"Wake me up! Before you go-go — don't leaaave me hangin' on like a yo-yo—" (1)
It's not that he's got anything against pop music from the 80's, but Smash Mouth was the most recently recorded track that's been blasted so far. Pidge's casual quip of "oh, that's my meme playlist" does in no way supply the information necessary to explain how somebody could blow through fifteen-minute's worth of 80s classics and NOT play the most iconic song in the history of meme culture.
He knows what he has to do. He's gotta take action.
He's about to change the course of history (aka, their dreadfully long car ride) when Pidge slaps her phone against his knuckles the second his hand leaves his lap.
"Ay! Pidge! I just wanted—"
"No." Pidge grits her teeth. "We are not listening to Rick Astley, because you and I both know that's followed by you changing songs every five seconds."
"Aaaaauuuuuggggghhhhhh," cries Lance, sinking low into the plush leather interior. "This is the worst! You won't let me sing, you won't let me dance—"
"We're in a car," Lotor interrupts.
"—and now I can't even choose a song. We're stuck in traffic! What am I supposed to do?"
A hard kick shoves him off the backrest and has him hitting the back of his head into it a second later. It didn't hurt, but the juvenile seat-kicking from Lotor really pissed him off.
"Stop shouting," he says, "You're ruining a good song."
"I hate you," Lance growls, and folds his legs up against his chest so he can work on his life goal to become one with the passenger seat. With Pidge at the wheel and a shitty banter partner in the backseat, the car fills with WHAM!'s boppy, choral repetition of "wake me up! befooore you go-go!"Lance doesn't wait for the vocalizing outro to begin before he decides WHAM! needs to get cut.
"Alexa, play Despacito."
"Lance, this isn't an Amazon device, it's an— "
Lance raises his voice. "ALEXA, PLAY DESPACITO!"
Pidge yanks the aux cord. "You're on time out," she grumbles, tossing the cord back. It hits Lotor in the face. "Oops. My bad."
From the side mirror, Lance sees Lotor shoot him a dirty look. Big whoop, he thinks, and is about to ignore the fact that he had nothing to do with Lotor's fragile baby skin getting whacked by a cord and let it slide on by when a sharp kick to the back of the chair makes him experience a whole new level of whiplash that lets him see stars.
Lance scrambles upright to whirl on the nasty piss-baby with a snarl. "What are you, five?!"
Lotor ignores him completely and unclasps the wireless earbuds hanging around his neck.
"You! I hope you fucking shit yourself-"
"Classy."
Lance sputters. "Shut— Shut your rich boy ass up—"
"Rich boy ass?" Lotor snorts.
"Yes," Lance grits out, "Cause you don't seem to get that not everyone can pull money out their ass for everything."
"Maybe I should shit myself, then. Just so you can afford to live somewhere that isn't a shithole."
Lance sputters. "You— You—! Go ahead! Go shit yourself! I'll shit on you, too! Turn you into the city dump—"
"No municipality wants to contain your worthless dribble—"
Lance tries to lunge for him, but the car suddenly pitches forward with a squeal of tires and sends him crashing face-first into the headrest of the passenger seat. Next thing he knows, the car has gone completely still besides a fire hydrant and sirens wail in the distance, growing louder and louder every second.
"Sorry," Pidge cuts in as two cop cars blow past, "had to make room. Also, your shit jokes were getting really weird. Please stop."
"Yes, Lance," Lotor has the fucking audacity to say, "Show some restraint."
"Restraint?" Lance digs his nails into the headrest of his seat and bares his teeth. "You want me to show some restraint?!"
Pidge's eyes get big. "Yo, Lance, chill. Here—" Pidge ditches the wheel to twist and contort herself around to grab the aux cord from the floor of the backseat, "—I'll play Rick Astley."
"No, I want Queen." Lance grabs Pidge's phone and punches her passcode in.
Pidge plugs the aux into the car's stereo. "Okay."
Lotor snorts. "Of course you do." Silently, he mouths 'drama queen' and rolls his eyes. Lance wishes he could roll his eyes—he'd roll them right down out of Lotor's skull and have 'em running down West End Avenue—
Oh, look, traffic's moving.
"Finally," Pidge sighs, switching on the turn signal and drumming her fingers on the wheel.
By the time Pidge leaves the hydrant and gets onto the road, Lance has finished sorting through by artist and hit shuffle. A few seconds of silence later, the soulful ballad intro of Don't Stop Me Now starts playing.
The car lurches to a sudden stop. Lance almost drops Pidge's phone. Behind him, Lotor swears under his breath.
"Oh, for the love of…" Pidge hits her head against the car horn, letting loose a loud blast of noise.
Lance bottles up his frustration by listening intently to how smoothly the song shifts to an upbeat bop, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists tight on his knees because— "I'm having such a good time, I'm having a ball—" (2)
Breathing through his teeth, Lance turns to stare out the window, hoping the city's pedestrian scenery has something interesting to offer. But watching people walking up and down West End while he's stuck in a damn car kinda pisses him off even more, so he ends up drilling holes into the skull of a nervous-looking chihuahua hanging out in a parked car. It starts yapping at him, hanging over the half-opened window of one of the back seats, and Lance wonders how long it'd take for it to lean far enough to plop right out of the car.
Which, yeah, he knows is mean. But he's fucking bored. There was NOTHING to look at while he was stuck on West End, and that was a damn shame. He was in a weird nook of town, not too far uptown but not far midtown enough for anything fun to look at. All he was able to stare at now was the side of a sad-looking Western Beef and some Jewish education center.
And the chihuahua. And even that thing's gone, now. It's on the other side of the car, yapping away at a poster of a dog-walker surrounded by a happy-looking pack of dogs.
Lance shakes his head. What an idiot.
His eyes rove down the posters displayed on Western Beef. Most of them had to do with special prices on food items: $5.99 for a whole rotisserie chicken; two bags of Takis for $5.50; buy 2 packs of Chips-Ahoy! chocolate chip cookies, get 1 free; two cartons of Silk-brand Almond Milk for $6; a free bunch of bananas with a purpose 4 boxes of Kellog-brand family-size cereals—
Wait.
One of these things is actually important.
And he isn't just talking about the Takis; those are mega-fucking-super important. Note to self: buy six bags, STAT.
One of these things is really, really important. Really, really important, like, 'bells ringing in your head' important, or like 'looking off-camera for a dramatic flashback' important. So important, Lance can feel his eyes burning with the sheer intensity of how hard he's staring.
"Oh, thank god," Pidge sighs somewhere in the near distance, "We're finally moving again—"
Lance slams his fingers into the release button of his seatbelt buckle and throws open the door to the passenger's side. The car lurches suddenly again, but Lance keeps himself from crashing into the dashboard with a firm hand and a purposeful gaze locked solely on the row of posters on Western Beef.
"Dude, what the fuck?!" "You idiot! What do you you're doing?"
Music spills out into the street. Freddie Mercury's voice is an anthem for his dreams— "Don't! Stop me noooow! I'm having such a good tiiiime! I'm havin' a ball!"
Lance jumps out of the car, nearly tripping in his rush to get to Western Beef that he bangs his knee against the car with the chihuahua, who's yapping and howling something fierce. It hurts like a bitch, but he doesn't care—he's got stuff to do.
He's got groceries to buy for his future husband.
END NOTES:
(1) Lyrics to WHAM!'s "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go."
(2) Queen's "Don't Stop Me Now."
