Author's Note: Well, dears, here we go. This has been so much of a struggle that I'm posting what I've got without checking it over again. What does it say about me that I am terrified to get to the end of this thing? That I don't know what my life is going to look like when writing this story is no longer a part of it? That's not to say that this is the end – no, we have probably one chapter after this. Things are about to settle in a beautiful way. You guys are wonderful to wait for me so long. I appreciate all of you. Every review. Every statistic that tells me that one of you just spent ALL day or all weekend reading this thing from start to finish. That's just the best. (Tell me all about that, won't you?)

Oh, and a special note to JustRandom. I treasure the reviews. I really do. I read them more than once and often when I'm in a slump. Never worry you're writing too much. (Seriously, this thing is over 500k words, you think I'm worried about writing too much?) Why on earth would you think I wouldn't want your 20 paragraphs or your 120 paragraphs? Because I do. Thanks so much for the support.

Chapter Forty-Eight: The Kuramoto Model

Though not near so spacious as the University of Chicago, the grounds of the California Institute of Technology had a lot to offer. Long walkways lined with olive trees. A turtle and koi pond set about with a makeshift nature path, waterfall, and fountain. An enormous tree with branches so large that crutch and support systems had been constructed to help it hold the weight. And despite sitting squarely in earthquake country, the Millikan Library towered over any of the other buildings Lance had passed so far. He'd even run by a bright red cannon chained in place to the cement. Everything seemed to have an illuminated plaque next to it, giving the history of the object, who had donated it and given it a name. Lance didn't stop to read any of them.

He didn't stop, but he wasn't running anymore either. Suits and dress shoes weren't well equipped for that. Plus, Lance didn't have much energy left for dramatic flights into the darkness. And for all that he'd torn out of the Athenaeum as quickly as possible, the absurdness of his action caught up with him before he'd gone very far. What the hell had he been thinking? He limply lifted the hand that still held onto the napkin. If he hadn't choked on that strawberry, he might not have panicked so badly. Maybe. It wasn't like he hadn't darted out into the night without any idea of his destination before. The last time he'd ended up ten miles from home and almost killed himself. This time? Well, at least it wasn't raining.

Seeing nothing of interest ahead of him except the looming Millikan, Lance branched off to the right, following a broad walkway and a few lights. The sign on one of the buildings read Sherman Fairchild Library, which gave Lance a sense of amusement. Caltech was so much smaller than Chicago, and yet it still had more than one library. Guess schools were the same no matter which state they were located.

The tall pale-yellow wall that Lance had been tracing his fingers along as he walked suddenly opened up – an entrance to a small, barricaded courtyard. Lance ducked inside, beckoned by the idea of an enclosed area, a disillusioned sense of protection. The stones in the center of the yard were well-lit, but the landscaping on the perimeter, including more olive trees and clumps of local grasses, remained deep in shadow. Lance startled as he almost walked into a bronze statue hidden in the dark flora, a life-sized ox with a man wearing the garb of a Chinese rice paddy farmer, complete with hat, sitting sideways on its back and reading a book. It took him a minute to calm down after realizing that it wasn't real. He was still alone. Across the yard, beneath another tree, there was a stone bench placed so Lance could sit and stare at the farmer and his ox. He figured it was as good a place as any.

He plopped himself down, sagging immediately, resting his elbows on his knees and allowing his head to droop, drained from his fright, flight, and all the emotional betrayal of the evening. What was he supposed to do now? There really wasn't anything he could do except go back, but how was he supposed to rejoin his friends? What could he possibly say to them to excuse running off like that? How was he supposed to look at Pidge after what she'd just done to him? Was there a way to come back from something like that? And Keith. What would Keith be thinking, now that he knew the truth about Lance? Maybe Lance should just stay here, in this courtyard with the ox. Wait until morning. Keith would be gone forever in the morning.

Lance allowed a small almost-cry to escape him, hoping letting it go would break some of the tension in his chest. But what was trapped inside him pushed painfully hard on his ribs, too big for tiny sounds. What he really needed was a long, intense scream. Or several. Something he'd never allow himself to do, no matter how alone he seemed here.

Pidge, why? He demanded of her even though she wasn't around. I asked you. I begged you not to tell him. I explained that it wouldn't help, that Keith was leaving. That he never wanted to be here in the first place. I wanted one last night of pretending. I told you. But she'd done it anyway. And now Lance was uncertain what was left. What happened at the table after he'd run away from it? He pictured his friends. Well, his friends and Keith – at first staring at each other wondering what had just happened. Then realizing that Lance hadn't left the table for a drink or to collect himself in the Athenaeum restroom. Then putting it together that he wasn't coming back. Damn it, Pidge, why? One of the best days of my life and . . . well, it may have been one of the best, but no matter what Pidge had done . . .Lance had to be honest with himself that it still had all been a lie. Walking the beach with Keith. The coffee. The comfort and safety he'd felt just being with Keith. All lies.

Lance wiped at his face with the napkin. Such a disaster. He'd embarrassed himself, and not just tonight either. He'd lost Keith, he was sure of it, as a partner, probably as a friend. Probably for the last time. There wasn't a way to come back from what had happened this time. There was nothing in his future except the blood and terror of an emergency room, where he would navigate the halls alone for the rest of his life. Get a cat, Angelique had advised him.

He held his head in his hands, dragging it all up. He thought of all that had happened that allowed him to be sitting here in this courtyard crying. The times his life had been saved and the sacrifices that other people had made that had even given him a chance to be this ungratefully lonely. It seemed so bitterly unfair. And yet, also somehow it seemed exactly what he deserved. He didn't want to sit here anymore. He wanted to drop to the stones and lean his head against the bench instead, curl up for an extreme pity party, but he couldn't do that in the suit Allura had given him. He was so tired. So damn tired of trying. Even after everything. The second chances, the help, the stupid therapy. He was still a failure. He felt the numbness from before returning to him, coating his insides, fuzzing out the details. He succumbed to it with relief. Maybe this time it would stay.

