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These fluorescent lights are really not helping.You’re sitting on a hard plastic chair in the emergency department because your brain broke so Lance had to drag you here, and this has got to be one of the worst days of your life.The nurse is still staring at you from behind the computer. Her perfume, something saccharine and flowery, makes your nose hurt. You’re not making eye contact, but you can imagine the contempt in her gaze.
Another attention-seeking brat who’s making up their problems and wasting everybody’s time. And he won’t even look at me or answer my questions.
Next to you, Lance shifts. You feel him turn to face you. “It’s okay, kiddo. You can tell her.”Always that gentleness, that coaxing tone, that thin veneer of patience you know is going to shatter any minute now. You’re not going to take his permission. You don’t need it.An interval of tense silence passes, and then Lance does the unthinkable: he starts talking to a stranger about your mental health. You hear phrases like suicidal thoughts and crisis and agitated and staying safe, all tossed into the world’s most embarrassing word salad and served with a side of breadsticks.It’s like you’re not even there. You wish you weren’t. If you had your way, you’d either be dead or pretty damn close.Lance and the nurse are still talking. You don’t know how much time is going to pass before they stop. And you’re trying not to listen, but it’s hard when they’re talking about you…right in front of you.Is Lance angry? The frown on his face makes you think he’s at least disappointed—why he ever set his expectations for you above the ground, you have no idea—or concerned. No clenched fists or scowl, so maybe he’s just upset. Besides, Lance gets loud when he’s angry, and he’s speaking at a normal volume.Okay, so Lance isn’t mad at you right now. You catch that thought and hold it close, knowing it’s only a matter of time before—yep, here comes the voice in your head.
Well, how do you know he’s not pretending? Maybe he’s furious, maybe he’s going to throw you out onto the street and he’s just pretending not to be mad at you because that would make him look bad in front of the nurse. You never know.
After what feels like ages, the two other people in the room stop talking about you. The nurse steps out from behind the computer and wheels a small monitor over to where you’re sitting. “I’m going to measure your vital signs, okay? Take off your hoodie and hold your left arm up for me.”You do as you’re told. She wraps a piece of dark blue nylon—a blood pressure cuff, you realize a bit later than you should—around your upper arm. It inflates, squeezing tighter every few seconds, and for a moment the pressure feels like when Lance rubs your arm to comfort you. (Not that you’d ever tell him, but it works.)The thermometer probe in your mouth is hard and plasticky. You don’t know why the nurse is going through all this trouble when there’s nothing physically wrong with you. You’re fine, you don’t even deserve—you don’t even need to be here.Normal temperature, normal blood pressure, slightly elevated heart rate. The nurse’s keyboard clacks as she enters this information into your chart. You can only guess what the rest of her notes are like: Patient refuses to talk or make eye contact. Disheveled appearance. Concerned adult who brought him here reports suicidal ideation, history of past suicide attempt. Patient is a fucking idiot. Intake screening finished, you’re herded back into the waiting area. These are people with actual problems. You can check in to the emergency department with a concussion (you would know) or a broken leg. You can’t check in with a bad case of I feel like I’m going insane and I want to jump off a bridge. “Kid,” Lance says (gently, patiently, deceptively). His eyes look sad. “You’re shaking. Wanna put your hoodie back on?”It’s not from the cold, but you can pretend it is. Put your arms through the sleeves. Pull the hoodie over your head. The fabric smells like lavender. There’s no string—Lance must have taken it out. You tug the cuffs halfway over your hands, curling your fists around the soft cloth.This gives you something else to think about, something that isn’t the rush of nerves and energy threatening to propel you off the deep end. Your brain slows down a little bit. And then, because your life is one big joke being played by the universe, you hear sirens.In retrospect, you don’t know why you’re surprised. This is the emergency department, after all. It’s perfectly normal for an ambulance to pull up to the curb with lights and sirens on at full blast, and for two people to jump out of the back with the kind of urgency you only see in movies, and for someone on a stretcher—someone with real problems, someone whose pain is obvious enough that a nurse doesn’t need to interview them—to be rolled in. Happens every day.More commotion. There’s the clatter of stretcher wheels, then rapid footsteps on the linoleum floor. You catch a glimpse of the person on the stretcher, and they’re…fine. You don’t see any blood. It just looks like they’re asleep. What the fuck? The two people from the back of the ambulance are talking. You try to listen in, but they’re already on the move, through the double doors and out of earshot. Part of you wants to run after them. What’s going on? you want to ask. What’s wrong with this patient, and why am I so jealous of them, and why do I never feel like I deserve help? You put your head in your hands. Drag your hands down your face. Rub your eyes and wish you were dead. You need to be doing something right now—but what?“Silver.” At the sound of Lance’s voice, you look up. He puts his hand on your shoulder. (You only flinch a little bit.) “Take some deep breaths, all right?”Is that his fucking solution to everything? You grit your teeth and yank your shoulder away, looking down before you can catch his reaction.Even though Lance doesn’t say anything, you can tell he’s disappointed. Guilt slams into your chest.You’re a liar, a manipulator, a faker. You’re doing this for attention. It’s not real. None of your problems are real. You’re not a person, not the way everyone else is. You don’t exist—or maybe you do, just not like you should. Nothing you think or say or do makes sense. You’re broken.