I was sitting at the dining room table when I was reading a book to calm my frayed nerves. I'm always worried about something, even if there is absolutely nothing to worry about. It's annoying, and it annoys others, but I don't know how to make it stop. My fingers kept drumming against the table, and my chest felt tight and I had trouble breathing. This feeling...reached its peak once every week or so, and I guess tonight was the night I was going to have to endure it.
I was particularly upset with today, so it made sense. Another failed job interview. Oliver, my oldest brother, got under my skin again. I tried summing up the amount of money we spend on different activities, and nearly got a heart attack at the amount it already was when I wasn't even done yet. I had to stop halfway.
At one point, I realized, I was rereading the same sentence over and over again. Around the sixth or seventh time, I stopped. I wasn't fully focusing on the book anymore, I couldn't concentrate. My eyes rose up and settled for staring at the wall. I was practically boring holes into it.
“Chase,” I heard a voice say abruptly, which made me jump. It was Ian. He took a small step back at seeing me so frazzled by his appearance, but was otherwise unaffected by my reaction. He was holding a glass of water.
“Y-Yes?” I stuttered. My heart was still beating loudly in my chest. I wasn't completely ready to talk without sounding like an idiot, it seemed.
“It's late.” He said, as if that was enough to explain why he was talking to me. Then, he added, “You should sleep.”
I countered his statement with a question. “Why aren't you asleep?”
Ian shrugged, eyes flitting to the side before going back to staring me down.
“Had to pee. Was thirsty.” He raised his glass a little to confirm that he had actually gone into the kitchen for water. We mutually settled at staring at each other again before I blinked and turned my head.
“Anyways, Ian you should go back to sleep,” I muttered. I started to fidget with my book, and with my face so I had something to do with my hands.
“You should stop that.” Ian said, voice never wavering or changing its unamused tone.
I was confused, so I asked him what he was talking about.
“That.” He pointed at my hand against my forehead. I hadn't entirely noticed I was doing that in front of him. I realized I had removed an old scab from my forehead and it had pooled a bit of blood on it. It wasn't enough to run down my face, but it was now very, very obvious that I picking in front of him and he couldn't just ignore it. I lowered my hand and avoided looking at him.
“Why do you do that?” His voice was devoid of emotion, but I could feel his eyes gazing at the side of my head, burning holes into it.
“I'm not doing anything.” It was clearly a lie, I couldn't even keep my voice steady.
I had imagined a confrontation about this a couple of times, with different brothers, in a different setting, and in a different time of the day. I wasn't expecting Ian to be the first to ask about it, especially in the dining room at what was probably two or three in the morning.
In my imagination, I was not nervous about being asked about it. I imagined I would tell them honestly and they would go back to doing whatever it was they were doing and drop it. It wouldn't be spoken of again.
But Ian was not satisfied with the shoddy answer, when usually he would take it, shrug, and leave.
“It hurts, doesn't it?”
It's my turn to shrug. Yes, honestly, it does sting enough sometimes to make my eyes water. I wish sometimes I would stop, but in my effort to forget and move on and do something else, I become more anxious and end up doing it anyways. It's been kind of a slow cycle for a few months now. The injuries got deeper and bled a little more each day.
Ian handed me his glass of water and told me to drink it. Knowing better than to actively go against what he said, I listened. It was cool because of the ice cubes submerged in it, and was refreshing as it slid down my throat. It made me realize I probably hadn't eaten or drank anything in the last couple of hours.
He sauntered into the kitchen and came back in with a damp paper towel in his hand. I took another reluctant sip, and wondered why he suddenly cared so much.
Ian pressed the paper towel against my forehead. It made me flinch. It was warm.
“Ian...” I started, but never finished. He grunted in a way that told me to continue when he realized I wasn't going to finish what I said.
“Why?” I finally asked. I had no idea why he was doing this. If I was expecting someone to come up to me to care for me like this, I would've expected Kane.
“You owe me after this.” He mumbled, but there was no real malice in his voice. If he meant what he said, he'd have been smirking or at least sounded condescending. He sounded like his usual self.
Ian was rubbing my forehead gently when I suddenly felt a hand on the front of my scalp. He was tugging on the hair there, and it made me want to hiss. The skin was raw exactly where he was pulling, so it was more sensitive than anywhere else he could have chosen.
“There's stuff in your hair.” Ian commented.
I didn't want to tell him it was probably blood, but I wanted him to stop. I'm pretty sure he didn't care that touching other people's bodily fluids, dried or not, could transmit diseases, so it would be moot to try to tell him that.
Instead, I jerked my head up and then away from his hand, which got him to release me.
“Is it blood?” He asked, looking at his fingertips that now had crusty, dark red material on them. It had only been a few hours since I was picking at my head. It hadn't had time to heal yet. Not that it mattered, I would have done the same thing tomorrow, and the next day, and then the next...
“I-I don't know.” Again, a thinly veiled lie that my little brother could probably very easily see through. He didn't call me out on it, though. He continued to talk as if I never spoke.
“You shouldn't hurt yourself, Chase. It's not good for you.”
“It's not like I'm trying to!” I snapped, but immediately regretted it. I shouldn't have done that—I think he was trying to be genuine, not accusatory. I felt like an idiot for being rude when nothing but concern has been shown to me so far. This is a lot of kindness coming from someone like Ian. I tried stammering an apology to him. Ian seemed unaffected by my outburst.
“Relax...” He said quietly, calmly. “Breathe.”
So I did.
I became conscious of the fact that I was out of breath. My intakes of air were short and quick and I didn't understand why. Ian pulled up a chair and sat in front of me. I wanted him to leave and stay at the same time. I don't know if he would have left had I asked him to, anyways.
He kept mumbling things he thought would be soothing. Ian kept reminding me to breathe, to stay calm. He didn't pull away when I started to hold his hand for support. He actually seemed to be a bit stunned, but he squeezed my hand once he came out his surprised stupor. It helped.
I thought tonight I would be left to myself to unravel, and to snap and have to pretend that nothing happened the next morning. But, Ian kept me grounded. Partly because I didn't want to freak in front of him, mostly because I couldn't feel judgemental vibes coming from him. He wasn't doing this for blackmail, or to tease me. Ian wanted me to feel better and go sleep with everyone else in our room. He didn't say it, but it was apparent in the way he was treating me.
“Thank you,” I said once my breathing had evened out. It had been a while before that happened, but Ian was patient. He kept his face even and bored, like he didn't care about my gratitude, but the slight pink tint to his cheeks betrayed him.
“Can you sleep now?” He asked, standing up and lazily stretching his arms over his head.
I nodded and stood up as well. I walked over to the kitchen to set the glass in the sink and throw the paper towel away. I glanced over to the microwave to look at the clock. It was nearing four in the morning. I had to wonder how long Ian had stayed there with me, patiently waiting for me to work out what was wrong with myself.
We made our way back into our room together. I felt compelled to say something.
“Ian....thank you. I needed that.” I spoke softly so as to not rustle the others.
“Don't mention it.” He said, then went to his designated sleeping space next to Kane.
I slid into my own spot between Oliver and Jasper quietly. Oliver was still tonight, and I could hear Jasper's placid breathing keeping a slow, steady beat. The peacefulness made me fall into a deep sleep I desperately needed.