Work Text:
Keep it together or they’ll never invite you out again.
He knew when he woke up, tangled in the duvet and soaked in a cold sweat that it was going to be a bad day. No matter how deep a breath he heaved, none of the air reached its way to the bottom of his lungs, caught it seemed on the tight band crushed around his ribs.
Relax.
Just relax.
Everything is fine.
More than fine.
Great even.
Jon was meeting Martin and Tim at an outdoor festival and with the weather for once bright and sunny, it was going to be a wonderful day. In succession, he tightened each muscle, holding himself stiff before relaxing and shoving the thrumming anxiety to the back of his awareness where it hung like a trembling red wire.
Shower. Clothes. Hair loosely tied. Tea.
Stomach unsettled, his toast remained untouched on the counter.
Keys, wallet, phone. Each in their appropriate pocket.
Deep breath. Two. Three.
“I’m alright.” Because he was. There was no reason for this. None at all and he was going to end up being too much of a nuisance for his friends. Maybe he should cancel. No. No. Who knew when he’d get another chance to prove he was more than their arse of a boss and worth having around.
The train went well. He made it to the predetermined meeting place in the park early as was his wont and checked his phone for messages. Predictably, Tim was running a few minutes late but Martin would be here soon and sure enough Jon saw him weaving his way politely through the crowd, raising his arm up to catch his attention.
“Jon!”
“Martin.” When he dug up a smile from somewhere Martin’s face lit up in response and a jolt not unlike lightning ran up Jon’s spine. A strong arm landed over his shoulders and the smell of Tim’s aftershave assaulted him right before his enthusiastic greeting.
“Hullo, gents!”
For a little while, Jon was able to lose himself in the music, the sights, the people watching, settling his nerves with a pint and prattling on about obscure music genres much to Martin’s apparent enjoyment. Tim ribbed him good naturedly and only commented on the blush (not from Martin grinning at him, thank you very much) from the alcohol traveling up his neck and settling high in his face.
“Thank you, Tim.” Voice measured and academic, Jon accepted the next pint with a hand forcibly held still, relaxing on the bench with Tim sprawled comfortably next to him. Martin was locating food and would meet them back here.
“Whoa! Slow down, champ.” Jon had downed half of it without thinking and was now looking dazedly at the plastic in his hand. “You alright, boss?”
“Mm. Yes, of course. Was thinking, is all.” A knobby elbow nudged his side and Jon suppressed a ticklish yelp.
“Thinking.” The way he drew out the word and raised a brow made Jon grateful for his already rosy cheeks.
“Stop! No!” Tim raised his hands in supplication.
“Sure, sure, whatever you say!” He all but tackled Tim when he pulled out his phone and began texting and that’s how Martin found them, tangled up with each other, Jon’s fingers in a deathgrip around the device to prevent him from spreading gossip. Tim just laughed, loud and bright and Martin, the traitor, snapped a picture before doling out the kebab.
It was shortly after lunch that Jon felt the strain of the hours spent pressed between strangers and overwhelmed by sounds and colors and the deep breaths weren’t helping anymore. Instead, Jon’s whole chest ached from how tight it was strung, tied up in knots drawn tighter with each attempt. Incessantly, he checked his watch, trying to hide it from the pair chatting just ahead of him, but the minutes weren’t moving and all he wanted to do was escape the throng, nails digging painful crescent moons into his palms as he clenched his hands into aching fists. His heart was pounding, the sun beating down without mercy and he regretted his previous decision to quaff beer like there was a drought when the nausea returned.
Jon was on autopilot, eyes fixed forward, one step after another after another after another with his heart fluttering in a throat so narrow he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. So he tugged on Martin’s sleeve, gesturing clumsy and stiff to the edge of the green.
“Just. Just be a, a minute, yeah?” The concern in his eyes was suffocating. He was ruining this.
“Everything alright, Jon?” He’d reached a hard limit. There were no more words left, no more air, so he nodded, flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and walked away rigid and panting through an endless sea of jostling bodies.
Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why couldn’t he handle this like all the rest of them? Why did he have to be so difficult he needed to be invited to things out of pity?
What is wrong with you?
Jon hadn’t realized he’d yanked his hair out of its loose bun and was tugging on it until his head began to hurt. He stumbled more than once, vision going grey at the edges and what had only been anxiety before was swiftly sliding sideways into a panic attack. Dizzy. Where before he felt tense, as though breathing too deeply might crack him straight in half, now he was suffocating, arguing with himself:
Can’t breathe.
You can.
Back and forth, almost to the border and across the street to a bench, out of the way. Invisible. He’d fall apart here, scrape himself back together, and head back to find Martin and Tim. Ten minutes. He checked his watch. He’d give himself ten minutes. Panting, he pressed a hand to his breastbone, trying to force himself to calm down, relax, take in some air to prevent the black from spiraling further. Briefly, wildly he’s--
Dying.
Not. Shut up shut up shut up.
