#btw these are all wips that have piled up over the past year | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cheesybadgers · 2 years

Text

Narcos Fic: Trigonometry (Part 1: Sine)

Part 2, Part 3 - Masterlist - Read on AO3

All In Universe Masterlist

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Steve Murphy x Javier Peña

(Parts 1 and 2 focus on Carrillo/Murphy, but part 3 will be Carrillo/Murphy/Peña)

Words: 3,708

Summary: Set in the aftermath of All In, the trio have largely been avoiding each other. However, when Peña doesn’t show up for work and no one knows where he is, Murphy and Carrillo are forced to put their differences to one side, but soon discover they have more in common than they’re prepared to admit.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Canon-typical violence, knife play, weapons kink, power dynamics, lashings of sexual tension, descriptions of a past threesome and masturbation, a hint of praise kink, jealousy, mild angst, swearing, smoking, drinking.

Notes: So, a version of this fic has been sat in my WIP folder pretty much since I finished All In over a year ago, but it got put on the backburner when OHDH took over my life lol (I haven’t forgotten about that fic btw! I’m hoping to update sooner rather than later...it’s just a lot of work). But then I recently had pangs to re-visit this and, erm, one thing led to another 😂 It’s three parts and the second part is almost finished, so that should be posted soon!

I also feel like I should say now I’m a sucker for Steve in his hot mess era, and I’m also a sucker for his and Carrillo’s jealous frenemies dynamic as they fight over Javi, so those vibes are very much present here 😉

Whilst obviously I do not own Narcos or its characters, please do not copy, re-post, or plagiarize this fic in any capacity on this or other platforms. If you wish to create any fan works inspired by it, please provide a credit or send me a message if in doubt.

Part 1: Sine

It wasn’t unlike Javi to go off-grid for hours at a time, preferring to ignore his pager if he had something – or someone - better to be doing. And in his defence, it was barely 10am; still early by his standards, so Steve poured himself another coffee and resumed scanning through the files piled on his desk.

Even as lunchtime approached, he was only mildly curious to know Javi’s whereabouts. Maybe Messina had sent him off to scope out a new CI. He was always so cloak-and-dagger; it wouldn’t have been out of character for him to sneak off without saying a word.

It was a thought that caused Steve’s stomach to swoop given what Javi tended to get up to with his informants, even though he didn’t have much right to feel that way. Sure, they had their new arrangement, but it wasn’t as though it was exclusive. It wasn’t as though it had happened again since that night in Carrillo’s office. And in the bathroom immediately afterwards, obviously.

In fact, the three of them had been avoiding each other as much as possible. Conversations were kept brief and strictly work-related, but Steve couldn’t quite put his finger on how to describe the cloud of tension that still enveloped them. Awkward, yes, but not quite regretful. It was more like an unspoken question that none of them was prepared to ask out loud. But occasionally, a look would pass between them when no one else was around. A look which, if they were honest, probably gave them the answer they needed, but no sooner had it appeared than it was gone again.

And then there were the flashbacks. Steve may have strutted away in the aftermath like the cat that got the cream, but a stiff drink or several was required when he made it back to his apartment and into the shower. And there was no escape even once under the white noise of the faucet.

He closed his eyes to rinse the shampoo from his hair, his fingers gliding through each soapy strand until they weren’t his fingers anymore. They were Carrillo’s gripping and tugging as he fucked Steve’s mouth with abandon. A groan echoed off the tiles as he tried to ignore the demanding twitch of his cock. But it only reminded him of how he reacted to the delicious warmth of Javi’s tongue swiping up and down his length, catching beads of precum on its journey.

Even once he gave in and took himself in hand, he was back in Carrillo's office getting off on watching them together. Or watching Javi’s face twist in pleasure through the bathroom mirror whilst vigorously ploughing into him. The rhythmic slapping of skin on skin, the strangled moans and the overpowering scent of sweat and semen filling his senses. The intoxicating thrill of Javi being orbited by him and Carrillo as they pushed and pulled, snarled and grunted to vie for his attention. Neither quite prepared to relinquish the perceived control they had over the situation, even if it was more of a fallacy than they cared to admit. It was no wonder he came for the third time that night, despite there barely being anything left for his body to release.

As the clock on the wall above his desk approached 2pm, Steve noted he hadn’t seen Carrillo anywhere all day either. There was that swooping sensation again, only this time, it dug deeper into his gut, twisting keenly like a knife as various scenarios swam through his mind.

He tried to reason with himself that even if any of them were the truth, it was nothing the two of them hadn’t already been doing for months (or years?) before he was involved. And they were perfectly entitled to do that without inviting him or seeking his permission. It wasn't like he hadn’t indulged with Javi in the absence of Carrillo, so there was no getting around the fact he was being a giant fucking hypocrite.

Still, his curiosity had the habit of getting the better of him, which was why he was striding down the corridor towards Carrillo’s office before he could stop himself.

Fuck knows what he was expecting to find in the middle of the day when anyone could have walked in on them if his suspicions had been right. And yet the reality still caught him off guard as he threw open the door.

“Don’t you ever knock, Murphy?” Carrillo looked up with a face like thunder from the vast array of reports, maps and files scattered across his desk.

Steve glossed over Carrillo as if he was just a minor footnote and scanned around the room, darting to the space behind the door and underneath the desk.

“Looking for something? Or someone?” The disdain dripped off Carrillo's words as he pushed his chair back to stand up, leaning forwards across the desk, his robust arms bearing the brunt of his weight.

Steve scoffed as he moved closer, placing his own arms on the other side of the desk and mimicking Carrillo’s stance in return. Because he was just feeling that fucking petty, apparently.

“If you must know, Javi didn’t show up for work today. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” His voice rumbled low and deep as he showed no respect for Carrillo’s space, the sharp scent of tobacco circling the two of them now that they were in close proximity.

“Why would I? I’m not his keeper. And you’re the one who lives in the same building as him. Shouldn’t you know where your own partner is?”

“Surely you of all people know Javi’s not the type to be kept by anyone. But he should’ve checked in by now.”

“Well, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen much of him since…” Since we were all in this very room together with the blinds drawn and the door locked was what Carrillo couldn’t bring himself to say. It was one thing to have let it happen here in the first place; it was quite another to talk about it in the cold light of day.

He glanced at the chair Steve had pushed to one side when he’d begun this hostile act of provocation. The chair that Steve had sat in whilst being serviced by Javi and whilst servicing him.

His eyes flickered over Steve's features for a second before clearing his throat and drawing a line under that dangerous train of thought. “Have you tried Messina?”

“Not yet. I wanted to ask around first before raising the alarm. If - if something has happened, sending an overblown rescue mission courtesy of Uncle Sam might scare someone into doing something stupid.”

Steve could hardly believe what was coming out of his mouth. To talk in such extreme terms when it could all be for nothing felt like a betrayal. But these were volatile times in Colombia. And although American federal agents enjoyed certain privileges not available to local law enforcement, anything was possible.

Carrillo was quiet for a moment, his jaw rigid until he nodded, mildly irritated to find Steve's reasoning sound. “Makes sense. I’ll speak to some of my men, see if they’ve heard anything on the ground. Come find me if he hasn’t shown up by 5.”