“Hey.” Lance is talking again. More alarms go off in the burning building where your brain is supposed to be. He has to be mad at you, right? “I know you’re dealing with a lot, kiddo, but you can’t get lost up there. Stay with me.”Or what? What is he going to do? He could leave, says the voice in the back of your head. Wouldn’t that be good, though? If he left, you could leave too…or you could kill yourself. It could go either way.You’re spiraling. That’s the funny part: you know what’s going on. You should be able to stop it. You can’t.Lance says your name, quietly but clearly, and you look up. He puts his arms around you and pulls you to his chest. “It’s gonna be okay.”You’re crying before you know it. The hug is firm and real, like dry land after a shipwreck. Lance runs his hand over your hair, telling you “it’s okay” and “I’ve got you” in the gentlest tone you’ve ever heard him use.He’s pitying you, and you hate being pitied, but you like hugs. That’s a recent revelation, and an extremely embarrassing one. Something as simple as Lance wrapping you up in his arms—and, if you’re lucky, his cape—has the power to make you feel safe and secure. It’s mortifying.You don’t have anything better to be doing, though, so you let Lance pretend that it’s all going to be fine. At some point your tears run out and you’re left to nestle against Lance’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat and pretending not to feel the mess you’ve made on the front of his jacket.(Of all the places you could be losing your damn mind, this is one of the nicer ones. Lance is warm. You really like hugs. Sure, you’re still in the emergency department, but you can ignore that…sort of.)You’re not sure how much time passes before they call your name. Dazed in the way you always are after crying so hard, you follow Lance into a small room with an exam table and two chairs. The nurse—a different one, thankfully with less perfume—directs you to sit in a chair.Lance takes a seat in the chair next to yours. Both of you watch as the nurse steps behind the computer and clicks his mouse a few times. “What brings you here today?”Can’t he figure that out from your intake interview notes? You stay quiet, focusing on the floor in front of you. What are you supposed to tell him—that you feel like a comet hurtling toward the sun, ice and dust blasting apart until you disappear entirely? That you need to hurt yourself just to regain some control?What led to this, anyway?Everything is going too fast.No, that’s not it— you’re the one who’s going too fast, and everything else is too slow. But that’s not quite it either. Could it be both?You’ve got both hands on a live wire. There’s so much electricity going through you, flooding you with fear and fury and burning light. You can’t touch anyone else or you’ll shock them, too. Can’t touch anyone, can’t do anything, can’t stop thinking or moving or feeling.Cool, so you’re going crazy. You press your palms over your eyes, taking a deep breath and willing yourself to get your shit together. You’re fine. You aren’t shaking. Except you are, and your thoughts are whipping into a hurricane, and as much as you hate to admit it, this is one of those times when you might need help. No you don’t, snaps the voice in the back of your head. What you need is to hurt yourself. You need proof that this is real, that you can control something in this wild swirl of light and energy. You need to reach under your bed and find the razor blade taped there. (Lance needs to do a better job of hiding things.)Lance probably wouldn’t want you to harm yourself. Should you go talk to him? He said you could, and talking to someone is more acceptable than talking to yourself, and you really, really need to talk right now or else your head is going to explode because you’re thinking and feeling and seeing and hearing so much.Then again, maybe going to Lance isn’t such a good idea. You’ve kind of been avoiding him since you had that super embarrassing breakdown a few days ago and then he tried to get you to open up about it.But you have to talk to someone, so it looks like that person is going to be Lance. It’s almost a good thing you don’t have any dignity left after what happened last time. You get up and go to the living room, where you find Lance sitting in the chair next to the bookshelf.“Hey, kiddo.” Lance looks up and closes his book. After looking at you for a few moments, he frowns slightly. “Everything okay?”“Yeah,” you say without thinking. Shit. “I mean, I don’t know.” You pause, looking down at your hands. The skin around your thumbnail is bleeding again. (Whoops.) “Can I…talk to you?”“Of course.” There’s something soft about Lance’s voice, the kind of gentleness you might bristle at if you had any shame left. He sets his book down. “What’s going on?”You go sit on the couch. Pull your knees to your chest. Look at your socks. For all the thinking you’ve been doing, the nonstop commotion in your head, you haven’t figured out how to explain this. “I don’t know.”Lance seems to ponder your response. You can’t see his face, but you get the sense that he’s about to say something annoyingly considerate. “Do you feel safe?”You shake your head, surprising yourself with your honesty. It’s like someone’s slashed a hole in the filter between your brain and your mouth. None of this feels real, so why does it matter? “I…think I need to hurt myself.”When you check to see if Lance is frowning, you find that he is. His voice gets slightly sharper, more urgent. “Do you have anything you could use to do that?” (You shrug, looking back down.) “Where is it?”Under your bed, wrapped in paper and taped to the frame. You tell Lance before you can talk yourself out of it. Saying it out loud feels…not good, exactly, but it makes things a bit more real. You’ve got a razor blade hidden in your room, and Lance has to take it away from you so you don’t use it to cut yourself.“Okay.” Lance stands up and motions for you to do the same. “Let’s go find it.”You lead the way back to your room, crouching on the floor next to the bed. Lance joins you, and for a moment it’s almost funny that you’re making the champion of the Indigo League do this because you’re too fucked up to be responsible for your own safety. “There,” you say as you grab the paper it’s wrapped in and undo the tape.Wordlessly, Lance holds out his hand. You give him the razor. He puts it in his pocket and gets to his feet, then offers a hand to pull you up. Because you’ve already made a fool of yourself today, you take it.“I’m glad you told me about this,” Lance says once you’re back in the living room. He’s taken a seat next to you on the couch. You aren’t sure if you’re supposed to respond to that, so you don’t. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You have other ways of hurting yourself.