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Chapter Text

Keith woke up the way he always did in a jail cell–suddenly and aching.

It takes him a second to remember where he is. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes and rolling the pain out of his spine, he swings his feet off the cot and looks to the poor deputy sheriff outside the door dead in the eye. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The deputy looks like he wants to respond in equal snark, but he can’t think of anything, so instead he says nothing and steps aside. Keith groans.

Shiro’s smile is knowing, with a layer of smugness underneath. “Hey, Keith. Long time no see.”

Keith gives him his most withering glare, which doesn’t affect Shiro in the slightest. The lock clicks and the door swings open. Shiro strides in like things are perfectly normal, and reaches for Keith’s shoulder. Keith dodges his hand, swinging to the other end of the cot where he stands up. Shiro’s face is as placid as a mountain lake. Keith shuffles through the door, ignoring the deputy.

Keith had learned it was wise to not make trouble as you’re leaving it. It was a hard-won lesson, learned by the ache of his spine after being thrown right back into a cell because he couldn’t keep a snide remark to himself on the way out the door.

“Much obliged, sir,” Shiro says warmly to the deputy as they leave. Keith keeps his eyes on the dusty wooden floor as they leave the county jail, blinking hard when they step into the sunlight of the day.

As his eyes adjust, he takes the town in. He doesn’t remember the name, or the exact location. The main street is small, with a few wooden storefronts and apartments along them, with a church to the right and a saloon to the left. Nothing special. Nothing to remember it by. Utterly unremarkable.

Shiro throws a heavy arm around Keith, jostling him back to reality. “Aren’t you going to ask where we’re going? Or say ‘Thank you so much Shiro, for finding me, and getting me out of that cell?’”

Keith puts on his most dazzling smile. “Thank you so much Shiro, for finding me, and getting me out of that cell. I never could have gotten out on my own."

Shiro’s face, for the first time, twists out of his measured, self-righteous big-brother calmness. “Too unnatural. Never mind.” He starts off, and Keith follows him. Tied to a hitching rail are two gorgeous horses, and despite himself Keith feels much lighter.

“Red!”

A chestnut mare looks up, acknowledging him, blinking her gorgeous eyes in greeting. He strokes her beautiful head, rubbing his thumb over the little v-shaped white spot between her eyes. She presses her nose against his shoulder, content. Shiro is already up on his horse, a gleaming Morgan steed, black as night and sober as a priest.

Keith pulls himself up Red, trying to fight a smile. She’d been his for years, up until he’d gotten into trouble with the law and with Shiro too many times. It was small stuff, to Keith, a couple brawls, once mouthing off to clergy, and riding Red through private land. But then one particular man, Iverson, went to the magistrate and insinuated Keith was carting liquor illegally through his land and Keith decided to skip town. That was a year ago, and all he’d left was a vague note for Shiro and a beautiful horse. His beautiful horse.

He couldn’t take Red, couldn’t separate her from the ol’ Black Lion (as Shiro affectionately referred to him), so he’d joined up with some travelers, found out they were cattle rustlers, and, in his defense, left them… but not before spending a couple nights in jail the next county over. Now trouble seemed to follow him wherever he went.

Shiro whistles for his attention. “Straight home, Keith. We’ll get there before dark.” It dawns on Keith that he doesn’t know what time it is, let alone what day it is. Shiro swings Black toward the path leading out of town, wherever they are, and Keith follows. It feels surreal to be back on Red after all this time, after all he’s done. Like someone forbade him from using his legs for a year, and now that he’s got them again, remembering how good it feels to stand, to be tall, to run. How natural it is, how fated it is, how this is who and what he’s supposed to be.

For hours, they ride in silence. Keith lets himself get lost in the beauty of the area. The bright blue sky and defiant trees jutting purposefully into the sky, despite steep terrain and thin air. They pass by a creek and let the horses stop to drink from it, then get down, stretching their legs. Shiro wordlessly hands Keith some jerky, which he gnaws while watching Red and Black wade into the creek, cooling off.

Keith lays back in the grass and closes his eyes. “Surprised you haven’t gotten to lecturing me yet,” he says.

Shiro snorts. “I’ll wait until you do something really bad before I pull out the dad voice, don’t worry.”

Keith is confused, but keeps his eyes closed. If leaving for that long wasn’t going to warrant a lecture, what was? And where was the Shiro who used to whip out a lecture over unwashed dishes?

