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The year on Earth is 2425 AD. The sun is currently in the process of setting over the endless ocean, bathing the rooftop of the lone high rise you sit upon in a faint orange glow. Your grip on your fishing rod is steady but casual; not getting many bites today. You, a rad dude with even radder shades who doesn’t really require introduction, are not bothered by this. Fishing is usually a relaxing activity for you, second only in effectiveness to a long hot shower. Sewing is maybe like, a close third.
Fishing in particular can get boring quickly, but you’ve managing to stave off boredom by chatting casual with your dope as shit friends over pesterchum. More specifically, Jane.
GG: This is starting to really grind my gears, Dirk.
TT: I’d say I can relate, but I unfortunately can’t. In spite of the amount of crap he’s decided to leave around my place, I have never actually caught more than a brief glimpse of that fucking flippant feline.
TT: I can only guess he either doesn’t like me, or doesn’t fancy hanging around my bachelor pad very often or for very long.
TT: In either case, fair enough.
GG: He's just lounging on top of the fridge! Staring at me!
GG: I’m hungry!
TT: Come on, Jane. That cat isn’t the boss of you.
TT: It may have inexplicable god-like powers and arguable omniscience, but nobody is the boss of Jane Fucking Crocker.
TT: Match his stare. Stand your ground. DARE him to interfere with your dinner as you open that fridge.
TT: Or maybe you could go the more feline rout and piss on the floor to mark your territory.
GG: DIRK! That’s disgusting!
TT: Christ, I’m kidding Jane.
GG: Obviously!
TT: Careful there. Is that your prankster’s gambit I see lowering a few chuckle points?
GG: Oh no it most certainly isn’t. You call a crude little joke like that a prank? Ha!
TT: That’s more like it. Laughing in the face of uncertainty. There’s the Jane Crocker I know and love.
GG: What uncertainty?
GG: I am quite certain the amount of clever japes you’ve managed to pull off over the course of this conversation are zip and nill!
TT: I mean, sure. If you say so.
TT: But also GCat’s still there, right?
TT: Thought you were pretty uncertain of how his presence would affect the remainder of your evening.
GG: Oh. Right.
That makes you laugh a little. Your grip on the fishing pole slackens as you get a bit more absorbed in the conversation. Jane’s really worked up about that cat. You don’t really blame her considering the last encounter she had with it was apparently extremely unpleasant. You wager it was mostly just embarrassing, but hey, she’s entitled to her own feelings on the matter. Getting teleported across town sounds like a pain in the ass.
TT: Didn’t forget about him did you?
GG: Unfortunately, no.
GG: And yes, he’s still there.
TT: Are your gears still grinding up a storm?
GG: Maybe a little.
GG: I might be able to muster the gumption to go for the fridge anyway, but really I think I’m just getting too tired for any sort of confrontation.
GG: Instead I think I might just take your advice and snag something from the pantry.
TT: Good call. Picking your battles. The hallmark of a smart tactician.
You meant to say something else, riff off of that into a comment about leadership maybe? But all of a sudden your perception shifts subtly. It’s that feeling in your gut that still leaves you with a bit of vertigo, even though you’ve had plenty of time to get used to the sensation. Something’s up on Derse.
There’s no need to open your eyes or anything like that, because they’re already open. Maybe opening them was what gave you the odd double-feeling. Generally you like to make things convenient for yourself by keeping one set of eyes closed while the other is open, even though you’re capable of dealing with both at the same time.
Your room on Derse is the same as ever: almost identical to your room on Earth, except more red and purple. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed in the exact same position as you sit on the edge of your roof. Everything checks out. The only thing really bothering you is the fact that you don’t remember opening your eyes. This isn’t entirely uncommon, considering not even a person with only one body to control is conscious of everything each of their body parts is doing at all times, but still. What’s the deal?
A brief glance out your window answers your question pretty quickly. Roxy. She’s gone sleepwalking again. She’s already pretty far out there. Need to get a move on before she becomes almost impossible to find and drag back.
You should have anticipated this. She almost always starts wandering around when she gets drunk, which she already mentioned she was going to do about an hour or so ago. If you weren’t so easily distractible, maybe you would have done the sensible thing and headed over to hold her down, or something.
The more time you spend sitting there beating yourself up, the further away she gets. So you shove that train of thought away and kick off the ground, heading through your window at a relatively brisk pace to try and catch up with her. You spare only a brief glance downward at the streets of Derse. Hey, it’s a decent view. A nice change of pace from water, water, everywhere.
GG: I’m thinking some trail mix might go well with a sandwich perhaps?
GG: We don’t keep many snacks in the cupboards, actually, let alone meals.
GG: Damn you, GCat! Relegating me to PB&J!
You are staring down at the ocean below, leaning dangerously over the edge as you do so. Your surprise at your precarious position and the abrupt shift in focus causes you to lose your grip on the fishing rod. You watch it plummet into the water and barely even hear the splash over the sound of the waves slapping against the metal rafters. You grimace.
TT: Fuck.
GG: I know, right?
TT: What? Oh, yeah.
TT: Fucking cats. Who needs em.
TT: But to be fair, PB&J is an american staple for a reason. Can’t go that wrong.
