KaakelyMaakely

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A blank screen. 

. . . 

The hum of a projector.  

. . 

And then, 

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Light.

It was the first thing in existence, cut from its counterpoint as if it were clay beneath the Gods’ hands. And it will be the last, flashing brilliantly as the Sun reins its doom. In this moment, however, it is tamed. Bound to the screen. A wild lion bowing its mane to the zookeeper. But just as lions aren’t meant to thrive in captivity, light isn’t either. The beast paces, waits to remember its hunger. 

Radiant. Blinding. It spills onto the display, engulfs it completely. A tide to shore. When it eventually ebbs, retreats back into the sea, it leaves behind a city outlined in ink. A sketch made living. Skyscrapers so tall, they tilt at their tips, swaying to the wind. Flat roads stretching on endlessly, leading nowhere but deeper in. People– characters – drifting between these lines. Shapes that don’t quite fit. But that doesn’t seem to deter them, all existing under the illusion of disbelief. Unaware their existence is bidden at the flick of an artist’s wrist. 

The scene shifts. Colors blend together as the camera moves, paints bleeding into one another, a bright rainbow blurring into a murky brown. The backdrop spins, a top rotating until it falls on its side. The environment finally settles down and hones in on a small building.  

A speakeasy.  

The doors swing wide on their own volition. It yawns open, a red carpet unfurling out of its entrance. Its tongue. The sight beckons the audience inside. The camera, tethered to adhere to the script, obeys, slowly panning within, frame by frame. Hooves, paws, and shoes take up the screen. They stomp against the floor, moving not only with the music, but as it. Music notes skip through the air, twirling around the toons’ heads, before popping like a balloon to a needle. The building shakes under the delightful jig. No– it sways along to the beat, boards bending, walls wailing, dancing alongside its guests.  

Deeper into the belly of the beast, tucked into the furthermost corner, is a stage. Crowding the edges of the platform, is a band. With each stroke or hit, the musicians entice their instruments to breathe life into their sheet music, to allow the notes to tease their audience’s ears. To move their bodies like puppets on a string, drawn to the upbeat dance. Like sirens stalking the sea, two singers croon into their shared microphone. A lady and her gentleman caller.  

As all good things do, though, it eventually comes to an end. 

The two performers clasp hands, their fingers interlocking. They’re connected, not just in the physical sense. But together. Their pulses filled with adrenaline so strong, they’re able to feel it pound through their wrists, hearts beating as one. The two of them inch forwards towards the lip of the stage, far enough that their toes almost dangle off the ledge. Jointly, they fold at the waist and take their twin bow. As they’re arched down, their heads turn to glance at each other. They share a bright smile; another job well done. 

When the two lovers spring back up, they swing their arms wide, gesturing towards the band behind them. They, too, take their respective bows. Polite claps flutter through the space, bouncing from wall to wall like moths in a jar, until reaching the waiting ears of the musicians. The air is light, the night still young.  

The frame moves inwards, highlighting the beaming slope of the dame’s grin. It’s all pearly whites and pretty pink gums. She throws her head back in a thrilled laugh.  

An axe to wood, the camera splits the scene. It cuts to a hallway backstage. A door looms in the center of it all, illuminated by a lone light, flickering on and off. Strangely enough, the door bears no exaggerated features, nor dancing hinges. There is no life to be found in the grain of the wood.  Even the star, labelled with a bold ‘Dressing Room,’ holds no sentience. Where there should be animation, it lies dead. A river gone still.  

Knuckles, petite and flushed red, slide into the frame. They hesitate, hovering for a split moment, before rasping against the door. They knock thrice. Each pound growing louder and louder in volume. The door creaks, but otherwise doesn’t even shift. The shot pulls back, following from the knuckles, trailing up the arm, to reveal a pearly, pink smile. The lady. Her grin is tainted, barely reaching her drooping eyes. A heart beating on its own.  

“Hey,” she says, concern bleeding into her voice like ink to water. “Is everything alright?” 

There is no response. The silence is as thick as molasses, dripping down her throat. She swallows, lets it settle in her stomach, dissolve in the acid. Her smile twitches, falling only slightly.  

“You didn’t come out to join us.” She continues. “Are you not feeling very well?” 

Somewhere nearby, a cricket chirps. The woman frowns, deep enough to crease her chin and wring out her brows. Taking a step forwards, she cups her ear against the wood of the door, listening for a shuffle, a sneeze, even just a breath. There is nothing. She reaches for the handle. As she wraps her handle around the bronze of it, her nose wrinkles. The scent of something floats through the air, wraps itself around her neck and squeezes tight. It’s choking, overwhelming. Familiar.  It floods her senses, makes itself known in the sudden tremble of her hands, rattles the handle.  

…Hunting season. She would stand in the tall grass, holding her skirt high enough as to not track it through the foliage and mud. The bushes would rustle, and her lover would emerge, blood dripping from his fist. In his hand would be the body of a buck, limbs limp and hooves dragging behind it. The animal’s inky outline wobbled as her love threw it onto the ground. A freshly made carcass. In those moments, the gentle creature resembled a beast. Large antlers curled and twisted into horns, threatening to poke holes through the sky. Its hair was streaked with shades of red. The deer, the canvas. The hunter, the painter.  

What has stuck with her, what has haunted her like a personal poltergeist, is the stench. The blood and rot and wounds. She had thrown up the first time it hit her nose, the contents of her stomach spilling into the grass below her…. 

She turns the handle. 

The screen whirls back to the dance floor. Once a pleasant swing, polite and respectful, has divulged into barely contained chaos. Feet stomp. Heels click. Bodies collide. A drumbeat rattles the teeth, saxophone wailing behind the eyes. The action of the room swells, threatens to implode, a star about to fall, teasing to take the whole building with it. And then, cleaving between the music’s melody— 

—a shrill scream. 

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Death.

The ending of a story, the beginning of someone else’s; Just as the sun sets for one side of the world, it rises for the other. Death envelopes, and life persists, a story as old as time, retold in so many different ways. They have been Romeo and Juliet, they have been Yin and Yang, and they have been light and dark. They circle around one another. Not as lions about to pounce, but as star-crossed lovers performing their own song and dance. Hands intertwining, bodies pressing close, foreheads kissing, they meld into one. A spark between them, a fire burning wild. Life, nursing the flame to grow. And death, blowing it out as if it were a simple birthday candle. Just as one must have red and blue to create purple, you must have life and death to live. 

As all good things do, though, it all eventually comes to an end. 

Discovered in his dressing room, the singer was pronounced dead. The camera pans inside, starting at the soles of his shoes, and finishing at the curls of his hair. A reel of film is coiled tightly around the man’s neck. An anaconda strangling its next meal, littering his flesh in red blemishes. The ends of the reels were tied together, forming a pretty, perfect bow. As if he was just a present, waiting to be unwrapped. A mystery, waiting to be unraveled. In typical cartoon fashion, two X’s crossed out the pupils of his glassy eyes, his tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth. A drawing, stripped of its animation. Now, he might as well be a blank piece of paper, doomed to be scrapped and thrown into the trash bin. 

There is a shot of a police car coming to a screeching halt outside the mouth of the beast, the coffin of a soul. Their alarms are alive and blaring. They sing loudly. A choir. A warning. A foreboding hidden in the red and blue light. It shines, bright enough to burn. Officers pile out of the vehicle, a clown car as they trip over each other to get inside. The remaining civilians are escorted out, confused and frightened murmurs overtaking over the crowd. The front doors close and lock. There is no more fancy movement, or silly dances to suggest the walls are sentient. Everything is bleak, a sour mood clinging to the air. A plant, roots dug into the soil. A child, hugging their parent’s leg, begging them not to leave. It’s somewhat heartbreaking, the death of not only its performer, but the building itself. A funeral of its own. 

The lady was found curled over her partner’s body. A fresh carcass. She clenches his button-up shirt in tight fists, tears streaking the thin fabric.  

“He’s not breathing. Why isn’t he breathing?!” She wails.  

Denial can be a beautiful thing; To deny is to hope. In this moment, though, it is just pathetic.  She glances up at the police men with rounded, wet eyes. “Please do something!” 

An officer steps forward. He carefully wraps his arms around her torso, and peels her off of the corpse. She screams, pure rage at the prospect of leaving his side, not when he needs her. She shoves, pushing against the cop’s arms, a futile attempt to escape. And, when nothing works, she sobs, going limp in the man’s hold. The woman howls for her lover, reaches for him, but the police men just guide her out of the room. She lets them, defeat blanketing over her like night to day. Her legs dangle off the stage where they sit her down, a blanket draped over her shaking shoulders. Her voice cracks between broken sobs. “I swear, he was just fine and dandy! Who would do something like this?” 

From within the swelling clump of investigators, a voice, playful and light, squeals through the noise. The person shuffles in between people, like a note being passed. “Pardon me, folks! Make a hole! Don’t mind little ol’ me!” 

A ripple reaction. A stone thrown into a lake. The officers step back, ducking out of the way. Splitting into two, the crowd parts like the sea to Moses. The voice breaks into a hum, casual, as if they’re not walking the scene of the crime. When the person stops in front of the two of them, the camera stays focused on the cop and lady, the sight of the person’s body just barely off frame. A flicker of a sky blue catches in the corner. The woman wipes her eyes, looking up through her lashes, wet with tears, while the policeman clacks his teeth, as if holding back from biting this toon’s head clean off.  

“‘Bout time you showed up.” He sneers. 

Magma from a volcano, a laugh erupts, musical and good-spirited. A piano being played. Clearly, they don’t take too much offense.  

The lady sniffles, rubbing at her running nose. “And… who are you supposed to be?” 

The screen is finally filled with varying features. A yellow hat, defying gravity. Antennas bending to his smile. A hog nose, wrinkling in an undignified snort. This jumbled mess of a character, a mix-and-match personified, politely removes his hat and brings it to his chest. He shines a toothy grin, all teeth. “The gumshoe who’s gonna crack this case wide open! But you, miss.” 

He faces the camera, sending it a cheeky wink. “You can call me Mr. Ring-A-Ding.” 

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. 

This city is a whirlpool. Every time I’m almost out, almost able to taste the Earth’s land, it’s sucking me back into the depths of the vortex. Water crashing all around me, and yet, I do not drown. Is it mercy that keeps me breathing? Or is it torture, to have my brush with death, but not the freedom? Desperate in a way I’ve never been before, I attempt to claw my way out. A rat in a cage. My fingers just thread through the waves, before it spits me back out. The cycle restarts. My career is the one taking the hit, though. Sinking down to the ocean floor. It tangles itself around my legs, anchors me down, denying to let me go. 

A private investigator. But who am I really, what is my identity, my career, if I have no cases? If I have been out of the game for years, not even so much as watching from the sidelines. The aged question, ‘If a tree falls in the forest and no one’s around, does it really make a sound?’ A private investigator… I have no right in titling myself as such. Not when I’ve refused to look the hurricane in its eye. Refused to let it swallow me whole. But yet, even in my distance, it has still devoured me, torn my life in its absence. I can’t live without it. I choose to anyway. Still, it’s as if it has left me otherwise untouched, unscathed, with only a heart to miss. If I were to put my hand over my chest, there would be no pulse. No rhythm to follow. The only thing it beats for is the same thing I avoid.

But as much as love may prevail, it doesn’t always win. That chapter has been laid to rest. No funeral, no paid respects, just a quick burial. I want to forget it ever happened. I want it to be the only taste on my tongue. I want, I want, I want . Greed is a sin, and apparently I’m submerged in it. Unable to be happy in whichever I choose. Wanting to have both. Wanting to have neither. I’ve already made my decision. And yet…

…Following the path back to my career was like following the map of my veins. Falling asleep in the car, able to recognize where you are based solely on the memorized turns. It was like coming home. 

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This diner food fucking sucks.

The thought circles in my mind, a dog trying to chase its tail. Despite my best attempt to stomach it down, to gag around the lump of it, I can’t bring myself to swallow. It’s heavy on my tongue. I take a napkin, thin and small, and pat the corners of my mouth. Glancing around, I make sure no one is looking before spitting the food out. I put the dirty napkin on my plate, covering the uneaten food, and push it forwards, as far away from me as possible without offending the cooks. My eyes dart up to the digital clock, hanging above the bathroom doors. 

1:57am, it blinks back. My jaw clenches, a wolf fighting the instinct to bare its teeth, to rip into flesh, to hurt. I gave my potential client grace, the benefit of the doubt. But after waiting almost thirty minutes, she’s a no-show. I can’t help but believe this is a sign, an indication that I should’ve quit, should’ve stayed gone. Ran with my tail tucked in between my legs. And yet, a mouse knows it’s a trap, and still falls for the cheese. It’s like my heart is breaking all over again. The rejection stings, but is a necessity, hydrogen peroxide on a scab.

I roll my eyes, pretending I am but a rock, emotionless with a hard shell. Unbreakable. If I  imagine hard enough, close my eyes and blink back the tears, then I am. Whatever. If this is truly the death of my career, the final shovel of dirt on its grave, then I refuse to mourn in a shitty diner with an oddball cast of staff. I will allow myself to falter in my car, only for a moment, before sucking it up and going home. Banging my head against the steering wheel sounds awesome right now. A good plan.

I’m interrupted from my thoughts by the sound of stained leather squeaking under someone’s weight. I look to see my potential client, Ms. Bach. Surprise overtook me when she had originally reached out. As vague as she had been, it was unlike her to hire someone like me. I barely know her, but she has a good reputation, the friendly neighborhood grandma. She slides in across from me. Her eyes are red, her foundation streaked from crying. Her mascara, though not running down her face, is clumped together in her bottom lashes, gathered with tears. Clothes rumpled, as if she had been fiddling with the hem. She looks worse for wear. 

Something lodges in my chest, chokes in my throat. It’s easy to excuse it as pity, but I am not that stupid. As much as I will deny it, it’s sympathy. The part of me, untouched by the brutality of the world, hurts for her. But the hardened half of me doesn’t care. She had her opportunity thirty minutes ago. And, since a few minutes ago, I’ve officially put my career to rest.

“Sorry!” Ms. Bach says, voice hoarse as if ran through a blender. “God, I’m really fucking sorry. I don’t have any excuse. I was just sitting in my car like a chicken.”

I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. So not only is she late, she actively chose to be late. Chose to waste my time. She was afraid, that same soft part of me whispers. It curls around my brain like smoke, squeezes tight until it’s pounding in my head. You would’ve done the same. The other part of me, all sharp teeth and pointed claws, clenches its jaw. No you wouldn’t have, it screams. Yells and shouts and sinks in my chest. They both play a game of tug-o-war, ripping me in half. It hurts. I rig the game, choosing and forcing one to win. And I know exactly which one. 

I avoid Ms. Bach’s rounded eyes as I take a step back. It’s fully my intention to get out while I still can. Before I can think better of it, before that soft spot reaches out, rolls over for another person. I’m better than this. 

Never again.

“Wait!” she wails. Her volume cuts through both warring voices, slices through like butter to a knife. I automatically flinch back. My head swivels towards the host stand, where the servers are gathered around, their conversation dwindling down into nothing. They’re eavesdropping, something that would be obvious even if I lacked the skill to read people. It’s expected, especially when one party is crying, yelling for the other to not leave. My brows pinch together, glowering at them all. The servers duck their heads, returning back to their chattering. I round my attention back to Ms. Bach. She must get the hint, as she pitches her voice down into a hushed tone, gritting between her teeth, “No, no, please! Stay! I need your help. I don’t know where else to turn to.”

My mouth twists into a frown, but my feet make no effort to move. I don’t know what grounds me. A weak excuse, determined ignorance towards what unravels my brain like ribbons. I know exactly why I haven’t left.

“I’m scared.” She admits, voice small and frail.

I am too.

It’s as if a mirror is being held in front of me, reflecting all my worst parts, revealing the soft underbelly that is my heart. I am looking at the person I used to be. It’s terrifying, seeing how much I’ve changed, all due to the brutality of man. It forced my hand, inspired me to change into the person I am now. I hate it. It’s for my own safety. Ms. Bach may be much older than me, but I am the one who feels the caress of time. Feels the wrinkles and crow’s feet and eyebags. The lack of laugh lines. But I blink, and it’s just Ms. Bach. Sweet, and sad, and exhausted. I look at her, really look. She’s every age she’s been. A child, crying for her parents. A teenager, praying for god to exist. An adult, realizing He’s abandoned her. 

A sigh parts my lips. I know exactly what I’m going to do. The decision has been made, the votes have been cast. I grumble, cursing under my breath as I slink back into the booth. “Ms. Bach, I don’t take too kindly when it comes to my time. Especially if you were just waiting in your car.”

She purses her lips and nods in understanding, a child about to be punished. But, I am not going to bring the paddle down on her. That Achille’s Heel of mine grows, sneaks into every nook and cranny, until I am overtaken. Until I am but a husk, a vessel of empathy. Vulnerable in a way I haven’t been in awhile. It itches under my skin. I hold myself back from clawing it out. 

“But,” I continue. The words are caught in my mouth, unwilling to smooth out. I force it out anyways, hoping I'm making the right choice. “I suppose I can make an exception.”

Ms. Bach exhales through her nose, slightly swaying as if she can no longer hold her own weight, threatening to topple over. My fist clenches, resisting the urge to reach out and steady her. I don’t know her, not like that. And even if I did, she would never know me. But she reminds me of myself to such a degree, when I was naive and trusting and sensitive. When my emotions ran the main route, carved its own path, and I was but a happy follower. “Oh, thank you! Really, truly, I am sorry.”

I hold up a hand, signaling for her to stop. I’m tempted to take it back. To insist that I can’t  She’s emotional in such a way that makes me uncomfortable, my beast’s fur hackled in threat. It hisses, scrapes its talons against my mind. A wild animal cornered. I am stronger than this, strong enough to not let sentiments deter me. I am a blank slate. “No need to apologize. This can be… daunting. I understand. Just please, explain how I can help.”

Ms. Bach’s smile, relieved and weak, sours into a frown, deep enough to crease her chin. She’s finding her words, tasting them in her mouth, stuck to her tongue like glue. It’s hard to ask for help, I understand. Especially when such a weight is held over your head. Whatever issue she has, it’s enough to have her choked up, unable to even form the sentences. I wait, patient. If I can wait thirty minutes, I can wait thirty more. The thought, soft around the edges, has my own scowl painting across my face. I refuse to be weak. If she doesn’t hurry up, then I’m leaving now. 

…The promise sounds feeble, unconvincing, even to my own ears. I tamper down my nasty expression before she can see. 

“My husband was pronounced dead a month ago.” She says. My eyebrows raise. Not at all what I was expecting. The selfish, ugly part of me rears its head. Finally, an actual case. No more pretty cheating scandals, or missing pets. This is something that will launch my career miles ahead. I’ll be worth something. I blatantly tune out the loud voice in my head insisting that’s now what my focus should be. But I am a mean, self-centered person. I don’t care about anyone other than myself. Not anymore. I’ve learned my lesson, painful as it was. People are inherently selfish. I’m just listening to my instincts, my head, not my heart. Can I be blamed? I’ve been burnt, enough that my flesh had peeled, my muscles had torn, my bones had withered. I know better now. I wish I didn’t.

