Work Text:
It starts like this:
They save a planet that looks like Cuba.
when my mother struggles to spell a word in english
I want to break the entire language into little pieces
so the edges of these letters will stop cutting her
— Aysha, Diaspora Defiance
Lance is eight year old when his mother announces that they are leaving Cuba. “For work,” she explains in Spanish. She works at the Garrison, as a doctor. They want to send astronauts at the end of their solar system and they need his mother’s research to be able to do so. So they steal her from her home. “You’ll make new friends, Leandro. I’m sure. And didn’t you want to be a pilot?”
But English is unfamiliar, and his brain is already full of Spanish and Creole. The words are there, they come easily, he can make them poetic. His mother’s always read to him in Spanish, his father tells him the prettiest stories in Creole.
He’s reluctant of leaving his friends in Cuba, but he looks up to the stars; he thinks about Proxima Centauri, and he thinks about how he wants to be the first pilot to reach a star outside their solar system, he holds on the thought.
And so he learns English.
He learns English and it comes easily to him; he’s young. After a few months, he doesn’t even have an accent anymore (or so he likes to think) but his mother does. His father does. They’ve both studied in English in Cuba, both attended the Garrison University of Cuba, but Lance realizes it isn’t enough.
And so he watches Ronnie, Ronnie who’s barely thirteen year old and who speaks English better than the whole family, read the emails his mother wants to send, and correct the errors.
“Pain is not a man, Mami.” She explains. It’s eleven PM; they’ve been at it for a while now. “You can’t say ‘The patient didn’t feel him.’ It’s it.”
And his mother frowns (there’s so many wrinkles, it worries Lance), “I know, Ronnie. I also learned English, I just forget.” She kisses the top of her head. “Thank you.”
(He barges into the drug store the next day after school, asks the lady at the front, “What’s a thing to get rid of wrinkles?”
The woman raises an eyebrow, looks at him funny. “I’m not sure why you’d be looking for this, kid.”
“Tell me,” he frowns.
And so with the money he’s been saving (he wanted to buy that new video game, but it doesn’t really matter now), he buys his very first face mask. When his mother comes back home from work at midnight, she laughs but lets him apply it on her face anyway.
“Am I no longer pretty?” She teases.
He kisses her forehead, “You’re always pretty, Mami.”)
The people on the planet, the Ddafis, are very friendly. It’s a small planet, smaller than Earth’s moon. They are welcomed like family, the diplomatic part of the mission doesn’t feel diplomatic at all, they’re all sat on a huge, round table and everyone’s laughing. The food is good, there’s too much of it and they keep insisting the paladins take refills. Surprisingly enough, Lance becomes the favourite.
“You have the spirit of our people,” their leader tells him.
“On my planet,” Lance says with a smile. “My parents come from a tiny piece of land that looks a lot like yours. You’d love the people there, they know how to party.”
“Only a tiny piece of land?” The alien smiles.
“If we were more, I think we would’ve overwhelmed the planet with our joy. The people on my planet are too grumpy, it would’ve ruined their reputation, y’know?”
The leader laughs, “I like you.” He says. “You’re a good man.”
It’s only when he’s back in his bed, when they’ve settled a deal, and when the planet joined the Voltron Coalition that Lance realizes what he said.
My parents come from a tiny piece of land.
Not him.
Not I was born in.
No my parents come from.
The guilt eats him alive.
He doesn’t sleep the whole night.
The fact that I am writing to you in English already falsifies what I wanted to tell you.
My subject:
how to explain to you that I don’t belong to English
though I belong nowhere else
— Gustavo Perez Firmat, Bilingual Blues
They go back to Cuba when he’s thirteen, on Christmas break. On the first of January, they leave Varadero for Camagüey, his father’s city. It’s a six hour drive and it’s long and exhausting, but when they arrive, their granma has already done the Soupe Joumou. His father pretends he’s offended when Veronica tells their grandmother that the soup is way better than the one their father makes.
