Work Text:
This is so–
fucked.
Here William is, sitting in the waiting room of the hospital. Again. Norah’s in surgery, injured on another one of his stupid mysteries that he can’t help but drag them on. All he can do, hunching over in a plastic chair that digs into his spine, is pray to a god he’s sure had long since abandoned them, and beg for her to be alright.
He feels like the spiral he’d barrelled down was warranted. They have so far to go still ahead of them, and yet so much has happened already. He’s fucked up time and time again on this hunt and he knows, somewhere painful and deep in his chest, that he’s going to get his friends killed.
He let Isaac separate from the group, knowing how that always seemed to go. And then he was nearly sacrificed, carved open like an animal by the bleeding, mangled corpse of his own father. Alone, in the woods, his friends– the people who should’ve been there for him, who should’ve gone looking for him the minute he didn’t sneak back out to join them– not even aware he was missing.
(“Holy shit,” Isaac’s throat sounds raw, like he’d been screaming for help for hours. It sends chills down William’s spine, and the guilt already churning in his stomach tripled. How long has he been here? How long has he been begging for them to show up and save him? “I thought you were never gonna come– I thought I was gonna– I thought I was gonna die.”)
Alone for so long that he thought they’d never find him. He’d been there for hours, hanging from that tree in the middle of winter. He thought they’d leave him there to be carved open like a Thanksgiving turkey.
And then he did the same fucking thing all over again to Norah. They keep splitting up, like they thought the outcome of doing it would change. Like they think going off alone when a monster’s in town isn’t going to inevitably end in disaster.
(It’s impossible not to notice the blood. The glaring white snow that’d fallen over Deadwood was stained a vibrant red here. Bloody, dragging footprints lead deep into the forest, melting into the shadows. At the edge of the trail, lies Norah Fleetwood. Her clothes are soaked through with melted snow, twigs and leaves embedded in the fabric and caught up in her hair.
Her leg is twisted beyond recognition.)
Yet, despite all of the evidence that’s being shoved in his face that they shouldn’t split up under any circumstances, not even for their own family, he’d let Lui and Isaac go off on their own. They all agreed they shouldn’t split up again, but he refuses to leave the hospital, and they needed that salt.
He can’t stop thinking of all the ways things could go wrong with them. All the ways they could die out in Deadwood’s godforsaken streets.
“Honey?” His mom’s hand lands on his knee. It should’ve been comforting. The touch is gentle, paired with her accented, worried voice. It should’ve helped ground him to reality, should’ve reminded him that he was spiraling and helped him snap out of it.
Instead, it made him flinch back. His knee jerks, twisting at an odd angle to get away from the touch. His elbow rams into the back of the plastic chair, pain singing up the bone, all the way out to his fingertips. His eyes dart around in a flurry, taking in everyone else lingering in the room and the nurses beyond the glass. He took in his mom, looking for any signs that she isn’t what she seems, that something is wrong.
He feels dizzy.
Somewhere– distant and overshadowed by the constant stream of panicked thoughts that wouldn’t shut up– it occurs to him that he’s hyperventilating, but he can’t stop. There’s something about the rapid inhale-exhale that’s… not calming, but more like if he stops he’ll fall apart. It’s all that’s keeping him together, while simultaneously being exactly what’s ripping him apart.
Fuck, he can’t breathe. There isn’t enough air. His chest hurts.
Familiar, calloused fingers grab his clammy ones, pulling them away from the death grip they had on his biceps. He can hear his name being said, over and over again, his mother begging him to calm down. With his hands in hers, he can feel how badly they’re shaking, potent tremors wracking through him.
With the awareness of his own body being forced over him, he realizes he’s hot. The waiting room had been cold when they’d walked in, enough that he’d not stopped shivering from the transition indoors, but now the heat is suffocating. “Honey, you need to breathe.”
