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Infernian had always been Ignis’ coffee shop of choice. First, and most important, the baristas were true masters of their craft who understood that yes, Accordan beans were in fact less acidic than the ones sources from Cleigne, there was a difference between wet and dry cappuccinos, and caramel syrup and sweetened whipped cream had no business defiling perfectly good coffee. Second, the shop was located just far enough from the Insomnia U campus that it wasn’t constantly overrun by undergraduates. For the most part, Infernian’s clientele consisted of grad students, professors, and local bohemians who appreciated having an oasis where the could read and sip good coffee in peace; and that was just how Ignis liked it.
Noctis, of course, had called it a pretentious coffee shop for pretentious coffee snobs. Ignis retorted that anyone whose preferred coffee order contained the words “chocolate caramel creme” had no business saying anything whatsoever about Ignis’ preferences.
Infernian still had a tendency to get crowded once the university entered the exam period, and on the last Saturday in Octobris Ignis managed to secure the last free table. He settled in with his usual order of drip coffee and a croissant and prepared to work his way through Caelum Industries’ annual report. Now that he was halfway through the final year in his Master of Economics program, he’d been invited to sit in on board meetings, and he wanted to make the best impression he could. If he played his cards right, he’d have a full time job waiting for him as soon as he graduated.
“Um, hi. Ignis?”
Ignis looked up at the boy hovering awkwardly in front of him. He took in the glasses covering violet-blue eyes, the unruly blonde hair pushed underneath a beanie in an attempt to tame it, the band of freckles dancing across the boy’s nose. Prompto: Noctis’ friend. Ignis had met him a handful of times over the years, but he couldn’t say that they had a particularly close relationship. Prompto always struck him as friendly but loud, and that combination was not one that had ever really appealed to him.
Even so, he didn’t dislike the boy. “Prompto,” said Ignis, and smiled politely. “Can I help you?”
“Um.” Prompto shifted from foot to foot. “All the other seats are taken. Is it okay if I sit here?” He pointed at the empty chair opposite Ignis.
Ignis sighed internally. Prompto would probably talk at him about everything from the weather, to the latest videogame he and Noctis were playing, to Insomnia zoo’s recently hatched black chocochick. Any hope Ignis had for actually getting any work done was dwindling rapidly, unless, of course, he told Prompto to go away. Only that would be unconscionably rude, and Ignis had no desire to be rude.
“All right,” he said, hoping that his voice betrayed none of his misgivings.
“Awesome! Thanks!” Prompto beamed and dropped his backpack on the chair. “I’ll just go and order, then.” His eyes traveled across the the coffee bar with its pour over station, the glass cold brew towers, and the tap for nitro brew. “Ummm. This is a little fancier than my usual place. Is there anything I should get?'
Prompto was probably someone who obscured the taste of coffee with copious amounts of cream and sugar. “They make their mochas with actual chunks of bittersweet chocolate, rather than pre-mixed syrup. It’s reminiscent of a sophisticated hot chocolate.”
“Oooh, fancy .” Prompto’s grin was easy and unaffected; Ignis had to admit it suited him. “I’m not really into sweet coffee drinks, though. What about the flat white? I’ve never had one of those.”
“I enjoy them.”
“Okay, great. Be right back.”
Prompto wandered off to the counter, and Ignis returned to his report, trying to make the most of his last few minutes of solitude.
But when Prompto returned, coffee in hand, he did not turn into a chatterbox. He put his headphones on, pulled an assortment of texts and notebooks out of his backpack, and set to work. Ignis allowed himself a moment of surprised gratitude, then went back to reading up on how Caleum Industries had underperformed in the energy sector due to an unexpected drop in the prince of Gralean natural gas.
It was surprisingly pleasant. The two of them fell into a bubble of focused silence punctuated only by the rustle of pages being turned and the soft scratches of pencil on paper. When Prompto got up to fetch water, he brought a glass back for Ignis; when Ignis went for another coffee, he also got a croissant for Prompto and was rewarded with another radiant smile.