Part of Steve wanted to argue that they should be out there looking for him now, not sat twiddling their thumbs for a few hours on the off-chance Javi might saunter through the door. But the more objective part of him knew Carrillo was right. No matter his personal feelings towards the man – and there was a giant question mark over what those actually were – he knew his tactical judgement was solid.

So instead, he nodded, their gaze heavy on each other in an unspoken truce that they would have to trust each other on this one.

------------------------------------------------------

After a torturous afternoon in which Steve could barely concentrate on anything, 5pm came and went with no sign of Javi. Messina had been asking questions, and he managed to fob her off with a vague cover story involving an informant, for now at least.

He steeled himself for another encounter with Carrillo, this time knocking and figuring he would at least try to be the bigger person given the circumstances.

Upon opening the door, he was unnerved to find Carrillo sitting at his desk with an ashtray full of cigarettes in front of him. There was a glass of whiskey in one hand whilst the fingers on his other pinched and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“Still no sign of him. I asked around the other departments – discreetly - and no one’s heard anything either,” Steve reported as he closed the door behind him.

“Neither have my men. Nothing from our usual contacts, nothing from the brothels or his favourite bars.”

“So, now what?”

Carrillo downed the remnants of his drink and picked up a half-finished cigarette from the ashtray before he spoke again. “Now, we do things my way.”

“Your way, huh?”

“Yes. Think you can handle it?”

If Steve didn’t know any better, he would say Carrillo was eyeing him with the same look he’d shot at him that night. There was no doubting it was a challenge.

Steve laughed and shook his head at the same time. He leaned down to Carrillo, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. “You already know I can, and one day, you’re gonna have to just accept it.”

Before he even thought about what he was doing, he took the cigarette from Carrillo’s fingers, making a show of clamping his lips around the tip in the exact spot where Carrillo’s own had just been. His exhale was slow and deliberate, causing wisps of smoke to ghost across Carrillo’s face.

Carrillo gave no response, but his stoicism was betrayed by the brief bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallowed thickly.

The faintest trace of a smirk danced over Steve’s face at his brazen antics having the desired effect. He reached for the ashtray to stub out the cigarette, a familiar darkness flashing across the steel blue of his pupils. “Where do we start?”

------------------------------------------------------

They waited until the sun had set over Medellín, allowing them to move unseen amongst the shadows of the deserted side streets. Carrillo knew the comunas like the back of his hand, but even he couldn’t ignore the vulnerability of the leader of Search Bloc venturing out with his only backup being a DEA agent who stuck out like a sore thumb. A DEA agent who looked to him for answers he wasn’t confident they would get tonight, although he couldn’t bring himself to admit that to Murphy.

The leads they had were tenuous at best. His men weren’t pushovers, so if no one had confessed anything already, he doubted they would now. But he had to do something. Anything to distract himself from thinking the worst.

It was why he didn’t feel remorse when he yanked back the head of a low-level sicario they’d picked up downtown, pressing the muzzle of his gun into the dimple of the man’s chin.

Nor did he regret pulling the knife out of his back pocket and flicking it open millimetres from the second sicario’s face before scoring the blade across his jugular and issuing quiet threats to his ear.

Neither man gave them anything useful, but it had taken the edge off, even if just for a while, and it was worth a shot.

So far, Steve had remained passive but curious, watching Carrillo closer than ever. In the past, he hadn’t stuck around long enough to witness Carrillo in full flow, but this time he couldn’t drag his eyes away. It was disturbing yet mesmerising, horrifying yet alluring in a fucked-up way that he didn’t fully understand and was quite sure he didn’t want to, either.

By the fifth person they accosted, Steve took the lead, seizing him by the throat and squeezing with one hand. He jabbed the tip of his gun into the sicario’s forehead with such force it branded a perfect circle on his skin.

“Yo soy tu patrón. ¿Sí?” Steve asked again and again. He continued until his victim was a nodding, whimpering wreck who soon scarpered once he gathered himself up off the floor where Steve had thrown him.

Now it was Carrillo’s turn to be enthralled. His pupils dilated from watching Steve’s wild gaze pop against the half-light of the alleyway as his grip tightened around the man’s throat and his gun. He’d never seen Steve handle a gun like this, and Carrillo realised it wasn’t dissimilar to how he wielded his knife.

He was even mildly impressed Steve had the balls to threaten someone in Spanish, rather than get him to do the dirty work. He had heard stories from Javier and caught glimpses of it now and then, but he had never witnessed Steve so ruthless.

He understood, though. They both had a shared interest in this. They both had more to lose than they wanted to admit. And they were no closer to finding him. A fact that Carrillo was rapidly losing patience with, and he knew the perfect person to take out his frustrations on.

“What the fuck was that?” Carrillo finally spoke, his tone scathing.

“Oh, I get it. It’s okay when you do it, but not me?”

“I meant the choking. How do you expect him to talk if you cut off his air supply?”

“Oh, come on, he knew jack shit anyway. This was a fuckin’ waste of time! I thought you said you had a plan?”

“I thought you gringos always came to the rescue. Isn’t that why you’re here? So we can all bow down to what hot shit you are?” Carrillo had had enough of this and reached for his lighter and a fresh cigarette from his pocket.

However, before he could ignite it, he felt a heavy weight on his chest as he was thrown back against the wall behind him.

During moments like this, Steve’s height advantage came into its own. He towered over Carrillo, effectively pinning him in place with one hand fisted in his shirt and the other braced on the brick beside his head.

A charged silence hung between them, only their laboured breathing reverberating off the wall as they stared each other down, foreheads almost touching. Their chests rose and fell in unison, each exhale reducing the gap between them whilst increasing their shared body heat.

Carrillo carried more muscle, but Steve was surprisingly strong and made light work of caging Carrillo in like this. Compressing whatever tension they had let loose into such a small space, it was liable to explode at any minute.

“In case you needed reminding, one of those gringos is Javi. And I’ve already lost one partner, I ain’t losin’ another.” Steve’s voice was barely more than a hiss out of the side of his mouth as he pressed his weight harder against Carrillo to emphasise his point.

Despite being outdoors, the atmosphere was oppressive, and Carrillo needed space to get some air. He used the extra momentum from Steve to propel himself forwards, one hand clutching the front of Steve’s shirt, the other reaching into his own back pocket.

Before Steve knew what was happening, they had switched places, his head roughly making contact with the wall. He grunted as though the wind had been knocked out of him, barely having time to adjust when he caught a glint of light in his peripheral vision.

Carrillo’s right elbow was now pinned just below Steve’s left shoulder, and he held his knife a few millimetres away from Steve’s throat.

“You think losing one partner is bad? Try losing a dozen. And they didn’t have the protection you have despite this being their country. So, I’d tread very carefully if I were you, Murphy.” Carrillo spat his words against the shell of Steve’s ear, his elbow crushing against its target until he heard a wince.

It hit a raw nerve for both of them and went part way to explaining why they had gone off the deep end over Javi. Steve more so than Carrillo, because Carrillo had been here too many times before.

“And in case you needed reminding, I’ve known Peña a lot longer than you have, so spare me the sermon,” Carrillo continued after Steve had let him have that one unchallenged.

He was on the cusp of saying he knew Javier better too but caught himself just in time. Because he didn’t even know if that was true anymore, and that was a thought he wasn’t prepared to examine just yet.

