Double Dare

6

[There is a panic attack in this chapter. In case this would greatly upset any readers, I've marked the beginning and end of the incident to make it easier to avoid. It looks like this: [***].
My apologies for any inconvenience.]

Wait. A date?

Beau stares at his hand, at Danny's hand. Is this a date? Am I doing this right? Is everything okay? "Do you, um, want to get ice cream or something after this?"

Danny glances over at Beau, grins. "Yeah! That sounds awesome." He swings their hands back and forth, smiling to himself.

He looks so soft... Beau sighs, shaking his head. He's never felt so crazily unfocused, so buzzing around in his skin. He slips his hand over in Danny's so that a couple more of their fingers are laced. Not quite all of them, and not their palms, but still more. Danny smiles back at Beau and squeezes his fingers tighter.

Before Beau realizes it, he and Danny have reached the renaissance section. The paintings are almost all framed with wood, mostly paintings, mostly oil and dim, and far enough behind velvet ropes that it's obvious that no one is to touch them. Danny bounces on his toes. "This is my favorite part. It's so... Old."

He says it with admiration in his voice, an admiration that Beau doesn't understand. "What's so good about old stuff? It tends to be dusty and spiderwebbed, and covered in a weird layer of grime." Beau pulls a face, hoping to make Danny laugh; it works.

"Well, old things have their charms." Danny tugs Beau over to a painting that seems particularly drab. "This one has a story. It was probably a family heirloom, passed down by tons of people, to tons of other people. And some guy or gal centuries ago sat down and painted it, and no one lost or ruined it, and now it's here, worth tons of dollars."

"Yeah, exactly my point. This thing is so old. It comes from a time before there were sanitation standards and plumbing. There are probably germs just ingrained in the paint itself." And the air. Floating into the air, and now you're breathing them, and they're settling into your throat, and on your arm hairs, and your eyes. They're living and dying and reproducing right on your lips, Beau. So damn many of them. And now they're flowing into your-

"Beau? Everything okay?" Danny's brow is furrowed, hand outstretched, but not touching Beau.

Beau gulps, taking deep breaths in through his mouth. "U-uh..." He shakingly pushes the coats towards Danny. "Please," he whispers. Once Danny has them rolled over his arm, Beau takes the wipes out of his pocket and scrubs furiously at his hands, exposed forearms, and neck. Another wipe goes to his face and ears. You can't sanitize your eyes, though, can you? "I'm-" Beau clears his throat, trying to make his voice sound a little more solid. "I'm fine."

Danny bites his lip, opens his mouth, then decides better. Some things are better left not talked about. "Okay. You sure?"

Beau nods, but he can still feel his toes tingling, the way they always do before something bad happens. "Let's go look at something less old."

"Alright." Danny smiles, but it's tentative, nervous, and just shy of forming a proper dimple; Beau likes his real smile more. "We can go and see the sculptures, maybe?"

[***]

Beau nods again, pulls his body into movement, but something is wrong. His limbs are shakier than usual, wobbly like rain-warped stilts, and he feels as though he might faint. Or throw up. Or both. The only coherent thought he can manage is Oh, why here? before his thoughts start pacing, pensive and too talkative.

You're going to catch a disease. You're going to catch something nasty, something ancient and viral. You're going to swell and bleed and choke on your own carbon dioxide, and then you'll die. You'll be dead dead dead, and what about Benji? Who will make his lunch the right way? What about Mom? Who will watch the cracks in the ground to make sure her back never breaks again? What about-

Danny. Danny danny danny danny he's staring at you. Everyone is staring at you, why are they staring? Oh, God, why are you letting him see you like this? Are you crying? Fucking hell Beau-

Danny is stunned, staring at the boy having a meltdown next to him. He is watching Beau shakily swipe at tears and clench and unclench his hands; he watches the little blotches of color growing on his cheeks, and the ominous murder of cawing anxiety that's sweating into the air and wants to help. But he doesn't know what to do, and, even if he did, he's frozen stock still by the non-silence in the almost empty room. so he stands with his hands stuck, half outstretched, watching and hating every second that stretches out after him.

Beau stumbles; he's still been walking this whole time, at his slow, single square at a time pace. But, now, he trips; he barely avoids stepping on a crack, and he's thankful for it. But the air still feels dirty, and the walls of the room are still closing in, and the the whole museum is watching Beau fall apart. He shuts his eyes tight and tries to breathe.

It is now, as oxygen whistle-gasps into Beau's lungs, that Danny remembers how to move. "Beau?" He can hear his voice, silvery soft in the quiet, and not strong enough. He has to stop himself from asking if Beau is okay- obviously not. "Is there anything I can do? Please, talk to me."

Beau flinches at the tremor in Danny's voice. "C-call Benji," he breathes, wrapping his arms around his waist. He wishes he could get someplace clean; hospitals are lovely, ironic because of how much illness they hold.

But some sick is all in your head, innit? You know better than anyone, don't ya?

Beau shudders; the mind voice feels not his own. It's too southern, too gruff, too full of fuzzy bearded memories that Beau isn't prepared to look into yet. "Call Benji," he repeats. He feels like his voice is stronger, but he's actually getting increasingly breathier.

Yeah, call 'im. He always was good at saddlin' up when it was time, he was.

Danny scrolls frantically through his contacts with trembling fingers. "I don't have the number," he says, voice shrill. "What's the number, Beau?"

Beau isn't responding. He's begun to sag to the ground, body exhausted from panicking and yet continuing to panic. A fresh bout of tears erupts onto his cheeks, and he sits with his head near the wall. "My phone," he whispers. Then, with a jerk, he collapses, slumped over. The paintings watch him lose consciousness.

Before he goes out, Beau is almost certain that he hears Danny calling his name...

[***]

***

Coming to in the shadows of his bedroom is a new kind of shame that Beau had not yet known. The drawn blinds purse their lips at him; the unlit lightbulb of his ceiling fan stares back at him with a mixture of pity and disdain. Beau inhales the darkness for a beat, two. Then,

"I said I'd take him for ice cream."

Beau covers his face with his arm; someone has changed his shirt. A shaky inhale is all he manages before he begins to sob again. Why was everything he loved cursed to end this way?

A/N:

I'm sorry. Have some tea ☕

For those who had to skip: You didn't miss much, just a bit of foreshadowing of sorts and a closer look into Beau's mind.

Ugly chapter this week... But, mental illness isn't a pretty little thing, is it?
We'll get to the roots of some of these problems, and Beau will grow from it, but he does, unfortunately, have to hurt first.

Any thoughts? Suggestions? Predictions?

I love you all so, so much. Have a good day.

AJ