Author's Note: This story feels so intimate to me. I have a handful of you wonderful people writing consistent reviews and it's really nice. I appreciate you so much. Thanks for the messages. Thanks for waiting for new chapters. Since this story is Really Slow, so much slower than my other things, I feel like I need to review it so carefully. I scrutinize each word carefully this time around. It takes time, and even then I post a chapter and realize that I didn't mean to write something that way. Still, I feel like this one is ready for you. Please enjoy!

Chapter Four: Arrhythmia

"Yes?"

Lance felt as though all the fluid in his brain suddenly whipped itself into a whirlpool, then drained in a rush deep into his stomach. Allura's voice had a specific timbre to it, like windchimes. It also had the unnerving ability to liquify all of his muscles. He gripped the back of his desk chair to anchor himself. His mouth opened, but he was so busy giving himself mental reminders on how to be suave that he quite forgot whatever he'd meant to say.

"Hello?" Allura spoke a second greeting. Lance could hear the frown in it, knowing he had to speak up soon or she was going to hang up. Don't crack; he commanded his voice one last time, taking a deep breath. Out of all the things you've already done today rescheduling a date should be cake.

"A-allura, hi," he managed, lowering his head at the stutter. He couldn't even do her name? Seriously? Whatever, keep going, it's too late now. "It's Lance – you know, from the donation center?"

"Yes, of course," her tone changed immediately, brightening. An encouraging sign. "I'm glad you called; you forgot to give me your number the other day. We're on for seven, aren't we?"

Lance glanced outside, the sun already far gone from his Eastern facing window, the snow blowing in menacing tendrils across the street three stories down. He knew he was an island boy, but sometimes native Midwesterners made no sense to him – like he was truly afraid to see what they considered bad weather.

"About that," he said, feeling her stiffen up however many miles away she physically stood, an almost audible static on the line connecting them. "I'm thinking we should reschedule. It's snowing hard out there, and I don't want anything to happen to you getting to or from campus after nightfall."

"That's so thoughtful," she told him, sweetly, and his heart beat harder a couple times. "But you don't have to worry; I'm already here. I had a class this morning and just stayed." Lance bowed his head lower. He'd been hoping that he wouldn't have to explain about Keith, that the storm would have been reason enough to pick a different day. It somehow seemed less awkward to blame the snow, or at least if they agreed on the weather, it would be as if they were both making the same decision instead of just him needing to rearrange things. Guess that wouldn't be the reality of the situation.

"I . . . still need to reschedule," he confessed, having a difficult time coming up with the right words. "My . .Um." What was he supposed to call Keith? "My friend," he decided on the fastest option. "He's really sick. I thought I could let him rest here by himself, but . . .he's . . I don't think I can leave him. I'm sorry."

"Lance," Allura responded, voice icy all of a sudden, someone not used to having her plans rearranged. Someone who didn't like having her time taken advantage of. Lance held his breath; he'd never heard her say his name out loud before and wished it hadn't sounded like that. "If you don't want to meet me, you can just say so."

"But I do!" Lance protested, standing straight, starting to ramble in his earnestness to convince her that he would have liked nothing better in the world than to be with her tonight, helping her, looking at her, watching her move without being restrained by the plasma donation equipment. Taking her hand, if he really got brave, seeing what her skin felt like without the barrier of gloves. Speaking full, complete sentences, whole conversations, without being interrupted by the beeping of a machine and the necessary tasks of his job. He'd wanted all of that. . . so much. He wanted it more than what he actually had waiting for him tonight. But there were things he wanted to do and things he needed to do. Staying with Keith felt like something he needed to do. He wished he could make her understand that.

"That's not it. I was really looking forward to it," he told her, emphatically. "Trust me, I know this is the worst possible timing, but there's no one else who can stay with him, and I'm an EMT and I think he might –"

"Just stop, please," Allura cut him off, rather sharply. "If you were going to stand me up, I wish you'd done it a little sooner. . . like maybe before the storm started so I could have gone home."

"Stand you . . .," Lance's brain took a long time to process what she was saying. "Wait. You don't . . .you think I'm lying to you? Allura, I would never do that." Except he'd been lying all day long. But not to her! Karma is such a vicious bitch.

