Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Lance was younger, he believed in happy endings and fairytales. He still remembers the sound of his tiny feet running through the halls of his home, pulling out a wooden sword, and trying to coax his sister into a battle of wills and swordplay. Rachel always tells him with a sophisticated air that she does not have time for childish things. She always tells him that soon, he will need to put away such things. 

To Lance, his sister and the other siblings always seem so worldly and knowledgeable as if they hold all the insights of the ways of the world in the palm of their hands. Lance wonders when he will be afforded that information. Lance continues lifting a sword and imagining himself as a daring knight or noble warrior as the door to an unknown future remains shut. He envisioned a future of adventures and grand quests. He imagined that, at the age of six, the whole world was his oyster. He stared out the window in his home, a wistful expression on his young face as he took in the rolling hills and intricate garden grounds. 

The value of being of noble blood meant very little to Lance’s young mind. Not when he longs for the kind of adventures he reads about in storybooks. Lance wants to become big and strong like his oldest brother, Luis, whose laugh warms Lance’s soul. Lance wants to hone his aim like his brother, Marco, who has the potential to serve in the King’s battalion. Lance wants to be as wise as his eldest sister, Veronica, who already controls and guides notions of their estate. Lance wants to be as poised as Rachel, but more so, he wishes to lift his wooden sword and tangle up in a fight with his brothers. 

Lance imagines the life he will have when others do not tower over him. He imagines what life will be like when he no longer has to scramble and tug and shout to get attention. He imagines when he is grown, he will turn heads in all the ways that he is strong, skilled, wise, and poised. He imagines much for his future, yet his sister’s sentiment of discarding childish things lingers. 

Each year, Lance grows a bit more in height and bulks out a bit, though as Veronica always remarks, he is still “skinny as a stick.” Lance does his best to strive for the goals he has in his mind and his heart. He watches as his siblings continue to gracefully and skillfully serve the Altean Kingdom and their noble needs. Lance wants to prove he can be just as valuable when the time comes. 

Lance’s grown enough to know the responsibilities of his young life are soon to change. He expects to hear from his parents that, like Marco, he will hone a fighting skill - a reason to increase his budding muscles. He expects that some of this learning will reside outside of the comforts of his home, but not all. It is not what he hears. Instead, his parents tell him that upon his next birthday, he will be moving to the Altean’s centermost stronghold - the castle located a day’s journey from home. 

Lance can’t help but feel confused. He’s only ever visited the epicenter of the Altean Kingdom once. Even from that experience, it was a short stint of sticking shyly behind the folds of the fabric of Veronica’s dress as his parents addressed the two royals on the throne. Lance can’t imagine a reason he needs to return. 

“Why?” He asks, fidgeting with his shirt as he stares at his parents’ stoic expressions. 

“Because it is so.” 

Lance knows that he cannot question his parents. That would be disrespectful and lead him nowhere. So he instead asks his sister. Veronica’s expression stiffens, and she parts Lance’s hair, cupping under his chin and forcing a smile. 

“You’ll love the castle, Lance; it’s like the stories you love,” she encourages, but Lance thinks there’s something under the surface; he thinks there’s something she’s not telling him. She adds, before he can push for more, “The princess will be there.”

Lance stops in his pursuit of ‘why’ when her words settle in him. Of course, the princess will be there. It is her home, after all. However, Lance can’t help the warm heat that creeps up his cheeks, his blue eyes wide as Veronica exhales a teasing laugh at Lance’s flush. It makes it easy to forget there’s something under the surface that he ought to know. 

So Lance drops the subject until it’s hard to ignore, and all his belongings are packed up tight into luggage, the horses prepared, and the tension palpable in the home. Lance bites at his lip as he looks at Veronica and Luis, the pair sparing the time they have to escort their youngest brother to his new home. 

“Are you going to stay with me?” He asks as the carriage picks up, and he’s had his final goodbyes to all he’s ever known. 

Veronica’s expression tenses, and she stares out the window. Luis leans forward in the carriage seat and squeezes Lance’s knee. “Until you get settled, little brother.” Lance isn’t sure if he should press for more information or if it’s fair to ask when he doesn’t know if he wants to hear the answer. 

“When can I come back home?” Instead, Lance asks, unsure if it is a safe question, but it is at least something he knows he wants to hear. 

His eyes shift to his sister, watching as Veronica lifts a hand and brushes the flat side of her wrist against her eye. Lance’s breath quavers in his chest, and he doesn’t know who will break first. “I’m coming home, right?” His young voice strains, cracking a little as it sometimes does. “Veronica?” His sister stiffens as he looks at her directly. 

“Luis, I can’t,” she whispers, audible enough that Lance can just hear it, but it only serves to tighten his already tangled stomach up. 

Lance’s eldest brother offers a sigh and a nod to their sister before he lifts himself and sits next to Lance in the carriage. Lance scoots to the side, tugging at the hem of the material of his outfit. Rachel wore a tight smile for his birthday as she had given him the woven blue cloak. Lance had been too starstruck by the soft blue material with woven gold thread to press his older sister on his concerns. He tucks his shoulders deeper into the material and tugs the fabric tighter in front of him as he stares up at his brother. 

“Lance,” Luis begins, briefly flicking his gaze to Veronica’s stoic expression, her palms bracing against her thighs as Lance hears her taking unsteady breaths. “Lance, do you remember your studies,” Lance frowns at the question, the clarity not coming from Luis’ offered words. 

“What about them?” Lance asks, his lips thin as he fidgets, and then his eyes widen, “did the tutor tell you I slept through my lessons?” He leans forward, panicking, “Is that why I’m being sent away?” Lance suddenly finds himself trembling, the pent-up fear of the unknown finally bubbling up inside of him. He leans forward and grabs Luis’ arms, Lance’s breath coming out in short bursts. “I promise I’ll be good. I won’t sleep through lessons, I-”

“Lance,” Veronica interrupts, and Lance snaps his head her way, seeing the soft blur over her eyes. “This isn’t,” she sighs, “a punishment… It’s an opportunity.” She explains, however, that the words sound entirely forced and practiced on her part. “And,” she huffs out a laugh and glances to the side at Luis, “it isn’t because you slept through your studies.” 

Lance’s frown returns as he pulls away from his brother, his gaze fixed on his sister, “An opportunity?” Lance’s voice quells in his chest and the only sound comes from the clopping of hooves from the horses outside the carriage. 

“Lance,” Luis interjects again, “it’s important that we all support the estate and our kingdom,” Lance nods, agreeing with the sentiment. “Our parents, well, to maintain the estate and our good standing, certain choices have to be made - for each of us, each of our roles.” Lance lifts his hand and scratches his cheek, his brows pressing together. 

“Veronica and I are responsible for our name and those in our charge. As do Marco and Rachel.” Lance nods slowly. He knows Marco is gearing up to join the King’s military force, and Rachel, with her glossy hair and refined demeanor, fancies herself a role in court. 

Lance, however, doesn’t know what use he is meant to play. “What does this have to do with me? Why am I going to the palace?” Luis sucks in a slow breath. He glances at Veronica as her foot taps nervously on the bottom of the carriage. 

Lance wonders, not for the first time, why he has to ask his older siblings this inquiry over his parents. Not that he doesn’t love and care for his parents; they are warm and kind, though firm around expectations and presenting an image. Lance supposes that he is only allowed to be curious, question the norm, and wonder what he’s meant to be doing at all with his siblings. 

Veronica sighs, the nervousness alight in her body settles to only a fumbling of fingers brushing in circles. 

“There’s a tradition,” she begins, her fingertips bracing against the thick fabrics of her heavy skirts. “Standard in all of the noble families, that certain acts must be followed to maintain continued relevance and stature.” Lance looks between his siblings, and his frown deepens further; Veronica’s explanation offers him no clarity. He wants to interject, but as Veronica sucks in a slow breath, he finds his own questions lodged in his throat. 

“You are going to the castle so you can learn how best to serve the kingdom - so that,” Veronica’s voice shakes as she wets her lips, “so that you may please a royal, a future betrothed.” 

Lance’s eyes become saucers, wide and shocked, his breath shallowing until it emerges in thready inhales. Lance has barely given marriage one moment’s thought. He had grown up with a wooden sword in his hand and a wish for adventure. He focuses more on how he will help his family and their estate with acts of bravery and daringness. How a battle can be fought and won, and he can get all the accolades for it. Sure, he suspects his older siblings will have a leg up on him with their achievements, but Lance still thinks that the dreams of his childhood have been within reach. Being wed hadn’t crossed his mind in the least. Except for the beautiful Altean princess, but that is beyond any kind of conceivable fantasy. 

“Betrothed?” He manages, his voice cracking again as he feels perspiration creep down his neck as he continues stilted inhales. “I… I don’t wanna get married,” the words are a loud whisper as if anyone outside of his two siblings could eavesdrop from their carriage. 

“It isn’t happening anytime soon, little brother,” Luis interjects, rubbing Lance’s shoulder as Lance stares and gapes at Veronica. “This is more like,” he hears Luis swallow, “training, so you can feel prepared when the time arises.” 

Lance shakes his head and squeezes his eyes closed. “I don’t want to,” he protests and feels cool fingers wrapping around his hands. He’s only just starting to grow into himself, into his body - the sword of choice finally doesn’t send him careening to the ground by its sheer size and weight.

“Vero,” Lance croaks, “please, don’t make me.” He opens his eyes, and drops of tears dangle from his long lashes. 

Veronica squeezes his hands gently, glancing off to Luis with a tense expression, before returning to Lance, “I know Lance, I’m sorry.” She whispers, as powerless as he to stop the motions now that they are set. 

“Why? Why me? None of you have to do this, not even Rachel,” Lance feels a bit childish as he juts out his lower lip, “and she’d be better at it.” He reasons with a nod to himself. Not that he wants to put his older sister through this unknown venture, but if anyone was primed to be sold off to the highest bidder, it would be his sister. 

“I don’t doubt she would,” Veronica agrees with a wry smile, “but tradition dictates that it must be the youngest.” She starts and opens her mouth to expand, but Lance stiffens. 

“So I’m the spare.” Lance jerks his hands away and tucks them back into his cloak, folding the fabric around his body like a blanket.

“What?” Luis shakes his head vehemently. “No, Lance, that’s not it.” Luis looks at Veronica imploringly, hoping perhaps she can explain this better than his attempts. 

Veronica sweeps a hand through her short hair, “Lance,” she states, “you are the youngest and are likely to inherit the least of the estate. That isn’t fair to you.” Her words, despite the earlier strain, sound practiced and firm. “And unless something befalls us, any of us, you will not be left with much of anything at all.” 

“So?” Lance shakes his head, “I don’t… What if I don’t care about that? I don’t want to leave home.” 

Veronica purses her lips, “Lance, I know this is difficult to understand, but this is meant to protect you. It will give you a future that remaining at home cannot offer you.” 

Lance’s stomach twists so tightly he fears it will burst. His eyes well up, and he only thinks about how unfair this is. Sure, when he was young, he loved fairy tales of the brave and the beautiful, but those were stories to listen to, not to live. The closest he ever gets to that inspiration is his interest in daring sword fights and rushing into a battle. However, that is more play than reality. 

“Protect me?” 

Lance blinks and twists his lips in a tight line, “You’re shipping me off. How is that protecting me?” His eyes narrow, and he scrunches up in the corner of the carriage. He crosses his arms and glowers as he stares at the cushions to the side of him. 

“Lance…” Veronica’s voice fades, and he can hear her distress the way from his vantage point; he sees her lifted hand and the way it hovers in the air before returning back to her side. 

Luis takes a steadying breath and lifts his hands, placing them firmly on his youngest sibling’s shoulders. 

“Can you try this for a year, Lance? Just see what they have to say and what you can get from it. This is meant to help you, give you a future, and if it’s not the one you want, then…” Luis glances at Veronica, “We’ll talk to our parents. We’ll find other arrangements.” 

