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Lance is not meant to be here.
Well, that’s not strictly true. He has every right, considering he is already here; climbing the opalescent steps towards the gargantuan set of obsidian doors. Doors which have haunted his dreams since he was seven, since he first heard his abuelita speak of the night so many eons ago.
But dreams have a way of fading. Especially when your world is shattered by war: one you end up being part of despite the wishes, wills and advice of every person on the war council and the royal advisors. But nothing could stop the youngest Prince, or later; the Heiress Apparent; from playing their role in the conflict.
A war Lance has returned from changed in both body and mind. But that is not what he dwells on now, as he turns his masked eyes towards vague hints of pastel colour through the opening doors.
The doors will be thrown open at the stroke of midnight. From there, the first night of the Nocturne Carnival begins, the first for half a century. In the two nights that follow, the revellers will see...well, that’s the beauty and mystery of the Nocturne Carnival, is it not? That no one person ever experiences it the same.
His mother is bound by duty to be here as Queen, and he knows once he crests the last step, he’ll be in her presence, even if she is unrecognisable in costume. The two newly crowned heirs of the Galran and Altean Kingdoms will also be present, making the Queen of Earth the final obligatory participants.
Which is why Lance does not feel he should be here. Mami is the one who has to partake due to duty, but Lance…
Perhaps war has not destroyed every single one of his dreams. Perhaps there is still one, lingering in the corners, staring up at the stars as if they are mysteries to be discovered; not the burning masses of dying words he now knows them to be.
One tiny part of him wants to be fated.
He reaches the final step and joins the crowd, a feeling that he’s not quite used to. He sees now, that at the epicentre of the doors is a massive astronomical clock, moving carefully towards the witching hour. Despite the crush of fantastically clothed guests, he can still see the structure clearly.
The outermost circle is boarded in silver, with symbols in ancient Altean that Lance does not recognise framed across each edge in the same metallic tinge. The circle within that is framed in light blue, containing the 28 standard symbols for a quintant, equally spaced as hands move towards the last hour of the day. Then in deepening shades of pink from halfway down the centre sweeps the colours for sunrise, daybreak, twilight and setting; bordered with dark purple, contrasting in the very smallest circle for astronomical night. A final, magenta tinged circle rounding to the left finishes the device, strangely with Earthen astrological symbols carved in silver, indicating the star date they are now part of. Lance notices the dial rests on Scorpius as he marvels at how such a contraption can tell time in three ways.
No-one really knows how this all works, or at least no-one has ever been able to explain it to Lance in more than a fantastical way. Pidge believes the Alteans must know, this being a gateway on their own planet, but they’ve never revealed its secrets.
All that’s known, in fable or fact, is that only the ruler of Altea can open these gates, and only when they want to be opened. Zarkon tried many times to force them apart, and when that proved too difficult, destroy them. But they did not move. They withstood the war, and the chime of the clock boomed three times loud and clear six months ago, announcing the opening was to follow.
The rulers of the three kingdoms have always had access, and it’s said that one millennia ago when the Earth King was too ill to attend, the gates would not open. Other than that, the Carnival is open to anyone.
Anyone the door chooses.
Which makes almost no sense in itself, except it does. For over the past few months, Lance has felt it creeping; drawn to colour and fabrics, finding himself in winding alleys that lead to tailors he’s never seen before, dreams with whispers of dark nights and neon lights guiding him through twisting corridors; so terrifying he’s running through with a smile so bright and heart beat so wild.
Veronica is the same; he bumped into her a few times, looking lost and confused as she wandered, holding half made outfits that glittered strangely in the real world. But none of his other siblings. They don’t feel the pull, and did not seem sad either as they wished them a safe journey to Altea.
His mother left separately this evening, and while he started out with Veronica, he lost her fairly quickly as they made their way through Altea’s streets, which make as much sense as anything does tonight; for the streets are simple and he knows the way, yet suddenly as he wound his way to the doors, he found himself alone.
It’s not a rule that you cannot see other people’s costumes, and many do collaborate and help in creating them. For, as is the will of this, if someone knows of your costume, it is for a reason.
Everything, in this strange time, has a reason.
On these three nights, the visions you will see, the places you will walk, the experiences you have all contain meaning, and only you can decipher what. There are stories of people exiting the Carnival with knowledge that has changed the world, and others who lived half a century before understanding the purpose of their visit.
The main one being what Lance has always been most curious about: fated meetings. It is said if you meet the same person and know them each time you enter, then you are fated. True love, soulmates, siblings stronger than blood, there are many ways you can connect, but all have great meaning. For that reason, each person carries three tokens: one for each night of the Carnival, which can be given to someone while inside.
Lance twists his own around his fingers. He’s chosen ribbons, found in the back of a shop in a very corner of his favourite street back home, which he found himself in with no rhyme or reason. He didn’t even recall seeing it before, the writing on the sign outside faded, door of peeling azure as he stepped through.
And it was wall to wall with ribbon. He had never seen so many, some already tied in bows of different sizes, some in giant rolls to be cut to size, others wide as flags, some thin as a pendant chain. Yet it was the colours which astounded him. They lay jumbled without a discernible pattern, most familiar yet other strange hues he’d never even imagined. He remembers standing in awe and a little fear at what felt like such an impossible place.
“Pick three. From this wall, I think. They should be the right size.”
He’d turned to see a man, dressed in a dark but seemingly dusty three piece suit of crushed mauve velvet, so at odds with the brightness of his surroundings. He smiled though, wide and welcoming as he pointed to the far wall.
“Three?” Lance said, still a little confused.
The man laughed, low and carefully. “They will be your tokens. That’s why you’ve come here, is it not?” he said.
Lance could not actually agree or disagree with that statement, but without giving an answer, he walked almost numbly to the wall, eyes glued to their offering. These ribbons were all cut to a similar length, and when he gently touched one, they were flexible and sturdy, yet somehow soft as silk, almost molding to the shape of his hand, slipping between his fingertips and staying. It should have set off warning bells, for fabric does not work that way, but it felt right. In the uneasy sense that any of that day did.
So he left the shop with three ribbons, all of which seemed to move on their own into his hands, as if they were the ones attaching themselves to him. And back in this very moment, as the buzzing murmurs of the crowd heightens, Lance finds one of them winding itself around his hand as if in comfort.
He holds his breath, eyes glued to the clock. A strained silence ripples over the crowd as they all wait for the hour to strike. The hands move, and Lance’s entire world centres on that one point, that one fixture in the fantastical clock.
For a second nothing happens, and Lance wonders if the conditions have not been met, if something is amiss. But then, from unseen doors on either side of the clock face, a trail of tiny figures moves across. The first is a blazing sun, twisting of its own accord but still an image of a curling solar flare, golden in a huge contrast to the silver scheme of the clock itself. Following are three figures: one with huge yellow skirts, hands bunched in the fabrics as if running, the other in a suit of the same colour, a huge hat covering the face.
And the final one is death. An animated skeleton following with a gap between the last figure, as if stalking them through the dawn. Death too has a golden hue in the form of a mask over the skull, and Lance watches transfixed as the skeleton marches the length of the clock and through the door.
The moment the figure vanishes there is a deep, echoing doom that rocks through Lance’s bones, and with it, in an eerily seamless manner, the huge obsidian doors silently open.
The first night of the Nocturne Carnival has begun: the Dance of Dawn.
Lance doesn’t remember passing the threshold and into the Carnival, but he must have done for now he is truly here. And here looks weirdly like home. Well, an idealised version of home if he’s being truly honest with himself. He’s on Varadero beach, in the midst of a celebration so vibrant and loud it fills his bones with the vibrations.
Around him, people dance barefoot in their costumes, all shades of red, blues, greens and pinks, all with accents of gold running through. The music is exactly what he grew up singing to, dancing to, and he is swept up into the beat of this, twirling a woman in a huge sparkling headdress as she laughs into his shoulder. The edges of her white and gold mask dig into his skin, and as they part, she winks a forest green eye, before disappearing into the crush of the crowd before he can even think of reaching for his ribbon.
