Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is nothing.

No heat. No cold.

Empty nothingness.

Perhaps possibility, perhaps inevitability.

There is nothing, and then there is pain.

It begins like a sunburn. Light and present. Reminiscent of a constant energy and power.

Like lounging in the sand, hearing the waves crest and whisper back out.

Then it begins to ache.

It starts in the teeth. Root by root it grabs hold and trembles.

Spreading out across the jaw, like being butted with the end of a gun.

It Burns .

Deep burning, aching and wrenching.

Every muscle twitches and spasms. The skin is roiling to get away from the current of electricity slowly poisoning the meat and bones.

The darkness of nothing is being ripped apart as something crackles and pops. Ripping apart the seams and shoving inside something writhing and obscene.

There’s a sea-bunny in his veins. It contorts and writhes and forcible pushes through his arteries and the thin thin blood vessels of his skin.

It crawls and moves until it’s lodged in his throat, and it sucks out every breath he tries to take.

He’s choking on the creature in his lungs. The disease spreading through his blood.

When he was eight, he had drowned.

A loose bit of anchor line had wrapped around his ankle and dragged him down into the water.

He wasn’t afraid of dying then.

He was amazed that you could see a rainbow underwater.

Drowning was nothing like this.

He sees the starbursts. The tiny hemorrhage splitting apart above his irises. Like a nebula suddenly manifesting in the pitch black din of space. Tiny white flares of new-born stars leaving behind the blue-black supernovas. His head is filling up and the thing suffocating him is heaving.

He can’t feel the pain though. It’s like looking at a bacteria or virus writhing under the intense eye of a microscope. He’s been thrown out of his body and can only feel it with numb unseeing hands.

But at the same time, he knows exactly where the circuits connect.

It’s like looking into the breaker box. Tucked behind the rack of nice church clothes in the side-house. Old wood creaking beneath his feet as he pulls and pushes apart the old boxes and screeching wheels.

He rips open the door, thin metal flimsy and rusted tightly to the wall. A ring of rust welding the machinery together. His nails turn red with his attempts to scrape and dig away the metal. Blood drip-drip-dripping to the sea burnt wood beneath his feet.

The door gives with a squeal.

The squeal becomes sharp cries and whimpers.

He is kneeling, blind and deaf.

Salt digs into his knees, and the dry wind of the Badwater Basin scraping across his skin and sending tiny shards of glass down his throat.

There’s still a current...

It’s blinding, pain and crippling fear wrapping around his fingers and squelching against his palms as he digs into the delicate machine housing such pesky hardware.

He finds a wire and rips at it, and the machine jerks and cries out in childlike fear.

“It’s okay…” his mouth parts and closes but what comes out is the clatter of teeth and chalk.

“Once it’s out...you’ll feel better…” He’s wheezing and choking on his own tongue but the words rush out like a hurricane.

He doesn’t remember being one to talk to mechanical objects like pets, to treat machines like children.

He rips and rends. The cries are loud and piercing and come to him in the rumble of thunderclaps against the dry salt flats. He feels tears pouring down his face, because it begins to rain and the rain soaks through his clothes.

Then, once he’s pushed and tore through enough viscera, he feels the pulsating creature that emits the volcanic burst of static and doubt.

It wriggles and beats. It feels like it tries to match with the hammering pulse in his fingers, but each time it syncs he is wrenched with pain and sorrow.

Then, with a great shout- he rips the motherboard out of the machine.

His eyes open all at once. Like they were ripped apart by unseen hands.

Its bright light, piercing and rupturing the sensitive tissue of his retina.

It makes his skitter away and hide like a street cat in the beam of a flashlight.

He blinks, and the starburst novas return in vengeance.

His palms skid against the salt, and the sting is hardly anything compared to the relief of being free from the static and electricity that had been frying his insides.

He falters, gasps like a tuna on the wharfing. Sucking in air but not being able to taste the loam of surf he knows he should be sinking into.

It’s rust. Cooper and tang and it sticks to his teeth like a blade against bone.

His vision clears. And the salt is stained bright bright crimson.

Like a strawberry, dipped in sugar.

The world is white. End to end its white. The sky and the earth have blended together and become a solid pulsing plane of white. And right at its center He kneels in a slowly radiating halo of blood and oil.

He stares, in horror. The first emotion to properly connect with the sights he feel.

Before him, only a foot or two away, lays his own body.

