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1025cherrystreet · 3 years

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order for me, please?

y/n is too anxious to order for herself at a restaurant, so harry does it for her.

disclaimer: did not proofread this, nor do i really like how i ended it. very much rushed, very much lost the plot i feel lmao. any feedback is appreciated!!!

warnings: talks about anxiety quite a lot, other than that just fluff. kinda short soz <3

Harry rubs soft circles into your side while you're cuddled into him on the couch. The light coming in from the window casts a yellow glow into the room, little rainbow beams decorate random spots in your living room from the glass.

You've been a bit anxious today. The worst part of it is that you have no clue as to why you've been so anxious. Nothing particularly stressful has occurred since you woke up, but your heart hasn't stopped racing, your breathing has been quite shaky, and your palms are clammy. Some days are just harder than others, you know this, but it doesn't dismiss the fact that it's still difficult to even get through the day sometimes.

Since the moment you woke up in Harry's warm clutch this morning, you felt off. That uncomfortable feeling in your tummy and the constricting nails that seem lodged in your throat were a not-so-warm welcome when you opened your eyes.

Having anxiety and knowing how hard it is for you, you know how hard it can be for the people around you as well. You felt guilty. You felt guilty because today was one of Harry's days off from work and he doesn't get many of them, always so busy. You didn't want to ruin what was supposed to be a good, relaxing, fun day.

But, when Harry wished you a good morning love, and you had opened your mouth to speak with glossy eyes, only to have the words get caught in your throat, he knew today wasn't a good one.

However, because Harry is such an amazing person and boyfriend, he knows how to go about handling your anxiety. He knows you. He knows that you just need a cuddle and a slow day with tea and a good meal. He knows when you start to get really worked up, you listen to Landslide by Fleetwood Mac because it reminds you of a sweet childhood memory. He knows you don't want to do much talking, but rather more watching TV. He knows you like to distract yourself on your bad days...and he knows how to do so.

So, after spending all morning and into the afternoon having tea and breakfast and taking your meds (along with a short cry), you're now cuddling on the couch mindlessly watching a movie. It's quiet in the house, the only sound coming from the television (and maybe your heart beating if Harry got close enough), but Harry swears you could be able to hear his thoughts from a mile away.

He worries about you sometimes. As does everyone who loves someone. He's never loved someone as much as he loves you and it scares him sometimes. He's not scared of falling out of love or deciding you guys aren't the best for each other, no. He's scared of not being enough for you. He knows you tell him that he's the love of your life and that he will always be enough for you, but a little part of him is scared that he might not be able to take care of you. Now, he's not saying in any way, shape, or form that he's not capable of taking care of you, because he can! He's just scared he might mess up and make your anxiety worse. He hates seeing you so out of it.

You're always the sunlight in every room, always smiling and so loving. You care so deeply for everyone around you, he admires it. He admires you. He loves you, so he hates that your mind can be mean to you at times.

See, his troubles with anxiety are far different from yours. Gratefully, his anxiety is more rational (still troubling, just more rational!) ... which is the complete opposite to yours. Your disorder is so irrational and crazy that, more often than not, you get so frustrated with yourself. Your brain makes up problems to be there that aren't there. You worry about nothing and everything all at once, feeling like you never get a break from the mental toll it has on you.

So with that, Harry hates seeing you so anxious. He knows you're so vulnerable and fragile in this state that he doesn't want to make anything worse for you, he wishes every day that he could just take all the worry and bad thoughts from your head and put them on himself instead, as long as it meant that you'd be your happy self again.

But, he knows that's not possible. He also knows that's it's okay to not be okay all the time, so he packs his wishes back into his brain and cuddles you closer. Hoping you can feel his love reverberate off every surface of this house to you.

Oddly enough, you almost feel as if you can. In your simultaneously busy yet silent mind, you can make out his affection in every circle he draws onto your skin with his fingertips, in every warm cup of tea he makes, and every sickly sweet kiss he presses onto your lips, forehead, and cheek. You know he loves you and you hope with everything that he knows you love him just as much, if not more.

With that thought running through your head, you turn to place a kiss to his chest, lightly tracing the butterfly (moth?) tattoo through his shirt. A content hum sounds from his lips and he squeezes you tighter before kissing the top of your head.