Ms. Bach continues.

“They rules it a suicide. Died by his own hands. But my Peter would never do such a thing. We’ve had our ups and downs, and sure, he wasn’t the world’s happiest fella around… but he was content. Satisfied with our quaint little lives. Yet, the police insist he killed himself. Not my Peter!”

Her voice raises towards the end, riddled with clear anger. I am all too aware of the eyes burning into the back of my neck. The workers go silent once more, leaning in to hear our conversation. They’re nosey, but it’s partially my fault. I have to have expected listening ears when we’re discussing private cases in public. In my defense, I wasn’t alerted how serious her issue would be. My eyes narrow in warning, reminding her that we are still in a communal space. “Ms. Bach.”

“My apologies.” she sniffs.

I nod. I can’t stay too mad, not when she looks so pathetic. She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. My leg bounces as I grip the edge of the booth’s table. I am out of place, with no authority to insist that it’ll all be okay. It won’t. Her husband is dead. How does one bounce back from that? She looks pitiful, disgustingly so, and yet, she has more strength than I ever will. She perseveres, pushing through the lead stuck in her chest, anchoring her heavy limbs. I continue the only way I know how. By ignoring her intense reactions, and instead gathering more information. Logic wins over feeling. The more I am able to distance myself from her emotional collapse, push this poor old lady away at arms length, the better. “So you believe there was foul play involved?”

“No doubt in my mind. Someone had it out for my Pete.”

My body leans in, herding her away from the servers, blocking them all from witnessing her pained face. Their conversation lifts, but it’s still in hushed murmurs, as if they’re waiting for her next outburst, attempting to put the puzzle pieces together of what we could possibly be discussing. Ms. Bach seems to appreciate the privacy, as she allows a few stray tears to roll down her cheeks. “Let’s say you’re correct. That Mr. Bach was actually murdered… What was the method? Overdose? Gunshot? Stab wound?

“He was strangled.”

Strangled? In what world does someone die, throttled by their own hands? “He was strangled, and they still decided it was a suicide?”

Her lip wobbles, hands unsteady. I can’t fault her. There’s so many possibilities as to why it could have been ruled suicide. Ignorance is a strong contender. The police around this area aren’t exactly known for being competent. That’s partly the reason I was able to make a living in this city, a higher demand for private investigators, even if it was for trivial incidents. 

However, there’s always the small chance it was a cover up, having learned a long time ago how the cops work around here. There’s no way they’re that bad at their jobs.

Anger twists Ms. Bach’s face, the expression foreign on her. It’s wrong. Such a lively, cheerful lady reduced to the rawest of feelings. Her voice raises in volume once more. “That’s right. Stupid, isn’t it? They just don’t care!”

“Ms. Bach…”

“Right, too loud. Sorry. I just don’t understand. They’re letting this criminal get away, and are doing nothing about it. Isn’t their whole schtick to bring justice? To make the city a safer place? I sure as hell don’t feel safe.” She grits a shaky smile, obviously fake. “But that’s why you’re here. You’ll help me, right?”

My lips press together in a thin line. I can’t make any promises. This whole situation is messy, and considering I have yet to work on an actual murder case, I’m not entirely sure what to expect. I am in over my head, I can admit. I should keep my nose out of this, refuse the job offer. Recommend that she should just accept the way it all turned out. Not everything in life is going to go her way, all things considered. I should be cruel, just as humanity is intended to be. 

But I look into her sad eyes, and I can’t. I just can’t. It makes me want to strive to perform my best. I want to help her, a feeling I haven’t experienced in a long time. It’s outlandish, how easily she is able to move me. I pack it down, squash it beneath my foot before it can take root in my chest. I am selfish, I remind myself. And yet… “I’ll try. But first, I need a starting point. Is there anyone you know who would want him gone? Any enemies, or shady business deals?”

She weakly shrugs one shoulder, twinged with a pained and apologetic wince. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. That’s what I’m here for, remember? No clues, no problem.” My voice is much softer and in a sense, as much as I loathe to admit it, comforting. I want to placate her. I want to run her out. I don’t know what I want more. But I do. I hate the fact she reminds me of myself. The person I could’ve been if I had remained clueless to the cruelty of the world. But even still, she’s all aware, isn’t she? Her husband is dead, and yet she remains gentle around the edges. Angry, sure, but still fragile. A part of me seethes with jealousy. I hate this. I feel like a person once more.

“Well, there might be one clue.” She whispers. I blink as she reaches into her purse. Ms. Bach shuffles through her bag, until she pulls out a small strip of film, just a few frames long. Despite the aged art medium, it seems unscathed, as if immune to the power of time. Ms. Bach hands it to me, and I take it with gentle hands, careful not to tear the fragile flick. “Here.”

I look closely at the frames. It’s hard to make past the grainy material, but I can spot a brilliant blue character with exaggerated proportions. Long legs, a puffy bowtie, and a ridiculous hat. “Is this… a cartoon? What am I supposed to do with this?”

Maybe she’s gone crazy, hysterical in her mourning. 

Ms. Bach smiles, though it’s humorless. “This was what he was strangled with. Before the police arrived, I managed to slice a small portion off. I hate to tamper with evidence, but I had a feeling it’d be important.”

Ah, that makes much more sense, then. Maybe not the best to handle with our bare hands considering there might be fingerprints or similar damning evidence, but it’s a starting point. A clue, possibly left on purpose. Why else, what other explanation, if he was strangled with a reel of film? Not a collection of rope, a chord, or even with their hands. But instead, with a cartoon. Something sparks in my brain. I might be assuming too much, thinking way ahead of myself, but it itches. I’m one to trust my gut. Is this the criminal’s signature? It might be. Of course, it could also just simply be a coincidence, the only available method. Who else expects film to be used as a weapon?

It’s been decided.

“Well, Ms. Bach. I’ll take your case.”

Her grin slopes into something more genuine, a few tears managing to fall from her lashes. She reaches across the table, clasping her hands around my own. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

I retract my hands, an uncomfortable feeling spiking across my skin. Too close. Too much. I still offer her an unsteady smile. “Really, don’t mention it. I still have my fees and rates. But,” I swallow. “Maybe I can tack a few dollars off. A discount, just for your troubles.”

That damned soft spot of mine runs down my spine, softens my pounding heart. You are selfish; you are mean, that voice reminds me. But actions speak louder than words. I don’t want to be this way. I have to be this way. I refused to be used anymore than I already have. Expected to submit and accept humanity’s brutality. Despite this being our first formal meeting, Ms. Bach holds a specific control over me that I don’t appreciate. I am vulnerable, my weakest points put to display, served on a silver platter. But she doesn’t dig in. She doesn’t dissect me with her fork and knife, doesn’t split me open like I expect. Instead, she just shakes her head.

“I can more than afford your price. In fact, I wanted to discuss your rates.”

My head tilts to the side, suspicion creeping in. I can’t help but be cautious. “How so?”

“I want to offer more than what you’re presenting.”

I freeze, eyebrows pinching together. My pricing was already unfairly worth more than what it probably should be, considering I have been out of the game for awhile now. Though, it’s substantially less than what it was before. I can at least say that much. I should yes, take advantage of her grief, earn more money than what I’m valued. I should be seeing money signs in my eyes, enticed by the idea of being able to pay my rent months in advance. The security and stability that comes with wealth. I should want it. I do want it. And yet, I hesitate. 

“Oh, no. I can’t possibly do that.” I respond. Ms. Bach shakes her head once more.

“I insist, even if you do not accept. You’re helping me in a way I cannot express enough gratitude for. So please, allow me to thank you in the only way I am able.”

He was a monster– ruthless, careless. But, there was a time. Hands cradling yours with the most gentle care, as if one run of his thumb over your knuckles would cause you to shatter, buckling under his touch. Despite his godly composition, his skin was soft, his affection tender. He was created with the intention of destruction, but it was as if he was afraid of ruining you. He knew he had the power to. Yet, just as much as he could devastate you, you could return the same in full. It was an even playing field. You aren’t sure if he recognized that.

He was dangerous. He was safe.

Your head spins in the confusion of it all. You hate The Doctor. You understand he was just trying to protect precious lives. You wish there had been another way. A chance where your god had the desire to redeem himself, to pathetically grovel at The Doctor’s feet and beg for forgiveness. To mean it. To long for nothing more than to spend his time with you, even if that meant giving up his seat with the Pantheon. Maybe if you had meant more to him, then he’d be alive. 

He was your shooting star, the gleaming light you’d cross your fingers and wish on. Even now, you have so many wishes. 

You wish you had relished the time you had spent with him. You wish you didn’t take for granted how he treated you. …You wish you had paid attention to how he treated others. How he’d threaten to take away Mr. Pye’s wife forever, and then spin around to promise to immortalize you in any way he could. Was he truly a bad person, or just misunderstood? Which version of him was real? The terrifying, murderous glint in his unfocused eyes, or the soft slope of his smile, when his eyes landed on you? Can both exist at the same time? Can neither?

You’re too much of a coward to look out your window. To take one look at the moon as it reflects the Sun’s light. To be reminded of the very thing that ended him, and the very thing he loved. To break into fragmented pieces. To allow yourself to sit in your anger. You didn’t truly know him. You wanted to. You still want to. Even after he kidnapped those poor, innocent people. After how he would bully Mr. Pye into pitiable submission. After he almost killed the heroic Doctor. 

Does that make you a bad person, too? Missing the company of a beast? Someone who didn’t bat an eye at destroying everything in his path just for the chaos of it all. Someone who refused to meet your gaze as he leaned into his cruel, godly nature. Were you just an asset, something to curb the boredom? Or just a lovestruck fool, fated to waste away in yearning and contempt. You’re the world’s biggest idiot. 

Instead of opening your curtain and letting the moonlight pool in, you trace the glow-in-the-dark stars tacked on to your ceiling. You had stuck them there that same night he had left you, knowing it might be a while until you could face the real deal again. Your eyes glance from fake constellation to fake constellation, reciting each myth until you run out. You ignore how the voice in your head sounds eerily similar to his, ignore the memories flooding your mind’s eye– leaning back in the theater’s seats, boring holes into the ceiling as if you could see past the plaster and view the stars. He would repeat each constellation’s tale, sometimes adding his own ‘creative twists,’ adding himself into the story as a hero. (Did he think of himself as one?)

Just to see if you were paying attention, he’d say. You both knew he was just trying to get you to laugh.

A god and a mortal, a picture only the fairytales could paint. Ironic how he was the one whose candle burnt out first. How he was the one to part from you . You miss him. You hate him. You love him. Everything mashes together, every bright color of the rainbow mixing to create a dull brown. It feels like too much, like you’re rotting from the inside-out. You want to throw it all up, to watch as the harsh emotions swirl down the toilet bowl and finally leave you alone, giving you a chance to breathe. The thought of moving on hurts, pounds in your heart and flows in your veins, but what other option is there?

Lance is perched on the edge of a rooftop, his ass uncomfortably scraping against the rough surface of the cement. His legs dangle carelessly over the ledge, swinging-- back and forth, back and forth. He feels small again, taken back to a time when he’d be propped up on the kitchen stool, his feet unable to touch the ground. He can practically hear his mom coo, can feel her affectionately rub the divot between his shoulder blades, as he’d point his toes and sink in his chair until the soles of his socks would graze the tiled floor.

He stretches through the arch of his foot now, slowly curling his toes until they point down, down past the skyscraper's windows, all the way to the pavement below. For a split second, he swears his shoes scrape the ground.

Dreams are funny like that.

Suddenly, the air shifts, and Lance is alone no longer. A warm body presses into his side, just like he had been waiting for. The heat of them prickles across his skin, settling in his stomach and curling in on itself, like a cat resting idly in the sun. Lance chews the flesh of his cheek, biting back a love-sick grin, even though he knows they couldn't make out the slope of it, and playfully nudges his shoulder against theirs. 

They turn to look at Lance, waist twisting to face him straight, but he can't make out any of their features; their face, their hair, hell-- even their skin tone. It's a muddled mess, like ripples against the surface, or a portrait, tactfully smudged with an artist's thumbprint. Lance has the familiar desire to reach forward, cup their face and see if he can map out their features, say 'fuck you' to the rules and trace the bridge of their nose, the shape of their eyes-- see if he could carve them into memory and then into clay, see if he can recreate the feeling of their face into the most beautiful sculpture. If Lance was a better man, he’d try. Instead, he keeps his arms pinned to his sides.

"You okay?" they ask. Their voice is warbled, reminding Lance of his time spent wading in the beach's tides, dunking himself under the cold water and straining to decipher what his siblings were saying, words bubbling up to the surface. It reminds him of summers, speaking in hushed voices across the bonfire, flames crackling over his friends' inflections as his brain fills in the gaps of their voices. 

Lance mulls over the question. Am I okay? His ribcage is still bruised from the last villain-of-the-week, swirls of purples and yellows blooming over his side like a pretty aster flower, its petals spanning all the way across his chest. He’s also pretty sure his shoulder is still out of socket from where Lotor had struck him the other day. At the prompt, he expects to feel his clavicle ache and throb, but it doesn't. Here, in this dream sequence, tucked into his fated Soulmate's side, Lance is safe. 

"Yes," he answers, perfectly honest. "Are you?"

They hum, the noise breaking off into a quiet sigh. "Could be better."

"What's wrong?" Lance asks. There's a part of him that aches for them to finally be honest.  It screams and yells and claws at his pounding heart, ripping through the muscle tissue until all that's left is a vulnerable little boy, desperate to love and be loved. 

"It's just been a long week." They respond. That part of him withers. It aches and takes root in his veins, spreading into his bloodstream until Lance is pumped full of that painful sensation. He wants to know what made their week long, what they're feeling, what they're thinking. How is he ever supposed to find them if he never gets to find out who they are?

"It helps seeing you though." They continue. He swallows down that gnawing throb, lets it slide down his throat and into his stomach, hoping that it gets digested. The acid doesn't seem to dissolve it though, just makes it feel that it's eating him from the inside out. Lance ignores it.

"Yeah?"

Leo grits his teeth, struggling to get his body to get up, which eventually turns into trying to just move. All he can manage is a clenched fist, digging into the stone beneath him. The dirt crumbles in his palm, breaking into tiny pieces until it slips through his fingers. He's left empty handed, with nothing to ground himself with. A frustrated sound rumbles in his chest, and claws its way up his throat until he's roaring with rage. The feeling of it has him thrashing uncontrollably, like something is tearing through him as if he were simply a sheet of paper. 

His fist automatically comes to press into his right eye. Then, his fingers start to dig. Suddenly, he’s pulling. Tendrils of something come free. Slick, scaly, and pink. Oh god. Pink. The color flares out in swirls and waves until it completely swamps his vision. Leo doesn't know why he looks down, he already knows what to expect, but he does it anyway. His hand is clawed, the knuckles outstretching to form talons, like some twisted version of Wolverine. The tendrils slither up his arm, coiling tight around his bicep, before burrowing back into his eye socket. 

He opens his mouth to scream, but that same sickening war cry rips from his chest, extending until his throat becomes raw. His eyes squeeze shut, that neon pink filter burning behind his eyelids. When he resurfaces, opening his eyes, Leo is looking into the faces of his brothers. They're crying. Leo's claws rear back, his torso twisting, muscles primed to strike--

Eyes shoot open. Limbs tangle in sheets. The lamp clicks on.

Leo's vision is flooded with light, bleeding all the way into the darkest corners of the room. He pants, his plastron rising with each greedy gulp of air. He stays like that, head tilted into his pillow, until the shallow breaths eventually even out into something calmer. It was just another nightmare. 

He's been having a lot of those as of late. 

He drags his hands down the length of his face, his palms digging into his eyes, scrubbing until any remnants of pink are bleached away. The movement makes bursts of light explode behind his eyelids. It sort of looks like constellations, strung together with unnamable colors. His lungs stiffen before taking one last deep, swallowed breath. You'll be okay, Leo tells himself. He ignores how plastic the words sound.

Leo stretches out an arm, far enough to straighten his elbow with a satisfying pop. His hand grazes past almost empty water bottles, and long forgotten soda cans, until the tips of his fingers are brushing up against his alarm clock. He wraps his hand around the top of it, and spins the clock around to where the digital numbers blink back at him. 3:00am. How wonderful.

He bites back a sigh, exhaustion seeping in his bones, as he slinks off the bed. His feet skim the rug until he pushes himself upright, unceremonious and slow. He sways for a moment, clicking his tongue against the roof of his dry mouth, and stumbles to the beanbag in the corner of his room, where his favorite hoodie is thrown over the side. Leo slips it on and skulks towards the door, planning on taking a nightly stroll-- something to keep him preoccupied, and preferably out of the house. 

Leo's halfway through the doorway until he foot kicks against something small and solid, the movement sending the object sliding a few inches forwards. Through the darkness, Leo catches a glimpse of reddish pink, and before he can realize what he's doing, his sword is summoned in his hand. He leads his handle back behind his head, and swings down towards the object-- 

--Before stopping. In the dim glow of the sword's ruins, etched into the blade, Leo can make out the vague details of a box. Baby blue in color, and adorned with a pretty red bow. Red, not pink. He blinks owlishly, brows pinching together, and cocks his head as if it'd make him understand why the fuck there's a gift outside his room. Assuming the present is for him, he instantly rules out Donnie. If D's going to gift him anything, he would never make a big spectacle out of it. He'd usually just chuck it at Leo's head, and try to remain his "bad boy image." Leo rules out Raph next, as the wrapping paper is too neat to be his work, but also rules out Mikey, as it's not neat enough. 

Baffled, he squats down, his joints straining with the motion, and picks up the gift box. He carefully brings it to the side of his head and shakes it. Something rattles inside, bouncing against the cardboard walls. Leo straightens back to his full height and turns tail, walking back into his room. He sits on his bed, one leg tucked underneath him, and rips into the wrapping paper. Once the outer layer is torn to shreds, revealing a regular old cardboard box, Leo opens the top flaps.

He reaches his hand inside, brushing up against something soft and plush. He grabs the object and pulls out a stuffed toy turtle. It was a bit ugly, its beady eyes uneven, and its smile oddly lopsided. It seemed cheaply made, like it was picked up from one of the NYC gift shops. He tosses the stuffed animal behind him, letting it land on his pillows, and reaches back into the box. This time, he pulls out a bag of Hershey kisses. Attached to the plastic is an envelope. 

Okay, this is starting to get too weird. Leo sets down the kisses and rips open the top of the envelope, turning it upside down. A card flutters out, delicately flitting before falling onto his bent knee. He picks it up, noting the sickly sweet hearts drawn on the cover. He frowns, opening it to read the letter scrawled on the inside.

Dear Leo, 

It would be turtle-y awesome if we could share some kisses!

Yours,

Your Secret Admirer.

