Archive of Our Own

***

It starts with a trip to the mall. 

Lance is walking out of his favorite store, that little black and white striped bag in hand, and he’s feeling good. All bubbly in his chest from that post-purchase high. Lost in the fantasy of all the Glow his newest skincare products are destined to impart to his already immaculate complexion. The cute girl at the register complimented his eyebrows. Yes, his arch is natural. 

He just got paid last night. There’s probably at least one Venti coffee in his very near future. Life could not be better. 

Until he looks up. 

“For fuck’s sake.” 

*

“...no. No! Hunk, my dude, you miss The Point.” Lance sighs into the phone, loudly and dramatically. He jabs at the air, jangles the car keys in his hand to help make The Point, even though his friend isn’t there to witness the true veracity of his opinion. Half wiggling, half hopping, he opens the door and maneuvers his way out of his car. His roommate’s bike is parked kinda crooked, and that leaves not quite enough room as he would like. Lance squints his eyes in irritation, but not enough irritation to change the subject from his current rant. He sighs. Again. 

Anyways. 

He switches the phone to the other ear, holding it in place with his shoulder while he pops open the trunk. Damn, that’s a lot of bags. Maybe he should have...not...bought all that. The thought is fleeting. A man’s gotta treat himself every now and again. 

Hunk is making some kind of reasonable counter-argument that Lance is mostly not listening to. He loads up both hands with shopping bags, manages to close the trunk---leggy up, elbow down, press ‘til you hear the click, it’s all in the technique, baby---then begins the three floor hike up to his apartment. 

“What I’m saying,” Lance butts in, cutting off Hunk, “Is that it’s October. Okay. October. We haven’t even had Halloween yet. What about Halloween!!! I love Halloween! Plus! The leaves are still on the trees.” 

“And that’s all true, yeah, but like, Lance. Not everybody does their holiday shopping at the end of the year. Some people have to start early and spread it out.” 

Lance jabs the key in the lock and kicks open the door, more or less flinging his body and the multitude of bags inside. He shuts it with his hip, leaves the bags in a heap by the door, and makes his way to the kitchen. “And some people do all of their Christmas shopping online! And some people---lots of people actually---don’t even celebrate Christmas! Hunk! The point is, I shouldn’t have to see those shitty decorations at all, but I definitely don’t want to start seeing them in fucking October!” 

He pulls a cup out of the cabinet and grabs the Brita-filter pitcher from the fridge. Hydration acquired, Lance gives it an angry sip. “I mean!” 

“What’s wrong now.” Keith, Lance’s roommate, decides that this is the exact moment he also needs to be in the kitchen. With no regard for personal space, he pushes past Lance to get in the fridge. He looks as if he hasn’t left the apartment for weeks---thick tube socks halfway up his hairy calves, faded boxers, ratty tee shirt, hair piled on top of his head in a knot. Lance wrinkles his nose. 

“Lance is mad that the mall is already decorated for the holidays.” Hunk reports. 

“You’re not on speaker,” Lance tells him. 

“It’s okay. I heard him.” Chocolate milk in hand---what kind of grown man drinks chocolate milk anyways---chocolate milk in hand, Keith looks right at Lance. Serious. “What’s wrong with Christmas decorations? They’re nice.” 

“They can be nice,” Hunk agrees. 

Lance throws his hands up. He’s surrounded by people who have no regard for appropriate seasonal furnishings. Big ass Christmas tree ornament bullshit, hanging between the Yankee Candle and the Hot Topic like some kinda Dr. Suess wannabe fairy-land. It’s unnecessary! 

“It’s unnecessary!” Lance declares. 

Keith’s typical resting bitch face deepens into a frown. Before he can say anything, Lance cuts him off: 

“By the way, you parked all wonky again, so I had to practically crawl out of the car.” He didn’t, but. “Can you at least try to keep that metal monstrosity on your side of our extremely limited parking space?” 

“That’s funny that you say that, Lance,” Keith says, in a toneless voice that means it is actually not funny at all, “Seeing as I only parked that way because you parked shitty yesterday .” 

“You do suck at parking,” Hunk says. Like a traitor. 

“Augh!” Lance can take no more. He takes his water and his turncoat of a friend on the phone and retreats to his room. 

*

All in all, Lance will admit, Keith is not a bad roommate. 

The two of them started living together in early May. Lance moved into their apartment first, quickly realized that making rent on one’s own is a bitch, and slapped an ad up on craigslist. Carefully vetted against creeps, freaks, homophobes, and anyone else who seemed like they would smell particularly funky. 

Lance took the ad down the same day that Keith replied to it. There was no question in his mind that this was the guy. He knew, he knew, that he had found his match. 

Because, well. Lance would like to say it was because they were basically the same age. Or that he thought they would get along. Or even just that he was fairly certain that Keith would not turn out to be a serial killer. But really it was none of those things. It was the photo Keith attached. 

In said picture, Keith was standing in front of his motorcycle, helmet in hand, and absolutely beaming. Slight flush to his cheeks. Leather jacket, tight, dark jeans, heavy boots. Fingerless riding gloves. Thick, black hair adorably tousled. Grinning from ear-to-ear. 

Keith sent it on a Tuesday. Around three in the afternoon. 

(Lance remembers because he almost fell off the couch when he first opened the .jpg attachment. He may have set his laptop down, taken a deep breath, stood up, looked again. Closed his eyes while hitting the ‘send’ button to reply. Proceeded to look at the picture about ten bazillion times over the course of the next 72 hours while the two of them made introductions and started texting about the apartment.) 

(See the thing is, Lance is a romantic. Ask any of his previous girlfriends. If you’re really curious, talk to the dudes he’s dated too. Flowers, candlelit dinners, dancing under the stars? Fuck yeah, sign him up. He lives for that ‘love at first sight’ shit. And when he first laid eyes on Keith Kogane? 

That was love.) 

But, turns out, the photo was misleading. 

First of all, and most importantly, Keith does not smile. 

He smirks. He snorts. He scoffs. 

He does a closed mouth little I’m smiling but I’m also pained by the fact that I have to interact with you right now. 

That gorgeous wide mouthed grin that Keith was wearing in the picture? Yeah, that’s a lie. Possibly photoshopped. Lance has never seen it. Definitely a fluke. 

Keith moved in by himself. Lance immediately tried being friendly, y’know, normal helping him with boxes and carrying things kinda stuff, but Keith was having none of it. Practically growled, “It’s my shit. I got it.” 

Okaaaay? Yeesh. 

And the weeks that followed made it clear that Keith was a Grade A douche. They fought over noise (so what if Lance likes to jam while he gets ready in the morning! It’s not like Keith’s bike is quiet when he leaves for work at 7 am!), the dishes (Lance does them a really certain way, because it’s the right way, and Keith just like, messes it up?), having people over (Lance has a very healthy sex life, thank you), basically everything. 

It was a rough first couple months. Over and over again, Lance told himself, this is what you get for being thirsty on craigslist. 

But they managed to work it out. Keith, while he has all the vernacular of a caveman, is actually a decent dude. When Lance laid it all out, like ‘Look man, we need to talk,’ instead of jumping down his throat, Keith was fairly receptive. They both made allowances---Lance wears headphones while he gets ready. Keith does the dishes the right way. Lance gives Keith a heads up if he’s having company. Adult type shit. They handled it. 

And so now, Lance would say, they’re even friends. Not besties, not like him and Hunk, but they get along well enough. 

But. Love at first sight? Maybe Lance needs to get his eyes checked. The illusion? Shattered. 

Now, Keith is just. Keith. 

He works at a car garage and while ‘hot guy coming home covered in motor oil’ sounds like the opening to a particularly lovely bit of porn, it actually just means that Keith at the end of the day is exhausted and dirty and cranky. Especially because he also takes online classes at a local community college, so he usually works after work, textbook slung over the arm of the couch, laptop in lap, chewing furiously at the end of a pen. 

His luscious dark hair? Clogs the drain.  

Can’t cook for shit. Will absolutely steal leftovers unless Lance specifically labels them, “Do NOT touch! Keith!” 

He has horrible taste in music and movies and video games. Wouldn’t catch a pop culture reference if it hit him square in the nose. 

Has weird hobbies. Builds intricate model planes. Says things like, ‘plausible sighting of the North American jackalope.’ Owns at least one bigass knife. Probably more. 

But even when Keith is being really extra Keith-y (for example, last week he randomly came home looking like an extra on the set of the nearest Karate Kid remake. When Lance asked him what the hell he was wearing, Keith just frowned and said, “Judo? It’s Thursday.” Like that explains anything! Like, he was confused as to why it would even be a question! What the fuck.), he’s not such a bad guy. 

At least. That’s what Lance thought before the holiday season rolled around. 

*

After the aforementioned Mall Decor Incident, things go downhill fast.  

It’s a sunny afternoon at the very tail end of October, the kind of day where the weather is saying, actually, winter? Not really happening this year, don’t even worry about it. People are taking off their jackets and sweatshirts and cardigans by mid-day, and no one, no one is thinking about Christmas. 

