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A strangled gasp shatters the silence that's settled around the dark room in the last hour as Ignis bolts upright, heart racing and eyes wide. Rapid, heavy breaths shudder out of him as he stares unseeing into the dark, the disturbing images still tearing through his brain.
The worst is the last one—it's Noct, lying unmoving on a sidewalk, his body battered and bleeding, tossed out of the van like yesterday's trash. He isn't breathing, and people simply step over him, going about their day. They look annoyed when Ignis rushes over, trying to save him.
Of course, that isn't how it happened. Ignis is grateful beyond words for that, and thanks the Astrals that the Crownsguard got there in time to prevent things. But the nightmare feels so real, and it takes him several long minutes to drag his brain out of its hellish dreamscape and into reality. By the time the menacing shadows looming at him in the dark become the familiar shapes of his bedroom furniture, his heartbeat has returned to normal, and he's breathing steady.
Merely a nightmare. That's all it was. Certainly nothing to get upset over. He's fine—he has his life and his health, as does Noct, and that's what's most important.
The past two weeks have taught him that as much as he desires otherwise, sleep after one is an impossibility, so he doesn't bother making an attempt. Instead, he leans over and switches on the lamp next to his bed, and then throws back his covers, swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress before standing. There's a cold chill from the wooden floor that has him shivering, so he goes over to the closet, digging a pair of thick socks from one of the drawers and pulling them on. Noct had given them to him back in February, as a birthday present, and Ignis smiles at the memory of it.
"You want socks?" Noct had asked, the expression on his face letting Ignis know he was thoroughly unimpressed.
"Not just socks," Ignis had corrected him, ignoring the faint heat he could feel on the tips of his ears. If only his forever frozen feet could warm up that easily. "Thermal grip socks made from the finest quality garulet down, guaranteed to keep the feet with even the poorest of circulation warm."
"It's February though, it's going to be warm in another month."
"I'm quite certain socks last longer than a month," Ignis had said somewhat stiffly, crossing his arms over his chest. He hadn't expected an interrogation over his reply to what he wanted for his birthday.
Noct had frowned. "If you need socks, why don't you just get some now?"
Shifting, Ignis had shoved at his glasses, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. He didn't like spending much money on himself, despite being quite comfortable financially. But he was paid the money as Noct's advisor, and it never felt right to splurge on himself with it. It made him feel as if he was being paid to be Noct's friend.
But he would never say it—he didn't want to put the idea in Noct's head. "Never mind," he had eventually said. "If you'd rather not get me something as mundane as socks for my birthday, I shall simply have to come up with something else."
"Hey, I didn't say that," Noct had protested, crossing his own arms. "Gimme a link, okay. I'll buy you socks if that's what you really want."
The tone of his voice had suggested he still thought Ignis was weird, and Ignis hadn't expected to get any socks, but he'd sent the link to his phone anyway.
But then on his birthday Noct had shoved a badly wrapped present at him, along with an envelope that had his name scrawled across the front, muttering, "Here. Happy Birthday, Specs."
And there'd been not one, but seven pairs of socks in the box, a mix of blacks and greys. So you can have a pair for every day of the week, he'd written in the card, and it had taken Ignis a hard moment before he could gather himself and thank Noct. To which he'd promptly received a shy, pleased smile.
And now Noct hasn't smiled in nearly three weeks, and Ignis is scared he may never see that smile again.
Dismissing the memory from his mind for the moment, he slips his phone in the pocket of his flannel pajamas, then heads out of the bedroom and pads down the hallway towards his kitchen, which is the most comforting place in his apartment. It's small, but it has everything he needs, and it's cozy.
Pulling his kettle from the cabinet above the small stove, he fills it with water and then sets it on the left burner, turning the heat to high. While he waits for it to boil, he grabs his favourite mug and the tea strainer from the other cabinet, and readies his tea leaves for the hot water.
When the tea is finished several minutes later, Ignis carries the mug over to the living room, its crisp peppermint scent wafting up to him, easing some of the tension within him as he curls up on the sofa. He wraps both hands around the mug, letting its heat chase away the chill that's settled within him. His feet are warm enough, but the rest of him is still shivering, and though the thermostat is at a decent temperature, he tells himself it's the cold winter air outside permeating the apartment, and not the remnants of his nightmare still drifting about in the back of his mind.
It's not his own nightmares that he's concerned with, anyway. Rather, it's Noct's, the permanent dark circles beneath his eyes these past few weeks a testament to how little sleep he's gotten. He hasn't been willing to even acknowledge them, but the panicked terror he's woken in after napping before dinner has let Ignis know of their existence. And he doesn't need Noct's words to know that they're about the near-kidnapping that had taken place and irrevocably altered their lives.
He swallows. That day had been the most terrifying moment of his life. Walking down the sidewalk with Noct, heading home after a satisfying lunch at Meat & Meet, a smile on his face as Noct had groaned and laughed at some pun he'd made—and he can't remember it now, what he'd said, and for reasons he doesn't understand that bothers him immensely.
