#sh 🤝 me with panic attacks apparently

[ejunkiet]

you’ve got red on you

prompt fill for the wonderful @pinksparkl about Milo’s reaction to Sweetheart having a panic attack in front of him for the first time.

(special bonus points to anyone who recognises the title >:3)

redacted audio: milo/sweetheart, rated teen. cw: panic attacks

Milo comforts his mate after a panic attack. - “I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re okay. Just- breathe.”

READ ON AO3

--

you’ve got red on you

All it takes is a moment of distraction while he’s prepping dinner for his grip on the kitchen knife to slip, the sharp edge slicing across his palm and sending the half-chopped vegetables scattering. “Shit!”

“Milo?”

“S’all good, sweetheart. Just, fucked up with the knife.” It’s an understatement, considering the state of the counters, the blood welling from the cut in his palm spilling over onto the hardwood. Goddamnit. He knew better than to get distracted while using the good knife. Christ, the shit his mother would give him over this-

He wraps his hand in a dishcloth before he stumbles over to the sink, a litany of curses falling from his tongue as he fumbles the taps to turn on the water.

He glances up to find the shape of his mate in the doorway, their features shadowed by the busted light in the hall he’d been meaning to fix before they came over. “What happened?”

“Nothing, just me being a fuckin’ idiot.”

They take a step further into the room, their eyes focused on the bloody dishcloth, and they’re not saying anything, although they look - strange. Off. As if they’re feeling sick.

He sees it when their hands start to shake, their breaths coming fast and shallow, as if they can’t get enough air. The way their eyes lose focus, pupils dilating, even as their aura flickers, their silhouette going hazy around the edges.

“Sweetheart?” They’re still not saying anything, and unease stirs in his gut, prickling at his skin. It’s not like them to lose their words like that - they always had plenty to say. “Hey, you okay?”

“I-” And just like that they vanish, flickering out of existence as if they had never been there in the first place.

Fuck.

He can’t see them. Can’t feel them, the warmth of their presence, their scent. But he can still sense them in the room with him - feel the quiet flicker of their aura, subtle in the air but distinctive, if you know what you’re looking for.

And he’s familiar with that aura now, familiar with finding it in a way that’s becoming second nature to him, and he steps away from the sink, crossing over to where they had been standing, where he thinks he can feel them now.

If he concentrates hard enough, he can see the faint shimmer of their magic vibrating in the air, like heat from sun-baked tarmac. He pauses, squinting. “Sweetheart?”

Every instinct in him is screaming at him to do something, to fix this. But he’s not even sure what this is. He’s got an idea - his pop used to get like this after a bad night, frantic and non-verbal, disappearing into his office for hours until his ma could finally coax him out.

She was good at stuff like that. He - he wasn’t. He didn’t have her soft touch, her endless patience. Shit, he’d probably make things worse if he tried.

Panic squeezes at his throat like a vice, even as he tries to swallow it down. “Sweetheart, can ya - can ya talk to me?”

A flash, and their hand appears, reaching out to grasp his wrist, gripping tight. A rush of heat floods his hand, followed by a sharp pinch that makes him curse, before the ache in his palm recedes, the wound closing.

He flexes his fingers as they flicker back into view, their mouth pinched into a tight line, eyes still too big but focused as they stare down at his hand.

It’s still bloody, the skin of his palm freshly pink, but he can feel the way their fingers tremble around his wrist, and fuck, it must be the blood. Christ, Milo. You’re a fucking idiot.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he focuses on his core, weaving the pattern of a simple cleaning spell, his breath leaving him as the magic runs through his system. He flexes his fingers once it’s done, checking over the clean skin. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

They still won’t speak, won’t look at him. Their hold on him is tight enough that he can feel their pulse through their fingertips, still too fast, and carefully, telegraphing his movements, he reaches out, guiding their face up to meet his. “Hey. You still with me?”

They take a breath, deep and gasping. “I-I’m sorry.”

“None of that. You’ve got nothing to apologise for.”

They finally look at him, their bright eyes wide, slightly dazed but calmer now, a little more like themself. It settles something in him, although it's not enough - he needs more, needs to know that they’re okay, feel them against him.

“Can I hold you?”

They melt into his arms, soft and warm and perfect, like they were made to fit against him like this, and fuck. He runs his fingers through their hair, pressing his face against their throat until he can breathe them in, deep.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. You’re okay. Just- breathe.”

–

“So, it’s the blood?”

They release a low hum, sinking further into him where they’ve settled on the couch, his arms around them, their legs across his lap and their body tucked against his chest.

“Yeah. I saw you standing there, and I couldn’t-” Their voice cuts out as they swallow, taking a moment to catch their breath. He holds them through it. “It just hit me, all at once.”

This was new, then. They hadn’t reacted like this to the shade - or at least, he hadn’t seen it at the time. There was that period after the fight, when they’d met with the department, but considering they were at his place immediately after that, he didn’t think it did.

And they’d been working, then. If he can remember well enough the stuff that had happened with his pop, then things like this tended to happen in the aftermath of an event - hours, maybe even days, later.

The fucking department. His grip around them tightens as he grits his teeth, tamping down on the urge to growl. “You’ll tell me, if this happens again? If there’s anything I can do-”

“There isn’t.” They wince, as if their words came out sharper than they intended, and they shift in his arms to look up at him. “But I’ll tell you, if it happens again.”

They lay their head back down against his chest, right over his heart, their fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. He can feel the rhythm of their breath match up to his, easy and quiet, and he loves them. He loves them so fucking much in this moment, it makes his heart ache.

He’ll ask his ma about this, and maybe… maybe get in contact with his pop. They’re long overdue for a conversation, anyway.