Lance has the evening off. He’s got plans to whip up something really tasty for dinner, something hearty and delicious that reminds him of his mama’s cooking. In fact, while he cooks, he’ll probably call her, just to chat. She’s far away, too far, but when he hears her say, ahora, Lance, ten cuidado de no quemar el ajo , he’ll feel almost at home. And when the kitchen starts to smell like all the good things---onions and garlic and peppers---Keith will no doubt wander out of his room. He won’t ask to share, but Lance will offer (because he’s basically the nicest guy ever, obviously). Keith will drum his fingers over his thighs and hunch his shoulders and do that thing where he seems just socially awkward, not snotty. Lance will insist and Keith will take a seat at the table, pretending to not to watch as Lance moves around the kitchen. 

So that’s the plan. 

And everything is going perfectly according to plan, that is. Until. Lance opens the fridge door and sees it. 

There’s a yellow carton right next to where the milk sits on the door. 

It says ‘Darigold,’ across the front in red letters. There are little snowflakes on the yellow background. Across the bottom there’s a red and green and white illustration of an old timey couple riding in an old timey horse-drawn sleigh, evergreen trees in the background. 

It’s eggnog. A carton of actual eggnog. 

Eggnog. 

In his fridge. 

Lance plucks the carton from the door. Holds it in his hand for a good thirty seconds. Frowning. 

“Where did this…” 

He looks at Keith. Keith is looking at his phone. 

Eyes narrowed, Lance slides the ‘nog back in the door. Weird, but. Okay. Whatever. 

That’s fine. 

And it would be fine, except for, it keeps happening. 

And it’s not just eggnog. 

On November first, Lance gets off late after working the closing shift. He’s hungry and his legs hurt from being on his feet all day and he works retail so had to be all sweet and happy to people all day, and that’s draining. He needs to be home, like, yesterday. He walks up the stairs, gets to the door of his and Keith’s apartment. He stops. Is he so tired that he’s at the wrong door? He looks at the number. 351. Yeah. That’s the place. He lives here. But. 

But since when is there a wreath on the front door? 

It’s a big thing, all fake poinsettia flowers and pine cones and holly berries. Gold ribbon and a gentle dusting of artificial snow. It takes up half the door, practically. Huge. 

Lance turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open. Little bells on the wreath jingle merrily. Lance shuts the door behind him with a grimace. Is one of their neighbors putting up random wreaths on people’s doors? Lance opens the door again---there’s the jingling---and sticks his head out to look around. No. No one else’s door has a wreath. Huh. 

So that’s. A thing. 

Keith must think he’s really sly, Lance muses, a week later, while brushing his teeth. 

Window-cling stickers in the shape of snowflakes have been stuck to the bathroom mirror. They just appeared in the last twenty-four hours, Lance is pretty sure. They’re all around the top of mirror, with a few in the middle, like snow is falling. At the bottom left corner, there’s a reindeer, pressed on at an angle, like it’s ready for takeoff. 

Lance spits in the sink and gargles with Listerine and thinks, Okay. This is weird. Even for Keith.  

If it’s some kind of elaborate prank, Lance has decided, he isn’t going to give Keith the satisfaction. He doesn’t say a word. 

As time goes on, and the holidays inch closer, it just keeps getting worse. 

The kitchen towels gets replaced with ones that have Santa on them. Fat, jolly Santas, dancing all over the towels like polka dots. Okay. 

A collection of tiny houses crop up on the kitchen countertop. A miniature Christmas town. Little pine trees all around. There’s an itty bitty figurine of a boy selling newspapers in the snow. Lance says nothing. 

There’s a wooden nutcracker man standing next to the TV now. He has a tall hat and a fluffy beard and large, vacant eyes. Yeah. 

Garland strung across the living room wall. Fine. 

Colored lights around the porch railing. Lance grits his teeth. 

Big, velvety looking stockings hung in the windows. One says Lance. One says Keith. Lance raises his eyebrows, but still. Says nothing. 

It’s the weirdest thing, because, despite their apartment slowly transforming into Kris-Fucking-Kringle Land, Keith is acting no different.  

If Lance talks to him, he gets mostly grunts in response. Two word answers if he’s lucky. 

One day in late November, after their apartment starts to reek of evergreen air freshener, Lance pokes his head in Keith’s room. Dude almost always has the door partially open. 

“Hey man.” 

Keith pulls the headphones off of his ears. His hair is mussed and sticky-up from the dry air and static. He’s wearing a nondescript black sweatshirt and sitting in bed with his computer in his lap. “Lance. Hey.” 

“Yeah, so. Just wondering.” Lance leans against the doorframe. “Is there anything I need to know?” 

Like, are you ultra-religious or something where Christmas is a super big deal? Do you suddenly have a ton of friends I don’t know about and they’re coming over for a holiday party? Is this a huge practical joke at my expense? Are you actually unhinged? 

“Annnything? Anything at all?” 

Keith juts his chin out and narrows his eyes, seriously considering his answer, which is kind of a response in and of itself. He tilts his head to the side. “No?” He finally says. 

Lance gapes at him. Motions widely to the rest of the apartment, “Nothing?” 

A little wrinkle appears between Keith’s dark brows. “Look, if this is about my boots, I just left them by the door because they got all muddy in the slush.” He scowls. “I’ll put them away later.” 

Lance stares at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. Keith’s look darkens. 

“Okay.” Lance stands up. “Cool. Good talk.” 

Not exactly Mr. Holly Jolly. 

*

So. Just to be clear. It’s not that Lance is a Grinch. A Scrooge. A bah-humbug kinda guy. He’s not! 

He loves the holidays! Good feelings and traditions! Plus, he misses his family a fuckton all year, and the holidays are the one time he goes home and gets to see them. He likes buying presents for people and knowing they’ll be happy. Deck the halls, mistletoe, Mirah Carey. He likes all that shit. He looks forward to it. 

The problem is: 

Lance has the misfortune to work retail. Specifically, he is a shift manager for a toy store. 

A toy store. 

Around the holidays. 

Is hell on Earth. 

“You want us to do what? !” 

Lance stands up from the tiny table in the store breakroom where all of the store’s senior employees are gathered. The plastic chair he was sitting in clatters to the floor. 

Romelle, one of his coworkers, giggles. Lance shoots her a disbelieving look like, babe, this is not the time. 

His boss, an extremely tired woman by the name of Ellen, pinches the bridge of her nose. “I know, Lance. Believe me. But this is what corporate wants. I need you to be on board with this. It’s going to be hard enough as is.” 

Lance looks to his other coworkers in the room, Ezor and Zethrid---they mostly just talk to each other and are honestly scary---for backup. “Uh. Please tell her she’s out of her mind. There is no way the Lancenator is dressing up. As an elf.” 

Romelle repeats, ‘Lancenator, ’ under her breath and starts giggling again. Lance sighs. 

Ezor and Zethrid look at each other, probably sharing some creepy telekinetic link. They come to some unspoken conclusion. “Naturally, we’ll do whatever we’re supposed to,” Ezor coos. 

Lance knows for a fact that she steals from the register cash at least once a pay period. She’s the one who balances the drawers though, and she’s smart as hell; he can’t prove anything. 

He massages his temples. 

Zethrid chimes in, “I’ll be the one who dresses up as Santa.” 

(Lance considers how absolutely terrified he would be as a child if he saw Zethrid in a Santa suit. He tilts his head back and stares at the stained corkboard ceiling tiles. How is this his life?) 

Ellen flips through the packet from corporate, half distracted. Over the store speaker, a page goes out: “Manager, you have a call on line one, Manager, line one.”  She either ignores it, or doesn’t hear it at all. Could be either. 

“It seems like we’ll be getting a Professional Santa,” Ellen finally says. ‘ Whatever that means’ is the unspoken addendum. She gives Lance and the others a halfhearted smile. “We’re a team. I know that this is going to add to everyone’s workload. Mine included. But I need your help.” 

And that kind of schmaltzy ‘we’re all in this together’ stuff, is the exact kind of stuff that Lance can’t resist. He’s part of a team. Ellen is depending on him. He can’t let her down. If corporate wants him to dress up like an elf just because he works in a toy store, then he’ll be the best fucking elf there ever was. 

So that’s why, come Black Friday, Lance is wearing polyester pants that are too short for his long legs, and a matching polyester jacket that chafes, and a little pointy hat. Romelle took it upon herself to draw pink circles on everyone’s cheeks so they’re a whole team of the happiest, blush-iest elves. 

Merry Christmas. 

*

Black Friday goes about as well as anyone expects. There are no bodily injuries and no one gets shot (that happened last year at the Best Buy across the street, so). There were tears, and yelling, and a few minor threats, but that’s just how retail is. Lance was scheduled to come in at six am, but there’s a call off, of course, so he works the closing shift too. 

It’s just past nine at night. Lance has scrubbed the makeup off his cheeks. He’s changed out of the polyester monstrosity and into normal clothes. It’s been well over fifteen hours since he left home. He’s ready to crawl in bed and sleep. Forever. 

It’s following that horrible shift at Fuck This R Us when he comes home and sees It. 

That.  

The final straw. 

He’s gotta say something. Lance closes the door to their apartment behind him. (The wreath jingles.) Hangs his coat up in the closet. Takes a deep breath. 

“Keith.” 

Keith is sitting on one end of the couch, right leg tucked underneath him, reading a true crime novel from the Goodwill. 

