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Pain, unlike anything Lance had ever experienced before tore through his body, through the Red Lion’s body, through their bond and into Lance’s very core. It gripped him for what felt like an eternity, before abruptly, everything stopped.
Then there was nothing.
Not pain, or relief. Neither relaxation nor soreness. Just… Nothing.
Lance opened his eyes… Or, he thinks he did? He may have just... Begun to be again.
There was nothing around him.. Or… No, that wasn’t right. Everything was around him. Or…?
God, Lance felt confused. He feels like was just doing something really important, but can’t remember. Doesn’t remember where he was, or why he was there. And now he’s here. Wherever ‘here’ is.
He looks around, and it feels like he’s underwater, except he can breathe. His head turns sluggishly and all he can see for miles is… nothing. Well, not entirely nothing. It’s almost like those stereotypical galaxy prints, with blues, reds, and purples everywhere. Twinkling stars(?) dotting the area.
He tries to take stock of his body, but it’s like there’s nothing there either. A consciousness without a tether. He looks down on instinct, worried about what this feeling means. But he does see his body, though even that is strange. He can’t seem to focus on his own limbs. His sight blurring at the edges. He thinks he sees the black of his suit and the white of his armor, but can also see the brown of his skin. The little imperfections where war has left its mark. He thinks he sees his favorite green jacket… or, is it Keith’s red jacket? The one he left behind before running off with the blades?
He feels like the confusion should be causing a headache, but no such pain occurs.
Then, he hears it. Off in the distance, he can hear a soothing feminine voice. It’s too far to make out words, but it immediately causes a calm to wash over Lance.
He looks in the direction of the voice and can just barely see a couple of figures. Maybe they know what’s going on?
So he moves forward, resolving not to linger on whether he’s truly ‘walking’ or not. And finally he reaches them. Two figures, still as statues, shrouded in light making the whole scene a blissful little vignette. One that Lance recognizes.
His mother, sat on their gaudy old couch that his father had gotten second hand as a bachelor, sewing a patch onto a power rangers shirt that had been Lance’s favorite when he was a little boy.
Beside his mother, impossibly, sat a young Lance. Maybe five or six years of age and pouting something fierce.
“Mijo, you need to know your limits.” His mother soothes, and suddenly, the scene comes to life. Current Lance is sucked into the living room of his childhood home, where the sun casts the perfect beam of warmth over the ornate rug his mother bought from some artisan market years ago. There was a stain in the corner, where one of his siblings spilled soda on it at some point.
It’s almost enough to bring tears to Lance’s eyes.
Young Lance crosses his arms, his pout deepening “And Marco needs to not be such a butthead.”
Lance’s mother clicks her tongue “Mijo, we don’t use that kind of language.” It was a soft and, now that Lance was hearing it as an adult, amused chastisement. But, he could see the tears the chastisement brought to little Lance’s eyes. He was always such a mama’s boy, he never liked to disappoint her.
“Sorry, Mama.” The child said, wiping at his eyes. “But Marco’s so mean to me.”
Lance remembered this day. It was the end of summer, just before Lance would start his first year of school. Him and all his siblings were playing out by the edge of the property by a dried up creek. Him and Marco had been rough housing and the next thing he knew, Marco had pushed him and he was stumbling into the creek. His little side had caught on a rock and ended up tearing a hole into his shirt. Once he’d realized what had happened, he’d burst into tears. After all, he’d just gotten the shirt for his birthday and he already loved it so much. Hell, he’s pretty sure that shirt’s still in his bedroom back home somewhere.
Lance’s mom set the needle she’d been using down and wrapped her arm around her son, bringing him close enough to press a kiss into the wild mess of curls sitting atop his head. “I know, sweetheart.” She soothed, “But you also play a part in it.”
The boy was about to protest, when one look from his mother stopped him. “You do.” She insisted. “You always find some way to push Marco’s buttons, and he reacts in the only way he can think to.” Pressing one more kiss into Lance’s crown, His mother resumes sewing. “I’m not saying it’s right.” She sighed, “I really wish you boys would get along better, but you both have a role to play in how your interactions play out.”
The woman sighed again, turning to catch her boy’s eyes. “Remember, Lance, your actions have consequences. You need to make sure you’re ready to face those consequences before you act.”She said, though not unkindly.