They’d been sitting in easy companionship for more than an hour when Ignis took a break. He leaned back in his chair as he sipped at his coffee, and his eyes drifted over the materials on Prompto’s side of the table. He remembered Noctis mentioning that Prompto was thinking of going into engineering, and it looked like there was an assortment of mechanically-inclined sketches mixed in with his notes, but there was also…
“Are you reading The Cartanican Odyssey ?”
The Cartanican Odyssey had been written four hundred years ago by an anonymous author - although the single author theory was in a perpetual state of dispute - in the waning years of the Niflheim Empire, and was now regarded as the foundational work of modern Gralean literature. It was also a notoriously difficult text, full of obscure allusions and tricky shifts of perspective. Ignis had read excerpts from it for one of his senior year humanities electives. At one point, to his secret shame, he had thrown his copy of the book against the wall and dented its spine.
Prompto blinked a bit in surprise and pulled his earbuds out. “Hmmm? Oh, Cartanican Odyssey ? Yeah, I’m actually taking a seminar on it.”
“A seminar on The Cartanican Odyssey ?” Ignis’ consternation must have been visible on his face, because Prompto laughed.
“Yeah. I’m a double major in engineering and fine arts, right? So sophomore year I took a class all about Gralean decorative arts in the Late Imperial and Early Republican periods, and Cartanican Odyssey came up a lot. I mean, a lot . And the professor kept saying that you really need to study it in detail to appreciate it, so when I saw this seminar being offered I signed up for it.”
“That sounds like an exercise in masochism.”
More laughter. Ignis realized that he liked the sound. “Maybe? It’s really interesting, though. It’s actually offered by the Gralean language and lit department, so we’re focusing a lot on the linguistic aspects.”
Another surprise. “I didn’t know you spoke Gralean.”
“Yeah. I was born in Gralea, you know?” Prompto reached up and brushed his fingers through his blonde hair. It was a rare color among Lucians, but common in Gralea and Tenebrae. “My adoptive parents have always been big on the cultural heritage thing, so I went to language school every Saturday while I was growing up. I hated it when I was a kid, but now I actually appreciate it.”
“With age comes wisdom,” said Ignis, deliberately playing up a posh accent.
“That must be it,” agreed Prompto. “Anyway, this edition is dual-language.” He flipped it open and showed Ignis how the Gralean original and Lucian translations faced each other. “It’s neat. You can really tell how the Lucian translators sometimes struggled to come up with an equivalent phrase…” He stopped himself and glanced up at Ignis. The tips of his ears were a faint pink.
“Sorry. You probably just want to do your work.”
“On the contrary.” Ignis smiled. “I chose to go into the social sciences, but I’ve always harbored a fondness for the humanities. I’m happy to listen to your thoughts, although I’m afraid Cartanican Odyssey never fails to drive me to frustration.”
“Oh, well, that’s okay.” Prompto’s cheeks were as pink as his ears. “I’m really more of a visual arts person.”
“Are you familiar with any modern art? I’m rather keen on the geometric abstractionists.”
“You mean like Avra Lithantos?” Prompto leaned forward. “I’ve seen some of her stuff, but it feels a bit too rigid for me, you know? I like the surrealists.”
Neither of them went back to the work they’d brought with them. They whiled away the rest of the afternoon sipping coffee,comparing their tastes in books and films, and debating whether it would be better to vacation in Tenebrae or Galahd. This had turned into a discussion of their respective cuisines - Ignis enjoyed the subtleties of Tenebraean dishes, while Prompto preferred the spiciness of Galahdian food - when Ignis’ stomach growled rather loudly.
He flushed. “Excuse me.”
“Nah, I’m hungry too.” Prompto pulled out his phone and checked the time. “Dude, we’ve been here for like three hours! It’s dinner time.”
