Chapter Text
On an unusually sweltering May night, Lance McClain decides that he’s going to have a threesome.
No, not the sexy kind – though who is he to lie and say that the thought hasn’t crossed his mind at least a couple of times – but he knows that he needs to get in there. He wants to earn the right to climb the makeshift stage, surrounded by the ever-growing crowd of people, and weasel in riiiiight between the two men dancing on it. The front, preferably. Lance would never settle for anything less, and the sidelines simply don’t suit him.
After all, he's “a drama queen and an attention whore” (Hunk Garrett, Pidge Gunderson, verbal conversation, May 21, 2016). He needs to maintain that title, at least.
“If I had a dollar for every time Shiro wore a sleeveless tight shirt, I’d be a millionaire,” Pidge says somewhere to his left, voice barely audible over the deafening pump of the bass, suddenly switching the medley to Jason Derulo. If Lance had a dollar for every time that singer popped up in RB’s shows –
“If he stopped wearing those, then maybe Lance would finally shut up about wanting to slide across the floor to propose to him on the spot,” Hunk shrugs and takes another generous bite of some crispy thing that he’s devouring ever so slowly, savoring the moment. Lance can tell that he’s nervous – his best friend transforms into an all-consuming black hole whenever he’s feeling out of his element.
“Hey, it’s not my fault that he looks like an Ancient Greek god, alright? A man has urges!” Lance waves him off, gaze still drawn in by the talented dancers. The crowd nearly yodels when Shiro executes a perfect jump-flip, falling into that perfect transition of powerful moves, and - wow okay, Lance needs Pidge’s water bottle asap.
“Look at him! That can’t be normal! He has to be a robot, I swear. No one can execute that wave with such perfection. He’s got a robo arm, I’m so calling it!” Conspiracy theories regarding Shiro’s inhuman… everything, aside, Lance firmly believes this to be true. Why else does he always wear that black compression sleeve? Suspicious!
Hunk snorts a laugh, pushing the last bite between his crumb-covered lips. “Gay.”
“Uh, first of all, bi!” Lance points one finger in his friend’s face. Pidge gives them a flat stare and kicks some guy’s shin when he nudges them out of the way. Don’t mess with the short and angry ones. “And if you tell me that you’ve never had hots for Shiro, I might as well quit freestyling and sign up for Allura’s ballet classes.”
“Still pretty gay, dude.” Not as gay as Lance feels when Keith does that thing with his hips. Speaking of, “’Kay dudes, if we’re continuing the millionaire game – if I had a dollar every time Keith shook his hips like he’s Shakira himself, I’d be richer than the entirety of Switzerland.”
Lance feels himself drooling a little but quickly wipes at his mouth in a discreet manner. “He’s a hoe, but a pretty hoe,” he mutters, and Pidge - honest to god! - starts laughing at him. It’s probably because his ears are an embarrassing shade of maroon. “Look at him! It’s like he’s riding an invisible dick!” Lance chokes, throwing his arms in Keith’s general direction. The guy has the perfect balance and his ankles must be made of steel or some shit because it almost hurts watching him bounce like that despite how entrancing it is. Lance had tried copying this set of moves before. He ended up pulling a muscle and then proceeded to bitch everyone’s ears off about it. Hunk even subjected himself to carrying him from lecture to lecture just to make him stop complaining.
Case in point – do not attempt to ride an invisible dick unless you’re Keith.
An unspoken “wish he’d ride mine” hangs heavily in the air, clouding the bullshit factory that is Lance’s inner world and whatnot.
Keith and Shiro are the fucking best in their prefecture when it comes to street dance competitions, and probably secret underground beauty contests that Lance isn’t aware of. They’ve been at it since 2007 and haven’t lost a single competition since last year’s July. They’ve made it to Echo’09 finals, came out as champions, and the rest is history - aka everyone’s interest in the duo kind of exploded.
In 2011, Pidge dragged an unwilling Lance to his first street dance show, and ever since then, he couldn’t get out. He was stuck in the deep, dark hell that was crafted from Shiro’s muscled arms and Keith’s cursed hip shimmies. And a whole lot of ‘work till you drop dead’ training regimes. Every single day.
After witnessing the RB in action for the very first time, Lance started going at it like crazy just to get a shot at competing on the same stage, just to get closer to what he considers to be the ultimate perfection of teamwork and art combined.
