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I don't deserve this. This is slander.
Those words—and random alternatives with the same meaning—have become a mantra for Lance, a credo to live by, ever since he moved out of his parent’s house to go to College. He’s always known that the first time living away from his family would be hard, mind you, and he’s expected a lot: Being overwhelmed by daily chores, forgetting to buy necessities before shops close, not finding two matching socks in the morning due to not folding them properly, mixing up sugar and salt while refilling the boxes…
So, in general, he’s thought this thing through, and he’s prepared himself—by crying on his best friend Hunk’s shoulder for weeks, by continuously announcing that this was how he would die, by considering dropping out to go back home, and even by visiting his abuela to get some advice on how to live a functioning life without his mamá around. Funnily enough, not a single of his worries is what bothers him about this life. Sure, he would still forget to do the laundry on time if his mother didn’t remind him of it at least once a week, and maybe he sometimes forgets when he opened the carton of milk, thus risking food poisoning on a regular basis—
But that’s not the point.
Because the point, in fact, is the real problem here, and that real problem is currently blocking the already way-too-small kitchen table with a laptop that’s approximately the size of a movie theater screen, if not bigger. Lance isn’t sure what makes him the angriest. He can’t fit his cereal bowl on the table like this, he can’t peacefully enjoy the little time he has on Tuesday mornings before he goes to class, he can’t set up his speakers to blast some good Justin Timberlake to begin the morning right, and he can’t even tell his annoying dumb fuck of a roommate to get lost, because that asshole has headphones on, and the music coming from them loudly enough for Lance to hear leaves no doubt that the he must be in a terrible mood.
To clarify: Lance isn’t afraid of touch. Anyone else? He’d get up, tear those headphones down and probably throw them across the room to make his point clear. He tried that with this guy, though, and will probably never forget the looks he got when he had to explain to a doctor and two nurses that oh, no problem, no need for the police. My roommate just accidentally stabbed me with a knife when I scared him …allegedly, while getting his hand sewed up. Needless to say, the physical approach is out, although they did make it a rule to keep all knives either in the drawers or outside any shared rooms entirely. Still, can’t ever be too safe.
That, however, doesn’t help at all, and Lance refuses to spend the rest of his Tuesday mornings in college passively listening to screamo-music, eating cereal with the bowl in his hand, leaving him unable to check his Instagram feed, and staring at a stupid dude fiddling with the way too long bangs falling on his face every other minute. This is the absolute furthest from what Lance would call fun or even fairness, but since talking to Grumpy McMullet doesn’t help—unsurprisingly, considering his dumb hair probably grows into his ears, too—Lance has made it his mission to wait for the day where he can get some sort of revenge. Really, anything will do, be it pouring rotten milk over mister I-listen-to-my-shit-so-loudly-it-blasts-even-your-ears-away, or accidentally shoving him into the fridge while he’s busy deciding if he wants to eat his toast with egg or rather with egg, because that’s all he ever fucking buys, or—
“What’s your problem now?”
Lance flinches and shakes his head, realizes that captain assbutt sports a heavily-raised eyebrow and stares him down as if it’s his personal fault that an animal as beautiful as the vaquita is on the list of critically endangered. Now, unfortunately, Lance doesn’t have his flip-chart ready, and since the table is loaded with his roommate’s goddamn bullshit, he also can’t grab his own laptop and open up his first of fifteen power point presentations dealing with his problem in this living arrangement, but luckily, he’s adaptable, and he knows how to improvise.
“Do you want it alphabetically, or chronologically?”
“Whichever makes you shut up faster will do just fine.”
He’s going to kill this guy.
“Oooooh,” he settles with, dragging the word out as if his life depends on it. “My bad for interrupting your fascinating studies with my presence. How about we start with the fact that you’re hogging the entire table?! You do realize I live here, right?”
“So?” Dickhead doesn’t sound impressed. “It’s my table.”
