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Some nights, Henry really despises his brain.
Well, most nights, if he’s being particularly pessimistic, but he’s trying to look on the bright side more these days. Lean into the optimism Alex seems to ooze from the very pores of his being, despite his arguing that, actually, Henry, I am a very serious and realistic person, thank you. To which Henry would argue that optimism isn’t exactly evading realism, but he’ll digress.
Which is almost rich coming from him, considering that for most of his life, he believed that he had it figured out. That things weren’t always good, and if they were inherently good, they were tricking you somehow. And somehow, that equated to him thinking that he had some advanced understanding of the world, because he was real with himself. He knew good wasn’t absolute.
Except, that was a tiring fucking way to live. Hence, trying to be more optimistic. Keyword: trying.
So, some nights Henry hates his brain. Not most nights. Some nights. Because other nights, his brain is quiet and calm. Other nights, Alex’s arms feel safe around him as they watch an episode of Great British Baking, or Alex lets him ramble on about whatever Wikipedia article rabbit hole he’d fallen down until he falls asleep mid-sentence. Those nights are good.
Tonight is not one of those nights.
Really, Henry doesn’t know when his mood started to sour. The day had started out fine, but he’d realized somewhere around lunch time when he spilled his glass of water all over the counter and nearly cried as he watched the puddle expand, that it was going to be one of those days.
He’d tried to push through anyway. Met Alex for his lunch during his break at the shelter like they’d planned, and pushed through some of the paperwork he needs to have in by that weekend, but everything felt cloudy. Like his hands were a million miles away. He’d used to call it Movie Mode, until his therapist told him it’s called dissociation. He still hasn’t quite mastered grounding.
Floating through the day had been fine, though. Better than being present for the awful twist in his stomach. Except, Henry thinks that maybe it was a mistake to let it go that long, because the clock is blinking 4:54 am back at him and everything feels like it’s rushing back now. Energy in his body twisting at the base of his spine, spreading outwards until it feels like his nerves are on fire.
He knows he’s anxious. He knows. Can tell by the way his heart is beating too fast and it feels like there’s a perpetual lump in his throat. But knowing doesn’t do a damn thing to stop the swirling thoughts.
Usually when he feels this shit, there’s a reason he can trace it to. A logistical explanation that connects the inner workings of his brain and anticipation to the buzzing in his body. Like the time he’d thrown up in the youth shelter bathroom, because one of the kids had a parent going through a sickness that hit way too damn close to his dad. Or the time Philip’s goddamn friend my came with him to some stupid fucking function, and the fucking broom cupboard he’d shoved that particular memory was thrust wide open before he could shove the door shut.
Those times made sense. This did not. And Henry hates when things don’t make sense.
Huffing, he rolls over, away from the clock. On the other side of the bed, Alex is asleep on his stomach, snoring loud enough that Henry is surprised their neighbors haven’t knocked. Usually, he finds it endearing. Tonight, it’s too loud. But he’s pretty sure plugging your boyfriend’s nose to stop him from snoring could be classified as a murder attempt, so he lets it be.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Henry tries to focus on anything but the pit in his stomach. The fabric against his fingertips as he clutches the duvet cover-- 100% cotton, because Alex swears by that. The pillow beneath his head, beaten down and warm where he’s been tossing and turning on it for hours. The ceiling fan, clicking softly with each spin. Alex’s snoring.
Apparently, grounding was a bad idea, because it suddenly all feels like too much. Too close and too loud all at once. Reaching up, Henry covers his ear with one palm, smashing his other against his pillow, but it doesn’t do anything to drown out all the goddamn noise he can hear in the room. He feels like he’s suffocating all of a sudden, everything expanding outwards behind his ribs and taking up too much room. The sheets are too scratchy and his head is too loud and everything’s too much and he just wants it to stop--
He doesn’t realize he’s gotten too tense until it’s hard to pull in a breath.
Henry lets out a little wheeze, rolling back onto his back, stretching his arms above his head. The change in position doesn’t help his lungs expand any further, and Henry grits his teeth, trying to suck in a breath, but he can’t and his chest hurts and maybe he had known this was coming all day, but the knowledge of that doesn’t do anything to fend off the mounting panic attack.
