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on the good days, the pain is bearable.
on the good days, he pretends he is normal. he is able to get out of bed, milk kaltenecker and watch over the two farm hands his parents hired. he insisted he could manage on his own, but his mother just looked at him with tired eyes and said,
“just because you can be alone, doesn’t mean you have to, mi vida.”
and she is right. he knows he doesn’t have to be alone, but he chooses to. because the other option is moving on, beginning to live again, and he can’t live without her.
he thinks about this choice on the bad days. the bad days are when the grief renders him immobile, wracks his body with violent tremors as tears that stubbornly refuse to fall well up in his eyes. no one told him about the physical pain of mourning, the knife of loss that left a jagged wound in his chest. then again, no one told him he would lose the love of his life at nineteen, either.
on the bad days, he thinks about joining her, wherever she is. it’s always a thought, lurking in the back of his head, but on the bad days, he indulges in the twisted fantasies, poking at the chasm in his chest because feeling pain is better than feeling nothing at all.
most of the time he is numb; experiencing the world like he is underwater. maybe that explains the sudden struggle to breathe that sometimes comes over him. he isn’t sure how much time has passed, but it feels like centuries.
(that is a lie. he knows exactly how much time has passed: four years, ten months, two weeks and a day. one thousand seven hundred and seventy five days, to be exact. it’s just easier to pretend that every second without her doesn’t feel like an eternity.)
he wants to get better. he thinks. it might be nice to not have to walk on eggshells around your own brain. it might be nice to talk to someone again for more than two sentences of hi, and i’m managing. it might be nice to forget her.
sometimes he forgets, and for a fleeting second he feels like a functioning human. then he remembers and it feels like losing her all over again. little things, like oak trees and juniberries, things that should make him happy, instead bring a wave crashing over his head, suffocating him.
worst of all are the two glowing crescent marks on his face that mock him every time he looks in the mirror. it's a sad thought, but he wishes he didn’t have them. they are not fond memories; they are battle scars. it feels like a punishment, to never be rid of the burden of her death. of the guilt that haunts him like the ghosts of her he sees more often than he'd like to admit.
he knows seeing hallucinations of his dead ex probably isn't healthy, but nothing about him feels healthy anymore. he feels like he is rotting from the inside out, with flies living inside his body.
and anyway, he reasons to himself, at least the ghosts don’t normally speak. that has to count for something, right. they are just silent reflections of her, flickering in and out of existence. when he sees them, he flickers too. sometimes he feels like he may fade away entirely, and the thought doesn’t scare him like it used to.
***
it is the morning of day one thousand, seven hundred and seventy six and he is already awake. he doesn’t sleep much anymore because when he sleeps he dreams of her, and every dream of her is a nightmare.
he rolls out of bed with the lethargy of an ancient god who has seen too much death, too much sadness to care anymore. he forces himself through the routine of getting dressed, eating his breakfast, brushing his teeth. it almost feels like he is a puppet being jerked around on invisible strings.
every morning involves milking kaltenecker, and milking kaltenecker involves walking through a field of juniberries. he hates himself for planting so many; pidge had given him only a couple of seeds originally, courtesy of her mother, but something inside took over and he ended up planting thousands. he meant to thank pidge for flying all the way from the garrison on that same day with a huge box of seeds, but when he saw her face, pitying and sympathetic, the words died in his throat.
he never knows what to say to her anymore. he keeps squashing his feelings every time his mind strays to her face, her eyes, her lips. he wants to spend time with her, spend forever with her, but it feels like betrayal. logically, he knows enough time has passed so that no one would judge him, but logic doesn't live in his head. not much does, anymore.
the field is usually empty, apart from him and the lone grave in the centre. most living souls avoid the atmosphere of unfiltered wretchedness. he would not class himself as a living soul.
today, however, the field is not empty. she is there - or a version of her at least, ghostly pale and rippling like water. he barely acknowledges her presence. he tries to ignore the ghosts as much as he can, but that is a task far easier said than done.
and then she speaks.
“lance," the ghost says, and lance wonders if the ghost has ever spoken before, but he can’t remember. he doesn't think that is a good sign for whatever is left of his sanity.
