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Keith hadn’t meant to get this drunk. He really hadn’t.
But that doesn’t change the fact that here he is, hammered, at the bar nearest to campus. Pidge is nowhere to be seen and Keith is looking frantically around the hot, loud, crowded bar to try to find her when he lays eyes on an apparition in bronze.
He’s tall and skinny and showing so much skin and he doesn’t seem to care at all about the chaos around him. Keith’s eyes follow the movement of his hips, back and forth, round and around. It feels like he’s being hypnotized. Of its own volition, Keith’s body stands and starts unsteadily through the crowd, eyes never leaving this boy. It doesn’t occur to him he’s actually moved until he’s maybe ten feet away and can see the sweat shining on the boy’s skin. The music is ringing in Keith’s ears, so loud everything has gone quiet.
Then the song ends and noise pours back in, deafening, and the boy turns away with a breathless grin on his face.
Keith makes an aborted motion towards him right as the next song kicks on, cascading in with a punishing bassline that drops the boy down low. If Keith had paid any attention to the lyrics, he would have been having a heart attack. But he isn’t. He’s too busy staring transfixed at the way this boy moves. His body rolls like ocean waves, everything slow and sinuous and sexual in time with the beat.
It’s only when the boy turns and Keith can see the eyeshadow creased on his eyelids does he realize how close he is. The boy’s eyes snap open and register surprise for a second before hands grab Keith’s face and a voice like caramel murmurs in his ear, “hola.”
“Hola,” Keith shouts back, far less elegantly. The boy pulls back enough Keith can see he’s laughing. The hands fall to Keith’s waist and he’s pulled under the current of the music, swaying in time with this boy. He belts along with the lyrics, his head thrown back and eyes closed. Close-cropped brown hair sticks to his forehead and temples. His hands on Keith’s hips are the only thing keeping Keith from drowning in the vision of him.
The boy’s eyes snap open and he pulls Keith in dangerously close, bringing him down as the bass drops hard, singing through the chorus with a wink that makes Keith stumble. Finally Keith finds himself enough to put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, which makes him laugh again.
Then the song ends as abruptly as it started, leaving Keith’s head pounding in its wake. The boy’s hands slide off his waist and Keith mourns for half a second, only to have the boy take him by the hand and lead him from the dancefloor.
“Soy Lance,” he says as he goes, looking over his shoulder at Keith. Keith, who is barely coherent and can hardly understand English right now.
“Uh,” he flounders. “Keith.”
Lance laughs, guides Keith to take a seat at the bar. He procures a glass of water out of nowhere for him. “You’re pretty drunk, huh?” Lance asks with a crooked smile that makes Keith’s thoughts go crooked too. He nods too earnestly and regrets it, knowing he looks stupid in front of this gorgeous apparition named Lance.
“I had, like, four drinks.” Keith has no idea why he’s saying that like it’s something to be proud of, or even saying it at all. He’s a lightweight and he doesn’t need to advertise it, yet here he is saying every stupid thing that pops into his head just to see Lance laugh.
“Uh-huh,” Lance giggles, pushes the glass of water towards Keith with a nod. It takes a second for Keith to realize what he’s doing, but then he grabs the glass of water and chugs it, slopping half of it down his front. He recoils, falling backwards off the stool with a gargled shriek and looks up to see Lance doubled over in fits of laughter. “Oh my god, get up here.”
Keith grabs Lance’s proffered hand and is surprised by the strength behind it when Lance pulls him back up to the bar. Lance pulled him up too fast though, and Keith falls into him, arms wrapping around the tall boy’s neck. Keith doesn’t think that maybe that was intentional.
“I’m—” Keith stops himself, swallows his next words, and restarts. “You’re beautiful and I’m drunk but I wanna meet you when I’m not drunk.”
“Yeah?” Lance murmurs, a smile in his voice.
“Yeah. Wanna see you dance again too,” Keith adds before he can stop himself.
“You like my dancing?” Lance pulls back enough Keith can see his face again and the smile he finds there punches a hole in Keith’s drunken little heart. He does the stupid thing and nods. “I can dance for you again,” Lance says and it feels like a promise. Keith’s insides flip and it must show on his face because Lance giggles again.
“I’d—” Keith doesn’t know what he’d do.
“Here, cariño.” Lance unwinds Keith’s arms from around his neck and digs in his pocket for something. Then he takes one of Keith’s hands. The only thing Keith can focus on though is Lance’s face, cheeks still dewy with sweat and highlighter and glitter, squinting ever so slightly as he concentrates on Keith’s hand. He leans back, dropping Keith’s hand to cap the eyeliner pen, and gives Keith a devastating wink.
Keith looks down at the phone number written in black liquid eyeliner on the back of his hand. “Thanks,” he says breathlessly.
“Text me when your hangover goes away,” Lance replies sweetly, patting Keith’s cheek before turning and disappearing into the crowd around the bar.