The figures froze like that, the scene fading back into a vignette. Lance looked long and hard at his mother’s smiling face and realized that he never really internalized her words. A pang of guilt shot through him and he wondered if she’d be disappointed in him now.
Before he could linger on that thought though, he heard another voice. Masculine this time. Deep and inherently joyful. His papa?
Following the voice, he came upon another vignette. He and his dad stood at an old clunker his father had gotten from his own brother. At least, Lance thinks that’s where it came from. Either way, his father was hunched over the open hood of the 1990-something Chevy Camaro with a little Lance off to the side, holding the man’s old toolbox.
Lance was maybe a couple of years older than he had been in the previous memory, and the boy was watching his father work in rapt attention.
The scene expanded, and Lance watched as his father scratched his head. He was mumbling something to himself about belts and transmissions that neither Lance could really make out.
“Can you hand me the socket wrench, please.” He finally said, not looking up from the car.
Lance burst into action, excited to have something to do. Lance had always loved helping where he could, even if he didn’t have much interest in what he was helping with.
Finally, acquiring his prize, Lance held the wrench out to his father, “Here you go, Papa.” He sounded so proud of himself, knowing he had finally remembered which one a socket wrench was.
His father smiled at him as he grabbed the wrench, “Thank you, Mijo.” Turning back to the inner workings of the car, his dad pointed at something. “You see this part here?” His dad asked. Once Lance nodded, he continued, “This is the car’s radiator, it helps keep the car cool while driving and I think it’s about time to take a look at it and see if it needs replaced, hm?”
His dad had had the Camaro for as long as Lance could remember, but it never seemed to get any closer to being fixed. “Papa?” The boy asked as his father got to work.
“Yes, Mijo?”
“Why do you keep this thing? Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy a new one?” He asked, to his father’s apparent amusement.
“Sure it would,” His father grunted, loosening something or other. “But the point’s not to have a fancy car, the point is to work toward something.” Straightening back up and wiping his hand on a rag in his back pocket, his father turned back to Lance, his smile glittering. “It always feels sweeter to use something you’ve put hard work into. It’s like-” His dad cut off, looking to the side in thought, though Lance’s attention was held unwaveringly by his father.
The man snapped his fingers, finally thinking of a good analogy, “It’s like when you’re playing a sport- Basketball, maybe? And maybe you’re not very good at it in the beginning, but you enjoy it. So you work and work and work, and finally you score a basket and win the game for your team. That’d feel pretty good wouldn’t it?” His father finished, proud of his analogy, though little Lance wasn’t really sure how basketball related to cars. “At least, working for that basket would feel better than if you won your very first game, don’t you think?”
Little Lance nodded, looking thoughtful, “I guess so.” He said.
Lance’s dad just chuckled, ruffling his hand through his son’s hair, “Eh, you’ll understand once you’re older. Either way, just think; once we’ve fixed this baby up, we’ll be flying down these streets like-” His dad made a whooshing sound, picking Lance up and running around the garage with him. The scene froze with the sound of Lance’s excited giggles, and current Lance couldn’t help the fond smile that pulled at his lips.
His father never did finish fixing the Camaro. The man wasn’t very handy with cars to begin with, and by the time they were moving to the US, they couldn’t justify taking the clunker with them. Lance remembers how sad his dad had looked when they sold it, watching the buyer’s loaded trailer pull out of the driveway. He’d been older at that point, but he thinks if the version of himself he’s currently looking at saw the look on his dad’s face, he’d still be just as crushed at the way his eyes had dimmed.
Taking a deep breath in, Lance began looking around, listening for any familiar sounds, having begun to pick up a pattern.
Sure enough, he heard a couple of feminine voices. If he had to guess, he’d think they belonged to his sisters.
Floating toward the sound, he was proven right as he looked upon the frozen forms of himself and his sisters sitting on the floor of the girls’ childhood bedroom. Rachel was leaned over him clipping his bangs back with an ungodly amount of butterfly clips while Veronica was setting out various makeup and skincare products.
Lance and Rachel were about 10 years old at that point and Veronica was about 16. The scene came to life with a petulant huff from Lance. “Do I really have to do this?” He protested, though, even at the time he knew his protests were token at best.
