Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey Lance! Come check this out!” Pidge called, their high-pitched voice echoing through the beautiful architecture of the mall. Lance rushed over, excited by this shopping trip, (Lance loved to shop) and joined Pidge in gawking at the beautiful marble green shirt they’d just found. Nearby, Shiro was supervising a bored Keith as he walked by the racks of plain coloured shirts.

Subtly beginning to tap his foot, Shiro grabbed Keith’s shoulder and smiled at him. “How about we try a different store?” He carefully suggested, watching the black-haired boy roll his eyes at Shiro’s impatience. Shiro sighed and ran a hand through his tuft of white hair, chuckling sourly. “Fine, I’ll be over in the cereal aisle, we’re getting low on ‘FlakeEms’” Shiro explained, heading away from the shrugging boy.

Keith sighed and leaned against a shirt counter, letting his eyes flutter shut for merely a moment before stretching his exhausted arms and trying to clear his overworked mind.

“-nce? Laaance? Anybody in there?!” Lance shook his head and tore his eyes away from the muscular stretch of skin between the stretching boy’s shirt and his pants, forcing the blush from his cheeks. “What are you looking at? Ooh is it girl?!” Pidge squealed, trying to peer around Lance to find the source of his distraction.

Lance, worried Pidge might attract the attention of the tired boy, quickly turned around and shushed them. Pidge smirked, noting Lance’s blush and flustered expression with a smirk .

“Sooo, are you gonna go over and talk to her?” Pidge asked, finally succeeding in looking around Lance. Their smile fell slightly  when they saw no one but the raven-haired boy, who by this point was scrolling through his phone. “Aw, I don’t see her. Were you just daydreaming?” Pidge asked, chuckling. Lance blushed and rubbed the back of his neck, wishing the subject of ‘girls’ would go away.

“H- She’s gone.. you missed her sorry I’m gonna go look for some shirts or something BYE!” Lance shot the words quickly at Pidge as he sped off, ignoring their eye-roll and heading to one place he knew would calm his anxieties.

Lance smiled as he slowly trailed his fingers over soft fabrics, tracing the frail designs that littered the dainty clothing. He noticed a girl, looking about the same age as Lance look over at him, a strange glare in her eyes sending a prickling feeling through his bones, but he just ignored it, people usually looked at him funny when he shopped in this specific section. Decidedly picking out a simple light blue shirt that rested just below his shoulders, Lance began to walk to the dressing rooms.

The same girl who had been staring from across the silence suddenly appeared in front of him, hands on her hips angrily as she blocked Lance’s path. “Where do you think you’re going?” She demanded, sticking a finger close to Lance’s nose. Lance tilted his head, confused.

“To the dressing room. To try this on?” A thought flickered into Lance’s head like a warning sign and he looked down, trying to seem as nonthreatening as he could. “I- I can go to the men’s dressing room if you’re uncomfortable or something, I understand.” Lance tried to smile convincingly, beginning to panic at the vicious confrontation. His smile fell as the girl narrowed her eyes, a simple word falling from her lips and stabbing Lance directly in his fragile heart.

“Faggot.”

Chapter Text

At this, Lance spun around and swiftly stalked to the men’s dressing room, walking into a stall and throwing the shirt on a chair. Soon, Lance heard a tentative knock.

“Lance? You okay? I saw you rush over here and you’ve been in there for a while. Did something happen?” Pidge began to grow concerned from the silence of the boy. Slowly, they heard the clanks of the lock coming undone. The door creaked open softly and Lance looked down, avoiding Pidge’s eyes.

Pidge noticed the stream of liquid flowing from Lance’s eyes immediately and stepped forward to envelop the boy in a hug. Even though Lance was taller than them, Pidge managed to hold onto the shaking boy as he leaned into Pidge’s embrace. Like a breaking dam, Lance’s walls came down, tears flowing steadily from his eyes as he was held by a very concerned Pidge.

“Shh, I’m here Lance. What happened? It’s okay Lance shh. I’m here now, you’re okay. You’re safe.” Pidge whispered soothingly to Lance as the crying boy pulled them into the enclosure of the stall and sat, facing away from his worrying friend. Pidge cautiously smiled and began to rub Lance’s back in small, reassuring circles. Lance’s sobs became apparent as he let out the stress inside him.

