Author's Note: First of all, my apologies to Shiranai Atsune, who has been faithfully commenting on every single chapter from the very beginning. I'm sorry, friend, I am indeed going to ruin everything.
But not for long.
Chapter Thirty-Five: Incompatibility
Lance didn't know why he was nervous. It wasn't like Keith was going to answer. He was just proving a point for Allura, that's all. The phone rang once, then again, three times. Lance was in the process of pulling it away from his ear to hit end on the call, ready to shrug at Allura in a defeated, "just like I said" sort of way, when he heard a click on the line. What? He'd . . . he'd actually answered?
Nerves hit Lance too hard to stay seated on the couch. He jerked to his feet, began pacing from the balcony window to the partial kitchen wall, his heart thundering hard. Pidge's huge all-caps confession flashing into his memory. Was he really going to do this?
"Keith!" Lance blurted out, running a hand through his hair. Be cool, he lectured himself. Yeah, but how? What was he even supposed to say? Hey, Keith, I know you say we're best friends, but I can't stop thinking about you and I know I've been in a relationship with a girl for years, but the person I'm actually in love with is you. What do you think? That . . . was not smooth at all! How would Allura do it?
"Hello?" Came the faraway voice on the line, and Lance paused, fingers still threaded in his hair, suddenly confused. That wasn't Keith's voice. He checked the phone, reviewing the number he'd dialed. No, it was right. This was Keith's number. Or it had been. Did Keith not have this phone number anymore? Because whoever had answered was definitely not Keith. The voice was pitched low, but it belonged unquestionably to a woman.
"Hello?" She repeated. Lance saw Allura gesturing for him to say something from the couch, her whole body engaged in what she was watching. How he wished he could trade spots with her. She didn't understand how everything had just tangled up in this plan of hers.
"Um, hi," Lance said, trying to regain his mental balance from where it had been flipped about three times now. "I'm sorry; I think I have the wrong number."
Allura tilted her head; her eyebrows drawing together, also confused. Yeah, now what? Now Lance didn't know where Keith was, and he didn't have his phone number. And just because Pidge had written confession on a paper, that didn't mean that Lance wanted to write any of this in a letter and then wait three months for a reply. That would be a new and creative kind of torture. Possibly even worse than what he was experiencing now.
"Who are you looking for?" The unknown voice in the unknown location asked him. She sounded sharp, her words cut. Her method of speech reminded Lance of Krolia, Keith's lawyer. But younger.
"My friend, Keith," Lance told her, too intrigued to not answer. "This used to be his phone number."
"It still is, but he's unavailable right now. Is there a message you'd like me to pass on to him?"
Message to pass on? Um, no, not a chance. Lance hadn't called to wish him happy birthday or ask his advice on how to fix an alternator in a car. He'd called for a very specific purpose, and that certainly did not transfer well through a stranger. So no messages, but Lance had a million questions suddenly curling around his tongue. He thought it might be rude to ask about half of them, but then decided that he didn't really care. Because who knew when someone would answer if he ever called again?
"So, wait, if this is still Keith's phone–" Lance began asking instead of even addressing what she'd said about messages.
"Why am I answering it?" She interrupted smoothly. "I take it at night to make sure no one bothers him. He sleeps like shit as it is without people forgetting about time zone differences." Ok, who was this girl? Why did she get to take Keith's phone while he slept? How did she know that he had a hard time resting well? Where were they anyway? But she broke into his thoughts with a question of her own. "Are you one of the astronauts?"
"Astrophysicists," Lance corrected automatically, his heart growing heavy. They called Keith? He took their calls? They had spoken to this person? "And no, I'm not."
"Right, you couldn't be. They never screw up the time zone." Holy shit, what was with this girl? How many people called Keith and actually got through? Could it be that he was actively ignoring Lance when he called him? It wasn't like he called him all the time; he hardly ever tried. The attempts grew fewer and fewer, so . . . wait a second. Hunk and Pidge never screwed up the time zone. Did that mean they knew where Keith was? Did everyone know except Lance?
"Where are you exactly?" Lance asked bluntly, suddenly irritated that he seemed to be the only one out of the loop. She sighed.
"Currently? Japan. Which is GMT plus nine for future reference."
Lance was starting to feel hostile towards this strange woman and incredibly left out of Keith's life. He did some mental calculations and figured that it was somewhere between ten and eleven pm in Japan right now . . .on Monday night, actually. So late, but not "holy crap, why are you calling me in the middle of the night, this had better be an emergency" late.
"Ok, noted," Lance quipped, then decided that if he wanted to get anywhere with this girl, he'd have to keep tension out of his voice and be polite.
"So, did you have a message, and if you aren't one of the NASA guys, who should I say it's from?" It sounded like she was trying to do the same thing. Making an effort to be polite. Lance was doing his best not to hate her. No, actually, that wasn't true. He wasn't trying hard at all.
"There's no message," Lance said, abandoning the plan. If she didn't know who was calling, it was because Keith hadn't even put Lance into his contacts. His name wasn't on Keith's phone screen in Japan. This whole thing had been a crushing, horrible idea. "I was just hoping to check in with him. It's been a while – but I didn't know he had someone screening his calls now. Who?" Yeah, Lance, go ahead. It's none of your business, but you'll probably never call this number again. "Can I ask who you are?"
"I'm Acxa," she returned, sure of herself, though not quite arrogant, and Lance frowned at the phone. What the hell kind of name was Acxa? Couldn't be what was on her birth certificate. Maybe they all went by code names in the Air Force. Maybe it was more efficient than her real name.
"And you're Keith's secretary?" Lance prompted, needing her to say it, his voice defensively sarcastic. It was another question that was none of his business, but he needed his suspicions confirmed.
"Partner," she said flatly. So much for polite. "For about six months now if that was your next question." Partner. There you go, Allura. Like I said. Keith's not like that. And even though Lance had known that before, this news stung hard. Keith had never even mentioned her. Not once. And Lance had received at least one letter in the past six months, so it wasn't like it was lost in the mail still. It just seemed that Lance wasn't important enough to know where Keith was or for Keith to answer his calls or to let him know that he had a girlfriend now who had to have slept with him enough to know that it might help to take his phone away at bedtime. Shit.
You can't be hurt about this, Lance, he lectured himself. You've had a girlfriend for three years. Yeah, but Keith set them up. He'd meant for them to get together. And he knew about them from the start.
"He failed to mention you," Lance stated, and he knew he sounded cold, but damn it, Keith. You could have at least let me know. So much for being best friends.
"We told everyone who needed to know." Yeah, ok, he hated her. Time to get off the phone before he said something stupid.
"Well, good for you guys. Look, sorry I bothered you."
"You're sure there's no message?" Thanks for the olive branch, Acxa. Lance wanted to growl at her.
"No. In fact, you don't even have to tell him I called." He almost said he'd try again another time, paying strict attention to the difference, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Because he knew he wasn't calling again. He didn't want to ever have another conversation with Acxa, knowing that she was with Keith right now, looking at him in the dark, lying next to him, touching him in ways that Lance had only fantasized about long after the chance had been taken away from him.
How had he let Allura talk him into this?