The van had come out of nowhere, swerving across traffic to make a u-turn and pull up right next to them, the screech of its tires splitting the air, so loud it had hurt his ears, drowning out the noises of the city life around them. The smell of burnt rubber had filled his nose as the panel door along the side had slid open with a loud thunk, and before either of them could react, two men had been reaching out from the van, grabbing Noct's arm and yanking him into it.
It had felt absurd, like something out of a movie, and it had taken far too many seconds for his brain to register that he needed to do something, and by the time he could unfreeze and react, grabbing too slowly for Noct, the door had already slammed shut again, tires squealing once more as the van had peeled away from the curb. He'd stared after it in disbelief, too panicked to think clearly. There'd been a billboard across the street, up high on the side of one of the buildings, advertising the CoolCool brand soda and flavoured water, and the "cool your mind!" slogan had burned itself into his brain, taunting him.
Had the Crownsguard not been right there on the corner that day to shoot out the tires and stop the van in its tracks, Noct would have been lost to them.
Taking a large sip of his tea, Ignis sets the mug down on the coffee table and then retrieves his phone from his pocket, inputting the pattern to unlock it. Once the home screen comes up, he taps on his browser, but lets out a small sigh before typing anything.
He's quite worried about Noct. Since nearly being kidnapped, his friend hasn't left his apartment once, not even for school. His Majesty had found him a therapist within days, before he'd even left the hospital, but he'd broken down in sobs when he'd tried to go to the first appointment, frozen in fear in his entryway. So Ignis has been doing his best to be there for him and help however he can, but in the face of such trauma, he feels woefully unprepared. He'd resolved earlier tonight to do some research, after struggling to pull Noct from an intense flashback triggered by a car outside, but he finds himself at a loss on where to even begin.
His Majesty had offered to find Ignis a therapist as well, telling him that all costs would be covered by the Crown, since the incident had occurred "in the line of duty." Ignis had demurred, insisting he was fine—he hadn't been the one dragged into that van and kicked so hard that his ribs were still visibly bruised. He hadn't been the one to have his wrists tied and his mouth gagged in the few minutes spent captive. Compared to Noct, Ignis has been fine. A few nightmares aren't worth being bothered over; he isn't traumatised.
And it hadn't sat right with him, the words regarding the line of duty. It is, Ignis understands that, it had been normal working hours, but he would rather not think of it in such terms. He hadn't accompanied Noct to lunch. He hadn't went with him as an advisor. He'd went with Noct as a friend, together. The difference matters to him in the same way that not treating himself on money made taking care of Noct matters to him.
His phone dims, pulling his attention to it once more. He takes another sip of his tea, the peppermint flavour washing down his throat and soothing him from the inside out, and then taps at the browser's search bar, at last beginning to type. A general query on dealing with trauma is probably best to start, he decides, and taps at the first link shown once the results are returned.
The next few hours fly by as he browses, following link after link, easily becoming engrossed in his research. He forgets about his tea, the last dredges of it going cold. When his alarm eventually goes off, the notification popping up in the middle of his screen, it startles him, making him nearly drop the phone. Ignis curses, gripping it tighter as he fumbles with it, and manages to dismiss the alarm.
Glancing at the windows behind him, he's surprised to find the sky blazing with the morning sun, a brilliant bright orange that gradually lightens as he lets his gaze travel upwards. He hadn't noticed the sunrise at all.
He sets his phone down on the coffee table next to his abandoned tea, getting to his feet, scrunching his nose at the pins and needles feeling in them. Once he's standing, he realises just how exhausted he is, fatigue making his head swim for a moment. Shaking it off, he grabs his mug and heads for the kitchen, to make some coffee this time. He'd only been asleep about an hour last night when the nightmare had hit, and today is Monday—it's going to be a long day. If he's to get through it with any pretense of normalcy, he's going to need the caffeine.
Especially given that Noct had mentioned wanting to go back to school today. As much as Ignis wants to believe in his friend, he's quite certain that it won't happen. However, he is quite certain that his morning is going to involve calming Noct down from yet another panic attack after the latest failed attempt to leave his apartment.
Ignis sighs. There's a little over an hour until he's meant to be at Noct's apartment for their morning routine. If he drinks fast, that's just enough time to have a second cup of coffee.
And maybe he can take a third cup with him on the drive over.
* * *
"Iggy, what the hell was that?" Gladio barks out, pulling back on his weapon just short of it crashing into Ignis' face and busting his nose.
Ignis blinks, his sluggish brain only now registering the near-miss. He lowers his own weapon, taking a step back as he suppresses a yawn. Even with four cups of coffee in him, he can't seem to get enough energy to function properly. "Apologies," he murmurs, not having any good excuse for Gladio. "I was... distracted."
"Distracted will get you killed out in the real world. Come on, Ignis, get your head in the game here. You're only a few months out from being properly sworn in as a Crownsguard. You can't slack on your training."
"I'm well aware of that, Gladio, thank you," Ignis says somewhat stiffly. He doesn't need a lecture from his best friend on this. He's not the one always letting his emotions get in the way of his duties.
