AN:

Back to the old grind, my lovelies.

Disclaimer: I do not own Voltron Legendary Defender

So, this chapter is long (I'm sure you're shocked). It just has a lot of stuff. Sorry/you're welcome.

TWs: talk of abusive relationships and a non-violent/non-physical confrontation between a victim and an abusive ex. There is also a non-descriptive panic attack. If you need more deets before you feel safe reading, hit me up

Chapter 10: Open Eyes

Keith stood outside the four-story brick building, sweeping his gaze across the tall windows that gave glimpses of life taking place inside. In a floor window, there was an exhausted lady rubbing her temples with one hand and holding a phone to her ear with the other. In another window were a few tall dancers in matching leggings and pink tank tops stretching their legs over the top of long wooden bars attached to the wall. In another was a collection of dancers sprawled across the floor sharing what looked like a pizza. Their faces were lit in big grins, but the pinching at each other's seemingly flat stomachs and toned legs told another story. In another was—

Lance.

Keith bit his lip, remembering the morning's events. Keith had woken up to several long-winded texts from Lance about a painting. That was when he realized he'd accidentally texted the picture of his sunset to Lance. Keith was incredibly embarrassed and almost didn't go to the studio that day. He definitely didn't respond to the texts, partially because he wasn't sure of the motivation behind Lance's kind words.

Hiking his bag higher on his shoulder, Keith pulled open the large door to the studio and stepped inside. Immediately his senses were assaulted with loud chatter and the smell of fruity perfume with an underlying stench of sweat. It was like high school all over again.

Keith was suddenly shoved with too much force to have been harmless or accidental. Losing his balance, he tripped and smacked into the wall with enough force to make his shoulder twinge in protest. His blank expression warped into a snarl and he glared over his uninjured shoulder at a small group of male dancers that were snickering at him.

"Sorry, dude, maybe you should watch where you're going." One of them cooed.

"Are you kidding me?" Keith snapped. "I don't know about you, but I graduated high school a while ago. Maybe you should, too." He turned around, muttering under his breath.

No real damage had been done, but it was the fact of the matter. Keith had always considered professional dancers to be a mix of "The Jocks" and "The Prissy Posse." The former being self-explanatory (football players, being the most common of the category) and the latter being well-dressed, snobby and (usually) female students with narcissistic streaks a mile wide.

As Keith made his way down the hall, he found himself being stared at. Some students whispered amongst themselves, eyes lighting up in recognition or darkening with irritation as stories about himself were traded from ear to ear. It was comforting to see that some things never changed.

In his distraction over the whispers and stares, Keith almost missed Lance's room. The door was wide open, as was his trademark. Keith snuck a peek inside and found himself staring face to abs with a shirtless Lance. Some kind of Spanish song that sounded vaguely familiar was playing quietly on the radio and Lance was walking on across the room. On his hands.

"Hey, Little Red!" Lance exclaimed joyfully. Keith couldn't help but feel welcome when faced with a smile that big.

"Excuse me?"

"Your jacket." Lance huffed with effort as he turned around on his hands to walk the other way down the room. "It's red. Like— ugh— Little Red Rid— ouch!"

Keith quickly made his way across the room to a collapsed pile of Lance, who's slender arms had given out from under his body's weight. Thankfully, the floors were a springy old wood, not hardpacked concrete.

"Jeezus, what's wrong with you?" Keith complained as he helped Lance into a less pretzel-y sitting position.

"My brilliant charm? My winning personality?" Lance offered with a slightly dopy grin. Keith snorted.

"Yeah, something like that."

Keith dropped his bag on the floor by a bench that sat across the room from a mirror-lined wall and plopped down. Looking down, he found a fancy purse and an overflowing bag of dance shoes next to him. Lance's bags. He reached out on impulse to touch a silky ribbon from one of the many ballet slippers and found himself almost hypnotized with the strange texture.

"Keith?" Keith whipped his head up, jerking his hand away from the slipper as if he'd been burned.

"What?" he asked, finding Lance watching him with a bit of concern touching the grin on his face.

"Are you okay? You're rubbing your shoulder." Somehow, without even meaning to, Keith had reached his hand across his chest to rub the opposite shoulder. The one he had slammed into the wall.

"I'm fine," he immediately let go of his shoulder and busied himself with getting his sketchbook and charcoals ready. He hadn't even realized Lance was walking towards him until the dancer was kneeling on the floor in front him.

"Did something happen to your shoulder?" Lance asked. Keith shook his head, but Lance seemed unconvinced.

"So, what are we doing today? Circus tricks?"

"Better," Lance grinned, "en pointe." He scooped up his slippers and began wrestling into pink slippers that had a strange, flat tip.

