!!!💛 💛 💛!!! Hi there!! I also really like your stuff and your new theme is super cool! As for panic attacks, I have never had one myself, so I hope I have done this request some justice. THANKS FOR THE REQUEST!!
It didn’t happen often, but when it does, Hanzo usually tries his utmost to keep it a secret. Even from you. The (ex-)heir to the Shimada clan does not give into weaknesses like these. But there are times when its catches him by surprise, such as tonight.
Hanzo shoots up in his bed, grabbing at his night shirt even before he awakens, a harsh sweat like he’s been dunked in a pool rather than lying in his own bed. It feels like he’s been drowning, too. An unfettered fear coursing through his veins makes his stomach twist and turn unpleasantly, his body shakes with such intensity, it rattles his very bones. Mind still addled with sleep, he accidentally slams his back against a thin wall, struggling to kick away the blankets that have tangled themselves around his legs like snakes. He barely succeeds.
Against his will, a strangled cry gets cut off in his throat. No, he knows what this is. This isn’t real. He’s fine. He’s fine.
The door then slides open, and his senses go into overdrive when he registers a shape tumble inside in a hurry. Additional panic of someone finding him in this state compounds the problem that he cannot articulate. Instead, his mouth hangs open unsightly, taking in heaving wheezes of air that he can’t seem to get enough of. He could feel the dragons rolling anxiously underneath his skin, adding to the sense of danger that already frazzles his nerves.
“Hanzo! Are you okay?”
He starts, and recoils violently from your hand, certain the dragons will attack. He could barely control his own body. “No. No, no…”
Why you? Why did it have to be you? You’re one of the last people that he’d want to catch him like this.
“Do you want me to get Angela or Lúcio or–” The words barely make sense in his head, but when he hears their names, he shakes his head violently at the suggestion. No, no, he can’t be seen like this. Not by anyone else. You can’t. His wheezing gets harder, and he can no longer muster the strength to speak.
“How can I help you?” Hanzo could hear the growing desperation into your voice, but can’t grasp the significance of it. Too focused on trying to control himself, compose himself into the reliable and unflappable man that he was–is. Trying to calm himself and not succeeding only shackles him to the endless cycle. It will pass. It will pass.
But why isn’t it?
He doesn’t realize that he hasn’t answered you, too lost in his own mind and the pressure that continues to choke him. You take a sharp intake of air, before you settle yourself into his bed, trying once again to reach him. The dragons slide just underneath the surface of his arm, and they shoot out, much to his dismay. He cries out despite himself–you’re going to get killed because he’s weak, the dragons are going to take another important thing away–and sees them wrap themselves around your arms, urging you toward him.
A split second of clarity–the dragons want you to help–breaks through his haze of panic and fear, long enough for you to pull him towards you, politely ignoring just how wet the sheets were and how sweaty he is. He leans all of his body weight against you, allowing you to maneuver him between your legs and rest his head back against your chest. He doesn’t trust himself anymore.
Hanzo could feel your breathing, deliberate and steady in his ear. He did his best to follow. In-two-three-four-five-six. Out-two-three-four-five-six. In. Out. Your fingers that card themselves through his loose hair helps. He only vaguely realizes that even his locks were damp, but you continue your motions anyway. In. Out. One, two, three…
The panic inside him that was attempting to fight is way out in every which way it could began to calm. It burns itself out like a fire starved of oxygen. His nerves sing, still buzzing with the aftermath. He could feel the dragons settle back into his being slowly.
“Talk,” he rasps weakly, grabbing at your knee by his waist. He wants to hear your voice. He wants it to drown out his thoughts that have retreated to the edge of his mind, but are soon to return. “Anything. Talk. Please.”
You pause, the anchoring breathing no longer in his ear and for a moment, the chilled spike of fear returns, edging his stomach, threatening to plunge itself in. No, he can’t this again. Not again.
“…during the last mission we had, McCree took us to this Brazilian coffee joint. He said it was the best coffee in the area, it was in this alley that looks really sketchy. Typical, huh? And so, we went…”
The encroaching fear begins to retreat, like the darkness being exposed to light, the light being your voice. Slowly, but surely, calm seeps its way into his body, and he sinks bonelessly into your embrace, suddenly exhausted but not sleepy. The hands that continue to massage his scalp and brush his hair do much to assist.
Later, he’d apologize for showing you such a pathetic side of him, and for making you hold him when he’s unpleasantly sticky with sweat, and caring for him by sacrificing your sleep. He’s grateful beyond words, but his tongue lies heavy in his mouth, and it takes all the energy he has to just focus. But for now, he lays quietly in your arms. More than once, he almost falls asleep to the steady rhythm of your heart and the sound of your voice, comforting in his ear.