By some stroke of luck, Lance managed to avoid running into Allura or Coran the day following his royal ass-kicking. The facial swelling had pretty much gone down, leaving him with some gnarly bruises and a couple strips of tape across his nose, by the time he showed up in the office on Thursday to clock in. Allura still gasped when she saw him.

"What happened?" she asked, setting down the files she had in her hands and emerging from behind her desk to inspect the damage.

"Oh, I, um…the goat corral. At the zoo." Was it goats? Had it been goats? He hoped so, otherwise their little quartet would get caught in their symphony of lies real quick. He gave Allura a winning smile. "Got up on the fence. Fell off. Like this?"

He made a sad attempt to demonstrate, using his hands as a visual aid, trying to communicate something like him tipping over the railing, hitting his chin on one of the bars, and then landing on his nose, but it got jumbled halfway through, so he gave up. Allura let her breath out all the same.

"Thank goodness," she said. "We won't have to fill out an incident report."

Lance's veneer faltered, expression going flat. And here he'd thought she'd been worried about his well-being.

With a pitying smile, Allura placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring pat. "You look as though you've been well cared for at the very least," she said and stepped back to return to her work.

"Yeah, Keith…" Lance started, but the rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat.

He'd tried to lie to himself all the rest of Tuesday and Wednesday, repeating over and over in his head that he'd been delirious the whole time, that he couldn't really remember much after Zethrid had knocked him back, but alas, the event was seared into his memory. Not Zethrid so much as Keith. Keith flashing him a smile in the rearview. Keith cleaning the blood off his face. Keith staring at him with those beautiful, dark, dusky, beautiful eyes. Did he already say beautiful? Well, they were. Lance melted a little just thinking about them.

"Keith…?" Allura prompted.

Lance jolted to attention. "He—uh—helped me out. After driving me back. First-aid, and all that." He blushed and hoped she didn't see.

Allura smiled kindly, offering a nod. "I'm glad."

He cleared his throat. "I'd better, um, clock in."

She gave him a naturally-you-idiot smile, then severed her attention from him entirely to go back to whatever sorting she'd been doing. Lance went to the little punch-in machine on the wall and typed his employee number, clocked in to the system, then checked the schedule posted next to it to see where he was stationed for the day.

Drown the Clown shy booth until one.

Break for lunch.

Fireball operation until six.

His heart flipped at being stationed on the rides, though of course he should have expected it. He combed the list for Keith's name, too, knowing he wouldn't find it. Team leaders had a different schedule.

"Who's, um…who's leading the areas today?" he asked, trying to sound disinterested.

Allura jolted. "I completely forgot to post the schedule," she said. The files she'd been holding practically dematerialized from her hands as she hunted down the area leader doc. She found it on her desk and rushed to Lance's side to tack it to the wall. "I'm so glad you asked. It's been difficult to keep everything up with Shiro out."

"What happened to Shiro?" Lance asked.

"Migraines," Allura replied. "It happens from time to time."

A particular expression crossed her face, one that said both, "You're on the clock," and "This conversation is now finished." Lance nodded and left the office immediately.

The Drown the Clown booth was a pretty easy run, but that was true of most of the shy games. True of most of the day-to-day duties of the carnival, in all honesty. It was nice to have a relatively low-stress job where he got to chat with people, be friendly and put on a customer service face that was more about fun than service.

Pidge had the booth across the way from him—Pick a Duck—and the two of them spent a good portion of the time making faces at each other.

"You found a way to rig that one yet?" Lance shouted.

"Lance!" Pidge shrieked back. "Job! Retention!"

He just laughed, refocused his attention on a passing family and did his best goofy carnival worker voice, gesticulating at his booth and successfully luring them in with whatever weird words had come out of his mouth. He was happy today. Happier than he'd been in a long time.

"What happened to your face?" the winning kid asked as Lance passed over the stuffed shark prize he'd picked.

"Pirates," Lance said with a wink.

The kid grinned, exposing a missing front incisor, and scurried off to take his mom's hand as they walked away. Lance watched, half-smiling, a little pang of homesickness pinging off the side of his heart but not dampening his mood.

"You're pretty chipper today," Pidge remarked as the pair of them met up outside their booths for lunch.

Lance shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets while he walked.

"More chipper than usual…" she pressed.

"Do you typically catch fish with such crappy bait, Santiago?"

Pidge screwed up her face. "Santiago?"

"The Old Man and the Sea?"

"What the actual living hell? You're making literature references now?" Pidge practically dragged her hands down the length of her face as she groaned. "You didn't even pay attention in ninth grade English. You spent the whole year flirting with Katie Ramirez."

"I pay attention when Cuba is involved," he replied with a cheeky smile.

Pidge just shook her head.

