A little of Shiro's perspective from last chapter...cause why not? Trigger warnings? Disjointed thinking and hints of ensuing panic attacks and self-loathing. Shiro is not in a good head space right now and his thought processes are reminiscent of someone really struggling with mental health.
He should probably clean up today.
He'd been rehearsing that same pathetic fact nearly every day for almost a week. He stared around the living room of his cramped new apartment like a stranger in a foreign land. Moving boxes sat stacked precariously and several rumpled changes of clothes were strewn over the back of his couch. He didn't even remember whether they were clean. The apartment had been him for nearly a month, but he had yet to completely move in. Part of him strongly suspected the Garrison would end of moving him again once the paparazzi sniffed out his new hiding place. Why unpack boxes when he'd just have to pack them all over again?
His excuses were pathetic but he was a grown man, he told himself. If he didn't feel like unpacking his meager possessions who had any authority to order him. Quiznack, if he felt like sitting around in his boxers eating poptarts for the rest of the day what did it matter!
Shiro puttered to the kitchen and found himself staring blankly into the barren refrigerator. Several small, grease-stained boxes of take out sat abandoned. He wasn't even sure when or where he'd gotten them. What was this? Chinese?
Shiro sniffed, gagged, and promptly set the box back inside. He'd have to clean this out later. Wipe the fridge out... Grocery shop for some real food at some point. Logic told him he was hungry. He had no clue when or what he'd eaten last. Still, he found it out his stomach wasn't rumbling with hunger. He didn't seem to need food anymore.
His phone went off in his pocket and he jerked, his back painfully seizing at the sudden sharpness of the movement. He swallowed down a wince and peered down at the reminder chirping at him on his phone.
Garrison Meeting: Ambassadors' luncheon. DRESS NICE!
He found himself glaring, but the expression felt cold and detached. When had he written that reminder? He didn't remember having plans for today. How long ago had this been scheduled? And what was this about dressing nice?! The last question came out as a hysterical mental shriek. Dress nice? What did that mean? How nice? Garrison Grays nice? Tuxedo? Business casual? The swarm of options left Shiro's mind dizzy and his chest tight. It was just clothes. Why was he freaking out over clothes? He left he question unanswered as he shuffled quickly to his bedroom in search of fresh laundry. The reminder said the luncheon was due at 1300 hours. He had two hours to get his act together. Plenty of time, he tried assuring himself.
The laundry basket in his room was empty. In a rush of icy panic, Shiro raced to the laundry machine only to find the clothes inside a sodden mildew-ridden mess. He had no idea when he'd run the load of clothes or how long they'd sat cold and stewing in the machine. He banged the lid down and yanked the drier open. Socks and underwear greeted him.
He was sniffing the pile of clothes draped over the sofa shamelessly when a series of knocks banged his front door. Shiro nearly stopped breathing. He stood gasping in shock over the sudden noise as he tried to gather his thoughts. What was he doing? Looking for clean clothes. Dress nice! Everything's dirty. I need to grocery shop later. Who's at my door?
Matthew Holt stood grinning infuriatingly at him when Shiro finally managed to open his front door. Keith stood at the young man's side, his face a closed-off scowl that looked more worried than irritated. Matt was already brushing past Shiro before he fully understood what his visitor was even saying to him. Shiro wanted to protest. Yell. Scream. Order them out. Matt was already savagely berating him about the level of clutter infecting Shiro's apartment. Shiro took the rebukes stubbornly like a toddler fighting a spoonful of medicine. He protested, but he knew Matt was right. He was a slob. He was a grown man, a soldier, a Champion, a hero. He couldn't keep his own apartment clean.
Shiro noticed the look of dread seeping over Keith's face as he watched the whole spectacle playing out. The boy looked just as uncomfortable as Shiro felt. He wished Matt hadn't dragged Keith into this. Keith didn't need to seem him like this. He'd been Keith's idol. Now, he couldn't even remember to grocery shop or pull his soggy clothes out of the washing machine.
Shiro heard himself reassuring Keith. Promising him to come visit the shack once he'd gotten more organized. Shiro didn't bother acknowledging the fact that he'd had months to get his act together. If he couldn't figure out how to start living like normal after all those months, when would he? Shiro knew Keith deserved better than his own half-cracked delusional lies.
And then Shiro was yelling. His fist ached and for a split second he almost forgot that he only had one now. The kitchen countertop rattled from the force of his pounding, and Keith and Matt stood staring with matching flashes of pained horror as Shiro well and truly lost his brain. He ordered them out, swallowing back the simmering rage that had somehow began brewing inside him. Why was he so angry? They'd just been checking on him. He should be glad that they still cared.
No! They don't trust me! They're just being nosy like the reporters. Looking for stories. For dirt they could spread.
I need to grocery shop later.
My laundry is ruined. Should I wash it again?
What was I scheduled to do this afternoon? A lunch?
The apartment was suddenly quiet and Shiro realized he was still standing alone in the kitchen, his mind racing through a million orders and thoughts. How long ago had Keith and Matt left?