"First it's the weather, then it's your 'friend'," he wasn't sure how he could hear the verbal quotation marks she put around the word, but they were definitely there. "Here's a little tip; make up your mind which excuse you're going with before you make the call. Or better yet, just tell the truth. I'll have you know I went to a lot of trouble to make sure I'd make it tonight."

Lance's mind was racing now, trying to find a solution, a way he could still spend the time with her that she was expecting. First he thought of having her come to his apartment too so he could be with them both at the same time, but he dismissed it almost as soon as it came to him. He didn't want to risk exposing Allura to Keith's illness. And Hunk and Pidge weren't home; not that he'd feel comfortable asking them to take care of Keith for him – that was a responsibility that he'd signed up for all by himself. Maybe he could take a picture of Keith? Prove that he wasn't lying?

What are you doing, Lance? He stopped himself as the ideas became more and more desperate. It's a very simple choice here. Allura or Keith. A choice he'd already made before he picked up the phone to call her. If she couldn't believe he was telling the truth, then that was on her, wasn't it? There was nothing more he could do.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, a new strength in his voice that he hadn't expected. Now he was going to be able to talk like a real person? "This came up very suddenly; the flu is like that. If you text me your email address, I'll do a write up of my experience with Dr. Farmer and send it to you for your report, but I can't leave him tonight, not even for a few hours."

"Lance," Allura said his name again, but he wasn't sure what the tone was now. He felt a little hollow and sad, let down. He had expected her to be upset, disappointed perhaps, but not angry. At best, he thought she'd completely understand and at worst, that he'd lose some points for being a flake, but he had never anticipated that she'd think he was lying to get out of seeing her. That stung his spirit, and now all he wanted to do was get off the phone.

"I hope I'll see you Wednesday," he said in parting, hanging up without letting her respond further. He lowered the phone, realizing just that second that the Ibuprofen he'd taken earlier for his cheek was wearing off. It was starting to hurt again. Carefully, he covered the bruise with his palm, taking a moment of self-pity, feeling beat up inside and out. Feeling a little disoriented and frustrated at how his schedule had been smashed to pieces, and it wasn't even fair.

"Who was that?"

Lance jumped, the harsh question stabbing sharp in the base of his spine and jerking his heart in a painful rush. He spun around to see Keith standing just outside his bedroom door, leaning against the frame, his face a ghastly combination of pale, confused apprehension and hot rage. Both his hands were solid fists – wild, wounded, and dangerously defensive. Lance felt his eyes widen, not sure what to do here. He'd thought he left Keith falling asleep on the couch. How long had he been standing there? How had he snuck up on him without making a sound? What had Lance done this time to make him look so angry?

"Who were you talking to?" Keith rephrased his question since Lance hadn't answered yet, too surprised and intimidated to speak. "You said you wouldn't call." Oh, that's what he meant. He thought that Lance had slipped away to call . . . whatever that guy's name was. Lance breathed out the injustice of that, of being accused of lying twice in just as many minutes. For Allura, it didn't matter so much, only his pride and prospects wounded, but he needed to settle Keith down pretty fast for several reasons. First, Keith's system wasn't handling the stress of this exertion very well; he was losing color in his face at an alarming rate. Second, Lance had no desire to get hit again and even though Keith was definitely not at his best right now, Lance didn't doubt that he could still do some damage if he wanted to.

"What did you tell him?" Keith demanded, threatening and ruined, raising terror and tenderness in Lance. Keith's voice – the resignation. Allura suddenly seemed petty and childish by comparison. Spoiled almost. This, Allura, Lance thought as he pondered the conflict that was Keith standing in front of him. This is what broken trust really looks like. This is what years of being lied to looks like. In fact, the way Keith spoke, the tone of his words and the hurt in his eyes made Lance wonder if he'd even recognize the truth if Lance told it to him. It was like he was expecting to be betrayed – like his life wouldn't make sense any other way.

"I didn't call him," Lance assured, wondering if it would make any difference to say it, holding up both hands in supplication, worried on many levels, ready to pull up his phone history as evidence. "I said I wouldn't, and I didn't. I had a date later that I needed to cancel. That's who I was talking to."

"A date?" Keith repeated, still skeptical, his whole body wound tight, like it had been this morning when they'd had their first altercation. Oh, Keith, what happened to you? What made him like this? Why did he think he had to fight the entire world?

