Lance
Lance shifted as he heard the lock click, and then the door rattle open and then slam shut. Loudly.
Blinking blearily, he wiped his face with his palm, groaning as he rolled up into a sitting position on the sofa. He glanced around, it was pitch black in his apartment and the only light came from the soft blue dot on the tv screen nearby. Running his hands through his hair, Lance heard shuffling and loud thumps from the kitchen.
"Keith?" He called. Propping himself up, he carefully made his way off of the couch cushions and onto his feet. Yawning, he stretched out his arms, awaiting a response. Nothing. "Babe?"
Lance, growing agitated, stood up and began to shuffle along the cold tile towards the noises. He nearly stubbed his toe on the coffee table, but he swerved at the last second, avoiding a string of curses and immeasurable pain. It was still pitch black, and the teenager rounded the corner to see a soft yellow light leaking in from the kitchen in question.
Leaning up against the frame of the doorway, Lance covered his eyes with his fingers as he adjusted to the glow. When he got used to it, he looked around to see Keith, asleep at the counter.
He was slouched down, black hair tossled in every which way, perched on an uncomfortable plastic stool. Concerned, Lance turned to the small clock on the stove.
'2:56 a.m.' it blinked in those red, jotted letters.
Groaning out loud again, the teenager understood why Keith was passed out in the kitchen.
Wiping the dampness around his eyes away, the Cuban boy approached the counter.
For a second, Lance stood there to just take in his boyfriend. He was a mess, coat hanging onto his thin frame by a shoulder, his mullet matted and otherwise… wild. He must have been on his bike again. Without a helmet, Lance noticed with an inward grunt of disapproval. His black shirt was clinging to his frame like it had been wet, probably soaked with rainwater. He smelled like fresh air but stank distinctly of tar and beer.
Cringing, Lance sat down on the stool next to him. He knew Keith didn't drink, but he must have been out at that old bar he always visits. The one bar Keith knew Lance didn't like. The one bar, out of the hundreds in town, that Lance tried to keep Keith away from.
"Babe." He echoed. "Keith." He placed his long hands on his partner's head, stroking the damp black clumps gently. "You should wake up."
A small moan came in response. Keith just quivered a bit, and Lance huffed.
"Keith, you have to wake up. At least get to the bed," he said in a sleepy voice, rubbing Keith's back in an effort to wake him up.
With a shudder, Keith slowly came to. His head turned and his eyes drearily opened to lock with Lance's. Lance took a moment to notice the blueish and green bruise on the boy's jawline, and a tingling shot up Lance's spine.
But then Keith's eyes closed with a stubborn grunt. "...Me will youuu…" he murmured, the first part muffled by Keith's coat sleeve, which was half on him and half in a bundle on the counter.
"No." Lance said firmly, before wrapping his long arm under Keith's and around his shoulders. "Come on baaaabe." He cooed, scooching the nearly passed out boyfriend off of the stool where he could then lean against Lance.
Lance stood up, and began to drag the slumped over Keith towards his bedroom. With dark circles under his eyes and his neck crooked over, Keith looked barely alive. He was limping, and had more than just one bruise on his face. Cringing, Lance reminded himself to talk to Keith in the morning.
Staggering through the dark, the pair arrived in the small bedroom where Lance flicked on the light switch.
It illuminated a simple place, a shell of the type of home Lance was used to. Lance never understood Keith's need to travel light and never set up anything, and although he would never admit it to Lance, Lance knew it was because of that cursed foster system. The system that would hop Keith from home to home, sometimes even out of town. That was the worst, when Keith had been gone for six months straight.
It was hard enough with the system trying to tear them apart for so long, and it was even worse that they were in love.
Especially since the stupid system had turned Keith into this… this not drunk but might as well be zombie. A zombie, a slave to the system. To the cruelty of his family and of his past.
Lance plopped Keith down on the bed, which was bare besides a sheet, a soft gray blanket, and one pillow with a dingy white pillowcase. Keith bent over the second Lance let go of him, to only slide onto the bed with a half-awake grunt.
Jerking the covers out from under him, Lance rolled Keith over on the mattress so his head was resting on the old pillow. Draping the soft blanket over Keith's beat up body, Lance tucked it around him.
Turning to the small bedside table, he pulled the lamp's cord string and then stood up to turn off the other light. The main light was too bright, too painful on his eyes. The soft glow of the amber lamp was so much more welcoming and warm, it reminded him of summer.
