Work Text:
Hal Incandenza is used to the constant thrum of anxiety through the way it always presented in the Moms. His childhood, even up to the current day, feels buffered by it like the gutters on each side of a bowling lane. Hal can recognize her high-strung habits from a mile away, and for a very long time, that was really his only benchmark for what something like that looked like. That's the explanation he gave himself upon realizing that his newest close E.T.A. friend, a quiet, fidgety boy who played tennis like he was waiting for the ball to become sentient and attack him, was always so goddamn tense because his mind just never slowed down. Of course, now that he knows, it's easy to find some of the similarities; both his friend and the Moms have weird little food rituals, they both could never stand having their backs to open doors, and there is a shared fear of projecting too much of their own panic onto Hal that laced his interactions with the two.
The difference was that Hal found the Moms traits to be simple facts of life while his friend's were overwhelmingly endearing. It'd only taken one two-hour-long phone call with Orin to put a name on it; Hal was in love, and that was that. He'd always been rather good at accepting and compartmentalizing things like that- it was easy to just put them all aside in his head and not address it at all. It was this complacent non-addressing strategy that led him to decide that bringing up his feelings was an action entirely off the table. He wouldn't do it, he couldn't do it, and there was nothing anyone could do or say that would change his mind. That didn't mean he wasn't giving any signs, though. Especially not to those who knew how to look.
--------------------------
It started at dinner one night when eating more than a couple of bites felt insurmountable. You were grateful you'd had the foresight to take small portions anyway; your stomach protested even just the sight of your chewed on entree-sandwich in that stuffy, cotton ball way that always seemed to strike at the most inconvenient times. Seated between Hal and Michael, you mostly got away with it. All the other boys at the table were either more interested in whatever bullshit the latter was rattling off or the bewildering, upside down diagram the former was currently drawing on the inside cover of a notebook someone had had with them for some reason. You didn't know, nor did you care- you were more interested in staring up at the ceiling, vaguely interested in how much longer you'd have to sit here before making a rapid escape would be socially acceptable.
But Hal noticed, goddammit.
"Hey," he mumbled right next to your ear, elbow nudging your own. "I'll take your tray up. If you're done."
The speed with which you slid your tray over and shot him a visibly grateful smile was his first indicator that something was up. Usually, you were the type to just get up with him, carrying your own tray to capitalize on the chance to amble over to the wash station at his side. Such an unquestioning willingness to let him do you the favor, small as it was, implied that either practice really had wiped your knee out, or you were too repulsed by the leftover food to be near it any longer. He kept mulling it over as he deposited both trays near the wall, then turned around and stared across the cafeteria. Hal's suspicions were confirmed when he watched you visibly scoot sideways, trying to put a little distance between you and Pemulis' Frankenstein-esque One Big Bite. Capitals implied. So it was one of those nights.
With Mario still forlorn in the HmH, mourning his Madame Psychosis and her talk show, Hal doesn't hesitate to extend the invitation to his dorm. Something's happening to you, or it's about to, but he doesn't know what it is yet. He does know that there's a pretty good chance you won't want to be alone for it, and for all John Wayne's strengths as a roommate, he's not exactly the emotionally supportive type. So, when you agree and trail him into the room only ten minutes later, he's already casually cracking the window and leaving his thickest of blankets conspicuously unused.
You last about half an hour, cross-legged on his bed, before the shaking starts. The color bleeds from your face, your eyes widening imperceptibly, and he's already lifting himself off the mattress by the time you mumble that you want the window. Your legs are unsteady beneath you as you stumble forward, one hand hovering over the mattress and the other clutching his forearm as he guides you there, step-by-step, watching your jaw relax and tense cyclically as you battle whatever airy nausea is threatening you in the moment. Hooking his foot under his desk chair, he wheels it underneath you as you clutch the windowsill and lean against it, inhaling the cold November air deeper than he takes his hits. He doesn't hover, only leans his hip on the desk behind you and watches as the shakes rattle your shoulders and torso, your breaths occasionally going uncomfortably shallow before evening out again.