The water sparkles, the sand is soft and yielding as he twirls, having discarded his cherry-wood stained shoes at the edge of the beach. Breathlessly, he staggers to a vendor, who hands him a glass of vaguely simmering liquid, filled with gold sparkles and seems to move between pastel pink and baby blue depending on which way he turns it. Lance drinks it down, and it tastes like falling asleep with sea salt encrusted hair, summer mornings when the light is so bright so early, and the noise of shells crunching under running feet. Lance gives back the empty glass with a smile and wave, before turning back to the neverending festivities.
It’s as he strides forward that he sees the other person.
They stand leaning against the railings, just at the top of the worn stairs which lead down to the beach. As well as the fact that they are not revelling with the others, it’s their outfit which captures his attention. It’s dark, and obviously a suit from the way it hangs, although Lance can see nothing else at this distance. Yet that is why Lance is so curious, for no one else here has any colour other than neon, glitter and pastel. Even his own outfit, although not the brightest by far, is still a royal blue, which although dull by the surroundings, seems to almost merge with the reflections of the sea, the blueness intensifying with spin in the daylight.
So the strangeness amidst the strangeness that is this entire experience is what brings Lance to the foot of those steps. He climbs them, bare feet not catching on the stone even a tiny bit as he approaches the stranger. Closer, he can see their suit is burgundy, their mask covering almost all of their face; rising up at the mouth and falling down over either side so only his chin is visible. Lance can make out black hair that falls down his neck, but it’s the only sidelong view he gets before the person turns to him.
His mask is more theatre style; simple in it’s sleek, almost shining black, with a small swirling crimson patterns that fall from the eyes like bloody tears. They seem to move though, twists in lines that may be constellations, but change so swiftly Lance does not have a chance to recognize any before the stranger speaks.
“Why did you come over here? You seemed to be having fun.”
His voice sounds familiar, but the cadence is lost in the wind before his mind can capture it, just the language remaining. Lance shrugs, for he has no answer, so deflects.
“You were watching me?” he says, winking even though through his mask, it can hardly be seen. His is a Venetian style of blue and white, which he thinks doesn’t work much to hide him, seeing as he’s a Prince. But perhaps in this world of disguise, it is enough, for the person doesn’t change their inflection or stance.
“It’s hard not to. You stand out,” the man answers, and Lance blinks. He turns his eyes back to the wild and free colours and glitter of the procession that appears further away than he thinks should be possible.
“Because you’re not part of this world. You’re obviously a guest, like me,” he clarifies, and Lance nods, remembering this is his own reasoning for walking over.
There isn’t much he can say after this, so he leans on the railings, watching the people dance and the waves rise and fall, a soothing rhythm.
“I love the sea,” he mumbles to himself, half hypnotised by the rolling blues, ever perfect.
He startles then, when the man speaks once more, having been so lost in the waves he’d forgotten his presence .
“I’m not really a fan on the beach. Not sure why I’m here, of all places.”
Lance laughs, for that’s so painfully obvious in his stiff posture. Lance turns and leans back on the railings, facing half towards them.
“This feels like home to me. Well, sort of. It’s kinda too perfect; the waves are just the right height to surf, the sand is just the right temperature to walk on and the day is as cloudless as you could imagine. It’s like what this place used to be in my head,” Lance says with a sigh, turning his head up to the clear day.
“Used to be?”
He can feel the man taking one step closer, but Lance doesn’t look away. It’s easier like this, in this magical world, where he can lose himself in it’s imagery.
“Yeah. Before the war. There’s nothing left now. Nothing that can be called a beach, anyway,” Lance says to the sky, then flips round abruptly, a swirl of colour shaking his head with vertigo until his mind catches up with the movement.
Oddly, he’s managed to turn to the side again, so he’s facing the man. Or ‘Red’ as he’s now going to call him, seeing as that’s the overwhelming colour theme. Red looks awkward, fidgeting with his hands as Lance waits. But he just turns his masked head, and Lance sighs, feeling a little guilty. The war is still a difficult subject for so many, even himself if he’s honest.
“So it’s nice to see it. Even if it is too good to be true,” Lance tries, offering the man a smile and a tip of his head. He thinks that may have done something, for his stance seems to ease somewhat, and his hands drop to his sides.
So Lance grins, pushes down those crawling shadows which try to divide his vision, and looks back at the ocean.
“Come on, Red, race you to the waves,” he says with glee, suddenly thrown back to years before, when he’d rile up his sister until she’d chase him into the waves. The man before him visibly balks.
“What?”
Lance bends down to roll his pant leg up, throwing the guy a smirk as he does.
“Aww, worried the ocean will mess up your hair? Come on tough guy, a little bit of magical water can't hurt you,” he says, and strangely the taunt seem to work, for Red steps forward, pushing up the sleeves of his jacket as he moves.
“I am not scared of water,” he says, voice more of a growl and Lance laughs.
“Never suggested you were! But there’s one way to prove ittt,” he says, drawing out the last letter in almost a song.
He doesn’t know why he’s doing this, asking a stranger in a mask to race him into the sea when he should be back with the parade, finding his fated or exploring more of his childhood dreams. But this feels suddenly more crucial than anything, and his heart beats double-time when Red marches down the steps with him, to stand facing the ocean.
And Lance grins, the perfectly temperate sun shining down in this mysterious man as he removes his boots and rolls up his pants, the light making his outfit flare a deeper red than before, more like a rising fire from the gloom. Here, Lance isn’t a haunted, scarred Prince of a broken world. Here, he has no fear and responsibility. It’s just the call of the water and the challenge, as he turns his gaze towards his goal and screams “Go!”
His feet strike the sand in a burst of sudden energy, his muscles called to action and mask somehow still staying exactly in place as he rushes towards the sea. He laughs, high and free, as if he’s still a child, and he can hear the breathing of the other man next to him as they compete to the finish line. Lance pumps his arms, sand kicking up in his wake, but not in a way that restricts him like it should. He feels swift, driven, pushed forward by something other than his own body and will as with a tremendous splash his feet hit the water.
It’s pleasantly warm as he slows, spinning to his left triumphant as Red stands panting beside him.
“Well, I stand victorious!” Lance yells, throwing a hand up in the air which is trailing a little too close to the water, and promptly splashing Red in his enthusiasm. Lance winces as Red looks down at his now wet chest.
“Hardly, I was definitely here before you,” he challenges, and before Lance has a chance to retaliate, he gets a face full of water.
He splutters, blinking through the haze of his mask, the liquid parting on his lashes without burning, no sting of salt to be seen. As his vision wavers back he sees Red has moved forward into his space, arms hovering just above his shoulders.
“S-sorry, are your eyes okay? I didn’t-”
But Lance smirks, cutting him off by bending down and throwing as much water as possible towards him. Red gasps and stumbles backwards as he’s instantly drenched almost to the top of his mask.
There’s a beat, the air ruffling Lance’s hair slightly. And then, chaos ensues.
It’s a frenzy of laughing and yelling vague insults at one another as Lance races across the shoreline and turns to hit this guy he’s just met with as much water as he can. He is most definitely better than Red, who seems to never quite be able to hide in time; but after a while, Lance collapses on the warm sand, outfit be damned, laughing and utterly soaked.
Red comes to sit next to him, facing the water. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen the ocean,” he says suddenly, and Lance turns on his side to face him. Red is already looking though, peering down with his wet bangs now handing over the mask. His hair must be longer than Lance realised with the way one small piece escapes, flying straight across his face.
Lance smiles, unsure why but the words and the scene lifts something within, and he thinks, absurdly, he’s done something earth-shattering today.
“So what do you think?”
Red looks down at himself.
“Wet.”
Lance howls with laughter, and to his happiness as does Red, who sits back in the sand and tips his head towards the sun, shoulders shaking. Lance just finds himself watching as the shakes subside. Who is this man? Who dresses in dark red and covers his entire face, who runs just as fast as Lance but has never been to the ocean.