The red of his carnation caught his eye as he bowed his head again, and he plucked it out of his lapel, holding it between his fingers. The numbness retreated almost instantly into a confused kind of anger. Lance didn't think he'd ever understand why Keith had given this to him. Why he'd rode out to be with Lance at all. That hurt the most, really. Those small gestures from Keith. The phone calls. The bracelet that Lance wore under his suit. The way Keith used to reach out to hold Lance's sleeve cuff. It had all meant something; it was all important. But it hadn't been enough for Lance, and it had cost him everything. His hand tensed up, ready to crush the flower, rip it to shreds, scatter it like drops of blood on the courtyard stones. But even now, even now, Lance knew he wouldn't do it. Knew he would replace the carnation carefully into his lapel. He'd stand up from this bench, wipe his face, and walk stiffly back to the Athenaeum. Blame his absence on literally anything in the world – the strawberry, his still-healing ribs, a phone call, the sudden need for fresh air. He'd say anything. Because stupid as it was, he couldn't face letting it go. And stupid as it was, he suspected that his friends would allow it. He and Keith wouldn't look each other in the eye. Pidge and Hunk would carry the conversation. It wasn't late, but Lance could go to bed early; he still could use his recent injuries as an excuse to withdraw. And then, in the morning . . .

Stop it, he commanded himself, knowing the longer he waited the more still and awkward the pretending would be. Get up. But he was stuck, fixed in place on the bench just like the bronze statue was bound to his ox. Come on, Lance, he chastised himself. You did this to yourself; now get up. It's only for a little while, a couple of hours more and you'll be in bed, sleeping this off like a really bad illness.

In a minute, his soul whined, and his hopeless exhaustion made the decision for him to give in to it. Ok. Just one more minute. It shouldn't matter all that much. Not anymore.

The minute blurred and stretched, long enough that Lance knew it had been longer than a minute. The same way he knew that he shouldn't be so chilled sitting outside in the heat of a California October night. But his brain firmly insisted on these truths. He'd go back in a minute. It had only been a minute. It was freezing out here. There's someone talking outside the wall.

"What's the name?" Said the unembodied voice, and Lance pulled his arms around himself. Damn. He'd waited too long. He was being searched for. Again. How pathetic. "Dabney, oh, so not in a building. Wait . . . I think this is it."

A figure dressed in navy stepped into the lamplight at the courtyard entrance and paused, one hand lifted to hold a phone. Lance stayed motionless in the shadow of the tree. Like a rabbit. Maybe if he held still, Keith would move on, look somewhere else. Except he was certain his heart was beating so hard that it could be both heard and seen. They'd sent Keith? Really? At the very least, Lance thought that Hunk would come first, to ease the situation, coax Lance into coming back. He could have handled Hunk coming for him.

"You sure?" Keith asked into the phone. Talking to Pidge, Lance guessed. Who was probably tracking his location and was so much more than simply sure. Because Pidge always had to be right about everything. He should have left his phone on the table. That would have thrown her off. It had last time. Damn. "It doesn't look like anyone's . . . oh."

That tiny exclamation let Lance know he'd somehow been spotted in the dark, but despite how he was no longer hidden, Lance continued to watch Keith unabashedly from the bench. He couldn't help it. The way Keith positioned himself. The careful tilt of his head as he surveyed the dark uncertainty of the courtyard, his keen eyes scanning for shapes and movement. Every gesture captivating and catastrophic.

"He's here," Keith sighed, and Lance couldn't decide if it sounded more like resignation or relief.

"No, we're good; I got him," Keith assured Pidge on the phone before hanging up without saying good-bye and tucking it deep into his pocket. Then he looked straight at Lance, locking eyes with him. And it wasn't until then that it occurred to Lance that he'd missed any opportunity to leave. It also hit him that, incredibly, he didn't really want to. Because Keith was still here. He'd come after him. Was sent after him. Whatever that meant.

"Is this going to become a habit?" Keith called out to Lance, making his way slowly from the patch of lamplight into the courtyard, the gentle, graceful slowness of a hunting wolf. Lance didn't move, didn't respond. He saw a little of Shiro in Keith's walk, heard him in the words that Keith was choosing. "This thing where you sprint off without telling anyone where you're going and –" Keith's voice broke off hard, and he halted halfway between the courtyard entrance and the bench where Lance watched him silently, a sudden, unnatural pause. The Lance from three and a half years ago would have been prompted to respond to that pause. What happened to steal Keith's voice so abruptly? Was everything all right? But there was nothing left in him. He waited for Keith to come to him. If Keith were going to close the remaining distance between them. What was Keith doing here anyway? Why come after Lance when he'd already decided he was going to leave?

"And scare me to death," Keith finished his sentence in a voice that was barely audible. Lance's heartbeat didn't know what to do with those words. It jumped, then trembled, then it seemed to pause, limping and tattered at the end of a very long journey. He wanted it to stop. Badly enough that he would do anything to make it – including speak.

"I learned it from you," Lance sliced the words between them like a slash of a knife, mostly to persuade that numbness to return to him. He needed something to protect him, something covering the raw, exposed nerves of his faltering heart. And if he couldn't be numb, anger seemed the best option. He couldn't take it otherwise. Keith standing there in shadows and lamplight, halfway between Lance and the exit. Visible and obscured at the same time. Staring at him with eyes that were sometimes violet and sometimes gray and always larger than Lance expected them to be. The biggest mystery of Lance's life. "I just can't get as far." Texas. Japan. Germany. Nowhere far enough to stop thinking about you.

Keith took a step backwards at Lance's cutting remark, visibly wounded by the sharpness of it. Lance didn't have much in him to wonder about it, though he remembered it had happened before earlier in the evening when his words shoved Keith against the hallway wall. Surprising. He couldn't process that he'd be capable of hurting Keith's feelings. Or scaring him to death. Just go on, he thought. Take your medals and your motorcycle and get out of here. The way you wanted to. If you're going to disappear, please do it for good this time. I can't take any more pity from you. Any more confusion from you.

"Lance, I –" Keith began, the soldier crumbling at the shoulders, crushed under some invisible weight, looking in that moment almost as tired as Lance. He brought his hands together in front of him, guiltily and tenderly brushing his left thumb over the back of his right glove, for a moment matching the image that Lance kept in his memory of him. The lonely, sick boy who didn't understand why anyone would ever be kind to him. Lying defenseless on Lance's bed while Lance promised that he would never hurt him. The boy who had needed a friend so badly that he'd put up with so much shit from Lance already to keep that relationship intact. Keith had been true. As loyal as it had been possible to be considering the circumstances. The focus of Lance's anger quickly turned inward. Keith didn't deserve this. He'd wanted a friend. He'd never asked for Lance to fall in love with him.

"I'm sorry," Lance apologized, still immobile on the bench, hunched over it and clinging to the edge with both hands. "This isn't your fault." How could it possibly be Keith's fault? "I'm not mad at you." Everything else in my life, but never you.