“It’s—”
Lance almost chokes on thin air, throws his arms up in disbelief, and takes a deep breath to calm himself down. It doesn’t work.
“You forbid me putting mine in here! You can’t be for real—”
“It wouldn’t even fit!”
“It would if we threw yours out!”
“We’re not—If you ever attended your first class on Tuesdays, we wouldn’t have this problem!”
Whatever Lance wanted to say next dies in his throat, because point taken, he can’t deny that it’s true. If you asked him, he’d say it’s not his fault that his 8am class is boring as shit, which is also entirely unrelated to the fact that it’s his own decision to go to class or don’t go, thank you very much, but it does leave him with a very annoying realization:
Mister my-music-is-darker-than-your-future only occupies the entire kitchen on Tuesdays, without fail, which is usually the day where Lance is out until the late afternoon. He wants to say something witty back, but he realizes that everything he can think of is incredibly dumb and childish, and while he’s usually not afraid of making a fool of himself if it means winning, he’s kinda not in the mood to let his passive-aggressive roommate call him out for it.
“So you admit that it’s a problem,” he comes up with cleverly instead, and almost pats himself on the back for it.
“Of course it’s a problem! One induced by the fact that you think you’re too great a person to visit your classes, McClain.”
Oh.
Fucking.
Hell.
NO.
Really, Lance isn’t dramatic. Not too much, at least. Well…not over things that aren’t worth it. Not often. Or something like that. But being called by his last name in his own home by his own roommate, no matter how much he despises the guy, that’s at the very least worthy of slamming his now-empty cereal bowl onto the table, secretly hoping that it leaves the smallest hint of damage on the pitch-black, wooden surface.
“Ohh, alright, Keithyboy.” Yes, Lance is aware of the hypocrisy of calling him that. “If that’s how you want to play, I’ll play.”
With that, he gets up dramatically, dumps his bowl next to the sink to take care of it later, and leaves the kitchen without looking back. Judging from the lack of reaction, he’s already been forgotten, which makes him only the tiniest bit angrier than he already is, but that’s fine, that’s alright, that’s totally gucci to him and mega a-okay, and if he ends up throwing the porcelain-hippo he knows Keith owns into a wall later today, then those two things are entirely unrelated.
Needless to say, Lance spends literally every single of his classes of the day thinking about how to pay his very unpleasant roommate back for his attitude, but can’t come up with anything. His two best friends shake their heads about him at least eight times—and that’s only the times he notices it—but know better than to try and stop him. It’s a lost cause, really, and he knows that himself, but the point is that it's not his fault.
Because it’s Keith’s. From start to finish, in its entirety, without any doubt.
When they all part after class, though, it’s evil-gremlin Pidge who, probably unwillingly, provides Lance with the best idea yet.
“Bye, Lance. Don’t set anything on fire.”
Of course.
All he needs to do is set Keith on fire.
“You’re a genius, Pidge,” he compliments and she nods, but doesn’t seem to know where he’s going with that. Hunk, visibly tired from Lance’s antics, sighs and shoves them both out of the classroom.
“Don’t give him ideas, Pidge. Lance will probably actually set his home on fire.”
“God, sucks to be him, then. Sounds like something an idiot would do.”
Just you wait.
To his surprise, he finds every shared room empty as soon as he returns home. The living room basically screams how much it missed him, the kitchen—and with it, the table—is free and clean, and the bathroom door is so wide open that he can make out his full reflection in the mirror across the door.
It’s perfect. If this could be reality for the rest of college time, Lance would probably never complain about a single thing in his life anymore; okay, well, except for overpriced face masks, because some companies are just fucking ridiculous with their greed, and perhaps he would still have a special place far outside of his heart reserved for anyone in the world wearing fucking mullets in everyday life.
But that would just be a very long-lasting memory of his unbeloved roommate.