The two of them arrived at the staff eating area and were promptly waved down by Hunk who had snagged a good table in the shade. Shiro truly was a schedule wizard and had managed to get them all on the same lunch hour. It was a shame about his migraines. Lance would have to stop by and see if he was doing all right. Maybe talk to Keith while he was there…

A finger poked into his side and he yelped, looking down at Pidge.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked. "Your face went all gooey."

Lance blushed, but was quick to suppress the flush from his face.

"Nothing," he said and wished it hadn't come out squeaky.

Pidge narrowed her eyes. Thankfully, Hunk came to the rescue with a change in topics.

"I saw the poster for Zarkon's carnival," he said.

Pidge dialed in right away. "What? When?"

"This morning," Hunk replied, "at the grocery store. I went to pick up some eggs and there was one hung up in the window."

"What did it look like? Was it as nice as ours? What's their arrival date?"

"The poster didn't have a date…"

"What in the hell kind of carnival doesn't tell you when it's gonna be somewhere?"

"Swear-y today," Lance said with a chuckle. She ignored him.

"Was it cool?" she asked.

Hunk just blinked at her. "What?"

"The poster. Was it cool?"

"I don't know, Pidge. I guess? It was fine. Just a poster. Very purple."

"Purple…"

Pidge put her hand over her mouth and lowered her chin, thinking very, very intently. Her eyes narrowed and her nose wrinkled like purple held some kind of deep significance and she was the only one who could unlock the secret. Hunk and Lance exchanged shrugs while she was quiet, but Lance's thoughts soon turned elsewhere. The poster must have been put up by Zethrid, Ezor, or Acxa. He chewed the inside of his bottom lip. Somebody—maybe not him—but somebody needed to teach those people a lesson. If not for his sake, then for Keith's.

And speak of the devil.

No sooner had Lance thought Keith than Keith himself appeared, entering the far side of the circle of tables with Romelle. Lance hadn't seen him since they'd talked on his stoop, and his throat went tight as his heart performed an unpracticed somersault. Even in the stupid staff t-shirt, Keith looked good. Real good. Damn good. Unfairly and ridiculously good. Messy black hair practically glowing in the sunshine. Those friggin' fingerless gloves.

Suddenly, Pidge sat up with a start, elevating herself into Lance's line of sight, sniffing. Lance jumped

"Do you smell that?" she asked.

He gave a tentative sniff, but didn't smell anything. "What?"

Pidge kept sniffing—big theatrical snuffs that sounded in the back of her throat as she turned her nose around in the air like a dog. Lance couldn't help following her lead, but literally couldn't smell anything.

"Oh," she said as her nose led her to Lance. "I know what it is." She grinned wickedly right into his face. "Pine."

Lance's mouth fell open and his face went red. It was all he could do not to shove Pidge back into her seat, extract his legs from the table, and straight up bolt. She'd pegged his attraction to Keith from day one, though it had taken him until then to even admit it. He should have known she'd sense the shift. She was surprisingly perceptive for someone who claimed not to understand human interaction.

Hunk drew in a deep breath, then shook his head. "I don't smell it either."

Thankfully, Pidge left it at that, though she did give Lance an irritating, smug sort of smile out of the corner of her eye.

The three of them parted ways after lunch, and it wasn't until then that Lance realized he hadn't checked the stupid team leaders schedule after Allura had put it up. Neither had she answered his question after he'd asked. He made his way to the Fireball, heart creeping up his throat into his mouth, anxious over wondering if Keith would be around, or if he wouldn't. The whole "not knowing" bit was the worst part about it.

Wanting him to be around was also mildly irritating.

He took over for a girl whose name he'd probably been told, but had forgotten. Before leaving, she made a big point of making sure he knew where the walkie-talkie was in case he needed to radio somebody for an emergency. She frankly seemed a little nervous, too nervous for an operator of heavy machinery. Lance got caught up in worrying about her well-being for a second and didn't notice Keith's approach until the guy was right at the bottom of the stairs up to the ride.

"Hey," Keith said, offering a fraction of a smile. Just the corner of his mouth quirked up. Made Lance's heart stutter. "I'm team leader this shift. Channel two."

He pointed at the walkie clipped to his hip, bending a little at the waist. Lance tried not to check out his butt as he did.

"You good for now?"

Lance nodded, dumb, distracting himself with checking to make sure the radio in the operator's booth was set to the right channel even though he knew that it was.

"Yeah, good. Definitely good. You good?"

He glanced at Keith and Keith was smirking in this way that had Lance's heart going several different directions at once. Jeeze he'd need to get that under control if he was going to survive the summer. Or the next twenty-four hours.

"I'm good," Keith replied. "Let me know when you want to take your fifteen."

Like that, he was gone, and for a second Lance swore he could smell pine.