This is fine. Totally fine. Jane didn’t seem to notice your lapse in attention despite your amateurish slip-up just now. You can deal with the fishing rod later. The line probably got tangled in the support beams so you might be able to pull it up. If not you can just make another one. Keep your cool, dude. Eyes on the prize. Roxy.
She’s gotten further away since you allowed yourself to be distracted by fishing rods. Double motherfucking fuck. It’s getting more difficult to see her, and you feel a ball of anxiety form in your chest as you realize she’s going pretty fast and getting dangerously close to the furthest distance you’ve managed to snag her back from. What happens if you go further than that? Past the point where you start to really lose all sense of distance, and time? Where the voices of the gods penetrate further and more insistently into your skull?
You’re not really fond of them at all. Which is to say (though you would never admit it out loud), they kind of freak you the fuck out. But there you go anyway, picking up speed towards them and Roxy both. Just grab her and bring her back to bed, quickly. You have other shit you need to deal with.
Soon enough you start to feel that sense of space distort, but focusing on Roxy and her size compared to you helps minimize that. The pressure on your mind increases uncomfortably, but you’re not going to indulge them. The act of resisting doesn’t exactly help your concentration elsewhere, but whatever. Roxy is closer now. She’s slowed down. You don’t know how far out you are, but you can start to see some...new things.
At first you think they might be stars, but you know that’s probably ridiculous. Besides, upon closer inspection they’re sort of multicolored. And not in a red-shift blue-shift kind of way as the Hubble Constant might indicate, but like. Purple and green and yellow too.
Oh. They’re bubbles. You’re not sure how you knew that - was the word whispered into your head despite your clear intention to block that shit out? Motherfuckers. You don’t care what they’re called, or who glubbed them. Glubbed? That is not a word you would have voluntarily thought yourself. Gotta get out of here.
Roxy’s close. Yeah. There she is, snoring without a care in the world, seemingly unbothered by the increasingly unsettling void. You wish you could be more like her, sometimes. In that way. Maybe in other ways, too. You reach out for her--
Another shift. You’re about to slip and fall off the goddamned roof. You gasp and stagger backward to avoid a gruesome watery death. You know that little factoid about water being no better than cement when falling from extreme heights? Yeah. Shit. Your heart is beating like a jackhammer against your rib cage all of a sudden. Maybe both hearts, actually. And probably not all of a sudden.
GG: I guess you’re right.
GG: It’s been awhile since I've had such a simple dinner, actually.
GG: Dad usually cooks, and I help sometimes. But he’s been swamped with work today.
GG: He’s hardly come out of his study much all week!
GG: It’s a little disappointing. He mentioned earlier that since he would be too busy to cook, we might go out to eat instead. It’s already well past seven, though, so I think that’s a bust.
GG: It would have been nice if he’d let me know, but I understand he’s probably too absorbed in his meeting.
GG: At least, I think it’s a meeting.
TT: Glub.
GG: Uh, what?
GG: What on earth is that supposed to mean?
GG: Dirk?
GG: Is this you trying to prank me, buster?
GG: Well it’s not going to work! I’m on to you!!
Motherfucker. Did you SERIOUSLY send that just now? FUCK those Lovecraftian wannabes. This is thus far the most embarrassing day you’ve had in a month. The evening has gone from 0 to 60 so fast you think you’re probably getting whiplash. Also, the sun has already set. When did that happen?
TT: Shit man. You got me.
TT: Nothing gets past you.
GG: You know it.
GG: But seriously, what even was that? “Glub”?
GG: Are you a fish, now?
TT: Just keeping you on your toes, Jane.
GG: Suuuuuure.
timeausTestified [TT] began bothering timeausTestified [TT] at 9:30 PM
TT: Need a hand there, bro?
Just great. Not a chance in hell you could just be left alone to your mortification. There’s always an audience. A cheeky smug fuck of an audience.
TT: Fuck off. I’m handling it.
TT: Technically, sure.
TT: But I don’t think I need to point out how well that’s working so far.
TT: What even has you so distracted, anyway?
TT: Roxy.
TT: Tentacle monsters.
TT: Same old shit.
TT: Also, you are really not helping right now.
TT: I almost got her.
You actually already got her. You’ve had a tight grip on her elbow for the past--you don’t know how long. The tightness in your chest has only been getting worse, and coming back to attention here does not help an iota. Your hand is shaking. You cut that shit out immediately.
“Come on, Roxy,” you mutter, mostly for your own benefit. Just to break the deafening silence. “Time to go home.”
You book it back to Derse, which is, distressingly, almost a speck in the distance. This needs to be over, now. You can’t afford to have a panic attack or anything even remotely close to it. Not now and hopefully not ever.
You’re not really one for that sort of wishful thinking. Shit happens. But in that moment, you briefly think of Jake. You don’t know what he’s doing right now. A brief glance at his status from your eyes on Earth inform you that he’s idle. As you often do, you get the urge to message him. Just for the hell of it. For that dose of dopamine his green text sends into your brain, and the overall more lighthearted conversation. So he might say something stupid like that he believes in you in or something. So he can make you feel like things aren’t actually spiraling out of your control, just for long enough for it to become true.
