Chapter Text
So, the thing is, Keith wants to think they've broken up. Like, for real, it's done, it's over, fragmented, fractured, final, finished.
Keith and Lance, Lance and Keith, except – get rid of that pairing scheme, that cutesy mix-and-match system, that couple co-attachment. It's just Keith Kogane, on his own, the feisty drop-out loner, all by himself like he’d always fucking wanted.
And Lance, he’s off somewhere lightyears away, lightyears too far and big for Keith, with his pretty little head still held miles high and his shitty flirty smirk in place as he chats up anyone that isn't Keith.
‘Cause Keith, he’s still stuck on barren desert ground after a rainstorm, trudging through mud and filth and clawing his way across miles of wet soil, on his hands and knees. Still waiting for someone like Lance to push him facedown into the dirt, one more time, with all his smothering, suffocating rainy-wet affection. Just for kicks, just for fun – ‘cause that’s Lance McClain, he’s a spiraling hurricane of fun, fury, and insecurity, tearing Keith down to make his own too-damn-needy self feel just a little better.
But the rainstorm is gone. And the desert sun is rising up to dry out its home, and soon enough Keith’s gonna stop feeling waterlogged and start feeling a harsh thirst itching at the back of his throat.
But, really, Keith thought it was over. Done with. Fragmented, final. A desert after midnight rain, finally warmed and dried up by the morning sun scorching anew.
It was over, and he’s getting over it.
When someone knocks at his door, quiet and polite at 11pm, Keith finally trudges himself up from the couch for the first time today, braving the ice-cold flooring with his bare feet as he stumbles through his messy apartment. Shiro never visits without calling – never ever shows up this late, not without at least sending Keith a text. Except, fuck, it's not like Keith’s got any real friends to come knocking at his door. Keith’s older brother is his only fucking friend, which is kinda pathetic, yeah, but – well, it's super pathetic. Actually, totally, literally, seriously, completely sad as fuck.
So he's teething at his lips when he goes to answer his door, because he thinks it's Shiro. That Shiro is here to fuck with him, or to judge him, or that Shiro’s gonna take one look at Keith’s disheveled state and get that fucking pitying look in his gun-gray eyes. That Shiro’s voice will soften, that Shiro will say something like, “hey, Keith, have you eaten yet? You need me to help with dinner or something?” followed by a totally unsubtle, “I’m always here if you need to talk.”
Or, even worse, Shiro will smile sadly and wring his hands together and he’ll just mention the fucking break-up without even trying to tiptoe around the issue.
So the doorknob feels blunt and harsh and cold against the palm of Keith’s sweaty-warm hand.
So he feels a dull coldness at the bottom of his stomach, where dead blue butterfly wings still shuffle and shift with the icy winds of faded affection and vivid bitterness.
So Keith hesitates to open the door.
Maybe Shiro had some sort of emergency and that’s why he couldn’t let Keith know. Maybe Shiro really is just playing a stupid prank on him or something – which, granted, Shiro’s last prank was four years ago when Keith had just graduated high school and Shiro dumped a whole bucket of glue on his hair, snickering quietly with that all-too-innocent shit-eating grin on his face. Shiro hasn’t done anything like that for years now, he’s grown out of it – but that still makes more sense than who did show up at the door.
And, yeah. It wasn’t Shiro, ‘cause the universe utterly despises Keith and his shitty choices.
It’s Lance.
‘Cause, of course. Why the fuck wouldn’t it be Lance? What’s Keith ever done for the good of the cosmos?
So Keith just has to – stop and take a second.
Take a pause, deep breath, ‘cause it’s Lance, showing up at his door, careening back into Keith at approximately 331.4 meters per second, all supersonic screeching and high Hertz hazards. Remain seated, keep all your limbs inside the vehicle at all times, ‘cause warning, this is a high-speed roller coaster ride that includes sudden and dramatic acceleration, climbing, dropping, and backwards motion.
