Zeta Tau Xi Chapter Two

Breath For Me

TW: Panic attack caused by anxiety disorder

Mentions of PTSD, panic disorder and recurring nightmares

Discussions of anxiety medication and an MC's reason to not take it

Internal struggles with self-worth

Mentions of parental death caused by a drunk driver (Past-tense, MC was ten, and was in the car when the accident occurred)

Heavy facial and body scarring (permanent)

Gio’s POV

A sharp breath punches through me and my vision comes back, but I'm no longer at the bottom of the stairs or even on my feet. I don't know how I made it into the main bathroom downstairs, but I’d know the floral pattern of the wallpaper anywhere. My cheek is against the porcelain tub and the cool surface against my skin is soothing against the waves of panic that are still thrashing in my head. It's the bathroom on the main floor, not one of the private en-suite ones, so I have no idea how clean it is and I should be balking to have my face against it. But considering it's either this or blacking out again, I'll take it for the moment.

I just need to calm down enough to get upstairs into the shower. Clean off the sweat and get my head back on straight. It’s easier said than done when I still can’t draw a full breath. I still feel dizzy and my chest is still clenching painfully. I close my eyes and let the cold from the hard surface of the tub seep in and despite still being completely lost to the waves of panic, the black dots in my vision coming and going without rhyme or reason and the ringing in my ears unbearably loud, I try with everything I've got to focus on the cold. To the way it’s seeping from my cheek down my neck, and then around to the back of my neck where droplets are falling on me and then running down my backside… droplets?

Between the cooling sensation and the out of place droplets, some of the haze lifts out of my head. It gives me something to focus on enough to take in my surroundings and the blaring fact that I'm not alone, and judging from how wet the back of my shirt is, I'd wager to guess I haven't been alone for a good minute. Whoever is in here with me is most likely the reason I'm here and not in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. How fucking embarassing? But before I can lament too much the tap runs and then that blessedly cool sensation hits the back of my neck again.

With the steady realization that I’m not alone, the ringing in my ears settles enough to catch a soothing, deep baritone, talking to me. "You're okay, Gio. You're safe. Just keep breathing." I know that voice. Of course, I know that voice. He's been my frat bro since I pledged to the house my first year here. Vice president of Zeta Tau Xi and the only other football player in the house. ISU’s wide receiver, Holt Myers.

His big hands cup my face and pull my attention to him. His gorgeous ivory complexion is dotted with a smattering of freckles on the right side of his face while the left side is dominated by an intricate web of scars. The scars pull at his left eye slightly that gives it a cat's eye look while the other is just wide with worry.

He told me once that the doctors had told him he should feel grateful–that he was lucky–to not only have kept his eye, but for his vision to be unaffected. Maybe the doctor was going for the whole ‘appreciate what you have’ or ‘small victories’ vibe. But I think it was a callous thing to say to a ten-year old child who’d just lost both of his parents in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. I’ve heard the reverence Holt has on the rare occasions he’s talked about his parents, and I know he’d have given up both of his eyes without hesitation if it meant they were still here with him today. 

"Are you with me, Gio?" he asks once his eyes meet mine.

"I need you to take a deep breath and hold it for five seconds." he says in a voice that's controlled and commanding with an underlying thread of worry in it. I latch onto it like a lifeline, focusing on him, narrowing every ounce of concentration I have left on him and his instructions. It takes me a few tries to pull myself far enough out of it to try, each failed attempt is met by Holt rubbing the coarse material of the wet washcloth across my face.

No matter how much I fail, his patience never waivers. His eyes hold onto me with a soothing intensity and his voice keeps encouraging me with a mixture of command and worry. His entire demeanor leaks into me, his presence weaving tendrils of peace and safety into my skin. While my brain is being uncooperative, his steady sense of calm eventually allows me to get that breath in and hold it.

"Good, Gio. Now hold it until I tell you to let it out," he says.

His thumb lightly caresses my cheekbone and the sensation soothes me. It reminds me of how my ren would always sit with me through these. Lightly running their fingers through my hair while they coaxed me to breathe and talked me through my panic attacks until I had a grip back on myself.

"Slowly, let it back out for five seconds, Gio," he says. And I readily comply. I slowly let it out and wonder if his over usage of my name is something he learned from his brother. Because of all the people to find me like this, it is fortuitous for me that it was Holt that found me, because if anyone knows about panic attacks, it's him. Not that the reasons for him knowing so much about them is fortuitous at all. If anything it's a bit humiliating to be breaking in front of a person who has so much more right to break than I do.

