“meeting at a support group au” (playing with the space soldiers aspect here)
—
This was a bad idea.
This had been such a bad idea, and as Shiro sat in the uncomfortable little folding chair in a ring of other ex-soldiers who were all decades older than him and listened to the group leader drone, it felt like the room was closing in on him. He clasped together shaking hands and pressed them between his knees, but it didn’t help. He bit the inside of his lip hard, felt skin break, but it didn’t stop the dizzy disorientation welling up in the back of his skull.
Time to go.
Gotta get out.
He only vaguely heard voices behind him as he lurched to his feet, knocking over the chair, and stumbled for the hall. He felt something grab for his shirt and flight instincts screamed, causing him to make an unbalanced swing at the unseen attacker and lose his balance.
Hands caught him before he could crack his head on the floor and lowered him down gently and a voice finally broke through the haze of panic. “Easy there, lad. Deep breaths, nice and slow. In, two, three, four…”
Shaking, numb, his mind clung to the comforting sound and he tried to follow instructions, mimicking the breathing exercises until the blurs of color around him settled back into actual images. The thing that he thought had attacked him had been one of the assistance droids that aided those who had to use spinal or lower limb prosthetics. And his savior was a redheaded man about ten years older than him, a web of scars decorating a sightless right eye.
“Nope, you stay right there,” the stranger said when Shiro tried to sit up, then accepted a damp cloth and waterbottle from a woman in white. “Thank you, Prichel. I’ll take it from here.” He laid the cloth over Shiro’s forehead, and he couldn’t help a weak moan of gratitude at the soothing coldness.
“All right, then, lad.” The man took hold of his hands, examining the prosthetic. “What’s your name?”
“Takashi Shirogane.”
“What day is it?”
“T- Tuesday.”
“Good, good. What month is it?”
“September.”
“How many prosthetics do you have?”
“One. Right arm.”
“Excellent. Now I want you to let me know each time I pinch a finger. Tell me which one.”
Shiro obediently counted along back and forth, back and forth, until there was a long pause. “Um… are we done?”
“Hah, very good. I was pinching a falsie. Well, then, it seems you’re back with us. Water?”
Shiro let himself be pulled up to sit and just allowed the towel to fall in his lap as he accepted the metal bottle. Still a little unsteady, he cracked the seal and eagerly gulped down the cold water, finishing the entire bottle in almost one swig. “Thank you,” he mumbled when he’d finished. “God, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for, lad. You’d be amazed how many times a day we have flashback episodes. Glories, I’ve been working here for four years, and I still get them.”
He blinked at the man. “You work here?”
The redhead grinned and held out a hand. “Name’s Coran. I’m one of the one-on-one counselors.”
He shook it. “Shiro. Just… just Shiro.” He put the bottle in his lap, then raked his fingers though his hair. “My unit thought coming here would help with the nightmares, but I just… Maybe it’s not just for me.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Just a tiny omission, that was all. One didn’t exactly go shouting that they’d been forced to sit through cult brainwashing sessions in the hallways.
“Well, it’s not an all or nothing, you know,” Coran said, rocking back on his heels. “If the group therapy is rubbing you wrong, you could always submit your file to Prichel or one of the other nurses and ask them to find you a program more suitable.”
“…Really? It works like that?”
“Of course. We have a wide range of classifications these days. Some prefer counseling by droids, others by their own species, others by fellow soldiers who’ve had similar experiences.” He indicated his face and the scars down his neck. “My specialty is battle injuries and prisoners. War of the Ilvaran Wall.”
Shiro shivered, then bit his lip. “Could… could I just go ahead and make an appointment with you, then?” he asked, rolling up his sleeve a little more to show better the Galra make of his arm.
Coran whistled softly, then his expression softened and he gently patted Shiro on the shoulder. “Come on into my office,” he said, getting to his feet and pulling Shiro up after.