"Yeah, a study date," Lance tried to soothe him. "I do go on dates. Quite often, actually." He kept his tone light, put in some humor to diffuse this situation. Keith shouldn't be standing; Lance could see he was already starting to tremble with the effort of it, that it was taking all he had to stay upright and fight ready. "But I'm taking care of you tonight, like I promised you, so I had to let her know I wasn't coming."

"You . . ." Keith began, but then seemed to lose his train of thought, blinking fast, making Lance question his lucidity. He'd seen this before at the donation center. This was the kind of behavior he'd see in patients right before they passed out.

Lance began moving toward Keith, intent on guiding him back to the couch before he fainted, or maybe to his bed, that was closer. But he'd only taken one step before Keith cringed back, his defenses on high alert, shifting his body for what looked to Lance like the preparation of a strike. Fear and pity spread out in Lance's chest. Keith was such a contradiction. Such a strange combination of vulnerability and violence. It was unsettling. Lance wondered exactly what Keith could be capable of if he were functioning at one hundred percent.

"Keith," Lance called his name gently, his real name this time since he needed every edge he could get for communicating. He didn't have a lot of time for this. "Hey, it's ok. I just want to help you. Remember? You're here for me to help you? I'd like to do that now, so is it safe if I come over there to you? You shouldn't be moving around so much."

"What?" Keith seemed confused by what Lance had just said, but Lance could sense a slight change in him. He was relaxing . . . or losing consciousness. Hard to tell from where Lance stood. "Safe?"

"You look like you're going to attack me if I take another step," Lance explained patiently, even though he was watching Keith with a growing sense of urgency. His face was almost gray. "I'd rather not do that again if it's all the same. So could you not hit me if I come over there, please?"

"I'm not going to hit you," Keith responded, sounding even more confused. "Why would you think. . ?"

"Look at yourself," Lance told him, softly, slowly taking another step closer, hands still lifted as if Keith had a gun on him. "Look at your fists. Look how you're shaking. Let's get out of this stand off before you fall down, all right?" Keith obediently looked at his hands, seeing them as if they belonged to someone else, actually seeming surprised that they were balled up so tightly. His fingers uncurled rather stiffly, his mouth open, looking stricken, shocked. Lance didn't really know what to make of it. Was this what the fever was doing to him? Something else? Either way, Lance didn't like it. He'd never seen anyone so extreme. Keith covered his face with his hands, horrified, messing up his equilibrium to the point that he fell back hard against the doorframe, leaning against it, but in such a way that Lance could tell he would full on lose his balance any second now. He needed to get over there, no matter what happened to him.

"Keith," Lance spoke to him as he sped to his side. He still wasn't all that convinced it was safe to do so, especially now that Keith had his eyes covered and couldn't watch him approach, but he didn't want him to fall. "I'm right here, but I'm not going to hurt you, ok? You're not going to hurt me. Because we trust each other, don't we?"

Keith flinched as Lance bravely put his hands on him, jerking his hands away from his face, looking up slightly so he could meet Lance's eyes. Lance still couldn't tell what color Keith's were, but there was still plenty to see in them. He was hurting, unsteady, uncertain – everything Lance wanted to fix. Gaining courage from his success in getting close without physical violence, Lance wrapped his hand around Keith's waist, tucking a thumb into his belt loop and pulling Keith's arm over his shoulder, the first time he was close enough without their coats on to really feel the fever heat on him, the intensity of it. He was getting worse.

"That's it," Lance complimented, though he was growing more worried by the second. Keith was in really bad shape. What had he gotten himself into here? Maybe his apartment wasn't the best place for Keith. Maybe he should have taken him to the hospital instead. It didn't help when Keith gasped painfully out of nowhere, clutching at his chest and sagging into Lance while he was still orienting them for movement.

"What's going on, Keith?" Lance grunted as he did his best to accommodate Keith's sudden weight on him, the question shooting out fast, not as calm as he wanted to be. Patients needed their doctors to be calm. He'd rather expected Keith to faint, not . . . whatever this was. He tried again, needing more information. "What hurts? Can you tell me?"

"I don't know," Keith managed, his eyes closing, but the location of his hand was a hint. He was breathing all right, too fast, but not with difficulty, so that meant his lungs weren't the problem.

"Is it your heart?" Lance guessed. "Keith? Your heart hurts?"

