Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

New York, 2019

When the mug moves just an inch out of Keith’s reach for the tenth time, he snaps. “Look, I know you’re here. You’ve been annoying me for the past week. If you just showed yourself…” All Keith receives for his efforts is a gust of cold wind as whatever ghost haunts his new establishment whips through him. No being shimmers in front of him though, and Keith sighs. This is how it’s been for the previous six days.

He wouldn’t categorize the presence as a poltergeist per se, but whoever is here loves to mess with him. Moving his drinks, mixing up his notes, even going as far as to annoy his clients by sliding their seat just a few inches back and causing them to fall on the ground when they go to sit. It shouldn’t be funny, but Keith always has to hide a smile.

But then Keith will remember when the invisible spirit tried to attack him, or more specifically his hair, with scissors the other afternoon and that smile is quickly wiped off of his usual emotionless face. Living with a possible vengeful ghost is painful.

Trying to gain a clientele for his business is even more so.

Necromancy has become a lost art, but Keith excels in his craft.

Not many people know of Keith and his talents--most accept the lost they have suffered and learn to move on. Some do seek him though, whether they see his carefully hidden business cards in bookstores and coffee shops or hear of his name from past clients. During a good week, he’ll have a client a day. On a bad week, he may get no one. He had been in Boston first and just now moved to New York, looking for a fresh start. Bigger cities bring the most clients and the highest concentration of magical energy. Locating himself near covens always seem to help his own rituals as well--that shared spiritual energy used for two completely different purposes.

Suddenly his coffee mug flies off the table, shattering on the wood floors. Keith stares at the mess before his eyes flash in anger. “That’s it.” His chair screeches as he abruptly stands. His eyes flicker around the room, and a scowl hardens on his lips. Snapping his fingers, a thin black ring on his right hand glowing, Keith yells, “Reveal.”

An aspiration blinks to life in front of him as they lazily sit on his table. Their eyes shoot up, a brief “Rude!” tumbling off their tongue, and Keith can’t help but stare at the dead man in front of him.

The ghost is beautiful.

There’s really no way else to describe him.

Beautiful, gorgeous, why-the-hell-is-this-man-dead-because-Keith-would-have-loved-to-date-him-if-he-wasn’t-an-ass.

That thought breaks Keith’s concentration for a moment, a frown sitting on his face as he’s saddened by the thought of the man’s short life. He wonders how this spirit died and then immediately tries to forget about that.

Keith is used to working with ghosts and bodies and grieving partners and other relatives--but the ones he brings back are usually older, who still have someone wanting them alive. Sometimes he works with the occasional infant or child, and those days weigh the most on his mind. This entity, on the other hand, only haunts the place; no one is here for his rebirth. Part of Keith has to wonder why a ghost would torture themself by hanging around a person who deals with the dead…. though, where would one find a more perfect match?

“That better not be a pity expression,” the spirit snaps, a biting snarl at the back of his throat as he crosses his arms.

Keith remains silent, studying.

His colors are muted or simply various shades of gray, not strong enough on this plane to appear as he would have when he was alive, but with his dark skin tone and hair and what looks to have been blue eyes at one point in time, Keith can’t deny that this spirit is gorgeous. Short locks tickle his forehead, drifting above his eyes, and his body is lean, but he must have some hidden upper body strength with those broad shoulders. Keith can even spot faint freckles on his cheeks as they fade away the longer this spirit remains visible. Though most likely not the outfit he died in, he wears what appears to be formal clothes--black suspenders, dress pants, and a light button down shirt.

The ghost claps his hands, and the sound echoes in the small room. This gains Keith’s attention. “The name’s Lance, by the way,” he begins to prattle on, “Not that you seem to care. You have very little manners, don’t you? My mamá would be disappointed in you, but since she raised a perfect son, I’m going to apologize for not introducing myself earlier, though you did invade my space. Honestly, you think a necromancer would be wise enough to check for ghosts first, but apparently not. I--”

“What the hell do you want?” Keith asks, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Lance rolls his eyes, drifting forward until Keith’s breath begins to frost in front of him because of their proximity to one another. “For you to bring me back to life of course, duh .”

In the end, Keith accepts Lance’s offer--though briefly wonders why he’ll be helping out an annoying ghost for free--but the ritual to bring Lance back to life can not begin right away. Magically, Keith needs to build up his stamina, and the auspicious day, where the spirit world draws closer to this mortal one and when the energy will be easiest to channel, won’t be arriving until the end of the week.

So for the next five days, Keith learns what it is like to live twenty four/seven with a talkative roommate. They fall into a bickering-like routine and slowly start to inch closer to one another, mentally and physically, until Lance has found a permanent spot hovering over Keith’s shoulder while he deals with his clients, wanting to lively up, in Lance’s words, the boring exchanges. During these moments, the ghost remains visible to Keith’s gaze only.

A chilling breeze brushes over him as if the ghost’s hands dance over Keith’s shoulders. “Up close you’re very pretty,” Lance comments, winking as Keith tries to focus on the client before him.

“Shut up,” he growls, cheeks heating without his permission.

“What?” says the lady across from him.

“Not you,” he placates her quickly before directing a dark glare at Lance.

“Wow, you don’t take compliments well, do you?” Lance muses with a sly smirk as he leans in closer. “I can work with that.”

And a few minutes later, Lance enacts his plan.

“I wonder what it would be like,” he begins to whisper, tone low and husky, “to run my hands through your hair, tugging on it until you’re moaning my name. To hear those sweet cries as you come.” Keith’s eye simply twitches at his words. Leaning away, Lance pouts at the unfulfilling reaction. “Aw, you’re no fun. I guess it’s just compliments that rile you up.” He taps his chin in thought as Keith continues working with his client, straining to listen to her word for word and to not be distracted by the ghost beside him. “Hmm what should I start with? Comparing your eyes to the stars in the night sky? Or that flawless complexion and inky black hair that actually looks incredibly soft from this view--”

Something clicks in Keith’s brain, and turning to interrupt the babbling ghost, a devilish grin appears on his face, already stopping the spirit in his tracks. “Lance, you’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever met. Now please shut up.”

If ghosts could blush, Keith knows Lance would have, by the way his eyes widen in shock, mouth dropping open, and how he disappears from Keith’s vision. He’ll add one more point to his growing score. Returning to the lady, he manages to explain before she runs away thinking he’s talking to voices in his head.

