You are mine, 'til the end of time.
I don't care what we're going through, 'til the end my heart belongs to you.

It happened so fast he barely had time to react.

A screech, a bright light, Shiro's worried voice on the other end of the phone, and then a body— hitting asphalts with a loud, bone cracking thud.

The city stopped and paled before him. The one thing he wanted— desired— more than anything was lying there on the ground, a red puddle quickly forming around his head like the halo of a saint. All life and lust sucked out of his cheeks and skin.

"Lance? Lance?! Are you OK?! Lance, what's going on?!"

People were surrounding him now, looking down in various states of worry and panic. The driver jumped out of the vehicle and ran over to the front, nearly fainting at the sight of the young man he'd just hit. Undoubtedly, that image would be burned in his mind for the rest of his life. Without thinking, Lance dropped his phone and dashed towards the commotion— heart in his throat.

This can't be happening. I must be dreaming.

But as he approached and got a good look at the body, the state he was in, his vision blurred. It was real. Horribly, terrifyingly, traumatizingly real— because there he was, laying lifelessly on the ground before him. His limbs still, unmoving and broken beyond repair.

Lance bent down. He could feel the quivering of his lips, the way his heart ached with every beat. A lump had formed deep within his lungs, limiting his already labored breathing.

His thoughts stuck somewhere else, a time and place of tranquility and bare pleasure. The remainder of his rationality refused to surface, pushed down by the weight which enveloped, choked into silence. His heart refused to see what his brain knew all too well. He knows what this looks like, what a gone person feels like.

People around stopped and observed. On the other side of the glass wall he could make out the sound of people muttering, gossiping between themselves as if it were a mere theatre performance or public stunt.

"Must be a friend…" and "…poor thing…so young…".

Some held onto their phones— diligently recording the ordeal and everything it meant. Recording Lance's fragility, his most vulnerable breaths. He knew what the internet is capable of, knows all too well how this will end— with unwanted exposure, a mother and a father who will stumble upon the tragic state of their once-son as he's bent over, wailing in pain and agony.

And they were right. He was too young. Too young to end so abruptly. Too young to leave Raven like her parents did. Too young to leave him.

His mind filled with memories, recollection of his laughter and the way he smiled so warmly whenever he held Raven in his arms. The way his brows furrowed when he couldn't decide between mint-chocolate and strawberry ice cream. The way his hands held so gently, and the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. The way he loved so strongly, so passionately. The way his nose crinkled when he snorted mid laugh, and the agonizingly gentle strokes of his brush on white canvas; painted and handled so delicately you'd confuse it for a life-long lover in a hospital gown.

All of it gone in the blink of an eye. Wiped clean off the face of this Earth, as if it was never meant to be.

He would never get a second kiss. He would never get a confirmation on what they were, who they were to each other. Would never hold him in his arms or watch him as he blanks out whenever someone openly flirts with him. He would never get to listen to his voice or feel the warmth of his arm as they sit side by side. No more movie nights. Never see his eyes, not once more. Never learn what he doesn't know about him.

Suddenly— as if he was the corpse in his arms— everything flooded at once. His cries could be heard for miles, loud and ugly and echoing the cracking of his heart breaking in his palms. He held him close, felt the way his skin was cold and clammy against his neck and hands, the way his blood mixed with his tears and sweat and stained his already drenched clothes.

Not again. Please, don't leave me. Not you too.

Someone was stroking his back, half-heartedly trying to make him stop crying. He could hear the muted sound of an ambulance approaching in the distance but feared its arrival— didn't want to let him go.

People were talking to him now, pulling at his arms and trying to snap him back to reality.

Yet he kept on crying and crying, felt as his tears mixed with the heavy rain. He would forever hate fall, despise it for all it is and ever was, for it took from him the one person he loved so sincerely, so unfiltered.

This boy in his hands whom had never known love, never known how it feels to be adored to death— was leaving it all once and for all, withering away in the nail-wounded palms of his admirers' hands.

Then, his world tilted. A rough hand grabbed a hold of his shoulder and dragged him away from Keith's lifeless form.

His back hit a strong chest, arms grabbed a hold of him so roughly he thought he might break under the pressure. But something about it felt incredibly familiar, warm. A sense of déjà vu washed over him.

He stopped and let his gaze land on Keith's body where it was being manhandled by the paramedics. Then it clicked.

Matt.

Like a cassette but on reverse, a blur of colors and the sound of static, everything suddenly made sense and his world stopped spinning. Instead, his lungs gave in. No matter how much he tried and flailed around, no matter how much he pushed, no air reached them.

