TW : panic attacks, therapy, trauma.
Was it worth it?
"Come on." I scrambled off his lap and tugged his arm. "Let's get you to bed, you big baby," I teased, hoping it'd take him off the edge.
Panic attacks were undoubtedly the worst things to ever happen. When I'd been to therapy, my therapist would always tell me to take responsibility of my panic attacks; to never take them lightly and to always- always- help.
I was lucky that I didn't really have to deal with a lot of panic attacks since I was always wallowing in my anxiety and the fear of rejection; a weird interiority complex after being used by Bernard.
But I'd seen the way Kyst had trembled the first day we met, the way he had so much difficulty breathing and how he had looked so helpless, his entire face had been void of any colour. I didn't want him to battle something so difficult alone.
I pulled him onto his feet and he groaned, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. "Okay, you're heavy." I pursed my lips at his glare and slowly pushed him into the bed and under the covers.
When I turned around to run to the kitchen to grab some water, his arm wrapped around my wrist and he turned me to meet his gaze. "I thought we were sleeping together," he said softly, as if he was afraid I was going to leave him alone. I wouldn't.
"You shouldn't move too much," I chastised just as he sat straighter on the bed, his back against the headboard slat.
He narrowed his eyes. "I just had a panic attack, Vi Darling, I'm not disabled."
I sighed. "I'm going to go get you some water, alright?"
He shook his head, his brown, fluffy hair moving with him. "I don't want water," he mumbled.
Bringing my hands to my waist in a typical-Jenny-way, I raised a brow. "Then what do you want?"
He didn't reply for the next ten seconds. My heart thudded as I stared into his eyes, waiting, anticipating his answer. My face heated for no apparant reason except that Kyst Archer was looking at me so intensely, so. . . . profoundly, as if I was someone so great, someone that mattered, it knocked the breath out of me. And then he opened his mouth, said five words and I knew I was in trouble. "You. I want only you."
I sucked in a sharp breath. "I-," I frantically shook my head. I didn't know what to say. I was troubled, I was scared, I was befuddled, I was surprised and. . . . I was really, really starting to feel for him.
"Don't think," he stated. "Give yourself away for just a few hours. Tomorrow, we'll be back to real life; fake-dating, boss and secretary, whatever you say. But tonight, for my sake, do not leave me alone through this, please," he pleaded. I saw the way his eyes watered and he looked away, away from me, to stop the tears.
My heart ached. It ached for the young boy who lost his grandfather. It ached for the man who dealt with the pain alone. It ached for the way he looked at me, the way he asked for comfort like he needed it, like he was desperate to feel someone tell him that he was cared for.
Nodding, I tipped my chin, gesturing him to scoot over, and got under the sheets with him. Instantly, his arms came around me and I looked up, at him, and whispered, "Hey."
He smiled, tucked me in his chest, rested his chin on my head and muttered back, "Hi."
This is fake, I kept telling myself. This wasn't supposed to feel so good; tonight wasn't supposed to be so intimate. The weather was bad and I had merely stayed over. He was doing me a favour and yet I couldn't stop myself from wrapping my arm around his waist.
My heart wasn't beating faster and neither did I feel any adrenaline pumping through my bones. My face wasn't heating up and in this moment, I didn't want to jump his bones.
I just wanted to feel this. His arms around me, mine around his and the periodic rhythm of his heart against my ear. I felt content; at peace.
It was like Kyst Archer was my own, personal cocoon. And he smelt incredibly nice; lemony and citrusy with a tinge of spice.
And I was curious. So damn curious because I wanted to get to know him, because I wanted to keep talking to him and while I was content as we were right now, I also wanted to know what he had meant earlier about- "What room were you talking about?"
He pulled back from me and I almost groaned at the loss of warmth but then he cupped my cheek and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, instantly making me feel warm again. "What room?" he asked softly.
"The one you were saying about when you were having the attack. You said to take you to some room. What's that about?" I tilted my chin up to look into his eyes. Big mistake. Because my nose brushed his lips and one movement from either of our sides and I'd be kissing his plump lips. My breathing stalled.