"These are pointe shoes. They have a little block thing inside so dancers can get up on their literal tip-toes easier and stuff," Lance explained when he noticed Keith's confused stare.

"That can't be comfortable," Keith said. Lance laughed.

"It's absolutely not! It takes forever to break these things in and even then, you'll still get blisters. And you have to use this yellow powder on your shoes, so you don't slip…"

"Sounds like a strange form of torture," Keith grimaced.

"It is." Lance said gravely.

"Then why do you do it?"

"Why do you draw?"

"Drawing doesn't make me bleed and it doesn't require torture shoes."

"Touché." Lance finished tying the ribbon on his second shoe and began riffling through his bag. He pulled out a baggy crop top that was made out of a sheer material. He slipped it on over his head, straightening it as he stood up.

Keith snorted as he read the skinny, stacked lettering on the shirt. It read: "plié jeté classé everyday." Lance looked over his shoulder when he heard the muted laughter and smiled.

"Hey, before you get started, I just wanted to say I'm sorry." Keith said suddenly. The accidental sending of the painting had been resting uncomfortably in the back of his mind but roared during the moment of silence.

"Sorry for what?"

"Sending that picture," Keith muttered, casting his gaze away from Lance. "It was late, and I was trying to send it to someone else, and—"

"You didn't mean for me to see it?" Lance asked softly.

"Um, no." Lance nodded.

"Okay, well, uh… ballet things time." Lance said, clapping his hands together. He speed-walked across the room and began fiddling with the stereo system.

"So, I was thinking," the dancer began.

"Dangerous pastime." Keith snickered.

"Shut up. I was thinking I could show you one of my dances with music, and then it without music."

"Why?"

"Well, there's a misconception that dance is just a visual of the music when, really, music and dance can speak for themselves. You don't need dance to understand music, and vice versa. They just… amplify the other." Lance sounded like a teacher.

"Why?" Keith repeated.

"How do you show, like, anger in painting?"

"You use darker colours. Red, mostly. And wild, thick brush strokes."

"Okay, those sound kind of… clinical. Like textbook answers."

"Does that make it wrong?" Keith asked uncertainly.

"No, there's just… look, let me just show you this, and you'll understand. I hope. I'll do the one with music first."

Keith nodded uncertainly, watching as the dancer pressed play on the stereo. Gentle violin warmed the room as Lance made his way to the center. The chord got louder and when it seemed to reach its peak, Lance reached his arms out before swirling them around above his head, arching his body with them.

There was an odd bass-drop type sound that startled Keith and to which Lance responded by hopping up on the tip of his shoe, arms splayed at his sides like he was flying. The music picked up, several violins and cellos now joining as Lance whirled around, breaking into a sudden leap that had Keith gasping. Lance spun wildly before arching back, arms circled above his head in the shape of an 'O.'

Eventually, the music slowed, and Lance's movement mimicked it, becoming more languid as he brought his arms up above his head, leg slowly following until his knee was almost touching his shoulder. The music suddenly came back with full force and Lance leapt, twisting his body in a way that didn't look humanly possible. The music slowed again, and Lance's movements became more fluid and elegant. He finally came to a stop in the center of the room, like a musical toy winding down.

"So that's one with music," Lance said. He jogged over to turn off the machine before it could play something else. He looked like he was going to say something but paused and sagged against the cabinet that held the stereo system.

"Is something wrong?" Keith asked, moving to the edge of his seat.

"No, I just…" Lance screwed up his lips in thought. "I have this contemporary piece I've been working on." Lance began to twist the thin fabric of his short.

"Go on."

"I haven't showed it to anyone, is basically what I'm trying to say. I know this whole 'a dance with music, then a dance without music' thing should be, like, the same medium— like I did the dance with music en pointe, so I should do en pointe without music— but, I think my point would be better… um, better… proven with my contemporary routine." Lance looked at Keith as if waiting for approval.

"You're the dance guy. Whatever you want to do is fine with me." That seemed to be the best thing to say because Lance raced across the room and began tearing off his shoes.

"Okay, okay, okay," Lance babbled excitedly as he made his way to the center of the room. He was much closer the Keith than he was for the en pointe dance. So close, Keith could see the caramel flecks in his eyes. "So, this might go terribly, and you might hate it, but remember that this has never been shown to anyone so, it's like, the first edition of a book, you know? It's an unedited, mess and it's too emotional and needs more foundation—"

"Lance," Keith cut in softly. "Just dance."

"Rhymes." Lance's hands were shaking, and it suddenly occurred to Keith that the dancer might be nervous. It was strange. Lance was so sunny and joyful that it seemed impossible for him to be on edge or anxious.