“Why are you even here?” Keith has to ask when Lance reappears a few hours later after having composed himself.

Usually ghosts haunt the area they had died in, especially when they have some unfinished business, but Lance is too young--in his early twenties at most, the same age as Keith--to have lived in this apartment complex recently. Maybe he had been drawn to the spiritual energy surrounding this whole block, and Keith leaves his thoughts at that.

“Honestly, I can’t remember anymore.” Lance sighs as he sits on the edge of Keith’s desk, eyes flickering over the loose leaf pages of ritual notes. “Things were fuzzy and then you showed up; it was like I had a purpose again.”

“To annoy me?”

Lance smirks. “That’s right.”

“You think I’m gorgeous though,” Keith comments with a smirk of his own as he leans back in his seat, the chair swiveling slightly.

Ardently waving his finger, Lance’s lips quirk before he replies, “Ah ah, you said that about me . I said you’re pretty. Obviously, you’ve already fallen in love with me, which I guess is just my curse.”

“I have a rule not to get involved with clients.”

Lance pouts for the second time today, but then says something that catches Keith off guard, just from the sincerity of it. “Well, how about when I’m no longer a client?”

Part of Keith wants to roll his eyes at Lance’s one track mind, but the other half of him is intrigued by Lance’s proposition. He’s never had this much fun with anyone in a long time; it would be a shame to see that companionship disappear when Lance comes back to life. “We’ll see… after we do your ritual tomorrow night.”

The teasing fades away and those pale eyes brighten with unadulterated hope. “Really, that soon already?”

Keith nods, “Yeah.”

A quiet “Thank you” leaves Lance’s lips, and Keith almost misses it.  

“Focus on someone important from your old life, a memory surrounding them perhaps,” Keith explains, drawing the ritual circle with an old piece of white chalk. He winches slightly as it squeaks across the floor. Usually, the client will have a lock of hair or some meaningful object from the deceased, but this time, both of them will have to work with memories alone. Keith just hopes they’re tangible enough.

Lance’s eyes are closed as he begins to mull through his memories. It would also help if the person Lance chose is here in the room as well, but Keith never thought to ask the ghost where his family currently resides. “Yeah, alright. I have someone,” Lance voices after a moment.

“Open your eyes,” Keith commands. He watches Lance absorb the sights around him. He stands, or floats, in the middle of the circle, dark bluish flames dancing around him; they do not choke the air with smoke nor do they burn the floorboards beneath them. Keith remains just beyond the chalk line, pacing around the circle. “Concentrate as hard as you can.”

A crease forms between Lance’s brows.

When Keith begins to chant, voice flowing through the Latin without stumbling once, the flames grow, and Lance almost becomes invisible, hidden. Keith’s skin prickles as his voice rises as high as the flames; dark energy dances along his skin, and a pitch black swallows the whites of his eyes for a moment. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the fire disappears with a hiss and the room darkens. Keith’s harsh breaths penetrate the stillness of the air. Cautiously, he calls out, “Lance?”

“Y-yeah, I’m still here.”

It’s hard to see in this blackness; the crescent shape of the moon provides little light. Something cold drifts across his lips for a second before a sigh washes over his skin originating from someone in front of him. “Lance?” he calls out softly again.

“It didn’t work. I’m still a ghost.”

Now Keith is the one with the creased forehead. “You sure?” His hand reaches out in front of him, and though he flinches from the biting air, that’s all there is, air.    

“Yes, Keith, I’m sure .” The lights flicker on with the snap of Keith’s fingers and before him floats Lance, in his muted form and shadowed eyes. A frown sits on his lips.

Running over the ritual in his head, Keith bites his lip, wondering if he pronounced a word incorrectly, drew the circle with the wrong kind of chalk, or somehow messed up the ritual in another way. He has never failed before. Keith looks back to the ghost with an inquisitive glare. “Who did you think of?”

Lance answers immediately. “My mamá.”

If he had said a past ex lover than Keith would be tempted to try again, forcing Lance to think of a real connection… but blood relations can be some of the strongest bonds. “You thought of her the whole way through; no one else popped into your head to mess it up?”

Rolling his eyes, Lance crosses his arms, body taught. “I did everything you told me. It was just a memory of me and her making pasteles before my siblings came home from work. We had just moved to America at the time. I barely knew any English, but my brother Luis was slowly teaching us. I was the youngest so I was often at home with my sisters…” Lance trails off before he blinks, snapping back to the present. “Was that memory good enough?”

“Y-yeah,” Keith’s voice accidentally cracks, mouth dry, “That was perfect.”

After a few more attempts and a week later, Keith finally breaks.

He calls a friend from the payphone near his home. The quarter pings as he inserts it into the money slot, and the dial tone punctures his ear drums as he types in the seven digit phone number that he memorized the first day it was given to him.

“Shiro, I need your occult expertise.”

The male witch immediately responds with, “Yeah, shoot.”

His fingers curl around the telephone cord as he begins to hum in search of words. “So there’s this person I’m trying to bring back… and it’s not working.”

“You’ve double checked everything?”

“Of course, I’m no amateur,” he can’t help but bite back. Shiro releases a short chuckle at the rise he got out of Keith. “I’ve done it three times with him thinking of different people in his life. It never works.”

“Huh, do you mind if I come over? Maybe something else is up with your apartment that you can’t see.”

Keith almost nods before he remembers his best friend isn’t right in front of him. “That’d be great; thanks.”

Shiro arrives the next day, and Lance wears a grin in anticipation. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet your family,” he laughs as he lays down on the couch. “And here I thought you were a hermit with no friends. I mean, I’ve been here for what, two, three months? I haven’t even seen you court anyone, much less have a friend over.”

Keith looks up from his books, eyes settling into a familiar glare. “You promise to be on your best behavior?”

“I always am.”

As an initiation into the apartment, Lance trips Shiro good naturally before he appears in front the new man. Keith shivers as Lance floats next to him and wants to wack him on the arm even if it will be meaningless, but decides to settle on a death glare. Lance remains fairly oblivious to this, instead easily chatting with Shiro as if he found a new best friend or has a new toy to play with. Distantly, Keith hears his name being thrown around but missed the beginnings of the conversation to understand its context.

“I like him,” Shiro smiles to Keith, before wandering around the place in search of the problem. Keith watches his friend from a distance before he’s distracted by Lance’s presence; it feels as if his whole body is wrapped in a frost blanket as Lance drapes his arm over Keith’s shoulder.

