Chapter Text
Lance wakes with a sharp inhale, the cold biting straight through his jacket. Hard, unforgiving metal beneath his shoulder blades. For a moment he doesn’t remember where he is. His brain scrambles for something familiar - his bed, the creak of the house back home, the distant crash of waves outside his window.
Instead, he finds the observation deck.
The massive windows stretch out in front of him, spilling the universe across the room in silent, endless black. The stars stare back - unfamiliar, scattered wrong, like someone reshuffled the sky while he wasn’t looking.
Right. Space. That’s still happening.
He pushes himself up on stiff elbows and something slips from his shoulders. A blanket. Definitely not something he had before he fell asleep. He blinks down at it.
Red must have–
Lance glances around instinctively. The spot beside him is empty. No Red. Just the low blue glow of the castle lights and the silent drift of stars beyond the glass. The lighting hasn’t changed since the movie with Hunk - still dim, still soft - so Lance assumes it must still be nighttime here. Whatever nighttime means in space.
He drags himself upright with a quiet groan. His entire body protests the movement. His neck aches, his back feels like it’s been folded wrong, and he’s pretty sure sleeping on the floor of a spaceship is not medically recommended. This is the second time in less than twenty-four hours he’s woken up on cold metal. He would very much like that streak to end. A bed would be ideal. The couch from earlier would be acceptable. At this point he’d take a moderately comfortable pile of laundry.
He wraps the blanket tighter around his shoulders and stands, casting one last look toward the abyss hanging only a few metres away. The stars don’t look any more familiar than they did before. He turns away from the window and starts down the corridor, determined to find somewhere that resembles a bed before whatever passes for morning in space shows up.
---
Lance checks every door he passes. Each one slides open with the same quiet swish, revealing mostly the same thing - storage rooms. Stacks of crates. Covered equipment. Shelving units filled with things he doesn’t understand. A few look like bedrooms, but the beds are draped in cloth, furniture wrapped and untouched. Dust-free but abandoned.
He has no idea how long he wanders. The hallways loop and blur together until the castle starts to feel endless. Eventually he reaches a door that doesn’t open when he approaches.
Lance pauses. The door stays firmly shut. He considers knocking. The thought sends a spike of panic straight through him.
What if someone answers? What exactly would he say?
Hi, sorry, I don’t know where my room is?
Yeah. No.
He backs away immediately and moves on to the next door. This one slides open without hesitation. Another bedroom. Same layout as the others - recessed bed, small workspace, open wardrobe. But this one is different. Lived in. The bed is unmade, blankets kicked halfway off like someone left in a hurry. Pillows are piled along the wall of the alcove. Clothes hang loosely in the open wardrobe, a jacket thrown over the edge like it missed the hanger entirely. Clutter dots the surfaces - small tools, loose datapads, things he can’t name.
It looks… normal. Comfortably messy.
And then Lance notices the wall behind the bed. Photos. Taped up unevenly in a loose cluster. His breath catches as he steps closer.
He’s in them.
Every single one.
There’s one of him and Hunk, arms thrown around each other, both of them laughing at something outside the frame. Another with Hunk and Pidge squeezed in between them, Pidge making some ridiculous face while Lance grins wide enough to show every tooth. A full team photo. Allura, Coran, Shiro, Keith, Pidge, Hunk. And him. They’re all smiling. They look comfortable together. Easy. Like they belong there. Lance stares at his own face. The version of him in the photos looks happy. Confident. Older, somehow. He doesn’t recognize that person. The thought presses against his skull like a bruise. He stops himself before he can follow it any further. His theories about what’s happening already feel fragile enough. If he pulls too hard on the thread, the whole thing might come apart. And right now, his brain is starting to throb again in that slow, familiar way.
He’s too tired for this. Too tired to question it. Too tired to panic.
Lance collapses onto the bed fully dressed. The mattress sinks beneath him - warm, soft, impossibly comfortable compared to metal flooring.
He’s asleep before his head fully hits the pillow.
---
Lance’s sleep is anything but peaceful.
