The meeting gets shoved to the back of my mind as I watch Tate pound on the doors of the elevator, his calm composure completely replaced with panic, fear, and rapid trembling. He stuffs the envelope into his pocket with such force that I fear he's either torn the paper into pieces or ripped a hole in his pants.
He spins on his heels and leans against the door, hands spread out behind him in support as he looks around the elevator in horror. Sweat begins to bead down his forehead as the lights of the elevator buttons flicker and pulse, until they shut off completely, plunging us in almost near darkness. In what I assume is a desperate attempt to turn them back on, he frantically presses the buttons, the metal clicks echoing and filling the air.
We both see the intercom button at the same time. Pressing it with more force than he should, he hastily shouts into the microphone, making me jump. "HELP! I'M TRAPPED IN THE ELEVATOR! KIAN IS HERE TOO, WE'RE GONNA DIE!"
Nobody replies.
He turns to me. His breath has swelled from calm to heavy and short, his gasps and pants loud and raspy. He's having a panic attack. Sinking to the ground, he draws his knees to his chest. The envelope falls out of his pocket, to his side. Unsure of what to do, I sit beside him, reassuringly patting his back. He seems to withdraw more into himself.
"The walls are moving in, this is... I can't..." he mumbles to me, burying his face in his knees.
"What's going on?" I say faster than I mean to. This is totally bizarre, out of character. I've never seen Tate like this; he's always relaxed, poised, emotionally in-check; not this mess. He's barely the same person he was a few minutes ago. It's surprising, but honestly really fucking refreshing to see he isn't perfect.
But, now's not the time to rejoice. He's having a crisis. And--thanks, universe, by the way--it's up to me to make sure he's okay since I'm stuck here with him.
"Are you claustrophobic?" I ask. It's painfully obvious, but I ask anyway in case I'm dumb and he's just having a general panic attack. He manages a weak nod.
I move away, pressing my back against the opposite wall to him. Someone that's having a claustrophobic panic attack needs space. Literally. Me being too close to him could make him feel even more enclosed, as irrational as that sounds. I look at my watch. Good, the arms are glow-in-the-dark. Taking it off, I slide it to him, the device resting between his feet. He looks at it, a little confused.
"Pick it up," I say. He does as told, his hands shaky as they reach for it. "Focus on your breathing. Inhale slowly as I say one, exhale slowly on five, okay?"
He nods.
"One," I say. He slowly takes in a breath, reaching full capacity as I continue to three.
I get him to hold his breath for a moment. I say four. At five, he exhales. We repeat this for a few rounds, until his breath is steady again.
"Now, look at the watch. Look at the hands, watch how they tick by. Focus on the 'seconds' hand, thinking only about the numbers it hits as it makes a rotation. Can you do that for me for one minute?"
"Yeah." And with that, his focus draws onto the watch. His hands slowly stop shaking. As the minute approaches, he's a lot calmer.
"Good. Now, the envelope. Pick it up. Feel the texture of the paper, how smooth some parts are and how bumpy other bits are. Run your fingers over the edges, tracing the wax seal. Can you do that for another minute?"
He nods. His focus is pulled away from the surroundings, and soon he's engrossed in the envelope, feeling the edges. Just as I think he's back to the normal Tate, the lights on the buttons flicker back on, and his focus snaps back to the walls of the elevator. His breathing starts to rise again.
Without thinking, I fling myself across the elevator floor, lying horizontally infront of Tate. Amidst the onset of a potential second attack, he looks at me, confused. "W-what are you doing?"
"The walls aren't moving, Tate. See? I'm fine. They're staying the same distance on either side of me. Nothing's happening."
He looks at the walls. "I know, it's just... I don't know..."
I frown. "Irrational?"
He nods, without hesitation.
"Okay. Keep your eyes on me. I promise that we are safe. Your fear is irrational. I'm fine, you're fine, we will be fine. There's plenty of space. We are safe. Breathe in at one, exhale at five. Let's go again."
His breathing rate slowing down as we do a few rounds, he slowly lowers his legs so they're in a crossed position. Our eyes linger on each other for a moment longer, before I break contact and stare at the intercom above his head. Phew. Is it getting warm in here?
"How did you know how to do that? It's not exactly a skill everyone has," he asks, giving my watch back to me. I sit up, mirroring his crossed leg position as I put it back on.
"My sister's the same as you. I used to be close with her and we'd often do stuff together, like those Room Escape games. She didn't know she had that phobia until we were in a game. Learned how to help her out, and thank god for that."
He laughs. "Yeah. Don't know what would have happened if I was trapped in here by myself. Glad you're here with me."
Phew, thank fuck it's dark in here. I'm about ninety percent sure he can't see me blushing. Wait, blushing? Christ, Kian, you're a friggin' adult. Cut the preschooler bullshit.
"What happened to you and your sister?" Tate asks. Thankfully, my blush fades at the thought of answering that question. How exactly do you tell someone that you've gone non-contact with your family? We aren't exactly the bestest of friends; I haven't even told Ayisha why. Actually, yep, that's a good enough measure of whether I should open up.
I shake my head. "Not really comfortable sharing that."
He hesitates, but relents. "That's okay. Was just going to say that I'm the same. Don't really talk to my family either."
My eyebrows knit together. "Wait, really? For some reason I pictured you as a total family man. You know, those ones that always see them on Christmas Day, the ones that always post about them on social media. Those annoying types that have coordinating outfits for holidays."
He snorts, shaking his head. "Not a chance. My dad was great, but the other half of my family? Nope. Mother was an incredible pain when I came out as gay to her."
Wait.
What?
