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Blocky tapped his foot against the store's tile, the rubber and ceramic colliding, making a soft clicking sound that rang through his ears. Sweat began to drip down his forehead, and his hands became clammy. His breathing became quicker and more shallow, and his head was buzzing.
Not here, not now, please not here. One breath, two breaths, three breaths. God fucking damnit.
Blocky checked out, speedwalking to his car and throwing the case of Monster and chip bags in his trunk. He sat in the car and started it, the warmth that blasted out of the vents managing to calm him a little. His heart was still hammering against his ribcage, and he felt weightless. But other than that, he was okay. Blocky ruffled his bright red hair, sighed, and began driving
It was only around a five to ten minute drive back home, but Blocky was on edge the entire time. The calmness that the warm air brought him wore off, and he was back to feeling fuzzy and panicked. He ended up at home safe, still that lingering feeling never leaving his side, even when he had his sweaty, shakey hand hovering over the doorknob.
"Blocky," He began to tell himself. "Calm the fuck down, get your shit together. You don't want to make Woody panic, don't you?" He opened the door, and softly closed it behind him. It was around 8 in the morning, and both of them were off work. Blocky smiled as his eyes averted to the couch, Woody asleep on it with the TV playing some kind of obscure youtube documentary, most likely on some random horror topic. He never knew why he would watch scary stuff if it freaked him out so badly. Blocky walked down the hallway, into the room they shared. The door quietly closed shut behind him. He plopped down onto the bed and held the first pillow he could reach close to his chest, hugging it as if his life depended on it.
The buzzing feeling came back, his entire body itching. Blocky tried to breathe deeply, but it was interrupted by a quiet sob.
Why did he feel like shit?? It wasn't fair, none of this was fair. Blocky was just fine a little over an hour ago. He held back yet another sob, tears pricking his eyes. He began to silently cry, his arms shaking around the pillow. Blocky scraped his fingernails against his flesh over and over again, in an attempt to ground himself, make himself calm down, anything.
Blocky's face was now soaked in salty tears, and blood was running down his chin. He didn't even notice that he was biting his lip. His breathing became erratic and shallow. Fuck.
Blocky didn't even notice when the door opened, or when someone sat next to him, wrapping their gentle arms around his battered, scarred-up body and rocking him gently. He didn't notice when a hand rested on his tangled and greasy red hair, petting him.
"Blocky." He jumped as he heard a soft voice call his name, ringing in his ears.
"W- Wood- Woody?" Woody's hand was in his, stopping Blocky from scraping himself even worse than he already had. His arms burned, his eye burned, his fingers burned, his face burned, his everything felt like it was on fucking fire. "It's okay, I'm here, I'm right here," Woody cooed, softly squeezing him. Blocky broke down into sobs again, clutching onto the other's beige sweater and wailing into his chest. His tears soaked the soft fabric, clinging to his face.
Woody calmly sat there, rubbing Blocky's back. After a few minutes, Blocky ran out of tears and calmed down enough to sit up on his own and wipe his face. "Thi- this is s- so st- stupid. I- I don't even kn- know why I'm c- crying s- so much." "It's not stupid, I promise. Did you get overwhelmed again?" Blocky nodded, not wanting to speak for fear of breaking down again. He had cried enough today, and if he cried any more he felt like his head would explode.
"Let's patch you up, ok honey?" Blocky nodded again, allowing Woody to help him up out of bed and lead him to the bathroom. Blocky sat on the toilet lid as his boyfriend scrummaged through the medicine cabinet before pulling out their first-aid kit. Woody was in the middle of cleaning Blocky's arms when Blocky opened his mouth to speak.
"There goes two whole months, down the fucking drain," Blocky cringed at his voice. He sounded stuffy and nasally, like a stereotypical high school nerd. Woody shook his head. "No, relapse is a part of recovery." "Well, it feels like I'll never recover." Woody looked up at him with sad eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching into a frown. A pang of guilt ran through Blocky's body. Why couldn't he just shut up for fucking once? Why did he always fuck things up? Does Woody pity him now?
His negative thoughts were halted by the other taking his hands. His thumbs caressed the back of Blocky's hands. "Blocky. I love you more than anything in the world, and I hate seeing you like this. I promise that it's gonna be okay. Even when you fall down, I'll be here to pick you back up again." Blocky returned the smile. "Y- you're gonna make me start cryin' again, man," He softly chuckled.
Woody finished mending his damaged skin, wrapping his arms in bandages. They both lay back down on the bed, holding each other close. The T.V. was turned on, playing some kind of kid's cartoon.
"Woody?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you. I-" Blocky gulped. "I love you."
Woody kissed the top of his head. "I love you too, honey."
Blocky dozed off, his soft snoring bouncing off the walls. Woody smiled and pulled his phone out, turning down the volume and scrolling on whatever social media app he found first. After an hour or so, he yawned, his eyelids becoming heavy. It was only around 10 in the morning, and the house was a bit dirty, but that wasn't important right now. He set his phone down and buried his face into Blocky's hair, taking his scent in.
He smelled like watermelon shampoo. He always used watermelon shampoo.