[ lance just keeps staring at him. Everything matt’s saying is in english, but his brain is refusing to process the words. he flinches slightly from the touch to his hand, not pulling back from it, just reacting to how strangely emphasized it feels.

no one has touched him since zarkon's last visit, he realizes, and that had been short-lived: zarkon's hand firm on the nape of his neck, keeping him calm and pliant as he'd been escorted back from the quintessence baths.

that was over two weeks ago. no one had touched him since. hardly anyone had spoken to him since.

his skin tingles where matt's fingers had rested. ]

What are you talking about? You just-- you just said they’ve had you for two years, you were a prisoner--

[ but that’s not the important part. the thing he’s been trying desperately not to notice is right on the edge of his mind, whispering. the soft glow to matt’s face. the way lance can smell him, and he smells like warmth and comfort and some faint essence of home, his mom's kitchen maybe, or laundry soap she used, or the scent of her perfume without actually being any of those things. shiro, talking about the druids and their experiments. zarkon, touching his face gently. the guards that never lay a hand on him, the other galra that follow him with their eyes like they know something he doesn’t. ]

What kind of valuable things.