Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lance and Keith go together like air freshener mist and a lighter: a complete, totally instigated disaster that manages to blaze to life from the baseball field to any classroom unfortunate enough to bear their presence.

And it’s not like they have to try, oh no, not now or even ever, it seems like— at least to their classmates. Their stunts and jabs are somehow so dramatic and ridiculous they almost seem scripted— but then again, no one would willingly bring this upon themselves.

But these two... are different. Let’s get one thing straight, Lance knows very well their running streak of chaos feeds off pure spite and another kind of thrill.

He doesn’t even have to try anymore. That little squeamish, jealousy-struck, freshman Lance glaring at his high school’s rare pick of a ninth grader for the varsity baseball team —who was definitely not him— has evolved into something else.

That something else being his butt sat right on the hot bench next to the not-so-little-anymore prodigy, getting water sprayed right in the face by his fed up teammate.

Keith clenches his hand around the bottle with his face scrunched in determination, and just to piss him off even more, Lance doesn’t bother knocking it out of his grip this time. He gnashes his teeth at the jet blast like a dog going to town on gushes from a backyard hose.

The water stops, and Lance is left shaking off those last drips in the same dog-like manner, meanwhile Keith tosses the bottle back in his own open duffel bag at his feet.

“Weird-ass,” Keith grunts, and Lance just can’t help grinning when he wipes his face and wrings his hands into the sleeve of Keith’s dry, dusty jersey.

“Can’t let it go to waste.” He shrugs.

And he doesn’t miss the little side eyed smirk Keith sends his way before a whistle shrieks in the distance and their team hauls over for a last call.

Lance’s favorite thing about away games, (besides glorious victory and praise at jaw-dropping plays), is the team dinner on the way back home.

Usually there’s three tables split amongst their cluster in the Mexican restaurant they come by twice annually. Shiro and Adam, aka coach and assistant coach, desperately ignoring the circumstances (and probably pretending it’s a date), James and Ryan’s little cluster of jocks and military-aspiring guys, and then Hunk, Pidge, Lance, and the pesky little jerk that always sips at Lance’s horchata like he’d spent his own whole $1.75 on the drink.

Keith’s lack of social cues, or basically any kind of cue unrelated to baseball, is no longer any sort of excuse for this sticky finger behavior at Lance’s belongings. It’s been four years, he knows better, and yet the sight of Keith lips tucked back and dark lashes fluttering while he sips away is just... yeah whatever. Let’s just say Lance doesn’t have it in him to care that much anymore.

His second favorite thing about away games is the lack of any shits their bus driver gives about practically dancing in the aisles, topped off with Shiro blissfully asleep on Adam’s shoulder and the latter’s earphones blasting music.

Not that they’re actually dancing, nah, more like—

“Give it, you— idiot face—“ Lance says as he struggles through wedging an arm under Keith’s as the other clamps around his middle.

Keith twists and turns, rocking them into some sort of ridiculous tap dance and it’s almost sad how dull faced most of the team is during their wrestling match. “No,” Keith grunts. “I grabbed it so it’s mine.”

“Yeah and I saw it!” Lance says.

The bus slides to a stop at another traffic light and their feet go sliding by the bumps of their cleats.

Keith continues his quest of flailing the dollar bill just beyond Lance’s reach, but then the bus starts swerving to the left and—

“WoAHH!” they stutter before flopping back in the nearest seat like a pair of light dominos.

Shiro and Adam awaken with a gust of surprise from the impact in their laps. Lance’s hold on Keith loosens a little, and yes, he is absolutely terrified, and he bets Keith wears the same dreadful expression if all that fluffed up hair wasn’t hiding it from his view.

“Boys,” Shiro mutters, unamused, and Adam sighs to his right.

In an effort to defend himself, Lance squeaks: “I found it first but he took it!” just the way a little kid would during sharing time.

Keith tilts his head back on Lance’s chest, his bangs fanning off his forehead to show his miffed frown. “You had enough time to take it.”

“But I was just—“

“That’s actually mine,” Shiro says, and he shimmies his trapped arm out to pluck the dollar from Keith’s hand. He looks back to Keith, then Lance as he tucks it back in his pocket. “Now if you two don’t want the bench to be your new home next game, I suggest you head back and take a nap.”

There’s no way he’s being seated in one of his last games, so Lance readily shoves Keith right off and back into the aisle before his teammate could even choke out a “Yes, Coach”.

