As Lance entered his small room in the Castle of Lions, he tugged off his jacket in a slow motion as to not open the small deep and thin scars that were beginning to heal. As he placed his favorite jacket onto the hook he silently glanced at the only scar that had opened. The small thin gash was beginning to pour blood out and threatened to stain his blue and white shirt. Grabbing one of the many rags he had in his room he quickly began to clean it, sure it wasn't the most sanitary option, but he could clean his wound up better later, all that mattered is that they didn't notice. He would die of embarrassment if they did. How could someone like him, who talked people out of the situation he is currently in, resort to it himself? Lance laughed at the thought of the shocked look on their faces if they saw. He lifted up the rag where he placed on his arm to halt the blood from being seeped into his shirt, all except a small drop. Damn it. Hopefully, they didn't notice. Hopefully was the key word in this context.
Heaving out a frustrated sigh, he took off his shirt as well and began to prepare himself for bed. Grabbing his blue robe from where he had thrown it just this morning he pulled it on with the same caution he had with his jacket. With a hiss of pain, this time as some of his recently healed scars threatened to open up. He hated this. He hated what he was doing. He hated himself. He hated his mind. He hated all of this. He always hated this part of the day, the time of day he was ever alone. Night.
Sleep made him vulnerable to nightmares that would be created from his insecurities. Nightmares of war, escaping, death, loss, and lies becoming known were his worries growing up in Miami. Now? War, loss, death, desperation, and no longer being needed were his main concerns. He was so deep in thought that he hadn't noticed how tightly he gripped the material of his robe until he saw his dark skin becoming paler with each of his thoughts. Releasing the tight hold, he rubbed his face with a defeated groan. It was going to happen again tonight. Why was it always when his previous scars were beginning to close up? He could feel tears begin to roll down his cheeks as his mind began to take him on a turmoil of emotions.
His mind worked like a labyrinth with doors and stairs that led to nowhere, doors that showed him his insecurities, others that showed him the good things in his life. Today his mind decided to show him an insecurity. The insecurity: the mask and lie he gave, and still kept, to his family.
Images of his childhood in Cuba rushed into his mind, almost as if it were a movie. He remembered his first combat lesson, and the first time he held a baton and chose it as his favorite weapon of choice.
No.
No, that's not right. He favored a gun, he always favored a gun. He remembered his first combat lesson, he remembered making fun of his twin when he couldn't get the stances or moves right.
No. That's wrong again.
He was the one being made fun of, he was the one who one-upped his cousins and siblings when it came to using long-distance weapons. He was Lorenzo. He was Lorenzo. Lorenzo.
Lorenzo.
Lance cried. He fell onto the cold floor as his heart broke at the mere thought his older twin. The mere thought of being unable to save him when they, their siblings, cousins, and parents had escaped Cuba to Miami. He could remember seeing Lorenzo fall out of the boat they were in as they were being chased by the Cuban navy. He remembered jumping in after him, searching, searching, searching. By the time his father turned the boat around to look for them he was unable to find his sibling. The one he played pranks with, the one who was always better with long ranged weapons, the one who shared the same birthday with him that day, was gone. The ocean had engulfed him, its waves probably pushing him further from his family and to the deep ocean floor. That night Lance, Michael-Lance didn't exist then, had held onto a piece of floating plywood as he saw his father arrive. He could see the frantic look he had when he didn't see the other half, he also saw the confusion as to see which one he was as they had decided to wear matching outfits that day. Michael made a choice right there and then, he had to.
"Pa," that's how Lorenzo always called their father. Michael would have responded with "Papa" but he wasn't Michael. He was Lorenzo. He is Lorenzo.
"Pa," he tried again. "Michael. El mar... Se lo llevó el mar."
He could see his father break as he said those words. He could see his elder brother and sister hurting. He made this choice. He had to make this choice. It was right. Lorenzo, he didn't deserve to die. His brother didn't deserve to die. For God's sake, it was his 12th birthday. No one deserves to die on their birthday.
