Chapter Text
Red frames…
Black frames…
The airport commotion carries on behind him as the world in front of him stops, focusing on the two pairs of sunglasses sitting pretty in their display cases.
“Red…” his thumb presses into his chin, clear frustration written all over, “or black…”
This shouldn’t be a hard decision, but yet it is. Keith, being the smart packer he always has been, forgot his sunglasses on his bedroom dresser. Knowing how brutal the sun in Vegas is, and fully determined to attain that poolside tan at the hotel, sunglasses are essential.
“Let me guess,” Shiro steps up next to him, observing his view, “red or black?”
“Red or black,” he nods, neglecting Shiro’s presence.
“…Well you know I’d pick black.”
Keith smirks deviously, waving over the female cashier that he knows has been staring at him for the past five minutes.
“I’ll take the red ones,” he announces his decision, enjoying the way Shiro’s easy gaze turns into one of disbelief.
“You—what the fuck?!”
“Anything you can do, I can do better, and in a different color,” Keith spins on the balls of his feet, sending his best friend a cocky wink before practically skipping to the cash register. No, he wasn’t waiting for Shiro to weigh in with his opinion. By the two of them messing around with each other like this is a past time he’ll always love. Even when they’re supposed to be adults, getting college degrees and jobs.
College is hard. Harder than anyone really gives it credit for. It’s part of the reason why he and his friends had decided on this impromptu trip in the first place. Too many books, too many expectations; it would have, without a doubt, gotten to their heads if Shiro hadn’t offered up Vegas.
It’s only a few days, but a few days is better than a minute in the hallway to take a breather.
Once his sunglasses are purchased, he and Shiro make headway for the terminal, where their third friend awaits their arrival. Matt Holt sits in one of the metal chairs attached to the wall parallel to the entrance gate they're due to enter any minute now.
“Well well well,” he locks his phone, glancing up at the two as they approach, “you decided on red?”
“Shiro was helpful,” Keith shrugs, knowing his friend’s glare is burning into the back of his head, “how long until we can go on the plane?”
“Two—”
An alarm blares in the place of Matt’s voice, their terminal opening and answering Keith’s question for him. They exchange excited glances as they pick up their carry-ons, going through the terminal and eventually seating themselves in the oh-so-luxurious plane seats. Keith bites down on his lip, looking out his window excitedly before glancing back at Shiro and Matt, who sit across the other side of the aisle with matching grins.
Yeah, this one was going to be a good one.
-----------------
They’re an hour into their two-hour flight from Seattle, and Keith’s already feeling boredom consume him. His desire for lounging on the beach is itching at him, red hot and desperate to be quenched. But for now, he’s stuck on this plane. It’s one of the shorter flights, and he should be grateful he isn’t on a connecting flight, but sadly it doesn’t change the fact that he wants out.
He gets up from his seat, creeping to where Shiro and Matt huddle themselves around the former’s laptop. Keith peeks at the screen from above, his face contorting in confusion.
“What is that?” he asks, and Shiro pops his headphone out of his ear, pausing the movie they’re so invested in.
“One of the best movies I’ve ever watched,” He responds, matter-of-fact as Matt nods absently behind him.
“What’s it called…?”
“Death of a Thousand Roses," Matt says, “the main actor is so fucking sexy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Lance McClain. He’s super famous, got a bunch of awards and shit. He always brings his mom, it’s super cute. And his ass was bestowed upon him by the gods, I swear…”
Keith peers further as Matt and Shiro fangirl, noting a head of curly, brown hair and a well lined jaw. The man is dressed in a worn tank top and skinny jeans that are tight to a point of distaste, and leaves him nothing but unimpressed.
“He’s alright,” he shrugs, admiring the hair, if anything, “stop gassing him.”
“Hey,” Shiro points, “he’s hot. You’re the weirdest gay I’ve ever met.”
“Right,” Keith tugs the bleached part of his hair with rough fingers, causing Shiro to yelp, and Matt to chuckle at him. Maybe sleep was a better option. Maybe he’d wake up in Vegas, to casino slots and bottomless drinks…
-----------------
For the record, he does wake up to their safe arrival in Las Vegas, Nevada. If he doesn’t count the exclamations of Shiro and Matt, which are the true reason for his awakening, If they hadn’t been there, Keith is sure he would’ve slept until a stewardess nudged him awake.
Checking into the hotel is swift as well, everything working out just as they had planned. Keith had taken out massive slices of time to make sure every single aspect of this trip went accordingly, their lives too hectic for any massive screw ups. His two friends had obviously only aligned themselves with the planning logistics for the ride, but Keith didn’t mind then, and he doesn’t mind now. Shiro and Matt have done so much for him in the past. Setting up this trip for the three of them was nothing.
Keith probably has about ten minutes of peace curled into his fresh sheets before Shiro and Matt come knocking on his door insisting they attend the fireworks show, for reasons that Keith will probably never understand.
