Chapter Text
The pale sand felt soft and grainy under his bare feet. While the blue, salty ocean seemed to stretch on for miles into the horizon, the salty wind whipping his hair into his face. A very familiar man sat on a plastic cooler, his presence intimidating yet familial to Lance.
Lance blinked against the bright Cuban sun. Poseidon was clad in a neon-green Hawaiian shirt patterned with tiny tridents and a pair of cargo shorts that had seen better decades. He looked like every tourist Lance had ever seen in Varadero, right down to the zinc oxide on his nose, but when he looked up, his eyes held the weight of a thousand shipwrecks.
“You’ve got that look on your face, Lancey boy. The 'I’m-about-to-be-eaten-by-a-Kraken' look. Or is it just that Red Paladin again? Keith, right? The one with the horrendous hair cut.”
Poseidon chuckled out, taking the initiative to break the silence which was previously filled by the sound of the water's currents and the howling of the wind.
Lance immediately stutters, his face fading into the deep shade of red that rivaled Keith's signature cropped jacket.
‘’I- what? No! We’re rivals, Dad! Competitive, professional, space-pilot rivals! Purely and only hate! And where did you even get his name?"
"Please. I’m the God of the Sea; I know a thing or two about deep-seated currents."
Poseidon then winked, a gesture that looked ridiculous with the white zinc oxide on his nose. "He’s got a bit of a temper. A bit like a storm over the Mediterranean. You always did like the stormy ones."
"I do not! He has a mullet! It’s a crime against nature and fashion decency!"
"If you say so, kid."
Poseidon reached into one of his many cargo pockets and pulled out a small, silver whistle shaped like a conch shell. "Take this, my son. It’s for when things get too hot. One blow, and you’ll find a little bit of home wherever you are."
Poseidon tone grew soft, the silver conch-like whistle shimmering in the palm of his hand that was extended towards Lance.
''Father, wait a second-”
Lance finally manged to stammer out something, before he was unexpectedly cut off by his father, who had a face splitting grin on the features of his face.
“And Lance? Use your head. The boy's brave, but he’s got all the self-preservation of a lemming. Keep him safe, okay? I’d hate to see you mope around the Atlantic for a century because you let a pretty face get blasted."
Poseidon said with a final, hearty laugh, soon drowned out by the roar of the ocean.
...
The dream suddenly felt less like what it was previously, transitioning into what felt like a physical weight pressing hard against Lance’s chest.
Lance snapped awake with a gasp, his lungs burning as if he’d actually been holding his breath underwater. The infirmary of the Castle-ship was dark, the blue glowing lines of the walls a harsh contrast to the golden Cuban sun he'd just left behind.
His hand was clenched tight. When he opened his fingers, a small, silver whistle lay in his palm—cool, solid, and smelling faintly of salt.
"Pretty face," Poseidon’s voice echoed in Lance’s head.
"Shut up, Dad," Lance whispered to the empty room, his face heating up all over again with a warmth he knew was definitely not because of the sun.
Lance sat up, one hand rubbing the sleep from his eyes, though he felt like he was up all night. While the other one was still clenched around the conch shell-like whistle in his palm. The air of the Castle-ship was sterile, yet lance could still faintly make out the scent of the coconut oil and sea salt.
The hiss of the infirmary door sliding open felt like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Lance jumped about a foot into the air, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. In one blur of motion, he shoved his hand, whistle and all, deeply into his pocket, his knuckles rapping painfully against his thigh in his haste.
"Whoa! Keith! Buddy! My man! Ever heard of knocking?"
Lance started stammering once he saw who it was, his voice was an octave too high, his face still radiating the leftover heat.
(Though Lance had hoped it wasn’t too obvious)
Keith stood tall in the doorway, his expression as unreadable as a stone wall. He didn't move, his arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow slowly inching upward as he watched Lance’s suspicious fidgeting. He didn't try to ask what was in the pocket, Keith wasn't really the type to pry unless it looked like a threat to him, but the silence was undeniably loud.
"The pods don't have doorbells, Lance," Keith said flatly. His voice was raspy, the way it always was when he’d been training too long or sleeping too little.
(Maybe Lance did accidentallyyy learn Keith's little habit and actions a little too well now and then.)
He stayed there for a beat, his dark eyes scanning Lance’s face, noticing the slight frantic flush on his face, the stray dampness of his hair, and the way he was leaning away as if he were hiding a literal elephant behind his back.
"You look..." Keith paused, searching for the word, "...sweaty. More than usual."
"I was just, uh dreaming! About... cardio. Very intense cardio," Lance lied, the silver whistle feeling like a hot coal in his palm which was buried deep in his pocket.
Keith let out a short, huffing breath, not really quite a laugh, but the closest he usually got. He didn't push it.
"Right. Well, Coran is threatening to make 'space-porridge' again if we don't get to the dining hall in five minutes. Hunk sent me to see if you were finally awake or if we needed to call a medic." He turned on his heel, his signature red jacket flaring slightly.