“Lance? Are- are you relapsing? Is there something I can do? I could go get you a- a cup of water or something? Or call Hunk?” Pidge offered, fear creeping into their mind. Lance tensed, but shook his head, breathing in as deep as he could to steady his ricocheting breaths . He slowly turned around, smiling when Pidge ran their fingers through his hair skillfully. Lance hummed, leaning into the touch as his tears quietly slowed to a stop.

“It’s stupid. I shouldn’t be t-this upset. It’s s-stupid. I’m sorry Pidge. Lo siento.” Lance breathed out shakily. Pidge shook their head, lifting Lance’s chin with their petite hands and finding his crystal blue eyes with their own emerald orbs.

“Lance. Will you please tell me what happened? Are you hurt? Did someone try to hurt you. Did-“ Lance cut Pidge off with the shake of his head.

“It’s stupid. There w-was a girl. She umm.. she saw me looking at this shirt I liked.” Lance gestured to the discarded shirt. Pidge smiled as they picked up the article of clothing. A small hand ran over the simple design as a sigh escaped their lips.

“Lance, you should be able to wear what you want. I don’t get humans sometimes. They piss me off. If you want to wear this, you own it. You’re beautiful either way. You know I’ll always-“

“She called me a faggot.” Lance admitted quickly, screwing his eyes shut. Pidge slowly began to colour a dark red shade of fury. Lance dared to sneak a peek at Pidge, flinching away from the harsh glare they gave to the floor. Slowly, Pidge seemed to deflate, their fists clenching and unclenching.

“I hate that word, I’m sorry. It really makes me- I just- I start thinking illogically and my emotions kinda take over.” Pidge looked utterly drained for the slightest moment before straightening up and wrapping Lance in a huge hug. Lance, having never seen this emotional, instinctual side of Pidge, let himself be wrapped in the loving embrace.

Chapter Text

Lance closed the door to his messy room, falling languidly onto the bed. He scrambled for his phone for a moment before sending a text to Shiro, asking if he would “ maybe want to hang out for awhile?”

     The phone "dinged" only a moment after Lance threw it back down on his bed, making him glance over with shock. Usually, Shiro took a while to respond, he was a busy man and rarely wasted time on his phone. Lance smiled as the screen lit up his face in the small room.

~TEXTING CONVERSATION WITH: DaddyShiro~

DaddyShiro: Sure. Do you want to head to DQ’s?

Thread the Needle (Lance): the restaurant or arcade?

DaddyShiro : Droppin’ Quarters

Thread the Needle : sure, be there in half hour. bike’s got a flat

DaddyShiro: I’ll see you there.

     Lance chuckled at Shiro’s impeccable grammar, then clicked his phone off and heaved himself off of the bed, steering long legs toward the closet. A wide variety of colourful shirts stared at Lance. He chose a light grey sweater only slightly too big for his skinny frame

The soft texture of the shirt gently caressed Lance’s skin as he tugged it over his head. Lance turned to his mirror and thoroughly inspected his outfit, his eyes trailing over the shirt. Okay, maybe it was more than a little too big, but Lance loved it, he felt safe and secure in the embrace of the soft sweater.

Once Lance deemed his outfit complete, he grabbed his satchel and headed for the door. Though he had tried to sneak as quietly as he could through the halls, his mamá intercepted him right before he got to the door; she had seen his anxious rush into the house carelessly.

“Mijo. ¿Estás bien?” Lance’s mamá, Marie, asked from her place by the door frame. She had heard her son bustling not so discreetly down the stairs and had poked her head from out of the kitchen. Lance smiled and nodded, his anxieties fading to distant thoughts.

“Estoy bien mamá, no te preocupes. I’m gonna chill with Shiro, I’ll be home for supper.” Marie smiled and Lance shrieked as he tried in vain to escape his mamá’s incoming hug, but he failed terribly and was swept into a loving embrace.

Lance, having always been the “mama’s boy,” soon relaxed into the hug despite his previous struggle and wrapped his own arms around his loving mamá. Slowly, Lance breathed in the soft scents of his mother, the aromas of cinnamon and flour tickling his nose sweetly.

Marie smiled as she stroked Lance’s hair, chuckling at how much taller Lance was than her already. “I’m going to be with the kids so please don’t call and get them all rowdy.” Marie sighed half-heartedly, then seemed to think a moment, a playful grin finding its way upon her face. “Unless it’s a girl, then definitely call and put her on the phone.” Lance, trying to ignore the harsh twang in his chest, rolled his eyes as his mother winked. A sigh erupted from his chapped lips as he composed his pained heart.