“It’s literally like every other firework show in Seattle,” he groans, throwing head head back into his pillows. They’re so comfortable; too comfortable to leave all by their lonesome.
“Keith! It’s different!” Matt exclaims.
“How?”
“It’s Vegas .” They both say, as if they rehearsed it down to the emphasis.
So that’s how Keith finds himself standing in the center of the Vegas strip, head tipped to the sky as he gazes at various explosions of color. Reds, oranges, hell, the whole gay ass rainbow and all it’s fantastic colors flash in front of his eyes, just as they have in their college town. Keith rolls his eyes at the Americans (he knows they’re Americans; it’s the way they push through him in order to look at the same god damn sky as everyone else) snapping pictures, mesmerised by the same old fireworks show that he swears these people must pull out of their asses. It’s as if asking for something different is like pulling teeth.
“These fireworks are lame as hell…” Keith mutters to himself, his body still, arms folded across his chest as the firecrackers explode in the sky, unshocked and unimpressed. He safely assumes neither Shiro nor Matt heard him over the noise, the two of them still mesmerized and taking a long stream of photos on their phones.
“I know right.”
Keith turns to the side where the voice continues to speak,
“I mean, we’re paying like what, thousands of dollars? And they can’t give us a big finale, or something more interesting than a bunch of willows?”
Keith doesn’t know what a willow is, but his mind tells him to forget it as his eyes settle upon the person beside him. The voice belongs to a man slightly taller than Keith, probably no older than twenty three. He looks to be fairly built, a tight button up showcasing a set of evident muscles. Chestnut curls frame the soft expression written upon his face. The vibrant blue in his eyes shine with something that makes Keith’s heart stir, and his brain tick.
He looks… familiar.
“Yeah,” he replies as another firework pops behind them. Keith cards through his memories, trying to figure out just where he would have seen him. Those eyes are too piercing; you don’t see them in a crowd without looking back again.
“What are you…staring at me for…”
Keith’s brows raise, realizing just how strange he probably comes off as.
“I’m sorry!” He apologizes quickly, yelling over the excited clamors of the crowd, “It’s just, I swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“Probably on uh, a poster or something?”
The man cocks a sheepish side smile. A poster?
Then it hits him. He’s the man on the plane. In the movie that Matt and Shiro were watching.
“You’re—”
Before Keith can even express a thought, Lance fucking McClain has his hands on his mouth, drawing in a breath before pulling him close.
“Not too loud, yeah?” He requests, “I’m on vacation.”
Keith grips his wrist, pulling it off his mouth before shooting him an irritated scowl.
“I wasn’t going to be loud! I’m not an idiot.”
“Sorry,” his smile only grows, “I have to automatically assume that everyone’s an idiot. No matter how…”
Lance voice fades as the crowd cheers behind them, and both their attentions draw away from the other. Whatever he wants to say seems to hold no importance as the fireworks conclude.
“Hey,” he says lowly, “wanna be my partner for the night?”
“Your partner ?” Keith asks incredulously, “I—we just met!”
He thinks he remembers reading a fanfiction about something like this; some e-book one of his younger cousins probably made him read. Keith’s gaze flickers sharply from the famous actor, storming away as he scans the bustling crowds for his roommates. Fucking, ridiculous . Famous or not, he doesn't know the man. Who he does know are his friends, who he needs to find.
Since the main attraction has come to a close, the masses have chosen to migrate in his direction, heading for the boardwalk, or their hotel rooms, where Keith should be headed. The soft pillows sitting pretty on his crisp white hotel sheets await him, crying to comfort his poor, aching head.
But he’s successfully lost Shiro and Matt in the crowds, and unsuccessfully shaken off the brunette that has already wrapped a vine around his neck, binding them together.
“Okay okay!” The shrill voice drags Keith out of his search by the ear and he sighs, turning begrudgingly to the man, “Wanna know the truth?”
“So you were lying?” Keith glares, crossing his arms. More annoying with every second that passes. Great. This is his life now.
“Yes—but that’s not important right now! Can I tell you the truth?”
Keith doesn’t know what reason Lance would have to lie but at the same time, with his chosen career choice, he could probably think of a circumstance or two.
“Sure. Fine, the truth, go.”
“I’m just trying to get away, you know?” He bares his teeth in pleading and Keith snorts, turning his eyes towards the ground as he continues, “I’ve got, this huge best friend turned bodyguard, and this helicopter manager that, well, honestly I control her. But still, I just needed to get away from them, and I need civilian cover.”
Keith’s been used plenty; mostly for homework, tests, money, or friendship on the rare occasion. This, he thinks, is the least insulting of them all.
“Fine. What exactly do you have planned?”
Lance purses his lips, pretending to think and putting a finger to his chin. Normally, Keith wouldn’t have humored this, and he doesn’t see a reason to bend that normality here. He glares up at the man, snapping his fingers impatiently.