Mich-Lorenzo's grip on the plywood tightened as he cried. He cried over how pathetic he was. He cried how weak he was. He cried for not being able to save his brother. He cried because he broke his promise they had made before they got on the boat, if either one of them fell, the other would save them. Save. He couldn't save. He looked up when he felt his father scoop him up from the murky waters. He felt one of his siblings place a blanket over his shoulders to hide him from the cool summer air.
His sobbing never ceased, even when he heard another engine of a boat. Not even when his mima, ma, his ma talked with his father.
"¡Leon!" She cried in desperation as she only saw one of the twins.
"Luisa, Lorenzo está bien. Lorenzo está bien." He heard his father repeat the statement, but the second time it was as if he was directing it to himself as well.
"Luisa, no tenemos tiempo. Vámonos."
He could feel his mother's gaze on him and he tried, oh how he tried to look her in the eyes.
"Michael. No se donde está ma. No se."
He could everyone's heartbreak as he killed himself that night and began to fall unconscious.
By the time he came around, he and his family were on solid ground in Florida. Surrounded by family members who had escaped the danger that was Cuba years ago. He could hear the muffled cry of his parents as they cried over his lost sibling Michael, Lorenzo watched them as they had comforted his ma. She looked up at him at that moment and ran to her son, cradling him in her arms she kept reassuring him that it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault. He cried again because Michael did die because of him, Lorenzo on the other hand survived.
Two days into their new lives in Florida, a witness protection agent came and asked his family the new names they had chosen. They were refugees, they were witnesses. Witnesses to the cruelty of a dictator, of a family member.
One by one they gave the women the names they had chosen prior to arriving.
Lorenzo thought back to the conversation he shared with Micheal months ago. It was more of a heated argument then it was a conversation as they had fought over the same name, Lancelot. Lancelot was their all-time favorite knight from King Arthur's knights of the round. Why? Because even though he had an affair with Guinevere, he was still loyal only to Arthur. As they were loyal to each other.
In the end, Michael changed his mind and decided on Antonio. While Lorenzo chose Lance, the shortened version of Lancelot. They came to the conclusion after a week of not talking to one another.
"Lance Antonio McClain," he had said softly to the woman. He could feel the reassuring grip of his cousin's hand on his shoulder. He followed the hand up to see Marisol, now Alejandra, smile at him hoping to comfort him. He gave her a small smile in return before he turned back to the woman who was writing his name down.
She turned back to his parents and that's when he tuned out the conversation. He silently crept away from the living room of the safe-house they were currently resided in and walked to the room he, his brother, and their younger cousin shared. Crawling into under the blue covers, he closed his eyes trying to stop the tears that were beginning to fall. He had to stop being weak. He promised himself he wouldn't be weak anymore. He had a promise to uphold. From this day forward, he would never break a promise. He didn't even realize he had fallen into a deep slumber until he was shaken awake by his brother, Junior-Cesar, for dinner.
Lance dried the tears that were still falling, by this time the sleeves of his robe were soaked with both tears and blood from the newly created cuts. He looked down as he watched the robe soak up each of the liquids into the cloth. He gulped at the thought of trying to figure out a reason of explaining why he needed a new robe all of a sudden. Silently cursing, he threw off the dirtied article of clothing and threw it under his bed. Heaving out another sigh, he grabbed the rag he had been using and dabbed the new cuts he had created. The feelings of the rag on them made him hiss in pain, but what really made him hiss was the sound of knocking on his door. Looking up at the door like a deer caught in headlights. He scurried to hide the evidence of what he had done, he quickly grabbed one of the darker long sleeved shirts Coran had given them all on their arrival to the Castle of Lions and put it on.
"Yeah?"
How he hoped and prayed to anything that was almighty to let it not be who he thought it was.
"Can I come in?" Apparently, it didn't work. He let out a yeah, and watched Keith, still donned in his Blade of Marmora uniform, walk into his room.
