Author's Note: This chapter centers on Lance, and takes place sometime between S3E4 and S3E6.
Gorditois a Spanish term of endearment that translates as "little fat one."
Uso is a Samoan word used to refer to your same-sex sibling, or to your same-sex friend who you view as being like your sibling.
Coño is a Spanish swear word that roughly translates to "fuck."
The song Hunk is singing at the end of this one-shot is called Moe i le po masina. It's a popular Samoan song, so there are a lot of variations; my personal favorite is Lole Usoalii's cover. The lyrics roughly translate to:
As I slept on the moonlight night,
Dreaming of your countenance,
At that very moment,
The Milky Way glimmered.
I awoke and arose,
My mind disquieted.
A sweat overcame me
As tear drops fell.
"Hunk!" Lance half-cries, half-coughs as Hunk steps into his bedroom.
"Hi, Lance." Hunk shuffles the tray he's holding into one hand so that he can wave at his friend. "Are you feeling any better? I heard you sneezed on Pidge to get back at her for saying you're not dying."
"Well, I am dying! I've got the space flu, Hunk! I need to go to the space hospital!"
Hunk purses his lips and considers telling Lance that, unlike Sven, he does not need to be escorted to a "space hospital," then thinks better of it. "I brought soup," he says instead, gesturing to the tray in his hand. "Will that suffice?"
"I guess," Lance sulks. "I mean, I still can't really taste any—ah, achoo!"
He sneezes so hard he faceplants into the veritable mountain of blankets on his lap, and the only reason Hunk is able to refrain from bursting out laughing is because he feels a twinge of sympathy for the Blue Paladin; being sick is never fun, after all.
"Ugh, Hunk…" Lance moans into his comforter. "I'm so cold, but my blankets smell like sick."
"I can't imagine why," Hunk responds sarcastically. He sets the tray he brought down on the floor beside the videogame consoles cluttering Lance's bedroom, then helps Lance first into an upright position, then out of bed. "I'll change your sheets while you eat your soup, okay?"
"You're the best, Hunk," Lance sniffs as he shuffles over to his food, plops down on the floor, and pulls the bowl of soup into his lap. "You're the only one who cares about me — well, you and Coran. He brought me something earlier that—." He sneezes again, but continues before Hunk can even say "bless you." "—that was supposed to, uh, dry up excess fluids or something? I didn't take it, though, because if Alteans have something like that, wouldn't Coran have taken it when he got the slipperies?"
"I would think so, but then again, this is Coran we're talking about," Hunk replies, grimacing at the mention of the alien condition. "I'd ask him later, but honestly, I don't want to know the answer. If I found out that he could have taken something for it and didn't, I'm gonna wanna throw him out the airlock. I was almost as disgusted by the slipperies as I was by the Garrison's mac-and-cheese."
"I still don't think the mac-and-cheese was that bad, gordito."
Hunk glances over his shoulder at Lance, then turns back around, pulls Lance's comforter off his bed, and gets to work removing his sheets. "I don't care what you think, uso," he says. "I've seen you eat instant mashed potatoes, without butter or salt—."
Lance chuckles. He's guilty as charged, and he's shameless enough to own up to it.
"—straight outta the pot, voluntarily, and, worst of all, more than once," Hunk continues, his disapproval blatant. "When it comes to food, your opinion is irrelevant."
"Oh? I guess that means I'm finally off taste-tester duty," Lance ribs, his voice slightly less nasally than it was a couple of doboshes ago.
"I don't care whether you're on it or not," Hunk responds, shrugging. He drops Lance's sheets onto the puddle of germ-ridden and sweat-soaked sheets on the floor, then turns around and shoots the Cuban boy a smirk that's nothing short of provocative. "I mean, I'm sure I could convince Pidge to taste-test the churro recipe I've been working on lately."
"What?!"
"I could even eat the fruits of my labor all by myself, if need be," Hunk taunts.
"Coño, Hunk, don't you da—quiznak, that hurts!" Lance cries, cutting himself off with a whine and settling for glaring at Hunk as he massages the swollen lymph nodes in his throat.
Hunk shoots Lance a pointed look, with one eyebrow raised and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "If you were a good patient who just shut up and ate their soup, your throat wouldn't be hurting right now, you know," he teases.
"Whatever."
Hunk shakes his head, then turns back around to start putting fresh sheets on Lance's bed. "Anyway…" he adds, his voice softer and more solemn now, "we all care about you, buddy — and yes, I'm including Keith in that 'we.' He came into the kitchen while I was making your soup and asked if you were feeling any better, but before I could answer, we were interrupted by the sound of Pidge screaming about your having sneezed on her."
