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As much as Lance misses Earth and home, he can’t deny he’s grateful to no longer be at the Garrison. For lots of reasons, obviously — no shitty cafeteria food (although alien food can be… off-putting, at least most cooks in space use fucking spices), he doesn’t have to share a bathroom, he is literally a space knight, et cetera. Lots of excellent reasons. But right now, he’s extra grateful to be out of the hellhole that is the Galaxy Garrison Junior Military Institution because he never knew how to handle days like this when he was there.
On days like this, Lance’s brain and body fight him a million times harder than usual. Most days, if the feeling of socks on his feet was Horrible, he could remind himself that he would be able to take the socks off soon and the feeling was temporary. Most days, sudden loud noises would make him flinch or shudder, and then he could move on. Most days, he could tolerate bright lights for a few hours. Most days, he could talk just fine. Most days, most days, most days.
Today, everything was horrible. He could feel every stitch on his clothes and they were all Itchy. His socks made him want to surgically remove his feet. Every noise made him want to cry, and the lights made him wish he’d stayed in bed.
And don’t even get him started on the fucking talking.
All he seemed to be capable of were hums and shrugs. And it wasn’t like people portrayed it in movies or books or whatever — he didn’t feel a blockage in his throat, he could come up with perfectly fine answers in his head, but every time he was supposed to speak it felt like his tongue no longer obeyed his commands. His mouth just didn’t want to make any words. At the Garrison, these days would be horrible. He’d either find some holy strength and force himself to speak, and want to cry after, or he’d get detention for insubordination. Everything sucked. But in the castle…
The people up in space with him were beyond understanding. If he answers questions with hums and vocalisations and avoided eye contact more than usual, everyone took it in stride. No one yelled at him, no one talked down to him, everyone just engaged with him as normal and treated him exactly the same. It was great. Or, at least, it would be great, if his dickhead brain got with the fucking program. Instead, he got to feel like the world’s biggest burden. Objectively, he knew his brain was distorting facts. Objectively, he knew that his friends didn’t hate him, didn’t think less of him, didn’t wish he was normal.
Unfortunately, knowing the truth and believing the truth were two different things. Luckily for him, he is surrounded by people who are happy to show him just how loved he is.
—
He’s not sure what he’s going to do if no one’s there. He doesn’t have a lot of emotional energy today — honestly, if no one’s in the rec room, he might just go back to bed. Maybe tomorrow won’t suck as bad. But he promised Shiro that the next time he was feeling like shit he’d as least try to seek out some friendly company, and he’s not a liar, so.
He opens the door, not sure if he wants it to be empty or not, and is kind of shocked by his own relief when he sees Coran reading on the couch. Upon hearing the door open, Coran looks up from his book, and smiles warmly when he registers who’s at the door.
“Lance!” he exclaims. Lance hums in response, flashing a quick peace sign.
Coran’s smile softens. “One of those days, my boy?”
Lance nods.
Coran shifts over a bit, lifting up his arm. Lance gets the point, and feels a knot of emotions burrow in his heart as he quickly makes his way over to the Altean, tucking himself into his side. As soon as he’s settled, Coran shifts forms slightly, making himself stronger, and tightens his grip around the teen.
Lance sighs, tension flooding out of his body. He didn’t realise how much he needed to be squeezed until it happened.
God, Coran always knows what to do.
Coran turns back to his book, grip never softening, idly turning pages every few seconds. Lance watches, not really reading along, but feeling some of his bleh mood alleviate. It’s hard for his brain to tell him he’s hated by everyone around him when he’s actively being cuddled.
“Did you know,” Coran says conversationally, after nearly an hour of comfortable silence, “that Hunk and Pidge argue over who gets to sit next to you during meals?”
Lance makes an aborted half-choking nose, staring at Coran in shocked incredulity. No way is that true!
Coran laughs, rubbing his hand up and down Lance’s arm. “It is true! They argue every morning before you come in. Keith has staked his permanent claim on your left side, of course —" Lance can't hold back another noise of surprise. Of course? — "but Hunk and Pidge fight over who gets your right side once a day. Shiro tried to have them come up with a turn system, but it was futile!”
Lance can feel tears prick in the corners of his eyes, and for once doesn't bemoan his inability to speak, because he’s not sure if he could ever verbalise what he’s currently feeling. Do his friends really love him so much? That they fight over who gets to sit closer to him? Lance doesn't know how to respond to that, other than the strong urge to burst into tears and love his friends four billion times more than he already does. If that's even possible.
Coran hums, quickly pressing his head to Lance’s where is rests on the advisor’s shoulder. “No need to discuss the matter, my dear,” Coran assures, seemingly reading Lance’s mind. “I just wanted you to know. So you can remind yourself when you’re having trouble remembering.”