You don’t, though. That would be a recipe for disaster on multiple fronts. But you find once you force yourself to stop thinking about Jake, you are already basically back at Derse. The knot in your throat untwists itself and you feel almost tingly warm with relief. And stupidly, illogically, incredibly secretly, you thank that ghost of Jake in your brain for maybe sort of kind of helping you keep your cool for a second there.
As you glide more leisurely towards Roxy’s tower, you voluntarily switch back to Earth. Check back on your conversations. Which you have not been participating in at all.
TT: Uh-huh.
TT: I can see that you’re distracted.
TT: I’ll run interference with Jane for you.
TT: No need to thank me or anything like that.
----
GG: Is this going to be a thing now? Are you trying to edge in on my turf?
TT: Nah. Wouldn’t dream of it.
TT: But I can dip my toes in every now and again. Test the waters.
TT: Ironically, of course.
GG: Oh, of course!
TT: How’s that sandwich taste?
GG: Like a sandwich. Which has peanut butter spread on one half, and jelly on the other.
GG: Are you trying to distract me from something?
TT: Maybe.
TT: Maybe not.
TT: Or maybe I’m the one who’s distracted.
TT: A world of possibility is open at your fingertips.
GG: Uh-huh?
----
TT: I’m good. Tucking Roxy in as I speak.
TT: You didn’t need to do that.
TT: Didn’t I?
TT: You’re welcome, by the way.
TT: Yeah sure, whatever.
TT: I’m probably just going to log off after this, actually.
TT: I need to deal with the stupid fishing rod, and also maybe take a shower or...
TT: Say no more. Go deal with your shit, I’ll handle this.
TT: Uh.
TT: Thanks, actually.
TT: Motherfuck. Is that actual gratitude? Are my microprocessors overheating??
TT: I immediately regret it.
TT: No take-backsies.
The responder manages to close off your conversation with Jane without alerting her to the switch in conversational partners. He sets your status to busy, which isn’t what you were hoping for, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
You should probably address the fishing rod problem immediately, but...you really just can’t right now. You head back inside to grab a bite to eat and chug an entire half gallon of orange soda, crushing the bottle against your forehead. Just to re-assert that you’re a rad dude and all that. Counter-balance the sappy thoughts about jungle boys from earlier. You then actually take a second to do a bit of tidying, moving some stray smuppets back into their pile and dealing with your trash.
Dealing with your trash usually involves tossing it into the ocean or burning it. You’re about to go diving so you incinerate it, even if it is slightly more of a hassle. Then you spend the next hour flopping around in the ocean, dealing with the fact that it is pitch dark and you are trying to find a nearly invisible fishing line. You did not think that through beyond needing to take care of it ASAP. But you DO eventually find it. You cut your hand a little, and it STINGS like a motherfucker in the salt water, but you’re really starting to feel fatigued by that point so the pain helps you focus.
By midnight your fishing rod is safely tucked away in its usual spot, and you are in the shower. You NEED this shower. You lose track of time letting the hot water wash away your various aches and pains, allowing you to finally wind down after the long day. It wasn’t even that long of a day, actually. It was just that last part that sucked. Still. You make a mental checklist of all the ways you messed up, and formulate contingencies to avoid making them in the future. Here's to hoping that actually works this time.
You’re just stepping out of the shower and drying off when you notice your shades blinking with messages. You suppress a sigh and put them on. What now?
Jake is online. Huh. It’s really late for you, even later for him. Technically.
TT: Hey. Bro. Don’t mean to interrupt your happy hour but Jake insists he needs to talk to you.
TT: An emergency, or something. I guess.
TT: I’ve already determined it might be an actual emergency and not just him being overdramatic as per usual.
The anxiety from earlier is now back with a vengence. The words “Jake” and “emergency” have you almost slipping on the bathroom tiles, you get dressed so fast.
TT: Fuck. Okay.
TT: How long has he been waiting?
TT: As of right now about 15 minutes.
FUCK. Fifteen minutes? Jake has been potentially injured and in need of help for-- likely even longer than that considering how much it actually takes for him to message you with this sort of urgency. You don’t bother with socks or dealing with your hair beyond drying it quickly.
TT: Really took your sweet time in there huh?
TT: If you could lay the fuck off for maybe just this EXACT situation for once in your life, that would be FANTASTIC.
TT: Fine. Geez.
TT: Who pissed in your cereal?
TT: Was it GCat?
TT: I’m ignoring you now.
You get up to speed on what Jake sent you in the hallway and sort of just hover in front of the door to your room as you respond. Chest in pain apparently. You push aside the gratuitous graphic mental images of claw gashes or impalements. You should watch fewer horror movies. If Jake were in that kind of condition he would be dead, not messaging you. (No thanks to your own slowness, you think, and you don’t dwell on this ridiculous hypothetical any longer because there are actual things that need to be actually dealt with.)
TT: I'm here.
TT: What's happening? Are you hurt?
TT: Where are you? I can deploy the brobot to get you back home.
GT: I am home. I dont know whats going on but my chest hurts.
GT: Out of nowhere! I dont know why but breathing too deep hurts and my head hurts.
GT: Dont suppose youve got some medical knowhow stashed in that giant melon of yours?
