Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

James Osmond <[email protected]>

to bcc:[email protected] 

Oct 9

Good Afternoon,

A student has requested a note taker for course lectures or course content in the class BIO-100-01. To volunteer as a note taker, you should be in good academic standing. First year students are welcome to volunteer.

If selected as a volunteer, you will receive a stipend of $50 for incidentals associated with this volunteer assignment.  The stipend will be paid at the end of the term to copy notes for one student in one course for the semester.

Thanks,

James Osmond

Note Taker Supervisor

+

If he did the calculations in his head, every class cost approximately $87. If he multiplied that by how many classes he’s missed since the first week of the semester, that was $870 down the drain, give or take a couple classes here and there. He wept internally. And then he tripped over his shoelaces.

The pavement meets his face, wet from the rain. Keith groans and lifts himself up, rubs at his stinging cheek with his stinging palms and blinks away the tears welling unwelcomingly in his eyes. This is fine, he thinks. This can be an excuse to not go to the lecture for a class he hasn’t attended since the first week. Then he remembers $87, and how many ramen packs that much money can get him, and he brushes himself off, hikes his backpack up onto his shoulder, and runs the rest of the way.

The lecture hall is mostly full when he gets through the annoyingly creaking door, probably because he’s about five minutes late, which honestly is pretty good timing for him. No one really gives him a second glance, which he’s thankful for, but as he scours the room for a seat he finds his gratefulness to be short-lived, because all of them are taken.

By the grace of something somewhere in the sky above him, someone seems to notice his nervous hovering, because right in the center of the lecture hall a boy catches his eye and waves subtly at him, almost too familiarly. There’s a seat miraculously empty right beside him. Keith gives the guy a grateful nod and makes his way through the aisle, mumbling quiet, not entirely honest apologies to the legs and feet of seated students, the ones with the sense to get here early, or to attend the lecture at all.

He plops down on the seat beside the boy and gives him what he hopes is a grateful smile. This close, his face kind of startles him. He’s got rich, dark skin and blue eyes that stand out starkly against it, the prettiest smile that Keith has ever seen and just the lightest scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He’s pretty, Keith thinks. And also, apparently, nice to people he doesn’t even know or have to be towards.  

Keith looks at him for too long, somehow caught in the moment like in some strange romcom of the sort Shiro liked to put on (which reminds him he ought to call Shiro back soon), which is how he catches the exact way the guy’s friendly smile morphs into a slight frown, and realizes belatedly that the boy’s gaze has flicked down quickly and then back up, eyes tinged with worry.

“Dude,” he whispers, probably because there’s a lecture going on, which Keith has somehow forgotten. “Your knees are supremely fucked up.”

“Oh,” Keith says quietly, and looks down to find that indeed, his knees are scratched and also slightly bleeding. He hadn’t noticed. He also should have worn jeans without holes in them, but he’s also pretty sure he doesn’t own any that don’t. “Yeah. I sort of tripped on my way to class.”

“Rough morning,” the boy says sympathetically, and then leans over and starts digging into his backpack for something. He comes back up with four bandaids and presents them to Keith.

“Should probably wash them after class,” he whispers. “So two for now and two for later.”

“Thanks,” Keith whispers back, taking them and ripping one open as quietly as he can, which isn’t really that quietly but he can’t bring himself to care all that much, and slapping it onto his bleeding knee, then doing the same with the other. The boy nods satisfactorily beside him, and their hushed conversation ends there.

From then on Keith attempts to listen to the lecture. It’s just that it’s not particularly interesting, what with the monotone voice of the professor and the subject matter at hand, and also because something kind of halts his entire mental process about ten minutes of the way through.  

He makes the mistake of glancing just the tiniest bit to his right, curiosity and a little more than mild interest driving him, and when he catches a glimpse of the boy’s handwriting, sprawled neatly in several different sparkling colors, he does a mental double take. Because they’re his notes, or not his technically, but the ones he requested for the class. He studies from them. He doesn’t attend class for them.

Of course this is the same guy with bubbly handwriting and sparkly pens, who draws diagrams and illustrations of animal digestive systems in perfect artistic style and writes cute little motivational pep talks in the margins of his pages. The same guy Keith has been getting anonymous class notes from, the reason he hasn’t flunked out of the class yet, the reason he can find it in himself to actually study at all.

Of course he’s sitting right next to him.

So yes, the third official lecture he attends of Biology 100 he gets absolutely nothing out of, because he can’t stop sneaking glances at the boy sitting next to him, and also thinking about the cheesy but somehow still effective words he writes in the margins of his photocopied notes, and the little doodles of thumbs ups and cheery smiles and stars. He watches the guy sketch a perfect head of a buffalo, granted with a little artistic creativity given the giant bubble eyes, and label it ‘endotherm.’ It gets harder and harder to pay attention.

He trips again on his way out of the lecture hall, not so badly that he doesn’t catch himself before going face first to the floor again, but coming pretty close. Honestly, he doesn’t know what the hurry is, only that his stomach is doing weird flips and he doesn’t really want to look the guy in the face, and he’s calculating how much money he’d be losing if he just straight up didn’t go to any biology lectures for the rest of the semester, but it’s a lot, and also someone is clearly directing a line of question at him from behind. He turns around.

It’s the boy. Of course it is. He’s huddled up in a giant parka because it’s freezing and wet and windy and Keith forgot to wear a jacket this morning and instead wore ripped jeans and untied shoes, and he’s smiling at Keith. People part around him as they go to their next classes, as though he is an obstacle to their frenzied stampede. Keith stands still, looking at him. 

“Hey,” he says once he figures he’s got Keith’s attention, closing the space between them. “This is pretty forward but I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed you during lecture before? And also, not that I was spying or anything, but you took one note during the entire hour and it was of the word ‘fuck.’ So I was just gonna ask if you needed, like, notes or anything?”

“Oh,” Keith says. “Thanks, but I actually already have them, uh-- yours, I mean.”

“Cool,” the boy says, and then seems to realize the exact implcation of Keith's words, because his eyes widen slightly and his cheeks redden just a bit, if Keith isn’t imagining it. “Oh! Like, literally mine.”

“Yeah.”  

“Uh, well, thanks for the fifty bucks, then.” Keith’s not actually paying it-- the school is-- but he gets the point.

“Thanks for the notes,” Keith says, smiles just a tiny bit in what he hopes comes off as sincerely thankful. Not that he isn’t. He’s just been told he can come across a little standoffish. Emotionless. Maybe if you smiled a little more we’d actually want to keep you.  

“My pleasure. Just, uh…” The guy rubs at the back of his head in what seems to be nervousness. “Remember to wash those,” he says, gesturing to the general vicinity of Keith’s scraped knees, which still sting uncomfortably.

“Will do,” he says. “Guess I’ll see you in class, um...?”

“It’s Lance. I’ll save you a seat…?”

“Keith.”

“Cool. See you later, Keith. And lovely to meet you.”

Lovely, he says. Keith thinks about that word for the rest of the day. It’s a nice word. Should be used more often. Lovely to meet you. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard those words directed to him. He thinks he should have said it back.

+

Keith lived in the library. The top floor, where fewer people hung out and so it was quieter, in the corner right by the window that overlooked part of campus. He made a little spot for himself and would stay there for hours, and only at half past two in the morning or later would tread back to his dorm room, hoping beyond hope that his roommate hadn’t sexiled him again.

It wasn’t so uncommon, really. And there wasn’t a lot he could do about it, either.

So that’s where he is now, sitting with his legs tucked up to his chest in a chair that’s practically molded to his butt from how long he’s been there, headphones in, eyes scanning the words of the same paragraph for maybe the tenth time, with the same amount of actual comprehension as the first, which is none at all.

He’s thinking he shouldn’t have bought the textbook, because it’s practically useless and the professor doesn’t even test from it, and also, that was seventy bucks down the drain. He takes out the photocopied notes instead, like he should have done an hour ago.

The pages are slightly crinkled from him having stuffed them haphazardly in his bag, so he presses them with his hands to smooth them out, scanning the words. He’s memorized the handwriting, read the little pep talks more times than technically necessary, but despite their corniness they really do motivate him to do his studying, make him believe he can pass the class, get through the semester, maybe even the next four years. Which is really something.

You can do this!!!! ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ Make sure to take care of yourself!!!!!!!!!

Keith smiles to himself, shaking his head slightly at the excessive use of exclamation points. Then he gets to work, reading the notes and mumbling the explanations to himself, writing and rewriting what he’s learned in ways he can comprehend better than the textbook ever would allow him to. Still, not that the desk is the most comfortable headrest, but he hasn’t slept in twenty four hours, so... 

…

He wakes with pages stuck to his face and someone tapping him gently on the shoulder. Something aches in his neck, so badly that a lump forms in his throat when he shifts a little. He blinks blearily in front of him and takes in his scattered papers and open books and his mug, empty, thank god, fallen over. And then he looks up and to his right and briefly thinks he’s dead, because there’s an angel looking down at him.

He blinks twice more and then comes to his senses. The angel is saying something to him, but it takes Keith's ears a hot second to tune in. Once he does, he realizes that he is in fact not dead, because the angel is Lance from biology, who looks concerned again, with that same cute pout to his lips and wrinkle on his forehead. Keith should stop making him look so worried.

“Hey, how long have you been here?”

“Hu?”

Lance smiles gently and gestures to Keith and then the table. “I think you fell asleep in the library, dude. It’s nearly nine.”

Keith groans and brings a hand up to his shoulder, rubbing out the knot. “In the morning?”

“Nah, dude. Your body clock’s all screwed up. Nine at night. Dining hall is about to close.”

“Oh. I’ve uh… been studying.”

“On a Friday night?”

“Yeah, my dorm is kind of uninhabitable right now.”

“Roommate issues? You know you can swap rooms mid-semester if you need to.”

Keith shakes his head and tries in vain to tame down what he knows is a mess of bedhead, even without the bed. Then he goes about gathering his things and shoving them in his bag. “Not worth it. Don’t sleep much anyway.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a bed.”

“It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.” He gets up and swings his backpack over his shoulder, immediately regretting it when his back audibly cracks.

Lance doesn’t look entirely convinced, raising an incredulous eyebrow at the concerning sound of Keith’s back, but after a moment he merely shrugs and grins at Keith. “Do you wanna help me steal a bucket of ice cream from the dining hall?”

Keith’s train of thought halts quite suddenly. “Um, what?”

Lance’s grin doesn’t falter at Keith’s seemingly lackluster response though. In fact, he seems so excited Keith is surprised he isn’t bouncing on the balls of his feet. “The swim team does this initiation thing where you have to steal a bucket of ice cream from the dining hall without getting caught. We try to space out the thefts so not too many go missing all at once, but now it’s my turn. Wanna help?”

Keith tilts his head curiously and eyes Lance carefully, trying to figure if he’s playing with him or not. Lance, for his part, seems like he’s telling the truth. And honestly, it’s not too far fetched a thing for a college sports team to make the newbies do. Keith shrugs.

“Sure, I guess. When?”

Somehow, Lance’s impossibly large grin grows impossibly larger. “Well,” he says slowly, “now, if you’re up for it.”

The plan isn't really a plan, Keith thinks as Lance explains to him. Honestly, they’d probably get caught doing it, but Lance seemed pretty unfoundedly confident anyway. Keith wonders if it’s a staple of his personality, the confidence. He kinda likes it. It’s not the brash cockiness of most people he knew, more a faith in the universe looking out for him. Keith envies it a bit.

“All you have to do is wait outside the window. I’ll throw it to you and you book it out of there. Rendezvous at my dorm.”

“You realize the bucket is like ten gallons, right?”

“You’ve got the muscles for it, don’t you?” Lance proceeds to punch Keith in the arm, lightly, but Keith makes a show of toppling over before righting himself. Lance laughs.

“Alright. Ready?”

Keith shakes his head, still thinking Lance is going to get tackled on his way to the window. “Yeah,” he says, “but if you’re caught before we make the switch I’m leaving you to fend for yourself.”

