It's not his fault, Keith maintains. It's not his fault when the printers break or the shitty company desktops won't log in or at least five writers on the floor turn up late with a Starbucks. That, he says, is Shiro's problem, and maybe Allura's by extension. Keith's just a staff writer and editor, minding his own damn business in his cubicle.
Unfortunately, that hasn't stopped Shiro from pulling Keith in for brotherly "strategy" meetings on how to improve productivity on the floor. And if those meetings have involved naming names on everyone who shows up late, and those who were named haven't taken the news well—then Keith takes no responsibility. None whatsoever.
It's not Keith's fault, therefore, that the guy on the other side of the office won't stop glaring at him when they pass in the hallway. As for the paper airplanes and the spitballs that land in his Coke when he's not looking, well, that definitely isn't Keith's fault.
His roommate Pidge listens to this rant in judgmental silence. When Keith finishes, they adjust their glasses (makes them feel annoyingly superior, Keith knows) and snorts.
"Have you considered that maybe, just maybe, the dude didn't wanna deal with disappointed dad Shiro for showing up late to work?"
"Okay—but—every day, Pidge. He slams the door, yells hello to everyone he sees, and—and his coffee stinks up the whole floor," Keith snaps.
"Does it now?" Pidge drawls. They scoop up another handful of potato chips, and Keith watches the crumbs fall to the unvacuumed floor.
"He's just—stupid and tall—and so fucking loud. I thought writers were supposed to be quiet. And awkward. Sometimes."
"Nope," says Pidge, popping the P. "That's just you."
They turn back to the TV, now transitioning to a commercial break, and Keith sighs, slumping back against the couch.
"You have to admit the paper airplanes are excessive," he says.
Pidge just raises an eyebrow.
He tries again with Hunk, who holds an office near his cubicle at work. He doesn't know Hunk well, but—well, he seems like a nice guy. Less likely to judge Keith than Pidge for whatever incoherent rant is about to come out of his mouth.
"He's just being dumb," says Hunk, patting him on the shoulder. "It's what he does. He doesn't mean any harm."
Keith gestures at his coffee mug, swimming with visible white spitballs. How the guy has such good aim, he will never know.
Hunk sighs. "Okay, yeah, I know you're frustrated, but I promise he's a good guy! He's just kind of…petty. And rude. And melodramatic. And—"
Keith crosses his arms.
"Okay, yeah, not helping my case. But my point is, he's not a bad person once you get to know him! He and I basically grew up together. We're like brothers, ya know?"
Figures. No one could stand up for the moron otherwise.
"Have you considered," Keith says, "that you may be biased?"
"Yeah, but I've also dealt with more of his spitballs," counters Hunk.
Keith sucks in a huffy breath. "Could you just tell me how to get rid of him? That guy is just—"
"Lance."
"What?"
"You keep saying, 'That guy.' His name is Lance. Also, the word you're looking for is extra."
Keith must've made some sort of face because Hunk sighs and sits down on the corner of his desk. "Look, if it helps, I can talk to him, but I doubt it'll change much," he says. "But maybe you should give him a chance, y'know? He's not a bad person, just kinda…weird sometimes."
Keith doubts it'll work—from what he knows of Lance, he doesn't seem like the most rational person in the room—but what can he do? He thanks Hunk, lies through his teeth about working things out, and goes back to work before the lunch break is half over.
Unsurprisingly, it only takes one more paper airplane before Keith snaps.
He picks up the newest paper craft, this time printed from an old rough draft of some article that ran weeks ago, and shreds it violently into the trashcan under his desk. Then he pulls out some sticky notes (because he might be angry, but he refuses to stoop to Lance's level) and writes in all caps: LEAVE ME ALONE FOR THREE SECONDS. PLEASE.
He rips it off the stack and (quietly) stalks over to Lance's cubicle, unceremoniously slapping the note onto the other man's back. He doesn't stop to watch Lance pull it off, but he can feel the murderous glare trained on him as he retreats.
