.
.
Shiro doesn't feel like he's ever gotten the opportunity to revel in any celebration.
Earth uses religion sparingly, even long before the Fires of Purification invaded this world, and there's no official Christmas in their time slots (military living or no military living).
Too outdated. It's too relic of their history where people were divided and attacked each other with little to no reasoning. Shiro, however, remembers hearing something resembling "holidays" and "festivity" offhandedly from men and women and the nonbinary Garrison staff when it came to this point of the year.
He grew up in the corridors of the Galaxy Garrison, adopted into their ranks and with no biological family to him, training up to be an astroexplorer from the young age of fourteen.
It had been everything Shiro wanted: a purpose in his life.
To be recognized.
Wanted.
He's grateful for having led the paladins of Voltron when the universe needed them desperately, for being able to fly the Black Lion and now commanding the ship IGF-Atlas with his new crew.
Still… it's difficult. He misses seeing Keith constantly and sparring, misses Pidge's bragging remarks about her inventions and Hunk's warm, familial hugs. Misses Allura showing her enthusiasm about their teamwork and mission to protect all of the innocents crossing their path.
Misses Lance.
Nothing in particular, just… him.
They haven't always seen eye-to-eye about behavioral issues and decisions about strategy. Lance gets assertive and sometimes opinionated around him, and it would get under Shiro's skin, causing them to verbally fight before one of their teammates intervened. But, Lance had been the one to sense him on the astral plane. He reached for Shiro instinctively. He always does for his friends.
Food supplies and survivors of the latest Earth disaster channel in without the particle barrier erected around the Garrison's stronghold. It's never snowed in the sweltering hot desert-conditions.
Veronica interrupts him in the lower level, cheerfully reminding him about the gathering of their friends and colleagues later tonight. A holiday party of some kind. Lance separates from his big sister, waving goodbye, following Shiro when the older man asks if he wants help finding an outfit.
Shiro hasn't touched any of the crates of Adam's belongings since receiving them. He cracks one open, rummaging through as Lance distracts himself with peering around Shiro's quarters, whistling lowly.
"Here," he says aloud, pulling out a crumple of thick, red and knitted fabric, showing it to Lance.
Lance cradles it, visibly bemused by this poorly stitched sweater in white and black thread. The fakey green garland on the collar and as it winds down the overly long sleeves. There's real and old as hell candy canes patched directly on the sweater, along with cutout snowflakes and reindeer, and a massive, green-pine Christmas tree on the front covered haphazardly with golden tinsel, crimson strings of beads, multicolored, miniature baubles and a ton of silvery glitter dusting off.
"What the heck…?" Lance mutters, somewhere between amused and horrified.
"I guess people on Earth used to call them 'ugly Christmas sweaters' back in the day. I guess before our generation was even born," Shiro explains, chuckling when the other man snorts in disbelief and wildly shakes more glitter loose from the red sweater. "We found them in a basket at some thrift place a couple of years before I ended up training on for leading the Kerbaros mission…"
Lance yanks the item over his head, adjusting himself. "We?"
"..." Shiro's mouth flattens at the thought of Adam, and not being here. "…yeah," he whispers, keeping his head down. Lance's hand falls to his shoulder, grasping and squeezing down in reassurance. Shiro would give anything to actually feel brave enough to voice his emotions about this, but… …
"What's yours look like?" Lance asks conversationally, and when Shiro holds up his blue-tone sweater, the other man nearly collapses from his laughter, wheezing and flushing dark.
This is how it should be.
.
.
As soon as Shiro enters the mess hall, cleared out of the mass of tables and benches, and decorated with icicle-blue stage lights, he regrets not asking more about the event.
He and Lance are the only ones dressed informally, in their Christmas sweaters and jeans.
Pidge and Hunk scream out their names over the music, raising their hands in sync, giggling. Hunk has on a golden and highly detailed vest over a crisp white button-up. He occasionally pats his hands over his dark pair of trousers, giving a faintly nervous tremor as Romelle squeals, her crystalline earrings swaying to her jaw, embracing both of them. Shiro has rarely seen Pidge in a dress dress — this one is a deep, wintry green and damasked patterns in satin and velvet, form-fitting and high-waisted with a green ribbon. Her mole-dotted, pale shoulders and arms bare.
Allura wanders through the crowd in her princess V-neck, asymmetrical dress, glimmering in stormy-grey sequins and layers of tulle floating around her ankles. She cradles a glass of champagne, apparently talking to Veronica now noticing Shiro and Lance, wincing apologetically but not coming over to them.
From a far-corner of the mess hall, Keith watches Shiro, his brow furrowing. He's wearing an all-black tuxedo along with the velvet, slim jacket. Krolia touches her son's arm, bending over to whisper to him and nodding. Even she's in a formal dress, Shiro realizes in exasperation— a regal purple chiffon ballgown hovering against the floor. A plunging neckline down to her violet-colored navel.
And here Shiro is, looking like an idiot in a teal jumper plastered with white, cartoony snowmen heads made of felt and glue and puffball faux-snowflakes. He's got carrot-cone titties for fuck's sake.
"Holy crow," Lance mutters beside him, running his hands over his face.
.
.
The rest of the night is champagne and avoidance. And more champagne.
Shiro feels lightheaded, smiley and giddy, shushing Lance as they duck around the interconnecting corridors in the area and steal the bundles of mistletoe hanging above them. If he's gotta be miserable until the next day, and whenever someone brings up this party… so is everybody else.
"Ssshiro," Lance whisper-slurs, choking out a breathy laugh.
He holds one of the mistletoe over his own head in mock-importance, waiting, and Shiro feels hot all-over, pressing his alcohol-sticky lips sloppily, happily to Lance's mouth. Just once.
Just once is all Shiro needs.
(And Lance.)
.
.
Voltron isn't mine. I CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT I WAS GONNA SAY ON THIS LMAO YALL TIRED OF ME YET im tired of me dsfgh okay so once again I'm posting for another one of the 35-40 events I signed up for and this time it is for the Shance Secret Santa 2018! I got assigned sfwreck! Please tell me if you liked this, guys! Love ya!