Chapter Text
Pale blue light reflects off of the sulcrite plates, bouncing across the small tunnel, the tiny place alight with colour as Lance crouches near the entrance way, small washbucket attached to his hip, sponge in his hand, the knowledge that he is Coran’s favourite slowly slipping from his mind as he washes each plate.
The facts of it are:
1. Lance is Coran’s favourite Paladin (because, contrary to popular belief, Coran does not seem fazed when admitting he likes Lance best. Of course, he still loves them all equally. Lance just happens to equal a little more.)
2. Being Coran’s favourite, Lance gets to go on all sorts of cool quests throughout the Castle, discovering some of his most treasured places to chill out, and gaining insight into places he must avoid at all costs. (And if Hunk ever tries to tell anyone about that one time Lance walked into a hall full of tiny, bird-like robotic creatures that he then accidentally activated, and then proceeded to chase him around for the next varga, well, then, that’s when one stops listening.)
3. Being Coran’s favourite, also means he gets sent on all the finicky jobs no one else ever wants to do, because this Castle may be sick as fuck, but it is old, and somehow still doesn’t have self-cleaning systems for the teladuv.
4. Lance likes making lists. They help to organise his thoughts as best he can, and provide him with manageable tasks to complete throughout the chosen time period for that particular list. That, or they exist solely so Lance can think things out, without having to prattle on and on about them outloud. He acknowledges there's only so long he can do that without someone telling him to shut up.
All of this equates to Lance being here right now, carefully washing over the sulcrite plates with a substance that allegedly will burn a hole through his skin if he spills any on himself. (And despite the fact that he’s wearing gloves, Lance is still fearful.) He’s grumbling under his breath as he cleans what must be the sixtieth plate, willing his hands to stop shaking.
He narrows his eyes in focus, because he can not get distracted. Breaking these plates and they’re stuck in this star system for however long it takes for them to locate another Weblum. But it’s just so hard, the same monotonous task, over and over.
So Lance allows his mind to drift, trusting himself enough to not fuck this up. (Hopefully.) It goes to the place it’s been frequenting too much recently, the sole bane of his existence, the one-mullet wearing boy in his life that somehow, after all the years of distance between them, never stopped the universe from shoving them in the same space for who-knows-how-long.
And–look. He’s not that bad. There, Lance said it! Sure, he was annoying at first, but Keith is broody around everyone, and as time has gone on, Lance has been forced to realise that yeah, Keith can be alright to talk to sometimes. When he isn’t being an ass. That, and he’s fun to spar with, because he never backs down, and always goes twice as hard on Lance than on anyone else.
But he’s still an insufferable, big-headed dick and he really rubs Lance the wrong way. (Not that Lance has been thinking about Keith’s dick rubbing up against him, oh-ho, no way, nuh-uh. Never in a million lifetimes would his type be Keith. It’s probably just the close proximity and his stupid bisexual brain playing with his emotions. Yeah, that’s all it is—)
Lance’s foot moves half an inch to the left, flicking just underneath the lip of a sulcrite plate, sending it flying off. Lance yelps, noticing immediately, spinning around as fast as he can to scramble in the air and catch the stupid thing before it can clatter to the ground, and inevitably shatter. He just manages to pinch it between his fingers a couple centimetres from the floor, slowly exhaling in relief. And, look at that! He hadn’t even spilled any of the secret washing substance over himself! Score one for Lancey-Lance.
Glancing around, he finds the missing spot for the plate in his hand. Just behind him, a little to the left. Softly, he moves over, crouching down to stick the plate in its rightful place, wiggling it slightly so it properly fits. A click as the plate goes in, Lance giving it a final, tiny twist to the right. Nothing more than a nudge, really.
In the end, that’s what does it for him. The miniscule movement of the sulcrite plate 27.67 degrees, causing a butterfly effect chain reaction. Lance lifts his hand away from the soft blue light, and teladuv fizzes, plates beginning to spark, electricity bouncing all around him, swamping his senses. Lance can feel it on his tongue, throughout his bloodstream, in his very soul.
It consumes him before he has the time to think, and Lance gives himself up to it, the invisible tug on his navel the only familiarity of it all, reminiscent of when they make wormhole jumps.
Lance highly doubts he’s Coran’s favourite right now.
