why were yall okay with her wearing this polyester 2018 instagram ad hoodie what thefuck is this
this is why i loathe mystreet and just rewatch mcd (this shit is my special interest unfortunately dont say a word).
and on top of that laurance’s only interests were the trans siberian orchestra and halo games oh dont sit here and lie to me that man played skyrim and listened to nine inch nails get out of my face
Thinking so deeply about how Zane canonically fell in love with Aphmau in mys s1 and gave her up so Aaron could confess to her, like baby boy NO YOU SHOULD HAVE SHOOT YOUR SHOT!!!
The fear, the panic, whatever you want to call it, is a wall. Garroth runs into it every day, every moment. It knocks him flat on his ass, no air in his lungs, and he has no choice but to get back up and try again. It’s, at least, a harsh wall. Jagged, made of uneven stones. It’s a single hit, he’s down, and he’s back up again; it’s tiring, but not a relentless battle to get through.
This, though - this is tar.
-
It doesn’t matter where he is, what he’s thinking, or what he’s doing. It doesn’t matter who he’s with, how good of a time he’s having, or how much sleep he had the night before. It sits at the bottom of his chest, always, just biding its time until it creeps up and around his heart, squeezing and tightening until he chokes. He can’t do anything, he can only hold on until it passes.
Something in his chest shifts and Garroth inhales sharply.
It’s not the first sign but it’s the only one he notices. The plate in his soapy hands clatters to the bottom of the sink and he scrambles to brace himself against the edge of the counter. He shuts his eyes tight and breathes out cautiously. It comes out too fast and he finds himself rapidly inhaling again without his own permission. He clenches his jaw and tries again. He controls the stream of air flowing out and- it slips right out of him. He gasps and his eyes fly open, his lungs empty. Garroth white-knuckles the counter.
“Again,” he grits out. In, slowly, barely, for four, hold for se- fuck, no, start again.
In, carefully, for one, two, thr- shit. The air catches in his throat and he lurches forward, coughing on his own breath. It leaves him gasping for oxygen but every time he sucks in, he’s stuck in another coughing fit. Something burns right behind his eyes and he heaves into the sink.
Nothing comes out, but it’s opened the flood gates. Tears pool from his waterline and down his cheeks and the salt stings the skin. The gagging hits again but he has nothing but saliva to spit into the sink. Nausea broils in his stomach and he groans lowly. His knees buckle and he’s forced to lower himself onto the ground, still clutching at the kitchen sink for balance.
The physical sickness cuts him some slack. It’s redirected his adrenaline, but he knows it’s not going to last long.
The fear, the panic, whatever you want to call it, is a wall. Garroth runs into it every day, every moment. It knocks him flat on his ass, no air in his lungs, and he has no choice but to get back up and try again. It’s, at least, a harsh wall. Jagged, made of uneven stones. It’s a single hit, he’s down, and he’s back up again; it’s tiring, but not a relentless battle to get through.
This, though - this is tar.
It’s a mile long and two miles tall. The only way to get to the other side is through. Garroth gets up. He braces. He runs. And he sinks right into it. It seeps down his throat first, up his nose, covering his eyes. It drowns his ears and fills them with a ringing he can’t escape. It fills up his lungs and sits heavy in his bowels. He tries to step forward and weights are tied to his feet. It feels like moving mountains to make any movement, and after he exerts the effort of a marathon, he’s moved only centimeters. He can’t see the end. He can’t see anything. Could he ever?
It tears into him like a plane has just hit his body. There’s a horrible grating sound echoing around the kitchen. He reaches the terrifying conclusion that the sound is from him and he forces a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. His chest heaves for air, but all he can do is sob. Tipping forward, he ends up on his knees, bowing over so that his head barely touches the floor. He sucks in a huge breath but it barely makes it into his lungs on account of the hand firmly affixed to his face. The tears make it hard to see much of anything. He whines pathetically and slams a second hand on top of the first, holding tighter to try and keep it under control.
It pulls him under, again and again.
Every sign of the horizon is met with another wall.
There are other people at home, a small voice in Garroth’s head says. They will find you in your own sick, and what will they think of you?
He shakes his head rapidly, whispering “No, no, no-”
You need to get it together, his father’s voice runs through his head and Garroth chokes on his own tears.
“Garroth?”
Someone’s around the corner. Garroth’s eyes go wide. No, no, no, no-
“Huh, coulda sworn he was doing the dishes.” Soft shuffling of socks. Garroth sucks in a breath and holds it, scrambling to hide in the corner of the cabinets. “Gar, you there?” He shakes his head, willing Laurence to go away. “Garroth?”
Laurence turns the corner into the kitchen. Garroth doesn’t want to know what it all looks like. He scrunches his knees close to his chest and buries his head into them. He can hear Laurence stopping as he enters the room and he doesn’t look up. His breath hitches and he tenses his whole body to try and keep from sobbing again.
