Which Way To Happy? (Sean)

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh had every reason to be happy. His parents were in good health, he had a wonderful group of friends, he had a good job with steady work, good health, a loving partner.

A loving partner he'd reconciled with after almost three decades of a relationship in limbo between lovers and friends, a relationship that had emotionally scarred both of them. They were working on healing that damage to the best of their abilities.

And yet all of these reasons for happiness were not enough to actually make him happy.

At first he'd assumed stress, then a crisis of identity.But whatever the cause, he'd withdrawn more and more from not only their houseguest, from his friends, but also from Sean. Especially from Sean, in fact, because he'd been spending more and more nights sleeping in the bedroom they had set aside for him when he'd first moved in.

At first he'd spent some nights with Sean, but they had grown more and more sparse, until the last week they'd totaled zero.

He had been fighting against the memories of last year all season, though even the smell of wet leaves and loam had sent him into depression. He wanted to bond with Emma, but she reminded him of L.C., and L.C. reminded him of last year, which made the bonding so difficult.

But he didn't want to talk about it, and so he said nothing to Sean, and Sean in turn said nothing to him and he continued on, trying to convince himself that there was nothing wrong and if he only ignored it hard enough it would go away.

Even after the nightmares started and he could no longer stay the night with Sean because he feared waking his partner up, even after encountering Yulia and being confronted with her bleeding, injured (though still walking) form, he'd tried to avoid admitting aloud that there was anything wrong.

So many evenings he spent in his room, reading, alone. So many evenings Sean brought him sandwiches without question. He knew that he was hurting his partner, but he didn't know how to articulate the problem. He'd internalized the trauma, refused to talk to anyone about it, and now he didn't even know where to begin except to hope it all went away.

But it didn't.

And so, weeks after helping Ben tend Yulia, he found himself consumed with thoughts of her, the blood and injuries, which intermingled with memories of his own experience, fear and pain and broken ribs and dirt and fall air.

He could barely function at work, and even in his state he was grateful that he didn't have any court appearance and instead could shut himself in his office and stare at endless amounts of paperwork.

He thought he might have even done some of it.

He came home almost an hour late: staring blankly made losing track of the time easy to do, and even on the way home he'd found himself blanking out when stopped at lights. He was so glad nobody ran him over; they probably thought he was stoned.

Vaguely he knew Sean was already home; Sean was always home before him even on a typical day, and today had been far from typical. Vaguely he was aware that he'd mumbled some sort of greeting, letting his partner know he was safe, but he wasn't really sure exactly what he'd said. He didn't have the energy to go up to his room and avoid letting the telepath see just how much of a wreck he was; he barely had the energy to collapse on the sofa, fighting back tears.

There was absolutely no reason to cry. There wasn't even a reason to be upset, this was over, it had been over, he'd been fine.

But his mind refused to listen.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean spent an increasing amount of time alone at home. Emma often spent nights out, which was her prerogative; she was a houseguest, not his ward. She had no classes to attend, and thus she didn’t require that he help her keep a schedule. She visited friends around town, and the house rule was that her “curfew” was “don’t wake me up.” The telepath prepared enough supper for three, lest Emma stay home.

Occasionally she did, which gave him company at night. They played cards or discussed Hammel or life plans. And he was less alone. But those respites were less frequent.

Primarily, he was alone, despite living in a home of three people and a rabbit.

Josh had withdrawn almost completely from him. It had been a slow burn, and Sean did everything he could to respect the other man’s privacy by not intruding on his personal space. But the game of roulette, of whether Josh would come to bed with him, had stopped. The answer was always “no” now.

He didn’t mind, which was to say that he didn’t resent Josh for the situation. Something was bothering his partner, something which weighed so heavily on him that he could only further withdraw, and Sean could harbor no resentment or ill-will because of Josh’s pain. Of course, he would prefer that his partner would open up to him, would lean on him, would stay with him at night. He had spoken the truth when Josh had moved in; his preference was that they share a bed and that he could wake up every morning beside the other man.

Now he was lucky to get ten words at breakfast. He got even fewer in the evenings, when Josh would give his now-typical “I’m home” before retreating upstairs. There were no smiles from the other man, no physical contact. Not merely a complete absent of intimate contact, but all physical contact. Josh didn’t initiate hugs, didn’t so much as touch his arm to get his attention. Physical contact would entail being in the same room, which they rarely were these past few days and weeks.

