Archive of Our Own

“Guys!” Hunk yelled, bursting into the control room where the others were waiting for his return. “You’ll never guess what Pidge and I found on our supply run.” As if Hunk’s words were her cue, Pidge rounded the corner then, tugging a giant crate behind her that could easily fit three of her inside.

Lance raised a brow, regarding both Hunk and Pidge and the crate curiously. “You’re right. I’ll never guess, I’m a terrible guesser. So, what it is?” Hunk grinned, looking so incredibly proud of himself and excited that Keith couldn’t help but fear for his immediate safety. Was it fireworks or something? Hunk and Pidge were easily the two smartest paladins, they had to realize that fireworks wouldn’t work in space, right? And that there was no way in hell they were setting off fireworks inside the castle?

“I’m curious as well,” Allura told them. “What could we possibly need that wasn’t on the supply list I provided?”

“Come on, at least one of you has to guess.” Hunk pouted, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the crate next to Pidge.

“What’s in the box?” Shiro asked, raising an eyebrow and sliding a bit closer, his voice dangerously close to dad territory. Hunk huffed, standing straight again and holding his hand out to Pidge. Pidge dug around in her pocket for a few seconds before pulling out a full-size crowbar and handing it to Hunk, who pushed it up under the lip of the crate and pried the top off, standing back to present the now open box with pride.

Keith willfully ignored the whole crowbar thing and stepped closer to the box to look inside, the movement in the corners of his vision telling him that the others were doing the same. Hunk waited patiently, grinning at them as they stared at the dark bottles of assorted space liquid. Without labels, and proper knowledge of space, Keith has no idea what it was. He let Hunk know.

“Hunk, what the hell is this stuff? And why is there so much of it?” Keith reached out and flicked one of the bottles, strangely pleased by the soft ping that resonated in the quiet around them.

“Come on,” Hunk pouted. “Do none of you know what this is? Am I really gonna have to spell it out?”

“Well,” Allura said, shooting Hunk a strange look. “I know what it is , I just don’t particularly know why you have it. From what I understand, fermented beverages such as these have quite unpleasant side effects on humans. Is it common for humans to willingly subject themselves to such unpleasantries?” Hunk grinned at her.

“Oh yes. Much, much more common than you think, Princess.”

“Wait. Fermented beverages? Is this space alcohol?! ” Lance yelped, an excited grin (the one that always made Keith’s heart come to an unwelcome stop) quickly spreading over his face.

“You know it,” Hunk affirmed, patting the wooden side of the crate with a wide grin.

“YEE-HAW!” Lance whooped, throwing his hands up and doing a little dance. Blue’s corresponding roar could be heard from her hangar, as if Lance only got this excited when a battle (and, by extension, she) was involved. Allura looked puzzled at Lance’s reaction, as if she still couldn’t grasp the fact that humans willingly intoxicated themselves and continuously dealt with the negative consequences that came with decreased mental function and severe dehydration, no matter how many times they vowed they’d never do it again.

Keith didn’t really understand it, either, but he wasn’t about to question it in depth (or refuse to participate in the drinking).

“Lance,” Shiro said, swiftly interrupting Lance’s happy dance. “You’re underage. You’re all underage.”

“I’m not that underage,” Lance argued, crossing his arms. “and Hunk is almost eighteen and a half! That’s pretty close.”

“You are considerably underage.” Shiro retorted, looking wholly unimpressed.

“Listen,” Lance began, poking a harmless finger into Shiro’s chest. “We’re in space. There’s no legal limit in space. Additionally, I think I need to reintroduce myself, because you clearly don't know who I am. Hi, my name is Lance McClain. I’m the Blue Paladin of Voltron, and I sacrifice my life on the daily the save and protect the whole of the universe . If I’m old enough to engage in combat and risk my life , I’m old enough to get drunk in the safety of my own home, surrounded by people who can take care of me if I so need it. Furthermore , if you don’t let us have any, then Hunk will hide it in his special hiding place and won’t let you have any, either.”

Shiro sighed, long and loud, closing his eyes for a brief second and crossing his arms over his chest. Keith glanced around and saw a smirk beginning to unfurl on everyone’s lips, all of them confident in Lance’s ability to talk Shiro into giving in. Besides, Lance was right, and they weren’t blind, either. Everyone could tell how bad space dad needed a drink.

“Fine, but I expect all of you to exercise moderation and responsibility, and keep an eye on your fellow paladins.”

“Okay, dad ,” Pidge muttered, pushing off of the side of the crate.

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” Hunk smiled, patting the crate again. “Did I mention there are, like, ten different flavors?”

“Dude!” Lance all but squealed, barreling forward and encasing Hunk in a giant hug. “I’m gonna try all of them . You’re a lifesaver. God bless you, man.”

If there was a camera to stare into like he was on The Office, Keith knew Shiro would be doing it.

Once they had changed into appropriate Drunk Party clothes (their pajamas) and gathered up an appropriate amount of blankets and pillows (at least three for each person), Hunk and Pidge deposited the crate in the corner of the lounge and told people to have at it. Lance immediately began sorting it into the different flavors that Hunk had mentioned, hissing at anyone who got too close to his careful sections spread out on the floor. So, while Lance was busy, the others discussed the additional plans for the evening, such as if they should watch a movie or play a game, or just talk until they were intoxicated enough to entertain themselves.

They settled on seeing where the night took them around the same time that Lance declared they could approach the space alcohol, stepping out of the room with ten bottles in his hand so he could go to the kitchen and pour himself a shot (or multiple shots, if they were being honest) of each.