"Maybe?" Keith choked out the answer, and Lance's brain opened a textbook in his memory, sorting through the myriad of diagnoses for this particular symptom, combating with his concern to focus only on facts instead of letting his imagination fly into full on panic. As in, he could very clearly see that Keith wasn't going into cardiac arrest, so he could rule out heart attack. His head could at least – his soul seemed to want to hang on to it somehow, like this was the beginning of something serious. Something he may not know how to fix.

"Let's check it out," Lance offered, way more calm than he felt, a promise to both of them. Just because he'd never seen this before didn't mean he couldn't help. He just needed more data, a few more facts, then a strategy. He eased them forward, heading back toward the couch and his medical bag, where his stethoscope was, murmuring encouragement the whole way. Keith seemed to recover somewhat before they got there, standing a little straighter, removing his hand, not putting so much of his weight onto Lance, a relief since Lance wasn't sure he could have made it all the way to the couch the way they'd started.

"Sit down," Lance instructed, breathless himself now from half-carrying Keith down the hall. He lowered Keith into his original position on the cushions, pushing the blanket out of the way as he did so. "And put your feet up; come on." As he told Keith what to do, Lance grabbed his coat, balling it up into a little roll and tucking it under his ankles, taking an extra few seconds to check Keith's feet for swelling. They looked ok, normal, which was encouraging. He could cross off a few more heart-related issues on his mental list.

Keith didn't look ok when Lance straightened to check him, but that was expected. He leaned sideways, propped up by Lance's pillow against the arm of the couch, letting his head swivel toward the backrest, twisted, shivering and panting. As Lance studied, he tightened up again, pushing against his chest, his face scrunching up at the discomfort, shrinking into the back of the couch. Ok. So this came in waves. Lance drew the blanket over his legs, then dug into the bag for the stethoscope. Meanwhile, Keith wilted again, drained after the episode, letting Lance know that they were dealing with short, intense bursts. Lance nodded, narrowing it down, nestling the buds into his ears and perching near Keith's hip.

"Can you move your hands, Keith? I'm going to listen to your heart," Lance warned him before lifting his shirt up and snaking his hand underneath. "There's no way for me not to make it cold, so brace yourself for me." Keith didn't have the energy for a response, and he only recoiled slightly as the metal hit his skin. Lance listened as Keith's heartbeat filled his head, bowing his chin to his chest, reaching out to put a hand on Keith's shoulder to keep him calm during the procedure. He knew he wasn't going to get the complete picture this way. That an EKG test would be much more accurate, but this was all he had at the moment. At first, everything seemed as expected. The heart was beating fast, as if Keith were jogging instead of lying reclined on a couch, a symptom called tachycardia, but Lance already knew about that. There was nothing abnormal here. Nothing to cause that kind of reaction. He'd missed it.

"Take a deep breath," Lance told him, testing something, hearing the rushing whoosh of it into Keith's lungs as he complied. But he cut off, holding his breath, curling up on the couch as another painful wave started. Lance pushed against him to keep him from folding up, needing to keep everything in place to hear what was going on, starting to understand. Keith's heart revved up hard, making him release that deep breath in an involuntary whimper. Arrhythmia. Which could mean any number of things. Simple stress or something as serious as myocarditis. Lance thought they'd start with stress, God knew Keith was under plenty of that, and they'd work their way from there.

"Ok," Lance assured, partly to himself, as if he were completely in control, as if he knew exactly what was going on, listening as things slowed down inside Keith. Not enough, but definitely improvement. The real trick would be keeping him calm – especially since Lance hadn't figured out exactly why he freaked out about certain things for no apparent reason. Lance removed the stethoscope, pulling it from his ears and letting it dangle off his neck, replacing Keith's shirt and then pulling the blanket up. He went ahead and rested his own hand on Keith's chest, over his heart, as if he could slow it that way. They needed to have a chat, but judging from the way he'd been talking earlier, confused, Lance wasn't sure he'd be able to focus or remember anything he said. Still, he was going to try.

"Hey, Keith – Lobito, can you look at me?" With difficulty, Keith turned his head from the back of the couch, raising tired eyes to him. So far so good. "I think I know what's going on." Keith winced again, more gasping, shoving both hands on top of Lance's on his chest, an indication to Lance that the palpitations had started again, though he could not feel them under his hand. That was actually a good sign. It meant that however it felt to Keith, who was undoubtedly hypersensitive to any pain right now, this was relatively mild. For now.