Still, Sean was grateful that Josh had him instead of facing this internal crisis alone, or with another person. The telepath had no false modesty when it came to his patience and his tolerance of others. He knew that most other people wouldn’t suffer this in silence and would instead reach a breaking point and force a confrontation or simply leave. But he had his (nearly) bottomless well of patience which leant him strength.

Instead, he made sandwiches for Josh - grilled pimento cheese because that was his favorite – and left them outside the other man’s door with a knock. He never invaded the sanctity of Josh’s personal space, and he never complained.

Instead, he waited.

But tonight, Josh appeared even worse than usual, barely more than an empty husk. And the other man didn’t hastily retreat upstairs. There were no footsteps on the stairs as usual. The telepath waited for sounds of movement but heard none. That was unusual.

He found Josh in the living room, curled up on the sofa, crying. He couldn’t leave his partner to fight this himself, and thus he settled beside him and set a pillow down in his lap. It was an invitation for Josh to rest there, if he wished, without putting pressure on him.

Because he shielded at home, he didn’t know what was wrong. Because he didn’t know what was wrong, he didn’t have a concrete plan. Instead, he had to guess and speak from his heart. “I’m here for you,” he said gently. He wished to reach out to brush tears from Josh’s eyes, but he wouldn’t touch the other man without invitation. “I’m here with you. You aren’t alone.”

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh didn't look up as Sean entered the room, didn't look up when he sat on the sofa beside him. He was aware that his partner was beside him, but the most acknowledgement he could muster was to imperceptibly shift away.

He wanted desperately to believe the reassurances, because he knew that logically they were absolutely true. He wasn't alone, and Sean would be willing to help, and, really, there was nothing wrong with him. But no matter how many times he repeated that mantra he didn't miraculously grow strong and happy. In fact, it only served to frustrate him more.

He wanted to tell Sean that he was fine, because he ought to be, but he knew the telepath would never believe such an obvious lie. It wasn't as if he were a very good liar in the first place; that was one reason he tended to withdraw when he had something to hide.

This certainly counted as something he wished to hide, but the energy it had taken to conceal his troubles had ebbed away.

After what felt like an eternity of silence broken only by the sounds of his own sobs he glanced to the side, daring a look at Sean's feet. "I...I know."

His voice was husky with crying, a fact that shamed him. He hated crying, particularly in front of other people, had done that more than enough for one year already.

He felt that he ought to say more than that, but the weight of all his concerns was so crushing he couldn't get the words out, and so he fell back on the event that had triggered a more rapid descent into depression than the slow dwindling brought on by the autumn.

"I suppose you've heard about Ms. Sokolov."

Of course he would have; she was his coworker, and further, he was friends and co-volunteers with Ben.

"I, ahh, I saw her. She looked so battered."

That was as much as he could get out before the shakiness in his voice broke, reducing him to tears once again.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Despite everything, despite the fact that Josh was crying and that his pain was obvious to even the densest of individuals, despite the fact that Sean had done nothing to impose on his partner or to hurt him and instead was offering comfort, the other man shifted away from him.

Unfortunately, it was par for the course recently. Sean didn’t shift closer; he didn’t pursue the other man. Instead he remained where he was, should Josh choose to come nearer.

At least there was acknowledgement of his presence and of his offer to listen and to help. That was more than Josh might have given him otherwise. It was a start. Thus he waited, putting no additional pressures on the other man, not further prompting him.

The waiting proved worthwhile.

After seemingly endless silence, Josh offered a few words of insight. First by discussing Yulia. Sean had heard about her condition which had been disconcerting; she was a strong young woman, as well as perceptive, and such an accident was out of place. In fact, reminiscent of other accidents he used to keep an eye out for, reminiscent of an accident that had occurred with a politician. But Gabriel Underwood was dead.

The initial comment was curious but didn’t provide great insight. Josh’s clarification, while framed in clinical terms: she looked battered, and Josh was merely the observer; still managed to provide insight.

His thoughts about Gabriel weren’t so far off the mark.

There had been a time when Josh had been equally battered. A time that, upon reflection, was roughly a year ago. A traumatic time.

Sean didn’t want to pressure the other man, but he wanted to make sure that this was what he believed it was. Thus he half asked, half said, “It brought back memories?”

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh turned his head away from Sean's feet, staring very steadfastly at the edge of the coffee table instead. There was no direct confirmation that the telepath's guess was correct, no affirmation that he was being plagued by memories of his encounter with the Degreas twins.

Instead he inhaled deeply, shakily, a failed attempt at a fortifying breath before stating, "I should be fine."

That came out with much less assurance and authority than he'd hoped for, and thus he tried again.

