A Certain Sort Of Loneliness

Tired

"Gosh it's been so long since we've done anything like this!" Tino smiles, eyes flicking to Emil before focusing on the road again as Lars and Peter merrily bicker in the backseats.

It's always a little chaotic with Tino, Emil thinks, something that's especially now that he's stuck in a car with both Tino and the kids (Tino's....'sporadic' driving certainly doesn't help the situation, but Emil reassures himself that they'll be safe, even if they almost ran someone over). But perhaps it's that sort of placid chaos that Emil needs - at the very least, it serves as a good distraction.

It goes as smoothly as it can get. Peter nearly knocks over half a shelf's worth of wares twice and Lars nearly does the same, albeit with less force, taking to staring at the screen of his tablet and losing himself in his own pixelated little world. They manage to get most things on the list, with the exception of a few minor items here and there, but Tino was pleased with what they bought, even buying a few pastries on the way back for them all to share as a sort of thank you, so Emil supposed that it was fine.

He's surprised when they get home - when Lars and Peter run off to play their games Tino presses a packet of sweets in to his hands - sending him a smile before going to get the shopping from the car. Emil's thankful, of course - he's always had a sweet tooth, and he's hoping the sugar will take his mind off of the sick feeling that always came about when he left the house.

He goes upstairs and lays in bed, motionless. He needs to clean his room again, really. The dirty clothes and used plates and cutlery had began piling up sometime last Wednesday. He's tired, though - far too tired to do anything about the mess that keeps on growing around him; it will have to wait.

And naturally, since rooms do not clean themself, a week passes before he finds the energy to commit himself to it again, silently picking apart the clutter and mess.
He hasn't been to class in a week, either - the first three weeks before that were far too much for him, far, far, far too much for his tired mind. The day after day after wretched day routine was exhausting - spending hours stuck in crowded classrooms only to come home to more people, weekends spent in a full house that gives him no space to stay in his safe place in silence.

He'd asked before, of course, asked to stay off for a day or two to recover and recuperate but it had always been the same answer: sympathetic looks and "try for one more day"s, "if you're not up to it you can leave midday"s and the sighs that made him feel guilty for asking at all. He tried. He tried for three full weeks of going to one god forsaken lesson after another.

But he had long since passed his limit.

(And passing his limit made him want to scream)

"We can talk to the school," Lukas had said, "See what options are available to make it easiar for you,"

Mathias had agreed, as had Tino, and Berwald. Emil didn't.

"That's not it. It's not about school because school itself isn't the problem. I'm just tired of this."

"Well maybe we can contact Ivan again, huh? See if he can get more in order so that you have more regular appointments, maybe even get you some meds?" Mathias had asked.

Emil's unhappiness persisted.

(His voice was growing shaky, thick, volume rising slowly, slowly, slowly)

"That could take weeks. Same for talking to the school. Its not about next week, or next month or next year. I don't care about the future. I care that I can't handle now."

"Just try, you can skip some lessons in between if you want, don't be too hard on yourself," Mathias had continued,

(Enough)

"That doesn't help."

"Isn't there a little break room they organised for you? The one with the beanbags and books everywhere," Tino had added.

(Enough)

"That doesn't help unless I need to calm down - when I'm having panic attacks or just general anxiety. It doesn't help."

He tries to ignore the tears. They make him weak. They hurt. They make him vulnerable and he hates that they can see it all.

"Just.. give it a try Emil, we'll sort something out soon, promise."

The hand on his shoulder burns, meant to comfort and heal but now it hurts and hurts and hurts.

He pushes it away, tears falling more quickly now, voice trembling yet loud, too loud and too quiet all at once.

(Enough)

"I don't care. I can't do this anymore and at the rate I'm going I don't want to do anything anymore."

The conversation is over.

They know what he means.

They must do, or else they've misunderstood him all over again.

(He doesn't care anymore, he's alone now and the house is empty)

(By the end of the day his room is clean again, his phone lies filled with unopened messages from any number of people)

(Emil doesn't open them, doesn't tell them why or when or how or where)

(He doesn't quell their concerns because they would be quelled with lies)

He still refuses to look them in the eye. He wants them to know that they have done wrong, that their misunderstanding of his hurt has only caused more.

Perhaps that is cruel

To him, this is how he must survive

Or else he really will fall apart