"I love you," He whispers, as if not to disturb the comfortable silence created in this space.

"I love you more," You whisper back, the tea earlier melting the nails in your throat just a little.

***

"Does Carrburritos sound good, lovie?" Harry asks, waiting on the edge of y'all's bed for you to finish getting ready.

Carrburritos is your favorite restaurant ever. Of course, you know that's why Harry chose it and the thought of him doing something as simple as that melts your heart at how sweet and thoughtful he is.

"Yeah, thank you, bubs." You respond softly, still in the fragile state you were in earlier, albeit definitely feeling better. You make your way to the edge of the bed where Harry is, slotting your body between his legs and bringing your hands up to play with the little curls on his neck.

"Alright, love. If you're ready to go, we can start to head over?" He asks, rubbing his big hands up and down along your sides.

You nod, leaning into kiss him. It's short, but your lips melt against his and no matter how many times you've kissed him, every single one still feels as magical as the first time.

The two of you get to the restaurant in 15 minutes time, settling at a table close to the window, in more of a quiet area. You feel better than you have all day, but the loud noises and the people in here are making your heart rate spike just a tad.

You and Harry talk softly about random topics, nothing about work or anything too heavy because you don't think you're able to handle that right now. You giggle at the jokes Harry will slip in ever so often and his face lights up at the sound, loving that he can make you feel comfortable after having such a hard day.

When the waitress comes by to get your drink orders, your leg starts bouncing a mile a minute under the table. You rehearse the five words just a sweet tea, please, over and over in your head for when she gets to you. Somehow, you manage to squeak out the order, avoiding eye contact as a nervous habit, but now that you realize you're doing it, the fear of coming across as rude now terrorized your mind. But, before you could do anything about it, the waitress walks away.

"You okay, baby?" Harry can sense your nerves, practically seeing them coming off of you. He reaches his hand across the table to hold yours, rubbing his thumb along your hand.

You just nod, trying to calm yourself. You're being so silly, you think to yourself. What? You're really about to cry because you forgot you have to talk to the waitress to order your food? It's a small encounter, you don't understand why your head makes it such a difficult task. You start to get frustrated with yourself, almost bringing tears to your eyes.

"Hey, tell me what you need, darling?" Harry coos, ducking his head to get in your line of sight since you've been stuck staring at the table top for the past few minutes.

You clear your throat in hopes to push down the tears and diminish the scratching feeling in your throat, although, it didn't do much.

"C-can you..." You huff, now frustrated that you can't even speak, "can you please order for me?" You glance at him, but not holding your gaze long before looking out the window at passing cars. You feel so stupid asking him to order for you. For fucks sake, you're not a child. And you can't tell if it's worse or better that you know he's going to have no problem ordering for you (or doing anything for you, for that matter). He'd do anything for you in a heartbeat.

A soft, loving smile pulls on his lips before he speaks.

"Of course, my sweet girl. It's no problem at all, you want what you normally get?" He asks and you offer a gentle nod.

If he's being honest, he actually likes you depending on him like this sometimes. Not to say that you need him to do everything for you, because you're more than capable, he would like to add! But, knowing that you're comfortable and trust him enough to be so open with him and ask him to do certain things for you makes him feel so...valuable? Maybe that's not the right word he'd like to use, but he just loves that he can do something for you to make your life easier. Your joy brings him joy.

When the waitress comes back, Harry orders for the both of you. Your heart could explode with the amount of adoration you have for the man sitting across from you. He just... gets it. He gets you.

So, with full bellies and calmed nerves, the two of you make your way back home and get settled in y'all's bed to cuddle for the rest of the night. Sprinkled thank you's and sweet kisses are shared while the two of you share warmth under the dozens of blankets adorning the bed.

"I'm sorry I wasted your day off, H." You whisper out into the air.

Pressing a peck to your shoulder, Harry tugs you to turn so you're facing him. He shakes his head, "Y/N, you didn't waste my day. Always perfect with you." His big hands squeezing lovingly at your waist as if he's trying to transfer his love for you to you.

"Look at me," He says when he catches your eyes cast down at his tattooed chest. "You will never, ever, be a burden, lovie. I know y'feel like you're botherin' me, or everyone, by jus'existing, but you've got it all wrong. Baby, I hate seeing you so anxious, and I know you can't control it, but tha's not gonna stop me from doin' everythin' I can to make you comfortable...and loved."

