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Isaac can feel the stress radiating up and through his body as he turns on his side, facing his back towards the door. His phone illuminates, a few tweets and replies from friends. He ignores the urge to pick it up, instead tuning in on voices hidden by walls.
“Get out of here! Stop touching my jiggly bitch figure!” Someone, presumably Yumi, announces. And from that he can assume Larry’s up to his usual mischief. He almost allows for an upturn of his lips, almost , but it feels like he’s dissociating, or someone turned his comedy dial down and nothing but his own sadness can give him some ironic chuckle. Now, he’s left as a bystander, the real side character.
He feels the rush of blood to his head in waves, and then the ringing in his ears as he flips onto his stomach. A slow gurgle of bubbles arises in his digestive system, and he fights the uncomfortable pain, knowing he has to muster some food together downstairs.
But getting downstairs requires movement, and although he can see the door, and he can project his goal of food awaiting in the kitchen, his brain fogs. Not an ounce of motivation, the stairs are some sort of barrier, somehow keeping him from breaking through.
He can feel some sweat dripping from his pits, a sweaty circle forming around his arms. The chills combat his sense of heat, leaving him even more fun and exciting senses to mull over.
He slowly becomes a shadow, finally sneaking stealthily and quietly down the stairs after another ten minute mental battle; he leaves his door cracked for easy reentry.
Sticky feet grip onto the linoleum floors, and his meat claws dig and shift through some cold pizza leftovers. It amazes him how he can one day find peace in a workout and mid tier diet, then the next he’s sleeping until three pm. It leaves him too groggy to do anything, let alone think or eat.
So he finishes his second slice of pizza, thankful for the boring and dried day old taste, and also thankful that his stomach acid decided to stop rolling about. That battles over, he sighs outwardly in relief. Then he cleans his hands, frowning at the slimy sensations that puddle into the drain.
His sense of worth dwindles as he passes by Tanner who’s so easily distracted by a Mario Kart match with Larry.
It’s hard to know what you need to do but lack the energy to complete it. Hard to pad back up the stairs as he eagerly waits for his name to be called, and when it’s not, and he’s half way back in his bedroom, he’s beating himself up for wishing they’d acknowledge him like that. Despite his inability to look beyond his hazy episode, he still wants them to return affection.
It’s conflicting, he processes as he greets his lukewarm bed. Why does he so badly want recognition while daring to keep it inside. When he shows admiration he ends up picking at a flaw by accident, thinking that’s how conversation works.
But it isn't, and every time he dogs on Yumi for being slightly “difficult” or mentions a story in a rough manner on the podcast, he can feel the inward pressure and the annoyed tones.
He feels the shifts in their dynamics as he purposely tries to get to know his best friends, then the disapproval as they skim his awkwardness and take it as an insult. So he pulls the blanket over himself further, blocking out the voices that diss and pick at some negative aspect of conversation.
“It’s always conversation,” he whispers to the air. If he had a therapist they would tell him it’s healthy to speak to others, to admit how you feel and claim accountability for your words and actions.
But, he doesn’t have one, because he doesn’t need one. The inner workings of his brain provide the best critique he knows, and he tries to take the criticism well, but he can’t.
He pulls the blanket over him entirely, knees pressed into his stomach. He feels content as he is in the moment, he doesn’t want the clock to keep spinning in circles as he notices another digit adding to the date.
It’s hard to fathom that his goals are being reached partially, and he’s partially happy most days. And he’s partially aware that he’s been getting better. But days like these, where all he does is think and blink, eat his entire being whole.
He can feel his lids encompassing his eyes, blinking at debris as they slowly shut. Black abyss is replaced with static and he understands lobotomies now. He wants so badly to numb the voices and dull the nagging because most days he’s alright.
Most days he’s not laying fetal in his bed, ready for anyone to bother him about something stupid to distract him and feed into his feelings.