“Hey,” he snaps, “not cute. What are you planning? ”
“Let’s just, take a walk, yeah?” Lance suggests, motioning to where the waves crash onto the shore, “I’ve wanted to take a walk for a long time.”
“And you can’t do that by yourself?”
He pouts, clasping his hands together and muttering a string of ‘ please’ s before Keith agrees, skating on the brink of pure agitation. Anything to stop him from actually dropping on one knee and begging is suitable at this point.
Pleased with his victory, Lance takes it upon himself to drag them to the oceanfront, eager to arrive and begin their walk. Everything is happening too fast for Keith’s tastes, barely knowing the man’s name before he’s being dragged off to hang out and talk to him. More than ever, he craves his hotel room and his friends. But he thinks back to his inner plea for something different than the damned fireworks display, and supposes this is what he gets for expecting more out of the tourist business.
“So…” Keith tries to make the best out of the situation as his sandals sink into the sand, “you’re uh… famous…?”
“Not really, but uh, here I’m famous,” Lance responds casually, slowing his jog to a slow stroll, “I was filming in New York City, and I had like five days off, so I figured I’d just come to Vegas, you know?”
“Why Vegas?” The waves crash on the shore again, Keith’s eyes following the flow of the water to make sure it doesn’t brush up against his toes, “I mean, you could have gone to an island. Don’t you wanna sleep?”
“I slept on the flight here,” he rolls his eyes, “please, you know I don’t like to lounge often.”
Keith’s eyes narrow at that statement, obviously coming from a place of presumed notoriety.
“Apologies, but I don’t know you .”
“Wait,” Lance stops them, eyeing Keith as he turns to face him, “you’re not a fan?”
Okay, that’s it for the night.
“I’m going back to my hotel room,” Keith tries to break away, but Lance grabs his wrist against pulling him close.
“I’m sorry!” He exclaims, voice dropping to a low whisper as heads turn towards them, “I’m sorry I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m used to most of the people I meet my age being fans?”
“Well don’t get used to it.”
Keith, though wary of his decision to spend his evening with Lance, decides to stick around anyway. He seems, desperate, of all things.
“Tell me, about you then.”
Lance’s second attempt is much better, a bit more inclusive, though Keith really isn’t in the boasting mood.
“There’s isn’t really much,” Keith shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “I uh, live in Seattle?”
“Seattle? I went there once! We filmed something for Death of a Thousand Roses there.”
“Really?” Keith’s brow cocks upwards at the mention of the movie that Shiro and Matt were watching. Shiro and Matt . He wonders how they’ll react once telling them this story.
“Heard of it?”
“Mmm, saw a poster.”
“So you do know me.”
“Shut up—”
Before he can call Lance a nimrod, or an idiot, the actor is shielding his small frame with his lanky body and grasping at his hand again, forced laughter escaping his lips.
“What the hell? What are you—”
“Pretend to laugh,” he whispers, “people.”
Keith tries to pretend, still not believing this mess he allowed himself to get wrapped into. He’s positive his fake laughing sounds worse than awful, probably like a dying crow, but still continues with the slight fear that Lance is, deep down, a serial killer.
Once he stops, Keith follows, confusion contorted on his face.
“Fans?”
“They looked at me,” Lance huffs, looking around, “so you know, maybe.”
“Or maybe they were just people ,” Keith counters, “walking along the beach. Just like we are.”
“Or, hear me out, they could be fans. I’m just saying, you know?”
Keith laughs for the first time that night, this one real and truly from the bottom of his heart. Lance stops walking to look back, a strange smile forming on his face. The younger stares back, just as confused.
“What?” He asks.
“Nothing,” Lance responds, “you just uh, have a nice laugh. The real one I mean, not the fake one.”
Keith’s cheeks burn, falling back into his pace.
“Thanks.”
For the rest of their time together, Keith learns that acting really isn’t all that, and Lance learns the curses of astronomy, and more specifically, astrophysics. Once they get past the kinks and the awkward bumps in their interactions, things began to flow. Keith sees it all as a nice first night, meeting someone he never expected to run into, and having them take him on this wild, unnecessary endeavor.
Though it was mindless, something about it was fulfilling. That, and the daunting pleasure of Lance never releasing Keith’s hand after they had shielded themselves from his so called fans.
“Can we go somewhere else tomorrow?”
They’re in front of Keith’s hotel now, the end of the night in sight. It’s not too late, they could probably go somewhere else, see something more, but Keith’s tired. He’s not sure if Lance can see that, but he assumes he does, being that he was the one that offered to walk him back.
“Where?” Keith asks. Truly curious as to what he’ll say, he doesn’t mind urging further.
“I’ll surprise you,” he shrugs, fiddling with his fingertips, “what do you say?”
