Chapter Text
Everything starts as it always does: with a diplomatic mission on a strange planet.
Lance is used to it, by now. They visit a planet— sometimes to save it from a Galra attack, other times just to get to know the population and create connections. They have some kind of party to celebrate Voltron, have a meeting to discuss an alliance, and the deal is done. Another ally in their plan against the Galra is secured! Time to move to the next planet. Rinse and repeat.
Okay, maybe Lance is putting this whole thing in far too simplistic terms… especially because nine times out of ten, things never go according to plan.
If they’re fighting the Galra, more times than not, one (or more) of the Paladins needs to take a nap in the crypods; if they’re visiting because Allura and Coran remember that a certain planet was a secular ally to Altea, this planet has often become hostile towards anyone, so the locals don’t want anything to do with Voltron— or, in worse cases, they start relentlessly attacking them before the castle can even touch the ground.
When — or if — they manage to convince the ruler’s population to be an ally, the Voltron Team always needs to go through some weird ritualistic shit like pledges of honesty, truth spells, ceremonies, gladiator battles (which they typically refuse to do, thank god), or anything of the sort. Why are aliens so obsessed with extreme proof of loyalty?
And finally, fucking finally, they’re recognized as Defenders of the Universe and celebrated as such. This part of the ordeal goes pretty well almost every time. Lance has no notes about it. Usually, everyone — and he means everyone, even Shiro! — drinks whatever kind of alien alcohol they’re offered and gets tipsy. Then, they dance until late into the night and sleep for like sixteen hours after.
… Okay, okay, the last part might be just Lance, Pidge and Hunk, but still. It’s the best time ever, and to be honest, Lance’s favorite part out of everything.
Um, right— apart from, of course, creating a new alliance against the evil Galra Empire, making one step forward towards universal peace. That’s also— super important, duh.
Anyway, as Lance was saying, this diplomatic stuff is always a hit or miss. Even if at the end of the day everything turns out fine and they get what they want, these missions are challenging, and the Voltron team never knows what to expect by now.
Which is why Lance is loving Hebeyl. Which sentiment would be any more suited than love for this fantastic planet?! It’s literally known as “The Planet of Love”!
Coran wasn’t exaggerating, for once. The Paladins usually never rely on his or Allura’s memories and glorious recountings of events, because more often than not, they’re in for a massive disappointment. But here, as soon as they walk through the giant flowery gate, which divides the enchanted forest from the fortified city, everything all around seems… pinker. This warmth suddenly blooms in your chest and makes you want to hug everyone; the citizens are smiling and welcoming, no one’s attacking them or giving them dirty looks, and there isn’t a Galra ambush waiting for them in every corner. It’s perfect. Yes, Lance is getting teary-eyed.
How could he not, when the entire population of Hebeyl, King and all, come to greet them with baskets full of colorful fruits, playing soft background music with bizarre instruments, cheering and whooping for them? It’s been a while since they’ve encountered someone so happy to meet Voltron!
“Oh wow,” Pidge mutters, and she sounds genuinely surprised, “you weren’t exaggerating.”
Allura proudly nods. She takes a step forward, confident strut and chin raised, as she readies herself to meet the King. “Of course not! Did you expect something different?”
Pidge and Lance share a knowing glance.
“Princess Allura, Mr. Coran, Voltron, how honored we are to have you here on Hebeyl!” the king exclaims as he traps Allura’s hands in his, squeezing them affectionately, “Please, make yourself at home and relax. My fellows are already preparing the celebration for this evening.”
Allura, always the professional, bows and starts with her pleasantries, “Thank you for this warm welcome, King Yniaow. We are the ones honored to be here, and we hope to be graceful visitors for the length of our stay. I must apologize for the sudden intrusion.”
King Yniaow dismissively waves his hand — which, Lance just notices, has three fingers, with the middle one slightly longer, kinda like a trident — and smiles even bigger, “No need for apologies. Please, follow my citizens and me to the castle, there’s a feast waiting for you. You must be hungry after a long trip.”