Another wave of guilt slams into me, but Holt must have seen it in my eyes because he shakes his head with determination to keep me centered now that I'm coming through on the better side of the attack. It takes a few rounds of breathing exercises before Holt feels confident enough about my breathing being under control to move on to the senses.

"Tell me five things you can see?" he encourages.

I take a deep breath and say the first things that come to mind.

"Your massive biceps in a green tank top that matches your bright green eyes. The beautiful contrast between the green against your pale skin and your bright red hair. Your Adam's apple moving along your thick, gorgeous neck. The tantalizing smattering of freckles that disappear into the neckline of your shirt," Evidently my panic-stricken brain thinks it’s a poet now. 

“I think that’s more than five,” Holt lightly laughs and I realize how much I just said out loud to his face. Maybe being rescued by your unrequited crush isn't the best idea after all. If my brain was a little less addled I may have been a bit more embarrassed at how focused I am on Holt.

"Okay, moving on, tell me five things you can hear," he instructs.

I take a deep breath and once again my mouth runs filterless. "Your light laughter in this ‘way too small for both of us’ bathroom. The deep, soothing tone of your voice. The slight whistle in your breath each time you exhale. The sound of your Adam's apple bobbing each time you swallow and the flutter of your eyelashes each time you blink." For fuck's sake. I'm obsessed. If he keeps asking questions I'm going to have another panic attack because of how verbose I am while coming down from this one.

"Five things you can touch, Gio." His voice comes out a little strained, something laced in it that I'm not quite sure of. I've probably made him uncomfortable, but his hand is still on my face, his eyes still on me, and I can't help uttering one last overshare with his last question. Hating my mouth for running amuck while my brain is under too much duress to filter it.

"The cold porcelain of the tub. Your leg hair brushing against mine. Your thumb against my cheekbone. The course material of the washcloth you're patting me with." I finish and then, I don't know what the fuck possesses me to do it, if anyone asks I'll tell them it's my panic-induced state, because before I can stop myself from doing it, I reach out and lightly trace the webbed scarring across the left side of his face.

He blanches slightly and I take my hand back. More guilt leaks into my system because I know that was a drastic overstep and the last of the haze in my brain clears. I clear my throat awkwardly as he gazes at me with an odd expression. "I think I'm better now," I tell him before giving him a chagrined smile. "I’m sorry about that."

Holt clears his throat and shakes his head, something odd lingering in his eyes. "It's fine. Just not used to it."

I don't have to ask for clarification. The panic attacks, he's used to. People reaching out without permission to trace along the network of scars across his face, probably not so much. I don’t even know why I did it. I’ve just always found the sight of him soothing. His eyes are always so kind and his smiles are so warm and freely given. His scars are just a feature of him, beautiful in their own way, like they’re a tangible beam straight into the amazing man he is, to have survived what he has and still be the good man he is. 

My chest is still heaving, feeling like I'm resting after a grueling set of suicide drills. Something Coach Byrnes is famous for anytime we lose a game. "It must feel a little ridiculous for someone like you to have to talk someone like me out of a panic attack," I lament a bit.

Holt raises his right eyebrow in question. "Someone like me?"

I wave in his general direction. "I mean, someone with actual trauma versus someone with no trauma at all."

Holt's forehead wrinkles up a bit before his face clears and he gives a half-hearted shrug. "I think trauma is just one of several factors that go into anxiety and panic attacks though, so I don't think if you lack one factor all the other factors are immediately negated. Feels more egotistical to assume I have the cornerstone on the market of anxiety because my family happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. All things I’m pretty sure you’d know if your head was a bit clearer, Doctor G,” he says, using the nickname most of the Zeta Tau Xi bros use for me because I’m pre-med. 

I frown a bit at that, torn between feeling validated and my heart breaking at the easy mention of his family’s fate. Not really knowing what to say, a silence falls between us. My heart is still racing, but it’s manageable now. There’s a throbbing in my head and I know if I don’t take a nap I’ll end up with a massive headache later. 

"Feeling better?" Holt’s voice quietly breaks the silence. 

I nod heavily. "Yeah, man. I think I'm over the worst of it now. Thanks for talking me through it."

Holt just shrugs it off. Of course he doesn't want or need credit. Nothing he ever does is performative. He just does it because that's who he is. A big brother and best friend to everyone. It’s the way he's always been in the few years I've known him. "Want to talk about it?" he offers.

