#daim writes

“I rather detest it.” He scratched his jaw, then stopped himself, both hands coming to his lap. They trembled, one folding over the other. So that was still happening. You wished he would mention it, share his troubles, but spared him, snapping your fingers with a sudden idea.

“I have this fancy straight razor upstairs I've never used. Let me get it.”

Ignis started, the displeasure on his face morphing into surprise. “That’s all right--”

“Too late. It’s not like I need it.”

Ignis had restarted the tea in your absence. He stood by the kettle as he accepted the razor. An uncertain, unfamiliar look came to his face, accompanied by a blush. Great. You were embarrassing him.

“The bathroom is free if you want to do it now.” You weren’t sure if you were making it better or worse. You wanted to help. Dealing with his problems seemed easier than acknowledging your own. “You’ll be miserable if you scratch at it all day.”

Ignis waved off the suggestion. “Ah, but there’s an adjustment period. I’d rather be itchy than work with nicks all over my face.”

Astrals, of course. You were going about this all wrong.

“Let me do it for you,” you said, taking the razor back before he could protest. “I have the hands of a surgeon.”

Uncertainty remained in his expression. “That isn’t reassuring.”

You repressed a smile. “Do you trust me?”

“Implicitly.”

Putting your phone away, you came to attention when someone stepped out of a Citadel elevator across the lobby. You worked night shift as a palace valet and hardly saw anyone but for a few regular night owls. One of them approached now, and gods, you were nervous all of a sudden.

Ignis was your favorite regular. He was polite, tipped well, and made small talk so you wouldn't have to. You didn’t know what he did in the Citadel or why he so often left at four in the morning. You just knew you had a big crush on him and, for that reason, could never carry a full conversation without getting sweaty palms.

“Good morning.” He greeted you first. “Quiet night?”

You nodded, entering the info you needed to check his vehicle out of the system. You wanted to say something, anything. Nerves got the best of you, and you excused yourself into the back room to get his car keys. On your way out, you held them up. “I’ll have your car here momentarily.”

Ignis didn’t respond. He wasn’t even looking at you. His attention was on his phone, a corner of his mouth curled upward.

You paused, taking in the smirk with shy curiosity. That was a new look. What was he smirking at? When he seemed to remember himself, he schooled the look and met your eyes. Startling, you repeated yourself quietly and went through the doors leading to the parking garage.

Ignis’ car consistently smelled like coffee wrapped in leather. Your phone vibrated in your pocket as you buckled in. Because you wanted to linger in the nice scent--was this extremely weird? Yes, of course--you checked to see what the buzzing was about.

An email. You’d gotten a reply from the Feeding The Fussy chef. They’d liked your comments in the past but hadn’t addressed your obvious jokes. You stared at the subject line for a beat, then opened the message.

Thank you for the review. Almost as insightful as last week’s eight hundred word description of your current diet and how my recipes conflict. Do you have any suggestions on how to improve this one?

Your nervousness grew so heavy, it burst in bright red over your face, a flame in your chest. The chef was talking to you. You’d chalked it up to luck that they understood your sense of humor and the intent of your comments. Never had you thought they’d give more than a like. You typed a response before getting back to work.

Pro tip: Using a microwave is faster than the oven. Also, I’ve begun a new diet (details to follow), so is there any way to make this recipe without the ingredients?

Ignis’ car was fancy but less so than most others in the garage. You always felt a pinch of regret when pulling it up to the lobby entrance. Driving a car like his just to see how fast it could go, it wasn’t something you’d ever get to do. You didn’t own one yourself, and truthfully, you'd only gotten a driving license to be qualified for this job. Getting out, you waved at Ignis and extended an arm toward the open driver’s seat.

Tip passing from his hand to your own, you bowed and tucked the money into a pocket. He thanked you, getting into his car. You waited for him to drive away, likely the last person you’d see this shift.

“Ah, pardon me,” Ignis startled you by climbing back out, the car door hanging open. He held something out to you. “I believe you dropped this.”

You looked at your phone in his hand, your eyes wide, nervousness becoming embarrassment. Quickly grabbing it, you bowed again. “Sorry.”

Ignis chuckled. “It’s quite alright. Good thing I noticed when I did.”

Nodding emphatically, you wished he’d just go before you humiliated yourself further.

Clearly not reading your mind, he lingered a moment longer. “In truth, I--”

“Have a good day, sir.” You didn’t mean to interrupt him and hadn’t expected him to say more.