Your face breaks out in, probably, the biggest grin you've had all day at his assurance.

"I always feel comfortable and loved with you, H."

#Harry Styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #hshq #hs #harry #y/n #fluff #fine line #hs1 #anxiety #writing #1025cherrystreet #fanfic #fanfiction

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brosura · 7 years

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memento mori (the curious case of the baker on baker st.) pt. 2/4

Word Count: 4737 Rating: T probably Pairings: Prompto Argentum x Ignis Scientia Warnings: minor character death, major character death (VERY temporary), alcohol consumption

“Ignis Scientia, young baker and private investigator’s assistant, has a peculiar gift. With a touch, he can bring the dead back to life.”

AKA the promnis pushing da*sies au no one asked for

quick thanks to @danielkesslers for the last minute quick read to make sure, once again, that i am not being my needlessly confusing little self

[start with part I here] [read part III here] [read part IV here] [fic on ao3]

The facts were these.

Sixty seconds, exactly, after Ignis presses his fingers against Prompto’s forehead, a certain unnamed Funeral Director with a pair of sticky fingers dies of a heart attack in the middle of sorting his haul at sixty-two years, eight months and five days.

Of course, Ignis couldn’t have known that he’d traded sticky fingers for Prompto, in the grand scheme of things, so the first thing that jumps into his head once he’s finished carefully helping Prompto back into the coffin and shutting the lid, the first terrifying thought he has is “Gladio!”

Gladio just blinks in mild confusion at Ignis, who - from his perspective - has just thrown open the door for no apparent reason. He blinks again as Ignis sighs, relieved that - from his perspective - he hadn’t accidentally made Iris an only child. Well, less than accidentally. “You ok, Ignis?”

“Y-yes, yes of course,” Ignis says, straightening himself out the best he can in preparation for this unexpected lie. “He, ah, he didn’t see who killed him. But he was strangled with a plastic bag, I don’t know if that helps.”

“Damn,” Gladio hisses. He’s not as visibly upset as he usually is when one of their dead turns out to be a dead end, so to speak, but Ignis can guess that’s for his sake. “I was really hoping for a lead on this one. Well, thanks again, Ignis. You want me to drive you back to the bakery?”

“Thank you, but I’d, ah,” Ignis swallows. He was never good at lying, but luckily he’d been overwhelmed enough before that Gladio will probably attribute this to emotion. “I’d like to attend his funeral, I think.”

Gladio gives him a look that he recognizes as pity for a brief moment, then he just nods. “‘Course. You do what you need to do. Want me to keep you updated?”

“That would be nice,” he says before he can realize that that is most definitely a mistake, that he has just created a situation where he would have to continue lying about the fact that Prompto is very much alive.

“Alright, then.” Gladio pats him on the shoulder. Had Prompto actually been dead, he supposes he would have found this comforting. “See you later.”

“Very well.” Ignis manages to say with a stiff nod as Gladio steps around him to leave the funeral home.

He waits awkwardly by the window until Gladio leaves, then rushes back inside the room where he’d left Prompto only to find the coffin gone.

It’s a mess of an affair, tailing the hearse behind a strangely sparse funeral procession, then waiting awkwardly amongst the mourners (a few genuine, namely an old man and a tall girl with short blonde curls who looked too forlorn to be lying, and a few who were clearly journalists) until the crowd had dispersed enough that he felt comfortable enacting the second part of his poorly developed plan.

Which, to put it casually, involved property damage.

It isn’t until he’s squirreled Prompto safely away from the coffin in the grave and the quickly-concocted distraction that was the burning car of the groundskeepers that his heart starts to calm itself.

It doesn’t have long, though, because he scarcely has time to mention that they should ditch Prompto’s suit from the wake before he’s pulling the thing off.

“Ah,” Ignis stutters. “Er-”

“Oh man!” Prompto interrupts, craning his neck to get a good look at the suit jacket he’s pulling off a shoulder. “Is this my suit from high school prom? I was almost buried in this? How embarrassing!”

“Well, I think you look lovely,” Ignis says offhandedly before he can think about it. It’s enough to make the both of them freeze, and Ignis finds it suddenly much more difficult to meet his eyes.

