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"Ugh, come on, come on!" Hunk grumbled, not for the first time that evening. He sucked in his stomach—again, not for the first time that evening—and tried once more to bring his pants button and its corresponding hole together. It didn't work.
"This can't be happening," he muttered. "Not now. I don't have any other clothes."
He felt his eyes begin to water, but he blinked the tears back to better focus on the pieces of fabric that he was still determined to force together.
"Come on," he said again, practically begging this time. "Just fit."
He got the button close to the hole—or he thought he did, at least; it was difficult to know for sure, considering he couldn't actually see the button—but before he could even attempt the miracle that would be getting it through the hole, he made the mistake of exhaling. He watched as his stomach expanded, wrecking any chance he might have had of buttoning his pants.
He sighed, though the sound was drowned out by a knock on his bedroom door.
"Hunk?"
Lance.
"Are you in here? I just checked the kitchen to see if you'd started the carne guisada yet, but you weren't in there."
Hunk grimaced. He'd forgotten that he'd invited Lance to help him with dinner.
Whenever Hunk decided to make Spanish-coded food, Lance would offer tips—based on how his mom had done things—on what to use to marinate certain things and which foods to pair together, and Hunk was always happy to oblige him. While he was cooking Spanish-coded food more often than not lately because he wanted to cheer the angry, disconsolate Red Paladin—Is Keith still the Red Paladin if he now pilots the Black Lion? Hunk wondered—up and Tex-Mex was his favorite cuisine, he was willing to tweak the dishes to make them more Cuban; doing so made Lance happy, and Keith seemed unable to taste the difference between Cuban food and the Tex-Mex he'd grown up on.
"Hunk? Buddy?"
Lance's voice drew Hunk back to the present.
"You know I don't lock my door," Hunk answered.
"I know, but not everyone is willing to go snooping in other people's stuff without their permission," Lance teased as he entered the room. He grinned at Hunk, but a puzzled expression quickly replaced the grin. "Why aren't you dressed?" he asked. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm as big a fan as anyone of going commando—."
"I'm not 'going commando,' Lance. I'm wearing underwear."
"—but I'm pretty sure going pants-less in a kitchen constitutes some kind of health code violation."
"I don't intend on remaining pants-less," Hunk defended himself. "I just… got distracted. I'm not… really feeling carne guisada anymore." He did his best to ignore the fact that he'd been thinking about the dish since he started peeling the space equivalent of potatoes the previous quintant. "What if I make salad instead?"
Lance snorted. Hunk glared at him.
"Sorry, sorry," Lance apologized, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "It's just… look, I know you like salad as much as the next guy—especially that okie-dokie one—."
"It's oka i'a, Lance," Hunk corrected. "And don't bash it. I'd be tempted to give Zarkon the Yellow Lion in exchange for the citrus I need to make the juice I use to marinate the fish."
Just kidding, Hunk added silently before the Yellow Lion could express his displeasure at his words. Mostly…
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lance continued, brushing Hunk's interjection off with a wave of his hand. "I'm just saying, you're not the kind of guy who'd substitute a salad for meat. You'd have it as a side dish, but as a replacement? Nah. I mean, beef? Palmagorian filet? Pigs-in-a-blanket? Pork laulau? You're almost as carnivorous as K—."
"I get it," Hunk responded, harsher than he'd meant to. "Knock it off. You're making me hungry."
"Let's go to the kitchen, then, big guy. What are we waiting for?"
"I… can't."
"Why not?"
"I can't…" Hunk glanced at Lance—who was still standing in front of the door, with his arms crossed over his chest—then shifted his gaze to the floor. "I can't button my pants."
"So?"
Hunk looked back at Lance. "'So?'" he repeated. "So? I don't have any other clothes to wear, Lance!"
"This castle has at least a hundred closets full of Altean clothes that are whatever size you need them to be, buddy," Lance responded unsympathetically. "Go look through one and pick your favorite outfit."
Hunk bit his lip. He hadn't considered the fact that he could just replace his clothes… but now that he was, the thought seemed anathema to him.
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"I… I don't want anyone asking me why I suddenly changed my clothes."
Lance's expression softened. "Hunk, man, no one's gonna care if you gained a couple pounds. You know that, right?"