There’s another soft movement, the sound of someone getting on the floor and sliding in next to him. An arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him into something solid. Garroth breathes in sharply and struggles against it, but Laurence is insistent. He pulls him forward and Garroth lets himself tip into Laurence’s grasp. Laurence keeps one arm around them and the other goes up to knead at the base of his neck. “You’re safe,” he says softly. Garroth shakes his head rapidly.
“I can’t-” he gasps, but he’s too out of breath to complete the thought. “I can’t, I’m scared.”
“I know,” Laurence says. Garroth’s body makes an involuntarily keening sound and he buries himself into Laurence’s chest. Laurence moves both his arms under Garroth’s own, sliding him so that he’s sitting in between Laurence’s legs. He wraps firmly around Garroth’s chest and squeezes.
The pressure kickstarts and it’s like he’s broken through the top of the sea of tar and Garroth gulps down air like a drowned man. “Easy,” Laurence says firmly. “Slowly.”
“I know,” Garroth chokes out, frustrated, but he takes his next breath in with a little more restraint. Laurence presses closer and Garroth’s shoulders relax incrementally. He still can’t stop crying, and his tears are slowly soaking into Laurence’s sweater. “I’m sorry- I-” the panic starts to amount again and the pressure Laurence is applying stops working. The band around his lungs tighten and he wheezes.
“It’s okay,” Laurence says, pained, and Garroth’s heart hurts, “it’ll pass, you know it will.”
“I’m scared,” Garroth rejects, but Laurence just shushes him and tucks Garroth’s head under his chin.
“You need your medication,” Laurence says. It’s not a question and Garroth knows it. He’s not getting through this without intervention. “I’m calling Dante.”
Garroth moves more on instinct than anything conscious and grabs at one of Laurence’s arms with both his hands. He squeezes tightly, harshly, and Laurence hisses. “Hey, hey, hey, no, please,” he says, but Garroth can barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. He starts panting and his vision’s going fuzzy and-
-
“Dante!” Laurence calls. His own heart is beating wildly in his chest, but it’s not overwhelming. It’s not what’s happening to Garroth in front of him and he’s entirely capable of keeping it under control, but he’s scared too. He’s so- he’s scared. He knows what to do, theoretically, in these situations. He’s been there for most of them, but it doesn’t get any better or easier. There’s a trick to these kind of things – you have to catch it early. You need to know every sign, every symptom and work to stopping it from developing further. It’s hard to do anything once you’re in the middle of it but it’s impossible to overanalyze every single aspect of your life to make sure it never happens. Often times, it doesn’t matter what you do anyways, it’s still going to overtake you and kick you when you’re down.
That’s how Garroth has always described it.
“Dante!” he yells louder. Garroth is shivering now. He’s there, Laurence knows that, but he’s almost definitely non-verbal and Laurence isn’t going to force answers out of him when he can’t speak. It does mean that Laurence has to make the decision to medicate him. It’s not a power he’s glad to have. He wishes more than anything that this was never a spot either of them had to be in. “Fuck, Dante! Get over here!”
There’s still silence. There’s every chance that Dante’s not home and Laurence doesn’t like the idea of leaving Garroth alone. Garroth’s breathing is getting choppier, and all at once, his body goes taut and jerks forward. Garroth heaves and Laurence cringes, but still rubs at his back. Garroth hums desperately under his breath, Laurence can feel it under his palm, but the sound keeps getting caught in his throat as he struggles to breathe through the fear.
Yeah, okay, there’s no way around this.
“I’m gonna be right back, Gar,” he says quietly, squeezing reassuringly at Garroth’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get your medication and then it’s gonna get better, okay?” Garroth makes a pained expression but nods anyways. “Right back, I promise, I promise,” Laurence says, more to himself than anything else.
He settles a shaking Garroth against the cupboards underneath the counters and scrambles to his feet. His socked feet struggle to find purchase against the tile and wood flooring of their house but he still races into Garroth’s bedroom. The bedstand is the first place he thinks to look and he tears into it. There’s a series of orange pill bottles at various stages of being filled, but as he looks at each of the labels, his frustration grows. None of them are the one he’s looking for, the fact-acting emergency one for situations exactly at these. He slams the bedstand drawer shut and starts looking through Garroth’s desk. There’s still nothing there and at this point Laurence is just making more of a mess than fixing anything.