The peace lasts long enough for Lance to not only prepare himself some freshly-brewed iced tea that he will later put in the fridge overnight, but also gives him enough time to lock himself in the bathroom, with the goal to take the longest shower in his entire life. He’s done before any unwanted person—cough, cough—can come home, however hears the door fall shut when he’s busy inspecting his face in the mirror after stepping out of the shower. A nice, decent roommate would clear the area now, but another decent roommate would also not be an absolute asshat about hogging the kitchen table, so really? Staying just a bit longer—perhaps forty to fifty minutes-ish longer—is totally valid and justified in Lance’s opinion.
To his genuine surprise, it doesn’t manage to get under Keith’s skin. Sure, when Lance does finally step out of the bathroom, mullet-head is staring at him as if he’s drowned his favorite pet-fly or some shit, but instead of even trying to fight, he gets up and slams the bathroom door shut after entering it, without saying a single word.
Lance isn’t sure if it feels rewarding or disappointing.
…
An hour later, when he realizes he really needs to pee, ending up falling on deaf ears, he realizes that it is neither of the two. It feels nothing but aggravating.
When he grabs his phone to report to his best friends, he makes sure to press his cheek against the wall while very loudly exclaiming:
“I guess I’ll just set his stupid mop-head on fire!”
He doesn’t get to use the bathroom for another ninety-something minutes.
This is war.
Lance doesn’t set Keith’s hair on fire. Not because he’s suddenly lost interest or anything, though. After leaving the bathroom at some point, Keith immediately vanishes into his own room, and Lance doesn't see him for the rest of the day and the whole next morning. That wouldn’t be odd on any other weekday, but Wednesday’s are Lance’s free days, and free days mean he spends an unhealthy amount of time in the living room, binging a show on Netflix half-consciously until the are you still watching?- pop-up reminds him that he should maybe move his muscles here or there. On a normal Wednesday, Keith would pass him by at some point, looking like a very displeased corpse, fix himself some nasty black coffee, and soon disappear for the rest of the day.
This day, though, is different. It seems like he left before Lance even got up, and that means something, because his Netflix-and-actually-chill -Wednesdays begin around seven in the morning.
He’s never seen Keith awake at seven in the morning. Ever.
One might think that this is not something worth fussing, let alone worry over—his very unwanted roommate being out without Lance having to see him even once? It should be heaven on earth. And it would be, in a way, if it weren’t leaving him with this unnecessarily anxious feeling of something is wrong.
Because something is wrong. And from all Lance knows about Keith, there’s no telling what impact it will have on his own life. He does know it can’t be good in any way, though. When he gets up later, though, nothing has happened, even when he occupies the bathroom ten minutes before the time Keith usually comes back, just to piss him off a little when he returns home.
…Sure, Lance isn’t being the nicest kind of person to his roommate, but it’s totally and entirely justified, okay?!
> You ’re giving him hell for nothing, Lance.
> Maybe try a more friendly approach?
> Could've ticked him off with the mop-head comment…you kinda screamed that, and I know it was on purpose.
> Lance.
> Lance come on.
He ignores the messages on his phone, because no matter how much he loves Hunk, this is straight-up wrong and Lance won’t listen to it. No friendly approach so far worked—he’d claim that he’s tried while moving in, being all friendly and buddy-buddy-like, and all it got him were fights and, eventually, death stares. So much for that.
He leans his head against the wall while shampooing his hair, but comes to a halt when he realizes that the smell isn’t what he is used to, and it doesn’t really form the pretty, soft foam that he likes so much. Something’s…terribly off. It smells less like candy and more like coconut, maybe vanilla, than he remembers, and the feeling…
A quick glance towards the bottle. It’s definitely his, alright. Keith always uses the same one, and let it be said that it’s not squeaky pink in color, with macarons drawn on the label, but some lame dark-blue bottle with a font on it that’s supposed to look cool or edgy or something, and nothing else.
