Chapter Text
To play UNO, you must bet it all on your luck and the love of the game. The game does not require concentration, nor a particular skill, but your connection with the cards must go beyond merely the red and blue. Even the particularly cleverest of plays does not come without an ounce of luck to accompany it. Play your blocks well, pray that the +4 does not land in the hands of the person before you, and remember to yell UNO. Most of all, wish for Lady Luck’s blessing.
[...]
To excel in your creative writing course, your end of year capstone must be stellar. Whether you pick the field of over-saturated poetry, lesser-known historical fiction, or perhaps even select a niche category that is attuned to your personal interests like a movie script or a play, the culmination of your four years in the program must be sufficiently demonstrated for you to feel an author’s sense of accomplishment. Which, we are sure you will.
[...]
To be a good actor, you must feel the light. You must feel every sensation trickling through your body, heightened tenfold. You must feel the burning gazes of your castmates to your side, laced with silent support and a feverish prayer. You must feel the audience’s scrutinization, how your mind hastens to remember and retain your lines. You must be so deeply immersed in your character that perhaps you are them and they are you.
[...]
To learn to love somebody, you must lower yourself slowly. You must understand that the process is fragile, but only if you let it be. You must learn that love is a thing that you permit yourself to accept. And you have all the time in the world, but you will yearn for its presence before you even experience it for yourself. And what a beautiful thing it is, when you can feel fulfilled enough to stop missing something.
[...]
To play, read the instructions manual, and roll the dice.
Move forward accordingly.
“What do you mean it’s cancelled.”
Lance can hear his voice, the hairstring fracture in his composure, the way his tone sharpens at the edges and spikes with a frail crack as he finishes his sentence. It’s unnerving, to see his own self so disconcerted, almost as though he’s spectating the own harrowing nadir of his own body and mind. But as someone probably wise once sagely said, there is always a reason behind something. Actually, no one said that, and it’s probably just common sense. But Lance digresses, because if there’s ever a time to justify his rattled demeanor with an idiomatic phrase, it’s now.
“I don’t know,” Allura waves her hands around, frantic, and Hunk is pacing the room. Nyma’s biting nails so gnawed at that they’re bleeding. “I— they’re cutting down on a lot of programs, Lance, ours is just another caught in the loop.”
“Caught in the loop?” He heaves a shaky breath. “This place has been our pride and joy for the past four years. It’s our last year here at Voltron.” His voice tapers off, a broken attempt at confidence dissipating. “It’s our last chance to be on stage, Allura.”
“My father will not be persuaded,” Lotor chips in dully, and even he too looks shaken by the tragedy that has befallen their university’s theatrics program, slumped all unmightily in his chair and looking much less of a man once so proud on stage. “Many of the programs he cut funding to were ones that weren’t performing as well. As much as I hate to admit it, he may have a reason that, despite being blatantly ignorant of our own passions, is rather warranted.”
Everyone, pointedly, ignores the performance pun, even if Lotor didn’t quite intend to make one, and Lance whips his hands off from where they’re dragging down his face to run them through his frizzled hair. “We don’t have a play,” he whispers, almost to himself. “We don’t have a play and we have barely a quarter left of college and we don’t have a play.”
“We could make one,” Pidge says quietly, and no one lightens up. Geniosity fails people sometimes. Seemingly Katie Holt is no exception.
“Right, yeah,” Lance snarks. “Make one. We’re all running on two hours of caffeine, your brother’s endless stash of Monster energy that he consumes like heroin, the third time Romelle’s told the story of her cousin falling into the cake batter, and absolutely no support from anyone at this supposedly legendary school board. Make one, Pidge, really,” he spits out, and immediately regrets every ounce of the tirade when Pidge shrinks back into her jacket.
He sighs, loud, and levels her with an apologetic glance, hoping to remedy what little hope the group has left. “Look, we’ve practically lived in the green room for four years. All of us,” Lance says aloud, to a team he knows like the back of his hand. Most of them, at least, because they collect members as the years go on, although numbers have dwindled increasingly over the past few. “It’s like we’re losing a home, you guys. And you’re just going to let it happen?”
“We can’t do anything,” Acxa supplies with a grimace. “Unless you’re itching for a march to Zarkon’s office and getting the cops up your ass the minute your fist hits his face. If he’s cutting funding, chances are that we’re losing our constant access to this theater too.” She motions to the velvet curtains, doing little to temper the uneasy feeling of lividity and grief coalescing in his gut. Emotion rages, unbridled behind her half-lidded eyes, because even the stoicest of their rowdy lot has much to offer in trying times like these.
“It may be for the better,” Allura says softly. “We’ll have more time to prepare for life outside of college. Isn’t that what you’ve dreamed of, Lance? Getting out there?”
Lance swallows. “Not without this.”
Hunk sighs and claps a hand onto his shoulder, making his knees buckle. “We don’t have much choice, buddy. We can all— still hang out. We can run improv games at home, you know? Or here, still, if we’re up for it.”
