A/N: Subtle sexy times mid-way through the chapter. Just a heads up!

Something Blue
Chapter 7: To Have and To Hold

Once it's determined that the swelling is under control, Lance is released from the hospital with a fresh bandage, another lollipop from the friendly nurse's assistant, and very strict orders from his doctor.

"Apply an ice pack for the swelling, and take naproxen every twelve hours for the pain, if needed," the doctor had instructed during his final check-up. "But above all — do yourself a favor and just take it easy for the rest of the day, alright?"

Needless to say, Veronica is not very pleased with this news.

"You were supposed to get fitted for your tux this afternoon!" she huffs childishly on their way out to the parking lot.

Lance yanks the lollipop out of his mouth with a crude pop, and huffs back, "Well, sorry that my hospitalization is a big inconvenience for you!"

His sister purses her lips, whips out her phone, fingers tapping away as she mumbles down at the screen, "I guess I can reschedule…"

"You guys should do something fun instead. Go out, hit the town, have a ball," Lance suggests breezily, waving his bulky, bandaged hand into the air, as if any of them need a reminder. "Just 'cause I have to sit around and suffer doesn't mean everyone has to."

There's deliberation among the family, with a few restaurants and activities tossed around for the sake of suggestion. Keith, however, remains dutifully at Lance's side — just as he has been ever since one of the nurses accidentally walked into the hospital room to find them joined at the lips, faces red, hair mussed — making it abundantly clear through his body language alone that he'll be staying with Lance, regardless of the family's decision. After all, it only makes sense that he should be the one to keep vigil at his fiancé's beside during the recovery period.

Or, fake fiancé.

Or, guy-he-kissed-after-days-of-excruciating-and-confusing-pining-but-hasn't-had-a-chance-to-define-things-with-yet-because-it's-all-so-new-and-still-kind-of-excruciating-and-confusing.

Something like that.

As the McClains continue their messy forum, Luis and Mariana share a wary look. It hangs, unspoken, between their gazes for a moment, and then settles downward at the wiggling baby in Mariana's arms. Another secret language, gifted to them by nearly seven years of marriage, Keith suspects.

"I don't know," Mariana sighs regretfully, hollow exhaustion suddenly visible in the subtle droop of her eyelids. "Nico has been fussy all morning. Luis and I should probably take him back to the hotel for a nap —"

"Make way for the lame parade!" Marco gibes, followed by a higher-pitched, gigglier echo from Gabe, who currently rides piggyback on his uncle's sturdy shoulders.

"Nah, c'mon, Mom and Dad — you guys deserve a break, too," Lance frowns. And then, inspired, "How 'bout you leave Nico with us?"

It takes Keith an embarrassingly long second to realize that 'us' includes himself. His eyebrows shoot like arrows up to his hairline, and he says, with poorly-concealed horror, "What?"

"Yeah! Since Keith and I are basically gonna be prisoners in our own apartment for the afternoon, might as well be helpful prisoners," Lance is saying, nothing short of thrilled as he wraps an arm snugly around Keith's waist. "Plus it'll be good practice for the future, when we're up to our necks in our own little precious, slobbery bundles of joy. Right, babe?"

Keith makes a concerning, choking sort of noise, tries to disguise it as a cough, and then gives another equally horrified, but slightly more assertive, "What."

"See?" chirps Lance, undeterred. "We've already got the whole passive-aggressive, not-really-listening-to-each-other thing down, so we're already, like, halfway to parenthood."

Luis adjusts his glasses with a sigh, and Mariana holds back a chuckle from behind the press of her lips.

"Well," Luis finally says, "As long as you're sure."

And just like that, baby accessories are gathered, packed, and exchanged. It seems excessive, in Keith's opinion, with all the bags, and toys, and equipment, all for one tiny, miniature-sized person. But then again, Keith is no expert on the subject. He can't even pretend to know the first thing about babies, or keeping them alive and happy for any length of time.

So it's understandable when he reaches out a hand, gripping Lance's elbow, and gives him a low, succinct warning of, "Lance."

And Lance glances back, tongue swirling casually around the head of his lollipop, daring to meet Keith's skeptical glare with a wink.

"Don't sweat it, man," he says, mouth pulling up on one side. "We got this."

And Keith believes him.

At least for a little while.

Because, as it turns out, the first hour is easy enough. It involves a lot of silly noises and insufferable baby-talk on Lance's end, and a lot of awkward standing around on Keith's. He loiters by the kitchen entryway, watching from afar as Lance sits cross-legged on the living room floor with Nico in his lap. Lance puffs up his cheeks, sticks out his tongue, and contorts his face into a variety of ridiculous expressions like he's made of elastic — and each one manages to pull a gurgle-y little baby laugh out of Nico.

"Is something leaking or is that just the sound of your heart melting over there?" Lance peeks over his shoulder, snickering.

Keith grows flustered, and retreats back into the kitchen.

The second hour proves to be significantly more trying when Nico decides to become inconsolably upset, and wants everyone within a ten-mile radius to know about it. Keith spends the majority of this hour face-down in the sofa while Lance soothes, begs, and, at one point, even tries to reason with his screaming nephew ("I don't want you to cry, and I know you don't want you to cry, so why don't we just help each other out here, huh?"). But nothing seems to work.

The manic wailing carries over into the third hour. Now they're both hunkered around the bassinet, with Keith's face buried in his palms, and Lance's fingers dangling a small stuffed dolphin in front of Nico's damp, scrunched up eyes. The bawling baby simply bats it away with his foot so mightily that he ends up tangled in his fluffy yellow blanket.

"How can something so small be so loud?" Keith grumbles miserably into his hands.