Oooooooookay? His mouth twists into something contemplative, lips puckered in thought. Definitely none of his brothers, nor April-- those are his siblings. So, gross. His eyes trace over the words, the handwriting somewhat familiar. He flips the card back over to stare at the cover once more. It couldn't be Casey, as he views Leo as some mentor. And Cass would definitely rather chop his head off than even think of seeing Leo in a romantic light. Maybe Sunita? ...Okay, yeah no. Who else even knew where the lair was?

Leo sighs and falls back onto his bed, the mattress whining under the weight, and lands on his shell. He turns his head to the side and makes eye contact with the poorly made turtle plushie.

"Who could you possibly be?" He asks himself, mindlessly bringing up a hand to cradle the turtle. He rubs his thumbs over its head, before moving to hug it tightly against his plastron. "Who would even be my secret admirer?"

His eyes dart towards his nightstand, towards the framed picture. It's a photograph of you and him, sloppily taken by Leo. He has his arm wrapped against your shoulders, using the crook of his elbow to force you in close. You're mid-pout, lip jutted out in protest, but you don't look upset in the slightest. There's a fond twinkle in your eye, the kind that had made Leo's heart sing, the melody familiar and almost constant. Despite your faux protests, you have your own arm draped across his shoulders, with one hand giving him bunny ears above his head. 

Scribbled across the shape of the photo frame is a heartfelt quote, courtesy of you. You had gifted it to him on his birthday, all shy smiles and avoidant eyes, which quickly transformed into a smug smirk at the happy tears welling up in the corners of Leo's eyes. He remembers later that night, sitting by his lamp's light, his thumb drawing over the form of your letters, trying his very best to remember every detail of your handwriting. 

Your handwriting....

Your handwriting!

Leo jolts up, leaning his weight onto his elbows, and snatches the card. He sticks it close to his face, close enough that the words begin to blur together, creating one mis-matched collage of letters. He flips onto his stomach, and pushes the card to be touching sides with the picture frame. His eyes snap from side to side, comparing the penmanship. It was identical, all the way down to the way you dotted your i's.

Oh my god. What does he do?! Here you are confessing your feelings to him, feelings that he definitely returns. But that should be impossible! You can't like him back! But the proof is irrefutable. That's your handwriting on the card. That's your handwriting saying you're his secret admirer. And who else would share his love for cheesy puns?

Admittedly, the gifts aren't the best quality. It's like you wandered into some random convenience store, stumbled upon the candy isle, and randomly selected the cheapest things. But Leo felt oddly seen. Seen in a way he hasn't felt in awhile, not since Him. Since He saw right through Leo's vulnerable spots, slamming Leo from rock islet to rock islet, spitting into his face with boiling hot anger. Not since being pulled from that horrible dimension, and immediately being wrapped into an embrace with his brothers. Not since having to help rebuild the city, looking at all the lives lost, and knowing that it was all his fault.

But you know that. You know his biggest fuck up, and you still like him enough to try and woo him with the cheesiest technique. It feels like childlike innocence, something Leo hasn't felt since Him. Since he fucked up and cost the city to perish, almost caused to world to bend at the knees to Him. He feels so much older than he is, so much heavier and tired than he should be. It's something he's admitted to you. And yet, you're still here. And you like him.

Leo's brothers are saddled behind him, peeking past his broad shoulders to catch a glimpse of the shit-show that was you. He bites his bottom lip, toying it thoughtfully between his teeth, and cranes his neck to look at Raph. Even though he might not be the leader anymore-- such a loose idea, anyways. They're a family first and foremost-- Raph is still his eldest brother. 

But Raph just shrugs, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. Leo wrinkles his nose distastefully at the scent wafting from him-- a mix of anxiety and cluelessness. It's his nervous stink. After years of being the troublemaker in the family, it's something Leo’s way too familiar with. Raph darts his eyes to Donnie, who stands still, an unimpressed eyebrow raised high. He's frowning, deep enough to crease his chin, but Leo can see through the facade easily. He's just as concerned as Raph. You're his friend, after all, a title that is not to be taken with a grain of salt.

Donnie clenches and unclenches his fist, obviously trying to decide the best course of action. Whatever he comes up with, he must be displeased, because he pinches his brows tight and turns to Mikey. He's gripping Leo’s shoulder tightly, whimpering in sympathy at your suffering. His eyes are wide and droopy, drowning in mixed emotions. He’s obviously affected by your stubborn display of fatigue, piercing right through his gigantic heart, and taking it more seriously than it needs to be. 

With all eyes on him, Mikey steps forward, making himself seem small as he approaches you. It's the same technique Leo has seen him pull out with the newest arrivals at Todd's Cuddles Cakes Puppy Rescue, when the animal is scared and shaken, backed into a metaphorical corner. He's slightly offended on your behalf-- you are not some wild animal! But Leo keeps his mouth shut tightly, putting his trust in Mikey. He's always been better with comforting people.

"Hey there, buddy." He says, voice hushed and light. "You wanna head to bed? April and Casey are already passed out on the couch. I'm sure they won't mind if you join them."

You blink slowly, processing what just came out of his mouth. Leo can practically hear the gears turning in your head, and see the smoke puffing out of your ears when the gears evidently malfunction. You look clueless, and something deep in him pangs with a sense of longing. Next to him, Donnie scoffs.

"What's the point of inviting them over if they're not going to stay up with us?"

Blinking once more, you seem to finally catch up with the conversation. You sheepishly smile, all teeth and cheeks flushed with a hint of embarrassment. Leo thinks you’ve never looked better. "Sorry guys, but I think I'm wringing in my towel. Waving my white flag. Other synonyms for accepting defeat."

"Oh, you are tired." Leo snickers fondly. You look to be much better off than just a few moments ago. No longer looking on the verge of crashing, you just look like you're holding back a multitude of yawns. 

"You want Raph to grab you a blanket?" Raph offers, already one foot out the doorway. He appears eager to help out in any way he can.

Leo purses his lips tightly and looks at you closely, eyes flitting between every detail. His gaze eventually snags on your eyes, and then he understands. He’s proud to say that he knows you better than any of his brothers. In their defense, he spends the most hours with you. Whatever time wasn't dedicated towards training or fighting the newest Bad Guy of the Week, Leo honed in on you, orbiting you like a moon to a planet-- fond, yet so far out of reach. 

Even standing beside you, he felt miles away—always orbiting, never landing. It was fun some days, like when you'd push his shoulder after an exceptionally bad joke, and he was left with a warm glow in his arm from where you briefly touched him. It was sickening too, though. Like when you'd ditch Family Days to spend time with your friends-- your human friends. Those days he holed himself up in his room and was left blurring his vision, trying to make his three fingers look more like five. 

"I think they want to go home." He says finally.

Across the room, your eyebrows shoot up in barely-hidden surprise, no doubt caught off guard by Leo's observation. But is it really that shocking? He's always been good at reading people, understanding their motives and ideals. And right now, you just seemed ready to leave. You keep your eyes trained on Leo as you soon nod in agreement. 

Mikey deflates, disappointed at your departure, but looks on the bright side. "I can bring you home! We can even take the scenic route to your apartment! Look at all the beautiful flowers! Make friends with a stray cat! Name him Carl!"

"Sorry, Mikey." You smile, eyebrows creasing together in a careful expression, as if being the bearer of bad news. To be fair, telling Mikey 'no' was always bad news. "But it's too dark out to look at any plants. I can just walk myself home, no need to be a bother."

"It's late," says Raph. "Or... early? --Either way, it's dark. Which means it's dangerous. Just let one of us walk you home, please?"

You look conflicted, mouth pressing into a tight, firm line. You look to the floor once, before glancing back up to Raph. Leo could've sworn your eyes flitted over him, if even for the briefest moment. But the moment is gone, and you're left making an awkward hum in the back of your throat. Raph's gaze narrows into something inflexible, as if telepathically telling your brain to just agree. 

Donnie swoops in though, suddenly grinning like the mad-man he is and wringing his hands together frantically. That expression is exactly why Leo is convinced he's possessed by some demon. Who acts like that? Donnie clears his throat once, puffs his chest out, and steps forward. "Who needs to 'walk home' when you can use my new teleportation device!"

Donnie waits for his applause, closing his eyes in preparation. When the silence persists, he peeks one eye open, scanning around the room. "...What?"

"...Have you already tested it out?" You bravely ask. Though, judging by the wobble of your lip, you already know the answer. 

"Nope! That's what you're here for!"

Okay, aaaaaand that's Leo's cue to step in. 

"Who needs a teleportation device, when you've got a teleportation sword?" He says.

Leo summons his sword and cleanly carves through the air. A pinprick slice forms, before expanding into a large blue circle. Despite having seen it many, many, many times, your eyes are still wide in amazement. Your pupils reflect the portal, glowing and beautiful. Leo bites back a proud, smug smile.

"You never let me have my fun..." Donnie complains. Leo exaggeratedly rolls his eyes and shoulders past him, making sure to put some force behind it. As expected, Donnie squawks and glares daggers at Leo, who innocently smiles. Leo comes to a complete stop in front of the portal, turning to you.

"Ready to head out?"

He extends his arm in invitation and you take it, wrapping your hand tightly around his toned bicep. He internally celebrates, feeling like confetti is being tossed in his stomach, and leads you through the portal. He pointedly ignores the looks his brothers are giving him, too focused on the delicate curve of your smile. 

You both pop out on the other side, which Leo is grateful for. He was not in the mood for you to be kidnapped by Portal Pirates. Though… that would give him the chance to play hero to you. Maybe that would finally impress you.

You stumble out, taking in the view. You're on some sort of rooftop, seemingly nowhere near your designated destination. You jut out your bottom lip and look to Leo. "This isn't my apartment."

"Oh, come on." he smiles, nudging you gently. "I know you better than that. You always prefer the long way. Unless you'd rather me portal to your house?"

You shake your head, and pride bubbles in Leo's chest. He really does know you through and through. 

Just as he always does, he scoops you into his arms, one hand under your knees, the other wrapped politely around your waist. You sigh, leaning into his chest, cheek pressing against his plastron. He hopes you can't feel the steady thrum of his heightened heartbeat. If you ask, maybe he can convince you that it's a mutant thing.

He takes off into the night, leaping from building top to building top, the cool autumn wind whipping through your hair. You close your eyes, and Leo sneaks glances at you. He grips you tighter in his arms, and you let him, fighting back what Leo assumes is a smile. He smiles too, carving every detail of you into his brain like a chisel to stone. His pace slows, his sprint rolling into a steady stroll, until he eventually reaches your apartment. 

He sets you down gently, your feet barely grazing the ground until you unceremoniously hope down. Every time he takes you out for a ride, he always expects a teasing jab, or even a friendly punch to the arm. But instead, you always turn to him, tucking strands of your windblown hair behind your ear, and beam. 

–

“Sorry. can't make it 2nite. upset stomach :("

Your short message blinks at Leo, almost tauntingly so. He uncurls from where he was positioned on his side, instead rolling to splay out on his back, the bed curving to the shape of his shell. He has his phone a few mere inches away from his face, thumbs supporting the weight of it from falling onto his pinched frown. 

You had written to the group chat, the one that included his whole family. It wasn't unusual for you to skip out on movie nights, citing an upset stomach or a raging headache. They would be hypocrites to say anything. Donnie will sit out, locking himself in his lab because of phantom impressions squirming across his backside and soft shell, like maggots digging into soil. Or Mikey, when his wrists sear with a burning pain, as if the skin is flaking off in giant, glowing chunks. Or Raph, because of the raised skin around his eye, the throbbing sensation feeling too similar to alive pulsing, like something was under the surface, threatening to break free.

Leo never sat out on movie nights.

Why would he, when the alternative would be to sit alone in his dark room, dark enough to where he couldn't see his hand in front of his face? It used to be comforting. Used to be the one place he could drop his splitting smile and just sit, devoid of any overwhelming emotions or purposeful overreactions. The curtains are drawn, the spotlights are dimmed, the audience dispersed, and he's alone on stage. But he couldn't get the blood taste out of his mouth, the disgusting sulfur smell that churned his stomach, as he was smashed to pieces again and again until all he could do was perform. Until Leonardo was gone, and all that was left was happy, go-lucky Leo whose basic expression was a snarky grin.

Wipe that grin off your face.

Leo blinks as something buzzes, and suddenly he's ripped from that horrible dark dimension and all he can see is light, light, light, until he finally registers it as his phone illuminating his face. It jingles with an incoming notification. Leo takes in a deep breath because his lungs aren't punctured. Lets it fill his chest because his ribs aren't shattered. And lets it slow the rhythm of his heart because it's surprisingly still pumping blood. Leo isn't dead. 

The phone buzzes again, vibrating his already shaking hand, as his brothers respond with varying levels of support and kindness. Donnie likes your text, Raph sends a simple red heart, and Mikey writes back a heartfelt message. His family isn't dead. And as his phone hums with another notification, Leo releases his breath, because you aren't dead.

"Can you pls come over? I need you here." 

You had texted, but not in the group chat-- instead to him, privately. He practically drops his phone on his face. Those last four words make him squirm with an emotion too big for him to name. He fights back the urge to grin-- the memory of that twisted smile as he cried and bled out onto his family portrait as a far-too-familiar figure rears back to deliver another blow, too fresh on his mind-- and instead places his phone onto his plastron. He tucks his other arm behind his head, propping it up to get a proper view of his ceiling, decorated in his glow-in-the-dark stars. 

Leo traces patterns of constellations. They didn't have stars in the Prison Dimension, just streaks of darkness. He couldn't even properly identify it as any color-- not even black. It was like the sensation of when you closed your eyes, hints and traces of colors threatening to pop up, but none making an appearance. It was a lack of color. A lack of anything. His throat contracts, swallowing back a pained whimper. Fear licks at his stomach, makes itself known in the dryness of his mouth. They don't have stars in the Prison Dimension, he reminds himself. He ignores the fact he's looking at fake stars, and ignores the fact he's beginning to make up his own constellations, and instead goes back to the fact that you texted him out of everyone else.

Why him?

He doesn't have the answer. But he really doesn't need one.

One of his brothers timidly open the door to his room, and light floods the space. The stars stuck to his ceiling stop glowing, and Leo bites back a frown. His brother knocks on the door frame as he enters, but Leo doesn't move, keeping his head frozen on his pillow, eyes trained to where the constellations should be. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and a gentle weight dip into the edge of his mattress. It's only when he feels a calloused hand land on his knee, engulfing the whole of it with its size, does Leo sigh and move to sit up. He makes eye contact with Raph.

"Hey."

Leo instinctively smiles, but it doesn't crinkle his eyes as it should. He clicks his tongue before greeting back a simple, "Hey, big guy."

Raph smiles back, but it's wobbly and twisted at the corners. Leo doesn't need to smell the air to know he's concerned. He eyes Leo over, similar to the way he'll study Leo after a mission, searching for any gashes or bruises. Raph has always been too squeamish and heavy-handed to be the team's medic, but that has never stopped him from fussing over his family members. Leo smiles harder, forcing the tremble of his lip to straighten out into something more sure of itself.

"You still on for movie night?" Raph asks. Leo is about to nod his head and agree, put on a typical show for his brother and drape himself across Raph's lap, maybe lament about how dare Raph insinuate him to miss out on Movie Night. But Raph's hand twitches from where it still rests on Leo's knee, and Leo's mind flashes back to your message.

 "I need you here."

He doesn't have the answer. But he really doesn't need one.

One of his brothers timidly open the door to his room, and light floods the space. The stars stuck to his ceiling stop glowing, and Leo bites back a frown. His brother knocks on the door frame as he enters, but Leo doesn't move, keeping his head frozen on his pillow, eyes trained to where the constellations should be. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and a gentle weight dip into the edge of his mattress. It's only when he feels a calloused hand land on his knee, engulfing the whole of it with its size, does Leo sigh and move to sit up. He makes eye contact with Raph.

"Hey."

Leo instinctively smiles, but it doesn't crinkle his eyes as it should. He clicks his tongue before greeting back a simple, "Hey, big guy."

Raph smiles back, but it's wobbly and twisted at the corners. Leo doesn't need to smell the air to know he's concerned. He eyes Leo over, similar to the way he'll study Leo after a mission, searching for any gashes or bruises. Raph has always been too squeamish and heavy-handed to be the team's medic, but that has never stopped him from fussing over his family members. Leo smiles harder, forcing the tremble of his lip to straighten out into something more sure of itself.

"You still on for movie night?" Raph asks. Leo is about to nod his head and agree, put on a typical show for his brother and drape himself across Raph's lap, maybe lament about /how dare rap insinuate him to miss out on Movie Night./ But Raph's hand twitches from where it still rests on Leo's knee, and Leo's mind flashes back to your message.

 "I need you here."

"No," Leo decides. And, just for good measure, he forces a dry gag. "I /also/ have an upset stomach! It must've been contagious or something. I um. I think I'll go check up on my fellow-sick amigo! You know. Since we're both under the weather. Yes." 

Leo smiles wide, teeth clacking together. A slight guilt tugs in his chest, like it always does when he lies to his brothers, feeling like he's somehow letting them down. It's a near constant pressure, an insistent wrench with every faux smile. He knows it's not enough to convince Raph, but it'll be sufficient enough to keep him off Leo's back. Raph will know not to push. 

And he doesn't. But he does raise an eye ridge, high enough to stretch into his nonexistent hairline. Leo searches Raph's expression, expecting some sort of disappointment, and comes back equal parts confused and relieved when all Raph seems is amused. He's that sort of smug, where he's in some kind of inside joke that Leo doesn't understand the punchline to.

 "Uh-huh." Raph says slowly, stretching out the sound. "Well, tell our friend we say hello, and to feel better."

He pats his hand, the one still on Leo's knee. Leo's joint burns from underneath Raph's palm, too much, but Leo holds his smile. Raph thins his lips, his face twisting into something conflicted, as if he's unsure whether he should say what he wants to. Leo watches with a bated breath as Raph finds his words, before... nothing. He keeps his mouth in a firm line and stands, the mattress creaking from his weight. He sends one last look to Leo, a delicate frown, and turns tail to leave.

Leo watches him go, Raph's long tail flicking behind him as he shuts the door, and the room is bathed once more in darkness. Leo's grin fades, until all that's left is a somber expression, barely illuminated once more by those glow-in-the-dark stars. He reaches for his sword, the one that's resting against his bed frame, and slices through the air, right above his room's rug. 

When the portal blooms open, he slinks off his bed and into the ring of light, stepping through into your living room. The first thing he notices is the sound of sniffling, and he's quick to spot you huddled up on the couch, wrapped tightly in one of your blankets. He takes a step forward and the floorboard betrays him, creaking obnoxiously under his step. You whip your head around, tear-stained eyes meeting his. 

What does he do? What does he say? He feels weirdly out of his element, like he took one giant step into the deep end of the pool. He's submerged under icy water, frozen and speechless, trying to find the right words. What does he say?

"What's wrong?" he settles on. As soon as the words fall from his mouth, he has the urge to bang his head into the wall. Seriously, that's what he lands on? But he's no Mikey, and he's honestly trying his best. His heart cracks into two when your bottom lip wobbles, and your nose scrunches in a sniffle.

