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It's never just one thing that sets off a panic attack.
That's the question you’re always asked. ‘What triggered it?’ ‘What happened to set it off?’
You know it’s a well meaning thing. Trying to help you identify what tipped you over so you can avoid it or be more prepared next time.
But it isn't that simple . Whenever you do manage to pinpoint the ‘tipping’ reason, it’s always something small. Something stupid that at worst should be an irritant. But combined with whatever else has been layering inside you, simmering and rising, all it takes is one stupid thing to make the pressure explode.
Besides. Knowing doesn’t stop it from happening. It only makes you feel even worse about logic and reasoning fleeing the moment your heart starts to pound heavily in your chest.
What was it this time?
It was the summer heat, the crowds all dressed brightly in rainbows so bright it burns your eyes, the bass of music played too loud over old speakers that tears over your bones with rusted nails. It was just the way the wind was blowing, carrying with it the cloying stench of fried food, sweat, perfumes and flowers.
It was the ease at which you slid into the role of manager of the group, even though you don’t want to be. Driving everyone here, hands clenched around the wheel so tightly your knuckles turn white because you have to focus over the non-stop chatter and yelling and not one of them noticed how close that semi-truck came to hitting your car.
It was the anger that flared up in response to the joy around you. Don’t they see how you’re hurting? Don’t they care ?
It was the guilt that slammed into you immediately after that bitter thought. It’s the city’s pride festival, the first your group of monsters have ever been to. They don’t owe you anything , why should your own misery overshadow what should be a fun day out? They’re in a place that is fully accepting them, accepting everyone who steps in and you’re the one bringing down the mood. You need to snap out of it, get it together, but the pressure in your chest has no more room for the heat building in your eyes that you still fight to shove down, so you simply stay quiet, drift to the back of the group where you are less likely to be seen as your vision blurs.
There’s a distant, almost uninterested part of your mind that registers the painful beat of your heart. It’s sharp but sluggish. Losing the fight against the crushing weight in your chest. Your stomach. Your legs.
You trip over a rope hidden in the grass, pulled taunt to keep one of the many tent booths fixed in place. It’s barely a stumble, a small shock to your nerves.
And that’s what does it. The stupid thing that makes the whole thing boil over.
The tears flow immediately. Hot, stinging and pitiful. The gasp that you made when you tripped has swung the gates of your lungs wide open and the rush of air that shoves against your ribs is so sharp that you instinctively suck the air back in. But more pushes out and it burns and it makes your chest heave up and down-
“...ore?”
The rhythm of your hyperventilating is almost…comforting in a way. It gives you something to cling to as panic surges from the heart that still struggles to beat and the lungs that simply can’t get enough air because the more you try to breathe in, the more that same air is forced out to slam against your insides and the ringing in your ears makes it impossible to hear anything but the sound of your own pathetic whimpering as each breath tears into your throat like broken glass-
“-here, I’m here, it’s okay-”
Your shoulders curl in, hands clutching at your shirt so tightly that you’re certain one small jerk would be enough to rip the fabric. You don’t remember grabbing at it, when did you do that?
“Come on, I’ve got you.”
Your legs are numb. Your whole body is actually, as you stumble along, unable to feel or fight the hands that grip you, guide you to…somewhere.
Ah. You’ve made a scene.
That voice, that soft, gentle voice that you love so dearly slips in under the grating sound of your fight to breathe. “We’re in the shade now, by the clock tower. Let’s sit down, okay?”
You blink, you gasp and you’re suddenly sitting on the ground. The world spins around you so you screw your eyes shut. It doesn’t do anything to stem the flow of water streaming down your face.
“Shore, I need you to take my hand.”
Your fingers are locked in place, twisted around your shirt. They don’t so much as twitch when you make a weak attempt to move them. “ C-c-can’t -”
“That’s all right.” His voice remains even, soft. “I’m going to touch you now, okay?”
Grillby’s touch is featherlight over your knuckles. He brushes once, twice over your skin before he gently but firmly peels your hand away from your chest. He presses his thumb against your palm until your fingers uncurl from the fist they were locked in. Then, his own hand over yours, he presses them both against his own chest.
“Breathe with me,” he instructs. Under your hand, his chest rises and falls steadily. He makes a show of it, each breath drawn out, held, then slowly released. “Good. Again.”
