Author's Note: Hey there, everyone. Doing well? I know – another long session between chapters. I'm looking into getting one of those little plaques – you know, the ones that say "it's been two days since our last catastrophe" because that's kind of what it feels like around here. Highlights include an intense reaction to my second COVID shot that took me out for a week and had us all thinking that my brain might be hemorrhaging. (It wasn't – but wow). Then my husband went to one of our out-of-state offices just in time for the rest of us to come down with a stomach flu (there's nothing quite like walking into your daughter's room at three in the morning only to watch her vomit off the side of the TOP BUNK.) The plus side, of course, is that I've dropped twelve pounds in the last ten days.
The bad, bad side is that I was stuck in bed a lot the last while (not writing) and had no feline companion to keep me company. My sweet kitty that's been my buddy for the last sixteen years had to be put down. That's the worst.
But that's not the story you came here to read! Let's figure out what Lance and Keith are doing. Because that's driving everyone crazy.
Chapter Forty-Seven: Metronome
"Hey! Hey. . . Lance!"
Lance jerked, his heart pounding hard and fast, but the memory or dream or vision that had created the terror slipped through his mind too quickly to catch. He'd been . . what? He couldn't remember, but judging from the aftermath, he hadn't been enjoying it. He heard himself moan, a rushing stiffness in all his muscles. What was going on; who was talking to him?
"You ok? Need me to pull over?"
Lance shook his head, but since he hadn't really registered the question, the movement wasn't a response. He started small, orienting himself first to the waning sunlight on the center console of the car. Then to pressure on his forearm, something squeezing him rhythmically. He shifted to see what it was. A hand. Wearing a black leather fingerless glove. Oh!
"Lance, talk to me."
"Keith?" Lance finally answered, except it was definitely more of a question. As his heart rate slowed, he continued to place himself. Keith was still with him. They were still in the car, though it didn't feel as though they were moving. Lance remembered walking back to it, dropping the towels in the trunk and taking his sweater from Keith to put it on. Remembered sheepishly thanking Keith for picking up all the clothes Lance had shed when he made a break for the water. He'd dressed, made some kind of statement about how much sand they were going to have to clean out of Hunk's car, and then . . . well, he must have fallen asleep before they'd even left the parking lot. How embarrassing.
"You all right?" Keith asked, eyes on the road but his hand still clasped on Lance's forearm, holding him grounded. "We're kind of stuck here, but if you need me to, I'll figure out a way to get us off the freeway."
"No," Lance said, sitting up a little so he could look around at the long lines of cars ahead of them, nothing but brake lights as far up as he could see. He blinked, groggy, cramped, and shocked. Chicago traffic didn't have anything on this. "What happened?"
"I don't know – an accident up ahead, maybe. But you must have been having a nightmare," Keith told him. "You've been sort of . . well, I had to hit the brakes kind of hard and you started . . . anyway, I thought I should wake you up."
"Thanks," Lance replied, grateful that Keith had decided to pull him away from whatever had sped up his pulse that much, but also feeling ashamed about it. For falling asleep in the first place. And what had he been doing that Keith wasn't telling him? Maybe it was better if he didn't know. "And sorry – I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"Don't worry about it," Keith dismissed, shrugging. Except Lance had heard something else in his voice before. Whatever Lance had been doing while he slept had been difficult for Keith to witness. It seemed they were both glad that Lance had stopped. "You could go back to sleep if you wanted. The way this is going, we're still a good forty minutes out."
Lance sat up all the way, alarmed all over again. "We aren't going to be late, are we?" Because Pidge had only asked one thing of them today, just one simple thing, and Lance didn't want to disappoint her. Keith moved his hand from Lance's forearm towards his shoulder, his fingers spread over Lance's clavicle to keep him still. Lance unconsciously leaned into it – the warmth and strength of it. Any second that Keith was touching him was special.
"We've got time," Keith assured, sounding like he had about twelve different plans to make it happen. Maybe he did. "Calm down."
Lance eased back into the seat, but he had no intention of falling asleep again. He didn't want to leave Keith alone when the driving was this kind of stressful. That seemed unfair. Also, he didn't want to waste any time he had with Keith. He wasn't sure how long this would last, so it would be a good idea to enjoy it by being conscious. At least, that was the plan. But the heat of the sun in his window, the fatigue from all the walking and swimming, plus the remnants of exhaustion from traveling the day before, all weighed on Lance as he sat motionless.
Keith moved his hand again, back to where he'd had it before, clasped, loosely this time, around Lance's forearm, his fingertips against Lance's pulse like he felt he had to monitor it. Lance dedicatedly did not look at Keith's hand, and Keith kept his eyes also vigilantly forward, as though neither of them wanted to acknowledge the touch. Because if someone mentioned it then it couldn't continue. And Lance desperately wanted it to continue. Actually, he wanted to shift his arm through Keith's fingers so he could hold his hand, the way he'd watched Angelique and Fritz do whenever they drove together. Only he didn't dare. This would have to be good enough.
Lance asked Keith a couple of questions, mostly about the time he took Hunk hiking. At first, Keith hesitated to talk about it, as though he were worried what Lance would think about Keith spending time with Hunk without him. But as Lance settled into the seat and the traffic dragged on, Keith opened up more about it. Lance got the sense that Keith preferred the mountain to the beach they'd just visited. He spoke of the trails with the same kind of passion that he sometimes spoke of his plane. It was calming and endearing. Keith talked about tucked away glades covered in ivy and isolated beams of light, hidden mountain pools, and the remains of a burned tree at the edge of a precipice that now housed a large family of crows.
"Will you take me?" Lance asked, drowsy. Everything was moving so slow. The cars on the road; Keith's soothing voice. Lance couldn't help but relax into it. Keith's thumb jerked against the underside of his wrist, the place where Angelique used to hold on to him. It sent a spike of heat up to Lance's shoulder but was gone too quickly for it to disturb the peace.
"Maybe," Keith acknowledged without promising. "It's not the easiest place to get to." And that was the last thing that Lance remembered him saying as they drove.
The next time he woke up was much gentler. Keith was still touching him, a hand on Lance's arm and chest as Keith leaned in from where he'd opened the passenger door. Lance blinked up at him, content to sit perfectly still, studying the details of Keith's face here in this tiny pocket of time. Of course, it couldn't last.
"We're back," Keith told him, voice low like he hadn't wanted to wake Lance up and was trying to do it in the softest way possible. Lance could see out the front window that they were parked right where they'd started in front of Hunk and Pidge's house. The sun was well on its way down, spreading shadows across the lawn and even into the car, but it wasn't that late. Keith had been right; they made it in plenty of time.
"Well done," Lance murmured, congratulating Keith on the successful drive home. His muscles pooled into the front seat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been comfortable like this, which was funny since he had never thought the front seat of a Civic to be all that comfortable in the first place. Of course this was Hunk's Civic, which might be different. Or maybe it wasn't the seat. Maybe it was the easy way Keith kept his hands on him. The heat in the touch. How close they were right now. How safe Lance felt.
"Hey," Keith shook him slightly, smiling down at him. "Stay with me now; we need to get ready."
Lance made a protesting sort of groan, surprising himself. But he didn't want to move. The idea of getting up, getting cleaned up, into a suit and off to a stuffy faculty club didn't sound at all appealing anymore. The only thing he wanted to do was keep Keith's hands on him, and that meant staying right where he was, preserving the moment of this rather magical time.
"I know," Keith acknowledged. "But we promised. Come on; I'll make you some coffee."
Keith shifted his hold on Lance, gripping him around his wrist and sliding a hand behind his back to tug him out of the car. Lance allowed it. Well, he'd probably allow Keith to do just about anything he wanted to him. He found himself leaning against Keith momentarily after he stood up, needing Keith to steady him for a couple seconds upon standing. Keith accommodated him exceptionally well, revealing to Lance in the way he moved that somewhere along their separation, he'd had some training in lifts and evacuation assisted walking holds. Keith's shirt carried the fresh, salt scent of the ocean. Lance felt a ripple of something pleasant and painful shiver over his skin.
"How are you still so cold?" Keith mused as he held on to Lance, who just shrugged.
"I don't know," he answered, not really wanting to talk about that. He just wanted to enjoy this, how he was sleepily pressed up against Keith, who was warm and steering them toward the front door, walking Lance inside the way Lance had once done for Keith.
"You shower first," Keith said, making plans. "Get warm."
