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chapter four; lando, ━━━━━
HER FINGERS STRETCH FURTHER AROUND HIS as she adjusts her hold. There's a tightness that stirs in his chest when she squeezes their hands together and tilts her chin down so that their gazes are leveled. She swallows, the thin crease that's furrowed between her eyebrows deepens as her eyes wander over him imploringly, almost if she's searching for any traces of residual pain. When she doesn't notice any, her eyes soften in such a reassuring comfort that he could feel his body warming underneath the smoldering headiness of her stare. "Good?" She murmurs, and he has to blink rapidly several times to retract from his reverie.
He nods, thinning his lips into a small smile as he stands upright. "Yeah, I'm good now. Thanks." He accents, expressing his gratitude to her. He knows she could've ignored him or left liked he'd insisted she do after telling her that he was fine, but she stayed and kindly helped him through his attack.
It's not always that he feels the uncanny tension clenching tightly in his chest and curling into his toes, sometimes the attacks are stealth and inconstant; managing to sneak up on him at any inconvenience and paralyzing him in shock and pain until air's seeping into his lungs and he's gaping frantically trying to steady his breathing again. This time, the panic attack was anticipated — he felt its origins creeping through the crevices of his taut bones, combating against his attempts at resisting its vicious onslaught. He tried to ignore it but every time his fingers clumsily fumbled the football, struggling to maintain a steady grip onto it, he felt the attack approach closer and closer until his hands were shaking and he felt the disgusting warmth of bile gathering in the back of his throat.
He told coach he wasn't feeling well, wincing remorsefully at the reproachful look that coach glared at him. He knows that coach probably assumed that his poor performance in practice was because of his hangover, that his senses were still fuzzy and disoriented from last night's party; and he lets him continue to believe that, knowing it's easier for him to fathom in a quicker excuse. Coach looked at Lando with a expression that was unmistakable disappointment, one that has Lando abashedly lowering his eyes.
He half expected coach to reprimand him or make some stern spiel about him needing to be more responsible while drinking like Professor Thandie had done. But coach wastes no efforts in doing either; only points a finger at Lando's chest and ganders at him through the dark tint of his sunglasses, demanding that he show up at the next practice with actual purpose.
"Yes, coach." Lando agreed, clenching and uncurling his hands at his sides hoping that it would surcease the trembling in them.
"You're dismissed," He murmurs, briefly looking Lando over before shaking his head. He brings the whistle that's hanging on a string around his neck, up to his parted mouth and blows loudly. The whistle screeches through Lando's ears, but it's getting overpowered by coach's yelling as he's reprimanding players for their faux paus as he assessed them while they worked out the plays.