He’s lying, you barely kept pace with him at all, your hiccuping sobs still firmly planted between your ribs. But you try again. And again.
Until slowly your lungs fall into his steady rhythm. Pulsing and raw, but calming down. The space under your hand is warm. Not like the unforgiving heat of the sun, but the soft and gentle warmth of living fire.
Painful tingling fills every limb as your breathing finally starts to even out. Tears still fall, but it’s less a deluge and more of a trickle now.
“That’s it,” Grillby murmurs. “Are you back with me?”
You nod silently. You keep your eyes closed.
“Alright. Take your time.” His thumb rubs a gentle line back and forth over the top of your hand still pressed against him.
As the panic fades, shame floods in to take its place. Damn it, damn it! How could you do this, here in public? In front of everyone?!
There’s only a moment of resistance from Grillby when you pull your hand away. You tuck in tight, all of it, all of you , press your forehead against your knees. Anguish pulls at your lips. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t…”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Curl up tighter. Shove it down. “It-it wasn’t just the tripping, I’m not-”
“Shore, you don’t have to explain anything.” A beat. Then softly, “May I hold you?”
You shake your head, jaw clenched so tightly that even if you wanted to speak, you couldn’t. If he touches you right now, you’ll shatter all over again.
“Okay.” There’s no disappointment in his voice. “I’m going to just sit next to you. If you change your mind.”
He shifts to sit at your side; the warmth of his body is so close all it would take is the smallest lean to press against him. He keeps the space between you, though you don’t need to look at him to tell he’s fighting every urge to close it himself.
You love him for that.
“...I’m okay,” you finally whisper, still keeping your face hidden.
“Those tears say otherwise.”
“No, no I am, I just…” You sigh shakily. One hand snakes free to dig at your hair. The slight tug you give yourself is grounding. “I let stuff get to me when I shouldn’t. I didn’t…this is so embarrassing.”
“Why?”
Another flash of irritation, followed just as quickly by shame. “I made a scene, I couldn’t hold on until I could…break down in private or. Whatever. Everyone is here to have fun and I just had to go and sour it up.”
“Shore, you didn’t make a scene. You had a panic attack. That’s not something you can control or time to be more ‘convenient.’” His hand reaches up to guide yours away from your hair. You had started yanking harder without realizing it. He keeps hold of it, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “We’ve all had our fair share of panic and anxiety. We understand.”
“But…but there’s no reason for it!” You finally lift your head but only because the heat of your own breath had made the small space you pressed your face into unbearable to breathe in. Renewed tears roll down your face. You blink harshly, vision so blurred that all you can make out is blobby shapes of color. The noise and fuss of the festival is subdued just enough to tell you Grillby took you somewhere at least a little private. Thank goodness for that. Only Grillby to witness you breaking down even more.
“I just tripped , that shouldn’t be what made me snap.”
“It’s not.” Grillby now presses against you. “Come here, come on.”
You give in. You let yourself be swept into his embrace, sinking under the weight of his arm over your shoulders as he pulls you close. He presses gently against your head, urging you to tuck your face against him.
“You’re exhausted,” he continues and those two words pull another quiet sob from you. “You’ve been going for so long. Never stopping, never resting. You haven’t given yourself time to slow down.”
“I can’t slow down,” you protest wetly.
“You can. You have to. Or eventually the choice will be made for you.” He laughs quietly, humorlessly, at himself. “Believe me. I’ve been right here. Screaming, panicking, and crying because I simply could not keep any more of those terrible feelings inside for a moment longer.”
He’s right. You know he is, if only for the simple reason that this isn’t the first panic attack you’ve had. This is territory you’ve been in before. Hell, this is far from the first panic attack Grillby’s seen you fall into. But they’ve been happening more and more and now it’s happened out in public. In front of everyone you care about.
“It’s just so stupid,” you choke out. “Everything is fine, it’s supposed to be fine now.”
“It’s not though, is it?”
You don’t have an answer for that. Not one that you can admit to.
Grillby holds you close, rubbing gentle circles over your spine. “You have been hurt. You have faced challenges and hardships that very few others have. You push on, you preserve and you have grown stronger for it all. But those hardships leave wounds and you haven’t allowed those wounds to heal.”