The world is a cool, rushing dark. Humming, rising and filling his ears in a gentle, soothing rhythm. One he’s become accustomed too over the past few months or so of being in space. The Castle is alive and breathing.
Lance’s leg is not.
His right leg is full of pins and needles, aching and sore, like he’s slept on it funny. After Lance registers this, everything else comes flooding back into him. The cold floor underneath his back. The teladuv, crackling and coming to life, and bringing him here.
Lance cracks open his eyes, finding he’s—thankfully—still in the Castle, in a corridor. How the hell did he end up here? If he was wormholed, he should be at the same place within the Castle that he was when he left.
Maybe someone moved him? But why here?
Are they being attacked?
This now at the forefront of his mind, Lance bolts upright, head feeling a little staticky and unclear. He shakes it a couple times, trying to clear so his thoughts can come through unfiltered. He blinks, looking down at himself.
The body he is now attached to does not appear to be the one he remembers. His skin is a couple shades darker, like he’s actually had the time to soak up the sun, instead of being trapped in the endless depths of cold, dark space. His clothing is simple, a white singlet and sweatpants, but his body seems…bigger? His stomach is harder than it was before, more muscle on his lean frame. His shoulders seem broader too, hands still soft, but slightly scarred, little nicks and cuts over the visible patches of skin. His hair too, tickles the back of his neck, curling around. Is he—oh no freaking way does he have anything even reminiscent of a mullet.
It is then that Lance knows he’s having some sort of crazy, wormhole induced nightmare. He pushes himself to his feet, forcing through the howling pain in right leg as he stands upright, breathing deeply for a few seconds and waiting for it to balance out. He’s taller, although not by much, but it’s just enough to throw himself off slightly.
The second he regains his balance enough to stand upright, Pidge—or a person very similar to them—comes hurtling around the corner. Lance has to do a double take.
Pidge is, well, unmistakably Pidge. Just—older. Features a little sharper, like they’ve properly grown into themselves, taller (although, still a good head shorter than Lance, ha) with longer hair, still wild and unruly, bangs clipped back from their eyes with brightly coloured clips Lance swears he’s seen Allura wear before. They’re clutching a laptop, and a mug of what smells like coffee, speeding straight for Lance.
“Lance!” they say, backtracking their steps so they can look him in the eye. “I still need your help with Rover 4.0! Don’t think all this gets you out of that!” they adjust their glasses, pushing them further up their nose.
“Oh! And your finance is looking for you,” they add, as if only just remembering.
“Fiance?” but it’s too late, because Pidge is racing off again, leaving Lance more befuddled than he was before.
Where the hell is he?
Think about this logically, Lance.
1. He’s still in the Castle of Lions, and so far, the one person he’s seen is someone he recognises.
2. He’s in his own body. Just—a different version of.
3. All this meaning, he’s
In an alternate reality.
In the future. (Can the teladuv even do either of these things?)4. His leg is really fucking sore.
Oh, and, the most terrifying thing of them all;
5. He’s engaged.
Right, okay, cool. Nope, all of that information is immensely cool and requires no freaking out whatsoever. Lance tries to settle his racing heart by breathing deeply, inhaling with a deep breath and letting it out slowly, doing so until he he no longer feels like he’s been dunked under a bucket of ice.
Lance has done so many awesome-yet-slightly-scary things during his time as a Paladin. Mermaids, aliens, fighting in a giant space Lion, facing off against villain-aliens, gracing more planets than the people on Earth even know exist. This is no different. Just a hiccup. A tiny mistake that tumbled into whatever the hell this is. Lance can deal with this. He can.
Realistically, Lance reckons this is some version of his reality. (at the very least, he hopes so.) Based off of what Coran has told him (keeping in mind, Coran has told Lance a lot of things, from the exact date his favourite Altean sweets went out of stock in the Altean markets for a week, to how to correctly rewire the right generator engine.), the teladuv does not have the ability to move them into alternate realities. A shit ton more pure quintessence would be needed for that, quintessence the Castle doesn’t have.
Lance should probably start devising how to get back to his own time, if he’s honest (and if his theory is correct at all.) The good thing about all of this is his team is brilliantly smart, and if he’s missing, then he’s confident they’ll find a way to bring him back. He ponders over the idea of telling the others with him now that he’s in the future. In most of the old sci-tech films he’s seen, that never goes well. You’re not supposed to know your future, apparently. So, maybe he should try keep the spoilers to a minimum, and go hide out somewhere until the team can reverse the wormhole?
