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Summary
The shadows around him loom large, creep up, and crawl to devour him. Whether or not he becomes choked by them, Anaxa’s chest constricts, horrid cold sweat dripping seemingly from his every pore. No amount of knowledge lifts this pain.
Typically, Anaxa waits these periods out in solitude. He knows these moments pass, and that the weight in his chest will lift. What he also knows, is that if anyone ever witnesses him in such a state, their impression of him will crumble. His credibility, the rationality he boasts freely, and his dignity as the sharp-witted, all-knowing and wise. These qualities simply do not, and cannot coincide with uncontrolled bouts of neuroticism.
Unfortunately for Anaxa, he has promised to meet with Phainon tonight. It strikes when he is preparing the guest bed for Phainon, a thorned tendril twisting at his chest.
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Or, Phainon babysits a sulky Anaxa for a while. They have a chill time until they don’t.