"Ok," Lance agreed as Keith let them in, though he knew from experience that it wouldn't work. The house was quiet, empty without Hunk and Pidge there. The computer equipment hummed in the background, and Keith turned on the living room light. Lance watched him scanning the area, the way he figured a trained soldier would do. Even though they were safe here. Lance wasn't sure why, but it made him feel protected at the same time he felt sad for Keith as he wondered how many frightening places he'd been to where this kind of vigilance had been necessary. He found himself patting Keith's shoulder, which caused Keith to drop his perimeter check to consider Lance. He smiled a little guiltily once he realized that Lance had noticed what he'd been doing, but it lasted only a moment before his face softened into something else. Something Lance couldn't read so well.
Disappointingly, Keith let Lance go, separating from him so they could proceed to transition from beach to black tie. Lance felt chilled as soon as Keith took his hands from him. He didn't want to leave his side, wanted to keep contact with him and his warmth, which was working better than any shower, sweater, or blanket.
"Hey Keith," Lance called as Keith made his way toward the kitchen to start some coffee, but Lance wasn't sure what he wanted to say. It wasn't like he could call him over; they did have to get ready. But he felt so close to Keith right now after their day together. Keith turned back, his scarred cheek obscured by the angle and the shadows of the doorway. He looked so perfect. "Thanks," Lance said, suddenly unable to make eye contact. But Keith was just looking at him so intensely. "I'm really glad you came."
Keith grinned, obviously pleased, though the expression slipped from his face almost as quickly as it had appeared, transitioning into something darker, almost painful. Lance wished he could see it better, wished he knew what it meant. Everything felt so soft and delicate now in this twilight space. The house where neither of them lived but were welcome anyway. The past between them. Keith's gloved hands. Lance didn't know how to interpret it.
"Go on," Keith ordered, jerking his head down the hall as he ducked into the kitchen, breaking the moment that had been vibrating there like an electrical wire, charged and almost silently powerful. What did it mean?
Lance dragged himself into the shower, turning the water hot and stripping out of his salt-stiff, still-damp swimming trunks. He could no longer hear the silence of the house, had no idea how or where Keith was moving inside it. Such a strange place to be in. Not just the house, either. Lance felt completely off, out of place, but not really. Pacing around the edge of something or on the outside of something. The something being inevitable, but Lance didn't know what kind.
He washed his hair, digging in deep to remove all the grains of sand that were stuck in it. He could feel Keith's hands on his chest, around his waist, warm as the water that poured over him. He braced himself against the wall, letting it course down his back, tracing lines like Keith's knuckles. There's a scar there; Keith said. A physical mark.
If you don't tell him, I will.
Lance shut off the water, hurrying to towel himself dry before he started shivering, knowing he also had to hurry and make a decision about that. Pidge wouldn't be talked out of this, and Hunk wasn't even going to try. Lance made a mental pro / con list as he borrowed Hunk's huge, green terrycloth bathrobe to keep warm in as he shaved. Would it be better for Pidge to say it, so Lance could pretend that he didn't know what she was talking about? Or maybe she'd tell Keith when Lance wasn't even around so he wouldn't have to see the reaction. Could she at least be persuaded to do that?
Or should Lance just do it the way he'd decided he would more than once. Though it might be harder to do in person than over the phone. He thought back on what Hunk had told him, on how he and Keith had been with each other today. He rode a motorcycle over a thousand miles to see you, Lance. He held your wrist all the way home; no one made him do that. You shared tacos together and walked along the beach. He's in the kitchen right now making you coffee and making you feel more secure than you have in months. When was the last time you've felt this safe?
The truth was it had been years. And all the oddness of the empty house, the waning light, the percolating sound of the coffeemaker, the only true strangeness about all of it was how much it felt like Lance's home when he'd only been here a day and it wasn't his home. But his family was here with their boxes of wires and the Honda Shadow parked in front of the garage. He hadn't even seen the backyard yet, but the feel, scents, and sounds of the place were familiar. If he could gather the courage to talk to Keith before Pidge, this would be the best place to do it.
Something else familiar rose up immediately as Lance thought of actually following through. The fear. Followed just as quickly by voices in Lance's memory. You're making decisions for him. He's not rejecting you; you're rejecting yourself. You're pushing him away. It was so confusing.
Lance left the steamy bathroom, finished with that part of his getting ready process. He heard a kitchen cabinet door close as he entered the guest bedroom, still unsure what the best decision would be. So he focused on his hands, on their steadiness as he unzipped his suit bag, removing the pieces one at a time to lay out on the bed for inspection before he put them on. The trip from Chicago hadn't wrinkled them enough to worry about.
"Lance?" Keith called in as Lance was digging around in his suitcase for clean underwear. Keith knocked on the door and opened it partially, not letting himself in like Hunk did. Lance hurriedly covered his under clothes and pulled the bathrobe tightly closed.
"C-come in," he called, trying to figure out where to stand and what to do as Keith entered the bedroom with the promised coffee, feeling absurdly exposed even though he was practically drowning in the heavy bathrobe. In the end, there wasn't really anything Lance could do except stand awkwardly at the foot of the bed, one hand on his suitcase and the other gripping tightly to the bathrobe opening at his chest. Lance watched Keith take in the scene, pausing just for a second in the doorway, his sharp, violet eyes registering probably every detail of the space, fixing rather rigidly on Lance.
"Uh, here, coffee," Keith offered without much fanfare, handing over the mug so Lance was forced to move in order to take it. He decided to use both hands, considering how he'd handled the last coffee he'd been drinking in Keith's presence.
"Thanks," he managed, the warm scent of it a memory all on its own. An early winter morning. Keith wearing Lance's hoodie, younger, scrawnier, leaning against the hallway opening. Lance took an experimental sip and almost cried. It hadn't changed. Keith's coffee tasted just as perfect as it used to. "You make the best coffee," Lance exhaled, not caring how strange of a compliment that might be. Keith didn't seem to mind. He hunched his shoulders slightly, shoving his hands into his pockets, shaking his head and smiling at the floor. Tell him. Tell him now. Tell him you want him to always make the coffee, that you never want to be without him again. That you've been in love with him this whole time.
"Funny how you're the only person who's ever mentioned it," Keith tossed out, leaving his hands in his pockets. Lance took another mouthful, considering if this was a good or bad thing.
"Those undeserving bastards," Lance returned before he realized just what he'd said. No one deserves your coffee, Keith. Only I can appreciate it properly, appreciate and cherish you properly. No one will ever love you like I do. He chanced glancing at Keith over the rim of the mug, meeting his eyes just long enough to know that they'd made eye contact before Keith jerked his attention to the side.
"You're something else," Keith told him, and Lance had to smile. How long had it been since he'd heard Keith say that? "Go ahead and get dressed; I'll be in the shower."
He turned to go, still shaking his head.
"Keith, wait!" Lance called after him, taking an involuntary step forward to keep Keith with him longer. Keith paused, rotating to face Lance again, a questioning expression at the corners of his mouth. Tell him, tell him, tell him – Lance's heart beat insistently.
"What is it, Lance?" Keith asked, his hand on the doorframe, watching Lance curiously, expectantly. Lance felt his hands start shaking, so he hurriedly put down the mug on the bedside table. I can do this; I have to do this. He opened his mouth.
"I . . I, um," damn it; this wasn't working. What was wrong with him?
"Lance?"
"I have your birthday present," Lance fumbled, beginning to rummage in his suitcase for the package.
"Oh," Keith said flatly, then paused as he processed that. "You knew I would be here?"
"No," Lance said, forcing a laugh as he pulled the addressed envelope free. "But I didn't know how long I'd be away, and I hadn't had a chance to mail it before so . . . I just brought it along to mail from here, I guess. But hey! Now I can give it to you in person. So . . . here."
Lance handed over the envelope, which Keith took solemnly with both hands. He inspected it carefully, running his fingertips over it. Lance was reminded of how he would handle packages from Keith, alone in his bedroom at Stony Island, engaging in a similar sort of ceremony.
"Thank you," Keith said quietly. "Should I wait to?"
"No," Lance jumped in. "Go ahead and open it. It will be nice to watch you for once."
Keith's scar puckered slightly as he half smiled, tearing into the envelope carefully to avoid damaging the contents. He reached in, pulling out the dual language copy of La Vida es Sueño. He stroked it, reading the title, then opening it to the page Lance had marked where the soliloquy was written. Lance watched as Keith read it silently to himself, his lips moving just barely as he tried out the words. Lance couldn't tell which language he was reading.
