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It is a galaxy-wide truth that when Lance starts talking, it’s hard to shut him up. Facing certain death? Talking. Facing a rival? Talking. Sometimes it’s just a defensive reflex against all this oddness happening to him, sometimes it’s just to see how much it will affect a certain Red Lion-pilot. It’s not a crime to be talkative, to like talking, to like his own voice- if only others could see it too, namely alien princesses and alien women who aren’t into cuffing him to a tree.
But alas, the universe is a cruel, cold place and Lance isn’t appreciated as much as he would like to be.
Especially by Shiro: the noblest of the noble, the tallest of the tall, the man with pain in his smile and frustration in his eyes. Lance would follow him forever but if asked, he’d say that Shiro is probably a little bit of a prude- he’s not that much older than us, right? Who even appointed him the leader, c’mon- and not admit that the only times he has been struck speechless is when Shiro talks.
So Lance might have a little crush, there’s nothing wrong with that. You’d have to be dead and buried six feet under not to realize what a specimen their illustrious leader is. Not that Lance is about to do anything about it. He likes women, alright, human women, alien women, tall women, short women- not Shiro-definitely-not-a-woman who towers over all of them and always seems like he carries the world on his shoulders.
“Lance.”
Lance is struck out of his thoughts. Is met with Shiro’s frown.
“Aaa-ahaha, I was merely thinking about how nice the weather is,” Lance says and offers a grin. Shiro tilts his head. Glances at the ship-windows behind them that show nothing but the vast black net of space.
“Are you okay?” Shiro asks then, steps closer. He even leans down a little, his mouth in a worried frown. “You’ve been spacing out quite a lot. If you’re having trouble focusing-”
“Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s totally fine.” Why’s Lance’s tongue so heavy? Why are his hands so clammy? This is not fine, this is the opposite of fine.
“Lance,” Shiro says and squints. Steps closer. Lance swallows. Why does Shiro have to be so.. so.. broad.
“Shiro,” Lance says and feels heat climbing up to his face. “I’m feeling kinda cornered here, dude, can you-” a brush of metallic fingers on Lance’s chin promptly shut him up.
“Oh,” Shiro says, his thumb tickles Lance’s bottom lip. Lance makes a sound that he will deny to his dying day.
“Uh,” he says instead of the wise things circling in his head. Refuses to meet Shiro’s eyes. Hears the smirk in his voice.
“How cute,” Shiro says, his chuckle warm and igniting a firepit at the bottom of Lance’s stomach. Lance grabs Shiro’s shirt, curls his fingers into a fist.
“’m not,” Lance grumbles. Shiro’s thumb is calloused, his grip on Lance’s chin gentle. Shiro hums, leans down to whisper into Lance’s ear. Lance goes rigid, the red heat on his face spreading all over his body. His voice is stuck somewhere between his vocal chords and his lips.
Shiro strokes his face and Lance just knows that he’s smiling.