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You ignore it at first. You tell yourself, “This is just my breath catching up. Just getting so invested in my activity that I forgot to breathe as deep or as even for a moment,” and any other dumb ol' bullshit to deny the reality of it, because the moment you acknowledge it it takes hold of you, and you don't want to deal with it, not now, not ever in your fucking life. You don't want anyone else to deal with it. You put your hand on your chest, straighten up, roll your shoulders, try to convince your body that maybe it just needs to stretch, to get more space for its lungs and chill out for one fucking second, instead of… whatever it is doing right now. Because there is nothing there, physically, nothing is keeping you from breathing normally, and you know it, you recognize it, but some sick and terrified part of your brain is fully convinced that you are suddenly dying right now, that the space around your chest is closing in on itself, squeezing the air out of you and making you helplessly, hopelessly paralyzed. You brace one hand against your work table and run the other one through your hair, tugging at it, scratching and rubbing at your scalp and then the skin of your face, because you need to do something to force your mind to keep going, keep convincing your own damn self that you are fine and not, in fact, in mortal peril.
It doesn't work, unsurprisingly. Your hands start shaking, tremor jumping all the way to your legs and ricocheting back into your very core, and for a moment the squeeze around your chest is so tight and heavy that you think you're going to pass out. The weakest, most desperate part of you wishes that it would just happen, that you would just stop feeling any of this and come back to your senses when your brain isn't throwing a baby temper tantrum anymore. You are briefly glad that you took off the binder prior to this, because that would be a goddamn nightmare, worse than it is already, you mean. This is so fucking stupid. You look stupid. You are standing in an empty room, faint and metaphorically shitting your metaphorical pants because of a danger that isn't here, a danger that doesn’t fucking exist, and yet your entire body is convinced otherwise. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection on the polished surface of the table, and it's not all that clear and detailed, but you still know what you look like right now: absolute shit. Your face turns a sickly ashen olive color, you sweat from every pore, and your every muscle is suspended in tension like you are barely resisting against something that is trying to snap you in half. Nothing your shades can do against that, you're afraid. The invisible squeeze spreads from your lungs and to your stomach, and you feel yourself start salivating. You would worry about puking all over your precious work if you didn't know that you had nothing to puke with. You were kinda forgetting to eat today.
This is an a-grade betrayal, you think. From your physical vessel, from your own fucking mind, things you are supposed to have full control of. You had no problem handling two conscious bodies at the same time and slicing your damn head off when you needed to, yet now you are having trouble for some reason. Now you are weak and useless and afraid. Your jaw is clenched so tight that it's starting to hurt, and you keep your mouth shut, because what the fuck are you gonna do, call for help? Yeah, right. You wouldn't if both of your legs were torn off, not before you were dead certain that you have your bleeding under control, and this is a much less dire situation than that. Your stomach spasms. The lower half of your body is starting to feel cold, and you yourself start to feel like you are not entirely there, so maybe you will pass out after all, which would be just great. Maybe hit your head on the table so hard that it knocks this bullshit out of it once and for all. Because you really want it to stop. You want it to stop, you don’t want to lead a life where this is a constant thing, you don’t want it to continue, god, you wish you would just–
“Dirk my buddy, are you still up?”
Shitting god damn fucking cocksucking DICK. Why the FUCK is he awake now. The military clock on the table shows a little past three in the morning, which is an absolutely preposterous time for Jake English to be breaking up with his slumber at. You suppose you have accidentally woken him up before, but you weren't even doing anything just now! What, were you breathing too hard? Was your panicked fucking heartbeat reverberating through the walls of his bedroom? You bang your fist on the table in a last desperate attempt to make yourself okay through sheer force of will, and also because you are fucking angry now.
“I woke up to take a piss, and saw the lights in the studio are on– are you seriously still awake?”
He opens the door and stands there, in all his woke-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night glory, rubbing his eyes and mostly confused, if the tiniest bit annoyed. You grind your teeth together and try to relax a single muscle in your neck, so that you can turn your head and face him properly. You somewhat succeed in it.
“I was. About to finish, actually,” you say. “Don’t worry about it.” Your voice sounds weak. It doesn’t quite register as fully real at the moment, but you can tell that it's shaking, despite yourself. You are begging your brain to finally let you pass out, to avoid having this conversation right now, but making you suffer immensely is apparently higher on its priority list, so you stay as you were: unnaturally pale, breathing heavy and almost fully conscious. Your stomach spasms again, and you want to cry.