Text me when your hangover goes away.
Keith’s head is still pounding when he knocks back his second round of ibuprofen and chases it with another cup of coffee. Thankfully, the eyeliner was waterproof so Lance’s number is still legible now as Keith keys it into his phone and agonizes over what to send this gorgeous boy he drunkenly hung all over last night. He resists the urge to facepalm when he remembers, for the fortieth time, how incoherent he’d been.
Can I open this with an apology? No, that’s too awkward. God damn it. Okay, fine. Let’s try this.
Sept. 19, 10:48am
Keith: hi it’s keith. you gave me your number at the galra bar last night
Keith’s heart is pounding as he reads and re-reads his own text a dozen times, as if that’ll make Lance reply sooner.
Lance: Oh yeah!! Hey!!
Lance: How’s the hangover? You were trashed last night
Lance: You’re pretty cute when you’re wasted js
Lance: Sorry that’s a lot to say lol
Lance: Anyways do you want to get coffee? You could probably use it
Keith stares in mild disbelief at his phone as the messages pour in. Lance is a double-texter to end all double-texters apparently. He looks over at his third cup of coffee, still hot and barely-drank.
Keith: coffee sounds great. where should i meet you?
Lance: Uhhhhh how about the place on main street with the rocket ship sign?
Keith: ok i’ll be there in 20
Lance: :D
Lance must be pretty local if he suggested Castle of Lions Coffee. It’s just off campus and serves good coffee with a discount for students. Keith runs through a half dozen possibilities of conversation starters in his head as he shrugs on a light jacket and leaves his dorm.
There’s no tall, willowy dancer boy in sight in the coffee shop when Keith arrives, so he goes ahead and orders himself a coffee and stands by the pick-up counter. When a hand lands on his shoulder, Keith startles.
“Oh, whoa, hey, sorry.” Keith turns to see Lance, hands up. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s—it’s fine,” Keith smooths over his ruffled feathers and looks Lance up and down just once, quickly. He’s wearing shorts that show off shaved bronze legs and a blue Henley that looks too damn good on him, hugging the lean muscles of his chest and shoulders. The gauzy blue scarf looped loose around his neck shouldn’t fit, but somehow he makes it work.
The barista calls Keith’s name and he reaches over to take his coffee from them. When he turns back around to Lance, the boy’s eyes snap guiltily to his and he realizes Lance was checking him out, too. Suddenly Keith wishes he’d worn something other than his standard Sunday black jeans, long-sleeve tee, and red racer jacket.
“I’m just gonna… order something,” Lance says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. Keith nods.
“I’ll find a seat.”
The two settle into a window seat, Keith with his coffee and Lance with his hot chocolate. They stare at each other for a moment before quickly looking away, gazing into their drinks like they’re the most interesting beverages ever consumed. After a long moment and several sips, Keith breaks the ice.
“You’re a dancer?”
“Yeah!” Lance takes another sip of his hot chocolate, face bright. “Not professionally or anything, just a hobby sort of thing. I’ve been dancing since I was six. My mom was a professional flamenco dancer so I started with that, but now I do modern freestyle and acro.”
“Oh, wow.” Keith has no clue what Lance just said. “Are you… doing anything else?”
“Anything else? Like…? Oh! Yeah I’m a sophomore at Arus College. What about you?” Lance gestures with his cup.
“I’m a senior at Arus. Physics major, and, before you can ask, I want to be a pilot. I’ve got an interview set up with Boeing in January,” Keith adds with a wry smile. He can’t help but feel more than a little proud, and Lance lets out a low, impressed whistle.
“Well, before you can ask, I haven’t figured out what I want to do yet,” Lance runs a hand through his hair, looking ever-so-slightly self conscious. “Haven’t picked a major yet either, but I always wanted to be a pilot when I was little.”
Awkward silence falls between them.
“Let’s go back to dancing,” Keith says quickly. Lance nods. “What’s acro?”
“It’s like gymnastics elements in dance. It comes from acrobatics. It’s… kind of hard to explain. Would you want to come watch me rehearse sometime?” Lance asks, his smile brilliant and hopeful. Keith can’t help but return it, a little more shyly. “Cool! It’s a date!”
Keith blushes, trying to keep the excitement out of his smile and failing.
There’s already music pumping out the open door of the dance studio when Keith arrives. He steps into the mirrored room, catching sight of his reflection in the doorway on the far wall, before his eyes land on Lance, who’s bouncing in his stretches in the center of the room. He’s already bobbing with the beat even as he warms up.
“Hey,” Keith calls over the music. Lance’s head snaps up and his eyes light up once he sees Keith.
“Hey!” he greets, showing off with a back walkover that Keith isn’t willing to admit he finds maddeningly hot. “So, uh, I lied the other day at coffee. I’m not doing acro, I’m doing a modern/flamenco sorta fusion. I think you’ll like it though.” Lance winks. He pops a hip, spins on the ball of one foot to face the mirrors, and centers himself, falling still for a moment.
