Author's Note: I'm so sorry, everyone! I can't believe it's been almost three weeks since the last chapter. I don't know how time went so fast, or how I got so stuck on this one. It just wasn't flowing for me. Maybe because it's the tipping point? If you were worried about falling down a deep, dark hole with this story, this may be the last chapter for you. It's going to get a little intense after this bit of sweetness.
Chapter Eight: Cognitive Dissonance
Lance woke to whispers, stirrings in the room, the not-quite-silent hush of his considerate roommates doing their best to be silent. He could feel more than hear the quiet rumble of Hunk, the fluted higher pitch that was Pidge, and closest of all, the slightly too-fast breathing of Keith underneath him. Shifting incrementally, Lance sat up, taking in how the apartment had changed, trying to guess how long he'd been out. It seemed he'd fallen asleep and then slumped over until his head was pillowed on Keith's not-so-soft hip. Meanwhile, Keith had curled up and flipped around so that he lay on his side, face toward Lance's stomach, elbows bent and hands holding to Lance's shirt. Lance didn't know how to feel about that. On the one hand, it was almost too damn sweet, but on the other, it made him sad. Especially since Keith's face was not exactly peaceful. His brow furrowed in discomfort. It looked as though his jaw were locked. His hands clung to Lance's shirt a little too hard. Carefully, Lance rested his palm on Keith's forehead, disappointed but not surprised to discover that he was still held tight in the grips of fever. Lance moved again, awkwardly, until he had one of Keith's wrists, taking count of his pulse. Still too fast and not quite as strong. Was his blood pressure lowering? Another anemia symptom. Or dehydration. Or maybe it was fine. It could be just because Keith was asleep, or the weird position they were in, or because Lance was thinking too hard about it.
Lance debated on what he should do here. Should he move and risk waking Keith up to take a real blood pressure reading? Listen to his heart again; check his temperature? Or should he remain where he was to make sure Keith rested undisturbed? Lance was biased toward moving. Now that he was awake, he was getting a little claustrophobic and desperate to shift out from under Keith, who was too hot and close on his lap.
As a distraction from feeling trapped and to procrastinate on having to decide what was the best course of action, Lance tipped his head up to see where his roommates were and what they were doing. He could smell Hunk's curry, which they were both eating at the table surrounded by all their electrical whatsits. They were making tiny adjustments between bites, whispering together in that distinctly comforting way that Lance loved best. As if nothing in the world were going on outside of their project. As if Lance weren't sleeping on top of a stranger a few feet away on the couch.
"I'm telling you," Hunk whispered as forcefully as possible without raising his voice. "It's the channel. We're not tuning in to the right frequency."
"It's two hundred twenty miles above the earth, Hunk," Pidge hissed / whispered back. "The channel doesn't matter as much as the distance. What we need is a repeater. There's no way you're going to reach them without one."
"But we are bouncing off the . . . oh hey, Lance," Hunk stopped mid-sentence though he kept his tone down as he noticed Lance awake and watching them. "Did we wake you up?"
"I don't think so," Lance replied mildly, shrugging his shoulders a little just to relieve some of the tension he was feeling. "This isn't the most comfortable napping position."
"Oh, I don't know," Pidge said teasingly, turning in her chair so he wouldn't miss the wicked smile on her face. "You look pretty cozy to me." Lance didn't respond to that out loud, but he screamed "really?" at her with an exaggerated head tilt. She'd been nothing but weird all day.
"So, how long have you guys been home?" Lance asked, fidgeting under Keith, changing the subject.
"An hour?" Hunk answered, looking to Pidge for confirmation, too innocent to pick up on what Lance and Pidge hadn't said. "Yeah, about an hour. We were back in my room until just a little while ago, but we got hungry. It's almost one," Hunk answered the next question before Lance asked it. So that meant Lance and Keith had been tangled up on this couch for a little over two hours. Lance inwardly groaned. He was getting tired of falling asleep in weird places and positions without even meaning to. But then he thought of Keith and reminded himself that cramped and stiff as he was, he was still way better off.
"Do you want some help getting out of there? You're all twitchy," Hunk offered, though how he was going to assist in getting Lance out from under Keith was a mystery. Maybe he thought he could just lift him completely in one quick swoop to let Lance out, though judging from the last time Hunk had picked Keith up without a warning, Lance didn't want him to even try it.
"No, it's fine. I'll figure it out," Lance declined, looking down at Keith's hands still fisted up in his shirt. He'd have to start there, somehow untangle all Keith's fingers. Maybe he should just take the shirt off? Yeah, that was probably easiest if he wanted Keith to stay asleep. Lance shimmied his shirt up his back, pulling it over his head so Keith could keep hold of it, feeling Pidge and Hunk staring at him curiously as he contorted out of the sleeves. He wouldn't be surprised at all to see Pidge with her phone aimed at him if he looked up.
"You want some curry?" Hunk asked, still forcefully casual about what was going on in front of him. Lance was now sitting shirtless under Keith, considering the best way to hold the pillow up, trying to mentally liquify all of his limbs so he could just pour himself off the couch.
"Um, no, thanks, Hunk," he whispered, only half-listening. There was too much heat in curry; it would be way too painful. Lance had both his hands under Keith's head now, elevating his pillow a few degrees at a time, tensing the muscles in his legs and back, beginning to twist toward the armrest, shoving himself against it as much as possible. Keith tightened, freezing Lance to the spot, but after pulling Lance's shirt tightly against his chest and practically burying his face into the fabric, Keith went still again. And then Lance let out the breath he'd been holding, relying on gravity more than anything to start pulling him toward the floor.