“Well, I sure would hope that you would finish soon!” thank god he doesn’t seem to notice anything, as usual. “Aren’t you doing enough as it is? I really don’t think you need to give yourself extra hours just to–“
You raise your shaking hand to make some vague gesture with it, and that is when your legs give out a little, bringing you halfway to the floor. You catch yourself on the table and hold on to it for dear life, which is the only reason why you don’t just plop ass on the ground. Fuck. And you were so close to making him go away.
“Holy shit, Dirk, are you…” he seems to be only befuddled for a split second, and then he's right next to you in three quick steps, catching you under your arms and forcing you fully to the floor, uncharacteristic decisiveness in his movements. He is not calm, though. “I, uh, tell me what you need me to do right now, I don’t have the foggiest clue– unless it is hard for you to talk? Can you nod? Do you need, uh, water? Is it because of exhaustion? Good fucking heavens, Dirk, when will you learn to take care of yourself, it-it’s just…” his voice cracks and you feel worse than before all of a sudden, “it's impossible, I’m so sorry, now is not the time for me to–“
“Jake, just. Shut. The fuck up. God.” You take a wheezing breath in. It's a little easier to think while not standing upright. The last thing you need at this moment is two panicking people in the same room. He is clutching your shoulders from behind now, and you pat him weakly on his right hand, because that is what you do when you are trying to get people to calm down while you yourself feel like you are losing your fucking mind. “It's not exhaustion. It's a panic attack. They. Happen sometimes. But yes, some water would be just fuckin' dandy.”
You point to the mini fridge in the corner of the room. It's mostly variations of Orange drinks, but you think there are a couple of bottles of water, too. Jake is hesitant to step away from you for ten seconds apparently, but does as he's told, comes back and lowers himself on the floor next to you, holding out your water. You try to grab it from him, but he retracts his hand suddenly, like he remembered something embarrassing about this goddamn bottle of water, and opens his mouth to speak again.
“Um, do you need me to…?” he mimics holding up the water for you. You swallow all the saliva gathered in your mouth because of your guts trying to throw up nothing repeatedly, and shake your head. “Alright, then.”
You manage to open the bottle with your shaking hands, immediately spilling a good amount of it on yourself, instead of in your mouth. Jake makes an apologetic noise as he places his hand over your own and steadies it, allowing you to finally drink. You don’t give a shit at this point, honestly. You consume the water so fast that you nearly choke on it, and he places his other hand on the nape of your neck and slowly massages it with steady pressure. You finish half of the bottle before you are content with letting go of it, and Jake sets it aside, right next to himself. His hand stays on your neck.
“Yeah, thanks for that,” your voice comes out raspy and you wipe your mouth with your wrist, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the whole thing. This is probably the weakest (most vulnerable) he's seen you in his entire life, in your entire co-habitation on Earth C. No wonder he was freaking out there for a moment. You momentarily feel bad for telling him to shut the fuck up, to keep his emotions to himself because of your shitty habit of doing the same, but of course you don’t say any of that. You focus on where his hand connects with your body, and take good, even breaths.
“But of course. What use would I be if I couldn’t complete the simplest task for my friend when he needed me to?” he laughs, but it sounds mostly hollow. “Is there more you would want from me?”
Is there? You were so desperately trying to remain unseen and to deal with this shit on your own, but now that he's already here, sincerely worried about you, his hand’s steady motions on your neck, you find that you don’t want him to leave. Not really. You finally look at his face and continue looking at it for several seconds, before you decide.
“You don’t need to do anything, but. Just be here?” your tone shifts so it sounds like a question, because you are still not on the required level of don’t-give-a-fuck to be totally fine with saying shit like “stay with me, it feels safer with you” or whatever. Just the thought makes you feel gayer than you already are. ‘And keep doing whatever you are doing with your hand, it's pleasant and soothing,’ you also don’t say.
He is unusually un-chatty right now, maybe because it's half past three a.m. and you literally just scared the shit out of him. He simply nods and scoots backwards a little to lean against the wall, pulling you with him gently. You are shaking less and having less trouble moving in general now, so it's no big problem. He removes his hand from your neck and throws his arm fully around your shoulders, which is fine, too. He is still there, touching you, warm and alive, and wearing nothing but his underwear, you just noticed, but no, you aren't thinking about that. You wouldn’t even be able to turn this into a Sex Thing right now, you are having trouble breathing as it is.
“So. What's up?” you decide to distract yourself from gay thoughts by starting a conversation. Jake looks at you like you just made an incoherent animal noise with your mouth.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning how was your day, did anything interesting happen, et cetera. You know, how people usually ask.”