But it’s not Him. It’s a him before.

Before water and ice. Before sky and fire. Before the mechanical purrs and soft prosthetic whirrs.

It’s him, but younger. Naive and gentle and joyful. Not scarred with the gaping gorge of war and loss.

Not a scar, not a blemish. Just the even touch of sun and heritage stretched across the shattered rib cage. His chest is pried open like a music box, and out spills wires and coils drenched in blood and oil. The wires are still twitching, little jolts of electricity still forcing movement through the body.

Lungs exposed to the salt begin to wither and shrink.

And He feels the clamp in his chest and he gasps as his back bows out and his blood-soaked hands dig into his throat uselessly.

The body is shuddering. Sobbing. Thrumming with current and fire.

The heart, a half mutilated lump of coal and sand-glass. It thump-thump-thumps away between their hands. There’s an ooze of dark purple oil that shines like the feathers of a peacock in the bright light.

His body, both of them, are writhing against the salt and the skin is stretching farther and farther to fit the ever-growing collapse of his lungs. His lips parted but only clicks and screams come out.

He knows that he has to kill it.

The boy.

The boy is not him.

He repeats it, in screams and the morse code of his nails clacking against the dry compounded soil.

He has to kill it...and he will because it is not him.

He is not there, he is not here.

He died.

He remembers dying. Like trees remember how to grow when they burst from the pod.

Like trying to wade through the surf on weak current addled legs.

The sword appears in his hand. It’s bright red and clean sterilized white and he grips it like a scalpel between his palms. He drags his knees across the salt and it rips away the black under armor of his flight suit.

There’s a rumble. Like the roar of thunder on the other side of the horizon.

He stumbles and falls and he’s looking face to face with the boy.

Lance looks at him, tears streaming down his too-dry cheeks. He’s begging but the thunder is deafening in His ears. The weakest pleas and begging sobs.

Even while dead, he still knows compassion.

He sees a flash, a shooting comet across his eyelids- of a woman gently touching his face and coaxing the air back through his lungs.

He presses his forehead to Lance’s. He whispers, “It’s okay...you can’t let go now...I’m going to help you...”

The heart is hammering away in the heaving maw of the open wound. Thunderous and sparking out like a ruptured node. The thunder is resonating from within and without.

The sword pierces through and drags like walking through wet sand.

All at once the heat and swell of the salt vanishes. The sky screeches open and reveals the undulating mass of the universe.

The earth cracks open and out pours the cleanest water. Bright blue and shimmering with the cosmos reflecting from above. Galaxies pooling like milk and oil and washing away the blood-soaked salt until it swirls and becomes the precarious patterns of solar systems.

He’s hunched over the delicate frame of a little boy.No more than five. The sword is his own hand, plunged deep into the earth through the body.

Dull, space-blue eyes look unseeingly at the sky. Little flashes of far away light reflect back from the glassy irises. The stars above dropping out and crashing into the water like pebbles.

He looks at the tiny body, and a low mourning sound rips apart his throat.

All the air that had been trapped in his chest, that cracked his ribs and splintered his sternum- came rushing out in a desperate wail.

He wrenched his arm away, and only a second later the hole welled up with the clearest water. Bright and twinkling and dancing in the light. A spring came rushing out the little boy’s chest, pouring out and across the unmarred skin like raindrops.

It dissolved into the water, and little minnows writhed away from the drops out into the vast emptiness of the plane of water.

He sobs. Wails and screams.

He buries his face into damp hair, so carefully he cradles the body to his chest and weeps.

Minnows and guppies spill out across his arms and become whales and sharks, leaping out of the shin-deep water and crashing back down miles away.

He feels no pain. The constant aching has vanished and left him hollowed out like the hole in the child’s chest.

Then, there are hands grasping his shoulders.

Calloused and rough and desperately yanking him away from the body.

They reach across and wrap around his chest, and if he weren’t sobbing with grief, he would feel the warmth breaths against his ear.

It’s trying to pull him away. But if he leaves, then he will collapse into sea-foam.

He can’t leave this little boy to die alone. Not when such tiny hands reach out to him.

His arms reach out, clutching at the water and pulling out jellyfish and crabs as he tries to swim back to the boy.

The water churns. A whale comes crashing out and the surf rises up in a mighty whitecap.

The foam and surf becomes stiff tuff and sand. It rises up as the singular point of land in an endless sea.

