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It's during the fifth sleepless night in a row where Paxton feels like his sanity finally cracks.
Like every bad night before this, he's in the sitting room of Corbeau's apartment (because it's not his apartment yet, not until he gets his own key or they finally move somewhere with a more modern solution), with both of his boyfriends sleeping behind a solid wood door. It's cold, cold enough that their pokémon won't overheat, but not so cold that a person would freeze.
Like always, he's dressed in nothing but his own boxer shorts and one of Philippe's old punker tees, something incredibly old he's dug out of the very back of the walk-in closet, something that smells more like dust and old cologne and cigarette smoke than it smells like Philippe. It's too large, and it feels a little like he's wearing a circus tent, but there's something almost comforting about that.
He's taken Corbeau's dressing gown with him, too, which is unfortunate if Corbeau wakes up in the middle of the night needing to go to the bathroom, but pressing it against his chest helps the gaping emptiness that's threatening to swallow him whole.
Absol's in her poké ball, because if she wasn't she'd be nipping at him, trying to drag him back to bed so he can curl up in-between the solid hot brand of Philippe and cool, steady presence of Corbeau. She's going to be cross with him in the morning, though he doubts pokémon are aware of much of anything while in their balls. He'll take the bites and scratches and demands for the expensive treats that he can only get from the organic luxury store next to Hotel Richissime if it means that he can curl up and wallow in his despair on his own.
Unofficially moving in with Corbeau and Philippe had seemed to take away the worst of his sleep issues, the ones that had started while he'd still been staying at Hotel Z and that had only gotten worse when he'd gotten his own studio apartment in the north-east of Lumiose. He's thought that he'd be past this, past this inability to rest at all. Even then, Paxton had really thought the sleep issues had been predominantly due to the fact that he just hadn't had the time to sleep.
But now, now that's he's the hero, he's able to control his schedule better. He no longer has to compete in every battle zone that appears across the city, is able to plan in advance for things like trainer battles, for appearances at charity galas or working with various organisations across the city. He works his shifts behind the scenes at Hotel Z and it's okay.
Fighting in the Royale two nights a week and no more should allow him to have a close-to-normal sleep schedule, one that lets him be a functioning human being during the day.
Then again, his boyfriends run a fucking mafia ring (which makes it sound so ... rough, so uncivilised) and more often than not, they're also up at all hours of the day, which doesn't lend itself well to Paxton living a normal 9-5 life. Despite this, they try to aim for something akin to normalcy, even if it means that sometimes one of them is missing for hours at a time, running the syndicate while the other is at home playing house with Paxton.
That, too, makes the gaping maw in his chest grow a few more teeth. They do so much for him, catering to him because he's a civilian caught up in their web. Logically, he knows that they're equally as head over heels for him as he's for them, but the thoughts that plague him on nights like these, when the sleep deprivation eats away at the last of his rationality, makes something like doubt well up within him.
It's odd, because there have been few things in his life that's been just for him, and here his mind is trying to ruin it for him. He comes from a loving family, sure, but as one of four children, with both parents working, affection had almost felt a little scarce sometimes. Hanging out with Harmony had always helped, and getting additional attention from Serenity and Concordia had brought him some of the comfort his parents weren't always able to give. Team MZ, at least at first, had been more of a work commitment than anything else, and even though he values them more than life itself at this point, it still hadn't been something for him at first.
But Philippe and Corbeau are amongst the first people that, almost from the very beginning, had been there because he's him. They see him as a person more than anything else, whereas with others he's always been ... something else. Son, roommate, teammate, secret weapon, threat, adversary, hero. It's comforting to come home to an apartment that isn't quite his yet, to sit down to dinner with at least one of his partners.
So really, he shouldn't feel any of this doubt.
But he hasn't slept well in almost a week, and the few times he's been able to nod off he wakes up with the taste of blood or bile in his mouth, thoughts of the tower collapsing, of the very real fear of being torn apart in the city's many wild zones, and a multitude of other horror scenarios have woken him up within the hour, sweating and shaking and needing to get away.
And this is the fifth night in a row and Paxton hasn't really tried to sleep at all, sneaking out of bed the moment Corbeau and Philippe's breaths had evened out. And now he's sitting here on the sofa, and the thought of cuddling back up under the blankets sends his heart racing, beating double time in his chest.
He's kept Absol in her poké ball tonight because all the other nights so far she's nipped at him until he'd reluctantly crawled back into bed, holding onto one of his partners. She'd settled on his legs and stared at him in the moonlight coming in through the large bedroom window, her eyes almost daring him to get up again and risk disturbing her. Paxton doesn't think he'll be able to go back to bed tonight.