“Alright mamá, you’re going to get so many calls tonight!” Lance joked, laughing as he opened the door and made his way to the sidewalk. Smiling, he waved to his mamá and began walking as she closed the worn door. Taking a deep breath, Lance cleared his head and put in his earbuds, readying himself to act presentable in the presence of his friend. As the steady melody of piano started playing, Lance let himself relax.

When I was in the third grade, I thought that I was gay

'Cause I could draw, my uncle was, and I kept my room straight

I told my mom, tears rushing down my face

She's like, "Ben, you've loved girls since before Pre-K!"

Trippin', yeah I guess she had a point, didn't she?

A bunch of stereotypes all in my head

I remember doing the math like, "Yeah, I'm good at little league."

A preconceived idea of what it all meant

For those that like the same sex had the characteristics

The right-wing conservatives think it's a decision

And you can be cured with some treatment and religion

Man-made, rewiring of a predisposition

Playing God, aw nah, here we go

America the brave still fears what we don't know

And "God loves all his children" is somehow forgotten

But we paraphrase a book written thirty-five hundred years ago

I don't know

And I can't change, even if I tried

Even if I wanted to

And I can't change, even if I tried

Even if I wanted

My love, my love, my love

She keeps me warm

Chapter Text

Keith let out a sigh as his phone fell beside him on the sloppily made bed. Hearing a bang from somewhere in the house, he flinched and looked toward the splintering door. A sharp sigh found its way from his mouth as he heard the unsteady footsteps recede from the hall. Keith made his way to the mirror, rubbing his drooping eyes and trying to calm his spiking heart rate. A blank expression stared back at him and Keith noticed how long he'd allowed hid hair to grow. Tugging gently on the black tufts, he made a mental note to get it cut soon.

Despite the warm weather, Keith pulled a black shirt over his head and reached for his jacket, slipping his arms tenderly into the holes. He gathered his hair in his hands to tie it up, but another bang caused Keith to flinch and instinctively bring his arms in front of his face, letting his hair fall back in place.

Slowly, Keith inched toward the door, reaching for the rusting handle as another loud knock resounds through his skull. He almost retreated to the bed at the sound, but knew he'd have to unlock the door sooner or later, or the lock would be taken away. Keith flipped the lock and twisted his hand as and wrist to unlatch the door, tugging on the knob until a crack formed in the space between the door and its frame.

without hesitation, the door swung open from the other side, anger resonating from the figure in the doorway. Keith could feel his heart hammering in his chest, but made himself meet his foster father’s glare. The man was somewhat tall, muscular, and obviously drunk out of his mind. Sloppily, he stepped towards Keith and snarled.

“The hell were ya’ doin’? Thought you was gonna cook. You gonna cook for your Papa ? Huh?” The man’s voice boomed and Keith flinched away. Slowly, the boy nodded, looking down to avoid the man's harsh gaze. 

Before he could even reach up to protect himself, a fist collided with Keith's jaw, propelling him to the hard wood floor. “You ain’t no son o’mine! You’re a pig! No one wants ya’ and that’s why you ended up here.” Grinning, he kneeled beside Keith's face on the floor.

The man, John, gripped Keith's hair and suddenly yanked him up, smiling as Keith bit back shouts. When he noticed the tears in Keith's eyes, John pulled harder on the hair. “Only pussies have hair this long. How ‘bout I give you another haircut huh? Think I could just yank it out like this?” John nearly lifts Keith off the ground.

“Or I could do it like this-" Keith let out a small yelp as John threw him to the ground, laughing in his drunken haze. John stumbled to his feet and exited the room, leaving Keith to sob on the floor as the door banged shut.

Once John was gone, Keith delicately reached up to feel his head, and his eyes widened when he drew his bloodied hand back.

His legs were shaky, but Keith managed to stumble to the bathroom and face the mirror. A stranger stared back at him; pathetic, wounded. Grabbing a stray cloth, Keith twisted the nozzle on the faucet and watched as a hush of cold water ran into the sink. The rag expanded with water when he submerged it and after a moment, Keith shut off the valve, wringing out the excess. He noticed a small drop of blood on his shirt, then watched as another drop fell from his head to the fabric. Keith sighed; More laundry.

The rag made a small pool around itself when Keith laid it on the counter. Gently, he pulled his shirt off, then the gloves. The bruises littering his chest and stomach burn, evidence of his foster father’s drunkenness.

The cold stung when it touched Keith's head, but it helps with the swelling and numbs the pain, if only temporarily. Keith closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to cover the bruises with the minimal supplies he had. The area around Keith's left eye was already bruising and his neck looks like a zombie had tried to give him a hickey.

