Worried: A Scomiche Short Story

Part 3: The Scale

The swirling pattern that Scott was making on his leg was helping to keep him grounded. Mitch's shoulders dropped their tension for just a moment, the crease in his brow smoothed just a hair, and his breaths lengthened by just a millisecond. Scott could see all of this happen, and sighed a little bit in relief. He put just a little bit more weight behind his fingertips, which seemed to at last be enough to pull Mitch away from his barreling train of thought and back to Scott and the couch cushions they were seated on if only just for a moment. The rest of the room and the band could come later. For now, Mitch simply focused in on the steadiness of Scott's breath and the solidness of Scott's hand on his leg.

"Where are you at right now?" Scott murmured quietly, conscious of Mitch's sensitivity to sound, and the ongoing creative process happening across the room.

Mitch took a brief moment to do a self scan from head to toe, surveying all of his physical symptoms as well as his mental state before opening his eyes and forcing a response out with a choked whisper. "Six, maybe a seven. Definitely building though."

He had to close his eyes again as if the sheer act of uttering the simple phrases had exhausted him. And they had. Days like this made every little thing hard. He was pretty impressed with himself that he'd made it as far as the studio before reaching this point. If he were being honest, the only thing keeping him from checking out completely or running wildly from the studio altogether was Scott's grounding presence.

Nodding and humming in understanding, Scott thought back to a couple of the scenarios they had used their little anxiety scale. It was easy enough to reference when anxiety got in the way of clear thinking and communication, and it helped Mitch let Scott know exactly how much help he needed with fewer complicated questions.

The last time Mitch had used a one when Scott had checked in, he had a drink in his hand and was letting loose at a club with a bunch of the band and crew members on the last night of tour. Things were definitely all good. The last time Mitch had used a ten, well, Scott didn't like to think about those times. To the best of his knowledge, it had been when they were walking through an airport in Europe. A group of 20 or so teens, obviously on a class trip, had spotted them, and before even Austin, their tour security guard, knew what was happening, the band was surrounded by screaming fans. Mitch's light touch had turned quickly into bruising death grip on Scott's arm and he had such a pleading look in his eyes as he muttered, "Ten, Scott. Ten. Out. Help me please."

The look alone had been enough for Scott to push his way around the crowd in to the nearest bathroom, leaving the ever cool and collected Avi and Kevin and an extremely angry Austin to handle the crowd. By the time they'd reached the safety of the large handicap stall, Mitch had long past reached the point of no return and had broken down into gasps of panic. Yeah, they tried to avoid the tens as much as possible.

Scott brought his wandering thoughts back to the present and back to Mitch. A 6 or 7 was something Scott could work with; it wasn't great, but it was manageable. What worried Scott was the part about "building". Building meant a storm was on the horizon. Building meant the pressure was rising with little release. Building meant the waves of anxiety were getting bigger and bigger and staying afloat was getting harder and harder for Mitch. Building meant that now more than ever, Scott needed to be the sturdy anchor during Mitch's impending storm.