A/N: I have no idea where this would logically fit into the canon timeline, but I wrote it anyways because I was really feeling those ~summer vibes~. So have some gratuitous beach fic without any explanations, because I love imagining all these kiddos soaking up the sunshine and having the time of their lives, and Lance's family gives me feelings.

It's going to be a good day.

Lance knows this because nothing bad ever comes from the scent of tostada in the morning, the sizzle and pop of bacon in a pan.

"Morning, mamá," he greets, snatching up a mango from the bowl on their breakfast table. He digs around in the drawers for a knife until Gran swoops in, clucking her tongue.

"I'll take care of this," she chides, bony fingers making short work of the mango skin, unpeeling it in one smooth curl. "Go wake up your friends."

"Or have the twins wake them up for you," his aunt offers from the doorway of the kitchen. Yawning pointedly, she rubs the sleep from her eyes while indicating the two six-year-olds clinging to each of her legs. Tommy and Julia blink back at him innocently, their noses perking up as they catch a whiff of warm bread wafting through the air.

Lance rests his hands on his hips. "What do you say?" he asks the two of them. "You up for a wake up mission?"

Tommy's eyes dart toward Julia before he breaks away from his mother, heading for the stairs. "I want the big one!"

"Hey, watch it, payaso, that's my friend you're talking about!" Lance hollers after him, before extending a hand to Julia. "You and I can get Shiro and Pidge, then. Tommy's more than enough for Hunk and Keith to handle."

He and Julia make their way up the stairs; Tommy is already far ahead of them, made obvious by the loud yelp that comes from Lance's room, followed by a muttered, "What the hell?"

"YOU SAID HELL," Tommy echoes, gleeful, as Tía Isabel shouts from downstairs, "Cierra la boca, Tommy, unless you want to get punished!"

Julia laughs wickedly. "Tommy's in trouble," she sings, exchanging a look with Lance as they hear Keith's disgruntled, "Why are you so heavy?"

And Lance grins, because he's back and it's better than he could have ever imagined. Yes, he has to share his room with Hunk and Keith now—the one perk of a giant spaceship was that each of them had had plenty of space to themselves—but Hunk's snoring is hardly a detractor from the feeling of being home. Lance's two older sisters are gone; Anais at some fancy internship in D.C., Marisa's trying to knock out organic chem over the summer, so Shiro and Pidge got their room. And then his younger sister, Elena, somehow managed to keep her room all to herself, but that's just because nobody scraps with fourteen-year-old girls in Lance's household.

And, okay, so he doesn't get to see Allura in a bikini. He's a little bit disappointed about that. There'd been some kind of diplomatic flare-up in a nearby planet and Coran and Allura had jetted off, Allura smiling bright over her shoulder, saying, "We'll handle it, Lance, just sit tight, you all deserve a break," and he hadn't known it was possible to fall even more in love with her but he definitely had then.

Clearing his throat, he raps on Shiro and Pidge's door.

Pidge answers, hair a tangled, gravity-defying mess. "Yes?" she squints.

"Get dressed, losers, we're going swimming," Lance declares. Over Pidge's shoulder, he can see that Shiro is already busy making the bed. "Also, there's breakfast."

"Say no more," Pidge says, eyes burning with a sudden fire. "We'll be right down."

o.O.o

Breakfast with Lance's family is never a muted affair.

Tommy and Julia get into a fight over the last piece of pineapple while, in the background, Hunk is busy blessing the ground that Lance's mom walks on. Gran not-so-subtly mimics scissors with her fingers, indicating Keith's hair, and Lance widens his eyes, mouthing, I know, right? Elena and Pidge have some sort of weird conspiracy thing going on, the two of them poring over Elena's phone, and Shiro is busy telling Tía Isabel about the one time Lance got handcuffed to a tree—ohmygod, guys, I thought we were leaving that in the past! Sorry for believing the best in people—oh yeah, Lance, remember when I said I had a funny feeling about those guys?—SHUT UP, HUNK, WE REMEMBER.

They finish and head back to their rooms to grab towels and any other necessary items, with an agreement to meet back downstairs in the foyer. Lance is doing a headcount when he breaks off, frowning: "One, two, three, four, fi—where's Keith?"

"Your boyfriend's hogging the bathroom," comes Elena's voice, from behind. She's standing on the bottom step of the stairs, arms crossed and one earbud in, the other dangling freely.

"He's not my boyfriend, and you're not funny," says Lance, making a face at his sister as he follows her up the stairs to retrieve Keith. Elena sticks her tongue out in return, making a show of pushing her other earbud back in.

To be honest, Lance doesn't completely mind Elena's offhand comments. He'd much rather have his younger sister making ignorant, totally baseless jokes about his relationship with Keith than have her do something truly heinous, like develop a crush on the guy. Lance shudders. God, his pride would never recover if his sister thought his Worst Rival™ were cute. He'd really have to fight Keith then.