For a long moment, they remained locked in a stand-off, neither wanting to be the first to break eye contact or back down. Carrillo’s hands were as steady as a rock whilst Steve struggled to keep the tremors out of his breaths. His throat was dry, and his palms were sweaty, one clenched in a fist by his side and the other still inexplicably grasping at Carrillo’s shirt.

Carrillo’s charcoal irises stormed in their dimly lit surroundings, and Steve had seen that look before: when Carrillo discovered Steve and Javi outside the bathroom that night.

Despite how dicey his current position was, Steve couldn’t stop the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “And yet you couldn’t keep him satisfied.”

No sooner had Steve spoken than he felt a sharp, ice-cold pressure at the base of his throat. It wasn’t remotely enough to break the skin, but the fact one false move from either of them could swiftly change that was almost enough to trigger Steve’s fight-or-flight response.

He concentrated on keeping stock still, willing his heart rate to even out and trying to aggressively ignore whatever the hell was going on in his jeans.

“If you’re not careful, that big mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble again, Murphy.” Carrillo’s low rasp dripped like venom fused with honey as he lightly dragged the blade across Steve’s skin.

Steve had hit another sore point, it seemed. Carrillo should have seen it coming that night once Peña went after Murphy. He never did ask about the logistics of what went on between them, but having now seen Murphy in a new light, he could hazard a guess.

He wasn’t naïve enough to think Peña had never been with other men; however, it still rankled regardless, even when it shouldn’t. But he meant what he said in the corridor as well. He wanted to see Peña’s face when he was fucking or being fucked by someone else. He wanted to know exactly what it was Murphy could give Peña that he couldn’t. And if he was honest, part of him wanted to put Murphy in his place once and for all. But their current situation was a start, at least.

Just one swipe from left to right across his neck was all it took to elicit a half-gasp, half-groan from Steve. His body visibly trembled, and his fist scooped up more of Carrillo’s shirt to tether himself. As soon as the sound escaped his lips, he regretted it, knowing Carrillo now had him exactly where he wanted him. And he couldn’t be having that.

“Is that a promise or a threat?” A retort that would have hit closer to its mark if Steve wasn’t practically panting, confirming in an instant what Carrillo had suspected all evening about the blue-eyed all-American boy’s darkest desires.

The fine edge of the knife grazed feather-light back and forth and up and down with precision, Carrillo expertly applying the perfect amount of force so as not to go too far.

He brought the blade up to Steve’s cheek and traced the flat surface of it delicately along his bottom lip. “Whichever shuts you up quickest.”

Carrillo held the knife still in place and pressed it ever so slightly until Steve took the hint and parted his mouth.

Steve’s lips subtly caressed the weapon as though he was hypnotised, following Carrillo’s instructions without blinking or hesitating.

“Good boy.” The words of affirmation had barely left Carrillo’s throat when he felt their immediate effect throbbing against him where their bodies connected. Of course. Given how much Steve had desperately craved Carrillo’s approval ever since he arrived in Colombia, it was hardly a surprise, and Carrillo filed that one away for the time being.

With every challenge each man laid down, the other immediately picked up the gauntlet and escalated it further. A twisted game of one-upmanship that they would never admit they were playing with each other, but one they couldn’t resist.

Carrillo caught a flash of tongue swiping along the blade and had to swallow a groan. He supposed he deserved that after his last manoeuvre. His own lips were now only a hair’s breadth from the knife, the scent of faded aftershave and cigarettes engulfing their senses as they stood on the precipice of something unfathomable, addictive and dangerous.

But then, without warning, Carrillo abruptly withdrew as though he’d been scalded, snapping the blade of his knife shut and backing away from Steve. A moment of sobering clarity that they had gone too far and had more pressing matters to deal with.

“We’re done here. We’ll head back to Bogotá and try his apartment just in case there’s anything we’re missing.” Carrillo’s orders were delivered as though he was leading a run-of-the-mill field op, and whatever the two of them had been a party to was over as quickly as it started.

The mention of Javi’s apartment also flicked a switch in Steve’s brain, his gut lurching at the memory of why they were here in the first place.

He cleared his throat and tried to regain some composure, although his limbs felt boneless, and his pulse raced in his ears. “Er right, yeah. Sure. Sounds like a plan.”

They didn’t have time for this, whatever the fuck this even was. A question they were both more than happy to leave to one side as they exited the alley and made their way back to Carlos Holguín in awkward silence.

48 notes · View notes

missmaxime · 4 years

Note

17! 18! 30! 32! 38! <3 <3 <3

Thank you for these! 🥰 17. How obsessively do you sit and stare at your fic after you’ve just posted and wait for feedback? I don’t. Well, not immediately. I try to distract myself for at least half an hour to an hour after posting because by the time I post I’ve already gone mental from finaFinalreRerereadFiNaldefDEFDEF.def x34 and I need to calm down. But after that I compulsively refresh AO3 (for the Beth/Rio tag) and depending on the time of day I start replying to comments or wait for it until morning. I don’t re-read my own fic until at least the day after (and inevitably fix some v obvs spelling mistakes I got blind for during edits). 18. Do you have a WIP that you keep telling yourself you’ll eventually get back to, but deep down you know that’s probably a lie? A little while ago I would have maybe said Wild at Heart, but I recently started editing the new chapter and now I’m feeling that story again (I got a bit lost with it over season 3, and it’s a long fic I’m not really used to writing – I had no oversight in my notes and outline and ugh). I think when I do publish it might have a bit of a different tone, especially because I think I progressed a lot over the past six months as a writer. But I have by now accepted that I will never re-write those earlier chapters, so I’m just going to move on and continue the story. BTW. If someone can recommend a/their Word Processor to get a better oversight in longer WIPs, please do! There’s no published WIP I won’t get back to from what I see now. I have a few in my WIP-folder that are a lost cause, main reasons are either because I either forgot I wrote it to begin with, or because I don’t like my style or plot anymore. 30. Post a snippet from you’re a current WIP without context - no more than 300 words. From a WIP I definitely won’t abandon, but one that’s also taking me crazy long to write (because world-building):