Gay?! Dude, there's no way. I thought he was straight. Like, flagpole straight. Metal ruler straight. Gym junkie, frat bro, truck driver straight. No way he's into men. Christ, minus ten points to Hufflepuff for being a total fucking dumbass. If the gay police were to show up, I'd have my gaydar revoked and checked to see if it still works. 'Cause, clearly, it doesn't.
"What did she do?" I ask.
"Tried to send me to a camp for troubled youth, like on Desperate Housewives. Actually, I think that's where she got the idea from, she was always watching that show. Anyway, it didn't exactly work. I came home with a boyfriend and she threw me out. Ended up living with my Dad."
I'm still sitting there, gobsmacked. This can't be real. He's watched Desperate Housewives too? Good lord. Did I fall over in the elevator and smash my head? Is this all a coma dream, and I'm going to wake up in a hospital soon with a fat health insurance check and a worried Ayisha hovering over me?
Tate's laugh confirms that I am not dreaming, because I can hear it so well. It's grounding. There's no way that laugh is fake.
"You seem surprised," he says. I snort.
"Of course I am. Never knew anything about you. Good to see you're an actual person."
"Cool. I'll make sure to add that to my list of titles. An Actual Person. Look at you, being so nice to me." His tone is snarky, and I find myself grinning.
"Hey, I still can be mean if you wan't me to be, it's much more fun."
He shakes his head, smirking. "Then who will save me from a panic attack?"
I shrug, laughing. "Maybe Amir will revive you after prying the doors open with his bare hands to make sure you, his star employee, okay."
Strangely, he reaches for the envelope next to him at the mention of Amir. What the heck is in that envelope? A resignation? Nah, there's no chance, he wouldn't consider that when he's so close to that promotion. Only one can dream. It's probably a query letter or something from a client, and he's just hand-delivering it to him.
What if it's something urgent? Shit, maybe he's worried about missing a deadline too. Great, another trait to add to hise whole 'An Actual Person' list; he feels worry.
The room gets quiet. I pipe up. "So, you're not talking to any of your family?"
He shakes his head no. My eyebrows furrow. "But you said your dad was cool with it; what about him?"
Snorting yet again, he shakes his head in the same way I did, before repeating the same words I said to him. "Not really comfortable sharing that."
I'm hurt. Gutted. Like a fish that's just been harpooned up the ass. But, fair call. "Touché."
He smiles at me. Uncrossing his legs, he straightens one out and bends the other, resting his arm on top of his knee. "By the way, if it wasn't clear before, thanks for helping me through that. Haven't had a phobia attack like that in ages. I'm still a little on edge if I'm being honest, but I don't think I'll be having another attack soon. Cheers for not being judgemental or weirded out by it; I'm not exactly proud of this."
I'm taken aback. His smile, his pose, his words; how can a man be so naturally charming? Maybe the soft glow of the elevator buttons is helping with the mood. His face is framed so well by the gentle light, making his features stand out.
Realising that I've been looking at him a little too long, I splutter out a "No problem". He shoots me another smile.
We fall into a comfortable silence. Christ, never did I think I'd be sitting in an elevator trapped with Tate, learning about him. Hazel is going to get a kick out of this when I tell her about it tonight; if only she could respond outside of meowing. Maybe I should have named her Salem. I bet the asshole would have a lot to say. 'He's estranged from his family? He watches DH? I bet he's a fan of Susan, what an annoying bitch. Also, he has an actual phobia and he's a raging homosexual? Christ, your coworker just became three dimensional, Kian. Nice.'
Yep, I bet that's exactly what Hazel would say.
I dig my phone out of my pocket. Great, of course it's got low battery. Yet another repercussion of my wine drinking last night. I wave it around; of course there's no signal. Regardless, I open my text chat with Ayisha and start typing.
Help, trapped in the elevator. Tate is here too. Not sure if people know we're in here but can you please tell Amir or the police or whoever is in charge if nobody knows? Do you call the fireies? Ugh. I hate this. Will keep you updated.
I hit send. An error icon pops up. I tap it again and throw it in my pockets without looking to see if it's sent.
Tate's also pulled out his phone. I'm tempted to ask what he's doing, but he answers before I can open my mouth.
"No signal here, I assume you don't either. Christ, I hope someone gets us out soon."
I agree. I want to get out of here. The promotion aint going to hand itself to me (oh, if only). But, a tiny portion doesn't want this to end. At least, that's what I think it's telling me. Despite Tate's fear, despite the air getting staler and warmer, Tate's just too damn interesting and I don't think I'll get another instance to talk to him like this.
Is that weird? Wanting to stay trapped in an elevator just to get to know someone? Surely not. This information about him... it's all just ammunition, yes. Ammunition to use at my discretion when the time is right to further my career. Surely. It's totally not endearing or fascinating or making my chest flutter in a weird way.
I keep telling myself that.
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A/N: Woohoo! Another celebration: Chapter 4 is now out. With this chapter, I am only around 500 words under the requirement to pass onto the third round of #ONC2022 (need 8000 total words by the end of March). Surely I'll be able to get another chapter out by the cut off date!
How is everyone else's projects going? Feel free to have a chat about your progress here with me about it.
I'm finding it really easy to write Kian's voice. Not sure why, but I haven't felt this much writing freedom since I was writing Keeping A Straight Face, and that was a looooooong time ago. Despite being under so many deadlines and having to adhere to a strict word count, it's been an absolute blast.
What does everyone think of this chapter? Let me know via an in-line comment. Do you think my depiction of Tate's claustrophobia was natural and appropriate? Obviously I made it a little more dramatic for narrative purposes, but hopefully it wasn't over the top. I'm open to ALL forms of constructive criticism, as long as it is kind and respectfully done.
Can't wait to show you what chapter 5 is like!
All my love,
- Jacob x