Keith grabbed a random bottle out of a section on the floor, took two steps to the left, grabbed another bottle of what he assumed was a different variety, and returned to his seat on the couch. Hunk and Pidge seemed determined to hunt for an acceptable flavor before they realized that a) the bottles still weren’t labeled and could only really be distinguished based off of color, and b) they were most likely flavored like space ingredients that they’d never heard of, and thus wouldn’t be able to decide which one they liked the best anyway.

For anyone who cared about finding the best type of readily available space alcohol, Lance’s method was admittedly the best way to go about it, but Lance seemed to be the only one who cared, since everyone else just picked whichever one was the prettiest color and sat back down.

When Lance returned to the room with a tray of generously filled shot glasses, Shiro leveled him with an unimpressed stare, as if this wasn’t what he had in mind when he implored them to use moderation and be responsible. Silly Shiro. Lance didn’t know how to do any of that.

“Lance, how many shots is that?” Hunk yelped as Lance sat the tray down on the table in front of them.

“Around twenty. Two for each kind, I’m pretty sure.”

“Space them out, Lance,” Keith told him, stepping in so Shiro didn’t have to.

“What? Why?” Lance asked, wrinkling his nose as if the very thought of drinking them slowly disgusted him.

“Um, alcohol poisoning? We have no idea how high the alcohol content in these drinks is, and at the highest rate back on earth, you’re not supposed to have more than five drinks in the span of two hours. Even having five is getting to a dangerous level. So, spread them out. Make them last all night, if not longer. You don’t have to, or need to , drink all of those.”

“We have healing pods,” Lance mumbled, looking unhappy with the new information that had been forced upon him. “Plus, shots don’t count as drinks. They’re way smaller.”

“If the drink contains forty percent alcohol, then- look, I’m not gonna waste my time explaining it, okay? Just trust me. You’re not going to rely on the healing pod to save you from alcohol poisoning. You are, however, going to ration your shots appropriately and leave the room if you, at any point, feel the need to throw up. That goes for all of you.” Lance grumbled as he grabbed his first shot and downed it quickly, looking for all the world like he’d done the same thing a million times before. It was kind of hot, not that Keith was paying attention.

Keith took a drink of his own bottle in retaliation, raising his eyebrows as Lance met his eyes and frowned at him. “You’re just as bad as Shiro.” Keith snorted a laugh at that, shaking his head.

“At least I don’t have a dad voice.”

After that, the room fell relatively quiet, everyone seeming to enjoy the time they had to relax and get drunk and take a break from the hectic life of a Universe Defender. Lance was doing a surprisingly good job of pacing himself, even though Keith had caught him stealing sips of Hunk’s drink a few times (and promptly scolded him for it, for all the good that did).

Eventually, inevitably, Lance got bored, and sat up from his slouched position on the couch next to Hunk. “I’m bored, and I need something to distract me from the fact that I can’t drink these shots as fast as I want to.”

By now, a good hour into their Drunk Party, Lance had downed three of his shots and at least three mouthfuls of whatever Hunk was drinking. Keith wasn’t sure what he was expecting from Drunk Lance, but he expected it to be intolerable, and, since he was already feeling a little tipsy from the hardly noticeable dent he’d made in his own bottle, he expected to find out fairly soon.

“Arm wrestling,” Pidge suggested with an evil glint in her eye.

“Why arm wrestling?” Hunk asked, wrinkling his brow.

“I wanna see how many of you I can beat,” Pidge answered simply, sliding off the couch and into the floor once her bottle of space juice was safely secured. “Who wants to go first?”

“What is this ‘arm wrestling’?” Coran asked, his bottle almost as full as Keith’s and nearly forgotten in his hand.

“Come down here and I’ll show you.”

Pidge swiftly showed Coran the ropes and told him the rules before counting down, grinning as she brought his arm to the table’s surface swiftly and with practically no effort. Hunk, the judge, ignored Coran’s sputtering and declared Pidge the winner, lifting her arm in victory. Coran promptly asked for a rematch and claimed he only lost because he was unfamiliar with the game, that he needed that round for a warm-up but he was ready now. It was a very Lance thing to do, and Keith figured that Coran and Lance probably spent too much time together, considering how alike they already were. They didn’t need to influence each other any further.

After Pidge beat him seven times, Coran finally admitted defeat, moving back to the couch and opening the floor for Pidge’s next contender. Allura volunteered to go next, apparently enamored by Coran’s performance. Pidge ran through the rules and procedures one more time to make sure Allura was familiar with them before they locked grips, waiting for Hunk to count down.

Keith watched the muscles jump beneath their skin as Hunk reached zero and they tensed, faces concentrated as they worked to force the other’s hand down. Allura and Pidge were fairly evenly matched, their hands hardly budging either way as time went on. Eventually, though, Pidge began to seize the upper hand and managed to wrench Allura’s hand to the table top, face lighting up in surprised victory.

“Not bad, Princess.” Pidge smiled, patting Allura on the shoulder as she stood, a small pout on her face. “Who’s next?” Lance rose from his place on the couch and settled across the table from Pidge. The challenging glint that Keith was used to seeing in Lance’s eyes when he was faced with a competition was more subdued, and Keith couldn’t tell if it was because of the alcohol or the fact that Lance wasn’t trying to beat Keith.

Pidge’s current match seemed to be going a lot like her last one; their hands were stock still, straight up in the air, neither favoring either direction even as their muscles strained to change it. However, where Pidge eventually began to gain the high ground last match, Lance was still holding strong, his jaw clenched as he glared daggers at Pidge’s tiny hand. Pidge looked just as murderous, clearly not thrilled about being tied with Lance , of all people. After a solid two minutes of stalemate, Lance huffed a breath, breaking his eyes away from their joined hands and looking to Hunk.

“Can we start playing dirty?” he asked, obviously itching to end the tie, even if it meant losing.

