dichotomy ; gawsten

thirty two

trigger warnings for anxiety and panic attacks

Geoff falls asleep quickly.

He expects it, really. Geoff's been living in that constant state of panic for weeks now, dealing with the perpetual racing heart and shaking hands and hot cold hot cold hot cold. He's living in greys that were once splatters of ink across his page of color but have now eclipsed and enveloped and turned the entire thing achromic.

He's tucked under his arm with his head flopping onto his shoulder. Awsten forces himself to swallow. He takes a breath in through his nose, closes his eyes, and holds it. Deep breaths. You're fine. Everything's fine. Don't freak out.

He moves his fingers to Geoff's arm and walks them all the way up his neck, stops on his chin. He pulls his lip in with his teeth as he trails his fingers up the side of Geoff's face.

He doesn't know what he looks like.

He'll never know what Geoff looks like.

He swallows again. It's like the realization has taken physical form, built itself up into a ball that slides between skin and skull, right at the base of his forehead. It pulsates. He winces, brings a hand to his head and presses down harder on his lip.

Geoff's breathing sounds deep. Touching his face didn't seem to rouse him in the slightest. Maybe he can just-

He lifts his arm and uses the other to shove the pillow forward, takes in another breath in and doesn't let it go as he transfers Geoff from his body to the bed. He turns to sit on the side of the bed and presses his heels into the floor, brings the hand back up to his temple, swallows again breathe. don't freak out. it's going to be fine. you know what to do. you know how to make it stop. make it stop.

He fumbles for his cane and almost knocks his lap off the nightstand in the process. His heart is starting to race. He drops the cane in his haste to unfold it. His hands are sliding off the plastic.

He takes another breath. The taps on the floor are constant. He focuses on that. make it stop make it stop make it stop.

Taptaptaptaptap.

"Aws?"

He inhales, turns in the direction of Otto's voice, and keeps going taptaptap, until he's close enough to smell Otto's cologne. He folds his cane and slips it into his sleeve before he reaches out, and as soon as he makes contact with Otto's back, he's swept up into a hug.

"Hey." Otto's breath is warm against his ear. "You're shaking. What's wrong? Talk to me, c'mon, you're okay."

"I-I just," he chokes out. It feels like he has a golf-ball in his throat. A new wave of pain coats his entire body like a fresh layer of paint every time he swallows. "I don't- I can't-"

"You don't have to." Otto's rubbing his back now. "It's okay. Deep breaths. You're okay."

He presses his face into Otto's shoulder, nudges against his collarbone with his nose and moves down slightly. He keeps tightening his grip on Otto's torso. Otto has one arm right under his armpit, rubbing his back, while the other cradles the back of his head.

He stays there. And Otto keeps rubbing, doesn't say anything. The circles get firmer and the hold gets stronger, but he stays quiet. Awsten inhales, appreciates, keeps taking bigger breaths until the ache in his chest starts to loosen and trickle down and out of his body.

"M'okay now," he says. "I think."

"How 'bout we sit down?" Otto pushes away from the countertop edge but doesn't loosen his grip. "You're not gettin' outta this, if that's what you're thinking."