Dinner was an attractive prospect. Infernian’s baked goods were delicious, but they did not make a meal. He’d gone grocery shopping the day before and had the ingredients to make a lasagna and side salad, but perhaps…
“There’s actually a Galahdian cafe just a short walk from here,” he said. “The green curry is particularly good, if that’s amenable to you?”
“Definitely."
When Ignis opened the door to his apartment some hours later, it was with a full belly and Prompto’s number programmed into his cell phone. He waited long enough to brew a pot of tea and settle onto his sofa, then sent off a text.
There’s an exhibit of early modern Lucian prints being held at the National Gallery. I was planning on visiting it next Saturday. Would you care to join me?
It was ridiculous, how quickly his heart was beating.
The replay came less than a minute later.
Yeah! :) :) :) Go in the morning and get lunch after?
Ignis’ lips curved up into a smile.
Of course.
* * *
It was raining on Saturday, a late autumn drizzle that burrowed beneath layers of clothing to penetrate the bones. Ignis left his apartment prepared to do battle with the elements, wearing a trench coat made of tightly woven water resistant fabric, a thick wool scarf, and lined gloves; and carrying an umbrella large enough to shield him from the worst of the onslaught. When he arrived at the steps leading up to the gallery entrance he was a bit damp around the cuffs, but otherwise dry and warm.
Prompto, however, looked like the proverbial drowned rat. His coat - far too thin for the season - was completely soaked, his hands were tucked firmly under his armpits, and the hair sticking out from beneath his beanie was sticking against his forehead in damp tendrils. He looked about five minutes away from catching pneumonia.
Ignis hurried up to him in consternation. “Prompto,” he said, “you are hardly dressed for the weather.”
Prompto shrugged and reached up to tug at his beanie. “I guess? I always forget to grab my umbrella before I leave. But it’s okay, I never feel cold when I’m walking.”
Ignis frowned. “You walked here? How far is that?”
“Two miles, maybe? It’s not a big deal. I can always use the exercise.”
“If you fall ill, the exercise won’t do you any good,” chided Ignis gently. “Come on then, let’s get inside and warm up.”
Compared to the chilly dampness of outside, the interior of the gallery was almost oppressively warm. By the time they purchased their tickets and checked their coats, the pallor in Prompto’s cheeks had been replaced by a pink glow, and Ignis felt rather overheated in his wool sweater. He fanned himself lightly with his building map, and Prompto grinned at him.
“You’ll feel better in a second. Come on, the exhibit’s on the second floor.”
Miserable weather usually meant that the Gallery was crammed full of people eager to take in three millennia of Lucian art, but since it was only just past ten o’clock, the special exhibits gallery was mostly empty. Ignis was relieved - he remembered going to the “Secret Art of Solheim” exhibit two years ago and having to jostle with hundreds of other visitors to catch a glimpse of the artifacts. It had hardly been an enjoyable experience, no matter how fascinating the subject matter.
Now, however, they were free to roam through the silent, dimly lit galleries and appreciate the prints without any hindrances. There must have been at least two hundred of them, some large, some smaller than Ignis’ hand, all of them displaying the remarkable craftsmanship that characterized the flourishing of fine arts that swept Lucis some five hundred years ago.
“Look at this one.”
Prompto was standing before a print that was barely larger than Ignis’ phone. Despite its diminutive size, it portrayed a dramatic and dynamic scene: four naked women dancing around a blazing bonfire while a giant horned figure loomed in the sky above them. The long-ago artist had managed to capture an extraordinary amount of detail - each sensual curve and fold of flesh was lovingly rendered, wisps of hair flew away from their faces on an imaginary breeze, and the flames seemed to be in the midst of their own fiery ritual.
“A rendition of the witches of Ravatogh, I believe,” said Ignis. He glanced at the small placard beneath it. “Ah, yes. When this was printed, Ravatogh was still an active cult site. Women who had suffered wrongdoing at their hands of their husbands would go there and pray to the Infernian to wreak vengeance on their behalf.”