A new mission in mind, Lance sets off down the corridor, grimacing as his leg flares up in pain again. He must have done something to it coming through the wormhole. Clenching his fists, he makes his way down the hall. His room shouldn’t be too far from here, just off to the right, and straight down.
When he finally gets there, he sighs a deep breath of relief, pressing his hand to the sensor. The door swings open, and Lance goes to tumble into the familiar space—
Only to find it empty. Stripped of his belongings, his bed baring nothing but a mattress, everything spotless and sparkly clean. The door to the bathroom is half-open, and that room too, is empty, his facial products, towels, everything, just, gone. His brow furrows. Has he switched rooms? Where’s all his stuff—
His finance.
The thought comes hurtling back to him, Lance both remembering that he’s supposed to be looking for them, and that, shit, he probably shares a room with them. Hence nothing being in his old one.
The of course, leaves the question of where the fuck he sleeps now. Lance carefully picks this out of his mind, setting off down the hall once more, blatantly in the opposite direction to the teladuv. (Because he’s nosy, okay? Sure, he’ll try not to spoil anything for himself, but at the very minimum he wants to see the other Paladins. And maybe catch a glimpse of his undoubtedly super-hot fiance.)
He turns the corner, favouring his left leg to get his weight around, and smacks into a solid wall. The wall grabs him, holding onto his arms and keeping him upright.
Okay, cancel and delete, the person grabbing him is not a wall.
It’s Keith.
Keith, now almost the same height as he is, face set into a frown. Cool, grizzled, immeasurably hot Keith. Panting slightly, red-faced, sweat gliding down his forehead, a whole heap of hothothot. Lance doesn’t even stop himself from having these thoughts, eyes moving over Keith’s body, his freaking huge biceps, scar creeping up across his face, dark, thick hair falling past his shoulders.
Fuck’s sake Lance, you’re supposed to be engaged, snap out of it!
“Where’ve you been?” Keith questions, still holding Lance’s forearms, deep indigo eyes searching his own. The intensity radiating off of him. Keeping Lance frozen in place, floundering for words that won’t come, perpetually lost in gawking at Keith.
Keith’s eyebrows crease together further. “Lance? I’ve been waiting on the training deck for the past hour and a half, where were you?”
OKay, shit, yes, brain please rewire so he can answer without totally fucking this up.
“Oh, training,” Lance repeats dumbly. Keith had wanted them to train together? (Not like, totally unusual, but they normally only train when Lance walks in on Keith beating the shit out of the gladiators, or when the rest of the team is there. Something dangerously warm and goopy in his heat squeals. Lance calls the firebrigade to put it out.) “I’m—I was—uh, heading there now, I just—”
“Your leg,” Keith fills in for him, jumping to a conclusion.
So his leg pain wasn’t a result of the wormhole jump. It was pre-existing, because his future self has actually fucked it up.
Lance just half-shrugs, unsure whether it’s right to confirm or deny. Keith’s face—Keith’s face softens—frustration melting away to something raw. Concern, perhaps. If Keith would ever be concerned about him.
“Lance,” he sighs, and Lance gets the uncanny feeling that they’ve had this conversation before. God, if only Lance could remember how it went. “You should have said something. Did you take your medication? And don’t give me some bullshit about it ‘not being that bad.’ I was there when it was nearly shot off, Lance, I know you can hardly walk on it unmedicated.” His tone picks up at the end, growing into something sharper, but still built on the foundations of his concern.
Lance, because he is experiencing a whole waterfall of things right now, and because he has no brain to mouth filter, blurts;
“Geez, no need to get so worked up about it, mullet.”
In his defense, this is Keith. No matter how uh, different (re: hot) he may look now, jabbing back at him is the one thing Lance feels like his brain can do right now. Bickering with Keith is a constant. It has to be.
Keith makes a displeasing noise, pulling his hands away from Lance, then he’s by Lance’s side in an instant, arm wrapping around him, tugging him along down the hall. Lance splutters, a knee-jerk reaction as he tries to pull back but Keith doesn’t budge, ushering him into the elevator. The strangest thing of it all, is the fact that he keeps his arm around Lance, even when they’re standing still as the elevator clatters upwards, still as slow as ever.