"Why didn't Keith just ask me how I'm feeling himself?" Lance pouts.
"I don't know," Hunk responds. "I guess he just didn't want to risk getting caught up in a conversation. I mean, he only stopped by the kitchen to grab some water before he went out to search for Shiro again."
There's a pregnant lull in the conversation as Lance digests this information.
"Do you think we'll ever find him, Hunk?"
"Well, anything's possible," Hunk answers, and his voice is almost steady enough to convince himself of that. "I mean, we found him in an alternate reality, and there's nothing really stopping us from finding him in this one."
He glances over his shoulder, intending to shoot Lance a reassuring smile, but the despair in Lance's eyes resonates all too well with the ever-growing pit of anxiety in his stomach, and Hunk's forced to shift his attention to the soup in the Blue Paladin's lap to keep from bursting into tears. "How's the soup?" he asks.
"I don't know. I can't taste anything. I can't smell anything, either. I can't even breathe," Lance complains, and Hunk can hear the phlegm in Lance's throat shifting as he sighs. "It's hot, though, and for the moment, at least, I don't feel like I have a plug up my nose, so I'm ready and willing to call it a godsend."
"I'm glad it's helping," Hunk chuckles. He smooths out Lance's bedsheet and lays a thick blanket on top of it, then takes the pile of soiled sheets into his arms. "Anyway, I'm done changing your sheets. I'll take these dirty ones to the laundry room and come back to check on you later, okay?"
"Aw, no!" Lance whines, drawing out the –oh sound in no and dropping his spork back into the bowl of soup in his lap. "You can't leave me, Hunk! I need cuddles."
Hunk frowns, displeased by the thought of coming in closer contact with whatever virus Lance has managed to contract and getting sick himself, but nods his assent nonetheless. He's dealt with sick!Lance before, and he knows that he'll just act increasingly pathetic until someone caves in to his demands — and there's no way that that someone will be either Keith or Pidge.
"You'll stay?" Lance asks, his surprise evident in his voice.
"Yeah." He extends a hand to Lance to help him off the floor. "I'll stay. If you sneeze on me, though, I'm leaving."
"I guess that's fair," Lance laughs. He weakly shoves Hunk onto his bed, and Hunk plays along, flopping down onto Lance's bed with an amused huff. He settles himself against the headboard, then spreads his arms out in an invitation for Lance to join him. He does so readily, quickly snuggling up against Hunk.
"You do realize I'm not a pillow, right?" Hunk asks as Lance nestles his face against his chest.
"You might as well be a pillow," Lance mutters in response. "You're comfy. Soft," he adds, patting Hunk's stomach fondly.
Hunk chuckles, unwilling to laugh wholeheartedly at the risk of jostling Lance too much. "It's because I'm fat, uso." He raises one eyebrow and glances over Lance's slender frame. "I'm pretty sure my bicep is thicker than your waist, in fact."
"Whatever," Lance grumbles. "You're soft and warm, and you make a good teddy bear." He nuzzles deeper into Hunk's side, then adds, "that's an unfair comparison, anyway. You could rip your sleeves just by flexing."
Hunk chuckles again. "When we get back to Earth, buy me one of those 'I flexed and the sleeves fell off' shirts," he suggests.
"If we—."
"When we," Hunk corrects, sensing where the conversation is going.
"When we," Lance amends, although his voice sounds a lot less certain now, "get back to Earth, the first thing I'm going to do is give my mom a hug so strong it'll put even your bear hugs to shame."
Hunk scratches Lance's scalp affectionately. "I wouldn't expect anything less from a mama's boy like you," he says.
"You're a mama's boy, too," Lance grouses. He closes his eyes and throws one arm over Hunk's stomach, then, softly, says, "sing me that song, Hunk."
"What song?" Hunk asks.
"The sad-sounding Samoan one that you sang whenever you felt homesick back at the Garrison," Lance answers.
"Moe i le po masina," Hunk breathes.
He looks down at Lance, who's nestled snugly against him, and his expression softens, both out of sympathy for Lance and because of the pain that comes from missing his own family — especially his mother.
Lance was right. Hunk's a mama's boy, too.
"Moe i le po masina..." Hunk sings, filling Lance's small bedroom with his rich baritone. "Moe miti i ou foliga…"
He closes his eyes… because with his eyes closed, he can [almost] pretend that he's back at the Garrison, only miles away from his family, rather than lightyears.
"Le taimi tonu lea… ua tu fa'asipa ai le aniva... o'u nofo loa i luga... fa'asolo o'u mafaufauga... lo'u tino ua maniti... loimata ua maligi..."