Archive of Our Own

Take deep breaths.

Try and relax.

Slowly count out loud.

At least, that was what Oliver was told to do when certain feelings began to rear their nasty little heads. While there were many times that he knew the exact triggers, this time, it was a culmination of events. He especially hated being alone when he got to be like this. His thoughts were racing far too quickly for him to keep up, each one something different. Each one something negative even if such a thought on a logical level he knew wasn't in any way true.

Oliver knew that it was merely his anxious mind playing tricks on him, it did so every now and again. Though, not to this extent. He couldn't remember the last time it was this bad. God only knew how much he hated it, to know that his mental state at times didn't align with the reality that he found himself in. He knew that he had people who cared for him, knew that little spats meant little more than that. They would happen a little more often than he liked for them to, but after a couple of hours the hostility would pass.

This time however, that didn't happen. The fighting had only grown, small arguments shifting into full-blown shouting matches. Oliver knew he was in no way blameless in this either, however when those he considered to be family were involved, it only made the adverse thoughts all that much worse. What was to be a pleasant evening was ruined, all stemming from a snide comment that Francis had made. Then Allen. And lastly Matt. The fighting only grew worse with each sarcastic comment that was made, and even when he tried to stop the fighting, he himself got dragged into it. He in turn was in no way immune to the shouting himself, as much as he hated being yelled at himself.

By now, everyone was gone, each leaving with terse goodbyes and a tension so thick it could be cut through with a knife. Oliver was left alone to clean up the mess that remained. He was left alone to process what just happened while he collected the dirty dishes from the table and put the leftovers away. Merely washing the dishes and putting away the rest of the food after what happened exhausted him on multiple levels. He was tired: physically, mentally, and emotionally.

All he wanted was for this night to be over.

Even while he continued on with the mundane tasks that he knew needed to be taken care of that moment, Oliver's stomach began to twist into knots. It was ridiculous. It wasn't as though the four of them hadn't fought before, there were others of course that were far worse than this one. This time, for a reason he wasn't aware of, was different.

This time, nothing seemed to be working.

Deep breaths.

Think positive thoughts.

Maybe it was a culmination of the stress leading up to it as well. The actual planning, organizing, having to make sure he had everything and that everything in turn was perfect. Only one ridiculous fight had entirely ruined everything that he had planned. He tried to be rational. He tried to remember that this was nothing more than a simple bump in the road and that it would all blow over.

Or maybe it was also everything else happening as well. Constantly being criticized for what he was doing, that what he was doing, for his work was wrong. Oliver was good at keeping a stiff upper-lip when he had to. He was especially good at pushing everything down, hiding his true feelings to make sure everyone else was happy and smiling. That was what mattered to him, to make sure everyone else was taken care of. That was what made him happy. That was what kept him calm and chipper. He quite good at it, too good if he had to be honest with himself.

Without warning, Oliver could feel the cold sweat rolling down his cheeks and back, violent tremors slowly overtaking his body. The glass he was trying to wash fell to the floor with a sickening shattering crash, his chest tightening at the same time as hot tears began to spill down his cheeks.

No.

Oh no.

Not now.

Why now.

No no no.

Stop.

Stop it!

Go away!

Oliver's thoughts sped through his mind at what felt to be the speed of light, the entirety of his body feeling both light as a feather and as though he were carrying the world on his shoulders all at the same time. He hated it. This time it just seemed to hit all at once. It was something though he had been dealing with it for most of his life, such sensations never getting easier to handle. He couldn't focus on anything, not even the broken glass now scattered across the floor.

The fear and instinct took over.

Struggling to catch his already mangled breath while making a break toward and up the stairwell, the tears continued to sting his eyes. Despite running into various forms of furniture through his blurred vision, no sounds of pain came from him. Only more severe sobs. He couldn't see clearly, couldn't think clearly. He was only acting in sheer panic, desperate to get somewhere safe.

Even when Oliver found himself in his room, the attack never once subsided even a little. He wanted it to stop, wanted everything to stop. His head was throbbing, the tightness in his chest and stomach growing worse by the second, his breathing growing more and more labored.

Oliver just wanted it all to stop.

By any means necessary.

He practically threw open his nightstand drawer, rummaging through it through the constant stinging, fumbling for the prize that he sought. Finally, his fingers wrapped around a small orange bottle with his name printed on the label. Consciously, Oliver knew his doctor told him to take two daily to keep this sort of reaction from happening. However, it was something he kept forgetting to do until he desperately needed it.

And he needed it.

Now.

Fumbling with the cap with some difficulty through a combination of shaky hands, continual tears, and the struggle to breathe, after a few minutes he managed to claim what he needed the most. Falling into a crumpled heap on the floor with his back pressed against the side of the bed, he shook a few of the contents into his hand.

Relief.

That was what he wanted. Oliver was scared, hating it so much when he got like this. It was as though he were caught in a never-ending whirlpool of emotion and panic, just wanting it to end. Bringing his hand up to his mouth, he tilted his head back, swallowing not long after with some difficulty.

Staying where he was while waiting for the pills to take effect, Oliver at least attempted to follow the directions he was given when he got into as bad of a state that he was in at this current moment. Deep breaths. Slowly count numbers. Remain calm. Everything would be alright. Through the labored breathing, he slowly began to take deep breaths.

Yes.

This was good.

Keep breathing.

Start counting.

The racing thoughts at long last began to slow, the tightness that clung to his body with an iron grip loosening if only a little. While his breathing was still labored, it slowly began to ease. He was just tired now, he wanted to just lay down and go to sleep. That maybe, by the next morning this horrible night would be nothing more than a distant memory.

Oliver could feel himself growing more sleepy by the minute, resting the back of his head against the mattress. He was physically exhausted, wanting nothing more than the Sandman to help ease him to the sleep that he so desperately craved.

Nodding off, he soon slipped off into a deep slumber with the small bottle laying open on the floor next to him. All the while, never once did he hear his phone continuously ring.

He woke up to nothing but bright lights, white walls, the stench of sterile, and the concerned faces of his family hovering over him.