"I'm sorry, today just. Today sucked. And I wanted to be alone and away from everyone."   Leo frowns, stumbling to sit on the couch next to you. You don't move away when he plops down, close enough that his knee knocks against yours. In fact, you lean into it, pressing your side into his. Leo almost chokes on a scream when you slowly rest your cheek onto his shoulder. He clears his throat, pushing down the victory yell, and gently asks, "If you want to be alone, then why did you text me?"

"Well..." trailing off, you unwrap yourself from your blanket cocoon, stretching out a side of the plush blanket to Leo. He furrows his brows before catching the hint, taking the corner and placing it on his shoulder. You both sit like that for a second, sharing the duvet as you're tucked into each other's sides. "You're not everyone."

For once, Leo stays silent, not quite sure how to respond without messing everything up. However, you take it as a bad sign and backtrack. "Ack, I'm sorry that was lame. Ignore that. What I meant to say was you don't... oh gosh,-- you don't wear me out like everyone else. I feel like I'm allowed to be sad when I'm around you, and not just happy all the time. Does that make any sense?"

It's killing Leo not to ask. He flexes his three-fingered hand. "...Yeah. it does. But um. why not one of your human friends?"

You look at him, head tilted and brows pinched together. "Just because we have our species in common doesn't mean they get me any better than you do. You're... my best friend."

His heart both sinks and soars. It's... a complicated feeling. "What can I do to help?"

"...Come watch a movie with me?" A timid, grateful smile graces your lips. 

–

Then there were other nights, late nights, where you would sleep over. You’d wrap Leo up in an all-nighter, conceding that whoever fell asleep first, lost. Some nights, it’d be you; Some nights, it’d be him. All the same, you’d both wake up the next morning, legs tangled up like old lovers. He’d wake up to you peering up at him through your lashes, giving him a shy grin. 

–

Safe to say, Leo was well acquainted with your different types of smiles to recognize that proud smirk miles and miles away. His eyes trace over the curve of that lopsided grin, committing it to memory, even though he already has it stashed away for safe keeping. Normally, you'll whip out that expression after you kick his ass in Smash Bros, or when you're preparing to tell the worst joke in your whole repertoire. That darned smirk has been his undoing for years. 

He remembers being envelopes in darkness, locked away for what seemed like forever, believing he'd never see one of your smiles ever again. He recalls the white rage flooding his senses, catching his breath in shallow gulps, and gritting his teeth so hard it felt like they were grinding down. But that anger soon washes away, replaced by limbs falling slack, defeat running rampant through his veins. It was so unfair. He never said a word to you, and now he never would. He was going to die, alone, afraid, and full of regret.

But now, back in the present, he can't seem to find the words. He watches from afar, continuing to stare at you with an intensity that could rival the Sun, watching that familiar grin. You totally thought you were being so sly. He’s sat at the kitchen counter, feet perched on the stools base, rotating back and forth with a restless energy. You were, as usual, clueless-- too wrapped up in chatting it up with Raph. You talk animatedly, gesturing with your hands as if you were playing your own game of charades. 

Raph laughs at whatever you say, his shoulders bouncing in joy. This only made you laugh too, bracing your hands on your knees to catch your breath. The moment was sweet; Leo loved watching you get along with his family--... as long as he remains your favorite, dearest turtle. 

Leo squints his eyes, hoping that could help unravel the phenomenon that was you. All it did, though, was make his vision blurry. 

You had written to the group chat, the one that included his whole family. It wasn't unusual for you to skip out on movie nights, citing an upset stomach or a raging headache. They would be hypocrites to say anything. Donnie will sit out, locking himself in his lab because of phantom impressions squirming across his backside and soft shell, like maggots digging into soil. Or Mikey, when his wrists sear with a burning pain, as if the skin is flaking off in giant, glowing chunks. Or Raph, because of the raised skin around his eye, the throbbing sensation feeling too similar to alive pulsing, like something was under the surface, threatening to break free.

Leo never sat out on movie nights.

Why would he, when the alternative would be to sit alone in his dark room, dark enough to where he couldn't see his hand in front of his face? It used to be comforting. Used to be the one place he could drop his splitting smile and just sit, devoid of any overwhelming emotions or purposeful overreactions. The curtains are drawn, the spotlights are dimmed, the audience dispersed, and he's alone on stage. But he couldn't get the blood taste out of his mouth, the disgusting sulfur smell that churned his stomach, as he was smashed to pieces again and again until all he could do was perform. Until Leonardo was gone, and all that was left was happy, go-lucky Leo whose basic expression was a snarky grin.

Wipe that grin off your face.

Leo blinks as something buzzes, and suddenly he's ripped from that horrible dark dimension and all he can see is light, light, light, until he finally registers it as his phone illuminating his face. It jingles with an incoming notification. Leo takes in a deep breath because his lungs aren't punctured. Lets it fill his chest because his ribs aren't shattered. And lets it slow the rhythm of his heart because it's surprisingly still pumping blood. Leo isn't dead. 

The phone buzzes again, vibrating his already shaking hand, as his brothers respond with varying levels of support and kindness. Donnie likes your text, Raph sends a simple red heart, and Mikey writes back a heartfelt message. His family isn't dead. And as his phone hums with another notification, Leo releases his breath, because you aren't dead.

"Can you pls come over? I need you here." 

You had texted, but not in the group chat-- instead to him, privately. He practically drops his phone on his face. Those last four words make him squirm with an emotion too big for him to name. He fights back the urge to grin-- the memory of that twisted smile as he cried and bled out onto his family portrait as a far-too-familiar figure rears back to deliver another blow, too fresh on his mind-- and instead places his phone onto his plastron. He tucks his other arm behind his head, propping it up to get a proper view of his ceiling, decorated in his glow-in-the-dark stars. 

Leo traces patterns of constellations. They didn't have stars in the Prison Dimension, just streaks of darkness. He couldn't even properly identify it as any color-- not even black. It was like the sensation of when you closed your eyes, hints and traces of colors threatening to pop up, but none making an appearance. It was a lack of color. A lack of anything. His throat contracts, swallowing back a pained whimper. Fear licks at his stomach, makes itself known in the dryness of his mouth. They don't have stars in the Prison Dimension, he reminds himself. He ignores the fact he's looking at fake stars, and ignores the fact he's beginning to make up his own constellations, and instead goes back to the fact that you texted him out of everyone else.

Leo's brothers are saddled behind him, peeking past his broad shoulders to catch a glimpse of the shit-show that was you. He bites his bottom lip, toying it thoughtfully between his teeth, and cranes his neck to look at Raph. Even though he might not be the leader anymore-- such a loose idea, anyways. They're a /family/ first and foremost-- Raph is still his eldest brother. 

But Raph just shrugs, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. Leo wrinkles his nose distastefully at the scent wafting from him-- a mix of anxiety and cluelessness. It's his nervous stink. After years of being the troublemaker in the family, it's something Leo’s way too familiar with. Raph darts his eyes to Donnie, who stands still, an unimpressed eyebrow raised high. He's frowning, deep enough to crease his chin, but Leo can see through the facade easily. He's just as concerned as Raph. You're his friend, after all, a title that is not to be taken with a grain of salt.

Donnie clenches and unclenches his fist, obviously trying to decide the best course of action. Whatever he comes up with, he must be displeased, because he pinches his brows tight and turns to Mikey. He's gripping Leo’s shoulder tightly, whimpering in sympathy at your suffering. His eyes are wide and droopy, drowning in mixed emotions. He’s obviously affected by your stubborn display of fatigue, piercing right through his gigantic heart, and taking it more seriously than it needs to be. 

With all eyes on him, Mikey steps forward, making himself seem small as he approaches you. It's the same technique Leo has seen him pull out with the newest arrivals at Todd's Cuddles Cakes Puppy Rescue, when the animal is scared and shaken, backed into a metaphorical corner. He's slightly offended on your behalf-- you are not some wild animal! But Leo keeps his mouth shut tightly, putting his trust in Mikey. He's always been better with comforting people.

"Hey there, buddy." He says, voice hushed and light. "You wanna head to bed? April and Casey are already passed out on the couch. I'm sure they won't mind if you join them."

You blink slowly, processing what just came out of his mouth. Leo can practically hear the gears turning in your head, and see the smoke puffing out of your ears when the gears evidently malfunction. You look clueless, and something deep in him pangs with a sense of longing. Next to him, Donnie scoffs.

"What's the point of inviting them over if they're not going to stay up with us?"

Blinking once more, you seem to finally catch up with the conversation. You sheepishly smile, all teeth and cheeks flushed with a hint of embarrassment. Leo thinks you’ve never looked better. "Sorry guys, but I think I'm wringing in my towel. Waving my white flag. Other synonyms for accepting defeat."

"Oh, you are tired." Leo snickers fondly. You look to be much better off than just a few moments ago. No longer looking on the verge of crashing, you just look like you're holding back a multitude of yawns. 

"You want Raph to grab you a blanket?" Raph offers, already one foot out the doorway. He appears eager to help out in any way he can.

Leo purses his lips tightly and looks at you closely, eyes flitting between every detail. His gaze eventually snags on your eyes, and then he understands. He’s proud to say that he knows you better than any of his brothers. In their defense, he spends the most hours with you. Whatever time wasn't dedicated towards training or fighting the newest Bad Guy of the Week, Leo honed in on you, orbiting you like a moon to a planet-- fond, yet so far out of reach. 

Even standing beside you, he felt miles away—always orbiting, never landing. It was fun some days, like when you'd push his shoulder after an exceptionally bad joke, and he was left with a warm glow in his arm from where you briefly touched him. It was sickening too, though. Like when you'd ditch Family Days to spend time with your friends-- your human friends. Those days he holed himself up in his room and was left blurring his vision, trying to make his three fingers look more like five. 

"I think they want to go home." He says finally.

Across the room, your eyebrows shoot up in barely-hidden surprise, no doubt caught off guard by Leo's observation. But is it really that shocking? He's always been good at reading people, understanding their motives and ideals. And right now, you just seemed ready to leave. You keep your eyes trained on Leo as you soon nod in agreement. 

Mikey deflates, disappointed at your departure, but looks on the bright side. "I can bring you home! We can even take the scenic route to your apartment! Look at all the beautiful flowers! Make friends with a stray cat! Name him Carl!"

"Sorry, Mikey." You smile, eyebrows creasing together in a careful expression, as if being the bearer of bad news. To be fair, telling Mikey 'no' was always bad news. "But it's too dark out to look at any plants. I can just walk myself home, no need to be a bother."

"It's late," says Raph. "Or... early? --Either way, it's dark. Which means it's dangerous. Just let one of us walk you home, please?"

You look conflicted, mouth pressing into a tight, firm line. You look to the floor once, before glancing back up to Raph. Leo could've sworn your eyes flitted over him, if even for the briefest moment. But the moment is gone, and you're left making an awkward hum in the back of your throat. Raph's gaze narrows into something inflexible, as if telepathically telling your brain to just agree. 

Donnie swoops in though, suddenly grinning like the mad-man he is and wringing his hands together frantically. That expression is exactly why Leo is convinced he's possessed by some demon. Who acts like that? Donnie clears his throat once, puffs his chest out, and steps forward. "Who needs to 'walk home' when you can use my new teleportation device!"

Donnie waits for his applause, closing his eyes in preparation. When the silence persists, he peeks one eye open, scanning around the room. "...What?"

"...Have you already tested it out?" You bravely ask. Though, judging by the wobble of your lip, you already know the answer. 

"Nope! That's what you're here for!"

Okay, aaaaaand that's Leo's cue to step in. 

"Who needs a teleportation device, when you've got a teleportation sword?" He says.

Leo summons his sword and cleanly carves through the air. A pinprick slice forms, before expanding into a large blue circle. Despite having seen it many, many, many times, your eyes are still wide in amazement. Your pupils reflect the portal, glowing and beautiful. Leo bites back a proud, smug smile.

"You never let me have my fun..." Donnie complains. Leo exaggeratedly rolls his eyes and shoulders past him, making sure to put some force behind it. As expected, Donnie squawks and glares daggers at Leo, who innocently smiles. Leo comes to a complete stop in front of the portal, turning to you.

"Ready to head out?"

He extends his arm in invitation and you take it, wrapping your hand tightly around his toned bicep. He internally celebrates, feeling like confetti is being tossed in his stomach, and leads you through the portal. He pointedly ignores the looks his brothers are giving him, too focused on the delicate curve of your smile. 

You both pop out on the other side, which Leo is grateful for. He was not in the mood for you to be kidnapped by Portal Pirates. Though… that would give him the chance to play hero to you. Maybe that would finally impress you.

You stumble out, taking in the view. You're on some sort of rooftop, seemingly nowhere near your designated destination. You jut out your bottom lip and look to Leo. "This isn't my apartment."

"Oh, come on." he smiles, nudging you gently. "I know you better than that. You always prefer the long way. Unless you'd rather me portal to your house?"

You shake your head, and pride bubbles in Leo's chest. He really does know you through and through. 

Just as he always does, he scoops you into his arms, one hand under your knees, the other wrapped politely around your waist. You sigh, leaning into his chest, cheek pressing against his plastron. He hopes you can't feel the steady thrum of his heightened heartbeat. If you ask, maybe he can convince you that it's a mutant thing.

He takes off into the night, leaping from building top to building top, the cool autumn wind whipping through your hair. You close your eyes, and Leo sneaks glances at you. He grips you tighter in his arms, and you let him, fighting back what Leo assumes is a smile. He smiles too, carving every detail of you into his brain like a chisel to stone. His pace slows, his sprint rolling into a steady stroll, until he eventually reaches your apartment. 

He sets you down gently, your feet barely grazing the ground until you unceremoniously hope down. Every time he takes you out for a ride, he always expects a teasing jab, or even a friendly punch to the arm. But instead, you always turn to him, tucking strands of your windblown hair behind your ear, and beam. 

He's not sure what just happened. The only logical explanation would be another nightmare. He clenches his hands, feeling his palms slick with sweat. The only thing is, he doesn't remember having any dreams. If he's being honest, it was the most peaceful sleep he's had in ages. So if he's ruling out night terrors--

His ears prick up at the sound of high-pitched keening. For a second, his chest constricts again. The tightness returns in full, equal parts painful and terrifying. His fingers twitch with the urge to grab his blade, the one he keeps tucked away in his nightstand. If someone has broken into his apartment, he needs to be prepared. Keith squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on his other senses. Besides the wailing, he doesn't hear anything else-- no rustling nor shuffling in his flat. 

What he does hear, however, is a loud crash in the apartment over. All too sudden, the howling abruptly cuts off. The adrenaline shifts into something like relief-- it was just his next door neighbor. Honestly, Keith should have guessed it was them from the get-go; This is the third night in a row they have woken him up.  At the thought, that relief transforms into frustration, which quickly grows into anger. Does his neighbor have no common decency? Maybe he could have excused it on the first night, maybe even the second, but a third? 

Keith's body aches, exhaustion running deep in his bones. His eyes dart to his alarm clock, which blinks back at him. 4am. Too early in the morning to start any kind of conflict. The moaning picks back up, crystal clear through the thin walls. Keith groans, a guttural sound, and rolls to lay on his stomach. He face-plants into his pillow and squashes the sides against his ears. The attempt to block out the crooning is futile though, as even through the soft barrier, he can still make out the sound. 

Keith pushes to sit on his knees. He grabs the ends of the pillow, the fluffing squishing under his grip. He pulls the sides together, rolling it into a ball as best as he could. Keith pats it together, making sure it was rolled tight. Once satisfied, he rears his hand back, elbow past his shoulder, and then throws the pillow. It flies, enhanced by his brute force, and lands against the wall with a resounding smack. The voice finally tapers off, quieting down to nothing. Keith smirks. Silence has never tasted so sweet.

Keith purposely falls out of his kneeling position, leaning forward and landing on his stomach. Upon impact, his lungs push an odd noise out of his throat, sort of like an 'oomf.' Keith keeps his face planted in the mattress, fluttering his eyes closed. His breathing slows down, until he is eventually drifting off. Unconsciousness embraces him.

He floats in a dreamless daze, surrounded by unclear shapes and colors. He can barely make out the noise of something in the distance. It resonates like ringing in his ears, only more muffled and hard to understand. He swears there are vowels somewhere in the sound, warped. If he focuses really hard, it's almost like someone is yowling gibberish. 

The noise increases in volume, as if closer in proximity. It's grating on his ears, painful and abrasive. Keith feels his body thrash against his sheets, awareness beginning to bleed in. It laps gently at his mind, before bringing him to full alertness, as if a bucket of ice cold water was just thrown on him. He blinks, his eyes adjusting back to the bright room. That stupid fucking sound is still playing. Keith curls up a tight fist, and brings it down on his nightstand. The lamp rattles, and he's left with a stinging pain in his hand. What could possibly be keeping them up this early, making that kind of noise?!

Despite himself, Keith flushes. Oh. they're probably having sex. He lifts his head from his pillow, hair sticking up wildly in different directions. Some of it sticks to his cheek, glued from his drool. He narrows his eyes, pinches his brows together, clenches his jaw, and glares a hole into the thin wall. He knows what he has to do.

He peels the comforter off of him, and rolls to sit up, the mattress dipping under his weight. He stands, bare feet flat against the uncomfortable carpet. Keith stumbles towards his closet. He leans against the open doorway, drooping eyes glancing from shirts to pants. He purses his lips and just grabs his pair of beaten-up crocs, slipping them on. He's content in his ratty pair of pajamas, the kind you'd wear on laundry day. 

He leaves his apartment. He doesn't bring his keys with them, not caring as to lock the door behind him. This confrontation shouldn't take too long. And if his neighbor isn't open to the idea of shutting the fuck up, making the issue go on for longer than it should, then he's not afraid to resorting to a swift punch in the nose. Distantly, he imagines Shiro's voice, scolding him for being so quick to turn to violence. He shrugs it off, and rasps his knuckles on his neighbor's door.

Keith awkwardly grimaces, shoulders meeting his ears, when he hears a crash and a resulting curse. His ears train to the sound of stumbling as his neighbor, no doubt, trips over their own feet. Keith momentarily feels embarrassed bile raise in his throat. Did he wake his neighbor? Has he accused the wrong apartment number? There's a possibility that this person is a victim like him, losing sleep over someone else in the complex. Before Keith can make his escape, the door swings open.

The first thing Keith notices is the guy is fully dressed. Surprisingly.

The second thing Keith notices is this guy's long eyelashes and rich brown eyes. Keith dumbly blinks, suddenly all too aware of the holes in his nightwear. He feels his palms clam up, the way they always do when he's around a cute boy. But then he clenches his fist, tightly wrapping his thumb around his knuckles. No. This is probably the guy who has kept him awake for three days in a row. Keith will not let him parade around, thinking he's off the hook. He will meet Keith's fury.

The guy rests his hand on the edge of the door, keeping it only half-open. It looks like he’s keeping a slight barrier of protection between him and Keith. Keith, in all honesty, can't blame him-- if some random person was disturbing him this early in the morning, early enough that he still had the imprint of his pillow sporting his face, he'd be just as defensive. Oh wait. 