Keith hesitated, letting his hands fall to his sides again, though he didn't straighten his back. His eyes searched the stones of the courtyard, following the line where the light met the shadows, looking rather tortured. Like he wanted to say something but didn't trust himself to find the right words. Lance didn't have any to assist him either. It seemed that whatever they said to each other next was going to determine if they ever saw each other again, spoke to each other again. And Lance could tell that they both felt it. Which is why it seemed neither of them was going to speak first.

Just say it! Pidge growled at Lance, sitting on his bed at Stony Island, shoving a notebook in his face. I can't give you anything better than this. Not one more opportunity. Open your damn mouth and finish it once and for all. Except she'd already done it for him.

"Pidge," Keith half coughed, as though he knew that Lance had been thinking of her. Lance lifted his head the tiniest fraction to acknowledge he could hear him. "What she did . . .She was out of line."

Lance barked a very forced laugh in agreement, turning his head away. Why are you ashamed? Surprisingly the voice of this internal question belonged to Gregory Bolton. Lance wouldn't call any of the emotions he was feeling right now ashamed. Betrayed, certainly. Angry. Confused. Very confused.

"Can . . . can I sit with you?" Keith asked, taking Lance's laugh as permission to come closer, though still so hesitant. Lance couldn't puzzle it out. Why he was here. Why he was asking to get closer. What had Pidge done to them? What irreversible damage had she so carelessly torn into their dynamic in the spirit of trying to help them?

Lance shrugged. "Only if you want to," he said, inviting Keith to leave. He was under no obligation to seek Lance out, to make this right for him. To bring him back to the person responsible for this mess. Lance didn't want anything from Keith that he wasn't willing to give.

Once Lance had granted access, Keith practically marched over to the bench. Not actually fast, but purposeful, slightly more confident. Lance wanted to look at him. Memorize his face. But he didn't dare. He didn't want Keith to see into him.

Keith positioned himself on the bench, close enough to Lance that their shoulders touched, like nothing had changed. He leaned forward, kept his hands folded in front of him, left thumb continuing to smooth the back of the glove. What was he doing? Why was he still here? If he'd already planned to go, why hadn't he taken the opportunity? Lance had made it so easy for him to leave.

"I'm sorry she did that to you," Keith apologized for Pidge, making Lance extremely uncomfortable. "And . . I'm sorry I asked her to do it." If Lance had just held still at the table, he could have laughed it off. Pretended that she was just making it up. But then nothing would change, and he wasn't sure how long he could have taken that either. Whatever Keith and Lance had together; it needed to end. "I guess I just wanted to . . . I don't know. She must have assumed you'd be ok with it."

"No, I told her I wasn't ok with it. She just has this need-to-be-right complex, and it's a real pain sometimes," Lance growled bitterly. The quiet that followed this admission was so intense that Lance heard Keith swallow. He watched Keith's hands twitch and wondered what they were supposed to be doing here. Maybe he should suggest going back. Pidge was a traitor, but Lance wasn't sure how much longer he could stay with Keith alone, dancing so gingerly around what had happened at the table. There was something between them even though they were sitting close enough to touch, a wedge of tension. Keeping them apart. Keeping them together. An obligation, a promise, a wish. Lance sighed. He wanted it to have a name, a diagnosis, and a treatment plan. He was tired of carrying it.

"Can you forgive her?" Keith asked, eyes on his hands. "And me?" Lance leaned back on the bench, tipping his face to look up through the dark tree branches above him, biting back a gasp as he stretched his ribs out. Another pain he was almost used to.

"She knows I always will," Lance allowed, figuring that Keith was talking like this in preparation of guiding Lance back to the Athenaeum to smooth things out with Pidge. Bring Lance back to his friends so Keith could leave him with them. The ones who had been there before Keith. The ones who would be there afterward. Lance closed his eyes, still not ready to move. "I don't think there's anything she could do that I wouldn't forgive." Eventually. Who knows? He might even thank her someday for what she'd done tonight. Breaking the chain that kept Keith and Lance tied to each other by exposing Lance. It might be the first step to healing this growing wound and Lance would look back on tonight with relief. Someday. "Nothing you could do either."

"Lance?" There it was. The question. The one that began and ended with his name. Lance was so frustrated at never hearing the rest of it. What do you want to ask me, Keith? Better get it out now; this might be your last chance to talk to me. Before we stop pretending. Before you disappear.

"What?" Lance asked, not too surprised to hear the sharp edge back in his tone. He felt Keith flinch at his shoulder. What was going on here? Was tonight even happening? Lance half suspected he'd wake up back in Chicago, back in the hospital – the last ten days nothing but a drugged fabrication. Because how could Keith still be here?

"No, never mind," Keith backtracked, retreating from the unsafe space Lance had introduced with the unkindness in his voice. "It's none of my business."

"Just ask the damn question, Keith," Lance practically snapped, not caring to even consider why he was so angry. It's just. He hated that unfinished question. Hated the tension. Hated that Keith was even here when Lance knew he didn't want to be. Still, he'd just said there was nothing Keith could do that Lance wouldn't forgive. No matter how much it hurt.

"Is it true?" Keith burst out, almost as though Lance had punched him in the gut and forced it out of him. Lance almost wanted to. Because even though he didn't understand how, he knew that wasn't the question. Not the real one. The one Keith had been meaning to ask for years now. Lance whipped his head down from the trees so he could stare Keith right in his multi-colored eyes. Anger. So much anger. Where was it coming from? Lance couldn't remember the last time he'd been so furious. And he couldn't even point to the reason.

"Yeah, fine, it's true, all right?" Lance hissed as Keith's eyes opened wider, questioning. Hurt. "And I'm sorry, ok? Sorry I trusted her with something like that when I can't even bring myself to tell my own family. Sorry I can't change it or talk myself out of it, and I'm sure as hell sorry that I ruined everything with you."

"Me?" Keith interjected, his whole body stiffening up. Exactly as Lance imagined. "How have you ruined anything with me?"

"Don't," Lance spat. Stop being so stupidly nice. "Stop acting like you don't know. You're making this hard."

"Lance," Keith said gently, an attempt to calm him down. Because he was behaving irrationally. It pissed Lance off. "I don't think that it has to be."