He sees the boy standing there. Wide-eyed and blank-faced. A gaping hole pouring out endless water and the essence of life.

From the hole, falls out a large seed. It plops into the water and foam froths around it.

A thing begins to grow. Limbs snapping together and expanding.

A heart and lungs piecing together with rock shards and seaweed. Limpets and barnacles for eyes and ears.

It clings to the rocks, claws leaving gouges in the soft stone.

Then it hauls itself up, and sloughs off the foam to leave behind a clear coat of soft soft fur and muscle.

A lion comes forth. Shaking itself off and splattering starlight across the rocks.

It looks like Mother of Pearl, tinkling away into the water with gentle plops.

The pair watch as he is dragged away into the crashing sea. The little boy’s hand clutching at the lions scruff. The Lion leans and gently, tenderly, presses it’s forehead to the boys.

There is a burst of light, like the fresh spark of a fire or the sudden catch of ions in the sky. Then they both shimmer out, like sunlight on the water.

Lance is blinded as he sinks into the water.  

He feels the icy water itching against his chest.

He feels the deep, deep ache of a spark in his heart.

He wakes up.

Chapter Text

Lance wakes up.

His voice is caught somewhere between a scream and a hoarse cough. Strangled words desperately trying to find their way out but his tongue is aching and he can taste the copper tang of blood against his teeth.

Something about that makes him jolt but there are hands gently easing him back down.

His back is being pressed to someone’s chest, and small petite hands are pushing his bangs back. Someone gently opens his mouth and he winces, the blood smell filling his nose quickly.

Then there are voices, in different pitches swirling around his unsteady eyes. The room is spinning like a cereal topper. It’s dark though, and its relief to his eyes even though they only feel the phantom pain of a lingering forgottenness.

He tries to speak, but its garbled and whimpers out pathetically

A hot hand presses to his cheek and he leans into it blindly. Content to close his eyes and let these wandering touches protect him from the nausea building up...so... quickly…

With a lurch and a couple of shouts, he wrenches himself away. His eyes cannot focus, but they see the figures gathered around as warbling shapes and manage to aim his bile away.

It’s acid against a wound, he gags on the taste more than the actual process of throwing up.

Hands smooth circles over his back and shoulders, those small ones back to wiping away his hair. Someone is shouting though, loud and bellowing and he shudders. He doesn’t realize he’s sobbing until those warm hands are wiping away his tears.

Everything else comes in waves of awareness.

The room changes.

It goes from being cool and dark, to cold and bright.

The smell of bile is peeled away, his mouth is forced to swish around something sharp and pungent before spitting out the awful tastes.

He’s being handled every which way, but the constant touch of a calloused hand keeps him grounded. It runs across his exposed shoulders, through his hair. He feels it swipe a wet cloth across his nape and chest and he teeters over, caught swiftly against a strong chest.

But then he’s laying down, and there’s the most obnoxious beeping ringing around his empty head.

All lingering traces of a dream lost to the smell of sharp Rubbing Alcohol and Neroli Oil.

He takes in his sense bit by bit, and refuses to open his eyes while he does so.

He feels...cold. Very cold. But protected from the chill by a blanket.

There’s an itch against his chest. Like the too-new medical clothes he’s familiar with. Then there is the dry scratch of his hoarse throat, an ache in his fingers, and something soft rubbing against his knuckles.

Hand. A hand is gently petting his and it coaxes him back fully into the world of the awake and alive. Almost, at least.

His eyes opened slowly. Sleep glued together, or it was the crying that got them all messed up.

Either way, he has to blink until the images clear and go their to their separate allocations.

He’s laying in a hospital bed. It’s one in the emergency ward, with all the bland no patterned fabrics and easily disposed of materials.

The window is shaded, but bright afternoon light is trying its best to blind him when he darts his eyes that way, so he escapes back to the cool dark of the unlit room.

That way lay new perils, much in the form of his very tired sister hunched over his bed and petting his hand slowly. The machine beside her ticks and whirs away cheerfully as his body begins to re-acclimate to functionality.

Veronica is in her pajamas, her short hair is going every which way and she’s gt her glasses all cock-eyed from laying her head down against her forearm. She’s awake, but only just so. She must be enough awake to feel his hand twitch because she shoots up and hovers above him anxiously.

He can hear her talking, but the words are sluggish and his brain is too tired to figure it out. So he just smiles, gentle and sleepy and she returns the gesture with fondness.