“Oh! Heh,” he scratches his chest, smiling sheepishly. “Well, we don’t usually do the ‘usual asking’ malarkey, so you must forgive me for not catching on. Umm, oh, Roxy came in contact today!”
“Oh yeah? What'd he want?”
“Oh, you know,” he gestures vaguely. You do not, in fact, know. You indicate as much with your eyebrows. “He just, he likes to ask me for fashion advice quite often, and that is great and all, but I’m really not sure what to say on this matter most of the time. And! When I DO have something to say, his response is mostly, and I quote, ‘this would look like dogs shit on me jakey LOL’, so then our conference turns into a bunch of bickering, and…”
You tune out a little. You still hear enough to make contemplative noises and ‘uh-huh's from time to time, maybe ask a question to keep him talking, but you mostly lean your head against him and focus on the way his voice reverberates through his body. The scent of his skin. The warmth emanating off of him. The fact that he cares. The organic nature of his existence. Billions of neurons sending impulses through his body, making him say whatever it is that he's saying, making him do whatever it is that he does. No rhyme or reason to it, no clear mechanical process. Just being human. It usually makes your head hurt, thinking about this, but right now it just makes you feel weird and tingly. It makes you feel like you actually love him, despite not wanting to. Your core suddenly feels cold, and you press closer against him, nose brushing against his skin. God, you just. Really like how he smells, which makes you sound like a creep, but you couldn’t care less. The tension in your stomach isn't gone yet, but the squeeze around your lungs is gradually decreasing. You blink once, twice, and your eyelids feel heavy. You are fucking exhausted, you realize. Turns out panic state drains all your energy just like that, which you knew already, but it's also almost four in the morning, which makes it ten times worse. You would probably fall asleep right there on the floor, but Jake notices that you are dozing off. You realize that he's been silent for some time now.
“Dirk?” he shakes you a little and pats your thigh with his free hand affectionately. “Dirk my dear, wouldn’t it be better to move to your room? Let's get you up, buddy, and yes, I am fully aware that you are extremely tough and can stand by yourself, but training wheels never hurt anybody who can ride without them.”
‘Dirk my dear'. Damn. This is probably the most stupidly romantic shit you've ever heard, and he says it just like that. You actually snort at it, and do not protest when he helps you stand up.
“And what is so funny exactly?”
“Nothing.” You look at his face, at his stupid handsome face one more time, and want to press your own against it. “I'm just, really tired.”
“Let's escort you into bed, then.”
Would it be weird to ask him to stay in your room? Would it be weird to ask to be in his room tonight? It's not like you haven't slept together before, just, not under these circumstances. While you think about the ways you can make this about literally anything else aside from you yearning for another human's presence, you both reach your room. He keeps his hand placed carefully around your waist the whole time, ready to catch you at any moment. You both sit on the edge of your bed, and you finally take off your shades and place them on the night stand. If you somehow didn’t feel naked before, then you do now, but it's dark in here, and he's seen you like this several times already, so it's fine. It's fine. You drag both of your palms up and down your face, still trying to figure out how to tell him that you need him here without sounding like a total fa–
“If you are still… uneasy, I will be here at least until you fall asleep,” he says quietly. “Unless you want me to leave.”
“No, you can stay. Like, for the night.” For once in your life you are extremely fucking glad that you don’t need to articulate most of something yourself. “I think that would be, better for me,” you force that one out to make your case more convincing, though you doubt he needs more proof that you feel like shit right now. Your stomach spasms, but only briefly.
The bed in your room is definitely bigger than what is necessary for one person, but not big enough for two people either, so it's a tight fit. You are lying on your side, facing Jake, and he is there beside you in a half-sitting position. He's stroking your shoulder. You watch his chest rise and fall with his breathing as the creeping sun slowly lights up the room. Your eyes categorically won't stay open, but you just, want to look at him a little longer. You think about how you will probably have to talk about this later, otherwise it's going to hang over you like a shitty grand piano ready to fall and squish you comically at any moment, and this household has enough dramatic tension as it is. But maybe that’s fine. Maybe you are actually sick to death of having to deal with this particular problem on your own, because each time doesn’t make you feel stronger, it just makes you hate yourself and feel like dying a little more. So right now you feel strangely weightless. Nothing is actively trying to kill you. You can rest. Yeah, I can do the ‘getting help’ bit this once, you think, and your eyes finally close. Through your half-consciousness you can feel Jake slide down into full horizontal position, and ever so gently shift you so you are nestled in the crook of his armpit, your head on his shoulder. You fall asleep to the rhythm of his pulse in your ear.