"No?" Lance returned heatedly, feeling a thorn tearing loose in his throat. Feeling it start to bleed words he never thought he'd say out loud where Keith could hear them. "No, I guess it wouldn't be for you, would it? You're leaving tomorrow. And why shouldn't you? It's not like you asked for this. Never asked for me to –"

Lance bit his tongue, pushing himself backward on the bench as he'd leaned far too close to Keith, choking on all that he had left to say, the pressure of it making it difficult to breathe or think.

"To what?" Keith asked, leaning forward as Lance leaned back, looking worried. Almost terrified actually. "Never asked you to what?" Lance wished Keith would stop talking as though his life depending on Lance's answers to these ridiculous questions.

Lance inhaled, wondering why Keith was playing like this was information he didn't already have. That Pidge hadn't already told him. But what the hell. Why not? Lance was already so far into this that there was no going back. There was too much pressure in his chest to hold it anymore. He started shaking his head against the tidal wave of words rushing up against the back of his teeth. He had to open his mouth or else he was going to drown or explode.

"Why are you asking me when Pidge already told you?" Lance demanded. What could Keith possibly have to gain from forcing Lance to say it all over again? What sort of terrible game was this?

"Because I don't think she did," Keith insisted, infuriatingly calm, and Lance wanted to slam his fist down onto the bench between them. Like hell she didn't.

"She didn't," Lance drawled, still furious, too many emotions whirling around inside him. "Really? All of that at the table and she just forgot to add her main point? You're saying she didn't tell you that I've been in love with you for years? Because guess what - that's true too."

"What?" Keith vocalized, automatically, a verbal tick of a question mark that slipped past his lips without him registering it. He actually did look surprised, and Lance wondered if maybe he had been telling the truth. Maybe he had left the table before Pidge could say anything more. Which actually made what Lance had just said even worse. And he still couldn't stop. The words kept coming in a hot, coppery rush.

"Yeah," Lance spat out, almost a challenge. "It's true. I know it's disgusting and wrong, but I can't help it. I hate it. Hate how I can't stop thinking about you. Can't just shut off how I feel about you. I hate how it's wrecking our relationship because I want so much more than you could ever give me, and it's killing me that I can't make it go away. I've tried. . . tried to ignore it for so long. But I can't. I don't know how."

By the time he'd reached the end, Lance had run out of momentum, run out of anger and defensiveness. He felt deflated, and defeated, worn out and every kind of exposed. There. He'd given Keith all of it. The only thing remaining would be to see what Keith was going to do now that he knew all of Lance's secrets. Lance curled his arms around his sore ribs, waiting, turning his head just enough to monitor Keith's reaction out of the corner of his eye. Something masochistic in him wanted to see what this rejection was going to look like now that it was finally time for it to happen.

Keith had lifted a hand to his mouth while Lance had been ranting. Now that Lance was finished, Keith began slowly turning away from him, hanging his head, lowering his gaze. Sure, he was turning away. Lance had practically screamed his secret affection at him. Pathetic. And in a second, Lance knew that Keith would get up and escape. Run out of this courtyard. Never look back. He'd seen him do it so many times in his imagination already. He'd already told Shiro he was going to.

Except he didn't. It was worse than that. Instead of turning red and racing away, Keith remained tightly in place on the bench. Hand to his mouth. And he started laughing. An almost hysterical, uncontrollable peal that went on and on. The sound stabbed a wedge of ice through Lance's abdomen. Of all the scenarios he'd come up with, this one had never been a possibility. He'd finally confessed, and Keith thought it was funny. Lance pushed himself onto his feet, surprised and grateful that his trembling frame would still hold him. He had to get away from here. This hurt more than he thought possible. He just wanted it to be over. At least it would be for good this time.

"Yeah, hysterical isn't it?" Lance allowed dismally, surprised he could still talk, gathering whatever strength he had left for one more sprint into the night. Just this last time. Because this would be the last time. He wasn't coming back after this. Not to Keith. Not to Pidge or even Hunk. He didn't want to see any of them again. Didn't want to look at himself in the mirror again, the broken shell he'd become. Sorry, Doña, I'm done. He'd head west, to the ocean. Let it swallow him whole. "Well, you guys can all laugh about it without me."

He took a step without falling, much slower than he meant to. It was so hard. Why was it so hard to walk away from this bench? Walk away from this boy who was sitting there laughing at Lance's feelings for him? Why couldn't he move faster? Get away from this? He dragged his foot up from whatever emotional concrete was holding him, forcing another step, hunching forward to help with any kind of momentum. It was so hard.

But then Keith's hand shot out, snagging Lance's sleeve cuff, and Lance froze to the spot. Keith, come on. This isn't right. It's killing us to live this way, at least, it's killing me, and I can't do it anymore. Can't do this to you anymore. Can't bear to have you laugh about this.

"Let me go, Keith," Lance ordered, but there was no weight in the words. He sounded frail, unsure. Even though he was certain that he meant what he said. Let me go. I want to be the one leaving you behind for once. For good. I'll fix it for everyone. Just let me go while I still think I can.

Keith's fingers curled around the cuff, the same as he'd done the very first day they'd met, and Lance felt that just like that day, Keith's hands were trembling. They were trembling? Lance kept still, standing with his hand pulled behind him, the last of a connection he didn't have the courage or full desire to break away from even though he knew he had to. But the sound of Keith's laughter. It had shifted in the seconds after Lance stood from the bench. Lance cocked his head, tilting it just slightly back toward Keith, listening. Keith wasn't laughing anymore. It had fractured into broken, heaving sobbing. What?

Lance had barely rallied the strength to walk away from Keith while he'd been laughing, but to walk away from Keith when he was crying? While he was holding onto Lance's sleeve? No. It didn't matter what else had happened, Lance couldn't walk away from that Keith. The one he remembered most. The one who might still need him, who apparently didn't want him to leave. Even after everything.

Lance pivoted on the courtyard stones, forgetting about all that had happened tonight to focus on the few square inches of fabric where Keith clung to him and wouldn't let go. What did it mean? What was wrong? He knelt unreservedly in front of Keith, who had moved his hand from his mouth to cover his eyes. Lance didn't understand. What had changed other than Lance standing up to walk away?

"What happened?" Lance demanded, insistent but no longer harsh. When Keith cried, Lance couldn't help but pay careful attention. His tears were so rare. "Keith, what?" You can't care that I'm leaving; you were going to leave first! You can't be crying about that. Can't be crying over me saying what I did about how I feel about you. The laughter made so much more sense. There must be something else. Something Keith hadn't told him. Something about the way he'd fallen into the hallway wall. The unasked question.

