Author's Note: Guys, I promise, this is the blackest it's going to get. I know it's been sad and separated for quite some time now, but I NEEDED this chapter to swing us back around. It's dark down there, and cold. I think I might need a trigger warning up here for violence, for mild suggestion of assault. Just, stay with me – there is light coming back into this story. Very soon.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Catalyst
Lance made a list. Then another. He bought a brand-new bag of coffee at the Walgreens closest to the apartment. He walked to the lake in increasing layers of warm clothes. He knit cheerful, rainbow-striped hats for the preemies in the NICU and rocked them gently for hours in the evenings. He went dancing again. He wrote emails and played Keith's CDs that he'd mailed to him ages ago. He patiently listened to Hunk and Pidge vent about the varied and numerous challenges for putting together a one-day symposium, murmuring sympathetic encouragement at expected intervals during each conversation. He took pictures and sent them to his family and friends. He religiously attended his classes, labs, lectures, and ER schedule. He studied in the library and the lounge and the laundry room. He started carrying an umbrella everywhere he went as October began its annual tradition of pouring rain in frequent and lengthy intervals.
For a week, Lance strung every positive activity he could think of onto his routine, every distraction, anything he had ever liked, he even started cleaning the apartment again, waiting for any or all of it to settle his soul. Some things worked better than others. The NICU was better than the lake. Dancing was better than studying. The ER was the best of all, though it carried its own challenges.
And he waited for any of it to help.
When Lance had lived with Allura, everything had been routine. The food they ate, the clothes they wore, even what they said to each other. Everything had its own ritual, and time passed smoothly through Lance's hands like the beads of a rosary. He wanted that back, that cycle of knowing what was coming next so well that entire months could just drop out of his memory. He was so tired of consciously dealing with every, single second of his life. So tired that there were so many since he couldn't stop waking up at four-thirty every day and spent way too much time flat on his back at night, staring at the ceiling. Staring at the lake. Staring at words on a page that he knew he'd read twelve times already but still couldn't remember.
He was tired of endlessly checking his phone. Tired of coming up with answers to questions, of making conversation, of pretending.
You've got to get used to it, he told himself. This is your life. This is just how it's going to be from now on. You've done everything you know how to do. So the only thing left is to just keep going. It wasn't enough, but it was all he had. And then it was morning again. Or time to meet Angelique. Or time to send another photo. Answer another phone call that wasn't the phone call he really wanted. And he was fine, thanks for asking, but please could you also stop asking?
Mostly everyone accepted Lance's answers. Hunk and Pidge were too busy to notice if Lance was being a little quieter than normal. Allura was easy to distract if Lance asked her the right kinds of questions. His fellow classmates were drowning in their own stress and hardly ever glanced at each other. And Keith? Well, they'd have to have some kind of working relationship or communication in the first place for him to ever notice that it was different, wouldn't they?
The conversation with Lance's family that week was hard. He put up a good front, talking about the weather, the upcoming dark and cold of winter, the rain. They talked about dancing and babies. The ones Lance held in the NICU and Marco and Isabel's new little girl. The first granddaughter ever. They'd named her Rachel. Lance tried to pretend that didn't bother him, but inside he felt rather betrayed. Rachel might have been Marco's sister too, but she belonged to Lance. It felt as though she'd been taken away from him somehow, even though he knew that was petty. But what if Lance had wanted to name his daughter Rachel? Except, he thought sadly, the congratulations barely out of his mouth, you probably won't ever have a daughter at this rate.
His mother brought it up shortly after, what with all the talk about babies, asking pointedly if he'd met anyone, gone on any dates. He countered that he was too busy. She expressed regret that he and Allura had broken up. He reminded her that they were headed in two very different directions and were better as friends. She then suggested a myriad of local Cuban girls that she'd shown Lance's pictures to. She wondered if she could give Lance's phone number or address to them.
"No, Mom, don't do that," Lance protested. That's just what I need.
"Why not? They're nice girls, good families," Eva persuaded.
"I'm sure they are, but how would that work when I'm not even in the country?" Lance pointed out, feeling as though this shouldn't be something he'd have to make obvious. But that one argument suddenly boiled over a topic that had apparently been brewing for a very long time, and Lance was in no way ready for it. And once it started, it all came out at once. He should have just said yes to the phone numbers.
"But you're not going to be gone forever, are you?" Eva said pleadingly. "You are planning on coming back. Soon, right? It's been years, mijo. I thought you'd be back to visit at least once."
"It's . . hard," Lance began. Flights didn't even go directly to Cuba from the US. He'd have to fly somewhere else first, like Canada, if he wanted to go home. And then when he got there, would it be like his memories? Lance was more than a little afraid to go home at this point. Too much had happened. He was afraid that he wouldn't want to come back to Chicago. He was also afraid that he would.
"You would have figured it out if you'd wanted to." Lance heard Marco say teasingly in the background. Except not really teasing. There was a bitterness in it. Marco now had two children that Lance had never seen in person. Luis' son, Mateo, was thirteen years old. Lance was missing everything and had to be told all the highlights once a week from a church office. There was more than just distance that separated him from them. And he could tell from this conversation that they all knew it. Felt it. The ocean between them was wider than it measured on a map, the gulf growing every year.
"Marco," Eva threatened, but her voice had changed. There was new doubt in it. "You do want to come home, don't you, Lance?"
Lance curled up on his bed, on top of the quilt Eva made him. Such a complicated question, though honestly, he shouldn't be surprised that it had finally been asked. He hadn't visited. Hadn't even tried. And he wasn't sure why. He didn't have an answer. He wanted to see them, but then he'd have to leave them again, and he didn't really know if Cuba could be home for him anymore. There was a lot about America he'd grown used to. He no longer saw himself living near the mango orchard, marrying a local girl, opening a practice. Hell, he couldn't think past the end of the day anymore, let alone any kind of future. Why'd they have to ask this now? He wasn't sure about anything right now. He shouldn't answer questions like that. They needed to stick to safer subjects.
"It would be great to see you all again," Lance told her, truthfully, though he wasn't sure he could stand looking at his old house, the mango trees, the ocean. Would they even be the same? Would it hurt him or heal him? Did he even belong there anymore? Did he belong anywhere? "But I can't leave here yet. I'm not finished."
"Are you sure this is something you still want?" Eva asked him, seriously. "It's been so long since we've been together. And you don't sound happy anymore."
"It's what I want," Lance said quickly, trying to be firm. Becoming a doctor was the only thing he had left. He'd come this far; he wasn't giving it up now. He just had to keep going. It would have to get better eventually. Or at least tolerable. "I'm really busy, but I'm fine." And they'd all known that he'd be gone. They knew when he left how long it took to become a doctor by US standards. Why were they surprised that it was taking exactly as much time as he'd told them? Or maybe they thought he would have given up by now. Maybe they wanted that. But he didn't. "Now where are my boys?"
