Chapter Text
The revolution didn't go as CB hoped. Not that he'd stop holding Beethoven's hand in public or take back any of it— some people were finally getting bored of them, like Van, and others were losing steam.
Some people, though. It was like they needed to harass him and Beethoven in order to live. At the two weeks mark since the fateful party, everything was in a weird spot where it was new enough to still be a bit of a sting but old enough to not be surprising.
It would've been fine today, really! He'd heard a lot worse back in elementary school! But today was different. Today, CB had had one of his freakouts.
He wasn't sure why they happened— the freakouts. He couldn't even clearly remember when they'd started. All he knew for sure was that a few times every few weeks, he'd find himself unable to breathe and feeling like he was about to die. Since the start of the freakouts, his dog had been there to sit by his side while he rode out the raw panic.
But. His dog died. And today had been the second freakout he'd had after his dog died, and it was somehow more painful and exhausting than usual without the good-natured beagle at his side.
So sue him, he wasn't at full capacity to hear and then appropriately tune out how he was an affront to nature and disgusting because he happened to have a boyfriend. A great boyfriend, mind you— he'd almost feel comfortable arguing people were just mad he'd scored someone like Beethoven all to himself.
Still, by the time CB got to the music room at lunch, he felt worn out and quite frankly, like shit.
He seemingly wasn't the only one. Beethoven wasn't even at the piano when he arrived to the music room, instead slumped against the wall and sitting on the music room floor with his head in his hands. CB closed the music room door behind him and made his way over to sit next to Beethoven.
"Hey," CB said. His voice sounded rough and exhausted. Beethoven nodded without uncovering his face in the least. "I only got called a faggot four times today."
"Why do you keep count?" Beethoven still hadn't raised his head out of where it rested in his hands. CB shrugged.
"I don't know. I just... do." CB ran a hand through his hair and searched through his bag. "Want to split a ham sandwich with me?"
Beethoven shook his head minutely, then groaned. "No. Fuck, I feel nauseous."
"Are you sick? Did someone hit your head?"
"Yeah, but I don't think that's why my head hurts. I have a migraine."
"Oh. That sounds bad." Beethoven shrugged, not in the mood to care about his own plight. "Can I help?"
"The nicest thing you can do for me right now is to shut up for a few minutes." The words were harsh, and the tone was clipped, but at this point CB understood that was just how Beethoven talked. So, CB obliged: he ate most of his sandwich in silence, and then gently nudged Beethoven in hopes of getting him to at least eat a few bites of something. Beethoven took the sandwich with little fight or comment— really, the biggest sign of how bad the migraine was— and nibbled on it.
CB got a good look at Beethoven's face and grimaced.
"Oh, that doesn't look good."
Beethoven gave him a flat look.
“You sure know how to make someone feel good about themselves.”
CB couldn’t help it— he reached out for Beethoven’s face, and Beethoven leaned away from his touch with a glare. CB dropped his hand back down.
“Have you cleaned it? We could probably get it with some wet paper towels.”
“CB, I’m not going to the school bathrooms. Not even with you. Especially not with you.” Beethoven absently blotted the dried blood around his lip and chin. “Can you imagine the shit people would say?”
“Let them talk.” CB pulled a napkin out of his lunch bag and thought about where the nearest water fountain might be.
“They already do, CB, that’s the problem.” Beethoven tenderly pressed his fingers to the area around his left eye. CB assumed that was probably where the pain was the worst. Luckily though, there was no black eye. Beethoven frowned at the lack of obvious injury. “I still don’t get why you threw it all away to be with me.”
“I wanted to, easy as that.” CB reached for Beethoven’s hand, which was still lingering uselessly around his eye. “Let me get some paper towels wet and I’ll be right back, okay?”
Beethoven bore his eyes into CB’s skull. He blinked blearily, like the migraine was taking all his focus and energy. Then, flatly as only Beethoven could:
“CB, you look like shit.”
Beethoven bowed his head forward again and tore his hand out of CB’s to grip the side of his head with a pained groan.
“You’re lucky your head hurts,” CB said with a small smile. “I don’t argue with sick boyfriends.”
“…Yes, I’m so lucky to have a migraine that makes me want to gouge out my brain with a screwdriver. Thank you for opening my eyes to this—” a hiss of pain “—once in a lifetime opportunity.”
“I’ll be back.”
CB ducked out of the music room and into the nearest bathroom, grabbing as many paper towels as he could. He drenched them in the sink and made his way back. Beethoven was still on the floor with his head in his hands. CB sunk down on one knee next to him and gently pried Beethoven’s hands away from his head. He let out a low hum at the sight of the split lip.
Beethoven hissed and tried to jerk his head away from the wet paper towel, but CB kept his head in place and continued blotting away at the dried blood on Beethoven’s face.
“Why are you bothering, anyway?”
“Shh.” CB dropped the first paper towel on the floor and reached for a second one. “I can’t clean it if you keep talking.”
Beethoven rolled his eyes but kept quiet. Once CB cleaned the blood to his satisfaction and let go of Beethoven face, Beethoven piped up again.
“You of all people telling me to shut up.” Beethoven leaned his head back until it rested against the wall. His eyelids fluttered with pain before he closed them again. After about a minute, he spoke again. “You really do look like shit. What happened?”
