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“Your useless Lance! You don't do anything for this team because all you ever do is screw up”
Shiro’s words hurt. They hurt like knives, like the bruise he is currently sporting from pushing Pidge out of the way, like the cuts on his legs he gained snagging that young alien kid off the ground and sliding into an alleyway with her. They hurt because Lance thinks he’s right. It hurts because no one sticks up for Lance as Shiro goes on his little triad. No one comments as Lance shoves his hands into his pockets, feigning apathey as tears burn the back of his eyes, as he makes a joke and no one hears the way his voice waivers.
He can hear the scoffs as he walks away, his team failing to realise that his brisk pace isn't his ignorance nor his apathy but him barely holding back from taking off at a run. He can feel the warmth of his tears in the cool castle as he takes a sharp turn down the hall, but before he can make it any farther he’s flat on his ass looking up at pale purple skin and white hair cascading down fine linen. Suddenly the image in front of his eyes blur and all he can see are the tears he can feel dripping down his face and a burning in his throat as he swallows hiccups down.
He almost tenses as he watches the vague shapes of Lotor bend down onto his knees, but the reaction is immediately soothed when he hears the man speak in that soft tone, the gravel of his voice resonating through the mess that is his head. He looks up at him blearily watching as his mouth moves and the gravel registers but not a word makes it through his tears, through the blood pumping in his ear; at least that's the case until Lotor cups Lance’s face in his hands and he speaks soft and smooth and oh so comforting.
“Lance…” he drawls slowly, the deep blues of his eyes meeting the lighter blue of Lance’s teary ones. “Lance, are you okay?”
He takes in a lung full of air as Lotors words finally register and he shakes his head, putting distance between the two of them until his back hits the wall. “I'm fine! I’m- yeah- I'm fine… sorry for bumping into you.” He mumbles, rubbing his palms into his eyes.
“It is okay, Lance, it was not on purpose. Are you sure you are okay?” He stays on the floor just looking at Lance and staying on his level. “Pardon me, but you do not look well.”
That at least pulls a chuckle from Lance, even if it's a little wet and unsteady. “Thank you, I didnt think youd notice the effort I put into my appearance.” The words are sarcastic, bitten softly, but without malice, just with, in Lance’s opinion, an embarrassing amount of tears.
“Yeah, you are a real winner with this look. What do you call it? Pre panic sheek?”
“You're an ass, Princey.”
“Thank you.”
Lance shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes before meeting Lotor gaze once again. It’s a punch to the gut: the amount of concern he finds in them, the amount of care and genuine curiosity towards Lance and his feelings pushes the air from his already lacking lungs and before he can think the words slip unbidden from his lips. “I don't think I can stay here anymore…”
Once again Lance was shocked by Lotors look. Understanding crossed the half-galra’s face and it made Lance unable to breathe. Does he understand? Is it not all in Lance’s head? Is he really that-
“They do not treat you well, Lance, I can agree with your desire to leave.” His voice reaches Lance in slow motion, he feels like Lotor is speaking through a bubble or some thick slime. “You are worth more than they could ever give you credit for.”
Again, Lance is flabbergasted and the only thing he can manage is a quiet, shaky “what?”
Lotor just looks at him for a moment in a way that makes Lance feel like he's getting scolded at the Garrison.
“You are… amazing… you know that right? You do so much. I mean I saw you save the green one today, and the young girl even at the expense of yourself… Lance, that's what real paladins do.”
Lance sees Lotors face twist more than he can feel the tears. Can see the man approach him across the floor slowly and take his face into his hands again; can feel the slightly calloused palms against his cheeks and the soft pads of his thumbs ghosting over his cheek bones. The only thing he can do is feel the sensations of his skin against his own and let the tears roll down his face until his own mind betrays him and more words fall from his lips. “Take me- take me with you when you leave.” He doesn’t even know why he says it, why he lets the words fall like his tears, unbidden and embarrassing. He doesn’t know Lotor well, he doesn’t think the man even likes him more than a colleague, but nonetheless.
Lotor looks at him for a moment again, and Lance assumes he is pondering. “I will think about it, little blue. Until then allow me the honor of getting to know you?”
And Lance nods, because what the hell else is he going to do. It’s not like he has other people to talk to anyway and the prince seems like good company, so yes, he nods.
Lance has to admit the weeks with Lotor have been some of his best since finding Blue on earth after Shiro crash landed. He has still dealt with the occasional triad from Shiro or from Allura and he still fights with Kieth like cats and dogs, but he feels good. Feels understood and seen in a way he's never felt around anyone else. I guess that's why he feels his throat closing and his head splitting now as he clutches the note Lotor left on his pillow between his hands, the prince's elegant handwriting bleeding as the tears that he can’t even feel roll down his face onto the paper. An apology , an apology for having to leave. For having to leave Lance. A promise to come back.