“I think something’s wrong. Maybe.” You blurt this out, unable to slow the deluge of words and thoughts and feelings and sound and light sloshing around in your head. Your leg is bouncing fast enough to make the lower half of your body shake with it. There’s a throw pillow behind you, and you hug it to your chest like it’ll somehow hold you together. Please don’t make me explain, you think. Then Lance looks at you and asks, “Can you tell me more?”The world around you is too much and not enough at the same time. Your brain is running twice as fast as usual and going nowhere. Everything feels wrong. You normally wouldn’t say all of this to Lance, but you need to keep talking, and at this point it doesn’t even matter what comes out.Lance frowns again, looking confused. He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t believe you, because you’re making all of this up. It’s not real, it’s just some stupid thing you’re doing to get attention. If you had an actual problem, you wouldn’t need to convince him that you aren’t okay, because it would be obvious.“I don’t want to be here.” The words slip out before you can stop them. You’re trying to hold on, but it’s all too fast, too slow, forever out of sync.No response from Lance. Why would he say anything? This is your problem, your mental disconnect, your personal way of drowning in a few centimeters of water. Lance doesn’t care. He’s got other things to worry about. You’re not a priority to him, and you will never be as important to him as he is to you, because you never are, in any of your relationships, and you don’t matter, and that’s just the way it is.How are you supposed to keep going like this?“Silver. Breathe.” Lance’s tone is somehow gentle and commanding at the same time. It makes no sense—is he mad at you or not? And why does he think taking a few deep breaths will magically solve your problems?“I can’t do this.” You don’t see any end in sight. There’s nothing for you in the future. All that’s left is this awful energy, this disorienting rush tearing you apart limb by limb. What are you doing here? “I need to get out.”Lance frowns. If he’s not mad at you (which you’re still not sure of), he’s definitely not happy. Because you’re burdensome and hard to be around, and Lance never asked for this, and it’s only reasonable that he’d be upset as a result of all the bullshit you’ve brought into his life. “What do you mean?”Is he even listening? You tell Lance you want to die. That gets his attention, you notice with a flicker of smugness. He looks at you with that disappointed-and/or-concerned expression you’ve been seeing so much of lately. “Do you have a plan?”Not a fully formed one, but you’re good at thinking on your feet. You could electrocute yourself, drink bleach, fly to Goldenrod City and jump in front of the magnet train—there’s no shortage of options here. Will saying ‘yes’ make Lance take you seriously?You nod and watch the storm clouds gather in Lance’s eyes. “Okay. Silver, I think you—” He stops, collecting himself. “I think we need to go to the hospital. Now.”That’s not the kind of serious you were going for. You reel back, eyes wide. The small part of you that isn’t frozen wants to run. “No.”“I’m trying to keep you safe,” Lance says. (Like hell he is. What, so he’s just going to drop you there and leave?) “I want to help you, Silver, but—”You’ve figured out what’s going on. The truth tastes burnt and acrid in your mouth, taunting you with the simple fact that you will always be left behind. “You don’t think you can deal with me anymore.”Lance hesitates. This makes you want to die.“You’re gonna leave.” You almost laugh. Lance is no exception to the rule: everyone leaves. You thought things might be different this time—you idiot, do you ever learn? “I knew it.”“No, I’m not,” Lance insists, and you scoff. All he’s doing is proving that he can lie as easily as he can breathe. What else has he been lying to you about?He’s been lying all along, and you believed him. You swallow the lump in your throat, try to blink away the burning in your eyes. Crying doesn’t solve anything. It just makes you look weak. “I don’t know why I thought I could trust you.”Lance opens his mouth, then closes it. In that moment, you realize something: you hate him. You wish he would die. He’s the worst person you’ve ever met—he’s dishonest, he’s cruel, he’s inconsiderate, he’s always out to make things worse for you. He was never actually going to help you. Why did it take you so long to figure this out? Because no one wants you, hisses the voice in the back of your head. No one wants you, no one cares about you, so you take whatever attention you can get. You’re broken, and you were foolish enough to believe that you could be fixed if you tried hard enough and loved hard enough—why would you do that, stupid, love is a conditional resource and it’s never gotten you anywhere—and now you have to deal with the consequences.Why does everything you do push people away? What’s wrong with you?The ice in your veins turns to magma. You want to scream, shout fuck you too, old man, slam the door so hard it breaks, go on the offensive and hurt Lance before he can hurt you again. Without thinking, you swing.Lance blocks one of your fists, then the other. He grabs your wrists. He’s going to hit you, and it’s all your fault. There’s one thing that will always come back to you: blame.You don’t know you’re flinching, eyes shut, until Lance speaks again. “Silver.” (That’s you.) “Deep breaths, okay? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”When you open your eyes, you find that Lance is blurry and there are tears running down your cheeks. You’re shaking.“Hey.” Lance’s grip on your wrists softens a bit. He runs his thumbs over your skin. “Not gonna hurt you, kiddo. I’m on your side.”Is he? You blink and Lance’s face comes back into focus. Speaking isn’t doable at the moment, so you just stare at him. He looks back at you with a mixture of disappointment and pity in his eyes. “I’m not leaving, but you need more help than I can give you.”You don’t have a rebuttal to that. Lance guides your hands back down to your lap. “I’m going to have one of my pokémon watch you while I get some things from around the house, okay?”Because you don’t know what else to do, you nod. There’s the soft click of a pokéball opening, then a flash of light before a dragonite appears in front of you. A big orange dragon is here to babysit you. In different circumstances, you think, this would be funny as hell.When Lance comes back five minutes later, holding a hoodie in one hand and a bag in the other, his eyes are red. He clears his throat and thanks his pokémon before returning it to its ball.You wonder what’ll happen next. You’re still too much, too fast, too jam-packed with thoughts and nerves, not to mention you still don’t know what the fuck is going on. All of that bullshit, and now you can’t move.Lance pulls the hoodie over your head, then brushes your hair away from your face. “It’s gonna be okay, Silver. Just hold on.”And that brings you back here, to the hospital and to the humiliating realization that you