And this has nothing to do with emotions. It's simply a lack of sleep. He'd hoped to be able to get Noct off to school this morning and then grab a quick nap before the meeting he'd had before training practice, but unfortunately things had gone as predicted—a meltdown had followed Noct's attempt to step foot past his apartment, and by the time he'd been calm enough to agree to a nap, Ignis had been late for the meeting.
"Then show me," Gladio says, and raises his sword again. Ignis stifles a sigh, raising his lance as well as he assumes a defensive stance once more.
They resume sparring, and Ignis gives it his best effort, but the lethargy that's weighing him down has him misstepping, frequently failing to properly block Gladio's moves, forcing him to pull back at the last second so he doesn't injure Ignis. Perhaps it was foolish to agree to forgo protective equipment today.
He's well aware that his friend's frustration is growing at his poor performance, but it's certainly not the first time either of them has been in less than stellar shape for a practice, and they've always had an unspoken agreement to power through it regardless—so when Gladio finally lowers his sword and stalks over to one of the benches lining the edges of the room, taking a seat, Ignis finds himself quite baffled.
"Alright Ignis, what gives?" Gladio asks him, grabbing a towel beside him and wiping the sweat from his brow.
Frowning, he goes to the bench as well, grabbing his own towel before settling next to Gladio. "Pardon?"
"This goes beyond some distraction, and I know you well enough to know there ain't no chance in hell you're hungover. So what's going on? I've never seen you do so poorly."
His frown deepens. "There is nothing 'going on,' as you say. I'm simply a bit tired today. Nothing more."
"Uh-huh," Gladio says, and his tone is suddenly far too knowing for Ignis' comfort. He shifts, focusing his attention on his towel as he wipes at his face. "When's the last time you slept?"
"Last night," he responds promptly. It's an honest answer.
Gladio raises his eyebrows. "Yeah? For how long?"
"Enough," he says, his tone turning a little frosty. It's less of an honest answer this time, but it's simply none of Gladio's business, best friend or not.
"Iggy..." Gladio starts alongside a sigh, "You went through something awful a few weeks ago. You don't think that's gonna affect your sleep?"
"And what of it, if it does?" He's aware his voice is now colder than the Glacian, and he's only confirming his friend's suspicions this way, but he isn't able to refrain. What good would it do Gladio to know? He isn't capable of stopping them; only time itself will do that. "It isn't a big deal."
"If that's true, then why not just tell me?" Gladio points out, and Ignis purses his lips, unable to refute the logic. His friend sighs a second time. "Look, I'm worried about you."
Well. That certainly goes a long way towards softening him. He lets out a gentle sigh of his own. He knows how persistent Gladio can be, and he doesn't have it in him to keep his silence, not when he feels so exhausted. And... perhaps it would be nice if someone else knew, even if they can't help. The dreams aren't a big deal, but he still wishes they would stop, and a little sympathy would go a long way. "I... may have been having a few nightmares," he admits, looking down at his lap, his voice quiet.
"Shit, Iggy, I'm sorry." Gladio drops his towel to the floor in front of them, and Ignis glances at it, reminded for a moment of the white rag that had been stuffed in Noct's mouth when the Crownsguard had pulled him out of the van. He swallows. "They're bad, huh? About the kidnapping?"
"Near-kidnapping," he corrects immediately, because nothing had actually happened. Noct had been rescued before he could disappear. It wasn't a kidnapping. "And yes, about that day. Usually about... Noct not being saved." He isn't going to go into all the details of what he's dreamed. It serves no purpose to recount such terrible things, or his own failure to save his dearest friend. "It isn't a big deal. Simply a little lost sleep."
"Not a big deal? That's the second time you've said that, but you couldn't even hardly function just now. If this had been a real battle, you would be dead, or at least badly injured. I think that's a pretty big deal."
"A few nightmares is nothing. Certainly not compared to what Noct is dealing with. I have no right to complain, nor do I have the time. Helping Noct through things is a much bigger priority."
"Iggy." Gladio sounds incredulous, his voice dripping with disbelief, and Ignis isn't sure why it makes him suddenly feel like a small child being chastised. He's done nothing wrong here, except fail to save Noct from his trauma in the first place, but surely Gladio wouldn't throw that in his face. "This isn't a competition. It ain't a matter of who has it worse, you know that, right? You're both allowed to have trauma. And it ain't your job to walk Noct through his, especially when you've got your own to deal with."
Ignis scoffs. This conversation is becoming ridiculous, and he wants to be done with it. He should have known sharing with Gladio would get him nowhere. "I'm not traumatised."
Bending down, Gladio grabs the water bottle he'd placed under the bench before practice, unscrewing the cap. "I think the nightmares say otherwise," he says, and then takes a long swig. It's not his own, the usual one he brings to practice—it's a bottle of CoolCool flavoured water, the grape one, and Ignis' mind flashes back to the billboard at the corner, to the same purple bottle on the edge of the image. He stares at the bottle in Gladio's hand, unable to tear his eyes away. Slow panic is descending upon him, and he doesn't understand why.
"Iggy, hey. Ignis."
