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The issue with panic attacks, Thomas finds, is that he can never quite anticipate them.
When he was alive, they seemed only to seize him at the most inopportune moments, as though they had been watching, waiting to strike just before some crucial meeting with a publisher or the debut of a new piece.
He never quite noticed that those moments occurred when he was already at his most vulnerable–or, if he did, he never allowed the thought to fully form. Best not to dwell on such things, he would tell himself afterwards, still slightly shaking. Best not to fixate on what’s already passed.
After his death, it was a good few weeks before Thomas realised he hadn’t had any fits of pique, as he then called them. Maybe it was the absence of a real, beating heart, or maybe it was just the lack of stressful events now that he was really, truly, beyond a shadow of a doubt, dead. Dead. He wondered, unable to stop himself, if anyone would write him an elegy, something as elegant and mournful as Shelley’s Adonais. Thinking suddenly on the way his body had been left, forgotten by all (save his dear Isabelle, of course, and kind Francis), he winced. It was, perhaps, best not to dwell on the existence (or lack thereof) of such works. Mind continuing to wander, he bid farewell to his original revelation, paying it no more mind than a simple prayer of gratitude that he would no longer be afflicted by such… episodes, and followed his thoughts down the new, entirely more interesting line they seemed to be pulling him down.
He proved himself wrong not one week later. And again, the same day. And again, the day after that.
If he thinks about it now, he can see a pattern emerging between the recurrence of his outbursts and the increase in noise around the house when decorators were brought in to repaint the walls. Another pattern is revealed when Thomas thinks about the time the builders installed new chandeliers and he had to hide by the lake all day, chest growing confusingly tight when he neared the construction.
If he really, really thinks back through his past, Thomas can quite easily find a parallel between loud noises and some of his worst panic attacks.
Thomas doesn’t like to think back to that time, though. Best not to fixate on what’s already passed– the thought alone is enough to make his hands feel as though they’re sweating. He has grown enough–is mature enough–to recognise that he is in a much better place (figuratively speaking, of course) than he was in the months following his death.
There are more ghosts around now, for one thing. While he almost feels as though he annoys them at times–although he’s sure that’s not the case–he is eternally grateful for their presence. Humphrey, in particular, is wonderful. What started between them as soft, fleeting glances when the other was looking away has, over time, blossomed into the most fulfilling relationship Thomas has ever had (whether it’s the only proper relationship he’s ever had is quite beside the point, he assures Julian when he tells him as much). Humphrey makes him happy beyond articulation, a single, attentive magpie among the parliament of rather bored-looking owls to whom Thomas is used to reading his poetry. He makes Humphrey happy, too. He’s quite sure of it, judging by the way the man seems to be incapable of frowning when they’re together.
Thomas has Alison now, too, and all the modernity she has swept through the house. He’s unsure how he ever quite lived without his records and his audiobooks, how he managed to fill his living days when so much of what he loves only came about over a century after he died. He used to write more poetry, he supposes, although he still seems able to find plenty of time for that now. Maybe it took longer when he was actually writing words down. In honesty, Thomas can’t remember anymore.
Alison, ever the keen helper, has taught him words, too. Thomas is grateful for what he’s learned, he really is: terms like panic attack and anxiety disorder make his head spin and his limbs feel a little fuzzy, but learning about bisexuality and how accepted it is makes Thomas feel light-headed in a completely different way. It’s as though, each time he hears about it, a little piece of shame that he never quite realised he was harbouring gets washed away.
In all, Thomas is happy with his existence as a ghost. Well, as happy as one can be when trapped in a state of possibly-perpetual purgatory.
——————
Thomas is sitting at the end of the kitchen table at breakfast when it first strikes him.
The radio is playing in the background, some inane pop music that he’s never really cared for, and Julian and Robin are sitting just next to him, staring each other down from opposite sides of the table. They’re squabbling about goodness knows what (something about sloths or cloths or maybe even moths– Thomas can’t tell), voices rising by the second, and no one else seems as bothered by it as he is. He rubs his fingers along the edge of his waistcoat lightly, counting the number of cupboards in the room as a distraction.
