the winner takes it all [REWRITE]
KLANCE COLLEGE THEATRE!AU CHAPTER 1/2
Lance has always known he was destined for greatness. Broadway, Hollywood—maybe even both at the same time. But for now, he's ensemble in his college’s production of Beauty and the Beast. Not ideal, but hey, all the greats start somewhere.
Unfortunately, "somewhere" happens to be one forgettable scene, zero lines, and a tragic lack of stage time. But when a new opportunity presents itself—one that involves working very closely with Keith, the ever-annoying, ever-broody stage manager—Lance is faced with a choice.
[REWRITTEN]
The boys' dorm room was a mess, and that was coming from Lance of all people. There was a mountain of dirty clothes piled in his desk chair, threatening to spill over the arms of the seat. Tucked away in Hunk's corner was a collection of textbooks, cracked open from when the trio assured themselves that they'd study, only to leave them long forgotten moments later.
They had instead opted to watch over Pidge's shoulder as they attempted to crack into the college's security footage. The three of them were trying to put the rumors of 'what Professor Coran gets up to after hours' to rest. When they came up empty handed, they disbanded, retreating to their own areas of the room.
Lance was splayed across Hunk's bed, insisting that he had the comfier mattress. The half-eaten bag of chips rested on his lower stomach, his hand rustling the bag as he dug deeper into the plastic, trying to collect as many crumbs as he could.
Hunk, having been booted off his own bed even though Lance’s was right there , was sitting at his own desk, feet resting on the frame of his cot. Periodically, he'd nudge his foot against Lance's in a silent protest.
Pidge took root in their usual spot, sitting criss-cross as they lean against the boys' mini fridge, nose digging into their tablet.
As it was, VLD University was currently in the deep thralls of audition season. It had been a long, exhausting month for Lance-- a whirlwind blur of monologues, and songs, and dances, and then even more monologues, and songs, and dances. And when the initial auditions had finally ended, the first round of callbacks had only just begun. Lance hadn't had the time nor the energy to see much of Pidge or Hunk. Instead, all of his free time outside of class had been spent towards the university's theatre program. As excruciating as it all was, it was always worth it in the end, the adrenaline fix only performing could ever give him.
When Beauty and the Beast had first been announced for their spring musical, it was a collective groan across all majors. As amazing as Disney shows are-- and trust that Lance loves him some Disney shows-- Beauty and the Beast aired on the side of the more... snooze-fest inducing shows. Who really wants to go watch Beauty and the Beast, let alone perform it?
But then auditions happened, and as Lance kept getting called back time and time again to read for The Beast, and to sing for Gaston, and even once to jokingly stand-in for Belle, Lance started understanding the choice of show a little bit more. Maybe he wasn't completely in love, but he could at least envision himself having fun. And at the end of the day, that's all that's important, right? Then again, Lance isn't much of a die-hard theatre kid. He's not the type to drop a show just because he didn't get the role he wanted. Unlike some people he knows.
(Cough cough, Lotor, cough)
But now, Lance and his friends were lounging lazily in his and Hunk's dorm room, waiting for the cast list to be announced. Or well, more accurately, emailed.
Lance's fist was on its path to his mouth, bringing a handful of chip crumbs to munch on, when he felt the soft ping of his phone. His nerves alight, and he flails against the bedsheets like a fish out of water, quickly shoving the chips into his mouth, swallowing hard. He wipes the remaining crumbs off onto his stained shirt, and reaches for his phone. As expected, when he clicks it to turn on, a certain email was already greeting him.
He chokes around a sound in his throat, forcefully tossing the phone up into the air. As it peaks, Hunk-- ever the bestest friend a guy could ask for-- graciously catches it. He unlocks the phone using the same password Lance has had since 7th grade, and opens the message. Hunk skims through the list, searching for Lance's name. Lance watches as he scrolled, and scrolled... and scrolled... and... scrolled... until finally--
"I'm just saying," Lance says around a mouthful of chips, crumbs flying as he gestures with his free hand. He swallows-- a little too quickly, coughing once. He's still laying on his back, staring up at Hunk's cheap glow-in-the-dark star stickers. He glances between them, mapping out constellations as he mindlessly talks. “Don’t be surprised when I get my first Broadway contract from Mr. Broadway himself.”