Ignis blinks, ripping his eyes away, swinging his head wildly to Gladio's face, meeting his gaze. His chest feels constricted, a sharp ache in it making it difficult to breathe. His skin is paper thin, stretched too tight over his body, and he's far too aware of the loud, rapid beating of his heart, how frantically it's pounding against his chest, making him feel like it will burst out of his body at any moment. He isn't sure what's happening, but he thinks perhaps he's dying. Terror is washing over him in waves, leaving him drowning in it. He feels fragile.
Gladio meets his eyes, startled and confused for a moment, and then drops his bottle, water spilling everywhere. Some of it splashes against Ignis' leg and he jerks, feeling as if he's been burned by acid. "Shit. Iggy. Come on, man. You're okay. Just breathe with me. Like this," he says, slowing his breathing to exaggerated movements for Ignis to follow.
He does, but it isn't until he's calmed enough several minutes later that he understands why. A panic attack. He feels quite foolish for not recognising that he was having one, given the considerable number he's helped Noct through in the past three weeks. He feels his face heat up, and he turns his head, averting his eyes from Gladio. "Apologies," he murmurs, after clearing his throat. It feels scratchy after the panicked breathing he'd forced upon it. "It seems my fatigue got the better of me for a moment."
"Fa—Ignis, that was a godsdamned panic attack."
"It's fine."
"It isn't. Iggy, you're not okay. And you shouldn't be. Noct was kidnapped—"
"Near-kidnapped."
"Kidnapped, and you were right there as it happened, and you couldn't stop it. That's enough to fuck anyone up. I know I'd sure be a mess. And ain't nothing wrong with that. Just because we know it's part of the job, don't mean we aren't allowed to be affected by it. You're traumatised, Ignis, and that's alright."
"Gladio—" He blinks, swallowing hard. He feels too raw for this conversation. He doesn't believe Gladio's right, but he's aware enough to recognise he's not willing to examine those statements too closely. He doesn't want to believe there's a chance he's wrong.
Letting out a sigh, Gladio reaches for his spilled water bottle, and Ignis does his best not to look at it. There's a sick knot in the pit of his stomach. He ignores it. "Listen. Maybe you oughta talk to His Majesty, yeah? Noct needs help that doesn't come from you, help that you can't provide. And you could probably use someone to talk to yourself. The Crown will pay for a therapist, if you're worried about money—"
"I've plenty of money. That isn't the issue."
"Then what is? You just bein' a stubborn bastard, like normal?"
"I don't need therapy, thank you," he says, his tone stiff once more. "Telling a stranger my innermost thoughts and feelings is not my idea of a good time. Certainly it would be a waste of time. This will pass, and I have more important things to worry about. I've far too much to do as it is to fit something so useless into my already full schedule."
Gladio sets his now re-capped bottle aside, and then uses his towel to wipe up the spill. "What about talking to someone you know? His Majesty loves you, he'd listen. Or I'm always here if ya need me. Or Cor, he was there too, right? And he's seen some shit, he'd get it. Someone. Because these nightmares Iggy, they're affecting your daily life, and you don't even have a chance of keeping yourself and Noct safe in the future if you can't properly function."
Ignis jerks, white-hot anger igniting within him. He stumbles to his feet, tossing his towel down. "How dare you," he hisses out, eyes narrowed as he glares at Gladio. He'd thought his so-called best friend wouldn't throw his failure to save Noct in his face, but it seems he was wrong. "How dare you toss that at me. Things happened fast. I did the best I could." It isn't a lie. It isn't. He'd reached for Noct, he'd tried. He whirls, stalking across the room to the exit, ignoring how he's trembling from head to toe.
"Iggy, wait! That's not what I meant!" Gladio calls after him, but Ignis doesn't turn around. Once he reaches the door, he yanks it open and steps through it, letting it slam shut behind him with a loud bang. It reminds him of the noise the van door had made as it had shut, and he flinches, nausea surging.
Taking a deep breath, he shakes his head a little, shoving away the memories. He doesn't have time for this. Dealing with Noct lately has him behind in paperwork, and he has quite a stack to catch up on. That is his only concern at the moment.
Telling himself he's fine, he starts off down the hall, heading for the elevators that will take him to the business wing where his office is.
* * *
The paperwork is endless. Ignis yawns, rubbing at his bleary eyes as he closes a folder and sets it aside before reaching for the next one in the stack. He's content with his job, and wouldn't trade it for anything, but sometimes he wishes he could hire someone to deal with all the paperwork for him. Contrary to what Noct believes, he does not love it.
His head dips, eyes closing briefly, and he jerks it back upright, blinking hard. He's exhausted after the long day, but there's still far too much to do; he doesn't have time for sleep. He'd had to interrupt his work earlier this afternoon to return to Noct's apartment and check on him and make dinner, and Noct had been distressed from nightmares again and had asked him not to leave at his usual time. He's only just made it back to the office, at eight pm, and he doesn't expect to leave before midnight.
It will be difficult on one hour of sleep, even he can admit that, but that's why he has two cans of Ebony stashed in his desk drawer.
He pulls one out now, popping back the tab and taking a long swig, finishing half the can in one go, and then sets it aside before returning his attention to the file in front of him. The letters swim before his eyes, and he scrubs at his face again, glancing with longing to the small grey sofa across from his desk.
