Chapter Text
Rain in the summertime has a way of taking what you know and flipping it upside down. It’s warm water across flashes of exposed skin from people in t-shirts and sundresses; chilled but not freezing, a break from the harsh sun . Unnatural but good. A pair of opposites that shouldn’t work together, but do. This town called Arus has a way of making the impossible feel possible, strangeness etched into every old building, every pebble . Even the people here are strange, and that’s including the people who aren’t people.
It’s raining outside the waffle house diner Keith works the first time he sees him.
Keith's taking his second break in the far corner booth, on the edge of falling asleep because summer classes have began to drain the little energy he has when the boy walks in . The soles of his shoes squeak each time he takes a step, a trail of water dripping down from his body. Dark, wet hair frames the sharp features of his face, and the smile he wears can break the hazy afternoon drizzle. From this distance, Keith can smell the rainwater, chlorine, and a strong scent of mint, along with something else that Keith can’t quite name . The waffle house seems to perk up at the sight of him, or maybe that’s only Keith. The boy orders a black coffee with a side of milk to go, and leaves a crisp ten-dollar bill in the tip jar for no reason other than he felt like it .
When he leaves, Keith’s gaze trails after him, like a train passing by. The boy must know Keith's watching, since his head turns towards Keith’s direction despite the fact he's out of focus avoiding wandering eyes . The boy smiles, friendly and inviting and soft, before walking out, the little bell hanging overhead ringing behind him . Keith’s not one for getting flustered, especially not by a random guy he couldn't guess the name of. Still pretty hard to deny the fact his palms are prickling with sweat.
The boy hops in his baby blue pick-up and Keith wipes the sweat from his hands on his jeans, ready to clock back in. There's no disappointment about a stranger driving off to who knows where, never to return.
This isn’t a town for boys with soft smiles anyway.
Every new town they move to there’s a condition, and it’s always the same one: Shiro works, Keith goes to school. Depending on the excitement level of a new place, Keith will add a job or sign up for sports on the side. According to Shiro, boring is always the safer and more sensible choice. To Keith, boring meant the days last longer, the world slows. Some days he can feel himself dying with every second ticking by.
They have to keep up a somewhat normal appearance, despite the fact this town has less of a need for false identities and cover up stories than any of the others they've steamrolled through . This time around, Keith isn’t feeling the teen angst and dramatic of high school, so he signs up for at the community college instead with all that entails. Classes. A meaningless sport. Paying for tuition. He pretends to roll his eyes when Shiro tells him how proud he is of him.
It’s the second week of summer courses, and Keith is halfway asleep when someone walks through the door. Keith makes no effort to glance up and see who it is until the scent of chlorine and mint with the something else hits his nose that causes him to nearly snaps his neck from the sheer speed of his glance because no fucking way.
Their eyes meet not for the first time, but it is the first time Keith realizes that his irises are a dark oceanic blue.
The professor continues talking, but it sounds garbled, like Keith is underwater, which really is a weakness on Keith’s part. He manages to catch the name Lance. Seems fitting for a boy with a crooked smile who seems to know exactly what it does to half the room. A glint shines when the light hits his eyes, but Keith’s been known to be wrong. In actuality, they probably hold each other’s gazes for no longer than a few seconds, but to Keith it feels infinite. When Lance takes his seat only a few rows ahead of him, Keith can’t help but feel as if it’s purposeful on Lance’s part.
Keith realizes he doesn’t care.
Class goes by slower than it usually does, with the ticks from the hands on the clock echoing in Keith’s mind like a drum. Relief floods through him when the two hours mark passes by, and he can’t help the way his eyes find Lance’s form as the class unanimously stand up and pack. Keith doesn’t realize how easy it is to lose him in the rush of desperate students rushing to head home until it happens.
Shoving his disappointment down along with his books, he makes his way outside. The air is cool against his overheated skin, street lights illuminating the pathway to the parking lot as everyone shuffles like the dead to their cars. It’s somewhat peaceful, which is why he nearly startles when Lance says, “Hey, grumpy booth guy, right?”
It’s different seeing Lance up close. From a distance he looks unattainable, untouchable— like a celebrity who’s simply out doing everyday people things. Up close, Keith can reach out and touch him, can see a little scar on the corner of his right eye, the three beauty marks dotted along the left side of his face, the way his hair falls down in waves, a single dimple that appears when he talks or smiles. There’s something off though. Maybe it’s in the way he talks, the way he holds himself up, but there’s something that’s buzzing in his senses that what he sees before him isn’t exactly right.