"I should be fine. It's over, it's been over."

He dropped his head into his hands, fingers pushing into his hairline in frustration at his inability to rationalize himself into better mental health.

"Emma isn't L.C. and this isn't twenty-ten and the past should stay there."

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Although Josh didn’t look in his direction, the telepath shook his head regardless, denying the claim that the past should simply stay in the past, denying the notion that memories didn’t influence every moment of the present and the future. “It doesn’t work that way at all,” he informed his partner.

It was an obvious point, one that he shouldn’t have to make. Yet Josh was berating himself for being unable to shake off trauma and defy the human condition. He couldn’t let that stand.

“You’re right when you say that Emma isn’t L.C. You’re correct when you point out that you’re fine physically. You’re safe now, yes.” Safe enough, since the Degreas twins had been arrested and were safely in confinement. Safe enough with Gabriel Underwood dead and most of M.S.A.D. arrested or so deeply underground that they wouldn’t dream of returning.

However, safe wasn’t synonymous with whole.

The telepath shook his head again, although this time it was at himself rather than denying a claim Josh made. “I didn’t send you to therapy.” Josh physically hadn’t been capable of attending therapy at first, and by the time he had recovered physically, he had been firmly on the course of returning to normal.

“You never had a chance to process this emotionally, so no, it hasn’t been over.”

[Joshua Bernstein]

The mention of therapy caused Josh to hunch his shoulders defensively. "That's hardly fair, I didn't need therapy." He mumbled in objection. Nor, for that matter, had he wanted it; he didn't want to discuss what had happened even with his friends, even with Sean or Cobalt, who had both been there, let alone with someone he didn't know.

In theory, of course, he supported therapy and he thought Sean, while employed by a business of questionable ethics, performed a noble duty.

But when it came right down to it, the idea of having to go to therapy made him feel, well, broken, and he didn't want to think of himself as broken, didn't want to think that the twins had damaged him so much he needed to go see someone and be fixed. He considered himself fairly resilient in the face of trauma and disappointment, and he'd resolutely soldiered on, pretended that nothing at all had happened.

Not that there hadn't been changes; he'd once upon a time found the idea of Gestalt pairs just as sexy as non-Gestalt twins, but they were now creepy and sent shivers down his spine, whether male or female. And sometimes he felt much more uncomfortable around his meta-human friends than he should, uncomfortable because he felt helpless compared to them. He knew his friends wouldn't hurt him, but they could if they wanted to, and he would be unable to stop them, and that wasn't a realization he liked to dwell on. That didn't stop the thought from coming, unbidden.

"It's been a year," He pointed out, as if that were deeply meaningfully supportive of his assertion that he didn't need therapy. "I've had a whole year to emotionally process, I should be done with that."

Despite the fact that Sean was bringing up therapy he felt....better. Not well; there was still fear and pain and uncertainty whirling about, still a reluctance to say too much about the event itself, but Sean was safely anchoring him in the harbor before he went out and drowned, and so he shifted again, this time back toward Sean, tentatively leaning against his partner's shoulder.

"I thought I was over it."

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Unsurprisingly, Sean had a wholly different perspective of therapy. The aim of therapy wasn’t to fix broken people; he didn’t care for that description of people’s trauma because it dehumanized them and made them sound like they were pieces of mechanical equipment. People didn’t become broken, even if they had what society popularly described as “breakdowns,” another term for which he didn’t care.

Therapy was beneficial, and he detested the stigma that was attached. There were so many different types of therapy, all effective for different circumstances; and occasionally, someone merely required someone to talk to, rather than bottling up his thoughts or emotions, even if the patient in question had no set goals, required no advice and neither desired nor required medication.

As such, he disagreed with Josh’s self-assessment. The fact that his partner had been withdrawing for weeks, was sobbing now, over unprocessed trauma from last autumn – legitimate trauma but trauma nonetheless – underscored the fact that he did need therapy.

The telepath shook his head, denying his partner’s self-recrimination over not processing this effectively. Sean knew Josh’s manner of coping with problems, which was to ignore them; that method was far removed from reality and one couldn’t realistically expect that to help. Should have was a meaningless designation that would only serve to add further, and meaningless, guilt.

When Josh shifted again, this time closer before leaning against his shoulder, the telepath gently wrapped an arm around his partner. His embrace was loose, careful not to confine Josh while at the same time providing physical contact and demonstrating that he was here for him as promised.