If he naps, however, he might as well quit now and go home, because as worn out as he feels, he's certain he could sleep all night long and far into the next morning, if it weren't for his alarm. So he tears his eyes away, forcing them back to his papers, and focuses hard until the letters make sense.
Ignis works for the next hour, emptying the first can of Ebony halfway through it and opening the second, downing half of it. Despite that, his head keeps bobbing as he struggles to stay awake, and his eyes keep shutting without him being aware until he blinks them back open, looking around in confusion for a few seconds before he resumes working.
Eventually, they slide shut again, and he doesn't pry them back open, his head dropping to the desk as he slips into sleep.
He dreams, and in his dream he's back on the corner, the van door clanging shut loudly in front of him before the screeching of tires against asphalt pierces the air, shattering his eardrums. He waits, but there's no Crownsguard to come swooping in and save the day—the van takes off, disappearing into traffic, and Noct disappears with it as Ignis stares after it in horror.
He dreams of Noct being locked away in a room, cold and dark and small, shivering in fear, wrists tied behind his back and mouth gagged with a dirty cloth, unable to scream or fight back as he's kicked and beaten over and over.
He dreams of Noct being tortured, of unspeakable things happening to him that can't be uttered even in nightmares, of things that have Noct screaming at the top of his lungs with his now empty mouth, things that have tears running down his face and his eyes glazing over with pain and horror.
He dreams, and in his dream he can't save Noct.
He jerks awake with a small cry, throat burning and heart pounding, and he grabs frantically for his phone, ignoring the can of Ebony that he bumps into and knocks over, coffee spilling out all over his papers and dripping down to the floor. He pulls up his messages, tapping at Noct's name and barely waiting for it to load before he starts typing out an incoherent message, needing to make sure his friend is okay.
Logic catches up to him halfway through, pointing out that it's late and Noct is likely asleep, but it doesn't calm the desperation he feels, and he keeps typing.
What does make him stop is the loud bang from outside his office, echoing down the hall and coming through his partially open door, startling him and making him jump, his phone slipping from his hands to fall to his desk. Panic and nausea slam into him instantly, the room around him disappearing as he's taken back to that corner yet again, to that van and Noct's protesting cries as he's wrestled into it, to his pleading for Ignis to help, to that damnable taunting CoolCool billboard that won't leave him be.
The beat of his heart thumps in his ears, pulling him back to the present, drowning out everything else, and his hands are clammy. Yet he feels hot, sweat trickling down the side of his face to pool uncomfortably in the hollow of his collarbone, tickling him. When he raises an arm to wipe it away, he realises he's trembling. The heat within him increases until he can't stand it, and he moves to undo the buttons on his jacket, but he's shaking so bad he can't manage them. His head's screaming at him, telling him he's in danger if he doesn't get the jacket off, and eventually he stops trying to be proper, yanking hard and sending buttons flying out across the room as he rips it off him.
He's lightheaded, dizziness making the room spin sickeningly around him, and the ache in his chest is so sharp and constricted he feels like he's being suffocated. His throat's closed up tight, making it impossible to breathe.
It's that symptom that has realisation dawning—he's having another panic attack. Once he understands that, he becomes aware of his own harsh breathing, sounding quick and choppy in the quiet room, almost like he's panting.
Even knowing it though, it takes him far too long to calm himself down and let the fear and panic fade away. When it does, he's still weak and lightheaded after, exhaustion stealing over him as his body continues to tremble. He presses shaking palms to wet eyes as he rests his elbows on the desk, ignoring the mess he's made of it. He feels quite out of sorts, shame and frustration welling within him. Gladio's words from this morning echo in his head. You're traumatised, Ignis, and that's alright.
It's not alright. He doesn't want this. He doesn't need this. He can't—Noct's is already enough, too much, and he can't handle anything else right now. He feels stretched too thin as it is, with too much work and not enough time in the day to do it all. If he has to add this to it, if he has to worry about himself—
It's a foreign concept to him. He's not sure he truly knows how to put himself first. The idea seems... distasteful. Noct is all that matters. Noct is all that he prefers to matter.
Yet... he can't deny Gladio had had a point earlier. That if he doesn't take care of himself, he won't be able to take care of Noct.
Perhaps it might be best if he does talk to someone. Not a therapist, he's not quite comfortable with that idea yet, but someone who might listen and understand without condemning him.
Gladio had suggested Cor would understand what he's going through, and Ignis knows he's probably not wrong, but it's His Majesty that pops into his head first. If anyone deserves to hear all the awful things that have been in his head and how much he can't forgive himself for them, it's the father of the person he failed to save.
And. His Majesty has always been nice to him. He's always treated Ignis as one of his own. When he was little, the king had comforted him plenty when he was upset or scared or fighting with Noct, more than his own uncle ever had. Privately, Ignis had always been somewhat envious of Noct—with his own father gone, he'd always wished His Majesty could be his new one, and was jealous that Noct got to have him.
Now that he's older, that jealousy has faded, and he's made his peace with not having parents, but there are moments when he still finds himself wanting to turn to His Majesty for advice, or comfort. Like now, when the sick knot in his stomach hasn't gone away, and the images of his nightmare haven't faded, the shame and guilt overwhelming him. He feels weak, and delicate, and he doesn't want to be alone.