Veronica opens her mouth to protest, a slight shake of her head, dashing the idea but staying silent as Luis returns his eyes to Lance’s wide ones. 

“You promise?” Lance’s voice quavers. 

Luis nods. 

A promise that Lance has to try, but not that he has to stay. 

He doesn’t quite know how to measure his expectations for a fate he never predicted for himself. He doesn’t know if he should even bother when he doesn’t want even a fraction of this fate. However, as his siblings look at him with concern in their warm eyes, Lance can’t help but wish to at least rise to the occasion. To try and prove… something.

What exactly, Lance doesn’t know just yet.

✽

“Back straight!”

The snap of a short, sharp stick hits against the wooden table as Lance’s back jerks upright, and he has to prevent himself from glaring at his instructor. It would be followed by phrases such as, “Eyes down. Do not snort. Where are your books?” And on and on. It would only lead to another quick snap of the stick against something other than wood. Lance lowers his head, letting his hands fall dutifully in his lap as he is assessed. 

The promise of a year’s stint, of giving this a trial run, progressively becomes an entire year, then two, and finally, three. Three years of straight backs and downcast eyes, soft fabrics and flushed painted-on faces, discussions of literature and poetry, and never a sword in sight. Lance finds that over three years, all the aspirations and dreams of fighting with his hands or a blade become carefully poised words and small shifts of expressions. 

An act on the stage.

It is not as though Lance goes without a fight; in the first few months, he focuses on grinning and bearing his way through the grueling lessons and sharp discipline. He had wanted to prove to his siblings that he could at least give this a shot. He’s not going to just up and quit. 

However, after five months of instructions and orders and his tutors telling him how much he shames his family and the kingdom for his inability to fall in line, Lance has enough of it. 

Lance remembers running away, only the clothes on his back and a brief bit of direction for his way home. Or, well, he tries to run away. It only leads him into the castle gardens, lost and tears stinging his eyes as guards escort him back to his palace wing. 

A year passes. And Lance’s siblings don’t come for him. He gets letters, of course, from time to time, and he writes often - hoping that they will come to retrieve him. But they don’t. Lance can’t do anything but resume his lessons and resign himself to his fate. 

All the loudness of his childhood falls away. All the exuberance and excitement for his future fades into the dust. Responsibility and honor slowly replace all the wonder of what life can offer. 

So he sits with a straight back and fabrics draped around his body, softer and lovelier than he’s ever owned. He whispers sly words and reads passages of poems that leave audiences weeping. He learns which utensil must go where and how he must bow to those above him. Lance’s station and noble upbringing only scratch the surface of the expectations drilled upon him. 

Lance eventually learns how to impress. He learns the ways and means to bring pleased smiles to his tutors’ stiff expressions. He finds ways to impress upon others that if he is forced to be here, he will not do anything in half-measures. He is not alone in the tutelage of the future consorts and courtesans. Those whose roles served as diplomatic charm or paramour desires for this and many other kingdoms. Kingdoms further than can fit onto the paper of a map. The others ease into demure behaviors and the tittering of laughter, the picture that is asked of them. Some Lance knows for only a season, quickly catching the eye of some nobility swept up by their beauty, grace, and youth. 

Lance knows as the months and years pass, it is only a matter of time before he, too, will be too delectable to ignore. 

Until then, Lance clings to the fragments of himself that he can still cherish. 

Of course, his life within the castle walls is not all bad. He makes fast friends with the cook’s apprentice, Hunk. Lance sneaks out of his living quarters whenever he gets the chance, slinking off to the kitchens to bug Hunk and taste test all the sweet delicacies that feed the castle. He usually manages to slip back unseen but occasionally stares a guard down before he is escorted back to the quarters. Usually, when that happens, Hunk will deftly slip a scone or biscuit into Lance’s awaiting hands, Lance offering his friend a bright smile as he brushes past the guardsman. 

While she was there, Katie created a perfect storm of chaos and discord for all their tutors. She takes eager glee at their put-upon expressions and raised hands of defeat. Lance admires her to no end, and while he dabbles in mischief, it hardly compares to Katie Holt’s wicked sense of justice. No wonder she leaves the castle grounds with a cackle and a flip of her finger. 

Lance takes some minor comfort that she doesn’t leave them for long, under the guise of a squire named Pidge, all the attitude still there but none of the guardrails that hold Lance at bay. 

Lance supposes he doesn’t mind the life he has now; he misses his family and home, but the rolling hills are still the same as ever. He misses the spices accompanying family meals, but Hunk makes valiant efforts to provide warm, comforting meals. He misses the idea that he can decide his own fate, but Pidge gives him hope that all is not lost. 

And even for all the things he misses, he understands the honor he’s been given and the opportunities that accompany the grueling training to be suitable to a suitor. He can acknowledge all of this. And so he no longer cries himself to sleep. He no longer plans intricate escapes, those ideas bundled up and discarded. 

He finds a new purpose. 

Lance supposes the most significant perk from all this arose from invitations to tea with the princess. Lance relishes each and every one. He wears a smile brighter than the moon whenever he bows to the beautiful princess and sits at her side. 

She always greets him with a warm smile and extends a hand for him to take any and all sweets that catch his eye. Lance wishes nothing more than to be worthy of her affections in however she wants to offer them. Lance knows that he can’t aspire to be her consort, a role already claimed by the fair-headed and bubbly young woman sitting off Allura’s side. Not that Lance doesn’t attempt to try his shot at things. After all, Allura probably still wants heirs that the current match can’t provide. And as much as Lance has mixed feelings about his family’s choices for him, about their insistence on following tradition and enforcing this future onto Lance, he doesn’t want to leave his homeland. So, whenever the opportunity for tea, chess, and conversation arises, Lance never refuses the invitation. 

“How have your studies been going, Lance,” Allura asks as she pours the steep liquid into his cup. Off to the side, the beginnings of a chess game played out on the flat surface. 

Lance offers a shrug, lifting the cup to his lips, and exhales a soft practice breath to cool the steaming liquid. He eyes the chess set, planning his next move as the steam brushes against his cheeks. Beside Allura, Romelle releases a laugh, quick and playful. “Lance? Studies?” 

Lance sends Romelle a heated look; if anyone knows Lance’s work ethic in its peaks and valleys, it is Romelle. She is a few years his senior and has watched all the ways that he struggled to adjust to his life in the palace, as well as all the ways he strives and excels. “I study,” he huffs and sips from the cup before setting it down with punctuality. As if to emphasize his point, he lifts his next chess piece and places it with a determined expression on his face. 

“Don’t fight, you two,” Allura hums as she sips at her drink, “And from what I have been told,” she flicks her gaze from her consort to Lance, “you have nothing but glowing reviews.” She shifts her eyes away from the pair to the board and lets out a contemplative hum as she considers her options. 

“Mostly Coran?” Lance asks, biting his lip as he considers the mustachioed man. Coran’s rank as royal advisor meant that Lance sees quite a great deal of him. Coran is, in part, the reason Lance’s skill for diplomacy blossomed as it had. Though, of course, Lance has yet to put any of that skill to good use. Coran always spares him a proud smile whenever he does anything worth noting, and Lance can’t help but feel grateful to have garnered the advisor’s attention and tutelage.

“I happen to hold Coran’s opinion in high regard,” Allura quips with a delicate lift of her brow, she lifts her fingers with delicate grace and moves a piece on the board. “And he says you are a budding rose,” Lance raises his hand and brushes off the praise with flushed cheeks and a dismissive wave. 

“Whether or not I’m… that -” Lance interjects, “won’t mean much, in the end.” Lance twists his cup side to side in the saucer as he lowers his eyes, watching the tea ripple from his movements. He knows he has a move to make, but his words sour his mood, and he sits frozen in discontent. 
“What does that mean?” Allura asks, leaning forward and placing a hand on top of one of Lance’s hands. 

“I’ll be shipped off to some foreign country,” Lance bites at his bottom lip as he pulls his hand from Allura’s gentle placement. “Whether I’m a rose,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “or the worst in the lot.” He looks off to the side, his eyes briefly taking in the options on the broad before focusing on the kaleidoscopic glass painting the floor in bright colors. 

“Lance,” Allura begins, a delicateness to her voice as she tries to catch his eyes. “You know we will find the very best match for you. We will bear in mind all the elements needed for your security, for you and your family, and our kingdom. We’ll honor all the work you have put into your studies and future.” Lance presses his lips together as his palms brace against the silk softness of his clothes. The game is forgotten as the seriousness of their words settles on his consciousness.

“I never wanted this,” he whispers, soft enough that he is certain neither the princess nor her consort hear him, then he exhales, “I know, Princess, thank you for looking after me.” He turns his head to settle his blue eyes on the creased brow of the monarch. As much as Lance is stuck in the doldrums of his fate some days, he never wishes his worries would befall the future queen of Altea. 

“Don’t frown, Princess,” Lance twists and faces both of them, “you will mark your face.” He hums and lifts his cup again, taking a slow, meticulous sip. 

As he drinks, he watches the princess and Romelle pass a glance to each other, then return to look pointedly at Lance. 

“Would it perhaps help,” Allura offers, “if you were to see the value of the fruits of your labor?” Lance flicks his gaze between them before resettling on Allura. He leans back against his chair, his body stiff but poised as he waits for more insight. 

With a nod, Allura presses forward, a soft smile on her lips. 

“My father intends to throw a mask in two fortnights,” her eyes glint with mystery and excitement. “I could think of no better way for you to scope out your future options, hm?” With an air of unladylike movements, she leans forward, plants her elbows directly on the table, and braces her palms against her cheeks. Lance can’t help but laugh softly at Allura’s apparent excitement on his behalf. 

“Are you certain I will be allowed?” Lance asks, “It is not yet summer; I’m not fully of age.” He remarks. 

“Psh, this is simply for looking.” Allura interjects, and Romelle ducks her head as she exhales a laugh, “We must make the best of your time, yes,” Allura pulls her hands from her face, and with a rush of fabric and skilled twisting movement, she stands in front of Lance with her hands braced at her hips. 

“I will have nothing less than perfection for you, dearest Lance.” She intones, then conspiratorially adds, “How else are you to have a love like mine with my beloved,” she flicks her eyes at Romelle just as the blonde chews a mouthful of pastry, her nose scrunching up as she tries to identify the flavor resting on her tongue. 

“Right,” Lance manages a forced smile, resting his hands against his sides, “love,” he looks away, his fingers curled slightly against his stomach.

Lance’s dreams of adventures have long been retired. Being told relentlessly that his only role was to appease and please someone of better standing than his own did wonders for his sense of self. So, perhaps desperately, Lance had clung to the brief belief that he could have someone look at him like Romelle and Allura gaze at each other. He could believe that not only civic duty but a future with love could be possible. He wants to think it’s possible, he wants to consider all of this could be worth it, beyond stability and accolades and the pride others will have for his sacrifice. Maybe, just maybe, he can have a little bit of their love. 

However, dreams like that seem far from likely when he had no choice in the matter. His noble obligations. A future for him, not by him. A love that is no more than a dream. 

Allura seems to not hear his mumblings as she claps her hands together with an excited expression. 

“Now, we must find you the perfect outfit to impress your future suitors. And,” Allura attempts to catch his gaze, “I believe it is your move.” She nods down to the abandoned game - Lance taking in the moves to make, the moves forgotten, the pathways to take, and the ones no longer given. He looks up at Allura and takes in her expression of certainty and interest. Calmly, he places his next piece on the board. 

If there is one thing Lance learns in his three years residing in the palace walls, it is that once the princess decides something, little will deter her pursuit. 

So once more, Lance forces a smile and exhales a heavy breath. 

“What do you have in mind?” 

✽

Lance adjusts the mask resting against his nose. The starlit white feathers brush against the side of his head and tickle his temple. Lance deeply inspects the ornate design of the mask, with gold accents crisscrossing and bending in looping curls that accent the mask’s frame. 

