Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It crept in, quietly at first. Shed wasn’t used to the silence, to the stealthy, slow spread of rising tension. No, that wasn’t even in his vocabulary. The tension he knew was quick, devouring. It tuned out everything else with ease. That, he knows. That he can manage. Nerves can quickly turn into focus, if you know what you’re doing. Shed did, on the battlefield, at least. This tension, he couldn’t turn to his favour. It didn’t shut out the world. There was no danger, nothing to focus his attention on. So, it focused on all of it.

He sat awkwardly in Builders makeshift workshop. Rugged and worn in all the same ways Builderman was. A small comfort, he thought somewhere between all the noise.

The quiet was sharp. Uncomfortable. Shed always filled the silences that extended a little too long for his liking. A quip, a small comment to get conversation going, music, singing, talking at nothing in particular. Builder once said it was his mission to never shut up. Partially true, though, Shed knew he didn’t actually care. He thinks. He hopes.

Since when did he start doubting B? Maybe he really should be getting more sleep. Was it his lack of sleep? Or is he restless? Hungry? Does it matter? This man was once a god. What was he now? An admin on the run, forgotten in history.

He was a ticking time bomb— now what? He’s a husk past its expiration date.

That— That’s not true. He thinks. Hopes. Wonders?

The retired god was hunched in on himself, turning a heavy bolt in his palm. Cold metal was appreciated, distracted him enough to take a breath– it stuttered, refused. Bodies can be so stubborn. So much weaker… Breakable. He was breakable. What's a mountain if it crumbles under its weight? Maybe he’s gone soft. Builderman has dulled all the jagged edges of a new mountain. Now he’s… gentler. B was always a patient man. Willing to let the tide slowly shape rock. Always accepted him, even with all the edges that stung to embrace.

The bolt turned uncomfortably warm. He kept turning it over, trying to find a nook still untouched. Then he blinked and it was in his lap. He doesn’t remember dropping it. Shed reached over— shaking. His hands, they’re… Shaking? No, all of him is trembling. Another attempt at a breath, too fast. Not long enough. Did it even count? Why does he feel like he's not breathing at all? Again. Too shaky. Shallow. Shedletsky fiddled with the bolt once more, turning it over. Twirling it between trembling fingers.

He wasn’t familiar with the slow, creeping tension of a panic attack. Wasn’t aware it mimicked other things— stress, fatigue, worry. By the time he realized something wasn’t right it was too late. The anxiety found a home between his ribs. Nestled deep, sprawled across old patched up wounds, licked at sleeping insecurities.

His vision trembled at the edges. The quiet was suffocating. Drowned out only by his pulse, it thrummed, demanded attention. Made itself known, rocked his body with its intensity. It crawled through him, curled into a ball in his throat. Made it impossible to breathe. Impossible to think.

He couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t—

Breathe,
Breathe.
Breathe…

The bolt dropped again, clattered to the floor. Too sharp, too loud. Shed gasped beside himself. Embarrassing, what's the matter with him? He needs to get it together. What god gets startled by the drop of a pin needle in a silent room? A retired one. One past its prime. With half the power and none of the durability. Was he really worried about being past his prime? Builder was right, he was self centered. Thoughts spilled right through his fingers, none of them brave enough to stay but all underhanded enough to linger in feeling. Linger in the way he couldn’t handle.

Can’t think.
Can’t breathe.
.
.
.
Footsteps.

He felt them before he really tuned them in. The deep thunk of boots with metal caps. A familiar rhythm. Builderman. The one Shed actually considered an immovable object. Steadfast in its ways, not a mountain— a wall, placed and cemented deliberately. Unbreakable in a way only B could be. A warm presence, accepting and quiet. Never demanding attention. So then why did it feel so… suffocating?

“Shed.” Not a question. “You okay?” A question only in courtesy. He wasn’t, not like he could say it. Builderman knew, of course. When did words become too much? All that left him was an acknowledging hum.

“... You’re shakin’.” The older man, only in spirit, stated. It was a fact after all. Shed could feel himself trembling. His voice was softer than usual, only slightly, Shed could tell. His brows were woven together, in worry? Pity?

No Builder doesn’t pity.

“I— fuck, I don’t—-” voice not his own. This shaky, thin thing. “B I’m— I don’t know why, Don’t—- Fuck!” He sucked in a shallow breath, too quick. It hitched. He tried again, it stuttered. They came out all wrong, lopsided and uneven. Too fast, so fast they made his head spin.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew that this was irrational. Absolutely ridiculous. He fought gods before and won, saved whole servers from crashing. And a little anxiety is the thing that brought him to his knees. Out of his control.