“Yep!” Rachel chirped, sliding the final clip into place. “You lost the bet, and now you get to be our little Barbie doll!”
Lance huffed, crossing his arms and pouting. “You’re gunna get premature wrinkles if you keep making that face.” Veronica teased. She finally finished setting up, grabbing a pot of… something.
Lance had a feeling she wasn’t going to explain any of this to him, but he decided to ask anyway. “What’s that?” He watched as Veronica screwed off the lid and scooped out some white substance.
“Skincare.” She simply replied, smearing the cream into his skin.
Lance made a face of protest, but otherwise sat still, “Skincare’s the best base for makeup after all. And you definitely need it.”
“What’s wrong with my skin?” he asked, reaching up to try and touch his face before Veronica smacked his hand away.
“Everything.” Rachel snickered.
Veronica cut in before a fight could start. “Other than the fact that you don’t use sun screen? Honestly, not much. I mean, you’re 10.” She shrugged, finishing up with the cream and picking something else up. “But it’s about prevention. If you need to fix something it’s already too late.”
Lance now didn’t know if that line of thinking was totally accurate, but he still lives by his skincare routine, even if he’s been slacking on it recently.
Once Veronica finished up with prep and base makeup, Rachel scooted up with a very colorful eye shadow pallet. “My turn.” She grin mischievously.
“Oh no, you’re gunna make me look like a clown.” Lance whined, putting his arms up in defense.
“Duh, that’s why this is fun!” Rachel declared, shifting to get around his hands. “Now let me work!”
Veronica moved behind Lance, grabbing his arms and pinning them to his sides. He put up a fight on principle, but he knew he’d lose to Veronica, so he just settled in with a pout.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be a pretty clown.” Veronica reassured with a teasing lilt.
“Gee thanks, can’t wait.” came his younger self’s sarcastic reply before the scene froze.
Lance’s smile was soft and wistful as he looked at the trio. He remembers that after this day, he secretly continued using Veronica’s skincare products before finally just asking for his own. He thought he’d get a lot of shit for it, and he definitely got some, but Veronica took him shopping and helped him build a routine.
He would always be grateful to his family for little shows of support like that. It made it significantly easier to learn about himself and grow into who he was. It was times like these where his homesickness felt the worst.
Before he could dwell too hard on that, though, he heard humming that cut off his train of thought. He turned toward it and felt his whole heart warm at the vignette he saw.
Him and his grandma in festive sweaters standing in one portion of the kitchen. They came to life and Lance watched as his grandma stabbed a fork into a piece of yuca that Lance had helped her peel and cut.
“See here, Lancito, this is how you want the yuca to feel.” She said, handing the fork to Lance to, literally, take a stab at. It was soft, but not so soft that the fork slid right out of it on its exit. “Fork soft. You don’t want it too mushy or the dough won't form correctly.”
Turning off the heat, his grandma moved the pot off the burner and toward a colander in the sink to drain the vegetables. Little Lance watched closely, the sounds of his happy family and smells of Christmas dinner cooking all in the background.
Lance had a large and loud family, but his grandma was usually quiet. He’d once asked her why, but she just smiled at him and let that be her answer.
After draining out the water, his grandma put the yuca into a new bowl, then grabbed the potato masher, holding out to Lance. “Here, Lancito, you can help me with this step.”
He grabbed the masher and moved the bowl closer to himself “Okay!” He said happily. He’d watched her make buñuelos many times before, but this was his first time helping and he couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to this step in particular.
He excitedly began mashing the yuca, only to be gently stopped by his grandma, who smiled and shook her head “Did the yuca steal something from you?” She joked, making Lance blush a bit. She shook her head fondly, “Gently, Lancito. If you go too hard, you won't mash them evenly. Here.” Placing a gentle hand over his own, his grandma began to mash, firm but mindful. “Like that.” She instructed, then stepped back and motioned for him to continue.
Lance focused in on his technique, simulating his grandma’s movements and pressure. He hadn’t realized at the time, but now that he was looking at himself from the future, he saw that his tongue was sticking out in his concentration.
“Better.” His grandma praised. “Always remember, anything worth doing is worth doing right.” She said, before the scene froze.
