His head was resting down against the armrest of the couch and he felt so at ease, eyes drifting shut occasionally with the urge to sleep. He cherished moments like these, where he wasn't constantly plagued by the memories of bullies...of being locked away in Curdun Cay..
It was short lived, though.
A troubled mind always turns, always moves, always drifts...and something managed to make his chest tight. A memory, really, but it's quick to trigger one of his attacks. And as soon as he starts feeling his breath speed up, he knows he's in trouble.
He can't say for sure as to how it started; last he recalled, he had been plotting through a new strategy for Heaven's Hellfire, and before he knew it, he was thinking about what would happen if his powers just...one day stopped. Completely. And he was inside his game.
What would become of him? Would his molecules split apart? Would he end up back onto his couch as though nothing had happened? What if he died from something like that, with no warning, no message to anyone else, no..nothing. And it truly terrified him.
Enough to trigger one of his anxiety attacks, right from where he was laying. His chest felt as though there was a heavy weight on it, crushing the air that he's so desperately trying to suck in.
It's hard for him to stand with how hard he's shaking. His arm barely sustains the weight when he tries to push himself up, and he feels dizzy from the overdose of oxygen he's getting by hyperventilating. And despite wanting to just lay there, he knows it's better to get up and at least pace.
So that's what he does when he's up on weak legs. He's shaking hard, and he grabs at his arms to rub the anxiety away. It's this vicious cycle of stepping and scratching, like he's trying to find purchase to a security that isn't there. But the movement gets the tears to slow, and the attempt at steady breathing helps, as well. Slowly, but surely.
It still feels like the world around him is falling apart, like there's no way he'll be able to grab all the pieces and set it all straight. He bites at his lip and paces a little quicker. Fingers tighten their hold to stop the major amounts of trembling, and he counts out loud to find some sort of relief-to not think of the panic that wants to rise in his throat again. His chest feels tight, still, and it's just barely letting up.
By the count of 50, the tears have stopped. By 75, he's not trembling as hard. And by 88, it starts right back up when he hears something from the doors keeping him safe inside. Whether it's friend or foe, he doesn't want anyone to see him like this. He just needs a distraction, and that's what he keeps telling himself. He's almost afraid to even go into his favorite game, in fear that he'll snap and it'll become a trigger rather than a relief.
He slowly comes to a stop by his several monitors. Despite it all, despite knowing that this is something that will help, he nearly shies away from it. What if this becomes a source of the anxiety? He swallows down the fear just long enough to put his hands on the screens-to be sucked out of this turmoil of reality. He'll get his sanctuary, even if he has to make it, himself.