Chapter Text
Lance McClain is dying. That is the only way to explain whatever the hell is happening to him right now. He is dying of a mysterious, never-before-heard-of illness that causes him to stick to walls and rip handles off bedroom doors.
He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, stock-still and way too careful about which parts of the room his body touches. He’s shirtless, the top he was trying to put on hanging limply from his fingertips like it’s been glued onto them, and his hair is frazzled from his anxious tugging on it. It started yesterday, this stickiness, and he is barely managing.
Now, there’s something else wrong. His body.
Lance is jacked. He looks like he’s been pumping iron every day for the past 10 years. Not that he’s lost his characteristic lankiness, or that he was particularly out of shape before, but he has abs! A six pack! Lance has literally never had one of those before.
Experimentally, he lifts an arm (the one without a t-shirt attached to it) and flexes. It’s toned, and it’s beautiful. Lance doesn’t bother biting back his smirk. Maybe this disease—or whatever it is—isn’t so bad.
There’s a sudden banging on the door, and Lance jolts, his head snapping up to the sound.
“Lance, will you hurry up? If you’re not out here in the next ten minutes, I’m seriously leaving you here.” His sister, Veronica, spares him no expense when it comes to timeliness.
Lance lets his arm drop back down, refocusing his attention on the shirt glued to his hand.
“Yeah, I’ll be out in a sec,” he replies, shaking his hand a bit and willing the shirt to become unstuck. Much to his surprise, it does. He lets out a pleased hum, pulling it over his head, then follows it up with his favorite blue hoodie.
He then spends the next five minutes tending to his hair, fixing the strands back into place. Once it’s set, he exits the bathroom, grabs his backpack and his board, and follows Veronica out of the house to her car.
The drive to school is calm, and luckily, Lance doesn’t get stuck to the seat this time.
Veronica has barely parked when Lance jumps out of the car with a distracted “Thanks,” his eyes already on his next destination.
He runs over to Hunk with a wave, knocking their shoulders together. “Hey, buddy!”
Hunk gives him an odd look, but smiles, patting him on the shoulder. “Hey, Lance. You’re happy today.”
“Well, yeah. I’m hot.”
Hunk rolls his eyes. Pidge comes up behind them, and Lance feels her before he hears her, an odd tingling itching at the back of his skull.
“Hey, guys,” she says, voice purposefully low in an attempt to scare them. Hunk actually does startle, his back straightening, head whipping around to face her. “Jesus, Pidge.”
Lance snorts, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “Nice try, kid, but it’ll take a lot more than that to scare me.” Pidge scoffs.
“What about that time at the skate park when–” Lance cuts her off by pressing a finger to her lips and shooting her a warning glare. “I want you to think about your next words very carefully.”
She doesn’t seem all that intimidated, but she does shut up, so Lance considers it a win.
—
English sucks. Whatever propaganda has been going around saying that math is the worst subject is utterly wrong, because English class definitely takes the cake on that one.
Sure, it’s Lance’s second language, and he spent actual months learning it fluently so he could come to school in America, but that doesn’t make it any less difficult. The grammar rules make literally no sense, and there’s this ridiculous subjectivity when it comes to answering questions that makes it impossible for there to be just one, concrete, correct answer! Because what do you mean he can say some complete nonsense pulled straight out of his ass, but if he explains it well enough, it could still be correct? It makes no sense!
However, there is one good thing about English class, and that is Keith Kogane, the current object of Lance’s attention.
Keith’s seat is situated diagonally in front of Lance’s, right by the window, which is perfect, because Lance can pretend he’s staring at the clouds in the sky while he’s actually admiring the little mole that sits just below Keith’s right eyebrow.
It’s not that Lance has a crush on him or anything, though. Keith is just an objectively attractive guy, and there’s nothing wrong with Lance having respect for his good looks.
“Mr. McClain.”
Lance straightens, his gaze snapping forward. Mr. Iverson’s eyes are dark with irritation, and Lance suppresses a wince.
“Sir,” he replies evenly, forcing a polite smile onto his face.
“Do you understand how the final scene of To Kill a Mockingbird ties into the overarching theme of the novel, Mr. McClain?”
