shoutout to the person who posted about this story on my message board today and made me wanna update

i don't have time to double edit so sorry in advance lol

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Jamie was in a worse state than I was the next morning. He'd only had a few drinks the night before, yet I could tell by his restrained movements and lidded eyes that he was battling an intense headache. His entire body sagged with sleep even though we'd gone to bed at the same time, and holding a conversation was nearly impossible. It was like his mind was choked by fog; he couldn't concentrate. On three different occasions, I saw his hands slip into his pockets, face contorted in a grimace when he, as usual, found nothing there.

     He tried to force optimism as we said our goodbyes to Stevie. "Thank you so much for everything," he pushed a strained smile. "You're the greatest."

     "I loved having you," she said, and I could tell she meant it -- Stevie had a habit of getting attached very quickly. "You'd better be there every time I come down to visit," she said, pulling him by the shoulders into a brief hug. She said something else, too quiet for me to hear, into his ear, then backed away. He was nodding.

     Then she turned to me, smiling sadly like she always did when she knew we wouldn't see each other again for a while. I opened my arms, and she gave me a life-ending hug, way too strong for a girl whose idea of a daily workout was walking downstairs to get mail. "I'm gonna miss you, bub." Then, quieter, she added, "Treat that boy well, okay? Keep being good for him, he needs it. He's good for you, whether he believes it or not."

     "Love you," I said. I kissed her cheek and tried to trample my discomfort at her words, but it was too late. The damage was done. With a few seemingly harmless departing words, she'd placed a brand new, overwhelming weight across my shoulders. Maybe they should have been harmless, but they weren't. She knew they weren't. An angry hand twisted knots below my ribs -- Stevie, of all people, should have known to be more careful. She shouldn't have forgotten how easily I could crack under pressure. 

     But then again, maybe it was my fault for all of the times I'd told her that I'd been perfectly fine lately. That I hadn't come close to losing at all, not once since last year. That Jamie was the only one with a scattered mess leaving ruins inside his head. 

    Swallowing my anger and pushing my fast-mounting worry to the back of my mind, I took Jamie's hand and his bag. He didn't even have the energy to protest. With a final, "Don't be a stranger, sis," I led him away from the apartment, trying and failing not to frown to much when I felt him stumble behind me.

     He passed out the moment his ass hit the passenger seat of my car, leaving me alone with my thoughts for the next two hours.

    Naturally, I thought about him. That should have been a good thing, but for someone who was so allegedly "good for me," thinking about him didn't feel very good at all.

    By the time I got onto the highway, I had thought myself sick.

    I wanted him to be okay. I wanted this withdrawal to just hurry up and pass already. But how much would that actually solve? He still wouldn't be okay.

     And how was I supposed to treat him right? He thought I knew what I was doing, but I had no idea. I didn't know how to handle another person's feelings, especially not ones as complicated as his -- and especially not when my own were so unpredictable. I couldn't protect him, I couldn't take care of him, so what did treat him right even mean? It seemed impossible to be good for Jamie when I was still just starting to understand him.

     I could hardly manage my own thoughts; keeping them under control was a vicious battle on any day, and recently, I seemed to be losing my hold on the struggle. My grip was sliding loose. I didn't know why -- I'd been doing so well -- but it was only a matter of time before the enemy took the upper hand. Maybe it was Jamie -- just another part of his effect -- but if it was, then how could he be good for me at all? Maybe he'd been right to be skeptical, maybe this was self-destructive on both our ends.

     Halfway to convincing myself that this was all a horrible mistake, I turned up the music and focused on it with all of my mind, because my heart had started racing and there came that tick in my mind, counting down the seconds until I hit the tipping point, and I was driving on the fucking highway; I couldn't afford to lose now.

     I desperately wanted to wake Jamie up. I couldn't stand the solitude -- I was eating myself up from the inside out, and no matter how I tried to distract myself, I my mind kept tugging itself in dangerous circles, playing tag with itself and losing, fogging up my head until I felt like I was staring through a storm, stuck in the middle of an angry cloud.

    I felt a cold hand rest over mine. I spared a glance at Jamie's pale fingers, then turned back to the road with a sharp breath.

    "Are you okay?" his voice was lighter than it had been all morning, and I took comfort in his familiar tone. I didn't answer, and he squeezed my fingers; I could feel him tugging now, pulling me back from the edge of the cliff where I'd stood, knees bent to jump.