Lance has received many delicate and beautiful things in his time at the palace. Certainly, his noble upbringing offers him many luxuries he no doubt takes for granted. However, as his finger brushes against the side of the mask, feeling like velvety threads against the side of his head, he recognizes the rare gift such luxuries allow. 

He focuses solely on adjusting his mask to fit perfectly rather than the crowds pouring into the ballroom. Once his mask fits perfectly, he moves onto the cuffs of his dark teal jacket, his fingers fiddling as he adjusts and fixes and attends and - 

Dark, slender fingers brace against his fluttering fingers, curling gently around his trembling digits. 

“Lance,” Allura peers at him with her radiant eyes, “you look lovely, and this is simply to observe,” she reminds with a kind squeeze around his hands. Lance releases a heavy-held breath, and as Allura’s hands pull away, Lance rests his hands by his sides, standing somewhat awkwardly as she settles next to him. 

“How exactly is this evening supposed to go?” Lance asks for likely the nth time. His gaze fixates on Romelle as she spins on the dancefloor, her dusty pink and sea green dress flowing like ripples of water around her. 

“However you wish it to go,” Allura hums and gently pats Lance’s shoulder, “You ought to see that your efforts can be duly rewarded, that coming here is not for nothing.” Allura looks out into the crowd and smiles warmly as Romelle finishes her dizzying dance and beckons Allura forth. Lance scans the crowd of mask patrons, pressing on his bottom lip as the discomfort remains. 

“After all,” Allura remarks, “it is through these very efforts that I found my consort.” She turns once more to look at Lance, “So, too, will you find someone best suited for you? I’m certain of it.”

She steps from their place off to the side, her eyes not leaving Lance’s, “But until then, enjoy the festivities,” she offers a sly smile and wink before she departs with a flutter of feather-light fabric. 

Despite Allura’s lilting encouragement, Lance isn’t entirely convinced about what he should be doing. Lance shifts from side to side, his fingers flexing a little by his side as he settles into the discomfort of his surroundings. His eyes cast out to the parade of dancers, spinning and twisting with memorized movements. The flow of women’s dresses paints the floor in a spray of color as they twirl. The ease of movement from the men as their steps resound against the music. 

Lance never considered this to be an aspect of his life. Even in his youth, before ever conceiving his fate and future, had he thought attending a masked ball would be a pastime. As he watches the spinning and feels his head spinning, he can’t help but pluck a glass of something off an offered tray and down it in one go. Hoping that whatever the acrid taste that settled on his tongue would calm down his alight nerves. 

As he scans the crowd, he wishes he could glimpse Hunk - but if Hunk is anywhere, he is hard at work in the kitchens. He wishes that he could simply not care like Pidge. He could walk away and discard Allura’s charitable invitation. However, the weight of his family’s expectations and the pressure of knowing he’s useless in everything outside his silver-tongue mouth. He wishes this night of vibrant colors, intricate dances, and raucous laughter could end. He wishes he didn’t have a fate beyond counting down the days when he will have to leave all he’s ever known. 

These moments in Allura’s domain feel like a mockery. He will be unable to step daintily into this castle in the coming years. Lance brushes the jut of his wrist against his cheek, brushing against the bottom of his mask. Lance realizes he’s too stuck in his head; however, he doesn’t notice that he’s being observed. 

Lance startles back a step, his shoes almost stepping in time to the sound of the music around them. Piercing dark blue eyes look at him from across the ballroom. The individual peers at him, a man in dark purple attire and flowing silver hair to rival Allura’s lustrous locks. Atop his face rests a black mask; from a distanceLance cannot see the intricate details that must weave across the mask from the distance. The man lifts his glass in a distinct gesture in Lance’s way. Lance’s breath shallows in his chest as he realizes the attention he has garnered. Or, well, that he has garnered any attention. 

Not that Lance is a stranger of attention but most of those eyes had been with scorn or a chastisement on the tip of tongues. Never with open interest in deep, dark eyes. Lance presses his palm nervously against his thigh as he tries to remember the arduous lessons drilled into him. Lance’s hand stills as he looks back up at the masked figure. Then, with a soft exhaled breath, he offers a slight bow, his stomach twisting as threads of curls fall in front of his slightly bent form. 

Lance thinks perhaps he is frozen in a stupor when he sees a pair of polished shoes coming into his view. Lance’s eyes widen as a hand brushes under his chin, guiding him to look upward. Lance can hear his own willowy breath as he doesn’t fight against the force gliding his eyes up to peer into pools of dark blue. The depth of the deepest seas. Lance wets his lips, mentally preparing a practiced refrain of introductions and deference. Lance doesn’t know who hides behind the mask, but he is not fool enough to not see the royal posture of the man in front of him. 

The start of a greeting slips from Lance’s throat, his eyes flicking down to show deference when the man interrupts his greeting. 

“Shall we dance?” 

Lance’s eyes widen at the question, and his mouth gapes slightly as he can’t keep the shock from his half-hidden expression. All Lance can manage is a slight nod as his heart pitter-patters in his chest. The man’s lips curve into a smile, a sharpness to the motion, the twist of movement at once intriguing as it is disconcerting. Cautiously, Lance lifts his hand, his fingers curled slightly as the man cradles his long fingers around Lance’s hand and positions them properly. Lance knows where his hands need to be, but all the lessons he memorized flit out of his head as he stumbles in time with the man’s graceful steps. 

He feels like a newborn fawn. All shaky legs and awkward movements until the man’s hands brace delicately against Lance’s back. The placement is just a touch above scandalous as Lance takes in unsteady breaths and finally finds his footing. As Lance’s feet obey him, and he glides along the ballroom floor, turning and twisting as he is led, his eyes finally resettle on the silver-haired man. 

The features visible to Lance beckon him to continue to peer and take in his slight smile, the smoothness and angularity of his face, and the way black gemstones glint in the light from his mask. Lance’s youth may make him unworldly, but he cannot help the heat that blooms in his russet cheeks, particularly when the man flicks his eyes down and directs a gentle smile his way. 

Lance can’t be certain how long the music sweeps them away in an artful display of twisting motions, but by the time the music swells to a quiet, Lance needs to catch his breath from the excursion. The threads of feather adornment stick to his temple, and he looks dizzyingly at the man. The man rests a thumb against Lance’s chin, holding him in place as he takes in a shaky breath. 

Then he leans forward and whispers, a slight tilt against Lance’s ear, “Your beauty is enough to rival the Altean Princess, hm?” 

Then the man pulls back, perhaps admiring the crimson flush he has left upon Lance’s face, the gaping mouth and wide eyes. Lance manages only a croaking sound as he realizes he has stayed embarrassingly mute in front of the fair-haired man. Instead, Lance manages nothing at all. All his charm and skill are gone instantly as someone showers him with unasked compliments. Lance blinks and doesn’t even realize the man has taken his leave until Romelle grabs Lance roughly by his shoulders. 

“Do you know who that was?” She stage whispers, dragging his bewildered state away from the ballroom attendants. 

Lance turns to watch the man’s retreating form, his legs once more losing their gracefulness as Romelle pulls him away. The man’s back faces Lance, yet Lance’s legs attempt to stumble toward and away in a tumble of limbs. Slowly, arduously, Lance turns his head toward Romelle, nearly running into her as she walks them directly to Allura and King Alfor. 

“No, Romelle,” Lance manages, “it’s a Mask, of course I don’t know who that was.” He huffs, biting back a sharper remark so close to the royals. 

Romelle artfully flicks her hair over her shoulder and twists so their eyes can meet, her iridescent mask shifts in the light, turning from a dusky pink to the green of her dress as it shifts in the light. Lance focuses too intently on turning his head in just the right way to see the mirage of colors to notice her gaze sharpen. 

“That’s the Diabazaalian Prince,” she reports pulling Lance close, her eyes expressive as she explains, “You know, Lotor of Galra.” She brushes her fingers against Lance’s arms and lifts her brow, “you caught his fancy.” 

Lance’s eyes narrow then widen as he turns once more to see the silver-haired man idly chatting with another well-dressed individual. “What do you mean from Galra ?” Lance shakes his head, “I thought Altea and Galra were at odds.” He recalls the few lessons he managed to focus on that detailed the tumultuous past between the kingdoms. 

Romelle grips his shoulder, nodding emphatically, “Apparently not,” she motions toward the king, “His Majesty Alfor wishes to repair the past and perhaps usher in a new future for our and their kingdoms.” Romelle speaks with her chest puffed, proud of her inside information. Lance’s frown remains. “And Prince Lotor welcomed the invitation.” 

Lance turns outward once more, his eyes looking at the tall man. Despite his dark attire, his silver hair allows him to glow like a beacon in the crowd of partygoers. Lance bites at his bottom lip as the memory of a gentle yet firm hand loops around his body and guides him in a dance. 

“We want to rekindle that relationship,” Lance asks aloud, his body thrumming as he considers those eyes focused solely on him. 

“It could change the very course of all our futures if we repair with the Galra.” Romelle hums, once more flicking her blonde hair as she imparts the wisdom her diplomatic upbringing commands of her. Of what Lance’s upbringing mirrors. Their futures inherently aligned with those royals near and far. To please them. To appease them. To bridge a bright future with and for them. Lance glances down at his hands. Hands that once held a wooden sword when he fancied himself a grand warrior. 

His weapons change, but even before his age of majority, he knows what may be asked of him. 

Someone brushes past him in a whirl of movement that has Lance spinning. He nearly loses his balance when the same figure grips Lance tightly by his sides. Lance feels so disoriented by the sudden rush of movement that he can only take in the fierce intensity of impossible violet eyes. They shine like amethysts, glinting in the light of the ballroom. Lance thinks time must freeze, the impossibility of a frozen moment as he can’t break his gaze. And then, he blinks, and the warmth of the hands is gone. Lance rights himself and looks around for the masked figure. 

Lance jumps as a loud crash resounds in the hall - a fallen vase and the echoing chatter of curious onlookers. 

Romelle leans forward, a hand braced against his arm as a look of concern creases her brow. Wordlessly, Lance shrugs off her attentive touch and looks around once more for the figure with the impossible eyes. His gaze drifts sideways, catching sight of the royals. 

Off to the side, a tall man dressed in armor steps up and bows to Alfor - Lance can barely hear his greeting over the new swell of music resumes as movement glides across the floor. But then, Lance exhales, and the words from a stranger filter in as Lance’s eyes return, not to the violet-eyed stranger who is nowhere to be found but rather to the Daibazaalian Prince. 

“- apologies for the young prince… with the recent loss of his father, I hope you can understand. We extend our utmost gratitude for the invitation and the warm welcome to your domain.” 

“General Shirogane -” The King of Altea replies as Lance’s gaze focuses on the silver-haired man. Lotor turns toward them, his eyes briefly settling on the armored stranger off to the side. Lance watches as a pensive frown creases Lotor’s lips before the dark blue eyes resettle on Lance. And with a twist of his lips, Lance sees a smile bracing against his face. A shift so sudden Lance can’t help but stiffen. The odd coldness and sharp warmth are enough to give Lance pause, even as Romelle’s voice returns. 

“Can you imagine, Lance? If you were the one to reunite our kingdoms?” Romelle blows out an impressed breath. Her mercurial gaze on him as she exhales this wondering. The sharpness of Lotor’s blue eyes zeroes in on him. The violet-eyed stranger vanished from Lance’s sight. 

Lance blinks slowly and swallows. Feeling the gazes and expectations of everyone and no one all at once. Uncertain if he wishes to imagine such a weighty fate. 

✽

Lance understands pressure long before he has the proper words to describe it. He notes this pressure in how Veronica’s forehead weaved with stress lines when Lance was still brandishing a wooden sword. He notes how, under pressure, all the softness he witnessed in Katie melts away, and Pidge’s tough exterior remains. He notes how Hunk wants to do nothing more than impress his mentor and how, with that pressure, he spends hours upon hours in the kitchens. At once, something he loves and something that weighs him down. 

As his lessons come to a halt, the discussions about his future become more than just naming his choices. They now carry the weight of declaring his destiny, a burden Lance feels anew. 

