This really won't make any sense at all if you don't read St.
Patrick's Day first.

Disclaimers: WEP owns Voltron, and Todesengel's fic, St. Patrick's
Day, deserves a much better tribute than this. Unbeta'd

********
March 18
by Forest
********

"Good morning! And how are we feeling today?" Lance's unnaturally cheerful and loud voice rang out as he bounced into the dining room carrying plate and glass.

Keith raised his eyes, switching from contemplating how he was going to manage to keep down the dry toast before him to contemplating murdering the Red Lion pilot. He was never this cheerfully smug when Lance was hung over.

"Shut th' fuck up, asshole." Pidge mumbled. Pidge hadn't managed to open his eyes or lift his head off the table since sliding into his chair. Pidge hung-over was decidedly surly and unpleasant, but today Keith didn't mind so much, since it spared him the trouble of saying it.

"Such language. Where did you get that mouth?" Lance chirped as he dropped his plate to the table with a ringing clatter that sent waves of agony through Keith's skull.

Sven "hmph"d. "I wonder. Couldn't be the company he keeps." That with a level, meaningful look at Lance, who acted dramatically wounded. Sven snorted again and went back to his coffee, the only indication that the Swede was at all effected by all the drinking of the previous day. Instead of breakfast, he'd been steadily downing strong black coffee, which he continually topped off to keep steaming hot.

Then the smell hit. Keith clenched his teeth and looked, aghast, at Lance's plate. Eggs. A big, slippery scoop of runny scrambled eggs. The sulfurous, noxious stench made bile rise so far in his throat that it burned his nose. I will not vomit at the table, I will not vomit at the table, I will not vomit at- His mantra was cut off as Pidge shoved away from the table looking vaguely the color of his lion and darted out the door.

Keith swallowed, hard. "Where's Hunk?" he asked, trying to get his mind off the nausea.

"Medcenter." Sven replied.

Keith quirked an eyebrow in inquiry, and Sven grimaced. "Nipple ring accident."

Keith shuddered. Even Lance looked a little pale at that, but then he brightened. "Hey, that means you owe me ten bucks!"

Keith blinked. "Why?"

Lance sighed dramatically. "Damn it, I'm gonna stop betting with you when you're drunk. I always win, but you never remember." His eyes narrowed. "Awfully convenient, now that I think about it…"

"I remember just fine." Keith protested. And he did. He thought. There was beer, and… what. Something about Allura running naked through the woods, but that didn't seem quite right… still, it was all he could come up with. "Allura was streaking?" He hadn't meant for it to come out as a question.

Lance rolled his eyes. "Spare me the details of your fantasy life."

But there had been something in his expression. Not quite anger, closer to hurt. And-- resignation? It was gone before Keith could decide, and Lance tipped his head and grinned at him evilly. "Y'know, you'd feel better if you ate something."

Keith glared at him. The toast had seemed daunting before. After the sight and smell of those eggs, it was impossible. "Not hungry." He growled.

Lance shrugged. "Just tryin' to help." He replied, shoveling a huge forkful of egg into his mouth.

Keith stopped glaring, forced to look away. His stomach was churning in revulsion. With as much dignity as he could gather, he stood and picked up his plate. "Lion practice in an hour."

He made it halfway to the door, then stopped, arrested by a thought. He turned with a frown. "Did I schedule anything else for the team today?"

"Not that I know of." Sven replied.

"Huh. Sorry. For some reason I feel like there's something I was supposed to do today."

Keith didn't quite understand why Lance sounded so tense as he replied, "I'm sure if it was anything important, you'd remember."

Keith frowned. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

The door closed behind him and Lance pushed his plate away with a bleak smile. It was nothing important.

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