So, yeah, this is definitely Lance’s bottle of shampoo. No doubt about it. But this is not Lance’s shampoo, and it takes him a hot second to connect the dots, but when he does, he comes to a very short, yet definite decision:
He is going to kill Keith.
Yes, it is a threat he’d totally thought and voiced numerous times before, but this time, he is serious. Pissing him off on a daily basis? Fine, somehow. Hogging the kitchen? Annoying, but manageable. Substituting Lance’s shampoo with whatever nasty shit it is he had just creamed his hair with?
A god-fucking death sentence.
“You’re dead, Kogane,” Lance says to himself, steals the asshole’s shampoo because what else is he supposed to do, and eventually leaves the shower and bathroom more angrily than he’s been in weeks, if not months.
And if Lance even once that night finds that his hair smells absolutely amazing, then you better believe he fucking ignores that shit.
For his sanity.
Keith doesn’t come home on Thursday.
He also doesn’t come home on Friday.
Saturday rolls by, and Lance should be his happiest self, because Saturday means game night with Hunk and Pidge, and it should be a blast, and Lance should be getting ready and leave the apartment and jog over to his friends a few blocks away whistling happily, but here he is, grumpily staring at his phone and waiting for them to shown up, because he’s totally not been in the mood to go anywhere.
Not in the mood, okay! It isn’t like he is worried about anyone or anything. He simply doesn't feel like leaving the apartment abandoned and risking any more incidents with his worst enemy Keith, and Lance is totally not getting a little ridiculous about things that might have happened to his roommate. And because he isn’t getting ridiculous, he also doesn't call him. Because he could. If he were getting ridiculous.
Which he isn’t.
Lance can’t deny that don’t want to move doesn't make the best excuse for being grumpy all night, though, even after absolutely fantastic dinner, with a fruit smoothie held in place by his feet between his crossed legs, and while absolutely destroying both Pidge and Hunk on rainbow road.
“Why don’t you just call him?” Pidge suggests suddenly, dull and blunt. “You’re worried and—”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Lance cuts her off. “I’m not worried about Mullet. I’m worried about my fury ebbing away before I get the chance to kill him.”
“If you say so.”
He does.
And it is totally true.
So if he almost jumps up when the sound of the front door falling shut reaches his ears, a very comforting wave of relief washing over him, then it is totally, exclusively, only because it means that he will finally get the chance to kill the dude for messing with his hair out of some very childish spite.
That’s what Lance is going to do, and he is gonna do it right now.
It isn’t as elegant as he would like, how he almost falls to his face when he gets up too quickly after sitting in the same spot for six-or-so hours, but elegant isn’t exactly what he is going for here anyway, so he doesn't care. Lucky for him, his glass is almost half-empty, so he can slam it on the table without the smoothie splashing over the edge.
“You!” he shouts a bit too loudly when Keith enters the room. “You goddamn—What the hell?”
Something is off. Lance can’t quite put a finger on it on the spot, because he is very fucking angry upon seeing his roommate after he’s vanished for three-and-a-half days, but, yeah. Something isn’t right.
Pidge, naturally, figures it out right away.
“Hello, roommate who Lance keeps calling Mullet for reasons I don’t understand.”
Lance blinks. Once, twice. Stares at Keith, who only nods towards Hunk and Pidge with that stupidly emotionless, yet polite face of his, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. Then, it clicks.
“Are you for real?”
Actual anger is bubbling up in Lance now, he’s feeling so many things at once that he can’t name them anymore.
“You disappear for three whole days to get a decent haircut? I—You—Is this some sick joke? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, you useless excuse for—Fuck off, no, seriously, piss off—”
While rambling, he hardly noticed Keith taking few steps towards him, but now they are face to face, and there are hands on his shoulders, and there is this awkward smile, and the teasingly raised eyebrow, and really, Lance has no idea why he suddenly feels very warm in the face, but—
“I didn’t think you’d miss me. I would’ve left a note.”
