Author's Note: I got a message from someone asking if it was ok to point out typos and things you notice in the work here that might need to be corrected. The answer is, of course! I'd love to hear from you for any reason, including finding things like that.

I work on this way too late at night when I should be sleeping. I think about it when I fold laundry, when I'm on my treadmill, when I'm cooking dinner. I type on it during my lunchbreak and sometimes I sneak away when my kids are playing quietly just to get a couple of sentences in. Of course, all that means is that errors are likely plentiful.

But don't get too caught up in it. I'm actually a free-lance editor in real life (I get paid to find typos), and I have gone back and fixed several already in this piece that I didn't correct on the site here. So if you see them, sure, by all means send them over. But still enjoy the story, ok?

I'm enjoying the story – I'm foaming at the mouth that it's taking me so long to get where I want to be in it, but I'm still enjoying it. I hope you are too.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Distractions

Part of Lance loved that he had become Keith's new coping mechanism. He loved that Keith now called him almost every day. Loved to hear his voice, loved to see his number appear on his phone screen on a semi-regular schedule. They talked in the morning; Lance leaving his apartment early so he could slip into the privacy of the lounge, curl up on the couch there and close his eyes so he could focus entirely on Keith. It was the connection he'd missed for all their years of separation, and he reminded himself constantly that it was good. That he'd been longing for this.

He just wished they didn't have to talk about Acxa quite so much.

The break in her hip couldn't be pinned, so there was nothing to do except stay extremely still. The good news was that she had feeling below her waist, the fracture in her back had not damaged her spinal cord or connected nervous system. But that meant she had to endure the excruciating pain of her recovery. The military doctors kept her heavily medicated, certainly, but there are limits to how many doses can be administered in a twenty-four-hour period. They could not give her enough to keep the pain at bay indefinitely – short of putting her into an induced coma. Which might have been nice but not an appropriate treatment for her. They were already on high alert for blood clots. Keith kept watch at her side through all of it.

And also through all of it, or at least for a half an hour or so every morning for the past ten days since the crash, Lance would sit on the couch with his eyes closed and his head in his hand, patiently translating all the doctors had said. What signs were good and what embolism meant. Keith sometimes asked for Lance to diagnose Acxa from his verbal descriptions of her. What her breathing sounded like. Her winces and sighs. How long would it be before she could move? Walk? Lance made his best guesses, reminding Keith repeatedly that he was still a grad student and was nowhere near the expertise level of the Air Force trained medics. And even if he were a licensed MD, his studies revolved around the ER – which meant that he specialized in stabilizing patients before transferring them to more long-term care. Lance would have been a great resource at Keith's side for when the planes went down, pulling Acxa from the cockpit, immobilizing her on-scene in preparation for transport. Keeping her vitals up until she could be secured. Assisting with Keith's bleeding and shock. But on this side of the incident? Lance was barely any better than Keith.

But it was obvious that Keith needed him. Or at least needed something. Keith may not have been in as bad of shape as Acxa, but he was just as trapped. Denied his normal releases of missions or training, denied his plane and the freedom of the sky. Broken from his routine. Tethered to the medical wing of the overseas base by both his own wounds and his guilt. And there wasn't much Lance could do to help him.

Except answer the phone, every single time, no matter what time it was or how many years or days or hours it had been between calls. Lance would always answer the phone when Keith called, and he would listen.

Listen to how broken Acxa appeared in the bed. How long she slept and what her voice sounded like when she woke. Listen to all that the doctors had said to her and about her. And listen to all the terrible things she said to Keith in those moments of consciousness. When she was awake but had to wait for her next installment of pain meds that would knock her silent again. When she was hurting the most. It was just as Lance had predicted, but worse. Because she was pouring out her fear and frustration on Keith. And Lance knew that despite his constant assurances, Keith believed every word that came out of her mouth.

She raged that Keith had ruined her career. He'd always been jealous of her. The only reason he ran point on missions instead of her was due to the sexist decisions of their superiors. He should have waited for the med team to come before trying to be a fucking hero. He should have listened to her on how that mission should have gone in the first place. And she couldn't believe that he was standing near the bed, walking so easily into her room. Couldn't stand that he'd be ready to fly again while she would still be flat on her back.

And then she'd flip it around instantaneously and suddenly it wouldn't be Keith's fault anymore. But it also couldn't be something she could return from. She wished for death. She begged for it. Pleaded with Keith to explain to her over and over why she was still alive, why she was forced to stay that way even as Keith pleaded with her to relax, be patient, please eat. She cried. Keith cried when he thought she couldn't see him and when he thought that Lance couldn't hear it in his voice. He wished he could take the pain for her, that their positions had been switched. That it could have been his plane that had taken the hit and not hers.

Lance despised it. Could hardly stand to listen to it. Never wanted to think about if it had been Keith's plane shot down. Because if their positions had been switched, Lance wasn't all that sure that Acxa could have performed whatever hellishly skilled flying trick Keith had done to catch her plane and somehow blunt its dive toward Earth. Didn't know if she were strong or fast enough to pull Keith from a burning cockpit. And even if she had somehow miraculously performed unlikely scenarios one and two, Lance was certain she couldn't have carried Keith two miles to a rendezvous point. Lance hadn't been a fan of Acxa from the start and listening to what she said to Keith was not helping his opinion of her.

He knew he should have more charity about it. After all, he knew exactly what she was going through. He'd seen it, seen what suffering helplessness does to people. It makes them vicious. Makes them snappy and short. Hell, he'd seen it in Keith the very first time they'd ever spoken to each other. He knew that anger was another symptom all on its own. He just wished that Acxa didn't have to say it all. He wished he could stand by her bedside, smack her upside the head, and tell her to shut up. That she should be nothing but grateful to Keith for saving her life. That she had promised Lance she would take care of Keith and guess what, bitch, tearing him down is not how to do that. He wanted to tell Keith to leave her alone if she couldn't behave herself, that he didn't have to stick around and listen to any of it. She was full of pain and poison and Keith would be fully justified in cutting her off. Lance wanted to assure him that he would never treat him that way, no matter what.

But he knew Keith blamed himself for her pain, that he felt the need to punish himself somehow for what had happened. His injuries weren't sufficient, so he was almost using the emotional damage Acxa inflicted to make up the difference. That he felt it wouldn't be fair if he didn't sit by her side and share in her suffering. But when it got to be too much for Keith, he'd slip away for a break and call Lance – who would then painstakingly unravel all Keith's nerves, smooth them all out so she could start over with him the next time she woke up.

She doesn't mean it, Lance would soothe, as though he didn't truly hate her and what she was doing. He knew he was only doing it for Keith's sake, but defending her made Lance's chest hurt. Made him want to scream. He defended her anyway. She doesn't know what she's saying. She's scared. She's hurt. It has nothing to do with you. You know it's not true. She's going to regret treating you like this. Keep being patient; you're doing great. It'll get better.