Later, as the bus rumbles on and Lance and Keith are swathed in their hoodies with heads resting against one another, he nudges Keith’s elbow and murmurs “You owe me one dollar and seventy-five cents.”

And Keith tucks his head even closer to Lance’s neck with puppy-like sweetness before he replies “No way.”

“Worth a shot.”

They fall asleep.

As said before, their antics aren’t kept to the confines of the baseball field, as much as any teacher would wish.

Well, they at least don’t share the same classes this year, which may or may not suck since he’s gotta burn all these brain calories over making their time as seniors just as excitable as the last.

It’s the little things that count.

And by little he means like, actually little. As small as the m&m’s he’s trying to press between Keith’s unwilling lips, probably since Lance pulling him into a headlock just seconds ago wasn’t the most trustworthy approach. He’d recognize that mullet anywhere, for a list of devious reasons… 

“Open your mouth.”

Keith shakes his head and folds his lips in. “Mm mm.”

“I promise it’s good,” Lance says to him, but it only earns a skeptical, squinty and arched brow look from Keith sitting in front of him on one of the stout benches in the breezeway. He can’t help but giggle at the sight.

“I promise,” he insists again but his growing smile isn’t helping at all. Keith just continues holding onto Lance’s loosening arm as he turns more amused by the second.

Lance tried his best to conceal those telltale, suspicious flutters, clearly getting worse with each passing year and especially during their dwindling baseball season.

“Okay you totally know I’m not lying now. Open up.” He taps Keith’s lips.

SHHK!

“No,” Keith says, but Lance already clamps his hand over the boy’s mouth and pats his chest for good measure.

“Are those two dating?”

Lance feels his breath shock down his throat, and just after, poor Keith with the crumbly m&m’s starts coughing up a storm into his own elbow after swallowing.

He looks over, and of all people it’s Dr. Coran and Shiro —or Mister Shirogane during school hours— looking right back. Shiro only manages to laugh as he turns away.

“Should get to class,” Lance mutters, and Keith nods with a swallow.

“See you at practice,” Keith says as he sends one last smile over his shoulder. Lance chuckles.

The bell rings, Pidge walks by tsking with a camera in hand, all set for film class, and Lance subtly flips them off after passing with his hand pressed to his backpack behind him.

In the locker room, it’s a subtle routine for Lance to throw aside all of his flaunty attitude and practically stick his nose against the farthest corner just to avoid guilt from a wandering stare. He’s not a creep, or at least he’s making an effort not to be, but a minor incident in tenth grade had him shutting out all those extra echoes and focusing on his damn practice jersey. It was just a back for heaven’s sake, but whoopie, fifteen year-old Lance just had to have some sudden crisis of frantically thinking— “Holy freakin’ cow those are nice muscles…” And apparently enjoying the sight versus being motivated by it for himself are two different things. Between gay and a body builder— or a gay body builder, like Shiro. Heh. No but actually, he is.

And it turns out Lance was not alone. Of course he wasn’t. Not only could he recognize a certain mullet, but he could also apparently recognize the same hidden panic from his varsity (that’s right, he’d finally made it) teammate that year, standing a few feet away and pointedly observing the wall like some amazing mural and not lockers decorated in markered slurs. Great.

They’d exchanged a look, something sort of clicked, and then it was like nothing ever happened. Lance actually went out of his way to flirt with even more girls in hopes it would erase any sour or secretive impression Keith had at the time.

But things are different now. Lance knows the students in here, how Ryan isn’t quite his type and James can stink up the whole freakin’ place after one damn school lunch burrito, how all the others may be fine looking but their personalities dulled down all that stifled and internal tension. 

Keith is a different story, because undoubtedly, although Lance doesn’t really know what his type exactly is, his teammate… could fit, perhaps.

That doesn’t stop him from pulling all the stops to be a jerk though, since it’s his mission to annoy the living hell out of this boy.

“Dude, nice farmer’s tan.” Lance chuckles as he shucks on a pair of pants. “Or should I say burn.” He pokes Keith’s arm, yes it is very stiff and toned, so what… 

“Ow!” Keith jolts away. “Don’t touch it, you asshole!”

“Maybe if you put on sunscreen for once it won’t hurt, mister vampire!”

Keith rolls his eyes and tugs on his practice jersey. “Whatever, penny nipples.”

