Showering is the best thing in the world once you haul ass into the bathroom and get under a hot stream of water. Especially when you actually got that kind of free time, and when you can be by yourself so you could shower in the blessed peace that only silence can give you. Plus, he's always got all that spa stuff, and it's nice when all your soaps and shampoos and conditioners and loofahs smell nice and match your mood and everything.
But right now, Lance is getting none of that nice shit 'cause the fucking artist with the jacked up teeth and his whiny wife in the apartment one floor up used up all the hot water, and his shit-faced biker roommate used his loofah to clean up real, actual shit from their shared kitchen floor last night after he puked all over the fucking bathroom. Why the asshole's shit wasn't in the bathroom, he had no idea—nor did he want to have an idea, because you know what? Rolo can just go and fuck himself, that's what.
So now, Lance has to somehow lather his 'ready-for-work' soap without his 'ready-for-work' loofah, get all squeaky clean, dry himself off, dress himself in the bathroom, and then crawl out the bathroom window and fucking die, because there was absolutely no way that he was gonna spend all this goddamn time getting himself clean and step out into an apartment that stinks like stoner dooky and vomit just to pour liquid crack into recyclable cups that nobody actually recycles and fucks up whatever's left of the world. Fuck. Fuck, Rolo. Just— Fuck.
Angrily, Lance lathers himself up with his grapefruit-lavendar-coconut soap and scrubs his skin the best he can with freezing fingers, teeth clacking noisily as he shivers. The water's not even on because that's how cold it fucking is; he'll probably die of shock standing under a rain of ice, why bother keeping it on? Gotta conserve that body heat, yo.
When he finishes lathering soap and scrubbing his skin clean, he clenches his teeth and braces himself for the jet of ice-cold water. Which is great, it's fine—he's accepted his fate of possibly catching pneumonia and just wants to move the fuck on. Whatever. So hurry up, c'mon, blast him with that ice water you fucking piece of shit pipe, what the fuck you stallin' for?
And then something happens that makes Lance smile a great big and beautiful smile as he stands in the shower, because just then a great stream of abso-fucking-lutely nothing but pure and genuine NOTHINGNESS comes out the shower-head.
What. The fuck. What the fuck?! What the fuck. What! The! FUCK!
A loud banging on the bathroom door makes Lance bare his teeth because Roland "I-Shat-Five-Steps-From-The-Bathroom" Carter is the last thing he wants to put up with on this bright and beautiful morning birthed by Satan's asshole.
"Yo, Rolo! Fucking go shit or puke your guts out in your own mouth or whatever, 'cause I'm staying in this fucking bathroom where it doesn't smell like literal shit so I can go the fuck to work—which I will do once this fucking," Lance slams his fist against the wall next to the shower-head, "piece of shit pipe," BANG "actually does its job," BANG "and lets me shower!" BANG
And then, a voice he most definitely did not expect comes through the abused wood of the bathroom door.
"I don't know who you're talking to like that," an affronted voice speaks primly, "That aside— Hurry up. Gas is expensive and your driver is unbearably impatient."
Lance almost doesn't register what Lotor says because 'how the fuck did he get inside he doesn't have the key' is all he can focus on until one word stands out like a peacock strutting through campus and somehow making its way into Aster Hall's food court.
"Driver? My driver? What—"
"I'm opening the door."
Before Lance could protest, a thunderous bang practically rips away the last vestiges of whatever reverent silence Lance has left to himself and a hand boldly tears off the shower curtain to reveal one very cold, very confused and possibly somewhat sightly aroused college teen with a lather of fruity shampoo dripping down a nicely toned body.
Lotor freezes suddenly, eyes dropping down automatically to stare unblinkingly at his groin for what feels like an uncomfortably long period of time. "Why are you wearing swimming trunks in the shower?"
Mortified, Lance can only give a choked scream before he clocks Lotor right in the face.
He's shucked off his trunks for boxers and jeans, and — after a really catty argument with Lotor that involved five jackets and three of his best button-downs that, apparently, only looked Wal-Mart-made at best ("I got these at H&M!" "H and who, now?") — Lance was dressed and ready for work. Sort of. He's pretty damn sure he just ruined his morning shower by stepping out into shitland and pukesville.
"Take this scarf and wrap it around your— Wait, you can't—" Lance hears a hundred-year-old fatigued sigh and watches Lotor pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut. "You can't wear those boots with what you're wearing."
Lance almost seethes with anger and spite until he remembers how Rich Boy literally doesn't know what it means to live like a Normal Person. And by 'Normal Person' Lance actually meant 'poor college student living off federal aid and occasional deposits from his mom and his Starbucks paycheck.'
"Chill out, dude, it's not the worst thing in the world. I could've tried to wear my crocs."