Lance doesn’t say it out loud, but, indeed, they are hungry. There’s no way of knowing exactly, but, judging by the sunset-like sky and the pink moon glowing over their heads, it must be almost night. Just in time for dinner! He hopes there won’t be green goo and strange fuming bugs on the menu.
They all start walking towards the giant pink castle, surrounded by villagers who continue to sing and dance around them, following the rhythm of the music that hasn’t stopped playing since Voltron arrived. It should be annoying after this long, but everyone looks so happy and content, and Lance can’t bring himself to hate it. The children give each of them a flower crown and necklaces, giggling in embarrassment and running away right after. Okay, it’s official, the Hebeylians are in Lance’s top three best populations ever visited.
He’s enjoying this well-deserved break from fights and bizarre loyalty tests, when all of a sudden, he hears an agitating, grating voice behind him.
“Are we sure we can trust them? This seems excessive.”
Of fucking course. Leave it to Keith to ruin the party, like always.
Mullet boy is begrudgingly walking next to Shiro, crossed arms and signature scowl on his face, both flower jewels gripped in one hand— refusing to even put them on, like a monster. Keith’s whispering to Shiro, but by now Lance has developed a super hearing for his bullshit; it comes in handy especially when they’re bickering and Keith attempts to mutter insults, hoping he won’t be heard. Well, guess what, Mullet? He hears them all!
“What a surprise, Keith doesn’t trust happiness.”
Keith snaps his head up to glower at him. “Wasn’t talking to you.”
Lance turns around to face him, walking backwards, and crosses his arms to copy him. “Then maybe learn to lower your voice if you don’t want to be heard, genius.”
Shiro immediately clocks the beginning of a fight. He puts a hand on Keith’s shoulder and mutters, “Let’s be careful like we are on any other planet, but— Keith, try to relax for now. They seem innocuous, perhaps just a little… over the top, with their welcomes.”
The other just shrugs as he stares at the ground. 1-0 for Lancey.
Listen, even though they keep bickering over almost anything, they’ve come a long way since the first months of being Paladins of Voltron, and no one can deny it. Lance and Keith can collaborate, have a chat without biting each other’s heads off, and sometimes even make jokes and laugh together. That’s a significant improvement from when they couldn’t stay in the same room for more than five minutes before finding a reason to argue.
The problem is—
Lately, for some reason, Lance wants to stay in the same room where Keith is just to talk about nothing. Just to make him laugh, or just to see the fire light up in his eyes as soon as Lance presses one of his buttons, to get a reaction from him.
It’s become almost an obsession. He’s struggling to sleep at night because he can’t stop thinking about Keith and his stupid face and his stupid giggle and his stupid body and his—
… Anyways. That’s just because that dude is always around him and he always sees him. There’s nothing more to it. Besides, Lance is busy with far more important things: winning Allura’s heart! Everyone knows he has a fat crush on the Princess, and it’s become his life mission to make her fall in love with him.
He’s just been… distracted.
They finally arrive at the castle. It looks like it escaped from a children’s fairy tale, with its glittery pink windows and long towers with pointy roofs. The entrance is wide and majestic, at least triple the height of the tallest Hebeylian— and, as a population, they’re pretty tall already. Lance feels awkward having to crank his neck up to look them in the eyes. He can’t imagine what a struggle it must be for Pidge, who’s only three apples tall.
(He makes sure to share his sympathy with her, who promptly punches his shoulder without even shifting her attention from Hunk.)
The inside of the castle is even more breathtaking. Everything sparkles in shades of pink, red and violet, from the pavement to the furniture; there are endless portraits attached to the walls, representing who Lance thinks are the predecessors of King Yniaow. After walking through an infinite corridor, adorned with gorgeous flowers and decorative pillars, they reach the dining room, a vast hall with three long banquet tables in the center; they’re already set, plates and bowls full of what Lance hopes is delicious food. It doesn’t look radioactive nor smell funky, so that’s a good start.
