Author's Note: You know that chapter that you've been waiting for since, oh, probably before Lance and Allura started dating? Well, it's here. This is it. (the first half of it?) Thanks for your patience. Seriously, I know I'm slow – and I could tell you all about it. My husband caught COVID (he's fine, but wow, did I have to be vigilant with the bleach and the masks to make sure that no one else in the house, including three small children, caught it from him) then there was stuff going on at work and my sixteen-year-old cat is actually lying next to me right now dying of renal failure as I try to figure out how long I can selfishly keep him before it starts to be cruel to do so. There's a lot going on behind the scenes. But this story still compels me, and we are at long last getting somewhere.
I hope you enjoy this one – I know you've been anxiously waiting for it.
Chapter Forty-Six: Coping Mechanism
By the time tomorrow came, Lance had yet to figure out how or why it could be any better than the previous day. This is what he'd been looking forward to, after all. He'd fallen asleep almost before Hunk left the room the night before, but he didn't stay asleep for very long. At least, Hunk and Pidge were still awake when he woke up; he could hear them talking in the other room. To each other and it seemed like they were using one of their radios. He couldn't make out what they were saying, and it didn't take long for him to drift off again, this time soundly, comforted by their voices.
But he was still programmed for Chicago time, which meant that he woke long before dawn. He shifted to his back, lacing his hands behind his head, knowing it was far too early to risk waking Hunk and Pidge. They needed as much rest as they could get before their big day, so he resigned himself to holding still here in the dark of the room, thinking. Mostly he thought about Keith, who had yet to text or call. Lance hoped he was ok and that he really would be back in communications today like he promised. And yet, maybe that wasn't a good thing now that Pidge had it into her head that she was taking the responsibility for telling Keith how Lance felt about him.
Lance's fingers clenched involuntarily around the back of his neck. She wouldn't really do that? It had been years – now all of a sudden there was a twelve-hour deadline on this? What the hell? Mostly the thought terrified Lance, and yet, he had to admit that there was part of him that was strangely relieved about it. If Pidge told Keith, it meant Lance didn't have to. Which might be good considering he'd already tried, multiple times. On the phone, in all those letters he'd sent. He'd wanted to say something to Keith, and he'd failed every time. Pidge didn't have the same mental gag order, and Lance had to admit there was something attractive about being on the other side of a confession. Something peaceful about knowing, once and for all, if Keith could accept Lance for who he was. Maybe not love him back, Lance wasn't going to lose sight of reality too much about that, but to at least accept him. Maybe there was a freedom in having Pidge tell Keith.
But of course, there was still the rather tricky problem of finding him and that other nagging worry that Lance couldn't shake that maybe something had happened to him. Or the even worse idea that Keith was avoiding him again. Why hadn't he texted last night to say he's ok? Where was he? Where had he been this whole time? Would he even tell Lance if he asked him or was this something classified, like most of Keith's military life? But what was he doing for the military when Lance was almost one hundred percent certain that Keith wasn't active right now – he was still on leave after being in that plane crash. He'd have to do a bunch of tests before they'd let him back in. Oh, but maybe that's what he'd been doing. The tests to return to active duty; that would make sense. Except that meant he'd be traveling, deployed, and farther from Lance than ever. And it meant that his request to come visit Lance must have never made it through. If he'd ever put in the request in the first place.
Which meant that the incentive for telling Keith anything had dropped significantly. Maybe Lance could explain that to Pidge. There wasn't much point in a confession if Keith were going to be sent back to Japan or Germany or wherever the military had decided they'd rather have him be other than allowing him to see Lance. What good would it do to tell him now? But then that was the thought that helped Lance keep silent for so long in the first place.
He flipped over on the bed, rising to his knees but shoving his face deep into his pillow to groan. Maybe it was good that Pidge was so clear on the right course of action because Lance was going in such tight circles that he was getting dizzy.
Fortunately, he could hear stirrings in the house now, the break of night's silence. Running water, the creak of someone's step in the hall, a door opening softly so as not to wake Lance. He had permission to get up now, and he was more than ready.
He ran into Hunk in the hallway, as in literally ran into him since the hallway was rather narrow and Hunk was obviously distracted, moving like a ghost in his own house. Hunk grabbed Lance's shoulders to maneuver them around each other in the hall, apologizing to Lance for bumping into him, then shifting him in the direction of the bathroom when he noticed Lance's toothbrush in his hand.
"I'll start some coffee," Hunk promised in a mumble, and Lance smiled. Didn't matter what time zone, Hunk only got up this early if he absolutely had to.
"Already made some," Pidge's voice interrupted from the kitchen. Or maybe the living room. Lance couldn't orient the sound well from where he stood. Her voice seemed like it was coming from everywhere.
"Oh, that's good," Hunk said, drooping slightly. He started moving toward the kitchen, but Lance paused him before he got too far away.
"Try again on those buttons, Hunk," Lance recommended gently, noticing as Hunk turned that he'd done up his Hawaiian shirt incorrectly. "If you're really wearing that."
"What's wrong with it?" Hunk asked innocently, checking himself over, seeing the mistake in how he'd gotten dressed.
"Nothing," Lance backtracked, not wanting to add to the stress. "It's just . . . really orange." Lance tried to picture Hunk standing at the front of a lecture hall with a laser pointer, expecting to be taken seriously when he was dressed in cargo shorts, sneakers, and a bright orange Hawaiian shirt covered in white hibiscus blossoms.
"That's why I picked it," Hunk pointed out, undoing and redoing the buttons, carefully matching them up this time from the bottom to the top. "Orange and white are Caltech colors. I'm paying homage to the university and my island, man."
"Oh," Lance said, lengthening the word so Hunk wouldn't think he was being sarcastic with it. "That . . . that makes sense."
"Don't you let him talk you out of your outfit, Hunk!" Pidge called from whatever mysterious perch she was apparently watching them from. Lance couldn't see her anywhere. "It's perfect, and you know it!"
Hunk grinned, vindicated. Then he patted Lance on the shoulder. "Join us in the kitchen when you're ready," he invited.
Lance made his way to the bathroom where he brushed his teeth and washed his face, keeping a constant sub-conscious tab in his brain about what had changed and what was still the same. Hunk still used the same soap and aftershave; the bathroom carried the familiar scent. And yet, the galaxy shower curtain was different, and Lance kept looking for Sam to show up at his feet. The sun wasn't quite up yet, leaving a certain chill in the corners of the house and especially on the hard wood floors. Lance went back to his room to retrieve his sweater before going to meet up with Hunk in the kitchen. He tugged it over his head, pulling it down over his hips as he walked in, allowing himself to smile at a scene he recognized very well.
He assumed there was a table in the kitchen, but at the moment, it was completely buried. Lance figured this must be what a symposium looked like when it was spread out on a flat surface. Pidge was ambidextrously eating cereal with her non-dominant hand even as she made hand-written adjustments to what looked like a printed program with the other, grumbling around her spoon the entire time.
"Who does this?" She ranted, to no one in particular. She could have been alone in the room; she could have been sitting there all night, even. "You don't change the title of your talk the morning of the event. It's not like I can reprint three hundred programs because you couldn't decide which of your shitty projects to present, Julia. Ugh!" She scribbled on the program hard enough that Lance thought for sure she'd either break her pencil or tear a hole in the paper. Then she threw it down and angrily shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth, chewing it rather furiously.
"Morning, Pidge," Lance greeted, though he wondered if it was a good idea to draw her attention. She snapped her head up from the schedule as though she were surprised to see him, but then her posture softened, the corners of her mouth turning up in a gentle, tired smile.
"It's going to be ninety-three today," she informed him, jerking her chin at his clothes.
"Which means the air conditioning in your lecture hall is going to be turned up too high," Lance defended his choice. Pidge opened her mouth but ended up simply shaking her head. Good. She didn't turn him down at the first hint of him coming with them. Lance wasn't about to be left behind today, but he still thought it might be a good idea to change the subject as quickly as possible. "Did you sleep last night?" He asked Pidge.
