One night and one more time

Thanks for the memories even though they weren't so great

He tastes like you, only sweeter

One night, yeah, and one more time

Thanks for the memories, thanks for the memories

~Fall Out Boy / Thnks Fr Th Mmrs

ooo

Lance mostly told the truth.

He wasn't a lying guy in nature, and with the close relationship he had with his mother, Lance could never bring himself to fib. It felt... wrong. Dirty. Like he was committing a major felony in doing so. A treachery greater than murder itself! He hated the idea of his Mom, the person whom he worshiped, loved, and who loved him in return, being deceived by the mask of beauty which hid hideous monsters beneath. As his friend/rival put it, better the dirty truth than a pretty lie. But, alas, there was something Lance could never admit. Never to his family, and more importantly, never to himself.

Locking it inside and tossing the key sounded easy in retrospect. But it always had a bearing, lingering mischievous in the dark corner of his consciousness. No matter how much he tried, it didn't go away. And no matter how much he despised it, Lance couldn't reveal it.

When he was sixteen, Lance had a girlfriend. Before they hooked up, Lance was obsessed with Nyma. She was the prettiest, coolest, most badass chick he ever knew. And it wasn't just her looks - though that played a part - that made him like her as completely as he did. Lance loved the fact she liked the same stuff he did. Video games, shows, memes. But, after he finally mustered up the courage to ask her out, something changed. She became different... needy. No, that wasn't the word to describe it. She became bratty. Obsessive, compulsive, judgmental. Nyma forced Lance to follow her anywhere whenever, as well as pamper her on a whim. Lance was in agony.

But, one day, Nyma took Lance to her house with her posy of older, much cooler friends. Feeling out of place with his lame gray and blue t-shirt, and baggy army jacket, Lance listened as Nyma chatted away with her friends, all of who couldn't have been less than twenty. "You agree, right Lance?" One of the people of whom Nyma had introduced asked. It was Rolo, a tall, lanky man - much like himself, but a lot less awkward - with a sharp nose, and dyed, white hair. He was roughly handsome, with piercing eyes and a sly smile, which Lance forced himself to ignore.

Startled, Lance straightened to attention, completely oblivious to the conversation. "Uh, what?"

Rolo laughed his deep, suave laugh, which sent Lance's heart aflutter. "Dude, you're totally spaced out. Are you ok?"

"Yes!" Lance yelped, determined not to look like a loser. In his opinion, he was failing miserably. "I am just... tired, is all."

With his keen peripheral vision, Lance saw Nyma roll her eyes, her cherry lips smacking as she chewed her mint green gum. Forming a bubble in her mouth then popping it, she spoke in a loud whisper. "Lance, stop being so antisocial. You're embarrassing me."

The corners of Lance's lips curved down, his shoulders sagging. "I don't feel well." He lied, eyeing Rolo nervously. The man's golden, narrow gaze was locked on him, causing his brown face to grow red. Lance hated it, yet he didn't want him to turn away.

A few seconds later, Rolo waved a dismissive hand in the air, and spoke. "Don't pester him so much Nyma. He feels bad, I can tell. I know what he needs. Go on without us guys. Me and Lance will be back in a second."

Rolo then moved to him, his posture tall, and piercings glistening on the tops of his ears and side of his nose. Placing a hand around Lance's shoulders, Rolo guided him from the group, down the hall. Nyma watched him go for a moment, then immediately turned back around to her friends, no longer interested. As he silently walked with Rolo, his body stiffened anxiously at the older man's touch.

Lance's mind was racing, his body hot, and heart pumping fast - too fast for his liking. As he continued down the bleak, gray halls, with no hanging decoration to fill the dull wall space, and dust flying in swarms around him, Lance heard the other's voices muffle away. Soon it was just him, Rolo, and the repetitious sound of their steady, combined breaths. Lance opened his mouth ready to say something, when Rolo cut him short. "In here." The older boy removed his hand from Lance, and motioned to one of the nearly identical looking wooden doors. "I wanna show you something."

Lance's lips closed into a thin line, his body frozen in place. "What kinda things?" He finally managed, though his voice was squeaker than he would've liked.

