There is something in the quiet that bothers him. Reminds him of something just out of reach.
So he fills the space with noise. Does not let the silence in. Pretends that it is not there.
Talk loudly. Act loudly. And no one will notice that the silence lurks with its secrets. With its accusations. Because there is something there. But he doesn't want to think about that.
After becoming Iron Man there was less time to sit and think. Less space to fill with noise. And now when it begins to creep in there is more to fill it with. Functions. Fixes. People. When the calms come, they crash down, only allowing him time to sleep dreamlessly for a few hours. A pit stop between movements. Then he would wake up and it would be time to repeat.
He knows that this is not right. That he should let the knowledge come – at least then he would not have to fear the moments were things begin to slow and he has to struggle to breathe. But for now, this is all he has. The noise. The movements. So instinctive now that he would not know what to do if it was gone. The idea reminds him of drowning.
Nothing wrong with a little noise anyway.
So as he turns up the music so loud that it fills his head, gives the shop a pulse, he repeats to himself, "It's just for tonight. Just a little longer."
And then he silently swears to himself that next time it will be true.