     His thumb rubbed over my knuckles. His eyes hit my profile, and I didn't meet his gaze but concentrated on feeling it. The image of his blue-and-brown stare was a strong anchor-point, and I slowly came back to myself.

     "Yeah, I'm okay," I said several minutes later, and he gave my hand another short squeeze. The drive fell back into silence. Jamie nodded off again, but his hand remained holding mine over the console, and my mind didn't reengage its fight against itself.

     I shook him awake when we arrived at his house; he blinked the sleep from his eyes, frowning when he looked out the window. He didn't want to go back -- of course he didn't.

    "Do you think your parents are home?"

    He shook his head. "They'll be at a soccer game with Penelope right abut now."

     "Does that mean I can walk you to the door?"

     Jamie looked at me. I couldn't read much from his expression, but his voice was bashful when he said, "If you want, yeah."

    I got out of the car and grabbed his bag from the backseat, ignoring his renewed protests as we made our way up the long driveway. I could feel his reluctance with every step, and I wished that I could just drag him back to my car and never bring him back here again. He was frowning when we reached the door. He turned to face me with his key in his hand but no intention of using it yet.

    "I don't wanna go," he admitted with a sigh, staring up at me with those big eyes of his and a small but loud, frustrated frown.

    I held the sides of his face and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "You're cute." I said, and I moved to lean back but he tugged at my shirt, pulling me against him and wrapping his arms around my waist in a hug.

     "Feel better," I muttered, and he nodded against my chest. "Don't miss me too much."

     "Yeah, okay," he scoffed. Leaning his head back, he laced his arms around my neck and said, "Thank you for this week. I know -- I know I was shit for a lot of it, but I think I really needed it, and . . ." he bit his lips nervously, gaze flitting away before finding my face again. "Yeah. I know it's hard to tell sometimes, but . . . I'm happy right now, thanks to you."

     He stood on his toes to kiss me, and it took a lot to convince myself to let go of him; I didn't want him to go anymore than he did. It had been a really, really good week.

     As I walked back to my car, I tried not to dwell on the stinging fear -- or maybe realization was the better word -- that I wouldn't have many more of those for a while.



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It was probably a little sad that by Monday morning, I missed Jamie. But I did, and I was so excited to see him that I couldn't even bother to feel bad about it.

     I caught sight of him across the cafeteria -- my eyes seemed to know exactly where to look -- and I noticed that he was wearing the school blazer for the first time in a very long time. An instant smile greeted my face at the view of the back of his blonde head, and god, I was whipped.

     My smile turned down, however, when I saw where he was walking -- toward his usual table, with his bad-news friends. Maybe he felt my gaze, because he looked over his shoulder and met it. I gave him a pointed look, silently telling him not to move, and stood from my own table, dismissing Bryan's "Where are you going?" with an indistinct wave.

     I stopped in front of Jamie with my hands in my pockets and my head cocked to the side. "You should sit with me," I said; I could vaguely feel the curious stares of my friends, but I ignored them as best as I could. "Don't you think it would be best to, you know, separate yourself from that group? At least while you're trying to quit?"

     Jamie shrugged. "What difference does it make?"

      I rolled my eyes. He knew the answer to that as well as I did. "You can smell the smoke on those kids from here," I said. "No bueno."

     He scoffed at my awful Spanish accent. "Yeah, well, I'm not sitting with you."

    Frowning -- ouch -- I said, "Why not?"

     Jamie put his hands on his hips as if this time I was the one missing the obvious. "Maybe because you share your lunch table with the kids that have fucked with me since middle school?"

     So I was the one missing the obvious.

    "Right," I nodded, shifting uncomfortably at the guilt that coiled from my fingertips to my stomach at having disregarded something like that so easily. Jamie's annoyed frown, whether conscious or not, was a jab in the gut -- my carelessness had clearly put him off. "Well then I'll come to you. We can sit outside."

   Jamie's agitation slid off of his face in place of wary surprise. "Really?"

   "I don't want you sitting with them," I insisted. "And I don't want you sitting alone. Go find a spot and I'll meet you there -- I gotta tell Bryan so he's not all what the fuck."

    Jamie nodded and we turned in opposite directions -- him to the exit of the cafeteria, me back to my table. As I approached, I noticed that my friends were still watching me like I'd just walked away from a conversation with a dragon.

    "Since when are you friends with pretty princess over there?" Zack Ferry asked the moment I was within earshot. Everyone around him -- save for Bryan and his girlfriend, Vanessa, who frowned against Bryan's shoulder -- snickered.