He can also feel it when another airplane hits him in the head before he even makes it back to his desk. He whirls around furiously, but Lance is back at work, innocently typing at his laptop. The only indication that he's done anything wrong is that he's laughing silently, shoulders shaking, and Keith can tell that behind the mask of innocence, he's wearing the widest shit-eating grin in the history of the universe.
Growling, he snatches the paper off the ground, squeezing the paper like it's Lance's stupid neck. But before he can throw it out, he notices some writing on the wing, also written in angry capital letters.
IT'S BEEN THREE SECONDS. YOUR WELCOME, MULLET.
Keith's eyes widen, and he practically runs back over to his desk to dig out a permanent marker. Then he scribbles: THAT WAS NOT THREE SECONDS. ALSO, WRONG 'YOU'RE."
He crumples the whole plane into a ball and throws it at Lance's head.
Another five seconds pass, then—
A paper airplane sails serenely over Keith's shoulder and right into his fresh cup of coffee.
Keith yanks it out of the mug, cursing as he flicks drops of liquid all over his desk. The airplane now reads: HAHAHA YOUR SUCH A STICK IN THE MUD. GET A HAIRCUT. OR A SHAVE.
This time, he doesn't even hesitate. FUCK YOU, he writes, then launches the airplane back in Lance's direction. Only this time, it doesn't reach Lance. Instead, it sails right into Hunk, who's just stepped outside his office and is too nice to deserve Keith's anger in any way, shape, or form.
Keith watches in horror as Hunk reads the note, glares at Keith (although he can't tell if it's serious), and drops the plane onto Lance's head. And Lance—
Lance just loses it entirely.
Ears burning, Keith tries to look apologetic when Hunk looks back in his direction, and then he gets the fuck back to work.
He stops to use the bathroom a few hours later, and Hunk meets him in the hallway.
"So," he says, smirking slightly. "Fuck you, eh?"
Keith's ears heat up again. "Yeah, sorry about that," he mumbles. "I was aiming for—"
"Lance, I know," Hunk says easily. "It's all good. Well, not good, since you're still dealing with Lance and all. But good by me." He smiles sheepishly. Hunk's a good guy, Keith thinks. More forgiving than most people would be.
They walk together in silence, the occasional click on the white tile floor a momentary distraction. Keith glances around the narrow passage, at the white-speckled ceiling, counts the tiles on the floor. The air is cold around his ears.
Just when he gets to sixty blue tiles, Hunk turns to smile at him. "So, Keith. Got any plans tonight?"
"Um. No?"
"Oh, that's cool," says Hunk.
Another awkward pause. They walk another few meters down the hallway, which Keith feels has become very long.
"Lance and I—well, Shay and Nyma, too, they're from IT—are going out for dinner tonight. We're going to that sushi place down the street. That'll probably keep Lance on his best behavior. He's been flirting with one of the servers for ages."
"Oh," says Keith. Hunk is watching him—expectantly, he thinks, so he adds, "That's nice. Mostly." He mentally kicks himself for adding in the last part.
Luckily, Hunk breezes right past Keith's slip. "It is, isn't it? Rolo was going to come with us, but he kind of had something come up. Not that I mind much, if you know what I mean," Hunk laughs. "But yeah. We had a five-person reservation, and we've only got four people. Weird, huh?"
"Oh," says Keith again. "Yeah. That…sucks."
"It'd be nice if we had someone else to come with us," adds Hunk.
"I guess." Then Keith quickly adds, "But at least you'll save some money?"
He looks up quickly for Hunk's reaction. For some reason, he looks a little crestfallen. Still, Keith hasn't said anything that Pidge refers to as a "Keith-ism," so maybe he's imagining things. He's definitely imagining things. That's it.
"Oh. Never thought of that, actually. Not that it'd be an issue or anything…" Hunk says.
"Oh. No, of course not."
The two of them stand in awkward silence before Hunk's face brightens. "Hey, you know what would work? If you came with us! You could hang around, get to know more people from work, let loose a little. And have you ever seen Lance fail at flirting in public? Yeah. You should totally come for that."
"Hah…yeah. I guess."
