Archive of Our Own

The last place Keith expected to find himself on Halloween night was at an asylum.

An old, creepy facility that now hosts ghost tours for local fanatics. And although some people might consider Keith a fanatic— including himself— he’s always been on the fence about how legitimate he thinks the hauntings are.

Far grander than it looked in pictures or glimpses he’d caught when driving past, the asylum prides itself in being the largest hand-cut stone masonry building in the country. Each wing of the building is arranged in a staggered formation. Hundreds of windows fill out its imposing frame, and the night provides it with an unsettling blanket of darkness. As they pass through the doorway, Keith can practically feel his hair stand on end, goosebumps rising along his bare forearms.

He eyes some of the more… interesting Halloween costumes as they walk in. “Remind me again why I agreed to this?”

“Well,” Pidge mumbles, “because Hunk scored two free tickets for the overnight stay. And because you loved both of us enough to take Hunk’s place.”

“Right…” Keith steps aside to let a pair of teenagers slink by in witch costumes. Their heels click audibly across the linoleum flooring.  

“I mean, also because ghosts,” Pidge drawls, “but I figured that was a given with you.”

Keith can’t really argue with that logic. After Keith’s dad passed away, around the time of his seventh birthday, there were a couple years he lived on his own. Before he moved closer to the city— before Shiro took him in. The ramshackle, two-room house belonged to his dad. A simple shack in the middle of nowhere, close to his elementary school and the prestigious pilot academy both Shiro and Adam attended. The floorboards creaked, the wind shook the foundation on particularly windy days. But Keith knew he wasn’t truly alone in that house.

It wasn’t until a plate randomly flew off a table and slammed into the wall, shattering into a million jagged pieces, though, that Keith decided ghosts were real.

As they enter the asylum, a handful of people mill about in the entranceway. To Keith's relief, the rest of their tour group seems to have opted against costumes.

Once Keith agreed to come, Pidge spent every waking hour searching for matching costumes they could wear. Anything that may win them a gift card for Chipotle or GameStop in the costume contest or at least turn some heads. Luckily for Keith, she couldn’t find anything. At least nothing that met her oddly specific criteria. Keith couldn’t help but be thankful. Matching costumes were Pidge and Hunk’s annual tradition; he refused to intrude on that. Plus, he didn’t feel like walking around in scratchy clothes and a pair of cheap shoes that rubbed his feet raw.

His gaze sweeps the room, and he spots several employees who dressed up for the occasion. Their outfits range from “tasteful attempts” to “they forced me to wear this.” Vampires and werewolves, characters from cult classics and cartoons like Spongebob. Keith’s personal favorite is what he assumes to be a zombie. The man wears ripped jeans straight off the rack at a department store, as well as a torn shirt, hastily splattered with fake blood.

“Hey,” Keith murmurs, leaning in to whisper in Pidge’s ear. “Check that guy out.”

Pidge follows the line of his finger, squinting behind her lenses, and then snorts. “Oh… oh man. I get the feeling he didn’t get the Halloween memo until, like, yesterday.”

“Actually, he just sucks at scrounging up a costume,” a sudden voice clarifies, forcing the two apart.

Pidge practically shrieks, and Keith raises his hands defensively. With a throaty chuckle, the source of the interruption sidles between them and turns to face the group. “He’s what the kids call ‘unoriginal,’” the stranger carries on. “But he’s a cool dude. We don’t hold it against him.”

Keith wants to respond with something snarky. To one-up this random guy who decided to butt into someone else’s conversation. But any words, any semblance of a comeback, dies in his throat.

The man— boy, if Keith is honest with himself— stands a couple inches taller than Keith. Although his shiny, black dress shoes probably account for one of those measly inches. His lanky frame is outfitted in a charcoal gray suit coat with pinstripe trousers. Under the coat is a pewter gray vest, white button-down shirt, and black puffy tie. A silver monocle frames one of his distractingly blue eyes, and an honest-to-god top hat is perched atop his head.

And while the whole ensemble should be ridiculous and unappealing, it’s— well. Now that he’s standing there in full view, Keith has to admit he can easily make out an attractive physique buried beneath layers and layers of clothing.

Focus on the fucking hat, Keith pleads with himself. He swallows around the lump in his throat and forces his face to settle into a carefully indifferent mask.

“So, looks like you lovely folks are here for the tour,” the boy greets. He sweeps his arm behind him, indicating the entrance hall. “Welcome to our house of horrors!”

Keith gawks in stupefied silence as the reality of the situation sets in. This undeniably cute guy is their tour guide. As in, they’ll be stuck together for the next few hours and probably through most of the night.

Awesome. Keith releases a nervous exhale. He blatantly ignores the look Pidge shoots his way. I can handle this. He’s just a person, and he’s our fucking tour guide, Keith, get a hold of yourself.

“I’ll be your tour guide for the evening. My name is Lance! And as they say in those Allstate commercials, you’re in good hands.” He grins and meets Keith’s gaze from the middle of the loose circle their group has formed. “I’m the best there is.”

Lance may be addressing everyone, but Keith swears the words are directed specifically at him. As if he can sense Keith’s skepticism from a mile away. As if he can see straight into Keith’s soul—

“You good?” Pidge whispers. When Keith startles at the sound, she snorts. “Guess that answers that question. You’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost, but we haven’t even gotten to that part yet.”

“I’m fine,” Keith bites out. His fingernails dig into his palms. Distantly, he hears Lance giving a basic rundown of the asylum's rules. No flash photography or outside food, the usual. “I just can’t believe we’re stuck with this asshole.”

Pidge snorts again but this time it’s louder. “I’m sure Hunk would be happy to know you think his best friend is an asshole.”

“Wait, his—” Keith chances a furtive glance at Lance. “Fuck.”

Instead of giving him a proper answer or maybe some reassurance, Pidge guffaws. Keith shoves down his frustration and turns his attention to Lance, who has yet to stop talking.