A dozen waiters, dressed in fancy suits, are waiting for them in an orderly line at the side of one of the tables. The King smiles at the first in line and approaches them.
“Jetaim, my friend, is everything ready for our guests?” he asks.
Jetaim nods and exclaims, seeming sincerely excited, “Yes, Yniaow!”
There’s a different relationship between the King and what you would call his subjects. Yniaow refers to them as “his fellows” or even “friends”, and everyone calls him by his first name; not one of his citizens ever looks scared or worried while talking to him, nor is he ever rude towards them. This must be what living on the Planet of Love does to you… Earth could learn a thing or two from them.
King Yniaow claps his hands. “Then, let the feast begin!”
Most of the Hebeylians cheer and start taking a seat, while some of them kindly direct their guests to the start of the table in the center, where King Yniaow has sat at the head of it. He gestures for them to sit, and they comply. Lance finds himself sitting between Allura and Keith, with Allura closer to the King in order to better converse with him during their dinner. Shiro is in front of her, while Lance and Keith face Pidge and Hunk respectively. Coran has already engaged in a passionate conversation about the food with an equally enthusiastic Hebeylian sitting across from him.
“King Yniaow, the Princess has told us Hebeyl is known as the Planet of Love.” Shiro says, after sipping on a red liquid that resembles wine in looks and taste, “What’s the story behind it, if I may ask?”
The king smiles. “Hebeyl was built on the concept that love is essential. Since its establishment centuries ago, we Hebeylians have lived by a simple, yet important rule: love and respect everyone, including yourself, and everything, animals and objects as well.”
The paladins look at each other, almost incredulously. Judging by what they’ve seen until now, Hebeyl has certainly succeeded in respecting this rule. There were no traces of abandoned rubbish, decayed buildings, or mistreated animals anywhere.
Hunk whistles. “That’s impressive. I wish everyone could live like you.”
The rest of the team nods. That sure would be nice…
But this first introduction to Hebeylian culture just leads to so many more questions. If everyone loves everyone, do they have romantic relationships? Or is it all just platonic? And are they cool with same-sex couples? Maybe, they don’t even know what discrimination is. Lance is seriously considering requesting citizenship here.
He wonders out loud, “What about relationships?”
Yniaow perks up even more. “That’s a wonderful question, Blue Paladin. We believe everyone has a life partner and must find them to feel fulfilled. Usually, people just wait until they find each other naturally, but some experts can reveal who you’re predestined to, if you’re particularly eager to know.”
“Sounds forced. Maybe not everyone wants to spend their life with another person,” Pidge mutters, slightly annoyed.
Allura sharply clears her throat, wide eyes burning a hole in Pidge’s direction. She’s smiling, but her lips are thinly stretched and stiff.
The king chuckles. “That’s true indeed, Green Paladin. Love comes in different forms. That’s why we believe one’s partner could be anything, from a person to a mere concept. A lot of our citizens have dedicated their lives to music, research, animals, or just the joy of being alive. No one is forced to be someone they’re not; that wouldn’t be true love.”
Pidge is speechless. Lacking retorts and seemingly satisfied with his answer, she nods and smiles politely. There’s almost a different light in her eyes.
What a beautiful sentiment. It hurts thinking about what’s right outside of Hebeyl, threatening its peace: hatred, wars, suffering, all because of some purple aliens with an insane desire to conquer whatever they can to fulfill their ego. Even if they might not agree with their “violent” methods, Lance hopes the Hebeylians will appreciate having Voltron’s protection.
“On Earth, we have something called a wedding. It’s a ritual where two people promise to be together forever, and they make it official in front of their loved ones. Do you have something similar?”
“Absolutely, Yellow Paladin. That usually happens when people present themselves to our priests, who then perform a special Ritual of Destiny to bless the couple. It’s always so beautiful.” Yniaow explains, to then lower his voice in a concerned tone, “Well, apart from the times when the priest tells some couples they’re not predestined. That’s… a bit awkward.”
Everyone shudders in embarrassment.
“Ouch,” Lance whispers.
