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Love Song in C Minor

Summary:

Sendak pauses and glances between Keith and Lance. He nods at Axca, who pulls out one more paper.

“This is our solution. A fake romance between Keith Kogane, upcoming lead in Love on Daibazaal, and Lance McClain, leading man of Voltron.”

The silence that overtakes the room is deafening. Keith freezes and Lance’s jaw drops when Axca lays the paper down in front of them. Across the top is a mock headline: All You Need to Know About Hollywood’s New Darling Couple: Lance McClain and Keith Kogane.

 

Lance wakes up single with a hangover and goes to bed in a relationship with a stress migraine.

Notes:

The title of this fic in Google Docs is "The Fake Relationship AU of my DREAMS." I wanted to write one and fit in as many tropes as possible, and now it's gotten a bit out of hand and blown beyond my intention. I wanna thank my friends for reading this beforehand and being my encouragement. Big big thank you to my beta Emma for being my absolute savior in sentence structure and everything else.

I'm really, really enjoying writing this because fake relationship aus are my life blood, so I hope you enjoy it as well!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

This is how it's supposed to go:

The stagehand trades Lance's signature striking blue electric guitar for his acoustic, the one his father bought him all those years ago for his first gig at his sister’s quinceañera. It rests comfortably against his chest, just like the stage lights on his face and the microphone at his lips.

Those stage lights blind him from the audience, but he knows in the back of the general admission section is the love of his life. She—

Wait, pause. It used to be a she. When Lance imagined this scenario at the tender age of ten, clutching the guitar in his inexperienced hands, he was damn sure about that one. But the quarterback in high school changed it real fast when Hunk dragged him to a game and he shook his hair out of a helmet. Oh, man. Men. And women! Anyway.

He knows in the back of the general admission section is the love of his life. They're maybe a little flustered, in awe with Lance's last song — one that shows his excellent range and vocal control and maybe includes an awesome guitar solo. As the last notes still ring out and the stagehand trades the guitars, they're unknowing of what's about to happen. Lance cocks a grin to the audience and steps up to the microphone again.

"Madison Square Garden, you've been great so far," he says, the words rolling off his tongue with unpracticed ease. The crowd screams, and he winks back. For dramatic flair, a girl faints at the barrier. "But I have one song to play that's not on the set list. I hope the band doesn't mind if I sing something I wrote last week." They don’t.

The stage lights swivel and dim until the only visible scene on the stage is Lance, his acoustic, and the microphone. In the audience, the love of his life looks up at the change. Lance's played this set a million times, but this is new!

He strums the first chord, G Major. (It doesn't have to be G Major specifically, but Lance read somewhere that a G Major was one of those romantic chords. Or maybe the progression was romantic. Anyway, it's one that ten-year-old Lance can play.) The lyrics, a string of metaphors about finding sunshine in the darkness and the symbolism of a rose, flow from his lips with immaculate tone and pitch, supported by pure emotion.

The love of his life perks up. They're leaning against the back barrier of the section, lost among the crowd that watches in complete awe. But, because this is the love of his life, Lance finds them immediately. He sings the line about [some romantic shit, fill in later], and they make eye contact.

And they understand. How much Lance loves them, and how much they love him back. This song isn't for the audience, it's for them. And here Lance is, on stage with only a guitar and raw talent, serenading them. Them. The love of his life.

In sync, the crowd parts like the Red Sea, leaving a pathway between them and Lance. Lance reaches the bridge, a slow section with special lyrics that leave no other person that can fill the meaning. They walk through the parting, nerves jumping and heart full.

When they reach the stage, the butler at Lance's every bidding helps them onto the stage. As the last chords of the song fall over the arena, they fall in love with him too.

"[Insert Name Here]," Lance says, voice bursting with overwhelming affection, "I love you. I wrote this song to tell you something. I—"

"Lance!" a high-pitched voice screeches from the crowd. Lance huffs, but he knows that absolutely no one can ruin this romantic moment!

"You're the love of my life," Lance continues, taking them by the hands. "And I—"

"Lance, pay some fucking attention!" the voice comes again.

"Holy shit, I'm trying to say something here!" Lance snaps, whipping around to face the audience. "I—"

"LANCE! The tailor wants to know if you're okay with the changes he made! Get your ass off the couch!"

A fan hurls a velvet decorative pillow from the audience and smacks him square in the face.

"Pidge!" Lance growls as he fumbles with the pillow now in his hands. When he brings it down, he’s no longer in Madison Square Garden, but the stupid tailor’s shop, receiving an earful from Pidge. "Coran banned throwing pillows!"

"Yeah, except you were zoned out, and Tyler the Tailor asked you something," Pidge replies from her spot on the platform in the middle of the room, waving her glitter-sleeved arms.

"Sorry," Lance huffs. "Sorry, I was just...”

Hunk pats him on the shoulder as he sits up. Always sympathetic, that Hunk.

“All good, buddy,” he says, although Coran will probably disagree. “You had a long night yesterday.”

Lance’s cheeks burn at the reminder of last night as he rolls off the couch and shuffles to the platform. Tyler the Tailor immediately presses a dark purple blazer into his arms. Oh yeah, last night. On one hand, he should be embarrassed that last night even happened anyway. Being seconds away from a panic attack over an article on Roar Magazine about his stupid sexuality is beyond embarrassing. On the other hand, it provides an excellent cover to not expose his errant daydreaming.

It’s not daydreaming, though. Four years into Voltron, and Lance is surer than ever that that particular fantasy will become a reality. He just has to find a willing participant.

Lance should probably say something else about his sexuality.

