It started when the sun enveloped Ignis, painting him in shades of an autumn morning. All in the wake of a storm, one that shook, battered and tore all in the wake of its chaos. It started when daybreak struck up its song, painting in the world and Ignis in such a stellar afterglow, it was impossible to discard the existence of a realm filled with dreams, wonders, enchantment.
It started when he captured Ignis that morning, enveloped by the glow of morning's promises. Shaking off the night's chains, shaking off visions and dark, penetrating loneliness, he bounded out of the tent that morning to find the chef at work. Prompto took pictures of treasures unbothered by the day's disorder, barely rising out of bed, slipping into their purest forms, and Ignis suddenly ended up on that list. Lush, emerald green terrain and azure blue waters weren't the only gifts of life painting Prompto's scrapbook. Ignis was in true form upon the kiss of daybreak, untouched by sound, untouched by the noise of the outside world. He was alone as the world awakened, reading, cooking, or simply gathering his thoughts outside the tent. Watching over those he swore eternal fealty to, not just Noctis.
It started when he captured Ignis that morning, enveloped by relief, promise, gentleness without end. The photo was taken at the perfect moment, capturing the chef as he pondered the morning's menu. Daybreak's kisses framed him brilliantly, wrapping themselves around him as though he were made from the stardust of Astrals.
Prompto keeps that photo close. He looks at it whenever darkness threatens to become too much, which is on an hourly basis. Whenever he thinks of himself as too weak or useless, he takes out that reminder of how strong the light is and instantly becomes warm. He smiles, feeling his chest lighten. He cries, but the tears aren't of pain. There are no tears of guilt or sadness when looking at that photo. He silently thanks Ignis, kissing the picture, then tucking it back into his pocket.
Not even Ifrit can take that picture from him.
It started up again when he caught Ignis in flight, battling a cavern beast. Airborne, with an aura of striking valor. For a moment, he had leapt into the air to counterattack, defending Gladiolus from what could've been a brutal blow, and it was surreal. Blinding, like a flash of lightning erupting in a quiet void. Gladiolus and Noctis joked about their gunslinger being a chocobo, but for that moment in time, Prompto swore Ignis was some type of bird. An ethereal, powerful bird that knew no boundaries when it came to courage. Dedication.
Prompto has taken other pictures of Ignis in battle, but that one's his favorite.
It flared when Ignis shielded him in battle against a Necromancer, taking a blow that sent him into the realm of sleep for a few hours, rendering a certain chocobo helpless, breathless, useless. Tearful, so many tears, tears, sadness. Guilt, arrows striking the insides of his chest. Of course Ignis wrote it off as though the beast had given him a papercut, as he always did whenever protecting Noctis, whenever it came to defending him, but Prompto couldn't shake the thunderstorm steamrolling him. He still can't.
Ignis. Ignis could've been killed. But was that of any concern to the bladesman himself?
"Well. You're on the mend, and that's what matters."
Did Gladio tolerate anyone speaking against Cup Noodles?
Prompto grimaces, clutching another photo to his chest. The team's tactician does everything with such drive, it's impossible to not regard him with the highest degree of awe. Prompto loves Ignis' spirit, finds comfort in it, wraps himself in it whenever the world just becomes too much. He fell asleep to Ignis' voice one night. He actually has no memory of what the master chef was even talking about. He just remembers calm. Calm, overwhelming, deep, searing calm, for the first time.
Losing that spirit, that ferocity, would leave too big of a void.
Prompto looks at the next picture. It's a much happier memory, one of Ignis talking to Noctis at the campfire. A smile breaks out. It's the gentleness, the fierce spirit Prompto's so familiar, so comfortable with. He remembers bits and pieces of that conversation; the two of them were talking about their day at the market. Noctis was laidback, jolly, even, while Ignis was a mosaic of emotions. Thoughts and actions. As calm as daybreak's touches, as innocent as a newborn, and as seductive as a fox, Ignis lit fires Prompto believed would never be touched.
He takes a deep breath, smiling. Ignis is a lullaby, warm, soothing, always comforting and kind. The only time Princess Scientia (as Gladio calls him) was stern with him was when challenged a beast and lost, sorely wounded, having given no regard to his own safety. But Ignis was calm and comforting even then. Firm out of concern, gentle, patient, forgiving.
Prompto hates himself for many reasons, Ignis slipping right onto that list of reasons. Not only does he have no business being friends with the prince, but he's got a crush on the prince's royal advisor? Some putrid, stupid, useless thing has a puppy crush on Ignis Stupeo Scientia? And in what world would Ignis return his feelings, one turned inside out? The master bladesman had enough on his plate already, what with keeping Noctis safe and Gladio out of trouble.
But he can't help it.
Prompto finds the picture that solidified it. It's of Ignis at his bedside, eyes closed, far, far away from him and the world they knew. As soon as Noctis caught wind of his friend catching a cold, they all rushed to his apartment, determined to look after him in the best ways possible. Prompto remembers how worried they all were, of how Gladio and Noct almost burned down his kitchen making soup while Ignis made him a bath, vowing to break his fever 'come Hell or high water'.
Tears burn Prompto's eyes. He's loved and it feels so good, so damn good. He's surrounded by so much love when he deserves none. It's good, cleansing, so sweet and uplifting. And he knows he's stupid, knows he's an idiot for even capturing Ignis in so many photographs, but he can't help it. Noctis' advisor is kind, so gentle and yet so strong, everything Prompto needs. Needs more than air.
Prompto looks at the picture of Ignis sleeping beside him. The picture that made it official-he had fallen wildly, stupidly, recklessly in love. The tenderness in that picture, on Ignis' face, causes more tears to burn his eyes. It reminds him of how kind Ignis always is towards him, of how patient he always is, willing to listen, eager to protect.
Prompto knows. He knows he's stupid. Nothing new to him. But he can't help himself. He can't help but imagine himself with the strength that takes his breath away. The kindness he knows he doesn't deserve, but can't live without. He knows he's stupid but he wants to keep it all, the memories, the warmth, falling asleep by the bonfire while listening to Ignis' voice.
Prompto knows he's stupid, but for the first time, he doesn't care. He clutches his pictures to his chest, determined to arrange them soon in a scrapbook that will never know another pair of eyes. Determined to keep them, the spirit behind them, close.
Prompto knows. He knows Ignis will never see him as anything but a little brother. But he doesn't care.
Prompto clutches the pictures to his chest, smiling through another batch of tears, clinging to memories he needs to keep.