Here’s day 10 of the Human Again prompts. For the master list of all the ficlets, click here.
SaeyoungXReader, T (see cw), words: 2330.
Cw: Detailed description of a panic attack in this fic. These manifest in lots of different ways for different people! I personally get panic attacks in a very particular way, and so I gave my panic attacks to Saeyoung (sry bb).
・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜
Saeyoung’s face goes numb.
The news has been on all day, a constant drone from the speakers under the big TV in the living room. The face of the man he’s spent most of his life trying to avoid is plastered all over all his screens. Even in the RFA messenger, the discussion is centered around his father’s trial. His friends’ tone is victorious.
In the bunker, the energy is very different.
Saeran has gone for another walk; over the past few days, his walks have gotten longer and longer. Saeyoung envies his brother’s ability to escape the oppressive air in the house, the unending loop of trial footage and condemnation and speculation.
Personally, he can’t can’t bring himself to turn off the news, and he hasn’t left the house in three days.
He’s keeping it together, more or less. You’re as bright as ever, finding things around the house for him to fix, trying to keep his hands and mind busy. He knows it’s been hard on you, too—knows that the role of caretaker is taking a toll. He’s been thinking of ways he can make it up to you, when it’s all over.
Now, you’ve gone to shower (only after repeated assurances from him that he will be fine being left alone for half an hour or so). He hates himself for relying on you so heavily; he’s weak, he thinks—Saeran has figured out how to cope. Why can’t he?
Alone in his huge living room with only the footage of his father’s trial to keep him company, Saeyoung finds himself frozen on the couch, the robot vacuum cleaner he’d been re-wiring forgotten beside him. His vision is hazy—he’s not sure how long he’s been staring at the TV screen without really seeing it.
And his face is numb. This surprises and frightens him a little. He twitches his nose, wiggles his eyebrows—they’re there, but it feels like his nerve endings have been cut off. It reminds him of the times the agency gave him high doses of narcotics when he was injured so he could keep working without having to take a break. Those time, he’d felt like his head was floating a foot above his throat. This time the numbness seeps down into his neck like frigid fingers tracing his veins.
There’s definitely something wrong with his vision, too. It’s a little like his head’s been wrapped in saran wrap—the rest of the room looks far away. This is a familiar sensation, too: he’s had his airflow cut off or severely limited before, and he knows what happens just before losing consciousness.
But he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out. He’s been breathing, he thinks—he has! He wiggles his fingers and toes—which, thankfully, still feel warm and alive—and tries to take a deep breath. The strangest part of all this, he thinks, is that he was actually feeling okay, just a moment ago. The sense of overwhelming doom that’s been enveloping him after since the start of the trial has faded into the distance, along with his ability to feel his ears.
Okay. He knows how to do this. He knows what a near-death situation feels like, and it feels like this. And he knows how to cope with that. He tries stretching out his arms, and is unpleasantly surprised to find that the numbness is spreading over his shoulders. He tries again to take a deep breath, but it gets cut off in his throat.
Somewhere very far away, through the persistent buzzing in his ears, he hears his father’s voice booming out of the TV again. Turn down the volume, he thinks frantically. If it gets any louder it’ll kill me.
He reaches for the remote but finds he can’t remember how to turn the volume down. The buttons are blurring together, a confusing blob of colors and shapes that he can’t figure out.
Huh, he thinks, somewhat calmly. Maybe this has nothing to do with the trial. Maybe I’m just having a heart attack.
Pins and needles shoot up and down his arms, which seem to confirm his theory. He can hear his heart now, and he’s surprised by how fast it’s pounding—he’d had no idea. He tries to swallow and finds he can’t can’t; his head is spinning and he lowers it clumsily into his hands, which is when he discovers that he’s crying.
What? He still feels nothing—no grief, no anxiety. Just the vague certainty that he’s dying. He doesn’t understand why is face is wet, as if tears have been pouring out of his eyes for some time. For how long…?
