#hasani

you can tell by the way hasan is shifting in his chair that something’s wrong.

he’s good at faking, that’s obvious-but the way his eyes dart back and forth and how he brings his fingernail to his mouth, gently chews on it as he carefully watches everyone in the room-something is up.

you’re watching a room away but it might as well be states away from how horrible it feels to see him clearly doing so bad and not being able to comfort him.

instead, he keeps up trying to fake it-lips pressed against a microphone as he bickers with Austin like every episode until the pop of the microphone is loudly heard. instantly, his eyes are wide with panic-the second something goes wrong, something unexpected happens,

you hover over your chair, weighing options of going in-how they’ll have to cut it out, how if they don’t he’ll never hear the end of his significant other having to race into the room and comfort him just because he’s a brat and something went wrong for a second-

the door slides open and while hasan is clearly not as stressed as before-isn’t slouched over in his seat, isn’t biting his fingernails, any little remains of hasan are gone, leaving behind someone pale, someone trying to make themselves smaller in his place.

“Hey uh-“

his eyes dart around as he speaks. he licks his lips, chapped from his teeth and from chewing on them, pulls at the neck of his shirt-

“Okay,” you say gently, setting the laptop down on the table next to you, already letting the anxiety of deadlines melt away when you see him, “i’m here. cmere.”

it’s something he’s familiar with, but usually from the other side. the nights the dark ink of anxiety claw at your throat as they try to escape until you wake up screaming, how he immediately pulls you in, always acting like he wasn’t just sleeping-even if he has to clear his throat as his lips are pressed against your hair as he talks you off a ledge.

“need you to do me a favor,” your hands tangle into his hair as he’s against your chest, can see his own chest and how quick it rises and falls, “look, i spent all day baking. can you smell it? deep breath with me-“

“k-know what you’re doing,” he hiccups into your chest, his hands shake as he holds onto your shirt like it’s a lifeline you throw him, “not dumb-“

usually, you’d bicker with him; argue he doesn’t indulge you even though he does this same routine with you no less than three times a week-

“what do you smell?”

he sighs. you both ignore that his hands shake as he grips onto your shirt.

“C-cookies-“

“Good,” you model the exaggerated breathing for him, “just like me. in and out one more time-“

even if he isn’t happy with it, he follows you, silent between the two of you until you see how his chest doesn’t rise as frantically

he lifts his head, ducked, as if he’s embarrassed, rubs at his eyes:

“if you want to come in while we’re recording,” he talks to his hands, shrugging, “i know Will would be thrilled to see you-“

“cmon.”

you stand and he follows, his hand tangled into yours, follows you in the room where no one dares mention the previous thirty minutes, as he pushes a chair in the corner for you-

he gets back to work, immediately falling into his old routine. his mic pops, or conversation lags for a second and his eyes fall on yours, how you sit up a little straighter, hand in the air as you pull down with your hand, trying to model the breathing from across the room-how in turn he sits up a little straighter, can see, even though he rolls his eyes, how he does so and follows your lead.

when it ends and everyone lingers out he slowly makes his way to you and offers his hand:

“dinner?” he offers gently, “think i owe you.”