#suicidal ideation and an attempt | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forestshadow-wolf · 6 months

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Cw: implied suicide attempt :/, suicidal ideation, recovery of suicide attempt, mentions of self-harm, depression, refrence to intentional self harm and overdose, Post-canon mw3, canon ending... hurt no comfort

Read with caution. This is dead dove do not eat territory it's also posted on ao3 here with better tags if you'd like

"Do you know me?"

"Ghost"

"Do you know you?"

"John. Mactavish" that was good. Really, really good.

"What do you remember?"

"..."

...oh

"Your rank?"

"Sergent"

"Mine?"

"Lieutenant"

All of his answers were slow, sluggish, as if he had to parse through the sounds to figure out how they form the questions. As if he had to remember how his tongue worked.

Ghost tried not to wince when he looked at the fresh, still pink scar that marked soap's temple, as evidence of what he's recovering from. Ghost sat forward in the plastic chair.

"Do you know me?"

"... You're... Ghost. Lieutenant in the British military." Soap took long seconds to respond, unable to understand what Ghost was asking. "... I.. I know you?" He asked just as slow, asking for confirmation.

Ghost nodded. "Has anyone else visited?"

Soap shook his head slowly, mouthing a quick word 'no'. Ghost clasped his hands together and let out an almost shaky breath as his head slumped and he pressed his thumbs into the sockets of his eyes until he saw spots behind his eyelids.

He sucked in a quick breath and nodded as he looked up at Soap again. An acknowledgement.

A silence lapsed over them for a moment, then "I just came back from a mission."

Soap looked at him blankly.

"Do you want me to tell you about it?"

A nod.

So, he sat there, telling soap how it started. He told him everything that went wrong, what went right. What he wished had happened, what had happened. He told him how he'd had to had to abandon the entire plan because he missed one tiny, miniscule detail that ruined everything. He told him how he nearly panicked, but fixed his head on right because the rest of his squad was falling apart. He told him how even through it all he still completed the mission because he needed it to be successful because, to him, there was no other option.

And soap, he sat and listened to every manc colored word that spilled from his lips. Every stuttered breath, every regret.

And when he finished, and soap looked like he wanted to say something. He nodded, as if Soap needed permission to speak, as if they were still just Sergent and Lieutenant.

"... will you... tell me another?" The words fell clumsily into existence, like his tongue was too cumbersome for his own mouth. Ghost nodded.

"Anything you want." he swallowed.

And so, he sat there, pulled his ankle up onto his knee, got comfortable. Telling story after story, well into the night. Smiling as he recounted close calls, and easy baits with a certain Sergent at his side. He recounted all the nitty-gritty details he remembered, every thought he had, every confession from his companion. And it's somewhere in there that he realizes that nothing will ever be the same again, but still he continues.

And all the while soap looks like he's looking for something, like he can feel something amiss, but can't tell what. Like he's struggling to find the light switch he knows is there in a pitch-dark room.

And soap finally parses something out.

"That's me, Isn't it? that.. the Sergent you keep mentioning." It's quiet, and slow. And Ghost very nearly panics for a moment, then he screws his head on right, and he nods. Soap smiles. "We sound fun." he says.

"Yeah." Ghost looks down at his hands. He can't help the way gloved fingers pick at gloved fingertips, pulling on a stray thread. The bone decals that coat the backs of his hands seem to call for him in a way. Not to. For. Like they knew something he didn't. "Yeah, we were." The words are quiet, and stilted, they tried to lodge in his throat and choke the life out of him.

"Then why the tears?"

Oh. He hadn't realized that he was crying. Hadn't realized he couldn't see through his tears that turned shapes into waving blobs of color.

"Be/cause we'll never be there aga/in" his voice cracked.

He hadn't realized he'd stopped looking at soap. only now realized he hadn't seen him for a while.

He leaned back in his chair. "Beca/" he had to clear his throat, "beca/use you're n/ot...". he could feel his lip begin to tremble. "you're not.. really.. h/e/re." He reached up to wipe the tears from his face with a rushed hand over his eyes, and across his cheek bones. His hand fell back into his lap, as he looked back up and he was alone again.

He looked at his bare hands as he picked at his fingernails, so used to being covered by black fabric and leather. the episodes were getting longer, worse, more vivid. Not that he cared. Now he sat useless in a stupid white gown, with stupid blue dots, that would stupidly show his bare-fuckin'-arse flapping in the cool, air-conditioned room if he were to stand. Now he laid in a stupid lump of padded plastic that they called a hospital bed, with stupidly too white linens.

A splat of grey broke up the monotony of white and baby blue, followed by another. He couldn't choke back the wet cough, and tried to itch his wrist beneath the stupid white bandages that covered each forearm. And God, did they hurt, but the doctor had ordered him off drugs completely, which meant no pain relief. he huffed a breath. whatever, it didn't matter anyway. nothing mattered much, nowadays.

It was all so fucked. What was the point anymore. Why put him here, why continue to break him, and put his together, and pull him apart over, and over, and over, again. it's like it's some kind of sick, fucking twisted game that he desperately wants out of. but he can't. not until they let him out of this damned, too-sterile smelling place.

Price came to see him often enough. And Gaz visited regularly, to leave fresh flowers, and tell him the latest news around base. Johnny never came, though. He didn't think Johnny would never come. maybe he'll go see Johnny when he gets out of this wretched place. Yeah that seemed like a good plan.

Price ordered him to be moved down from the 3rd to the ground floor after watching him look a little too concerningly at the window for the umpteenth time. It was locked, but they both knew that would turn out to be a non-issue if he wanted it to be.

He should have been out by now. Maybe. But the drugs and the blood loss, he guesses, slowed the healing process, or something. That coupled with the extended lack of oxygen, and his ruined lungs from the water probably took a heavy toll and didn't help much. Not to mention he kept re-opening his wounds every time he poked, or prodded, or scratched at him. they were keeping a close eye on him still. he just wants to go home, but Price told them not to let him go until they saw fit. Damn that man, and all his meddling in other people's business, sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

he remembered every moment of it. The chances of him failing were so, so small. if only Price hadn't been there. if only Price had just let him float away. let him finally be free. he just wanted to go home. he wanted to see Johnny again, why was that so hard to understand? he was just a little lost, if he could find Johnny then everything would be okay. why didn't Price get that? He had everything so meticulously planned, too.

like the pills- after halfway through they'd made him want to throw up so bad. and made his head hurt, and made it so hard to think. he'd sat in the tub when he took them because he knew there was no way he'd have made it there afterwards, he was sure of it now. after the fact. they made him dizzy, and his fingers felt weird. like they were fat sausages stuffed into the shape of a hand, instead of bloodstained fingers that has taken a countless number of lives, plus or minus one. and he couldn't remember if he's always felt that floaty and heavy, or if that was new.