“Now, if you’ll come with me, we can get this show on the road.” He motions for them to follow. “We’ve got places to go, ghosties to meet.”

Ghosties. The word strikes Keith directly in the heart. Lance has no right saying cute shit like ghosties.

As instructed, the group trails behind Lance as he makes his way confidently to the end of the hallway. Chipped paint covers the door’s surface. Like a subtle, eerie warning to “turn back now.” Keith surveys the group as they approach. A harmless older couple meanders along to Keith and Pidge’s right, while a trio of college-aged kids stroll past on the left. Once they step over the threshold, Keith and Pidge are ushered to the front.

Another hallway stretches out in front of them, much longer than the corridor leading out of the entrance hall. The floors and walls, ceilings— everything is painted a deceptively calm shade of white or off-white. Rooms line both sides, doors left wide open. Keith stretches his neck out to peek into the nearest one. Rather than white or creme, the walls are a muted shade of green, like the pale green of a key lime pie.

“As I mentioned earlier, this asylum was designed to house a couple hundred patients,” Lance explains. “As you might’ve already expected, the reality was much different. There were a couple thousand patients crammed inside these walls. Alcoholics, epileptics, drug-addicts.” His face crumples, contorted like he’s in pain. “Wives whose trashy husbands jumped at any excuse to get rid of them… but anyway! They all lived here, in this facility.”

Keith is transfixed. He can’t bring himself to look away, even to survey the surrounding rooms and cells. Lance has a strangely captivating aura. Commanding. It reminds Keith of the kids in high school who were part of the drama club. Like this creepy ward has become Lance’s makeshift stage.

“Many lived here for years. Long enough for some to have children.” Lance pauses for dramatic effect. His gaze sweeps the entire group before landing on Keith. “And as you can imagine, those children had to live here— in the asylum. With their parents. This particular ward housed many of them.”

Lance jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, outfitted with several dozen cells left to explore. They follow as Lance guides them into the nearest cell.

The first thing Keith notices as they enter is a floor full of toys. Bouncy balls, stuffed animals, and dolls litter the room. A couple sit on the windowsills, faded and nearly bleached from sunlight exposure. Keith has the strangest urge to pick up the light blue ball at his feet. The toys feel alien in such a horrific place. Somehow almost as disturbing as the concept of lobotomies and electroshock therapy being performed just down the hall. Keith shudders.

“The tour guides and other employees, such as myself, brought most of the toys you see here and in several other rooms throughout this ward.” Lance bends to scoop up a stuffed bear. Holding it at chin-level, he smiles and wiggles its flouncy brown body. Keith stifles a smile of his own when a plump, stuffed foot clips Lance in the cheek. “This little guy is actually mine.” He boops the stuffed bear’s nose. “But I’m sure you’re all wondering—why do this? Why leave these toys out?”

And Keith’s brain-to-mouth filter conveniently decides to quit working. “It’s for the children’s ghosts.”

The other members of their group shoot cursory glances his way before focusing back on Lance. Pidge giggles under her breath, hiding in the sleeve of her hoodie like the traitor she is. And Lance— Lance is leering at Keith. Okay, maybe not leering. When higher brain function blessedly returns to Keith, he notes that Lance doesn’t look upset. His wide eyes give Keith a onceover so quick, he nearly misses it. Then, they narrow into dangerous slits, his lips quirking in a smirk.

“Why yes,” Lance drawls. “Mr…?”

“Keith,” Keith manages to choke out.

“Mr. Keith.” There’s a positively wicked glint dancing behind Lance’s eyes as he speaks. He maintains eye contact even as he stoops to return the bear to its original spot on the floor. “He’s right. There are several active spirits in this ward who we believe belong to the children who lived here.”

Lance adjusts his monocle, although there’s really no need. Not a single piece of his costume is out of place. Keith adamantly begs with his subconscious to stop already and ignore these details like a sane, functional human being.

“One spirit in particular has adopted a bit of a… reputation. This ward was reconstructed after being destroyed in a fire a few decades ago. A girl living there, Lacy, was believed to have been the daughter of a resident. Born within these very walls.”

The story sounds vaguely familiar and yet Keith finds himself clinging to every word. Lance narrates his stories like a performer on Broadway or an overzealous scientist explaining their latest discovery.

“A lot of visitors and employees claim to see her around the facility, specifically in this area. She’s said to wear a white dress and likes to play good-natured pranks on our visitors.” Lance pauses. “She’s especially known for playing with these toys. As a matter of fact, a buddy of mine says they watched a ball roll from this end of the hall to the other during an overnight.”

“Have you ever experienced the activity yourself? Firsthand?” Keith blurts and dammit, stop fucking talking.

The older couple starts outright laughing, and that’s the moment Keith realizes he might be acting like a dick. It’s like his mouth has a mind of its own. Lance keeps dragging these— these words out of him, and he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut. Lance isn’t trying to egg Keith on or get a rise out of him. So why?

“I… can’t say that I have.” Lance wears a smile, but Keith can sense the way the words are hissed through clenched teeth. “But I’ve experienced other weird, unexplainable stuff. This building has plenty of ghosties to go around.”

Ghosties, ghosties, ghosties. Keith nods as if in a daze. Any legitimate response has escaped him. Lance appears satisfied for now and returns to his tour guide spiel.

Shortly after Lance finishes his talk on the children’s ward, he guides them through different sections of the asylum. There’s the ward where most of the more “questionable” treatment methods were performed. Of course, plenty of paranormal activity has been documented there. The souls of tortured souls— quite literally tortured— return for closure in the only way they know how.

Keith shrinks away from many of the cells. The halls are frigid, forcing Keith to cross his arms tightly over his chest. But there’s another source of cold that seems to linger wherever they go. A harsh mix of uncomfortably chilly and stuffy. Even Pidge, notorious for running ten degrees hotter than the average person, tucks her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie. It’s unlike anything Keith has ever experienced and, skeptical of the facility’s credibility or not, he can’t help but attest it to the spirits.