"I'll love it. I know already." Keith said. Lance nodded, taking a breath before closing his eyes. He lowered to his knees with his hands behind his back as if he were shackled.

After a moment of silence and stillness, the dancer arched his back impressively without moving his hands. He seemed to be straining against something until he sagged, as if his energy was spent on the struggle. He repeated the action of straining and relaxing again until the invisible shackles broke.

The force put behind the struggle caused Lance's arms to fly outward and he leaned forwards, looking so unbalanced that Keith actually reached forwards. His hands were almost at Lance's sides when he realized this was a part of the dance. He got a fond smile out of Lance for the embarrassment, though.

The first thing that newly 'freed' Lance did was tilt backwards, controlling his slow descent. On his back, his arms reached upwards as if he was trying to touch the ceiling. His legs fanned outward and he rolled gracefully onto his stomach and continued onto his back, like a dog rolling through the grass. The thudding of his body against the floor that would normally be obscured by music was strangely useful to the dance. It made the movements seem more real and tangible, like seeing the shadow of someone's jacket fluttering behind them or the circles of their fingertips on a glass covered in condensation.

Keith's heart caught in his throat when Lance's hands violently came up to choke himself. But, upon closer examination, Keith realized it was more like Lance was tugging on something that was choking him. Lance propelled his body across the floor on his back by kicking his legs as if he were struggling. And suddenly he leapt apart from whatever was fake choking him— but the way one of his arms was reaching out and how his body seemed to be tugged by the appendage… it looked more like he was yanked away from the choking phantom.

Lance artfully stumbled before twisting across the floor as if being tugged between two forces. Keith held his breath when Lance suddenly went down as if those fighting forces that yanked him between themselves suddenly disappeared and Lance was left without support.

On his back, Lance was still, breaths deep and obvious. Suddenly, his arms were up by his face, seeming to be gracefully battling off another unseen force as his kicks to the air and his flying arms increased their aggression until Lance threw himself off the floor and spun wildly. His feet seemed to barely touch the ground, his body floating off into the air.

Lance finally stopped when he came up to the mirror. He had raised a fist as if he was going to fight someone off again. Upon seeing his reflection, that fist weakened and lowed to rest by Lance's stomach. Lance lightly dragged that same violent hand from his cheek to his chest as if he were reassuring himself of his existence. The movement was as intimate as it was sensual, and it had Keith blushing, feeling like he was intruding.

Lance leaned forwards towards the mirror almost hesitantly, head down as if bowing. When his forehead came to touch the cool glass, he met his own eyes in the reflection and let out a shuddery sigh, fingertips coming to rest against the glass. It was heartbreaking to see.

Keith was breathless. He was suddenly aware that he was gripping the edge of his seat so tightly his knuckles turned white and released the bench. Lance sluggishly made his way towards the bench, gasping for breath as he went. He stumbled but Keith quickly reached out to steady him.

"Thanks," the dancer said sheepishly. "My routines kind of take a lot out of me."

"I've noticed," Keith said.

"So, do you see? Without music, dance is still emotional, raw, passionate and the music was kind of the sprinkles on the ice cream." Lance explained between gulps of water from his bottle.

"Yeah, in the first one, I definitely felt things. Like… I felt it. But the second one…" Keith didn't even have words for this. He distractedly watched Lance pick at the chipping blue polish on his nails.

"The second one," he tried again. "I just… I felt it. I felt like I understood what you were saying. This wasn't just a nice dance with a good message like the one with music. This was powerful."

"Thank you," Lance said, eyes shining.

"So, if I apply that to art…" Keith trailed off. "How do I apply that to art?" he asked, warming at the sound of Lance's laughter.

"Isn't that your job? I'm just supposed to offer guidance."

"You said it was raw… Maybe I rely on colour? I use red to show anger, which makes a nice picture with a good message, but… the point is that colour isn't only what show emotion. Those are the… sprinkles…" Keith's face screwed up at the word.

"Never thought I'd hear such a fun word come from your frowny face," Lance said.

"So, if it's not colour… what is it? What is it that actually says the thing I want to say? And how do I know what I want to say? Like, what if I don't want to say anything and I just… just…" He was at a loss in his strongest field. He'd never been so confused over art, of all things. That was his forte, his strongest talent. And he was lost.

Trapped in his thoughts, Keith almost missed Lance's attempts at getting his attention.

"…alm down, breath, dude. You'll be okay. You'll figure this out, I know you will." Lance was saying, scooting a little closer. The artist took a shuddery breath, focusing on the heat he felt radiating off Lance's body and on the soft, grounding voice.

"I just don't… I've never… I've never not been able…" Keith breathed shallowly, hands clutching his kneecaps. He felt a feather-touch on one of his hands and immediately recoiled, taking a shuddery breath. After a minute of cooling down, Keith worked his way back to mostly normal.