Using every yoga technique he knew about moving individual muscles, Lance rotated behind Keith's head, down on his knees beside the couch, and lowered the pillow with Keith on it into the place he'd been sitting. A few more steady, slow seconds as he brought his hands out from between the pillow and the couch cushion, and he was ready to stand up and walk away freely. He breathed a little "whew" of relief as he turned toward the table, where Pidge applauded him, tiny soundless claps.
"That was almost a Cirque du Soleil act," she said appreciatively, with only a trace of sarcasm.
"I'll add it to my resume," Lance told her, bowing without any real emotion, still groggy and frustrated, hunching toward the hallway. "Be right back – I need to get another shirt."
He took his time, checking the snow out his window, then using the bathroom, wetting a washcloth with hot water and holding it against his face, pressed against his eyes. His bruise had darkened to the deep purple black of its highest trauma, all the blood clots raised to the surface, which meant he should switch from ice packs to heat in the hopes to break them up and dissipate them faster. He couldn't imagine how charming it would look when the skin faded to yellow and green in a couple more days. He languidly breathed the warm, humid soapy scent from the cloth, thinking. Hunk and Pidge would probably have questions for him when he went back into the living room, so he stood there in front of the bathroom mirror for a few more minutes, mentally preparing himself for whatever they might want to know. He also wanted to think a second about Pidge's teasing grin and what she'd said about Lance sleeping with Keith on his lap. It bothered him more than he wanted it to.
He wasn't sure how to get her to understand that there had been nothing cozy about that position. He'd initiated it from a place of unease, shaky trust, and more than a little fear. He'd been calming a fevered wolf, not holding a lover. Keith had needed reassurance; he'd been upset by their conversation, by Dr. Coran's visit. He needed to keep his head down. Lance needed to stay near him, to monitor him as he fell asleep, to make sure his heart rhythm stayed regular. Pidge had probably forgotten how much physical touch is involved in taking care of someone – how much time she had spent in Hunk's lap, how she'd needed his arms around her almost constantly. She'd probably snap at Lance if he brought it up; no one wanted to think about it, even if Lance did have a point he wanted proven. He'd had to keep his hands on Keith, his fingertips on his pulse as part of his treatment. There was nothing more to it.
Lance gave himself a questioning look in the mirror, surprised again how defensive he felt at something Pidge had innocently said. There really wasn't anything more to it, was there? No. He didn't know anything about Keith; it was impossible. Concern was a neighbor to affection, but they weren't the same thing. Lance was worried about Keith, that's all. He was curious about Keith because honestly, how could a sane person spend any amount of time with Keith and not be curious about him? He looked at the bruise again, touched it carefully with the back of his hand, remembering how it got there and who gave it to him. Remembered the scars on Keith's back, remembered what he'd said, remembered that Keith probably wouldn't even allow them to be close after this was all over. The best thing to do would be get him well and get on with their lives – as he'd done with Genevieve down the hall, and the other two patients he'd helped whose names would no longer come to him. Getting any more involved with Keith might not be the healthiest choice. But he'd asked not to be left alone. He kept holding to Lance's clothes.
His reflection shook his head at him as he bowed over the sink, disturbed and conflicted, hands on either side of the basin. He decided to reschedule this inner dialogue for a better time. When Keith was well. When Keith was out of trouble. When Lance had more data. Then he'd reassess his feelings and what Pidge believed they might be. In the meantime, he had plenty of other things to do.
Keith slept on, still not as peaceful as Lance hoped, but at least quietly. He resisted the urge to touch him, feeling Pidge's eyes on his back and forcefully turning toward the table, taking the chair between his friends where he could still keep an eye on Keith. They pulled their attention from the NASA website on Pidge's tiny, homebuilt laptop to welcome him back. And as Lance expected, to ask him questions. He pulled his legs underneath him, sitting cross-legged on the chair, and got ready to answer everything they threw at him. After all they'd done for him yesterday and today, they more than deserved any information they wanted. Almost.
"So what'd Dr. Coran say?" Hunk asked first. An easy question, really, a relief, but since Keith's full diagnosis was still unknown, it rattled Lance a little anyway. Not a good sign this early in the conversation.
"He took some samples with him to test for a couple things," Lance answered, folding his arms on the table top, looking at the electrical debris in front of him, wondering how quickly he could turn the topic over to what they'd been up to while he'd been sleeping. "He's going to call us later when he knows more."
"Testing for what?" Pidge wanted to know, perceptive. "I thought he had the flu?"
"He does," Lance answered, reaching forward to poke at some of the wires. "I mean, we're pretty sure he does, but there's something going on with his heart that is more typical for anemia. So we're testing the iron level in his blood." He paused to check his friends, remembering that sometimes he got off on medical tangents that they couldn't keep up with, using words they didn't know. They did it to him too, so it wasn't a huge deal, but he wanted to make sure they were still with him.
"And . . . last night? What'd he say about last night?" Pidge continued the interrogation, making Lance jump a little bit before he remembered that Pidge hadn't been there for all of last night. She'd missed the really messy stuff. "Was any of that even true?"
I really hope not, Lance thought, but couldn't say that out loud.
"Maybe," he said instead. "It's really impossible to tell without going over it all with Keith, but I'm not doing that. He was delirious; he had no idea what he was saying, so I don't think it matters much what's true and what's not. It's none of our business, so I think we should just forget about it." Oh how he'd like to.
