Keith doesn't get the chance to reach out and grab Lance before the bike bucks him into the air. He loses sight of both the bike and Lance as they are swallowed up by the forest and hears the explosion as he smacks into a web of branches that snap under his weight. The painful onslaught does, however, slow his descent enough for him to wrap his arms and legs fully around a sturdy trunk. The sudden stop in motion bashes his head against the decaying wood, making his vision go temporarily white.
From his perch, Keith sees the bike down below is bent into an unsalvageable heap of burning metal, the growing fire sending a line of smoke into the air like a giant, billowing beacon straight to their location. He glares at the flames, equally hot; they'll have to move fast and get out of the area before someone comes to investigate. If only Lance hadn't flailed around like some damn-
"Lance?" He hears the crackle of the fire and nothing else, but Lance can't exactly call out for help either if he's stuck or hurt. Keith has no time to panic, but his heart quickens at the notion. "Lance!?"
He drops from the tree, joints jarred with the landing and nearly causing him to fold to his knees. But he stands, scanning his surroundings and heading the direction he thinks they came from. Lance fell off just before he lost control, so it makes sense he landed a ways back.
True to logic, Keith sees disturbances in the dirt and soil not too far off, something not natural nor wildlife (or whatever constitutes as wildlife on this planet), a fresh divot in the ground from some sort of impact that Keith can only assume was Lance's body.
But the turf turns into a sloppy path, like something had been dragged through. Or pulled, if the sparse cavities in the soil are anything to go by. If he looks close enough, Keith can make out the outline of fingers where Lance dug in to pull himself forward. Keith follows it, not blind to the darker stains smearing along the dirt. It isn't much, but Lance is definitely bleeding.
His heart settles into a regular pattern now that it knows Lance is at least alive, but still he carries a sense of unease as he follows the trail. Then he sees him, a speck of white amongst the dead forest where the trail ends.
Keith runs to him, dropping down to put a hand on Lance's shoulder and carefully rolling the other boy onto his back. Tired, blue eyes peel open to stare at him.
"Where are you hurt," Keith asks, even as his eyes fall onto the torn fabric along Lance's left leg. It doesn't look deep enough to be dangerous, but ignored, could turn into something more. Walking will likely be uncomfortable, Keith admits, but they'll make do.
Lance blinks lazily past him, dragging his right arm up to point up at the sky.
What? Keith cranes his neck to follow the invisible line.
Caught in the branches directly overhead is Lance's bag.
Lance's stupid bag that Lance prioritized so much that he caused them to crash, not only losing their mode of transportation, but leaving Keith himself feeling an ache through his entire body and Lance sliding around on the ground like a wounded animal. "Forget that right now. Other than your leg, where else are you hurt?"
After a moment's hesitation, Lance hugs his left arm closer to himself, favoring it. Once his attention is drawn to it, Keith can see the wrist looks slightly swollen. Same wrist he twisted earlier when Lance had been simply trying to wake him up.
A twinge of guilt stirs within him for that one, andLance points down with his good hand, towards his feet. Lance rotates his left foot and wiggles his toes, while his right foot twitches and nothing else.
"Right foot," Keith comments for affirmation, and Lance brings his hand to his own face to tap the tip of his nose. Yep.
He makes to touch the supposedly injured foot but Lance gasps and sits upright before he can get close enough, eyes wide.
"I'm just going to look at it, idiot," he sighs with no trace of heat. "Just let me."
With the lightest touch he can manage, Keith runs his hand from Lance's knee and down his shin (careful to avoid the wound) to his ankle, where Lance's entire body goes stiff in anticipation. Appearance-wise it looks fine, if maybe a little tender. He looks to Lance for any kind of indication.
He's holding up his good hand, a peace sign but upside-down to look like a person. He holds it in the air and then lets it drop slowly. It lands on his dented chest plate (which probably played a vital part in Lance not dying in the crash, but Keith shuts that thought down), where one of the finger-legs folds in on itself on the landing, accompanied by a grimace on Lance's face.
"You… tripped and fell?" Keith guesses. Lance repeats the motion, faster this time, then forms a fist, rotating it once in the air. Points to his foot. Oh. "Rolled your ankle on the landing."
Finger to nose. Yeah.
"Good."
Over-the-top frown.
Has Lance always been this animated..?