CB crossed his arms and shrugged. He thought about what to say while Beethoven stared at him with eyes squinted tight with pain.
“It’s stupid.”
“It’s you. When has that ever stopped you before?” CB let out a startled laugh at the same time that Beethoven flushed. “Shit, that came out wrong. I’m sorry. I swear I’m trying to be nice to you right now.”
“I know,” CB chuckled. “It’s cute.”
Beethoven was somehow more red in the face than before. He ran a hand through his hair and averted his gaze, fully embarrassed.
“Shut up— you do not get to call me cute right now. I’m trying to be a good boyfriend. You look terrible. What’s wrong? And don’t tell me that it’s stupid or that it’s nothing.”
CB’s smile fell off his face as he stared at his scruffy sneakers. He sighed deeply.
“I just kinda started the day badly? Uh, I have these… freakouts, where I can’t breathe and my heart goes really fast and everything just feels uniquely awful.”
Beethoven didn’t respond, instead nodding encouragingly like he was trying to tell CB to keep talking.
“And they’re usually not that… okay, they are pretty bad, even though I’ve been having them for years now. It’s just that my dog used to stay by my side until I felt better, but… well, you know.” CB shrugged, “he can’t really do that when he’s dead.”
Beethoven took in a sharp breath and wrung his hands together. He seemed deep in thought, considering what CB had just said.
“So uh, yeah. It’s stupid. I mean, I freak out for no reason and then it’s worse because a dog isn’t there to—”
“They’re called panic attacks.”
CB stopped his rant and turned to face Beethoven.
“What?”
Beethoven shrugged stiffly.
“Your ‘freakouts,’” he made small air quotes, “are actually called panic attacks. Um.” Beethoven scratched the back of his neck and kept his gaze firmly on the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the room. “That’s what shrinks call them, anyway.”
“Oh.”
Having a name for them felt weird. Suddenly, it wasn’t just another weird thing about CB, but something enough people in the world had that it had a proper name.
A name shrinks used for it, anyway, meaning that CB probably was actually at least a little bit of a nutcase. Maybe Van’s Sister was right. Maybe everyone in the world is crazy after all.
The dots connected about as gently as an electric shock.
“You—” both questions jumbled together in his mouth, “—you’ve been to freakouts too? Er, panic attacks.”
Beethoven stared at him like he’d just spoken pure gibberish. CB realized what he’d said and tried again.
“I mean, you’ve been to the shrink before? And you get uh, panic attacks, too?”
“Used to,” Beethoven corrected. He didn’t specify which question he was answering. He rubbed his left temple absently, twinging in pain. “Court mandated. After my dad got arrested. I hated that child psychologist or whatever he was. I think he hated my guts, too.” Beethoven shrugged again. “He’d ask me how I felt about the whole thing and I’d just throw shit on the ground and refuse to talk.”
CB mulled it over.
“Yeah, sounds like something you’d do,” he said finally.
Beethoven laughed— a breathy, mirthless sound.
“Uh, do you want to talk? About how you felt about the whole thing?” That was the good thing to do, right? CB fought back the pang of anxiety that arose at the sight of Beethoven’s face twitching into a discontented frown.
“We’re talking about your panic attacks right now.”
“Yeah, but… your whole thing is more—”
“I’m not doing this shit,” Beethoven groused. “We’re talking about you right now. Your panic attacks. Your dog used to help you through them, but your dog died.” Beethoven let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not helping.”
“You are!” CB assured. Beethoven cringed in pain at the volume and CB grimaced. Right, the migraine. “You are,” CB said again, much quieter. “I didn’t even know they were called panic attacks. Now I know what they are. I can look them up on the internet.”
Beethoven wrung his hands together again.
“…I’m sorry I was such an asshole about your dog dying,” he said. “It’s probably way too late now, but… I’m sorry about your dog. Really.”
CB’s eyes stung as they welled up with tears. He blinked them back and ignored the lump in his throat.
“It’s alright. Better late than never, right?”
“Your dog… he was a good dog.” Beethoven stumbled over his words. “Even if he howled when I played the piano.” CB let out a hollow laugh. “He was a good dog.”
“He was,” said CB, voice thick with emotion. He wiped his face harshly even though his eyes were dry. “I hate how emotional the panic attacks make me.”
“You can cry if you need to. I’ll even look the other way if you want.”
CB shook his head.
“I’m fine. I won’t cry.” He’d already cried that morning, anyway. He didn’t really feel like crying twice in one day. “We can talk about that other thing now, if you want.”
Beethoven rolled his eyes.
“I really don’t want to, actually. Listen, I know you’re trying to be a good person, but we don’t need to waste our lunch period with my sob story. My head hurts. I haven’t even played the piano today. All I want to do is ditch and take a nap somewhere, but we can’t.”
CB considered the situation.
“I have a car. We can totally ditch. Where do you wanna go?”
Beethoven gave CB an unimpressed look.
“Why would I want to ditch school with you?”
“Because then you can take a nap.”
The offer was too good to refuse. Beethoven scrambled to stand up and slung his backpack over his shoulders. He extended a hand to CB and pulled him up so they were both standing. He slumped against CB’s side slightly as they began their walk out of the music room (and out of the school).
“Okay.”