Rolo smirked, look down the way they came, then back at him. With his eyes meeting Lance's, Rolo placed a bony finger over his mouth, and winked. "Secret things."

A tingle ran throughout Lance's body. He was both terrified, and anxious to get inside the room. This was new territory for the boy. A strange, new avenue yet to be explored. It felt wrong, yet thrilling. Dumbly, Lance smiled, giving an eager nod.

Rolo put his hand on the door knob, and thrusted it open, prompting Lance inside. The boy walked in to find a bathroom, small, with only a toilet in the corner, plunger to its right, and sink to its left. The toilet paper, lacking a holder, was placed on the ground beside the toilet. Its stiff, yellowish paper was nearly halfway gone. The walls, much like the hall, was bare, and lacking of any personality. The once white tiles beneath Lance's feet were cracked and stained with gray, brown, and even yellow. Lance didn't want to think about how it got that way.

Rolo closed the door behind him, his fingers sliding to turn the lock. When Lance heard the satisfying click of the door, his heart began pounding hard against his chest. How did he get in this situation? He couldn't even remember. This was all so... overwhelming. Pinning his back to the wall, Lance sucked in a shaky breath, and waited. What he was expecting, he honestly wasn't sure. What he wanted was for Rolo to kiss him, but it didn't happen. Instead, the older man reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a bag of green nugget looking thingies. Lance was suddenly underwhelmed.

The next few minutes went by awkwardly, with Rolo attempting to trade his drugs for Lance's money, and Lance politely refusing. Yeah, no. Lance may have been hanging out with bad people, but his mother taught him better than that. Flustered, the two rejoined the group, and Lance made an excuse to walk back home. When he entered his house, his mom asked why he came back early, and Lance responded with, "I think I want to break up with my girlfriend."

Seconds, minutes, hours passed, and Lance's brain was still dwelling on the moment. Rolo was a boy. An undeniably male person, yet Lance still had the desire to kiss him. What the fuck was wrong with him? Lance liked girls, no doubt about it, but he liked boys just as much, and that was what he couldn't shake. Though he knew this for awhile, this had been the closest time he actually came to... acting on his desires, and that scared him to death.

He imagined his dad: face red with anger, neck lined with veins as he spat slur after slur. When Lance closed his eyes, he saw Mr. McClain's fist high, brown skin rough, and ready to strike. Fuck, he would be pissed. Extremely so. And his mom would be powerless to stop him, her round face pale with terror, eyes bugged from her head, and throat horse whilst pleading hopelessly for him to stop. But nothing could interfere with Lance's dad once the flame ignited inside of him. If they try, disaster. Best case scenario: get punched one, and beg it satisfies his vexation. Worst case scenario: well, Lance didn't want to imagine.

In short, Lance could never do that to his mother. He still remembered the bruise she revived - a dark, gray smudge running from her left eye down the brim of her nose - from the last time Lance disappointed his father. With f, after f, after f in his grade book, Mr. McClain was anything but pleased with his youngest. Needless to say, Lance studied ten times as hard from then on out.

Suddenly, Lance heard his phone ring from inside his blue, stuffed backpack. Shifting his position on the covers, Lance sat up, and dug in his bag for his old fashioned, cheap, flip phone. Having a total of twelve kids in all, Mrs. McClain was powerless to provide all her children with the newest in technologies. No one complained however, and were glad for the hard work, and things she did provide. The important things: love, care, food, shelter. That was more than enough for both Lance, and his brothers and sisters.

Lance flipped open his phone, and read the contact. Douchey mcdoucherson. Ah, Keith was calling. His brother, looking suspiciously at him from the other side of the bedroom, watched Lance as he brought the phone to his ear, and said, "What's up, you piece of shit?"

"You have the notes for Mrs. Bitch's class?" Keith asked, his voice deep, and tired sounding as usual.

"Mrs. Brett? Yeah, I got it. Why?"

"I missed last period. I need to copy your notes. Send me screenshots."

"Uh..." Lance mumbled, eyeing his ancient flip phone. "How about I just bring the notes to you."

"Oh, yeah." Keith's voice was a bit quieter, as if he had inched away from the speaker. "Forgot you still use caveman technology."

