Summary:

Pidge only gives him a brief moment to think before continuing. "Maybe the reason he doesn't take your suggestions seriously is because he doesn't think you're taking him seriously."

"But I am!"

"Then show him."

He blinks. "How?"

Pidge shrugs then. "Learn the routine he's been working on. Prove to him that you're serious. Then show him your patented Lance McClain flair."

"That's... not a bad idea."

.........................................................................

When he was ten, Lance learned how to surf.

They were on a family vacation. A big one. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, cousins, cousins. They rented out a house, right on the beach. It was cramped and most of them slept on the floor. You couldn't take three steps without stepping on someone or something, and the place was filled with voices, laughter, and the smell of spices at all hours of the day. His dad and uncle tried to teach all the kids to surf that summer, but only Lance really picked it up.

He loved it. Couldn't get enough.

He fell a lot at first, got frustrated a bunch, nearly gave up, but he stuck with it. And the first time he rode successfully through a wave, it was euphoric. Brought him back time and time again. Just to get another taste.

As he got older, he got better. Surfed at different beaches. Got a taste of different waters, different waves. Got a feel for different boards. He doesn't get to surf as much as he'd like, but he loves every second he gets. He gets rusty sometimes, but it's never hard to get back into the groove.

What he likes best about surfing, he thinks, is that it's an Experience. Capital E and everything.

Every time he surfs, it's always different. Always a different wave. Each unique and unlike any before it or any after it. Surfing is always surfing, no matter where he goes, but there are always things that make it a unique experience. The people. The water. The waves. The temperature. The beach. The season. The weather. Each variable combining into a special moment entirely of its own.

At it's heart, it's still surfing, but it's the excitement of each new time that keeps him coming back time and time again. The promise of something new. The unknown of what will happen the next time. The anticipation. Knowing he'll enjoy it but not knowing what this time will bring.

So yeah, surfing is an Experience.

As it turns out, kissing Keith is also an Experience for much the same reasons.

And just like surfing, Lance finds himself coming back time and time again, unable to help himself and unable to regret it.

"And if you pause right after the beat drops, like—" He strikes a pose, waiting a moment for Pidge to strike one opposite of him. They've always done a good job keeping up with his jumbled thoughts as he works through dance moves. "Then pick it back up from here—" He moves, and Pidge moves with him. Slowly. Much slower than the actual beat of the song, but that's fine. They're just testing out movements. "You should be able to seamlessly shift into the next move here—" He demonstrates by stepping right into the already choreographed section they had shown him earlier, only going through a few moves before grabbing Pidge's hand and suddenly sending them into a twirl. "Ta-da!"

Hunk claps slowly from where he's watching from the sidelines, letting out a low whistle. "That looked great, Lance! Do you think you could, uh... go through all of that again? Slower? Maybe?"

He nods. "Yeah, no problem, buddy." Lance lets Pidge go, and they twirl a couple more times before coming to a definitive stop. No wobbling. No swaying. And Lance hadn't exactly spun them lightly. He put enough force into that to make the most sturdy of people dizzy. Yet here Pidge is, standing perfectly still and straight like it made no difference.

Pidge's epicenter of balance is both impressive and mildly terrifying.

They take a moment to adjust their glasses. "I'm pretty sure I remember everything."

"I'm pretty sure I remember everything." Lance mocks, hip cocked and hand making talking motions.

Pidge rolls their eyes. "Photographic memory, dude. It applies here, too."

"Bet you can't do it up to speed."

A glint off their lenses as they tilt their chin, a smirk at the corner of their lips. "You're on."

They slip into position, and Lance gestures to Hunk with a flourish. "Let the music play!"

As it turns out, Pidge makes it through with barely any hesitation, which Lance likes to attribute more to his ability to lead rather than their ability to remember. After that, they go through it again slower with Hunk hovering next to Lance, mimicking the motions. Then several more times with just the two of them and Lance supervising.