might need to do something about your mental health.You really don’t want to have to say yeah, I’m feeling suicidal. You’d rather show than tell. Unfortunately, though, you came here, and attempting to kill yourself in an emergency department exam room is both frowned upon and a one-way ticket to the psych ward. Also unfortunately, the nurse is still waiting for an answer.After the most uncomfortable silence of your life (which is saying a lot), you come up with something to get him off your back. “I…was thinking about hurting myself. And I couldn’t stop.” Is it true? Yes. Is it the entire story? Not exactly.The nurse types something on his keyboard. He asks you a few more questions, stupid shit like do you take any prescribed medications and do you currently see a mental health professional. You do not.Having noted this, the nurse scrolls down in your chart. At least you assume he’s looking at your chart—for all you know, he could be playing solitaire or shopping for clothes online. “Have there been any changes to your medical history?”Not that you’re aware of. It’s still an incomplete mess, just like you. And this might be the stupidest reason you’ve ever wound up in the hospital. You shake your head, then shake it again when the nurse asks if you drink alcohol or use recreational drugs. (Even if you did, you’d never admit it with Lance sitting right next to you. Come on.)“Okay.” The nurse clicks a few more things before stepping away from the computer. He reaches into a cabinet, pulling out some things that are very much not ‘okay’: needles, a syringe, blood collection tubes, and alcohol wipes. You don’t like where this is going.There’s a quiet snapping sound as the nurse puts on a pair of gloves. “I’m going to draw blood and have the lab run some tests. This will help us determine if there’s something physical that’s contributing to how you feel.”Probably not, but what would you know? You almost wish there was some physiological explanation, some recognized and legitimate thing that isn’t only you being crazy. Instead of saying any of this, you take off your hoodie, balling it up in your lap. He’s gonna ask which arm I prefer, you think, and you’re correct. You hear your own voice say “left,” feel yourself sit there like a rag doll as the nurse ties a tourniquet just above your elbow. He cleans your skin with an alcohol wipe before picking up the needle.Lance tells you not to watch. You ignore him. The needle stick itself is fine—you make it through without fainting like you sometimes (always) do. You’re still conscious, just kind of dizzy.Blood spurts into the collection tube. Your vision is starting to get dark. Maybe you should lie down, you think, and then your head lolls back and you pass out in the chair.“—time he gets blood drawn. Sorry, I should have said something earlier.”When you open your eyes, Lance is looking at you with a concerned expression. He’s not holding you or telling you it’s okay, but you kind of wish he was. This chair is uncomfortable.Also uncomfortable: the feeling of the nurse pressing down on your arm, presumably to stop the bleeding. You don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing, or why you feel so upset that Lance isn’t coddling you or whatever—when did you start getting soft? The last few times you passed out and then realized you feel safer when Lance is being nice to you?While you’re busy getting lost in your head, the nurse puts an adhesive bandage on your arm. (It’s printed with a horsea design. People in this city really like their dragon pokémon.) “I’m going to have you stay seated for ten or fifteen minutes to make sure you don’t faint again, all right?”If you disobeyed and made yourself pass out a second time, maybe—no, that’s stupid. You’re not that desperate for Lance’s attention. You nod.A few minutes pass, and then there’s a knock on the door. Someone comes in, wearing normal clothes instead of scrubs, and introduces herself as a social worker. You silently thank the gods that she isn’t the same one you had to talk to after you kinda-sorta tried to overdose. That would just be humiliating.The conversation you have with her—hi, how are you, nothing feels real and I want to hurt myself, no I don’t see a mental health professional—is still embarrassing, but not as much as it would have been if you got the guy from last time. It’s also incredibly uncomfortable, thanks to the subject matter and your inability to explain things. You’ll say something, and then the social worker will ask you to clarify what you mean, and then you’ll get in your head about it and start doubting yourself, and then you’ll clam up even more, and then she’ll have to pry an answer out of you like she’s pulling your teeth.She writes something on her clipboard. (You want to see what her notes say, if only out of some morbid curiosity tinged with narcissism.) “Do you feel supported by your friends and family?”Well, that’s a fucking awkward question to have to answer. First off, you don’t do friends, except maybe your pokémon, and that’s only because Professor Elm told you they like you and you felt guilty for having treated them like shit. Oh, and you guess you’re friendly with Ethan. You don’t hate being around him, and sometimes he can even make you laugh. You’re not friends, though.Second, your “family” consists of a former mob boss who has been AWOL for years and the highest-ranked woman in said crime syndicate. Except the hospital staff probably think that Lance is related to you, on account of the spiky red hair and also him bringing you here, so it might be weird or even offensive to Lance if you say no. And of course you can’t say any of this out loud. You shrug.You can’t overstate how relieved you are when things start drawing to a close. The good news: you probably aren’t getting committed to the psych ward. The bad news: the social worker wants you to start talking to a therapist. “There are plenty of options for both individual and group therapy. I can give you a list of resources.”Your first instinct: no way in hell. Your reaction once you’ve thought about it for more than half a second: do you really want to keep doing this shit? Each successive breakdown you end up having seems to get worse and worse. Wouldn’t it be nice if they stopped? Your reaction to that reaction: yeah, but what if you go through all that trouble, force yourself to open up to someone, and it doesn’t fix anything? What if you’re beyond helping?