His nephews. He wanted to talk to them. They never got tired of hearing about America, hearing what their Tío was doing. They still had admiration and excitement in their voices when they interacted with him. He needed that. Except even those conversations were different. They still asked him for peanut butter and ketchup, and Diego shyly requested crayons after one of his older cousins prompted him. Because Diego was almost five but had only ever heard from Lance as a voice on a phone, so he just didn't have the same relationship with him that the older boys had. Or used to have. Lance didn't even know what they looked like anymore. He promised them everything, amazed and sad that all the things they asked for that were next to impossible to obtain on the island were easily accessible for Lance from a corner store two blocks away from him. How? How could he go back? Now that he'd been here so long? Now that everything was so different?
Lance spent most of his Sunday morning after the phone call simply lying on the quilt, looking at all the different fabrics in it, trying to see if he could still remember where each patch had come from. The piece from his childhood blanket. The cotton of his father's workshirt. His mother's best Sunday dress. The green print with roses on it that had been Rachel's. They were all faded now, worn, soft in that fragile way that reminded Lance that nothing really lasts forever. He pulled on another sweater and headed to the lake, wondering how he was going to handle the next conversation.
Because as difficult as talking on the phone could be, it was nothing compared to the in-person scrutiny that Lance received at the ER. In the world of avoidance that Lance was quickly building out of carefully wrapped half-truths, Angelique's tiger eyes remained sharp and fixated on him. She watched him as he mopped up triage rooms. She stared at his hands while he wrote down stats. She followed the motions of his fork when he forced himself to eat lunch, publicly visible, in the hospital cafeteria.
And it didn't take her long at all before she started asking him questions that had nothing to do with case studies.
Lance, are you with me? How is Keith doing? Your family? What are your plans for the weekend? Lance, how have you been sleeping? Did you get earplugs and figure out the roommate situation? How are things going with your classes? Is everything all right? Would you tell me if it wasn't?
Lance kept forcefully giving her the correct answers to all these questions, relieved when her attention would be diverted by the next incoming emergency. Though she would be right on top of him again immediately after it was over.
"Connie tells me you've knit a hat for just about every baby in the NICU right now," Angelique mentioned, too pointedly to be casual, as they sat together in the break room, a little less than a week since Lance's last phone call with Keith.
"Babies need hats," Lance quoted, speaking around the bite of beef stroganoff he'd been chewing for the last two minutes, trying to get it to the consistency he thought he could successfully swallow.
"True, but who needs the hats more, Lance?" Angelique asked, the question a dart into his psyche. "The neonates or you?"
"Am I doing something wrong?" Lance asked her, his voice still, his eyes on the pile of napkins stacked between them. The salt and pepper shaker. The crumbs remaining from the last person who sat at the table before they did. Tell me the answer to that, Doña. I really need someone to tell me the answer to that. What am I doing wrong and what can I do to fix it?
"No," Angelique reassured, and Lance was able to swallow. He wanted her to say it again. But maybe this time without looking at him like that. "But sometimes that can be a problem all on its own."
"I'm fine," Lance insisted. I don't have real problems. I have no good reason to feel the way I do. "Hats that small only take like five minutes to make. I watched one movie and did twenty. No big deal." The lie went up, another brick in the wall. No, wait, that was a song, wasn't it? What were they talking about? Right. Hats. And a movie that Lance hadn't actually watched. What was the last movie he watched in case she asked him?
"Let me see your hands."
Lance relaxed slightly. He'd studied for this test. He tucked his fork in his mouth, feigning nonchalance, freeing his hands so he could obediently hold them out to her. She said you didn't do anything wrong. The remembrance of that gave him the courage to make eye contact with her for the few seconds she needed to gauge him. There are twenty-seven bones in the hand. Lance listed them off to himself, getting to the sixteenth before Angelique gave up looking for whatever she was trying to see.
"Eat," Angelique commanded, just slightly testy, and Lance gratefully continued, more than eager to please her. He'd do just about anything for that. To stay near her competence, to have her guiding him, telling him what to do. The structure of the ER was the most comfortable part of Lance's day, though sometimes it followed him into the night. Visions of blood and screams. Keith's stitches. He'll probably have a scar on his face.
Lance walked slower and slower to the apartment in the evenings. Now that he was keeping it clean, more people were turning up regularly. Lindsey was a constant fixture on the couch or in the kitchen, her eyes following Lance whenever he darted through the living room, always calling after him to stay and have some pizza, stay and hear the song. What's the rush? Don't be so shy!
"You know why the worst part of the day is when you get home?" Spencer asked him once. Lance didn't particularly care, but Lindsey was standing in the hallway to his bedroom, which slowed him down. "It's because you never bring us any booze!"
Lance rolled his eyes and then tried to stare at Lindsey pointedly enough that she'd get out of the way. They'd had that fight too often already. Spencer just didn't get it how Lance was old enough to buy the stuff legally and yet never did. Lance explained that even if he did like to drink, which he really didn't, he wasn't about to spend his own money just so Spencer and all his under-aged friends could get drunk.
"Excuse me," Lance finally said to Lindsey, who seemed rooted to the wall, blocking the hallway. She blinked at him, her eyes appearing much larger than they were due to the make-up. Lance wondered how long that took her to do every day. Allura had never been that dramatic in her application.
"Don't go hide in your room," Lindsey pleaded. "Stay with us. I'm making popcorn and we're going to watch a movie." Lance could feel Spencer glaring at him behind his back.
"I've got stuff to do," Lance told her, hoping he wouldn't have to touch her to get past. Step aside, little girl. You're in my way.
"It's just a movie," Lindsey returned, pouting in a way she must think was irresistible. "Do your stuff after."
"I'm calling my girlfriend," Lance blurted, and Lindsey's eyes widened in surprise. "She's expecting me."
"Bullshit," Spencer coughed behind him.
"You really are," Lance shot the insult without turning to look at him, noticing that it made Lindsey smirk. It lasted barely a second before she was grilling him for information.
"I didn't know you had a girlfriend," she admitted. Of course you didn't, Lance thought. None of you know a damn thing about me. Which is just the way I like it.
"That's because he doesn't!" Spencer jeered from the kitchen. Frustrated, but sensing that if he didn't show some proof, he wasn't getting past Lindsey, Lance brought out his phone and pulled up the pictures he kept of Allura. He pointedly flipped the screen to Lindsey and started scrolling through them. He and Allura together at the wedding. At the aquarium. Selfies over dinner. Cuddled on the couch. Photos of her when he'd caught her just going about her day, looking lovely. Reading standing up because she was too engrossed in the subject to notice that she hadn't sat down yet. Smiling at him in the snow in her white peacoat. Lindsey's eyes widened even more.