When he took the rag off of his head, it was stained red, but Keith just swallowed back his fear and washed out the blood, letting the red swirl into the sink and disappear.

His dresser drawer squeaks loudly when he opened it and Keith flinched, heart pounding as he waited for footsteps to barrel down the hall, but nothing happened; John must be asleep, then . Keith picked out a dark blue, long-sleeved shirt and slipped it on, wary of his bruised skin, then he grabbed his familiar red and black jacket and put that on over the shirt. As he retreated back into the bathroom, Keith grabbed a small wooden box, hidden behind his dresser’s mirror.

He checked the door's lock once more, paranoid that John would burst in at any moment, but just like the last five times he'd checked, the door is locked. Keith returned to the sink and rifled through the small box in search of the mask he used to cover the lies. Shiro can’t know. He tried his best to push down the memory, but it bubbled up in his consciousness.

Keith hadn’t expected a birthday party, he’d never told anyone it was his birthday, no one except his newest friend, Shiro. Shiro had talked to him, he didn’t laugh or call Keith names or pull on his hair. He just talked, and he listened too, that was what Keith liked the most. He and Shiro had been on the playground discussing the upcoming events when Shiro asked Keith when his birthday was. Keith, confused, asked why.

“So I can go to your party! Duh.” Shiro teased, poking Keith’s shoulder. Keith, still clueless, wasn’t sure how to respond, so Shiro continued. “How old will you be? Can I come to your party?” 

Shiro stood, taking the younger boy’s hand as he made his way to the sandbox. Six-year-old Keith had no idea what Shiro was talking about. Shiro, twelve years old at that time, began to draw in the sand with a short stick. Keith watched as Shiro began to sketch a picture. There were people, smiling people, balloons, and a cake. Keith would like a cake.

“I’ve never had a party before. Maybe I can ask Mr. Bayley? I wonder if he’d let me.” Keith wondered aloud, earning a shocked glance from Shiro.

“You’ve never had a party?!” Shiro squealed, his prepubescent voice high and shrill. Keith winced at the loudness of the noise and nodded. Shiro began to smile and jumped to his feet, waving for Keith to follow him. Keith slowly got to his feet and walked after Shiro, smiling at the dancing and waving boy. For the rest of recess, the boys discussed how Keith would celebrate his birthday. What type of cake he’d have (Blue with white frosting and rainbow candles.) Where he would go (The gymnastics building that hosted birthday parties.) Even what gifts he’d receive (A dog, crayons and paper, and a toy bear.)

Later that day, when Keith approached his foster father with his hopes soaring, he received a smack to the face, quite literally. Mr. Baylor yelled at Keith for ten minutes straight about asking for things he knew he’d never get. “After all,” Mr. Baylor, grunted. “You don’t have a family to have a birthday with.”

Keith, high on the conversation between him and Shiro, began to protest. However, the boy was quickly silenced by a hard shove, knocking him flat on his behind. Mr. Baylor loomed over Keith, making the boy choke on his words nervously.

Keith, not having makeup to cover his wounds, arrived at school the next day with bruises and cuts littered along his arms and legs. Shiro approached the young boy with wide eyes and an open mouth. “What the heck happened to you? You look like you were in a fight!” Shiro exclaimed, gingerly taking hold of Keith’s hand. Keith saw no reason to lie, no one had ever asked him about his home life, so he never had to explain.

“Mr. Baylor got mad because I asked him for a party, so he hit me. It’s okay, it happens all the time, I’ll be okay.” Keith explained, shrugging with a wince. Shiro’s gasp was quiet as his eyes slowly began to brim with tears. Keith, not understanding his situation, began to worry.

“Shiro? Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I promise!” Keith stuttered out, scared for his friend. Shiro, having been taught what was wrong and right by his parents, was very concerned.

Shiro grabbed his friend’s hands, letting his tears dry on his red cheeks as he slowly pulled his younger companion into a hug.

However hard Shiro tried, Keith refused to let him tell on Mr. Baylor. If Shiro did that, Keith explained, Mr. Baylor would get even more mad. That shut Shiro up.

Finally finding the makeup Keith needed to hide the truth, he closed the box and slowly picked up a feathery brush. With a sigh, he got to work; dusting on the powder and other cosmetics.