The rest of the ride is easy. Their town, Castleship, is in view before Keith knows it, shyly poking through the mountains. It looks bigger than he remembers.

“They think there’s silver here,” says Shiro, doing that annoying thing where he answers questions Keith is thinking but not asking. “People just started showing up. Everyone’s got their hands full.”

There’s still the church, the saloons and restaurants, the hot springs, the schoolhouse, the train station. This town meant nothing a year ago and now he watches as a train pulls in and people get out. It was unbelievable. It did not used to do that.

Home is exactly how he remembers it–a little farmhouse just outside town. The dirt road, lined with lavender bushes, beckons him home. He slides off Red and leads her to her pen, her name still written in faded red paint above the gate, where she dunks her head into the water trough and ceases paying any attention to him.

Shiro’s already inside, pulling his boots off and collapsing into his big worn-out chair, old and discolored from years of use. It used to be their father’s. Keith remembers fighting with Shiro over who got to sit in it. In the end, he can’t deny it looks like it was made for Shiro all along. He shrugs his jacket off. Keith finds himself looking at the stump where Shiro’s hand used to be. It’s been a couple years, but he’s still not used to it. His time away certainly didn’t make seeing it again any easier. Shiro’s right hand used to be there.

Shiro notices him staring and gives him an irritating grin. “Looking for something?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I’m going to bed.”

Shiro calls out after him: “How do you know I haven’t rented out your room?” but Keith is already halfway up the stairs. He swings open the door to his room. Nothing’s changed. The small bookshelf, the chair and bed, are all exactly as they were. It’s how he knew Shiro cleaned it, probably regularly, so Keith wouldn’t return to a dusty room. He swipes his finger across the bookshelf. No dust.

Guilt seizes him suddenly. What was he thinking, leaving like that? Shiro must have waited every day for him.

Too much trouble for my worth, he tells himself. It was always supposed to be temporary, just laying low, not giving Shiro any grief for a while.

And a while it had been. He’d just gotten caught up. He couldn’t face Shiro with the law right behind him, asking for him back. And yet, Shiro had found him alone in a cell, not sixty miles away.

Keith lays down on the bed and sighs. He’s glad to be home. He can be better. He’s going to do better. He has to do better.

-

The next morning, Keith wakes before sunup. He goes downstairs, trying to be quiet, but sound travels to every corner of the damn house so it barely matters. He boils some water for coffee and puts a couple dishes in the sink. There’s a single glass on the side table by Shiro’s chair–he must have been drinking last night after Keith went upstairs. He puts his nose to the glass. Whiskey. Not a great sign, but not necessarily a terrible one either. Keith can’t fault him for doing so. He wonders how many nights Shiro sipped whiskey and thought about him. Before he can wallow in guilt too much, Shiro comes downstairs.

“Coffee smells good,” he says simply, like this morning is like every other. “We’ll have to drink it fast.”

Keith turns, eyebrow quirked. “Why’s that?”

“We have to work,” Shiro says, his own eyebrow quirked in response, “What else?”

“Right…” Keith says, but doesn’t press. If Shiro wants to play games, he’ll let him play games. Last he checked, Shiro watched other people’s animals several months out of the year. Is that where they were going? He’d shepherded for Balmera ranch plenty of times. Sometimes he’d even take a sickly lamb home to care for it if the Balmera family didn’t have the space. Keith loved those lambs. He loved feeding them, seeing them get stronger, leading them into pastures, seeing them dart around Red’s elegant, coolly unbothered legs.

With the coffee done, Keith grabs a jacket and follows Shiro out into the cold. Shiro surprises him as he starts toward town. What work could there be for them there?

They walk all the way in, with Shiro nodding and smiling at everyone who passes by.

“Oh what, are you mayor now? Where’s Allura?” Keith jokes.

“Like they’d ever let her go,” is all Shiro says in response.

When they stop outside city hall, Keith sighs. “Okay, I give. What’s going on? You drag me back here so you can throw me in a closer cell?”

Shiro just claps a hand to Keith’s shoulder and leads him in.

The hall is mostly deserted, save for Coran, who says (a little too loudly) “Morning, Sheriff!”

Keith’s head snaps to Shiro. “Sheriff?” he says incredulously.

“Ah, good to see you again, Keith!” says Coran, striding over to grab his hand. “Been far too long. It’s much quieter here without you!” He laughs heartily, and twirls the corner of his moustache. “I wondered whether Shiro would find you. You were one of his conditions, you know.”