“When did it start hurting?” Keith asks, turning to look at Lance with that intense stare again. Lance can’t bring himself to look back.
“Uhm. An hour ago?” Lance tries, praying it’s the right response.
Keith sighs, and the elevator doors open, the both of them walking out. “So fucking text me. Or like, actually set reminders for yourself. You make lists for everything else, why can’t you make one for taking care of yourself?”
Keith is grumbling, but his tone isn’t sharp. Or directed at Lance to hurt him. It’s weird. Unsettling that Keith is acting like this around him. Strange that his thumb is rubbing over Lance’s hip from where his arm is around him.
And how does he know about the lists? The only people Lance can ever recall knowing about them is his mama, and Hunk, who had to put up with a lot of his shit back at the Garrison. It’s fine, he reassures himself. This is like, what, a decade in the future? If they’re still on the Castle together, there can’t be many things left that they don’t know about each other. Even if that means Lance eventually will share himself with Keith.
Keith leads them both down a short corridor to a room, the doors automatically opening. The room is big, and Lance assumes it must be his, the one he actually sleeps in, shares with his fiance. He glances around hopefully, but, alas, no fiance in sight. Huh. Hadn’t Keith dropped him off here so his partner could deal with him? Lance pulls away from Keith, who lets him, and limps over to the bed, sitting down with a sigh, scrunching up his face as his muscles spasm underneath his skin. He peeks around the rest of the place for a distraction.
His bed is half built into the wall, behind the headboard. It faces out onto the dark grey floor, cool blue Altean striplights going around the walls. There’s a door to his left and another to his right. One, he presumes, is the bathroom, and the other…a closet? On the opposite side of the room, a big, circular window gives him a view right into space, the pretty twinkle of stars in the ever-dark sky. Either side of that are two desks, crammed with shit. Lance can’t help but smile at it. It’s homey, clearly well-lived in.
The sound of footsteps approaching, and Lance turns to see Keith walking out of the bathroom, holding some jar of ointment in his hand. Actually, Lance is glad he wasn’t made to find the medication for his leg.
“Roll your pants up,” Keith instructs, already unscrewing the lid and dipping his fingers in the cream like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Lance frowns in confusion at him, because surely Keith isn’t going to, apply the cream for him. Hesitantly, he rolls his right pant leg up, eyes widening when he’s met with angry, red flesh. It’s inflamed, starting from his upper thigh all the way down past his knee. Lines of varying thickness, like spiderwebs running through his flesh.
Lance is so distracted by the sight of it, he doesn’t register Keith dabbing the cream on it until he feels the cold contact of cream to his hot, seething leg. He flinches, jerking back a little, hands going to steady himself on the bed.
Fuck’s sake. Keith isn’t trying to kill me.
Keith doesn’t appear fazed by this. Gently (almost too gentle—why the hell is he treating Lance with such care and attention?!) he wraps his pale fingers around Lance’s ankle, drawing it back to the position it was in before. Then, he huffs, a smirk playing across his lips as he glances up at Lance.
“C’mon. It’s been like, what, two weeks? And you still flinch every time.”
This comment is similar to something Keith would actually say to him in his own time, but instead of holding a judgemental note, this Keith just sounds—amused? Whatever it is that he sounds like, it creeps Lance out, sends something fluttering about his ribcage that he diverts his attention from because, nope, not thinking about that—
“I can do that myself, you know,” Lance snaps quickly, reaching for the cream in Keith’s hand, batting his fingers away. Keith lets go of the jar easily, but his face flashes with hurt for a solid moment. Like Lance refusing his help is offensive? (Which makes no freaking sense, because Keith is the one in Lance’s room (that he shares with his fiance!), touching all his belongings, and deciding that he’s the sole person on this ship that could possibly apply the cream to Lance’s leg, including, say, Lance himself!)
The room pauses, silent for a stretched-out moment, before Keith breaks first, snapping his mouth open and closed, like a fish out of water. His normally impassive face flickers through so many emotions in one moment Lance gets whiplash trying to think about what they all were.
Keith clears his throat. “Fine,” he says, like he’s being strangled. “Do what you like. Just like you have been the past week,” he mutters, and Lance forces his face to remain neutral. What is Keith talking about?