It’s been three days since Lance McClain of the pop band Voltron came out as bisexual. Three days since the pap photos of Lance on a private side street with a boy he can’t even remember hit the tabloids, and three days since the emergency meeting where Lance decided he was done with all this shit, all this hiding.

Sendak was understandably pissed, but he relented. He set up the meeting with the magazine. Hunk and Allura held his hands the entire time, and Pidge vowed to bite the interviewer’s head off if they said the wrong thing.

They did, but Hunk held her back just in time. The article published yesterday, and the counter-articles got published after that. And since three days ago, it’s been morning reviews of Internet reactions, updates from Coran on who said what and how it was said (although Lance suspects it’s not everything he’s heard), and wildly switching between fervent scrolling through social media and shutting off his phone altogether.  

So, there’s the update on Lance’s life. His heart still hammers when he wakes up each morning and remembers oh yeah, the world knows that. But then his friends, his bandmates, jump onto the bed, and Lance feels the cords restricting his chest loosen.

Metaphorically and physically, as the tailor unwraps the measuring tape from his chest.

“What is it this time, Tyler?” Lance asks. “Did the gym help? Are my pecs finally enough to get the girl?”

Tyler falters and doesn’t reply, glancing away to the mirror Lance reflected in instead.

“Er. Or the boy. Or the people outside the gender binary,” Lance mumbles. Right. Tyler knows that. “It looks good, Tyler. Red carpet ready.”

“Smooth one,” Pidge says with a yawn from where she now lounges on the plush velvet dressing room couch. The glitter blazer hangs neatly on the rack, and now she’s free to scrub around in her ratty hoodie all she pleases.

“Pidge,” Hunk warns.

“Relax, Hunk. I can admit, it wasn’t my best line,” Lance says. He steps off the raised platform and flops down again beside him, throwing his own skinny legs over his thick ones. Damn, maybe he should go back to the gym. “Besides, what’s the point of being out if I can’t make jokes about it? Right, Pidge?”

Pidge answers his high five without looking away from the DS. Two voices emerge from the store adjacent to the dressing room, and Lance looks up to see Allura and Coran entering. He whistles at her floor length evening gown, an ombre purple falling in sheets and accenting her waist just how she likes.

“Do you really think so?” Allura asks, pulling at the fabric.

“You know you don’t need my opinion,” Lance says. “But yes.

“Just exquisite,” Coran adds. “And perfectly matches the rest of the outfits. Really, you four will be a picture at your first Grammy’s. Speaking of, we need another emergency team meeting before you step out onto the carpet…”

Lance’s fingers carding through Hunk’s hair halt, and Tyler the Tailor pauses in his seam-checking of Allura’s dress. Right. They all know what this will be about.

“I know it’s not the most enticing topic, but Sendak sent over a list of—”

Ugh. What did he say? If anyone asks about my hookups, tell them I’m staying celibate ‘till marriage?” Lance interrupts with a roll of his eyes.

“Lance, I know this isn’t favorable,” Coran says. Tyler shuffles out of the room as inconspicuously as possible, but Allura throws him a wink on the way out. “But he has concerns! Qualms! About how this will affect the image of the band.”

Lance growls in frustration.

“It’s, like, what year is it? It should be fine! The only people bothered are the executives.”

“And every paparazzi that thinks they have access to you on the carpet,” Hunk reminds. The wound is still fresh, is what he’s saying.

 Lance huffs and returns to petting Hunk’s hair. Three days ago, he’d briefly been thrown through a panic thinking Hunk might not be okay with it, but Hunk had reminded him that he’s his best friend, he doesn’t give a single shit. Maybe Hunk can just be his bodyguard the entire time.

“Buddy, the Grammy’s is your first time really in public after the leak. We should talk about it,” Hunk says.

“I get it, I get it,” Lance mumbles. “It’s whatever. We can talk about it.”

It’s not like there aren’t people who support him. It’s not like Pidge hasn’t read him five different tweets that said, verbatim, “you coming out is so important to me!!”. But it’s also like the tabloids want to swallow his carefully crafted lady killer persona and regurgitate it into fodder that makes the parents of their target market freak out. That’s what Sendak says, anyway.

Tyler comes back in and awkwardly announces that he needs to measure Hunk before they go, and then they’re off to the a soundcheck and rehearsal. Hours later, they crowd in Sendak’s office at Galra Records headquarters. Lance’s hands itch to touch the frets and the steel strings of his guitar the entire time, anything to quell the anxiety building in his chest. Nothing quells it. He came out three days ago. He wonders when it will be quelled, or when he’ll feel like normal Lancey Lance again. Not lady killer Lance, not “Has Lance been gay this whole time?” Lance, but Lance who has fantasies about falling in love. That Lance. Normal, human being Lance.

 

 

“This is bullshit,” Lance says as their sleek black car pulls up the curb outside of the Staples Center. Cameras and faces press up to the window instantly, swarming to catch a glimpse of this year’s Best New Artist nominees. Allura places a comforting hand on his back, elegant fingers smoothing over cotton and polyester.

“I know, Lance,” she says. “But it’s more than this. Remember, we’re here because we’re nominated for a song you wrote, and all of us are here to support you.”

“Technically, it’s the whole band. Best new artist! That’s all of us,” Lance reminds her.

“Give me a smile, Lance,” Coran says, twisting around in the front seat of the car to face them. Lance pouts instead. “Well, it was worth a shot! Let’s get out there and pose.”