The dreams come quickly. Fragments of battles he doesn’t remember living through crash together in violent flashes - metal corridors filled with smoke, the sharp crack of weapons fire, the hum of lasers ricocheting off walls.
Bodies falling.
Shouts echoing through comms. He’s dragging someone. A friend. A teammate.
The weight of them burns through his arms as he hauls them across the floor, their armour scraping loudly against metal. He’s yelling - voice raw, desperate.
“Help! Someone help!” No answer.
Pain explodes through his leg, white-hot and blinding. He stumbles but doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. There’s no time. There’s never time.
An enemy charges straight toward him. Lance turns without hesitation. His blaster is already up. The shot fires before the thought fully forms and the laser hits dead centre. For a split second the soldier is still running - and then his head splits open with a wet crack. Blood sprays across Lance’s visor, warm and blinding. The body collapses at his feet, eyes already empty, jaw slack as it hits the floor. Lance barely notices. He’s seen worse. Much worse.
This is war, after all.
He grabs his teammate again and drags them forward, shouting into the chaos, voice breaking as he pushes toward somewhere he knows help will be waiting. Someone will hear him.
And if they don’t– He’ll get them there anyway.
---
Lance wakes with a scream. He bolts upright in the unfamiliar bed, heart hammering so violently it hurts. Sweat soaks his hair, his shirt, the sheets beneath him. His chest heaves like he’s been running. For a moment he doesn’t know where he is.
The nightmare dissolves the instant he reaches for it - leaving only the lingering feeling of it, like smoke trapped in his lungs. War. Violence. Things he shouldn’t know how to do.
Lance shoves the covers aside and staggers toward the bathroom without thinking. The shower turns on with a hiss. He strips out of his sweat-soaked clothes and steps under the water immediately, letting it pour over him, hot and relentless. Anything to wash the feeling off. Anything to quiet the echo of a life he doesn’t remember living.
---
Lance is still towelling his hair dry when someone starts banging on the door. Before he can even answer, it slides open and Hunk bursts in. He’s already back in the yellow armour, slightly out of breath, curls bouncing as he skids to a stop.
“Dude,” he says urgently, “Allura is not happy you’re late for training.”
Training. The word hits Lance like a bucket of ice water. Hunk doesn’t wait for a response. He moves straight to the wardrobe, rummaging for a second before pulling out a set of armour and tossing it toward him. Blue. Lance catches it clumsily. It’s the same armour he remembers wearing - the same one that had been half broken and scattered across the floor of that alien jail cell. Except now it looks repaired. Polished. Whole. He stares at it for a second too long. Don’t question it.
He’s starting to understand the rules here: everyone assumes he already knows things. So, he nods like this is perfectly normal. Lance pulls the armour on quickly. His hands move automatically - fastening plates, locking clasps, tightening straps. He doesn’t know how he knows how to do it. He just does. That thought sits heavily in the back of his mind.
At the bottom of the wardrobe, he spots a small handled object that matches the armour’s blue trim. He hesitates. That seems important. He grabs it.
Hunk is already waiting outside the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently.
“Man, you’re slow today.”
Lance forces a grin.
“Yeah, yeah.”
They hurry down the corridors together, their footsteps echoing across the smooth metal floors.
“Allura is seriously not in a good mood today,” Hunk mutters quietly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you might wanna stay out of her way.”
Good. Fantastic. Exactly what Lance needed to hear. They round the corner into a massive training hall. The ceiling arches high overhead, the room open and cavernous. The rest of the team is already there. Shiro stretches near the far wall. Pidge is adjusting something on her armour. Red stands a little apart from the others, arms folded, eyes already scanning the room.
No one is talking. The tension is thick enough to taste. Allura turns when they enter.
“Nice of you to join us, Lance,” she says coolly. “Shall we begin before we waste any more time?”
Lance winces internally.
“Bayards out, Paladins.”
Everyone moves at once. Their matching coloured handles appear in their hands like second nature. Lance is very relieved he grabbed the strange blue handle. He holds it up awkwardly, trying not to look confused.