"I mean it could have been worse," Keith explains tiredly. He didn't sign up to be Lance's babysitter. For a mission he only understood a fraction of. He should have stayed in his room on the castle. Should have never chased after Blue's roar.
But where would that leave Lance?
Keith shakes his head, dismissing the thoughts before they could fully form.
"We need to put distance between ourselves and the smoke. Can you stand?"
A grim nod, followed by an outstretched arm, which Keith allows to hang around his shoulders. Lance's lankiness is hard to support at first, but he manages to get them both to their feet, where Lance tenderly tests his weight on his bad ankle.
Keith moves forward but is met with resistance. Lance pulls back, even with tender footing. Any hope that Lance may have forgotten the bag in the trees is lost when Lance points up at it again. And while Keith knows he has enough control and strength to physically force Lance to move on without it, somehow he knows (as soon as Lance gets his voice back) he'll never hear the end of it.
It's just enough to make him hesitate.
Shiro comes to mind, as he often does when Keith struggles to be like him. Shiro tells him often to practice empathy. Things he may not value can be valuable to other people, thus making it valuable. Or… something like that.
Next to him, Lance's lips are moving, mouthing his name. The name never comes out, of course, but Lance tries, and Keith can hear the faint click of the K. Air filtering through teeth for the th.
Kth.
Fractured pieces of his name.
Kth.
Subdued. Gentle. The faintest of whispers but somehow even less than that.
It is the softest Keith has ever heard Lance.
For whatever reason, that pathetic wisp of sound from Lance, accompanied by his pleading eyes, has him dropping Lance's arm and pulling out his knife - always on his person because trust issues have kept him alive so far.
With it firmly gripped in his hand, he stabs deep into the bark of the tree with a satisfying thunk. Then he begins to climb.
It isn't terribly far up, maybe three times his own height. He reaches the branch easily enough, but even with his own upper body strength and his blade as an anchor point, his body flags. Apparently climbing trees shortly after a crash is not something his body enjoys doing.
But he reaches the stupid branch with Lance's stupid bag, and when he looks down, Lance's stupid face is watching him. Stupidly.
The bag hangs loosely by one of the outside pockets, the strap itself having been split. Singed, frayed edges leads Keith to the conclusion that it was hit by a stray laser beam, meaning it probably got pretty close to Lance as well.
Certain the branch will break under him should he try to shimmy onto it, he uses his weight to shake it instead. The bag dislodges with little issue, falling straight down and into Lance's waiting arms.
Keith drops down as well, stumbling slightly on the landing and carefully wiping his knife clean with his palm before sliding it back into place. He says nothing as he approaches Lance, who has already tied the severed strap together in a tight knot and has it looped over his torso. He takes Lance's shoulders and spins him 90 degrees. Sure enough, there is a tear in the black fabric of his flight suit, on his side. The skin is angry and irritated but otherwise intact. Could have been much, much worse.
He inserts himself under Lance's good arm and moves. More than anything he just wants to get away from the area to think.
As expected, Lance is unstable at first, trying to best find a way to compensate for new aches and pains. He's wobbly but moving, so Keith takes the victory. Still, he carries a bulk of the weight but to his credit, Lance gives it his all to keep a steady pace. Once or twice, Keith dares to go a little faster.
They carry on like that in silence, Lance unable to comment and Keith having nothing to say. Kind of nice, Lance not being able to fill the air with mindless or provoking chatter. Not that it stops Keith from imagining what Lance would say if he could, like his voice is still there regardless. Little echoes of what he's become familiar with.
Eventually, the woods thin out in quantity, but the trees get larger, like the high rise buildings of bigger cities. Their towering size is humbling, in a way; even the roots twist and create large, intricate structures along the ground large enough to take shelter in.
Perfect.
"We're stopping," he announces, feeling Lance grow a little heavier at the declaration. Keith takes them under the shade of roots twisted in an arc, forming a shallow cave-like refuge. Small mercies.
He unlinks himself from Lance and lowers him to the ground into a sitting position. He'll have to look at Lance's injuries, he knows, but starts running hands along his own limbs to assess himself first. His chest still aches; smacking bodily into a tree hadn't helped. Other than feeling sore, he doesn't think he has much to worry about. But even if he did, he has no idea what he would use for medical supplies, not unless Lance had the foresight to put something useful in that seemingly irreplaceable bag of his.
Speaking of…
When he looks over, Lance is digging through some of the rocks scattered around the forest floor, tossing some aside while others got stuffed into said bag.