"Lance! Lance!" Matt's voice came through to him, distorted but audible, "Lance, you need to calm down! Look at me! Look at me, Lance!"

He grabbed his jaw and turned his head roughly to the side where blue met panicked hazel.

"It's OK, Lance! You're OK! Everything will be fine! Keith will be OK! We got him!" his friend tried assuring him, but words fell on deaf ears.

"He's dead, Matt."

It sounded awful, raspy and full of ugly emotions. His stomach flipped, threatened to spill its contents all over himself and Matt. He tried pushing away, but Matt's arms remained wrapped around him; an anaconda around its captured prey.

He shushed him and started rocking from side to side, stroking Lance's hair as he did, and whispered reassurance in his ringing ears.

"It's OK. It's OK. You're OK. It's just a panic attack, everything is OK. He's not dead, Lance, just badly injured." He said, holding him tighter. His voice sounded almost as fragile as Lance's.

With what little energy he had left he let his gaze fall on the paramedics crouched around Keith. He looked eerily calm soaked in his own blood.

It reminded him of something akin to comfort, acceptance— relief.

Her last day out was spent packing for the coming journey. Everything of necessity was shoved into her bag and backpack. It would be heavy, and her journey would be long, but it would all be worth it in the end. She knew that much.

From her pocket she pulled out a picture, old and torn at the edges. Her eyes grazed soft cheeks and lovely eyes squinting against bright sunlight. A heavy sigh escaped, and she went to put the picture someplace safer when the door behind her clicked open.

It was her comrade, standing in the doorway in all her intrusive glory.

"Are you really doing this?" she asked, less like a question and more like a confirmation, like something to ground herself on.

"Yes." She answered and turned towards the wide-eyed woman. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her thin waist, a psychological sign of anxiety, "I take it you don't want me to."

"No," she said, "Not alone."

Her head lifted and their eyes locked.

"I'm coming with you." She said and let her arms fall to her sides, "Can't possibly miss meeting the one person you apparently hold above me."

"Is he going to be OK?"

"Lance will be perfectly fine, he just needs some time to rest."

"So there's nothing to worry about?"

"Shiro, love, no. Nothing to worry about."

"And Keith?"

"Keith… Keith will be OK… probably."

Probably? What do you mean 'probably'?"

"I— listen, I'm obligated to tell you the truth, and the truth is that you never know what might happen, though the chances are on our side. That's all I can say for now."

Silence.

"He'll be fine, Shiro. Trust in him."

"Matt… what if— what if he did it on purpose?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not! I'm— he… he's t—"

A loud crash echoed through his skull and his eyes shot open. His ears were filled with the deafening shrill of tires screeching to an abrupt stop on oil-and-rain soaked asphalt. Gasping, he grabbed onto the nearest grab-able thing: Shiro.

"Lance! Lance, breathe!"

His big, warm hands wrapped around Lance's biceps and squeezed enough to send a wave of reassurance coursing through his veins. It brought him back down to Earth.

"Keith…" he started, mind blank and vision blurry, one of his contacts must have fallen out, "Keith! Where is he—"

"He's OK! He's with the doctor! Lay down, you're not ready to stand yet." Shiro urged and pushed him back down into the ocean of pillows.

"Where's Raven?"

"She's with Allura, they're outside." Matt supplied, still dressed like a paramedic on duty. He reminded Lance of a firefighter, dirty and stained from rolling around on the ground with a frantic Lance.

Suddenly, the room filled with silence. Everything was incredibly blurry, partially because of the missing contact.

"I must have dropped one of my contacts… when…when…" he gulped and tried again, "When I— when I was—"

"I assumed that would be the case, so I brought you your glasses and a change of clothes." Shiro said, a knowing, kind smile plastered on his lips, "Didn't know you're blind until I stumbled upon your glasses earlier." He teased.

Lance frowned.

The older man bent down and reached into his black, leather backpack. He pulled out a sleek, blue case. In it were Lance's ugly, majorly despised glasses. Reluctantly, he took his other contact out, not even having it in himself to care about how unhygienic it was, and regretfully put on his glasses. Something Keith never knew about him, never would. Embarrassment enveloped him the second both men in front of him giggled at the sight.

"What?!" he asked, defiant, "I'm fucking blind, OK! I get it, I look stupid." he said and huffed, crossing his arms Keith-style.

Keith.

He cursed his brain for supplying him with the memory of his name, hated himself for how effortlessly it slipped through the webs in his head and out in the open where it had the freedom to kill.