"Come here." The confidence in Lance's voice made Keith look up to him. The dancer was holding his hand out, face honest. Keith cocked his head. "Come on, I won't bite. Unless you ask nicely." Keith chuckled and shook his head.

"I don't dance."

"Well, it's a good thing that I do, then." Lance said. Keith looked at him for a minute and, when he didn't see any cruelty in those dark eyes, he hesitantly accepted the offered hand.

"What are we doing?" Keith asked when his free hand was guided to Lance's waist.

"Learning by practice," Lance said with a cheeky grin. "Maybe if you loosen up a bit, you'll get some inspiration?"

"I'm getting charcoal all over you," Keith said. Lance looked at their joined hands, seeing the black streaks that now stained his skin. The dancer shrugged.

"We're just mixing our forms of art." He said. Keith felt very warm and wondered if there was ever a time that Lance wasn't smiling. "Okay, step forward— other foot, yep. I mirror what you do, so I'll be stepping back— no, don't shuffle. Big steps, big steps." Lance coached Keith until the two were waltzing in slow, lopsided circles together.

Things were going smoothly (as smooth as a bumbling Keith could be) when someone came through the open doorway. Keith turned to see that the intruder was the blonde dancer from the other day that was super possessive of Lance. Lance's grip on Keith's hand tightened.

"What's going on, guys?" the blond guy asked.

"We're just dancing. So, Keith can get inspiration for his art," Lance answered too quickly. He wasn't smiling.

"You mean you moved on to the nearest warm body." The guy snorted, crossing his arms. Keith raised an eyebrow.

"We weren't doing anything like that," Lance argued. His grip was strangling.

"You mean you aren't sleeping with this emo punk reject? That's strange, because you'll literally sleep with anything that moves."

The guy was a jerk. Keith knew this. He also knew Lance didn't like this guy but was trying to stay neutral because he had to work with this jerk every day. It was smart. But the way that Lance flinched when this guy stepped closer had Keith's blood boiling. Keith grew up in the foster system. He knew the stories a flinch told.

"Leave him alone." Keith demanded, moving in front of Lance without retracting his hand from the dancer's grip. The blond guy came closer, so he and Keith were almost nose to nose.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Keith grinned cynically.

"Whatever the hell you did to Lance."

"You and what army?" Keith smirked and raised his shirt sleeve, showing a purple tattoo design of a unique knife. The blond dancer stepped back.

"Don't wanna fight some kid who hides behind a gang anyways." The guy said, tossing a glare that had Lance flinching before he stormed out.

"It's not a gang," Keith said under his breath when the guy left. Keith turned to Lance, finding the dancer was pale and shaking fiercely.

"Are you okay?" Lance nodded minutely. "Is he going to come back to hurt you if I leave? Do I need to stay?"

"No, I'll be fine." Lance whispered.

"Are you absolutely sure?" Keith asked quietly, running a hand down Lance's bare arm. While Keith may not be one for touch, he knew the dancer was tactile and had a feeling Lance needed a grounding touch.

"Yeah."

"Text me. If anything happens— even if you just feel uncomfortable and he's not nearby, you text me. Please." Keith relaxed when he got a strong nod in response.

"So, you dated that guy?"

"Pretty stupid, right? Confident, talented dancer with hundreds of friends winds up in an abusive relationship, takes years to get out of it and tells no one. Lets the guy walk. Have you…"

"My roommate… his name is Hunk. He was in a… bad relationship. It was… bad." Lance nodded.

"I'll text you. I just… it was a while ago, so let's just drop it." Keith stared.

"Lance, you can't just drop this. It isn't some little fight, it was an ongoing, abusive relationship. You were physically and emotionally hurt by this man—"

"I'm not worth it!" Lance suddenly yelled. His face was bright red, eyes watery. "I'm not—" Lance sighed heavily, lowering his head and hiding his eyes in his fists. Keith watched the dancer in silence.

"Please…" Keith swallowed past a lump in his throat. "Tell me you don't believe that."

"Can you leave?" Keith blinked at the sudden request.

"Wha—"

"I'd like for you to leave." Lance said with more conviction.

"Are you o—"

"Please." Keith nodded.

"Okay, leaving," he promised, heading back to the bench. He swung his bag over his shoulder, scooping up his tin of charcoals and his notebook. He eyed Lance as he slowly crossed the room and looked over his shoulder once he got to the door. Lance was drying his face on his tiny crop top and sunk to his knees on the floor.

"Please text me." Keith said, leaving before he got a response.

AN:

ANGST. Good stuff.

Hey, thanks for reading and I hope you have a good week. See you next time!