"Keith!" He bangs on the door. "Hurry up, everyone else is ready to go!"

The door opens and Keith blinks at him, a white streak across his cheek.

And, okay, so Lance had figured that Keith was probably in the bathroom fixing his hair, or whatever, and he was already prepared with a shitload of jokes about that, but this—this is better.

"You were holed up in here putting on sunblock?"

"I burn easily," Keith explains. Deliberately, he reaches up to rub the last of the lotion into his skin.

Lance bites his lip. He's trying really, really hard.

(Okay, that's a lie. He isn't trying at all.)

"Oh, this is just great," he starts. "I mean, I should've guessed, since you practically lived under a rock and all before you met us, but of course you have sensitive skin! Mr. 'I'm Going to Poke Everyone With My Knife' is actually just a giant softie! I bet you turn red as a lobster, don't you? And then you get all gross and peely—"

"I hope you get skin cancer," Keith says, deadpan, depositing the open sunblock tube in Lance's right hand, the cap in the other. Towel slung over his shoulder, he brushes by Lance; Lance chases after him, the railing digging into his stomach as he leans over to continue goading on Keith's mess of black hair.

"HA, as if! You wish you could be this toasted to perfection, you pasty white vampire!"

He doesn't realize he's clenching the sunblock tube too hard until some of it squirts over the side of his hand.

"Aw, quiznak," curses Lance, turning to wash his hand off in the bathroom.

He finds Elena regarding him with an expression somewhere between exasperation and disgust, which isn't fair at all because, once again, she's fourteen and should be minding her own business. Lance is just about to open his mouth to tell her that, but Elena beats him to the punch.

"You," she says, rolling her eyes, "are an idiot."

o.O.o

They've spruced up the boardwalk, since he left. Perks of living in a resort town, he supposes, though sometimes his heart twinges a little to see all the hotels cropping up so close to the beach, with their sprawling, unnaturally white facades. So Lance takes his friends down the old, familiar alleyways: the ones the tourists peer down but hesitate to enter, the ones the local kids chase soccer balls through, whooping and hollering. María Fernanda catches sight of them passing by and does a double-take, hand pressed to her heart as she calls, "Ay, flaco, where have you been and what have you been eating? You've grown like a reed!"

"Outer space!" Lance tosses over his shoulder, laughing, and it's like a flock of seagulls taking off in his chest, he feels so alive.

They stop by an ice cream parlor, where between the five of them they manage to demolish thirteen ensaladas, spoons scraping the sides of their yellow plastic bowls, chasing the last bits of the molten vanilla, caramel sauce, and crushed cookies (Lance alone eats four). Then it's back into the sun again, where Hunk sets himself up under the beach umbrella and appoints himself referee of their impending game of beach volleyball.

They draw sticks, and Lance gloats only a little bit when he and Shiro end up being team captains ("Take that, Keith!" "Lance, I literally do not care."). After that, it's rock-paper-scissors for who chooses first.

Shiro picks Pidge.

Which leaves Lance with—

"Oh, come on!" he complains, as Keith bristles, indignant: "What the hell, dude, you don't even know if I'm good or not!"

Lance eyes him up and down before throwing the volleyball at his chest. Keith catches it, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows as he squeezes it.

"Have you ever even played, before?"

"No, but I'm better at combat than you."

Lance rolls his eyes, because that's Keith's default justification for everything—"I can swing a sword around better than you, hurr hurr," but they're back on his turf, now, and he'll be damned if he lets Keith forget it.

"Well, buddy, beach volleyball isn't a fight," he says, getting close enough so that he can clearly see the navy blue of Keith's eyes, their noses almost brushing. "It's a dialogue."

Keith thrusts the ball back at Lance's chest, eyes flashing.

"Oh, yeah? You'd better start talking, then."

o.O.o

It goes horribly.

"What part of bump, set, spike, do you not understand?" Lance growls, dusting sand off his stomach. The grittiness is starting to irritate, and he's pretty sure he cut his foot open on a shell when he was running over to dig a ball that Keith should have been responsible for.

"I don't know, maybe the part where you keep spiking the ball into the net?" Keith fires back.

"Only because your sets are lousy! Literally, all you have to do is get two arms underneath it and bump it high enough for me to reach! I'm the one doing all the work here!"

"You're just throwing yourself sideways the moment Shiro moves. I'd hardly call that effective."

"I'll show you effective, you—"

"Guys!" Pidge clears her throat, pushing her glasses up on her nose. "I'm going to serve now, if you don't mind."