Coran always fired words off like a crazed gunman, but Keith is having a particularly hard time following this morning. “What do you mean, one of his conditions?”

“Well a sheriff is nothing without a quick draw to back it up, of course,” Coran says, nodding to himself. “And seeing as that might be a bit tough at the moment–sorry Shiro, that Lotor fellow really did a number on you!–he needed someone as his deputy. And I suppose of course that we could have elected someone with a right hand, no offense my dear lad, but then no one wanted to vote for anyone else! So, here we are.”

Keith blinks. “A deputy sheriff.”

“That’s right!” chirps Coran. “No badge though my boy, I’m afraid having a sheriff at all is quite a new and unusual position for old Castleship. We don’t have a proper place for you boys yet either, but with so many people coming in it was high time we elected a lawman! And what’s a lawman without his right hand? Er, no pun intended there. That’s where you come in, Keith.”

It’s all Keith can do to keep his mouth from hanging open. Shiro’s right hand. A deputy sheriff. Shiro is the sheriff. He is working for Shiro.

“Thanks, Coran,” Shiro says warmly. “Just let me show him around and we’ll start making the rounds.”

Shiro leads Keith into a side room off the main hall. There are two desks, a few chairs, a table, a bookshelf. Papered windows let in some light, dust floating through the beams like snowflakes. In the corner, iron grates have been welded together to serve as a makeshift cell. A single small bench rests inside.

Keith whips around as soon as Shiro shuts the door. “Deputy sheriff? Are you out of your mind? How in the hell did you get Allura to agree to this?”

“These were my terms,” Shiro says simply. “And this way, I can keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t get into too much trouble again. Besides, who else would I trust to shoot, besides me?”

Shiro takes Keith’s silence as a begrudging agreement. “Exactly. Now let’s tidy up a little bit here. This is all we have until we find a better place. Welcome to your first day on the job.”

It takes less than an hour to transform the space. Light pours through the unpapered windows, the desks have been straightened and chairs laid out in a reasonable manner, with some flush to the wall and others facing the desk, so that there’s somewhere for residents with a complaint to sit. Shiro smiles, opening a drawer, and turns to Keith. “You got a gun?”

Keith shakes his head. It was taken from him two jail cell stays ago. He hadn’t been able to get his hands on one since. Shiro hands over a pretty little .45 revolver. It’s nothing too powerful, but it’s light and it’s reliable. The wood handle has been polished to a shine. Keith whistles softly.

Shiro pulls out another, much nicer revolver. Keith’s eyes snap to it immediately. “And what’s that one for?”

Shiro snorts. “For my left hand,” he says, and slides it into his holster. “Now let’s go.”

Despite himself, Keith is a little excited. The experience is new, and he’ll be out riding with Shiro all day. What could be better?

Turns out, a lot of things.

They barely ride. The town is still small enough they mostly just walk. People come up to them to complain about a neighbor’s horse shitting by their gate, or about how the new miners are too loud, or to ask why nothing was done about a bank robbery that allegedly took place three towns over and damn near a year ago.

Shiro stops for every question, addressing each one thoughtfully. More often than not people walk away placated. It’s all Keith can do to keep the impatience and frustration off his face.

They circle the town, moving outwards. Past the school. Past the creek, where there are more men than Keith has ever seen with panning for gold. Past the saloons, and the church, and people’s houses, and gardens and stables and out into nothing. Keith thinks it can’t get any more boring than that. Then, for some godforsaken reason, they retrace all their steps, taking that same path all the way back past everything, and end up by city hall again as the sun dips below the horizon, streaking the sky pink and white.

Keith is aware he’s acting like a child, but he huffs into the side room anyway, flinging his jacket off. “That was such a waste of time, Shiro… how have you been doing this every day?”

“Today was my first day,” Shiro says serenely. “Now that you’re here I can really get started.”

“Get started doing what?” Keith laughs mirthlessly. “Explaining to old ladies that people make noise? Telling people there’s nothing you can do when the wind blows through the trees too loudly? What did you need me for? To take notes on how many times a horse shits where it’s not supposed to?”

Shiro scoffs. “Don’t worry baby brother, it won’t always be like this. Even tomorrow will be different: there’ll be a lot more excitement with the rodeo coming to town.”