Still ignoring the mess on his desk, he checks the time on his phone, finding it's eleven. Late, late enough to be inappropriate, but not so late that His Majesty would be asleep. The king's job is as endless as Ignis' sometimes. Worse, usually.
He brings up his messages with the king, but then lets his hand hover over the screen keyboard, hesitation staying him. He's not certain about this. He has no right to ask not to be judged, certainly not from His Majesty, but... He wishes to not be judged anyway. And he's afraid His Majesty won't grant that request.
Furthermore, it feels rather odd to be asking Noct's father for such a thing. He worries Noct would be upset if he found out. His Majesty is Noct's father, he doesn't want Noct to feel as if he's intruding on that, or taking away from it somehow.
Which is quite a ridiculous thought, he knows. He has to curb the impulse to message his friend and ask his permission, because he's certain Noct's response would be something along the lines of I don't own my dad, Specs. Talk to him if you want. And His Majesty himself had offered to be an ear if Ignis had needed it...
Before he can change his mind, he types out a quick message. If it isn't too forward of me, might I trouble you for a moment? I'm in need of some assistance.
The response comes almost immediately—it seems His Majesty is indeed burning the candle at both ends. I always have time for you, dear child. What do you need?
I is what he starts with, but his still shaky hands manage to hit the send button before he can type the rest of his message. He bites back the curse that springs to mind—and he knows he's out of sorts, if those particular words are what he's thinking—and quickly follows up with the rest of his intended message. Apologies. I think perhaps I wish to take you up on an earlier offer, if it's still available.
A therapist? Or, perhaps, a listening ear?
He swallows, his eyes growing wet again. He doesn't even understand why. It feels hard to breathe again. The latter, he forces himself to type, and then hits send before he can change his mind.
I'm in my office, if you'd like to come up. I feel I know you well enough to be certain you aren't at your apartment, as you should be.
He stares at the message, wanting to reply, to tell His Majesty that he's not sure he can make it up to his office, but his chest feels too tight and his vision is blurring and his fingers don't want to cooperate. Vsn;y is what he eventually comes up with, and he lowers his phone, bowing his head over his desk as tears drip from his cheeks to stain the papers beneath him.
His phone buzzes again a few moments later, the vibrations making it rattle across the desk, but he doesn't reach for it. Instead he puts a hand over his mouth, stifling the sobs that tear out of him. He can't understand why he's crying so suddenly, except that he's tired and overwhelmed and His Majesty is being so kind. He doesn't deserve it.
It's another ten minutes of muffled sobbing before a quiet knock sounds against his open door, and then it's being pushed open the rest of the way. He glances up through his tears as His Majesty peeks into the room. "Oh child," he says softly as he catches sight of Ignis.
Ignis tries to speak, to offer an apology, but he's too choked up and nothing comes out. His Majesty comes over to him as fast as he's able to move, and then reaches down gently to close his hand around Ignis' arm, the one still pressed tightly against his mouth. He tugs gently, and Ignis allows himself to be pulled to his feet, his sobs breaking free and bouncing loudly around the room as His Majesty brings him in for a hug.
His Majesty holds him, arms wrapped around him firmly, one hand rubbing his back as the other runs lightly through his hair, soothing him. "There you go, let it all out," he says quietly as Ignis buries his face in his king's shoulder and cries. He brings trembling arms up to wrap tightly around His Majesty in return, curling his fingers into the back of his shirt, clutching the fabric desperately.
They stay that way as Ignis continues to shake and sob, His Majesty soothing him softly with warm words and comforting contact. Later he'll be humiliated at falling apart in front of the king, but right now he simply doesn't care.
Eventually his cries slow enough for His Majesty to guide him carefully over to his couch, lowering them both down on it, as Ignis finds he's not quite ready to loosen his grip. "Apologies," he manages to stutter through his lessening sobs, but the king shakes his head.
"Hush, none of that, child. You've been keeping this bottled up for too long. If I can go to my other son's apartment in the middle of the night to hold him through his cries, I can certainly come to your office in the middle of the night to do the same for you."
At that, Ignis' breath hitches—he doesn't miss the clear implication that His Majesty considers him as much a son as Noct. It feels wrong; he doesn't deserve it after he failed both Noct and his father. Yet, he can't deny how good it feels to hear those words.
"Better?" His Majesty asks when his tears dry up a short time later.
He nods automatically, though he's not certain that's true. He feels wrung out. Letting go of His Majesty's shirt, he leans back, drawing his legs up on the cushions as he curls up on the sofa. "My apologies, Your Majesty," he murmurs.
"Given the conversation I suspect we are about to have, there's no need for formality. Call me Regis," the king tells him, waving a hand dismissively as he settles himself more comfortably on the sofa. "And I told you, child, no apologies."
Ignis swallows, squeezing his eyes shut hard for several seconds. He's certain they look a right mess—they feel hot and swollen, aching from all the tears he'd cried. Now that His Ma—Regis—is here, he isn't sure where to start, or how much he feels comfortable sharing. But he can't tell himself that he's fine any longer. "Gladio believes I may be traumatised."
