Chapter Text
As the days grow colder in autumn, the colors of everything begin to turn bland. Not to say that the world feels more vibrant at any other time of the year. To Charles, it’s as if the world is covered in a thin fog; everything is right where it’s supposed to be, and time moves at a normal pace. But there is a disconnect that enshrouds everything he does, everything he feels. Very few things pop out of that fog, such as his favorite coffee order, reading a good book, or the sound of rain hitting a tin roof. He clings to those few things like a lifeline.
Today the fog is extra thick, borderline tangible. He can feel it in his throat when he breathes, and his eyes water as he stares at his feet, marching through the college campus. The cloudy cool weather cuts straight through his jacket, settling in his bones. His mind races, but the thoughts are fleeting, and he can’t seem to linger on any one long enough to make sense of it. This is his norm, and a norm that is preferred. In this form, his thoughts hold no weight, and they can't drag him down. The turn of autumn always leads to more of those spiraling thoughts. You need to be careful. Take your meds, and text your friends once a day. He repeats this mantra over and over in his head.
This continues as he enters the humanities building, the stark overhead lighting making him squint. It’s been a few weeks since the start of fall semester, so he can trust his feet to take him to his classroom and find his seat. He settles in, taking his notebook and pen out. Philosophy. At least with this class, Charles would not have a hard time paying attention. Most found the class boring, but Charles found it interesting enough.
Eventually, more people started to trickle in. Some by themselves, others coming in two or three at a time, talking in hushed but lively whispers. On a good day, Charles would sometimes eavesdrop on a conversation, out of curiosity. The lives of the typical college student seem to vastly differ from his own. So, he would find intrigue (and at times, entertainment) in hearing about his classmates’ escapades, from the parties that got crashed to the dates they would go on. But today, all background noise melts into static, and all he can do is stare blankly at the empty page of his opened notebook. It isn’t until a certain individual enters the room that his gaze is finally torn from in front of him.
He’s unassuming in all aspects, really. Ash blond hair tied back into a ponytail, light brown eyes, a plain brown sweater. Ever since the start of the semester, Charles felt an inexplicable draw to this total stranger in his class. The two have never spoken a word to each other. Hell, neither of them have even spoken in class at all. Yet somehow, the air fills with electricity every time he enters the room, and if he makes one wrong move he could be shocked into cardiac arrest. The feeling was sickening, yet somehow he always has to look up when he enters the room. Most of the time, the other doesn’t even notice. Every so often, the two lock eyes, just like today. And just like the other times, he smiles. Charles smiles back, albeit a little forced. And just like that, the moment is over, and the other student looks away to find his own seat. And just like every other time, Charles gets an anxious jitter, as if he drank too much coffee. It always subsides by the end of class, he has to remind himself.
Eventually, the professor walks in and class starts. Instead of jumping into the next lesson, he begins with explaining the rubric for the class’ final project. Charles tunes in and out, knowing he can find the project in the class syllabus later on. Easy enough… Until the professor utters the words “group project.” Charles’ eyes snap up at the phrase. Oh. Oh no.
“You will be split up into groups of two or three to complete this project. Your groups will submit an essay at the end of the semester, as well as an oral presentation about the topic you choose. To keep things easy, I have selected your groups at random, I’ll put the list up here.” As he speaks, the professor clicks on his projector, and on display is a list of the students in the class, grouped together in pairs or groups of three. He scans wildly for his name, eventually finding it in the middle of the page:
Group 6: Charles E. & Vincent F.
Ah, that jittery feeling is back. Charles’ eyes slowly make their way to the same classmate that he locked eyes with earlier. That same classmate who made him feel like electricity every time he stepped foot in the room, Vincent, was his partner. Vincent takes a little longer to find his name on the list, but once he does he begins to look around curiously. It only takes him a moment to find Charles’ gaze once more, this time holding it with more intent than a quick greeting. His expression is unreadable, and Charles feels anxiety bubble in his chest.