Then he snaps into action.
His hips.
Keith devotes conscious effort to not gaping as he watches Lance. His hips move in the same hypnotic swirls and twirls they did at the club, every bit as flirty too. The only difference is, this time Keith is sober enough to fully appreciate the way Lance’s lycra dance clothes leave nothing to the imagination. His shirt rides up enough as he moves to show off a flat, toned stomach and dark happy trail. Keith definitely doesn’t lick his lips. He does, however, notice the subtle curve of Lance’s narrow waist and how the lines flow so smoothly into the rounded lines of Lance’s hips.
It takes immense effort for Keith to haul his attention away from Lance’s ass for long enough to appreciate the rest of him, his whole body, as he dances. His arms move in huge, expressive gestures and his feet— god, his feet— are so quick, so precise. Lance’s form is a beautiful wash of movement, hands and feet tracing out arcs in the air as he dips and twirls his hips in a decidedly feminine manner, but it works so well, Lance makes it work so well.
At that point, Keith realizes Lance is wearing heels. They’re kitten heels, but they clack distinctively against the wood floor of the studio, layering over the music. Each time he pauses with the beat, his proud pose is seared into Keith’s brain and Keith doesn’t think he’s blinked this entire time.
“You like it!” Lance shouts over the music, and it’s not a question, it’s a statement. Keith’s lack of a response pulls a breathless laugh from the boy, who dances over to him without missing a beat. “It’s based off baile flamenco, so it’s all improv,” Lance explains loudly as he comes, places Keith’s hands on his hips. “Just gotta feel the music!”
He puts his own hands on Keith’s shoulders and through the heat that rushed through his body at the touch, threatening to burn Keith alive, Keith realizes Lance has maneuvered them into a ballroom dance position and he’s the guy, despite being three inches shorter than Lance in the current situation.
“I can’t dance!” Keith protests. Lance shakes his head, brings a finger up to press against Keith’s lips, shush him. His hips continue to sway from side to side, having adopted a less-frenetic pace when he incorporated Keith into his choreography.
“ ¡Tonterías!” Lance says, not unkindly, and moves Keith’s body. Somehow, magically, Lance has turned Keith into a dancer. He whisks them around the studio and Keith doesn’t even have half a mind to look at their reflections, too busy caught up in Lance. With his hands on Lance’s body now, Keith can feel the power behind his moves and it’s the same power that’s pulling a hot blush out of Keith’s cheeks. That sly, flirty grin isn’t helping anything either.
“Where’d you learn to dance the girl part?” Keith asks loudly, and curses himself for the elegant phrasing. Lance tips his head to the side, considering, and whips them around in a tight circle, shimmying his hips down until he’s on Keith’s eye level for a moment.
“Got put into girls’ classes as a kid,” he answers nonchalantly, but Keith can tell it’s a little forced.
“Wh—” Keith stops as Lance gives another, more pointed, shake of his hips and Keith feels the width of the bone. He runs his thumbs up and down the boy’s sides, noticing how Lance shivers when he does so. “Oh.”
Lance falters at that. “If you don’t want to—”
“Me too!” Keith blurts. “I’d get put in girls’ classes too.”
Lance’s eyes widen, then a slow smile creeps across his face. He pulls Keith in tight and spins him around again and this time, Keith knows Lance can feel the soft give of what’s hidden underneath his binder, and Keith doesn’t care. With a glance over his shoulder, Lance takes a step back, then leads Keith across the studio in a quick, twirling trot. His heels clack gleefully against the floor. Keith’s mind is whirling and it has nothing to do with the dancing.
“You said you couldn’t dance!” Lance teases, and Keith realizes then that hey, maybe he can sort of dance. Then he bends down and mutters in Keith’s ear, “twirl and dip, go with it.”
Before Keith can ask a question, Lance is spinning him out until the only thing holding them together are their fingertips. Tension like electric sparks shivers through the tiny contact, poised on the edge of a precipice for one breathtaking second. Then Lance reels Keith back in and in a dizzying blur, Keith’s looking up at Lance’s eyelids as the boy kisses him.
Slowly, Lance rights Keith and Keith lets go of the death grip he had on Lance’s shirt. His head is spinning and that’s only partially because of being spun around and dipped like that. Lance’s cheeks are flaming red. He still hasn’t let go of Keith’s hand.
“I’m sorry if that was too much, I just thought it would be—y’know—sorry—”
Keith lunges up and grabs Lance’s face, pulling him into another kiss to shut him up. “It’s fine,” he breathes, harsh and breathless, against Lance’s lips. “I liked it.” He grins. Lance grins back. Lance is wearing shimmery bronze eyeshadow and brown eyeliner that make his eyes look bluer than the Caribbean Ocean. Keith thinks he wants to go for a swim.
“You know, I could use a dance partner.”