"Easy," Lance implored him, knowing that sometimes even benign symptoms still felt like they could kill you. "You need to calm down. You're stressing out your heart, and it's already working overtime. What's happening to you is called arrhythmia, and it's when your pulse speeds up or beats erratically. It's like . . . um," he faltered for an analogy that would make sense, but he didn't know Keith well enough to know what he would understand as a comparison. "It's like a car engine," he decided. "Have you ever revved the engine in a car? Put it in park and then just hit the gas to hear how it sounds? How loud and fast it can get?" He wasn't sure, but he thought Keith might have nodded, the tiniest bit. "That's what your heart is doing, and it's a problem that perpetuates itself, does that make sense? You get stressed out, your heart overreacts to that stress, creates the palpitations that are making it so you can't breathe very well, which naturally creates more stress and the cycle continues. Are you with me?"

"How do I make it stop?" Keith gasped, innocent and suffering. He'd clamped one hand tight around Lance's wrist.

"You relax," Lance explained simply, hoping to convey that this should be easy. He didn't tell Keith that unless he did relax, unless they could make this stop, it could progress and get worse. It could get so bad that the delicate tissues of his heart could become inflamed, which would trigger his immune response to retain fluid there, enlarge the muscle. If that happened, every breath would be labored, would be painful, a continuous suffering instead of a wave. It could take months to resolve. It could lead to other, very serious complications. "You keep calm," Lance went on, deliberately slowing his voice to initiate the response he was looking for.

"Ok," Keith agreed, though he didn't look like it would be all that simple for him, which Lance sort of figured. Keith was high-strung; this might be against all his programming.

"And we need to get as much stress off your heart as possible," Lance continued, thinking of ways to help, trying not to think too much on any dark future. Patients need their doctors to be calm. "We'll start by getting your fever under control." Lance brought his other hand into the tangle against Keith's chest, pulling him off his wrist and folding Keith's hands gently over his heart, resting both of his over them. His instinct was to rub his thumbs over the top of Keith's hands, but he remembered at the last second that the position they were already in was probably intimate enough for Keith.

"Close your eyes, Lobito," Lance lulled, quiet, soft, using his voice instead of his hands. "You're going to be fine. Just breathe."

"What does that mean?" Keith asked, also quiet, not so much soft. Lance resisted the urge to lean over and kiss him on the forehead as if he were one of Lance's young nephews. It means you're very sick, he thought. It means you're worse than I thought, worse than I've ever seen. It means that I'm glad I talked you into coming over here, that I made the right choice staying with you. It means we have a long way to go before you're over this, and you're going to need to save your strength.

"It means you need to rest," Lance said simply, knowing what Keith was asking but not wanting to tell him. He wasn't sure he'd appreciate being compared to a wolf cub. "It means stay here."

"Where are you going?" Keith's voice sounded scared now. For all his intensity this morning, every 'get away from me' and 'leave me the hell alone' that he'd thrown at Lance earlier, he hadn't really meant it. For all he was used to being on his own, he didn't want that now. Instead of a kiss, Lance put his hand on Keith's forehead in reassurance. Keith involuntarily closed his eyes, taking a deep, though shuddering, breath, and Lance watched his shoulders melt into the couch as he relaxed into it, more exhausted than actually comfortable.

"I'm not going anywhere," Lance promised. "I know my apartment is huge compared to your room, but honestly, I can't get very far away. I'm going to the kitchen to make you that soup. It doesn't take long - less than ten minutes – I'll talk to you the whole time. Then I'm going to get you some medicine and water to take it with. And then, God willing, you are going to sleep."

Keith opened his eyes again to stare at Lance, who had never seen anyone stare like Keith did. He could see more trust there now, a touch of what could be gratitude. More than a touch of fear. The tiniest bit of protest.

"Don't move," Lance commanded, firm. "Your heart has enough to do already."

He slid his hand up, smoothing Keith's hair off his forehead and standing in the same motion. Keith didn't look ready for him to go, but Lance wanted to get some food and medication into him as soon as possible. It hadn't been all that bright of a day to start with, but there were definite shadows in the apartment now. The way the room was put together, with no windows in the kitchen, made Lance need the light on in order to see well enough to cook. Outside, the wind had begun to shriek, and Lance imagined Pidge explaining to him why, the pitch of her voice, the sure rapid string of her words, most of them ones he didn't know, telling him probably something about the direction and the temperature. Something about Lake Effect. There was almost always something about Lake Effect. He quickly shrugged aside how much he missed her and Hunk. He wanted them here with him, safe and warm and present.