Lance frowns, feigning a pout. “Some partner you are,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah. Good luck.”

Lance breaks his frown to smile and send Keith a salute on his way into the dining hall. “You, too.”

With that he’s swiped in, and Keith watches his back join the crowd of other students for dinner. Then he makes his way outside and to the side of the building, finding the window in question and peeking in. It’s already open, conveniently so and despite the winter weather, probably because the swarm of bodies heats up the place like a sauna. Keith stands on his tiptoes to get a better view into the dining hall, two hands on the sill. He spots Lance quickly enough, obnoxiously taller than the crowd around him and shoving… what is not the plan into his hoodie pockets.

Keith rolls his eyes. Lance is going for the easy-to-sneak-out foods: apples, bread rolls, a couple yogurts. He snatches a paper cup and fills it with orange soda, and then proceeds to chug the whole thing in ten seconds flat before shoving another two bread rolls and, for some reason, a red potato, into the pockets of his school-spirited hoodie. 

Finally, he makes his way to the freezer and pulls open the slider door. Keith watches him scout the area and the students around him and peek around behind the counters for any workers that might be paying too much attention. Then he bites his lip, mumbles something that looks a lot like ‘fuck it,’ and hauls the thing out of the freezer.

It’s a lot bigger than Keith remembers, as in, the size of Lance’s entire torso. Lance wobbles a bit from the weight before he finds his footing. Strangely enough, no one is paying enough attention to realize he’s just taken a giant tub of rocky road ice cream from the freezer and is stepping across the hall to Keith.

Except, apparently, someone is. Because halfway there a finger from behind the counter points in his direction. “Stop!” A voice yells, barely audible over the noise of the dining hall, but definitely directed at Lance and his giant tub of ice cream. “Stop right there, thief!” And then the dude actually leaps over the counter, hair knit and white apron and all, and sprints towards Lance.

“Run!” Keith yells from the window. “Run, Lance!”

Lance sprints, or at least, the equivalent of it while carrying ten gallons of sweetness. He’s yelling something that sounds like the word ‘fuck’ strung together multiple times, with what Keith thinks is Spanish thrown in as well. The only reason he’s ahead is because he had a head start. The chaser, a student worker from the looks of it, looks absolutely pissed.

By some miracle Lance makes it to the window and practically throws the ice cream at Keith. It hits him in the face, and he lets out a curse at the sting in his nose and the slight watering of his eyes, but holds fast to the ice cream.

“Shit,” Lance says, “sorry, oh my god, are you alright?” And then he leaps out the window and lands, face first, into the soil by Keith’s feet.

“Oh my god,” Keith says. “Get up, get up, he’s coming.”

Lance mumbles something unintelligible and rises. Keith can’t tell if the brown on his face is chocolate ice cream or dirt, but there’s not a lot of time to find out. He hikes the tub of ice cream higher and runs, as fast as he can, away from the dining hall, hoping that Lance follows. 

“I didn’t think anyone who cared saw me,” Lance huffs alongside him, shaking his head in disbelief. He pulls out a bread roll and bites half of it off, chewing loudly.

“You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

Lance frowns around his mouthful. “I’m stealthy,” he says.

Keith slows down, feeling like they’re in the clear for now, as they’re halfway across campus to the dorms and the guy doesn’t seem to have chased them. “Sure you are.”

Lance laughs. “I’m the stealth, you’re the muscle. Want me to carry that now?”

Keith hugs the ice cream tighter. It’s freezing against his already freezing body. He never did run warm, and the chill of the air isn’t helping, but… “No. I’m the muscle.”

Lance laughs. “Thanks, muscle. Couldn’t have done that without you. Now I’m officially a member of the swim team, and we’ve got ice cream for dinner. Also, sorry for hitting you in the face with it. I’m checking your nose when we get back to my room, just so you know.”

“I won’t sue if it’s broken, don’t worry.”

“Funny,” Lance says, all sarcasm, but he laughs anyway. His breath is a puff of steam in the cold air. Keith watches it fade away. There’s a pair of panties hanging from a tree they pass. Keith thinks the owner a congratulations, and hikes the ice cream up higher.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but Keith’s arms are actually sort of sore by the time Lance is swiping them into his dorm building. He follows Lance inside, up the stairs and to his dorm at the end of the hall, stepping in and sighing with relief when he finally sets the thing down on the closest surface.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Lance says, shutting the door behind him and kicking his feet off.

Keith takes it in. For some odd reason, even though he doesn’t really know Lance all that well, he can tell immediately which side of the room is his. He’s got several trophies at the edge of his desk, one of which is of a metal man in what looks to be a speedo. There are maybe a hundred polaroids glued to the wall above his pillow, assembled in a collage of a lopsided heart. A pile of laundry, clean from the lack of smell in the room, is thrown beside the bed, basket toppled over. Keith spots penguin-printed boxers. They’ve got little santa hats on them.

His desk is covered in gel pens and sticky notes and all kinds of stationery, a few notebooks flipped open with the familiar handwriting peeking out at Keith.

It’s a lot more homey than Keith’s room has ever been, which makes a pang of something rush through his chest momentarily before vanishing just as quickly. Keith has a photo of him and Shiro on his desk, a poster of The Terminator 2 tacked to his wall, and his graduation tassel to make up the entirety of his room decor. It wasn’t like he spent a lot of time in his room, he supposed. Still.  

He plops down on Lance’s bed and kicks off his shoes. Lance digs around his desk for something and comes back up with two plastic forks. He lugs the ice cream tub to his bed and sets it down beside Keith, and then plops down on the other side of it.

“Before I give you this plastic fork,” he says, holding up the fork in question. “I have to check your face for grievous injury.”

“It’s fine, Lance.”

“Nu uh uh, I will be the one to decide that.”

Keith rolls his eyes, trying and quite badly failing to keep a smile off his face. “Okay, Dr. Lance. Have at it.”

Lance grins and stabs the ice cream with the two forks to free his hands. Then he leans over and promptly grabs Keith’s face with two hands, squishing his cheeks together and pulling him closer over the tub of ice cream.

It’s not exactly comfortable, but Keith is a little too distracted by the warmth of Lance’s hands on his cold cheeks and how close his face is. His eyes are a lot bluer at this distance, almost annoyingly so, as he searches Keith’s face with almost comical intensity.

“Find anything?” Keith asks through puckered lips.

Lance takes a second longer than probably necessary to respond. “Nope. Your face is perfect. Just a bit red in the nose.” He takes a second longer than probably necessary to let go of Keith’s cheeks and lean away, also.

“Thanks, doc,” Keith says, un-impaling his fork from the ice cream. “Wait,” he says. “Why did you give me a fork for ice cream?”

“Took you long enough to notice,” Lance says, stabbing the ice cream and getting a forkful of it. “The answer, my friend, is because that is all I currently own. And because my roommate started hiding his spoons after I forgot to ever wash them when he loaned them to me.”

“Your roommate is smart.”

Lance gasps, putting a hand to his chest. “Some partner you are.”

“Hey, the ice cream has been acquired.”

Lance hums around a forkful, swallows, and points the fork at Keith. “True that.”

They eat maybe too much of the tub. Lance kicks at Keith’s feet for a while, and Keith kicks back, but the conversation lulls to a comfortable silence. Keith takes an offered bread roll from Lance’s pocket and eats the entire thing in three bites. He feels sleepy enough to fall asleep right on Lance’s bed.

“Gotta say, Keith,” Lance says through the haze of sleepiness. “I didn’t expect this to be our second encounter ever.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Me neither. I don’t even know why I agreed to it.”

“Because you recognized a fellow freshman in need?”

“Something like that.”

“You can sleep here, buddy. If you want. If your roommate is a douche you can always crash here.”

“Thanks,” Keith says.

“No problem, dude.”

Lance leans over and grabs a pillow, fluffing it up with a little too much vigor and then flopping it on Keith’s lap.

“Here. Sleep.”

Keith sleeps.

+

“Yo,” someone says. The voice infiltrates his dreams and comes out of the mouth of his father, though it’s too high-pitched and sleepy for it to seem even remotely his. “Keith,” his dad says in his dream, and then shakes his shoulder. Keith jerks awake.

“Morning, moonshine,” Lance says, smiling down at him. Any evidence of him having just woken up is nonexistent. He looks fresh-faced and is fully dressed, with only the slightest tiredness to his voice and a little ruffle to his hair to give him away.

“Morning,” Keith mumbles, and then realizes he’s laying in Lance’s bed, and is in Lance’s dorm, and that he’d slept over without meaning to, and suddenly he feels a lot more awake than he had a second ago, rising from the bed and looking quickly for his shoes.

“No rush, dude,” Lance says as he watches him.

Keith feels the rush, though. He’s panicked, and he doesn’t even know what for. It’s not a big deal, sleeping in someone else dorm. Everyone does it, and all the time. But Keith feels like an intruder, like he shouldn’t have fallen asleep. You sleep here, so show you’re grateful. Jesus christ. Lance has this nervous smile on his face, and is messing up his hair with a hand running through it. Keith figures he’ll tie his shoes this time, just so he doesn’t trip on the way out and make a fool of himself.

“Thanks for letting me crash here,” he says at the door. Lance nods his head, parts his mouth to say something but just ends up nodding again. Keith waits him out.

“My offer still stands, you know. Or, remains standing perpetually. You can always crash here if you need to. My roommate’s the epitome of niceness, so he won’t mind at all.”

“I’ll…” Keith thinks about saying he won’t need to, or flat out rejecting the offer. But it seems cold. And he’s been told to work on opening up to people. He remembers a school counselor telling him he needed to let people be nice to him more often. She was too nice. “I’ll take you up on it?” He doesn’t mean it to be a question. Lance doesn’t seem to mind.

“Here,” he says, and grabs Keith’s arm, pushing up the sleeve and pulling out a pen from seemingly nowhere. Keith wouldn’t be surprised if he kept a surplus of them on his person. His hands are covered in faded notes. They’re a lot messier than the ones from Biology. “My number,” he says, writing is neatly on the skin of Keith’s wrist, signing it with his name and drawing a quick little whale beside it.

“Text me,” he says. “And don’t forget. I’ll just track you down in lecture and demand why, and that’ll be awkward for the both of us.”

“I’ll try not to forget.”

Lance smiles again. “I’ll see you later.”

Keith nods and waves on his way out. He’s half way down the hall when he runs into what seems to be a very large chest, belonging to a very tall boy with very nice hair.

The guy takes a step back and holds Keith by the shoulders. “I’m so sorry. I never see people coming around this corner.”

“It’s no problem,” Keith says, patting the guy’s hand on his shoulder. He releases him with a sheepish smile, then seems to remember something.

“Oh, hey! Are you Keith, who slept over last night?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“I’m Hunk. The roommate. You were way passed out when I came in last night, and Lance just about murdered me with his laser eyes when I made a bit of noise. Said you needed the sleep. But it’s nice to meet you fully awake and functioning.”

Keith feels a bit overwhelmed. Murder. Laser eyes. Murder by laser eyes. “It’s, um, nice to meet you to. I like your posters.”

“Oh! Thanks. Pretty cliche, I know, but stars are really incredible once you get to understanding the science behind them.”

“Maybe you can tell me about it some time.” What’s this, Keith thinks to himself. He feels like an astonished mother, witnessing her child emerge from twenty four hours of solitary confinement in his room. If he had a mother. What’s this, you initiating a potential let’s-see-each-other-in-the-future-and-maybe-become-friends? Character development? He gives himself a mental pat on the back.

“Sure thing, dude!” Hunk says excitedly. “Lance seems kinda fixated on you, so I’ll see you around, for sure.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. He feels like a fish. An overwhelmed fish. Fixated on him? He’s just a fish. Not even an interesting one. He’s one of those ones you get at the carnival for a dollar, in a bag, that die after two days. He cried when his carnival goldfish died. His name was Picasso.

