#implied panic attack

The touch of air on his sweat-drenched skin and the pale light on his trembling hands grounded him back in reality.

He wasn’t there.

He wasn’t back there.

His breathing hitched, but slowed—just enough for his thoughts to begin returning to him in fragments.

This was his room.

In the Vanilla Republic.

The bed he’d made cozy with piles of pillows. The stacks of fabric on his desk. The drawing Candy Apple had made and Black Sapphire insisted on framing to hang it on the wall. To tease and praise the girl at the same time.

He was here. Now. Safe.

It had only been a nightmare.

And yet, when his gaze fell on the space near the door—where Pure Vanilla had stood both in dream and memory, staff glowing, eyes cold—

"As if you ever could have been anything but a monster."

No. No, Pure Vanilla never said that.

Not in those exact words. But he thought it. You know he did.

Something burned in his lungs and ached in his chest.

I have to get out of here.

It was less a thought and more a primal instinct. A desperate need.

Panic, despair, and self-loathing roared like a storm in his mind, making it impossible to think clearly. He just had to get away—from this room, from the memories in it's shadows, from the voices in his head, from the way his own skin still crawled like the chains never let him go.

He didn’t waste time trying to stand.

Despite the progress he’d made in the past two weeks, despite the elegant personalized cane Pure Vanilla had all but bullied him into accepting, despite his begrudging admission that it at least somewhat helped getting around his room—none of it registered right now. The nightmare had swept away any and all logical thoughts.

He just crawled across the floor towards the door.

It took him too long to reach it. His limbs didn’t want to obey. His whole body still trembled with phantom pain and lingering adrenaline. When he finally reached the handle, he used it to haul himself upright with a desperate grunt and leaned against the frame for balance.

He struggled, but managed the few steps to the front door of the suite, using the wall for support, his breath rasping in his lungs like he’d run a marathon. But the moment he flung the door open—

He stopped dead in his tracks.

A soft mechanical hum greeted him from the hallway.

One of the three Wafflebots that always waited next to the door clicked to life, the blue gem in it's center, that was both eyes and ears, blinked lively as it floated forward.

He had forgotten about these things. Hadn’t stepped a foot outside their suite since arriving.

“Do you require assistance?” the drone asked in a soft, polite tone. He understood why Black Sapphire despised these things so much now.

Shadow Milk’s heart leapt into his throat. Shit. He had no idea what the rules even were for roaming at night. Was he allowed? Would it order him back inside?

The panic flared again.

He couldn't.

“Wh-what?” he croaked.

“Scans indicate emotional and/or physical distress,” the drone said helpfully. “Shall I notify someone that you require aid?”

“No!” he snapped, far too loud. The word echoed down the corridor, and he winced, gripping the doorframe tighter to keep from toppling over.

Please don’t let that have woken anyone. Please.

This hallway should be deserted in the middle of the night—no one wanted to sleep near a Beast—but Candy and Sapphire were (hopefully) still asleep in the suite behind him.

His voice dropped to a hoarse but determinant whisper. “No. I don’t need help.”

The Wafflebot just hovered silently. No answer, no demand.

So, Shadow Milk continued. "What I do need, is some fresh air. Can I take a walk?" His voice wavered slightly at the end.

Please. He needed out of here. Needed space. Anything but those suffocating walls.

“Of course. Would you like assistance locating the shortest path to the nearest courtyard?”

That… might not be the worst idea. He wouldn't get rid of that thing after all, and the castle had too many exits. His sense of direction still wasn’t back to full strength. He could barely stand—there was no way he’d manage wandering through the maze of hallways right now.

“Yeah. Shortest way out. Sure.”

The drone chirped once and rotated smoothly toward the corridor. “Follow me.”

And Shadow Milk did.

One shaking step at a time.

The hallways stretched for what felt like eternity.

Shadow Milk clung to the wall with one hand, hunched and shaky and thoroughly miserable. His legs already felt like overcooked noodles. His knees were trembling. His heels ached. Every step was an exercise in defiance—not just of pain, but of common sense.