"Yeah, he's got a nice pair of McClain lungs in him, that's for sure," Lance sighs, watching as the stuffed dolphin goes flying out of the bassinet. "Do you think he's, like… sick? Or hurt?"

"How should I know? It seemed to be fine this morning."

"Well, we gotta do something."

Keith slowly lifts his head, fingertips dragging down his cheeks, and offers an empty, unhelpful gaze. "Maybe you should… pick it up?"

Feeling desperate and at a loss, Lance reaches into the bassinet.

"Okay, c'mere, buddy," he says, carefully cradling the unhappy baby in his arms. "Uncle Lancey-Lance is gonna take you on a little walk."

"A walk?" Keith snorts, scathing. "It's screaming bloody murder and so you're just gonna pace around this shoebox?"

Lance tries to keep up a soothingly steady pat against Nico's back even as he narrows a scowl in Keith's direction. "Got any better ideas, oh powerful baby whisperer?"

"I dunno — change its diaper, feed it, stick a cork in its mouth…"

"Keith!"

"I wasn't being serious!"

And then Nico shrieks louder than both of them combined, so painfully shrill that Keith can actually feel the sound waves ricocheting against the inside of his skull like a maddening game of pinball.

"Shh… I know, it's okay, 'lil guy. Don't listen to grumpy Uncle Mullet," Lance is cooing sweetly despite the pandemonium. "He's just jealous that he's been demoted to third cutest in the apartment."

"Don't pin this on me, Uncle Lancey-Lance," Keith angrily clambers to his feet. "Your idea of a solution is to walk circles around the room while it wails its head off. If it were that easy, then babies wouldn't cry — ever."

"I'm just trying to calm him down, which is more than I can say for you!" Lance flings back. "He's in a strange place with strange people, and he's obviously freaking out about it. I want him to feel at home here!"

Another deafening screech. Keith inhales sharply, nostrils flared. "Really? 'Cause I want it to pipe the fuck down so that we can take a second to breathe."

"Fine!" And with a definitive huff, Lance holds the baby, writhing and red-faced with exertion, out toward Keith. "Then you can figure it out."

"Wha —" he immediately recoils. "Don't give it to me!"

"Quit calling him 'it', Keith! He's a real, human baby!"

"Well, I still don't wanna hold him!"

Lance throws his head back, roaring, guttural and unintelligible, at the ceiling. "Yeah. Great. Awesome. Just leave all the work to the invalid," he scoffs once his neck re-aligns. "We have to take turns!"

"You just picked him up," snaps Keith. "Your turn's not over yet!"

"Un-fucking-real, man!" Lance explodes, eyes flaring dangerously with something that Keith can't quite distinguish as fury or utter exhaustion. "Keith 'fights-anything-with-a-pulse' Kogane is running away from the first whiff of adult responsibility just because it's a little intimidating —"

"Look, you're the one who volunteered us for babysitting duty," Keith says, biting. "And I'm not intimidated by an infant."

"Then do us all a fucking favor and take Nico on a walk around the room!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

And then…

Nothing. Not a peep.

Through all the mental clutter and boiling tempers, it suddenly dawns on them that the room has fallen deadly quiet.

Two pairs of frantic eyes dart down to Nico, who is now snoozing peacefully, his little fist gripping at the fabric of Lance's shirt. And aside from the wetness trailing down his chubby cheeks, he leaves absolutely no evidence of the anguished turmoil happening moments before.

Lance breathes, cautious. "He… stopped?"

"Is it —" Keith fumbles over his words. "—is he broken?"

"I think our yelling actually put him to sleep," concludes Lance.

They look over at each other, eyes meeting, wide and bemused.

Keith blinks.

Lance's mouth quivers.

"Oh my god —"

Then, spurred on from either relief or lack of sanity, they both start laughing — soft, sputtering noises that they try desperately to keep clamped behind teeth and tightly pressed lips — while Nico snuggles soundlessly into Lance's arms.

When Lance hears three gentle knocks on the door, he answers it with a finger held up to the curve of his mouth. On the other side, Mariana obliges, and lowers her voice to a whisper before asking, "So how'd it go?"

Lance wrinkles the bridge of his nose. "Halfway to parenthood might've been a little bit of a stretch."

She chuckles against the back of her palm, and peeks around the doorjamb to peer into the apartment. "I hope he didn't give you guys too much trouble."

Their gazes are drawn to the center of the room, where Keith is collapsed on the couch in a rather endearing state of repose. He's fast asleep and snoring softly, every bit of him gone sated and slack. Nico lays flat on top of him, belly to chest, their breaths rising and falling in perfect sync. One of Keith's arms hangs off the side of the couch, fingers loosely curled around a blue stuffed dolphin, while the other arm is draped over Nico's tiny back, keeping him steady and safe. The sight is not unlike a lion and its cub, Lance thinks, though neither of them look particularly ferocious right now, all limp-limbed and snuggled close.

A sigh escapes through Lance's lips, and it comes out sounding a little sappier than he would've liked. God, he must be more sleep-deprived than he thinks.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Lance replies, turning back to Mariana.

She smiles something warm — as warm as Lance feels inside his chest — and says, "You two make a good team."

The toys are collected. The bags are re-packed. The apartment is transformed back into its usual baby-less existence. Lance peels Nico away from Keith, mindful not to wake either of them, and hands the infant over to his mother's waiting arms.

"Thanks again, Lance," whispers Mariana. "See you in a couple hours for dinner?"

"We'll be there."

A chaste kiss to Mariana's cheek, and one for the top of Nico's round head, and then Lance shuts the door behind them with a quiet click of the deadbolt. He leans back, feeling like he might crumple, or simply fall asleep right there with his back against the door. On any other day, Lance would be quick to rattle the walls with some music, or crack the window just to get some of the urban ambient noise sifting through — anything to overpower the almost eerily tranquil state of the apartment — but, right now, he doesn't mind basking in the calm. He has a newfound appreciation for calm. He and calm might be able to see eye to eye, just this once. Calm is good. Calm is nice. Calm is —

Keith, asleep on the couch.