“Keith, actually. I didn’t think you’d even remember that,” Keith says, honestly. He can’t stop himself from narrowing his gaze, trying to find which piece of Lance isn’t fitting the grand image. “Are you following me?”
“What?” Lance’s voice goes high, shrilled. His eyes are comically wide and it’d be funny if this nagging sense of wrong didn’t continue to run through his mind like an annoying alarm. “My car’s in the one and only parking lot of the entire campus and you think I’m following you? Presumptuous much?”
It hits Keith then. The something wrong isn’t something that’s off; it’s missing.
“You don’t have a heartbeat,” Keith says without thinking.
A flash of hurt crosses Lance’s face, brows pulled together, eyes widening before Lance blinks it away just as quickly as it appears. It leaves Keith floored, because what kind of undead being gets their feelings hurt over such a basic part of their physiology? No part of Lance makes any sense. “And you’re not exactly that human either if you could even hear that,” Lance points out, leaving the tips of Keith’s ears burning. “Nice job announcing that to literally any person that could be eavesdropping, by the way. Very tactful. Maybe next we can make a couple flyers so everyone knows there’s a werewolf convention in town coming next full moon. Awoo.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Keith snaps. A smirk pulls at Lance’s lips as he crosses his arms over his chest, like a victory, and Keith has to fight the urge to roll his eyes because nothing’s even started yet. And nothing won’t now. “How do you know that?”
“Come on, man, vampires have a pretty good sense of smell too,” Lance says, a little on the quiet side compared to Keith only a few moments ago. It hits Keith then what exactly the other smell Lance has that he hadn’t been able to place before now. Death. “Werewolves tend to have that really particular scent. Y’know what I mean?” No, he doesn’t. It’s maybe because the only werewolves Keith knows are himself and his brother, so whatever smell they give off Keith is used to. “I knew what you were the first time I saw you.”
Something about those words makes his body do leaps and unsettles something within him at the same time. That’s besides the point though. “I’m not looking to fight in the middle of a quad.”
“Me either,” Lance says, brows furrowed. A picture perfect face of faux innocence if Keith ever saw one, which is why Keith is so unwilling to trust it. “Who said anything about fighting?”
Keith really doesn’t have time for this.
“That’s why you came over to me, right?” Keith questions, not bothering to mask the sound of frustration in his voice. “Don’t play dumb, Lance.”
“Uh, first of all, rude. Second of all, you’re continuing to be extremely presumptuous. And third of all, you’re an ass,” Lance says, his fingers flying up with each point he’s making. A huff of cold air escapes him, his arms crossing over his chest in frustration. “We have the same night class.”
Keith isn’t expecting that as an answer. “What?”
“Are you for real? The one that just ended!” Lance’s arms flail then, waving dramatically. It’s with his whole body, like everything seems to be with him, and oddly endearing for a supernatural being that’s supposed to be suave and in control. Or maybe that’s the stereotype. “You seriously haven’t noticed me at all? I would’ve thought, if I had been in your shoes mind you, Wow, look at that cool and handsome mysterious new guy over there. I can’t keep my eyes off him. ” Keith simply stares, partly because the voice Lance uses to imitate Keith is absolutely ridiculous, partly because he assumes Lance’s reaction to Keith’s lack of reaction would be equally ridiculous. He’s proud to be proven right. “Seriously?”
See, Keith knows Lance was there, wasn’t particularly subtle about this, but he also doesn’t want to let Lance have this. Probably shouldn’t let Lance have this, considering, well, the inconvenient history regarding everything about their species. The dangers of it all.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lance.”
“Liar,” Lance retorts, hand pressed against his hip. Smug.
“Why do you say that?”
“Besides the fact you’re just a naturally terrible liar?” Lance grins, even though it really earns a frown from Keith. Not because of Lance, but probably because of the fact that Lance caught him so easily. “Your heartbeat. I’m basically a walking-taking human lie detector. Part of the vampire perks.”
Right. Just because Lance doesn’t have one, doesn’t mean that Keith’s heartbeat suddenly doesn’t exist anymore. Something to remember for the future. For now, he simply quirks a brow. “There’s perks now?”
