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Klance
TW: self-harm, relapse, unhealthy coping
phone thread feels
He doesn’t know how long the streak he’s breaking is, and that should bother him more than it does. It’s been long enough that it’s stopped being a “streak;” started being his normal life.
Klance
TW: self-harm, relapse, unhealthy coping
phone thread feelsHe doesn’t know how long the streak he’s breaking is, and that should bother him more than it does. It’s been long enough that it’s stopped being a “streak;” started being his normal life.
He’s Lance McClain, and he doesn’t do *that* anymore. *That* is an earth thing; a *weak* thing, back when he’d had the privilege of being weak. He’s a paladin, now, and paladins don’t do silly things like break open shaving razors or sink their fingernails into their forearms.
They probably don’t cry like him, either, though. They don’t bounce one leg and then the other to try and stop the numb panic spreading without anyone noticing. They don’t say, “Roger that!” when they mean, “I’m drowning, I think. Can you drown in air?”
So maybe he’s not a paladin. Maybe he’s just wearing the armour.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. The responsibilities are the same, it just hurts a little more this way. Makes it a little harder, because he can’t come out and say, “I’m not strong like you guys.”
Either way, it doesn’t matter. The responsibilities are the same, it just hurts a little more this way. Makes it a little harder, because he can’t come out and say, “I’m not strong like you guys.”
They wouldn’t believe him, anyway. Voltron is all ‘you can do it, believe in yourself’ bravado, and he already *knows* all that. Of course he can do it. He *will* do it, what other option does he have?
He just can’t do it *gracefully* like them.
He just can’t do it *gracefully* like them.
He’s just got to make a *mess*.
Things that function as shaving razors are hard to come by in space, so it’s a real shame to lose one.
God, he’s just got to be *selfish* about his mess, too, doesn’t he?
Things that function as shaving razors are hard to come by in space, so it’s a real shame to lose one.
God, he’s just got to be *selfish* about his mess, too, doesn’t he?
He’d kind of thought that, should this ever happen again, it’d be frenetic. He’d thought he’d cut his finger trying to get a blade out and shake too hard to hold it steady.
But all that comes earlier—comes before *this*.
But all that comes earlier—comes before *this*.
He’d wailed and cried and dug his fingers into his scalp and repeated that he couldn’t do this, *he couldn’t do this*, but he *was*, how the fuck was he *still here, doing this shit*?
But then all that had stopped.
And he’d known what he was going to do.
But then all that had stopped.
And he’d known what he was going to do.
He’d known that it should upset him, too; known it’s a horrible, ridiculous decision to make. But it hadn’t. And even *that* hadn’t upset him.
What are all these little upsets compared to the great big Not Okay that he’s been for who knows how long now?
What are all these little upsets compared to the great big Not Okay that he’s been for who knows how long now?
So there’s no panic in it, just resignation and a little bitterness at his own lack of resolve. He snaps the little razor apart, and it’s trickier than the ones on earth. It takes some real doing. (God, he has so long to change his mind, and it never even *occurs* to him.)
He chooses the cleanest, sharpest one, and considers carefully the spot least likely to be seen. (Maybe his mama had been right, maybe he should have been a doctor with how clinical he’s being right now. Ha ha.)
There’s an alien bracelet on his bedside table in his room. He doesn’t wear it much—it’s kind of gaudy and too chunky to get under his armour—but Keith’d picked it up for him and he likes looking at it as he falls asleep.
It’ll work.
It’ll work.
He’ll probably feel awful about using it that way. It feels kind of awful now, just thinking about it, but not awful enough.
(That’ll be worse, later: the fact that he’d recognized all the selfish, awful details in the moment, and they hadn’t been awful enough to stop him.)
(That’ll be worse, later: the fact that he’d recognized all the selfish, awful details in the moment, and they hadn’t been awful enough to stop him.)
So he chooses a spot an inch above the wrist and goes about it. It’s not even a *thing*; just four measured, careful, inch-long drags and it’s done.
His hands don’t even shake. He doesn’t shed a tear.
There’s no profound rush of relief, either; no pain pouring out of him.
His hands don’t even shake. He doesn’t shed a tear.
There’s no profound rush of relief, either; no pain pouring out of him.
It stings a little, and he feels grossly proud at the way he can push through it (he’d chickened out his first couple times as a younger teen—look how much he’s grown, *haha*). There’s not much blood, just narrow red lines that only bloom after long, almost itchy seconds.
‘There,’ he thinks. ‘That’s done.’
It just *is*, this thing he’s done, and he realizes that maybe his broken streak isn’t that upsetting because he just *is*, too. He’s just weak like that; off like that; not-quite-right like that. He’s janky in all things, so why not this, too?
It just *is*, this thing he’s done, and he realizes that maybe his broken streak isn’t that upsetting because he just *is*, too. He’s just weak like that; off like that; not-quite-right like that. He’s janky in all things, so why not this, too?
Afterward he feels...not better, definitely, but not quite as out of control. He feels wrung out in a way he can understand. There are knots in him, but they’re ones he knows, and even if he can’t undo them, they’re better than the ones that had been choking him before.
“How are you feeling?” Keith asks when Lance gets back to their room. “Are you okay?”
Whatever it’s done, it’s worked. Lance nods and smiles and says, “Yeah, sorry, just panicked there for a sec, you know?” and Keith nods and holds him close and doesn’t suspect a thing.
Whatever it’s done, it’s worked. Lance nods and smiles and says, “Yeah, sorry, just panicked there for a sec, you know?” and Keith nods and holds him close and doesn’t suspect a thing.
Lance puts on the bracelet and tells Keith it’s because he’s wanting a little extra comfort and he deserves it when he finds the rough alien fabric makes his wrist itch and sting something fierce.
“I’m okay,” Lance promises. “I’ll be okay.”
“I’m okay,” Lance promises. “I’ll be okay.”
He’s not sure if he’s lying, but it sounds like a nice truth and Keith holds his hand and nods like he really believes it, so Lance tries his best to believe it, too.
