A/N: Hey, hey, lovely readers! Whether it's by accident or on purpose, thanks for stopping by this fic. I have a few other stories currently in progress, and for those who know me, you probably know that getting involved in more than, like, two fics at a time is simply blasphemous for me. But this is one of those fics that basically wrote itself inside my head before I even got around to typing it out, so I think it's about time I shared!
Prepare yourselves for some fluff, angst, lame attempts at humor, and, of course, some fake-relationship-au klance goodness. Because ya'll can pry that trope from my cold, dead hands.
Enjoy!
Something Blue
A Voltron Fanfiction
Chapter 1: A Match Made in Heaven
He's staring.
It's his third night in France, and he's at a bar with some classmates, and the champagne is flowing, and the air is stale, and the lights are foggy, and his gaze locks onto a blonde cocktail waitress across the way, and his heart jumps up into his throat.
Because she's staring, too.
"Bonjour, jolie madame," he finally sidles up next to her, slurs the mottled French into her ear, and thinks himself quite suave.
Her grin is downright wicked as she asks, "Is that meant to impress me?"
"I — you — English?" he stammers dumbly.
"Better than you, apparently."
They tuck themselves away in a small vinyl booth against the back wall, and spend the rest of the evening talking.
He tells her that his name is Lance, and he's studying abroad for three months, and he thinks her accent is the cutest thing he's ever heard.
She tells him that her name is Nyma, and she's an artist, and she works as a waitress to pay the bills, and she thinks his eyes are even bluer than the ocean.
She makes him blush.
He makes her smile.
She lets him hold her hand under the table.
They fall fast.
And then, for the next three months, they're absolutely inseparable.
She's laughing.
It's two and a half months later, and they're lying on their backs in the middle of the green countryside on a warm afternoon, and the sky is cloudless overhead, and her face is drenched in sunlight, and her laughter sounds like his favorite song, and he thinks that she's never looked more stunning.
"That looks nothing like me," Nyma says through her giggles.
Lance's gaze ping-pongs back and forth between her glowing grin and the primitive portrait he'd scribbled out on a blank page of her sketchbook.
"What do you mean?"
She pokes a finger against the paper as it hovers a few inches above their noses. "You gave me claws."
"They're hands," he corrects, reaching out to lace their real, non-scribbled fingers together in the air.
"And antennas!"
"Your hair!" he defends, snorting when she turns her face to chuckle into the crook of his neck. "Alright, Miss Picasso, let's see your masterpiece, then. Unleash the magnum opus!"
Oh, she will. And he knows she will by the delightfully impish smirk that claims her cherry lips as she snatches the sketchbook, and the small pack of pencil crayons, and rolls onto her stomach. She goes to work, fingers nimble, and shields her progress with her forearm.
Not that Lance is necessarily trying to steal a sneak-peek. He moves onto his side, head propped up by an elbow, but he finds himself irrevocably more taken with her beauty than any makeshift portrait could ever hope to capture. He's familiar with the way she works, the way she concentrates, whether she's lounging against a tree in the Parc de Valrose, or curling up on the shoddy sofa in his temporary flat, wearing nothing but one of his oversized shirts, sketchpad cradled in her arms. Sometimes the tip of her tongue will poke out from the corner of her mouth. Sometimes strands of blonde hair will fall into her eyes, and she'll be too focused to tuck them away. Sometimes she glances up for reference, and Lance will twist his face into an absurd expression, and she'll press her lips together to stifle her amusement.
He loves her best like this, he thinks. When she's lost in her passion, savoring every stroke, painting her heart onto the page. She's a vision. She's his vision.
And he'll never tire of looking.
"How's this for magnum opus?" she says, retracting her arm to showcase the finished product.
"Whoa."
It's a marvel, really, how she manages to create anything decent with what limited supplies she brought along. But 'decent' is a gross understatement, as is 'marvel', when Lance admires the drawing that bears a striking resemblance to himself, right down to the charming crookedness of his smile, and the vivid blue of his eyes.