Annie swallows everything down, but keeps the bowl of candies protectively close to her chest. “I can’t believe they reached out to you twenty years later,” she says, plopping down next to Beth. “I can’t believe they subpoenaed me.” Annie sits up. “Technically they summoned you—” Beth gives her a look that immediately shuts her up. “You know, it’s good they did. They probably got a notification that you got rid of your Dean-shaped baggage and thought: Presto Matcho, and let’s go!” “Maybe I don’t want to be matched up.” “Relax, sis. Just go out on a date, get those cobwebs cleaned out if he’s a seven or up, and move on with your life!” “Annie!” “You’re right, maybe don’t be that picky, make it a six.” Beth’s all fired up to blow a gasket when a man with a bird tattoo sprawled on his neck enters the waiting room, accompanied by a dark-haired woman in a suit. They’re in a heated discussion, going through a pile of papers that’s full of marked segments and bookmarks. Beth’s getting a bit lost in thought, looking at him when she feels Annie leaning her head on her shoulder. “I served him too,” she whispers in Beth’s ear, pulling her back into reality again. “You!” she hears the guy say, pointing at Annie, who immediately throws her hands up in defense, totally forgetting she was holding the candy bowl which immediately tumbles onto the ground, scattering its contents over the floor. “Hey, I’m just here for my sister, don’t come at me bro!” she tries to laugh it nervously away. He doesn’t think it’s funny. But his gaze lingers on Beth a longer time than might be appropriate before turning his attention back to the woman beside him. 32. Copy and paste your top three favorite lines/jokes/sentences you’ve ever written. What fics do they come from? I can have different favorites varying on the week / day. It usually changes when I post a new fic. Sometimes I’m not even super in love with a line when I post it, but it grows on me when I re-read later. So just three random ones: Regardless of his repeat observation of ‘you’re so tight, baby’, she’s definitely not going to indulge him with the Snoozefest Saga of her sex life of the past decade. – from Stuck in the Middle It’s a decision he almost immediately regrets. Apparently, Elizabeth is very convinced of her (faulty) navigation skills. And mind you, he has an essentially AI-worthy navigation system build into his (“Is this what you drive? Don’t you think it’s a little… out there? Like, surely you don’t really need something so preposterous to arrive in?” she had laughed cutely after that, but he felt slapped in the face – and not the kind he might be paying her for) G-wagon. – from The Girlfriend Experience “Yeah,” he smiles. “We real good friends too, aren’t we?” he says suggestively. (It’s just, he can’t help it, knows it’s dumb and petty but ugh. He’s suffered through Mick’s eye-rolls enough after returning from a No Elizabeth Murder Night again. The other guy casually looking up from polishing his custom ninja throwing stars - don’t start about it, it’s a whole thing, and Rio’s convinced the man can’t even get them into a wall a three feet away if he wears that one jacket - waiting for Rio to cock his head and ask: “What?” “Nothing,” he had replied, dipping a cloth into the jar of polish. “’Nothing’?” Rio had repeated – a little more petulant than he intended. “What are you, my wife?” Ever so slowly, the corners of Mick’s mouth had turned upwards. “Heard spot’s taken.” Rio may have keyed Mick’s car that night.) Beth smiles back stiffly. - from I See Your True Technicolors I don’t know, I really like doing these kinda scene-in-scene (or sentence) things, I don’t know if this has a name. 38. What does your writing process look like? How chaotic is it on a scale of 1 (very tame) to 10 (you can’t handle this kind of chaos)? Hmm that kind of depends what part of the process we’re talking about. Let’s roughly break that up in three parts: 1. Working out the idea (8/10): Really, really chaotic. This is just days or weeks of just flashes of ideas and plotpoints and lines of dialogue shooting through my brain. Haphazardly writing those down in various docs, on paper in between my work notes, or in the notes on my phone. When I finally know the rough outline of the story I go into; 2. Writing the fic (4/10): I’m a super chronological writer, I really move from scene A to B to C until I finally arrive at Z. But when I start writing I often only really know A, D, E, J, O, Q, Z – the rest will just grow or appear organically as I write. Sometimes it does mean I won’t write for a few days because I circle back to step 1 for a certain scene. A good example is the Artic Hunter Fairytale Beth tells Jane in Chapter 2 of I See Your True Technicolors. I knew up front I was going to write a scene where we would see how this seemingly unweighted moment for Beth – she’s just telling a nighttime story – had a massive impact on Jane. There were some themes and motives I felt like needed to make an appearance: the more tangible reason of Jane’s quest, how young kids often hold their parents’ word as truth, and I needed it to be a true heartfelt moment between Beth and Jane. But before I wrote the first line of that scene I had no idea that would be the scene that it became. So I do outline a bit, but I need to create enough room for myself for moments like that to happen. It’s one of the things I enjoy most about writing. It’s a bit of an organized mess within a tighter frame/outline. 3. Editing (7/10): I’ve really been perfecting my Editing skills over the past 6/7 months – it’s not perfect, but you live and you learn. I spend more time working on the fic after I ‘finished’ it, really ramped up the spelling and grammar checks (I love you Word editor, but I also hate you), and take more and more care to make sure that all my dialogue feels IC ánd distinctive enough per character (especially the latter I feel like lacks in earlier WAH chapters). So, work in progress, but I feel pretty confident in this one. Again, thanks for sending these! <3

#asks #writer asks #fanfiction #my fanfic

11 notes · View notes

pumpkins-s · 7 years

Text

Spilling Like An Overflowing Sink

Read on AO3 Here

Read the Other Chapters on Tumblr Here

Lance Alexander Rafael McClain is born in the middle of a summer storm, thunder cracking and rain slamming onto the roof of an old ramshackle house that had seen more than its fair share of children.

The miracle baby, that’s what the family had called Lance. The unexpected son to a mother of five daughters.

(In which family is always complicated, Lance’s life hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows, and he and Keith are really emotionally constipated for each other.)

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Relationships: Keith/Lance, significant platonic Lance & Hunk

Characters: Lance, Lance’s family, Hunk, Keith, Shiro, Pidge, Allura, Coran

Chapter 6: Live

(( Author’s Note: Heyo, new year, new update!

This wasn't originally going to be its own full chapter, but after doing the math on length and having just suffered through writing a 15k update for another fic (I'm serious, I did that, kill me), I decided to split the planned chapter up. Hence this. Now, before anyone asks, a lot of you have been asking about Keith, so I'll just say this-- They meet when Lance is 15. He's 11 now. How fast we get to Keith depends on how much of the next 4, Very Important, I'll add, years of Lance's life I cover, so please be patient, k? You'll get Keith in a chapter or two.

And!! Before we begin!! This fic has its own first piece of fanart!! I've been told it's a WIP, but it's still amazing so I have to show it off-- So everyone go check out Peachlance's gorgeous art of young Hunk and Lance. It's beautiful. I yelled in the middle of an airport when I saw it. (BTW if anyone ever does fanart for this fic and I miss it because it's on another site or whatever, please tell me in a comment on this fic or an ask to my tumblr with the link, I'd hate to miss it!!)

Also!! I'm on Twitter now since there seems to be a significant portion of the Voltron fandom that prefers that to Tumblr. I don't post a ton on it, but I'll be putting out update notifications from now on, so if you want those and my all-caps tweets yelling at Aiden, my irl Keith friend, feel free to follow me, yeah?

Ok that's it you can ignore me now here's Lance have fun y'all.))

Come September, Lance and Hunk pack their bags and move into the dormitories at Greenwood, accompanied by their moving team of the entire McClain family, plus Hunk’s grandmother— The whole lot of them piling into the old family jeep and pickup truck and Hunk’s grandmother’s tiny, ancient Toyota with an assortment of random things they’re each separately convinced Lance and Hunk are going to need.

Lance imagines they make quite the sight, pulling up to the pristine parking spaces outside the Greenwood buildings and piling out of the cars in a haphazard mess of long limbs and a loud mix of Spanish and English that blends together into a background noise that is comforting in its familiarity against the apprehensive mystery that is Greenwood. They certainly do get their fair share of stares as they cram into the entry building for student check-in, confirming that, yes, they are indeed all relatives, and are here to help Lance and Hunk move in.

Honestly, Lance has to admit they’re all pretty restrained, all things considered. Everyone knows how important this is to him, and to Hunk, in his own way, and his family is hardly inclined to mess this up for them, so there’s a fair degree of… what Lance might dare call caution in their behavior. They’re loud, and talkative, and move around a lot, because they’re McClains and that’s what they do when they move as a pack, but Karen doesn’t try to play soccer in the dorm hall, Igraine doesn’t punch anyone, even Marcie restrains herself from commenting loudly on the hairstyle choices of the people around them.