Lance gasps indignantly and lays his palms flat over his chest. “I’ll have you know my nipples are perfectly average, Kogane!”

“What the fuck are you guys doing over there?” James hollers through a laugh from the other side of the locker room.

“Keith is—“

“Lance—“

“—being stu—!”

“—dumb again!”

They glare at each other.

Later, during the start of practice, Lance makes sure to back Keith against the fence and spray as many coats of SPF over Keith’s limbs before the boy starts dramatically coughing like a toddler. He’ll survive.

And along with that, since Keith is behaving remarkably well today, Lance manages to smear proper sunscreen over his face while the other stares at him with wide grey eyes. He looks different wearing a headband, and Lance likes to joke that there’s two different Keith’s: one with a forehead and one without. It’s hilarious to him at least, but usually it earns him a punch in the gut.

Lance realizes now that suddenly, this whole thing is getting concerning, because he’d almost instinctively rewarded his teammate’s patience with a kiss.

Chapter Text

There’s not any specific, special moments Lance prizes between him and Keith during baseball above all the others. In a reluctantly sappy way, they’ve all blended together, one hand clasp into the next, and the same for high fives and thrilled hugs after winning points, so strong that the force has them stumbling back a good few feet across the dirt. But one significant thing holds true, and it’s that no matter how far across the field they are from one another, they’ll always collide first.

In the eighth inning of their last game, Keith scores a home run because of course that little prodigy just never quits, and Lance is the first to drive Keith in by a clasp so strong and resounding it makes their hands sting like their crackling excitement. They’re so close now that they’ve caught up just enough to be hopeful.

In the ninth inning, after gruesome teamwork that's left him and the rest of them with sore legs and joints, Lance pitches the ball with all his might and strikes out the third player of the opposing team. They’ve won by two points.

And anyone could guess by now—

Keith is the first to barrel across the field and scoop him up, twirling them so ridiculously it makes Lance’s eyes teary as he cheers with everyone else.

“They saw you, I know they did,” Keith says right into his ear, all the while they’re rocked around in a collective embrace by the rest of the team. He’s talking about the scouts. Universities. Scholarships.

But right now, all Lance can afford to finally prize is—

“I’m glad you did too.”

Chapter Text

As much as Lance would love to string Keith along with lunchtime torture at his table in the cafeteria, he’s well aware by now that Keith is not quite the fan of noise, nor is he very fond of any smell relating to the mush on the lunch trays.

He stays in one of the classrooms each year. Lance would know this even in ninth grade because he’d practically felt the steam coming out of his ears when walking into his fourth hour early and finding mister home-runner in his seat. And then tenth grade, when Lance would wait outside Hunk’s classroom before the bell rang and he’d see that familiar little lone wolf just over his friend’s shoulder. Eleventh grade, third hour forensics, they sat at the same table and Lance practically felt obligated to ask if this kid ever even eats, to which Keith had only sent him a glare and went back to finishing, what, like— next month’s homework because he was and still is such a nerd.

But between his added frustration of seeing his team rival on his trail just by means of fate, Lance grew kind of concerned because really, he never actually caught the boy even snacking on something, which Lance does in all his classes.

“Is that… an entire box of cereal?”

“Mind your business, Cody.”

*Crunch*

Anyway, turns out Keith was (disappointedly) not actually a vampire, which would’ve excused his horribly outdated hair and lack of munching on crackers or literally anything of the sort. He apparently only eats at home, sometimes even forgets breakfast, and it made no sense because—

“That means you don’t even eat until like, seven o’clock!” Lance had shrieked, but Keith just shrugged and continued jogging their third lap like exhaustion ceases to exist in his freakin’ world.

So Lance would force him. Alright not actually force him, he’d coerce Keith, just slide over a granola bar before the lunch bell and mutter something like “If I don’t see you start eating this I’m stealing your pants again.”

“Do not—“

“Ah ah ah!”

Keith snatched it away, ripped it open and tore off a bite like it was beef jerky. And Lance? He left class with a little smile. Especially more often when Keith started to expect the granola bar and twiddle with the edges until the bell rang and Lance could barely hear his little “Thanks.”

Now Lance brings him more. He packs two tupperware containers of leftovers instead of one, gives Keith the lemonade Caprisun he likes, and even leaves a little lion sticker on there from the extra sticker sheet Nadia left on the counter at their house.

