It's not by nature of nightmares, or worries, or anything quite so dramatic. Quite the opposite. It's because for a man used to being overworked to the bone, to only fall asleep when his body absolutely demands it, mind abuzz with office politics, with paperwork, with his overburdened caseload, with the junior officers relying on his guidance, this sedentary life has him wandering lost. So he's taken to having his nightly cigarette later and later these days, wandering around the deserted streets of this godforsaken place as though he's just asking for trouble.
Which happens to be fortuitous for Shinji as Kim exits the apartment building he and Kamui have hunkered down in, patting his pocket to make sure his pack of cigarettes is still there, only to see what could practically be a pile of old coats and laundry, quivering. He pauses, taken aback, but eyes flitting over Shinji, he's immediately able to see what's going on: he's having a panic attack. A bad one. ]
Aragaki...?
[ Why he's having one doesn't matter. Not immediately, anyway. After all, why wouldn't people here be having panic attacks, those who believe themselves to be dead most of all? Stranded here without friends or family, or even a friendly face, nothing to do, nothing to see, just the same monotonous thing day-in, day-out as they wait for the other shoe to drop, surrounded by others just as suspicious and unhappy as they are -- if anything, panicking about this is a sign of sanity.
He doubts that's all there is to it. But he can deal with that later. Now, he does what he knows, which is to place both of his hands on Aragaki's shoulders, squeezing them a little too tightly; the weight will anchor him, steady him in this moment. ]
You have to listen to me. You're having a panic attack. Whatever this is, this will pass. I need you to breathe. [ He grabs onto Aragaki's hand and puts it on his own chest so he can feel its motion, an easier task than expecting Aragaki to be able to see clearly, leading by example. This, too, is a familiar gesture; how many times has he done this for the more receptive teens he's worked with, trying to calm them after some horrific crime or another? Too often, it's all he can do before returning them to Revachol's cruel embrace, a victim to the world around them. ]
Breathe in... and out. And in... and out.
[ He'll continue this for a while. As long as he needs to, frankly, until the world becomes less of a blur for Aragaki, until he's able to get his shit together. ]
no subject
It's not by nature of nightmares, or worries, or anything quite so dramatic. Quite the opposite. It's because for a man used to being overworked to the bone, to only fall asleep when his body absolutely demands it, mind abuzz with office politics, with paperwork, with his overburdened caseload, with the junior officers relying on his guidance, this sedentary life has him wandering lost. So he's taken to having his nightly cigarette later and later these days, wandering around the deserted streets of this godforsaken place as though he's just asking for trouble.
Which happens to be fortuitous for Shinji as Kim exits the apartment building he and Kamui have hunkered down in, patting his pocket to make sure his pack of cigarettes is still there, only to see what could practically be a pile of old coats and laundry, quivering. He pauses, taken aback, but eyes flitting over Shinji, he's immediately able to see what's going on: he's having a panic attack. A bad one. ]
Aragaki...?
[ Why he's having one doesn't matter. Not immediately, anyway. After all, why wouldn't people here be having panic attacks, those who believe themselves to be dead most of all? Stranded here without friends or family, or even a friendly face, nothing to do, nothing to see, just the same monotonous thing day-in, day-out as they wait for the other shoe to drop, surrounded by others just as suspicious and unhappy as they are -- if anything, panicking about this is a sign of sanity.
He doubts that's all there is to it. But he can deal with that later. Now, he does what he knows, which is to place both of his hands on Aragaki's shoulders, squeezing them a little too tightly; the weight will anchor him, steady him in this moment. ]
You have to listen to me. You're having a panic attack. Whatever this is, this will pass. I need you to breathe. [ He grabs onto Aragaki's hand and puts it on his own chest so he can feel its motion, an easier task than expecting Aragaki to be able to see clearly, leading by example. This, too, is a familiar gesture; how many times has he done this for the more receptive teens he's worked with, trying to calm them after some horrific crime or another? Too often, it's all he can do before returning them to Revachol's cruel embrace, a victim to the world around them. ]
Breathe in... and out. And in... and out.
[ He'll continue this for a while. As long as he needs to, frankly, until the world becomes less of a blur for Aragaki, until he's able to get his shit together. ]