"Take care of him," Lance said in parting, making it sound almost like a threat. But maybe it should. Because how could she know what a precious thing it was to be with Keith that way? To have the freedom to touch him, trace her fingers over his scars, hold him as he slept. How could anyone possibly appreciate it correctly?
"I do," Acxa said resolutely. Lance shook his head, unable to respond. He ended the call without another word, realizing he was still standing paralyzed near the coffee table. Allura sat watching him with a thoughtful, questioning expression on her face.
"Well, now we know," Lance forced out, failing completely at keeping his voice free of tears. No, he was not crying about this. No way. He'd said at the beginning that he was going to be happy for all of Keith's successes in life, and that specifically included any relationship he chose to engage in. If Keith was attracted to that harpy of a woman, then Lance was going to get behind it.
Even though it hurt like hell.
"What do we know?" Allura prompted, reminding him that she had only heard one half of that conversation. Lance swiped his wine glass off the coffee table, draining it in a rush.
"That Keith's girlfriend keeps his phone with her at night so no one bothers him while he's sleeping," Lance replied acidly. Chill out, he told himself. It's not Allura's fault that this went horribly wrong. It's yours because you knew it would before you started, and you tried it anyway.
"Oh, Lance, I'm sorry," Allura apologized quickly, but the last thing he wanted right now was sympathy. Or really anything but a one-way ticket to Japan so he could stare down that bitch and demand to have an actual conversation with Keith about all the ways he'd been keeping things from Lance for the last three years.
"It was a good thought," Lance allowed, not wanting to unleash any of his pain onto Allura. But he couldn't stand her looking at him like that either, so he hurriedly placed his wine glass in the sink and started heading toward his room. "I'm . . .going to go study. Finals, you know."
"Lance," Allura called after him, but he was already past the couch, almost to his door. "Lance, wait."
"I just want to be alone for a while, Princess," he called over his shoulder, shutting himself in.
"You never want to be alone," Allura reminded him, because she knew him well. It was true, being alone sucked. But the one person Lance wanted to be with was completely inaccessible, fourteen time zones away across the date line and, oh yeah, in a committed relationship. Didn't Allura understand that he was trying to protect her from having to see him broken? He was supposed to be her boyfriend, had been her boyfriend forever; he didn't want her to see this.
"Lance," Allura called from the other side of the door. He closed his eyes, leaning against it, biting his lip so he wouldn't cry. You already knew, he kept reminding himself. You knew before he left. But the letters. The gifts. There'd always been that margin of ambiguity. That little sliver of hope. "Lance, listen."
"Allura, it's fine."
"You had a girlfriend, too, Lance," she explained, speaking as though she weren't talking about herself, speaking as though he hadn't asked her not to. "I know it never felt that way to us, but it was true. You had a girlfriend for the same reason I had a boyfriend. Because that's what you do. That's what you're supposed to want. You just have no idea how much Keith respects you, but I have seen it. He wants your approval, Lance; I know he does. He picked himself up out of the ashes because of what you showed him about his true character. Because you're so very good at seeing the good in people. And if watching you gave him the impression that a successful life meant a solid career, a wife, and a family, then that is what he is going to copy, no matter his actual feelings about it."
"Allura, you are not responsible for making this right for me," Lance half-begged her. Please stop trying. She was doing it again. With her logic and her reasoning and her elegant speeches. He hated it how she was making him want to believe, the contradicting proof still fresh in his mind.
"You know - you didn't actually talk to Keith."
"Allura!"
He heard her sigh, knew she was leaning her head against his door too. Knew that she felt guilty for her suggestion and she did indeed desperately want to fix this for him. Because it had been her idea, and because she was struggling with the fact that she'd be leaving him alone. Abandoning him like a puppy or something that she'd promised to take care of. Even though it was nothing like that. His choices were his own.
"Just . . .please don't give up on him yet," she said softly. Lance closed his eyes, feeling wet on his cheeks. Don't worry, he thought. Even if it tears me to pieces, I don't think I can. Damn it, Keith. "Give him more time."
She left him then, as he'd requested, and he stayed in his room for another twenty minutes, pacing, wiping furiously at his eyes, replaying his conversation with Acxa – he was never going to get over the ridiculousness of that name. Keith, how can you date someone with a name like that?
But soon the flare of disappointment had smoldered down to just an ache, one that Lance was very familiar with. The ache of homesickness, of loneliness. He shook his head at himself, picking up his anatomy book and heading out to the living room again. Allura sat at the dining room table, reading. She looked up when he came out, but wisely didn't say anything, didn't even smile. He pulled a chair up close to her, also opening his book. They didn't say a word, but they held hands under the table.
And thankfully, they did not speak about Keith again throughout the remainder of Allura's time at Stony Island. It was easy not to; there was a ton to get ready, and it was customary at this point to slip into that unthinking routine. There were finals to take, books to pack, and the graduation party to finish coordinating.
Lance and Allura played their ongoing roles as the perfect couple that day in June for Melenor's sake. Allura held to Lance's arm as they moved over the grounds of the Castle of Lyons, smiling and thanking everyone who wished them congratulations on their graduation. They looked knowingly at each other when the sweet ladies made subtle and sometimes extremely forward suggestions that now that they had school out of the way, maybe it was time to become a little more serious with each other. They pretended that they were too innocent to understand any of it. Though when someone brought up the subject of having children, Allura hit a snapping point and confessed that she was actually headed to New York, attending a grad program at Columbia. This came as a shock, of course, so Lance jumped in quickly with his full support and admiration for her decision. The ladies looked dubious but quailed under Lance's lavish praise of Allura's plan.
She buried her face against his arm after that, and he patted her reassuringly. It was no one's business, he told her. No one gets to tell you what to do with your life except you. Don't give it another thought.
But Lance did. He wondered if he were really making the right choice about her. Especially now that he knew for certain about Keith. He allowed himself one last imagining of what their life would be like if he did marry her. Marry into this family. What their children might look like, what it would feel like to hold them, real and breathing in his arms. He'd always wanted children. He knew they didn't love each other like that, but maybe they could learn to?
Allura seemed to have the same thought. She pulled him to the side at dusk, as the party ended, as the catering staff began to tear everything down.
"I have an idea," she said.
"Does it run along the lines of us promising to marry each other if we're both still single at thirty-five?" Lance guessed. Her eyes widened for a second, but then she smiled, lifting one shoulder.
"Your knowing exactly what I was going to propose just solidifies the fact that it is indeed a perfect plan," she said, her bearing full of the majesty that made him call her Princess in the first place.
"Then I agree," Lance said, to all of it. Allura actually put forth her hand, pinkie finger extended, and Lance wanted to laugh. They were going to pinkie promise on this? Yeah, sure, why not? There was no way that Allura would still be single at thirty-five unless that's what she really wanted out of life. And it was so far into the future. More than a decade. Lance locked little fingers with her, shaking his head.
And he held her one last time as he stood by her shiny, blue Rav4 one week later when it was time for her to start driving to New York, after stripping the apartment of any trace of her except for some of the books that she left for him, the clothes she had purchased for him.
"You were the best boyfriend," Allura told him, nuzzled against his chest.
"I was your only boyfriend," Lance reminded her, playing with her hair.