“No time to be sad, however!” The king straightens up and gestures to their plates, “Please, please, eat and enjoy!”
They happily comply, and not just because they’re starving and they want to be kind to their hosts, but because the food genuinely looks and tastes delicious. There’s a variety of different foods inside bowls and on cake stands: fruit and vegetables, soups, something like mashed potatoes, and even desserts. Lance puts whatever he can on his plate and takes a bite of everything, humming in pleasure every time.
He's about to take another bite of what looks like broccoli, when a foot hits his calf under the table. He snatches his head to the right, already annoyed.
“Can you stop moaning?” Keith hisses, looking around furtively. They’ve already received a reprimand, so he’s trying to avoid another one.
Lance, in response, puts the fork full of broccoli-ish in his mouth and slowly slides it out while humming once again, clearly enjoying every second of his petty show.
Keith glares at him. “I hope you choke.”
“You know, I respect you for sticking to your emo persona even while we’re surrounded by love.” Lance takes a sip of a sweet soup, unbothered, “At least you’re consistent.”
It was meant to be an insult, obviously, but Keith’s suddenly more serious, and looks almost worried. He pouts and shrugs, muttering, “I feel like everything’s too calm and easy. Like something bad is just waiting to happen.”
Lance would love to tease him. Make a joke on how that black mop of hair must have disrupted his eyesight; however, he just can’t bring himself to. Seeing Keith being so open with his feelings, and with Lance of all people, makes his heart skip a beat.
(Which means nothing.)
“Dude, I get it. We’re so used to fighting, getting ambushed and going through fucked-up rituals, that it’s hard to relax. But we deserve a break, too.” Lance bumps Keith’s shoulder with his fist, smirking, “And we’re also badass Paladins, so we can totally take them all if something goes wrong, right?”
Keith huffs, half-smiling. “I guess.”
He then looks at the food on his plate, untouched until then, and tentatively takes a bite of a strawberry-looking fruit. He smiles to himself and finally starts to eat a proper meal, even humming when he particularly likes something.
Lance’s heart aches a bit more.
The dinner ends, but it’s only the start of a “grandiose night”, Yniaow declares.
They move from the dining room to another gigantic hall. The pavement, a delightful light lilac, is so lucid that it looks like glass. The walls are covered by vast stained colored windows that show the outside of the castle: gardens, the rest of the town, with people still mingling, and a beautiful night sky full of stars. On one corner of the hall a band of musicians is rehearsing with instruments very similar to those on Earth, but somehow very different at the same time. They sound amazing, either way.
As if they haven’t eaten and drunk enough, on the other side of the room there’s a long table with drinks and some refreshments on elegant little plates. Some of the citizens already took some of the glasses and are currently contentedly chatting and dancing around to the music, the band now ready to perform.
King Yniaow gestures towards the dance floor, inviting them to celebrate, before returning to discuss with Allura, Coran and Shiro about diplomatic boring stuff. They had already started during dinner, but Lance had already tuned them out by that point. Judging by their faces, everyone’s happy with the discussion, so that’s good enough for him. Well, almost.
“How can I distract her from the king?”
Hunk looks at him, confused. “Why?”
Lance stares at Allura as she animatedly explains something to Yniaow. Maybe if he stares hard enough, she might perceive his signals and come to him.
“So I can seduce her, duh. This is the best planet where I can try my chances! I might even receive a blessing from a priest, who knows.”
Pidge growls and rolls her eyes. She’s refilling her plate with the third round of refreshments— how is she still hungry? “I know. You won’t.”
Lance shrugs and sips on his pseudo-wine. Pidge doesn’t know what she’s talking about, so of course she doesn’t believe his plan could work. But this seems like destiny: they’re on the Planet of Love, together, where priests could bless their union and make it eternal. Lance just has to prove to Allura they’re meant to be! Nothing too hard.
His eyes shift to a column to the side of the room, where Keith is leaning with his arms crossed, keeping the situation under control, watching the crowd like a hawk. At least he has a glass of white pseudo-wine in one hand and sometimes taps his foot to the rhythm of the music. That’s as much as he’ll do to show he’s enjoying himself.
