âWhat the fuck do you think youâre doing.â
Vaguely, Lance registers that heâs far too loud, that his dead-of-night shout has people peeking out their doors, rubbing groggy eyes. He knows he should tone it down and handle this gracefully and he meant to, thought about it in the hour or so he spent crouched but his door, waiting, straining his ears for the sound of Keithâs silent footsteps, convinced something would go down tonight.
Keith jumps, duffel bag slipping off his shoulder and thumping as it hits the floor. He whirls around to meet Lanceâs eyes and the shock melts quickly into stubbornness, into something defensive and irritated.
âGo back to bed, Lance,â he says evenly, and Lance envisions punching him. Lance envisions gripping the sleeve of his jacket and holding him in place. Both visions fight for standing ground in his mind, blurring into each other. His fists curl at his sides and he has to hold himself back, physically, root himself in place.
He thinks about saying, I know youâre afraid.
He thinks about saying, you will always have a place here.
He thinks about saying, please donât leave me.
He says, âYouâre running,â and it comes out sharp and accusatory, and there is a hiss from somewhere beside them, quick inhale through the teeth, but the world feels narrow, blurry around the edges, and Keith is the only one in focus, the only one Lance can see.
Keithâs face drops into something menacing, something as flat as it is furious, something familiar and almost comforting.
âCoward,â Lance spits before he can say anything. The cruelty of the words leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and he relishes in it, sucking it off his teeth.
He watches as Keithâs shoulders shift, an aborted lunge, as his chest inhales and exhales with a measured and practice breath. Watches as he calms himself, visibly, yanks himself back from the edge. Lance prepares to yank him right the hell back.
(Anything to keep him from going. To distract him, enrage him, occupy him.)
(Anything to make him stay.)
âYou donât know a goddamn thing about me,â Keith says, angry and short, less fiery than Lance expected, more controlled than heâs ever seen.
Lance panics. Keith tears his eyes away and bends down, wrapping his hand around the forgotten duffel bag strap, swinging it back over his shoulder. He turns and walks â stomps â away, heading down the hall, towards the hangars. Leaving.
Lance loses control of his mouth. A sound fights its way out of his throat, something croaking and furious and desperate, and like a cork shooting off a champagne bottle there is nothing he can do to stop what comes next.
âYour voice cracks when you lie.â
The anger has practically fled from his voice. In its place is pleading, begging, vulnerable. He chokes it back and tries to swallow and it does nothing, it bubbles out of him, spilling down his face and dripping onto the floor and soaking his bare feet, the ankles of his silk pajama pants. It comes all the way back up to his neck and chokes him, instead.
The champagne keeps bubbling.
âYou â duck your head when you smile. And when youâre confident you snap your fingers on your left hand. When you read you mouth along to the words, except when you get really into a book, which is always, and then you stop. You always end up hiccuping after you eat because you fucking â hoover them back, you animal.â
Lance sniffles. The lump in his throat gets harder and harder to speak around, but the urge didnât go away, the intense need to spill his guts, to slice himself open and spill at the ground by Keithâs feet.
âYouâre not as elusive as you think, you fucker.â
He forces himself to stop, then, bites his tongue until he tastes blood, until the words stop flowing. He inhales big and long and holds it, lets the air go stale in his lungs, lets his heart start to pound.
âI want to go,â Keith says, back still turned.
His voice cracks on âwantâ.
Lance gasps an exhale. âYouâre a fucking liar.â
Keithâs turn is slow, and Lance canât help but think itâs on purpose. To torture him, to test him. To say I donât believe you. To say when I turn back youâre going to break character.
Itâs heartbreaking, a little. And the heartbreak is written all over Lanceâs face, and he watches as Keith sees it.
âYou saw the problem first,â Keith argues, weakly. Lance hears what he doesnât say: Iâm leaving or else youâll have to.
And Lance knows he was the one to go to Keith with his pinky finger extended and wide worried eyes. He knows he was the one who planted the idea of leaving in Keithâs head, never meaning for him to be the one to go but expecting him to try anyway. He knows heâs the one whoâs standing here, in the middle of the hallway, arguing around the subject, half-conscious of his friendsâ stares, their acknowledgment that more is being said than just their words.
And Lance shoves that all back, and says: âI told you Iâd be your Red.â
Paladin. Your Red Paladin. But the words donât come all the way out.
Keith swallows. âI know.â
âI wonât be anyone elseâs.â
Lanceâs hands shake. âSo you canât leave me, you motherfucker.â
The duffel drops to the floor again. This time itâs intentional. This time itâs shoved off Keithâs shoulders.
He takes three great strides forward, grasping Lanceâs face in his perpetually burning hands, and shoves their lips together, bruising.
âIf I leave then the math checks out,â he whispers, pulling back, eyes closed, breathing heavy. His forehead is pressed to Lanceâs like he can beam his thoughts into his brain.
Lance sighs. âIf you leave Iâll follow.â His eyes flutter shut. âYou goddamn suck at math.â
Keith snorts. âA little.â
âStop trying to fix my problems without me.â
âItâs â I want to. Fix your problems.â
âOkay,â Keith says again, quieter. âIâll stay, Red.â He kisses Lance again and this time itâs soft, loving instead of desperate. âIâll stay.â
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