"You liked listening to me say it so much I figured you should finally have your own copy," Lance explained his choice, why he'd picked it for Keith.
"Thank you," Keith repeated, closing the book and holding it to his chest with both hands. "Though I'm not sure me reading it will be quite as soothing."
Lance looked down, feeling heat rise in his face. He folded his arms tightly across his chest. He had enjoyed the compliment, though it confused the hell out of him. Did Keith mean that? Or what did he mean? Maybe he didn't like it. Should Lance ask? Should he walk over to Keith and …
"I'd better get going," Keith said, breaking the moment rather hurriedly. "Thanks again." He took the book and half bowed out the door, leaving Lance alone and bewildered in the aftermath. He felt like he'd missed an opportunity. Maybe his final opportunity. Something had slammed shut. Or was it that something was cracking apart? Or open? Lance picked up the coffee mug, needing something warm to hold onto, noting the slight tremor in his hands. The shower turned on, leaving Lance with nothing to do but finish getting ready himself.
He punctuated dressing with sips of the coffee, feeling conflicted. Could Keith . . had he been embarrassed by what he'd said about the soliloquy? Like he'd gone too far, or was Lance reading too much into things? Seeing things the way he wanted instead of as they really were? No – Keith had held Lance's wrist all the way home. He'd looked at Lance with an expectation when Lance had called him back into the room. He rode over a thousand miles to be here. There was something there – that unfinished question still wedged tight between them. One that Lance didn't think he could wait any longer to hear, even if that meant he had to guess at it himself. Even if that meant he was hoping too hard. Did he want to risk everything hoping too hard?
Lance heard the water turn off, heard doors opening and closing as Keith moved through the house. He buttoned on his cufflinks and secured his bowtie, giving Keith the opportunity to get into something other than a towel. Then he took a deep breath. Either you tell him, or I will. He just had to say it once. Get it out once. Make a decision and stick with it, and then somehow live with the consequences. Maybe they could be good.
Don't push him away. Don't make choices for him. Stop with the secrets. You're hurting people, and you don't want to be.
Lance tugged his suitcoat down, nervously smoothing his hands over it though there was no need. Right. One more time. Last chance. This was happening. He pictured Keith standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking at the floor, wearing Lance's hoodie. Lance kept that vision front and center in his mind as he quietly slipped into the hall, headed for the other bedroom where Keith was getting ready.
He lifted his hand, licking his lips and trying to get his breathing under control, knowing that if he choked this time there was nothing left to distract Keith with. No books or dropped calls, no pressing appointment except the one that Keith was driving him to. No more secrets. Either you tell him, or I will. You have until dinner. Yeah, I know. I'm doing it. I'm really going to do it this time. He held my wrist all the way home. But then Lance heard Keith already talking on the other side of the door, the intensity of his voice making Lance pause, feeling as though what was happening within shouldn't be interrupted.
"No, I haven't," Keith said to someone on the phone, clipping his words hard against his teeth. "Because I can't do it, Shiro. I can't believe I let everyone talk me into this; it was a horrible idea."
Lance's arm dropped to his side, suddenly frozen. What?
"No," Keith went on, though Lance couldn't hear what Shiro was saying. He was too focused on Keith's voice, how tight it was. Not mad, though it was still painful to hear. Lance knew he should walk away, right now, that he absolutely should not invade Keith's privacy this way. It wasn't right. This conversation was not meant for him, and yet, in a way, it was. It had the answers to questions Lance had carried for years. "He's – God, Shiro, he's so – I thought I . . I don't know what to do."
So . . . what? Keith, what? Lance unintentionally leaned closer, though he had no idea what he was going to do if Keith suddenly opened the door and caught him. Because Keith was talking about him; Lance knew it. Knew it as certainly as he knew he should walk away right now if he wanted to keep any shred of what they once had. He wouldn't be able to pretend anymore if he stayed and listened longer.
"I don't think so," Keith responded to another unheard question. "I should have . . . I don't know. No, I can't; I'm not – I'm trying, ok? I'll be on my way back in the morning. Yes, I'm sure. They're fine. I said they're fine. Look, I've got to go. I promised everyone I'd be at dinner, and I'm not going to make Lance late. He hates that. I'll call you before I get on the road tomorrow. No, I don't have a choice, not if I -"
Keith kept talking, but Lance had heard enough. More than enough. He drifted silently back to the guest room and sank down on the bed trying to process what had happened. Not just in the phone call but the whole day. He picked up the coffee mug but didn't have the heart to drink the last of it, knowing it had gone cold. He almost wished he had his notebook so he could put the last twenty-four hours into straight columns, sort it all out; except he didn't even know where to start.
He thought he should probably be grateful. Definitely grateful. He'd learned what Keith thought without having to expose himself, without having to take that final risk. But it just. Lance didn't understand. Keith rode all this way because everyone had talked him into it? Had Hunk and Pidge begged him to be there for Lance? Or maybe Allura had something to do with it. Were they trying to force Keith into spending time with him? A horrible idea, he'd said.
Lance didn't get it. The day at the beach. It had been such a beautiful day, full of comfort and sunshine and . . . had Keith really not enjoyed himself at all? Was it a chore to take Lance out? Every time he'd smiled, had Lance imagined the emotion behind it? And why would Keith tell Lance that he was going to stay as long as Lance wanted him to but then tell Shiro he was leaving in the morning? What had changed?
What did I do wrong? Lance started repeating in his head, sitting there completely motionless to give all his energy to the mental wheels racing in his brain. Was it spilling the coffee? Falling asleep on the way home? Leaving Keith behind to run into the waves? The book – had Keith not liked the book? Or was it . . . oh, no. Was it because Lance had gone too far? Maybe he'd given himself away without realizing it. Maybe Keith had figured out that Lance wanted more from him than he could give. That Lance loved him in a way that repulsed him. And why wouldn't he want to run away from that as soon as possible?
I don't know what to do.
Me either, Keith, Lance thought bitterly. They called each other and talked about trust and saving each other's lives and now he wanted to get on his motorcycle and ride back to Texas? Lance clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, as though the sun had never touched him all day. He didn't want to come see you. They talked him into it. You're nothing but a needy burden to him. He feels like he owes you something, a debt that he's trying to repay so he can finally leave. You're no different to him than Romelle.
Lance pulled his arm around his ribs, memories of conversations clashing against each other, a storm on the waves. You knew it would be like this, he reminded himself. You've known it all along; that's why you could never bring yourself to tell Keith anything. Because you knew this would happen. Hell, it was happening without Lance ever telling him anything! Because even without saying a word, he'd chased Keith away.
Except he was knocking on Lance's door again. Still here, for now. Lance thought that might actually be worse than if Keith hadn't shown up at all. Now Lance had to spend the rest of the evening with him, knowing that he thought it had been a terrible idea to come. Knowing that he wanted to be anywhere but here. That he wanted to run. That he'd disappear in the morning, maybe for good this time. How was Lance supposed to go along with the plan now? Even for Pidge. God, Pidge – he had to tell Pidge. Quickly before she had a chance to –
"Lance?" Keith called in, opening the door slightly since Lance hadn't responded to the knock. Lance couldn't believe it. Keith's voice, the way he said Lance's name. Like the phone call had never happened. Like he actually cared about him. How did he even do that? But that's what he'd been doing this whole time; that's why Lance had held on so long. Because Keith was so good at making it seem like Lance was important to him. He'd gone back and forth on believing it ever since they'd met. "Ready to go?"
Tell him to go to hell, the bitterest part of Lance suggested, so he pressed his knuckles against his mouth to keep himself from making any noise. Nothing he said right now could help the situation, and he wasn't being at all fair. Keith didn't even know that Lance had heard him speaking to Shiro. And even though he knew it was stupid, Lance still didn't want Keith to leave. And he knew that if he said anything right now, it would drive him off faster. Maybe immediately.
"Lance?" Keith's voice was louder as he opened the door a little more, full of question now. Lance had his back to him, but he felt a shift as Keith suddenly rushed into the room, coming to Lance's side. "Lance! What's wrong?"
The way Keith asked the question tore something inside Lance, cleanly, sharply, and it was almost a relief. One flash of indescribable pain and then . . . nothing. Everything just shut off and blanked out. Like the whirring gears of his mind had reached a peak of centripetal force and slipped right off the tracks, leaving him completely and coldly numb. He stared up at Keith from the bed, one hand still against his mouth and the other around his ribs, unable to do much of anything except look up in slack bewilderment. Keith had his hands on Lance's shoulders, talking to him earnestly but Lance had to put effort into understanding him.