If it only weren't for the passed out zombie on the bed and the near-empty bedroom, Lance would have felt perfectly at home. The room smelled just like Keith's cologne, and it had the small pictures taped to the wall of memories.
His eyes skimmed over the pictures. Lance smiling broadly next to Hunk, with Keith glaring blankly at whoever had taken the picture. It was of a concert, neither Lance nor Keith remembered what artist that was performing.
The next picture was of Keith drooling onto the old pillow, with a tanned hand poking his cheek. Lance nearly smiled at that morning, when he had found Keith still asleep at one in the afternoon, drooling like a little baby. But he didn't quite smile. Instead he looked down at the stone-cold boy lying next to him.
Lance liked to think of him as Keith's saviour. In middle school, when they had first met, Keith was a wreck. Already meeting up with gangs, hopping from foster home to foster home, flunking every class, everyone avoided him. Not even the edgy emo kids would touch him, he sat alone every day.
It was rough, but somehow they ended up together. It was merely 'if you get high somewhere, I'll help you home.' Lance had a car, Keith had a motorbike, and they both were lonely. It was merely platonic.
Sighing, Lance checked the clock that was ticking softly next to the lamp on the bedside table. He wasn't very good at reading the black hands against the white disc, but it was around 3:14 now. Great.
Sighing, Lance turned to blink slowly at his boyfriend. Reaching out, he let his palm drift over the black hair he had grown to know as Keith, but he pulled away.
He was angry.
So very angry.
Keith had gone out with them again. Even after the fight where he agreed to never do it again. After he had tried setting himself on fire with the 'boys' simply for laughs. Lance didn't laugh. He cried.
It still hurt to think of the burns on Keith's hands, how the bled for a week after the incident. How his broken finger had been swollen after being crushed by another guys motorbike when it fell over on his hand.
Lance felt his heart racing. Angrily, he stood up abruptly, ignoring Keith's whimper as the weight was removed from his bed.
Stomping out, patting the tears around his eyes, Lance pulled the lamp's cord once more, plunging the room into darkness.
Lance didn't bother to go to his bedroom. He lurched back to the sofa, and stayed awake all night, watching the blue light do nothing but stay still, solemn.
Keith
Groaning, he lurched out of his room. He felt sore all over, his lips felt numb. The aftertaste of soda and something that reminded him of garlic and rotten cheese rising in his throat. His face felt too large in places, and it hurt when he rubbed his eyes. Giving a yawn, he hurried to the bathroom across from his room.
The bathroom was illuminated with morning light, the plain white and black checkered tiles glistening. Staggering to the mirror, Keith gripped the edge of the sink as he stared back at a monster.
This creature in the reflection was ogling back at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. Matted black hair that was greasy and unwashed, with a purplish tint to his pale skin. Green and yellow bruises were along his cheeks, with a dark blue circled on his jaw and a small red, scabbed over cut on his forehead. Licking his chapped lips, Keith felt his heart drop when he saw his neck. There were handprints there, like he had been choked.
Whatever. He was alive.
Grasping the silver tap, Keith flicked his hand to turn on the warm water. For a second, his sight swayed, and he stood there. Listening to the water.
Snapping out of it, he cupped his pale hands under the stream of water, relishing the warmth running over his palms, washing away whatever brownish-red stuff was on his hands. Probably blood, maybe dirt. After he cleaned his hands, he splashed a handful over his face, getting it in his hair as well.
Jerking his head up to stare at his reflection once more, he felt sick. The warm water dripping down his chin felt nasty, his black hair plastered to his forehead like an uncomfortable jellyfish. The water ran down his arms, dripping onto the floor and his feet from his elbows.
Gagging, Keith lurched away from the sink, water still flowing swiftly from the tap, to slam open the toilet seat.
Bile rose in his throat, and spilt out and into the bowl.
When he was finished, he felt a single tear fall from the corner of his eye and run down his nose and settling into the crook of his lip. It tasted salty, and it reminded him of how intensely thirsty he was.
Going back to the sink after flushing, he splashed his face once more to rid his complexion of any vomit.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw in the mirror, Lance staring at him from the doorway.
He shifted uncomfortably, groping to his side for the hand towel. Wiping the water from his face, he turned to meet Lance's gaze.
Lance was… wrong.