While perhaps gratefully, there is a build-up to this pressure. It is more complex than a birthday and a proposal along with it. No, instead, Lance manages to give himself a bit more time. He finds opportunities to return home, one of the first times in years, to see his new niece and nephew. The prospect of spending time with his family fills Lance with a mix of excitement and longing. Under the folds of his jacket rests the letter informing him that his sister-in-law, Luis’ wife, is in good health, as are the two children in her care. Lance knows that the older, Nadia, is certain to be walking and talking by now, so he hopes she will enjoy the clothed satchel with a gift from the palace craftsman. He hopes she will like him, this uncle she has never met. He never got to support his brother or his brother’s wife. He never got to hear Nadia’s first cries or the sound of bubbling laughter. 

Soon, all that will be remedied, and he can witness his niece and nephew grow up, even if it is only for a short time. Lance waits by the entryway of the palace, having said his goodbyes to Allura and Romelle. In the crook of Lance’s elbow rests some tokens of Hunk’s goodbye in the form of all the loveliest of sweets that will hold him over during the long carriage ride. 

Lance pensively waits at the entryway. He glances at the awaiting carriage, and the horses step against the cobblestone entrance. Lance presses against his bottom lip as he shifts the basket to his other arm. As much as Lance wants nothing more than to enter the carriage and order the coachman onward, he has to wait. Lance turns back towards the long, expansive hallway for the spray of bright red hair and a mustache, but Coran is nowhere in sight. Lance’s stomach churns with nervousness as he considers returning to his quarters. Without an escort, there is no conceivable way for him to be allowed to leave. Coran’s offer to escort Lance is generous, and Lance is sure that while Coran means every word he says, he is also swamped. Perhaps, too busy to spare time for Lance. 

Lance brushes his sweaty palm against the side of his pants, a sudden nervousness consuming more than just his insides as his eyes flick from carriage to hallway. His anxiety is palpable, his every movement betraying his inner turmoil. 

If Pidge were here, she’d grab him roughly by the hand and drag him to the carriage, stuffing him inside before smacking one of the horses on the rear and sending them careening down the stone path. Lance manages a small smile as his eyes cast down to his shoes, the untested soles enough to know that he can barely tough it out, even if he wishes to. All the bravado and gravitas are still there but molded into soft gazes and coy smiles, no brashness remaining in the reformed person he’s become over the last half-decade. 

Lance nears his 20th year and finds himself wondering how much of life he has missed out on by doing what he is told. 

Lance stares intently at his shoes, attempting to count his breaths as his temples throb. Lance’s head stays stuck in the depth that he does not notice the clipped sound of shoes against the stone floor. Then, a shadow falls over his form. While lanky, Lance could never be considered small; his height surpasses almost everyone he knows except Hunk and Coran. And, well, this shadowing figure. 

Lance lifts his head, and he has only a split second of recognition of the silver-haired prince before his head jerks back down and his eyes cast downwards. 

Lotor’s presence has steadily become a predictable occurrence. While Lance rarely sees the man, he knows that he has visited the halls of the Altean palace many times over. And from the surreptitious whispers, Romelle offers Lance after the Galran prince’s departure, often asking after Lance. Despite the prince’s apparent interest, their interactions since that first initial dance were scant. In fact, this is the first time Lance has seen the prince this close without a mask covering half of his face. 

He does not have much of a chance to digest the glimpse of the prince as the shadow of the man settles over him.  

“Your Highness,” Lance splutters as the words stumble from his lips. Perhaps the first words he’s said in earnest to the man. 

Lance sees a shift of a hand, and then, delicately, Lance’s head lifts, and he is able to peer unencumbered at Lotor’s angular face. Lotor’s sharp eyes pin Lance, unsure if he can nor should pull away from a prince. Lance’s heart peppers against his chest, and he finds his arms bending as the basket slips down his arm and onto the floor. Lotor’s lips curve into a tilted smile, the slight twist of his lips in time with an arched brow. 

“Please, Your Highness is far too formal. Lotor will do just fine.” 

Lance blinks, and were it not for the hand still braced against his chin, he thinks his mouth would slip open. Nowhere in his tutors’ rigorous instruction had they stated that he could speak to a royal with such informality. Even with Allura, he rarely ever calls her something other than Princess. Lance swallows and averts his eyes, favoring the rare but necessary silence when he feels at a loss for words. 

Which, Lance realizes, is a common occurrence in front of the silver-haired prince. 

“I was hoping,” Lotor continues, unabated by Lance’s silence, “to run into you. It has been some time since our dance at the mask, hm?” Lance lets the words float in his head before he furrows his brows and nods. He wants to say something, but how can he say anything under the intensity of Lotor’s deep ocean eyes? 

Lance manages a willowy ‘yes.’ In spite of all the ways he has lost his exuberant nature, he still holds onto those kernels of himself. Or, well, he hopes as much as his voice fails him again. Lance shifts on his feet, his leg brushing against the fallen basket before he finally comes back down to earth. 

“Why?” He asks before adding, “If I may ask, Your Highness.” As he lowers his eyes, ignoring Lotor’s request for informality, he sees amusement dance across Lotor’s features. 

“Do you not consider yourself worthy of attention?” Lotor asks in such a way that Lance can’t consider how to answer. Either way, he seems conceited or insecure. So, as the weight of uncertainty rests on his shoulders, he attempts to cull up all his powers of persuasion. 

“I hadn’t realized I made such an impression to garner your interest, Your Highness,” he tips his head down as he can hear a puff of amusement from Lotor’s throat. “Especially,” Lance continues and fights against his better instincts to remain downcast, “considering the length of time since that ball. I would expect that I am just one of many who caught your fancy.”

“I do not compare and espouse beauty beyond your princess to just anyone,” Lotor replies, and once more, Lance finds his eyes lifted, Lotor’s grip on his chin firm. “My flattery is only for those I find deserving.” Lance knows his tight lips and forced steady breath to hide what his cheeks cannot, the heat warming his face until it becomes impossible to deny. 

“Well,” Lance wets his lips and remembers that prince or not, Lotor probably should not be touching him so intimately. Cautiously, Lance pulls back, his shoulders brushing against the cool wall behind him as he flicks his eyes up, “then consider me honored to have such attention from you, Prince Lotor.” 

Lotor’s smile feels inviting, warm even, but as Lance peers into his dark eyes, he can’t help but feel the tension in his body for reasons other than intrigue. Lotor follows Lance’s retreat, a hand bracing against the wall, almost boxing Lance in.

“Now,” Lotor begins, a question on the tip of his tongue. 

As their eyes linger, Lance hears the pounding of footsteps and catches a spray of red hair in the corner of his vision. 

“Terribly sorry for the delay, m’boy!” Coran’s jaunty voice interjects as the royal advisor stumbles into their field of vision. “Are we ready to take-”

Coran stops as he sees Lance cornered in by Lotor’s tall frame. “Ah, Prince Lotor, what a pleasant surprise,” Coran quickly changes pace to a smooth diplomatic smile, offering a bow to the royal. “I will be sorry to not be in attendance for your visit,” Coran nods sagely, “though I hope you will find your stay pleasant and agreeable to your needs.”

Lance watches with a pensive expression as Lotor turns from him and faces Coran, pulling away from Lance. 

“Thank you, as always, for the warm welcome. I know quite a lot has changed throughout our history, so this extended hand is appreciated.” Lotor’s words flow like silver, and then Lotor twists and looks behind him at Lance’s frozen state. “And, of course, with a company such as this young man, it is difficult not to wish to return many times over.” 

Lance’s heat-dusted cheeks inflame once more. “Thank you, Your Highness,” Lance manages as he glances at Coran’s expressive face, the advisor giving Lance surreptitious motions of encouragement. “We will be sorry to miss the bulk of your visit,” he mimics Coran’s sentiment. 

“Ah, what a shame.” Lotor remarks with a cluck of his tongue, flicking his eyes up and down Lance’s frame. “And where, pray tell, are you off too?” Lotor tilts his head to the side, a tendril of silver hair slipping down his shoulder as he looks expectant. 

Lance cautiously looks off to Coran, watching the older man scrub his fingers against his mustache as he observes the interaction. Coran, perhaps, calculates the likelihood of a match in the making. Coran’s eyes meet Lance, and then, with his free hand, he motions for Lance to take the lead. Lotor’s gaze remains unwavering on Lance as the young man reclaims his tongue once more. 

“I am visiting my family’s estate, Coran kindly offered to be my escort.” With the slightest, almost imperceptible motion, Lance watches as Lotor’s lips curve upward, and his eyes dance with interest. Lance thinks at first that this is genuine. However, as Lotor’s gaze remains unflinching, the sensation of a mouse being mockingly observed by a cat feels like an apt description.

“Coran is quite the busy man, advising the king and the dear princess,” Lotor remarks with a lofty twist of his wrist, “it is very generous of him to spare his time for this venture.” 

Lance presses his lips together, wondering if he should find truth in the words or insults. Coran has emphatically expressed that he would love nothing more than to accompany Lance on the trek, but Lotor is not wrong. Lance typically finds Coran underneath a mountain of paperwork or rushing around the palace halls with an arm full of worldly goods as he jots down important ventures with a rushed movement. 

Lance wonders if he is asking too much of Coran. No time of the year or time of the century could be an appropriate time to ask the busy man, so perhaps he should have just sent his siblings a letter instead. 

Coran emphasizes this distraction as the pair talk, he tugs out a letter and begins to rapidly write down a list of items, dabbing his quill against his tongue to spring the last remnants of ink to life on paper.

The cool wall feels comforting as Lance steadies himself. “Coran-” he starts, trying to get the older man’s attention, at least to confirm his request is still viable.

“Of course,” Lotor interjects, “I do not mind delaying my stay within your hospitable home,” at this, Lotor looks directly at Lance, the intensity of his gaze enough for Lance to press against the wall. “Should the young nobleman need a different escort.” Lance blinks and finds himself at once tugged toward and shying away from Lotor. 

At the prompting question, Coran looks up, not noting the intensity of the exchange. Or, if he does, not commenting on it. Perhaps this is part of the process of Lance’s future betrothed; after all, the suitors will line up in droves, as Allura likes to remind with a teasing tone. 

“Prince Lotor,” Coran flicks the page with wet ink to dry it with a snap of his wrist before curling the paper up against his palm. “A kind and generous offer, but as much as I know you may enjoy each other’s company, I suggest not keeping King Alfor or Princess Allura waiting. I can handle it from here.” 

Lotor turns enough so Lance can see the side of his face as he smiles. “Very well,” Lotor accepts with a soft hum. He twists his body once more to face Lance, and then, with a flowing movement, he gently lifts Lance’s frozen hand. He guides it up until Lance can feel the puff of a warm breath against the top of his hand, followed by a chaste press of lips. “Until we meet again, dearest Lance.” 

Lance can’t be certain if it is the romantic gesture, the way Lotor says his name for the first time, or the racing of his own heart, but all he can manage is a shaky exhale and a jerky bow as his hand falls back to his side. 

By the time his eyes return to the place Lotor had occupied, Coran replaces the space and offers Lance a considerate and curious expression. Coran’s mustache shifts as he warms up words in his mouth, “Shall we take our leave, my boy?” 

All Lance can manage is a nod as he grabs his discarded basket and walks toward the awaiting carriage. As they walk, Lance turns his head and replays the stilted but heated conversation over in his head. All that remains is empty space where they’d once stood. 

And then Lance boards the carriage and tries to forget the tingling brush against the top of his hand as he is carried away. As he retreats from the palace, his home of nearly six years. 

And is carried home with an eager suitor awaiting his return to the palace. 

✽

Perhaps by design, Lance and Lotor miss many opportunities to intervene over the year’s passing. Lance secretly appreciates this circumstance; as much as he feels thoroughly wooed by the handsome prince, each interaction leaves something acrid on his tongue. Each interaction twists as his stomach. Each interaction leaves a lingering uncertainty. He plays back the interactions of gentle, respectful kisses to the top of his hand, the twist of a dance, and the tilt of a head as Lotor smiles. 