“Kid,” Lance says, almost under his breath, and you snap out of whatever unhelpful thought spiral you were getting yourself into. (Strange how he can do that.) “I know it’s overwhelming, but I think this could really help. Wanna give it a shot?”Damn it, now you’re going to disappoint Lance even more if you say no. You hesitate, keenly aware that people are looking at you, and fix your gaze on the floor. The nurse excuses himself and leaves the room. You wish you could follow him out.If there’s one thing you are, aside from broken, it’s stubborn. You’re determined not to answer, so you make Lance and the social worker wait…and wait…and wait, until there’s another knock on the door. “Excuse me for a moment,” the social worker says, stepping out and closing the door behind her.She’s definitely talking about you with someone else, which is weird to think about. You feel very cold and very small and very alone, like you’re lost in a blizzard and the sun is going down. The hoodie you’ve pulled on again isn’t doing shit.Lance is still watching you, as you discover when you lift your head slightly. You must look really pathetic, because he opens his arms to offer you a hug.Pros: you like hugs. Lance is warm (and gives really good hugs, though you’d never tell him that). The pressure might help you feel real again. Cons: you don’t want to seem clingy. You’ve already inconvenienced Lance enough today. If you got a hug, you’d probably start crying again.Then you find yourself on the receiving end of a hug, pressed against Lance’s chest while his head rests on top of yours. And you’re crying.“It’s gonna be okay,” Lance murmurs, rubbing your back. He runs a hand over your hair. (You haven’t washed it recently, but he doesn’t comment on how gross it must feel.) “Even if it takes a while, you’re gonna be okay.”You offer a muffled sob in response. Gods, you’re a mess. You’d better stop crying and get it together before…ah, shit, the social worker is knocking on the door. “Just a minute,” Lance calls out. Then, to you: “I’ll be right here, kiddo. Whenever you need me.”It’s a nice sentiment, even if you don’t believe it. You pull away, wiping your face with the sleeve of your hoodie. (Ugh, gross.) The social worker comes back in, accompanied by someone in a white coat and glasses. She’s a psychiatrist, you learn, and she has some questions for you. To start: “Have you been feeling more confident than usual?”What? You shake your head. Then you shake your head again when she asks if you’ve been sleeping less, and again when she asks if you’ve been more talkative lately. (Only when talking to yourself and Lance.) Should you be saying yes?“Do you feel like your thoughts are racing?” she asks. Finally, you think as you nod. Next, she asks if you’ve been more easily distracted than normal. Maybe a little bit, but not enough that other people have noticed…right?She keeps questioning you, asking if you’ve been starting a bunch of new projects or engaging in risky behaviors. Each time you say no, the nagging feeling that you’re making all of this up grows stronger and stronger. You’re definitely supposed to be answering yes. Chances are this interview isn’t meant to make you feel shitty. It sure is, though. You stare at the floor. What’s wrong with you? Everything’s going too fast, and you can’t stop thinking, and you want to die, and you feel like screaming or starting a fight, but almost none of your so-called symptoms match whatever the psychiatrist is asking you about. Are you just fucked up in a way that no one can figure out?The psychiatrist turns a page in your chart, clicks her pen, and writes something down. She looks at you. “Are you currently having thoughts of hurting yourself?” (You shrug.) “How about thoughts of suicide?” (You shrug again.) “Are you being honest with me?”That question shocks you long enough to reveal the answer. The psychiatrist nods and writes something else in your chart. “We’re here to help you, Silver.” (Yeah, right.) “In order for us to do that, we need you to be truthful and upfront about what you’re experiencing.”You open your mouth, then close it. Fuck. “I…fine, yeah. I mean, yes.” You look down. There are some scuffs on the tile beneath your feet, and you resist the urge to add a few yourself. “I’m…still thinking about those things.”“Thank you for telling me the truth,” the psychiatrist says. “Do you intend to harm yourself or attempt suicide?”On instinct, you shrug. “Um. I…don’t know.” That’s technically true.“Do you have a plan?”You might not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but even you know that when a psychiatrist asks if you have a plan, you never, ever say yes unless you want a trip to grippy sock jail. And you do not. You shake your head.“Okay.” More writing in your chart. “Is there someone who can be with you for the next two or three days to make sure you stay safe?”“I can,” Lance says. You shoot him a confused look. He doesn’t mean that, does he? No, he has a demanding job, plus his responsibilities in the Dragon’s Den. (Not much of a personal life aside from reading and dealing with you, though.) Asking him to put everything else on pause so he can watch you around the clock for a few days just isn’t reasonable.“What? You don’t have to…” you start, and then Lance picks up where you trail off. “But I want to. And it’s no problem for me, kiddo. Really.”The psychiatrist nods. “That’s good to hear.” Embarrassed, you turn your attention back to the floor. So that’s the plan, then? Have Lance babysit you until you chill out? It sure doesn’t feel like you’ll be back to normal anytime soon…not that the hospital staff would know. You haven’t given them enough information for them to realize that, and even if you had, they wouldn’t believe you. Probably.Something is twisting your stomach into knots. If you were more in tune with your emotions, or if you didn’t have this clusterfuck of ramped-up feelings-sensations-thoughts whirling around in your skull, you might have a better understanding of what that means. As it is, you can only guess. Are you upset because you feel like they’re not taking you seriously? What the fuck are you supposed to do about that? Tell them, suggests a voice in your head that sounds unnervingly similar to Lance’s. You try to think of an alternative, but you can’t. Damn it, you might have to speak up and ask for what you need—or rather, what you want. Which is to feel like you’re not making all of this up, and to know that other people aren’t thinking that about you.You take a deep breath and let it out. Do you know what you’re supposed to say? Not really. Are you running out of time to say it? Probably. “So, uh, are you just gonna…send me home now, or…?”The psychiatrist answers your question with a question of her own. (You hate when people do that.) “Do you feel like you’ve received an appropriate level of care and the resources you need in this situation?”