“See, Keith, your friend has good taste. Unlike you.” Lance side eyes him with a quirk of his lips.

“Really?” Keith arches an eyebrow. “‘Cause I recall finding you attractive so does that mean you’re not in good taste?”

Lance visibly mulls over the predicament he has now found himself in. “I’ll concede that you have good taste in men, but in hairstyles? In clothes? Hell no.”

Leaning closer, Keith’s words dance on his breath. “I quite vividly recall you mentioning something about tugging on my hair while you fucked me… I think you’re a liar, Lance.”

Despite the paleness of his figure, Lance’s cheeks glow and his gaze glimmers in amusement. “I guess I am. I don’t take back either of those statements though.”

“Oh? That’s good to know.”

They reconvene with Shiro and proceed to chat for the rest of the afternoon, about everything and nothing. Most of their conversation tends to lean towards the ritual as Shiro learns what aspects went into it. The frown on his face is only a little troubling.

A chirp from Shiro’s phone breaks up their eventual lighthearted conversation; Lance’s form flickers, having been startled. Keith ignores Shiro as the man checks whatever text he received--honestly, he’s told Shiro time after time to not bring technology into his work space, but he never listens--until he hears a faint voice ask, “What’s that?”

“Hm?” Shiro pauses for a moment before his eyes flicker to Lance. “Oh, my phone.”

Lance’s face twists as if calculating something uncomputable. “Uh okay.” He seems more confused than satisfied now, and Keith lazily watches, head resting on the arm rest, as Shiro suddenly piques with interest at this exchange.

“Yeah, I just got an email, but the wifi here sucks. Cell service stinks too. Honestly, you couldn’t have picked a better location?” His dark gray eyes cut to Keith before drifting back to Lance.

“You know computers and tech gunk up my magic. Maybe you just need to get a better cell plan,” Keith retorts back. He would have missed the way Lance’s face blanches at the conversation being flung around if he hadn’t been staring at the spirit.

Shiro, Keith will eventually understand a few hours later, had been subtly gathering information, and by the way Lance fidgets, looking at Shiro’s phone with an untrustworthy light in his gaze, he most likely accomplished whatever he was trying to achieve.  

Keith doesn’t know what outcome Shiro could have possibly come to. It settles in his mind until the sky darkens outside, and his best friend decides it is time to depart.

“Walk me to my car?” Shiro raises an eyebrow, leaving no room for protest, but Keith understands. There’s something Shiro needs to say without their ghostly audience.

Snow falls on Keith’s hair as he walks down the steps; flakes catch into his long locks, decorating his head with sparkling white dots until they melt. It’s not the first snow of the season, but with a light dusting of the powder already covering the walkways and buildings undisturbed, it might be the prettiest. A rapid, stinging breeze has him shivering, yet this time he knows it’s not Lance’s doing.  

“Keith,” Shiro says suddenly with kind eyes as if he already has all the answers, and Keith gulps, “Maybe you should find out when Lance died. It might solve a lot of your problems.”

Taking a surprised step backwards, he narrows his eyes. “What--why can’t you just tell me?”

“Because I only have a hypothesis that may not be entirely accurate. Besides, you need to figure it out for yourself.”

“You suck,” Keith retorts back, sticking out his tongue like the five year old child he is.

“Good night, Keith,” Shiro replies with a shake of his head and a breathy laugh. “But just try it, alright?” With that, he drives off into the night.

It’s true, Keith has never asked about any aspect surrounding Lance’s death. For both of them, it had been an unspoken forbidden subject. Now Keith has to break that pact. When he walks back inside, he finds Lance sitting at his work desk, feet propped up on the table, and he would have been crinkling Keith’s notes if he was corporeal. “What’s the last date you remember?”

“You mean, when I died?” Lance tilts his head to the side in thought. “1920, middle of the year I think. Why?” Expression faltering when he catches sight of Keith’s wide eyes as the puzzle pieces begin to fit together in Keith’s mind, Lance continues, words hurried as he wrings his hands together. “What’s your face doing? It’s freaking me out.”

Stomach dropping in realization, Keith holds his breath, trapping it forever. “Do you know what year it is now?”

“I don’t know, 1921, 1922?” Lance casually shrugs, unassuming of the whole situation yet a hint of fear creeps across his face. “Though I have to say, things have changed a lot. What the hell is email or ‘why-fy’? And I don’t care what your friend says, there’s no way that rectangular, glow-y object is a telephone.”

“2019,” Keith finds himself choking out.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s twenty-nineteen . It’s been ninety nine years since your death.” Keith drags a hand through his long hair, turning away from Lance for a moment in thought. “This is why it hasn’t worked. You’ve been dead for too long; all your Earthly connections are gone.”

Lance’s face is blank when Keith gains the courage to find him again. “My family… dead too, huh?”

“I-I didn’t mean--” Keith stops because it is true, “You’re quite calm for someone who found out they’re a hundred year old ghost.”

“Ninety nine,” Lance corrects with a slight, humorless laugh, “Oh trust me, I’m freaking out on the inside.”

And as Keith expected, his unaffected resolve soon cracks. It starts off slow at first, that joking facade splintering as a wobbly frown sets in, and suddenly it pounds into Lance all at once as he sinks to his knees, entire form flickering. Keith never thought ghosts could cry.

But they can.

“Lance,” Keith begins, voice softer than it has ever been, quiet too. He kneels in front of the ghost, hand reaching out though it falls through the air. “This means I can’t bring you back.”

With no one on Earth left to remember Lance and with no one left who he remembers, Lance floats in the ether between life and complete death, not yet crossed over into either realm and unable to go to the side he desires. Only a truly powerful necromancer could pull him back to the living, even without those tethers.  

“At all?” Lance’s voice is small.

“At all.”

Lance falls into Keith as if he wants to be held but becomes a puff of smoke in Keith’s waiting arms instead, dissipating into the air.

The apartment drowns in silence without Lance’s presence. Keith hasn't heard from him in almost a full twenty four hours and worry has already set in. With his connection to the spiritual realm, he knows that Lance hasn’t fully passed on at least, but he wishes Lance would reveal himself again or break one of his mugs, just as a sign to say ‘hey, I’m still here; you haven’t lost me yet.’

It’s difficult to work without Lance’s low voice spewing out nonsense to fill the quiet space. Keith feels far too warm now; nothing cools him down anymore.

