Chapter Text
"I'm not, like, interested in you… like that."
Lying in bed, sheets tangled around his legs, Keith stared up at the ceiling and mindlessly allowed Lance's words to strangle his thoughts.
"—it's not like—like I want to marry you or something—"
Swallowing hard, he blinked against the emotion that was swelling behind his eyes. He shouldn't be surprised at Lance's words, really. If he'd been at all interested in Keith "like that," he'd have said something a long time ago. Which Keith had always kind of known. They'd never talked about such things before, despite how close they were, so he'd allowed the hope to fester despite actively pushing against it. Despite talking himself out of it and constantly telling himself it was never going to happen, he'd always thought, maybe, someday…
He'd been kidding himself.
His whole body throbbed around him, feeling like a heavy, exposed nerve atop the mattress. A single tear escaped and streaked its way down the side of his face.
Lance had said it himself, that he wanted to find someone, to get married, to have kids. To create a perfect future. Keith had always known that Lance wanted these things, even if they'd rarely talked outright about it. What an idiot he'd been, thinking that somehow, some way, maybe he'd end up being Lance's future someone. That in some miraculous deviation from everything they'd ever been, suddenly, Lance would want him in a way he never had before.
Truth be told, Keith had never cared what that meant—what defined Lance's future "someone." Sure, Lance talked about marriage and kids and whatever, but Keith had always figured that if he could somehow fill that role, he'd take anything. Deluded himself, even, into thinking that maybe he and Lance already had that significance with each other, they'd just never transparently discussed it. Even though Keith had heard Lance on multiple occasions talk about wanting more. More than what they had—more than what he wanted from Keith.
What a joke. He should have known better. Somehow, he'd become comfortable in the quiet, unacknowledged falsity of his and Lance's relationship. He'd convinced himself against every reality that proved otherwise that he and Lance's relationship was different, that it was okay they weren't direct or forthright, because they had something deeper—something more profound. He knew better now, of course. He'd learned over the years that, generally, people, things, situations, they were obvious in their truths no matter what was said or done. If someone was shifty, then they were probably lying about something. If something was too good to be true, then it usually was. If there was a crack, then a break was inevitable.
Stupid. So stupid.
Falling in love with Lance… He was getting his just desserts now. Years he'd willingly lied to himself. Known he'd been doing it, but gone ahead anyway.
Pathetic.
Taking in a hard, painful breath, Keith swallowed back as best he could the tears that were still clawing their way up his throat. Sitting up, he slumped in place, barely sparing the warm, morning sunlight a single look, instead preferring to avoid the brightness entirely. He felt… obtrusive, like he was somewhere he didn't belong. This was Lance's childhood home, his childhood bed. Though they'd shared in a very intimate friendship all these years, he didn't have any right to be there. Suddenly, the strangeness of their entire relationship was clear as day to him. Sleeping together, touching each other, being so comfortable undressed around one another, none of it was okay. Not if Lance really wanted to have a chance at a relationship with someone else someday, and not if Keith wanted to somehow get over loving his best friend.
Which only broke his heart all the worse, because he knew that inevitable distance came along with the reality check he was experiencing. It was the only solution. Not like any of Lance's future partners would be okay with Keith sleeping in bed with him, or with them showering together, or—or—
Unable to hold it back, Keith's whole chest shuddered, chin trembling as more tears fell down his cheeks.
He had to let go.
All of it—the past, everything he held so dear.
"What… What are you doing?" Keith asked, his body going hollow at the sight of Lance in the lion hanger, suited up in his new red and white armor.
"What do you mean?" he asked and cracked a humored smile. "I'm going with."
"But…" Keith reached out a nervous hand. "But you're still recovering. You're not…"
"I can't stay cooped up in this castle forever, Keith," he reasoned, expression softening. "I'm nearly back on par with where I was before the… The point is, I was out fighting off the galra long before I had the combat skills I do now. You know, back when we were just idiot kids. There's no reason for me to stay behind now."
Keith's hand fell back to his side. "Yeah, but…"
"Hey," Lance murmured, moving closer. Until he was so close their armor plates nearly brushed. Reaching up, he slid a strand of Keith's long hair behind his ear. "I'm okay, I promise. You made sure of that."
Unable to meet his gaze, Keith continued to stare nervously at the floor.
"And you'll be there with me," Lance continued, the backs of his knuckles brushing Keith's cheek. "Besides, you've been watching my back all this time—'bout time I returned the favor, don't you think?"