"What if it happens again?" Pidge continued with the questions that Lance was very deliberately not asking himself.
"It won't," Lance almost snapped, turning his face and his bruise away from her, noticing Keith shifting out of the corner of his eye, responding to the sound but not waking. He needed to lower his voice. "Not if I can keep his fever down."
"Wouldn't he be better off at the hospital? Did that not even come up?" Pidge was staring hard at Lance now. He could tell though he wasn't looking at her. He was watching Hunk nervously twisting wires together, a physical manifestation of how it probably felt for Hunk to sit and listen to Pidge and Lance talk like this. Hunk always liked everyone on the same page; this was disturbing him. "It's just - I don't think I can scoop more snow into Ziplocs tonight."
"You won't have to," Lance replied, his voice quiet but his tone too harsh, immediately hurt and almost angry at Pidge. She thought she'd had it bad last night? What about Keith? He'd been the one really suffering. "You won't have to do anything. Either of you. I brought him here; he's my responsibility. I'm sorry it's ruining your weekend, but he had no one else and that doesn't work for me. Thanks for your help. I won't ask for it again."
"Lance, chill," Pidge soothed, though she sounded a little mechanical to him. "Don't get so defensive. It's not ruining my weekend; it's ruining you." Now Lance did pause to look at her, feeling challenged. "I'll be the first one to say that you do great things, and you know a hell of a lot, but you're not a doctor yet, remember? He's actually not your responsibility. You're really sweet to help him out, but you said yourself that you don't even know him. And I'm just saying that a repeat of last night is going to be too hard for all of us, and that includes Keith. I thought for sure that your doctor friend would have taken Keith in to the hospital with him. It seems like a better option to me."
Well of course it seemed a better option to her. She was thinking with her head only. If Lance were to read about Keith in a case file, he'd say the exact same thing. He'd thought it was the right choice this morning too. The hospital could provide tests and medications that Lance simply didn't have here. But they couldn't provide the warm quiet that his apartment had. The smell of the curry. The special weight of Lance's mom's quilt. The soft sounds of people just going about their business, a calming background reassurance. And for Keith, who had been raised in a cold system, who stared with wonder at simple things like mugs of homemade soup and shed actual tears about food that tasted good . . . who was so bewildered by Lance for being nice to him . . who was developing trust in a way that Lance could measure by how often and how tightly he held onto Lance's clothes – now that Lance had that information . . .
"On paper, it looks that way," Lance allowed, his tone softened, speaking delicately. "But I actually think it would be a step backward in his recovery if we were to send him away at this point. It would be like we gave up on him, and you heard him last night."
"You're saying we should keep him here, without proper medical care, because he has abandonment issues?" Pidge checked him, her restatement making it sound so ridiculous that Lance paused to rethink it himself before he remembered that even Coran had agreed it was best.
"Exactly," Lance said, obviously not the answer Pidge was expecting judging from her expression. "But I'm not ruling it out," he added. "I'm going to do all I can for him, but you're right; we can't do another round like last night. That won't be in anyone's best interests."
Pidge shrugged, a quasi-agreement, though she still looked skeptical.
"So now that that's settled," Hunk broke in hurriedly, springing on the first chance he saw to switch topics, eager to create harmony between them again. "Lance, how'd your date go yesterday?"
At first, Lance didn't understand what Hunk was even asking. What date? But then he remembered Allura and how the last Hunk knew, he'd still been planning to meet with her at the library.
"Oh, right," Lance heard himself whisper, feeling his shoulders droop.
"Right, so where'd you go? Was she interested? Are you seeing her again?" Hunk wanted all the details. Except the actual details were so disappointing.
"Was it bad?" Pidge asked, gentle now, reading his body language outside of Hunk's enthusiasm, seeing the real picture. "Did she ghost you?"
"No, she was ready, but . . . I didn't go," Lance confessed. "I couldn't leave Keith."
"But you called her, right?" Pidge said, nodding at him, sounding like his mother all of a sudden, anxious that he'd minded his manners and treated Allura properly. "You let her know what was going on?"
"I did," Lance defended himself, sinking lower into his chair. This day was proving to be almost miserable. He felt trapped in a never-ending string of disappointment and waiting and scenarios he couldn't fix. "She thought I was lying to her. She was pretty mad, so no, I don't think I'll be seeing her . . . ever."
"Lying?" Hunk repeated, as if the word were new to him, sounding hurt. "You?" Pidge moved around the table to place her hands against Hunk's back, as if he were more disheartened about this than Lance was.
"Sounds like you dodged a bullet, then," Pidge told him. "If she can't handle a cancellation due to medical emergency then you guys were sure to fail." Lance lifted his head a little. He'd never thought of it like that, but Pidge had a point. Anyone Lance dated would have to understand that he could be called away at a moment's notice for something. There were probably hundreds of cancelations in his future thanks to the career he'd chosen. Come to think of it, all the doctors he truly admired lived alone. Maybe because there was no such person who could handle it, who could just have him walk away from a date or miss an important event, especially long-term. Maybe if he continued in this field, he'd never find someone understanding enough to stay with him in it.
He looked at Pidge and Hunk, his brilliant friends who always seemed to be with him no matter what, thinking how special that was, how any day they were probably going to receive an acceptance letter, and he felt a little nauseated and empty and cold. He wanted to be a doctor, wanted it more than anything. At least, he thought he wanted it more than anything. Now he wasn't sure he could do it. Not if it meant he had to be alone.