“I, for one, would love to see them start playing dirty,” Shiro commented, a smug smile on his face as he watched the scene before him. Keith rolled his eyes. Shiro had a point, though. A dirty battle between Lance and Pidge, two of the most devious people Keith had ever met? It would be interesting to watch, to say the least.

“No,” Pidge growled, glaring at him. “We have to settle this, fair and square, like a couple of real gentlemen. I refuse to quit until one of us wins, the honorable way.” Lance sighed, flexing his fingers a bit as he tightened his hold on Pidge’s hand.

“This is gonna take forever, then.” Keith couldn’t help but agree. Their skin was white where they gripped each other’s hands, and their muscles looked taut and uncomfortable, causing Keith to rub his arm in sympathy just thinking about how it felt. As time passed, slowly, tensely, Keith watched Lance’s eyes cloud over, his frustration evident in his tight jaw and the flush in his cheeks, as well as the murderous look in his eyes. Pidge wasn’t fairing much better, and Keith briefly wondered if the heat in Pidge’s gaze was enough to melt the glasses right off her nose.

Keith would never admit it, but watching Lance get more and more irritated was kind of really hot. Keith was used to Lance’s frustration being directed at him, and he was normally frustrated right back, meaning he was distracted from the full effect that Lance’s anger had on his dick (but if he was being honest, it always turned him on). Seeing it from the sidelines, however, was almost a spiritual experience. A really, really promiscuous spiritual experience.

Keith and Shiro were eventually roped into the match, tasked with holding Lance and Pidge’s free hands behind their back to ensure no one cheated. Keith watched Lance’s fist rhythmically clench and unclench as Keith held his arm in place, just tight enough to be forceful but not hard enough to hurt. After five minutes of an unquestionable tie, Hunk glanced nervously at Pidge, obviously wanting to intervene but not wanting to lose his life.

“Are arm wrestles supposed to last this long?” Allura asked, her voice somewhat relieving in the tense silence.

“Not normally. Most people would’ve called a truce a long time ago.” Keith answered, his fingers slipping slightly on the sweat that was beginning to break out across Lance’s skin.

“What’s the point of continuing?”

“There isn’t one. They’re just stubborn.”

“Victory or death.” Pidge breathed, voice strained.

“That can be arranged,” Lance growled in response.

“All right, in the name of safety and concern for my teammates, I’m declaring this a tie.” Shiro butted in, releasing Pidge’s arm and standing up. Keith did the same to Lance, grabbing his drink and taking a long swig.

“You don’t have the authority to make that call,” Pidge told Shiro, neither of them letting up.

“Well, I’m the referee, so I do, and I agree with Shiro. On the count of three, both of you have to let go and agree to a tie.”

Pidge stayed silent but glared, more venomous than Keith had ever seen her. So, Pidge was a violent drunk. Good to know.

Eventually, after Hunk’s countdown, Pidge and Lance broke away, glaring and rubbing their arms and muttering under their breath. After a particularly harsh glare from Pidge, Lance brought his hands down and flipped the table, narrowly avoiding smacking Pidge in the face with it.

“New Voltron rule,” Shiro announced, not nearly drunk enough to deal with their shit. “No arm wrestling.”

Lance had now consumed half of his shots, and, Keith wasn’t positive (he was too drunk to keep proper track), but he was pretty sure that Lance was drinking them faster than he was supposed to. Keith, however, couldn’t yell at him right now, because he was currently “using the restroom”. Whether that was code for throwing up or he was actually peeing, as he had four times previously, Keith didn’t know.

When Lance returned, stumbling slightly, he announced that he was bored again and that they should pick something else to do. So far, Lance hadn’t been too terribly obnoxious, but Keith reasoned it was probably because he was too busy stewing in his anger about the arm wrestling match, much like Pidge. Or maybe Keith’s complete and utter adoration for Lance kept him from thinking he was annoying, at least as much as he used to.

Coran told them that he knew the perfect game to play.

Coran whipped a giant Altean dictionary out of the closet on the far side of the room and cracked it open in his lap when he returned to the couch. Allura, playing the part of the referee, handed them all an electronic whiteboard of sorts and a marker to go along before sitting next to Coran. The game was essentially “guess the definition of the Altean Word/Space Term”, and whoever got the closest got a point, according to Allura’s discretion.

Keith wasn’t particularly skilled at the game, even though it was pretty much luck. He currently came in last place, the words going into his head and slipping back out just as fast, as if he could guess the definition even if he remembered what Coran had said. Keith didn’t care about languages, or different cultures, or all the tiny differences between Human traditions and Altean ones. Keith only cared about weapons and fighting styles and battles strategies. As long as he could successfully communicate with someone, Keith didn’t want to know everything about where they came from.

So instead of playing the game, Keith found himself watching the others instead. They were sat in a mostly flattened semi-circle in front of the couch where Coran and Allura were perched, with Keith on one end and Lance on the other. Keith was drunk and tired and the voices of his friends relaxed him, and he liked watching Lance as he played the game and yelled and laughed with their friends.

“The word is Phenid,” Coran told them. Lance snickered.

“I may not know what it means, but I sure know what it sounds like.” Lance then burst into obnoxiously endearing laughter at the looks he received for his comment, ranging from unimpressed to horrified to disgusted to slightly amused and way too drunk to care.

“Hey Hunk, do you think that’d be a good way to pick up intergalactic chicks? Like, Hey beautiful, wanna see my Phenid?”

“Lance, a Phenid is the specialized process by which a territory, planet, or other delegated area lacking an established government elects a leader.” Coran frowned.

“And now you’ve ruined the round,” Pidge huffed, still seemingly caught up on the whole arm-wrestling debacle.

