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Breathe With Me

I wrote this to overcome some anxiety. It's been sitting in my drafts for like 3 days. I hope it brings comfort to someone <3

Content: 1.5k words, Terzo x f!reader, SFW, only mild nsfw i guess since naked cuddling happens, anxious reader, soft terzo, co-regulation, breathing techniques, no beta we die like sister imperator.

Mornings like this are a love-hate. 

Love; because your gorgeous bambino, your rock, your Terzo, is sprawled by your side. The two of you have shared a shower, and breakfast, but ultimately have ended up back in last night's sheets—limbs tangled and naked bodies warmed, pressed so tightly together in your sleep-haze and exhaustion. 

You would love it more if you didn’t feel the sickly, tight sensation that slowly bloomed once more when your head and body synced up. As fast as you try to run from it, to fall back into slumber, it's no use. It’s going to be another horrid day.

That is the hate. The anxiety has lingered for days, ebbing and flowing, with no real signs of stopping or slowing down. When you think it's getting better, it envelops and drags you into its depths again. Some days you can’t even move. Some days, you don’t want to.  Yesterday had been marginally better, but for whatever reason today, it's back with a vengeance and you can’t bring yourself to move from the bed. The whole room smells of musk and the warmth of sleepy bodies. It should be perfect. Any other morning it would be. Maybe you’re ok with bedrotting a bit today.

The previous night had been the worst of it. Your stomach had been aching with the need for food, but the idea had been about as appealing as drinking from the sea. You hadn’t even been sure you could’ve kept anything down, aside from water, and Terzo; wonderfully, sweet and ever-patient Terzo had been there at your side—understanding, listening intensely while you wept in his arms, offering tender strokes through your hair and hushed coos of affections.

It wasn’t often you got like this, but when you did, you knew at least you could fall onto Terzo. 

You trust Terzo. He is your rock, your anchor. You don't need anyone else. 

Your heavy lids flutter, barely cracking up to gaze at the ceiling above before closing again. A sigh leaves you, heavy with a sensation like you’re breathing out smoke. It’s as if a thick layer of tar is coating your lungs, making it hard to catch your breath. You can't catch a full breath. You haven’t been able to for days. No matter how you try to silence the voice in your head, bury those thoughts behind a green-tinted haze or the company of your fellow Siblings, it is utterly useless.

Beside you, Terzo shifts. Your amore. Your everything. You cringe a little, your eyes fluttering open when you feel the brush of soft fingertips across your forehead. You’re on your back, hands curled close to your chest and equally as naked as he propped up beside you. 

The soft orange of the rising sun streams in through the blinds, haloing his dark head of charming, sleep-dishevelled hair. His bangs fall around his mismatched eyes, brushing the tops of his paintless cheeks. He’s scanning you for your tells, to make sure the touch is not too painful or unwarranted as he brushes back your hair against his lush pillows. You don't have the voice, currently, to tell him how much his warmth is desired. He has an almost magnetic way of grounding you from little more than a mere touch. 

“It is back today, yes?” He whispers, propping himself up more comfortably beside you, keeping himself pressed close. 

You nod, the best you can. Words are tangled in your throat, wrapped around your tongue, thick, foreign and sharp as barbed wire when you swallow. Terzo clicks his tongue in a soft tut—not to scold you, you know well enough by now the sounds of his frustrations when he knows he cannot physically remove the affliction that burns you. 

When he cups your cheek, you slide a hand from where it rests on your stomach and press the back of your knuckles to his chest. The dark hair that furs his skin from his breast down the swell of his stomach is soft, flecked charming silver—your personal pillows that you take great pride in resting on in quieter evenings, much to Terzo’s delight. 

Beneath your knuckles, you feel his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm. You like to rest your head there, knowing he’s as steady as a reed in a hurricane. 

“Tell me where it is today, amore,” his husky, Italian accent curls around your words, making you shiver. “In your body. Show me where you feel it. Let me help you, sì?”