…Ok, yeah, she whispers a few comments under her breath to Lance, but that was still a marked effort on her part, and she was right that one guy’s undercut had been so sloppily done it was painful to look at, even Lance could agree on that.

Karen hadn’t seen anything wrong with it but, then again, that was Karen, who’s thought processes concerning her hair began and ended at where the nearest scrunchie was to pull it up into its perpetual bushy ponytail, much to Marcie and Lance’s horror.

If anything though, Lance thinks they just get odd looks because they’re… them. A large, loud, Cuban family who clearly don’t have the money to be here, let alone the pedigree.

“Fuck em.” Igraine mutters firmly under her breath the first time a mother helping her son with his bags scoffs at them when they pass by in the dormitory hall. “You’ve earned your right to be here. At least you didn’t buy your way in.”

“Igraine.” Aunt Rosa snaps, slapping her on the arm, and Lance snorts loudly, earning a victorious smirk from his sister even as she whines and cradles her arm as if it’s now broken. The burst of noise only earns them more side-eyes from the people in the hall, and Lance ducks his head sheepishly, scratching at the back of it nervously. He’s still not used to his short hair, really, and when he’s anxious he tends to find it feels quite itchy. At least the bangs that frame his face are just long enough to play with and twirl with his fingers. He thinks he’d lose his mind otherwise, far too used to having long curls to twirl and braid and tie into loose knots when he gets fidgety— Honestly, he has no idea what he’s gonna do in class now to keep his hands busy.

Eventually, they get all the boxes into his and Hunk’s room (and thank God for that little blessing, Lance doesn’t know how he’d function if they hadn’t been allowed to pre-choose their roommates), stacked up along the walls and all over the floor. Frankly, it seems like far more than the two of them will need to Lance, especially given they barely live an hour or so away, but a good portion of the boxes are things he can identify as not having packed himself, snuck in amongst all their other belongings, no doubt random pieces of junk his family has decided they require. Lance wouldn’t be surprised if he found something as random as a paper towel dispenser or half-empty bottles of shampoo, honestly. Knowing his family, it’s far too likely. He still remembers with a kind of abject horror the mess that was Carlos and Rachel moving into their new house.

It’s… different, bringing all his things in here and trying to make it a living space. Lance has only had one room his entire life, and if he ever slept in another room in the house, it had always been with Loraine. But… Loraine isn’t here anymore, and this is not his house.

Luckily, the adults largely take over once they get everything in, rearranging the school-provided furniture, getting the beds made with sheets and quilts and extra pillows, and unpacking the heaviest books. It only takes about ten minutes before Uncle Jesús, Lucas, Igraine, and Lance’s grandfather are kicked out of the room under orders to go get food for everyone, once it quickly becomes clear Lance and Hunk’s dorm room is not large enough to have all of them milling around in it. As it is, they still barely fit, shuffling past each other and ducking out into the hall as they work to make room. It’s a mess, but… nice. Lance is going to miss not being around his family every day, and so the squished hustle of it all is something he chooses to savor rather than be frustrated with.

When it comes time for families to leave, the extended visiting hours for the move-in day coming to an end once night falls, it’s a long, drawn-out procession of goodbyes. Lance has to patiently remind his mother and sisters that he’ll see them all again come the weekend, but even while reassuring them, he himself can’t help but cling to them tightly when they embrace him, memorizing his mother’s warmth, Marcie’s fruity smell, Karen’s chapped lips when she kisses the side of his head, the sharp dig of Igraine’s multiple ear piercings against his cheek when she hugs him tight. Each of them distinct in the little things that mark them as who they are— Marcie and her guiding softness, Karen’s grounding reassurance, Igraine’s fire, Evie’s quick wit.

His sisters.

…And Lance, the shadow to the all-encompassing, insurmountable ocean.

“Are these… Christmas lights. Yep, they’re Christmas lights.” Lance glances up at Hunk’s bewildered words, and snorts loudly, shaking his head in slight disbelief. Even with their families’ help, there’d still been plenty left to unpack once they left, and apparently they were hitting the boxes of weird stuff now.

“Just throw them on one of the desks for now.” Lance says dismissively, turning back to his own box, while Hunk bemusedly gathers up the lights in his arms and stares at them.

“…We could string them up along the ceiling? Like college students do in the movies?”

“Wouldn’t that be a safety code violation?” Lance asks, unfolding the flaps on the box in front of him and blinking in surprise. “…Why.”

“What?” Hunk says, frowning, and Lance sighs, straightening up and pulling out the large Cuban flag he’d found stuffed in the top of the box.

“I bet my abuelita put it in— She does realize I was born in the U.S., right?”

“Maybe she just wants you to be proud of your heritage. It’s a good thing.” Hunk says mildly, and Lance rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, okay, come talk to me when you find your giant New Zealand flag then.”

“Actually…” Reaching into the new box he’s just opened, Hunk pulls out a miniature New Zealand flag on a stick and waves it back and forth. “It seems my grandmother had a similar thought pattern.” Idly, he peers into the box. “…Oh look there’s an All Blacks flag there too.”

“Jesus.”

“He’s over there.” Hunk says, pointing at the crucifix sitting on Lance’s bedside table, also a gift from his grandmother, Lance suspects.

Lance grabs the pillow off his bed closest to him and chucks it at Hunk’s head.

Hunk dodges easily, not even sparing Lance a look as he pulls a few books out of the box and sets them on his desk. Lance huffs in irritation and chucks the flag onto the edge of his bed to deal with later, emptying the rest of the box to find… yarn, lots and lots of yarn.

Wincing, he runs a hand over the closest ball, a light pink that’s soft to the touch. He’d learned to knit from Marcie, who’d in turn learned from their grandmother, as something to do with his hands when he was feeling overly fidgety. It had been nice, something he enjoyed, even if he’d mostly only made scarves and blankets, but since Loraine’s death he hadn’t touched his knitting needles, the whole activity too drenched in memories of being tucked up on Loraine’s bed with her watching a movie as he moves the yarn through his fingers.

He gives it a moment of hesitation, and then folds the box shut and pushes it under his bed.

Knitting’s probably not a normal boy’s thing anyways.

“Hey help me with this box.” Lance startles, standing up and going over to where Hunk is standing next to a large box, helping him push it into the spot they’d cleared for emptying and sorting boxes and cutting the tape on the top. Hunk opens the flaps and reaches in, pulling out a mess of fabric. “Clothes. Guess we missed a box earlier. Looks like these are all yours.” Lance takes the bundle of shirts from Hunk and opens a dresser drawer, dropping them in before moving onto the next handful. They’re all plain or with simple logos, old things he’d gotten from Lucas and Carlos, a few of Karen’s old things when she wore more masculine clothing for a while when she was younger. He’d purposely made sure to leave out all the old floral-patterned tops and frilly blouses along with the other clothing hidden in the back of his closet when he’d picked out what to pack— He hadn’t needed too many clothes, anyways, since the school had uniforms. This was mostly just for lounging around the dorm or days when casual wear was permitted.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hunk reach for something in the box, pulling out an old grey shirt and staring at it, brows furrowed and a question clearly on the tip of his tongue. Before he can say anything, Lance quickly snatches the shirt out of his grasp, throwing it in the drawer with the rest of the clothing and shutting it firmly, ignoring Hunk’s questioning eyes even as they follow him as he folds up the now empty box and drops it into the pile with its brethren in the corner.