"Yeah," Lance said, probably harsher than he needed to, but he was trying to set some boundaries and make a point. See? You can quit trying so hard. There's no way you come close to comparing with her, so leave me alone. "Now let me by."
She stepped into the other hallway, the one leading to the bathroom, subdued. Lance heard Spencer making some asinine comment but couldn't decipher the actual words as he hurriedly unlocked his door and shut himself inside. He took a second to look through the pictures himself, going back farther and farther in time until he got to the one where he sat in the middle of the couch, Allura on one side of him and Keith on the other at Hunk and Pidge's going away party. The last time they'd all been together. He stared at it for a very long time, at Keith's face, at the arm that Lance had over his shoulders. And he never called Allura at all.
Days continued to pass in slow, painful rhythm as Lance struggled to keep it together. This is your new normal, he kept telling himself. You'll get used to it. Keep going. But thinking that way didn't exactly comfort him. In fact, it filled him with dread that he was stuck in this cycle for the rest of his life and he wanted to scream, to run, to . . . something terrible and extreme. He'd swallow it down and do something trivial. Take out the trash, take a deep breath, start knitting a sweater with really intense cables to make it impossible to think of anything except the stitch count, there's only a few hours left of today. Tomorrow will be better. You knew a long time ago that this choice was going to isolate you. You knew you'd end up alone.
One by one, Lance began dropping things from the schedule as his energy started dwindling. He skipped dancing on Wednesday. He stopped walking to the lake as often as the weather continued to deteriorate. It seemed like it rained all the time anymore. Lance couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the sun. He couldn't think of anything to say in an email or a reply to a text, so he kept them extremely short or remained silent. And when Sunday came around again, when the three rings chirped from that familiar number in Cuba, Lance stared at his phone and watched the number disappear, the little symbol appearing at the top of his screen to indicate that he'd missed another call. He just couldn't do it.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, locked in his room, afghan over his knees and his head resting against his bed, listening again to the piano CD that Keith had sent him, the last piece of the burnt-rice candy in his mouth, wondering what he was going to do, scrolling through pictures and unanswered texts.
Lance, where are you?
Didn't hear from you at all yesterday, you ok?
Lance cautiously entered the apartment late Sunday night after spending most of the day at the library, relieved to find it dark and empty for once. He wandered around the living room and kitchen, turning on all the lights, inspecting the damage. Not too bad. Looks like Spencer had actually thrown some of his own trash away the last couple days. Or maybe Lindsey had. They hadn't done all of it, but still. The table was clear enough that Lance noticed a distinct pile of papers resting on it. Unsorted mail.
Lance picked it up, knowing already that most of it was advertisements. Stuff addressed to 'current resident' that Spencer always just left on the table, or the counter, or the floor. Too lazy to mess with it any further than to drop it wherever he happened to be. Lance started going through it. Coupons for Burger King and pizza and coffee. The sales of the week happening at the grocery store and Walgreens.
And one small manilla envelope addressed to Lance from Lackland Air Force Base.
Lance rapidly scanned the rest of the stack to make sure there was nothing else, then left it all on the table almost exactly as he'd found it, taking the envelope with him to the sanctuary of his room. Because even though he was alone in the apartment, he wanted to make sure he opened this without interruption. Lance sat at his desk and checked the envelope carefully, but as usual there weren't many clues as to where it had come from before it had re-routed through Texas. The Air Force seal partially covered the stamps. Lance analyzed Keith's handwriting on the address. Lance McClain, 5700 Stony Island Ave, Apt 316, Chicago, IL. It looked exactly the same as all the others, but it hit Lance harder this time.
I'm still here, Keith, Lance thought, clutching at the unopened envelope. All these years. Still here. But where are you? Where the hell did you go? Why did you disappear? And if you had to disappear then why are you still sending me stuff in the mail? Don't you know it'd be easier if you just stopped?
But even as he thought that, Lance knew he didn't want it to happen. Didn't want Keith to ever really be gone. He took a pair of scissors from his drawer and just barely cut the edge from the envelope, knowing that he was going to keep it for no other reason than Keith had written his name on it. He reached inside, pulling out something narrow, pliant, and textured along with an index card.
Here's your proof.
That's all Keith had written on the card, along with a simple dash and his messy signature. Lance opened his palm, staring at the woven bracelet that Keith had sent him. No, that Keith had made for him in the medical wing in Germany. He'd used embroidery floss in a brilliant red, complimented by black, gray-ish blue, and white, the colors repeating themselves in steep Vs for several inches and ending with braided strings on each side for Lance to use to tie it onto his wrist. So much better than a basket. What did it mean?
"Damn it, Keith," Lance breathed, hunched in his chair, clinging to the threads. He checked the postmark date on the envelope again. Just a couple days after their last phone call. Which meant this had probably come all the way from Germany. Was Keith still in Germany? Or had Shiro brought him home yet?
Lance lay his arm on the table, attempting to knot the strings with only one hand and failing miserably. He tried to use his teeth, but didn't trust the shaky result to stay in place, especially since Lance would be putting on and removing gloves most of the time. No, he couldn't lose this. He'd have to get some help securing it. He went through his list of people who could assist with something like that, coming up surprisingly short. In fact, he could only come up with one.
"Doña, could you help me?" Lance asked Angelique timidly, first thing Monday morning when they met at the nurse's station. At first, she looked stunned, then softened into eager acceptance, as though she'd been waiting for Lance to ask for her help.
"Certainly, Lance, what is it?" She invited, and Lance held up the bracelet. Keith's bracelet.
"Could you tie this on for me?" He requested quietly, unable to look at her. Because he was so confused and lost and didn't want her to see it. But he needed it on his wrist, next to his pulse. Needed to know that Keith hadn't forgotten him. Needed the reminder where he could feel it and see it.
"Oh," Angelique said, and Lance knew she'd been expecting him to say something else. "All right."
Lance once again braced his arm on the desk, wrist turned up, and Angelique bent over him, slipping the bracelet underneath and bringing the ends over to begin a strong knot.
"Starting a collection, are you?" Angelique asked pleasantly as she worked, her fingers moving efficiently, giving small, sure tugs on the strands.
"Sort of," Lance answered, watching her carefully, keeping his hand still. Was that knot going to work? Was it strong enough? Could he trust it? "My nephew made the blue one for me right before I left home. He's thirteen now, but he was . . .only nine then. I've never taken it off." Never broke that connection even though it feels broken anyway. If only all the bonds could be that strong. Lance felt something in his chest hitch, loneliness hitting him hard. "Doña, can you make it tighter? I really don't want it to come off. I can't – can't lose it. Maybe we should sew the ends together?"