"I… I know that," Hunk said, although even he wasn't convinced by his tone. "But I care. These are my clothes. From Earth. I want to keep wearing them. And I—."
Hunk cut himself off. Lance didn't interject, opting instead to wait patiently.
"I shouldn't have even gained weight," Hunk continued, voice dripping with self-hatred. "I mean, this has to be some kind of cruel trick of the universe or mistake, right? We train for hours—vargas, whatever—every day that we're not, you know, actually fighting a battle in this war. How could I—?"
"Hunk."
Hunk begrudgingly met Lance's gaze.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, man."
Hunk huffed a laugh. "Pot, meet kettle," he said.
"Yeah, which is why I'm telling you to knock it off. Criticizing yourself doesn't accomplish or fix anything. It just makes you miserable."
"I deserve to be miserable," Hunk grumbled. He sat down on the edge of his bed and scowled at the mattress as it dipped under his weight, as if the fault didn't lie entirely with him.
"Bullshit."
"It's true," Hunk insisted, sighing. He shifted his attention to his stomach, which was spilling over the ill-fitting waistband of his pants and into his lap; he deserved to look at what his dearth of self-control had created. "It's not the universe's fault my pants don't fit anymore. It's mine. I've been stress-baking like crazy ever since Shiro disappeared, trying to distract myself from thoughts about how he's probably back in the Galra's clutches or, worse, dead—actually, I don't even know if that would be worse, given what he went through the first time he was captured—because I have to distract myself from those thoughts if I want to be able to get up in the morning at all, never mind go to war and pretend that everything is fine and normal when nothing is fine or normal—." He balled his hands into his comforter in an attempt to rid himself of the anxiety bubbling up within him. It didn't work, but he continued nonetheless. "—and normally, that'd be fine. If I were back home, or even back at the Garrison, I'd stress-bake a few dozen pastries and then give almost all of them away. But here? Floating in open space in a ship with only five other people? There's only so much I'm able to get rid of before it's all just there, and then…"
Hunk recalled the previous night. He'd been in the kitchen with Keith, with whom he had shared his latest culinary creation: ice cream sandwiches.
The two have spent almost every night since Shiro disappeared together in the kitchen. While Hunk had ceased midnight snacking after being brought to space—Team Voltron's daily activities often tired him out long before midnight, and when they didn't, he usually spent his time working on side projects with Pidge—he'd started again once Shiro disappeared, since his anxiety kept him up most of the night cycle, anyway; and a few quintants after "the incident," Keith, looking exhausted and famished, had wandered into the kitchen while Hunk was there, baking. Hunk had invited Keith to join him, and Keith had accepted. Hunk, half out of habit and half to calm his own nerves, had chattered endlessly. Keith had borne it—until, that was, Hunk had made the mistake of trying to comfort him and tell him that they would find Shiro, at which point Keith had said a few choice words and stormed off.
A few nights later, though, Keith joined him again. Hunk had joked that Keith was an alien, not a vampire, and that he didn't need to wait to be explicitly invited in before he joined him (since he had been hovering by the entrance to the kitchen), but after that, Hunk fell silent, speaking again only to tell Keith what he had made that night.
… and so began their routine, a few movements ago. Once Hunk had demonstrated that he could, in fact, be quiet, Keith had begun coming by more frequently; now, their midnight snacking sessions were an almost nightly occurrence. Indeed, Keith, after either training himself to exhaustion, tossing and turning in his bed for over a varga, or waking from a nightmare, would come find Hunk in the kitchen and grab a midnight snack for himself. He'd even begun talking freely recently.
It was nice to be able to offer some small amount of comfort and silent but steady support to Keith, and Keith's presence reminded Hunk that although Shiro had disappeared, he wasn't alone. However, because Keith didn't have much of a sweet tooth, Hunk was free to eat most of the fruits of own his labor himself—and he did, night after night after night. He'd made a dozen ice cream sandwiches last night, and he'd eaten ten of them.
"Stress-baking turns into stress-eating?" Lance guessed, interrupting Hunk's thoughts.
"Yeah…"
Hunk glanced down at his stomach—he could feel the first pangs of hunger; soon, his stomach would be growling—then turned to look at Lance. "I should've just… I don't know, thrown the leftovers out the airlock or something."
"And waste perfectly good food?" Lance retorted. "Your mother would yell at you for even suggesting that."
