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Richard is running on fumes by the end of the week. He’s burnt out from work and school, exhausted, and desperate for some respite, but he couldn’t bring himself to cancel lunch plans with Connor that day. All he has to do is get through a few hours of being out and then he's home free—except not really, not with a mountain of work waiting for him at home.
It’s easier said than done.
The cafe is louder than expected. It’s far from full or even all that busy but Richard’s more sensitive than usual. It takes everything in him to pretend everything is fine, that he didn’t just touch a mildly sticky residue on the table, or that the people closest to them aren’t grating on his ears with their voices.
He tries to fully focus on his brother but is unable to no matter what. The best he can do is offer half his attention while his eyes occasionally dart towards whatever demands his attention, ears perked at every little sound like a dog on guard listening for a threat, except for Richard it was everything, everywhere, all at once. Something drops and shatters in the back kitchen and causes him to flinch. It's this that makes Connor ask if everything's alright, but his voice fades into background noise.
He tries to reply but suddenly can't. Voices keep overlapping and he's able to make out unnecessary details from nearby conversations rather than the one in front of him. No matter how hard he tries, someone’s either clearing their throat, coughing, or clinking a spoon against their cup. It’s too bright, too loud, too much.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, why now? He realizes with horror that if he doesn’t leave this instant, he’s going to either shut down or, worse, have a meltdown in this small cafe.
“I’m—”
Anything he wants to say jams as his mind races. He can’t explain himself. Richard suddenly gets up and makes for the door with profound urgency and Connor hastily follows after him, calling his name.
His nervous system gets hijacked and goes into overdrive, body no longer his own. It stumbles as far as it can get from the building while stress builds and builds until it spills over the edge.
There are so many people outside. Too many, and they’re all staring at him, he’s sure. How could they not gawk at the ridiculous image of a grown man having a fucking public meltdown.
Lowering himself onto the curb, Richard wraps his arms around his knees as if making himself smaller, like it’ll help him disappear completely, but he’s trembling too much and he can’t breathe, can’t breathe. He’s hyperventilating, deathly aware of the fact that he’s now crying and he hates it. Richard wants to be anywhere else.
Connor’s voice cuts through the onslaught of chaos and Richard then remembers he ran after him because of course he did. He’s a good, caring brother whom Richard doesn’t deserve, directing bystanders away with a simple but firm request for space, insisting they’re fine and for them to keep moving. Polite as always, a mask the same color as his own.
He feels like a child throwing a tantrum over something stupid. Oh—things are too bright, huh? You’re tired? You must need a nap. A particularly loud car engine distantly speeds by though Richard recoils as if physically struck and covers his ears. It’s better like this, so he also closes his eyes, trying to will himself to normalcy, whatever that means.
He wants to die. He’s so tired, exhausted by existing in a constant state of hypervigilance, constantly performing himself for others. Everything’s too much, all of the time, and he has to pretend that it’s not. Smile, nod, make eye contact, but not too much, don’t speak excessively, just enough, even though the strategy always varies from person to person, make sure to ask questions and appear engaged, do not fidget, stay still, make sure to emote regularly, pretend the lights aren’t too loud, pretend he isn’t crashing and burning, pretend he’s normal, pretend he’s fine, pretend he can handle his workload, pretend his coworkers and classmates don’t smell autism on him, pretend he isn’t ‘other’, pretend he could handle lunch with his brother, pretend he isn’t a spectacle, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend, pretend.
The worst of it comes to pass. Time is thick jelly to Richard and so is his entire body. He can’t move, not right away, so he stays hunched over himself, expression vacant. It’s a sort of thousand-yard stare paired with the red rims of his eyes, cheeks tear-streaked and glistening. The exhaustion from earlier is nothing compared to now and he’s suddenly been crushed underneath an anvil. His breathing comes in and out, in and out, unsteadily.
It’s only then that he truly processes Connor’s presence next to him on the sidewalk instead of just his voice, a healthy distance away, for it’s not their first time doing this, nor will it ever be their last. His brother also had the foresight to grab their stuff, bags positioned upright beside them.
Richard tries to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. He still can’t speak. No matter how much he fights himself, the words remain stuck in his throat.
He thinks about how he ruined everything. He feels like shit and wants to go home.
Things are still coming back to him, but get interrupted by the sight of a small Doberman plush keychain offered to him by Connor. One of his comfort items, matching with his brother’s St. Bernard. It’s always in his bag. He takes it and stares at it, fingers rubbing the soft mimicry of fur. He sniffles.
“I’ve called an Uber to take us home.” Connor speaks gently, never patronizing. It helps Richard’s ego more than anything, who simply nods. After drinking some of the water his brother offers to him, he sinks further into himself and fully buries his face into his knees, still squeezing the keychain.
He wants to apologize for fucking everything up. For being a fuck up. He manages to catch himself despite the thick fog flooding his mind because that's not fair to Connor, who’s just like him and far from one, but it doesn’t stop Richard from feeling that way.
After being dropped off at their apartment, most of what’s left of the day is spent in near-silence and dim lighting. Connor works on whatever he must, sitting cross-legged against Richard’s bed frame and doesn’t speak unless spoken to, which doesn’t happen for hours. Brain fog persists well into the evening, and Richard’s out for the rest of the night, too.