"Calling Pidge," Keith was saying when Lance pulled it together enough to tune in. He had no idea what had just happened to him. What had broken or how long it would last.
"What?" Lance asked, feeling removed from the situation. Like he was watching someone else sitting on the bed with Keith's hands on them. Like he was somewhere far away. Which wasn't good; he had to pull it together. Quit acting like a zombie. Except zombies don't have feelings, and having a missing emotional response sounded like the way to go right now. Except Keith seemed to be having trouble with Lance's behavior, which was tugging at something behind his ribcage in a strange way. I don't know what to do.
"I said I'm calling Pidge," Keith repeated forcefully, pulling his cell phone from his pocket. Lance took an absurd moment to admire Keith as he stood straight. Completely fascinated by how amazing Keith looked. He'd never seen Keith dressed in his military uniform before, but it was enough to leave him breathless. The crisp creases of the navy-colored fabric, the stripes, the tailored fit. The wings near Keith's shoulder indicating his position as a pilot. The black gloves exchanged for white. It was glorious and sensual, completely impossible and terrible. Wait, did he say he was going to call Pidge?
"Why?" Lance managed, still taking in the details of the uniform. He felt like he'd taken a blow to the head or something. Nothing was making much sense here, and he couldn't bring himself to feel much about it. All his emotion burned off in one catalytic flash leaving nothing but ashes and the tiniest puff of smoke to suggest that anything had ever been lit there. Why was Keith even acting like this? Like he was worried? It was shorting Lance out. He didn't know what to do with it. He wanted to enjoy it. He wanted to push Keith away from him for being so convincingly dishonest. I thought we were friends.
"Because we're staying here," Keith explained. "You're obviously not up for any more extracurricular activities."
What a weird day. Before, ridiculously less than an hour ago, Lance would have enjoyed the thought of staying home with Keith tonight. Now he didn't think he could stand even the car ride to the faculty club. He couldn't stand to have Keith looking at him like this. Or, maybe he could now, he kind of couldn't feel anything. How did Keith even do that, though? Look like he cared? Look like he didn't want to pack up his things and ride out of here? It was equally fascinating and horrifying. And everyone kept talking to Lance about his lack of trust. It seemed pretty justified to him right this second.
"No, wait," Lance said, trying to figure things out in his head at the same time he was trying to keep up with what was happening in real life. "Dinner is mandatory." Pidge had said that at least three times. She'd kill them if they didn't turn up. But maybe Lance wanted that. No.
"She'll understand," Keith responded, so Lance did the only thing he could and took the phone out of Keith's hands, noticing the slight wince as he ripped it free of his grip. Lance hadn't noticed that he'd stood up, standing inches apart from Keith by the bed. He could smell his aftershave, which threatened to distract him all over again, his body reacting to Keith's proximity in a way that his mind knew was wrong and yet couldn't prevent.
"She said it's mandatory," Lance repeated, realizing for the first time since he'd returned to this room that he sounded like a mental patient. That he was completely different from the person Keith had left here when he went to shower, the person who had given Keith a birthday gift, and Keith was misinterpreting it as a physical problem. If Lance didn't want to end up with a lot of unwanted medical attention, he was going to have put on some kind of act – force himself to respond in a normal way. Like Keith was doing. Like he'd been doing this whole time. "She'd kill me if I skipped this."
"Lance, stop. You don't have to push so hard. If you need to rest -."
"I'm fine," Lance scoffed, his voice hardening. "There's no reason we can't go."
Something that looked very close to rage tightened Keith's mouth. Lance watched his Adam's apple dip, and something twitch near his eye. So that's what it looked like when Keith thought Lance was lying to him. Yeah, well, Keith had started it. He even still had the audacity to look concerned. How did he do that?
"Lance, not thirty seconds ago you were looking at me like you'd never seen me before, you haven't stopped shaking since we got home, and you're trying to convince me you're fine? There's no point in lying; I'm looking right at you."
Hypocrite, Lance's subconscious snapped. You're the one not telling the truth. You're the one keeping something from me. Telling Hunk and Pidge to keep secrets from me.
"You don't have to believe me," Lance tossed out, surprisingly cold. "You don't even have to go if you don't want to. I'll drive myself."
Lance pivoted away, probably too quickly to make his point, and started unsteadily making his way toward the front door where Keith had left the car keys. If Keith didn't want to be with him, fine. He wasn't going to make him. He'd just go where he was wanted. Where his real family was waiting for him, the ones who had been there before Keith and the ones who would remain with him after Keith ran away. But this time Lance wanted to run away first. Get Keith out of his line of sight and out of his life, and please, God, out of his memories.
But just like always, it proved impossible to walk away from Keith. He darted forward, quick, well-trained, and agile, barricading the bedroom door with his body, planting his palms against the doorframe.
"Ok," he said, visibly trying to diffuse the situation. Lance hadn't noticed when his emotions had turned back on and was surprised that the one coming up strongest was anger. He paused in front of Keith, unable to push past him and also unable to look at him. Unable to handle how beautiful he was and how Lance would never be with him. He wanted to hold on to the numbness from before, pull it over his shoulders like a coat.
"Ok," Keith repeated, sounding oddly out of breath. "If it's that important to you, we'll go. But seriously, Lance, what's going on?"
Lance did his best to straighten up, stop slouching like a coward. There was a momentary stab to his gut as he locked eyes with Keith, but he refused to back down here. You liar, he accused in his head. So many lies. Except he couldn't actually see any in Keith's face. There was nothing but honest and earnest care woven in the violet. It didn't make any sense. And it hurt.
"Nothing," Lance said because it was true. There was nothing going on. Just a broken wish. An overheard truth. Keith closed his eyes, a look of pained impatience on his face. "Can we go?"
"Not until you tell me the truth," Keith demanded, and Lance almost laughed at him. He wanted Lance to tell the truth? Now?
"Maybe you should start?" Lance invited, proud of how strong his voice came out, though Keith's reaction came as a surprise. He flinched out of the doorway into the hall as though Lance had physically pushed him, his hands coming together near his chest, the left one cradling the right. Guilty. Frightened. Yeah, that's right; I heard you. Heard how you don't want to be here. How you can't stand to be with me. How our relationship is one huge lie.
"Lance," Keith struggled with his name, and Lance's anger cooled. He wasn't being fair. Keith had done so much for him, tried so hard. He'd been there for Lance when he needed him, when he'd truly needed him. Why shouldn't he be exhausted from all that Lance asked of him? From maintaining that hard line between the friendship that Keith expected and the romance that Lance unknowingly continued to suffocate him with? You're pushing him away, Allura said. Yeah, just not the way you thought I was.
Lance sighed, leaning against the doorframe now that Keith was standing in the hall. Don't do this, he told himself. Not tonight. You've kept it up this long, what's a few more hours? Leave it alone, and he'll be gone in the morning. There's no need to make him say it, is there?
"Or maybe," Lance said, voice extremely quiet but still easily heard in the crushing silence that sat heavy between them. "For Pidge's and Hunk's sake, we put all this on the back burner and talk about it later?" He said it like he meant it, like he had every intention of returning to this discussion after they came back from dinner. Like he believed they actually would.
Keith straightened in relief, his limbs tucking into the automatic comfort of parade rest, seemingly ready to go along with Lance's suggestion. Though after a couple of seconds uncertainty returned to his face.
"You're sure you're ok enough to do this?" Keith checked one last time. Lance pulled himself to his full height, wishing he had more control over the shaking. He'd been cold so long that he could no longer tell when he was or wasn't shivering.
"If you are," he returned, to which Keith simply nodded.
"I guess," Keith said, pausing to breathe. "Guess we should get going then."
"Guess so," Lance answered. Keith nodded, his mouth sealed shut. They went single file to the front door, and Lance had just grasped the knob in his hand to open it when Keith made a sound behind him. The universal gasp of someone who had just remembered something.
"Keith?" Lance turned, wondering what else could possibly happen before they made it to the faculty club. He wanted to get there, to not be so alone with Keith anymore. They needed the buffer of Hunk and Pidge between them, and he couldn't wait to put it there.
"Hang on," Keith instructed, hesitantly returning to the kitchen. "I almost forgot something."