When Keith was younger, only a couple years ago, He saved up the money to buy my first makeup set. When the lady at the desk gave him a strange look, Keith told her that the kit was for his sister. She smiled at him and patted his head, telling Keith what a kind gentleman he was as he paid for the "gift." He was sloppy and it took weeks to finally get the makeup to blend in and look natural, but he did it. Keith did it on his own, and it worked.

So here Keith stood, two and three years later, practically a makeup expert. Keith let Iet out a laugh at himself. A makeup expert. Right.

Chapter Text

Once the bruises were strategically covered and his eyes were no longer red, Keith placed his box back in its spot behind the mirror and climbed out of the window, his feet hitting the ground with a soft “ thud .” Keith walked from his neighborhood to the shopping center, doing his best to slip through the crowds of people.

A stranger bumped Keith roughly, causing him to wince at the pain of his bruise. A sharp “Watch it!” was called out as the stranger continued on her way. Keith looked down, instinctively muttering an apology as he kept walking.

After more accidental bumps and more apologies, Keith finally made it to the arcade, slipping in to avoid more shoves. With a quick glance around, he spotted Shiro standing at the food court, but he wasn't alone. Keith's heart rate spiked and he debated leaving before Shiro could notice him, but as soon as he thought the thought Shiro looked over, eyes connecting with Keith's own.

Shiro said something to the person, then headed over. With a few deep breaths, Keith managed to control his breathing and forge a shaky half-smile, but Shiro immediately saw right through the disguise and looked back at the other boy, who was attempting to eat a very cheesy slice of pizza.

“That’s Lance. He’s sixteen, goes to Lion High, very competitive and… flirty.” Shiro glanced at Keith, then back at the boy. “He’s really friendly and likes to make jokes, but also touchy and can be a bit overwhelming, but it’ll be fine, he’s cool.” Shiro summed up the guy in a few short sentences and Keith felt his lungs relax, allowing him to breathe easier.

They'd been doing this for a while, Shiro would tell Keith a few important things about someone he was about to meet. To the other person, Keith was a stranger, they know next to nothing about him, but Keith knew at least a little bit about them. Somehow this eased his mind. If you hadn't noticed, Keith wasn't exactly a social butterfly.

Shiro lead Keith over to the boy, who was still battling the pizza, but when the boy, Lance, saw Shiro, he lit up and waved, finally succeeding in breaking the cheesy bonds. Shiro stepped to the side and now the attention was on Keith, he studied Lance.

Lance was sitting down in one of those arcade food court booths, but he had long legs and was lanky, most likely making him taller than me. He had short, brown curly hair and blue eyes that seemed to change color. There were hints of green and yellow swirling around in Lance's eyes as they studied Keith back. When Lance quickly stood, Keith nearly fell backward, but Lance merely held out a hand and smiled.

“Hey, I’m Lance. I guess you’re Keith? Shiro said he invited you so I figured it was probably you. You seem like a cool guy. We’ve been hanging out and eating, Shiro and I, but since you’re here we can hit the games!” He talked so fast, with so much energy, that Keith had trouble keeping up. Shiro chuckled at Keith's dazed expression when he shook his hand.

“Yeah. Um- I’m Keith. I guess if you guys want to play you go ahead. I might grab a drink real quick.” Shiro eyed him, seeming to sensing Keith's hesitation, but then he smirked and held out a cup. Keith took it, a little shocked, and took a sip.

Wow, this is pretty good. I’ve never had this before, what is it? I open my mouth to speak, but Lance cuts in.

“I get bored kinda quickly, which is probably obvious, so I got you a drink and we bet on whether or not you’d like it.” Lance admitted, a smile on his face. Keith stared at them, back and forth.

“It- it’s good. Thank you.” Keith said slowly, watching Lance’s face light up. He pumped a fist in the air and held out a hand to Shiro.

“Pay up boyyy, you have been de-fea-ted!” Shiro looked dumbfounded for a moment, but then he gave out an exaggerated sigh and reached for his wallet. Lance grabbed the twenty and slung an arm around Keith's shoulders. He tensed up, but Lance just rambled on and Keith forced himself to stay still.

“Thanks Shiro, now I can buy Keith another drink.” Oh okay, so that’s what Shiro meant when he said flirty. Shiro let out a laugh at Keith's reaction and Lance smiled, hugging Keith gently with his arm before letting go and grabbing a plate. “Hey, we ordered a pizza before you got here, but it’s still warm. You want a slice?” It was an offer made out of kindness, and Keith didn’t want to refuse, but his stomach began to spin and he shook his head.

“Uh, no thanks. I already ate.” Keith looked at Shiro and he cleared his throat.