When Lance does eventually reappear, his form is light, parts of him--his feet, even his hands to some extent--are practically invisible, as if he has no more energy to concentrate on keeping his entire body visible. He looks at Keith with sad eyes, no hello on his lips, only saying, “I want to try something. Close your eyes.”

Curious, Keith willingly complies, defenses lowered. Unexpectedly his lips burn, numbing from the cold air that berates them; he knows what Lance is trying to do, and subconsciously he leans in closer to the ghost, not that it will help. He’s only kissing air.

“I’m sorry,” Lance backs away as Keith opens his eyes. His lips are chapped now. “I thought, I thought…”

Keith knows. “That a kiss would bring you back to life?”

“Yeah, it’s stupid. One of the fairy tales popped into my head, and I thought why not try because I like you and you like me, but it was stupid.” Lance squeezes his eyes closed as if he holds back another batch of tears; his lips quiver.

“Hey, no.” Keith wants to cup his face but can’t. “No idea is stupid right now. I am so sorry that my magic isn’t strong enough for what you need. I--”

“ Keith.”

“I may not be able to bring you back, but I can help you pass over fully, so you’re no longer in this life. You’d--you’d be able to see your family.”

The longing in Lance’s eyes shatters all of Keith’s mental walls. “That, that sounds good.”

Similar to the rebirth ritual, this one also has to be done at a precise moment, a day that is a little more than two months away. Internally, Keith is glad he has a few more months left with Lance, knowing that he must pass on to find peace but wanting to be selfish for just a while longer.

One evening, as they lay on the couch together to watch the roaring fire--so close that they would be touching if Lance was alive--Keith fights off the encroaching hands of sleep as Lance interrupts his battle. “I need a favor,” Lance says, nervously biting his lower lip.

Keith twists his body to face Lance. “Whatever you need.”

“I want to know what happened to my family. Just anything that’s available,” Lance responds faintly, as if his form struggles to maintain itself on this plane despite the fact that he is clearly visible, more than he has been these past few days. “Our last name got changed to McClain and we came over in 1908; you can try city records with that maybe?”

“Of course,” Keith replies just as quietly, not wanting to interrupt the hush that has fallen onto the apartment. In this moment, he wants to reach out to Lance--to touch his skin and feel his warm breath and heartbeat, console him in any way--but it’s a futile thought. He falls asleep pretending he does so in Lance’s solid arms, and for a moment, his imagination feels too real until even that drifts away from conscious thought.

The next morning is too bright and cheerful for what Keith has to do. Having snowed the night before, the air nips at his skin, and his shoes are caked in slush by the time he reaches City Hall. Rays of the sun melt the thin layer of snow, streams of water rushing down the sidewalks and into the drains. He can’t help the frown that falls onto his face as he wraps his long coat tighter around his frame.

“Hello,” Keith says to one of the city’s employees, finally finding the department he needs, as his fingers absentmindedly drum on the counter. “I’m looking for records on the McClain family; they came over around 1908 or so.”

With a nod, a few keys clack as the employee searches the database for any imputed information. Before he left, Keith had told Lance not to expect anything; the ghost seemed to understand. “Hmm, not much here,” the employee speaks up, their glasses reflecting the document they read, “They did pass through Ellis Island though…. Let’s see, we have a Rosa, Rafael, Veronica, Luis, Marco, Rachel, and umm, the document’s smudged a little but Lance?”

“Yeah, yeah that sounds right.”

“Not much else I’m afraid…” their words trail off as they begin to dig deeper, into more modern records. “Oh wait, it seems like a Nadia McClain is still alive, though she’d be ninety four. She doesn’t live in this country anymore.”

Lance had never mentioned that name and Keith has to assume this was a niece or even a younger sibling born after his death. At least he won’t be going back home empty handed. In a way, he knows Lance will be glad to hear that his family had been able to move past his death to keep living their own lives.

"Oh there's an address here too, probably where they settled when they came over." They write it down on a piece of paper and slide it across the counter. "I'm sure it's been renovated or torn down by now..."

Keith swallows when he reads the messy scribble, streaked because of the wet ink. "I know where this is."

“You a relative of the family?” the employee kindheartedly asks as Keith turns to leave.

“In a way.”

Thanking the person, he heads home, to a place where the number and street address match what's on the creased scrap of paper. Lance had died in Keith’s apartment; it’s a bitter thought to dwell on.

It’s even harder to say out loud as he watches Lance’s expression turn to one of nostalgia as he mutters, “I always thought this place seemed vaguely familiar.” Automatically, as the words simply tumble from his gray lips, Lance floats around the apartment, narrating tales of childhood injuries and teasing arguments with his siblings and overall genuine, happy moments spent with his entire family.

His form glows, becoming a little more solid with every memory, and Keith is just happy to sit and listen.

On one of the last nights before the ritual, as they lay in bed with the shadows creeping up the walls, Keith officially asks him, “How’d you die?”

“The flu.” Lance turns to face Keith, entire body pale and gray in the moonlight. “A stupid way to die, right?”

“You wanted to go out in a blaze of glory or peacefully in your old age, huh?” Keith humorlessly smiles, watching Lance with mournful eyes.

“Something like that,” he nods in agreement, “I always imagined myself having a family one day with someone who loved me. But yet here I am ninety nine years later finally falling in love.” Those eyes snap up to meet Keith’s; they’re clearer tonight, a little more intense and a little more lively.

He ducks his head, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks. “You know, I always laughed when other practitioners would warn me not to fall in love with the ghosts I work with, thinking it was impossible... who knew it would be so easy.”

“Do you regret it?” Lance asks suddenly, concern laced in his voice.

“No, I’ll never regret falling in love with you, Lance,” Keith sternly says, hands resting close to Lance’s and aches to grab onto them, “Never.”

“Even when I’ll be gone for good soon?” Lance continues as his mouth dips into an unpleasant frown, “It seems like a crappy deal--”

“Never means never. And I could ask you the same thing about me.” With an eyebrow arched, Keith awaits Lance’s response, only slightly concerned for what it may hold.

But Lance smiles then, finally understanding. “My answer would be the same as yours.” With this, Keith falls asleep content while Lance remains forever awake.

At one point, Keith wakes up as his body stiffens when arms wrap around him and a face nuzzles into his back. It’s cold, the chill racing up his spine and sending goose flesh across his skin. “Uh Lance? What’re you doing?”

“Hmm.”

