[ Images flash into his mind as Clark talks, of telephone cables overhead and rusty bicycles on sandy backstreets and bougainvillea spilling out of windows. For one brief shining moment, he feels like he might be back on Earth, like he could run home and hold his mother in his arms, bask in the love of his family. And when Clark talks about his own life, Lance can't help but feel a burning pang of frustration, that anyone should have rejected this kind of goodness. ]
You don't—[ He's choked up, face screwed up, cheeks and nose burning red. ]—you don't even know me.
[ Still, the protest is weak. He's never been so acknowledged, never felt so intensely the focus of someone's consideration, and he bends into Clark's space, trying and failing to find stillness, to calm his quivering shoulders with deep breaths. ]
no subject
You don't—[ He's choked up, face screwed up, cheeks and nose burning red. ]—you don't even know me.
[ Still, the protest is weak. He's never been so acknowledged, never felt so intensely the focus of someone's consideration, and he bends into Clark's space, trying and failing to find stillness, to calm his quivering shoulders with deep breaths. ]