“Whatever. I’m totally gonna use it sometime.” Lance grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

The angry Lance from earlier was completely gone, as if someone had swapped Lance with a different person entirely. Lance was now undeniably happy , his bright giggle filling the room approximately every five seconds and his more boisterous laugh coming out only slightly less often. Keith wasn’t paying attention to the words everyone was saying, because the kind of focus made his head hurt, but it was impossible to ignore Lance’s laugh, impossible to ignore the warmth it brought to Keith’s chest.

Happy Drunk Lance was a lot like Sober Lance, Keith noticed, only he was undeniably more annoying like this, and Keith knew that if he wasn’t also drunk, then he’d of lost his shit a long time ago.

Lance was also almost completely reliant on Hunk to keep him upright, and it seemed like Lance couldn’t go more than two seconds without touching Hunk or hugging him or verbally expressing his gratitude and admiration for him. Hunk didn’t seem to mind, laughing quietly and wrapping Lance in one of his World Famous Bear Hugs every chance he got.

Keith, however, was surprised. Not that much, considering Lance seemed like a sap, especially when his best friend was involved. Keith just never thought he see the day when Lance was humbled enough to gush about his appreciation for someone that wasn’t himself. And, Lance had always been a touchy guy, but Keith was somewhat glad (and somewhat jealous) that he wasn’t sitting next to Lance, because he literally could not keep his hands to himself.

He had also lost the ability to control how loud his voice was, apparently. Keith was honestly learning so much. It was like Lance was a four-year-old seeing Disney World for the first time; he was unbearably excited and happy and hyper and Keith really should have been bothered by it but he really wasn’t.

So Keith lost their game, lost bad , and had to deal with incessant teasing from everyone in the room (especially Pidge, because she won), but his head was fuzzy and his chest was warm and his friends were here and Lance wasn’t upset anymore and Keith really couldn’t find anything wrong with that.

Keith was now becoming aware that Drunk Lance could switch emotions faster than Keith could switch blades in a fight. In the time it took Coran to walk across the room and replace the Altean dictionary with a chess board, Lance had gone from a happy, giggling mess to practically asleep on the floor, pitifully trying to reach his tray of shots where it sat a few feet away.

Lance definitely didn’t need anything else to drink, but Keith was too tired to stop him, and his tongue was dry and heavy in his mouth and he wasn’t sure he could speak even if he wanted to. Besides, Drunk Lance was funny. After trying to drink his shot while laying down and nearly choking to death, Lance slowly sat up and crawled towards the chess board.

“I call the white ones. They’re prettier than the other ones, and I’m prettier than the rest of you , so it makes sense that I should get the white ones.”

“Do you even know how to play chess?” Pidge asked, narrowing her eyes, looking like she was concentrating extremely hard on not slurring her words.

“O’course I do, Pidgey Pidgey Poo. Hey, that rhymed! Anyway, I’m a master at chess. At my old school, they used to call me The Queen because of how I was better than everyone else. At everything.”

“I can confirm,” Hunk added. “The did call him The Queen, although I believe it was more to do with the fact that he was a total drama queen and not because he was better than everyone.”

“Shut up, Hunk. You don’t know anything.”

“At least he knows that the queen is the most powerful piece. I’ll give him that.” Pidge mumbled, rolling her eyes.

“Can we just play already?” Shiro asked, having already set up the black pieces (and Lance’s white pieces).

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Prepare to get beat , Shiro.”

Keith watched in amusement as Lance slowly fell asleep and not so slowly got his ass handed to him by Shiro. Even with Pidge’s help, who had stepped in when it became apparent that Lance knew very little about how the game actually worked and could do even less with this knowledge because he was drunk, Lance had already fucked up the game to the point where there was no hope of him winning.

Lance, mostly asleep with his head resting heavily on Pidge’s shoulder, seemed more focused on telling Pidge and Shiro how great they were and how much he appreciated them and how, if they were to give him a real good, proper hug, he would probably start crying and then fall asleep because he was tired and he loved them all so much and oh god , he really liked getting good hugs.

Lance’s affectionate rambling lasted until he Pidge gave up on helping him and he lost. His drunk and tired brain then connected the dots and remembered the rule they’d made before starting, the rule that said whoever loses the game has to play the next person until they either win or run out of new opponents to play, causing a pitiful whine to escape his throat. Shiro was then replaced by Hunk, who beat him just as badly, if not slower.

Hunk was then recruited to snuggle Lance from behind as he lost to Allura (who had never played the game before), then lost to Coran after her (who had also never played the game before), then lost even worse to Pidge.

Then, finally, it was Keith’s turn. He’d never been particularly good at chess, but having witnessed Lance’s abilities several times by now, Keith wasn’t too worried about winning. Lance even looked pitiful enough -- all pouty with his hair sticking up every direction and his limbs pulled as close to his body as he could get them -- that Keith considered letting Lance win, just to put the excited smile from earlier back on his face.

But then Lance started complimenting him, as he had every other opponent he’d played, and Keith decided that justice should be delivered swiftly, in the form of another loss at a game of chess. If Lance couldn’t say nice things about him when he was sober and had an almost one hundred percent chance of remembering them, then Lance didn’t have a right to say nice things about Keith when he was busy drunkenly beating his ass at a game he really, really sucked at.

The worst part was, Lance wasn’t even using the compliments as a distraction tactic or a bargaining chip to help him win. He was just- not sober enough to properly filter his thoughts, apparently.  

“Keithy,” Lance whined, laying his head on his arm, almost knocking over several of his pieces in the process.

“Yes, Lance?” Keith mumbled, sliding his bishop across the board and taking Lance’s second rook.