Lance can tell that it’s from the Goodwill because the orange sticker pasted on the front is still there. Keith never bothers to peel them off. He has two bookshelves in his room, full to bursting with used books.There’s always at least one pre-loved paperback with a Goodwill sticker laying on the coffee table in the living room, or on one of the kitchen counters. Those Lance doesn’t mind. But they also end up in the bathroom, next to the toilet. Gross, Keith! Just scroll through your phone like everyone else. 

“Keith.” Lance repeats, taking off his shoes. He lines them up by the door, next to Keith’s boots. 

“Yeah.” He doesnt look up from the book.  

“What is that.”  

“What is what,” Keith says, turning the page. 

“That.”  

Keith finally looks up at Lance and follows his flailing arms to the corner of their living room. 

Where a seven foot tall Christmas tree, decked out in an absurd amount of ornaments and tinsel and brightly colored lights has just APPEARED. There’s a plush looking tree skirt around the bottom and a garish gold star on the top. It’s a fake one, but like, a nice fake one with bristles that look somewhat real. It’s excessive in every way. And it certainly was not there when Lance left for work this morning. 

Keith blinks. Pointedly does not look back at Lance. Looks back down at his book instead. “Christmas tree.” He says. 

Lance takes a breath. “Okay, but how did it get in our apartment?! Keith!” 

Keith shrugs. 

“Keith.” 

“Bought it.” Keith says. 

“Okay.” Lance says. “Okay.” 

Keith continues reading. 

Lance goes to bed. 

* 

December begins and brings with it the normal stress of the holiday season. Lance is handling it well. 

Until he’s not. 

He’s gritting his teeth all the way from the front door to his room. Jaw set, mouth pulled tight. Fists clenched. Lips bitten. Breath tight in his chest. He’s been holding back angry tears since earlier this morning when Ellen pulled him into the store’s office and broke the news. That was hours ago.

Corporate put a hold on holiday vacation time. He won’t be able to take the ten days off to go home for the holidays. Like he planned. Even though his vacation was approved---they said it was approved , they said ---all the way back in July when he first put in the request. At most, he’ll be able to get four days off. At most. 

He storms into his room, tugs off his coat and scarf, throws them towards his bed. Runs a shaky hand through his hair. He opens his computer, clicks to a page he’s had bookmarked for over six months. His mouth wobbles. 

The details for his flight home blur as tears fill his eyes. He blinks back the tears and sniffles, scrolling to the bottom of the webpage. Clicks on the small line of text that reads ‘Cancellations and Refunds.’ 

The flights cost a lot of money. Lance’s heart sinks when he reads the cancellation policy. He sniffles again. Rubs his cheek with the back of his hand where a tear managed to spill over. He’s an adult. He’s not going to cry over not being able to go home, like a little kid. He grits his teeth. His throat is watery. His heart is beating fast. He clenches his hands together, tight. Pulls in a breath through his nose. It’s fine. So what if he’s homesick? So what if he hates his job? So what if he’ll be all alone---

“Lance?” 

Keith knocks against the doorframe. Peeks inside. Lance didn’t close the door to his room when he came in. “Do you---uh.” 

Lance looks at him, mouth still wobbly. He swipes at his eyes and sniffles again. Clears his throat. “Do I what, Keith?” His voice cracks. 

Keith wets his lips, looks to the computer screen, then back to Lance’s face. “You okay?” 

Face hot, Lance lets out a garbled laugh. “Not really.” 

Keith blinks. Nods. Without another word, he walks into Lance’s room, leans against his desk. Crosses his arms. He looks at Lance, no judgement floating in his solemn, dark eyes. “What’s wrong.” 

And Lance spills. He tells Keith about the vacation request that he put in months ago, and his plans to go home for the holidays. He tells him that he misses his family, so much. So much. His mouth is all downturned and his voice breaks as he tells Keith he probably will have to cancel his flights. If they can’t be refunded, he won’t be able to afford to go home at all. He cries. Just a few tears. Not much.  

Keith listens, half nodding, head tilted. When Lance talks himself out, Keith inhales. 

“Lance.” Keith clenches his hand in a fist. “You work your ass off for that place.” 

Lance blinks. He wasn’t expecting…

Keith continues, apparently angry. “And this is a bunch of horseshit. You’re there all the time. You go in whenever anybody calls off. You’re probably their most reliable employee. Everyone likes you.” 

Lance frowns a little. “Yeah. I guess…” 

“Listen, I bet if you talk to Romelle---” 

Lance tells stories about work all the time, but he didn’t think that Keith paid enough attention to know his coworkers’ names, 

“---if you talk to Romelle, she’ll definitely switch a shift with you. I’m sure. That way you can get at least five days off. And then you won’t have to cancel your flight there. Just reschedule the flight back here. I think the airlines usually will do that.” Keith scowls, but it’s not at Lance. “If worst comes to worst, I have some money. You could always pay me back.” 

Lance blows out a sigh. He’s shocked. “Keith. You---” 

Keith waves a hand, dismissive. “You’d do the same for me.” 

Lance inhales, tears welling up in his eyes for a different reason. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, to let Keith know how much he appreciates him. No words seem like enough.

“Uh.” Keith stands up. His fingers twitch and he shifts on his feet. “Uh-so. Anyways. Do you know where the remote is? For the tv?” 

Lance chokes out a laugh. “Keith!” 

He rises to his feet---sees Keith’s eyes widen and his mouth part in surprise just as Lance leans in---and then Lance is pulling Keith close, tugging Keith into his chest. 

“Oof!” Keith more or less falls against him, into his arms. 

Keith is taller than him, and solid. Solid chest, solid arms. Lance can hear him swallow, and he thinks for half a moment that maybe Keith will just stand there like a rock, or maybe shove Lance off with a half-laugh. But then those solid arms come around Lance’s back and hesitantly pat between his shoulder blades. “Uh.” 

Lance squeezes him tight. Nose pressed into his neck. His face is still wet from crying, but who cares. He gushes: “I’m so glad you’re my roomie, dude. You’re the greatest.” 

He feels Keith relax in his arms. Rest a heavy hand on Lance’s back, like it belongs there. “I’m glad too.” He says, soft. 

And Lance blinks, thoughts grinding to an abrupt halt. Because since when does Keith sound like that ? 

Like, he...cares? 

Lance pulls away, slowly, not missing the way Keith’s hand slides down from between his shoulder blades to the small of his back before withdrawing. Lance takes half a step back, not yet meeting Keith’s eyes. When he finally does raise his eyes, Keith’s face is as stoic as ever, but there’s a pink to his cheeks that isn’t normally there. He looks down into Lance’s face, and the barest hint of a smile curls over his lips. 

Cute, Lance thinks. 

And then. 

Oh no. 

*

Things get worse after that. 

He’s always known Keith was attractive, hello, he has eyes. But now he’s appreciating the way his chest fills out the vee neck tee shirts he sleeps in. His round ass in flannel pajama pants. How his voice rasps, “Mornin’ Lance,” as he shuffles over the coffeemaker, eyebrows raised, mouth drawn into an inquisitive pout, peering down to check the water level. 

Lance is sitting there with a strawberry frosted Poptart halfway to his mouth, gaping. The dickprint in those pjs is real. Dude. Keith. Is this allowed? The whole scene borders on criminal . How is this real life?

Or when Keith comes home from work, grime halfway up his forearms. He’ll nod at Lance in acknowledgement, grab a towel, and head into their bathroom. The taps squeak, the water thrums, and if Lance listens close enough, he can hear Keith singing under his breath while he cleans up. Just a few minutes later he’ll emerge, towel wrapped around his waist. He ducks from the bathroom across the hall to his room, and Lance has to stick his knuckles in his mouth to avoid screaming. Later, Keith will join him in the living room, textbooks in hand, and settle next to Lance on the couch. Casual. Like he hasn’t just provided Lance with enough bare skin to seriously alter his perception of reality. 

It’s all too much. 

The concentrating face that Keith makes as he ushers a spider out of Lance’s closet with a magazine and a glass cup and steady hands. 

The way his low voice will raise and crack as he rants to Lance about the minutest of details surrounding what he’s calling a ‘government cover-up scheme’ from the 1970s. Lance will play devil’s advocate, just to be a jerk, just to see Keith do that wide-eyed disbelief thing, and scoff. To hear Keith practically whine and still keep pressing, insistent. 

How his entire face just crinkles in absolute disgust if Lance lets one rip. He’ll shout Lance’s name and Lance will be laughing so hard there’s tears in his eyes, and Keith will snicker and shove him and threaten to sell his furniture while he’s at work. 

The careful way he touches the top of Lance’s head, gentle, and whispers, “Lance. You fell asleep on the couch. Go to bed.” Lance will blink his eyes open and Keith will be there, standing over him, exasperated and fond. 

Fond. 

Keith? Fond?! What?!

*

“How long have you and Keith been fucking?” Pidge asks, before shoving a wad of Flaming Hot Cheetos in their mouth. 

Lance does a fairly decent job of not choking on the energy drink he just inhaled. He hacks out a cough, sputters, almost knocks over said energy drink with flailing arms, and then squawks: “What?!” 

Pidge’s eyes are on the television screen, their nasty cheese-dust fingers jamming buttons on the controller. “You heard me.” 

“We haven’t---he doesn’t---I’m not---” Lance inhales. Gathers his wits. Goes for casually disinterested. “Why do you ask that?” 

“Hmmmm.” Pidge hums, as if that answers everything. 

