Alternate chapter title: A Day In Bonk's Brain
Idk, I guess this chapter was in large part a natural consequence of the past two chapters, and in small part a kinda-sorta vent about the frustrations I have with my brain, without it actually being about me. That said, a lot of this chapter draws from my own personal experience with mental illness, particularly executive dysfunction regarding action and emotional regulation. But of course, Wes isn't me, so I took a few liberties to solidify it as HIS experience, and made sure to do some reading up on the stuff I wasn't as familiar with (checking sources, of course).
This chapter can be safely skipped if the following warnings apply to you: realistic depictions of severe executive dysfunction, and non-glorified breakdowns/meltdowns.
Most days, Wes couldn't sit still.
As someone who frequently partook in sports, his energy levels were almost always high, with the appetite to match. But even when he wasn't in the middle of a game, or going on an evening jog, nothing about him remained static. His mind raced a mile a minute at all times, and his body seemingly itched to do the same, spending any moment he wasn't moving ruffling his hair, shifting from foot to foot, or pinching his clothes. On rare occasions, he even trilled, just to feel the buzz on his tongue.
This was not one of those days.
After the rough week he'd had dealing with Tucker's shenanigans, and the altercation with Sam at the end of it, Wes went to bed knowing he'd be paying for it the next day. Maybe the entire weekend, if he was really unlucky. He could only take so many draining "up" days in a row before burning out, and spending an entire school week being practically thrust out of the closet would surely not do him any favors.
He was right. He awoke on Saturday morning at about noon, and he already wanted to go back to bed. He wasn't initially sure he was even awake, his chest sluggishly rising and falling, heavy and slow with sleep. He felt like he'd pulled an all-nighter.
He hadn't, of course. He'd gone to bed at a somewhat reasonable hour, and even if he hadn't, he'd stayed up late enough times before that he hardly noticed one night of missed sleep. No, this was a special sort of exhaustion. Wes knew to expect it, but it always surprised him all the same.
Which was also why he knew he needed to muster the energy to rise. If he didn't do it now, he wouldn't be able to again until closer to five or six in the evening. He wasn't sure why it was always that timeframe, seeing as he hated getting up that late. He always ended up feeling pressed for time, even if he didn't have anything planned for the day, and it made him feel even more removed from everything, which in turn made him feel more rushed, and so on and so forth until he went to bed having not done a thing the entire day.
Those were the worst kinds of "down" days. He refused to let today be one of those days.
He sighed, long and low, his head lolling to the side to stare at his carpet. A hand came up to absently scratch his chest, and then stayed there. Wes couldn't muster the energy to budge it again. He shifted his legs, one tucking in, and the other stretching out. They then traded positions, and then again, and again, moving every which way until Wes had successfully kicked his sheets off, but his feet never made the leap to swing over the edge of the bed.
Wes was hungry. He wasn't sure what for yet, but he needed to eat something before his growling stomach could start chewing at itself. If he could just convince a part of him, any part, to leave the comfort of the mattress, he knew he'd be able to stand. The convincing was always the hard part.
He really wanted to get up.
Finally, his frustrated squirming sent one gangly leg over the edge, nearly sending the rest of him sliding to the floor. On pure instinct, he gripped his mattress cover so as not to fall the rest of the way, leaving him awkwardly arced over the bed frame. Maintaining the pose took effort, and if he was already putting in effort, then exerting a little more was a natural next step. With an ease he hadn't been capable of two minutes prior, he corrected his posture, rising until he was standing.
He spared his clock a glance. 12:44. Less than an hour since he'd woken up. That wasn't too bad.
A lot of time to just stand up on a normal day, but for a "down" day, it was quite a victory.
A painful twang in Wes's gut reminded him that he needed to eat. He'd nearly forgotten. He took his first few steps, then shivered.
He wasn't just hungry; he was cold, too. It had been a warmer evening, one of the first warm evenings of the year, so he'd forgone the usual sleep tank. He decided he wanted to put it back on.