"Um, hello? Can I help you?" the guy asks, tone bewildered. There's no raspy edge to his voice, so he must've already been up. This must actually be the culprit then. Eyebrows flattened in question, and one cheek puffed out with trapped air, the guy looks absolutely ridiculous. Keith has to hand it to him though, he looks only slightly mortified by Keith’s glower. Keith pinches his face tight and swallows down a growl. Can he help him? Yes, he can! By learning when is an acceptable time to be making loud noises!  

"I don't care about your sex life," Keith blurts out. "until it starts interrupting my personal life."

His neighbor's jaw gapes open, looking akin to a fish out of water. He opens and closes it, seemingly looking for the right words to say. He comes up with nothing, settling for a scandalized frown, and flushes all the way to the tips of his ears. The blush travels down his neck and dips into his shirt. Keith pushes back the thought of wanting to see how far down it goes.

"...What?" the guy dumbly says. His eyes are wide, darting around Keith’s face, searching for… something. Probably a sign that Keith is joking. Is it not obvious that he’s being serious? Does Keith really need to spell it out for him?

He talks slowly, elongating each word as if that might help pierce through this guy’s thick skull. "I can't sleep when you're having sex too loud."

"But I haven't--" the man brings a hand up to his forehead and laughs. "Oh man, this is embarrassing. But I haven't been having sex."

"Then why," Keith bites out. "have you been making loud noises at four in the morning.".

The guy suddenly looks sheepish. "Oh!” He glances over his shoulder, into his apartment, before looking back to Keith. “I didn't realize you could hear that."

"It's all I can hear. Cut it out."

"I don’t know if I can."

At Keith's look, he immediately corrects himself. "Or, well, of course I can stop! But like... okay, listen man. I just got this new cat. And she's so cute, but so misbehaved. And so I recently found out that if I make a certain noise, she'll stop what she's doing and come to me. But the catch is... is that I have to yodel."

Keith scoffs. "I don't care. Just make it stop." 

Keith doesn’t wait for a response, just turns on his heels and stalks back to his apartment. He swears he feels the guy watch him leave, the familiar pinprick sensation of eyes making the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He has half a mind to slam his door shut, just to prove a point to his neighbor, but then he wouldn’t be any better than him– making loud noises at the ass crack of dawn. So instead, he gently and quietly nudges the door closed. 

Once inside, he can’t help it– he bursts out into laughter. Yodeling? This whole time… he’s been yodeling? And here Keith thought he was just having wild sex! But no! He was just singing to his cat, who is apparently trained to respond to his wailing! He’s still upset, don’t get him wrong, but he can’t help but snicker at the ridiculousness of it all. Fucking yodeling. 

–

“--I mean, how did he even figure out that yodeling works?!”

Allura hums lightly, a delicate sound, as she blows on her hot tea. It ripples from her breath, the steam wafting towards Keith's direction. He's hunching over Allura’s coffee table, clenching his own cup of tea. He meets eyes with his reflection in his drink, frowning deeply at his eye bags, noticeable even in the dark color of the brew. He can sense Allura's eyes watching him over her own cup– can practically feel her amusement. He’s glad to know she gets a kick out of his own suffering.

"So you think he's cute." Allura dips her tea bag. It's not a question.

It's frustrating and humiliating how Allura can see right through him. Keith traces the rim of his cup with the pad of his finger, an odd feeling swirling in his stomach. The sensation bubbles up, threatens to overflow and color his cheeks, but he tampers it down, pushing it back down into the vault where all his overwhelming emotions go. Keith tenses his jaw, clamping down on his back molars. "Those words never left my mouth."

She takes a slow, deliberate sip. Somehow, she manages to make slurping noises seem polite, her pinky raised in full attention. She lowers her cup, placing it delicately on the saucer. "It's okay for you to think he's cute."

Keith scowls, more at himself than at Allura's comment. He knows she's just trying to be encouraging, there's a reason he went to her after all, but he feels weirdly out of control. Romance is not his department. Keith doesn't think people are cute. It's not in his nature to notice. So the one time he actually does feel attraction, it's mortifying. It's unruly. It's embarrassing. "He's annoying."

"Annoying and cute."

"Just annoying."

Allura laughs to herself. "So annoying that you made me tea so you could rant about him."

Keith scoffs, breaking eye contact with his image in his tea to look at Allura. Her legs are crossed and she's leaned back in her chair, looking as if she's got Keith all figured out. He hates to say that she does. "I made you tea because I'm a good friend."

"Uh-huh." She says, sounding wholly unconvinced. Her eyes are gentle though, and he knows her teasing is all in good fun. "Let me guess-- this is the part where you tell me how he's a horrible neighbor, how you can't stand his stupid yodeling, how his eyes are the most infuriating shade of brown?"

He glares. "That is not--" Keith pauses thoughtfully. "...How did you know his eyes are brown?"

"So you noticed."

Keith opens his mouth, ready to counter, but falters. She's caught him, cornered him right where she wants him. But Keith is nothing if not stubborn. Instead of finally admitting that ‘yes, maybe he does indeed think his neighbor is cute, even if he sounds like some bleating goat when he sings,’ he takes an aggressive sip of his tea.

Allura grins, soft around the edges. She leans forward, reaching over the small table to place a supportive hand on Keith's knee. "You want to know what I think?"

When Keith doesn't respond, she takes that as her sign to continue. "I think that this is good for you. You have a chance to finally put yourself out there. I'd take it, if I were you."

Keith stares down into his cup, as if the answer to this entire conversation is hidden somewhere in the leaves. "...I'll think about it."

The boys' dorm room was a mess, and that was coming from Lance of all people. There was a mountain of dirty clothes piled in his desk chair, threatening to spill over the arms of the seat. Tucked away in Hunk's corner was a collection of textbooks, cracked open from when the trio assured themselves that they'd study, only to leave them long forgotten moments later.

 They had instead opted to watch over Pidge's shoulder as they attempted to crack into the college's security footage. The three of them were trying to put the rumors of 'what Professor Coran gets up to after hours' to rest. When they came up empty handed, they disbanded, retreating to their own areas of the room.

Lance was splayed across Hunk's bed, insisting that he had the comfier mattress. The half-eaten bag of chips rested on his lower stomach, his hand rustling the bag as he dug deeper into the plastic, trying to collect as many crumbs as he could. 

Hunk, having been booted off his own bed even though Lance’s was right there , was sitting at his own desk, feet resting on the frame of his cot. Periodically, he'd nudge his foot against Lance's in a silent protest.

 Pidge took root in their usual spot, sitting criss-cross as they lean against the boys' mini fridge, nose digging into their tablet. 

As it was, VLD University was currently in the deep thralls of audition season. It had been a long, exhausting month for Lance-- a whirlwind blur of monologues, and songs, and dances, and then even more monologues, and songs, and dances. And when the initial auditions had finally ended, the first round of callbacks had only just begun. Lance hadn't had the time nor the energy to see much of Pidge or Hunk. Instead, all of his free time outside of class had been spent towards the university's theatre program. As excruciating as it all was, it was always worth it in the end, the adrenaline fix only performing could ever give him. 

When Beauty and the Beast had first been announced for their spring musical, it was a collective groan across all majors. As amazing as Disney shows are-- and trust that Lance loves him some Disney shows-- Beauty and the Beast aired on the side of the more... snooze-fest inducing shows. Who really wants to go watch Beauty and the Beast, let alone perform it?

But then auditions happened, and as Lance kept getting called back time and time again to read for The Beast, and to sing for Gaston, and even once to jokingly stand-in for Belle, Lance started understanding the choice of show a little bit more. Maybe he wasn't completely in love, but he could at least envision himself having fun. And at the end of the day, that's all that's important, right? Then again, Lance isn't much of a die-hard theatre kid. He's not the type to drop a show just because he didn't get the role he wanted. Unlike some people he knows.

(Cough cough, Lotor, cough)

But now, Lance and his friends were lounging lazily in his and Hunk's dorm room, waiting for the cast list to be announced. Or well, more accurately, emailed.

Lance's fist was on its path to his mouth, bringing a handful of chip crumbs to munch on, when he felt the soft ping of his phone. His nerves alight, and he flails against the bedsheets like a fish out of water, quickly shoving the chips into his mouth, swallowing hard. He wipes the remaining crumbs off onto his stained shirt, and reaches for his phone. As expected, when he clicks it to turn on, a certain email was already greeting him.

He chokes around a sound in his throat, forcefully tossing the phone up into the air. As it peaks, Hunk-- ever the bestest friend a guy could ask for-- graciously catches it. He unlocks the phone using the same password Lance has had since 7th grade, and opens the message. Hunk skims through the list, searching for Lance's name. Lance watches as he scrolled, and scrolled... and scrolled... and... scrolled... until finally--

"I'm just saying," Lance says around a mouthful of chips, crumbs flying as he gestures with his free hand. He swallows-- a little too quickly, coughing once. He's still laying on his back, staring up at Hunk's cheap glow-in-the-dark star stickers. He glances between them, mapping out constellations as he mindlessly talks.  “Don’t be surprised when I get my first Broadway contract from Mr. Broadway himself.” 

“Lance… listen, I’m super duper proud of you— we both are!” Hunk leans over from where he's sat to pat at Lance's knee. Pidge, still curled protectively around their tablet, nods solemnly. It makes Lance sulk, knowing exactly what's coming next. 

"But?" Lance prompts, eyes narrowing. 

Hunk winces, removing his hand from Lance. He sucks in a harsh breath, always having hated being the one to point out bad news. “... But … you’re only Townsperson Number 4.”

Pidge, not as reluctant with people's suffering, laughs. “Not even Townsperson Number 1!”

Lance rolls his eyes, waving a hand dismissively through the air, as if wafting away his friends' negativity.  “Irrelevant. All the best people start off in the ensemble! It’s an important learning curve.” He flings a chip in Pidge’s direction, but they easily dodge it.

“Maybe,” Pidge shrugs, pushing up their glasses with their middle finger. “but you’re not even really in the ensemble, you’re in one song. And then… nothing else.”

Their hand raises, clearly on a direct trajectory towards Lance's bag of chips. His eyes closely track their movement. Right at the last minute, he swipes the bag away from them with a practiced ease.  “Thank you, Pidge. Really helping me live my dreams here.” He cradles the bag protectively. “Who even got The Beast?”

Hunk squints at his phone, scrolling through the email. “...Keith…”

“WHAT!?” Lance jolts to sit up right, the swift motion sending his bag of chips to tumble off his chest, spilling onto the already cluttered floor.

Hunk waits a beat, before bursting into laughter. “Just kidding, he’s the stage manager.”

Lance glares at him before dramatically flopping back down. “Typical.” He doesn’t bother picking up the chips.

Pidge suddenly straightens, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oooooo! Idea!”

Hunk and Lance turn to them in sync, expectant.

Pidge grins, wiggling their eyebrows. “Since you’re only in one number, maybe you could help out backstage with Keith! Be a stagehand, get all up close and personal.” They smirk before throwing on an absolutely horrendous Bridgerton-esque accent, fanning themself for effect. “ ‘Oh, Keith! I can’t lift this set piece all by myself! I need your big strong biceps to help me!’ ” 

Hunk snorts, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter.

Lance lets out an offended squawk, swinging a pillow at Pidge, who dodges just in time. “Hush, you!” His scowl barely lasts a second before slipping into a grin. “...Though that’s not a horrible idea…”

Hunk smacks him with a pillow. 

–

The Director’s office was always intimidating. Or maybe it’s because Lance was really only invited in when he was causing a ruckus. Which, if he had to admit, was pretty much every week. He's pretty sure one of the office chairs inside were permanently indented with his butt print. 

The office was tucked away in the back corner of the auditorium, past the racks of dusty, tattered costumes and towering set pieces. The door itself was old, its probably once-polished surface now scratched and dented from years of stressed-out technicians knocking too hard, or actors slamming it in frustration. It has definitely seen better times-- a witness to people's worst moments. You don't exactly seek out the Director's office if you're in a good mood. 

A laminated sign labelling the room as the Director's Office was taped just slightly crooked above the handle-- probably slapped on at the last minute after too many people barged in unannounced. As for Lance, he always made sure to make his presence known, ignoring the obvious choice of knocking for instead trying to sing-talk his way out of whatever trouble he was in. The Director would always huff in response, sighing out an exhausted yet amused "Come on in, Lance."

Today was the first time he wasn't summoned to the office, instead deciding to go on his own volition. Rather than singing for his entrance, he swings open the door with a dramatic flourish. "Hey, Allura!"

Even on the inside, Allura's office was no less intimidating. The space was cramped, the short walls lined with massive bookshelves, each crammed to the brim with stacks of mismatched binders and play scripts. Shoved between the pages were notes and color-coded tabs. The air smelled like old paper and the faint lingering scent of coffee, despite the fact that Allura had officially quit caffeine three times this semester.

Allura was seated behind a cluttered desk, scribbling down words. If Lance angled his head just right , he swears he could almost make out the letters. But, if he had to make an educated guess-- because Lance is very much educated, thank you very much-- he'd have to say that she's probably writing down blocking for rehearsal later. They had all already done a read through, which actually went really well-- Allura did an amazing job casting, Lance had to give her that. 

Allura barely glances up from the paper in front of her. "Lance."

Yikes, it seems Allura isn't much in the mood. No matter, Lance will just use his typical charm. He leans thoughtfully against the doorway before grinning, all teeth, and steps inside. Before he can think better of it, he forcefully slams the door shut behind him-- loudly. The resounding sound makes Allura jump in her seat, her pen skidding across the page. 

Lance snickers. Now he has her full attention, even if it's in the form of a glare. "That's Townperson Number 4 to you, Miss Director."

Lance swears that he sees the corner of Allura's mouth quirk upwards, before she quickly schools her expression back into neutrality. She places her pen down on the table, perfectly aligned with the edge of her paper, and raises an eyebrow in question. Lance struts up to her desk, making himself at home as he leans against the side of it.

"Anyway," he starts, stretching out the word. "I need to ask a favor."

Her expression fades into something more grim, as if expecting his next words. A slow, exasperated sigh escapes her lips. She folds her hands on the desk, tilting her head in mild suspicion. "What do you need?"

"I was wondering, since I'm really only in one song--"

"No, Lance." Allura cuts him off before he can finish, her voice firm. Lance is only a little upset at the interruption, but can you blame him? Theatre kids like to talk. "I'm not giving Townsperson 4 any more lines. If I change the script, I'll have a Disney lawsuit on my hands."

Lance grimaces at the thought. A Disney lawsuit is expensive, it'd ruin any and all of their budget. Not to mention, it means they wouldn't be able to do Mary Poppins next year-- just like Lance is crossing his fingers for. "Actually, not what I was going to ask, but definitely noted. I was actually wondering if I'd be able to help out backstage. Like a stagehand or something, move some set pieces. I definitely have the muscles."

Allura ignores his end comment, instead too wrapped up by what he's actually asking. "You... Lance McClain... want to help out backstage?"

Lance glances to the side, confused. Did he stutter or something? Is it not believable he'd want to assist the technicians? He's not that awful of a person! He nods his head slowly. "Yes. That is exactly what I just said."

She leans back in her chair, the seat squeaking under the pressure. She crosses her arms, glaring at him as if she's trying to figure him out. "...What's the catch?"

Lance sputters, mildly offended. Again, he's not that awful of a person! "What?! There's no catch! I just-- I'm only in one scene! I want to help out! Besides, it'd help me become a well-rounded actor!"

Allura opens her mouth, probably about to insist again that there's some sort of catch, only to be interrupted with a knock on the door. Both of their heads snap towards the entrance. The person doesn't wait for Allura to respond before already turning the knob and opening the door. Keith walks in, clipboard in hand. He's already speaking, before he fully looks up. 

"Hey, Allura, I needed to--" He stops short when he sees Lance. "Oh. Sorry. I'll come back another time."

"This'll only take a minute, Keith." Allura says smoothly. "Please wait outside."

Keith glances to Allura, before glancing back to Lance. He presses his lips together in a tight line before nodding stiffly.

Whatever else Keith says, Lance tunes out, in favor of making blatant heart eyes at him. He traces the sharp lines of Keith's face, committing it to his memory. Considering how they both are involved in different departments of the theater, Lance doesn't get to spend much time around him. But when he does... it's like a firecracker has gone off. They spit, they bicker, all while Lance smiles dopily. Keith is infuriating, Keith is annoying, but Keith is also sort of cute. 

When Lance snaps back into reality, Keith is giving him an odd look before turning to leave. Lance stops him, lifting a hand and giving him a slow, totally casual wave.

"Heyyyy." Lance lamely says.

Keith blinks, offering him his own confused wave. He ducks back out of the room, letting the door click softly shut behind him. Lance sighs, only slightly embarrassed. He's still watching the door when he hears it-- Allura's soft, knowing hum of realization.

"Ah."

He whips his head towards Allura. She's smiling now, but it's different-- small, sly, dripping with amusement. Lance furrows his brow in confusion, but he still flushes, the tips of his ears turning a vivid red. 

" There's the catch."

–

"You, Lance McClain , want to help out backstage?" Shiro asks, shock written over his face. Lance groans, his shoulders slumping forwards. His bottom lip juts out in a dramatic pout as his eyebrows pinch together, embarrassed.

"That's exactly what Allura said too."

Shiro shrugged his shoulders, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the nearest workbench. The tech workshop was busy, with a million technicians crawling around. It sort of reminded Lance of an ants nest, or maybe even a beehive. Something to do with creepy crawlers, he's not sure. It vaguely smelled of saw dust and old paint, making Lance's nose wrinkle, as if about to sneeze. The counters behind him were decked with tangled extension cords, and a chaotic assortment of tools that it seemed only Shiro knew how to use. 

"Sorry Lance--" he started, only to be immediately cut off by Lance.

"Townsperson number 4."

--Townsperson number 4." Shiro corrects. An easy, amused grin slips over his face. Even if Lance exhausted him to no end and would always run him into the ground, he had a feeling that he was Shiro's favorite actor. Which isn't a hard feat, as most of the program's actors were... something. Very clique-y. Especially whatever Lotor's group has going on. 

Shiro continues. "It's just... hard to believe. You've always been more interested in being in the spotlight, not actually... you know. Being it."

That's a very true fact. But instead of manning up and admitting the true reason he's wanting to help out, Lance laces his fingers together in an exaggerated plea-- his best puppy dog eyes very much included.“Shiro, my heart, my life, my incredible and amazingly talented tech director—please, please, you’ve got to let me help out. I’m going to die of boredom if I don’t have something to do. Do y’all seriously expect me to just sit backstage quietly during the show?”

Shiro stares at Lance, and Lance is convinced that Shiro is going to say no and turn him away. And then Lance will be forced to tug his tail between his legs and walk away. And then he'll never be able to hang out with Keith. And then Keith will never fall for him, and instead will fall for a dick like Lotor. And then Lance will have to watch as Lotor and Keith make out backstage. And then--

But Shiro just exhales, and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. "That's... fair." He seems to consider it for a second, as Lance enhances his state-of-the-art puppy dog eyes. He even bats his eyelashes. Shiro awkwardly watches before nodding as if accepting his fate. "Alright, tell you what. We'll start you off with building the set before we even think about letting you near lights or sound."