“Lance… listen, I’m super duper proud of you— we both are!” Hunk leans over from where he's sat to pat at Lance's knee. Pidge, still curled protectively around their tablet, nods solemnly. It makes Lance sulk, knowing exactly what's coming next.
"But?" Lance prompts, eyes narrowing.
Hunk winces, removing his hand from Lance. He sucks in a harsh breath, always having hated being the one to point out bad news. “... But … you’re only Townsperson Number 4.”
Pidge, not as reluctant with people's suffering, laughs. “Not even Townsperson Number 1!”
Lance rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively through the air, as if wafting away his friends' negativity. “Irrelevant. All the best people start off in the ensemble! It’s an important learning curve.” He flings a chip in Pidge’s direction, but they easily dodge it.
“Maybe,” Pidge shrugs, pushing up their glasses with their middle finger. “but you’re not even really in the ensemble, you’re in one song. And then… nothing else.”
Their hand raises, clearly on a direct trajectory towards Lance's bag of chips. His eyes closely track their movement. Right at the last minute, he swipes the bag away from them with a practiced ease. “Thank you, Pidge. Really helping me live my dreams here.” He cradles the bag protectively. “Who even got The Beast?”
Hunk squints at his phone, scrolling through the email. “...Keith…”
“WHAT!?” Lance jolts to sit up right, the swift motion sending his bag of chips to tumble off his chest, spilling onto the already cluttered floor.
Hunk waits a beat, before bursting into laughter. “Just kidding, he’s the stage manager.”
Lance glares at him before dramatically flopping back down. “Typical.” He doesn’t bother picking up the chips.
Pidge suddenly straightens, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oooooo! Idea!”
Hunk and Lance turn to them in sync, expectant.
Pidge grins, wiggling their eyebrows. “Since you’re only in one number, maybe you could help out backstage with Keith! Be a stagehand, get all up close and personal.” They smirk before throwing on an absolutely horrendous Bridgerton-esque accent, fanning themself for effect. “ ‘Oh, Keith! I can’t lift this set piece all by myself! I need your big strong biceps to help me!’ ”
Hunk snorts, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter.
Lance lets out an offended squawk, swinging a pillow at Pidge, who dodges just in time. “Hush, you!” His scowl barely lasts a second before slipping into a grin. “...Though that’s not a horrible idea…”
Hunk smacks him with a pillow.
–
The Director’s office was always intimidating. Or maybe it’s because Lance was really only invited in when he was causing a ruckus. Which, if he had to admit, was pretty much every week. He's pretty sure one of the office chairs inside were permanently indented with his butt print.
The office was tucked away in the back corner of the auditorium, past the racks of dusty, tattered costumes and towering set pieces. The door itself was old, its probably once-polished surface now scratched and dented from years of stressed-out technicians knocking too hard, or actors slamming it in frustration. It has definitely seen better times-- a witness to people's worst moments. You don't exactly seek out the Director's office if you're in a good mood.
A laminated sign labelling the room as the Director's Office was taped just slightly crooked above the handle-- probably slapped on at the last minute after too many people barged in unannounced. As for Lance, he always made sure to make his presence known, ignoring the obvious choice of knocking for instead trying to sing-talk his way out of whatever trouble he was in. The Director would always huff in response, sighing out an exhausted yet amused "Come on in, Lance."
Today was the first time he wasn't summoned to the office, instead deciding to go on his own volition. Rather than singing for his entrance, he swings open the door with a dramatic flourish. "Hey, Allura!"
Even on the inside, Allura's office was no less intimidating. The space was cramped, the short walls lined with massive bookshelves, each crammed to the brim with stacks of mismatched binders and play scripts. Shoved between the pages were notes and color-coded tabs. The air smelled like old paper and the faint lingering scent of coffee, despite the fact that Allura had officially quit caffeine three times this semester.