Okay. He’s not lying prone somewhere in the jungle at the mercy of hungry nocturnal monsters. Cool. You take a second to remind yourself that Brobot would have likely been on standby anyway to keep anything horrible from occurring. The panic was completely unnecessary. Calm down. Get ahold of yourself. Jake needs you to remain calm. And you can do that, for him. He already helped you do that earlier (sort of), so this should be a walk in the park.
Calm and collected and still kind of wet, you head into your room and flop onto your bed. Briefly you check that you’re in bed on Derse as well, because you have had enough surprises from the purple moon for one day. You resolved to voluntarily check back up there for at least one second every hour of every day, while in your shower.
So Jake is having chest pains, apparently. Unpleasant, certainly, but not necessarily concerning. You can already think of a few potential causes off the top of your head, but you pull up some relevant searches on the net just to be safe. The info Jake has given you is minimal, considering he seems kind of freaked out, but you reassure him best you can and try to figure out what questions to ask which he can actually answer.
Even though you...kind of already have a gut feeling. You don’t address it yet, because that possibility has almost too much dramatic irony for your own self-loathing to ignore. Besides, there are others. Insert overused Sherlock Holmes quote here.
TT: Time for lightning round. Yes and no answers only:
TT: Are you injured to your knowledge?
GT: No.
TT: Did you go out today or exert yourself in any way?
GT: I stayed home. Its raining.
GT: And no i dont think so?
You pause. God damnit.
Just long enough to pinch your nose and let out a long sigh. This is...not going to be fun. This is going to be the exact opposite of that, actually. Nice cherry on top of a shit sunday.
You remind yourself that you did not somehow transplant your near panic attack from earlier onto him by just thinking about him. There’s no room in this situation for that kind of utterly illogical nonsense. Just because your crappy brain will twist itself into pretzels to find ways to feel guilty over literally anything doesn’t mean you always listen. You have to draw a line somewhere, especially when you should focus on helping and not introspection. Transferring emotional states onto other people isn’t a thing that happens. Moving on.
You choose your words carefully so as to direct Jake as necessary, and as quickly as possible. Not freaking him out further is also a plus.
TT: Are you standing right now?
GT: Yes im leaning on the table.
TT: Are you using your skulltop?
GT: Yes.
TT: Good. Lay down. Right there, don't bother going for your bed, just lay on your back.
Jake doesn’t respond for a full minute and you close your eyes, resisting the way your own lungs seem to feel as if they catch against your ribs. But you follow your own advice; you’re already lying down, and it’s much easier to breath normally once Jake starts responding again.
TT: Jake?
GT: Im successfully horizontal.
TT: You're doing great.
Reassurance for the both of you. You’re doing a lot of that today. It’s a little pathetic, you think.
GT: Am I having a heart attack or something?
TT: No.
TT: Or, I don't think you are. Just hang in there for me, okay?
GT: Then for goodness fucking sakes why cant i breathe?
TT: Can't you?
TT: Your chest hurts. I imagine it hurts especially when you take a breath. But you can breathe, right?
GT: Im not sure. I suppose so? Its hard to tell since it never feels like enough.
GT: I just cant get enough air and it hurts every time i take a big breath and im trying to keep my cool strider but right now its quite difficult!
GT: If youre so bloody informed on whats going on then tell me!
TT: Breathe, Jake.
GT: YOU BREATHE!
Fuck. He’s upset. You messed up. You backpedal and try to think of how to do damage control, what you did wrong. But you’re not quick enough, as per usual.
GT: my hearts going too fast
Everything Jake has been saying is achingly familiar. But rather than let your own panic at Jake’s distress overtake you, you allow some rage to bubble up to the surface. Rage that this is happening to Jake, of all people. The person who deserves it the least, who you maybe depended on just that little bit for being able to stay so unaffected by his circumstances, giving you hope that it was at least possible. And to add insult to injury all he has is you to help him through it. The unfairness of it all makes you tear your comforter a bit with how tight a grip you’ve got on it.
Then you force yourself back into calm. It’s not really calm, there’s no way you can actually be calm in this situation. But maybe that’s also for the best. You get the feeling if you weren’t affected by this at all, you really would be a fucking robot. And Jake needs...maybe still not you, but certainly not that.
TT: It'll settle, it's okay.
TT: You're okay, Jake.
You try to calm him down with as many reassuring words as you can muster. It’s probably not enough. You realize belatedly that when in panic mode, the unknown can be just as terrifying and triggering as anything else. The brain fills the blanks with as many worst-case scenarios as possible, convincing you of utter doom from even the vaguest of uncertainties. And you left Jake to drown in confusion while he’s struggling with something like that, just because of your own discomfort. No wonder he blew up at you. You disgust yourself, sometimes.
TT: I’ll let you know what the deal is when I’ve got more of a handle on it myself.
TT: But you’re going to be fine, Jake, I promise.
He doesn’t respond to your reassurances, but that’s alright. You can guess he’s probably going to have difficulty keeping track of things from here on out. More on you to keep communication going. You have to try to figure out exactly how far along he is, how bad it is. Temperature, if he’s hyperventilating, lightheaded...
TT: More yes/no answers: Do you feel overheated?