Anyone would be lucky to catch the eye of someone so illustrious and influential. Lance knows that he should consider himself very lucky for this potential match and for this potential fate. And yet, Lance can’t help but release a relieved sigh whenever he hears that through odd circumstances, he has just missed seeing Lotor. 

It is not, however, that Lotor does not seek Lance out. 

During Lance’s visit home to finally meet his niece and nephew, Lance receives an artfully scripted letter full of looping, twisting letters that dance in front of Lance’s eyes. So, while he attempts to dance with his niece and bring a smile to her lips as she adjusts to a stranger in her home, he also tries to adjust to the espousement of perfectly crafted niceties on paper. 

Lance sleeps in his bed for the first time in years, reading and rereading over flickering candlelight the sweet nothings provided on the page. Lance feels heat in his cheeks and rubs at his eye as he rereads a line comparing him to a winter rose. Lance feels frustration inside of him as the words settle, and he feels the praise. He loves the praise; he requires it, and yet…

The acrid taste remains, weighing his tongue down.

Lance folds the letter up. Tucking it away. Never predicting that this would be the first of many to come.

All Lance considers is the time he does have with his family, for the way that his heart feels lighter when little Nadia calls him uncle. For the way that Lance knows, these moments need to be cherished. He is still determining where he will be in the coming months and where he might settle in the coming years. 

So Lance returns to the castle with a lighter heart and an earnest smile and learns that he missed Lotor’s departure. And then, in the coming spring, when his studies have lapsed, and he merely lives in the castle, he convinces an attendant to set up a carriage just for him so he may once more visit his family. 

Coran is unavailable, but Pidge volunteers with a shrug and a toothy grin. 

It is only a month after returning to the castle walls that he learns that Lotor has a similar idea for a visit. 

Once more, they miss each other. Once more, a flowery letter waxes of Lance's wondrous beauty and charm. Once more, Lance tucks the letter away with all the others. 

And it goes on for a year. Lance is certain he has more words of flowy scripted letters than actual interactions with the silver-haired prince. Lance wonders if this is standard as far as suitors go. He doesn’t have much to go off of, considering that Romelle was practically engaged to Allura as soon as that was proper. The others who have come and gone over the years seem to accept their fate with excitement and interest. 

Lance, alone, pushes it away. He ignores the letters. He brushes off expectant glances from others. He comes up with excuses anytime Coran or Allura delicately bring up the topic of a betrothal. At this point, Lotor seems to be the only interested party. And Lance should be honored. He should. He should . 

But he hides the letters and pretends as though he can ignore the inevitable. 

Lance attempts to focus on the rare but meaningful opportunities to visit home. The chance to see his siblings and his growing family. The opportunity to update his parents and siblings on his studies and his glowing future, according to everyone but perhaps him. Lance cherishes these moments, even tinged with uncertainty and the weight of the next steps in his responsibility and expectations. 

Lance attempts to focus on the meaningful afternoons sipping drinks and idle gossip with the Princess and her consort. The chances for earnest and genuine laughter before conversations of responsibility and obligation come into the conversation. He attempts to tool away the hours and days by getting his hands dirty with Hunk, kneading, and baking bread and other sweets. 

He attempts to ignore the growing burden of the time he wastes in the process of ignoring his fate. 

Lance thinks he may be able to avoid it entirely after nearly a year of missed chances to run into the Daibazaalian Prince. However, this, too, comes to an end. One chilly morning, Lance practically runs into the man, the papers in his arms flying in every direction - whatever organization he curated for Coran lost as the scraps of paper flutter in the air. Lance lets out a sharp exhale as the papers go flying, and a firm hand wraps around his waist to keep him from tumbling to the ground.

It takes a moment to register the prince fully, but once he does, Lance’s eyes widen before his head bows. “Your Highness,” he greets, the same refrain as their meetings always begin. Lotor releases a gentle chuckle and squeezes Lance’s side - likely taking the most of the opportunity to touch Lance. 

“I wonder, how often will I need you to request to call me Lotor before you follow my edict?” Lance flicks his eyes up and sees the bemusement on Lotor’s face. “Hello, Lance, it has been a while. How are you faring?” 

An innocent question. An innocent inquiry. Built on months of unanswered letters of affection and open interest. Built on Lance’s inability to speak in any kind of coherent way in front of the prince. He always feels at a loss for words, he always feels as though he is failing to do something right. 

Lance feels the warmth building in his cheeks at the chastisement from the prince, slowly wetting his lips and not missing how Lotor’s eyes flick and watch the motion. “As well as can be expected,” he begins, leaning into truthfulness as Lotor’s dark blue eyes gaze at him with interest. “It’s a busy time in the palace,” he motions to the papers strewn on the floor. Cautiously, Lance looks away from Lotor and pulls away slowly, kneeling and gathering the papers. He can sense Lotor’s shadow above him, a presence that, even in his absence, lingers around Lance at every waking moment. 

“I should suspect as much,” Lotor hums softly, then, unexpectedly, the prince gets down to his level and gathers the fallen papers with Lance. Lance freezes as the royal decides to sink to his level. The shock of it is enough to have Lance’s hands still as Lotor sets the remaining papers in his hands. “After all,” Lotor continues, never put off by Lance’s shocked silence, “there may soon be cause for celebration in the palace, hmm, for you?”

Lance blinks rapidly and tightens his hands on the papers. Then, the frozen state unsticks, and Lance taps the documents against the floor, and the stack is redone. “I’m not so sure about that. There are many important events occurring in the castle. Involving you.” He adds delicately as Lotor stands and shadows Lance once more before he slips his long fingers around Lance’s arm and helps him to stand. 

“Quite right,” Lotor muses, a twist of his lips, “I like to think I am forging a future that,” at this, Lotor’s dark eyes return to staring pointedly at Lance, “you will wish to partake in.” 

Lance has felt pressure most of his life. He knows when weighty expectations brush away any opportunities of choice and his own desires. Lance has become well aware that of his suitors spoken and unspoken about, Lotor ranks the highest in all eyes but his own. While Lance can never place the distance and discomfort that lingers after every kind gesture and thoughtful refrain, he knows that feeling lingers all that same. 

Perhaps, this time, he can lean on the skills of the tongue that he consistently fails to enact with Lotor. 

“That, Your Highness, remains to be seen.” He pauses, looking at Lotor through his lashes, “I am not so easily won over by any such proposal.” 

Lance wonders if Lotor can hear the heavy beat of his heart as he deflects Lotor’s advances for perhaps the first time. Perhaps he can finally have a leg to stand on, even if his future with Lotor is likely set in stone. 

And as if predicting another reason Lance can make a fool of himself, heavy foot treads resound just out of sight, and an out-of-breath messenger runs down the hall before coming to an abrupt stop. Lance wonders what the man sees as he takes in Lance’s flushed face and Lotor’s hands featherlight on his frame. 

But for all that, this may seem scandalous, it is not what he comments on. “Your Highness,” he bows, earning a nod of acknowledgment from Lotor before, surprisingly, the man turns to Lance. “I,” he gasps, sucking in a breath, “I have an urgent message for the Marquess.” Lance blinks, his mouth opening slowly as he realizes that the missive is for him and no one else. The man exhales a relieved breath before addressing the pair. Then the words float toward him, and they don’t stick around. In fact, he doesn’t think he truly registers them, yet they come. 

“I am sorry to, perhaps, be the messenger to this news,” the man continues, still catching his breath and tugging out a parchment from his belongings. “But there’s been an accident. Your parents, they-” 

Lance knows the man still speaks. He sees the shift of movement from his mouth and the way that he hands the letter with a shaky grip. Lance hears the words. Or he believes he must. But they slide off him, slippery and impermanent, more noise than actual clarity. 

However, nothing more than intensity drones in his head. And with it, the papers he collected flutter back to the stone floor.

His eyes glaze over as certain sounds dig their way inside, and his stomach churns. “Your parents died in a carriage accident.” Lance thinks his consciousness has left him and that he must drop like a stone. 

Lance can’t be certain how it comes that, with a blink, he is leaning against Lotor’s chest. He comes back from a disorientated stupor. Lotor’s voice comes through the fog, commanding and firm, ordering the messenger onward to share the news. And then, cautiously and carefully, Lotor guides Lance to look blearily his way. 

“Dearest Lance, shall I take you to your family?” 

Tears spill down Lance’s face, unencumbered by the thought of looking gentlemanly or proper. He must nod. He must show some indication of willingness because as Lance blinks, he finds himself taking in flashes of his surroundings. The hallway with his discarded papers left behind, the entryway with an awaiting horse to mount, the weight and firmness of Lotor’s grip around his waist as Lance lifts into the air and settles onto the saddle. If Lance’s wits were about him, he may find it odd that all of these seem at the ready. 

However, he can’t consider the oddity of such things when his heart aches, and his eyes will not stop spilling rivers of tears. Lotor mounts the horse and slides his arms around Lance’s waist, a secureness and vice-like to the hold that has Lance struggling to inhale. With a kick, the horse takes flight, and they journey into the mid-morning chill. By the time Lance realizes the reality of his parents’ state and the fact that the Diabazaalian Prince has his arms firmly tucked around him, they are half a day’s journey in. At the rate of the horse’s gallops, it should take far less time than standard, but Lance remains alone with one of his suitors. 

His only suitor. 

Lance hopes the severity of the moment will not imply any impropriety. After all, he’s more focused on trying to keep more tears at bay than the implication of Lotor’s touch on him. 

It seems as though Lotor has considered this, however, as when they come to a stop at an inn at midday, the scent of warm food and a crackling fire is barely enough to bring Lance out from his consuming fog. 

Cautiously, Lotor rests a hand on Lance’s shoulder as they take a seat. “We will continue,” he informs Lance, likely noting his dulled eyes, “but my steed needs to rest.” 

Lance thinks he must nod. 

Then Lotor brushes a hand against Lance’s tousled hair, adding, “I will always look after what is mine.” 

Lotor ensures that Lance fills his empty stomach with a warm, brewed drink that tastes sweet against his tongue. When he manages to take in his surroundings, he notes the way those in the inn keep a wide berth from the prince. Lance wonders, not for the first time, what others see and observe when Lotor hovers over Lance’s shaking form. Do they see the impropriety? Do they see the prince of the Galrans claiming what he thinks he’s owed? Do they see a crying boy from a family they know the name of, but him, Lance? Oh, he’s the spare, and he’s forgettable. Do they see that Lance sways wherever the wind takes him, lost and hurt and uncertain if the choice could ever, would ever be his? 

He’s certain he’s crying again and startles only as Lotor dabs the tears away with a handkerchief, a representation of his gentlemanly nature - if only Lance will allow himself to accept it.

Not that Lance can truly gather the value of that generosity in the throes of his own overwhelm. Lance can barely read the hastily scratched note from his sister after breaking the seal of the letter. 

Despite Lotor having Lance’s direct attention and time, he does not push Lance, and they barely speak. Soon, they remount Lotor’s mighty steed and continue the journey onward toward Lance’s home. The journey that will tell Lance that all the creature comforts and certainty that awaits him at home no longer exists. Only grief. Only loss. Only death. 

What few words are exchanged and paired with Lotor gently dabbing away Lance’s tears and smoothly expressing that he will take care of things? “I must care for my future consort, no?” Perhaps more is said, perhaps less. 

Lance knows and remembers very little. 

Soon, the familiar landscape of home emerges. Rather than the firm and secure grip of Lotor’s arms keeping him pinned in place, the comforting and familiar arms of his siblings gather him in a comforting embrace as his tears are mirrored by his family. 

Lotor’s shadow stands just out of sight.

✽

Lance returns home with the help of Lotor, and while his family treats the prince with polite respect, all exhale when he takes his departure - allowing them to once more return to the mess of their unknown futures. Before Lotor leaves, he walks with Lance through the outskirts of his family’s garden. 