The Fireball was a seriously weird ride. Just one big sixty-foot circle that stood on its edge. The carts went around the inside, rocking back and forth along the track before turning infinite inversions—well, infinite if Lance had never stopped the thing. He contemplated it a few times, letting the ride just go and go and go. When Keith arrived to cover for his fifteen, the first thing Lance said was, "Do you think you could kill somebody on this?"

Keith raised his eyebrows, a startled laugh jumping from his mouth. "What?"

"Like if you never stopped it. Would that kill the riders?"

Mounting the steps and leaning against the door into the operator's booth, Keith pursed his lips in contemplation. "The g-forces wouldn't kill you. Not on this model. But the blood rushing to your head might." He edged Lance out of the booth. "Ever ridden a Fireball?"

Lance shook his head.

"You should," Keith replied. "It's my favorite."

Starting, Lance did a poor job disguising how high his eyebrows rose. Sure, he and Keith were "cool", but he hadn't expected the guy to be actively friendly. Especially considering what he'd been like before. Learning Keith's favorite ride felt bizarrely personal. An unanticipated gate had opened. Lance was being permitted entry into that black-and-white-to-color world. And Keith wasn't done blowing his mind yet.

"Once, my first year here, we had a contest to see who could go the most rounds," he said. His fingers traced absently over the buttons on the operation board, and he laughed. "Shiro did, I think, seven before tapping out?"

"How many did you do?" Lance asked.

Keith smirked. "Ten."

"Holy crow."

Keith laughed again, loud and genuine. Part of Lance curled up and died at the sound of it. So bright and unexpected. A shy curtain had been hung across Keith's face when he looked at Lance again and spoke.

"Anyway, you should try it," he said. "When you get a chance."

Nodding, Lance took a step toward the stairs. "Maybe I'll challenge you to your crown."

Keith's eyes flashed with an excited, competitive fire. "Oh. Cocky."

Lance grinned. "You betcha."

"All right, then. You're on. You wanna shake on it?"

He did. He very much did. Lance put his hand out whip-fast, and Keith took it, shaking firmly with an air of assured confidence. Lance's gut turned over at his touch.

"I'll have to ask Pidge how many inversions will kill me," Lance said. "I'm not gonna die just to de-throne you."

Keith laughed. "If anyone will know the answer to that question, it's Pidge."

As a matter of fact, Pidge did know, though the way her eyes lit up as she started to describe it that evening after she and Lance were both off their shifts was more than a tad unsettling.

"Actually," she began, spreading her hands out in front of her, "this designer named Julijonas Urbonas created an art concept called the Euthanasia Coaster that's made to kill you."

Lance's mouth fell open. "What the hell?"

"It's a drop hill followed by seven inversions that put you through ten g for sixty seconds. Basically, your brain gets deprived of oxygen and you lose consciousness, then—" Pidge snapped her fingers to indicate death, looking a little too happy about it.

"And did they put this man in jail?" Lance replied, appalled.

Pidge shook her head. "He won the New Technological Art Award for it."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Of course not." Pidge mounted the steps to their trailer and unlocked the door. "It's a pretty elegant concept if you think about it."

Lance did not want to dwell on the elegance or ugliness of literally murdering people via roller coaster any longer than was necessary. Particularly when the whole reason he'd asked was to find out if the stupid Fireball would kill him. Now he wasn't so sure he wanted to get on another roller coaster ever again.

"So…seven is deadly?" he asked, wondering how Keith had done ten.

"Not automatically," Pidge replied. "The coaster with the world record for number of inversions has twice that. It's the g-force what counts."

She went to the kitchenette and stood on her tiptoes to fish a glass out of the cabinet over the sink, then filled it at the faucet. Lance kicked off his shoes and collapsed into the booth. Pidge set the water on the table before sliding it the short distance into his hand.

"Thanks, barkeep," Lance said.

"Why do you ask?"

"Huh?"

Pidge glanced over her shoulder as she reached for another glass. "About roller coaster inversions. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, um…"

Picking up his glass, Lance hid behind a sip. Pidge did not remove her eyes from his face—not as she scrambled a hand around in the cupboard, not as she located a glass and lowered back to her feet, not as she reached blindly for the handle on the faucet and turned the water on, or soaked her hand trying to find the stream to fill her cup. She just full-on stared at him, like she knew somehow what his answer was going to be. And he couldn't use the sip as cover for long.

"I sort of—um—challenged Keith to see who could go longer on the Fireball? And I don't want to die?"

In a flash, Pidge was right in front of him, nose a mere centimeter from his, eyes glinting.

"So you do like him," she said.

"What?" Lance asked, but his cheeks were already hot. Pidge barked a laugh and slapped a hand on the table.

"I knew it!"