and the knife- God, price will never let him near anything sharp ever again. it was hard making his fat, but slender sausage fingers grip the handle when he could barely feel it, it was so weird, like he was watching as a bystander in his own flesh. the first draw hurt so bad, his hands shook, and red fell from it immediately. he didn't like that, it was messy everywhere, so he turned the water on to wash it away as it flowed, even though the drain was plugged. he knew it was, could feel the pink water pool around his toes. the second made him want to throw up even more, but he didn't. he'd lost count at how many lines he'd drawn before he thought that maybe the other side should match as well, so he wasn't uneven. his hands were sweaty and cold, and again the first was the worst, but somehow not as bad as the one on this other side. maybe it was the bloodloss, or maybe it was because he couldn't feel his eyeballs... or was it that he could feel them? he hardly felt the rest after that, but he liked the motion. back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, it was so calming, he could have fallen asleep to it. he didn't feel like keeping his eyes open anymore, so he let them close, they were so heavy, like the weight of the world stood atop them.

and the tub- at some point he must have slid down into it, that was the plan anyway. it wasn't really... it wasn't what he planned, but it was a failsafe he guesses. in case the first two failed. because if he was weak from bloodloss and disoriented with poison there was no way anyone could escape that, right?

And the time- everyone would be asleep by then. it was only happenstance that price had called him about a missed detail on his last report. he'd missed it, hadn't even heard it ring, having presumably dropped his phone on his bed or the floor at some point. price knew he'd been struggling since... since it had happened, which must have been enough of a worry for him to check on Simon. unfortunately. or maybe he just really wanted the report fixed.

How unlucky he was to be found just a minute too soon. Just as he'd been the opposite for Johnny. how unlucky it was to remember the deep, muffled, bellowing cry of his Captain from deep inside his head, like he was swimming in ink. How unlucky that he found himself wheezing awake two days later in a lumpy hospital bed, with his ass hanging out in the air if he turned too far to one side. How unlucky indeed.

Soon, Johnny, soon. I'll come home soon, soon enough to sit in front of the fire place with a beer and watch the sun set, I promise. Please don't be mad at me. I love you. I'm sorry it wasn't enough for the both of us.

'Enough for the both of us'. That's what he'd said. Johnny would love them enough for the both of them. And he did. He loved them so much...

And then he was gone.

And like a fish in the sahara, Simon was left gasping for air, of which there was no more of. Not when he was cast into the vaccume of space.

soon, Johnny, we'll see each other soon. As soon as I get out of here. I promise.

#okay this got heavy #it wasn't suppoed to be like then but then the words just kept coming #sorry not sorry? :/#depression #implied suicide attempt #suicidal ideation #mention of overdose #mention of self harm #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #call of duty #cod #cod mw3 #cod mwiii #el rambles #john soap mactavish

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autisticlancemcclain · 2 years

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cw for suicidal thoughts, ideation, & attempt

———

It starts again with the bone dread.

That sounds dramatic. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s making a big deal of something that really isn’t that huge, in the big picture.

But Lance can feel it, the dread seeping from his heart to his head to the marrow of his bones, feel his skin become leather and his feet leaden. He can feel the Grey coming, like he has for years, like he will for as long as he lives.

He is being dramatic.

He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care about much of anything.

It’s started, the apathy. It’s not even a struggle that he’s losing, because you can’t lose if you’re not playing.

He hasn’t touched his skincare routine in months. He can’t remember the last time he looked at his console. He’s starting to forget the sound of his own voice. It’s getting increasingly harder to force himself out of bed.

Lance is very, very afraid.

———

He thinks he was twelve when it first started happening. He’s not sure if he should blame the move from Cuba at such a plastic age, or the hormonal imbalance everyone starts getting at that age, but it really doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t remember exactly when it started. He didn’t document the slow descent, didn’t know to watch carefully for the signs. He has no idea when it truly began.

He does remember, with startling clarity, laying in his bed the morning after his twelfth birthday and thinking to himself: “Six more and you’re done.”

The next clear memory is overwhelming relief.

———

He hated snow from the minute he saw it. Despised it. It was beautiful when it was fresh, breathtaking from a distance, but quickly became tainted and slushy and cold and so, so empty.

Fitting.

He never understood why they had to move from Cuba to fucking Vermont, of all places. Anywhere else would have been better. Hell, he would’ve even taken Texas.

But no. Vermont was where Mamá’s work had moved her, so Vermont is where they went.

The summer they arrived was fine. Lance was grouchy, sure, but that’s because he had left his family and friends and life back in Cuba for stupid America, and he was upset about it. But he enjoyed mucking around the big forests with his siblings, and was excited to cart himself all the way to Arizona for flight school.

Flight school! So he could be a pilot!

The uniforms were ugly and the desert was plain, but classes were interesting and he had a roommate, which was totally different from sharing a room with Rachel. (Hunk was cool, and he was nice to Lance. Two things Rachel could never claim to be.)

He threw himself into his studies with a vigour, and several clubs besides. He hung out with Hunk every evening, even meeting some other friends and hanging out with them, too. The rec room had a pool table, and Lance had just recently learned what hustling was.

He was great at it. (Hunk was great at sending victims Lance’s way. They split the profits and used them to pay for weekends at the local town, which meant plate after plate of nachos and ridiculously fast go-karts that made Hunk blow chunks every time without fail.)

Things started to get hard, the longer the year stretched on.

The sun was fully set by five-thirty.

Lance didn’t know why that started to make his chest hurt.

He stopped going out on weekends, first. Lied to Hunk that his family wanted him on Skype calls, even though they’d never wanted that before. He didn’t know why he said it.

Hunk looked unsure, but smiled tightly and told Lance he’d miss him on the tracks.

Lance slept the whole time Hunk was gone.

He was…tired, all the time. He couldn’t look at his bed without thinking about how nice it would feel to be wrapped up in the blankets.

He stopped going to the rec room, next. First he made up a story about a cold he didn’t want to spread, then about grades that were slipping (they weren’t) and studying he needed to do. Then he invented a friend who lived in Australia, who Lance had to call every day and the time difference made it hard.

Hunk stopped questioning. They still hung out, after all, in between classes and right before curfew. For all that Lance had dropped all his clubs and rarely left his room, his grades had never slipped — all Garrison classes were group-based. Lance couldn’t let his group mates down.

Everything else was fair game, though.