They cycle through communal bathrooms and shower areas. The unpleasant odor of mildew and mold hangs heavy in the air wherever they go. Lance doesn’t linger long and herds them up the stairs to the ward that accommodated many of the alcoholics and drug-addicts. Again, Lance keeps his speech brief. The entire tour group, Lance included, huddle closer as they ascend another set of stairs to the top floor.

And, immediately, Keith can sense there’s something sinister about this part of the asylum. More so than anywhere else they’ve visited thus far.

Pidge casually slides closer to Keith as they circle around Lance for what appears to be the last story of the evening. He can’t seem to stand still, shifting nervously on his feet, shoes squeaking faintly with every movement.

“And now, my favorite ward,” he intones, voice low. “My favorite because it’s actually my least favorite to be in. That’s an achievement in terms of this building.”

Lance moves closer to the cell across from the staircase, and the size difference is glaringly obvious. These cells appear much smaller. Shorter ceilings and less space to move freely, dust accumulating in corners and doorframes outlined with yellow grime. The slope of the ceiling gives the illusion of the roof caving in, angled toward the ratty-looking mattress pushed against the far wall.

“Many of the violent patients spent their time in this ward. Murderers and serial killers, patients who attacked the nurses.” Lance scrutinizes the bed like a patient might still be around, waiting to take him out. “This room in particular housed a man known as Chopper who once lashed out in one of the lavatories we visited earlier. He killed some fellow patients and a nurse during the, uh. Incident.”

Wow, things have taken a dark turn. Keith carefully studies Lance as he shares Chopper’s story with them. His movements are a bit stilted, voice tight. The changes are barely perceptible, but to someone who’s been watching Lance closely for most of the evening, they’re impossible to miss.

Lance wastes no time in urging the group out of the room once his story’s finished. “Now, as I said at the beginning, we’ll be staying in one of the wards for the evening. No— before you ask, not this one.” A grin splits his face. “I’ve chosen the children’s ward for this oh-so-amazing group.”

Keith wishes it were just his imagination, but there’s no doubting it. Lance is staring straight at him as he speaks, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. The true precursors of Keith’s sudden and impending doom.

After hammering out a few more details regarding the overnight arrangements, the group makes for the stairs. Keith and Pidge end up at the back of the pack— near Lance.

“So, Mr. I-Have-All-The-Answers,” Lance starts and, oh shit, he’s right behind Keith. “What’d you think of the tour? Enjoy yourself?”

“I, uh…” Keith swears his brain has been reduced to the equivalent of scrambled eggs inside his skull. “It was…”

An awkward silence follows.

Keith nervously lifts and drops his arms back to his sides. Which— what the hell, Keith? What was that supposed to communicate? Hey, I normally know how to speak in solid sentences, but you’ve managed to rob me of that ability.

Such an eloquent response.

To his chagrin, Pidge interrupts, “It was pretty sweet! I knew this place had history, but it’s cool hearing the actual stories from a reliable source.”

“Oh, for real,” Lance eagerly agrees. “That’s part of the reason I was so interested in working here. I visited a few times in high school and thought it’d be awesome to be a tour guide.” Suddenly, his eyes are on Keith for what feels like the millionth time that evening. “Speaking of interest in the paranormal, I gather that you’re a fan yourself, huh?”

“Yeah,” Keith croaks. Embarrassed, he clears his throat and assumes his full height. “Yeah, I guess you could say I’m a fan.”

“Oh man, that response was so hipster. I didn’t peg you for one of those.”

“I’m not!”

“I mean, I guess it would explain the flannel with the—” he gestures at Keith’s exposed forearms “—the sleeves rolled up like that. Although you’ve got a mullet, so I’m getting some mixed signals here...”

“Still not seeing how that qualifies me as a ‘hipster,’” Keith quips. Lance manages to sneakily worm his way between Keith and Pidge as they throw open the door to the stairwell. “I’ve met my fair share of hipsters in college, and we don’t really get along.”

They continue down the stairs until they’ve returned to the ground level. By the time they reach the children’s ward, Pidge has put a few feet of space between the two gabbing boys and herself.

Keith now knows that Lance used to be a drama kid, just as he predicted, and attends the same university as Keith and Pidge. He also learns Lance is double majoring in theater and astrophysics, which is by far the most fascinating double major Keith has ever heard of. He’s half-tempted to ask what Lance hopes to do when he graduates but decides it might come off as unintentionally rude. Eventually, Keith tells Lance he’s majoring in aerospace engineering himself.

The conversation moves fluidly, like they’ve known each other for months, maybe even years, rather than a day. Like two students in the same program chatting amicably between classes. Keith could kick himself for being so judgmental about Lance when he first saw the tour guides in costume. Lance is… well, he feels like more. More in every sense of the word.

Once everyone reconvenes, Lance explains the sleeping arrangements. “Although, I doubt any of you will do much sleeping.” The facility has provided a handful of sleeping bags to use, as well as snacks and a couple boxes of take-out pizza from a local shop down the road.

Pidge and Keith claim a corner of the room they toured earlier. The other members of the group spot them and unspokenly decide to pick a different room.

Then, as if the universe can read Keith’s mind, Lance steps into view. He leans against the doorway, patiently studying Keith and Pidge’s setup for the night. “I had a feeling you two would pick Lacy’s room.”

Keith nervously wets his lips and climbs to his feet. “Well, she’s an active spirit, isn’t she?”

Lance laughs softly, shaking his head as he crosses the room. “I guess you’ll find out.” He settles in front of the two, and that’s when Keith sees it: a sleeping bag tucked under Lance’s arm. “And if I’m lucky, so will I.”

“No,” Keith blurts like a goddamn fool. The response feels like it’s punched out of his gut. “No, no way.”