They pile out of the car. First Allura, then Hunk and Pidge, and lastly, Lance. The clamor of the cameras and microphones becomes deafening when Lance steps onto the ground. They shout, press against each other for a closer look, shove microphones in their direction. Per Sendak’s orders, Lance just grins his signature dazzling grin and follows the rest of the band onto the carpet, Coran close behind.

They’ve never done this before. Not the Grammy’s. Last year, at the Teen’s Choice Awards, Pidge still had long hair and Hunk thought a neon orange bandana went with a pastel yellow blazer. Dark times. This year, they’re at the Grammy’s.

Allura leads the pack onto the carpet, even more stunning with her silver tresses falling in waves over her shoulders. Pidge is behind her, crisp in a tight-fitted suit with the glittery purple blazer, per her request. Hunk’s the most toned down in his usual black suit, but he convinced the tailor to give him a scrap of glittery purple fabric to tie around his head.

Hunk turns around, sensing Lance’s tense presence, and tugs him to the middle of the group, between Pidge and Allura. Their usual formation. There, between the glittery blazer and evening gown and in a deep purple suit of his own, is where Lance faces the crowd.

The red carpet is weird, mostly because it feels like there should be a glass wall between the stars on the carpet and the horde of cameras behind the metal fence. A part of Lance revels in the drama, the action, the recognition of someone calling his name and begging for his attention. Another part squirms under the distinct impression that Voltron is an exotic fish in a too small aquarium, and someone wants to scoop them out in a net and dissect them. Best New Artist will do that. They want to see what you did to get there, and how you might fail.

Coran hurries them along, stopping every ten paces or so for a new group of photographers to call out their turn. Vaguely, Lance registers the other musicians around them. Nyma, farther down, and Lotor just in front of them. Best Pop Act, he thinks Lotor’s nominated for.

They’re not important, though, when the fish tank wall demands their attention. The crowd’s voices muddle together until it’s difficult to pick one calling for Lance from the other.

“Allura, look here!” a disembodied voice cries, and Allura dutifully poses to the left, the rest of them following her lead.

“Hunk, Pidge!” another yells, and they turn that way.

Mostly, they call for Lance.

“Lance! Lance McClain!” a third says, and Lance’s heart thumps painfully against his chest. This one is loud and clear. He faces the center of the aquarium wall and braces himself. “Congrats on coming out!”

A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding wooshes out, and Hunk’s grip on his forearm relaxes just a centimeter. Lance flashes a smile and waves in the general direction, and Coran moves them along.

“See?” Allura murmurs into his ear. Pidge pats him, too, and throws him the sweet Pidge smile that only comes out to play during the full moon.

“Look at you being sociable,” Lance says. “Can’t believe you’re gracing me with anything other than a frown or a sarcastic smirk.”

“You idiot, I’m just proud of you,” Pidge says.

As a pap shouts, “Keith Kogane, look at me!” another bellows, “Lance McClain, over here!” Lance looks vaguely in that direction, fighting the instinct to squint against the lights. “Tell me, what do you prefer in bed?”

On the surface, the question sounds innocuous, but Lance finds the face in the crowd and a malicious smile curls over their lips. He inhales, opens his mouth, and says –

Well, he would have said something if Pidge hadn’t steered him further down the carpet. He vaguely hears Hunk say something, but it’s as if a dam broke loose. Paps stumble over each other to yell their questions. Sendak’s words echo in the back of Lance’s mind and Hunk’s grip is iron on his forearm. A body passes before him, a figure of black and red. The end of the carpet and the entrance is only steps away, but something sick churns through Lance’s body.

He stops, whips around, and faces the aquarium wall. Exotic fish have teeth, right? Lance knows how to bite.

“Do I go around asking you what you prefer in bed?” he spits, and the camera flashes multiply tenfold. “Ooh, that might be a sensitive question. Dunno if there’s anyone in your bed, seeing as you’re out here asking me questions about something that’s none of your business.”

The pap gapes. Coran sputters and laughs behind him, throwing his hands up for damage control. Lance feels Hunk’s nails through the suit fabric, twisting his arm and moving him along, and the red carpet ends.

 

The performance goes fine. Lance should be exhilarated; he is exhilarated, sharing the stage with his best friends and performing for the likes of freaking Beyoncé at the Staples Center. And when the recipient of the Best New Artist is announced, Lance is so exhilarated he thinks he might throw up on stage.

Luckily, he keeps it down. He barely stumbles over their thank you’s at the microphone, and he doesn’t mention his sexuality, per Sendak’s request, even though it fights to jump off the tip of his tongue.

Overall, it’s a good Grammy’s experience. Actually, it fucking rocks, and Lance can’t deny it.  

Now, three out of four Voltron members stumble out of a black car onto another, shorter carpet into the Galra Records Official After Party. Lance turns back and blows baby Pidge a kiss through the open door.

“Sleep tight! Don’t let the haters bite!” he says. Pidge sticks out her tongue and slams the car door shut.

Lance cackles and lands in Hunk’s embrace.

“Man, I don’t know why she doesn’t want to stay,” he says, trying his best to ignore the commotion around them as they enter the party. “She won a Grammy, and she has the energy of a seven-year-old who found the Red Bull behind the veggies.”

“Maybe she has more important things to do than hang with us all night,” Hunk says. Lance and Allura burst into giggles.

“Nah,” Lance says. “She doesn’t.”

The Galra Records After Party is always pretty glorious. It’s one of those you see photos of on People the next morning. Perfect pictures of perfectly done up people dancing and chatting in designer clothes. The sea of them practically parts as Allura sweeps through the cavernous marble hall entrance. The rest of them follow, all exchanging hellos with Galra execs and featured artists in turn.