His head continues to spin, and he finds he can’t sit upright anymore. He curls himself into the couch, feeling nauseous—he wonders if he’s been poisoned. He knows it doesn’t make sense, knows he hasn’t seen anyone but you and his brother for days, but…but…
The cold fingers reach his chest, and he thinks, no, not poison, but it’s as if he’s been possessed, like his soul is trying to claw its way out of his body. He wraps his arms around himself and scrunches his eyes shut against the bursting, popping lights filling his vision. He waits.
。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
You find him like that: curled into the fetal position on the couch, his arms wrapped around his middle, his eyes shut, tears pouring down his cheeks.
Oh no.
“Babe… Hey. Hey. Can you hear me?”
Wrapped in a bathrobe, your hair dripping onto your shoulders, you kneel beside him. You’ve seen Saeyoung at his most scared and his most desperate. You’ve soothed him when he’s woken up screaming, when he’s forgotten where he is, overwhelmed by flashbacks of his past. This is a new one, though; luckily, this time it’s something you understand.
“Saeyoung…honey. Can you hear my voice?”
Careful not to touch him, you crouch by his side, talking softly into his ear. What you’re saying doesn’t matter—you just need him to focus on something that’s not inside his own head.
“Ya…I hear—but…I feel really sick, I…” His voice is slurred, but trying to talk is good. You have to breathe when you’re talking.
“Baby, can you do something for me? Can you lift up your arm?”
He shakes his head. He’s hugging himself so tightly you couldn’t unwrap his arms if you tried.
“Please, babe. Just give me one arm. Trust me.”
He shakes his head again, but at the same time he lifts up one arm for you. Immediately, you see his face relax a little, some of his tense muscles triggered to release by the oxygen that’s forced into his body as he moves.
Gently, you take his arm, and stretch it up, then out. He doesn’t resist, so you try shaking it a bit. You hear him take a breath.
“Honey, I know you feel like you have to lie down, but I need you to try sitting up,” you say softly, slipping a hand under his head. His face is wet with tears and sweat, and his hair sticks to his forehead.
“Can’t,” he mumbles in that same slurred voice.
“If it makes you feel worse you can lay back down right away, I promise,” you coax. You scoop his head up with your arm and he tries to help you, using his other arm to prop himself up. “Good job, baby,” you murmur, guiding him into a sitting position. He opens his eyes a tiny bit, wincing at the light, and you see that his pupils are huge in his pale face. You take his other hand. “We’re just gonna move your arms around, okay?” You pull his arms toward you, away from his body. Then you shake them. He mutters something incoherent, but you see a little color returning to his cheeks. “How does that feel?” you ask him, now stretching out his hands, rotating his wrists.
“Funny,” he says, his voice a little clearer. “My body feels like rubber.”
“I know, babe. Hey, look at me?” You place your hands on his shoulders and rub them, and he blinks as if he’s trying to get you into focus. “Can you feel your arms?” you ask. He wriggles them on his own this time and you feel him take another breath.
“Kind of,” he says. He blinks frantically and his eyes focus on you. “Were numb, but…”
“Yeah. Can you try to take another breath for me?” He takes a slow, stuttering breath. It catches in his throat, and he coughs. “You had a panic attack,” you tell him softly. “The more you breathe, the better you’ll start to feel.”
“Never had a panic attack before,” he mutters, trying another shaky breath. “Thought I got poisoned.”
You almost laugh, shaking your head. “Leave it to you to have more experience with getting poisoned than dealing with your anxiety. Can you take another breath for me?”
You count for him, making him inhale for four counts and exhale for eight. A few more tears leak out of the corner of his eye.
“Take three more breaths like that for me, baby. I’m going to get you something. I’ll be back before you’re done.”
You rest his hands in his lap and dart into the kitchen. You hear him taking two unsteady breaths before you return. This time, you sit beside him on the couch.
