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It had not been a good day. Or four days. Maybe closer to forty. Who knew masking indefinitely and deciding you were never gonna meltdown again was the opposite of a grand time? Not him apparently. He bristled when Soap nearly brushed against him whilst reaching for the file Price had loudly and most definitively slammed on the table. Taking a less than steadying breath he shoved the feeling of cotton in his chest down and decided to act normal, his father hated when he didn’t, his mother never got it. Price kept talking- he kept unravelling; until he couldn’t forget the sound of Gaz chewing gum or Johnnys pencil on his sketchbook or the feel of that fucking mask he usually found comfort it. He was going to have a- whatever you call it. It was coined a tantrum for the majority of his life. A grown man. Having some stupid crying fit over his- don’t think of the shirt.
He was thinking of the shirt. The way it crawled on his skin like ants on cake.
He clocked a glance from Price, eyes locking for a second too long and he abruptly stood- barging out the door and trying to make his way to his room.
He could make it.
He could hear everything.
He turned the corner just to be hit by the scent of fish.
Rancid.
He froze, refusing to move a muscle.
He would not give in.
“-iley, Simon? Hey, c’mon-“
Price was careful to keep his distance, knowing full well Simon's meltdowns were very up and down.
He could scream at a hug or dissolve into a puddle of genuine tranquillity at one.
Simon shook his head rapidly at nothing, still hunched in the spot where fish had apparently invaded their base and made a new life for themselves. Price's lips made a fine line, “You ain’t gotta do that pretending bullshit ‘ere son, you're pushing yourself too much you gonna hafta let yourself go.”
Fuck no. Nuh uh.
“Can’t-“ His voice was stilted, suppressed and strained, an obvious sign of his stupidity.
“You can and will- you’ll make it worse for yourself ‘n I doubt you’d get to your room.”
His room. He wanted- needed his room, his bed, that weighted blanket that had mysteriously appeared the first time he’d had a ‘moment’ in front of Price.
He moved his lead arms, caging his head in, blocking out the light and noise but never- I mean who the fuck wants fish enough to brave making it in a fucking communal area?
He took a handful of deep breaths, feeling when Price firmly held his back- the pressure- thank fuck- and led him to his room.
Maybe he could avoid a-
There were some recruits outside his door, chatting shit no doubt and that was the end of his optimism.
A pathetic noise clawed from his throat as he felt his chest constrict.
Price gestured them out the way- a stern look and nod to his knife ensuring they’d keep their mouths shut.
After he had braved the hallway and managed to get into his room he fell to the floor- or more slinked slowly. Curling up, head barricaded.
He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t get his mask- the shirt- the laces-
“C’mere, keep your eyes shut son- I got this,” Price near tore off his boots, reaching up to his mask and chucking it across the room.
Price stood, grabbing a hoodie from Simon’s wardrobe he’d seen him wear when he was obviously- well obvious to him- struggling.
Simon ripped up his torso, suppressing sobs, drawing blood- he was going to die from this shirt.
His grave was gonna have the dumbest shit engraved onto it.
Price reluctantly moved to sit him up, wincing when the other shakily raised closed eyes to the ceiling to stop the tears. It was slow going, Simon wooden as they made a pained attempt to work together.
Simon's hitched breath afterwards was worth every second.
He carefully drew Simon in for a hug, relieved when he buried his face into his chest and almost squeezed ten years of his life.
He grabbed the weighted blanket and wrapped them up, squeezing back with just as much force.
He felt Simon gently hit- or more tap- his back in an effort to stim less harmfully.
Price thought about the challenge him and his boys had made to get Ghost to happy stim for a change. It was tough since he’d had stims beaten out of him which caused much debate on how and if he actually did. He would win. He knew that Simon lived for the feeling of someone talking whilst he was on their chest- must’ve been the rumbling and muffled noise.
“Y’alright son, I’ve gotcha- not gotta do none of that maskin’ shit with me.”
There was nothing.
Until he buried his ear impossibly closer, hands fluttering?
Definitely a flutter.
Against his back, he grinned- deciding to ramble on about the link between fishing and the force.
Basically utter waffle.
His hands kept fluttering as he slowly regulated.
“That felt like it should’ve been worse….not reassuring.”
His voice was muffled but less broken.
Price chuckled, Simon’s hands fluttered,
“If it returns to haunt you then we’ll cross that bridge when we get- although you could try gettin’ me next time, aye?”
Murmur of discontentment.
“I know you hate it but no one but yourself is judging you round here son.”
“Rookies?” “They’re terrified ‘n not that bad- I get rid of all the twats.”
There was silence.
“-aybe.”
“I’ll take a maybe from you any day, son.”