He knows Hunk has noticed the change in his clothing, his mannerisms, as distinct as his hair, but he’s not ready for the questions yet.

…He’s not yet come up with an answer.

“How many boxes do we have left?” He asks pointedly, kicking the pile of empty boxes into a more reasonable shape.

“Oh! Uh…” Hunk startles, and glancing back Lance watches him peer around the room. “Nine or ten? We’ve gotten all the big ones, we could always do the rest tomorrow after orientation.”

Lance frowns. “If you’re tired, you can sleep now. I want to finish tonight so we don’t have to worry.”

He’s too jittery to sleep, honestly. Nerves and fears and excitement about being away from Veradera, from home, but being here, colliding together in a mess of emotion and displaced energy. Hunk hesitates, shaking his head, and Lance can tell he feels much the same.

“Nah, let’s just… get it all done tonight.”

Lance nods, grabbing a box off the stack and passing it to Hunk before grabbing one himself, setting it on top of his bed and opening it up. Once he gets the flaps on the top open, though, he freezes, feeling ice trickle through his veins and under his skin as he stares down at the box. “…Dammit, Marcie.”

“What’s wrong?” Hunk asks behind him, and Lance jolts.

“Nothing. Just. Stuff I told her not to pack that she put in anyways.”

In the box sits the things Marcie and Lance had bonded over for years, the skills she had taught him— The child-size makeup case she’d given him, filled with bottles of tacky nail polish in bright, sparkly colors, the lip gloss set Mavis had sent him along with others his sisters had gifted him, a couple old, thick pen eyeliners Igraine had given him, a cheap set of cheerful eye-shadows Carlos had bought him from the dollar store as a present last year. Next to the makeup case is the little box of hair ribbons he used to use, and with a pang of hurt at the sight, Lance wonders why Marcie would even put those in. He cut his hair. It’s done, no changing it.

It’s done.

That Lance— Lancie, Loo-Loo, whatever, whatever he was, is nothing now. Just a pile of memories buried away with his old clothes in the shadowed places no one will think to look.

With only a second’s hesitation, fingers drifting over the top of the makeup case, Lance folds the box top shut, picking it up and shoving it under his bed, crawling under after it to make sure it is pushed to the furthest corner against the walls, and then shoves the other boxes being stored under his bed around it for good measure, until it’s hidden from sight.

There’s no room for that… person anymore.

“Hey, you alright?” Lance feels a foot prod the back of his leg as Hunk’s voice pipes up, and he yelps, shooting up and slamming his head against the underside of his bed, pain blossoming through his skull as his vision blurs.

“…Ow.”

“Lance?!”

“I’m fine, just…” He groans, wiggling back out from under the bed and staring up at Hunk tiredly. “You surprised me.”

Hunk grins sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m just… hungry. They said there’s snacks left out in the dorm lounge tonight, right? Since a lot of students skipped dinner to unpack.”

“Yeah.” Lance nods, wincing when that sends another spike of pain through his head. “You want to go get some?”

“Please.”

They barely make it five steps down the hall before the whispers, the sidelong glances start— There’s plenty of other students still out in the hall, curfew rules given some leeway due to the fact it’s move-in day, and out here Lance and Hunk stick out like sore thumbs. In uniforms Lance imagines they’ll look much like everyone else, but everyone’s milling about in casual clothing right now, and Lance and Hunk’s worn, clearly hand-me-down sweaters and jeans with their tears in the knees make a sharp contrast to the neat, new clothes the other kids sport. Glancing down uncomfortably, Lance tries not to stare too hard at his own bare feet in comparison to the clean-looking shoes many of the others he can spot are wearing.

He hadn’t even thought to put shoes on. His sneakers were for the mud of the park and the cracked gravel of the street, not for indoors. Lance is pretty sure his mother would kill him if he ever wore his grubby shoes on inside. Even Marcie’s pretty work pumps that she had saved for months for and looks after with religious zeal come off at the door at home.

He’s so preoccupied with his little thought derailment of the etiquette of shoes on versus shoes off, Lance doesn’t even notice the boys rounding the corner until he quite literally slams into one, their chin connecting with his forehead, sending him reeling back in surprised pain, Hunk catching him with a startled yelp.

“What the fuck?” Someone says in a surprised, vaguely annoyed voice, and Lance glances up cautiously as he straightens back up, wincing when he makes eye contact with an older-looking boy with pale skin and short red-blond hair who is currently glaring at him like he’s a particularly disgusting piece of gum under his shoe.

“S-Sorry.” He stutters on instinct, taking a step back and slamming into Hunk, who Lance had conveniently forgotten was right behind him.

“Sorry? You damn well should be!” The older boy says with a kind of miffed outrage, crossing his arms as the other boy next to him looms over Lance and Hunk. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you to watch where you’re going?”

“He said sorry.” Hunk says, taking a step forward, and Lance gratefully ducks behind Hunk. It’s hardly his proudest moment, but these boys are at least a head taller than him and could probably bench-press him easy— Lance is tiny even for an eleven-year-old, and Hunk, lucky bastard, sits rather tall and large for a twelve-year-old. Between the two of them, Lance likes Hunk’s chances of at least getting the other boys to back down, given they can’t really risk their scholarships by getting into a fistfight on their first day.

“What are you, his bodyguard? Back off, lumpy.” Big and scary scowls. “I’m talking to the twig.” He raises an eyebrow at Lance, and snorts. “How the hell did you get into this school? What are you, a Mexican?”

Lance flushes, pushing past Hunk with every intention of informing the boy that he is Cuban, thank you very much, and that he can, frankly, fuck right off, when a serenely cheerful voice beats him to the punch.

“Demonstrating a deep and layered understanding of the various nuances of the Hispanic identity as always, Travis.” A girl says from an open door on the left, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. “Then again, you’d probably know quite a bit about Mexico, right? Given your daddy gets his cocaine stash from there.”

The boy turns red, spluttering. “Fuck off, Ritchie.”

“Oh, right.” The girl hums, lifting a hand to inspect her nails. “I suppose I could fuck off? Could fuck off right to the headmaster’s office. I’ve been meaning to look in on my granddad since I arrived.”

The boy pales, and his friend grabs his arm, pulling him away. “C’mon, man. Not worth it.” The two turn, disappearing around the corner, and the girl watches them go with a satisfied smirk.

“Bye!” She trills, and then turns back to Hunk and Lance with a raised eyebrow. “You two all good?”

“Uh.” Lance glances at Hunk, who shrugs, eyes wide in confusion. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“No problemo.” The girl says happily. “Travis and Jordan are mcfucking pricks. I like any excuse to tell them to fuck off.”

“…Okay?” Lance says awkwardly, unsure of what else to say. Subconsciously he brings a hand up to play with his hair, like he usually does when he’s nervous, only to meet air and flinch, pulling his hand down as he remembers there’s nothing there anymore.

“Ritzie!” An exasperated voice calls from inside the room behind the girl, and a boy with short black hair, dark eyes, and a scowl appears in the doorway. “Stop harassing new students.”

The girl gasps, placing a hand over her heart. “Me? Never. I’m only introducing myself.” Sticking a hand out to Lance, she grins. “Isabel Lamae, but everyone calls me Ritzie. At your service.”