Is he… collecting rocks?
A new breed of irritation finds its way through his veins and before he can stop himself, Keith stalks over and rips the bag clean out of Lance's hands. "You almost got us killed for this thing, Lance."
Keith then flips the bag upside-down, pouring out its contents.
The stones Lance had been hoarding moments before tumble across the dirt, along with some other rocks of a different look and texture, similar to Decibon's topography. In addition to Lance's rock collection, an unopened bottle of wine falls out and rolls to Lance's feet.
Lance snatches the bottle by the neck and hugs it to himself before Keith can react, wide eyes waiting for the reaction.
"You… made me climb a tree for wine? And rocks?"
Frustratingly, Lance isn't meeting his eyes. Frustrating because holding someone's gaze seems to be something Lance excels in and yet here he is looking at the bottle in his hands instead, scratching tenderly at a small fracture in the glass with his fingernail.
On that note, Keith tries to remind himself that this is Lance, and Lance doesn't risk his life for things that he doesn't feel are important. Time together has shown Lance to be a valuable strategist, someone very aware of his surroundings in a crisis. A tactician. A team player.
Taking all of that into consideration, there is little reason to believe that Lance has lost his senses now.
It is extremely rare for Keith to want to know the things going on in Lance's head, but it figures that when he finally does, Lance can't tell him.
XXX
Keith being irritated at him is nothing out of the ordinary, to the point where Lance finds a strange comfort in its normalcy. Sometimes, living in space and fighting a space war and protecting space aliens is exhausting, so having something predictable keeps his grounded, even while floating miles and miles away from the warm waters and sandy beaches of Earth. Somewhere, in the far recesses of his mind, Lance wonders if that is why antagonizing Keith comes so easy to him.
But here and now, not being able to verbally counter, it becomes… difficult to hear Keith's accusations. The rightful blame in his voice. Lance cannot lash out or explain his actions or defend his character by attacking Keith's. He doesn't know how to stop this horrible feeling in his gut from expanding. Because Keith isn't even supposed to be here in the first place, angry and hurt and cleaning up his messes, confused because he simply doesn't understand. But - Lance winces - that isn't Keith's fault. It's his.
He is the one who snuck off in the middle of the night with some self indulgent redemption quest without a plan other than listen to the rock. He is the one who hadn't even tried to lower Blue's walls for Keith's sake because he can't risk Keith telling the others what a failure he is. Him, who insisted they steal Galra property and then stupidly tried to rescue a bottle and some rocks when they were in the clear. It is because of him they suffered a potentially fatal crash.
Lance grits his teeth so hard his jaw hurts, hugging the bottle closer to himself but it does not offer any comfort. He is selfish and idiotic and swiftly messing up this rare chance to prove he's the opposite of all of those things. Draxis trusted him with one task and he can't even-
"Well?"
His attention is snapped back to Keith, who is still rightfully scolding him and craving some sort of reaction, verbal or not. Lance doesn't know what to do to make him feel better, but he is glaring daggers at the bottle so it makes sense to start there.
When he was nine, his grandpapa let him drink a glass of wine. He absolutely hated it and never asked for a sip again at family celebrations. It wasn't until two full years later he discovered that it had actually been pomegranate juice he'd been given, and he just hated the tartness. To this day, anything tart brings the memory fondly to the forefront. Nothing like the sweet wine in his hands now, yet somehow he thinks of it. Misses it. Those little moments that felt big in his heart.
With his teeth he pulls at the already frayed fabric around his hand, revealing the flesh of his fingers. He holds his pinky up high for Keith to see. It is still a light shade of purple from dipping it into the wine from the feast.
"Lance…"
The cork flies off with a pop and as a passing thought Lance hopes Keith doesn't think so lowly of him as to think he'd be pouring a drink at a time like this. Quickly, before Keith can interrupt, Lance gathers a bunch of the scattered stones closer to him.
Then he flips the bottle and dumps the wine all over them. Keith says nothing as he watches Lance empty the entire thing, covering every visible stone within reach.
He then takes a random stone in one hand and the Plexia Crystal in the other, and holds them side by side. At first glance, the shape and color is similar enough, the only real difference being the actual crystal's luminosity. It's close enough, though, to pass as the real thing in a pinch. A decoy to buy time, should they need it.
He stares into Keith's eyes and waits. If Keith doesn't get it now, they really do have a lot of work to do.