Hunk pats him on the back again, says something that’s probably a goodbye, if Keith had been paying attention, and goes down the hallway. Keith stands there another few moments, gathering himself, and then goes on his way, too.  

+

Hey, Keith types. It’s Keith. He hits send.

keith!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Keith stares at his name. He’s never seen so many exclamation points following it. He’s not sure it’s worthy of them.

i was gonna ask if you wanted to hang out today, but i just realized i’ve got a giant english paper due tomorrow but for future reference do you like animal planet documentaries?

Keith likes hippos. And goldfish.

Yeah, he types. He’s never seen one, but it’s fine.

niceeeeeee wish me luck on my paperrr

Good luck, Keith sends. And a thumbs up emoji, for good measure. He might add an exclamation point next time.

+

Keith sees Lance again the next Monday. In fact, he’s balancing a cup of ramen in his hand and thinking about how many ramen packets his kidneys might be worth, or what it might be like if people quantified the net worth of celebrities with ramen packets, when it almost goes spilling all over the guy he runs into. Only when he looks up does he realize it’s someone he knows.

His ramen is safe, though. Lance is about to apologize, but Keith speaks before he can. “You… you’re wearing glasses,” he says.

“Oh, yeah,” Lance says a little distractedly, and then grins sheepishly and pushes them up the bridge of his nose with one finger. “It’s lab day. Wouldn’t want those contacts fusing to my eyeballs if I spill some deadly chemical all over my face, you know?”

“That’s morbid.”

“Hey, safety first, my friend. Speaking of, where are you going with a steaming hot bowl of ramen?”

“Sorry it almost made acquaintance with your shirt,” Keith says. In his head, he’s thinking that if Van Damme’s net worth was approximately 720 million dollars, and Keith bought his ramen from the corner store in Houston, which were eighty cents each, Van Damme was worth about 900 million ramen packets. That was a lot. “It’s actually dinner.”

“No worries. But shouldn’t you be eating more than a cup noodle?” Lance says it all in one go. Cup-a-noodle. 

“The dining hall is… busy.” What he means is that the crowd makes him anxious, and that he’d rather avoid it if he can. He’d missed the sweet spot right before five, when it was still too early for people to be eating dinner and so it was relatively empty. He makes his way up to the second floor of the library, to the little spot he’s left his stack of notes and books by the table in the corner. Lance follows.

“Mind if I join your little huddle?”

Keith places his ramen down and sits. “Sure. Not a very thrilling time, though.”

Lance laughs gently, sitting on the seat by Keith once he clears it of many pages and books. “Is studying ever a thrill? Least your actually doing it. I should’ve started days ago.”

“Yeah, this midterm is going to murder me.”

“Same, dude, same. Least we go out together.”

Keith laughs, flipping open his notebook and scanning the notes, or lack thereof, with a sigh. “I don’t get any of this.”

“I don’t mind helping out,” Lance says, pulling out his own books. “Don’t know to what extent I actually can, but I’m willing to at least join in the suffering.”

“That’d be… nice,” Keith says. “Not the suffering part, but you know, not doing it alone.”

Lance picks up a pencil, flips open his Biology textbook, and dramatically pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Everything’s better with company, man,” he says. “Let’s get to it.”

Turns out Lance is right. The studying isn’t nearly as bad with company. Lance gives himself absolutely no credit, but he’s actually well versed in the subject, even seems to have a kindling passion for it. He explains things in a way that Keith understands, more so than the professor ever could do. His notes, distractingly familiar, are as bubbly and colorful as ever.

“I’ve, uh, I have dyslexia.”

“Huh?”

Lance gestures to his open notebook, which Keith now realizes he was probably staring at with a disturbing amount of intensity. He tended to do that, or so he was told. Lance must’ve thought he was thinking something that warranted his confession. It’s a bit of a personal one, Keith thinks, not that he minds at all. He just doesn’t think he’s worth being told.

Lance doesn’t seem to think so. He’s a bit nervous when he speaks, though in an almost imperceptible way. “That’s why… you said earlier you got my notes for class. That’s why some of the letters are backwards, and the words are misspelled, and there are more drawings then notes sometimes. It was a lot worse when I was a kid, but I figured since I have a lot better handle on it now, that I could help other people who didn’t quite yet. Also, fifty bucks gets you really good steak downtown.”

The truth is Keith hadn’t actually noticed. He was a bit of the distracted sort. A lot of the distracted sort. It’s what his teachers always hated about him. He hadn’t noticed the backwards letters or the misspellings, but he had noticed that he understood everything better from how Lance explained, on paper and aloud. He says as much, as eloquently as possible, which isn’t so much for him, but at least the sentiment is there.

“I learn better from you,” he says. Short and sweet, he guesses, if nothing else.

Lance seems to appreciate it nonetheless. His eyes have this sparkle in them, that Keith always heard people talk about but has never actually first hand witnessed. Maybe it’s just a Lance thing. He seems like the kind of boy to be made of stars. To carry them around in his heart.

“Thanks, Keith,” Lance says, even though Keith should be the one thanking him. All he does is nod in return, though, and ask another question about the structural biology of invertebrates. Invertebrates, organisms that don’t have spines. Keith kinda feels like one.  

+

Lance becomes a permanent fixture in Keith’s life after that. Keith’s study spot become Keith and Lance’s study spot. Lance’s bed is more comfortable than his own, and even more so when Lance is in it. He still doesn’t sleep over that much, the voice in his head telling him it’s too much, and that it’d be taking advantage of Lance’s hospitality, but he comes close nearly every time he’s over, which is a lot. Hunk tells him everyone on the floor knows his name.

Keith grows used to his presence, so much so he feels a bit off when it’s not there. He’s not sure how to feel about that. He figures it’s too late for take backsies, though. He probably wouldn’t take it back anyway.

+

The Wednesday before finals week Keith wakes up too late to do anything more than rinse his face and pull on a pair of pants before booking it out the door. He regrets not brushing his teeth last night at least, because the layer of sugar on them is unpleasant and makes him feel dirtier than he already does. Also, he needs a haircut.

He plops down on the seat beside Lance, five minutes late and out of breath, pulling out his notebook and accidently brushing his hand on Lance’s thigh. He mumbles an apology, Lance tells him it’s okay, and then he settles, as comfortably as he can, which is not at all, in his seat.

Today’s lecture is about coral reefs. Lance seems enraptured. Keith feels bad for not feeling it. All he feels is the rumble of his empty stomach, the gross taste in his mouth, and the weight of the universe settling mercilessly on his shoulders.

Keith blows his bangs out of his face irritatingly and scribbles something he hopes he’ll be able to read later about metapopulations. He can feel Lance’s gaze from beside him, and knows if he snuck a glance it’d probably be one of concern. He feels sick about it. And guilty. He hasn’t felt like that in a while, but it sits uncomfortably in his gut anyway, the feeling that he doesn’t deserve the notice. They only took you in for the payout. At age thirteen, the state pays 26 dollars to foster parents, for a total monthly salary of 780 dollars.

“Hey,” Lance whispers softly from next to him. Keith watches him pull off a hair tie from around his wrist and offer it to Keith. He takes it gingerly, and looks at Lance as he ties his hair back into a small ponytail.

“You’re hair is like an inch long." It's not. It's been growing out, actually, but definitely not enough to need hair ties. "Why do you have these on you?”

Lance gives him a soft smile, but only shrugs and says nothing. Keith gives himself another moment to study his face, and then turns back to his own work, a small smile playing at his lips involuntarily.

It’s annoying how such small gestures can distract him for so long, though. Keith’s never been one to easily dig himself out of a dark hole of melodramatic angst, especially when there’s a mess of old, angry thoughts beating the shit out of his brain tissues, but suddenly all he can think about it Lance’s wrists, each with two hair ties wrapped around them, and how small they are, how Keith could reach out and wrap his fingers around them so they overlapped when they met at the other side.

He’s thinking about the slightly lighter tan of the skin there, and that it probably came from a watch he wore when he spent his summer in Florida, a detail of Lance's life he doesn’t remember when he was told. He’s thinking about the strips that won’t tan if he keeps the hair ties on, and why they’re there in the first place. His face feels hot and he’s got one foot playing with the other.   

Lance doesn’t seem to notice Keith’s distractedness. Or maybe he’s so used to it he doesn’t bring it up again. Only when they’re out of class does he ask if Keith is feeling okay, to which Keith nods silently, distracted still, and tells him he’s going to go take a nap, that he’ll see him later.

And it’s the way that Lance hugs him goodbye, with a gentle squeeze and a warm smile. It’s the way his cold cheek brushes against Keith’s warm one as they part, like they’ve swapped their usual temperatures. It’s the way his hand lingers in the space between them like he doesn’t want to let go quite yet. That’s what tells him he’s profoundly fucked. In retrospect he probably should have seen it coming. He thinks he probably already knew.

+

yooooOOOOOOoooO r u still napping???? ?

Keith is, in fact, not. He, in fact, never was, and instead has spent the better part of the last two hours staring up at the ceiling of his dorm room, trying to take advantage of his roommate's absence but greatly failing. Lance is mostly the reason.

No, Keith types. Actually I can’t because I keep thinking about you all the time and how much I want to kiss you all the time and be with you all the time and it’s really getting on my nerves can you please stopfdsafjk;asfls

He quickly deletes the entire message, face burning, and types out a new, chiller one.

No. What’s up?

Lance answers more quickly than should be possible.

ahhh i hope you slept well <333 was wondering if u wanted to eat pizza and do a facial with me?

Keith stares at the heart. He feels like his own is about to burst from his chest.

Yeah. I’ll meet you by your dorm?

text me when ur close i’ll come get u

Keith thumbs at his phone another minute. Then he kicks the sheets off of him and slips his shoes on, grabbing a jacket on the way out. He takes one look in the mirror just to make sure his hair is down flat, frowns at the very distinct dark circles under his eyes, but accepts his appearance for what it is.

I’m outside, he texts Lance once he’s there. Lance sends a key smash and then Keith hears someone stomping down the steps of the dorm building, right before Lance rounds the corner too fast to be safe and slams into the door. Dramatic.

“Hey,” he says, out of breath, holding the door for Keith and following him inside.

“Hey,” Keith says, laughing a bit. “Why’d you run?”

“Because it’s near freezing outside, Keith.”

“Oh.”

“C’mon.” Lance grabs at Keith’s hand and tugs gently. Keith doesn’t pull away, though there’s a near knee-jerk reaction to. He lets Lance lead him to his room, even though he already knows well where it is.

It smells like pizza. There’s a box laying open on Lance’s desk with a couple slices already eaten. Keith grabs a slice and eats it in about three bites while standing, waiting for Lance to clear his bed so they can sit. He grabs another before laying down, flopping his head on Lance’s pillow with a relieved sigh.

“I thought you said you took a nap. You look exhausted,” Lance says, shuffling around in his closet for something.

Keith hums. “I might have failed to fall asleep.”

“Seems like you sleep better in my room than your own,” Lance muses, pulling out a few packages of face masks and a bottle of what’s probably cleanser.

“Yeah,” Keith says softly, not sure what else to.

“Honestly, dude. Just sleep here. You know Hunk is chill. He loves you. And your roommate seems like a dick given that you always look like you’ve had an hour of sleep, tops.”

“I’ll… take you up on it more often.”

“You better,” Lance says lightly. He walks the short distance from his desk to Keith laying on his bed and pulls Keith upright by both his arms. Then he cradles Keith’s face in two hands, inspecting him closely. Keith hopes he doesn’t notice the warmth of his cheeks.

“A facial,” he says, “will make you feel loads better.”

“I don’t feel that bad,” Keith says. Lance squishes his cheeks in response, making it so Keith’s lips are puckered. It’s a little ridiculous, really. Keith’s heart still pounds like he’s in some sort of romantic soap opera anyway. He really needs to call Shiro.

“I can read you, Keith Kogane. You’re tired and maybe a little sad, and this mask will lift your spirits, heal your aura, align your chakras. Trust me.”