“…Lance. Lance McClain.” Lance answers, carefully taking her hand and inspecting the girl before him. Ritzie is tall and willowy, probably two or three years older than him, if he had to guess, with thick blonde hair pulled up in two pony-buns on the sides of her head in a style Lance finds reminiscent of Sailor Moon, and wide, thick-rimmed purple glasses. She’s pretty, he guesses, in an eclectic kind of way, and her easy confidence reminds him a bit of Igraine. “That’s Hunk.” He says, pointing over his shoulder, and Hunk waves.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Ritzie parrots back cheerfully. “The grumpy one who yelled at me is Yuu, my roommate.” Behind her, the boy’s eyes narrow, fixing a glare at the back of her head.

“I thought boys and girls couldn’t room together?” Hunk asks curiously, looking between Ritzie and Yuu.

“They can’t.” Ritzie says, sticking her hands in her pockets with a self-satisfactory smirk and pursing her lips, blowing a bright pink bubble out that explodes after a moment with a quiet little pop.

“Then…”

“Her grandfather’s the headmaster.” Yuu sighs, seemingly giving up and approaching them to stand next to Ritzie in the doorway. “Which means she does whatever she wants.”

Hunk pales, staring at Ritzie with wide eyes. “Oh my God your grandfather’s the headmaster.”

“Chill.” Ritzie says, idly waving a hand. “You two are new, right? Scholarship, I’m guessing? No offense but you can usually guess.” Lance winces, and Ritzie shoots him finger guns. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad, you two look like you deserve it.” She nods to herself, looking pleased. “I have an eye for these things.”

“Well, she thinks she does.” Yuu says, rolling his eyes.

“…Great.” Hunk says faintly.

“Yep.” Ritzie nods, pausing for a moment, head tilting, and then pulls out a small packet from her pocket and offers it to them. “Bubblegum?”

Lance blinks, glancing at Hunk who subtly shakes his head, eyes wide.

“…Sure. Why not.” Lance says, already reaching out.

And that is how he and Hunk end up accidentally befriending Ritzie Lamae and Yuu Itami, the livewire princess of Greenwood and her sounding board slash handler.

Slowly, they fall into something like a settling at the Academy, or at least a semblance of it. It’s… undeniably odd, being even this far away from Veradera on a daily basis, but Lance finds it’s somewhat the change he needs. He misses home, of course. He misses it like hell, but he still gets to come back on the weekends, to revisit his sisters, his family, the worn staircases of his home, the faded glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling, the cracks in the concrete outside his driveway, the crab-grass riddled front yard of Hunk’s small house where his now aging dog sleeps in the afternoon sun, the white, bright sand of Veradera beach, the creaking pews of the church, the feel of Loraine’s gravestone against his back.

And this way, he’s still alleviated from the… pressures of his home. Lance will never say he feels unsafe or unwelcome in his house, because there would never be a bigger lie. His family would protect him with their lives. But… it’s also hard being there sometimes now. The gaping loss of Loraine, while scabbing over, is still achingly fresh in all their chests, and while Lance doesn’t have the heart to place any more undue burdens on his family in their grief, pretending to be okay all the time is, frankly, exhausting.

Because, ultimately, Lance is very aware he isn’t okay. He’s better than he was— He’s learned to function again, to survive, but a mediocre duct-taped job holding together solely on hope and a prayer doesn’t fix something firmly broken. Lance is never going to be whole again, not in his soul or his heart, he knows, in a way he can’t put into words. Even once the worst of the grief and the agony has been worked through, one day, this is something he will never move past. The connection between himself and Loraine was intimate and fathomless in a way he shares with no one else. He holds something similar with Hunk, he thinks, but it’s different. Hunk is someone he feels close to, like they hold a connection beyond their time together, but Loraine was like… the other half of his mind. Losing her fractured something deep inside his soul, well beyond the definitions of his short childhood or his yet unlived years.

Sometimes, he wonders if this is what the oceans might feel like, if someone came along and placed blocks between them, severing Pacific and Indian and Artic. That’s not the way things are meant to be, he thinks. Water is meant to intermingle and run together. You can’t take one piece of water and say it is different from another, when they are meant to be one.

Lance’s only other comfort in his thoughts, to rival that of knowing his family doesn’t have to see these broken pieces of himself, is that Hunk is here with him. Hunk, who picks him up and puts him back together when he falls. Hunk, who listens to his nonsensical ramblings about water and souls and Loraine with an understanding and patience beyond his years, and cleans up Lance’s messes afterwards, coaxing the blades from Lance’s skin before he can do more harm to himself, and forcing him to sleep and eat and keep up appearances in class.

Honestly, if it weren’t for Hunk, Lance really isn’t sure if he would have survived those first few months at Greenwood.

The other surprisingly consistent presences he finds at his side are Ritzie and Yuu, who seem to take an attachment to Lance and Hunk after that first encounter on move-in day. Or… at least Ritzie does. Lance suspects Yuu usually just goes along with whatever Ritzie fancies, either unable or unwilling to talk her out of her ideas, instead simply hanging around for something like quality control, and to make sure Ritzie doesn’t get herself killed.

Ritzie is easy to get along with, Lance finds. She’s beyond privileged, as pretty much almost everyone at the Academy is, but not arrogant or obnoxious about it. She has an ego, but only for the things she achieves herself— Not beyond showing off, largely the opposite honestly, but only for her own brilliance, never her family’s money or influence, unless she threatens it to protect an underprivileged or younger student who’s getting shit from the kids who do think their money entitles them to everything.

Lance has never been able to hold a friend beyond Hunk, too smart and too little and too different to give him much popularity before, but he… he likes Ritzie. She’s just as smart as him, as many others here are, and fun. She doesn’t care about his age or size, judging him by his kindness to others and his “interestingness”, as she puts it. He doesn’t tell her about… Himself, about the Lancie-Loo of Veradera beach, and Loraine, and promises to stars, but those are secrets reserved to Hunk and his heart, for a dead child who can no longer be to survive and do what he plans to. Still, he enjoys her company, embracing her loudness and her quirkiness and her spitfire energy. Hunk is slower to warm up to her, but even he can’t avoid her cheerful charisma.

Yuu is trickier, Lance finds. Despite his disgruntled complaints, he shows himself to be very attached to Ritzie, her right-hand man. He’s dismissive towards Lance and Hunk at first. Not in a mean way, but just as if he assumes they’ll soon get tired of Ritzie, or Ritzie will get bored and that will be the end of it, but with time, he seems to unfurl, accepting Lance and Hunk as occasional presences in his and Ritzie’s space. Yuu and Hunk get along well, once they both get over their personal cautions. Yuu is analytical design and portable game devices and formulas for circuitry and wires, and that clicks well with Hunk’s easy joy in technology, in science, in creation.

Ritzie is more… charm and exploratory whim. Bold words and the written truth in print and demand for answers to everything and anything. They’re traits Lance and her share, in part, and he figures that’s largely why they mesh so easily.

And so, while he and Hunk remain partners in crime, formed by unbreakable trust, Ritzie and Yuu also become on-and-off presences in their days, offering new company and idle chatter.

It’s… nice.

Adjusting to the academic side of Greenwood is its own bag of worms though, Lance discovers.