“Uh—yeah. I will,” Lance says dumbly. Fuck, he really needs to scope everything out. Get a feel for how the others actually interact with his future self, so he can figure out how to properly act. He had thought Keith would be the easiest one to deal with, but apparently not. God, maybe everyone is weird in the future?
“I’m heading down to dinner,” Keith changes the topic, already walking out of the room in fast strides.
Lance doesn’t answer before Keith walks through the door.
Still befuddled, Lance departs the room quickly after the cream dries, relieved to see that the angry marks on his leg have faded into pale, white spindly lines, and it no longer hurts to walk on. Keith had said he was going down to dinner, and although unsure about the future, Lance is fairly positive the team will be eating together. It’s what they usually do on the Castle now—or, well, in the past—and it’s become such a routine for them Lance doubts it’s changed. (At least, he hopes it hasn’t. He really doesn’t want to be stuck in a kitchen with Weird Keith.)
Plus, he might actually find out who this fiance of his is. He literally knows nothing! It can’t be someone from the team, Lance is sure of it, because Hunk has no interest in dating (and like, that’s his best bro), Pidge is his pseudo-sister, Allura has made it very clear she doesn’t like him, Shiro is old, and Coran is even older. Oh, and Keith. But he’s acting too weird to be engaged to Lance. Plus, Lance had seen his hands. No ring.
Unlike his new bedroom, the kitchens have not changed locations, so Lance gets there easily enough, tension he didn’t even know was coiled in him releasing when he sees every member of the team alive and well, chatting with one another.
He slips into a spare seat beside Hunk, assuming this is his safest bet, only to receive a confused glance from his best friend.
“Uh, everything okay?” Hunk asks, reaching over for a plate of food. Real, chewable food. Lance’s brain instantly forgets the question, too busy salivating over whatever the cheese is on the table in front of him.
“Lance?” Hunk prompts again, and Lance looks up at him. He’s muscled up a lot more, probably able to crush Lance without even thinking, his hair still tied up by that same orange headband, just a little shorter, bangs trimmed properly out of his face. Best of all—he has a fucking gotee, which Lance would laugh at if it didn’t suit Hunk.
His brain clicks back into focus. “Oh, uh, yeah. Everything’s fine. Why would it not be?”
Lance is quite proud of himself for that actually. Great little way to scoop out more information.
Hunk’s face pulls together. “You haven’t sat beside me in like, a good seven months, dude.”
What? Has Lance read this wrong?
Holy shit, are he and Hunk not friends anymore?
Something resembling cold food goo slides to the bottom of his stomach.
“What’s so wrong with wanting to sit next to my best friend for a change?” he says, grinning, batting his eyelashes at Hunk in a way that always gets his friend shaking his head. He prays he’s playing this off right.
Thankfully, Hunk rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Whatever. Stop trying to suck up to me before your big day. I already told you no to the fireworks of your face. You know I can’t bear to look at you for more than a solid three seconds.”
Big day? As in…his wedding, right? Quiznak, the way Hunk is talking, his wedding is like, soon. He sighs, releasing the panic from his chest. Good to know he and Hunk are the same as they always have been.
“Awh, c’mon, don’t be such a party pooper! It’s my big day!”
Hunk just laughs, and the rest of the table joins in, bar Keith, who is stabbing at the food on his plate with a lot more vigour than strictly necessary.
Lance too, decides to take this as his incentive to begin eating. He grabs almost everything on the table, piling it onto his plate, relishing the joy of finally being able to chew again. While he eats, Lance takes stock of everyone properly. Shiro, his hair a startling white now, with a new arm, all sleek Altean white and teal, expression more relaxed than Lance has seen him, like, ever. Coran, who looks no different, hardly a day older than when Lance had seen him last, only now his advisors outfit is green, for a reason Lance doubts even Coran knows. Pidge is across from him, and Allura nest to them, and just like Coran, she appears the same—but her hair. It’s got many tiny, intricate braids woven into it, and it’s cut just above her chest, framing her face beautifully. Lance wonders why she cut it, and half has the mind to ask, only—
His fiance. They’re not at the table. Frowning, Lance glances over everyone’s hands, double-checking. And nope, no ring.
So where is his partner?
Unsure if asking directly would be the wrong move, Lance tunes into the conversation, hoping, miraculously, someone will mention where his supposed lover is.