"Hunk makes this better than I do," Lance said out loud, talking to Keith. And I wish he were here right now to prove it so I could stay there by the couch with you. The living room and kitchen were only separated by a partial wall, a little taller than Lance's hip. Lance had a decent view of Keith if he looked that way, but Keith could only see Lance from the waist up and only if he stayed the way he was, reclined instead of lying down.

"We made the recipe up together," Lance went on, good on his word to keep talking, for whatever comfort that could give, a distraction if nothing else. "We were trying to make it into a joke, you know – a physician, a physicist, and an engineer walk into a kitchen with a chemistry book – but that's all the farther we made it. If you think of a good punch line for that, let me know."

He paused, not sure what to say next, opening the cupboard doors in search of the ingredients he needed. Chicken broth bouillon, rice wine vinegar, ginger, soy sauce from the fridge, a couple eggs and a green onion or two. He searched the lower cabinets for the pan that Hunk always used for this, the clunk and rattle of the shuffling reminding him of his mother's kitchen in Varadero, a bittersweet reminiscence to him that stung just a little harder as he remembered what Keith had said about his own mother. How she left him. Lance glanced over his shoulder as he straightened with the pan, checking on Keith. How? He couldn't understand that, trying to grasp what that could be like. What that might do to a child, what sort of twist it could put in a soul to grow up that way. But that wasn't a good topic of conversation. He couldn't ever ask.

"A physicist?" Keith repeated, warming Lance's spirit a bit since it sounded like he was trying to make conversation. And it was just the thing to get Lance going on something less gloomy.

"Astrophysicist, I should say," Lance corrected himself. "That's Pidge, but Hunk's into that stuff too. They make a great team, really. Pidge comes up with an idea, and Hunk figures out how to make it happen. All that stuff by this wall here is theirs." Lance paused in the soup prep to lean over the partition wall, sweeping his arm across the cardboard boxes where their magpie collection of tech bits and bobs lived when Lance made them move it off the table. "I don't really know what any of it is, but they'd be happy to tell you more than you ever want to know if you ask them." If they ever come home.

Lance broke the eggs into a measuring cup, whipping them with a fork, the broth starting to bubble slightly, its scent temporarily overpowering the curry that Hunk had left in the crockpot. The curry that wouldn't be done for another couple of hours.

"They're waiting to hear from the Jet Propulsion Lab in California about some internship they applied for," Lance continued talking about his friends, waiting for the soup to full on boil before he poured the eggs into it where they would cook instantly into strings. "They'll have to move to Pasadena if they get in." He stopped talking as that really hit him. They would have to move. If they got in, they'd be gone in less than a month. Gone where he couldn't follow, and suddenly he no longer wanted them to succeed in this, didn't want to be left behind. He distracted himself with the eggs – the slower the pour, stirring immediately with a fork, the finer the strings. If he did it right, the strands would be so delicate that the soup could easily be sipped from a mug with no need for a spoon. Then turn off the heat and sprinkle chopped green onion on top. The fastest alternative to standard chicken soup ever. And they had all agreed it tasted better too.

"Here we go," Lance remarked, ladling soup into two mugs (he'd skipped lunch going to see Keith and there was no way he was going to wait for the curry to be finished). Keith hadn't moved from where Lance left him, sitting completely still with his hands still resting over his heart, head leaning against the back of the couch.

"Let it cool a minute," Lance warned him as he set both mugs down on the tiny coffee table. "I'll be right back with that medicine." He hurried to the bathroom where he kept a small pharmacy of drugs – Nyquil, Neosporin, Cortisone 10. Epsom salt. He selected Tylenol PM for Keith; it had everything that he needed and would be easy on his system. A pain killer, a fever reducer, and a sleep aid – not to be taken on an empty stomach. He thought of another dose of Ibuprofen for himself but decided to wait. He'd use an ice pack first now that he was home and could take the time for it. He tipped two pills into his hand and then went back to the kitchen for water.

"It's just Tylenol," he told Keith as he held both the water and the medicine out to him. "Should bring that fever down a little and take some of the ache away for you. Help you sleep." Keith took everything from him slowly but without hesitation. "Drink all the water if you can," Lance encouraged.