"Still think you can beat me?" she teases.
"You know what?" Lance grins, cheeks flushed and warm. "I think I can."
He flips to the next page in her book, reveals a small box from his back pocket, and scribbles only two words in blue pencil.
Marry me.
He's smiling.
It's the last night of his trip, and he's holding her in bed, limbs sated and intertwined beneath a mass of wrinkled sheets, eyelids heavy with a post-coital haze. He watches her watch him like he's made of glass. Like he's slipping from her grasp, soon to shatter against the hard floor. She's been doing that quite often lately.
She cards her fingers through the front of his tousled hair, and he catches her wrist, kisses each of her knuckles, asks her what's on her mind. Please let me in. Let me see you.
"I have to tell you something."
"You can tell me anything."
She does.
His name is Rolo. He's a figure model that she met at her art studio. They've been seeing each other in private for about a month. They're not in love, but she thinks they could be.
She's so, so sorry.
She never meant to hurt him.
But she just can't go through with this.
What did I do? What did I do?
Nothing, nothing.
He cries. He breaks. He really does shatter like glass.
She places her ring on the bedside table, and leaves.
TO: [Lance McClain]
FROM: [Veronica McClain]
SUBJECT: Re: GETTING HITCHED!
OH MY GOD LANCE! IF THIS IS A PRANK I'M GOING TO KILL YOU. We hardly hear from you at all during your trip, and then you come back engaged? Don't get me wrong, I'm totally not surprised. This is the most 'Lance' thing you've ever done since that one time you dabbed so hard you gave Marco a bloody nose. But anyway — OH MY GOD!
You better not be thinking you can keep this special someone all to yourself! We were going to spend the summer in Veradero again this year, but now that there's a wedding to plan… Guess what? The whole McClain clan is shipping out to see you! Mom's going to call you later about the exact dates, but isn't this awesome? It's been way too long.
P.S. Mom's pissed you didn't send any pictures of your Mystery Bae. Seriously, what kind of son are you? Guess we'll have to wait in suspense until we meet them in person!
xoxo, Ronnie
"Do you think he's dead?"
"Definitely not dead. I can see him breathing."
"Yeah, but it's all slow and weird… Has he always breathed that slowly?"
"Probably not."
"Aw, man — c'mon, Lance. Fight the urge! Stay away from all tunnels and bright lights!"
When Lance manages to creak open his heavy eyelids, he finds two pairs of inquisitive eyes hovering over his face. One, a bit panicked, crinkled around the edges with concern, but somehow still soft and deep brown. The other, curious, calculating, and nearly masked by the bright glare from some big circular glasses creeping down the bridge of a nose.
"Hey, there he is!" says the pair of brown eyes, relieved. "Man, is it good to have you back, buddy."
The pair of glasses throws their head back, fists raising toward the ceiling. "It lives!"
And then Lance ducks beneath his blanket, burrowing himself away from all of humanity — or, at least, his two best friends. The blanket trembles where his mouth should be as he grumbles something unintelligible at the pair.
"Uh, what was that, dude?" Hunk asks.
"I said," Lance pulls the blanket down just enough to reveal half of his face — the brow-furrowing, bitch-stare-glaring half — and the way his voice croaks hoarsely in his throat suggests that he probably hasn't used it for much lately, other than crying. "How did you two even get in here?"
Pidge brandishes something small, gold, and shiny from her pocket. "Spare key, obviously. I made one for your place a long time ago. I also have spares to Shiro's place, and Allura's, and Matt's…"
Lance scrunches his nose. "That's so not normal, Pidge. That's, like, a creepy friendship power move."
"It's not creepy," she argues. "I only use them for emergencies."
"Then why are you here?"
Hunk pats his friend's leg, still cocooned beneath the blanket. "You're the emergency, bro."
