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Lambert was hungry. He was also in pain, though. But. Food.
He really didn’t want to get up, and he wanted even less to cook. It’s not like he had a lot of food in the apartment anyway – some pasta, probably, maybe a jar of tomato sauce? And condiments, most likely. He should have gotten groceries days ago, but. Pain.
It was really unfair how much harder pain made everything. And it wasn’t even a huge injury – just some wrist pain. Should have healed in a couple weeks, if he’d rested it. But he had a job to keep and work to do, and couldn’t just lie around doing nothing.
Aiden had told him to just take a break. Offered to pay whatever Lambert was short on, too. But it was enough that his boyfriends had so much more important jobs. He wanted to accept the offer, he really did, because it would have made both Aiden and Coën happy, but he just couldn’t bring himself to.
So he hadn’t taken a break, hadn’t rested his wrist and… well. It’s been three months now and his hand was getting no better. And he knew it worried his boyfriends, but it wasn’t like he knew how to fix that. It’s been hard enough getting through the day, gritting his teeth against the pain and the cramping, doing his best to get out of the more finicky tasks without anyone noticing, and then trying to keep himself alive, too, to figure out how to make his boyfriends feel better.
And, okay, Lambert knew he was going back to unhealthy coping mechanisms. He wasn’t a complete idiot, okay? He didn’t go to therapy for nothing for two years. Yes, he knew damn well he was pulling away and reverting to his loner I-don’t-need-anyone ways but…
Fuck. He was just too exhausted to do anything else.
Also, he was still hungry.
He looked towards the kitchen with a sigh. If he went slow, he could probably boil the pasta with one hand… He bet he could.
“I’m not a fucking imbecile, I can do this,” he muttered to himself.
With a long groan, Lambert pushed himself upright. Kitchen. Pot. Water. Pasta. Sauce. Totally got it.
Putting on the water to boil took some manoeuvring and cursing – the kitchen certainly ended up with more puddles than it started with – but it was finally on the stove and boiling so Lambert was counting that as an absolute win. The puddles would dry.
His victorious mood didn’t last long, though.
“Fuck.” The pasta was unopened.
Lambert glanced between the plastic and the scissors. Well, okay, if he went about this smart, he could still do it. Just, yeah, okay.
He put the scissors down within reach, and then carefully pushed the pasta between the counter’s edge and his stomach. There, now just a careful bit of movement… Snip. Got it.
He put the scissors back down and grabbed the package carefully again. Pasta into the water, then a bit of salt.
It was quite mesmerising, the way the bubbles were rising to the surface. One moment the bit of pasta he was staring at would be visible, the next moment a bubble would be obscuring it. Up and burst away, over and over again, relentless and untiring.
He really wished he could be like the bubbles. Just tireless energy, never ceasing, always rising to the next challenge. Never wishing to just lie in bed unmoving all day.
He had meant to call Aiden yesterday. He’d seen a cute cat and telling Aiden about any and all cats was their thing. But by the time he’d gotten home he just… it wasn’t happening. He’d wanted to call Coën too, just to talk. It was stupid, how much better Coën’s voice could make things. Nothing else needed, just Coën’s stupid deep calming voice.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t called. If his therapist was here, she’d probably have said something about self-sabotage and the need to forgive himself, but she wasn’t here so Lambert didn’t know why he hadn’t called.
The ring of the timer shook him out of his thoughts. Right, yes, pasta.
Lambert balanced the strainer on top of the dirty dishes in the sink and heaved the heavy pot over. Of course, the moment he tried dipping it into the strainer, the whole pot unbalanced and water and pasta rained into the sink.
“Fuck!” Lambert yelled. To his embarrassment, he felt tears prickling his eyes. Fucking everything that is holy.
Lambert closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Okay, no, he could solve it. It was thick pasta, it wouldn’t go down the drain. He could just pick it out of the sink and rinse it in the strainer. Aiden would flip out if he heard Lambert rinsed pasta but… Aiden wasn’t here.
A flash of irrational anger swept through Lambert, and he yelled out wordlessly. Why the fuck was he angry at Aiden for not being here? Lambert had been pushing them away for months now, it was his own damn fault. And anyway, he would rinse his goddamn pasta and that would teach Aiden.
Slowly, Lambert emptied each dirty dish into the strainer, catching the pasta in them, and put them aside. There were only a few pieces left in the sink itself, and Lambert scooped them up with only a bit of difficulty. Then, he rinsed and strained the pasta and put it aside.
Okay, sauce.
He took the jar out of the fridge before he realised the problem. It was… a jar. No matter what he did, Lambert was not opening it one-handed.
He glanced at the pasta and contemplated eating it as it was but. Even he didn’t quite have the appetite for that.