“Come on, like you don’t have any werewolf perks,” Lance says, and when Keith doesn’t offer any possible rebuttal, and with the smuggest expression Keith’s ever seen on anyone, he continues, “Exactly my point.”
“Well, now that you’ve made your point…” Keith trails off awkwardly, not exactly knowing how to finish this sentence without encouraging whatever this happens to be. Not a fight, not anything more. “Later, Lance.”
And Keith is turning away, hooking the strap of his backpack tighter over his shoulder and walking fast enough his legs begin to burn— away from his weak will, away from Lance. Because this thing that’s between them, this thing that Keith could sense from the first moment he saw Lance, dripping wet and with a smile masking secrets, is a terrible idea. One of the worst he’s ever had.
Which is saying something considering his whole life is filled to the brim with bad ideas.
A rush of air whooshes past him, and Lance is standing in front of him barely even breaking a sweat and without a single hair out of place. It has Keith’s throat going dry at the sight of him, because no one, human or not, should be able to look like that after such a sudden movement. “Wait a second,” Lance starts, and whatever confidence he has falters slightly on his face. Expressions aren’t one of Keith’s strong suits, but he knows when someone looks unsure of himself. “I know I said that was my point, but you still haven’t exactly answered my actual real point for why I even came out here for you anyway.”
One last shot at getting himself out of this. “And that is?”
“Keith.” There’s a short pause as Lance rubs at the back of his neck, looking oddly self conscious for the first time. Either this is the act, or everything else beforehand had been. “I don’t exactly have a lot of options. Kinda limited to a very strict nightly schedule.”
Once upon a time, Keith used to be stronger than this.
“Sure,” Keith says, again, without thinking it through. He can’t help the way his stomach flips as the words leave him, at the way his blood rushes faster within his veins. “We can work on the project together.”
“Great,” Lance says, and sounds like he genuinely means it. “Tell me when and where to go and I’ll be there.”
"I know a good place actually."
In all honesty, Keith doesn’t expect himself to wait for Lance longer than five minutes. It’s nearly half an hour later since he stepped through the doors, and he’s still in the same exact spot, just with a different drink in his hand.
Part of Keith wonders if something happened to him, which in and itself is a stupid thought to cross his mind considering, well, vampire. Which only makes Keith think he’s been stood up. Somehow, in the limited time and conversation Keith’s had with him, it doesn’t exactly line up with Lance. It’s probably stupid of him to make educated guesses on someone he just met, let alone someone who’s apart of a species that are pretty much known for deception.
A monster that looks human. A beautiful boy with sharp teeth.
At least it gives him a reason to show up at Castle’s— the only underground bar that’s sole purpose is for people like them, as loose of a term people may be for what they are. It’s beneath Arus’ public library, one floor under the cellar. In a history class, Keith learned about secret speakeasy’s back during the Prohibition era, and from the way the brick walls are faded and the water stains on the ceiling have anything to go by, this place must’ve been home to one once upon a time. There’s a jukebox that looks straight out of a photograph playing records in the corner, lights dangling above that almost look like stars if he squints. Shiro’s been trying to convince him to come since they’ve first moved to this town, and Keith can see why. It’s not everyday that a place where supernatural creatures can all come together without human interference, and considering all the different cliental, any and all petty disputes seem to quell in order to simply enjoy this place. For most of the patrons, it’s probably the closest thing to a home they can get.
“Your first time here?” The bartender, ginger haired, freckles, and a moustache that covers most of his mouth, asks. He’s accented, but it’s impossible to determine what kind it is— a blend of different places and times all in one voice. Behind him on the wall there are a multitude of pictures, featuring the man in all of them with different period clothing, different quality of film, different bar patrons. Still, the man’s face remains the same. Ageless. “I always recognize a new face, even if they’re just stopping by for a pint. Many would say my memory’s a particular talent of mine, although I do have a multitude of skills gathered over the years. Tends to happen when you get to reach about my age.”
Keith’s only half listening, because his gaze shifts between the bartender and the entrance, pretending to not be some what disappointed when a group of women end up walking through the doors. “Yeah, my first time,” he answers once he realizes the other man’s waiting for him to respond, finishing off the rest of his drink. “My brother’s been here before though. I think.”