"Me?" Lance tries to sound offended, but it comes out like a childish whine at best. "That's rude as fuck. I'm not an emergency. I'm not blinking red. I'm not even at defcon two! I'm just… slowly dying on the inside, but it's chill. I'm chill."
"Lance, you haven't left your apartment since you got back," says Pidge. "I mean, have you even been feeding yourself?"
He tosses a forlorn glance in the direction of his nightstand, littered with soda cans, empty pudding cups, and half-eaten bags of microwave popcorn. Hunk gives a scandalized gasp, and Pidge lowers her forehead into her palm.
"This is worse than I thought," she frets.
Suddenly, a rogue pillow collides into Pidge's face with a muted fwap, and when she straightens up, glasses all askew, she finds Lance sitting up in bed, the blameworthy pillow clutched tightly to his chest. "I'm wallowing!" he cries indignantly.
"He's becoming hostile. Hunk, initiate immediate evasive maneuvers."
"What —"
"Sorry 'bout this, buddy —"
They each seize one of his arms, and begin tugging with all their might, fighting against how Lance wriggles, and squirms, and desperately tries to slither back into his blanketed hideaway. But he's no match for their joint efforts — Hunk is a certified tank, and Pidge is surprisingly strong, despite her size.
"Didn't you hear me, you heathens?" he squawks as he's dragged to the edge of the mattress. "I'm wallowing! Friends let friends wallow!"
"No," Pidge grunts. "Friends let friends wallow for a little bit, and then they kick their sorry asses out of bed for some much needed human contact."
Lance's limbs go limp, drained of all strength and motivation to do much of anything other than surrender. He sits at the edge of the bed, shoulders slouched, gaze fixed at the floor, and feels overwhelmingly bare. Naked. Stripped raw.
"I don't wanna," he mumbles miserably.
"We're just worried about you, man," says Hunk. The mattress squeaks as his friends join him on the bed, flanking either side. "Laying around being sad isn't gonna make you feel better."
"I know, I know," Lance cedes, because he does. He does know. But that doesn't stop the throbbing ache in the center of his chest where his heart should be, or the sickening churn of his stomach, or the stinging prickle of his eyes. Just when he thought he'd finally emptied himself, shriveled and dry, more tears cling to his lashes, threatening to fall.
"I just —" Sniff. "— I really miss her… y'know?"
A gentle, supportive palm comes down on Lance's right shoulder. Then his left. A single tear betrays him, and slides off his lash, dropping soundlessly into his lap.
"Yeah," Hunk says, low and soft. "We know, buddy. We know."
"At least come out with us tonight," Pidge tries, and gives his shoulder a squeeze. "Just for a couple hours, and if you're not feeling it, then I promise we can come back here and play video games. And Hunk can make us his world-famous salted caramel blondies."
Lance perks up, blinking away tears, wide-eyed and hopeful. "With chocolate chips?"
"Is there any other way?"
He considers. No. No, there absolutely is not.
"'Kay," Lance finally says, almost garbled behind his wrist as he swipes it beneath his runny nose. "Fine."
"That's the spirit, dude!" Hunk jumps to his feet, and totes a decidedly unenthusiastic Lance along with him, but one glance at the boy's tragically disheveled state has Hunk biting his bottom lip to suppress a wince. "So… you might wanna put on a change of clothes."
"And shower," adds Pidge, appearing at Hunk's side with a more poorly-contained wince. "Please. For the love of everything, please shower, Lance."
He looks down at himself — a pair of boxers with cartoon dolphins swimming across the fabric, an old grey hoodie with unidentifiable stains, and a single tube sock on his left foot.
Right. A shower might be best.