“Good job, kids,” a prim old woman in a silvery dress says as they pass. She has this smile, like she’s expecting something of them now. She probably is. Lance doesn’t want to think about that.

Eventually, Allura leads them into the center of the dance floor.

“Dance with me, Lance?” she asks, holding out a delicate hand.

“Already? We barely got here!”

“You’re wound up like a child’s toy,” she says. “Before you do anything else, you need to dance.”

Lance’s friends know him too well. Fifteen minutes later, the bungee cords restricting his chest have loosened a few inches, and Lance feels his laughs deep in his stomach as Hunk shimmies with a slightly familiar blonde girl and Allura pulls Lance into a dip.

As Lance comes up from the dip, someone calls, “Allura! It’s so good to see you again!”

Lance comes face-to-face with another on the record label: Lotor, the hotshot pop artist with two hits in the Top 40 at any given time. They didn’t have time to say at Staples, but Lance only feels half-guilty for it.

“Oh, hello,” Allura says, letting herself be pulled into a two-armed hug.

“Lance, Hunk,” he says as he tucks a lock of greasy, badly bleached hair behind his ear. “Congratulations. I know I didn’t win my category, but Voltron saved the day for Galra Records.” He faces Allura. “Come, we should catch up! I have to show you the terrace in this house!”

Allura shrugs, nods at her bandmates, and lets herself be dragged off.

“I don’t know how anybody thinks he’s charming,” Hunk says. “You smelled his cologne from here, right?”

“Oh, totally. He reeks of Walmart without ever having to enter one.”

Hunk throws his head back and laughs. The glitter on his headband sparkles in the dim chandelier light.

“I gotta go find Shay somewhere. She said she’d be catering this one. You okay to just mingle around and we’ll catch up in thirty?”

“Yeah, definitely. Go find your girl,” Lance says. Hunk smiles shyly and heads into the crowd, leaving Lance to weave through on his own.

He doesn’t have a destination in mind, barely knows where he’s heading as strangers and familiar faces yell his name and wave in congratulations. He grins, winks, and waves back at every one of them. On any other night, he’d sidle up to Nyma and wrap on arm over her shoulder to join her conversation. Tonight, he finds himself deposited at the long sleek bar and slumping into one of the two last seats available.  

“Gimme a shot of something,” he orders the bartender. The girl’s gaze lingers on him for just a moment too long before she hurries to pour it for him. He downs it the second she puts it down, relishes in the burn that tugs at the cords. It does the job just as well as dancing.

Another warm body slides into the seat beside him. Lance plans to ignore them in favor of the second shot, but when a raspy voice rumbles, “Just a beer, thanks,” his eyes snap to the figure.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Keith Kogane?”

Keith, the Keith Kogane, blinks at him.

“Yes? And you’re… Lance McClain. From Voltron.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I am. We won a fucking Grammy today.”

“That’s cool,” Keith says. He pauses to sip from his glass, and Lance takes the moment to soak him in.

Now that he can look, really look, without fear of a stranger reading into it, he can admit that Keith Kogane is hot. He’s only ever told that to Hunk at two a.m. after a one-pound bag of Skittles and a five-hour romantic comedy marathon. In this dim light, surrounded by a cacophony of stars and their entourage, Lance can truly appreciate the messy locks of his pitch-black hair, the marble of his skin that rivals the room, and the line of his neck and jaw as he sips.

“I’ve watched your movies,” he blurts out, and immediately cringes. “I mean, my sister loves them. So do me and Hunk and Allura. You’re, like, an incredible actor.”

“I am?” Keith raises a thick, perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Thanks.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? This is the music industry, not film.”

“Someone I know has a song in a film I’m in. I figured I’d tag along with him.”

Lance remembers as the alcohol begins to fray his system why exactly he’s spent so much time thinking about Keith Kogane at two a.m. with Skittles.

“You’re gay, right?” Ah, shit, another stupid phrase to make him cringe.

“Yup. And you’re bisexual. I saw it online,” Keith says.

Lance’s face heats up and he looks away, back to the bartender who stands suspiciously close to them, cleaning out the same glass for the second time.

“Yeah, oops,” he mutters.

“Oops?”

“Oops,” Lance repeats. He doesn’t know why he’s talking. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You come out as openly bisexual, face the stigma and backlash, and you say oops?” Keith’s brows furrow in a way that really shouldn’t be adorable. Lance swallows thickly.

“Duh,” he says. “But I guess it’s done. I’m not ashamed or whatever.”

“You shouldn’t be. Shit’s tough, but you’re doing it anyway. You should be proud of yourself. For coming out and the Grammy.”

Lance’s jaw drops.

“Thank you? I mean, thanks. Wow. That means something, coming from you.”

“Nah, don’t thank me,” he shrugs, swirling the beer in the glass. Then, he tilts his head, a glint of something indecipherable in his eyes. “Actually, I’m a little offended.”

“Wha—offended? Why?”

“You just come out, you’re allowed to flirt with guys, and when I sit next to you at the bar, your first reaction is to tell me your sister loves my movies.”

Lance stutters, his brain short-circuiting, but Keith cuts him off with a low chuckle.

“Don’t freak out,” he says. “I’m just curious. I thought I heard that you were the lady killer of the band.”

Right. Right. The ‘lady killer’ of Voltron. Lance tries to conjure one of the countless lines that have worked on girls in the past. When he looks up and sees the masculine curve of Keith’s cheekbones, the soft hair curling over his ears, he comes up short.