“I chrusht myou,” Keith says through his fish lips. Lance frees him with a satisfied smile, only to capture his hand and drag him to the bathroom, where they commence the washing of their faces with what Lance calls his “miracle water,” which is actually a cream cleanser that smells like peaches.

Lance spritzes his face with toner and then Keith’s, and then he rips open one of the packages and gently takes out the mask, unfolding it.

“You first,” he says. “Sit on the counter so I can put this on you.”

“Why do I have to be on the counter?”  

“Because your lack of height might hinder the very delicate process.”

Keith pouts. “There’s like a two inch height difference between us, Lance.” He hops up on the counter anyway, scooting so he’s not about to fall off the edge.

“Two inches could make the difference,” Lance says. He nudges at Keith’s knee with one arm, and when Keith makes room for him, stands between his legs. The position seems, Keith thinks, cheeks reddening, vastly unnecessary, but he doesn’t make way to move, letting Lance take up the space between his knees and kicking a bit in nervousness.

Lance leans in, pressing the mask to Keith’s face and then using the pads of his fingers to get rid of any bubbles. “It’s a cool cucumber mask, for calming. I chose this one specifically for you, because you need a bit of calm in your life. Also it’s good for moisturizing.”

“Does my skin need moisturizing?”

“Nah,” Lance says, patting gently at the same spot on Keith’s face. “Your skin’s actually unfairly perfect, which is exponentially more unfair given the amount of sleep you get.”

Keith laughs, kicking at Lance’s knee gently. “Thanks.”

Lance smiles. He takes a moment longer to finish patting down Keith’s face, and then steps away for his own, opening his package and unfolding his own mask. Keith watches as he places it on his face and pats out the bubbles, then hops up on the counter beside Keith. There isn’t a whole lot of room, so their thighs are pressed together. Lance captures Keith’s foot with his own repeatedly. Keith elbows him in the side. He only laughs.

“Hey,” he says quietly, his voice a stark contrast to just a moment ago. “Your knees.”

Keith sends a look towards his exposed knees. Once again, he failed to wear jeans with no holes in them, so they show how little his knees have heeled, even though it’s been nearly a month. His own fault mostly. He kicks his legs, trapping Lance’s calf to the counter on the way down. Lance doesn’t put up a fight.

“I’m not so great at letting things heal on their own,” he says. The therapist one group home made all the kids see once a year might have knit-picked at those words. Lance hums.

“I bet you were that kid that played soccer with a concussion.”

“I have a hard time believing you weren’t, too.”

“Ha! Never. Swimmers don’t get concussions.”

Keith laughs. “You seem like the type to still manage.”

Lance shoots him a glance. “Don’t,” he says gravely. “Don’t smile. If you smile, I’ll smile and then my mask will be ruined.”

“Your mask is fine, Lance.” He doesn’t stop smiling though. He releases Lance’s leg, only to trap it a moment later. “You’re right though. I did play through a concussion once. And a sprained ankle. Only because no one knew, though. I’m sure they probably would have stopped me.” Probably.

“No one noticed you had a sprained ankle?”

Keith shakes his head. It sends some hair into his face, which he doesn’t bother to brush away. “I mean, I was pretty good at hiding it, and too stubborn to stop playing. Not soccer, though. I did fencing. This one foster family paid for the lessons, maybe because they felt bad for me, or wanted me out of the house for a bit, I don’t know. I wasn’t about to stop going because of a sprained ankle, though.” 

Lance pushes at Keith’s foot and then traps it again. “I didn’t know you were a foster kid,” he says.

“I’m pretty well adjusted, I guess,” Keith says. His voice sounds dull. He hates it.

“Not like that,” Lance says. That’s not what I meant, he means, and it settles something in Keith’s chest, slipping it right back into place. “Just… I’m glad you felt like you could tell me.”

“I told you I trust you.”

“Yeah, about face masks. Your childhood and face masks are two very different things.”

Keith hums. “I trust you,” he says again.

Lance releases Keith’s foot, then reaches down and tugs at his leg, pulling it up so it rests on his lap. It’s a bit of an awkward position, but Keith is flexible. Lance taps at his ankle, then lets his hand rest on it. “This one?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you sprain it?”

“Running from a foster brother. Honestly he probably would’ve done worse.”

“Dick,” Lance says, rubbing at the skin of Keith’s ankle.

Keith shrugs, too distracted by Lance’s touch to filter his words properly. “Not nearly the worst of them, though.”

Lance fixes him with a look, something like anger in his eyes. Not pity, though. “I’m sorry there are so many shitty people in the world.”

“It’s okay,” Keith says. It’s okay. People like you make up for it.

“It’s not,” Lance says, and then laughs. “I just… this is such a deep conversation to be having with our faces looking like ghosts.”

Keith laughs, too. “Haven’t we had them on too long, now?”

“Probably,” Lance says, releasing Keith’s leg and jumping off the counter. “Which mitigates their effect. Totally worth it, though. Want more pizza?”

They end up ordering another pizza. Lance complains the entire time how puffy his face is going to be in the morning, how bad the grease is for his skin, but he eats slice after slice anyway.

+

On Thursday they try to study, only for them to end up on their way to the outdoor pool at two in the morning instead. Keith is slightly confused as to how the suggestion came up.

“I don’t have swimming trunks,” Keith tells Lance as they make their way across campus.

“No problem. I’ve seen your hippopotamus printed boxers.”

Keith shoves at him, but Lance only wraps his arm around him and laughs.

“Says the guy with penguins on his,” Keith mumbles.

“My penguins are just as cute as your hippopotamuses.”

“Actually hippopotamus is a latin word, so the plural would technically be hippopotami, but since it’s English when English speakers use it I guess you could pluralize it the way English calls for and say hippopotamuses, or you could just say hippos, too.”

“I like your passion for all things hippopotami.”

“They’re great,” Keith admits.

Lance laughs gently, then tugs at Keith’s hand as they near the gate to the pool. He lets go and kneels down with his hands crossed over flat in front of him. “The gate’s locked at this time of night so you gotta hop it.”

“Maybe you should go first.”

“Nah, my two inches on you means I don’t need a boost.”

“Again with the nonexistent height difference,” Keith mumbles, but relents anyway, taking off both his shoes and throwing them over the gate before stepping onto Lance’s hands. He pushes Keith over the gate, and Keith straddles it uncomfortably only briefly before plopping down over the other side.

He watches Lance scale the gate and hop over with the grace of someone who’s definitely done this before.

And then he’s pulling his shirt off over his head too fast for Keith to really compartmentalize what’s happening, throwing his shirt somewhere and working at the button of his pants. Keith can’t register anything fast enough to turn away. Lance has really nice shoulders. And stomach. He’s got a nice everything. Keith feels heat in his cheeks.

“C’mon,” Lance urges him, kicking off his pant legs in a manner which should have had him flailing over onto the floor but somehow doesn’t.

Keith nods and says something unintelligible, then pulls his shirt off over his head, throwing it with Lance’s pile and pulling off his jeans next. Lance grabs his hand quickly, runs to the edge of the pool, and without even a brief hesitation, plummets into the water, dragging Keith in with him.

The first thing Keith thinks is fuck, because it’s absolutely fucking freezing and he wasn’t exactly psychologically prepared for it. Which might be a theme of today’s night. Mental unpreparation. 

He swims to the surface and gasps for air, spluttering up water. Lance laughs, hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks red. He’s hugging himself, teeth chattering violently, and Keith kind of wants to hug him for warmth, even though it probably won’t do anything. He does it anyway. It does nothing. Lance hugs him back anyway.

“This was maybe a mediocre idea,” Lance says through chattering teeth. “I forget how freezing it is every time.”

Keith ignores the feel of Lance’s chest pressed into his, rising and falling quickly, stuttering from Lance’s laughing. “You’ve done this before.”

“Oh, yeah. Never with someone to share the suffering with though.”

“I’m absolutely flattered.”

“As you should be,” Lance says, and then releases Keith and splashes him. Keith curses and goes after him, shoving his head underwater. Lance just drags him down with him.

They meet at the bottom. Keith’s eyeballs might freeze but at least Lance also has his open. He watches the bubbles of breath rise to the surface as they sink to the floor. Lance sits cross legged on the floor, reaching out for both of Keith’s hands, his cheeks comically puffed out.

Keith let’s him take them, sitting across from him with their knees touching underwater. Lance looks at him, his face blurry. Keith remembers his contact lenses, and how stupid Lance is. He mouths as much. Lance laughs, muffled in the water.

And then they run out of breath in their lungs, but don’t let go of each other as they rise to the surface, breaking it and gasping each other’s air. Lance’s eyes are red when he looks at him. Keith swipes at his bangs.

“Your hair is getting longer. You can tell when it’s wet. You look like a wet mop.”

“Gee, thanks,” Lance laughs. “Like yours isn’t long at all.”

“I didn’t say the wet mop look was bad.”

Lance dunks his head into the water and then shapes his hair into a mohawk. It’s sort of floppy and sad looking, but Keith thinks he gets the general idea.

“How’s the punk rock look instead?” Lance says.

“One out of ten.”

“That low? Geez. I’ll leave the punk rockness to you, then.”

“I don’t have a punk rock look.”

Lance raises an eyebrow at him, doggie paddles close and studies his face with intent. Keith feels very seen. He doesn’t look away though.

“You’ve got the broody angsty look.”

“Do not.”

“Well, not right now maybe. Before we met, though, you definitely did. It’s only really when a person doesn’t know you, that you seem a bit unapproachable. An enigma. A mystery.”

“Why are you talking about me like I’m the anti hero protagonist of your childhood fantasy world?”

“Maybe you were,” Lance says with a grin. Keith flicks him in the forehead. A thought flickers across his mind.

“Before we met… were you, like, watching me?”

Lance’s brows knit together, his mouth parts and Keith briefly thinks he resembles a fish, almost laughs at the thought. Except Lance just says, “I mean, yeah. Not in a creepy way. It's just... you’re pretty hard to miss.”

“Oh,” Keith says. He should probably think of something else to, but his brain has conveniently short circuited.

Lance takes the opportunity to shove Keith underwater. Keith tugs at his legs to drag him down with him, and they swim the rest of the night, Keith feeling too starstruck to even be cold.

+

Keith wakes to an annoying ringing in his ear. His roommate mumbles a string of curse words directed at Keith from across the room. Keith mumbles a string of curse words at his phone. He answers anyway, going out into the hall to speak.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Keith Kogane?” A woman speaks. Her voice is formal, stern but still friendly enough for Keith to not hang up immediately.

“Uh, speaking.”

“This is Hannah Wilson calling from the National Foster Youth Center. We met briefly about three and a half years ago, if my records are correct, when you were preparing to enter another group home.”

Keith doesn’t remember her. He remembers the group home fine. He hadn’t stayed long. He figures he better just go with it. “Oh, yeah. Hi, again.”

“Hello,” the woman says again. “I understand you turned eighteen last year and are now living independently. I’m calling to let you know that a woman who is claiming to be your biological mother has contacted us in the hopes that she might be able to get into contact with you.”

Keith hears her. The words make perfect sense, really. Except he still can’t quite understand. “What?”

The woman seems nonplussed by his lack of reaction. In fact, when she speaks, it’s with a note of sympathy, a gentleness that eases the heavy pit in Keith’s stomach, weighing him down. It gets heavier every second. Gravity really is a killer. If he just lived on the moon he wouldn’t feel the weight so badly. He might even be floating.

“I understand this is likely surprising news, perhaps even distressing. You don’t have to make any decisions right now. I’ll leave my number with you, in case you have any questions, as well as the number of the woman who contacted us.”

Keith breathes. “Yeah… okay. Thank you.” He listens listlessly as she recites her number and tells him she’s a social worker, that she’ll answer any questions he might have in the future, and then gives him the number of… of his mother.

He speaks a quite thank you in the end, eyes blurred to the space in front of him.