The bar that Hunk and Pidge end up dragging him to isn't one of their usual retreats. It's small, but not uncomfortably so. The lights are still dim, and the music is still loud, but Lance almost feels like he's loafing around someone's lavish parlor rather than drinking his troubles away on a Saturday night. Under normal circumstances, he'd be the first to suggest they leave to go find someplace with more action, more excitement, more thrill. But these are far from normal circumstances, and, for once, Lance is perfectly content to station himself at the bar, nursing what's left of his vodka cranberry while his friends are off mingling.
Lance sighs, swirls his straw around his drink, and wonders when he'll start to feel like himself again. Because he knows that a part of him is still back in France, and, if he tries hard enough, he can still remember how it feels to laze under the Parisian sun, to count the stars from the streets of Marseille, to kiss her perfect lips, and hold her in his arms —
He flops over the bar top, face smooshing against its lacquered surface. God, he feels pathetic.
"Hey, you."
It takes a moment for Lance to realize he's being spoken to, but, eventually, he peels himself off the counter, and glances at all the unoccupied seats that surround him. The bartender, however, is staring him down with the kind of glare that would normally ignite his insides, if he weren't already so gutted.
"You mind?" the bartender prompts when Lance remains speechless.
"Uh," he gawks. "'Scuse me?"
Bartender Guy looks impatient, like Lance should already know what he's thinking without having to explain himself. "You've been sitting here moping for like an hour."
"I'm not moping," Lance defends, feeling the subtle beginnings of a slight rekindling. "I'm wallowing. There's a difference."
"Right," Bartender Guy says, unimpressed. "Well, you mind wallowing somewhere else, then? You're scaring people away from the bar, which means I don't get tips. See how this works?"
Oh, the flames are definitely flickering now. Lance narrows his eyes, and gives the other male a thorough once-over because, honestly, the nerve. Who does this guy think he is — with his messy ponytail, and pierced ears, and fingerless gloves, and that lame tattoo of a wolf inked beautifully onto his toned bicep, and that black v-neck t-shirt stretching tight across his broad chest, and those dumb skinny jeans hugging every curve.
Like, how actually dare he.
"Oh, boo-hoo," Lance mocks viciously. "Worried you won't make enough cash to pay for your latest Hot Topic shopping spree?"
The bartender furrows his brow, eyes steely, and turns back to a row of wine glasses that need polishing. "More like my rent, idiot. Eviction isn't cheap."
Lance blinks, and feels slightly bad — but just slightly — and takes another gulp of his drink. "I thought bartenders were supposed to be all friendly and hospitable and offer their guests sage wisdom about all of life's problems, or whatever."
"Only the guests who aren't being a pain in my ass."
"A pain in your —" he slams his glass down onto the bar with the kind of indignant fervor that has Bartender Guy rolling his eyes prematurely. "Listen here, pal, if anyone has a right to be a pain in the ass tonight, it's me. I'm wading through the waters of despair over here. Practically suffocating on the fumes of heartbreak, okay? I got dumped by the love of my life… And I know what you're probably thinking — who in their right mind would ever give up a guy as handsome and quick-witted as me —"
A deadpan drawl: "Yeah, can't even imagine."
" — But she did," he finishes, and he hates that his voice wavers on the last word, like a deflating balloon, losing air, losing steam. Beads of condensation drip down the side of Lance's glass, and he watches them fall, just to give himself something to stare at that isn't Bartender Guy's deep, dark eyes. "Left me for somebody else. Just like that. Didn't even think twice. We were gonna get married and everything…" The breath he sighs is almost enough to make his lungs collapse. "I guess… she found something better."
There's nothing but the sound of pulsing music, idle barroom prattle, and the tinkling of glasses as the bartender continues to wipe them down. He's quick, but thorough, and so focused on the task that Lance is certain he's already tuned him out, utterly disinterested by Lance's depressing tale.
Until he says, very matter-of-factly, and without averting his gaze, "If she hurt you that bad, then she's probably not really the love of your life."
And then Lance is back to indignant, looking up from his empty glass with a scowl because, no, this guy's not allowed to be right. "Who asked you, Edward Cullen?"