Later on, Keith would turn an unforgettable shade of pink when seated at the dinner table with the McClains after a home game, right next to his equally asocial-but-also-kind-of-cool mom. Lance mentioned this was Keith’s favorite meal of theirs (he could just tell), and Krolia raised her brows curiously before asking for the recipe not long after.

Keith apparently didn’t bother packing his own lunch because he had no one to remind him of that duty, and the only time he really sees his mom is at 10pm, far after he’d head off to his room with something like a bowl of macaroni and a protein shake.

So, McClain leftovers would do, and Lance eventually taught Keith how to make some stuff himself during an abandoned study session after school. It was all enchiladas and mario kart.

Despite all of this, Keith stayed holed up in the classroom and upheld his hermit tendencies, and Lance had no problem wandering back to the cafeteria after dropping off the food. There’s things that can be helped, and things that just can’t be changed, such as Keith's hangry mood versus his lack of tolerance toward basically the entire cafeteria.

Which is why Lance finds himself utterly bewildered when Hunk nods toward the entrance and he sees Keith frantically shuffling around the place with his head bobbing around like a pigeon as he searches far and wide across the expanse of bustling students.

He lays his palm flat over the open yearbook in front of him before raising his other hand and waving it around. “Keith!” he shouts.

Keith spots him, then stalks over with his hands clenched around the straps of his backpack, all the while his bangs fall from his ponytail in cute little tufts. More and more students begin looking his way and muttering hushed words with giggles that follow, it leaves a sour taste in his mouth, whatever’s causing this kind of trouble.

“I got my yearbook!” Lance says excitedly as he tries to distract Keith from an overload of sensitivity. “Wanna sign i— Woahh! Okay I guess you do…”

Keith snatches it off the table and slams it shut as he takes a seat next to Lance. More laughter starts fizzling around them like quiet bubbles in boiling water. “You can’t have this,” he says as he yanks the zipper of his backpack and stuffs the book inside.

“What?! Why?!” Lance shrieks, and then his face falls. “Oh my god don’t tell me there’s some super embarrassing picture of me and I look ugly in it…”

“You never—“ Keith starts, then looks back up at him properly. His panicked expression begins to melt into something else before he shakes himself back into reality and holds onto his backpack even tighter. “Y-Yeah, there is.” He swallows. “It’s really bad, you know I just didn’t want you to see it and get upset or anything…”

“Pffft,” Pidge sputters before they start laughing.

They helped with the yearbook, Lance remembers as he feels heat stirring in his chest, they would know. “The heck did you do, Pidge? I said not to put the shaving cream one in there!”

March fourteenth: Pi Day. Or should he say pie day, or—or shaving cream day since their school would rather fill trays of that for a cheap relay race than expensive whipped cream. Let’s just say he got a mouthful of a foamy glob when his friends started goofing off, and the rest is history. Sour, raw-throated history that he chooses not to remember. Except he still feels that phantom burn like a fresh, fire-breathing dragon after swallowing a shot of mouthwash, and the photograph of him hunched over and spitting on the pavement with a pinched face has been seared into one of the cursed walls of his mind. Never again.

Except yes, again, according to Pidge’s stupid little cackling fit and Keith’s sudden yearbook phobia.

“I —heh— I didn’t” —Pidge coughs— “I didn’t put it in there I promise pffft…”

Lance turns to Keith and peers over the frame of his glasses with a scowl. “What’s in there, Keith…” he trails, and the boy shrinks back as his grip tightens around the zipped up backpack.

“I just told you it’s—“

“Lies! I look amazing in like, every picture!” he shrieks. “No one started laughing until you came in here.” He points an accusing finger toward Keith and the boy frowns.

“Oooooo…” Pidge says smugly.

“Shut up Pidge, I know it was still you,” Keith snaps.

Unfortunately, Keith has very strong arms. Well, unfortunately for this case, not other cases, like admiring their muscles from afar or uhh— baseball! Right, cause like, a batter needs good arms… Heh.

He glances around the table in search for something that could unfold Keith’s little secret, easy as pie— actually? He’s not gonna be using that phrase.

Keith and Pidge continue their bickering as Lance grumpily squints through his lenses. He probably looks like an idiot, honestly, since his contacts have his more recent prescription than the older glasses he wears. God loves tossing limitations on beautiful people, huh? Now he’s left feeling like Simon from Alvin and the Chipmunks while he sports a blue hoodie and dopey eyes, all thanks to dropping a contact lens down the sink this morning.