“Takashi Shirogane, correct?” Keith nods. “Good man. Not very often we get many werewolves moved into town, especially ones without a pack, but alas, there’s always a first for everything.” It’s gone quiet again, so Keith thinks the man’s moved on to whichever thirsty customer needs attending to, but his next words capture his attention, “But I assume it isn’t your brother who you’re waiting for, is it?” When Keith turns his head to face him, the man is wearing a knowing smirk, twirling the end of his moustache between his fingertips.
Keith wants to groan. Loudly. But there’s a voice in the back of his mind that oddly sounds like Shiro muttering something about manners, so he swallows it down instead. “Is it that obvious?”
“I’ve lived for a long time, and you tend to learn a lot about people from owning a bar, my boy,” the man says, refilling Keith’s empty glass, “So who’s to say?”
There's something about this man Keith can't put his finger on. The fact he knows so much about the way things works, knows his brother of all people, has his curiosity running overdrive.
"Hey," Keith says, glancing at the man, "What's your name?"
"Coran, Coran the gorgeous man."
The man winks and turns away from him only after Keith catches the fact his smirk’s grown wider, chatting it up with some of the newcomers who came in and filling out orders. Keith frowns slightly and takes his newly poured drink to a corner booth, bristling. He’s not sure what gets his teeth grinding more: vagueness, or people acting like they know him.
After a few more minutes, Keith’s about to give up, get up and head home to binge-watch whatever Netflix show that doesn’t look particularly horrible, when a sudden whoosh of air sweeps past him, sending his hair flying in all different directions and leaving the glass that was once in his hand now suddenly empty. From across the table sits Lance, finishing off his drink and grinning at him from across the table. All in a blink of an eye.
“You’re late,” Keith greets.
“I know, I know. I had to get dinner, but I would’ve found this place a lot easier if I got some directions,” Lance explains, sighing dramatically. Keith’s eyes widen when it hits him, and Keith can tell the exact moment when Lance realizes it has, if the knowing smirk on his face implies anything. “But hey! Bygones. Don’t tell me you’re already calling it a night.” He lets the now empty glass fall onto the table between them, his feet propped up, comfortable. There’s a glint to his eye that Keith can’t help but stare at. “I thought you werewolves liked to party when the moon’s out.”
Every part of Keith feels on the spot, but he can’t exactly say it’s a bad feeling. “It’s a specific type of moon, actually. Not just any moon,” Keith points out, correcting him, despite the fact that Lance already knows that. “And if you call turning into a beast that could go on some murderous rampage a party? Then sure.”
Lance lets out a breath despite the fact he doesn’t need to. “Sheesh, and they say vampires are the broody ones.”
“They are,” Keith says. “You just seem to be the one exception.”
Lance grins, his whole face brightening at the words. As if a spotlight is focused on the expanse of him. “Although I find this extremely flattering,” he starts, resituating himself so he’s sat up across from him in the booth. Attention all on Keith. It’d be almost suffocating if Keith didn’t want it. “I just don’t think you’ve done enough vampire mingling to get a clear read out. You don’t go out much, do you?”
“Not really one to mingle,” Keith replies, which only makes Lance’s grin grow bigger. He isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean, but it’s a nice look nonetheless. “Especially between our kind. We have a feud, remember?”
“Oh, trust me, I’m definitely aware of our species hostile tendencies towards each other.” It feels like a lie, but it’s hard to tell when Lance says it so casually and doesn’t have a heartbeat to prove it. “Although it’s less of a feud and more of a rivalry, in my humble opinion.”
Keith raises a brow. “Pretty sure it’s a feud.” The nagging two-ton elephant in the room rears its ugly head yet again, and Keith just has to know. “And if you’re so aware, why would you insist we even spend any time together?”
Lance’s eyes widen to the size of saucers, and Keith can’t help but smirk at the sight before him. Gotcha.
“Well…” Lance scratches at the back of his neck a bit, and Keith doesn’t focus on the vein of his neck, or the way his tendons move with it, or the fact that he can’t hear the sound of blood rushing. “Why do you always stick around for a conversation, Mullet?”
Ah, shit.
“With creative nicknames like that? Who knows.” Keith hopes it’s enough to quell the interested look in Lance’s eye.
“I could go back to grumpy booth guy if you like,” Lance grins. Just like that, the two of them are back into comfortable territory. Familiar. Keith tries not to take it as a loss from knowing the truth, considering he’s the one who really didn’t think about the fact that of course Lance would have some sort of retort up his sleeve. “I know how much you liked that one.”