“I know the coming months will hold much challenge,” Lotor remarks as Lance numbly walks with Lotor, the prince has Lance’s elbow laced against his own and folds his palm against Lance’s hand. “I wish to offer you space as you grieve with your family,” Lotor offers as if to sound charitable, “however, should you require company, do not hesitate to send word to me.” 

Lance wets his lips and looks up at the sky, watching a cloud as a powerful wind billows it across the sky. He nods and turns to cautiously look up at Lotor. 

“Why are you so kind to me?” Lance asks as his inhibitions and breadth of training leave him, the grief too much to hold his tongue at bay. 

“Why?” Lotor’s brow lifts, “You think yourself undeserving of kindness?” At Lotor’s counter statement, a frown bridges across Lance’s face, and he presses his lips together pensively. 

“We’ve shared not more than a handful of exchanges,” Lance reasons, his words shaky but firm, “I just suppose I don’t understand why I am the one to garner your interest.” He voices the question that he has held back for years. 

“Well, I would be remiss to ignore your upbringing,” Lotor turns them toward a bubbling fountain, a rose bush dangling off the side over the waters. “And your stature as a young noble, as well as holding Princess Allura’s affections.” Lotor remarks, providing Lance with the insight he lacked, Lance is access , and Lance is the means in which to gain favor with the next in line to the throne. 

If it is not him, someone else will be just as worthy. 

“And all those things,” Lotor continues, “would be absolute truths,” he stops them by the fountain and tugs a rose free from its stem, tucking the bud into Lance’s hair. In a lift of his hand, Lotor presses his thumb against his mouth as a dollop of blood comes from a thorn.

“However, I need not only to name your closeness to Altean royalty to see that you are beautiful, astute, and quite worthy to hold in my high regard.” He lowers his hand and, with his uninjured finger, rests his digit against the bottom of Lance’s chin. 

“All I need is your willingness to be mine, and I shall give you all that you could ever wish and want.” 

Lance stares up at the man, still trying to stop tears from spilling down his face as the rawness of his parents’ death rings all around him. His mother loved this garden. His father commissioned these roses in her likeness. All around him, he’s reminded of the loss. And in front of him, Lotor waxes poetic about their future. If only Lance allows the fates to play as they must. 

“You are too kind to me, Your Highness,” Lance whispers as he lowers his eyes and manages a respectful bow. 

Lotor’s accompanying sigh fills the air around them before he offers once more, “I shall await your answer of betrothal, dearest Lance, I do hope you consider the opportunity I am offering.” 

And perhaps, just as always, Lotor says more, but as Lance finds himself guided back into Rachel’s awaiting arms and they collectively bid the prince farewell, Lance cannot consider much of the words over the weight of his loss. 

Lance finds himself, impossibly, at a crossroads. Lotor’s polite insistence, knocking on his door. Lance’s obligation and expectation and necessity to follow where he’s led. But now, does Lance have that same burden of expectation? The weight of his parents’ expectations and the obligation of his status all vanished with the final breaths of his parents. A small mercy amongst all the tragedy.

Lance could not have imagined that his avenue out of his proposed fate of betrothal would come at such a sacrifice. He could not have imagined that, in a sudden, unexpected moment, his clear future would become murky under the guise of grief and uncertainty. Lotor’s interest still lingers in his head and upon pages and pages of looping script. But when Lance folds the letters up, he is not greeted by familiar castle walls and the spinning obligation and expectation. As he tucks this, among many others, letter away, he is greeted by the familiar rolling hills of his home. He hears the sound of the tiny feet of his niece and nephew as they explore their estate. 

He passes his hands against the wall and traces old memories of his own running, stumbling play amongst these halls. He retraces his footsteps and revisits memories with a fondness that offsets his sorrow. 

He hugs his siblings and senses in each of them a worry for the future and a solemnity for the now. 

He tugs free his old clothes, the heavy fabrics gathering dust and moth-eaten holes along the sleeves. He closes his eyes and thinks of himself once more as a young child, a young teen, thinking that his future is swords and daring adventures. Thinking his future holds more of his own decisions than those determined by others. 

So he takes a chance, a pit in his stomach as he imagines his siblings’ furrowed brows and shaking heads of disapproval. With tentative, willowy words, he asks if he can stay. Lance presses his palms against his thighs, his breath shallow as he waits in palpable silence. 

When Lance asks to stay, no one protests. Luis gathers Lance in his arms, and the hold is comforting and warm. Marco and Rachel tease and squeeze his hands. They all welcome the thought, the idea that Lance is finally home. The ache of so many years without their youngest brother finally soothed. 

When Lance looks at Veronica, he sees her tight smile; he feels the brush of her palm braced against his arm. He sees that she welcomes the thought of his return, but worry persists. A pang of guilt for putting him in this position? A worry for the future and their standing? Something unknowable and unnamable from his sister?

She never offers an answer to his unspoken questions. 

And so, Lance remains and relives the past with a fond yet solemn expression. Lance remains and receives words of condolences from those in the castle, each one a sentiment he holds dear. Each one is a reminder that he formed a life in those castle walls, even if he misses his life here. 

Lance remains, and he lives in the past - cherishing it like it will undoubtedly slip through his fingers. However, no one insists that he follow through with what was asked of him, and no one clears their throats or remarks that he ought to return to the castle. No one, surprisingly, even comments on the man who delivered him back home and the expectation that laces Lotor’s every move. His family accepts his return, and they don’t ask anything of him.

Lance spends the months in blissful peace, feeling for the first time in years, that weight lifted from his shoulders. He smiles wider once the tears of grief subside. He laughs, hearty and warm, and full of snorts and uncultured refrains. He leans on his elbows as Marco regales him on one of his trips - full of mishaps of the most fantastic sort. He writes to Luis, gone away after the funeral, and spends his afternoons with his sister as they walk through the gardens. 

He rarely sees Veronica. He does not know how she spends her days, but Lance can guess she is maintaining the breadth of their estate. 

Lance watches the seasons pass through a window that he has not looked out of in a half-decade. He watches the snow fall and rushes outside to let it settle on his tongue as he twists around in an exuberant spin. He has two decades of life under his belt, but he rarely feels young these days. Lance sifts through his worldly items and finds an old wooden sword buried in the back of his closet. It brings a smile to his lips as he lifts it and strikes a pose in the mirror. 

As he peers at himself, he sees his lanky, lithe frame, the fabrics flowy and soft against his dewy skin. His hair comes in playful curls against the side of his face, his lips hold the power of words, and his long lashes brush against the sides of his cheeks. He looks foolish, playing dress-up for a man he will never be. Whatever future that was vanished with soft attire, lilting prose, and the dancing gracefulness that exists for a ballroom, not a battleground. 

Lance bites at his bottom lip, wondering if he should ask his sister for lessons that may build a different future for himself or if he thinks he is far more skilled than he actually is. Lance tucks the sword against the frame of his bed and goes to seek out Veronica, in hopes that seeing her will settle his suddenly unsettled mind. 

Lance finds her muttering to herself with papers strewn across the desk, a candle flickering in the fading light of day. 

Veronica’s hair twists in knots, too often her fingers tucking against the side of her head as she leans over the table and reads the multitude of information their late parents left behind. 

“Vero…” Lance knocks on the door and startles her from her stupor. 

“Lance, oh,” she blinks, and Lance takes in her tired expression, the rawness of her bottom lip, and the worry-bending lines into her forehead. Lance may not know all the details of the estate, but he senses the stress coming off of Veronica in waves. “Can I help you with something?” She asks, forcing a smile as she tries to tug free a tangle from her hair. 

Lance closes his eyes and sees the wooden sword and the boy he is no longer connected to. The weight returns to his shoulders, and he knows without a word spoken that this sacrifice will ease the lives of his family. 

“I’m returning to the castle,” he concludes, the words passing his lips before he can pull them back, “I’ll move forward with a proposal, perhaps from Prince Lotor or someone else.” Lance voices and ignores all the reasons he wishes to swallow his words whole. “I know it will help the family.” He adds for extra measure. 

Veronica frowns and pulls from the desk, making her way to Lance and resting her hands on his arms, rubbing back and forth in an up and down movement. 

“Lance, what brought this on,” she asks and squeezes his arms as she waits for his response. 

“It’s time I go back,” Lance manages; he hears a slight wheeze to his words, the sting of tears that, with a forceful blink, vanish from his eyes. “It’s my role.” His lips cautiously lift into a smile, and he exhales a breath. 

“Is this what you want?” She asks, seemingly not convinced. 

Lance wants to espouse everything that he hates and all the ways this isn’t fair and, all the ways he hates his parents for making this choice, and his siblings for not protesting until now, until all the things Lance could be atrophied and he’s only good for one thing only. 

But he speaks none of that; he says nothing of his feelings. He maintains the gloss that he has honed for years. 

“Yes.” 

And he follows it with a bright smile. 

✽

It is perhaps by design that Lance needn’t put in effort to acquire matches. 

Beyond Lotor’s offer, as soon as reports that Allura’s favored noble considers an engagement, as Coran likes to report, “the inquiries come rolling in.” If Lance hadn’t prepared himself going on close to a decade, it would have been too overwhelming to make any decisions. But as it is, he sifts through the offers with Allura and Romelle, their idle gossip and sharp wit helping demystify some of Lance’s nerves. 

“Oh, no. She will not do at all .” Allura remarks as she skims over an offer with a pinched brow and pursed lips. “Do they think us fools with this arrangement,” she scoffs, snapping the paper with a flick of her wrist. Then, with another movement, she throws the paper with a dismissive wave. 

“Allura, I can’t say no to everyone,” Lance exhales a laugh. He brushes a hand through his hair as he lifts the discarded letter and folds it before setting it with the growing pile of rejections. Romelle leans forward and lifts a folded, unopened letter for their mutual perusal. 

“Of course, you can,” Allura retorts, “Anyone who does not offer what you are worth is not deserving of a fraction of your time. This is your future.”

“And the compensation you get for the match,” Lance brushes his fingers against the dwindling pile, “that has nothing to do with it?” Allura narrows her eyes, and Lance watches as her lip juts out before she cautiously wets them.

“It is an aspect of this, yes, as you well know, but I will not let anyone treat you as anything less than deserving.”

Lance lifts a new offer and stares at the off-white parchment. “It’s what I trained for,” he whispers numbly as he closes his eyes. 

“It is what you are owed,” Allura counters with a cluck of her tongue. “And as it stands, the Prince Lotor seems to be the only one to understand that metric and your merit.” She leans forward and plucks the paper from Lance’s hand. “And I will see to it that he is not the only option before you.” 

Lance leans back into the chair, watching as the two women meticulously read and assess his options. The shift and brush of paper is the only sound in the room. 

“Why?” Lance asks, breaking the silence. Romelle looks up and tilts her head, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. Allura leans her elbow against her chair, tucking the letter against her fingers as she folds it closed. 

“Why what?”

“Why shouldn’t Prince Lotor be my only option,” Lance asks, wetting his lips as his heart suddenly picks up. 

Allura blinks, and the pensive look returns. “On the kingdom’s stance, it is imperative that certain acquisitions and agreements follow through. Whether that is with the Galrans, repairing the damage they put upon us in the past, or some other kingdom or people of high standing.” Lance knows this. His tutors drilled in the importance of his role and his sacrifice many times over the years. 

“However,” Allura continues, “on the stance as your friend, it means more to me that your choice makes you happy, brings you a fulfilling match to not only help the kingdom but to help you live a life that brings you love and lightness.” At this, Allura stretches out her hand and squeezes her long fingers around Romelle’s as the consort looks up from her reading. 

“So if Prince Lotor happens to provide the best match on both criteria, then all the better, but he is just one man, and there are many who vie for your interest, Lance. You are deserving of choices, too.” She offers a kind smile and presses a kiss to Romelle’s temple when the blonde refocuses her attention on the words.

Absently, Romelle comments, “Lance, they could be so lucky to spend an hour with you, let alone your whole life.” She pulls from Allura’s affectionate hold and smiles brightly, “We’ve got this.” 