"The fact that these details are not mutually exclusive is irrelevant," she shot back, and he smiled at her. Ran his hand over her hair one last time and opened her door for her.
"You're going to be fantastic," he assured. The corners of her eyes crinkled slightly with worry, with doubt, and with the tiniest bit of concern. She stood on tiptoe, lightly kissing the corner of his mouth, soft as a snowflake, their first and last kiss exactly the same.
"Take care of yourself, Lance," she instructed, firm. He nodded and watched her pull onto Lake Shore Drive. This time without him.
Then he went upstairs and pulled the afghan and camp chair from his closet, placing them carefully in their previous positions. The afghan on the back of the old couch. The camp chair next to the door even though it was just getting into June and there would be no coats stacked on it for months yet. Lance made a bookshelf out of the partial wall, setting up all those titles that Allura had left for him, the ones she thought would benefit him the most. They took up about three quarters of the space, so Lance also shifted the basil plant in its little pot to take up the rest. There. A little shrine to the past residents of Stony Island. But filling up the small counter in that spot did nothing to fill the big empty place in Lance's heart. Putting things back where they had been didn't bring the feeling back properly. If anything, it just emphasized the loss. But Lance left everything where he'd put it. Even though the memories pained him, he didn't want to lose them by removing all the reminders either.
It's ok, he told himself. Over and over. All the time. When you came here, you were excited, and it had nothing to do with any of the people you met when you arrived. You were driven, remember when you were driven? When all you could think about was becoming a doctor. That's what you wanted, more than anything. And you didn't need anyone. Remember that. Focus on that. That's who you are. And you're going to be good at it. Lance opened the balcony door, stepping out into bright sunshine. He looked out to the lake, how it sparkled when it was warm. It's ok. He gripped tight to the railing, staring as far as he could past the Museum, as far as he could see over the water. You're a doctor. That's what you wanted to be. He tried to hold tighter to the gritty metal under his hands. Grounding himself to his decisions. It's ok.
Lance returned his mind to its original settings the same way he'd put the camp chair by the door. And he threw himself into grad school with all his energy. What else could he do? He needed to fill in all those empty places, all those wounded corners, and the med program graciously complied by pouring information, duty, and responsibility on him. Things began to shift as Lance reconciled himself to his new, singular identity.
For one thing, Lance's scholarship ended when he obtained his degree. As a grad student, he had tuition remission and a stipend. He had to update his visa status. And he had to finally admit that he could no longer keep up working at the plasma donation center, even part-time. There weren't enough hours in the day, or at least the right hours. He would have gratefully continued work if the center could stay open past eight in the evening. But in the end, he had to resign. And all these financial changes meant that he had to downgrade his Stony Island contract, which made the second bedroom available to the Resident Dean to rent out as he saw fit.
Which didn't seem like a big deal to Lance. It just meant he'd be getting a new roommate. And that was good because the absolute worst times of Lance's day happened when he was home by himself, surrounded by ghosts and memories and emptiness. He tried to shove it aside. He played music as loud as he dared. He read Allura's books. He wrote constant letters and emails and cleaned the kitchen counter probably more than all the other kitchen counters in the building were cleaned all together, but even then, even after all of that, he'd find himself sitting on his bed, or on the couch, or in the bathroom, shaking like crazy. Trembling with memory, loss, and stress. At first, he thought it was just the delayed panic response that Angelique had gone over with him so long ago when he'd sat at her desk sharpening pencils. But as it continued, as it got stronger, he wasn't sure anymore. The only thing he knew was that he hated it, and he would do just about anything to distract himself from it.
He tried making phone calls. He called Allura. He called Hunk and Pidge. He tried to close his eyes and talk to them and pretend that they were here. That Hunk was sitting backwards on Lance's desk chair. That Pidge was sitting cross-legged on the couch. That he could hear Allura's voice from her old room instead of from the phone in his shaking hands. He called and desperately begged them to tell him what was going on. Drown out the emptiness of his life by filling it with the details of theirs. And it worked for a little while. Until he noticed that they were busy too. That they had a lot they were trying to accomplish, and they had scheduled very dedicated times to correspond with him that didn't always match up with when he needed to hear their voices. Unlike Keith, however, they always answered him. They always took that time to speak with him, but they always needed to leave before Lance was ready for them to go. Not only that, they started picking up on Lance's strained, cheerful tone. They started asking him questions that he didn't want to answer. Like if he was ok. Like if he was alone. He stopped calling so much. Stopped intruding into their new lives. Let them call him when they had the chance instead. He didn't want to bother anyone. Didn't want his friendship to become an intrusive burden. Didn't want to lose anything by clinging too hard.
Somehow, he drudged up the courage to ask Shiro about Acxa and felt supremely vindicated to learn that her real name was Alexis Kingsley and that Acxa was just a weird nickname she'd picked up in training due to her sharp abilities with close combat and a short knife. His triumph didn't last long when Shiro, rather reluctantly, confirmed that she and Keith were indeed partners and never left each other's side. They flew together, bunked together, trusted their lives to each other. Lance despised it, even though he had been the one to ask about it. He wanted to ask other questions too. Like how come no one told him about her before? How come Keith answered phone calls when they came from everyone except Lance? How come Lance still cared so much about him?
Shiro didn't seem to want to talk about Acxa much, treating the conversation rather carelessly. Like it wasn't killing Lance to know. Like it didn't make it excruciating to keep writing Keith letters to Lackland, knowing that they were actually going to Japan. That maybe Acxa was reading them first. But Lance did keep writing them. Because of Allura. Because Lance didn't really think he had a choice in the matter. Don't give up on him. Lance wrote – but didn't remember what he said afterward. Hardly paid attention to what he said. He was a shark again. Needing to keep moving so he wouldn't drown. So his hands wouldn't shake. So no one would know he was struggling so much. Because he was going to be a doctor and needed to be certain and quick.
The migraines continued. At first, it felt as though they showed up completely at random, like Lance was being stalked by some sadistic archer who knew exactly the worst possible time to shoot an arrow into Lance's brain, always directly above his left eye. Lance kept a journal about it. Dates, times, durations, predrome, aura, and postdrome symptoms. He learned that he could work through the slowly developing ones that increased in severity over the course of many hours. If he kept moving, he could keep up the appearance that nothing was wrong until he made it back to his room after his trainings were finished and could collapse in a painful heap onto his bed, but if he woke up with one, there was nothing much to do except try to sleep it off or take way more medication than he should to try and shake it before he had to go in to work or class. He set his alarm for earlier than he needed to specifically to give himself time for medication to work before he had to leave. He felt like a stroke victim. He felt like the left side of his face was melting, bones and all, and he frequently had to run his fingers around his left eye socket to make sure it wasn't sagging since it truly felt as though it were crumbling away. Allura's cocktail had worked well that first time, but Lance slowly discovered that he could take Excedrin Migraine instead of three different sets of drugs and a Coke and it worked just as well.
