Saving Prince Charming

worthless.

Anxiety rose up out of Thomas' stairwell as nonchalant, quiet, and graceful as a shadow. He was not expecting the house to mimic his soundlessness.

Usually, his host's home was bustling with noise, be it mumbled song, a buzzing television, even a radio. Sometimes it was just the creaking of floorboards associated with someone restless as Thomas. But when Anxiety ascended to his place on the stairs, he was greeted with a reality of cold, hard, silence.

"What is going on with you?" all around him lie wrappers, trash of all sorts. It was a mess, except for the middle of the living room. There, Thomas was sitting, staring blankly at his camera. He wasn't talking, just gazing at the lens, eyes glazed over. Quickly, his right hand went up to cover his mouth, and he seemed to huff in a way that suggested he was fighting disbelief or disgust, but his hand soon rejoined its partner to clasp on his lap.

He wasn't looking at the camera anymore, though. He seemed to be spacing, eyes directed downward. Sighing, he went to get up.

"This is pointless." Anxiety jumped at the sudden intrusion on the miasma of eerie serenity the house was enveloped in. But once he got past the initial shock of the volume, the actual words registered, and Anxiety grew even more nervous than he had been previously.

"Oh no, Thomas. This isn't like you." It's like me, maybe. But not you. Thomas trudged across the living space, turning off his still recording camera. His feet dragged to the point of almost-stumbling. With a half-hearted pivot, he headed toward the kitchen. Anxiety followed without a word.

Thomas couldn't see him, only hear him. He didn't want to cause him any more grief than what he'd already seen in him today, so he uttered not a thing as he investigated this strange new behavior. (The behavior of a broken man, he should know, he should know)

Eventually, the two made it to Thomas' destination just down the hall. On the table, there lay a list. Thomas had always made little idea-lists for his videos, so this wasn't something entirely unusual. The contents were somewhat disturbing, however: Disney? It read. That bit was rather furiously crossed out with Sharpie. Steven Universe? Creating? My mental state? All of this was made near-unreadable through the thick black lines that choked the paper, except for one word. One word was the only survivor of the vandalism that Anxiety had to assume was Thomas' own doing, and...

worthless.

That's all it said.

"Wha...?" Anxiety swirled around to face Thomas again. He was in the midst of making himself a bowl of cereal, and for the first time, he could see how thick the bags under Thomas' eyes had become. They were nearly as prominent as his own.

Done with the menial task of fixing his breakfast, the host sat to eat it. But after a while of watching the milk and grains dance around his bowl, he shook his head. He started to get up, and Anxiety was beginning to realize that he meant to throw it out.

"You're going to kill yourself like this. Eat, Thomas." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, or remember that he was trying to keep quiet. They were tinged with desperation, with shock, and he almost instantly regretted speaking- but as soon as he had spoken, he felt the tell-tale sensation of his influence (fear-tipped claws, fire, a blade, suffocation- he came in many forms) shoot through Thomas' heart and latch its horrid grip there. The man gave a surprised grunt, his eyes widened, and he took the spoon to his lips.

Anxiety sighed his relief. At least the kid would get some nutrients out of this, and he hadn't accidentally made anything worse, which was a plus.

But on the other hand, this was so much graver than he had thought. So, so much.

He had never seen anyone act like this before.

So, armed with new information and a fragile (but growing) resolve, he sunk into the floor tiles, off to go report this (...something. This was certainly something) to the others.

"Hold on, Prince." [I'm coming home.]

*

At Thomas' home, he hadn't yet moved from the kitchen seat Anxiety had left him in. That was three hours ago, and he had long since finished his meal.

He just couldn't muster up the energy. It took a lifetime, it seemed, to get from his chair to the sink. And then, to possibly move somewhere else. And he was reasonably comfortable where he was, so he stayed. He just didn't see the importance of doing anything else.

Sure, he would have liked to have made a video today. His loyal fans have been waiting for ages; it had been nearly a month now, hadn't it? Wow, time flies. Even when you're not having fun, apparently.

Because he wasn't having any fun, not anymore. He didn't know why, exactly. Nothing had changed. Maybe he was the one who had changed? Weird.

It was all just so... fuzzy, nowadays. Nothing really mattered. What mattered in the long run? School? Work? His career as an entertainer? He knows that all of these things mattered to him. But he stopped feeling like these things mattered to him, and that was what sucked everything else out of him. Maybe. Who knows. He didn't; he was just making shots in the dark.

All he knew is that it wasn't worth it if the only thing that drove him to do things was logic. Who cared about logic when the emotion was gone?

He had been a lot more productive this morning, though. He had even eaten breakfast, which hadn't happened in a long time. He had felt the need to eat breakfast, that morning. Now, however, he wasn't feeling much of anything. Oh well.

He painstakingly stood from the hard chair, stretching as he went. He placed his bowl with the growing pile of dishes he had yet to do (he hadn't done them in a long time) and padded off to bed. There was no reason to do anything else.

The glowing green lights of his alarm clock saw him off to his dreams, proudly stating the time to be twelve noon. Thomas smiled.

Maybe he would feel something tomorrow.