“Wh— chill!” Lance drops his sleeping bag on the floor and meets Keith’s frightened gaze. His stare hardens. “What’s the big deal? I’m here to enjoy the ghosts, just like you are.”

He called them ‘ghosts’ instead of ‘ghosties,’ Keith’s smartass of a subconscious points out.

And, well, what is the big deal? Keith has no clue. There shouldn’t be an issue. Lance has been nothing but generous and kind throughout the tour. Informative. Keith should be honored he’d want to stay with him and Pidge out of everyone in the group.

But the reason is somewhat selfish and, frankly, dumb. Keith is a sucker for charming boys. Tall with thick, soft-looking hair. A thousand-watt smile and charismatic personality. Good sense of humor. Lance is like a walking checklist for Keith. Keith wants to stay as far away as he can before he does something ridiculous like develop a crush on Lance. A crush, wow. He's back in middle school again, scribbling a boy's name in the margins of his notebooks.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Keith apologizes. “I was just caught off guard.”

Lance holds his stare for what feels like an eternity before finally breaking the connection. He still seems doubtful but doesn’t push the issue. “We better grab some pizza before it’s all gone.”

The three snag some of the first slices of pizza from the greasy stack of boxes and return to Lacy’s room. They settle cross-legged on the floor, sitting on their respective sleeping bags. Keith picks the pepperoni off the top of his pizza and leisurely eats each slice. Meanwhile, Pidge inhales her pizza. One second the slices are there and the next— poof. Gone. Lance folds his into tacos and takes huge, voracious bites.

“You’re totally a hipster,” Lance insists after chewing a sizable mouthful. “Lacy’s going to show herself just so she can mess with us. Look at you, picking the toppings off your pizza and eating them like a heathen.”

“Says the guy in a hoaky Victorian costume…” Keith smugly eats the last pepperoni, ready to move onto his slice of cheese pizza.

“Hey, I’ll have you know my friends said I look dapper in this outfit. You’re just jealous because you have a mullet, while I’ve got this dope top hat.”

Keith shapes the word ‘dope’ with his mouth. Of course— dope top hat. Lance removes the hat when he mentions it, which has a monumentally awful impact on Keith’s heart. He swears it skips a beat inside his chest, like the clichéd bastard it is. The tufts of brown hair sticking up in every direction should look silly, okay, they should. Lance smooths the errant strands down with his hands and, well, that’s just worse.

“Yes, I'm jealous of your top hat.” Keith quirks a brow. “And monocle.”

Lance removes the monocle, too, but glares at Keith throughout the entire detangling process. “The monocle is also exceptionally cool. You're just mean.”

Pidge snorts and takes a swig of her sugary orange soda. “He is mean, isn't he?”

“You tease and torture me on a daily basis,” Keith deadpans. “And I'm mean?”

“Touché.” Pidge clinks her can against Lance's and takes another chug.

“So, do you have any investigation equipment?” Keith smoothly tries to change the subject. “I was expecting an EMF meter, EVP recorder, maybe a camera.”

“Oh, yee of little faith.” Lance scoots along the floor and reaches a lanky arm into his bag. He rummages through it for a couple minutes before proudly brandishing an EMF meter. “Tada!”

While it's not the best piece of equipment for the job, it's also not the worst. And the fact Lance owns an EMF meter is endearing in a way Keith would rather not dwell on.

“Mr. Ghost Hunter Extraordinaire, I’m sure, already knows how to use this,” Lance singsongs, tapping the EMF’s display. “Right?”

Keith heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, I know how to use it.”

“See?” Lance taps Pidge on the shoulder. Once he has her attention, he leans in close while narrowing his eyes at Keith. “I told you. Hipster.”

Keith grabs for the EMF meter with an exasperated huff. “I’m starting to think our definitions of a ‘hipster’ are very different, Lance.”

The EMF now sits in the middle of the circle. There are five LED’s at the top of the meter, to indicate any spike in electromagnetic energy. Keith’s meter at home has a few more bells and whistles, but this will work. Plus, it’s a lot like the EMF meter Shiro bought him ages ago when he was 12 and obsessed with Ghost Hunters.

“You should’ve brought yours!” Lance gestures at Keith. “I mean, a dude like you has gotta have a fancy EMF meter. The nice, expensive kind. Probably an EVP recorder, too.”

Keith remains stoically silent. He fiddles with the EMF, getting a feel for the old design. But Lance isn’t done yet.

“Do you just use it for ghost hunting or…?”

Pidge snickers around a short burp. “Okay, first of all, burp-laughs are so weird. And, secondly, our good buddy Keith here also uses his equipment to track UFO’s.”

Kill me. Please. Where’s the bolt of lightning that’ll strike me dead? Keith groans and jostles Pidge roughly with an elbow jab. Or maybe a bolt of lightning for this conniving fiend.

But Lance isn’t laughing. No, not even the smallest of chuckles. When Keith summons the courage to look, Lance is gaping, eyes bulging excitedly. Like it’s the best news he’s heard all day.

“You— oh my god. Of course you chase UFO’s, too.” Lance bounces in place. “I won’t interrogate you tonight, but, man, there really is more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?”

Keith means to answer but his mind is too caught up on the beginning of that sentence. I won’t interrogate you tonight. The implications of them hanging out in the future, about there being another occasion where they can sit in the floor of one of their apartments, and talk are…

It would be just the two of them, alright. Under the intimate lighting of a desk lamp, huddled close in sweatpants and t-shirts, pouring over Keith’s books about UFOs and ghost hunting. Keith suddenly feels warm— much warmer than he’s felt all evening.

As if sensing the tension in the room, the green LED of the EMF meter flashes angrily. The sight coupled with the meter’s dinging sounds causes everyone to jump.

“Uh, fuck?” Pidge stares at the EMF meter with round, frightened eyes. “Is it— what the hell?”

“We’ve got company.” Lance leans closer to get a better look at the meter. “And I’m guessing it’s Lacy.”