“Oh...of course you’re not back yet…”   it's coming through, but like a song through a radio. There’s static somewhere in the room and it makes his skin itch.

“You gave everyone a real scare. The doctors say you’re fine, but I know Lindsay and I know when she’s enforcing patient confidentiality...so it’s up to you to go the full mile.”

She smiles and smoothes his hair back and just feels his skin as he breathes. There’s a fear there, in the eyes that reflect his own. Deep and hidden but unabashedly vulnerable because that’s who they are.

Then she turns, looking at the corner near the window.

Lance wants to follow, but the light petting in his hair makes his eyes heavy so he starts to drift again. Lazy, like in a pool floaty at the end of summer when everything is sun-drunk.

“He’s awake?” Rumbles out a familiar voice.

It stirs something, makes a hummingbird flutter around his gut and tries to reach into his chest...but something stops it dead. Something mean and sharp and he whimpers without meaning to.

Then there’s a new hand combing through his hair. Delicate, careful. The fingertips are rough and scarred and oh so achingly familiar.

Lance tries to open his eyes again, just for a second. Just to see Shiro in the soft light of the hospital room.

He sees the white hair, the dark worried eyes. Then Shiro smiles and oh-so-softly touches his cheek.

“Hey there you...I was so worried…”

Lance wants to speak, to reassure his friend that everything is okay. Just like he’s always done for Shiro. But his words come out as a sigh and a garbled murmur.

“Oh. I don’t think he’s actually back yet…just too stubborn to rest fully.”

There’s the soft breath of laughter, then she’s pulling the blankets around and tucking him back in neatly. It’s so warm and soft now and he’s melting into the thin mattress.

“Stubborn, or resilient.” Shiro chuckles and he’s moving around to the side of the bed with the pulled up chair, ”Go ahead and get some sleep ‘Nica...I’ll take over from here.”

“I’d say that you should rest too, but I know you well enough by now to know you won’t be sleeping anymore.”  She replies with a snort and then she’s leaning over to weakly hug Lance while he drifts closer and closer to the darkness again.

She leaves then, and the room is quiet except for the steady breathing and the cheerful beeping. It settles, with Shiro lightly holding Lance’s hand in his own and thumb making little infinity signs on his scarred knuckles.

Lance lets his eyes stay closed. And he relishes the simple touch. That hummingbird is still kicking up a fuss but the pain of its blockade is a physical thing, making him whimper in his half sleep state.

The hand tightens its grip, and the hospital chair creaks.

“Shh shh...it’s alright. You’re safe here Lance...I’ll watch over you.”

He feels the chaste press of lips to his forehead, and where he should feel some bright bubble of joy - it seems to be covered in a sheen of pungent oil. Something dark, still lingering in his mind…

But the room becomes filled with a steady hum, and Lance lets the darkness slip away with his consciousness.

Sometime later though, he’s awake again.

There’s something, someone, sitting on the bed with him. Neatly poised, on the very edge, but leant over him... Just watching.

His brain musn't be firing, because he doesn’t feel any fear.

There’s a sense of radiating warmth, then sand scrapped fingers are rubbing his hands and easing some of the ache leftover in the knuckles and tips.

He feels the rasp of leather fitting neatly palm to palm with his hand, then those deft fingers are pushing his hair back and lightly tracing the hairline for a moment.

A thumb catches on the still raised scar that sits just on his temple. A piece of glass from his visor when the big battle ended, something small but it dug deep into his skin at the time.

“I don’t know how...how you can be so strong all the time.”

Someone is whispering, someone vulnerable and still too-young.

“Even like this. You’re still so strong.” The fingers brush his cheek, then settle against the scar on his jaw from the blast at the very beginning of their days as paladins.

“I’m going to be better. I’ll be better and help you more...I’ll find a way to keep those dreams away. You have my word.”

Lance isn’t really thinking. But something in that vow makes his heart thunder and the pain pierce through the sensitive tissue again.

In his mind, he hears his own voice rattling.

You can’t save me from myself.

Chapter Text

The next time he dreams, it is not disorienting or painful.

It is calm, and cool. A gentle wind brings him out of darkness and into a bright morning.

He looks at his hands, brown and clean. There are no familiar scars of a tremor that he could not shake.

He feels his body whole, complete. No throbbing back with a muscle that refused to fuse back together after the burn damage. Certainly no chest pain- though he couldn’t fathom why there would be.