No response. Okay. Just keep at it. He’s distracted. Jake’s fine. You’ve already determined he’s not dying or anything.
TT: Jake?
Still no response. Less okay. Fuck, this sucks. You really, really want him to be okay. He’s probably pretty far gone gone by now. You remember what that’s like. You had a pretty shitty almost-reminder earlier, use that to your advantage to figure out how to best help him. You know what to do, but Jake doesn’t.
TT: Jake, stay with me, it's going to be fine. I've done this before.
Nothing again, and you slowly start to realize what you should have earlier, which is that you actually have very little control over this situation at all. At least when you’re the one panicking, there’s the illusion of being able to control yourself, eventually. Here...this is worse. This is definitely worse.
Jake is thousands of miles away, and hundreds of years in the past, and this is all you can do. It’s pathetic. It’s not nearly enough. But it’s what you’ve got, and you have to keep at it.
TT: Come back, we'll figure this out.
He still won’t answer you, and whatever remained of the illusion of control is slipping through your fingers. You have to reach him somehow.
You want to be able to just blink and find yourself with HIM instead of alone on Derse, your other self caked in sweat and displaying emotions in ways you would never allow if you were actually focused on it.
TT: Jake.
Fuck this. At the last second you remember what you usually do when the urge to be close to someone absolutely needs to be satiated somehow or you feel like you’re going to implode.
timaeusTestified wants to initiate a voice call!
Generally doing this makes you nervous, because you’re not used to talking to people and interacting in real time. Normally you're kind of glad video chat was never an option, but as of right now you would probably give anything to be able to visibly see what Jake needs. You also do not under any circumstances think you could handle that, though, so. It is what it is.
He doesn’t answer, though. The call just keeps ringing and you have to do something to keep your own panic at bay. So you bite your lip and tug at your still damp hair and do breathing exercises and think.
Jake SHOULD answer eventually, unless he’s passed out or something. In which case...no, don’t think about that. If he doesn’t answer you could potentially get Brobot to...no, not that either. Didn’t you already conclude earlier that Jake does NOT need a robot? But you can’t exactly force him to pick up.
...Maybe you can. Or, Roxy could. But Roxy....honestly, with how far she drifted off earlier, you’re a bit afraid to find out how drunk she probably is. To find out what kind of things she might say to you while that drunk, which you really can’t handle right now.
TT: Jake, pick up the call or I will wake up Roxy's drunk ass to hack your skulltop.
TT: Are you gonna subject your best bro to Roxy during happy hour?
You try to lighten up a little, for both your sakes. Cracking jokes when you’re stressed is better than the alternatives.
Just as you’re about ready to harden your resolve in order to pester Roxy, the ringing stops and you realize that your shades do not have any kind of decent speaker or microphone, and you need to switch devices immediately. Also, relief.
You jump to your desk and quickly get your mic in front of you. You don’t hear much of anything until you get your headphones on.
“Thank fuck,” you breathe, able to keep your voice level now that you’re back in the driver’s seat of this situation. For the most part. Now even if you can’t see anything, you can hear what’s happening and react accordingly. “Knew you wouldn’t leave me hanging.”
You feel kind of bad for ever doubting Jake. He’s capable, and he tries hard, and he’s always surprising you. After the guilt, there’s pride. If the situation were flipped you probably would never have dared pick up. No, definitely. Nobody else needs to hear you when you get like that. Nobody else would want to. It’s better that way; you can handle yourself. Mostly.
You hear what you think is probably Jake’s breathing. It’s...odd. You desperately want to hear his voice and have it sound normal. You kind of adore Jake’s voice. His weird non-accent and the way he pronounces certain words is endearing as hell. His lexicon is already colorful enough over text, but hearing him actually SAY shit like “sassafras” and “holy chalupa” make it nearly impossible not to smile. When he talks, he seems to put real consideration into his tone and the timing of his words; appropriate dramatic pauses and inflections, as if he is literally always in the middle of some sort of stage performance. It’s fun.
As previously stated, this is not fun though, and none of that is present when Jake croaks out a “Hi.” He coughs, and then laughs in a way that you can’t place but you don’t like it one bit. It makes your chest tighten and you wish you could be lying down, but you can’t, so suck it up.
GT: I dont know if i can speak.
GT: Dont leave.
Ouch. Okay. Breathe. This is probably for the best, too. It’ll be easier to keep yourself collected if you don’t have to fight your own instinctive reaction to Jake sounding so haggard. Also, you recall vaguely that trying to talk while in the middle of a panic attack usually results in nothing audible. Better to be able to actually understand him.
Also, the thought of leaving Jake like this would never enter your mind under any fucking circumstances, and the idea that it ever would is almost insulting. But Jake obviously isn’t thinking clearly, so you don’t blame him one bit.
"I'm not leaving you, Jake. I'm right here. And use the client, that's fine. We can work with this."
GT: Can you explain now?
GT: Please?
You sigh. Right, yeah. Okay. Time to face the music, you guess. Admit to your own weakness. You reassure yourself that this is necessary and helpful. It will help Jake feel less alone, and like you genuinely know what you’re doing. Grounding his fear can help reduce the blinding panic.