Keith ponders for a moment. He’d come on this trip with Shiro and Matt, yes. And he should be spending time with them, yes. But, the glistening promise in Lance’s sea blue eyes tugs him closer, that vine around his neck still working against him.
“Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe the next day?” He asks, keeping his friends in the back of his mind.
“Tuesday,” Lance confirms instead, “here.”
“Eight o’clock.” Lance says, and Keith nods, his heart beating just a bit faster when Lance takes his right hand, pressing his lips to the coarse skin.
“See you then.”
-----------------
Keith holds his own hand as the elevator ticks away in front of him.
Three… four… five…
He’s tempted to smack himself, make sure that he’s not dreaming. He can’t avoid the blatant fact that he’s certainly been, well, wooed upon first sight. He doesn’t know Lance well, and though he seems to come off as the cocky, self obsessed type, there just might be something lying underneath.
Six… seven… eight…
Maybe he should just tell Shiro and Matt about it. They’ll know what to do.
Nine… Ten…
Keith arrives on their floor, elevator doors peeling open as he walks across the way to his joint room with his friends. He digs around in his pockets for his room key, uncovering it with relief as he slips it in the keycard slot. As soon as he opens the door, the two men as all over him.
“Where were you?” Matt goes first, “we haven’t seen you all night!”
“Yeah,” Shiro’s next, “where did you go?! Did you…”
They exchange various guesses as to where Keith has been. Though he’d originally considered telling them everything, suddenly, keeping Lance as his own little secret seems to be much more appealing. So instead, he waits for their clamoring to still into silence before responding with a simple, “I went on a stroll. Along the beachfront.”
The night calms afterwords, the three of them staying up and planning their day for when they wake up, but all Keith’s mind rattles with is Lance . Blue eyed, curly haired, strangely charming, Lance.
-----------------
Tuesday, Lance is at the bottom of the red carpet steps leading to the front doors of Keith’s hotel room, just as he promised. Keith stands at the top, arms crossed until Lance waves his hand, urging him to come down.
“Come on, Kogane! I got something good for your uptight ass tonight.”
Keith ignores that comment, willing to give the night a try as long as he continues to exercise that tactic. He’s surprised that Lance’s loud voice hasn’t gotten him spotted by any possible fans of his as they walk to an unknown location. His hand laces with Keith’s the same way it did the night they met, when they walked along the shore, but this time Keith allows it. Something about it already feels familiar, as if it was supposed to be there from the beginning.
Lance is certainly a talker. Keith had drawn that conclusion earlier, but to hear it again the second night shows that the tendency to ramble is leaning towards a pattern, rather than a coincidence. But as much as Lance loves to talk, and talk, and talk , there’s a soothing note in his voice that inclines Keith to listen. He’s not even sure what he’s saying; his voice is that of a lure song, or perhaps a lullaby. Whatever it is, it’s more soothing, rather than irritating by the time they arrive at their destination.
Keith’s eyes widen as they stumble upon a nightclub, lights of every color and more flashing from the inside out, a line stretching to a few restaurants down the strip blocking the entrance.
“Oh my god…” Keith whispers. This isn't for him. No no no—
“Now here , sir, is where I would throw around my name. Lance McClain doesn’t wait for lines.”
Lance maintains a tight grip on Keith’s hand as they walk past the impatient line of people. Keith feels more than out of place in a sea of tight dresses, loose ties and tall stilettos.
“Don’t worry about it,” he senses his discomfort from a mile away, “no one really cares once you’re inside.”
Keith is ready to protest that claim but when he’s suddenly greeted with loud, blaring music and a hundred, if not a thousand, circulating drinks, he suddenly understands what Lance means. There’s so much going on inside, so many moving parts, that Keith’s outfit is the last thing people are going to be looking at.
“Come on,” Lance nods to what seems to be the eye of the storm, “let’s go dance, yeah?”
“Nope.”
Keith’s entire body freezes up at the mention of dancing.
“No…?”
“No. No dancing. I’ll stay here, you can go.”
“Okay,” Lance turns his body halfway to a waitress that holds a tray of drinks, picking two up with his thin hands and handing one to him.
“What do you need? Liquid courage?”
“I—”
“Here, drink up.”
“What is this?” Keith’s face scrunches, picking at the leaves that dress the drink, perturbed by it’s green pigment.
“Right,” Lance mutters under his breath, “you’re twenty-one. You know, you should know more about drinks. Aren’t you in college? What are you doing there—”
“Just tell me what’s in this drink, huh?” Agitation bulges in Keith’s pupils and Lance holds his hands up in defeat before taking a long sip of his matching drink.
“It’s a mojito. Just try it, you’ll like it.”
Keith’s heard of it; Shiro’s mentioned it being Matt’s favorite drink, or something like that. He takes an experimental sip, mint and lime on the tip of his tongue. He expects to grimace, disgusted by the taste, but it’s good. It better than good, if he were to extend his enjoyment that far. He takes the rest rather quickly, finishing the entire glass with ease, and close to Lance’s time as well.