He’d barely made it past the first corridor before the adrenaline slowly started to wear off.

It only got worse after that.

His hand dragged along the wall like a lifeline, fingertips scraping over smooth marble and decorative molding. His other arm was tucked close to his chest as if that would help with the ache still radiating from there. The Wafflebot-Drone hovered politely a few paces in front of him, it's soft hum and glittering light an ever-present reminder that he was being watched.

(And it also led the way, of course.)

Why didn’t I bring the damn cane?

He hadn’t even thought of it before stumbling out the door. It was right there, probably leaning mockingly against the side of the bed. Waiting.

Laughing at his misery.

He hated it—not it's appearance, Pure Vanilla had admittedly done a pretty good job getting him something that optically fitted his taste—but its purpose, the damning truth it whispered every time he touched it. But at least it was helpful. Unlike the decorative wall ornaments and overly polished floor tiles that definitely weren’t designed to be accessible.

He stumbled again, catching his foot on the edge of a rug that hadn’t been a problem until just now, and went sprawling forward in an ungraceful heap.

There was a pause. Then a chime.

“Do you require assistance?” the Wafflebot asked again, in the same overly polite tone as last time.

Shadow Milk groaned from the floor, face planted in the carpet. “No,” he muttered into the weave. “No, I’m just admiring the architecture down here. Leave me to it.”

The drone waited in polite silence.

It took him three tries to push himself upright again—first to his elbows, then to his knees, then finally back against the wall where he could slump long enough to wheeze out a breath.

His legs hurt. Badly. Every muscle below the waist felt like it was made of tightly coiled pain and very bad decisions.

But he couldn’t stay still. Not for long.

As soon as he'd stopped moving, the darkness started creeping closer. The air felt thicker. The walls closed in. He could feel it, like the whole castle was slowly crushing him with it's presence alone.

He pushed forward again. One trembling step. Then another.

Ten more feet down the hallway, he slumped against a decorative bench and let himself drop onto it like a sack of regret.

The wafflebot paused beside him with a soft whirr and asked, in programmed automatism: “Do you require assistance?”

He twitched.

“Still no,” he hissed, not bothering to open his eyes. “You’ll be the first to know if I collapse into a lifeless puddle of jam.”

The bot hummed in acknowledgment and resumed its silent guard.

He sat there for a minute or five, panting like he’d fought a whole army of cake hounds. His calves were spasming. His toes had gone numb. He was pretty sure he’d pulled something somewhere.

And yet… it was better than lying still in bed. Better than the nightmare. Better than the stillness.

When he stood again, the burn in his thighs felt like punishment and penance all at once.

He made it another hallway. Fell again—this time because the floor tilted, which was rude and probably not even structurally correct.

The moment his butt hit the tiles, the wafflebot chirped, “Do you require assistance?”

“I require you to shut up,” Shadow Milk snapped, no longer having the energy for anything else.

At first, there was just the usual silence, then—

“…Understood.”

He blinked up at it.

Was it insulted? Pouting? Could it do that?

He shook off the thought and dragged himself up again with a groan. The walls weren’t closing in this time. Not yet. But his whole body was shivering, and every step was starting to feel more like penance than progress.

Still, the cool air leaking through an open hallway window helped. The quiet helped. The fact that no one was here to see him like this helped.

And the door he could already see at the end of the hallway helped as well.

Shadow Milk latched onto it like a lifeline. Each step was agony now—his body beyond tired, beyond aching. He didn’t remember the last time he had hurt like this.

No, that wasn’t true.

He remembered all too well.

Still, he pressed on, half-dragging himself the final stretch, fingers fumbling for the handle like salvation lay on the other side.

It did.

The door creaked open, and a soft breath of night air spilled across his face—cool and clean and quiet. The garden beyond was bathed in soft moonlight, pale silver washing over low hedges, flowering trees, and the soft shimmer of dew-kissed grass. It was peaceful. Gentle.

And thankfully, mercifully empty.

Shadow Milk managed three steps into the courtyard before his legs gave out.

His knees and arms hit the soft grass hard.