Allura was seated behind a cluttered desk, scribbling down words. If Lance angled his head just right , he swears he could almost make out the letters. But, if he had to make an educated guess-- because Lance is very much educated, thank you very much-- he'd have to say that she's probably writing down blocking for rehearsal later. They had all already done a read through, which actually went really well-- Allura did an amazing job casting, Lance had to give her that.
Allura barely glances up from the paper in front of her. "Lance."
Yikes, it seems Allura isn't much in the mood. No matter, Lance will just use his typical charm. He leans thoughtfully against the doorway before grinning, all teeth, and steps inside. Before he can think better of it, he forcefully slams the door shut behind him-- loudly. The resounding sound makes Allura jump in her seat, her pen skidding across the page.
Lance snickers. Now he has her full attention, even if it's in the form of a glare. "That's Townperson Number 4 to you, Miss Director."
Lance swears that he sees the corner of Allura's mouth quirk upwards, before she quickly schools her expression back into neutrality. She places her pen down on the table, perfectly aligned with the edge of her paper, and raises an eyebrow in question. Lance struts up to her desk, making himself at home as he leans against the side of it.
"Anyway," he starts, stretching out the word. "I need to ask a favor."
Her expression fades into something more grim, as if expecting his next words. A slow, exasperated sigh escapes her lips. She folds her hands on the desk, tilting her head in mild suspicion. "What do you need?"
"I was wondering, since I'm really only in one song--"
"No, Lance." Allura cuts him off before he can finish, her voice firm. Lance is only a little upset at the interruption, but can you blame him? Theatre kids like to talk. "I'm not giving Townsperson 4 any more lines. If I change the script, I'll have a Disney lawsuit on my hands."
Lance grimaces at the thought. A Disney lawsuit is expensive, it'd ruin any and all of their budget. Not to mention, it means they wouldn't be able to do Mary Poppins next year-- just like Lance is crossing his fingers for. "Actually, not what I was going to ask, but definitely noted. I was actually wondering if I'd be able to help out backstage. Like a stagehand or something, move some set pieces. I definitely have the muscles."
Allura ignores his end comment, instead too wrapped up by what he's actually asking. "You... Lance McClain... want to help out backstage?"
Lance glances to the side, confused. Did he stutter or something? Is it not believable he'd want to assist the technicians? He's not that awful of a person! He nods his head slowly. "Yes. That is exactly what I just said."
She leans back in her chair, the seat squeaking under the pressure. She crosses her arms, glaring at him as if she's trying to figure him out. "...What's the catch?"
Lance sputters, mildly offended. Again, he's not that awful of a person! "What?! There's no catch! I just-- I'm only in one scene! I want to help out! Besides, it'd help me become a well-rounded actor!"
Allura opens her mouth, probably about to insist again that there's some sort of catch, only to be interrupted with a knock on the door. Both of their heads snap towards the entrance. The person doesn't wait for Allura to respond before already turning the knob and opening the door. Keith walks in, clipboard in hand. He's already speaking, before he fully looks up.
"Hey, Allura, I needed to--" He stops short when he sees Lance. "Oh. Sorry. I'll come back another time."
"This'll only take a minute, Keith." Allura says smoothly. "Please wait outside."
Keith glances to Allura, before glancing back to Lance. He presses his lips together in a tight line before nodding stiffly.
Whatever else Keith says, Lance tunes out, in favor of making blatant heart eyes at him. He traces the sharp lines of Keith's face, committing it to his memory. Considering how they both are involved in different departments of the theater, Lance doesn't get to spend much time around him. But when he does... it's like a firecracker has gone off. They spit, they bicker, all while Lance smiles dopily. Keith is infuriating, Keith is annoying, but Keith is also sort of cute.
When Lance snaps back into reality, Keith is giving him an odd look before turning to leave. Lance stops him, lifting a hand and giving him a slow, totally casual wave.
"Heyyyy." Lance lamely says.
Keith blinks, offering him his own confused wave. He ducks back out of the room, letting the door click softly shut behind him. Lance sighs, only slightly embarrassed. He's still watching the door when he hears it-- Allura's soft, knowing hum of realization.
"Ah."