"I thought you wanted me to offer you sage wisdom about your problems."
"I thought I was just a pain in your ass."
"You're more of a dull ache. Here —" From somewhere behind the bar, he procures a freshly poured vodka cranberry, and sets it down on a cocktail napkin in front of Lance. "Sounds like you could use another." And then, as an afterthought, "On the house."
Lance's wide eyes bounce back and forth between the drink and Bartender Guy, who has now returned to polishing glasses with avid indifference. Then he squints, suspicious, and asks, "Are you actually trying to be nice or are you just trying to liquor me up in the hopes that I'll eventually pass out and stop talking your ear off?"
"Does it matter?" he says. "Free alcohol is free alcohol."
Well, he does have a point.
Lance takes the first sip, and smacks his lips together. "Mm, tastes like sweet, sweet pity."
"There's a fuck ton of vodka in there, too," the bartender eyes him with a quirked brow. "So don't be a brat about it."
Lance continues to slurp in silence. And as he slurps, he leans an elbow on the bar, cheek cupped in his palm, and watches. Bartender Guy goes about his business — wiping down shelves, restocking bottles, chopping up lime wedges — and he does it all with a set jaw, a faint frown. Lance makes a mental note: broody. He watches Bartender Guy take a customer's order on the other end of the bar, pull bottles from the rack as if he were drawing a gun from its holster, and then shake the ingredients into frothy perfection. Lance makes another note: dexterous. He watches Bartender Guy lift up onto his toes, reaching for a bottle of top-shelf scotch, ass muscles flexing as he stretches. Another note: fit. Then he watches Bartender Guy glance over his shoulder, puzzlement wrinkling his brow as he catches that shameless stare. Lance promptly turns away, feigning innocence, and makes a final note: more observant than he looks.
It's not Lance's fault for spending an inordinate amount of time admiring this guy's impressive assets. It's the alcohol's fault. And this dumb bar for being so boring, and not having anything else interesting enough to look at.
Yeah. He'll go with that.
"So now that I've basically bared my entire soul to a total stranger," Lance pipes up again after a considerable amount of watching. "What's your damage?"
Bartender Guy looks up from the glass he'd just finished filling with ice cubes, thick bangs feathering down into his eyes. "Damage?"
"Yeah. Can't pay the rent, stuck working on a Saturday night," laments Lance. "Rough times, huh?"
He shrugs with a specific brand of apathy that Lance is quickly learning to associate with him. Then, while pouring bronze-colored liquid over the ice, he says, darkly, "Not like I have anywhere better to be, I guess."
"Well, shit, dude," Lance balks, gesturing to his drink. "You sure you don't need one of these things?"
"I'll wait until I'm off the clock."
"When's that gonna be?"
"One."
"Then can I buy you a drink at one 'o clock?"
Bartender Guy's hand pauses, mid-reach for a slice of lemon. "Buy me a drink," he repeats dubiously. Not a question.
"I mean," Lance reasons, "you got one for me, I get one for you. Seems fair, right?"
And then he smiles. Stoic, aloof, tight-assed Bartender Guy actually cracks a smile. And even though it's subtle by anyone else's standards, it's progress, and Lance finds himself feeling accidentally accomplished.
"You want to pay me to make my own drink?" Bartender Guy is very mildly amused.
"Hey, free alcohol is free alcohol."
He smiles again, bigger than the last, and even chuffs out a noise that Lance swears is a chuckle. "Guess you're right," he says.
"The name's Lance, by the way," and he extends a hand across the bar. A gloved palm meets him halfway.
"Keith."
They don't go home together right away. Keith finishes up his shift, and Lance tells his friends to head off without him, that he wants to hang for a little while longer, and, against their better judgement, they leave. At precisely one 'o clock in the morning, Keith fixes himself his drink of choice — straight whiskey on the rocks — and rips a real, full-bodied belly laugh when Lance contorts his face in disgust. They sit side by side at the bar, and talk about dumb things, like some of Keith's most horrifically humorous customer experiences, and some of Lance's best, most-used pickup lines. Some of them even make Keith laugh again. They have another round. And another. They stumble outside when it's time for the bar to close, and wait by the curb after deciding to split a cab.