“Yeah, I remember reading about that in high school.” Prompto’s nose was only a few inches from the glass. The security guard in the corner eyed him warily. “It’s so amazing, how much detail is here.” He pointed. “Look, you can see a cat and her kittens here in the corner. And this is a woodcut , can you believe it?”
Ignis leaned in as well, so close their cheeks were almost touching. “So you can. Charming.”
It took them the better part of two hours to make their way through the entire exhibit. Ignis decided that his favorite print was a hand-colored copperplate engraving portraying the marriage of Shiva and Ifrit; Prompto was enamored with a woodcut depicting a herd of wild chocobos running across the wild landscape of Cleigne. As they left the final gallery he was still talking about it, tracing his hands through the air as he spoke.
“...They’re like photographs before photographs, you know? These amazingly detailed images that could be reproduced and distributed, so that people in Leide could see what the Vesperpool looked like.”
“Yes,” said Ignis, smiling at him. “My thoughts exactly.”
They meandered through the rest of the Gallery before making their way to the exit. Like every other child raised within Insomnia’s city limits, Ignis grew up going to the National Gallery at least once a year, and had a well-established list of favorites by the time he graduated high school. There was the 8th century A.E. sculpture of Ardyn, the legendary King of Solheim, the stained glass dome depicting a starry sky that had once graced the atrium of the Siderea family’s Cape Caem estate, and, of course, the small room dedicated completely to Lithantos’ abstractions. He pointed each one out to Prompto as they passed them by, telling him about each piece and why they called to him.
Prompto, unsurprisingly, was fond of the photography galleries. He was especially enamored with the wet plate collodion process that had been in use some one-hundred and fifty years ago, and told Ignis that he was planning to incorporate the technique into his senior portfolio. Somewhat surprisingly, he was also fond of the extravagant, almost surrealist religious art of the early Royal Period, and they spent at least half an hour gazing up at immense altarpieces in which Leviathan danced among giant waterspouts, Titan shoved screaming peasants into his cavernous maw, and Shiva glided across a frozen pond on what appeared to be ice skates crafted out of bone.
“I hadn’t pegged you as the religious sort,” murmured Ignis to Prompto as they stood before a rather graphic depiction of Bahamut and Leviathan engaging in carnal intercourse.
Prompto laughed softly. The curl of his lips was terribly distracting. “Only when it suits me.”
They had lunch at a small cafe just around the corner that specialized in Accordan cuisine, and after they’d eaten Ignis insisted on stopping at the Regius Department Store to get Prompto a proper scarf, one that was thick and warm and made from the finest Duscean wool.
“That’s way too nice,” said Prompto, staring down at the scarf Ignis had selected. “You know most of my winter gear is made from polyester, right? Wool is too rich for my blood.”
“Wool is much warmer than polyester,” said Ignis. “And it will last much longer. Now, do you prefer the blue and purple design, or the orange and red one? I won’t accept ‘no’ for an answer, so you’d best choose one.”
Prompto’s cheeks flushed bright pink, but he reached out and tapped the orange and red scarf.
“Marvelous. Now let’s be off."
When Prompto waved goodbye, he looked much better equipped for the weather with a brightly colored scarf wrapped around his neck. Ignis watched him go, a slow bloom of warmth spreading through his chest and thought, Oh, dear.
* * *
The trip to the Gallery led to trips to the cinema, led to a visit to Ignis’ favorite Tenebraen restaurant, led to attending avant garde photography shows. And so finally, nearly two months after that initial outing, Ignis was in his apartment, about to begin preparing dinner, and feeling like he was five minutes away from a panic attack.
“I know he prefers green curries,” he said, staring at the contents of his refrigerator with a furrow between his brow, “but I wasn’t impressed with the selection of shellfish at the market this morning. All I could get was grouper, and that’s more suited for a red curry. But surely that will be all right, won’t it? Noctis?”