"Do you feel sleepy?" When I shook my head as a no, he gently tugged us both up until our backs were resting against the headboard.
"What are you-" My question died in my throat when he adjusted me with my head on his chest and his arm rewrapped around my waist.
"This is going to take a lot of strength," he said as he procedded to rest his chin against my hair before continuing, "and while for me to open up. I've never- I've never really talked to anyone-"
"Hey," I mumbled and took his hand in mine, interlacing our fingers and placing them on my thigh. "I know what it feels like to talk about something very personal to a stranger. Trust me. But it's easier when you talk. Easier to deal with, easier to handle," I said and looked up at him, squeezing his hand, "easier to let go and move on."
"You do?" He was shocked, his pupils slightly widened and the grip on my palm tightening.
I nodded, giving him a tight smile. "What room, Kyst?"
He sighed, a heavy, dreadful breath, rearranged me so I was no longer staring at his face and instead at our interlocked fingers on my lap and told me, "I started having panic attacks about a month after my grandpa died. I was fourteen, on my way to school, when suddenly it started raining. All I could hear in that moment was the pitter patter of the rain with the sound of the laughter of my grandpa. My vision blurred, I fell off my bicycle and I remember it so vividly, I couldn't breathe and I couldn't see."
I didn't interrupt or poke him to speak further when he took a deep breath. I knew, better than anyone else, how difficult it was, talking about trauma and the pain one went through. All I did was rub circles on the back of his palm with my thumb, squeezing it every now and then, reminding him that I was here, that I was listening to him, encouraging him to open up.
Then he spoke again, "Some street vendor saw me and pulled me to the side before dialing 911. The ambulance came first, then my parents were called and I was assigned a therapist. He said that I was hell bent on not letting my grandfather go, that I had to remember that he was now in a better place, that he'd want me to be happy but I-," his voice shook. "How could I? He was my grandfather! How could I let him go? How could I forget him, forget all our memories, forget everything we did together and live on as if he never existed?"
He shook his head and I felt it against my hair, his sharp intake and the heavy exhale. He caressed my waist, rubbing soothing circles as if he was drawing power from the physical contact, like he needed it to fight against his demons.
"I couldn't, obviously, so I stopped the therapy. It did me more bad than good. At my childhood home, I asked my dad to reserve me a room where I collected all the gifts grandpa gave me, his shawls, our pictures, frames and everything I could find that had our memories, and I decorated that room. Then, everytime I felt an attack coming, or if something reminded me of him, I would run into the room and spend hours at stretch just going through all the stuff because it provided me with relief. It replaced my anxiety with the memories- happy memories I spent with him and I felt fine, okay."
"Kyst-"
"And then when I grew up," he said, shaking his head firmly, telling me that he could do it, that he wanted to tell me, as if he wanted me to know this part of himself, so I didn't interrupt him as he continued, "and dad handed me the company, I had a room made in my office. That's the room I was talking about and that's the same room I was aiming for the first day we met, when you held me, and singlehandedly got me rid of my panic attack before it even came. I'd always wanted to thank you for it, so-" he ran his hand through my hair and tilted my head up, "- thank you, so much."
Who knew how much difficulty he went through with himself before he could open up about something so private. I smiled and snuggled closer to his chest, "Thank you for telling me."
"I trust you, Vienna," he said, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. "Really."
"Can I see the room?" I whispered, still not believing the face that he actually trusted me enough, that we'd been able to create a bond in the past four or so months, so strong, that he was able to knock on my door, in the middle of the night, certain that I would help him.
Kyst was everything I had ever wished for in a man. He was the same in the heart as he was on face. He wasn't afraid to display his feelings; I'd seen that man cry for a couple he hadn't even met for God's sake, I'd seen him laugh with Jenny and Sully, I'd seen him angry, I'd seen him at his humblest of moments, when he was playful and flirty and obnoxiously smug.
I'd heard his laughter, the way he got possessive over the last packet of ramen in the canteen at the office, I'd seen him express dismay about the weirdest things like his black coffee not being some temperature that it was supposed to be and then I'd seen him extremely serious, in a new light, like right now.