“—I still don’t get why we even have to patrol, anyway,” Pidge is complaining, leaning back in their seat, fiddling with some sort of device in their hands. “I mean like, sure, the wedding is going to be full of people the citizens of Fabrurge don’t know, but all they need is safety checks!”
Mentally, Lance tries to note this all down at they speak, typing all the tidbits of information together in his brain, jamming jigsaw pieces together, trying to make sense of the picture they begin to form.
“It’s not about the people we’re bringing onto the planet,” Allura responds, accent the same as ever. “I know it may seem like an overmeasure, but lingering Galra factions were sighted only a couple movements ago. Granted, it was a couple ships, and I do think the planets leaders just want an opportunity to brag about having the Lions of Voltron in their skies…”
Lance nearly laughs at the Princess’s brashness, surprised Allura is so open to expressing her distaste now.
“Oh, for sure,” Hunk agrees, leaning over in his seat to face Allura better. “I had three of the Fabrugian podships circling Yellow earlier this morning.”
“Is that what they were? I assumed they were some sort of space junk! Judging by Fabrurge’s planet’s surface, you’d think they’d have the GAC to bust on fancy ships.”
“They don’t need to go off planet, Pidge. They have all the resources they need on the surface itself. Hence why they hardly let outsiders on their planet in the first place—you’ve wither got to pay an extortionate amount of money, or have special permission from the leaders themselves, because Voltron has requested to host a wedding there,” Hunk shoots a pointed glare at Lance, who just shrugs, forcing a ‘what-can-I-say? smirk onto his lips.
By the end of dinner, his list looks something like this:
1. His wedding (he presumes he and his fiance are the only people having a wedding anytime soon) is going to be held on a planet called Fabrurge.
2. They are currently monitoring this planet with designated ‘patrols’, as lingering Galra factions have been sighted only a few movements ago.
3. In return for this patrolling, Fabrurge has granted them permission to host his wedding on their planet.
4. His fiance isn’t at the table, because they are currently on said patrol. (okay, this wasn’t explicitly said, but Lance trusts his inferential skills.) Lance also realises when this is mentioned that his fiance was probably looking for him earlier to say goodbye before they went on patrol. Whoops.
5. His wedding is in less than a week. (It takes Lance a while to compute this one.)
6. Keith is the only one acting weird. All the others are acting as Lance reckons they would, however many years he is into the future.
All in all, Lance views dinner as progressive. He’s getting somewhere, at least. A step closer to discovering what the future has in stall for him. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands up, grabbing his used dishes, heading over to put them into the Altean equivalent of a dishwasher.
Keith lightly grabs his arm as Lance is heading out of the kitchen, stopping him in his tracks. At some point during the meal, Keith had tied his hair back, and yeah, okay, the way his hair falls in front of his face is, maybe, just the tiniest bit endearing. Makes him look less intimidating.
“I’m taking over Shiro’s patrol tonight,” he tells Lance. “I’ll see you later tomorrow, though,” he adds, eyes all big and soft as he says it, as if making up for the fact that he;s not gonna be there. All Lance can focus on though, is the fact that Keith leaving means his fiance his coming back.
“Uhm, alright,” Lance says, trying not to sound rude, even though he’s majorly confused as to why Keith feels the need to stop and tell him this.
“Hey, uh, about earlier—” Keith begins to broach, moving closer into Lance. Too close.
Lance steps forward, taking his arm out of Keith’s light grip. “It’s fine,” he dismisses, unsure if Keith is talking about the weird leg-cream incident or something else he has no knowledge of. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he throws a slight smile Keith’s way, trying to make up for his hurried words. He really doesn’t wanna interact with Weird Keith more than he has too.
“...Yeah. See you,” Keith echoes.
Lance heads back to his room, proud of himself for remembering the route. He isn’t sure of the time, and so he decides it’s probably best just to head straight to bed. This feels like the longest day he’s had in a while. When his fiance comes back to inevitably find him asleep, Lance hopes they won;t question it, and he can tell them in the morning that he was super exhausted. He’s sure they’ll understand. He’s marrying them, of course they will.
Spotting a set of pyjamas on the bedsheets, Lance holds them against his frame. They seem to fit and he pulls them on, chucking his clothes down the laundry chute, where they will reappear the next morning, fresh and washed.
He walks into the bathroom with the intention to piss, stopping when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. Somehow, through all of this, it had never occurred to him that he too would look different. Sure, he had noticed it earlier, but he hadn’t put any thought into it other than that.