"Whatever, dick. I'll be there in ten." Without another word, Lance hung up. Tossing his phone back in the front pocket, Lance grabbed his bag, and flung it over his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" Nico, Lance's older brother by a year, asked. His long, black bangs fell in front of his face, covering his eyeliner painted lids.

"Narnia." Lance answered sarcastically, taking a step to the door.

Nico smacked his black lips, his voice humming notes that sounded both scary, and idiotic. He fiddled with his creepy voodoo doll in one hand, and licked his sharpened butter knife in the other. Sometimes, Nico's antics scared even him. "Don't get too cocky. I see trouble to come."

"Riggghhhhttt." Lance nodded, rolling his eyes. If he had a penny for every time Nico uttered the line, 'trouble to come', Lance would have a lot of damn pennies. "I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for your other worldly advice, Nics."

"If you keep calling me Nics, I sense trouble to come in the near future." Nico tightened his grip on the end of his butter knife. "The very near future."

"Alright, alright. Sorry, Nics. See you later." Lance slammed the bedroom door behind himself before Nico had the opportunity to respond. And with that, Lance was off to Keith's house, the events of that day still present in the darkest reaches of his mind.

ooo

In the end

Everyone ends up alone

Losing her

The only one who's ever known

Who I am, who I'm not, and who I wanna be

No way to know

How long she will be next to me

~Fray / You Found Me

ooo

Lance took his bicycle to Keith's house.

It wasn't a far trip. Like Lance, Keith lived in a small home. But, unlike Lance, Keith lived alone, so it was a bit more bearable. At least, that's what Lance assumed. He couldn't imagine living alone. Because he grew up in a busy environment, with constant talking and action, he was used to it. Silence felt... odd.

Throwing his bike down on the lawn, Lance hopped up, and jogged to the house's entrance. Before he even had the chance to knock, Keith opened the door, his long, black hair in a ponytail, and signature eye bags dark, and prevalent. He wore a short sleeved, black t-shirt over a long sleeved, red shirt. He also had tight, tight navy colored jeans, which Lance wondered how he could even breath in. Stone faced, Keith said, "Come in."

Not bothering to wait for an answer, Keith disappeared into his dark, creepy home. Did he ever turn the lights on? Lance doubted it. The dude was like a vampire, hissing at any sign of daylight.

Wearily, Lance entered. He felt like a shrimp in the belly of the beast. A familiar, yet strange place. On the walls hung many different music posters with flaming skulls, rockers with guitars, and other edgy imagery. The 'decorations' were scattered atop the chipped, white paint of the walls like nobody's business. Though he was smart and good with music, Keith wasn't the best when it came to lavish decor. Neither was he the best housekeeper, as dirty laundry scattered across the wooden floor, as well as school papers, and other random crap. Lance, though he tried, couldn't avoid from stomping his mud stained soles over everything. Keith on the other hand, was precise with his steps. Without even looking down, his feet managed to find every bare surface of the ground, and maneuver forward without a sweat. The guy was like a ninja.

Keith waved his hand in the air, wordlessly gesturing Lance into another room. Entering, Lance discovered it to be the kitchen - or, at least, the shell of a kitchen. There was a counter, an oven, and a microwave as all proper kitchens possessed. But, instead of a normal, full sized cooling devise, Keith displayed a mini-fridge in the hollowed out space where a normal fridge ought to have been. Whatever he had stored in there, Lance was positive about one thing: it couldn't have qualify as a proper meal. Ice cream, beer, string cheese, and whatever other crap he had lurking in that icy desert known as an icebox.

Keith walked to the mini fridge, opened the top, and took out a can of root beer. Getting a peek inside, Lance was relieved to find no illegal beer. Keith was trudging on thin ice as was, and the last thing he needed were cops discovering his little, underage drinking secret. Or that he lived alone for that matter.

