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He's been lying there for hours, feeling his chest tighten, then loosen, then tighten again. Tears run down his face sometimes, panic and anxiety twisting his stomach into knots before letting go suddenly, then seizing him again, moments later.
He falls in, out, in, out- breathes in despair, breathes out optimism- for hours- until his door creaks open quietly, and someone whispers his name.
He doesn't respond. Can't.
He can barely bring himself to breathe consciously. He just.
drifts.
His headphones sit on the bed in front of him, just a kind of failsafe in case his thoughts get too loud.
They only move when someone sits on the bed with him, whispering his name again. He thinks eyes focus on him, and he distantly feels his face burn in embarassment.
He doesn't like being looked at (not when it's deliberate).
He averts his gaze to the side, rather than a deadpan stare straight ahead, like it had been been for hours.
Well, since he'd been lying there, at least.
He's not sure how long that's been, if he's being honest.
Warm fingers brush the skin of his arm, tentative. He still can't bring himself to respond, just blink. The person frowns at him, saying his name again, a little louder now.
When he still can't respond, they move their hand to the top of his head, beginning to pet there slowly. Fingers gently press into his scalp, tug out knots, push his short hair back.
Something about that- he doesn't know what, even weeks later, but. . . it draws him out of his trance.
He blinks again, slow, but this time everything floods back, trickling into his consciousness like a tiny stream.
The sounds of his friends bantering loudly out in living room, the sound of the fan spinning lazily above him.
The person calls his name again, and this time his brain clicks in the chinese jigsaw puzzle of his panicked thoughts. He knows who that is, now.
It's Ted, calling him, checking on him.
Ted.
He breathes out, just little.
He can breathe. He can do it.
Breathe.
"You okay, big guy?"
Schlatt meets his gaze.
He expects to feel panic, anxiety, maybe even to cry.
But he can't react at all, not beyond a deep huff of breath, though it's shaky as all hell. He feels his eyes begin to sting, but he still feels detatched.
Numb.
"Oh, Schlatt," Ted murmurs, going back to petting his hair again. He rest his hand there for a bit, letting his friend soak in the attention, more than happy to provide it.
-he doesn't feel like he needs to cry.
What is going on?
"Do you mind if I lay down here with you?" Ted asks after a minute, soft and kind.
Schlatt goes to nod, to reassure his friend, but then Ted moves his hand away, scooting back a little.
"I can stay over here if that's better."
Oh, and now he feels like crying, because at this point Ted is just reading his mail, offering him things that even Schlatt didn't know he needed.
The thought of having someone there (and not alone), but also across from him so that he doesn't feel smothered- absolute bliss.
He manages to nod. Just barely, just enough for Ted to interpret it.
His friend smiles, relieved. He hates leaving his friends alone when they're all tied up in their own heads. Any of them. At least this way he can help.
They lay there- quietly- for another long time, just breathing in the same room. They don't do anything but just breathe together, and somehow- somehow- it helps.
It feels like Ted takes half the workload Schlatt's carrying just to consciously breathe. He can think again.
He doesn't feel so trapped and wrapped up in his own head.
At one point, he gains back enough awareness to realise just how sore his side has become.
He shifts, just slightly. Much better.
He finds he even has the strength to stretch a hand out towards Ted, who takes it without question, beginning to gently play with the little spaces between his fingers, content.
It helps.
And he doesn't know why, but it does.
He sighs, feeling some of the solemnity leave his lungs, and he feels- just marginally- better.
He counts it as a win.
Ted squeezes his hand, just to reassure him that he's still here, will be here for however long it takes to gain the back courage to drop out of this awful headspace.
He swallows thickly, working his jaw until he's sure he can-
"I. . . " he trails off, looking away from his friend's ready gaze.
He swallows again, feeling a sudden, distant urge to vomit.
"I think it might've been a mistake to face-reveal, Ted," he admits quietly, feeling safe enough to be blantantly scared but too scared to look his friend in the eye.
He hadn't expected the wave of ethusiasts, the eagerness of his fans, how flooded he could be at Twitchcon, once it starts.
He's grateful for his fans, more than anything- of course.
But he didn't like crowds, hated big parties. Despised being in a room too long with way too many people.
And now it's part of his job description, because he'd had the impulsive gall to go and show everyone what he looked like.
Ted squeezed his hand again, and Schlatt looked back up at him, worried out of his mind.
Ted was holding his arms out, as if to say c'mere, more than ready to wrap around his friend like a human octopus.
Schlatt smiled, just a little, moving to lie half on top of Ted, hands gripping the sides of his sweater for dear life.
Ted gripped back, moving to hold him as tightly and securely as he could manage.
"I think it was the best decision, J," Ted told him softly, settling his chin atop Schlatt's head. "Look, it's Twitchcon. We don't have to stay the whole time, or go everyday. We can leave if you're too drained to stay. And I'll make sure Goop sticks together. No man left behind. Okay?"
Schlatt sniffled and nodded against him, feeling just that smallest amount of dread lift. He relaxed a little more into Ted's embrace, a long huff of breath leaving him, steady and strong, now. Determined.
"You gonna be okay, Schlatty?" Ted murmured, rubbing slowly up and down his back.
"Mhm," he hummed, burying his face in Ted's shoulder. "Jus' wanna sleep."
"Okay, J. It's okay; I've got you," Ted whispered. He drew him close, rested a hand on the back of his head, and settled in.