And why are they in the same place?
But he knows there is no point in fixating on this, so he stands, brushing off the sticking sand uselessly, before holding out a hand to Red.
“Come on, hopefully some of the stalls are still there. I could use a drink.”
Red seems to contemplate for half a second, before taking Lance’s outstretched hand. There’s no sparks, no moment, no sudden stopping of time and he’s thrown a little that he almost expects it. Just a warm hand in his own, rough with sand and little underlay of calluses, then Red is up and standing in their shared space.
Lance holds on, almost tightens his grip. He doesn’t want to let go, cannot explain why. It’s like there’s a string tugging inside him which has been drawing him to Red since he first glimpsed him, an inexplicable pull which fires up his every move.
He was watching you too , his mind supplies, but Lance shakes his head and drops Red’s hand without warning. Red, however, doesn’t seem to notice, hand dropping to his side as he looks over his shoulder. Lance pushes down that tiny pang of regret that he cannot completely capture this man’s attention.
“That’s new.”
Red’s voice has him turning and Lance feels his mind and body freeze up at the sight before him. For the beach is gone: no more Carnival, no more drinks, no more railings where he’d first caught sight of Red. There’s just sand. But it’s different now, a burnt orange hue that’s verging swiftly into red in places, sprawling and almost undisturbed. The wind has died, there’s nothing shifting the sand before him, and his eyes track the way it rises in dunes, one in particular directly before them. On either side and in the distance are rocks, almost mountainous in size, caverns and strangely circular shapes as if a giant hand scrunched debris from the Earth and dropped it before their eyes.
“Desert,” Lance breathes.
It’s stunning. It goes on for miles in perfect softness, the sun a mild glow atop a cavernous outcrop to their left. The shadows cast by the rocks are wide and grey, the red of the sun not allowing the darkness to fully penetrate. Even the sky is framed in soft pastels, a pink glow sliding around the blue.
“Come on,” Red says, then, without further ado, grips Lance’s wrist and begins to march upwards. Lance staggers a little, not expecting the touch, nor the way the stand shifts under his feet as they make their way towards the top.
Red leads them to the edge, near one of the rock outcrops which frame the area, and it’s tiresome work. His ankles begin screaming halfway up and his breathing comes in pants, while Red strides on as if this is nothing at all. Lance leans on the rock, and startlingly it’s warm, as if the pleasant heat carries through like a heartbeat in this universe.
“Giving up, Blue?” calls a voice from near the top.
Lance stares at the man before him, framed by the sun and so deeply Red he matches this world as if born to it; hair now completely free and cascading on either side of his mask, curling a little at the ends just past his shoulder.
Lance swallows, then grits his teeth.
“Not on your life!” he calls, and digs deep to find that last piece of energy within to make it to the top of the dune.
He thinks Red might be smiling behind the mask as he makes it to the top. He seems pleased anyway, for he grabs Lance’s wrist and pulls him to the edge again.
“Look,” he says, voice now a whisper.
And Lance does. He can’t not, with the view that reaches out beneath him, an endless sea of orange and red that, despite the part of him which whispers traitor, is just as beautiful as his own blue ocean. The rocks are dotted around, higher than any classic mountain, with spots of green where stubborn vegetation still grows. It seems never ending, and a creeping sensation of fear interrupts Lance’s mind. For in the dark this would go on without end, so easy to misstep and wander forever in nothing.
“Home was like this. Long ago,” Red says, and Lance isn’t sure if he is actually talking to him or to the spectacle before them.
The wind blows suddenly, and Red’s hair rises up, tangling in on itself. Lance watches the black strands dance as the man bats them away from his face, then rolls his eyes and digs into his pocket.
“Here, tie it back if it’s annoying you that much,” he says, offers him…
A ribbon.
It happens in slow motion before his eyes, something he’s not in control of even as he plays the part himself. Lance watches as he straightens his arm, and the scarlet ribbon dances in the breeze, kept still only by Lance’s grip.
“Thank you,” Red says, voice soft as spring mornings and takes the end, Lance letting go as they make the exchange.
Lance’s hand stays outwards, and part of him screams at him for his stupidity, for giving away a token on a whim. But he doesn’t, simply watches as Red pulls his long hair back with the ribbon, the strands no longer a broken halo in the wind as the scarlet coloured fabric pulls tight in a bow at the base of his neck.
It does look nice, Lance cannot help but think, a pleasant calmness at the contrast of the dark hair in and the red ribbon appeasing something within he didn’t know needed to be soothed. But that feeling is quickly dismissed as something deeper drops and burrows, a nagging pain from his insides.
Perhaps Lance isn’t meant to be fated.
“We should climb down. The sun is setting,” Red says, startling him from falling too deep into bleakness.
Lance looks up and sees that in fact he’s right, for the sun is so much lower now, fading fast behind the huge rocks, a deeper blue shadow filling the area with a deep blueness, an unexpected hue he’s never seen before. Without a word, they turn back to the dune and begin their descent.
It’s actually easier than Lance expects, imagining at any step he will tumble down, sand shifting under his weight. The light also seems to dim at the same rate with each step he takes, until it dives behind the rocks and without even being a third of the way down, they are plunged into darkness.
Immediately, Lance tips, feels his feet scramble for purchase on a sliding surface, and braces himself for a long uncomfortable fall. Except, the breath is punched out of him as he’s grabbed from behind, arms capturing his waist.
He flails for a second in the darkness, until he hears a voice close to his ear.
“Calm down, it’s me.”
Red’s voice halts his momentary panic, and Lance stills, heartbeat in his throat and ears. Red’s hold the only thing keeping him from falling into what seems to be a never-ending darkness. The breeze has died with the light, and Lance could be anywhere in the universe, the absence of light so dense it feels like a weight pulling him under.
“It’s fine. I can see. It’s not far down,” Red says and Lance cannot tell if he voiced his concern aloud or if Red just seems to know him.
“You can see? How? It’s pitch black. What are you, some kind of owl hybrid?” Lance says, trying for levity but failing dramatically with the unsteady laugh puncturing the sentence.
“I grew up in the desert, I’m used to the night here. You really can’t see anything?” Red says, and Lance shakes his head.
“Not a thing, buddy. You’re gonna have to lead us down,” Lance admits, not sure if he should really be trusting himself to a stranger in this moment.
Red sighs, and Lance feels it against his back which is...well it’s something, and Lance is acutely aware of how long it’s been since he’s been held, or held anyone in return.
Now is not the moment for that! He thinks to himself harshly.
“Wait, I have something that will help you,” Red says, and then to Lance’s utmost panic, he releases him.
Lance spins, footing strangely steady, but panic rising as the cloud of darkness seems to thicken without Red’s obvious presence. So when the light flickers to life, Lance’s eyes are drawn to it abruptly.
Red stands barely a step away, holding a small candle in his right hand. The flame is oddly blue, like the edges of firelight that you can’t really capture, a brightness that seems to cast away the lingering shadows. His mask seems to glitter in the odd shadow of brightness, making the starkness of the complete cover almost softer in Lance’s vision.
“Here. I can see, so this will help,” Red says, handing over the dark stem of the candle.
Lance takes it, grateful for light, no matter how eerie. It doesn’t create much of a glare, but at least he can walk without the fear of falling. He sticks close to Red though as they both head downwards, the dune seeming longer now than during their original climb.
It’s so quiet. Lance feels restless, itchy, and although he knows that the real desert is probably not like this in the same way as his beach was not, he still feels unease as they descend.
“Feels lonely, out here. So dark. So quiet. I’d go insane,” he comments, needing to hear any sort of sound.
“Most people would.”
Lance stops momentarily, as something in the back of his mind lights up, a distant story of someone else, alone in the desert before… before what? It must have been a story he heard as a child, and he quickly dismisses it, using the light to keep pace with Red once more.
“Even you?” Lance asks, and he sees by the small glow of the candle that they are almost to the bottom of the dune. Just before they take the final steps, Red spins, turned towards Lance, but head tilted upwards.