“Right, um, well,” Prompto starts. He clears his throat. “Don’t suppose you brought a change of pants?”

“Unfortunately, no. To be fair, I didn’t exactly plan to exhume a corpse today.”

“Well, I guess we can’t plan for everything,” Prompto says, and continues the task of undressing himself. He’s on the third button of his dress shirt when he pauses, blinking at Ignis. “No offense, dude, but you watching me is kind of weird.”

“A-ah, right of course, I’ll-” Ignis swivels himself around in lieu of an end to that statement. He clears his throat to drown out the soft sounds of Prompto working at his clothes. “So, ah, high school prom. Who was your lucky partner?”

“Er, no one. Well, someone. But it turned out to be a prank.” Ignis frowns, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that troubling information before Prompto asks, “I know you probably don’t know what they look like, but were my parents at the funeral?”

“I’m not sure,” Ignis admits with regret. He honestly hadn’t been focusing so much on the guests, he was rather more concerned with the fact that Prompto may very well have been buried alive if he hadn’t been quick on his feet (and good at starting fires).

“Guess it’s too much to hope for,” Prompto sighs and there’s the shuffling of clothes.

Then Prompto appears from his periphery, clothed only in the black slacks and a thin, white shirt. He looks smaller without the trappings of a suit, more human with the way his hair is mussed from undressing. He also looks cold, arms crossed over his chest in clear discomfort.

“Ah, it’s rather chilly,” Ignis comments casually as he shrugs off his own simple gray cardigan, tossing it to Prompto, who catches it with a surprised look on his face. “You can borrow that. At least, until we can find you more suitable clothes.”

“O-oh, ok,” Prompto stutters, but he’s carefully pulling on the cardigan anyway. It’s too big for him, barely fits at the shoulders and the sleeves go past his wrists, but he looks more comfortable. Definitely warmer, if the flush on his neck is any indication. “This is fine.”

“So,” Ignis starts, eager to change the subject. “Consider yourself a free man. Now, what do you want to do?”

Prompto’s grin is so bright it rivals the sun.

“Y’know,” Prompto says around a mouthful of a cheeseburger.

He’s in the passenger seat of Ignis’ car, which they had picked up along with a change of clothes on the way to the Cheesy Shack.

It’s a combination of ridiculous and endearing, the sight of him curled up around a bag of junk food in a pair of too-big sweatpants and a loose tank top, still wearing that loose-fitting cardigan. Dark sunglasses obscure his eyes. He was a dead man, after all. Can’t give the poor teen working the drive-through window a scare.

“Being dead really makes you stop and appreciate the value of junk food. Like, when I was alive? It was always ‘don’t eat the cheeseburger, Prompto’ or ‘that’s too much food, Prompto.’ But then I didn’t even make it to twenty-two! Some dude strangled me to death on a cruise ship!” He winces. “Too soon?”

“You’re the one who died,” Ignis offers, sipping at his own ‘Mocha Jivin’” milkshake which he held one gloved hand, the other draped over the steering wheel as they make their way slowly to Noctis’ building. The gloves, naturally, being a precaution. He’s never losing someone to carelessness ever again. And Prompto seemed…averse to wearing sleeves. “I’d say you get the final word on whether or not it’s too soon to discuss the circumstances of your death.”

“Well, I say it’s not too soon,” Prompto says. “Weird to be on eggshells about it, especially since you’re the one who brought me back. Like you literally saw my dead body, gave me a little poke and boop! Here I am. How do you do that, by the way?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know,” he admits. It’s not a lie. For all he knows about his powers, there’s a garbage bin full of dead plants and things he doesn’t. “It’s, ah, not a thing I care to dwell on.”

“Oh,” Prompto tilts his head. “Too soon?”

Ignis snorts as he pulls into the driveway of Noct’s apartment building, sending a quick text for him to open the garage. “Something like that.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to walk on eggshells, then.” Prompto gives him a grin. “Anyway, not like me to look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever.” He switches to a southern drawl midway and seems to surprise himself. “Er, sorry, old habit.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Ignis says with a raised eyebrow and Prompto just shrugs in response. “It’d be good of you to look the gift horse in the mouth just enough to avoid touching me, though.”