Truth is, Keith would like nothing better than to be as far from Lance as physically possible. Even if it means passing up an opportunity to watch him flail. Because if he's around Lance for any longer than he has to be, there's no telling what might happen, and Keith really isn't in the mood to face charges for third-degree murder.
"Sorry," he says aloud. "I just remembered that my roommate needs me for something tonight. Help with a writing project. It's super urgent."
He's being ridiculously transparent here, and he knows it. But is there really a polite way to say, sorry, I'm currently so pissed at your best friend/blood brother that I would rather stab myself than go to dinner with him? Keith doubts it.
"Okay, well, see you later," he finishes lamely, moving around Hunk and going into the bathroom. He glances over his shoulder once, briefly catching Hunk's eye, and then the door swings shut.
It's only when he's gotten back to his desk that Keith realizes he never even waited for Hunk to respond.
Nice going, says a voice in his head. The first time someone other than your roommate or your brother wants to be your friend and of course you find a way to offend him.
Well, shit, Keith thinks, and tries to forget the whole strange conversation.
He doesn't look up from his desk again until someone taps him on the back hours after closing time.
"Paper airplanes," Shiro says drily, gesturing at the rest of the paper debris around his desk. "I see you've been busy."
"Oh—that," groans Keith, rubbing his eyes. "That's the byproduct of having some—special employees on this floor."
"Noted."
Shiro runs a hand through the shock of white hair above his forehead, then smiles slightly, reaching over Keith's shoulder to pick up a plane. "Seriously, who's been making these?"
"Some guy who has it out for me," Keith replies tensely, shutting his laptop with a snap. He throws what little he carries—his notepad, a few submissions he'll review later—into his knapsack and slings it over his shoulder. "Not important. Let's go home."
For a moment, Shiro looks concerned, and Keith tries to grin. See? No problem. Shiro, as the floor manager and part of Allura's inner circle, has bigger fish to fry.
"You know, I could always talk to someone about it," says Shiro.
"No," says Keith. Instinctively, he glances over at Lance's desk and wonders if it'll all be over tomorrow. Somehow.
The drive home is quiet, calming. Shiro plays his easy listening CDs on a soft whisper, just above the gentle buzz of the engine.
Watching the buildings flash by in faint streaks of golden light, Keith is reminded of the first time he came to this city. He was twelve, visiting an actual city for the first time in his life with Shiro's parents, who would become his parents in a few more years. He remembers riding subways and dodging taxis and staring into the mirrored panes of office buildings, wondering if people really worked there. Wondering if people could really live in buildings that touched the sky, in a place where you could pass a universe of strangers on the street in one day. Where you could be someone and no one, all at once.
He remembers deciding to move here as soon as he graduated college. And that's what he'd done: taken his fancy degree and mountain of student loans and set off to conquer the unknown.
But when he'd graduated, he'd expected everything to fall into place. He'd move to the city, get an entry-level position at a good company, work for a few years, go to grad school. He'd stay on the straight and narrow, doing what he was good at.
Turns out people in big cities did not live in the skyscrapers, they lived in suburbs and small apartments with rent rising faster than he could keep his head afloat. And in the year between college and his time at Altea Publishing, Keith's bubble had burst with the realization that despite all the work he'd put into studying on the pre-law track at school, all the time he'd spent promising his adoptive parents that he'd repay them for everything as soon as he got a partnership, he didn't give a fuck about being a lawyer.
He'd been lucky, he thinks. Meeting Shiro's family, finding a great roommate in Pidge, getting a second chance with Altea Publishing. All of it had been sheer dumb luck. And even with some dumb coworker screwing with the workings of his world, he's insanely grateful.
He glances over at Shiro, who's humming to himself and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, making a metallic thunk every time his prosthetic hits the wheel.
"You wanna tell me what's up?" he asks. Shiro only does that when something especially good—or bad—has happened.
"Oh, right, yeah, I was going to ask you this first," Shiro says, leaning over a little. "What would you say to starting a blog?"
"A blog?"
"You know, like a writing blog. For our readers, between issues. A lot of our writers and editors have younger fans who are interested in the publishing process, and since you're the head of reader submissions, I thought you might be able to give some tips." Keith stares at him, and he clarifies. "It was Allura's idea."
