Lance had been a kid with big, unlikely goals.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
A space pilot, Mama. Itβs not the same.
Even when people told him the odds (less than a 0.5% shot of making it out of orbit), even when his grades werenβt perfect and even when his school nemesis, Matteo, doubted him, he clung to hope. Desperately, he held it between small fists.
The Garrison answered. It was a dream come true.
Or maybe it was a nightmare. Because unlike his imaginings, Lance wasnβt a hero. He wasnβt the noble knight swooping in on a slim jet built for speed. He was a cargo pilotβa glorified delivery man at best, and at worst, pure cannon fodder. A pawn.
Maybe he hadnβt expected those goals to appear magically out of thin air, but suddenly, there Blue was. Glorious, shining, like a sword in a stone. She represented more, that despite the unlikely odds, Lance could have a destiny. He could be a knight or a savior or a hero.
Those first few months in space were challenging. Learning how to hold a gun felt so at odds with what heβd grown up with, a trigger between his fingers and an enemy ahead of him clashing violently with memories of a spade in his palm and his momβs flower garden.
He told himself that he was fine. This is what heβd wanted, after all. Lance starved his shame with forced pride, choked it and buried it and covered it with metal walls stronger than loose soil packed by gentle hands. After all, he was useful. There was a team, and that team praised his skill, occasionally. It was enough.
Then, he had to admit he wasnβt the star. That was difficult. Watching Keith ascend into Blackβs cockpit felt like a sick fever dream, an echo of Matteoβs taunting in his ears that he was an annoying try hard.
Crazy how childhood stuff can stick with you, right?
It was good, though, having Keith as leader.
Nah, it was great. Who was he fooling, trying to act like a puzzle piece hadnβt clicked between them? With Keith and the helm and Lance at his side, they conquered so, so much. Lance strategized, Keith acted, Lance supported, Keith swung.
They flowed 10 times more smoothly than theyβd ever moved before, a symphony of planning and pushing that made Voltron worthy. Which, in turn, helped Lance feel worthy, too. A dangerous game. A tantalizing, addicting feeling.
Everything went to shit. As it does.
When Keith left, Lance stared bleakly at his footsteps. He watched for traces of him in calls and meals and battles. Convinced himself he didnβt care. Lied to the others that he was fine. Got told off by Shiro, ignored by Hunk and Pidge, dismissed by Allura.
Heβd been fucking around before, with Keith. Lance had lived his hero fantasy out too much. It wasnβt worthiness heβd felt before; it was delusions of grandeur. Fuck Keith for making him feel like he was important, then heading out without so much as a glance back.
Lance wondered if Keith was having a grand time with his new team. He imagined them laughing together, fighting more fiercely in ways that Keith would be proud to work alongside. Pictures spun in his head of Keith finally feeling comfortable, feeling like he belonged somewhere, in this place without Lance.
Bitterness coursed through him like a slow, ugly tar, tugging at his nerves and fraying him at the edges. With steady, rigid hands, he picked up his bayard and walked toward the training room.
No more dreaming. There was work to be done.
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