“I'll allow you guys to use the rest of class to group up and decide on a topic. If you have any questions, I'll be at my desk.” And with that, the classroom disperses, people moving to sit next to their respective partners. Charles falters when he sees Vincent immediately stand, gather his things and walk over. He moves as if he's floating, passing by each person and obstacle with ease. As he gets closer, panic begins to rise in Charles’ throat. He hasn't been the most social this semester, opting to text his few friends over talking in-person. Just be yourself, right? Although, “myself” isn't really the best at talking to people, or great at talking in general, so maybe-
“Hi, you're Charles, right?” His voice is lower than he imagined, soft yet clear and distinct. “I'm Vincent. It's nice to meet you.”
Screw it. I have to say something. “Hi, um- yes. I'm Charles. Nice to meet you too.” He mentally curses himself for stammering, but decides that the greeting is ultimately acceptable. Vincent smiles again, extending a hand out for a handshake. At first Charles hesitates, his own hands tightening into fists in his lap. He takes a moment to feel the fabric of his gloves, reminding himself of the barrier between himself and the rest of the world. Just get it over with, quick. He reaches up, squeezing Vincent's hand with his own once before quickly withdrawing it back. That seems to satisfy the other man, who takes his new seat with a hum, opening his notebook to a fresh page.
“Well looking at the rubric, it looks like we can pick any world conflict and defend a side. Are there any problems in the world that you feel strongly about, Charles?”
Wow, cutting right to the chase. While it feels a little jarring, Charles actually feels a slight sense of relief, too. Small talk has always been an annoying part of socializing, so it's nice to skip the “pleasantries” and get right to work.
“If you want a topic that's more relevant to modern times, we can talk about the rampant use of AI in anything and everything.” Charles mutters. “In my honest opinion, there's no room for AI in art and writing, and it's weird to see it be used to mimic voices.”
“I can't even tell you how glad I am that you said that.” Vincent replies, writing something avidly into his notebook. “Every time I hear one of our classmates brag about using some AI tool to write their essay, I wither away a little.” Charles snickers at the comment, then he too begins to write some notes down as well. This is… good? This is going well, right?”
“I do have to admit something.” Vincent continues, “I'm not the strongest writer. I am comfortable with the oral presentation, but I might need some extra help with the essay.”
Oh this is going perfect, actually. “Um, that's absolutely fine with me. I'm a strong writer, so I can handle the essay portion if you're willing to handle the presentation. I'm… not the best speaker.”
“You have a deal then.” Another smile. This time, when Charles smiles back, it feels a little more natural.
~~
Charles’ hands shake as he sticks his keys into his apartment door. Today went well. Today went objectively well.
Well, no amount of confirmation could stop the anxiety from bubbling up in his core. That is just the person he is by nature. So, as soon as he enters his home, he beelines for the bathroom cabinets. He rummages through an assortment of medicine bottles, picking a select few to pop open and take one pill from. Once he has his assortment of pills, he brings them to the kitchen, retrieving a glass and filling it with water. Pausing a moment, he stares at the assortment in his hands. White circles, red circles, white pentagons. It almost felt like eating a handful of candy. The thought makes Charles laugh, something dry and airy, void of any actual humor. Even with the glass of water, the pills stick to the back of his throat when he swallows them down.
He spends the next twenty minutes sitting on the kitchen floor. When it comes to panic attacks, there are two kinds: the ones where everything moves too fast, and the ones where everything moves too slow. Right now, Charles feels like dried glue, stuck where he’s sitting on the cool tile. While his brain feels light, fast, racing, his limbs feel heavy, like all of the energy was sucked out of them to fuel his ever-active mind. After several long minutes of reminding himself to breathe, the panic begins to subside. He stands up, wobbling at first. Once he gets his bearings, he walks to his room. On one wall, a large dry-erase calendar hangs, pristinely written out with everything from upcoming assignments to scheduled events. He uses a blue marker to write in for next Tuesday
“Work on Philosophy project @ library with Vincent”.
Afterwards, he mindlessly falls onto his bed, still wearing the clothes he left the apartment in. With his mind finally back in its aimless state, he uses the opportunity to shut his eyes and fall into a dreamless sleep.