One. Two. Thr-
Thomas’ thoughts are interrupted by the scrape of Mike’s chair against the floor, grating against his eardrums so harshly he can feel it at his core. He shakes his head minutely, steadfastly trying to ignore the way Pat, Mary, and even the Captain seem to have joined in with Julian and Robin’s rapidly-escalating argument, and starts counting again.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Sev-
The toaster erupts. Robin roars across the table. Mike knocks his knife, and it crashes to the floor.
Thomas flees.
The corridor is mercifully empty as he phases into it. He doesn’t know if anyone noticed him leave, and he can’t form enough of a thought to worry about being found. He strides down the corridor, pace hurried and uneven as he wrings his hands.
he has to get away he has to get away he has to get away
He turns a corner, his legs beginning to feel numb as he instinctively heads for the staircase he knows he can tuck himself under. With a final Herculean effort, Thomas slides himself under the staircase and curls up, hands planted over his ears.
it’s too loud it’s too loud it’s too much
Thomas’ ribs are boa constrictors, wrapping themselves tighter and tighter around his chest. He tries desperately to breathe, great gasps so desperate their very existence is a prayer for help, and he feels his ribs turn to iron bars. They won’t move, won’t flex, and he can feel his heart, a prisoner, pounding at the walls of its cell. He can’t unlock it, he thinks, because he can’t move, because he can’t breathe. He feels another wave of panic at that thought, a shot of fear that makes his whole body shake. He is hot, oh so hot, and the bitter heat of his tears chokes him as he curls up tighter still. He’s going to die here, curled up under the stairs, shaking like a coward as he suffocates beneath the weight of his own sensitivities.
Thomas can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He’s going to die.
His hands are pulled from his ears.
——————
“Thomas? Can you hear me?” Thomas’ head whips up, eyes wide. He looks positively awful: paler than ever, eyes and nose red–if Julian had to pick one expression, he’d say Thomas looks like he’s seen a ghost. He has to suppress a little chuckle at that one.
Thomas’ hands shoot back to his body, this time wrapping around his curled legs. Julian still holds onto them, trying not to wince as Thomas squeezes them tight. He can feel the shuddering breaths Thomas is taking, his eyes screwed shut, and he’s just starting to consider asking his question again when Thomas nods. It’s a forced, jerky thing, but it’s there.
“Okay. I need you to let go of my hands, just a little.” The grip around Julian’s hands slowly untightens, as though Thomas’ hands are unwinding for the first time in decades. “I’m going to ask you some questions. I need you to squeeze your left hand to answer, ‘Yes,’ and your right hand to answer, ‘No.’ Do you understand?” Julian is blunt, has even been considered thoughtless by some (though he resents that remark), but he doesn’t consider himself to be cruel, and he does actually want to help. He’s not going to make Thomas talk right now.
Thomas squeezes his left hand gently, and Julian smiles.
“Good. Okay, first question. Do you, Thomas Thorne, feel safe here right now?” Thomas squeezes his right hand.
“Would you feel safer in a different place?” Thomas shakes his head instead of squeezing a hand, sniffing as he does so. Julian pretends not to hear the soft sob that comes from the other ghost, but holds his hands a little tighter.
“Would you like me to get someone else?” Thomas squeezes his left hand hard, breath hitching.
“Can you let me know who?” Thomas doesn’t answer straight away. In fact, he tenses up, and Julian worries he’s somehow managed to put his foot in it like usual. It sounds as though Thomas is trying to get control of his breathing; Julian wishes he knew how to help him in any way other than, well, telling him to breathe.
He’s just about to try asking the question a different way that Thomas can answer by squeezing his hands, when Thomas whispers out a name. Of course! Julian rolls his eyes at himself, dumbfounded that he hadn’t immediately thought of it. He squeezes Thomas’ hands again in what he hopes the other ghost is interpreting as a gesture of reassurance.
“I’ll go in a minute, Thomas, but I can’t very well just leave you here–far too high a chance of just about anyone walking past and finding you. If you feel you can stand, I’ll walk you to your bedroom.”
