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Pushing himself back up to his feet as fast as he could, Austin limped painfully into the kitchen, stepping through the door just in time to see Jamie pull open the oven door in alarm.

Of course there was no fire—a closed oven didn’t hold enough oxygen to maintain one—but the food inside was no doubt charred to a crisp, and at the release of a thick fog of smoke, the fire alarms began to shriek, and Jamie seemed to go into a full panic as he covered his ears with his hands.

His eyes grew wide and haunted in a flash, his face went deathly pale, and his breathing became short and labored.

Like he’d been triggered by the smell.

“Hey, it’s – it’s alr—” Austin exclaimed.

But Jamie interrupted him with a wordless, frantic cry, staggering away from the oven and waving a hand wildly towards it. The kitchen sink suddenly turned itself on, and a blast of water burst out from the faucet, shot through the air like an arrow, and hit the oven like a jet stream.

“JAMIE, NO!”

It was too late for Austin to stop it. Clouds of steam instantly rolled from the oven, filling the kitchen like a sauna within moments.

Luckily nothing worse happened—if it had been a grease or electrical fire, rather than merely burnt food, that could have been deadly—but Austin’s heart still pounded against his chest as he hurriedly pushed Jamie away and grabbed a pair of oven mitts to pull the mess out of the oven himself.

He coughed as he inhaled a deep breath of steam mixed with smoke, carefully setting the tray onto the inactive stove for a minute so he could shut the oven door, and then went over to the window to push it open.

He waved some of the smoke towards it, still coughing a little, and then limped over to the fire alarms to press the button and turn them back off.

The piercing, shrill sirens cut off. The smoke and steam both began to clear. Turning off the faucet as well, the kitchen fell silent once more.

Jamie was staring down at the charred tray of food in shock and horror, as if his mind was very far away.

“Hey,” Austin panted, stepping over to put a hand on Jamie’s arm.

Jamie flinched away with a sharp gasp, looking at Austin wildly as if he’d never seen him before. His hand shot up reflexively.

Defensive.

Trembling.

The way he’d raised his hand towards the oven.

The way the figure in his painting raised their hand towards the screen.

Austin held his hands up at once, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Hey, hey, Jamie, it’s just me,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and low and reassuring though it was tight with urgency. “Take it easy, there’s no fire. Okay? It’s all over, there’s no fire. It’s just me, Austin.”

Jamie froze. He took in a few deep breaths, his eyes still haunted, as if he weren’t really looking at Austin. But then something within him seemed to click, recognition flooding his eyes as he drew in a violent, shuddering gasp. “A-Austin?”

“Yeah! Yeah, it’s me!” Austin told him, unable to help but smile in relief as he cautiously held out his hand, for Jamie to take if he wanted. “You okay?”

Jamie’s face contorted in guilt and shame and pain, and he took Austin’s hand at once—pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m sorry!” he rasped. “I’m so sorry!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Austin told him, hugging him back and patting his back as reassuringly as he could. Damn, this was awful. The poor guy was shaking. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. This is… this is normal, for people who went through bad things. I get it. I really do.”

God only knew how long it had taken for Austin to so much as enter a car, let alone drive one—and he still got a cold sweat whenever he saw wrecks in a TV show or movie. He knew a PTSD episode when he saw one.

And yet, it was more than that. The way Jamie had moved on instinct, that had been pure muscle memory. Just like when he’d been dancing for the very first time.

One thing was a given: The fire in Jamie’s dreams wasn’t ‘metaphorical.’

It had never been.

They didn’t need more proof for that.

As Jamie’s breathing slowly evened out and his trembling began to subside, and Austin started to clean up the blackened char that had once been meat and vegetables, he couldn’t help but notice the lingering expression of guilt and shame that didn’t leave Jamie’s face.

Though his own nerves were still raw, Austin tried to lighten the mood. “You know, we both forgot about that stuff in the oven, but I think you were right.”

Jamie blinked up at Austin, a questioning look crossing his face.

Austin offered a teasing smile. “You are really bad at cooking.”

For a moment, Jamie just stared. Then, to Austin’s relief, he broke into a startled laugh, the sound carrying some of the tension away as he helped Austin finish clearing up.

They headed back out into the living room, and—after putting in an order for pizza after all—Austin rewound the movie, and the two settled down to watch.

But Austin found himself preoccupied with the memory of Jamie, standing before him and frozen with fright.

Like a wounded animal cornered into a trap.

With his hand raised as if to fight.