"Keith," Lance entreated, desperate. I'm so confused. I've been lost and lonely for so long. Ask me the question. Tell me why you're crying. Please fill in the gaps for me here or let me go. It has to be one or the other; I can't exist in the in-between. "Don't do this. What is it? I don't understand."

Keith wordlessly slipped off the bench to join Lance on his knees on the ground. He adjusted his hold of Lance's sleeve, shifting to his wrist and lifting Lance's arm so he could position his palm hard and tight against his chest, directly beneath the Distinguished Flying Cross. Lance tensed, thinking of pulling back because this was not an answer or a question, and he was already overwhelmed with pain. But Keith held onto him insistently in this attempt at nonverbal communication. It wasn't until Keith placed his own hand against Lance's chest that it clicked for him. Keith was putting together a Josephson junction to recreate the Kuramoto Model of Synchronization. He'd . . . he'd held onto that memory all this time? Unbelievable.

"How can you even talk like that? Don't you get it?" Keith spoke low into the space between their arms, no longer laughing or crying. He bowed, touching foreheads with Lance. They both took a shaky breath, feeling their hearts beating together, their cadences matching after only a few seconds, natural and immediate. "Feel that?" Keith asked, but Lance hoped he wouldn't need an answer even though it felt so good. He didn't dare enjoy this. His mind was racing as quickly as his heart because Keith was on the courtyard stones with him, his knee positioned between Lance's knees. His hands on Lance's hands. Their heartbeats merging to the same pace, and a paradigm was shifting so fiercely that Lance thought the entire earth might be swaying with the weight of it. This. This was really happening.

"You're my heart, Lance," Keith insisted firmly. "Don't you know? You're my fucking pulse."

"Ha," Lance gasped, one palm against Keith's chest, registering the strength of the beat. Alive. Awake under his hand. And suddenly Keith's laughter meant something completely different as Lance heard himself start to break into that strange place between mirth and misery, not knowing which direction his body would decide to take. How? How could he dare believe this? But his heart beat with Keith's heart, like it had before. Like it had always wanted. And it felt so much better than when Lance had been trying to walk away.

Keith let go of Lance's wrist in order to cup the back of Lance's neck as he scooted closer. Lance inhaled the scent of his aftershave and let himself sag, his head landing on Keith's sternum. God, this was really happening. The possibility he'd never allowed himself to consider. That Keith could love him back. He'd actually said it – in the most Keith way possible. And it was disconnecting his body from his brain in a strange, almost drunk kind of way.

"Lance?" Keith said his name, the voice close to his ear.

"Everything's spinning," Lance answered, trying to describe what was going on.

"I got you," Keith promised, and Lance squeezed his eyes shut, remembering all the times Keith had told him that and what he'd meant when he did. He's got you, Lance told himself. Still here. Closer than you've ever been. Lance leaned forward into Keith, noticing how Keith shifted to accommodate him until Lance was practically sitting on his lap on the smooth courtyard stones. And still he wanted to get closer.

"You ok?" Keith asked gently, sounding worried, because it was Lance who now held onto Keith's clothes with both hands. Held on tightly as his entire psyche rearranged itself inside him, his head resting on Keith's chest, listening to his heart. This was really happening.

Unable to answer yet, Lance tilted his head up so he could look into Keith's face while Keith continued to support him tenderly in his arms. Lance tremulously put his hand against Keith's cheek, marveling as Keith's eyes closed in contentment, leaning into Lance's palm. This was real. With his thumb, Lance stroked Keith's cheekbone, then smoothed his eyebrow. Keith drew a large, sudden breath. We're not pretending, Lance told himself. For the first time ever, we're not pretending.

"Keith," Lance began, noticing how differently the name felt in his mouth.

"Yeah?" Keith prompted, keeping his eyes closed, smiling just barely.

"Can I -?"

"God, yes."

Lance slipped his fingers behind Keith's head, putting the slightest bit of pressure to pull Keith closer to him. Keith didn't seem to need much in the way of direction, and Lance also closed his eyes as Keith's mouth met his. Lance opened to receive him, more than ready, and when Keith's tongue slipped smoothly past Lance's teeth it sent a current of tingling warmth all the way down his throat and deep into his stomach. Lance rose up on his knees, one hand encircling his own wrist around Keith's neck while Keith's hands rubbed gently up and down his back a couple of times before coming to rest against his hip bones. They pressed tightly against each other, experiencing new angles of how they could fit together.

Lance couldn't tell who pulled away first; they were both panting when they did.

"Does this mean you're staying?" Lance asked when he caught his breath. He met Keith's eyes for what seemed like the first time, seeing a new brightness in them as Keith smiled at him.

"I think so," Keith responded, as playfully as Lance had ever heard him say anything. Lance shook his head. Five minutes ago, this courtyard had been filled to the brim with dark and pain – all reversed in an instant with the release of a secret. Unbelievable.

"Damn," Lance said, his hands still around Keith. How could he stop touching him now that he had permission?

"What is it?" Keith asked, registering slight concern. As if anything could possibly be wrong ever again.

"Pidge," Lance huffed. "I'm going to have to tell her she was right. Again."

"Can't say I'm not happy about it this time, though," Keith mused, brushing his knuckles along Lance's cheekbone, looking at him as though he were a mirage. Lance remembered when Keith had always stared at him like that. He wondered when Keith had decided he liked Lance – at what point in their history had he realized it? Before or after Lance had? And what had kept him from saying it all this time? Was it the same reason that held Lance back?

"It's funny," Keith said, still tracing the skin beneath Lance's eye, his fingers warm against Lance's chilled skin. "To see you like this. Whenever I dream of you, there's always a bruise here."

"A bruise? Lobito that was forever ago," Lance replied. That bruise had faded from Lance's life even before Keith had left it. That was how Keith remembered him? Then the other part of what Keith said struck him. "You dream about me?"

"A lot," Keith confessed while they remained on their knees, Lance's hands on Keith's chest. One of Keith's hands at the small of Lance's back with the other on Lance's face. "Those are the times I get the best rest, really. The nights you're there with me. Once . . when I was in Germany . . . I dreamt that you were there, speaking Spanish, telling me . . . well, everything I'd always wished you'd really say."

"That wasn't a dream," Lance admitted, noticing how wonderful it felt to finally open up to Keith about these things. To not have to guard his words so carefully or monitor his movements. There was suddenly so much he wanted to talk about with Keith, so much he wanted to experiment. "I made Shiro hold the phone for me so I could talk to you."