“Think, think, think, Zvahl,” he hisses under his breath. Where could it be? Why wouldn’t be with any of his other medications, where would Garroth keep it so that he could access it at a moment’s notice, where, where, where-
Laurence starts grabbing at random pieces of clothing around the room, rifling through pant and jacket pockets. Garroth never really took anything out of his stuff out of his room, specifically so he wouldn’t lose it, but considering it was emergency meds, maybe he put them somewhere he could take it with him easily, maybe-
He spots Garroth’s messenger bag peeking out from a hook in the closet. That’s right, Garroth had gone to his parents for a couple nights and he probably took it with him in case anything. Laurence lunges forward and drops the entire bag upside down. A spare shirt and pens start to spill from the bag, an old water bottle, a charging cable, and-
Laurence grabs the pill bottle and the half-empty water bottle and checks the label carefully before dashing out of the room. He slips back into the kitchen, already sliding on his knees towards Garroth as he cracks the lid off and spills a singular pill into his hand. Garroth’s already reaching halfway towards him so he shoves his hand towards him. In a practiced motion, Garroth tips the medication into his mouth with one hand and the other reaches for the water bottle. He takes a massive swig and swallows harshly. He must realize how thirsty he is because he keeps drinking, but his shaking hands and his still tenuous ability to breathe at a regular pace means that he just keeps choking half of it and spilling the rest down his front.
“Woah, woah, woah, easy.” Laurence gently pulls the water bottle away from Garroth. He closes the lid and sets it down next to him. Garroth pants, with every other breath taking a little longer and going a little deeper. Laurence pulls his sleeve over his hand and wipes at Garroth’s face. He’s definitely going to have to wash this shirt immediately but it’s barely on his mind at the moment. “We can do breathing or grounding, but we gotta do one,” he pushes gently. Garroth groans and his head tips back to hit the cupboard. “I can get you fidgets as well.”
Garroth holds up one finger before dropping his arm back down to the floor.
“Breathing?” Laurence asks. Garroth nods half-heartedly. Laurence slides closer, reaching for Garroth’s hands. Garroth lets it happen easily and Laurence holds one and presses the other to his own chest. He takes an exaggerated breath and a second later, Garroth tries to do the same. The air rushes out of him a beat before Laurence exhales and his grip on Laurence’s hand tightens. “That’s okay,” Laurence soothes. “Again, alright?” They do it again and this time Garroth makes it through the first part of the exercise before releasing the air too quickly. “Again.” Inhale for four seconds, out for four seconds. He gets it once, twice, and then a third time. The shaking doesn’t stop, but the tears do, and Garroth begins taking in deeper and longer breaths and holding more control over the exhale. His shoulders slump forward and he pulls his hand away from Laurence’s chest to drag it down his face. “I’m guessing you’re tired.”
Garroth gives him the most deadpan look he can muster in the moment and Laurence can’t help much laugh, tension seeping from his own spine as Garroth begins to return to baseline. “Yeah, me too,” Laurence murmurs. Garroth frowns slightly and Laurence squeezes his hand. “Not your fault, Garroth, don’t even start with that.” Garroth frowns a little more and he inhales a little too quickly for Laurence’s comfort so he reaches forward and cups Garroth’s chin with his free hand. “I’m glad I was here,” he says without any room for argument. Garroth visibly struggles for a second, almost opening his mouth as if to speak, before seemingly giving up and leaning forward into Laurence’s space.
“Bed,” he grunts, “need help.” Laurence runs a hand down his back.
“We can do that.”
It takes a few minutes. It takes longer than that, really, but Laurence isn’t truly keeping track. It starts with getting Garroth’s feet under him and then into a position where his legs aren’t going to give out. He’s still shaking, and Laurence doesn’t really like the look of that, but at this point they’re in the endgame and all Garroth can do now for himself is rest and do more grounding exercises. Maybe call his therapist while he’s at it, but that’s a tomorrow task.
Laurence holds him steady as they shuffle down the hall. He bumps Garroth’s door open with his elbow and guides him to the bed. Garroth looks around the room, an obvious mess from Laurence’s rushed and rather panicked search for his medication, and raises an eyebrow. Laurence flushes and shrugs sheepishly. “I couldn’t find the bottle and I was kinda in a hurry,” he excuses. Garroth shakes his head in bemusement and Laurence gives him a slight tap upside the head. “Hey, I’ll clean it, don’t give me shit for it now.” Garroth just gives a tired grin and it settles something in Laurence’s chest. He pushes a little at Garroth’s shoulder, motioning towards the bed. “Alright, dude, bed time.”
Garroth goes easily. He stretches and then lays down flat, trying to get comfortable amongst the many pillows he’s got. It’s already dark outside, Laurence notices, so at least the sedative part of the medication isn’t going to mess too seriously with Garroth’s sleep schedule. Laurence sits on the edge of the bed, resting a hand on Garroth’s ankle.
Garroth’s eyes are already slipping closed when he asks, “stay?” with a rough and sleepy voice. Laurence tightens his grip on Garroth’s ankle as a reassurance.