He could open one fucking jar. He could.
With gritted teeth, he gripped the lid with his good hand and the jar with the other, and tried twisting it.
His hand twitched.
The jar slipped from Lambert’s hand, and he watched, as if in slow-motion, as it fell towards the floor and then shattered, the tomato sauce flying up in a circle and coating the floor and the cabinet doors in an even sheen.
“Fucking fuck!”
Lambert’s throat closed up, and he stared unseeing at the utter disaster his kitchen has become as one sob after another broke through.
His wrist chose this moment to make itself known again, throbbing pain shooting up and down his hand.
“I… fuck this,” Lambert grunted. Who the fuck needs food anyway. He was fucking done with this.
He stumbled his way to his bedroom and fell into his bed with a low grunt of pain. He was probably majorly fucking up, but he couldn’t get himself to care. Couldn’t muster the energy for anything.
He couldn’t tell how long he drifted, but he woke up to the sound of keys in the lock on the front door, and then the door opening and shutting.
“I really hope you’re not a burglar,” he muttered without raising his head. So what if he was robbed? It’d only be the shit-icing on this shit-cake of a day.
“Not a burglar, love.”
Within a blink, Lambert sat up and turned.
“Coën…” he breathed.
“Yeah,” Coën smiled, his dark skin glinting in the light of the streetlight shining in through the window. “Sorry for barging in, love. You haven’t replied to our messages in a while, and we got worried.”
Lambert immediately felt himself scowling.
“I’m fine,” he grunted.
“Bullshit.” Coën raised an eyebrow, his expression calm. “You’re in bed, probably hungry because your whole kitchen is empty and a mess, and I’m guessing hurti-”
“Shut up,” Lambert cut in harshly. “I don’t need your fucking pity. I know you’ll get fed up with me sooner or later, okay? So just cut to the fucking chase already!”
Well. Fuck. Lambert felt shame and regret flood his body immediately; he might be weak and worthless, but Coën deserved better than to have Lambert lash out at him. Coën was kind and selfless and so damn loving that Lambert didn’t deserve him, but damn if he was going to treat him like fucking shit.
“Sorry,” he muttered into the sheets.
He felt more than saw Coën sit down next to him, but he still had to hold in a flinch when Coën’s hand cupped his cheek.
“Can you look at me?” Coën asked softly, and fuck everything Lambert didn’t deserve him. Especially since he couldn’t even look at him.
He stared at the sheets. It shouldn’t be so impossible to move his head.
“It’s okay if you can’t,” Coën added after a pause, and Lambert wanted to cry again. Or kiss Coën. “This isn’t pity, okay? I promise you I’d tell you if it was, and Aiden would, too. Fuck, you know he’s shit at tolerating anyone he doesn’t see as his, we’d both be out on our asses if he didn’t love us. And as for me… I love you, Lambchop. The way you are. Grump and assholeness and, and pain and stubbornness to just stop and rest, and not being able to call for help… I love all of it, okay? Because you’re one of the two best men I know, and because you’re you. I love that you curse worse than a drunken eighteenth-century sailor and still make little toys for kids, I love that you refuse to accept help and still let us in, I love that you have the stupidest ideas and god knows why but I even love when Aiden makes them reality that inevitably blows up on all of us.
“And, I don’t mind if you can’t love today. I don’t care if you can’t be human or functioning or anything today, and I don’t mind if you lash out at me because I know you’re in pain, and imagine getting angry at a dog that tries to bite you because it’s in pain, it’d be absolutely cruel. We’re here anyway, because that’s what your chosen family is for, to stick together. Whatever may be.”
Lambert breathed, eyes closed, through the lump in his throat. He really was gonna cry.
“I’m not a dog.”
Coën snorted.
“Oh, no, love, you’re definitely a dog. A big, hairy, grumpy dog. One that recently ran into a lake and now smells like wet dog…”
“Shut up.”
“There your smile is.”
“Shut up,” Lambert muttered again, but he couldn’t suppress the smile.
“I don’t think I will,” Coën smirked, and Lambert sighed, smiling.
Maybe, if he leaned against Coën subtly enough…
“Where’s Aiden?”
“He insisted on making dinner. I didn’t understand all the words but I’m sure it’ll be vaguely unfamiliar and very nice.”
Coën’s arm came up around Lambert.
Oops.
Not subtle enough.
On the other hand… Lambert found he couldn’t truly mind. Coën was perfect as always and didn’t call attention to Lambert snuggling in.
So maybe he didn’t think he’d end the day cuddling one boyfriend he’d been pushing away while the other cooks dinner. But, Coën was right. This is what chosen family is for.