Lance goes to him, crouches down where Keith's arm is still flopping over the side of the cushion, and carefully slides the forgotten dolphin out of his limp grasp. Keith doesn't stir. And Lance doesn't think about fields of lavender, or the smell of watercolor paints, or the French countryside, or the winding streets of Marseille. His mind is still. And he doesn't hear ringing bells, or crashing drums, or singing choirs, or any of the other raucous warning signs that tell him he's falling. His heart is silent.

This, Lance thinks, with fervor, with profound momentousness. This.

This is something calm. It comes in on tip-toe, and whispers soft and sweet into his ear. Tells him to breathe. Tells him to slow down.

For once, Lance thinks again, maybe he isn't moving too fast.

He sweeps some dark fringe away from Keith's face, fingertips dragging over the relaxed slope of his lips.

And maybe when he finally gets to where he's going — steady, in his own time — Keith will already be there waiting for him.

He's beaming.

It's a gorgeous summer evening, and they're at the local park, spread out on stolen blankets from the hotel room, and maybe it's not a white-sanded beach off the coast of Varadero, where the ocean's warm swell nips at his toes along the edge of a pearlescent shoreline, but Lance is still glowing brighter than the dusky moonlight overhead because his family is here, and, for the first time in a while, he finally feels like himself.

He thinks, giddily, that he could get used to this.

There's Luis and Mariana, cooing softly at Nico, who gargles happily every time they tickle his belly or boop his nose. There's Veronica, smiling and chatting away while her mother sits behind her, cross-legged, and braids her spiraling hair.

And then there's Keith, off to the side, sitting on a grassy hilltop. He has Izzy in his lap, and Gabe to his right. And Keith's head is tipped back, an outstretched finger pointing up at the sky, lips moving subtly around a string of quiet words. He's stunning, bathed in starlight, illuminated in a way that Lance has never quite noticed before — almost as if from the inside out.

Lance thinks, maybe too giddily, maybe too dangerously, that he could get used to this, too.

Grass crunches beneath his shoes as he climbs the hill, the sound of their voices coming in clearer, louder with every approaching step.

"… look close enough, you can see his bow and arrow right there. See?"

"Whoa," Gabe gasps aloud, his eyes wide and entranced by the pictures that begin to take shape in the black sky.

"You guys aren't having fun without me, are you?" Lance grins as he reaches the top, and then Gabe scrambles to his feet, nearly bouncing in place.

"Uncle Lance! There are people in the sky! And unicorns! And dragons!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! They're all up there in outer space! In the stars!" the boy squeals, delighted. "Keith showed me!"

Keith bows his head, as if bashful, and bites his lips against a smile. But the same can't be said for Lance, who allows the width of his grin to stretch even bigger across his face as he sings, "Oh, he did, huh?"

Gabe really is bouncing now, excitement shaking his scrawny body, rattling him limb to limb. "It's the coolest thing ever!"

"What about dinosaurs, bud?" Lance asks innocently, and lowers himself down beside Keith a bit clumsily, mindful not to put any weight on his bandaged hand. "I thought they were the coolest thing ever."

"Space is cooler," he decides after a brief moment of face-scrunching contemplation. "I'm gonna be an astronaut, and live on the moon with aliens."

"You're gonna need a rocket ship to get to the moon," Lance reminds him, playing along.

"I'll build one!"

And then Gabe is zig-zagging down the hill, arms flung out to his sides, whooshing and zooming to mimic the sounds of a blasting rocket. Izzy clambers out of Keith's lap, and chases after her brother with a high-pitched, "Wait for me!"

Lance chuckles once the children's voices are just muffled cries in the distance. He stretches his long legs out in front of him, leaning back onto his elbows. "Hope you're happy, Kogane. Next thing you know he's gonna be living on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, hunting for meteorites and mistaking airplanes for UFOs."

"I thought all the constellation stuff would bore him, honestly."

"Well, now I know who to blame if he throws a tantrum when Luis and Mariana don't send him to space camp next summer."

Keith snorts.

Gabe and Izzy are laughing now, fighting off aliens with invisible laser guns at the bottom of the hill.

Then Lance bumps his shoulder into Keith's, smirking something lazy and playful. "Didn't realize you were such a space cadet."

"Yeah, I've always been into that sort of thing," says Keith. "My pop taught me everything I know about it."

By the time Keith hears Lance rustle against the grass, sees him sitting up with intrigue out of the corner of his eye, the realization has already dawned on him. Keith has spent the past few days learning everything there is to know about the McClains, but this is the first verbal acknowledgement of his family. It's strange, Keith thinks, how mindlessly he'd let the reference slip. It's even stranger how quickly his tongue rebounds, beginning to form unspoken words. And it's the strangest of all when his throat doesn't tighten around them before they can be pushed to the edge of his lips, poised for flight.

"We'd spend hours staring up there, looking at the stars. Wasn't much else to look at in the desert, I guess. That's kinda why I decided to study aviation in school," he says, idly picking at the blades of grass by his knees. "I wanna be a pilot."

"Really?"

It's more a gust of audible air than an actual question. And so Keith doesn't respond. He just tilts his gaze skyward again, studying the constellations he already knows by heart, distracting himself from the terrible, skin-pricking thought that maybe he's shared too much. Maybe Lance thinks he's weird. Maybe Lance doesn't give a shit. Maybe —

"That's… amazing, Keith," Lance says. Sincere. Almost awestruck. Like he gives a shit. "I mean, wow."