The corners of Hunk's lips quirked into a grin—Lance was right, after all—but the smile disappeared as quickly as it had come.
"Well, Mom's not here," Hunk said, voice surprisingly steady, given the subject matter. "I am. And if I don't do something, I just…" He bit his lip again. "I'm a paladin, Lance. I should have more self-control."
"This doesn't have anything to do with self-control, Hunk," Lance said. "This has to do with finding comfort and happiness in small pleasures." He aimed a solemn look at Hunk. "Yes, you're a paladin. You know what that means? It means that you devote every day—quintant, whatever—to saving lives and stopping this war. It means that your life is on the line all the freaking time, and that's scary and stressful and very, very fucked up and unfair." Lance let his shoulders sag. "You deserve any bit of comfort and happiness you can get, Hunk. We all do."
Hunk opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Lance spoke again. He told him to get up and take off his pants.
"What?" Hunk squawked. "Why?"
"So I can let them out," Lance answered. "I can let them out two inches—if you need more than that, you'll have to switch to Altean clothes, sorry—but not with you in them."
Hunk considered Lance's proposition. It wouldn't solve everything—among other things, the thigh area would still be tight, which meant that, eventually, the fabric there will tear—but…
"You can really let them out?"
"Yeah," Lance affirmed, nodding. "I used to let Luis's pants out all the time before he got married—and after, too, occasionally; he gained a bunch of sympathy weight when Lisa was pregnant with Silvio." He grinned—likely remembering teasing his oldest brother—then shook his head, as if to clear his mind of the memories, and turned to open Hunk's bedroom door again. "I'll be right back, okay?"
And with that, Lance disappeared.
Hunk had just finished stripping down to his shirt and underwear when Lance returned—not bothering to knock this time—bearing a needle and thread, scissors, and a seam ripper.
"Toss 'em here, big guy," Lance commanded, extending one hand toward Hunk.
Hunk obliged. Lance plopped down on Hunk's bed, then scooted back to lean against the wall, while Hunk sat back down on the edge of the bed.
"How do you let them out?" Hunk asked.
"Well, now," Lance snorted, "if I told you that, you wouldn't need me anymore."
Hunk was almost certain that Lance was joking, but because he was aware of Lance's inferiority complex and self-esteem issues, he opted not to let the self-deprecating remark slide. "I'll always need you, Lance," he said seriously. "We all do, now more than ever. You're second in command of Voltron now."
Lance frowned and let Hunk's pants fall into his lap. "Yeah," he said dispassionately. "I'm second. To Keith. Again."
It was Hunk's turn to frown now. "That's not what I said."
Lance curiously but hesitantly met Hunk's gaze.
"You're not Keith's replacement. You're Keith's right-hand man. There's a difference," Hunk explained. "You were the first one—besides Shiro, anyway—to believe in him and in his ability to lead us, and even if you were only supporting him to support the Black Lion's choice, you were the one who was there for him. You're the one he counts on most."
Hunk recalled something Keith had confided in him during one of their most recent midnight snacking sessions: that although he didn't think he'd make a good leader, he felt more confident with Lance by his side because he knew that Lance could handle the more "social" aspects of leadership and wouldn't hesitate to do whatever he needed, whether that was call him out on a bad decision or provide needed backup.
"You're Keith's connection to the rest of us," Hunk continued. "You were a leg, which means that, originally, your job was to be a foundation others can rely on, and to bring the team together—two things that Keith struggles to do." He laid a hand on Lance's knee and leveled him with a look, though it was for naught; Lance's attention was fixed on him. "The Red Lion didn't choose you as a backup for Keith, Lance. This isn't the Garrison. You're not there just because Keith isn't and you were the 'next best' choice, or whatever you may think. You're there because you have to be. You bring to the table everything that Keith lacks. He can't lead Voltron without you. There is no Voltron without you."
"You big sap," Lance chuckled, dabbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "Thank you. I… needed to hear that." He reached a hand out to playfully shove Hunk and smiled a genuine, albeit a bit wobbly, smile. "You're a good leg, Hunk."
"I try to be," Hunk replied simply, shrugging. He glanced down at his pants—which were still sprawled over Lance's lap—then looked back at Lance. "Are you gonna tell me how to let the pants out now?" he asked. He really was curious as to how it was done.