"I knew it," Keith tossed out, as though proud of himself for figuring that out.

"You did not," Lance teased back, enjoying how tightly Keith supported him, how pleasantly warm his hands were. "And wait a second, back up – what do you mean I told you everything you'd always wanted me to say? Are you saying you understood me?"

Keith flushed slightly, but Lance didn't think he looked embarrassed. "Are you saying you speak Spanish now?" Lance tried a more direct question.

"A lot of the guys in my unit speak Spanish," Keith explained. "Having them teach me was pretty useful. . . . for lots of reasons."

"So when I was talking to the Scripps bus driver this morning?" Lance prompted, returning to that memory from a different perspective. Keith leaning against the counter with his coffee, the soft smile on his face.

"Te entendí," Keith admitted, his accent smoothed so much from the few awkward words he'd shared with Lance's mother, half a lifetime ago in a hospital room. "Quería entenderte cada vez que hablas." Lance's heart swelled in gratitude and pride. Keith had learned his language. Beautifully well from the sound of it. Because he wanted to understand Lance whenever he spoke. In whichever language he chose. Because he had always been supportive of Lance's original identity – the boy from Cuba. Keith's fingers softly moved under Lance's eyes, wiping away the tears this revelation had caused.

"You . . you could have told me," Lance admonished, thinking of all that time. All that had happened between them. So much of it unnecessary if . . . if one of them had just been brave enough. Just trusted enough. Because this wasn't on Keith only. Lance held just as much responsibility for the time they'd lost. "I could have told you," he acknowledged.

"I thought we just did," Keith said, apparently unconcerned about anything that could have happened if they'd been faster. Lance heard him. The past was over, and the future had opened, transitioned into something welcoming and wonderful.

"We did," Lance repeated, firm, resolute. "I'm glad we did."

"Me too," Keith agreed, leaning down to kiss Lance's eyes closed. Lance lifted his chin, ready to be kissed, and Keith laughed softly before accommodating him. Keith's lips were just like the rest of him – slightly rough and inexperienced. And perfect for Lance, who pushed as close as he could, tasting the remnants of strawberry lemonade, but mostly the mixture of Keith's particular molecular chemistry – the essence of Keith's body that seemed to have been created specifically to Lance's taste. Keith licked against the back of Lance's teeth and just that quickly woke up all of Lance's hormones. He heard himself involuntarily moan, noticing the movement of Keith's hands. He wanted to get closer. So much closer. Keith's lips traveled from Lance's mouth to his chin, then down his neck where he got caught up in the bowtie. Lance reached up to helpfully unknot it for him, but the way they were kneeling on the ground, tangled up in each other, made it difficult to shift the fabric.

Keith retreated while Lance tugged ineffectually at the tie, both of them coming back to the reality of where they were. In Dabney Gardens at Caltech, kneeling in a pool of lamplight on a hot October night.

"You have way too many clothes on," Keith told him as Lance finally succeeded in removing the bowtie, pulling it free from his neck with a flourish and half smiling in triumph at Keith. "Yeah, I'm going to make you do that again." The half-smile turned into a grin. "But not here. Come on – I want to show you something."

Even though Lance knew Keith was right about their location, he was still disappointed to put where they were going on hold. Keith stood with that particular grace that Lance appreciated about him, standing tall, his raven hair shining in the low lamplight. Then he bent to assist Lance, taking him firmly by the wrists and pulling him up, his face shifting just slightly with the effort of it.

Lance's body did its best to keep up with all the sudden changes, but standing seemed to be the last straw on his endurance. He blinked rapidly at the equilibrium shift, as his blood pressure redirected his circulation flow, leaning unsteadily against Keith.

"Lance, you ok?" Keith asked as he braced him. "You look dizzy."

"My whole world just shifted," Lance put out there, but knew that wasn't good enough. He could be honest with Keith. Needed to be honest with him. "It still happens when I stand up too quickly sometimes, but it's fine. Really." He added the last word because he knew Keith would be skeptical with the answer. Lance had lied about this so often before he couldn't really blame him.

"We can wait," Keith generously offered.

"I don't want to wait anymore," Lance said, begged almost, and Keith nodded in gentle understanding. He stroked Lance's face, looking at him with a vulnerability that tugged hard at Lance's heart, stretching it open and full.

"Ok," Keith acquiesced. "Let's take it slow then."

"I'd like that," Lance agreed. What would it be like to be with Keith? Taking their time for once? Talking. Touching. It sounded exquisite, especially when Lance thought that this would be the first time but not the last, not the only. They had time.

"Come on," Keith beckoned, taking Lance's hand gingerly into his own to lead him out of the courtyard. Lance didn't even bother to wonder where Keith wanted to take him. It didn't really matter, so long as Keith was there. He squeezed Keith's hand, but released him quickly when the pressure caused Keith's wrist to lock up. Keith brushed his shoulder against Lance's as they walked.

The campus appeared much less daunting and dismal as they retraced Lance's steps back toward the Athenaeum, back to Hill Street where Keith had parked Hunk's Civic. The tree with the enormous branches looked protective, ancient, and almost magical. The lights shone warmly in patches and pools. The Athenaeum glowed with academic prestige at the southeast corner of Caltech's kingdom.

Lance thought that's where they were headed, but Keith didn't slow as they neared the entrance. It seemed he was on his way to the car without stopping to check in with Hunk and Pidge. That plan was fine with Lance. They could call them on the way back, let them know what happened and maybe to take their time coming home themselves. So when they passed the main doors, Lance didn't say anything about it. Keith moved like he had a plan.

"Keith! Hey, guys! Lance!"

"Hunk," Lance said softly, and then exchanged a guilty look with Keith. They were in a hurry, but maybe not so much that they could be that rude to Hunk. Keith nodded. This was a pause they needed to take. Keith turned them, raising his free hand to wave Hunk over.

"Guys," Hunk called again as he hurried down the Athenaeum steps, still weighed down with worry.

"There you are," Keith said smoothly in greeting, as though they'd never had any intention of leaving him behind.

"There you are," Hunk repeated, the emphasis clear that he'd been constant. He hadn't rushed out of the club in a distressed panic. His concerned brown eyes fixed on Lance immediately. "You good?" he asked him, his voice pure and true. Lance felt a surge of affection for his old roommate. His long-time friend. Hunk always had his back.

"I am now," Lance responded, letting go of Keith momentarily so he could show Hunk his appreciation for him. He hugged him as tightly as his ribs would allow, and he felt Hunk relax in the embrace. "Thanks, man. For everything."

