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It catches you in the middle of a patrol.
One moment you’re fine, just keeping a mental note of the tasks you need to complete, carefully delegating them across your classmates – your friends. The next second, and it’s all wrong.
It’s a simple thought in your head that arises from small, nagging seeds of doubt. It’s the first time – because up until now you’ve only doubted yourself, so it was easy to crush the mindless chatter. Recently, however, you’ve been involved with others, and like all matters that deal with people that aren’t you, doubts bloom far easier.
You find it hard to explain that you’re not doubting your capability, but rather if you’re perceived as capable. Because you know damn well how having a certain ability and others acknowledging it is a different matter. Usually you have the right excuses to cut away at the doubts, years of experience, but this subject is alien to you.
It starts with the fondness swelling in your chest, until it feels like it could crack your rib cage and reform you wholly. But instead of the happiness you expect to follow soon thereafter, only dread settles in the pits of your stomach, weaving itself into a stubborn knot. The longer you try to untie it, the worse it tangles.
Friends are temporary.
Only three words. The voice is familiar, and with ease you can recognize the different people in it, an amalgamation of people you don’t want to remember.
It doesn’t need any more to make you halt and lose your breath. The rest is a conjecture of your mind as you slowly piece together petty reasons, each of them is used against you right after you form them in your head.
How can you be sure they’ll stay by your side?
You don’t.
Won’t losing them be painful?
Oh, it would be downright devastating.
Would you be able to trust anyone else after that?
That’s the one that gets you, because you really don’t know.
The world around you shifts as you can barely hold yourself together. Standing is an impossible task at the moment and you find yourself leaning against something so you wouldn’t fall. At first, it’s just a slight shortness of breath, but it quickly evolves into something you’ve never experienced before.
The sun is setting down. Before, you enjoyed the drop in the temperature, now you shiver until your teeth chatter. The sunlight, barely reaching you when you stand behind the building, blinds your eyes and blurs your vision. And the noise – oh, the noise is terrible. You can first hear the thumping of your heart in your ears and you can hear the chatter as your teeth smack against each other. There is also the sounds of the streets around you, the type of urban noise that you've never been a fan of, and it's all so, so overwhelming.
You drop to the ground and try to block the noise by placing your hands on your ears. You desperately close your eyes. You clench your jaw tightly.
It doesn't help.
The light. So brightly. it shines through your eyelids.
The noise can't be muffled with your hands. Because it's your own heartbeats that are the loudest and you can't make them disappear, make them stop, throw them away – it hurts, it hurts, and it hurts. The breath you’ve been holding in hurts too much, so you let the air come out through your mouth, in a small gap between your teeth. You’re still shivering, so the air that comes out is caught in between the clunking and creates a noise of its own – a high shrieking that makes your heart beat even faster, if that's possible. Your lungs, hollowed of air, don't seem to take in air anymore. Perhaps they do, a small amount, because there's another shrieking, but the sounds differ.
“Ah, hah, ah…”
You pant deeply. Your eyes are still screwed shut, but you can hear footsteps coming to you. You can hear them picking up and someone kneels besides you.
The hand that shakes you is warm, followed by the distinctive syllables of your name, but it’s too warm.
It burns you.
“Don't touch me!”
Even though it's your own scream, it sounds strange to you. Distant. Pained.
You don't want to hear it.
You just want to close your eyes completely.
To be shrouded in darkness.
“Let go of me.”
This time it's a whine. With a shriek, of course. Because you can't quite breath yet. Because each word is a struggle. Because it hurts. And why the hell can't you make it stop already?!
“Hey…” His voice is filled with concern. “What can…” Hesitation. He doesn't really care. “What can I do…to help you?”
Nothing!
Nothing!
Nothing!
Just go
away!
You feel doubtful.
When will it stop?
Never. Never. Never.
Your fingers curl around your ears, scratching the skin behind it in the process. The shot of pain is amplified.