He whips his head towards Allura. She's smiling now, but it's different-- small, sly, dripping with amusement. Lance furrows his brow in confusion, but he still flushes, the tips of his ears turning a vivid red.
" There's the catch."
–
"You, Lance McClain , want to help out backstage?" Shiro asks, shock written over his face. Lance groans, his shoulders slumping forwards. His bottom lip juts out in a dramatic pout as his eyebrows pinch together, embarrassed.
"That's exactly what Allura said too."
Shiro shrugged his shoulders, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the nearest workbench. The tech workshop was busy, with a million technicians crawling around. It sort of reminded Lance of an ants nest, or maybe even a beehive. Something to do with creepy crawlers, he's not sure. It vaguely smelled of saw dust and old paint, making Lance's nose wrinkle, as if about to sneeze. The counters behind him were decked with tangled extension cords, and a chaotic assortment of tools that it seemed only Shiro knew how to use.
"Sorry Lance--" he started, only to be immediately cut off by Lance.
"Townsperson number 4."
--Townsperson number 4." Shiro corrects. An easy, amused grin slips over his face. Even if Lance exhausted him to no end and would always run him into the ground, he had a feeling that he was Shiro's favorite actor. Which isn't a hard feat, as most of the program's actors were... something. Very clique-y. Especially whatever Lotor's group has going on.
Shiro continues. "It's just... hard to believe. You've always been more interested in being in the spotlight, not actually... you know. Being it."
That's a very true fact. But instead of manning up and admitting the true reason he's wanting to help out, Lance laces his fingers together in an exaggerated plea-- his best puppy dog eyes very much included.“Shiro, my heart, my life, my incredible and amazingly talented tech director—please, please, you’ve got to let me help out. I’m going to die of boredom if I don’t have something to do. Do y’all seriously expect me to just sit backstage quietly during the show?”
Shiro stares at Lance, and Lance is convinced that Shiro is going to say no and turn him away. And then Lance will be forced to tug his tail between his legs and walk away. And then he'll never be able to hang out with Keith. And then Keith will never fall for him, and instead will fall for a dick like Lotor. And then Lance will have to watch as Lotor and Keith make out backstage. And then--
But Shiro just exhales, and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. "That's... fair." He seems to consider it for a second, as Lance enhances his state-of-the-art puppy dog eyes. He even bats his eyelashes. Shiro awkwardly watches before nodding as if accepting his fate. "Alright, tell you what. We'll start you off with building the set before we even think about letting you near lights or sound."
Lance is suddenly filled with overwhelming relief; He won't be forced to witness Lotor and Keith sloppily lock lips. He perks up instantly, hands dropping to his sides. "That's a very safe choice."
"Then it's settled." Shiro says. He looks behind Lance, over his shoulder, and smiles. "Keith will help you figure out where to start."
A voice cuts through. "Wait-- I'm doing what?"
Lance nearly jumps out of his skin. He yelps-- in a very manly way, might he add-- and whirls around to find Keith standing behind him. How long has he been standing there? He's mirroring Shiro, arms crossed and leaning against the counters. It's not easy to forget they're both brothers, not when they act like this. Keith glances at Lance, before his gaze settles back on Shiro.
Shiro just maintains his grin, completely unfazed as to the daggers Keith is sending his way. That makes Lance frown. Is the idea of working with him that bad? But Shiro just walks past Lance towards Keith, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Keith's glare deepens, though Lance is sure it's all show.
"Townsperson 4 here wants to help out with the set!" Shiro says. "And, as stage manager, I'm trusting you to help him learn how."
Keith grunts, swatting away Shiro's hand. Shiro lets him, slightly laughing at the way Keith pats down his hair to fix it. Keith scowls, before shifting that deadly glare to Lance. Lance is proud to admit that he only slightly sweats bullets while pinned under Keith's glower.
"Lance McClain wants to help out backstage?" Keith asks flatly.
Lance gapes, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Seriously?! Why is everyone so surprised?"
Keith shoots a look back to Shiro, who returns it in full. It wasn't just an empty lance though-- it was a whole silent conversation, one that Lance definitely wasn't privy to. Lance frowns as Keith's expression twists into something frustrated, his lips pursing out as if biting back his tongue, before--
Keith flushes.