Noctis looked up from his laptop and stared at Ignis. “Oh my god. Seriously?”
“What?” Ignis pulled his head out of the refrigerator and frowned at him. “Is it so shocking that I want the first meal I cook for your best friend to be successful?”
Noctis’ lips curved up in a dangerous smirk. “Oh? Is this meal really for my best friend? Or for the cute guy you want to lock lips with?”
Ignis’ cheeks felt warm. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on, Specs.” Noctis abandoned his laptop in favor of draping himself over the breakfast bar that divided Ignis’ kitchen and living room. “The past month it’s been nothing but, ‘Prompto has such keen artistic insight,’ ‘Prompto has a wonderful sense of humor,’ ‘Prompto takes his studies seriously, why can’t you?’ You’re not fooling anyone. Gladio and I are betting on who makes the first move.”
“Noctis ,” hissed Ignis. His cheeks were practically on fire.
Noctis’ grin shifted from teasing to warm. “My money’s on you, by the way,” he said. “Seriously, though. He talks about you all the time. I think you’d be good together. And I always knew you’d like him if you just gave him a chance.”
“I admit I may have been overly judgemental of him and have since revised my opinion,” said Ignis stiffly. “Now, do you think a red curry will be to his liking?”
“He’ll love anything you make for him,” said Noctis, “but yes, he’ll like the red curry. Now just calm down and listen to me go over the key points of Tullio’s theory of macroeconomics while you chop vegetables.”
Ignis had always found kitchen prep relaxing. It was easy to fall into the rhythm of chopping onion and lemongrass, mincing garlic, carefully cutting the fish fillets into cubes; his hands taking over the motion while his mind wandered free. He listened to Noctis go over the material for his economics final, offering clarifications and corrections when necessary, and by the time the curry was bubbling away on the stove, he felt considerably calmer.
“It smells good,” commented Noctis as he stuffed his study materials into his backpack. “He’ll love it.”
“I hope so,” Ignis lifted the lid and gave the contents a quick stir. “I’d hate for him to be disappointed.”
“This is someone who regularly eats the cockatrice and rice bowls in the cafeteria. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”
Someone knocked on the door.
Ignis looked down at his watch. “That can’t possibly be Prompto. I told him to come at six-thirty, and it’s only quarter of.”
Another knock. It somehow managed to sound tentative.
Noctis raised his eyebrows. “You gonna answer that?”
Ignis took a deep breath, wiped his hands on his apron, and opened the door.
Prompto stood in the hallway, his hand raised for another knock. He was wrapped up in a rather threadbare winter coat and the scarf Ignis had bought him, and his cheeks were pink from cold. He blinked at Ignis, caught off guard, then thrust a large bouquet of flowers at him.
“Igottheseforyou,” he said all in a rush, then snapped his mouth shut.
Ignis took the bouquet. It was a lovely arrangement of creamy white daylilies juxtaposed with dramatic purple-violet sylleblossoms, and it must have cost far more than Prompto’s student budget allowed. Sylleblossoms were a rare commodity in Lucis and were only available from a specialty florists - for an exorbitant price, naturally.
It was an incredibly sweet, thoughtful gift. Ignis wanted desperately to sweep Prompto into his arms and kiss him breathless.
But Prompto was still standing in the hallway, fluttering his hands as though he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and Ignis was mindful of his responsibilities as host. He contented himself with smiling graciously, stepping aside, and saying, “They’re gorgeous, Prompto. Thank you so much. Please come inside.”
“Sorry I’m so early,” babbled Prompto as he stepped past Ignis and slipped his shoes off. “I was just worried that I’d get lost on the way here, or I’d miss the train by like a minute, and then I’d be late, you know? And I really, really didn’t want to be late because I know how much you value punctuality, and - oh, hi, Noct. Are you eating dinner, too?”
“He is not,” said Ignis firmly as he pulled a vase out of the cabinet and arranged the flowers in it. “He’s just on his way out.”
