“Should put that shit on auto pay,” Mal suggests after a minute.

“Yeah, I’ll do that.”

The time passes by in a blur of laughter and casual touches that make Rowan’s senses go haywire, and all of a sudden, it’s last call, and he and Mal are paying off their tab and heading out into the cool autumn air.

They part with a hug that leaves Rowan breathless despite not being nearly crushing enough to cut off his air supply.

By the time Rowan slogs home, he’s exhausted and riddled with confusion and anxiety and maybe a bit of acceptance.

When Rowan falls asleep that night, it’s with a full heart but heavy limbs and heavier eyelids.

ROWAN FEELS it in his bones before his mind can really process it. Like the slow creaking of overtrodden wooden floors, his joints ache and struggle to move with the fluidity that he’s used to. The days get longer and longer until they blur together completely, morning and night meaningless against the closed curtains in his bedroom.

He should have seen this coming. He barely manages to text work that he won’t be coming in for the next few days before it really hits. It’s been a while, but the sinking feeling is all too familiar.

The days come and go, and by the time Saturday rolls around, Rowan can’t even dredge up the energy to plug in his long-dead phone to send Mal a text. If only he could overcome the inertia of the heavy weight sitting on his chest, he’d be fine. If only he could get out of bed, walk across the room, grab his phone from his backpack, plug it in, wait, wait, wait—

He knows Mal will be pissed—might even be worried—but he can’t bring himself to care enough to do anything about it.

All he wants to do is lie in bed, curled under the covers.

AT SOME point, he thinks Jay or maybe Clara comes by, but he’s too wrapped up in thoughts of worthlessness to pay attention. Too glued to his bed to even lift his head or turn around at the worried “Rowan?”s that drift into his ears from across the room. It’s hard to tell what’s real anymore—what’s a solid, tangible thing and what’s a construct that his mind has fabricated to try to fuck him over.

It’s been a few days, and Rowan’s barely managed to overcome the heaviness in his bones long enough to get up, take a piss, and drink some water straight from the tap with cupped hands.

Hasn’t managed to eat anything more than a packet of peanut butter crackers, but the thought of cooking anything—even one of the microwavable meals he’s got in the freezer—seems an insurmountable task that makes his head hurt.