“Stop me if this song sounds familiar,” you sort of hope Jake actually stops you but you know he won’t. Can’t.
“It comes on real sudden, maybe right after something startles you. Sometimes right out of nowhere.”
Blinking to find yourself nearly about to fall off the roof. Dropping the fishing rod.
“Feels like a vice around your chest or like something sharp that keeps poking at you.”
Roxy, drunk again, messaging you almost non-stop with things like ‘god whyd u have 2 be so GAAAAY’’ and ‘u ever wonder what itd b like 2 kiss me’ and ‘cmon why not just give it a SHOT handsome’, each message feeling like an additional knife.
“You feel a little dizzy, a lot frantic, so you need to lay your fine ass down before you pass out.”
Jane, angry about something or other which you have absolutely no control over. You try your best to be a good listener before you have to abruptly lie and say you need to attend to something urgent. Instead you lay on your back on your roof and stare up at the overcast sky.
“But you want to stand up, to pace until your legs fall clean off. It's like an adrenaline shot you can't fuckin' indulge or you'll hurt yourself."
The nights when there really is just no fucking reason for you to be panicking and you want to just walk it off like a bad hit to the solar plexus.
GT: Yes!
GT: Christ i want to get back up but i dont even think i have the energy to sit up right now. But my legs are desperate for a wander.
"Yeah, ignore that shit. Stay down. Wait it out,” you say, and it’s so odd that you are having this conversation. You’ve told yourself those exact words plenty of times.
GT: Youve done this before?
You feel something you didn’t really expect to. As angry as you are that Jake is going through this -- you can still hear his uneven breathing, even if it’s faint -- it’s....really fucking nice to know that Jake gets it. Hell, Jake knows that this is a thing that happens to you and he gets it.
"...Every so often, yeah,” you admit, which isn’t as hard as you thought it would be. “Attacks out of nowhere, usually at night."
“Attacks,” he replies, vocally. He still sounds awful, but he’s speaking again, and that’s fucking something. You appreciate it and take it in stride.
The conversation flows a little more easily from there. With Jake talking, and seemingly in more control of himself, you feel like you are actually helping. In control. You can keep doing that. You recall how concerned you get about your pulse sometimes and are thankful you're correct in guessing Jake might be doing the same
“Worried,” he whispers, and you think to yourself, me too buddy.
"It's fine. Yeah, your heart’s going like a timpani right now, but trying to monitor it will only stress you out more and make it worse. Just do what I say, and I'll get you through this. You trust me?"
"Unequivocally."
Your chest tightens for a completely different reason.
When you finally come back down from your brief and incredibly stupid crush-high, you hear Jake make some not good sounds. They ignite an instinct in you to punch whatever could cause Jake to sound like that. Unfortunately, that would probably be Jake’s brain. Fortunately, you have no such opportunity to punch it. The urge passes.
“Hey, Jake, it’s okay,” you try to reassure him again. You were just making so much progress, did you really fuck all of that up because you were distracted by your ridiculous feelings?
GT: If im not in immediate danger then i think ill be all right.
Oh, fuck no. “Jake,” you say protest immediately, exasperated. You should have expected that. You don’t exactly make it easy for people to be vulnerable with you. But considering this is almost exactly the kind of shit you yourself would pull, you have no room to be irritated. Especially since you can hear Jake’s breathing getting dangerously faster, even as he tries to muffle it.
GT: It must be late as plum fucking dickens for you.
You’re not going anywhere, and at this point Jake just has to accept that. If he hangs up on you you’ll get Roxy to do you that solid, no matter how drunk she is. "Yeah, because time differences really matter between the two of us, dude. Stop it, I can hear you. You need to calm down."
Jake does not calm down, as you can fairly plainly hear. It’s insanely difficult to listen to somebody else start to hyperventilate, a thing you’ve only ever experienced from your own perspective and the occasional movie. It almost makes your lungs feel like breathing faster sympathetically, which is bad.
But...maybe you can try the reverse. New tactic. You fiddle around with your microphone to up the sensitivity. It’s go time.
"Can you hear me? Am I ASMR to the max?" you joke lightly, testing the mic.
“I don’t know what that means,” he speaks again. It’s quiet, but it probably means Jake has given up his protests. Good. Also, of course he wouldn’t get that. The reference is a few years shy of his current date. Ah well.
“I’ll explain another time. Can you hear me breathing?”
“Yes,” he responds, shaky.
“Good. Focus on that. Follow my lead.” You breathe in and out in time. You go a bit faster than your usual 8-count, deciding to start with 6 instead. It’s probably a little more reasonable for Jake to try following while also being slow enough to calm him.
You sit there and just breathe together for...a while. You lose track of time despite constantly counting in your head, because you are also keeping track of Jake’s progress. He’s nowhere near your speed, but after some time he’s out of hyperventilation territory. On a completely different note, you’ve underestimated how exhilarating it is to breathe with another person like this. With Jake’s breathing in your ears, it’s almost like....okay, not important. You can come back to that thought later.
Then, after neither of you have spoken a word in quite a while, Jake starts slipping backwards. You barely even notice it, and by the time you do-- trying to think of how you can possibly help, besides breath more aggressively??-- it’s too late.