He didn't bother trying to move again. Just curled in on himself some more, his body shaking from exhaustion and pain.

“I’m fine,” he croaked before the bot could ask again. “Don't need help.”

And then the floodgates just broke.

He sobbed.

There was no drama in it this time. No flourish. Just raw, jagged gasps torn from the deepest, darkest part of his soul—in terror, self-loathing, guilt and pain.

He didn't even know why he cried anymore. His emotions were just too much. Too much of everything. Too much to process.

But he guessed, at the end of the day, he simply didn't deserve any better.

So, he stayed there, curled up on the grass like something broken and forgotten, weeping quietly beneath the watching stars.

Alone.

Not today. 

Moments like this lasted for hours, sometimes days. It was a single moment that spanned lifetimes. One second was equal to a torturous decade. Slowly, you felt yourself growing tired to the point where you weren’t quite sure if the feeling would ever end. This was a downward spiral - a beginning to an end.

You closed your eyes, wishing for sleep to take you away from the mentally draining process of just getting up. Your eyes remained shut for mere seconds, maybe hours, before you opened them again. The phone you had placed under your pillow the night before was buzzing erratically, waking you from whatever trance you had been put under the minute your eyelids had fluttered shut. As the screen lit up, the weight in your chest only grew heavier.

It was afternoon already. You could have sworn it was just 9am two minutes ago; yet here you were, waking in the early hours of the afternoon, missing breakfast as well as lunch time. I’ve practically wasted a day already, you thought. This thought alone was enough to make you sink even further into the bed, a familiar feeling of dread and uselessness taking control of your body. By now the buzzing had subsided and you were met with the ‘Missed Call from Tom’ banner across your lock screen. You knew that if you didn’t call the man back, he would only grow worried, but you couldn’t find the energy to care.

Sighing, you pushed the phone back under the bed, turning on your side before burying your face into the adjacent pillow. You curled into a fetal position, clinging to the blankets like a child filled with fear after a nightmare. Every second that passed only added to the dread filling your body; you felt repulsed by yourself that you had even managed to stay in bed for so long. There was so much to do and yet here you were. Doing nothing.

Your phone vibrated again. This time it was short, indicating a text had just come through. You didn’t move for a few moments, waiting for a small wave of energy to hit you before you grabbed the phone for the second time in the past few minutes.

‘Are you busy, darling?’

You heaved a sigh before your fingers nimbly typed away.

‘Not really.’

‘I finished early, would you like to grab dinner?’

You glanced at the time again: 3:04. Would you be able to get up in time for dinner? Would you even be fun to talk to across from a dinner table? The answer was a hard no in your opinion. So, you quickly told him that you already had plans. Of course, he then asked what your plans were and you didn’t have a good enough answer right on the spot. So you figured you would just ignore the text and pretend you were busy.

Hours seemed to pass by as you laid in bed, thinking of all the things you had to get done. It was an endless list that would only continue to grow the more that you thought about it. Anything from buying new house plants to doing laundry to getting some work done was on the ever-growing infinite list of things you needed to do. The more tasks you added to the list only made you want to disappear, not wanting to take part in such responsibilities. It was too much.

‘Are you alright?’ Tom asked at 3:56. Apparently the minutes really did feel like decades.

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ You responded.

The small bubble indicating that your boyfriend was typing appeared. You waited anxiously for him to say something, but he was taking far too long to answer. Part of you wondered if he had given up, but you wanted him to ask again. However, you didn’t want the gentleman to know this part of you. If he saw you like this, would he still be okay with having you on his arm at events? Knowing how easily you could turn around and be clouded with darkness, would he still want you?

Your phone screen lit up as an incoming call came through. Tom’s name was displayed at the top of the screen, a cute selfie of him smiling showing as his contact photo. Reluctantly, you chose to pick up the phone this time.

“Hello?” You asked, attempting to sound as if you had been up and talking all day long. Your voice betrayed you, though, as it got caught in your throat, causing you to cough for a couple seconds before speaking. “Tom?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” His voice graced your ears like a smooth melody.

