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When Lance was younger, he dreamed of reaching towards the stars.
But then the stars came to him.
Aliens—their existence was a mystery no longer. Area 51 couldn’t build a facility big enough to contain the ships that suddenly made it onto the scene, one so remarkably like every alien invasion film ever that everyone was prepared for the worst. They sat and awaited the end.
It never came.
And suddenly Lance was looking up no longer. All the adventure was on his doorstep, in the streets of Plaht city, a hot pot for human and alien life alike, all so intermingled it’s like it was always so, the days of Lance’s childhood a distant memory. There’s something in this community here, something that’s kept him tied, feet planted in soil. It’s the greatness of it all, in a universe so large, so vast, much more so than he ever imagined.
He’d feel small, out there. Here, he has his family, and a taste of the unreachable.
(“I’m sorry you didn’t get into the garrison,” Veronica had said, the rejection letter in her hand. Now the stars are closer than ever, technology capable, the call to flight had swept up his entire generation. Overwhelmed in numbers, he hadn’t made the cut.
Veronica ruffled his hair. It eased the pain, somewhat. “They don’t know what they’re missing out on,” she’d said.
Lance sniffled. “Maybe.”)
So, maybe he didn’t get into pilot school. Maybe he didn’t go to the stars himself because Earth kept ahold of his shoes and tugged. Maybe he’s still here, in the same place because a dream died in his heart.
And he’s fine with that, really. The sting has left him. And he’s not trying to convince himself otherwise. Not with the vastness of the universe, and the knowledge that, wherever he’d go, he’d miss home.
Lance is at peace with continuing the family business. With staying here, with them. For them.
Mostly.
More so now than when he was younger.
The Serrano’s floristry shop ‘Florrano’s’ has been in the family a fair few generations, long enough that the shop has become a bit of an heirloom itself. Even after the chaos the arrival of their interstellar friends caused, the shop has stood strong, ever resilient. Even if it were to have fallen, it would have been built again. Family roots are like that.
Lance likes to think that he’s taken to the business quite well, in fact, well enough that he’s known as the flower tailor around these parts, a name that, though he may have given to himself, is one he’s sure that others are calling him. He’s certain—it’s cool. Like him. Lance makes the best arrangements on the block. And he’s competing with that olkari run shop, so you know he’s good.
He’s the flower tailor, after all.
Any occasion, he has the flowers. Weddings, funerals, apologies—
“Excuse me, tell me, how would you go about saying ‘fuck you’ in flower?”
Lance blinks. “… Huh?”
It’s been a steady day, really. A few customers in to browse, a bulk purchase for in upcoming event, and someone looking for the most expensive bouquet to salvage his relationship—not that Lance has much faith in flowers being able to save that. The guy seemed like a grade A jerk. No, an A+++.
But other than that, steady.
And then in comes this hurricane of white hair making a beeline for the till, slamming down ten, no, twenty GAC onto the counter, and suddenly grade A+++ jerk guy is already fading from Lance’s mind.
“Did I not say it right?” says the woman, frowning, her head tilted in askance. She’s got this accent—English perhaps, a slight lilt to her words that makes him think he’s speaking with someone who’d outstretch their pinky when sipping a cup of tea, regal, refined. Or perhaps there’s some sort of space equivalent, because one look at her ears tells him he’s speaking to an altean, and a gorgeous one at that. He allows dreamy bubbles to float across his vision for the bliss of about one second before he remembers that a) she’s talking to him and b) he probably hadn’t hallucinated the vein that had popped on her forehead. This woman had not shown that GAC any mercy, slamming it down like that.
“The human language has so many curses,” she continues. “Hmmm… I want this.” Lance almost chokes on his own spit when she pulls out a middle finger on him. “In flower.”
“Yeah, I heard you loud and clear the first time, lady,” says Lance, his hands raised in defence. He motions to her. “You can put that thing away.”
Her cheeks darken, an embarrassed flush as she lowers her hand, now rigid at her side. “Oh, right. Sorry. I’m… a little out of sorts.”
Lance goes for an easy, relaxed smile. The kind he uses when he turns up the charm—ladies totally dig it. “Hey no worries, I can forgive a pretty face like yours.”
Well, they usually dig it, deep enough to tunnel in. This woman just gives him and his Lance ™ wink this unimpressed look as his insides wither and die. Oh to have that tunnel—he’d love for a getaway right now. “Hmm.”
Lance clears throat, resolving to pretend that just straight up never happened. He can play this off, he can play this off. “You know, people don’t usually say that in flower. Usually in words, just to keep things from getting confusing.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried. But Lotor just doesn’t want to get the message.”
She’s a talker, it seems. Lance may be getting his dose of drama today. “Lotor?” he pries.
“He’s my ex.”
“Ooof. Rough breakup?”
“Putting it mildly,” she says, and he can see it in her eyes—the emotionally wringing flashback she’s thrown through, all amounting to one singular wince. “So, do you have any flowers that could help?”