For once, Lance is no longer the youngest, smallest child in his grade. Instead, he finds his classes filled with a mix of different kids, sharing space with children several years younger than him, as well as those older, including Ritzie and Yuu occasionally, despite them being a year older than Hunk and two older than Lance. Class in general is less regular— They don’t take the same classes all the time, and aside from some basics, the curriculum is a lot less regimented.

Greenwood is, as Ritzie calls it, “a true magnet school”, dedicated to producing students who rake in accreditations and awards for the school. As such, Lance finds that pretty much every student is dedicated to one or two clubs or particular talents, be they academic, artistic, or athletic.

It only takes a few weeks before one of their science teachers pulls Hunk aside and recruits him to the competitive robotics and engineering clubs, his talent for schematics and building the impossible out of scraps, long honed from years hanging around Igraine and Lance’s uncle at the repair shop, quickly coming to light. As for the rest of Lance’s miniscule social circle, Ritzie is part of the school’s elite debate and mock trial teams, and Yuu the mathematics team, along with the same robotics team Hunk is dragged into.

Lance himself doesn’t really find an easy niche. His specialty, much as it can be called that, has always been being moderately decent at everything. It was what had allowed him to jump a grade, given there was no one subject he was significantly less proficient in than the rest. He has odd skills he’s picked up, but they’re all what he’s learned from his family— An intricate knowledge of makeup and hairstyling techniques thanks to Marcie, basic understanding of an engine via Igraine, some easy programming skills and how to hedge a wifi signal he’s locked out of courtesy of Evie, etcetera. Regardless, if he has any particular skills, they’re not any he can identify or that immediately stick out.

The thing is, Lance’d be fine with that, normally. So what if he’s not an expert in anything? He’s relatively good at most academics, speaks two languages perfectly, can keep up in P.E. just fine, and knows quite a bit about astronomy. But, the problem lies in the inherent purpose of Greenwood— To pull in as many accolades as possible. To not have a talent that can bring awards to the school is to be useless to it, and not a position he can afford to be in as a scholarship student.

Honestly, he stumbles across his saving grace completely on accident. It’s one of the lunch breaks when Hunk and Yuu are off with the robotics team for… something, it kind of goes over his head, and Ritzie is nowhere to be found, possibly off trying to break into somewhere she’s not supposed to be. Lance is left alone and bored, and accidentally finds some other students, a couple of which he gets along with well enough, playing chess in one of the common areas. On a whim, he asks to play, and one of the older students, who is known to be a bit of a cocky bastard, agrees with a smug smirk, probably assuming he can beat Lance easy as he explains the rules of each piece with a breezy air.

He isn’t smiling when Lance beats him five minutes later, his eyes wide as he stares at Lance’s equally shocked expression.

By the time Lance has thoroughly thrashed the next three others that challenge him, each of them waiting for Lance’s lucky streak to end almost as much as he himself is, one of the upper-grade math teachers finds them, and pulls Lance into her office for a… talk about his sudden new skill.

Within the next month and a half, he plays through three chess tournaments and ends up with two grandmasters coaching him that the school hires the minute he somehow wins his first competition.

Turns out he’s really fucking good at chess, not that Lance would guess that any more than most people would either.

“Of course you are.” Is what Mavis says to him when he tells her over the phone, ever as much the confidante to him she became over the end of summer. “You’re good at reading people and have a head for analysis, Loraine always talked about how smart you are. Try some language and statistics courses, that kind of thing. I think you’ll be fine.”

So Lance does.

The first Christmas home from Greenwood, and the first without Loraine is… odd. Christmas has always been a big deal with their family, and it’s his and Hunk’s first extended break home from the Academy, so while it’s nice to be back its also feels vaguely overwhelming. Lance really isn’t sure how being around his family, people he sees almost every weekend, can be exhausting, but it’s… difficult, to try and come back and get into the holiday cheer. Sleeping in his room in the house for more than a day or two feels odd, and Lance is grateful that by day two Hunk gives up the ghost and migrates over to the McClain house with his pillow for pretty much the rest of winter break.

It’s not bad. It’s nice being with his family and having a couple weeks to hang around Veradera, but there’s still an absence that sticks in Lance’s throat. He misses Loraine, achingly so, and being back home only emphasizes that.

It’s hard, knowing that this situation isn’t going to change, that she’s… never coming back.

Mavis avoids coming home completely for Christmas, a point Lance loudly berates her for over the phone, but she waxes poetic about not having the money and then mails him down a less-than-cheap looking dark blue sweater and a chessboard as Christmas presents.

“Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite.” She says, with put-on melodrama, when he calls her about the presents. “Besides if you have to dress like… that, it might as well be nice stuff.”

That’s another aspect that makes Lance’s skin itch uncomfortably about being home. He hasn’t allowed himself to touch the discarded clothing of his old life in the back of his wardrobe any time he comes home for the weekend, and he holds himself to that over the break as well. It’s not worth the risk, really, and part of him is afraid that, if he indulged, he might not have the heart to give it up and go back to living as this new image of himself at Greenwood only a couple weeks later.

Practice makes perfect. Surely, with time, he will come to accept this boyish, awkward version of himself he sees in the mirror.

So, he remains as he has taught himself to be, despite the worried glances his family still sometimes cast at him, and comforts himself with the familiarities of home. He spends time with his sisters, his mother, aunts, and uncle, he visits Carlos and Rachel two streets over, plays with Josie, no longer a small baby but an excitable toddler eagerly awaiting the promise of a sibling from her parents, walks the beaches with Hunk, chases the cracks in the gravel on the sidewalks on the way to the dairy shop, and sits in the garage under león’s shadow, the hoverbike preserved lovingly by Igraine and waiting, promised to Lance once he’s big enough, because of course it’s his, Loraine would have wanted him to have it.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, when the sun isn’t quite yet risen and the last of the stars are yet to sleep, Lance will sneak out to the churchyard, will dust the snow off Loraine’s gravestone and sit with his back to it, ignoring the chill of the wind and the nip of the snow against his fingers, because he always forgets gloves, always, and tells her about Greenwood, about his life.

Lance wonders, occasionally, if she would be proud of him, of what he’s doing to preserve their dream, her dream.

He hopes so. He really, really hopes so.

He wants more than anything to be the legacy Loraine deserves, to be worthy of the pride and the love and the confidence she had always held in him.

He feels closer to her, oddly enough, there with his back against the stone, or with his head pressed to it as he traces the words on the stone, and occasionally, on the ever slowly re-healing scars on his skin.

Loraine Ophelia Eliza, Loraine Ophelia Eliza, Loraine Ophelia Eliza.

Please forgive me, he asks in his silent mantra. Please protect me. Please let me get this right, for you, for me.

It’s not that bad, Lance tells himself, and that’s the important part, right?

And when he goes back to Greenwood with Hunk come the new year, and Ritzie and Yuu break into their room almost immediately, the former’s mouth running a mile a minute about all the boring socialite parties she had to attend, with the air of someone who has walked through a war zone, while Yuu patiently half-listens and shows Hunk and Lance his new video games behind Ritzie’s back, it’s not too bad either.

He’s surviving, rising on up on the way to the stars, and that’s all that matters.

#Hi i'm a piece of shit who never crossposts on time #no this isn't an update this is Old #spilling like an overflowing sink (voltron)#my writing #Voltron

2 notes · View notes