Lance moves through the next days, weeks, almost a full month in a blur, a mere husk of himself, until he's back where he started.
“Are you kidding me Lance? Are you serious? You screwed up again . It's all you ever do .” Shiro’s voice. It's always Shiro’s voice seemingly tearing through his head like a knife tears through flesh. “You aren't even good for anything. You never fucking are! I can't deal with your failures any longer.” Lance watches as Shiro shakes his head, ever the fatherly disappointment. He swallows down the panic, the anxiety that bubbles in his throat as he blinks back the hot sting of tears behind his eyes.
“You’re staying here for now until I decide to bring you back out. We’ll make due without Voltron until further notice.”
He nods hallowly, moving despite his limbs feeling like lead. The tears dont begin to burn down his face until he reaches his room, the door opening before Lance collapses just past the threshold. The sobs ripping from his throat burn, his eyes burn, his lungs burn, his head burns, everything burns as he finds hollow solace in the carpet beneath his hands and knees.
He wakes hours later if the clock on his wall is any indication. He stands unsteadily, moving mechanically to tuck Lotors note in his pocket before making his way from his room and into the halls. He feels like a ghost wandering the halls of a plastic city of faux wonder . Nothing feels, Lance cant feel anything as he turns the corner, feels nothing as his hand glides along the cold walls, feels nothing as he stands at the threshold of the lion's hanger. Lance doesn't think, just stands like a shadow, haunting his own purpose as if it never belonged to him despite the tug of the blue lion, her soul inexplicably intertwined with his own. He moves away from the door back into the hall.
He finds himself in the training room next, but he actually enters this time, picking up a practice bayard which shifts the moment his finger brushes the white and gray metal. The rifle feels familiar, safe almost, as his hands wrap around it. He looks through the scope as he always would before flipping the switch on the wall as he always has. The simulation flairs to life in the quiet castle as the sound of buzzing and simulated steps spring into Lance’s ears and he's firing, watching as dummies burst into pixels, as every shot lands as he intends. He keeps the simulation going until his muscles ache and his bones feel brittle. Until he can't feel the no feeling, until his body is collapsing against mats instead of carpet until his head is exhausted instead of panicked.
62 days where Lance wishes for Lotor to steal him away, 62 days where Lance wants nothing more to flee the castle, 62 days of trying not to feel. 28 sleepless nights, 28 nights of Lance haunting the halls and passing out in the training room, 28 days where Shiro watches every move Lance makes. On day 29 of being benched and day 63 of Lotor being gone, Shiro calls Lance into the common area, looking him over appraisingly.
“We have decided to allow you back onto Voltron, Lance, if you can get over yourself and actually help out. How does that sound?”
Lance is not sure when Shiro's voice began to grate on his ears instead of inspire awe, when his fatherly demeanor became patronizing rather than comforting. “That sounds more than reasonable.” He mutters, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.
Shiro doesn't dignify him with a response, simply humming and looking at him disapprovingly. “You’re officially on Team Voltron again.”
Lance vaguely wishes he had been getting better sleep as he and the rest of Voltron are forced to land mayday on a planet, laser fire raining from above and Galra soldiers pursuing them on foot after a false distress call from the people of the planet. Lance’s lung aches as his heavy foot falls crunch against leaves and sticks and he's forced to throw his body to the side to narrowly avoid a blast that sails right where his head was mere seconds ago.
His body tumbles to the ground with a thump as he takes in deep breaths watching a member of the Galran’s fleet meet his eyes. He immediately pushes himself into a sitting position scooting backwards until his back hits a tree and he holds his breath as the soldier approaches.
The soldier approaches slowly, their walk is steady, almost graceful like a cat stalking prey before he gets close enough to crouch down and yet still tower over Lance in a way that makes the human press himself back into the tree. The soldier reaches a slow hand out, tipping Lance's chin up, as if to really look into his face before they push his helmet off his head.
“You look tired, little Paladin-”
Before the man can finish his sentence Lance is reaching up and pushing his helmet off, hand stalling next to his face, heat ghosting the skin. And then, like a flash, a mere impulse that strikes Lance like a bolt of lighting, he’s pulling Lotor forward by his armor until his chapped lips meet Lotor’s smooth ones. It’s chaste, lips against lips and not further, but it is nowhere near innocent and pure. Lance pours every emotion, every frustration and desire into the force of pressure against Lotor’s lips, more intimate than even sex could be. Lotor does not allow him the chance to fear if his feelings are unreciprocated before he pushes back against Lance, pressing the paladin against the tree and allowing his own feelings to register through the kiss.