Week after week, month after month, Lance went to classes and then went to bed. He didn’t even go home for the holidays, lied to his family and told them the Garrison didn’t have them.

He slept through Christmas. He didn’t even realize it was Christmas, actually. If he left his bed it was to shower occasionally. Time passed — or it didn’t — and Lance was none the wiser. All he really wanted to do was sleep.

It started after his twelfth birthday, but it kept on going, really. So long as he was conscious, every time he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he’s sigh, deep and long, and remind himself he only had a few years left before it was over.

Eighteen.

It’s not like he had any plans, or anything. He didn’t know why he was so sure he wouldn’t have to worry past eighteen, but he knew in his heart it was true. Probably made the whole piloting career a bit of a waste, but that didn’t matter. It was better than public school.

It happened on a random day in April.

“Hey, Lance,” Hunk had said, digging through his closet for a hoodie. “I know you’re not huge on it, but a bunch of us are gonna go play pool in the rec room. You wanna come?”

A little surprisingly, Lance found he did want to come, actually. The sun warmed his skin from where it bled golden through their dorm window, and he was feeling kind of antsy.

“What are you talking about? I love pool. Think we can scam some juniors out of forty dollars?”

Hunk grinned.

———

He didn’t feel nearly so tired in the next few weeks. He must have been going through a growth spurt — although Hunk happily reminded him he was still a shrimp, for which Lance happily kicked him in the knee — and needed a lot of sleep. He felt a lot more energized now, though, and the air outside smelled so good. It made him want to run around.

He and Hunk went back to hustling older kids at pool, going to town every weekend. It was fun. Even when the desert heat started up again, Lance couldn’t find it in himself to complain. And when June came, and he and Hunk put in their roommate requests for next year, he was so excited to get home that he probably could have run the thousands of miles himself.

He missed everyone. He couldn’t remember why he didn’t go home for Christmas. He was a little guilty about it, too — did he really sleep instead of calling his Mamá?

The summer passed in a whirlwind of hiking and running and swimming and bothering Veronica at her new job. It was great. The heat settled heavy over his skin, even in stupid Vermont, and the sun burned his scalp and bleached his hair. It was wonderful. The joy carried him through the months, even when boredom seemed to drag, and he was itching to get back to Hunk and the Garrison by the end of it. From what he remembered of the last year, it had been decently busy and fun. Winter was a little fuzzy — finals stress muddles your memory, Marco claims — but he was ready to go back.

He couldn’t wait for the first day of school.

———

The next time the thought hit, it kind of…startled him.

He and Hunk had climbed their way to the roof, watching the sunset after a week of brutal midterms. They’d taken a million pictures of the clouds that they’d never look at again, but it was the principle of the thing, anyway. They’d stayed out right until the sun dipped below the horizon of sand and brush and cacti, until the stars twinkled out above the sky.

“Oh, fuck,” Lance had cursed, scrambling to his feet. “It must be late as shit. Did we miss curfew?”

Hunk checked his phone, and then huffed a laugh. “Nope! It’s only six, bud. We’re good. Man, I always forget how quickly the days shorten, huh?”

Lance swallowed. All of a sudden it felt like the lightness of the evening had evaporated, and a heavy ball of something settled in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he said, voice dry.

Hunk got up anyway, brushing the dirt from his pants. “We should head in, though, you’re right. It’s gonna get cold.”

He slung an arm around Lance’s shoulder — he’d somehow grown more over the summer, which was rude, because Lance had not — and headed towards the door.

“You want to head to the rec room for a bit? I think the RA rented a movie, or something. Might be cool.”

“I’m actually really tired,” Lance said, and it was true. He was. All he could think about was the warmth of his bed, of curling up in his blankets for the night.

“Aw, man, but it’s so early!”

“Feels like midnight.”

“I guess so,” Hunk relented, and squeezed his shoulders one more time before letting go. “You just gonna go to bed, or are you gonna go right to sleep?”

“I think I’m gonna pass out, honestly. Might be coming down with something.”

“Alright, Lance. See you in the morning. Love ya.”

“Love you, too.”

As he walked back to their dorms, he started to feel guilty. It was one thing to make his mom and siblings love him — that was kind of their job, he couldn’t really help it — but was it really fair to make Hunk love him? He wasn’t going to be around in a few years, after all. It was kind of unfair to have him stick so much affection and time on a guy who wouldn’t even be there once they graduate.

He froze, as he closed the door behind him.

Why wouldn’t he be there? It’s not like he was sick, or anything.

You just won’t be. It’s okay, though. It’s too late to change it now. Might as well enjoy it while you can.

That was fair, Lance supposed. Five years was a long time, anyways. And it was selfish, but it wasn’t like Lance would be around to feel guilty after, anyways.

———

The next year, shortly after Lance turned fourteen, his physics teacher left the room, and the guidance counsellor walked in.

“You’re all going through some pretty major changes,” she’d started, and Lance barely held back a groan.

Was this a sex talk? Were they really getting a sex talk right now? Lance had already endured the most painful one of his life over the summer. He couldn’t look his mother in the eyes for a week, after. Horrible. A general glance around the classroom showed the rest of his peers in a similar state of despair, even though everyone was desperately avoiding eye contact with one another.

“A big one of those is hormonal changes,” she continued, and everyone groaned.

She smiled wryly. “I’m not hear for that talk, as amusing as it would be to watch you all suffer.”

She…wasn’t giving them a sex talk? What the hell else does ‘all your hormones are changing’ mean?

“I’m here to talk to y’all about mental health. Your brains are in the most vulnerable state they’ve ever been in right now, and I’m willing to bet that none of you know the warning signs of trouble. None of you have parents watching out for you here, either, and as much as your instructors will try, it’s just not the same. Your best bet is to be able to recognize the signs of mental illness in yourself and in each other, and then ask us for help. Okay?”

The guidance counsellor was kind, but firm. She spent the next two hours systematically going over half the goddamn DSM-5, warning them off harmful stereotypes that take away from true symptoms.

“People who are depressed are not just puddles of tears who wail about their sadness all time time,” she said. “Most of them feel empty, if anything. Long periods of blankness, inability to do basic things like be social and even shower or get out of bed. Sometimes the blankness gets overshot by irritability, so watch out for that, too. But most dangerous, and the thing that requires immediate attention — watch out for suicidal thoughts. If you’re contemplating suicide, seek help immediately, even if you think it’s stupid. Am I understood?”

Everyone muttered some equivalent to ‘yes, ma’am,’ but Lance sat there in shock.

That couldn’t be him, right? He’s not suicidal. And he never misses class, even though she mentioned that depressed people often shirk responsibilities. And it’s not like he has a reason to be depressed, for fuck’s sake. He grew up in a loving home, more or less financially stable. There was bullying, of course, but who hasn’t been bullied?

