the world is spinning and he can't breathe through the smoke in his fragile lungs , and he is waiting - for something he isn't quite sure what , but it is brewing in his bones like the beginning of a wildfire.
[word count: around 27,500]
/NICO DI A...
ELEVEN; SOMETIMES TO STAY ALIVE, YOU GOTTA KILL YOUR MIND
TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF SELF HARM; ANXIETY AND PANIC ATTACKS. IF ANY OF THESE TRIGGER YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ.
creds to twenty one pilots, migraine, for the titile
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The carriage pulls up close to the entrance, wheels squealing and doors creaking open. Neville stands, brushing off his robes, eyes distant and apprehensive.
"You coming?" He asks, offering a small smile.
"Just a minute," Nico replies through a deep breath, nails in his palms and knuckles turning white. His eyes flit back out of the window, where he sees Hogwarts looming above, encased in moonlight with the dark sky as a backdrop. Neville nods without question (which Nico's fucking grateful for), and clambers out and Nico's looking out of the window again.
It is more intimidating when it's shadows are clawing at his skin, dark stones chiseled and sharp and suffocating against his chest. Vines crawl up the window frames and stoop low over the roof, almost brushing against the carriage like fingers reaching out, desperate to catch anything to keep itself from slipping away into nothingness.
Squinting from the blaring lights, he can see insects crawling over the damp grass, feel them through his shoes and up his spine, all tiny claws and piercing eyes and also all on his skin. He can feel his intake of air, but with the dark stones on his chest and the insects on his skin, it is like he can't breathe at all, lips drying with blood, his vision sliding away. He can't breathe, and his mind is stalling and his fingers shaking, panic swelling inside his chest and pushing up his throat like vomit.
It's all too much; this castle, this school, these dark stones and glaring windows, insects on the grass and water swirling in formidable darkness. And he can't breathe- he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't-
His fingers rush to his wrist, pushing onto the skin and grasping at his pulse, breathing through dry chapped lips and to the rapid beat of his heart pulsing below his skin and above his bones. Still can't breathe- he can't breathe and he doesn't understand why no one else can see the insects and stones and water and darkness- and he can't breathe and-
Further onto his pulse, reaching deeper, gripping onto the seat, breathe breathe breathe, insects on his chest, light on his skin, clouded window, breathe breathe breathe.
His head aches, wrists do too, but he can't breathe and he can't stop and fuck, the world is slipping from his grasp like water through his fingertips.
His pulse is racing, his breathing matching the pace as if in a race to see which can hurt him more. Nails dig deeper, and he can feel something on his wrist, pooling, dripping, cold and warm and light and dark- and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't-
"Nico!"
His vision slides into focus, eventually, blurred from tears and his chest heaving and his throat raw, but he's breathing. He's breathing, breathing, breathing, to a pulse that isn't his, hearing a voice that isn't his.