Out of his control–

Builderman sat beside him. Enough space to feel like he can breathe, close enough to feel safe. Sheds wings, all four of them, were puffed up. The two on his head were effective sun blockers. Perfect from shielding his pride from B’s worried gaze. No one should have to see him like this, least of all, the one he cherished so deeply. Who he would fight for, die for…

“Okay,” He started with a breath, “You're alright. Just a panic attack. Ever had ‘em before?”

Shed shook his head, or maybe he didn’t. He wasn’t sure. The motion made the world tilt.

He heard another soft sigh from his other. “Yer breathin’s all out of whack, gotta get it under control.” Another statement, it gave Shed little wiggle room to wander.

“Give me your hand.” Builderman added, offered up his own. Calloused and rough, warm. The swordsman couldn’t help but listen.

“Good.” They shook horribly and Shed took the opportunity to check whether the man was really there. He gave it a firm squeeze, Builder squeezed back without a word. It was embarrassingly grounding. The safety of his warmth, the familiarity of calloused palm, scarred fingers that brushed against his knuckles. He wasn’t wearing his compression glove. He blinked, saw the other shift in his seat, stuffing something black into his hoodie pocket.

Another squeeze, just as grounding as the last.

“Shed, copy me, ‘kay?” He offers, words measured in the way they are commanded so gently.

“Just follow my lead, I’ll give ya’ a pattern.” It was cloaked in untold understanding. No shock, no prodding, no mentions of how uncharacteristic this was. Builderman took a slow, steady breath. “In,” held it just for a few seconds, “Out.” Breathed out just as slowly.

“Yeah, like that. In…” Shed tried, it was just as shaky as before. “Yer good, keep at it.” B was quick to patch up the blunder. Like always. Another attempt, the gods chest jerked, body refused. Wings shielded the swordsman from view.

“You don’t gotta to look at me, just keep breathin’.”

There he goes again, cushioning another insecurity. Shed tried to laugh, it came out as a shaky sob.

“You’re okay,” Builder said again, softer. “Storm’s loud, I know. But it’ll pass. I’ve got you.”

That cracked something else open. A tremble in Shed’s lip. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried again. In. Out. One breath caught and another slipped through, and eventually, the rhythm started to fall into place. He focused on Builder’s voice. Builder’s hands. Builder’s calm.

“I hate this,” Shed muttered, still breathless, voice still thin with tension.

“I know,” An understanding sigh, “But you’re doin’ good.”

The tired god looked up at him then, retracting his wings just enough. “Feels like I’m not in my body.”

“I know. You’ll come back.”

“I feel stupid.”

“You’re not.”

Another noise, more akin to a laugh this time. Builders thumb traced his palm, Shed focused on the tenderness. If it was any other day, he might’ve changed the subject, try to crack a joke to lighten the mood. Something about immortality and mortal fragility, there's material there… But his brain won’t listen, and for once, Shed won’t force it.

Chapter Text

With his breathing starting to slow, Builderman offered a kind smile. Something between worry and affection. Their version of asking if the other is okay— as unspoken as the rest of their relationship.

“There ya’ are.” His voice is quieter than usual, Shed hates that it’s necessary but he gives an acknowledging huff anyway.

They sat on a worn sofa, fuzzy with age. It was only a little bigger than a double seater and Shed was not exactly the smallest. Not that he minded, usually. Currently, it left him feeling uneasy. B tried to give him the space he wanted— needed, but the more he pulled away the more that tide began to rise again. He slid a wing, the one on his back— the healthy one, across the gap. A flimsy attempt to close it. He rested it, trembling, against Buildermans thigh.

What's the matter with him?
Really,
seriously,
What is wrong with him?

The indifferent arms of the wall clock kept moving, ticking a cruel reminder that he was wasting time.

“I’m not–” the lump of anxiety in his throat made it hard to speak without trembling. He clears it and tries again. “I usually don’t–” Who knew panic attacks could be this infuriating. He’d laugh, if he could. He can’t. Won’t. Doesn’t matter. Instead, he curled inward, flopped his head against his knees. Covered himself with his wings to hide the shame.

“Shed you’re workin’ yourself up.” Another factual statement, Builders on a roll.

“‘M aware.” Said with too much annoyance, “God damnit.” His body is betraying him. Ribs felt like prison bars, lungs like they were under water. They drew ragged, shallow breaths, too small and sharp to read as anything but useless. Now the room is spinning again, and his breathing’s speeding up.

“N-no, no—” he stammered, clutching Builder’s hand tighter. Vaguely he’s aware that Builder squeezes back just as firmly. “I—I was fine, I thought I was fine—”

“It’s okay,” Builder said, calm and steady, like the stillness of deep earth. “It happens. That’s just your body checking if the danger’s gone.”