His father sucks his teeth, the “tchuip” sound echoing in the kitchen, “I see how it is, Veronica. Favouring your granma over me.”
They all laugh. It’s a warm feeling.
On second of January, Lance’s grandmother sends him to retrieve some spice at the market near their house. It’s been a while since he’s been to Camagüey so his memory is foggy, and he finds himself in an area of the town he doesn’t recognize.
“Eskuze’m, konnen ki koten Mercado Agropecuario est?” he asks.
The man looks at him with a raised eyebrow, smiling. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“What?” Lance frowns. “Of course I am. My father's born here.”
The man considers him, “You’re American. I can tell,” he nudges him. It’s friendly. “You’ve got a tiny accent.”
“I— well I, I guess I’m both.” He says, unsure. Is he American? He doesn’t know. He never thought about it (And an accent? An..an accent?). He clears his throat, repeats the request in English. “I..I was just wondering if you knew where Mercado Agropecuario was.”
“Thought you were from here,” the man replies amused, clearly teasing Lance.
Lance feels himself blushing, “I just forgot.”
The man gives him the direction, pats his shoulder, laughing, “I’m just teasing you. Don’t look so grumpy, eh?”
“Yeah,” he nods, he gives him a tiny smile; even manages a laugh. “‘Course, don’t worry about it. Mèsi.”
“Pa gen pwoblem.”
But the words stay. You’re not from here. It’s true. The streets aren’t familiar, he doesn’t think of Cuba as home. It’s abuela’s home. It’s granma's home. But America isn’t home either. There’s a lump of his throat, he feels dizzy. What is his true language?
What is home?
Where is he from?
Keith and Lance gets captured two weeks after they save the Ddafi planet. Lance isn’t in the right mindset; he’s caught in his own memories, trying to remember the smells of Cuba, the water, the food. And there’s guilt. Guilt for not missing Cuba as much as he should, guilt for denying his own origins.
My parents are from a tiny piece of land, the words replay in his head and refuse to leave. They eat Lance at night, they cloud his thoughts on missions.
So when they captured, it’s entirely Lance’s fault.
He’s supposed to be guarding the entry but he starts drifting off; he barely registers the “Lance!” before the druids surround both him and Keith, grab them and drag them to the cell inside the ship. He can’t even muster an apology; there’s too much guilt it’s swallowing his words. Guilt, guilt, guilt. He can’t even breathe.
Haggar walks in and Lance immediately notices something’s off about her. She’s got scars all over her arms, and they’re glowing yellow, her hands are drenched in blood, drops falling on the floor. There’s something wrong with the way she walks— almost as if it pains her to do it, and when she looks at them, Lance can tell she’s gone mad.
She walks to Keith and Lance feels himself moving without his own accord, shielding him away. “Don’t,” he says. He’s surprised by his own words. By the pain in his voice, by how it feels like he’s begging.
Haggar tilts her head, amusement lighting up her face. She strokes Lance’s cheek, the blood on her hand now stuck on Lance too, and he wants to scream. “I had no idea…” She whispers. There’s a smile that’s plastered on her face, Lance wants to tear it off. “Ou'shaq?”
Lance has read enough Altean to know what it means, but the words make him falter. His eyes widen, his gaze is fixed on Haggar. Don’t look at Keith, don’t look at Keith, don’t look at Keith.
“I’m right,” she says. “Aren’t I?”
Ou’shaq— lovers.
“No,” he answers.
He can tell Haggar doesn’t believe him.
I don’t remember how to same home
in my first language, or lonely, or light.
I remember only
delam barat tang shodeh, I miss you,
and shab bekheir, goodnight.
— Kaveh Akbar, Do You Speak Persian?
Lance is twelve year old when he first meets Keith. He’s not one to believe in love at first sight, not at all, but there’s something about Keith that makes it impossible to look away. And it makes him do stupid things, like using silly pick up lines to catch his attention which ends up with Keith glaring at him instead.
So Lance does something else to get Keith to look at him. He studies. He studies his ass off, so when they’re in the same class, he’s always just behind Keith. He doesn’t stop, tells himself he’ll keep going until he’s first.