It was a quick thing, barely there, just a dusting of pink along the tips of his ears. But Lance saw it. He's never seen such a reaction from him before. Usually, Keith has two expressions-- either a glare, or a raised eyebrow. So this was new territory. And Lance wanted more, wanted to be the reason Keith blushes. He wants to see how red he can make Keith's face, if he could get that blush to travel to his cheeks too.
"Fine." Keith spits out, as if the word itself was poison.
Wow. What a way to make a guy feel welcome.
Lance opens his mouth to defend himself, but Keith just shuts him up by grabbing his wrist. Lance lamely gapes at the contact as Keith yanks him forwards, practically dragging him to the other side of the room. Lance barely has time to shoot a helpless look back at Shiro-- who, the traitor, just winks at him in silent encouragement. Lance blanches with the realization that he knows about Lance's crush on his brother.
Keith leads him to a corner of the workshop, a chaotic but organized mess. Long tables lined the wall, covered in half-painted set pieces, rolls of masking tape, and scattered paint brushes soaking in murky water. At one of the tables, a group of students were painting a large sign, their laughter mixing with the occasional curse whenever someone would smudge their work. A few others were hunched over a prop table, adjusting a broken chair leg.
Lance barely had the time to take it all in before turning back to Keith... only to find Keith wielding a sharp, jagged saw. Lance's eyes practically bulges out of his skull. Oh hell no! Keith raises an eyebrow, back to his classic expression.
"Do you know how to use a handsaw?" Keith asks.
Lance takes a step backwards, almost tripping over his own shoelaces. His eyes flick between Keith and the saw like he'd just been handed a live grenade. He apologetically smiles. "I'm not trusted around weapons."
Keith sighs, lowering the saw and safely plopping it down onto the table. Instead, he reaches over and picks up some random looking tool. "Okay... um, can you use a staple gun?"
Lance shrugs. "Also a weapon."
Keith pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath. He places the staple fun down and grabs a container. "Fine. How about some wood glue?"
Lance brightens up, sending Keith a wink. Keith weirdly averts his eyes. "Now that, I can do."
"Okay, basically, you're going to glue some pieces of wood together first, and then I'll staple them."
Lance frowns, eyeing the staple gun on the table. "Why not just staple them without gluing them? Isn't that just more work?"
Keith levels him with a deadpan stare. "Trust the process, Townsperson number 4. "
Lance groans, lolling his head back. Did Keith really have to hear that? He's not salty or self-conscious about his part, but it definitely won't impress Keith. Lance drags a hand down his face, trying to hide his embarrassed flush. "It's humiliating when you call me that."
Keith smirks. "Maybe try and get a better part next time, then."
Is this flirting? Lance feels like this is flirting. Or is this just friendly bantering? Does this make them friends now? Quick, say something witty and cool!
"Hardy-har-har." he says instead. He does a mental face-palm. "Keith's got jokes over here."
"What can I say? I'm full of surprises."
"More like full of shit." Lance grins. "Now teach me how to glue."
–
Keith strides over, lugging two thick planks of 2x4's under one arm like they weigh nothing to him. And based on the curve of his deliciously toned arms, Lance would bet money on that fact being true. He had to fend off a dopey smile and avert his eyes, instead glancing towards the brick wall. Which... was actually interesting. Each large brick had been painted over by a different senior technician, dating a couple years back. Lance whistled lowly in impressed appreciation. Looks like the tech kids have some cool traditions.
He's interrupted from his thoughts when Keith drops the planks of wood onto the worktable with a dull thud. As soon as his arms are free, Keith places his hands on his hips. "All you have to do is glue these two ends together."
Keith pushes the 2x4's together to create a right angle-- one laying vertical and the other horizontal. When they're in the correct position, Keith steps back and looks to Lance. "Easy peasy. Even someone as dull and oblivious as you can do it."
Lance, who had been examining the wood with laser focus, snaps his head up so fast, he nearly gives himself whiplash. Why does Keith only think so lowly of him?? Has he really made such a bad impression on him?