“Don’t hmm me Pidge.” Lance says, all at once incredibly annoyed. “What the fuck.” 

“So he turned you down then?” Pidge pauses the game. “Or you don’t have the balls to ask?” 

“Okay, first of all,” Lance holds up a finger. “Rude. So rude.” He holds up another finger. “Also, again. What the fuck??” 

Pidge is unimpressed. 

“He could come home any minute,” Lance hisses, eyes darting to the door. “Think of how super awkward that would be!!” 

“More or less awkward than the weird sexual tension you guys have had for the past six months?” Pidge asks, sipping their own can of Monster like it’s a goddamn delicacy. 

As if on cue, the lock turns. The bells on the front door wreath jingle. Keith enters. 

He taps snow from his boots, unpeels a navy blue scarf from around the bottom half of his face. The tops of his cheeks are red from the cold. “Hey Pidge. Good to see you. Hey Lance.” 

“Great to see you too, Keith,” Pidge says, malicious delight sparkling in their green eyes. Lance pinches their side. Like lightning, they clamp down on his hand. They almost break his fingers. 

“Uh.” Keith regards the scuffle with mild concern. “Gonna go get changed.” 

“You do that Keith,” Lance wheezes. Pidge is a menace. 

As soon as he’s out of sight, Lance glares at them. Daggers. Daggers, out of his eyes. 

“You liii~ke him,” They singsong, close to Lance’s ear. Like a child. A horrible child. 

“Shut up! Shut up---I do not!!” Lance hisses. “Be quiet!” 

“Okay.” Pidge affects seriousness, the little gremlin. “Just tell me this, Lance. When was the last time you saw somebody else?” 

Lance hesitates. He---shit. How long has it been since he brought someone home? August? Beginning of September? Months? It’s been months? That’s, that’s definitely a dry spell. 

But, that’s...It has nothing to do with Keith! Lance has just been busy. He hasn’t had time...or maybe he hasn’t wanted to make time...or just wanted in general...And the holidays...and. Wow. It has been a long time. 

Pidge unpauses the game. “Q.E.D.” 

Lance hates being friends with nerds. 

* 

Halfway through December, there’s supposed to be a monster snow storm. Freezing rain that turns into gobs of snow. Multiple feet of accumulation predicted. Record breaking, maybe. 

It doesn’t really matter to Lance. Snow days as a kid are great, probably, but he grew up with sandy beaches and palm trees, so he wouldn’t know. Tonight, if the storm hits like channel seven predicts, it just means he’ll have to scrape his car off before work tomorrow. Big whoop. 

He’s lying in bed, mindlessly scrolling through insta and chewing on the drawstrings of his hoodie when Keith knocks on his doorframe. 

“S’posed to be a big storm,” Keith says, pulling down a beanie over his hair. “Do you need anything from the store?” 

Lance sits up. “You’re going out?” It’s already sleeting. Keith’s motorcycle is a terrible choice of transportation in all of the colder months, but in weather like this, it could very well be deadly. What if a car doesn’t see him because of the freezing rain? What if he hits ice and goes flying? Keith is skilled at riding but there are all kinds of idiots out there. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

Keith shrugs. “Just gonna get a couple things. If the power goes out because of the storm, it’s better to be well stocked.” 

Lance purses his lips. He is low on Poptarts. And there’s only one beer left. 

You know, 

The necessities. 

He hops off the bed, and smacks Keith on the arm on the way out of his room. “I’ll come too. We can take my car.” 

Keith does the thing he does sometimes, the one where he’s trying to act like he’s not happy but he really is. He blinks rapidly and ducks his head. Presses his lips together before he says, “You sure? It’s your day off. I can grab whatever you need.” 

“That’s sweet, Keith,” Lance says, tucking his wallet into the pocket of his sweatpants and grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter. 

‘ Sweet, ’ Keith mouths, frowning behind him, 

“But what if you end up as a frozen Keith pancake because you were, like, buying me applesauce or something?” Lance waves his hands in the air just imagining it. “I’d be guilt ridden for the rest of my life! I’d be eighty and still feel bad about my long lost Keith! What kind of future is that!” 

Keith leans against the couch while Lance grabs his coat and gets bundled up. “You don’t eat applesauce though? Why would I buy that?” 

“It’s the principle of the matter,” Lance tells him, opening up the door. The cold wind is blistering. 

In the car, Lance turns the heat up high and shivers, waiting for it to warm up just a smidge before they embark. 

Keith pulls off one of his gloves with his teeth and jabs the radio. He twists the dial to a specific station with certainty, 

And, 

“---joy and what suprise, 

When I open up my eyes, 

And see a hippo hero, standing there!

I wanna----” 

“No.” Lance says, firm. He twists the dial to minimum volume, silencing the horrible grating voice. “Absolutely not.” 

Keith bats his hand away and turns it up full blast, droll melody immediately assaulting Lance’s ears, 

“No crocodiles, or rhinoceroses---” 

“---mas music is the worst!!! And this is the fucking worst one of them all!!” Lance is screeching over the song, 

“Hippos are cool!!” Keith is shouting back, “If you could have any animal, a hippo is a good choice!!” 

“Fuck hippos!” Lance yells, smacking Keith’s hand away from the radio. 

Keith wrestles his hand away, pinning it next to Lance’s shoulder on the back of the driver’s seat. Lance lunges with his other hand and Keith sits up on one leg, grabbing that one too, so that he has both of Lance’s hands in his. And suddenly. 

He’s leaning over Lance in the driver’s seat, holding both Lance’s hands. Pinning him down.

Lance takes a breath. 

Keith looks at him, his face red under all those layers now that the car is heating up. His face is close enough that Lance make out the stubby lashes around his dark eyes. There’s a faint scar running down Keith’s cheek, disappearing under his jaw. A fine, white line, hair thin, that Lance has never noticed before. He looks back to Keith’s eyes. 

There’s a beat of hesitation. 

Gayla Peevey finishes her assault on their eardrums. The Christmas station begins playing a commercial instead. 

Keith tips forward, and Lance swears, he swears , that he sees Keith’s mouth part. 

Lips soft and relaxed, 

Like leaning into a kiss. 

But instead. Keith drops his hands and sits back down in the passenger seat. “--rry,” he mutters. 

“Yeah, well, you should be sorry,” Lance tells him, wiggling his fingers before shifting the car into reverse. 

He catches Keith’s eye and grins. “I have to listen to Christmas music all day at work. Frankly, hearing it now is un acceptable.” 

Keith’s expression melts from pinched and almost angry into something relieved. Relaxed. He settles back into the seat. “If you say so. I think it’s nice.” 

“You think a lot of things are nice,” Lance tells him sagely. 

Keith frowns. 

*

At the grocery store, Keith is the one who pushes the cart. He pulls out a list made on the back of an old receipt, crumpled from being in his pocket. 

Lance hooks his chin over Keith’s shoulder, peering down over his chest at the list in his hands. Keith’s shoulders tense up under Lance’s weight on his back, but he doesn’t shake him off. Lance ignores the feeling of Keith’s hair tickling his face and instead reads what they’re supposed to be buying. Keith’s handwriting is smaller and more loopy than Lance would have imagined. 

The two of them make their way up and down the aisles, Keith crossing things off the list as they go into the cart. Lance just grabs random things that he wants in the moment and tosses them in. It makes one of Keith’s eyebrows twitch. 

Getting groceries with Keith is the most fun Lance has had in forever. Is that sad? Maybe it is. But when Lance bumps Keith’s shoulder and Keith bumps him back, it makes something loosen in Lance’s chest. 

He’s talking, telling Keith all kinds of random shit while they shop, and Keith is interjecting, and trying to keep Lance from buying obnoxious, absurd things, like an industrial sized jar of pickles, and it’s fun.  

It feels good to do this stupid, mundane task with him. To watch Keith frown as he chooses between Swiss Miss and Nestle hot chocolate, like it’s a life altering decision. Lance tosses mini marshmallows in the cart and Keith’s eyes get wide. He nods, approving. 

They work as a team and unload all of their stuff onto the belt for check-out. Keith makes small talk with the older woman working the register, and Lance is amazed at how friendly he can be if he really wants to. 

They load the groceries into Lance’s messed up trunk, and Lance teaches Keith the trick for getting it to shut---leggy up, elbow down, press ‘til you hear the click---and tells him, “It’s all in the technique, baby!” 

He shoots Keith a finger gun, and Keith smirks, clearly amused. Happy. 

It’s a feeling in Lance’s chest that feels warm, despite the cold air and the icy streets. It’s not a crush, he tells himself while they unload the groceries and put them away in their kitchen, side-by-side. Because Lance has had crushes. Plenty. And crushes are stressful and make him feel inadequate. Small. This makes him feel big, like smiling on the perfect summer day. This is easy. 

It’s easy to flip on the television and settle down on the couch and know that Keith is bound to come sit next to him. And he does. 

*

“Shiro is going to be in town this weekend.” Keith tells Lance a week and a half before Christmas. 

“Cool,” Lance says, keeping his expression neutral. 

Shiro is Keith’s best friend? So Keith says. 

Lance has met him a handful of times since he and Keith started living together. Shiro is…

Shiro is…

How to describe Takashi Shirogane? 

Well, the first thing any person, any gender, any sexuality, gay, straight, whatever---the first thing any human being (Lance doesn’t know any aliens, but if he did, they’d probably agree) is going to notice about Shiro is that he is Attractive. With a capital A. 