"You scared me," Hunk scolded, giving Lance a very slight shake.

"Sorry," Lance apologized. He hadn't been fair.

"You scared Pidge worse," Hunk revealed, and that's when Lance realized that she wasn't there. Not at Hunk's side, not standing behind him. Nowhere to be seen. Unusual in an unnerving sort of way.

"Where is she?" Lance asked, letting Hunk go. Because that was something that should be put right too.

"Inside," Hunk said. "Crying her eyes out."

Lance startled at the news, and Hunk looked at him with almost every emotion on his face. Happy that Lance was ok. Relieved Keith was with him. But definitely desiring for Lance to go to Pidge and work things out. Nothing could be completely right until he did. Lance looked over his shoulder at Keith.

"Lobito, do you mind if I - ?"

"No," Keith answered immediately without even waiting for Lance to finish the question. "Take your time."

Lance set off, Hunk and Keith falling into quick formation behind him. He realized once he was past the main doors that 'inside' wasn't the best direction for how to find Pidge. Except he already knew where she was. He knew her almost as well as Hunk did. Knew how much she'd hate to have anyone see her cry, and the Athenaeum was quite crowded now, the height of their dining hour. Small groups coming and going in the lobby. Lance darted through them, headed for the roped-off staircase where he'd spoken with Pidge earlier. Employees only past this point. That wouldn't have stopped her.

Ignoring the flare-up of pain from his ribs, Lance slipped past the burgundy velvet rope and rushed up the stairs before any of the Athenaeum staff could see him or stop him. The stairway curved left, ending in a hallway with many doors. Most of them were offices, locked for the night, but the employee restroom was open. Lance let himself in without any hesitation. This is where Pidge would be.

She'd hidden herself well. The restroom door opened to a small lounge area with a deep chair, a sofa, and a table holding an enormous basket of flowers. Everything here designed in the same taste as the club downstairs with heavy, earth colors and low light. It smelled like cinnamon, soap, and dust. Lance looked to the corner of the room and sighed as he recognized the shape of Pidge, pressed up against the wall and almost completely obscured by the heavy furniture. She had her arms around her knees, her face hidden and her hair coming undone from the twist. Lance couldn't remember ever seeing her look so distraught. Seeing her like this settled guilt in his stomach. He'd wanted her to suffer. He'd almost left her like this. He should have known.

"Pidge," he called to her, softly so he wouldn't startle her any more than necessary. He wanted her to know he was there before he touched her. She tightened up, so Lance knew she'd heard him. He sighed again, going to sit on the sofa next to her, resting his elbows on his knees so he could lean forward. The restroom door opened, just enough that Lance saw half of Keith's face peeking in to check on them. He held up a hand. Not yet. Just her and me for now. The door closed.

"You were right," Lance told her. Her favorite words. She didn't move. "Come on, Katie-bird, look at me." I'm trying to forgive you. Don't be so proud that you won't let me do that.

She raised her face slightly, guardedly, at the nickname that only Lance used. It was a start at least. Lance could tell she'd been crying hard, the makeup Sunny had made her wear was streaked around her eyes, giving them a bruised appearance in the dim light of the room. Lance's heart went out to her. He didn't want her to be unhappy. Especially not now when there was so much to be happy for.

Lance got up, searching the restroom and finding it well-equipped for his needs, fancy enough that besides the flowers, furniture, and fancy stacks of paper towels, it also had an ornamental basket on the sink full of individually wrapped wipes. Lance helped himself to one, opening it as he carefully maneuvered himself into the tight space between Pidge and the table, going down on one knee.

"Here," he invited, reaching down to lift Pidge's chin. "You've ruined your makeup."

Pidge's lips trembled, fresh tears welling up in her eyes that Lance ignored completely as he gently dabbed away at the black stains down her cheeks. The wipe worked surprisingly well. Lance made a mental note to keep the wrapper so he could add some of these to his med bag.

"What are you doing here?" Pidge demanded, and Lance recognized himself in her tone.

"Taking care of you," he said simply. Let's keep this simple, Pidge. You know why I'm here. Except he knew that she needed him to say it. "Thank you."

"Thank you?" She repeated, as though she couldn't believe he'd just said it. He nodded, a bittersweet smile forming on his face.

"Yes," Lance assured, quiet - contrite. "Thank you."

Pidge's tightness snapped, and Lance barely had time to adjust as she threw herself at him. They almost knocked the basket of flowers off the table. Lance heard the door open again behind him, but he didn't have any limbs available to send messages this time. Whatever happened next would be witnessed. Which should be ok.

"You idiot," Pidge hissed affectionately in his ear. "That was horrible. I can't believe you made me do that." Lance hugged her, secure, seeing things from her perspective. The risk she'd taken to help bring Lance and Keith together. And it had been a risk. If it hadn't worked out – she knew that Lance might never talk to her again. That their friendship could be over. She'd been braver than all of them tonight. All for his sake. And he'd been so angry at her.

"I needed you to," Lance acknowledged, knowing that tonight would have ended so differently if Pidge hadn't spoken up. He really might have lost Keith for good. "We needed you."

"I just wanted you to be happy," Pidge explained, and Lance listened to her carefully even though he didn't need to hear her explanation. He knew she needed to list her justifications out loud. "Both of you. I would have never done that if I wasn't sure. You know that, right? I did it to help you."

"I know," Lance said. Sometimes bones had to be painfully set back in place before they were cast. Sometimes wounds had to be cut open and drained before they would heal. Sometimes things got worse before they could get better. And sometimes it took someone else to see it.

"And did it . .. did it work?" Pidge asked, hesitantly. Lance huffed at her. Did she think he'd be here if it hadn't worked?

"Oh yeah," he allowed, giving her the validation. Though he knew that he'd never, ever hear the end of this. How she was single-handedly responsible for bringing Keith and Lance together. "It worked."

"Yes!" Pidge whisper-shouted and squeezed Lance way too tightly. He grunted, and she let him go in an instant. "Oh! Did I hurt you?" She took stock of his posture, his face, drawing quick conclusions. "That's right, your ribs. I'm sorry."

"It's ok," Lance panted, his arms folding across his torso. "You didn't mean to."

"I never do," Pidge repeated what she'd told him earlier. He should have put more faith in her. He promised himself that he would from now on. Trust her more. Trust Keith more. There was no reason not to, and he'd kept them shut out of his heart, isolating himself for way too long. He liked this so much better.