"Hey, Lance, don't worry about her," Pidge said, calling him back from visualizing his future that somehow seemed darker to him all of a sudden. But he wasn't worried about Allura anymore; he had so many bigger problems looming over him. "She doesn't deserve you anyway."
Lance allowed himself a tiny smile, more to show Pidge that he appreciated what she was trying to do more than that it was actually working.
"I'm heating you up some curry," Hunk offered, getting up, knowing in his soul that whenever someone was upset all they really needed was a hot meal. And just how Lance's first response to discomfort was to get some stats, Hunk's was to start cooking. But curry?
"No, thanks, Hunk," Lance began to protest again, but he shut up when he saw the look Hunk was giving him. Hunk stood with his arms crossed and head tilted, knowing almost all there was to know about Lance, understanding him better than Lance's own brothers.
"Nope, we've talked about this," Hunk reprimanded. "Just because Keith can't eat it doesn't mean you starve. I'm getting you some lunch."
Pidge patted his shoulder as Hunk left for the kitchen, and Lance felt a little better in spite of himself. He was hungry; he'd forgotten that he did that, though now that Hunk had brought it to his attention he did remember the other conversations they'd had about this very thing. The curry was too spicy for Keith, but that didn't mean he couldn't have some. It wouldn't do Keith any good for him not to eat.
"Why don't you go get that book?" Pidge suggested. "We can go over that Spanish oral thing you wanted me to quiz you on. The test is what? Monday?"
Lance nodded, the empty feeling in his stomach subsiding a little. See, Keith? He thought. Friends take care of each other. He went to do as Pidge said, ready to push his dark thoughts out of his mind and soul. His father used to talk to him about it, how he worried too much. Be in the now, he'd say. Feel the sun, look at my face. Don't lose the memories you may make today by thinking about a problem that may never happen later. There is a difference between a worry and a plan. So he pulled La Vida es Sueño from his backpack and decided to be in the moment. Enjoy this quiet time with his friends on a snowy afternoon while Keith rested. Enjoy Hunk's curry. Soak up as many moments as he could with these wonderful scientists instead of missing out by worrying about what it would be like after they were gone.
He returned to his seat, plopping instead of sinking into it this time, thumbing through the book to find the pages with the soliloquy on them. He'd purposefully picked the most challenging option for this assignment, knowing it would earn him bonus points from his professor and semi-jealous hostility from the non-native speakers in the room. Since the points would get him farther than anyone's opinion of him in that particular class, he'd opted to be practical instead of popular.
They waited for him to eat before starting, since he couldn't chew and recite at the same time. The curry was amazing, as expected, a smooth balance of mellow and spicy, soaking into the perfect ratio of jasmine rice. As he ate, Hunk and Pidge returned to their mechanism, disconnecting a wire here, tightening one there, moving around each other with professional familiarity. Outside, he could hear the wind, and he knew that the sun was at its tipping point for going down again, but for right now, everything was soft light and coziness. The almost exact opposite of a hospital.
"Show me where you're starting," Pidge said when he was ready, and he obligingly handed over the tiny gold book, pointing out the beginning of the thirty-line soliloquy. Pidge spoke maybe half a dozen words of Spanish, all of them taught to her by American cartoons and commercials, but her analytical mind could match the words on the page to what she heard Lance say easier than Hunk could do it, so she was the best choice for testing his memorization. "Ok, cool – let's do it first slow and clear for accuracy and then you can run through again how it's supposed to sound when you perform it."
Lance stood up, only because it seemed impossible for him to do this while sitting still, like his mind required movement in order to transition the words from his memory to his mouth. Pidge gave him a raised eyebrow, but she was smiling indulgently at him. Hunk put both elbows on the table, content to just listen.
"Ready?" Lance asked rather nervously, just because he felt so dumb in the seconds before he got into it. Beginning always seemed awkward to him, though he knew he'd be fine after a couple lines. Pidge gave him a thumbs up while Hunk nodded, so Lance brushed himself off and started reciting. "Sueña el rey que es rey. . ." And he began to pace the short distance between the table and couch, closing his eyes as if that would help him read the words off the page he kept in his brain. He knew he was gesturing with his hand, like a chorister conducts a choir, because this particular monologue had a specific cadence to it, a rhythm, and it somehow felt right to emphasize the downbeat with a cut of his hand. Pidge had to stop and slow him down once as he unconsciously sped into that rhythm since she couldn't distinguish individual words anymore. He tried harder to enunciate carefully.
"Y los sueños, sueños son," he finished, standing still and opening his eyes to see how he'd done. Pidge had a hand over her mouth, eyes intent on the book, nodding thoughtfully. "Did I miss anything?" He asked her, but had to shift his focus to Hunk who was spinning his finger in the air in a "turn around" gesture.
"The words are all fine," Pidge assessed. "But you move too – ow, Hunk, what?" Hunk had elbowed her in the side, jerking his head toward the couch. Puzzled, Lance looked over his shoulder . . . locking eyes immediately with Keith, taking him by surprise so much that he felt his own heart jolt hard. How did he even do that? Move so quietly? Stare like that.
"Hi," Lance greeted him in a rather frightened burst, feeling stupid. He hadn't meant to wake him up with his pacing. Keith's eyes and mouth were both open. He'd curled against the armrest of the couch, Lance's shirt still in his hand. Lance felt worry bloom out in his chest and the back of his throat. Keith looked more than a little disoriented. Had his fever gone up again?
"Keith," Lance called to him as he dropped to one knee in front of the couch. "You with me?" Because he really didn't look like it. He was looking at Lance like he didn't know him again. Like he had no idea where he was. "What's my name? Can you tell me?"