"Of course," she answered, but too flippantly. Lance fully entered the room for the sole purpose of taking her chin in his hand to turn her face up to him, taking note of everything he could see in her expression. Her eyes were weary but clear, and there was a tightness to them. Lance couldn't tell if she'd closed them last night to rest or not. If she'd stayed up all night, she'd scrubbed all the evidence off. Her clothes were crisp and clean, khaki slacks, a tank top in the green color that suited her best, and a short-sleeved white button-down that she'd left open, almost like a lab coat – remarkably professional. Completely put together. And yet, Lance felt her relax in his hand, as though she'd like a turn to kneel on the floor and put her head in his lap today.
"Anything I can do to help?" Lance offered, his big brother protectiveness coming back online automatically.
"Already gave you your assignment," Pidge clipped, her tiny moment of frailty in his hand ended as she sat up and started gathering her paperwork, clearing the table. Lance felt his mouth working to start something with her about that, but decided not to engage. He'd just had his fingers on her pulse; he knew she was a walking keg of gunpowder right now. They could talk more about Keith later, when she'd gone through everything else on her printed agenda.
"Uh oh," Hunk spoke up for the first time since Lance had come into the kitchen. Both Lance and Pidge turned toward him from where he'd been standing near the coffee maker. He looked up at them over his phone. "Professor Zhao isn't sure he's going to make it and is wondering if he can send a postdoc in his place?"
"No, is he trying to kill me?!" Pidge shrieked, leaping up from the table to snatch Hunk's phone. "You're the flipping keynote address!" She screamed at the screen, as though Professor Zhao could hear her. "I'm calling him," she said over her shoulder, taking Hunk's phone with her out of the room.
"Maybe I should?" Hunk suggested, but then drooped at the look Pidge shot him. Lance tried hard not to smile at her distress, but her nostrils were flaring in fury and it was funny and endearing even though he knew that she was one cancellation short of throwing the entire agenda into the garbage disposal, denying she had ever been involved with the symposium, and playing a video game for the rest of the day. Lance thought he might actually enjoy that alternative. Except for the part where they'd worked so hard on this. Who was this Professor Zhao guy?
Hunk winced as the bedroom door slammed shut, then began gathering Pidge's empty dishes from the table.
"Everything going to be ok?" Lance asked, wondering where he was supposed to fit in all this. He didn't feel excluded, not yet, but he wasn't sure what he should be doing. He didn't have a purpose in all this activity, and seeing how stressed his friends were made him wish that he did have something to do, something that could assist in some way.
"What?" Hunk said, bringing to Lance's mind that expression about deer in headlights. "Oh, yeah," he continued, nodding absently, catching up to Lance's question. "She'll go pick him up at home if she has to. He'll be there."
Hunk put a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of Lance, along with a plate of grapefruit. "Here you go," Hunk said, absently, because he'd put a bowl of something in front of Lance so many times before and it didn't seem to matter how many years ago the last time had been. Except it seemed to hit him a few steps away from the table because he came back to pat Lance on the shoulder again. "Glad you're finally here, man," Hunk said again before he returned his attention to clearing the table, putting all the pieces into easily carried bundles, transferring them near the front door to be carried out to the car.
Me too, Lance thought. He'd missed this. Even though it wasn't quite right, and Hunk and Pidge were way busier this morning than Lance would have liked. On the other hand, they were scurrying around so much that Lance thought it would be quite easy to simply carry something out to their car and buckle himself into it to come with them. There would be no need to readdress the notion of his staying behind. They were so distracted, they probably wouldn't even notice he'd come with them until he was already there and it was too late to drive him back home again. He'd just have to ease himself into the frenzy without drawing too much attention. Simple.
He ate the oatmeal and some of the grapefruit, sitting like a centerpiece in the middle of some kind of preparation hurricane. Items were picked up, set down, picked up again and moved only a few inches away, checked and then checked one more time. Lance watched Pidge's finger repeatedly jerk in a gesture that meant she'd just remembered something that she had told herself not to forget, a motion that always precipitated her pivoting to rush off to another room or to her computer. She asked Lance a couple of questions on how he was doing and if he needed anything, but mostly she talked to herself or to Hunk in code. Things like, "Did you remember to?" And "What about the . . the . ." and the increasingly frequent question, "What time is it?"
Lance wasn't sure on the time, though he knew the morning was well on its way to arriving. He could hear cars now, people leaving their homes and starting their days. Headed to work. The rumble of a garbage truck, the scream of a siren. Once he heard the roar of a motorcycle, driving past the front door. He washed his own dishes, then Pidge's and Hunk's, trying to be of service in some small capacity as their phones continued to ring. A student giving a time on when she'd be there to help. Other team members giving updates on things like the signs for parking and the last-minute slides that needed to be inserted and could Hunk send a reminder on the ADA route to the lecture hall. Lance felt as though he were surfing on chaos.
Finished with the dishes and drawn by the sunrise, Lance poured himself a cup of coffee and wandered slowly toward the window in the kitchen that he thought gave a view of the backyard and possibly the mountains but discovered was actually located on the side of the house overlooking the driveway and didn't offer much in the way of a view. He sipped his coffee, enjoying its warmth and listening to Pidge in the background running through yet another last-minute list of symposium stuff that had to happen before nine that morning and clearing the table of every trace of paperwork. Disappointed by the lack of mountain in the window, Lance turned away and almost offered to help Pidge again when something caught his attention. Parked in front of the closed garage rested a red and black Honda Shadow equipped with a second seat for a passenger. Who did that belong to? Not Hunk. Or did it? Lance tried to picture his friends riding it but couldn't quite get there. It seemed a little out of place, and Lance didn't think he remembered seeing it last night. Of course, he'd been exhausted, but he thought he'd remember an entire vehicle blocking the garage doors. Maybe. He couldn't remember seeing the garage now that he thought of it; Hunk had parked his car on the street instead of the driveway. Maybe it had been there the whole time.
"When did you get a motorcycle, Hunk?" Lance asked once he thought there was a lull in the pre-symposium panic.
"Motorcycle?" Hunk looked up momentarily from his attendance list and box of name badges he'd just set down on Pidge's newly cleared table. He seemed confused, and Lance wondered if it was due to how distracted both Hunk and Pidge were that morning or if he truly had no idea where the motorcycle came from. "Oh!" He looked quickly out of the room, toward the front door. "No, that's not mine."
"It's parked in front of your garage," Lance pointed out, returning to the table and sitting down. "Is it your neighbor's and you just let them park there, or are you fixing it for someone?"
"Neither," Hunk muttered, not looking Lance in the eye. Pidge came back to the kitchen with a large towel in her hands, took one look at the pile that Hunk had just deposited on the table, and made a frantic squeak.
"Wait," she said, very quickly, almost a command, and Lance blinked. Wait, what? Why the panic? Who was she even talking to? This meeting was really getting to her. "Hunk, all of this goes by the door, not on the table. Remember?"
"Right," Hunk drawled, as if he really did just remember being told that. Pidge absently set her towel down near Lance's coffee mug as Hunk scooped everything up again, leaving the kitchen to relocate their stack of essentials closer to the door. As if they'd ever forget anything the way they were both behaving right now. Lance had never seen them so amped up. He wished, not for the first time that morning, they could relax and sit with him, but he knew better. They'd been planning this symposium for so long, and they were frantically closing in on their start time. The last tight wind-up before they could just let the whole thing go, hopefully the way they'd designed it to. Lance had come at a bit of an unfortunate time for them. If he'd waited just a couple more days to fly in, the symposium would be over, and his friends would have more freedom. Still, it was just the one day that he would have to wait for them to finish. And he didn't know if he could have handled waiting in Chicago any longer.
Hunk returned from the entryway after a few seconds and gave a nod to Pidge. Then both of them took places at the table next to Lance, their movements stilled so abruptly that Lance didn't know if he could trust the calm. He stared at them, wondering if they'd just hit the point where they'd finally broken and couldn't think of anything else that needed doing.
"What happened?" Lance asked them, freaked out by their strange and sudden change in behavior, the way they had zeroed in on him. He knew it had been a while since he'd hung out with them, and the symposium was getting to them, but this was a little too strange, and a little too abrupt.
"Nothing," they both said, too quickly, then looked at each other. Lance felt his eyes narrow in suspicion.
"Guys," he started, about to demand an explanation. They were trying too hard for casual, and he wanted to know why.