Whenever Lance’s Twitter feed buzzes with a new message that his idols are going to appear at one event or another, he’s immediately there, sometimes forsaking basic duties such as homework and helping out with chores.
Also he may or may not obsessively stalk their Twitters and other social media networks, but that is a story for another time.
Keith falls back without a moment of hesitation. Shiro smoothly catches him with one arm as though his partner is a swooning lady – probably a daily occurrence - and propels him forward. As always the last three seconds of their performance leave Lance’s mouth hanging open, and he shamelessly joins in once the noise level around him rises high enough to drown out the last few finishing beats of the medley. Keith is breathing heavily, pulling off his damp shirt, while Shiro's waving at the screaming fans with a kindhearted smile as the DJ croons out some final compliments. Lance’s heart sinks once he sees Keith making a beeline in their direction. The dancer brushes by him, yet he doesn’t spare the other or his friends - his team - a single look.
Lance hopes that one day he’ll be able to rid himself of the shame that he feels whenever he recalls the first time he faced off Keith and massively fucked up, far too nervous and inexperienced, trying to prove himself as the better man.
Perhaps one day he’ll be good enough to make Keith finally acknowledge him, or at least, look him in the fucking eye.
Pidge checks the time on their phone as Hunk pulls Lance along to their assigned dancefloor.
Nowhere near the big leagues, but it's still good enough. They gouge some cheering even if the team that they’re competing against is light-years ahead of them when it comes to breakdancing.
Lance is no stranger to losing.
He has nothing on a natural like Keith or a hard worker like Shiro, who’s been dancing even before he could read. They say that talent is merely an actively pursued hobby, and Lance is a firm believer in that, even if sometimes he feels like punching things or himself whenever his noodle arms give out and he’s physically unable to hold his weight with one arm, falling face-first into the concrete. Breakdancing isn’t his forte, he’s much more into simple-ass hip-hop and has a love for popping and locking. If you have a lean body like this, you have to make the best of it.
But if he wants to be good enough, he needs to nail this one, too. Pidge tries - keyword: tries - to teach him sometimes, but it comes easy to them, natural, and Pidge isn't the most patient teacher out there. They may be small, but they’re strong enough to restrain Lance with only one arm whenever they wrestle for the remote and the headlock leaves Lance’s thin neck aching for days. Meanwhile, Lance can fight about a thousand ants on good days.
Sadly, Pidge is a complete bookworm and a grade-A nerd, so they cannot supervise his ass 24/7, and laughing at his failures after one too many times gets kind of old. Lance’s first internet fame came from a Vine compilation of him kissing the cracked pavement of the abandoned parking lot located under a closed-off bridge, the spot where they would usually meet up to practice.
He still remembers how not cool it was when he'd been trying to hit on his coursemate and she only responded with a "Wait, aren’t you that guy from that one Vine?"
All in all, utterly and completely degrading.
Not as degrading as fucking up in front of his idols, though.
There he goes again.
With a huff, Lance threads to his boombox and shuffles through the playlist. Nope, nope, something easier, ugh whatever, ‘Heartbreak in the making’ will suffice.
He closes his eyes and goes over his routine of practicing the more difficult moves and freestyling. Sweat drips down his nose, but he chooses to ignore the fact that he must look and smell gross, twisting his body in a sharp, sudden spin. Lance swipes at the air like he’s trying to punch his frustration away, locks his palms with a swift movement, getting pissed when he misses a beat. He can’t do it smoothly. His transitions are either too fast or too clumsy.
He visualizes Keith’s face, Keith’s slim body, visualizes success, and knee-drops on the ground, making sure that his torso rolls in the same way that he sees in his mind. Fuck, how’s that even possible? How does he make it seem so... so effortless? Does Keith take belly-dancing classes as a bonus to get in shape? His one-sided rival certainly has those breathtaking hips for it. God, what Lance wouldn’t give for at least one lap dance. It’d probably overshadow his eighteenth birthday strip club experience completely.
‘Next morning I was so conflicted – ‘
Lance feels his right ankle buzz with static at the slightly awkward pose. He comes back down to it and notices that he’s been sitting around with his legs uncomfortably bent under him, his gaze focused on the concrete, graffiti-covered ceiling for at least a minute now. He’s been visualizing Keith’s skin and those cursed abs so vividly that he kind of forgot what he was supposed to be doing.