Keith must see it, though, his expression turning to something more calculating. In all honesty, Lance can't control the grin that stretches across his face.
Only for it to fall into a frown when Keith crosses his arms the way he does, with his face drawn tight in thought. He's going to get all sorts of wrinkles if he keeps scowling like that.
"Okay, fine, that actually isn't the worst idea you've ever had," he finally relents. "Not worth getting us killed over, but... clever."
Amidst the compliment, Lance feels the sting of blame but he brushes it off when Keith squats down next to him to start putting the now-stained rocks back into the bag, pointedly avoiding eye contact as he does so. He watches Keith put the Plexia Crystal in last, carefully, before sealing the bag.
Then he jumps when fingers brush against his side, probing at the tear in his suit. It's tender and irritated, but Keith's fingers come away dry so at least isn't bleeding out? Truthfully, Lance doesn't quite remember getting hit, but then again a lot had been happening. Keith almost got shot in the back of the head.
"Hold still," Keith says, and Lance listens. There's a foreign comfort in the sound of Keith's voice. Lance clings to it. Perhaps any voice at this point would give him solace; growing up in a big, lively family had made noise commonplace. Someone was always talking, there was always something to be said, there was always someone to listen to, someone could always use his help or his company.
The quiet scares him, sometimes.
A hiss escapes him as Keith starts brushing away some of the dirt and grime collecting at the cut on his leg. Maybe he should have saved some of the wine for a nice purple salve to wash the wound? Hindsight, and all that.
"I'll be right back." Keith turns to leave, just like that, stops, turns back and says as an afterthought, "Don't go anywhere."
Jaw slack, unable to argue, Lance stares. Please, as if he's going to just get up and wander off behind Keith's back.
Well, technically, he'd done just that just a few varga ago, landing them both in this situation. So, okay. Not exactly unfounded.
So Lance sits. And sits. Sits and fidgets, fidgets and sits, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the prolonged silence and having nothing to pierce it with. He listens to his own breathing, counting seconds in his head and then ticks. Ticks or seconds, Keith ends up being gone for what feels like a lot of them, so Lance pushes himself to stand, reprimanding himself for not just following Keith in the first place. They should stick together.
The sting of his leg is ignored as he stumbles forward. He has a job to do. A mission that now includes keeping Keith in one piece. And while he's grateful for the help, Lance isn't ready to just hand over the reins.
"What are you doing? I said I'd be right back," Keith's voice startles him. He's making faces again and has a bundle of strange looking plants in his arms. "Sit down."
Lance flops down harder than intended, Keith kneeling down next to him and dumping the plants on the ground. Then he reveals his knife, which is covered in something clear and sticky. It shimmers even in the dim light, and Keith doesn't even offer a warning as he presses the coated, flat edge of the blade against Lance's leg.
Always a little wary of Keith's knife, and even more so now that it is touching him, Lance stiffens but does not pull away. Keith doesn't do things just to do them; it is safe to assume there is rhyme and reason to this. Besides, whatever Keith is smearing onto his wound feels nice. A little gross, but cool and soothing.
After a moment Keith retracts the knife and brings over one of the long, leafy strips he pilfered from the forest. Without a word, he begins to wrap it around Lance's leg, long enough to do so twice. The plant life here is sturdy and thick; Keith secures the wrap with a well-made knot to keep it in place.
Lance touches the handiwork when it's done, then meets Keith's eyes questioningly.
"Pine sap," he says. "Or at least, some sap from some tree." He takes the knife again and moves to apply more to the graze on Lance's size. The metal makes Lance shiver but he allows it, trusting. "It's a natural antiseptic," he goes on to explain, unprompted. He takes a longer leaf and swathes it around Lance's torso, placing the securing knot just over the wound. "Better than nothing, anyway."
They didn't teach survivalist type care at the Garrison, or rather, Lance got ejected into space via the Blue Lion before he got that far. Keith started a year before him. Is that where he learned it?
He waves his hand in Keith's peripheral to gain his attention and points to the sap-covered blade, followed by a shrug. After a short hesitation, Keith explains, "Out in the desert, I didn't have much in the way of supplies other than what I could find out in the middle of nowhere. Had access to plenty of Prickly Pear Cacti. The insides can be used as an antiseptic, but… no cacti out here, though. Pine tree sap is supposed to be similar."