He returned to the bed, knowing better than to make the mistake of sitting down, and picked up the garment in question. He slipped it on over his head, and had gotten one arm through before a particularly loud squealing of tires grabbed his attention.
Wes froze, listening for the telltale sounds of a car accident. No such sounds occurred, the shrill screech continuing down the road. Someone just going too fast, then, or maybe they took a turn weirdly.
Even with the question of danger having passed, Wes still listened, taking in the usual sounds of the suburb. The drip, drip, drip of the gutters. A distant lawnmower. A freight train somewhere at the edge of his hearing. The rustling of saplings in the spring breeze. The general cadence of moderate traffic.
At night, Wes liked to zero in on these sounds. There was just something different about them when the sun had long set, making them more soothing than grating, as they often were during the day. Wes didn't find them grating now, though. It felt like he was listening to them at dusk, a sort of welcoming echo that one didn't normally hear any other time.
The thought of dusk, funny enough, brought Wes back to the present, reminding him that he still had his pajama top to put on. He hurriedly did so, eyeing the clock again as he did.
1:10. Nearly half an hour just to put on a tank top.
Why had he gotten up again? He had a reason. What was it?
Right, food. His stomach was still squeezing itself in knots. He needed to get to the kitchen before something else distracted him.
He made it there with little hassle, standing in the doorway as he decided on what he wanted to eat. Maybe something easy on the stomach, seeing as he hadn't woken up all that long ago, like toast. Or perhaps he needed something heartier to ease the hunger pangs. Eggs came to mind first, though he also recalled seeing a fresh package of ground breakfast sausage in the fridge.
Yeah, that sounded pretty good. Eggs on toast, with some sausage on the side. An easy and tasty meal.
Wes made his way to one of the lower cupboards, peering at the array of pans inside. He could see the one he needed, shoved almost all the way back, blocked by a popcorn bowl and a griddle. It wouldn't take that much effort to set the small blockage on the counter to access the correct pan, but right then it just felt like way too much hassle. He could use the griddle, he supposed, but he knew the sausage would only leak fat all over the place and make a huge mess. So that was out of the question.
No sausage, then. But the griddle, at least, would be good for the eggs. Oh, and maybe he could do the toast there, too. Or even better, slice up some cheese and make a breakfast sandwich. That would be pretty filling, and warm comfort food always had a way of making Wes feel better.
...But slicing the cheese felt like too much work, and they didn't have any pre-sliced cheese he could substitute it with. And the yolk texture always felt weird when it wasn't in the context of eggs on toast no matter how he cooked it, and the bread was too thick to make for a good sandwich, and Wes suddenly didn't feel like waiting for the griddle to warm up anymore.
It had sounded like a good idea at the time. Really, it still sounded good. But sometimes, Wes's brain would tell him no, and that was that.
Crackers it was, then.
Wes begrudgingly grabbed the box of Cheez-ems, standing there for a moment as he decided on where he wanted to eat them. He eventually settled on the couch, throwing himself across it. Maybe a little television would help kick him into gear.
He found the remote wedged between the cushions next to his head and turned on the TV, the screen slowly lighting up a fuzzy gray before the colors of whatever channel bled into view. It was on a rock station, some music video Wes didn't recognize playing across the screen.
He suspected his dad had been watching the channel last night. Maybe he even tried to play along a little bit, knowing him.
Wes didn't care for music videos much, but as much as he itched to change the channel, his thumb never committed to pressing the button. He tsked, his coming-and-going inability to follow through on even the smallest movement frustrating him.
There was a technique for this. It had been quite a few months since he'd needed to employ it, long enough that it wasn't fully committed to long-term memory, though he remembered it now.
When he was really little, long before he'd learned to manage most of his quirks, his counselor suggested that he give himself a timer if his mind and body weren't cooperating. If he couldn't commit to a task, no matter how badly he wanted to, he should count down from three, verbally if he could, and then start the task on one, the idea being that an imaginary deadline would encourage him to follow through. It didn't always work, nor did Wes always remember to try, but when it did, he found himself finishing his homework, no problem.