He’s not fucking depressed.

He’s just growing. That’s all.

———

“Lance, buddy?”

“Mhm.”

Hunk sighed. Lance felt a little bad, but he didn’t have the energy today — class had dragged on so long. He just wanted a nap.

“I need to talk to you, Lance. You have to get up for that.”

“I’m really tired, Hunk. I had a long day. Can we talk tomorrow.”

“That is the problem, Lance. You didn’t have a hard day. Classes were light, we had lunch outside the caf, and you don’t have any assignments due. You’re tired for no reason.”

Lance summoned the energy to roll over, facing Hunk for the first time. He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m growing, Hunk, you know that. It takes a lot of energy.”

Hunk bit his lip. He spent a long moment staring at his hands, long enough that Lance considered rolling back over and going to sleep, but then Hunk steeled himself and looked straight into his eyes.

“Lance, I think you’re depressed. You need to talk to the counsellor.”

“Ha. Okay, sure.”

Rolling his eyes, Lance pulled the covers back up to his nose.

“I’m serious, Lance. You sleep all the time, you blow off clubs and stuff — I talked to your mom, you even blew off Christmas again this year — you get snappy randomly, and…”

Hunk trailed off for a moment.

“Well, dude, I’m worried you’re suicidal. You never talk about your future.”

In a burst of energy Lance hadn’t felt in weeks, he shot straight up, throwing off the blankets and glaring at Hunk with more vitriol he knew he was capable of having.

“I am not suicidal, Hunk. I’m not fucking depressed, either.”

Hunk held his gaze, unfazed by the venom in Lance’s voice.

“You are. You fit all the symptoms.”

“Maybe you should get checked out, because you’re apparently fucking delusional —”

It was Hunk’s turn to glare now, arms crossed and unflinching.

“You either go to the counsellor yourself, or I tell her I’m worried. Either way you have to talk to her.”

“Fuck off. No you won’t.”

“I will, Lance, I care about you and I’m worried —”

“If you really cared you’d leave me the hell alone! I am not fucking depressed!”

“You’re going and that’s final, Lance. If you don’t go, I swear to God I’ll tell the counsellor and I’ll tell your mother that you slept through winter break.”

Lance stilled. He looked at Hunk, examining his expression for any sign that he was bluffing.

He found none. Hunk was serious.

Lance’s face hardened. Well, he was fucking serious too.

“I’m not going. And if you go and snitch, I swear to God, Hunk, I will never forgive you as long as I live.”

With that he turned back over and shoved his pillow over his head. He couldn’t believe Hunk was pulling this shit — he thought they were friends! Did Hunk fucking want Lance to be medicated until he was brainless, or locked in a psych ward?

Apparently.

Whatever, though. There was no way Hunk was serious. He looked serious, sure, but eventually he’d drop it and they could move on.

Or, that’s what Lance thought would happen. It would be an understatement to say he was shocked when he was called to the counsellor’s office in the middle of class the next morning.

He looked at Hunk in shocked betrayal. Hunk, to his credit, looked guilty.

But he didn’t look sorry.

“Lance,” said the guidance counsellor warmly as he sat stiffly in the seat in front of her. “I’m concerned about you.”

Lance said nothing. She couldn’t diagnose him with a goddamn thing if he shut the fuck up.

She, unfortunately, looked unphased. “Your friend told me you sleep, a lot.”

“I’m growing,” Lance snapped.

So much for staying silent.

“I’m sure you are,” she said gently. “But it’s not normal to do this every year. To sleep more than you’re awake.”

“I don’t. I go to every single class. I do all my homework. I call my mother. I’m not depressed, and with all due respect —” that didn’t mean a lot, but he was spitting a good amount of attitude right now and as much as he very much was angry, he didn’t want shit for insubordination — “this is a massive waste of time. My friend is a worrier. I’m fine.”

She was quiet for a long time. Contemplative. Her hands were steepled in front of her, half-covering her face where she rested her head on them, but her eyes never left his.

“Do you think your friend will stop pushing this?” she asked eventually. “If I dismiss you, if I take you at your word, and you walk out of here, do you think your friend will accept that?”

Lance thought of Hunk, the most stubborn person he knew, determined to be an airforce engineer even though the sims made him sick.

“No,” he said petulantly. “He won’t.”

“Let me run a diagnostic, then. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you are just growing. Answer a few questions for me and we’ll see, okay?”

It was a long process. Long enough that it wasn’t even finished within the day — he had to make several more appointments with her, on top of seeing a specialist. Every visit made him angrier, all the time, and there was hardly a moment where he talked to anyone without snapping.

“Here’s the final deal,” she said, days later, making him miss a stupid class again to deal with this shit. “You’re right that you don’t have regular depression.”

Ha!

“You do, however, have one of the worst cases of seasonal affective disorder I’ve ever seen.”

Less ha.

“What’s that?” he asked irritably, somehow more annoyed than when he came here for the first time.

“It’s also known as seasonal depression,” she said, well used to his shit now and easily able to handle his moods. “The lack of sun makes your mood plummet. Your brain stops producing adequate amounts of stimuli, especially serotonin and dopamine. It’s as if your energy goes down with the sun in the winter months.”

Lance wanted to argue. He wanted to push and fight and deny, because that’s such a dumbass disease to have — really? His brain doesn’t work because the sun is too far away? What is he, a reverse vampire? — but that…makes an alarming amount of sense.

His energy does go down when the sun goes down.

“Fine,” he said sullenly. “I’m good now? I can go?”

“Not quite. I want to go over warning signs with you, and then your treatment plan. Then you can go, okay?”

“Whatever.”

She looked at him sternly.

“Lance.”

He deflated.

“Sorry,” he muttered. As much as this sucked, royally, it wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t at all fair to take it out on her. That, and she was an adult. If Mamá heard him talking like that to a grown-up she’d tear him a new asshole.

Besides, if there was one person to be mad at it was Hunk. If it weren’t for him and his snitching mouth, Lance wouldn’t even be in this mess.

“Are you going to listen to me, now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, I’m sure this symptoms will be familiar to you as I talk about them, but it should be helpful to have an outside source point them out. Do you have a pen and paper? I want you to write this down.”

Lance frowned. “I don’t need to.”

“One of the symptoms is a foggy memory,” she said, looking at him pointedly. “Remember how you told me you always forget how shitty your winters are when you get home? That’s not just willful ignorance. Your brain is actively refusing to store a lot of the memory you take in, right now. That’s also why your finals are so hard for you. Write down what I’m telling you, Lance.”

