lung capacity. [a devereux] (Patreon)

synopsis: sometimes, [A] feels like shit.

note: sorry if this is kinda choppy. i wrote it all in sections on different days (and then it didn’t save), because i’m still currently travelling. weekly updates will resume next week though!

Breathe. It hurts. Breathe. When will it stop? Breathe.

[A] feels like their head is underwater. Each puff of air creates bubbles, taunting them as they float to the surface, unlike them, who's anchored to the bottom. Anchored by gravity. Anchored by metal chains. Anchored by the desperation of their own thoughts, their panicked feelings and hatred for themself.

They gasp.

Hatred. What a strong word. [A] doesn't have the capacity for that emotion. Even Blane, who lives to irritate them, isn't at that level. [A] despises Rekner at most. Just like they despise hot coffee and animal breeders. Like how they despise sardines and cheetah print clothing.

But hate. Oh, do they hate themself sometimes.  

It's a hard pill to swallow, that one. Because who would've thought [A] Devereux, the human embodiment of sunshine, could hate themself so much. Every problem is shaken off with a smile. Every issue is brushed off with an optimistic remark. And the times where their anxiety does get to them? Well, no one ever knows. They don't let anyone know.

They hide in closets, in bathroom stalls and under desks. They make excuses that they need to go do something or look for a certain file. They'll be damned if anyone ever found out that those moments were merely just them excusing themself to go cry.

(It hurts. When will it stop?)

You're the only one who's ever witnessed their panic attacks. You're the only person who has ever saw through that false smile and honed in on the shaky hands, trembling legs and bile stuck in their throat, making their words come out staggered and halting. You're the only person [A] trusts during these times.

At first, it was accidental. They never meant for you to see them at such a weak point. But eventually, it became too hard to hide. They leaned on you as you provided your shoulder. They gripped your hands for support as they struggled to stand.

Except, you're not here right now.

It’s not like anything’s happened to you. You just can’t be there every time [A] needs you. It’s fine. They burden you enough. They don’t want you to have to deal with them even when you’re in your separate apartments. That would be unnecessary.

(But wouldn’t it be nice?)

[A] clenches their hands into fists. Swim. Swim back up to the surface. Break free of those chains that wrap around your ankle and kick your way upwards. Show everyone you're exactly who you show yourself to be. That you're strong and capable and someone who deserves this position. That despite your panicky disposition, you’re meant to be here.

But what if they’re not good enough?

Their swimming falters. Breathe. They feel the gravity begin to take over again. Breathe.

They’re not good enough. They can't even save themself. How are they supposed to do anything more?

(It hurts. When will it stop?)

They're not even sure what triggered this attack. Sometimes, it's because they see you injured after a hunt. (But the two of you hadn't have a hunt for three days now). Other times, it's because they're overwhelmed by their workload, anxiety stemming from the idea that they've tackled too much. (But there's only one case on your plates right now, which is more manageable than it’s been for months now).

A voice slivers through their ears. It's because they’re weak.

They want to scream. Want to yell. What did they do to deserve this? Why is it always them that gets so stressed out over mundane things? No one else around them ever deals with this kind of stuff. No one ever seems to worry as much as [A] does. For all their ambition, [A] is nothing. Nothing but overwhelmed and tired and overworked and sick of the sinking pit in their stomach that tells them something is wrong when in fact, everything is going perfectly fine.

Breathe.

It’s hard. It’s always hard. They know they’re not the only one who struggles, but sometimes, that’s what it feels like. Perhaps everyone puts on a mask just as they do, but either they’re much better at it or their problems aren’t as bad, because they don’t break down. Not like [A] does.

These thoughts are irrational. Breathe.

(But it hurts).

Look on the bright side. Think about all you have. [A]’s mind drifts to the positives in their life and wonder if they outweighs this negative. The panic attacks aren’t nearly as bad as they used to be, they’ll admit. That’s a bonus. They’ve learned to calm themself down over time, learned what triggers them and how to avoid it (when possible).

Their family is fine. They have a stable job and friends who care about them. They have a roof over their head and food is never a worry. They have a coveted position that… No. They do deserve it. Even if it’s unbelievable sometimes.

They swallow and continue counting their blessings. The most obvious one is next: you. Even when you’re not with them right now, they have you.

The thought soothes them. You’re just a phone call away. That’s right. Even though [A] won’t dare dial those numbers and bother you, you’re still there. (And if you hear about this instance later, you’ll scold them for not calling you, but it’s fine. At the moment, their worry about disturbing you is winning out).

And… Well, they’ll get over this. It’ll pass. It has to. Because then they won’t be able to go to Norway. They won’t be able to get that puppy they always wanted or see the end of their favourite series that’s been going on for God knows how long.

And they won’t be able to confess to you. That smile of yours. That signature eye roll when they do something stupid paired with a fond look. The lips they so badly want to kiss. The body they so badly want to hold and cuddle to sleep.

So yeah. It’ll pass. It’ll pass because [A] needs it to. They might not think they’re good enough sometimes, but they got here somehow. That has to count for something.

Breathe. They feel the weight on their chest lighten. The surface is near. Their lungs no longer have to hold on.