“what are you doing?” it’s her voice, clear as day from across the field. part of him wants to go running, but he stays put.
“um." he says, his voice weak and croaky from a lack of use. "milking kaltenecker?”
the ghost does not look impressed. she floats closer to him, her long white hair and the hem of her gown lifting slightly in the morning breeze.
“this is wrong.”
he wants to interrupt, ask what exactly is so wrong (even though he knows the answer), but he is too busy staring into her eyes, remembering just how blue they are.
“i didn’t sacrifice myself so you could die along with me.” her tone is harsh and reprimanding as she approaches, just a few feet away. he feels frozen.
“you’re throwing away your life. and for what?” the ghost comes up to him and puts a phantom hand on his shoulder, and he swears the touch is real.
“i’m remembering you. i-i can’t forget you. ” his voice breaks mid sentence, and he distantly wonders when he started crying.
“if you think this is what i would have wanted, then you already have forgotten me.” she says, a perfect frown on her perfect face.
“i just- i don’t know what to do without you here.” he is openly sobbing now, clutching the ghost even though he can’t really feel her.
her reply is whispered, cool breath against his forehead as she presses her lips to his face.
“live.”
he falls to his knees then, shattered. his head hurts and his heart hurts and every cell is screaming at him to her back. but he can’t get her back. he feels a hand ruffle his hair fondly, but when he looks up, he is alone. the air is still. and he is still.
he isn’t sure what happens next, not quite in control of his body, though certain of his actions. fumbling through his pockets, he finds his phone, barely used and filled with ignored calls and messages. he looks around at the juniberry field and immediately knows who to call, dialling the number with trembling hands.
the voice on the other end picks up on the second ring, tinny and quiet.
“lance?”
the sound of her voice feels like a hand squeezing his heart. it feels like home. he'd almost forgotten what she sounded like. almost.
“hey.”
“oh my god. hello? i don’t- i’m sorry, it’s just been so long. give me a second, okay? don’t hang up.”
he waits as there is rustling and the sound of whispering and footsteps from the other end, and then the voice resumes, urgent and anxious. he can almost imagine her chewing at the skin around her thumbnail, but her features in his mind are blurry, like an out of focus lens. he feels a pit in his stomach as it dawns on him just how long it's been since he's seen pidge, since he's seen any of the people he used to call family. once upon a time the paladins were inseparable, but one day lance stopped showing up to their frequent reunions, and it was all downhill from there.
“sorry, i was in a meeting. what’s going on? are you okay? is something- is something wrong?”
he swallows deep before replying, trying to find the right words but quickly discovering there are none.
“can you come over? right now?”
“what?”
“i know it’s sudden, but i... really need you. and can you bring flowers? lots of flowers. thanks.”
there is a few seconds of silence, then:
“i’m on my way.”
***
he spends the next day, day one thousand seven hundred and seventy seven, digging up juniberries and tells his farm hands to take the next few days off. by the following morning, the field is a graveyard with there is a mountain of juniberries in the middle of it, pulled from the earth with worn, calloused hands.
he wants to meet pidge at the airport, but he just can’t find the will to face all the people living normal lives. the kind of normal he gave up on four years ago.
she arrives by plane, and then coach, and finally on foot. it takes hours when it could take seconds, but all of their lions sit gathering dust in the garrison. he can’t even feel red in his mind anymore, her fiery presence gone from his conscience. distantly, he wonders what it would be like to fly again.
when she does arrive, he doesn’t hug her. he wants to, and it is clear she is dying to touch him, but something is stopping him and so she greets him with a shy nod, arms loaded with boxes. he helps her unload them and discovers thousands and thousands of white and yellow seedlings, some of the leaves folded in from the darkness.
“daises?” he asks, quietly and curiously.
she grins half heartedly.
“they represent new life, and sun rising after a long night.”
a beat passes, and he almost forgets how to breathe through the waves of love and affection radiating from her.
“i miss you, lance.” her smile is sad, and she goes to touch his hand in comfort but stops herself.
tentatively, he reaches over and entwines their fingers.