Lance scowled as he pulled out a pen and paper, even though what she was saying made sense.

Whatever.

“Alright, fine. Shitty memory. What else?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, kiddo. I know you’re frustrated, but I’m only trying to help.”

Lance bit back tears, because at the core of him he knew she was right, and he was being a huge douchebag, but it was like he didn’t know how to stop!

“Sorry,” he choked out again.

She softened immediately. “I know, sweetheart. I know it’s hard. But we’re going to get you medicated, okay? It should help. It will make things way easier, hopefully.”

This time he listened carefully as she listed the warning signs, writing them down dutifully.

Exhaustion. Apathy. Unwillingness to leave bed, even if you’re not tired. Wonky appetite. Dread, from every part of your body, for no reason. Easily overstimulated on the rare occasions you do walk out of bed. Loss of interest in things you love. Feelings of desperation when it starts to get dark.

“And, most importantly — suicidal thoughts, or ideation. If you get that you come right to me, okay?”

Lance nodded, and she handed him a bottle of pills.

“Read over the label. These are antidepressants. You don’t have to take them all year — you’ll take them now, because you’re in the middle of an episode, but in the future you’ll only need to take them when you start feeling the symptoms with greater frequency. If you have trouble identifying that, start taking them in the first week of November. You’ll come here every morning after breakfast to grab them, okay?”

Lance furrowed his brow. “Come here? I don’t take them with me?”

“Think about it, Lance,” she said softly. “These are SSRIs. As much as they’re helpful, they can kill you easily. Do you understand why I can’t let you have the whole bottle?”

Lance scowled. “What, so I come here like a baby every morning for the rest of my life?”

“Not every morning. Just for the winter months, and maybe some of autumn and spring.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I get to be treated like a child for the rest of my life!”

“Not for that long, either. Technically we can’t withhold them from you past 18, although I would prefer it if you would allow us.”

Lance stilled.

Eighteen.

Another thing to look forward to, for that year.

“Do you understand, Lance?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I just have to let your mom know, and then —”

“You can’t tell my mom!”

The counsellor looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t have a choice, buddy. You’re a minor. She has to know about your medical treatments.”

Lance bit back a comment about how this wasn’t a fucking medical treatment — it was a waste of time — knowing it would only dig a deeper hole for him.

“She’s going to freak out. She can’t know.”

She smiled at him, although there was no joy behind it.

Pitying.

Lance wanted to throw up.

“She only wants the best for you. Promise.”

Lance refused to look at her. She sighed.

“Let’s just get it over with, okay? The number we have for her on file isn’t working. I need her number from you.”

That was right — Mamá changed her phone number in September. His file was outdated.

Suddenly, he had an idea.

“She never has it on her, doesn’t answer much,” he lied.

“Still need the number, kiddo. I can leave her a message.”

Heart pounding in his throat, Lance rattled off his own phone number.

They would never know.

How would they know?

“Alright,” said the counsellor after she wrote it down. “You can head back now, buddy. Come back first thing in the morning, alright?”

Lance muttered his compliance and stomped back to his dorm. Hunk smiled tightly at him with he walked in.

“How’d it go?”

Lance ignored him. He’d been doing that a lot, lately.

Hunk sighed. “I’m sorry you’re struggling, Lance. But you know I had to.”

Lance said nothing. Hunk sighed again, looking away. He looked hurt.

Lance couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it. He told Hunk what would happen if he snitched — Lance has to be coddled by the staff, now, for dumbass pills that weren’t even going to work. It’s forever on his file.

He told Hunk. He did.

———

Three weeks later, Lance had to swallow his pride.

The pills did work, unfortunately. Turns out it’s a helluva lot easier to care about life when your brain works properly. Go figure.

(And, with all this newfound emotion, Lance has plenty of time to feel intensely angry at himself for being so broken. Not, like, in an emo way or anything — a disease is a disease, yadda yadda yadda — but did his have to be so stupid? What kind of brain relied entirely on the amount of time a giant ball of gas was in his eyesight? Real depressed people have a fucking reason to be depressed. Lance’s brain just fucking decided it wouldn’t work properly for six months of the year. It couldn’t even be broken year round! It had the capacity to work like it goddamn well should, it just chose not to. What a fucking joke.)

Now that every waking moment wasn’t consumed with the greyest of all apathy, though… Lance felt a lot of guilt.

A lot.

He’d been ignoring Hunk for upwards of a goddamn month, treating the guy like shit, and for what? Because he cared about Lance?

Lance had never been so ashamed in his whole life. Now he was avoiding Hunk for a while different reason — he couldn’t look the guy in the eyes.

But that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Hunk had that kicked puppy look every time Lance ducked around a corner to avoid him.

As much as it sucked, Lance had to own up to his shit. Their friendship was probably ruined, and Hunk was likely done with him, but still.

Responsibility. Lance could do with taking some.

“Hey, Hunk?” he said, well aware his voice was shaking. Hunk looked up at him in shock, surrounded by his friends in the rec room.

Lance swallowed roughly.

“Can I talk to you?”

Hunk stood immediately, wordlessly following Lance back to their dorm. He shut the door behind him, staring at Lance with wide eyes as he fidgeted.

“I’m sorry,” Lance blurted, after several minutes of tense silence. He felt the tears that had been stinging his eyes spill out at the same time as the desperate words.

“You were just being a good friend, just trying to help, and I was being a surly jackass and you’re right I am depressed but that’s no excuse for how I treated you and you deserve way better and I’m just really, really sorry and —”

“Oh, Lance,” Hunk said, and the next thing Lance knew he was being crushed in a set of strong arms. “Oh, Lance, I know. I forgive you. It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Lance sobbed. “I treated you like shit for weeks. I ignored you.”

“I know. And that was shitty. But… you’re taking your meds now, right?”

Lance nodded, smearing tears and snot into poor Hunk’s sleeve.

Gross. So much for not making Hunk’s life hard anymore.

“Good. You’re getting better, okay? You’re doing your best. I forgive you. Okay?”

Lance nodded again, shuddering in Hunk’s arms. He still felt guilty, but it was no longer all-encompassing.

It was a hopeful kind of guilt, really. The kind of guilt that inspired you to move forward.

———

Lance’s next few years were pretty decent, all things considered. The meds really did help, as wildly dehumanizing as it was to sulk over to the counsellor’s office every morning with all the other fucked up kids to get his daily make-my-dumbass-brain-work-right pills. He learned to forget about the wounded pride as soon as he left, move on with his life.

He used that list religiously. Memorized the symptoms, repeated them endlessly in his head.