"In the kitchen?" Lance asked after him, determined to keep this light, as unawkward as possible, to not fall apart. He started after Keith, curiosity getting the better of him, but Keith was already on his way back to the entryway before Lance made it more than a couple steps. He had a clear plastic container in his hand, sort of like the ones at the grocery store that held individual slices of cake. Except it wasn't anything edible in this one. Keith popped it open, removing a fresh, bright red, carnation boutonniere.
"I got this for you," Keith told him, taking it carefully from the container but then seeming at a loss of what to do with it after that. He moved as though he were going to pin it to Lance's lapel himself, but then paused and gestured as though he were going to hand it to Lance instead. Then he changed his mind about all of it, second guessing himself about pulling it from the fridge at all. "But maybe red isn't the best color for your tie."
Lance held his breath, willing himself not to cry. Keith bought him a flower to wear tonight? When? What the hell was up with that? He watched Keith reach for the container and moved to stop him without thinking. He didn't know why, but he wanted it. They were pretending tonight, after all. Pretending everything was perfect between them. And the flower was every piece of perfection.
"No," Lance said, shifting so Keith would have easy access to his buttonhole. "It's perfect."
"Can I?" Keith asked permission to put it on, and Lance melted a little on the inside. Even though he knew better, he couldn't help but enjoy the awkward charm of this. Keith, you have no idea what you're doing to me. It's awful. It's exquisite.
"Please," Lance agreed. "Thank you."
Keith cleared his throat and made a slight motion that seemed as though he were squaring his shoulders. He had his lips parted a bit in concentration as he began the unfamiliar task of securing the boutonniere. He fumbled a bit as he pulled free the pin that had come with it. Lance was surprised to see any clumsiness at all in Keith's hands. Of course, he was still wearing gloves.
"You don't need that," Lance said, nodding to the pin, trying to help him. Allura would have a fit if she knew that Lance had allowed a florist's pin to pierce the fabric of this suit. She never skimped on anything, which meant that the lapel had a functioning buttonhole and a traditional boutonniere latch on the inside of it. "Just slip the stem into the hole and through the loop on the other side."
"Ok," Keith acknowledged the plan, stiffly working through the instructions. Lance could smell his toothpaste on his breath as he bent over Lance's chest, securing the carnation tight against Lance's heart. Lance inhaled as deep as he could, standing very still. He wished he had something to give Keith in return, even though he hadn't even thought of it and there wasn't a place to put anything like a flower on Keith's Air Force uniform. Though, now that Lance was looking at it, at the place where Keith could have worn a flower if he hadn't joined the military, Lance noticed that something was missing.
"Keith, where are your medals?" Lance wondered out loud. Keith didn't answer right away, so Lance asked an easier question. "Do you have them with you?"
"Yes," Keith answered as though Lance had dragged the word out of him at gunpoint. "But I'm not wearing them."
Lance thought he should let that go. They weren't well balanced right now and any kind of push could ruin everything. Except it was technically already ruined. So why the hell not?
"I'd still like to see them," Lance said, the statement more a request. Keith's teeth clicked as he took a step back from Lance. This was something else Lance didn't understand. Keith had earned them; they were special. Lance couldn't grasp why he'd want to keep them hidden, carrying them around with him all the time without ever letting anyone see that he had them. It made no sense. But nowadays there wasn't much about Keith and his behavior that did make sense, really.
"Right now?" Keith asked, reminding Lance that they had somewhere to be. Something they had just fought about and something they couldn't be late to. Lance decided not to go any farther with this. The timing wasn't right, and he'd already stressed Keith out enough. He opened his mouth to let Keith know that they could just go; they probably didn't have time anyway and he shouldn't have said anything. He was shocked when Keith gave in. "Fine. Hang on."
Keith darted for the bedroom, and Lance wondered if he were rushing because they actually were running out of time before they were late or if he were hurrying before he changed his mind about it. Lance waited beside the door, too tangled up inside to move. Pretending, he reminded himself. We're pretending. But they were doing it so well.
This time Keith returned with a different sort of box. Still small, though not plastic and not clear. This one was black and flocked, like the box that came with the rose pendant Lance had bought Allura. Keith nonchalantly handed the box to Lance for his inspection, but there was something in the hand off that made Lance receive the case with both hands. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he could sense that Keith was conflicted about the contents of this. An uncomfortable mix of pride and shame.
Keith kept silent as Lance lifted the lid, pushing against the spring that kept it tightly closed. The inside was split into two compartments, each one lined in satin. On the left was the Purple Heart. On the right was the Distinguished Flying Cross. Lance wasn't sure if he were even allowed to do this, but he took the cross from the box before handing it back to Keith. The medal weighed more than he expected it to. He thought of all Keith had done. All the pain and sacrifice, and suddenly the medal weighed much less than the thought of all that had gone into it.
For the first time since they'd come back from the beach, Lance acted without hesitation. He undid the clasp and lifted his hands towards Keith's chest. Keith took a step backward at first, but then held still for Lance to pin the medal on. Lance noticed a tremor in Keith's breathing now that he was so close to his heart. He noticed the tiny pricks in the uniform where someone else had pinned the medal, probably the day that Keith had received it, and used those as a guide for where it was supposed to go.
Once the cross was in place, Lance went for the Purple Heart, but Keith snapped the box closed on him before he could touch it.
"No," Keith said, very simply, but Lance understood. He was only going to be allowed to get away with so much here, and the Purple Heart was not up for discussion. Lance didn't understand, but at least for this, he didn't think he needed to. He nodded to Keith, at least understanding that Keith didn't want to wear it and there was nothing Lance could do to talk him into it. In fact, Keith was already gone – disappeared to the bedroom to replace the box from where he'd retrieved it. Lance saw him give himself a shake as he walked down the hallway back to him. Lance took hold of the doorknob again as Keith picked up the car keys.
"You good?" Keith checked one more time, looking Lance up and down. Lance did the same thing, taking in Keith in his uniform, the shine of the medal against his chest, the polish on his boots. Everything exactly in place. He felt like he might cry again; he could feel his lip trembling a little.
Meanwhile, he heard Keith start laughing, so he looked up to see what could possibly be funny, ready for a distraction.
"What?" Lance demanded. Keith shook his head, gesturing to Lance and then to himself.
Keith shrugged it off. "Just remembering the last time we were both dressed up," he said quietly. "Do you remember what you said?"
Lance looked inward, searching for that memory. The last time he and Keith had been dressed up, together and at the same time. The last time that had happened it was Keith who had worn the suit and Lance had been in uniform. Keith had been the weak one, burning with fever and unable to stand up on his own. And Lance had . . . Lance had said. . . He smiled, remembering.
"I said the next time we get dressed up we should make sure we're going to a better party."
Keith grinned at him, his face wide open and expressive for just an instant before he toned it back down. "Does this count?" He asked.
"Compared to where we were going last time, yeah, I would say this definitely counts," Lance shot back, though he wasn't sure he felt it. He didn't feel as though he were going to a party. It didn't feel like anything. Everything special about this day had ended when the sun went down. When he'd heard Keith talking to Shiro. And he didn't think that any carnation could fix that. "Let's go," Lance invited, leading the way out of the house.
Keith locked it up behind them, then went so far as to open Lance's car door. Lance wished he'd stop doing things like that. He wasn't sure what to do about it, how to feel about it. Didn't know why Keith bothered with it in the first place. Opening Lance's door. Buying him a flower. Holding his wrist. Tricking him into thinking that he cared.
Lance placed his arm on the center console of the car carefully as Keith put the car in drive. He put it exactly as it had been when they'd driven back from the beach. He didn't know why; it didn't make sense for him to torture himself that way, but he wanted to put it where Keith could reach him. See if he would touch him again. See if Keith would initiate something like that when he didn't have to wake Lance from a nightmare. Lance put himself into position, and then had the audacity to feel hurt and slighted when Keith never touched him at all for the entire drive. He didn't even have a good explanation for why he kept setting himself up to be hurt.
They didn't talk. Keith concentrated on the road while Lance went back and forth between studying Keith's profile and then tearing his attention away before Keith noticed he was staring. They drove out of Hunk and Pidge's neighborhood with Keith pointing out certain houses that had done exceptionally well on their Halloween decorations.