“Um.” Well, first of all, you don’t know what ‘care’ is supposed to mean here. All that happened was an uncomfortable interview; a blood draw, during which you accidentally passed out; another uncomfortable interview, plus the recommendation that you go to therapy; and whatever this conversation has been.Your hesitation seems to answer the question for you. The psychiatrist nods and says “okay.” She sits down on a nearby stool, crossing her legs. “Let’s rewind a bit. Can you tell me, in your own words, what’s going on?”You stare at the floor beneath your feet. Fuck it—you might as well say whatever comes to mind, right? What do you have left to lose? “I feel like this…isn’t real. Like I’m going too fast—like there’s a dial in my head and it’s turned up to eleven. And at the same time everything around me is too slow, and I feel like—like I need to be doing something, but I can’t tell what, and I…have to hurt myself because there’s nothing else I can control.”“I hear what you’re saying,” the psychiatrist says. You aren’t sure that she does. You’re also not sure what you’re expecting to happen.She asks you what you need right now. This feels like the kind of thing that she, not you, should know. You hesitate, then try to clear your throat. “Uh…what are my options?”Option one: voluntary hospitalization. (Absolutely not.) Option two: something called intensive outpatient therapy, which “has individual and group components.” (No.) Option three: individual therapy on a weekly basis. Option four, in conjunction with therapy: medication.You weren’t expecting that last one. Part of you feels validated, like at long last you’re noticeably broken enough that a psychiatrist is offering you meds. It’s weird and a little bit depressing, but validating nonetheless. And if you have to choose… “The fourth option. Um, if that’s…okay.”“Sure.” The psychiatrist writes something in your chart before flipping a page. “The first medication I would try is aripiprazole, which balances out the dopamine in your brain and could help with the too-fast feeling you’re describing. It’s in a class of medications that has mood-regulating effects.”Your mood could definitely use some regulating. You nod and keep listening.“Like other atypical antipsychotics—” that’s a fun name— “aripiprazole tends to block receptors in the brain’s dopamine pathways. This means your brain gets fewer messages that might cause racing thoughts or agitation.” Huh. That sounds like it might work. You sneak a peek at Lance…not that you want his approval or anything. You’re just curious to see his reaction.Lance, who’s caught you looking, meets your eyes and nods. You turn your attention back to the floor.If the psychiatrist notices this, she doesn’t comment on it. “There are some side effects that I’d like you to be aware of if you choose to start this medication. Many people report feelings of tiredness—” whatever, you’re always tired— “as well as increased appetite and weight gain.” (Okay, you’re not jazzed about that last part, but it’s fine. You’ll just have to control what you eat.) “It can take anywhere from a few days to a few weeks for you to notice improvements in mood and functioning.”She goes over a few more side effects, ranging from annoying (dry mouth, dizziness) to serious (something called neuroleptic malignant syndrome). At this point, you don’t really care—if it means you can finally get off this emotional rollercoaster, you’ll take it. You consent.The hospital staff agree to let you go home under three conditions: first, Lance will supervise you for a few days to make sure you don’t off yourself. Second, you’ll take this new medication as prescribed. Third, you’ll make an appointment to start outpatient therapy.Equipped with a list of referrals and substantially less pride than you had when you woke up this morning, you follow Lance out of the room. You’re supposed to stop at the hospital pharmacy and pick up your aripiprazole. Slight problem: you don’t know where the pharmacy is.You catch up to Lance, resisting the urge to tug on his sleeve. “Uh, how do we get to the pharmacy?”“It’s right up ahead.” Lance smiles. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”You go to the pharmacy, give them your information, wait, and collect your pill bottle, and then it’s time to go. Outside, it’s pitch-black and chilly—if you had to guess, you’d say it’s almost midnight. You stay a little closer to Lance than you strictly need to, envying (for once) that goofy cape he always wears. The walk back to his house feels longer than usual.When you get inside, Lance makes you sit down on the couch. He picks up the nearest throw blanket and wraps it around your shoulders like that’s a normal thing to do. “Hey, I’m gonna make some hot chocolate. You want any?”A sugar high might not be the most helpful thing for you right now, but Lance makes really good hot chocolate. Like, really good—almost good enough to fix whatever’s wrong with you. Having a warm drink sounds nice, too. You nod and follow him into the kitchen, still wearing the blanket around your shoulders.After getting out all his supplies, Lance puts some pieces of chocolate into a pot on the stove. He pours a bit of milk in and stirs. “Have I ever told you how long it took me to ask for help with this sort of thing?”You lean against the counter, watching. “With making hot chocolate?”Lance breathes out the beginning of a laugh. “With my mental health.”“I don’t think so.” You look down at the floor. “I mean, you don’t have to. I know it’s personal.”“When I was growing up, my family didn’t ever talk about mental health. It just wasn’t something we did.” Lance pauses, focusing on the stove. “Physical health, sure—we’re dragon tamers, after all. But mental wellbeing was never part of what everyone thought ‘health’ meant.”You aren’t sure what to say to that. Lance seems so…well, not normal, but functional. Responsible. Well-adjusted, usually. How could there have been a time when he wasn’t this way?“My parents had their own baggage that they never dealt with, and so did their parents before them. The clan put a lot of pressure on me and Clair.” Lance laughs again, sadder this time. It’s strange to hear that sound coming from him. “I think she handled it better than I did.”You keep listening. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Lance add some more milk to the pot. “Once I joined the Elite Four, I thought I could stay busy and keep running from my problems. Turns out that wasn’t true.