He could feel his violet eyes searching Lance's face for something.
"You're mad, aren't you?"
"What do you think?" Stupid Keith. Of course, he was mad. Fuck that, he was beyond mad, he was fucking pissed. He was about to commit suicide, thankfully, Lotor had stepped in and stopped Haggar's death beam from doing anything to them in time. Who would thought of the day he would be thankful to an enemy? He certainly didn't.
Keith flinched at the tone his friend gave him, but before he said anything more to him something caught his eye. Lance's eyes were red, not the type of reddish hue one would get from a pink eye (can you get even get a pink eye in space?). The type of reddish hue that someone gets when they were crying. Lance had been crying. He also took into account the way Lance was clutching his arms. He looked up at Lance's blue eyes and wasn't surprised to see a glare. If looks could kill, Keith was sure Lance's glare would kill him multiple times. Did he make Lance cry? He hated making people cry. He didn't know how to deal with it. Making people pissed? He could deal with, but crying? Never that. Keith's voice left him as he hung his head in shame, damn it. He couldn't even look Lance in the eyes. It was difficult to even try.
Lance glared daggers to Keith even as he watched the former paladin hang his head in shame. When he did that though he was glad, that meant Keith couldn't see the way Lance flinched at the pain of his cuts and the feeling of blood beginning to seep through the dark material. Fuck, he couldn't let Keith see him like this. He just couldn't. Before he was even able to utter anything out, he barely heard an inaudible apology coming from the male. He softened his glare and could feel a sigh begin to form on his lips, but he held it back, instead, he opted to biting the inside of his cheek and waited for Keith look up.
When he did, Keith's expression tore him. That expression, that's an expression he was never supposed to have. A pout? Glare? Determination? Those he was allowed. But never one that made him look so, so, so pathetic. Like a child who had just disappointed his parents. Like a wounded dog who was chained to the dog house.
"I'm pretty sure Shiro already told you this, but don't you ever try to pull a stunt like that ever again. I don't give a crap if you were trying to save us, if it's something that puts your life on the line, you better walk away, or think of a different approach. There is always a different approach. Always. If I even think that you might be thinking of doing so, so help me, Keith, I will make sure you live the rest of your life regretting it. If that thought so much crosses your mind I will find out Keith, you know I will.
"Also, do it again, I won't be easy to forgive. You could say goodbye to being on the battlefield for all I care. If that's what it takes to stop you from doing something like that again, so be it."
Lance watched as Keith stiffened at the tone that was being directed to him.
"I haven't spoken to Shiro yet. You're the first." Keith spoke after a moment of silence.
Lance's eyes widened. Why had Keith come to him first? Surely, he would have gone to Shiro first, but of all the people on the ship, he had come to Lance. Why?
"I felt you would be the most pissed off than anyone else. Shiro would have chastised me, and begin to smother me with hugs, so would Hunk, in addition to causing him to stress cook. Coran and Allura would have been worried about me and make me promise never to do it again. Pidge would have glared at me, most likely punch me, and repeat the process until they felt satisfied before hugging me. You? You would be doing just what you are now. Except, I feel as if you would have given me the silent treatment if I didn't come and apologize to you.
"So what I'm trying to say is. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for trying to throw my life away in order to save you all. I'm sorry for not thinking of another possible solution. I'm sorry for making you worry. I'm sorry that I made you pissed off at me. I'm sorry. Lance, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." At this point, Lance watched Keith crying. Keith. Keith was crying. Keith and crying didn't mix. Crying and his friends didn't mix. Nothing of this whole situation mixed.
Lance continued watching Keith as his shoulders shook. His head hanging again. Lance walked toward the guy and wrapped his arms around him. He felt Keith's stiff body begin to loosen up as he got used to the feeling of Lance's warmth holding him together. They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, or until Keith felt something being soaked up in the only part of his uniform that wasn't covered with armor. It came from the same spot that Lance was currently holding him. His sobs came to a confused stop as he pushed Lance from the comforting hold.