Starting was always the hardest part. So what better than a real-life cheat code to trick himself into starting?
It was a lot of working around just to push a stupid button on a remote, one would think. But the way Wes saw it, anyone who actually thought that never had to learn how to self-motivate manually.
So he tried it, mouthing the words rather than voicing them aloud. Three, two, one. He pushed the channel + button, and then didn't stop, knowing he would have to do the countdown over if he paused for even a second. Channels flew by so fast that there was more static visible than show.
Wes wasn't actually sure what he wanted to watch.
He stopped on the first show that caught his eye, some cartoon on a channel he didn't realize they owned. It looked like a rerun, and though Wes had no idea what it was about or who the characters were, he settled, shifting to make himself more comfortable.
The box of Cheez-ems fell to the floor.
He forgot he had them.
He picked up the box, relieved that it was still sealed and thus didn't spill all over the place, before opening it and taking out his first handful.
He ate in distracted silence, staring at the television screen without really looking at it. Every time he tried to focus on what was happening on-screen, his vision fuzzed and blurred around it. It almost looked snowy if he waited long enough to blink. It hurt his head to look, so he instead stared at a point somewhere past the TV, listening rather than watching.
But even that started to distort, the slapstick action getting quieter and quieter, words slurring together until it was all a nonstop string of unintelligible hums. It dulled to a low thrum, almost like being submerged underwater, until the only thing Wes could hear was the crunching in his cheeks. Even his heart, which had started up a sharp staccato, was muted and silent.
He scratched at the plastic bag that housed his crackers, just to reassure himself that he still had control of at least one of his senses.
He couldn't make himself swallow.
Until he heard a click.
Suddenly, all of Wes's senses snapped back to full attention, staggering him. The television chattered away, and color returned to the living room, darker than when he had noticed last.
Days were still short. Surely he hadn't been out of it that long.
The origin of the click made itself apparent a couple seconds later, the front door opening as Walter entered. He left his shoes by the door and loosened his tie, and he sagged, letting the day's stresses slip right off his shoulders.
He turned, ready to sit down, or perhaps treat himself and lay down, only to jump as the sight of his son startled him. He stared, emerald eyes meeting jade.
"Oh! You snuck up on me, Wesley," he said, even though he was the one who'd just walked in. "Have you been here all day? You're usually out patrolling on Saturdays."
I only got here a little bit ago, Wes wanted to explain. But nothing came out, a lump forming in his throat in place of words. His mouth wouldn't even open.
Walter honed in on his silence immediately. He took in the uncharacteristic lounging, the sleep attire, the cracker box. Wes never started his day without a change of clothes and a warm meal, let alone didn't start it at all. It didn't take Walter long to put the pieces together.
"Are you having a 'down' day, champ?" he asked sympathetically.
It must have been pretty obvious, if a late answer was enough to clue his dad in. Gaze downcast, Wes nodded, biting his lip.
Walter's expression softened, and he approached, taking a knee by Wes's side. "Did something happen that you want to tell me about? Or write out, maybe?"
Wes nodded again. He opened his mouth, but words still stubbornly refused to come out. His notebook was, of course, still in his room, so he decided to try texting his dad instead.
He patted his pajama pants, only to remember that they didn't have pockets.
His phone was still on his nightstand. He'd completely forgotten to take it with him when he got up.
He wasn't even sure he'd charged it.
Why did it have to be so difficult? It should have been so easy. He should have remembered to pick it up, just like he did every other day. But it wouldn't even be a problem if he could just muster the will to get up and go get it, or even open his mouth to get the words out like a normal person. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn't manage so much as a whisper.
He was tired of this. So, so tired of this. Why could he never speak, when he needed to speak the most? Why did his memory have to suffer just because of one rough experience? How could he forget to eat, even though he was so hungry, and why couldn't he work up the energy to make something to fix it? Why did he always overreact to even the smallest things? The argument with Sam was said and done, and Tucker had stopped grabbing and bothering him.
