Disclaimer: DPS isn't mine. I love Charlie. Blah blah blah.
A/N: I don't really know what to say for this fic. I just wanted to write angst and... well, things got really angsty!
You know what you're supposed to say, but that isn't what comes out of your mouth. You know what you want to say, whispered apologies and soothing words, but what comes out is harsh, loud, and cruel and not at all what you mean to say. I understand, is what goes through your head; just fucking snap out of it, is what passes from between your lips.
He flinches then, recoils and pulls away, eyes wide with fright and confusion and swimming with yet unshed tears. You try to pull him back, then, but he's already too far gone, out of range, out of reach, lost and wrapped up in something you can't even begin to comprehend.
You wish he could see how frustrating this can be, see how much you love him, how much you worry, how much you'd like to help, but he turns a blind eye to it like you don't exist or you don't matter or that the sound of your voice doesn't register in his mind, broken and treacherous as it is.
He's just too far gone.
/
You love him, you do, all consuming, passionate, tender, fiery, true love that knows no bounds, but it's becoming difficult to remind yourself of that.
This, this hollow empty shell, this isn't your Todd. This isn't the Todd who would smile, who would blush and laugh, nervously muss his hair, hog the blankets, keep you up while he read until three in the morning, make French toast on Sundays or leave little poems scattered around the apartment for you to find. This Todd doesn't do any of those things. This Todd is silent, and cold, and stares blankly at walls and ceilings for hours on end.
It's all part of the disorder, is what the doctors tell you, sympathetic and warm toned, like it's supposed to make you feel better. Schizoaffective, they call it- a relatively new diagnosis. They explain it simply and slowly, as if speaking to a child, and they say that it's not too bad, that it's somewhere in between full blown schizophrenia and a severe mood disorder. Manageable, they say. They think it should be manageable. That was back in January, back at the time of Todd's first hospitalization, back before things got too bad.
And you'd looked at him then, tenderly out of the corner of your eye, and you'd thought that maybe they were right.
/
Now it's November and you're at your second therapy appointment of the week, watching as Todd stares blankly at the wall and Dr. Brooks sits in patient silence, her legs demurely crossed at the ankles and her hands folded in her lap, and things are definitely not manageable. You wonder how she can be so understanding and just sit there like that when all you want to do is grab Todd by the throat and shake him, make him admit to hiding his meds or throwing them up or supposedly losing them on accident because he has an irrational and paranoid fear that the doctors are trying to poison him. A delusion is what Dr. Brooks had called that. Just part of the disease Charlie, she'd said. He can't help it.
But sometimes- sometimes you think that maybe he can.
If only he'd take the pills, you think. Just one pill and then maybe he could have one clear, lucid thought, and then maybe he could get better.
Dr. Brooks won't push him, though. She doesn't want to rush his progress, she says, and so she sits there with a smile on her face and glances at Todd, glances at you, scribbles notes on her pad of paper.
Sometimes, you think she hinders more than she helps.
/
You've known Todd since you were just children growing up in a wealthy sector of Connecticut. He was a quiet thing back then, meek and timid, and you were loud and outgoing but you were drawn to him anyway, the boy with the sandy hair and shy smile.
By the time you were teenagers, you were together and he'd changed so much- grown into this bright, confident being that you loved with all your heart.
And you didn't fall in love- at least that's what you'd always told yourself. You'd never thought it was worth it and you'd never held a committed relationship, but all it took was for him to look at you, to see his cheeks turn pink, and you were sold.
That was the Todd you had always known, the one with the French toast and the love poems and the blinding smile, but then one day, he just wasn't there anymore.
It wasn't concerning at first. He smiled a little less, you noticed, and he'd grown a little quieter but you were just twenty one and on your own and struggling to pay the rent for your tiny studio apartment. He never mentioned anything, never once complained, and you chalked it up to stress. After all, hadn't you been a little withdrawn too?
And then one night you'd woken to an empty, cooling bed and you knew right away that something was wrong. You'd found Todd in the bathroom with his head resting against the glass of the window and his hands clenched into fists at his side, mumbling responses to an unheard conversation in his head.
You'd called his name, soft and low, trying to snap him out of it like he was only sleep walking. And then you'd called it louder, and then you'd started to shake him and somewhere along the way, you'd started to cry.
That was the first time in your life you'd ever truly been afraid.
