The Best Klance Fanfictions

Not That Bad

It was annoying, frustrating even, and Lance swears to deny it to himself forever, but at one point he got so fed up that he was dangerously near tears. The guy was good, though – fine, great – and Lance is nothing if not a good sport. So he decided to swallow his pride, walk on over there, shake the guy’s hand and say, “I’m Lance, good game.” It was the decent thing to do, and Lance is a decent guy.

Red T-shirt was stretching a little, wiping sweat from his forehead with his arm, as Lance approached him. He was just about to say hello – puffed out his chest, extended his hand, first syllable halfway out of his mouth – when the guy straightened up and walked right past him like he was less than air.

Lance stood there, mouth hanging open, hand sticking out at an awkward angle, and watched him go.

What the hell was that? Had he gone invisible? Wasn’t it pretty obvious that he’d been trying to say something? Shocked and a little hurt, Lance managed to close his mouth before his jaw unhinged.

Then, just to pour salt in Lance’s wounds, he saw where Red T-shirt was going: straight over to a beautiful girl with dark skin and long silvery hair, who handed him a bottle of water, smiled, and touched his arm.

This, Lance thought, kills the man.

“Are you sure he just genuinely didn’t notice you?” Hunk groaned later, when Lance was letting off steam – which in his case meant hissing and wheezing like an actual tea kettle.

“How could he not have noticed me? I was RIGHT THERE!”

“I dunno. I think you’re taking this a bit personally.”

“It is personal! It’s a question of … of … of honor!”

“I am so glad I don’t understand sports,” Hunk said, and Pidge clapped him on the shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s how sports normally work, it’s just one of Lance’s weird ideas,” they assured Hunk, then turned their eyes on Lance. “In other news, I caught a Ninetales while you were getting your ass handed to you.”

So that’s the story, and it still makes Lance upset just thinking about it. The fact that the guy can’t even seem to remember ever laying eyes on him only confirms it: he is totally right about this, the dude is a complete jerk.

He can barely focus for the next ten minutes – he’s so mad at himself for coming late, for ending up next to Mullet Menace over here, for being unable to get angry at Shirogane who sealed his doom, even though he wants to, because the guy is just so damn nice. And most of all, he’s mad at what’s-his-name, ridiculously athletic, conceited show-off.

Something pokes him in the side, and he nearly leaps right out of his skin. (No, really: he can picture it happening, and the cool defensive battle pose he’d strike in his skeletal form.) It’s the butt end of a pencil, attached to a hand in a fingerless glove, which in turn is attached to Mullet Menace.

He wears fingerless gloves to class! If he wasn’t a douche before, he sure is now.

“Could you stop tapping your fingers like that? And, uh, jiggling your leg so it bangs on the table? It’s really distracting,” the guy whispers from behind his other douchey-fingerless-glove–clad hand.

“Maybe,” Lance says, a bit louder than he intended, “you should just mind your own damn bus—ooooh shit!”

He’s not sure what it was that made him throw out his arm – he was making a point, maybe? – but man, was it a mistake. Because Lance’s arm collides with mullet guy’s coffee cup, and spills it all over the entire world.