There's a thin line between Heaven and Hell(and Lance may or not have broken it)

Chapter 1

Lance very much liked to believe that he was a sensible and mature 23 year old. (Pidge would firmly deny that, but whatever.)

He went in to work on time(if barely), didn't litter, gave up his seats to the elderly, and was just a relatively nice human being. (Ok, so he didn't give money he blatantly had to a homeless person when asked; but he digresses.)

Lance... Lance had his days.

Usually, he was up and about by 8am dancing around his one-bed apartment doing god knows what, but today had a fuck-it feel to it that had him rolling out of bed at midday.

Not only has he got no work today(bless), but it also happened to fall on a Friday.

Fridays, in Lance' mind, were days that had him being a lazy ass and not doing anything but lounging around in his pyjamas.

It meant fuck wiping up that bit of juice he spilt on the kitchen counter only 5 minutes ago, and wow look at that pile of clothes he was not washing. (It also meant he definitely wasn't going to cook. Which brings us to his current dilemma of what to eat.)

During this particular olympic event, there were generally four options for him to decide from concerning food.

Option one was the preferred and much used course of action that involved calling The Chef™(AKA Hunk Garrett, that beautiful boy) and getting him to cook for Lance.

The second option was there just for aesthetics. (Going out to eat defeated the purpose of lazing about in his wrinkled, blue starred pajamas that were actually giving off a funky smell now that he payed attention to th-)

Option three was to order.... but that was a complete no-go. (He was as broke as that glass he smashed the other day; which was to say he had a lot of no money.)

The fourth and final option was to scour the fridge for a ready meal that was probably nearing its sell by date.

Seeing as Hunk was still at work, even though he was supposed to have finished three hours ago at four(Lance is just waiting for the phone call asking him to come help out), the first option was figuratively thrown out the window.

With that in mind, and the lack of finances, Lance could see how his sudden list of four options were quickly becoming just one.

Ready meal it was. (He would've gone with ramen noodles if he hadn't already eaten his last two packets earlier this afternoon.)

Just to reiterate. Lance very much liked to believe that he was a sensible and mature 23 year old.

So when he accidentally set his microwave on fire(an exaggeration, really) and his first reaction was to, maybe, chuck the burnt and bubbling meal out the already-open window; he thought that he might just not be as responsible and mature as he originally liked to believe. (He never actually did- but what the hell, someone had to prove Pidge wrong.)

After spending about five seconds staring at the product of his stupidity, he yanked his head back in, let out a quiet 'what the shit, Lance', and grabbed a tea-towel lying about to attempt to fan the burnt smelling microwave out the window(so the distinct smell would not waft into the apartment halls and alert anybody of his failings at living successfully by himself that any person his age should be capable of. Apparently).

In his eyes, he thought he did a good job of covering up the little incident(he may have febrezed that shit).

Except, he was very sure that the dark purple(fucking purple) smoke billowing out from the still-open microwave was, in fact, not from the food tossed out the window and splattered on some patch of grass, but probably the man now standing in front of him.

Lance wished he could say that the yelp that left his mouth was from the fact that there was an unknown(and very, very naked) man standing with hunched shoulders in his kitchen; but no. It was because despite the absolutely brilliant physique of said man, he could recognise that god damn mullet anywhere.

Which raises the question as to why Keith-shitting-Kogane was in his kitchen with nothing but his birthday suit on.

(And Lance probably spent a bit too much time staring, if that glare was anything to go by.)