"Lance, you don't owe me anything," Keith whispered, voice straining.
Smiling gently, Lance leaned his forehead down against Keith's own, practically forcing their eyes to meet. "I owe you everything," he murmured. "But beyond that, we're a good team, aren't we? Not even you can object there."
Keith huffed.
"So everything will be fine," he continued. "Right?"
"You make it sound so simple."
"Isn't it? There's nothing you and I can't do. So long as… so long as we're together."
Though he was uneasy, Keith allowed some of his defensiveness to fall away. "Together."
"Always."
Hand going to cover his mouth, Keith closed his eyes and forced himself to hold back the sob that wanted to rip him. He couldn't break down again, not as he had the day before. This agony and heartbreak was all his own doing—his own fault. It was best, therefore, to keep it to himself. He was a paladin of Voltron—the leader of Voltron—and he'd been through a lot worse than this.
Besides, he couldn't let Lance see him upset again. He didn't deserve that, having to deal with Keith's personal fuck-ups. Not like he'd asked Keith to fall in love with him.
Closing his eyes, he counted purposefully to ten and back, breathing in and out. In and out, in and out. It didn't quell the tight, nearly debilitating emotions threatening to upend him, but it gave him the calm to steady himself. It helped—no matter how much it also hurt—that Lance was nowhere to be found.
As far as Keith knew, he'd never even come to bed the night before. "Come to bed," like they were a couple that had a regular bed they both came back to.
Scoffing under his breath, Keith pulled his legs over the side of the bed, threw the sheets aside, and shoved himself to his feet. He wondered, fleetingly, where Lance had been all night, while simultaneously reminding himself that it was none of his business. Lance could do whatever he liked—it wasn't Keith job to keep track of him—
But it was.
—or watch out for him, or protect him. Eventually, Lance would find the person he really wanted to spend the rest of his life with and then Keith wouldn't matter at all.
He'd be nothing—just a figment of Lance's past. A piece of him that mattered a lot less than Keith had hoped or wanted.
Ugh, he needed to stop thinking about it.
Retreating to the bathroom, he quickly brushed through his morning routine, lastly pulling his hair into a sloppy ponytail. Tugging on the ends, he glared at himself in the mirror—tired and puffy-eyed—and fleetingly wondered if he should cut his hair. How short? It'd been well over a decade since he'd had hair above his ears. Maybe it'd be a good change, getting rid of it.
Deciding to think very seriously on the idea, Keith marched back out into the bedroom, only to find himself loitering stupidly. What was he meant to be doing there without Lance? Lance, who was currently the entire source of his distress.
For the first time since the accident, he found he didn't want to see Lance. Did want to be faced with his careless smile and tasteless jokes and blatant flirting. He didn't know what he'd do, so pent up and tense as he was. Maybe it'd be best if he went back to the castle. This was Lance's home, after all. He'd hardly be missed. And at least there, in space, surrounded by the stark, even lines of the castle and its otherworldly power, he'd be… alone. If he was alone, then he could wade through this idiotic heartbreak on his own.
Just as he'd been doing most of his life.
Maybe he could even sneak out before anyone noticed. Just head on down to the beach, climb in Black, and be gone. Yet, even as he considered it, he could see both Shiro's disapproving frown and Lance's confused hurt. It wasn't Lance's fault that he couldn't give Keith what he wanted. And it was a hugely dick move to up and leave without saying anything after having met all of Lance's family and stayed in their home.
He wanted to escape, and maybe five or six years ago he wouldn't have cared about the consequences, but as of then, he did, and acting rashly at the behest of his hurting heart would only make things more difficult. And strain his and Lance's relationship more than was already inevitable. Maybe he did need space for a little while, but Lance was still—and always would be—his best friend. While his own hopes had been crushed, he couldn't risk destroying all of what he and Lance shared. Distance between them would be… inevitable now, for Keith's own sanity, but that didn't mean he had to burn all the bridges between them.
Being around Lance, though, would be so… hard. He wasn't good enough at hiding his emotions to convince anyone, let alone Lance, that there was nothing wrong. Lance already knew there was something wrong.
Perhaps it'd be best to talk to Lance. He could tell him that being on Earth with his family was just too overwhelming for him. It was a piss-poor excuse, but it was better than the truth, wasn't it? Certainly it was better for their friendship if he gradually pulled away than it was to tell Lance how he felt. That would put an even bigger wedge between them.
