Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Warnings:
•Major Character death (Cancer)
Inspired by Stephen Kings 'Insomnia'

In the days since her passing insomnia is the companion that kept Shiro awake most nights with negative nagging thoughts. Time has now began to take on a new form, dragging out more than it ever had, too many quiet moments to think though the oblivion of sleep would be kinder. She was his safety net when he spiralled out of control, his anchor to reality, a place to call home no matter where they travelled to throughout the universe. In all these wakeful hours she is still a vivid memory and beneath it all is a shock the veteran can't quite let surface, because every time it comes close his nightmare solidifies, hope fades and the sick feeling returns to his gut.

It's perplexing how death can take away everything from you. Only a moment ago was she cleaning him up - yelling, shouting at him to be more careful, to not push himself too far. All there was left the next moment was a brittle shell of the woman he once knew, hooked up to various complex machines that desperately tried to keep her heart beating steadily. Her eyes dull as they stared at the blinding white ceiling of the castles medical wing. Should he blame death or himself for not noticing the signs sooner?

That night death didn't only make her another one of his victims, but with her, death also took his sleep.
Shiro gave a humourless laugh which broke the deafening silence of the room they once shared. Was it truly so bad that the window of sleep he had was now reduced? It had to be better than no window at all. He squeezed his eyes shut and silently prayed that tonight would be a good night where God would allow him a good three hours or so of sleep.

But this prayer went unanswered more often than not.
It was laughable that he still bothered with his small, desperate, prayers. It wasn't like these religious chants had done anything to help her after all.

The ending of life is to be expected, we all live in this mortal plane after all. What Shiro resented was that her death was longer and more painful than it had to be. He watched as her body died internally with each passing second. The tumour grew, spread, consumed, squashed every organ that had worked to sustain it. They had a pretty good life together, better than most, she didn't need to hang on as a living ghoul; pulling the plug would've been kinder than simply prolonging her pain.
Yet he was unable to give up hope.

He always questioned if you had began resenting him in your final weeks as he witnessed your slow decent. He wouldn't wish the same fate upon even his worst enemies yet he still sat there and simply watched as you grasped to each breath desperately like your father had years before.

When the guilt returned it took Shiro down the familiar old path. He wanted to refuse to walk it, pretend for a moment that it wasn't himself that caused your final days of life to be so painful. He didn't want to see himself in perfect colour anymore. He wished that he could scrub his mind in an attempt to rid his guilt, but if he did then he'd also scrub away the memories you had shared. And he couldn't bare the thought of forgetting what you once had together.

Loneliness was eating him alive, swallowing up every ounce of hope he once had. It feasted upon any happiness he had left, leaving behind an empty carcass; full of pain and memories he can't seem to hold onto anymore. It took his vulnerable heart into its harsh grasp, squeezing out every bit of life he had circulating throughout his opaque veins. It craves for him to now suffer a life without your warm hands embracing his scarred body, or your arms which would cradle him whilst you hummed softly to calm him down from one of his episodes. No this beast called loneliness wants Shiro to only feel those cold fingertips grasping at his soul, becoming his only company next to tiredness, yet leaving in the end; abandoning his exhausted vessel, once more, for this beast is something he feared because he had no power over it.

Keith worried for his friend as he often found himself before awoken from the familiar noise of a metallic fist connecting with the gladiator in the training room. He didn't once complain as he dragged his own exhausted body to the source of the noise. Standing in the door with a deep from, Keith shook his head as he witnessed what he could only describe as a broken man.

Shiros features were prominently sunken due to his lack of sleep, it was clear that being tired and sleepiness were poles apart in this man's situation. Stepping forward and clearing his throat, the red clad paladin managed to quickly catch his friends attention "Shiro? Why are you here?" The answer was obvious but he knew there was more to it than simple training.

The truth was that Shiro was punishing himself, but for what? When he found himself waking up at what he assumed to be around 4am; his legs immediately dragged him to the familiar training room. The tricolour haired paladin would continuously train with different Gladiator levels and continued until his fellow paladins awoke for breakfast. Most mornings he would collapse into his seat at the table, he'd slump over and immediately wince at his aching back. A sweat would form upon his brow as he struggled to catch his breath after his strenuous workout.

Looks would be exchanged across the table as each of the castles residents worried greatly for the former prisoners wellbeing. His episodes were beginning to die down greatly after the years you spent on the ship, helping him through each panic attack by reassuring him that you were real.

But now you weren't around.

Something worse than his previous episodes now arose as Shiro gradually became an emotionless vessel, he was found to be unfit to lead Voltron now. The overwhelming feeling of exhaustion which now felt like his dominant, maybe his only, emotion made simple decisions like making his bed or not each morning impossible. Instead he would opt to instead turn his back on the mattress which seemingly mocked him each restless night they shared together. The truth was that you were the best thing to ever happen to Shiro and therefore you were the worst thing to eve happen to Voltron.

Well... Your sickness was at least the worst thing that had ever happened to the Defenders of the Universe to date.

Each day ran together as a dull blur. The world around him now seemed to be drained of colour, the only satisfaction he felt was when his body buckled under his extreme exhaustion during training sessions. He would simply lay there staring at the blank ceiling much like he assumed you did during your final days. Something about it was... comforting.