Thomas’ legs are shaky as he pulls himself to his feet, hands still firmly clasping Julian’s. They walk slowly up the stairs to Thomas’ room, Julian periodically slipping a hand away to rub Thomas’ back. Thomas’ breathing is becoming less restricted, Julian notices with no small amount of relief, and, upon reaching his room, the poet immediately curls up in the corner of the room, sitting on his pillow. Although his breathing is improving, Julian takes one look at Thomas and resolves to be as quick as he can.
——————
Julian hurries into the library, beyond relieved to find Humphrey’s head exactly where it has been since Kitty put it there first thing this morning.
“Julian? What’s got you in such a rush?”
Julian’s explanation is hurried, and even a little flustered, but Humphrey follows it intently as soon as Thomas’ name is mentioned. He demands that Julian take him to Thomas, speaking so quickly and sternly that Julian only catches the end of his piece as he sweeps him up:
“-and I never ask much of anyone ‘round here, so you’d best believe that if you don’t take me to him right this second you’ll have another thing coming when I get myself back toge- oh, you’re actually taking me! Okay! Thank you.”
——————
Humphrey feels his heart shatter all the way across the house when he’s carried into Thomas’ room. The poet looks empty, beyond exhausted, and doesn’t even seem to register that two people have just entered his room.
Julian sets Humphrey down softly next to Thomas, positioning his head to face him. Humphrey can’t see him go, but he waits until he can’t feel his presence anymore to start talking in hushed tones. It’s not that he’d mind Julian hearing, per se, but he feels like he can better talk to Thomas when it’s just the two of them.
“Hey, Tom. How are you feeling?” Thomas doesn’t look down at him, not yet, but that’s okay. One hand unfurls from around his legs and inches towards Humphrey’s head, stopping as it brushes the side of his beard.
“It’s okay, Thomas. You can put your hands in my hair if it helps. I want you to focus on… tethering yourself as best you can, okay? I know you might feel all… floaty, like you can’t come down, but I’m here with you. Just take your time. You are safe here. You’re safe.” Humphrey pauses for a second as Thomas picks him up. He rests Humphrey’s head on his knees and leans forward, eyes closed, until their foreheads are touching. When Humphrey speaks again, his voice is even softer.
“That’s it, Tom. You’re doing so well, my love. I can hear you trying to keep your breathing steady, and it sounds like it’s getting better each time. Just keep breathing, nice and slow” Humphrey knows that commentating might seem odd, especially when he and Thomas are the only two in the room, but his talking seems to be helping Thomas and he doesn’t want to stop.
“You’re doing absolutely wonderfully. I know your mind–your body–is telling you otherwise, but you truly have nothing to fear. No one is annoyed with you for this–I just want you to know that. We all care about you so, so much. We love you. I love you, Tom.” Thomas’ eyes open at that, and Humphrey cracks a smile wider than he thought possible.
“Hey, you. Are you with me now?” Thomas nods. He still looks absolutely worn out, the poor thing, and Humphrey isn’t surprised.
“Do you want to lie down with me? I’d guess you’re rather tired.” Thomas slowly moves them to lie down facing each other, still trying to reorientate himself with the world beyond Humphrey’s head. Humphrey feels a pang of anger at the injustice that he doesn’t have his body right now, that he can’t wrap Thomas up in his arms until he feels entirely steady again. He can do one thing when they’re lying down, though.
“Could you bring your forehead down here for a minute?” Thomas lowers himself gently until his forehead is tucked below Humphrey’s nose. Humphrey presses a gentle kiss to his brow, trying to pass along as much comfort as he possibly can. Thomas slides back up to look at him, one hand in Humphrey’s hair, and his eyes seem slightly brighter.
“I don’t want you to feel obliged to say anything back, because you’re doing so well and I don’t want you to feel pressured to feel all better straight away. I just want you to hear this, though: I love you, Thomas Thorne. With every part of me.”
Humphrey closes his eyes as Thomas brings their foreheads to rest against each other. The silence between them carries on for so long that he assumes Thomas must have fallen asleep. Not a bad idea, he thinks, and is about to do the same when he hears a whisper. It’s near-silent, and Humphrey would be certain he’s imagined it if not for the feel of Thomas’ breath across his lips.
“I love you too, Humphrey Bone.”