" Dull and oblivious ?" He squawks, his voice cracking with outrage. His voice is loud enough that several people stop what they're doing to stare. Some of them exchange amused glances, as if waiting to see what will happen next. The attention just makes Lance preen, always one to thrive under the spotlight. He straightens his spine and dramatically places a hand over his chest, as if just shot through the heart. "Name one thing I've been oblivious about!"
Keith meets his eyes, expression unreadable. He almost looks pained, as if he's said too much. Lance holds his gaze, refusing to back down. If Keith really thinks of him as 'dull and oblivious,' then the least he can do is provide proof! Keith's lips part slightly and Lance leans in, expecting him to actually answer. But then Keith exhales sharply, shakes his head, and mutters, "Just glue."
Lance squints in suspicion, but lets it slide. Maybe Keith was just trying to make a joke and it fell flat. Lance does have a habit of taking things too personally. Instead, he picks up the glue bottle and shakes it. Lance presses the tip against the wood and squeezes. Nothing happens. He squeezes harder. Still nothing.
"This isn't working." Lance says, switching hands. He tries it with his non-dominant hand, but still nothing comes out.
Keith lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if dealing with a child. As prideful as Lance is, he has to admit that the simile isn't too far off. Keith steps in close-- so close that their shoulders brush. The warmth of him seeps through the thin fabric of Lance's shirt. Lance represses a shiver, not used to Keith in his own personal bubble. Keith only gets closer, wrapping his hand around Lance's. His grip is firm, but not rough, guiding Lance's fingers into applying more pressure to the bottle. A thick line of glue finally squeezes out onto the plank.
"There," Keith murmurs. "You just needed to apply more pressure."
Lance doesn't respond. He actually can't respond. His brain has short-circuited. Because Keith is still there, pressed up against him, his voice low and steady in a way that makes something inside Lance buzz. He keeps his eyes firmly trained on the glue, as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world. His throat feels tight, and when he finally tries to speak, it comes out as a choked, strangled noise.
Keith furrows his brows and looks at Lance with an amused glint in his eye. "Cat got your tongue?"
"As if." Lance eventually forces out, his voice an octave too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "I just... am really focused on gluing this wood."
Nailed it.
Except, with the way Keith is still looking at him, he's second guessing himself. Keith has a stupidly attractive smirk plastered on his face-- the one that makes Lance want to both kiss it and punch it off. Moving as if possessed, Keith presses his side harder against Lance's, leaning in ever so slightly. If Lance turns his head right now, they'd be right there, noses almost brushing, lips--
Lance makes a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat. Keith's smirk transforms into a lopsided grin, as if he's in on a joke that Lance doesn't know the punchline to.
"I see." Keith says.
"I'd sure hope so." Lance blurts out, desperate to regain some control of the situation. He's not exactly sure what's happening right now, but Keith is still leaning in. His nose is almost poking into Lance's cheek. "I bet it'd be real hard to stage manage if you couldn't."
Keith hums, a sound that's far too smug for Lance's liking. Because of the close proximity, he can feel the noise buzz in his own chest. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it."
Okay, Lance is definitely lost. "...What?"
Keith tilts his head slightly, as if he's about to say more. Lance finally turns his head, slowly. He was right about their noses brushing. Lance audibly gulped. Oh, he is so fucked. He must be hallucinating, though, because he swears he sees Keith eye his throat as he swallows. He opens his mouth to say something, literally anything--
--But before he can, a voice cuts through the air.
"Keith!"
Both of their heads swivel to look over their shoulders. A freshmen jogs into the workshop, out of breath. She slows to a stop and braces her hands on her knees. When she finally catches her breath, she straightens up and points to the entrance. "Griffin just spilled paint all over the stage-right flat!"
Keith curses under his breath and immediately pulls away. Lance ignores the feeling twisting in his gut, the one that misses the warmth of Keith's body. Keith doesn't seem affected in the slightest, instead making a beeline towards the exit, almost breaking out into a jog. Lance isn't afraid to admit he stares at Keith's ass as he goes.
When Keith's out of view, he snaps back to reality, only to realize everyone in the workshop is staring at him-- Shiro included.
"What're you looking at?!"