“The desert will always be my home. But also everything I’ve lost. I’m glad, though, that someone else got to see it how I remember it.”
And then, as he takes one final step towards Lance, the world bursts.
It’s not an explosion, for Lance has already experienced one of those. This is as if reality just tears inexplicably, and the darkness before splits to reveal a gash of light so blinding Lance has to throw the arm not holding the candle up to his eyes.
He hisses against the brightness, and turns to his left arm still raised and sees Red nearby, posture similar and turning towards him.
“Red!” he yells, holding out his hand, still clutching the candle and reaching for him.
Red takes two steps forward but the light is growing, building, and impossibly Red seems to be fading against it; becoming transparent as the beams of the tear in the world seem to be blasting through him. Lance’s eyes begin to water and he launches off his feet, racing to catch him, to reach him…
The light is everything, and against its brilliance Red fades in front of Lance’s very eyes until there is nothing but silver, and Lance falls into it.
Lance doesn’t recall getting home but he awakens bright and early, exhausted to the bone; pillow smelling of sea and sand with a dark blue candle clutched in his palm. Lance groans and turns away from the window, realising he’s still dressed in his suit, and the shoes he abandoned almost on entry to the Nocturne Carnival are neatly by the door.
He looks up at the ceiling, the unfamiliar sounds of the Altean palace bustling around him. He sits up, head a little heavy, as if he’s both slept for half a day and been up all night. They are staying in the Royal Palace for the duration of the Carnival, special guests along with several other nobles, royals and people of interest from various planets.
He grimaces as he checks the time and realises it’s almost nine. He’s due for breakfast soon, and Abeulita will not be happy if he’s late. Knowing this, he steels himself away from the lure of the soft bed, but before actually rising he takes another look at the candle.
In the daylight, he can see that while it is blue, there are other shades though it; it seems to swirl with a shimmering pale cerulean as he twists it, half mesmerised by the pattern. It almost flares, like the fire it produced last night, a blue flame encased within the candle to be set free when used. The wick is also dark, as if it’s burnt fully, but when Lance touches it, it’s soft and malleable as if it’s never been lit. There’s no change in the shape either, no dip in the top of the candle to tell of usage. It’s pristine and strange, and Lance is both comforted by it and a little perturbed.
Yet as he dresses for the morning, he still pockets it just as he leaves, a reminder that his evening adventures did occur. Not that he actually needs one; the Altean Palace is alive with people discussing their evening, still half dressed in outfits or holding pieces of their Carnival. He sees a group of Galra all clutching their masks and gesturing wildly, a noble's daughter he went on a date with long before the war holding a diamond cup in her hands, and one of the hallways he passes is littered with discarded yellow streamers.
He smiles to himself as he enters the breakfast room, mind still half occupied in the revelry of the evening, only to literally bump into the last person he wanted to see.
Keith Kogane. Or, Commander Kogane as Lance thinks he’s now called. He hasn’t seen the man in a while, but their last parting years ago had not gone well.
It’s hard, really, to explain exactly what they relationship is. Some time ago, they were friends. Closer, maybe, much in the way his bonds with Princess Allura, Pidge and Hunk are. Bonds forged through war and strife have this way of being deeper without real words, without existing terminology.
Only, Keith had up and abandoned them (in Lance’s opinion) just when he thought they were working well as a team. He’d joined the Galra rebels, apparently did some truly terrifying things and then slipped into one final battle with them, practically dismissing Lance’s existence.
Then Lance... well, almost died. And that was it for him.
Keith, however, went on to lead the charge of combined forces from all three Kingdoms while Lance strayed the line between life and death in a coma. When he awoke, it was to a world of peace, and Prince Lotor and Keith were on every channel in the world announcing the new reign of peace from the Galra.
Keith hadn’t said a word to him since he woke up. So Lance is very much sure that any sort of connection they once may have had is dead in the water, but even after all this time, it still aches. Not to mention that one time they’d nearly kissed eons ago, adding to Lance’s overwhelming infatuation which had spiked when he was just fifteen years old.
So a lot of history, a lot of pain, and a lot of things he would rather not deal with right now. Or ever, thank you very much.
“Sorry,” Lance mutters, then side-steps Keith and quickly tries to march away when he hears a call of his name.
He groans to himself but turns around as Keith catches up.
“Your Highness,” he says, suddenly tipping into a bow as if just remembering his status, the movement clumsy. Lance sighs.
“You don’t need to do that,” he says with a roll of his eyes. It makes his skin itch, seeing Keith act like that, the difference of time even more apparent with the way formalities have been installed. There was a time when there seemed to be no distance between them like that.
He looks different, yet all the same. His hair is so long now, Lance wonders if he’s even cut it in the last two years. It winds down in a messy braid over his right shoulder, the dark hair mixing with his dark long-sleeve shirt. There’s a nasty scar on his cheek which Lance has seen on television, but the starkness of it has him wincing. He almost longs to trace it, to ask what happened, if it still hurts. But he doesn’t. Just watches Keith fumble awkwardly as he tries to deal with a conversation he started. At least that part is somewhat familiar.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says at last, and Lance frowns.
“Why? Didn’t think I’d be invited to the Carnival?” Lance says, and Keith’s thick eyebrows rise.
“No no, if anything I would have expected that. It’s your kind of thing. I just...I guess I just haven’t seen you for a while so it’s a surprise,” he says, shrugging and gazing off to the side.
“Well, you know where I’ve been,” Lance says. Keith visibly flinches, and Lance immediately feels guilty.
He has no idea how to even hold a conversation with man in front of him anymore, and the realisation twists a knife deep. It also cuts at something else deep within, that one time fluttering hope that their friendship at times could have been something more, moved in a different direction.
But that door is closed and bolted. And Lance doesn’t have the key.
“Lance! Come, we’ve -oh, Keith. It’s been too long.”
Veronica’s shift in tone sends his head spinning for a second as she slides up next to him. He raises his eyebrow as she literally has feathers in her hair.
“Wow, what the heck were you doing,” he says, pulling out one of them, which she snatches back instantly.
“I think they’re still multiplying, I don’t understand. And what about you, your hair is all - urg, feels like it’s been in the sea,” she says, running a hand through it, and he feels the pull as she speaks.
He frowns, batting her hand away and running his own through. She is right, it does. But he’s showered and changed, yet still parts of night remain. He can’t help but grin to himself, memories of his splash fight with Red returning; he almost longs to dig in his pocket, pick up the candle and reassure himself it was real, all of it.
“I must be going, but it was good to see you both. I hope we can talk again?” Keith says suddenly, and Lance blinks, as those grey-violet eyes meet his own.
“Sure,” he ends up saying for no reason that he can explain, because he doesn’t really want to talk to Keith again, but the question seemed to have been directed his way. Then, with an incline of his head, Keith turns and exits the room. As he does, a faint sprinkling of something dusty red trails in his wake, a strange half footprint which Lance takes note of before tearing his eyes away.
Lance groans and Veronica nudges his side, raising her eyebrows.
“No,” he says gruffly and moves away, his sister laughing as she catches up.
“You gonna tell me your crush has vanished already?” she says as they collect plates and begin to search through the many dishes available to find something to eat.
As there are so many guests here, it’s a buffet style arrangement, but extravagant to say the least. Towers of mimosas, the finest coffee, dishes from all three kingdoms expertly produced and served fresh. Lance is suddenly ravenous; and both siblings end up with a mad mix of foods as Veronica leads them back towards the seating area.
“My crush is gone. Obliterated, vanished, crushed from existence. I don’t even get why he’s being so chummy now after all this time,” Lance complains.
Veronica sighs, shaking her head. “People grow, Lance. And you were in a war, hardly the time to have deep conversations. You were friends not too long ago, maybe closer to something else” she says.
“Yeah well, things change,” Lance mutters, then feels his steps lighten as he realises where Veronica is leading them to.
At the back of the hall, spine straight and regal, sits his Abuleta. She must have arrived after the Carnival began, and Lance bounces over to take a seat next to her.
