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They’re told to wait on the beach.
Lance’s head whips up, his shoulders rolling back as his spine straightens, standing at attention like he’s a fresh-faced cadet snapping off a salute to Iverson for the first time. Pidge and Hunk share a look, eyebrows raised with their lips pressed flat, amused or bewildered by Lance’s reaction, but Shiro makes a sound, metal knuckles pressed against the curve of his mouth, ducking his head as Lance sputters and asks the alien to repeat himself.
“You probably shouldn’t get your hopes up,” Hunk says, stage-whispering behind his hand as their escort leads them out of the citadel. “We don’t know what their definition of a beach is.”
“Hunk,” Lance whines, trying to hit that perfect dog whistle-like pitch that makes Hunk shudder and wince. “Why would you even say that?”
“Oh relax,” Pidge says. “We saw the planet from space. You know there’s water on it.”
“Yeah,” Hunk drawls. “But that guarantees nothing. Could have been acid or gelatin or molten--”
“Our oceans consist of neither,” their escort says. His stride doesn’t break, but the pink gills tucked behind the curve of his jaw flare outwards before retracting.
I think he’s mad, Pidge mouths, stumbling a little when Shiro gives the back of her shoulder a shove, curling his fingers over the hard shell of her armour to keep her upright when she starts to tip. He lifts his head, pointing at Hunk and Lance in turn, as if in warning, and Lance throws up his hands before pressing them back against his chest, aghast. What did he do? He’s innocent in this!
Shiro rolls his eyes, but seems to concede to Lance’s point with a nod.
The beach looks almost uncanny in its familiarity: yellow sand stretching out for at least a mile, blue waves rolling in along the shore beneath a clear, open sky. Lance falters as his breath catches, his lungs feeling tight and suddenly too small to hold it.
(He taught his nephew how to swim in the ocean, carrying him out to the shallows and showing him how to doggy-paddle and kick his legs, holding onto his hand when he dunked his head underwater for the first time. He used to surf with his older sister for hours in the early morning, lying flat on their boards as they watched the sunrise. The first time he kissed a girl they had been standing waist-deep in water, splashing one another until she hooked her hands behind his head and dragged him down into the next wave, her mouth pressing hard against his own.)
“Hey.” Hunk nudges at Lance with his elbow. “You good?”
Lance clears his throat. He turns to Hunk, answering with a smile before taking off across the beach at a run.
Hunk and Pidge join him a moment later, leaving Shiro behind to chat with the escort. They flank Lance on either side, kicking up sand beneath their feet, and the three of them stop as one at the edge of the water, looking out towards the wavering line of the horizon.
“It’s weirdly quiet,” Pidge says, flapping her hands above her head. “No birds.”
Hunk says, “Good. Seagulls are the worst.”
“Seems wrong, though.”
“Do you have to ruin everything?” Lance mutters, because now that Pidge has pointed it out he can’t not notice it. He doesn’t like seagulls either, but the lack of their shrill call makes him feel strangely unbalanced, his sense of nostalgia colliding against something unfamiliar and wrong. He takes another step forward, just far enough to allow the next wave to wash over the toe of his boot, leaving behind a thin layer of brine and bubbling foam.
“There’s a dock you know,” Shiro speaks up from from behind them, motioning further down the beach when they turn to look. The escort isn’t with him.
“Did they tell you how much longer Allura and Lotor’s meeting with the Queen will be?” Pidge asks.
“No,” Shiro says with a mild shrug, though Lance knows he doesn’t like being asked to wait, either.
Hunk snickers. “What’s up Pidge, scared you’re gonna get burnt out here?”
“Um, do you see how pale I am? I’m always scared of getting burnt.”
Lance bends down, squinting at her. “I think I see a new freckle already.”
Pidge shoves her palm into his face, pushing up his cheek as she tries to move him away. “God.”
They travel to the dock as a group, and Lance tries to goad the others into joining him for a swim the entire time. He picks Pidge up around the waist, threatening to throw her in as he carries her awkwardly for a few more steps, his grip slipping as she squirms and shouts.
“Lance!” Pidge flails, her short legs kick out. “Lance, no, I swear to God--”
“I’m kidding.” Lance sets her down, moving away as he works off his chest piece, pulling it up and over his head.