It wasn't enough. Not for any of them. There weren't enough drugs for Acxa. Lance couldn't find the right words for Keith, the words he would believe. And for Lance . . . well . . . he didn't know anything could hurt the way this did. Didn't think there could be anything worse than talking to Keith every day and telling him everything except the one thing he really wanted to say. Trying to help Keith fix his relationship with his girlfriend when Lance wished he could beg him to leave her, leave all the dangers of the military, and come home to him. But he couldn't do that. Especially not now. So he kept answering the phone, kept getting up before dawn so he could be in the lounge and ready for the call to come in. It might not be enough, but Lance would take whatever he could get.

Besides, they didn't always talk about Acxa. Lance would demand reports on Keith's recovery too, gaining a small sense of pitying amusement as Keith grew increasingly cagey as he healed, as the stitches and the staples began to itch like crazy. He knew it was hard for Keith, but it comforted Lance. It meant that at least Keith was improving steadily and well.

"I'm going to rip them out with my teeth, Lance, I swear to God," Keith growled.

"You know that wouldn't actually help, right?" Lance replied, calm, relaxed on the couch for these parts of their conversations. The Acxa-free minutes of their talk that he lived for. That he kept answering the phone for. "It's your skin that itches, not the sutures holding it."

"They're still in my way," Keith returned.

"Don't mess with them; they'll get infected," Lance cautioned, using his doctor voice. "Find something else to do." He realized he'd made a mistake as soon as he'd said that. There wasn't much that Keith could do right now, and Lance hadn't wanted to remind him how stuck he was. Lance plowed quickly ahead to clarify. "They've got to have some kind of rec area or therapy room in the med bay, don't they? A ping-pong table or something?"

Keith huffed indignantly, letting Lance know that he was right. There were resources and activities available. Keith just hadn't been taking advantage of them. Because he was hell-bent on punishment.

"Seriously, Keith, go get Shiro and play some ping-pong. Take a short walk outside if you can; get some sunlight and fresh air." Though Lance knew all too well that even if that helped, it was a temporary kind of relief. The sun disappeared. The distractions only lasted so long. None of that actually made wounds go away. Sooner or later, he had to go back . . trapped in that room. But still. Distractions served a purpose.

"Shiro's not here," Keith revealed, surprising Lance. "They flew him back to D.C. three days ago."

"Really?" Lance checked, not that he didn't believe that Keith was telling him the truth, but it surprised him that the Air Force would take Shiro away from his wounded brother. That Shiro would have agreed to leave Keith alone. Lance knew that his physical injuries weren't that bad, but it still seemed a terrible idea to abandon Keith to Acxa. Surely, Shiro had noticed that wasn't a safe thing to do. She had fallen hard and fast into a dark, hopeless place and didn't seem at all shy about dragging Keith down with her. Shiro must not have had a choice.

"He's coming back," Keith assured, and Lance remembered Keith on his bathroom floor, staring after Shiro, always afraid when Shiro left that it would be the last time Keith would see him. Sounded as though that fear hadn't fully dissipated. "Less than a week, he said."

"That's good," Lance acknowledged, though now he felt the sudden weight of being solely responsible for Keith settle on his back. With Shiro missing, Lance no longer had a man on the ground to help Keith in person, no one monitoring him in the night. Which meant Lance would have to make their phone conversations as bolstering as possible. And he really needed to get Keith better help than a thirty-minute call with Lance every morning. "Who else is there?" Lance asked, earnest now. Who can look after you since you decided to put an entire ocean between us and there is no way I can get to you?

"I'm not that into ping-pong, Lance," Keith began his dismissal of Lance's suggestion, but Lance wasn't talking about that anymore.

"Ok," Lance allowed, moving on. "Don't play ping-pong, but do something, Keith." Do something besides sit next to Acxa and hold her hand, trying not to scratch open your stitches.

"You sound like Major Grimes," Keith said, and Lance could tell that it wasn't meant as a compliment, but he was going to take it that way. "He's always after me to participate in all that weird therapy shit they've got going over here."

"Perfect!" Lance pounced on that. It was better than nothing. "I concur with my esteemed colleague Major Grimes – participate in the weird therapy shit."

"You seriously want me to go learn basket weaving?" Keith asked, not sounding opposed to the idea, just surprised that Lance had such a fierce opinion about it.

"Yes, I strongly recommend that you go learn basket weaving," Lance said firmly. "Dr. Delacroix says the same thing. I know it sounds stupid, but it's actually really good for processing trauma. Which you have been through no matter what you say. And it doesn't have to be basket weaving – any small, repetitive task with your hands will work."

"Like knitting?" Keith said quietly, not snidely, but definitely with more insight than Lance wanted, making him wish he'd kept his mouth shut.

"Yeah, I guess knitting or crocheting would fall into that category," Lance answered, trying to make it sound as though he'd never made the connection before. Make it sound as though that weren't the reason he'd learned how to do it or the reason all his friends had a steady supply of mittens, scarves, socks, and hats.

"Lance," Keith started, way too serious, and Lance knew what he was about to do. He was going to ask Lance questions about trauma and why he'd need help processing it. But they weren't talking about Lance. Lance made it a point that they would never talk about anything consequential in his life. He'd tell Keith the random funny story about memorable patients in the ER or they'd laugh about whatever scientific exploit Hunk and Pidge were currently obsessed with, but Lance made sure to never burden Keith with any of his problems. That wasn't the purpose of the calls – he was supposed to be supporting Keith, not dragging him down like Acxa was doing. He was not going to be responsible for that. Not going to be anything like her.

"Just pick something to distract yourself from your stitches," Lance interrupted. "Something fun."

"What do you do for fun?" Keith challenged, in his particular direct way that made Lance wonder how Keith could be so perceptive about Lance's emotions and still not have any clue how Lance felt about him.

"I am a grad student," Lance defended. This conversation was getting difficult. He was going to have to cut out of it soon or risk completely breaking down on Keith. "I sold my soul to Dr. Delacroix, remember? You were the one who told me to do it."

"How about this," Keith said, as though he were about to start a lecture. There was a weight to his tone that Lance didn't hear often. At least not from Keith. It had only been ten days since they'd started actually speaking to each other again, audible words instead of written ones, but Lance had still never heard Keith about to give an order. He kind of sounded like Shiro. "I'll go to therapy if you go do something fun."

"Lobito, I just got done telling you I don't have time," Lance tried to protest, but Keith had taken up a crusade about it now and shot him down before he'd started.

"You've got time. If you didn't, I wouldn't have half a dozen pairs of handknit socks."