Lance huffs a laugh. That guy is… so weird, sometimes.
“Maybe you can ask a priest if you’re predestined to each other? That could clarify a lot of things for you,” Hunk proposes after a bit of silence between them.
“Nuh-uh, dude. I already know, I don’t need a priest to tell me.”
Okay, that’s a lie.
The truth is— the thought scares him shitless. You’re meaning to tell him someone already knows who he’ll spend the rest of his life with, and he could just… ask that?!
No, thank you. That’s terrifying. What if it’s an alien from a remote planet that he can only visit once a year? What if it’s a human who hates aliens and doesn’t want him to be a Paladin anymore?
What if it’s not Allura?!
… What if it is?
A strange wave of sadness suddenly takes over Lance. Something in the pit of his stomach is heavy, and it’s not (just) the food he consumed; the wine now tastes bitter, so he leaves the glass on the table and starts people-watching to distract himself.
From the corner of his eye, he notices Hunk and Pidge sharing a look.
“Wanna dance like three monkeys at the center of the dance floor?” Pidge asks, hoping to bring his morale back up.
But Lance shakes his head. “You go without me. I’ll join you later.”
Hunk and Pidge nod, heading towards the dance floor. They’re worried but don’t push further, understanding that sometimes Lance only needs a moment alone.
He keeps observing everyone else around. Many are dancing, others are conversing, some are eating and drinking.
God, this sucks.
Even if he always yaps about it and makes it seem like it’s the center of his whole existence sometimes, love is a touchy subject for Lance. Especially in these last months… for some reason. His brain has been constantly tormented by a whirl of confused feelings and contrasting emotions, and it’s so frustrating because he had a clear plan in mind, and now it’s ruined! And whose fault is that?!
He summons all the power in his body not to turn around and search the room for a black mop of hair and piercing violet eyes.
Perhaps the solution to his struggle is to... completely change his focus. What if his true love was on this very planet all along, just waiting to be found? That must be it. Screw Allura (and Keith, says the little annoying voice inside his head)! They’re on Hebeyl for a reason, and that is for Lance to look around this hall and find his soulmate.
And when he abruptly turns, confident and resolute, it’s as if the Universe was listening and decided to deliver instantly.
A gorgeous, tall, light-blue-skinned goddess is scanning through the table for food while swishing the pseudo-wine around in her glass, almost absentmindedly. She’s wearing the most intricate headpiece Lance has ever seen— it’s like a towering, crystal chandelier with dangling jewels and metal spirals, shimmering at her every movement. Her dress is simpler, a long white tunic that compliments her body while also giving her a certain solemnity.
Lance gapes at her for a few seconds and determines, right here and there, that she’s definitely his soulmate.
He slicks his hair back with his hands, brushes off non-existent dust from his space suit and gears himself up to blow her away with one of his best pick-up lines. He approaches her and leans on the table with his elbow, voice smooth and warm: “Well, good evening. Are you a shooting star? Because my wish of meeting a cosmic beauty just came true.”
The alien slowly turns towards him, a flabbergasted look on her face, eyes scanning Lance’s entire being as if she were weighing whether to run away or fight him. Ultimately, it seems she decides to stay put, for now: she doesn’t move, but she’s still weary. Lance makes a mental note not to use pick-up lines on aliens, since they rarely work anyway.
“What I was trying to say is,” Lance clears his throat and takes a step back to not scare her further, “you are incredibly fascinating. Name’s Lance, nice to meet you.”
She takes a long, slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving Lance’s face for a second, before replying in a profound tone, “I know who you are, Blue Paladin. I am Saranghae.”
“Beautiful name. So… are you from around here? Or are you visiting for the celebration?”
Saranghae tilts her head, studying him. “Why do you wish to know?”