She paused at his intensity, at the slight tremor in his voice that he hadn't been able to control, standing straight and staring at him, her face inscrutable and focused and Lance pressed his lips tightly closed, knowing he'd made a mistake.
"All right – enough. Come with me," Angelique instructed suddenly, clamping one sure hand around his wrist, over both bracelets, and tugging him toward that familiar office near the ambulance entrance. Lance tried not to panic, though he knew this couldn't be good.
"We need to talk," Angelique said, but then she didn't say anything. Lance waited as they both stood facing each other in the small office, surrounded by medical clutter. She took his hands, her index fingers extended so that they rested against the pulse points on his wrists. "The truth now," she demanded. "How are you doing?"
"I'm fine," Lance threw out quickly. Why do you always pretend that everything's fine when it's not? He held his breath, locking eyes with his mentor, beginning to name the bones of the hand slowly in his head, waiting for the test to be over. He'd just wanted to make sure the bracelet stayed on. What was so wrong with that?
He got to the twentieth bone. The twenty-third. Angelique stared at his face, his eyes. He wanted her to stop. He wanted to twist out of her grip. He wanted something to happen outside this room that would break the tension before he cracked under this quiet pressure. He felt his eyes beginning to fill with tears. His hands were going to start trembling any second. Doña, let me go. You aren't supposed to see this. You aren't supposed to look at me so hard for so long.
She continued to stare, not saying a word, and somehow the silence made it worse. Lance tried to focus on something, anything. The gold in her eyes. The ticking of the clock on the wall. He'd listed all the bones up to the shoulder, and he heard himself exhale in a desperate little rush. Then he inhaled even faster to cover for it, but it was audibly shaky, and one tear dripped guiltily down his face. He ripped his quaking hands out of hers and dropped into the chair at the desk, hiding his face and panting. What the hell was going on? She'd said she wanted to talk – that was not even close.
"Doña," he pleaded, his voice muffled and tiny. But he didn't know what he wanted from her. Let me try again. I can keep it together. One more time. One more chance. Except he couldn't say anything. He had to hold his breath, or he really would break.
Angelique went to her knees on the floor in front of him, graceful, strong. He couldn't look at her anymore, though he knew she was trying to catch his gaze.
"Lance, it's ok," she told him, her voice professional. "This happens to everyone in the field at some point. Sometimes more than once." For some reason, that made Lance want to laugh, knowing that Angelique had no idea what she was saying. He very much doubted that his classmates were dealing with the same kind of shit that he was right now. He felt pretty unique and isolated in his suffering. "The first year of medical school can be a hard adjustment."
"What?" Lance asked, suddenly confused, trying to keep up. That wasn't what he'd been expecting her to say. Medical school? She thought he was cracking under the strain of medical school? What would it be like if it were really that simple?
"I think it would be best for you to take a break," Angelique continued.
"What?" Lance checked. Was she actually saying what he thought she was saying? She was . . . she was sending him away? No, no, don't do that.
"Lance, you've been struggling for a long time now. I know you think you've been hiding it, but I've seen it before and it's just getting worse. I'm sending you home, and I'd like you to stay there for at least two weeks."
"But . . . no . . did I do something wrong?" Lance wanted to know. He really wanted to know.
"No," Angelique answered, and Lance could tell that she'd almost called him something that wasn't his name. The way she talked to patients. She'd only barely stopped herself. He hated that she saw him that way. She took a breath before calmly continuing, no judgement in her tone, but Lance felt judged anyway. "But the way you've been going, it's only a matter of time. This isn't a punishment; it's meant to be preventative. You understand?"
"No," Lance denied. Don't take this away from me. It's all I've got left.
"You're pushing too hard," Angelique diagnosed while Lance started shaking his head. "You're exhausted, Lance. Physically, emotionally. You need to catch your breath and your balance before you actually do make a mistake. Before you hurt someone, and that includes yourself."
"Doña, please," Lance started, even though he knew he'd never change her mind. He'd never convince her that he was ok after what she'd just seen. And it probably wouldn't help his case to try and explain how much he needed his hours in the ER. How it was the easiest part of his life right now.
"Listen," Angelique ordered, and Lance was programmed to obey her, though he was certain he wasn't going to like anything she was going to say. "Consider this time as a special assignment if that makes it easier for you. Eat real food, and enough of it. Catch up on sleep. Hang out with your friends. Get your priorities in order and please get some rest. All right?"
"Can I still go to class at least?" Lance asked bitterly, wondering why she was asking him if it was all right when he obviously didn't have any choice about it.
"Yes, but don't go to the NICU. I've heard from Connie how much time you spend there, and while it's certainly admirable, I want as much distance between you and the hospital as possible for a while."
Lance sat stunned in the chair, feeling abandoned. A failure. He'd tried so hard to make sure this wouldn't happen. That she would have no reason to kick him out. And even though she flat out said he hadn't done anything wrong, it had happened anyway. Because Keith had sent him a bracelet that he didn't want to lose.
"Lance, I'm trying to help you. I want you to succeed," Angelique continued to talk to him, as though she felt she needed to explain herself. That she knew he was hurt and angry and didn't want that between them. "You're doing so well, you really are. You're going to save so many lives, but first you'll have to save your own. I know what people say about me, and I know I can be harsh and demanding, but I have been where you are, I know what it's like, and contrary to belief, I don't actually try to break my students. There are limits, and you've hit yours. Please trust me."
"You don't understand," Lance heard himself murmur, though he regretted it instantly.
"Then you help me understand," Angelique invited. Lance shook his head again. No. There were some things he couldn't talk about, wasn't ready to share, especially to her. He knew he'd failed her now and he didn't want to lose any more of her respect. There was nothing for it except to do what she said and then never show her weakness again. He stood up, though found it impossible to lift his head. He really was tired, but not in a way that sleep could fix. Angelique stood with him, monitoring him still too closely.
"Two weeks?" Lance double checked.
"As long as you need," Angelique corrected, and Lance did his best not to shudder. He knew that wasn't supposed to be a threat, but two weeks was already too long.
"Ok," he accepted. Not that he had much choice. His voice was calm, but inside he was reeling. What the hell was he supposed to do? Where would he go if he wasn't in the ER? The NICU? How would he fill all those hours? For that many days? He turned to go before he showed Angelique something else he never intended her to see. He didn't want to make it worse. Could this get any worse?
"Lance," Angelique called after him, and he paused with his hand on the doorknob. Now what, Doña? What else can you possibly do to me? "Who gave you the bracelet?"
Lance's hand tightened suddenly. "Keith," he said, surprised but relieved that there was no emotion in his voice as he said it. He hadn't even meant to tell her the truth.