Lance is suddenly filled with overwhelming relief; He won't be forced to witness Lotor and Keith sloppily lock lips. He perks up instantly, hands dropping to his sides. "That's a very safe choice."

"Then it's settled." Shiro says. He looks behind Lance, over his shoulder, and smiles. "Keith will help you figure out where to start."

A voice cuts through. "Wait-- I'm doing what?"

Lance nearly jumps out of his skin. He yelps-- in a very manly way, might he add-- and whirls around to find Keith standing behind him. How long has he been standing there? He's mirroring Shiro, arms crossed and leaning against the counters. It's not easy to forget they're both brothers, not when they act like this. Keith glances at Lance, before his gaze settles back on Shiro.

Shiro just maintains his grin, completely unfazed as to the daggers Keith is sending his way. That makes Lance frown. Is the idea of working with him that bad? But Shiro just walks past Lance towards Keith, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Keith's glare deepens, though Lance is sure it's all show.

"Townsperson 4 here wants to help out with the set!" Shiro says. "And, as stage manager, I'm trusting you to help him learn how."

Keith grunts, swatting away Shiro's hand. Shiro lets him, slightly laughing at the way Keith pats down his hair to fix it. Keith scowls, before shifting that deadly glare to Lance. Lance is proud to admit that he only slightly sweats bullets while pinned under Keith's glower.

"Lance McClain wants to help out backstage?" Keith asks flatly. 

Lance gapes, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Seriously?! Why is everyone so surprised?"

Keith shoots a look back to Shiro, who returns it in full. It wasn't just an empty lance though-- it was a whole silent conversation, one that Lance definitely wasn't privy to. Lance frowns as Keith's expression twists into something frustrated, his lips pursing out as if biting back his tongue, before--

Keith flushes.

It was a quick thing, barely there, just a dusting of pink along the tips of his ears. But Lance saw it. He's never seen such a reaction from him before. Usually, Keith has two expressions-- either a glare, or a raised eyebrow. So this was new territory. And Lance wanted more, wanted to be the reason Keith blushes. He wants to see how red he can make Keith's face, if he could get that blush to travel to his cheeks too. 

"Fine." Keith spits out, as if the word itself was poison.

Wow. What a way to make a guy feel welcome.

Lance opens his mouth to defend himself, but Keith just shuts him up by grabbing his wrist. Lance lamely gapes at the contact as Keith yanks him forwards, practically dragging him to the other side of the room. Lance barely has time to shoot a helpless look back at Shiro-- who, the traitor, just winks at him in silent encouragement. Lance blanches with the realization that he knows about Lance's crush on his brother. 

Keith leads him to a corner of the workshop, a chaotic but organized mess. Long tables lined the wall, covered in half-painted set pieces, rolls of masking tape, and scattered paint brushes soaking in murky water. At one of the tables, a group of students were painting a large sign, their laughter mixing with the occasional curse whenever someone would smudge their work. A few others were hunched over a prop table, adjusting a broken chair leg.

Lance barely had the time to take it all in before turning back to Keith... only to find Keith wielding a sharp, jagged saw. Lance's eyes practically bulges out of his skull. Oh hell no! Keith raises an eyebrow, back to his classic expression. 

"Do you know how to use a handsaw?" Keith asks.

Lance takes a step backwards, almost tripping over his own shoelaces. His eyes flick between Keith and the saw like he'd just been handed a live grenade. He apologetically smiles. "I'm not trusted around weapons."

Keith sighs, lowering the saw and safely plopping it down onto the table. Instead, he reaches over and picks up some random looking tool. "Okay... um, can you use a staple gun?"

Lance shrugs. "Also a weapon."

Keith pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath. He places the staple fun down and grabs a container. "Fine. How about some wood glue?"

Lance brightens up, sending Keith a wink. Keith weirdly averts his eyes. "Now that, I can do."

"Okay, basically, you're going to glue some pieces of wood together first, and then I'll staple them."

Lance frowns, eyeing the staple gun on the table. "Why not just staple them without gluing them? Isn't that just more work?"

Keith levels him with a deadpan stare. "Trust the process, Townsperson number 4. "

Lance groans, lolling his head back. Did Keith really have to hear that? He's not salty or self-conscious about his part, but it definitely won't impress Keith. Lance drags a hand down his face, trying to hide his embarrassed flush. "It's humiliating when you call me that."

Keith smirks. "Maybe try and get a better part next time, then."

Is this flirting? Lance feels like this is flirting. Or is this just friendly bantering? Does this make them friends now? Quick, say something witty and cool!

"Hardy-har-har." he says instead. He does a mental face-palm. "Keith's got jokes over here."

"What can I say? I'm full of surprises."

"More like full of shit." Lance grins. "Now teach me how to glue."

–

Keith strides over, lugging two thick planks of 2x4's under one arm like they weigh nothing to him. And based on the curve of his deliciously toned arms, Lance would bet money on that fact being true. He had to fend off a dopey smile and avert his eyes, instead glancing towards the brick wall. Which... was actually interesting. Each large brick had been painted over by a different senior technician, dating a couple years back. Lance whistled lowly in impressed appreciation. Looks like the tech kids have some cool traditions.

He's interrupted from his thoughts when Keith drops the planks of wood onto the worktable with a dull thud. As soon as his arms are free, Keith places his hands on his hips. "All you have to do is glue these two ends together."

Keith pushes the 2x4's together to create a right angle-- one laying vertical and the other horizontal. When they're in the correct position, Keith steps back and looks to Lance. "Easy peasy. Even someone as dull and oblivious as you can do it."

Lance, who had been examining the wood with laser focus, snaps his head up so fast, he nearly gives himself whiplash. Why does Keith only think so lowly of him?? Has he really made such a bad impression on him? 

" Dull and oblivious ?" He squawks, his voice cracking with outrage. His voice is loud enough that several people stop what they're doing to stare. Some of them exchange amused glances, as if waiting to see what will happen next. The attention just makes Lance preen, always one to thrive under the spotlight. He straightens his spine and dramatically places a hand over his chest, as if just shot through the heart. "Name one thing I've been oblivious about!"

Keith meets his eyes, expression unreadable. He almost looks pained, as if he's said too much. Lance holds his gaze, refusing to back down. If Keith really thinks of him as 'dull and oblivious,' then the least he can do is provide proof! Keith's lips part slightly and Lance leans in, expecting him to actually answer. But then Keith exhales sharply, shakes his head, and mutters, "Just glue."

Lance squints in suspicion, but lets it slide. Maybe Keith was just trying to make a joke and it fell flat. Lance does have a habit of taking things too personally. Instead, he picks up the glue bottle and shakes it. Lance presses the tip against the wood and squeezes. Nothing happens. He squeezes harder. Still nothing.

"This isn't working." Lance says, switching hands. He tries it with his non-dominant hand, but still nothing comes out.

Keith lets out a long-suffering sigh, as if dealing with a child. As prideful as Lance is, he has to admit that the simile isn't too far off. Keith steps in close-- so close that their shoulders brush. The warmth of him seeps through the thin fabric of Lance's shirt. Lance represses a shiver, not used to Keith in his own personal bubble.  Keith only gets closer, wrapping his hand around Lance's. His grip is firm, but not rough, guiding Lance's fingers into applying more pressure to the bottle. A thick line of glue finally squeezes out onto the plank.

"There," Keith murmurs. "You just needed to apply more pressure."

Lance doesn't respond. He actually can't respond. His brain has short-circuited. Because Keith is still there, pressed up against him, his voice low and steady in a way that makes something inside Lance buzz. He keeps his eyes firmly trained on the glue, as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world. His throat feels tight, and when he finally tries to speak, it comes out as a choked, strangled noise.

Keith furrows his brows and looks at Lance with an amused glint in his eye. "Cat got your tongue?"

"As if." Lance eventually forces out, his voice an octave too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "I just... am really focused on gluing this wood."

Nailed it.

Except, with the way Keith is still looking at him, he's second guessing himself. Keith has a stupidly attractive smirk plastered on his face-- the one that makes Lance want to both kiss it and punch it off. Moving as if possessed, Keith presses his side harder against Lance's, leaning in ever so slightly. If Lance turns his head right now, they'd be right there, noses almost brushing, lips--

Lance makes a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat. Keith's smirk transforms into a lopsided grin, as if he's in on a joke that Lance doesn't know the punchline to.

"I see." Keith says.

"I'd sure hope so." Lance blurts out, desperate to regain some control of the situation. He's not exactly sure what's happening right now, but Keith is still leaning in. His nose is almost poking into Lance's cheek. "I bet it'd be real hard to stage manage if you couldn't."

Keith hums, a sound that's far too smug for Lance's liking. Because of the close proximity, he can feel the noise buzz in his own chest. "You can dish it out, but you can't take it."

Okay, Lance is definitely lost. "...What?"

Keith tilts his head slightly, as if he's about to say more. Lance finally turns his head, slowly. He was right about their noses brushing. Lance audibly gulped. Oh, he is so fucked. He must be hallucinating, though, because he swears he sees Keith eye his throat as he swallows. He opens his mouth to say something, literally anything--

--But before he can, a voice cuts through the air.

"Keith!"

Both of their heads swivel to look over their shoulders. A freshmen jogs into the workshop, out of breath. She slows to a stop and braces her hands on her knees. When she finally catches her breath, she straightens up and points to the entrance. "Griffin just spilled paint all over the stage-right flat!"

Keith curses under his breath and immediately pulls away. Lance ignores the feeling twisting in his gut, the one that misses the warmth of Keith's body. Keith doesn't seem affected in the slightest, instead making a beeline towards the exit, almost breaking out into a jog. Lance isn't afraid to admit he stares at Keith's ass as he goes. 

When Keith's out of view, he snaps back to reality, only to realize everyone in the workshop is staring at him-- Shiro included.

The audience stands in applause as Lance bows deeply, folding in half to the point where he can see between his legs, spotting the clapping crowd behind him. He’s surrounded by all sides, packed in like a compact can of sardines. His free hand lays limp by his side, as his other hand raises his lute high into the air. Blood rushes to his head as he’s bent over. He playfully wiggles his free fingers at one of the children behind him. The kid seems marveled at his attention, and sheepishly buries his face into his dad’s pant leg. It makes Lance snicker, amused. Post-performance interactions are always a boost to his ego. 

It smells of spilt ale, sweat, and stale popcorn. Lance closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, allowing himself to take it all in; It’ll be a while until his next performance, so he’s trying to make this one count. He clicks his heels together once, just for good luck, before allowing his vertebrae to stack one by one. It isn’t long before he’s standing at his full height again. 

His damp hair sticks to his forehead, which is slick with sweat. He rolls his shoulders back, awkwardly peeling his arms away from his body to allow his tunic’s pit stains to air out. A great show, but at what cost? He can already feel the sweat clogging his pores. 

Lance still smiles though, his dimples apparent as ever, but he bites his tongue from uttering any Gods’ name in vain, lest he desires to be struck down right then and there. His pointed ear flicks at the sharp sound of a wolf-whistle. Lance’s eyes scan the ground for the sound before catching on a tall and looming warlock. If put in any other situation in which he had the attention of a clearly powerful magic-wielder, he would’ve been scared shitless. However, it’s clear they’re just teasing him in good fun, so Lance plays along.

He twirls a short lock of his hair around his finger, shuffling his feet from side to side. He rapidly bats his eyelashes, coy, as he fans himself with the neck of his instrument. The crowd reacts, laughter rolling over him like a warm and soothing wave.

He’s pulled from his act as he feels something small, yet solid, hit the back of his neck, right above his tunic’s collar. Instinctively, Lance whips his head around, rubbing a soothing hand over the probably-forming mark. His bottom lip juts out in a pout– did someone not appreciate his performance? It wouldn’t be the first time Lance has had something thrown at him in anger, nor would it be the last, but it didn’t bruise his pride any less. He really thought he had won over the crowd’s affection! He makes eye contact with an Orc who just smiles back. They use their clawed finger to point towards the ground. Lance’s eyebrows pinch together, confusion etched on his face, but he follows the gesture to spot a golden coin at his feet.

Oh!

His pout melts into a lopsided grin as he bends over to pick it up. Lance tosses it straight into the air, watching it glint in the sunlight, before catching it between his thumb and forefinger. He sends the Orc a grateful wink, and bites onto the coin, teeth clattering against real gold.

Wait, what?

He chews around it once more, expecting foil to peel off to reveal chocolate, but it doesn’t. For a split second, He forgets how to breathe. When’s the last time he’s seen solid currency? And then– oh Gods– he actually does forget how to breathe. His lungs feel on fire as he sucks in a harsh breath of air, and he accidentally sucks in the coin, like a children’s toy coin slot. Lance coughs around it, thankfully hacking it up before he could fully choke on it. The corners of his eyes tear up as he spits out the coin into his waiting hand. 

It’s sort of gross right now, but it’s real gold – worth actual money. Granted, it’s not exactly much, but it could cost him a real meal, or maybe a good night’s rest at the cheapest inn in town. For today, the world could be his oyster. Or well, as much as an oyster a dirt-poor bard could afford. A much more genuine smile splits his face. He mouths a quick “thank you,” to the Orc, one that they shyly wave off as if it was no big deal. 

Just for good measure, and maybe to show off to the crowd a little, Lance tosses the coin back into the air again. It performs various flips before peaking, eclipsing the sun from his eyes. When the coin comes falling back down, he catches it effortlessly without even looking, as instead his gaze is still trained upwards. He’s squinting at the sun. It’s close to noon, as it’s almost hung in the center of the sky, but not quite– he’s just having trouble figuring out if it’s before or after. Based off of context clues and how long his performance had run on for, he’d definitely have to make an educated guess and say he’s running late. Fuck.

He lolls his head forwards and silently groans– the Queen was going to have him by the throat if he showed up late. To maintain his image though, he perked back up and plastered a cheesy grin on. 

“Thanks, everyone, for coming!” he exclaims, waving his hand in farewell. “I’ll be back again sometime soon!” 

As one last gesture, he puckers his lips tightly and kisses the palm of his hand, blowing it to the audience. In typical fashion, some of them pretend to catch it and stuff it into a garment of clothing– mostly shirts or pants pockets. One particularly short barbarian takes her time shoving the kiss into the front of her shorts. It both weirds Lance out, and tickles his funny bone. Instead of showing his distaste though, he simply cheerfully waves her off.

With the crowd thinning out and dispersing in conversation– no doubt about his fantastic performance– he sighs, slumping his shoulders forward. Now that he’s out of the spotlight, he can feel how exhausted he actually is. And now he has to go to some stuffy tavern, meet with the Queen, and go on some high stakes adventure? Not to mention, he’ll be working closely with… a tiefling…? 

Just the thought alone sends a shiver of revolt down his spine. Say what you want, but tieflings have never been known for their… upstanding morals… The idea of having to be paired with one for however long just makes him nervous. What if the guy tries something funny? However, the notion of judging someone unfairly also gives him a gross taste in his mouth… If the Queen trusts this guy despite his unfortunate tiefling traits, then the least Lance can do is play nice. But it doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it!

Satisfied with that conclusion, he squats down, opening his instrument case. He gives his lute a loving kiss before placing it inside, and packing it up. Once closed, he runs his hand appreciatively down the length of it, and then slings the case’s strap onto his shoulder. Loaded and ready to go, he walks briskly towards the tavern. With a quick glance to the sun– a reminder of the fact he’s already late– his quick pace transforms into a sprint. 

Lance dodges and weaves between packs of people. A few recognize him from earlier, shouting out a quick, “Hey, that’s him!” Usually he’d stop and maybe sign a few items, but he is running on borrowed time. Instead, he flashes them a grin and keeps running past. Take a left; a right over here; keep straight– wait no, turn again–

He has to halt to a stop, his heels skidding against the ground. Lance stumbles, catching himself before he collides straight into a group of drunken goblins. They seem upset over the fact he almost stampeded over them, the group shaking their fists up at him in response. One of the goblins uses his grubby hands to firmly grasp onto Lance’s leg.

“Oi!” the goblin cries out, speech slurred. “Watch where you’re going, pretty boy!”

Lance laughs, shaking him off, and then skitters past them, shouting out a quick, “Love you too, handsome!”

It isn’t long before Lance is staggering in front of the town’s tavern, its rusted sign swinging on loose chains. The building itself was a mess of cracked woods and uneven beams, held together by little more than stubbornness. But they had the cheapest drinks he had ever heard of, so he can’t complain. Nor would he want to. If the owners heard as much as an insulting peep, he’d be beaten to a complete pulp. 

“Alright, McClain.” he mutters to himself, shaking his limbs to hype himself up. “Time to show ‘em what you’ve got.”

The Queen already seems impressed with Lance, otherwise he wouldn’t have been hired, so it’s more the tiefling he’s trying to show up. Maybe if he thinks Lance is all that and a bag of chips, he’ll be less likely to betray him or whatever it is that tieflings do. 

Lance quickly smooths over his tunic and pants, making sure he at least looks presentable. If he’s going to be late, then he’ll be fashionably late. He puffs up his chest and pushes open the tavern doors, accidentally using more force than necessary. Whoops. Lance cringes, shoulders meeting his ears, as the resounding slam of the doors hitting the stone walls ring out. Any noise in the building immediately dies out, everyone’s heads whipping towards him. He ignores the blood rushing to his cheeks, and struts inside as if he meant to do exactly that. 

He glances around the room, standing on his tip-toes to look over everyone. Creepy human hitting on elves older than him; tiny gnome attempting to play pool; mysterious hooded figure looming in the corner… His eyebrows shoot up in surprise when he doesn’t notice Allura. Huh. Guess she’s running later than he is. He must have enough time to settle in though, maybe grab a drink. And eyeballing the menu hung up high, Lance thinks he knows exactly what he’ll get.

“Hey there, sweet cheeks.” Lance winks, saddling into a bar stool. The dragonborn bartender seems unimpressed at his advances, as she pours a hefty shot for a patron. She puts the glass aside and eyes him. Under the belief that she’s checking him out, He puffs his chest out a little more, but then she sighs.

“How old are you?”

Lance rolls his eyes. “25.”

She wrinkles her snout and pointedly stares at his ears. They wiggle under her attention. “That’s not the drinking age for elves; you know you have to be at least 100.”

He groans, already used to the spiel. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his ID, pointing. “Good thing I’m a half elf, then.”

She leans in, looking at where his ID indeed lists him as a half-elf. She huffs through her nose, a tiny puff of smoke blowing out of her nostrils, and shrugs. “Fine. What do you want?”

Lance grins, sliding the ID back into his pants. “A shirley temple, please.”

She grumbles under her breath, but moves to start making him his drink. He sits, head in hand, and watches her. When she finishes it, she pours it into a fancy cocktail glass and hands it to him. I wait. When she gestures to the drink, Lance pouts.

“Where’s the cherry?” he asks.

She glares at me, expression flat, before grabbing a cherry and putting it on top. This time when she holds it out, He graciously takes it, cradling the cup with both hands. Before he leaves, he places down the gold coin from before. There, that should cover it! Lance waves her a quick goodbye, one that she acknowledges with a nod, and sucks on the drink’s straw. Man, is that good.

