He knows he’s panicking, and he hates it, but he can’t stop it. Talking about what he’d done, what Apocalypse had done--it’s too much. His hands are shaking; he clasps them tightly in his lap. His heart is beating too fast and his breath wants to quicken; he forces himself to breathe as if he were meditating. His voice is calm and even, but his words are getting faster despite his best efforts.
Everyone is noticing. He can’t take it. He sighs, says, “Excuse me,” and goes out in the hall, closing the door behind him. When he’s out of line of sight, he buries his face in his trembling hands and lets the hyperventilating begin.
Helpless--completely helpless, as he hadn’t been since he was a child--about to die--oh god he almost died, he almost died--
He snaps back to the present, and looks up, blinking back tears. Raven stands before him, looking concerned.
“Oh, hello,” he says, and his voice is wobbling like he’s about to cry, which he is not. “Is there a problem?”
“Jean called me. Are you... no, of course you’re not alright.” Raven kneels in front of him and takes his hands in hers. “What do you need, Charles?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “I don’t know.”