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catfishandthebottlefan · 5 years

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#3 - Anxiety

Trigger Warning - Panic Attacks and general Anxiety

A/N - Thank you to everyone who enjoyed my last fic or anyone who left a note :) I really appreciate it a lot!! This fic is kinda based on my own feelings of anxiety particularly in social situations, so I played on it a bit, using the idea that not all panic attacks involve hyperventilation/shaking etc. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this fic.

It’s a sunny Sunday morning, and, as the sun splits through the tiny cracks in your blinds, you open your eyes.

Something’s not right. Something’s going to go wrong today.

You take a deep breath in. Intrusive thoughts. Great.

It’s only 8am, meaning you have plenty of time for a quick run around the block and a shower before Van wakes up. You’ve been in the habit of getting up and putting your running gear on straight away, meaning you’ve got to go straight out and stretch your legs. Otherwise, you’d end up flopping about on the sofa all morning, drinking endless cappuccinos - not good for your body or your mind. You had figured out running gives you an energy boost without the nervousness and rapid heartbeat you get from caffeine.

You pull on your trainers and swiftly walk out of your house onto the street. Everything seems louder today. The cars driving past and the planes flying by would usually be welcome company, but, today, they are deafening. You know this feeling too well. You practise the deep breathing technique Van told you about a few years ago - in for 4, hold for 7, out for 8. You ground yourself using the ‘5 things you can see, 4 things you can hear, 3 things you can feel, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste’ technique.

Calm.

You continue your run, narrowly avoiding the postman as you tune into your music, and tune out of the world. It’s just you and the run now.

You arrive home 5 minutes earlier than usual - a new personal best, although you don’t run for speed. You walk upstairs, regaining your breath, and, peeling off your sweaty lycra clothing, you jump in the shower. You apply the shampoo, rubbing it into your scalp, savouring the feeling of cleanliness as the steam rises through your body.

Suddenly, the shampoo bottle crashes to the ground. You leap away from it like a startled horse. You feel your heart racing as you pick the bottle back up. Jeez, you’re jumpy today.

After your shower, you walk back into your bedroom, one towel wrapped around your body and the other around your hair. Although it’s reaching 9 o’clock, Van’s still asleep, as usual. You put your dressing gown on and walk downstairs.

You check the wall calendar Van bought you as part of your Christmas gifts. There’s a different dog for each month, and June is apparently the month of the Golden Retriever.

Today, you and Van are going to pick up Larry at 10 and go into Manchester city centre for a day out, before heading to Van’s parents’ for their infamous Sunday roast at 6pm. You will then be staying the night (and probably the next afternoon), before heading home to chill with the boys that evening. Rumour has it they magnetise towards each other after being apart for over 24 hours.

You make yourself a coffee, the machine particularly screaming this morning as it prepares your decaf cappuccino. You then set it to an espresso for Van, knowing he would be up soon. As if on cue, Van appears in the doorway as the machine finishes making his coffee.

“Hey, babe,” says Van, his voice raspy.

For no reason, you leap round, almost as if you are frightened by the sound of his voice, which is definitely not the case. Van’s voice is the most calming sound in the world to you.

“You okay?” he asks, concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine babes,” you reply, exhaling, “just a bit anxious today, that’s all.”

Van walks towards you and places a hand on your shoulder.

“Are you going to be okay to go to Manchester today?” he asks.

God, you love that boy.

“Of course,” you say, “I’ve been looking forward to it all week.”

---

“Aight lids?” Larry grins, cheerily, getting into the back of your car, “Dunno why I’ve always got to go in the back.”

“Front’s reserved for VIPs,” Van chuckles from the passenger seat, “and you’re about 5 foot off the ground, mate.”

You and Larry exchange the same knowing look you always exchange when Van tries his luck.

“Don’t be mean to Larry.” You scold Van jokingly, “Or it’ll be you in the back on the way home.”

“What are you, my mum?” Van sighs, with a suppressed laugh.

“No, but I’ll tell your mum tonight that you were being mean to Larry.” you threaten, knowing Van would never want his mum to think badly of him.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop!” He says, chuckling.