He is aware, fully, that he is dreaming.

He looks around with wide eyes, trying to remember this place.

All around him is green. Bright green. Beautiful and clean and it eases his tensed shoulders.

Hills, large, small, wide and narrow. Rolling across a plain with gentle ease and time-honored calm. The grass is knee-height, and it signals him with thick emerald blades. Like a farm-grown field, but for endless miles either way he sees no equipment nor any sign of other life.

Sewn to the green with an expert stitch, is blue blue sky.

Bright azure, deep and thoughtful. Blue that goes on endlessly upwards and treats the eye to mystery and peace. It’s an open sky, and sparsely decorated with the fluffiest clouds imaginable. Big round cotton ball clusters that lazily float like leaves on a lake.

It’s blue as blue can get, like a perfect crayon replication.

But when Lance looks straight up, he imagines that beyond the blue he sees the twisting cacophony of the universe. Stars that emit the subtlest light that his eye cannot focus on.

He’s walking barefoot, and the dirt beneath the grass is supple and damp. Clumps of earth get caught between his toes and cling to his ankles as he walks through the grass, no clear path ahead of him- but behind him, when he turns, he sees the parted and patted down grass and can trace a long long line behind himself...even though he can’t remember walking more than a few feet.

The grass as he walks whispers. Gently brushing against his jeans and the plain white t-shirt he wears. He breaths in the scent of petrichor and chlorophyll that stirs up as his hands slide along the tops of the grass, dewy blade tugging at his fingers as he passes them before they spring back to place.

Somewhere, beyond the gentle swish of the grass at his hands- a great sound arose. Like distant waves that rose and fell out of sight. With each pass of wind, cool and sprinkled with the hint of rain and summer, the grass moved in a solid wave that stretched like an endless ocean. But somehow, even through the rush of plant life and wind, he could hear the faintest sound of difference.

A tinkling noise, like a windchime just far enough away to be heard but lost in the wind’s change. Timid crystalline sounds that came from ahead, and lead his footsteps through the fields.

Somewhere deep in his core, this place felt familiar. Like walking through a grocery store and catching a scent, or hearing a voice, and the world fades away as the body strains to remember why it knows these things so well. Not things purposefully forgotten, but simply faded like color off of yarn when left in the sun. Warm, pastel, and slowly losing its hold.

He wants to remember though - so he walks. And walks. And walks.

He walks and listens, following the pull of his lungs that hone in on the delicate sound. But no matter how hard he tries to keep count, he cannot force his mind to accept how far or how long he walks. He does not tire, nor strain. Where he would surely be aching from his hip and back, he feels light and hollow but waiting.

He walks, and the minutes tick into years. Years in eternity. Never seeing ahead, but always able to look back and see the winding path behind him.

He walks until the flatter dips and rises of earth become stepper, and the sound of the chime becomes lost behind something else.

Cicadas...the sound of cicadas trilling, but there are no trees for miles. Forever.

He remembers where there where cicadas, where there were hills to climb and trees to lean against.

Slowly, the bowl he stands in changes around him. Grass twines together and bends into shapes, the largest ones are tall pines that tower at the crest of the hill and then fade backwards out of sight. Grass becomes metal, and two sets of stand bracket him on either side as the bowl flattens out and becomes a large cropped field with painted lines.

It’s a football field. Or what looks like one. It’s old and the grass is new. The field is nestled into a steep climb, and at the front he sees the steepest point rise up until it becomes a solid cement building that connects with the stairs that tumble out onto the field.

To his left, is the away side. With old metal bleachers and stairs that clatter under unseen feet. There are paintings along the metal, and they waver with each step and clang together in warbling notes. Then, to his right, is the home teams bleachers. They rise up high onto the hill, and at there top is the cement broadcasting building, with its wires and megaphones haphazardly strewn about.

He watches the bleachers bend and shake. But sees no bodys. He hears cleats digging into the abused ground, but sees no players.

He walks across the field and past the flimsy chain link fence that materializes out of roots and supple blades. He can hear the metal creak as wind comes funneling into the valley and up the slope of the hill.

The Hill, in all its glory.

Set between concessions and the home teams bleachers, was the single most used hill for miles. It was just steep enough that charging up it was difficult but possible, and it tapered at either end into “Completely Impossible” and “These are just stairs”.

