cw: panic attack

MY PLAYLIST WAS booed off by Kelsey shortly after she addressed us and thanked everybody for coming. Then she connected her phone to the Bluetooth speaker and kicked off a playlist with what Amara called "white girl music."

Addison Rae's Diet Pepsi was underway by the time we settled on the hardwood to play Uno.

Reeling from the weight of Amara's confession, my skin crawled with a little too much awareness, and it didn't help that Sydney existed in the same orbit. Every time Jason moved, chuckled, teased someone, put something down, my eyes were ready to trace and memorize. A few times, he met me halfway, but he didn't linger, and neither did I.

He sat directly across from me in the circle for the first round of the game, and I watched how his hands worked around his cards. His nails were rounded, clean, and finely trimmed. The black ring around his left index finger had a fine matte finish. His goatee-pencil mustache combo was well groomed, and accentuated the shape of his face. His eyes were so brown and bright and joyful.

He was beautiful, actually.

He won the first round to a fifty-fifty between cheers and disbelief, and made sure to be smug about it. Then he decided, from the goodness of his heart, to sit out of the next one. I offered him a smile as he moved to the couch, and he didn't hesitate to return it.

Shortly after we begun the second round, my phone pinged next to me, and I made the mistake of taking an instinctive glance at it.

I didn't have any expectations, but my heart nearly ran up my chest when I saw the name attached to the text.

Rhys.

Hey, D, was all the text contained, but it still managed to cause a temporary spike in my heart rate. I kept looking at my phone, even after the screen went black, and didn't realize it was my turn to play until Sydney gave me a gentle nudge.

When I looked up, I wasn't at all surprised to see everyone staring at me.

"Sorry," I said with a smile, but my mind immediately went back to the text.

Halfway through the game, the phone pinged and lit up again, and against my better judgement, I raised it to my face. It was a curious itch I needed to scratch. I couldn't help it.

RHYS: I thought to check in. Hope you're doing well and giving my offer a thought. I decided to extend my stay in Boston by a week

I did my best to stay still for the rest of the round—Arturo won this time—but while I packed up the cards, my body tingled with the urge to look at the text again. Rhys always did this. He'd let a considerable amount of time pass after interactions, then he'd remind me of his existence and linger for a while. After I spared him time, he'd be gone again, until whenever he saw fit to come back.

I knew that. I knew he was nothing but a waste of time, and that I couldn't continue doing this. But there was something irresistible about it all, and I could feel myself being slowly sucked back in. The fact that I was allowing myself think about it was a sign that I was kind of a broken record. My thoughts went in the exact same pattern every time.

But I couldn't help it.

So, after putting the cards away, I quietly excused myself to the kitchen.

Kelsey had lined her tiny food in a tray on the counter, open to anyone who wanted it. We were quick to decide that the chapman bowl being out like that would turn out to be quite the hazard if any amount of chaos ensued, so she returned it to the kitchen.

It all took up a considerable amount of counter space, but I found somewhere to lean on.

Before I looked at the text again, I took in a deep breath, and counted backwards from five. Then I read it again. And again. And again. And again.

I thought to check in. Hope you're doing well and giving my offer a thought. I decided to extend my stay in Boston by a week

My offer.

I decided to extend my stay in Boston.

A week.

I thought to check in.

I decided to extend my stay in Boston.

I decided to extend my stay in Boston.

I didn't have to respond. I didn't think he even deserved that. Right?

Why hadn't I blocked him yet?

Before I could get any answers, Sydney walked into the kitchen with an empty Styrofoam cup in hand, a forceful halt to my thoughts. Soundproof glass over the confusion in my mind.

He'd been quieter than usual since he arrived, and the few times I'd regarded him, he almost looked like he wished to disappear into his sweatshirt. It existed in the simultaneous slump and tension in his shoulders. He smelled quieter, too, as though he'd left a part of himself at home. And it was quite normal and expected at this point, but tiredness beat underneath his eyes.

We locked gazes as he came in, but it was brief, and he didn't say anything. I watched him gingerly place the cup down and pour two ladles of chapman for himself. Then, while he raised it to his lips, he leaned against the edge of the counter next to me, the sleeve of his sweatshirt skimming my bare arm.

I felt it like static electricity, a low yet lively hum along my skin.

He didn't adjust his weight. Neither did I.