It was a bad plan—a bad, insensitive, shitty plan—but it was the best he had. And given how overwhelmed and broken he was feeling, it was the best he figured he could do.
Still dressed in his sweats from the night before, Keith took a deep, preparatory breath and moved out into the hall. Doing all he could to keep his emotions in check, he reasoned that running into Lance was inevitable. As soon as he did, he'd pull him aside and explain his "plan." Best to do it as soon as possible, both for his sake and Lance's.
Lance was bound to question him, but he'd have to stubbornly stand his ground. Getting him to spill the truth was one of Lance's particular talents, a fact he needed to brace himself for.
Yet, as he edged his way down the stairs and into the short hallway, he was surprised at the quiet permeating the house. No voices were heard—no Lance arguing with Patrice, no Rose scolding anyone. He registered the distant rumble of a clothes washer somewhere at the back of the house, and old water pipes groaned some above his head, but otherwise, all was quiet.
Disconcerted, Keith was suspicious as he walked through the doorway into the kitchen, yet surprised to see how empty the room was. There was evidence on the table, however, that quite a few people had been their eating breakfast recently, and even as he catalogued this fact in his head, Rose came in from outside.
Glancing up as the screen door slammed behind her, Keith made sure his best mask was in place as she smiled. Which was… not productive, because Keith had only one expression when he was trying to hide—that being cold neutrality. Even that had to be better than everything toiling underneath, however.
"Oh, good morning, sweetie," Rose said. If she was bothered by his coldness, it didn't show.
"Good morning," he said awkwardly, uncertain what he was meant to make of being called "sweetie." He was a paladin and pilot of the black lion—"sweetie" hardly seemed appropriate.
"You must be looking for Lance," Rose deduced quickly, as she headed along the counter to the sink, where she appeared to be preparing vegetables of some kind. Washing them, perhaps. "He and Patrice have gone into town to do some grocery shopping for me," she explained as she turned away from him. "We're having a bit of a get-together tonight with some other family members and I needed a few things."
"Get-together?" Keith asked weakly, which inspired Rose to turn toward him again.
"Didn't Lance tell you?" she asked.
"We haven't… talked much," he explained. "We were… tired."
Rose's eyes narrowed—she wasn't convinced—but Keith looked aside, deciding it best not to acknowledge such things. If Lance got his natural intuitiveness from his mother, it wasn't a risk Keith was willing to take.
"Well, after you two were on television, I started getting messages from the rest of the family," she went on. "So we're having something of a party this afternoon."
"Oh…"
"Which I gather isn't exactly you're cup of tea," she said, which had Keith cringing. He hated how transparent he could be.
"Sorry," he said lamely. This earned him an even more puzzled look that he did his best to avoid.
"You don't need to be sorry—Lance isn't exactly a social butterfly these days either. Not like he used to be, anyway." She offered him a kind smile. "He wasn't all that thrilled when I told him either."
Perhaps, were things different, Keith would have taken comfort in her claim, but as of then, he was stuck simply not knowing what to say. Which was even more mortifying than usual, because this was Lance's mother, and he was stuck recalling all the awkward small talk he'd failed to contribute anytime Voltron had been indulging in alliance negotiations. Allura, Shiro, Hunk, and Lance were always leaps and bounds better at such things, while he and Pidge had been left to mope along on the sidelines.
What he wouldn't give to have some of his other friends there. Shiro, preferably.
"Are you alright?" Rose asked after the silence had stretched on too long. She'd cocked her head, brows furrowed in obvious concern, which left Keith only feeling all the worse. "You look a little… pale."
"I'm always pale," he snapped a little too quickly, cringing at the way Rose raised her eyebrows at his tone. "Sorry," he said quickly—again—and once more set his attention elsewhere. "I didn't sleep well last night." Which was true, thus it was an easier excuse to throw out there.
Rose watched him sympathetically, even if there was still that suspicious veil in place. "You can go back upstairs if you'd like," she said. "I'll let Lance know when he gets back that you were looking for him."
Supposing there was little else he could do—and that he'd be less likely to be bothered closed up in Lance's room—he nodded. Offering Rose a stiff, "yeah, thanks," he turned and headed back the way he'd come.
Honestly exhausted, he did flop back down on the bed once he was back in Lance's room, but he didn't get much in the way of sleep. Mostly he just lay there, staring blankly across the room. He went in and out of rest every once in a while, but every time he heard an unfamiliar noise or voice, he was jolting awake, expecting Lance to come waltzing through the door.