Apathy. Loss of interest. Exhaustion.

Suicidal thoughts.

He was never suicidal, he doesn’t think. Still isn’t. He never made a plan to kill himself, never wanted to jump off a bridge or anything. Sure he refused to think about his future, sure he thought idly about it ending it occasionally, sure he joked about throwing himself off the roof during midterms. But that was normal. Everyone made those jokes, everyone looked curiously over the rail on the highway. But he dutifully made his stupid way to the stupid counsellor’s office when the Grey — that’s what he’d taken to calling the stupid disease, because that’s how it made everything feel — set in.

He was careful.

Hunk was supportive, too. He knew to watch out for Lance, although he trusted Lance to watch out for himself, by now. Still, it felt nice to have someone care for him.

Mamá still didn’t know, and everyone else didn’t know that she didn’t know. Which was fine by Lance. The less people to know about his embarrassing shit the better. Plus, he only really saw her in the summer months, anyway, so she never had any reason to worry. It was fine.

He was fine.

He was handling it.

He had everything under control.

———

The very day he turned eighteen, Lance marched to the counsellor’s office and demanded his pills.

She was reluctant.

“You know it’s safer for me to keep them,” she said.

“I am not going to kill myself,” he responded.

“I know. But isn’t it easier to not have the risk? To keep it here?”

Lance folded his hands together and looked her dead in the eyes. “Words cannot explain how much I hate the stupid parade I have to do here every morning,” he said seriously. “It makes me wish I shut up and stayed quiet when I was fourteen so I never had to take the stupid pills to begin with. I’ve been working with you, ma’am, for four years, but I’m tired and it’s my right. Please give them to me.”

She sighed, but complied. Lance closed his fist around the ugly orange bottle and walked out without another word.

He sat quietly on his bed for a moment, when he got back from his dorm. He didn’t feel the Grey yet. He knew it was coming. It came every year.

But he wasn’t fourteen anymore. Did he really need to drug himself? He knew the symptoms, now. Knew what to avoid. When the Grey set in, he could just… not spend his time in bed. Go on more walks. Spend more time with Hunk. He knew how to handle himself, now.

Back then he was so uninformed. Of course he had depressive episodes. He didn’t know better.

But he knew, now.

Nodding resolutely to himself, he stuffed the bottle in the back of his sock drawer. He’d just do a trial. If he started to struggle again, he’d just take the pills. Simple.

He had this under control.

———

“You are, without a doubt, the worst pilot I’ve ever had in my class, McClain,” Iverson said coldly. “Get out of my classroom. Come back when you pull your head out of your ass and remember how to think.”

Lance did. He walked slowly back to his dorm, pretending he didn’t see Hunk’s sympathetic look as he exited the classroom. He took his time down the hallways, stopping to watch the streetlights flicker in the darkness out the windows.

What the fuck was he doing?

He’d been avoiding it for four years. Laughing away any question about his future.

But really, what did he have waiting for him?

He used to have his grades. But ever since he got bumped to fighter class, his grades had fucking tanked. He was dragging his team down with every fuck up — there weren’t even people relying on him anymore. Hunk had been needling him to come with him to town, to no avail. Lance just wasn’t feeling it. He’d been ignoring all Mamá’s calls, too. For no reason. He just hits decline before he thinks.

He was a bad student, a bad pilot, a bad friend, and a bad son. What the hell was he doing here? Why was he wasting time, wasting resources?

For years, his mantra had been eighteen. Eighteen, and you don’t have to struggle. Eighteen, and this’ll all be in the past. Eighteen, and you don’t have to worry about it anymore.

Well, he was eighteen, now. His birthday came and went. What the fuck was he waiting for? An invitation?

He told his counsellor he wasn’t suicidal, and he wasn’t. This was different. He was never supposed to live past eighteen, he knew that in his heart. You can’t be suicidal if you were fated to die anyway.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached towards his sock drawer. He searched around blindly — he hadn’t bothered with the lights — until he found what he was looking for.

He sat back against his pillows, turning the orange pill bottle around in his hands. It rattled — mostly full.

Strong pills.

He was pretty scrawny. It wouldn’t be hard.

Don’t overthink it, the thought to himself. Take a few, see how you feel.

He rummaged around in his bag for his water bottle, popping the lid and bringing it to his lips. He counted out six pills, threw them into the back of his throat, and swallowed.

He waited a moment.

What was he feeling?

Nothing, really. The Grey had long set in, he knew it, but couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about it.

He swallowed a few more pills.

Then a few more.

He kept going until he choked down the whole damn bottle.

It was disgusting. He felt that. Tasted like plastic soup, with all the nasty coating.

He carefully put back his water bottle, then shoved the empty pill bottle deep into his jeans pocket. He settled down into bed, over the covers. He was kind of hot, actually.

Should he write a note, or something? For his family? For Hunk?

No. That would be unfair. Might make them feel guilty, or something. Better to let him think he died randomly in his sleep.

He stayed where he was, drifting in and out of consciousness for God knows how long. It couldn’t have been more than an hour, because Hunk wasn’t back yet.

Damn. In the movies it’s a lot faster, dying.

His stomach starts to cramp, but he ignores it. He didn’t exactly expect it to be painless. He put a lot of foreign chemical in his body, after all, it made sense that it was trying to fight it off. It’d lose the fight before long, and Lance could sleep.

Only, he didn’t drift off, and the cramps didn’t fade. They got worse.

And worse.

The worse the got, the more panic began to set in. God, he was going to die, wasn’t he? He’d never see his mamá again. Or his siblings. God, fuck, how was Luis going to explain this to the kids? Their brains were still developing. What if this traumatized them? Fuck, what if their brains get fucked up because Lance killed himself?

Lance scrambled out of bed. Oh, this was bad. This was really, really bad.

He sprinted to the bathrooms, but he was kind of dizzy. He couldn’t see well, he kept tripping over nothing. He finally collapsed over the nearest toilet, immediately shoving his fingers down his throat until he gagged.

He threw up, some.

But not enough.

His stomach was in agony.

He knew at once that he was fucked. Pills dissolve fast, and — fuck! He could barely think. He had to — he had to get to a hospital, or something. But he couldn’t call anyone. They couldn’t know.

With shaking, spit-soaked fingers, he opened the Uber app. The nearest hospital was only a twenty minute drive. It was fine.

He limped his way outside, blinking desperately to stay awake. He kept gagging, but nothing came up. He tried to remember some breathing exercises, calm himself down — it couldn’t be helpful to freak out any more than he already was. He’d just have to stay calm until the Uber arrived.

He stumbled over to it when it finally pulled up, not even bothering to check the plates. Hopefully it was the right car.