His mom is still holding his hands, despite the way he can’t stop fighting her grip. A pathetic, animalistic keen rolls out of his throat. Tears burn in his eyes, blurring the room in front of him. He can’t see anything wrong with his mom, but can he trust that? Can he trust his mind to be telling the truth?
“I–” he swallows thickly, choking on his own words. “I can’t–”
“You’re havin’ a panic attack, sweetheart. You need to take a breather,” Mom soothes, rubbing her thumb on his skin in soft, repetitive patterns. He can feel the familiar wrinkles in her skin, all her scars from a well lived life. He wants it to be calming so, so badly. “C’mon, now. Breathe in, then out.”
William ducks his head, neck twinging in response to the sharp motion. He can’t stop sucking in desperate, wheezing breaths like there isn’t any air left in the world. He’s starting to wonder if, maybe, Mr. Abrahams has done something to him. Is this just a panic attack, or is it something worse?
(“Stop breathing.”
William hadn’t been aware of Lui’s breathing until it stopped. And now it’s the only thing he can hear, in spite of his own panicked yelling bouncing off Norah’s and filling the room with fear.)
“‘M sorry,” he gasps, fumbling to spit words from his dry mouth. “‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry.” The pleas, the begs for forgiveness won’t stop tumbling out of his mouth. Now that he’s started, he can’t stop, words running into each other and turning into mush, fighting for space between his frantic breaths.
William doesn’t even know what he’s sorry for. Is it for always worrying his parents? Is it for letting Norah and Isaac go off alone without looking for them? Is it for letting Norah almost kill herself? For making Isaac go to that church alone? For walking away and leaving Lui in the hands of a man who could mind control him? Maybe it’s just for dragging them all into this fucking mess, all of his messes, over and over again.
“Honey. Honey, it’s okay,” Mom’s voice is strained with fear and desperation. He wants to comply with her pleas, he wants to just fucking calm down and be a normal kid, but he can’t. “It’s okay, just breathe. Everything’s gonna be fine. Y’aint got no reason to be apologizin’, okay?”
Her voice seems to fade in and out, washed away by the sound of blood rushing in his ears. His hair keeps falling into his face, damp with sweat, tickling his flushed skin. He lets out another pathetic sound that steals what little air is in his lungs.
Fuck. He can’t breathe.
He knows it’s just a panic attack. Logically, he just needs to calm down. He needs to take slower breaths, and remind himself that everything is fine. And, that even if it isn’t, panicking like this isn’t going to do anything to help him.
Norah’s in the hospital getting tended to, and she’s going to come out of it okay. Lui has broken free of the mind control. They saved Isaac from being sacrificed. He’s freaking out over nothing. But his mind just won’t stop moving. It’s running a mile a minute, careening down the train tracks in his head at lethal speed no matter how hard he tries to hit the brakes.
It’s like he can’t even remember how he’s supposed to be breathing. What level of slow is slow enough? What’s really too slow that he starts running out of air, and what’s just his mind playing tricks on him?
Someone swears, and it isn’t his mom. There’s a pounding of footsteps, familiar voices calling his name. His mom’s grip loosens, finally giving him space to yank his hands away and rub away the feeling of skin on skin with the fabric of his hoodie. He gets lost in the repetitive movement of his fingers catching on the zipper, scratching at his skin.
He needs to calm down. If his body can get with the fucking program of doing that, that’d be amazing. If it can stop being so convinced that, just because he has a few hours of waiting for things to start up again, it’s the perfect time to be so debilitatingly terrified that he can’t suck in a full breath. His lungs heave, over and over again. His chest hurts.
“Will, man, you gotta slow your breathing, okay?”
Isaac?
He sounds scared. William wants to open his eyes, to look, to check. To know that it’s real, and that he’s okay. That there isn’t something to actually be afraid of. He just can’t get himself to go through with it. He digs the zipper underneath his nails, feeling the metal teeth bite his skin. He keeps his eyes clenched shut so tight it hurts.
Lui speaks next, “C’mon, Will… Look at us, c’mon, take a breath.”
