Klance; of Florists & Tennis Shoes

Chapter I

Cacti & Coffee Shops

"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.

"But seriously," he continued, spreading his arms out to prove a point, "think about it - a cute little small thing with flowers or something. It's perfect, girls like cute things."

Pidge crossed their arms over a narrow chest, oversized knit sweater bunching up at the crease of their elbow. They threw Lance a side glance, smirking softly, "you don't know very much about girls, do you, Casanova?"

Scoff, "more than you, midget."

"I find that a little hard to believe," they laughed, a joyful chirrup that was too amused for Lance's liking. A small, and colorfully bandaged set of fingers came up to stifle the sound in response to his glaring. There was no getting used to how often Pidge laughed at his expense, and no matter how routinely that tended to happen, Lance continued to be offended and his pride continued to bruise. It was a wonder he still had an ego as large as he did. "I think that cactus you want to buy has more of a personality than you."

Lance stopped in his tracks leaning down to Pidge's height to sneer at them through narrowed eyes, "you are a mean, mean little thing."