waking, walking nightmare

so. there might be something wrong with him. not like—no, not the way someone who put a whole spoon of marmite on their toast has something wrong with them, but more like...he’s actually going insane. it might have something to do with the mild concussion he got last week from playing cricket. he did get a ball to the helmet pretty badly—fucking bumrah, that bastard—but came out of it relatively unscathed.

right. the point. he’s...hearing things now. distant murmurs. sounds like voices, or maybe one voice, but he can’t make out any words. maybe he’s been cursed.

maybe he’s really going mad. jesus, is he hallucinating? is he psychotic now? what the fuck’ll happen if he tells anybody about it? his coach would bench him right then and there without question. he’d be sent to an insane asylum and never see the light of day again. he’d never play another game of cricket in his life—

okay, he can’t breathe. his chest hurts.

okay, this is the panic attack thing that happened last year.

“oi, mate, you all right in there? you sound like you’re wheezing—”

he forces the door of the bathroom stall open and nearly falls into the arms of the person who knocked.

“fuck, patty?”

his knees hit the floor and he presses himself against the wall. a commotion follows but it’s all muted in his ears. vaguely, he hears someone yell for marsh but he’s clawing at his throat as if his collar is choking him. his glasses are fogging up.

“mate, come on, breathe, alright? breathe, breathe!”

he shakes his hands wildly, trying to convey that he couldn’t. “i—”

“move, dammit, let me see him—!” he relaxes marginally at the sound of a familiar voice, familiar hands on his own. “pat, listen to me. can you focus on my voice? can you do that for me?” his hands press against a sturdy chest. he can feel the zipper of the open jacket poking his wrists. “i want you to focus on my voice, nothing else, okay? i’m going to take a deep breath and i want you to try and copy it. here we go: in…” the chest under his palm heaves, expands full of air. “out…” it deflates. “in…” he attempts to take a shuddering breath, ragged noise reaching his own ears. “out...you’re doing great. in…”

it takes about four cycles for his eyes to focus. his heart’s still hammering away in his chest, but he’s breathing. he’s fine.

mitch reaches out to feel his pulse and pat realizes his hands are still on his chest. “mate. you alright now?” pat nods, slowly letting his hands fall into his lap. mitch stares at him a while longer, then scoots into the space right next to him, back against the wall and arse in water. “we’re gonna sit here until you feel like getting up, yeah?” he gestures to malcolm, one of their juniors who had been there to call him, who nods and leaves to give them privacy.

they sit in silence, mitch’s finger tapping steadily against pat’s thigh.

“’m sorry,” pat mumbles.

“shut up,” comes the reply. and then, “’m not gonna ask, but you know you can talk to me, yeah?”

“yeah.”

he’s drowsy, exhausted by the time they make it back to their dorms and changes out of his clothes. he doesn’t see mitch exchange a worried look with josh and starcy as he climbs into his bed. as he drifts off to sleep, he hears a soft voice in his head that he doesn’t quite recognize, that tells him four words.

it’s one sentence, in one voice, that rishabh hears when he’s dying.

i’m not your soulmate, rish, i’m not yours.

-

this isn’t something that rahul just tells people, but he will say it now. come close, keep your mouth shut: rahul hates the concept of soulmates. now—before you erupt in outrage—he doesn’t show it. he doesn’t go around commenting rude remarks on facebook posts, or attend anti-soulmate protests, or encourage people to cover up their marks or even quit talking about their partner so much.

it's a world that emphasizes heavily on having a significant other, and rahul knows this. knows he has to set his jaw and get through it, because this world isn’t kind to people like him. people who don’t have a soulmate. the fact that he doesn’t have one isn’t branded on his forehead, so that’s a relief. people judge him even otherwise, so he can’t imagine they would look kindly upon his loneliness, either. it doesn’t matter if it’s scorn or pity; he doesn’t want to hear either.

but he has his friends, fellow lonely friends. he has hardik. he has athiya. he has virat and krunal—even if they do have soulmates, they’re still vocal about not discriminating against people who don’t.

rahul doesn’t normally think about this that deeply. but rishabh came into his life, and for the first time in a long, long time, he remembers.

when shubman hears the news, he laughs for ten minutes straight.

because ishan is getting married. arranged married. like. parents picked out a girl for him arranged married. as in ‘he’s going to have to live with a woman who is his parents’ type’ kind of arranged married. he forwards the invitation that ishan sent in the general ict group chat, right back to their friends group, with several keysmashes and crying-laughing emojis. and a few skull emojis.

ishan sends an eyeroll back, and that’s that.

only it isn’t, because isn’t this the same guy who romanticized everything in his damn life? isn’t this the same guy who’s watched dilwale dulhania le jayenge seven hundred times and knows the dialogues word for word, who daydreams of that kind of love finding him one day? isn’t this the same guy who taught himself to play that song on the piano, so he could serenade his future partner? who loves watching rom-coms and cries halfway through them? who makes a bigger deal about valentine’s day than necessary? who is very invested in his friends’ relationships and gives advice as if he’s in one himself?

and now he’s getting arranged married out of the blue?