“Honestly, I—” Suddenly feeling awkward, Lance shrinks into his shoulders, but doesn’t let her coldness deter him from trying. “You caught my attention, and I wanted to get to know you. Talk about… stuff, I don’t know. That’s all.”
“But that’s not all.” Saranghae immediately fires back. “Is it?”
Okay, Lance is starting to regret ever opening his mouth. Maybe he could pretend he was joking, or that he mistook her for someone else… but there’s something under the surface calling his name, too enticing to ignore at this point. He feels compelled to get to the bottom of this.
“What do you mean?”
“I sense a strange aura from you. There was a hidden intention in your words.”
He recoils, even more freaked out by this whole interaction. This instantly earns a spot in his top ten most awkward and weird conversations he’s ever had in space. And living with Coran, that means the stakes are pretty high to make it into the list.
“I, uh… didn’t mean to offend you?”
“Yet you did.” The glass in her hand is now set on the table. She stands upright, seeming even taller than before. “You treat what is sacred as a mere performance. That is intolerable on our planet, and even more so in my presence.”
Around them, some guests start noticing the commotion. Their conversations slowly fade away, and even if they try to feign nonchalance, it’s clear they’re eavesdropping. Some even look worried, whispering while they stare at Lance, almost in pity.
Lance tries to de-escalate the situation, summoning all the diplomacy Shiro and Allura have desperately tried to instill into him, “Look, Miss Saranghae, I’m truly sorry. We don’t know each other, but I’ve always been a bit of a flirt. I missed the mark this time, clearly.”
Saranghae is unfazed, her voice getting louder at every word. “I know you and your heart enough to tell you’re deceiving yourself. You avoid the truth, Blue Paladin— you run from it.”
It feels like her gaze is piercing through his skin, inspecting his soul and twisting it around like a scrap of fabric. Her words almost ring true, teasing at something he’s not ready to face yet. Realization leaves an uncomfortable weight behind.
Guests glance at them nervously, their sibilant murmurs scraping against Lance’s ears, making it harder to focus; they’re not even attempting to ignore what’s happening anymore. Hunk and Pidge, still busy dancing up until then, now exchange concerned looks as they inch closer to the table where an apparently really important person in Hebeyl’s community has decided to give Lance the worst public reprimand of his entire life.
“I’m not…” a feeble attempt, his voice low and weak; Lance can’t even finish his sentence.
“You think sweet words and charm can cover up your lies,” Saranghae snaps, sharp like a knife. “But pretense has a weight. Disrespect has consequences. You will learn that soon enough.”
Lance freezes, a cold flush spreading across his face. This sounds like a threat. He glances around and notices the crowd thickening, people leaning in, forming a barrier that slows Hunk and Pidge approaching. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Keith pushing through from the other side, expression unreadable. Panic coils in his chest— fuck, everyone’s going to be so mad with me…
Saranghae lifts her hand slightly, pointing it towards Lance’s chest; she focuses on the motion, eyes darkening. “Consider this a lesson,” she declares, voice deep and final. “Until you stop lying to your own heart, Blue Paladin, misfortune will follow you… and happiness will elude you.”
He feels it as a subtle pressure in his chest, pounding, pushing against his ribcage. His stomach knots, his fingernails digging indents in his palms. It’s not painful, which almost makes it worse— it’s a silent, psychological torment.
As the alien lowers her hand, Lance stumbles back, as if she had released her invisible grip on him. Now, he only feels the weight of the pronouncement pressing down.
A tense, eerie reminder that something has changed… what that is, he doesn’t know yet.
Movement at the edges of the crowd recalls his attention: Pidge and Hunk have finally made their way through the crowd and are now at his side, giving him at least a slight sense of relief now that he’s not alone; that gets wiped away as soon as he realizes Shiro and Allura are right behind them, a bewildered expression painting both faces.
(Can Paladins of Voltron get fired? He might find out tonight.)
King Yniaow hurries forward, brow furrowed, hands raised in an apologetic gesture. He looks like he’s panicking as he speaks, “Priestess Saranghae, I beg you to reconsider! I am— so sorry, Paladins, please… forgive the necessity of this.”