“Ah, Lancito, mijo . Did you have fun last night? I see the ocean was there, as it should have been,” she says, taking in his hair.
“Abuelita, it was amazing. So...I don’t know how else to describe it,” he says, feeling the remnants of the night sigh out of him, Veronica nodding along too with a smile.
Abuelita stares at him for a moment, scrutiny in her gaze, but not unkind. Then, with a smile, she ruffles his hair.
“You found them! Your fated, ha? I told you so long ago you would,” she says, sounding triumphant.
Lance chokes on his coffee, Veronica placing her fork down and giving him a knowing grin as she leans forward.
“I knew you looked different. Did you give them a token?” she asks, eager in that perky way siblings are.
“Did you mess it up? Drop the token? Forget to give it to them?” she continues, more in line with what he was expecting, and he just about resists throwing food at her.
“I didn’t meet them. It was amazing yeah, but I didn’t meet them. I’m not fated,” he says with a shrug.
There’s silence at the table. Veronica gives him a half smile and lowers her eyes, an apology in her own way. He thinks about the night, about the candle upstairs and the moment he gave up one of his precious tokens. It had felt natural, helpful, but also it isn’t what he expected. Red and he are not fated, whoever the man is. For he’d know that, have felt that from the first instant.
Obviously, there is a reason they met, and he’s curious to find out what it is. But the bitter drop in his stomach stays, knowing that he’s missing out on something.
“Do not say so yet, Lancito. You wait, there are still two nights to go,” Abuelita says from beside him, standing up, her food long finished.
Lance frowns. “Why are you so sure I’ll find them?” he asks.
She bends slowly, and kisses the top of his head.
“Because you are so like me. I can see it in you. I always knew you would see a Carnival, Lancito. I am glad it came while I am still alive to meet the person you find there.”
And with that, she turns and leaves him to his own thoughts, tumultuous and confusing as ever.
It feels darker somehow as the gates open at midnight on the next evening. The moonlight movement is the theme of the second night, although there is no moon rising over Altea as he walks.
Perhaps that’s why it feels so dim; the obsidian of the doors seemingly to steal the light from the world. Perhaps it’s his costume for tonight; strangely enough he is in red today; a deep wine shade of a matching tailored trousers and slightly heavier jacket. His shirt is black, again not what he’d usually pick, with gold embroidery which highlights the cuffs, button line and collar, just enough brightness to catch attention. His mask is the brightest part of his ensemble; he’s chosen a dramatic half mask which covers most of the right side, rounding at the bottom of his cheek, and then cutting off above his left eye on the other side. He is both exposed and not, for he looks so different even if half his face can be seen.
The mask is gold, with a pattern of what looks like black leaves bisecting it into almost quarters, with pieces of ruby outlining the leaves in a mirror of the colour scheme of his clothing.
He takes one step through the door, and this time, he feels it. It’s almost like going through a wormhole, and for a second Lance can imagine himself flying. Soaring through space, hands on controls and that thrill of the swoop and climb of the plane.
He misses that. He’s flown a few times since the end of the war, but between recovering and rebuilding his kingdom with his family it’s not as if he has time anymore, or the necessity like he once did. But this brings it all back, the thrill and the will he has to be there once more.
It abruptly ends, and Lance stumbles over his own feet. It’s dark. He cannot really make out where he is, but there is a faint silver light coming from ahead, so he wanders towards it. This time, he is truly alone. But like when he and Red had wandered down the dune, there is that eerie, suffocating silence. Lance gulps, feeling sweat start to collect at the top of his mask, and swallows hard as he walks.
His eyes begin to adjust and he realises it’s not completely dark where he treads. It’s more of a deep blue, the colour just as the deepest part of the night descends; but there are also flashes. Colours out of the corner of his eye that, when he stops and turns, no longer exist. His footsteps echo in a muffled way; it is a strange place to exist in, chasing bright shadows as he follows a silver guide.
It becomes apparent quickly though, that no matter how fast or slow he walks, the light fades with him. He obviously cannot meet it, so Lance pauses, unsure what to do. As he does, he notices a particular wavering glow coming from his left. He spins, shoes squeaking, and this time the light does not ebb. It flickers and spirals, like paint being thrown to a canvas, and Lance chases it, following mesmerised of his own accord.
That is, until he knocks headfirst into a wall.
It’s almost invisible, but ripples when he crashes into it, a barrier more than anything. The light is on the other side and further away, but it seems to be moving in the direction Lance was previously travelling, towards the unreachable silver orb.
So Lance follows the twin lights, running a hand across the wall. As he does, faint sparks of colour trace with him, and he grins as he makes lines and dots of red as he drums his fingers against the barrier. It makes no noise and doesn’t seem to do anything to the impervious wall, but it’s entertaining and distracting from everything else.
He’s seen no-one, just shards of colour and light. No fated, no actual Carnival this time. It has its own majesty, this place. It reminds him a little of space, of some of the times they flew into the sky in attempts to reach out for aid against the Galran forces. The emptiness, the quiet. Lance actually finds himself racing forward a little, feet pounding as his hand shatters sparks across the barrier.
It’s as he slows after one particularly vast sprint that he realises the light on the other side is drawing closer.
Lance stops, holding his hand out. The red fades with lack of movement, but still he can see the glow becoming brighter, as if he’s seeing it through frosted glass. He waits, and then all of a sudden it reaches what must be the other side's limit.
It’s huge, this golden, mellow light that spins the colours to azure and banishes the dark. He smiles to himself, leaning forward on his palms, the almost invisible wall bracing him.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” he calls, voice muffled in the absorbed area.
There is a moment, and then he hears something back; not words, or not words he can make out, but a voice, deep and questioning. He watches and can see a shadow, a figure that seems darker than the blue standing near the light. The bearer, whoever they are.
So Lance tries again. “Hello! Hey! Buddy, with the light!”
He pushes himself up to the reflection this time and strains his ears, willing to hear anything.
“-ca…-there…-me?”
Getting clearer. Lance grins, and bangs once on the wall with his fist in triumph. This time, the sparks fly brighter, and a circle of red emanates from his hand. The wall trembles just a little, and impression made then vanished. Lance frowns at it, unsure.
He inhales, then shouts. “I can hear you! A bit anyway! Can you see me? Did you just see that?”
He watches the patch of light and as he does, a dark, gloves hand reaches out and touches the wall.
“I--hear you. Did---hit?”
“I can almost hear you! What’s it like on your side!” Lance yells, his voice almost failing at the end.
There’s silence for a moment, and then.
“Dark. Blueish dark. The light keeps getting further away.”
This time he hears all of the words, and he grins, leaning closer to the hand on the wall. He’s not sure why they can suddenly hear one another, although it’s still not too clear. The person’s words still have that muffled quality, but at least now they may be able to talk.
“Same, I tried following it. But you have a light? A torch?” he says, this time not quite screaming but still louder than a normal tone.
“Something like that. Can you see me?” the voice asks.
Lance shakes his head. “Just your hand. Can you see me?”
“Nothing, I could see the red sparks on the wall. I’ll call you...Red,” he says, and Lance reels back, almost tripping over his own feet. There’s a half laugh on that last word, but it’s so odd that this is the exact name he gave the man he met the night before.
But then again, in a place full of masks and costume, perhaps colours are the only identifiers.
“Okay. Black,” he adds, and the chuckle he gets in reply warms him like coffee in the early morning.
They don’t speak for a moment, and Lance decides to sit down. He rests his back along the wall, the light casting enough of a glow he doesn’t need to look directly at it. There isn’t anything to see, anyway.
“So, any idea what we are meant to do? Have you seen anyone else?” Lance asks.
“No, and no. I was following the light.”
Lance scoffs. “Me too, but little good that did,” he says.
“I didn’t quite mean that,” Black says.
Lance waits for them to elaborate, but when they say nothing more, he sighs heavily, head thumping against the barrier.
