Chapter Text
Violent waves crash against the steep, rocky shore of the little island. Sea water gurgles between clefts within the cliffside, reaching deep into each crevice with bellowing roars of triumph, for it has reached the one place which no other creature could manage. The aggressive sounds drown out the screeching calls of the gulls diving between each wave as it strikes the ocean’s surface. The ugly grey of the approaching storm pollutes the sky, effectively erasing any trace of the mountains beyond the thick fog.
Keith watches. He used to be afraid of the cruel brutishness the ocean brought about with such ease. It swallowed up everything in its path, choking down entire villages and creeping into weak points without a second thought. It felt evil; savage in a way no other force of nature could manage.
The ocean, however, was in Keith’s blood. He was born to it, and was sure he would die to it too.
Night comes achingly slow, but it comes nonetheless. The gulls have retreated to their nests, and the sea has calmed a bit (through rain still patters lightly against the window), rocking against the shore as if it were holding a particularly sleepy child. It makes Keith think of his mother, and that in turn gives him a mildly queasy feeling deep in his gut, like being pinched, long acrylic nails digging in and indenting the pliant flesh. The newfound silence is stark.
The loneliness of the lighthouse was something Keith had struggled to get used to. It was familiar and alien all at once. Nothing compared to it. It could be deathly quiet, just the same as it could be deafeningly loud, and the dichotomy was startling.
He watches himself through the nearly black glass of the window pane, the reflection blocking out any view of the dark expanse of ocean outside. His expression is distinctly apathetic, something he’d tried and failed to alter about himself back when he still believed that it mattered. The blankness within his irises had earned him the name Fish Eyes. It was something Shiro had invented and insisted on calling him, much to their mother's objection.
A loud, aggressive bang echoes throughout the lighthouse, startling Keith out of his thoughts. His body locks up. It can’t be anything other than the door.
Steeling himself, he stands, walking calmly over to the grimy chest in which he keeps all he holds dear to him. From it, he pulls out his rifle and slips a pocket knife into the loose space between his ankle and the top of his boot. After ensuring the rifle has been loaded, he makes his way down the stairs, careful to avoid any particularly creaky planks. His steps grow quieter the further he descends.
Another bang, louder now that he’s closer, reverberates throughout the stairwell. He freezes, rifle lifting out of instinct. A quiet, steadying breath, a bout of silence. He continues.
He stops in front of the door and raises the rifle so that it aims directly at the center of it—a pause.
Then, “Who’s there?” His voice borders on harshness, but the way things are, it’s either kill or be killed, and Keith would rather not die so early in his life.
A quiet thud against the outside of the door jolts him, his fingers clenching around his rifle. He grits his teeth.
“...Hello..?” The voice is hushed and scratchy, barely audible, but distinctly masculine. Keith sucks in a sharp breath. Without dropping his rifle, he reaches forward and undoes the door latch, pulling it open.
A boy no older than him stands before him, the barrel of his gun level with his nose. Keith narrows his eyes. The boy is soaked, dirty, and thin. A large, ratty trenchcoat-type-thing rests over his shoulders, a few sizes too big. Clearly, he’s just escaped some sort of dire situation. Keith glances briefly behind him, searching for any other signs of life.
“I’m alone,” the boy grunts, making an odd face like he’s fighting back the urge to cough. Keith grimaces, but nods. “What’s your name? Why are you here?” he asks sternly, though his voice has lost some of the severity it carried earlier. This kid was no real threat to him. He could easily beat him in a fight if necessary.
“I–” This time, he actually does cough. It’s a wet, gargly thing, and Keith can hear the sick clinging to the back of his throat. He snuffs in faint disgust, but takes a step back, feeling a mild sort of pity for him. “Come in. Slowly,” he stresses, “and close the door behind you. There’s a bolt fastened to the wall.”
The boy nods and steps forward, keeping his hands raised where he can see them. He follows Keith’s direction without fuss, letting out a nearly inaudible, relieved sigh at the warmth of the indoors.
“I’m Lance. I—” he clears his throat and swallows thickly, getting rid of the gunk lodged within it, “I saw the lighthouse from up on the hill after getting caught in the storm earlier. I thought it was abandoned until I saw the light come on.”
Keith nods, but doesn’t lower his rifle. “Show me your hands.” Lance’s face pales. “I’m not infected!”
He shakes his head, uncaring, and clicks off the safety on his gun. Trust was a hard-earned thing at this point. “Hold them out so I can see, or I’ll shoot.” He forcefully keeps the warble out of his voice, his own words instilling a bit of fear within himself. He hadn’t killed anyone before—not really. Sure, he’d shot at people, but only with intentions to frighten and maybe injure. Still, hesitation was a weakness he couldn’t afford to have.
After a tense couple of seconds, Lance lifts his hands so he can see, pulling them out of his coat sleeves. His fingers tremble, the tips a hazy red from the cold, but the distinct blues, blacks, and purples that would indicate the beginnings of rot are nowhere to be found. Keith relaxes a bit at the realization. Lance seems to as well, now that the rifle is not pointed so directly at the space between his eyes.
“You were traveling alone? In this weather?”
Lance’s lips twitch downward at the question, and something melancholic crosses his expression. “I was... separated from my group.”
“They’re dead?”
He seems to startle at that and shakes his head. “No! Or, at least, I hope not. I…don’t really know, I guess. We split up.”
Keith scoffs at the stupidity of this kid. “You must’ve known there was a storm coming. Why the hell would you do that?”
He doesn’t answer for a moment. “...You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’d think I have a right to, considering I let you into my home.”
“You live here?”