For now you need to – to stop.
Stop what?
Stop… thinking.
Yes, because thinking makes you spiral down. So no more thoughts.
And you need to cover your eyes. And your ears. You're too sensitive and too on edge. You need to stop thinking and feeling, for a few minutes, and then it’ll all stop.
“Loud.” Your voice croaks. “Bright.” You add, because this is the only help he can offer.
“Okay, just…gimme a second.”
You never noticed how deep his voice can drop when he is quiet. That's a bit soothing, as it makes you think about something else. Before you can dwell on that, his hands are shy of touching your shoulder once again, hovering in a way that makes it clear he's trying to move slowly.
“Just for a second – take off your hands?”
But can you trust him? Friends are temporary after all. He might not even be your friend.
With a shaky gasp, you take off your hands and feel something pressing against your ears. The immediate silence that envelops you brings you a momentary relief.
Ah, that's his headphones, right? The ones he always brags about, rambling about how the bass isn't overpowering the melody and how well they cancel noises. Well, you can tell the latter is absolutely correct, you can't hear anything with it.
So now you can cover your eyes and take your time breathing. His hand slipped from your shoulder to your arm, holding it very loosely, but you can still feel his heartbeat through his fingertips. You let his rhythm dictate your breathing, which quickly evens out thanks to his steady pace.
And then it's over. The pain that clutched you is washing away.
You pinch yourself lightly to make sure it's gone and, much to your relief, you don't feel as bad. You’re not sure how you look, though, because when you raise your head and open your eyes you're forced to blink away tears. You didn't even know you cried.
The worry is still trapped in your chest, but it doesn't make itself apparent. Just hides cowardly next to your heart, until the next opportunity arises. You curse it from the depths of your heart, half of it is reflected back at you.
When you feel safer, you can finally turn your head to the side and face him, His expression is weary and you want to tell him to fuck off, but your mouth doesn't move. Being at peace turns out to be more exhausting than expected.
“Let's go home.” He eventually tells you, awkwardly putting a stop to the silence in which you were staring at each other. An empty sentence, because your house isn’t really your home, but you get it. He doesn't know any better, so you nod in agreement. You do want to sleep after all.
He gingerly stands up, but for you it's a different case. You’re troubled by your languid limbs that don't move like you want them to. It’s so bad that he offers you a hand and you take it. And it's so bad that you can feel how sweaty your hand is against his cool palm. You move your arm, intending to shake off his hand because you don't want to hold his hand when you're sweating so much, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he pulls you closer, in a manner that makes your previous action silly. Like a kids’ game. Or a dance.
You don't get to think about it too much though, because closer is much closer than you anticipated. You’re right in his arms and only then he lets go of your hand, but not before holding you with the other so you wouldn't, presumably, recoil back.
He's fully hugging you, with one of his hands calmly patting your back. It's almost at the same rhythm of his heartbeat, which makes you wonder, but you're too tired to form coherent thoughts. It's easier, and nicer, to indulge in the moment and let him hold you. When you're not so sensitive, his body warmth is pleasant rather than burning, and it's also so soothing.
You can almost fall asleep like that.
Perhaps you did.
The rest of that evening is a bit of a daze. You can't remember walking home and you can't remember changing clothes and crawling under the blanket. In the morning, you're surprised to feel a firm mattress below you. The ceiling looks different as well, but it's still familiar, because it's his room.
So funny. You let out a choked laugh. Apparently, when he talked about going home, he was referring to his own house. You don't know if he really meant that, because you might've actually fallen asleep so he had no other choice, but you want to believe he did plan it.
Under his blanket, which feels heavier, you can't feel any doubts gnawing at you. You know it didn't go away completely, this sort of thing never does, but you don't want to deal with it at the moment. Later, later, later, you chant in your head thrice, a promise to yourself.
To your left, there's his back, radiating warmth that you only wish to cling onto for a while longer.