     Not remotely amused, I shrugged my backpack onto my shoulders and said, "Don't call him that." Then I turned to Bryan, promptly blocking Zack out. "I'm leaving, I'm gonna go sit with --"

     "You've got a real knack for defending that guy, huh?" Zack pressed. I fought a roll of my eyes -- I didn't understand why he turned into such a colossal assfuck whenever Jamie was mentioned.

     "Mhm," I hummed disinterestedly, not sparing him a glance. I could feel his irritation at my refusal to give him any attention. Addressing Bryan again, I said, "I'm gonna go sit outside with Jamie, okay?"

     I didn't explain why, but Bryan didn't question it -- one of the reasons I loved him so much. "Want me to come with?" he offered, and my relieved smile must have been answer enough, because he began gathering his things.

     "You can't be serious," Zack's voice rang annoyingly, and I gave in and turned to him impatiently.

    "Can't I?"

    "You know that if you start getting friendly with that faggot, people will think you're butt-buddies, right?"

    "Don't call him that," I said again through gritted teeth.

    "Faggot," Zack challenged. "Faggot, faggot, faggot. That kid's a big flaming fa--"

     "Shut the fuck up, Zack."

     All eyes turned in surprise to Vanessa. She was usually pretty quiet -- the last person anyone would've expected to snap. Nobody could have looked more surprised than Zack himself, whose eyebrows had lifted practically to his hairline. "What'd you say?" he asked, bewildered.

     "That's not your word," Vanessa said seriously. "Stop using it."

     Zack looked too shocked to clap back. While he was stammering stupidly, Vanessa stood, running fingers through her hair with one hand and lifting her backpack with the other. I smiled gratefully at her, and she returned it.

     I hadn't gotten to know her very well since she and Bryan started dating, but in that moment, I really liked her.

    Zack's dumb ass seemed to have recovered, because he glared up at me and said, "You know you're screwing yourself over, right?"

    "Am I?" I said dryly; if Bryan could hurry up and get his shit together, I would've left by then.

     "You're gonna look like a fag."

    "What's your point?" I stifled a yawn.

     "What, so you don't care? Maybe you are a fag."

    "Stop saying fag you piece of shit," I snapped. Zack just laughed, satisfied to have gotten under skin.

     "You're a dumbass, Bane. You're gonna crash and burn."

     I reigned my composure in on a thin thread and gave him a sugary smile. "Then I hope you enjoy the show."

     The quick return of my nonchalance aggravated Zack; he opened his mouth to say something else, but Bryan swiftly cut him off by saying, "Dude. Shut up."

     I could still feel his narrowed eyes as the three of us turned away from him. "What a tool," Vanessa muttered angrily. "Why are you friends with him?"

     Bryan and I exchanged a glance, then a laugh, because that was a really good question.

     "Good parties?" I suggested, and they snickered.

     I found Jamie sitting under a tree with his earbuds in, legs stretched outward as he leaned against the trunk. He looked up when I sat down next to him, pursed his lips in muted surprise at Bryan and Vanessa, then turned back to his phone. I tried to tug it away from him; he held on, but it got him to look at me, so I said, "Give me attention, asshole, I'm here for you."

    Jamie, despite himself, allowed an amused quirk of his lips -- it was so small, I only noticed because I knew him -- at my childishness. "Needy bitch," he grumbled, but set his phone down no less.

     An interesting sort of dynamic took shape. Jamie, his usual brooding self, didn't pay much mind to Bryan or Vanessa; Vanessa, shy as she was, only really focused on Bryan; Bryan had to split his attention between me and Vanessa; and I had to do the same with him and Jamie. Somehow, it all managed to be only slightly awkward, and at the moment, anything seemed better than being around that Suite Life motherfucker.

    "What were you saying earlier, Liam?" Bryan was asking. "Something about a squirrel in your ceiling?"

    "Oh yeah," I chuckled, remembering the little shit that had kept me awake all of the night before with ridiculously loud scratching and scurrying. "At least, I think it's a squirrel. I call it Scrat."

     "Ice Age," Vanessa said under her breath, mostly to herself. "Epic . . ."

     It was actually kind of nice -- a group I wouldn't mind getting used to.