"So," he said, after which he cleared his throat. "I at least deserved to know you live close to my best friend, don't you think?"

I placed my phone screen-down on the worktop first. "And that information is of relevance why?" I asked.

He shrugged, but it was lazy, then he took a sip of his drink. "I've kinda been avoiding him."

I took a moment to just stare at his profile, and he acted like he didn't notice. There was a small, soft red bump close to his hairline, possibly a result of clipper irritation. His haircut didn't look fresh, though. "Why?"

This time, he shook his head. Then he proceeded to responding anyway. "He's . . . he's been pissing me off."

I reared my head back. "Jason's capable of doing that?"

Sydney chuckled and looked into his cup. "Not in the way you think. It's a special brand of piss."

A chuckle tore out of me. "It's just a little hard to imagine, but I guess I don't know him well enough."

He kept looking into his cup, even as he asked his next question. "Are you okay, though?"

"Yeah." I didn't even give myself time to process the question. Instinct.

When Sydney finally looked at me, the knots down my back tightened themselves up all over again. He wasn't as tall as Jason was, but he still towered over me, and this close, it made me feel cornered. I had nowhere to go but back.

There were flecks of gold in his eyes, and from this angle, in this light, I noticed there was something sorrowful about them. It was reminiscent of the night I found him out by the curb. Gentler, but still sad. I bit down on the urge to deflect and focus on him instead.

"Are you okay, De?" he asked again, quieter this time, his gaze unflinching.

"I . . . don't want to talk about it, as usual."

He nodded. "Was that so bad?"

"Quite."

When he smiled, it was unlike anything he'd ever offered me. But before I could start to dissect it, a new presence materialized at the kitchen entrance, in all its heady glory. I instantly felt the blood rushing down to my fingertips, quickened by his scent.

Jason took me in first, as though I was the one he was there for, then very briefly, he looked at Sydney. I wondered if I looked as flushed as I felt.

"Hey, D," he lead with.

I straightened. "Hey. What's up?"

"I . . . I'm sorry, but I have to leave."

I completely leaned away from the counter at the sound of that. He was leaving? "What? Why?"

He cracked the tiniest of smiles. "I have a class this evening, and I gotta get ready for it."

"Oh. You didn't tell me you'd be leaving early."

He almost looked like he wanted to say something different from what he eventually did—an explanation, maybe—but what came next was a very genuine, "I'm sorry."

It sat in my chest, small but warm enough for me to relax, and I struggled for a few seconds about what to say.

"It's okay," I eventually told him with a smile. Yet again, I didn't feel the smile's effect in my chest, but something sour moved in my core. I shoved the emotion down. "Thanks for coming."

"I'll make it up to you. I promise."

"You'd better."

He offered me a chuckle before glancing at Sydney again. "Hope you're good."

Sydney placed his cup down. "Yeah," he responded, just as quickly as I did earlier, and I turned to regard him with narrowed eyes. Effing hypocrite.

"I'll see you around, De."

"Yeah, of course. Thanks again."

Sydney and I stayed quiet until we heard the front door gently click shut, then he picked up his drink again and traced the plastic rim with a finger. I almost made a joke about how unsure he was about the cup, but I noticed that when he flicked his hand, there was a slight tremble in it. He was looking for something to do with his hands.

My mind immediately went into overdrive, as I scrambled to think about something to say, something to do, that would help. That night by the curb, it was easier, somehow. I was able to channel my grief. But right now, I only felt confused, a little lost, like a child learning to walk.

"Sydney—"

"Don't say it," he cut in. "I know."

I watched his hand for a moment longer. "Does this happen a lot?"

Rather than respond immediately, he turned to pour the rest of his chapman down the sink, his fingers nearly giving way, then he tossed the Styrofoam into an empty plastic bag. Quietly, and a little out of breath, he said, "More times than I'd want." He stared at his fingers for a long second, then he took them with his other hand, which equally trembled, and whispered, "Fuck."

I was a little disconcerted, so I didn't pick up on the signs as quickly as I should have, considering this was something I also experienced. It had been so long since the last one that the signs almost ran past me.

Sydney turned to face the counter, gripping the edge like his life depended on it, his head lowered. I didn't realize I'd placed my hand on his shoulder until he drew in a breath and it reverberated through me. It was even shakier than his hand. I got confirmation when he tried again and his face screwed up as though he was in pain.