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “There was a period when I was having panic attacks almost every day. I’d train, break down, and then go right back to training. It took months of that before I was even convinced it could be different.”That would explain why he’s so good at handling your freakouts. You fumble around for the right words…and miss completely. “How’d you get better?”Luckily for you, Lance doesn’t seem to mind your awkwardness. “By asking for help. I talked about it with people I trusted, and with their support I started trying things like therapy and medication. And, gradually, I got better.” He shrugs, stirring the pot. “I still struggle from time to time, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it used to be.”You don’t know what to say. “Oh.” In the quiet that follows, you try to wrap your head around what Lance just told you.“I have an important question for you, Silver.” The ominous tone of Lance’s statement makes your heart rate jump. When you look up, though, you see that he’s holding back a smile. “Do you want marshmallows with your hot chocolate?”Obviously. You laugh, tentative at first, then stronger when Lance joins in and the mood begins to lighten. He fixes you a mug with a slightly ridiculous amount of mini marshmallows. “Here, kiddo.”Once Lance has filled a mug for himself, you follow him back into the living room. You sit on the couch and sip your drink. It’s amazing—sweet but not too sweet, with just enough vanilla and cinnamon to contrast the chocolate without being overpowering. Lance is really good at making this stuff.Neither of you says anything for a few minutes. Predictably, it’s Lance who breaks the silence. “I’m proud of you, Silver.”You look up from your hot chocolate. (It could use some more marshmallows, you think.) “What?”“I am.” Lance gives you a small, sad smile, the kind you’ve gotten too familiar with lately. “I know it’s really hard to open up to people, especially when you’re going through so much. But you did it anyway, and I’m proud of you.”He’s giving you more credit than you deserve. You shrug and look back down. “I mean, you dragged me to the hospital.” Then, kicking yourself for sounding like such an asshole: “Um, but I…guess I’m glad you did, because I…needed help. And…you stayed, even though you didn’t have to. So, y’know, I appreciate it.”You aren’t just saying this in the hopes that Lance, affectionate sap that he is, will give you a hug. He does, though, and it’s even better than the hot chocolate.After the hug, you pull away, grab your mug from where you set it down on the coffee table, and go back to leaning against Lance. “Is this the part where you tell me that I’m not alone and we can figure it out together?”Lance laughs, warm and bright. It’s something you hear pretty often, but it never fails to make you feel happy and safe and all that cheesy crap. “Yep.”You take another sip of hot chocolate. “Hmph.”“I’m always going to have your back, deerling.” He ruffles your hair. “I promise.”Scratch what you thought earlier—Lance’s hot chocolate absolutely does have the power to fix whatever’s wrong with you. (The hug was nice, too.) Now that you’re all cozy, you’re starting to realize how tired you are.It takes all the focus you have left to put your mug back down on the table without spilling anything. You yawn, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself, and close your eyes. “Okay. ’Night.”“’Night. Love you lots, kiddo.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Wait, did Lance say he loves you?You jolt awake with those words spinning around in your head. Did you make that up? You definitely made that up.It’s not one hundred percent impossible, though, because Lance has told you cheesy things like I’m proud of you and I’m here for you. Also, you fell asleep leaning against him. But love? That seems like a stretch.Ugh, your head hurts too much to be thinking about this right now. You sit up and shrug off your blanket…and Lance’s cape, which was tucked around you. The sun is just starting to rise.“Hey,” Lance says. (You almost jump out of your skin.) “Whoa, sorry—didn’t mean to scare you, kiddo.” He yawns, covering his mouth. “How are you feeling?”Like shit, you think, although Lance doesn’t look much better. He’s still wearing his normal clothes, and he had to sleep sitting up, squished against the side of the couch.That’s somehow not the most inconvenient or ridiculous thing you’ve made him suffer through in the past twelve hours. You rub your eyes with the heels of your palms. “Ugh.”Lance breathes out the beginning of a laugh. “Yeah, I get that.”There are two mugs on the coffee table. One of them—yours, since you wouldn’t use a mug that says ‘#2 DRAGON MASTER’—still has a bit of hot chocolate in it. (Or, you know, cold chocolate.) You pick it up and drink, both because it’s good and because you don’t want to talk about what happened.“You can warm that up in the microwave if you’d like,” Lance says. “Or I can do it for you. I need to go make some tea anyway.”A very stupid and very childish part of you doesn’t want him to leave, even if he’s just going into the next room. “I’ll do it.”“Okay.” Lance gets to his feet, stretching. (You hear some popping sounds and resist the temptation to make a joke about how old he is.) “C’mon, off to the kitchen we go.”You follow him into the kitchen, where he fills the kettle and starts to heat it up. There’s not much hot chocolate left in your mug, so you only need to microwave it for thirty seconds. Then you drink it and feel, briefly, like a normal person whose life is worth living. (It’s really good hot chocolate.)Lance reaches into the cabinet where all the cups are. He takes one out, filling it with water from the sink. “You probably have a headache, huh? Drink some water.”He’s right, as much as you hate to admit it. You put down your mug and take the cup he holds out. “I could’ve gotten that for myself.”“I know.” Lance smiles, leaning against the counter.You drink, then look at the floor. “Thank you, though.”“You’re welcome.”The room is quiet after that, save for the sounds the kettle makes as it heats up. Lance gets out a mug and a container of loose leaf green tea. “I’m not sure I should be giving you caffeine, but…you want any?”“Sure. If there’s enough.”“There is.” Lance takes another mug out of the cabinet, this time with a red gyarados printed on it. (You secretly hope that one’s for you.) He scoops out some tea leaves. When the water in the kettle has boiled, he pours it into the mugs.He slides the red gyarados mug toward you and grabs the other one. “Careful, it’s hot.”That seems obvious, but you mumble your thanks before picking it up with both hands. You blow on the surface of the tea to cool it off, watching the leaves swirl around as…holy shit, Lance is already drinking his.You watch with a mixture of fascination and horror as he downs a mug of extremely hot tea like it’s nothing. He pours some more hot water over the leaves and gets halfway through his second cup before he notices you gawking. His mouth curves into a smile. “What?”