God, this whole competing business is killing his performance.
Right as he closes his eyes, something cool presses against his cheek. With a startled yelp, Lance lies down on the ground, kicking out his legs. The static intensifies.
He hits nothing. Shit, is someone going to shank him?
“Finally trying to work yourself to your early grave?”
White hair blinds his vision. He smiles, half-assed, heart beating wildly from the surprise. “What kind of unworthy knight does that? I’d never leave you behind, sweet Princess,” Lance croons.
The Princess in question drops the bottle on his face in response. It hits his nose rather painfully.
“Forget that I even cared,” Allura huffs, never one to take Lance’s bullshit. A moment later, her sapphire eyes twinkle with seriousness. “That was pretty good until you flopped down like a dead fish and, pardon my crudeness, proceeded to have some sort of a bizarre mental mating ritual with some Keith.”
Shit, did he actually repeat Keith’s name like a mantra out loud? What the hell is wrong with him these days?
“I wasn’t – that wasn’t!” Lance gapes and rakes his brain for an appropriate response. Explaining this ritual of boosting his self-confidence usually ends up getting weird. “It was just some mental stimulation to do better. Wait, that came out horribly wrong.”
She backs away, slowly. “Oh-kaaay, we can stop right there. Clearly, I really don’t want to know.”
“It’s just that,” Lance scoffs and gets up with a prolonged sigh, maintaining a respectful distance from the woman. He’d rather die than close the gap between them after a training session like that. He has a reputation to uphold no matter how bad he feels right now or how much he wants to get closer to her. Oh god, someone please hold him. “I can’t stop thinking about my mistakes. I get mad and frustrated, and then it all falls to shit.” He doesn't bother filtering his language in front of his ex-crush. She'd rejected him one time too many. “And I just really want to reach some sort of - some sort of breakthrough, but so far it’s just been – argh.” He falls back down into a small patch of dainty grass growing out through the cracks in the concrete despite the lack of sun. Lance can relate, and shit, is he seriously relating to weeds now?
To his surprise, Allura follows and settles next to him, hugging her knees close to her chest. Her legs bend a little awkwardly due to the white high heels that she's wearing. They sit in contemplative silence, an unusual occurrence when you’re stuck with someone like Lance of all the people, so naturally, his companion feels the urge to point it out. “You usually don’t get so… serious. Though I- I understand, actually. I mean that ‘sissy dancing’ or so you’ve called it – ”
“Allura, I apologized for that like a million times already. I’m the one who permanently lives in salt mines, not you.” She literally pirouetted him into stunned silence about a year ago when they had visited her during a class that she was co-teaching, and the leotard-clad young ladies didn’t take kindly to his self-absorbed bullshit. Lance doesn’t like talking about it. Surprisingly, neither do Pidge and Hunk.
Allura chooses to ignore him. “I was stuck once, too, you know. I was envious of my upperclassmen whenever I saw them performing. But one day, I realized that the so-called grand difference between us was simply the extra time that they put into practice, along with their feelings and hearts. If you follow that regime, you’re bound to catch up eventually. You mustn’t stop when things get hard.” She stands, and with a graceful movement, falls into the third position, followed by a perfect arabesque. Her balance is perfect. “You’re still learning, Lance. It's alright to mess up because it’s how you get better. And if you ask me, all you need is some endurance training and extra work on your balance. The moves are already a part of you. Own them.”
The cold gust of wind makes the sheen of sweat dry instantly. Lance runs his fingers through his short brown hair, letting it stick up. He’d be lying if he said that Allura’s speech didn’t make him a little teary-eyed. It’s nice to get some reassurance every now and then, especially from someone who’s a master at what they do.
She then claps her hands together, offering a blinding white smile. “That being said, get back to practicing and show me what you got! Impress me, Lance! Afterwards, I’ll give you an utmost objective critique.”
She urges him on despite his protests and shame – he is not ready to show off to Allura if he can’t show off to people like Keith and Shiro – so he reluctantly plays a new song, the beat fast-paced and a bit above Lance’s skill level. But this is what he wants. To see what he’s doing wrong and to get some pointers.