“You’re a terrible people reader,” Keith shoots back, the corner of his lips twitching upwards.
“Can’t be a people person if I’m dead,” Lance says matter of fact. The usual air of playfulness is still there, although it’s somewhat stilted now. Dry. “Or the fact that I’m technically not a people anymore at all.” He snaps his fingers together, pointing at Keith with a look on his face that Keith’s is sure to be playful. And Keith enjoys whatever game Lance seems to throw at him. “Now look what you did. You made me broody. This party went from huh, could be fun to total and complete bummer. Thanks a lot, Keith.”
Keith gives a huff of a laugh. “I thought we were supposed to be talking about our project.”
“You invited me to an underground supernatural bar, man,” Lance punctuates every word with emphasis. It’s that enthusiasm that comes with being young. Or eternally young, with this particular case. “You can’t expect me to believe that we were actually going to do homework.”
“Might not have been my best idea,” Keith admits, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. He wants to blame it on the alcohol, as little of it in his system there happens to be, so he does. Just for right now, just to save himself.
Lance shakes his head, grinning. “No, no, no. I like this.”
“I guess we could keep brooding and drinking if you want.”
“I wouldn’t mind that,” Lance says with a smile.
To be fair, neither would Keith.
“So,” Lance drawls out after a lull, his face somewhat slack as he twirls a new glass of scotch, the old and expensive fancy stuff, because in Lance’s words he has good taste, between his hands. He’s not drunk, but considering the way that the two of them are on their second bottle, they’re well on their way to it. It takes more than the average human person to get someone like them drunk, and it’s nearly four in the morning, and Keith can honestly say that they’re both somewhere along the line of pleasantly buzzed. “How long have you been a werewolf?” It shouldn’t have come as so surprising as it does, because Keith was so sure this particular subject of conversation would come up, he just doesn’t expect the casual essence of it all.
Keith is half pressed against the wall, ignoring the way it smells of bleach, old dried blood, and sage ingrained in the bricks behind peeling tapestry decorating their particular booth. “Since 1995,” Keith answers, because he doesn’t have a reason to lie. Considering Lance is Lance, and considering the place they’re in. In the corner of his eye, the red-haired bartender is kicking out the same rowdy shape shifter, only with a different face. Time feels oddly liminal in this bar. “I know. I look young for my age.”
It’s a bad joke, but Lance is laughing all the same. Something in Keith’s chest feels lighter just from the sound of it. “I was just going to ask you what moisturizer you use,” Lance shoots back. The corners of Keith’s mouth tug up into a lazy smile. “How old are you supposed to be, by the way? I mean, I know werewolves age, but, like… Slower.”
“Twenty. I think,” Keith answers, his brows pulled together in thought. It’s difficult to guess an accurate age when he’s looked and felt young for so long. Birthdays tend to blur together, especially because he’s only recently started to celebrate them. But he feels twenty, so that’s what he’s sticking with. “You? For both questions.”
“Nineteen,” Lance replies. It hits Keith then just how young Lance must have been when he died, and something cold settles in the pit of Keith’s stomach, something he shoves aside lest it leaves him unable to think of anything else for the rest of the night. “Got turned in the late seventies— early eighties, which was definitely something you had to see for yourself.” He finishes the last inch of liquid in his glass, and Keith’s gaze lingers on the way his throat moves when he swallows. A little snort escapes past Lance’s lips. “Everyone’s hair looked like yours.”
Keith groans, despite the way he feels his chest lighten, the beginnings of something amusing and fond taking space there just under the surface. “Enough with my hair already.”
“I can’t help it when it’s right there, Keith,” Lance says. He’s smiling at him from across the table, and it’s doing something weird to Keith’s insides. “It’s practically impossible to show any self restraint.”
“That’s probably the worst thing you want to hear from a vampire,” Keith teases.
Lance playfully kicks at him under the table, laughter ringing in Keith’s ears again. It’s a kind of laugh Keith already knows he wants to hear more of even before Lance is settled. “I think the worst thing you’d want to hear from a vampire is You look tasty, but hey, that’s just my opinion.”
“It’s actually a pretty good opinion.”
“Thanks, I came up with it myself.”
Keith gives a huff of his laugh as he shakes his head, taking another drink from his own glass, relishing in the burn of his throat instead of the way his stomach hasn’t been able to settle this entire night. “How did you die?”
