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Grian liked to think he was fine. No trauma, no triggers, and perfect mental health. Just… the pinnacle of health!
He got away with it fine, because that was true! Not because he avoided anything that would remind him of that. No, he didn't shoot white rabbits on sight, no, he didn't have a reason as to why he hated being cornered in small spaces, he was just claustrophobic! Not because of anything that happened when he was in Highschool. Everyone hated knives. Everyone hated it when people raised their voice at them. Everyone knew his name was-
“Grian?” The sound of someone else's voice split through his panic and he felt his breathing hitch. When was he breathing so fast? Someone was in front of him, someone's hands were on his arms. Someone was talking to him…?
“Grian? You with me bud?” The someone said, and he shakily nodded. “You spaced out on me there…” Where was he again? Blinking, Grian’s eyes darted around, taking in his surroundings. He was near a train. It wasn't the same train, no, this one was this one was reddish and gray, with separate cars of varying colors. Nothing like the one he would take in Highschool. Scars train. Right. He was with Scar. Scar was his friend. Scar wasn't Sam.
“Grian, can you name five colors for me?” Colors..? He knew those.
“Red,” himself, “blue,” Taurtis, “Purple,” Ellen, “Pink..” Yuki… “white,” Sam.
“Okay, good. Four things you can feel?”
“The grass,” He was sitting on the ground, hands balled into fist, stray blades of grass brushing his palms. “My sweater.” It was rubbing against his old scars in a way that made him cringe, “uh.. my hair,” it was long enough to brush the back of his neck, he needed to cut it. But… he didn't trust himself enough to have something sharp near his neck. “The wind.”
“Good. What's three things you can smell?”
“The smoke from your train, the sea-” Maybe he wasn't near it, but the smell seemed to cling to Grian wherever he went, a fact that seemed to bring scars signature smirk out due to amusement- “and…” he hesitated, there wasn't much to smell there, it wasn't a sense he paid much attention to, so he settled on something simple. “The grass,” he concluded.
“Great! You're doing good, G, two things you hear,” scar prompted, hands moving from Grain’s arms to his hands, pulling them away from the grass. At the loss of one texture, the calloused skin of scars palms replaced it, and Grian felt himself relax some at the familiarity.
“You and the train.”
“What's one thing you can taste?”
“Salt.” Maybe he fished too much. Maybe he had just one problem, but it was worth it for the mending book.
Scar gave him that stupid smile again, and Grian couldn't help but return it. He forgot what spurred his panic, finding it eased by Scar’s methods. He liked Scar’s way better than other hermits', most of the time they'd make him right out say what was wrong and encouraged him to see a psychiatrist - which, frankly, Grian found insulting. He was perfectly fine.
“You feeling better now, G?” Scar asked as he stood, leg braces clinking, causing Grian to feel a twinge of guilt for making him crouch for that long.
Scar pulled grian up from where his hands still held Grian’s, “I was never worse to begin with,” he insisted, which caused Scar to laugh.
This was routine for them by now. Grian panicking only to insist he was fine after Scar helped him. “Whatever you say, Grian.”