“Like running on a broken leg,” you mutter. It’s a phrase thrown at you from some therapy session from ages ago.
He nods. “Exactly. You’re pushing on, despite the pain, despite all the hurt that keeps building. But we can only run from the things that hurt us for so long. They will come, and we can either face them head on, or exhausted and broken down. Both will hurt, but I promise it is easier to bear if you let yourself accept that you’re not okay.”
“But I don’t want to be this way!” you wail. “I don’t want to be angry and bitter and so upset at every little thing that goes wrong but I don’t know how to stop! I don’t know how to - to…I try and I try, and no matter what I do, it goes wrong. It all goes wrong and I’m left with all of the disappointment and anger and pain. If I let it in, it hurts. If I run, it hurts. It just hurts .” Your nails dig into your palm and you shove the fist against your eyes. “It never stops hurting .”
“Oh Shore,” he breathes and he holds you tighter still. He rocks you back and forth and little fingers of flame lay flush with your skin, as if to envelop you. “I’m sorry.”
The words keep pouring out of your mouth, foul and quivering. “I should be happy now. I have my life, my friends and family. I have you . I have a career, a home of my own. S-so why do I still feel like it’s about to be ripped away? Why am I so scared all the time? Why do I get so angry at the dumbest shit? Why do I look at the people I love and convince myself that they hate me? Why do I look in the mirror and want to tear my skin off with my bare hands? Why –”
“Hey, hey, you’re getting worked up again,” Grillby says, as gently as he can. It still feels like a slap to the face. “Take a moment. Breathe.”
You can’t, you can’t, you can’t–!
Warm hands on your face. A firm pull up to look at him. “In.” He breathes long, deep. “Out.”
Stuttering, hitching around yet more panic and pain, you suck in a breath. Release it.
In.
Out.
Again.
In.
Out.
Grillby’s thumbs rub over your cheeks. The moisture of your tears hisses under his touch. “You are afraid because your very Soul refuses to believe the good is real. You have lived so long clinging to each moment of happiness because you have convinced yourself that it won’t last.”
You sniffle, face scrunching. “Because it won’t, it never does.”
“Then more good will come!” he says firmly. “Sure as the bad, the good and the precious and the safety will come. Then it will leave, and the hurt and the pain will be there, but then they too will leave and the good will come back. That is how life works.” His expression softens. “When I built my bar underground, I lived each moment certain that it would be taken from me. I could not say how, or who, or why, but I knew in every flame of my being that I would lose it. But I never did. It still stands today. And it provided warmth and safety for so many. But it also held their fears. Their pain, lost in drink or company or music. It all wraps together; pain, joy, sadness, contentment. This pain is simply a moment in your life; it too will pass.”
It’s hard to accept that. Even if you tell yourself that he’s right, that you have told yourself this same thing over and over again, it’s so hard to see past the despair that pulls you down with iron shackles. You swallow harshly. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” you croak.
“I know.” Grillby flickers with the dark hues of grief. “I would take that fear from you, if I could. I would take all your pain without hesitation. But I cannot. All I can do is promise that I will remain with you. I will help you endure until you have the strength to keep going again.”
He presses a kiss to your temple and you close your eyes. “I just…feel so raw. Everything is just too much.”
“That’s okay,” he murmurs. “The only thing that isn’t is letting yourself suffer silently or pushing these feelings down until it explodes. Let yourself rest and let yourself not be okay.”
“...Okay.” Your voice cracks around the word, small and fragile. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
For a while, the two of you simply sit there. Some more tears leak free and Grillby wipes them away, despite your weak protests that the water will hurt him. As the panic fades, it leaves behind a bone deep weariness. Your limbs shake as each muscle slowly starts to unclench and you find yourself slumping more against Grillby. He holds your weight easily.
“You make a good therapist,” you rasp, attempting to bring back a little bit of levity.
“Experience, my love,” he says dryly. “I am simply repeating what has been beaten into my own head over many, many years. I still struggle to allow myself to rest when I need to.”
“Guess we have that in common, huh Mr. Workaholic?”
He hums his agreement.
You stare down at your hands and the marks your nails left in the skin. “Does it ever get easier?”