He opens his mouth to speak, to say that he’s trying. That he’s been trying since he realized what was happening and could rip himself from the safety of hyperventilation. It just isn’t fucking working. But no words make it out around his gasps, he’s choking down air like he’s drowning with nothing to grab onto the moment his lips part.
“I know it’s hard, but you gotta keep trying. Breathe, Will.”
“Just follow my breathing okay?” Lui’s familiar hands grab his wrist, slow and deliberate. His skin isn’t wrinkled or calloused like Mom’s was; it’s smooth, unblemished. His hands are shaking, both of them trembling in each other's grips.
William doesn’t want to let go of his hoodie, doesn’t want to stop the pain that’s grounding him. He doesn’t want to be touched. Still. He trusts Lui. He lets the older teen guide his hand, until he feels Lui’s ribs and all the life beneath. He can feel each rise and fall of the other teens' breaths, and the rabbit quick heartbeat behind his sternum.
“Breathe, honey.”
His mom– she’s still here. That’s right. He swallows thickly, and tries to force his muscles to relax. Calm down.
“In and out, Will. You got this, man.”
He really doesn’t. He’s starting to come to terms with that idea that this panic attack would inevitably end in him passing out– he really doesn’t want that, and it’s been so long since that last happened, but he just can’t fucking breathe. No matter how hard he tries, even with Lui’s lungs to guide him, it hurts. His chest hurts when he tries to force it into submission, and he hates it.
A broken sob rips from him. Trying to slow his breathing feels like suffocating. It’s like someone’s actively squeezing his throat, wrapping a rope around his lungs. It’s like a hundred pound weight has been placed on his ribs.
“C’mon, Will, you’ve got this.” Lui gives his hand a gentle squeeze, like he’s trying to remind William he’s here, that they’re both still here. Alive.
“Everything’s gonna work out, okay? We’ll– We’ll be okay, Norah’s gonna be okay–”
“But we’re not!”
The loud, terrified words are out of him before he can even stop to consider them. Tears flow freely down his face, hot and tacky on his skin. His free hand flies out, emphasizing his point– from the corner of his eye, he sees Isaac flinch back out of its path, narrowly avoiding getting hit.
“We’re– we’re–” he stammers, throat raw. Brutal sobs and frantic gasps slam against his ribs. “Norah’s in the hospital again, and it’s my fault again! We almost lost you to that stupid fucking stick and Isaac was almost fucking sacr—” His eyes land on his mom, and he snaps his jaw shut.
Shit.
A new wave of terror hits him like a strike of lightning. He shouldn’t have said that, not in front of her. Not in public. His eyes are open now, and he can see the scene he’s creating. The other people in the waiting room keep unsubtly glancing at him, or blatantly staring. A nurse hovers by the doors, watching him like she’s trying to decide whether or not to intervene.
His mom. Standing a couple feet away, like she’d been forced out of the way by Isaac and Lui who’re crowded in around him. Her hands are covering her mouth, eyes wide and shining with worry and fear.
He’s so stupid.
“What’re we gonna do?” He sounds like he’s begging. Begging for someone to tell him how to fix this. Begging for things to be alright. Begging for someone to just make everything better.
He can’t. Breathe.
Each breath he’s taking is wet and short. He can feel Lui’s heartbeat under his hand, tapping slower than his– pounding in his ears. Every single beat is a constant thump-thump-thump that takes over his hearing and threatens to burst from his chest– but still fast. He looks stricken by William’s words.
“Sorr--” his words get caught in his throat, choking him. “Sorry. Sorry, m’ sorry, I can’t–”
“It’s okay.” Isaac grabs his other hand, carefully prying it from the strands of greasy black hair he’d buried it in and saving him from the headache he’d give himself tugging on it. “We’re gonna figure it out. We’re all okay right now, and that’s what matters. Right, Lui?”