Lance drooped on the couch, hiding his face in his hand. They weren't supposed to be talking about him. He'd carefully sealed himself off limits for a reason. Damn it, Keith.

"You don't like my socks?" Lance put out as a desperate attempt to deflect what Keith was trying to insist on him. "I'm offended."

"Your socks are great; I'm wearing them right now. Stop changing the subject." Keith plowed through his weak defenses, not even allowing Lance a moment to cherish the fact that Keith was actually wearing the socks. "Tell me what you do for fun. And don't say knitting because we both know that's not why you do it."

"I . . . .," Lance paused, wracking his brain for something to say. He hadn't done anything fun for months. Not since Allura left, and even then, he wasn't sure if what they'd done together had been for fun or if it was just something else they thought they needed to do. He thought he might have forgotten what fun was. He scanned the lounge, searching for inspiration, his eyes settling on the bulletin board on the wall opposite the fireplace. Covered with fliers and handwritten advertisements. A car for sale. Math tutoring services. And the magic golden ticket.

The UChicago Ballroom and Latin Dance Association. Wednesday nights from seven to ten. Perfect.

"I dance," Lance answered Keith, as though he'd actually gone. As though he'd been a regular on Wednesday nights for ages. "Ballroom and Latin – You know, when I can."

"You have never mentioned doing that – ever," Keith responded, insinuating very strongly that he knew Lance was lying to him. Lance wanted to snap back that it wasn't exactly as though Keith had been very involved with him for the past few years. He'd missed plenty of details.

"I just started," Lance answered. As in I made the decision five seconds ago. "And I did take a couple ballroom classes during my undergrad." I skipped that class twice to take care of you, but that's something else you don't know about me.

"What does Allura think about it? She's ok with you dancing with someone else?" Keith asked, and Lance realized that he'd also never told Keith that he and Allura had broken up. He figured that everyone just kind of knew that – what with her going off to New York and everything. At the very least, he figured Hunk and Pidge would have told him. God, was Lance going to have to confess to everything today? Though he'd noticed that ever since they'd started talking about Lance and his life, Keith seemed . . . lighter. More engaged and animated. As if talking about Lance might actually be helpful for Keith. Lance had become the distraction.

But still. There were some things that Lance was not willing to talk about. Which meant he'd better gloss over the whole Allura thing pretty quickly.

"Allura and I decided that we're better as friends," Lance said, more mumbling than anything. "I think she's dating a prince or something right now." Not that it was going to last – the guy might be set to inherit a small kingdom Lance had never heard of, but no one she'd dated so far could keep up with Allura for very long. Lance took a certain pride in that he held the record, that everyone else Allura dated would be compared against him as the standard, and he wasn't even straight. Though he suspected that was the very thing that had allowed them to last so long.

"Huh," Keith said, slowly processing this news, sounding rather stunned. "I thought you were still together."

"Not since she left for Columbia," Lance said flatly, ready to talk about something else, anything else. Keith, you are breaking the rules here. Not that their previous conversations had been especially pleasant, but at least it had all been Lance helping Keith, a much more comfortable topic choice. How had they even gotten here?

"So who do you go dancing with?" Keith pressed, continuing to break all those little vocal protocols that Lance had set. Asking Lance questions he didn't want to answer. "You don't go by yourself?"

"That's the best way to go," Lance argued, trying to pull up any memories he had about his social dancing class. When he'd thought that was a creative way to get a date. He'd been so . . . what was the word? Stupid? Naïve? Innocent?

"If you say so," Keith said, apparently unconvinced. "But you do go?"

"Lobito, come on. What's with the interrogation? You don't believe me?" Does that mean you can tell when I'm lying to you? As in every time I've lied to you or is this a recent talent you've developed in the past week and a half? You're such a liar, Keith had said to him once, and the words pierced into Lance again as he sat there in the lounge. He curled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them.

"Send me a picture," Keith requested, apparently aware that Lance was lying but completely oblivious to the torture he was putting him through by calling him out on it.

"I . . don't have a picture," Lance confessed, voice muffled because he'd buried his head between his knees. Shit.

"Uh huh," Keith responded, as though he knew it all along. Knew that Lance wouldn't have a picture because he'd never actually done this. That he was incapable of having fun. It forced Lance into a rapid and entirely made-up-on-the-spot explanation.

"It's dark in there," Lance said, not even knowing if that was true. "And I kind of need both hands when I'm dancing, you know. I didn't realize there'd be a test – that I'd have to prove it because my best friend doesn't believe me."

"I didn't say I didn't believe you. I just want to see a picture," Keith said smoothly. "When are you going next?"

"Tonight," Lance gritted out between clenched teeth, rocking slightly. Because it was Wednesday. What was he agreeing to?

"So take some tonight," Keith recommended, as though it would be easiest thing in the world. Lance exhaled petulantly.

"And then you'll do the therapy?" Lance pushed back, intending on at least a small victory. If that's all it would take for Keith to get some help, he'd sacrifice one evening at least pretending like he was having fun.

"I'll mail you pathetic, misshapen baskets for the next month," Keith promised, and Lance felt some of his muscles loosen. Ok. Fair exchange. At least then he'd know that Keith was with someone else besides Acxa, doing something else besides getting emotionally ripped to shreds in her room. Lance could accept that.

"Deal," Lance agreed, hoping Keith really would bury the apartment in baskets. Wouldn't that just piss Spencer off though?

Arrangement in place, they let the call end. Lance understood Keith a little more after their phone conversations, understood what made him watch Shiro leave, understood that every time he did it, he really wanted to call Shiro back, to tell him not to go. Lance always found himself sitting still for a few seconds afterward, staring at the screen, at the little blinking number indicating the time they'd spent talking. Still too few minutes when compared to how long it had been since they'd last seen each other. How long Lance wished he could stay with Keith. And every time Keith hung up, Lance's soul dropped. Because despite how Keith had called consistently for the past ten days, there was still that apprehension that Lance had just lost him. That he wouldn't call in the morning. That Lance would never see him again. Keith stared after Shiro, keeping him in sight as long as possible. Lance stared at his phone.

But he couldn't stare long. He had to meet Dr. Delacroix in the ER where they spent their day alternating between incoming patients, filing, and Lance running through imaginary scenarios while Angelique watched him critically. She seemed pleased with his progress, definitely happy that Lance was no longer arriving at the nurse's station in obvious distress. Once his hours were up at the hospital, he went over to the library to study for a lot less time than he normally did before he realized that he was going to have to actually get ready for this dancing thing. And he probably shouldn't wear his scrubs if he was going to send the picture to Keith. Which meant he'd have to go home early.

Keith, I swear if you only knew half of what I put myself through for your sake.

