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The tiles are cold where Keith slumps down against them. Nails digging into his palms, an attempt to stop the violent shaking that tears through his whole body. His vision of the cabinet door in front of him shakes, panic and terror and grief swallowing him whole.
He knows how panic attacks work. He’s far too familiar with them at this point in his life. That doesn’t make them any easier.
Visions of a blade in his hand and blood drowning his torso. The wooziness of blood loss. The terror of fighting for your life and knowing it isn’t enough. Knowing the whole universe is relying on you to save it and repair it in the aftermath.
A lump forms and burns in his throat as he tries to breathe past the panic. Flashes of blood. His eyes squeeze shut. Being flung out into space with no anchor. A gasp and a heave and he’s in his kitchen.
He’s in his kitchen.
Keith’s head knocks against the cabinet door from where he tilts forwards. Hands sliding to wrap around his torso as he attempts to control his breathing. Bent forwards, eyes flickering across the hardwood beneath him through his blurry gaze. Golden sunlight slants across the floor.
He sniffs.
Man, they really need to vacuum.
Keith’s throat burns when he swallows, chest heaving with every breath. He drops a hand to pick up a piece of carrot that had fallen from the chopping board above him, gingerly reaching up to place it on the edge of the counter. Sitting beside the potatoes and celery awaiting a dip into a boiling pot, unaware of the crisis occurring on the kitchen floor.
He’s unsure how long he sits there, head digging into the cabinet door and legs aching with how long he’s been squatting. Muscles tense but no longer shaking. Long enough for his vision to clear. Long enough for his breathing to return. For fatigue to sink into his bones and keep him stationary.
Long enough for the sound of the front door swinging open to echo through the house. A voice calling out, “Dude, I got a whole bag of oranges from the place that sells your beer-” Keith’s eyes shut and his head tilts further down. Arms curling tighter around his torso.
A familiar hand on his back and the scent of sandalwood and cinnamon. Lance’s voice softens, “Hey man, the kitchen floor isn’t a good place for a nap and you know it.”
Keith hums.
Lance’s hand raises to tuck back the hair of his fringe as Keith stares down at the floor. Vulnerability is new. But they’re older and mature and traumatised to hell and back from a war that spared no victims. Least of all two kids who led the front lines.
“Stew smells good.”
The glare Keith sends him is softer than it used to be. Both of them are aware of the lack of stew, or any heated food for that matter. He’d been in the middle of preparing dinner, with Winter waiting for nobody, they’d decided a good meal with some drinks and a movie would be a good way to spend the night. “You’re an asshole.”
“Hey! There he is.” Lance’s grin is blinding. Soft. “Do you want to get up, perhaps have a little drink on the porch and watch the sunset?”
Guilt claws at Keith. All he wants is to turn away and walk out the door into the cold and forget the easy familiarity that has grown between the two. Years of fighting with each other and then back to back. They’d learned how best to take apart squadrons of Galra and monsters and eventually, how to keep their own at bay.
It was interesting, how easily they had found each other after the war. Without all the temperament of boyhood and petty fights (they still fight. Of course they do. Now, they have other ways to calm down.)
He watches Lance’s mouth twist, brows furrow and then all he sees is the blue of his jeans as he stands. “Gimme a minute.” Keith breathes, closing his eyes. He should get up. He wanted to make dinner. He wanted to not freak out over cutting a few vegetables. He wanted to forget how similar the feeling of breaking a carrot feels like breaking a bone. He wanted to be a good husband.
A cushion is dropped to the floor next to Keith. Along with a blanket and a moment later, two bottles of beer and a Lance settling beside him. He is paid no mind as Lance pulls half the blanket over his own legs, fluffing up the cushion behind him. The curls on his forehead look so soft.
Lance nudges Keith into turning around and settling in next to him. The rest of the blanket is thrown over his legs and a laptop is set on top of Lance’s thighs, quick fingers gliding across the keyboard until a video pops up.
Keith says nothing as he’s pulled in to rest against Lance’s shoulder. The wool of his sweater soft against his cheek. He glances at the screen, “are you using my panic attack as an excuse to make me watch Mamma Mia?”
A gasp, “I would never do such a thing! It’s the Princess Bride and you really need to learn your movies, babe.” Lance’s arm settles over his back, his hand tugging at the hair tie keeping Keith’s hair back in a bun. He tilts his head back into Lance’s hand, eyes closing at the feeling of long digits massaging the skin of his skull and gently loosening any knots in his hair.
Keith says nothing for a while, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. It’s only until they’re part way through the opening sequence of the movie that he breaks the peace, “thank you, Lance.”
Lips press into the top of his head, holding him there, “of course.”
Half an hour later, they relocate to their bed. Vegetables chucked in a pot and left in the fridge until tomorrow. Room dark except for the light of Lance’s laptop and the single glowing star stuck to the roof. One from Lance’s childhood bedroom in Varadero stuck right above their bed. A piece of home.
Keith is tired but the warmth at his side is an anchor. He holds Lance’s hand between their bodies, the fingers of his free hand feeling each crevice and dip of the hand held in his. Remembering. Keith is barely paying attention to the movie. Head still tilted against Lance’s shoulder.
“I love you.” A murmur, barely loud enough to be heard.
Lance’s thumb brushes across the back of his hand, “I love you, too”