve on his own, Gladiolus Amicitia, Private Investigator, comes to Ignis.
“Can’t solve this one on my own,” Gladio says, after coming to Ignis. He says this between messy bites of his profiterole, looking exhausted. “Gonna need your special touch.”
“I wish you’d stop calling it that,” Ignis grumbles. “It gives the whole ordeal a… dubious kind of flavor.”
“It’s a touch. It’s special.” Gladio sounds unimpressed. “I don’t know what else to call it.”
Ignis only rolls his eyes. “And how much is my rate this time?”
“Reward money is eighty thousand gil. Don’t mind going halfsies this time.”
Forty thousand gil, and gil in general, being the main reason why Ignis continues to act as consultant. He is, after all, a practical man. A practical man who owns a bakery in a town on the smaller side, which means there are only so many birthdays and even fewer weddings, and very few young people with disposable income willing to loiter around with a slice of pie and a cup of coffee.
So forty thousand gil will most certainly go a long way in keeping The Baker on Baker Street, with all of its three regulars, afloat.
“Halfsies, then,” Ignis repeats with an amused smirk.
“What? It’s not like you’ve never said ‘halfsies’ in your life,” Gladio says, shoving the rest of the profiterole into his mouth. “I have a kid sister that I spend a lot of time with, whatever. Which reminds me, dad and Iris want me home for dinner, so let’s do this thing tomorrow.”
“Dessert before dinner, I see.”
“You know what they say about snitches,” Gladio teases, pointing a finger purposefully at Ignis, as he gets up to move towards the door.
“They end up being poked by some poor, harassed baker because a certain private investigator has decided to stop upholding the illusion that he can investigate anything.”
“Ouch,” Gladio deadpans. “Well, can I count on you to meet me tomorrow? Gonna be at the funeral home this time.”
“The one with that ugly little man who steals from all those poor dead people, I’m assuming. You really know how to show someone a good time.”
“Hey, give a guy a break,” Gladio laughs, flipping the sign on the door to closed for Ignis. “This is a work function, isn’t supposed to be fun.”
“Well then, do be sure to dress like it this time.”
“Hey, I already told you: Iris was doing the laundry.”
“Yes,” Ignis says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure that poor family that had to walk in on you, shirtless, while mourning their deceased loved one thought that was a perfect and acceptable explanation.”
And here is where the story truly begins.
The facts were these.
Resting in the Fun in Funeral Funeral Home on the opposite side of town was one body now known by the recently popularized moniker, The Lonely Tourist.
He was young, a twenty-one-year-old man with a boyish, innocent face that was easy for the press to get attached to. He was also found dead in the ocean, the victim of an apparent but mysterious murder on a cruise ship bound to Altissia - a cruise ship that he was traveling on alone (hence the Lonely) - all of which made it even easier for the press to get attached to him.
So it shouldn’t have been possible for Ignis Scientia, now twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, to not have seen anything about him - not a picture, not a single word of his name - in the news.
And yet, somehow, that is exactly what happened.
So when Ignis and Gladio arrive and are ushered into the room of one Argentum, P., Ignis feels his world freeze at the familiar shade of blond peeking out from inside the open coffin as the pieces fall into place at once.
Argentum, P.
Prompto had moved into a family whose last name started with an A.
He feels himself inching closer, bit by bit, until he can see the face on the body, can see that this is Prompto, that this is his Prompto. It’s been a decade, and the freckles across the bridge of his nose have multiplied in that time, but he’s familiar enough to be recognizable. Familiar enough that Ignis remembers the sunset perched in the trees, the kiss he’d pressed to that trembling forehead behind the oak tree at the cemetery back home.
“Something wrong?” he hears Gladio say. “Oughtta hurry it up, funeral party’s gonna be taking him out soon.”
“I…” Ignis breathes. “I knew him.”
“Oh, oh shit,” Gladio hisses. “Shit, I’m sorry Ignis.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ignis says, feeling distant from himself as he stares at the pale face of his first friend and first love. “You couldn’t have known. It’s been years, I thought-”
He cuts himself because he doesn’t know what he thought. He’d tried very hard not to think about Prompto, no matter how often the nostalgia crept in whenever he missed his mother and his friend and his home. He’d only wished that Prompto was safe.
It’s too much to wish for now.
“Ignis.” Gladio cuts through his grief with a firm hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna catch the guy that did this. That’s why we’re here, right?”
“Right,” Ignis manages to say. “Of course.”
“Listen, I’m gonna leave you alone on this one, ok?” Gladio says. Despite the gruffness of his voice, Ignis can tell he’s trying to be gentle. “You say what you need to say, but don’t forget that we gotta bring whoever did this to justice. For his sake.”
“Right, of course. Thank you.”
The words come out of his mouth but it doesn’t feel like he’s saying them, more that mindless feeling from repeating those fancy phrases from all those etiquette classes he and Noctis used to sit through.
“I’ll be out here,” he hears Gladio say, one last time, before the door closes with a gentle click.