Keith and Lance exchange a look. They both know that Shiro's supposed to be serving, because he's been decimating them for the past ten minutes or so. (At least, Lance is hoping it's only been ten tortuous minutes, though the truth is that it feels like it's been an hour.) Both he and Keith are too proud, however, to not take advantage of this small mercy that Shiro has offered, and as Keith positions himself by the net, a determined gleam in his eyes, Lance thinks that for once they're actually on the same page.

Pidge's serve is underhanded but precise, a perfect parabola. Lance watches it arc over the net with baited breath, years of Anais' and Marisa's advice running through his head: feet first, then hands. The sand shifts and slides under his soles, but Lance pushes onwards, hears himself calling: "Got it!"

The ball makes contact with his wrists, flying upwards again. Keith is a dim blur at the corner of Lance's vision, lip pulled between his teeth as he gets under the ball, bumps it straight up. The blue, white, and yellow stripes seem to rotate lazily, catching the glare of the sun as Lance takes off, bringing his elbow back (like a bow and arrow, Lance) and smashing into it, watching as it spins away, as it hits the sand—

—right next to Pidge.

"YES!" He stumbles back, not quite believing it, turning to Keith with wide eyes as Shiro helps Pidge to her feet on the other side of the net. And then they're both running at each other, launching themselves into the air—Lance's chest bumps hard against Keith's and Keith staggers back, half-laughing, half-groaning: "God, you're so bony."

Lance doesn't even care, he's so overjoyed. He throws an arm around Keith, pulling him in for a hug. God, he'd been, like, flying. That's gotta be one for the history books.

"Score?" he asks Hunk.

"Sixteen to two."

Lance's jaw drops and he pulls away from Keith. "What? No way."

"Yep," says Hunk, adjusting his sunglasses. "You guys are getting slaughtered."

"Okay, but did you see what just went down? That was, like, legend. That alone should be worth at least five points!"

"Not how the game works, Lance," Pidge calls.

"Ugh, fine," says Lance, scooping up the ball from where Shiro had rolled it under the net. "We'll just have to do this the hard way."

He hands the volleyball to Keith, clapping him on the shoulder. "We got this, right, Keith?"

Keith smiles. It's not a gigantic one, by any means. It's one of those Keith smiles, where the area around his eyes relaxes and the corners of his mouth pull up slightly, but Lance suddenly feels like he has a sunburn—his cheeks and the back of his neck are all prickly, and his heart is beating a little faster, but that's only adrenaline or, like, maybe the early signs of heat stroke?

"Yeah, we got this."

(They lose 21 to 8.)

o.O.o

Later, they finally make their way to the waterfront.

Hunk and Pidge go crazy with building the most elaborate sandcastle they can envision before debating the logistics of making a sand version of the castle-ship, as a tribute to Coran and Allura. Meanwhile, Lance stretches himself out on a towel, watching the birds drift and dive as the far-off sound of laughter from other beachgoers filters through his ears. Shiro is beside him, head pillowed on his hands. Lance turns to say something, but then he notices the gentle smile on Shiro's face, how his eyes are closed not in the manner of someone sleeping, but in the way of someone lying there just soaking everything in. Shiro's brow is relaxed, and that's not something Lance sees a lot, so he directs his gaze toward the water, finds Keith standing in the surf, decides to talk to him instead.

"Hey."

Keith glances at him. "Hey."

"Nice, isn't it?" Lance sticks his hands in the pockets of his swim trunks, closes his eyes, and breathes it all in: wet driftwood and slimy seaweed and salty sea spray.

"Yeah." Keith's voice is warm. Content.

"I'm glad I got to share this with you guys," Lance finds himself saying. "While we were up there—all those near-death experiences—I was always thinking, we've got to make it out of here. We've got to make it back, someday, so I can show them this."

"I'm glad." Keith's eyes are on the horizon, thoughtful. "I…really like your family. And being here, with you guys. Back before this all started—when I got booted from the Garrison—there was this period where I thought that maybe I was supposed to be alone. But then we found the lions, and formed Voltron, and…" He looks at Lance. "We've really been through a lot. Together."

Lance looks right back. "We have."

Keith smiles, dipping his head slightly as he turns away. The fading sunlight is warm on their faces, the sky just above the water tinted orange and red. The ocean has that dark shine to it, but Lance isn't afraid; the water circles his ankles like an old friend, the sand squishing between his toes. Keith's hair is starting to dry from when they were splashing around earlier, the inky black locks curling at his neck. There's a pink glow to him, the slowly sinking sun kissing his cheeks and shoulders, and something warm spreads through Lance's chest, like he's swallowed the sunset.

"You're staring," says Keith, but there's a note of humor in his voice. He sounds…pleased.

"Am not," Lance scowls, dragging a hand through the water to splash Keith in the face, and then they're on each other, laughing and spluttering and scrabbling for purchase, and Lance's mouth tastes like saltwater and Keith is so damn slippery and then Shiro and Hunk and Pidge are racing down the sand to join them, and—

And it's a good day.