Keith gives Shiro a bewildered look. “What the hell is a rodeo?”

Chapter Text

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages, I ask you to please give a warm welcome to the dazzling, electrifying, the heart-stealin’ sharp shootin’ death defyin’ ‘Loverboy’ Lance McClain!”

Keith can hardly believe it. People rolled into town, this town, talking with Shiro about a big enough space for their benches and their tricks, and Shiro had guided them to a rancher willing to let them use his paddock, even helped them build up their seating. Word travelled fast, people rushed in, and in the warm afternoon light, as the sun dipped toward the mountains, a dark, well-dressed man stood atop a barrel and beamed up at the crowd.

At “Lance McClain” people lose their minds. Keith is incredulous. Shiro is on the other side of the field, making sure the drunks don’t get too disorderly, so there’s no one for him to throw his bafflement at. Whoever he is, this alleged dazzling loverboy, Keith is sure he’s nothing to see. Keith has seen plenty of men with a pretty face and nothing to back it up. They’re a dime a dozen, at least one in every town. They’re pompous, boring, preening, and more often than not subpar riders.

Then a cowboy rides out, and Keith’s brain goes quiet.

His smile is the first thing he notices. Bright white against a tanned face, wide, welcoming, cocky, under mischievous eyes and a long, straight nose. He’s wearing blue trousers, and a blue cotton shirt with something shiny stitched around his shoulders in a pattern. He tips his light Stetson hat to some girls in the front row, sending them into giggles. Briefly, he locks eyes with Keith. Keith looks away, troubled by the warmth rushing to his face.

He is easily the best looking man Keith has ever seen.

“Now, Castleship, let’s give our Loverboy some good luck, good cheering, and good shooting!”

Keith barely has time to think “good shooting” before it becomes clear what’s happening.

Lance stands up, on his horse, and the beautiful dappled Appaloosa begins cantering around. She doesn’t even react to her rider no longer being in his saddle. A hush falls over the crowd. Lance is framed sharply against the pink and orange sunset sky, his blue outfit stained with the golden light. He looks like an angel, Keith thinks foolishly before shaking his head like a waterlogged dog. An angel? What the hell’s gotten into him? The crowd murmurs excitedly: they’ve never seen anything like this before. While the horse is still trotting, Lance draws two revolvers out of his holsters and, winking at the crowd, shoots a bottle on the fence, shattering it. The crowd roars its approval.

Keith is shocked despite himself. How did he do that? He didn’t even notice the bottle–now he sees that there are many, all lined up on the paddock fences and on posts just outside it.

The crowd has caught on too. They’re beside themselves, and Lance, seeming to glow from their cheers, fires again and again. Each shot is perfect. Each bottle breaks in a perfectly musical crash.

The horse gains speed but Lance doesn’t falter. Keith swears that after every couple of breaks, Lance makes eye contact with him again, like he’s showing off, like he’s doing it so Keith will see. Lance’s body shakes for a second, like he’s lost his balance, but it’s corrected so quickly Keith wonders if he imagined it.

Keith shakes the thought out of his mind. That’s ridiculous, to think that this cowboy would do anything for his express approval.

Is he actually looking at me? Lance is most definitely looking at him again. It’s undeniable this time. Keith stares back, trying to keep his face impassive. This fancy showboy and his sequined shoulders don’t intimidate him. Lance smiles the widest he has so far, and then he… begins to bend?

Lance’s spine curves backward, his arms outstretched in front of him, leaning away from the horse’s head. 

It’s gravity defying. Lance is still standing but his back is nearly parallel to the horse’s, his guns are out, arms straight as arrows, his face is scrunched in concentration… and two bottles Keith didn’t even know Lance was aiming at break in sync. Something fearful stirs in Keith’s chest–Lance is just moving so fast. Keith had always been the fastest rider he or anyone else knew, but… this is something different.

If the crowd wasn’t going wild before, they are now. 

Lance straightens up, taking off his hat, which miraculously stayed on for that final trick, and takes a deep bow…still standing on his horse. Keith scowls. He knows now that this isn’t just skill, but Lance deliberately showing off. He can almost smell the arrogance from there. Keith realizes the sun is gone and the moon has come out–how long had Lance been riding? How long had his body been able to do that, and for so long?

“Aren’t they something! Thank you so much to our lovely Lance and his lovelier partner, Blue Diamond! We will see them later folks, we’ve got a lot lined up for you tonight!”