“Helpful, my friend. Do you always talk in riddles?” he says.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you, you’re a stranger,” is the snappy reply and Lance frowns. He considers getting up and walking away, when the light moves suddenly. He turns and sees it fall, realising that Black must have sat down too.
“Sorry.”
The word falls on either side of the barrier, and Lance closes his eyes.
“It’s okay, buddy. You’re right, we are strangers, you don’t have to say anything,” he says, smiling to himself.
“No excuse to be rude though. I...this place is getting to me. As are other things. I didn’t even think I should come tonight,” they say, words feeling heavy to Lance.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
Black sighs, and Lance realises they can now hear each other as if they are actually back to back. He’s not sure when it happened.
“I’m not a fan of the dark, since the war. Nor anything too quiet. And about not coming...well, I wanted to find someone in particular, so didn’t see the point of this.”
Lance grimaces. “Sorry, man. But I get that, about the war. I can’t deal with lightning storms now. Sounds like gunfire.”
Black makes a humming sound, and Lance stretches his arms above his head.
“Who were you looking for? If you don’t mind me asking,” he says, realising that may be too personal a question.
Black chuckles and the warmth curls again. “Just someone I keep coming back to. But someone I think I’ve lost completely now.”
The sadness in his voice reminds Lance of something lodged in his own chest. He swallows and turns his head to the side.
“I know how you feel. I have one of those too,” he admits. For it’s far easier to speak of Keith to a stranger on the other side of a magic wall than it would be at any other time, to anyone else.
“Really?” Black says, the word sounding part skeptical, part intrigued.
Lance chuckles. “Yeah man. I knew him for a long time. Did so many stupid things to get him to notice me. Then when he did, it...I don’t know, clicked. Not in the way I thought it would, not in the way I expected, but yeah. We worked. So well, but he left. And that's war, I guess. But he went so far I couldn’t follow, and I realised it was too late. I should have said something at the time. Maybe it would have been different,” Lance says, allowing the thoughts to fly as free as they could.
Black is quiet for a moment. “You can’t make people stay if they need to go, Red. Sometimes they have to, even if they would rather stay.”
But Lance shakes his head. “I don’t mean that. Just...maybe if he knew he had someone who would be there if he came back, would think of him while he was gone, hope he was safe… maybe he would have come back sooner. I think I just regret a lot of things I didn’t say,” Lance finishes, trying to untangle the knots of his feelings.
“I see; that makes so much sense. I wish I’d realised how much this person meant to me sooner. How much I loved them. But by the time I did, we were too far apart to make up the difference. And then they were hurt, badly,” he finishes, voice quiet, and Lance sits up straighter.
“Oh, Black, I’m sorry, I-”
“No no, they’re alive. They were hurt but they’re okay. Well, I think they are. I don’t know. It’s all too complicated. And I can’t take any of it back, no matter how much I want to,” he replies.
Lance turns around, wrapping his legs back so he’s facing the wall cross legged.
“You can’t, that’s true. But if they are alive and so are you, then maybe you can try now. Tell them how much you care. I wish I could do that. I wish I could sort out in my head how it feels,” Lance mutters, hands twisting into one another.
There’s a shuffling noise, and the light moves.
“How do you feel? Isn’t that the first thing to figure out?” Black asks, voice closer.
Lance inhales, and for the first time in months, does that. He’s spent so long not thinking of Keith, years in fact, that he is used to pushing aside all thoughts related to him. So it takes a moment to spin his mind back, to reverse his mentality.
“I… love him. Still. I just don’t think it’s enough,” Lance says, quietly.
Black is also quiet. “In a way, you’re right. Love isn’t enough, it never is. But perhaps it’s a good place to start?”
Lance blinks, the words tumbling through his mind. A start. An odd word to use for the status of something which has spanned years, and yet… it could work. For love is a different turn, and all branches off from the path are starting points to a new road.
“Yeah. Maybe. Thanks,” Lance offers with a smile at the invisible figure. He lifts a palm and lets it rest against the wall, watching the red bounce from his palm.
“You’re welcome. And thank you, as well,” Black says, and raises his gloved hand to rest against Lance’s.
As he does, the sparks ignite. Lance blinks, watching as the wall seems to ripple, circles flying from their touching palms, faster and faster until Lance can only see a blur of colour. He cannot look away, it’s too absorbing, and although he probably should move his hand he is frozen, locked in the moment, staring at the wall.
Until it bursts.
That’s the only apt description. It pushes out, colour and shimmer thrown up through Lance’s vision as the wall disintegrates outwards. It degrades into nothing but colour and shape though, no impact on Lance himself. As he sits, mesmerised, looking upward, he becomes aware of a warmth and pressure on his hand.
He snaps his gaze back down, focusing on where now, his hand is placed against a black glove. The fingers inside twitch a little at the new sensation. Lance refocuses outwards on the figure, now visible without the wall.
It’s him. Red, or now Black as Lance has been calling him.
He is truly dressed in black today, trousers that look almost painted on, with a slickness to them that makes Lance’s heart jump a little with how they cling to his thighs. He’s wearing a roll neck top of the same colour with a waistcoat over it, only distinguishable by the silver stitching around the edges.
His mask is simple, the classic masquerade which just covers his eyes, with black feathers framing it. His hair is down and hangs past his shoulders, stark against his pale skin.
“It’s you,” Lance says, and immediately hopes they cannot see the blush that ignites, for it’s the most obvious and ridiculous statement he could have made.
Black’s mouth twitches in a smirk. “And it’s you,” he responds.
Their hands stay. Lance doesn’t really know what to do next, but his arm is starting to ache. So he lowers it slowly, and Black does the same as they both rest their hands on the ground, curved fingers still touching. For strangely, Lance doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want this connection which is brewing to end.
After all, he’s just spilled his heart to this stranger. One whose light he followed, and who followed him in return. Who he raced to a make-believe ocean and climbed to the top of the world with.
Maybe not so strange , a voice inside whispers, but he can’t chase that sound now, can’t work out where it leads. So he just smiles, and watches as Black’s smirk tips into a full grin.
“Well, this isn’t exactly the Carnival I was expecting after last time. I don’t really even know what happens now,” Lance says with a shrug.
Black however, nods once. “Look behind you.”
Lance frowns but does, craning his neck to peer into the gloom. He starts as he sees the darkness has rearranged into a tunnel behind him, an obvious next step. It’s impossibly dark though, and this time there is no light overhead as a guide.
“Here.”
Lance turns back and blinks as light swims in his eyes. Black is holding a tiny lantern, the source of his light, which is only the size of Lance’s palm. It’s edging is sliver, with glass holding in the light itself. It just seems to glow though, he cannot really understand how it works.
“I can’t take that man, you need it,” he says, shaking his head.
Black however, holds it out more insistently. “No, your way is darker. Besides, it shines brighter when it’s near you. I think it’s meant to be yours,” he says, smiling as he does.
The smile strikes straight to his heart, and he numbly fumbles with the lantern as it’s passed over. It’s not so much the expression, although it is marvellous in itself, but the sense of deja-vu. He knows that smile, the angle of the inflection of lips, for it curves just so in a way that’s so haunting, he has to have seen it before.
But where? On whom?
As the light hits his hands, the shadows scatter, and the silver on Black’s costume seems to shine more. The colours trigger something in Lance’s mind, and he fumbles in his pocket quickly.
His hands touch on fabric, and he pulls out his second ribbon. He gasps as he does: for the ribbon is black, melting into silver that has always sparkled and caught the light as it progresses from a few spots of brightness to full silver by the opposite end. But now it glows, providing it’s own tiny light source in the dark.
“And this, I think, is yours,” Lance says slowly, holding out the ribbon draped across his palm.
It is truly a beautiful piece of fabric, so he cannot blame Black for staring. The silver sparkles aren’t rough like glitter usually is, but shines the same, gem-like. Carefully, Black reaches out and takes the ribbon, his gloved hand sliding over Lance’s as he does.
Lance gulps. How touch can feel so intimate when it’s for the purpose of taking an object and through gloves he doesn't know. But it does, and he’s reeling from all of this feeling so very, very similar to a sensation he’s had before.
