Chapter Text
Tim had been in bed for days. Weeks. He wasn't inclined to move, and when he dared to move a muscle, it was an apathetic and rigid gesture that moved through the air reluctantly, like his limbs had forgotten what it meant to live.
Tim's depression began years ago with sprinkles of insecurity. He was alright, he would tell himself, just slightly sad. It continued on like that for ages.
Recently, the sadness started to hit him like a bullet.
His mental health deteriorated until every small issue irritated and uncoordinated him, and every social interaction was treacherous. And eventually, he became so overwhelmingly sad that he couldn't concentrate, couldn't communicate, couldn't leave his bed...
He spent a portion of the hours scanning through his memories, thinking deeply, searching for a reason behind the relentless sadness.
One possibility that had taken a heavy toll on him over the years... he had feelings for Moby. He tried everything but facing it. Initially, he tried to simply ignore it. Then he tried dating Rita instead, convincing himself that he loved her. Nothing worked, nothing diminished his genuine feelings.
Another reason. His body was wrong. Still, even after binding for years and starting testosterone, his body felt vaguely girlish. Still too feminine in ways that made him feel unrecognizable to himself.
Or maybe he was just plain sad.
Not everything has a purpose.
He couldn't fully face any of those possibilities yet. He felt too guilty. He felt like an upper middle class white kid making up problems. So, he pushed them out of his mind. What did that leave him to think about? Not much. Thinking was pointless anyway.
Moby knocked. Tim groaned in response, a sound Moby had come to recognize as his permission to enter.
"Beep." He set a bowl of macaroni and cheese on his nightstand.
Tim sat up, his shoulders slumped. Moby frowned and patted him on the back.
Moby didn't leave before he saw Tim take a bite, as he always did.
"Thanks," Tim said with a rough voice, as if he hadn't used it in days.
"Beep." Moby walked out of the room, hesitating at the door for a moment before he left.
So, Tim was alone again, which left him to do nothing but ruminate in the quiet. The quiet was surprisingly suffocating.
He felt like an asshole, leaving Moby by himself for weeks. Why wasn't he capable of just... pushing through? Why couldn't he suck it up like everyone else?
He couldn’t shake the lingering guilt... or the sadness, or anything. There was no way to fix it - not today, not now.