Lance feels a warmth in his cheeks as he looks away and smiles wanly. As much as he resigns himself to this decision, it is nice to know he is not facing this alone. 

So after sifting through the options, Lance is left with a handful of letters to respond to, and from that, fewer still, only a handful including Lotor. Coran impresses on Lance the importance of him seeing the potential matches in their domain. Remarking, “If you are to live there, then you ought to know what you are getting into.” 

Coran reports that he will join him on this grand tour. “As a second pair of eyes, m’boy!” Coran’s bright smile makes it hard not to mimic. He once more packs his belongings into a trunk, bidding Hunk goodbye, and the tearful man gives him a basket full of all his favorites. 

As Pidge punches him roughly in the shoulder and snaps, “Keep your wits about you.” 

Finally, Allura and Romelle share their goodbyes. The blonde gathers him in a tight hug and smiles warmly, “keep your heart open to possibilities, Lance,” she whispers with a conspiratorial air as her eyes drift back to Allura. The Princess wears a frown on her face as she speaks to Coran, Lance misses the bulk of what she says, but his ears pick up, “odd that the Marmora delegation did not respond, given their prince-” but her words are lost as Hunk releases another volley of tears. Lance pulls from Romelle and comforts Hunk with a rub on his back and assurances that he will be back soon.

Lance wonders, not for the first time, how much he truly was missed here in the castle when he left to mourn with his siblings. 

Lance’s goodbyes linger in his mind as the warmth of Allura’s hug slips from his grip, and the carriage gathers dust in its departure. 

Leaving behind the possibility of staying in the place he’s called home for so many years. 

Heading toward the possibility of his future. 

✽

Lance learns that perfect on paper is more accurate than he’d thought. Lord Bibohbi is a rail-thin man with a head of hair that flops to the side anytime he moves his head. He seems to be able to espouse many intriguing propositions when pen hits paper. However, when it comes to conversation, it is stilted and confusing. The man’s heavy accent makes it sound more like echoes of his own name rather than words that Lance understands, let alone converse with. Lance tests all his skills in maintaining a smile and bracing his fingers hard against his thighs to hide his frustration and maintain a pleasant, diplomatic air. 

“No,” Lance states when he boards the carriage for departure with Coran in tow.

Coran releases an amused laugh, “You needn’t tell me twice,” Coran’s eyes glitter with understanding as he tugs out a fresh letterhead and begins to draft a poetically phrased rejection of the nobleman’s offer. 

Unfortunately, this becomes a trend. Bibohbi is the first of many failed matches.

Lance finds himself at a loss that so many supposed “good” matches leave him flushed and frustrated. He has to appease the Arusian King that “no” he needn’t throw his offspring into the nearby volcano, “yes” he thinks their offering dance is charming, and “maybe” he will consider moving forward with this option. He spends more of his time attempting to stop the royal’s bad decisions and reactionary nature than actually considering if the options he provides are worth his time. Lance collapses back into the carriage with Coran following suit, the man easily guessing Lance’s answer without a word uttered.

By the time Lance reaches Lady Plaxum’s territory, the marshlands make his hair cling to his face and the idea of an almost three-week journey from Allura’s palace feels too much, even for how traveled he thinks he may be. The young woman is nice enough, welcoming with a broad smile and flowing hair that reaches her waist. She dresses in coppery shades of teal and immediately tells him of her work. Offering him a jelly-like substance in a jar, it sloshes from side to side in his hands, and stating without a bat of her impossibly dark eyes that with their match, she will finally be able to overthrow her nearby monarch. 

“She’s a terror, I tell you!” Plaxum declares as Lance releases a nervous laugh, his hands grasping around the glass of the gelatin gift. 

Lance manages a fraction of a smile, “I…” he swallows then steels himself, “It sounds like you are very passionate,” he manages and wants to brush a hand through his hair if not for the odd jarred substance in his hands. 

Departure cannot come soon enough. 

When they leave, Lance does not even have to declare anything as Coran offers a sympathetic smile, “I’ll draft up your reply.” Lance manages a grateful sigh, and as soon as the carriage is far enough, Lance throws the jellified gift out the window, leaving that option in the dust. 

Lance wonders if every match intends to lie on paper. Or if they think he’s stupid and desperate enough to just go along with their insanity. Lance’s stomach churns at the thought that his interests are easily and actively secondary to potential suitors. The idea that all of this is a cruel manipulation that Lance cannot find the source for.

That suspicion doesn’t wane as Coran receives a message during their stop at a nearby inn that one of the potential suitors withdrew their name. Lance can’t recall all the details about the young knight Kinkade, but before Lance and Coran can even breach the man’s domain. The letter, as Lance reads over Coran’s shoulder, doesn’t provide more of an explanation. 

Lance resigns himself to the next trek of the journey. He resigns himself to having his choice being made for him.

That is made entirely apparent when, upon entering their first visit within Galra territory, Lance is wholly overwhelmed by a hulk of a man. 

“The Prince spoke of you highly,” Lord Sendak drolls as he leans over Lance, his hand braced against Lance’s shoulder and keeping him pinned as he shadows over him. 

“Sir,” Coran interjects, “it is respectful to keep distance at this current venture of the courtship,” Lance exhales a relieved sigh at Coran’s helpful reminder. 

And, briefly, the towering man obliges the command. But then, at dinner, his hand once more braces against Lance, a placement intimate and firm. Lance’s cheeks flush, and he averts his eyes as he tries to curate more space. 

“Is the young lord shy?” Sendak grins toothily. 

Lance knows that he should maintain civility, and if a demure charm works in his favor, then, of course, he should follow it. However, after multiple complete failures of options, Lance feels frustrated and angry. Instead, his eyes narrow, and he bares his teeth at Sendak. “Unhand me, sir,” he orders.

“Ah, some spirit,” Sendak chuckles, “I like that in my lovers, so better to break you into being mine.” 

Coran tenses off to the side, and while Lance knows there are limits to how bold he can be, Lance wishes nothing more than to be gone from this horrid place and option. 

“Lord Sendak, in your proposal, you remarked that Lance would be a consort; however, by the looks of your household, it appears that is not an option available to him.” 

Sendak flicks his eyes to Coran and narrows them before dismissively waving the comment away. “If you worry if I cannot care for him,” Sendak brushes a finger against Lance’s cheek, tracing a spray of freckles that settles against his face, Lance squeezes his eyes shut, “he will be thoroughly cared for.” Lance doesn’t have to see Sendak to know the lecherous expression on his face. 

Coran scrapes the chair against the floor and slams his palms against the table. “Now that , sir, is woefully inappropriate and not a fraction of what is agreed upon.” Lance’s breath flutters in his chest as his eyes open. “Lance, come, gather your things. We are departing.”

Lance scrambles from the chair and winces when the lord tightens his grip with a huff, and Sendak releases him. “You will be wed to a Galran, regardless, young lord,” Sendak remarks with a vicious grin, with Lance shivering with fear and apprehension. 

Lance doesn’t have time, nor inclination, to force more answers from Lord Sendak. Instead, he expresses gratitude to be back in the rocking carriage as it carries them to the final destination on the tour. Lotor. The only one, perhaps, Lance has enough familiarity to understand. 

Or, well, he hopes that’s true. 

It feels almost relieving as they begin to make their journey towards the edifice of Lotor’s domain. During the journey, Lance sits pensively, glancing out the window as the hours tick by. They hug the edge of the territory, Lance’s gaze settling on the rocky hills of the Diabazaalian landscape. It feels sparse in light and color, far from the rolling hills of his home. Lance closes the window curtains, his eyes closing as he hears the scratching of pen to paper from Coran. 

Then, a crashing sound comes from afar. Lance startles and immediately glances out the carriage window. He presses his palm against the glass and brushes away the cool moisture that collected from the misty morning. Lance squints as, from a far vantage point, he catches sight of figures in the distance. He can barely make out their shapes. Instead, the clashing of swords resounds around them with the sharp metal clanging hits. 

Coran peers out along with him and hums, “Perhaps someday the Marmorans will have burgeoning peace as well,” he remarks and dips his quill into the inkwell as the carriage carries them away from the fighting. His fingers gripping around the well as the carriage rumbles over rougher terrain.

Lance blinks, recognizing the name from his studies. The Marmorans, a proud people, in an endless war with the Galra ever since dividing their territory and forging a future for themselves. Lance flicks his eyes to Coran, watching as the man’s mustache fidgets against his mouth as he attempts to write without spilling ink. Lance returns his eyes to a misty morning with the resounding clang of metal around him. Lance wonders, knowing that he is heading into the heart of Lotor’s kingdom if that endless fight is one that the prince perpetuates. Lance once considered himself a warrior; while it is only pretend, it makes him wonder where he would stand in the heart of a battle. And if he has to choose a side, will he make the right choice? 

Lance cannot see anything clearly, but the little Lance can see makes him pause. The intensity of fighting and crashing sounds. The yells erupt, followed by short-lived cheering. Lance notes that the fighting comes from both sides, the heated battle between Marmora and Galra. 

Lance wonders if Lotor shares Coran’s sentiment of peaceful futures. 

As they journey toward Lance’s final stop, he wonders if he will have the wherewithal to ask. 

✽

Lotor’s domain is perhaps everything Lance expects and nothing he predicts in the least. As Lotor keeps a tight hold around Lance’s waist during the grand tour, Lance can’t help but take in dark interiors cascading up all the way to the sky. Tall spires that seem more for show than anything practical. Guards lining the hallways appear dressed for battle, deep scowls lining their faces as they offer perfunctory nods at Lance and the prince. 

Lotor lifts his hand with artful grace as he motions to long, intricate tapestries lining the hallway as they continue their walk. 

Lance, notably, once more struggles with his words - only just managing to emit, “It’s all awe-inspiring, Your Highness.” 

Lotor turns to glance down at Lance, a lift of his brow in time and a tilt of his lips in amusement. “You think so?” He asks as he brushes his hand across the small of Lance’s back, guiding him to remain close as their steps echo around the stone hallway, “I suppose I take after my father’s style when it comes down to it, but I imagine,” Lotor’s amused expression remains, “you find it quite dramatic.” 

Lance looks up when Lotor mentions his father; what little Lance knows of the king is that he remains infirm in bed, perhaps counting down the days until he breathes his last breath. Knowing Zarkon’s history with Altea, Lance can’t say he will be missed. 

Lance blinks, and a slip of movement from his mouth gives away his shock; then, with a straight back and a shake of his head, Lance answers, “I think it’s unique. It works for you, clearly.” Lance motions toward a pair of guards as they stiffly pass. “Adds to the ambiance of authority, I suppose.” 

Lotor chuckles and pauses as they walk; from a distance, Lance can see the entryway of a long dining hall, the clink and clacking of plateware preparing for the meal to come. “It seems you see right through me, young noble.” He muses as he brushes his fingers under Lance’s chin and lifts his head as he peers into his dark eyes. 

“I think you may give me too much credit, Your Highness,” Lance wets his lips and sees Lotor tracking the movement as his tongue slips back into his mouth. Then, carefully, Lance pulls his chin from the royal’s grip. 

“I see you exactly as you are,” Lotor intones and moves his body until their eyes meet once more, “And I see you as my consort if only you will allow it.” 

Lance’s body stiffens at Lotor’s words. He should expect them; he does expect them, and yet, he feels disquieted by them. “You flatter me,” he exhales and lowers his eyes as the intensity of Lotor’s cool, dark eyes becomes too much. Lance cautiously pulls his head away, taking a tentative step away, his heart beating madly in his chest. 

“I notice,” Lotor mirrors the distance and the provided space allows for an exhale from Lance, “you continually appear to dismiss your own value.” Lotor turns slightly, his hands bracing behind his back, “Why is that?” Lotor takes long, continued strides down the hall, and Lance, despite his heated cheeks and off-kilter state, follows just steps behind.

Lance trails after the prince, wondering how else he should direct the conversation. 