It took less than fifteen minutes before they arrived at Caltech, but to Lance it felt much longer than that. He continued to be astonished at how much the car had changed. How much colder it was, how awkward and dark. Keith parked on Hill Street, as close to the Athenaeum as he could get so Lance wouldn't have too far to walk. He managed to beat Lance out of the car and was already to the passenger side just as Lance was standing up, ready to steady him in case he needed help transitioning from the car to the sidewalk. Lance hated that he did, though he didn't feel Keith tense up at all as he allowed Lance to catch his balance against him. He even kept one hand against Lance's lower back as he guided him down the street a ways, through an opening in a cement wall, and up a series of stairs to a full parking lot.
"Hunk said they'd meet us in the lobby," Keith informed Lance, keeping his pace slow and easy as they approached the large, white building. Lance tilted his head at the Athenaeum, a little surprised. It looked, well, like all the other campus buildings, with the exception of the huge, stone, columned arches along the western side. Although what it lacked in elegance, it made up for in academic weight. Albert Einstein had eaten here. Stephen Hawking and Richard Feynman too.
Lance smiled to himself. And Hunk and Pidge.
The differences between the Hunk and Pidge from this morning and the ones who waited in the lobby could be seen half a football field away, and the closer Keith and Lance walked towards them, the more Lance could make out.
They'd changed their clothes for one thing. Both of them now wore black suits they'd rented from Friar Tux. Lance shook his head. Of course, Pidge would wear a man's tuxedo and absolutely rock the look. That part wasn't surprising. He was surprised to see her hair pulled into a French twist, though. He wondered who'd done that for her; there was no way she could do it on her own. The best difference was how much more relaxed they seemed now that the symposium had concluded. All the talks over, no more slides to show. The bus safely on its way back to Scripps.
Hunk waved good naturedly at them when he noticed their arrival. Pidge caught sight of them two seconds after and her face lit up. But when Keith and Lance joined them, Lance noticed little furrows crease her brow as she studied their body language, obviously not seeing what she wanted to see. So Lance hadn't committed emotional suicide by confessing to Keith. She should know better. Didn't she already know that Keith didn't want to be here? Or maybe he'd convinced her too.
"Hey guys," Hunk greeted them, lowering his waving hand so he could fist bump Keith on the shoulder. "Did you have a good day?"
"Yeah," Lance answered for them both. Despite what had happened after, he had to admit that the day had been beautiful. "I haven't been to a beach in a long time."
"Lot of good it did you. You're still the palest Cuban I've ever seen," Pidge quipped.
"Illinois will do that," Lance shot back, and she held out her hands, palms out, surrendering. "What about you two? Everything go ok?"
"Smooth as buttercream frosting," Hunk said, nodding in a blissful kind of way. Probably daydreaming about a baked vehicle for buttercream frosting.
"Fortunately, we sacrificed enough sanity in the prep work that the actual event went off without a hitch," Pidge explained. "Which means – it's time to celebrate!"
"Yeah, let's go in," Hunk added, reaching as though he were going to sling his arm around Lance's shoulders. Lance ducked, not quite ready.
"You guys go ahead," Lance said, noticing two words into it that there was an echo in his voice. Someone had spoken alongside him. Oh. He looked down at Pidge. She'd said the exact same thing at the exact same time. She raised an eyebrow at him as they turned toward each other.
"I need to talk to you," both Pidge and Lance said together, speaking in unison again. Hunk blinked at them while Keith also stared incredulously. Lance wondered what the odds were on what they'd just done. So much for being subtle, though.
"Wow, in stereo," Hunk drawled, but quickly flung his arm around Keith's shoulders instead of Lance's, not missing a beat. "Must be important. We'll see you inside then."
"Strawberry lemonades for everyone, Hunk," Pidge instructed as they walked away to the dining area. "We'll just be a minute." Hunk gave her a thumbs up to indicate he heard her, not turning back. Pidge watched them until they disappeared behind a wall with an enormous woven tapestry hung on it. Then she grabbed Lance roughly by the arm and dragged him over to an alcove set beside a large, roped-off staircase.
"What the hell happened?" She demanded immediately. "I gave you all day. You had every opportunity in the world and you two still come in here like your parents made you take each other to your freshman homecoming."
Lance's eyes filled up with sudden, furious tears. How dare she? What did she know? Lance had tried. But what good was it going to do for him to pour his heart out when all Keith wanted to do was leave? Why would she even ask him to do something like that?
"This isn't a movie, Pidge, what did you expect?" Lance demanded in a low, quivering hiss. "Us to show up holding hands? You think he'd ever kiss me in public? Kiss me at all? Because I'm telling you, that's never going to happen!"
"Did you give him the option?" Pidge countered, and Lance bowed his head. Of course, he hadn't. Didn't she understand that he couldn't? That it wouldn't do any good? "You didn't, did you?"
"I can't, Pidge," Lance protested, wondering how she always made him feel like she was taller than him. "There's no point. He said he's leaving in the morning."
"What?" Pidge chirped. This was obviously news to her.
"He also said that coming here was a horrible idea," Lance continued, spreading out all his evidence for why keeping his feelings to himself would be advantageous to his emotional survival.
"He did not say that," Pidge said, shaking her head and folding her arms. Lance could see her mind racing. "He really said that to you?"
"Not to me, no," Lance admitted reluctantly. "But I heard him saying it to Shiro on the phone."
Pidge relaxed immediately. "Oh. I get it. That makes more sense."
"What? Sense?" Lance felt his grip on the situation loosening every second. "Pidge, did you hear me? He doesn't want to be here."
"You're making a lot of assumptions. As usual," Pidge quipped, and Lance felt his mouth drop open in confused astonishment. How could he make assumptions on that? Keith flat out said it! "Never mind; I'll take care of it."
Lance's mouth went bone dry, and he started stammering. "No, no, no, no, nope, no! Pidge, please, come on." He wrapped his arm around his chest – all this drama was making his ribs ache. Plus he hoped that the pressure would help him get his breathing back to a normal rate. "Just don't."
"I like your flower," she complimented, as if she'd just noticed it, so infuriatingly calm. "Keith give it to you?"
"Pidge," Lance hissed at her. Don't change the subject; don't mess with me. Just tell me you aren't going to tell Keith anything. We're pretending tonight. Give me this one last night, for the love of God. I'm never going to see him again after tomorrow.
"And I saw that you finally got him to wear his Flying Cross. You think just anyone could have done that?"
"Pidge," Lance panted. What was she getting at? What was she torturing him for? "Promise me you won't say anything."
Her eyebrows drew together, having the nerve to look wounded. She reached over to pat him on the arm, but ended up frowning with both her hands on him as if she could keep him from falling down. He clenched his teeth shut and pretended he didn't notice the agonized tear that had just leaked out of his eye.
"Lance," Pidge began, her tone completely different than it had been a second ago. Lance recognized her best effort to be soothing. "Hey, take it easy. There's no need to hyperventilate. Do you need to sit down?"
Yes, he wanted to sit down. Or get down on his knees to beg her properly. He was getting dizzy.
"Excuse me?" A suited member of the Athenaeum staff interrupted their conversation before Lance could get Pidge to promise. "Is everything all right?"
"Could we get a glass of water?" Pidge asked, tugging Lance around to the stairs and deftly unclipping the velvet rope that sequestered them from use so Lance could sit down. He clung to her hands, not wanting to move away from the point at the heart of this. He wasn't going to let her go until she'd sworn silence.
"Right away," the waitress said, hurrying out of sight.
"Lance," Pidge ordered, pulling one of her hands free so she could place it along the side of his face. She was warm. He wanted to lean into her. She'd be here tomorrow. She'd never leave him. "Lance, look at me."
He did what he was told, completely overwhelmed by all the emotions he'd thought had shattered tonight. Guess that fire hadn't gone out after all because it was burning like ice deep in his chest. God, it hurt.
"Please," he whimpered, and Pidge closed her eyes as though she couldn't bear to look at him anymore. And he knew he was nine kinds of pathetic, sitting here in the low lights of this prestigious faculty club, crying on the stairs of all places.
"Here," the Athenaeum girl said, returning with a brimming glass of ice water in record time. She crouched effortlessly next to Lance, offering him the drink. He was shaking too hard to trust himself to take it from her. "Should I call for an ambulance?"
"No," Lance said quickly, though how he was going to explain was a mystery to him. He hadn't meant to draw this much attention. He just wanted Pidge to keep her mouth shut. He hadn't known it would cause a breakdown in the attempt.
"It's low blood sugar," Pidge piped in, lying so smoothly that Lance wondered about it. "Looks like we waited just a little too long to come get dinner."