“To the hospital, dude? Should I… get a teacher, or something?”

“I’m an adult,” Lance rasped. “Please just go.”

The driver didn’t need any more instruction, hastily pulling out of the parking lot and whipping down the highway.

Well, Lance supposed he couldn’t feel any more nauseous.

They arrived to the hospital in what was probably record time, if Lance was not too out of it to actually record the time. He barely noticed when the pulled into the hospital parking lot, except to yank open the door and dry heave until he sobbed.

“Do you need help?” the driver asked worriedly. “Like, checking in or anything?”

“I’m good,” Lance lied, throwing himself out of the car and making a crooked beeline for the ER door.

He managed to hold himself together long enough to speak to the attendant. Explain what happened. Tell them what he took and how much. Hand them the bottle he had thankfully kept in his pocket.

Then he remembered collapsing onto the dinky plastic chairs of the waiting room.

And then nothing.

———

When he woke up again, he was groggy and confused, and his heart was beating way too fast. He felt like a hummingbird, like his heart was speeding quickly enough that it just sounded like one long hum. A beeping noise sounded from his left, and before he had the time to look to see what that was a nurse pulled back the curtain and approached his cot.

“You need to calm down,” she said gruffly.

“What happened?” Lance rasped.

She raised an eyebrow. “You tried to off yourself,” she said, like he was stupid.

Lance didn’t even have the wherewithal to flush, even though he was embarrassed. He was busy focusing on trying to breathe properly.

He didn’t notice as she left, drifting in and out of consciousness.

“We got a Snowy,” he heard someone say, voice floaty and underwater. “I’ll check him out. Cot three?”

Next thing he knew a hand was resting on his shoulder.

“Lance?” said a bland, deep voice. “Can you wake up for me?”

“‘M awake,” he mumbled. He voice shook, as did the rest of him. He couldn’t stop trembling.

“That’s normal,” said the man, who Lance assumed was a doctor of some kind, as he noticed Lance staring at his violently quaking hands.

“You took a truly mindbreaking amount of pills. I’m shocked you’re alive, although I’m sure you are too. We had to pump your stomach.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Well, I have to check your vitals, and you have to stay in the ER until you’re stable, and then we’ll move you to the ICU. They’ll decide where you go from there.”

Lance swallowed, throat dry.

“C’n I ‘ve some water?”

“Sure.”

The man continued to check Lance’s vitals, leaving without another word. What felt like hours later — could have been minutes, or days, Lance could barely even remember where he was — a different nurse from before came in, handing him a tiny paper cup. It wasn’t nearly enough for his throat, which was drier than the desert, probably, but he took it anyway and thanked him.

Well, he probably did.

He passed out again after. Time went kind of fuzzy. He vaguely remembers trying to get up, to stay awake. He remembers spending a lot of time either sleeping or staring into the space in front of him, unable to blink. He remembers snippets of overheard conversations:

“It’s just so selfish, you know? There are people with real issues who don’t have a bed now. It was his choice.”

“God, is he making his fucking heart race on purpose? I swear I’m checking his stupid monitor every ten minutes.”

“Would he stop staring at me? What a freak.” Giggling. “I got a picture, look. What a creep.”

He remembers a lot of terror swirling in his stomach. He remembers that he wanted, above all else, to go home.

He remembers feeling afraid.

———

“I need you to wake up a moment, love.”

This voice was much kinder, and the cold fingers pressing gently on his forehead remind him of his Mamá. He forced his eyes open, blinking at the bright hospital lights blinded him for a moment. A middle-aged nurse was smiling at him when he could see again.

“We’re moving you to the ICU, kiddo. That alright?”

Lance nodded.

“Alright.”

She began untangling the various wires attached to him, then started to wheel him away.

“I can walk,” he protested, cheeks colouring.

He hesitated. “You sure, Lance? You’ve still got a lot to work out of your system. It might be better if I just push you.”

“I can walk,” he insisted. He wasn’t honestly sure if he could, but he didn’t want to be lying down as everyone in the hospital watched him be moved.

“Alright,” she relented.

Luckily, so long as he held on to the cot for help, he could walk. She led him carefully down a series of hallways, until he was wheeled into a room divided into four.

“You’re going to be here until the drugs are completely flushed from your system,” the nurse told him. “Then we’re bringing you up the the paediatric psych unit. Don’t worry though, sweetheart. They’re the best of the best.”

“Paediatric?” he questioned. He was more worried about the ‘psych ward’ part of that, honestly, but he supposed he was in no boat to complain. “I’m eighteen.”

She smiled gently. “Just young enough that you’re still a kid. No worries. Rest for now, okay?”

Lance did. He let himself drift, coming back only when a couple more nurses popped in to check his vitals or make sure he was feeling okay.

The terror mounting earlier has mostly faded, by then. The drugs were slowly making their way out of his system, and that made it a lot easier to think.

Plus, everyone at the ICU was a lot nicer. He could be wrong, though. He may very well have made the whole ER experience up, consumed by his own guilt. Who knew.

Although, a quiet voice in his head whispered, I’m not sure you’re creative enough to come up with ‘Snowy’ as a name for someone who poisoned themself. Are you sure that wasn’t real?

Lance shook his head, dismissing it. There was no point in worrying about that now.

Eventually, the same kindly nurse from before informed him it was time to go to the paediatric unit. He insisted on walking, again, and she didn’t fight him too hard. It was much easier that time around, anyway. It must have been a day or two, because his head was clearing.

He had his own room, in the paediatric unit. A much older woman helped him into it, showing him the bed and the shelves he got, handing him some soap and pointing him in the direction of the showers.

“I’m sure it will feel nice to wash off,” she said. “I’ll leave a fresh gown on your bed, and I’ll come let you know what the plan is when you come back.”

Lance thanked her, and headed to the showers. She was right, it did feel nice to be clean. He hadn’t realized how dirty he was.

When he finally made it back to his room — he had no idea how long he took, he was still shakey and time was still iffy — the same woman was waiting for him.

“You’re eighteen now,” she said after he changed. “So, technically, you can go home now, if you want. There’s nothing keeping you here. But we would suggest you sign a voluntary stay form, and spend at least a week here, to get yourself sorted. We’ll work through some treatment plans, find a way to help you. What do you think?”

Lance swallowed. “Who has to know?”

“Nobody. Your medical records are your own, now that you’re an adult. You can of course call whomever you like —” she gestured to a phone hanging on the wall by the nurse’s station — “and we have visiting hours, but if you would prefer this to be kept private, that’s your prerogative. I would suggest talking to someone though, dear. Would you like to call your mother?”