Bayard. Right. Totally knew that.
Before he can think too hard about it, the room moves. The floor shifts with a heavy mechanical rumble. Walls rise from the ground, splitting the hall into five separate sections. Each one reshapes itself into a different environment - obstacles forming, barriers lifting, platforms locking into place.
From the ceiling, training robots drop down into the arenas. The others move immediately. Shiro heads for one section. Hunk jogs toward another. Pidge disappears into a space filled with climbing structures. Red walks into the area beside Lance’s. Like they’ve all done this a thousand times.
Lance is left standing in his assigned zone. It looks like a terrible obstacle course. Low walls. Scattered crates. Platforms at awkward heights. At the far end stand three training robots. Two hold swords. The third raises a gun.
Lance goes pale. A gun. Is he supposed to fight that? With what? How?
He glances sideways. Red’s arena is almost empty - just open floor and three sword-wielding robots standing ominously. Red stretches his shoulders, rolling his neck once before settling into position. His expression is calm. Focused. Like this is routine.
Lance grips the bayard tighter. Okay. New plan. Watch Red Armor Guy. Maybe if he copies whatever he does - he might survive this.
“Begin!” Allura’s voice slices through the room as a buzzer blares, and Lance immediately realizes he has made a terrible mistake. The robots whir to life in front of him, metal limbs snapping into fighting stances. This feels like a very good time to confess. Right now would be perfect. Before he dies horribly in front of everyone.
Before– movement catches his eye.
Across the room the others have already activated their bayards. The small handles in their hands flash with light, transforming instantly into weapons - swords, knives, guns. Lance’s head whips between them. Wait. His can do that?
A laser blasts past his ear. Lance lets out a high-pitched squeal. Very heroic.
He dives behind the nearest half wall, slamming into it in the least graceful movement he has ever performed in his life. Metal sizzles as another laser hits the barrier above him. He risks a glance up – and finds Red staring directly at him. The moment lasts half a second. Then Red turns away, already sprinting toward his own robots. His bayard shifts into a sharp blade mid-run. Steel clashes against steel with a violent crack as Red meets the first robot head-on. The force of it makes Lance wince. Yeah. Very glad he’s not fighting that.
Another laser slams into the wall beside him. Okay - problem still here. Lance peeks around the barrier just long enough to see the robot with the gun advancing slowly toward him, crouched low and calculating. He looks down at the object still clutched in his hand. The bayard.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath. He focuses on it. Wills it to change. Turn into something useful. Something he actually knows how to use. The metal glows. The bayard shifts in his grip, unfolding and reshaping until a sleek rifle settles into his hands.
Oh.
Okay.
That works.
It’s different from the ones he’s used before - sleeker, alien - but a rifle is still a rifle. And Lance definitely knows rifles. His uncle and brother had dragged him to shooting ranges for years. And the zombie arcade game at the boardwalk? He holds the high score.
They didn’t call him sharpshooter for nothing.
He settles into position behind the wall, bracing the rifle against the metal edge. Breath steady. Eyes forward. The robot shifts behind an obstacle across the arena. Waiting.
One.
Two.
Lance fires.
The shot punches clean through the robot’s head and the machine collapses instantly. Lance grins despite himself. Nice. That would’ve been at least 800 points at the arcade.
A crash beside him makes him jump. One of Red’s robots slams into the invisible wall between their arenas, thrown there with brutal force. Lance turns just in time to see Red already engaging the next one. That moment of distraction almost costs him. The gun-wielding robot pops out from behind cover–
Lance fires instinctively. The laser strikes dead centre. Another clean headshot. The robot drops. Lance freezes. He hadn’t even aimed properly. His hands lower slowly. That shot had been perfect. Too perfect. For the hundredth time since he woke up, Lance has the unsettling feeling that his body knows things he doesn’t.
Red finishes his last opponent with a sharp twist of his blade. Across the arena Pidge is fighting her final robot. Lance turns back toward his own section. One robot left.
