<Klance Oneshots>

ᴘᴏɪsᴏɴ

We drink the poison in our minds and wonder why we feel so sick.

—

Lance was loud and he was confident. He was funny and he was bright. He always had a broad smile on his face and his head held high. He seemed to laugh and chat till the world went down. He was happy. Right?

Then who was this?

This Lance stared down his reflection with disapproval and disdain. His broken eyes like a shattered sapphire. His tanned skin and sun kissed freckles to die for, blemished and discoloured with dark bags. Thoughts running amuck and clouding his head like cotton wool, all horrible insults blurring together into one until they became one worst of all: Lance.

His self-hatred ran so deep that the worst slur he could think of for himself was himself. Was his own fucking name. He felt sick as he listened to the lies his head was yelling at him. He felt like there was nothing he wished more in the world then to not be who he was.

This Lance wanted to kick and scream. He wanted to curse out the world and throttle his parents for making him this way. But he didn't. He didn't do anything. He kept his gaze forward and swam in pool of all the dreams and expectations he failed to meet.

The harsh white light of his bathroom clawing at his dry, red and just awakened eyes. Lengthy, boney legs sticking out of his basketball shorts, his baggy sleep clothes hanging off his lean frame.

Too skinny, not enough muscle.

He gathered a Herculean strength and pushed his head forward, closer to the mirror— he felt like he was watching a slow motion movie and wasn't even the one creating the movements. He felt like a puppet on a string; or lucid dream, out of body. His skin was paler than usual, more peanut coloured than copper.

Needs a fucking tan.

This Lance tilted his head upwards slightly to get a better look, utilising the ceiling bulb as a spotlight for all the things he wished were not there. Pimples lightly dotted his forehead and nose and his eye bags looked even worse up close.

Ugly. Just sleep. Wash your face.

His puppeteer pushed him backwards and he redirected his gaze to his mocha locks. A scruffy and oily mop on his scalp, even messier from just rolling out of bed.

Gross, in desperate need of a wash. Rats nest.

This Lance forced his gaze away from his hair, like the simple look had scalded his already struggling skin. His eyes fell to his hands—long, thin fingers and strong palms, then more specifically to his hard worn nails.

Fix them. Do you live in a pigs sty?

He sighed. Deep and raspy like a dying breath, when all the weight you carry is taken away and your off to where the dead reside. That's what he felt like—he felt dead.

Most certainly looks it.

Lance shucks up the sleeves of his grey shirt up and scratches at his arms with his short nails. Short but still there. They leave angry red marks in their wake—like lava pouring down the side of an erupting volcano. Not enough to bleed, just enough to feel.

To feel something other then the burning aching in his heart, a fire set for Lance and kindled with all the things he is and all the things he could never be. He is not good things, but he wished to be.

He pushes his sleeves back down and, avoiding his horrid reflection, flicked off the lights and left the room. This Lance walked down the dark hallway of his apartment, the light from the moon shone in through the open blinds of a window, leaving perfect parallelograms on the hardwood floors.