“I’m gonna put an ice cube against your cheek,” you tell him. “It’s going to feel cold, but it will help you.” You twist the ice cube tray with both hands and catch a cube in a dish towel. Gently, you press it against his cheek, and a shiver runs through his body. Good. As you move it over his face, you feel his neck muscles relax, just a little bit. He closes his eyes again. “Babe, can you try to stand up?” you ask.
“My legs are still kinda numb,” he admits. He sounds a bit more like himself. “I’ll try, though.”
He stands, a little wobbly on his feet, and you rise with him.
“We’re gonna do some jumping jacks—no, seriously, trust me. We’ll do it together. We can just do five.”
You start jumping and, though he looks skeptical, he follows suit. After five, you have him do ten more. Then another ten.
He looks at you with clearer eyes. You can hear that his breath has deepened.
“Wow, that—really helped,” he says.
“Is your face still numb?” you ask him. He shakes his head.
“I still feel a little nauseous and dizzy. But I can feel my nose again.”
You smile. “Good. Let’s get you some water.”
You go to the kitchen again and you hear him moving around, jogging back and forth. He takes the cup you offer him with sure hands, and he sips it carefully.
“Babe? Do you think we could turn the TV off for a little while? Or at least mute it?” you suggest.
“Let’s mute it,” he says. “At least for now.”
Relieved, you take the remote and mute the TV. The sound that’s been pervading the house for the past three days is finally cut off. You take a deep breath, and Saeyoung does, too.
He sits on the floor, facing away from the TV, and you sit in front of him, taking his hands.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Apparently I can’t be left alone even for a few minutes.”
You rub his hands, pleased o feel that they are starting to warm up. His blood is flowing again. “You are a very strong and self-sufficient person, Saeyoung,” you tell him firmly. “It’s normal to have anxiety when your father is on trial—even when is is…who he is. Because of all of that. It is normal to need help in this situation.”
He shakes his head. “I wasn’t even feeling bad when it happened,” he says. “I was feeling better and then suddenly—like, my heart stopped working?”
“That’s normal, too,” you say, wiggling his arms again. He relaxes them, letting you.“You’ve been through this with me before. You know it doesn’t always happen when it makes the most sense.”
He takes another long, slow breath. “I thought I was ready to deal with whatever happened,” he says slowly. “Everything’s playing out exactly how I wanted it to, but…I guess I wasn’t as ready to deal with it as I thought.”
You move closer to him and he leans into you, so you wrap up in your arms, cradling his head against your chest.
“Handling it doesn’t have to look like celebrating. Or feeling calm. Or knowing what you’re supposed to feel or think or do. You are handling it.”
“Uggghhhh.” Saeyoung groans and squeezes you tight. “What would I do without you?”
You run a hand up and down his back, along his spine. “You are much stronger than you give yourself credit for,” you tell him. “You would be fine.
He nuzzles his face against your shoulder. “Maybe so,” he says. “But I’m lucky I never have to find out.”
Over his head, on the TV, you see the trial dragging on. The end is inevitable, you think: whether it’s later tonight, or tomorrow, or next week, Saeyoung’s father is going to lose. The twins are going to be safe. They are going to be free.
But right now, that all feels so far away; right now, the figure who has loomed in Saeyoung’s nightmares ever since he learned to recognize him is everywhere, and Saeyoung feels happy and scared and guilty and relieved all at once.
You brush his sweaty hair off his forehead. In the distance, the security system chimes; Saeran is home.
“It’s going to be okay,” you whisper into Saeyoung’s hair, meaning nothing, meaning everything.
I like to think the email I just got was written by someone who sat up in bed 2 minutes ago and went "OH SHIT I FORGOT TO SEND THAT EMAIL" Given the fact that it is 11:15 pm.
Methinks it’s time to dust off my writing skills and get back into fic again 👀
However I also feel like I should take a refresher language course bc I don’t remember SHIT about proper writing set up
IS IT TIMMEEE??? HEHE no language course needed just throw it out there pls pls pls i can feel your brain cogs moving i know theres a fire fic in the making
