Worried: A Scomiche Short Story

Part 4: Sources

"Is it environmental, situational, or free floating?" Scott questioned quietly, while he maintained what he hoped was soft, reassuring eye contact with Mitch. Mitch held his gaze and his eyes were only slightly widened, so Scott assumed that while it may not be comfortable or pleasant for Mitch at the moment, it was doable. Eye contact was good. It gave them somewhere to start, and another subtle line of communication. Much can be said through a person's eyes if you pay close enough attention, and if anyone had those nonverbal cues down, it was these two. More importantly, in this situation where verbal communication was hard for Mitch, it was vital. Neither progress nor any sort of relief for Mitch could be accomplished without this little piece.

"I...I have no idea," Mitch blew out with a frustrated sigh, eyes downcast and exhausted looking. "I just want it to go away."

Again, Scott hummed in understanding. And he really did understand. As helpful as pinpointing a source of anxiety could be in addressing it, Scott also knew that it was rarely so straightforward. Mitch had once described it as a tangled web of misplaced negative energy, worried thoughts, and irrational fears, with the red ribbon of self doubt and helplessness woven throughout. With that in mind, he gave Mitch a few moments to sit in silence and begin to untie the threads that knotted up his brain. He would give a more complete answer when he was ready.

"I think...I think it's just free floating," emerged Mitch's eventual reply. While frustrating due to the lack of reason, it actually did make a lot of sense. Scott would be lying if he said he hadn't been surveying their surroundings for the little things he knew made Mitch's anxiety tick. He'd come up empty handed though. Any one of the band members would tell you that the energy from the people in the room was far more subdued compared to some of their past arrangement sessions, and the studio itself was plenty cozy with its comfy chairs and soft warm lighting. Furthermore, they didn't have any large events in the near future for Mitch to obsess over, so there wasn't a particular situation that could be bothering him. Unfortunately it was just one of those days where his anxiety just nagged and nagged at him in the most unrelenting manner.

"That's totally okay. It'll pass," reassured Scott. "You're doing great, but is there anything you need? Water? Fresh air?" Scott smirked for a moment. "Alcohol?"

Mitch slapped his friend lightly on the arm and the corner of his mouth quirked up just the tiniest bit. Scott smiled lightly at the small victory. "Ha ha. Very funny, Scott." Then Mitch's tone lost its sarcastic edge. "My water bottle? Please?'

Scott reached over Mitch's legs for the untouched water bottle sitting on the coffee table in front of them. Unscrewing the cap, he handed it over to Mitch who took several small, careful sips before allowing it to rest gently on his chest with his fingers still gripping the bottle tightly. He glanced over at Scott hesitantly.

"Scotty?"

"Yes?"

"Could I—could you...Wait, no never mind." Mitch sat back and closed his eyes in defeat.

"Tell me what you need, Mitch."

Mitch sighed heavily and opened his eyes again. "It's so stupid, but could you squeeze my fingers? They're doing that numb tingly thing and I hate it."

"Of course. Thank you for telling me what you need, Mitchy."

Silently, Scott offered his palms out, and Mitch sat up enough to put his water bottle back on the coffee table before gingerly resting his fingertips in Scott's grasp. Scott folded his hands together again and applied light pressure for a moment before releasing. He repeated the steady pulse rhythmically. Pressure. Release. Pressure. Release. This was another well rehearsed action between the two, and when Scott looked up at Mitch's face and eyes again to scan for any sign of relief, he thought he caught a fleeting moment of peace come across his features.