"Ah," says Keith, a little smug. "Of course."
Shiro shoves him over, laughing. "Shut up," he says. "You know what I meant."
He turns back to face the road, both hands on the wheel, soft smile on his face. "I really do like the idea. Makes us seem like real people instead of just words on a page."
"Real people," Keith repeats. "Sure."
He stares out at the road. What would he have to say to a bunch of teenagers about the writing process? He's only been at Altea Publishing for a year, and he heads a department of literally three people including himself. And honestly, Keith isn't sure he has a writing process. Just sit down and get it done, he supposes. It's all instinctive, as natural as breathing.
"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," says Shiro, catching Keith's eye in the rearview mirror. "But to be honest? I think you'd be one of our best bloggers. You're one of the most passionate writers I know."
But is he really? Keith wonders. He barely knows what he wants to do with his life. He didn't even end up in the publishing business on purpose.
Still, he can't stop thinking about it. What would it be like, starting his own blog? Talking directly to a universe of strangers about his life? Being heard by people he'll never meet?
"Who else is doing this?" he asks.
"Hmmm…you're the first one I've asked so far, but I'm thinking Hunk and Lance for sure," says Shiro. "Hunk's pretty well-known in the writing world, and I feel like a lot of teenagers would like Lance's attitude."
Keith scowls a little and folds his arms at Lance's name. The way things went with trying to "give him a chance," that'll probably be another instinctive thing soon.
If Shiro notices his frown, he doesn't mention it. "You don't have to decide on this tonight, just promise me you'll give it an honest thought? Allura seemed really excited about this project and I think she's onto something. I really do."
You always think Allura's onto something, Keith thinks, but he knows better than to say that out loud.
They drive on in silence, Keith nodding along to the oldies playing through the crackly car speaker, Shiro drumming out the beat on the steering wheel. And Keith relaxes a little, closes his eyes. Even with the whole Lance debacle, today hasn't been too bad. He's gotten some work done, read some good submissions. And of course, there's Shiro. Everything is fine.
"You know, you don't have to wait for me every time," Shiro says suddenly. "Go home early. Get more rest. You look completely fried."
"Do not."
"Keith. You've got bags under your eyes and your arms folded themselves like a pretzel."
Keith quickly uncrosses his arms.
"Hard day today?" asks Shiro, and Keith frowns instinctively. Tomorrow will be another day of feuding and fielding paper airplanes. Maybe he should just work from home, but that feels too much like giving in.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"Take a day off," offers Shiro.
Keith snorts. "And leave you alone, with no one to hold strategy meetings with? Oh, sorry, I mean, 'Bro-to-Bro Bonding Meetings'?"
"Shut up," says Shiro, but he's grinning. "On second thought, maybe I shouldn't have asked you to start a blog. Maybe I should just talk Pidge into stealing your computer before you officially marry your work."
"I would never," says Keith. He crosses his arms and pretends to scowl, but it comes out looking like a pout. Because there will always be part of him that is twelve years-old. And Shiro was there for that; he's been there for Keith since the day Keith moved in with Shiro's family. He was there when Keith graduated high school, college; for his emo phase and failed stint working at the law firm. Every victory and every failure.
Come to think of it, when hasn't Shiro been there for Keith?
He mock-glares at his brother. "I wouldn't," he says again as Shiro laughs.
"Would too. Even Allura agrees."
Keith rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.
They drive on.
Keith wasn't lying earlier, when he'd said that he wasn't a workaholic. He doesn't dislike his job—he gets to read sci-fi and creative nonfiction submissions from readers of their magazine, which is a plus. But he also doesn't love it, not in a way that grounds him. Not in a way that makes him feel like he's finally found a place in the world.
There are other factors at play here. He's never been on a publication staff before, and he's almost certain he wouldn't have made it around here if it hadn't been for Shiro. And there's a learning curve. It took him too long to figure out how things worked, and he's been trying to make up for it ever since.