Lance looked at him with confusion as he saw a soft frown on Keith's face. Without even thinking his hand reached to dry the remaining tears.
"Lance," started Keith with a hoarse voice. "What were you doing before I came in here?"
The question stopped Lance's hand in the process of drying the remains from Keith's cheeks. Lance looked to see a pair of violet eyes looking at him, searching for an answer. Not knowing what to do, Lance smiled at him before shaking his head.
"Nothing. Just thinking of ways to kill you or avoid you after that stunt you pulled off."
Lance saw Keith's frown grow more. The way his eyebrows creased to his nose, the way his eyes seemed to look through the lie he just gave him.
"I don't believe you."
Before he pulled his hand away from Keith's face, Keith had grabbed his wrist, and it wasn't soft. Lance flinched at the way the pain began to jump through his body as he felt the blood begin to seep further through his shirt. If he felt it, so could Keith, he also knew Keith noticed the way he flinched.
"Lance, I'm going to ask you again. What were you doing before I came in?"
Lance felt himself clam up, his lips forming a straight line, and his eyes looking above Keith's hairline. Lance knew Keith got him trapped in a corner, but he didn't let that get to him.
"Nothing. Can you leave now? I need to get my beauty sleep. After all, I can't stay this beautiful without it." Even though he tried to make a joke at the end, he knew it wouldn't work. Jokes rarely work on Keith.
His whole body stiffened as he saw Keith's other hand make its way toward the sleeve of his shirt. He watched as his sleeve was being slowly pulled back. He watched Keith's expression go from confusion and anger to horror. He knew what Keith would see. He knew he would see a multitude of cuts and scars running up his right arm. Three years worth of cuts to be exact. Three years of lies, masks, insecurities being hidden only to Lance's mind. Only ever to Lance. Unable to take any more of Keith's gaze on him he pulled back his arm harshly watching as blood was beginning to fall on the floor. Now that Keith had seen, he didn't know what to do. No one was supposed to find out. No one.
Trying but failing to hide his other arm from Keith's eyes, he felt his other sleeve being pulled up, this time, with more force. He heard the half-Galra gasp. He saw Keith jerk his head up looking at Lance. Searching for anything that led him to this, but Lance wouldn't give it to him. Lance wouldn't allow it.
Slowly, he pushed Keith away. He realized that Keith wasn't fighting back, so he pushed him further.
"You should leave Keith, we all had a tough day."
By this time, Keith shook his head at Lance. A silent no was passed to each other.
"Lance, why?" There was hesitation and confusion in his voice. All Lance did was try to block it out.
"You should-" Lance was cut off by a yell.
"No! I am not leaving until I get an answer. I am not leaving Lance. I am not leaving you."
Lance looked at the determination filled eyes that belonged to his rival. There it was, the expression that suited Keith the most.
"Do you really want to know?"
Lance watched as Keith nodded in confirmation.
"Even if it's three years worth of reasons?"
Keith's eyes widened.
"Yes."
Lance smiled, painfully.
"Okay."
They were both sitting at the foot of the bed covered in Lance's blanket, as Lance shared to Keith everything. When the paladin had refused to enter a healing pod at the start of their conversation, Keith began to wrap the paladin's dark skin covered with faint scars and newly opened cuts. He listened and absorbed every information that was being said to him, not once did he interrupt, all he could think was how broken Lance looked for the first time since they arrived in space. How much pain Lance was actually in. Keith sat, listened and didn't utter a word, he couldn't utter a word.