“Something like that.” He ultimately decides to abandon that line of questioning. Clearly, it’s making Lance uncomfortable, and the information isn’t immediately necessary. He switches tracks, “Do you have any weapons on you?”
Lance nods. “There’s a knife in my pocket.”
“Take it out and set it on the ground. Slow,” he reminds him.
Lance does as told. The knife is an ugly little thing—scrap metal tied tight with a rope to prevent it from cutting into one’s hand. Still, better safe than sorry. Keith hums. He steps forward with a quiet warning, then begins to pat him down for any more weapons. It’s an awkward affair with the rifle in hand, but Lance is pliant during the duration of it.
Once Keith’s confirmed that he hasn’t got anything else on him, he retreats again. “Walk towards the stairs. Keep your hands up where I can see them.”
࿐
The silence between them is beginning to grow awkward. Lance’s gaze wanders around the relatively empty lantern room, lingering briefly on the dilapidated pieces of work equipment scattered around the floor. It’s a bit scary up here, with the big lamp turned off. The only source of illumination is the little flashlight Mullet is using to read (the nickname had come to Lance in a stroke of genius as soon as he saw the guy; his frankly atrocious haircut was a distractingly defining trait). Lance can’t really see the title of the book where he’s sitting, and he’s almost sure any sort of sudden movement would lead to his unfortunate and untimely death.
His boredom is growing unbearable, though.
…
“What’s your name?” Calling this guy ‘Mullet’ all the time would definitely start to get annoying.
The guy looks up from his book, a frown already on his face despite there being no hint of malice in Lance’s words. His expression strips Lance of the confidence he’d gathered up to get the conversation started, and has him deflating.
“Keith.” He turns back to his book, evidently uninterested in small talk. Still, such a mild response gives Lance hope—maybe he can salvage this. “That’s fitting.”
Keith doesn’t look back up, barely acknowledging him with a halfhearted hum. He doesn’t seem to care enough to question what exactly Lance means. No matter; Lance is anything but a quitter.
“..What are you reading, Keith?” He pronounces each syllable of his name when he says it, testing out the shape the sounds make in his mouth. It starts out sharp and mean, then ends softly—soothing. It’s nice, he decides.
The book shuts with a soft thump, and Keith levels him with a dead-eyed stare, then shifts in his seat, leaning back into what would’ve seemed a more comfortable position, should he have been even a little relaxed. A victory, in Lance’s opinion, as it means he’s going to humor him. Or shoot him. His gaze falls briefly to the rifle balanced next to Keith’s chair, in perfect position to be grabbed at a moment’s notice.
“How were you separated from your group?” Lance’s eyes snap back up to Keith’s face when he speaks.
He swallows, “Er. In the storm.”
Keith raises a single, unamused brow.
“Raiders,” Lance clarifies with a sigh. “They ambushed us, and we split. I came through the town just South of here, thinking some of the others would have done the same, but it was infested. Then I saw your lighthouse.”
“And you thought it was a good idea to try and come in? What if I’d shot you on the spot?” Keith sounds ridiculously incredulous, and it would be funny if his rifle weren’t sitting so intimidatingly close to him. Lance coughs. “Uh. Yeah. Not my proudest moment, but I was desperate, it was cold outside, and this place clearly had power. …Also, maybe you shouldn’t have left your lights on if you didn’t want anyone to drop by.”
“I left my lights on because I thought that no one would be dumb enough to go through an infested town, in the middle of a violent storm, just to get to me!”
“Oh my god, give me a break, Mullet!” Keith lets out an affronted scoff, leaning forward in his chair. He opens his mouth to retaliate, but Lance cuts him off easily. “I had nothing to lose! Literally all of my shit was back at the camp that was overrun by raiders, I was pretty sure my friends were dead or infected—I still am pretty sure, actually—and I was cold.”
“Jesus Christ.” Keith shakes his head. “You are unbelievable.”
Lance slumps back in his chair, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re not all that great either.”
“I should kick you out.”
Lance tenses a bit at that, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t.” A gamble. Keith probably, actually would.
Keith doesn’t dignify him with a response, instead turning back to his stupid book. After waiting a few moments for something else to happen—namely, getting kicked out—Lance lets himself relax. Nothing happens, and he knows he’s won their little spat, even if Keith won’t ever admit it. He bites back a self-satisfied smirk and redirects the conversation to something more civil.
“What’re you reading?” He asks again, because Keith had completely ignored him the first time.
“A book.”
Lance’s eye twitches. “Are you always this difficult?”
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Hey! I’m trying to be nice here! Some reciprocation would be much appreciated.”
“Shut up, or I will literally shoot you in the face.”
Lance clicks his tongue, crossing his arms. Whatever. He’ll find out what the stupid book is later, when Keith is asleep, and he can snoop through his shit.
He looks out of the window at the black abyss of the ocean, and a sudden, weird nostalgia overtakes him. He grew up in Cuba—the ocean is practically a part of him. He’s never felt safer anywhere than he has under water, and yet, the darkness below is frightening. The waves are violent and unfamiliar, and he realizes just how much he misses home and the warm, comforting blues he’s used to.
His family is probably dead by now.
The reflection of Keith’s flashlight catches Lance’s gaze in the window, briefly illuminating the cover of the book. The text is backward, but Lance recognizes the letters. It’s Alice in Wonderland. Weirdly childish for a guy like Keith, but Lance isn’t one to judge. If he got to bring a book with him, it’d probably be something from his sister, Rachel, because she was the only one dumb enough to trust him with her things, and he definitely didn’t own any books that weren’t nonfiction or science-related.
Lance misses his family. Badly.
Absently, he wonders if Keith has a family—wonders if he misses them too.