"You were asking about the motorcycle?" Hunk interrupted, a little forcefully for a topic that he hadn't really been paying much attention to less than a minute ago. "It's not mine."
"Yeah, you said that," Lance replied, trying to hold on to his patience, watch both his friends at the same time. What was going on? This was so weird. Both Hunk and Pidge were staring at him, the way they looked into microscopes, and Lance couldn't tell if they were just trying to make sure he understood that they were paying attention to him or if they were deliberately trying to not look at something else. He felt unnerved but decided to just go with it. They'd been so accommodating to bring him to California right before the busiest day of their year. He could figure it out later when they weren't so high-strung, maybe they'd tell him all about it at dinner. But right now, it seemed safest to humor them. "So who does it belong to?" Lance asked, sensing that Hunk wanted him to, and Pidge grinned in such a way that Lance could tell she hadn't meant to but lost control of it. He thought it might be the first time she'd truly smiled all morning, and he was totally cool with that except for how her eyes were glittering with mischief. What the hell was going on?
"It, um," Hunk faltered, glancing at Pidge as if for help. Like this was something he didn't know or wasn't sure he was supposed to say, yet another kind of secret. Lance didn't understand but was starting to be sorry he'd ever brought it up. It was just a motorcycle, and this wasn't helping him not draw attention to himself for being able to sneak to the symposium with them. He probably should have left it alone. Except it was too late now. "It actually belongs to –"
"It's mine."
Lance froze as those two small words cut Hunk off, spoken by an unseen, unknown voice in the hallway. Except it wasn't unknown. No. It couldn't be. That voice. Lance knew that voice. That was his voice. The one on the phone in the middle of the night. The one that Lance always heard across many miles of distance. Years of separation. Except just then. When he'd heard it from a few feet away, undistorted and clear and close. So close. Lance looked up, excited and terrified, looked over in the direction of the kitchen entryway, and there he stood. Keith. He really was there. Physically there. Same time zone. Same address. Same room. Standing right there.
"What?!" Lance blurted, not knowing what to do, his eyes immediately filling with overwhelmed tears. "How?" He hadn't prepared for this, hadn't expected it. Had conditioned himself not to expect it, but it was happening anyway. Keith leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, arms folded, looking cool and nonchalant, an apprehensive but amused sort of smile on his face, like he'd been standing there for a while, unnoticed. It was too much, just way too much. Lance awkwardly lurched to his feet, managing to knock his coffee mug over, flooding the table. "Shit!"
He grabbed at the towel Pidge had left next to him, hoping that it wasn't a special towel that she needed for her symposium. But he suspected that she had brought it out because she had somehow known he would do this. Known Keith was coming to surprise Lance, and he was going to react just like this. His vision blurred in shock, pain, and embarrassment, and he could feel himself trembling all over, leaning on the table so he wouldn't fall down. How could they do this to him? Surprise him like this? He wanted to hurry; Keith . . . God, Keith was standing right over there. What was he thinking about Lance's reaction to seeing him? Pidge's hands came to rest on top of Lance's, stilling his frantic coffee mopping.
"Lance, relax," she assured, calm for what seemed like the first time all morning. "It's ok." She took custody of the towel, finishing the cleanup that Lance had started. But that wasn't good because it left Lance with nothing in his hands and no job to do and no idea what his response to this surprise should be. They'd all known Keith would be here. They'd kept it a secret. How could they have kept this a secret? Lance wrapped an arm around his ribs protectively, almost panting. Gathering his courage, he looked back to where Keith had been standing only to find him gone. Disappeared again, splintering confusion through Lance's psyche, making him question his sanity. Keith had been there, right? Lance had heard him speak, seen him standing there just a moment ago. Right? Or was he actually seeing things now?
But if he were seeing things, he was feeling them too. He tensed without meaning to as a hand came to rest on his shoulder from behind. The fingers flexed away almost immediately, pulling back as Lance spun to see who had touched him, again too quickly. But . . . damn it, Keith. He'd forgotten how Keith could sneak up on him so easily. Seemed he still moved like a stalking wolf.
"Slow down," Keith ordered as Lance almost knocked them both over by whipping around. He might have actually lost his balance, but Keith caught him capably, holding him still. Touching him. Keith was touching him, the heat of it discernible through Lance's sweater. "Guess this is more of a surprise than I thought it would be."
Lance instantaneously forgot how to do just about everything – speak, stand, breathe. Even his heart did a painful throb as though it were on the verge of stopping as he realized how close Keith was. Realized that Keith was holding him upright, his hands cupping around Lance's biceps. He shivered involuntarily.
"You guess?" He meant to say, but it didn't come out in words, more like a shaky laughing moan, still trying to process that Keith was truly here in the same room with him at the same time he wished that he could have a do-over of the last few minutes so he could handle that with more grace.
"You ok? Did you hurt yourself?" Keith asked him, seriously, and Lance blinked stupidly at him for another couple seconds, just taking him in. His large eyes, the shape of his face, the high-and-tight haircut. Still indescribably good looking. Right in front of him. "Lance?" Keith's features sharpened with worry now since Lance wasn't answering him. "All right?"
"Yes," Lance managed just before he gave in to the urge to throw his arms around Keith, not caring about the consequences for it, breathing him in as deeply as possible, and exhaling strange sob-like breaths. "God, you're really here. I can't believe it." He felt Keith's chest expand against his as he gasped at Lance's sudden and intense affection, but then Keith's hands pressed on Lance's back in reciprocation, pulling him closer, his head bowing over Lance's shoulder.
"It's good to see you," Keith told him, his voice quiet near Lance's ear, and as Keith spoke, his scent registered with Lance in an overpowering surge of nostalgia and desire. Lance took another breath and all the emotions he'd tried to force himself to experience while he was with Allura suddenly woke up in a frenzy. It was all he could do not to nuzzle into Keith and kiss the soft place underneath his jaw. He wanted to get closer. Push Keith down and crawl into his lap. Keith smelled so good.
It took monumental effort, but since Lance didn't want to embarrass himself any further, he drew backward. Not too far, just enough so he could look at Keith again, couldn't help it – couldn't stop himself. Keith kept a steadying hand on Lance's arm as though still afraid that Lance would fall over if he didn't support him. Lance wasn't all that sure he wouldn't.
"You're taller," Lance observed, pleased that he could at least speak audible words though he felt sort of stupid for having that be the only thing he could think of to say. But it was true. He distinctly remembered Keith being a little shorter than he the last time they'd hugged at the airport, years ago, before the military. Now Lance was almost certain that they were the same height. "Are you taller?" He asked, continuing with his new trend of saying ridiculous, out-of-place things.
"A little bit," Keith admitted, and that wasn't the only difference. Not only was he taller than he'd been as a malnourished teenager, but he'd filled out as well. His shoulders were broader, his muscles more defined. The Air Force certainly looked fantastic on Keith. "But you're not standing up straight either."
Lance experimented with his posture, knowing from Angelique that he'd started slouching not too long ago. A souvenir of his time with Spencer when he tried to take up as little space as possible, to keep himself from being noticed as he ducked through the living room. Then the slouch became more pronounced as he curled into his injuries protectively as they healed. His ribs momentarily protested his attempt at standing straight but realigned comfortably after a couple sharp seconds. Successfully avoiding wincing, he found himself looking directly into Keith's eyes now. He couldn't help but smile; they were still unquestionably violet, and even though Keith was no longer quite so thin, his eyes still seemed large due to Keith's military haircut.
And then, after everything else, as Lance continued staring at Keith, he noticed the scars. There were several, almost imperceptibly tiny nicks in his skin that Lance wouldn't have seen if he weren't standing so close, looking as though a glass firework had exploded against Keith's face and neck. But the worst of the wounds snagged deep into Keith's right cheek, a discolored, triangular wedge of new scar tissue, the point almost directly beneath his cheekbone and then widening slightly as it dragged down to his jawline. Lance could read the medical report in the shape, knew exactly what had happened there and what had been done to moderate its appearance. Lance unconsciously lifted a hand to lightly touch the skin of Keith's cheek, just barely grazing it with his thumb when Keith turned away from him, hiding that side of his face. Lance pulled back knowing he'd done something wrong.