When he hesitates before falling into a knee-drop, Allura claps her hands once more in a steady rhythm. “Good, good, show no hesitation! Keep going!”
By the time it's over, he’s completely out of breath, a fine layer of sweat coating his lean body. He heaves while Allura claps as though she’s at some high-class ballet show instead of watching a dumbass 22-year-old flailing away. It’s enough to make Lance grin and he bows, overly pompous. “Thank you, thank you, my audience is too kind.”
“Your audience is about to criticize you, so I hope you’re mentally prepared.” Allura stops smiling and looks him up and down with a light frown etched between her sharp eyebrows, a fingertip tapping against painted lips. “You definitely lack strength training. Your breakdancing could use it. That one-hand scissor kick, show it to me again. Quick!”
Lance blinks in confusion. “Since when are you familiar with the terms?”
Allura bats her eyelashes back. “Since forever. I have an acquaintance who is overwhelmingly good at this if I do say so myself, and we tend to use the same hall when practicing new moves. Now go for it!” There is no room left for arguments. With a shaky arm Lance tries to comply. He ends up kissing the pavement, unsurprisingly.
He spends the next half an hour going over every combination that had struck Allura as odd and he’s actually surprised when he gets a lot of useful tips. He can’t believe that he used to downplay Allura’s competence because of the whole ‘ballet is for little girls’ thing. She’s incredible and he’s honestly undeserving of this hospitality.
“At this point, you might as well start coaching us.” Lance laughs when Allura squints at him as he finishes up the snaking and waving combo, his body rigid from exertion.
“I don’t see why not.”
Lance chokes on his spit.
”R-really, that’s alright, I –” His voice cracks embarrassingly at the end.
“Look, do you want to prepare in time for this year’s Echo, or not? Because I, personally, think that you could use all the help that you can get. And I’d rather you not go out there and show the crowd a bad performance!” She uses the Mom Voice on him, sticking out her lips in a defiant manner. To top it off, she places her hands on slim hips as if daring him to talk back.
Lance’s shoulders sag when he towels himself off. He could really use a bath. “What’s next? Coran is a secret bboyer?”
“Actually – ”
Too much for one day. Lance throws his arms into the air. “Okay, I’m done. Nope nope nope, goodbye.”
And so, Allura begins showing up every Tuesday and Thursday evening to relentlessly order Lance around, clapping a firm beat for him to fall into until he’s close to collapsing – or, well, actually collapses. It doesn’t take much. He whines for water breaks that are meant to mask his heaving, but she takes none of it.
“You can rest after you show me a plausible transition. One, two, go!”
It’s kind of hellish but Lance can feel himself getting whipped into shape nonetheless. It’s somewhat surprising that Allura is sticking to her pompous dance schools instead of commanding army troops.
They blow through the Summer competition prelims like it’s a slight breeze instead of an all-out battle.
Hunk crushes him and Pidge in a back-shattering hug once they win the right to enter the finals.
He can finally hold down the little caramel-haired Satan when they try to switch the channel from Lance’s telenovela to boring documentaries.
“Since when can you do that?” Pidge huffs out, and scratches at Lance’s forearms to free themselves.
Lance places the remote under his ass - the one place that Pidge doesn’t dare to poke around - and flexes, kissing his naked bicep. “Since I got these guns, baby, aw yeah. I am the fucking strong.”
“Those are tiny plastic water pistols at best. You’re still a noodle,” Pidge groans in defeat – haha, how does that one feel, sucka - and gets up.
“A noodle who can finally carry the team through the finals with mad bboying skills.”
In a sudden rush of overwhelming sentimentality, Pidge grabs his face and looks deeply into his eyes. “Lance, I love you and I’m proud.” It’s followed by a firm tug on the back of his neck. He falls off the sofa, magically getting a carpet burn in the process. “But you’re still an ass and that remote is mine.” They reclaim the device with a cocky smile and wave it in front of his face.
Lance doesn’t get to hear who Jose’s biological father is, which is, like, unforgivable.
Leave it to Pidge to ruin their bonding moment.
Lance feels like there’s an entire tree stuck in his eye when he finally holds onto the outfits that Pidge had painstakingly designed - color-coded and adorned in neon stripes - for the very first time.