Looking at himself now, Lance can really catalog the changes.
His hair is longer, and curlier, sitting around the nape of his neck. He’s a couple shades darker than he remembers being, and freckles cover his skin, spreading across his face, down his arms. Lance lifts up his shirt to see they trail down his chest, too.
His shoulders are broader, artfully trained and maintained, his body a lot more filled out. But he’s still got this leanness about him, hints of his gangly limbs still with him. His body, of course, has new scars, slight nicks and cuts to deeper ones. Lance purposely looks away from those, swallowing hard. He leans in closer to the mirror, and yep, his skin is still flawless, thanks to what must be hundreds of products that litter the countertop. He prods at the stubble on his chin, because it looks intentional, like he’s trying to be all nonchalant. Lance isn’t sure if he likes it.
Eventually, he pees, slops some products on his face that he vaguely recognises from his own time, and huddles into his bed, wondering what the heck is taking his fiance so long. It’s the last thing he thinks before he slips off into sleep.
When Lance wakes, the striplights around the room are at full brightness, and with a glance at the clock on his bedside table, yep, he’s slept in. It’s the first time he has in he doesn’t even know how long, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe, settling back into his pillows, hoping he can catch a few more minutes.
Wait. He doesn’t own an alarm clock.
The memories hit him full-force, and suddenly Lance is very awake, eyes wide open, scanning over the bed, meeting the eyes of his—slightly rumpled duvet. No fiance in sight. Well. Lance takes a breath. He’s not going to assume the worst. After all, he’s not in the correct time. And, once again, he trusts himself enough to know that who he’s engaged to is a lovely person, and therefore has a very valid reason to not be here with him right now. Plus it is pretty late in the morning and—
And he’s making excuses again. Justifying why things are the way they are. He does that a lot, he realises.
If he wants to ever actually see his fiance (which, yeah, fuck the time travel stuff, Lance would love to know who they are) he needs to get off his ass and go look for them.
After he tests out the facial products all perfectly lined up in the bathroom. Ooh, and maybe takes a nice, hot shower in the fancy upgrade he now has after his future self moved rooms. (He has priorities, okay?)
Strutting out of the shower twenty minutes later (he did try to quicken it up for his partner), face freshly pampered and moisturised, towel wrapped around his waist, Lance is feeling pretty good. His mood, unluckily, only lasts for approximately 3.0564 seconds, because Keith is standing in the centre of his room, dressed in a glammed up version of the current diplomatic suits they have (or well, the ones Lance has in the past, he guesses), hair an unruly mess, and face furious.
His eyes dart up to Lance, slicing through him. Lance doesn’t push his luck, stays very still, and prays that he has suddenly gained the ability to teleport.
(He hasn’t.)
“Have a nice shower?” Keith grinds out, like he hopes Lance bathed in flesh-eating maggots.
Lance smirks, falling into the cocky facade he always does as default when dealing with a riled up Keith. “Yeah. The Altean showers really are something else.”
Keith, a volatile being, unstable and constantly reigning himself in, explodes.
“Don’t give me that cocky bullshit!” he screams, and his voice is raw. Unlike his soft words the day before, this is a direct attack, stabbing Lance over and over again. “I’ve just had to deal with Fabrurge’s leaders for four fucking hours, because you couldn’t be assed to get out of bed, and secure the finalities of the guests arriving, for your own fucking wedding!”
Lance’s eyes widen, and his mouth goes dry. Guilt washes over him, and he feels terrible. Yeah, he didn’t know, but Keith seems really fucking upset. Which, figures actually, seeing as he had patrol all of last night, and then was dealing with Lance’s shit all morning.
“Keith,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. He moves a step closer to the other man. “I am so sorry. I don’t have an excuse. You’re right, I forgot,” he apologises the best he can, because A. Keith is terrifying like this, and the last thing Lance wants to do is provoke him, and B. this technically isn’t his fault (and so the normal blow his pride would have taken is nonexistent.)
Keith blinks at him. “You forgot,” he echoes. “About the meeting you helped arrange. That you said you would go too.”