“The human mind is quite remarkable when it comes to coping mechanisms. It can bury,” he emphasized bury as opposed to heal, “trauma until it reaches its saturation point, which varies from person to person. You can’t view your healing time as beginning from when the assault happened; you need to view it from your saturation point. It hasn’t been a year.”

The telepath was grateful that Josh had opened up about this, because he could help, and he would if given permission. “I’ll do everything I can to help you."

[Joshua Bernstein]

Josh would very much have liked to deny that he needed any help at all. He didn't want to need help, wanted to solve his problems himself. Unfortunately there was little use denying the reality of the situation; even he could see that.

So instead he opted for turning to bury his face against Sean's shoulder, accepting the embrace and the touch, accepting that the telepath's presence was comforting.

"I don't want to burden you." That sounded silly now that he'd said it; he'd already burdened Sean by withdrawing, and of course if the situation were reversed he would have said he didn't mind being burdened, which was what he expected to hear from Sean, and so he hurriedly added, "and I don't know what will help."

Withdrawing certainly hadn't done the trick; sometimes, of course, ignoring his problems did work for him. Sometimes they went away or his emotional turmoil faded and he didn't have to deal with it. That hadn't been the case this time, though for almost a year, up until recently, he'd thought it would be.

"I just need to man up and get over it."

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Sean shifted when Josh turned to press against him, adjusting so that they would both be more comfortable. His arm tightened slightly around the other man’s shoulders, holding him securely. Sean still didn’t tighten his arm too much, because he didn’t want his partner to feel trapped when taking comfort. He rubbed the other man’s back in long, soothing strokes.

“You won’t burden me,” the telepath assured him, his voice gentle. He was concerned about Josh’s happiness and mental health, and he had the strength to care for the other man without growing overwhelmed. He would prefer that Josh share with him than falter on his own, drowning in misery. To add a bit of levity and perspective, he said, “This is what I do for a living, remember?”

However, Josh’s other comment made him frown inwardly. Not only was that language neither of them typically used (in fact, both of them found it distasteful for the inherent gender roles and misogyny), the sentiment that he could simply get over it was incorrect and only demonstrated that he wasn’t listening to the telepath’s points about psychological fallout from traumatic events. “No, you need to have the opportunity to process it and find a method that works. Ideally with another person to help you through it. This isn’t a personal failure and you can’t treat it that way.”

Sean continued to rub Josh's back, hoping he could take comfort in his presence. "The two of us will figure out what will help. Together."

[Joshua Bernstein]

"But I already have." Josh opined mournfully, all to aware of the tears dampening Sean's shirt. "I haven't held up my end of the partnership bargain, I've been no fun at all the past few months."

This was, of course, entirely hypocritical of him; he was fiercely insistent that he didn't expect Sean to entertain him and he wouldn't have resented if the telepath needed to lean on him in times of emotional turmoil. When they were younger he'd found that stressful (and he still did, to a degree; he wasn't naturally a nurturing person in the same way Sean was.) and he'd been entirely unable to be an anchor for his partner, but age had lent him a somewhat better ability to accept the necessity of those duties.

Except that years of bachelorhood had entrenched the idea that he needed to face all his troubles alone, without asking or expecting help, and to not burden his friends with his petty problems when they had problems of their own to cope with.

"I realize." He was well aware of Sean's career, heard endless stories, had been there through most of his education. "So you shouldn't have to deal with it at home, too."

No matter what reassurances Sean offered he couldn't see it any way other than as a failure on his part. "I've had time to process it," He objected, pulling back to look up at the other man. The psychiatrist could talk about saturation points all day long, but Josh knew that a year later he ought not to have any problems, not when he hadn't before.

One arm let go of Sean long enough to readjust his glasses in anxiety. "It's....it's really fine, I'll be fine. I've thought about it, ahhh, I've thought about it plenty, it should be processed. I'll be fine."

[Dr. Sean Neville]

Most of the telepath’s focus was on Josh’s thoughts, words, and body language, with his remaining attention diverted to keeping the rhythm along his partner’s back. He didn’t care about his shirt. “You haven’t burdened me,” he repeated, because that was true. While he had worried about the other man, that was part and parcel of love and Sean didn’t consider it a burden. He had never considered it a burden.

He shook his head in response to the claim that Josh had failed as his partner. “I never thought it would be a non-stop party, and you shouldn’t think that needing time to yourself is a failure. Besides, the only agreement we have is that you won’t run around on me and I know you’ve stuck to that.” Every other agreement they had involved trying: trying to communicate, trying to initiate intimacy, trying to do better this time. And while Josh might not have succeeded in the end goals, Sean didn’t doubt for a moment that he had made an effort, which meant that he hadn’t broken his promise. That the effort was unsuccessful was a direct result of trauma and was beyond the other man’s control.