Yet, hours passed by and, still, no Lance. At one point, Rose came up to, perhaps, check on him, or maybe offer him lunch (based on the smell), but Keith quickly closed his eyes and pretended to be dead asleep. She left as a result, though she left the door open a crack.
Some time in the early afternoon, he swore he heard Patrice's voice out the window. If she was back, then Lance had to be too. Yet, he never came upstairs in search of Keith. He was left utterly and absolutely alone for a majority of the day. Which was both good and bad. Good, because he wanted to be alone, but bad because it only twisted his nerves tighter and tighter, putting off the inevitable confrontation.
It was nearly six in the evening when he heard Lance's familiar gait coming swiftly down the hall. Pushing himself quickly up off the bed, Keith was barely on his feet when Lance was pushing his way through the door.
The sight of him was… surprising. Not because Keith was surprised he was there—obviously, he wasn't—but because of how he was dressed. No altean suits, no alien foreign dress, no casual sweats from his teenage years. He was donning a brand new pair of white wash jeans—which hung from his slim hips a little too perfectly—a clean, red t-shirt, a pristine jean jacket (darker than his actual jeans), and a narrowly designed pair of running sneakers striped in blue and white. He looked so… human. So… ordinary.
In his hands he carried a great many large, heavy looking shopping bags, his prosthetic bearing the brunt of the load.
"Do I look that good?" he asked, when a few seconds of silence had passed between them. Flicking his gaze up to meet Lance's own, Keith could practically feel the punching blow to his heart at the sight of Lance's bright smile.
Keith cleared his throat. "Just… surprised," he said honestly.
Lance smiled wider, if at all possible. "Figured we could both use a boost to our wardrobes, since we're on Earth for a bit," he explained and offered up the shopping bags. "I got you some stuff too. And seeing as I picked it all out, there's no threat of you walking out of here looking like a fashion disaster."
Keith frowned. "I didn't realize that was a concern."
"Oh, Keith," Lance said as he set the bags on the bed. "Your lack of self-awareness is astounding."
Though he was in a piss-poor mood, Keith managed a good-natured roll of his eyes.
"And look at this!" Lance said happily as he dug around in one of the bags. "I saw this and thought specifically of you." He'd pulled a very black, very leather, very high-quality jacket from the depths, unfolding it and presenting it to Keith like treasure. It was very biker in its design, with its stylish collar and multiple zipper pockets. It was something Keith never would have been able to afford, back as a teenager, though it was—admittedly—very much something he'd have wanted.
"Um, thank you," he muttered lamely, as Lance practically shoved the jacket into his arms.
"I know it's too hot here to wear it," he prattled on, "but I figured, it's so cold up in the castle, you're bound to get some use out of it after we leave."
Keith couldn't help pointing out that he was wearing a jacket.
"I know, and I'm burning up in it," he admitted, even as he stripped it off. "But for the sake of fashion, I had to wear it for a little while. Besides, the car was air-conditioned." He returned his attention to the bags again. "I got you some other stuff too—jeans, t-shirts, belts, underwear, a couple pairs of boots. I'm pretty sure it should all fit—we basically wear the same sizes.'" Which was true, though they filled out their clothes rather differently. Where Lance's jeans were loose on his hips, the same size would be snugger on Keith, while any shirts would be pulled taut in the shoulders by Lance. "Oh, and I know your feet are a bit smaller than mine, so I went a size lower on those."
"Is this where you've been all day?" Keith asked, trying not to sound too snappish. The jacket was great and all, but even if he hadn't been in a bad mood to start, Lance had left him alone without any explanation. For hours.
"Uh, yeah." Dodging Keith's gaze, Lance rubbed the back of his neck. Which was a telltale sign of him being nervous. "We went grocery shopping too, and I ran a few other… errands."
Keith pursed his lips. "You could have said something."
"Er, sorry," he said meekly. "I just thought you, well… never mind. In any case, you should be set up for the rest of our stay here. No more sweats!"
Keith didn't mind sweats, but that was probably beside the point.
Setting the jacket aside, he peered shortly into one of the bags, before deciding he was altogether too preoccupied to give much care to whatever Lance had picked out for him. It was probably fine, whatever he'd bought.
