dichotomy ; gawsten

twenty four

i wanted geoff and chloe to talk in this chapter and then i realized chapter 25 is next and i like doing Important Things on nice numbers so that's next chapter. this was gonna be shorter and then awsten and otto decided they wanted to talk a lot more and get real deep real quick so. enjoy lmao

slight trigger warnings for anxiety/panic attacks but it's really not bad i promise

Chloe doesn't question it when he follows Awsten and Otto out of his apartment later that day.

She watches with tiniest hint of a smile on her face. He has to turn away. It's like that smile has leapt off her face and traveled across the room, up his body and into his heart, drilled a hole and sat inside, planted roots and let them grow, eclipse the muscle completely.

There's that line, the divide between depression and anxiety that makes having both together such a different experience. Depression, not caring about anything, and anxiety, caring about everything, are the antitheses of each other. He has panic attacks but simultaneously can't find the energy to care about any of it; sits back and watches, becomes a passenger as his life unfolds and fucks up right in front of him, knows it's happening but physically can't bring himself to do anything about it.

He needs to talk to Chloe.

He needs to figure out what the fuck his relationship is and what parts of it are even left.

He doesn't know why she'd want to stay with him after this. He may've finally done it. Finally pushed her over her limit. She's been at a breaking point for years, but this is what ends it. He's sure no one's hit a lower low than he did. She thought she was about to get sex, and there definitely were a lot of tears and whimpers and moans, but he doesn't think blood is the most arousing thing in the world.

When they used to have a normal sex life – he shudders, pulling his arms around his body and tightening his grip on himself at the thought – there was always those five days every month they couldn't. They couldn't. It wasn't a debate or a discussion. It just didn't happen.

Blood isn't a turn-on.

He swallows. The saliva feels thick in his mouth, and it feels like a virus, an intruder, something not supposed to be there, as it slides down his throat and settles in the pit of his stomach. The nausea comes in ebbs and flows. It reaches its crest and peaks, then dips down for a while before it spikes back up. Saliva joins and combines and blends and he's left wishing he could just puke and get it over with already.

He hasn't talked to management in days, weeks even. Jawn promised he'd handle it but there's only so much he can do on his own. He hasn't even thought about openers or rehearsing for tour and he hasn't even started working on the next album everything's been a mess he can't get out of his head he can't pull himself out of his problems long enough to even write about them he's that fucked up he's that useless he can't even use his pain for something what good is it anyway what good is he anyway everything's a mess his life is falling apart and he doesn't have the energy to do anything about it he can't do anything about it there are the bands again tighter tighter tighter nonono-

"Hey. Geoff. Breathe. Deep breaths. Everything's okay."

He blinks rapidly. The room, previously blurry shapes moving around fluidly due to his laziness in refocusing his eyes, clears. Awsten moves the hand from his back to his waist, snakes an arm around him and curls his fingers around his side. He leans into it heavily, exhales and closes his eyes and tries to keep himself standing.

He doesn't know what time it is. Time doesn't feel real anymore. It's like everything that just happened was put into a blender and purified and poured over him, like it keeps happening over and over again and he's reliving and remembering and re-experiencing it all over again.