“Of course,” Hannah says, voice gentle. Keith’s never been so grateful for a practical stranger’s kindness. He supposes it makes sense, given her line of work. “Have a good day, Mr. Kogane.”

He tries. It doesn’t quite work out that way.

+

Is there anything happening off campus tonight, Keith texts his roommate eight hours later. It’s probably the third time he ever has in their short time together. He’s a little desperate.

It takes the guy about an hour to respond, at which point Keith had almost given up.

1372 NE Brahms St

It’s an address, seemingly one at which a party is taking place. Keith texts a quick thanks and grabs his shoes on the way out, ignoring the sting in his eyes, the ache in his heart, the urge to punch something just to feel the sting of his knuckles.

In the end, he sort of forgets why he came, which was the point in the first place. He also forgets how he gets there. They are too many sweaty bodies and loud voices and overfilled cups being shoved into his face for him to be comfortable. He hasn’t had a drink since he was fourteen, on account of stupid, death-dealing decisions. He takes one anyway.

The music pounds loud in his ears as he takes a sip and then another. Someone throws an arm around him that he goes to shrug off, but it sticks to him like glue, pulls him along through the crowd. He lets it before finding room to shove away, drink sploshing over the rim.

They guy shouts something crude, which Keith is too distracted to entirely comprehend, and then walks away. Keith fixes his eyes to the floor and takes a gulp of his remaining drink. His cheeks puffed before he swallows it. A girl runs into him, mumbles a drunken apology, and walks on. Keith gets another drink.

His mom wants so talk to him. Wants to see him. His mom is alive. Keith goes through another cup too quickly, but he doesn’t care. His body sways with the music, head pounding, heart pounding, everything throbbing. His mom abandoned him. His mom didn’t want him.

She loved you, his dad said, four months before he died, two months before his eighth birthday. She just didn’t know how to stay.

Keith crushes the cup in his hand. Some girl has her hands around his neck, and maybe she’s trying to dance with him, but neither of them are sober enough for it to really be any semblance of a partnered dance. Keith lets her run her hands down his chest. He feels like shit. His throat burns.

Keith wants to see her just to say fuck off. He wants to see her just so she knows how well he’s turned out without her, but he’s not really sure if that's true. He feels lost all the time, like parts of him are missing but he’s not ever sure when or where they ended up gone. He doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life, if the selfishness of everything he does is excusable, if it’s okay to just want to be happy, and not spend his life helping other people like so many people always say they want to. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, only that something is. He wants to hurt himself, the urge familiar as it always is when it comes again. He thought he was done with that feeling. Only know does he realize he’s had it since forever, that it won’t ever be done with him.

The girl is slumping now, hugging Keith to keep herself standing. Keith tries to support her, but his knees are giving out and he ends up holding on too tightly. She makes a noise of discomfort, the right strap of her dress slipping.

“Hey,” someone says gruffly beside him. “Get your hands off my girlfriend.” Keith kind of wants to laugh. It’s such a cliche line. He feels like he’s in a movie. He’s not even the main character.

Keith does as told. The girl falls to the floor.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Just doing what you asked,” Keith mumbles, and makes to get out of there. A hand at his shoulder stops him, pulling him back roughly. Keith almost stumbles. His head aches. His hands clench into fists.

He turns around and throws them into the guy’s face, hard. The stinging sensation of his knuckles is familiar in a way that shouldn’t be comforting but is. It reminds him of too many nights spent getting beat to a pulp in alleyways, of unfettered anger, confusion, a storm always festering in his head. He keeps punching. Again and again and again, but each time he misses worse, and then the guy is shoving at him and punching back.

One punch lands squarely on his cheekbone, sending him sprawling to the floor. He doesn’t have the energy to get up. Even when feet kick him hard in the ribs, all he can do it curl up and take it. He thinks about the little rollie pollies he’d go out to the backyard to find as a kid, how they would roll up into little balls when he poked at them. The thought is an old one, makes him feel stupid enough to ground himself. Maybe the guy is sick of him, or maybe someone is arguing with him, shoving him away from Keith, but he walks away after just a few hard kicks, leaving Keith laying in the the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by people too drunk to help him up or even realize he’s there. He kind of wants to vomit.

“Keith,” someone mumbles. There’s a gentle hand at his shoulder, another cradling his cheek and lifting his head from the cold floor. His vision swims, but the voice is familiar and warms his stomach, and he finally focuses on the face it belongs to in front of him after a few moments trying.

“Lance…”

“That’s me,” Lance says. Lance is here, at this party, because of course he is. He probably witnessed Keith’s stupid drunken spectacle. He probably thinks he’s too dumb to ever want to hang out with again. His mom wants to see him. His mom didn’t want him. She loved you, Keith. Lance has the tiniest splatter of freckles next to his right eye. It’s cute.

“Thanks,” Lance says. Keith is slightly confused what for. Lance is pulling Keith up and throwing his arm over his shoulder, leading them away from the crowd.

“You’re here,” Keith says, staring at his face.  

“It’s the swim team captain's house. Technically I’m a host.”

“Oh.”

“What are you doing provoking football players to punch you in the face, Keith?”

“Is that why my face hurts?”

Lance laughs, the sound gentle but worried. Keith feels sort of bad for making him worry, especially at a party he’s supposed to be, well, partying at. Not helping Keith up off the floor and to safety.

“Your face is going to be a rainbow in the morning.”

Keith hums. “I mean, ‘s sorta fitting.”

Lance says nothing, but he hikes Keith up a little higher and holds him just a little tighter, and then they go up the stairs together. It feels a bit like climbing Mount Everest.  

“Not nearly as life-threatening, though it comes close,” Lance says. He’s shoving open the door to an empty bedroom and leading them inside, plopping Keith down on the bed and kneeling in front of him to pull his shoes off. Keith lifts his leg up a little to help him. Lance’s hair is even softer than he thought it’d be, hand on Lance’s shoulder to keep balance and fingers touching where it’s growing longer.

“Lance…” Keith mumbles. Lance finishes taking off his second shoe and places is neatly beside the bed. He props his chin on Keith’s thigh, looking up at him from there.

“Yeah?”

“You should date me.”

Lance fixes him with something scrutinous, studies his face with a seriousness Keith isn’t used to on him. It doesn’t make him uncomfortable, but it lasts long enough for him to wiggle his toes in anxiousness.

Finally Lance’s expression softens, and his head lifts from Keith’s thigh. He tugs at Keith’s sleeves, pulling them back down over his wrists, and then stands up and tucks a stray tuft of hair behind his ear.

“I want to.”

“Yeah?”

Lance smiles. “Yeah. I just hope you don’t remember this in the morning, because I want to start it right, and you are way too drunk right now for that to be possible.”

“I didn’t mean to get this way.”

Lance sits beside him, silent for a moment. “Did something happen?”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “I… my mom loved me.”

“Okay,” Lance says simply. He doesn’t refute, doesn’t agree. Just listens.

“But she still left.”

Lance is warm beside him. He holds Keith’s hand in his, resting them both on his lap. “That’s not on you.”

“How could it not be?” Your parents didn’t want you. Ha.

“She made the decision, and it has nothing to do with anything that you could have done. Leaving was her fault. It’ll always be her fault. If she wants to see you again, then you get to choose if she can.”

Keith doesn’t remember if he’d told Lance that she did. It doesn’t matter, though. Lance is smart. His hand is warm. “I don’t know what to choose.”

“You don’t have to right now,” Lance says. “I’m going to get an ice pack for your blackening eye. You’re going to sleep it off, and I’ll be here the entire time to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit whilst sleeping.”

Keith laughs a choked sound. “Romantic.”

Lance laughs a pretty sound. “Everything is with you.”

Chapter Text

“Fuck,” Keith mumbles, hissing as he presses gentle fingers to the enormous bruise that spreads itself across his cheekbone and underneath his eye. He used to rank his bruises when there were more of them, from one to ten, measly to absolutely gargantuan.

This one was a solid eight. Eight and a half. Not the worst that it could be. He still looked like shit, though. And felt worse.

Make sure to get some ice on that, Lance had told him as he tripped out the door. Lance, who apparently was at the party and had brought him home to his dorm room after, because that is how shit-faced he got. He wished he remembered more of the night. Maybe then he would know what his apologies were for, when he sputtered out a string of them upon waking and realizing he was hogging the blanket, of a bed that wasn’t his, in a room that was not his, because Lance was too nice for his own good.

Keith steals a popsicle from the lounge freezer and presses it to the bruise. The entire right side of his face aches. Whoever punched him was left-handed. If Keith was a little younger and had a little more of the spite left in him, he might have used that to figure out who left him with an aching headache. Except it was probably from the alcohol, and he probably deserved the punch anyway, knowing himself.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s a message from Lance. He swipes his phone open and squints at it. Maybe he should just eat the popsicle instead.

study for finals later??

Keith types out a quick affirmative, then rips open the popsicle and takes a bite of it. His eye can fuck it. It’s raspberry flavored.

His head feels clogged, though. Like it can’t sift through all the things he needs to be doing right now, or should have figured out weeks ago. Lance took him home yesterday, shit-faced and probably blabbing on about who knows what. Maybe Van Damme again. Maybe ramen. Maybe the fact that his mother abandoned him and nearly nineteen years later wants to make up for it.

He needs to figure out where he’s staying for winter break, which is in precisely a week, because Shiro’s halfway across the world right now, probably halfway done with saving it. He needs to call Shiro. He needs to pass finals. He should probably figure out what he told Lance last night. And then apologize again.

He chokes on his stolen popsicle, eyes watering painfully, and thumps on his chest to get it down. One thing at a time, he supposes. Time to pass some classes. Or at least a couple.

+

“Alright, so when you have a species with overlapping generations, you use this formula. It’s exponential growth though, so it doesn’t take into account density dependent factors and isn’t very accurate to real life species population growths.”

Lance has a way with explaining things, Keith thinks, as he takes note of what he just said. It’s not the most interesting thing he’s had to learn in his life, but at least he understands it. He’s pretty sure the professor never went over this, but it could also be that he hadn’t gone to half the lectures.

Lance is writing down a couple numbers and pointing to each one, explaining where to plug them into the formula. It’s about dandelions, and how many they’ll be in five or so years if you have a population of four to start with. He wonders if Lance likes flowers, and if it’d be weird to collect a few for him, maybe press them first. His textbooks might as well be put to some kind of use.

“Hey,” Lance says, prompting Keith to look up from his notes, which have somehow morphed into a bad doodle of a rose. “You alright?”

“Hu?” It’s kind of lopsided. The stem is too short.

“You seem kinda distracted. Wanna take a break?”

Keith kind of nods dumbly. He probably shouldn’t ask what Lance’s favorite flowers are, but he does anyway.

Lance doesn’t seem to mind the non sequitur. He hums as he wraps his scarf around Keith’s neck and shrugs on his jacket. “Snapdragons,” he says after a moment’s thought, and then promptly shoves his beanie onto Keith’s head. “It’s cold outside.”

Snapdragons, he says. Keith probably can’t draw them, unfortunately. “I’m warm-blooded.”

Lance laughs. “You’ve got about the coldest hands of anyone I’ve ever met.” To prove his point, he grabs Keith’s hands and holds them against his cheeks. The difference in temperature is stark, and difficult to argue. Keith pouts.

“Maybe I should make you take iron supplements,” Lance says, releasing Keith’s hands and making his way to leave the library. Their books are still occupying the table, but everyone is probably too busy with their noses in their own to steal them. Wouldn’t do them much good anyway.

“Iron supplements?” He asks, catching up to Lance. He’s got long legs. Annoyingly long.

“Yeah. My mom used to make us take them every morning. Maybe you have an iron deficiency. Or maybe it’s magnesium. Or vitamin d. Could explain why you’re so cold all the time.”

“I carry hand warmers.” He actually does. Sometimes.

Lance takes his hand and shoves it into his own pocket. “Do you ever use them, though? No.”

Keith pouts, wiggling his fingers so they poke Lance’s stomach through the fabric of his jacket. Lance yelps, but doesn’t move away.