He was supposedly living with his grandma, but that bitch kicked the bucked years ago. And for all the better. That grandma was mean! Like, Lance's dad's angry bursts mean, yet a lot less face crushing, and a lot more soul crushing. Even at seventy six, that woman had a way with words. None of her opponents stood a chance! Luckily for Keith however, Mrs. Kogane Senior tripped over her own untied laces, falling face first onto the hard, cold, pavement road, dying instantly. At her funeral, both Keith and Lance took turns pissing on her grave. A special moment for them both, as well as an important event in their relationship, when they finally came together in peace, and related over a common interest.

They were the only ones to show up at the ceremony, besides the people Keith paid to dig a ten foot deep hole, and haul her cheap, wooden casket into it. To this day, Lance wasn't quite sure why Keith went through all the trouble in the first place. Maybe, deep down, he felt as though it was his responsibility as a grandson. This was his last living family member, - at least that he knew of - so it must have been hard on him, even if he didn't show it.

But, despite this, authority didn't catch on to the death of Keith's 'beloved' guardian, letting him live alone in peace. With her unmarked grave, and lack of presence even in life, it was easy to see why. People higher up didn't wander into this part of town. Lance couldn't blame them either. With teens wreaking havoc on the streets, and explosive fireworks being set off frequently, no matter the time of day or occasion, Lance wouldn't want to lurk where they were either. Especially when ninety nine percent of the residents hated their guts, and the other one percent were too mentally insane to care. Ah, their neighborhood. Living the absolute dream. Well, a nightmare that is, but still a dream nevertheless.

Keith, twisting the cap of his soda, sat down beside his dining room table. It was covered in schoolbooks, sheet music, and other crap that made it almost impossible to use for the purpose it was attended for.

Keith flipped his notebook open to his homework, and signaled Lance over. Retrieving the notes from his backpack, Lance sat down beside him on the only other available chair. Not looking up, Keith's eyes scanned over Lance's messily scribbled garbage, and began writing. Watching in awe, Lance wondered how Keith was even able to translate the letters. He wasn't going to lie, his handwriting sucked. Most times, he wasn't sure if he was writing actual English, or some made up language his brain subconsciously concocted.

Keith bit the end of his pencil, contemplated, then scribbled something down on his homework. His handwriting - though not good - was miles above Lance's skill set. Seriously, was this guy good at everything?

After a few more seconds of boredom, Lance said, "You're a terrible host, you know that, right?"

"I don't live to entertain you, Lance." Keith responded with a scoff. "You're only here so I can finish my homework. If you want to leave, be my guest. But, since I'm not allowed inside your home, I won't be able to give you this back until next Monday. So, your call."

"Can't you just take a picture with your phone, or some shit?"

Keith reached into his pocket, and pulled out his fancy - at least compared to Lance's sorry excuse for a phone - IPhone. The screen looked passable, besides a few scratches here and there, but the back of it was in complete shambles. Cracks, paint, stains, what in the world happened to it? The camera was covered in black paint, and cracked down the middle. There was no way in hell the thing could snap a adequate pic, no matter the filter. "Jesus fuck!" Lance exclaimed. "What did you do?"

"Fell in a can of paint at work. Plus, some guys smashed it beneath a hammer to test its 'satiability' when I left it out in the locker room. The other camera doesn't work either."

"That doesn't look safe." Lance commented, looking at the exposed inner core, and sharp plastic and glass that stuck out at odd angles. The thing looked like a device specifically designed to inflict pain. Well, at least it suited Keith now.

Keith shrugged. "Because it isn't. But, it's not like I can do anything about it now. I'm broke."

"Same girl, same." Lance stood, twisting his head to look at the multiple different posters. He didn't recognize any of the bands, not being real into edgy music. He was more of a top thirty type of guy. "What's that band?" He asked, pointing to one of the pictures showing a hand holding a grenade heart. "Green Day? Why is the day green?"

Keith rolled his eyes. "Google them yourself."

"That's cold." Lance huffed. "You know well I don't have internet access."

"Well, I'm not your alternative. So, shush, this will go by a lot faster if you stop distracting me."

"Hmph. Meanie." Lance folded his arms across his chest, eyeing Keith's writing hand suspiciously. His hand moved swiftly across the paper. It looked like a ballet. The skillful flicks of his wrist as he began and ended each letter made it look beautiful and effortless. Lance wished he could do that - make something look easy - even if it was just a simple little thing. He wasn't good at anything but reciting All Star on a whim, and procrastinating.