“There is no danger,” Shed rasped, voice tight. Words spilled out all wrong, not the tone he wanted, nor the phrasing. “What the hell is wrong with me?!” It came out more frustrated than he thought it would. “I— I should be stronger than this!” An outburst that even got Builderman to react. Though, he tried to shield Sheds pride. The gods vision wavered too much to know for certain, but there wasn’t much they could hide from one another. Something stirred, crawled from his chest down to his stomach. It pooled with dread.

Builder shifted in his seat. The other hand, the one still wearing his compression glove, moved towards Shedletsky’s wing. It twitched, almost pulled away. B waited, of course he did, and when it settled his fingers found home in messy feathers.

“Alright, slow down,” Not really a request, he attempts to ground him with a firm grip. A reminder that he won’t float away. But Shed can’t obey. Not when the world is spinning and he can’t breathe.

Can't breathe.
He can’t breathe-

The retired god let out a pitiful noise, something between a sob and a plea. He hated this. Not the panic—though that was unbearable—but the helplessness of it. No escape hatch, no crutch to fall back on. Not for any other reason but his body refusing. There's static where his thoughts should be. Pins and needles crawling up his arms and legs.

“Shed, ‘m losin’ ya’, look at me.” A firm voice cut the static. Calm but fraying at the edges. Tender in his authority.

“Shed.” He expected an answer. The tired deity dragged his head. Exhausted with the effort. He peaked over the wings that protected him. Spots covered most of his vision. Though, Shed doesn’t need to see to know Builders expression. Brows knit together, like they often are. A frown tugging at his lips, one he makes his mission to wipe away. Cleaning up his messes, he’s gotten good at that.

“Good start,” B nods firmly, the grip is warm. Full of unspoken acknowledgment, quiet affection. Something that doesn’t need a reaction. His thumb traces Sheds knuckles, skin rough to the touch.

“We’re just gonna sit,” His words were certain, he envied that about him. He could fake confidence better than anyone… Maybe he wasn’t faking. Maybe it started that way and now it’s just too good to tell. Or it’s the opposite.

“You don’t gotta do anythin’ else, just breathe, Shed.” It was like a super power, being able to tell when the god was losing himself. Like his word alone was enough. He always was the kind of man to patch up a leaky boat instead of jumping ship. Was he worth the work?

A sound in the hall—the house settling maybe, B always did like fixer upper projects—snapped him to attention. Wings perked up, angling themselves, his breath caught. Shoulders tightened like he expected something awful to crash through the wall. His chest clamped down again.

Builder caught it.

“Hey,” a grounding presence, firm in its resolve. “It’s just the pipes. Or the wind. You’re safe.”
“I can’t tell the difference,” The deity whispered hoarsely. “That’s the problem.”
“I know,” The admin said again, unwavering. “You will. You’ll feel the difference again soon. For now, you can borrow my certainty.”

That drew a laugh out of Shed, if you could call it that. More of a shaky huff if anything. Borrowing someone else’s calm felt like cheating. Like a kindness he hadn’t earned. But he clung to it anyway. He didn’t realize how badly he was shaking again until Builder shifted forward and gently eased his hoodie off, draping it around Shed’s shoulders.

“I’m not cold,” It didn’t sound convincing, but he really wasn’t. Nothing sounded true when his voice was a thin fragile ghost of its usual.

“Doesn’t matter,” What a kind confidence. “Pressure helps. Makes the nerves settle.” Of course Builderman believed him.

He blinked. The hoodie was heavy, worn in all the right places. It smelled like Builder—not a scent he could place exactly, just warm and a little like soldering dust and pine, weirdly comforting. He sagged into it without realizing.

It came as a surprise when he caught himself thinking again. With a clearer head this felt even more ridiculous. Builder was good at keeping the shame at bay, though. He was good at a lot of things, Shedletsky could never truly get past that envy. After all these years— decades— he still wished he was as steady as the admin. Steadfast and unbreakable. It was funny back then, a god jealous of a man. No, not just a man, jealous of his talent. To create, to fix. Telamon was a creator, yes, but he was destruction just the same. Many things— people— crumbled in his hands. Telamon wasn’t made to fix.

Shedletsky? Well, maybe he can try.

“Wanna get up?” The question came as a surprise, B’s right he does get too in his head sometimes. “The room’s a mess, we can camp in the livin’ room.”

The retired god bit his lip, “If I get up I think I’ll throw up–” It was honest and got a laugh out of the other. In turn, Shed managed a small smile.

“Then we’ll stay, don’t wanna clean more than I gotta.” They both nodded and a pleasant silence filled the room. Nothing like before, it wasn’t thick with tension and didn’t reek of anxiety. This was their usual silence, they’ve been together for so long they had to get comfortable with quiet coexistence. No matter how much it bothered Shed from time to time.