While he nurses his drink, his eyes flit over the tavern patrons. He flicks from table to table, until his eyes snag on that hooded figure from earlier. They’re already looking at him, eyes sharpened into an intense glare. For a second, Lance is convinced he’s about to get skewered on some knife or something, but then they take off their hood and there they are: ugly, hooked horns– unmistakably tiefling. Of course it’s him. 

Lance’s hands tighten instinctively around his glass. Of all people, why did the Queen have to pair him with a tiefling ? Why not a gentle giant, like an Orc, or someone short and inventive, like a gnome. Why did it have to be the one species with the worst rapport? How is he supposed to trust someone like that? But… maybe they’re not all bad. He just has to keep reminding himself– if the Queen can trust him, I can too.

The guy is making it really hard for him when he keeps glaring at him like that though.

Lance packs up what remains of his pride and advances towards him, sucking down as much of his drink as he can. When his straw begins to suck on air, he anxiously chews on the plastic. 

If the Queen can trust him, I can too. If the Queen can trust him, I can too. If the Queen can trust him–

The table itself is small and dirty, three seats crammed together, surrounding it. The tiefling— or Keith, as the letter had stated– was sitting in the farthest chair, tucked into the corner. The image of him dragging it there to look more intimidating makes Lance laugh. Taking a better look at him, his scowl is more reminiscent of a wet kitten than any scary beast.  This is who he was nervous about?

Feeling a bit emboldened, and wanting the upperhand, Lance plops down into the chair closest to Keith. He places his empty glass onto the table and then grabs the edges of his seat, scooching as close to Keith as he can, enough to where their thighs touch. When he makes no move to escape, just raises an eyebrow, Lance throws an arm across the back of Keith’s chair. 

“Nice mullet,” Lance snickers, flicking the back of his nape, right where his messy hair ends. If he comes across as casual, then he won’t be as apprehensive. “You must be Keith.”

“And you ,” Keith emphasizes, finally moving his chair away from Lance. The wood screeches against the floor. “are late.”

Lance squawks, indignant. He’s right, but does he have to point it out? He’s still here , isn’t he? “I’ll have you know, the Queen isn’t here either, therefore I am on time!! Besides, I was doing something very important before this!”

“Like what, bouncing on one foot while playing your little lute?”

“First off, she’s not little– she’s an appropriately sized lady! And second of all, how did you know?!” Lance squints suspiciously. “...Were you watching me?”

Keith scoffs. “I was trying to see what the Queen saw in someone like you.”

“Someone like me–?” he balks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know,” Keith starts, gesturing towards his instrument case. “A bard.”

“Says you!” Lance exclaims.

Keith eyes me. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

He cringes. “You know.. Your whole–" Lance lazily twirls a finger towards his horns. “--situation…”

Apparently, Lance hit a nerve, as Keith’s ever-present scowl deepens into something darker. his lip curls in a snarl as he bares his sharp teeth, his protruding canines glinting in the dim light. Keith’s eyes narrow into slits as he bore his glare into Lance. If looks could kill, he would already have been mauled ten times over. 

Lance’s shoulders hunch up as he winces in anticipation, preparing for some sort of physical attack. Maybe his assertion of being skewered wasn’t too far off? But instead of reaching for the hilt of his knife– one that Lance sees tucked into his waistband– Keith reaches for Lance’s drink glass.

Keith’s fingers wrap around the base of the cup. He rears it back, and tosses the drink onto Lance’s face. Except… Lance had already sort of finished it, so instead, only a few drops splash onto his shirt. This riles Keith up even more, his face flushing with a mix of anger and embarrassment. It doesn’t help that Lance is so obviously holding back laughter. Keith growls, a low rumble deep in his throat, and harshly sets the glass back onto the table. Saving his pride, Keith pushes himself up to stand. He’s about to turn tail and leave–

–Only to immediately plop himself back down into my seat. 

“Allura.”

The Queen stands before them, posture ramrod straight, and hands politely folded together in front of her. Lance can see his reflection in her paladin armor. He makes a face, sticking his tongue out at himself. Her royal robes are barely visible, only poking out in between her plates of armor. They’re a rich and shimmering purple, a rare and expensive color. 

"Lance, Keith." She nods in greeting, offering a small smile. The edges twitch downwards. It's clear she’s straining with effort to put on a calm facade. Allura looks to Keith. "I hope you weren't planning on leaving?"

"No." Keith quickly retorts, the lie rolling easily off his tongue. He glances around before his eyes land on the bar. "...I was just going to get a drink."

"Drinking on the job?" Lance pipes up. They both turn to him, but his gaze is trained solely on Keith. He just makes it too easy. "Shame on you!"

"But you--"

"Ah, ah, ah!" Lance tuts. "You have no proof."

"The glass is right there!" Keith exclaims, pointing towards the cup. Lance just shrugs dismissively, but Keith can make out the smirk on his face. It just makes indignation lap at his chest.

"Well if we checked, both of our fingerprints would show up. Therefore, we can't prove it's mine."

Keith sputters. "Why would we check for fingerprints?! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

" You're the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

"Oh, real mature, Lance." His voice is dripping with condescension. "I'm just jumping for joy at the opportunity to work with you."

"You think you're the victim here?" Lance asks, incredulous. " I'm having to work with you !"

Keith opens his mouth to counter, point out how Lance will just be dragging Keith down , but Allura shoots him a pointed look. Keith snaps his jaw closed, and avoids her eye. He honestly forgot she was there. Leave it to Lance to be a distraction. Keith needs to get his head in the game, but Lance is just making it so hard for Keith to think straight. He's just so... infuriating!

Allura sighs, sitting down in the chair across from them with practiced ease. She lays her hands across the table, clearly trying to remain as patient as possible. "Boys, it is my wish for you both to get along. My kingdom's fate relies on it."

Lance winces, guilt washing over him. Right, the mission. He was so focused on Keith, he completely forgot the whole reason Allura requested his attendance. Granted, he mostly skimmed over the letter, but of course Lance was going to help. She was his friend in need.

“Thank you both for coming,” she continues. “I wish I could have gathered you under… better circumstances. But, as I said, my kingdom is in grave danger. The volcano is going to erupt."

Lance blinks. “I’m sorry—the what?”

Keith uses the back of his hand to smack Lance upside the head. Lance yelps, bringing up a hand to rub at the bump that’s already forming. “The volcano, numb-nuts. You know, the one Altea is built on?” Keith squints. “Have you done any research on the kingdom’s history?”

Lance gapes. “I wasn’t aware there was a test to study for, jerkoff!”

Maybe he really shouldn't have skimmed over that letter.

“Boys, please.” Allura practically begs. She makes a point to readjust her tiara— a reminder. “Put your differences aside long enough to help me, and you’ll get your reward. That’s all I’m asking.”

Keith exhales sharply. “Fine.”

Lance crosses his arms. “Fine.” (Louder. And therefore, better.)

Allura sighs, relieved. “An artifact has been stolen from our vaults—a powerful stone called The Heart of the Mountain. It connects with the volcano beneath Altea. It was once a weapon of defense; if enemies ambushed us, we could crack the ground beneath them, sending them careening into the magma below. Without it, the volcano could erupt uncontrollably.”

She pauses.

“Or worse—whoever stole it can make it erupt.”

Lance sobers slightly. He drums his fingers against the table in a complicated beat. “And who’s behind this?”

“The notorious Galra.”

Lance frowns, fingers pausing. “...Galra?”

Allura nods. “A small but formidable clan of tieflings.”

Lance's gaze flicks immediately to Keith. “Tieflings, you say.”

Keith grips the lip of the table, tightening his hold until the wood creaks under his claws. He clacks his teeth together in a threatening motion, leaning in. “You got something to say?”

Lance grins, slow and smug, matching Keith's distance. “Oh, I think there’s been plenty said about your kind.”

They've gotten close enough that their foreheads butt against each other. Lance pushes in hard, hoping to make Keith fall back and therefore 'win,' but Keith resists, pushing back with just as much force.

“And what kind is that?” Keith sneers

“The asshole kind.”

“I need warriors, not children. Maybe this was a mistake.” Allura cuts in, her tone firm and scolding. She drags a hand down her face, looking to the point of frustrated tears. 

Lance leans back in his chair, putting as much distance between him and Keith as possible. Something about Keith just... gets to Lance. He needs space to breathe. He’s about to agree with Allura, insist that she finds some other bard to help her-- someone more willing, someone better.

But then Lance’s thoughts shift to the crowd from earlier. The Orc, the Barbarian, the children. He is no hero. He’s never been one to save a kitten from a tree, let alone a kingdom from mass destruction. But then again, he’s never had the chance. This is his opportunity to actually help, instead of hobbling around and playing meaningless music, only to get scraps in return. Sure, there's the high money reward that practically makes him see dollar signs, but that doesn't matter. What matters is there's people in danger, and Lance has been chosen to help.

he won't let them down. 

Lance forces himself to sit up a bit straighter. He rubs his hand at the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. "No, no. You're right. I promise, I can be civil. I'm... sorry." He looks at Keith. "Really."

Allura stares expectantly at Keith. He ignores Lance’s apology and addresses Allura. It stings more than it should. 

"I owe you my life," he says. "I... guess I can also be nice."

She smiles, grateful. Allura reaches into her chest plate, which makes Lance and Keith avert their eyes, flushing. She pulls out a scroll and plops it onto the table, unrolling it. At first, it's completely empty, devoid of any pictures or writing. But then Allura waves her hand over it, and the parchment comes to life. Color spreads out, forming land masses and bodies of water.

"Perfect. Now we have a lead on where the Galra have hidden my stone."

"And how's that?" Lance asks.

"Our strongest wizard embedded tracking runes into the artifact. It’s not pinpoint accurate, but close enough." She explains patiently.

He nods in understanding. It makes sense the Queen would have access to powerful maic like that. 

"We believe the Heart of the Mountain is—" she delicately points a finger to a spot on the map, the scroll crinkling beneath her. "—here."

In the corner of Lance’s eye, he sees Keith's eyebrows shoot up. "You want us to go that deep into Galra territory?"

"Where else would they keep something that powerful?"

Lance bites his tongue to keep from commenting about Keith's stupidity. Play nice, McClain. Allura needs you. It’s very difficult not to say something, though, when Keith looks like he’s about to argue with the Queen. 

Keith wrinkles his nose. "Why stash it in a dungeon? Why not just use it and wipe out Altea now?"

Allura levels him with a look. "Because they want me gone first."

A realization clicks into place, like the last remaining piece in a puzzle. Lance snaps his fingers in thought. "They’re luring you in. It’s a trap."

She nods, finishing his point. "Exactly. Which is why I’m sending you two instead."

Keith shakes his head, still seemingly caught up on the whole ‘Galra Territory’ part. "This is suicide. We’re walking straight into their hands."

"We don’t have a choice." Her voice is firm, but there’s something else there—desperation.

Lance exhales. He tampers down the hesitation and clasps a hand on Keith’s shoulder, squeezing once. Keith looks at him in shock, but listens. "Keith, I know it’s dangerous, but if we don’t do this, the Galra will win. We can’t let that happen."

Keith runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Yeah? And what happens when they catch us?"

"Then you don’t get caught."

Keith purses his lips. He seems to slowly be accepting the plan. "Still, if they’re expecting you, they might be expecting someone else, too."

She nods. "Which is why you’ll need to be careful. Get in, get the artifact, and get out before they even know you were there."

Keith sighs before he nods his head. " Okay . Okay, I'll do it. I will get you your stone. You have my word, my highness."

“Vrepit sa!” 

Zarkon cried out, poised on one of the Kingdom of Altea’s abundant boulders. It was difficult to keep his footing, as the shape of it was eroded, an effect of the kingdom’s natural acidic rain. His boots scuffed against the mass of it, kicking the small, loose pieces out of his way. It was still dark out, the threat of dawn only hours away. The full moon hung behind him, low, crowning his head like some sort of halo. The light of it bounced off his army of tieflings’ armor, bold and blinding. 

The air itself was dry, and worst of all, hot. It was hard to fill their lungs, instead they were forced to take shallow breaths. It burned their throats. The heated air made the army’s uniforms stuffy, and scorching to the touch. They had already lost a number of tieflings to the heat, their bodies abandoned as they marched on. Those who attempted to stop and help the affected were consequently trampled by the stampede of Zarkon’s tieflings. Such is war. 

He unsheathed his broadsword, the glint of it in the moonlight reflecting his own sharp eyes. He does not hold eye contact. Instead, he slices through the air, raising his sword high in one swift motion. Zarkon’s elbow straightens and extends, the sharp blade pointing towards Altea’s castle. A signal. His tieflings erupt in their own battle cries in response, their weapons pointed towards the stars. They move as one, rushing their way towards the castle.

The Queen sits in her castle’s tower, watching. Next to her stands a servant. She does not recognize them, as their face is shrouded, shaded by the hood of their cloak. Not that it matters; she has too many workers to learn all their names or faces. 

In her hands lies the kingdom’s own artifact: The Heart of the Mountain. It is a red stone the size of a softball. Almost a perfect circle, but not quite. The sides are slightly lopsided, favoring the right over the left. The center is a deep, dark slit, reminiscent of a cat’s eye. Its surface pulses with veins of molten gold. She carefully cups her hands around the surface and brings the stone close to her chin. She whispers words into it, watching as the red begins to shift into a brighter orange. The color travels into her hands, and runs down her arms in the shape of runes.

It starts with the boulder Zarkon’s perched on, the surface of it begins to shift. His eyes narrow as he looks down, watching the rock shake. Suddenly, a large crack forms in the boulder, splitting it in two. He swiftly jumps to one side as the crack expands into the ground, rushing its way to his soldiers. The rift enlarges into a canyon, magma rising from the depth below.  he growls, biting out a warning, but it comes out too late. The ground splinters, and half of the tieflings careen off the edge, ruthlessly swallowed by the magma. Those who don’t immediately succumb claw at the edges, attempting to climb their ways out. Their attempt is futile though. The earth crumbles under their hands, and they fall. Zarkon sneers.

The runes decorating the Queen’s arms start to burn and puff her skin. She cries out, dropping the stone. It rolls at her feet before landing in front of the servant. A grin pokes through from their hood as they pick it up, leaving to return it to the royal vault. They hesitate at the door, looking back at where the Queen is bent over in pain, holding a hand against her burning wrist. Believing they are looking for her comfort, she offers them a strained smile. They offer no response, tail flicking behind them as they exit.

The Queen furrows her brows, something nicking at the back of her brain. Instead of taking note, she redirects her attention to the battlefield. With the stone now gone, the earth begins to etch itself together, faults pushing against one another. The canyons close, forever trapping the tiefling army. Any magma that began to bubble up, settles back down into the cracks. Eventually, it was as if the ground had never split.

“Retreat!” the Queen calls out, leaning out of the tower's window. Her voice carries far, all the way to Zarkon. “Lest you desire to succumb to the same fate as your army!”

At the elven Queen’s words, a low growl threatens deep in his throat. He swallows it down, instead smiling, all pointed teeth. The Queen’s eyes sharpen at the rumbling laugh that erupts from Zarkon. Despite his apparent loss, he sounds triumphant. Her grip tightens nervously from where she’s still cradling her wrist, the action making her hiss in response. 

“You may think you have won,” Zarkon snarls. “But think again.” 

With that, he reaches into his chestplate and pulls out an amulet. His fist wraps around it and, with a flick of a wrist, smoke spills from the locket. It lazily curls around him, fully surrounding him and successfully veiling him from the Queen’s view. When the hot hair blows, the smoke clears, and he is gone. The Queen straightens her spine and eyes where Zarkon had just stood, before thinking back to her servant. A sickening feeling twists in her stomach. Just to make sure, she turns tail, her cloak whipping behind her. 

She rushes down the halls, ignoring her staff’s concerned questions as she hurries past. A few try to stop her and make sure she’s okay, but with one deadly look, they relent. It isn’t long before the Queen is dashing up the spiral stairs, all the way to the highest level of the castle. She swings open the doors to reveal the royal vault. Entering the code into the vault’s keypad, the vault twists open with a satisfying hiss. That sickening feeling transforms into waves of nausea.

There is no stone.

The Heart of the Mountain is gone.  

– 

Dear Keith, 

I am sorry, but I’m calling in my favor.  

The Heart of the Mountain is missing, taken by the Galra Army last night. I had let my guard down and, in consequence, it was taken right from under my nose. I failed as your Queen. 

I am enlisting your help to retrieve my precious artifact, as the fate of my kingdom relies on it. However, you will not be alone. Lance, another trusted ally of mine, will be joining you on this journey. Together, I trust my stone will be returned safely. In return, I will reward you with 500,000 gold coins, each.  

I expect to meet you both for a quick debrief this fortnight, at noon. We may round together at the town’s tavern, on Main Street. Please, pack appropriately, and make sure to bring Red. The quicker we can recover The Heart of the Mountain, the safer our kingdom may be.  

You owe me. 

Eventually, the two of them arrived at a particularly messy building—or was it a house? It seemed like a weird Frankenstein-mix between a laboratory and someone’s home. Where the usual foundation would be something simple, like cobblestone, it seemed to be replaced with heavy hardware, bolts peeking out like the place was stitched together. The front lawn was a graveyard of metal scraps and rusted tools, an iron spine sticking out of the dead grass as if it were some twisted garden sculpture.

The door had the same reinforcements, the wood replaced with straight-up iron that gleamed dully in the overcast light. There was no room for a keyhole, or even a doorknob—just a small, scuffed-up keypad. Coran, for whatever reason, seemed to have the password. He used one hand to cover the keypad from prying eyes as he typed in the password with the other. He winked at Keith as the door quickly slid open with a mechanical hum, like it was some ancient beast reluctantly allowing entry.

Keith hesitated, eyes scanning the yard one last time, before finally trailing behind Coran into the shadowy interior.

“This is The Friend’s house! Isn’t it so ‘Ohio?’”

Keith jumped, heart hammering in his chest as Coran’s voice boomed right next to his ear. The words made him scrunch up his nose, irritation flaring. “Yep. Definitely Ohio.”

Coran flipped a switch, flooding the cramped space with harsh fluorescent light. The air was tinged with the smell of burnt metal and stale coffee, and the walls were bare, save for the sporadic grease stain. A compact kitchen clung to one corner, countertops cluttered with mismatched mugs and half-empty bags of instant noodles. 

Coran led Keith past a narrow island toward another reinforced door. This one was battered, dented, as if something had tried to claw its way in—or out. There was no keypad this time, just a rusted handle that Coran yanked open with ease.

Inside, the room opened up into a chaotic wonderland. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jarred animal remains—frogs suspended in cloudy liquid, bird wings pressed against glass. Intertwined were half-assembled gadgets that buzzed and clicked with a life of their own. A dusty photo of Coran, Lance, and some other folks shared space with a twisted metal sculpture that looked suspiciously like some sort of animal trap.

Webs of red string stretched between thumbtacked photos, a conspiracy map painted in snapshots and scribbled notes. Keith stared, half-impressed, half-unnerved. This person was his kind of crazy.