And then Lance gets his mouth on Keith's neck, whispers what he wants to do to him, and Keith shivers as he alerts their driver to make only one stop instead of two.
They barely make it through Lance's front door before they're shedding clothes, chasing lips, searching for skin. It's messy and unpracticed, hungry and fevered, impatient and needy. Keith's tongue tastes like whiskey, and his hands feel like fire as they roam over every exposed inch, and his hips are restless against his own, and he's kissing him hard and senseless.
And, for a little while, Lance can pretend.
He pretends he isn't numb.
He pretends he doesn't care.
He just pretends to forget.
Lance doesn't find himself in his bed when he wakes up the next morning. Instead, he's sprawled on the living room couch, covered by a leather jacket from the waist down, with various other discarded articles of clothing strewn around the floor. Apparently they hadn't even made it to the bedroom last night.
He doesn't remember the jacket, but that isn't entirely surprising, considering how intensely his brain is throbbing against his skull. Curiously, Lance brings the jacket to his nose, and gives it a sniff, inhaling an unmistakable combination of sex and woodsy cologne.
Speaking of sex.
Lance glances around the space, spots Keith's boots still laying haphazardly by the door, and then registers the distant sound of the running shower. His grip on the jacket loosens considerably. Relief. Content, maybe? It's too early to deal with this, he thinks.
Or maybe it's not. The clock on the wall tells him it's almost noon, and Lance is grateful that it's the summer, and that time doesn't have him making a mad dash for class. For now, he can relax. Maybe sleep off this hangover and then —
Bling. Bling. Bling.
His phone is crying for attention from — somewhere in the room. Scrambling to his feet, Lance chases the incessant ring, jumping from one article of clothing to the next, giving each one a good shake, until the noisy device falls out from the back pocket of his jeans. He steps into them, and, without thinking, answers the call.
But before he can lift the phone to his ear, the screen is filled with the faces of his siblings, all three of them, bright and beaming.
Shit.
"Lance!" they cry in unison, three tanned faces coming into view.
"H-Hey!" he croaks, hoping that they'll interpret his shock as some sort of excitement. "Guys!"
"Sorry, did we wake you?" Veronica snickers, her dark, curly hair taking up a majority of the screen.
"Uh…"
"Give the man a break, Ronnie," Marco wiggles his way to the forefront with the kind of mischievous grin he's known for. "I wouldn't be sleeping much either if I just brought myself home a French hottie, know what I mean?"
Her hand covers Marco's entire face, and pushes him out of the way. While the two of them struggle, Luis seizes the opportunity to speak.
"Congrats on the big news, little bro," he says warmly. "We all knew the trip was going to be life changing, but this is definitely a surprise."
Lance's smile feels tight and unnatural, like his cheeks are being pulled by strings. "Yeah. Huge surprise. Listen, you guys —"
"Oh, Lance, guess what?" Veronica is back, and she's grabbing the phone out of Luis' hand. "I've been doing some research, and I found the cutest little bakery, like, right down the street from you, and they do all these incredible-looking custom wedding cakes, and I was thinking we could taste some samples next week. I know it's last minute, but I think we can still —"
His jaw unhinges gracelessly. "Wait — we? Next week? I — wait, wait, wait, wait, what —"
"Lance," she scolds, the spitting image of their mother, frighteningly enough. "I replied to you days ago! Don't you check your emails anymore?"
"Nobody checks email anymore," Marco grumbles. He's long since lost interest in the conversation, and has, apparently, now regressed to making snide comments in the background while his thumbs type away at something on his phone.
Veronica lunges for him. "Marco! Cállate, carajo!"