Maybe he should ask about the other night. What secrets had he spilled. If he threw up on Lance’s shoes or on someone else’s. He sits beside Lance on a bench outside the library. It’s too cold to be out here, so no one else is, but Keith appreciates the quiet. His hand is still shoved inside Lance’s pocket, his other freezing from the night air.  

“You call your mom?” Lance says. Keith’s heartbeat stutters a little, registering the words. He’d told Lance then, which isn’t that much of a surprise, and he doesn’t feel so scared about it, strangely enough. He just hopes he didn’t make a sob story out of it.

“Not yet,” he says. Maybe he should just ask. He’s always had a jump-first mentality, in every aspect of his life except the important ones. It doesn’t have to be so hard, though, he’s learning. He’ll just ask.

“Lance, the other night… did I say anything, like, that I shouldn’t have?”

Lance thinks a moment. “Not really,” he says finally. “I mean, I don’t know what you said to get punched in the face. You didn’t put ice on that, did you? But not that I can recall. Maybe what you weren’t ready to, about your mom… and other things, but don’t worry so much.”

The heaviness in his heart eases, and his lungs expand, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time and hadn’t known it. It’s a check on the to do list of his life. He says sorry again, just in case.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Lance tells him. He’s looking at Keith now, and his face is really close. There’s a spatter of freckles next to his eye. Keith feels like he’s noticed it before, but also like it’s the first time. Lance is tracing the bruise beneath his eye now. Keith doesn’t remember when he’d reached up to touch him. The shiver that spreads down his spine and his arms isn’t from the cold, though he hopes Lance interprets it as.

“He hit hard.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, even though he doesn’t really remember it. “He’s left handed.”

Lance laughs, his hand falling away. “I wouldn’t have thought to notice that.”

“It’s not my first time getting punched in the face.” He kind of wishes he kept a tally, for research purposes.

“You know, that worries me, Keith.”

“I haven’t picked a fight for a long time.”

“But you used to?”

“Yeah, I mean. When I was getting tossed around group homes and foster homes, I just… I don’t know. I was an angry kid.”

“But not anymore.” Lance doesn’t quite frame it as a question. Maybe he doesn’t mean it as one. Maybe he’s right.

“I’m going to call her,” Keith says, even though he didn’t know he’d made the decision until the moment he spoke it aloud. “Maybe not for a while, but I will eventually. I don’t want to wake up thinking about what would’ve happened if I did.”

Lance brings Keith’s hand out from his pocket and holds it in his. It feels like he’s done it before. Or maybe Keith just wants for him to have.

“If you ever need anything, Keith,” he says, but doesn’t finish the sentence, like he doesn’t know how to or more like he doesn’t need to. If you ever need anything, I’m here.  

It’s the unspoken, Keith thinks, more than the spoken, that takes his breath away.

+

Keith leaves the lecture hall an hour after Lance does. He has absolutely no idea how he did, only that he spent a long time musing over too many questions, and that the professor didn’t look up when he finally turned in the exam.

It’s the last day of the semester. Four finals down and zero to go, and even though Keith had been looking forward to the moment he doesn’t feel all that relieved, maybe because dorms also close tomorrow and he’s yet to find a place to stay, maybe because his brain hasn’t caught up yet, and is still stuck in that little corner in the library, memorizing french vocabulary. Why did he even take French? He should’ve taken Spanish instead.

He checks his phone and finds that Lance had texted him a few minutes after turning in his exam, telling him to meet him by his dorm. Keith pulls on his hoodie and makes his way across campus, throwing the papers in his backpack into a garbage can on the way. In another, more dramatic life, he would’ve built a bonfire for them to make a home in.

There are a few people leaving today, he notices, a couple kids lugging their bags across campus to catch the airport shuttle. They look happy to be done with the semester, if not a little frazzled by the journey to get to the finish line. He texts Lance that he’s outside, and immediately hears the sound of his thumping to the door, kicking it open with a dramatic leap.

“Do you like fanta?” Lance immediately asks, leading him down the hall to his room. He pronounces the ‘a’ in it like he would in the word ‘haunting’, with a slight accent that Keith hasn’t noticed him use with other words before.

“Yeah, why?” Keith asks, before he walks into Lance’s dorm and finds that he has exactly four 12 packs of said fanta sitting on his bed.

“Because I forgot those were under my bed, we’re supposed to be out of the dorms by tomorrow, my flight is at 8 in the morning, and I can’t take them in my carry on.”

“Hey, Keith,” Hunk says from his side of the room. He’s got a suitcase open and is currently folding his clothes neatly and stacking them in it. He seems unfazed by Lance and the explosion that is his side of the room.

“Hey, Hunk,” Keith says, a little distracted. “Uh, I’ll take a fanta, Lance.”

“Great,” Lance says, and then gives him two cans, one in each hand.

“Lance is stressfully packing,” Hunk informs him. He doesn’t look too concerned.

“I wanted to spend my last day on campus hanging with you,” Lance tells Keith, shoving his laundry into a suitcase. “But then I realized that I’d forgotten I needed clothing, because I’m gonna be home a month, and also I wanted to take my bookshelf but that might be too much so now I have to decide which ones to take home with me.”

“Uh,” Keith says. He sets a fanta down on Lance’s desk. “I’ll help you choose. And pack.”

“I adore you,” Lance says. He’s not looking to see Keith’s cheeks flush. Keith presses the remaining fanta to his cheek. It’s not even cold. Also his bruise is still healing, so it kind of hurts.

It doesn’t take as long as Keith thought it would. He basically helps Lance jump on a pile of clothing to make it fit into his suitcase, tells him that as much as he thinks he will he’s probably not going to be doing a ton of reading over the break, so one or two books will suffice, and drinks his way through three quarters of a pack of fanta.

He’s working on the last quarter an hour later, laying on Lance’s bed with Lance pressed up against his side playing Animal Crossing, scrolling through his phone for any roommate requests that don’t exceed 50% shadiness. Maybe he should settle for 75%, he thinks.

Lance gets bored of his game apparently, because he props his chin on Keith’s shoulder and breathes warm air onto his face annoyingly. Keith wrinkles his nose, wiggling his shoulders, but Lance only laughs.

“Watcha looking at?”  

“Roommate offers,” Keith says, frowning when Lance’s annoying pointy chin ceases to press kind of painfully into his shoulder.

“What?” Lance asks, now staring at Keith like he’s committed an atrocity.

“Hu?” Is all he gets out.

“You don’t have a place to stay?”

“Oh… I mean…” He waves his phone around. “I can probably find one.” He can’t. Not one of less than 75% shadiness in less than a day.

“Um, no, Keith. Why didn’t you… you know what actually, I should’ve realized. Hunk, can I borrow your laptop?”

“Yeah, buddy.” Hunk is also probably playing Animal Crossing.  

“Cool.”

And then Lance is suddenly flipping open Hunk’s laptop, typing in a password he of course knows, and opening up a new browser, nudging at Keith to give him more space on the bed.

Keith watches Lance pull up flights for airlines going to California. His brain isn’t working fast enough to understand what Lance is actually doing, otherwise he probably would’ve stopped him earlier. All he can do is sit there and watch Lance, as he cancels his plane ticket for tomorrow and then books two new ones for 9 in the morning instead, a window and an aisle seat right next to each other. It costs 634 dollars total. A lot of ramen.

“There,” Lance says, shutting the laptop dramatically. Only then does Keith’s brain catch up, right before Lance says, “you’re coming home with me.”

“I… hu?”

“You’re coming home with me,” Lance repeats. “Don’t think I won’t drag you onto the plane with me. I will drag you onto the plane.”

“Lance, that’s… you can’t just take me home with you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because… your parents don’t know. I’d be intruding. Also, I can’t pay you back for that ticket.” So many ramen packets. “And it’s just… taking advantage.”

“Okay, my parents already know all about you, seeing as how I tell them about you every time I talk to them, which is literally every day, and they’ll love you, if they don't already. Also, you don’t have to pay me back. And, if anything, I’m the one taking advantage by bringing you home with me, because honestly it’s pretty selfish, but I want you there.”

Keith wants to crush his swelling heart. Still: “Lance, no.”

“Lance, yes.”

“Lance, no.”

“Lance, YES.”

“Lance, NO.”

Fourteen hours later, Keith sits in a chair by the boarding gate. His bag is packed, Lance is ruffling through his bag for something, and there are two boarding passes in his pocket for a flight to California in exactly one hour. He apparently didn’t trust Keith to carry his own. I don’t know what kind of selfless ‘I won’t invade your home even though your family will love me and my amazing, kind, handsome friend wants me to’ act you’ll do upon this boarding pass, Keith. Maybe shred it. Maybe eat it. I simply cannot take the risk.  

Keith yawns, stretching his aching limbs. They stayed up way too late last night, knowing how early they’d have to be up the next day but too stupid to let it make a difference.

“Want coffee?” Lance asks, yawning too as he pulls out his wallet.

Keith nods, gets up slowly from his chair and follows Lance to the nearest coffee place. There’s a sign that says not to leave their bags unattended. He hopes it will forgive them.

“One large white mocha for me,” Lance tells the barista. “Keith?”

“The uh, caramel… annihilator?” That is definitely what’s written on the menu board. Annihilation it is. “Large. Extra sweet.” Because fuck it. He pulls out his card, holds it over the counter.

“Nu uh,” Lance says from beside him, and then hip checks him. Keith knocks over a bag of coffee, apologizes and glares at Lance, who only smiles brightly at him, handing over his card to the cashier.

“I pay next time,” Keith says a few minutes later, taking a sip from his disgustingly but perfectly sweet drink. Lance laughs, smiling sweeter than Keith’s annihilator.

“I’m only making up for probably falling asleep on you later.”

As it turns out, he does. Keith has never gone so long not moving. His shoulder kind of aches by the end of it, but it’s worth it for the way that Lance breathes gently in his sleep.

+

Keith calls Shiro when they’ve landed. Lance is out calling a taxi, because he’d neglected to tell his parents which day he’d be arriving, on account of wanting to surprise them.

It rings only once before he picks up, and his voice is like a breath of fresh air, easing the tangle of nerves in Keith’s stomach.

“Keith,” Shiro says, warm and somehow always, always sounding like he’s happy to hear from him.

“Hi, Shiro.”

“I’ve missed you. How’s school been? You’re eating better, right?”

“I missed you too,” Keith says, closes his eyes and laughs from relief, not knowing why but needing to. “School’s hard. We don’t get our grades back for another week or so, but I think I at least passed my classes. I’m eating well, don’t worry. Although if you knew the food here you’d be surprised.”

Shiro laughs. “Oh, I remember dining hall food just fine, thank you very much. I’m good not reliving it.”

“It’s an acquired taste.” You do get kind of used to it. And the ice cream isn’t bad.

“I’m glad it’s going well,” Shiro says. “At least enough that you haven’t run away yet.”

Only Shiro could crack that joke and have Keith laugh. He’s ran from a grand total of four foster homes, which isn’t nearly as many as he’d wanted to. Shiro never did tell him his own count. Probably trying to be a good role model.

“I met some people I wouldn't want to run from,” Keith admits.

“They must be good people, then,” Shiro says. “I’ll have to meet them someday.”

Someday, Keith thinks, he would really like that.

+

Lance is listing the members of his family as they get out of the taxi, in front of a house at the end of a cul de sac. It’s yellow with white trim, and has a garden of color even though it’s winter, which Keith doesn’t think should technically be possible, but given it’s Lance’s family, isn’t entirely surprised. He spots a bunch of snapdragons near the porch.

“Okay, so the little shorties are Ray, short for Raymundo, and Patty, short for Patricia,” Lance says as they walk up the driveway. “They look identical except one will probably have longer hair, if she’s grown it out since August. Then there’s Letty, short for Leticia, who isn’t here yet but will be for Christmas. She’s in grad school right now. And there’s Kiki, short for Enrique.”

