Muffled words

29

George's POV

I don't watch as Karl clears his throat, nodding slowly and half-arsing a smile before trailing off to our room. Or as Nick smiles at me, giving a stream of desperate 'thank you's and clasping his hands together. Instead I sit still on the kitchen island, bar of chocolate forgotten beside me as Clay stares calmly into my face. Once Sap gathers the remnants of his dignity, sniffing and dragging himself upstairs, the blonde starts talking; repeatedly asking if I'm okay, if I need anything, if I'm 'sure' I can forgive Nick. Of course I smile and nod along, letting him tease the idea that everything was okay after what I made happen between us yesterday. We allow the world of bliss to encase us for just a minute, before our brains grow aware that it's slowly, constantly melting away.
So despite my greatest efforts to stay rested in a perfect moment, the atmosphere gradually feels itself grow cold. Our eye contact quickly becomes awkward and uncomfortable, and eventually Clay again finds himself staring at my injuries with nothing in his eyes but genuine fear. My hands ache. "I had a breakdown", I whisper, looking up at him carefully. My voice is as quiet as I could make it, yet he still hears it through the quiet of the room. His head is tilted down; I see him hesitate, clearly processing, before he squeezes my hand slightly and takes a deep breath.
"Because of what?" The words waver. His face is drained of colour.
"Yesterday. With you." There's a moment of silence, and I take it to try and calm down. I haven't spoken that much for that long in months. It's terrifying.
"George, I'm so sor-"
"Don't need to be sorry. My fault. Idiot."
"You're not an idiot, don't.. well- that's besides the point anyway. The point is, why the hell does you having a breakdown mean...this?" He gestures to my head, and I take it to mean my physical state in general with a nod, head hanging low. "I mean..George, that's just..that's not normal, you know? I-it's just-"
"Weird. Crazy. I get it." As soon as I start speaking my heart beats faster, face warming at nothing but the sound of my own voice. When he raises an eyebrow in surprise I pull my hands back into my lap, clasping them together to try and stop their shaking.
"I'm s-sorry that I don't act perfectly 'normal', as you put it, when I'm freaking out. T-trust me, I wish I could." I know that he thinks I sound irritated, but I don't bother  correcting it. It's hard enough to avoid stuttering on every word, there's no point focusing on tone.
Unsurprisingly Clay's eyes widen and he starts mumbling unsurely, trying to say he didn't mean it like that. That he's sorry. I watch him; see his anxiety. I nod.
He clears his throat, biting his lip before speaking. Eventually gathering the courage he chooses his words carefully. It's easy to tell. "George, so you....you did all of this- to yourself?" His voice is almost a whisper, the concern lost in my interpretation of his tone as disgust. I frown, looking up at him. I feel my bottom lip quiver slightly and glance between his eyes, thoughts swarming.
"Yes. Yes, I did." I sound angry and I know it, my fingers clenching against my palms as my heart beats faster every minute. Clay doesn't seem to notice, tugging his lip back between his teeth and staring at the bruise on my leg. Walk away. I spoke too much. I need to walk away. I ruined everything again.
After watching me he steps forward, reaching out. I look at him warily, waiting, unsure what was going to happen. I did do it. Of course I did it. I deserved every second of it and more.
I can't deal with these feelings. I need help. You hate me. Why do you hate me? What did I do?
Wrong. I did everything wrong. I'm such an IDIOT. What's wrong with me?
A warm hand wraps firmly around mine, thumb stroking the base of my palm. Green eyes stare down at our interlocked fingers, full of hesitation- of concern, care, anxiety. They glaze over suddenly with tears and he takes a shaky breath, looking down at the floor, hands shaking in mine.
"George...why?"
The 2 words come out as a whisper, almost silent in the darkening room. And in his head, I'm sure it's a relatively simple question. But there's so many levels to why I react the way I do and some of them aren't even certain.
Before Katrina there was definitely a certain type of it- I freaked out very easily and often struggled to calm myself down or read any sort of tone. I was officially diagnosed with anxiety when I was about 11, took medication that made me feel like shit and then stopped about a month before I met Kat. During that relationship my breakdowns were less intense and less frequent; because except for the very end (the breakup, basically) I was the happiest I've ever been. And then once I recovered in the hospital- unable to speak without having a panic attack- everything had pretty much gone completely to shit. I'd fall apart the moment someone tapped too hard on the table, or swore too loudly. When Dream or Nick got angry at a game and screamed into the mics, I'd leave the calls and fall apart at my desk. No one really knew except for Karl, so they never knew to stop or to be quiet. A couple of times they got mad at me for leaving so suddenly, responding bluntly to my messages and declining calls. There was one week where they both ignored me completely, resulting in a breakdown similar to this one. Scars from it remain on my skin- a reminder that I am not, and will never be normal.

I realised I probably wasn't neurotypical about 2 years ago, but of course refused to tell anyone. Not even Karl knew, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's figured it out too seeing as he usually knows me better than I do. I've never tried to get a diagnosis, and will continue to refuse to. I'm already gay, I don't want to give people more reason to leave me- and all being diagnosed will do is make it official.
Clay doesn't say anything as I think, his eyebrows furrowed. All he wants is answers from me, I know- an answer to whether I'd kiss him, an answer to why I didn't yesterday, an answer to what was wrong with me, an answer to the question he literally just asked me- but I don't have any. I don't know though, I think to myself suddenly. I just don't know, and I have no way of helping him.

So I avoid eye contact and I shrug, uselessly. It's unhelpful, it's frustrating, and it's really unfair, but it's the only thing I can do. Clay looks desperate, asking again and again but it makes no difference. It just upsets him, and agitates me, but I just keep ignoring him with my eyes closed and my shoulders slumped because there's nothing I can do. I'm pointless.
Eventually his voice cracks, unable to cope with the way that my head stays down and my mouth shut. A warm tear lands on my knee and my eyes sting knowing that I've hurt him. Made him cry.
He squeezes my hand and his voice shakes, feet stumbling away from me as he whispers, "I don't know what to do, George." His breaths are fast and his body sways, fists clenching in desperation. My heart aches, yearning for his love and care. But I've hurt him one too many times, and he's getting fed up. Everyone will always get sick of me. "I'm trying so hard," he whispers, tone screaming for any kind of response. Anything. I can't offer him ANYTHING.
"I don't know how to help you anymore, George." I hear, gentle but still so pained. "I'm sorry."
And then he sniffs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. My eyes stay glued to my lap, body shaking. He watches me and suddenly lets out a half-laugh, sounding more like a sob. And then he turns slowly, tears still streaming down his face. And his footsteps echo around the walls as he walks, alone, up the stairs.

(1430 words)

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