In the back of his mind, Lance's mind plays out the image. Keith, hurting himself by some act of brave stupidity and needing to take care of himself because no one else was there to do it for him. He can easily see Keith splitting open the pad of a cactus to utilize the insides because that's what smart, resourceful, independent people do. Survivalists like Keith always find a way.
And, much to Lance's surprise and oddly enough, comfort, it's actually kind of nice to hear something about Keith like that, and at the same time… sad? Keith struggles to connect fully with the people he lives with on a castleship in space. He can't imagine how lonely he must have felt actually being alone and secluded, relying only on himself and with no one to talk to.
"I used to camp a lot," Keith tacks on randomly, as an afterthought. "It was… therapeutic."
Lance finds himself leaning slightly forward, wide-eyed and intrigued. Such an oddity for Keith to tell him personal things all his own, but then again, Keith probably isn't used to being in his company for this long and having said nothing. Lance is grateful.
Camping feels like a very Keith-like hobby. It's something Lance has always wanted to do himself but never tried outside of camping in his own backyard or in the family room at home (he wonders if Keith would enjoy blanket forts). It raises even more questions; does Keith know how to hunt as well? Build a tent from scratch? Make a fire?
Lance reaches out and grabs the nearest stick within reach and sandwiches it between his palms. He then rubs them back and forth, drilling the stick into the ground to imitate trying to start a fire, brows raised curiously.
Unless he's going crazy, Lance swears he sees the tiniest smirk on Keith's face, followed by a slightly affronted nod. "Of course I do."
Eyes lighting up, Lance mimes casting a line and reeling it back in, followed by a flat hand moving forward in the air and wiggling.
Keith hesitates. "...fishing too, yeah."
A thumbs up then, brows raised with a slight nod.
"Good job?"
It takes Lance a moment before he shakes his head and tries again, pointing to Keith and then a thumbs up.
"Oh. I was pretty good, I guess."
Of course, that was a stupid question. Keith is good at everything he tries.
Lance smiles, then puts a fist to his chin in thought, trying to come up with questions and wondering what kind of things Keith would be good at outside of fighting bad guys and flying ships. Meanwhile, Keith pokes at the knots securing Lance's leaf-bandages to make sure they'll stick. He drags the bag over to him and dumps the remaining leaves into it, apparently expecting to need them later. Then he says, out of nowhere, "...what about… what about you?"
Something pulls the air out of his lungs and Lance makes an audible gasp to suck it back in. Is Keith… actually making an attempt at small talk? Whether he's just trying to be nice or fill in the quiet, Keith hardly if ever is proactive about learning about Lance's hobbies.
When Lance doesn't move at first, Keith tries again, a little louder. "You know, before all this. Before Voltron?"
He thinks, mind floating back to the Space Mall they visited not too long ago and the beautiful guitar he brought home. Music would be nice right about now, to comfort both of them and fill in the void without having to actually speak. Just connecting through mutual appreciation for music.
Unsure if Keith is familiar with anything musical, Lance pretends to hold a guitar, imagining the one he has at home, the one given to him by his grandpapa, all faded wood and memories. His fingers move with ease, imaginary plucks at perfectly tuned strings.
"You play guitar?" Keith sounds unbelieving.
He looks to Keith sadly and makes one more mimed strum of the guitar, then taps the base of his throat, right between the dip of his collarbone. The fingers slide up his neck to his chin, mouth open as if expelling his fingers from his mouth and into the air. Like sound.
At that, Keith actually raises a brow. "..You sing? Too? You can sing?"
Be proud, his mama would tell him, and he is. He beams brightly, but it dampens when he sees Keith doesn't mirror the same joy. Instead, he sees a deep determination as Keith sits cross-legged, deep amethyst eyes boring into his own with a scrutiny he isn't prepared for.
"Lance," he says in a tone that is much too serious too fast. "We need to talk about what happened to your voice. And why you… how you…" he audibly growls as though frustrated with himself. "I'm trying to be understanding, but it's hard."
Lance resists the urge to mock the idea of 'talking about it' when he can do no such thing and instead grabs for the stick he pretended to make a fire with from earlier. Not a pen, but it'll do.
In the dirt he writes the word 'redeem' and the an arrow pointing to himself.
He wallows in the short-lived sadness he's created for himself before Keith breaks it.
"Redeem? Redeem what? You do understand that you didn't do anything wrong back on Decibon," Keith half scowls at him, face tight. "Whatever you're doing here, you should have come to us. We could have come up with a plan."