“Dude, don’t,” Hunk says, wincing like he’s in physical pain. “You’re gonna get eaten by a space shark.”
“I mean, that would be a pretty cool way to die.” Lance lifts one foot and then the other, finding the pressure releases on his boots by touch before yanking them off. “Avenge me?”
Hunk’s mouth twists, his head wobbling back and forth as he considers.
Lance wanders towards the end of the dock, wiggling his toes against the damp wood as he peers down into the water. He makes a show of rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms high above his head and swaying from side to side before diving in.
The water’s colder than he thought it would be, though the suit protects him from the worst of the chill. Lance opens his eyes, watching the play of sunlight shimmer beneath the surface of ocean, looking down past his feet at the yawning darkness lurking below. It used to frighten him, jumping into dark water without being able to see the bottom, but now it makes his heart leap with exhilaration. He kicks lazily, trusting in the amount of air caught inside his lungs, letting the buoyancy of his own body propel him upwards more than the strength of his legs.
“How is it?” Shiro asks after he surfaces.
“My face is kinda cold,” Lance says, wiping a hand over his mouth. He puts a bit of distance between himself and the dock, delighting in the simple joy of being able to swim again as his limbs move through water, small waves lapping at his chin. He’s careful not to go too far, turning around in an arc and heading back before someone feels the need to call out to him.
“Too bad Keith isn’t here,” Hunk says.
Shiro huffs, mouth curving into a smile --small and private. “He wouldn’t really like it.”
There’s a story behind those words --when it comes to Shiro and Keith there’s always a story-- but Shiro offers nothing in the way of an explanation, his amused expression retreating almost as quickly as it appeared.
Lance lifts his hands out of the water, kicking his feet hard beneath the surface. “Hey. There’s no ladder. Help me up.”
“Swim to shore,” Pidge says.
“Um, what if I tried that and actually drowned? You would feel really bad.”
“Would I, though?”
Shiro crouches down at the edge of the dock, stretching out his prosthesis. “Here.”
“Shiro don’t,” Pidge says. “He’s just gonna pull you in.”
Lance sputters. “Hey!”
“Yeah,” Hunk says. “I’m actually with Pidge on this one.”
Shiro keeps his attention on Lance, cocking his head slightly, his eyes warm and bright in the glow of the sun. “Better not.”
“I won’t,” Lance says.
Shiro’s metal fingers close around his wrist, and Lance can feel the solid pressure of his grip even though his suit, strong and unyielding and so, so careful.
Sometimes Lance thinks he’s just imagining it, that Shiro stands closer to him now, that he lets their shoulders and knees knock and smiles more when they speak, that he seeks out Lance’s company for no other reason than just to be in it. He has to remind himself every now and then that he’s not just making things up, that Shiro trusted him with something small and fragile and deeply private, the kind of secret that means something and changes more than it should.
“Did you tell anyone else about what I said to you?” Shiro asked him, once.
Lance shook his head, caught off guard by the question. He thought about the Castle drifting through space like a ship dead in the water, the strange, uncertain waver in Shiro’s voice as he whispered in the dark.
Shiro sighed, shoulders dropping. He looked relieved for a moment, and then: shameful.
“I know you wouldn’t just-- not that you even need to keep it a secret--”
“It’s between us,” Lance said, making sure to smile wide when Shiro looked back at him, shrugging like it was nothing.
“Right” Shiro said, pausing for a moment before quietly adding, “Thank you.”
He touched Lance’s shoulder with his hand, the one still made of flesh and blood, and the warmth he left behind lingered long after he moved away.
There’s a small collection of tall, open tents lining the edge of the beach, bracketing the path that leads back along the way they came. The tents are constructed from wooden poles and white, billowing cloths, and when Lance wanders inside one he finds colourful woven blankets spread out across the sand, bowls of food and water and a short stack of towels shoved off to the side.
“Are we allowed to use this?” Hunk asks nervously when Pidge pokes her head in, eyes darting about before she follows Lance’s lead.
Shiro says something about the escort telling him it was fine, but Lance isn’t really paying attention. He drops his discarded chest piece and boots in the corner before helping himself to one of the towels, throwing it over his head and scrubbing vigorously at his damp hair.
“If they set this up for us it would be rude not to use it,” he points out.