What felt like hours later, Keith got up, and said, "I'm going to the bathroom. Don't touch anything until I come back. And, try not to kill yourself either. I just cleaned the blood off my floor from the last guy who attempted to touch my CDs."

"Bathroom?" Lance attempted to keep his tone steady, but a voice crack seeped through somewhere between R and the second O. His brain wandered back to earlier that day with Rolo and Nyma. Jeez, why couldn't he forget about it already? It was such a non-thing, his brain mistook for a big deal. Honestly, Lance was sick and tired of his mind's treatment of him. Who did that fool take him for?

"Yes, bathroom." Keith nodded sarcastically. "That magical place where you shit in a toilet, flush, and it disappears before your very eyes."

"Where shit goes? Should I shove you into it then?"

Keith, ignoring Lance's brilliant comeback, exited down the hall. As a wave of silence overtook him, Lance recalled the second when Rolo locked the door, and when Lance thought: 'Oh, crud. This is for real.' only to be sorely disappointed. Why was he disappointed? What the hell was wrong with him?

As it replayed in his head, Rolo's long fingers reach for the lock, only for them to shift form in the blink of an eye. Keith's hand - gloved as always - clicked the door closed, and turned to Lance. In this vision, instead of reaching into his pocket for drugs, Keith went to Lance, grabbed him by the hips, and pinned him against the wall. Their lips locked, and Lance was in heaven. As he imagined his hands dragging up Keith's back and under his shirt, Lance was snapped from his vision when Keith - the real Keith - asked, "What are you making that face for?"

Startled, Lance nearly jumped from his chair. His brown face glowing bright red, he said, "Wha? You're done already?"

"I was in there for like, five minutes. It doesn't take that long to take a shit. When I came back in, you were staring at the table, making that creepy perv face of yours."

"Creepy perv face? What creepy perv face?"

"The one you always get when you see Allura or Nyma, and shit." Keith pointed an accusatory finger at him. "What the hell were you imagining?"

"Your face in the toilet."

"Didn't know you were a masochist."

Lance furrowed his eyebrows, his ears heating up. "You aren't using that word correctly. Masochism is when people get gratification from others inflicting pain on them, or inflicting pain upon themselves."

"So, sadist then?"

"No, it's -" Lance paused, taking in how ridiculous their entire conversation was. If he continued, he would only be digging himself an even deeper grave. "Whatever. Shut up, idiot."

A ring came from the cracked, paint covered phone. Before Lance had the chance to read the contact, Keith snatched it from off the table, and brought it to his ear. With a click of a button, the ringing stopped, and Keith answered, "Hello?"

Keith was silent for another few seconds, listening to the other caller's words. Lance could barely make out the faint muffle of a deep, male voice. At first, he thought it must of been his dad or something, but remembered: oh, right. Keith doesn't have a father. At least, not a living one.

While he was still trying to listen, Lance interrupted their conversation by saying, "Whoa! You actually get calls now? I thought you were a loner!"

Keith brought the speaker closer to his ear, and a finger to his mouth. He scrunched his eyebrows, concentrating on the call. "Tomorrow?" He asked, "Ok, got it. See you then."

Lance frowned, and waited another minute for Keith to hang up. He tapped his fingers against the mess varnished table, moving his right leg up and down impatiently. When Keith placed his fancy, wrecked iPhone back down next to his homework, Lance asked a bit coldly, "Who was that?"

"Nobody." Keith muttered back, his face hovering above his papers. His hands imminently went back to work, twirling across the page like the white swan.

With a huff, Lance presses on, "Come on, tell me! I'm not going to stop pestering you until you do."

"It's just some guy I know, ok."

"Some guy? Like, from school?"

"No. From work. He's in college."

"Ew! I didn't know you like older men. That's gross, dude." Lance scrunched his nose.

"It's not like that." Keith sighed, rubbing his temple with the end of his chewed eraser. "Now, shut up. Your vocal cords are deep frying my brain."

"What's his name?"

"Shiro."