“I, uh, I dunno how to flirt with guys,” Lance says. He can feel his jaw go slack again as Keith just gives him this smile, wide enough to show his canines. It looks beautiful on him. The thought why do they make him play moody all the time when he could look like this flashes through his mind.

“Really? I’m surprised. All the rumors I’ve heard is that you flirt with anything that has two legs and the possibility of something between them.”

Lance scoffs and accepts the shot the bartender’s slid in front of him. He musters up his best wink and leans forward.

“That’s what you get when you keep half of yourself locked away your whole life. Hey, maybe you can teach me, Mr. Romance,” he says. “I got all my best moves from your movies anyway.”

Keith rolls his eyes so hard Lance worries they might drop out onto the bar top.

“Don’t. They never work in real life. Real flirting, with real guys, is a bit different.”

“Oh, yeah? Show me, hotshot.”

It’s a challenge. Lance hesitates, seeking out the answer in Keith’s deep fucking eyes. Jesus, is Lance drunk or are they really purple this close up? Just when the silence begins to feel awkward, Keith smirks and rises up to meet it.

“I do know a thing or two,” he says. A sultry smile replaces the smirk, and Keith leans forward and grazes Lance’s forearm with his fingers. “About you, I mean. A thing or two more than what the tabloids have shown over the last week. Congrats, by the way.”

“You’re a little late on that,” Lance says. His words air slightly on the side of breathless as Keith’s fingers trail up to his bicep.

“I’ve seen your band in concert.”

“You? At a concert? I can’t see it.”

“Insult me again and I’ll stop,” Keith warns, but the ghost of his touch is relentless. “My costar dragged me to see you guys. See, she had a thing for the girl with the silver hair—”

“Allura,” Lance interrupts. “Who doesn’t?”

“But she never warned me that I’d see you onstage. You know, with your guitar and your tank top. It was winter, but when has weather ever stopped Lance McClain’s look?”

This can’t be classified as flirting, not when Keith’s fingers glide up his neck and settle on the line of his jaw, the pad of Keith’s thumb only centimeters away from his lips. Lance’s breath hitches.

“The way you act with that microphone,” Keith drawls, looking up at Lance through his long eyelashes. “I’m surprised nobody figured it out before now.”

His touch lingers. Keith maintains eye contact, raising an eyebrow when Lance doesn’t answer, only flickers his attention to Keith’s lips and tears it away again in half a thumping heartbeat.

“Oh, wow,” he hums. “I really made Lance McClain speechless. I should be awarded for this.”

To their left, the flash of a lightbulb shatters the moment. Lance jumps a foot above his seat and Keith’s hand falls away, both of their eyes snapping to a camera on the other side of the crowd. Fuck.

“Wh-what—” Lance’s brow furrows. The flash registers in his brain; oh, no. Sendak. “Shit. That’s gonna be out in ten minutes. Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

He cuts himself off, sliding off the bar stool and furiously rubbing his cheeks to will the blush away.

“What’s wrong? It was just one photo,” Keith says. He makes to stand up, but Lance holds his hand up and Keith obeys.

“It’s, um, complicated. Sorry, Keith, but I should find the rest of them. We have to, er, plan something. Something good. It requires extensive work.”

“At a Grammy’s After Party?” Keith asks incredulously. “After you won a fucking Grammy? Lance, if I made you uncomfortable, just tell me.”

“You didn’t! You didn’t. Um, I just need to…”

“Was I good teacher, though? It’s the touching that does the trick. When I saw you on the red carpet earlier, you were touching at least one of your bandmates the whole time.”

Lance pauses when he should be making a getaway, cocks his head at Keith like his ears aren’t bright red.

“It was. Um, good. Do you always observe things like that on the red carpet?” he asks.

“Sometimes, yeah, when I’m bored,” Keith shrugs. “It comes in handy for things like this. Even when I’ve never heard of you outside of the past week and I’ve never actually been to one of your concerts, I can still exploit the observed weakness to my advantage.”

Oh. Something in Lance deflates. Of course Keith Kogane’s never been to a Voltron concert. The guy hasn’t posted to Instagram in two years, much less listened to music beyond Mozart’s early works.

“You act like flirting is a battle,” he says, clearing his throat to tamp down the disappointment.

“It is,” Keith says. “And I won.”

He slides off the bar stool and pats Lance on the shoulder as he strides past, disappearing into the writhing mass of bodies. Maybe if Lance looks, he can find a face of someone familiar, but he only watches the head of unkempt black hair lose itself amongst everyone else.

Lance can’t help but stumble back to the bar and order a new drink. Keith wasn’t flirting with him. He just took pity. Woe is me, this baby bisexual just came out of the closet and doesn’t have experience! I must teach him, because I, the king of Nicholas Sparks book-to-film adaptations, know so much better. Lance might be known for promiscuity, but I, Keith Kogane, can save the day with an observable exploitation!

Lance clutches his glass and groans, letting his head fall to the bar top. He’ll deal with Sendak tomorrow. Right now, he needs to be so drunk Charon himself will have to haul his hangover body down the River Styx.

 

“Lance,” an indistinct voice says from somewhere far away, somewhere decidedly not here, deep in comfort, toes buried in the sand and water lapping at his ankles… The voice tugs sharply at his shoulder. “Lance, wake up! You’re not going to believe your daily social media report.”

“Wha…?” Lance mutters, already slipping away from the sand and sea. He rolls over to snuggle into the sheets only to bump into a pair of bony knees. Lance cracks an eye open. Pidge.

“There you are, you lazy ass. Here’s some water and Tylenol. Quick, because I have a bomb-shell to drop on you and I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

Lance groans and pulls himself into a sitting position, accepting the pills and glass Hunk held out. He vaguely wonders why both Pidge and Hunk are in his room this early. Oh, and Allura, who perches on the end of his bed in pajamas.