And he loves Absol to bits, he really does— she holds a significant part of his heart, after all —but sometimes her stubbornness is almost overwhelming. He wouldn't put it past her to go into the bedroom of her own accord to wake up Philippe and Corbeau if it came down to it.
And he doesn't want to inconvenience them with something so small as this.
He's dealt with this on his own for almost a year now, and it's not like it's entirely inhibiting his ability to be a normal, functional person in his day-to-day life.
Sleep issues are a common response to stress, after all.
"I was wonderin' where my dressin' gown went."
Paxton's heart jumps into his throat and he thinks he might be sick from the sound of Corbeau's sleepy voice behind him. He loves his partners so much, and the thought of burdening them with something he was convinced he was over now? It doesn't feel great.
"It's the middle of the night," Corbeau says, settling down next to him. His accent is thicker than usual. "What's keeping you up, darlin'?"
Paxton shrugs, and the movement almost hurts. He's been so tense recently that any movement feels painful. "It's nothing, really."
"I noticed Absol isn't out tonight," Corbeau says, reaching out a hand to pet Paxton's thigh. "I'd wondered 'bout that."
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know what to say to that.
"Should I wake up Philippe?"
To that, at least, Paxton knows to shake his head. He doesn't want to inconvenience his partners more than necessary, and Corbeau being awake is already more than enough.
"Just can't sleep," he eventually manages to get out. "It happens sometimes."
"'Sometimes'," Corbeau echoes. "Did something happen?"
It's odd to feel so vulnerable. Paxton's always been good at deflecting, and it doesn't really matter that Corbeau and Philippe are the most important people in his life. There's really no reason for why he's like this; so quick to deflect attention away from himself.
But he can't keep the mask on his face now.
"Thinking too much."
The statement hangs in the air around them.
"Does this happen a lot?" Corbeau asks, and finally he moves to adjust them on the couch, with Paxton ending up halfway reclined across Corbeau's lap.
Paxton shrugs again, and it's an odd movement in the way he's currently laying, clutching Corbeau's dressing gown to his chest like a baby blanket.
"Do you want to go back to bed?"
At that, Paxton knows to shake his head. Going back to bed means laying there, victim to his own thoughts. He won't be able to sleep no matter how hard he tries, and the sensation of both of his partners sleeping peacefully beside him will be too much for him to handle. It's just better he stays out of the bedroom, curled up on the couch drowning in his own despair.
"We all have sleepless nights," Corbeau says, and it feels like an empty platitude.
Logically, Paxton knows that Corbeau won't be able to give good advice unless he actually tells him what's wrong, but it still annoys him that Corbeau seems to think that this is just one night of not falling asleep.
But he doesn't know how to correct him, because by all accounts he should be past this. The tower fell almost a year ago, and he's been able to keep up the illusion that he's doing well. He works multiple jobs, he has two boyfriends and a friend group and he's in regular contact with his family at home in Sinnoh. All in all, he's living a very normal life.
But the blood taste in his mouth won't go away whenever he slows down. He can't go to Wild Zone 5 anymore just to hang out with the Venipedes and the alpha Whirlipede that recognises him because he brings the same treats that Absol favours because sitting down for more than five minutes without a distraction makes it feel like Ange's tendrils are digging into him, playing with him like he's some kind of rag doll.
He knows that Taunie and Urbain had it worse with Ange, knows that their body are covered in deep marks, deep scars from Ange's thorns digging into them. One of their eyes look different, less blue and more purple-ish from the strain of holding onto Mega Floette, the skin around it discoloured much in the same way as the other scars on their body. Urbain covers it up with makeup and long sleeves, too scared of seeming vulnerable. Taunie doesn't seem to care.
And Paxton has no marks like that, no proof that he was ever involved in the entire Ange Floette disaster, except for his hero status, except for the pedestal the city is content on placing him on. There's a burn mark where his mega ring used to rest (and it's long ago been replaced with a necklace he can keep on top of his clothes) but even that is covered by the clothes he wears. No one can know that the hero is flawed, even on something as minute as appearance.
"You should go back to sleep, you have work in the morning," Paxton says quietly, and the words feel like he has to punch them out of his chest. Getting his body to work with him feels increasingly difficult. The sound of Ange's whispers echoes through his mind. He doesn't think anyone else heard the sounds it had been making. He's never been brave enough to ask Taunie and Urbain.
"Work can wait," Corbeau says firmly, placing his hand on Paxton's chest, right in-between his breasts, in the most neutral position he can. It might be for Paxton's comfort, but it's equally likely that it is for Corbeau to monitor his pulse. "Your comfort's a priority, y'know."
Paxton laughs, quiet and almost hollow. "You can't fix this."