It doesn’t happen. Keith leaves, and Lance’s left by himself. And the motivation seems to vanish; he’s in the simulator, which he knows he’s done many time before but he falters. He uses jokes to cope, screams in his pillow at night because why can’t he fucking do it anymore?
He knows he can. He knows he deserves his place, but he’s in the pilot seat and the commands aren’t responding anymore, there’s Iverson shouting and he can’t focus. So he fails. Iverson shouts louder, Pidge gets angry, Hunk turns green, and he makes jokes.
He copes.
And then it doesn’t even matter anymore, because Keith is back, and so is Shiro and they discover a gigantic sentient Lion who apparently wants Lance as her pilot. Fast forward they’re fighting aliens, Lance is forgetting his Spanish and Creole, and he’s not sure where is home anymore.
The stars? Cuba? Their home back in the US? The Garrison dorms? The castleship?
Lance is seventeen years old and he’s never been as lost, but there’s a strange feeling that creeps down his throat whenever he hears Keith’s laughter, it feels familiar. Something he’s always known. But he pushes it away, doesn’t admit it to himself.
But it grows, it keeps growing, it pushes past his lungs, he’s swimming in an ocean of fire.
I want to go home, he says. It’s his mother’s melancholic smiles when old Cuban songs are playing, it’s his siblings laughters, it’s his dad’s poetry.
I want to go home, he says. And somehow it’s the castleship, the paladins and two aliens.
I want to home, he says. It’s a purple iris, a purple nebula. It’s a mop of dark hair and a smirk. It’s an ache that’s growing in his chest, the urge to feel arms wrapped around him, the urge to feel the warmth of a body, a hand in his, to kiss chapped lips.
Home; it’s four brick walls, a body, it’s a fireplace, a breath, it’s a home, a soul. Someone to love; somehow it’s Keith.
And the love isn’t timid, it takes everything from him. He tries to catch his breath but it keeps stealing it away. He looks at Keith and English doesn’t feel right anymore, he wants to write all the Spanish and Creole poetry there is but he can’t find the words, they escape him.
Estoy muerto en la carretera contigo, he thinks. He remembers his mother saying it to his father, and there’s no other words that feels right.
“I don’t think Zarkon knows we’re here,” Keith says. It’s the fourth time they’re thrown back in the cell, they’re both bleeding. Lance’s voice is gone from all the shouting he’s made; the leave him alone! and the please, please, take me instead. Keith’s been kind enough to not comment on it.
(Not that he hasn’t done the same. But Lance’s not thinking about it either.)
“Why d’you think that?”
“She’s trying to drain us,” Keith replies. “So she can reach our quintessence and absorb it, I think. Maybe her quintessence has been poisoned, I don’t know she keeps..glitching. She’s not in her right mind.”
“Yeah you’re right,” Lance hums. “She’s not even trying to make us talk. Huh.”
That’d be the perfect opportunity to kill her. Get rid of her once and for all. Or maybe capture her— find out all she knows about Zarkon’s plans, make her talk. He’s not sure that’ll work.
There’s a long silence that follows, they’re both trying to catch their breath. Lance’s eyes drift to Keith’s wounds, the one that’s particularly bad on his arm. Lance moves to him, tears a piece of his own body suit. “Let me wrap that up,” he says.
Keith nods, stretching out his arm. When it’s done, he looks up to Lance. “What does Ou’shaq mean?”
Lance freezes; recognizing the word Haggar’s used to refer to them.
“Lovers,” Lance answers.
Keith looks away; pink colouring his cheeks.
But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
(…)
And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
— On Houses, Khalil Gibran
He thinks he find home in Blue.
Because she’d bound to no territory, she flies, she’s her own home. She’s like him, home for her is Altea, but also Earth, and the Castleship. Her body is enough, and the people she loves— Lance, her previous paladin, the other lions, they’re also her home.
She understands.
This ache, this urge to belong to something, and not being able to find anything concrete.
