Chapter Text
Frederick Polver would not have, five years ago, considered himself ill or dysfunctional in any quantifiable way. He had no issues, had nothing to ponder on, had no psychological issues.
The first time attending therapy was proposed to him, he had scoffed. For what could he possibly have needed that for? The second time, he did not scoff. He stayed up late at night thinking thoughts he can hardly remember anymore; there was nothing wrong with him, wasn’t there? He didn’t need therapy, did he?
It was not suggested to him again, because he approached Benji to ask him to assist in arranging a visit to a psychiatrist. Frederick did not like having to do things on his own, especially not things like this; he also didn’t like the fact that it seemed he was admitting to Benji that he had a problem. But he had to trade one for the other, and he knew what had happened all the other times he’d tried to sign up for something like this on his own, versus how Benji had reacted when he would confess a problem, in spite of what his head seemed to tell him.
The first session was tense. Frederick sat across from the psychiatrist with a rigid posture, hands folded in his lap, the same sort of posture he’d had during fancy dinners. Frederick and the psychiatrist had talked, although only about superficial matters like his hobbies, or his favorite foods, or people he liked. This sort of exchange should have been calming—it wasn’t as bad as he’d perceived it’d be, had it?—but it only served to frustrate him further.
He did not know anything about his psychiatrist. Not knowing anything about anyone is just setting oneself up for failure. Secondly, he did not know when the deeper talks would commence, how they’d commence, how long they’d take, what he’d have to admit.
***
Frederick sat across from Dr. Phoebe, fidgeting awkwardly. Over the course of five months of regular sessions, he’d gone from the rigid posture to the looser, more mobile posture he adapted readily around those he was comfortable with. Dr. Phoebe had assured him that he didn’t have to worry about judgement when he’d mentioned his peculiar sitting habits, but he hadn’t become comfortable until that lack of judgement had actually been displayed—people never meant their words at face value, there was always some hidden meaning Frederick had never uncovered. Dr. Phoebe had tried to assure him that all of her words were genuine, but he still seemed to never believe her when she’d say it, so she’d made sure to put them into action every time.
“Frederick,” Phoebe said, suddenly somber. That surprised Frederick; he couldn’t remember what exactly he’d said, but he’d made a funny quip about his mother when he was a child. The panic set in a moment later—-had he done something horribly wrong?
“Dr. Phoebe,” he said, voice shaking just a bit. He’d gotten accustomed to leveling his voice, but when it was particularly shocking it was always a little bit worse.
“Have you ever tried to label that? The experience you just described?”
He’d been discussing his mother’s perfectionism, he recalled, although it was possible his recollection was flawed due to the shock. She’d been a strict woman, and Frederick had pretty much only been somewhere near the forefront of her mind when it came to fancy arrangements he would represent her at. He’d probably mentioned, too, her habit of making him practice months before for hours on end how to have proper table etiquette and what to say and how to sit. He could remember making a joke about the permanent mark left on his spine from the chair he was forced to sit on, although he can’t recall the precise wording.
“No,” Frederick said, a little too quickly. Instead of thinking before he spoke, he’d decided to speak and then think. He probably had, at some point, tried to figure out what that would be called, but he’d given up long ago. It did him no good to dwell on the past, and if he couldn’t even come up with a solid label for it, then it probably wasn’t all that important.
Phoebe frowns, just a little bit, not enough for Frederick to notice but enough for her to feel. “Alright.”
They do not talk about it again for the remainder of the session, although it nags at Frederick’s head for the weeks leading up to their next session.
Frederick says something, Phoebe gives him the same look. Say something, pity look. This cycle goes on at least four times in a row.
***
“Frederick, that’s considered child abuse.”
There’s that look again, and the tone. They make Frederick itchy, like there’s sweat trapped beneath his skin that he can’t get out. Like he’s done something wrong, but in the way a child might’ve.
Frederick catches the words this time, though. He stills. He’s sprawled out across a couch, averting his eyes to the white ceiling, one leg over the arm rest and the other touching the ground. But the words make his thumbs stop twiddling, his head stop racing. Two words harness the whole thing, keep it in check.
Child abuse. Such a simple set of words. Abuse done to a child. What an abused child experiences. They made sense, on paper. But the word itself felt a million miles away, made him less itchy and more sick.
Frederick barely pays attention to the rest of the fifteen minute session, no information retained to talk about with Benji like he usually does except child abuse.
Frederick says goodbye to Dr. Phoebe and leaves the room, leaves the hallway, leaves the building. He makes it outside on shaky legs, feeling half blind. There’s bells ringing in his ears, harmonious chimes and violins and songbirds and snakes, and his heartbeat takes the role of the drums, violent and insistent.
He actually does go blind for a while, only hearing but not registering what he was hearing. When he can see again, he’s in his and Benji’s car—it’s technically registered under Benji’s name, but Frederick uses it more than him. Benji’s in the driver’s seat, looking at Frederick while he buckles up.
Frederick does not speak. He lets Benji speak first, lets Benji speak for him. He’s barely aware enough of his own body to speak in the first place.
“I’ll drive us home,” is all Benji says. The car is started and Benji begins driving. He turns on talk radio after five minutes of silence. Frederick listens halfheartedly to the weather and anecdotes about sports he doesn’t care about.
Frederick’s barely aware of the time that passed from the beginning of the talk radio to Benji pulling to a stop in the driveway.
Benji tells him that they’re home and Frederick apparently gets out because he’s at the door, fumbling with a key, except there isn’t any, so he looks to the ground to see if it fell but he can’t find it, which means he lost the key, until the door opens and Benji leads him inside.
Frederick stands still in the middle of the foyer like an awkward guest in a house that isn’t theirs owned by people they don’t know. Benji takes him by the hand and leads him to the kitchen breakfast table, a room down from the dinner table where they…well, eat dinner. Even though it is dinner time now, and if Frederick had been more aware of anything right now he’d be panicking over the fact that there were only thirty minutes until the mealtime he’d designated this morning. Instead, Frederick stares dully at the wood of the square table, still and with too good of posture to warrant comfort.
Benji stands up and turns the tap on; Frederick remains there, unmoving. Benji places a glass of water in front of Frederick. Benji reheats some grilled chicken from a night before that he hadn’t eaten—Frederick always ensures he cleans his entire plate unless the food is actively disgusting. He places the chicken on a plate and places that in front of Frederick, too.