He looked tired, dark circles and puffy eye bags. Red eyes like he had been crying, along with a rosey nose and cheeks. His shirt was crumpled, the pale white obviously stained with something. He was wearing loose shorts that exposed his long legs, and his hair was even more tangled than Keith's.
The two didn't say anything, but Keith's throat began burning painfully as he held in a sob. He didn't usually cry.
He didn't cry.
But looking at Lance…
Lance looked done. Done with this. He looked angry, he looked sad. No, he looked furious. And regretful? Keith couldn't tell. Lance looked… wrong. And that made Keith ache. It wasn't right. What happened to his sunshine.
Lance
"Are you going to tell me what the fuck happened last night!?" Lance yelled, slamming his mug down on the counter. The white mug with the purple, pink, and blue flag on it. The one that said 'shy and bi'. The mug that Keith had given him.
His throat was tight, flaming hot and collapsing. His face was red, burning with anger.
And then there was Keith.
Half dead at the counter, not even meeting Lance's eyes.
"You ran out again! I told you not to do that! All you do is get in fights, and you hang around those douchebags!" He shouted, stepping away from the counter and flailing his arms up in an exaggerated gesture.
He turned away from Keith.
He didn't want to see his tired face. He didn't want to see him bruises. Or his eyes. Or his hair. Or everything that made Keith Keith. Keith was Keith. And Lance didn't want to see his Keith all beat up. He didn't want to see him so messed up. It was these moments when all Lance could think about was middle school. The Keith before Keith and Lance.
Lance's temples scrunched together, and he pressed his fingertips on his forehead and rubbed in small circles.
It got worse when the coffee pot began beeping again.
First it was Lance's coffee, the nice kind. He always made his first, it was just always that way. Then Keith's bitter coffee, the cheap kind. He always let Lance brew his first.
Lance leaned back against the countertop, still not turning. He decided to focus on the apartment.
It was a nice one. Simplistic, on Main, just a standard apartment. It was big, due to some of the money Keith got from a kind foster family who loved him even though he acted like a dick to them every day, and also because of Lance's supportive Aunt Lisa. She wanted him and Keith to be able to finish college and get good jobs, so she was covering a lot of the rent. It was hard enough with studies and everything to work a full time job. Not that Keith was focused on college.
Lance suppressed a sigh. Everything was linked to Keith! Couldn't he just have a brain of his own for a few minutes?
The apartment was really nice. It had two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a small bathroom. It was all connected by one hallway, but Lance liked it. They had nice furnishings, very simple, but with Lance's magic touch it was very easy to warm up the plain walls and carpets. He especially liked plants.
Lots of plants.
In fact, there were too many. Keith had insisted on no plants in his room, but every other room had at least one plant. The bathroom had cacti, just small succulents as well, to make the space feel more open. The living room had hanging plants, just small ones with big vines, and the kitchen had many flowers. Orchids were Lance's favorite, but he had to throw them out because Keith was planning on getting a cat. Of course that hadn't happened, but Lance hadn't bought any more just in case.
Lance's room was full of plants. Plants everywhere. On his shelves next to his textbooks, by his bed, hanging from pegs in the ceiling, just everywhere.
Lance heard Keith slowly scoot off the stool, and then walk softly towards the coffee pot.
Keith sighed.
A small click as the cupboard opened.
A clink as Keith's mug was set on the counter.
The trickle of coffee.
The smell of pungent black coffee.
Lance still didn't turn.
Keith
Keith's pale hands wrapped around the mug. It was warm, and rich. The coffee was strong as always, just how he liked it. Sitting down, he awkwardly stared into it's depths. He couldn't even look at Lance's back.
I did it again. I fucked it up. I don't know how to fix this. I'm pointless. This is crap. I don't even want to be here. This sucks.
The burning in his throat hadn't left, it was still there. He wanted to break down and cry. Having Lance yell at him was like being slapped. It hurt. It hurt a lot.
Acting like his coffee was the most delicious thing in the world, he raised it to his mouth and gulped down by the mouthful. He chugged it. The burning of the hot liquid somewhat got rid of the painful pricks of heartbreak, but it was still there.
Feeling a rush of emptiness, Keith set his cup down once more.
"I'm sorry."
For a second, Keith was wondering who had said that. He hadn't opened his mouth. But that was when he realized that Lance was apologizing.
"I hate you Keith. I hate everything you do. But I hate hating you. I'm sorry. It's your own life." He laughed, still not turned towards Keith. "What was I thinking? Am I insane? Dating you? Of all people?"
