Coffee grounds from the cabinet, lid off.
This was the problem with majoring in history. He knew how much got lost in it. He would, too. Another unremarkable person in a sea of billions that exist now, have existed, will exist.
How was he supposed to do thatforever? He wasn’t even sure he wanted to commit to the normal seventy-odd years.
He dropped the canister. Coffee grounds spilled across the tile floor. Brennan stared at the mess, immobile. He didn’t feel capable of cleaning up. No, easier to stand there, staring, letting his head go straight into that particular void of his brain he calledDo Not Fucking Touch.
He realized, a beat too late to be helpful, that he wasn’t breathing, and, and, maybe vampires didn’t need to breathe, Brennan had yet totest that theory, but, but, Brennan,hedefinitely needed to breathe, right then, probably, for his sanity maybe, but he couldn’t.
“Brennan?”
Great,fucking fantastic, really. Him a-fucking-gain. Cole kept stumbling into Brennan’s worst moments, all concerned and charming and possibly lying his ass off.
He must have thought Brennan was a monster. Hehadto, the way he saw him that morning, blood on his lips.
He shook his head, shaking off his immobilization. “I’m sorry, I—” Brennan gasped. “I can’t be here right now.”
“I wanted to see if you were okay—”
“I want it on the record that you have, consistently, the worst fucking timing,” Brennan spat.
He spun around, moving for the door and not letting himself look at Cole as he pushed past to make his escape.
“Hey, breathe,” Cole said, reaching out to touch Brennan’s arm, to stop him, and Brennan flinched away like his touch would burn him, and itwould,right then, to his fucking core—
“Just don’t, Cole,” Brennan said, and he didn’t think he’d ever heard his voice go that low and cold before. He fucking hated it.
But it got Cole out of his way.
He didn’t remember slamming the apartment door behind him, or going out into the evening air, but somehow he ended up riding out the rest of his panic attack against the side of the building, tucked out of sight, running through every grounding method Dr. Morris had ever taught him.
Things he could see: a bird in a tree, like the ones he’d been drinking, and a couple laughing across the street, people who would become dust while Brennan lived on.
Things he could hear: too much. The laughter, and the birds, but also a dozen TVs and Bluetooth speakers in the surrounding apartments, all buzzing in his ears.
Okay, Dr. Morris would say he could recite something, a poem, maybe, but the only thing he could think of was the part of a poem that goes,Nobody’s going to save you.…
He leaned weakly against the brick wall.
He’d survived worse.
The good news was, Brennan thought weakly, six months ago something like this would have driven Brennan straight to thoughts of doing something destructive. Anxiety never went away, the too-logical voice of Dr. Morris reminded him. It was okay to have attacks, to have bad days.
But it didn’t stop the wave of exhaustion that came over him as soon as he could breathe again, collapsing to sit against the wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He needed a nap. Or the coffee he’d set out for initially.
He sighed, almost huffing out a laugh at the whole situation. He was such anasshole,he realized, now in the post-panic-attack clarity that always came with that deep shame. That feeling that something was wrong with him, that he broke down in the first place, that he let himself yell at Cole who, really, outside of Brennan pointing fingers at him, had done nothing but try to help.
He should give Cole some space after all this. You can only see a person at rock bottom so many times before losing patience, and surely Cole was at the end of his. Brennan would have to avoid him at the library. And, well, he could avoidBacheloretteNight. Cole would be glad for it, and Tony and Mari had little reason to care either way.
He considered going for a long walk or waiting until everyone left before returning to his room with his tail between his legs. But the exhaustion of all the panic and anxiety Brennan had been shoving down for a week (fuck it, his wholelife) was catching up to him, and the call to collapse in his bed was strong.
Or maybe,the Dr. Morris in his mind coaxed,you could apologize instead of running away.
Brennan hated the Dr. Morris in his mind.
He pushed up from the ground, dusting off his jeans and going up the porch steps. Just as he reached for the door, it swung open, nearly smacking Brennan in the face.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Cole said from the doorway, because of course it was him. His hands, one wrapped around a pack of cigarettes, fluttered in the air around Brennan, like he wanted to make sure he was okay but was afraid to touch him.
