Three days after arriving on earth, he locked himself in his dorm and didn’t come out for a week. Being homesick wasn’t logical nor was it rational, but he felt it nonetheless, the place made him uncomfortable almost instantly, and in a deep, instinctual way.
Nothing about it was right, the sky was an unnatural shade of blue, and the sun was pale and washed out. The whole planet was covered in endless, shifting gradients of green, pale mint to deep viridian, and it was wet, running and dripping, spread like fresh green blood across the hills and valleys. There was water everywhere, it ran in the streets and flowed to the oceans. It floated, inescapable, in the air. He could feel it on his skin, it clung to his hair and it coated his lungs, filling his head and making his thoughts feel heavy and slow, a constant pressure on his sinuses that manifested in mild, throbbing headaches. It smelled like mildew and mold and decay, and he could practically taste it.
The sounds were equally unbearable, the endless auditory stream of traffic and noise and creatures, and the people were wrong, loud and brash and outspoken, talking constantly, apparently incapable of functioning without speaking. They went out of their way to make him feel at home, to include him in their conversations, to make it clear that his differences meant nothing to them, and that his presence was more than accepted, it was embraced. He hadn’t felt so uncomfortable and out of place since he was a small child.
He’d chosen to come to this planet of his own volition, and there were other options available to him. In addition, logic dictated this place was as much his home as Vulcan, his mother was from earth. She still owned her childhood home, thousands of miles from where he was now. But he hated it.
On the eleventh day he received a message from his father, requesting his presence some distance away at an event thrown by the Embassy. The two of them had not parted on good terms; his decision to go to Star Fleet rather than to join the Academy had deeply affected Sarek, who viewed his decision as a rash, emotional, illogical action. But it was not in Vulcan nature to disobey, and he pulled the tattered remains of his pride and culture around him like a cloak, protection from this alien place.
The next day he boarded a transport heading to his father’s destination, wearing a thick coat, his hand rubbing on his sleeve in an attempt to make himself feel drier. It didn’t work, even the fabric felt damp.
The distance he was to travel wasn’t great enough to warrant the use of a shuttle craft, the pride of earth’s transportation system, a craft that would travel into Earth’s orbit and drop out at its destination, saving time and energy, providing, in the words of those who pedaled its services. “Spectacular views”. Instead he boarded a plane, a primitive means of transportation, a frail shell with wings that fought gravity as it pushed itself though the sky. It was crowded with people who were just as endlessly clamorous as the rest of the humans he’d met. He ended up sitting nearest to the isle, unable to even rest his face against the glass and pretend he was leaving this planet and its bloody countenance. The woman sitting next to him stared out at the ground even before they took off. Preemptively avoiding any conversation he pulled out a small viewer, burying himself in study as the hum of the engines began, the shrill scrape of metal on metal assaulting his senses. 45.6 minutes into the flight an infant began to cry and the middle aged woman turned to him and said, “Just our luck, right?” He failed to see what was lucky about the situation, the infant was not lucky to be in whatever discomfort it was in, his mother was not lucky to be hassled by the crying and the pressure of trying to sooth it to silence, and the rest of the passengers weren’t lucky to have their ears assaulted by the shrill sounds it was making. And anyway, luck was a wildly outdated system of belief based around random chance. But to keep her from asking further questions he made a gesture somewhere between a nod and a shrug. The woman seemed appeased; she didn’t talk to him for the rest of the flight.
The time failed to pass quickly, despite his careful meditation.
When he landed he found himself surprised. The stale, recycled air of the plane, instead of being replaced by the wet, cloyingly humid air of the coast was replaced with dry, warm, crisp air, the slight smell of clean dirt and spice floating pleasantly about. He breathed deep and very nearly smiled. He knew, in an academic way, that Earth had many different climates across its surface, but he had lost sight of the fact in what he was almost willing to admit was a self-serving misery. He could almost like this place, with its deep red sand and rough, rocky outcroppings. Even the flora was more correct, shades of brown and tan, occasionally olive, not the bright, garish colors so prevalent in San Francisco. The sun was still too soft and the sky wasn’t the right color, and if he was being truly honest it wasn’t even dry enough, but it was so much closer than what he had been experiencing. It was comfortable.
That night he ate dinner with his father in quiet tension. The other statesmen greeted him warmly, congratulated him on his acceptance to Star Fleet and assured him they believed he would do well. He took the complements with quiet politeness and answered their questions in the calm, logical way of his people. His father didn’t say much, but they were used to that from the Vulcan Ambassador.
When he returned to his dorm, what would be his residence for the next four years (three, actually), he was in a better state. He still didn’t like the wet or the cold, but he could adjust. He made a place for himself with a straightforward determination.
The next time he set foot on Vulcan he was pale, his tan faded in the pale sun of Earth and the crisp, florescent light of ships and control rooms. It would not be noticed by anyone who was not a Vulcan. It would not be mentioned by anyone ever.
