[He isn't really expecting Ian to share anything, and so when he does--especially as an expression of understanding--Lance listens carefully, even if his gaze is mostly on his coffee and only briefly flickering toward Ian. He's still listening, taking in what Ian says, that connection there in different situations and yet similar experiences.
'Not acknowledging the fact that it's dark' is a very good descriptor of the last two years.
The slow movement means Ian reaching out toward him prompts more confusion than alarm, but then it's just a reassuring touch and even more reassuring words, and suddenly Lance realizes something as though pieces have finally clicked together.
Maybe it's less that he needs anyone to help him in actually dealing with what happened--he knows how to do that, knows how to face things and identify them and work through them--and more that he just needs an acknowledgment that what happened was really difficult to go through. That it's valid to be so traumatized by it all, that he isn't overreacting, that so many things happened at once and all of them were horrific in their own rights. That someone cares, even if they can't necessarily understand all of it, and that he isn't expected to just be okay.
He knows, logically, that this is something that he's been denying himself by refusing to truly talk to anyone. Even people he truly, completely trusts, like Nate, he'd always found a reason not to talk to; he hadn't wanted to give him more problems, or put that kind of pressure on him. And with others, even people he'd logically known would care, he'd still be so afraid he'd be wrong. That they'd judge him, or dismiss him, or not even attempt to understand, and in a way he wouldn't have been able to blame them; this is so much to deal with, and he still feels that irrational sense that it isn't fair to put that sort of thing on someone.
And so he never really has. He's told some people pieces of what happened, or sometimes even the entirety of one of the particular experiences, but always in a way in which he wraps it all back up at the end and moves on.
So he wonders, really, if that acknowledgement might be a lot of it. Not all of it, of course--like Ian said, it's so much to unpack--but much of what he couldn't just do on his own. A missing piece right at the start.
It isn't an emotional revelation, more of a logical one, and so it isn't so overwhelming; not just yet, anyway. Maybe it will be more when he thinks about it later, but for now it's just new understanding, and maybe a little hope that dealing with all of this won't be quite as daunting as it feels.
And so, with a weak smile and a quiet but certain tone, he manages to look at Ian as he responds.]
Right. We're clear.
[Then, slightly stronger--]
Thanks. For...
['For listening' is what he'd normally say, but that's not quite right.]
For caring.
[To listen, to try to understand, to offer support and want to help. Any one of those things is more than he expects from anyone, let alone all of them.]
no subject
'Not acknowledging the fact that it's dark' is a very good descriptor of the last two years.
The slow movement means Ian reaching out toward him prompts more confusion than alarm, but then it's just a reassuring touch and even more reassuring words, and suddenly Lance realizes something as though pieces have finally clicked together.
Maybe it's less that he needs anyone to help him in actually dealing with what happened--he knows how to do that, knows how to face things and identify them and work through them--and more that he just needs an acknowledgment that what happened was really difficult to go through. That it's valid to be so traumatized by it all, that he isn't overreacting, that so many things happened at once and all of them were horrific in their own rights. That someone cares, even if they can't necessarily understand all of it, and that he isn't expected to just be okay.
He knows, logically, that this is something that he's been denying himself by refusing to truly talk to anyone. Even people he truly, completely trusts, like Nate, he'd always found a reason not to talk to; he hadn't wanted to give him more problems, or put that kind of pressure on him. And with others, even people he'd logically known would care, he'd still be so afraid he'd be wrong. That they'd judge him, or dismiss him, or not even attempt to understand, and in a way he wouldn't have been able to blame them; this is so much to deal with, and he still feels that irrational sense that it isn't fair to put that sort of thing on someone.
And so he never really has. He's told some people pieces of what happened, or sometimes even the entirety of one of the particular experiences, but always in a way in which he wraps it all back up at the end and moves on.
So he wonders, really, if that acknowledgement might be a lot of it. Not all of it, of course--like Ian said, it's so much to unpack--but much of what he couldn't just do on his own. A missing piece right at the start.
It isn't an emotional revelation, more of a logical one, and so it isn't so overwhelming; not just yet, anyway. Maybe it will be more when he thinks about it later, but for now it's just new understanding, and maybe a little hope that dealing with all of this won't be quite as daunting as it feels.
And so, with a weak smile and a quiet but certain tone, he manages to look at Ian as he responds.]
Right. We're clear.
[Then, slightly stronger--]
Thanks. For...
['For listening' is what he'd normally say, but that's not quite right.]
For caring.
[To listen, to try to understand, to offer support and want to help. Any one of those things is more than he expects from anyone, let alone all of them.]