It’s gone quiet. The machine is hiding somewhere among the obstacles, waiting for him to move. Lance stays crouched behind the barrier. Honestly? He could stay here forever, but he knows the robot isn’t going to come to him. He exhales slowly and stands. Okay. Arcade rules. Clear corners. Move fast. He creeps forward, rifle raised, scanning each obstacle. Nothing.
Nothing–
The robot launches out from behind a crate. Lance yelps and falls backward, the rifle firing automatically. The laser blasts straight through the robot’s head before it can bring its sword down. The machine collapses at his feet. Lance stares at it. His hands are shaking. He didn’t even think. He just knew where to shoot. A shiver crawls down his spine.
Before he can process the feeling, the destroyed robots dissolve into the floor. The walls retract and the arena shifts back into the open training hall.
“Alright, Paladins,” Allura announces, clearly already losing patience. “For the remainder of the session you’ll spar in pairs.”
No one even gets a second to breathe.
“Pidge, you’ll rotate in after the first round. Shiro with Hunk. And Lance… with Keith.”
Keith.
Lance freezes.
Keith?
Wait.
Keith.
Red Armor Guy.
The realization hits him like a small personal victory.
“Oh! Keith!” Lance blurts out. The room goes quiet. He looks up proudly–
-and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Everyone is staring at him. Not angry. Not confused. Just… baffled. Oh. Oh no. That sounded weird, didn’t it? Right. No one else was excited about sparring. He should not have sounded excited about sparring. Abort. Abort.
“Haha–what?” Lance says quickly, forcing a laugh that sounds painfully fake even to his own ears. “Just looking forward to training with my buddy Keith here.”
Before he can stop himself, he slings an arm casually around Keith’s shoulders. The silence deepens. Keith turns his head slowly. The look he gives Lance could curdle milk. Lance drops his arm like he’s touched a hot stove. Okay. Not friends. Definitely not friends. Noted. Which is confusing, because Lance could have sworn they’d been… something close to friendly last night on the observation deck. Or maybe he imagined that.
Pidge snorts from across the room.
“Are you trying to wind him up?” she asks, clearly amused as she walks toward the sidelines. Lance blinks. Wind him up? How would that wind anyone up? Did Keith hate sparring? That seemed unlikely considering how enthusiastically he had been sword-fighting five minutes ago. Maybe Keith just hated him.
“All right,” Allura says briskly. “I have something to attend to. We will reconvene at dinner.”
She turns on her heel before anyone can respond and strides out of the training hall. The doors slide shut behind her and the room feels suddenly quieter.
Lance shifts his weight and looks up. Keith is standing across from him. Right. Sparring. Great. Shiro steps forward, folding his arms.
“Hand-to-hand only,” he says calmly. “First clean takedown wins.”
Keith rolls his shoulders once, already loosening up. Lance… does not know what he’s supposed to do. He raises his hands awkwardly anyway, trying to copy the stance he’s seen in movies. Keith notices immediately. His eyes narrow.
“You ready?” Shiro asks, already turning toward Hunk for their own match.
Lance opens his mouth.
“Not particularly–”
“Begin.”
Keith moves instantly. Lance barely has time to register motion before Keith is on him. He blocks the first strike on pure instinct, the impact rattling up his arm. Ow. Okay. That hurt. Keith doesn’t slow down. A second hit comes fast, aimed for Lance’s shoulder. Lance twists away, barely avoiding it.
“Oh come on,” Lance blurts, scrambling backward. “We just started!”
Keith advances without answering. Another strike. Lance ducks. Another. Lance stumbles sideways, nearly tripping over his own feet. This is going badly. Very badly. Keith moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Every step controlled. Every movement precise. Lance throws up his arms to block again and winces when Keith’s strike knocks them aside.
“Your stance is terrible,” Keith snaps.
“Well I didn’t exactly study for this!” Lance shoots back.