His ten minutes were almost up and it had been more like ten seconds. His chest hurt and he couldn’t breathe and his pulse was galloping out of control and filling his ears with a pounding, pounding, pounding. His fingertips were numb, he was light headed and trembling with his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. He wanted Martin. He wanted Tim. He wanted nobody to see him like this. He couldn’t decide which was worse god he was pathetic just get ahold of yourself, Jonathan Sims!
Curled up impossibly small, wracked violently with chills and panic, Jon poured all his energy into staying silent and when a warm hand landed on his shoulder his shout of surprise was trapped behind clenched teeth. He looked up into Martin’s wide eyes and felt his own spill over with tears and a muffled sob. He’d been caught and the panic only rose higher until Martin laid a heavy hand across his shoulder blades.
“Jon. You need to take a breath.”
“C’c ah an’t.” He’d been trying. And failing. Always failing.
“You can, I promise.” And when he demonstrated, exaggerated, deep, Jon felt a pang of jealousy at how easy it came to him. “You can.” A sip of air made it through, then another. “Good, there you go, slow, good.”
“What’s happened?” With Tim came a fresh wave of tears and he sat beside Jon so that he was bracketed by the pair of them. “Oh, Jon. Okay, doing great, bud.”
“I’m,” he paused, swallowed another gulping breath. “M’sorry.”
“No reason to be sorry.” Jon wasn’t altogether certain Martin could be believed. “Just breathe, in, out. Good.”
“Okay…m’okay.”
“It’s alright if you’re not. Take your time.” Jon slumped forward under the weight of it all, exhausted and sore and full to bursting with guilt.
“I’m j’just. I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough. His apologies never were and he didn’t know what else to say, what would make this better. “I didn’t mean. I.” Martin shushed his babbling, pressing a cool bottle of water into his shaking hands and wouldn’t hear anymore out of him until he’d downed at least a third.
“Jon?” The silence was becoming too much under the scrutiny of the pair of them and he just wanted to forget his little episode and get back to the festival so they would smile again instead of look at him with pity.
“We can, we can go back now.”
“Jon?” Of course, why would they want him to tag along anymore after this foolishness?
“Or I, I can leave, uh, go home. Yes. Yes, I’ll go home and see you at work. T’tomorrow.” Ignoring their noises of distress, Jon sprang to his feet and almost went down again when a wave of vertigo tilted the street. He was guided by careful hands back to the bench, head gently pressed down between his knees.
“Why didn’t you say you weren’t feeling well?” Tears traced his nose, falling to the pavement below but he forced them back, speaking in a very small voice in an attempt to contain his histrionics.
“Didn’t want to ruin our day.”
“What?”
“I know. I, I did anyhow, I’m--”
“You’ve not ruined anything, Jon.” Martin was so kind, too kind. And here he was squandering it.
“Yeah, boss. It happens, no harm done.” They didn’t understand and Jon clapped both hands over his mouth before it could all come bursting out, how much this meant to him and how upset he was to have lost his chance. It rushed forth anyway, too big, too vast, and not wholly intelligible.
“I know I was only invited because of Martin and I. I.” This was embarrassing and he wasn’t able to stop himself. He never could. “I was hoping I'd be w’welcome next t’time? If only I, I were on my best behavior.” Good lord, he was crying again, a mess, here in the street where he was probably drawing all manner of looks. They shouldn’t have to put up with this. “I, I know I can be, be awful. I don’t, I’m rude and quick to irritation and I’m, I’m--” Gasping. He’d worked himself into another bout or maybe he hadn’t even come down from it in the first place.
“Breathe, Jon.” Stern and his teeth clicked with the force of their collision. “Breathe.” Only when he wasn’t on the verge of passing out did Martin continue. “Jon, I’m sorry. I had no idea you felt this way.”
“If I’d known--” Tim was quiet. “I shouldn’t have assumed it wasn’t your scene. I didn’t. No. I mean, I didn’t, but that’s no excuse.”
“No, no it’s. It isn’t your--I. I.” It was him. “I.” Tim swept him up into an embrace, exerting the perfect pressure across his shoulders and he melted into the warmth like he’d done back in research a time or two.
Or three.
Maybe four.
“We’ll finish talking about this later, alright? When you’ve had some sleep.”
“I, I don’t--it’s…” When Martin’s firm grip enveloped his shoulder Jon gave up, let the rest of it all go. “I’m--”
“Don’t say it. Don’t need to be.”
“You’re our friend, Jon.”
“But--”
“Nope!” Tim helped him stand, took his arm in his and set off towards the underground. “Martin, my dear, my darling, if you’re amenable, I think I’d like to finish our spectacular day with a few drinks at mine.” Jon went red. “I don’t think you’ve yet had the pleasure of meeting my good friend Three-Shot Sims.”
“Tim!” Martin had the audacity to pretend to think about it.
“You know, Tim.” And both ignored Jon’s sputtering in favor of nearly carrying him down the street. “I don’t think I have!” With no other choice and knowing he’d be under no pressure to perform that particular introduction, Jon let Tim guide him along.
“Oh, Marto, my boy. He’s a real treat.”