His friend— possibly even lover— was dying somewhere nearby, and he could do nothing but wait and trust. Trust the people with an actual degree, he tried reminding himself, but something inside made him want to crawl out and to Keith, wherever they'd put him. He wanted to see him again, touch him, talk to him. There was so much to say, to ask.

He might never get the chance to do that again.

When tears fell for the millionth time that night, both men stopped their giggling and frowned— sending him looks of concern.

"Lance… he will be OK." Shiro assured him.

"Yeah! Keith is hella strong, don't worry. It's nothing he can't handle." Matt added, sitting down on the other side of Lance's bed. Something about the confidence, the familiarity of his statement sent shiver down Lance's spine.

He swallowed.

"But you said you can't promise us anything."

An accusation and a confirmation that he had, in fact, heard every word of their previous conversation.

Matt froze, his face paling.

Lance turned to Shiro, "And why are you both so confident?" he asked the two startled lovers.

The glimmer of silver promise rings as they reflected the lamplight blinded him and sent a spear flying, through his broken chest. It stung to see.

But the two men remained silent, averting their gaze.

"Maybe…" Shiro started, "Maybe that's something you should ask Keith when he wakes up."

He watched as the bulky man fiddled with his thumbs, eyes roaming the room as if walking through the Centaur's maze: adding every object and dust-particle to memory— scared of getting lost if he looked back.

Lance smiled, a weak and fake smile, "Guess you can't say."

"I shouldn't." he confirmed, "It's not something I have the right to tell."

Lance's head was spinning again. It seemed his brain wasn't a fan of stability today, neither was his fate, it seems. He wanted nothing more than to rip Shiro's throat out, listen to the unspoken words by force if he had to, but knew better than that. He was an airhead, but he was no idiot. Lance knew all too well what their silence, their confidence meant, and he dreaded the day he would hear it said.

"Lance!"

His head lifted only to be met by big, dark-violet eyes— framed with thick, ebony lashes and equally as dark hair. Her cheeks and eyes were red from crying, but her smile shone so brightly it seemed to hold the stars of their universe.

"Raven…" he said and watched her as she climbed up and laid down next to him, snuggling close to his side and burying her nose in his protruding collarbones.

A tan hand hovered hesitantly above her head before gently drowning itself in oceans of black, silken hair. It hurt. It hurt to see her, to touch her like this. He had never realized it before— how much she looks and acts like Keith— until now. She was so small in his arms, just like Veronica. Again, tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over and onto his cheeks. This time, he could no longer tell which thought the reason for it had been. He rested his chin against the crown of her head and listened to the muffled sobs vibrating against his shoulder.

"Shh…" he started, "I got'chu." He tried reassuring, both her and himself.

"I don't want him to die."

Lance's voice caught in his throat. Around him stood Shiro and Matt next to Allura (who had brought in the poor girl) and Lotor, all of whom stood dead still. Their eyes were locked on Raven, expressions blank. He tried catching their eye, tried to silently beg for help from his friends, but the four adults remained deathly quiet.

He tried again, but no sound came out except for a gargled cough and a loud sniffle. The pounding in his head tormented him, kept him from uttering a single word. It knew he would break apart if he did.

So, with no other option available, he wrapped his arms around her lithe body and squeezed her tight, close to his raging heartbeat.

They remained like that for a while, bodies close. He rocked her from side to side until her sniffles died out and were exchanged for soft snores. He rocked her like that until Allura and Lotor left with the promise of bringing something for him and Raven— Keith, too. He rocked her in his arms until they'd grown sore and heavy, until his eyelids drooped, and until his body slumped against the mountain of pillows behind him.

He rocked her fragile body, her youth and happiness, until he could no longer feel the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Lance was no superhuman, could carry no more than two thirds his body weight, a stick-figure granted life— but if taking the world off her shoulders meant she could snore softly into his collarbone, then, by all means, he would let it crush him.

When the doctor deemed him fit enough to walk out of his hospital room and over to where Keith resided, he practically leapt out of the uncomfortable bed. It creaked and slid to the side as he jumped off.

Keith's room was just down the corridor and to the left. On the way there, he bumped over and over again into innocent nurses and angry doctors— keen on scolding him for running in the hospital.

But he ignored it, listened instead to the rushing of his pulse in his ears, felt the tremble in his weak legs as they carried him forward.

Entering the hospital room, he was met with the sight of black wrapped in white bandages. His right wrist was bandaged, too, and his knee was wrapped in some sort of brace, injured as well. Something in the back of his mind whispered how that injury would prevent him from finishing his painting of Lance, at least until it healed properly.

He felt stupid for even thinking that.

