When twenty-eight-year-old Sebastian Stan scores a huge role for Marvel's newest superhero origin movie, secretly dedicated to his best friend's cute obsession with the comics, both Sebastian and (y/n) meet "some guy" from Boston and (y/n) falls in...
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(y/n)'s POV:
You would think one would have drained themselves to the point they'd fall asleep with enough tears and the aftermath of a sudden surge of emotions to drown them in a state of such, but that didn't happen to me. And believe me, I wished that that's what would have happened to me, so that I would finally get to rest my tired body, silence all these thoughts running through my head and calm the heavy beating of my chest to a normal-er rhythm.
A healthier rhythm.
My mental state is already in a difficult position, I didn't want to make it harder for my physical body.
Panic attacks were something that rarely happened to me, sometimes occurring to the lowest count of three times a year but when it does occur, it's always more worser than the first one. It lasts for what seems like days, and it feels like the air I breathed in was immediately getting sucked out of me, the thoughts and the words, those little flashes of pictures and lights behind your eyelids, that terrified me the most. And that shattered me inside.
So much that it broke through a mask I've had to put up since I learnt what society was.
But society didn't live in my house. Society didn't exist in the little corners of the house, it didn't exist in the little corners in my room.
Society was nothing.
But Sebastian, Sebastian was everything.
And for him to see me like this every attack killed me, it stressed me to push myself to become better faster, to stop overreacting in front of him, but deep down, I knew that what I should be doing was let time run by me and focus on myself. On my breathing...
People had it worse, people out there suffer far more than I would ever feel and here I am, like it's the end of the world. But Sebastian stays there, drowning in his own tears, clambering away from his own terrible thoughts, but he stays there and holds me.
He stays there, he holds me, sitting against the headboard with my forehead pressed against his neck, whimpering and trembling.
Weak.
Cladded in black, decorative tights and that soft, wool dress I didn't take the time and effort to change out of wrapped against him, in his sweater and the rough fabric of his jeans underneath my thighs, my arms in between our chests while his arms went around my body, the random pattern of our chests the only movement between us, never in sync; up, up, down, up, down, up, up, up, down.
That was a few hours back, I think it was a few hours back.
Like two little kids who just woke up from a nightmare, a nightmare so dark and so sinister, so bad and so terrifying... who would've known your own thoughts and emotions were scarier than the monsters that would chase you in your nightmares as a kid?