“I…” he starts, then braces his teeth against his lower lip, “I just know that it’s not me that holds value; it’s the connections I have to Altean Royalty.” He pauses, “which is fine, I understand what I can offer, but I suppose I tire of flattery when I doubt it concerns me.” 

Lance’s stomach twists at his own expelled sentiment, and he nearly runs into Lotor. His eyes gloss over with misty tears. Lotor reaches out and grabs Lance by his shoulders, not gleaning to ask as his heavy hands brace against Lance’s bony shoulders. “My future consort cannot think so little of himself,” he leans down, and soft tendrils of hair brush against Lance’s cheek. 

“I haven’t agreed yet,” Lance whispers, though he knows he is without other options; he is without choices. 

While Lotor has displayed nothing but gentlemanly charm, something in Lance wonders if that is by design. Lotor ingratiates himself into Lance and the royal’s lives for the last five years. Five years of patience, waiting, expectation, gentle coaxing, and familiarity where it is inappropriate. Five years of happenstances and offerings that always made Lance feel off-center and shaky. Five years of all the years of training fading from his touch in front of someone so powerful looking his way.  

Lance has every reason to trust and every reason to take in the flattery as truth. And yet… he never feels settled with Lotor. 

He may have to make peace with that instability as he stares at his only option.

And Lotor is kind, gracious, and warm; he seems to know Lance well or attempts to. 

Lance should be so lucky. 

“What keeps you from your decision?” Lotor asks with a lift of his brow as wordlessly as he wraps his hand firmly around Lance’s wrist. Lance knows, he knows, that he should see this as comfort, as his likely future husband guiding Lance where he needs to go. But as Lotor’s grip tightens, Lance stares down at his hand and sees a shackle in its place. Lance takes in a shuddering breath. Lotor does not notice Lance’s distress as he walks them down the hall and towards the brightest room in the entire palace, a skylight of windows glittering like diamonds above them. The light refracts and creates sharp, shifting light as they move throughout the room before walking toward an open window. Lance can see the entire grounds from the vantage point and, in the distance, the rough hills and craggy rocks of the Galran terrain. 

Lotor releases Lance’s hand, it falls back to his side. Lance takes in more deep, shaky breaths until the world no longer tilts to the side. Slowly, he straightens, his gaze remaining focused on the sunlight image through the glass. 

“I want to know the truth,” Lance says, looking out of the window so as to not lose his nerve. “Beyond your,” he stops himself from saying ‘supposed,’ but it rests on his tongue, “interest in me; what do you hope to gain from this match?” Lance’s hand curls around the side of the window. 

Lance senses Lotor by his side and can feel the brush of their shoulders as he slips his arm around Lance’s waist, “With you, I may right the wrongs of the past.” He hums and provides a surreptitious squeeze of Lance’s side. 

It is, like all that Lotor does, and says it is the perfect response. Perfectly poised and vague and leaves Lance at a loss. Maybe his hesitation is simply that he doesn’t feel what he’s meant to feel. 

Maybe he is the thing that is wrong in this equation. 

Lance flicks his eyes up to take in Lotor’s expression. He expects it to be one of openness and lightness, but as Lance takes in Lotor’s face, he sees the twinge of a twisted smile, of eyes that from the side look full of poison and dark intent. Lance blinks, and then, in an instant, Lotor’s expression morphs, and he bridges a smile toward Lance. Lotor’s words and his expression are diametrically opposed in ways Lance cannot begin to understand. 

“Come, you must be hungry after your long journey. Let us dine.” 

Lance offers a nod as Lotor’s sharp expression sears in his mind. He lets the prince guide him and manages to make idle chatter with Coran and Lotor as they dine on mouth-watering delicacies. 

All the while, the tension and uncertainty remain settled in Lance’s mind. 

Pondering without a clear answer, his first evening with Lotor ticks away. 

He has no other option, but is Lotor the right option?

✽

Compared to all of the others, his stay with Lotor is perfectly pleasant. Nothing goes awry, and the man continues to play the role of the perfect gentleman. And yet, Lance can’t shake the unsettled feeling that seeps into his bones and places a weight on his chest. He can’t name it. Perhaps, as he suspects, it is simply that he doesn’t wish to be in this predicament at all, not even for his family or the needs of the kingdom. Perhaps his own hesitation, even in rejoining this venture, led him to suspect Lotor’s intent. 

Perhaps Romelle’s refrain of having a love like she has with Allura sticks with Lance longer than he wishes. 

Perhaps he wishes for love where he only sees obligation. 

Perhaps he’s a fool to think he’s even deserving of love. 

However, as Lotor continues to wax poetic and show him the grandness of a future that is ripe for the taking, Lance cannot help but feel dizzy. He cannot help feeling like this is the wrong choice. He can’t determine how, why, or who needs to replace the silver-haired royal. He wonders if he is running out of time to decide otherwise. 

At dinner on the second evening at Lotor’s estate, Lance asks over the clicking of metal utensils and refilling of goblets, “How would you feel if I chose another?” Lance doesn’t know what compels him to ask this, but perhaps his morbid curiosity gets the better of him. Coran’s mustache twitches as Lotor slowly sips from his goblet. 

“I wasn’t under the impression that you had many prospects to speak of.” Lotor begins, giving Coran a quick flick of the eyes before returning to smile at Lance. Lance knows that he didn’t disclose anything of the experiences leading up to his visit to Lotor’s estate, but perhaps he needn’t have bothered. Lance’s breath shallows, and Lotor’s intense gaze never parts from Lance’s as he sets down his goblet. The other man clasps his hands together and leans forward, a curve of the lips as he smiles.

“But, I suppose, if you find another, who am I to stand in between that? Nothing is set in stone for us. Not as of yet.”

Lance bites at his lip and nods cautiously, lifting his drink and carefully sipping from it as palpable silence settles once more. Lotor interrupts the silence as he inquires about Lance’s family and how they are faring. Easy conversation, or easy enough with the fog that fills Lance’s brain. It is followed by a request to join Lotor in the sitting room for a chess game. 

“I have heard you are quite skilled in this department,” Lotor remarks with a glint in his eyes. “I should be so lucky to see this skill in action.” 

Lance thinks he can read between the lines. He sees what isn’t spoken. Lance ought to count his blessings that Lotor wants him because there are no other alternatives that meet the metric provided. 

And why shouldn’t Lance want Lotor?

Lance agrees to a game. And he determines not to show his hand - losing only to receive Lotor’s observant hum at the fallen king piece.

The question of want lingers in Lance’s head as they begin their departure from Lotor’s elegant palace. Lance peers up and out at the tall spires that will inevitably be his home. He looks out at the expansive land ahead, far from all he knows. He bites at his lip and exhales slowly as the carriage arrives. 

“I’ll be hearing from you soon,” Lotor’s voice filters in behind Lance as he turns and sees the delicate smile and the expectant expression. Nothing phasing him. Nothing ever could. Lance forces a smile onto his face and nods before Coran thankfully intervenes and speaks on his behalf. 

With all the graciousness Lance expects, Lotor bows and kisses Lance’s hand as they depart and does all the intricate things Lance comes to expect. And all the things that draw out uncertainty in Lance. He leaves wondering if he should have just ignored the fact that his family’s struggles could be resolved by this courtship. He wonders if, in the end, his illusion of choice matters any bit to the wants and wills of others. 

Lance watches the dust pick up, and the castle blurs as they turn a corner away from the domain. He curls his fingers and flicks his eyes to Coran, he exhales a sigh and braces his palms against his thighs. The other man doesn’t notice his glance as he pours over documents. 

“I should say yes, shouldn’t I?” Lance mumbles as the carriage rumbles. 

Coran looks up from his readings and tilts his head, “You should do what will make you happy, m’boy.” Coran corrects and leans over to pat Lance’s hand. 

“But he’s the only option,” Lance counters, “I… And he’s a good match, everyone thinks he’s a good…” Lance swallows and turns toward the window, watching a cloud as the horses guide them further from his fate. 

“He is a good match,” Coran agrees, “but that does not mean he is a good match for you .” Lance turns to look at Coran, confusion brushing against his brows. “That said, if you wish for me to send him a response to your decision, I can draft it shortly.” 

Lance’s stomach twists at the thought of saying yes or no to Lotor, and a part of him feels as though neither will result in something he wants. “Can it wait until later?” 

Coran nods and then, with another tilt of his head, adds, “You know, Lance, he may not be your last option,” he taps his finger against his chin, “Yes, I do believe there is another.”

“There is?”

“Yes, but to view this option, we may have to journey close to the heart of danger.” Coran’s eyes glitter with mischief. 

“How does that sound, m’boy?” 

A smile, the first real one Lance has felt in ages, settles on his lips as he exhales. 

“Let’s go.” 

✽

He’s beautiful.

That’s Lance’s first gut instinct when, even from afar, he sees a young man wielding a sword and fighting throngs of men. The man orders and commands those around him as arrows fly and the metal crash resounds even from this great height. 

Lance can’t trace all the details of the young man’s face as Coran points him out, but as Lance’s heart beats heavily in his chest, he can’t help but feel compelled to step into the fray of danger. 

Lance watches from a distance as his body thrums to life for the first time in years, in nearly a decade. Lance knows all the ways to manipulate his tongue, to convince and weave a perfect solution with silvery words and a doe-eyed smile. He knows all the ways that the words bring change when a sword cannot. But as he looks at this man, fighting for all he’s worth, Lance wants to cast aside all he is groomed to be and lift that toy sword once more. 

“The Marmorans,” Lance begins over the sound of fighting, “they are fighting against the Galrans, right? Against Prince Lotor’s men?” 

Lance can’t tear his gaze from the dark-haired man as Coran offers a response, “Yes, they have been in the throes of battle since both princes were but children.” Lance takes a step forward as he hears in the distance a resounding boom. Coran places a hand on Lance’s arm, keeping him at a distance from the fight. 

“If I marry Lotor, will he use the resources from Altea for this fight?” Lance asks, his voice wavering as the words Lotor spoke spins circles around him. 

“I cannot say,” Coran offers, “but I think that is a fairly astute conclusion.” 

“What’s to stop him from wanting more?” Lance exhales, “From wanting to reclaim a lost battle with Altea? To finish what his father started? To claim me.” 

Coran quiets and Lance knows without looking that he wears a pensive expression. 

“We have little way of knowing - other than to take it on trust that he wishes you and our kingdom well.” 

“Do you believe he will?”

“My believing it is so and your decision on who you wish to marry do not have to align, dear Lance,” Coran’s voice grows gentle as he squeezes Lance’s shoulder. “But what he wishes for Altea and his kingdom may not mean well for this,” Coran stretches out his hands and motions to the battle below them. “You must choose what is vital for you and your future, whatever that may be.” 

The glances. The smiles. The honey-drenched words. All of them are perfectly crafted to draw Lance in and keep him there. All of the suitors are perfectly designed to ward Lance away from them and into Lotor’s awaiting arms. Lance can’t know for certain, he may never know for certain, but for all the ways others have told him he has choices, Lance cannot be certain of the truth in those statements. 

Lance takes in a shaky breath.

“Is he an option?” 

Lance presses his lips together as he waits for Coran to respond, his eyes never leaving the black-haired man. 

“I can make certain he is.” Coran’s words drift to Lance as he stares dazedly at the man. At the prince who fights battles with his fellow man. Not a practical solution but an admirable one. 

Lance let go of the toy sword long ago, but as he watches the young man with pitch-black hair wielding his blade with the force of a thousand men, Lance feels a swell of youthful energy that he thought he lost. He sees the skill, grace, and fervor through every artfully placed parry and blow, and all Lance can imagine is the person he thought he could’ve been instead of the person he is. 

So Lance decides - he decides his future.

Crown Prince Keith Kogane. 

A man, Lance knows, without a word exchanged, that Lance wishes to help. 

A man who Lance wishes to know. 

A man whose fate he wishes to tie himself up with. 

A man he chooses for himself.