“What’s Lance short for?” Keith asks, as they step up onto the porch.  

Lance’s eyes go a little wide, his mouth a little parted. “Uh…”

Before they’ve even knocked, like they’ve sensed Lance’s presence, the door swings open. “Leandro!”

Lance’s mother, presumably, because she’s got his smile and complexion and hair, albeit longer and braided, swung over her shoulder. She’s even got the freckles. Lance’s mom, who’s stepping down from the doorstep and kissing her son. Leandro.

Wow, Keith thinks. And also that he doesn’t really like nicknames in that particular moment, because Leandro has got to be the prettiest name he’s ever heard, and he wished he’d known about it sooner, that he’d spotted it on Lance’s student I.D., or paid attention when he stole his wallet after Lance threatened to buy him a dildo once.

Then his mom is turning towards Keith, and even though he knows she can’t read minds, he wishes he hadn’t just been thinking about dildos, because this is Lance’s mom, and he wants to make a good impression, partly because it feels really important to, partly because he’s a home invader for the next four weeks, partly because she looks like an angel.

“So you’re the lovely Keith Lance has been going on about! It’s wonderful to finally meet you.” She hugs Keith, kisses both his cheeks and hugs him again. Lance is grinning from over her shoulder.

An angel is hugging him. She called him lovely. Or Lance did. Again with that word. Maybe it runs in the family. Keith is having flashbacks to his first meeting with Lance. Lovely to meet you. The Lovely Keith. Hardly. He still feels it in his chest though, almost like his heart believes it despite the rest of him.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Keith tells her when she pulls away. “Thank you for letting me stay with you.”

“Of course! You’re like family already, mijo. You already are Lance’s, I’m sure, from the way he goes on about you.”

Keith sends Lance a look. He only shrugs, smiling still.

A small four foot tall human appears in the doorway as Keith follows Lance and his mom in, and hurls herself at Lance, who steps back to brace himself, laughing.

“Hi, Patty.”

And then there is another, equally short human, flinging himself onto Lance, too, and this time Keith is really sure Lance is going to go toppling over, except he rights himself just in time. Maybe he’s used to being tackled.

“Hi, Ray.”

They shriek into his legs, trapping them in their small arms, screaming his name. Keith can’t really tell if they’re crying or laughing. He can’t tell if Lance is crying or laughing either.

+

Keith sits on a sofa in the living room, listening to the going abouts of Lance’s family. It’s not chaos, but it’s definitely a bit hectic, voices flinging themselves across the room, the two little ones flinging themselves across the room, Keith’s mind on overdrive, taking it all in.

Kiki, as it turns out, is a blue-haired fifteen year old boy who, upon meeting Keith, asked him if he could braid his hair.

Which is what he’s doing now. Keith wonders if it’s under the guise of interrogating him though, because as his fingers work he peppers Keith with question after question, his voice curious, excited.

“What are you studying?”

“Uh, undecided right now.”

“Aren’t you taking biology with Lance? He wants to be a pediatric surgeon you know.”

He was and he did. “Yeah. He’ll make a really good one.”

“Right! I think so, too. So, any hobbies?”

“I used to uh…” Keith tries to find a way to describe his extracurriculars back then. “I used to box.”

“Oh, like fight club?”

“You could say that.”

“Do you like college?”

”It’s not bad.”

“Do you like Lance?”

“Yeah.” Course he does.

“No, I mean, do you like like him, because he was talking to me on the phone the other day and—”

“Kiki!” His mom calls.

“Yeah, mom?”

“Get some tomatoes from the yard, yeah?”

Kiki hums and works quickly to finish the french braid he’s done to Keith’s hair, tying it off at the end and hopping off the edge of the sofa where he’d been perched.

“I like you,” he tells Keith, with all the honesty of a filterless fifteen year old boy. Keith appreciates it.

“I like you, too.”

“We should talk more later.”

“Sure.”

“And now I’m gonna go pick some tomatoes.” A very obvious thing to say, but Keith understands the farewell. He waves goodbye.  

“Have fun.”

Lance’s room is just as colorful as his dorm was, except there’s the addition of many more photographs stuck to the wall, a bunch of glow-in-the-dark stars to the ceiling, and string lights that probably look amazing with the light off and the curtains drawn. It’s clean, though Keith imagines that’s only because it hasn’t been lived in for a while.

Lance guides him inside with a gentle shove to the space between his shoulder blades. Keith goes easily, tucking his suitcase into the corner and looking around.

“You take the bed,” Lance says. “We’ve got a blowout mattress somewhere that I’ll use. Once Letty gets here we might both be kicked out, in which case you choose between sofa and blowout mattress. I recommend mattress, though. That sofa should’ve been replaced years ago.”

He’ll be taking the sofa, then, though isn’t about to tell Lance that until they wrestle over it. He knows for a fact he’ll beat Lance, though last time it came pretty close to a tie.

“I like the stars,” Keith says, laying down on Lance’s made bed and crossing his hands over his belly for a better view. Lance nudges at him to scooch, and Keith makes room for him, squishing himself to the wall so Lance can slip in beside him. The bed is hardly big enough for the both of them, but they somehow make it work.

Lance swings a leg over Keith’s and hums. “They don’t glow as well anymore. I can’t seem to get rid of them, though.”

“You shouldn’t,” Keith says.

Lance tugs Keith closer, if that’s even possible. “My family loves you.”

“They don’t know me yet.” Keith pulls closer still. He thinks about the boundaries of platonic friendships, how many they’ve crossed already, if that means anything, if maybe he’s been too deprived of human connection to really know the difference. He feels calm and like his heart is about to burst out of his chest all at once.

“They’ve got a sixth sense with this kind of thing, dude. If they like you, it’s for a good reason. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Keith smiles at the stars. “I like them, too.”

Lance laughs gently. “They’re a lot to get used to sometimes.”

“Nah,” Keith says. He takes Lance’s hand, playing with his fingers. “Definitely different from what I grew up with, but I’ve never felt this… I don’t know, welcome before.”

“I’m glad,” Lance says, squeezing Keith’s hand, and they look up at the stars in silence. The ones that don’t glow anymore but it doesn’t matter, because they’re Lance’s stars.

“I like your name,” Keith says to the silence. “Leandro.”

“In latin, leo means a lion. Andro is man. I’m a lion man, supposedly, full of strength and power.” Lance flexes an arm, puffing up his chest comically.

Keith laughs and shoves at him, catching him just in time so he doesn’t fall off the bed and pulling him back in, closer than before. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Not cocky if it’s the truth.”

“You’re unbelievable.” He’s laughing, though. He’s always laughing around Lance. He wonders when the rumble of his chest became so familiar, the way his heart swelled, his cheeks warmed. He wonders how much they look like cherries right now.

“Speaking of lions,” Lance says. “Reminds me of something from when I was a kid.”

“What is it?”

Lance hums. “Don’t laugh,” he says, and then laughs at himself, thinking about it probably. “But I used to have this recurring dream that me and a bunch of other kids piloted these giant robot lions to save the universe. And I was so great I could fly three different ones. Blue, red, and black.”

“I don’t know about the ‘so great’ part, but that actually sounds kind of cool.”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. It’s weird, though, when I think back I can’t remember their faces, but I always felt like I knew the other kids, or like I would know them.”

“Maybe you do.”

“Yeah, maybe…”

“Lance!” Someone calls from behind the door. “Keith! Dinner’s ready. Come set up the table.”

“Duty calls for the strong and powerful hero,” Lance says, grinning.  

Keith shoves him off the bed.

+

Keith has never felt so full in his life. He’s sure his stomach protrudes grotesquely from his body, like he’s swallowed a basketball or something of equal mass. Except it wouldn’t fit down his esophagus. Lance’s mom’s food definitely did, in large portions.

He’s laying by the fireplace, head resting on Lance’s lap and the rest of the family scattered around the living room. They all have the same rosy tint to their cheeks, the same lazy smiles, and Keith’s gaze lingers on each of them like he wants to commit them to memory. Maybe he does. Maybe he should. He’s not so afraid of being happy anymore, of having people.

Lance is going off about some professor he had for chemistry, which Keith opted out of taking. His hands are waving around, and Keith can feel the movement where he rests on Lance’s lap. He just watches him, not really registering the meaning behind his words, too lost in the way the fire makes the edges of Lance glow like its embers, makes his cheeks turn a ruddy pink, makes him look beautiful. He’s always beautiful. Some moments it just hits him harder.

Keith feels like he could sleep forever now, and not in a way he sometimes used to want, to sleep just so he didn’t have to be awake, because it was so hard to be. It’s something better than that. Something warm.

“And so I emailed him and was like ‘yo, I respect you as a professor because you’re a decent guy and spent like ten years in school learning about this stuff, but in what world does hydrogen per…”

Keith closes his eyes. Listens to the sound of Lance’s voice and of his family, laughing, telling stories, loving. It’s more than he’s ever known, and now that he does he’s not sure he could live so well without it. Maybe that’s a dangerous thing, he thinks, to have something that you can’t be without. Maybe he’s just being melodramatic. He’d always been told he was; an over-the-top, quick to act but not to think, stupid kid. But something in him has been put back into place.  

It’s there when Ray flings himself on top of Keith on top of Lance, a surprise that isn’t exactly comfortable and for which the rest of the family apologizes, but which Keith doesn’t mind really. Ray climbs on top of Keith, arms around his shoulders, his little body demanding Keith fight back. Keith opts to tickle him instead. He responds by kicking him in the face. Keith forgot about the bruise until then. He is offered an ice pack.

And it’s there when Patty draws him with her pastels, smudging the colors all over her arms and hands and Keith’s face when she demands he sit still but he can’t, so she makes him herself. She looks so much like Lance it’s uncanny. Like a clone. It’s a little eerie, actually. So is her drawing, which depicts Keith with eyelashes so dark it looks like he’s in a scene phase.

“I love it,” he tells her when she proudly hands it to him, promising to hang it up when he goes back to school right beside his The Terminator 2 poster.

It’s there when Kiki rebraids his hair, because it’d come done throughout the day, when he pulls just a bit too hard and promptly kisses the top of Keith’s head in apology.

It’s there when Lance’s mom kisses him on both cheeks to say goodnight, when his dad hugs him like he’s his own son. It’s there when Lance whines that Keith is stealing all the love, and when his mother responds by peppering his face with kisses. It’s there.

The stars glow. Not strongly. And more so when Keith purposefully blurs his eyes. But they glow, faintly.

Lance twists around on his mattress beside and below Keith. He’s too far, he thinks. Especially right now. He’s just not sure how to go about asking him to come up here and share the view.

“Hey,” Lance says, softly in the dark. “Are you cold?”

Not really. The blankets are heavy and Keith is still warm from a night spend in front of the fireplace, with Lance’s family and a full belly. “Yeah,” he says anyway. He’s not a liar. Not technically. His hands are cold.

Lance shifts a little on his mattress, and then suddenly he’s up and slipping in beside Keith, pulling the blanket up and back on top of them. It’s really a small bed, not nearly big enough for two fully grown pseudo men. They make it work though. Keith throws a leg over Lance’s, pushes himself against the wall, turns sideways to look at Lance, who is already looking at him.

He definitely knows Keith isn’t cold now. They’re both furnaces actually, radiating warmth against each other. Keith’s cheeks are probably tomatoes. He shoves his chilly fingers underneath the hem of Lance’s shirt, his equally cold feet up his ankles.

Lance hisses. “You ass,” he says, laughing as Keith wiggles his fingers.

“Cold, see?”

“I see that,” Lance agrees, and then rolls over so he’s on top of Keith, crushing his hands against his chest.

“Lance,” Keith huffs. “You’re heavy.”

“Get your hands off me and I’ll get off you.”

“Can’t do that if you’re crushing them.”

Lance rolls off. Keith presses his hands flat against Lance’s chest, and then withdraws them.

“They’re cold, though,” he says, faking a pout.