"How come you're so good at this?" Keith asked out of nowhere, studying the pills. Lance internally preened at the compliment, though he hadn't really done anything yet to deserve it.

"Practice," he dismissed. "I told you, I've already nursed five other people through the flu this winter." Though no one was as bad as you are, he added in his head.

"This is," Keith paused, gathering his thoughts, looking Lance up and down again as he had when they'd been in his room. "This is really who you are, isn't it?" Lance didn't understand the question.

"The one and only," he returned, uncertain. "Take the medicine."

Keith looked like he wanted to say something else, but didn't. He swallowed the pills one at a time, a minor detail that Lance filed away for future reference. He didn't finish the water, but Lance let that go as he exchanged the glass for the soup mug. . . which Keith stared into, holding it carefully in both hands. Lance wondered why he did that. He stared at everything, like it was all brand new to him.

"Breathe deep," Lance told him, knowing how comforting the rich, salty scent of the soup could be if Keith's chest were still in any way tight from the arrhythmia attack earlier. Keith obeyed, his hands starting to shake, making Lance worried again. What now?

"You doing ok?" He asked, a stupid question. There was nothing ok about Keith, but he hadn't been shaking a second ago. He nodded a quick, voiceless response. Lance knelt at his side, reaching out to steady the mug so the soup wouldn't spill. "Can you manage just a couple swallows of this for me?" He helped Keith bring the cup to his mouth, helped him tip it slightly, watched him drink as if it were difficult, as if his throat weren't quite working the way it should. He pulled it back for a break, monitoring Keith intently as he closed his eyes.

"That's," Keith whispered. "That's so good." Lance smiled, unbalanced, then understanding washed over him as he watched a tear escape down Keith's cheek. He was holding his breath again.

"Keith," Lance said, getting his attention though he kept his eyes closed, struggling with himself. Lance took the mug, replacing it on the coffee table next to his, then twisted himself up off the floor and onto the couch facing Keith. He put a hand on his arm.

"Don't," Keith hissed, though not angrily. Lance paid no attention. If he wanted Keith to keep stress off his heart, then this wasn't going to work.

"No, you don't," Lance countered. "You're all tense again; don't do that." He began to rub Keith's arm gently and steadily. His breathing had become erratic. "Your heart can't take the strain, remember? It's ok. This happens to everyone; I promise. It doesn't mean anything except you're sick. I can leave if that will make it easier, but stop trying to hold it in like that." Keith's hand shot out, unexpectedly, closing around the fabric of Lance's scrub top, as clear a sign as any that he didn't want Lance to go anywhere. That settled that. Now time to gently break loose the already crumbling wall that Keith had built up around his emotions. It might hurt at first, but he'd feel better in the long run.

"Come here," Lance invited, though in the end Keith didn't move and it was Lance who shifted closer. Keith's hand stayed where it was, curled in his shirt, while Lance put his arms around him.

"Why are you so damn nice?" Keith asked, his voice tight, bringing up the hand that wasn't holding on to Lance to cover his face.

"The better question is why are you so surprised by it? Don't you think you deserve someone to be nice to you for once?" Lance returned, running his hand up and down Keith's back as far as he could reach from the somewhat awkward position he'd placed himself in. That did it. Keith broke. He lowered his face, the top of his head pressed into the small hollow under Lance's collarbone, and let himself cry. Lance closed his eyes too as he registered the hurt in the sound. He didn't understand it. Why for some people it was kindness that brought all this out more than anything negative they'd already gone through. You could beat them down for days, for years, and they'd take it with a solid resolution and never make a single sound. But the second you started to be gentle with them and they would dissolve. He didn't understand it – even though he was exactly the same.

"That's better," Lance encouraged, and Keith actually sobbed into his shirt. Lance winced for him. It was like he was holding a flame in his arms, a fallen star burning on the verge of extinguishing itself. He hadn't lied to Keith; every single one of the people he'd helped through this illness had been overly emotional. They had all cried at least once. That was how Lance had discovered Hunk was sick in the first place – he'd found him weeping over a burned batch of cookies. What he hadn't said was that the intensity seemed to directly correlate more to emotional health than physical health. It didn't bother Hunk to be seen crying, so after that first bout with the failed baking, he hadn't done it again. Pidge, on the other hand, liked to pretend she was as cold the electronics she studied so hard. Consequently, she had cried repeatedly through her illness.