Keith finally turns to find Lance's eyes all over him, bright and glinting, and he feels himself flush.

"Your dad must be really proud of you."

"He died."

Again, it spews out before Keith can hope to stop it. And if he could undo anything, it'd be that because the look that washes over Lance's face, so helpless and terror-stricken, is probably the most awful thing he's ever seen.

"Oh. Oh… fuck," Lance croaks, breath trembling. "I — God, I'm an asshole — I'm sorry —"

"It was a long time ago," Keith says at once, as if that makes it better. Easier. He glances away again, because Lance still has that look on his face, and it's making his stomach churn. "My mom left us when I was just a little kid, so when I lost my dad they just… tossed me around to different foster homes. Nothing ever stuck for very long, though. Too much of a — disciplinary case. So the day I turned eighteen I knew I wanted to get the hell out of Texas. I applied to some schools — anywhere far away — and that's how I ended up here. Full scholarship. But that didn't stick for very long, either. I got booted after my third year because some prick was talking shit about my — my parents, and I… I just lost it. It wasn't good."

They're both very still. Keith swears he can hear Lance swallow.

"But," Lance whispers, "what about being a pilot?"

"I was supposed to get transferred into the space exploration program after I graduated, but —" Keith shrugs. He doesn't know what else to do. "— never made it that far."

Lance is squirming, fidgeting, like a frigid-cold breeze had just passed through. At least that's how it looks out of Keith's peripheral. "Well, what about now? Can't you reapply or something?" Lance is saying.

"Maybe if I could afford it," Keith scoffs quietly.

"But what if you got another scholarship?" Lance is talking a little faster now, maybe a little desperate.

"It's not that simple, Lance. No school's gonna give money to a kid who got expelled from his old school for assault and battery charges."

"But there has to be something you can —"

"Would you just drop it?" Keith looks, and Lance's expression has changed again. It's less horrified, more crushed. He can't decide which is worse. "It's over, okay? I had my shot, and — I blew it. I know I did. It was just one of those dumb childhood daydreams, anyway. I thought… If I didn't have a place in this world, then maybe I could just…"

Lance's voice is impossibly soft, just a tremor of sound as he finishes, "…go find another one."

"Yeah. Something like that," mumbles Keith. Then he inhales, and, firmer, "So now I just have to figure something else out. I don't… really know what yet, but — I gotta keep trying."

"Y'know," Lance begins, when his pinched brow unfurls, "I still think your dad would be proud of you, Keith."

Bitterly, Keith says, "For getting kicked out of school?"

"No, for pushing forward, in spite of that," Lance's hand reaches out to cover Keith's, a tangle of fingers and prickly grass blades. "I wish I could be that brave."

The touch brings a surge of thoughts, as if he's absorbing them through Lance's palm. He thinks about Celia's hugs, and Marco's jokes, and Veronica's stern but well-intentioned advice. He thinks about Luis and Mariana, grinning warmly, with their arms around each other, and the twins with their wonder-filled eyes and gleeful giggles. He thinks about Lance.

Just Lance.

And he thinks that maybe he doesn't have to travel light-years away just to find a place where he belongs. A place that's warm, and happy, and his.

Maybe it's a little closer than he thinks.

Keith's thumb brushes against the thick, coarse material of Lance's bandage, and says, with great certainty, "You are."

Something feels markedly different when they return to the apartment that evening, but Keith can't quite pinpoint it. So it sits there, taunting, like an itch he can't scratch.

First, Lance roots through the kitchen cabinets for a late-night snack while Keith brushes his teeth in the bathroom. Keith finishes just in time to watch Lance get smacked in the nose by a chocolate-covered almond as he tosses the little morsels into the air, trying to catch them with his open mouth. And Keith, rather regrettably, finds it slightly more adorable than obnoxious.

Then, Keith helps Lance re-wrap his bandage. His touch is gentle, uncharacteristically delicate for someone as frightfully impulsive as he is. When Keith is done, he presses his lips to the center of Lance's palm, and those freckled cheeks glow warm and pink.

Later, Lance pushes Keith back into the couch, and peppers his face with a bombardment of sweet, kittenish kisses. They lay like that for a while until Lance starts yawning enough for the both of them, and so Keith suggests they go to bed and —

Ah. There it is. That unscratchable itch.

And Keith doesn't understand it. Because it's not like they haven't done this before. He's familiar with the smell of Lance's pillowcases, and the squeak of his mattress, and the sound of Lance's soft exhales when he sleeps, and the stifled, gut-clenching urge to wrap himself around the curve of his body, and just hold him until sunlight peeks through the curtains, tickles their skin, and wakes them up with each other's names on their lips.

Except, Keith thinks with dizzying wonder, now it's not just an urge. It's a possibility. Now he can finally grapple for the warmth of Lance's skin beneath the sheets, and curl into his chest so that their heartbeats become one, and kiss each one of those thirteen freckles that he so enjoys to count.

He's allowed to do all those things.

Isn't he?

Keith thinks about it, frets about it, obsesses about it, as he lays on his side of the bed. He's hugging the very edge of the mattress, just like always, and staring at the minutes blink by on the nightstand clock, creeping steadily toward midnight. His insides buzz, his muscles twitch, and every inch of him feels like he's teetering on the brink of something just beyond his reach until —

"Hey," Keith flips over onto his other side, and watches Lance's motionless back through the darkness. "Are you —"

"Like, dying to touch you right now?" And then Lance flips over, too, already grinning and eager, like he'd been waiting in just as much torturous anticipation as Keith. "Yes. Absolutely yes."

Keith makes a noise, some kind of groan-sigh hybrid, and rolls himself on top of Lance. "Thank god."