"That's a lame name." Lance stuck out his tongue, letting his head collapse onto the table. He got a better view of Keith's pale skin, thick eyebrows, and long eyelashes. He looked so tense. Lance wondered why he stressed over school so much, especially since he was, like, the smartest kid in the whole of America. "Sounds like cheerios, but with an S."

"Better than Lance." Keith countered. "At least his name isn't a thrusting weapon with a long wooden shaft and a sharp metal head."

"What the hell? Did you get that definition off of ?"

"No, ." He clarified. "I knew it would come in handy one day."

Lance placed a hand to his chest, downright offended. "W-well... At least I don't chase after older dudes named after cereal!"

"He's not named after cereal."

"Uh, yeah he is. Cheerios, aka: Sheerios. The connection is uncanny."

"God dammit, Lance. I'm never going to finish at this rate."

"You think this boyfriend of yours eats cereal for breakfast, and thinks: 'wow, I can't believe I'm eating my own kind!' but then finishes his bowl anyways, because they taste so delicious, and then he tries to eat himself to see if he tastes good too?"

"Lance, I swear if you don't shut the fu -"

"Does he bathe in a tub of milk, and slather himself in cheerio soap?" Lance sat his head up from off the table, and rested his chin in his palm. Looking blankly at the wall ahead of him, he continued. "Oh my god, why do you like this guy? He sounds so insane!"

"Why do you care so much? Jealous or something?"

Lance's head snapped back to Keith. His face was suddenly flushed, as his throat emoted a phony laugh. Lance was then silent for a moment before saying, "Ha, yeah, you wish, you fucking... gay... cereal... liker."

"Sweet burn bro." Keith, aka: fucking-gay-cereal-liker, rolled his eyes, pushing Lance's notes back to him. "You know, if you're just going to make fun of me the whole time, I might as well ask for Hunk's help instead. I barely know him, but at least he won't make a thousand comments about fucking cereal while I'm trying to work."

Keith stood, and was about to leave when Lance grabbed him by the wrist, and forced him back down in the chair. "Fine!" He spoke reluctantly. "I'll be quiet."

With one last glare, Keith turned back to his homework, and leaned over it. The stray strands of hair which dubiously escaped Keith's ponytail fell across his face. Lance watched silently as seconds... minuets... hours went past. The entire time he focused on Keith's features, and how they gradually transformed with every new sentence his hands conjured. Lance liked the way his thick, black eyebrows scrunched together above his piercing, narrow eyes. He was also especially fascinated with the color of Keith's pupils, that seemed to change from a dark gray, to a purple, than to a blue in a matter of seconds. Nothing about him was a sure thing, not even the way he looked. Because of this, Lance couldn't help but stare.

A time later, Lance looked down at his watch, and saw that an hour and thirty minutes had already passed. "Shit!" He yelped. "It's past my curfew! My dad is going to kill me!"

"I'm still not done yet. Can't you... call them?"

"You don't understand! I can't go past curfew under any circumstances! Not unless I'm sleeping over at someone's house."

Keith sighed, scratching the back of his neck. When he didn't respond, Lance said, "Dammit... He's going to fucking murder me..."

"I'm sure you're over exaggerating."

Lance fell silent. He averted his gaze, his thumb tracing the center of his palm nervously. Keith looked at him, stone faced, then gave another exasperated sigh. "Ok, Lance. Do you... Want to stay the night... or -"

"THANK YOU!" Lance's face lit up. It was as though a great burden had been lifted from off his shoulders. Grabbing his phone, Lance dialed his mother. "Hey, mom..." He began. "I'm staying over at a friend's tonight, is that alright?"

ooo

She tells me 'worship in the bedroom'

The only heaven I'll be sent to

Is when I'm alone with you

I was born sick, but I love it

Command me to be well

~Hozier / Take Me To Church

ooo

That night, Lance slept on Keith's couch.

It was a small couch, not nearly big enough for Lance to squeeze his entire body onto. His lanky limbs, normally spread out starfish style on his own bed, hung from the sides of the sofa, touching the cold, hardwood ground. Was this what it felt like to be homeless? Because, dang, it wasn't comfortable.