His gaze landed on a small, hunched figure at a cluttered workbench, hands delicately adjusting gears in what looked like a tiny mechanical spider. He squinted, trying to make sense of them, and then—

“You brought me to a child?” Keith’s voice was incredulous, eyes darting from Coran to the small, wiry figure hunched over the workbench. They didn’t look a day older than fourteen, lanky limbs disappearing into an oversized hoodie. He was ready to storm out, frustration coiling tight, but Coran’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, grounding him.

“This is not a child,” Coran said softly, his tone a quiet assurance that only made Keith bristle more. “This is Pidge, the town’s resident genius. If you’ve got a tech problem, you bring it to Pidge.”

“Pidge?” Keith echoed, skepticism thick in his voice. His eyes narrowed, as if expecting the punchline of a bad joke. “Your name is Pidge?”

“That’s what people call me, yes.” Pidge didn’t look up, eyes glued to their project, hands never faltering.

Keith shifted. “...And you’re not a child.”

“No,” Pidge confirmed, adjusting a tiny screw with nimble fingers.

“And you’re offering to make me gear for free?”

“Correct.”

Keith considered the offer. “I mean, there’s no harm in saying yes,” Keith finally admitted with a slight shrug.

“What are you looking for me to make? A trap? Like a bear trap?” Pidge asked, voice oddly resigned.

“Uh, no, actually.” Keith shook his head, dismissing the idea. “Just a motion sensor, maybe have it connected to a camera. That’s all.”

Pidge finally glanced up, curiosity etched their face. “You’re not gonna try and kill this ‘monster’?”

“No?” Keith replied, though it came out more like a question. “I just want to prove it exists, not kill it.”

“Huh.” Pidge blinks, adjusting their glasses.

“What?” Keith frowns.

“No, nothing. I just figured when Lance said there’s a monster hunter in town….” Pidge trails off, eyes flicking over Keith like they’re piecing together a puzzle.

Keith exhales sharply through his nose. “Ugh,” he groans. Of course. “Lance told you too?”

Pidge smirks like they’ve been expecting that question. “If you have a secret, you never tell Lance.” 

“Lesson learned,” Keith mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t trust Lance.”

“Now, I didn’t say that.” Pidge raises an eyebrow. “He’s loyal when he needs to be.” Then, after a beat, they tack on, “Just not to new incomers that manage to push his buttons.”

Keith scoffs. “Fair enough.” He shrugs, not taking the bait. He knows he messed up—he can finally admit it.

“So,” Pidge starts, leaning against their workbench. “You want me to whip up a simple motion sensor? That’ll take a day max.”

Keith hesitates. “Are you sure you want to do it for free? I can definitely fund your expenses.” He still has that stone-cold cash from the ‘Dream Demon’ incident. Should be enough to cover whatever contraption Pidge puts together.

But Pidge just waves a dismissive hand. “Nah, it’s real simple. Don’t worry about it.”

Coran, who has been fiddling with some old wiring in the background, suddenly pipes up. “See, Keith? Pidge is as smart as a ‘low taper fade’!”

Keith grimaces. “Genuinely, I don’t think you know what that means.”

“I do! But maybe you don’t.” Coran argues, all wide-eyed conviction.

Pidge cackles, the sound sharp and quick, and Keith feels a weird warmth settle in his chest. It’s not romantic or anything, but it’s fuzzy. Light. Like standing near a fireplace and realizing it feels kind of nice. Is this what friendly banter feels like? He shakes his head, clearing the thought. He’s here to find a monster, not make friends.

He steps away, halfway out the workshop door. “Whatever. I'll be back in a day or so to pick up that motion sensor. In the meantime, I’m gonna go home and rest.”

–

Keith had woken up early that next morning, before the sun had risen. He had planned to record something for his podcast—update his listeners on his run-in with Coran and Pidge and lay out his next steps. He got as far as setting up his microphone and laptop before a sharp knock at the door interrupted him.

He checked the time. Still early. His eyes narrowed.

Grabbing his dagger just in case, he swung open the door, half-expecting some random burglar or maybe even the mailman.

He did not expect Pidge.

“Hey, Keith.”

“Oh,” Keith exhaled, shoulders easing up just slightly. Without thinking, he tucked the dagger into his pocket before they could notice. “Good morning, Pidge. Finish the sensor?”

Pidge snorted, hefting up a decent-sized box. “That, and some other gifts.”

Then, without waiting for an invitation, they shoved past him into the house.

Keith huffed. At least Lance had the decency to ask before barging in.

With an unceremonious thud, Pidge dropped the box onto his coffee table. Keith grumbled under his breath, shutting the door and shuffling over to stand beside them.

“What’s in the box?” he asked, already reaching for the lid.

“The sensor with that camera you wanted,” Pidge said. “All you have to do is place it wherever you want, and it should be good to go. No real work on your part, of course.”

Keith lifted a brow. “What else?”

“Straight to the point,” Pidge mused, nodding approvingly. “I respect it.”

They gestured to the contents of the box. “There’s an enhanced flashlight in there—no need for batteries. A new voice recorder for your ‘adorable little podcast,’ as Lance put it.” Keith immediately bit his cheek, refusing to react to that. If Pidge noticed, they didn’t comment.

“It uses less battery but has much better quality,” they continued. “Oh, and there’s a regular old compass. Just in case you get lost. I had the idea to add in GPS directions, because I can, but I figured you’d be the type to get annoyed by the constant guidance. So it’s normal.”

Keith nodded, impressed despite himself. “I appreciate it. Are you sure you don’t want any money for all this?”

Pidge waved a dismissive hand. “I’m all good.”

“Okay, then. Thanks, Pidge. I owe you.”

Pidge visibly stiffened. “Don’t say that.”

Keith blinked. That was… a weird reaction. Too sharp for a joke, too serious for them to be messing with him. He took note of it but wasn’t really sure what to do with it.

“…O-kay?” he said slowly. “Well, seriously, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

With that, they turned on their heel and left, leaving Keith standing there, watching them go.

He frowned, turning back to the box. Did he say something wrong?

–

Keith waits until after lunch to go exploring in the woods. As helpful as Pidge’s inventions were, they didn’t provide everything he needed, so he waits for the town’s market to open, slinking in as soon as he can to grab the essentials—protein bars, water, paracord, and a map of the area, just in case. He moves through the aisles quickly, keeping his head down, grabbing what he needs, checking things off his paper list.

Once his basket is full, he heads toward the checkout, scanning for the fastest way out. He spots an open self-checkout and makes a beeline for it, only for someone to cut in front of him at the last second, practically materializing in his path. She hums softly to herself, completely unbothered, and Keith has to pull up short before he collides with her. He’s about to say something when she turns to face him, and—

Oh.

She’s gorgeous. White hair, sharp features, the kind of presence that makes the world blur for half a second. And when their eyes meet, Keith feels like he’s just walked headfirst into a dream, like his brain has short-circuited before he even had a chance to process what’s happening. Despite being perfectly secure in his own sexuality, he feels entranced , like he’s been hit over the head with something heavy and vaguely magical.

“I’m sorry,” she says, clearly in a rush, “Can I cut in line?”

Keith, against his better judgment, lamely responds without thinking.

“Uh-huh.”

She smiles, grateful, and turns back around, and the moment her gaze is off him, Keith feels like he’s been dropped back into reality. He blinks hard, trying to shake off whatever the hell that was, but it lingers, leaving him annoyed at himself. Just because a beautiful woman exists doesn’t mean he has to stand there like an idiot. He’s not even into women! He’s got no reason to be acting like this!

Scowling, he grips his basket a little tighter and exhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to focus. He’s got better things to do than lose his mind over a stranger in the checkout line.

Once he arrives back home, he unpacks his haul, methodically fitting everything into his bag—protein bars tucked into one side pocket, water bottles strapped securely in place, paracord coiled neatly at the bottom, the map folded flat against the inner lining, and Pidge’s inventions carefully tucked into the bulk of the bag. He’s about to zip it all up when he hesitates, his fingers hovering over the bag’s opening.

He debates it for only a moment before deciding, Yeah, better safe than sorry. With practiced ease, he connects a sheath to his belt, slides a dagger into place, and gives it a quick tap to make sure it’s secure. Satisfied, he slings the backpack over his shoulders, adjusts the straps, and heads out the door.

“This is Keith Kogane. The date is October 4th, and the time is 1400 hours.” His voice is steady as he speaks into his new recorder, his thumb pressing down on the button. As he steps outside, he locks the backdoor behind him, testing the knob once to make sure it’s truly latched before descending the porch stairs in quick, confident strides.

He moves through the backyard with ease, stepping over patches of uneven ground, sidestepping a large fallen tree trunk, and slipping into the shadowed entrance of Altea’s forest. He keeps walking, his boots crunching against the dirt, his eyes flickering over every detail around him.

“I am currently entering Altea’s forest, where the town’s so-called ‘monster’ is rumored to live,” he continues, his tone measured, analytical. “I will update any findings.”

With that, he clicks the recorder off and slips it into his front pocket, keeping it within easy reach. His other hand drifts toward his belt, fingertips brushing the hilt of his dagger. Just in case.

–

Keith follows the compass, heading south, the needle jerking slightly as he moves. He stashes it away in his pocket when he stumbles upon the remains of a landmark—Hunter’s Rest. Once a hunter’s lodge, later converted into a museum, now nothing more than a wreckage swallowed by the forest. Keith had searched for records detailing what the museum once showcased, but he came up empty. 

Great. Another thing to ask the townsfolk.

The building itself is barely recognizable, its skeletal remains jutting out from the earth like the bones of some ancient beast. The walls have collapsed inward, and the roof is a distant memory. More unsettling than the decay, though, are the claw marks. They scar the surrounding trees, deep grooves carved into the bark as if something massive had torn through the area in a fit of rage.

Keith crouches, his fingers brushing against the forest floor. He slings his backpack forward, digging through the pockets until his hands brush against the motion sensor. He gently grabs ahold of it, lugging it out. Keith fiddles with it until it’s standing, and hides it behind a bush– out of sight from anyone looking for it, but still visible enough to take pictures when triggered.

While still in a deep squat, Keith stares at the scattered debris, until he spots tufts of fur, coarse and dark, clinging stubbornly to the undergrowth. He picks up a small strand, rubbing it between his fingers. It’s thick, not like anything from a deer or a bear.

Then—

A twig snaps.

Keith's body tenses, muscles coiling like a spring. He whips his head toward the sound, his eyes locking onto a pair of wide, startled ones staring back at him from the shadows.

“Relax… I come in peace.” the figure says. 

“If that’s true, why are you lurking in the shadows?”

“Why are you lurking in the shadows?”

Keith grits his teeth, rising to his full height. “Maybe I don’t come in peace. I could easily attack you with my dagger, you know. Take one step closer, and it’s going straight into your chest.”

“Alright, alright! I’m just a simple baker! Seriously, I'm not trying to attack you!”

“...Come out with your hands up.”

“I thought you told me not to come any closer!!” the man yelps.

“Just,” Keith groans. “Just come out.”

The man stumbles out from behind the bushes, hands raised high above his head in exaggerated surrender. He’s wearing a thick, earth-toned sweater, sleeves slightly too long as they bunch around his wrists, and in one of his hands, he holds a raw steak like some kind of bizarre peace offering. 

“See?? I come in peace!” he insists, shaking the steak slightly for emphasis.

Keith sucks in a sharp breath, forcing himself to relax as he slides his dagger back into its sheath. He lets his eyes sweep over the man, trying to make sense of the whole situation, before settling on the mark on his forehead. 

“You’ve got something on your forehead. Dirt, maybe?” Keith says, tilting his head.

“Oh! It’s Ash Wednesday…?” the man offers weakly.

Keith furrows his brows. “It’s a Friday.”

The man freezes for half a second before clicking his tongue. “Okay, you got me. I was doing face masks with my friend earlier, and I guess I didn’t wipe it all off.” He scratches at his cheek sheepishly, but makes no move to remove the mark.

They both stand there, unmoving, the air thick with unspoken questions.

“Well… are you going to?” Keith finally asks, gesturing vaguely at his own forehead.

“No! No… I– I have a bad batch of acne there. So it’s like. Might as well?” The man shrugs, though his voice rises an octave in clear nervousness.

Keith narrows his eyes, not entirely convinced, but decides to let it slide. “Right. Well… I’m searching for a monster.”

The man lets out a low whistle, tucking the steak under his arm as if it were a book. “A monster? I’m guessing you’re the town’s new monster hunter.”

“Lance got to you too?” Keith sulks, crossing his arms.

“Who do you think I was doing the face masks with?” Hunk grins, waving a hand over his still-smudged forehead.

Keith exhales sharply through his nose. “Fair. But yes, that’s me.”

Hunk tilts his head, squinting slightly like he’s sizing Keith up. “Be honest, did the government send you?”

“No, not at all. I’d never work with them. I just run my own podcast.”

“Oh, that’s cute!” Hunk beams.

Keith blinks. “…Thanks.”

The guy is weirdly friendly. Like, suspiciously friendly. But not in a bad way. Just in a Lance-adjacent kind of way. It makes him think of the unfinished pie sitting out on his kitchen counter. Maybe he really should pay him a visit. 

“I’m Hunk, by the way.”

Keith raises an eyebrow at the strange name but bites his tongue. He’s met weirder– like Pidge. Instead, he nods toward him. “I’m sure Lance already told you everything about me?”

Hunk nods enthusiastically before pausing to double-check. “But you’re not here to hurt any monster?”

“No. Just prove they exist. Why does everyone assume I’m on the hunt for it?” Keith throws up his hands.

Hunk shrugs, shifting the raw steak to his other hand. “Well… you are called a monster hunter. One can only assume…”

Keith sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “I guess you’re right.” He exhales, glancing around at the claw-marked trees and wreckage of Hunter’s Rest before turning his attention back to Hunk. “We both know what I’m doing here, but what’re you doing here?”

Hunk raises an eyebrow. “Would you be surprised if I said the same thing?”

Keith frowns. “Really?” The idea that someone else might be tracking the creature as well sends a spark of unease down his spine. But no—Hunk had already said he was a baker, hadn’t he? So then… Why was he out here?

“Well,” Hunk continues, shifting on his feet, “the ‘monster,’ as you want to call it, actually saved me from a really bad run-in with the town’s most hated person. Scared him off. So I figured… maybe he’d appreciate a steak or something.”

Keith blinks. “ He ?”

Hunk rubs at his arm, glancing away. “Well, I feel better calling him a ‘he’ versus an ‘it.’”

“Just seems a bit too… humanizing.”

Hunk’s gaze sharpens, eyes narrowing. “For someone who doesn’t want to kill the creature, you are quite insensitive.”

Keith presses his lips into a thin line, then exhales. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” The words taste dry on his tongue, but he figures he might as well play nice. He’s gotten pretty far with playing nice —if the free gear is anything to go by. “I guess I’m just wondering about your experience with… him. You said you had a run-in?”

“I did.” Hunk’s grip tightens on the steak. “And that’s all I feel comfortable sharing.”

Keith watches him carefully, noting the slight tension in his shoulders, the shift of his weight from foot to foot. Whatever happened, Hunk isn’t eager to part with it. But Keith isn’t worried– he knows he’ll get what he wants. 

“How did you even learn about our forest creature ?”

Keith exhales sharply through his nose, answering honestly. “An anonymous tip.”

Hunk frowns. “I bet that ‘anonymous tip’ was given by the town’s most hated person. He’s the only one who’s ever had some trouble with him.”

“Oh really? What sort of trouble?” Keith prompts.

“Well he— oh you’re good.” Hunk points at him, steak in hand. “I'm not sharing that information.”

“I was so close.” Keith smiles, not unkindly. 

…Did he just tease Hunk? What is happening to him? “Do you mind telling me about the appointed ‘most-hated-villager’? Maybe I can chat with them?”

“I would, but I'm afraid he’d ruin the creature’s reputation. The ‘monster’, as you call him, really isn’t bad, he’s just trying to live his own life.”

“That’s what Lance said too.” Keith says before he can catch himself.

“And you didn’t believe him?” Hunk raises an eyebrow, defensively. Seems like Keith touched a nerve with that one. 

“I believe that he believed what he was saying. But I personally hadn't had a run-in with this monster. But you have. Please, prove me wrong and say he has a good heart.”

“Lance, or the creature?”

Keith furrows his brows. “We both know I'm talking about ‘the creature’. Lance has his own morals he sticks to.”

“I have a feeling you trust lance more than you let on.”

Keith purses his lips. “Maybe I'd like to believe Lance's morals about this creature. But that's up to what you share.”

Hunk shifts his gaze across Keith’s face, searching for something. Keith, despite himself, allows him to. Whatever Hunk was looking for, he must’ve found it, because his shoulders sag. “Fine. I'll indulge.”

Keith can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face. “Do you mind if I record the conversation? Just to put it on the record?”

“Sure, but you better not include my name.”

“I’ll respect it.” Keith rummages through his pocket for the voice recorder. When he finds it, he hits the record button with a soft click. “So, anonymous person, what was your experience with the town’s monster?”

“Well. I had gotten into a scuffle with the town outcast.”

“The supposed most-hated-villager?” Keith clarifies, more for his listeners than himself.

“…Yes. Him. well he had ended up cornering me in the woods, threatening to carve me up in the woods.”

Keith’s jaw drops. He was… not expecting that. Altea seemed like such a nice, quiet town– definitely not the type to have attempted murder. “Holy shit”

“Right?” Hunk continues. “Well it was late in the night, and I couldn't see 10 feet in front of me. But he started advancing towards me and i didnt know what to do– I'm just the town’s baker! Well, suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, this large creature leapt over me and started protecting me from the villager. He curled around me and growled, loud enough to scare them off.”

“What did it look like?” Keith prods. He was so glad he ran into Hunk.

“He.” Hunk corrects.

“I'm sorry. What did he look like?”

“Well, he was large. Like larger than me. Covered in this grey fur. And had this bushy tail.”

It fits the same description that Lance had given. What kind of monster is larger than a man, and as furry as an animal?

“A werewolf.” Keith breathlessly says.

Hunk swallows harshly. “I think I've said too much.”

Keith turns off the recording. “This is off the record. Between just the two of us, did it seem like a werewolf?”

Hunk shakes his head. “Seriously, I said more than I meant.”

At this point, Keith was talking more to himself than hunk. “No wonder you’re protecting this werewolf– his human form lives amongst you! Be honest, do you know who he is?”

Hunk stares at him with sad eyes before shaking his head. “I don’t. And honestly? You shouldn’t either. Whoever it is is a good person. And if you keep prodding where you’re not welcome, you’ll just be making enemies in the town.”

Before Keith could respond, Hunk turns and walks away, casually taking his steak further into the woods. Keith’s instinct is to follow, to press for more, but the sinking sun—casting long, eerie shadows over the trees—gives him pause. His grip tightens on the recorder for a second before he sighs and stuffs it back in his pocket. It’s best not to stay out too late, just in case something is out there. Well, correction. Something is out there, but Keith is not prepared to find it– him– quite yet.