Lance’s act stunned Keith into silence, and the next acts maintain that.

The next rider is Hunk, a mountain of a man on the largest palomino mare Keith has ever seen. He rides into the paddock surely, but in a significantly less flashy manner than Lance. His dark skin glistens in the moonlight and his smile is nervous but sincere. Under his hat Keith can see an orange bandana.

“Now ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve never seen anything like this before! Prepare yourselves for the unbelievable strength and skill of our Lionheart Hunk Garrett!”

Someone releases a steer into the paddock and it bolts, running erratically, eyes so wide with fear Keith swears he can see the moon reflected in them. Hunk gallops after it, focused, determined, and fast, like a desert hawk swooping toward prey, talons outstretched. Keith frowns, wondering what comes next, then Hunk jumps off his horse…while it’s still moving.

The crowd roars its shock and awe. Hunk flies through the air and tackles the steer to the ground and in a few seconds deftly ties its legs together. Keith barely saw him leave the horse–the whole thing was done in a blink.

The next few acts blur together–bronco riding, calf roping, other such tricks. A tiny person with wild hair, someone named Pidge, rides a small, pretty paint horse so fast over barrels and around posts that their green bandana is nothing but a blur. 

Lance does not come back out.

After what seems like an hour, the man who had been announcing each trick and rider to the crowd walks to the middle of the paddock. He raises a cone to his mouth and says “Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for more?”

The crowd screams their assent.

The man smiles. “Glad to hear! But we are beat and tired, so you best come back tomorrow and see us again. We’ll be passing around hats, drop something in if you had a good time tonight! If you liked the show, my name is Curtis, and if you did not, my name is Ryan. Y’all get home safe now.”

The crowd grumbles a little at the news that it’s over, but then the riders come back out, the noise swells again, and people begin reaching into their bags and pockets, dropping money into the hats the riders hold, outstretched.

Keith cranes his neck, trying to see Lance. 

“Hey, cowboy.”

Keith turns, startled, and there’s Lance. Oh God he’s close. Close enough for Keith to notice the strange deep blue of his eyes, like a freshwater spring unfathomably deep, and the light freckles dotting his cheeks like stars in the night sky. He’s smiling at Keith, smelling like sweat and horse and a third, sweeter thing that Keith can’t quite place. The sweat makes his brown hair stick to his forehead, which is mostly straight but curls softly with the added moisture. Even damp, it looks soft. Keith imagines briefly, but vividly, giving them a sharp pull.

“Hey,” is all Keith can bring himself to say.

“You enjoy the show?” asks Lance, cocking his head a little, like a sheepdog puppy seeing a lamb for the first time.

Keith swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “It was alright.”

Lance laughs. How can someone’s teeth be so white? They sparkle like snowcaps in the sunlight. “I’d like to see you do better. You look like you’ve got a few tricks. You ride?”

Keith blinks. “What did you say?”

Lance tilts his head the other way. “You got a horse?”

“Oh,” Keith says. “Um, yes.” Keith prays his face isn’t red. “I’m a decent rider,” he manages. 

Lance clears his throat. Keith realizes suddenly that his hat is in his hand, and there were several coins and a couple crumpled bills in it. 

“I don’t have anything on me,” Keith says, honestly regretting it. Lance’s smile doesn’t falter.

“We’ll take anything,” Lance says. “And I in particular am not one to be picky.”

Keith racks his brain. There has to be something he can give that will keep Lance close to him. He searches feverishly, but he keeps getting distracted by the memory of Lance shooting backwards and the strong, controlled curve of his spine and the way his blue shirt stretches over his body… 

“Food and drink,” he says finally. “If you’re hungry.”

“You kidding?” Lance’s smile is sincere and sweet. Keith feels like something in his chest has liquefied. “Mind if I bring a couple friends?”

-

“So tell me again who’s coming?”

Keith winces. He shouldn’t have invited anyone to the house before asking Shiro. He’d never invited anyone over, period. “Lance, one of the riders from the rodeo… and a couple friends.”

Shiro nods, preparing a pot of chili on their small stove. “The rider that did the gun tricks?”

Keith hums. “That’s the one.”

“Impressive stuff. And you invited him over?”

“Right.”

“For dinner?”

“Yes.”

“To share?”

Keith shoots Shiro a glance over his shoulder. “What are you implying?”