But Shiro also wasn't lying when he said Keith was passionate. About space, about science in general—about writing about these things. Keith remembers how Shiro had read his stories as a kid and told him to publish somewhere—anywhere. And Keith knows he loves all this. He just doesn't know if that translates to something unique and personal.
That night, as he makes his way past Pidge, who's snoring at their drawing desk, and thinks of the glow-in-the-dark constellations in his room at home, he starts to think about where it all comes from. Why he still doubts himself. Why what he does best doesn't seem to be enough.
As he lies in bed, he tells himself he'll have an idea for a blog post ready for Shiro tomorrow morning.
He doesn't get much sleep that night.
Keith spends most of the morning a little distracted, a little on edge. He's jumpy around Pidge as he leaves the apartment that morning, and Shiro points out that he's been staring at the squashed bug on the windshield for an awfully long time in the car. His notebook rests in his lap, along with his laptop—he'd run out the door with them without realizing he hadn't put them in his bag.
As he scans the third submission in his stack, rereading the same paragraph five times before he can parse together the meaning, he finds himself tapping at the table. He bounces his knee until he catches himself. He finishes two cups of coffee in under an hour. Mercifully, Lance is late—again. So at least there are no paper nuisances flying around his head.
When even Hunk tells him in passing that he looks "completely out of it," Keith gives up. He grabs his notebook and sticks a pen in his ponytail and clomps off for the break room, where Hunk has allegedly left an entire six-pack of sodas and half a cheesecake. And anyway, Keith needs a new coffee and a few pens from the newest supply shipment he'll swipe on the way there.
He doesn't make it two steps into the hallway before he slams into someone's chest. Then he's showered in cold liquid and the smell of iced coffee fills the air. To top it all off, he yelps in surprise and drops his notebook—right into the brown puddle on the floor.
Karma, of course, is not on his side today.
He bends down to scoop his notebook off the floor, seething. He spots the other person's shoes, also doused in coffee, but it's only a small comfort.
The other man swears quietly under his breath, then says, "Shit, man, I'm so sorry—oh."
Keith looks up at the sudden pause and finds himself staring at a shocked-looking Lance.
Forget not being on his side, karma has taken a normal day's worth of problems and rammed them down Keith's throat.
For a moment, neither of them says a word. Then:
"What the hell, man? Were you trying to get us killed?"
Keith narrows his eyes. "Me? Trying to get us killed? Might I remind you who ran into me?"
Lance growls, actually growls, with frustration. "I can't believe this," he says. "First you run into me when I'm minding my own business, trying to live life, trying to do what I do, you know? And then you try to pin it all on me." As he says all this, he waves his hands theatrically, forgetting that he's still holding his cup and sending more coffee flying. It would have been funny if all of it hadn't landed on Keith's shirt.
"This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't walked in late—again," says Keith, whose shirt is now dripping cool liquid onto the floor. He can't imagine—doesn't want to imagine—how much it'll cost to get it dry-cleaned.
"This wouldn't have happened if you had been minding your own business," retorts Lance, glaring down from over Keith's head.
Keith fumes. "I have been minding my own business," he says. "You're the one who's making this a big deal."
"Oh, yeah," says Lance, mouth exaggeratedly large and over-enunciating. "Like ratting me out to Shiro is minding your own business."
"He asked me how everyone was on the floor! What was I supposed to do, lie?"
"No, you were just supposed to tell him the truth! That everything's fine!"
"But you coming in late isn't!"
Lance lets out an incredulous laugh. "Wow, so you really think you are that much better than everyone else."
"What?" says Keith. "No, I don't."
Another small wave of coffee lands, this time on Keith's shoes, and he groans. "Lance, can you please put the coffee down."
"Oh, I'm sorry! Is that how it is? O Keith, high and mighty master of this company. What are you talking about," he snorts derisively. "Lance, put the coffee down. Well, suck it up! It's not happening."
"Are you always this insufferable?" Keith cries.
"Insufferable? You want insufferable? Take this!"
And without missing a beat, Lance dumps the rest of the coffee over Keith's head.
"So," says Shiro. "Care to tell me what happened?"