“Or a serial killer,” Pidge offers.

“Or a demonic entity,” Keith suggests.

“Maybe an electrotherapy patient—”

“Okay, fine, maybe it’s not her.” Lance levels a glare at Keith and Pidge. “But you have to admit it would make sense if it was her.”

Keith has seen countless ghost hunting programs in the past, follows a few YouTubers. As a matter of fact, he’s been on a couple hunts himself with Adam and a reluctant Shiro. Keith knows how to handle this.

“Is there anyone here who would like to speak with us tonight?” Keith tilts his head back, addressing the room. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

In his effort to make contact, Keith forgets about Lance.

“Oh my god,” someone whispers, breathless. “You’re unreal.”

Cautiously, Keith chances a look to his side. And there Lance is, closer than Keith remembered and bearing his full weight on his arms, palms pressed flat to the floor. Without the monocle and hat, he appears significantly younger. Somehow his hair has returned to its mussed state, and Keith finds himself aching to reach out and card his fingers through it. His jaw is hanging open incredulously. Instead of Keith Kogane, he feels like a ghost hunting celebrity.

After a few beats of silence, Keith speaks up again. “Is there a spirit named Lacy here? We would love to speak to her. Maybe even play— we’ve got plenty of toys.”

An ominous silence follows in the wake of Keith’s question. The EMF’s alarm has long since stopped going off. A minute passes, a minute of absolutely nothing, and the three sigh in unison.

“She must’ve left.” There’s a little thump as Lance sits back. “Damn. Just when I thought I’d actually meet a ghost.”

Keith turns Lance’s way. He watches in miserable silence as Lance drops his face into his hands. A loud groan echoes off the walls of the room, and Keith winces. He can’t help but feel bad for Lance. If he were a tour guide, he’d hate to be the only person without a story to tell, the sort of firsthand experience patrons are desperate for. But there’s no way to beg the ghosts for a scare— that’s not how the paranormal works.

As much as that sucks.

“Well.” Lance suddenly unfurls from his hunched position and hops to his feet. He flashes Pidge and Keith a weak excuse for a smile. “I better go change before things get good. Wouldn’t want to fall asleep in this getup.”

He doesn’t wait for any acknowledgement before ducking out of the room. Once he’s out of earshot, Keith is tackled by a mound of green cotton.

“Keith, Keith, Keith,” Pidge trills. The sleeves of her hoodie have always been a tad too long, and she drums the dangling ends against Keith’s thigh, frantically waving her arms. “I can’t believe this!”

“Can’t believe what?”

“Don’t play coy with me.” The sleeve-slapping comes to a sudden halt. “You think Lance is hot, don’t you?”

No, Keith means to say. But what comes out instead is, “He isn’t that hot.”

Pidge, for lack of a better word, cackles at that. “Oh. Oh wow. Yeah, I knew it. You’re not as subtle as you like to think.”

For a moment, Keith considers denying the accusation. Life would be a lot easier that way, huh? A life where Keith didn’t develop crushes on random boys working as haunted asylum tour guides. Or even a world where said tour guides weren’t unbearably attractive.

Really, Keith doesn’t “crush” on people often. So, Lance’s disastrous existence is actually more disastrous than anyone could ever imagine.

“I…” Keith chews anxiously on his bottom lip. “Fine, he’s fucking cute. I said it. Happy?”

“Very. I usually have to try harder to get you to admit it.” She rearranges herself so that her legs stretch out in front of her. “I’ve been rolling my eyes over you two nerds all evening. You’re both so…” More arm waving. “Shameless? I don’t know. It’s gag-inducing, really. Congratulations.”

“Oh, thank—” Wait. “Both?”

Pidge blinks once and then rapidly flutters her lashes. “Uh, yeah?” Suddenly, it must hit her. “Oh, come on, I know you’re not blind.”

Keith opens his mouth to fire back a retort, but it’s cut short by the sound of footsteps from outside in the hall. His jaw immediately snaps shut. He can still taste his response resting on his tongue. There’s no way a guy like Lance would be into me.

“That’s better,” Lance says as he struts through the doorway. “Dapper as it may be, that costume isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. Shocking, I know.”

Keith only has a few seconds to appreciate Lance’s change of clothes, even if it’s nothing special. A pair of baggy gray sweatpants hang low on his hips. Although they may sag in most places, they cling in all the right ones. As Keith’s gaze trails upward, he’s met with the sight of a simple navy-blue t-shirt with their college mascot and Swim Team scrawled across the front. The collar seems a bit stretched, likely from many days and nights of wear.

Casual as can be and still— still— Lance manages to look handsome. It’s not fair.

For the next twenty minutes, maybe thirty, they continue to prompt Lacy and come to the point of practically begging her to join them. But the EMF remains quiet. The blank LED’s feel like a set of five beady eyes, mocking Keith from their place on the floor. Flash, Keith thinks. He tries forcibly communicating the word to the EMF as he stares it down. Flash, flash, flash.

Lance and Pidge appear to adopt similar tactics. Glaring daggers at the EMF, refusing to break eye contact. An hour or so passes before Lance snaps.

“Awesome,” he chimes with feigned excitement. “This has been quite the show.” He tugs his phone out of the pocket of his sweats. “Well, it’s almost 2 am. So, I guess technically there’s still time.”

But his tone reflects a different opinion. Lance clings to the exuberance he started the night with, but Keith can tell his hold is slipping. Falling, falling like the corners of his mouth. With each passing second, his smile feels progressively more forced. Keith dreads the end of that progression. Lance wearing a grimace, a frown… even the concept of it makes Keith uncomfortable.

“I’m gonna— I think maybe we should—” Lance lets his words come to a shuddering stop. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll take this with me in case anything happens.” A derisive snort. “Not that it will.”