"Keith…?" Lance questioned hesitantly. "Are—Are you okay? Mom said you've been up here all day, sleeping. And last night…"
Keith almost said that he was fine, but Lance would know he was lying. Besides, admitting that something was wrong—even if it wasn't the truth—was what he planned to do anyway.
"It's just not usually your M.O. to sleep all day, even when you are upset…" Lance added lastly.
He wasn't wrong—normally Keith would go hammer away on the training deck when he was angry, or workout, or do literally anything to keep his mind occupied. But though there was plenty he could have done, even in Cuba (walking, swimming), he was just too… tired. And disappointed. And heartbroken. Merely thinking about it zapped his energy.
"Listen, Lance," Keith started. "I think I—I need to go back to the castleship." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweats as he spoke, unable to quell his defensiveness.
It'd been so long since he'd put up any shields around Lance—it felt… wrong.
"What?" Lance asked, straightening immediately as he looked Keith up and down. "Why?"
"It's just been… really overwhelming, being here. Your family is great and all, but—"
"We've barely been here a few days," Lance said strictly. "And my family has done a really good job giving us space."
Which was true. With the exception of their first night there, the activity level at the house had been relatively low.
"I know, it's just…" Keith put his gaze on the floor. "It's too much."
"Why are you lying to me?"
He said it so blatantly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which Keith should have expected. Like hell he would ever get away with lying to Lance. Between the two of them, he wasn't the better liar, and Lance knew him too well besides.
Yet, even so, Keith couldn't bring himself to explain. So, instead, he said nothing.
"What's going on?" Lance persisted. "Between last night and now, you're… you're acting really strange. Are you mad at me about something? Because if you are, just tell me. Whatever it is I did, I didn't mean to. You—You know that."
"I'm not mad at you," Keith said, releasing a heavy sigh.
"Then what is it?"
"I just need to go back to the—"
"Stop lying," Lance said heavily, loudly. "Look at me."
Keith didn't, too afraid of what his eyes would betray if he did.
"Keith!"
Still, he refused, which earned him another heavy silence. One that was only punctuated by Lance's nervous shifting.
"You're not leaving," he eventually said. "I don't know what—what is going on with you, that you've decided to just… shut me out after years of us being—You're not going anywhere. Not until you tell me what the hell is going on."
Keith bristled. "You can't keep me prisoner, Lance. I'll leave if I—"
"No!" Lance practically shouted, which startled Keith into finally looking his way, more alarmed than he was anything. Not because he and Lance didn't yell at each other—they did so quite regularly, in fact—but because of the shakiness in his tone. And as their eyes met, Keith could see it, the obvious fear and confusion in Lance's deep blue eyes. In his posture, even, and how his lone flesh and blood hand trembled at his side. "You're not going anywhere," he said, quieter, though sounding just as shaken. "I don't know what the hell your problem is, but you're staying. Here. With me."
"You can't—"
"End of discussion!" Lance said, louder again, before his tore his gaze from Keith's. His breathing was audibly shaky as he moved to the door. He paused in the doorway, barely looking at Keith over his shoulder. "People are already here for the party," he muttered. "They know you're here. You have to stay."
Saying nothing else, he grabbed the door, closing it behind him as he left. Like he could, what, lock Keith up there? Bullshit!
Growling, Keith gave into both his temper and his guilt (because this whole misunderstanding was his own fault, really) and reached out for the leather jacket on the bed. Nails sinking into the expensive fabric, he whipped it across the room, causing it to collide harshly with the dresser before it dropped to the floor.
Stumbling back, he collapsed into Lance's old desk chair, elbows on his knees and hands covering his face.
No matter what Lance said or tried to do, he couldn't keep Keith somewhere when that wasn't where he wanted to be. Lance knew better than anyone that Keith had a hard time following orders when they needed to be followed, let alone otherwise. Like hell he was going to stay now!
Fuck, Lance! Fuck this whole vacation bullshit!
Fuck everything!
Shoving himself back to his feet, Keith nearly stomped out the door, intent on unleashing his frustration even if Lance walked away, but then the fact that Lance's family was arriving pulled him up short, causing him to grit his teeth as he whipped around to the bed. While he'd caused plenty a scene in his youth, he liked to think he had enough discipline and life-experience at that point to know what was appropriate and what wasn't. No matter how angry he was, blowing up at Lance in front of his family would do neither of them any good.
But he also had no intention of lingering after Lance's arrogant attempt at telling him what to do.