Hunk shrugs and ends up claiming one of the blankets for himself, flopping onto his back and pulling his bandana down over his eyes to block out the sun, spreading out his arms and legs out wide like a beached starfish.
“In that case I’m taking a nap,” he says.
Pidge snorts and settles down next to him, lying with her knees up and ankles crossed, fingers tapping over the screen of her tablet.
Shiro stays up with Lance on the far side of the tent, sitting crossed-legged with fingers curled beneath his chin, watching the steady push-pull of the ocean through the open flap of the tent.
“I wonder how much longer Allura and Lotor will be,” Lance mutters, pushing the towel back so it hangs off his shoulders. He tries to squash down the uncomfortable twist that rises in his stomach at the thought of them alone together, but is only partially successful at doing so.
“It’s been awhile already,” Shiro says, casting Lance a knowing look. He bows his head, rubbing his prosthetic hand back and forth across his brow, metal fingers clicking as they move.
“Headache?” Lance asks.
Shiro stiffens, glancing at Lance from beneath his fingers before dropping his arm. “Nothing serious.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“It’s just-- you know, they seem to happen a lot.”
“You think so?”
Lance grits his teeth. It’s irritating, the way Shiro completely shuts down the moment he suspects someone else is trying to understand anything about him. For a time Lance suspected it was a new habit, brought on by whatever’s been causing Shiro so much stress over the past few months. He worries now that it’s not, that he just wasn’t paying enough attention to notice it before.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Lance says slowly, lowering his voice. “But you don’t have to pretend, either.”
Shiro looks at him again, eyes flickering though he doesn’t turn his head.
“Bold assumption,” Shiro says, but he doesn’t sound angry. He looks tired, Lance realizes, taking in the strained lines fanning around the corners of Shiro’s mouth, the pallor of his cheeks.
“I guess,” Lance says. “Still think it’s true.”
Pidge and Hunk have fallen quiet. Lance wonders if they’ve drifted off.
Shiro follows Lance’s gaze towards the others, the edge of his lips pulling into something that resembles a smile more than it succeeds at actually being one. He stretches out his legs and settles down onto his back, sighing heavily as he rubs his hand back and forth across his eyes.
“Okay,” he says.
Lance frowns. “Is that a it’s-okay-if-you-think-that kind of okay, or a okay-you’re-right, okay?”
Shiro blinks and laughs a little, his chest hitching. “What?”
“You heard what I said!”
“No really, I don’t think I processed that at all.”
Lance lies down next to Shiro with a huff, wiggling himself into a comfortable little dent in the sand.
“Fine, whatever,” he grumbles, purposely shifting so his elbow knocks against Shiro’s side. “See if I care.”
“I think that you do,” Shiro says, light and teasing. Lance shifts against the ground and smiles, feeling his throat and the tips of his ears grow hot, and doesn’t reply.
(Shiro wakes up slowly, too warm and with sand scratching against his cheek, tucked in close against another body with his fingers curled over a sharp, slim hip. His mouth is dry, lips stinging when his tongue darts out to wet them, coated in a fine layer of salt and dust.
He had been dreaming of drowning, of being trapped beneath glass and watching as neon-bright liquid flooded up from beneath his feet, rising over his knees and waist. It tasted strange in his mouth, too sweet and revoltingly thick, and it made his teeth stick together as it coated his tongue and esophagus, flowing down his throat to pool in his lungs and stomach, heavy like liquid lead.
A hand shifts against the base of Shiro’s skull, long fingers with neatly trimmed nails catching in his hair.
“Hey,” Lance whispers. “You doing okay?”
Shiro shivers, his breath growing dewey in the warm alcove of Lance’s throat. When had he moved so close? The fingers on Shiro’s neck trail downwards, following the rope of his spine, the touch hesitant and unsure.
“Bad dream?” Lance asks.
“No,” Shiro croaks. He hates that it doesn’t feel like a lie. “Don’t ask me about it.”
“I won’t.”
There’s something wrong with me, Shiro thinks. He feels it in the hollow pit of his stomach, the panic that beats in his chest like a trapped bird and the bruised ache that now lives inside his head. He's careful to swallow down the words, afraid that if he speaks them aloud Lance will move away until they’re lying face to face, and Shiro feels safer as he is: held and unseen.)