Of course, Keith - the loner - wouldn't have an extra bed somewhere for guests. Who else came here besides Lance? Nobody, that's who. Well... maybe that college, cheerio dude. It made Lance sick just thinking about it. Seriously, what was Sheerios that Lance wasn't? And why the hell were they meeting up tomorrow? And where? Lance had to know! He couldn't have Keith getting mixed up in some sketchy junk. If he died, then who would Lance have left to kill? He simply couldn't stand around and do nothing!

His mind traveled back to Rolo, then to the image of Keith in the bathroom. He didn't seriously have a perv face... did he? No, Keith was only trying to get under his skin.

As he stared blankly up at the bare ceiling, Lance couldn't help but get angry. Who did Keith think he was, being all handsome and junk? And, to top it off, he was the first of tell Lance of his little secret. Not intentionally, of course, but still. It made Lance feel special, but at the same time burdened. It was like... could Keith actually like him? No, that was impossible. Besides, why did he care? It wasn't as if Lance liked him back. Well... um... maybe he did, but he would never admit it to himself. Besides, Keith was too busy swooning over some older guy named after cereal. Stupid cereal... Lance made a mental note to never eat cereal ever again. Even if it was delicious, he couldn't bare to look at a bowl of it the same way as before, let alone a box of Cheerios. Damn Cheerios...

Lance closed his eyes, and attempted to fall asleep. His mind drifted elsewhere however, and that, along with his uncomfortable position, prevented Lance from resting peacefully. He couldn't shake the fact that, Keith - Keith, the fucking-gay-cereal-liker - was in a room just besides where he laid. He kept telling himself to calm down, and just pretend it was his own bed. But, the way his legs hung from the end of the sofa's armrest, and the lack of noise coming from his brother's demonic rituals, it wasn't too convincing. The silence scared him, as well as made him think. And he didn't like what he was thinking about.

What felt like a lifetime later, Lance finally managed to sleep. In his dream he was in his bed. But it felt different than before. He didn't hear the constant buzz of the air conditioner, or the muffled noises coming from his young, rowdy nieces and nephews, too high on sugar to stay still despite their parents multiple attempts to sooth them. Nico was also absent, the sounds of his knife blades rubbing against one another, and whispered chants a fleeting memory. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell something was off. Because, even without the normal sounds, Lance knew he was in his bed. And, despite the silence, he clearly felt a presence. Not the usual parent or family member however. Someone different. Someone who wasn't supposed to be there.

Lance opened his eyes. His heart dropped when he saw the sleeping face in front of him. Lids closed, hair falling across his face, and mouth opened only slightly, letting his faint breaths brush against Lance's cheek. It was Keith. With the limited space provided by his bed, Lance and Keith were close. Uncomfortably so. If Lance moved only a centimeter foreword, they would be touching. Even without the covers above him, the body heat from Keith warmed him. He wanted to reach out, and pull him closer.

Wearily, Lance lifted his palm, and went to touch Keith's cheek. Why? He wasn't sure himself. His heart seemed to act against his better judgement. Lance's pointer finger touched Keith's cheek, then his middle finger, then ring. His hand dragged along the other boy's cheekbone, brushing away a few stray strands of hair. He then traveled down to his jaw, and was about to touch his thumb to Keith's lip, when he felt Keith shift. Hastily, Lance's hand flailed back. He backed up as far as he could without falling off the side of the bed, and watched in terror as Keith's eyes blinked awake.

Keith smiled, his narrow eyes squinting. The lights were off, but rays of light did shine down from the window, giving Keith's outline a luminescent glow. Lance swallowed back his nerves, his focus on Keith's alien expression. Did his lips always curve up into an uneven arc when he smiled? Lance never bothered to noticed. Granted, they had never been so close, and it was a rarity for Keith to show any other emotion beside mad or neutral.

Keith wordlessly reached his hand out, and placed it on Lance's arm. He traced his finger from Lance's forearm to his shoulder, then wrapped it around his back. Lance held his breath as Keith pulled him closer - closer - closer - until Lance's head rested against Keith's chest. Though his ear was only inches from where Keith's heart would have been, he didn't hear anything. Was this what dreams did? Take away basic, human functions such as the steady rhythm of a heartbeat? Or, perhaps, Lance was simply too stunned to catch it.