“Right, so boys. Game time?”

Chapter Text

Shiro may have been six years older than Keith, but if you dropped him in an arcade, his inner child came out. Once the group received their tokens, Shiro rushed off to the blaster games and Keith was left standing with Lance. Lance looked over at him and then to the games.

“So. Where do you think we should start?” He asked, and Keith was confused. We? Lance grabbed Keith's arm, not noticing the flinch, and pointed excitedly. Though with all the games crowded in the arcade, Keith couldn't tell if he was pointing to the claw machine or the Panda Slice.

As it turned out, Lance wasn’t pointing at either. Keith was dragged by his jacket sleeve to a racing game, where Lance immediately hopped on a bike and gestured for the shorter boy to join him. Keith debated agreeing or declining, he hadn't played a game with someone in forever, but Lance continued to ask Keith to play, begging, teasing, whining.

Finally, Keith got on the bike, if only to shut Lance up. And yeah, okay, maybe a little part of him wanted to show off. Maybe Keith wanted to play the game he used to enjoy so much. Maybe. He pushed in a couple tokens, typed in his player name, and the boys were off.

Despite his uncoordinateness, Lance wasn't half bad, but as the two played, the distance between their racers stretched further and further until the game was finally over and Lance sat back on the bike, asking Keith the same thing over and over. “How did you do that?” Keith let himself smile, reveling in his secret.

Keith had been riding motorcycles since Shiro began teaching him about them in seventh grade. Shiro had helped Keith get his license, and he'd been saving up at his new job to buy a motorcycle one day. Lance simply stared, slack jawed, as the screens flashed the scores. Keith watched the letters and numbers fill the screen, posting the teens' scores along with the simulated racers.

1st Place: Kogane

2nd Place: [Racer #7639]

3rd Place: [Racer #2946]

4th Place: [Racer #1037]

5th Place: [Racer #6926]

6th Place: Mr Awesome

7th Place: [Racer #9736]

…

The machine spat out tickets and Lance grabbed his keep before coming over to Keith's bike. Keith leaned over and took his tickets, but when he sat back up to get off of the bike, his foot slipped. Keith's leg slid off of the bike and he fell backwards clumsily. Thankfully, Shiro caught him before he could hit the floor. Except… it couldn't have been Shiro. He went in the opposite direction, which means-

“Wow, I haven’t even asked for your number and you’re already falling for me.” When Keith looked up, Lance’s face greeted him. He had a small smile and when he saw Keith looking, he winked. Keith pushed against Lance and stood on his own, mumbling an apology, but Lance stopped him. “Hey don’t worry about it, that’s what friends do right? Save each other from falling awkwardly onto the nasty floor of an arcade?” He flashed Keith a smile again and Keith felt himself reciprocate the gesture.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Keith responded. Lance heldu up his tickets and wiggled them around.

“Alright. So you totally cheated.”

“Wait what? How do you cheat in a racing game?”

“I don’t know, but how else do you describe that? I mean, you didn’t make a single mistake! There’s definitely something fishy going on here.” Lance crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, raising an eyebrow at Keith suspiciously. A laugh suddenly escaped Keith's mouth and Lance's face morphed back to normal.

“Boom! Shiro is so losing.” Lance smiled a sneaky smile and Keith felt the confusion drift into his brain. “Oh,” Lance said when he noticed Keith's expression, “Shiro and I had another bet. He said I couldn’t make you laugh before the third game, and if I recall correctly, that was our first game.” Lance’s face held triumph, and Keith felt a smile creep onto his face again.

“How many bets did you guys make?” Keith asked.

“Three.”

“What’s the last one?”

“A secret.”

“A secret?” Keith wondered aloud, but Lance was already pointing to another game. This time, he pulled Keith over to one of those ‘ Zombie Apocalypse’  games. The kind where you go through the curtain and sit in these chairs while you play the game. Keith frowned slightly at the idea of the small space, but it couldn't be that bad, at least it was a curtain, not a door.

…

Lance destroyed Keith. Keith knew he wasn't good at shooting guns, (Shiro’s dad used to take him to the shooting range with them and Keith thoroughly sucked. Every time.) but Lance was incredible. He shot the zombies the second he saw them, and he hardly ever missed.

Lance was smug, but he didn't rub it in Keith's face, at least not while they were playing the game. Keith was okay with a gun, and he held my own surprisingly well against a horse of zombies, but Lance was on a roll. When the timer ran out on the game, the tickets were spat out, and the boys collected and left the booth.