"So where is he?" Pidge suddenly demanded, as though just noticing that she and Lance were alone.

"What?" Lance asked, slowly straightening, leveling out his breathing. Pidge had always been stronger than she looked.

"Keith, of course!" Pidge hissed even though she was smiling. "Where is he?" The earnest way she said it. It dawned on Lance that Pidge had been waiting to see them together. She'd watched them flounder and fail and now wanted to see the other side. The end of a complicated drama, the result of her risk.

"Oh," Lance said as he understood. "Just outside the door."

"You left him outside?" Pidge accused, and Lance rolled his eyes. She definitely wouldn't have wanted Keith in here five minutes ago. Seems she'd already forgotten, the mood wiped as clean as her makeup. Good.

He may have been standing outside, but Keith was listening to what was going on. He opened the door fully and let not just himself but also Hunk into the room. Pidge jumped up at their entrance, beaming proudly at them, while Lance got up slower, using the armrest of the sofa to pull himself to his feet. Trying to do it slow enough that he wouldn't get dizzy. It sort of worked, but he sat down anyway. He listened contentedly to Pidge chattering a mile a minute, explaining herself to Keith.

"I should have done it sooner," Pidge finished up, and Hunk patted her shoulder. She leaned backward into him, satisfied. Keith took the opportunity of the pause to slip past them and sit next to Lance, putting a hand on his back. Lance sighed without meaning to, allowing himself to go limp against Keith. He felt as though today had actually started a week ago, a month ago. How could so much happen in less than twenty-four hours? Still, he wasn't ready for it to end yet, even though it was starting to catch up to him. Enough for his friends to notice.

"Lance, do your ribs still hurt?" Lance opened his eyes to find Pidge crouched in front of him, her hands resting on top of his. "Your hands are still freezing."

"We should probably get you home," Hunk offered as Keith curled protectively over him, their temples touching. "You need some rest." It felt so safe here, and Lance was peaceful even though he was exhausted.

"You're taking him, I assume?" Pidge checked with Keith.

"Aren't we going together?" Hunk asked innocently.

"Sunny's taking us home later," Pidge answered him, trying to make her point without actually disclosing her point. She returned her attention back to Keith. "How much time would you like? If you let us get our stuff, we can probably stay somewhere else tonight."

"Just give us a forty-minute head start," Keith answered, as though they had made some kind of arrangement beforehand.

"You sure that's all you need?" Pidge checked, her voice dripping sass, and what she was insinuating clicked in Lance's head. He felt himself blush.

"I'm taking him up," Keith responded, continuing the conversation in code. Wow. Keith had known Pidge long enough that they could talk in verbal shorthand now. Part of Lance liked that. Part of him wished he knew what they were talking about. "We'll just stop off and grab a few things."

Pidge glanced between Keith and Lance, studying that out, her face uncertain.

"Be careful," she said, which was apparently some kind of permission. "Let us know when you get there and keep the radio on."

"Copy that," Keith responded, and Lance looked to Hunk for a clue as to what this was about but didn't get far with it. Hunk obviously knew what was going on too. Great.

"We'll bring you breakfast," Hunk offered. Ok, so Keith was taking Lance somewhere that wasn't Hunk and Pidge's house. Somewhere they were going to spend the night. Alone together. Lance found he no longer needed to know anything else about the location. He'd be there with Keith, and that was good enough.

"Lunch," Keith corrected, and Pidge snorted.

"Keep him warm," she advised, being practical and teasing at the same time. Then she leaned in close to Lance, whispering to him. "Don't hurt yourself." Lance punched her gently against her shoulder, except the way she looked at him told him that she was being dead serious about it.

The bathroom door opened again, admitting a surprised looking Athenaeum staff member. She recovered admirably quickly.

"This is a restricted area," she informed them. "Guests aren't permitted up here. I ask that you relocate to the lobby, please." She eyed Hunk, as though noticing that she was outnumbered and outweighed.

"On our way out," Hunk said politely. Keith assisted Lance up from the sofa, keeping hold of him in case he lost his balance. Lance did feel rather heavy, but too happy to care about it. They went down the hall and staircase in an amoebic tangle around Lance. Keith with one arm around his waist. Pidge holding his hand on the other side, and Hunk behind him with a hand on his shoulder. They stayed that way all the way outside, parting with some reluctance. Hunk hugged Lance one more time, telling him how happy he was for him. How glad this had finally worked out. Pidge gave some final advice to Keith about their intended destination. She must have been there before to know so much about it. Lance heard himself thank them again, assure them that he would see them tomorrow. For lunch. Pidge said something teasingly to Lance, but he missed it. It didn't matter – he got the gist of what she meant.

Then Hunk and Pidge stepped backward, into the glow of the Athenaeum, intent on going back inside, finding Sunny. Giving Keith and Lance a head start to get packed and leave before they went home. Packed. What would they need to pack? Lance walked next to Keith, on their way to the car, making a mental list. His toothbrush. More comfortable clothes. Definitely his sweater.

Keith unlocked the car door, opening it for Lance. The gesture that had pained him earlier tonight that was suddenly completely endearing now that he understood Keith's motivations for it. They had so much to talk about, really. He wanted to hear everything from Keith's point of view, starting at the very beginning. The very first day. How would that sound? What would it be like to look at those memories from Keith's eyes?

The car started, and Lance put his arm on the center console, his palm flipped up. And this time Keith didn't hesitate to hold hands with him. He even laughed about it when Lance sighed happily at being touched.

"You rode like this on the way over here," Keith pointed out, as though Lance hadn't known that. "Is this why?"

"This is why," Lance replied, leaning his head back against the seat.

"I'll be damned," Keith muttered, turning right on California Ave. Yeah, Lance agreed. We were so close. Lance reached over to turn up the heat, hoping Keith would be ok with it. He knew it wasn't actually cold.

"When we get there, change into the warmest stuff you've got with you," Keith advised, prompting Lance's curiosity.

"Ok," he agreed, but then decided he wanted to ask after all. "Lobito, where are we going?"

Keith smiled wolfishly, jerking his head to indicate Lance should look out his window.

"I'm taking you up the mountain."

Author's Note: Ah, hell yah! My favorite spot is up on that mountain. I know we could probably stop about here, but I've given you guys so much torture getting here that I can't leave you without some of the cuddles. And all right, Kristina, you can have your epilogue. I've seen the light. Can you believe how close to done we finally are? You guys are all superstars for sticking with me this long. I LOVE YOU!