Allura doesn’t falter. “What has happened?”
“I cannot reconsider, Yniaow,” Saranghae thunders, not deigning to address the Princess, “This human has committed too grave a sacrilege for me to ignore. He cannot walk around Hebeyl unchallenged.”
“I understand, Priestess,” the King mutters, bowing his head briefly. Then, turning to Allura, he continues, his voice measured but heavy with regret: “As you are aware by now, love is sacred on this planet, and the priestesses bear the solemn duty of protecting it. When they perceive a transgression of that bond… they are compelled to perform a binding correction. I— I deeply regret that this has occurred, and that it had to be done in such a public manner.”
Lance blinks, processing the words, stomach churning.
Binding correction? … Transgression? He was just flirting, for fuck’s sake!
He scans the room, meeting unfamiliar worried eyes, until he finds the ones he was unconsciously seeking. Keith stands at a distance, seemingly indifferent to the situation; but for someone as trained as Lance, the tension in his expression is unmistakable. Keith is… worried.
When Lance turns back, Saranghae is staring at him, gaze piercing through him like thousands of needles. It might be only an impression, but her lips seem to curl into a satisfied grin.
Without a word more, she bows her head to him and steps away, leaving the scene.
“Everyone, please, could you give our guests some privacy?”
The crowd, after a moment of hesitation, slowly disperses and resumes the celebration. The music starts again, uneven at first, while a few guests nearby still struggle not to stare. Eventually, everything goes back to normal, as though nothing strange had ever happened. The team has created a semicircle around Lance, as if to protect him. King Yniaow moves closer to them; his uneasiness is palpable.
“Voltron,” he begins, hands clasped together, eyes gravitating towards Lance. “I renew my deepest apologies for what has just occurred.”
“It’s… fine,” Lance says automatically, then falters. “…I think.”
Shiro steps forward, composed and direct. “Yniaow, we need to understand what has been done to our teammate.”
Hunk raises a hand uncertainly. “He didn’t, like, insult anyone’s family or accidentally propose marriage, right?”
“Nothing of that nature, absolutely,” Yniaow says quickly.
“That’s a relief,” Hunk mutters. “Because we’ve had both.”
(That’s true. But to be fair, Shiro was the one who accidentally proposed.)
The King exhales, rubbing his hands together. “Lance has been… bound, in a sense. We call it binding correction, as it ensures the recipient remains true to themselves. If ignored… the effects will grow and worsen. That is all I can say with certainty, I’m afraid.”
“So… he’s been cursed,” Keith says, matter-of-factly.
Yniaow recoils, frantically waving his hands around, “No, no! This is not a curse, I assure you. It is just a strong way to redirect the recipient’s course of actions when they stray from what is truly important.”
Everyone shares a knowing look. Okay, it’s definitely a curse.
Lance shifts his weight, the strange heaviness in his chest pressing insistently. “… what exactly do I do, then?”
“That is… difficult to answer.”
“That’s not very comforting,” Pidge mutters.
The King nods in understanding, lips stretched. “I must be sincere. Binding corrections are rare and do not manifest the same way twice. Most of what I know comes from recountments, not direct experience.”
“So you don’t actually know what’s going to happen to him,” Keith spits, tone harsh. He’s getting annoyed— which does not make Lance’s heart flutter, not even one bit.
Any other monarch would have probably sent Keith to prison for being so disrespectful, but luckily Yniaow, bless his soul, just apologetically nods again, and doesn’t retort. His gaze flickers to Lance again before he responds. “I wish I knew more, truly. I’m almost certain it is not meant to cause pain. At least, perhaps… not in the way one would expect.”
That does very little to reassure Lance. After living in space for however long, he's quickly realized aliens have a different concept of reassurance from humans. Not even the Planet of Love could beat the allegations.
A brief silence follows before the King straightens, his tone turning firm despite the unease beneath it. “I must also be clear: this does not place our alliance at risk. Hebeyl does not consider you an enemy, but a friend.” He inclines his head toward Lance again, a gesture somewhere between respect and apology. “I hope, regardless of this unfortunate occurrence, the sentiment remains reciprocated.”