He cleared his throat and smiled. “Same to you.” Thanking you again, by name this time, he left.

Back in the quiet lobby, you put his tip with the rest you’d made that night. You sat behind the desk and buried your face in your hands. The sting of feeling stupid in front of Ignis was abated by the underlying excitement that came from talking to the chef you admired.

They specialized in meals for picky eaters, which you were. They used clear directions, so they could be followed by an amateur chef, which you really were. They sometimes added personal anecdotes spiced with sarcasm and dry jokes to the recipe’s background, which made you feel safe to comment. You refrained from checking your inbox, content to wait until you were home to see if they’d replied yet.

Two attendants arrived for the day shift, and as you hitched the strap of your bag over a shoulder, readying to leave, one of them told you to wait.

“You should pick up a new nametag before your next shift.”

Glancing down at your uniform, you remembered you’d lost yours several days ago. “Oh, right. I will.”

You stepped into an elevator, pressing the button for the metro station level. New nametag. Dumb. You had your work badge but still required a tag. How else would the Citadel inhabitants know who to thank for fetching their expensive cars? You rolled your eyes at the thought, already annoyed. You’d have to come to work early to pick it up. Was it too soon to quit and attend culinary school? You needed to make a bit more money first. Ignis tipped large bills, but still, it’d take years of picking his car up every morning before you could afford tuition.

Grinning to yourself, you weaved through the incoming morning crowds and boarded a train home. It had felt nice, hearing Ignis say your name on his way out. He was the only person who ever addressed you, so maybe getting a new tag was worth it for that alone. Ignis was just-- He truly-- You really liked when he came down, that was all.

It didn’t strike you for another several hours, as you filled out the online request for a new Citadel employee nametag, that Ignis must’ve remembered your name. You supposed a great memory was probably just another part of his polite demeanor. That’s what you told yourself, at least, to keep your crush from growing. You didn’t even know the man.

You attempted the chef’s latest recipe, and as it cooled, you--very casually and not nervously at all--checked to see if they’d replied.

I’ll keep that tip in mind. As for your question, I recommend the following replacement recipe: brew a cup of coffee or tea, sit somewhere comfortable, and enjoy the beverage knowing your comments haunt me whenever I cook.

You read and reread the message, then laughed into a hand. Worth the wait. You ate a bite directly from the dish on your counter, huffing through the fresh heat with mild regret. They deserved a genuine review after such honesty, but it seemed you were doing little more than burning the roof of your mouth. So you took a picture of the food, offering a thumbs up with one hand in frame, and sent it as a reply.

The next night you worked, Ignis arrived much earlier than expected--before midnight, no less. He was coming in rather than going out. Another man was with him, someone blonde and unfamiliar. Ignis opened the back to retrieve something, turning you down when you offered to get it for him. The blonde man, his smile sincere but awkward, complimented your shoes.

“Thanks.” You didn’t really know what to say. People chatting with you was uncommon.

“They match your uniform’s tie… thing.” The blonde man was red in the face. Someone needed to tell him he didn’t have to make small talk. You were just a valet. He persisted, his smile broad. “It’s nice, y’know. You’re, like, coordinated and stuff.”

“Prompto.” Ignis closed the back and proffered a piece of luggage toward the other man. “Leave her be.” When the man took the bag from him, Ignis gave you the car keys. “I apologize for my friend. He can’t contain himself around beautiful women. Add inebriation, and he’s a lost cause.”

You gripped the keys tightly, taking in everything with a slow nod. Yes, of course, right. All of that made sense. Ignis was bringing a drunk friend into the palace. Normal Ignis stuff.

“Do you think Cor’s gonna be mad at me?” the blonde asked Ignis, walking backwards from the car toward the lobby doors. “Iggy, what if Cor gets mad at me?”

Ignis rolled his eyes, a hand checking his inner jacket. “A tad late to worry about that. Go directly to the barracks and try to sleep it off.”

“Where are the barracks again?”

Ignis’ chest broadened with a sigh, and he left the guy hanging. Withdrawing a money clip, he held it out to you. “For your trouble.”

You hesitated taking it. The outer bill appeared to be 1,000 yen, and it was several notes thick… More than the usual tip. You took it slowly, fingertips brushing his leather covered palm, and murmured a quiet thanks.

Ignis remained, his hand lifting to brush loose strands of hair out of his face. He wasn’t as put together as you were used to. Your eyes trailed downward, now noticing the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Huh.