It's difficult not to laugh at that, and Lance might have if he had the ability to. Because Keith is the irrational, impulsive one, running into things without thinking them through. And now here he is telling Lance to not do that very same thing.
Besides, he has a plan. Sort of.
He drew three angry, frowny faces, followed by three arrows that also pointed towards himself.
"You are… mad. Really mad."
No, no. Lance slices the air with his hand, no. He points to the distance, in a random direction because he has no idea where Decibon actually is. Then he crosses his arms and scowls deeply, then relaxes and points to himself.
"You're mad at yourself," Keith tries again, and Lance shakes his head no, even though it isn't entirely inaccurate. "The Decibonians, then? You helped them, why would they be mad at you?"
But Lance just stares, unsure how to make Keith (Keith, who rose to the top at the Garrison without breaking a sweat. Who fought some of the highest levels in the training room and it shows on the battlefield. Who follows his gut and doesn't even care of a bunch of strangers think less of him for it) understand why it matters so much to him. If he's honest, Lance isn't so sure himself. He doesn't want to be known as the paladin who isn't up to par with the rest of them. It isn't just for them. It's for… himself.
Thick, dark locks sway in front of Keith's eyes as he shakes the question away, his focus shifting. He leans forward, tipping his head towards the bag. "And the crystal?"
Grabbing the bag, Lance takes out a handful of wine-stained rocks and puts them in a pile to his left. Then pulls out the crystal, which is glowing a little brighter than he remembers. Keith seems to see it too.
He sets the Plexia Crystal next to the rock pile and, with his hands, imitates a burst of light. Then he scoots the crystal away from the pile and makes a much less impressive gesture; duller. Near the pile of rocks. Big gesture. Away from rocks. Little gesture. Repeat.
"Sooo, like a crystal... finder."
Suddenly excited, Lance taps rapidly at his nose - yes!
"But Lance." And here, Keith closes his eyes and rubs at his temples. He looks so tired. "Where? How?"
With thinned lips, Lance pushes the stick into the dirt and starts drawing. He's not the greatest artist. A bit of a crude style, really, but he tries to capture Draxis' features, with his glaring expression and his long robes. His big dangly earlobes.
But Keith is scrunching his face again.
"What is that supposed to be?"
Lance forces a mean expression and uses his right hand as a puppet, flapping the mouth. With his left, he points to the right, scolding it for talking. The recognition flashes across Keith's face.
"...Draxis?"
Finger to nose.
Keith goes deadpan. "You couldn't just write his name?"
Lance snaps the stick in two and tosses the pieces over his shoulder. You're no fun, he thinks, glaring, wishing he'd written it in the dirt instead so Keith knows.
"And Draxis just… gave it to you and sent you on a random, dangerous quest all by yourself? Instead of sending Voltron? And… none of this seems off to you."
Well it does now, Lance wants to say, but he just frowns instead. It was probably a bad decision, yes, yet Lance knows he would do it again. Because a lot of his life is spent looking for chances, and Draxis presented him with one.
The thought has Lance clenching his fists, causing a twinge to shoot up his arm from his left wrist. He must have made a face or moved weird or something, because Keith notices too.
"Possible contusion, definite bruising" Keith says clinically, scooting closer and grabbing his wrist as gently as he is able. Just like that, the conversation is dismissed. Lance doesn't try to bring it back. "We don't have anything to use as a cold compress but we can still wrap it." He is already moving to do so and Lance watches with a strange detachment. Had Keith purposefully changed the subject so as not to make him feel bad..?
Once wrapped, Keith guides Lance's arm straight up and instructs him to keep it elevated.
'Kth,' Lance breathes, and it's quiet enough in their little hidey-hole now that Keith actually hears him, dragging amethyst eyes to meet his. He mouths a thank you and based on Keith's expression, he has no problem understanding.
XXX
A/N: Kth. Admit it, after reading that, you all tried it for yourselves, am I right? Yes, you do not need your vocal chords to make those sounds. Of course Lance will find a way to say Keith's name without actually being able to say it. For some reason this is adorable to me so now you all have to experience it as well.
Yes, this was not a very exciting chapter, and I'm sorry not to end things on a very exciting note, but I wanted to give the boys their solace while able. And, Lance gets to learn a little more about Keith. Awe!
Since I am so slow with updates, I will tell you the next chapter we come up with a plan of action and see how smoothly we can execute said plan!