I shake my head a bit. "Just some heavy stuff going on in my mind right now. Don't really want to hash it out just this second cuz I don’t want another round of that to hit, you know."

Holt nods. "I get that. Robbie's the same way. He needs processing time after he has one before diving into what caused it," he says, talking about his little brother who suffers from severe panic attacks because of PTSD since the accident.

I sigh. "At least he has a reason for them. I was just… born this way, and no one can tell me why or how to make it better, Or at least not in a way that doesn’t include a shit-ton of meds that wreak havoc on my body," I say a little emotionally. I've always struggled with panic attacks and there's no reason for them. I mean, I get that I was born this way and that’s the reason, but it’s hard to not feel a heavy dose of imposter syndrome when I’ve sat in group therapy sessions with people who suffer the same things I do–only they have actual trauma behind their diagnosis beyond just being born that way.

I was raised in a big happy family. Full of love, patience and good times. I have no trauma, no bad memories unless you count the handful of bullies I've encountered because I'm Brazilian. Doesn’t really matter that I’m second generation on my ren’s side and third generation on my pai’s that’s been in the U.S. The obvious Latino blood in me has always been a beacon for bullies and people wanting to sample the ‘exotic’ side of life before discarding me like I’m nothing. 

"The brain is a network that is so intricate, scientists still don't fully comprehend it. It doesn't really matter where your anxiety stems from or how it manifests. It doesn't negate that your experience with anxiety is just as valid as mine, or well, my brother's anyway. He got the anxiety. I just get bad nightmares sometimes," he says, breaking my train of thought.

"Nightmares? Are they all about…" And I stop myself because I've already pried and crossed too many boundaries with him when he came in here to help me, not get the third degree into his trauma. "You know what? No. That's rude. I'm sorry. I don't need to know that," I hasten to apologize.

Holt snorts out another laugh. "Why are you on eggshells, man? You know I'm an open book. Like it sucks and it hurts. All the time. But wallowing and hiding from it isn't going to change what happened. And yes, my bad dreams are always about that night."

I swallow hard and nod. "I'm so sorry," I breathe out. Because what else can you say to a man who lost almost everything because one person drank way too much and decided it was okay to drive? Holt was ten and his brother was seven the night they were on their way home from the movie theater with their parents when they were struck by the drunk driver. Both of his parents lost their lives, Holt walked away permanently scarred, and his brother has suffered from crippling PTSD and anxiety disorder since that horrible night.

"Hey," he says, bouncing his knee against mine. Our legs are both hitched up to our chests and cramped in this tight space. We should probably get up and move, but while I'm on the right end of the attack, my body is feeling the effects of it and it's tired. "You're spiraling dude. Stop thinking about bad things we can't control."

"Yeah, but…"

Holt shakes his head. "No buts, Gio," he says conclusively and I know the subject is closed.

"Not even like a little butt? I mean, butts are awesome, bro. Especially a nice firm one like yours," I ask, wanting to lighten the mood.

Holt blushes a bit at that and snorts with amusement. "Are you always so one-track minded?"

I shrug my shoulders. Part of me wants to hope that the blush is for me, but I've only ever seen him with women, which isn’t automatically conclusive that he’s straight, but even if he is secretly into dudes, I’m still me, so I doubt it. His naturally pale skin looks like it's blushing no matter what he's doing, so I can’t take it to heart or I’ll hurt it worse than it's already hurting. "Sometimes, but in my defense, my panic-stricken brain just got rescued from a handsome knight with a really tight ass and I'm feeling a little ‘post dude in distress with a slight dash of needy’," I tell him, somewhere between being honest and making it a joke.

Holt snorts with amusement again. "’Dude in distress’? Is that even a thing?"

I shrug. "It is now."

A broad grin stretches across Holt's face. "How about we lighten the mood with an amazing idea that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while?"

I let out a bit of a chuckle, a little desperate for a lighter change of subject. "Okay, shoot."

Holt smiles at me, his eyes lighting up with excitement. Fuck, why does he have to be so fucking gorgeous? His smile reminds me of an early morning sunrise, full of pinks, reds, and sunshine breaking through the darkness. "Keep in mind I called it amazing, so if you hate it, let me down gently because I think it's rather genius," he points out while I’m trying to get my brain to retuck Holt back into its corner of no; can’t have; put the crush away that I’ve had him stowed in so well for years now. One kind act during a panic attack should not have me unraveling years of practice where he’s concerned. 