Keith clambers to his feet before he can even think twice about what he’s doing. “I’ll come with you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he clearly makes out the way Pidge’s brows climb up her forehead. Her expression oozes nothing but pure, unadulterated amusement. Meanwhile, Lance freezes mid-crouch, fingers wrapped around the EMF meter. He slowly straightens back up again and fixes his eyes on Keith.

“Just in case anything happens,” Keith answers, keeping his tone light. “Right?”

Lance lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree. Keith isn’t sure if he’s ever had someone express this much excitement about spending time with him. Maybe he’s dreaming, and Lance will vanish if he just pinches himself.

“Let’s go,” Lance insists as he makes for the door. And Keith swears he hears him mumble, “Before you change your mind,” under his breath. But that’s probably another figment of his imagination.

Keith wills his feet to move and trails after Lance. Pidge, the monster, flashes him a wink when he checks to make sure he didn’t forget anything. He forces himself not to do something childish like stick his tongue out at her and settles for an exasperated eye roll instead.

The passageway is a thousand times creepier at this hour. A heavy darkness, dense and overbearing, fills the hall. Keith is left to blindly follow the path made by Lance’s phone flashlight. Sparse sunlight that filtered through the tiny cracks in the blinds earlier suddenly seems significantly brighter in retrospect. Thankfully, Keith has never been afraid of the dark. Okay, well, maybe when he was little, and the tree branches outside his window looked like swaying, skeletal fingers itching to kill him in his sleep.

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the bathroom. White tiles cover the walls, while the floors are styled like a grimy checkerboard. Rust colors the edges of the stall doors. The green paint is chipping in numerous places, flecks littering the ground.

Lance releases a long whistle as they enter. He regards the urinals and rusted stalls with thinly veiled discomfort. “These bathrooms are almost as spooky as the ward upstairs.”

Keith hesitantly approaches the sinks. A faint orange film coats the drains. “The one for violent patients?”

“Bingo,” Lance sighs. He steps up to a urinal, and Keith immediately averts his gaze. To the wall, to the window covered in spiderwebs, to anywhere that isn’t where Lance stands. “Like I said, it’s my favorite because it gives me the frickin’ creeps.”

An awful, pregnant silence follows where Keith waits for Lance to get down to business. The sooner he uses the bathroom, the sooner Keith can scout out the area for ghosts and pretend coming along wasn’t just an excuse to spend alone time with Lance. Luckily, Lance continues to talk like nothing is wrong.

“You know,” he starts, “I’ve always wondered if anyone saw Lacy in here.”

“Yeah, I mean, this would’ve been the bathroom the kids used.”

“Definitely. There’s a bathroom at the opposite end of the ward, too, but this is closer to most of the rooms.”

Intrigued, Keith scans the room for any signs of children having used this dismal space. A small stack of footstools sits in the corner for the kids who couldn’t reach the sinks and, in Keith’s opinion, should not have been held in this hellish place. The pastel color of the stalls, another half-assed attempt to soothe the children.

“I guess it is weird none of their spirits have been seen in here.” Keith considers looking Lance’s way, assuming he’s done, but doesn’t have the guts to chance it. “Is that why you brought the EMF?”

“Partly, yeah. I’m just sick of my friends here having all these cool ghost encounters and being able to gush about them to the guests,” Lance admits, irritation seeping into his voice. “And what do I have? Nothing.”

“You can’t force it,” Keith points out lamely.

“I know, I know. It doesn’t make it any less aggravating.” Lance laments, and Keith distinctly feels the weight of Lance’s stare shifting to him. “I carry a piece of equipment on me at all times. In case something happens. Like, say, in the entrance hall during my introductions or in this sketchy bathroom when I have to take a leak.”

Take a leak. Lance's word choice shouldn't make Keith’s body feel warm. It shouldn’t seem so goddamn endearing. Keith wonders if Lance has younger relatives and is used to censoring himself for them. Or if it’s a force of habit from working as a tour guide. Either way, it’s adorable. But it shouldn’t be.

“I mean—” Lance cuts off mid-sentence to let out a high-pitched squeak. “What the fuck, dude?”

Keith swivels to face Lance. Who’s suddenly as pale as a sheet.

“What?” Keith snaps. “Why are you— I didn’t do anything!”

“Uh, don’t lie to me. It’s not funny.”

Okay, now Keith is genuinely concerned. And mildly terrified.

“I swear, I didn’t do anything,” Keith promises. “I really didn’t.”

“So, you’re telling me that when I turned to look out the window, you didn’t blow in my ear?” Lance sets a hand on his hip and cocks it. “I wasn’t born yesterday, dude.”

A chill runs up Keith’s spine, starting at the soles of his feet and stretching to the crown of his head. He’s assaulted by a dizzying blend of fear and anticipation.

“It wasn’t me.” Keith lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Lance, it wasn’t me.”

“What do you mean it wasn’t— oh. Oh my god. Wait.” Lance slaps a hand over his mouth. “It’s happening.”

Then, Keith feels it. A small gust of air brushes the shell of his ear. It trickles across the nape of his neck and down through the open collar of his shirt. He’s hit with another full-body shudder. Holy shit.

Right as he opens his mouth to speak, his words morph into a confused string of curses. There’s a light tug on his jeans, where the fabric clings to his thigh. It’s not enough to hurt or throw him off-balance, but it’s certainly enough to make his blood run cold.

“Okay, this is kinda— uh, nope,” Lance babbles. His eyes zero in on the spot Keith slaps his hand over. Where the spirit grabbed him.

“Who… Is Lacy here with us tonight?” Keith manages between shaky exhales. “Has she come to see us?”

Lance audibly gasps and then tucks his chin against his chest. He adjusts the hem of his shirt with frantic, jerky movements. Tugging it down as if someone’s trying to pull it off. His bulging eyes flit to Keith. He’s scared.

“I think it’s Lacy.” Keith motions between his thigh and Lance’s quivering fingers. “And I think she wants to play with us.”

A startled scoff is punched out of Lance. “Play. Right, right, of course.”