Lance is silent for a good few seconds. When he realizes Iverson is definitely not going to give this up, he lets out a very dignified, “Um.” He feels his ears redden slightly.
“Do you even understand what the theme of the novel is?”
“Er… racism?”
Iverson lets out a deep, pained sigh. “It might be beneficial for you to pay attention, Mr. McClain. We are testing on this next week.”
Lance grimaces. “Yes, sir.”
Class continues painfully slow, and Lance spends most of it stewing in his deep-seated hatred for Iverson. The bell rings, and Lance slings his bag over his shoulder, distantly noting that it feels a lot lighter than usual.
He’s halfway to his locker before he hears his name being called, and he pauses, lifting his head and searching for either Hunk or Pidge. His eyes widen when they land on Keith, weaving through a cluster of students to get to him.
“Lance!”
Lance purses his lips, a light flush creeping up his neck. He thinks, for a moment, that his luck has finally run out, and Keith had noticed him staring in class today.
When Keith makes it to Lance, he looks thoroughly bothered to be speaking to him. Lance frowns. Sure, he can be kind of annoying (really annoying), but it can’t be that difficult to talk to him.
“Mullet,” Lance greets him with a fabricated arrogance and a hint of irritation. Keith’s eye twitches, and Lance fights back a smug grin.
“I was…wondering..” Keith trails off, averting his gaze. The words are clearly a struggle for him to get out, and Lance quirks a brow. “...if you could take pictures.”
“Uhm. Yeah. Last time I checked, I do own a camera, and I have the ability to use it.”
Keith runs an aggravated hand down his face, sighing deeply. “For the soccer team,” he clarifies. “Senior night is this Friday and we need someone to take photos.”
“Oh.” Lance blinks. “Yeah, sure. I think I’m free. What time?”
“Right after school in the gym.”
“Cool, yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Cool.”
Keith shuffles away awkwardly, and Lance watches him go. His heart is beating weirdly hard in his chest, and he squints as Keith turns the corner, out of sight.
With a sigh, Lance shakes his head, turning on his heel to throw his stuff into his locker.
He barely makes it three steps before knocking into a body that definitely wasn’t there before. A hand on his shoulder pushes him back, surprisingly aggressive, and Lance furrows his brows.
“Uhm, what–?”
“You’d better pay attention to where you’re going, dude.” Lance doesn’t even have to look to know it’s James. Resident snob, and a total stuck-up asshole that can’t get over the one time Lance beat him in something. (Okay, maybe Lance rubbed it in his face a little, but it was freshman year! Who holds a grudge over something so stupid for that long?! It’s been almost two years!)
“James,” he acknowledges dully. “I think you’re blocking my locker.”
James levels him with a fed-up stare, evidently unimpressed with his sarcasm. “Why do you always antagonize Iverson? He’s not even that bad of a teacher.”
Lance scoffs. “Antagonize him? I don’t think I said a single word in that class today until he called on me.”
“Yeah, but you’re never paying attention, and your staring distracts the entire class.” Lance severely doubts that. “Everyone already knows you’re a fuckin’ fairy, but you don’t have to make it so obvious. Kogane isn’t even that attractive.”
Lance clenches his jaw so hard it hurts, his hands twitching at his sides. He has to take a deep, steadying breath, because he cannot risk getting expelled for socking this kid in the jaw.
“You sound jealous.” He tries for teasing, but it comes across more annoyed than anything else. “And who even calls gay people fairies anymore? You sound like my Abuelo.”
“Whatever, dude. Just get your shit together. Don’t want your scholarship money getting revoked.” James offers up a tight-lipped, entirely unfriendly smile, and Lance returns it with an equal amount of gusto.
“Appreciate it, man.”
James gives him one last once-over before stepping aside, his gaze locking onto one of his friends. As soon as he leaves, Lance deflates, prying open his locker and shoving his things haphazardly into it.
He doesn’t dwell on the interaction. The guy is honestly—probably—closeted and looking for an outlet. Lance can smell the gay on him from a mile away, not that he’d ever say anything about it.