I close my eyes and lean my head back, trying to let his enthusiasm wash away the remnants of venom in my system while pep-talking my brain into putting him back into a pocket of don’t go there, Gio. He’s not for you. "I will do my best, bro." There—very ‘friendship bro’ drop instead of ‘knight in shining armor unrequited pining’ drop. Boundaries, Gio!

“Don’t sound too excited,” he teases. "You did the whole trick or treat thing as a kid, right?"

I raise an inquisitive eyebrow. "You mean the day where it's socially acceptable to take candy from not only one but entire neighborhoods of strangers? And at night, no less?" I say. His mouth dips back down a bit and I chuckle over at him. "Of course, I did."

He rolls his eyes, seeing that I'm teasing him back, before continuing. "Well… when you put it like that…" he huffs out a bit and I let out a laugh. "Anyway, I was twelve the last year I went. There was never a moment when I was informed that trick or treating was for kids only. So I didn't know to cherish my last year before more than half the doors slammed in my face after being told I was too old and a mooch. I kind of always lamented taking the whole ritual for granted until it was too late."

I frown at that. "I didn't really have that experience. I hit about eleven when I thought staying home and watching slasher flicks with my oldest sister without my parents home to regulate what I was watching was so much cooler. By the time the novelty wore off, I was way too old to go trick or treating again."

Holt nods and then catches my eye. "But, if age wasn't a thing, would you go trick or treating again? Even if it's just once to recapture the nostalgia of youth?"

I shrug at that. "Sure, probably. Dress up, go door to door for free candy and to check out everyone else's costumes. I mean, I kind of already do that at the Halloween parties, but the different houses and candy picking was fun too."

Holt smiles. "Well, that's my amazing idea," he says, as though the plan itself is obvious.

I frown, trying to piece together what he means. "Going trick or treating?"

Holt shakes his head. "Well, no. Not exactly. I was thinking: how many college students do you think would love to take a trip down memory lane? Not really trick or treating, but what if we got all our bros to dress up and decorate the doors in the main part of the house. We could sit beside our door with a big bowl of candy and open the house to our classmates so they can "trick or treat" through the house."

My eyes widen when I realize where he's going with this. "Like a frat house cross between trick or treating and trunk or treating with adults and not children?"

Holt's eyes light back up again and he nods excitedly. "Precisely. I mean it would be kind of cool to do it for kids too, but considering how tight security is on campus, without permits and enough warning I don't think the university will appreciate it."

I laugh at that. "Most definitely not, and especially since there's no telling what a bunch of horny frat bros and sorority sisters are gonna run around dressed up as," I point out.

He looks at me with bright eyes. "So, what do you think?"

I smile back at him, getting a little pulled in with his enthusiasm, the weight of the panic attack is gone, just the left over exhaustion lingering now. "I think it's one hell of a unique idea if we can get the rest of the house to join in. Definitely sounds like it could be a good time."

His smile widens. "Yeah? So, you're in?"

I huff out a laugh. "All in, dude."

"Yes,” he cheers with as much of a fist pump as he can manage in the tight space. “I'll bring it up with the guys before the mixer tonight," he says.

My brain immediately coils in on itself and I let out a commiserating groan. "I forgot we were throwing a mixer tonight.” Not that I dislike mixers. I'm usually one of the first ones on the floor for these, but after today, my body is fucking tired.

Holt's expression turns concerned. "You gonna be alright?"

I heave out a sigh. "Yeah. I'm just gonna need a bit of a nap first. My body will crash out if I try to mix a party after a panic attack," I tell him.

Holt stands up and offers his hand out to help me up. "Here, let's get you upstairs and tucked in then. You gonna be alright on your own for a while?"

I have to fight back the urge not to swoon when the warmth of his hand wraps around mine. "Yeah, bro. I have these all the time. Kind of wish practice would make them a little less intense, but with a little sleep I should be right as rain by the party," I tell him while he follows me upstairs. Evidently he was serious about tucking me in.

"Call me if you need anything at all, okay?" he says, once I'm sitting down on my bed.

"Okay," I nod, feeling the exhaustion pulling me down fast.

"I'll come get you in a couple hours when we gather up for a meeting before the party," he says hesitantly, like he’s torn between whether he should stay or go. 

"Sounds good, man. Thanks… you know… for being here," I tell him, unable to completely stifle the yawn that falls out of my mouth.

Holt smiles at me. "Anytime, man. Now get some rest," he says before closing my door behind him.