“You have pretty eeyyees,” Lance yawned, his fist coming up to cover his mouth and, again, nearly wiping out half of his pieces. “Sometimes, whenever I’m real lonely or mad or scared or I miss home too much, I secretly come find you just so I can look at you and your pretty eyes, because they’re so pretty and calming and pretty.”

“It’s not a secret anymore,” Keith commented, unsure of what else to say and trying not to fidget now that it wasn’t his turn and Lance didn’t really seem to be paying attention to the board anymore.

“That’s okay,” Lance murmured. “Your eyes are still pretty.”

Hunk leaned over from his spot on the couch behind Lance and moved one of his pieces, seemingly randomly and for the sole purpose of moving the game along, since Lance wasn’t going to. Keith immediately moved to capture the piece, and Lance frowned as Keith scooped it up off the board.

“Where did all my pieces go?” Lance’s eyes lazily scanned the table until they landed on the pile of white pieces next to Keith’s elbow. “Hey! Those are mine!”

“I killed them, Lance. That’s how you play the game. They’re mine now.”

“What if I wanted them?”

“You should’ve played better.” Lance frowned again.

“Fine. You can have them. But only because your hands are so soft and pretty and I know you’ll be gentle with them.”

Keith swiped his pieces across the board as fast as he could, swiftly putting Lance’s king into checkmate and ending the game.

The best thing to do when a boy drunkenly flirts with you? Beat his ass at chess (read: panic).

Everyone had already beaten Lance at chess, and it was getting to the point where Lance was pretty much no longer lucid, his head rolling around on the cool surface of the table and his mouth (and supposedly his brain, although, as previously mentioned, Keith was pretty sure it wasn’t working at the moment) complimenting anything he eyes landed on (including but not limited to: the table he was laying on, Keith’s remaining knight piece on the board they hadn’t cleared yet, the couch cushion Shiro was sitting on, Allura’s right cheek, the wrinkles on Coran’s forehead, the wire frame of Pidge’s glasses, the ceiling tile directly above where Lance sat, and the knot in Hunk’s headband that he had discarded at some point during the Drunk Party and was now resting on the arm of the couch next to him).

Lance’s rambling was cut off by the mice, who had scurried into the room, used Lance’s slumped form to climb onto the table, and were now resetting the chess board.

“My ego cannot take another loss at chess,” Lance muttered unhappily, eyeing the mice.

“The rules state that you have to play everyone. If the mice want to play, you must oppose them.” Allura told him, not looking the least bit apologetic.

“And you have to put in effort. The mice will sabotage your future endeavors if you don’t. Learned that the hard way,” Pidge added.

“I’m pretty sure Lance putting effort into chess looks exactly the same as Lance not putting effort into chess,” Shiro said from his spot on the couch. Lance huffed.

“I’m just gonna have to beat the mice, then.” The mice chattered excitedly as Lance moved his first piece. A mere seven dobashes later, the mice had beaten him, clearing the board of his pieces and putting his king into checkmate before Lance had even managed to come up with a strategy (not that it would have helped).

That’s when he started to cry.

Keith didn’t even really know that’s what was happening until he looked at Lance, simply because he’d been quiet for a suspiciously long amount of time. Keith mostly expected him to be asleep, but even from where his face was mostly buried in his arms, Keith could tell he was tearing up.

“Lance? You okay?” Lance raised his head slowly, his lips pushed into a tired pout as he raised his fist to rub at his eyes. It was so goddamn adorable.

“This game sucks.” Lance whimpered, crawling across the floor and into Keith’s lap before Keith could even take a breath. Lance curled into a ball and buried his face in Keith’s neck, his tears wetting it slightly.

“Actually, I think it’s you who sucks,” Pidge commented, taking a long swig of her alcohol.

Lance made a hurt noise and clenched his fists in Keith’s shirt, pulling him closer. Keith hesitantly raised his arms and settled them around Lance’s form, properly holding him.

“Why am I so bad at everything?” Lance asked, so quiet Keith could hardly hear him.

“You’re not. It’s okay if you suck at chess. I lost the language game earlier, remember?” Lance laughed a little, sniffling. Keith smiled.

“Yeah, you sucked.” Lance giggled.

“Yeah. Languages aren’t really my thing. I guess strategies aren’t yours. Plus, chess takes a lot of practice to be good at.”

“Allura and Coran beat me. They’ve never played before.”

“They’re aliens,” Keith whispered loudly, holding back a grin. Lance laughed, raising his head a little to smile at Keith.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It must be our entire race that sucks.”

“We’re playing Twister,” Pidge announced to the quiet room.

“We don’t have a Twister mat.” Keith frowned.

“Yes, we do,” Pidge argued, pulling a Twister box out from behind her tiny, tiny back.

“Where the hell did you get that from?” Lance asked, considerably more awake after downing approximately a gallon of water, promptly throwing most of it up in the hall, and drinking most of the rest of his shots.

“I may or may not have also bought it when we were on the supply run.”

“Pidge hereby has my vote to become the official supply run captain, in charge of all supply runs from here on out, for the sole purpose of picking up more alcohol and cool shit from earth,” Lance said.

“Your opinion is appreciated. And currently being ignored. What is Twister?” Allura asked.

“You’re in for a treat.” Pidge grinned, holding onto the lid of the box and letting the rest fall to the floor. After the open drinks (and yes, the rest of Lance’s shots) had been drained, the space had been cleared, the mat had been laid out, and the rules had been explained, Pidge officially sat out of the first game to facilitate, catch the dirty cheaters, and spin the spinner.