"Oh, Lance," Angelique said, and suddenly his name sounded like all the terms of endearment that she always used. There was pity in it and exasperation, and Lance was thirteen kinds of finished with this conversation. He couldn't handle one more discussion about Keith; he'd exhausted everything already in his head.
"Guess I'll see you in two weeks," he tossed off, his tone now openly laced with sarcasm, and he pulled the door to escape into the hallway. He heard her try to call him back, but she'd already done enough damage for one day. She did send him a text, letting him know that if he needed someone to talk to that he could call her. She asked that he send her daily updates, just to keep in touch. Lance stuffed the phone in his coat pocket angrily. Why on earth would he talk to her? She'd just ruined everything.
Except she hadn't. He had. And he knew it, but damn it hurt. He wanted it to be someone else's fault. He wanted to blame her for messing up his carefully constructed routine. Wanted to blame his family for not understanding what he was doing here, for not accepting it. Wanted to blame Acxa for Keith not calling him again. He just didn't want it to be his fault. His failure.
But he still knew that it was.
Hunk and Pidge started texting him more frequently during his probation, asking him all the questions he wanted to ask Keith.
What's going on? Even you can't be that busy. We've got something exciting to tell you! It's really cool – come on, aren't you dying to know what it is?
We called you eighteen times yesterday, when are you going to call us back?
You know we could have sent a message to MARS and got a response by now?
Hello! Earth to Lance! You're still alive, right?
Laaance! Where are you? Are you mad at us? It's the symposium, isn't it? If you start calling again, we promise not to talk about how it's controlling our life. Not one little whisper. Send us an email, a photo, a text.
Then some came in just from Hunk.
Come on, buddy, call me back. I think I know what this is about, and you and I should talk. He's not ignoring you, all right? It'll go better in person – just call me. Or better yet – call him.
But Lance no longer wanted to. Couldn't handle the disappointment of another failed attempt. They just had no idea. And he didn't have the energy or desire to explain. Even when Hunk actually arranged for Thai food to be delivered to the apartment in the hopes that feeding Lance would persuade him to call – Lance just . . . he just couldn't do it.
He received an unexpected email from Veronica on Wednesday.
Dear Lance, what happened? We missed your call on Sunday. You never miss a call, and you didn't send us any emails either? Mom's worried. I think we hurt your feelings last time we talked, but you know we didn't mean to. We just miss you so much. You're ok, right? Everything's ok? Don't be mad at us. Get in touch soon, please? I'll make sure they don't pressure you about coming back home. I understand why you can't, but since you already have to stay far away; please don't disappear. Love, your older sister.
Why did they all think he was mad at them? He wasn't mad. He just didn't want to talk. Not about Cuba or symposiums, radios or weather. Especially not about Keith and his motivations for vanishing off the face of the earth. He just wanted . . .
He stared at his ceiling, the piano CD playing softly, harmonizing badly with the rain on the window. It had repeated itself five times now. He just wanted. He ran his fingers over the red bracelet, then the blue one before letting his arm flop across his eyes. What did he want? And what was the point of wanting it?
He read the Spanish version of Jonathan Livingston Seagull that Keith had mailed him and thought about it a lot. The bird who had given up everything, all his relationships, his entire identity, to fly faster than any other seagull. To fly faster than a falcon. And in the end, he'd done it – and the book made it seem like such a great thing. But Lance couldn't help but notice that in the end – Jonathan had to die to obtain his goal. It made the book all together less inspiring than Lance knew it was supposed to be.
Lance stared at the other book on his desk. The one he'd purchased for Keith when they'd been talking every day. He'd bought him the dual language version of La Vida es Sueño, the Spanish and the English next to each other on the pages. The story of dreams and reality, of preordination and prophecy. Of choices. He'd written in it. Marked the page that held the soliloquy that Keith requested Lance to recite so often. The message about how people dreamed what they were. How nothing was actually real. Lance was starting to believe it more and more.
He'd addressed the envelope to Lackland. Keith's birthday was just around the corner, about two weeks away, but Lance hadn't sent the book yet. Didn't know if he should. Didn't know if Keith would want him to. Did he want him to? Or did he want Lance out of his life now? But then why send him the bracelet? Did it mean anything other than Keith had promised him proof, a fair exchange for the dance photos? The indecision kept the book on Lance's desk.
He survived through Friday. Five very long days of frequent unanswered texts from Hunk and Pidge, some from Allura. Constant glares from Spencer peppered with sarcastic comments about what Lance was doing home in the middle of the day, didn't he have to put up with him enough already? Don't touch my stuff while I'm in class. Lance ticked off the days like a prisoner, carefully wording his daily updates to Angelique to give the illusion that she'd been right, and this was working, careful of the pacing so it would look as though he were healing gradually right on schedule. Too fast of an improvement would expose his lies. Though he wasn't sure it would actually help him even when he was allowed back into the ER. Because if she'd seen it once, how was he going to hide it from her when he returned?
Spencer threw a party Friday night. Lance had no idea that he knew that many people. Didn't want to know where he got all the beer. Lindsey tried to coax Lance out of his room for the first ninety minutes, tempting him with alcohol and food. He wrapped himself up in the afghan and wished he'd gotten out of there before it had started. He could have slept better on the couch in the lounge. Now he was trapped. The music vibrated the floor long into the night, and guests constantly tried to open his door, mistaking his room for the bathroom. It went on forever. The shouting, the laughing, the music. Hunk and Pidge called him a few times, but there was no way he could answer. He wished he could shut himself off as easily as his phone.
Lance was shaky when he woke the next morning, like he'd gone through something traumatic. The apartment was quiet, but he didn't know when everyone had finally left. Didn't know how he'd managed to fall asleep, though he suspected it was some defensive shut-down maneuver of his subconscious. He got dressed, then cautiously opened his door around noon, not sure what he'd find.
The bathroom was a catastrophe. It looked like more than one person had vomited in the bathtub and then left it to dry. Lance's towel was on the floor, wadded up and stained with probably more than one kind of bodily fluid. He'd need BSI gloves to even start cleaning this up. God, it'd take hours. But then again . . . what else did he have planned for the day? He had all the time in the world, didn't he?
He made his way through the hallway, into the living room, relieved that at least no one had punched through a wall or broken any furniture. Almost. Someone had knocked the basil plant off the kitchen counter. The pot was shattered, and dirt had been tracked everywhere. There wasn't much left of the plant. Lance was a little surprised that he couldn't really muster much emotion about that. It just went on the list, one more thing.
It was pretty much how he'd expected it to be. Food containers, paper plates, empty beer cans, not-quite-empty beer cans. It looked like someone had crushed an entire bag of chips and then tipped it upside down over the couch. And then Lance saw something that he really didn't expect. Lindsey was still here, passed out on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, completely naked.