Todd had ended up in the hospital that night and it took two days of him being on a locked ward for anyone to give you an answer about what was wrong with him or what had caused it.
That was a year ago, and you still don't have all the answers.
Sometimes you think you never will.
/
You still often find him in the bathroom, sometimes curled up on the tile, sometimes sitting in the shower. Dr. Brooks says it's a comforting place for him so you try to sit with him when you can.
If Todd's having a good day, which are few and far between, he'll occasionally slip his hand into yours and give it a gentle squeeze as if he's trying to apologize.
No matter what he's said or done that day, or what you've said or done for that matter, you always squeeze back and you'll say, I love you.
And every once in awhile he'll look at you and his eyes will light up and you know you've gotten through to him.
That's what you keep hanging on for.
/
It's March and the snow is starting to melt when you bring Todd home from the hospital with thick white bandages wrapped around his wrists.
He stumbles into the apartment in a haze of pain killers and sedatives and an increased dose of chlorpromazine that's supposed to hold him over until Wednesday when he can see Dr. Brooks and be put on something new.
Despite the drugs and the glaze in his eye you can tell he's functioning, really functioning, and something about the look he gives you makes you snap.
Your fist collides with the wall beside his head and you scream at him until your voice is hoarse, saying the most awful things you didn't even knew you were capable of thinking. You call him names; say things about his illness, about the cuts across his wrist that nearly cost him his life, about how stupid he was to be risking a permanent hospitalization.
You shout at him; ask him if he wants to be taken away from you, how he could think that giving up was the answer, if he ever considered what your life would be like without him.
He's shaking just as hard as you are now and sobbing with such force that it's a wonder he manages to stay up right. He never does answer your question, just chokes out a garbled mix of your name and an apology until you take him in your arms and let him cry onto your shoulder.
Later he'll tell you that he's just tired and that he wants everything to go away.
And sometimes, you wish you could make that happen.
/
The manic, hyperactive symptoms of the disorder are virtually non-existent in Todd's case.
There used to be periods of times, however brief, where he'd seem almost normal again. He'd smile and laugh again and he show interest in things like books and music and visiting with their neighbors down the hall.
As time wore on, he began to withdraw more and more; sleeping for periods of ten hours or more or becoming nearly completely catatonic. Now he hardly eats, hardly talks or moves, barely even flinches or twitches. Hallucinations are a frequent occurrence now and when, or if, he talks, it's either to himself or to a projection he calls Neil, someone he insists he knew during high school.
You try not to listen anymore, because you no longer have the heart to try to disagree.
/
Dr. Brooks begins throwing around words like group home and facility and institution during your private sessions together, making your throat constrict like a tied rubber tube whenever you look her in the eye.
I know you love him, she says, all sugary sweet. But you need to do the right thing.
She says that you're not being fair to Todd or to yourself, that you both deserve better and that she knows you know she's right.
You stop seeing her one-on-one after that, but that doesn't change the fact that there's a brochure for Greenridge Hospital folded up and tucked in between the pages of a book in your dresser. The brochure boasts about spacious rooms and cutting edge therapies and extensive visiting hours and when you show Todd a picture of the gardens there, he manages to crack a smile at the sight of the duck pond nearby.
The brochure gets tucked away again after that, but it lingers far off in the back of your mind.
/
You know there's something you should say, but you can't think of anything worthy enough to explain or to justify or to apologize for what you've done. You know that you should at least say goodbye, a temporary goodbye, but Todd refuses to even look you in the eye, and having to say it out loud would be the hardest thing you've ever had to do.
You hand the doctor his bag and his coat and he gives you a kind smile reminiscent of the doctors you saw nearly two years ago; kind but transparent, and it's obvious that the sympathy just isn't there.
But you suppose it might be better that way because the last thing you want is anyone's pity or condescension or empathy because they'll never understand how difficult it is for you to stand on the steps of a hospital and relinquish control over the one good thing you have; to be reduced to an empty home and a cold bed and only being able to visit Wednesdays, Saturdays and Sundays for the rest of your life.
It's the right thing to do, though, and you know that now. You gave it your all and you'll still give it your all, you'll just need a little help to do it.
When you slide your hand into Todd's to give it one last squeeze- one to last you until next Saturday- his fingers twitch around yours, as if he's the one doing the forgiving instead of the apologizing for once.
And that's what you're holding on for.