In addition to the journal about the headaches themselves was the other section where Lance tried to figure out why they happened. Because there didn't seem to be a common denominator anywhere, but he had to figure it out simply because he didn't have time to be stuck in a dark room so much wishing he were dead. It took him numerous painful episodes before he narrowed it down. Sleep deprivation. Interrupted sleep. Sudden changes in barometric pressure. Stress. Lance stared at his list of triggers and thought it would be easier to give up chocolate. He was a grad student in med school. There was no way he could eliminate stress and sleep deprivation from his life. So he compensated.
He started bringing Excedrin and knitting with him everywhere, his pain relief and coping mechanism. The Excedrin kept his headaches at bay so he could finish his shifts, and the knitting, repetitive, tedious motions of his fingers, kept his hands steady. It kept him from thinking too hard about blood or screams, silence and loneliness. Keith and his stupid girlfriend.
People misunderstood his need for knitting socks. He got teased frequently for sitting slumped in the break room or the hospital cafeteria, his elbows tucked close to his sides, head bowed, fingers looping yarn as fast as he could so they would have no chance to shake. Didn't he have enough to do without adding another time-consuming hobby? Wasn't it only little old ladies who did things like that? Hey, could Lance make a stethoscope cover? On and on, and he ignored it all. He was careful never to let Dr. Delacroix see him knitting. He knew people told her, but he never wanted her to see how bad it really was. Because he was a doctor, damn it, and this couldn't keep happening. He had to learn how to live like this. Had to figure it out. He'd made a decision.
But it was hard. And it grew increasingly more haunting as Lance spent more and more time in the ER, taking Excedrin more often than he liked, and beginning to realize just how many things could happen to a human body. The sheer horrifying variety of it. Tens of thousands of ways to break bones or tear through skin. Those weren't so bad, though. Lance could cast broken arms all day long. It was the outliers. The strange or brutal or tragic cases. The two-year-old who had pulled a pan of hot oil down from the stove on top of herself, a millisecond of a mistake that cost her half of her face and weeks of scorching pain. Lance visited her often during her recovery on the third floor. He knit her a soft orange cat that had similar broken patches of color on its face so they could be twins. He held the mother's hands in the hallway while her tiny daughter slept under the influence of heavy painkillers, the cat tucked up under the unburned part of her little chin, allowing the woman to sob all of her guilt out for not being there in that tragic second.
There were more. They never stopped coming. The woman miscarrying for the fourth time where Lance was genuinely frightened to let her go home by herself – afraid of what she might do in the hopeless dark of another lonely night. Knowing all too well what it felt like. He made it a point to call her every morning until her voice didn't sound dead anymore. The teenager who died of alcohol poisoning two hours after being brought in whose soul stayed with Lance for days and days, a silent, judging presence. The innocent victims of drive-by shootings. The families destroyed by drunk drivers. Those were the ones that stuck to Lance, clung to him, weighed on him. Because of what had happened. Because of what they were. And because Lance knew that he shouldn't let them bother him so much, which somehow made them bother him more. They followed him home, the only things waiting for him when he got there, an ever-growing crowd of faces and moans and suffering that sounded the same as the pain in his own heart.
So when he got a notice from the Resident Dean that a new tenant would be joining him, Lance breathed a sigh of relief. Finally. The summer had dragged on so long. He was so ready to welcome a new roommate, to learn the workings of someone all over again. To assimilate whatever this person would bring to the apartment, twist it up together with the books and the video games and the balcony. There was no reason not to be excited. Lance had been lucky with roommates. He knew every inch of his apartment, and he was completely thrilled to not be alone anymore during those horrible dark hours of the night.
Spencer Whitman came with his parents early in the afternoon on a Saturday in late August. Lance had been anticipating his arrival all day. He'd made iced tea, scrubbed every corner of the apartment. He'd made fish tacos and rice for them to eat as their first meal together. He didn't know much about Spencer, just that he would be arriving that day from Ypsilanti, Michigan, as a new freshman. Which meant he was probably young. Eighteen, maybe nineteen years old. Like Lance had been when he showed up from customs. When Hunk had been the oldest, the one who knew the area. It hadn't seemed like a long time while he'd been living it, but now that Lance was on this side of the calendar, all that seemed like it happened in a completely different lifetime. A better lifetime. Easier.
When he'd run out of things to do with himself or the apartment, Lance picked up his knitting and sat on the couch. It was too hot for knitting, and his fingers stuck to the stitches, but he had to do something, or his nerves would overtake him and being a twitchy, shaking mess is no way to make a first impression.
Without knocking, Spencer sort of avalanched into the apartment a little after lunchtime, his parents following in his wake. Lance hurriedly tucked the hat he was making into his backpack, surprised at the sudden arrival, even though he knew that Spencer was coming.
"Hey, you made it," Lance began, ready to welcome him. He'd been ready since June to welcome someone.
"Yeah, great," Spencer muttered as he pushed past Lance with his enormous suitcase, heading directly for Lance's room.
"Uh, actually that one's mine," Lance said, following him. Spencer rolled his eyes and headed for the second bedroom. Hunk's room. Allura's room. The bed shook under the weight of the suitcase as Spencer threw it on top of the mattress. Lance blinked. How strong was this kid? And what was in the suitcase?
"Did you want some help with the rest of your stuff?" Lance offered as Spencer turned from the bed to find Lance standing in the doorway. Lance watched his eyes open wide, as though he were just seeing Lance for the first time. Lance forgot what he'd picked to wear, but the way Spencer looked at him made him want to check himself. Spencer was wearing torn jeans and a Slipknot Tshirt.
"Dude," Spencer said, but not the way Hunk did. In fact, the tone was unmistakably, "back off," and Lance realized he was probably being overbearing. Just because he'd been waiting for this all day didn't mean Spencer was ready for it. Right.
So Lance backed off, allowing Spencer to return to the front door. He would have gone to his room then to hide completely, but Mrs. Whitman seemed to want to talk to him at least while Spencer and her husband made trips up and down the elevator. She accepted a glass of iced tea.
She told him all about their drive, almost four whole hours from here, and a little bit about their family. Spencer was the youngest. He had two older sisters, one of whom was a teacher in Detroit and the other a cosmetologist in their hometown. Then she asked Lance questions about the nearest stores and what student life was like and how long he'd been there. She seemed nice. Protective. Meanwhile, Spencer's dad lugged in a drum set, which wouldn't fit anywhere except by the balcony door between the couch and the television. An electric guitar followed. Well, that was new. Lance had never hung out with many musicians before. That was going to be an experience. Spencer shoved the coffee table into the corner to make room for a big, black box with several dials on it that Lance recognized as an amp. Ok. They'd have to talk about that.
He had zero kitchen stuff. Not even a coffee mug. Because, as Mrs. Whitman explained, Spencer had a meal plan since he probably wouldn't have much time left over from his schoolwork to do much cooking.
"So, Lance, is that right?" Mrs. Whitman continued as Lance watched with growing concern all the new changes taking place to his apartment. It's not your apartment, Lance; it's his apartment too. He's paying half the fees here. It's not like you've never had to adjust to new people living with you. Yeah, but this time it felt different. Less a moving in and more like a hostile takeover.
"Yeah," Lance said, trying to pay attention and not worry too much about the speakers that were moving past them into Allura's . . . no, Spencer's, room. Who needed speakers that big?
"You seem to be, um, well established here. Exactly what have you been studying that's taking so long to finish?"