Lance finds home in Blue.
The next time they’re brought in, Haggar’s eyes are bleeding. She takes Keith, attaches him to the metal table, starts cutting his leg open and Keith doesn’t scream at first— but Haggar keeps applying pressure, her hands are shaking, and the knife in her hand keeps digging further into Keith’s legs like she’s got no control over it. So Keith screams. It becomes too loud, too fucking loud, Lances closes his eyes, thinks of Blue, visualizes her in the Astral Plane and the bayard appears in his hand in a mere second.
He doesn’t have the time to be surprised— Keith’s shouting is getting desperate. Lance’s not controlling his movements anymore, he slices through the druids, puts himself between Haggar and Keith (who’s probably fainted), and turns to her, bayard in hand, expecting the worst.
Except Haggar’s eyes aren’t glowing yellow, they’re beautiful golden eyes, but they’re open wide; terrified. “Kill me,” she mumbles. “Kill me before it comes back. Please, please, please.”
She grabs his bayard, pushes the gun to her forehead. Lance watches her do it, frozen.
There’s a second where he thinks about the information she could bring to Voltron. But then there’s his dad’s voice, somewhere in the back of his mind. “Pa fè m sa m pap fè w," — don’t do to others what you wouldn’t have them do to you.
So he takes a deep breath, his hand’s shaking a little. Maybe we could heal her, he thinks for a moment. But Haggar’s an Altean alchemist, she must know there’s no way out.
This is for a good cause, he thinks. You’re saving her, Lance.
He takes the shot.
She falls on the ground, Lance risks a glance and resists the urge to puke. The blood on her forehead is falling all over her face, her eyes are wide open, the blood around them dry, her hand’s close to her heart, she’s got a tight grip on her robes; showing signs of struggles. It’s okay, he thinks. It’s okay.
He lowers down on one knee, puts a hand on her chest. It’s a little silly, but it’s the only thing he remembers. The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them, the same prayer his mother once used, “Oncédele, Señor, el descanso eterno y que le ilumine tu perpetua luz. Que las almas de los difuntos descansen en paz.”
He thinks maybe this is how you remember home. By repeating the words your parents taught you, by remembering them when they’re away from you.
He looks over his shoulder, where Keith’s lying on the floor, eyes struggling to stay open. “Keith, buddy.” He whispers, he finds some bandage in the corner of the room, he wraps it around Keith's legs. “Stay with me. Keith, hey, it’s over. C’mon Mullethead, open your eyes.”
Keith looks horrible— the blood’s sticking on his forehead, on his arms, his legs. He looks like he’s about to faint again, and Lance’s not sure if he should be panicking or not. His heart’s hammering in his chest; the events of the last ten minutes still too fresh— Keith’s screams, Haggar’s trembling hand holding his gun to her forehead, Haggar laying on the floor, dead.
“Hey,” Keith whispers. “Breathe, Lance.”
“Mhm?” He picks him up, Keith winces a little. “Sorry.”
“I can hear you thinking from here,” he says. “You did the good thing. Haggar would’ve killed herself otherwise.”
“Yeah,” he hums. “Yeah I guess you’re right.”
“Think Blue’s here,” Keith says. “Outside the ship. Can feel her.”
She is— waiting for them in the hangar, four Galra soldiers are laying dead on the floor. There’s so much blood; Lance turns around, trying to ignore it. Blue opens her jaw, and Lance lays Keith down on the pilot seat, and sits down on the floor, next to him.
“Lance,” Keith says. “C’mon, just sit with me.”
He stands up, doesn’t have much energy in him left to argue; takes Keith in his arms, and closes his eyes, almost falling asleep immediately. Somewhere, before he drifts off, he thinks he feels lips on his cheeks. Thinks he hears an I love you, somewhere there too.
He blinks his eyes open, Keith’s staring at him, surprised to see him awake and cheeks flushed red. Lance smirks, kisses the top of his head. “I love you too.”
To love in a language. To pray in another.
— Scherezade Siobhan, How to Welcome the Dead