Sitting up, he bends forward, lacing his fingers in his hair as his chest heaves and it hurts and he can’t breathe and--
“Henry?”
Next to him, Henry can sense Alex sitting up, and two minutes ago, he might have rolled over and tried to evade Alex’s concern, but there are tears in his eyes now and he can’t--
“Ah, shit.” Rustling, a lamp switching on. Of course Alex knows that Henry prefers when it’s light in a room. It helps him focus. “Henry, can I touch you?”
Distantly, Henry is aware that he’s shaking and judging by the way he’s starting to feel lightheaded, he knows he’s hyperventilating, too. He nods, letting out a sob that had been roiling inside him probably since he’d spilled that goddamn glass of water, and it was never really about the water, but that’s all he can think about right now. Knocking over the glass and watching the water spill out and not being able to control or stop it and he hates this part. Hates when he remembers he’s not in control. That he can’t stop everything from going wrong. That no matter how hard he tries, some bad things are going to happen anyway.
He hates it.
He can’t breathe.
“Henry, can you hear me?”
Fuck. Alex had asked him something. He nods.
“You’re gonna make yourself sick, baby.” The bed dips and Henry opens his eyes. Alex is in front of him now, hands hovering, but not touching, eyes clouded in concern. “Can you breathe with me?”
Henry latches onto Alex’s gaze, soft and steady and sure where Henry never manages to be. His perfect complement. It helps to ease some of the weight on his chest-- a tether that isn’t overwhelming.
He nods again, throat dry.
“Okay,” Alex says. “Okay, good. Um, can I touch you?”
Henry reaches out in answer, grabbing onto Alex’s wrist, feeling the pulse there.
Alex’s lips quirk into a smile, and he tilts his head.
“Always two steps ahead of me, hm?” Alex reaches down, hand resting over Henry’s on his wrist. He squeezes, and Henry closes his eyes, feeling the touchpoint between them. “Okay, I’m gonna count and we’re gonna breathe, okay? Okay. One… two… three…”
It takes several agonizing minutes, but eventually, Henry manages to pull in a breath by himself. Sucking in another shaky breath, he slumps forward into Alex’s chest with a groan.
Alex’s hand settles in his hair, soft, gentle. Henry almost wants to cry again.
“Sorry,” he says.
“No sorries.” Alex scratches the spot behind Henry’s ear that always makes his stomach flip in the best way. He leans into the touch. “Did something happen? Or…”
Henry shakes his head. “Just… an anxious day, I think. Kinda felt inevitable that I’d freak out monumentally at some point.”
Alex hums. “I get it. It happens.”
“Yeah.”
They’re quiet for a few minutes, save for the sound of the air conditioning and Henry’s shaky breathing. Alex starts humming something quiet and nondescript. Henry lets it settle over his skin like a balm.
Henry isn’t sure how much time passes before Alex pats the back of his head.
“You think you’ll be able to get back to sleep?”
The idea of rolling back over and laying in the silence again has Henry’s shoulders drawing up to his ears.
“We don’t have to,” Alex says. “Could stay up for a little longer. Find something easy to do.”
Henry sags. “Can we?” He leans back, looking at Alex and feeling like he’d just been run over by a bus.
Alex kisses his nose. “Of course. Wasn’t there a new documentary you wanted to watch?”
Henry shakes his head. “I think if I try to watch anything right now, I’ll explode,” he says, then lets his gaze drift to the side, catching sight of the 1000 piece puzzle of star signs they’d bought on a whim at Barnes and Noble earlier that week. “Want to finally start on the puzzle?”
Alex raises his eyebrows. “You don’t wanna watch something, because that’ll be… too much, but you want to build a puzzle?”
Henry shrugs. “I like menial tasks.”
Alex laughs, tossing his head back, and Henry cracks a smile, his mind quieting even further.
“Fuck, sure, we can start on the puzzle,” Alex says, nudging Henry out of bed.
And as Henry watches Alex tear open the plastic bag holding the puzzle pieces, despite the fact that it’s nearly 5:30 in the morning, he can’t help but think that he’s really the luckiest goddamn person on earth. Here, in the quiet of their brownstone, together and whole, nothing can touch him. Not really.