By the time Lance was close to the apartment, he was already more than a little sick with dread. He'd made it a point to interact as little as possible with Spencer, and he knew that this was probably the worst time of the day for him to draw any attention to himself. It was easy to avoid him in the mornings; Lance was always long gone before he was even awake, but the moments where Lance was exposed between the door to the apartment and the door to his bedroom in the evenings were another story. Lance had learned to hate those moments the most.

Spencer hadn't thrown anything else at Lance, but he'd grown ruder and more confrontational when he realized that Lance had taken the coffeemaker and had no intention of bringing it back out into the kitchen. Lance made a very cold point that the appliance didn't belong to Stony Island, it was Lance's personal coffeemaker. That he had purchased. With money he had earned. And he wouldn't be opposed to reinstating it on the kitchen counter if Spencer could prove that he was deserving of it. As in there would need to be some severe improvement on the upkeep of the place before Lance would be willing to share anything of his again. He'd rather gotten used to having it in his room now, definitely liked how he didn't have to reclean it every single time before he could make fresh coffee, and it was rather pleasant how the scent lingered in the small space, blocking out the less than desirable smells that dominated the rest of the apartment.

If Spencer didn't like it, he could buy his own. Except he didn't. Instead the number of empty, disposable coffee cups littering the space at either end of the couch increased dramatically. The trash overflowed until Lance realized that either he would have to take it out himself, despite contributing practically nothing to it, or the apartment could be written up and fined for breach of contract. He was just grateful that Hunk and Pidge would never see it looking like this. But then again, if they'd never left it would have never been like this in the first place.

Lance successfully ran the gauntlet to his room, not bothering to even glance at Spencer, though he could feel his eyes follow him as he went. Lance knew he wasn't used to seeing him this early in the day. But Lance didn't speak to him at all before locking himself away in the corner of the apartment that was still exclusively his. Though even here, things felt different. Lance thought it mostly had to do with the fact that he had never unpacked. He'd carefully removed all his posters. The dishes waited all in boxes on the floor of his closet. The suitcase still sat ready by the door, though Lance removed his toothbrush and things like that every day to use them, still brushing his teeth in the kitchen, before carefully replacing them as though he still felt that he'd be leaving here any minute. He knew it didn't make sense, but he couldn't bring himself to put his things back. Not just because he didn't want Spencer using his kitchen stuff anymore. He just . . . didn't belong here, and he couldn't spread his things out, even in this room. It felt sort of vulnerable. Unsafe and uncomfortable.

Lance's hands were already shaking as he started searching through his dresser drawers, his body wracked with unused adrenaline that it had produced for a potential confrontation with his roommate that hadn't even happened. And they didn't steady much as Lance continued to paw around the few not-uniform-related articles of clothing he owned, trying to figure out what he should be wearing for a picture that Keith was going to see. The suits Allura left him seemed a bit too much. He finally decided on jeans and a blue button-down in his closet that Allura liked. Classy. Casual. Allura said the color looked good on him. Though it didn't feel like it fit him the way it used to. He wanted to go check himself in the bathroom mirror, but he just didn't dare. And what did he care what he looked like anyway?

What are you even doing, Lance? Trying to impress Keith? Getting all dressed up for someone who won't even be there? Who won't even notice the effort? This whole thing is so dumb. What are you wasting your time for? It's better than staring into the lake, a small voice deep inside him whispered, surprisingly sounding just like Pidge.

Lance paused, sitting on the bed, holding his head in his hands, trying to get himself under control. Trying to figure out what was wrong with him anyway. It's ok, he assured himself. It's not a big deal. This is to make sure Keith participates in something wholesome while he heals, something that will help him since Shiro's gone and you are too far away.

Besides, Pidge continued to whisper at him, what's the harm? You really haven't done anything fun in forever. This could be good for you. You won't be hiding in your room, avoiding eye contact with Angelique. Maybe you'll even meet someone.

That thought put Lance on his knees on the floor, one hand clinging to the quilt on his bed. Meet someone? You've got to be kidding.

Still, the persistent Pidge voice pushed. You did like dancing once.

Lance really hated how he was always one tiny thought away from crying lately. But it was true. He had enjoyed dancing. Quite a bit. The music, the movement, the flexibility within the pattern of the steps. But would it still be like that now? After everything that had happened to him, everything he'd already lost?

One way to find out – this time it was Allura clicking logically into his brain. Lance had a wry thought about when his sister Veronica was going to show up too and complete the set. Go on, Lance, Allura encouraged in his memory. It's ok to take a break. You have permission to enjoy yourself tonight. If nothing else, it will make the picture more convincing to Keith, which may mean he stops asking you those hard questions.

Lance checked his hands, still trembling but not near as bad. Maybe this . . . could be fun. Conflicted, hesitantly hopeful, Lance put his phone in his pocket and took a deep breath to leave. He always took a deep breath when he exited his room, and he usually held it as he passed through the apartment as though it would help him stay invisible.

He kept his head down, moving quickly. Avoid eye contact. You don't want to get into another shouting match with idiots tonight. Don't ruin the mood you're trying to make by having the same conversation about soda and noise ordinances and trash fines that didn't sink in the first three hundred times you mentioned it. Just walk right on through.

"Oh hey, are you Spencer's roommate?"

Whoa, wait – just a second. Lance slowed, even though he knew he shouldn't, but that was definitely a new voice. A girl's voice. How on earth did Spencer convince a girl to come home with him? And how wasn't he dying of embarrassment that he'd brought her home to this disaster? And why was she actually talking to Lance?

Curiosity claimed him, paused him directly in front of the door, but he kept his hand on the knob, ready to flee at any given moment. He lifted his head, turning cautiously to the side.

There was a girl here! Wow. Lance blinked at her silently, assessing. She had pulled the camp chair closer to the drums and was sitting in it with her legs crossed, her skirt so short that for a second Lance wasn't sure she was wearing one. She was prettier than Lance expected her to be with fair skin and hair just past her shoulders that was somewhere between brown and blonde. It looked as though she'd taken a long time straightening it. Taken a long time on herself in general – she was wearing an entire cosmetic section on her face and enormous gold hoops in her ears.

"You are, aren't you?" She continued, smiling at Lance, who had forgotten the original question in his surprise to discover someone besides Spencer, Damien, or Remy in the living room. Someone who was speaking to him directly. He wasn't sure what to do about that. "Wow, I can't believe I've never seen you before!"

"That's because he's a vampire," Spencer volunteered blandly from where he sat on the couch. "He only comes out at night." He had a notebook today instead of his guitar. Lance rolled his eyes, tightening his grip on the knob, ready to go, regretting that he'd paused in the first place. He should have known it would be a bad idea.

"I'm Lindsey," the girl volunteered, ignoring Spencer, shifting in the camp chair, perching on the edge of it as though she intended on standing up. "I'm doing the lead vocals for Spencer's band. We're working on a new song."