As he turns, the feeling evaporates, and suddenly no one holds him. Lance still lies next to him though, a confused expression twisting his face. “Nothing,” Keith mumbles instead.

A coldness crosses his cheek, and even without looking, Keith knows Lance is trying to touch him. “You alright?” Lance’s voice flutters across his skin. Keith squeezes his eyes shut, trying to remember what it felt like a few seconds ago with someone physically beside him. “Keith?”

Then suddenly it’s back, fingers caressing his skin, brushing just under his eyes, and twirling a lock of his hair, before tucking it behind his ear and away from his eyes. Cautiously, Keith’s eyelids open, and he comes face to face with a human in vibrant colors. Brown skin, darker brown hair, so many freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose, and deep, rich blue irises that swirl with too many emotions to handle. Lance’s lips are a pale pink as they part to ask a question.

“What’s wrong?”

Even as Keith reaches out, fingers shaking between them, Lance already begins to revert back, that grayness washing over his features, until Keith is left grasping at air again.

“You’re freaking me out,” Lance tries again, eyebrows furrowing.

“Kiss me,” Keith replies instead.

Lance releases a grunt of confusion but eagerly complies. Keith feels nothing on his lips at first, a bitter gust of air, until there’s actual pressure on his mouth and warmth flowing through him. They kiss and kiss and kiss, Keith’s hands wrapping in Lance’s hair, chocolate strands pooling across his skin, and then his hands grip nothing and his lips are abandoned and Lance returns to gray.

“What’s happening?” Lance quietly asks with a hot breath and cold body. Something slips down his cheek. “Why can I only touch you for a little bit?”

“I thought you couldn’t come back,” Keith mutters mostly to himself. Eyes narrowing, mind calculating the odds, he concentrates as hard as he can, reaching out to grab onto Lance, clasping a solid, living hand. Color erupts from the contact, spreading across the ghost’s whole body.

If Keith placed a hand on Lance’s chest, he wonders if he’ll feel a heartbeat as well, one that would vibrate through his fingers and into his very soul. “I think we need to try again, the rebirth ritual.”

Lance purses his lips, though still grips Keith’s hands, their fingers intertwining. “I don’t have anyone else to think of. We went through my whole family.”

“That’s true, but you have a new Earthly tether now.”

“I do?--oh.” A small smile graces those lips. “ I do . You think it’ll work?”

Keith finds himself breaking away from Lance’s hold, fingers now gently dancing over Lance’s warm skin, causing his eyelids to flutter closed upon the soft contact. “I hope; God, I hope so.”

.

.

.

It works.

Chapter Text

New York, 2020

Lance thought finding out he had been dead for about a century would have been the most shocking thing he has ever discovered; he’s wrong.

“I may have missed a hundred years of new stuff, but this is just impossible .” He cups the water in his hands, bringing it to his face as he watches the galaxy-colored, sparkly water dribble down between the cracks of his fingers. Through his shock, Lance can’t help the smile that slowly grows on his face. “What’d you call this again?”

“A bath bomb.”

“It’s… exquisite.”

Keith nuzzles his face into Lance’s neck, who sighs, leaning against the man behind him as they share a bath together. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“Warm water without having to heat it over the stove? Sorcery in the form of a little purple ball? Not to mention the bubble bath yesterday? Of course I’m enjoying it… all of this.” Lance still recalls the sensation of the bubbles tingling his skin as he scooped some up to blow into Keith’s face before discovering the works of art he could make with the foamy substance--bubble beards, wild hairdos, all accompanied by Keith’s sweet laughter. “I’m enjoying you too.”

Kisses are pressed into his wet skin. “I can’t believe I’m competing with warm water and bath bombs for your affection.”

“Please, Keith,” Lance playfully huffs as he sinks his body further into the water, closing his eyes and listening to Keith’s heartbeat as the other wraps his arms around him. “Cute boys are always in style. But bath bombs are truly life changing.”

Humming in agreement, Keith accepts his placement on the hierarchy of important things in Lance’s new life. “We need to go shopping tomorrow,” Keith reminds him, carding a hand through Lance’s hair, and water droplets from his hand run down Lance’s face. “As much as I love seeing you in my clothes, you need some of your own.”

“Mmm, I guess,” Lance sighs, quite fond of wearing Keith’s sweatshirts and basking in his scent--the flowery laundry detergent that clings to the material and immediately screams Keith whenever he catches a whiff of it. With a lidded gaze, he stares up at Keith with a quiet smile.

Leaning down to place a kiss on Lance’s exposed forehead, Keith asks, “Want me to wash your hair?”

“Please.”

Lance is almost lulled to sleep by the rhythmic movements of Keith’s hands soaping up his hair. They stay in the bath until their skin prunes and the sky has faded into a brisk twilight peaking through the curtained window.

“Can’t you just whip up a batch of clothes for me?” Lance whines with fake stubbornness as he stands in front of a place that Keith calls a mall. So many people and so many stores; anxiety of the unknown irritates his churning stomach.

As Keith shoves him through some department store called Macy’s, Lance is transported. The tiles are white and the lights reflect on the floor, and dresses of all styles, lengths, and colors are gathered towards the right of the entrance. Before them stands rows of perfume and cosmetic boutiques. Lance doesn’t even know where to begin.

Keith’s hand brushes the back of his own as he rolls his eyes. Sparks tingle up Lance’s arms. “I’m not that type of magician. I only deal with the dead.”

“Yeah, and you’re also not, how do you say it now, a fashionista, a trendsetter? Shiro has better style than you.” Lance unashamedly rakes his gaze across Keith’s dark t-shirt, pants, and fingerless gloves. The only spark of color on him are the violet hues swirling through his irises.

“Shiro has to help prepare for his coven’s ritual. I, on the other hand, am free.”

“Lucky me,” Lance cheekily replies with a beaming smile. “Pidge has enlightened me to the fact that your hairstyle is stuck in the 80s, by the way.”

Automatically, Keith pats his hair as if trying to tame the constant bedhead state it finds itself in. The ends brush the tops of his shoulders, and his bangs curl into his eyes. Locks frame his face in waves, the inky blackness a perfect combination with his light skin tone. Lance would be lying if he said he hated Keith’s hair--it’s so soft and fluffy.

Hard glare set in place, Keith scowls. “Careful now, I could give you the ugliest outfit and tell you that’s what’s in fashion right now.”

“You wouldn’t!” Lance’s eyes widen in mock horror.