Realisation sat heavy in my belly. How could I have ever claimed to hate this man? How could I have asked him to fake-date me when he was so perfect, so amazing, so beautiful, when all I could think about was claiming him? How could I have asked him to not fall in love with me, when really, deep down, that was what I had wanted all along?
"Would you want to see the room?" Astonishment filled his voice, like he wasn't expecting me to want to see it.
"Of course. If you'd want to, that is," I said, careful that I wasn't imposing too much. He trusted me enough to tell me so much about himself but that also didn't mean he wanted to have me everywhere in his business. And to be honest, I would understand it. I wouldn't want anyone sticking their nose in my past or something that had solely belonged to me, either.
"I'll show it to you tomorrow when we go to the company." Colour me surprised. My eyes bulged before I relaxed in his embrace.
"Okay," I said.
It was serene; there was no traffic, no honking, no barks or meows from cats and dogs, I could hear the rustling of leaves against each other under the rainy breeze and while it was extremely quiet, I could hear the awkwardness very loudly, explicitly, where our conversation ended.
What now? Maybe we should just go to sleep? Or would he kiss me good night? Would he cuddle me? Would I like to be cuddled by him? I think I would, but he didn't give me much of a complex because he was already pulling the covers over us and slipping back onto the cushions with me on his side.
I turned to face him, now our faces at the same level, our noses almost touching. "Do you feel better now?" I asked him, realising that it hadn't stopped raining even now and it was probably after three already.
"Very," he sighed, contended, before pulling me to his chest so my face was stuffed against his muscular torso and one of his arms under my shoulder and the other one over my waist, holding me in place. Unable to control myself, I took a whiff of his brilliant, strong smell and tapped my forehead against his chest, a smile tugging at my lips.
I felt his chest vibrate beneath me, letting me know that he had heard me taking a sniff and I grew red in mortification. "Shut up." I slapped his chest.
"Good night, Vi darling." He pressed a featherlight kiss to my hair.
"Night." My voice came off muffled because of the material of his shirt as I closed my eyes, hoping the night would lull me to sleep.
But sleep didn't come so easily.
I kept thinking about Kyst and his trauma, how even that must've kept him from sleep at night. How he must've suffered so much, he still did. How much effort it must've taken for him to open up about it to me tonight?
Would I ever be able to tell Kyst about why I didn't believe in love anymore? Why I didn't want to seek guys anymore? Would I want him to know about what exactly went down between me and Bernard?
How much strength would that take out of me, to revisit the past; to experience the pain? Would he judge me? Would he call me childish to have forgiven Bernard but yet holding onto something that happened a decade ago?
I didn't know what to think. I just wanted to sleep, in his arms, right now, because he was cuddling me and he was insanely sweet even though he was suffering too much and I couldn't be bothered to think anymore about trivial things.
I circled my arm around his waist, pushed closer to him and closed my eyes.
But we are friends. And friends don't cuddle.
Right?
||
Kyst's steel-like grip remained intact even when I woke up in the morning because of being unable to sleep anymore.
Somehow, while sleeping, I'd become the small spoon, all cocooned to myself with my knees pressed to my belly and Kyst had pulled me in, hugging me from behind, his right leg over me, keeping me from escaping.
Soft snores filled the room as sunshine peeked through the small gap in the curtains from the window. It casted a ray over Kyst's features, making his face seem utterly divine and soft, not the jerk who didn't get his coffee on time or the flirt that got jealous over me going on a date; just meek and pristine, the real him, Kyst Archer. Playful and charming and undeniably handsome.
Carefully, making sure I didn't make a noise, I lifted his arm from under and above me, slipped my legs off his and got off the bed. He mumbled something in his breath but then, brought my pillow to his chest, turned away and went right back to sleep.
Chuckling, I went into the bathroom, washed my face and brushed my teeth with a new toothbrush I found in one of the cabinets under the sink.