And it's then Keith learns, in the thick of clumsy undressing and zealous lip biting, that, yes, he is very much allowed to do those things.

He also learns that Lance's pillowcases still smell the same, only now they're tinged with a strangely intoxicating combination of sweat and tropical shampoo. And the mattress still squeaks, only now it's from under the weight of their entwined bodies, the fervent, rhythmless roll of Keith's hips. And Lance's soft exhales still sound the same, only more rapid, mingling with breathy moans, and sweet, prosodic whispers of Keith's name against his ear. And that gut-clenching urge is still there, bubbling right beneath the surface, only now it doesn't have to be stifled.

It's all the same, and yet so, so different.

Keith holds him as his teeth graze that spot just below Lance's jaw; the one that arches Lance's spine and pulls a whimpering growl straight out of his throat, low and heady. He holds him as Lance gasps, coming undone and riding out the pleasure, legs trembling where they're wrapped around Keith's waist. And Keith holds him as their hearts settle, all tangled and woven together, with Lance's fingertips tracing thoughtlessly along Keith's tattoo until their breathing slows, melting into each other for an open-mouthed kiss.

"No. Stay," Lance whispers into the small breadth of space between their lips when Keith tries to shift off of him. And Keith relents without protest, sinking back into him, bringing his dampened forehead to a resigned rest against his, while their minds edge closer toward the temptation of sleep.

Keith holds him as they dream.

And there he stays.

He slowly wakes up in a late morning stupor, feeling the mildly clammy beginnings of perspiration dappling along his hairline. It probably has something to do with the fact that Lance is half-spilled over him, bound up by a mass of sun-drenched sheets, with his face smooshed into the crook of Keith's neck, breath ghosting against his pulse, and a nicely toned thigh hooked over Keith's middle.

Not that he's complaining.

At all.

It's a good feeling — an amazing feeling, actually — knowing that hours could pass, and he'd never be the wiser, like he's still dreaming, somehow. But then Lance is wriggling against him, stretching his limbs, skimming his fingertips over a blossoming bruise above Keith's collarbone in a way that reminds him he's very much awake, and this is very much real. Keith lets his head loll to the side, muzzy with the revelation, lips relaxed and lazy as they brush Lance's forehead.

It stirs him again. And maybe Keith would feel worse about the disturbance if Lance's mouth weren't breaking through the drowsiness with a small smile that makes him look so goddamn angelic under the filtered daylight.

Two slivers of blue appear beneath his weighted lids, and then, quiet, like a psalm, "My feet are cold."

Keith wants to laugh, actually does laugh a little, and idly wonders how that's possible when he himself is running a similar internal temperature to that of a radiator.

"Good morning to you, too," he chuckles, groggy.

"Morning, gorgeous."

Keith's hand takes its time on its way down the length of Lance's thigh, sliding over bare skin that still leaves a thrumming tingle in his palm, even after the fact. He cups behind the knee, and lifts up to tuck Lance's foot between the press of his own heated legs, saying, "Better?"

"Mm," Lance hums, almost purrs, and adjusts himself so that his chin rests on Keith's shoulder. "S'nice."

Then he's reaching out with his un-bandaged hand, absent-minded in the way he pushes Keith's bangs away from his face, as if he's learned this gesture by rote, and has been doing it for years. That's a long time, Keith thinks, and it scares him a little, but at the same time, it doesn't, to the point where he's beginning to wonder if he's actually just afraid of the fact that it doesn't scare him as much as he thinks it should.

"Barely recognize you without all your pillows," says Keith, and Lance gives a sharp, fond reprimanding tug to his hair that makes him grin.

"Ha-ha," Lance grumbles. "You're better than a pillow."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be," and it's slightly muffled against the spot on Keith's neck where Lance latches on with his mouth. "You know how I feel about pillows."

A tender sense of impatience bubbles inside Keith's chest as Lance's lips work along his sensitive skin. Like maybe it's really not a long time. Maybe it's not enough time. Maybe there will never be enough time in sleepy, unhurried moments like this. Maybe Keith will selfishly cling to every lovely second in Lance's company, and still crave more and more and —

The nightstand rattles from the vibrations of Lance's phone, shaking Keith out of his mind-wandering trance.

"Your phone…" he starts to say, breath thinning out as Lance's wet kisses trail over his ribcage, down to his navel.

But there's not even the slightest hitch in Lance's ministrations as he mutters, "Don't care."

"Lance—"

"Leave it."

The last thing Keith sees before he's staring, dumb and slack-jawed at the ceiling, is the top of Lance's head disappearing beneath the wrinkled sheets, sinking down between the spread of Keith's legs.

The buzzing, along with everything else, eventually tunes itself out.

Keith has never worn a tuxedo before.

Technically, that's a lie. He's worn one once before. It belonged to his father, and traveled with him in a dingy cardboard box, along with a few other menial belongings, to his first foster home. Keith had been young and curious at the time, and tried it on in front of the bathroom mirror. It was many sizes too large for his childlike build, and kind of smelled like mothballs, and the sight of it made him feel so awful that he stuffed it back into the box, and never touched it again.

But other than that? First time.

And in the span of five minutes, he already decides that he hates it.

The collar is too tight, and the fabric is too thick, and the shoulders are too puffy, and — seriously — what the hell is a pocket square supposed to do? Not to mention that Keith feels like a freak on display in the middle of the tailor shop, standing on a wooden pedestal in front of an extravagant three-way mirror while some lady with too much lipstick fondles her way around his limbs with a tape measurer.

But just as Keith is starting to think he'd much prefer to see the tape measurer wrapped around this lady's throat instead of his thigh, she waddles away in her three-inch heels, muttering something about needing more pins.

