so i'm cleaning out some of the wip-snips i've written that i don't see myself completing. y'all have four options: ignore this, write it yourself, make up fun hcs or bully me into writing it (no guarantees). this isn't really part of anything, but it could be attached to the patrat secret admirers au.
this is a snip of pat having a panic attack (pitch):
so. there might be something wrong with him. not like—no, not the way someone who put a whole spoon of marmite on their toast has something wrong with them, but more like...he’s actually going insane. it might have something to do with the mild concussion he got last week from playing cricket. he did get a ball to the helmet pretty badly—fucking bumrah, that bastard—but came out of it relatively unscathed.
right. the point. he’s...hearing things now. distant murmurs. sounds like voices, or maybe one voice, but he can’t make out any words. maybe he’s been cursed.
maybe he’s really going mad. jesus, is he hallucinating? is he psychotic now? what the fuck’ll happen if he tells anybody about it? his coach would bench him right then and there without question. he’d be sent to an insane asylum and never see the light of day again. he’d never play another game of cricket in his life—
okay, he can’t breathe. his chest hurts.
okay, this is the panic attack thing that happened last year.
“oi, mate, you all right in there? you sound like you’re wheezing—”
he forces the door of the bathroom stall open and nearly falls into the arms of the person who knocked.
“fuck, patty?”
his knees hit the floor and he presses himself against the wall. a commotion follows but it’s all muted in his ears. vaguely, he hears someone yell for marsh but he’s clawing at his throat as if his collar is choking him. his glasses are fogging up.
“mate, come on, breathe, alright? breathe, breathe!”
he shakes his hands wildly, trying to convey that he couldn’t. “i—”
“move, dammit, let me see him—!” he relaxes marginally at the sound of a familiar voice, familiar hands on his own. “pat, listen to me. can you focus on my voice? can you do that for me?” his hands press against a sturdy chest. he can feel the zipper of the open jacket poking his wrists. “i want you to focus on my voice, nothing else, okay? i’m going to take a deep breath and i want you to try and copy it. here we go: in…” the chest under his palm heaves, expands full of air. “out…” it deflates. “in…” he attempts to take a shuddering breath, ragged noise reaching his own ears. “out...you’re doing great. in…”
it takes about four cycles for his eyes to focus. his heart’s still hammering away in his chest, but he’s breathing. he’s fine.
mitch reaches out to feel his pulse and pat realizes his hands are still on his chest. “mate. you alright now?” pat nods, slowly letting his hands fall into his lap. mitch stares at him a while longer, then scoots into the space right next to him, back against the wall and arse in water. “we’re gonna sit here until you feel like getting up, yeah?” he gestures to malcolm, one of their juniors who had been there to call him, who nods and leaves to give them privacy.
they sit in silence, mitch’s finger tapping steadily against pat’s thigh.
“’m sorry,” pat mumbles.
“shut up,” comes the reply. and then, “’m not gonna ask, but you know you can talk to me, yeah?”
“yeah.”
he’s drowsy, exhausted by the time they make it back to their dorms and changes out of his clothes. he doesn’t see mitch exchange a worried look with josh and starcy as he climbs into his bed. as he drifts off to sleep, he hears a soft voice in his head that he doesn’t quite recognize, that tells him four words.
The boob grab at the end 😭 i just know these guys bully him for his man boobs. Poor mitchie
noooo, that's harassment, starcy!!! 😖💔poor marshy he looks so cuuuuute 🥺 (but honestly i can understand starcy's actions here i too would like to get in a grab - 😏🤭) (gunshots)