Stunning. Gorgeous. Hot as fuck. 

Perfectly symmetrical features, ears that stick out just enough to be charming. Stylish clothes. Shock white hair that just accentuates pretty gray eyes. A golden, winning smile, jawline chiseled like marble. 

Once you get past the guy’s Perfect outer layer, you’ll find: 

He’s just about the nicest guy in the world. Strong willed without being gruff. Kind without being a pushover. Gentle. Sweet. Funny. Smart. 

So. That’s Keith’s “best friend.” 

Yeah. 

He and Keith have some kind of shared history that make them Very Close. 

Lance has only been witness to it a few times, but that was enough. They constantly have their hands on each other. Keith’s hand wrapped abound Shiro’s massive bicep (oh yeah, did Lance mention that the guy is beyond ripped? He has like, the body of a Greek god, if a Greek god was also a GQ model. And could bench press a small horse), and Shiro always has one of his broad palms on the back of Keith’s neck. They look at each other like there isn’t anybody else in the world, much less the room. 

“D’you wanna go out with us?” Keith asks, shifting on his feet in front of the television. “Probably just grabbing drinks, nothing big.” 

Lance blows out a sigh like he’s thinking and gives Keith his best I’m-totally-good smile. “Naaaaah. You haven’t seen him in forever. You don’t need me third wheeling.” 

Keith nods, frowning. “Matt will probably be there too, but. Uh.” He hedges. “No problem.” 

*

Which is why, come Friday night, Lance is sitting on that same couch, at home, alone, glaring at his phone. 

He’s not mad at Keith for going out, or having friends with whom he’s close---of course not. He’s angry with himself for being a jerk. If Keith invited him, and he wanted to go, he should have just gone. 

He stews and he watches Netflix and he stews and checks his phone and he stews and he stews, 

He brushes his teeth, does his nightly skincare routine, considers whether he is, indeed, an overly possessive, shitty friend. (Because he and Keith are just friends and so this emotion cannot possibly be jealousy, right? Psh, no, of course not.) Wait. Is he an overly possessive, shitty friend? Probably a little. He goes to bed. 

When he hears the jingly wreath on the front door, it’s so late at night that it’s actually early in the morning.

“It’s the moooost wonderful time of the yeaaaaar,” Keith is belting out. His voice is full and smooth and honestly, he shouldn’t be able to sing that well, like, at all, but definitely not when hammered.  

Because he’s definitely drunk. 

“With the kids jingle belling and everyone telling---” 

Shiro shushes him but it’s loud, and Matt starts to cackle his nasally Matt laugh.  

There’s a crash and the sound of breaking glass. “Oh shit!!” Keith comments, still loud. 

Matt laughs. Even harder. 

Lance slides out of bed, reminds himself not to be a huge jerkface, and walks into the living room. It must have been Keith who bumped into something and caused all the noise. He looks like he’s barely managing to stay upright. 

“Hey, there’s Mr. Too Cool For Us!” Matt sings. 

Lance grins and shakes his head. “If you’re trying to annoy me, your sibling has you beat by a long shot.” 

Matt gives him two thumbs up and a huge smile, because he’s a massive nerd. “Pidge is the best.” 

Lance surveys the scene. The three of them are in varying states of disarray, scarves unfurled, hats askew, gloves probably lost. They tracked in snow all over the living room. Keith looks glassy eyed and relaxed. He’s a happy drunk. Lance can’t help but smile.  

Until Keith teeters out of nowhere and almost goes flying into the coffee table. Shiro barely manages to catch him before he eats it. 

And Shiro has an arm around his waist, holding him steady. Lance squints at that. 

“You saved me,” Keith slurs, patting Shiro’s chest in thanks. 

“We saved each other,” Shiro says, vehement. Keith nods in agreement.  

“I believe that this belongs to you ,” Matt declares, unpinning Keith from Shiro’s side. 

Lance almost doesn’t parse the words fast enough, but at least he has the presence of mind to hold out his arms. And Keith falls into them. 

Keith laughs and sticks himself to Lance. “Hi Lance.” His skin is warm and flushed. “You smell really good,” he pulls Lance into his chest, and sighs, happy, against his forehead. 

“And you smell like stale beer and secondhand smoke.” Lance tries to shoot back, but it comes out garbled because That 

Is Keith

Grinding against Lance. 

“Ke--Keith! Uh-hah-ha-ha,” Lance has his hands on Keith’s hips, his hands on Keith’s hips . He holds him firmly in place. “No--Noope! None of that, um, Keith--not that, I, mm, mind, buuuh--” 

“Remember what I said, Keithy.” Matt chides. 

Keith unlatches one arm from around Lance to hold up his hand to give Matt the finger.  

Shiro giggles and it’s only then that Lance realizes he’s drunk too. 

“Do you guys need me to call you a Lyft?” Lance raises an eyebrow. “Or you could crash here. Me and Keith don’t care.”  

Matt grins. “Nah. I’m stone cold sober.” 

“He doesn’t like to drink,” Keith pipes up, 

“Never a drop,” Shiro adds,

“Because he’s lame!!” They both shriek in unison and dissolve into giggles. Jesus christ. 

It takes some doing, but Lance manages to walk Keith over to the kitchen and get him to drink some water. Keith pets his hair with heavy, rough hands, and tells Lance that it’s ‘really soft.’ Lance’s face is red. He tries to get Keith to sit down at the table. He fails. 

Keith gets into a fight with Shiro but it’s just about who loves the other more. It would seem that Keith wins, but his face immediately crumples when he realizes that his victory means Shiro’s loss. 

“I don’t know how you deal with this,” Lance tells Matt. 

Matt side-steps skillfully as Shiro half waddles, half trips into the kitchen. “They used to be worse when we were in college.” 

Lance raises his eyebrows. After Shiro has managed to dump an entire glass of water down the front of his shirt---an action that had Keith dying with laughter---Matt decides to put an end to it. 

“Okay big guy,” Matt latches an arm around Shiro. “We’re gonna go home now.” 

Shiro protests but Matt just tells him: “Shiro. Listen to me. You can talk to Keith tomorrow. You can text him first thing in the morning that you hate yourself and crave death.” 

Shiro nods, “Yeah, I will,” 

“Correct,” Matt is helping him put on his coat. “So we’re gonna leave Keith here with Lance. And me and you are going to go home.” 

Shiro closes his eyes. “Let’s get McDonalds on the way.” 

Keith leans close to Lance, as if sharing a secret, his breath a hot (and loud) whisper on Lance’s cheek: “He only eats fast food when he’s drunk.” 

Shiro grins. 

By some kind of pre-Christmas miracle, Shiro and Matt make their way out of Keith and Lance’s apartment and down to Matt’s car. Lance fears for their safety, but, well. They’ve survived this far. They’ll be fine. 

When he comes back inside, Keith is standing in the center of the room, just. 

Smiling. 

Not a grin, or a smirk, or a snort. 

It’s a smile, a soft smile. Genuine. He has dimples. Lance never noticed before. 

Lance clears his throat. Keith turns towards him, tilts his head, but his expression is still so tender. Not silly or overdone---just quietly happy. Peaceful. Content. 

“Keith?” Lance isn’t sure what to say to keep that smile in place, but he realizes, without a shadow of a doubt, that he wants to keep seeing Keith like this. He wants...

“Decorations look so pretty.” 

Lance looks at him. The lights from the Christmas tree are reflected in his dark eyes. He’s taking it all in---the tinsel, the fake snow, the stockings---like it’s a work of art. Like it’s really special.  

“You’re the one who did it all.” Lance points out. Keith doesn’t seem to hear. He takes a few lumbering steps forward, making sure he gets to see all the room from every angle. 

“Dad loved Christmas,” Keith says, ignoring him. He slumps on the couch, pulling a throw blanket up to his chin. (The blanket appeared after the Christmas village but before the stockings. It’s red with Christmas loving polar bears dancing all over it like they’re in a damn Coca-cola commercial.) 

Lance pauses. 

“Me and Pops, y’know, it was always jus’ me and him. Every year we’d go all out. We’d take the truck, hisstruck, go cut down a real tree and bring it home. And decorate it. An’ Dad would get so excited. He said,” Keith squints his eyes like he’s remembering really hard, “The last time, he said next year we should get a dog ‘cus a dog would love to go with us when we chopped it down.” 

Lance smiles, “It sounds great, Keith.” He’s thinking of all the little traditions his own family has, the things they did when he was a kid that made the holidays good. More than anything he just misses seeing them. His older brother and sister. His mama, his dad. All the aunts, uncles, cousins. His nieces and nephews. He doesn’t get many days off from work, but the time he does get can’t come soon enough. He moves to leave Keith alone, to go get ready for bed. 

“Yeah.” Keith eyes flutter shut. “It was.” He swallows. “After he died,”

Lance stops, 

“The homes just weren’t the same. The ladies there tried to make it Christmas, but.” Keith tilts his head back over the back of the couch. Sighs out. Big, from his chest. “It wasn’t the same. Not like then. Was the worst time of year.” 

“Keith,” Lance tries to stop him. Sober Keith has never acted like this. He wouldn’t want to share like this. He touches Keith’s shoulder. “C’mon buddy, you need to sleep.” 