Lance stopped looking at Spencer, who was combing the long hair at the top of his head over with his fingers. The sides were buzzed short. Lance had seen this haircut on a lot of the younger students. It seemed to be in fashion right now, but unfortunately only about fifteen percent of the guys could pull it off. Spencer wasn't one of them. Lance wanted to look directly at Mrs. Whitman when he answered her question. He wanted to make it clear that he was not just a professional student who didn't have any direction. He had a solid direction, the only thing keeping him together, and even though he knew it shouldn't matter what she thought of him, this woman he'd just met and didn't actually know, he wanted her to understand.
"I graduated in June," he explained. "I'm in medical school now working toward my M.D. I'm being mentored in the ER by Dr. Angelique Delacroix." He said the words formally, but he still knew that she didn't get what he was saying. Didn't know he'd fought his way here from Cuba for this, gave his all for this. She didn't know that Dr. Delacroix did not mentor students. That Lance was the first one in the last decade. But he stopped himself from going any further. He knew what he was. He had no need to impress anyone. Not that it was working anyway.
"Well, that's nice," she told him, smiling politely. "Spencer is so lucky to have a veteran like you to help him."
Lance and Spencer locked eyes across the room. Lance's blue to Spencer's muddy brown, and something like a cold understanding slipped between them. Mrs. Whitman was kidding herself. Spencer was not about to accept any guidance from Lance about anything, and Lance wasn't so sure he wanted to offer. A wedge tapped between Lance's ribs. He'd been looking forward to this?
The Whitmans all declined the fish tacos, which Lance expected by this point. They said that they wanted to take Spencer out for one last family dinner before driving back to Michigan. Did Lance maybe know a good place? Like, not a taco truck, but a good place?
Lance was internally rattled by this point. He felt oddly old and clumsy, weirdly misunderstood. His apartment felt weird, even worse than when he'd been here by himself. It's just new, he told himself. You don't know this guy; you'll get used to each other. It's going to be fine. He told the dread creeping up on him that it was being premature and overly dramatic.
"Well, if you're going to discriminate against tacos, you might try Everest," he suggested to them, knowing full well that most people did not spend that kind of money on dinner, even special, we're dropping off our only son at college dinners. But he was feeling defensively snarky right now, so he said it anyway. He'd put a lot into those tacos – Hunk would have been so proud. He would have been fine with the whole last celebratory meal thing if they hadn't made it a point to insult his food. "The chef there is really good, and they have the best selection of Alsatian wine in the city. Or I think you could probably still get a reservation at the Berghoff on Adams Street. Oh, but wait, it's Saturday, isn't it? Never mind, it's likely all booked out by now. I forget – we had our own table."
The Whitmans were all blinking at him, and he kind of liked that. Kind of. Except for the part where he knew he was being a jerk. He'd gone to all those places with Allura; he'd never be able to afford to go to them now, but he just couldn't stand it. You people have no idea, he thought. I've lived a life beyond this apartment. So, so far. But even in the apartment – there had been so much. They'd contacted the space station from this room. Lance and Allura had kissed on this couch. Keith . . . Keith had almost died here. Lance felt a moment of bitterness for the life he'd enjoyed, just a short time ago, all of the memories striking him of all that had happened here. All the things that were gone now. And he felt something like regret for how he was handling this interaction. He wasn't sure what it was about this boy that made him feel like this, and he didn't like it, but he also didn't seem to be able to stop it either.
"Or I think there's an Applebee's or White Castle if that's more your thing," he finished, pulling his phone from his pocket like he had better things to do. Because this certainly wasn't working out. And he kind of wanted to get out of this before he said anything else that he'd really feel ashamed about later. What he'd already said was enough. He thought about dialing Keith's number, but the Whitmans were thankfully out the door before he could start calling anyone.
He stared at the phone for a minute afterward anyway, watching it tremble slightly in his hand. He wanted to call Keith, knowing that it was early Sunday afternoon in Japan so Acxa likely wouldn't be guarding his phone for him at the moment. If he was still in Japan, that last phone call had been months ago. Lance wanted to call and tell him so much. How he had been looking forward to a new roommate, but not an hour after meeting him, he was having serious doubts about that. Wanted to ask Keith if he liked being in the Air Force, if he ever wondered if he'd made the right choice about it. Wanted to tell him that he was lonely, that his head hurt too often and his hands shook too much and he was getting tired of hiding it from Angelique, but he'd rather die than have her dismiss him at this point when he'd worked so hard to gain her favor, and he'd come so far to lose it now. And I have to keep going, no matter what, because this is what I chose to do, and I hate your damn girlfriend and her stupid nickname. And I love you.
Lance dialed the number, the tone of it a sad little song to him now. An incomplete song because he didn't hit send. He'd stopped trying for that. His thumb knew the sequence and could run through it rapidly, pausing after the last digit, hold for three breaths, dismiss. He put the phone back in his pocket. He ran his fingers along Spencer's cymbal, giving in to the urge to gently tap it, hear the shivering ripple of it rattle outward through the room. He didn't know then how much he would come to hate the sound of it. Then he grabbed his keys and headed out, toward the Museum, toward the bright lakeside. Because it was still August and the lake was vast and sparkling. And Lance knew the warm days were running out.
When Lance had lived with Allura, time had been a slippery thing. Brushing up against him in vivid detail at some points and then dancing away for weeks before it came back into view. A minute could last an hour, but then an entire month could be blinked away in a haze of lists and books.
Spencer's arrival into the apartment smashed every clock from the walls. Time was never fleeting anymore; no minute dropped from Lance's notice. The atmosphere of his home cooled, darkened, itched in the space between Lance's shoulders, and clenched his back teeth. Spencer living there became an assault on all Lance's senses, different from anything he'd experienced before.
The boy didn't talk, not really, but he made a lot of noise. His presence dominated the place. He grunted at Lance a lot. They had awkward meetings in the narrow hallway near the bathroom where they tried to pass each other without words or eye contact. Lance discovered a new migraine trigger – the scent of whatever gel Spencer used in his hair to keep that floppy top part sort of spiked and unnaturally lifted from his head.
Lance did try to make friends, for his own survival more than anything. He hated the awkward silences when they were both at home. He asked questions about Spencer's classes, how he was settling in, was he finding everything ok, searching for a conversation sweet spot. Most people had one. A vocal nerve that if stimulated would prompt them to volunteer everything they knew on a particular subject. Lance tried asking about the drums, the guitar, Spencer's intended major, the boy had to be passionate about something. Though Lance was starting to believe that Spencer's only interests were styling his hair, playing those instruments at inconvenient moments that seemed intentionally timed to break Lance's sleep or concentration, and pretending Lance wasn't talking to him. Lance had never seen anyone with this little personality. He didn't know what to do with it. He didn't think that he could be any less enthused about coming home than he had when he knew he'd be going somewhere empty.
So he started taking walks. To the shoreline. He'd walk north on Lake Shore Drive, the path along the road he'd driven so often with Allura. He'd bring his textbooks with him, studying along the way, noticing the sun setting earlier as August dragged into September. Lance felt as though he'd been living this way forever; he couldn't believe it hadn't even been a month yet. How could it not even be thirty days? How was he going to manage?