Now disgusted even more than when he'd been in the bathroom, Lance began hunting down her clothes. Where the hell were her clothes? He found her skirt and panties stuffed between the cushions of the couch, and her flats were in the regular pile by the front door. Her shirt was missing, so Lance returned to his bedroom and searched through the drawers, coming up with the extra-large, long-sleeved Tshirt that the Red Cross had handed out for a service project he'd volunteered for some time ago. He'd never worn it and didn't care if he ever got it back. It would work.
He heard Lindsey retching as he closed his bedroom door again, heard something splatter and worried that he'd have to clean vomit out of the carpet too, but when he peeked around the corner, he saw that she was using a mostly empty bucket of KFC chicken to puke into. A shiver of revulsion zipped up Lance's back.
"Here," he said to her, softly, coming just close enough to put the shirt on the pile of her clothes on the couch. "Get dressed."
He politely left her alone to cover herself, returning to his room to make her a peanut butter sandwich and then carrying it out into the kitchen where he filled what he hoped was a clean, red plastic cup with one of the last containers of Gatorade he kept in the fridge. She sat, stunned and miserable, legs folded on the floor when he put both cup and sandwich in front of her on the coffee table. The shirt was way too big on her, it fell off one of her shoulders. All her carefully applied makeup smeared almost comically on her face, her lipstick so high up one of her cheeks that it looked like half a Glasgow smile and her eyes were caked so dark they could have been bruised.
Her face took on an alarming green shade as she noticed the food, and Lance could tell she was fighting hard not to throw up again. "Small mouthfuls," he ordered her. "It'll help."
Then he ignored her for a while as he did what he could about the apartment. He filled four trash bags and took them downstairs, swept up the very last piece of Hunk that had been in the apartment, and entertained wild and satisfying fantasies of murdering Spencer in his own bed. Lindsey rested her head on the coffee table, nibbling at the sandwich, taking small sips of the Gatorade. Her face grew pale instead of green. Lance gave her a warm, wet dishtowel to scrub over her face. It took some of the makeup off but didn't improve her appearance all that much. Spencer stayed in his room the entire time. Which was a very good thing. Lance didn't know what he'd do if he saw him right now.
After an hour, Lance ran out of things to do in the front of the apartment. At least things that didn't require him to turn on the vacuum cleaner, and he thought he'd better get Lindsey out of here before he made that much noise. He went over to her, sitting on the floor across the coffee table from her after making sure he wouldn't be sitting in anything disgusting. He noted that Spencer had carefully put a protective cloth over his drum set. Covered his drums but left his girlfriend naked in the living room. Real classy.
"Better?" Lance asked, surprisingly furious. He didn't know he could still get this angry about anything Spencer did. It was stupid.
Lindsey stared at him, and he noticed how young she was. Her face was full of shame and regret. She folded her arms across her chest protectively, as though remembering how Lance had found her. She didn't seem able to say anything. Not even a nod.
"Are you hurt?" Lance asked another question. "Did anyone hurt you?" Because even if she was young and stupid, no one deserved that.
"No," she said, groggily. Lance wasn't convinced. "At least . . . I don't remember." Yeah, that figured. He'd be surprised if she did.
"Look at me?" He requested, and she obeyed him. He quickly checked her eyes, their focus, seeing nothing wrong with her except the obvious hangover. "You should probably go to the ER," he suggested, knowing the tools they had there for girls like Lindsey. He'd never been permitted to perform those particular procedures, but he knew about them. "They can . . . well, they can make sure that no one-"
She started to cry then, and Lance really didn't know what to do about that.
"They'll be gentle," he tried to comfort her. "I work there; I know them all."
"I just want to go home," Lindsey said, eyes downcast again. She shuddered, and Lance couldn't imagine how disgusting she must feel. "Can you take me home?"
"I don't have a car," Lance confessed. "But I can walk you if you want. Might help you feel better to walk anyway."
"Ok," Lindsey whimpered. He made her finish the sandwich first, making sure she kept it down before letting her get up and put her shoes on. They found her coat behind the balcony curtains. Lance opened the door for her and let her lead them outside. He had no idea where she lived.
They walked without speaking; Lance monitoring her steps, which were unsteady but not concerningly so. Sometimes, she'd grab onto his arm, and all his muscles on that side would stiffen up until she let him go again. He brought her all the way to the entrance of her dorm, letting her know that she'd be good on her own the rest of the way. He had no intention of following her inside.
"You're nice," Lindsey told him, subdued. She had his arm again, pinning him there on the sidewalk in front of the door. He couldn't wait to get away from her. "You're the nicest person I've ever met."
"Then you should probably upgrade the people you hang out with," Lance suggested, still mad and having a hard time masking it. He wasn't nice; he'd never really been nice to her. He was just being decent. Couldn't she tell the difference?
"I would, but you always ignore me," she countered, and now Lance really wanted to get away from her. Don't you do this to me, he thought. Don't you dare. I've got enough going on.
"I have a girlfriend," Lance reminded her, sticking to his lie.
"Yeah, you used to," Lindsey sighed. "But whoever that was in the pictures you showed me, she's not your girlfriend now."
"Yes, she is," Lance maintained, wondering why he was even bothering to take the time to argue about it with a nineteen-year-old girl who couldn't even remember what she'd done last night.
"You know, the sooner you get over her, the better off you'll be," Lindsey suggested, and it hurt that she actually made sense, even though she had no idea what she was talking about.
"I have to go," Lance said quickly, pulling his arm away from her with difficulty. He really, really had to get away from her. Now.
"Kiss me?" Lindsey requested.
"No," Lance denied her, immediate and harsh. "Go get cleaned up."
He walked away from her, leaving her at the door with her makeup all smeared and wearing his shirt. He walked away and then started running as soon as he was out of sight of her building, ran as fast as he could, right past his apartment, all the way to the lake even though it was cold and overcast. He curled up on the bench and pushed his shaking hands against his face.
I can't do this. I can't keep doing this. I can't take another day of this, let alone another week. I need . . .
He pulled out his phone, rather desperately dialing Angelique, not knowing what he was going to say, but then her voicemail came on asking him to leave a message and he took a huge breath and suddenly everything was coming out at once. Destroying all the careful planning he'd put together for her the entire past week in a weird fit of lonely hysteria.