Keith's heart dropped. This wasn't what was supposed to happen.
Shaking, Keith stared into the now half-empty mug. It was less dark now, he could see the bottom. Steam rose into his face, and it felt odd and uncomfortable. He felt prickly. His clothes felt like they were on fire. He gripped the cup tighter, until he was sure the ceramic might crack under the pressure.
"Do you think this is a joke?!"
Lance's shout jolted Keith into looking up. Now Lance was facing him.
He had his hands pressed on the countertop, the gray, black, and white granite sparkling cheerfully in the morning light filtering from the windows. He was rigid, his stance powerful and furious. His face was still red, his cheeks still traced with tears. Keith felt like crying, harder than ever.
"No." Keith answered, his head shaking once.
Lance looked to his side, balling his right hand into a fist and slamming in twice onto the counter. "Dammit Keith!"
Keith watched as the coffee remaining in his mug shook slightly with the pounds. He felt the color drain from his face. Lance was… he wasn't Lance.
"Why won't you talk. Why am I grabbing at strings?" Lance said. Keith couldn't help but just stare and watch his drink.
He didn't know what to feel. He could only feel the burning in his throat, the emptiness in his stomach, and the hole widening in his heart.
You know the pain, the type that just swallows you whole? After the one you love rejects you? The one where you just need someone to come and look after you, to love you?
Keith let out a choked sob.
"Lance-" He croaked, his eyes welling up. The fire was rising to his eyes, he felt like hot coals were pressed up against his eyeballs. "I don't…"
Lance stared him down before letting out a cry similar to Keith's. "You don't what, Keith?!" He sniffed, propping his elbows on the counter and cradling his head in his hands. "You don't care, that's what! You don't care! You go out and hurt yourself, and it's my fault for not looking after you, it's that damn system's fault and I can't anymore-"
Keith looked up to meet Lance's gaze. Lance had new tears streaming down his face. One droplet dripped down, and then splashed on the countertop. Keith wished he could pick back up the jewel and return it back to where it came from, where it's burning hatred and sadness would never have touched Lance's skin.
Keith watched as Lance, sobbing, stood straight up and jogged towards the entryway. He grabbed a pair of keys of the hook, and left.
Keith watched as the door slammed shut, and he felt the first tear fall. He felt many more.
He stared blankly at that door, and that empty chasm opened up again. He didn't feel anything but nothing. Nothing at all. Fucking nothing. Letting out another choked sob, Keith clutched the collar of his shirt with his hand, scrunching it up until he couldn't feel it anymore. The chasm swallowed it whole.
He wanted Lance to come back. He wanted him to come back and take his coat with him. He wanted Lance to sit down and eat breakfast. He wanted Lance to just open the door for a second, anything. But he wouldn't.
Crying, Keith stood up and ran to the door. He whipped it open, stepped outside.
"LANCE!" He yelled, his voice breaking. It had been so sudden.
He turned the other way. He was aware of a door opening down the hall, but he didn't care.
"LANCE!" His shouted again, cupping his pale fingers around his mouth in a desperate attempt to make Lance hear his calls.
He didn't care if he got evicted for screaming.
Shiro
K 10:33- Shiro I need help
The buzz of his phone jerked Shiro awake. Blinking fuzzily, he rolled over in bed, wrapping the comforters around him.
Groaning, he realized the time. Thank god it was Sunday.
Clicking on the message, he slid it open and say that it was from Keith.
S 10:34- ?
K 10:34- Lance left
Keith's answer was lightning fast. It buzzed through the second Shiro had sent his message, he must have already had it typed. Shiro ran his hands through his hair, feeling it's tangled mess with a grunt of disapproval.
S 10:35- keith what do you mean he 'left'
K 10:35- we had a fight
S 10:35- what
K 10:36- I partied again
Shiro groaned.
S 10:37- I thought you guys were over that
K 10:37- can you just come over
K 10:37- please
S 10:38- I'm not free, me and allura are going out for lunch
K 10:39- fml
S 10:40- keith?
S 10:40- keith who can I call
S 10:41- should I call lance
S 10:43- I'm calling lance
S 10:47- lance isn't picking up keith answer me
S 10:55- keith wth can you please respond.
Shiro watched as the dots appeared next to Keith's name, but they disappeared soon after. Shiro rolled out of bed in a hurry and began to rummage around for his clothes, determined to find Lance and figure out what happened.