autonomy ; gawsten

vi

trigger warnings - anxiety and panic attacks

He's starting to settle in.

The routine was flung at him before, tossed forward and splattered against his body, burning and stinging it's too much nonono I can't do this I can't breathe it's too much it's too fast it hurts no please nonononono-

It felt like a fire that turned to ice so quickly, a mound of saliva that sat in his stomach unbelievably thickly, like the panic in his veins had finally manifested into a ball, concentrated its energy and swelled and blew up, moremoremore, until he didn't know what was happening or why it was all moving so fast, until he crashed without realizing and only through the carnage learned what it meant to hit the wall.

It's never been this bad before. He knows that for a fact. He thinks and ruminates and tries, forces himself back into the creaking lunch tables and hurled insults, tripping over someone's banana peel and spilling his food all over the floor on the first day at a brand new school, how they stared and smiled and laughed, wow, look at the pathetic little wimp that can't stop shaking. Look at the sad little nerd that's crying over this. He's crying, guys! He's actually crying.

He's actually crying.

And that was the awakening of the voice in his head, the cruel chorus that won't stay long dead, you fucked up you ruined it you ruin everything it's all gonna be a mess and it's your fault their day is gonna be ruined and it's all your fault they're gonna be late and it's all your fault what if today is important what if they had somewhere to be what if the world is about to happen for them and they miss it because you can't pour a fucking cup of coffee correctly-

And it's still there, every time he hears an order and starts to make a drink they could be late and it'll be your fault they could be late and it'll be your fault they could be late and it'll be your fucking fault- but he has to force himself to ignore it. He has to force himself to work in spite of it. That's what Jack told him.

Awsten remembers the day he broke down, mid-wipe of the counter, tears in his eyes. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. Jack was cleaning the last of the espresso machines before he clocked out for the night. The store had closed over an hour ago.

Everything had finally calmed down. The sea of voices and tapping of feet and violent rush of coffeenowhurryupstupidkidmeetinglatestupidstupidstupid tapered off until it was gone completely, until he'd served and survived and only been tasked with wiping off all the tables before he could hang up the apron of today and leave-

Home. Jet. Breathe.

But thoughts are like leeches and the world doesn't want to let go. They surge up and back in, infiltrate the most barricaded chambers and take down every line of defense in one fell swoop. He's lost control. you never had it to begin with. He's lost control. you never had it to begin with. He's lost control.

you never fucking had it to begin with-

And then he remembers Jack. He remembers being pushed against something hard and sitting on a chair that wasn't pulled out from underneath him – it never got old for the assholes at school – trying to see through blurry vision and feeling hands in his, breathe, Aws. You're gonna be okay, I promise. Just breathe.

He was, eventually. He got his breathing back and his heart to calm and Jack was still there, apron hung around his neck, twirling his hat around one finger, waiting to listen to every qualm. He talked and Jack listened, didn't interrupt or call him stupid or tell him to grow up he didn't tell him it was stupid he didn't tell him to grow up he didn't say any of it he didn't-