As he gulps down the water, the memories of last night seep back into his brain. The red carpet, the award, the After Party. Dancing with Allura. Drinking shots with Joe Jonas. Leering at Hunk and Shay when they huddled in the corner.

The red carpet; spitting insults at the paparazzi. The award; biting down the words he really wanted to say. The After Party; Keith Kogane.

He sputters at that thought and the last of the water cascades onto his bare chest. Shit, Keith. The photo.

He groans again and doubles over. Someone takes the glass away and Lance digs the heels of his hand into his eyes, willing the image to go away. Now he knows why they’re all here. If it wasn’t the band, Coran would wake him up. Or Sendak.

“I take that as you remembering what happened?” Allura says, worry evident in her big eyes. Lance nods meekly. “Why did you not tell us?”

“It didn’t seem important,” Lance says. A lie. “Is it bad?”

Hunk gently maneuvers him upright.

“It’s not that bad. Sendak hasn’t called Coran yet, so it’s not that bad,” he says.

“Do you wanna see?” Pidge asks.

Lance shrugs. He doesn’t have any choice.

Pidge picks up the laptop she had placed at her side and sets it on Lance’s lap.

VOLTRON’S LANCE MCCLAIN LETS LOOSE!

After coming out as bisexual with a few sneaky pap shots last week, Voltron front man Lance McClain had quite a night at the Grammy’s, where the band won their first Grammy for Best New Artist. The band appeared on the red carpet flaunting gorgeous matching purple attire. While they were all smiles at first, McClain began to throw insults at the paparazzi when they mentioned the elephant in the room: his sexuality.

Lance squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and opens them again, skimming further down the page. Halfway down the article, the image he’s looking for appears. Even though the cameraman was halfway across the room, he managed to nab the perfect shot: Keith Kogane and Lance McClain with their whole bodies turned towards each other, Keith holding his gaze with his eyes and his jaw with his hand. Lance’s own hand touches the same spot automatically, like he can still feel it.

At the Galra Records After Party, photographers got a shot of McClain cozying up to film star Keith Kogane. Kogane was in the news half a year ago for coming out as gay, announcing he would play the lead in the gay love story Love on Daibazaal, set to be released in late March. Now, he’s in the news again with McClain. We here at People are just waiting for all the juicy details surrounding this blossoming relationship.

“Blossoming relationship, huh?” Pidge asks.

“Would you like to elaborate?” Allura prods.

“There’s nothing to elaborate on,” Lance says, thrusting the laptop back to Pidge. “He sat down next to me at the bar. I told him Veronica likes his movies and he – I dunno, it ended up like that. But I left right after the photographer took the shot. I didn’t even know the guy was there! Or else I wouldn’t have – I wouldn’t—”

“Hey, it’s okay, buddy,” Hunk says, a comforting hand rubbing circles on Lance’s back.

“It’s not. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that thing to the paps, and I shouldn’t have let Keith… I don’t know. Do that.”

“There’s good news, too,” Pidge says, turning the laptop back around. “Well, good depending on how you look at it. Dude, your Twitter exploded overnight with that photo.”

@lanceylance – oh my god??!?! Did u guys see that pic of lance and keith Kogane??? They looked so cute together!!!!

@alicelovespidge – I’m FANNING MYSELF i can’t BELIEVE my favorite actor and favorite singer in ONE SHOT. FLIRTING??? On the same night Voltron won a grammy???? blessed

@hunksorangeheadband – LANCE MCCLAIN IS OUT THERE, BEING BISEXUAL, SHOUTING AT PAPS. MY CROPS ARE WATERED, CHILDREN FED. MY SKIN IS CLEAR, JUST AS LANCE PROPHESIED. LIFE IS GOOD

@alicelovespidge – @hunksorangeheadband THAT PAP WAS SO RUDE???? WHO THE HELL SAYS THAT? IT’S 2015. LANCE HAS A GRAMMY

“There’s more,” Pidge says. “Like, tons more. Like, the most interactions with our social media accounts that’s happened in weeks.”

“Is it. Is it all like that?” Lance asks, a little breathless.

“No,” Hunk says. “Um, there’s some where it’s… kind of bad. Kind of exactly what Sendak described would happen. But there’s this! Like Pidge said, there’s a lot of this!”

Lance manages a meager smile. He sniffs, wipes away the water still on his chest.

“Thanks, guys. Group hug?”

“Only for a second. You fucking reek, McClain.”

“Aww, Pidge! I love you, too,” Lance coos, wrapping her in his arms. She squeals, but relents when all four of them tumble into each other in one big signature Voltron Hug. That’s what the fans call it, the Voltron Hug. They do it on stage, with the fans, in interviews. This one is blissfully private.

A shrill ringtone interrupts the peaceful moment, and Lance ducks away enough to see Coran, Coran, the Gorgeous Man-ager lighting up his phone. Hunk smiles and nods, and Lance picks up the call.

“Lance, you’re awake!” Coran cries. There’s noise in the background, like he’s already stuck in Los Angeles traffic. “Good morning! Listen, Pidge has probably already filled you in on the predicament, yes?”

“Um, yeah,” Lance replies.

“Good, good Pidge! Tell Pidge thank you from Coran. Uh, slight change in plans for today, then. I know we said we would give you the morning off, but, er. There’s no easy way to say this. Sendak wants an emergency meeting at Galra Records Headquarters. About the predicament.”