That had not been his point when he had reminded the other man that he was a psychiatrist. Sean shook his head again, denying Josh’s claim. “Do you think that chefs serve their families McDonald’s for supper? You’re my family; you need my skills, and I’m happy to bring them home.”

Sean disliked being firm with Josh; he disliked being firm with any of his friends or his partners, but taking a firm tone with Josh had always been worse. That was due to the merge at such a young age and then The Break Up. Regardless of the reasons, he disliked being firm, particularly since he was only firm with him from necessity. Would that it was never necessary.

“You aren’t listening to me,” he said, and while his voice remained gentle, he was serious in that accusation. “One aspect of our social conditioning that I loathe is the notion that mental health is somehow fake, somehow different from physical health. You trusted Ethan when he told you that your physical recovery would take months. You took your medicine, you rested, you didn’t try running around the block to prove that you were fine, and while you weren’t happy about it, you accepted the medical reality. This-” Sean briefly brought one hand to brush Josh’s temples, “This isn’t different. I’m a doctor, and I’m telling you that you need real recovery. Can you trust my opinion the same way you trusted Ethan's?”

[Joshua Bernstein]

The most unfair part of this entire debate, if it could be called that, was that Sean was irrefutably correct. Josh had very much trusted Ethan's judgment, though that had been much easier to accept because he could not only see the bruises and the swelling but he could feel the sharp, nearly unbearable pain in his ribs, a pain the medication had mercifully dulled.

However, Sean was not correct in his assessment that Josh hadn't run around the block and tried to pretend he was fine; he'd taken his medication religiously, he'd not gone to work, but as far as resting went he'd mostly rested. He had, however, made an attempt to cycle to the mall to buy Hanukkah presents. In the snow. While on drugs.

He decided not to bring that incident up.

Instead he sighed heavily, reluctantly conceding defeat on this issue. "You wouldn't lie to me about that." He admitted, feeling thoroughly miserable in the knowledge that his mind wasn't healed when the trauma should have been far in the past.

"Then what...what do you propose as a solution?"

As Sean had pointed out that he was the expert in this field Josh had to suppose he had some idea of how to fix him. He had a dreadful feeling that fixing might involve such unpleasantness as talking about what had happened, or taking medication.

Neither idea filled him with glee.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

“No,” the telepath agreed with a nod. “I wouldn’t.” He would never lie about someone’s recovery, neither to make him feel like he had made greater progress than he actually had, nor to hinder someone’s recovery by telling him that he hadn’t made as much progress as he truly had. Least of all to Josh.

He wished that he could give the other man better tidings, but that would take time, effort, and patience. From both of them, although the telepath was prepared for that and accepted the necessity.

Josh’s next question was both fair and expected. In response, Sean reached out to caress the other man’s cheek, his arm still around him otherwise. He was listening now, to Josh’s thoughts as well as his words; he wasn’t shielding for the first time in weeks, and he heard his partner’s concerns. “Medication would arise if we couldn’t help you through non-chemical avenues or if you’re experiencing daytime flashbacks that are so severe as to require immediate remedy. Yes, we have to talk about it, even if we don’t discuss it verbally. That’s the more complicated, organic route.”

There was a pause, before he added, “Or you give me an hour or so to smooth it over.” It wasn’t an offer he made lightly; it wasn’t an offer he expected Josh to accept. Yet it remained an option, and he was willing.

[Joshua Bernstein]

That medication was a last resort was reassuring; he rather unfairly considered the need for medication to be an acknowledgment that there was something inherently wrong with him. He was disappointed, though not surprised, that there would have to be discussion. He hadn't discussed the incident with anyone for a reason, and that was because he didn't want to. It had hurt so much less to keep it locked away in his mind.

"Smooth it..." He began, then trailed off as he realized what Sean was offering. He leaned forward again, resting his head on his partner's shoulder once more. "That's very kind of you." He whispered. In some ways that sounded like a wonderful deal, to never have to think about the incident again, but in others...he wasn't sure just how healthy that would be, to forget entirely. There were benefits to remembering, such as a knowledge of the stakes should he completely ignore every bit of advice Sean gave him ever.

And he wouldn't know just how grateful he ought to be for Sean and for Cobalt.

"I don't....ahhh, I don't know." He admitted finally. At least he wasn't crying anymore; he was so thankful for that small mercy. "That might not be....is talking about it really the only other option?"