Spencer started bringing people to the apartment. One of them, a mousy boy with acne that Lance thought was named Remy, played Spencer's guitar; another guy who gave Lance the creeps brought over a bass. Spencer talked to them, a language that seemed to only make sense among themselves, full of slang and innuendo. They laughed together, but they always grew quiet when Lance was in sight – pausing as he made himself coffee or a sandwich, all of them staring at him with the same expression. Dude, when are you going away? They never included Lance, never asked his opinion. It was like they all wanted to pretend he wasn't there.
Lance did what he could to oblige them. It wasn't like he was home much anyway. He spent a considerable amount of time in trainings and classes. He started doing his homework in the hospital cafeteria. It was easier to think there, less distracting, less hostile. Angelique questioned him about it – told him he looked tired, told him to go home and rest.
He assured her he would, but then just relocated to one of the campus libraries until it closed, making sure that Angelique never caught him at the hospital at an unassigned time again. Because he just didn't want her to know. Home was not restful. Didn't want her to question him – his resolve, his focus. He didn't want her to look at him too hard; he felt like he was walking along the railing of something high, one misstep would send him tumbling over an edge. He never wanted her to feel like she'd made a mistake in taking him on. Because if he couldn't be a doctor then he literally had nothing left. He had to prove that he could handle it.
And he could, truly. Sometimes it was the only thing that made sense. Being in the hospital, actively engaged in the ER, was the only time that Lance ever felt briefly ok. The only time he felt in control. There was a comfort in the routine of it – something in Lance's life that hadn't completely changed. The patients were different, of course. But there were patterns here. Hello, my name is Lance and I'll be taking your blood pressure. Hi, I'm Lance, can you tell me what's wrong? Hey there, buddy, let's take a look at that wrist; we'll have you back on your skateboard in no time. Straight, simple lines of sutures. Plain grayscale images of X-rays. Angelique's strong, positive voice and guidance – provided Lance could keep her suspicions low enough that she didn't ask him personal questions. Luckily, they had enough external patients to focus on that Angelique didn't usually go farther than to ask to see his hands, particularly after the more difficult ER experiences, turning the wrists upward and pulling up his sleeves to search for tremor from his fingertips to his elbow, all while he focused on the streaks of gold in her braids. She asked if the knitting was working for him. He replied that it honestly was, though he kept to himself that it only worked while he was doing it. Then he smiled and knit her a reversible cabled scarf in lilac merino wool. She seemed satisfied by his answers, his activity, and his performance. Lance was grateful that she only saw him in the places where he was normally at his best and by the time he started breaking down, it was either time to go home or could be passed off as simple exhaustion.
It was a strange sort of balance. Lance stayed at the ER as long as he could, hyper-focused to the seconds he spent there since they were so effective at blocking out everything else in his life. But it took its toll throughout the day, wearing him out, wrenching his insides, the trauma stacking up on his heart. So he fled to his apartment, to his room, where he shook uncontrollably in the aftershock and tried to block out the sound of Spencer and his drums, Spencer and his friends, Spencer and whatever the hell he was doing out there. The stress of Spencer not even being there but could be home any second and somehow that was worse; Spencer and the ghosts of faces from the ER that didn't make it. Lance stayed there, hidden in his room, as long as he could stand it, sleep if he could, and then he'd get up and head back to the ER with his pills and his wool. Each place only providing a fraction of unpredictable and unreliable comfort to him. He stopped calling anyone; he was afraid of what they might hear in his voice. His emails and letters grew shorter as he ran out of cheerful things to pretend about. And he didn't want to complain. This was the life he'd chosen. He'd known it would be a difficult one. And his friends all had their own struggles. He didn't want to weigh them down with any of his own whining.
September closed in on him, chilling the evenings. Lance took his coat out of the closet again. He didn't need it during the heat of the days, but when the sun was up, he was usually inside somewhere – at class, at the ER. But the early morning walks to the campus hospital and the drudging path back to the apartment were both getting colder and colder. Darker as the planet swung farther from the sun. Winter – again. Lance despised the winter.
Spencer seemed to grow increasingly more comfortable at Stony Island, as evidenced by all the crap he left everywhere. Empty Mountain Dew cans, half-eaten pizza slices. His. His friends'. Lance didn't think he ever rinsed the sink after shaving, leaving streaks of foam and tiny hairs stuck all over the basin. The sharp smell of hair gel never really left the bathroom, so Lance started brushing his teeth in the kitchen. Often, Spencer would pick up the mail and then forget to give Lance the stuff with his name on it. Instead of just leaving it in the mailbox, Spencer would bring it up, and then place it inconsistently around the apartment. He'd leave it in the kitchen. Leave it where it could have Mountain Dew spilled on it. Once, Lance actually slipped into Spencer's room, feeling like a criminal, in order to find a letter that Spencer had carelessly left on his desk instead of giving to him.
And they could never talk about anything, though Lance tried. He tried to politely ask that Spencer just leave the mail addressed to Lance in the mailbox; he'd get it. He tried to suggest that maybe Spencer should wash his sheets – it had been over a month and it was gross. Please pick up after your band practice sessions. Please don't eat my food; you have a meal plan, and my budget is tight. I have to be up and out of the apartment long before you're awake, so could you at least use headphones for your music after midnight? The list went on and on.
"Spencer, come on," Lance would implore sometimes when he could get Spencer alone. It was bad enough that Lance had to bring it up in the first place; he didn't want to have to do it in front of Spencer's friends. They already seemed to hate him despite not actually meeting him. "I'm not your mother –"
"You sure?" Spencer quipped.
"And I'm not cleaning up after you; I don't have time. Could you at least keep the mess confined to your bedroom? And stop using my dishes if you aren't going to wash them."
"Whatever," Spencer said, which didn't sound anything like compromise or agreement. And nothing changed. No, that wasn't true. It got worse. Time slowed down even more. The weekend lasted half a year, with Lance, twitchy and on-edge, attempting to get through the necessary chores that would minimize his time at the apartment for the rest of the week. He took his homework to the laundry room, sitting on the floor with his back against the rumble of the washing machine. He simplified the meal prep so he wouldn't have to be exposed in the open area of the kitchen for very long. Rice, vegetables, chicken. If he knew Spencer was going out, he dressed it up more, but when everyone was there, and it seemed like they were always there, it was all Lance could do to stand in the kitchen spooning food into containers, pretending it didn't bother him that they were all glaring at him. He started keeping bread and peanut butter in his room for those nights he'd come home, starving and exhausted, only to find out that someone had helped themselves to his clearly labeled, carefully prepared meals in the fridge. When he called Spencer out on it, he was met with shrugs and whatevers, we were hungry, and what's the big deal, it's just a gallon of milk. You made three servings of the same thing and there were three of us. Lance started making less appetizing stuff in the hopes he'd be able to eat it himself if no one else liked it.
And even though Spencer was an obnoxious, spoiled little shit with bad manners, he wasn't the worst. The biggest problem was Damien – the creepy guy who played bass. Lance could tolerate Spencer rolling his eyes at him, but having Damien stare at him whenever they were in the same room was downright unsettling. He was much bigger than Spencer, bigger than Lance. He wasn't even a student; Lance had no idea where Spencer had found him or what Damien saw in Spencer that kept him coming over. Until one day when Damien caught Lance in the hallway and brought it all out in the open.
