The Best Klance Fanfictions

Not That Bad

by varelsen
original work here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7685992?view_full_work=true

art by:

Lance is late. This in itself is not unusual: he’s used to running on Lance Standard Time, and the world waits for him. He has, on occasion, been sarcastically declared “fashionably late, again” by professors and friends alike, and he always takes it as a compliment.

Today, though, he’s not too keen on the idea. It’s his early-morning cosmology class (“How is ten o’clock early?” Pidge had asked, with the incredulous tone of someone who takes advanced math at eight AM; “I’m a growing boy, I need my sleep,” Lance replied), and he is loath to miss it. It’s an elective, and one of the only classes he can take with Pidge and Hunk. Strangely enough, there’s not a lot of overlap between the schedules of brilliant young engineers and a guy who still hasn’t settled on a path in life because he couldn’t major in Awesome, so he’s got to appreciate what little he gets.

Also, there’s the problem of seating, Lance notes grimly and swerves around a corner as fast as he dares, messenger bag slapping against his hip. The three of them had figured that cosmology would be interesting but not exactly an academic blockbuster, and the school seemed to agree, if the size of the lecture hall was anything to go by. What neither party had counted on was Professor Coran’s TA, Shirogane: an absolute heartthrob who has gotten people to sit in on the class in unprecedented numbers. On some days, they line the walls.

Meaning, Lance needs to leg it.

At ten-fifteen, he skids to a halt outside the door and slips inside, lithe as a cat.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Hunk spots him from the back row and waves. Lance figures his expression is supposed to be sympathetic, but it doesn’t really work when he’s sitting in such a prime location without a conveniently saved seat beside him. Pidge, on Hunk’s left, glances up and gives him a nod, eyes bleary behind their big round glasses.

He can’t see a single empty chair.

“Lance, hi!” Shirogane chirps; you wouldn’t think a guy that size could chirp, but somehow that’s exactly what he does.

“Hey,” Lance says. Shirogane is the kind of person who manages to remember everyone’s names and sport an amazing jawline at the same time, and Lance suspects that if you measured the angles of that jawline, you could find a way to mathematically prove that life isn’t fair.

“Don’t worry, we’ve barely gotten started. I’m just passing out these handouts. I’ll get to you in a minute, so you can go ahead and sit down over there!”

He points to a seat in the front row, and a colorful curse explodes in Lance’s mind. He was angling for a vacant chair near the middle that he spotted two seconds ago, but now that the stupid nice TA with his stupid sparkly smile has directed him, it’s not like he has a choice. Slouching, he makes his way toward the front and aims a death glare at Pidge, who is laughing. They know he hates sitting in the front, where it’s harder to doodle silly obscene things in his notebooks or check his phone under the table, and—

Ohhh no.

Lance is already nudging his way past people’s legs and apologizing under his breath when he sees it: in the seat next to his, there is someone with an all-too-familiar mullet that nearly makes him choke on rage.

As Lance finally makes it past the last person and drops his messenger bag on the floor, the guy turns to the side a little, and yup – it’s definitely him. Lance’s eyes narrow, sirens are going off in his head like in Kill Bill, and he just barely manages to stop himself from hissing, “YOU!”