"You think he's wrong?"
"I think," Ignis begins, feeling far too fragile again, "that I have perhaps been lying to myself for three weeks."
"It can take time for trauma to sink in, and even more time for us to realise that something's wrong—we normalise our reactions, and brush them off as not a big deal. Indeed, more often than not trauma starts as small things we pay little attention to," Regis says gently. "Don't be too hard on yourself."
"I've... been having nightmares," he says haltingly. He curls his fingers up against his legs, pressing his fists tightly into his trousers. "About—about Noct. That day." He doesn't need to specify what day he means; they both know very well.
"Ignis, there's no shame in that. It was a very harrowing day. If it helps you to know, I've had a few myself."
"I've been losing sleep," he admits, fresh tears pricking at his eyes, but he's too worn out to cry again. "The dreams... the things I see in them, things that never happened—" He pauses, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "It's impossible to fall back to sleep after one. I only had a single hour of sleep last night."
"Oh, child." There's genuine sympathy in his voice that makes Ignis feel better. "That little sleep can certainly exacerbate things, and heighten an already tenuous emotional state, and in turn cause even more nightmares. It's no wonder you are feeling as you are."
"I had another one earlier, after I fell asleep at my desk."
"Tell me about it," Regis says quietly. "As little or as much as you need. Purge it from your brain, and your body. It will help."
A shudder runs through Ignis as the dream drifts to the forefront of his mind again. He's not sure he can. But that had been why he had texted His Majesty in the first place, and so he tries. "I was on the corner. Noct was already in the van. The door was closing. The van pulled away, and I waited for the Crownsguard to stop it, but they did not. After that, Noct was in a room. He was... tied up. Gagged. Being beaten. Tortured. The things they were doing to him—the details—I can't—"
"You don't need to, child. It's alright."
He shudders again, a few tears trickling down his cheeks. "I couldn't save him. He was screaming and calling my name. I was running, looking everywhere for him. I could hear him, but I couldn't find him. I couldn't save him. They hurt him, and I wasn't able to do anything."
"Ignis." Regis scoots closer to him, pulling him into his arms once more.
Ignis allows it, clinging on to him, wanting comfort for once in his life. He needs someone to absolve him of the guilt that's been swallowing him whole these past three weeks. "I'm sorry," he says on a small sob as he hides his face in Regis' chest, formality falling away in the wake of his distress. "I'm sorry, I didn't react in time, I froze, I didn't react, I didn't save him. If we had lost him it would have been all my fault."
Regis begins to rub his back again, small, soft, soothing circles over his shirt. "What happened or even could have happened isn't your fault. You're only seventeen, and still in training to be a Crownsguard. Furthermore, you're not Noct's Shield, and you lack the intensive training that comes with that position. I certainly don't blame you for any of it, so please do not blame yourself. You've never been faced with such a situation before. Your reaction, freezing up—it's normal. You haven't been trained yet to fight past that reaction."
Ignis lets out a few more sobs, but he's still too exhausted to fully fall apart again. He yearns to believe those words, but he's not sure he's capable of it yet. "Noct isn't okay."
"That isn't your fault either. He would have been traumatised regardless, with or without your presence there. The only people at fault for the trauma both of you have experienced are the men who attempted to kidnap him that day. They are the ones you should be blaming. They are the ones who chose to break the law and disregard my son's bodily autonomy and inflict pain and suffering on him."
"But if I had stopped them, he wouldn't have been hurt."
"Child, no. Don't do that to yourself. That isn't the road you want to go down," Regis says, his voice gentle. It's comforting. "You can't predict what might have happened. If you had managed to react sooner, and fight back, how do you know they wouldn't have pulled the both of you into that van? What if one of them had pulled a weapon and killed you, or injured you? And even if you were able to stop them before anything too serious happened, don't you think Noctis would still be traumatised?"
Ignis knows he's right. Most of Noct's fear over leaving the apartment is fear that something similar will happen again. Most of his panic attacks are over thinking about the potential of what could have happened that day, if the van had made off with him, the same as Ignis' nightmares. Stopping things before Noct was pulled into the van would have changed very little. He sniffles, not caring that it's undignified. "I don't know how to help him."
"The same as you always have. Just being there for him, reassuring him and supporting him. Letting him know he's not alone, and he's loved. But Ignis, look at me." Regis shifts, dropping his hand, and Ignis reluctantly pulls back, lifting his head to meet his gaze. "I want to make it clear that you are under no obligation to help him through his trauma. I do not expect you to do the heavy lifting."
"But—"
"No. You are not a psychologist, and I do not expect you to play one. I'm aware that he can't leave his apartment to see a therapist, and I have been working to find one that would be willing to go to him, or perhaps do tele-therapy, if we can get a secure enough connection. Fixing him is not your burden, do you understand me? Help him in the small ways, if you wish, help him through panic attacks and nightmares and make sure that he's eating and showering every day, but do not take his trauma onto yourself. I will get him the help he needs for that."
"I feel—" He stops abruptly, shame washing over him.
"Helpless?" Regis asks quietly. "Powerless? Useless?"