"Lance," Keith answered, still staring, still looking confused. Lance didn't like it one bit.
"And what class do we have together?" Lance asked, testing his memory and level of consciousness.
"English," Keith replied, relieving Lance a little. "But that's not what you were speaking." Oh, that was it. Lance nodded, understanding. Keith had woken up to Lance wandering around the room reciting Spanish poetry. He probably thought he'd gone crazy.
"Right, sorry, Lobito," Lance apologized, hearing Hunk chuckle softly behind him, hearing the relief in it. Seemed he wasn't the only one to think that there was something wrong. "I was practicing for my Spanish oral exam that's on Monday. I didn't mean to wake you up. Pidge was testing me. How are you feeling? Doing ok?"
"You speak Spanish?" Keith asked instead of answering Lance's questions, sounding like Lance had been keeping secrets from him on purpose. Hunk was full on laughing at the table now, and Lance waved a hand at him to knock it off.
"Wow, you guys really don't know each other at all, do you?" Pidge accused, her elbows high in the air as she rested her hands behind her head. Keith went back and forth between them, unsure where to focus. In the end, he settled on Lance, his expression wounded, like he thought he'd done something wrong.
"So what?" Lance defended, making sure Keith understood that it wasn't a big deal. There was no reason on earth why he should know anything about Lance. "I'm getting you something to drink, Lobito," he told him gently, standing up. "And we need to check some stats now that you're awake."
"But . . wait," Keith said, though Lance was only going to the kitchen, pulling out a new container of Gatorade he kept in the fridge just for occasions like this one. "What's so funny? What'd I say?"
"Lance's native language is Spanish," Pidge offered, though she somehow made it sound slightly condescending. Or challenging? Lance couldn't quite pin down the nuance, but whatever it was, it wasn't exactly friendly. Like she wanted to make a point that she knew Lance better than Keith did and always would.
"Really?" Keith again searched out Lance for confirmation on this. Lance allowed himself a small smile of pride, carrying a glass of Gatorade back to the couch. Keith eyed it suspiciously, checking Lance's face for any sign that he might be able to get out of drinking it.
"It's true," Lance revealed. "I grew up in Cuba. Here, take a drink."
"That stuff is disgusting," Keith said, actually leaning away from the cup, and Lance knew exactly what he meant. Gatorade was unique in that it only tasted good when your body really needed what was in it. For normal people, it did taste gross. For dehydrated people – it was heavenly.
"I guarantee you – today it will taste fine," Lance promised, extending the glass again. Keith continued giving him that look, the one that said Lance was keeping something from him, but he hesitantly took the glass and sipped at it. Lance watched his eyes go wide, smiled as Keith held the glass out in front of him to check the contents again, as if it suddenly wasn't what he thought it was. Then he shook his head a little and took another swallow.
"It's good, isn't it?" Lance prompted, and Keith sort of glared at him from over the rim of the glass with his mysteriously colored, fever-bright eyes.
"How the hell do you do that?" He asked after draining half the contents, making Lance suddenly feel warm all over. He moved away to gather his things from his bag, the blood pressure cuff, thermometer, notebook, suspecting that his face had blushed and wanting to hide it. He didn't need anyone giving him flak for that. "Or does everything just taste better here?"
"If Hunk makes it yes, everything does just taste better, but in this case, it's a mind trick; your body is craving the electrolytes. Here, let me see your arm." Lance wrapped Keith's bicep in the cuff, anxious to get a reading to alleviate the concern he'd felt earlier taking Keith's pulse. He wanted to make sure he'd been imagining it when he thought it might be weaker. Ninety-five over sixty. Borderline . . . again. Technically, it was still normal, but it was lower than the previous readings. At least Keith's temperature had also gone down, not much, but it was under 103 now and Lance considered that a major accomplishment. Even the pulse rate had improved. Maybe another good nap could finally break this.
"Well?" Hunk asked from the table where he and Pidge were watching Lance do his doctor routine, genuinely concerned to learn Keith's status.
"Actually, it's looking ok," Lance said, nodding encouragingly at Keith. "Heart rate's down, temperature's down a little. But your blood pressure went down too and that's . . . not so good? But it's not bad either. You need to keep drinking, though. How are you feeling? Any better?"
"Not . . really," Keith said hesitantly, as if worried he was going to give the wrong answer or say something disappointing.
"That's not surprising," Lance assured him. The changes were so minor and could be attributed to the fact that Keith had just woken up and was holding so still. "How about your heart? Does it still hurt?"
"No," again with the hesitant answers, but Lance thought he should feel lucky that Keith was answering at all. "But it feels weird. Tired? I don't know . . . hot maybe?"
Lance didn't know what to say to that. It wasn't a symptom he recognized, and he couldn't really translate it to something he did. And until Coran called back with the test results, he was pretty much just stuck with the same things he'd been doing. Fluids, rest, pain maintenance, and monitoring. He wrote a few more notes into his book so he could research it in a little more detail.
"When did you learn English?" Keith blurted out all of a sudden before Lance was quite finished. He tilted his head at the strange return to their previous topic, and he could feel Pidge and Hunk tuning in intently from the table. "How old were you?"
"Um, I don't remember," Lance began, ending his last sentence. "I guess I was fluent by the time I was . uh . . ten, I think. Why?"
"Because you speak it perfectly." Keith sounded rather hostile about it, or maybe that wasn't the right word. Intense, perhaps. Whatever the tone, Lance felt his face flush again. Geeze, Keith. "You don't have an accent or anything."