"Sorry," Lance said right on top of Keith, who was saying the exact same thing. But Keith didn't need to apologize; Lance should have known that he'd feel self-conscious about a scar like that. Even though it had been expertly dealt with. The skin around Keith's eye was safe and undisturbed. There was no twist to his mouth or pull to his nose. Whatever chunk had been torn from his face during that plane crash had been pulled together as seamlessly as possible. But Lance had no idea how to tell Keith that without making it any more awkward than it already was. In fact, now that they were here, Lance had no idea what to say to Keith at all. He continued to look at him in wonderment, keeping his hands to himself this time for etiquette's sake. He wondered if it bothered Keith, though Keith was the leading expert on staring and certainly wasn't flinching.
But then Pidge's cell phone rang and broke them completely from each other. Lance heard Hunk groan at the interruption, and Lance remembered that Hunk and Pidge had been in the room with them all this time, sitting there silently watching from the table. Like they were waiting for something. No, they were definitely waiting for something, but what had they expected? For Lance to recover from the shock of Keith appearing out of nowhere, grab him by his collar, and throw his tongue into his mouth? Not that he hadn't been tempted, but . . . the revelation of just how much trouble Lance was in right now started to seep into him. How was he supposed to do this? Navigate this? Whatever this was?
Pidge began pacing with her phone as Keith and Lance moved slightly apart, the spell of their reunion disintegrating into the reality of the morning.
"So . .. do you want some coffee?" Lance asked Keith, ready to serve him. He needed something to do, prove he could still be at least slightly normal.
"I'll get it," Keith said, his voice smooth and flawless. He smiled at the stained towel on the table as though remembering how Lance had spilled the last cup of coffee in his possession. "You sit down." Lance didn't sit as much as cringe into his seat. Four years apart and the first thing he did was spill his coffee? Of course, Keith wasn't going to trust him to pour a fresh cup. God.
At first, Lance resisted the urge to twist in his chair to watch Keith but gave in after only a few seconds. Who knew how long Keith could stay? Several days or only an hour or so? Lance should take advantage of every moment, enjoy being together as long as he could before they were separated again. He heard Pidge repeating herself to whomever she was speaking to on the phone, but her voice seemed very far away. The majority of Lance's attention was focused on Keith, on how his clothes fit him now, how he moved to retrieve a clean mug from the kitchen cabinet. He did it with familiarity, reaching for the coffeepot with a practiced sort of gesture, reminding Lance that Keith had stayed with Hunk and Pidge before.
"When did you get here?" Lance asked. Was it just now – this morning? He tried to do some mental calculations on how far someone could travel by motorcycle every day and reconcile that to how many miles away Texas was and how many days Keith had warned Lance he'd be unavailable by phone. Because Lance now understood why Keith had told him he'd be missing for a couple days. He'd been riding here. But what did that mean?
"I got in yesterday, a little after you did," Keith told him, as if there wasn't anything remarkable about that. "I would have come by last night, but I had something else to take care of first."
Like what? Lance wanted to know. What were you doing that took all night to do? That was something you had to do before we saw each other? But that was another question he couldn't ask. He didn't want to ruin anything by being too pushy or needing more information from Keith than he was ready to volunteer. Keith had always been a mystery, and Lance didn't need to know even though he really wanted to. He reminded himself that it didn't make any difference.
Because Keith was here now. That was all that mattered. Lance contented himself with admiring him from his seat, though he didn't know how he would explain himself if Keith turned around and caught him doing it.
Pidge returned in a fluster before that happened; her hand snagged tight in her hair as she attempted to speak to the person who had called her. She looked somewhere between murder and mental breakdown. Lance felt bad for her, under so much stress for this event to go well. He couldn't wait until it was over for her sake. And Hunk's. Mostly because when they were finally finished, he could sit them down and lecture them on how terrible an idea it had been to keep Keith a secret like this. Pidge marched right up to Lance and brandished the phone at him.
"Help," she begged, but Lance had no idea what he was supposed to do. Pidge slapped a schematic in front of him on the table, pointing to what looked like a parking lot on the paper. There were handwritten street names and a compass in the bottom right corner. "Would you just tell him where to put the bus when he gets here?"
"Um," Lance said, unsure if asking the person in the room who had spent less than twenty-four hours in the area for directions was a solid plan, but then he heard the person on the other end of the line, calling out a question in a heavy Mexican accent, asking if Pidge were still there. Oh. That's why Pidge needed his help. They had been struggling with a language barrier. Lance let the caller know that he was there, introduced himself in Spanish as Pidge's assistant, and then watched as Pidge drooped in relief over the map. Lance also heard the bus driver from Scripps let go of some frustration now that Lance was on the line and he could communicate easier. It took Lance a second to figure out the map Hunk had obviously made, but in the end, he was able to give the driver enough information so he would know where to go once he made it to the Caltech campus and received a time estimate on when he would arrive – about a half an hour before the start of the event. And by the time the call ended, all parties involved seemed more peaceful. Lance caught Keith leaning against the counter with his coffee, smiling softly at Lance. He'd always liked listening to Lance speak his native language. Lance noticed that Keith was wearing fingerless gloves made of black leather. Probably riding gloves but he hadn't taken them off yet. Strange. Or maybe it wasn't. It wasn't like Lance knew much about Keith anymore.
"He says he'll be here at eight thirty," Lance relayed to Pidge, talking about the bus. "And he'll call if there are any issues. Maybe I should have given him my number instead?"
"You're going to be busy, but thanks for the offer," Pidge told him, looking back and forth between Lance and Keith. "You brought your swimsuit, right?"
"Uh, yeah," Lance answered. He'd meticulously packed everything on Pidge's very detailed list. They'd teased each other about it yesterday. He looked over his shoulder to where Keith still leaned on the counter, one arm curled around his waist as he slowly drank his coffee. He looked so at ease, so natural in the space. How many times had he been to this house? Or maybe this was just his mannerism now, acting casual no matter the circumstance? Or it could be that he just wasn't as affected by seeing Lance as Lance was by seeing him.
"Go put it on then," Pidge directed, sounding like she was a little put out for having to point out the obvious. "Keith's taking you to the beach while we're running the symposium."
Lance did a double take to Keith, who lifted an eyebrow at him from over his coffee mug, raising his free hand and waving it slightly as if he were volunteering for something. Really? Lance couldn't believe this was happening. This was why Pidge hadn't counted on Lance being at the symposium. She hadn't been trying to leave him behind; she'd just organized something else for him to do. And just like that - pieces started snapping in place. Lance not going to the symposium. Pidge's ultimatum that Lance confess his feelings to Keith before dinner or Pidge would do it for him. She'd seemed so certain that Lance would have ample opportunity to do it. Now he knew why, but once Lance started thinking about it, he was nervous. He'd be alone with Keith all day? That was simultaneously terrific and terrifying. How much damage could he do to their friendship if they were left unsupervised together for the entire day? If he did what Pidge wanted him to? Worse – if he didn't do what Pidge wanted him to?
"Lance?" Hunk was calling to him, and he realized he'd spaced out a bit after the plan had been revealed to him. Hunk's friendly brown eyes were considering him carefully from across the table. "Is that something you're feeling up for?"
"We can do something else," Keith offered, but Lance absolutely did not want to mess with any plans. His friends were amazing; they'd obviously put some thought into this, frustrating though it may be. Lance didn't want them to misunderstand his pause. It wasn't that he didn't want to go; he was just worried about doing something stupid while alone with Keith. Spilling something worse than coffee. But he couldn't tell them that either. "We can stay here if you need the rest," Keith suggested, watching Lance uncomfortably close.
"No," Lance said quickly, trying to stand up without knocking anything over or tripping on himself as he made his way to the guest room to get ready. A trip to the beach sounded better than staying here where the silence would get awkward and heavy in a hurry. Lance was an expert at talking to Keith on the phone, but hours alone together in Hunk and Pidge's house where all he really wanted to do was take Keith to the bedroom and . . . potentially destroy their friendship? No, thank you. "The beach is perfect." The beach with you is even more perfect. The only thing not perfect about all of this is me.