“Right.” Noctis eyed the bouquet and glanced slyly at Ignis. “Specs was just helping me review for my econ final.” He settled his backpack over his shoulder and clapped Prompto on the shoulder. “Study break tomorrow? We can play some video games.”
“‘Course.” Prompto beamed at Noctis. “I’ll text you.”
“Have a nice dinner.” Noctis winked at Ignis, too quickly for Prompto to see, and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a decisive click.
Ignis and Prompto were alone. For a moment, they stood in awkward silence. Then Ignis remembered his manners.
“Let me take your coat for you, Prompto.” He held his hands out for the garment and glanced down at his own less-than-pristine apron. “And do forgive my appearance. I haven’t had a chance to freshen up yet.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Prompto slipped out of his coat and passed it to Ignis. Underneath it he was wearing a gray sweater that looked wonderfully soft, and just loose enough to provide an enticing glimpse of collarbone. “I mean, I’m the one who’s early. Sorry, I’m a terrible guest.”
“No, you’ve done nothing wrong.” Ignis shook the coat and draped it over his arm. Shook it out again. Then stopped and laughed softly at the absurdity of the situation.
“Prompto,” he said, and reached out to brush his fingers against Prompto’s cheek. Just a brief touch; he wasn’t quite bold enough to let it linger, no matter how much he wanted to. “Do forgive me. I just… I very much want you to enjoy this dinner. You might even say I want it to be perfect.”
“Oh! I mean… oh.” When Prompto really smiled, it was impossible not to feel as if everything would be all right. “I’m sure it will be. I mean, don’t worry too much! I just want to spend time with you."
“Likewise,” said Ignis. “Now then. I’ll take your coat, then get you something to drink while I freshen up. All right?’
“Yeah. Sounds perfect.”
“Then what would you like? Water? Wine?”
Prompto smiled. “Let’s save the wine for dinner, yeah? Water’s fine.”
“Certainly.”
Ignis was back on firm footing. First - put Prompto’s coat in the closet. Next - pour Prompto a glass of sparkling water, with a splash of ulwaat berry juice added for taste and color. Last - pull his apron off and excuse himself to the bathroom for a minutes.
Ignis could admit to having a vain streak. For him, “freshening up” usually meant spending at least thirty minutes styling his hair, moisturizing his face and dabbing concealer over the worst of his acne scars, and making sure that his clothes were arranged just so . Now, however, he settled for splashing water over his face, running a comb through his hair a few times, and tugging at his collar until he was satisfied.
He stepped back, stared at his reflection, and groaned. Astrals, he looked a mess. But it would have to do, and surely Prompto… surely Prompto wouldn’t mind if he looked less than perfect.
He took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and returned to the living room.
Prompto was standing in front of one of Ignis’ bookshelves, running his fingers lightly over the titles. He turned and smiled, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.
“I remember you said you hated The Cartanican Odyssey ,” he said, “but you have three copies.”
“I don’t have to like it to appreciate its cultural significance,” retorted Ignis. “And it’s three distinct editions - one illustrated hardcover edition, one edition with scholarly commentary, and one paperback edition. None in the original Gralean, however. I’ll leave that to you..”
“But wouldn’t you like one?” Prompto’s smile was teasing. “I could help you learn Gralean, you know. You already speak Lucian and Accordan. I’m sure adding a third language would be easy for you.”
“With such a charming tutor, how could I refuse such an offer? But your glass is empty.” Ignis reached out and took plucked Prompto’s glass out of his fingers. “Come on. I’ll open a bottle of wine, and you can keep me company while I make the salad.”
“Oh, I can make the salad!” said Prompto. “I’m actually good at those.”
“But I am the host and you are my guest.” Ignis steered him toward the breakfast bar with a gentle hand on the small of his back. “And I’m afraid that means I cook while you make scintillating conversation.”