They're driving home now, Hunk having taken one look at a dripping, coffee-stained Keith and dialed Shiro's number, and Shiro's drumming on the wheel has turned serious, has become clenched fingers and knuckles on his real hand turning white.
"I told you," Keith says. "I spilled iced coffee on myself."
"Right," says Shiro drily. "All over your head and shirt."
Keith scowls and folds up his arms. "Yeah, well—accidents happen."
"Keith, you don't even drink iced coffee."
"Today, I do."
Shiro laughs for a moment, but quickly sobers up. "Does this have anything to do with the paper airplanes from yesterday?" he asks.
Keith remains silent. He meets Shiro's concerned face in the rearview mirror with a scowl. The two of them stare at each other, waiting for the tension to burst.
"No," he says finally. "It doesn't."
"Are you sure? Because I can seriously talk to someone if anything's wrong. There's no shame in that."
"No, Shiro. Everything's fine. I can handle this."
They stop at a red light, and Shiro turns to Keith. He has his patented big-brother look on his face, all kindness and misplaced worry. "We've been through this before. You don't have to do everything on your own. That's what I'm here for."
Keith glances over at Shiro, then looks away, feeling a little guilty in spite of himself. He shouldn't have to tell Shiro about this. It's not like he can't deal with some idiot like Lance on his own. At the same time, Shiro's spent years trying to get him to open up. And Keith has spent just as long learning to meet him halfway.
Then he thinks of Lance's face, his fury, his words full of disgust. And Keith wonders: what good would it do, to tell Shiro about Lance's twisted sense of retribution? It wouldn't change a thing.
Eventually, Shiro sighs. "Look, you don't have to tell me what happened if you don't want to. But if something's up, you don't have to keep it to yourself, you know? I'm your brother."
Keith isn't sure what to say to something like that.
"You worry too much," he says finally, with a levity he doesn't feel.
He says nothing for the rest of the ride, changes quickly, and hurries back to work.
A week passes after the coffee-slinging incident, and Keith still walks down the hallway every morning for his own coffee, still types away at his computer from 8 AM through the evening. He's had to get the clothes Lance ruined replaced—not an easy task, especially on Keith's already-tight budget, but other than that, life has become surprisingly uneventful, almost peaceful. A stark contrast to all the paper airplanes and spitballs that used to drive him insane.
It's so peaceful, in fact, that Keith is immediately suspicious. What happened to all the tension that was building up between him and Lance? The whole enemies-for-life thing Lance had going on in his head? Apparently that has all gone out the window. Whenever Keith sees Lance now, the guy always just looks away and walks faster.
Keith can't have scared him off. There's no way he could ever be that scary, and he never got the sense that Lance was the type to be cowed by words. He's either given up on the whole affair or planning something bigger, flashier. The best kind of vengeance. And those kinds of thoughts only drive Keith's paranoia up another notch.
At least the other constants in his life haven't changed. Pidge is still Pidge, making snarky comments from their cartooning desk when he's home, and Shiro is still Shiro, constantly pestering Keith about healthy sleeping habits.
He's still thinking about Shiro's proposal. But according to Hunk, who is still talking to Keith (out of the sheer goodness of his heart), the IT department hasn't even started working on a new branch of the website, so he has plenty of time to consider it. It's all well and good.
That is, until one morning, as he's pouring himself a second mug of coffee, who should appear behind him but Lance.
"Hey, man." That voice, after a week of silence, still puts him a little on edge.
Lance looks tired, Keith thinks. He's got his hands in his pockets, shoulders slumped over, a frown—not a scowl, Keith would know the difference—on his usually-upbeat face.
Keith watches him, trying to keep his own face neutral. "Here to dump more coffee on my head?"
"No, actually." Instead of glaring, Lance looks down at some spot on the tile floor. "I…came to apologize. For the coffee thing. And the paper airplanes and spitballs and all the other stuff. I can pay you back for the dry-cleaning."
He digs around in his pocket for a moment, then comes up with a crumpled twenty and hands it to Keith. "I know that's probably not enough to cover it, but it's all I've got on me right now. I'll do an IOU, okay?"