You put your seatbelt on and drive away. Van fiddles with the stereo, going through the stations, until Larry shouts from the back.

“Van! It’s us!”

Van lets go of the tuning knob as the beginning of Longshot plays.

“Yes Catfish!” you cheer as you drive. You’re the band’s number one fan.

It’s still a novelty hearing Van’s voice on the radio.

“What station is this?” says Larry, peering over at the dashboard.

“A bloody good one.” Van replies, amused.

You arrive in Manchester half an hour later. Any feelings of anxiety seemed to have quietened down you since you got in the car, thank God, however, they were still there in the background. The voices telling you you weren’t good enough. The intrusive thoughts. They were all still there, just slightly muted.

You drive up the ramp of the multi-storey car park, finding a space on the fourth level. Simultaneously, you, Van, and Larry swing your doors open.

“Oh, shit.” you say, hearing a thud.

The door of your white Fiat 500 had left a massive dent in the side of the red Ford Focus parked next to you. You now faced a dilemma. Leave a note, or hope they don’t notice.

“Y/N, what was that?” asks Van.

“I think I just smashed someone’s car up by accident.” you reply, sheepishly.

The damage was worse than you thought. There was a line of white paint on the car next to you. Your heart begins to race as you try to decide what to do. You then realise how high up you are in the car park.

Fuck shit fuck fuck. You’re gonna fall. Get away from the edge. Leave a note. You don’t have any paper. You can’t leave a note. That makes you a shitty person. You’re a shitty person. What if the car’s owners can’t afford to get it fixed. What if they’re poor and you’ve just given them another bill to pay. What if the car’s brand new? They’ll be mad at you, the people are mad at you, everyone’s mad at you. It’s so high up. You’re gonna fall.

“Y/N?”

You hear Van and Larry calling on you. Everything’s blurry and you can’t place where the sounds are coming from. You extend your arms, grasping at the air, desperately trying to regain the sense of where you are.

You feel a warm pair of hands on each of your shoulders.

Van.

You open your eyes to see Van’s chest at your eye level. He’s wearing that black and white stripy jumper you love. He pulls you into a tight hug as the tears begin to fall down your face.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly, “You’re safe.”

Larry stands beside him. He’s seen you have a panic attack before, when you were 16. You were backstage at one of Catfish’s first gigs. The memory is blurred, but you remember feeling guilty as it was Van performing in front of all those people, and you were the one panicking. That same feeling of guilt floods your chest again.

“I’m sorry.” you whisper, your arms wrapped tightly around Van’s waist.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” says Larry, sympathetically.

You burrow closer into Van’s chest. You attempt to take deep breaths, still choked up by your tears. Larry stands behind you, slowly rubbing your back in a circular motion.

After about a minute, you pull away slowly from Van’s hold. He looks you in the eye with the same concerned look he gave you 8 years ago, when you were 16 and it was the first time your anxiety had attacked you in front of him.

“Do you want to go home?” he says, softly.

You want more than anything to go home but you put on a brave face.

“No, I’m okay.” you say, affirmatively.

Anxiety was not winning this time.

“Are you sure?” asks Larry, also seeming worried.

“Yes,” you reply.

Van moves to your right hand side, and Larry moves to your left. After wiping your sweaty palms on your black jeans, you grab onto each of their hands tightly. This helps to ground you, and makes you feel more supported as you exit the car park. You know not to walk towards the lift. Van can’t bear small spaces.

As you all take the stairs down to the shops, hand in hand, you have an important realisation.

We all have our demons. Yours is making decisions and your fear of letting others down. Van’s is small spaces. Larry’s is losing at Fifa.

No matter how futile or insignificant our worries may look to others, they are important to us. But we can’t let the anxiety beat us down.

A/N - I know this one was a bit of a slow starter, but well done if you made it to the end. Thanks for reading, feel free to leave a note or even a reblog if you liked it. Your comments make my day :) ~ A x

#van mccann #catfish and the bottlemen #anxiety #anxious #panic attack #larry lau #fluff #fanfic

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