Keith lunges forward again. Lance panics. Instead of blocking properly, he grabs Keith’s wrist and twists sideways, using his body weight to yank Keith off balance. It’s sloppy. Improvised. But it works. Keith stumbles half a step. The movement stops immediately. Keith jerks his arm free, staring at Lance.
“What did you just do?”
Lance freezes. Uh oh.
“What?”
“That,” Keith says sharply. “What was that move?”
Lance shrugs helplessly.
“I just moved.”
Keith’s eyes narrow further.
“That’s not a standard maneuver.”
“Well clearly it worked,” Lance mutters.
Keith’s patience snaps.
“Stop messing around.”
“I’m not messing around!”
“Then fight properly!”
“I don’t know what properly means!”
The words slip out before Lance can stop them. Silence drops over the room. Shiro steps forward immediately.
“That’s enough.”
Keith looks like he’s about to argue. Lance beats him to it.
“Sorry,” Lance blurts.
The word comes out fast. Automatic. Keith stops mid-breath.
“…what?”
Lance rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Sorry,” he repeats. “Didn’t mean to start anything.”
Keith just stares at him. Completely thrown. Across the room Pidge looks between them, eyebrows raised.
Shiro dismisses them soon after.
“Both of you, take a few minutes and clear your heads,” he says firmly. His gaze flicks to Lance. “And remember we have a meeting with Kolivan in the morning. No one is late.”
The emphasis lands squarely on Lance. Lance nods quickly, not trusting himself to say anything. The second he’s released; he heads straight for the door. He has no intention of leaving his room again tonight. Maybe not until morning. Maybe not until he absolutely has to.
---
Back in his room, Lance shuts the door behind him and leans against it for a moment. The quiet is almost overwhelming. He strips out of the training gear and pulls on a pair of dark grey joggers he finds at the bottom of the wardrobe. They fit perfectly. Of course they do.
Once dressed, Lance finally starts looking around the room properly. Earlier he’d only really noticed the obvious things. The bed. The photos. The parts that screamed this is your room.
Now he takes his time.
The desk is cluttered with datapads and small tools he doesn’t recognize - thin metal instruments, wires coiled neatly beside them, pieces of alien technology that look half dismantled. One datapad flickers faintly when he brushes it with his hand, the screen lighting up with symbols he can’t read. He pulls his hand back quickly.
In one corner of the desk sits a small framed photo. Lance picks it up carefully. The picture shows him being hoisted off the ground by a group of aliens he doesn’t recognize. Their arms are thrown around him in celebration, someone gripping him under the arms while another grabs his leg like they’re about to drop him. Lance is laughing - head thrown back, mouth open wide, the kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep in your chest.
Like something incredible just happened. Like he earned it. The people holding him up look just as happy. Lance studies their faces one by one. Nothing. No recognition. No flicker of memory. Just strangers celebrating with a version of him that clearly belongs there. He stares at the photo longer than he means to, searching for something - a feeling, a hint, anything that might spark. Nothing comes. Slowly, he sets the frame back down exactly where he found it. The rest of the room tells the same story.
A jacket hangs off the back of the chair beside the desk, the fabric worn soft at the edges. A symbol is stitched into the sleeve - sharp lines forming a crest he doesn’t understand. His fingers hover over it for a second before brushing the thread. It feels familiar in a way his brain refuses to explain.
Above the desk, a medal is pinned neatly to the wall.
It’s heavy when he lifts it down, cool against his palm. The metal is engraved with markings he can’t read, but the ribbon attached to it is deep blue - the same colour as his armour. Someone polished it recently. It shines faintly in the light. Lance turns it over once, twice. Whatever he did to earn it must have mattered. He has no idea what it was. He hangs it back up.
More photos line the wall above the bed. The whole team this time. Allura standing tall in the middle, Coran beside her with that proud, theatrical grin. Shiro with a hand resting on Lance’s shoulder. Pidge half-hidden behind Hunk while Hunk laughs at something off camera. Keith stands just a little apart. But he’s smiling too. Lance stares at the picture longer than the others. They all look comfortable together. Like this is where they belong. Like he belongs there too. Everywhere he looks, there are pieces of a life he clearly lived. A life he can’t remember.