Sky-high, blue-eyed Lance, who’s supposed to be lightyears above Keith’s head, spiraling like a hurricane and rocketeering off to the far reaches of the stars. Pretty, obnoxious, sleazy-smiled but cute-eyelashed Lance. Lance, in some divine little white crop top that's starting to slip down one brown shoulder and tight, dark blue jeans, with his wrists drowning in pastel green, pink, and yellow friendship bracelets. Lance with the spaces under his eyes completely dark and puffy, with saltwater tracts hiking down his blotchy-red cheeks.
Warning – failure to follow the previous posted guidelines may result in major injury. Please do not get on this ride if you suffer any sort of heart problems, including high blood pressure, and also total irredeemable agonizing heartbreak.
Lance, with the shakiest smile, raises a trembling slim-fingered hand to give Keith a delicate little wave.
And Keith almost gets his own fingers caught in the door hinges.
He, uh, may or may not be suffering from that last thing about a heart problem.
“Hey,” says Lance, shuffling his feet, all breathy and raspy and too goddamn fragile. “I know you don't – ”
Keith scowls. Words flare out from his own cigarette-wrecked, tar-stained throat, involuntary and ashen and bitter. “What, you're expecting me to let you inside or something?”
Lance winces and takes a step back. “This looks really bad, doesn't it?”
Keith snorts, ducking his head so that his own tangled black hair falls into his eyes.
Maybe it's because Lance’s voice – usually loud, clear, and cheery – is all fucked up. Maybe it's because Lance’s shoulders shake just the tiniest bit as he breathes, and maybe it's because his cotton-candy-blue eyes are so cloudy, and maybe it's because his cheeks are so splotchy.
“Yeah,” says Keith, trying not to let his voice soften too much. “It looks pretty bad. Did you need anything…?”
Lance shouldn’t need anything. He’d spent hours making sure to clear all his stuff from Keith’s apartment.
Lance was thorough, raiding through Keith’s closet for every set of overnight clothes he’d ever stashed there. Snatching back his blue toothbrush and winterfresh toothpaste for whenever he stayed over. Little trinkets like Lance’s photos, the pieces of decor Lance had insistently added once he’d seen how barren Keith’s place was, all those red and blue friendship bracelets Lance made for the two of them and all the leftover string, stuff like that. Lance probably could've gotten it all done in an hour, but he took his damn sweet time there, taking apart Keith’s home and deserting it all over again.
And Keith’s definitely been missing a few sweaters ever since, but he’s never bothered to go back and ask Lance about it.
Anyway. Keith’s got nothing for Lance. Not now.
“I – ” Lance bites the inside of his cheek, rosy brown skin being pulled the slightest bit in. Keith can see the way Lance’s fingers pick at the hem of his top, where white fabric highlights soft, unmarred brown flesh and a trim stomach. “I guess I didn't need anything,” Lance finally says, teeth pressing into his lips now – shiny straight teeth, just a little bit stained from how much coffee and tea Lance drinks. “Sorry, Keith.”
“Did something happen?” Keith asks, letting the door swing open wider.
“Um,” says Lance, but his voice breaks off into a nervous giggle. “I’m sorry for dumping my shit on you.”
“You decided to come here, so you can't be that sorry,” Keith grouses. Lance tenses up again, eyes falling to the ground. Keith licks at his teeth nervously, rakes his eyes up Lance’s all-too-shivery form. “Did something happen, Lance?”
“Maybe a little bit,” Lance finally admits, rubbing the back of his hand across his nose as though to try and cover his face, while his other hand pulls down at his shirt as though to cover more skin.
Keith taps his fingers against the doorframe. Climbing out of a moving roller coaster is probably a better idea than this.
“Come inside,” says Keith.
Standing outside in a raging thunderstorm holding a broken blue umbrella is a smarter idea than this.
“Are you sure?” Lance asks quietly, but Keith’s opening the door all the way.
Drowning himself in a bucket filled with wet desert sand is a much, much more reasonable idea than this.
With a scowl, Keith steps away from the door, stalking back into his mess of a house. “Just get in here before you make me change my mind.” He throws a glance back, another look at those candy-blue eyes and that roller coaster smile, and the butterfly corpses scattered around Keith‘s insides start to shift once again. “Close the door behind you.”
So. Keith really fucking likes bad ideas.