“I think they look good on you,” Keith once said to him last year, when Lance practically dragged his dead feet into their forensics class with a pout, knowing his doom of presenting his project was scheduled for that day. “They bring out your eyes.”

“Uh, yeah, probably because they’re the size of bowling balls?!” Lance had shrieked and furiously stamped away that weird fluttery feeling from Keith’s compliment. Kill. The. Butterflies.

“Heh, that’s what she said.”

“Will you shut up, Cody!”

Chipmunk-eyes be damned, Lance will find out the root of Keith’s embarrassment and then… and then… totally hang it over his head, yeah. Just eat it up like thanksgiving and dangle the wishbone in front of his rival’s face like “Waa waa, now I have a picture of you with toilet paper stuck to your shoe” or something stupid like that.

Lance’s eyes lock onto the space in front of Hunk, where his own yearbook rests wide open and his friend has saucer-eyes to match that sense of shock Keith probably dreads so terribly. On the glossy page, he sees splotches of their familiar blue and white school colors shown in collages, the numbers one and zero hovering in the corners and between pieces of clip art.

Before anyone can stop him, Lance thrusts out his hand across the table and snatches the precious yearbook out from underneath Hunk’s blazing astonishment, regardless of the goldfish that soar with it since the container just so happens to be in his way.

“Wait— Lance!” Hunk has the mind to say when the sparks of his short circuited reaction have flickered out. Keith’s head whips to where Lance scoots away and draws the yearbook right beneath his nose like sniffing up gossip from his favorite magazine.

“Let’s see what this is all abou—“

“No!” Keith chokes out, but Lance reclines back right as the boy reaches forward, and in his cartoonish attempt at driving the other away, he flails out a leg above the table and waves his sneaker in front of any vague, Keith-like threat coming at him.

“Eat my foot, Kogane!” He knocks the sole of his shoe right at Keith’s cheek and oof that’s gotta hurt…

But he doesn’t spare a moment to end the misery and let Keith off with a print on his cheek, he keeps it pressed there until further notice, for as long as they struggle, and he’s sure if it lasts long enough it’ll be the perfect opposite of pillow creases from those heavy headed, deep sleep naps. They’re wide awake, and ain’t no pillow is gonna reach Keith before Lance locks down the great big toilet paper shoe mystery.

He looks, amid struggling, and there’s no toilet papered shoes.

No. It’s… It’s him, and Keith, and—

There’s no one else.

The page adorns several snapshots of his own recognizable, (undeniably handsome) face and (glorious) body weaving through each frame with Keith’s figure to accompany it.

Their jersey numbers glare under the sun on a particularly sweltering hot day, one that makes Lance’s limbs already feel a phantom ache just by looking at the picture. But not for long, because his teammate’s got the whole cooler tipped over for an onslaught of icy water. He remembers the delayed, electric shock that shot through his body when it soaked his uniform, and how he’d only snarked back how “Very much refreshing!” it was to Keith, who’d doubled over the empty cooler in a fit of laughter afterward.

It’s all over this page, their jabs at one another. Keith’s bottom half hidden behind a column of lockers as Lance takes off with his practice pants flailing in his grasp; Lance’s hand sprawled over Keith’s gloating face when the boy had the ball pressed to his shoulder at third base, and the hot sensation of defeat practically seared through his jersey sleeve; Lance catching him in a headlock during a team call— a classic, if you ask him.

But that’s not it, which just makes this all the more strange. You’d expect Lance and Keith’s notorious streak to be best known in baseball, or at least number one and zero, always at each other’s throats during drills and sometimes even games when they should be doing the exact opposite.

Yet there’s more.

“Be more expressive!” Lance whines as he anxiously peers up at their figures moving around the grainy screen. It’s his last prom and it doesn’t have to be perfect, per say, but some decent pictures could do him justice before Keith’s boring faces send him to his deathbed. “Like, do what everyone else was doing.”

“Everyone else?” Keith says with a challenging lilt. “Fine.”

He wraps his arms around Lance in a sturdy embrace, already knocking over barrels of butterflies in the boy’s chest before pressing his nose to Lance’s cheek. “Ooo Lance, look at us being all mushy and gross like everyone else~” he taunts as they rock from side to side and Lance can only squirm.