"Everyone has an accent," Lance said quietly. "I've just made it a point to make mine sound more like yours."
"Lance," Hunk called him, sounding a little giddy. "Lance, do the thing!"
"I don't think so," Lance shot back without looking at his friend. Sometimes when the physicists were over, Hunk and Pidge liked to show off Lance's ability to do accents. They usually brought it out as a parlor trick shortly after Pidge would win the inevitable contest on which nerd could recite pi the farthest. Since Pidge could continue through the two hundredth decimal point – she always won. Then Lance would entertain them all with the accents as a smooth follow up, something to ease any tension about Pidge being the smartest in the room. It never failed. They all ended up laughing. But . . . he didn't really feel like doing it right now. It seemed too much like showing off, even though that's not why he'd practiced so hard.
"Aw, come on, Lance; why not?" Pidge persuaded. Lance bit his tongue before suggesting that she start reciting decimal places instead. He started putting his gear away in the med bag as slowly as possible, ignoring them. At least, he tried to. But then Keith softly touched his shoulder and his attention snapped to him like a magnet.
"What are they talking about?" Keith asked, partly curious and partly anxious.
"Nothing," Lance said, glaring at the table where Hunk sat with big puppy dog eyes and Pidge was grinning in triumph even though he hadn't agreed to do anything yet. "They're being weird."
"No, it's awesome," Hunk argued, then spoke to Keith. "Lance can speak English in any accent you can think of."
Lance rolled his eyes, zipping up the bag. That wasn't even true.
"Yeah?" Keith said, sounding a little interested. Maybe more than a little.
"Show him, Lance," Hunk pleaded, knowing that most of the time, Lance was secretly pleased to share this hidden talent. But . . .
"Keith's head hurts," Lance pointed out, standing up to put away the bag, ready to walk out of the conversation. "The last thing he wants is me spouting a Scottish burr."
"Keith?" Hunk said, beseechingly, trying to shift the vote far enough and knowing that Keith was the only one who could tip it the way he wanted. Lance paused at the side of the couch on his way to his room, holding to the strap of the heavy bag to keep it on his shoulder, knowing that Keith absolutely did not care about stupid stuff like this. It was too inconsequential, too random and strange. But he wanted to hear what his answer was before walking off.
"Actually, I would like to hear it," Keith said, quietly, reaching over to take Lance's shirt cuff between two of his fingers. "If that's ok with you." Something very like pleasure radiated from Lance's wrist where Keith's hand was hesitantly holding him. He did? Really?
"I need a book," Lance acquiesced, sighing, not near as put out as he was making himself sound. "Not that one," he said preemptively to Pidge, knowing that she was still holding La Vida es Sueño. "An English one. Be right back."
He heard some excited chatter from Hunk as he left the room to put his bag away, and he wondered what was being said while he was not there. Nothing bad, he knew, but he was still curious. He looked at what he had book-wise that might be interesting to read and came up a little short. Mostly all he had were textbooks, an outdoor emergency care behemoth that weighed more than three gallons of milk, and that dumb copy of Pride and Prejudice he'd purchased when he'd been way too excited to impress Allura. But it was either that or Early Childhood Development so . . . he picked up the outdoor emergency care guide.
"A little light reading, eh?" Pidge joked when he returned bearing the beast in both arms.
"You want me to do this or what?" Lance challenged, coming to stand near the center of the room, making a triangle of the couch and the dining table. He opened the book near the center so it would be easy to balance in his hands. Like with the recitation, he'd need to stay standing in order to do this, to shift his weight from foot to foot as he switched his voice from accent to accent. Something about the adrenaline from having to perform wouldn't let him sit still for it. "What first?" He invited, standing like an animatron that needed a quarter inserted for it to work – a circus side-show act. Because it was more fun for the audience to throw nationalities at him, to see him glide from one to another with only a word of transition.
"Jamaican," Hunk said, making Lance purse his lips as he centered around that. He deliberately did not look at Keith, knowing he'd screw up if he did. Knowing the intensity of Keith's stare would render him completely speechless. He concentrated on the book, the placement of his tongue against the back of his teeth. He began to read.
As Lance read through the signs, symptoms, and treatment for heat exhaustion, heat stroke, and puncture wounds, his friends tossed out accents at random intervals. Scottish, German, French, Australian, South African, on and on. Whenever he played this game, Lance's mind would wind back to Varadero, the heavy, hot wetness of the air, the scent of the ocean, the sticky-sweet taste of mango. The warmth of his goat's fur under his hand. And he would see them in his head – the tourists. The Germans in packs consisting of their entire family, all wearing matching shirts. Hesitant French couples that took longer to open up to him. Dutch girls on spring break who kissed him and British men who clapped him on the back. Canadians whose smiles opened on their faces as blooms do in the springtime as they recognized their speech patterns in his words. Americans who laughed and wanted to pat his goats – take their picture together. He could hear the creak of his wooden cart, the sound of goat hooves clicking along the path home after sunset, feel the heaviness of coins in his bag. He read in a Russian accent, feeling the familiar ache of homesickness settle into his heart. Something that always happened, but he didn't talk about. Every person in this room was far away from home, after all, and he always felt dumb that it seemed to bother him more than anyone else.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been going, or how many accents he'd run through. In all honesty, he'd done this so much he wasn't paying that much attention. He heard the new requests from outside his consciousness, but the only thing he could really feel that was in his apartment was the heaviness of the book in his hands.