Allura went first, slapping her hand onto the far most green circle as soon as Pidge told her to. Shiro went next, putting his foot on the yellow circle directly next to Allura’s hand. Coran decided to go for a challenge and leaned across the mat to place his hand on the yellow dot closest to the center, and Keith looked incredibly bored as he lazily covered a red dot with his hand, crouching down to do so. Lance’s eyes followed the movement and lingered on his ass as Hunk took his turn, stepping onto a blue dot a good distance from the edge, but not as far as Coran had gone. Lance’s turn had him squatting next to Keith, sticking his foot out to land on the yellow dot next to Coran’s hand.

“Why’d you go from that side?” Hunk asked, gesturing to Lance’s spot next to Keith, then shooting his gaze over to the other side of the mat, where Lance’s chosen circle would’ve been much closer.

“I’d have to walk farther. This was closer, therefore I went with it.” It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Lance wanted to be closer to Keith. None at all.

“Of course. Great plan.”

Lance ignored him as Pidge spun the spinner again and Allura moved her foot to cover a green dot next to her hand. Lance was hyper-aware of the heat radiating off of Keith, of how close their shoulders were to touching, of how many times their bodies would accidentally brush over the course of the game and how much he would like it.

Shiro extended his foot across the mat and stuck it onto the red dot next to Keith’s hand, exhaling audibly as he did so. Coran got to just stand on the mat, his feet resting on neighboring yellow dots in the center of the mat. Keith reached across the mat to put his hand on a green circle, having to maneuver around Coran, and Lance let his eyes trail over the exposed strip of skin that Keith’s stretch had given him access to (as well as his ass, which was straining against his tight pants and taunting Lance to no end).

Lance drew his attention away as Pidge gave him directions, moving his hands back to support his body as he moved his other foot to a blue dot near his yellow one. Lance had mixed feelings about being in the position so close to Keith, especially when his mind seemed determined to make this a Sexual Situation, if his adamant infatuation with Keith’s body was anything to go off of.

Lance stopped paying attention as the others slowly crept farther onto the mat, readjusting their spread limbs every turn. Lance’s attention was reserved for two things: how he was supposed to move his body when it was his turn and how nice Keith’s body looked each time he moved his.

Lance and Keith had managed to stay fairly close to each other, had even crossed limbs a couple times, and everyone was doing a good job of staying upright and not falling over. They had each taken about ten turns by now, and their bodies were pretty close, pretty sweaty, and pretty entangled. Lance wanted to hug whoever made this game and then deliver a swift punch to their face, because if there was one thing Lance couldn’t control when he was drunk, it was his hormones, and this game was absolutely not helping.

Not to mention that Keith looked really fucking good when he was stretching and moving and sweaty and breathing heavier than normal, and Lance wanted to be the reason he looked like that, more than anything in the world.

Inevitably, someone just had to go and ruin their collective perfect record, and Coran’s most recent turn had him crashing to the ground, taking Hunk with him. The only upside to this absolute catastrophe was the fact that the mat was now less crowded, making it easier for the remaining victors, and now it was just Keith’s legs tangled with his instead of Coran’s, too.

Time passed slowly, those remaining managing to perfectly executed their turns, and the game was a complete non-issue, a walk in the park, except for the fact that Lance absolutely could not focus on anything other than Keith. Lance’s eyes hardly left Keith’s frame as his muscles rippled under his skin and his sweat plastered his shirt to his curves and his exertion and his alcohol consumption made his cheeks so perfectly flushed and pretty to look at.

Lance’s hormones were proving to be a problem, especially since he was drunk and in a room full of people he considered to be his family and was playing a game that was not exactly raging-boner-friendly. He was completely lost on Keith, though. There was no point in denying it, even if it would be embarrassing to be outed in a situation like this. Looking away from Keith and his god-sent body was just not an option.

Somehow, Lance ended up on the mat in a spread eagle push up position, with Keith in an awkward crab-walk half underneath him, his knee brushing against the slight and hopefully not noticeable bulge in Lance’s jeans just enough to feel good and be a complete and utter tease . Lance was almost positive he was going to die.

Shiro and Allura were still going strong, but they were pretty much on the other side of the mat, the closest limb being Allura’s hand on the yellow circle next to Keith. Shiro was balancing on the side of his foot and one hand, his feet stacked while his free hand was aloft for balance, and Lance was admittedly impressed. Shiro was probably much less drunk than Lance was, but Lance was pretty sure he couldn’t even do that while sober. At least, not for that long.

Allura was in pretty much the same position Lance was in, but she was a little more unstable than he was, since both of her hands were on yellow and her feet were side by side instead of a dot apart.

Lance admittedly didn’t spend that much time watching the others as they moved around the mat, because he was too busy begging his hips not to jerk downwards and rut against Keith’s knee. He swore he would disown them if they did.

He figured that Keith’s next turn would probably move him away and he’d be safe again, but no , Keith just had to move his hands closer , which caused his knee to bend more , which meant that it was now pretty firmly lodged in between Lance’s thighs and pressing against his dick.

Perfect.

Lance’s totally-subtle-and-not-at-all-panicked glance at Keith’s flushed cheeks didn’t indicate that Keith had felt or noticed Lance’s completely hypothetical hard on, for which Lance was semi-relieved. However, the fact still remained that unless Keith moved very, very soon, he would most likely only serve to make the problem worse. Lance was already shaking from the effort of both holding himself up and keeping his hips perfectly still, not daring to move them even an inch. It was much harder than he thought it would be. He evidently needed to do more training.

Lance’s turn had him moving his left foot over to the last blue dot open on the mat, shifting his hips even farther into the horribly delicious pressure and occasional friction that Keith’s knee was unintentionally supplying his dick . Predictable. Lance begged and prayed for Shiro and Allura to adjust themselves as fast as they could so that Keith could move or Lance could move or something could change .

Keith did move, but it just so happened to be in the least desirable way possible. As in, Keith tried to shift his other leg underneath Lance as well (which was obviously never going to work) and ended up just knocking Lance’s leg out from underneath him, making him crash into Keith and bring him to the floor as well.