5 — 4 — 3

“Oh my god, stop!” he says through a laugh as he holds on for dear life and devotes an ongoing effort to keeping his eyes up, unlike someone over here.

2 — 1

There’s a press to his cheek, damp and familiar and so, so dangerous for the things that’ll be reaching his addled dreams later tonight, but he doesn’t have it in him to care. He takes the joking kiss in stride—

SHHK!

—perhaps a little too much, because his doe eyes and open mouthed smile and Keith’s utterly convincing gesture speaks absolute levels of two students that look like high school sweethearts.

Lance still has the standing photo booth picture in his phone case, faced inside so the moment can be kept between him and his own shy stare. He takes it out and twiddles it around sometimes when he finishes tests early, or when he lays in bed and trusts the darkness to conceal all the wandering thoughts that come from this particular memory.

But now it’s plastered on a page for hundreds of students to look at too, among more moments that just keep adding to this flustered mess like popcorn bits waiting to be snacked on during the show of Lance’s ultimate crisis this year.

“Ow! You stabbed me too early!”

“That’s the point!” Keith says exasperatedly. “You would’ve flinched if I counted down.”

“I’m gonna bleed out and die.”

Keith huffs a laugh and takes Lance’s finger once enough drops make it onto the small pallet for their blood typing lab. “You’re B positive,” he says a moment later as he gently places a cotton swab on the pad of his finger.

“Well that’s kind of boring,” Lance says.

“Means I can donate to you, though.” Keith leans over and props his arm on the table as he fills out the paper. Then, he glances up with a smile. “Think my blood makes up for that horchata?”

Let’s just say, Lance is less prepared for their close proximity and the blush that comes with it than finding out he’d gotten a D on the last test. At least then he knew his studying was half-assed, but Keith over here is just… weird. And spontaneous, in a way.

His face softens.

SHHK!

“No way.”

And the point Lance is getting at here is that as much as a reputation with his teammate seems like just that: a teammate, made for running wild and bullying one another until their home plate becomes a shared headstone for the grave, it’s apparently not according to the whole freakin’ school now. Especially with the photography students somehow capturing the things he’s sworn mister sandman not to tell a soul about, or better yet, build a little daydream world around— Which totally isn't a thing by the way!

But it’s spelled out right across the top here, an embarrassing declaration of his own internal struggle for the past six months.

VOLTRON HIGH’S FAVORITE DUO: TEAM RIVALS OR SCHOOL CRUSHES?

Lance doesn’t curse very often, but… fuck.

Chapter Text

thunk

The heel of his sneaker hits the table after Keith promptly pushes it off his face, blatant dismay wiped across it more than the faint streak his shoe left behind.

He doesn’t have time to gauge the situation or even his own reaction before Keith is scrambling to stand up. His legs wobble in the narrow space between the bench and table like an anxious baby deer, jaw slack and shoulders moving from breaths that fill his chest and cast his gaze low from their watery weight.

Lance doesn’t see him like this very often. Glossy eyes and frantic little tics are reserved for a side of Keith that Lance has barely scratched the surface of. He never sees them raw and bare splayed out in front of him to pick apart and understand a layer so vulnerable. Instead, it’s rather like peering through a keyhole.

Or the crack of a stall door at the back of the locker room, covering his own gaping mouth at the mess of blood across the tile floor and Keith’s pinched fingers somehow doing no good to stop his nose’s downpour.

drip, drip, drip

He can’t remember how everything happened. Honestly, all he knows is that he’d thought it was just some stupid guys goofing off with each other before practice. How taunts and slurs are so easily masked as friendly ridicule at this shithole of a school— it’s well within his belief.

“What’s going o— oh my god, Keith, are you okay?” he remembers Shiro saying when he stumbled upon one of his two missing players, the other boys had taken off through the back entrance.

Lance remembers hating Keith’s guts that year in tenth grade, or at least trying to as he vied for proper attention as a worthy varsity player. But regardless of his stupid, stupid pettiness, a knot had formed right past the roof of his mouth that had him clenching his jaw tight and staving off fretful tears.

In hindsight, Keith really doesn’t do anything to be hated in such a harmful, striking way. At least not intentionally. When Lance had exchanged that quiet mutual look with his teammate during his whole boy crisis, he saw himself in it. Caught, afraid, anxious . But where Lance would be less than compliant in a situation like Keith’s waterfall-ing nose, what he’d heard from the boy himself was so strained it was almost a tip toe away from a ravine of voice cracks and despair.