"Hey," he said, blocking Lance's entrance to his own apartment. "Spencer says you work at the hospital – that true?"
Damien had a large face, a big nose, too-big lips, and rather small eyes in comparison. Lance had never heard him talk before. His voice was as deep as the guitar.
"Yeah," Lance responded, eager to get by the enormous bass player and into his room. It had been a bad day, not that he had many good days, and he wanted it over. He folded his arms tight against him, not expecting this conversation to be anything good.
"So, like, where?"
Lance watched, confused, as Damien carefully checked the hallway to make sure they were alone. What the hell was this about anyway? He doubted Damien had any real interest in Lance or his job unless he wanted something from . . . oh.
"I'm not stealing medication for you," Lance told him flatly. He was too tired for this. He just wanted to get inside, make himself a peanut butter sandwich, put on his own headphones and his own music, and pretend that life was normal. Sometimes he could still do that.
"Now hold it," Damien said, not quite threatening, but not far off. He took a step closer to Lance, which forced him to back against the opposite wall. Shit – he could not let this guy corner him. "I wasn't gonna just take 'em. I thought we could cut a deal. Do you know the street value for oxy right now? I'd split it with you. We could make bank, man."
"Yeah? Still not interested." Lance didn't care how broke he got, he was not risking his visa status and his career on something like this. It was ridiculous. It wasn't like he could just walk up to the pharmacy and take something either. There were lists, counts, locks, a record of each and every dose, where it went, when it was administered and by whom. Even if he wanted to, there'd be no way.
"Come on, man, think it over," Damien pleaded, actually putting a hand on Lance's shoulder. "Don't be so close-minded. This could be good for you."
"I don't think so," Lance maintained, ducking out from Damien's touch. He shot past him into the apartment and then locked himself in. Spencer looked up from the couch, his face twisting into confusion.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He asked, looking at the locked door. Damien knocked, hard.
"He is not welcome here," Lance told Spencer, wishing that his opinion mattered at all. He wondered if Spencer was in on this whole making a profit from illegally obtained drugs thing. The way Damien caught Lance in the hall made him think not.
"You're such a freak," Spencer said, his lips curling around the word.
Lance went to his room as he'd intended. He knew that Spencer let Damien in the second Lance left, though thankfully no one followed Lance to his room. He knew Damien would keep coming over no matter what Lance said about it. He would keep staring unnervingly at Lance. And now Lance knew why. Now he had new motivation for keeping out of their way, keeping to himself. He didn't want Damien to bring up drug theft to him again and hoped that he'd made it clear that it wasn't worth it to try and persuade him. He thought he'd get another lock for his bedroom door, as if that would help.
He picked up a pen to start a letter, hoping to push away the last few minutes by doing something routine. Who's turn was it for a letter today? Pidge? Allura? Maybe Keith. But what was he supposed to say? My spoiled roommate's creepy friend is trying to get me to steal meds for him and it's extremely disturbing. I'm writing from my room now; it's kind of like prison. Hey, sorry there was no letter last week; I started one, but my hands were shaking so bad even I couldn't read what I was writing . . so . . . maybe we'll just stick to email for a while until I figure this out.
Lance didn't think he was ever going to figure this out. Instead of a letter, he pulled up his email. He'd send one email to everyone today – just a few lines. Hey guys, hope you're doing well. Not much going on here – just more classes and studying and hours in the ER. I watched Dr. Delacroix do an emergency bypass today; it was crazy. Mostly my job was to hand her things, watch how she did it, and mop up after. It took five hours, but I think the patient is going to be ok. Let me know what you guys are up to, all right? Send me some pictures of the beach, Hunk; it's pathetic that you live so close and you never go. I'm mailing you some more socks, Allura; I know it's getting colder where you are. I'll be here if you need me. Night.
He sent the email and then stared at his phone for a bit – needing more. Needing something. He dialed Keith's number. Didn't press send. He had half the conversation in his head anyway. Keith, what do I do? I thought I was a pretty easy guy to get along with, so why is it that I have five friends in the whole world and none of them are here?
Lance plugged in his phone, took some Excedrin out of habit more than anything. Then he pulled his quilt over his head, forgetting that he hadn't eaten. The drums started in the living room.
The next day Lance petitioned the Resident Dean for an apartment switch. He just couldn't do it anymore. He'd put more than enough energy into making it work, but it simply wasn't possible. He and Spencer were incompatible, and Lance didn't want to see Damien again. Lance had been a good tenant; he paid his contracts, didn't cause trouble. Unless you counted that one time that the police showed up looking for him, but that had been ages ago and hadn't actually damaged anything.
The office told him that all the room assignments had been made, which he knew already. They seemed hesitant on making an adjustment, and Lance understood that too. They couldn't accommodate everyone who didn't get along with their roommate. Otherwise, they'd do nothing except play musical chairs with the tenants. They told Lance that they'd see what they could do, but that it could take a while. Lance figured that meant he was out of luck. He'd have to ask around himself to see if he could get someone to switch with him. But how was he going to persuade someone to do that? He had nothing to offer and nothing to bargain with, and he couldn't think of a single person who would voluntarily put themselves into the hell that Lance lived in every day. He wondered where Remy lived, the kid with the acne who played the guitar. Maybe Lance could take over his contract and then Remy and Spencer could drown in Mountain Dew cans as much as they wanted.
"Lance, did you sleep?" Was Angelique's first question as he joined her at the nurse's station in the ER, ready for the day. He had, but not well. There were drums and drugs and loneliness that had kept him up for a lot of the night. He'd woken up with a migraine, and while it was mostly gone now, he was still in that postdrome weak part where all he wanted to do was sit still and sip coffee.
"My roommate plays the drums," Lance admitted, his voice flat and lifeless. Such a simple sentence for such a huge problem. But if he didn't give her some reason why he looked the way he did, she would start pressing. And he'd cave, and then she'd know how weak he truly was.
"Ah," Angelique acknowledged, as though she knew all about it. "Get some earplugs." Lance nodded carefully. That would take care of the external noise. Probably wouldn't silence his inner demons, but maybe winning half the battle would give him the strength to conquer the other. "And I think I'll have you help me with my paperwork this morning until you perk up a little. Unless you need to go home?"
"Paperwork sounds perfect," Lance responded, forcing himself to lift his head and smile at her. She nodded at him, checked his hands, and then began a round of the triage rooms. Lance remained at the nurse's station, answering the phone, sorting through the filing. Making it tidy and putting it away. Papers were so nice. They had a certain order and a place where they should go. Lance wondered if he were in the right place. He wondered how he could get there.
By ten that morning, Lance had enough control of the little energy he'd mustered that he could follow Angelique. They took an X-ray of a kidney stone. Set a broken arm. Put in five stitches in a hand for an accident involving a kitchen knife. An easy sort of day and Lance breathed it in deep. This was as much rest as he could hope for.