Once they were out in the open, Lance started to mimic the gun noises. “Pow Pow! Man that was awesome! Too bad you’re not as good with a gun as you are with a bike.” Lance smiled his smug smile at Keith and the boy rolled his eyes with a smile of his own.

“I didn’t die , the whole point is to stay alive right?” Keith countered. Lance stopped his mimicry and turned to him.

“No, the whole point is to stop the zombies before they get anywhere near you. That way you can focus better and they’re not in your face. It’s easier to keep your cool if the enemy isn’t up close.” Keith thought about that for a moment.

“I don’t know." Keith mumbled. "I’ve always felt better if the “enemy” is within fighting distance. I mean, I guess that wouldn’t work on zombies, but-” Lance paused his walking and raised an eyebrow.

“Who are your enemies? You aren’t, like, in a gang or something right?” Lance eyed Keith skeptically. He was making a joke, but a small sliver of curiosity and wariness showed in his sudden stiffness.

“No! I’m not in a gang. Are there even gangs here? I just meant I’m better at games where you do close combat. Guns aren’t really my thing.” Keith rushed the words out, eager to dispel Lance's skepticism. And besides, he didn't always get in fights, and five out of ten times it wasn't even him who started it! But Lance didn't need that bit of information.

“Well, I’ll have to take your word for it.” Lance said, still eyeing Keith, but now with a grin on his face. They wandered around for a bit more, stopping every now and then at a new game, until Lance stopped and turned to Keith. “Okay. Where to next?” He asked, and Keith waited a moment before realizing that Lance was asking him.

“Oh- um- uh…” Keith scanned over the games, looking for something to play, but he found it hard to focus with the noise and Lance staring at him expectantly. “I mean, you can choose. I don’t come here often so I don’t know my way around. You can pick something you want to play.” Keith mumbled awkwardly, looking away when Lance tilted his head at him.

“I want to play something you want to play.” He said simply, like Keith should’ve known this by now. Keith's eyes widened slightly and he turned away to clear his throat.

“Well- uh- I guess… Skeeball?” Lance's face bloomed into a smile at the suggestion and he nodded excitedly, grabbing Keith's sleeve again. In his haste, Lance pinched Keith's arm and Keith pulled away with a flinch. They both freeze, one confused and the other near panic.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Lance's voice pointed out his concern, but Keith just swallowed down his pain and embarrassment (mostly embarrassment) and shook his head.

“Uh, it’s fine. I have a scratch on my arm but it’s okay. I’m sorry.” Keith felt his chest tightening. He’ll figure it out. He’ll tell Shiro. Shiro will tell someone. John will be mad. He’ll do something worse than that time. He’ll-

“Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you." Lance seemed thoughtful for a moment. "Would you rather I held your hand?” With a wink, Lance held out his hand. Keith stared at it dumbly, and his hand lifted on its own, but he looked away and started to lower it back to his side. But before Keith's hand made it all the way back down, Lance grabbed it and began walking.

Okay so I know I’m not an expert at relationships, but don’t you have to be dating to hold hands? The thought filtered through Keith's head repeatedly until he argued with it so it would finally shut up.

Well Shiro did say he’s touchy and some people just like physical contact, it doesn’t mean anything.

But why did I want to hold his hand? Why did I automatically reach for his hand? Keith doesn't know how to argue with that thought.

When the teens arrived at the Skeeball games, Lance looked back at Keith and released his hand, smiling and pointing to the game enthusiastically. Keith pushed the tokens in and watched as the plastic balls rolled into place. He took one in his hand and rolled it up the board, watching as it fell in the 5,000 circle.

Lance wasn't paying his companion any attention, he quickly grabbed the next pawn and rolled it up the plank, aiming every time for the 50,000 mark, but he hardly makes it. Still, Keith can see the concentration on his smiling face. "I guess that’s what fun is." Keith mutters, then slaps a hand to his forehead. Good grief Keith you sound like an alien. “Oh, so this is what humans call ‘fun.’” He rolled his eyes at himself and continued the game.

Lance beat Keith, but Keith could argue that it's only because he pinched his finger in between the board and the ball dispenser and had to use his non dominant hand. When they both had finished, Lance looked over and saw Keith inspecting his hand and then he’s there, peering over the small boy's shoulder.

“Are you okay?” He asked, startling Keitb. He nodded and looked back at his finger, the nail was starting to bleed and that sucker really hurt. Keith had never understood how the smaller injuries could hurt as much as the big ones. Lance noticed the blood and grabbed Keith's hand, making him flinch again. Why am I flinching so much today?

