The hand on his shoulder shakes him. He hunches over, neck muscles tightening like stretched rubber bands. Oh god, it's starting and he can't stop it. The pressure in his head builds slowly, like air filling a balloon.

"Dion? Awoka eenu ehligh?"

It takes a second for him to register his name. "Mmmph. I'm fine," he says automatically. He turns to look at Morris, and catches the sun behind his head, burning directly into his retinas. Red, green, and yellow and lights flash behind his eyelids as he squeezes them shut.

"Dion, abuu habing norah?"

He tries to focus on Gisu's voice. Her tone is full of concern, even if the meaning is hard to puzzle out.

His skull feels too small, like his brain is swelling up with water, threatening to crack the bones and explode like a horror movie prop. He presses his palms to his temples as a dozen little invisible needles pinprick his skull.

Warm hands hold his chin. They press against his jaw, coaxing him to unclench his teeth.

A hand pressed to his back, two more on his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. He wobbles, his legs tingling and half-asleep, but Morris and Gisu steady him.

They walk him back into the Motherlobe. Morris's levitation lifts Dion, supporting his weight as Gisu nudges him forward step by step.

He isn't sure how long it is they walk. Anyone they pass is sure to stare, but he can't tell with his eyes shut tight.

A door opens and closes behind him. A larger set of hands cup his head, fingers warm and rough. They rub delicately over his brows, the signal that it's safe to open his eyes.

The lights are off in the jr agents' dorm room, and it's getting darker as Gisu hurries to draw the blinds. Adam smiles down at Dion, cupping his cheeks.

"Apahhu nruv?"

Dion can't understand the words, but the tone of his boyfriend's soft British drawl brings his shoulders down from around his ears.

The dumpy couch in the dorms smells like Morris's cologne and Sam's woodland animal friends. He didn't used to like it, but now he relaxes into the familiar cushions, laying down and curling into a tiny ball. The dark helps. He can focus on breathing and not holding back vomit.

Gisu nudges him, and he lets her pick him up and deposit his head in her lap, careful not to jostle him. She pets his head as the others chat quietly.

He listens for as long as he can, holding on to the sound of their voices as his head splits down the middle. The pressure is the awful part. Something inside him banging on the inside of his head, trying to get out.

He might make a sound of pain— he can't hear himself if he does— because the talk around him stops. Gisu squeezes his arm as he wraps his hands around his head. The agony throbs with his heartbeat.

Someone else touches him. He tries to open his eyes, but the world is a swimming mess of color. Leaning into their hands, Dion lets them move him however they want.

They lightly touch his forehead, and he can feel cool breath on his face as his cheeks pinken. They're so close, and he doesn't need more blood rushing to his head from being flustered.

Then, miraculously, the pounding in his brain eases. Like air escaping from a leaky tire, the pressure in his head deflates. He gasps, nearly falling forward face-first.

When the touch pulls away, he whines, reaching back for them. His brain is still on fire, but it's more of a campfire and less of an incinerator. With relief so strong he can't keep himself up any longer.

The feeling is like cool water running over a blistering burn. It's enough that he can start to drift off. The only thing he can do is wait for the rest of the migraine to fade on its own, but now he can doze until it passes.

Gisu stares at the boy in her lap. His chest rises and falls steadily as he sleeps. Morris and Adam gape at Lizzie, kneeling in front of the couch, her hands hovering over Dion.

Lizzie's own shock is obvious. She closes her open mouth, one eyebrow quirked as she studies the boy in the center of them all.

"Lizzie… Did you…?"

"I thought a little ice would take the edge off. But then I felt his mind… there was so much energy, it's like a lightning storm in there. The static was gonna discharge eventually," she says, whispering.

"Psychic discharge. Hell, that means…" Adam kneels next to her and presses another kiss to Dion's forehead.

"Okay. Okay. I think we should talk about this when he's awake." Even with her mind racing on a superhighway of questions, Gisu can't help her own lips twitching up as she sees how calm Dion is. There will be a lot to talk about later, but for now it's enough that he's feeling better.

"Sounds good to me. Leave the serious stuff for later. I want to find some whipped cream and a feather." Morris rubs his hands together like a cartoon supervillain. He won't do anything, not when Dion is in pain, but the joke disperses some of their anxiety as Gisu whaps him on the hair.

Dion is psychic. It makes sense. The symptoms of psychic repression are weird, but the headaches and fatigue are classic. He's always been so firm and confident about it, and his family agreed that he never displayed any visible powers. But that's not a guarantee. People miss things, I should have considered the possibility….

Morris settles next to Lizzie on the couch while Adam slips under Dion's legs to sit in the middle. She puts the should haves away. For now, they'll keep each other company, watching anime without sound and texting each other memes until Dion wakes up.

When he does blink awake, Dion feels better than he ever has after an episode. His friends and partners are sleeping, flopped over him, limbs tangled together in such a mess he doesn't want to think about getting up.