It was a day like any other in Professor Smythe's Care of Magical Creatures class. Lance was seated on a desk towards the center of the room—not too close to the front but not the rowdy back either. Coran, as Prof. Smythe insisted on being called, usually put a lot of energy into his lectures, conjuring wispy, life-sized models of whatever he was talking about.
But not even the giant incorporeal spider hovering above the professor's desk could hold Lance's attention for more than a few moments. It wasn't his fault really. It was just that for some unknown reason, Keith of all people had decided to sit in the seat in front of Lance. Brilliant. Just what Lance needed.
Keith was in Lance's year, and had all the teachers wary of him. He was undoubtedly a star pupil but walked around with a permanent scowl that said 'watch out, we've got a badass over here.'
It wasn't that Lance was actually distracted by Keith…. It was more his hair: a mullet. It was just such a disaster. They were bloody wizards in a bloody wizarding school! There was no excuse for a poor haircut—or no haircut, in Keith's case.
It was amidst these musings that Coran must have noticed Lance's eyes were not on the hovering giant spider, and he called Lance out.
"Lance! My boy, why don't you tell us what the acromantula's preferred diet consists of?"
Lance gulped. "Uh..." Come on, what do giant spiders eat? "Giant ants?"
Snickers sounded around the room as Coran shook his head in disappointment. "I'll have to take five points from Gryffindor for that, sadly."
And because it was just Lance's luck, Keith turned around to shoot him an accusatory glance for having lost their house five points. Not that Lance cared what Keith thought. That pretentious git sat in judgment of just about everyone. He thought everyone was below him. And Lance most certainly did not care what he thought. So there.
When class ended and everyone began filing out, Lance looked for Pidge and Hunk. His best friends were in Ravenclaw and unfortunately did not share Care of Magical Creatures with the Gryffindors. He didn't find them, but he did run into McGonagall. Had she already heard about the points he'd lost their house?
"Lance! There you are. I'm calling an emergency quidditch practice. I saw the Slytherins playing the other day, and I'm sorry to say you lot are not ready to face them next week."
Oh, so he wasn't in trouble. Lance breathed a sigh of relief.
"Don't sigh at me!" she scolded, misreading his reaction. "It is a matter of house pride! I just saw Keith and told him. He's headed out to the field too. I've asked him to give you some pointers."
"Keith?" Lance exclaimed, his face feeling oddly hot. "I don't need him!"
"Oh but you do," she insisted. "As the team's newest player, you're a talented flyer but still need to work on your chasing skills, especially if you're going to face the Slytherin beater Allura. Besides," she added, "the chasers are supposed to be entirely in sync. You and Keith are still far from that. It will do you—and the team—a lot of good for you two to practice together."
Lance could not deny there was truth to her words, even though he really wanted to. Grumbling an agreement, he shuffled off to his room to grab his gear.
His Comet 290 broomstick in hand, and dressed in his quidditch robes, he made his way to the quidditch field.
Keith was already there, zipping around on his Firebolt. Typical.
"Hey, hothead," Lance called out to him. "Are we practicing together or what?"
Keith didn't reply but landed gracefully into a slight run, slowing to a walk as he approached Lance.
"McGonagall asked me to help you with your flying." Keith sounded about as enthusiastic about the situation as Lance felt. "So let's get this over with."
Lance felt the need to respond, though he wasn't sure why. "Just for the record, I'm only doing this because McGonagall insisted. I don't need your help."
Keith only mounted his broom and gestured for Lance to do the same. They kicked off, and before Lance knew when or why, they were racing.
"Why are you racing me?" Keith yelled.
"I don't know, why are you?" Lance called back.
"This is ridiculous," Keith proclaimed, coming to a stop, though not before he reached the goal posts.
Lance swore internally. That bloody Firebolt was just too fast; that's what it was.
"We're here so we can learn to fly together better," Keith reminded him, touching down and grabbing the quaffle from its box on the ground.
"Okay." Lance thought about a chaser's objective. He imagined a game playing around him. He leaned forward on his broom, gripped the handle tight, and zoomed forward.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lance saw Keith smile and follow suit. Keith passed the quaffle, and after a moment of brief panic, Lance caught it cleanly, rushing ahead and tossing it into the left hoop.
"Nice, Lance!"
Heck yeah.
Lance retrieved the quaffle and circled back around, passing it in Keith's general direction. He kept flying forward for a second until he heard a thump followed by an "oof!" He turned just in time to catch Keith tumbling through the air, fumbling in his robes for his wand, a bit hard to do while in freefall.
Lance pulled out his own wand and pointed it at Keith's hurtling figure, bellowing, "ARRESTO MOMENTUM!"
It was just in time. Keith tumbled into the grass with a soft thud. The quaffle Lance had accidentally hit him with lay next to him.
Still astride his broom, Lance watched as Keith stood up, dusted himself off and turned with a disgruntled frown to look up. Lance couldn't help himself. Keith just looked too cute with his brows scrunched up and mouth turned into a pout. Before Lance fully grasped the implications of his own traitorous thoughts, he burst out laughing. He caught Keith's eyes narrow with determination a split second before the quaffle was rushing toward him.
It was all he could do to avoid getting hit in the face; but as he swerved, the quaffle slammed into the end of his broom. Knocked off balance, he tumbled with a yelp.
As he fell through the air, he watched a satisfied smirk growing on Keith's face. Out of sheer spite, or so he told himself, Lance used the wand he had drawn (when he'd saved Keith's ungrateful arse moments earlier) to change his direction mid-fall.
A second later, he crashed into Keith's chest, and the two hit the ground hard.
"You idiot," Keith groaned.
Okay and maybe Lance hadn't thought this through, because (1) that hurt, and (2) Keith was now pinned under him and blushing furiously.
Before Lance had a chance to contemplate why that blush (which was probably due to the exertion from all the flying and falling anyway) was doing things to his insides, Keith covered his face with his hands and muttered a frustrated "get your stupid hot body off me."
And okay, the blushing may have been wishful thinking but that was not. Lance had definitely just heard Keith say that. And maybe it would've been better if he hadn't heard it; because now that he had, Lance had no idea how to respond. 'I think you're hot too, except for that hair' came to mind, but somehow, he didn't think that was what Keith wanted to hear right now. More importantly, he didn't think he could say it out loud without combusting. Although it was easier to admit it to himself now that Keith had put things out in the open.
Lance was saved from further deliberation by a soft question from the tangle of limbs below him: "Did I just say that out loud?"
Lance nodded, not trusting his voice not to squeak.
"Bloody hell," Keith exclaimed, shoving Lance off and scrambling to his feet. "I need to…go." With no further explanation, he turned on his heel and all but bolted toward the castle.
Out of a literal multitude of options, Lance decided to ask "What about practice?"
Keith threw a hurried "Tomorrow" over his shoulder without breaking pace.
Lance had the decency to be embarrassed by how much he was suddenly looking forward to tomorrow.
And that was when Lance remembered the extra essay Coran assigned him for homework when he'd zoned out in class, which was also due tomorrow. Ugh. Despite the sudden bout of mixed feelings, he still could not wait for tomorrow.