He has to take a few breaths before he feels ready to do it, has to remind himself to set the timer on his watch to sixty seconds.
He thinks, for a moment, about where to touch.
It had never really mattered for any of the other people, it was just whatever was the most convenient. The part of him that remembers the Prompto at sunset thinks the lips, but the part of him that remembers the Prompto behind the oak tree in the cemetery thinks the forehead where you kissed him and that is the part of him that wins. It’s fitting in a way, he thinks.
But he doesn’t have time to ponder as to why because as soon as his fingers make gentle contact with Prompto’s forehead he’s punched squarely in the stomach.
It’s a good, solid hit, and one that leaves him reeling long enough that Prompto has time to climb out of the coffin and arm himself with the nearest metal folding chair.
“Listen!” Prompto’s nearly yelling, his voice cracking because of both the fear and the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “Listen, I don’t know what you want, but-!”
“Prompto!” Ignis manages to groan. He’s keeping himself at a distance, not wanting to get hit again, but he’s got his arms up in a placating gesture. “Prompto, it’s just me!”
“Iggy?” Prompto says, his fearful expression turning into a shaky grin, tears welling up at the edges of his eyes. “Iggy, is that you?”
“It’s me,” Ignis says, smiling in spite of everything. It’s been so long since he’s heard Prompto’s voice, heard Prompto calling him Iggy. “It’s me, Prompto.”
“Iggy, holy shit!” Prompto’s grin widens, and he drops the chair to swipe furiously at his eyes. “Holy shit, you’re so tall now! What are you even doing here?” he asks, then seems to realize where he is. Or, at the very least, that it is unfamiliar. “What am I even doing here? Where am- Is that a coffin?”
“Ah,” is all Ignis can think to say, because that is very much a coffin.
“Oh man, I’m dead, aren’t I?” Prompto drags a hand through his hair as he surveys the room with wide eyes. It doesn’t seem to be a question he wants answered, more something he needs to say to himself. “I thought it was a dream. So what is this? Am I like a ghost now? Wait, Ignis, are you a ghost? Dude, what happened to-?”
“You’re alive, Prompto,” Ignis interrupts, hands raised. He flinches and amends with, “For now, that is. I can, ah, I can bring back someone who’s dead by touching them.”
“You can?!” Prompto shouts before he can finish. “Is that new? That’s gotta be new!”
“It’s not new,” Ignis says around a laugh, in spite of everything. “But it’s, well. It’s a temporary arrangement, so to speak, so, ah-”
“It’s not permanent, I get it,” Prompto finishes. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t feel right. His eyes shine too brightly. “I’m alive, but I’m not supposed to be, I get it. So, uh, how long do I have?”
“Until I touch you again, in… twenty-five seconds. Then there’s no waking you, ever,” Ignis sighs. “Prompto, I wish it didn’t have to be like this, but please, do you know who did this to you?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” and he really does look sorry. As if he’s somehow to blame for this. “It all happened so fast! And someone put a plastic bag over my head? I really don’t know.”
“That’s alright, it’s fine, Prompto,” Ignis reassures. He wants to touch him, to comfort him, but he’s afraid of what will happen. He’s still not ready. “I promise you, I’ll bring them to justice.”
“That’s cool and all, but don’t push yourself, Iggy.” Prompto smiles again, but it’s all wrong now, it feels like a lie. “And thanks. I, um, I’m happy to see you again, even if it was only for a little. I’m glad that this time the last thing I see is going to be you.”
Ignis only nods. He doesn’t trust himself with words.
“So, uh, can I pick where you touch me this time?” Prompto laughs, sheepish, as he approaches Ignis. “‘Cause you know I wondered from time to time, after dad’s funeral, what a k-kiss from you would be like. Like a real one. So, like, not to pressure you or anything and you can say no, but wanna be my last kiss?”
Ignis laughs. The watch ticks away on his wrist. Five seconds. “I’d be honored.”
And that is how the final chapter of Prompto’s life is supposed to end.
But it doesn’t, because this is the precise moment that Ignis - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, full-time baker, part-time private investigator’s assistant and generally a reasonable, logical man - makes the most unreasonable, illogical decision of his short and uneventfully eventful life.
He has three seconds as he leans in to kiss Prompto - hands folded behind his back because he has already decided what he wants, whether he knows it or not - and he uses them to hesitate. It’s only a moment, it should have been inconsequential, but he imagines a world where Prompto is alive and happy. Imagines that something as selfish as choosing Prompto over some stranger wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
It’s such a short fantasy, but it’s long enough that his three seconds are up, and the timer on his watch goes off in a series of shrill beeps.
The two of them jump apart at the noise, and Ignis feels his heart drop and jump all at once. A deep and fearful guilt, then a contradictory kind of relief. The sixty seconds were up. Someone would be dead by now anyway.
He doesn’t have to touch Prompto again.
Prompto can stay with him. Prompto can live again.
“On second thought,” he starts. Prompto blinks at him in confusion. “Want to try your hand at playing dead?”