A/N: I don't know what has gotten into me lately, other than maybe that this is an apology to my muse for the semester. He's kind of an artsy-fartsy guy, and I think I'm overwhelming him with SCIENCE!
He waits for the paramedics to leave. He is fine; he does not need them. In fact, he needs so desperately for them to leave. He is on the verge of falling apart. He can feel the blurring of his periphery vision that starts the anxiety attack.
His patience is wearing thin. He is wearing thin. It is a game of Russian Roulette, and he is both the pistol and player. He doesn't know what hammer strike will set off the dry powder, and cause him to explode. All he can do is choose when to pull the trigger and play the bullet will pass him this time.
Trent has taken Sebastian's rolling leather desk chair. Nick paces. Jeff and his popsicles are on Nick's quilt. David is hiding in the bathroom.
He crosses the room, restlessly, and sits carefully into Nick's wooden desk chair. His body wants so badly to sprawl, but he needs to project an image of calm self-assurance. Even so, he cannot help letting his leg bounce up and down. He doesn't know if it's from stress… or the thing he will not let himself think about. His foot is numb as it bounces.
Click. A trigger pulled. Empty chamber.
The female EMT stands next to him. "We have to get some vitals," she says as she uncoils a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.
He catches a look of relief pass across Nick and Trent's faces as the woman wraps the black cuff around his white shirtsleeve and the man asks questions.
He gives his medical history quickly and concisely. He names his allergies, his diagnose, his medications and doses with quick, detached efficiency. The woman checks his eyes and ears. Then, she checks his mental acuity, asking him to recite math facts. Someone had once told him that people with low blood sugar couldn't do math problems. His father had drilled his times tables into his head. He answers quickly, without thinking.
He signs the form the EMTs shove at him, refusing treatment and promising his father will pay the insurance. He watches them as they pack up their medical equipment. He waits until the paramedics leave, and then smiles at Nick and the others.
He feels himself stretching thin. His finger squeezes the springy trigger. "I'm fine," he observes, "The paramedics said so."
Nick snorts. "If you're fine, than you can come down to Warbler's practice with us,"
His lips are wrapped around the familiar shape, although its cold and hard.
"Fine," he says. The hammer cocks back.
He stands, or he tries to. There is a flash of bright white, then black. The world spins out of control. He hears a scream as his head explodes. All the stresses take control of his system.