Shiro shrugs. “Nothing yet. It’ll be nice to have company. Grab some dishes.”

Keith obeys silently, praying Shiro doesn’t ask him any more questions. Was this a terrible idea? Should he have just not said anything? He could have turned away from Lance or promised him money a different time, but no, he just had to bring him into the same space as his adopted brother, whose life’s mission was to embarrass him.

A knock at the door startles him out of his head. Shiro pulls the pot off the stove with unsettling quickness and says “I got it!” before Keith can so much as look up. For someone with a prominent, premature gray streak through his black hair, Shiro was acting like a kid right now.

Shiro hurries over, and Keith curses softly. This was a terrible idea. What had gotten into him? What was he thinking? He wasn’t thinking. And now there’s nothing he can do. 

Shiro swings the door open. Keith looks up and sees Lance and two other people. He can’t see their faces. “Is Keith here?” he hears Lance ask.

“Yes, you’re in the right place, come on in,” Shiro says, ushering them inside. Keith recognizes the people now that he can see them better: Hunk and Pidge, the other riders from the rodeo—they take turns introducing themselves to Shiro. Shiro looks over, and sees Keith standing still as a statue, arms full of plates. “Earth to Keith!” he says and Keith flinches, hurriedly setting the plates on the table.

Lance spots him and smiles. He’s changed out of his clothes into a white shirt and different blue trousers, well-worn but clean. “Hey! Smells good in here.” 

Keith nods. “Chili’s ready.”

Lance places a bottle full of dark liquid on the table. “So are we.”

Pidge snorts. “Forgive him,” they say. They have glasses on now, that take up much of their face, giving them a distinctly owlish look. “If he stops making jokes for even a second, he’ll die.”

“The doctors say there’s nothing they can do,” Lance agrees solemnly.

Shiro eyes the bottle with interest. “What’s that?”

Lance smiles, and Hunk settles into a chair at the dinner table. “This, my friend, is Cuban rum. It’s delicious. You’ll love it.”

Shiro returns his smile. “I’ll get some glasses.”

Lance, Pidge, and Hunk are all sitting, looking around with interest at the farmhouse. It’s a decent size, minimally decorated but clean and comfortable.

Shiro makes most of the conversation with them, engaging all three, asking about the rodeo, and the chemistry and familiarity between them is clear. They cut each other off and interject at random, finishing sentences and finding words for the others, with the comfortability of people who have known each other for years. Keith wonders how long they’ve been doing this.

When Shiro and Keith both sit and ladle chili for everyone, breaking cornbread and passing it out, the three tuck in, eating like they haven’t in weeks. 

“Shiro,” Hunk says, his eyes watery with emotion. “This is delicious.”

Pidge nods furiously, glasses misting with the steam coming off the piping hot chili. 

“Holy shit,” says Lance, taking a breath, “what is in here?”

Shiro beams and launches into an explanation of the recipe. Hunk eagerly asks follow-up questions and Shiro begins to brag about their vegetable garden, how he raised beds and the steps he takes to shade their bean plants when it’s hot and how ripe the squash was this year.

Keith stirs his bowl dully, wondering why he’s so on edge. He shouldn’t be this nervous: he’s acting downright sullen. So he looks up, determined to join the conversation, only to immediately lock eyes with Lance. For a second, Keith forgets that there are other people at the table: there’s just Lance, and those blue eyes, and his gaze sends a bolt of heat down Keith’s spine.

Lance blinks, embarrassed, and smiles. Pidge, sitting to Lance’s left, gives Keith a puzzled look, then sighs deeply, looking back at Lance. They shake their head a little and push away from the table. “It’s time for rum!” they announce.

Lance’s gaze snaps to Pidge. “Yes! Rum!” He gathers their glasses and Pidge stands up to wrench the bottle open.

“So, what exactly is it?” asks Shiro.

‘It’s fermented sugarcane,” Lance says, eyes shining. “It’s the best thing man has ever made.”

“And,” says Pidge airily. “Since it’s all the way from Cuba, we usually save it for special occasions… or when we’re trying to impress someone.”

Hunk snickers a little into his hand and Lance’s mouth flattens.

Keith finds his voice. “So what’s the occasion?”

Pidge and Hunk look at Lance. “Yeah, Lance,” says Hunk, smiling. “Tell us!”

