Chapter Text
Keith adjusts his knife, prying the cover off the steering console.
“Keith, get on with it,” Lotor says, flicking his head about as he watches the dark street, idly scratching at his arms or neck.
Keith ignores him as he studies the wires, trying to figure out which does what. He uses his knife to strip a pair of cables and ties them together. Finding the other cable he needs, he carefully strips it and holds it away from the other exposed wire.
“You ready?” Keith asks.
“Yes, come on now, let’s get out of here.”
There’s a loud banging sound as a screen door at the back of a restaurant in the street swings close. A man steps out onto the step and eyes the two of them at the car.
“Hey! Hey! What are-”
Before he can even finish, Lotor takes off into the street, leaving Keith behind. Keith curses as he steps out of the car and also begins to run for it, Lotor already missing. The man keeps calling out and dials the police on his phone as Keith starts running down random streets.
His chest pounds and his feet rhythmically slam into the pavement as he moves down poorly lit streets, unsure of where he is turning next. He runs for five minutes at full sprint, but feels himself needing to slow down. He passes a park and turns into it, following the winding path.
He hears the faint echo of sirens in the distance and keeps on moving.
Pulling out his phone, Keith navigates towards the nearest train station, about fifteen minutes away. He keeps up his light jog until he arrives, quickly walking up to the platform and waiting a couple minutes for the train to pull in.
He rides the train through the suburbs, looking out at the houses bathed in warm orange glow.
Keith gets off the train and heads to Vrepit Sa. The bar entrance comes into view, a small staircase and a security guard out front.
“Sendak wants to see you,” he tells Keith as he steps aside.
Keith doesn’t answer as he walks down the stairs, hearing the echoing of the music travelling up the stairs. He steps into the dim light of the basement bar, still early enough for only a few patrons to be milling around the tables. Axca stands behind the bar and nods to Keith, returning to cleaning down the bench. Keith scans, but finds no sight of Lotor.
Keith walks through to the door at the back, heading into the dark hallway at the back of the bar. A few doors Keith’s never been into line the wall, but he just focuses on getting to the door at the end of the hallway and then getting home.
Not bothering to knock, Keith throws open the door to see Sendak sorting some packages and notes.
He looks up at Keith and scowls.
“Keith,” he says, venom dripping off the name.
“Sendak. What do you want?”
“Got a job for you.”
“What is it?”
“You’re looking for Lance,” Sendak tells him, “at this address. Regular drop-off to a frat party.”
Keith nods, taking the small package. Sendak snatches his arm.
“Try not to cut into this one,” he says.
Keith shoves him off.
“Your disrespect won’t be tolerated, Keith. Zarkon raised you from nothing, and you better do what he says. Don’t undermine him.”
“Whatever,” Keith says, leaving the back room.
“Tch.” Zarkon lets him leave.
Keith walks the dark hallway back into the bar, the floor becoming increasingly sticky. He shoulders the door and ignores the security guard to step out into the cool night. He heads over to his motorbike and gets on it, wanting to get the job over and done with. He’s dealt with enough heat for one day.
Keith pulls up his bike to the front of the house, not bothering to check the address because of the music pumping and people milling from the house in front of him.
Kicking out the stand and taking his helmet off, he ignores the looks he garners and readjusts his jacket. He pushes past the people sitting on the front steps and walks into the house. The smell of alcohol and sweat hits his nose and he tries to move between the thrumming of bodies blocking his way.
A safe bet is that the host or someone else important will be in the kitchen, so he makes his way to it.
The living room couches are occupied with hookups, alongside couples sharing seats and drinks at the dining table. The benchtop in the kitchen is covered in bottles and mixers, but what grabs Keith’s attention is the gorgeous boy throwing his head back in laughter. Tanned like the sun enjoyed shining on him, Keith can’t help but stop when his blue eyes catch his.
His head cocks to the side, not recognising Keith, but his smile still stays. He excuses himself from the people he was talking with and walks over, the loose sheer sleeves of his shirt which is barely buttoned up leaves nothing to the imagination. Keith swallows, as he stops in front of him, biting his lower lip as he purposefully looks Keith up and down. Twice.