“Mi—Miss you? Oh no, Mullet, you’ve got the wrong fucking idea, I wasn’t—”
“He was worried like a little bitch, man.”
He throws Pidge the dirtiest look he can possibly manage, then sees that even Hunk is hiding a grin behind one hand, and gives up.
“You all suck. And you ruined my hair, asshole. Do you have an idea how long it took me to get that shit out? What even was it?”
Lance is not too relieved to be angry anymore. He is just tired. Tired, you hear?
“Uh.”
Keith feigns innocence for half a second, then breaks into a nasty grin.
“The only thing that matched your macaron-shit shampoo in color was that odd, sour mayonnaise we had in the fridge. That, and some really cheap perfume.”
Mayonnaise…
The one they both tried once, almost puked in each other’s face, then forgot about it for…
What? Months?
Lance can’t even remember the last time they remotely spent any time together, because if it isn’t obvious: They aren’t friends. They tried, at least so he thinks, but some things just aren’t meant to be and all.
“I washed…my hair…with mayonnaise. Wow. Well, in case you’re gonna wanna shower tonight, tough luck—I used up yours out of spite.”
“That’s fine.”
Keith leans in closer, for reasons Lance doesn’t want to understand, and whispers:
“Smells better on you anyway.”
With that, Keith backs away, gives him a pat on the shoulder, and joins Pidge and Hunk on the sofa. His social aversion seems cured for some reason, because when Lance finally manages to fully turn around and stare at him, Keith is having a normal conversation with Hunk, something-something Smash Bros is more fun than Mario Cart, running a hand through his stupidly-short hair, seeming like a decent human being.
Lance hates all of it.
That he missed his opportunity to set Keith’s mullet on fire.
That he let himself get worried about a moron.
That they can’t manage to treat each other in such a friendly manner even though they live together.
That he feels oddly comfortable like this, with all of them here.
(The knowing look Pidge gives him. Lance especially hates that one.)
“Hey, Lance.”
He is on his way to bed, about to drift off to dream-land and pretend that none of this had ever happened. What possible good reason could Keith have to get on his nerves even more than he already did all day?
“What?”
Lance barely turns around.
“I really didn't mean to worry you. Figured you might actually set me on fire after the shampoo-thing.”
“I would’ve.”
He is too tired to deny the part about worrying anymore. Sure, fine, maybe he did worry the tiniest bit. Who wouldn’t, anyway, when their roommate disappeares for almost four days?
“I’m really angry you cut your hair.”
“Huh?”
Keith stares at him blankly and runs a hand through it, looking almost self-conscious.
“You…told me it’s awful.”
“Yeah, no, it was. God, Keith, who wears a mullet?”
Lance rolls his eyes to emphasize his point.
“Then…why are you angry, again?”
“Because now I can’t set it on fire for a good reason, obviously. Dumbass.”
He sighs, knowing that a faint blush is raising to his cheeks just thinking about it, just looking at the way the shorter hair plays around Keith’s derp face. If he weren’t such a dick, he’d actually be—and rest assured that Lance will set himself on fire the moment he ever accidentally says that out loud—hella cute.
“Looks good on you, though,” he finishes and disappears into his room without giving Keith a chance to answer to it. The whole day felt like a fever dream anyway, so what does it really matter?
When Lance wakes up the next morning and checks his phone for new messages, he has to do a double-take to assure that he is seeing things correctly. He and Keith haven’t texted in months, pretty much ever since Lance moved in, so getting messages from him is a bit…odd? Foreign?
Uh…pleasant?
No, Lance forces himself to think. Totally not pleasant.
When he reads them, though, he finds himself unable to deny that he does quite like it. Somehow. In a weird, twisted way. Not that it makes his heart skip a beat or anything.
> Going to my brother's. Won’t be back until tomorrow.
> I put your shampoo back. Had filled it into a can and hid it under the sink. Kinda figured you’d find it.
> Sorry.
> …
> I missed you, too. :)
Well, maybe just a single one.