“Ahaha, now that’s where you’re in luck,” says Lance, slipping past her from around the counter. He starts pulling up several flowers from around the shop, talking as he goes. “You’d want a bouquet with orange lilies in for sure, maybe some geraniums… and some yellow carnations. Anyone well versed in flower would know a hatred bouquet when they saw one.”
Lance stops, meeting her eyes. He’s listed off the flower equivalent of an all out verbal assault, no remorse, completely soul crushing stuff. If he were the recipient, him and his self esteem would never recover, but—
“But something tells me you need a little more than subtle. Something that speaks to him in a language he can’t ignore, so he knows your lovely rose has thorns.”
She considers this. “Then what do you propose?”
“Lotor—that’s a galran name, right?” Lance thinks that’s what they’re called, the fuzzy purple ones. Lotor’s got something distinctly galran about it. He swears he’s hard the name somewhere before.
“Well, derived from both altean and galran history, but yes.”
“Thought so.” Lance puts down his collection of flowers onto the counter, and dives into the ‘staff only’ room, back where they keep and grow some of their more exotic plants. Veronica’s job at the garrison had got them in contact with one of their most reliable suppliers, Colleen Holt. And the amount of alien plants she’s come across—man. Supplied from anyone else, Lance would assume she was trying to get them killed with carnivorous foliage. But no, alien plants are just weird and wonderful like that. He picks up an incredibly velvety looking plant, its petals a deep rouge seeping into black, jagged edges making the petals themselves look like they’re laced with thorns, though they’re as soft as they come. A few snips, and Lance has enough for a bouquet, should the woman want them. He exits back out to the till, waving the flowers upon return.
“See, this here is—”
“Grunarvexus,” the woman finishes for him, her eyes widening in recognition.
“Yep! That’s the one. Others call it the galran catastrophe plant. They see it as a bad omen—always growing in places of calamity.” He grins, sharp, smug. “It would be pretty hard to ignore a bouquet with these in.”
“I don’t know why I didn’t consider it before. Please, I’d like you to add some grunarvexus to those orange lilies, and the other two.” She looks at her cash, still where she had slammed it down earlier. “Would this be enough to cover it?”
“More than enough, but for you? I can offer a discount.” Not that his parents would be pleased, but you know. Cute girl. “I’d say on the house, but a guy’s gotta put food on the table somehow.”
Sharp eyes—he feels the sting of her skepticism. “What’s with the charitable mood?”
Lance shrugs. Says it how it is. “This ex of yours does not sound worth your money.”
Seriously. For a guy to fumble this girl as bad as he did? Not even worth a cent. Or GAC in this case.
“I suppose you’re right.” Her lip twitches into a light smile, amusement a gift like sunrise on her face, positively radiant. She glances at his name tag. “Thank you… Lance.”
The way she says his name, something in Lance’s heart stutters, caught on the ghost of an r that reshapes his name to her design—something so spectacular in a nickname that isn’t really a nickname at all.
“No problem,” he says, sounding a little faint. With her attention on him arranging the bouquet, tying it up with a nice, black ribbon, he hopes the rising heat to his face goes unnoticed. “Just doing my job, Princess.”
“Princess? How did—” She cuts herself off, looking down at her shirt, its bright pink declaration that she’s a ‘princess’ inspiration for the endearment. “Oh. I forgot I put this one on. I’m Allura. Just Allura. And certainly not a princess.”
“I don’t know,” he draws out. “You seem like one to me.”
“I assure you I’m not!”
“Well then,” Lance says, putting her bouquet through the till. “Here’s your change ‘just Allura’.”
“Thank you,” Allura says, taking the change and the flowers along with it. Her eyes trail the shop, admiration soft, tender, every plant truly a marvel under her eyes, and Lance’s chest swells with pride, cosy and warm in its golden glory. Maybe this isn’t his original dream, but he’s proud of his work, proud of what his family has built here. “You have a wonderful shop—I’m glad Romelle told me about this place.”
Romelle—he knows that name. A regular, one who often stops by with her brother—Bandana? Banana, no, Bandor, he thinks—and, like Allura here, an altean too. She’s chatty, friendly, and even brought him in some of her freshly baked blomfruit pie when he let slip about his breakup with Jenny. He’s still gotta get her recipe for that, and ask her what a blomfruit even is.
“Oh, um, thanks! You know Romelle?”
“She’s a friend.” Allura gives him a strange look. “One who may have had ulterior motives in brining me here.”
“… Huh?”
“No matter,” she says, already heading towards the door. “Take care, Lance.”
“You too,” he says, caught in a daze. He shakes himself to, brings back some of his ol’ Lancey Lance confidence. “Oh, and Allura? If the flowers don’t work and he’s still bothering you, we could always turn this flower shop au into a fake dating one. You know where to find me.”
Allura looks back at him, apparently just to make a show off rolling her eyes before she leaves. “I’ll consider it.”
(And like a star—she comes to him, brilliant, blinding, beautiful.
He may not be a pilot, but in this moment, his heart learns to soar.)