Problems

|| Chapter 17 ||

John was home.

And it was amazing.

Alex no longer felt the need to write constantly. He ate and slept and did things fairly normally, all while taking care of the things that John couldn't do in a splint.

"I can't type," John growled from his position at his desk chair, and Alex sighed. John had been grumbling all afternoon about how horrible midterms were going to be thanks to his injuries.

After a few more minutes Alex heard John close his laptop on frustration. He swiveled around in his chair and gazed sympathetically at his boyfriend.

"I'm sure your professors will give you an extension," he said in reassurance, and John ran his fingers through his hair. He had taken it out of it's ponytail, and it was curling in soft cinnamon waves around his shoulders, almost the same color as the freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose.

"I give up. I'm going to bed," he said grumpily, and shoved out of his chair and riffled through the bin underneath his bed for pajamas before heading into the bathroom for a shower.

Alex was still writing 20 minutes later when arms curled around him from behind. "You should get some sleep," John said softly, and Alex reluctantly closed his laptop. "But I don't want to," he whined, and John smirked. "I will let you sleep with Matilda," he said invitingly, and Alex pushed past him to claim the turtle pillow pet.

"She's mine now," he said, and clutched the stuffed animal to his chest.
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Alex woke up to sound of a phone ringing.

He groggily rolled over, still three-quarters of the way asleep, and peered sleepily at his alarm clock. It read 12:31 Am. He closed his eyes and went back to bed, chalking it up to the neighbors next door.
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He woke up again more than half an hour later, somehow startled awake. He sat up, peering around, and noted that John's bed was empty. Another glance told him that the bathroom was closed and light was seeping out from the crack at the floor.

"John?" he muttered, and stumbled out of bed, almost face planting over a pair of socks haphazardly strewn across the floor.

He pushed open the bathroom door, rubbing his eyes, and blinked at the bright light, trying to get his bearings.

It was then that he noticed John, who had wedged himself between the bathtub and the toilet, curled into a small ball, his face pressed against his knees.

It took Alex about 0.5 seconds to realize that his boyfriend was having the world's quietest panic attack.

"Oh, fuck," he swore, now wide awake, and he dropped to his knees in front of John. "Hey, hey," he said softly, "John, can you look at me?"

John raised his head and gazed at Alex with frightened, tear-filled eyes. "Can't...can't breathe," he wheezed, and gasped, shaking.

"Yes, you can," Alex soothed, and he took John's hands in his.

John jerked away as though he had been burned, his eyes looking like those of a cornered animal, and Alex immediately lifted his hands up, putting them in the air. "Sorry, I'm sorry, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

John shook like a leaf in the wind, almost convulsing, and Alex started frantically running through solutions in his head. "I need you to breathe with me, okay?" He said, and John faintly nodded his head.

"Can I hold you hand? I promise I won't do anything to hurt you," he promised, and John nodded again. Alex gently took John's right hand, holding it so lightly that he could barely feel it.