They hug and cry like weenies when they win their first tournament.
October brings colder weather, brown leaves, Pumpkin spice lattes, Halloween, and Lance’s absolute favorite – Halloween-themed dance competitions.
As such, he doesn’t mind it when Hunk splashes the upper part of his face in dark blue paint that he'd mixed up at Chem class and only mildly complains when that shit gets in his eyes because it stings. They also have an all-out verbal battle about whether they should wear those glowy cat ears or not. Pidge and Hunk, who are undeniably passionate about all things cute and cuddly, out-vote Lance, only on condition that Hunk attaches the ears to his hood instead. They’re cute blue things that look kind of awkward when perched on top of his head - probably because of the short hair and his long face - and he’s only a little envious that he can’t pull them off like his friends do.
As punishment for pulling his hood on at inappropriate times and saying ‘You know like nya’, Lance gets subjected to a very intense nail-painting session, courtesy of Pidge. His younger siblings love the way it looks, so maybe it isn’t too bad - apparently, Pidge got a whole lot better at this - and they’re more than happy to paint McClains' nails a soft coral blue that glows in the dark.
They wait in the long ass line at the entrance, surrounded by people wearing all kinds of outfits, and by the time it’s their turn to get stamped, Lance counts at least eleven sexy nurses. Nice.
He pulls on the cat-eared hood once they wiggle their way past the masses and the security – Lance makes a few jokes about the police outfits and gets deathly glares in return – and Pidge threatens him with a hiss. “I swear to god if you do the thing again – ”
“What thing? Oh, you mean – ” His hand automatically rises to his head, curling.
“Lance,” Hunk groans in exasperation. “Don’t do that, please, I’m gonna have nightmares.”
“Oh, what’s that now? Can’t hear you over the music there, pal, what do you want me to do, again? You know – nya?”
Pidge and Hunk throw their arms in the air, earning some confused stares from those around them. “You’re impossible to take out, you know that, right?”
“I’m pretty sure anyone would take me out, am I right or am I right?” He double-pistols at some girl who only curls up her nose and stomps away. Huh, maybe he deserved it.
Hunk places a comforting hand on his bony shoulder and they entertain themselves with a little game of 'I Spy' while they wait for the competitions to start. After Hunk spies yet another sexy cop, the game turns a little boring.
That is until, in the dim lights, Lance spots the undeniable shape of a man who plagues his mind and frequently co-stars in his wettest dreams. Motherfucking Keith.
Lance chokes when the wandering red strobe light lands on that familiar mullet – it’s not weird that I can recognize it like forty feet away, you guys, what are you on about – and Lance’s jaw almost hits the sticky floor.
Hunk stares as well. “Dude.”
“Ohhh my God, oh my God, what is he wearing!?” Lance screeches indignantly, face brighter than the flashing lights above. He could be a beacon of sexual tension. “Who let him dress himself? Shiro is a well-respected adult with morals! He’d never allow - !” He places his fingerless glove-clad palms over Pidge’s eyes. “There are children in the vicinity, goddamn it!”
Pidge elbows him in the ribs with a heated “Fuck off, Lance!” – “Children shouldn’t curse”, he says, earning another smack - while his gaze latches onto Keith’s figure. He looks a little awkward because of the attention that he’s getting from all sides. At least, he could’ve done something with his ridiculous hair if he truly wanted to stay unnoticed and blend in. Mullets aren't unnoticed nowadays. Keith probably didn't get that memo.
“Is he supposed to be like a sexy corpse bride, I’m not sure.” Pidge attempts to fix their oversized glasses, only to belatedly remember that they’re wearing contacts. To save themselves from the impending embarrassment due to the small slip-up, Pidge awkwardly pinches the bridge of their nose.
Hunk raises one fine eyebrow. “You’ve been living with Lance’s family for how long now, and – ”
“It’s the Day of the Dead get-up, you walnut,” Lance screeches, throat feeling very dry. His eyes roam all over Keith’s slender body. “Except it’s totally disrespectful - who the fuck wears a goddamn crop top with that, ugh, ughhh.“ He is in a lot of distress, truth be told. Keith’s stupid clothes cling to his body like a second skin and the colorful paint makes him, god forbid, cute.