As soon as the words leave his lips, he knows that they shouldn’t have. Keith knows he’s not the best with social interactions, but even he knows that he probably shouldn’t just outright ask someone about their own death. The conversation goes cold, Lance’s fingers stilling over the rim of the glass for a split second before continuing, the same look from only a couple days ago making that second-long appearance once again. Keith braces himself, although he’s not sure for what.
It never comes though. “I drowned,” Lance answers, shortly, and finishes his glass in one go. Keith’s half expecting more of an explanation considering what Keith knows of the turning process for vampires. It requires at least one vampire and one unnatural death for it to take effect, and drowning, no matter how horrific, doesn’t seem quite so unnatural. Another part of him is expecting some sort reprimand from Lance for Keith to mind his own business, but that’s all there is. It’s quiet for a moment, before the beat of a new song fills the room and Lance lifts his head up with a too big smile on his face and looks over at Keith and says, “I love this song. Get up, my man, we’re gonna dance.”
“Uh,” Keith blinks, trying to process the sudden tonal shift and not exactly doing the best job of it. “I don’t really dance.”
“That’s what everyone says until they’re actually dancing,” Lance retorts, and well, Keith can’t exactly form a legible counterpoint despite an embarrassing Actually, I’ve never danced. Instead of admitting that, he finishes the last of the bottle, and only really starts feeling the effects of alcohol for the first time that night. When he glances at Lance, his brow is perked upwards, his mouth upturned into a smirk. “Impressive.”
“Let’s just do this,” says Keith.
“Wow,” Lance draws out, his smile beginning to look more real, “Don’t be too enthusiastic. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.”
Keith snorts. “You’re asking too much of me now.”
“Baloney,” Lance shoots back.
It’s a lot more difficult than Keith thought it’d be to follow Lance out to the dance floor, which is basically just an empty space where a few other couples all sway together off-beat and drunkenly to the melody. The song is old, Keith can hear the occasional static from the recording, but from the look in Lance’s eyes it’s like he’s hearing it again for the first time. It reminds Keith of high school dances, sweaty palms and dry mouths. The jump before the fall. Lance drags his hand from Keith’s hip to the small of his back, presses it firm, sending a shiver through his spine from the way his cold hands practically burn him over his shirt.
I Fooled Around and Fell In Love, the jukebox sings.
This might actually be the worst idea he’s ever had. It still does nothing to stop him from guiding Lance closer to him, until they’re chest to chest. Beating to unbeating heart.
“See? Now was this so bad?” Lance asks, his voice low and quiet in his ear. It feels strangely private, despite the fact Keith knows pretty much anyone caring to listen could hear them. “I was expecting some jabbing elbows, some broken toes, but this is infinitely better.” His nose brushes along Keith’s cheek, a barely there touch. “Don’t know why you were so worried.”
“We’re not even moving,” Keith says, voice just as quiet. He’s glad Lance can’t see the smile on his face, although he’s sure he can feel it. “It’s not dancing if you’re pretty much just standing in place.”
“Not standing in place.” Even the breath hitting Keith’s cheek is chilled. Keith has to fight another shiver. “Swaying is a completely valid dance form, thank you very much.”
“Says you.”
“I do say so, actually.”
Keith hums, forgoing the conversation for the song, for the hard press of Lance’s chest against his own, the sound of Lance breathing him in. He doesn’t realize when he’s closed his eyes until he hears the song stop and the jukebox already switching the tapes. His brows furrow, the melody looping back in his head, unwilling for it to change— unwilling to sit back down now that he’s up.
They don’t head back to the booth for the rest of the night.
Dawn has a way of breaking the spell of the night. It’s no different for the two of them, with Lance racing against the rising sun to take Keith back to his house like a picture-perfect gentleman. They talk about nothing, shoes scuffing along the dirt road and sending it flying in the air surrounding them, never once thinking about tomorrow and only focusing on the now. It’s at Keith’s door when he catches Lance’s eyes on him, dark and intense and soft all at once, familiar now, that leaves Keith feeling a surprising warmth bloom in his chest. Lance breaks gazes first, says goodnight with a smile etched on his face, single dimple on full display. When Keith blinks there’s only empty space where Lance one was.
It only takes Keith a few seconds afterwards before dawn does what it naturally always does, and shines a light on bad decisions.
“Fuck.”