"I never said—"

"You didn't deny it!" She held up a menacing finger. "Lack of denial's as good as admission."

Lance glared at her, but the expression just made her giggle. She scampered over to her side of the table, doing some sort of weird jig, and climbed into the booth, her knees up by her face. She grabbed her glass, pulled it close, retrieved a straw from the cutlery holder, unwrapped it, and leaned forward to sip like a girl drinking a milkshake in a nostalgic fifties ad.

"Spill," she said.

Blushing, Lance looked at his lap.

"Go on, spill."

Pidge flapped her hand at him, and he stammered for a moment before finding something to say.

"He's really cute, Pidge."

"An Adonis," she replied. "Tell me something I don't know."

Lance didn't know what else to say. He'd only just admitted to himself that he had a crush on Keith. It was still kind of overwhelming. Pidge took his silence as a bad thing. She sat back, straw falling from her mouth, and regarded him solemnly.

"Sorry," she said, voice soft. "Did I overstep?"

Starting, Lance looked up. "What? No. I mean…"

Their friendship wasn't really based on talking about attractions either—with the exclusion of Pidge criticizing Lance's generally flirtatious nature. They had had about as many discussions about crushes as they had serious topics. It just didn't come up between them, so they didn't have a framework for how to proceed. Or maybe it was that the framework they did have was insufficient. Lance flirts, Pidge mocks, Lance flirts more anyway. That was usually how it went. This was different.

"I don't not want to talk about it," Lance said. "I just…don't know how."

"It is uncharted territory," Pidge replied. She swirled her straw around and took another sip. "Can I make an observation?"

"Sure."

"The way you interact with him isn't your MO," she said.

Lance sat back. He hadn't really thought about that. The most flirting he'd done with (re: at) Keith had taken place that afternoon, and it didn't even approach his usual level. Come to think of it, had Keith flirted back? Lance's heart compacted, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't know how to read guys that well, and Keith was a hard guy to read.

"What's different?" Pidge asked.

Pursing his lips, Lance thought for a second. "He's different."

Slowly, Pidge sat up. The two of them regarded each other across the table. Distant carnival sounds—music and rides and people—filled the gap. They seemed to understand somehow, Pidge and Lance, that there was more to the statement than Lance's simple assessment of Keith. That the difference lay not only in the subject of Lance's attraction, but the nature of that attraction, and not only its unfamiliarity on the surface, but the depth that it carried as well. The real potential. This wasn't just one uncharted territory, it was three.

"Are you gonna tell Hunk?" Pidge asked.

A frigid dread swept through Lance. Hunk was one of his best friends, and while Lance trusted him implicitly, something about "coming out", about exposing that part of yourself to anyone, would always be terrifying. You could think you knew how people would take it. But you didn't. Not really.

Thing was, he couldn't pursue Keith and not tell Hunk.

He opened his mouth, but a thought gave him pause.

Pursue…?

Was he seriously thinking about pursuing Keith? And why was that the word that came to mind? He scrunched up his face.

"What?" Pidge asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know." He looked at her. "I don't know what to do."

And that was not something he liked.


Hunk arrived at trailer six about half an hour later, and Lance's initial anxiety over his entrance was quickly lost under general excitement about dinner. Hunk had managed to talk the chefs into sharing their supplies again. These he ceremoniously placed on the counter before puffing out his chest and putting his hands on his hips.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you exhibits A through G."

Lance peered at the various Ziploc baggies of dried spices, miscellaneous vegetables, unidentifiable meats, and other sundries. Pidge did as well, though she picked a few of them up.

"Hunk, what is all this?" she asked.

Hunk just winked. "You'll see."

He rarely let people outside of his family help, and it would have been impossible to assist in the tiny kitchenette—quite literally too many cooks—so Pidge and Lance sat tight while Hunk worked his magic. They didn't have long to wait before three plates of pad thai appeared on the table. Particularly impressive given the trailer's overall lack of decent kitchen tools.

"Nothing will ever convince me that you're not a transmutation wizard," Pidge said.

They sat and started greedily into the meal.

"So when's your ride to the death with Keith scheduled?" Pidge asked, shoveling noodles into her mouth.

"Ride to the death?" Hunk asked. His eyebrows puckered in concern.

"Lance challenged Keith to see who could go the most rounds on the Fireball."

"Okay, but to the death?"

"Long story," Lance jumped in. "And we didn't pick a time. We just shook on it is all." He didn't miss the mischievous, glinting grin Pidge gave him, so he spilled some more words out to cover it up. "Plus, some other people might want to get in on it, I don't know. Like Shiro. Though probably not with his migraines…"

Hunk frowned. "Still?"

And that was how they found themselves in WinCo, buying way too many chocolate-covered cinnamon bears in bulk.