"Try not to trip over your own feet on the way there. You’re acting weirder than Pidge after a three-day coding bender."
…
The dining hall was filled with the usual morning chaos. Lance sat slumped at the table, his mind still in Cuba.
"Lance, pass the nutrient-carafe?" Shiro asked.
Lance didn't look, he didn’t have too. He was staring blankly at Keith, who was sitting across from him, looking particularly grumpy as he tried to flatten a rogue lock of hair.
His hand then moved on its own, fluid and terrifyingly fast. He flicked his wrist, and the heavy glass container spun across the table, curving around Hunk’s elbow to stop perfectly in front of Shiro.
The heavy glass container slid across the table, spinning with a precision that should have been impossible. It bypassed Pidge’s laptop by a hair’s breadth, curved around Hunk’s elbow, and stopped perfectly in front of Shiro’s hand.
Shiro paused, his hand hovering over the carafe. He looked at the distance it had traveled, then at Lance. "Nice... aim, Lance."
"Thanks," Lance muttered, his mind still stuck on his father’s Hawaiian shirt.
"Actually," Allura’s voice broke through the tension that had settled over the atmosphere of the room, her eyes bright as she tapped a command into the central table’s holographic projector. A shimmering planet appeared, swirling with deep, vibrant teals and brilliant whites.
"I have some news. The Green Lion has scouted a nearby system, and we’ve found a planet called Vesperia. It’s almost entirely composed of saltwater oceans and mineral-rich sands."
Lance’s heart did a slow, heavy thud against his ribs.
"Wait," Hunk said, his eyes widening.
"Saltwater? Like... Earth water?"
"According to the archives, it is a ninety-eight percent match to your home planet’s 'Caribbean' region," Allura smiled.
"The Castle’s hydro-cells are low, and Vesperia’s water is pure enough to recharge them. We’ll be touching down by midday. I thought perhaps the team could use a few hours of... what was the term, Lance? 'Rest and relaxation'?"
Lance felt like the floor had just turned into liquid. A beach. A real beach.
The silver whistle in his pocket seemed to pulse. He could almost hear his father’s laugh over the hum of the engines. One blow, and you’ll find a little bit of home.
"A beach,"
Lance whispered. It should have been a dream come true, but all he could think about was the "itch" under his skin and the way the water in his glass had tried to climb his fingers five minutes ago. If he got near an entire ocean of the stuff, would he even be able to keep the Mist up?
Keith was still watching him.
He saw the way Lance’s tan skin went a shade paler, the way his pupils dilated until his blue eyes were nearly swallowed by black. Keith’s own Galra instincts, those whispers he still didn't fully understand were buzzing nonstop as if it was right under his skin. To Keith, Lance didn't look excited. He looked like he was staring at a firing squad.
"You okay, Lance?" Keith asked while pushing around his space-goo with his spoon. His voice was flat, but his brow was furrowed in a way that he told himself was just 'annoyance.'
"You look like you're going to puke."
"Puke? Me? Never!"
Lance yelped, his voice cracking painfully. He stood up so fast his knees knocked the table, making the nutrient-carafe rattle.
"I’m just- I’m the King of the Beach, Keith! I have to go... find my trunks! And my face cream! You can't just go to a tropical paradise with dry skin, it’s a crime!"
"But Lance, we aren't leaving for another hour- " Shiro started, but Lance was already backing away toward the door.
"Preparation is key, Shiro! Key to the Sharpshooter lifestyle! Catch you on the flip side!"
Lance bolted.
Keith stayed seated, his fingers tracing the edge of his spoon. He was oblivious to the fact that his heart was racing simply because Lance had looked so distressed.
He told himself he was just suspicious, that Lance was clearly hiding some kind of alien tech and was worried the salt water would short-circuit it. He didn't realize that his gaze was lingering on the empty doorway long after Lance had gone.
"He's acting like a weirdo," Keith muttered, though there was no bite in it.
"Even for Lance, that was a bit much," Pidge agreed, her eyes already back on her tablet.
"Maybe the thought of seeing you in swim trunks is too much for his brain to process."
Keith felt a sudden, hot prickle of blood rush up his neck. "Shut up, Pidge."
He stood up, his movements stiff. He wasn't going to follow Lance, not yet at least. He was going to 'play it cool.' But as he walked toward the training deck, he couldn't stop thinking about the way Lance’s hand had moved at breakfast.
It was annoying, really. Lance was usually all gangly limbs and misplaced energy, so seeing him move with that kind of effortless, silent grace felt... wrong. It was a distraction Keith didn't need, yet his mind kept looping back to the image of Lance's hand frozen in the air, perfect and steady.
He told himself he was just looking for the 'cheat code' Lance was clearly using, but there was a strange, restless heat behind his ribs that had nothing to do with training and probably everything to do with the way the light had caught the gold in Lance's eyes.
It was a mystery to him, and Keith had never been good at letting things go, especially when they involved Lance.
And for some reason, Keith found himself wondering if the water on Vesperia would be as blue as Lance’s eyes had been right before Lance had ran out.