“Give ‘em.” Lance takes them in his own, rubbing warmth into them and blowing hot air. It’s a little comical really, the entire exchange, but Keith can’t really bring himself to care all that much.

Lance is really close. There’s that spatter of freckles again, the one that Keith can’t stop noticing. This close, he can see all the different blues of his eyes. There’s so many of them. Ocean eyes. Keith isn’t a poet, but if he were he’d maybe write something about swimming in them.

“Keith.”

“Hm?”

“I have to tell you something.” He says it like a whisper.

“What?”

“At the party.” And immediately Keith’s heart clenches. Lance pulls him in closer, like he can sense he wants to draw away. It’s an instinct he wished he didn’t have, is glad Lance seems to know already.

“It’s nothing bad.”

“Okay.”

“Just… when you asked me that first time, if you’d said anything at the party. I told you it was about your mom, and that the rest was nothing you should worry about. And I meant it. You shouldn’t worry, because it’s totally fine.” Lance is rambling. Keith recognizes the nervousness, the slight, earnest tremble of his voice. He doesn’t stop him, following his every word, remembering things along the way.

“It’s just that… you know, you were really drunk, and sometimes people say things they don’t mean when they’re drunk…”

But that’s not true. Keith knows it. People say exactly what they mean when they’re drunk, like how they say what they mean when they are angry, when they’ve got nothing to lose, when nothing is holding them back. That they don’t want you, that you’re only good for the payout, that they’re sorry.

So he meant it. He remembers what he said, knows it was the truth.

“I wasn’t going to tell you, because I didn’t want to pressure you, and I feel bad because it’s been on my mind since that night, but you’ve been dealing with your mom and school and just, a ton of stress. I want to tell you, though, so you know I’m not trying to keep anything from you. That night, you said something and I… you said--.”  

“You should kiss me.”

“Well, no, that’s not… hu?”

“Kiss me.”

But Keith doesn’t wait up. As soon as he sees the understanding in Lance’s eyes, the ‘okay’ shaping his lips, the tilt of them into a smile, he closes the space himself.

He’s warm everywhere. His stomach erupts like a volcano except probably a bit more graceful than that. Like butterflies. Lance has his hands in Keith’s hair, ruining the braid as he tugs Keith closer, like there’s room to be when there’s not because they’re chest to chest already, and the first time he ruined Kiki’s work he felt bad but now he can’t bring himself to. He twists so he’s on top of Lance, his hands cold against his skin. Lance shivers against him, breath hot against Keith’s lips when he pulls away for breath, only for a second before he meets them again. And again and again.

Then Lance is pulling away, and Keith is about to pull him back in but before he can he’s being flipped over, his back pressed to the mattress, Lance’s hair framing his face as he leans over him with a smirk Keith really wants to kiss off.

“Still heavy?” Lance asks.

Keith doesn’t bother responding. Just cranes his neck and pulls Lance down and meets his smile with his own. Lance works a hand underneath the hem of Keith’s shirt, his fingers tickling but warm, up and back down like he can’t touch enough of him. Keith wraps his leg around him, pulls him closer.

But it’s so much. And they’re so bad at pacing that their chests start to heave, hearts beating like two hummingbirds, everything pressed against each other. So they stop, and huff breathless laughter. Lance collapses beside Keith, hugs him like he won’t ever let go, like he can’t. Keith understands the sentiment. He doesn’t want him to.

“Woah,” he says, softly.

“Yeah,” Keith says, pressing one last kiss to Lance’s parted lips, a lot more chaste than the rest of them had been, and pulling away.

“Guess you remember the party, then.” He’s smiling, eyes twinkling.

“I remember asking you to date me. Not very subtle am I?”

“Nah, you were all over me.”

“I recall you saying you wanted to. So the feeling’s mutual, I believe.”

Lance laughs. It’s like bells. “Guess I just snagged myself a boyfriend, then.”

“Guess you just did.”

+

A couple days later, Lance's dad makes quesadillas for breakfast. Also pancakes. It’s a strange mix, but Keith eats both gladly, scarfing down as much as he can without seeming like a glutton. Lance shoots him a worried glance from next to him. He guesses he failed on that front then. He swallows.

Ray and Patty are carving some kind of alien out of their pancakes. Award goes to whoever’s is scarier, apparently. Letty, who squeezed Keith so hard he thought his ribs would break upon meeting him, is the judge. She’ll probably crown them both winners.

His dad is telling them about whales. Keith listens intently.

“In 1998 they recorded this whale that sung at 52 hertz, except she was the only of her kind that did, so no one else heard her. The loneliest whale in the world, they called her, because of her unique call.”

“Wow,” Keith says, taking a sip from his glass.

Lance also happens to be playing footsie with Keith underneath the table.

“Yes. Blue whales, in fact, are the loudest animals on Earth. They can call up to 188 decibels and the sound travels miles underneath the ocean. Truly amazing.”

“You know, dad,” Kiki says, stuffing half a pancake into his mouth and chewing. “My room is right next to Lance’s, and I’m pretty sure he was way louder than a blue whale can ever be last night.”  

Keith chokes on strawberry lemonade. He’s pretty sure that was Lance’s knee that just hit underneath the table. His throat burns. Lance punches his back. Letty is trying so hard not to laugh her eyes are watering.

Louder than a… fucking. Blue. Whale. He hadn’t even done anything. One stupid bite to Lance’s collar bone and he goes berserk. Keith is almost positive he did it on purpose, just to freak him out. Fuck.

“Uh…” This is Lance.

“What’s wrong?” This is Kiki. He’s probably smirking. A little shit. An endearing little shit. Keith’s hair is off limits, indeterminately.

“Um…” This is, at least he thinks, himself.

“I’m happy for you boys.” This is Lance’s father. He doesn’t look perturbed in the slightest.

“Thanks,” Keith chokes out. At that moment he kind of wishes he was a crab, or something of equal non sentient-ness. Maybe an armadillo. Are those the ones that can hide in their shells? Do they have shells?

“It’s nice that you’re enjoying each other’s company,” his mother says. A turtle then. A turtle would be perfect.

“Thanks, mom.” Lance’s voice is several octaves higher than Keith has heard it before. He’s probably got the vocal range of Freddie Mercury. Suddenly Keith has got We are the Champions running in his head. An odd coping mechanism, if there ever was one, but knowing himself he’s not that surprised.

“We’re gonna…” Lance waves his hands around, like he’s trying to fly away or something. “Go ahead and go now. Catch a movie. Something. Bye.”

Then he grabs Keith’s hand, pulls him up from his chair, and out the door in the three seconds flat.

He’s laughing by the time they’re a few blocks down the neighborhood, catching Keith around the waist and kissing him, pulling away to laugh more, earning a smack upside the head before Keith is laughing, too.

+

They don’t learn though. Such are the minds of adolescent boys, Keith thinks, fingers tangled in Lance’s, biting his lip to keep from making any stupid noises. Of the blue whale sort.

“Ah,” he says, because Lance has a way with his mouth. Which is annoying and unfair. He’s kind of on overdrive though, has been for the last few days, and so has Lance. They’ve basically just been making out and nothing else, which is good with Keith. Except it shouldn’t make him so crazy in the head.

“Mmh,” Lance mumbles in response, pressing kisses to Keith’s jaw and trailing them down down to his chest. He stops abruptly, looks back up at Keith. “You taste like, really sweet.”

As sweet as that sounds, and as interesting as it would be, Keith knows that’s not exactly normal, and Lance says it more like a question than anything. He clears his throat, gaze flicking away from Lance and then back. “I, uh, might’ve spilled strawberry lemonade on myself at breakfast.”

Lance blinks once and then twice, slowly like he’s trying to understand. He laughs when he gets it, dropping his head into the crook of Keith’s neck, his breath tickling gently. “Kiki isn’t exactly subtle is he? God, that was so funny, though.”

Keith laughs, too. “I kind of figured we could be a little more graceful letting your parents know.”

“It’s fine. I’m pretty sure they knew we were dating before we were even dating.”

“Your parents are perceptive people.”

“Or we were just really obvious.”

That, too.

+

Keith has a lump in his throat he can’t quite swallow on the last day before their flight back. Four weeks is longer than he’s ever had a break for, but not nearly long enough. Lance seems to feel the same. He’s got this sad look in his eyes all day, lingers in everyone’s space until they shoo him, albeit gently, away. But they must know. They’ve got the same look.

Patty and Ray are playing some kind of parkour game with the furniture in the living room. Patty misses a step to the sofa and goes face planting onto the floor. She doesn’t seem too bothered by it, though her forehead is a bit red when she gets back up and start jumping around again.

Ray is by the windowsill, though, parkour forgotten even as his sister flings herself head first onto a recliner chair. He’s looking out the window, with wide eyes and tousled hair. “Ma!” He calls. “You guys, it’s snowing!”

Kiki, who is curled up next to the fireplace sketching, looks up like he’s about to accuse his little brother of lying. Lance’s mom, who is puzzling over a game of scrabble with her eldest daughter and husband, only smiles. “Go on out there, then.”

Lance pauses playing with Keith’s hair. “Snowing?” He says, a little bit of a delayed reaction, Keith thinks.

But then the twins and Kiki are sprinting to the door, not even bothering with coats or scarfs or beanies, flinging it open, and Lance is pulling Keith up from the sofa and leading him outside. He supposes his siblings probably run warm like Lance does, but still. It’s snowing.    

The three of them prance out into the snow, Patty tripping before righting herself and going on. Keith takes a step forward, stopping when he realizes his hands are cold, reaching out but to nothing.

He looks back. And there’s Lance, head tilted towards the whitest sky, mouth slightly parted.

“Hu,” he says, soft like the way the snowflakes are falling. “It’s never snowed here before.”

Keith goes to him, cranes his neck like Lance to watch the snow come down. He sticks his tongue out, and a snowflake lands gently on it. Lance is silent beside him. Keith takes his hand. Somehow he is still warm, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers in the snow. He’s always so warm.

“Will you miss them?” Keith asks, looking at him. Lance closes his eyes. A snowflake lands impossibly on his eyelashes, melts and falls down his cheek like it’s crying for him, because he won’t.

“So much,” he says, and squeezes Keith’s hand.

+

It’s lab day. He knows because Lance is wearing his glasses. Also because he’s memorized his schedule. Not purposefully. It just kind of turned out that way.

Lance is swinging their arms between them. The weather is warming a bit now, so Keith’s hands aren’t always so cold. He doesn’t need the excuse to hold Lance’s hand anymore, though.

“It’s just so cool,” Lance is saying. “Like, a chemistry professor with two doctorates, who has dyslexia and adhd. I mean, there’s the occasional problem during class where he gets turns around, forgets to carry a number or something, but he’s so passionate. I can’t believe I didn’t have him last semester.”

“You should definitely go to his office hours,” Keith says, because he knows Lance won’t without some coaxing. “If you’re gonna be taking ochem next year, maybe he has some tips.”

“I should. I’ll bring you with me.” Keith won’t be taking organic chemistry. He’ll still go, though. Apparently Lance’s professor is also a biker.

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Lance says. Keith stops him once they’re near the library with a tug at his hand.

“I’ve gotta make a call,” Keith tells him, kissing him quickly. “Wait for me inside?”

“‘Kay, babe. Take your time.”

Keith nods and watches him go. Then he pulls out his phone, thumbs in a number he’s spent so long looking at he has it memorized now. It rings three times. His stomach does somersaults.  

“Hello?”

She sounds like she was maybe expecting a call. Like maybe she knew. She sounds hopeful. Keith knows because he’s heard it in his own voice.

He takes a deep breath. He thinks about Lance’s hand in his own, warm and sure. Lance’s mother’s kisses to his cheeks. Shiro’s voice over the phone. He thinks about I love you. Come back soon, mijo. I love you, son. Make sure to eat well, Keith. She loved you, Keith.

Lance hasn’t gone inside, which Keith knew would happen. Instead he’s waiting by the library doors. He holds them open for a girl with too many books in her arms.

He takes a deep breath.

“Hi, mom.”