"Sydney," I called, as quietly as I could, moving my hand against his shoulder. Touch was something that usually grounded me, and I guess I hoped it would do something for him, too.

As his breaths became shallower, his lips parted, and I leaned closer, just in time to hear him whisper, "Jace. Get Jace."

He went lower against the counter the moment the words were out of his mouth, supporting his weight on his forearms, as though on the verge of collapse.

That was what pushed me into action. I rushed out of the kitchen, ignoring everyone and their cheers on my way to the door.

"De, you good?" Amara asked, but I paid her no mind. I was out of the door in a flash and on my way to Jason's apartment.

When I knocked, it landed a little harder than it should've, startling even me in the quiet hallway. Out here, the world went on. You could barely hear the sounds from my place, even if you paid attention. I tapped my right hand impatiently against my thigh as I waited for Jason to get the door, eventually getting impatient enough to knock again, even louder than earlier.

My hand barely left the wood when the door swung open to the sight of Jason in the middle of pulling on a dark sweatshirt over a collared shirt.

"De?" he said the moment he registered me, his fingers grazing the hem of his sweatshirt as he adjusted it.

I pointed towards my apartment. "Syd. He's—he's asking for you. I think he's having a panic attack."

Realization sparked in his eyes fast, and he didn't ask any questions as he walked out of his apartment with socked feet, his door left open. His steps were brisk, so I fell a bit behind, and by the time I reached my kitchen, his hand was already around the trembling Sydney. He stood close, his voice lowered but rumbling enough for me to catch a few words.

"You're safe, Syd. Do you know where we are?" To that, Sydney nodded, and I remained at the entrance with folded arms, my heart stuttering in my chest. "Can I touch your hand?" Sydney took a moment, but again, he nodded. Very gently, Jason placed a hand against his. Then he said. "Now we'll go outside and sit on the stairs for some fresh air. Is that okay?"

I moved out of the way before he nodded again, and when they brushed past me, they did so very softly, the freshness of Jason's products following after them.

As the door clicked shut behind them, I went to get a bottle of cold water from the fridge, wanting to help in the littlest way I could. Kelsey was behind me before I turned away. I felt her presence before I saw her.

"Is Sydney okay?" she asked, and in her voice was genuine concern, even though she was staring daggers at him not more than an hour ago.

"He'll be fine," I answered, making my way past her before she could ask any further questions. The living room had fallen quiet between then and now, but I pretended like I didn't notice all the questions waiting to be asked and walked out of the apartment.

The stairs were quite wide, but Jason and Sydney were somehow able to take up most of the space. Sydney sat with his head in his hands, his fingers not quite still yet. Jason, his collar not quite fixed and his feet covered only by the fabric of his black socks, sat a few inches away from him—to give him room to breathe, I guessed—but his arm was stretched out, his hand in Sydney's curls.

Briefly, I recalled how quickly he walked out of his apartment. The little spark in his eyes, as though this was something that terrified him. Then I recalled that he was the one Sydney thought of at the start, a big sign of unfiltered trust, regardless of what he said earlier about being pissed off by him. It made me wonder how many times they'd gone through this.

Jason sensed me first, looking over his shoulder briefly, but not saying anything.

"I, um, brought some water," I said, my voice regrettably echoing in the stairwell. Sydney's head tilted to the side at the sound of my voice, almost as if he was considering looking at me, but his decision was quick. He rubbed a hand beneath his nose and turned away.

"Thanks, De." Jason reached for the plastic bottle in my hand, and I handed it over without taking my eyes off Sydney. In the corner of my gaze, I saw that Jason didn't quite look away from me either. Seconds later, I understood why. "He'll be fine. You don't have to worry."

I nodded before I could even process what he said, and he proceeded to unscrew the cap of the bottle.

I wasn't sure how long I stood there for, watching the both of them as they existed in silence, as Sydney slowly calmed and caught his breath, as he slumped against the railing, as he gulped down almost half of the bottle in one go. But eventually, I started to feel like I was intruding on a moment I shouldn't have been witnessing in the first place, and the registration ran ice cold down my stomach.

"If you need anything, you can let me know," I told them, and Jason regarded me again, his smile tight and eyes a little distressed. That feeling coiled tighter.

As I walked back to my apartment, I realized I was trembling a little, too.