i bet you look good on the dancefloor

Chapter 2: of pizza rolls & hot dance instructors

Chapter Text

Lance is an avid believer in fateful encounters, Zodiacs, curses, destiny, the theory that his next door neighbor is an alien, and starting today – pizza rolls.

Correlation? None, it may seem. But pizza rolls are the true MVPs that kickstart the gears of Lance's destiny. He'd kiss Pidge if it wasn't a gross thought.

Though when he first hears about the pizza roll thing, he's too tired and grumpy to react and just wants to be left alone with his scattered thoughts, courtesy of crippling depression which only university manages to bring out despite the fact that it's summer. As expected, he has to retake his Advanced math exam. God damn it, who even cares about logic and combinatorics? His professor – who never fails to remind Lance that he's a waste of space in the great world of mathematics - apparently.

'If train B goes at 200 kmph and the apple basket weights a pound, then what is the mass of the sun divided by the fridge's color', his ass. "Get your own damn pizza rolls, Pidglet," he groans. He has like two whole weeks to learn this crap and he'd much rather take a nap. Ten naps. Nap himself into a coma so that he doesn't have to see another math-related question ever again.

"You've been staring at the wall and drooling for the last fifteen minutes," they say and continue scrolling through some coding program, bloodshot eyes searching for any mistakes. During summers Pidge absolutely flourishes with their freelance work. Goddamn lucky. And then there's Lance - jobless, mooching off his family's food, flunking exams. "Air your pea-sized brain before it dies. I can't reprogram it, sadly. And while you're at it you can buy me the rolls."

"What about the ones we have?"

"You just ate the whole bag, pea-brain." Lance stares for a moment until he realizes that the bag is sitting on the desk in front of him, and it's indeed open. His brain must've been frying so badly that he didn't notice taking the snacks. They were bought by Pidge so it's only fair game that he should be the one going out to restock. He's a decent human being despite bitching enough to make it seem otherwise.

Lance still recalls The Nacho Incident when he stole Pidge's salsa-flavored crisps like a fool with a death wish and in a brilliant moment of thought association, fear for his life and a need to save his own ass combined, he left a post-it note by the empty bag with the word 'sorry' scribbled on it and bailed to Hunk's. Hunk wasn't too hot on saving Lance's ass when an enraged Pidge called him and asked if Lance was there.

"You stole Pidge's food? Not cool, man," he reprimanded, Pidge put on speaker between them.

"That was one time!"

"They didn't land from nacho heaven with small nacho wings for you to devour, you dolt, it's my hard-earned money!" Pidge had yelled and relayed that they'll be coming over in ten.

It was a horrible experience and he does not want to repeat it again.

So with minimal bitching Lance pulls on his sneakers, pushes back the fat Persian cat Pepe – he's good at naming things, really – who's trying to sneak out to play with the neighbor's tabby as always, and hops onto the bike. The chain is still making weird rattling sounds but Lance has kept that thing in oil for a few days, too busy to do anything else about it. He prays that it doesn't fall off, he's not too eager to touch it.

Of course his phone chooses to ring at that very moment, and he has to balance the handlebar while speaking to his little sis. "S'up?"

"Buy me some apple juice and a chicken salad." Straight to the point as ever.

"Couldn't you tell me when I was leaving? Where are you right now?"

She sounds upset with him and judging by the noise level in the background – definitely higher than the ever-present one of their home – she's probably out, wandering. There are too many people living in their small house for Lance to keep up with who's returning and who's leaving. "It's Friday!" she says it like it's supposed to explain everything.