Feeling as if he can breathe again, Keith glances into the rightmost panel of the mirror. He spots Lance on the other end of the shop, caught in a similar situation, only he seems to be enjoying himself. His lips are grinning, moving quick as he spews smalltalk and jokes that occasionally make his dresser giggle into her palm. In the center panel, Celia and Mariana are milling around near the back of the store, admiring racks upon racks of discounted wedding dresses. And in the leftmost panel, he notices Veronica. She's standing in the corner, away from the others, and frowning at her reflection in a much smaller floor-length mirror, with a bridal veil perched atop her head.

Keith continues watching. Veronica tilts her head to one side, squints her eyes, and frowns some more.

Then Keith steps off the pedestal, and walks closer.

"That better not be for me or Lance," he says, appearing over her shoulder.

Veronica nearly jumps a foot in the air, gone red-faced with surprise, and clutches the veil to her chest.

"Oh! No, it's not, don't worry. It's — for me," she scrunches her nose, recognizing the poor phrasing, and hastily amends, "I mean, not — not for me. I was just… Sorry. It's dumb."

The corner of Keith's mouth twitches, like a glitch on a screen.

"I was just kinda wondering what it'd look like," Veronica lifts the accessory back to her head, and goes back to staring at herself in the mirror. "What do you think?"

Keith considers. A crystal-studded headband sits on her crown, and a sheer blanket of lace billows out behind her, draping down her back. There's some sort of elaborate flower embroidery at the bottom that probably speaks volumes of the veil's fine craftsmanship, but Keith wouldn't know anything about that. It's pretty, he supposes.

"Looks nice," he settles on, a little underwhelmingly, but Veronica seems pleased enough by the response as her frown redirects itself into a small, sheepish grin. Her fingers tug at the embroidered hem floating around her waist, and then she's removing it again — fast, like a child caught playing dress-up in her mother's closet without permission.

"Everyone thinks you two are totally batshit crazy for getting married so young," she says out of nowhere. "And so soon."

Keith furrows his brow, and folds his arms over his chest, rustling the annoyingly thick fabric of his suit jacket. "Well, people can think what they want."

"I don't think it's crazy," Veronica is quick to add. "I think it's kinda romantic, actually."

"You sound like Lance."

At this, she giggles, and nods like it isn't her first time hearing such a comparison.

"I guess we are both pretty hopeless that way, huh?" she says wistfully, eyes flickering over to where Lance is still posing on his pedestal, adjusting a bowtie that circles his neck. "Only difference is that he actually knows what it feels like to be in love."

Then she looks back at Keith, fingers fiddling almost embarrassedly with the lace veil. "It's so lame, right? I mean, Lance has been in love like a hundred times — no offense — and I haven't even gotten close."

"It's not a contest," says Keith.

"No, I know, it's just —" More fiddling. "—sometimes it feels like I'm not supposed to feel those feelings. But I want to. It's like my insides are broken or something."

Another look at Lance. Another look at the veil. Another frown.

"So if I can't have my perfect love story, then I want to do everything I can to make sure Lance gets his. You know?"

A bit forlornly, she places the veil back where she found it, along with the others of its kind. The lace droops, and so do Veronica's eyes, and Keith observes it all with a firm crease in his brow.

"Nothing about you is broken, Veronica," Keith says at once, startling the both of them. "Everything you've done this week has been for your brother. Because you love him. Selflessly. And he's lucky to have that. Someone like you, I mean. So is your whole family — your mom, Marco, Luis. Even —"

Even me, he tries to say, but lets it sit behind his teeth.

Keith glances at the floor, at the wall, at the display of veils. "I, um. I've never had a sister before so —"

All the air is abruptly squeezed from his lungs as Veronica falls forward, and hugs him tight around the waist. A true McClain embrace. Fierce, enthusiastic, and all-encompassing. Keith goes stiff from surprise, but quickly finds himself unraveling beneath her touch.

"Thank you, Keith," Veronica mumbles into the too-puffy shoulder of his suit jacket.

Keith grins against her curly hair, and wraps his arms fully around her.

Up ahead, Keith can see the Olkarion Eye, its massive height looming over the center of downtown. The flashing neon lights paint the world around them in brilliant bursts of color — pinks, and purples, and greens, and blues — exploding like fireworks as Lance tugs him by the hand through the crowded streets.

"Lance," says Keith, and it tastes as smooth and sweet as honey on his tongue. "What are we doing?"

Lance swivels his neck, tossing a full-hearted grin over his shoulder, but doesn't respond. And he doesn't need to, honestly. Because just then, when Keith catches a glimpse, Lance's entire face goes amber-rimmed, haloed by the ferris wheel's shining bulbs in the background.

He's fire, Keith thinks. He's fire, and gold, and all that glitters and sparks.

And Keith is just hopelessly lost in the afterglow, bewitched by some kind of spiritual-level transcendence that he still doesn't fully understand. But he knows that, whatever it is, it begins and ends with Lance.

A winding path, filled with unabashed laughter and rushed apologies to whomever they might've bumped in the wake of their giddy stumbling, leads them to the base of the attraction. It's even more of a blaring spectacle up close, and Keith has to bend his neck almost painfully to look up at it all, feeling like he may fall backwards. Meanwhile, Lance hands the operator enough cash for two, and whispers something that Keith can't hear. And it's unclear whether the operator hears it either, until he nods something apathetic, snaps his bubblegum against the back of his teeth, and gestures for them to board the waiting passenger cabin.

Then, like floating through a sea of glimmering color, they ascend to the sky.

