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Ignis, so far, has been handling his new reality rather well.
Granted, he hasn’t had much time to fall apart, having spent the first two days after Leviathan’s trial floating in and out of consciousness without much awareness of his surroundings, and the subsequent week or so asleep more often than not.
Today, he finally feels well enough to try and venture out of the Leville - not alone, of course, it’s been hard enough to convince Prompto that he’s alright to be left alone for an hour or two while he goes to buy some supplies.
He’s just waiting for Prompto to get back, having dressed himself without too many issues, although he hasn’t been confident enough to try and put his hair into its usual style. Perhaps one of these days he will ask Prompto for help, but right now, that would be a blow his pride is not yet ready to take.
Alone with his thoughts for the first time in days, he finds himself restless. He’s never been one to sit idly, preferring to busy himself doing something useful. Noct used to joke about Ignis needing to work in order to survive, but that really wasn’t too far off from the truth.
Already, Ignis hates that he can't do anything.
With nothing to pass the time until Prompto returns, he paces around the room, practising with and without the cane, but even in the comparably small hotel room he bumps into things entirely too often. It makes him wonder how he could possibly make his way through Altissia, let alone accompany Noct and the others on their journey going forward.
It’s a dangerous line of thought - dangerous in the sense that it sends him spiraling into despair if he lingers on it for too long, so he takes the idea and shoves it down, hidden away in some remote corner of his awareness. He’ll have to deal with it sooner or later, but for now, it’s easier to pretend it doesn’t exist.
After his shin makes painful contact with the corner of his bed for the third time, he throws the cane onto the floor in a rare display of anger and feels his way to the mattress. Already, he can feel his strength wane, still weakened from his injuries, and he needs to take it easy if he wants to keep up with Prompto outside the hotel later.
For the lack of something better to do, he sits and mentally sorts through the Armiger. They’re low on curatives - Noct used a lot during his fight with Leviathan, then they gave away as many as they could spare to injured survivors, and of course Ignis himself was all but doused in potions by Gladio and Prompto when they first found him.
Almost unconsciously, Ignis summons his journal. Before Altissia fell, they had dinner at Maagho and he’s not yet had the time to write down the recipe for the dish he ordered.
The pen is already in his hand when he realises that the journal is of no use to him now, and ironically, this is what does it. He hasn’t been handling his situation well like he's been trying to convince himself, rather he hasn’t been handling it. At all.
Notebook in one hand and pen in the other, both useless to him now, the full reality of his injury hits him like a punch to the gut.
Ignis gasps and doubles over, dropping the notebook, and horrifically, he starts sobbing.
It’s how Prompto finds him, hunched over on the edge of the bed, near hyperventilation with tears streaming down his ruined face.
“Hey, hey, Iggy, what happened, are you hurt, what’s wrong-” Prompto babbles, immediately sounding panicked himself. His hands are all over Ignis and he grasps them, holding onto Prompto like a lifeline.
Prompto falls silent then, and Ignis hears him retrieve the notebook from the floor before gentle fingers pry the pen from his shaking hands.
“Oh, Iggy.”
Prompto breathes the words like he’s been wounded, and that’s all the warning Ignis gets before he’s pulled against Prompto’s chest. The embrace is perhaps as much for Prompto’s benefit as it is for his own, but Ignis is so ridiculously glad for the grounding touch that he cannot do much more than cling to his friend.
“It’s okay, Iggy, we can get it digitized,” Prompto says frantically, hands rubbing gentle circles into Ignis’ back. “I’ll help you, I promise, we can get it all onto your phone or something. It’s gonna be okay, you’ll see, we'll work it out.”
Prompto holds him until he’s calmed down enough for the embarrassment over his behaviour to start seeping into his consciousness, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it before Prompto speaks again.
“Did you wanna write something in it? You can tell me, I’ll jot it down and then we can start digitizing it sometime soon, how’s that sound?”
“We’ve been meaning to go out,” Ignis argues weakly.
Prompto gives his hand a squeeze. “A little later, okay? You’re not missing much, anyway. It’s a mess out there.”
Briefly, Ignis has in mind to object, if only to prove to himself that he isn’t entirely useless, that he won't be brought to his knees by this, but he still possesses enough self-awareness to recognise that he doesn’t need to be going out in his current mental state.
So he nods and carefully straightens himself. He recites Weskham’s recipe from memory, listens to the scratching of the pen as Prompto dutifully writes it down for him, and deliberately does not think about how he can no longer cook anyway.