“Oh, right! Bummer,” Prompto blurts, then flushes in his seat. “A-any other rules I gotta worry about?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, just what’s common sense for being raised from the dead.”

“Right! No appearing on the porches of my loved ones, no introducing myself by name. Got it!”

“There you are. You’re a natural,” Ignis says with a fond smile.

Prompto gives him a small one in return and it’s a short, quiet moment. But it’s the first one they have where they’re not frantically catching up on lost time or feeling like they’re living in a world made of frozen glass that’s liable to shatter at any moment.

It’s the first moment they have to just be in each other’s presence.

“I really missed you,” Ignis admits, because it feels right and because he thought he might never get the chance, the privilege to say it.

“Me, too,” Prompto says, and they settle into a short but comfortable silence.

If Ignis was an ordinary and average young man, this might have been the sort of scene that ended in a kiss, tentative and shy. But instead, they can only look at each other, read the warmth and longing in their matching small smiles, and imagine.

Then they jump at the sound of knuckles rapping gently against the passenger side window.

“Garage is open,” Noctis drawls, groggy, when Ignis rolls the window down. Ignis knows Noctis well enough that he’s not surprised he’s in pajamas. In fact, he’d anticipated it, and made a quick call ahead to make sure Noctis was awake from his afternoon nap. He also knows Noctis well enough that he can see the recognition in his eyes the moment after his grogginess subsides and he notices Prompto in the passenger’s seat. “Oh shit, you’re-”

“I-I-I’m,” Prompto stutters, eyes wide with panic. “I mean, er, my name is. Pronto? Aurum?”

“Prompto.” Ignis can’t help but laugh. “It’s alright, he knows about me. He’s a friend.”

“Oh, thank god,” he wheezes. “I know we just established the ground rules but I wasn’t like, ready.”

“Well, you did great,” Noctis reassures, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m Noctis.”

“I’m Prompto!” he says with a cheerful grin. “Y’know, like the dead guy.”

“Pretty common name, huh,” Noctis says with a lazy smirk of his own. Then he blinks at the bags in Prompto’s lap. “One of those for me?”

“Please, give me some credit,” Ignis answers for Prompto. It seemed the people he cared about the most all had a similar taste in junk food. “Two of them are for you. Mind if we come in?”

“Yeah,” Noctis says with a yawn. “Yeah, I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

The facts were these.

Noctis Lucis Caelum, twenty-one years old, is indisputably Ignis’ closest friend.

He’s proudly guarded this position for nearly ten years, and for ten years, he has been one of the most grounding presences in Ignis’ life. In fact, Ignis had only managed to start accepting his powers as part of himself due to Noct’s intervention.

He’d been content to isolate himself completely until Noctis - lonely and eager to befriend someone who was so hesitant to befriend anyone at all, since so many of their peers wanted his attention for the opportunities his charmed life brought - had wormed his way into Ignis’ very small circle of trust and convinced him that maybe his curse didn’t have to be such a curse. That he could take some of the power back with understanding until it became a mundane and inconvenient thing on most days and a source of fear and anxiety on only some days. Noctis had made for a very good lab assistant and then, over time, a very good friend.

They’d been an odd pair, to be sure - the shy heir and the bookish nobody - but they’d been just that: a pair, a set of friends with a relationship built on mutual and often unconditional trust and support.

But he couldn’t ask Noctis for his unconditional support this time. Noctis knew how his powers worked, after all. Knew what keeping a human alive past the sixty seconds meant.

So he starts to get nervous in the elevator as Noctis, who seems to have woken up a bit more in the time it had taken for Ignis to park the car, gets a knowing look on his face as he gives Prompto a cursory once-over.

He doesn’t say anything other than standard small talk until they’re in the apartment, though.

Then he opens with, “Hey Prompto, you shower yet?”

Diplomatic, subtle, speaking on the level of the audience. He’d learned well from boarding school.

“Uh, no?” Prompto tilts his head, then sniffs himself. “Oh man, no I have not. They sure went heavy on the cologne.”

“You can use mine,” he offers, opening the door to his bedroom preemptively. Diplomatic, subtle, hinting at no ulterior motives. He’d learned very well from boarding school. “Right knob is water level, left knob is temperature. Towels are on top of the sink. Also, you can borrow a change of clothes from my closet. We’re closer in size, I think.”