But he was going to be natural, he reminded himself as he hurried into his swimsuit, alone in Hunk's guest room. This was going to be amazing, and he was going to love every minute of it. He was going to somehow ignore the intense combination of passion and pain that threatened to overwhelm him every time he looked at Keith. How much he'd changed. Except he hadn't. How much Lance wanted him but knew he couldn't say it. How fantastic it was that Keith was here, and yet how devastating that they couldn't stay together always.
Someone knocked on the door as Lance was standing with a T-shirt in his still-trembling hands, trying to even out his emotions. He froze, worried that it could be Keith coming in before he was ready, but he relaxed quickly when he heard Hunk on the other side, asking if he could come in, partially opening the door even as he requested permission, always assuming, correctly, that the answer would be yes.
Hunk closed the door softly behind him and then Lance watched his eyes go wide at the sight of Lance standing there in the middle of the room, shivering in nothing but his swim trunks. It made him self-conscious. What? What was it? The scars? Though they were small, Lance knew that they drew attention, that they'd be the immediate focus of anyone looking at him. He threw on the T-shirt in a hurry to hide them from view.
"That bad?" Lance asked Hunk, not sure if he needed an answer so he didn't know why he'd just forced Hunk into giving one. Hunk lifted a hand, nervously scratching his neck and looking away.
"No," Hunk stretched out the word, and Lance knew that this was probably the gentlest way Hunk had of telling Lance just how bad it was. Lance had been semi-consciously avoiding mirrors, but he'd caught glimpses of his shadowed eyes and gaunt frame. He'd started putting some weight back on, but not even close to what he'd lost. He knew he looked like a Holocaust survivor. The scars were probably the least of it. Lance groaned, sinking onto the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and allowing his head to droop, causing Hunk some concern. "Dude, maybe you should stay here."
"I'll keep my shirt on," Lance promised, though that had nothing to do with anything Hunk had just said. And what Hunk had just said was probably nothing like what he'd intended to say when he came to see Lance.
"Lance, what's up?" Hunk pressed. "You're ok, right?"
"I'm ok, Hunk," Lance maintained, answering about his physical condition. His ribs would catch him off guard every so often and he still got tired easily, but there was nothing preventing him from spending a day in the sunshine. On an actual beach. How long had he wanted that?
"Is it Keith?" Hunk continued with the questions, knowing that something was off with Lance. "We thought you'd be happy to see him."
"I am happy to see him," Lance insisted. Almost too much. "I just didn't want him to see . ." See me like this. I wanted him to keep his memory of me from when I was sure. When I thought I knew what I was doing; when I was protecting him, supporting him. When I wasn't skinny, slouching, and scarred. I wasn't ready for him to see me now. "God, I'm such a wreck," Lance lamented.
Hunk sighed, then sat down next to Lance on the bed. "Lance, that's kind of why you're here," Hunk reminded him. "For us to help put you back together. Don't worry so much. I mean, if you think about it, you're still in better shape than Keith was when you found him."
"You're not helping," Lance said, deadpan, unable to stop himself from remembering how he found Keith, alone, anemic, and in trouble in that tiny apartment that wasn't even his. How hard Lance had fought to bring him through that time in his life. What he'd sacrificed to do it. But this was different. Keith had done nothing but succeed since he left Chicago. Lance hadn't had near the hardships that Keith had endured, and he'd still fallen to pieces.
"Sure, I am," Hunk debated, nudging Lance's shoulder as he stood up. "I'm giving you some perspective. The point is that no one held it against him then, and it's the same for you now. Look, you're going to the beach. It's going to be ninety degrees outside. You're going to be with Keith, alone, for the next six or seven hours. And before you start freaking out about that, keep in mind that Keith just rode a motorcycle over thirteen hundred miles to see you. That's not nothing, man. You remember that."
"You should have told me he'd be here," Lance accused, though he knew now wasn't the best time for him to get angry about that. Hunk held up his hands.
"We weren't for sure that he would be," Hunk defended himself, opening up a whole new drawer full of questions in Lance's head. "And since we had to choose between crushing disappointment and surprise – we picked surprise. You're welcome."
"How long have you guys been planning this?" Lance wondered out loud as Hunk passed his sweater over to him.
"Not as long as we've been planning other things," Hunk said, reminding Lance that Hunk and Pidge had somewhere they were supposed to be going right now, a symposium to get started, and Hunk didn't really have time to discuss this at length with Lance. "Come on, Keith is waiting for you."
Lance took what he hoped would be a settling breath, pulling on the sweater and also a forbidden pair of scrub pants to cover his swim trunks. Once he was completely covered in clothes again, he went with Hunk to where Keith was standing at attention near the door and Pidge was talking to someone Lance had never seen before, an Asian girl with impossibly long, straight black hair and glasses wearing almost exactly the same style of clothes that Pidge used to wear when she was an undergrad. She had the box of name badges in her arms, braced on her hip as she listened to whatever Pidge was telling her.
"Right on time," Hunk said, sounding relieved. Pidge picked up another box, the one with all the printed programs, and followed the girl outside. Keith looked as though he thought he should also pick something up and go with them, but he was at a loss of what to grab. The expression on his face reminded Lance momentarily of the boy he'd been once, the lost, uncertain one.
"Who's that?" Lance asked Hunk, trying to distract himself from how his chest had drawn up tight at the sight and memory of Keith.
"That's Sunny," Hunk answered, putting out the name as though the one word could suffice for an entire biography. "She's our favorite undergrad, but don't let it get out or anything. She came to pick us up so you guys can take the car."
Lance started to ask more about that, but Pidge and Sunny returned through the door and interrupted the question.
"Yeah, that's everything," Pidge confirmed, looking around with her arms folded. Sunny stood by the door, holding it open, waiting. Satisfied that she wasn't leaving anything behind, Pidge turned her attention to Hunk.
"You gave them the keys?" She asked him, which made Hunk jerk in remembrance, digging his car and house keys out of his pocket and tossing them casually over to Keith, who caught them at the last possible second with a trained snap of his wrist. Lance felt his jaw tense up, hating how every single gesture Keith made was melting him inside. Why did he have to look so amazing?
"You sure?" Keith checked, keeping the keys in his hand and away from his body, as though ready to toss them back again. "Because I've got the-"
"You're not taking him on the bike," Pidge pointed out, like this was a conversation that had already taken place. Lance stood rather awkwardly between them, not knowing what to think or feel about any of it. It felt like he was a child watching his parents make a decision about him. "It was risky enough that you rode out here on it. I don't care what kind of pilot you are; a motorcyclist gets killed on that freeway every single day. The car's already packed and ready for you; Sunny's here to take us, and that's the end of that discussion."
Keith looked over at Lance, who shrugged. Pidge had a good point, Lance had cleaned up after way too many motorcycle accidents, and it wouldn't be beneficial to argue with her about something like this. Especially since Lance needed to stay on her good side. If he was going to persuade her out of a decision, this wasn't the one he wanted to try for. Not that he wasn't curious about riding behind Keith on the motorcycle, an idea that was equally thrilling and terrifying.
"Looks like we're driving then," Keith gave in, but he didn't sound or seem reluctant as he shoved the keys into the pocket of his jeans. He still seemed to prefer black ones. They matched his gloves.
"Excuse me?" Sunny interrupted gently, with the hesitancy of someone standing in the midst of superiors and torn between disturbing them or allowing them to be late.
"Thanks, Sunny; we're coming," Pidge answered without looking at her. Because she was looking at Keith and Lance, staring them down. "Take good care of him," Pidge admonished Keith, and he stiffened, posture rigid and straight as though accepting orders. "Relax, both of you, but do not forget that you are to be clean, dressed, and present at the Athenaeum by five thirty tonight – absolutely no excuses. Got it?"
"Sure," Lance accepted, still bewilderingly overwhelmed, while Keith returned with a more formal, "Yes, ma'am."
"Good," Pidge accepted, taking Hunk's arm to steer him out the front door. "See you on the other side of this stupid symposium."
"Good luck," Lance wished, knowing she didn't really mean what she said about the symposium being stupid. He just barely caught Hunk winking at him as he ushered the shorter women down to Sunny's car, leaving his Civic behind for them to use. Lance followed them out onto the front walk, noticing for the first time that the house had been built close to the mountains and that the road leading down to Altadena and Pasadena was steeper than he'd noticed last night in the dark. Pidge and Hunk lived far up on the foothills.