"Basically," Luis chuckles at the camera, in spite of his siblings' antics. "Everyone was planning on spending the summer in Veradero — you know, like always — until we found out about you. We thought it'd be nice to spend a week over there to help plan the wedding, and to meet our new family member."
Lance's stomach plummets straight down into his shins. "E-Everyone?"
"Yeah, get this, Lance —" Marco has somehow escaped his sister's wrath, and pokes his head up next to Luis. "The whole gang is flying out for this. Us, mom, Lita, Mariana, all the 'lil rascals — like, when's the last time we were all together?"
"I —"
"OH, MY GOD!" Veronica screeches at full volume, wedging herself between the two boys. "Is that him? Ohmigod, it's him! Ohmigod, ohmigod!"
They all start babbling enthusiastically, fighting for the best view, and, at first, Lance doesn't understand why. He stares blankly, just as he has for most of their conversation, until he detects movement in the corner of his screen, and —
Keith has emerged from the bathroom, and has unintentionally positioned himself right over Lance's shoulder. In plain sight. In front of his siblings. With nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips.
Double shit.
"Wait, he's actually, like, not ugly."
"I wanna meet him before mom does!"
"Introduce him, dummy!"
The phone suddenly feels like it's going to slip right out of Lance's sweaty palms, but then he whirls around, heart hammering as aggressively as his head, and calls out, "Uh, Keith —"
"Keith!" the siblings echo joyously.
"C'mere… babe."
Keith's dumbfounded expression might have been funny if Lance weren't currently in the throes of complete and utter panic. With his back to the camera, he gives Keith a very distinct look from across the room: Please just do this.
Keith responds with a creased brow: No.
And then Lance, with his eyes: Get. Over. Here. Now.
Thankfully, Veronica interrupts their wordless conversation with a delighted chirp of, "Bonjour, Keith!"
He glances at the phone, then at Lance, then back again. "Bon…jour?"
"Whoa, dude, awesome tat," says Marco, eyeing Keith's arm. "She must've hurt like a bitch."
"Not really."
"Ooh, he's a tough guy! Good job, Lance!"
"Okay, well, uh —" Lance quickly shifts the phone so that Keith is hidden from view, just his red-cheeked face filling the screen. "Sorry not sorry, but I — we gotta go — got a late start and everything —"
"Hell yeah you did —"
"Marco, don't be gross —"
"'Kay, bye!"
The call ends. Lance's screen goes dark. He seals his eyes shut, bites down hard on his bottom lip, and tries not to crumble when he feels Keith's stare boring into his back like bullets.
"What… the fuck just happened?"
Lance pivots around, sheepish. "Don't be mad."
"Do they —" Keith snarls. "— think that we're —"
"Okay, you're mad — shit — Keith, look —"
He makes toward the bathroom, but Keith moves away, fingers dragging incredulously through his damp hair. "Do they think I'm that girl you proposed to?"
"Technically," Lance squeaks out hesitantly, "they think you're the guy I proposed to."
"What the fuck, Lance."
Keith stomps past him, and begins an urgent rampage around the living room, collecting the scattered clothing pieces that belong to him. And Lance trails behind him like a hopeful puppy with his metaphorical tail tucked between his legs.
"Keith, my buddy, my man — just — think of everything we've been through together," he implores, and Keith gives a callous snort. "Remember all the drinks? All the laughs, all the good times? The mind-blowing sex?"
With an armful of clothing clutched to his chest, Keith stops and sneers, "Don't flatter yourself."
"Listen, not trying to guilt trip you or anything, but my entire family is flying out in a week. I can't even remember the last time we were all in the same place together. And they're gonna expect to meet the person they think I'm marrying," Lance is still following annoyingly close behind Keith as he hurries back to the bathroom. "It's a big fucking deal! Not to mention that I'm extremely fragile right now. Like, seriously, my heart could rupture at even the slightest —"
"Just tell them the truth, Lance," he says harshly, turning on him.