    I did notice, though, that certain people glanced with surprise at the new arrangement as they passed with their friends. Suddenly, Zack's words -- words that I couldn't have cared less about -- were in my head. I pressed my lips together, pulled my knees up to my chest, and turned away from my surroundings to listen to Bryan's story about his goose bite, but the corner of my eye kept catching curious gazes, and my foot started tapping uneasily against the grass. "Are you okay?" I heard Jamie whisper. His voice was unusually distant, but I ignored that and nodded. Of course I was okay. I didn't give two shits if Zack or anyone at my lunch table or anyone at the school wanted to call me gay for sitting with Jamie. If they did, they were just stupid, and I saw no need to waste my time with stupid people.

    But my stomach was in knots.

    It didn't make sense, because when I thought about what Zack had said -- genuinely thought about it -- my mindset was dismissive at most. But when I noticed a glance from Mandy Zimmerman or Quadir Ghanti -- maybe they weren't even looking at me, maybe it was all in my head -- I felt a quiver in my lips and the tips of my fingers, in my gut and in my throat. I had to be visibly shaking, because Bryan's eyes rounded in concern when he looked at me, and he said, "Everything alright, man?"

    "I'm okay," I croaked, but I wasn't okay, I was hypersensitive and over-aware and I was struggling to distinguish imagination from reality now; Lance Darmon had just glared at me, hadn't he -- but he hadn't -- everyone was glaring at me -- I screwed my eyes shut so I couldn't see them, but I could hear them now, jeering and spitting slurs, and alongside their voices came the soft ticking that told me exactly where I would go if I couldn't pull myself together. I remembered the white walls of a hospital room and the sickening smell of disinfectant and told myself I needed to calm the hell down before something bad happened.

    There was a hand on my shoulder, and I knew the touch was Jamie's. It disappeared quickly, though, and I wrenched my eyes open to see him concerned and conflicted, stuck between comforting me and hiding for me. I wanted his touch back -- it had comforted me last time -- I needed it -- the bell rang, and I shot unsteadily to my feet, ignoring the calls of my friends behind me and submerging myself as quickly as I could into the crowd, hoping to conceal myself from the stares. But now I was surrounded, and they were screaming at me, and the tick was more of a thunder, my heart was the throbbing engine of an exhausted machine. There were too many people; I'd dived head first into my own suffocation.

    I broke, shallow-breathed, from the throng of bodies, looking around for Bryan or Jamie, wishing I'd never left them. People were actually looking at me now, confused and wary; this had never happened at school before. I rushed to my sixth period and practically flung myself into the room; it was empty except for Mr. Peters, and quiet but for his tapping at the keys of his laptop. The space brought me some piece of mind and I took to my seat, putting my head in folded hands and trying to force myself to relax before it got worse. Nothing's wrong, I reminded myself. There's literally no reason to be freaking out right now.

    I succeeded somewhat. My heartbeat slowed and my breathing evened out.

    But the pounding never left. It may have grown duller, back to a mere tick, but it was present enough, a warning that I hadn't yet saved myself.

    Jamie came into the room worried, but I managed to fend him off, faking okay with noncommittal phrases and smiles that sent him over to his own desk once the final bell had rung.

    I nearly made it through the period, too.

    I was fidgeting the whole time, and my focus kept darting to items around the room -- usually red ones, bright fuel for my anxiety -- but I managed to stay on the cusp of normalcy. I was on edge, but on was better than falling off.

   But Mr. Peters had to turn to me with his expectation, had to ask me for the answer to a problem I hadn't even begun to solve.

    "I don't know," I said. The whole class was looking at me, waiting for an answer.

    "Oh come on, don't be modest," Mr. Peters smiled encouragingly.

    "I don't know the answer," I said again, shrinking back beneath his persistent anticipation. I felt Jamie's gaze, felt his worry, and made a point of straightening my back -- he didn't need to worry, he needed to stop staring at me, everyone needed to stop staring at me.

    "Liam, you can't expect me to believe that," Mr. Peters insisted. "You've never--"

    I hit the tipping point with a bang that resounded in my ears only. After one year of uncertainty, I hit it.

    "I said I don't fucking know!" I snapped, too loudly, my foot thrumming against the floor to the beat of the ticking in my head, my fists curling on my desk, my eyes zoning in on the harsh red numbers on the whiteboard. A murmur went up in the class, and Mr. Peters' eyes shot wide.

    "Mr. Bane, I will not accept that kind of language in my class!"

    "Well then get off of my ass about the goddamn problem and we won't have an issue!" I hissed. "Ever fucking think of that?"

"Get out," Mr. Peters asserted angrily, pointing toward the door, blue veins popping in his forearm. "Out of my classroom, now."