“If it’s her, she won’t hurt us. Right?” Keith searches Lance’s expression for an answer. He’s met with a quick nod.

“Okay, well… Lacy, are you trying to tell us you want to play?”

And, really, when Keith later reflects on what happens next, he wonders why he thought things would transpire differently. Why he ever thought the ghost of a child would react differently. 

Keith has a second to take in the way Lance's eyes expand, the way his mouth opens around a startled cry. And then watches, horrified, as Lance topples forward— falling into Keith.

The cool metal of the stall wall presses into Keith's back as he's pushed against it. Thanks to Lance's reflexes, Keith isn't crushed and instead caged in by Lance. He manages to catch himself mid-fall with both hands braced on either side of Keith's head. Their torsos are a matter of inches apart, and Keith is hyper-aware of every scant inch. They share the same breathing space, the same inhales and exhales as they try to calm themselves down. And Keith makes the monumental mistake of looking at Lance.

Lance, who surrounds Keith completely. A smatter of freckles dot his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His lashes curl toward the sky, fluttering wildly, tickling his brown skin. At this proximity, Keith can fully appreciate the striking combination of blue and caramel brown swirling in his eyes. It’s a darker shade of blue than he initially thought, like the glimmering sheen of a sapphire. Much like the earrings Shiro’s friend, Allura, is fond of wearing. Like the clear surface of the ocean on a blistering summer day.

Summer.

Being around Lance reminds Keith of summer. Of Shiro and Adam dragging him to the beach. Eventually, Keith grew to appreciate the relaxing lull of the waves lapping at the shore. The distant cries of seagulls. And now, sandwiched between Lance and this stall, Keith grasps the full extent of Lance’s appeal.

“Oh,” Lance whispers. Spoken softly into the space between them. It hangs there, casual and painfully inadequate for their current situation. “I… I think that’s a yes.”

“You think?” Keith shifts in hopes of finding a less awkward position. He fails miserably and only seems to bring their bodies closer together. “She sure has a unique sense of humor.”

Lance drops his arms, low enough that his forearms brush Keith’s shoulders. The contact sends Keith’s brain into a frenzied tizzy. His subconscious wars between wanting to wiggle free and wanting to drag Lance down by the collar, to find out just how soft his lips really are. It’s unerringly risky— dangerous. And although Keith knows it, he can’t help but entertain the notion. His mind clings to the fantasy and decides to make him suffer by playing the scenario out in his head.

I bet he’s a good kisser.

It’s the last musing he lets pass through before shutting that train of thought down fast.

“I mean… it’s kinda funny,” Lance mumbles. His voice is rough around the edges. Keith wraps himself up in the sound, commits it to memory. “The ghost of a little girl wants to play with us in a gross, moldy bathroom.”

Lance's strained laughter does nothing to calm Keith's nerves. Everything is swelteringly hot. Tight. A myriad of smells wafts off Lance, curling pleasantly around Keith. The unmistakable scent of fresh cotton— clean clothes. Undertones of coconut, likely from his shampoo or maybe lotion. A skin product? Something fruity like chapstick.

Shit, shit, triple shit.

And, as if things couldn’t get any worse, Lance doesn’t make any attempt at moving. Those big eyes bore directly into Keith’s. Strangely focused and intent. A few heart stopping seconds pass before Lance breaks eye contact but only to study the other features of Keith’s face. His forehead, cheekbones, nose. It’s like Lance is touching him rather than just looking. His stare like fingertips caressing Keith’s skin. The air around them has grown charged, apprehensive.

Keith breathes out a slow and careful exhale. Which is apparently a bad idea. It draws Lance’s attention, of all places, to Keith’s lips. And when his eyes reach their target, Lance lets his mouth gape the slightest bit. Enough to glimpse the sheen of his teeth and pink of his tongue and, oh, he’s licking his lips—

“Oof,” Lance huffs as he’s shoved away. Not roughly, of course, but still rougher than Keith intended.

He couldn’t stand another second of being in such close proximity to Lance. God, it felt like he was going to fucking die. Like he was moments away from disintegrating or bursting into flames.

“Sorry, I, uh.” Keith digs for words but keeps coming up empty. “I just—”

“It’s fine,” Lance concedes with a shrug. The tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks are painted a condemning shade of red. “I, uh…”

Keith narrows his eyes at Lance. The charming, suave tour guide turned nervous wreck. Did he feel it, too?

There’s an apology on the tip of Keith’s tongue when, out of nowhere, Lance cries out. He jerks his head toward Keith wearing the biggest grin Keith has seen him wear all night. Beaming, he hops closer to Keith— as if they hadn’t been stuck in an extremely compromising position minutes prior.

“Keith, holy crap!” Lance bounces on the balls of his feet. Maybe it’s because Keith’s brain is still rebooting, but he’s incredibly confused by the reaction. Lance marches forward and slaps his hands down on Keith’s shoulders. Keith nearly jumps out of his skin as a delirious laugh trickles over Lance’s lips. “We met Lacy!”

The gravity of what happened finally hits Keith. For weeks, months, Lance has been hoping for a paranormal encounter. Some proof that, yes, this asylum is as haunted as advertised. And for some incomprehensible reason, in the relative quiet of this sketchy bathroom, Lance found that proof.

“Oh, fuck,” Keith blurts. “I think you just had your first ghost encounter.”

Lance’s face softens, drawing his smile into a more secretive curve of the lips. He squeezes Keith’s shoulders. “Hell yeah I did.”

The next morning comes sooner than Keith expected.

After the incident with Lacy in the bathroom, Lance wasn’t quite as gung-ho to communicate with the spirits as before. When they returned to Pidge and explained what happened, she became the one who desperately wanted to meet a ghost. The three sat around the EMF for another couple hours before turning in for the night.