So angry that he nearly ripped one of the shopping bags as he rummaged through it, Keith eventually found a pair of black jeans, a standard package of black t-shirts (which he ripped open so violently that they were sent flying across the bed), a package of boxer briefs that were already open (probably Lance was wearing the missing pair, but Keith didn't much care whose shit was whose at that point), and a new pair of black chelsea boots. Shedding his sweats, he yanked it all on rather aggressively, re-tied his hair into a sloppy bun, and marched out the door.
He could hear it already, people crowding into the house. It was a scene he wanted to avoid if at all possible, which meant that haste and stealth was of the upmost import. Yet, as he peered down the stairs, he could see shadows passing by between the kitchen and the living room. It'd be unlikely that he get out without running into someone.
Growling again, Keith whipped around on his heel and made his way back to Lance's bedroom. He went straight for the window, looking out to gather that he was facing the far side of the house, opposite the driveway, where people were arriving and no doubt filing inside. Flipping the latches on the screen, he yanked it free and tossed it aside before reaching up to anchor himself on the trim above the glass. Using his core to pull himself up, he easily slid his legs onto the flowerbox elevated outside, bent awkwardly backwards for only a few seconds before he released the trim and shimmied out. Bending back up—once he was sure his head was clear—he balanced only momentarily in place, aware of how weak the old flowerbox was under his weight. He was two stories up, but that was hardly relevant. Grabbing hold of the edge of the box, he dropped down off it, hanging in place for half a second before he let go.
He landed in a practiced crouch in the dirt.
"Oh, nice, very nice," Lance mocked from behind him, Keith whipping around to glare. He was leaning against the house just beneath the window, clearly having expected that it was the route Keith would pick for his escape. Looking livid, he pushed himself into marching after Keith just as he turned away, stomping off as well.
"That's right, run away!" Lance hissed, likely wanting to avoid drawing attention as they headed off through the dry grass, toward a thin line of trees that Keith figured would obscure him enough to turn toward the beach. "Because that's real mature—just stay silent and brood and sulk."
Keith tried to drown him out, but didn't have much faith it would work—it never had before.
"I didn't know throwing temper tantrums was something we did anymore," he continued. "But I guess, if this is where we are in our relationship, then—"
Growling, Keith whipped around, fully aware that Lance was right on his heels. Reaching out, he shoved him hard by the shoulders, forcing him to stumble back in surprise. Surprise that quickly turned to heated anger.
"Will you just shut up!" Keith said harshly, having less care for anyone overhearing, though they were quite a distance off from the house now. "For once in your life, just shut up!"
"What the hell is this?!" Lance asked, quite as if he hadn't heard Keith at all. He was already stepping forward, taking his chance to shove Keith with just as much force as Keith had him, Keith catching himself on the backstep. "Are we seventeen again?! Huh?! You wanna fucking go?!"
Keith blocked and pushed him off when Lance tried to shove him a second time, which resulted in Lance lording forward, arms raised challengingly above his head.
"You're such an ass!" Keith hissed. "I don't even know why I've bothered all these years!" He whipped around and kept walking.
"Wow, really going for the jugular there, huh?" Lance asked bitterly and continued to follow him. "Please, continue. You're clearly intent on rampaging, so why don't you tell me how you really feel?"
A statement that had Keith barking out a bitter laugh as they finally met the shade of the trees.
"Keith!" Lance yelled. He'd reached out, his hand wrapping harshly around Keith's upper arm. No doubt he aimed to stop him, so Keith gave him what he wanted. Turning harshly on his heel, he came to a grinding halt and, fist raised, made a swipe for Lance's head.
It was a blow that Lance dodged, barely, and that turned his anger into dangerous outrage.
"What the hell is your fucking problem?!" he yelled right in Keith's face.
"You're my fucking problem!"
"Then tell me why!"
"No!"
"KEITH!"
"JUST BACK OFF!"
Maybe it was the sheer volume, or the desperation in his tone, but though he was still beyond angry, Lance finally clamped his mouth shut. Raising his hands in defeated frustration, he backed up a few steps before circling in place, while Keith remained where he was, chest heaving as his hands balled into fists at his sides.
"Fine, you wanna be mad at me, feel free," Lance started, voice forcibly controlled as he paced. "You refuse to tell me what the hell is happening, so whatever, we'll just… be mad and I'll do this anyway. I wasn't planning on doing this tonight, but seeing as you're prepared to fucking leave without bothering to tell me why, I'll just skip ahead and we'll sort this out later."