When he returned home, he marched straight through the apartment, holding his breath and looking ahead to his door. He heard Damien call to him, something about reconsidering that he ignored completely. He heard someone tell him to fuck off as he closed the door behind him. He looked at his phone and wished he could call someone. Call someone and tell them all about it. Call someone and beg to be rescued. He wanted to go home, but he didn't know where home was anymore. He longed for Cuba, but not really. He longed for the feeling of Cuba – the sands, the scent of his mother's cooking, the buzz of the mango orchards. He wished someone would call him. He wished someone knew how much he was hurting without him having to say anything about it. He wanted someone to notice even though at the same time he was dedicating all his energy into keeping it secret. It didn't make any sense, but he was stuck in this holding pattern and didn't know what to do about it.
Lance went through the motions of spreading peanut butter on bread, but then only ate half of it. The peanut butter was too sticky in his mouth; his throat too tight to swallow. I've got to get out of here, he thought. But didn't know where to go. So he sat at his desk and opened a book, looked at the list of trainings and tests he would be responsible for in the next few days. He emailed a couple of pictures to his family. Sent another check-in email to the group instead of individuals. Plugged in his phone and curled up under the quilt, feeling the sort of apathy that accompanies someone who knows they're stuck. Who knows that this is how their life is going to be forever. Someone who has hurt so long that it's become part of them. And somewhere in there, even with the band in the living room, he fell asleep.
Something woke him in the deepest part of the night. Something abrupt that jolted him awake and raced his heart. At first, he thought it was a nightmare he had no memory of that had pummeled him to consciousness. It felt the same. Cold sweat. Dread. Palpitations. But no – it was his phone. Ringing. His phone was ringing?
Clumsily, more shaken than groggy, Lance reached over to the desk for his phone, his mind flipping through his list of contacts for who could possibly be trying to reach him right now. He knew that no phone calls coming in at this time of night could be good. He swiped at the screen to answer, registering the name with equal parts hope and fear. Keith. The person Lance had most wanted to contact, but not in the middle of the night.
"Keith," Lance greeted, forcing strength into his voice. What did he need? Surely, he must need something if he were calling Lance now. Calling Lance at all. "Hey, Lobito, what's up?"
The heaviest silence dragged at Lance's wrist to the point where he had to bring over his other hand to hold up the phone. Was there a connection? Had the call dropped between the miles that separated Keith from Lance? "Keith?" Lance called again into the nothing. He checked the phone where a tiny timer ticked off the seconds of the call. Still connected. "Keith, I can't hear you."
Where was he? What was the scene on the other end of the line? Why would Keith call and not say anything? Unless there was something wrong with the call. That happened sometimes when Lance called his family. They could hear him, but he couldn't hear them or vice versa. It usually fixed itself by hanging up and calling back. But Lance didn't dare do that; somehow he felt that if he hung up now, he wouldn't be able to get Keith back. Besides, it wasn't completely silent on Keith's end. Lance could pick things up now. There was an alarm going off in the distance. Breathing. Heavy breathing – had Keith even meant to call him?
"Keith, can you hear me?" Lance tried again, still holding the phone with both hands. What was going on?
"Lance."
Oh, no. Something was wrong, very wrong, too wrong. Lance hadn't heard Keith say his name like that for years, not since the day he'd collapsed in Lance's living room. His voice was different this time, grating instead of breathless, but just as full of pain.
"Keith, what's wrong?" Lance demanded. "Where are you?"
"My plane," Keith murmured, though it didn't sound as though he were answering Lance's question. He said something else, but Lance couldn't understand him. He thought he caught the word 'eject' and there might have been something about Acxa. It was garbled in blood, dark and distance.
Lance thought often about where Keith might be, but he kept his considerations tightly reined in to bases. He pictured Keith training within protected US barriers. Whenever he did hear things about what was going on between the US and the Middle East, he deliberately refocused his attention. Because he didn't want to think about Keith being anywhere near danger. His reluctance to contemplate the possibility obviously didn't make it real. His denial had done nothing for protection.
"Keith?" Lance had way too many questions. Had Keith said he had to eject from his plane? What did that mean? Was Acxa there too? Was she as hurt as Keith sounded? Where were they? Did someone know where they were? Was help on its way? Was help too far away? Fine, forget it; let's just assume that it was all up to Lance for the moment. But how was he supposed to do anything? "Keith, are you safe right now?" Because if he did eject from the plane, did that mean that someone had shot the plane down? Something malfunctioned in it? And who knew where Keith would have come down?
"Lance," Keith said again, and Lance knew he was losing him. Could hear it in his voice. Knew he couldn't answer any of these questions even though Lance really needed him to.
"Keith, stay with me," Lance demanded, getting to his knees on the bed in agitation that he was just too far away to do anything useful. "You've got to give me something to work with here. Are you hurt? How do I help you?" Where are you?
But the silence returned to the line. The breathing, not so heavy anymore. The alarm in the distance. "Keith!" Lance shouted into the phone, hoping to rouse him, starting to panic as a thousand different ideas about what could have happened or what might happen started splashing around in his head. "Answer me! Keith!" Because he couldn't lose him. Despite everything that hadn't happened between them and couldn't happen between them, Lance was not willing to continue in a world that didn't have Keith in it. No matter how many weeks went between letters, no matter that Lance couldn't have him in the manner that he truly wanted. Still, Lance needed him in his life, needed this one thing to be ok. "Keith!"
Lance jumped as sound exploded from the wall next to him, an annoyed pounding from the other room.
"Shut the fuck up!" Spencer – woken from sleep on the other side of the wall. Lance slammed his own fist against the wall. He'd be as loud as he wanted to be. Keith might be dying on the other side of the world, the most important thing in Lance's life and he was listening to him fade, helpless in this room. It made him furious and terrified.
"Keith, hang on!" Lance continued to shout, ignoring Spencer – who didn't even matter. "I'll find you." Yeah, but seriously, how? The breathing broke, something that sounded like choked amusement. Like Keith were trying to laugh.
"That's good," Keith breathed, thankfully still conscious. Still alive. "Could use you right now." The words were hesitant, but understandable. They were also the last that Lance could get Keith to say, despite his frantic yells into the phone. Despite Spencer's pounding on the wall. After a few more seconds of begging on Lance's end, the call dropped.
"No," Lance said to the screen where the exact time of the call blinked at him now that it was over. So few minutes. Not near long enough. Not enough time. It couldn't be the last time that Lance talked to Keith. He tried to call back, but of course, it yielded nothing. That couldn't be it. Just absolutely no.
Lance started dialing another number, no longer caring about time at all. First, he'd call Shiro. And somehow, some way, they were going to find the phone number of someone who knew where Keith was. Find someone who could help him. Find someone who could bring him back to Lance.
He should have never let him go.
Author's Note: I know – I said I was going to ruin everything, didn't I? And I admit, it's going to get darker before it gets better. (Don't worry about Keith, though. I've already had my way with him in the first part of this fic, and I'm not going to hurt him much). It's actually Lance's turn to suffer, but I needed this to happen for something else to happen and it all ends where you want it to end, I promise. I'm just going for some parallels (you guys seeing the parallels? No, not yet, but soon.)
We are so very close to the end. Deep breaths. It's going to be ok.