That's unfortunate, Lance wanted to say, but decided against it. He was too tired for this. Whatever this was. Instead he nodded mutely at her, pulling the door open. Lance didn't think that any of the music could be saved by the addition of vocals. Good luck with that.

"Want to hear it?" Lindsey asked, rather quickly, as though she wanted to get the question out before Lance stepped out into the hallway. He just barely noticed Spencer's head whip over to her, his lip curled in disgust that she would invite Lance to participate in anything they were doing together. It almost persuaded Lance to stay, just to piss him off, but he actually didn't want to encourage any interaction with any of Spencer's friends. Didn't want to spend any unnecessary time in their company.

"Nope," Lance replied brusquely, moving quickly and intentionally out the door. I don't want to listen to you or him for so many reasons. Nothing personal. Lance smiled bitterly as he closed the door behind him. No, come to think of it, it's extremely personal. He just simply couldn't stand being around Spencer any longer than he had to be.

Still, that was sort of a mean thing to do; it wasn't Lindsey's fault that she was under the impression that Spencer actually had a band, that he could be in any way talented. Lance still wouldn't have taken the time to listen to her sing, but he didn't have to shut her down that hard. And yet, he couldn't really pull together the capacity to feel sorry about it. He let the picture linger in his head for just another couple seconds. Lindsey, bubbly and hopeful with too much makeup and not enough clothes, trying to spark up anything that wasn't purely hormonal in Spencer. Lance felt a rush of goosebumps lift along his arms. Spencer – ick. Lance was just shocked that Lindsey was still sitting there trying. Any sensible girl would have looked at all the empty cups on the floor that had Spencer's name on them and promptly turned around never to return. The fact that she'd stayed indicated that they might just deserve each other. Another round of shivering disgust. Ugh. Ok, time to get all of that out of his head.

He had something more important to do.

The UChicago Ballroom and Latin Dance Association held their sessions in various locations throughout campus. Today's dance was scheduled in the large reception hall of the Ida Noyes building almost a mile's walk from Lance's apartment, almost, but not quite all the way to the University Hospital on the same street. Lance's struggle to find something to wear, his strange interlude with Lindsey, and his own hesitancy to participate brought him to the entrance almost fifteen minutes late.

Which meant he spent another few minutes outside, listening to the familiar rhythm of a Latin beat just beyond the doors, which paused every forty seconds or so for the instructors to teach or correct a step. He wasn't really sure he wanted to go in. He hadn't been exactly social for a very long time now, and even before, he'd had Allura on his arm for this kind of thing. He never showed up alone anywhere. And it wasn't like he could just slip inside, stand alongside the wall, snap a photo, and then leave. He knew Keith would expect to see him actually dancing or it wouldn't count. Which meant he'd have to at least talk to someone. He remembered when something like that had not been a huge deal.

So why was it so hard now?

And if he didn't go in, where would he go? The walk to the lake was getting colder every day, the sunset earlier. He'd brought nothing with him to work in the library. If he didn't go inside now, he'd have to return to the apartment. He wouldn't have a picture to send Keith, who then might not engage in the therapeutic group activities on base. Which meant he'd spend more time with Acxa. That was the thought that resolved him. He could do just about anything if it would help Keith not spend time with Acxa. And since Lance was stuck at this university and unable to go to him, this was the best way to do it. Besides, when had Lance ever been nervous just dancing?

Riding the flood of sudden determination, Lance pushed open the main doors, not exactly ready, but not giving himself the option of turning back. He paused at a table manned by two students to pay the entry fee and declare that he was just here for the dance – he wasn't interested in joining the competitive team. They smiled at him, welcoming, like there was nothing unusual about him turning up. In fact, they thanked him for coming. Then they ushered him forward into the reception hall and told him to have fun. Right.

Lance moved away from them and into the makeshift ballroom. He'd never been in the Ida Noyes building before. It stayed true to the Gothic architecture of the campus – complete with a painted mural and oak wainscotting lining all of the walls, topped with a white, rib-vaulted ceiling. The campus facilitated so many weddings in this room that it seemed they didn't bother taking down the decorative lighting anymore – giving the dance floor a twinkling, festive appearance.

There were more dancers than Lance anticipated, maybe fifty or so couples and dozens more on the sidelines, loners like Lance tonight. He shifted to stand near them, unaffiliated, but watching. From what he gathered from the website, the first hour was set aside for instruction with the last two for practice. He gathered in the first few seconds that they were focused on the cha-cha tonight. A dance he vaguely remembered. It's supposed to be flirty, he reminded himself as he crossed his arms protectively, scanning the room again. He wondered at all the other motives collected in the room – what had drawn all of these people here tonight. Why they had chosen to come dancing. He figured he was likely the only here just to get a picture so the boy he loved wouldn't hang out with his girlfriend so much. God, Lance, this is really your life. What the hell happened?

"Hello?"

Lance jumped at the voice right next to him. He'd been thinking and watching the routine so hard he hadn't noticed he'd been ganged up on by three girls. He took a step to the side, turning toward them, resigned. Here we go.

They stood in a tight formation, but it was clear which of them had spoken. The other two had come over for emotional support. He'd seen clusters like this before, though he was surprised to discover that nothing had changed much in the years since he'd been in a class like this. There was the lead girl, the one who said hello, dark-haired and petite. Then behind her would be the girl who didn't actually want to be here but came because the other two had forced her (she wore overalls and long braids), and the last would be the girl who also wanted to dance but would faithfully remain in her friend's shadow, letting her go first. In this incarnation of the archetypal trio, the last girl had thick, auburn-ish hair and a massive number of freckles. Lance almost smiled at the familiarity of the scenario.

"Would you like to dance?" The lead girl asked him, smiling with all her teeth. Lance scanned the girls again, this time assessing height.

"Yes," he answered her, but forcefully made eye contact with her friend, the ginger girl, extending his hand to her where she stood in that unseen shadow, intent on pulling her forward. "If you'd be so kind?"

He watched panic and pleasure ripple rapidly over her face. She glanced at her friend to study her reaction, see if this would be allowed. Lance also looked at her momentarily, noticing the shock that Lance would deviate from social normalcy this way. She didn't know that Lance did stuff like this all the time. Or . . he used to. It was nothing against her, really. She was just too short to dance with comfortably, and her friend had several inches on her. An easy decision with rather dramatic consequences.

"I'm Heather," the girl told him as he led her by the hand to join the couples in the center of the room. Right. Dance small talk. Keith I'm going to kill you.