Lance’s carefully constructed neutral expression crumbles. Of course.

“The whole band?” he asks.

“No, Lance. Just you.”

A pause, where Coran knows he’s processing the information.

“I’m coming to pick you up now,” Coran continues. “The driver and I are around five minutes away. Be dressed, and, please, not in sweatpants or swim trunks this time.”

“Shit. I mean, okay! I’m, like, already dressed. I’m still in my suit. I’m never undressed.”

“Alright, my boy. See you in a tick.”

The line goes dead, and Lance drops the phone and wriggles out from under the covers.

“Emergency meeting with Sendak in five minutes. Coran thanks you, Pidge. I’m gonna go die, now.”

“You won’t die,” Allura says. “At worst, it’ll be a coma until the album comes out.”

“That’s super reassuring. I love you, too, Allura. Please, get out of my room.”

Hunk and Pidge throw him grins and disappear, but Allura hesitates at the door.

“Will you be alright? I can come with you,” she says. “This is a difficult topic. It’s your… sexuality, after all.”

“Don’t worry, Allura. I’m sure it’s just gonna be Sendak yelling at me for five minutes and then assigning me pre-written tweets to promote the new single. I’ve never entered Galra HQ and not lived to tell the tale.”

Her mouth pinches into a frown, but she nods and leaves to join the others on the couch. God, Lance desperately wishes Allura could tag along. Her quick tongue deals with Sendak better than the rest of them.

Instead, he smacks his face against the closet door and pick out the least stained jeans and shirt off the floor. Just to spite Sendak.

The car arrives, and Lance stumbles outside with a hug from each of his bandmates. He crashes into the back seat next to Coran, who’s already tapping away on his phone like no other.

“Morning!” Coran says. “Er, well, it’s almost noon now, isn’t it? Ah, well. I’ve already spoken with Sendak this morning, plus a couple of papers and others on the Voltron team.” He takes a breath, glancing up from his phone to see Lance curled up in the seat. “Are you feeling alright?”

Lance inhales, deep and shuddering, and offers Coran a signature Lance smile.

“I’m all good, Coran. Don’t worry. The band hooked me up with some Tylenol.”

Coran nods a bit thoughtfully.

“I trust you, Lance. I feel I should warn you, though. I can’t tell you yet what Sendak is going to say, but I do hope that the Tylenol helped.”

The cords tighten around Lance’s chest.

“Yup. Like I said, all good. Take me to my fate, Coran.”

 

Galra Records, in Lance’s never humble opinion, is way too fucking enormous. By the time Lance and Coran enter the foyer, they’re almost five minutes late to the meeting. The secretary glances up in boredom and directs them down to the elevators, up to the fifth floor. The hallways are long, large, and lined with posters, records, and signatures of Galra prodigies. Lance knows that at the other end of this hallway is a massive floor-to-ceiling poster of Voltron, taken from the photoshoot for their first album. Lance’s egregiously loopy signature goes right across Poster Lance’s chest. He quirks a smile at the memory.

It disappears when they reach the end of the hallway. They come upon the heavy double doors to the assigned board room, a silver disruption in the rich purple walls. Coran throws Lance one last look before heaving the doors open, revealing the long mahogany meeting table and cluster of black chairs. At the head of the table is Sendak in all his glory, hands folded on the table and sharp eyes already locked onto Lance.

“Good morning! Or good noon. Good afternoon? Hello, Sendak,” Coran says, steering Lance to a seat on the right side of the table. Lance is so immersed in the thumping of his own heart, the sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, that he doesn’t register the other occupants of the room until he’s forced into the chair and facing them.

“What the fuck,” Lance blurts. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Keith says.

Keith Kogane. Right there. Looking just as good, if not better, in a loose hoodie and unbrushed hair. Fuck me, Lance thinks frantically. I should have left with Pidge.

“Boys,” Sendak says, his voice cool and deep. It draws their attention away from each other to the rest of the room. “I’m pleasantly surprised we could all make it so early. I know how you must be feeling, Lance.”

Lance bristles, but Coran places a hand on his shoulder.

“Lance, Coran, this is Keith Kogane and his agent, Kolivan. Keith, Kolivan, this is Lance McClain and his manager, Coran.”

“The one and only,” Coran says with a wink. Kolivan doesn’t react. Jeez, talk about stone-facing.

“Although Keith and Lance have already met,” Sendak says slyly. He gestures to the right side of him. “This is my assistant, Axca, and a Galra Records lawyer, Narti. Thank you for joining us today, Narti.”

Narti doesn’t say anything either, only nods. The hairs on the back of Lance’s neck stand on end. He knows Galra Records lawyers. This isn’t someone he knows.

“I assume you’ve both seen social media over the last twenty-four hours,” Sendak says. “The photo. The articles. The social media interactions.”

Axca slides a photo across the smooth wood, and Lance doesn’t have to look to know what he will see. What he will feel, the phantom touch of Keith’s fingers on his arm and jaw. He makes the grave mistake of locking eyes with Keith, only to find him emotionless.

“Not only the photo, but your behavior on the red carpet, Lance,” he continues, turning all his attention like a spotlight on Lance. “You know we talked about this beforehand. What were my instructions?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean to cause a scene,” Lance mutters.

“I think it was the pap that caused a scene,” Keith says. Lance’s eyes widen. “He was the one asking an invasive question.”

“Thank you for the input, Keith, but that’s between Lance and his superiors,” Sendak says. Keith frowns, but he doesn’t push against it. “No matter. Lance already broke the rules, so this meeting is about finding a way to fix it. Might I add, in a way that is beneficial for both parties.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Kolivan says, speaking for the first time the whole meeting.