“Okay,” he slams the glass down on the counter besides them before gripping his hand again, pulsing with excitement, “ready now?”
“Lance, I don’t—”
But the young man ignores his pleas, taking him full force and dragging him to the epicenter. It isn’t until he finally stops, that Keith tugs back roughly, halting any other movement. He can’t do this. This is way beyond his comfort zone, too much. Too crazy.
“Lance—” He tugs again, “ Lance .”
The brunette trips over his own foot upon the sudden stop, but Keith catches him with a quick move of his arm. He looks at him, thin brows knit together in the first hint of annoyance he’s seen in Lance since they met.
“I don’t dance,” he explains, “I—I can’t.”
“Why do you say that?” Lance glances at him, concern glistening in his eyes as he maintains contact. Though he comes across as attentive, Keith has a nagging feeling that Lance won’t just give up because Keith said so.
“I never learned how.”
To this, Lance laughs. Throwing his head back, clutching his heart, and cackling . Keith glares at the display, being that he’s only telling the truth. He’s an astronomy major; dancing wasn’t exactly one of his requirements in college. He skipped prom—a choice he’ll never regret—to go down to the shore earlier than everyone that would be arriving the next day. It was never important, and even now, as Lance has him in the center of probably the biggest dance club he’s ever seen, it’s still not important.
“That’s bullshit,” the brunette chuckles, a teasing, but gentle smirk on his lips, “you can’t teach someone how to dance. To dance, is to let go.”
The answer he receives is far from the one he expects. Then again, he learned that that’s a given with Lance.
“Just follow me—yeah?”
Goosebumps rise along the bare skin of his hip when Lance places his hand there, soft and firm as it dips underneath his shirt. As if he’s danced this dance a thousand times, with a thousand partners. But when their hands entwine, and their eyes meet, it’s for him. Sea blue eyes speak to every stir of his heart, leading him through each step as swiftly as Lance has led him through the night.
He thinks it’s Despacito they’re dancing to, but Keith’s attention isn’t on the music. He’s doing as he was told, following Lance’s every move. His body is at Lance’s mercy, eyes refusing to tear from his partner. Lance moves with the fervor and skill of a professional dancer, legs and hips like lightning as he falls in step with the beat that thumps in his ears.
Song after song passes, Keith’s muscles tensing less, his eyes closed and arms moving freely with Lance’s as he falls in love with the floor their feet dance upon. Lance—though he gets pretty damn close to crossing a line—keeps his moves at a respectful intensity, not reaching the height of those who grind relentlessly in odd corners of the venue. The most he does is run the pads of his fingers along his abdomen and back down to his hips, where he grips and sways, each movement tight and precise. Besides, Keith doesn’t mind the subtle flutter in his heart that comes with the sensations.
They last until about two in the morning, when Keith’s ankle starts to ache, and Lance can barely breathe. The student offers to walk the actor back to his room this time, hands clasped together like they always are. But this time, Keith can’t seem to tame the pounding in his heart. It isn’t until Lance is inviting him up to his hotel room, that he realizes he isn’t out of breath anymore. His heart pounds because of the hand entangled with his.
Lance gives him the grand tour. A whole three rooms totally meant to blow Keith out of the water, according to the brunette. It’s extremely different from Keith’s, taking the furniture, the view and, well, the extra rooms into consideration. Most of it doesn’t interest him, strolling through his space quietly while rolling his ankle occasionally as he lets Lance ramble about a painting he hates. Keith doesn't find a need to speak until he spots a navy guitar case peeking from underneath his bed. He crouches near the edge curiously, tugging it out so he can look fully. On the case, a VIVIR MI VIDA sticker is plastered on the corner, along with a various children’s stickers.
“And you know, I think it’s rude for me to go down and ask them to get rid of it, because what if it’s someone’s dead grandmother’s? I don’t know, I just—”
Lance’s rambling succumbs to silence when he turns to Keith, who is fully focused on the contents of his guitar case. The man looks up once he hears Lance’s footsteps fast approaching, scooting back from the case. He’d been so drawn in by the authentic possession in the midst of all the fancy, expensive belongings, he hadn’t even realized how invasive he was being. But Lance beams down at him regardless, pummeling any and all fear he had of such a claim.
The brunette feeds his curiosity instead, opening the latches and lifting the cover open, revealing what Keith’s sure is the most suiting guitar for a personality as rampant as Lance’s. Simple, yet still harboring that enticing edge that makes you crave more. Here, he sees that yeah , Shiro and Matt didn’t exaggerate. Lance is…pretty hot.
Keith’s heart pounds. Lance hovers close to him to reach for the instrument, hands curling around it with an extra delicate touch as he takes it out of it’s casing. He treats it like a newborn as he cradles it in his arms before gazing back up at Keith with these… dreamy, irresistible eyes. The ones that he surely uses when he’s acting, but this time, they’re for the man sitting on the floor of his hotel room. And it’s driving Keith up the damn wall .