    I grabbed my bag and stormed unsteadily out, letting the door slam behind me, finally cutting off all of the stares. I was vaguely aware of my own shaking, and I hardly noticed when I stumbled on the hallway tile. Maybe I would hit my head again. A blackout and a hospital room seemed better than this -- this feeling of erased progress, of a year of thinking I had gotten better proving to be nothing more than a sick tease.

    A voice called my name; it was Jamie's. I ignored him and pushed through the back door of the hall. He ran to catch it before it shut, making it out just in time to see me stumble and smack the wall for support. Then my legs gave out entirely and I collapsed to the grass with a soft thud.

    "What's wrong?" Jamie asked, and his voice was terrified -- I was scaring him.

    "I don't know!" I said, pushing my hands into my hair and throwing my head back against the wall. I hissed at the pain and did it again, and would've done it a third time if Jamie hadn't fallen to his knees and held me by my shoulders.

    "Stop!" he exclaimed, and he was panicking now; I was making him panic, I was freaking him out, he'd run away at any moment. "Liam, tell me what's wrong."

    "I don't know!" I cried again, because it was true -- there never seemed to be a good reason. I didn't even realize I was crying -- I sure as hell didn't realize why I was crying. I was going fucking crazy, and that was terrifying. I clutched the grass tightly, tearing the stalks and ripping the roots from the ground. Despite the chill in the air, I was sweating, I was burning up, choking in my own heat. My chest constricted painfully and I coughed, trying to inhale but feeling nothing soothe my lungs. "I can't breathe," I could hardly hear my own voice over the crashing in my head, "Jamie, I can't fucking breathe!"

    "I don't understand," Jamie looked around hopelessly, blatant fear in his gaze. "What's --"

    "I don't know!" I gasped, and he seemed to realize that that was all he would get, because he stopped asking and sat next to me instead. He took my hand but didn't pull me closer -- he offered me his comfort but gave me space.

    He stayed there for a long time, saying nothing but watching me with trouble on his face as I cried for no reason, as I shook for no reason, as I panicked for no reason.

++++

"Liam, what --"

    But I shook my head, and he closed his mouth.

    My heart was still pounding as I leaned back against the wall, but I felt like I was inside myself again, and I was okay.

   Shaken and humiliated and exhausted, but okay.

   Jamie was quiet for several minutes. I knew he was looking at me, but I couldn't bear to look back at him, so I shut my eyes and pretended I didn't feel his. Then,

     "Just one question." I could hear the caution in Jamie's voice -- he was scared of overstepping. "Has it happened before?"

    I nodded. Silence again.

    "I lied. One more question. Was it -- was it because of me?"

    "No," I said quickly, because I never wanted him to think that. My throat scratched painfully when I spoke, and my mouth felt dry and sour. "No, it's just . . . it's my own problem, I freak out when I don't need to, and then I . . . then I move on."

     It was both truth and lie. I omitted a very important word: sometimes I move on.

    It wouldn't do either of us any good for him to know that this had been mild. That it got much, much worse. That sometimes I had ended up sick for days, throwing up or tossing and turning through a phantom fever. That sometimes I had genuinely stopped breathing until I passed out -- that once I had woken up four days later with a concussion that almost dragged me out of football. That my last car had been totaled when I lost control and swerved off the road, slamming into a tree and somehow getting lucky enough to get out with only one broken bone.

    That was all in the past. I just had to hope that it stayed there -- that this was a one-time thing, not a precursor to major change.

    Jamie hummed in understanding. I could picture the tilt of his head, the slight purse of his lips. "Are you alright now?" he asked a few minutes later.

    "Yeah," I said. "Sorry you had to . . ."

   "Shut up," he said. I opened my eyes, and he was scowling at me. "I know you're not seriously apologizing for that when you had to deal with my messy ass all break."

     That got me to crack a smile.

     I would pretend it never happened. And, though I knew he didn't want to, Jamie would, too. I just had to make sure it never happened again -- and that it never got worse.

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 We all know my stories can't be in a good place for too long.

For those of you curious as to why Liam heard a ticking in his head when he started having his "mild" panic attack (which, btw, is different from an anxiety attack -- that's important to note), I'll explain sometime later, maybe at the end of the story. It's actually based on an article (or maybe a post?) that I read a long time ago about a guy's personal experience

I think my legit favorite thing about writing this story is making it really parallel to njsy in some ways but making those parallels kind of antiparallel at the same time (if that makes any sense?). Like the stories have a lot of little similarities but the similarities play out very differently and I'm having so much fun playing w that