Word Count = 723

There had come a day very shortly after Xenotime’s attack when Lorne had looked at his room and realized something: he’d lived here for months now with Kyle, longer still in the states, but - somehow, this place still felt so barren. In spite of the fact that he’d had his friends over, that he’d made memories all over this place, so many of them good, it still just didn’t feel like home.

This was something he needed to rectify. Immediately.

So, he’d gone to Colin. Colin, who was fond of photographs. He’d gotten some help from him, borrowed a camera and more or less learned how it worked. He was still kind of inept when it came to these things, but Colin was patient and helpful, and more than willing to ham it up and pose for a few candids to practice with.

For the next several days, Lorne had rarely been without that camera in his hand. He tried not to include himself in many of the photos simply because the bruising on his face had yet to clear, and he didn’t exactly need a memento of that. But a few pictures of him and Nadia, side by side with their arms around each other had still slipped in, at least one where she’d caught him off guard with a kiss just as he was snapping the photo. There were some pictures of Colin and Nadia together, too, because it just seemed right, and then Auguste alongside them too - because he’d come home at the right time, and less because he’d seemed afraid to intrude as Lorne wanted him there. Photos of everyone together, of each of them alone -

-he wished he’d had the camera for their movie night, with Rhea and Isaiah there too. At least he’d been lucky enough to steal a few pictures of Isaiah before his accident, taking an evening to head to his place and assuring him up and down no, Lorne was not looking to take those kinds of photos, blushing and laughing as he stole a few snapshots of his fellow knight, his friend. He’d even taken some photos of Kyle, had caught him before he’d gone out with Niall and insisted on getting some of them together.

Then, he’d gone out and brought frames of all sizes, all different kinds. Some he knew he would leave deliberately blank for now; he hardly thought he knew Fritz well enough to ask for a photo yet, and he didn’t yet know Hver’s civilian identity, among others that went unaccounted for. Rhys, too, was among those that crossed his mind when he piled those extra frames in his closet. Someday.

Painstakingly, he’d laid the photos into the frames, picking and choosing his favorites from among them to display, his fingertips skimming the outlines of his friends fondly through the glass and laughing to himself as he replayed memories, old and fresh, in his mind’s eye, reflecting back on how far he’d come since he’d met them all, like pieces of his heart he hadn’t known he was missing being returned to him. He didn’t know, looking back, how he’d ever really lived without them. Maybe he hadn’t.

As he finished setting them all up throughout the apartment, his room especially, hanging some from the walls, displaying others on his desk, dresser, places like that, Lorne stepped back and admired his handiwork. The sight of these people he adored looking back at him from every direction warmed him, and for the first time, this was a place that truly felt lived in. That felt like a true reflection of him, as he was now, the people and places he cared most about.

His smile faltered, and his fingers curled at his chest, where his starseed rested - it had ached for several days after the attack, slowly dwindling, a heavy reminder of the choice he’d been unable to make. His eyes burned, suddenly, and he sat down at the edge of his bed.

Lorne sat there in silence for a long while, staring at nothing in particular. Then, as though sharing a secret with the afterimages of his friends and their warmth, he whispered his decision - his promise - at last, should the time ever come again:

“I choose death.”