He approached on soft feet, hesitant to reach out and steady himself on the chair next to his bed. Shiro and Raven must have been here not too long ago, because there were greasy finger-stains on the table by his bed.

The chair was uncomfortable and broken. It wobbled once from side to side when he seated himself.

Just like that— in front of the sleeping beauty— he remained for a while, thoughts soaring. Keith's head was turned straight ahead, not a muscle moving or showing any indication of life on the pale man's face. A heart monitor beeped gently, the only indication of his still beating heart.

Lance felt the warm embrace of ocean waves as they enveloped him, kissed his skin. He's never experienced relief quite like this. It would not disappear entirely, not until Keith was awake and talking and laughing and painting again, but it was enough to see his face. To see the minimal twitch of his lashes, the heaving of his chest.

His hands were still shaking as he reached out until his fingers brushed through the darkest of skies. His hair was warm and dry, but frizzy and tangled, too. The rain had shown him no mercy, neither had his own blood where it had coagulated between strands. He pushed that thought away.

"Idiot."

He could feel the growing confidence within himself as a thumb gently danced over his lips, chapped but soft all at once. Today, he'd let himself indulge in Keith's beauty.

Another finger traced the fine bridge of his nose and traveled up towards his right eye, touching softly the long lashes where they rested against his skin. Bruises littered his body, all in different shades of yellow and purple. A new scar had formed on his cheek, not so deep but big and ready to stay a reminder for a lifetime. It traveled up his right cheek and stopped right below his eye. He looked horrible, completely beaten up and dirty and a mess, yet, despite it all Lance leant forward.

Nothing more than a peck, but a kiss nonetheless, placed gently on his unresponsive lips.

Like last time, sparks truly went flying.

Quite literally, because it appears he had just been thrown straight into a Disney fairytale. Keith's violet eyes opened, as if on que, and drifted to the side where they locked with Lance's.

The omnipresent painter in the room poured a bucket of colors over everything, coating his world in saturated beauty.

"Purple…" He said, startling both himself and barely-present Keith.

He raised a brow, weakly, the way he always did whenever he found something to be completely and utterly confusing. Lance thought it endearing, cute even.

"Purple." He repeated himself, more firmly this time, "My favorite color is not blue, it's purple."

Keith closed his eyes and rasped out a weak, "Why?" before they opened again. All air left his lungs the second they did. That's why, he thought.

"What, my eyes?" he croaked, a soft blush spreading across his cheeks.

Wait, had he said that out loud?

Keith laughed, quiet and raspy but a laugh. Lance could slowly start checking things off his relief-list.

His face burned, but he had made up his mind hours ago. Sitting in his hospital bed, rooms away from a dying Keith, he had promised himself that if he ever woke again Lance would make sure he had no regrets. He would make sure to capture every moment, every word and emotion. He would make sure to never hesitate again, never run away from his feelings.

He gulped.

"Keith, can I tell you something?"

Keith merely nodded, too tired to do more than that. Even that seemed painful, for he furrowed his brows and closed his eyes, a pained expression overtaking his handsome face. Must hurt to move his head after the impact.

He gulped again, then,

"I'm madly in love with you, I think."

The confession hung heavy in the air. It was probably the last thing Keith wanted— or needed— to hear right now, but he could no longer hold it within himself. There. He said it. He's in love with a boy, a man.

Keith blinked lazily at him, and then,

"You think?" he asked, voice low and deeper than he's ever heard it before, "Dude, if all that was you being discreet, I'm scared."

Lance blinked at him once then twice, confused as to what to say. He couldn't decide which rejection-category that belonged to. Keith had noticed? Known all along? His face heated, hotter than ever thought possible. Jesus.

"What…?" he said instead, jaw slack and heavy.

"I know you do." He said, as if to clarify, then he stopped.

He stopped and looked at various flowers and glitter-soaked drawings on the table beside his head, before saying, "I know I do, too."

He couldn't read his expression, couldn't make out what he truly meant, and couldn't care less about it.

As if life was being pumped back into him, his heart leapt in his chest, so roughly he bet Keith could hear it. It was mimicking the beeping of the machine connected to Keith, loud and synchronized as their eyes remained locked on the other, unmoving. The beeping continued, a rapid pulse— like music in a ballroom, or the psalms sung in church on a rainy Sunday— and Lance's face broke into a smile as he watched the blush in Keith's cheeks spread down to his neck and up to his ears. Something in him told him to run, to turn back before it's too late— before he becomes completely incapable of ever returning to his previous life— but his heart spoke no words, told no tales. His heart beat and beat, over and over, for the boy with sunsets in his eyes.