Pidge continued to talk as they all piled into the car, with Sunny nodding emphatically the entire time. Hunk let Pidge take the front seat, and Lance watched as they made their way south, still sort of wishing that they'd taken him with them. If he were sitting next to Keith listening to a keynote address, he could enjoy the pleasure of his company without all the pressure to talk without screwing everything up. It had appeal.
"I guess they'll be ok," he said, almost to himself, adding in his mind that he would be ok too. It wasn't like he had never been alone with Keith before. Except . . .
"No one can say they weren't prepared," Keith agreed, close behind Lance. Close enough that if Lance were braver, he could have leaned back against his chest. He folded his arms in an attempt not to slouch forward. "Are you ready to go?"
"Um," Lance looked at himself, wondering if he'd need anything that wasn't already either on his body or in his pockets. He made a final deliberation on whether it would be to his advantage to go to the beach or stay in the house, but in the end, the beach won out. If he was going to screw everything up, the scenery could at least be amazing. "Yeah, let's go."
Keith smiled, which made Lance all melty again, to the point where he had to physically press his fist against his abdomen, near the lowest incision scar. Something hot and urgent lurched up his throat, and for a second Lance thought that he was going to blurt out everything to Keith without ever having made a conscious decision to do so, but it didn't happen. The heat rushed up to his mouth and tangled at the base of his throat, caught on something and just as well. If he was going to ruin this relationship, he'd rather wait until after they'd spent the day together. He wanted one day, just one more perfect day before everything changed.
Keith gestured for Lance to go first, and they didn't speak at all as they both opened doors and buckled seatbelts. Keith did some adjusting of the seat and mirrors while Lance did his best to stare at him without making it obvious he was staring at him. They pulled away from the curb, and the quiet came with them, becoming almost a third passenger sitting between them. Lance wasn't sure what to do about it. He decided to just sit tight and let Keith focus on driving.
Not that Keith needed to focus much. He'd been a good driver before, well, at least Lance thought he was the one time he'd ridden in Shiro's car with him on their way to the grocery store. But that didn't even compare to his skill now. He drove with his left hand, the right unnecessarily resting on the gear shift as though Keith were used to driving a manual instead of an automatic. Lance wondered what kind of car Keith normally drove. He couldn't just use the motorcycle all the time. Or was this the posture of a pilot? Lance felt guilty that he didn't know.
"You're really good at this," Lance complimented to scatter his feelings, then shook his head at himself for offering such a weird compliment. Of course, Keith was good at this.
"Thanks," Keith accepted, easing Lance. He didn't sound like he thought Lance had said anything weird. "I guess I could have let you drive though, huh? Did you want to?"
Lance looked at the traffic, which was moving efficiently but there were still enough cars on the freeway with them that he didn't think he'd feel comfortable behind the wheel. Not with Keith watching him. He didn't even know where they were going.
"Maybe on the way back," Lance heard himself say, the joking phrase that he and Allura had repeated to each other so often during their time together. It had come up almost automatically, along with more memories. It seems Lance was going to drown in them today, no way to stop it. Lance turned so he could look out the window, noticing that they were driving further and further from Mount Wilson. It looked different in the sunlight, still gorgeous and beckoning, but not in the same way. The road curved, forcing Lance to twist in his seat to keep it in view a few seconds longer. But then he felt something touch his sleeve, which jerked his attention back into the car, looking down at his wrist. Keith had reached over to delicately finger the cuff, the way he used to do. It was a little overwhelming, for a variety of reasons.
"This is nice," Keith complimented, nodding his head toward his hand so Lance would know that he meant the sweater. "Did you make it?"
"Yeah," Lance answered, breathlessly. Could Keith tell he couldn't breathe? Was that weird? How was he supposed to react to this? What was normal? Lance didn't even know, but all his muscles had tensed up with Keith's hand so close to his skin.
"That's impressive," Keith said, not removing his hand, gently running his fingers over the stitches, blindly following the lines of the cables up the sleeves while keeping his eyes on the road. "But . . ." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"But what?" Lance pressed, needing to know what Keith wanted to say, hating that Keith had censored himself from telling Lance anything. Especially when it was just a sweater. It is just a sweater, Lance, so why is your heart racing? He felt like he was on the verge of losing control of something, and it scared him. They weren't even to the beach yet.
"It's just," Keith struggled, hesitating, but then seemed to make a sudden decision to just come out with it. "It's just kind of sad."
"Sad?" Lance repeated, not understanding what could possibly be sad about his sweater. Sure, there was that one miscrossed cable that he hadn't noticed until he was stitching up the sleeves, but sad wasn't the word he'd attribute to it. Though the emotion was definitely there now that Keith had mentioned it, coming closer and closer to the surface. Lance had to keep talking in an attempt to rein it in. "I thought it came out ok. What do you mean?" Keith took a long breath, as though he wanted to say something but had to pause to choose his words carefully.
"You must have been in a really bad place," Keith finally said. "To make something like that."
That's right, Lance remembered, suddenly holding his breath, dangerously close to tears. Keith knew about that. Keith understood what knitting was to Lance, what he used it for. To hear him voice that understanding out loud poked hard at a fragile, tainted bubble of emotions that Lance had pushed down, unwilling to process until later or never. He didn't think he could tense up anymore, but apparently it was possible. He hadn't ever acknowledged just how bad a place that had been. Lance had used the construction of this sweater as a coping strategy for his stress for weeks, and now he wore the reminder of it – accepted compliments on the knotted denial of his pain. How messed up was that?
"It's just like you, though," Keith continued, while Lance took careful, shallow breaths. He wasn't sure if he wanted Keith to keep going or shut up. Was it going to be like this all day? If so, Lance wasn't sure how long he could stand it. Keith glanced at him sideways before trying to explain. "Taking something awful and somehow managing to turn it into something beautiful."
"Ha," Lance exclaimed, the small emotional sound jumping out of his mouth without his consent. Damn it, Keith. He had to turn away, concentrate hard on the scenery going by outside his window because it had blurred alarmingly. Keith thoughtfully went silent so Lance could work on breathing, bunching up the ribbon of pain that he didn't have a name for, curling it up until it nestled firmly in his throat and chest, hidden. The last thing he wanted to do was break down here in this car where there would be no way to escape.
"You did it too," Lance put out there, testing his voice, ready to deflect to something else. Keith's head jerked in a surprised gesture of denial.
"Uh, no," he said simply, smiling ruefully at the very idea, wrinkling the scar on his face. But Lance had the proof of it. He pulled back the sleeve of the sweater to reveal the red, woven bracelet around his wrist. He held up his hand so Keith wouldn't have to shift his gaze much to see it.
"You did it too," he repeated, firmly, shaking his arm so the braided ties swayed a little. Keith snorted.
"They don't compare," he denied, but Lance disagreed. The only differences between Keith's bracelet and Lance's sweater were the yardage of the materials involved, the time each had taken to complete, and the fact that Lance was wearing both of them.
"If you say so," Lance said, relieved at the casualness in his tone. Almost playful. His breaths came easier, and he allowed some of his muscles to relax. Ok. Maybe he could do this. The quiet settled between them again, maybe slightly less awkwardly.
"So you, um, you really wear that all the time?" Keith asked out of nowhere, quietly, with some hesitation.
"I never take it off," Lance replied, hoping that Keith could hear something in the response. The something that Lance couldn't tell him as easily. Are you listening, Keith? He couldn't tell. Keith smiled again, seemed pleased to hear that, but what of it? It didn't mean anything. Or it could mean everything. But pleased or not, Keith didn't seem to know what to say about that, and Lance could feel a strange pressure gathering around them. The pressure included voices in Lance's head, all giving him conflicting advice. Pidge was of course loud and clear with her insistence that now was the time! But then there were others, combined to drown her out. They sounded like Lance, like his mother, like Keith himself. He was compelled to open his mouth, to silence them if anything, but even as he did, he wasn't sure whose words were going to come out of him.
"Did you actually ride that motorcycle all the way from Texas?" Lance asked, surprised and relieved at what his subconscious had decided for him to say. It turned out to be the correct topic; asking about the motorcycle and the long trip seemed completely safe. It gave Keith a chance to talk about the experience. Getting caught in the rain a few times. The truck stops he'd fueled up at. The long stretches of nothing across Arizona where there really was no cell reception at all.