He stands at the foot of it, and looks up its impossibly historical slope. Years of his childhood spent on this one piece of land, tumbling and crashing down into the fence at his back with the reckless abandoned of someone who’d never known pain or strife. Who’s only fear was whether or not the game would end too soon.

With a single-minded drive, and the clattering of chimes on the other side of the hill’s crest - he begins to climb.

He takes large handfuls of dirt and grass and hauls himself up on hands and knees. Puffing and sniffing as grass tickles his chin and shins. Above him, large stalks begin to tower into pines and he can smell the turpentine and sap from his place half way up.

The dirt is staining his skin, the grass has left wet patches at his knees that turn dark jewel green. He digs in and clambers up until he’s standing on the other side of the short rocky barrier and his feet are planted on the crumbling asphalt path.

He picks gravel from his hands, and looks down at the field.

The cicadas up here are a deafening symphony. They thunder above and beside him and its relentless thrum that echoes in his hollow chest.

He turns towards the trees, and cannot see their tiny bodies building up crescendos, but he dutiful recalls the pattern of their wings in his mind's eye.

Before he turns his back to the field, to see what is on the other side of the hill-top, something barrels into him and causes him to almost lose his balance.

He gasps, and spins to watch a dark shadow fling itself down the grass. Followed by more and more.

Shadows, small child like shadows with no sound connected to their moving parts. Some on pizza boxes, some doing full somersaults. He watches them like a rockfall, little stones that go clink against the metal fence.

The field has shadows as well, just as incomplete.

He can hear the clash of armor wear and helmets, can hear the shout of plays and the thump of the ball. But he can’t find the source of any note with the cicadas in his ear.

The bleachers are just as bustling now, filled with parents and teachers. Friends and family all caught in a single wave of noise that not one emits themself. He watches in awe as they shift and move in a wave that mimics the grass enticing him on the other side of the asphalt.

Through the din, the cheer and the clatter of sports - he can hear the windchime.

It’s so much clearer now, and he knows its below him. So he backs away from the field and faces the opposite side with an ache in his chest for fond days of May with the warm evenings that stick to his skin in beads. Like sap from a pine.

Across the walking path, looking down, he feels his stomach lurch at the sheer drop before him.

Still a hill, this one looks like it stretches down for miles. And endless expanse of smooth grass and smooth land that would be utterly foolhardy to go either way upon.

But there, in the valley created by this mythical beast, is a home.

As he looks down, and behind him the field and fond memories fade away as seeds, drifting on the wind that surges around him and plummets into the valley.

The house is small and obviously one story. With a dark roof and an indeterminable color that blends into the grass. He can see from here, a small garden wrapping around to the backyard, boxed in with a neat white fence and decorated with twinkling adornments.

The sun is setting now, out to his side it has begun to sink into the soil and cast a golden haze across the land. Turning emerald into olivine. He watches, bleary eyed, as someone leaves the garden with full hands and wander down a gravel path to the front of the wrap around porch.

As they ascend the stairs, he finally sees the source of the tinkling melody. Or at least, the glint of it, as the wind surges and the clattering metal echoes up to his ears.

He is struck with a deep longing. A sudden need to be there on that porch, to hand off vegetables and fruits and to embrace the lone figure waiting there.

There is but one way down the hill.

He squats, and for a moment he simply watches the house and the horizon beyond it.

The grass goes on for miles, without a single interruption until it almost blinks from his sight. There, at the end of his vision, lie the trees.

Thick, tall, and invariable redwood. They stretch out into the future that he cannot see himself walking into it. Cannot imagine himself being able to walk far enough to brace himself against their trunks. And beyond them, the hint of far rockier slopes and cold winds. A future that is only close at a distance.

He moves, flat on his belly at the top of the hill. He places his head on his arms and watches the figure that waits on the porch. He must see them, must meet them there.

He takes a breath, inhales the viridium and ochre - and with a sudden lurch he’s falling.

His world becomes a nauseous twirl of dark green and deep blue. With brief flickers of gold that burn his eyes and leave him blind. A sound builds up behind his ribs, it grows until a bump that makes his body rise into the air for second and come crashing down again releases it.

A shout, a sharp cry, the peal of laughter that bubbles out until he is screaming with delight.

Laughter that is unfamiliar in his mouth. Even before a time of pain he had not laughed so freely, so loudly. It is broken up by squeals and ecstatic cries. Sounds that do not echo but reverberate through his chest.