Shiro's gut clenched and he raced to the sink and let himself heave. Greenish gray bile burned his throat on the way up and the cold tendrils of self-loathing took hold. Shiro heard himself yelling at Keith and Matt. He'd banished them from his apartment without a shred of apology. They probably hated him now.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He waited until the heaving stopped and forced himself to swish a glass of cold water in his mouth until the acid faded from his taste buds. He sank to the kitchen floor and yanked his phone out. A new reminder flashed at him.
Pick up suit from cleaners.
Shiro blinked and the dilemma from earlier rushed back with fresh focus. He had clothes for the luncheon. He glanced at the time. Only one hour left. If he left now, he'd have just enough time to pick up the suit and make it to the Garrison. Maybe he wasn't well and truly screwed just yet.
He heaved a shaky sigh and forced himself upright for the bathroom. He needed a shower and a shave. He'd feel better then.
The luncheon was going about as well as Shiro expected. A dozen or so alien ambassadors mingled happily in the Garrison's conference room, chatting amiable with one another the handful of Garrison and Earth representatives. Trays of hors d'oeuvers lay scattered throughout the room as well as trays of some sparkly drink Shiro couldn't place. The elegant fair had Hunk's talented touch written all over it and Shiro wondered idly where the yellow paladin was. How long had it been since he'd visited him? Guilt stung Shiro. He should be checking on him-on all of the team. What kind of leader was he if he didn't even know the last time he'd chatted with one of his own team mates?
"Commander Shirogane!"
The eager voice was like an ice pick through Shiro's eardrums. He jumped and disguised his jerk of surprise with a forced smile that felt anything but real. A slender, pink alien stood smiling widely at him, her six luminescent eyes beaming at him. He blinked and forced his smile wider to compensate for his lack of recognition. Who was this ambassador? Ambassador Crenich? Silva?
"It is marvelous to see you again," the alien said with a warm smile. She extended a thin, spindly hand and Shiro had no idea what to do with it. "I know you've been extremely busy since your return, but I'm pleased you were able to attend today. It is an honor."
Shiro's smile felt stale. His own greeting felt trapped in his throat. Why was talking suddenly so hard?
"The honor is mine. Thank you for attending," he forced out. "How is your stay on Earth?" Get her talking about herself, he told himself. Keep her busy talking and you won't have to.
The alien began a long and excited commentary on her new earth experiences and Shiro made a show of nodding and smiling, his mind a million lightyears away. He was busy plotting his escape.
Across the room, a familiar face caught Shiro's eyes. He jerked slightly in recognition and his tuxedo suddenly felt several sizes too small. He resisted the urge to pull at the constricting collar choking his neck. The stump of his arm began burning beneath the empty sleeve he'd so carefully pinned up and out of the way.
Ulaz's face went soft and his eyes looked pained as they locked with Shiro's. Shiro couldn't decide whether he wanted to run to the Galra or duck out of sight and escape. He'd never quite managed to unravel his complicated relationship with Ulaz. It was anything but black and white. Ulaz had helped take his body apart. He'd also helped put him back together again. Did that neutralize the harm?
"Commander Shirogane?"
Shiro's attention was yanked back to the nameless ambassador still talking to him. She went quiet, her face expectant and Shiro realized with horror she must have just asked him a question. A question he hadn't heard.
"Ambassador," he fumbled. "Please excuse me. I'm not feeling well." Shiro left before he heard the response to his flimsy excuse. He wasn't quite sure where he was going until he was standing directly in front of Ulaz's giant figure.
"Takashi," Ulaz rumbled. Shiro felt the vibration of Ulaz's voice more then he heard the words. A sudden wash of "safe" rolled over him.
"Ulaz, you're... here?"
"Kolivan asked I take his place today at the luncheon. He was called away to oversee a new base installation." Ulaz went quiet and Shiro could feel the eyes weighing heavily on him.
"You are unwell."
It wasn't a question. Shiro wanted to squirm guiltily.
"I'm okay... just a little tired, I guess. Resurrection takes a lot out of you," he joked. Neither of them laughed.
"How is your arm fairing? I heard you refused treatment. I can craft a new prosthesis for you myself if the earth options are displeasing."
A warmth bloomed in Shiro's chest at the show of concern, but it quickly soured and went cold at the thought of someone-even Ulaz-tinkering with the remaining stump of his arm. It would mean another surgery. Testing. Touching. Pain. Recovery.
"It's okay, Ulaz," he quickly assured him. "I'm okay without a prosthesis. I'm getting used to one arm now. It's not that big of a deal."
Ulaz looked anything but convinced. "What is troubling you, Shiro?"
Shiro looked him in the eye and all lies died on his tongue. Thankfully, Iverson saved him.
"I would like to personally thank each and every one of you who attended today's luncheon," the Garrison commander announced to the room, his voice booming. The ambassadors and delegates went quiet and the room stilled as the meeting officially came to order. "It is an honor to host so many fine representatives of the best of our galaxies," Iverson continued.
Shiro edged away from Uaz and retreated across the room. He managed to escape the physician for the rest of the afternoon. It was only hours later in the grungy safety of his trashed apartment that Shiro bothered to answer the question Ulaz had posed.
What was troubling him?
Shiro swallowed hard and let himself sink to the floor, his back tight against the wall of his bathroom as he regarded the dark circles ringed beneath his eyes and the white shock of rumpled hair that had aged him years.
He had no idea what was wrong with him.
