It started with a flicker. A cold shiver, an edge of unease crawling up Viktor's spine and settling in his chest, heavy, painful, but certainly not unfamiliar.

He tried to shake it off, tried to focus on the tapping of his fingers on the table, tried not to be too noisy as to not bother you. It didn't work. It felt like a hand had reached through his body and grabbed hold of his lungs, squeezing all the air out of them and making his breaths come in short, laboured gasps. He couldn't stay where he was, but his body refused to listen, keeping him firmly planted and shaking at the dinner table.

It wasn't long before Viktor realised you had placed your hand on his shoulder, making him jump slightly. He turned towards you, watching your mouth move but unable to understand what exactly you were saying. Until you showed him the paintbrush in your hand. Oh, he knew this. He knew this would help. Giving a small nod, he pulled himself up from his chair, hobbling to the living room and collapsing on the couch.

The swirls you were painting on his back slowly pulled him back to reality, making his breathing even out again as he concentrated on the paintbrush strokes. After a while, Viktor finally trusted himself to speak again, his voice quieter than usual.

"Th-thanks for that. I needed it."