#72nd_cataclysm

BREATH

Breathe in.

Hold the breath. But don’t strain your lungs.

Breathe out.

Focus. Focus on making each breath even.

Breathe in.

The breath in stutters, in his mind he sees flashes of something he feels more than he can remember. It’s overwhelming, bile and anxiety rising up, hastening the panic, forcing him to sink within it.

Breathe out.

His breath is shaky and uneven on the exhale. He’s trembling. Hands shaking, he makes loose fists in his lap.

Bre—

The shuddering inhale stops and he hiccups. His chest constricts and he’s trembling so hard that not even balling his hands into fists can make it stop. He breath starts fluttering, fast, and too short.

“Oh…oooh no…”

Crow’s weak voice trails off into a silent cry. The panic he was barely restraining spills over and he begins to curl in over himself. A wrecked sob tears free of his lips and he shudders. The tremor spreads over his thin frame, enveloping his body.

Behind him, a prone figure in the bed stirs. Crow’s uneven, rapid breathing and quiet sobs barely break the silence of the night. But it’s loud enough.

Rolling over, the Guardian wakes. She understands immediately.

He’s gasping for air that doesn’t reach him. No matter how fast Crow’s chest rises, nothing seems to alleviate the feeling of him falling. Of the air sucked away from his lungs. Sinking. Pressed upon. Being consumed by something so dark, so insidious it eats him from the inside out while swallowing him whole. He’s so cold. He’s alone. He’s drowning in air. He’s fading. He’s going to become noth—

Warmth melts into his back and strong arms wrap around him. They’re pulling him away. Up out of the mire.

The body at his back exhales deeply and inhales slowly. Gentle hands weave through his clenched fists, loosing his fingers and ghosting softly over broken skin.

Crow feels his chest lighten as his breaths begin to sync with the Guardian’s. She continues to breath in and out, calmly and slowly.

“Mmhhmm.”

Crow tries and fails to speak, words temporarily lost in his duress. He can only push out a torn humming.

The Guardian takes his hands into hers and kisses the back of his head. She knows he’s better now. Not okay, not alright, but he will be.

Crow settles, relaxing stiff shoulders, and stretching legs cramped from curling in mid-panic attack. The Guardian shifts behind him to accommodate, sticking close to his side. She holds one of his hands over his chest, head tucked over his. Safe. He’s safe here.

The Guardian’s measured breathing eases as she falls back asleep, but even then Crow pays attention to her slower, rhythmic breaths. He times his own to match hers. In minutes he’s drowsy, eyes half open. Crow raises their tangled hands to his lips and plants a reverent kiss on the Guardian’s hand. Love.