Keith lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Counting the number of cracks and suspect stains on the ceiling panels. Stressing over the distance— or lack thereof— between his sleeping bag and Lance’s. And then there was Pidge to deal with. She’s always had a habit of tossing her covers off in the middle of the night so, while Keith lay awake stressing, he grappled with an onslaught of blankets and kicking feet.

At his other side, Lance was a silent sleeper. He slept with a set of headphones on and a sleeping mask secured over his eyes. For a short while, Keith watched Lance. Resting on his back, chest steadily rising and falling. When Lance eventually turned onto his side, facing Keith, Keith took that as his signal to at least try to get some sleep.

Now, as he gathers up his things, Keith is glad he got some shut-eye.

“Well, that was fun,” Pidge comments, stretching her arms over her head. She cracks her neck, too, for safe measure. “Although that floor was a tad, uh... unforgiving.”

“Yeah, the tour may cost money, but the back pain is free.” Lance throws in a wink, and Keith quietly stands off to the side, screaming inside his head. “I’m really happy to hear you guys enjoyed it, though.”

“Uh, of fucking course we did.” Pidge nudges Keith. “I mean, you two got trolled by Lacy. Lacy.”

We did, Keith realizes. Hours later and the truth is still hard to believe. It feels like it happened to someone else. Like he'd watched the events unfold through another person's eyes.

“You should've seen the look on Keith's face,” Lance teases. He's donned an army green jacket and gray beanie to combat the chill of the early November morning. Fringes of brown hair escape from the confines of his beanie. He reminds Keith of a model. Effortlessly attractive, dressed casual but smart. It's entirely unfair. “Can’t believe the resident Ghost Expert was bested by a little girl.”

“What the— seriously?” Keith tugs his own jacket tighter around him. There's a strong breeze here at the building's entrance. They shuffle a bit closer and start down the gravel path leading to the main parking lot. “She shoved you! And we both know how little strength a spirit of her size and age has.”

“I— well, yeah, maybe she was messing with me, but that was because I tripped.”

“Over what? Thin air?”

“Lacy's leg, probably. She stuck it out, and I didn't see it because, you know. Her being a ghost and all.”

“You tripped?” Pidge scrunches up her nose. It's a look Keith has come to know all too well; it doesn't bode well for either of them. “This is the first I'm hearing about this.”

So, Keith and Lance might have left some details out when regaling their story to Pidge last night. If Keith told her what happened between the two of them— not that anything technically happened— he knew damn well she'd never let him live it down. And although Lance had only known her for a few hours, he seemed to come to the same unfortunate conclusion.

“I tripped and fell against a bathroom stall,” Lance explains, the lie rolling smoothly off his tongue. “Embarrassing, yeah, but only because Lacy tripped me.”

Keith takes the bait immediately. “Say whatever you gotta say to make yourself feel better.”

“You…” Lance studies Keith appreciatively. Keith squirms under the blatant scrutiny. “You know what? Admit it. You had a good time.”

God, did he. Keith had prepared himself for disappointment. For fanfare and overzealous tales of hauntings, of death and vengeful poltergeists.

But there's one thing he certainly didn't prepare for: Lance.

“Yeah,” Keith mumbles, averting his gaze to the mismatched chunks of gravel underfoot. “Yeah, I guess so.”

When he's only met with silence, Keith eventually lifts his head, and Lance is giving him a Look. The kind of significant look that warrants a capital 'L.’

“You should apply to work here.”

“Wh— what?” Keith stops in his tracks, coincidentally not far from his car. “Apply to be a tour guide?”

“Yeah, dude.” Lance folds his arms across his chest. “It’s not like you don't have the experience or interest. And who can say no to easy money in college?”

Well. Really, who can say no to that? It would certainly help if he had enough to pay for stuff Shiro always volunteered to buy for him. Adam, too.

“I, uh…”

“Listen,” Lance drawls, scrubbing at the back of his neck. His eyes dart to the building behind Keith, the nearby trees, even the crisp leaves drifting from the branches overhead. “You really helped me out last night. I know, I know, before you say anything, I get it. It's not like you forced Lacy to show up or bribed her. But she did communicate with us and, well. I kinda feel like it's all thanks to you.”

The confession settles pleasantly in the pit of Keith's gut. “Lance…”

“You're like— oh! You're like my good luck charm!” Lance puffs out his chest, clearly proud of his choice of words. Until they fully register, and he reddens. “I mean— okay, you know, like a rabbit’s foot or, like—”

“I understand,” Keith interrupts, more than happy to save Lance from his fumbling. Although watching a guy like Lance turn into a stuttering mess over him is flattering. “I’ll think about it.”

At his side, Pidge’s jaw goes slack. She gawks at Keith like she's seeing him for the first time. Then glances at Lance, who appears equally surprised by Keith's answer. The reactions are too much. The half-smile playing at Lance's lips is too much.

“Okay! Okay, uh.” Lance waves his phone in the air. “I'll just. Get your number from Hunk or something. And you can— just?”

“I'll see you around, Lance,” Keith chuckles, shifting on his feet in hopes of ending their conversation. He turns on his heel and throws up his hand in a wave mirroring Lance’s.

Pidge falls into step beside Keith. She's practically shaking with excited energy. Her voice is low when she addresses Keith. “You've got a lot of explaining to do, Kogane.”

A burst of laughter cuts through the air. “Yeah!” Lance suddenly shouts. “Yeah, I'll see you around! Mr. Keith!”

Keith can't open the car door fast enough. Drops his keys twice before he finally gets a grip on the remote and jabs the unlock button. Pidge is outright giggling as she dives for the passenger door.

“Please tell me you're not going to go full disaster gay,” Pidge pleads, plopping into her seat. She leans against the middle console when Keith joins her. “Please tell me you're going to keep your promise to that poor, lovesick fool and text him.”

Keith curls his fingers around the steering wheel. He watches Lance through the windshield, disappearing into the distance. Groaning, he drops his forehead on the steering wheel, punctuating the groan with a fitting honk.

“I'm doomed.”