But again, as with everything else, Keith was different. More intense. Harder. Lance wasn't even surprised. He kept quiet for what seemed like a long time, thinking about it, rubbing Keith's back, knowing that there was more going on here than a fever. It might have something to do with Keith's absence the last couple weeks. It could be the culmination of his entire life, but there was so much more about Keith's heart that needed healing.

"Keith," he eventually said once he felt like he might be winding down a little. "Look . . . I know it's none of my business, but . . . if you're going through something, you can talk to me about it. You don't have to be alone anymore."

Keith pulled back, breaking his hold, hiding his face in both hands. Lance allowed him the distance, shifting his hands to Keith's leg.

"How can you be like that?" Keith said, rearranging Lance's thoughts. He said the strangest things at the weirdest times. "If you knew –"

"I'd still want to help you," Lance assured, not being able to think of a single thing that Keith could have done that would change that at this point. Slowly, Keith uncovered his face, allowing Lance to make eye contact with him. Tears and fever gleam still obscured the color. Lance wondered if he'd ever be able to make it out. What he could see was exhaustion, and desire. There was something that Keith was hiding, that he couldn't trust Lance with yet, but it seemed like he might want to. So much fear.

"The offer stands," Lance told him, twisting to pick up the mug again. "When you're ready, or never if you don't want to. For right now, do you think you can drink some more of this?"

Keith took the mug, his hands steady now, suddenly unable to look at Lance anymore. Lance reminded himself over and over that he shouldn't ask him anything, that it really was none of his business. But what was he beating himself up over? What made him think that Lance would reject him? Did it have anything to do with Shiro? With whatever he kept hidden in his backpack? Would he ever trust Lance enough to tell him?

But it shouldn't matter. He didn't need to know what happened. His job was the same, though not as simple as he'd thought it would be. He drank his own soup as Keith finished what he could. Then he helped him walk back to his bedroom, where they had another awkward exchange about changing into pajama pants. Keith didn't have any, so Lance loaned him his favorite pair, adamant that he could not be comfortable sleeping in his jeans. Keith didn't have much strength, so Lance had to help him. By the time he was changed and under the covers, he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Where are you going to sleep?" Was the last thing he asked. Lance didn't answer him. The truth was he probably wouldn't, at least not well, until the fever broke. He always missed the moment it happened. He always drifted off, and he resolved harder each time that he wouldn't do that again. He wanted to see it, how it worked. Wanted to know why it always seemed to happen between two and three in the morning. Why it seemed like it couldn't happen unless he wasn't watching. Such a mystery. Something he wanted to study. Like Keith himself.

Lance sat next to Keith on the bed on top of the blankets, setting his hand on his head again. Keith seemed to like that. He lay peaceful, maybe for the first time, breathing steady and deep. They still had a long night ahead of them, but for right now, Keith was going to get some rest.

"I'll be right here," Lance promised, smoothing his thumb over Keith's eyebrow. He didn't stop until long after he knew that Keith had fallen asleep, just to make sure.

Author's Note: Does anybody want the recipe for the soup? It really is the best thing for colds and stuff. Just in case – here you go:

Egg Drop Soup

Ingredients:

1 qt chicken broth (I cheat and use bouillon cubes)

1 Tbsp soy sauce

1 Tbsp rice vinegar

1/4 tsp fresh ginger (again, I cheat. I use a half teaspoon of ginger spice.

I think. I don't actually measure)

2 - 3 chopped green onions

2 eggs

Method:

Start your chicken broth in a medium pan over medium-high heat. Add the soy

sauce, rice vinegar, ginger, and onions. Simmer the ingredients together for

a few minutes, maybe five. I normally just start heating my water and

bouillon and by the time I'm done chopping the onion up (I use scissors and

cut it directly over the soup), it's simmering nicely so I don't really

measure how long. This soup is rather forgiving.

Break your eggs into something with a lip for pouring and beat them. Then

pour about 1/4 of your eggs into the pot at a time and stir them with a

fork. They will shred instantly, so make sure you're ready to stir the

second you start pouring. The faster you pour the eggs, the larger your egg

pieces will be in the soup. If you want neat, tiny shreds, pour just a bit

at a time.

Thanks again, you're all amazing! I promise, we will get to see what Keith's hiding in that backpack. And Hunk and Pidge are coming home eventually. What would you like to see? Apparently we have tons of time.