And Prompto was a good conversationalist, flitting easily from one topic to the next with a lively anecdote always at hand. It was easy to get wrapped up in talking to him rather than focusing on the task at hand, and by the time Ignis finished the salad it was already nearing half past seven and they’d managed to finish nearly an entire bottle of Accordan white.
“I do apologize Prompto,” said Ignis in consternation. “I meant to serve dinner a half hour ago.”
“No worries. I have night classes, so I’m used to eating late.”
It was, Ignis thought to himself, one of the better meals he’d prepared. The salad had the right balance of peppery greens, bright citrus, and crunchy nuts; and the curry was rich and complex. He’d tried apologizing that it was red instead of green, and Prompto had stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment.
“But it’s delicious, Ignis, some of the best I’ve ever had. It could be black curry and still be delicious!”
“Squid ink is actually used frequently in Accordan cuisine, and it does give dishes a rather dramatic dark hue.”
“Really? You’ll have to make one for me sometime.”
Prompto insisted that he the one to clear the dishes from the table and serve dessert (“Just relax for a few minutes, please? For me?”), and eventually resorted to pushing Ignis bodily onto the couch while he fluttered about the kitchen. Ignis decided against fighting that particular battle and sank back against the cushions as he listened to the sounds of domesticity: water running, dishes clinking against each other, and the refrigerator door opening and closing. He valued his space, and enjoyed living alone, but having Prompto here…
...it was nice. Comfortable. Something he could get used to.
“Here.”
Prompto pressed a dish of ice cream into Ignis’ hands and sat down on the couch next to him, close, but not quite close enough to touch. The inches between them felt like a canyon. Ignis wanted desperately to bridge them.
“It’s beautiful,” said Prompto, nodding at the view of nighttime Insomnia that stretched out from Ignis’ living room window. “My room just has a view of the building next door.”
Ignis flushed. “The apartment technically belongs to my uncle. He prefers to live in Tenebrae and is kind enough to let me live here at a fraction of what it would cost otherwise.”
“Oh, hey, I didn’t mean anything by that!” Prompto brushed his fingers lightly over Ignis’ wrist. “I mean, take advantage of what you’ve got, you know? But I’d love to take some pictures of the skyline from up here, if you’d let me.”
“Of course,” said Ignis. He turned his hand and caught Prompto’s fingers in his. “I would be delighted.”
“Oh, good.” Prompto squeezed Ignis’ hand. “I’d love that. And look - it’s starting to snow.”
It was. Fat snowflakes drifted down from the night sky, fluttering lazily through the orange-gold glow of the streetlamps before settling on the ground. The two of them relaxed against the couch cushions and watched the sparkling flakes drift gently down, chatting idly about nothing at all. At one point Ignis poured small glasses of port, and Prompto insisted on preparing a small cheese plate to go with it. It was comfortable and intimate, cozy and relaxing, and time slipped away from them until Prompto’s eyes were at half mast and he was practically dozing against the couch cushions.
“I should go,” he finally murmured, checking his watch. “The last train is in twenty minutes, and I need to leave now if I want to make it to the station in time.”
And yes, that made perfect sense. Their evening had to come to an end at some point. Only it was late, and it was cold outside, and the thought of leaving Prompto to go back to a tiny impersonal dorm room did not sit well with Ignis. Not at all.
“Stay here.”
Prompto’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I would never want to impose.”
“Nonsense.” Ignis reached out and rested his fingers on Prompto’s wrist. He let the touch linger. “I insist. There’s no telling how wretched the weather will get. You’ll stay here, and you’ll take the bed.”
“Ignis…”
“I insist.” Ignis lifted his hand to curb any protests. “I’ve spent the night on this couch before, and I’ve never had a problem falling asleep on it.”
“But…”
“Prompto.” Ignis fixed him with his most serious stare. “I take my duties as a host very seriously . If I let you leave now, I will feel that I have failed in that capacity and will be guilty about it for the next three months."
“Well.” Prompto’s lips curved upward in a tiny smiled. “I suppose if you put it like that.”