"Doña, I can't do it. Please, you have to let me come back to work. I . . . I need to come back. You said yourself that I didn't do anything wrong. It's all I've got left. My friends are so far away and Keith's not talking to me. I don't . . I don't even know where he is. I never know where he is, and my roommate is a jerk and I haven't seen my family in over four years because I gave up everything to be a doctor and they hate me for it and I don't even know if I want to go home anymore because I know it's different and I'm too different and I don't think I belong there anymore. I probably don't belong anywhere . . but the only place where things make any sense, when I feel anything at all like myself, is when I'm with you in the ER. I'll do whatever you want me to do. I won't touch anything or do anything except stand next to you and watch, just please . . let me come back. I can't-"
The message cut off, the automated system telling him that he'd exceeded the time limit, jolting him back to reality. He suddenly realized what he'd just done and thought about calling her back and trying to fix it, cancel out his whole emotional confession, but he knew that no matter what he did at this point, it would just make it worse. It was out in the world now. Nothing he could do to take it back. One more thing he'd just messed up because he wasn't thinking.
He sat there on the bench, his body too heavy to move, looking at the waves, looking at the old pictures in his phone, hearing Lindsey repeat her recommendation to him. The sooner you get over her, the better off you'll be. Except it wasn't her. It was him. And damn, getting over Keith sounded so liberating right now. But the only way he could even try would be to throw himself into his doctorate. And the only way to do that was to somehow get back to ER. And he'd probably just ruined his chances.
The clouds darkened, the afternoon drawing to a close. Lance grew stiff and cold during his hours on the bench; there weren't any joggers or dog walkers out today. He'd have to start moving if he didn't want to get soaked. There was probably a chapter of something he needed to study harder, something he should reread. Or since it was still only Saturday maybe he'd just go to bed early, pull the quilt over his head and pretend that things would be different in the morning.
He walked slowly, the wind picking up as he went, blowing its way toward the lake, pulling the storm forward. Lance could sense the pressure changing, knowing what it was going to do to him, and the idea of just tucking himself into bed when he got back to the apartment started to sound like the best one. If he took his meds early, it might help prevent the debilitating pain he knew was coming. The familiar bottle was at home on his desk. He just had to get there. It was already so dark.
Lance half-heartedly checked the mailbox in the lobby before going upstairs, though he knew that even if there had been anything inside for him, Spencer would have already taken it and left it somewhere. Lance remembered as he dragged himself up the two flights to his floor just how bad the apartment had been when he'd left earlier with Lindsey. He knew that Spencer probably didn't even know how to vacuum, but he'd likely wanted to take a shower if he were even half as hungover as Lindsey had been. Which meant he probably had at least attempted to do something in the bathroom. It needed a heavy decontamination before it could be used, but hopefully Spencer had at least made a start.
As usual, Lance stood in front of his apartment door, thinking of anything else he could possibly do before going inside. Preparing himself for what might be in there. Obviously, band practice was happening; he could hear the drums already from this side of the door. Drums. Damien's bass. Remy's guitar. No Lindsey tonight, but honestly, Lance hoped she'd never come over again.
He stood in the hall, gathering himself, just as exhausted as Angelique had told him. His throat hurt. He checked his phone one more time, but she hadn't sent him anything yet. It was still a little early for her; she tended to check out on Saturdays. The only day that she and Fritz had off together. If Lance had truly needed her; he would have texted before he called. Maybe that meant she hadn't checked her phone messages yet. Maybe he could send her an update, just like normal, and tell her not to worry about it. That. . .might work. He'd have to figure out exactly what to say. It would have to be enough to acknowledge the message without making her curious to listen to it. He'd do a couple drafts in his room beforehand to make sure it was just right.
The phone went into his coat pocket, and his keys came out of it. He took the coat off and just stood there, leaning against the wall for just one more second, preparing to march through to his room as quickly as possible. The two bracelets on his wrist were just visible beneath his sleeve when he reached forward to open the door. Lance couldn't help it. He smiled when he saw them and breathed in some strength. Time to go in.
"Where have you been?" Spencer asked him the second he walked in the door. Which was odd. Spencer never cared where Lance was. They both liked it better when they didn't have to look at each other. The music stopped; he could sense everyone's eyes on him. He took another breath, starting to walk toward his door, making it past the couch in about half a dozen steps. He'd learned the easiest thing was to just ignore everything, as though he were alone in the apartment and couldn't hear anyone talking to him. It was always the best plan. Too bad he was still pissed.
"None of your business," Lance said, stopping in front of his door, his keys shifting in his fingers, pulling forward the one he used for his bedroom lock. Spencer had moved away from his drums to stand behind him, his arms folded.
"You didn't clean the bathroom yet," Spencer threw at him on his way by, and Lance made the mistake of pausing. All you have to do is unlock your door, Lance told himself, but there was a tight ball of rage in his chest and it burned all the way up his throat.
"I already maxed out my quota for cleaning up after you today," Lance shoved at him. "It was your stupid party; you clean it."
Spencer made a dismissive sort of sputter, a slow sort-of laugh. "Yeah . . .don't think so. Cleaning bathrooms is your thing. So chop chop," Spencer actually snapped his fingers at Lance, who stood motionless near his door, too furious to move. He felt his hand slowly curl tight around his keyring. Did he actually just snap his fingers?
"I'm not doing it," Lance said, emphasizing each word, making it very clear. He turned his back on Spencer, trying to fit the key into the lock. His hands were shaking again, making it difficult.
"Yeah, you will," Spencer told him, coolly. He snickered unexpectedly. "What else are you people good for?"
What? What?
"Shut your mouth, Spencer," Lance threatened, a growl he'd never heard from himself before. It didn't have much effect. Spencer seemed to be enjoying how he was getting to Lance, and Lance knew better than to engage. He really did. But . . . you people? If Spencer meant what Lance figured he meant, that was taking things way too far, even for an idiot.
"Oh come on," Spencer jeered, his voice far too superior for a short, spoiled kid from Michigan. "We both know you're going to do it eventually. So andale your ass in there."
Lance watched Spencer's eyes suddenly change, widen in shock as his mouth dropped open, and it took Lance a second to realize that it was because Lance had roughly shoved him against the wall and punched him in the gut with the hand that still held his keys between his fingers. Spencer made a strange sort of grunt, wincing, and Lance drew back his hand without even thinking about it, ready to deliver another blow. He'd been fantasizing about beating Spencer to the ground for a while, and now that he'd started, he had no intention of stopping. Pieces of his anatomy book flew through his mind, giving him suggestions on the best place for his next hit. He could slam Spencer against the temple, possibly knocking him out. He could crush his windpipe or his nose between his fist and the wall, leaving him sputtering and speechless. He could take his key and thrust the point of it hard into the soft tissues behind Spencer's ear or under his jaw. His muscles tensed up with contained momentum. Spencer whimpered, pinned against the hallway wall.
