How would the rest of the Sinners react if Chehsa suddenly has a panic attack?
Chehsa is very good at hiding their panic attacks. uncannily so. they bottle everything up. shoving it down until they're left trembling, staring straight ahead at nothing at all and trying not to completely break down. seeing and hearing things that aren't there. they're very sensitive- sound and texture can be either overwhelming or grounding depending on the day- and try not to make a fuss. yet the others still notice, often enough.
all set after a Sinner's respective Canto, if they had one.
Yi Sang prefers to open whatever book they've been reading, quietly narrating for them in a calm, soothing tone. his gaze flicks to them occasionally, judging their posture. only closing the novel when they're completely uncurled and drifting back to reality. he encourages them to sleep afterwards, so many hours spent awake flipping through books to ward off nightmares.
Faust does not seem to care very much. her expression does not change, nor does her tone. yet she launches into an explanation of Mephistopheles' inner workings for seemingly no reason, a steady, even lecture of facts. she knows it works. Chehsa always appreciates listening to other people speak about their passions, even the genius Faust herself.
Don Quixote senses their tension almost immediately, catching the sound of their stuttered breathing through her own chatter. she guides them somewhere familiar, quiet- their room- sitting them down on the bed and speaking very softly. repeating the promises she made and gently holding their hands. she loves them, always. in every version of them both, no matter what. that they are safe and cared for. as they calm her hands move up to their face. very careful, very delicate. giving them space to pull away if their aversion to touch rears its head. she cups their cheeks and brushes strands of hair aside so she can pepper tiny kisses over their forehead. Don insists that they cuddle for the rest of the day. it's the best medicine, in her opinion. she'll even purr for them, if they want. soft and quiet for only them to hear.
Ryoshu barely reacts. she almost thinks it's funny, or perhaps pathetic, that cigarette hanging in a toothy smirk. yet her eyes still narrow when Chehsa says nothing to her pushes, the snap of her fingers in front of their face. she clicks her tongue. pulling out a sheet from seemingly nowhere and tossing it over their head, blocking out sound and light. it's surprisingly helpful. coming from Ryoshu, at least.
Meursault doesn't even blink. simply handing Chehsa their headphones and sitting at their side, a makeshift wall between them and the rest of the bus. he does not panic. at all. but he does know how bright, how loud the world can be. the craving for nothing but silence. so silence he provides.
Hong Lu's casual demeanor fades, quickly scooting closer to Chehsa and pressing his hand carefully to their forehead. no fever, but they're shaking in their seat, gripping their arms tightly. he gently pats their head, pulling a few vials of scent- mint, eucalyptus, rain. something sharp and fresh to ground the senses. it always helped in his youth. he smiles when Chehsa's shoulders begin to lower, quietly helping them inhale and exhale until they're calm again. they can keep the fragrances. he can always get new ones, after all.
Heathcliff is not well versed with comfort. nor with Chehsa. they don't spend much time around him, finding him too loud and rough for their liking. yet he still tries. nudging them a few times and poking their shoulder. nothing but shaky gasps and flinches. most often, he'll probably call for Outis to help. he knows Chehsa only tolerates touch from a select group of people that he isn't a part of. but sometimes he carefully scoots them away from other people, telling them to take deep, slow breaths. his accent is recognizable enough for them to latch onto reality.
Ishmael knows the minute she hears their breath hitch, intensely similar to her own panic attacks. she turns; unwinds the ribbons from her hair and places them in Chehsa's hands, before guiding their fingers closer. they always love fiddling with her hair, braiding and tying it in various styles. they're still shaking- she can feel it in her head- but Ishmael cracks a small smile as they slowly begin to pat her hair, the fluffy texture engulfing their fingers. as long as they don't tug, Ishmael doesn't say much, other than rattling off any random ocean facts floating around in her head.
Rodion casually pats their head with a laugh, telling them to hold their horses and take a breath- until she realizes that they're hyperventilating. her smile drops, hastily lowering her voice and bringing Chehsa closer until they're buried in her jacket. she tries talking about small, unimportant things, offering to find some food they like afterwards. not the best, but they can breathe again. she's doing her best.
Dante is much like Faust, talking quietly to calm their nerves. the faint ticking that Chehsa can still hear also helps tremendously, something rhythmic and soothing. Dante also excels at pinpointing what not to talk about, asking them questions about the other Sinners that might make Chehsa smile. a therapeutic presence.
do not put Chehsa next to Sinclair when they're on edge. simply don't do it. he will end up panicking as well, and there will be two anxiety-ridden Sinners on the bus. the best course of action is for him to get Outis and hope that Chehsa feels better soon.
Outis stiffens, even from across the bus. marching over and placing a firm, solid hand on their shoulder. without a word she guides them to her room, making sure the curtains are closed and the lights are dim. locking the door before stepping closer and pulling Chehsa into a warm hug. she's one of the only people they'll accept a full, encompassing embrace from, resting her cheek against their forehead and patting their back. her room is laced with the smell of gunpowder and smoke- the scent that always seems to cling to her- and she holds them until their shuddering breaths fade to soft sniffles, humming quietly under her breath. as long as no one else is there to see.
Gregor blanches, rubbing the back of his neck. emotional issues aren't really his strong suit, he's been repressing his own for years. there is one thing he can do. he doesn't want to, but if all else fails, he reluctantly extends his insectile arm. allows Chehsa to touch it. thankfully their grip is always hesitant and careful. the chitinous texture helps clear their head, drawing aimless shapes over the carapace with each inhale and exhale. they apologize profusely afterwards, but Gregor just awkwardly pats their back. he's glad they're feeling better, if anything.
some of these are probably inaccurate. but this was still fun. thank you.