Lance almost gathered his courage enough to ask about last night. Did Keith not have cell reception last night because he'd been driving through Arizona? But no, he said that he'd arrived a little after Lance. Where had he been and what had he been doing? And why do any of it? Why not fly to California if he were going to come? But Lance didn't want to ruin the rhythm of what they had going. There was ease in their talk right now, and he wanted it to go as long as possible. Didn't want to say anything stupid to trip it up. So instead he asked about Shiro, how he was doing. In return, Keith asked about Lance's family. By the time they'd arrived at the beach, they were both communicating freely, laughing and open.
For all that he'd worried about getting into the car with Keith, now Lance wasn't sure he wanted to unbuckle his seatbelt to leave the space. Now that they were talking, easily, enjoying each other the way they had just started to learn before Keith left for the Air Force, Lance found that he didn't need to see the beach. He could sit in the sun in this car with Keith next to him. Except Keith didn't seem to hold any hesitation in getting out, so Lance had no choice but to follow if he wanted to stay with him.
Keith went to the trunk to gather up a backpack, a blanket, and some towels that Lance hadn't even known were in the car. He tried to help, but Keith wouldn't allow it, tossing both straps of the backpack over one shoulder and draping the rest of the items over his opposite arm.
"Come on," Keith beckoned, leading the way from the parking area. "We've only got about four hours." Lance fell into natural step beside him, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the tang of the air, and the incredible fact that he was here with Keith at all. Such a precious gift that he'd almost given up hope on ever receiving. Though he didn't know how long he'd been given. Today, at the very least.
They walked across a busy street and then up and over a small retaining wall, and that was the first time that Lance could actually see the ocean unobstructed. He felt his jaw drop and his chest open. Then he took his first step into the sand, sinking deep into it, and gasped involuntarily. He heard a seagull shriek, and then the whooshing sound of the surf. All of it wrapping his senses, his childhood greeting his return.
"Lance?" Keith asked, but Lance only barely heard him. Because the water had him entranced completely. It was nothing like the lake; all those times he'd walked the lake front, getting as close as possible to the water even though it had never been enough, and no wonder. Great a lake as it may be, Lake Michigan just couldn't compare to this.
"Keith! Keith, let's go," Lance exclaimed as if he really seven again, grabbing Keith's elbow and pulling him forward. He had to let go after a second, because he was racing. Racing through the sand to the waves as fast as he could go while stripping off his shoes, scrubs, and sweater. His lungs flared up in protest and his ribs complained bitterly about the entire thing, but his heart and soul were already in the water and demanded the rest of his body to follow immediately. He didn't even stop to wonder how he was going to collect all his clothes again later. He didn't notice how packed the beach was or how far behind he'd left Keith with all the gear. His element was a few steps in front of him and compelled him completely. He thought he heard Keith, once, maybe, calling his name again from an impossible distance. Impossible because Keith couldn't be that far behind. If Lance paused to look back, he was certain he'd see Keith just behind his shoulder. Which meant there was no need to wait.
The water crashed forward to greet him, another old friend, at first lightly hugging his ankles, sucking at his legs and knees as he went further in. Another wave and Lance instinctively dove under it, letting it crash over him and pushing himself out into the familiar, almost massaging power of the water. It was colder than he expected, but not enough to stop him. The sunlight brightened the whole area, weaving patterns of light and shadow on the surface and below it, painting everything the most crystalline, cerulean blue. He surfaced, remembering now that he was out in the water that he had quite a bit less stamina than he used to when he was a kid in Varadero. That rush had taken a lot out of him. He also saw that he was alone. He looked around himself, noticing new things like surfers, what seemed like millions of umbrellas and towels spread on the sand, and a large Ferris wheel off to one side on what must be Santa Monica pier. No Keith. Lance thought he'd been right behind him. He turned in the water, looking the other way. Keith was stronger than he was. Maybe he'd swum farther out, the way Marco used to do. But no, there was nothing that way either. At least, not close enough to see.
Lance bobbed, letting the water move him as it liked as he continued to search. A man threw a stick and a black Labrador raced into the waves to retrieve it. There were kites and beach cruiser bicycles on the board walk. Carts not unlike the one Lance used to walk his own beaches with – full of handmade jewelry, ice cream, fruit, scarves, and a million other trinkets that could be purchased. Lance started to feel the beginnings of anxiety drilling into his chest, noted the strain in his muscles. How had he lost Keith so quickly?
"Lance! Hey!"
His name came faint over the waves and the birds and the crowds, but it did reach him, allowing him to zero in on Keith's figure, standing in the sand and waving both arms above his head to attract Lance's notice. Lance relaxed, and the next wave pushed him gently back toward the shore. He still had to swim a bit, but it was much easier going this way than out against the break. Another wave and he found he could stand up, but he kept low, knowing that walking with his back to the ocean was the quickest way to get knocked flat. Instead, he paralleled his body to the shallowing space, until he felt his stomach hit the sand. Keith walked closer to meet Lance, but kept well away from where the waves could touch him.
"I thought you were right behind me," Lance said as he stood up, noticing immediately how gravity settled on him, dragging his wet clothes, pulling him down. Enough that he decided not to fight it that hard and allowing himself to return to his knees, letting the waves exhaust themselves softly around his hips and over his thighs. He kept his hands in the water, smoothing his palms over the already smooth wet sand just under the foam. He looked up at Keith, realizing that he wasn't saying anything and worrying about that. Was he upset that Lance had just abandoned him? He . . well, he hadn't really meant to. He just . . the ocean. But Keith was smiling at him, all out grinning with his arms folded across his chest.
"That was something," Keith finally said, but Lance wasn't sure how to take it. Keith was smiling, smirking really, but there was a neutrality in the tone that made Lance confused.
"What?" He asked, wanting clarification, feeling self-conscious, sitting there allowing the ocean to lick at him. Keith looked out at the waves, shielding his eyes from the glare. He still had his gloves on and his shoes.
"It was like watching a dolphin being released into its natural habitat," Keith told him, and this time Lance knew he was joking with him. Nothing was wrong here. Lance let his muscles go slack, tipping to his side and then lying flat on his back so he could feel the waves coming up underneath him. He was far enough on land that the water didn't have any power to move him, but it was rhythmic and soothing to lay there while the waves came in and out. For the first time, Lance felt grateful to Hunk and Pidge for not taking him to the symposium. This was definitely a thousand times better.
Lance sensed a shadow over his face, and when he opened his eyes he saw that Keith was crouched at his head, leaning slightly over him and watching him with curiosity. Completely gorgeous . . . and completely dry. Lance flipped over onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow.
"Aren't you coming in?" Lance asked, confused again. Keith hadn't brought him to the beach with the intention of watching him from dry land, had he?
"Wasn't planning on it," Keith confessed, raising his gaze to look out into the water again before turning his attention back to Lance.
"Isn't that illegal?" Lance pondered. "Coming all the way to the beach and then not getting wet?"
"Hardly," Keith huffed, and hunched back slightly as a particularly strong wave breached the shoreline.
"Is it . . . you know how to swim, right?" Lance asked, shocked at how Keith was avoiding the very thing that Lance had daydreamed about since he'd left home.
"Yes, I know how to swim," Keith answered, though there was something in it. "Nowhere near as well as you do, though." Something more than defensiveness. Lance could feel that he was pushing Keith into some kind of corner. But, seriously? Being here in the water was Lance's favorite thing in the world, and the only thing he could think of to make it any better would be if Keith came in with him. He wanted to share his memories of this, make new ones with Keith.
"Then what are you waiting up there for?" Lance demanded, though he knew he might be going too far. He decided to mellow out his statement by gesturing out to the horizon, the place where the Earth curved away from the sky, but the ocean didn't end. "Look at all that blue! Isn't it calling you?"
"That blue doesn't do much for me," Keith admitted, locking eyes with Lance, but then just as quickly looked as though he regretted saying it, dropping the gaze. And Lance knew he should let it go, really, but he was so at ease here in the sand and it was messing with his social calculations. Plus, if there was something making Keith uncomfortable, he wanted to know what it was. See if he could help.