"Lance," he responded without much emotion, thinking he should probably tell her that he'd asked her based on nothing else other than how tall she was. He didn't want her to get the wrong idea about any of it. It's just a dance. He pulled her professionally into position, his body automatically lifting, some muscle memory intact for this. She followed his lead rather sluggishly, her form too loose and too far from him. Not much experience then. Whatever. It wasn't important. It wasn't like Lance was an expert or anything. He wasn't being graded anymore.

The instructors called for attention to give directions on a new step, which Lance attempted to perform with Heather for about three minutes before everyone was asked to switch partners. Lance made eye contact with someone else on the sidelines without actually looking at her, holding out his hand, which she came forward to take eagerly. Five minutes later, he switched again, exchanging nothing more than names, hardly even looking at his partners. This was supposed to be fun? He used to like this? And how was he supposed to get a picture when he didn't know anyone here and things kept changing every few minutes?

They played a game, one of those rapidly exchanging partner ones that was more about drilling the step into your subconscious than anything. Lance appreciated that. The quick pace warmed his blood in almost the same way as responding to an emergency in the ER did – just without the stress. He could mess up here, often, and nothing bad would happen. He could opt out for a few minutes to catch his breath and no one would care. No one would die if he forgot what to do next.

Yeah, all right. This was kind of fun.

The instruction segment ended, and the main lights went out, submitting to the fainter glow of the neglected wedding reception lighting. Couples parted, some going back to their actual dates, relieved to be reunited after dancing with strangers. Lance rather envied them. There was something special about knowing your partner, trusting them, getting familiar with their particular style and movement. Knowing you belonged with someone.

Lance had danced with Allura, on those rare occasions when the event called for something like that. She had plenty of grace but too much reservation, and she didn't take all that much enjoyment from it. It didn't help that usually when they danced together, they were watched by way too many people. Lance had never brought her to anything like this. Maybe he should have.

He still needed a picture, something that had suddenly become harder to obtain with the lower lights, now that the practice dancing had started. It had the feel of a regular school dance, just less formal. Lance paused on the sidelines, watching the floor, registering the contentment of established couples who had been doing this a long time and how it contrasted with the rather desperate hunger of those who had come here alone, hoping to find someone. Lance felt strange that he was in the middle – no dedicated partner but no desire for one either. It was kind of a lonely place if he stood still long enough and thought about it.

So he chose not to be still. It was easy here where the ratio was tilted so far in his favor. He danced a foxtrot with a girl named Jamie, then broke away from her to start the cha cha they'd learned earlier with another girl named Tanya. And after that Lance gave up on trying to remember all the names, the faces, the features. He never lacked for a partner, and most of them he never truly looked at, a negligence that was encouraged by the dark atmosphere. Because it wasn't about the partner. It was about the movement and the music, letting go of every thought except what step came next in the beat. Forgetting everything else. Lance allowed himself to get lost in that; it felt good to put everything down. He hadn't noticed how tense he'd grown carrying it. Hadn't noticed how much he missed the touch of another human being, even a stranger, just holding someone alive in his arms for a few minutes of contact was rather renewing. It felt nice – a warm hand on his shoulder, a hand in his hand. Some of the more experienced girls even came into the correct position, which brought their hips in close to Lance's, tight and ready to accommodate his direction. He never danced with the same girl twice.

He did focus enough that he managed to get a couple pictures, and one slightly blurry dark video. He used another cluster of girls to help him with it – said he needed it for a class, though he didn't specify any further than that. He took the tallest girl of the group again, forgot her name almost instantly after he'd asked for it, lost it in the music. He trusted his phone to her friend, who agreed to Lance's request only if he'd dance with her next. Something Lance could say yes to immediately – he absolutely did not care who he danced with.

Though he'd been reluctant to start, Lance found himself shocked that two hours went by so quickly – song by song, dance by dance. Before he knew it, the lights were coming on again, the atmosphere broken. He thanked his last partner, releasing her hand, bewildered that it was over. Couples and clusters began taking their coats from the stage at the end of the dance floor, preparing to leave. Lance looked at his phone, confirming that it really was ten at night. He noticed that the girls who had taken the photos for him had thoughtfully also added themselves to his contacts, sent texts to their own phones in order to get his number. He shook his head, remembering a time when something like that would have made his entire week. Where were you before? He thought of the girls, all of them who had approached him first tonight. Where were you when I was nineteen and thought I wanted you?

You could call them, Lance's brain suggested, but he stamped it down quickly. No. Not going down that path again. It's not for me. I'm emotionally unavailable. If I tried being with anyone else, it would just be Allura all over again. Except worse. With Allura, Lance had started dating her with the intention that eventually he'd get over Keith. Now he knew better. Allura had been an amazing sport about the whole thing, and it was a miracle they'd come out of it still friends. But Lance couldn't date anyone else now; it wouldn't be right or fair.

Dancing, on the other hand, didn't carry any sort of commitment outside of the song. Lance could continue to go dancing on Wednesdays – let go of his tension, pretend he wasn't alone or lonely. He could dance with every girl in the room, and nothing would happen past that. Until Lance somehow let go of Keith. But Lance dismissed that thought even faster than the idea of calling any of the new contacts in his phone. He'd never let go of Keith. The whole reason he'd come here had been for Keith. He just wanted to keep him in his life somehow. That's why he put up with the pain of never expressing his feelings for him. Because he'd go through just about anything not to lose him. Even if it meant that he stayed alone.

Lance followed the other dancers out of Ida Noyes, walking rather unsteadily, the broken gait of someone exhausted from carrying something heavy. Like someone slipping in and out of consciousness. But that was how distractions worked, and he'd known that. Temporary. So very temporary. No matter what, the lights always come back on. The dream ends. No one spoke to him on the way out, or at least not that he noticed. He took the long way home, deciding not to cut through campus but to follow 59th Street all the way east until it connected to Stony Island Ave. He knew he probably shouldn't; it was already long past his normal bedtime for someone who was planning on getting up at four-thirty. He'd probably regret it in the morning, but regret seemed to be the default setting on his life, so he continued to walk slowly in a straight line, waiting to cross paths with his own street.

The air carried the chill of autumn, here on the cusp of October, and most of the trees had already lost their leaves. Piles and trails of them gathered in the gutters of the streets and on the dead grass, giving a rather haunting look to the already dark appearance of the college. Lance sighed, letting the cold sweep over him, battered as helplessly as the paper-fragile leaves at his feet. This was not his favorite time of year; the whole planet growing darker and cold, seeming smaller somehow for that. The dread of another long winter ahead of him, a reminder of the coming days where he would leave the apartment before dawn, and he'd return to it after dark. He'd always hated how the season and his schedule would cheat him out of the few hours of daylight that existed between October and March. So very few hours of sunlight. So many heavy hours of dark with only the black waves of the lake ebbing in and out.

