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Do you trust me? Lance asked Keith on the first day they met. For a full second, Keith’s lungs were full of curious air as he tried to think how to respond—
But Lance didn’t wait for a response.
All that air stuffing up Keith’s insides quickly vanished as the floor left in a blur of straw and canvas. The tent was empty but in Keith’s ears, the roar of a crowd. Absolutely nothing was touching his body except two hands locked like vises around either of his arms, immovable clasps which Keith could not escape if he tried, but he did not try, no, he held very still and prayed that he would still be alive in sixty seconds.
Relax, Lance shouted. They were his hands. He was the one thing supporting Keith, and the one thing supporting him was a silk garland.
Keith did not relax. He yelled to be put down and Lance, laughing, obliged.
You are the worst aerial partner ever, Lance declared.
That was months ago. Only after walking out of the tent (towards the living compartments out back, his new home, a place and group of people he would soon become intimately, annoyingly familiar with), did it occur to Keith that the reason he didn’t say anything snide in return was because, somehow, Lance had completely and utterly charmed him.
It didn’t get easier to talk around him, either. Keith would hang out in the main tent while Lance was in rehearsal for no reason. He vaguely remembered claiming that sunlight could hurt blades as they were being sharpened. Keith kept his knives plenty sharp, and yet here they were.
Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Lance asked on a different day, much later in the afternoon, when Keith was re-tying his bullseye targets in the main circle. Lance was, typically, overhead. Upside down. Stretching one leg out horizontally while the other, ensnared in red garland, held him aloft. Sometimes Keith wondered if Lance didn’t just like the way blood felt rushing to his head.
The day I do, you have permission to take my job and use me as a target, Keith said coolly.
I would be so bad at aiming, Lance said, but the garland had spun him around so his back faced Keith and he was talking to the empty arena. No way I’d kill you.
I think you have a sharp enough eye to get the job done.
Actually, samurai, I was thinking I could be the target.
And now they were here. The seats were filled. Lance, dangling like a spectacle, dressed in pale blue and strung up like a spider in white garland, smiling confidently at Keith and at the crowd. And all Keith could think was:
Do you trust me? Are you sure you trust me?
“Did anybody,” he asked loudly, and a stymied hush fell, “happen to purchase a bottled beverage at concessions?” His confidence was a show. His hands were sweating. How had Lance talked him into doing this?
(Because Lance could charm Keith into a coma, given enough time and resources.)
A few hands went up in the audience. Keith bounced up the stairs, all presentation, and stopped at the end of an aisle three rows up where a twenty-something man with five o’ clock shadow held up a glass bottle of Coke as proof. Keith held out his hand. The man passed him the bottle. Keith unscrewed the metal cap and handed back the drink without it.
“You mind if I borrow this?” he asked.
The man laughed and said, “Help yourself.”
Keith trotted back down to the main circle. He passed Lance with a mindful silence, dug the bottle cap into the bullseye target directly behind Lance so that it was secure, and then turned to face the crowd again. He raised his arms and all the filler noise died down.
“In order to concentrate, I need complete silence,” he said. “It’s for the safety of my assistant and all those in the tent.”
“Boooooring!” said Lance. The crowd chuckled. Keith whipped around and gave him an incredulous look, but Lance was just smiling. Arms crossed over his chest. Satisfied.
Like Keith wasn’t about to throw knives in his direction.
And, yeah, Keith had a knack for precision, but nothing threw him off like Lance. It was a spectacle, but at what cost? What if he slipped up in front of all these people? What if he hurt Lance?
The laughter subsided. Keith took his position at a good twenty-five feet’s distance from his target, which meant he was about twenty-four feet from Lance. This did not make him feel more safe.