And then Lance realizes something. Something missing. His eyes scan the walls again. The desk. The shelves. Nothing. Not a single photo of home.
Back in his room on Earth, pictures had been everywhere. His mom in the kitchen. His siblings crowded around the couch during movie nights. His niece and nephew grinning with ice cream smeared across their faces.
He’d had so many he ran out of space for them.
But here–
Nothing. Not even one.
The absence hits harder than the rest of it. Why wouldn’t he bring them? The thought tightens around his chest like a fist.
Lance sits slowly on the edge of the bed. He needs to think. His previous theories crumble one by one. He’s here for a reason. He must be. Did he choose this?
The Garrison. The thought lands heavily. That’s the only explanation that fits. He must have already gone. Which means–
Lance sits up suddenly.
He wasn’t supposed to leave for the Garrison for another month and a half. If he’s already here…
That means he hasn’t lost a few days. Or even weeks. He’s lost months. Three. Maybe four. The number sits in his stomach like a stone. God. He feels sick. What happened in those months? Why is he here? How long is he supposed to stay? Is there an end to this? Because this definitely isn’t first-year Garrison training. Not even close. Something is very wrong. The realization hits all at once.
The distance.
The silence.
The war.
He’s not just far from home. He might be unimaginably far. The homesickness crashes over him so suddenly it steals the air from his lungs. Where is here? How far away is Earth?
Lance stumbles into the bathroom. His vision tilts slightly. He splashes cold water onto his face and grips the edge of the sink. For the first time since waking up, he really looks at himself in the mirror. His reflection stares back.
His eyes look exhausted. His hair is longer than he remembers, curling into his face near his temples. Water drips down his cheeks, catching in the faint stubble along his jaw. Lance frowns. He’s never been able to grow stubble before. His gaze drifts downward. His chest. His arms. There’s muscle there now. Real muscle. The kind built from months of constant training. Maybe years. He’s always been thin, sure, but this is different. Stronger. Harder.
His skin is scattered with scars. Small ones mostly. Thin white lines stitched across his ribs, his arms, his side. He doesn’t remember any of them. Then his eyes catch something on his shoulder. A thicker scar. Raised. Uneven. Lance slowly twists his body to see more. And freezes.
His back is marked by a massive star-shaped scar. The skin is twisted and jagged, the wound clearly healed from something violent. Something explosive. The sight of it makes his stomach turn instantly.
Lance lurches toward the toilet and vomits. The contents are green. Alien. Nothing about it is familiar. He wretches again, but there’s nothing left. His hands grip the toilet seat so tightly his knuckles turn white.
His chest heaves. His breathing becomes shallow. Too fast. Too tight. He can’t get enough air. His throat closes around it. His heartbeat hammers against his ribs. A panic attack.
Mama taught him what to do when this happened. Count. Lance closes his eyes and starts counting backward in Spanish.
Cien.
Noventa y nueve.
Noventa y ocho.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Again.
Again.
Slowly the pounding in his chest begins to ease. His breathing steadies. The room stops spinning. After a long moment he pushes himself back to his feet and looks at the mirror again. His reflection looks back at him.
Stranger. Older. Different.
And Lance knows, with a sickening certainty, that he hasn’t forgotten days. Or weeks. Or even months.
He’s forgotten years.
The realization hits like a physical blow. Lance breaks.
He sinks to the floor and begins to cry.
Not quiet tears. Sobs that shake his entire body.
---
Lance is still breathing hard hours later, curled in on himself on the cold bathroom floor. Every now and then he closes his eyes and hopes the ground might just open up and swallow him. Or better yet–
That he’ll pass out. Wake up to Mama’s voice calling up the stairs for dinner. He knows it won’t happen. He knows it. But he still prays for it anyway.
Eventually his stomach growls loudly in the quiet room. Lance groans softly. It’s probably been long enough to miss lunch, maybe dinner too. For a brief moment he wonders if starving might be easier than dealing with whatever reality he’s stuck in now.