"It's simple, really," Lance confessed, "since most pants come with some extra fabric for this exact purpose." He held up a piece of fabric the same color as Hunk's pants. Hunk couldn't, for the life of him, figure out from what part of his pants it had come.
"Really?"
"Yep." Lance glanced up and smiled at Hunk, then returned his attention to what he was doing with Hunk's pants. Hunk shifted his attention to what Lance was doing with his pants, too, but Lance's hands moved deftly, too quickly for Hunk to comprehend what, exactly, Lance was doing. "Anyway, you just open up the waistband, remove the original seamline, and re-sew it. And then… espera un momento… eso es, ahora sí… voilà!" He held up Hunk's pants, grinning triumphantly. "All done!"
"Already?" Hunk marveled. He grabbed the pants out of Lance's hands and looked over the waistband, but it didn't seem different, at least as far as he could tell. "Witchcraft," he pronounced.
Lance laughed. "You can hotwire alien technology without even looking at it and make a bomb out of cleaning supplies in less than five doboshes, but sewing is too complicated for you?"
"Yes."
Lance rolled his eyes. "You're the reason people say geniuses have no common sense." He gestured to the pants. "Now, come on. Try 'em on."
Hunk scrambled off his bed and stepped into the pants. He pulled them up and, without any trouble, buttoned them.
"They fit!" he cried. He leaned forward to drag Lance off the bed and into a hug.
"Hunk, buddy, I love you, but you're cracking my ribs here," Lance croaked.
"Oops. Sorry." Hunk let Lance go. "I'm just happy. You're a lifesaver, dude. Thank you."
"Anytime," Lance said. He looked up to meet Hunk's gaze. "So… you still wanna make salad for dinner?"
Hunk bit his lip and glanced downward.
"I should…" he started. "I mean, don't get me wrong; I'm glad and grateful that you were able to let my pants out, but you shouldn't have had to do so at all." He furrowed his eyebrows as he thought. "I did already peel the not-potatoes, though, and I—."
He was interrupted by the sound of his stomach growling.
"—am so quiznaking hungry," he finished, chuckling.
Lance laughed again. "I was wondering when that was gonna happen," he admitted. "Your stomach is more accurate than any alarm clock." He started toward the door, then turned back to wait for Hunk. Hunk closed the distance between them, and together, they started making their way to the kitchen.
"I know you want to keep wearing your clothes, and I certainly don't blame you for that," Lance continued, "but what I said before about how none of us would care if you had to switch to some shape-shifting Altean clothes is true. I know we tease you about your appetite sometimes, but it's all in good fun, man. I promise."
"I know," Hunk said. "I can tell the difference between an actual insult and a joke between friends."
He and Lance rounded a corner, and Hunk's stomach growled again, as if it could tell that Hunk was approaching the kitchen. Lance caught his eye, and Hunk sighed.
"I guess I should make the carne guisada," Hunk said. He laid a hand on his stomach and tried not to think about how soft it was. "I don't think a salad is gonna satisfy the beast… and besides, I'd feel bad if I made you all eat salad just because I can't put down the spork."
"Hey." Lance came to a stop and tugged on Hunk's sleeve to get him to stop, too. Hunk did, and Lance leveled him with another serious look that, somewhere along the way, had stopped seeming out-of-place on his face. "Enjoying food and getting comfort from it doesn't become a crime once you surpass a certain weight. Stop thinking that it does."
Huh…
Hunk contemplated Lance's words and was forced to concede that that was a good, valid point. If he could acknowledge that good food brings comfort and happiness to others, he shouldn't feel ashamed that it did the same for him.
"Hunk?"
Lance's voice brought Hunk back to the present once again. Hunk smiled and threw an arm over Lance's shoulders, practically dragging the shorter, thinner paladin with him when he resumed walking.
He couldn't honestly promise that he'd stop feeling ashamed of himself, or of his weight. While he could often quiet his insecurities surrounding his size and weight—due in large part to the amazing support system he'd had in his family growing up—they were always there, lurking in the depths of his mind, and when his anxiety or some external event brought them to the foreground, there was only so much he could do to shove them back down.
There was, however, one thing that Hunk could say completely honestly: "I'm glad you're here, Lance."