You simply hummed in reply, closing your eyes as you tried to let his voice calm your mind. Tom was silent for a moment before speaking again.

“Would you rather watch some films and order pizza?” He asked, and for a brief moment, you found the strength to smile. Perhaps he had just thought you weren’t in the mood to go out tonight, but no matter the reason for him asking, you felt glad that he was taking you into consideration. The smile vanished as you realized that this meant you would need to get up and clean, get dressed, and properly greet him at the door.

“Maybe not tonight,” you replied quietly.

The line was quiet again as Tom processed your answer. You never said no to food or getting cozy under blankets with him, so maybe he was really catching on to what was happening.

“And you’re sure you’re feeling alright?” He prodded.

“Of course,” your voice was weak as you answered. The fragile state of your mind was causing tears to build up in your eyes. You desperately wanted to say that you were anything but fine right now, but for some reason, the words would not leave your lips.

“Y/N,” Tom sighed. “Just tell me what’s wrong, please. I can tell you aren’t okay.”

“It’s nothing,” you said, mentally hitting yourself for sounding like a high schooler that couldn’t admit when they just weren’t feeling good. The sound of you sniffling was a dead giveaway to the fact that it most certainly was not nothing, but you couldn’t say it was something either.

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.” Your boyfriend breathed into the speaker, “But at least let me come over with some food and check on you. Have you eaten today?”

“Yes, of course,” you lied. The lie didn’t settle well in your stomach as you felt it churn from either disgust or the mention of food. If you were being honest, you weren’t hungry. If anything, you might throw up at the sight of anything edible.

“Have you eaten recently?” Tom spoke, investigating your answer further.

“Not exactly, but-” you were cut off by the sound of his voice.

“Alright, then I’m bringing pizza with me, okay? I’ll be there soon, love.”

After Tom hung up, you sat up in bed, glancing around the room to see if there were any messes needed to be picked up before your boyfriend arrived at the scene. The last thing you wanted was for him to think that you were incapable of taking care of yourself on a day off. Seeing only a small clutter on top of your desk in the corner, you decided that it was fine the way it was. If he was going to get upset about a few papers scattered upon a wooden desk top, then that was an entirely different issue to deal with. 

You urged yourself to get out of bed in order to do the supposedly simple task of looking somewhat decent. Opting for just a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, you took your time to pull the clothing over your weary body. The more time it took, the more of an excuse you had not to get back in your bed. If you allowed yourself to go back to bed before Tom arrived, chances were you would not get up to let the poor man in.

Your eyes were fixated on the hands of the clock that hung on the wall. The ticking sounds from the clock allowed for your thoughts to be drowned out temporarily. It was peaceful even if it was only that way for a few mere seconds. It was like a small breath of fresh air, one you desperately needed. 

However, the fresh air soon turned to a poisonous gas; it was suffocating you. With every tick of the clock, a newfound worry made itself present and you felt your knees go weak as you slowly lowered yourself onto the ground. The pressure weighing down on your chest made your lungs burn and your chest ignite with familiar pain. You felt sick. 

For a moment, you almost went to call Tom back, letting him know not to come over anymore. This thought was quickly pushed aside as a knock pounded on the door. How long had it been? How long had you been sitting there? You clawed at your clothing, nails raking down your covered thighs, itching to tear away the skin your mind had been held captive in for the entire day. Silence engulfed you as all your worries crashed into you full force like a tsunami of insecurity. Your eyes were screwed shut, hot tears burning your cheeks, as you attempted to silence your raging mind.

You were so deep in whatever panic had overcome you that you hadn’t noticed the hands that had snuck under your arms, hauling you to your feet. Your breath was ragged as you opened your eyes, watching as two aqua-colored irises stared back at your shaking form. 

Tom’s eyes were filled with worry as he pulled you towards your bed. He sat back against the pillows, pulling your body to sit between his thighs as he held you. His large hands rotated between lovingly caressing your hair to pulling your hands up to his lips for a gentle kiss. Honestly, you weren’t sure how long this lasted. All you knew was that Tom had probably used the spare key you kept hidden outside in order to enter and that the poor man had found you at one of your darkest points.