Suddenly it’s very hard to tell the difference between checking out a rival to mock him and checking out a guy whose bones he must absolutely jump. And here Lance was thinking that all those wet dreams were some sort of bizarre side-effect of the intense rivalry that he was feeling.
Lance looks up at Hunk, teary-eyed. “Oh my God, I’m gay for Keith.”
His best friend only stares like this isn’t news to him, as though Lance had said it a million times already. The revelation feels severely downplayed - what about the ground-shattering surprised looks, the indignant gasps, and the drama? Instead, Hunk just says, “We know. Not to sound rude or anything, but I told you so. Multiple times, by the way, but who ever listens to Hunk, am I right?” He’s far too smug to sound genuinely upset by that.
Lance looks down at his quivering palms. “He is so cute. Man, I wanna go there and rub my face all over that – ” He channels the Mexican side of his family and babbles away in heated Spanish about the things he’d do to goddamn Keith and his stupid – what were those even? Leggings? It doesn't go too smoothly, because by now, his friends know just enough of the language to make disgusted faces and simultaneously echo a ‘Sick, dude!’
“Okay, stop stop stop, or I’ll tell Ma to wash your mouth with soap when we get back.” Pidge sticks out their tongue.
“Can she wash my ears while she’s at it, too?” Hunk winces. “I feel severely violated here, man!”
“How about you bathe me in the holy waters of Jerusalem, because hot damn.” Lance fans himself when Keith and, oh, there’s Shiro, too, make their way to the dancefloor. “He can be the La Muerte to my Xibalba any day.”
Another sexy priest walks by. Hunk kindly asks him to perform an exorcism on Lance’s sorry, smitten ass to make him stop sinning. Even after he gets hit with a plastic cross a few times, the sin remains.
“I can’t believe that they stole our song! They may be hot, but it’s our jam!” Lance stomps his foot like a petulant child when the first beats of ‘Make it Shake’ rile up the massive crowd. His body tenses as though on impulse, he’s the one supposed to be dancing to this. The routine is ingrained into the very core of his being, hours upon hours of actually practicing the same moves instead of freestyling everything on the spot.
“Well, we can’t just charge in. Remember what happened last time?” Hunk gestures wildly, looking as though he’s going to be sick. “I’m not having a repeat of... that.”
Lance can’t blame him, that particular fuck up forever a sore subject to the members of their small team. He remembers the haunting booing of the crowd and the indecipherable look that Keith had sent his way, as though he'd proven his point that Lance was inferior to him. That he would always be.
“Come back when you actually learn how to dance, idiot,” Keith hissed into Lance’s ear, and the brunet had nothing else left to do but curl his imaginary tail and dash off the stage.
But that was in the past, and this... “This is it, our great breakthrough, guys. I can feel it. It’s like all of the planets are aligned for us.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s just your dick talking.” Pidge interrupts, looking quite queasy themselves.
“No, guys, listen! We have to. We have to do this, it'll be a good experience. We may not be quite there yet, but we can still wipe the floor with them. I believe in you. Hunk!” He turns to the taller man gnawing on his fingernails. “There’s no one out there who’s better than you at popping. Pretty boy won't stand a chance!” Hunk turns bright red at the praise and scratches the back of his neck, muttering something shyly.
Lance turns to Pidge, but they cut him off. “Let me guess, this is the part where you give me a pep talk about my breakdancing.”
“Precisely!”
“And what about you? Are you truly feeling ready? Last time we kinda...” They hold their elbow close to their side in a display of insecurity. “You’re our frontman, Lance. We’ll fall apart if you screw it up.”
“And that’s why we won’t fail! Otherwise, Allura is going to kick my ass to another galaxy and then back.” He pulls his friends close. “Now, are you with me or not?”
Seemingly affected by all the praise and the good atmosphere, Hunk is the first one to nod. Then again, he always goes with Lance’s ideas, no matter how crazy. It’s what kept earning him the title of Lance’s best friend for eight consecutive years in a row. “Till the end of the line, pal.” It certainly shows that they had a 'Captain America' movie marathon yesterday. “Let’s kick some ass!”
“That’s what I like to hear!” They exchange a complicated handshake, followed by a brofist. Pidge remains cautious. “C’mon, it’s an opportunity. They probably don’t even remember us.” They weren’t the first ones to challenge the champions, not by a long shot. Lance knows that for a fact. “It’s Halloween, we’re kind of well-masked from the shame here.”