"So, like, not that I don't appreciate you helping us and everything," Hunk says fifteen minutes later when they decide to take a break. Lance is lying on his back at the front of the room, legs propped up on the mirror, crossed at the ankles. He looks up from his phone to raise an eyebrow at his friend towering over him. "Cause I do— we really do— we've been stuck on this transition for weeks, but Pidge didn't want to go to you like we usually do cause you made such a big deal out of seeing our routine, and they wanted to teach you a lesson for being a brat."

"Hey!" Lance says, brows furrowing as he scowls, tilting his head back so he can glare at Pidge.

They only shrug, one hand on their hip and the other holding their water bottle to their lips. "You would have done the same."

Lance considers that for a moment, expression relaxing as he shrugs. "True."

"My point is," Hunk says, sitting himself on the floor next to him and crossing his legs as he leans back against the mirror. "We're grateful and everything, but, uh, don't you usually have practice, too? Like... at this time? Specifically?" He looks back and forth between Lance and Pidge, who's brows furrow as they turn to glance at the clock on the wall.

When both pairs of eyes return to him, Lance fidgets, squirming a little in place as he avoid eye contact. "Usually, yeah, but... uh..."

"Lance, what did you do this time?" There's a sigh in Pidge's voice that has him bristling.

"Why do you think I did something?!" He snaps, throwing his arms up in the air and tilting his head back to glare at them.

They look thoughtful for a moment, arms crossed over their chest, water bottle dangling from their fingers, hip cocked to the side. They nod slowly. "Good point. What'd Keith do this time?"

And... okay, that's not really a better question. His arms drop, crossing over his chest as he turns his face away from both of them, grumbling a disgruntled, "Nothing..."

"Soooo... it was you?" Hunk tries.

"No!"

"Forgive me, buddy, but I'm not really seeing the problem here. If neither of you did anything wrong then..." He trails off, but Pidge picks up where he leaves off.

"Then why are you here?"

He sighs loudly, trailing off into a wordless grumble. He doesn't... really know how to explain. He doesn't want to explain. Because he barely knows himself. He rolls over, flopping onto his stomach and lying his arms out uselessly at his sides. His knees bend, folding the bottom half of his legs up the mirror as he kicks at it lightly but enough to get his tantrum point across. His deep groan turns into a high pitched whine, hitting a variety of octaves to really drive home his frustration as he rolls his forehead back and forth over the floor.

He hears Pidge sigh, and Hunk make a consoling, wordless croon. A warm hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "Aww, what's the matter, buddy?" Hunk says, voice soft and concerned. Bless his soul, honestly. "I thought you guys were getting better? Like, you don't really argue as often as you used to, and—"

"And you've been flirting a hell of a lot more." Pidge cuts in.

"That, too."

"I have not!" Lance snaps, voice a lot higher than he wanted but it's too late to cover it up now. He lifts his head to glare at Pidge, hoping that makes up for it.

"Oh, not just you." They say, waving him off. "Him, too."

"Aaaarghh!" He groans, putting his forehead back to the floor, half out of comfort for his neck, but mostly to cover the blood rushing to his face.

"Okay, okay, really, dude. What's wrong?" Hunk's hand is back, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

And that's the big question, isn't it? What is wrong? Nothing's wrong. Nothing feels wrong when he's with Keith. And that's... kind of the problem. Everything is great with Keith. Great enough that any prolonged solo exposure to each other tends to devolve into groping hands and messy make outs. Far more often than he'd like to admit. Especially to Pidge and Hunk.

Mostly Pidge.

Because then Pidge will go on one of their I knew it tirades, and knew what exactly? He thinks Keith is cute? Yeah, obviously, otherwise he wouldn't have kissed the guy at the club... and at the arcade... and pretty much everywhere since then. But he knows that if Pidge knew that, they'd assume it's something more than it is.

And that's... another big question, isn't it? One that's been nagging at the edges of his mind and eating away at his gut, but one that he's been firmly ignoring for his own peace of mind.

What exactly are they?