"This isn't fun," you finally whisper, not looking at him, and he hums.
"Anything I can do?"
You shift, lift your head, drop it again. "Can you... rub my back?" You sound embarrassed about it, ashamed of both your vulnerability and need for contact, and he attempts to over-correct so hard he manages to nearly trip in the two steps it takes him to reach you. Hal's hand is warm on your back, steady and smooth, the perfect rhythm for you to time your inhales and exhales against. His affection is a metronome, keeping you slow and on pace, and it helps more than your adrenaline-fogged brain can find the words to thank him for it. In fact, despite your torso occasionally shaking so hard you knock his hand clear off, he only leaves your side once for the next 45 minutes. The sole absence is to retrieve for you a cool, damp washcloth, which is placed on the back of your neck and incites with in you a temporary bliss so glorious you may as well have ascended right there. It's gone nearly as fast as it arrives, though, and so he returns to answering your every clammy whim without question. Need space? Done. The window's too open? He's leaning over you to close it. Oh, never mind, you're hot again? Please, it's like he never shut it in the first place.
It's.. unfamiliar to you, this painstaking care you're being afforded. You catch yourself simmering in a low layer of guilt over it, like you're eating up time Hal can't afford to waste, but it becomes easier to talk yourself out of that every-time his palm soothes over your shoulders to remind you to relax. He's not the kind of person to do things he doesn't want to; he could've walked you to the nurse ages ago and been done with it. He's here because he wants to be, and he proves it even further when the adrenaline has faded and you're left with a bouncing leg and an exhausted slump against the sill. Hal kneels beside you, waits until you drop one arm and turn your head to meet his gaze, then gives you a smile so painfully small and sweet and genuine you can't help but smile back.
"Do you want to stay here tonight? I can call the Moms, get her to write you a pass if you want."
"Hal, I don't thin-"
He cuts you off with a hand on your wrist. "If anyone understands, it's her. She'll do it, she doesn't mind. You shouldn't be walking around while you're still trembling."
Your indecision dances over your face, clear as day. However, that pesky assumption you'll be a burden melts into something far softer as his touch slides down your wrist to the top of your hand, squeezing slightly. With a deep, accepting sigh, you nod once and slowly sit up. Hal watches you take the washcloth from your neck and lob it into his laundry bin; the cool air kept you from sweating, so there's no need for a clumsy bathroom trip to scrub off again after your shower before dinner.
"You can take my bed, I'll sleep in Mario's."
"...We could share," you whisper, spinning in his desk chair to follow him as he pads towards the center of the room. "I'd like to share."
When he glances back to make sure he isn't dreaming, he realizes just how much the anxiety attack must've actually taken out of you. Your eye bags look even darker than before, you're slumped forward, elbows on your thighs, and the look on your face is a plaintive blend of sleepiness and vulnerability. Putting up a front is just too much work for you right now; you're still seeking contact for comfort, and he can't even imagine a world where he'd deny you it. "Okay," he answers, nearly breathless.
The next couple minutes are awkward. Fumbling, teenage-like, quintessentially awkward. He turns around while you shed your sweatshirt and trade your training pants for a pair of his sweats; you turn around while he does the same with his whole outfit. You wait until he's already climbed into bed before you join him, now seemingly coming to terms with the fact that you didn't actually plan to get this far. It's only after the lights are out and you can't actually see him anymore that you pull his arm around your side and duck your head under his chin.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh baby. Oh man. Orin wasn't lying, was he?
Grinning over your head, Hal lets you indulge your most basic instincts and treat him like a shield against whatever imagined scaries are still lingering in the shadows. Maybe it's the mere threat of early morning drills, maybe it's the same building background static that overwhelmed you and got you here in the first place. He doesn't know; maybe he never will. He's no mind reader. That's okay, though. He can accept the inoffensive lack of an explanation if it means he gets to keep feeling your slow, deep, sleep-indicating breaths ruffling the neckline of his sleep shirt like this.