Lance's face is flushed, and twisted with emotion, but Keith can't read any of it. It's almost as if the boy's muscles haven't quite caught up to his thoughts yet, and now he's floundering, stuck wondering how to force the words out.
"I… can't. Not yet. It still hurts too much," he breathes, a swill of air ghosting through his lungs, resigned and painful. "I'm not ready to look my family in the eye and tell them that their son is just some… unlovable loser."
He's taken to staring at the floor, to avoid Keith's ruthless glower, but then chances a peek upwards through his long lashes, feeling pitiful. Keith is still glowering, ruthlessly, seemingly unaffected by Lance's vulnerable display, and takes a step back to pass through the threshold of the bathroom.
"That's not my problem." And he swings the door shut with a resounding slam.
"Keith!" Lance protests, a few seconds too late. But that doesn't keep him from pounding a fist on the door, over and over, until his knuckles tire or his knees give out in defeat. He can't decide which happens first, but, either way, he sinks down, sitting with his back against the closed door. "Keith, open up… Please? Pretty please?"
Nothing.
And then somewhere in the cacophony of his mind, he's struck with a moment of clarity, bits and pieces of last night's conversation poking at his hazy memory. Lance sits up, alert and, dare he say, inspired.
"Hey, last night…" he begins, lips aimed at the cracks in the door. "Didn't you say something about eviction?"
There's a pause, and then a brief, unamused, "So?"
"So you're being evicted."
"Good guess, genius," Keith's voice scoffs.
Lance just grins. Bingo.
"So you must need a place to stay, right?"
He nearly tumbles backwards when the bathroom door flies open again. Keith stands in the doorway, fully dressed and looking skeptical. "What are you getting at?" he demands.
"You need an apartment, and I need a fake fiancé," Lance scrambles to his feet, still grinning eagerly, and even has the audacity to playfully bump his knuckles against Keith's shoulder. "You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down over here?"
"No," Keith blinks, and then furrows his brow. "I mean, yeah, I am, but — no to the fake fiancé thing."
"Aw, c'mon!" Lance groans in desperation, blue eyes almost pleading. "If you do this, I'll let you stay here, free of charge, until you're back on your feet. Scout's honor! You can't beat the low price of zero, Keith, and it's a helluva lot better than living out of your car or something."
Dark eyes narrow, and the wary beats that pass have Lance nearly vibrating with anticipation. "This," says Keith, gesturing vaguely between them. "What does this entail, exactly?"
"Putting on a show for my family. Just for one week, until they're gone, and then you'll never have to gaze lovingly into my gorgeous eyes ever again," and he holds out a hopeful hand. "Deal?"
A pause.
A hesitation.
A treacherous stillness.
Until: "Lovingly is a stretch."
"Is that a yes?" Lance beams.
Keith's nostrils flare unfavorably, but he grips Lance's hand in halfhearted agreement. "It's a fine, but I'm not happy about it."
"Yes!" he tosses his head back, and practically howls a celebratory cry. Then he's yanking Keith forward by their clasped hands, dragging him into a crushing embrace. "Thank you, Keith! Thank you, thank you, thank you —"
"Alright, alright," Keith wriggles away, sloughing the boy off of him like dead skin. "So, now what?"
Lance gazes over the apartment, untidy and still littered with the rest of his clothes. "I guess we turn this bachelor pad into a newlywed love nest."
Keith makes a noise of disgust, as if to say: Is it too late to back out?
"But first," Lance rounds on him again, looking somewhat contrite. "We gotta work on your French, dude."
A/N: If any of you are wondering how these idiots are actually going to pull this off, stay tuned. Every speed bump and shenanigan will be addressed in due time. But now that we've got the ball rolling, let's do this thing!
Thanks for reading! New chapter coming soon! Keep an eye on my tumblr (starlightments) for updates and sneak-peeks.