Chapter Text
Lance is already waiting at the edge of the farm long before the black lion comes into view. It’s a bit of a ritual for him now—taking the extra half a varga (hour, it’s hour here) to work the field in a desperate attempt to bleed his anxious energy into the dirt beneath his palms. Somehow, it never works; his heart still does an uncomfortable somersault as the wind wooshes overhead, signaling the lion’s arrival.
He barely manages to catch his flimsy straw hat before it flies off his head, and he clutches it to his chest as he watches Keith make his final descent. Even after all these years, even after flying one himself, the maneuverability of the lions still amazes him. There’s a gracefulness to them that feels just shy of eerie—in the way the metal bends just a bit more than it should be able to as she circles around, in the way she lands with barely a quiver rippling out from beneath her massive paws.
Though the expertise of the landing may be more due to her pilot than anything else.
Lance’s stomach swoops in time with Black’s head, dipping down toward the grassy field. Quickly, he crams his hat back on his head and smoothes his hands down his shirt–
Fuck, he forgot to change. He’s still wearing his faded blue flannel, the cuffs caked in dust and mud spattered across the front of it like abstract art, and—god, Keith is never going to let him live this down, is he?
Feeling horribly foolish, he takes a stumbling step forward, nearly trips over the champagne glasses at his feet, folds forward and catches himself on his hands, turns to snatch up the glass and fix the display while simultaneously hopping over the rest of his picnic before his stupid, gangly legs can ruin it–
“Need some help there, Cowboy?”
Lance whips around, heart rocketing into his throat, champagne glass still clutched in his shaking hand. The sight of Keith standing at the base of Black’s mouth makes him feel a bit weak in the knees, which he admits is absolutely ridiculous at this point. Keith looks the same as he does every time he stops by: clad in the newer red jacket Lance bought him for his birthday over a year ago, greasy mullet pulled back in a low pony, fingerless gloves still wrapped stubbornly around his wrists.
So, fucking hot, basically.
Then there’s the cheeky smirk pulling at his lips and the mischievous gleam in his eyes that seems to only ever be reserved for Lance.
It takes him more than a few seconds to kick his brain back into gear enough to process what Keith’s just said. “I’ve told you before, I don’t keep any horses on my farm.”
Keith hums thoughtfully as he crosses the field between them, his eyes roving over the abysmal state of Lance’s everything before he comes to a stop in front of him—much closer than he really needs to be, Lance notices.
Almost agonizingly slowly, he reaches up and drags the hat off Lance’s head. “And I’ve told you before, that’s a damn shame.” His voice is pitched lower than Lance had expected, and it sends a shiver up his spine.
Keith holds his gaze for one heartbeat, two, three; then: “You’d look good in a saddle.”
That’s it—Lance is dead. He’s officially dead, god rest his soul. He’s died and gone to freaking Hell (and after all the good he’s done for the universe) because this is absolute torture. It takes everything in his willpower not to squawk like one of his geese at the intensity burning in Keith’s gaze and the breath that’s ghosting lightly across his lips like a fucking tease–
Keith pulls back, and Lance takes it as permission to step away. Turning his back on Keith, he tries to take steadying breaths as he fumbles with the lock on the gate (why is he still holding this stupid champagne glass?) and coaxes the waiting animals out to pasture.
How is it that he managed to survive years of this banter—in very close proximity, no less—without breaking, yet now, he can’t keep himself together for shit?
As soon as they’re free, most of the animals—the cats, goats, geese, and Kaultenacker, especially—race for the black lion, as excited as they always are to see her. And Lance isn’t connected to Black, but he likes to imagine she takes their clambering over her enormous paws with good-natured, if a bit exasperated, fondness.
Keith sidles up next to him, leans his hip against the fence, and watches the animals with a bemused frown.
“Don’t they ever get tired of this?” he wonders aloud. “I mean, it’s the same lion they’ve seen a million times before.”
Lance, meanwhile, has long since stopped watching the animals. “Pretty sure it’s impossible to get tired of this.”
Almost shyly, Keith’s eyes flick to Lance’s, and he’s probably imagining the blush crawling up the side of his neck and tinging his ears a frankly breathtaking shade of pink, but—well, a boy can dream. Keith holds his gaze for a second, then looks down at the intricate set-up arranged neatly in the grass to their left.
