Work Text:
. . .
Sitting in the control room, hand swiping through millions of planets and stars and galaxies until he can lose himself in the steady motions of being completely lost, Lance realizes how comforting his late-night conversations with Keith are starting to feel. Most of the time, he and Keith sit together in silence with the weight of fighting a war that they never expected to be a part of suffocating them, but sometimes, one of them breaks down.
It’s usually Lance, but he’s starting to not care. He likes being heard.
Keith doesn’t talk about his feelings much, but Lance can’t really blame him. They were the two outcasts of the team, the two people left alone at the end of the day. Even though they’ve found solitude with each other, even though they spent nights watching the other fall all the way down to the dirt and slowly climb back up, there’s stark tension that won’t go away.
But tonight is different.
Keith enters the control room a quarter past 3 AM, footsteps nearly silent against the cold tile.
Lance doesn’t turn his head when Keith approaches him. He doesn’t have to, he knows their routine by now. Keith will sit down. Depending on the day, Lance will talk how much it hurts to breathe, or maybe he’ll say nothing at all. Either way, Keith will give him a deep look with a message Lance cannot translate and place a single hand on his shoulder. Keith will say nothing to him, give nothing to offer support other than the warmth of his hand, but in a strange way, it works. After a while, they’ll both stand up and walk back to their respective bedrooms with soft ‘goodnights’. Lance will stay up an hour later than Keith, trying to will away the tingling from where Keith had touched him, and Keith will sleep soundly in his bed.
That’s how it usually goes, but, as Lance had said earlier: tonight is different.
When Keiths sits down next to Lance, he expects him to send Lance a glance from the side of his eyes, his usual, you can talk to me. Lance expects himself to release a shuddering breath and talk about how he misses being loved unconditionally, or how he much he hates being alone. How scared he is of not being so.
But then Keith presses his head into his hands. His shoulders shake and he cries.
It’s not pretty. It’s as ugly as his crooked nose and scarred skin, but it catches Lance’s attention nonetheless. He guesses this is what Keith feels like when Lance loses himself. Lance finds himself stopping his searching just to stare at the sight before him. Enchanting in its own ugly way.
Over a short period of time, his sobs gradually die down, leaving Keith with sticky cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. He uncurls from himself and shifts so his chin’s tucked onto his knees, which he clutches tightly to his chest in a faux-hug.
Lance’s eyes roam against his form. Keith doesn’t meet his eyes.
“C’mon,” Lance says softly, urging. “You can talk to me.”
He watches Keith swallow.
“I don’t think people really understand.” His voice breaks halfway through his sentence, gruff tone fracturing into something as frail as glass. Broken and weak and definitely worn, definitely tired.
To hear Keith speak so wantonly, to crack himself open for Lance to see all of the ugly pressed together inside of him…his decision to speak out is arbitrary, Lance thinks. That simple fact stuns him into silence. He probably wouldn’t know what to say if he could speak, anyway.
“I was…alone,” Keith continues after a moment. Anyone could tell that the words were squeezed out of him, choked out like the sentiment behind them were overflowing outwards, spewing like blood from an open wound. “Since I was eight years old. I was alone. I lived in solitude with dozens of different people surrounding me. Isn’t that so contrary?”
Lance rolls the thought around in his head but he’s rendered useless to Keith’s spiel. How does he answer that? Does he dare even utter a soft, me too , an I get it , or would it be an empty promise? He doesn’t want to lie.
But maybe it wouldn’t even be considered one. He’s well acquainted with loneliness.
“You’d think leaving would show them.” Keith chuckles with a bitterness that’s like uncharted waters. He understands the feeling of being lost, but this? This is different. He’s stranded without aid, listening to Keith tear himself down brick by brick. It almost hurts. “Being the first one to step away, to leave them behind. You’d think that the cycle of deprivation would come to a close.” He shakes his head. His dark hair falls into his eyes. “Being one step ahead of the others doesn’t mean you’ll win the race. You still end up alone. Still end up losing.”
Lance clenches his jaw tight, so tight he can feel the pleasant sting of pressure against his molars. The words are too personal. Too close to a home Lance didn’t grow up in. Guilt bubbles inside of him as hot as acid. He shouldn’t be listening to this. He shouldn’t be the one sitting here, listening to Keith come crumbling down.
But he is. Oh, God, he is.
“Is that why…?” Is that why you left?
He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t have to, Keith knows what he’s trying to ask just as well as Lance. Watching Keith’s lip quiver before it tugs into a deeply carved frown hurts, but he knows it’s a question that needed to be asked. He shouldn’t feel guilty, but he does.
“Maybe,” Keith mumbles. He’s quiet for a heartbeat before he adds, “Or maybe I was just scared.”
Lance swallows around the lump in his throat. Cold sprouts from his chest like a frozen wasteland. Scared. He gets that too. He understands.
“Isn’t it the same thing?” Lance asks, a quiet murmur in the bubble between them. His eyes are far too heavy for someone who’s slept all day. Far too glossy for talking to someone he can barely call a friend anymore. It hurts less than it used to, but man. There's still the residual ache that tarries.
Keith lifts his head up and looks at Lance. Really looks at him—his eyes trail across his face, mapping out every imperfection Lance can feel staining his skin until he’s raw underneath his eyes. His contact lingers and it burns more than the chill in his chest. Lance can’t help but do the same.
“I don’t want to be scared anymore,” He whispers. “Teach me to not be afraid.”
There’s a confession underneath, deeper than the things he’s already shared. It’s the rays of sunlight filtering through the storm clouds, a holy awakening that leaves Lance looking for the breath that’s been stolen from his lungs.
His hand finds Keith’s own and he curls his fingers between his. The warmth of his palm spreads into Lance’s system and provides solace from the gelid icicle taking residence between his lungs. Keith watches him with furrowed brows, but when Lance squeezes his hand, he squeezes back.
“We can learn together,” Lance promises.
Keith watches him for a moment longer before he nods his head, a slow jerky nod that expresses more gratitude and hopefulness than expected. Even with tears tracking down his cheeks, even with the sadness that’s still settling over them, he allows Lance to shift closer and tuck his head against his shoulder. The chill seeps out of Lance's chest as Keith presses his nose against his scalp.
“Okay,” Keith mumbles into his hair. “Together.”