“Crop jacket, mullet and fingerless gloves,” he muses, talking into Keith’s ear to be heard over the music, “and you pull it off so well,” he continues, leaning over to see Keith’s behind.
Keith withers under the gaze, letting himself enjoy it for just a second, revelling in what it must feel like to be desired.
“You looking for me?” He asks, hand on Keith's arm as he continues to talk into his ear.
“Are you Lance?” Keith says, straightening up (both metaphorically and physically) and returning to business.
“I am. And you are?”
“Here to deliver,” Keith says, pulling out his backpack and grabbing the small packet.
Lance lets out a small noise to delight and takes it from Keith. He reaches into his pocket and frowns, tapping his other pockets on his tight jeans.
“I don’t have any money on me,” he says, a coy smile growing on his face as he strokes Keith’s arm, “can I pay in any other way?”
“We don’t take cheque,” Keith deadpans.
Lance laughs, and Keith doesn’t like how musical it sounds to his ears. He watches as Lance pulls out a few folded notes and hands it to him.
“Maybe next time then, Mystery Mullet,” Lance says.
“Sure,” Keith says, turning to leave.
“You could stay,” Lance offers.
“Can’t.”
“Come on, one drink?” Lance pleads.
Seeing Lance pouting at him like that, Keith’s resolve falters.
“One.”
“Yes! Okay, come with me,” Lance takes Keith’s hand and pulls him over to the kitchen where all the booze is lined up. “What’s your poison?”
Keith looks over the choices.
“Vodka raspberry,” he replies.
“You got a red theme going?” Lance asks as he grabs the two bottles.
Keith shrugs.
Lance makes himself one as well and takes both cups with him as he walks into the backyard. It’s quieter than inside, more relaxed and oddly intimate. Lance passes Keith’s drink to him.
“Thanks.”
Keith pulls out a packet of cigarettes and takes one out.
“You mind?” Keith asks, feeling weird about caring what Lance thinks.
Lance regards the packet.
“This isn’t my place,” Lance says byway of answering, “but to be honest, I was hoping to make out with you, so, I won’t if you're gonna smoke.”
Keith coughs as he inhales on the cigarette.
Lance smirks at Keith’s reaction, who’s quickly inhaling again to try and calm his nerves.
“Man, I was hoping you wouldn’t smoke,” Lance says, looking at the sky, “why do all the hot ones have to be straight,” Lance mutters under his breath.
But Keith hears it, and it makes his heart race. Keith wants to know what Lance’s lips taste like and feel his hands over his skin. He wants to correct Lance, show him that he still could.
But he can’t.
He hears his friends jeering at people on the train, two girls holding hands. Or spitting in front of two guys sharing a kiss. He feels his own sick feeling twisting in his stomach, the disgusted feeling he feels within himself, knowing that he is wrong.
But he looks over at Lance, and he seems very content with himself. Peaceful, Keith thinks. There’s no inner war in Lance’s mind, and Keith wonders how he stomachs it all. But he can’t do it. No one knows, and Keith intends to keep it that way. If he tells Lance, who knows who else he’ll tell. It’s not worth the risk.
“Light pollution sucks,” Lance says, still looking at the sky.
Keith looks up and sees the faint twinkle of the stars in the sky.
“I’ve been to Cuba a few times, to see family, and their property there is in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. There’s so many stars out there,” Lance says, reverently.
“Do you like stars?” Keith asks.
“Astronomy major. You?”
Keith feels himself starting to close up, the returning feeling of exposing too much of himself.
“Working,” Keith replies, stomping out his cigarette and skulling the rest of the drink.
“Where at?”
Keith gives him a look and Lance understands.
“Right, you’re working now.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Okay, well, nice to meet you…” Lance waits for Keith to fill in the gap.
“Yeah, see ya.”
Keith pushes off the wall and heads inside, discarding his cup into the sink. He quickly marches out of the house and jumps onto his bike, unaware of Lance in the window drooling over the way Keith straddles the motorcycle. Keith rides home, pushing out all the thoughts Lance and his feelings out of his mind. He focuses on the air rushing past him, the way he can lean into a corner and the motorcycle just curves ever so gracefully. It’s his one reprieve in his life.