However, Keith’s initial problematic knee still had not moved , which meant that Lance got much more friction and pleasure from his fall than he anticipated, but was luckily able to disguise his moan as a groan of pain (quite expertly, might he add), since Keith’s other knee did end up in his side.

Shiro and Allura lasted for a long time after that, shuffling around the mat like a couple of incredibly-in-shape-and-not-as-drunk-or-horny-or-unlucky-as-Lance allstars until Pidge “accidentally” kicked Shiro’s arm and ended the game, declaring Allura the winner.

Lance was excited to see the game end, only because it meant they got to play again. Hunk switched with Pidge for this round, the two of them sharing a strange look as Pidge passed him the spinner. Lance inched away from Pidge when she came to a stop next to him, paranoid. He had too much experience with Pidge being frighteningly all-knowing and even more willing to act upon her probably unfairly acquired knowledge.

Unfortunately, Lance was drunk. So, so, drunk. So he forgot. He got, um… distracted (Keith’s ass just looked really good, okay? It was so tight and round and almost always shoved in Lance’s face and no one could possibly blame him ). He didn’t remember the look shared between Pidge and Hunk until it was too late, and he found himself being forced into the most compromising position one could make on a Twister mat (probably. There really were a lot of options). Lance was not entirely convinced this was an accident, either, and not just because Drunk Lance fancied himself to be a conspiracy theorist.

“There’s no way I’m doing that,” Lance said, his right arm hovering awkwardly in the air, just like his torso.

“Then you’ll lose the game.” Pidge shrugged.

“I refuse! I’m not losing!”

“ Then put your hand on the stupid dot and let the game proceed .” This was not the first time that this particular conversation had taken place in the past three and a half dobashes. In fact, this had been the pretty much the only conversation for the past three and a half dobashes, aside from other people grumbling about the delay and Keith offering his own words of protest.

“Fine. Whatever. This is all your fault, Hunk, and I’m going to burn your favorite apron.” Hunk gasped.

“You wouldn’t. This isn’t even my fault!”

“You have the spinner!”

“ It’s random! ”

“In theory! You could be cheating and fucking with us on purpose and no one would know!”

“ Lance! ” several people yelled, making Lance huff. The conversation and the yelling had killed the mood enough that Lance was almost positive he could just, you know, pretty much straddle Keith’s ass without much of a problem at all. Almost positive.

Lance’s legs were already in the appropriate ‘straddle Keith’ position, his torso twisted awkwardly with his left foot planted on a middle red dot and his right foot settle on the equivalent green. His left hand was on a blue dot, one circle behind Keith’s, and his right hand was supposed to go on a yellow one. However, the only open dot of the yellow variety was the one across from his blue hand, the others being greedily hogged by Allura, Pidge, and Keith himself. Keith had one foot on a yellow dot on the far end of the mat, his other foot on a blue circle one closer, and his hands were spaced onto blue and green.

Lance carefully threw his arm over Keith’s back and caught himself on the ground on the other side before the entirety of his body pushed Keith’s to the ground, quickly scooching his hand onto the proper circle once he’d found his balance. There was barely an inch of space between his skin and Keith’s, between his hips and Keith’s, between his body and Keith’s. Lance wanted nothing more than to press himself fully against the heat that was radiating from Keith in waves, seeping through his shirt, raising goosebumps on his skin. After all, Drunk Lance was not known for his self-control (this is not to say that Sober Lance was known for his self-control, either).

Lance narrowly stopped himself from doing something stupid and embarrassing, simply because Coran’s turn had him (somehow) tripping over Allura and landing on top of all of them . Lance was pushed into Keith and then into the floor as Coran’s body slammed into his. Once on the ground, something (Lance was not in a position to question what ) jabbed at his ass and had him jerking his hips directly into Keith’s fucking spectacular ass, Lance barely managing to force his moan into a whimper as he jerked his hips away just as fast.

Why was Lance’s momentary pleasure (and impending mortification) always a result of him crashing to the ground in incredibly close proximity to Keith? Lance had never done anything to the universe to deserve this. Not that he could remember, anyway.  

What Lance was not expecting, however, was for Keith’s ass to follow his hips a few seconds later, tentatively grinding against Lance’s dick in a way that was very, very good. Lance’s hands fisted themselves in Keith’s shirt as Keith continued to move slowly against him, drawing every movement out.

Lance was not as successful in hiding his moan this time, but it was mostly buried in the soft skin of Keith’s neck, and it seemed like the others were more focused on untangling themselves and getting up off of the ground to notice. Keith pushed his ass back a few more times before Hunk was grabbing Lance under the shoulders and pulling him off of Keith, probably assuming that Lance was too drunk to get up by himself and not that Lance wanted to stay there because they were pretty much grinding. Hunk didn’t seem to mind being glared at drunkenly (and with venom).

After agreeing that the round of Twister had put forth no winner but had crowned Coran as the ultimate loser (Lance was simply enthusiastic about the fact that he wasn’t “the worst person to play Twister in the history of Twister” since he already held that title in chess), they folded the mat back up (very badly) and shoved in into the box (very badly) along with the spinner, retreating back to the couches and the crate of spalcohol (aka the slang term Lance had created for the space alcohol. It had gotten mixed results from the group).

Lance collapsed onto the couch and hastily pulled his legs to his chest, hiding his crotch area from the remainder of the room. The rest of them did not need to know that he had a raging boner; Keith knowing was bad enough (Lance was too drunk to really analyze the whole grinding scenario, but he was, at the very least, happy it happened).