Minutes ticked past. Ten? Fifteen? Time didn’t move the same in moments like this. But he started to breathe like a person again. B shifted just enough to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, the contact subtle but constant. They can both appreciate that.

The swordsman's eyes fluttered closed once. Then opened again.

His voice, when it came, was low. “Thanks for not makin’ it weird.”

Builderman huffed a quiet breath of a laugh. “You’re allowed to have a bad day.”

“I usually bounce back faster than this.”

“You don’t have to,” Builder started. “Not with me.” How many times has he repeated this sentiment? Yet it still rings true. No matter how many times Shedletsky forgets he's not alone, B makes sure he’s reminded.

Now he felt a little guilty. This is the exact thing he hounded Builder for. Putting others in front of himself, being a pillar of security for anyone who needed it. One day, Shed has told him this multiple times, It’ll bite him in the ass. He’ll crack and the god isn’t sure if he can patch up rifts born with tension that old.

It wasn’t long after the panic finally ebbed into something gentler, something survivable, that Shed started to drift.

Not sleep yet. Just that strange, floating state that comes after everything in your body has been wrung out and left to dry. His head tilted against the wall behind them, curls sticking up where the hoodies collar had mussed them. Builder could tell he wasn’t fully settled, no matter how badly Shedletsky wanted it to seem like that. But, grounded enough. He’d take it.

Still, it was no good to leave him like this, slumped awkwardly on that dusty old sofa.

“Alright,” Builder murmured after a while, hand gliding against the hoodie sleeve . “We’re gonna move now. Just to the livin’ room. Nothing fancy.”

Shed groaned, the sound a rough rumble in his throat. “Ugh... fine. But you’re carrying me.”

That earned a sideways look, then he smirked faintly. “I’m not carrying your heavy ass across the hallway.”

“Rude,” Shed muttered, half-asleep already. “I’m graceful and aerodynamic.”

“Like a fat chicken.”

“C’mon.” Said through a breathy laugh.

“Don’t you usually call it my southern charm?”

“Not when you’re calling me too fat to fly.”

Builderman blinked, “Shed, chickens can’t fly, period.” A little chuckle threatened to leave his lips. “Please tell me you know that.”

“...” A cough, Shed glanced to the side. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“Shed.”

“How was I supposed to know its a bird!” The man groans as he pushes himself up. “They all fly!”

“No they fuckin’ don’t, ya’ dimwit.”

Then a small silence, they both left the workshop, and when the door closed behind them they both burst into laughter.

“Who’re you calling a dimwit, you have to be nice to me, I just almost died.”

“Now that's dramatic.”

“I almost threw up!”

“Lets focus on the fact ya’ didn’t know flightless birds existed.”

A shrug, “Hey, I eat chicken, I don't study them, weirdo.”

“It’s not just chickens!”

Builders hand rested gently against Sheds back and the god was thankful for the support. He didn’t realize his legs would be this shaky. It wasn’t far—just across the hall to the large couch shoved beneath the window—but it felt like a victory anyway when Shed sank into it with a sigh like it had been waiting for him all his life.

Builder tucked the Hoodie more securely around him and disappeared for a moment. To the kitchen most likely. Shed blinked slowly, trying to track time by the soft sounds in the next room. Clinking. A mug. Maybe a kettle. The sounds were small, but they echoed through his still-overstimulated brain like they meant something important.

By the time Builderman returned, hands full, Shed had folded into the cushions with one wing half-draped over his chest, the other, mechanical one, lazily drooping down. Builder set the mug down beside him.

“Here,” He said. “Hot cocoa, with marshmellows, of course.” They both grinned at the small inside joke. The other admins, Doom mostly, liked to argue about whether cocoa was better with whipped cream or with marshmallows. Personally, Shed would like both but for B he stayed quiet.

He eyed the mug blearily, but reached for it with both hands, careful. He took a sip, and the heat bloomed across his chest, soft and sweet. For once, he didn’t know what to say. The silence was awkward, though, probably only for Shedletsky.

Builder sat down with a groan, maybe he was feeling merciful that day. “You’re tellin’ me you don’t know that ostriches don't fly?”

“The fuck is an Oh-chrich?”

B put his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Shedletsky.”

“Oh, full name. It’s serious.”

“How do you not know this??”

“I fail to see why I should give a damn.” The bastard was smirking.

“Drink yer fuckin’ cocoa.” A defeated grumble, rolling his eyes before he slumped into his armchair.

“Don't have to tell me twice.” With a hum, they both settled into a peaceful quiet again. And after awhile,

“Get some rest.” His voice was tethering the edge of being too gentle again. Shed chooses to let it slide, only because he really is exhausted.

“Mhm…”

He doesn’t remember when he covered himself.