“I do,” said Ignis. “Now let’s get you settled.”
Ignis hadn’t lied about his couch being an acceptable substitute for a bed. Thirty minutes later he was curled up beneath the pleasant weight of his spare comforter, drifting slowly off. He thought of Prompto, nestled in the deep indigo sheets of his own bed, and smiled. It was a nice thought. Very nice indeed. He let himself sink into his imaginings of what it would be like to be in bed with Prompto, warm and safe and happy, and fell into a deep, contented sleep.
* * *
He opened his eyes again at some indeterminate time between midnight and dawn. He thought nothing of it; he usually woke up a few times during the night to roll over and stretch. He blinked a few times, listening to the low thrum of the refrigerator, and, satisfied that nothing required his attention, burrowed back under the comforter and prepared to drift off again.
He was just on the cusp of sleep when he heard it: a soft patter against the floorboards. It was enough to jerk him back into full wakefulness, heart thumping urgently in his chest. Then he remembered.
“Prompto?” he asked. He sat up, the comforter bunching up around his waist, and squinted into the apartment’s gloom. He could just make out a human-shaped patch of darkness in the hallway. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m fine.” Prompto’s voice was scarcely above a whisper, but even that sounded loud in the apartment’s nighttime hush. “Just can’t sleep. Thought I’d get a glass of water.”
“Is the bed not comfortable? Or are you cold? Do you need more blankets?”
“No.” Prompto stepped forward into the living room, and Ignis could just make out his face in the dim light streaming in through the blinds. “I always have trouble sleeping in strange places. It’s just my thing.”
“Ah.” Ignis hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was about to do something horribly untoward. Then he threw caution to the wind.
“Come here,” he said softly and lifted the comforter in invitation.
For a moment, Prompto didn’t move. Then he was crawling up onto his couch, burrowing under the comforter and into Ignis’ side. Ignis waited until he was settled and then drew the comforter up over them both, surrounding them in a cocoon of warmth.
“Better?” he asked.
Prompto’s eyes were luminous. “Yeah,” he murmured. His breath ghosted softly over Ignis’ collarbone. “Much better. Thanks.”
“Of course.”
They slipped into silence. Ignis was sure his heart was beating loudly enough for Prompto to hear. He was acutely aware of every place their skin touched, and he wanted nothing more than to pull Prompto even closer, until they were completely wrapped up in each other.
“I like you a whole lot,” whispered Prompto against Ignis’ collarbone. The words were as soft as the snowflakes falling outside, as much felt as heard, trembling under the weight of the confession.
But it was safe here, in their warm haven, and Ignis wrapped his arms around Prompto’s waist and drew him close. He rested his chin against
“I like you, too,” said Ignis. The words felt woefully inadequate. “I would very much like to kiss you."
Prompto laughed. “Well. No objections to that.”
It wasn’t a passionate kiss. That would come later. For now it was enough to let their lips brush together in an affirmation of shared affection. When he pulled away Ignis could see Prompto’s smile, and knew it mirrored his own.
“Good night,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning,” echoed Prompto.
When Ignis woke up again, he had a crick in his neck, he was almost uncomfortably warm, and the morning sunlight streaming in through the windows made the living room irritatingly bright. He needed a shower and a vat of coffee. A fresh croissant from the bakery around the corner would also not go amiss.
But he also had Prompto pressed up against him, soft and warm and relaxed. His hair was brushing gently against Ignis’ collarbone, and Ignis could feel the gentle rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathed.
Ignis closed his eyes again and shifted until he found a comfortable position with his limbs twined loosely with Prompto’s. There was no need to get up just yet. He and Prompto would get up together, perhaps in an hour or two, and make coffee. Then they would walk to the bakery and pastries - and possibly more coffee - and after that they’d go to the park and enjoy the fresh snow.
And that would make for a fine day, thought Ignis, snuggling deeper into the comforter. A fine day, indeed.