But, as tall as the hill is - is as short the journey down.

He comes to his gradual end. Sprawled out with limbs askew at the foot of the hill, his chest heaving in more laughter and panting breaths. His vision is still twirling, and as it fights to right itself he focuses on the grass digging into his arms, the dirt smeared across his skin and above his eye.

He looks beyond the sky, as azure becomes deep deep indigo and then more intricate colors. Stars begin to splatter together, and beyond the sky he sees the universe sprawling out as his reflection. Like a watercolor, bleeding into his eyes.

His laughter has died down enough for him to realize that he is in that little houses yard. And that chime is chattering away to his side.

The chime, and the bright laughter.

The figure is laughing, but he cannot see still. Only blurs of colors come to him as someone approaches, keening with laughter.

There is laughter all around, bubbling up from the short blades of grass and tumbling down from the atmosphere.

Someone lifts him, with a strong hand to his shoulder and back, he’s sat up and his world does more somersaults. He sways, and the hand wraps around his shoulder securely, and it warms his skin with the likes of a summer day.

Even though he is blinded by vertigo, he feels happy. Content, like he had not known the word before this moment. Like nothing else ever mattered, unless it directly placed him hear in this warm pocket of setting sunshine and twinkling evening.

His laughter is hoarse, he’s secure anchor is sharp and unused to the noise, and the third laughter coming from the side of the chimes is bellowing with timber.

He is then being helped to his feet. He cannot see who stands near him, his vision to hazy and sun blind. But he feels their hands, small and rough but fond, as they brush grass off his shirt and dirt from his arms. He hears the deep voice beckon them inside for dinner, to Stay .

He wants to wrap his arms around the both of them, drag them down and hold onto them like he could never before. Like he can never again. Like he never has.

He goes to say as much, but the laughter in his throat becomes a sharp cry on his tongue.

Pain, pain from every angle.

It feels as though his body has gone plummeting again, but there is no gentle slope to guide his fall. Only jagged stone and slate, and te arsh scrap of gravel against his bones.

He sways, his breathing becoming shallow and gasping.

The hands grab at his shoulder to steady him, they pat his back and rub circles into the muscle. But they cannot hold him up as his knees tremble and collapse beneath him. His body collapsing into the yard and his vision becoming painful pinpricks.

He cries, sobs. Pain is weaving through him, beginning just above his navel and wrapping around his heart like a trout-line snared in the weeds.

His anchor is shushing him, coaxing him to stretch his legs and fall into their warm side. He whimpers and warbles out pained noises as hands comb back his hair and wipe dirt from his face. An all too familiar gesture against his cheek, but his pain addled mind cannot place it.

His lungs feel spongy as he tries to breath, and he inhales diamond dust that cuts into the soft tissue of his throat.

As he sobs, new hands roam. They collect his face and wipe away the tears. Then they tenderly lift him, gentle and unsure, but strong and definitive.

Easy there, easy. It says, but his blood is pounding and he feels himself tremble with pain.

I’ve got you...you can rest. The voice says.

He’s been plucked off the ground with delicate assurity. Strong arms tuck under his back and in the crook of his knees, then he’s being fitted against a large chest and his head lolls.

You’re safe Here. Says the first pair of hands. Rough and calloused words with a gentle meaning. A voice unused to kindness, but still willing to sink into it. He feels cool hands on his head, and knows he has a fever that radiates sickness.

He’s being carried, away from the hills slope and up the stairs.

The house is blue. Gentle cornflower blue with white window panes. And he loves it, he loves the house even though it’s not his own, nor does he fit into it the way these arms gently invite him to.

He lolls his head, and his eyes now focus on the rolling yard. Looking past that hushed chime, with the gentle clear crystals and thin metal fixtures. It twinkles purple and red. He looks past it to the yard, to beyond.

A boy stands at the top of the hill, looking down with a dandelion in his hand.

Little, young, like he’d wandered away from the parents and trooped up the hill all by himself.

He stands, and watches, but Lance can see him raise the flower to his mouth, heave a large breath, and blow.

All at once, the entire yard is surrounded in the white fluff of dandelion seeds.

Rising up, like a white cap in a sea of green.

The seeds flurry, like snow across a salt flat.

Like stars, drifting by.

Something brushes against his cheek, soft like the seeds, but firm like a kiss.

The door is knocked open, and he wakes before they cross the threshold.