The natural high of movement and music that Lance had enjoyed while dancing bled itself completely out by the time he reached the hallway outside his apartment, blown off him all along his walk like the leaves off the trees. He leaned against the wall beside his door for a second before going in, gathering himself. He could hear the drums inside, Damien's base. No one was singing, though, which meant that maybe Lindsey had gone home. Lance took a deep breath, preparing for the quick, focused march to his bedroom. Eyes forward, move fast.

"Hey!"

Damn. Spencer paused in his drumming, Damien following his lead, zeroing everyone's attention to Lance as he shut the door behind him. But he was used to that. Hated it, but he was used to it. He didn't have to respond to anything. In fact, it was safer if he didn't. He kept walking to his room as though Spencer hadn't called to him.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!" Spencer continued, disentangling himself from behind the drum set.

"Unnecessary," Lance shot the word defensively behind him. There is no need to engage. No need to talk at all. We ignore each other; follow the protocol. Lance almost made it to his room before Spencer caught up with him, catching him by one shoulder and swinging Lance roughly around. Lance brought his fists up, surprising even himself. What did he think he was going to do? Spencer took a half step back, eyeing him.

"Stay away from Lindsey," Spencer commanded him. "She's out of your league and off limits; you got it?"

Lance couldn't help it; a weird, uneasy laugh burst out of his mouth. This kid. He seriously thought he had to warn Lance about that? Out of Lance's league, huh? If it were worth my time, I could show you what that really looks like, Lance thought bitterly, his heart hollow and worn. Lindsey and Allura might as well be different species. Out of his league. Whatever.

"She's all yours," Lance allowed, knowing that his smile was condescending but not caring about that at all. "I'm not interested."

Spencer looked undecided about whether he should be satisfied that Lance had given in easily or offended because Lance didn't think that his girl was worth stealing. Lance drew some cold amusement watching both emotions crawl slowly over Spencer's features. He clenched his teeth against the urge to shove Spencer away from him. They'd already exceeded Lance's tolerance for interaction.

"Keep it that way," Spencer threatened one more time before heading back to the living room where Damien waited, glaring at Lance from the edge of the couch.

Lance lowered his fists, then stared at his hands for a long time after he'd let himself into his room and locked the door behind him. So many memories zipped through him, each one tearing his heart a little as it passed. Keith's startle reflex. The way he had also stared at his hands in shock, like they weren't even his. Were you really going to hit him? Keith asked, an echo of the time he'd asked Shiro the same question after the verdict hearing.

No, Lance answered the shadow Keith in his head. At least, he didn't think so.

Lance woke up with a migraine, which he completely expected. He staggered through getting ready, pausing a lot to rest his head against anything that was available. The kitchen counter. The shower wall. He even knelt down on the floor of his bedroom and leaned against the mattress for a bit, halfway through getting dressed, breathing as deeply as possible. He kept his eyes closed after he left his apartment, making his way down the familiar path to the lounge on touch alone, collapsing onto the couch in the cold silence of the very early morning. No, not quite silence, he could hear the wind outside, blustering in common autumn force. He leaned his head back, resting it, and waited for Keith to call.

There were a few texts already; they'd come in late last night from Hunk and Pidge. Lance hadn't bothered to write them an email after coming home, so they were checking on him. He curled up on his side on the couch, one eye open against the glare of the phone, texting them quickly that he was ok, just had a late night. He sent them the dance photos to prove that he'd actually gone out and done something. Let them figure that out.

Allura had also emailed him with pictures of her own. She'd just got back from Romelle and Ben's wedding in Maui. She'd reminded Lance weeks ago that he was still invited, that she'd be happy to take him with her, but Lance had declined the offer. He'd wanted to see Allura again, sort of. He wanted to see her, but he didn't want her to see him, even though he knew that made no sense. But he knew she'd take one look at him and know that he was crumbling on the inside, that he'd been lying to all of his friends for months now. He didn't want that, didn't want anyone to see how poorly he was handling being left behind. He didn't want to hear about it. He already knew there wasn't anything he could do to change it, so there was no point bringing it up. Or give anyone the option of bringing it up. He didn't want to drag everyone down with him. They had their own lives going on.

Lance scrolled through the photos of Allura and Romelle on the beaches in their formal wedding attire. The sun, the spray – all the smiles. Ben wearing the same expression as Officer Guist at his wedding, like he couldn't believe how lucky he was. Allura looked majestic, the waves of her bright hair untamable in the humid, salty air near the ocean. Her smile spread easily across her lovely face as she hugged Romelle tight for the picture. Lance missed her, missed that time they'd spent together. It had still been a distraction, a denial all its own, but it had been better. He'd never felt the need to lock himself in his bedroom.

He tried to text her, at least to say welcome back. But he couldn't say welcome back without also thanking her for the pictures. And he couldn't thank her for the pictures without giving her his opinion on how great she looked in them and how happy he was for Romelle, and suddenly that seemed like just too much to type out on his phone while he was lying on his side on the couch at quarter to seven in the morning, so he just shut everything off and closed his eyes. He'd get back to her later. When his head didn't hurt anymore, and he could sit at one of the library computer stations and type properly. Tonight would be soon enough.

Keith called right on schedule, and for a little while Lance forgot about his headache, successfully hiding all of his pain from Keith. They talked about the photos and the video; Keith expressing his surprise that Lance actually could dance. He asked about the girl Lance was dancing with, rather hesitant, probing questions. He seemed to relax again when Lance assured him that he really didn't know her and had only danced with her the one time for the photo.

They talked about Acxa, of course, but Lance tried to turn the topic as quickly as possible. He was tired of talking about Acxa; plus there just wasn't much else to be said. Her recovery was going to be slow and long, and for a lot of it, no one would be able to see much progress. But Lance still had to allow Keith to get everything out of his system, reassure him again about the correct, inevitability of his choices, and how he wasn't responsible for hers, untying the same knot that he'd untangled yesterday. The same knot he'd work on again tomorrow. The day after that. Every day for the rest of his life is that's what Keith needed. Lance did notice that it didn't take as long as it used to, which was a comfort.

Keith also shared the good news that he'd gotten half of his stitches out earlier that morning. The other half were scheduled to come out in a couple days depending on how the wounds looked. Lance cautioned him against doing too much too soon, because half the stitches was not the same as all the stitches. He reminded Keith about their deal, and Keith acknowledged that he was scheduled to do a group session in an hour. He refused to send Lance pictures.

"You'll get your proof," Keith promised cryptically, forcing Lance to be content with that, even though he wanted to point out how not fair Keith was being. Lance had gone to a lot of trouble to get those dance photos. He'd rather expected Keith to return the gesture. He'd been looking forward to at least a small glimpse of what Keith looked like now, military haircut, almost four years after they'd last seen each other. It would have been nice . . . and probably painful. Like normal.