“I told myself when I grew up,” Keith says, sitting up, “I would do it right again. Make it all happy and full.” He gets a look on his face, somewhere between drunk and dreamy. He puts a hand over Lance’s. Squeezes. “Someday me and you can go ‘n get a real tree. Not plastic. N’fake. A real one.” 

“Me and you?” Lance repeats. His voice cracks. 

“Yeah. And we’ll bring our dog and it’ll be snowing.” Keith closes his eyes and actually nuzzles Lance’s arm, pressing it against his cheek.  

“We have a dog?” Lance wonders. He tries to crack a smile like this is a hilarious joke, ha, Keith wishes he could revisit a happy time in childhood because he misses his deceased father. Haha, Keith overshares when he drinks too much. Hahaha, Keith’s domestic fantasy involves Lance. 

The joking smile doesn’t happen. Lance feels like his face is on fire. He can’t decide whether he should pull his hand away. He’s frozen to the spot. 

“Mm.” Keith confirms. He makes the decision for Lance and drops Lance’s hand, in favor of slumping against the pillow instead. “Big. Fluffy. Like.” He’s nodding off. “Basset hound.” 

Lance has a hand on his forehead, completely out of sync with reality. This cannot be happening. “Basset hounds are not either of those things, Keith.” 

Keith replies with something unintelligible. He sits up. His eyes fly open. 

“Shit.” Lance says. 

Keith scrambles to the bathroom, almost managing to knock over a large, plastic reindeer that randomly appeared about a month ago halfway down the hall. 

“Sorry,” he wheezes---whether at the reindeer or Lance is unclear---and then, he’s in the bathroom. Throwing up. 

Lance stays close. He holds Keith’s hair and rubs his back. Gets him something to drink. Helps him to bed. And he thinks, Oh fuck. 

Because, if Keith---his perpetually cranky, awkward, standoffish roommate---remembers spilling his guts to Lance, chances are he’s not gonna be happy about it. 

And suppose he doesn’t remember? 

Even if Keith doesn’t remember, Lance certainly will. There’s no way for him to forget the way Keith is looking at him now. His genuine smile. Lopsided. Flushed cheeks. Dimples. He can’t forget Keith squeezing his hand, and murmuring, “Thanks, Lance.” He can’t forget how his heart thumped in his chest as Keith leaned his head against it, and repeated Lance’s name in a tone so gently spoken, it almost seemed like he meant something else. 

*

In the morning, Lance leaves for work and Keith is still asleep. 

When he gets home that evening, there’s a note next to the coffeemaker on the kitchen counter, in Keith’s tiny handwriting: 

“Sorry about last night.” 

The door to his room is closed. 

*

Lance is working the very last shift he has to work before he gets to go home for the holidays. 

It’s the day before Christmas Eve. The toy store is packed. 

“...shhh, no, don’t cr---no don’t cry. James, James sweetie, don’t you want to be good for Santa? Santa is coming soo---oh for goodness sakes, Robert, just let him---no, Mommy is going to be home soon, I just---” The woman angles the phone so that the bottom half is pressed against her shoulder, and gives Lance a wild look. “Excuse me, do you work here?” She doesn’t wait for his answer, “Where are the Legos? This is the fifth store I’ve been to and it said online that you all still have the---” 

While the woman rattles off her intense need for the Star Wars Lego set that she every other mom in the country had to buy this year, Lance points to the humongous display in the back half of the store that is made entirely of Legos. He gives her a big, happy elf smile. “We still have a few, ma’am. Just to the right of the---”

She takes off, pushing her cart with enough force that she almost runs over a confused looking man who has been staring at the cardboard cut-out of Elsa’s castle for the last eight minutes. Like if he wishes hard enough, Olaf himself is going to come down from the sky and fix his life. Not gonna happen, sir. 

Lance adjusts the scratchy collar of his elf jacket. He’s been wearing this horrible outfit for a solid five weeks now, and each day it’s only managed to get worse. He still has the blushy cheeks. 

He takes one step away from Lego woman only to basically be assaulted by a very pregnant woman demanding to know where the restrooms are located. Lance doesn’t fault her for it. A page overhead calls him to the registers up front. The lines are stretching all the way to the Paw Patrol display and customers are getting rowdy because of the long wait. 

Just a few more hours and he’ll be free…

He’s all packed and ready to go. His plane leaves tomorrow morning. He’ll get to the airport super early because it’s sure to be crowded. He has a layover in Philadelphia and then another layover in Miami and then one more short flight and then, 

And then he’ll be home. Lance sucks in a deep breath. Almost. He’s almost there. 

Having extinguished the proverbial fire in the front of the store, Lance heads back to the area he was zoning. He’s glum as he walks down the pinkest aisles, cleaning up. Last minute shoppers have made it look like a tornado hit this place. The Cabbage Patch dolls mixed in with the Bratz? Jesus, what a mess. 

He and Keith haven’t really talked since that night. Just handful of bland texts. A couple casual nods as Keith walks from his room to the front door. It seems like Keith has been working extra hours at the garage lately...at least, he hasn’t been home as much. And when he is home, Keith’s door hasn’t been open.

No impromptu grocery runs. No random arguments about nothing. His bike has remained parked exactly on one side so that there’s plenty of room for Lance’s car. Lance looks down at a plush shark that somehow found its way into the doll section. He can’t deny it. He misses Keith. 

The couch feels lonely without Keith studying on one end. Real Housewives reruns aren’t nearly as entertaining without his caustic commentary. 

In a last ditch effort to lure him out, Lance cooked a big dinner last night. He chopped, he diced, he sauteed---he was sure Keith would emerge, awkward and hungry as ever. He didn’t. Lance left the leftovers in an unmarked tupperware, just in case Keith wanted to take them for lunch. They’ll probably still be there when Lance gets home tonight. Untouched. 

Lance sighs, placing Astronaut Barbie in her proper place, next to Deep Sea Adventure Barbie. 

He shouldn’t fixate. Keith will have a good Christmas all the same, regardless of Lance. Afterall, Christmas is Keith’s favorite time of year. He’ll spend it with Shiro, probably. Or someone else whom Lance doesn’t even know about. The thought occurs to him that maybe he doesn’t know Keith at all? Maybe he’s an idiot for falling in---

Lance shakes his head. 

Anyways. It doesn’t feel right to leave for the holiday without talking to him. Saying goodbye, at least. They’ve gotten close these past few months. And it’s undeniable. Lance has started to---

“Um, so, excuse me? Mr. Elf?” 

Lance looks to either side, sees no one, and then looks down. A little girl with curly hair looks up at him. There’s no parent accompanying her. It’s a strange sight for the store being so crowded and this time of year. 

“Hiya.” Lance smiles. “What can I help you with?” 

She points to a shelf high above her head. “Can I have that one?” 

Lance follows her tiny pointer finger up to a huge box. Equestrian Barbie complete with Blue Ribbon Horse. The horse makes a whinny noise when you give it a magnetic carrot. It’s been a big seller this year. “This one?” 

The little girl shakes her head. “Nooo. That one.” 

Next to the the horse girl Barbie there’s a far less popular doll. This Barbie is wearing a white karate outfit and, based on her black belt accessory, could probably kick all the other Barbies asses. “This one?” 

The little girl nods. Lance retrieves the pink box for her and she immediately has the brightest eyes, all happy as she peers inside the plastic window at all the treasures therein. He smiles. 

“Kalisa! Kalisa! Kali---there you are! You know you’re supposed to---” 

Lance feels like he might be having an out of body experience as Keith---

Keith---

Keith comes marching into the doll aisle, holding a toddler on his hip and pulling along a little boy basically attached to his leg. 

“Kali, you promised me that you’d stay close!” Keith shakes his head as she attaches to his waist. Keith lays a hand on her head, gently tilting her face up. “One minute I was trying to see if Jordan had to go pee, and then the next minute, you were gone! I was scared!”

“I already went!” The little boy, probably Jordan, interjects. 

“I’m sorry,” Kalisa begins, 

“Um.” Lance feels light headed, 

Kalisa wrinkles her nose. “But Keith, I told you I was just going to see the Barbies and then I would be right back. I told you!” 

The toddler starts to kick, clearly wanting to be put down. Keith shifts, trying to adjust, while still talking to Kalisa. And Jordan is still attached to Keith’s leg. “Jordan, can you---” 

“I’ll take him,” Lance steps closer, holding out his arms for the toddler,

“Thanks, Lance,” Keith hands him the fussy toddler, kneeling down to talk to Kalisa. “Kali. You know I---wait.” Keith freezes. A second passes. He looks up. “Lance?” 

Lance smiles at him. “Hi Keith.” 

Keith blinks. His eyebrows come together. “What---” He pauses. “What are you wearing?” 

Lance feels an actual blush rise under his painted cheeks. The bright green of the too-short pants clashes horribly with his skintone. His sleeves are candy cane red and white striped. He has a big collar around his neck and a wide belt (it just makes his already long torso look even longer, ugh) around his waist, and stupid, stupid shoes where the tip curls up over his toes. Basically, the entire costume is unimaginably horrific. And Lance is sick of it. 

“I am an elf!” Lance is indignant. They haven’t had an actual conversation in a week, and the first thing Keith does is call him out on this polyester monstrosity?! What the hell!! He motions to his stupid pointy hat. “Obviously!!” 