Despite himself, Lance tentatively smiles and nods. It’s hard to stay mad at the guy, okay! It’s not actually his fault.
After renewing his apologies for what feels like the hundredth time, Yniaow bows once more and withdraws, leaving them some space to discuss privately.
For a moment, no one speaks. Everyone’s eyes shift around nervously, waiting for someone to find the courage to break the silence. What could even be said?
Lance becomes acutely aware of his own body— of how fucking ordinary it feels. His head is not hurting. His hands aren’t shaking. His skin isn’t warm or cold. The only thing out of place is that dull pressure behind his ribs, like he’s holding his breath without realizing it… But even that isn’t new; it feels uncomfortably familiar, that same tightness he feels when anxious. Perhaps it’s just the leftover adrenaline?
“… Well, I don’t feel any different.” Unsurprisingly, he’s the first to speak.
Shiro steps closer, solid and calm. He doesn’t look mad… but Lance still flinches imperceptibly, almost expecting a good old reprimand. “No pain, dizziness? Anything feels weird?”
Lance shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”
Allura studies his face, eyes sharp but careful. She’s not stretching her lips like when she tries to hide her anger, nor is she clenching the sides of her dress to redirect the urge to break something. That’s a good sign, usually. “It may mean the binding has not activated yet,” Allura says. “However, we should stay alert for anything out of the ordinary.”
“Maybe she was bluffing? You know aliens make up stuff sometimes,” Pidge suggests.
Lance wants to believe her theory. “I don’t think I’ve actually done anything wrong,” he says, a little sheepish, as if still waiting for someone to blame him for everything. “Maybe it was just… a warning. Something symbolic. Or a very extreme way of telling me off.”
No one contradicts him, but they don’t seem convinced either.
“What was going on with that priestess?” Keith asks. His jaw is as tight as his crossed arms. His tone is not accusatory, but Lance still feels cornered— especially when the question comes from Keith.
He feels himself getting defensive. “I— we were just talking and she freaked out all of a sudden!” Well, he wasn’t “just talking”, but Keith doesn’t need to know that. “Maybe something got lost in translation, you know?”
Again, no one disagrees. It’s almost like they’re all walking on eggshells, fearing Lance might have a breakdown if faced with the possibility that this hex — “binding correction” — could be a bigger deal than he thinks.
Shiro exhales slowly after a few moments of awkward silence. “We can’t know for sure, so… until we know more, we’ll proceed carefully. No drastic measures.”
“That’s good,” Lance says immediately. “I don’t think I could reinvent my whole personality in a matter of— I don’t know, a night?”
Pidge tilts her head, reflecting. “Okay, but if the priestess thinks you’re ‘not being true to yourself’ or whatever, does that mean you should… be yourself more?”
Hunk winces. “Or less? Because I feel like you’re already at, like, full Lance most of the time.”
“Hey!” Lance protests, then falters. “Or— thank you?”
Allura taps a finger on her chin, pensive. “It might just mean… don’t force anything, if it doesn’t feel natural. No insincerity, nor performances.”
Lance scoffs, a little too forced. “I don’t perform.”
The words hang there, unsupported. The team just exchanges brief looks. Tough crowd, uh?
“Okay then,” Pidge sums up, “you act normal, you don’t overthink it, and if the universe doesn’t like that, we’ll regroup and brainstorm another solution.”
Everyone agrees, some seeming more confident than others. Keith’s thinned lips show no sign of relaxing as he continues to stare at Lance, like he’s trying to read his mind. Galra (or, well, half-Galra) can’t read minds, can they?
Lance nods along, deciding to team up with those who are convinced by the make-shift plan. “Everything will be fine, guys. We won’t even remember this in a week.”
His words sound false even to his own ears.
The pressure in his chest doesn’t shift— doesn’t ease, doesn’t tighten.
It just stays there, patiently waiting.