“Axca,” Sendak says with a nod. Axca opens a manila folder in front of her and spreads out a collection of papers, close enough that Coran and Kolivan can pick them up. Lance catches a glimpse of the article Coran picks – Voltron’s Lance McClain Lets Loose!

“You sure know how to gain a little attention, Lance. More so than your little outburst, the picture of you and Keith Kogane is making incredible rounds on the internet. Not only is it in articles and on talk shows, but the social media reaction practically exploded. Here’s a graph on the rate of Twitter interactions between followers and non-followers on Lance’s Twitter.”

Axca hands out another paper. Lance may not know any math beyond simple addition, but he can understand a jump in a bar graph when he sees one.

“Well,” Coran breathes.

“I trust the same is happening for Keith’s Twitter, Kolivan?” Sendak asks. Kolivan shifts a little uncomfortably but relents with a nod. Sendak’s lips curls into a sickly smile. “I wouldn’t have been able to foresee this kind of attention before Lance said he wanted to come out. Now, you know I wasn’t too fond of the idea, but the amount of free promotion we’ve gotten for the new Voltron album is practically priceless. Wouldn’t you say, Coran?”

Lance’s mind whirled. Just yesterday, Sendak was telling him that all the press was bad, bad for the fans and for their parents. Lance, the guy in the alley with another guy, when he already flirts with every girl on stage.

“Er, yes, I suppose so,” Coran says. “But weren’t you saying…”

“Yes, I was. But this photo changes things.” Sendak drops the leisurely pace of the conversation, placing his palms flat on the table and morphing the smile into a flat frown. “There’s a way to solve all our problems. The new Voltron album needs more promotion if it wants to make the same success as the last one. Love on Daibazaal is also desperately in need of promotion.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I’ve seen the numbers, Kolivan. You remember that we work for the same overarching company. It’s a breakthrough film, will reach new crowds and new audiences, but Keith is still an up-and-coming actor in terms of international stardom.”

Sendak pauses and glances between Keith and Lance. He nods at Axca, who pulls out one more paper.

“This is our solution. A fake romance between Keith Kogane, upcoming lead in Love on Daibazaal, and Lance McClain, leading man of Voltron.”

The silence that overtakes the room is deafening. Keith freezes and Lance’s jaw drops when Axca lays the paper down in front of them. Across the top is a mock headline: All You Need to Know About Hollywood’s New Darling Couple: Lance McClain and Keith Kogane.

Lance is the first one to speak.

“That’s funny, Sendak. I didn’t know you had a sense of humor, but this is real hilarious,” he says, forcing a fake laugh.

“It’s not a joke, Lance,” Sendak says. “It’s a lucrative business decision. You two would be perfect as the exciting new romance on the scene. Nothing could be more cliché; it’s perfect for a groundbreaking movie like Love on Daibazaal, and Voltron fans are already eating it up.”

“One quick question, Sendak. What about—”

Sendak waves Coran off.

“If Lance McClain is in a sturdy, committed romantic relationship, it staves off the rumors and keeps the target market. There are – and excuse my liberal use of the term – literally no downsides to this. Agreed, Kolivan?”

Kolivan rolls the idea around in his mind for only a moment longer before nodding.

“Good, good. You’re on the same page, then. And Coran?”

“Coran, no way,” Lance pleads. “This is weird! I’ve never met Keith before last night! You can’t think lying to the fans about this is a good idea!”

Coran tugs at his collar and looks sheepishly away.

“We’ve already discussed this, Lance,” he says, and Lance curses the day Coran was born. “Don’t worry! There’s not many requirements and it’s minimal effort. Well, sort of. Sendak will lay it out.”

“I can’t believe it,” Lance hisses. “Betrayed by my own manager.”

Keith, at least, looks on sympathetically.

“It would last for three months, right up until and a little after the release of the album and the movie. Requisites include public dates, event appearances, social media interaction, and paparazzi walks.”

“Social media interaction?” Lance cries.

Dates?” Keith asks.

“Anything that would keep up exactly what happened last night,” Sendak says. “Although, maybe a little more family friendly.”

Lance can literally (excuse his liberal use of the term) feel Keith’s eyes boring into him. The whole interaction plays back unbidden in Lance’s mind. If only he’d fucking left with Pidge.

“Are we settled?” Sendak asks.

“Yes,” Kolivan says.

“Kolivan,” Keith starts, but Kolivan is already reaching for the contract that Narti holds out. Narti gives another one to Coran, and the Keith and Lance stare on in disbelief as their managers begin filling them out.

“We’ll settle the terms and a story a little more clearly in a moment. Right now, a bit of advice for Hollywood’s new couple,” Sendak says. He’s got that smile again, that insidious grin. “For this to work, you need to get a little comfortable with each other. Being friends isn’t a prerequisite, but it would be realistic.”

“I doubt Mr. Romance will have a problem with that,” Lance can’t help but huff under his breath. Keith narrows his eyes. God, being angry at Keith would be a lot easier if he didn’t look like that in that hoodie.

That might be a problem, a niggling thought whispers. Lance pushes it far out of his mind; present Lance isn’t equipped to deal with it. Present Lance needs to scramble with the realization that he’s now a taken man, bound by contract and all.   

Present Keith stares blank-faced at the contract placed before him. He takes the pen, hesitates, and signs it. Signature, initial, date. They’re a couple.

 

Notes:

Thanks so much for reading!! Present Max is unbelievably excited for the next chapter.

Here's my Tumblr, and kudos and comments are appreciated and motivating ;).