Keith purses his lips, “I--” His mouth twitches. A hand comes up to cover it, and he does a little cough. “I--uh.” 

From behind his hand, the smile breaks. A short snort that Keith clearly tries to stifle, but can’t. 

“Keith.” Lance’s tone is severe. “Don’t you dare---” 

Keith looks at him, mouth puckered. He shakes his head. Lance squints. 

And then an ugly laugh escapes Keith’s mouth and Lance groans. Keith, unable to hold it longer, collapses forward against the aisle, one hand grasping at the Barbie dreamhouse display, the other waving fruitlessly in the air, his body folding as he absolutely shakes with laughter. He’s busting up. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance says, grinning at the sight of him. 

Keith lifts his head, takes one more look at Lance and the laughter renews. He stands up only to stagger---his eyes squeezed shut and his head ducked down. His mouth is open wide as he tries to catch his breath, shoulders shaking. “Lan--you--you---”

“Excuse you!” Lance stomps his foot. With his stupid curly elf shoe. “It’s not that funny!” 

Keith waves his hand in front of him, like, no, no, I can’t! 

He’s still huffing, breathless, laughing uncontrollably. He snorts, and the sound is infectious, and Lance cracks a smile and starts laughing too. The toddler in his arms touches Lance’s cheek. Lance blows a raspberry in his direction and the toddler shrieks with glee. Kalisa and Jordan are giggling too, and Jordan starts jumping up and down with uncontained energy as only children can.

It’s a solid minute before they’re all able to calm down. 

“But really Keith, what are you doing here?” Lance finally manages to ask. The unspoken question is: And who are these kids?

Keith mouth still twitches when he looks at Lance. The corners of his eyes are wet with happy tears. “I’m---” 

Lance gives him a severe look, raising one eyebrow, like, if you start laughing again, so help me, 

“I always take the kids out before Christmas,” Keith manages, biting back a smile. 

“Keith gives us presents like Santa!!” Kalisa tells Lance. “And I’m going to get a cool Barbie!! Look!!” She shows Keith the treasure. 

“Good choice!” Keith approves before turning back to Lance. “But yeah, it’s not much, but I volunteer at the adoption agency a couple times a week.” His smile fades, just slightly. “Some of the kids there I’ve known for awhile.” 

All of a sudden, Lance is holding on to the toddler in his arms a little bit tighter. These kids---they’re like Keith used to be. They don't have anyone else to make the holidays good for them. 

“I didn’t,” Lance falters, looking down at Kalisa and Jordan. His voice sounds faint in his ears. “I didn’t know you even liked kids, Keith.” 

Keith snorts. “I better, considering I’m getting a degree in social work.” 

Lance blinks. That’s what Keith is going to school for? Did he know---did Keith ever tell him---did Lance ever pay attention? “I---” 

“But. Uh.” Keith shifts, looks to the side, a little nervous. “Actually, I.” He sets his jaw, looks Lance straight in the eyes. Resolved. “I did know that this is where you worked. I was hoping to run into you.” 

“You were?” Lance is completely taken aback. He thought Keith was avoiding him? He laughs, nervous and confused. “Why?” 

“Georgie, stop that,” Keith chides, as the toddler starts pulling on Lance’s stupid elf collar, basically choking him. He moves close, unpeeling the kid from Lance’s arms. Keith puts him down and Georgie is happy to occupy himself by ripping all the dolls from the bottom shelf. 

“I wanted to say Merry Christmas,” Keith says. He smiles at Lance. They’re close, close enough that Lance can see the way his eyes crinkle around the edges as he says the words. Fond. “You’re leaving tomorrow. I’ve been busy so I didn’t know if I would catch you at home tonight. Figured I would make it here instead.” 

The way Keith says ‘at home,’ makes Lance swallow. Their home. His and Keith’s. 

“And this,” Keith motions to his ensemble, “Is definitely a bonus.” 

“Shut up!” Lance groans, bumping Keith’s shoulder with his own, “Shut up, shut up! Keith!” 

Keith holds a hand up, calling a truce. Lance grins at him. 

Keith smiles back, his eyes dipping down for a moment. Close-lipped, hair falling into his eyes, a little awkward. But kind. He ducks forward, closes the distance between them enough to give Lance’s forearm a squeeze. “You, uh,” 

Keith’s fingers trail down to the back of Lance’s hand before he withdraws. Lance leans into the touch, turning his hand over to catch Keith’s. Holding him there. Palm to palm. His hand is warm and fits in Lance’s, just so. Lance tightens his fingers. Keith stills, looking into Lance’s face. 

Overhead, the store PA crackles and pages Lance back to the front. The lines are getting out of control again. 

“That’s me,” Lance says, faint. 

Keith drops Lance’s hand. Shifts, pulling back away from Lance, just half a step, but too far. He fidgets, thumb running over his knuckles. He nods, mouth pulling into not-quite-a-pout. “Lance. Travel safe, okay?” 

*

In the earliest hours of Christmas Eve morning, Lance is driving through the gray and cold. Christmas carols ( “Do you see what I see,” the radio hums,) can just barely be heard above the whirr of the heat on full blast. He’s on his way to the airport. But he’s thinking about Keith. 

There’s traffic, especially as he gets closer to the airport. He nearly misses his exit, thanks to a jackass who won’t let him merge and also, probably, his own less than focused navigation. He’s thinking about Keith’s broad smile, his dimples, his hoarse laugh. The way the darkness of his eyes can shift---mocking, sweet, rich, happy. All while looking at Lance. His snort. 

The parking garage is full-to-bursting. Lance finds a shitty spot---near the very back, wedged tight between two SUVs. He’s thinking about Keith grabbing his hand. The way their palms fit together, just right. 

“Shoulda kissed him,” Lance tells the concrete ceiling of the garage as he struggles to pull a heavy suitcase out of his trunk. It takes both hands and one foot on the bumper, all his strength, and a couple well placed expletives---but eventually the thing springs free from its narrow confines. Lance stumbles, bounces back on his toes, hauling his carry-on duffle over his shoulder. Keith’s face at that time…when he pulled away... 

He slams the trunk shut; it won’t latch. Lance sighs. Leggy up, elbow down, press ‘til you hear the---

“I shoulda kissed him.” Lance says, again. Louder. “I should have. I---why didn’t I?” 

He screws his face up, trying, trying to think of the reason. Any reason. 

There’s a funky train-shuttle situation to take passengers from the economy parking lots to the main terminals. Lance climbs aboard. The thing rattles to a clattering speed and Lance almost misses his stop. He’s too busy staring at the toes of his sneakers. He’s convincing himself. Keith wouldn’t have---

“It wasn’t. The timing wasn’t right,” Lance mutters, hauling his stuff to Terminal C. The wait to get through security looks ridiculous. He pulls his phone out to check the time. He’s running a bit late, thanks to the traffic, but. He should make it. 

There was something about Keith’s expression, Lance decides, fumbling through his wallet to grab his ID. Equal parts guarded and hopeful. Like he was trying to predict was Lance was going to say. 

“Did he want me to kiss him?” Lance demands to know. The TSA employee raises her eyebrows in his general direction and instructs the line to remove their shoes and place all laptops in separate bins. Nothing in your pockets. Keep it moving. 

He came to say goodbye, to wish Lance happy holidays, to make sure he traveled safe...

“He wanted me to kiss him.” Lance realizes, running a hand through his hair, walking out of the security checkpoint chaos. He collapses down into a random seat at a gate that’s nowhere near his flight. “Holy fuck. He wanted me to kiss him.” 

He laughs, slightly hysterical. He and Keith---they---they both---

Lance squeezes his hands together, emotion suddenly making his throat tight. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to admit what’s right in front of him. Maybe the two of them weren’t meant to end up together---after all, Keith is slow to open up, and Lance has only ever been seeing what he wants to see. Maybe that’s why it’s taken them so long. But... 

He swallows. He’s giddy and scared and 

“He wants this as much as I do.” 

Lance stands up. He has to---he looks around. 

Fuck. 

His flight. 

Lance pulls his phone out again, looks at the flight number. He has to make it to his gate, they’ll be boarding soon. His hands are shaking. Should he text Keith? What would he say?

Is this something that can wait until after the holidays?

Lance bites his lip, paces in front of airport bars---lawless places where people are already tipsy despite it being ten in the morning---and newspaper stands. It feels like it can’t wait. Like he and Keith are on the edge of something and if he walks away now, they won’t be able to get it back. 

But. 

That’s just a feeling. And...his family. He’s on his way home. It’s Christmas Eve. 

Lance makes his way to Gate C30, dufflebag heavy on his shoulder. Heart heavy in his chest. 

To find, 

The gate is deserted. There’s no one at Gate C30. Lance looks at his ticket on his phone. Looks at the screen above the gate. This is the place. It has the correct flight number. And also the word: 

[CANCELLED]. 

“Cancelled?!” Lance exclaims. 

“‘Fraid so, m’boy.” A man with perfectly coiffed ginger hair pops out from behind the service desk at the gate. “There’s quite a storm in Philadelphia at the moment, I hear! Record breaking, even! All flights grounded!” 

That seems. Extremely unlikely? 

“I had a connecting flight to Miami,” Lance says slowly. This can’t be happening...

“Did you now? Well, that’s a shame!” The man’s moustache wiggles. “Don’t fret! These things tend to work themselves out!” 