“i miss me too.”
it takes nearly two weeks to plant all of the daises, especially because pidge isn’t used to the cuban heat, but they work well together, and it’s sort of like they were never really apart. he even manages to make a few jokes, but she doesn't laugh, and when he looks over at her, he sees her eyes are shining with something warm that he can't quite place.
they work all day and into the night, only stopping in the early hours of the morning to rest. he offers pidge the choice of any room in the farmhouse, but she chooses to sleep on the couch instead. a few nights in, he joins her, and the loneliness of his house doesn’t feel so lonely anymore. at first, he feels like an awkward, gangly teenager again, but when he finally relaxes, he notices that his body fits perfectly around her small frame. for the first time in longer than he can remember, he sleeps without dreaming, and wakes up to kind, honey brown eyes blinking back at him imches from his face. it's different, but calming; a sight he wouldn’t mind waking up to every day for the rest of his life.
while they work, pidge does what she dows best and talks: about the garrisson, about the other paladins, about the robot she is building with her brother that has ocean blue eyes and a cheeky grin. she even opens up about her research into wormholes and dimensions and realities, admitting in a quiet voice that she has been looking for a way to manipulate time, to go back and save her, but has found no success. with a blow to his chest that is almost painful, he realises he isn’t the only one that has been mourning.
the way she talks about their friends - keith acting as an ambassador for the galra; hunk and shiro on diplomatic missions across the universe - makes it hard to stop the guilt burning his cheeks and the tips of his ears. pidge notices his shame, because of course she does, and is quick to reassure him.
"lance, what you're doing here is braver than any challenge any of us have faced."
he blinks at her.
"what am i doing?"
"you're living. and that takes more strength than fighting a war, or saving the universe. you're strong, lance. you're so strong."
her words strike him harder than he expects them too. he nearly argues that he isn't really living, not like this, but he takes one look at her hopeful expression and feels the words died in his throat.
when they are done, it is the evening of day one thousand seven hundred and ninety two. they stand, exhausted in front of their work, watching the sun set the sky ablaze with dusk. a glimmer of pride warms his spine.
“what are you going to do with the juniberries?” she asks, gesturing to the wilting pile of uprooted plants. he pauses, as if thinking, but he already knows.
***
the fire roars and crackles, releasing the scent of warm juniberries into the cool air. he sits close to its heat and she curls up beside him, watching the flames dance. for a moment, there is silence.
“i loved her, pidge.”
“i know. i loved her too.”
“it hurts.”
“i know.”
“will it ever not hurt?”
pidge has to stop to think. he wraps an arm around her shoulders.
“maybe not. maybe we just get stronger.” she whispers, looking up at him. he can’t tell in the light of the fire, but she might be blushing. the she seems to squint at him and gasp.
“lance?”
“hm?”
“your marks. they’re... gone.”
pidge reaches up and touches his face gently, rubbing her thumb over his cheeks. part of him wants to cry, but deep down he isn’t all that sad. he'd stopped being that sad a while ago, if he's honest with himself. it feels like the right time to let go.
he hasn’t seen her ghost since the day she spoke to him, but he is sure she is present here, watching him. he looks at the bonfire of juniberries, then down at pidge, soft and warm and pretty in the orange light, and feels okayness wash over him.
“it’s okay.” allura is saying. “i forgive you.”
the blame for her death he didn’t realised he was holding onto dissipates, and the hole in his chest seems to soothe.
“you deserve to be happy, lance. live for me. she loves you. she needs you. they all do.”
he glances down at pidge again, who returns his gaze, definitely blushing now, and he wonders how long she was in love with him while he was away from her, and from himself. too long. not anymore. he wonders how long he was in love with her, too, and realises his mother was right: he didn’t have to be alone after all.
“do you think allura is watching us right now? can she hear us?” he asks pidge.
“i think so.” she replies without hesitation. “i’d like to think she’s still here, in a way.”
“if she is, i want her to know i love her, and that she can rest now. i want to say goodbye.”
he feels a hand on his shoulder again, feels phantom lips on his forehead, and then nothing but the weight of pidge leaning against him and the warmth of the fire of juniberries.
lance says goodbye, and the pain becomes a little more bearable.