"For the last time, Lance, we don't need a cart," Pidge said as she scooped another monstrous helping of candy into a flimsy plastic bag before tying it off. She hefted the thing out of the bulk container and it sagged dangerously. Ignorant, she scuttled over to the next bin—labeled "Sour Budz"—and grabbed another bag. Lance followed her with the cart he'd retrieved.

"If you keep going at that rate, we'll need more than one," he replied.

She scooped the knock-off candy into her second bag, just absolutely going to town. Hunk was lost somewhere in the ether of the WinCo's one thousand and one aisles, after god-knows-what. It had been his idea to get treats for Shiro in the first place, but Hunk didn't "get" treats. Hunk "made" treats. Regardless, Pidge had beelined it for the candy section the second they'd walked in the door.

"What kind do you want?" she asked, finishing with the Sour Budz, tying the bag, and hoisting it up. She looked like a struggling milkmaid as she carried the bags in either hand to the next bin.

"I don't need anything," Lance replied, following. "Somebody's gonna have to help you."

"Nah, my dude, these are private store."

As she approached the animal crackers, Lance saw her battle with a desire to dump her current load in the cart, but she didn't, determined not to prove him right. She set both bags on top of the crackers themselves and pushed up her sleeves to scoop again.

Hunk emerged from one of the aisles just ahead of them, so Lance flagged him down. His arms were full of baking supplies, so Lance made a big show of gesturing around the empty cart like a girl showing a car on The Price is Right. Chuckling, Hunk deposited his stuff, then turned to look at Pidge.

"Wow, got enough sugar?"

"Not nearly," Pidge replied, securing the animal crackers bag and struggling over to the chocolate chips.

"Come on, Pidge, just put your junk in the cart," Lance groaned as he trailed after her.

"No."

"Pidge."

"No."

She whirled to face him, but the force of her spin on the weighty bag of cinnamon bears was too much. The plastic split and bears flew, the whole bag scattering across the wide aisle between bulk bins. Pidge stood stock still and stared at the mess for a second.

Then she shouted, "Run!"

Hurling her other candy bags into the cart, Pidge took off. Hunk and Lance glanced at each other before Lance sighed and offered the handle of the cart to him.

"I'll catch up," he said.

Hunk took the wheel and jogged after Pidge. Lance went to find an employee and tried to offer to do the cleaning and pay for the ruined cinnamon bears. They insisted it was fine, but Lance still felt guilty. He scooped a second—much smaller—bag of bears for Pidge and made his way to the check out. By the time he got outside, she had already dug into the animal crackers. He chucked the cinnamon bears at her and she caught them with an, "Oof."

"You, Katie Holt, will put me in an early grave."

She batted her eyelashes at him and held out the bag of Sour Budz. "Will you carry these to the fairgrounds for me?"

Rolling his eyes, Lance snatched the bag and together the three of them started off.

Hunk tried to move along at a decent speed, but Pidge's short legs were too weighed down by the bulk candy to keep up, and Lance wasn't in a particular hurry, so Hunk quickly outpaced them. He was almost a block ahead when Pidge glanced up at Lance. He knew what she was going to say before she said it.

"You can't…not…tell him."

"I know."

"I mean, if you want to do anything about Keith. Not to assume, or anything…"

Lance shook his head and sighed. "No assumptions necessary."

The sun had started to set, twilight creeping into the quiet Eureka neighborhood that lay between the fairgrounds and the WinCo. Lance shivered. His and Pidge's flip-flops echoed off the single-story houses, accompanied by the sound of crickets starting up for the night. For some reason it made Lance think of Keith's film—of the Von's and the empty park. He tilted his head back and looked up at the stretches of low powerlines that crossed his view of the purpling sky. Would have looked cool in black and white.

"Do you think I should?" he asked.

"Tell Hunk?"

"No, do something about Keith."

"Oh."

Pidge was quiet for a second.

"Do you think he likes you back?"

A dry smile crossed Lance's mouth. Like him back. That was elementary-school-kid levels of ridiculous, but he kind of felt like one, to be honest. A breath puffed out his nose and he shook his head.

"Do you?" he asked.

"Do I what?"

"Think he likes me back?"

"Oh."

She was quiet again.

"I'm really shit at this," she said and laughed, though it was self-effacing. "Sorry. Let me run through my event rolodex for review…"

Pidge put her hands up on either side of her face, bags of candy hanging off her thumbs, and shut her eyes before twiddling her fingers, making a weird little paper-flipping noise with her tongue while she did. Lance couldn't help a chuckle, and, small as it was, the laugh did make him feel better.

Eyes still closed, Pidge responded, "He's kind of a weird dude."

Lance nodded, unable to ignore the way his heart pinched at talking about Keith.