Friends who make out? Sounds about right. There's where they are now anyway. The problem is that he's not really sure... how... they got here? One kiss just led to another, led to more confidence in initiating it, led to hungry and rushed kisses when they were left alone for longer than five minutes. It feels good. He likes it. Likes kissing Keith. It's an experience that has him constantly coming back for more.

But they haven't really... talked about it. Not that they really need to. They're both on the same page with the whole doesn't have to mean anything. He's fine with that. Friends with benefits? Cool. It's chill. The thought of being in something committed again has his chest feeling tight and the butterflies souring in his gut. He's not really sure he's ready for that. Not again. Not with his dance partner. Not with regionals so close.

Relationships are all well and good until they're not. And when they're not, it sucks. He doesn't like when things go south. Leaves him feeling hollow and vulnerable. He falls too hard, and it takes an embarrassing amount of time to build himself back up again. The risk just isn't worth the reward. At least not right now.

It's a risk he can't afford.

Not when he gets to make out with Keith anyway.

This, however, has put him into a little bit of a dilemma. He's cool with the no labels. And he's chill with the casualty of the whole thing. And he doesn't mind not talking about it because there's nothing that really needs to be said. But because they don't really talk about it, no clear lines have been drawn. So Lance often finds himself wondering just how far he's allowed to go.

It's clear to him that they somehow ended up as friends with benefits. He's just wondering just how far those benefits extend.

Not that he's like... eager to just jump right into bed with Keith, but in the moment, it's kinda hard to figure out exactly where and how far his hands can go, especially when his senses are kinda overloading with Keith and his brain is kinda taking a backseat to his body.

So he's not saying he wants to go jump Keith's bones right now, but it would kinda be nice to know that if they're making out, is it chill or not to kinda go for some under the clothes groping action. And sure, he can kinda just sit back and enjoy the ride, see where the winds take him, ride the tides, live in the moment. And he has been, for the most part. It's just... something that's been on his mind. That's all.

He really doesn't want to fuck up whatever... this is. Not their friendship. Not their partnership. And definitely not whatever hands on, label free road they're taking now.

Unfortunately, all of that is only one of the big fat elephants that've been hanging out in the room of his brain space.

And it's definitely not the problem that he's about to discuss with Pidge and Hunk. Time to deflect to problem number two.

"Nothing's... wrong, exactly..." He sighs, propping himself up on his elbows and waving his hands around vaguely, like that might help him get a grasp on his thoughts. "Things have been good— great even—" Great. Wonderful. Fantastic. Like the feeling of Keith's tongue down his throat and lips on his, like the feeling of the hard planes of his body pressed up against him and those calloused hands— "Fine," He coughs. "Things have been fine. We're friends. It's chill. We're cool. Then we get in the practice room, and it just— just—"

"Goes to shit?" Pidge supplies helpfully.

He snaps his fingers, pointing at them. "Bingo. It's just bad."

Hunk raises an eyebrow. "Bad?"

Lance nods. "Bad."

"Um... explanation, maybe?"

"He's just so— so— uptight! He doesn't listen to anything I say. Won't take any of my suggestions. He sucks all the fun out out of everything." He hadn't really registered himself moving, but as his voice amped up, he had pushed himself into a sitting position, legs crossed and arms waving for emphasis. "It's a dance. It's supposed to be fun, but he's all No-Nonsense McGee up there, acting like he's the only one taking this seriously, when I am taking it seriously! This is a step toward my future! I've been waiting for this for months— years! There's two of us, and I definitely didn't elect him to be the boss, but he sure as hell is acting like it. And then I get mad, then he gets mad, then we both get mad, then suddenly things aren't great anymore, we're yelling, I'm getting kicked out or he's storming out and nothing gets done and— and—" He lets out a long, loud, frustrated groan, throwing his hands up in the air and slouching back against the mirror. His arms come to settle across his chest, chin pointed down and scowl on his face.

