Plance Sirimiri (Spanish) a light rain or drizzle
[Thank you so much for your patience, I’m sorry this took fivever!]
Sirimiri, nombre masculino
- Lluvia continua de gotas muy menudas
Ever-the-romantic, Lance has spent a not-inconsequential amount of time planning out every detail of the moment:
They’ll be together, walking hand-in-hand down Varadero beach. It’ll be after the war, after they’ve won, and he’ll take her back to his childhood home to meet his mother. His mother will love her - how could she not? - and will shoo them out of the house to go out to the beach. She’ll be too distracted promising his father that she’ll check out the cars he’s been remodeling once they get back; she won’t even notice the way his mother nods to him, won’t recognize the sign of approval when they come back to a tray of fresh cookies made with the peanut butter he’d hidden from her in his backpack.
It will be raining. All the lounge chairs on the sand will be empty, the tourists fled even though it’s little more than a drizzle. Waves lapping the shore, the soft patter of rain, distant music from an old radio: all of them will compete against the pounding of his heart in his ears.
Her hair might be a little longer; he likes it how it is now, but perhaps by then it will be starting to curl at her shoulders. Raindrops will cling to her brown strands, and when the orange glow from the single streetlight at the beach’s edge hits her, it will cast a halo around her. She’ll look perfect, as always, brow dipping a bit as she tries to look pissed at him for dragging her out in the rain. But he knows better. She’ll be fighting off one of those crooked little grins as he wraps an arm around her shoulder, tugs her close, and says-
“I love you.”
“You what now?”
Sure, he’s romantic enough to have planned out a confession down to the second, but he’s also romantic enough to understand context, serendipity, and the importance of the right moment. They don’t call it a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for nothing.
“I love you!” he shouts this time, because a round of laser fire’s just gone off not too far from where he and Pidge are crouched behind a Galra storage container, so she probably didn’t hear him the first time.
He’s also losing a lot of blood, though, so maybe he’s a little off on the whole timing of the right moment thing. Pidge confirms his thought a second later when she groans and yells-
“Couldn’t this have waited, like, a varga? I’m kinda busy!”
“I know, and I love you for it,” Lance says, grinning, because now that he’s said it, he’s never taking it back.
Pidge rolls her eyes and hauls him up a little to readjust her hold. He’s leaning heavily against her, favoring the leg currently not shot to shit as she supports him with an arm around his back. She does her best to peak around the container without jarring him much.
“Good news is, it looks like it’s only drones out there,” she says.
“That is good news.”
“Bad news is, there’s like, a zillion of them.”
Lance snorts. “Is that a precise estimate?”
“You put the moron in oxymoron,” Pidge shoots back. Her voice is tense, but he still catches that little waver of sentiment he loves so much. Loves. He wants to say it again, so he does.
“You’ll figure something out, love.”
She glances down at him. Her forehead wrinkles, the worry clear on her face, but it’s not enough to sweep away the curl of her lips on one side. Pidge then sighs and activates her bayard.
It takes her less than thirty ticks to aim her bayard at a panel on the ceiling, electrify it, and trigger what must be the Galran equivalent of a fire sprinkler system. A thin mist of viscous liquid begins spraying from above them. Wailing alarms pierce through the warehouse.
“Nailed it,” she mutters. The laser fire stops. There’s a terrific sounding crackle of machinery, and he envisions the Galra drones short-circuiting all around the warehouse. The metallic thunks that echo a few ticks later confirm his theory.
Liquid drops streak down the sides of Pidge’s helmet. With a grunt, she pulls the helmet off one-handed and stares down at him.
“You frustrate me to no end,” she says, breathing hard with exertion.
“I know.” He shouldn’t be smiling as much as he is, but he figures she’ll forgive him for it soon enough.
Rain, or the closest thing to it, clings to her hair. Her eyelashes shimmer as she closes her eyes and shakes her head. She looks perfect, as always.
“You’re lucky I love you,” she breathes.
And so it doesn’t go all according to his master plan. He supposes his mother and the peanut butter cookies and Varadero Beach will have to wait. But what happens next is, blessedly, just as he’d pictured: Pidge leans in and presses her lips to his.