He makes another horrible sound and starts hyperventilating again. You feel yourself start to panic. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, how are you going to get him back? It was hard enough the first time!
Keep. Yourself. Calm. Calm. Be Jake’s rock. Be what Jake English needs for once in your fucking life, Dirk Strider. Something must have happened to make him freak out again. You try to remember how this usually goes for you to guess what might have happened.
“Hey. Come back, come back. Jake, you’re okay.” Jake doesn’t seem to hear you and he doesn’t respond in any way other than to break his hyperventilation with short near-sobs. It takes way more effort to keep your voice level. Even then, you have to take a few pauses between words yourself.
"Jake, I need you to listen to me. I need you to come back,” you do. You really do. Failing him like this is a physical pain that is getting worse by the second. “If I could sendificate myself to you, I would, bro.” You would, in a heartbeat. “But I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.” Yet. You will find a way to him eventually. You will. “You’ve got this, you just need to breathe through it.”
But your words fail, and you can feel something snap as Jake starts to cry.
You are incapable of doing anything. Utterly inept. You are seized so suddenly by your own panic at listening to Jake cry that you have to snap your mouth shut or else you’re going to join him. You start breathing faster despite yourself, and you feel the back of your eyes start to heat up. Your fists clench, and you clench your teeth in turn. You have to briefly turn the mic down and shift your headphones on your head so you can lean back and control your own breathing. Nearly impossible to do at first as the thoughts swarm your brain.
You can’t do anything. You have tried literally everything and none of it has helped. You are helpless. Jake is terrified and in pain and you could have helped him but instead he’s breaking down and it’s your fucking fault. How could you have ever fooled yourself into thinking you could handle this? That you could ever offer anything of meaning to anyone?
You blink and you’re back on Derse. Jake’s anguish doesn’t follow you here. It’s quiet. You’re a fucking mess, pajamas drenched with sweat, and face stained with tears. But the shift in atmosphere gives you the brief moment you need to scream your frustration where Jake won’t hear you, then slap yourself in the face.
“You are all he has right now,” you remind yourself, out loud. Just as Roxy has nobody but you to keep dragging her back into bed when she wanders off, right now all you and Jake have is each other. Not only can you not afford to break down, you need to be there for him instead of here. “Get a grip. It’s okay. It’ll...it’ll be okay. He trusts you. He believes in you.”
You don’t really believe in yourself, but this is enough for now.
You come back to Earth and are assaulted by the sound of Jake crying again, but you have steeled yourself and turn the volume of your mic back up.
“Jake. Hey. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. You said you trusted me, right? Well trust me that you’re alright. I get that you maybe need to let it out, that’s cool. But you gotta come back to me. You can do it. I believe in you right back, buddy. I’m right here.”
You keep muttering encouraging nonsense like that, as much to keep yourself calm as it is for him. You kind of lose yourself in your own voice a little. You have never really done...this, for yourself, when you’re in the middle of an attack. These genuine, heartfelt feelings of comfort are pretty foreign. Sometimes the situation is okay, or you’re okay in that you are not actively dying, don’t be stupid. But something about hearing the comforting words stream out of your own mouth--and meaning them--genuinely calms you. Not sure how to process that at the moment, you just...keep going. Until something, anything, changes.
“Dirk...” you hear, and it pretty much shocks you into silence. Jake has stopped crying. It’s music to your ears.
“I’m here,” you say, the second you regain your wits about you, which is hopefully quick enough.
“I can’t breathe,” he says, ironically taking a breath. “Like you do.”
That doesn’t make much sense to you right now. All you can think about is how Jake finally stopped crying, and it takes you a second to remember everything else. You think hard about how you got here, and realize Jake probably had not been as vigilant with counting and filling his lung capacity as you had been. Just trying to match his timing to yours must have been hard. Fuck. You messed up, bro. But you can fix it this time. You have to fix it this time.
You explain recovery breathing, how it works, demonstrate. The act of breathing through your nose and filling up your lungs, counting the seconds. Jake listens intently and there’s no more crying, just the panicked breathing, which you are worryingly used to at this point.
“You’re not going to be great at it at first, but it does get easier.” You hope being realistic is reassuring. “Want to try again?” Please let you try again.
After a second and the sound of Jake shifting on whatever surface he’s on - the floor, you recall - he responds. “Yeah.”
You smile. Okay. 2nd try. If you fuck it up this time--well, just don’t fuck it up.
It takes even longer. But you supplement your breathing with some audible counting. One or two brief reassurances to let Jake know he’s still okay and doing a great job. Because he is, mostly. He’s slowly improving bit by bit. He breaks a couple of time, lets out a brief sob, but then he’s all business again and you’re swelling with pride.
GT: Youre so good at this.
For a brief delirious second you think he’s talking about your coaching skills, and your own breathing stutters a bit. But then a second message arrives, Jake’s breathing train still chugging steadily along.
GT: Its almost as if your lungs are broad and steady as gust bellows.
You blush and can’t help but snort in a cousin to awkward amusement. That’s....that language is. Fuck. Okay, Dirk, it’s already well established your crush is huge and borderline destructive, get over it. Or. Remember it for later, you guess. Much later.