Keith had sheepishly wiped his nose and twitched away as their coach leaned low to seemingly examine the mess. “Y-yes, Sir.”

Keith can shrivel himself into something so small under such overwhelming circumstances sometimes. Oftentimes . In comparison, it’s pretty unfair to crush a flower with a car tire of all things—

But Lance doesn’t know why something precious should even be crushed at all.

“‘M gonna go,” Keith mutters in almost the exact same tense voice as he tucks his hair behind an ear and finally manages to land his foot on the other side of the seat.

The snickering from around them begins to die down, not altogether, but Lance knows his classmates aren’t all cold hearted, expecting something so dreary to happen rather than… Something nice…

And he still can’t stop that internal thrill from it all. People see this, only a scoop of their interactions that happen to be caught on camera. God, Pidge even captured his awestruck face from two years ago when Keith helped him off the field from a sprained ankle— the moment his first impression of the boy was faltering, and inevitably going to fall apart once he realized Keith wasn’t the spiteful kind of person he’d obsessed himself over.

“Wh— Why is he— Is he upset?” Pidge asks in genuine concern as Keith weaves himself out through the crowd. “I thought he’d be angry and throw something at me, I didn’t think this was like—“

“It’s okay, Pidge,” Lance says.

He hopes his suspicions are right, and that this is less about the yearbook page and more about Keith’s ground-shaking worries during moments so vulnerable. He used to think Keith had stalked off after lost games because he was furious, probably even mad at the rest of them. Later on, he came to find out there’s far less he could know about his teammate by watching the back of his jersey and not the wobbly lips and teary eyes on the other side. Keith walks away for the sake of handling anxiety attacks on his own, away from the sound of disgruntled dirt kicks and James half heartedly picking apart their opponent’s plays just to feel better.

“You’re not a bad player, Keith,” Lance remembers telling him while they sat together in the secluded hallway of the sports building.

Keith sniffed. “I know I’m not, but if other people think I am then what else is there to believe?”

“Um, more like who else, such as I? Don’t make me pour my heart out here, idiot.” He slung his leg over Keith’s and dragged his teammate over into the solace of his burnt arms and dusty uniform.

“Hm,” Keith chuckled, then leaned into Lance’s embrace. It was better than nothing.

So with what he’s witnessed before, along with his own addled worries, Lance can only guess Keith’s reaction isn’t from dread of some stupid school reputation, it’s from bringing Lance along with it. The same way he thinks he drags the team down, the same way he’s faced the walls of the locker room countless times because clean tiles still look bloody if that’s all you think about. Things turn deprecating, his assumptions spiral for the worse, and what better way to feel some resolve than taking off altogether?

Lance doesn’t care if the toes of his cleats are braving the edge of a cliff and Keith happens to stumble. He’ll go down with him, however stupid the school gossip turns, and if Lance becomes the next hot topic between homophobes that got their panties in a twist, then that’s their problem to deal with.

“I’m gonna go too,” he tells the others and takes one last look at the page before sliding the yearbook back over to Hunk. “He’s probably headed to the nurse.”

Pidge nods with an uneasy frown, their frame brimming with guilt. “I’m sorry though, I thought it’d be some kind of gag and I’m just really—“

“I know.” He smiles. “To be honest, that would make a good phone case or something…”

“Oh my god…” Hunk groans, but he’s definitely biting back a reluctant smile. Lance just knows it.

And he’s off.

“Don’t assume I think you’re a terrible player or— or person. Because I don’t,” Lance had mumbled all that time ago, so low for the sake of his buried feelings despite how quiet and empty the rest of that hallway was. 

He’d kissed Keith’s cheek, and there were no cameras to catch it that time.

Chapter Text

Keith usually goes to the nurse’s office if he’s handling anxiety during school hours, since Shiro is occupied teaching his photography classes. It’s in his plan, or something like that, Lance doesn’t quite know. All that he is sure of is the fact that his teammate or buddy or whatever doesn’t get into trouble for taking a trip over there, and neither does Lance because, well, the whole staff loves him.

He remembers last year, Mister Alfor had let him eat nuggets in his office after missing lunch from a doctor’s appointment. Not that he had it in him to actually eat them though, since he was so terribly high strung from the man’s daughter, Allura, sitting nearby with her gorgeous hair tied back and all-star volleyball uniform crisp and clean for the game later that day.