Lance worries his lip between his teeth. “Yes. I’m super sorry Keith—”
And just like that, Keith’s anger is gone. He sags forward, shuffling over to the bed and sitting on it heavily. Keeps his eyes trained on his lap. Lance understands his frustration, but—this big a reaction? He gets an inkling something else is going on, and he carefully trains an eye on Keith as he snatches his boxers from last night (now freshly washed and atop of the dresser, and puts them on, picking up a pair of loose shorts from the floor, nor really wanting to be sitting on the bed naked beside Keith. He shucks off his towel as he finishes pulling up his shorts, sitting beside Keith on the bed, a good metre or so away. Well out of Keith’s zone if he were to swing at Lance.
“This is the third time,” Keith says quietly, defeated. “The third time you’ve forgotten a meeting about the wedding. The first two you showed up late, and now you don’t come at all. What the fuck is up with that Lance?” he doesn't let Lance answer, ponder upon his words. “And it’s not just forgetting the meetings. You—you won’t, freaking, sit beside me at dinner. Or actually have a conversation with me about the wedding. You just—skirt around it. Like you don’t—like you don’t care.”
His voice wavers on the last bit, and Lance is left unable to follow what the quiznak Keith is talking about. The third time he’s forgotten a meeting? So this is an ongoing problem. And why is Keith so upset about those other things? Mad that Lance won’t talk to him.
“Keith—” Lance tries to interrupt, but Keith tightens his hands together in his lap, continuing.
“No. Let me talk. I’ve been angry over this for the past week, Lance. And I don’t, I’m not angry anymore. I know I’m not the best at this talking shit, but I’m doing it right now, and hey, it’s a hell of a lot better than whatever shit you’re trying to pull. Leaving me alone to plan and organise the entire fucking wedding while you do shit all, avoiding it like it’s the plauge, refusing to talk to me.”
“Why would you be planning the wedding?” is out of Lance’s mouth before he can process, the only bit of information that properly stuck in his mind from Keith’s little spiel.
Keith’s disappointment, hurt expression doubles down as he looks up at Lance, eyes filling with anger, flashing behind the pupils.
“What are you talking about? Don’t you dare try to tell me now that I shouldn’t be planning this! We’re in this together Lance, and you’re putting it all on me!”
This only serves to leave Lance more confused. Why would he be putting this all on Keith, if Keith isn’t the one getting married—
Keith moves to stand up again, hostile, leaning slightly forward as he does so. A thin, black cord slips out from under his jacket, a tiny, twinkling golden ring looped around the end. Like a sign. Of how fucking idiotic Lance is. All the pieces of the jigsaw are shoved together at once, the picture clicking into place.
“Why—are you engaged to me?”
How could Lance be so obtuse? Everything was right in front of him. His lack of supposed fiance, Keith treating him with kindness, knowing the password to the room (that they obviously share together), telling Lance that he would be gone for the night, knowing how to help him with his leg.
Keith doesn't pick up on the hesitation in Lance’s voice, and interprets the question all as one, and he looks hurt.
“Because you asked me to marry you, Lance!” and his voice is thick, like he wants to desperately break down into tears. “And I thought that you were really all in! But now you’re—just what?—doubting me? Doubting us? I–please just talk to me Lance. If you don’t want to get married, tell me, and we’ll call the wedding off.”
It’s the honesty in Keith’s tone that catches Lance. The fact he speaks the words so seriously, like the great amount of pain this is causing him is indifferent at Lance’s feelings. He really sounds willing to end it all if Lance wants to.
Lance swallows hard, standing up now too, wiping his sweaty palms on his shorts. His hair is still damp, sticking to his neck, a mockery of part of the reason that caused all this. Lance scrambles, brain going a million miles per hour. The logical thing would be to confess to Keith that he’s from the past. But Lance has only been here for a little less than a day. So the future Lance must have some things going on too. Lance just needs time.
“Keith—I–I’m sorry. I just—I need some time.”
It’s pathetic and he knows it, and given by the crumbling expression on his fiance’s (wow, it’s so weird to call Keith that) face, Keith knows it too.
“...Yeah,” Keith mutters, raking a hand through his hair.
The silence between them is awkward now, tense. Suffocating, and Lance can’t breathe. He grabs a shirt from the dresser that he’s fairly sure is actually Keith’s, shoving it on as he walks out of the room. His and Keith’s room.
Their lives, now built together. On so much love that they’re getting married.
And Lance’s future self has done what he always does best—gone and fucked it up.