"Oh," the girl acknowledged, like she was suddenly in a situation that she understood. She dashed to the front desk, coming back in just a few seconds with several wrapped mints in her hand. "Will these help?" She asked, genuinely trying to be of service. Lance just wished she'd go away.
"Yes," Pidge accepted, holding out her hand. "That ought to perk him up so we can get him fed. Thank you."
"If you need anything else -" the employee began, but Pidge had finished with her a while ago.
"We'll definitely ask. I imagine we'll be headed into the dining room in another minute. Thanks so much."
There was another moment of hesitation, but Pidge stared the girl down until she left. Then she turned her burning hazel gaze back to Lance, mints in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Lance tried to swallow. This was getting ridiculous, and Pidge's patience was just about gone. He didn't blame her.
"Do you need the mints or the water first?" Pidge asked him, with that kind of coldness that let Lance know that she was actually getting worried about him. This was not how he'd planned for this conversation to go.
"Neither," he assured her, but that didn't seem to work. She shoved the water glass at him in such a way that he had no choice but to take it. And then he had to take several drinks from it to get it to a certain level where he felt safe in not spilling any since his hands were still shaking. By the time he lowered the glass from his mouth, Pidge had unwrapped a mint for him and poked it past his lips without his consent.
"Hey," he grunted at her from around the sweet.
"Serves you right," she huffed at him. He bowed his head as more tears gummed up his vision. He tucked the mint to the side of his mouth, trying to keep up with swallowing. Yeah, he thought. It probably did. He leaned his head against the bars of the stairwell even though it wasn't very comfortable. He heard Pidge sigh in front of him.
"Please don't say anything," Lance begged one more time. He was so tired.
"Give me some credit," Pidge almost growled. But he felt her soften, then felt her hand again on the side of his face. He opened his eyes to look at her, hoping that she could understand him without his having to talk. They used to be so good at that. "Lance, when have I ever done anything intentionally to hurt you?"
He searched her eyes, confused by the question. All she had to do was say that she wouldn't expose him. What was so hard about that? Her eyes were earnest and caring, full of the love that she wasn't that great at putting into words. He took a deep breath, calming down, relaxing into the knowledge that Pidge did care about him. Very much.
"Never," he acknowledged. Sure, she teased him and sometimes made jokes at his expense, just like Veronica or Marco. But there had never been a time since they'd met that she hadn't acted in his best interest. That she had done anything at all that would cause him pain.
"Then trust me that I won't do anything tonight either," she said, and Lance figured that was as close to a promise as he was going to get.
"Thank you," he said shakily, sniffling in the aftermath. Pidge shook her head, taking the water glass so Lance could stand up. She took the liberty of tucking the rest of the mints into Lance's pants pocket.
"Can we go in or do you need some more time?" Pidge asked him, monitoring the strength of his posture. He took several deep breaths, the mint cooling each one so that it shivered into his lungs.
"Let's go," Lance said. Pidge took his hand, leading him to the maître d' at the entrance to the dining room, a large, intimidating woman with glasses and gray hair. She politely stopped them to ask if they had a reservation, to which Pidge gave her satisfactory answers and was allowed to tug Lance past the desk and into the dining room.
Or, rather, dining rooms. There seemed to be several, each with its own set of tapestries and old paintings. Pidge walked right past the courtyard, an open seating area where Lance had seen the arches with huge swaths of peach-colored fabric hanging from the ceiling and tall, outdoor propane heaters spaced evenly throughout the tables even though it was much too warm outside to light them yet. No one seemed to be sitting in this area, but there were several parties behind the large glass windows to their right in another large and long room full of crown moulding and very dark carpeting. On their way through, Pidge passed a waiter on his way back to the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes, and she paused him just long enough to add Lance's water glass to his collection.
Lance was just thinking to himself that this place was much larger inside than it appeared on the outside when Pidge dodged left into yet another tucked away dining area, this one equipped with a long buffet table, more tapestries, and dark green curtains drawn against the dark outside. The lights were on, but low along the walls. The only place truly well-lit was the end of the buffet where two men in white stood ready to carve portions of tri-tip and pork roast. It had been a while since Lance had last eaten somewhere like this.
Pidge made her way toward a table in the corner, but this room seemed to be full of people who knew her, so they made their way slowly as Pidge had to stop every few seconds to acknowledge someone who called to her, congratulating her on the successful event.
"Holy crow, Pidge," Lance said as he watched her smile and wave at what could have been a faculty member. "Are you wearing lipstick?" He couldn't believe that he'd just noticed, but the lighting in here made the shimmer on her mouth more obvious. She unconsciously pursed her lips together, hiding the stain.
"Sunny made me," she offered as an excuse. "She's the one who did this to my hair too." She gestured at the twist, but carefully as though afraid she'd accidentally ruin it if she touched it.
"It looks great," Lance told her, and Pidge gave him a half smile, but there was some sadness in it. And this time Lance could read her eyes. She wanted to tell him that he looked good too, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Because he didn't, and he'd know if she lied to him. Fortunately, by this time they were close to the table for Hunk and Keith to notice them. Hunk had seated himself in the corner, so he didn't have the space to do much but wave at them again, but Keith took one look at Lance and jerked out of his seat. Lance saw Keith scan him rapidly, his face somber as Lance and Pidge joined them at the table. He pulled out Lance's chair for him, and Lance bit his tongue.
"You ok?" Keith whispered, bending down behind Lance as he sat down. He helped scoot the chair into the table, then rested a hand on Lance's shoulder, still speaking close to Lance's ear. "You're shaking pretty bad."
"It's cold in here," Lance replied absently, not knowing what else to say, not understanding how to respond to how Keith was treating him. He almost wished he wouldn't be so nice; somehow, that would be easier. He stared at the table, the fresh white cloth covering it, the green book-like menus, the basket of bread and the four identical goblets of strawberry lemonade.
"It really isn't," Keith corrected, taking a seat on Lance's left while Pidge settled on his right. She put her head close to Hunk's, probably whispering an update to him. "Look, if you're not feeling well, I can take you home. No one will mind."
"No," Lance denied. For all that he was worried about Pidge saying something to Keith, the idea of leaving sounded worse. He wanted to stay. "Food should help," he offered as some kind of explanation and remedy. Keith didn't look convinced, but he offered Lance the menu in compromise.
"It's so cool to finally get in here," Hunk said as Lance and Keith tuned back in to everyone at the table. Hunk looked around, visibly impressed by the old portraits. There was a bust of a man sitting on a column near the door, but Lance had no idea who he was and didn't think anyone else here did either. Hunk lifted his strawberry lemonade. "A toast," he invited, and Lance hesitantly smiled.
"What?" Pidge goaded him, though she was smiling too.
"Don't ruin it," Hunk shushed her. "What's the point of having a fancy glass like this if there's no toast?"
"Fine, but what are we toasting?" Pidge asked, rolling her eyes, but somehow affectionately. She'd picked up her glass at this point too. "The end of the symposium?"
"Um," Hunk thought for a minute. "How about to us all being together again?"
"I'll drink to that," Lance muttered, but only Keith heard him. If only it could last.
"Yeah," Pidge agreed, holding her glass more formally. "To the S. T. A. R. reunion."
"Here, here," Keith said, going along with it. He picked up his lemonade, reaching forward with it to, carefully, clink glasses with Hunk and Pidge. Lance followed, first with Hunk, then Pidge, then turning slightly toward Keith.
"To you," Keith whispered, and this time only Lance heard him. He barely touched his glass to Lance's, then lifted it to his mouth to take a drink. Lance froze, torturously confused. What the hell was Keith trying to do to him?
"You're supposed to take a drink, Lance," Pidge reminded him.
"Oh, right," he said, catching up to real time. He took a sip and realized why the Athenaeum prided themselves on their lemonade. It really was amazing.
For the next few minutes, they all studied the menu, though when Hunk decided on the buffet, everyone else picked that too. Lance moved to stand up in order to follow them over to the long table, but Keith put his hand on Lance's arm to stop him.
"Stay here," he ordered gently, his eyes softly gray in the dim light. "I've got you."
For a second, Lance thought about protesting, but saw the sense in staying behind. There'd be no way he could spill anything if he kept still at the table. Might as well keep the embarrassment at a minimum.
"Ok," he agreed, though he felt ridiculous. "Thanks."
"You bet," Keith said, and then he was gone, leaving Lance utterly bewildered. He felt trapped in a strange kind of dream. Some things were blurred and fuzzy while others were too sharp in contrast. You're pretending, he reminded himself. But then why did everything have to feel so real? And what was he supposed to do about it?