Things were fine.
So why did he insist on acting like they weren't?
Why did his body have to give up on him over something that was over and done with?
It was frustrating. It was confusing. It was aggravating, and hopeless, and somehow nauseous, and it really shouldn't have been any of those things, but it was, and Wes couldn't articulate why even if he knew the words to use, except he couldn't use any words to begin with because his throat insisted on closing up on him and he'd forgotten his stupid phone.
Wes didn't realize he was shaking until Walter spoke to him, his voice thick and distant through the fog of Wes's increasingly tumultuous thoughts. He didn't hear his dad until he repeated himself.
"Should I grab the blanket?"
Wes could only nod. They both knew what was coming.
Walter stood, moving to the laundry closet, urgent but not panicked. From the shelf above the washer and dryer, he withdrew a large, gray blanket, taking it in his arms with a "whumph" of effort. He brought it to the couch, draping it over the armrest before beckoning to Wes. "C'mon, try to sit up for me, sport."
Wes tried. He really did. But he was hiccupping so hard— when did that start?— that he could hardly get an arm under himself. Walter offered his own arm, and Wes clutched it like a lifeline, letting his dad haul him up to lean against his side.
Walter took the blanket in his other hand, laboriously pulling all twelve pounds of it across their backs. He let Wes go just long enough to work the blanket around the both of them, the brunt of its weight across Wes's shoulders, before letting Wes take his arm again.
The first sob tore itself from Wes's throat before he could even think to catch it, hoarse and wet. He sucked in a greedy breath, and for one terrifying moment, he couldn't release it again.
"Breathe, Wesley, it's okay, breathe," Walter soothed.
It unstuck, escaping as an anguished croak. Wes couldn't hope to reel it in. There was no stopping once he started, every stress and worry and awful thought of the week pouring out of him in a series of near-silent wails. Walter continued to murmur to him, comforts and encouragements that Wes could feel against his cheek but not hear. The two of them rocked side to side, Wes's fingertips gently scratching at the sleek-rough texture of his father's jacket.
There was a hand in his hair. It startled him at first, but once the hand started moving, gently raking from scalp to crown, he settled, another bout of whimpers replacing his brief alarm.
It was hard to say how much time passed like that. Walter cradled and scratched in a steady rhythm, while Wes cried until his whole face was sore with it, trailing off into subdued hiccups. His clawed grip loosened until it almost slipped from Walter's sleeve entirely, and his puffy eyelids couldn't decide if they wanted to open or shut.
He just wanted to sleep the rest of the ache away.
Even with Wes's meltdown mostly settled, Walter stayed right where he was. The hand that smoothed his son's hair instead trailed down his back, gently easing away the tension that had built up there.
"I'll be here as long as you need," he said. "Are you feeling up to explaining what happened? I can get your notebook if you need me to." Wes's grip on his sleeve tightened, so he discarded the notion. "Alright, I'll stay put. You can tell me about it in your own time. Do you want me to turn the TV off?"
"...I wanna tell," Wes replied, voice barely a creak.
It wasn't an answer to Walter's last question, but it also wasn't a yes. He freed one arm from the blanket mound, locating the remote so he could lower the volume.
Still, he didn't rush. Wes was speaking, and Walter wasn't about to push him to say more than he wanted to, faster than he could bring himself to.
It only took about a minute for him to speak up again. "...Tucker told me he knew last week."
Walter tensed at his side. But when Wes tensed up in turn, he forced himself to relax.
"Did he... not take it well?"
"He was actually fine," Wes murmured. "He wanted me to date Danny even. But he... he kept grabbing me and pulling me and trying to tell me what to do."
"And that was... fine?" Walter asked, perplexed. Knowing what he did, he imagined that sort of treatment would be anything but.
Wes shook his head, confirming his dad's suspicions. "Not the grabbing. But he stopped when I told him to. He, uh, actually checks now before he touches me. Or he waits."