“You play?” He manages to stutter out.
The guitar is an antique without a doubt, pale wood and a custom rosette decorating the front. Keith’s certainly seen it before. Perhaps out of movies, or in one of those antique shops in the mall he never visits.
“Oh! Yeah,” Lance’s fingertips curl around the neck of the instrument, “it’s a Taylor 110. Was my dad’s before he passed away.”
“Shit,” Keith doesn’t realize he’s hit a soft spot, “I’m sorry for your loss. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“No worries, he’s in a better place now.”
He takes hold of the leather strap, tossing it behind his shoulder before sitting on the edge of his bed and offering, “Wanna hear something?”
“Well, I dunno…”
Lance tunes the guitar regardless of Keith’s heed, “I-It’s getting really late. I should probably meet up with Shiro and Matt before they get back in.”
“You sure?” Lance’s brow curves, conniving as he strums a chord, “I can play you whatever you want?”
A warm breeze wafts into the room through his wide bay window, the comfort it brings compelling Keith to sit down and listen to whatever he has stored in his arsenal. He has to admit that he didn’t take Lance to be a musician as well as an actor. Matt and Shiro—having more influence on his views than they should—made Lance out to be, well, what everyone thinks he is.
“Anything?”
Lance has to tune a bit before starting, but Keith doesn’t mind in the slightest. He takes personal joy in watching Lance tinker and toy with things. His eyebrows scrunched, eyes falling upon nothing other than his conquest. It’s the one time that his normally scatter-brained personality narrows down to something more.
“ I'm an alligator…”
Keith’s body stiffens as Lance belts the last song he thought he’d know.
“ I'm a mama-papa coming for yooooou… ”
There’s a dramatic color to it—something purely Lance—that Keith has come to recognize in their short time together. An extra flare that makes everything he does just a little bit better as he closes his eyes, loses himself in Lance’s voice, wrapping around him like silk, kissing his skin and warming his heart.
“I'm a space invader,
I'll be a rock 'n' rollin' bitch for you,
Keep your mouth shut,
You're squawking like a pink monkey bird,
And I'm busting up my brains for the words…”
Lance taps his hand against the wood, mimicking the drums and flowing into the chorus.
“Keep your 'lectric eye on me babe,
Put your ray gun to my head,
Press your space face close to mine, love,
Freak out in a moonage daydream oh yeah…”
Keith’s eyes flutter open once the strumming stops, a doting expression painted onto Lance’s gentle, soothing features as his worn fingers trace the neck of the guitar. He doesn’t want to interrupt, only watches as Lance admires his father’s beloved possession. Keith can only begin to wonder how many songs were played on that guitar, how many moments he shared with his family, all of them surrounding the sounds that he would play.
“It sounds beautiful,” Keith dares to inch closer to him, hand falling onto the instrument, “you, sounded beautiful.”
Lance smiles, resting his hand on top of Keith’s, rendering him breathless. For a moment, the two only look at each other, physical and emotional intimacy at its peak. Lance’s smile isn’t wide, but it still encapsulates that same happiness and ridiculous charm as his thumb runs against Keith’s skin, the caress causing him to spiral.
Maybe, this is where the kiss happens.
He’s watched enough movies to see where this is going, no doubt Lance has been in a few. The desire to surge forward and brush their lips together is consuming him like a wildfire, burning within every part of his body and for a second, he leans in. Ever so slowly, his knees extend, his chest pushes forward, and the possibility of tasting Lance’s lips is so tangible—
“Thanks! I’m a bit rusty but I’m glad I didn’t completely suck.”
What the fuck? Nausea builds up, positive his face is visually paling. His entire body retracts from the brunette’s, hand retracting as Lance begins to put away his guitar. His mind is falling apart; walls crumble to rubble, everything he’d initially assumed now being thrown back to the drawing board for reevaluation. Holy good God , he yells at himself, trying not to fall back as he’s suddenly dizzy, say something, dimwit!
“You like David Bowie?” Keith decides to address the first bomb dropped on his poor conscience.
“ Worship , if you may,” Lance unhooks the strap from his guitar with worn fingers, “his posters are all over my room. What did you expect; Ricky Martin? Marc Anthony?”
Keith won’t admit that that’s exactly what he assumed of Lance. He’ll only sound like an asshole if he does. An honest asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. Still reeling from his colossal screw-up, he decides it’s time to turn in before things get worse.
“No, but uh, I’m exhausted,” he lies, “I think I should go.”
“Oh, course!” Lance gets up as soon as his guitar is safely tucked away, “Let’s go, I’ll walk you there.”
He takes Keith’s hand in his as they exit the hotel room, and Keith doesn’t know what to assume at this point. He just doesn’t bother.