The city shrinks below them, and Keith can't help but find it strangely comforting how the noises fade, the ground blurs, until it's just the two of them in the tiny cabin, noses pressed against the glass so they can peer down at everything they've left behind. Keith's stomach swoops in a satisfying way as they approach the top. He listens to the gentle groan of the wheel, every ounce of its mechanical strength carrying them higher and higher until, in one stuttering jerk, they stop. Like the flip of a switch. Dangling there, swaying, four-hundred feet in the air.

Keith leans away from the window, and turns to Lance, who looks remarkably unalarmed.

In fact, he looks downright triumphant.

"Did we —" Keith tries to ask, but Lance is stopping him with a glimpse of his phone. The screen lights up with the current time.

"We've only got five minutes up here," he tells him calmly, "so make sure you get a good look."

"Of what?"

Lance's grin tilts crooked, making Keith's stomach swoop again for very different reasons, and then he's pointing a finger skyward.

Obeying the cue, Keith's eyes follow the gesture up to the glass-covered ceiling of their cabin, and a delayed gulp of air clings to the lining of his throat because, right there above their heads, closer than Keith has ever seen them before, are the stars —

So many stars.

And they glitter in all their luminescent beauty against a backdrop of sprawling darkness. The bustling city is far enough away for them to feel as if they're defying the laws of gravity, suspended in the middle of the galaxy for a mind-numbing, pulse-racing moment. As if Keith could simply reach out and touch those shivering bits of starlight, warming the skin of his fingertips like an ardent flame.

"I can't take you all the way to the stars, flyboy, but this is as close as I could get you."

At the sound of his voice, Keith lowers his gaze. Lance is still sitting across from him, with that same lopsided smile, and he's watching Keith the same way that Keith was watching the stars mere seconds ago.

Reverential. Floored. Enamored.

Keith holds his breath.

And then, slowly, as to not disrupt the balance of their cabin, he moves forward.

It's clear by the way Lance squirms ever so slightly in his seat, the way his eyes go a fraction of an inch wider, that he hadn't been expecting this turn of events. His grin finally falters, twitching just enough to make him look curiously bemused as he murmurs, "—Keith."

Wordlessly, Keith steps closer until he's hovering over Lance, who cranes his neck in an effort to maintain eye contact, and ends up thudding the back of his head against the cabin wall. One knee comes down, then the other, until Keith is straddling Lance's hips, conveniently positioned in his lap like it's the most logical seating arrangement in the close-quartered cabin.

"Keith, you —" Lance says, hoarse, and licks his lips glossy before trying again, "—you're not even looking."

"I am looking," whispers Keith, so low that Lance can barely hear it even with their mouths an inch from collision. His hand drifts past Lance's face, skirting across his temple to thread his fingers through the front of his brown hair, eyes never blinking or losing focus. "It's beautiful."

Just one subtle jut of his chin, and then Lance is sewing up the distance between them, throwing his mouth onto Keith's, forcing his lips apart. And Keith responds as if shocked by electricity, kissing him back, hard and wild, as fingers bury into the hair around Lance's nape. Two persistent palms lay flat on Keith's back, gliding up and down his spine, keeping their bodies plastered against each other where they're already drawn so impossibly close.

And even from behind the sealed lids of his eyes, Keith swears he can still see stars.

"—And my cousin owns this pizza shack that has — I'm not kidding — the best pepperoni pizza of your life. Oh, and the garlic knots! Damn, how could I almost forget. They're like little bits of soft, garlic-y heaven —"

Keith is grinning, probably like a fool, and he hasn't really figured out how to stop since they started walking back from the ferris wheel. Doesn't think he can stop. Doesn't think he wants to stop. And Lance hasn't stopped rambling about Varadero beach, and Keith doesn't think he wants that to stop that either. The words, the memories, tumble fast out of Lance's upturned lips, one after the other, as his impassioned eyes go glassy in the glow of the lamp-lined street. It's fascinating, Keith thinks, how he's able to recall every seemingly trivial detail as if the heartbeat of his hometown is always there, nestled right against his own pulse for safekeeping.

"—Aw man, and the water… Lemme tell you — you haven't lived until you've taken a swim in the Cuban surf. It's so blue, you can see straight to the bottom, and — ahh. I gotta take you some day."

Even in the crisp chill of nightfall, Keith goes a bit red as his imagination humors the thought: crashing waves, velvety sand, and kisses — so many kisses — in the warm-tinged light of a blood-orange sunset. His hair is wind-wild from the ocean breeze, and Lance is in his arms, all freckle-faced and tan-skinned, looking gloriously homeborn and happy under the Cuban sky.

"You'd get to see my family again. The McClains, au natural, in our native habitat," Lance keeps going on, swinging their clasped hands between their bodies, carefree, like a pendulum. "Plus you'd get to see me after a day on the beach, when I'm even more bronze and beautiful than I already am, if you can believe it."

And just like that, the daydream shatters like fragile sea glass. Keith can feel the shards slicing skin on their way to the ground.

"Your family," he repeats in some distant, indecipherable tone. "They'd probably think we were on our honeymoon."

Lance halts the momentum of their hands, and lets them hang back down at their sides, limp and lifeless with harrowing realization.

"Oh," Lance breathes. "Right. That."

Suddenly, Keith already misses the salty-sweet air, and the sun-kissed shoreline. He can feel it in his bones, aching him to his core — homesick for a place he's never even seen with his own eyes.

Or maybe he's just homesick for a family he knows he's never really been a part of.

"What are you gonna tell them?" Keith asks.

"The truth. Eventually," and although his words are soft, Lance sounds steadfast in this, like he's already thought it all out. "Maybe when they're back home, and all the engagement hype wears off."

"Yeah."