Walter sighed with relief. "Good. That's good. I'm glad he listens to you."
"...Sam knows, too."
"...And how did she take it?"
"I thought bad," Wes whimpered. "She started trying to get me away from Danny, she even stole my date idea. But yesterday she found me in the dark room, and she yelled at me and told me to stop being his friend, and I fell but she just kept coming, and her hands were closed, a-and she looked so MAD—"
"Wesley?"
Wes stopped, breath hitching. The room was nearly silent now; the TV was off.
Did he do that?
He wasn't sure it mattered. He'd been spiraling again regardless, though even if his dad hadn't snapped him out of it, he wouldn't have broken down. Not because he didn't feel like it. He was simply far too worn out to cry again.
"...Sorry," he said, though he wasn't sure what for.
"It's okay, Wesley, there's no need to apologize," Walter assured him, the hand on Wes's back resuming its soothing motion. Wes hadn't noticed it stop.
"...It... turned out fine. I think?" Wes went on, once he was sure he could again. "I think she hates me, but not because of... that. She actually thought it was... cool? I've never seen anyone call being gay 'cool' before."
Walter snorted at that. "But it is cool. Some of the coolest people I knew in college were gay, you know."
Wes managed a smirk. "You're biased," he accused.
"Only half biased, Wesley," Walter joked.
The two of them snickered for a moment longer, before Wes sobered up. "But Sam... I think she was jealous. Tucker kept telling me different ways to hit on Danny, but he also acted like it's weird that Sam likes him too, even though both of us are his friends. We agreed not to fight about it anymore, and she's even letting Danny pick who he goes to the meteor shower with now. But... I was scared. I was so sure she was gonna try to hurt me."
"... Did she?"
"...No. She just tried to scare me off."
He wouldn't admit it almost worked.
"I'm... I'm so, so sorry that happened, Wesley," Walter lamented. "I can only imagine how terrifying it must have been at the time. You didn't deserve a single minute of that, let alone a whole week of trouble."
"I know I didn't," Wes sighed. He rested his cheek on his dad's arm. "But I think Sam dislikes me a little less now, at least. I think she even respects me a little bit. And now I know that Danny maybe likes me back because of Tucker, so it... it wasn't all bad, I guess. Just really, really stressful."
He was tired.
"I'd be surprised if it wasn't," said Walter. "It sounds like quite an eventful week. I'd be worn out and cranky too, if I had to put up with an ordeal like that." He gave Wes a kiss on the forehead. "Why don't I go and make us some dinner? You stay here and get some rest. Why not take a nap, or put the TV back on? Whatever you do, just take it easy, and let me do the worrying for the night, alright, champ?"
They both knew that was easier said than done. But the worst was behind them now, and things would only get better from there.
"Dad?"
"Yes, son?"
Wes wrapped his arms around him tight, face strategically turned away to avoid smearing snot on his suit. "Love you."
Walter returned the gesture without hesitation, holding his son close to his chest. "I love you too, sport."
Good Dad Walter wins again
I, uh. Had a lot of thoughts about this chapter as I wrote it. I wasn't even sure I should include as much of myself in it as I did. But, when most online resources are geared towards "how to stop your autistic toddler from throwing tantrums," personal experience was the next best thing, and speaking from experience makes for a more authentic telling anyway.
That being said, please don't use this chapter as an indicator of what to do for a friend or family member in the instance of a breakdown or meltdown. What works for me might not work for someone else and may instead be harmful, and what works for Wes doesn't necessarily work for me, and so on and so forth. What a breakdown looks like for me, or for a fictional character, won't be identical to the breakdown of someone else. This is not a tutorial chapter. If you see something here that you think might work for YOU, go for it. But uh, don't constrict your bestie the second you see tears unless they explicitly told you they preferred compression as a calming technique.
Well! Now that this one's out of the way, I can assure you the next chapter will be much lighter and happier! And perhaps... more? ;)