Tying my hair in a bun above my head, I exited the bathroom with a slight spring in my steps; I was happy. Genuinely happy about everything; the morning, the sun, the birds, the after-rain smell of the soil, surprisingly I didn't even mind the stupid car drivers honking at each other because the fact that I spent the entirety of last night cuddling Kyst had just made my whole week.
If someone told me yesterday while I was texting Kyst to date me that the next day, I'd be waking up in his arms and feeling gleeful about it, I'd have laughed in their faces and told them that convincing me of unicorns existing would've been easier that the possibility of me and Kyst being together, let alone in his bed.
But here we were.
And the reality was sure as hell better than anything I could've predicted.
Feeling slightly better and a little hungry, I skipped down the stairs and into his Greek-styled kitchen where cabinets upon cabinets were stacked, plates and bowls were neatly arranged in their places and the kitchen was crystal clear; hygiene, a total contrast to the dirty, some thirty foot kitchen that I had back at my place.
I opened the opulent looking, double-doored refrigerator and plucked out the packet of bread, butter and jam, hoping he wouldn't mind me using his kitchen.
Putting the bread in the toaster, I had just put a pot to boil some water in to make us both coffee when I heard shuffling of steps. Since he had an open kitchen, I could make out Kyst clambering down the stairs, his hair ruffled as he rubbed his eyes with a hand.
"What are you doing?" he grumbled, reaching on the other side of the kitchen-counter and settling on one of the bar stools lining the counter.
"Making toast and coffee, I hope you don't mind," I said shyly, just now realising that maybe I should've waited for him to wake up and asked his permission before wolfing down his kitchen. My stomach rumbled at the same time and I clamped my palm over it, embarrassment speeding up my neck.
His lips tugged into a breath taking smile. "As long as you're making some for me too, I'm good." The toaster made a noise and I went over, quickly popping the bread out and putting them on plates. "You need help?" he called out.
"No, just," I muttered, walking back to the stove on the counter and placed a plate in front of him on the other side. "Would you like butter or jam on your bread?"
He whisked the bottle of jam and held it in front of his face, making me aware of his choice before applying it to his bread.
I added milk and coffee to the boiling water, waiting for it to brew properly. He also had a coffee machine like the one we had at the office, but there was just something about brewing coffee traditionally that spoke to me and so I didn't bother turning on the machine.
"Oh no," I quipped, as I picked the coffee pot from the stove, about to pour it in our cups. "Shit, I'm so sorry," I looked over at Kyst, then back at the coffee. "I totally forgot you take your coffee black and I added milk to the entire pot- Jesus, I make your coffee everyday, I don't know how I forgot today, nevermind I'll make you some right now-"
"Your bread will get cold-"
"It's fine, just a second, I'll need to get another pot-"
"Hey," he whispered, pulling at my arm and turning me to face him. "It's coffee and it's fine. I'll probably eat literally anything you'd make me, so what's coffee?" My cheeks heated and he smirked. "Come on, let's have breakfast."
Pulling two more breads from the toaster, I rounded the kitchen and sat on the bar stool besides Kyst just as he wiggled in his seat. I placed a toast in his plate and had just started applying butter on mine when he produced a phone- my phone- from his trackpant's pocket and gave it to me. Confused, I furrowed my brow. "Why do you have my phone?"
"Oh, yeah, sorry," he smiled sheepishly. "Your phone was vibrating when I woke up so I brought it down with the intention of giving it to you but then I saw you cooking and kind of just forgot, sorry."
The phone vibrated in my hand again and I turned it on. My eyes almost bulged out of my eyelids at the amount of notifications and I quickly unlocked my phone.
The gasp that escaped me almost had me choking on the one piece of bread that I had had.
There were missed calls; multiple of them.
"Hey, you okay?" Kyst asked from besides me but I just waved him off.
36 missed calls from Jenny.
What the hell is going on?
||
what's going on?????
now we know the mystery room from chapter 2 and what it was about.
this was one of the most difficult chapters to write because addressing past trauma; especially panic attacks is way too complex.
I hope you guys liked this chapter!
thanks for reading<3
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