“Try me,” Keith smirks as he begins to walk towards the men’s clothing section, not stopping to see Lance’s aghast face. Even the person he loves betrays him.

“I can pull off anything you throw at me!” he yells to Keith, hands cupped in front of his mouth, ignoring the scowls of older adults shopping around him. Finally, his boyfriend turns around. “That’s right, Keith, I’m not afraid to embarrass you in public!”

“Oh my God.” Mortified with red staining his cheeks, Keith shields his face with his hand, pace increasing. What a lovely win for Lance.

It’s tedious looking through the racks and shelves of clothes and of all the different styles. Short sleeves, long sleeves, tank tops, turtle necks, V necks; and that is just for shirts, not including colors and prints. Pants are a whole different beast. Skinny, regular, how ever else you can cut pants to fit your body nowadays. Not to mention figuring out what size Lance fits into. The numbers are seemingly random, and Lance’s head swims in the confusion. Plus, twenty dollars for a single shirt? There was a time when all of Lance’s clothes were just hand-me-downs from his two older brothers. What type of of world has he woken up in?

Keith is not much help either, humming as he slowly scans the racks for something wearable.  

“People actually pay for ripped pants!?” Lance exclaims upon spying black skinny jeans with purposeful gaps in the knees. “What the hell is wrong with you all?”

Keith’s eyes flicker up to him, a few regular jeans draped over his arms. “Wait until you see some of the more… revealing fashion styles.”

Eyes blowing wide, he watches Keith ineffectively try to contain the chuckles rolling off his lips. “You’re making fun of the elderly; you should be ashamed of yourself.” Lance pouts, crossing his arms and wrinkling a couple of shirts that had been tucked in his embrace.

“The longer you keep using that ‘I’m a hundred years old’ excuse, the less it’s gonna work.”

Sticking out his tongue in response, Lance snatches the pants out of Keith’s hands and marches to the dressing room--which turns out to be another battle altogether. Everything is so complicated now.

By the end of the trip, a baggy, olive green cargo jacket had called his name, as well as a few pairs of jeans and some plain t-shirts. It’s a good start, but mentally, he’s exhausted and slumps down on a bench, shopping bag swaying between his legs.

A hand soothingly rubs his back as Keith sits down next to him. “We can go home now or get something to eat?”

Mulling over the options as the fluorescent lights burn his eyes and the perfume from one of the body or candle stores itches his nose, it doesn’t take that long for him to decide. “Home, please.”

Keith simply nods, standing and extending his hand forward. Readily taking it in his own, Lance marvels at the warmth that spreads through his entire body with the contact, how the whole place dims in intensity and his mind grounds itself, not longer wanting to escape from the new world. Truly, casual hand holding between partners is one of the greatest inventions of the modern age.

Lance kisses Keith’s forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips. Those kisses soon travel across Keith’s jawline, marking every inch, before Lance slides down to Keith’s neck. His hands have ventured farther than his mouth, mapping every inch yet to be touched by his lips. Keith moans, quietly, but Lance can easily sense it rumbling through his throat. There’s a gentle grip on his hair as Keith tugs, wrapping his pale fingers around the short locks. With this, Lance continues on his journey.

Lingering near Keith’s heart to feel the soft thuds vibrate through his finger tips, Lance nips his skin. It’s the sign of life, and his own recently established heartbeat drums in tandem. Keith is so so warm--he feels that body heat every night when they sleep, or when Keith sleeps as Lance remains wide eyed staring at the man next to him, caressing his cheek and remembering when he used to wish with all his heart that he could do this as a ghost--and Lance has been cold for too long.

“My savior,” he mumbles to Keith’s heart as he moves further down. My beautiful savior.

They’re not completely naked--both clothed in their boxers--but Lance still has access to the smooth skin of Keith’s inner thighs. Not being able to help himself, Lance trails a few kisses onto both sides, restraining from marking the unblemished surface. Keith purposefully tugs on his hair, eyes lidded. “Come back up.” Lance complies, returning to those eager lips.

Keith prefers kisses, a fact Lance learned quickly. He may joke about sex, but Lance has never been given the indication that Keith wanted to go any further than kissing. So Lance is just as happy to worship him with his lips and breathe in his essence during cuddles.

Unexpectedly, Keith flips their positions, long black hair now tickling Lance’s cheeks as the other leans forward, violet-gray eyes wide. “You doing okay?” Keith inquires after placing a chaste kiss on Lance’s parted lips before moving to place a few more on his cheeks and the splattering of freckles.

Lance tilts his head. “I’m doing excellent,” he replies with a cocky grin, “Honestly couldn’t be in a better situation right now.”  

“I meant with adjusting to life in this century.” Keith sits on Lance’s stomach, raking back his bangs only for them to flop back into his eyes--and inwardly, Lance mourns the loss of Keith’s chapped lips dragging across his skin.

Hunk and Pidge have been helping him adapt to the new technological changes and achievements--as well as new culinary cuisines that are to die for--while Shiro, his husband Adam, and their friend Allura tackle teaching him about social changes and history. Keith will often help with offhand pop cultural references his clients may make and introducing him to a century’s worth of music.

“Oh. Well your friends have been helping.” A ‘but’ settles on Lance’s tongue as he purses his lips. There’s always a ‘but’.

“They have,” Keith nods slowly, waiting for Lance to continue.

“But it’s a lot to absorb. I mean, it’s not just the internet but all its components too. And that doesn’t even cover televisions, cell phones, a second world war, space travel. It’s just... a lot,” Lance finds himself repeating again.

With no electronics around the house because of Keith’s practice, this place has become Lance’s safe space, in a sense, somewhere beyond the reach of most of the crazes from the twenty first century. He is entirely grateful for this, entirely grateful that Keith’s embrace can ground him during the overwhelming moments.

Curious, Keith asks, “Is it too much?”

Lance bites his lip as he grabs Keith’s hands in his own; his thumb rubs over the back of Keith’s knuckles. When he speaks again, Lance doesn’t look at Keith, content with staring at those large, pale hands. “Sometimes,” Lance admits.

He doesn’t want to witness the concern on Keith’s face so he shuts his eyes only to feel two hands leave his hold and cup his face. “What can I do to make it easier?”

Eyes still closed, he says, after a pause, “I was thinking that I want to visit Nadia… if I can.”