Most days though, he can’t ignore the agitation that accumulates. He can idolize a friend one day, then the next he’s in a secret argument with them. And it’s petty the way he slings his position around like an ego, but he doesn’t want them to keep resenting him for being the main character; because he isn’t.
He hasn’t ever felt like the main character. Not once. Maybe in childhood? But as Nick knocks on his door, asking about some footage he decides it’s not even worth answering.
What is he going to say anyways? Some meaningless words that slip off his tongue in an odd manner and then convey a shady tone.
His tears are silent, but his lungs are filled to the brim in agony. They feel like they might burst as he struggles to hold a gasp in, failing as he chokes on a movie like sob.
It’s so hard to contain his strained voice as Nick tries to understand what he hears as a mumble, “What was that? Boy you giving me attitude?!”
If not for the poorly timed breakdown he might have had a joke lined up, or laughed, or done anything else but sob so excruciatingly. But he sobs, and realizes he can't contain it further, he just sobs.
“Wa- wait-, Isaac, you good?” Nick sounds both confused and worried, and he can blurrily picture him standing there with his stupid Italian brows scrunched in a mix of emotions.
He stands still waiting for Isaac’s answer. He’s thankful that he doesn't sound so pathetic after catching his breath and responding, “I’m…. fine.”
He can’t think right, so he sits back upright, jotting towards his door, peeling it open.
“Oh, hi,” Nick replies in surprise, studying his face as he notices the reddened features.
“Can I have a hug?” The taller asks, and it comes out so cringely that he has to bite back the idea of closing the door and returning to his spawn point.
“Yeah,” is all he says, already leaning in as Isaac shrinks, almost meeting the same height. And they hug for a good half a minute as Isaac composes himself.
Anxiety creeps back in as he evaluates that the other might feel rightly disturbed and disoriented. And he dislodges himself without a word.
“I’ll send you the clip,” he returns as a thank you of sorts. Although, he would have done so without the hug. And so he reasons that he’s fine again and that whatever happened for the past half a day didn’t happen and everything is alright. And no further discussion is needed, but Nick soaks in the moment and he parts his lips, forming a sentence that he can’t quite put together.
“Do you…” he starts as they shift into Isaac’s room with increments of tiny toe steps and fidgets. “Is this, like, an episode?”
Isaac grows a slight frown, although he’s inwardly happy about this situation where his friend is checking in on him, it feels so dastardly embarrassing. As if he was a child who threw some weird tantrum.
He can feel the emotional immaturity in him battle between leaving him with an uncomfortable pit in his stomach that rattles him to the core while auctioning a weird contorted concept in his head that makes him so fucking happily also uncomfortable.
“I don’t know,” leaves his mouth in a quiet rasp. He doesn’t know, but suspects he’s got some conflict that contributes. A conflict that releases in waves of episodes.
So he does know, “I think it’s something. I don’t know what, but I don’t need help but,” he stutters out, “I would really fucking love it.” His cheeks flush, he’s so embarrassed asking for support.
“But I also want to help you,” he continues,” I just…”
“It’s okay Isaac,” it feels so wrong to hear his name. But he’s glad it’s his, it’s grounding.
“I love you homie,” such a foreign sentence but he owns the delivery making it seem like it’s been used a million times over in a conversation directed at him.
They reconnect in a hug, Nick rekindles it again, his earring accidentally scraping against the other’s shoulder.
“It’s okay,” the brunette doesn’t pause between words, “we got each other, you’re just really shitty at showing it in a normal people way.” They both laugh, a real harsh but light laugh. They disconnect again, still used to the discomfort of long periods of touch.
“You care, I know you do. Thank you.” They just nod at each other in a new understanding.
Isaac shifts, looking at his ring that he shuffles on and off his finger, “Thank you.”
“Do you want to sit in your room and just hang?” Nick offers.
“Do you want to sit in your room and hang?” Isaac counters, meeting his gaze as they share smiles.