More tears slide down his face, and he lifts a hand to his eyes, covering them with his palm. He can feel his mouth trembling, and bows his head so His Majesty can't see it.
There's a rustling of fabric, and then a warm hand on his back again. "Trust me, I understand the feeling all too well. There is so little I can truly do myself, beyond provide the means for Noctis to get help. But he has to work through the trauma himself. And he isn't the only one that leaves me feeling helpless."
Ignis makes a wordless noise of confusion at that, wiping at his eyes.
Regis sighs. "You think I don't look at you now, clearly suffering just as much as Noctis, and feel powerless to do anything to ease your pain? Both of my boys are hurting, and I'm incapable of fixing it."
"You're helping," Ignis whispers around a shuddering breath. His chest feels tight at Regis' words, but it doesn't feel like a bad thing.
"I'm glad to hear it. And when it comes to Noctis, as much as I appreciate you being there for him, you have to put yourself ahead when it comes to dealing with trauma. You can't hope to take care of him if you don't take care of yourself first."
"Gladio said something similar to me, this afternoon," he admits. Though he still feels his best friend's words had been more harsh, and somewhat uncalled for. But that's something to be dealt with later, when he feels more like himself, rather than a complete mess. "But I'm not certain I'm willing to talk to a therapist."
"I can't force you," Regis tells him, "but I do believe you should consider giving it a try. You might find it easier than you think. And if not, you can always stop going."
Ignis pulls away again, curling up on the cushions once more. Fatigue has crept over him enough to dry his tears, and he's beginning to feel embarrassed and vulnerable. Admitting he needs therapy means admitting he's not strong enough. Not good enough. And he recognises how illogical that thought process is, but he feels it nonetheless.
But then... "I had a panic attack after my nightmare." It makes him feel even more vulnerable admitting it, but His Majesty has been so kind and understanding tonight, and it feels like something he should confess. "It was my second one."
Regis reaches out, grasping his hand and entwines their fingers together. "I imagine they were quite frightening."
He curls his fingers against Regis' knuckles, tightly. "I've helped Noct through enough that I should have recognised them, but I didn't. Gladio was there for the first, but the second..."
"I'm sorry you went through that alone."
"I believe I should try talking to a therapist."
"We can certainly arrange that," Regis says quietly, squeezing his hand briefly. "And in the meantime, you are still more than welcome to come to me anytime you need to talk, or calm down, or simply need a hug."
Ignis actually laughs a little at that, even though his face heats up. He's never had much physical affection with anyone other than Noct, and even that has mostly been small, subtle touches. Tonight has been a new experience for him. He can't say it's been unpleasant, however. "Thank you," he murmurs.
"Any time, child. And I mean everything I said tonight. I know you won't believe it all immediately, but please keep it in mind. None of this has been your fault, and I do not blame you. Your reaction and your trauma are both normal. There is no need to be ashamed."
He nods, a yawn escaping him before he can cover his mouth. Now that the storm of emotions has passed, the long day is starting to catch up with him, and he wants nothing more than to sleep. There's still the possibility of nightmares to contend with, however, and that worries him. He doesn't want to jerk awake in another hour, once more alone and frightened and hurting. He can feel his eyes fluttering, wanting to close, but he struggles to keep them open.
"It seems perhaps some sleep is in order?" Regis asks him quietly, squeezing his hand again.
He nods again, but then shakes his head. "I would rather not," he mumbles.
Regis lets out a soft sigh. "I can understand well the desire to stave off sleep to avoid nightmares, but I can assure you from experience, child, it doesn't work. All you will succeed in is delaying them, and then you will be even more exhausted when you have to deal with them. Your body needs rest, and you should be allowing it to get whatever rest it can."
His eyes slip shut again, and he jerks them back open, swallowing. He knows Regis is right, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept it. If he didn't have to wake alone afterwards, it wouldn't seem as bad. "Is it alright if you—" he starts on impulse, but he can't ask that of Regis.
"Don't be afraid to ask for what you need."
He lets his eyes close once more, too tired to keep them open. "Is it selfish of me to ask you to stay?" he says, his words blurring some in his exhaustion. He supposes the answer won't matter—if Regis says no, he'll still fall asleep. But it would be nice to fall asleep knowing Regis will be here when he inevitably wakes in an hour.
"That is the furthest thing from selfish," Regis says. He stands, not letting go of Ignis' hand, and then tugs at him until Ignis is lying down on the sofa, his head against one of the decorative pillows. He has to curl up to fit his feet onto it, but it's not uncomfortable.
Hearing his footsteps moving away, Ignis pries his eyes open just enough to see Regis step over to his desk, rolling his chair around it and over to the sofa, settling himself into it. He pulls out his phone, tapping at it, and then extends his free arm towards Ignis' head, gently running his fingers through his hair. "Sleep, child," he says quietly. "I'll be here when you wake."
Ignis drowsily murmurs something incomprehensible, reassured by Regis' presence nearby and comforted by the affectionate touch. Things aren't better, and he'll still have to face his trauma, but he doesn't feel so alone and helpless now, and that's all that matters in the moment. He lets his eyes drift closed once more, and then at last he sleeps.