Work Text:
He sees him in his dreams.
They’re never too clear, never long enough for him to make out the most crucial of facial features, the softness of his voice, the curl of his hair, to see the gleam of his eyes correctly.
A part of him rationalises that he shouldn’t want to - shouldn’t want to see him how he was when he was killed, bloodied and broken and battered on the floor, armour shattered around his soft, vulnerable flesh. It never occurred to him that he could be broken that badly - left to die and bleed out. It was like he stripped that choice away from him, forced him to remain, immortal and beautiful, in his memories.
Lotor was only ever that, to him. A statue, a dream of beauty, of a better chance he had once had.
Gone forever.
The dreams weren’t as frequent as they were before - when he would cry himself hoarse and dry, lying adrift amongst the heartbreak as the ship slept around him, and he would dream of Lotor, standing above him, smiling so beautifully, so kindly at him, before vanishing into a cloud of blood lilac fog.
Now they only came every so often. When he was sad, or had slipped into that limbo of depression that clouded him, weighed him down, forced him into the transparent cocoon that held him back from everyone without his consent.
He saw him when he dreamt.
His hair was the snowy white it had been whilst he lived, long and curling, a river that wound from his head to pour, a frosty waterfall down his shoulders, his back, covering the lilac skin that had struck Lance from the minute he saw him, his yellow eyes finding Lance in the darkness.
He would step out of the shadows, body bare, and walk to him, come into the bed, cuddle close to Lance, cradle him into his arms and stroke his hair in little scratches, long strokes. Ran his hand down his back and brought it up again, a soothing cycle that eased the racking sobs that came, so loud and forceful it sounded like he would puke.
The soft smell, the sweet, spicy smell that had ghosted Lotor like a cloud around his hair, in the warm muscles and the hot pulse point of his neck, covered him, swathed him. So close to him that he all he had to do was reach out and touch him, feel the warmth of him, feel the hair around him, to know he was there, to know he was real.
‘Darling,’ Lotor would whisper, ‘My darling Lance. I love you - you know I do - please, my love, you know I love you. You’re going to be alright, my love. You’re going to be alright - please,’ his voice would break at this point, almost sounding thick with tears, and he’d hold Lance closer, squeeze him, smother him in his scent and his warmth, ‘Please let go, you have to let go, my love.’
Lance couldn’t breathe, felt his tears choke him, his breath stutter and gasp, hands reaching out to clutch him, grab him, hold him down and keep him alive for as long as possible, before he awoke, before the dream ended-
‘Lance,’ Lotor would breathe, his breath tickling Lance’s ear, his hair, his warmth everywhere all at once. ‘Lance, I will love you until the stars die.’
He’d wake up at that point - curled on his side, the duvet piled on top of him, his pyjamas stuck to his sweating skin, tears making a puddle on the pillow in front of him; Lotor gone-
Gone forever.
It had been two years, Lance would remind himself, lying there in a puddle of tears, sweat and misery, two years to get over him.
But he couldn’t - he couldn’t - he couldn’t anymore-
He’s hungry - and he starves in his dreams.