He finally makes it back to Shiro’s house. A small, single story house on the outskirts of the suburbs. The white siding is peeling a bit, and the tiles on the steps to the front door are chipped and cracked. He unlocks the front door and steps inside the warm home. He spots Shiro in the kitchen, standing near the stove on his phone. He looks up, sees Keith and smiles.
“Hi Keith.”
“Hey,” Keith replies, walking past him and into his own bedroom, where he tosses his bag onto his bed.
He steps back out into the living space and walks over to Shiro.
“What's for dinner?” He asks.
“Pasta. It’s almost ready.”
Keith sits down at the small dining table, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone.
Shiro comes over a minute later with two bowls and they dig into the food.
“Attempting carjacking on the East side,” Shiro says, breaking the silence.
Keith doesn’t respond.
“Might be gang related,” Shiro continues, shovelling another mouthful of pasta into his mouth.
Keith pokes his own food.
“Know anything about it?” Shiro asks innocently enough, but there’s an edge to the question.
“No.”
“Yeah, the Galra are never around the east side,” Shiro quips.
Keith bangs his fist on the table and the fork falls out of his hand.
“What do you want me to say?” Keith asks.
“I want you to be honest.”
“But when I’m honest you lecture me. So which is it, Shiro? Do you want to know or not?”
“I want you to be safe, and I don’t want you to continue down the path I went down.”
“Well, I’m not you, and I can take care of myself. So drop it.”
“Keith, it’s a dangerous, addicting life-”
Keith throws his chair back as he stands up, swiping his bowl and fork before walking off to his room, leaving Shiro to contemplate in silence.
Keith slams his bedroom door closed and puts his bowl down on his little desk next to his bed.
Above his desk sits two shelves, packed with books. He looks over the worn spines, finger tracing across the titles. He picks out The Picture of Dorian Grey and sits down to read while eating.
When he finishes he continues reading, unaware of the world around him. Eventually, he decides to put the book down and goes off to get ready for bed.
He reaches under his bed and pulls out a small box. Keith checks that his door is closed and locked before returning to it and opening it up. There's an assortment of pills and powders inside. Keith grabs a packet of Ambien and pops a few, placing the box back under his bed and turning over to go to sleep.
* * *
Lance wakes with the weight of an arm thrown across his chest. Slowly blinking his eyes open, he follows the arm across him to the cute girl softly sleeping at his side. He carefully lifts up her arm to not wake her, and picks up his clothes from the floor.
He walks through the wake of a frat party and tries not to puke as he slips on his shirt, making his way downstairs. It’s worse here, stains in the carpet and cups like landmines line the floor. There are another two people up, people Lance vaguely recognises from the frat. They both nod weakly in his direction and Lance does the same. One of them wordlessly hands him a bottle of aspirin and Lance takes it.
Lance was raised to be a polite guest, so he roots around the drawers in the kitchen till he finds some garbage bags. He begins to quietly place empty glasses into the bag, mindful not to wake the four people sleeping in the lounge room, or the countless others strewn upstairs.
His mind wanders as he works, and he can’t help but think about the ridiculous boy who delivered those drugs to him. Violet eyes framed by black hair dominate his thoughts. Lance can’t believe the bisexual mess his mind is. He literally slept with a girl, but he can’t help thinking about the guy he didn’t get with.
He sighs, letting his mind enjoy the fleeting memory, but he knows he can’t always get what he wants. Especially if what he wants is straight. Well, he didn’t say no to making out or tell him to stop with his flirting. Maybe something more lowkey and Mullet-man will be coaxed out of his shell.
Lance had seen that behaviour plenty of times. A number of guys would shyly let him get away with his flirtations, eventually confiding in their conflicted feelings. Some didn’t stick around, just using Lance to experiment, but it’s what comes with being out and proud since sixteen. There’s plenty of closets to go around.
His mind clicks over with another full-proof plan from ol’ Loverboy Lance.