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This Sort of Thing is not exactly something Mizael is well-equipped for dealing with. In fact, This Sort of Thing is more like... Durbe's thing. Except not because Durbe is way too busy with other things to really have time to take care of his team right now to the point where insomnia has taken over and the bags under his eyes are deeper and darker than ever so Mizael forced him into bed and told him to stay there.
So instead of bailing out on Alit and this... well, This Sort of Thing, and handing him to a very tired, very irritable Durbe, Mizael decides to handle this himself (despite every cell in his body refusing to handle it at all). Except he has not clue how to handle This Sort of Thing and is at a general loss when Alit slumps down onto the couch and promptly falls over and clutches a pillow to his face.
Mizael very carefully sits down near where Alit's feet have ended up, toes curling and uncurling and body trembling as he mumbles things into the pillow that Mizael can barely decipher (but he hears a lot of the word "stop" and comes to the conclusion that Alit is traumatized... but from what?). He gently puts a hand on Alit's calf before speaking, "Are you alright?" and it comes out clipped and short and a little annoyed and Mizael takes note that he really needs to work on how to deal with This Sort of Thing and maybe he should take a leaf from Durbe's book.
A very definitive yet muffled "NO" is the response and Mizael frowns.
"Well, yes, I did guess that," he mutters, trying to think. "Uhm, I guess I'm asking if there's something you want to talk about or, well, uh, need help with?" Despite punctuating the sentence with many awkward pauses and not-words, Mizael told himself that he sounded as dignified as ever.
Alit slowly moved the pillow from his face and pushed himself upright, setting his feet back on the floor and staring at the hands in his lap. His eyes were watery and angry, brow furrowed in intense concentration on something. "My neck," he said helpfully, voice low and quiet and hoarse.
"... Your neck."
"You wouldn't understand," he says, and it's still in that dejected, depressed tone that's so out-of-character and not right because it's angry and sad and all the things that Alit normally isn't and as much as Mizael really doesn't like him all bubbly and bouncing around, he likes this kind of Alit even less.
"Try me."
It's a challenge, and Alit always responds to a challenge. Mizael inwardly smiles and pats himself on the back when Alit looks up at him.
"It's my neck," he repeats, eyes dropping back to his hands. "It's like what I witnessed was a past life and... an ax shot right through my neck and it hurts." His hand instinctively goes up to rub the back of his neck. "And every time I sleep I dream about it and I wake up with a sharp pain in my neck -- I think I was beheaded."
"Nonsense," Mizael mutters before realizing how insensitive that is. "I mean--"
"It's real, I swear!" Alit says, and suddenly he's tucking his legs underneath him and turning to face Mizael and pulling his head back and pointing to his neck. "Can't you see it? I have this marking right here and every time I look in the mirror it brings me back to that memory--"
"Alit." Mizael's tone is stern and the rambling stops. "Alit, I don't see anything. And there's no way that it's a memory, it's probably just a nightmare."
"But I know it's real!" Alit protests, eyes wild and desperate, before grabbing Mizael's delicate wrist and pressed his hand against his neck. "Tell me you can feel it."
But all he felt was a pulse. "Nothing, Alit. It's okay, it's not some memory and it's not a past life. You're a Barian Lord, with armour for skin, and nothing can break your neck that easily," Mizael said as calmly as he could. "You're a Barian Lord, and nothing can cut you down like that."
Alit pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes tearing up worse now. "I knew you wouldn't understand."
Mizael blinks at him. "What, no, I understand perfectly! You just need some sleep."
"I'll just have another dream about it, I don't want sleep, I want this pain to go away." His voice is back to being quiet and Mizael stares at him. Yeah, he really doesn't think he's good at dealing with This Sort of Thing at all. They're right back where they started.
"You haven't had a milkshake since you got back," Mizael deduces after a long silence. "I'm gonna go get you one and you're going to drink it and you're going to feel better."
Alit just shrugs, falling back down onto the couch and shoving the pillow back in his face. "Alright," Mizael hears, and he guesses that whatever he's done is enough and promptly stands up and walks over to the bar.
Milkshakes were his favourite, so they had to do something. And if all else fails, Mizael resolved to go get Durbe even if he was a total mess. This Sort of Thing was definitely better left to him.