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His heart is beating, hard, in his chest or actually throughout his entire body. He can hear it over the sound of Kip washing dishes, can feel it like it's the only sensation there is. He doesn’t know why - he never knows why. This just happens sometimes, not in a while but it is far from novel. His body has decided there is something to be ready for and Scott, no matter how hard he tries, does not know what that is. And certainly, he never feels ready for the mystery threat.
He checks his hands, only a little shaky. That’s good. It’s something at least. He takes a deep breath and for two blissful seconds the pulse of his overdramatic heart is drowned out by the air filling his lungs. It doesn’t last.
He places his hands down on the island, considers taking a couple of steps to sit down but he really doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Leaning most of his weight against the island where he stands will do as a compromise for now. He notices the grain of the dark wood against his palms. That’s a strategy he’s supposed to use, noticing things. The internet told him that, after frantic googling when he really thought he might be having a heart attack.
So, the grain of the wood. Check. He thinks he’s supposed to find things he can see first but that requires raising his eyes and he’s just not sure that's feasible right now. Instead, sound - sound is good. The tap’s running, almost a roar to Scott’s ears but it’s nice, white noise filling in the scarily empty parts of Scott’s brain and softening the frantic rhythm in his chest. Then there’s the clink of dishes knocking together as Kip stacks them haphazardly. He doesn’t need to look up to know the drying rack’s a mess - organised chaos, Kip calls it. He tries to switch his ears on to more sounds but falls short. The tap just gets louder and Scott just wants to sit in that sound for a while.
Then it shuts off and the gap it leaves is sharp and unsettling. Scott fills it with an inhale he did not know his lungs were so desperate for. He still can’t look higher than his hands.
Another pair of hands come into view, resting next to his own.
“Hey?”
Thank fuck, another sound to focus on. The best one, Kip’s voice. It’s gentle and kind and if he can just ignore the worry in it, it’s the most soothing thing he could possibly hear.
“Scott? Baby?”
More worried now. Scott doesn’t know how to fix that, doesn’t know how to seem normal and fine and good. Kip always understands of course but there’s nothing to understand this time. There’s no paparazzi or crowds or terrifying fear of being outed. It’s just them in his apartment after a really nice morning. He can’t explain that. And he can’t even look at Kip.
“Okay,” he vaguely hears Kip murmur. “You’re okay, I’m gonna touch you now, Scott.”
Yes. Please.
There’s a firm grip around his forearm and Scott feels himself be prized off the island, weight nudged to lean on Kip instead. Kip’s arms are around him, forming a closed circle bracketing him in. It feels so good, so familiar. He tries to hold back, to bring Kip closer but his hands hang uselessly at his sides. They always do when he’s like this.
“I’ve got you.”
He takes another choked breath in, starved for oxygen through his own doing, lungs frozen solid against the panic.
The hands on his back start to move slowly, up and down. Kip only does that when he’s really bad. Fuck.
“Breathe, baby. You’re okay.”
Scott tries, he really tries. He inhales when Kip’s palm traces up and makes it about half way before his diaphragm stops and starts again, like a rusty engine slugging out fumes. The air falls out of him before he felt its benefit. He holds his breath until the pattern starts again. The breath in goes better this time, shaking but steady as he makes it all the way to the top of his back.
“Good, now out.”
He lets it out, slowly as he can manage. It’s stuttering but it’s there. He has control over his chest now - moving it hurts, like the tail end of a cramp but he can do it. His breathing gets fuller and with it, his heart gets quieter and slow enough he doesn’t have half his brain telling him he’s dying.
Without that fear, he’s suddenly back in his kitchen and Kip’s in his arms, actually in his arms - somewhere between the third and fourth successful breath, he’d managed to reciprocate the hug. The relief of it is dizzying and overwhelming and the gold star breathing he had just been doing falls apart. It’s wet and loud and he feels so, so stupid. His hands squeeze together where they’re clasped around Kip and he grips onto the back of the shirt Kip’s wearing. If he can just hold on tight enough, it will stop.
“Oh Scott, sweetheart.”
It doesn’t help, the painful kindness gives his traiterous body some kind of permission to give up any control he’d been clinging onto for the past- god knows how long. His breathing breaks into whimpers and he feels wet tracks form down his face in rivulets. They fall on Kip, of course they fall on Kip. He falls on Kip, always, and now especially, legs shaking with the effort of trying to stay standing when there isn’t enough air in the room to fuel his muscles.
“Let’s sit down, hm?”
Scott nods against him because that is all he can do. He’s being led somewhere slowly, still clinging on to Kip, still a useless mass of sniffing and trembling. He’s placed on the sofa, in the corner where he likes to be when things are hard. The cushion under him shifts under new weight and he’s being pulled gently to the side. His head falls on Kip’s shoulder again - it’s damp and Scott grimaces.
He feels better, though. The strain off his body means he can focus just enough to stem the flow and breathe around his blocked nose.
“Here.”
A tissue is held up to him and he takes it, gratefully. God, his face feels gross. Wiped cleaner, he can turn to look at Kip now. There’s a silent question on his boyfriend’s face - probably multiple of them.
“M’sorry,” he says, although he knows no apology was being asked for.
“Nothing to apologise for,” Kip says, like he always says, wiping a thumb under Scott’s eye. “Come on, come here, let me hold you.”
He holds back the tremble in his lip as he leans against Kip’s chest. The arm around his shoulders is strong and firm and it shifts as Kip breathes. Scott follows it, and the smell of Kip hits him properly now - the new cologne he got for his birthday and remnants of the coffee brewed two hours earlier.
“Thanks,” he says into the cotton his face is pressed against.
“Always.”
Kip makes it sound so easy, like Scott is easy to be with, to manage. He’s sure he isn’t but Kip’s here and he says always like he really means it so Scott believes him. He melts into the hold and closes his eyes, not against any tears this time, but because he is suddenly so tired. Knowing it’s not unlikely he’ll doze off soon, he makes a start at trying to let Kip into all that.
“I- I don’t know what that was about,” Scott starts, reaching for an explanation he’s never been able to find. “It just- happens sometimes.”
“You don’t have to know. We can work it out together,” Kip says like it’s normal.
“Okay.”
“Later, though.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Kip squeezes his shoulder softly, deposits a kiss on the top of his head and tells Scott he loves him. And Scott absolutely does not cry again.