Isaac has not been in a good place. Things lately have just been getting worse and worse, and it would appear that they aren’t going to be looking up any time soon. His anxiety is higher than it has been in months, and add an unhealthy dose of irrational paranoia into the combination, along with school stress and the added tax of having one of his oldest demons wandering about, and it only gets more sticky. He’s been avoiding Cams to an extent that he’s never done before, and without appropriate explanation both from an inability to put it from words, and from a deep-set belief that, chances are, he won’t want to hear it regardless.
Tonight it all seems to be coming to a head, and he’s having a hard time breathing as he stands in the bathroom mirror, flash backs of Thanksgiving -- the last time he’d been this bad -- flooding his thoughts with memories best kept in the past. His breathing is heavy, and his hands are trembling, and he thinks that maybe he’s not cut out for this after all. He’s not cut out for protecting -- not himself, not Cams, not anything or anyone. He knows that Aiden is back, and from what he understands of the situation (or maybe what he doesn’t understand, now that he thinks of it) there’s probably some sort of confrontation on the horizon.
He is not strong. He can’t do confrontation, and fighting, and keeping safe the things that are his. He’s weak, and he’s frightened, and he just wants it to be okay. He just doesn’t get why it can’t be okay. Tears are prickling in his eyes, and he forces himself to look away from his reflection, his faults, and everything written there, clear as day for all to see. Anxiety has been an ever-present affliction, and it’s redoubled in its ferocity, taking root deep in his chest and making it harder and harder for his heart to beat appropriately. He needs to talk to Cams. Izzy needs to tell him that he doesn’t know what to do, that he doesn’t know how to do it, but he wants to. He hasn’t abandoned him.
It takes him another minute or two to work up the courage to leave his temporary sanctuary, and he brings a hand up, scrubbing at his eyes and forcing the tears to subside. The last thing he needs is to devolve into a total mess right now, and he’s sure that’s the last thing his lover needs too. He’s the fucking worst. He knows he is, but he’s trying, and that counts, right? It has to count.
