Worried: A Scomiche Short Story

Part 9: Pressure

Satisfied that Mitch was significantly more stable and not, in fact, about to pass out in the middle of a practice room, Scott gave him a minute to focus on his breathing on his own, only giving gentle reminders when the pace of his breath sped up just a bit too much or faltered for just a moment too long.

He knew that the series of little tasks he asked of Mitch during an attack were a lot for him, no matter how well meaning and necessary, and that Mitch would need a moment to collect his energy before they continued. Hell, even Scott needed a moment to collect himself after the intense handful of minutes he'd just handled. He'd never let his compassionate and steadfast exterior falter when Mitch needed it. When Mitch was in crisis, he would always appear to be the epitome of calm and collected, but that being said, Mitch was still his best friend, and seeing his best friend so overcome with panic that he feels like he's about to pass out is something Scott will never get used to no matter how prepared he is to respond. So, he took a couple deep steadying breaths for his own sake as well.

Additionally, Scott could tell that this particular attack had probably pushed way past the 10 mark on their little anxiety scale: a rare occurrence in recent history. Because of this, Scott was uncharacteristically unsure of how to proceed. He'd fixed their environment as well as he could. That was step one. He'd stabilized Mitch's breathing and made sure he was seated so he didn't need to worry about losing his balance or moving out of harm's way. That was step two. He knew he needed to help get a handle on secondary symptoms. That was step three, but the questions was: how? These could vary, especially after notably more intense episodes, such as this one. Typically, Scott could gauge what Mitch would need to come down gently but he was genuinely at a loss in this scenario.

Does he want to be touched? Are his hands numb? Where is he at on the scale? How aware is he at the moment? Is he cold? Does he want water? How bad is his headache? All these questions and countless others rolled around his head unanswered as answers slipped through the cracks. Ultimately, Scott realized that, one way or another, he needed to ask. He needed Mitch's input here.

Scott carefully looked up at Mitch from his place on the floor. "Mitch, I know it's hard right now but I really need to check in. Can you look at me again?"

Mitch was slowly coming around and still in a bit of a hazy state as he cautiously lifted his eyes lock with the familiar blues in front of him. Scott gave him a little smile before emitting a soft, "Hi," then adding, "Touch or no touch, Mitchy? What do you need?'

Mitch's eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he drew in a sharp breath and scanned himself once over. It was supposed to be an easy question but nothing was quite easy right at this second. His eyes opened again and found Scott's own scanning his face before uttering a string of seemingly unintelligible words in a muddled exhale, "Pressure. Shoulders. Pressure. Hard. Please"

Mitch knew it seemed like an odd request, and a rare one from him too, but regardless, it was all Scott needed to hear. He rose swiftly to his feet ;letting Mitch's hands fall back into his own lap, and slid gingerly onto the bench behind Mitch doing his very best not to jostle the man out of his stable, albeit fragile state. Then ever so carefully, Scott allowed his large hands to fall on to Mitch's shoulders, as if he was going to give him a neck rub.

Mitch tensed momentarily at the sensation, and Scott gave him a moment to adjust to the change before he began to add weight behind his hands little by little.

"How's this?"

"More. Harder please," Mitch replied in a broken tone.

Scott slowly increased the pressure until he heard a feeble "Stop. Stay." At this point, Scott closed his own eyes and centered his entire body so he could focus solely on pushing Mitch's shoulders down.

He pictured that he was sending bright, calm, beautiful wavelengths of glowing white energy towards Mitch. In his mind he saw it starting deep within his heart, as small little ball of light, fresh and pure, vibrating with energy. He could almost see it grow and grow until it was spinning and pulsing to the rhythm of his beating heart. He pictured the wisps of this energy dancing down his arms, through his heavy palms into Mitch's own being, where too it could grow and expand in brilliant curls of light that would envelope the pair a zen-like bubble of serenity.

Meanwhile, Mitch could practically hear the roaring system of black, uncontainable, ugly, energy dissipate to a dull, thrumming, buzz. It was still there, still nagging, but the weight of Scott's hands on his delicate frame, and his friend's silent, strong, warrior-like presence on the bench behind him was enough to steal most of its power. The weight he felt on his shoulders was in no way constricting, it simply suppressed the unnecessary excessiveness of it all. And it grounded him. It reminded that he was here, with his own two feet on solid ground, and that he was not alone. It was the cloak of protection he needed as he regained sovereignty over his own body's thoughts and actions.

Time slowed within the confines of the small room, and the pair sat frozen on the bench. The only movement in the room came from Scott's slight readjustments in his grip to momentarily relieve his aching arms. The only sound was their synchronized breathing as they inhaled for a count of five, held it for a moment, and exhaled for a count of seven. Eventually, Scott felt Mitch's shoulders finally slump forward as the last bit of wound up tension left his body, the shivering slowed to a standstill, and exhaustion swept over his weary being.

A/N: Thoughts? Let me know what you think! I think I rather like this part...