“Are you sure?” Prompto hesitates at the doorway, but he seems eager at the prospect now that he’s smelled himself.

“Totally,” Noctis shrugs. “Just don’t touch the suits. I go to work in those.”

“Trust me, you could not make me get back in a suit after today,” Prompto starts, but it gets harder and harder to hear him as he retreats into Noct’s room.

The next few moments are spent treading on eggshells. Noctis gives him a tired smile as he pours them both coffee in complete silence and it’s not until they can hear the shower running that he finally speaks.

“So,” he starts, taking a seat across from Ignis, who’s slouched at the kitchen table. He slides him a mug of coffee that Ignis gratefully accepts. “Do you know who it is?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” Ignis says with a shuddering sigh, feeling the weight of the death he’d caused finally setting in. Noct’s expression remains neutral, but Ignis can tell he’s carefully reading Ignis’ expression. He’d feel judged, but he deserves this. At the very least, he’s relieved to finally tell someone. “It isn’t Gladio, at least. And I haven’t had much time to dwell on it, either. It was, ah, I wasn’t at my finest. It’s been a long day.”

Noctis studies him for a moment, then his brows furrow in a combination of concern and pity.

“Oh yeah,” he says, voice gentle. “He’s that Prompto, right?”

“The Lonely Tourist, yes.”

“No, I mean, he’s that Prompto,” Noctis gives him a meaningful look. “The one you used to talk about in boarding school.”

“A-ah, yes.”

If it were up to Ignis, he’d happily trade his dead-raising for the ability to go back in time. He’d have less metaphorical blood on his hands, to be sure. Mainly, though, he wouldn’t have to deal with the look Noctis is giving him right now, in this moment, if he could just tell his child self to stop talking about Prompto with such frequency and fervor to his new and very nosy friend.

“Hmm,” Noctis hums, with a sly look on his face. “I can see you’re still invested.”

Ignis crosses his arms. This isn’t good, he’s already on the defensive. His debate professor would be very disappointed. “And what are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. Just, think I get it now,” Noctis says, but his smirk widens. “He’s cute. Energetic. Good for a downer like you.”

“That’s awfully rude.” He snorts. “And to think, I spent your twenty-first birthday gallivanting about town, witnessing things that should not be repeated, only to be called a downer.”

“Hey, don’t make me pull a gag order on you,” Noctis says without any vitriol. Then he switches abruptly back to that gentle tone when he continues with, “So, Prompto. He’s up now, and for the long run I’m guessing. What do you need me to do?”

“For now, could he stay here?” Ignis says, fiddling with the mug in his hands. He feels guilty involving Noctis in this, but he doesn’t see there being any other option. “Gladio might come by my flat later and he knows what Prompto looks like. And I, ah, I need to focus.”

“Got it,” Noctis says with an adamant little nod that lets Ignis know he can trust him with this. “Want me to bring him by the bakery later?”

“It’s up to you.”

“Hm, I guess that depends on if I get a free tart.”

“Two free tarts,” Ignis says with a smirk. “For your troubles.”

Noctis gives him another of those sly smiles. “I’ll wait for the all-clear, then. And I’m gonna eat this cheeseburger.”

And they’re off the eggshells the moment Noctis starts stuffing his face with the thing.

Ignis has seen death, has seen the many forms it takes but he’ll never quite overcome the horror that was watching Noctis eat a cheeseburger.

At any rate, their conversation treads back onto their more frequented avenues by the time Prompto steps out in a pair of black sweatpants and a yellow shirt with a moogle riding a chocobo printed to the front. It’s quite the look to find charming, but that’s all Ignis can think, all he can focus on as Prompto dries at his ears with the towel draped around his shoulders, making some comment about how nice hot water was.

“Yeah, hot water’s great!” Noctis says, loudly in an effort to snap Ignis out of the daydream he’d been spiraling into. What did he do to deserve a friend like Noctis.

“Y-yes,” Ignis says, clearing his throat. “Right, er, Prompto. You’ll be staying with Noctis for the time being. I have to get back to work, but will you be alright?”

“Yeah, I can manage,” Prompto says with a grin, but it seems tight and tense.