Black holds the ribbon now, and although it can’t truly be called a light source, it does hold something of a shine that is enough, Lance hopes, to help Black see.
“Thank you, Red,” he replies, so soft it steals Lance’s breathe. But he manages a grin.
“You’re welcome, Black. I think though, it’s time to go,” he says, the words ringing true for he’s being pulled back inside of himself, just knowing he has to turn and walk into the tunnel behind.
Black nods and stands quickly, hand outstretched to Lance. He rolls his eyes but takes it, feeling the strength in that grip as he’s aided to his feet.
“Well...I guess I’ll see you,” Lance says, unsure how to part.
“I hope so,” Black says, and Lance chokes, not expecting such a direct reply.
“Yeah well… one more night,” he replies. And then, without truly knowing why, he gambles on the unknown recognition of before.
“Or maybe before,” he says, and without waiting for a reply, he turns and marches forward, the tiny lantern casting brightness to guide him.
He thinks he hears Black respond, just the rumble of his voice even though he isn’t sure of the words. But then it’s just bright on blue, a never ending stream of colour until he can no longer really feel himself walking anymore.
Again, Lance awakens with no sense of arriving home; tiny lantern still clutched in his palm. He places it on his windowsill, beside the candle, staring at the two lights. That must be the theme of Red/Black. Light. He’s not sure what that means or why, but then again he isn’t sure why he’s giving the man ribbons, so perhaps it doesn’t have to make sense.
He goes through his day in a sort of muted quiet, half with the world, half not. He’s tired, most certainly, but there is one more night to go and he feels himself thrumming with anticipation.
One more night with him.
Whoever this man is, Lance knows them. He recognises their mannerisms and tones, even if he doesn’t know who they are instinctively. He isn’t sure how much energy he should spend trying to discover it though, if he should wait until tonight for the final Carnival.
He’s annoyed then, when Veronica reminds him they have a meeting.
“It’s a good opportunity to talk about the rebuilding of our nations. You wanted to be on the panel, your plans for home are great, so why not discuss it with Altea and Galra?” she says.
“She’s right, Lance. You have done fantastic work, and we need to get input from the other nations, as do they from us. It’s a perfect situation,” his mother clarifies, the privacy of being in her quarters meaning they have the chance to be both more familiar and direct.
Lance groans and his Abuelita chuckles.
“Lancito is thinking of his fated, are you not mijo? See, te dije hace mucho que lo harias .”
Lance splutters, nearly knocking over his water. Veronica’s eyebrows raise and his mother grins as she leans forward.
“Oh? Mami, you did always say he would find his fated,” she says with a nod.
“Oh yes, I knew he would be another, and I am glad to be alive to see it. You make sure you bring them to breakfast tomorrow morning,” she says, sternly.
Veronica laughs so hard she almost falls off her chair and Lance is left in a panicked stupor at the ridiculous nature of his family until it’s time for the meeting. It’s technically an informal affair, with most people still preoccupied with the Carnival, so at least he doesn’t have to go through the usual fanfare.
He spots Princess Allura across the room, and is about wave when he sees who she’s talking to. Keith. Of course Keith would be here, Lance should have expected it. And when Allura waves him over, Keith seems to stand straighter, making room for him in the conversation.
“Lance! It’s so good to see you, we haven’t had a chance to speak properly,” she says, and then bows, which he returns.
“Good to see you too. And uh, you Keith?” he says, the last coming out as almost a question for some reason.
“Your Highness,” Keith says, bowing, and Lance waves his hand.
“Nope, I can’t deal with that right now, just Lance,” he says and Keith frowns, but nods.
They end up having a productive conversation; Allura wanting to set up something similar to what Lance is doing, and Keith outlining how all their plans would work together. But after an hour or so, all three are drained enough that Allura excuses herself, and Lance is left alone with Keith.
It’s a little tense, but not as bad as Lance imagined.
“You know, it kinda reminds me of old times, like this. Trying to work out how to solve problems,” he says as they leave.
Keith’s shoulders lift and he nods. “Yeah. Strange without Shiro giving us pep talks,” he says, and Lance laughs, recalling fondly their old commander.
“How is he?” Lance asks and Keith makes a face.
“Being disgustingly in love and enjoying retirement. That wedding needs to come so I can stop hearing them talk about it,” he grumps, but Lance can tell by the fond tone and small smile that he’s actually excited.
That smile…
Lance blinks it away, for Keith is speaking.
“How is Hunk? I haven’t seen him since… since I visited you in the hospital,” he says carefully, the realisation obviously occuring to him midway through the sentence, by the way the words fall.
Lance actually stops walking, Keith copying a moment later.
“You visited?” he says, words small and lost. A familiar annoyed look crosses Keith’s face.
“Of course I did!” he says, and Lance feels it rise; the rage and frustration of the parts left unsaid, of the cracking of their friendship and of all the things he could have done differently.
“Well, how I was I meant to expect that? You just left us, Keith! And when you came back, you weren’t exactly nice,” Lance says, hissing his words a little to not attract too much attention.
Keith inches forward, eyes flashing as he speaks. “We were in a war Lance; I did what I thought was best! It may not have been perfect, but I tried. And even if I did leave, it didn’t mean I didn’t care!” he says, and Lance can feel the pain radiating off him in waves.
But he can’t stop now he’s started, so he jabs Keith in the chest as he takes another step forward.
“So why didn’t you say anything? Huh? It’s been years, Keith. Years,” he says, and feels his own voice crack as the weight of time pushes down on him.
“Because I didn’t know how! And now it’s too late, and I’m sorry, I am. I-I don’t know what to do,” he spits out harshly, turning to his left two paces and hand flying to tug at his hair.
Lance takes a moment to just breathe, let the anger ripples away and steady himself.
“Okay. Okay,” he begins, capturing Keith’s attention, who lowers his hand from his long hair and peers over.
“I’m sorry, too. I should have tried more, at the time, to stay in touch. I didn’t exactly do my best either,” he admits, thinking back to all the times he could have called, could have reached out but decided against it.
Keith nods, a jerking motion. “I’m sorry too,” he says.
Lance tries for a smile, and he thinks it may work, because Keith edges forward and looks a little happier.
“Look man, let’s try and move on from it. You’re right. It was war, we were kids and we did a lot of stupid things. And besides, I missed you,” he tacks on, impressed he manages not to blush.
“I missed you too, Lance,” Keith says after a moment, and his face lights up, the tone of his voice evens and…
It’s the same.
They talk as they walk, Lance knows they do. For he’s back in his room and the sun is starting to wane, and he just looks around as if he’s never seen any of this before.
The same. The same voice, the same smile, the same competitive edge and stubbornness. He doesn’t know why he didn’t see it before.
Keith is Red. Keith is Black. They are the same person.
Keith grew up in the desert, spent almost a year before the war living there alone, so would see that vast, red expanse they’d seen on the first night. They’d spoken about the war, and Lance knows the dark always bothered Keith after that one time he was stranded in blank space. And then -
Just someone I keep coming back to. But someone I think I’ve lost completely now.
Was he hoping too much, to think that might be about him? Lance walked to his bed, curled up carefully, knees up against his chest. It fits with the argument they just had, and his description of his relationship with that person is so much like theirs now.
Lance exhales shakily. It’s too good to be true, but also such bad timing. Years ago, he would have launched himself off the bed and banged down Keith’s door if he were certain his feelings would be reciprocated. But now there is so much space between them.
Is it just too late?
The question whirls around him as the sun begins to set, and the last night of the Carnival begins.
Starlight Serenade is the theme, and Lance can see why. He’s on a marble balcony, watching lights race across a fuchsia sky in an endless stream of shooting stars. Below is the Carnival in full, this time visible, a performance of endless people dancing in pure white costumes, music flowing from somewhere unseen.
If Lance looks outwards, he can see distant mountains; maybe a castle framed in golden light. He wonders if this place is real; if it’s a distant planet, another universe, or something cottoned together from imagination.