He cleared his throat and began, “There’s something I--”

“C’mon, Iggy!” The blonde man held one of the entrance doors wide open. “If I knew Cor was gonna be mad anyway, I would’ve stayed at Noct’s.”

Ignis gave you a hasty farewell, already walking away to push the blonde man through the door. They disappeared inside, leaving an awkward wake of silence. You settled into Ignis’ coffee-and-leather scented car, a realization hitting you late, as they tended to do. Had Ignis implied you were beautiful? You didn’t entertain the thought for long. Ignis was a professional, royal something-or-other. He would never. You were reading too much into it. Surely.

On the walk from Ignis’ parking spot back to the lobby, you checked for the latest message from the chef. You’d boldly given them your number in a DM when the comment thread became unbearably long. You hadn’t held out hope of receiving a message and read their initial text at least ten times in disbelief before responding and saving the number.

All she gives you is a shrug as she leans back. "Just an observation. You used to make those all the time."

With a frown, you watch Ignis from across the haven. The look of concentration on his face, the practiced ease of his hands while he works, they're all familiar. You look down, ready to bury your attention back into the book. Iris is right, but she doesn’t have to point it out. He’s still as attractive as you remember, but older, taken, and much more complicated. Too much for you.

Another peek at him over the frayed edges of your book, you catch him tasting something on a wooden spoon. The way his tongue slides over his upper lip while in thought-- it’s completely indecent.

“Iris.” You close the book and come to a stand, forcing your gaze downward. “You’re the worst.”

You’ve seen the scars. You’ve touched the joint where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal prosthetic of his arm. You’ve traced, with your eyes and fingers both, over every inch of him throughout the last year since he’d accepted you, and you’re amazed each time.

Amidst your rush to get into your swimsuit, sunhat waiting on the bed, you peer across the hotel room toward him and come to a stop. “Hey, you have freckles.”

Ravus pauses, his hands at his belt, to look down at himself warily. Silver eyebrows meet over narrowed eyes, his hair tangled from the windy walk down Galdin Quay’s insanely long pier.

Crossing the room, you touch one of his hands and trail fingertips up his forearm. “Look. They’re really cute.”

It’s hesitant, the way he gazes at his arm and silently accepts the compliment. The growing dust of pink on his face makes you weak, as does the frown that comes to his face next. “Must you point it out?”

“I must,” you answer automatically. You’re used to this, his ‘Must you?’ questions anytime you’re blatantly honest about your opinions regarding him. ⭑ “You’re really handsome.” “Must you say that in public?” ⭑ “I’ll let Ravus tell the joke. It’s deadpan and hilarious.” “Must you rope me into this?” ⭑ “I know you’re much sweeter than you let on.” “Must you provoke me?” ⭑ The answer is always, without fail, unwaveringly yes. No one loves Ravus as much as you do. No one is harder on Ravus than himself.

You let go of his arm and reach up to tuck a bit of his unkempt hair behind an ear. Good thing you hadn’t pointed that out; you’d be here all day. “I think the sunlight is affecting you.”

He tempers a sigh, but it comes anyway, quiet and through his nose, with his mouth still pinched in a frown. It hurts you that he can’t easily see them, all these great things about himself.

When you drop your arm to step back, he catches your hand and keeps you in place. His other hand is cold against your bare waist, resting there gently to draw you in. He so rarely holds you with his prosthetic, it catches you off guard. As does what comes out of him next, spoken in a low timbre into your hair. “You’re the one affecting me.”

You relax into him, feeling a wave of warmth coming to your own face. Your gaze shifts from one freckle to another along his arm, small flecks of color that lead all the way up to his shoulder where the expanse of pale skin remains untouched by the sunlight. He’s going to have even more freckles after a single walk out on the beach. You can’t wait to count them.

Tilting your head back, your eyes meeting his, you smile up at him. “Are you flirting with me right now?”

He responds by kissing you. It’s chaste and slow and typical for him. Moments like this remind you that he knows exactly how to tease, but he never chooses to follow through. You return the kiss but break it early to back out of his hold. His arm falls from your waist, but his hand won’t let go of yours.

“We should get ready,” you say, squeezing his hand. “Let’s show off your new freckles. I love them.”

Ravus squeezes back. “I love you.”

You falter at the unexpected response. “I-- what?”

He blinks and looks down at his hand ensconcing yours. “Must you play the fool right now?”

No, no, no. It is not the time for that. Short of breath, heart beginning to thump heavily in your chest, you reach your free hand up to make him look at you. “I love you, too.”