It takes him a moment to answer. “It’s not as simple as getting easier. Every step can be a fight some days, while others you look back and marvel at how far you’ve come. You can learn ways to carry the pain, but it doesn’t stop the rain from falling at times, making it all the harder to hold on. It will slip from your grip. But we must pick it back up again and keep going.”
“I think that’s my problem,” you admit quietly. “Gotta prove to myself I can just keep going, no matter how heavy it is.”
His hand presses gently over your chest. Your heart still beats under your skin, despite it all. “My dear perseverance Soul, I know you can keep going,” he murmurs. “We just need to find those moments of rest. Then you will have the strength to hold on to your burdens, even when the rain comes. And maybe one day, you will find a place to leave those burdens behind.”
A dry laugh. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”
He shrugs lightly. “It might not be. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”
Silence falls again. His words sit in your mind, gently tumbling amongst the weary fog of exhaustion. You’re grateful that he didn’t give the empty assurance of ‘it gets better!’ because sometimes, it doesn’t. Sometimes there are things from the past that simply cannot be left behind.
But learning better ways to carry it? Maybe that’s something you can actually do. And maybe, maybe someday, you’ll find proper places to set them down.
There’s a surge in noise from the festival. Perhaps a new performer taking the stage. Grillby glances in the direction it came from. “Do you want to go home?” he finally asks.
You take a moment to really think about it, casting your eyes around. The festival is still in full swing, blissfully unaware of the breakdown happening at its edges. The smell of something roasting dances in the slight breeze, making your stomach rumble, rather than turn like before. “I think I’m okay to stay.”
“Shore–”
“I am, and I mean it this time.” You give him a smile that is only slightly wobbly. “I just…just need a few more minutes. Maybe something to drink.”
“I SUPPOSE THAT MAKES OUR TIMING PERFECT THEN!”
Even when trying to keep his voice at a more even level, Papyrus cannot help but make himself loudly heard, even over the noise of distant music and laughter. He leads the pack of your strange, wonderful little group. Sans, Undyne and Alphys, Frisk riding on Asgore’s shoulders again, Toriel with her kind, concerned gaze. Your dance crew, all decked out in pride and giving you calm smiles of understanding.
Your family.
Papyrus bounds over. As expected, he’s gone full out for pride. Rainbow crop top, thigh high boots and matching shorts, dangly heart shaped earrings tapped to the side of his head and the non-binary flag painted on his skull. In the time since your arrival – and your disappearance to break down – he’s managed to gather an impressive amount of bracelets and stickers, which he’s placed on every bit of visible bone.
Sans has a single sticker that says ‘Girl Dinner’ plastered to the front of his skull.
Papyrus looms above you, scattering a shower of glitter as he leans down. “I WAS INFORMED THAT THIS IS YOUR DRINK OF CHOICE! HERE YOU GO!”
He hands said drink over, making no mention of your red eyes or puffy face. “O-oh, thank you Paps.”
“A REFRESHING DRINK IS JUST THE THING TO BANISH AWAY TEARS! SAD ONES AT LEAST. I KNOW I HAVE BEEN BROUGHT TO HAPPY TEARS BY A GOOD MILKSHAKE.” He gestures to the rest of the group. “IF YOU ARE UP FOR IT, WE WOULD LOVE TO HAVE YOU AND GRILLBY JOIN US! THERE IS A BOOTH FILLED WITH TINY ROBOTS YOU SIMPLY MUST SEE!”
The canned drink in your hand is cold, wet with condensation. The sun is still beating down furiously. The music from the stage still blasts loud enough for your bones to feel the thrumming of the bass. Really, not that much has changed.
But with Grillby’s hand resting on your lower back and the encouraging grins of the ones you love, those overwhelming things that had built and built until your endurance crumbled don’t seem so bad now. You’re still not ready to carry the weight by yourself, but here and now, with their help, you can keep moving forward.
“Yeah, that sounds great.” You stand, Grillby swiftly moving with you to give you a sturdy support to lean on. Your legs are still a bit wobbly. “Lead the way.”
As you and Grillby follow the group, he keeps an arm wrapped around your midsection. The heat of him combined with the summer sun once again makes sweat run down your back. But the press of him is a comfort that’s well worth the heat.
You take a gentle sip of your drink. It hits your throat, blissfully cold, bubbly and sweet.