"Like, super weird."

Again, Lance nodded.

"Kinda volatile."

No denying that.

"Kinda moody."

Very moody.

"Terrible taste in music."

The worst.

Pidge opened her eyes. "Come to think of it, why do you like him?"

Brows drawing together, Lance opened his mouth to respond, but he didn't have anything to say. That startled him. His mouth closed, and he blinked.

"I don't know," he said. "I just…do."

There was something about Keith. Something Lance couldn't put his finger on. Something in the guy's eyes, something in his aura, in the way he carried himself, existed in the world, walked, spoke, was. Something about his very energy—something intangible, but which Lance could sense and feel. Maybe it had to do with how different they were, both in upbringing and in attitude. The two of them were total opposites, really. Like the north and south poles on a magnet. Which probably explained why Lance was so attracted to him. He was just obeying a universal scientific law.

"Anyways, I'm not sure."

Pidge's voice called him back to the present, back to the street and the crickets and their flip-flops.

"Not sure about what?"

"If he likes you back," she said. "I don't know him well enough. Plus he's pretty dramatic."

Lance conceded with a nod and a half-roll of his eyes.

"I'll watch, though," she said.

"Thanks…"

He didn't know what else to say.


Hunk's distance from Lance and Pidge only increased as they walked, so he made it back to the trailer long before either of them, and was well into a batch of cookies, already spooning balls of dough onto a baking tray, by the time Pidge and Lance came through the door.

"Transmutation wizard, I'm telling you," Pidge said, shaking her head.

"I want to get them done tonight," Hunk replied, "so I have to work fast."

"And, as we all know," Pidge said, pinching a dough ball off the sheet and popping it into her mouth, "magic is the fastest way to do anything."

She went to snag another ball, but Hunk clicked his tongue and smacked the back of her hand. She narrowed her eyes, but moved away, burrowing into her bunk instead. Lance stepped up beside Hunk and leaned his butt against the counter so the two of them were basically facing each other as Hunk continued to work, super focused.

"We all gonna go over together or something?" Lance asked.

"Sure, if you want," Hunk replied. He finished the last row of dough balls and put the tray into the oven.

"Are those even gonna cook in there?"

As he shut the oven door, Hunk pressed his hands together over his heart. "A prayer that they do."

"You should have made him no-bake cookies," Pidge chimed in from her bunk.

"Nobody likes those," Lance said.

She poked her head out, expression offended. "I like those!"

"Your food opinions were rendered null and void after the great Pop-Tart and Mayonnaise Fiasco of '09."

Hunk shivered and stuck out his tongue as he remembered the horror. Pidge just glared and sucked back into her bunk. Looking to Lance, Hunk offered a smile. Lance returned it, a little withdrawn, for the first time feeling like he was keeping a secret from his friend.

The cookies proved a challenge for the dinky oven, but they did bake, and Hunk forced a protesting Pidge to put her shoes back on to go to Keith and Shiro's trailer with them for delivery.

"Why do we even call these cookies?" she grumbled, squinting at the plate in her hands.

"The frick-frack are you talking about?" Lance replied.

"Cookies," she said. "You don't cook them. They should be called bakies."

Lance laughed out loud. Hunk did as well.

"I mean, you're not wrong…"

"What?" Lance laughed. "So we're gonna call them 'no-bake bakies'?"

Pidge scowled, which only made him laugh harder. They were in earshot of Keith and Shiro's trailer by then, and a friendly call answered Lance's laughter.

"Sounds like a good time headed this direction," Shiro said. He was laid out on a hammock under the awning in front of the trailer, a washcloth over his eyes. Smiling, he lifted one end of it to peek out as they approached. "What's so funny?"

"We brought you bakies," Lance replied, tipping his plate to display the cookies. Pidge whapped him across his arm, so Lance stuck his foot out to trip her, but Hunk noticed and caught his collar to pull him away before he succeeded.

"We know you aren't feeling well, so we made some treats," he said.

"Hunk made these," Pidge put in. "Lance and I don't deserve any of the credit."

Shiro smiled, and there was just something about it that made Lance want to give him a hug. The expression was so genuine, peppered with a little of what looked like sorrow on top of the sincerity. It was an unusual smile—one that was both happy and sad at the same time.

"Thank you," Shiro said. "That's so thoughtful." Then he hollered, "Keith!"

Lance's heart stopped. A muffled voice answered from inside the trailer.

"What?"

"Bring out some mugs and the milk. Trailer six brought cookies! No, sorry, bakies!"

Lance could sense Pidge grit her teeth without even looking at her. He grinned, and she smacked him without looking either. He was about to return volley when Keith emerged from the trailer, cradling a handful of mugs and holding a gallon of milk, one eyebrow raised above the other in utter confusion. Their eyes met and Lance's heart thudded. Why did he have to look so pretty under the string lights? Or, like, at all?

