oneshots ; gawsten

"you're not alone."

this is just venting/projection. another bad night lmao i'm sorry if it's a mess 

trigger warnings - anxiety, panic attacks, depression

this is also kinda a sequel to "don't you love me?", if you've read that

76. "you're not alone."

There's a lump in his throat.

It's the size of a golf ball, rounded and sensitive, manifesting itself in the form of fresh tears every time he swallows. It's a permanent fixture, a reminder of the status quo every time he tries to refocus his mind or distract himself. It's the friendly reminder that hey, I'm still here you're not getting rid of me fuck you for thinking you even could. It stings and it throbs and he tries, tries so hard to force it away, to ignore it, to forget about it for long enough that it becomes irrelevant.

Someone just ripped all his skin off. He's laying there, exposed, out for the entire world to see. The spiders are crawling on his bones and making their way through his body, leaving their venom on whatever they touch. It feels like fire, like every drop of poison has combined into one, into a wrecking ball that sits at the base of his chest, the pit of his stomach, swinging back and forth, setting the walls of his chest cavity aflame with every hit.

The ache behind his eyes is big. It feels like too much, like it's not possible for one human being, one body to hurt this much. It's too big for him. It's opening its mouth and swallowing him whole and he can't see, he can't breathe in the midst. It's one of those intoxicating chambers, trying to see with smoke clouding your vision and move amongst the putrid smells, trying to escape when your senses are paralyzed. He's swimming and his eyes are burning but the current is pulling and pulling and pulling.

The session was a lot.

Therapy in the media and therapy in reality are two very different things. He's grown up with 'how does that make you feel?' and 'why do you think that is?' before some asshole in a suit slaps a diagnosis down and hands out a prescription for pills.

The reality is so much different.

Geoff asked him to try, to give it a chance, and he did. For Geoff, for the kind, gentle soul who's been forced to deal with him being an asshole in the past few months, for Geoff, who's been victim of harsh words and passive aggressive threats and overall ignorance and hasn't seemed the slightest bit frustrated, for Geoff, who's been the angel to his demon, he tried.

He tried and he told the guy everything and maybe that wasn't the best idea; first session, here's my life story and every single problem I have, doc. Now how the fuck do I fix it? maybe he shouldn't have come on so strong.

Maybe he wouldn't be in this position if he'd realized that sooner.

Hearing his problems repeated back to him in different words, listening as the guy changed his thought processes from neurodivergent to neurotypical, is like he jumped into his chest and scooped everything out, left him hollow and numb and nothing.

You don't realize how fucked up you sound until someone else tells you what you've been telling yourself for so long.

This is what Geoff hears on a daily basis, what he deals with and lives with and dates. This is the person he chose to date, the person who's addicted to the avalanche, accustomed to the achromics, a stranger to the ardor.

He isn't sure why Geoff's still here.

And that is enough to deflate the lump, pop it and send out the pocket of tears, send them flooding down his cheeks in steady rivulets. He chokes on the sob as it bubbles up his throat, grits his teeth together and tries to keep it back, and it stays there, building and sparking, until he has no choice but to let it out.