But then he heard Keith say, "Cuban," and his tongue stuck tight in his mouth, his voice catching in his throat, the whole experience slamming to a stop. The book slipped from his hands, crashing incredibly loud onto the floor. Lance jumped back from it, surprised. No one ever asked for that one. Not once had anyone asked for what would have been his own true accent. And worse – he discovered that he couldn't even do it. He knelt on the floor, carefully gathering his book with shaky hands, straightening the pages so he could close it correctly, horrified at himself. He couldn't do it. He'd tried so hard to shed that one, that one accent that would have marked him the same as every other fruit vendor on the playa. And he'd done so well ridding himself of his native identity that now he couldn't even bring it up if he wanted to. He felt ashamed, traitorous.
"Yeah, I . . um . . I think that's enough for now," he said, his voice small and tight.
"Lance, it's ok," Hunk began, but he knew if Hunk said anything to him right now he'd burst into tears and he did not want to do that. He hurried toward his room, clutching the book like a shield against his chest, dodging Keith as he reached for him on his way by.
"Lance – what?" He heard Keith ask, and he wanted to tell him that it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't yet. He just had to get out of the room – right now. Hunk was talking still, he could hear it behind him as he replaced the book, breathing in jerky little gasps, hardly able to see past the blur that had misted his eyes. Pidge was talking too.
"No," Pidge said, surprised and soothing at the same time. "You didn't do anything; just give him a minute."
"Just stay down, Keith," Hunk instructed, a clue to Lance that Keith was trying to get up to follow him. The last thing he wanted was for Keith to see him like this.
"You stay on that couch, Keith!" Lance tried to yell past the lump in his throat before he sat on the edge of his bed and dropped his face into his hands. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was his mother, the sad but proud expression she wore as she hugged him one last time before sending him in the cab to the airport near Matanzas. And then all he could hear were the affectionate but accusatory words of his brothers when he'd let them know he'd been accepted on scholarship to the pre-med program in Chicago. They had wrapped their emotions carefully, but Lance had heard it anyway. They said they would miss him, but they meant he shouldn't go. What was wrong with what they had here? Why would he want to leave? Didn't he care what that would do to Mom? Sometimes it made Lance feel so selfish that he hadn't just stayed where he was, doing the same thing his family had done for generations. It made him feel like a bad son, like he'd shunned everything his father had worked for, what he had tried to build so he could give it to his children. Lance felt like he'd rejected all of that by choosing something else, by stripping himself of his own accent. What kind of son betrayed his family like that? How could he be so ungrateful?
He was so caught up on how he'd lost part of himself that he didn't hear Keith until he was at the doorway again.
"Lance?" Keith asked, and Lance squeezed his eyes more firmly closed, wiping his hands across them. Damn it, Keith. "Hey, I'm sorry. I . . . didn't mean to. . ." he sounded like he wasn't sure what he should be saying, that he was afraid of making it worse.
"I thought I told you to stay on the couch," Lance said, and his voice sounded cold to him, dead almost.
"Can . . . Can I come sit with you?" Keith asked, unsure, and Lance could suddenly hear how breathless he was. He forced himself to turn his head toward him, finally seeing him as he stood huddled against the doorframe, neither Hunk nor Pidge supporting him, his face almost white. He'd come on his own, barely able to walk but he'd come anyway. Lance felt both touched by the gesture and put out that Keith had ignored his instructions.
"For heaven's sake, Keith," he said, immediately getting up to come to Keith's side, folding around him. "God, you're shaking like crazy. Come on – what'd you get up for? I told you to stay still." Lance pushed aside his feelings, more than ready to be rid of them, making space to focus entirely on Keith. His patient let go of the door, submitting to Lance's support readily, a hand closing around Lance's shirt at his shoulder blade while Lance put an arm around Keith's waist.
He let Keith lean on him, heavy and trembling, leading him the few steps to the bed and easing him down onto the clean sheets that Hunk must have put on sometime while they'd both been asleep. He pulled the quilt over him, kneeling on the floor at his side. But Keith didn't seem to like their positioning. "Not down there," he muttered. He tugged weakly at Lance until he'd returned to his original place, perched on the bedside. Keith was still breathing hard, his hand pushed tight against his chest.
"Take it easy, Lobito," Lance told him, rubbing his arm, hating that he'd caused this. Again. "You shouldn't move so much."
"Yeah, but," Keith protested, hardly able to talk. There was barely any strength in him at all. "You looked so upset. . . and I . . ." he broke off into a groan of frustration.
"Hey," Lance comforted. "Careful. Don't get so worked up. I'm fine."
"You're such a liar." Oh . . wow. That was a shock. Lance had never considered himself a liar before. Sure, he told lies, but it was usually so he wouldn't bother anyone, so he wouldn't hurt anyone's feelings. No one had ever said it so bluntly to him before. But then again, Keith didn't have a lot of energy to mince words. Lance bowed his head, ashamed of a lot of things. Being called out by Keith, for breaking down when he was supposed to be in charge, for failing his family, for missing them so hard. For not knowing what to do with Keith or Allura.
"Pidge says you're homesick," Keith went on, the word coming out of him like he'd never said it before. Which wasn't surprising. How could Keith have ever been homesick if he'd never had a real home? The thought made Lance feel even worse, spoiled. He had so much that Keith didn't; he had no right to feel like this.
"She's right," Lance allowed, not able to look at Keith anymore.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Keith invited, and Lance bit back a sob at how gentle he sounded. How genuine.
"It's stupid," he said.