“Isn’t that…” You try to find words other than what the fuck. “…boiling water?”Lance shrugs. “I’m used to it.”This might be a dragon clan thing, like how Lance’s canine teeth are slightly longer and sharper than normal. Or maybe it’s just Lance being weird. You make a huh sound and return your attention to your own tea.It occurs to you, probably later than it should, that Lance needs to do this because he’s exhausted from dealing with your bullshit. He’s drained. He hasn’t even had a chance to change out of his regular clothes. You made him stay up late with you because you had to go have another stupid little breakdown—okay, stupid enormous breakdown—for no reason other than you’re broken and toxic and unlovable and everyone leaves you—“Kid.” Lance puts his hands over yours, gently taking the mug so he can set it on the counter. When did you start trembling? “Hey. Come on out of that thought spiral.”Easier said than done. You draw in a shaky breath, unsure whether you want to run away or superglue yourself to Lance so he can’t abandon you. “Sorry.”“It’s okay. No need to apologize.” Lance looks at you for a few moments, then pulls you into a hug. “You’re going through a lot right now.”You guess that’s true, even if it’s stupid and also your own fault. That said, it’s kind of nice to hear Lance acknowledge it…wait, are you crying again?Lance rubs your back. (You’re definitely crying, and it’s definitely noticeable.) “I’m not gonna leave you.”Shit, you’re clinging to him. And it’s obvious. Something about all of this—the emotion, the vulnerability, the insurmountable horror of having to trust another person—freaks you out, but at the same time you can’t make yourself let go.(Fine, you’ll admit it. It’s possible that you have some psychological damage as a result of your dad ditching you on the side of the road.)Lance isn’t pushing you away, though. This has to be, like, the fourth or fifth time in the past day that you’ve pulled the old hug-and-cry combo. How does he have the patience to deal with you?Your perception of time’s been fucked up for a while, so it could be a few minutes or a few hours before you manage to peel yourself away from Lance. You wipe your face with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Sorry. Um, I mean…thanks. For all that.”“It’s no trouble at all, kiddo.” Lance ruffles your hair. “Whatever you need.”You don’t need anything, but you do want to sit down again because being this much of a screw-up is exhausting. You’re trying to figure out how to say this when Lance seems to read your mind. “Want to go back to the couch?”How did he—? You hesitate, then nod and let Lance lead you into the living room. Your limbs feel feather-light and leaden at the same time.(If you specifically choose to take Lance’s old spot on the couch, he doesn’t need to know about it.)“I’m gonna go change clothes.” Lance takes a pokéball from his belt and sends out one of his (three) dragonite. He pets its snout, smiling as he talks to it. “You’re on babysitting duty while I’m gone, okay?”Oh, right—you’re still under don’t-try-to-kill-yourself surveillance. You watch as the dragonite nods and turns to face you. Is this the same one from yesterday, or is Lance switching them out?You don’t believe in that thing about trainers and pokémon starting to resemble each other if their bond is strong enough…but you have to admit, looking at the two-meter-tall orange dragon in front of you, that you understand how Lance manages to be goofy and formidable at the same time.You’ve heard somewhere—probably from one of the dragon tamers—that dragonite are very intelligent and very caring. (While you wouldn’t say it out loud, that’s two more things Lance has in common with these guys.) Maybe this one is picking up on how much of a trainwreck you are, because it walks over and puts its arms around you.Getting a hug from Lance is nice because he’s warm and strong. Getting a hug from one of Lance’s giant bipedal dragons is…also nice, just kind of bizarre. You aren’t sure how you’re supposed to respond.The dragon pokémon is still hugging you when its trainer comes back into the room, now wearing an old t-shirt and pajama pants. He doesn’t say anything right away, but there’s a small smile on his face and an amused glint in his eyes as he takes in the scene. “Hey, kiddo. Comfortable?”Lance’s dragonite lets go of you and pats your head before going to its trainer’s side. You blink a few times, wondering when the hell your life got so weird. “Yeah. I guess.”“That’s good.” Lance’s smile widens. He seems to have a quick conversation with his pokémon, and then he returns it to its ball. Turning to you, he translates: “He says you seemed sad and cold, so he wanted to help you feel better.”Sad and cold is pretty much your default state of being. But you guess you appreciate the thought, strange as it is. “Uh…thanks.”“Dragon pokémon don’t tend to do well in the cold, so they snuggle up to conserve heat.” Lance sits down on the other side of the couch. “It’s also one of the main ways they express care, especially when it comes to their young.”Wow, sounds like you should’ve been born as a dragon instead of a human. “Is that why dratini are so clingy?”Lance laughs. “Yeah, I think so.” Reaching over, he picks up the blanket you were using earlier and wraps you in it. “You do look a bit cold. I’ll get some more blankets.”When Lance isn’t watching, you wriggle your arms free and grab the cape you found tucked around you upon waking up. You pull it under the throw blanket so it’s closest to you. It still smells like Lance, and you’d probably find this comforting if you were the kind of person who needs to rely on others for comfort. Which you aren’t.You pull your knees up, leaning against the armrest. Then, once you’ve made sure Lance is still busy gathering blankets, you take the cape and press your face into the cloth. It calms you down, almost as if he’s right there with you, and he’s not leaving, and maybe things will be okay.When you wake up from the nap you didn’t realize you were taking, you’re bundled in a metric shit-ton of blankets.Something heavy is next to you, pressing you against the side of the couch. It’s…soothing, somehow. You’re kind of trapped, and yet you haven’t felt this safe in a very long time.Sleep still pulls at you like quicksand—you’ve probably just stirred because you can’t seem to nap for more than half an hour without waking. You lift your head, looking around.The heavy thing next to you turns out to be Lance, who’s fast asleep as far as you can tell. He’s put his arm around you (and the many blankets covering you). His breaths are slow and even, steadily reminding you that he’s here.You put your head back down, closing your eyes. If this is what it’s like to love others and be loved in return, maybe it’s not so bad after all.