Pidge finally relents. Lance looks over his shoulder in a rush of excitement. “What team!?” he yells when they make a circle.
“Wild cats!” Pidge yells back, while Hunk stops mid "Vol-"
“Not quite, but I’ll make this meme count!”
Three, two, one.
Lance jumps into the spotlight.
‘Guess who just walked in!’
The crowd lets out an appraising roar that is equal amounts of discontent and supportive when Lance crashes Keith’s little show for the second time in his life. The reaction that he gets is exactly the same as the last time, except it seems that Keith doesn’t immediately write him off as a 'cocky newbie' because of their glorious uniforms.
That detail is immediately noticed by the DJ of the night, whose voice Lance recognizes by heart. It booms loud and clear, the music dying down for a moment. “Looks like Team Voltron still can’t find themselves a satisfactory place in the pro-leagues after the last championship! Maybe tonight is their lucky night!”
Okay, maybe Lance was wrong, they’re not that well-masked. Ha, no pressure.
He doesn’t hear the rest of their introduction followed by their sob story because his body goes on autopilot, faster than ever before, ready to take some breaths away. Allura would be floored.
The crowd seemingly fades away, reduced to distant, shapeless noise, yet he somehow knows that Pidge and Hunk are keeping up with him just fine. Keith and Shiro circle their gang like two vultures, Shiro's smile almost playful – that guy always remains too kind even after he’s done absolutely slaying someone on the dancefloor – and Keith…
Oh god, Keith.
Keith finally looks at them with a shine of interest gleaming in his eyes, one that only surfaces once every three tournaments. Lance knows that. Fueled by Keith's undivided attention, he puts extra effort into a rushed windmill, switching combinations like it's nothing. The beautiful dancer raises his eyebrows when Lance all but slides towards him in a very krumping fashion, shoulders roughly thrown back – which he kind of despises, as it is far too fuckboyish and immature even for his taste. He has standards. Keith’s face is still kept carefully emotionless, though Lance can see that he’s trying to fight back the beginnings of a smile. Totally a smile, Lance decides, when his snapback sails through the air and he doesn’t have to look around to catch it. He puts it on his head, but not before pulling a fancy flip.
And, holy shit, Keith actually grins.
Lance’s heart somersaults, knees a little weak. He kind of wants to clutch at his chest and die right on this dancefloor that he absolutely owns. The crowd cheers and Lance breathes heavily, doesn’t have to visualize success for the first time in his life because it’s standing right in front of him in the shape of a mulleted man with a very damn tight black crop top.
If he looks close enough, he can point out all of the specks of indigo in Keith’s eyes, and only then does he realize that Keith is standing incredibly close to him, their noses a few inches apart at most. The black-haired man searches Lance's gaze for something, something that would make him recognizable perhaps, hand hovering near Lance’s cheek as though tempted to wipe off the mixture of electric and cobalt blue paint ending just below his cheekbones.
Lance’s eyes flick down to Keith's mouth, because goddamn, it is so tempting. Briefly, he entertains the idea of closing the gap even though he still has Hunk around, who is like 70% of his impulse control - but hey, his friend is currently standing somewhere to his right, and is completely out of the range, thus incapable of smacking some common sense into Lance's empty head.
He wants to kiss Keith so much, and yeah, read into it however you want, they’re so having a moment here. He can see that Keith's obviously interested - what kind of interest, though, he doesn’t entirely know yet.
And oh shit (!!!) the distance shrinks until it doesn't (???).
Lance stands completely frozen, wide-eyed with surprise, when Keith casually steals his hat and swiftly jumps out of Lance’s reach, followed by a curt nod in Shiro’s direction.
“What a goddamn tease. How’s he even real?” Lance mutters to himself and stares away, dumbstruck.
Those words ring undeniably true because Keith really is a god-awful tease who is not afraid to prove himself. The next song in the medley turns out to be far too sensual for Lance's comfort, and damn boy, that hip shimmy is way hotter up close. It's right there and it's real, so unlike the one that Lance sometimes visualizes before going to bed when he –
Keith executes that perfect drop – Madre de Dios, help him, he’s gonna rest in bloody pieces right then and there – and when he turns around with a soft, effortless bounce, he pulls the hat back on Lance’s head, momentarily obscuring his field of vision. The heat of Keith's palm burns Lance’s exposed chest with the brunet positively dying at this physical contact, but it’s a small torture to bear because Keith roughly shoves him away, making him stumble back.