"What the hell are bakies?" he asked.

"Simply a manner of semantics," Hunk replied with a smile.

Keith's expression of confusion deepened, but he didn't press. He came down the steps and set the mugs and milk on the outdoor table next to Shiro's hammock. Seeing that things were taken care of, Shiro shut his eyes again and let the washcloth drop back onto his face. Keith poured a mug for him and nudged it into his hand, followed by a cookie into the other when Hunk held out the plate.

"Did you make these?" Keith asked.

Hunk nodded, accepting a mug when Keith offered. "Mom's recipe."

"You brought it with you?" He poured a cup for Pidge and passed it.

"I have it memorized," Hunk replied.

"Ah."

A mug appeared in front of Lance, and, lifting his eyes he couldn't help tracing the line of Keith's arm all the way to his face. Swallowing, he took the cup, and their fingers brushed as he did. Only a very concentrated effort kept him from sloshing the milk.

Keith poured his own cup, then went briefly back inside to put the milk away. When he came back, he chose to stand next to Lance, taking a cookie from Hunk's plate.

"You figure out how many inversions is going to kill you?" he asked, dunking the cookie in the milk.

"No," Lance replied. "Pidge just told me about some death machine—"

"The Urbonas Euthanasia Coaster?"

Pidge's eyes lit up and Lance's stomach dropped.

"Not you too…" Lance groaned.

But it was too late.

"Yes," Pidge hissed with glee. "Speak to me of deadly roller coaster glory, my fellow member of the dark order."

Keith frowned at her, and was momentarily distracted by Shiro putting his hand up for a second cookie, but said as he passed one over, "I don't know. It's an elegant concept."

Pidge smacked Lance. "Someone gets it."

"I did some research on it for a film," Keith said. He shrugged. "It was supposed to be about roller coasters in general, but the Euthanasia Coaster kind of took over."

"Surprising no one," Shiro added.

Keith flashed him a playful scowl.

"Why didn't we watch that at the movie night?" Pidge asked.

Keith's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Instead, an expression akin to a kicked puppy's crossed his face, and he looked down. His mouth opened again, and again nothing, at least for a second.

"I should get back inside."

He went, taking his mug and uneaten cookie. Shiro lifted his washcloth to try and catch Keith's eye, but was unsuccessful. Hunk and Pidge exchanged expressions.

"Sorry," she said softly. "Did I say something?"

Shiro shook his head. "Don't worry. It's not your fault. He brought it up. I actually thought for a minute was ready to talk about it…"

Hunk asked something in reply, but Lance didn't listen. He was following Keith, pulled by his magnetic force the same way he'd been pulled from the Denny's. He found Keith at the sink, rinsing out his mug and viciously washing it like he was trying to work off a baked-on grease stain.

"Careful, or there won't be a cup left when you're done."

Keith's eyes flashed over to him. "Do you have any sense of privacy?"

Lance shrugged. Keith sighed in defeat. He tossed the mug onto a drying rack and leaned a hand against the counter, skin wet. Lance couldn't help a quick glance around the trailer. He'd never been inside before. It was roomy and clean, spotless really, like it had only just come off the showroom floor. Albeit thirty or forty years ago. Most of the furniture had been updated, though. The inside smelled good—leather and some kind of musky soap. Which was kind of what Keith smelled like, come to think of it.

"What do you want?" Keith asked.

Again, Lance shrugged. "You have a tendency to make a dramatic exit," he said. "I just don't like giving you the satisfaction." He softened the statement with a smile. Much to his relief, Keith returned it.

"You're kind of an ass. You know that?"

Lance nodded. "Even if I didn't, Pidge reminds me on a daily basis."

"Smart girl."

"Yeah."

They observed each other for a moment, something unreadable in Keith's expression. All at once, Lance became aware of the proximity between them, the quiet intimacy of the trailer. What alarmed him more than that, however, was how little he minded. How much the whole situation kind of thrilled him. How badly he wanted to run his fingers down Keith's arm and lace his soapy fingers with his own.

He cleared his throat. "So, what's the deal?"

Keith looked away. "With what?"

"With the weather," Lance said, rolling his eyes. "With the dramatic exit, acere. What else?"

"'Acere?'"

"Uh-uh." Lance waved a finger at him. "Don't try to dodge."

Keith's mouth settled into a flat scowl, and he held Lance's eye for a moment, but Lance wasn't going to bend. Even if looking at each other like that was making him feel pretty bendy.

"The, uh…" Keith let his breath out, a cleansing—if a little angry—huff. "The roller coaster piece was the one I used in my application to USC."

"You applied to USC?"

The question seemed to sting. Keith turned a little red and flicked his eyes away.

