About Seeing a Shrink
Trigger Warnings: mentions of abuse & suicide
Patrick slid off the couch onto the floor with an exasperated groan, “You’re so literal, Charlie.” The brunette blinked a couple times dazed and stuttering just slightly, “What do you mean?” “I mean I’m not really going to—” He looked over, noticing the gloss of tears his friend was quickly and awkwardly ridding his face of. The blood drained from the effeminate man’s face immediately, regretting what he had said moments before. Sam had reminded him a couple times to adjust his verbiage, but Patrick, being a fan of the theatric and sarcastic, made the mistake of mentioning suicide at times of peak dramatics.
“Hey, hey, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m not gonna kill myself.” He held out his arms awkwardly before realizing the positioning, with Charlie sitting on the floor, and his legs in the air, wouldn’t work too well. He pushed himself onto his knees and scuffled over to the brunette with outstretched arms. The freshman curled into the embrace immediately, sniffing and huffing as he did. “I’m sorry, I don’t need to joke about shit like that, I’m gonna work on it.” And he was, he was going to work on it.
“I’ve been really worried about you, Pat,” the wallflower spoke after some extended time of silence; it was a long silent embrace. The brunette’s heart sink to the pit of his stomach with a mixture of guilt and confusion. “Why’s that, Charlie?” “You don’t seem happy, I know you always say you are, but you never act it unless you’re high or drunk.” Patrick pursed his lips in a tight, awkward line, “You worry ‘bout me too much, bud.” Charlie pulled away from the embrace, hands resting on either side of Patrick’s knees, “No, Patrick I know what that looks and feels like. It hurts, and it just won’t go away. You shouldn’t have to deal with that all on your own.”
The dark haired man shifted uncomfortably, running his hands up and down the denim on his thighs, “Just a little bummed about the shit with Brad, I’ll get over it.” “It was there before too,” The response was flat, and immediate. “What?”
“It was there before your fight with Brad, Patrick. It was there when things were at their best, and even more when they were at their worst. It’s always there, I’ve seen it. I can recognize it.”
His throat went tight as he tore his eyes away from his concerned friend. “We’re all a little down on ourselves sometimes, what's a guy to do, wallflower?” A twitch of a smile made a brief appearance on Charlie’s face before it dropped back to a slight frown and he sighed, “Have you thought about writing about it? Or some sort of outlet.”
“I’m definitely no writer, that’s your thing.”
“What about art?”
“Did you keep my clock or did you just throw it away?”
“I kept it— what about therapy?”
“Therapy? Jesus, I am not that fucked up, Charlie.”
“Does that make me fucked up?”
“You know what I mean, Charlie. No. You’re not fucked up.”
“Y’know what’s fucked up?”
“Hm?”
“Watching your longtime boyfriend get himself beat within an inch of his life and then he rejects you the next day and beats the shit out of you in front of everyone you know.”
Silence. He stared at Charlie with a clenched jaw, hands making fists on the carpet fuzz at his sides. His friend’s expression softened to one of worry “Did I go too far?” Patrick bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard it bled, trying to hold back bitter, hot tears and even hotter words. He took a deep breath, “Yeah, that was too far. But I understand your point.” “I’m sorry.” “I know, it’s okay, Charlie.” He cleared his tightened throat and sighed, “Maybe you’re right, huh? I should see a shrink.” “I think so.”