“That’s not ‘okay.’ It’s gotta hurt. Look, it’s already bruising! Come on we’ll find Shiro, he’s probably got some band-aids in his wallet.” When Keith laughed, Lance looked at him like he'd gone crazy.

“Sorry. It’s just that putting band-aids in his wallet is a very Shiro thing to do.” Keith explained, still chuckling. Lance smiled at this thought, then nodded in agreement. The two grab their tickets and head to the blaster games, hoping to spot Shiro soon. Keith, inspecting the finger occasionally, could feel his pulse in his finger. I hate this feeling, it’s so weird.

When the boys found Shiro, he was rapidly punching buttons at Galactica . They waited for him to finish, and when he did Lance reached to tap his shoulder. When he turned around, Lance began speaking.

“One, you owe me a twenty. Two, Keith needs a band-aid.” Shiro immediately looked at Keith, worry in his eyes, but Keith held up his pointer finger and Shiro visibly relaxed. When he pulled a band-aid out from his wallet, Lance looked at Keith, trying not to laugh as the boy smiled and rolled his eyes.

“So what’s the twenty for?” Shiro asked, still holding his wallet.

“Making Keithy laugh.” Lance pointed out casually, but Shiro’s eyebrows flew up and he looked at Keith, surprised. The small boy shrugged sheepishly.

“How?” Shiro asked slowly and skeptically. Lance smiled and pointed a thumb in Keith's direction.

“Well, Keith cheated at a game-”

“I did not!”

“-and so I was telling him that he couldn’t have possibly gotten such a perfect score and so there was something fishy going on. And he laughed.” Lance crossed his arms like he'd accomplished a mission. Shiro gave a breathy laugh and shook his head, looking to Keith for confirmation.

“This really happened?” He asked, laughing when Lance let out an indignant squawk.

“You don’t believe me?!” He dramatically put a hand to his forehead in feigned sadness.

Both Shiro and Keith rolled their eyes at Lance’s “display” and Keith nodded at Shiro, confirming the story. Shiro seemed impressed with Lance, but Lance, always moving, had noticed the tokens in Keith's hand.

"Hey, so we don’t have enough tokens to play any more games, but we can be really cheesy and go get pictures!” Shiro laughed at the idea and Keith smiled confusedly, but Lance splayed his hands out, shaking them and pulling a laugh from both of his friends.

“We can take pictures to commemorate me buying Keith a drink, and making him laugh.” Lance prompted, running a hand through his hair as Shiro sighed.

“It’s always about you.” Shiro grumbled jokingly to Lance.

“What? No, it’s about Keith. I said his name in the commemoration. That means it’s about him.”

“I didn’t even know you knew the word commemoration.”

“Hey!”

...

Three minutes later, the troupe was standing in front of the photo booth. Lance was smiling like a child, Shiro looked like he was contemplating how they'd all fit, and Keith just watched the both of them. It was crazy how well they got along. Lance was a firecracker; unorganized and crazy. Shiro was thoughtful, very organized, and calm. (unless he was in an arcade.) It was a miracle that these two don’t destroy each other with their personalities, but Keith did find it entertaining to watch them argue over stupid things.

“Alright, do you have the tokens Keith?” Lance asked and Keith gave a nod.

He stepped toward the booth and held open the curtain. Shiro went in first first and Keith entered after him, followed lastly by Lance. As Keith put the tokens in, Shiro said, “One smiling, one goofy, and one ‘whatever.’”

“Whatever?” Keith asked.

“Yup.” Lance answered cheerily. “Whatever you want to do.”

The timer blinks down. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!

Keith smiled, feeling himself actually enjoying his friends’ presence. The timer started to count down again and Lance poked my cheek, making a fish face for the "goofy" photo as the camera flashed again. The timer began the third and last countdown, but Keith didn't really know what to do for the last picture. He found himself looking at Lance and laughing at the face he made. The screen flashed one last time, and they were done.

Shiro retrieved the sets of photos from the side of the machine, one set for each of the three, and looked over them before handing them to the others. Both his and Lance’s eyes seemed to linger on the last photo, and Keith wondered why until he got my own strip.

I’m staring at Lance. In the photo, Keith was laughing, but not at the camera, he was watching Lance do his funny face. I was staring at Lance. Keith looked up from the photos to see Lance smiling a hesitant smile at Shiro.

“I think you owe me twenty dollars.”