An eternity passed before you calmed down, your arms growing limp with fatigue as Tom continued to sway your body along with his. His lips were pressed to your forehead by then, seemingly hushing your thoughts while whispering sweet nothings to you. When you finally took in the man holding you, you felt embarrassed while he appeared to think nothing of it.

“Darling,” the term of endearment allowed for the tiniest bit of relief to settle within you. Tom pulled you flush against him, your head resting on his chest. “What happened?”

You shook your head feebly against the exposed skin below his neck.

“Have you been like this all day?” His voice was soft as he asked, hoping not to trigger any negative reaction from you. All he wanted was to make sure you were okay.

You nodded this time, pulling away to look at Tom’s face. His eyebrows were furrowed together in concern, and he still had some makeup on his face from the set he had just filmed on hours before.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, lifting a hand to brush his fingers against the skin of your cheek.

“I didn’t want you to see me this way,” you responded, eyes cast downwards to the sheets below the two of you. “You shouldn’t have to see this part of me.”

Tom heaved a sigh as he pushed himself further up, his back straighter than it was a second ago. He loomed over you even when you were sitting, and to be frank, it was usually quite intimidating. However, the position was far from the intimidating stance he showed on screen. In fact, his taller figure felt protective if anything.

“I would rather you show me these parts of yourself than you hide them away,” he spoke. His voice wasn’t as quiet this time around. He seemed to be trying to get a point across, “If I don’t see you at your worst, I certainly don’t deserve to see you at your best.”

You pondered over his words, wondering if he meant them. You wondered if the man before you could be trusted in the ways that he needed to be in order to handle you at these low points, and you wondered if he would ever grow tired of seeing you like this. Although this part of you was not something you could push away or hide for another day to later emerge, it was still something you had wanted to keep secret for at least a little while longer. Then you thought of how Tom had reacted and how he was quick to get you on your feet and pull you into a position where you couldn’t accidentally harm yourself. There was nothing left to think about after that. Of course he was trustworthy to handle you, but were you worthy of such affection?

“What are you thinking about?” His words broke through your thought process, and part of you was glad he had done so. He had just spent quite a long while calming you down from an episode that had stemmed from overthinking. The last thing either of you needed was for you to overthink this situation and get pulled under again.

“Just about,” you paused, contemplating your words, “stuff.”

“Stuff?”

You hummed in response, a barely noticeable childish smile playing on your lips. Tom leaned forward, planting a gentle kiss to the corner of your lips where your smile had upturned.

“What kind of stuff?” He questioned, his voice like velvet as his breath fanned over your cheek.

“How I couldn’t possibly deserve you,” you whispered into the air, allowing the both of you to soak in the words. Tom smiled softly before brushing his lips against your forehead.

“No, Y/N,” he breathed, “it is I who couldn’t possibly deserve someone as amazing as you.”

The evening carried on with you in Tom’s arms. Silence surrounded the two of you for hours, his presence washing away the insecurities and worries you held in your heart. Whatever worries you carried of him rejecting you for not being as carefree as he probably thought you to be seemed to vanish. Surely, this wouldn’t be the first time they would show up and taunt you, daring you to mess up your chances at happiness.

-

"Phantom! Here you are! Why aren't you answering? What's wrong?" Artemis stopped dead in her tracks as she saw the state the ghost boy was in; hunched over himself on the floor, rocking back and forth as he mumbled nothings into the air, and his hands were clutching his face, somehow tightly enough to make himself bleed even through his gloves. "... Danny?"

The boy raised his head and turned to see the archer a few steps from him, and his eyes widened in fear as he jumped up and backed away until his back hit the wall behind him.

"Can you hear me? What's wrong?" She asked once again, raising her hands in a nonthreatening way so as to not scare him even further.

It didn't work.

Artemis threw herself up to the side as a green blast passed where her head had been, and when she managed to regain her footing, Phamtom was already phasing through the ceiling, fists up and resdy to attack and eyes unhealtilu bright.