dichotomy ; gawsten

thirty eight

trigger warnings for anxiety, mentions of depression/suicidal thoughts, and panic attacks

sorry it's been a minute, guys. i have finals rn and everything's a mess but i'm done on friday so regular updates will be a thing after that

"So..."

"So."

"What'd you think?" He drapes an arm across Geoff's torso and squirms upward to move his head further onto his chest.

He's waiting for it. The tensed muscles and rigid form, to hear the ragged breathing and feel Geoff's arm go iron around him, try to squirm out of his grip long enough to press his hands against his chest and take him through a breathing technique for what seems to be the thousandth time. He knows Geoff's anxiety. He knows the hollowness of his heart is a breeding ground for panic. It's a cup that fills to the brim and is now in a constant state of overflow. He's finally got it figured out, able to feel the change in Geoff's body when something knocks against the edge and more panic sloshes out.

He's waiting for it.

But it doesn't come.

Geoff breathes out heavily. He feels his stomach inflate underneath his body. The arm around him tightens, but the grip stays soft. Pliant. He squirms higher and reaches down to tug Geoff's arm up to match, put it back in the place of warmth before it goes cold again. "It was okay, I guess? I like him. It may actually work this time."

Geoff's voice is quiet. It sounds like he's at the tail end of a marathon with no drive to go on. Someone's grabbed him and squeezed everything out, like he was a rag someone twisted to desaturate and now he's devoid of color completely. His touch is warm and his hold is strong, but he's tired.

It's not the tired sleep can fix; it's not something a goodnight's rest and some REM will take care of. This is perpetual purple streaks, red eyes and sluggish movements, heavy and long and all blurring together into one.

Awsten knows Geoff's been through a lot. He knows Geoff hasn't told him everything yet. He knows there's still so much hidden behind the fragments of his chest, packaged down into tiny boxes lodged deep in its crevices. He's at the end of the race; he's so close to the finish line, but both his mind and body have walked out, started holding picket signs and demanding better compensation from how hard they've had to work recently.

Geoff's been through so much and dealt with so much and survived so much. The fans and the media and the press and their management, the news reports and headlines and people picking apart his every move like ants gnawing at a new place on his skin, until all he's left with is flesh and bone. And now he's lying out in the open, naked, vulnerable, exposed, two suicide attempts and multiple rehab stints and a cancelled tour to show for the damage they've caused.

And he's still alive.

He doesn't get enough credit for that.

Some days it's all you can be, and some days even that is too hard to bear.

"I'm so proud of you," he murmurs. He rests a hand on Geoff's chest and pushes his body up, trails his fingers up Geoff's chest and neck, attempts to gage where his lips are. Missing them would ruin whatever moment is starting to form.

And then he leans down, hovers over Geoff's body and presses their lips together. Geoff's hands move instinctively down to his hips. Awsten smiles against Geoff's lips. It's been happening since they started dating. Geoff's hands have become a permanent fixture on his waist. It's a touch. It's soft. It's something to lean into. It's warm.

"So you're gonna keep going?" He asks, once they're back in their previous position and his head is resting on Geoff's chest again.

"Don' really have a choice." He hears what sounds like a chuckle, but it cuts off abruptly and ends in a cough. Reaching downward, he finds the hand Geoff isn't using to hold him and intertwines their fingers. "S'not my decision, it's Jawn's."