-----------------
The next three days pass faster than Keith wants them to. Though he’s treading in a sea of confusion, Lance makes it enjoyable nonetheless. They made sure to see each other from the crack of dawn to the wee hours of the morning. Not a minute was wasted, and Keith thinks that’s what he enjoys most about Lance’s company. No matter what they’re doing, whether Keith is infatuated or at odds with the activity, his time is never truly wasted. Lance’s energy keeps things lively and eventually prompts him to cross over and try a few new things. Never did he think he would like zip-lining until Lance made him wait three hours for one.
He talked more at dinner, rather than letting Lance have the spotlight for the entire duration. Their conversations never really had a designated topic; they just flowed into each other, neither having issues adjusting to whatever someone else had to input. They really flowed together like the current, every decision made one that fits like a glove.
The dancing doesn’t cease after their first night. Lance makes it a mission to take Keith out to a different club every night. Some, neither of them liked, but others, Lance hit it on with the owners at a speed incomprehensible to Keith.
“Ey, mi amigo, ¿cómo estás?” Lance had spoken to one of the owners of the club they’d decided to visit the next day, “Tu lugar es muy muy bonito, si?”
The conversation had gone on like that; in a language that though Keith couldn’t understand, still managed to make him sweat underneath his loose button down.
Yeah, Lance is bilingual. And it does indescribable, enthralling things to Keith that night when they dance. Maybe he gets a bit too out of hand, but Lance doesn't seem to mind, so neither does he.
Upon the arrival of their last night in Nevada, Lance offers to buy dinner at one of the more high end places along the strip. And though Keith insists they go to one of their usual places, Lance insists they honor their last night together right.
So he let’s Lance treat him, spend over three hundred dollars on a meal that they could have easily gotten somewhere else for a significantly cheaper price. But there’s something about the way he says it, claims that he needs to treat Keith, make him feel like a king, make him feel wanted , no matter the price. It leaves Keith buzzed without a drop of alcohol in his system.
Things take a peculiar turn when Lance opts they skip the hopping excitement of the night clubs. Instead, he offers to show Keith a dance up in his room. His stomach twists into itself at the mention of dancing in Lance’s room instead of the venues they’d become so accustomed to. It was easier for Keith to mask his festering feelings for Lance amongst the sweaty bodies crowding their space, leaving them with little room to think deeply, to really look at each other.
But Keith nods his head nonetheless, no escape in sight. Lance takes his hand. The journey to his hotel seems to last an eternity.
Lance teaches Keith something similar to a rumba once they arrive at his suite. They relocate to the balcony, craving the cool air over the stuffy, crowded bedroom. The breeze cards through Keith’s unruly curls, his body pressed against the brunette’s. Admittedly, Keith hadn’t known a rumba was so intimate, so hot , when Lance had suggested it. Keith was getting used to the more demanding steps, excited for another test of his speed.
But when Lance grasped his hip, it was with a different intimacy than the one at the night clubs. His hand slid against his skin with ease, already familiar with his partner, but it hovered, lingered for a moment before clutching softly. There was a lack of dominance, replaced with with something so benevolent, it sucked the air out of Keith’s lungs.
Their hands tangle, and Lance shifts them backwards without a word. A puff of air from his mouth spreads along Keith’s collarbone as he twirls with the taller man, each step he takes lifting him further into the clouds. Lance’s head nuzzles beside his. Wisps of his hair brush his jawline. There’s a moment when Lance spins him around, back pressed against his chest as he rolls his hips, tender, but sharp with every rotation. Keith follows, fully accustomed to the movement of Lance’s body to the point where he can mimic well. He turns him back, a smile amongst his features as they return to their standard hold.
Keith wants to rest his head on his shoulder, let his eyes flutter shut as he sucks in the last of this beautiful adventure. Inhale the scent of pineapples and expensive shampoo before he’ll never smell it again, hear the faint stutter of his beating heart until he has to pull away. Walk back to his room, curl into his sheets, leave the fantasy.
Tears manifest in the corners of his eyes and he tries to chase them away, banish them to his tear ducts until he’s alone. They’re dancing now. He’s not gone yet. Now isn’t the time to cry. For now, he can stay caught up in the dream, swim in the colors of the affection he has yet to name. It isn’t love, no, but he can’t call it off as a one time occurence. Lance is so much more than that. So much more .
Keith freezes when he feels Lance’s hand free itself from his, prepared to draw back completely and rehearse his goodbyes, only to feel lanky arms lock near his lower back. Lance’s chin falls to the dip of Keith’s collarbone, a light tug bringing them flush against each other once more. Keith sustains his gasp, teeth digging into the flesh of his tongue as Lance breaths steadily into his skin. Keith wants him to press his lips down, gentle and chapped against his burning skin. Mark him deep enough so he can treasure it until he’s back in Seattle, and he can still feel his lips where they land.
