The Best Klance Fanfictions

Of Florists and Tennis Shoes

of florists & tennis shoes
Summary:

'Lance wasn't sure if he'd imagined the brief tremble at the corner of Keith's lips or not, that slight stutter that promised a smile. But before he could guess further, Keith gave his knee a shove and got to his feet. He reached out to him, "I'm done here, and I've still got some daisies to sell you."

"Yeah," Lance agreed, looking down at the extended palm, noting the little Saturn tattoo on the inside of Keith's wrist where the sleeve hiked. He took the hand, "better not overprice those too, you asshole."'

(in which lance is a broke university student trying to impress a pretty girl with flowers, but ends up falling for the florist that sells them instead.)

Notes:

a/n: okay this was fun to write, but i want to see if it's well received! this is going to be a (probably) six/seven part short story where lance is a sarcastic asshole, and keith is in a little too deep. :)

update: yeah i lied this is in no way short and it will not - in any way - be only six/seven chapters

the hipster florist au nobody asked for but every fandom needs im so sorry

earthquakes shake the dust behind you
this world at times will blind you
still I know I'll see you there

come a little closer, cage the elephant

: cacti and coffeeshopsChapter Text

"Let me get this straight," Pidge raised a calculative eyebrow, pinching the bridge of their nose, "you want to buy her a cactus?"

"Well yes-and no," Lance palmed the back of his neck, both of them walking down the street, one hand rooted deep into his worn university sweatshirt. They moved slowly, basking in the pleasant autumn chill that left leaves strewn about, breaking softly underneath the soles of their feet. He liked it that way, the glow of not-quite summer and the bite of almost winter-a pleasant in between that made his pining all the more ironic. "I want to buy her a cactus, but like, a meaningful one, you know? Chicks dig that sort of stuff, man."

"Don't call me 'man'," Pidge rolled their eyes, middle finger coming up to push at the bridge of their glasses, "please don't tell me you're referring to the language of flowers. I'm almost a hundred and thirty-seven percent sure cacti are not symbolic of romance."

Lance gave a flippant scoff, waving Pidge off with a rolling palm. It was almost routine, how they found themselves in one another's company-brought together more often by coincidence than delicate planning. The town was only so big, after all, and the college likewise; there was pretty little he could do to avoid classmates - not that he tried often. Lance was a social being, and even though run-ins at the grocery store down fifths were hardly an ideal, he supposed it wasn't too bad of a meeting spot for daily gossip. However, that wasn't always the case, and Lance often found himself hungover, clad in sweats and a stained crew-neck, trying to maneuver a labyrinth of isles-least to say, running into particularly voluble neighbors only served to feed the budding migraine and press on his tender nerves.

That morning, though, was different. It involved Lance actively seeking out Pidge.

And so he had, walking through a town that was small in nature, riddled with short buildings and French balconies, in the heart of the woods. A secluded spot, and even as someone who generally disliked the outdoors, Lance could admit that it had it's own charm and aesthetic, even if it made Lance want to trip every cyclist that rode past them. "You just don't get it, do ya, Pidgeon."

"I swear by the moon, Lance," it was an empty threat, paired with a shaken head. There was only so much of Lance one could handle before it became a little too much.