The boisterous man has his chest puffed out and he’s telling Lance---in a long-winded, roundabout way---that Lance should just contact the airline and they’ll be able to reroute him, or reschedule, or refund, 

But Lance isn’t listening. 

Because Lance McClain is a romantic. 

And he recognizes a miracle when he sees one. 

He backs away, already pushing the most frequently called contact on his phone as he starts walking.

“Mama, it’s Lance. There’s a change in plans. What would you say if I came home in January instead?”  

* 

By the time Lance makes it out of the airport---escape from the moustached man, situation explained to his family, flight credit taken care of with the airline---and back to his car, hours have passed. The traffic has only gotten worse. The drive home seems to take forever. Salt trucks are out in droves, preparing for snow. There’s accidents, just too many people not paying enough attention. Lance keeps his eyes on the road, his fingers twitching over the steering wheel in perfect time with Jingle Bell Rock. 

Finally, finally. He parks. Unloads his bags. Walks upstairs. Keith’s bike is here but that doesn’t mean definitively that he’s home. For all Lance knows, he’s spending Christmas with Shiro or someone else. But. Lance hopes that Keith will be there. He wants him to be there. 

He turns the key in the lock. Takes a deep breath. Pushes the door open. The wreath jingles. 

Lance steps inside,

And nearly walks straight into the razor-sharp point of a knife. 

He shrieks. The knife glimmers. 

“Lance?” Keith frowns at him, lowering the blade. “Why---What are you doing here?” 

“I live here!” Lance protests, gaping at Keith from the doorway. “Geez, Keith, what a way to greet a dude, saw my fuckin’ life pass before my eyes, a man comes home and almost gets stabbed to death, I swear,” 

Keith blinks and...the knife disappears to wherever he normally keeps it. “Shut the door, you’re letting the cold in.” 

Lance presses the door closed behind him. Wait. He pauses. Does Keith always have that thing with him? Isn’t he worried about stabbing himself ? Is that even allowed? Don’t you need, like, a permit or something?

“Do you always---” 

“Is everything---” 

“Like, is that---” 

“Aren’t you---” 

Lance throws his hands up. They’re getting nowhere. 

Keith takes the direct route. “Lance. Why are you here?” 

Lance lets his bag drop to the floor. He takes off his gloves, stuffs them in his coat pockets. Smiles at Keith. “Turns out, I forgot something.” 

There’s a split second for Lance to see Keith’s eyebrows come together in confusion, but it’s short lived---

Lance steps forward, one hand on Keith’s cheek, steady and sure. He tilts his face up to reach, closes the distance. Lets himself believe that this feeling between them is real. He kisses him. 

Open mouthed, soft, 

Like, understanding. 

Like, perfect timing. 

Like, coming home. 

Lance breaks the kiss, pulling away just enough to see Keith’s eyes flutter open, his parted lips close. He feels Keith pull in a breath. 

“Lance. 

What did you forget?” 

Lance stops. Purses his lips. Raises an eyebrow. 

“You just said that you forgot something,” Keith clarifies. Frowning. 

“I---that was,” Lance takes his hands from Keith’s shoulders and motions in front of his chest, at a loss. He squints. That was such a good line! Fuckin’ romantic and perfect and---

And Keith’s face is almost blank, but when Lance looks up, there’s a twitch at the edge of his mouth. Lance has seen it before.  

“You!!” 

The twitch turns into a smirk. Lance shoves him. 

“Here I am, with the most romantic lines this side of ever, coming home for Christmas to tell you that I love you, and you’re standing there making fun of me! Keith! You---” 

Lance feels like he’s in a vacuum---like everything has come to a standstill. There’s just the blood rushing in his ears. And Keith is looking at him. Eyes wide. 

Lance revises his previous statement.  

“I love you, Kei--”

Keith has his mouth on Lance’s cutting off anything else. 

Lance stumbles and Keith pushes him against the door with enough force that the wreath jingles on the opposite side. 

He’s got both hands on either side of Lance’s face, mouth searing hot, tongue and lips. He kisses Lance like a realization made clear, like something craved, like only this. Heavy against him, resolute as he rushes into this, unwavering---

The kiss is messy, overwhelming. Lance loses himself for a moment, lost in the feeling of Keith solid against him, pinning him here, mouth working against his with brutal determination---whatever Keith lacks in finesse, he makes up for in intensity. “Lance,” 

Lance pushes back, unzipping his coat and shrugging it off his shoulders. He lets it fall to the floor as he takes a step forward, running a hand through Keith’s hair. Keith sinks into the touch, mouth still so hot against Lance’s, hands now on his hips, now under his shirt, now on the small of his back, pulling him close. 

Lance hums in response, and Keith’s hands---warm where they’re heavy on his back---tremble against his skin. Lance bites his own lip at the sensation, tipping forward to catch Keith’s mouth again. He can’t wait to learn every tell, to find all the ways that open Keith up, to make him tremble , to leave them both breathless. This is just the very beginning. 

It’s a comforting thought, but also so much . He just...now that he said the words, it feels like they were on the brink of this for so long. Longer even than Lance realized. The thought leaves him giddy and terrified. Lance has to catch his breath; he buries his face against Keith’s neck. Collapses against him where they stand in their living room. 

Keith’s arms encircle him. Steady. Certain. 

“Lance.” 

“If you ask me what I forgot again, Keith, I swear,” Lance mutters into his chest. 

He can feel the way a laugh shudders through Keith before he shakes his head. “No.” Keith presses his lips together, ducking his head, breath ghosting over Lance’s cheek as he huffs out the slightest chuckle. “But...what about your flight?” 

Lance steps out of his boots, pulling Keith with him to the couch. 

The polar bear blanket is bunched on Keith’s side of their couch, and there’s a mug next to the book spread out on the coffee table. The tree is twinkling with all its absurd amount of lights and baubles. Lance smiles. It’s home. 

“Cancelled,” he tells Keith, plopping down. Keith sits down next to him. Like he has a million times before, but different now. Lance tells him, hands moving through the air, expressions bold, embellishing the details just a little bit---about the morning, the traffic, the airport, the mysterious ginger moustached man. 

Keith listens, nodding, even after all the extreme bits like he actually believes Lance entirely. 

Theatrics finished, Lance leans against him, taking in everything like he’s seeing it for the first time. The garland, the tree, the stockings. There’s really nowhere else he’d rather be than right here. He sighs, content. 

“What?” Keith asks him, tilting back to see Lance’s face. 

Lance shakes his head, presses his lips to Keith’s jaw. He can do that now---kiss against the scar he first noticed weeks ago. “I was just thinking, the decorations are perfect.” 

Keith looks at him. He frowns. Shakes his head slightly. 

“It’s not really about that. Decorations and stuff. It’s about who you’re with.” He catches Lance’s hand, mouth working over what he wants to say. He swallows. Looks up to Lance’s face. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

Lance heart catches and he falls, just a little bit deeper. 

(He can’t help but think that it’s going to become a habit.) 

“Me too,” he says, against Keith’s mouth. 

And Keith smiles into the kiss. 

*

In the morning, Lance wakes up with his face pressed against Keith’s pillow and Keith snoring against his neck. He twists under warm and heavy arms, ‘til they’re face to face. 

Keith wrinkles his nose and shifts, still mostly asleep. 

Lance opens his mouth, 

But before he can say anything, 

Keith rolls over, bringing Lance along. “No.” 

Lance rearranges as best he can with Keith being stubborn and sleepy and laying on top of him. He gives up with a sigh against Keith’s chest, their legs all tangled together, warm despite the cold outside. 

They sleep the morning away, but hours later, Keith is the one who says it first: 

“Merry Christmas, Lance.” 

*

About ten and a half months later: 

“Kosmo! Kosmo!!” Lance claps and the puppy yips, rocketing through the rows of evergreens at breakneck speed. She utterly ignores him. The tree farm’s sprawling acres stretch into the distance, and for the briefest moment, Lance wonders if they’ll lose her. 

“C’mere!!! C’mere girl!!!” Keith whistles and the puppy changes directions so fast she almost trips over her own fluff (it doesn’t help that her paws are ginormous---she’s going to grow up to be a big girl). Tongue lolling out, she hurls herself towards Keith with so much energy she’s practically flying.

When she reaches him, Keith shouts and the puppy jumps, excited, tracking the soft mud of the tree farm all over Keith’s jeans. 

Keith is laughing, running madly with Kosmo jumping along after him. He’s wearing a hat with a big puff on the top, jacket unzipped, face flushed. The puppy catches up to him and Keith lifts her in his arms, groaning as she licks at his face. 

It’s going to take them forever to find the perfect Christmas tree at this rate. Longer even to chop it down, and take it back to their apartment. To set it up, make hot chocolate, decorate it. Lance smiles at the thought of it all. He can’t wait. 

“Lance!” Keith shouts, with a jerk of his head like, c’mon slowpoke, we have a tree to find!

Lance jogs up to meet him, and Keith frowns, motioning him closer. 

“What?” Lance asks. 

Keith adjusts the scarf around Lance’s neck, dark brows drawn together in concentration. So much so that he doesn’t see, 

“Look Keith,” Lance breathes, leaning back on his heels, “It’s snowing.” 

Keith ducks his head and nods, catching Lance’s hand. “Yeah. I noticed.” 

***