Keith came back, bringing with him a plate so piled with food that Lance wondered for a second if he meant for them to share it. But no, he had his own, filled much more modestly.
"Whoa," Lance exclaimed as Keith set it down in front of him.
"I didn't know what you'd like, so I just got some of everything," Keith explained, resuming his seat. Hunk and Pidge were back too, sitting down and unfolding their napkins.
"You know there's no way I can possibly eat all this, right?" Lance asked, but Keith just shrugged at him.
"Do your best," he said, almost a challenge.
The atmosphere eased a little as everyone started eating. From time to time, people would come up to Hunk or Pidge to talk to them about the symposium. Lance learned that only those students who had been particularly involved in the preparations had been invited to dinner tonight. Sunny was here, along with about half a dozen of her undergraduate comrades. Only a few students were here, but almost all of the speakers who weren't from Scripps had been asked to stick around, including the keynote speaker. Pidge had convinced him to come, though she admitted that they'd had to change the presentation order to accommodate his tardiness. She said it offhandedly, as though it wasn't a big deal at all, as if she'd forgotten how it had almost unhinged her earlier this morning. Some people came by to shake Keith's hand and thank him for his service.
They talked about the symposium, and the beach. They talked what they were going to do now that everything was finally over. All the plans they had for what they wanted to show Lance while he was here. Lance noticed that Keith kept very quiet throughout all that conversation. Because he wasn't going to be here. They chatted all through the meal and into dessert. Lance didn't think he had any room left at all, but Pidge ordered him a crème brulée anyway.
"What do you think this is for?" Hunk asked, content, full and happy, leaning on his hand and messing with a miniature pencil and card tucked into a wooden holder at the center of the table.
"If we'd ordered from the menu, that's for writing down our selections," Lance answered. He'd been to places like that before. "So the waiters don't have to carry pads and paper like truck stop diners and so you could write down if you have any allergies or special requests or things like that."
He realized that everyone was staring at him a little too late into the lengthy answer. He took a drink of water.
"Oh yeah," Pidge said. "I forgot. You and Allura probably ate at upscale places a lot, huh?"
"Not a lot," Lance returned, feeling defensive about it. Feeling Keith's eyes on him. "But yeah, sometimes. For special occasions."
"What happened with you two anyway?" Pidge asked, her voice brimming innocent curiosity. Lance glared at her. Where was she going with this?
"We're friends," Lance said, an edge to his voice, uncomfortable. They'd made it this far. The night was almost over. It had been nice. She wasn't going to ruin it, was she? She'd told him that she wouldn't. She said she wouldn't hurt him. Lance had noticed her watching him all night, though, like she'd been waiting for the right time. But to do what? "We decided we're better as friends. Plus she wanted to go to grad school at Columbia."
"She's dating a prince now, isn't she?" Pidge continued, and Hunk perked up as though he didn't know that. Keith looked interested too, though Lance couldn't imagine why.
"She was," he said, noticing a new stiffness in his jaw, wondering how he could quickly change the subject. He didn't want to talk about Allura in front of Keith. It felt strange and slightly dangerous. "It didn't last very long. There aren't very many people who can keep up with her."
"You can," Keith volunteered, and Lance felt a shiver run down his back. He took another drink.
"No," Lance denied, quietly. "Not very well." He wished Allura were here with them so she could speak for herself. She'd know exactly what to say to put an end to all this nonsensical chatter and get the conversation back on track. Allura always knew what to say.
"So she's not dating anyone?" Pidge kept on. Lance wanted to stab her with his fork.
"If she is, she didn't tell me," he said, making it clear that she didn't have to tell him. That they were separate entities now. She was living her life; he was living his. They weren't a couple anymore.
"You're not either?" Pidge pressed, and now Lance really wanted to hurt her. She'd promised. He stared at her, warning her with his eyes. She just smiled back at him, reminding him with the expression that she hadn't actually promised anything. Nor had she really said anything yet. Maybe he should get up and leave. Now seemed like the perfect time to end their little dinner party. Now, while everyone was still in a good mood.
"I don't have time," Lance responded, coldly. "Somehow between grad school and getting attacked by my roommate, it just wasn't a priority." He picked up his strawberry lemonade, even though it was almost empty and he thought he might actually puke if she kept this up. He wondered how he could turn this discussion back on her. Let's talk about your love life, Pidge. Except hers wasn't exactly a secret.
"Yeah, I suppose when things get more settled you'll find the right girl," Pidge acknowledged, and Lance breathed a little sigh of relief. She sounded like she was wrapping up. Maybe she was just curious about Allura. Lance stared into the watered-down clumps of mashed strawberry in his glass as Pidge added on one more phrase that broke everything. "Or the right boy."
Lance's hand spasmed on the goblet, so hard he almost dropped it. But he couldn't do that. Couldn't show a response to that statement. Couldn't let Keith see that she'd struck him so hard. But Keith was listening, apparently intently because he clapped onto Pidge's last words in an instant.
"Boy?" Keith repeated, and Lance didn't dare look at him. Didn't want to even try to interpret what the tone of his voice could be. He tried to laugh, but it didn't quite work. He then tried to kick Pidge under the table, but discovered quickly that she was impossibly sitting cross-legged in her seat and he couldn't reach her. Damn her to hell!
"Oh, didn't you know?" Pidge almost purred, leaning across the table as if ready to share a secret.
"Shut up, Pidge," Lance tried to stop her, though he knew it wouldn't do him any good. "That joke got old a long time ago."
"What?" Keith asked, surprisingly serious. As if he really, really wanted to know. Lance figured his only hope was to pretend that Pidge was being stupid. That she tried to play this card all the time even though it wasn't true, and it was obvious that no one should believe her.
"He doesn't talk about it much," Pidge said, and Lance tried to act as though he were ignoring her. As if what she was saying meant so little to him that he didn't even have to listen to it. He casually tossed back the rest of his lemonade, ending up with a mouthful of soggy strawberry. "But Lance's orientation is actually . . . yes."
"What?!" Keith repeated, this time in shock, and Lance didn't mean to, but he gasped and ended up choking on one of the strawberries. He grabbed his napkin, coughing harshly into it. God, could this get any worse? Well, yes, actually it could. In just about another second, Pidge was going to tell Keith that not only was Lance bisexual, he was also completely in love with Keith and . . . Lance just couldn't sit here, hacking up bits of strawberry as diners from other tables began to turn their heads to see what was going on. He couldn't stick around for that.
"Lance, are you all right?" Hunk asked from across the table, silent on this whole thing until now. Lance couldn't answer; he had the napkin pressed tight against his mouth, his lungs dramatically protesting the attempted entry by a foreign body. He couldn't stop coughing. Keith reached for him as though he wanted to help, but Lance didn't think he take Keith touching him right now. He had to get out of here.
"I'll be right back," he managed to wheeze out, standing up. He said that, but he had no intention of coming back. Taking the napkin with him, he hurried out of the dining room, past the other tables. Past Sunny and her friends. Past the buffet, around the corner, through the propane heaters and the peach-colored fabrics and the arches and columns. The coughing subsided and Lance was able to pick up his pace. He wasn't sure where he'd go, but he couldn't stay there. Couldn't stand to see what was in Keith's eyes now that he knew. Damn it, Pidge. I trusted you.
I wouldn't do anything to intentionally hurt you, she'd said.
Yeah right.
Author's Note: So some of these scenes have been in my head for two years. And I knew that they'd all end up at the Athenaeum, but I never figured I'd have to write it so much from memory. I thought I could just walk over there and get a good look at it. I thought I'd still be in my office at Caltech when I got to these scenes. So strange.
I know this chapter goes back and forth a lot on emotions. That's why it's called Metronome. Keith and Lance, ticking together but out of sync. To one extreme and then another.
I find myself considering the possibility of writing this whole thing again from Keith's perspective. (It would probably be a lot shorter – Keith is nowhere near as verbose as Lance is.) But it would be kind of interesting to see how this all works from his point of view.
On the other hand, two years is a long time to be working on one story. There was this colorblind, frowning boy who showed up the other day and threw a snowball at me. Might be a different kind of plot bunny I want to chase. You know . . later, when this one is done. I'll stick with it until we're finished. My goal is before Christmas, but you know . . there's this plaque in my kitchen that says it's been TWO days since our last catastrophe. Hope it lasts.