"Yeah, well, I didn't get in, so—"

"Dude, their acceptance rate's like eighteen percent. Believe me, I know. I googled. I'm sure it didn't have that much to do with your f—"

"No, it probably had more to do with the fact that I barely scraped through my GED. Or my juvenile record. Or the flattering picture my foster history paints. Or the fact that my mother might have entered the country illegally." He was shouting now. "No, you're right, Lance. I bet my shit film about death-by-roller-coaster didn't have that much to do with why I didn't get into the number one film school in the country."

"You shouldn't take it personal…"

"But it is personal." Keith looked at him. "They decided they didn't want me. All of those things that make me up, my art? That's me. And they said no."

Lance just kind of stared at him. This was his exact nightmare. The exact reason he hadn't applied anywhere at all. He was afraid of rejection, afraid of what it would mean if every letter rolled back in with a, "We regret to inform you…" on the first line. And Keith was living it firsthand.

"I'm sorry, man," Lance said, voice soft. "That sucks."

Keith let the air from his lungs, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter, his eyes focused on the floor.

"I haven't really picked up a camera since then," he said. "Crescent City was the first time I've filmed in months."

"What changed?"

Keith shrugged.

Lance chewed on the inside of his cheek, chewed on a thought for a while too until finally spitting it out.

"I didn't apply to college," he said, and the words as they left his mouth took a weight with them. But the weight was replaced by a keener, darker, clearer view of the Nothing. "I didn't think I'd get in, so I didn't even try. I don't really know what I'm going to do come fall."

He lifted his gaze to Keith and found Keith already looking at him.

"Scary, right?" Keith said, and his mouth curved in the slightest of smiles.

Returning it, Lance nodded. "Terrifying."

Both of them smiled then, for real. Keith nodded his head at the door.

"Go ahead," he said. "I'll be out in a second."

It was probably better just to listen to the guy, and he seemed to have relaxed a little, so Lance left. Pidge and Hunk and Shiro all looked his direction, worried expressions on their faces, as he came out of the trailer and trotted down the steps. Shiro in particular raised his eyebrows, the washcloth gone from his forehead. Lance simply shrugged. A moment later, Keith emerged, carrying his laptop and a set of speakers in his hands. He got everything situated on the table next to Shiro's hammock, then turned the laptop screen around to face the group.

"The title is…uh…really bad. So, ignore that, but… Here."

He hit the spacebar.

Cue the unsettling atmospheric music—a shot of the top right portion of the Fireball, true to form in black and white. One of the empty carts rolled over the track, entering the frame on the left and disappearing through the bottom. A title appeared across the screen.

Youthanasia

Pidge chuckled. Keith shook his head at himself, but smiled.

Keith Kogane

The five of them spent the next fifteen minutes watching Keith's "death-by-roller-coaster" film. It was every bit as artful as Say, Speak, if a little—a lot—darker. Fatalism and existential crisis, a lot of discussion on the science of the limits of the human body. People in extremis. The piece was…passionate. On such a level that it was almost frightening, definitely intimidating.

Though Lance got the feeling that that was the kind of energy Keith brought to everything.

Pidge applauded wildly as the film came to a close. She and Keith and Hunk chatted for a little while about the content—a discussion to which Lance had nothing to add. Then Shiro got up to go to bed, and the rest of them took that as their cue to leave. Keith shut his laptop, and a particular aspect of his expression kept Lance in place even as Hunk and Pidge started to walk away.

"Thanks," Keith said.

Lance smiled. "You, too."

They nodded at each other, and Lance turned to go.

"Tomorrow for the Fireball," he said, calling back over his shoulder. "Sound good, Mr. Youthanasia?"

Keith laughed. "They call me that because I kill the competition."

Pidge sucked in a comically large gasp and clapped her hands on either side of her face. "Keith made a joke!"

"You wanna join the competition, there, Pidge?" Keith replied.

"Hell nah," she said. "Somebody's gotta stand on the sidelines and make sure you dum-dums don't die. An arbiter, of sorts."

"Your reputation as an arbiter isn't great," Hunk put in.

"Says who?"

"Says the chess club both you and I were a part of for four years."

The two of them started to bicker about the validity of the claims of one "Dominic Allen" who was apparently a former member of the chess club. Lance and Keith smiled at each other from across the distance, then Lance offered a wave and Keith waved back. Still smiling to himself, heart full, Lance turned around and followed Pidge and Hunk back to trailer six.

Later, after they'd all gone to bed and the lights were out, Pidge poked her head up by the edge of Lance's bed, making him jump. He hadn't heard her rustling at all.

"He does," she said.

Lance just stared at her. "What?"

Her smile glinted bright even in the darkness.

"He does," she said again, and then she disappeared.