Everything is still so immediate with Aidan. It's one of the things Josh likes best about him. He can't imagine what it's like, being that old, and though he tries to picture himself going out on a limb time and time again, with so many deaths and so much destruction under his belt, he can't.
Aidan's entire body is a taut piano wire, and Josh can tell he's on the verge of losing it because he's breathing. He doesn't need to, but old habits die hard, he supposes; after 260 years his body still goes on autopilot. Aidan's chest is rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths, his jaw tensing and his face twitching. Every fiber of his being is clamping down on the little tells, trying to hide it, and it's another thing that strikes Josh as so remarkable about his best friend. Even after 260 years, Aidan is shit at disguising his feelings.
It's a dim wonder to Josh that he still tries to hide it. Though he still has all those years on him, Josh likes to think he's seen just about everything there is of Aidan Waite. He's seen him break apart, seen the pieces of his roommate flying out in a supernova of shattered repression. He's seen him on all fours, vomiting blood and leaking red from the eyes, has seen him clawing at his face, crying and wretched. He's seen him caked in dirt and filth, high out of his mind on a blood bender, and he's seen the kicked-puppy look on his face when he knows he's let Josh down, which has been a lot lately.
While Josh knows what Aidan is feeling, he can only guess at what he's thinking. Everything has been one never-ending dead-end and everyone can feel it. It's heavy in the house and as much as Josh has tried to stop it, he can feel them all retreating into themselves, shutting each other out with silence and thinking too much. He doesn't even know where Sally is now, though she likely is exactly where she wants to be—alone, working her way through her own traumas, lingering somewhere between the walls and floorboards.
Josh stopped pretending to clean a long time ago. It's what he does when he's nervous, and because he's nothing but nerves these days, the house is immaculate, in spite of the state it was in just a few days ago. Aidan is sitting on the couch, knees resting on his elbows, hands clasped in front of his mouth. The strong, dark sweep of his eyebrows are set low in a frown and Josh doesn't think he's blinked in hours. Again, not that he needs to, but in a juxtaposition to the breathing, Josh can tell Aidan is upset when he forgets to blink.
"Aidan," he says, quietly, without realizing he was going to speak.
Aidan turns to face him first, but it takes him a little longer to flick his dark eyes up to meet his own. Josh has never been able to stop his face from contorting into a furrow-browed look of undisguised worry, and he knows the precise expression he's giving Aidan now. He knows Aidan can read him as easily as he can read Aidan. Because of that, his roommate doesn't have to ask what he wants. He knows.
Aidan twitches the corner of his mouth up in an unspeakably tired approximation of a smile. Because it is Josh, and because they are best friends, some of the expression actually reaches his eyes. "I'm fine," Aidan lies, and before he's even done speaking the breath empties from Josh's lungs in a soft, defeated sigh. He merely nods at him and, sensing that the atmosphere of the room has changed, Aidan silently gets to his feet to take his leave.
Josh wants to say something, but there's nothing to say. There never is, anymore. He wishes he hadn't said anything, hadn't chased him away from the living room by giving speech to his unspoken problems. He wishes he didn't have to feel this way, that Aidan would just talk to him, be the first to reach out for once instead of finally breaking down and snapping after all those times Josh runs at his side, shouting at him while Aidan tries to run away. He wishes he could reach out and touch him, just a squeeze of the shoulder, something.
His hands are heavy with what they cannot do.