Silence lingers above him, causing him enough concern to open his eyes. Keith ponders Lance’s request, a crease forming between his brows that Lance wants to smooth out. “It might take a while to plan,” Keith eventually begins, “But it’s doable.”

In the amount of time Lance has been by Keith’s side--both as a ghost and a living, breathing human--he has witnessed Keith perform countless rituals, all of varying degrees of intensity and importance. It is only now though that Lance discovers that he is a witness to every element of the harsh power Keith draws upon.

How Keith’s veins appear as thick black lines against his pale skin; how the whites of his eyes disappear; how after the words cease, Keith’s whole body shakes and Lance knows he is moments away from collapsing; how he’s still able to send a faint smile to the client and their lost one as they praise him for his talents and leave together. How Keith does eventually collapse in Lance’s arms as he rushes over before Keith’s body can make contact with the hardwood floors.

How… Lance can’t help but fret over Keith every time, every day.

It scares him.

Remnants of the ritual are scattered around the room, the dusty chalk circle, a few pages of ritual notes, a candle or two barely clinging to life. It rains outside, and droplets patter the window panes.

“I’m fine, Lance, really,” Keith groans as he stumbles to stay upright, leaning heavily into Lance’s body.

Lance brushes a wayward lock of hair out of Keith’s violet-gray eyes, touch lingering on Keith’s sweaty skin, and he narrows his gaze. “Sure,” he replies with a half smile, “So if I just backed away right now, you’d be fine?”

“I--” Lance begins to inch back, hands slow to lift off of Keith’s waist as his boyfriend continues to hold tight instead of letting go. That half smile becomes a full smirk; Lance has won. “I admit that I might need you to carry me.”

“That one took too much out of you,” Lance comments as he tucks his arm under Keith’s legs to hoist him up bridal style. Keith’s arms wrap around his neck for support. They stay standing in place for a moment. “You have to take better care of yourself.”

Exhausted, Keith nuzzles Lance’s neck with his nose. “I have you for that though.” These words absorb into Lance’s skin to settle with his soul.

“As much as I love being your voice of reason, you still gotta do better.” His tone is gentle, words harmless but true. Strengthening his grip on Keith, Lance treks to their bedroom, Keith’s body bouncing against his chest with each movement.

Keith ducks his head; hair hangs in his eyes. “I know.”

Pleased with the answer, Lance sends his boyfriend a smile as he lays him down on the mattress and reaches for the blankets, not caring if Keith isn’t wearing pajamas. They’re both too tired to deal with the hassle of undressing and redressing. Keith would fall over on the spot if he attempted it.

“Oh,” Keith mumbles already half asleep as he grabs the covers from Lance’s hands to greedily wrap his body in, “I booked us a flight to Havana next week.”

Stalling in his movements, Lance struggles this late at night to fully understand or react to the implications of what Keith has revealed. It has been a few weeks since Lance first mentioned the idea. He never forgot about it, but honestly, he thought Keith had, since his boyfriend never mentioned it again after that one night. Keith has been very sneaky with the preparations it seems.

Crawling into bed after realizing Keith is too close to unconsciousness to discuss the trip further, Lance sighs into the pillow--is it too soon to meet Nadia? Is it natural to suddenly be this nervous? Keith immediately snuggles into Lance, ear pressed against his chest and Lance just knows he’s listening for a heartbeat as he fades to sleep. Tucking his arms around Keith, Lance dips his head until he presses a kiss on the top of Keith’s hair. Lance remains awake for a few more hours before sleep claims him, too afraid that if he slept, he’ll be bombarded with memories of his family, too painful to dream about.

In the end, it is a dreamless sleep, but the feeling of warmth and happiness and love surround him in the darkness, as if a group of people embrace him.

Cuba, 2020

The airplane flight is terrifying, the seats offer no leg room, and his ears pop both on the lift off and landing. Three hours and fifty minutes of his leg jiggling because worry gnaws at him; one hour and seventeen minutes of Keith uncharacteristically driving the conversation when the movie hadn’t been enough to distract him; twenty five minutes of bile rising in his throat because he took on too much too fast and he isn’t ready to meet the last living link to his family. Maybe he shouldn’t have co--

“Lance,” comes Keith’s voice through the fog, “We’re here.”

When he steps out of the airplane, he doesn’t even know what he expected to be in front of him. Hearing native Spanish for the first time in what seems like, and truly has been, a century, makes Lance feel in control of some aspect of this odd life as he slaps on a baseball cap, takes Keith’s hand in his own, and walks out into the blaring sun.

They meander down the streets with the colorful buildings to find their hotel first before making the trip to Nadia’s. Keith’s rolling suitcase clatters across the uneven sidewalk as Lance adjusts the duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. Their hotel is close, but Lance’s pace slows as he breathes in the air and his gaze flickers around the sites and sounds of Havana. A frown sits on his lips.

Lance finds that the world has changed too much to even begin to remember what his Cuba was like. Modern cars fill the city with their fumes, and people wear American brands. The sky is blue and the clouds are white and the sun hurts to stare at, but everything else has changed. He’s a tourist, a foreigner, in his home country.

Suddenly, Keith is beside him again, a hand resting on his cheek, fingers dancing across his skin. Gray-violet eyes hold an almost uncomfortable level of concern. “You okay? We don’t have to see her today… or at all. We can take it slow.”

Lance shakes his head, leaning into Keith’s palm. “I’m fine; I’m fine.”

“You know you don’t have to pretend with me. I know this is difficult for you.”

Allowing the duffel bag to fall from his hand, Lance wraps his arms around Keith’s waist to draw him in closer. Their foreheads rest against each other. “Yes it’s difficult and yes I’m nervous. But I also need to do this today. I need to know something,” Lance replies, an ounce of confidence returning to him with this declaration. Keith’s hair had been tied into a ponytail, but one stubborn lock had escape during their walk through the capital; Lance tucks it behind his ear.

“Alright,” Keith smiles, leaning up to place a reassuring, comforting kiss on Lance’s lips, “Let’s do this.”

After the hotel--which had been nothing special, one bed, a bathroom, ugly wallpaper--Lance waves down a taxi and speaks the name of the address written on the yellow sticky, wrinkled from his anxiety and inability to keep his hands motionless. As they sit in the backseat, Keith’s hand drifts to Lance’s thigh as he begins to rub concentric circles, pressing deep, but not harsh, so Lance feels the necessary, grounding pressure.