Lance shook his head vehemently. No, he would not like to call his mother. This would break her heart.

He should probably call someone, though. So no one thinks he’s gone missing.

———

“Hello?”

“Hunk?”

His voice shook, he knew it did.

But he couldn’t help it.

“Lance.” Hunk’s voice sounded wet, relieved, and as shakey as Lance’s. “Oh my God, Lance. Where are you? Are you okay? What happened? You just disappeared!”

Lance bit his lip. There was no easy way to say this.

“I’m at the hospital.”

“Oh my God! Are you okay?”

“I am now.”

“Fuck, I’m coming to get you. Stay where you are, okay? What unit are you in?”

“Paediatric,” Lance said in a small voice. He hesitated.

“Psych ward.”

Their was a pause on the other end. A stillness Lance could feel.

Hunk understood immediately.

“Lance…?” It was his turn to sound small, now. To sound lost.

Hurt.

Lance burst into tears. “I — I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I stopped taking the pills because I hate them and I thought I could handle it myself but I couldn’t and I fucked up and I’m scared, Hunk, I almost —”

“I’m coming,” Hunks said, voice firm and careful. “I’ll be there in less than an hour. Okay? Just wait for me, Lance.”

“Okay.”

———

“What now?” Hunk asked, voice muffled in Lance’s hair. He latched onto Lance the second he saw him, holding him tightly as he trembled and cried.

“I have to stay here for a week,” Lance said quietly, face still tucked into Hunk’s chest. “Uh, voluntarily. Technically I can check myself out whenever, but the doctors say I should stay until I can work out a treatment plan, which usually takes a week.”

“Is that what you want to do? Is that what will keep you safe?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“What then? What after?”

“I don’t know,” Lance admitted. “I never thought… Hunk, I’ve known I was going to die at eighteen for as long as I can remember. I don’t… I don’t know where to go from here.”

Hunk took a shuddering breath, body stilling at Lance’s words. He squeezes Lance’s hands tightly, three times in succession.

“We’ll figure it out, okay? I’ll come every day for all the visiting hours. We’ll make a plan and figure things out. I promise.”

“Okay,” Lance whispered. “Are you leaving?”

Hunk pulled him tighter, hefting him into his lap and wrapping his arms around where Lance is curled up.

“Of course not. I’ll stay until they kick me out.”

Lance smiled.

———

Lance honestly spent most of his time reading random novels and meditating. He understandably didn’t feel too fond of sleeping, and the psychiatrist appointments only lasted so long. He needed something to do.

Mostly, he looked forward to when Hunk came to visit. He had told the Garrison that Lance had a severe allergic reaction to medicine that he didn’t know he was allergic too — the story they’d decided on for people Lance didn’t trust to tell — and since the semester was basically over, they were fine to let Hunk visit.

It was nice. Lance has forgotten how scary the Grey was, how much it stole from him, and he was glad he was safe now.

In the end, the doctors reiterated his previous SAD diagnosis, suggesting gently to him that as much as it sucked, until he could trust himself, it was probably better for him to keep his meds with the guidance counsellor.

As much as he hated it, Lance couldn’t help but agree.

Surprisingly, though, the doctors were also sending him for some further tests in the summer. Apparently he was looking at an ASD diagnosis as well, although it was too early to tell for sure.

It made sense, Lance supposed, when he thought about it.

Regardless, he signed the appropriate release papers at the end of the week, dressing in the clothes Hunk brought him and meeting Hunk in the lobby to head back to the Garrison.

“That was scary,” Hunk said quietly, when they were situated in the back of the Uber. “You scared me, Lance. It’s probably unfair to say, but… I dunno. I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified in my life. I prayed.”

Lance bit his lip, playing nervously with Hunk’s hand where he had it clasped between both of his.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Lance. I’m not mad at you. I just mean that you’re not leaving my sight for a while. Maybe not until summer comes back.”

Lance frowned. “But winter break is just around the corner. You’re going home, aren’t you?”

Hunk shrugged, but his expression was determined and left no room for argument.

“You’re coming with me.”

Lance opened his mouth, but closed it after a minute of silence.

He wouldn’t mind that, actually.

“Okay.”

———

Leaving his meds at the guidance counsellor’s solved one’s problem. It really did. As much as Lance hates it, it’s better for him in the long run.

Unfortunately, it does mean that he does not have his meds with him in space.

Where there’s no sun at all, actually. So that’s not excellent.

Lance is surprised how long he lasts before the Grey set in. Months, at least. It was early summer when they left Earth, though. That must have something to do with it.

The thing about suicide attempts is that often times — not always, Lance thinks, but it must be often — it scares the suicide right out of you. It makes you afraid to die. It reminds you that, holy shit, you actually do appreciate being alive, thanks, and there’s quite a lot you’re willing to do to keep it that way.

The several dozen near-death experiences he’s had since then has only cemented that fact. Lance is very, very happy he’s alive. He likes laughing. He likes spending time with Hunk, with the rest of his team. He likes flying in Blue. He misses his family, and he wants to see them again. He misses Earth, and the sunshine on his skin.

Also, there are trillions of people relying on him. Literal trillions.

He cannot afford to die.

He drags himself to the bathroom, staring himself down in the mirror.

“Please,” he begs his brain. “Please, please get your shit together. I know it’s rough. I know it’s hopeless. But I do not want to die. I tried it, thanks, and it sucks ass. It’s scary. Can you please do your one fucking job and keep me alive?”

“Lance?”

Lance jumps out of his skin at the call, even as he immediately relaxes at the voice.

Strange combo, that.

“In here,” he shouts back.

He listens to Hunk’s solid footsteps, watching through the mirror as he makes his way behind Lance. Brown eyes meet brown in the mirror.

“Grey starting?”

Lance exhales shakily. He takes out a worn piece of paper from his pocket — of fucking course he brought this to space accidentally and not his pills — and reads over it for the millionth time since he wrote it four and a half years ago.

Apathy. Loss of interest. Exhaustion.

Suicidal thoughts.

Well, at least that last one hadn’t hit him too hard yet, although he did nearly slip up and make a joke about it last week. (Lance forbid himself from making an suicide joke ever again the day he got back from the hospital. It makes his headspace worse, and it freaks Hunk out a little. He hates it when he fucks up.)

Hunk’s hand reaches over and tangles with his.

“I think we need to talk to Coran,” he says quietly. “He might be able to help.”

Lance swallows. His first instinct, as it always is, is to dismiss the very idea, insist he can handle himself.

But he can’t.

And that’s okay.

“Yeah,” he says finally, curling his hand around Hunk’s. “I think I could use the help.”

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