At that, Lotor just narrows his eyes. "Why would you purchase—"
"Because they got good arch support and they're blue." Lance shoves Lotor out the door. "C'mon, let's go—I thought you weren't getting paid by the hour or whatever. Vámanos, esse. Wrap up that broken heart or your daddy issues or whatever. Yeah, you heard what I said, and no, I'm not taking it back. You've been real pissy to me today, more than you usually are."
Lotor side-eyes him for a hot minute, as if to say, 'Nah, I talk shit about your ass all day, every day.' Well, fuck you too!
"Kathryn will be taking you. She had me enter your apartment because your roommate is unsightly when drunk or hungover. Though, from what I've seen, your acquaintance seems to be unsightly in all manners of being." Lotor is sneering as he talks, probably thinking about the shit-stinking apartment he had to enter, and the very eye-opening greeting of Rolo stewing face-first in a pool of his own dried vomit.
Talk about a first impression gone wrong. Going solely off that, Rolo's definitely the type of guy Lotor hated, but first impressions didn't prove much most of the time. Lance can bet his dick and balls that Lotor would piss his pants if he ever saw Rolo sober. Drunk Rolo wasn't worth five cents, but Sober Rolo was a real suave motherfucker. Had to be, if Nyma kept coming back to him on her own free will.
And speaking of acting on free will, this Kathryn chick must be one classy chick for Lotor to willingly gopher for. Lance racks his head for any Kathryns he knows, but the only one he can think of is Kathryn A. Martin, the girl in his philosophy class with the killer spiking hand playing varsity for their school's volleyball team. Not exactly Lotor's type of girl, but hey—Kat was one smart chick who could hold her own in a bar fight. Maybe that's what Lotor's into—independent, 'don't mess with me' girls with a fierce passion for life.
Oh, wait, Lotor's gay. Nevermind.
"Who's this Kat chick? Is she hot?"
Lotor looks at him like he's slighted his mother and besmirched his family's good name. Like a pissant, Lotor turns away from him. "There are certain moments where I consider you someone with brilliant ideas and an equally bright future. This is not one of those moments."
Lance narrows his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Lotor steps out of the apartment complex and onto the street. "Why don't you ask her yourself?" he offers, holding the goddamn door open for him with a regally neutral expression.
Lance scoffs, stepping forward. "And you tell me to quit being extra. I see you, bitch, and you better watch your back when you're the one fuckin' up next. Heard?"
Lotor narrows his eyes as he get to the doorway, then swings the door into his face.
Lance whirls right real fast through the open space before the door can reach second base with him. "Jesus, what the hell's wrong with you?!"
Lotor's already five feet away, heading for a silver, double-parked Tesla that's blasting smooth hip-hop beats in finesse. Literally. He can hear how "we got it goin' on" in Cardi B's voice along with some classic funky beats straight out of the 90s.
The image of seeing their world's version of Draco Malfoy walking towards a car embodying the potential of humanity's future as Cardi B and Bruno Mars supply the walk track makes Lance wonder what kind of future was in store for humanity. Because Lotor is strictly a 'I don't drive; Alfred, take me to the college' type of guy. Lance doesn't know if Lotor even knows how to drive.
Okay, that's an exaggeration, Lotor totally knows how to drive. Its how he drunk-crashed his dad's Maserati and got dumped into a Starbucks job to pay for it in the first place.
Anyway. What he's trying to say, is that there's no fucking way Lotor bops his head to Bruno Mars and drives a Tesla, because those are Normal Person things and Lotor is in no way capable of being diagnosed as someone with 'Normal Person' status.
Thankfully, all is right in the world because when Lotor gets to the car he yanks open the passenger door and—
"Uh, why do you have a black eye?" asks a voice that shouldn't belong to someone in the driver's seat because gremlins don't quality for a driver's license in New York City. "Lance, what did you— Oh, I like your scarf—"
Lance moved to slug Lotor in the arm. "Dude, man—"
Lotor slapped his hand away. "Don't. Touch me."
"—that's Pidge you're talking about," Lance continues as if Lotor hadn't said a word, "Pidge isn't a Kathryn, she's a Katie."
They spoke simultaneously: "Katie is just a nickname." "But I am Kathryn."
"Guh," was his response. Lance stared at Pidge, aka 'Katie,' aka 'the Kat chick,' aka 'Kathryn,' and then at Lotor, who'd already strapped himself into the back seat and was looking expectantly right back at him with his arms crossed.
"Do you mind? We're going to be late for work."
Without another word, Lance got into the car.
"About time," Pidge groused, locking the doors and dropping her shades back down with a grin. "Time to blast, my dudes."
And then, like a goddamn 90's movie, Smash Mouth's I'm a Believer started playing as soon as Pidge sent the car screeching down the street at a very illegal speed.