He’s worried, for a moment, that Prompto will be uncomfortable with Noctis. But then Prompto takes one long look at Noct’s entertainment center and heaves a delighted sob.

“Holy shit, you have every console imaginable!” he cries, hovering near the display, his body trembling in tangible excitement. “Is that the Swap? I’ve been saving up for that for ages!”

“That’s the Swap,” Noctis practically purrs, he’s clearly very proud of his set-up. “One of the perks of knowing a guy who knows a guy.” Prompto gives him a look that’s such open want and excitement that Ignis can see the moment it rubs off onto Noctis, who looks very much like the boy he’d met in boarding school when he continues with, “Want to play?”

“Yeah! Hell yeah!”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Ignis tries to say, but it’s in vain, because both Prompto and Noctis are already ignoring him in favor of babbling over the contraption.

Noctis doesn’t even walk him to the door, simply gives him a half-wave.

Now, what did he do to deserve a friend like Noctis.

All things considered, he’s had a very productive day.

Despite having the bakery closed for the majority of its open hours, he’s managed to sell the more delicate pastries off and has Noct’s tarts set aside and his next batch primed for the ovens tomorrow by the time Gladio comes through the door around closing, wordlessly flipping the sign in the window to closed.

He’s got a bottle of liquor in his hand and Ignis doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. Gladio, from what Ignis has experienced, is quite the drinker.

“Hey, Iggy,” Gladio greets, gentler than usual. “How’s it going?”

“Better,” he admits, because at least he doesn’t have to lie about that. He’s still anxious about who died in Prompto’s place, and he’s still nervous about what the future holds for them both, but he’s better. He’s never been better.

“That’s good, wanna have a couple of drinks?”

Ignis merely nods.

His acting is, to put it delicately, shit. One unfortunate school play that Noctis has on VHS recording for collateral is testament enough to that. But he has a somber expression most days, so at least silence can play to his benefit.

Gladio steps comfortably into the kitchen, pulling out a set of cups as Ignis washes his hands and subtly texts Noctis that he should stay away from the bakery. Gladio pours a clear brown liquid into a set of glasses in what he probably imagines is a somber silence for the dead, and not the moment of fear and anxiety that it actually is for Ignis. They take their first drinks in the same silence, and Ignis feels himself relaxing ever so slightly as the liquor burns its way to his gut.

He’s not usually one to drink, but he finds himself glad he’s doing so when Gladio offhandedly says, “Heard that that mean old funeral director croaked this afternoon. Weird coincidence, huh?”

But Ignis doesn’t hear anything after “that mean old funeral director croaked this afternoon” because he’s coughing up his liquor. For a brief, terrifying moment as he hacks up half a lung and about a shot of whiskey, he thinks that Gladio’s guessed his game. That bringing up the funeral director was an accusation and not small talk.

He’s relieved to find that Gladio seems to only think that he’s coughing because of the liquor, though, and that he doesn’t seem to have that calculating look on as he pats Ignis’ back. “Sorry. Still a sore subject?”

“Not, ah,” he chokes on the sting of the whiskey as it makes its way back up his throat. “Not particularly.”

“That’s good,” Gladio says. Then he switches into that tone that he uses on a victim Ignis has just raised, and Ignis feels his anxiety raise in turn when Gladio continues with, “‘Cause I was hoping to hear more about him, that Prompto guy.”

“I’m afraid-,” Ignis swallows. Yes, he is afraid. “I’m afraid I don’t know how much I can say. It’s been years since I’d seen him last, and we were only children then.”

“You sure?” Gladio prods. “Even a little detail works. ‘Cause I could really use anything at this point.”

Ignis could tell him all the things he’s learned about Prompto in their short time together, all the things that came rushing out when they’d walked to Ignis’ apartment.

He could tell Gladio that Prompto’s persevered through what Ignis can only perceive as a lonely childhood, that he’s bright and cheerful and yet talks about himself as if he deserves the scant few friends and lack of parental attention he regularly alludes to, that he loves taking photos and he’s eager to travel again, in spite of being killed for it the once. That he looks very charming in a pair of sweats and a ridiculous t-shirt.

But none of this would be helpful, and all of this would be incriminating, so he says, “I really can’t say.”