Keith tugged at his locks as he sat with his head in his hands, unable to look at the once greatly respected man who was now nothing but a walking carcass. Suddenly said man spoke "You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel- a hunger and thirst. For six long months, since she was taken from me, my mind has been a whirlpool, swift and unprogressive, a torrent of thoughts that never fail to lead nowhere... I want to rest" he paused to lull his head to the side and face Keith, who's eyes were glassy due to his seedling tears.
"All I want to do is to rest. . . I almost envy her now"
Those words struck a cord in Keith as it became clear how truly gone the man he once knew and respected was.

Yes. . .

Being tired and sleepiness can be poles apart.

Chapter Text

Warnings: Drug abuse, implied overdose and character death.

His addiction was such that he cared for nothing else. Everything he had once held dear fell by the wayside, his family, his friends, his career. He would lie, cheat and steal for it. He became someone else, someone she once loved but now feared. They say to love the addict and hate the addiction. But she was ashamed to say that all she loves is the memory of who he was. This addict he is now is like a demon wearing his skin, talking with his voice, crushing her soul. He manipulates her and wheedles into her affections then without conscience he deceives her and extinguishes the hope he had tentatively built up in her. Sometimes, on her blackest days, she would wonder what she would feel if the police came to tell her that he was dead. And she really didn't know. She guessed that she should pray that she doesn’t find out.

The drug abuse treatment was a joke. It was all about the drug and nothing for the problem that drove the man to take them in the first place. When his soul was vapid, when darkness comes and he has no love to ward it off, chemical substitutes are tough to resist. It made the treatment as effective as telling a hungry person not to eat. Pour in the love first, show him how much he matters; then try the “treatments” and see how much better the mind can defend itself against the addiction. He has to want to live, want to get better, want to heal, and it takes love to bring him to that better place. That left a question to linger in the air now.

Did Lance want to live? To get better? To heal?

“We need to go” Y/N called through the bathroom door which separated her from the shell of a man that denied her love. The silent was deafening before the rattling of a pill bottle sounded from the bathroom and the woman’s heart immediately fell. “Lance! Don’t you dare!” she called whilst rapping her knuckles against the door. The familiar pop of the bottles cap echoed through her mind...

Then she felt it break. Like a crystal vase falling onto a marble floor her last shred of normalcy shatters into a million pieces. They lay on the floor glittering in the sun that peeked past the blinds, who knew breaking down could look so beautiful. She knew there is no hope in trying to put them back together, so she doesn't even try. She just slid down to the floor where she found herself staring at the blank wall "I'm done." She whispered to herself. Finally the woman reached her limit and now she’s done.

_

It had all began a year ago when Lance was prescribed opioid painkillers for post-surgical pain after a minor surgery. In the months following his recovery everyone noticed the changes in the once bubbly teen. His friends at the Garrison pegged his behaviour to be symptoms of his surgery but Y/N knew it was something more.

There was nights when she awoke to see her significant other sitting on the edge of their bed, he would be hugging himself tightly as he would tremble. The female would move to his side only to find that the Cuban was breaking out into cold flashes. Her concerns only increased when his restless nights continued but soon were also accompanied by his nausea.

Y/N would collect his meals and return to their shared room, she informed the Garrison of Lance’s apparent ailment. The time she returned to the room to find the male laying in bed with a vacant expression finally confirmed her creeping suspicions.

Lance McClain was addicted to painkillers.

“The more you take the less they work” you would scold.
“The higher the dosage the more danger you’re in!” you would cry.
“Stop... they can’t cure the pain you feel” you would plead.

It wasn’t long until respiratory depression reared it’s ugly head amongst the various other symptoms that he experienced.

There's nothing tragically beautiful about depression. It's not sad songs and poetry, shy glances or drowning in the bath. It's not ghostly white skin tainted by charcoal circles under sad eyes.

Depression is unwashed clothes and flaking skin. It's over eating and the inability to even get out of bed. It's giving up on yourself and not taking pride in your appearance anymore. It's empty inboxes, bursts of anger and late night tears. It's a feeling of disgust within yourself that makes you want to tear off your own skin just so you can feel clean. It's uncertainty and confusion. It's losing weight, long showers and greasy hair. It's constantly wishing you could be somewhere or someone else.

Depression is not tragically beautiful, it's just tragic. It didn’t only affect Lance but those around him and especially her.

_

“Lance... please” she sobbed now as the man refused to humour her with a response, he remained closed off. Familiar sobs racked the woman’s body as the man that she had fallen in love with numbed himself with the drug which inflicted him with a near irreversible pain.

Conflicting emotions bubbled within her as she was undeniably distraught by having to watch him suffer but simultaneously her resentment grew.
He wouldn’t accept her help, she clearly wasn’t enough reason for the man to live anymore and he would rather accept a temporary fix to his pain than the help of others.

Was Y/N ready to submit herself to his addiction? Was she ready to allow his addiction to rob her of her own sanity? Was she ready to do all of this for him?

She was no longer able to answer this question.

A sudden thud snapped her out of her thoughts. The sound of pills scattering across the tiled floor caused her heart to sink. Her body acted instinctively as she reached for her mobile and dialled mindlessly.

As he took his final breath, finally submitting himself to the number abyss that he had been craving for month, she had submitted to her doubts.

Neither of them had anticipated such a painful outcome, if only he had accept her love before the chemical substitutes.