He pushes himself up slowly. His whole body feels heavy, like his bones suddenly weigh twice what they should. He pulls on a t-shirt before leaving his room, tugging it down instinctively over his back. He doesn’t want anyone seeing the scars. Then again… they’ve probably already seen them. The thought makes his stomach twist. He hates not knowing.
---
The kitchen is almost empty when he arrives. Just Hunk. He’s standing at the counter, scooping the familiar green food goo onto a plate. Hunk looks up as Lance enters.
“Hey dude,” he says brightly. “I was literally about to bring you some food. Where’d you disappear to tonight?”
Lance feels a sudden rush of gratitude toward him. Hunk seems like such a good friend. How long have they been friends? The guilt hits him again. Hunk looks at him like he knows him better than anyone. And Lance can only see a stranger.
“I wasn’t feeling great,” Lance says quietly. “Stomach wasn’t cooperating.”
“Yeah,” Hunk says sympathetically. “You’ve definitely looked better.”
Understatement of the century. Between the scars and the exhaustion, Lance is pretty sure he looks like something dragged in from space.
“Here you go, buddy,” Hunk says, handing him the plate. “Eat something and get some rest.”
He gives Lance a tired but warm smile before heading out of the room. Lance watches him leave.
The guilt lingers.
---
He doesn’t think he can stomach the goo yet. Not after the bathroom. But the hunger is getting worse, so he takes the plate with him anyway. Instead of going back to his room, his feet carry him somewhere else. The observation deck. He isn’t sure why. Last time it only made him feel worse.
But the stars pull at him anyway.
---
The deck is empty when he arrives. Lance sits down in front of the massive window and stares out into the unfamiliar sky. The stars are still wrong. Still beautiful. He wishes they weren’t. He picks at the food slowly, managing about half before giving up and setting the plate beside him.
Somewhere out there is Earth. He just has no idea where.
Footsteps echo behind him. Lance doesn’t turn. He doesn’t have the energy.
“Thought you might be here.”
Keith.
“Because of last night?” Lance asks quietly, eyes still fixed on the stars.
There’s a pause behind him. Long enough that Lance wonders if Keith is going to answer at all.
“You’re always here,” Keith says at last.
The words land oddly. Lance swallows. Always here. Looking at the stars. Searching for something. Home, maybe. Something cold drops through Lance’s chest. He exhales slowly, then finally turns his head.
Keith is standing a few steps away, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders a little too tight. He looks like he almost didn’t come over. Like he’s still not fully decided whether he should stay now that he has. Keith looks like he’s not sure if Lance might bolt. Are they really not friends? Lance doesn’t understand why. Keith might be blunt. A little intense. Maybe even a bit rude. But Lance can’t find anything in himself that hates him. It feels… stupid to pretend otherwise.
“Sorry about earlier,” Lance says. “At training. I wasn’t trying to be difficult.”
Keith’s expression shifts in that now-familiar way - not exactly angry, not exactly confused. More like Lance has said something in the wrong language and Keith is still trying to make sense of it.
He gives him that same strange look again. Like he’s staring at someone he doesn’t recognize. Which makes two of them.
“It’s cool,” Keith says after a moment. “Me too.”
The words sound slightly forced, like he had to wrestle them out of himself. Lance lets out a small laugh under his breath. Keith is such a strange guy. For a second, Lance thinks he might leave. Keith looks like he wants to. Like every instinct in him is pulling him in the opposite direction. But after a beat, he moves forward and lowers himself to the floor beside Lance anyway. Not too close. Not far either. Close enough that Lance can feel the warmth of him in the cold blue light. Keith braces himself back on his hands and looks out through the glass, jaw tight, posture careful in a way that feels deliberate.
The stars throw faint colour across his face - pale silver, deep violet, little flickers of blue. It catches on the sharp line of his nose, the angle of his cheekbone, the edge of his mouth. Lance finds himself watching him longer than he means to. Why would Lance hate him? They’re in the same boat. Spaceship. Whatever.