"I can hold my breath forever, Jake,” you reply, purposefully giving up the whole breathing thing because at this point, Jake has that shit on LOCK and you want him to see it. “Living in Waterworld demands some Herculean lung capacity. Or, whatever the adjective form of Poseidon would be, that kind of lung capacity. I'm a few scales and fins away from aquatic." You stop yourself before you end up rambling some even more unfunny bullshit.
But it makes Jake sort of laugh anyway, and you feel your entire body relax just a little at the sound. You have been here with Jake for a total of two hours. You’ve just been sitting there breathing for a full hour of that.
It felt like an eternity, really, so that’s cool by you.
“Listen to that,” you say, filled with relief and affection and genuine awe at how Jake managed it. “Jake English, welcome back.”
"Jesus H Knickerbocker Christ," Jake says, sounding as close to normal as he has in hours, and fuck. Feels good man.
“Don’t know about him,” you snark back, instinctively. Jake laughs again. You smile.
"I feel... Bloody friggin' dickens, I feel..." Jake takes a nice, normal breath, and you actually give a thumbs up to thin air. You catch yourself quick, but still. Whoops. "Like I'm one giant throbbing bruise."
Same, you think. “Yeah, that’s normal.” You lean back in your chair and close your eyes. You’re exhausted. You focus on the sounds of what Jake is doing and imagining what he might look like.
"We're going to take this nice and slow, okay? Put your elbows back and sit up. If you start to feel sick or dizzy, stop and lay right back down,” you instruct. You listen to Jake sit up, then grunt, then go back down. He tries again, no noise this time, then goes back down. He’s listening to you. He really does trust you. You don’t have anything to say to that, it just feels nice.
“Check,” he says, finally. You make a mental note: Jake sat up: Check. Jake in bed: Uncheck.
“Feel alright?”
“No, but I’m less horizontal now.” Ah, alright. This is Jake’s first go around the fuck panic express. Probably to be expected.
"More's the fucking pity. If you can handle it, go climb into bed.” Like you want to do right this second, but can’t just yet. You have to wait until Jake is in bed and secure. “Under the covers, if you can stand it. Your body might do some weird shit now, temperature-wise."
You kind of already feel yourself having some mild hot and cold flashes. Yikes.
After some effort and some grunting and shuffling, Jake makes it to bed. You hear him flop into it with an “Ow,” a word which you also identify with on a deep emotional level. You warn Jake he’s going to be hungry in the morning, among other things. You’re already hungry, but the idea of moving any further than your bed actually makes you cringe. Jake admits that he, too, is fucking exhausted. Amen.
Jake takes a moment to do what sounds like drink some water. Good on him. Then, out of nowhere: "You...You've done this a lot?"
You stiffen. Oh, no. We’re not making this about you, now. You’ve had enough for one day. Please god, have mercy. But you’re not going to dare lie or even worse, ignore him, so. “...Often enough.”
“You should have told me.”
You frown. After everything that just happened, Jake is worried about you? It’s not fair, man. You don’t want Jake bothering with that right now.
“Nah, it’s...”
Fine, you were going to say. Not a big deal. But. Truthfully, it...is. You only realize this now, after having told someone already, but it is sort of a big fucking deal. Maybe you really should have told him before now. Maybe then Jake might have had more of a frame of reference for when this happened. Or maybe you could have just opened up to someone for a change to express a genuine emotion.
Hah. As if you could ever have done what Jake did--just immediately reach out for help, as if you deserved such a thing. As if it even existed for someone like you.
“Maybe,” you say finally. “But you’re the brave one, right?”
You quickly change the subject. You feel yourself starting to unravel. If you stay here for any longer you’re either going to fall asleep on Jake, or even worse: lose your filter. "Nevermind. You should be okay now, but sometimes you'll get another attack after the first, like a shitty aftershock. If that happens, just message me. I'll tell AR to keep an eye out and put you through." Apparently, the AR can be trusted for this one small thing. Not necessarily to not be a dick about it, but. Baby steps.
“...You’re going to sleep?” And you can hear genuine disappointment in Jake’s voice. Whelp, fuck. Nevermind then.
“You want me to stay on?” You ask, not sure what you want the answer to be.
After a second, "I'll let you sleep. Maybe you'll get a few winks in before sunrise."
You can tell Jake would appreciate you staying on the line. And really, if you could do so and lie in bed at the same time, you would just leave it at that and fall asleep with him gladly. More than gladly. Almost a dream come true, actually. But your setup doesn’t really allow for that at the moment, and...you literally cannot bring yourself to argue. You’re pretty far gone.
You let out a long, hard sigh, shifting in your chair. “Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
Jake doesn’t reply with more than a noncommittal hum. “Goodnight, Jake.”
Neither of you do anything to end the call for a few minutes, just sort of existing at the same time, as much as you can. You want to reach your hand through your computer screen and touch him. Any kind of touch, for any amount of time. Just some confirmation and reassurance that you’re both still here and okay and that this whole wild ride of a night meant something to the both of you. But, you can’t. So instead you wait until you think you can commit the sound of Jake’s unburdened breathing to memory to end the call, and then crawl into bed bone-weary.
You fall asleep pretending the sound of the waves below is Jake sleeping next to you.