The silence that stretches between them is short lived, but feels like an eternity. A single moment that stretches and stretches, thick and heavy as his rant hangs ominously in the air. He hates it. Hates not knowing how his friends will react. Hates not knowing who's side they'll be on. Hates that he considers there to be sides at all.

"So..." Hunk says, drawing it out slowly, not so much shattering the silence as edging his way into it. "Were you kicked out or did he storm out?"

Lance looks away, unable to really make eye contact as he tries to hold his scowl. "Both? Neither? Does it really matter? Point is, we're getting no where, and I don't know how to fix it."

And that's the root of it, really. Over the past few months, he's learned a lot of things about Keith. He knows how to read when his scowl isn't serious. He's learned all these weird little ticks in his body language, all these subtle changes in his expression that are so hard to explain but can just read like they're written across his face in fifty point font.

He's learned Keith's comfort food is chicken nuggets. He's learned that he loves reading during thunderstorms. He's learned he can't really swim but can run for miles on autopilot. He's learned he hates talking during movies but puts up with it when his friends do it. He's learned he's incredibly competitive and an adorable sore loser. He's learned that he doesn't laugh loudly often, but when he does, it comes bubbling up quick and sudden, like he's not expecting it and doesn't know how to contain it.

He's learned Keith really likes to take the reigns when they kiss, but that he also falls apart like putty Lance's hands. He's learned Keith likes to bite and likes to have his hair pulled.

They've managed to figure each other out in small ways, fitting together like jagged little puzzle pieces, finding all the dips and rivets where they fit. Finding common ground. Finding out that they're not really that different and they don't annoy each other as much as he originally thought. They've figured out how to work together. They've figured out how friendship works between them. Hell, they've even figured out how to best mash their lips together.

But he can't for the life of him figure out how to simply be partners. Not without the pressure of a time crunch weighing heavily on their shoulders.

He doesn't know how to fix whatever this is between them. They constantly butt heads, and it's like every little step they've taken forward doesn't count for shit. They're back at square one. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred.

He pulls his knees up to his chest, crossing his arms over them and burying his face where it can be safe and hidden. "I don't know how to fix this..." He repeats, aiming for frustrated but voice sounding a lot smaller and more vulnerable than intended.

Hunk's hand is back at his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into his upper back. He leans into the touch.

"This is what I was worried about when Shiro suggested this whole thing." Pidge says with a sigh.

He lifts his head just enough to give them a look, eyes narrowed and one brow raised. "What's that supposed to mean?" He asks warily.

They sigh again, sitting in front of him with their legs crossed. They adjust their glasses, and it's such a matter-of-fact gesture, Pidge's whole posture factual and concise, that it oddly enough grounds him. "It means that I know both of you. You're both stubborn and pig-headed." He opens his mouth to protest but they hold up a finger to silence him, pushing onward. "You both have your ways of doing things, and you're both stuck in them because you think you know best. You're both incredible dancers, but that won't mean shit if you can't work together."

"I know, but—"

"No but's!" Pidge snaps, and Lance purses his lips tight, glaring but not arguing. "What's been his biggest complaint?"

Lance thinks about that for a moment, rolls the memories of the past few weeks around in his head. There have been a lot of complaints, a lot of accusations and grumbled jabs, but it all kinda boils down to— "That I'm not taking it seriously." He says, lip curling at the thought. He is! He's more serious about this than anything else!

"And are you?"

"Yes!"

Pidge silently raises one eyebrow, crossing their arms over their chest.

His brows furrow, lips pursing. "I am! It's just not, like, Keith serious. I don't know how to be Keith serious! I'm not Keith! Serious looks different on me!"

"Have you learned his routine?"

"...Mostly?"

"Lance."

"I'm trying!"

"I know you are." They say, and again it's not condescending, not pitying. It's matter-of-fact. Like they've never questioned for a moment that Lance wasn't trying. It's enough to keep him calm. "But does he know that?"

Lance opens his mouth to retort, but it snaps shut, brows furrowing. Keith has to know he's at least trying... right? Has he ever given any indication that he wasn't?

Pidge only gives