Lance, despite his internal raging boner soon to turn into the real deal, still feels very offended by such treatment. Just who the fuck does Keith think he is? He kinda wants to reach out, grab him and do something, but Pidge holds him back by the hood, dragging him backwards. “Playtime’s over, lover boy, you've proven your point.”
“But!”
“No buts. I think you’ve had more than enough butts for one evening. Don’t let it get to your head too much.” Did Pidge just pun him? Lance, however, has no time to appreciate it, because his eyes lock with Keith’s, and the guy smirks at him like the absolute butt that he is. Lance flicks him the bird, almost tripping over his own feet when Keith wiggles his fingers in a smug wave, somewhat mockingly blowing him a kiss.
“I am deceased,” he says to no one in particular, one hand resting on his chest. It’s too noisy. The crowd’s focus shifts back to Shiro’s robotic tricks and insane inverts in no time. Hunk gets swept away by his newly-formed fanclub, while Pidge - the sad adoptive sibling constantly stuck with Lance McClain’s ever-fluctuating moods - heaves a sigh.
“Well, he is your La Muerte.”
“Sííííí.”
He doesn’t see Keith or Shiro for the rest of the night.
Lance is roughly shaken awake at 6 am. He gets ready to use his 'older sibling authority' and kick his sister out of his room, but gets subjected to even more jostling which can only belong to Pidge. “Wake up, you jerkoff.”
“I didn’t jerk off,” Lance murmurs in defense and attempts to pull the covers over his head. They got back home at 3 am and then he spent the next 45 minutes of his "alone time" thinking about Keith, probing at the burning patch of skin located at the center of his chest. He didn’t violate that sacred moment though, so it was true, even if he didn’t understand half of Pidge’s screechy voice. “Jus’ another five mins…”
He’s rudely awakened by water on his face. With a scream, he sits up. “Christ, what the fuck’s your problem!?”
The screaming earns angry thudding from the other side of the wall.
Pidge actually looks ashamed. “I’m sorry, Ma!” they apologize. The thudding stops. His damn Ma, always playing favorites.
“Where’s the fire?” Lance wipes away the sleep crust from his lashes. He was having a very nice dream. “What’s got your panties in a twist?” Like, literally. Pidge is in front of him in all of their almost-naked glory - only in underwear and a haphazardly thrown-on binder. How they're awake at this hour Lance will never know, then again, he often doubts that Pidge ever sleeps.
Pidge’s expression is twisted up when they shove a phone into Lance’s face. He hisses at the sudden invading light. The phone vibrates with their group chat notifications, flooded by Hunk’s messages. Lance catches something along the lines of ‘This is horrible’.
It’s an article. The header screams: ‘A shooting near Black Lion’s nightclub, one severely injured.’
Lance’s heart stops beating.
Holy shit, this is the same place where they spent the night.
He skims the article, feeling very cold. “…opened sudden fire”, “…multiple witnesses, mass confusion”, “…illegal betting centers”, and finally:
“A member of RB, the local, internet-famous dance crew, undefeated in street dance competitions for over a year, Takashi Shirogane (more known under the alias of “Shiro”) has been severely wounded by three shots to the right side, and was immediately rushed off to the hospital.”
Lance stops reading upon reaching the black bold letters spelling ‘critical condition’.
They sit in a stuffy silence. Pidge eyes him warily, as though they want to say something, but stuff like ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it in this situation. They reclaim their phone and open the group chat to reply to Hunk.
Lance sits completely still and then makes a mad lunge for his charging phone, cursing colorfully when it doesn’t immediately turn on. He goes on Twitter, and with shaky fingers, scrolls through the mass confusion shit-spam, along with numerous condolences directed at his team of idols - #prayforshiro is trending - until he finds Keith’s message.
‘Team RB is officially disbanded.’
It’s like a sharp stab with an icicle to his stomach. Hearing this from the official source freezes up his insides.
They drop out of that year’s Echo tournament. Lance continues practicing, but his drive dies more and more with every passing month.