“So, a picnic,” he says, shifting on his feet. “Is that something we do now? Are we… picnic people?”
He sounds so uncertain when he says it, so awkward, and Lance’s brain immediately spirals out. God, this was a colossally bad idea, wasn’t it? Keith’s idea of a fun time is usually something adrenaline-inducing, like sparring or cliff-diving; he’s never enjoyed anything soft and mushy in his life.
And why he ever thought he would want to have a picnic with Lance of all people…
“Well, I was trying to think of something to do outside,” Lance explains, immediately looking for a way to back-pedal. “Y’know, since it’s been sub-zero the last two times you visited, and it’s just so nice today. But, I mean, if you wanna do something else–”
“No!”
Lance startles at the intensity in Keith’s tone. When he glances over, searching Keith’s expression for a hint, he thinks the red he catches in his cheeks might not be his imagination this time.
“No, this is fine,” Keith continues, tugging at his ponytail in what strikes Lance as a nervous tick. “I just– I guess I’ve never really done the whole picnic thing before.”
Lance’s brows furrow. “Yes you have.”
Keith rolls his eyes at that. “Rimordia doesn’t count.”
“What else do you call eating outside on a blanket on the ground?”
“First, that wasn’t a blanket, and second, we were chased off by a mound of sentient sap before we even got to try the dessert.”
The laugh that bubbles up in Lance’s chest makes him feel a bit like he’s floating as he leads Keith over to the blanket. It’s how his visits always make him feel—like he’s lighter than air, as if the years of trauma weighing him down don’t exist, at least for a day.
Bending toward the set-up, he places his glass back in its rightful place and skims his hand over the blanket to smooth it out before they sit. It’s a simple arrangement—a scratchy red and white checkered blanket, a wicker basket full of sandwiches and fruit, and a bottle of champagne with a little white daisy coiled around the neck of it. He hadn’t wanted anything too flashy, and he still worries the flower might be a little too much. But as Keith sinks down opposite him, his eyes find the daisy, and the small smile that tugs at his lips has Lance’s heart cartwheeling in his chest.
They fall into a pretty easy conversation, Lance updating Keith on all the drama that’s been going on between the animals (the ducks have been starting a lot of shit with the cows recently), and Keith filling him in on all the relief missions Voltron’s done in the last two phoebs. They talk for hours, until the sun is hanging well and low in the sky, until the sandwiches are long gone and the champagne’s working its buzzing magic in his stomach. When the conversation finally stalls, he sinks back on his elbows, closes his eyes, and turns his face toward the sun.
Not that he doesn’t get enough of it, working in the fields day in and day out. But he feels less like he’s soaking up the sun in this instance and more like he’s soaking in Keith’s presence. He’ll be leaving soon—he always does—and Lance always feels the need to cherish every second he gets with him like a dragon hoarding its most prized collection.
Of course, he has no one to blame but himself for how little they get to see each other these days.
As if he can sense Lance’s train of thought, Keith breaks the silence. “So… have you thought any more about my offer?”
Though he knew it was coming, the question still settles like lead in his chest, punching the air from his lungs in an explosive burst. He can feel Keith’s eyes boring a hole right through him, so he keeps his own determinedly shut; he’s sure the sight of his disappointment would sting worse than the glare of the sun in his eyes.
“Is that a no?” Keith asks after a moment. His voice is quiet, controlled, but Lance can still hear the hurt buried beneath it.
“It’s a not now,” he replies stiffly.
Of course, that’s the same reply he always gives, and judging by Keith’s pained sigh, it’s becoming less and less convincing by the day.
“I’m sure Red would be glad to see you again,” Keith tries.
Lance snorts. “Yeah, because she’s always been a real sentimental lion.”
In all honesty, Red’s probably perfectly happy flying with Adam—he’s definitely got a much blunter, no-nonsense attitude that meshes exceptionally well with his old lion’s testy temperament. She hasn’t needed him for a long time, and neither has Voltron.
Besides, it’s not like Lance misses flying anyway, not by a long-shot. He’s completely content on his farm. He spent years up in space with the most debilitating homesickness he’s ever felt in his life; why would he leave when he’s finally home? It’s not like he spends every night staring up at the stars—so clear all the way out here in the countryside—yearning to be among them once more. It’s not like his dreams are constantly filled with the exhilarating rush of adrenaline and the drag of inertia on his bones as his body cuts through the scattered stardust like he’s nothing more than a shooting star himself, flames licking at the base of his skull where Red’s connection burns bright as a comet.