"Thanks, Lance," Keith said, rather suddenly.

"For what?" Lance responded, wondering if he'd missed something.

"Too much to list, really," Keith answered vaguely. Lance sat up, holding his head in his hand, urging Keith to keep going. "Pushing me into therapy, writing me all those letters even when I wasn't writing you back very much, listening to me every day even though it's so early where you are. . . just everything."

"That's what friends do," Lance affirmed, just the slightest edge to his words. It's also what lovers do, Keith. If you could be open to that. If you could let go of Acxa enough for me to even suggest it. We could be so good together, Keith, if you'd just give us a chance to try. Lance pulled the phone away from his mouth, exhaling shakily, new aches joining the old ones in his throat, tensing his shoulders. "Hey Keith?"

"Yeah?" Keith encouraged, waiting expectantly.

Hang on, Lance, what are you doing? Don't say stupid stuff just because your medication hasn't kicked in all the way yet. Pay attention. You won't be able to take it back so make sure you know what you're doing.

"When are you coming home?" Why do you always have to be so far away?

"To the states?" Keith guessed, missing Lance's meaning. "Pretty soon, I think. Shiro said he'd take me back with him. Not sure where though. I won't be on active duty for at least a few more months. They'll have to do some reassessment tests before I can fly again."

"No," Lance interrupted, knowing he should be grateful that Keith had missed the point of the question. He swallowed the tears out of his voice, unwisely continuing. "I mean do you think we'll ever see each other again?"

"Oh," Keith grew quiet. "I don't know, maybe? Is that something you want?"

Are you kidding?!

"Oh my God, yes," Lance blurted out, then realized he'd come across way too eager. "It'd be great to get everyone back together, wouldn't it?" He tried to ease his outburst. "You, Hunk, Pidge – all here again like old times. Remember?"

"A little," Keith acknowledged, forcing Lance to recall that not all of Keith's memories from that time were good. "I wouldn't say no to a chance to eat Hunk's cooking again."

"Right?" Lance agreed quickly, glad that Keith hadn't read too much into what Lance had just done. Don't get too comfortable, Lance chastised himself. If you want to keep talking to him every day, then you'd better keep your emotions in check.

"Or yours," Keith continued, and Lance pressed against the back of the couch, crushed by memory, knowing he'd never get that back again. Even if they all flew into Chicago this weekend, it wouldn't be the same. And they'd leave again. It might actually make the separation worse. Plus, they'd see the apartment, see what Lance's life was like now, which would be an atrocity. Perhaps it was best that they just make these imaginary plans stay imaginary.

"It's a fun idea," Lance sighed, the frenzy of hope fading as the reality of making it happen settled between them both. "Practically impossible, but fun."

"Yeah," Keith said softly. "Hey, Lance?"

Oh, it'd been so long since Lance had been asked that question. The one that began and ended with his name. The one he was certain had more to it that Keith never vocalized. It had been years, but Keith's tone was exactly the same.

"Yeah, Lobito?" What is it? What have you been wanting to ask me so long? Is it . . is it the same thing I've been wanting to ask you?

"How is it going?" Keith eventually settled on a question, and Lance knew that was not what he'd been wanting to say. Knew it and wanted to push back. Come on, Keith, let's have a real conversation. Except once they did, that would be the end. I can tell you what Lobito means, but I can only tell you once – so are you sure you really want to know?

"What do you mean?" Lance repeated, thrown off. "How is what going?"

"You know, your life? Is it . . is it what you wanted it to be? I know you had a pretty detailed plan when I met you. I just wondered if that was still working out the way you wanted it to."

Lance pulled the phone away, shoved his face against the couch. What kind of question is that, Keith? Why ask me something like that? I got everything I ever said I wanted. It's my own damn fault that it turned out like this.

"I . . . guess so," Lance said, wishing he sounded more certain about it. Don't you dare drag him down, Lance. Get your voice together. "Everything's on track." And I should probably remind myself about that more. Everything's in place for my doctorate. Dr. Delacroix says I'm making progress. Then I'll go back to Cuba. Then I'll . . .

"Good," Keith replied. "That's good to know."

"What about you?" Lance pushed, not wanting to be the only one who was forced to answer the question.

"Well, I never had much of a plan in the first place," Keith admitted, making it light. "Still it's been . . so much different than I thought it would be. A lot of it is better."

"And the part that's not?" Lance wondered.

"Can't have everything," Keith retorted, as though he were quoting something. So very true, Lance thought, but then wondered what it was that Keith wanted that he thought he couldn't have. Lance wanted to know what it was. Wanted to give it to him.

"Keith?" Lance began.

"Yeah?" Why did he sound like that? What was in his voice that made him sound like that? And what are you doing, Lance? What do you think you're going to say here?

"Have . . have a good session, ok? Let me know how it goes?"

"I . . . sure. Talk to you later?"

"I'll be here."

Forever.

Keith hung up and Lance curled over, holding himself as tightly as possible, squeezing the air out of his lungs, breathing in little pants, the pound of his headache back in force. What the hell was that about? How was he supposed to keep talking to Keith if this is how their conversations were going to go?

You could just tell him – the suggestion attacked him in multiple voices in his head at once. Pidge. Hunk. Allura. Just tell him.

I . . . could, Lance answered them, so hesitantly. Maybe that would be better. To finally know. It would hurt, but maybe after it was done, Lance could pick himself up. Start to put himself back together. Move on from this never ending loop. Ok, he thought shakily. Tomorrow. Tomorrow when Keith calls . . . I'll tell him.

Except Keith didn't call. Not the next morning. Or the morning after that. Lance waited in the lounge almost too long. He tried Keith's number, but couldn't get him. He texted him several times, asking if he was ok. If Acxa was ok. No response.

It was like Keith had completely disappeared.

Author's Note: So my husband would do this – back when we were dating. He hated that he liked me, so we'd go do something together, have a great time, and then he would DROP OFF THE MAP for three straight weeks until I'd sworn to myself that I would never talk to him again. (I found out later that when he'd do that, he was going out into the mountains, living in a tent without his cell phone, trying Very Hard not to like me. It freaked him out.)

But eventually he'd show up, wearing his leather duster and his cowboy hat, leaning on my doorway and asking if I wanted to go with him somewhere – horseback riding, on a walk, hell, I even agreed to go help him drywall his stupid basement. And the whole time we did this thing that Lance and Keith are doing now – I want to tell him I like him – I don't want him to know because if he doesn't like me back then he's going to cut me off. It sucked.

But we've been married for a long time now, so all that waiting totally paid off. It will in this story too, hang in there.

I'm working on this thing so hard, guys. I don't want to rush it so it will be the right kind of gorgeous. The pacing is really hard to strike right. Stay with me. I know – I'll write faster. I want to get there too.