"That makes it sound like someone hurt you," Corbeau says, and the hand on his chest presses harder. Trust Corbeau to grasp onto his heart, to squeeze it in the palm of his hand. He's already got all of Paxton, what would be offering up the source of his life be? "We'll get them. You only hafta say the name."
Paxton shakes his head. He wants Corbeau to go back to bed, wants him to curl up around him until the rest of the world fades out. He wants Philippe there with them, he wants to hide away in his studio apartment that will never feel welcoming no matter how decorated the walls are or comfortable the bedding is.
"You can't fix it," Paxton repeats, because there's nothing in the world that will. By staying in Lumiose all those months ago, he dug his grave and now he's gotta rest in it, holding one of Ange's flowers, allowing it to burrow into his chest, to curl around his lungs and stop his breathing.
He knows that saying that will make Corbeau bristle, that he will fight back and try to come for Paxton's demons even if they're dead and buried, cleaned up and removed from Lumiose. Corbeau can't mobilise the full strength of the Rust Syndicate in the fight against Paxton's failing mental health.
Because Paxton knows that if he feels helpless in the face of his own demise, Corbeau must feel utterly powerless.
But, to his surprise, Corbeau seems to back down.
"Okay," Corbeau says, moving the other hand to pet at Paxton's incredibly messy hair. He's been good about brushing it because heroes look well-kept at all times, but at night, when he's alone with his thoughts, it easy to pull at it, to ruffle it up until he looks like he hasn't slept for a week.
He hasn't, not really, so it's only fitting.
"You need to rest," Corbeau ends up saying instead, and with both of Corbeau's hands on him and with Paxton resting his head against Corbeau's chest, it finally feels like his heart is able to calm down some more. "How can we make that possible for you?"
The bedroom door behind them opens again, but Paxton can't find the energy to look up as Philippe sits down on the sofa next to Corbeau. He can feel his legs being manipulated, being pulled up to rest over Philippe's lap.
"You should be sleeping," Paxton whispers, more into Corbeau's chest than into the room. He doesn't know if either of them are able to hear him properly.
His body feels stiffer than it did earlier, like he's finally turning into the statue they've been thinking of building outside of Wild Zone 20, bearing his likeness with his Absol by his side. Taunie and Urbain have been able to entertain a semblance of privacy, having not been seen on the night of the event, having been whisked away to discuss stuff at the Quasartico building immediately.
Paxton had been there for the buildup, had had Absol and Zygarde moving around his legs. It had only taken that one journalist snapping a picture they shouldn't have and immediately his identity had been known by the entire city. They don't know his name, because his display name in the Royale has never been his real name, and few had been able to listen in on his conversations.
To the masses he's still Sky, with the cloud emoji in the name, taken from the Z-A Royale App. The public will never learn his real name, the name he chose for himself at twelve years old, the one he picked while embracing his old self as the long, black hair fell down onto the ground around the hairdresser chair.
His partners have never called him by that name, know him only as Paxton, and only because they found out his real name first.
"Would it help if we were out here in the living room?" Philippe asks, and it's clear that while Paxton was off in his own head, they've been murmuring quietly, Corbeau likely catching Philippe up on the situation. "If it is the idea of sleeping in bed that unsettles you so much?"
Paxton doesn't know if it's specifically that. It's just that the idea of laying down and closing his eyes with the expectation of being unconscious for multiple hours while his brain is able to play the best-of memories of the tower going rogue makes it feel like his heart is trying to implode on itself, to let the tissue rip itself apart and cling onto the walls of his chest cavity.
"We can put on that show you like," Corbeau says. "Pull out the sofa and just rest."
He knows that the two of them have a meeting in the morning that they need to attend. He knows that it's important, something with an investor or another. His boyfriends need all the sleep they can get, and here they are at fuck-knows-when in the morning comforting him because he's like a child scared of the monster under his bed. It makes something curdle inside him.
But despite this, being able to cuddle up with his boyfriends, with all of their attention on him, is helpful in a way that little else is. It's not making him calm, or anything close to that state of mind. Everything still hurts and Ange's whispers still twist their way through his mind, but he doesn't feel quite so alone as he has in the past few nights.
Philippe scoots closer and it's almost like Philippe and Corbeau are embracing each other through holding onto Paxton like he's something precious. He feels contained, and it's almost enough to realise that he isn't completely alone in all of this. Philippe and Corbeau were there on the fateful night and while they never looked up at Ange Floette in the way that he did, they still know what happened.
At least a little.
