The Get-Go [Ashton Irwin]

14: Get to Know You

TW: Depression, brief, extremely vague mentions of self-harm. Between the '<^><^><^><^><^>'.

    If you don't pay close enough attention, it can seem like Ashton Irwin is a figurative ball of sunshine and positive energy. And that's how he likes it; he doesn't really have a mean bone in his body, nor does he want anyone to worry about him when he's sad. He'd rather focus on making other people feel better, rather than having anyone focus on him.

    Because of that, he's prone to episodes of solitude and downright moodiness, when being positive all the time becomes just too much for him. Sometimes, they're short, abrupt bursts of what seems like irrational annoyance at the most trivial things, and sometimes, he'll call me because it's three AM wherever he is, and he can't eat, can't sleep, and has broken more drum sticks and heads than he can count. The times where he's close to tears because he can't understand what's wrong with him, why his happy persona isn't invincible.

    The first time he ever called me in that state was last October. It was the Friday night at start of Thanksgiving weekend, and I was bedding down after a day of hanging out downtown with Thalia, Brent, and the Pierce twins. Since I wasn't completely exhausted yet, I decided to grab my laptop to start on my homework for Sociology, and start getting the homework done.

    Before I could even get started, though, an iMessage alert popped up on my phone; Ash UK: can we talk? I can't sleep.

    Of course I agreed, and opened FaceTime on my laptop just in time for him to call. "What's wrong, Ash?"

    His hair was a wild mess, far from his usual slightly disheveled style, eyes dull and void of their usual light. Even his trademark smile barely seemed to make it past his lips, like all the energy had been drained out of him. "I can't sleep."

    "Is that it?"

    "No," he sighed, fiddling with his hair. "I can't eat, either. Or concentrate on like, anything. It's all just a mess. I'm a mess, Snowflake. Everything's a mess."

    It was in that moment that I realized two things: One, Ash was every bit as vulnerable and human as everyone else. I mean, obviously, I'd always known that, but sometimes, it's way too easy to forget about, particularly when he does try and act the part of the manic pixie dream boy. Second, I realized that it wasn't lack of sleep that was making his accent even thicker and harder to understand.

    A small sting of annoyance had me glaring at the screen. "Ashton Fletcher Irwin, are you drunk?"

    "Yeah," he responded slightly dubiously. "I can do that here. It's legal, babe."

    "It's not a question of whether or not it's legal, babe," I snapped. "If it were a normal night and you were out with the boys having fun, I wouldn't give a damn. It's the fact that you're clearly upset about something, and your reaction is to get drunk."

    "So?"

    "So? Are you out of your Vegemite-addled little mind? That's not healthy, Ash! That's how you become a fucking alcoholic!" I knew that there was a good chance that I probably shouldn't have been yelling at him in his vulnerable state, but I told myself I'd rather he were upset with me now, than upset with himself if he ended up an actual alcoholic in the future.

    He swallowed hard, his jaw tensing as his Adam's apple bobbed at his throat. I watched his lips move as he mumbled something incoherent under his breath.