It’s not like that day plays in his mind over and over again like a broken fucking record: the nauseating swoop of his stomach as the cockpit had dropped and the screaming crackle of comm static in his ears and the sudden piercing pain in his side and the rapidly fading image outside the viewport of a golden-yellow laser beam gunning right for Black’s head–
“Lance!”
Something grabs him by the wrist, and Lance flails wildly, his breaths coming in heaving gasps as he rolls to his knees and tries to pry off whatever’s got a hold of him–
“It’s me, Lance, it’s Keith, it’s– fuck, Lance, just breathe, just–”
Keith. That’s right, he’s with Keith. He’s not falling; he’s on Earth, at a picnic, with Keith.
Blinking back tears, he struggles to get his breathing under control. Even as the doboshes stretch, Keith’s grip on his wrist never lets up, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along his pressure point, and the action is achingly familiar, grounding in a way almost nothing else has ever been for him.
Finally, he feels in control enough to choke out a miserable, “Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” When Lance looks over, it’s to find Keith hunched in on himself, looking more like the angsty emo teen he used to be than ever. “I shouldn’t have pushed. I’m– We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”
“I want to get back out there,” Lance whispers. The confession feels freeing, but damning at the same time. “I do, I just–”
“I know.”
The two of them lapse back into silence, except this time, it’s tense, full of too many ghosts and nightmares neither of them have been able to escape. Despite himself, Lance glances over at Keith’s right leg; he hadn’t noticed the limp earlier, but he notices the stiffness in the way he sits now, with his leg extended awkwardly and his body slumped so that the majority of his weight is in his left hip.
It’s a reminder he can never escape from, and maybe that’s what scares him most about going back out into space with Keith.
The sun’s almost completely vanished beneath the horizon now. Lance stares, miserably and unseeingly, at the creeping blanket of stars rising up from behind to swallow them down; it’s almost time for Keith to be heading back out, and Lance has ruined what little time he has left with him.
Isn’t that always how it goes?
Desperately, he scans the field for something that might salvage this date (it’s not a date, stop calling it that), or at least something to break the tension–
His eyes find Black, and he grasps gratefully for the blunder.
“Keith!” he shrieks.
Beside him, Keith starts. “What, what?”
“How many times have I told you to shut Black’s hatch when you land?” He points aggressively at Black’s gaping maw, the wide-open door to the inner compartments clear as day even in the evening haze. “Leave it open too long and next thing you know—boom, Kaultenacker’s back in space.”
Keith’s eyes flick pointedly to Kaultenacker, grazing the field a few feet from Black. “Oh yeah, I’m real worried about the cows getting in,” he drawls.
“You won’t be saying that when it’s one of the cats. I’ll have you know, Esteban has a real knack for crawling into the strangest places; you wouldn’t believe the shit I had to go through to get him out from underneath the porch last week.”
“Lance.” Keith rolls his eyes exasperatedly, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, and Lance takes its presence as a challenge—he’ll get a full smile out of him one way or another before this date is over.
“Look at Alejandro,” he continues, gesturing toward Black’s unhinged jaw. “He’s practically in the pilot’s chair.”
The goose in question is currently curled up at the very base of the black lion’s mouth, comfortably squished between two of her teeth and in absolutely no danger of getting lost in the lion’s compartments whatsoever.
Lance shakes his head dramatically. “Better watch your back, Mullet, or you might be out of a job.”
To his utter delight, Keith throws his head back and laughs, loud and bright. “I’d pay money to see the look on Shiro’s face if a goose came back in my place.”
Lance chuckles at that, his brain already supplying him with an image of Shiro’s signature look of exasperation. He tries to ignore the pang that arises when he realizes he can’t remember it as well as he used to.
It’s been a while since he’s seen most of his friends in person; Keith’s the only one of them who ever seems to have time to drop by anymore.
“But seriously.” Sobering, Keith closes the distance and drops his head onto Lance’s shoulder. Every one of Lance’s nerves erupt like fireworks at the contact. “I promise no geese will get lost in space on my watch.”
Lance hums contentedly. “They better not, or else I’ll have to come out there myself and get them.”