As he felt Keith's body against his, a wave of warmth overtook Lance. The hairs on his arms and legs stood on end, but he felt surprisingly calm. Everything about this was wrong. The house being completely still when it shouldn't. Keith being in his home when he shouldn't. And Lance, feeling safe in Keith's arms when he shouldn't. But, though deep down he knew this reality was completely askew, all Lance could think about was how oh-so-right it felt.

All his worries had been washed away. His family, his friends, his father, none scared him the way they should. All that mattered was him, Keith, and their touch. No girlfriends that took advantage of him, no prejudice to keep his true self hidden. Just Keith. And Keith was wonderful. The best thing in the world. No, in this moment, Keith was his world. And Lance didn't need anything more.

Keith shifted again. Lance looked up as Keith placed his hands on either side of him, holding himself just above Lance. Keith bent down, his mouth brushing against Lance's ear. He whispered something incomprehensible, yet real, as though he was speaking a foreign language. As a shiver ran down Lance's back, Keith kissed his neck sweetly, then lifted back up to face him.

Lance's eyes fell shut as Keith leaned down, locking lips with his own. He forgot this was a dream. No, this couldn't be. This was too real. Though he never experienced it before, this was the realist thing that ever happened to him. Lance had never been so sure of anything else before. Yes, real. Even if he woke up now, or days from now, he would keep this stance. And he did.

The dream faded, leaving Lance sad, alone, and longing. As he drifted endlessly through a black void of nothingness, he heard a faint murmur. Pushing everything else aside, Lance listened, hopeful. The voice got louder, and louder, and he soon realized it was indeed Keith's. The whispers became louder and louder, until they weren't whispers, but shouts. "Wake up!" Lance heard him say, an unseen force gripping and shaking Lance's arm.

With a gasp, Lance woke. Reflexively, his body pulled itself up. Breathing heavily, Lance brought a hand to his forehead, his mind adjusting to the situation. "Finally." A voice - practically a grumble - came from behind.

Lance snapped his head around. When he caught sight of Keith he couldn't help but scream.

Keith jumped back from his kneeling position beside the couch, eyes wide and mouth bent down into a scowl. "What the hell, dude?"

Lance turned away, his brown face turning a dark crimson. "You scared me. I was trying to sleep."

"It's almost ten. I think that's a good enough time as any to get up."

Lance let out another gasp - softer than before - and looked to the window. Beams of light shone through, brightening the once grim interior of Keith's home. Already ten? But Lance never slept in. He normally woke at about six - sooner on weekdays. But due to him falling asleep late - and the obvious - his body was still sleep deprived, and needed more time to recover. And, you know, he didn't really want to wake. He much preferred Dream Keith over the real Keith, who rudely interrupted his and Dream Keith's moment. The moment in which he was never going to recite. Though he wasn't a lying guy, this secret was beyond sharing. Some things were simply meant to be kept.

Lance turned his body so that his feet touched the wooden floor. His knees were nearly driving into his chest. Wow, the couch really was low to the floor. It felt like a sofa for kids in kindergarten. Brought him back to the days he rose above all his classmates, and had an uncomfortable time trying to poop on the nearly ground-level toilets. He felt envy for his friends such as Pidge, who could fit almost everywhere, and didn't have others constantly reminding her of just how fucking tall she is. Because, damn, it wasn't as though Lance knew that fact already or anything. Sometimes he wondered if short people saw tall people as an entity of worship. He wouldn't be surprised.

Keith was not short. He was only about an inch below Lance, making him the third shortest in the group ahead of Allura and Pidge. Hunk was a bit taller than Lance, which made him both happy, and angry.

All together, they were a strange group of friends. Lance wondered what they would think if they knew. He wondered what Keith would think if he knew. He didn't want to find out, but, at the same time, longed to. More than anything, he wanted to kiss Keith. But that was ridiculous. Because, by all accounts friends weren't supposed to like each other, let alone rivals. And according to his father, and others he knew, boys weren't supposed to like boys.