pt one
———
Hunk’s phone rings. Loudly. Since he is the pinnacle of grace and benevolence, he spares one hand, eyes still trained firmly on the other hand pressing a screwdriver onto a delicate wire joint to hold it steady, to blindly pat about on his workbench until it closes around the device. He jabs a finger on the screen until the ringing ceases.
“Yah,” he says, not bothering with hellos. He’s busy.
“Handle your person,” Shiro hisses, then immediately hangs up.
Hunk snorts. Someone’s nap was disturbed.
He turns back to his project, sighing as he wraps it up. He doesn’t have long. If he can just solder this last wire, get that last connection in, it’ll be way easier to —
Lance kicks open his door, walking in screaming.
“Hello,” Hunk greets idly. And largely sarcastically, he will admit. Lance continues his wordless yell, vocalizing at the very top of his lungs, muffled only when he throws himself on Hunk’s bed and buries himself in Hunk’s pillow. “Shiro tells me you’re terrorizing people.”
“His skull is fucking solid!” Lance screeches.
Hunk does not need to ask to whom Lance is referring. He does, however, pause what he’s doing immediately, spinning around slowly in his chair with his fingertips pressed together like every eighties cartoon villain. His smile can only really be described as gleeful. Perhaps diabolical if he stretches.
He is entirely unapologetic.
“And what happened this time,” Hunk questions, adopting his very best therapy voice. It must work, because Lance shoots up, face bright candy red, wicked snarl pulling on his lips. When he speaks again his voice is carefully controlled and dripping with rage.
“It is beyond hinting, Kealoha. I have practically laid myself at his feet and begged him to ravish me, and he still does not get it. I am going to fucking wring his neck.”
Hunk hums thoughtfully. “Well, that is probably what it’s going to take.” At Lance’s raised eyebrow, he rushes to clarify — “Throwing yourself at his feet, I mean. Don’t strangle him. At least not before I can see it.”
Lance groans loudly. This time when he flops back on Hunk’s mattress he is more miserable than rageful, like a scolded chihuahua. Hunk considers telling him that and then remembers that he’s quite fond of his limbs where they are.
“I know he likes me,” Lance grumbles. “He’s just a dumbass. Like, yesterday he had to go into a healing pod because I did those leg stretches in front of him and he walked into the wall and broke his nose. And last week he said I smelled good and no straight people say stupid shit like that. And when I flirted with that princess on our last mission I was lowkey worried he was gonna jump her, or something. He went all big bad Galra growly and everything.”
Hunk inclines his head. “This is true.”
It is true. Well, he didn’t know the broken nose thing — although that’s hilarious and he will be sharing that information with the class when prudent — and he hasn’t witnessed many of the specific brands of Keith and Lance dumbassery, since they spend so much time on their own, but he, like, has eyes. Keith wants Lance so bad it’s actually embarrassing. Hunk’s not one to generally agree with Lance, since it’s his God-given right to humble him at any opportunity, but that boy is oblivious unlike any other. He understands that Keith is emotionally stunted due to the ordeal of being orphaned, and to Keith he leaves his highest sympathies, but also Jesus Christ, dude. How many times are you going to be wrought with jealousy before you go oh, duh, I might be in love with this goober.
Maybe Shiro hasn’t had the talk with him yet. Hunk makes a mental note to follow up.
“—it’s just that I don’t understand,” Lance laments.
Hunk blinks back to the conversation, where Lance has clearly taken it upon himself to wax poetic and inspire woe upon himself once more.
Hunk stills. An idea wiggles its delightful little way through his brain. He holds up his phone, pointed at Lance’s prone and desolate form.
God, he loves his brain. He loves meddling. He loves love and life, basically.
“I just,” Lance sighs, and to his endless credit he sounds genuinely torn-up, for all his melodrama. “I wish I could just tell him, I guess. In some way. I wish I could get it through his fool head that he is loved by me particularly in such a way that I want to hold hands and kiss and generally be nuisances of the affectionate kind. You know, romance.”
Hunk hums with great understanding. “I see. And say you were not plagued with chronic anxiety and an unfortunate tendency to glow in your face region if someone so much as insinuates in any capacity that they care about you — what would you say to this paramour of yours?”
Lance tilts his head consideringly. His eyes are big and brown and pouty, like a scorned puppy. It’s adorable, in a pathetic kind of way. Hunk cannot help but pat him delicately on the knee.
“I suppose,” he huffs, “that I would just say it outright. Keith Kogane, you magnanimous dumbass, would it kill you to ask me out like a man. Something like that.”
“You could also ask him out like a man,” Hunk points out.
“Choke and die,” Lance responds, predictably. Hunk pays him again.
Hunk stops the recording and tucks his phone back in his pocket. He will decide how to handle the situation shortly.
…After he makes several copies and distributes them to the team. Obviously. Hunk’s excellent advice and matchmaking skills isn’t free, after all.
Lance whines again. “Why is my life so sick and twisted.”
Hunk chooses against reminding Lance that they are in the very beginning of the process of dismantling the worst tyranny the universe has ever seen, and of all the things in his life to be sick and twisted his dweeby romance is probably not one of them. Because that would be a huge buzzkill, obviously. Instead he delicately and a touch condescendingly pats Lance on the head. Lance leans into the touch, because he is a massive sweetheart and dork and nerd, and Hunk can’t help but smile widely.
“All will work out,” he says ominously. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“Blah,” Lance says.
Hunk smiles wider.