"Is there a blue that does?" Lance prompted, and then decided quickly that it really was time to back off. Keith looked momentarily trapped, at a loss for an answer, but he smoothed his expression quickly as something occurred to him. He shifted so he could point to the clear, open sky above them.
"That one," he answered, and Lance smiled. Yeah, that made sense. Of course the blue sky would be what spoke to the heart of a pilot. Keith locked eyes with him again, rather intensely, studying him. "That's my blue."
Lance's heart felt suddenly swollen, and he wanted nothing more than to sling his arm around Keith's neck and pull him close. But he was drenched and he knew Keith would hate that for multiple reasons. Instead, he slowly stood up, almost losing his balance as he shifted his equilibrium. Keith caught his elbow, steadying him yet again.
"You good there?" Keith asked, a trace of worry lingering after the question. "What are you doing?"
"I'll stay out if you aren't coming in," Lance informed him. He was too tired to do much more swimming anyway. He'd carelessly thrown all his energy away in one crazy, desperate crush.
"You don't have to," Keith gave Lance permission to leave him, though Lance could see in his face and posture that Keith would prefer is Lance stayed. "This trip was specifically so you could be in the water."
"I'd rather stay with you," Lance said, and that was the truth. The ocean had been here for eternity and would continue to be here. Lance would always know how to come back to it, and it would always be waiting. Keith on the other hand. He could be gone tomorrow. He could disappear in the middle of the night. There was no actual choice to be made here. "We could walk along the shoreline?"
"Sounds good," Keith agreed, and they set off in the direction that would allow Lance to walk in the tiniest of the waves while Keith walked in dry sand. They walked and talked more about the beach, the one they were currently on and the one Lance had grown up near. They speculated on how Hunk and Pidge were, guessing that they probably wished they were here instead of a darkened lecture hall, even if it was the place where Richard Feynman used to teach.
They walked all the way up the pier, Lance balking at Keith's suggestion of riding the Ferris Wheel. They watched street performers and spray paint artists, inspected the wares of a woman selling crocheted hats where Keith whispered in Lance's ear that his needlecraft was way better. They passed a man in makeup twisting balloon animals. Lance made Keith stop at a taco truck, and they ate carne asada and lengua street tacos while they continued to walk. And all the while, the sun beamed hot and beautiful, creating a sparkling jewel of the coastline.
At one point, they unconsciously turned themselves around, beginning to move back the way they came, and Keith stopped them one last time at a cart so he could buy water and two cups of fruit, heavily sprinkled with Tajín seasoning, everything pulled from a huge bed of ice chips. Lance was standing a few feet away, but he thought he heard Keith thank the fruit vendor in Spanish, and he almost asked Keith about it, but then let it drop as he accepted the plastic container brimming with pineapple and mango. They tucked the water bottles under their arms to leave their hands free, eating the fruit and walking slowly back the way they'd come – this time both of them on the sand.
Lance was grateful they were on their way back. As wonderful as it had been, his body was reaching its limit, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down and rest, even though he didn't want to admit it. He wanted to soak up as much of this as he could. Which is why he forced himself to do one more jogging leap into the water before they went back to where Keith had left their stuff. Just one more time to feel the ocean all around him, even though it seemed colder than before.
Lance sensed Keith watching him, the entire time he swam and even closer as he came up out of the water and walked over to join Keith on the blanket, so he tried not to let his growing exhaustion show too much. Though he couldn't help but drop gratefully down next to Keith, his muscles aching but his heart happy. Keith opened his water bottle for him, handing it over with an air of authority.
"Drink it all," Keith ordered, and Lance felt the corners of his mouth lift. Who was the medical authority here? But Keith was right; the salt in the air and on the fruit meant that Lance should be drinking more. He took the water, drinking it obediently, watching Keith as he opened his own bottle.
"Keith," Lance asked, rather timidly. "How long can you stay?" Because this was so wonderful, the best day Lance could remember. He couldn't believe he'd been so afraid of it this morning. Now, he didn't want it to end, though he knew that was impossible.
"Not sure," Keith answered, after a long moment of thought. He sat with his knees up, his forearms resting on them, his own water bottle held carelessly in one gloved hand, partially turned toward Lance.
"They didn't tell you?" Lance asked, speculating that Keith only had as much time as the military would give him. "That's so dumb; they should at least let you know –"
"It's not that," Keith interrupted, not sharply but with enough conviction that Lance shut his mouth, the topic closed. Keith bowed his head between his knees, curling up for a second as though he wished he could take back what he'd just said. When he straightened, he looked at Lance, the way he did sometimes, like he was trying to memorize his face. "I'll stay as long as you want me to stay," he said, softly, a certain . . what was it, hesitancy or wistfulness? There was something Lance wasn't used to in the words, but the sound and feel of it hurt in the most joyful way possible.
I love you, Lance screamed in his heart. How can you possibly not know how much I love you? He opened his mouth, willing that feeling to translate into a language Keith knew. But Keith was already moving on, fussing with the enormous beach towels Hunk had sent them with. Lance watched as Keith spread one over Lance's legs.
"You're shivering," he offered as explanation, though Lance hadn't noticed until Keith pointed it out. He was holding the second towel, waiting for Lance to do something. "Take off your shirt," Keith instructed. "So you can dry faster."
"Um," Lance balked, uncomfortable about the idea. Keith tilted his head at him.
"Lance, your lips are purple. Just take it off."
"I . . . ok," Lance gave in, knowing it was stupid, vain, and unfair to try and hide his scars from Keith, especially when Keith didn't have the option to even try to hide his. He started to tug his salty, wet shirt off, but his arms were weak after swimming, and he struggled with it. Keith scooted around him to assist, tugging the material up over his back and head.
"Oh my God," Keith exclaimed, though quietly. Lance stiffened, wondering what Keith was seeing that could cause that kind of reaction. Keith traced two knuckles down Lance's spine, which forced him to sit bolt upright.
"What?!" Lance demanded, wondering why Keith was touching him like that. It was distracting and strange, not unpleasant but definitely confusing. If Keith were going to touch him, Lance had suggestions for how he'd like it to be done.
"Sorry," Keith apologized as though realizing what happened and how it could have been taken. "It's just . . . do you remember that day . . that I, um . . when we fell on your coffee table?"
"How could I possibly forget?" Lance wondered, knowing he could replay every terrible second of that day. The day he'd first met Shiro and Fritz. The day he'd learned that Keith was being unjustly tried for murder. The day Keith had almost died in his living room. He shuddered, and Keith hurriedly draped the large towel around his shoulders. It had been lying in the sun, and the warmth was comforting. "What about it?"
"It actually left a scar," Keith answered, speaking better now that Lance's back and any marks on it were safely covered. "Here to here." He demonstrated the length of the scar by trailing his fingers up Lance's back, resting his palm against his shoulder blade after he was done. "Did you know?"
"No," Lance answered. He'd never seen it. Come to think of it, no one had seen his uncovered back, not in all that time. "It doesn't really matter. It's just a scar, and it's not like it bothers me. I can't even see it." He'd meant for his words to assure Keith that Lance didn't mind that he'd acquired a scar saving Keith from falling face first on that table, but just seconds after he'd said it, he knew it could be perceived so incredibly wrong.
"Yeah," Keith muttered, rubbing his fingers along the backs of his hands, smoothing the black leather on them. "It's different when you can't see them."
"Keith," Lance began to apologize but he didn't know how. Everything he could possibly say would only make it worse.
"You're still shivering," Keith pointed out, gracefully changing the subject. He checked the sun, then his watch. "I think we should start heading back, actually, before the traffic gets bad. Pidge will kill me if we're late."
Lance felt his lips press together, and he clung to the towel corners at his chest. Yeah, Pidge would definitely have something to say if they weren't present and presentable at her fancy dinner. But it also reminded him that he was supposed to do something, say something to Keith. His time was running out on that if he didn't want her to do it for him. But how could he?
Keith stood up, bending down immediately to offer Lance a hand. "Come on; you can rest and get warm on the way home."
How was Lance supposed to say anything that could possibly ruin this?
Author's Note: Yeah, we're getting there. There's a time limit on this now. Where's your bet on who tells Keith? Lance or Pidge?
