The Best Klance Fanfictions

Of Florists and Tennis Shoes

"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."

"So I've been told." Pidge responded with an amused smile, eyebrows high and playful behind their glasses, "everything aside, what the hell makes you think a prickly fern is the way into a woman's heart? Most - normal - people go for roses and stuff, you know, the normal and more poetic symbol for 'let's bang'"

Stepping back, Lance puckered his lips in thought, head tipped back. "Dunno, seemed like a smart idea - besides, have you ever tried to kill a cactus?" His head snapped to Pidge, eyes widened for comic emphasis, "that shit's impossible."

Pidge paused, "wait, why the fuck have you tried to kill a cactus before?"

"You haven't?"

They stared at him incredulously, "no?"

Lance rolled his eyes and started walking again, "doesn't matter, either way, she won't have to go through the hassle of taking care of it. Girls like efficiency, right? That's plenty efficient!"

Pidge didn't move from their grounded spot, staring solemnly at the back of Lance's head. "Was your last girlfriend a toaster, Lance? Because at this point, I'm not buying the argument that you've dated anything that breathes."

"Oi!" Lance turned on his heel, mouth unhinged in offense, "are you going to help me or not?"

Pidge relented, heaving in an exaggerated breath before walking forward and grabbing his arm, "I feel like if I don't, you'll buy her something fatally poisonous by mistake. Last thing I need is a friend in jail, no matter how handy those connections might be."

Lance was fortune's fool; he was a simple man, driven to the strangest of situations by fate's fickle strings, or so he liked to dramatically insert whenever possible. The morning had faded into afternoon, with the winter sun bearing down on both of them, and for such a small town, Lance didn't understand the lack of florists. The alleyways and side streets were littered in independent cafés, greeting them with creative chalkboards and the lingering smell of caramel; tight homes were lined up side-by-side, mock mirroring the gothic dutch suburb, with balconies woven in blooming vines-ones that Lance had a difficult time believing were a la naturale, so to speak. People had to have planted them, and even though the moss green that dug itself into the fissures of the old buildings looked quite old in itself, the young flowerpots set quaintly in balcony gardens told a different story. It all begged the question of where all the flower shops went, because two hardly sufficed, and Lance's patience, thin by nature, was wearing thinner with every passing moment.

Pidge had dragged him around all morning, claiming to have known a particular florist near campus that sold most of the graduation bouquets and flower arrangements, and like a fool, Lance had followed them. It was only when they stopped in front of an abandoned shack, dusty and very much empty of any type of life - plant or human - did Pidge's wince and their gentle 'whoops' finally sink the remaining sediments of Lance's patience into the ocean. It was, in actuality, an honest miscalculation - but Lance was not the type to let anyone live anything down.