Paxton hasn't told them about what it was like to command Zygarde, to know that he had been chosen by the strongest pokémon in all of Kalos to defeat something possessing his best friends. He doesn't think he will ever find the words to describe the sheer horror, the sheer determination, the sheer power he wielded in his hands at that moment. They know about his mega bracelet burning him from the strain of keeping Zygarde mega evolved, but he doesn't think they know about the scars marring his soul.
You don't come away from commanding something close to a god without something deep within you fundamentally changing. He wonders if this is what Dawn felt like.
He should reach out to her.
Corbeau is moving him again and Paxton tries to move with him, tries to make his body as light as possible. Philippe must be in front of them, moving the coffee table forward, closer to the doorway leading to the kitchen.
They're pulling out the sofa to turn in into the sleeper sofa, Paxton realises. It's not the first time they've done something like this, created an approximation of a bed in the sitting room and put on the television for a movie marathon that none of them had been paying attention to.
Then, the TV comes on and it's a quiet rumble that seems to counteract the noise of Ange in his mind. He knows that they have somehow acquired all the old seasons of his favourite Sinnohan property hunting show, somehow with Kalosian subtitles despite the show never being officially released in Kalos.
"You don't hafta sleep," Corbeau says, and it's only now that Paxton realises that he's not actually wearing his glasses. It makes sense; Corbeau has never bothered putting them on for going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, even if he is a blind as a Zubat without them, and that is essentially what he had wanted to do in the first place, right? "You can just cuddle with us."
"Do you want me to turn on the corner lamp?" Philippe asks, him too placing a hand in Paxton's hair. Together him and Corbeau seem to cover the entire surface of his scalp, petting gently, but not scratching. Scratching and pulling are reserved for other, hypothetical scenarios, places they haven't gotten yet.
Paxton likes the corner lamp, the salt lamp he'd found at some flea market his first month in Lumiose. It had reminded him so much of the salt lamp Harmony had saved up all of her pocket money to buy, the one that still stands in their shared room on Harmony's dresser, giving off a soft pink-orange light. They'd used it as a nightlight all the way up to Paxton leaving for Lumiose.
It hadn't taken long for it to migrate to Corbeau's apartment, and now they light it in the evening so the light can warm the otherwise cool-toned apartment. It's high up on a shelf, out of reach for their pokémon, who may be tempted to lick it.
He nods in response to Philippe's question, and only a few seconds later the room is slightly brighter, the lamp shining from its place high up, above Philippe's comic books, above the many books on poison that Corbeau have collected over the years. There's a shelf free, one that Paxton could theoretically fill with his own books, but since moving he hasn't had the time to dive into the literature he used to love so much.
Philippe comes back to the sofa and a little bit of manoeuvering later, he's curled up between Corbeau and Philippe, eyes facing the TV, though he's not really watching. The hosts, a fashionable woman and an older, handsome man, are talking about something or another, the Sinnohan dialect washing over him.
He doesn't know if Philippe and Corbeau understands everything that's going on, but that's what the subtitles are for. Then again, the show is more there for background noise than anything else.
"You don't hafta sleep," Corbeau promises, and his hand's back in Paxton's hair, petting it gently. It's grounding, and it does finally feel like his heart isn't trying to beat out of his chest.
"We'll watch over you," Philippe says, leaning into him and pressing him towards Corbeau. All in all, Paxton couldn't escape even if he tried.
"Thanks, guys," he says, and it feels a little choked. He's so tired, so exhausted, and he must be at the end of his tether, because there are tears welling up in his eyes. He wipes them away, because he doesn't want to cry, not like this. "Thanks."
But the tears keep falling, and they let him cry, let the frustration, the anger and the fear wash out of him. It does something to his brain, allows Paxton to finally think for the first time in what feels like days. There's a fog settling in over his mind, but unlike the haze he's been fighting through for almost a week, it's almost pleasant.
It's easy to settle into it, with both of his partners beside him. It doesn't matter that he won't sleep properly, because at least he's allowing his body to recuperate somewhat. Distantly, he recalls Naveen saying something about the body and brain also recovering from rest, as opposed to sleep.
It might be enough.
When Paxton inevitably dozes off, Corbeau pulls the blanket up higher, until it almost covers Paxton's nose.
"He's struggling more than we've thought, doesn't he?" he says, quiet so as to not wake Paxton now that he's finally gone to sleep. "If he hasn't been sleeping..."
"We haven't noticed." Philippe's voice is barely more than a rumble, a noise in his chest that somehow forms words. "What kind of partners are we if we can't notice that he's been flagging? It's been months. At some point we just…"
"…stopped anticipating the fall," Corbeau finishes for him. Paxton's form in front of him is blurry, on account of not wearing his glasses. "Well, no matter. It seems we have work to do."
"Yes, boss."