Knowing how to recognize the panic that is trying to choke him silent is a different thing than knowing how to stop it once it’s begun, and the mention of the Mad Titan’s name makes his reaction even more inevitable. Prometheus’ voice seems to come from somewhere far away, the hand on Thor’s shoulder distant and detached, as if everything has become unmoored from reality. An invisible weight crushes down on his chest, squeezing his lungs, and Thor presses a hand into his chest as if that might make any difference at all.

With the other, he reaches blindly for Prometheus’ arm, grabbing hold as he struggles to bring his breathing back under control. It’s humiliating, letting anyone see him like this, no matter how understanding they are. It’s one of many reasons he isolates himself from the others, yet in the grips of anxiety’s claws within him, none of that matters so much as the desire to make it stop.

The touch helps ground him, and several minutes pass before Thor is able to calm himself enough that he can breathe properly, and a light drizzle of rain patters down on the bluff where they sit. A little thunder rumbles distantly, muffled, rolling slowly across the sky like the waves across the ocean below. It’s a soothing sound to Thor, although he knows his titanic friend doesn’t share this particular viewpoint. It’s probably selfish of him not to send the storm away, but he’s not ready yet. Nor is he quite ready to let go, though he lightens the strength of his grip. “Sorry. That... it happens to me. Sometimes.”