He sips a flute of something sparkling and sweet which he doesn’t remember getting. He’s waiting. For today there is only one place to go, and if he’s venturing there, he doesn’t want to do so alone.
He hopes this works. He sips his drink again and ignores how the crystal shakes in his hand. He’s never actually stood still in the nights before, always searching and trying to find something. So this is breaking the cycle. Yet every time so far, Keith has always found him. So tonight, hopefully-
“You’re here.”
Lance doesn’t know if he’s relieved or terrified when Keith’s voice rings across the balcony. For now he’s aware, he is sure it is Keith doesn’t know how he could have missed it. He turns to his left, and he’s there: the man who has been his focus for three nights and in all honesty, so much of his life in general.
And Lance has to laugh a little under his breath, as they are both dressed in purple.
Different shades, but purple all the same. Keith’s mask is violet, and smaller than any other night, just something simple which covers his eyes. His jacket is of a similar colour, while his trousers are grey, matching his shirt. His tie is black with a violet symbol in the centre, which almost seems to glow with each step he takes.
Lance is in a full suit with tails, all in a deep plum shade; apart from his shirt, which is white, collar popped at the top. His mask is made of metal, cool on skin and stained the same plum colour, curling up at the top like flames.
Lance smiles and moves of his own accord, meeting him in the middle. There is a second where they both do nothing, slightly awkward in its beginnings, and then they both start to speak at once.
Lance laughs as they both struggle with the strangeness of the moment, so he takes a deep breath. This shouldn’t be awkward. Not at all.
“Would you like to dance?” he says, the idea springing to mind suddenly. Keith starts, but his smile brightens and he nods almost shyly. So Lance extends a hand, neither of them wearing gloves tonight, and he leads them back towards the balcony, placing the drink down on the way.
The marble of the balcony extends to the ground, and Lance thinks this must be some sort of palace. It’s all a marvel, the way it shines and shimmers, but it dims in comparison to the person he’s hand in hand with, the one he’s loved for so long.
They take their places, and as they do, it seems the tune begins anew, something slow and melodious, the perfect harmony for a leisurely dance. They fall into step easily enough, neither trying to do anything fancy, even as the pairs around twirl and pace. Lance just spends a second wallowing in this moment in this feeling that he’ll never have again, as well as the sensation of being in Keith’s arms which, perhaps, he has a chance of feeling again.
“So we’ve met each other every night,” Keith begins, his voice low even though they are close.
It’s a starting point, and Lance takes a breath before responding.
“We have. And I guess we’ve seen a lot, together,” he replies, knowing he’s hinting at more than just the Carnival.
Keith, for some reason, decides to lead at that point, and they move a little faster to the edge of the revellers. Being away from the crowd seems more intimate, even though he’s only had eyes for Keith this entire time, and Lance hopes his palms aren’t sweating too much.
“Talked about a lot too. I feel as if I… know you,” Keith says, hesitantly, their steps beginning to slow as they are now out of any potential overhearing range.
Lance swallows, hard and uncomfortably, heart beating in his throat. But it’s an invitation, and Lance at this point is too far gone to let it slide. He will not let another second of doubt get in his way.
“Maybe because you do.”
They stop, stand still, and Lance waits. Wonders if his thoughts are correct, if his feelings are true or if by some twisted, cruel roll of the dice he is wrong when he’d been so sure. The man before him exhales, shakily and with feeling and then -
Kisses Lance.
Drives forward and meets his lips, hands moving to his cheeks magnetically, lips syncing in a second. Lance meets the kiss head-on, for even as it’s a surprise it’s also not; he’s been waiting for so many years for this moment, maybe his whole life. He’s as ready as he can ever be.
The kiss is soft but intense, longing clear in every press and breath. Lance’s hands come around Keith’s waist to just hold him close, experience that lack of space, a different version of having him in his arms.
“Lance.”
It’s whispered between a kiss, and Lance pulls back enough to stare into those eyes, his smile so wide it seems impossible, aching at the edges.
“Keith,” he replies, strong and sure, causing the man before him to dive for another kiss, this one clumsy and hurried, their lips bruising one another as they cast themselves in motions without real aims other than to be close. It’s uncoordinated, a tangle of nerves, laughter and confession; the best kiss of Lance’s life.
When they slow, Lance pulls back, and they are still somehow moving even though it cannot be called a dance. Recalling, he reluctantly moves a hand from Keith’s back to fish into his pocket. His fingers close around ribbon and it flies out as he pulls his arm up; a pale lilac streamer that seems brighter right now than it ever has been.
Keith wordlessly takes it, smile drawing upwards as Lance passes it over.
“I guess we're tied together, you and I. I’ve always been chasing after you, for one reason or another. Seems like we keep missing moments but maybe now, that won’t happen,” he says, piecing together meaning from the tokens he’s been carrying all this time.
Carefully, Keith ties the ribbon in his hair, a huge bow that makes him look like something out of a cliche epic romance and Lance loves it instantly. Keith however, digs in his own pocket for a moment, before pulling out a long, thin silver chain. On it is what looks like a crystal that shines so brightly with every spark of light it seems to have it’s own glow. Instead of handing it over, Keith unclasps the chain, and gestures for Lance to turn around.
The chain is cold as it touches his neck, the small jewel seemingly like his own little piece of a star as the real ones of this place rush overhead. As Keith clips the chain together, his arm snakes around Lance, holding him close.
“You are always so bright, Lance. You shine in every room, brighter than every person. Or you always have done to me. The person who guides me forward in the right direction, and the light which brings me home,” he whispers, leaving a parting kiss on his temple as he steps back.
Lance doesn’t give him much of a chance to stay away though, for as he turns he’s back in Keith’s arms; almost jumping into them to seal the declaration with a kiss. Keith responds just as fiercely, a deep push and pull this time, longer than their last.
“When you were hurt… Lance, I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I didn’t leave until I had to, until the last minute, and then you were gone when I got home…” he tries, and Lance pulls him close, resting his hand on the back of Keith’s head, fingers tangling in the hair there while their foreheads touch.
“I know, I know now anyway. I wanted to try and find you so many times, I just didn’t know how to. I can’t believe it took me this long,” he says, half a wet laugh escaping. Against his head, Keith shakes his own and laughs.
“You’re not the only one.”
Lance grins, and spins him around, taking the lead this time until they are in the centre of the procession. Keith follows, eyes wide and his steps faltering a little, but clutched closely to Lance, trusting him all the while. As they settle, Lance leans in, and presses on chaste kiss against his lips.
“I love you,” he says, not too loud and not too softly, for both them and for the world in the same moment.
Keith leans forward and kisses Lance’s forehead.
“I love you too.”
“Ah, Lancito, mijo . So this is him? Your alama gemela ?”
Lance smiles, pulling on Keith’s hand and gesturing to the seat in front of his grandmother. It’s early; there is hardly anyone else here, but they’d woken up at the break of dawn in Lance’s room, Keith clutched tightly in his arms, as if he was always meant to be there.
So here he is, as promised. Bringing the man he loves to meet his Abuelita.
“Yes, this is Keith,” he says, and poor Keith bows a little clumsily. He’s been a nervous wreck since Lance announced an hour ago they were going to meet the Queen Mother.
“Good morning, your Highness,” he says, rising up and Lance can almost see him itching to salute.
Abuelita stares at him, unblinking for a second, Lance tensing slightly. Then, she smiles.
“None of that, Keith. If you’re going to marry my grandson, you will have royal status of your own. You need to get used to it,” she says gesturing to the chairs before her.
Keith chokes, and Lance laughs, for once not worried about his family’s embarrassing traits. For under his shirt is the crystal necklace, still giving off light when Lance shines it in the right way. And in Keith’s long braid are twisted three ribbons, each shining brilliantly, and not moving an inch as they are tied into the hair.
His grandmother was half right; he didn’t meet his fated at the Carnival. For he’d met that person many years ago. What it did do, was give him a little push towards them.
Towards the love of his life. Towards Keith.