You take his hand from your cheek, worldless and a little shaky, pressing his palm to the centre of your sternum between your naked breast. Your own heart is thumping, not fast or frantic, but heavy like a lead weight. You know the signal, your body is screaming that something is wrong but there’s no adrenaline, just a heightened sensitivity that you feel thrumming through your entire body. It hisses in your bones, heats your skin and makes you feel sweaty without the dampness. But nothing is wrong, really, it’s just a build-up of stress, anxiety—of being in your own head that’s made it like this. You hate your own awareness, at times. 

Terzo’s large palm flattens over your skin, and he knows what you’re asking for without you even having to voice it. You press closer, closing your eyes, and letting out another shaky breath. Terzo hums a soft, encouraging noise and curls around you, weaving his legs with yours and your breathing hitches. You would crawl inside his ribcage and make your home there if you could. To be nestled so close to his heart that beats for you. 

“Easy, easy,” he croons, stroking your hair with his other hand. “That’s it Amore. I am here, my sweet. Listen to my voice, sì? Just focus on your breathing.”

Your bedrock. Your love. You trust him. Again, you nod. You know this. Co-regulation with breathing, a firm hand applying needed pressure or a tight squeeze in a hug. While it won't fix the problem entirely, you’ve come to learn its pros with Terzo’s help. You’ve hugged yourself plenty of times, wedged yourself in a tight space just to feel the squeeze. 

“Bene, bene,” Terzo soothes. “Proprio così, tesoro mio.”

He then applies a gentle pressure, light enough to not hurt you, but enough that you feel it through to your spine. It immediately radiates through your body. 

“Now breathe,” he tells you in a whisper. 

You breathe. 

In. 

Hold for five. 

Out again.

You repeat it, eyes shut tight when they prickle. Terzo’s plush mouth grazes your forehead and soft words in Italian—encouraging and low—spill from his mouth. 

You breathe in. 

Hold. 

Count to five. 

Out again. 

You don't know how long you keep it up for, and the gravel of sleep in Terzo’s voice lulls you into something like relaxation. You feel his thumb swipe over your skin, in the dip of your chest. The pressure is intimate, so close to your heart and needed. You breathe. Slow. In. You feel the air fill your lungs and hear the air leave you. Out. 

Slow. 

In. 

Out. 

—

You wake, slow and groggy. When exactly you fell asleep you’re not quite sure, but your head lulls against the lush mound of pillows. The sun is higher now, its rays more white than gold. You blink in your wake, watching the tiny particles still in its rays. You sigh, heavy, exhausted. You could easily go back to sleep. 

But you don’t. Not when the smell of fresh cornetti and sweet syrup goodness tickles at your nose—that must’ve been what roused you. 

When you hear soft footballs padding to the door, you turn your head just in time to see Terzo stepping through, dressed in one of his purple cotton robes and carrying a golden tray that has a plate on it. There’s a stack of cornetti’s and a small dish of jam on the side.  

“Ah, good afternoon, amore,” he greets you as he rounds the bed to your side. “Are you hungry?”

You move to sit up, letting him halfway. You rub your head, put a hand over your groggy features and blink at him. 

“You made cornetti’s?” You say dumbly, watching him, your voice is gravelly with little usage over the past two days.

“Of course I did,” Terzo purrs as he sits beside you by your hip, his bare face lighting up and his duo-chrome eyes blinking slowly. “How are you feeling?” He then asks. 

You take a moment and close your eyes, searching through your body. It’s still there, though much smaller. It’s easier to breathe and you don’t feel sick anymore. 

“Better. A lot better. Thank you,” you manage.

“Bene. I’m glad to hear that, amore.”

You lift your chin and catch Terzo’s eye. He holds the tray out for you to take it with a little wink, and you do, gratefully. 

“And don’t worry,” Terzo continues, dramatically. “I won’t be absolutely distraught if you don’t eat them all.”

You laugh at his teasing and flush. You’re naked, about to cornetti’s in bed. It shifts the weight that’s been pressed into your stomach. 

You are grateful for his understanding, his patience and his love. It’s all you need. You don’t need anyone else but him.

masterlist ⛧ Ao3