Keith listened as Lance described growing up in Cuba while rebellion was most prominent, how he had to learn how to protect himself at a young age. Training with his siblings and elder cousin, picking his favored weapon, being taught how to protect himself by his grandparents, parents, aunts, and uncles, and bodyguards. The pranks he pulled off with his elder twin, the first time he successfully made ropa vieja with his grandmother. The first time his grandfather took him fishing, the first time he and brother learned how to swim. He described the moments in his life he and family often had to hide for months at the time from the dictator of Cuba, who was also his grandfather's cousin. How his family spoke out against their government, how they helped other Cubans as they were sometimes forced out of their homes. How their friends and neighbors urged them to leave Cuba before it was too late. He remembered attending his uncle and aunt's funeral while holding his cousin's hand it also became the day when she became his sister.
He let him ramble over everything and anything, he didn't even think about interrupting the younger male. As Lance came to the day they were escaping Cuba by boat just a few hours before his and his brother's birthday, Keith had to choke back a sound from escaping his lips. He had lost his brother, his twin, his other half just as the watch on his wrist had stroke midnight. Lance was twelve when he took his brother's identity and killed himself instead. He was twelve when he taught himself how to act like his brother, how to fight like his brother, how swim, talk, walk, smile, laugh, hold a gun like his brother. Lance was only twelve. No twelve year old should have had to do what Lance had done. No twelve year old should have gone through that pain. No twelve year old should have gone through all that pain. Especially not Lance. Never Lance. How could Lance, the goofball, the self-deemed ladies man, their sharpshooter have gone through so much pain without them even knowing? Why did they allow him to hide all his pain, alone, in his room, with no one to count on but the sharp handcrafted blade Lance had shown him.
Keith watched Lance's eyes glaze over as he described past events that led him down to hurting himself. That gaze also made the older male flinch as the gaze seemed to look through anything that was in front of the red paladin. It was almost as if the wall that was in front of them didn't even exist. All the color in Lance's face was gone, instead, it was pale as memories surfaced, painful memories. He watched as tears began to stain his cheeks and roll down his chin, occasionally when his friend's face became too wet he would dry his tears in hope of easing the pain. But even when he did that, he felt awkward doing it, however, he wanted Lance to know that he got his back.
It hurt. It hurt so much for both of them. One was reliving it, while the other was being told it.
Lance was honestly surprised, that the one who he opened up to was the most temperamental and the one who he saw as a rival out of their group of friends. He told Keith everything, why he did so, he was unsure of that himself. The more he spoke, the more he cried. The more he cried, the more he remembered. The more he remembered the more doors and rooms that were created in his mind maze. He knew he was rambling by the time he no longer was able to control his crying. All he knew, was that he had to tell Keith. He had to tell someone. Just one person was enough for him. The more he spoke, the more he felt, relief? Was that the word he was looking for? He didn't even know. By the time Lance reached his last few days at the Garrison before finding Blue it was already time for breakfast. He stopped talking when he heard Hunk's voice over the intercom.
"So uh, Lance. Keith. You guys do know that I am requiring you to come to breakfast right? That includes you too, er… Prince Lotor."
Lance and Keith turned to another and chuckled at the memory of when Pidge missed breakfast in favor of finishing up a new code they were inventing for the rest of crew. Hunk could be, scary when it came to feeding his friends.
Lance picked at the wrapped bandages around his arms, he was thankful for Keith for doing so. Smiling at his comrade, Lance began to pull himself off the floor and outstretched his right hand to his friend. When he felt Keith's gloved hand in his, he pulled him up from the floor easily only with a small sting of pain shooting up the arm he used.
"Come on, Hunk will get mad if we miss breakfast. I remember the one time I did so at the Garrison, and getting a lecture from Hunk was, scary to say the least. Never again."
Keith smiled at him and nodded as he watched Lance slip on a different shirt and his jacket. Lance's every movement came with a small flinch. Would he be able to hold a gun anytime soon?
"If I don't have any missions later today, I'll come by later. I feel as if that isn't all."
"Thanks, buddy."
So this story is based off a headcanon I posted on Tumblr on Lance being a refuge, go to the posting of this work on AO3, and the link should be attached to the beginning notes.
Hope you enjoyed this story.
Sorry Lance, I love you.