He doesn’t understand the tension between them. Did he cause it? Did Keith?
Lance wonders if Keith was at the Garrison too. Maybe the others were there as well. Were they friends back then? Something more, maybe? Maybe they got close. Maybe something went wrong and they fell out. Broke up, even. Lance can almost see it happening.
He shakes his head quickly. No. He needs to stop making up theories to fill in the blanks. He’s probably completely wrong.
Beside him, Keith shifts. Lance looks over just in time to catch Keith already looking at him. Their eyes meet. Keith looks away first. Lance follows his gaze back to the stars.
There’s a question sitting in the silence between them. More than one, probably. Keith looks like he wants to ask something. Like he’s been holding it in so long it’s starting to ache. His fingers flex once against the floor, then still.
Lance knows he should say something first.
He should tell someone.
Tell Keith, maybe.
That something is wrong with his head. That he’s not the Lance they think he is. That he’s missing years and he doesn’t know how to fix that. Had he already waited too long? Would they even believe him? Would they care? He glances sideways again. Keith is looking at him again - not hard, not accusing, just watchful. Cautious. Like he’s approaching a frightened animal and doesn’t want to scare it off. Lance looks away quickly. No. Not tonight. Tonight he doesn’t want to break this open and spill everything ugly into it. The quiet feels too fragile. Too rare.
So instead he lets his mind drift somewhere easier. Keith’s intense eyes. His strong arms. His ridiculous haircut. The blanket Lance woke up wrapped in last night. Maybe Lance had been stupid to fall out with him, if that’s what happened. Keith seems like exactly the kind of person he’d end up having a crush on.
The thought lingers longer than it should.
Slowly, carefully, Lance lets himself relax another inch. Their shoulders aren’t touching. Not quite. But they’re close enough that if either of them shifted even slightly, they would. Keith’s hand is still braced against the floor beside him, fingers splayed, tension sitting visibly in the tendons. Lance watches them for a second. Then, almost absently, Keith’s fingers loosen. Not much. Just enough to unclench against the metal. Something about it makes Lance’s chest tighten. Like Keith is trying, in his own strange, silent way, not to run.
Lance looks at his own hand. Then at Keith’s. Then back out at the stars.
Carefully - slowly enough that he could stop at any point and pretend he hadn’t meant to - he lowers his hand over Keith’s.
Keith flinches. Not violently. Just a quick, involuntary jolt through his whole body, like the touch surprised him. Every muscle in his arm goes tight beneath Lance’s palm. Lance goes still. For one awful second he thinks Keith is going to pull away. He doesn’t. He just sits there, very, very still. Lance counts that as a win.
He keeps his eyes on the stars, pretending not to notice that Keith is staring at him now. He can feel it anyway - the weight of it, warm and disbelieving and maybe a little wrecked.
His heart beats faster. But this time it isn’t panic. The warmth beneath his hand steadies something in him. Grounds him. They aren’t quite holding hands, but it’s enough. Neither of them speaks.
The silence changes. It’s still heavy, but softer now. Thicker. Full of things neither of them knows how to say. Lance risks one glance. Keith’s face is turned toward him, expression unreadable in the low light - except for his eyes, which look too open, too uncertain, like he’s trying to reconcile this version of Lance with someone else entirely.
Lance looks away before he can think too hard about that.
After a while, the exhaustion catches up to him all at once. His eyelids grow heavy. The stars blur. Without really meaning to, he tips sideways until his head comes to rest against Keith’s shoulder. Keith goes stiff instantly. Lance feels it even through the haze pulling him under. Then, slowly, carefully, Keith exhales. Doesn’t move away.
Sleep takes Lance in pieces after that. The last thing he registers is the warmth beside him shifting, one arm sliding around his back, the other under his knees. He’s being lifted. Carried. The motion rocks him gently, and for one disorienting second, he thinks of being little again, half-asleep in the back seat while someone carries him inside. Then even that slips away.
He’s already asleep before Keith gets him back to bed.