Keith plopped onto the couch next to him a few seconds later, handed him a bottle of spalcohol and then proceeded to shove his feet onto Lance’s lap, forcing Lance to adjust his posture to accommodate them (and if his heels landed directly on Lance’s dick and proceeded to rub subtly against it, Lance did not comment).

“Good news, everyone!” Coran yelled while looking up from the computer screen he’d been pouring over for the last half varga, startling Lance enough to make him drop his spalcohol bottle (it was empty, but the fact that he was no longer holding it was still enough to make him sad). “I found a team bonding exercise for us to play! A really fun one!”

Pidge leaned over his shoulder to glance at the article he was reading. The top of the screen said “ Team Building Exercises (or, you know, kissing games for bored, horny teens) ”. Coran obviously did not read past the words “Team Building Exercises”, but Pidge was willing to forgive him. They were all too drunk to hold it against him. Pidge continued to the next part of the article, where they were explaining the rules for the first game on the list.

“ Suck and Blow: Take an index card or a piece of paper and suck to suction it to your lips, passing it around the circle, mouth-to-mouth. If the suction stops and the paper drops, then you’re kissing whoever’s on the other side! ”

Coran obviously did not read the last sentence, either, but Pidge was not about to point out why they definitely should not play this game. In fact, Pidge was about to suggest that they one hundred and nine percent play this game .

“This sounds like a great idea, Coran.” Pidge encouraged, clapping him on the shoulder. “Everyone sit on the ground in a circle.” Pidge stuck her hand under the couch and pulled out a piece of paper that had been under there since nearly their first day on the castle and wiped it off with her sleeve a couple times, ignoring the strange looks from her friends.

She then grabbed Coran’s computer and read the instructions, leaving off the last sentence just as Coran had. Her counterparts from Earth turned white anyway, opening their mouths to protest before Pidge held up a hand to silence them. “It’ll be good for us. Let’s play a couple rounds.”

The game was a complete shitshow, understandably. At first, they passed the dirty paper around the circle more times than any of their drunk brains could keep track of, since the task was stupidly easy, even when inebriated. Lance was about to suggest they play something else when Hunk accidentally dropped the paper and was suddenly kissing Pidge, who jerked back like she had been burnt and started yelling, suddenly not as convinced the game would be “good for them”.

After Shiro and Allura pulled a very angry Pidge off of Hunk and convinced her that pummeling him was not the answer and that he did not, in fact, need to be “punished for his unimaginable sins”, the game continued, although Lance was considerably more careful about how he played since he was sitting on Pidge’s other side and did not want to be beaten to death over a game that Pidge herself encouraged.

The next person to slip up was Coran, which was a surprise to no one. He was not exactly skilled at holding his liquor, it seemed. Shiro was lucky he had the reflexes of a goddamn space cat, because they were the only thing that saved him from locking lips with Coran. Lance shivered at the thought.

After that, the game progressed slowly. Lance was terrified of the thought of kissing Pidge on accident and was also lowkey waiting for someone else to mess up so that everyone could laugh at them, or do something more exciting than make awkward eye contact while passing off a damp tree sheet. The game was no fun if everyone was stupidly good at it. Lance also wanted the game to end so he could stop putting his lips all over the dirty piece of paper they were passing around. He had to have at least, like, three space diseases by now, plus mono.

As was such, it was only fitting that Lance would be the next one to lose his focus, considering he wanted someone to do it so badly. It wasn’t supposed to happen to him, though. He was supposed to win.

He was so panicked about the paper no longer being pressed against his lips that he almost, almost , pulled away when Keith was pressed against his lips instead.

Once Lance realized this fact, he did the very opposite of pull away.

No one else in the room was very surprised that Lance and Keith started kissing and just kind of didn’t stop. It had been Hunk and Pidge’s goal all evening, but they kept their celebration silent in fear of spooking the couple. Shiro and Allura looked amused and delighted and also just a touch uncomfortable, and Coran was pretty much asleep on the floor. He was supportive in spirit, though. Pidge could tell.

Keith’s lips tasted like the paper they’d been passing around for the last fifteen dobashes, but when Lance licked past his lips and past his teeth and into his mouth, the taste of paper faded away and was replaced with something that just tasted like Keith, exactly like Lance had imagined. Lance sighed into the kiss and let his hands roam over Keith’s body, over his shirt, over his skin. Lance liked the way his skin felt smooth and soft and warm under his fingertips, liked the way that Keith’s fingertips were just as curious.

“Do you think Lance dropped it on purpose?” Hunk whispered after crawling silently across the floor to be within whispering distance.

Pidge, Shiro and Allura shook their heads.

“Lance isn’t smart enough to think of that. He was probably too busy trying to win to even consider it.” Pidge pointed out. Hunk stifled his laugh.

Keith gave a little breathy moan from the back of his throat when Lance wound his fingers in his hair and pulled on it, and Lance gave a slightly louder moan when Keith sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and nibbled on it. Lance’s hands slid down Keith’s body and pulled at his belt loops, tugging him into his lap before running his hands back up and cupping his face, holding it still while Lance ravished his mouth.

The others glanced at each other and decided they should probably leave. Drunk Party was over, and they did not want to stick around for Keith And Lance Resolve Their Literally Tangible (Wink, Wink) Sexual Tension Party.

Pidge exchanged a high five with Hunk as he walked past her and out of the room, and Shiro helped Allura pull Coran to his feet and out of the room as Lance and Keith continued to suck face on the floor. As Pidge was leaving, she heard Lance pull away from their heated and lengthy kiss (she was briefly worried they would pass out from lack of oxygen, then decided it wouldn’t really be so bad if they did) and lean forward to whisper (it was probably supposed to be a whisper, but Drunk Lance literally did not possess the ability to whisper) in Keith’s ear.

“Hey beautiful, wanna see my Phenid?”