A proper hush fell. The world narrowed down to Keith and his target. He went through the motions, praying he could rely on muscle memory to get him through this, but his heart had never clenched so hard as the instant his knife skimmed off the tips of his fingers and it was airborne, and Lance’s arms were still crossed over his chest, and he was looking at Keith—smiling—
The knife slipped between the diamond of Lance’s upside-down legs. The crowd went wild. All that visibly happened was Keith’s shoulders dropped a little, but inside he was singing. He jogged to the target, unstuck his knife, and showed the crowd the perfectly pierced bottle cap, which only made them cheer louder. He made his way back up the aisle and handed it back to the delighted man.
Then he turned back to the main circle. Lance, as the seizing terror in Keith’s heart predicted, had begun swinging back and forth on his garland in wide, sweeping arcs.
Keith’s three sharpest knives awaited him on a throwing pedestal.
He marched dutifully down to them. In his head, he was cursing Lance out for putting himself in danger like this.
Does it matter if he trusts me? Can I trust myself?
Lance was preening. In his element. He lived for these moments where all eyes were on him. Where the people couldn’t help but watch.
“Three targets,” Keith announced slowly. Two on stilts at either side of Lance’s arc. One in the middle at the bottom. “My assistant will be swinging back and forth between them. As he does, I’ll avoid him and hit each bullseye.”
He waved for silence and tried to focus, but Lance caught his eye and winked, so Keith drew in a deep breath, and he could feel the crowd growing expectant, and it was too late, he’d gotten in his own head. He shut his eyes. Opened them. Found his first target.
(He could wait until Lance was on the other side of the arc, when he knew it would be safe, but that did not make for an impressive show. He had to make it close.)
He threw.
A second and a half later, the knife struck the bullseye of the first target. Lance threw his arms wide and continued swinging.
The crowd gave a polite burst of applause, a few oohs, and then re-established their respectful silence. Keith’s agitated grip tightened. He was never doing this act again.
He threw.
Thunk.
Ooooh!
Grin.
Lance wound back for a new arc, Keith got set to throw his last—(could this be over now?)—and wound his arm back, but something was wrong—
His eyes perceived Lance’s trajectory, the bullseye, Keith’s throw—Keith was already snapping his arm forward, but he’d moved too quickly, the knife was early, which meant Lance’s gut would overshadow the middle of the target at the moment—
He could not stop the throw. Muscle memory had seized him. His reflexes were there, but they might not be enough—
Thwack.
Keith gasped. Lance’s eyes flashed to him. His arc deflated and he swung back down.
Unhurt. Unhurt.
The crowd audibly sighed its relief as the knife embedded itself in the target—a near foot off-center, the only reason Lance was still intact and uninjured.
He disentangled himself from his garland and stood tall, arms wide, and Keith ran over to—to what? Hug him? Punch him? There were too many emotions stirring him up. He settled for grabbing Lance’s outstretched hand and taking a bow. As the ringmaster came out to address the crowd, Keith and Lance hurried back behind the curtain and out of the tent completely. Keith focused on very deliberate breathing.
“You missed the bullseye,” said Lance, eyes wide. “You never miss the bullseye.”
And he hugged Keith, tightly, and for the first time, being touched by someone didn’t set him on fire in a good or bad way. He hugged Lance back tightly. Breathing.
“Are you okay?”
“You had it completely under control,” Lance told him. “You did great.”
“Please don’t ask me to do that again,” Keith said.
Lance let him go, frowning. “I mean, we could practice—”
“Lance.”
“Well, you do it with Shiro on the wheel! What makes me any different?” Lance demanded. He even stamped his foot.
“Shiro doesn’t make me nervous.”
“I do?”
“You definitely do.”
Keith realized what he was basically admitting to. He flushed scarlet and looked down. Lance’s mouth dropped into an O and he rubbed his inner elbow.
And then he kissed Keith. Keith’s instincts, still on high alert, immediately kissed back, even though he was a circus performer who’d never kissed anyone before, even though he didn’t know how his hand would feel on the back of Lance’s neck or what Lance even really meant by this. He was dizzy when it stopped. Dizzy and smiling.
“Well, for a one-time event, it was unforgettable,” Lance assured him.