The house they stop at is painted a sunset yellow with terracotta shingles. One of the larger upper windows has been thrown wide open, the curtain whipping in and out with the strong but quiet breeze passing through the street, which is practically empty. A few people mingle along the road, some carrying plastic bags from the market. Nadia’s caretaker, a short woman with dark skin and long braided hair, stands there waiting for them.

Stepping out of the taxi, Keith awkwardly shuffles beside Lance as they reach the front door to Nadia’s home. “Do you want to meet her alone or…”

Lance turns to him, a quiet smile on his face as he holds out his hand as an invitation. “I always want you by my side, Keith.”

Wordlessly, his fingers intertwine with Lance’s to hold him tight and forever.

Once close enough, Lance greets the caretaker with a simple, “Hola,” and she returns his hello with a smile, gesturing to the two to follow.

As they walk inside, the woman addresses them with instructions, “Mr. Kogane, if you could stay towards the back of the room to not overwhelm her, that would be appreciated--” Keith nods “--and please Mr. McClain, try not to make her recall any terrible memories; she’s not as stable as she used to be.”

“Medical wise, is she doing alright?” Lance finds himself asking, the words barely leaving his tongue. Though he speaks to the woman, his eyes are distracted by a few family pictures hung up on the long walls of the hallway. He doesn’t recognize anybody, probably Nadia’s children and grandchildren. Their happy, smiling faces make him curious to why, presumably, no one from the family is here to comfort her.

Her gaze twinging with sadness, the caretaker shakes her head. “Since you’re family, I’ll tell you that I’ll be surprised if she lasts into the next year. I’m so sorry.”

“I-it’s alright; I never got to meet her before now,” Lance gulps, words caught in his throat; Keith sends him a tight squeeze as their hands remain locked, “So it wasn’t like we were close.”

“May I ask what made you want to visit now?” The woman’s dark eyes cut into him, as if searching for any malintent towards her patient.  

Inwardly, Lance flinches, but to the outside world he shrugs. “I like learning about my history, my family. I wanted to meet her, if only just this once.”

A small smile appears on her face again, expression brightening somewhat in response to his answer, and they stop at a wooden door. “Well, Mr. McClain, she’s right through here.”

Throughout the flight, Lance had braced himself on who he might see when he walks through the door. Keith filled in some details he had learned from the caretaker over the weeks of planning the meeting. Being ninety-four, Nadia is bedridden, certain movements too strenuous for her frail body. She also has trouble focusing and directing thoughts she wants to speak, but Lance at least hopes she retains some vibrant memories to share.   

Lying in a small bed with floral sheets is an elderly woman with snow white hair cropped short but it has retained its curl. He knows it’s rude, staring, but he can’t look away at the woman who was born a few years after his death but is now more than seventy years older than him.

“Mrs. Nadia,” her caretaker says, leaning down near the old woman’s ear. “Lance McClain is here to see you.”

“Um, hello,” Lance awkwardly waves, body taut with anticipation as he stands at the end of her bed.

The old woman’s head jerks towards Lance at the sound of his voice. “You’re part of our familia?” Nadia asks, eyes unfocused as she settles on his name instead. “Y-you’re named after an uncle I never got to meet.”

Lance stutters at the directness of her speech. “I’m a, a distant relative.”

The caretaker pats him on his shoulder as she makes her way over to Keith to watch from the corner of the room. “She’s more with it today; ask her what you wish.”

Catching one last encouraging look from Keith, Lance swallows his fear and takes that leap. He sits in the wicker chair beside her bed. “Um, so I’m researching our family history for a project, and since you’re a direct link to that past, I was hoping you could tell me a little bit about your childhood, parents, grandparents…” Lance trails off.

Her pale lips part to speak, brown skin wrinkling even more with the hint of a smile. “Rafael and Rosa were my abuelos, and Luis was my papá… We all used to live in New York, close together, in the same apartment even, until I was five or six at least.”

“Luis got married?” Lance whispers, having not known this information. Nadia was directly related to him, but he and Keith could never find out just which sibling she belonged to. Picking his head up, Lance stares at her again. She has his brother’s eyes, that dark brown coloring that holds hidden depths of emotion, though yellowed from the cataracts. Offhandedly, he wonders if she can even see him at all.  

“Huh, Lance, was it?” she says his name again, her gaze distant as it lands more on Keith and the caretaker. He doubts she is actually looking at them. “Yes, Tío Lance, muerto. My abuela always said the apartment was haunted. No one believed her of course, but there were some parts of their home that were too cold, even during the warmest summer days. You’re Tío Lance, aren’t you?”

The caretaker is beside Lance again, a gentle hand resting on his shoulder. “It’s probably best if you go now. She’s not going to make much sense from here on out.”

No, she’s making perfect sense, he wants to say, needing to hear more about his family after his death. A bony hand tugs on his wrist, drawing his attention back towards Nadia who looks at him with sad, clear eyes. “Tío Lance,” she says in a whisper, the voice of a small child, “I need to give you something.”

Before the caretaker can protest at her moving around, Nadia reaches over to the nightstand with shaky hands, pulling out an envelope to give him. With a delicate touch, Lance opens it to find an old photograph tucked away inside, hidden from the harsh rays of the sun. The background of the photo has faded over the decades, but the figures are prominent. All eight of them. Mamá, Papá, Luis, Marco, Veronica, Rachel, and two babies, one of whom must be Nadia. They all look a few years older than how he remembers them, but they are here, in his hands, and that is all that matters.  

When Lance gazes back at her with tears in his eyes, he can’t speak but she is able to. “Now it will always stay in the family.”

He wipes away the tears before they ruin the family photo.

“Thank you, Keith,” Lance says when they walk out of Nadia’s house; he cradles the photo in his hand. It’s past three p.m. now, but the heat of the season continues to cling to his skin, suffocating him in a way he never expected. He doesn’t really belong here anymore--Cuba holds nothing besides old, almost forgotten memories of his brief childhood--but that’s okay, he belongs somewhere else now.

Bewildered, Keith tilts his head before inquiring, “What for?”

“For everything.” Lance tugs Keith into his embrace, burying his face into Keith’s long hair and appreciating the quiet moment. “Everything.” Only then do the tears begin to freely fall and Keith tightens his hold, fingers gripping Lance’s shirt, kneading into his back and tracing various versions of ‘I love you.’

Keith gave him life, love, and family.

Lance will never be able to repay him, but he can only hope that his own vast amount of love will be enough.

It is.