It was a nightmare, at least he thinks it was, he can’t tell right now.
Can’t think straight, waking up in a cold sweat beside his husband's sleeping body, breath shallow and harsh, skin crawling with the feeling of bugs.
He gets up, gets out, stands in front of the bathroom sink, forearms cold where they lean against the porcelain, breath isn't coming any easier, skin still feeling alight.
He tramples down the stairs, panic, panic, panic.
Doesn't know where to go from here.
Can't think. Can't breathe.
Throwing open the back door he’s hit with cold, crisp air against his face, but it doesn’t change the heat burning under his skin. He carefully closes it behind him with half a mind aware of the fact it's the middle of the night. Walks to the railing and leans against it, probably going to get a splinter or two. Tries to gasp down that fresh air but he can't feel his legs his lungs burn and his fingers tingle and he can't fucking think and as he opens his eyes to the long two story drop below him, a chill runs down his spine.
"Hey." Mickey says, gently, far away.
He woke up when Ian did, eyed him as he left the bedroom in a rush and without a breath.
Mickey sits on the second step, body turned to face his, feeling the hardness of the wall against the back of his head with lips pulled tight. It's hard to tell when Ian needs to be yelled at with a firm grip on his shoulder, or if he needs Mickey's patience.
They’re both learning, gaging, trying.
"You're havin’ a panic attack, Ian." he attempts, gentle, sure. "You're okay."
Ian shakes his head, everything his body is telling him right now is quite the opposite of okay.
"Ca- ca- brea-" he chokes out, whole body trembling in refusal to realise there is no threat here.
"Sit down with me. Can you do that?" Mickey asks him, calmly, studying his movements; half scared he's gonna get a vertigo spell and fling himself over the damn railing; for it's probably not even stable enough to hold his weight. He's a fucking mess, and he's gonna wear himself to the ground real fucking soon.
Ian shakes his head. One knee buckles. He needs to sit. He needs to breathe.
Through the bile in his throat and his thundering-heart shaking in his hands; he uneasily lowers himself to the ground, head in the crook of his own arm, uneasy, uneasy, uneasy.
Mickey moves closer, "I'm gonna help you breathe, Ian, but I need your hand, can I have your hand?" he asks him, lips ajar.
A starved squeak arises from Ian’s throat, "Ca- brea-" he repeats.
"I’m gonna help you. You're safe, Ian. I'm here." Mickey tells him, lowering his head to try catch his eye; itching to pull his trembling body into his own and hold tight until the waves pass.
There’s a moment, a space in which Ian’s head spins just enough to hear, and to listen. He nods his head, eyes clamped closed, one hand quivering in the air towards mickey.
"Good. Good." Mickey mutters, ever gently wrapping his fingers around Ian's wrist, carefully and slowly bringing his hand to the middle of his own chest, his hand encasing Ian's. "I need you to focus on my breathing. Can you do that for me?"
Ian's face crumples, shuffling his body as the heat simmers beneath his veins, his free hand spread over his face, humid quarter breaths pushing into the palm.
"I need you to feel my chest moving. Can you feel it moving?" he asks, sucking in a big breath.
Ian nods.
Mickey nods.
"Good. Just need you to feel my breaths, man. Focus on my chest. That's all you gotta do." he tells him, beginning to pull in steady, audible breaths and letting them out controlled.
It takes a minute, Ian's fingers digging right into the flesh above his husband's sternum, mouth agape and free hand scraping his nails deep into his own, unclothed thigh.
But he gets a bigger breath in, then more, and more.
He does his best to pull all focus into the steady rise and fall of his husband's chest, tries with all his might to match it with his own. Uses Mickey’s rhythm to distract from the hot cramping inside his chest and on his leg.
Eventually, Ian's holding his head up with one hand, breaths even, lungs filled. His chest is no longer burning; he's no longer panicking. He's simply sitting here with his husband.
Breathing.
It doesn’t take a minute for exhaustion to hit Ian's body, arm going slack in Mickey's hand and falling straight into his lap. He doesn't let go, instead intwines their fingers and holds on tighter.
Ian makes eye contact for the first time, bloodshot and puffy. “Fuck." he mutters.
Mickey chuffs. "Yeah, fuck... You okay?"
Ian closes his eyes, takes another big breath, feels it deep at the bottom of his lungs and exhales it slow with whatever tension was left inside him.
He nods.
Mickey nods.
Finger brushing at the end of his eyebrow, under his nose. "You ah.. you wanna talk 'bout it?" he asks, flicks his eyes over Ian’s form, his wandering vision. Met with silence, ten seconds, twenty seconds.
Finally, a little exhale, mouth opening then closing then opening again, a confused twist in his face as he shakes his head and eyes a spot on the wooden floor. "Don't even fuckin' know why."
Silence again.
Mickey's gazing down at their fingers, softly playing with Ian's wedding band around and recites sickness and health in his head as his twists it.
"Can we just go back to bed?" Ian asks, small, the smallest he's sounded.
Mickey looks up then, follows Ian's vision down to his thigh, thick raised skin where he dug his nails into it. Not enough to bleed, just enough to sting.
"Yeah," he nods, sighs, gets himself to a stand, "let's get some more sleep, aye?" he speaks quietly, hands stretched out for Ian's.
Ian takes it, like he took his word and trusted his safety. Within seconds there’s a warm hand against the back of his neck, firm circles against his back. He clings on, squeezes him in return and in silence and continues to follow the steady rhythm of Mickey’s body as it wraps around him in the cold where they stand, then again in the sheets.
im so ready for the next chapter of your franchaela fic❤️
Just finished the draft, baby! It took me two whole days to complete the sex scene, but it's done, FINALLY.
I'll need a week or two to give it a final polish, but this bad boy will be out very very soon. In the meantime, I'm going to read some of the Franchaela week fics, starting with @kapandherscratchpad.