Something barreled into Lance from the side with the force of a freight train, and he did a mental pivot to figure out what was happening. He found himself thrown violently to the floor, something heavy and abrupt jerking into his ribs, momentarily blinding him with pain. He scrambled to find his feet before it could happen again, standing curled to the side, a hand on his ribs, looking up to find Damien bearing down on him. Oh shit. How the hell had Lance forgotten about Damien?
Lance knew very well that he couldn't fight Damien. His only way out was escape. But Damien had torn him away from Spencer and into the living room, and both Damien and Spencer were blocking Lance's path toward his still locked bedroom door. Lance didn't even have his keys anymore. Where were his keys? They'd been knocked out of his hand when Damien threw him down. Going to his room wasn't an option.
Damien grabbed Lance's shoulder and bashed his fist into Lance's side, the same place he'd just kicked him. Lance fought the urge to double over, knowing that would give Damien too easy of a target. He had to stay standing, and he had to get out of here. He jerked off his heels and grabbed desperately for the front door, managing to get it open before Damien laid into him again, his fingers snagging into the fabric of Lance's sweater and using that hold to push him hard into the wall opposite his front door, his arm pressed intensely on the back of Lance's neck as he flailed uselessly against the wall.
There was yelling now. Spencer, egging Damien on. Remy screaming at them to stop. Other doors started opening as Damien got two more hard punches against Lance's lower back. More yelling. Lance felt Damien lean away for a stronger hit and took the opportunity of the relieved pressure against him to drop downward and shoot to the side, toward the stairs.
He flung himself past several of his neighbors who had come out to see what all the shouting was. They flattened themselves against the wall as he clawed his way past them, staying pressed to the sides as Damien bulldozed through right behind. Lance raced for the stairs, just grabbing to the railing to go down when Damien caught up to him again, snagging Lance's bicep and wrenching him around, his opposite hand near his ear, ready to punch Lance in the face.
Lance ducked, jerking his body as far as he could away from Damien at the same time, trying to break his grip on his arm. The punch didn't land, and Lance had successfully torn free from Damien's fingers, and all that would have been great except for how he'd been standing at the very top of the stairs. He made a clumsy grab for the rail as he began to fall, feeling his foot slip out from under him when he tried to catch himself and then there was nothing he could do except try to protect his head and neck as he went tumbling down the entire flight of steps, landing in a tangled, painful heap at the entrance to the second floor.
He didn't take any time for self-assessment once he'd come to a stop, just gathered his legs together to get up and get out. The yelling continued unabated, but underneath the chaos, Lance could hear Damien's heavy footfalls on the stairs, coming for him. Not finished with him yet. He had to move.
Lance half jumped down the last flight of steps, heart beating hard at the prospect of falling down again but he was still more afraid of the danger coming after him than what he could do to himself racing forward. He hit the lobby without incident and then shot himself out the front entrance. And even then he didn't stop. He kept running as fast as he could, never once looking back to see how far Damien followed him.
He was halfway to the hospital before he ran out of breath and had to slow down. Pausing on one end of the quad, panting with difficulty, Lance looked around and found himself pretty much alone. Sure, there were always other students wandering around the quad, but none of them were chasing Lance intending him bodily harm, no one was even paying him any attention, so that counted as alone to him. He rested one knee on a bench but didn't dare sit down. He just wanted a second, just needed to catch his breath, figure stuff out. His throat still burned, too dry and ragged. Thankfully, it didn't seem that adrenaline had allowed him to run on any broken bones – everything seemed sound enough even though he'd fallen down a flight of stairs.
Shit – an entire flight of stairs. Lance tried to pinpoint injuries from that, but nothing was very distinct to him right now. There were some places that were tender, all the cells of his body were kind of screaming at him, but nothing really hurt except Lance's lower back and the place where Damien had kicked him in the ribs. That could have been so much worse, Lance told himself, starting to shake now that he was holding still and thinking about it. You are so damn lucky. He heard himself start laughing and covered his mouth tight with his hand, horrified. You are so screwed.
He curled over, his palm resting against the coldness of the bench seat, other hand still over his mouth. What are you going to do now? His mind went still, as though waiting for something external to answer that question for him. No, seriously, what are you going to do? What's the plan?
Call the police? Except Lance had started the fight, and that thought made him feel cold. He had attacked first, hit Spencer first. That made all this his fault. That made them both completely justified in doing what they'd done to him. Shit. How had he messed up like that? Lost control of his anger that way? Let that stupid little boy goad him into actual violence; he was better than that.
Apparently, you're not.
And he had no idea what the true consequences of that were going to be. Not just what Damien could do with his fists, but what Spencer could do with the American legal system. Could that one thoughtless second get Lance get kicked out of med school? Out of the country? Had he fucked up his entire plan with one punch that hadn't even come close to being satisfying? Shit.
All right, one thing at a time, focus a second. Obviously, going back to the apartment right now was not happening. Which sucked because Lance had dashed out without his coat, keys, wallet, or phone. All that stuff was now at Spencer's mercy, in a pile in front of Lance's bedroom door.
Lance started walking again, slowly, even though he wasn't sure where he was going it felt better to be moving. Made it feel more like he was in control of the situation. Even though it was all a lie.
Where are you going to go? He asked himself continuously but came up with nothing. This was all his own fault. He couldn't ask for help with this. His injuries were too minor to justify going to the hospital, and he was still on probation. Anyone seeing him there would just send him back home, or worse, call Angelique. He'd already done enough damage to that relationship today. No need to make it worse by making her think he was trying to sneak into the ER behind her back. And now that he couldn't text her his daily update, she was for sure going to listen to that phone message. Lance let his head hang, his arms curling around his ribcage, astonished at his complete lack of judgement today. He gave himself a little shake – he couldn't sink into dejection yet; he needed a plan. Think.
But he couldn't go to his apartment. And he couldn't really go to the hospital. Lance unconsciously made his way toward the library, but then didn't go in. All the buildings looked strange to him in the October dark. Everything looked colder, taller, packed tight against each other. Lance kept walking, no longer thinking of where he was headed, where he could go. His mind was too full of mistakes. How he'd hit Spencer first. How he'd called Angelique and said all the wrong things. How everyone thought he was mad at them. How he couldn't talk to anyone anymore.
Where are you going? He thought from time to time as he moved, but still didn't have an answer or any desire to stop. He couldn't stop, not now. Sharks keep swimming or they drown. Lance kept walking, away from campus, following the easiest path of the streets. His vision got weird, blurry. Lance wiped at his face, but there were no tears. Where the hell are you going?
He didn't know, but he knew he wasn't there yet.
Author's Note: I know. Why? Why did I have to do that? Well, because. I like parallels. Remember where Keith was when Lance first found him? Alone, sick, in trouble – in an apartment that wasn't even his? Well – I like the symmetry of this. These scenes have been haunting me for over a year. It IS going to get better.
Starting next chapter.