His grandma passed not too long after that. It was spring of the following year. But, what was once his grandma’s job during Christmas dinner, making the buñuelos, Lance took up in her stead. He didn’t really think they tasted as good, but he was always happy to make them for his family.
He wondered who was making them now. Did anyone else know his grandma’s recipe?
He continued on like that, moving from vignette to vignette, memory to memory. From the time he and Luis smashed the living room window hitting baseballs at their new house in the US, to the time Marco tried to teach him how to drive though Marco had only just gotten his permit himself. To the first time he met Hunk, the other boy shy and nervous to be away from his family. He even meandered through more recent memories. Like finding the Blue Lion, forming Voltron for the first time, and even unlocking his broadsword.
It was nice, Lance had to admit, watching his life in small sweet snippets like this. And by the end, he looked back at all the little scenes, the ‘stars’ he now realized, and felt an unmatched peace roll over him.
He was dead, and he was watching his life flash before his eyes. Though, ‘flash’ was a strong word given the meandering nature of it all.
By the end, he felt… Happy? He didn’t know for sure if that was the right way to describe it. But what he did know was that he was ready to move on. Despite the pull of guilt weighing on his heart when he thought of his family, his mama. To bury an empty casket because he died too far for them to have a body to bury. He’s the youngest, and to die first… Well, that was probably his only real regret. But that was fine. He's sure his family would forgive him.
Finally, Lance turned to face an empty space in front of him. Or, it was mostly empty. He could tell that whatever the afterlife was, that specific spot would take him to it.
He drew in a deep breath and moved toward it, reaching his hand out and-
~~
Jolting awake, Lance could feel an ache that penetrated to the marrow of his bones. His skin tingled and burned and his muscles ached as if he’d had the world’s longest lasting charlie horse all over.
Lance felt keenly dissociated from his body, the fuzz in his ears was probably to blame for that. He sucked in a huge gulp of air, just barely coming back into himself when he felt pressure on his arm. Like someone was grabbing it through a puffy coat.
“-nce. -ance…. Lance!” His head whipped to the side, eyes locking with Allura’s. She breathed out a sigh “Good. Thank the stars.” She almost seemed to say to herself.
Lance opened his mouth to say… something. Anything really, when the princess beat him to it. “I have to head back to the blue lion but, Stars, I’m glad that worked.”
Then she was up and off. Almost too fast for Lance to process. He felt the panicked prodding of Red in the back of his mind. It felt almost like a worried cat rubbing her whole body on him, thankful he was still here with her. “I’m okay, Red. ‘Mokay.” He said, shakily patting her console.
“Lance!” He heard Shiro bark, jolting him hard and setting his heart beat into a gallop. “What are you doing? We need you to take care of those cruisers on your six.”
Putting his seat back into its proper position, Lance took up the controls again. “Ri- Right. Yeah, sorry, m’on it.” He stuttered, forcing his jaw closed at the end to keep his teeth from clacking together with the way his body was shivering.
He could feel Red’s resistance. She clearly was protesting Lance continuing this mission, but he couldn’t just turn his back on his team right now. He could feel how she wanted to refuse to move, but his desperation must’ve struck through to her as she moved without fuss.
The rest of the mission was a panicked blur. Hell, Lance can’t remember any time in his life he’d felt so panicked. But eventually the mission ended and he docked Red in the castle.
Finally unclenching his hands from Red’s controls, he broke. He tore off his helmet and curled into himself, barely getting a full breath out as he sobbed.
He died.
He’s not even twenty years old yet and he died fighting in a war he has no business participating in.
It was almost too much, the ache of his body a constant and harsh reminder of the day. The Red lion’s steadfast comfort was the only thing that kept him grounded. That brought him back into himself and calmed him in the end.
Finally exiting his lion, he was shocked to see no one waiting for him. He shakily pulled out his communicator only to find no messages. Did no one care that he had died? Did no one know? Surely they at least knew he got hurt.
Lance doesn’t know how or when he made it back to his room after that. His awareness swims in and out, snippets of hallways, of removing his armor, of showering. There are too many thoughts. Too many memories made fresh. He doesn’t know why they’ve come up; memories of waking up early to watch power rangers, of the smell of car grease, or the taste of his Abuela’s buñuelos.
It’s too much, and Lance finds himself wishing Allura had just let him stay dead.