Lance grins, but Keith notices his jaw is tight. “To a… successful night,” he says, nodding. “And to new friends.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Shiro says. He takes his glass, raising it to them. “To new friends!”

They clink their glasses. Keith raises his to his lips and sips tentatively. It’s unexpectedly sweet, with a sharp, smoky woodness to it. It goes down much easier than whiskey and leaves Keith smacking his lips, trying to hang onto the taste. “Wow,” is the only thing he manages to say. He looks over at Shiro, whose face is uncannily matching how the rum is making Keith feel.

Lance beams. Pidge and Hunk sip contentedly from their glasses, exchanging knowing looks behind Lance’s back.

Hunk clears his throat. “Shiro, I’d love to see the vegetable garden.”

“Oh! Me too!” says Pidge. “How did you make the raised beds?”

Shiro gets up, glass of rum still in hand, and smiles. “It’s just this way.”

Lance and Keith are alone at the table.

Keith clears his throat. “So…”

At the same time, Lance starts “So…”

Lance laughs, but Keith bites his tongue. ‘Sorry,” he says.

“No, no,” Lance chuckles. “I talk a lot. At least, that’s what Pidge says.”

Keith reaches for the bottle of rum to top off his glass, and finds Lance’s fingers already curled around the neck of the bottle. He brushes them, too slow to realize what was happening and stop his hand before their fingers brush together. Lance’s hand is warm. Keith curses himself.

Lance grins. “No worries, man,” he says, and gives Keith another healthy pour. Keith raises the glass immediately, and Lance follows him, eyes igniting with challenge. It wasn’t Keith’s intention, but it’s a race Lance wants, it's a race he’ll get.

The rum hits his throat with the same warmth of before, and Keith downs it as fast as he can, slamming his cup back on the table just before Lance can. “Ha!”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Don’t gloat, cowboy. That’s beginner’s luck.”

Keith smirks. “Say whatever you gotta say to make yourself feel better.”

“Real mature, haircut,” Lance fires back.

Keith scowls. “There’s nothing wrong with my hair. And I won’t be taking fashion advice from someone with sparkly shoulders.”

Lance makes a squawk of protest, leaning forward and pointing an accusatory finger at Keith. “I’ll have you know that people go crazy for that outfit. You’re just jealous, and you’re not cute when you’re jealous.”

Keith feels a small smile creep to his face. “But I’m cute when… what?”

Lance huffs, throwing himself back into his chair. “Forget it. You don’t understand just how necessary they are, but you will.”

Keith raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, grinning. “Come to tomorrow’s show.”

Keith nods. “Sure. I have to be there anyways.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to sound so eager, Keith. I won’t force you to go.”

Keith realizes he’s misstepped somehow. “No, no, I have to be there because I'm a deputy sheriff… Shiro is my brother, and the real sheriff, I’m helping him out. Since the whole town will be there… yeah, we’ll be there.”

“A deputy sheriff, huh?” Lance says slyly. “You didn’t strike me as the rule-following type. Gotta be there to keep me in line?”

“Don’t get me started,” groans Keith. “It wasn’t my choice.”

“That’s even more interesting!” Lance crows. “What do I have to do to get this story?”

Keith thinks for a second. “Show me how you stand on your horse and I’ll do it.”

Lance’s smile is private and knowing. “And give up my best trick? I don’t think so. I’m gonna need more than that. Besides, Blue is exhausted. There’s no way she’d be up for more riding tonight.”

Keith bites his lip. It feels like Lance is inviting him into something, and for the first time in a long time, Keith feels… eager. Like he’s neck and neck with someone. Like someone is giving him a choice, with the promise of seeing it through alongside him, and he… wants to take it. He doesn’t want to give this up–if Lance is pushing, he’ll sure as hell be pushing back. “Okay, fine. A good story and… the prettiest pasture you’ve ever seen.”

Lance gives him a skeptical look. “I’m not sure if you know this, but I’ve been all around. I’ve seen the mountains. I grew up by the ocean. I don’t know if I believe you can show me the prettiest pasture I’ll ever see.”

Keith just shakes his head. “You’ll be eating your words this time tomorrow. I guarantee you’ll never have seen the moon so bright.”

Lance slowly, slowly smiles. “Alright, you’ve got yourself a deal.” He stretched a hand toward Keith.

Keith grabs it, squeezes, feels Lance squeeze back harder, and doubles his own grip. They stare at each other, smiles low, each daring the other to let go first.