A few firm beats tick by in Keith's chest; short, sporadic, drum-like pangs that seem to match their deliberate footfalls against the concrete. The reverb rattles him from head to toe, shakes something loose inside of him that feels a lot like dread. It's unmissable, and rises up like bile in the back of his throat, despite how valiantly he fights to swallow it down. Because dread has no business being here, making him long for things that aren't his, and mourn the endings that haven't even begun.

Perspective, he warns himself, perhaps a few days too late.

And when Lance starts to sense the growing unease, the palpable heaviness bearing down on a once calm summer evening, he squeezes Keith's listless hand, and says, "I wanna tell them about you, too, y'know. The real you."

Keith twists at the neck, offering only half of his moonlit face.

"I mean, how hard can that be, right?" Lance continues, lighthearted, and with newfound resolve. "They already love you, so no pressure there. And it's not like it'll be weird for them to see us as a couple."

The beats inside his chest tick by even faster now. A hummingbird's restless wings.

Carefully, Keith pinches his bottom lip between his teeth, afraid, perhaps, that not doing so will send his heart leaping out of his mouth at any given moment. A couple, a couple, a couple.

"A couple," he repeats aloud when his mind just won't shut up about it. "So is that what we are?"

"Well," Lance grins something coy, nudging Keith's flank with the back of his hand. "We've already established that you're definitely not my fiancé. But I wouldn't really call you my friend either."

"Ouch."

"Shut up! You know what I mean!"

"I know what you mean."

Somewhere amongst all the pulse-pounding and mind-reeling, Keith's shoulders lose their tension. Now they sag in relief, and their interlocked hands start to sway once more to the tune of some unheard melody, and that terrible, throat-burning dread gets washed away by an imaginary blue tide.

Perspective, his mind warns again, but his heart doesn't quite hear it.

"Y'know," Lance begins, drawing it out, letting the warmth of the moment soak in like sunshine, "normal people would usually go on a first date before they become a couple, but I guess normal's not exactly our style, huh?"

"We've been going on dates all week," Keith reminds him.

Lance barks out a scoff, loud and non-threatening. "No, no, no — I'm talking about a real date, Keith. Like without family supervision. Like the official textbook definition of a wine-and-dine, pick-you-up-at-eight, woo-your-socks-off first date."

With an amused curl of his mouth, Keith asks, "Don't you think we've already moved past the point of formalities?"

"C'mon!" Lance whines, forgoing his hold on Keith's hand, and opting, instead, for his entire right arm. "Let me woo you!"

"You missed your chance. I'm already sufficiently wooed."

Those blue eyes twinkle delightedly beneath the gleam of lamplight, and then narrow at Keith with some sort of mock-challenge. "So you're saying you wouldn't wanna catch a movie with me? Something extra shitty that neither of us have any interest in actually watching so I could kiss you silly when the lights go down? Or how about a round of mini golf to show off my physical prowess, which, by the way, is far superior to yours? Ooh — or maybe some fancy restaurant that we can't even pronounce. Hmm? How 'bout then? What do you say to that, you little anti-cupid?"

Keith blinks, and then, matter-of-factly, "There's no way you'd ever beat me at mini golf."

"Seriously?" An incredulous sputter, and Keith turns his head to laugh into Lance's cheek. "I offer you movie theatre make out sessions, and an expensive five course dinner, and that's the part you focus on? Unbelievable."

A whiff of that delectable shampoo gets caught up in Keith's nose, and it's such a pleasant aroma, and Keith is already single-mindedly tipsy off of everything Lance-related, so he allows himself an unrepentant lapse in self restraint. He nuzzles a bit closer than is probably necessary, lingering where the baby-soft hair around Lance's ear tickles his grinning lips. "I guess that sounds kind of fun," he whispers.

"Kind of, he says. Just you wait, sweetheart, you're not even gonna know what hit you," sneers Lance, playfully smug about it. "I'm gonna date you so good, Keith — I'll date you into oblivion. Mark my words, I'm gonna —"

"Are you asking me out or threatening me?"

In response, Lance leans away, and the tip of Keith's nose chases after him for a second, until Lance is leveling him with a stare that yearns just about as much as it's meant to intimidate.

"Date me. I dare you."

Keith, laughingly stubborn, lifts a brow.

"I double dare you," Lance tries again.

It's an easy win, if only because Keith is far too smitten for his own good, and far too impulsive to bother with a teasing refusal. He breaks into a new grin, and drags Lance around the corner to their block with a buoyant spring in his step. "Guess I don't have a choice, then," he says.

"Yeah, yeah," Lance hums, reeling him into an unhurried pace by hooking his fingers through Keith's belt loops, and tugging him back. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Kogane —"

And then, as faint as the dwindling breeze, a voice:

"Lance?"

Sneakers skid to a jarring halt right before they're met with —

Silence.

Keith's ears ring in the unbearable stillness. He feels Lance's hand go rigid and cold against his hip. And when he chances a look, Lance is sickeningly pale, jaw hanging uselessly, pupils bleeding wide like a drop of black ink, blocking out the blue.

Because holy shit.

— Holy fucking shit.

Standing right outside the door of their building, beneath a murky strip of lamplight, with nothing but a small suitcase in tow, is a young woman that Keith doesn't recognize.

And her glistening eyes are flitting to every point on Lance's face, like she's done this before, waiting for him to shatter, or scream, or run away.

But instead, his chest heaves. Then, finally, with all the violent, devastating force of a gunshot to the gut, Lance empties his lungs in one ragged breath.

"…Nyma."

A/N: I wrote that cliff-hanger and then simultaneously laughed and cried about it for hours afterward. So I think that speaks volumes about who I am as a person.

I'M SORRY, FRIENDS, BUT IT HAD TO BE DONE. I STILL LOVE YOU.

You can yell at me on tumblr (starlightments) if you want. Chances are I'm still crying about it. It'll be a fun time, ya'll.