Keith scoffed, because it was that simple, was it? Lance thought they could just jump over this argument and go on, circling back when it was, what, more convenient? Because their relationship was that certain? Was that stable? Was that… unchanging?!
"Fuck you, Lance."
"Yes, I get it!" he snapped, having paused to pat himself down. Like he was looking for something. First he patted his jean's pockets, before he froze in alarm and patted stupidly at his t-shirt, which obviously had no pockets.
Then he yelled, "FUCK!" and threw his arms in the air again.
"What?!"
"I left it in my goddamn jacket!" he shouted and gestured vaguely back at the house.
Keith, honestly, didn't know why he was still standing there. Yet, even so, he rose to the bait—just like he always did. Because he was a pathetic, heartbroken idiot.
"Left what?!" he snapped.
"The mother fucking rings!"
Lip curling, Keith snarled. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"The rings!" Lance repeated. "I bought them today and then I left them in my jacket, which is back at the house, because I wasn't going to do this tonight, but I guess none of it fucking matters anyway. Because of course you'd make proposing as difficult as fucking possible. Probably have broken the atmosphere by now if I hadn't chased you down, for fuck's sake!"
Keith had absolutely no idea what he was on about, and promptly said as much.
"I'm talking about exactly what I said! I bought rings so I could propose, and I had this whole big plan that doesn't even matter anymore, so whatever!"
"Propose what?" Keith asked.
Finally stilling, Lance gaped, silence stretching between them as he very obviously tried to digest Keith's question. While Keith could offer no support, because he still had absolutely no idea what the hell Lance was going on about.
"Propose as in propose marriage," Lance finally managed to spit out, using that tone he oftentimes did when he thought Keith was being purposefully obtuse (he never was, for the record).
Keith was still confused, his brain having slowed to a stop. "To who?" he asked, stupidly, because he knew it was a stupid question even if he couldn't quite configure why.
Lance held his hands stiffly out between them. "To you."
Blinking, Keith clumsily retraced their conversation, trying to link the pieces so as to understand how they'd gotten to this point. Because was… was Lance saying that he was—was… was asking Keith—that he—that he wanted—
"What?" Keith asked breathily, quietly, too scared to even entertain what should be so incredibly obvious. And maybe it was the look in his eyes as his already weak defenses shattered, or the terror in his voice, or even the way he shied back, but Lance's own temper fizzled in response. Until all that was left were those open, honest blue eyes, which hit Keith so hard that he found it hard to breathe.
"Keith," Lance murmured. "I'm asking you to marry me."
But Keith couldn't understand. Or perhaps he was just too afraid.
"Why?" he choked out weakly.
"Christ, Keith, why do you think?" Lance said, his voice gentle despite the harshness of his words. "Because I want to marry you. Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you and I want everybody in the world—in the universe—to know it. Because I love you. Because I want to wake up in bed beside you every morning and—"
"You love me?" Keith said, his voice so strained it was barely above a whisper. His body, meanwhile, was going numb, his fingers and hands and legs shaking, his throat clogging, his chest swelling against his better judgement.
Lance's gaze softened. "Of course I love you. I've been in love with you for years."
"You're in love with me?"
"I am," he said. So simply, with a little shrug and one of his trademark careless smiles.
"But—But you said…" Keith stammered, aware of the thickness in his voice and unable to do anything about it. "Yesterday, you said…"
"I lied," he admitted. "I panicked. I wasn't sure if—"
"Why would you lie?!" Keith asked frantically. "Why—Why would you lie about that?! Why would you—Why—" Unable to hold himself together any longer, Keith reached up and gripped hard at his hair, his whole body trembling so horribly that his teeth were chattering even as he grit them, tears streaming unhindered down his cheeks. "Why would you do that to me?!"
There was understanding, and guilt, swimming in Lance's expression, even as he stepped closer. "Oh, Keith, I'm so sorry. I didn't—I wasn't thinking. I was so worried about whether or not you—but that doesn't matter." His hands were wrapping gently around Keith's wrists, like he wanted to pull his arms down and away, but Keith was still too busy pulling at his hair to give in. "Keith, baby, please, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Despite attempts to hold it back, to keep control of himself, Keith was slipping. The sob that had been trying so hard all day to escape finally broke free, eyes squeezed shut as more and more tears flooded up and steaked away.