He catches Keith staring and sighs. "Look, I get it. I know it's not fixing anything. But it's the best I got, right now. I'm sorry."
He hovers there for another moment, bobbing back and forth on his toes, then turns to leave. "So…See you around, I guess."
"Wait!" Keith isn't sure why he says this. But Lance glances back at him anyway, and he fumbles quickly for words. "Thank you. For thinking of the dry cleaning." For the replacement of my clothes, a voice adds in his head. He shoves that voice aside. "And…for the apology. I really do appreciate it."
As Keith stands awkwardly before the coffee machine, it's Lance's turn to stare.
"I just didn't peg you as the type to apologize," Keith adds, then immediately curses himself for being too blunt. Luckily, Lance doesn't even seem offended.
"Yeah, I get that a lot, mostly from Hunk. Guess it just comes with the territory."
"Territory?"
Lance flaps his hand in the air. "You know. With being, like, the office's cool ninja and all. That whole shebang." He still isn't quite looking Keith in the eyes, but at least his posture is more at ease.
It occurs to Keith that this is the first civil conversation he's ever had with Lance. The whole situation now feels even more surreal.
"Anyway. I also gotta thank you for not telling anyone about the coffee thing," says Lance. "Seriously, I could have gotten into some major trouble there. Not that I wouldn't have deserved it, but still. Thanks."
"No problem, I guess. I didn't really have anyone to tell, anyway."
"Says the guy whose brother is the floor manager."
"Other than him," says Keith. "Or anyone who could actually get you in trouble."
"Oh, believe me, I know all the people who could get me in trouble."
"I can see why," Keith says before he can stop himself.
"Aaaand…now you sound like Hunk."
Instead of looking offended, Lance relaxes and grins, and it suddenly feels so natural to have him standing there. As if he and Keith are actually friends, and this is just something that happens all the time.
"You know," says Lance suddenly. "I used to think you thought you were better than us, but you're actually pretty cool."
"What?" says Keith. "Why?"
"I dunno. You just. Never talked to us, I guess. Ignored pretty much everyone on the floor. I thought you hated us all, or just wanted that loner vibe or whatever."
Keith frowns. He's not trying to be a loner. He doesn't avoid people. He talks to Hunk and Shiro, and sometimes Hunk's girlfriend Shay from IT when the printer stops working or the computers won't log in. Maybe he doesn't talk to everyone, but he's a writer. That's kind of his job. And if it allows him to experience minimal social anxiety, then all the better.
On second thought, maybe that does count as avoiding people.
Aloud, he says, "I didn't realize," and is immediately conscious of how lame it sounds.
Lance shrugs. "Yeah, well, what about when we tried to invite you to dinner last week, settle our differences and all that? Or, well, Hunk tried to invite you. I was still convinced you were an asshole."
Keith sighs. "That happened back when I was convinced you were the asshole."
"Details, details." Lance flaps his hand in Keith's face. "My point is, everyone's tried talking to you before now and you just never seemed interested in becoming friends."
"Oh." Keith tries to think of something to say other than, "Sorry?"
Lance chuckles a little. "You just got accused of accidentally being an antisocial halfwit, and all you have to say is sorry?"
"...Yes?"
At that, Lance doesn't hold back. He flips his head back and laughs with abandon, a carefree, pleasant laugh, much more agreeable than his snicker or his smug smile behind his hand even though Keith is still the butt of the joke. His stomach lurches a little at the sound, though he can't imagine why.
Finally, Lance starts to calm down, and he lapses into an easy grin. "Dude, I've never met someone who was so bad at social cues before. You sure you're a human?"
"Yes," says Keith, a little stung. "I mean, I have some friends."
"Right, right."
Lance thinks for a moment, then says. "I'll spell this one out for you, buddy. We're going to dinner again tonight. It's not sushi this time, but I was wondering—do you want to come?"
"Ah," says Keith. "Is this an invitation?"
Lance's grin widens. "If you want it to be."
"Ah," says Keith again. And then, "Let me text Shiro."
Apparently, he won't need a ride home tonight.