Keith’s hands clutch his shoulders. His heart cries out for this moment to last forever, for Lance to whisk him away to wherever he’s meant to go next, the world at the tip of his finger. Because here, in his embrace, nothing matters.
Nothing matters when they’re dancing.
-----------------
Keith’s eyes never adjusted well to early morning light. This applies to the rays of sunlight that peek into Lance’s hotel room as well. He barely registers the night before, patchy images of Lance’s balcony, the moon, and the ghost of cherished touches the only living remnants.
He turns from the window, almost rolling into Lance’s limp body, fast asleep and snoring into his white pillow. Keith can spot drool trailing from the corner of his mouth, and can’t help the smile growing. It’s… cute. Grounding, domestic. Something he never thought he’d notice when looking at a man he’s fallen asleep beside, but it’s nice to ponder.
His cell sits on the bedside table (Lance must have put it there once he’d fallen asleep), buzzing with notifications. Probably from last night , Keith thinks, picking it up and scrolling through a sea of Shirogane s with his thumb. The time reads 7:08 AM, signifying that Shiro’s texts are from at least four hours ago.
SHIROGANE: KEITH
SHIROGANE: KE I TH
SHIROGANE: WHERE ARE YOU LMFAO
SHIROGANE: I’M SI DRUNK, I MIGHT DIE
SHIROGANE: LMFAO I’M WEKA
SHIROGANE: IS THAT HOW IT WORKS?
SHIROGANE: KEITH WEHRE ARE YOU I MISS YOU AADNF MATT MISSEF YOU TOO AND WE LOVE YOU A LOTR OKAY?
SHIROGANE: KEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEITG
It goes on like that for about twenty more messages, Keith laughing quietly to himself as he reads through. He felt bad, originally, for leaving Matt and Shiro by their lonesome for the duration of the trip. They rarely went out and did things like this. Work, college and whatever else the universe chose to throw at them always managed to get in the way. There was a stirring guilt sitting in the pit of his stomach, completely aware of just how often he ditched them. But to see that Shiro still managed to get wasted and have a good time puts him at ease. The ‘having a good time’ part, more than the potential alcohol poisoning.
Lance stirs beside him, slipping out of his graceful slumber into the real world, where Keith lays innocently draped in his sheets. Keith’s body tenses as he watches him slowly come to his senses. He feels like he should leave, stumble out of his bed before he ends up in an awkward situation he’ll want to run from, but Lance looks right at him, sunlight be damned, and gives him one of the biggest smiles he’s ever seen in the early morning.
“Hey,” he mumbles, swiping at the side of his mouth with as much elegance as he can muster, “you stayed?”
Keith wants to reply with an incredulous of course , and scold the young actor for assuming that he would simply leave after a night as…as magical as the one they shared. Keith can still feel that sensation in his bones. But he doesn’t tell Lance that.
“Yeah,” he replies cooly, “would’ve been rude of me to leave.”
“Right,” Lance’s grin sits pretty on his face as he sits up, bare chest in all it’s glory as the sunlights shines down on him, ethereal in every way Keith could possibly evoke at this hour. He rolls over, picking up his own cell phone and checking the time. If Keith had known the end was going to come right after, he would have grabbed Lance’s wrist, told him to check the time later.
“Oh shit ,” he gasps, falling out of bed and scrambling to his feet, “Hunk’s gonna be here in fifteen minutes. Christ—”
He paces around his room, frantically looking between his phone, his bed, and Keith’s eyes, confusion and worry pouring out of them.
“Fuck, I’m gonna be—I’ve gotta go.” He stutters, “You’ve gotta go.”
Keith’s heart pangs at the sudden urgency of his departure. He can already feel himself drifting out of Lance’s life, and it’s the complete opposite of where he wants to be.
“Lance…”
The brunette’s eyes flicker from desperation to a sadness he’s never seen. The usual sparkle in his sapphires has turned to something dull, lifeless. Perhaps, the only hint that he’s just as broken to be separated as Keith is.
His shoulders slump as he opens the door, sluggish with every move. Keith tells himself not to cry for the umpteenth time.
“Lance…”
“Goodbye Keith.”
This can’t be goodbye. It’s too good to be true; he’s too good to be true. The conversation, the late night walks, the mojitos the dancing —
“Goodbye, Lance.”
He stands there, heart reaching out for something, anything to happen in the eighteen seconds Lance stands before him in all his glory. Tall, lanky, talented, cocky, bilingual Lance. Lance, who wore a smile in the darkest of times.
Lance, who gave him an eternity's worth of memories, in the span of five days.
The white door shuts behind him, the lock turned, and the key swallowed. With it, Keith feels a tether strung to his heart snap and wither to the carpet. His fingertips lift to touch his lips. The same fingertips that once touched Lance’s skin, ran themselves through his luxuriant, brunette locks.
The same fingertips that should have drawn him in for the kiss that his lips so desperately craved.