"Nothing you do is stupid," Keith returned, rather firmly for his posture. "Tell me about Cuba?" he asked. "How'd you even get here?"
Despite his better judgement, Lance found himself telling Keith everything. All about his brothers and sisters, how he was the youngest. He talked about the goat cart and hauling the mangoes from his orchard to the beaches, selling them to tourists there all day long to help feed his family. He spoke of his little nephews, showing Keith the bracelet that Mateo, the eldest son of his eldest brother, had gifted to him before he'd left, the woven threads of blue, gray, black, and white that he hadn't removed since Mateo had tied the knots on it more than a year ago. He talked about the goats and the sun and Dr. Paul Farmer. Talked about his goals and his dreams. He almost spoke about his mother, but once he got to her, he suddenly couldn't talk anymore. He sighed, feeling drained.
"I hate it sometimes; how much I miss them. Hunk's family lives in Hawaii, but he's coping with the distance just fine."
"Hunk says you're going to talk to them tomorrow morning," Keith volunteered, his voice stronger now that he'd been lying down for a while. "He . . he says that you'll have your accent back after that whether you like it or not."
"Ha," Lance huffed, but he was sorry he'd done it when his throat closed on him again. He put his hand on his mouth, trying to hold it together. He felt Keith shift closer to the wall, felt him tugging on him, pulling him down, and he allowed it. He let Keith drag him until he was lying on his side, their knees touching – Keith under the blanket and Lance on top of it. Lance turned his face toward the mattress as tears finally made their escape from his eyes, feeling the wetness spread on the sheet beneath his uninjured cheek.
"I . . don't really understand," Keith confessed. Of course you don't, Lance thought. We're so different. "But it sounds like they depended on you for a lot, and so that would probably make it harder to leave them. They had expectations of you that you changed, so now you worry about it."
"Yeah, maybe," Lance said, trying to be casual, though he was inwardly astonished that Keith was being so perceptive.
"Is that why you take care of everyone?" Keith asked. "Because you feel guilty about leaving your family?"
"I don't know," Lance muttered. Shut up, Keith.
"I'm sorry," Keith apologized again. "I didn't know I'd mess everything up."
"There's no way you could have," Lance said in forgiveness. "And you didn't really. I did."
"I just wanted to hear . . . I don't know . . how you really sound, I guess. It seems like you're so many things for so many different people. I wanted to hear your voice when you aren't any of that."
"This is my voice, Keith," Lance reminded him, sitting up a little, resting his head on his hand, watching Keith.
"I know, but," Keith said, sounding sleepy again, and confused, as if he were struggling to get his point across. "When you were doing that test thing. . .whatever that was you were saying . . . it sounded so beautiful." Lance leaned back slightly, gauging whether Keith were making fun of him or not. But it didn't look like it. He had his eyes closed, taking quick breaths with gaps between.
"Well, it's a poem," Lance explained. "So it's kind of supposed to –"
"That's not what made it beautiful," Keith argued. Lance was glad that Keith had his eyes closed so he wouldn't see what his words were doing to him.
"Shh," he told him, not knowing if he could handle much more of this. "You need to rest."
"I just woke up. You'd think I wouldn't still be so tired."
"Yeah, well, your sleep isn't really rest right now," Lance explained. "Your body is fighting this virus so hard. You have every reason to be exhausted." And say weird, disconcerting things about my voice. "But maybe your fever will break while you sleep this time."
"Will you say that poem again?" The request was so innocent it almost broke Lance's heart. Who would have thought Keith would have liked it so much?
"If you want me to, Lobito."
Before he began the recitation again, he caught some movement at the edge of his vision. Curious, he turned toward it, seeing Pidge standing in his doorway, arms crossed. Her face was twisted into an expression he'd never seen on her before. She looked worried and angry, afraid. Lance didn't understand what her issue was. When she noticed that he'd caught her staring at them, she gestured for him to come out of the room with her. He shook his head, holding up a hand with his fingers spread, indicating that he'd be done in five minutes or so. Then he could come see what she needed. She put her hands on her hips, not used to him ignoring her.
"Come with me," she mouthed the words, putting more emphasis into her face so he'd have an easier time reading her lips.
"Not yet," he mouthed back.
"What the hell?" She bit into each silent word.
"Lance?" Keith asked, opening his eyes and shifting as if he'd sit up, pushing himself to see why Lance had just gone silent. He looked over to the doorway where Lance had been looking at Pidge, but she'd disappeared just that quick. Lance wondered why she wanted him to come with her, why she looked so mad.
"I'm here," he assured Keith, putting his hand on his arm again, one thing at a time. He shifted into Spanish, like Keith wanted, using its tone to lull him to rest since he wouldn't understand the words but could maybe take comfort from Lance's voice. "Descansa tu corazón. No te dejare." He slowly moved his palm from Keith's arm to his chest, feeling his heart jump under his hand, throbbing like a wounded bird. He sighed, confused and conflicted, remembering how simple his life had been before Keith had come into it. Or at least how simple he'd thought it had been.
Author's Note: I wish you guys could hang out with me while I write this story. There's so much research going into this thing. (What's a normal blood pressure range? Where's the closest airport to Varadero? What are the leading countries that visit Cuba? What's the phrase for holding two conflicting thoughts in your head at the same time?) It's a riot. But satisfying. What do you guys think? How was the chapter? Worth waiting for?
You know what else is worth waiting for? Finding out what Pidge wants to say! But I'll try not to make you wait another three weeks for that (Again, sorry!)