Gladio sighs in disappointment, and it’s heavy and genuine enough that even while Ignis is skirting the edge of drunkenness, he can tell that Gladio’s only hope tonight was to squeeze some detail about Prompto’s life and death out of him. He lets himself relax and take another drink of the whiskey.

“Man, with how beat up you were about him, figured you might have been close or something,” Gladio mumbles. “I mean, you were real beat up. And you recognized him on sight...”

It’s just a series of observations, a habit Ignis is accustomed to. Gladio is a private detective, but he’s no spy, so Ignis has sat quietly as Gladio mumbled his way through a case on more than one occasion. If he cared more, he could jot down notes and steal Gladio’s cases right from under him. But he’s a baker by practice, a consultant by necessity. And he couldn’t hurt Iris’ feeling’s like that.

What he’s not anticipating is for Gladio’s mumbling to trail off until there’s a smirk on his lips and Ignis finds himself nervous in a new set of ways. “So, what was he? First crush?”

“I-I’m not sure what you’re-” Ignis sputters, but he’s not doing a fine job of denying it. And gods, he wishes he wasn’t such an easy read, because Gladio’s smirk is growing more insufferable by the second.

“Knew it,” he teases, and tips back another sip of the whiskey. “Trying to picture you as a kid with a crush, but it’s hard. You’re so stuffy sometimes.”

“We were all young once,” Ignis says, simply. “Though you’d be right to assume I was rather… stuffy as a child as well. Prompto managed to see through that, though. He is, er, he was a very kind and bright boy.”

“Sounds like a good guy.” Gladio takes another sip of the whiskey, but he’s back to that somber tone when he sets it down. “Kind of strange, though, you know? When you’re a kid, there are all these people that mean so much to you at one moment that completely leave your life in the next, and you have no idea why. You can only hope you’ll remember them in a few years, and that they’re remembering you, too.”

“Isn’t that just what it’s like to have people you care about?” Ignis says quietly as he fills up their cups.

“Huh,” Gladio grunts. “Guess that’s just what it’s like.”

They both have someone of their own in mind as they take a long drink from their glasses.

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 responsible party to a revival/murder - is much, much drunker than he intended to be.

He and Gladio, despite the premise of their meeting being founded on a complete lie, have been more honest and forthcoming with each other than they’ve ever been, in no small part due to the entire two bottles of alcohol. He’s learned a lot of things about Gladio, like that he’s been taking on so many cases lately because he’s getting more and more anxious about paying for Iris’ college education, that he cooks most of the family dinners, and that he’s very, very good at eating pie with nothing but his bare hands. Or, at least, much better at eating pie with his bare hands than Ignis is.

Either way, they’re both two hands deep in a pie each, a predicament that explains why Ignis doesn’t receive a critical text message that might have prepared him for what happens next.

What happens next being Prompto himself kicking the door open - it was such a small town that Ignis rarely locked it - tailed by a very anxious Noctis.

They’re both clearly in pajamas and it would be ridiculous if it weren’t for the fact that Prompto is shaking, eyes shining with moisture as he rounds on Ignis.

“You knew! That’s what the beeping was!” Prompto says. He might be shouting, he looks upset enough to be shouting and that’s definitely worrying, but at the moment Ignis’ ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton, and all he can focus on is the fact that Prompto’s still wearing his old gray cardigan. “Who was it?!”

“Sorry,” Noctis says, looking guilty. His eyes dart between Prompto and Ignis with a nervous energy. “I thought you told him how your powers worked.”

“Don’t apologize, Noct,” Prompto barks over his shoulder, then returns to poking a finger at Ignis’ chest. “You’re the one who needs to apologize! So, who was it?! Who died for me?!”

Ignis doesn’t get a chance to answer, though, because beside him Gladio is making a confused grumble as he squints at Prompto.

“Yeah, Ignis?” he grates out, hands still coated in the purple filling of a blueberry pie as he brings one to rub at his forehead. “Is that our fucking victim?”

Ignis Scientia - twenty-two years, six months, three weeks and four days old, full-time baker, part-time private investigator’s assistant and known responsible party to a revival/murder - wishes he could drink more.

Ohh, W-wOOPS? - Ignis

next time: four rowdy boys solve a murder

#ffxv #promnis #prompto x ignis #ignis x prompto #my fic #please get recognized by the pairing tag this time i'm begging u #long post #text heavy

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