"Fuck, Keith, this is all my fault," Lance murmured, moving his hands from Keith's wrists to instead wrap his arms around Keith's back, pulling them together. Keith found himself buried against Lance's shoulder, a fact he was only vaguely aware of, as his attention was wholly shot in favor of the sobbing cries that were now unstoppable as they tore through his throat. "I never should have lied to you," Lance went on. "I'll never lie to you again, about anything. You must have been so confused and—and hurt. No wonder you wanted to rip my head off."
Shaking so severely that he couldn't even keep his grip on his own hair, Keith choked violently on the air attempting to make it in between his crying, his legs so numb and weak that it was only Lance's firm hold on him that kept him standing. Within seconds, he was utterly spent and unable to grasp at any control. He didn't know if he was relieved or shocked or angry—he was simply falling apart. So long he'd kept everything pent up, buried deep, so perhaps he should have seen the inevitability of it overflowing. Of it absolutely consuming him.
"Keith, please, it's okay," Lance continued to murmur in his ear. "I didn't mean what I said. I know you well enough by now that I should have seen what you needed from me, not given in to my own stupid insecurities. I always knew the truth—I was just too scared to act on it. Too scared of losing you or messing things up between us. After everything we've been through together, I should have known better. I did know better. I should have been what I knew you needed me to be, just like you've always been for me. Baby, please, don't cry anymore. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Keith was aware, in the foggy, frazzled back of his mind, that Lance was gently rocking him, that one of his hands was stroking his spine while the other held the back of his head. Perhaps he was even pressing his lips to his hair, while Keith had his face buried in his neck, his hands having tangled themselves in Lance's brand new shirt like a child desperate for comfort. But it was all so trivial compared to the agonizing throb of everything inside of him, all the doubt and confusion and heartbreak and fear and past loneliness, combined somewhere down the stretch with relief and disbelief and the fluttering nauseousness of elation.
It was too much.
Too much, too much, too much.
Yet, Lance held him through it all, continuing to offer quiet reassurances that were tumbled and lost in the cascade, but that Keith struggled to grab hold of nonetheless. To remind himself that Lance was there, that what he'd said was real, and that, maybe, his hopes hadn't been in vain. All these years…
Still trembling, but no longer assaulted by the horrible, painful sobbing, Keith labored to breath against Lance's neck. He was snotty and salty and disgusting, and somewhere in the smallest parts of his thoughts, he was ashamed of his breakdown. Yet, with Lance's warmth wrapped so securely around him, his ability to care was limited.
"Just breathe," Lance was saying, as Keith hiccupped uncontrollably against him. "It's okay—we're okay."
It bubbled out of Keith then, the venom that had poisoned him, that had left him in such a terribly desperate state. "I thought—" he struggled to say, "I thought you didn't—you didn't—love me."
Saying it out loud ripped another sob to the surface, though it wasn't nearly so severe as before. Sad, maybe, like the sound a dog made after it'd already been kicked and was sprawled out on the ground, helpless and injured.
"I do," Lance whispered. "I do love you. So much, Keith. More than I've ever loved anyone or anything."
Though Keith wanted nothing less than for Lance to pull away, he hardly had the energy to object. He barely had the wherewithal to remain standing, still trembling in place as Lance moved his hands to his shoulders, blue eyes searching Keith's broken expression.
"I love you," he repeated softly and leaned in once more, his lips brushing Keith's temple. "I love you," he whispered again and moved his lips down, to Keith's cheek. "I love you." Over and over he said it, gently touching his lips across Keith's face—to his jaw, his neck, his chin, his other cheek, his forehead. I love you, I love you, I love you, he said, as his hand came up to cradle Keith's face, thumb wiping away the tears that still trickled from his eyes, slower now, but ever-present.
Releasing a light, gasping breath, Keith tightened his hold on Lance's shirt and instinctively leaned in.
"I love you, Keith," Lance said, and kissed the corner of his mouth.
Turning just slightly, Keith felt his nose brush against Lance's, their breath hot as it mingled between them.
"I will always love you," Lance said lastly, just before he moved in and pressed his lips to Keith's own.
Something like lightning struck inside Keith, resetting the struggling beat of his heart as he closed his eyes. As he felt the nauseating, wonderful shock of something he'd always been too afraid to believe. It was then, in that moment, within that single ray of light that came bursting through the clouds, that he gave in.
He leaned up to meet Lance's touch and surrendered.