“Yeah. Yeah, dude.” Lui clears his throat, squeezing William’s hand tighter. Somehow, it’s reassuring, despite being a death grip that makes his bones ache. “But– But we can’t do anything with you like this, okay? You need to slow your breathing. Please, just– just try, okay?”
He keens, shaking his head. He’s been trying.
The world’s starting to feel fuzzy and off-kilter.
He really doesn’t wanna pass out.
Focus. Focus on breathing, on calming down. Everything will work out. He’s going to make sure everything works out. He forces a breath in through his nose, then out through his mouth, then repeats. Having to open and close his lips forces him to slow down, to consciously switch between the two.
In, and out.
“There you go.” Isaac’s voice is thick with relief. He can feel Lui slump under his hand, muscling untensing with the same feeling. “Good job, man. Just like that, okay?”
“Keep breathing, Will. You’ve got this.”
In and out.
In and out.
The constant rise and fall of Lui’s chest. The off-beat thump, thump, thump of his heart. The sounds of buzzing fluorescent lights and the smell of hospital cleaning products. The ache of Lui’s too-tight grip and the rough feeling of Isaac’s skin on his. He’s here. They’re here.
Tension drains out of him all at once like a tidal wave, and he slumps forward over his knees. Isaac catches him, dragging him in close, and wrapping his arm around the trembling teen’s frame. William’s shoulder twinges, twisting so he can keep his palm to Lui’s chest. He refuses to lose that contact. Another aching joint was nothing in the grand scheme of things.
His head’s against Isaac’s chest now, letting him feel the signs of life right below his friend's skin. Two of three UPP members are here. They’re safe. They’re breathing. Their hearts are beating. He keeps using them as his guide, slowing his breathing despite the way it burns.
He can’t see his mom anymore, not with his head buried in Isaac’s jacket, but he knows she’s there. Hot shame curls in his gut in the empty space his fleeing panic leaves behind. He’s such an idiot. He knows how to get out of a panic attack.
He knows all the coping mechanisms he can use. He knows how to breathe; he’s memorized countless breathing exercises specifically to make it easier to keep track of how he should be breathing when he gets wound up like this. And yet, every single time it’s like he forgets all over again.
And now, because he can’t just keep his mouth shut and his mind quiet, he’s said all of that right in front of his mother. She’s had to watch him fall apart with no idea as to why. She’s going to worry herself into getting the flu again, and it’ll be his fault.
“Feeling better?” Lui murmurs, low enough that only they can hear. William groans, burying his face further into Isaac’s jacket. It’s the red one he always wore, even in the summer, with a rough texture that feels nice against his skin.
“...’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, dude.” Isaac’s chest rumbles with his voice, arms tightening around the younger. “It’s…”
Lui fills in the blank, “It’s a lot.”
He doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t need to. They get it. They understand everything that’s happening.
That doesn’t mean it’s fair. Fair for him to make them deal with his shit, when he hasn’t gone through half of what they have. Not to mention that they still have so much to do, so much to talk about, so much to prepare for. They don’t have the time for this.
He grits his teeth. He hits the metaphorical brakes on his train of thought. Don’t think about it, he tells himself. If he thinks about everything that can go wrong, everything that’s already gone wrong, he’ll only work himself back up and then where would he be?
In.
And out.
“...Still,” he croaks. “Sorry.” Is that the only word he knows how to say anymore? The only shape his mouth can make now? Is he doomed to apologize, over and over again, that five letter word slipping between his teeth for the rest of eternity? “Didn’t mean– It’s–”
He pulls his head back, just enough to thunk it back down, seeking the stimulation an ache can provide. His hands flex, holding too-tight onto his friends, then loosening the moment he realizes his nails are digging into skin.
“Yeah.” He gives up. He doesn’t know how to say it. “It’s… a lot.”
More footsteps approach. It takes him a second to recognize the familiar tap-tap of his dad’s work boots on the tile floor. He yanks himself away from his friends, frantically trying to wipe away the tears and snot from his face with his hoodie sleeves.
Everything is fine. It’ll all work out.
He has to focus.