“I can’t bring myself to,” Ezor admits with a bowed head. “If we come back here, all we’re going to be thinking of is lost potential. How we could’ve rocked that stage if we still had it.”
“Distance makes the heart grow fonder, but it also makes you forget,” Lotor says unhelpfully. “We… will be so swamped with assignments and end-of-college projects that we will inevitably forget about our lack of participation in one last play.”
Allura hums, and rises from where she’s perched on a stool. “Indeed. But what I can say— about one last session for the memories? Ezor?”
Ezor smiles tightly, and her eyes are whirlwinds of melancholy. “For the memories.”
Pidge looks skyward, blinking the saline of tears away, because she seems to be incredibly dead-set on never letting others see her cry, regardless of circumstance (and Lance can attest to the fact that she has failed incredibly many times). Nyma’s rummaging for a tissue, because the one in her lap is riddled with specks of blood, and protrudes a crumpled one from her jacket pocket as the group gathers in the center. He hasn’t ever seen Lotor’s hair so unkempt, and Hunk stops pacing only to set up. This is their refuge, from the hotheaded exigence of a world that doesn’t stop demanding. It swallows boys with dreams and girls with hearts and people with vigor, and the spotlight has been the only thing keeping Lance anchored to bay. Now it’s begun to flicker, and he will not let the flame gutter out if that’s the last thing he does.
Lance downs the last of his glass. “And that’s the story,” he says overdramatically, slumping down onto the glass of the bar tabletop, and peers at James and Ryan, who look equal degrees of unimpressed and pitiful, and exchange glances before directing their focus back to their miserable… accomplice? Friend? He’s not quite close with either of them, but they must’ve felt bad for his red-rimmed eyes and puffy nose from all the crying– hence the cordial invitation to join their drinking session.
“Well, Zarkon’s a coward, McClain,” James drawls. “Even if you went and said some shit about it to him with the whole of your squad, I doubt he’d report it or anything. He’s all about the beauty of Voltron University, isn’t he? Where you have the freedom to pursue your passions,” he mocks over the rim of his glass. “I say you give it a go.”
“Yes,” Ryan adds curtly. “The worst that can happen is that he just rejects you again, and you’re back at step zero with maybe a few ranks up the blacklist, but that’s really irrelevant in the greater scheme of things—”
“A fist to the face, I reckon,” James is rattling on, looking rather out of it, and begins to revolve his chair by pushing off the floor with his feet. “Give that man a bloody good beating for all he’s fucked us up for. Can’t you do that for us, Lancerly?”
“He turns British when he’s drunk,” Ryan explains and waves a dismissive hand. “Ignore him.”
“Right,” Lance blinks owlishly. “Right,” he repeats, for extra emphasis. “So now we don’t know if we’ve even got the theater, we’ve got motivation at rock bottom, and worst of all we have no play. And Pidge— my friend— short one with the glasses, short as hell—”
Ryan coughs. “No clue.”
“–well, she proposed that we make a play ourselves. And mind you, this girl’s a genius. Descended from a math equation or something. Einstein-level hellspawn. And I told her, Pidge, there’s no way we’re pulling that off with what little time, talent and energy we have.” He raises the glass to his lips, liquid courage coursing through his soot and grief-lidden veins—
“No, no,” James slurs suddenly, startling Lance so much he nearly chokes. “Your friend has a point.”
Ryan looks over to James. Lance very well throws his head to the side to whip around. “What?”
James grins lopsidedly. “I’ve got— this dude. Name’s Keith Kogane. Pretty, pretty boy. Gorgeous, really. Also very attractive. And he’s like, yeah. The whole. Package.”
“On with it, James,” Ryan says, amused, a small smile quirking up his lips. And to a rather dumbstruck Lance, who feels the frown inching on: “his ex.” Oh.
“He does creative writing. It’s his major. And he’s an asshole, but he’s a brilliant writer,” James continues, as per request. “Last I heard of him he was trying to come up with something good to do for his capstone project. This could be like a mutual benefit thing, yeah? He makes your script, he gets the grade and the cause. You get one last show to put on.”
Lance’s heart stills, halting to an eerie close, and when it restarts it skips a few magical beats. “You— you think?” he stammers.
“I know,” James declares confidently. “His hands are magical. I know that for sure,” he barks out a laugh. “So, like, once you get your show on the road, you oughta come back and thank me.” He raises a hand to his chin and nearly slides the entirety of their shotglasses to the ground.
“And that might just be our cue to go, Griffin,” Ryan says, abruptly sitting up just as Lance is finished sticking out his phone to enter Keith’s number into his notes app. “I’ll catch you around, Lance. Good luck.”
“Thanks, dude,” Lance grins, wiping at his eyes with a fist. The heartache has alleviated a little, superseded by the familiar spark of adrenaline. “You too, James.”
“Thank me!” James hollers as Ryan drags him out of the bar. It barely processes in Lance’s alcohol-heavy mind, but he does know that something’s been outlined in neon, so luminescent it blows everything else out into oblivion.
This could work.