Lance earns approval from all over: teammates from the field, swim buddies, volleyball peeps, fellow rowdy classmates and the teachers that ended up loving him in the long run, because a day without Lance is a day without noise, thank you very much.

His social butterfly tendencies have earned him titles like prom king and class clown, a charming mix of his best traits that surely have that little piece of his ninth grade self just swelling with pride.

And as always, on the contrary, Keith is not like that. He’s an all-star too, a prodigy in the beginning who’s turned into the leader everyone knew he’d become years in advance. Even then, there’s other parts the school has seemed to hone in on. Best smile, with Keith’s rare toothy grin showcased in the yearbook with an insufferably endearing smatter of freckles across his cheeks and nose, and the sharp, crooked canine that Lance has like, this weird urge to be bitten with or something. Does that make sense? He doesn’t know, it just looks pointy and the last time he jammed Keith’s cheek back like an overexcited dentist, he was well on his way to getting a few of his own teeth knocked out.

These traits are quite contradicting though. Keith’s freckles are one of his only scraps of evidence against being some weirdo vampire, but definitely meant for further inspection. It’s for science, he’ll tell himself every now and then, before Keith glares at him above that blanket of specks and says “What?” because the sunscreen lotion had turned to a big glob in Lance’s hand from squeezing too long during his sidetracked state.

“Nothing,” he’d say. And then— “You’re stupid.”

It’s all for good measure. 

“Is my…” he starts once he enters the nurse’s office. His what? “Is Keith in here?”

Terry glances up at him from her computer. Her big eyes brighten underneath a wispy set of bangs at the sight of Lance, then she nods and points toward the doorway behind him before returning to her usual mumbling.

Keith lays on one of the standard, hard cushioned beds placed in the attached room. All the curtains are pushed back and he’s currently the only one around, huddled up in a dark team hoodie that Lance has noticed he tends to throw on for the sake of comfort over fine temperatures.

There’s not much he had planned after making it in here since tracking Keith down was his only motive for the time being, as if he can’t think properly without Keith at his side. (Definitely untrue, especially after almost setting his hair on fire last week, then Keith’s, then Shiro’s entire office. Long story…)

So instead, he wordlessly flops down onto the bed next to Keith’s, with his feet hanging off like some goofy cartoon character since he doesn’t know how to press the stop button on something called “growth spurts”, then shimmies onto his side to face his teammate. Keith watches him with owlish eyes through the shadow of his hood and hair.

They stare at one another.

“Idiot.”

“Jerk.”

Lance scoffs. “Oh I’m the jerk? No don’t you groan here, Mister I stole sixty-five bucks of In-n-Out savings because supposedly having a crush on Lance is the worst thing ever.”

“I never said that,” Keith says, but Lance is only paying half attention since he notices their usual banter is picking away at the sharp edges of Keith’s tenseness. “Plus, it’s sixty dollars, not sixty-five.”

“Don’t talk to me, Keith. I’m emotional.” He rolls onto his back and dramatically flicks a hand over his forehead in feigned distress.

“Why are you here, then?”

That’s the real kicker, the whole why question, the one he’s been scampering away from like a child being chased by a horrifically giant piece of broccoli in some juvenile nightmare. And definitely.. not.. one he had a few days ago…

It’s easier said than done, except in this case, in which it’s easier thought than said. Admitting it —telling Keith that barreling down a cliff into a pit of gay rumors isn’t so bad after all and actually takes care of half the work for him— is genuinely a broccoli nightmare in itself.

He feels caught off guard suddenly, which is why it takes a second or two of staring back at Keith after mindlessly lolling his head to the side before he could sum up the courage to respond.

“Because I…” He licks his lips and Keith remains still like timid prey. “Because I care more about you than... what the rest of the school thinks.”

And well, he’d expect Keith to look at him like a freakin’ puppy or something, anything tame enough not to shake Lance’s already thundering chest from such a lame confession. But nooo, instead Keith ends up twisting his face into mild confusion, the expression he makes when Lance sprays a generous amount of Axe in his cleats before practice.

“What,” he challenges.

“You care about me?” Keith asks skeptically, but Lance can see that stupid little smile growing and he’s not being subtle at all.

“Shut up, you know I do,” he mutters and presses his face further into the pillow like it could spontaneously knock him out and help to avoid this situation. The little handwashing poster across the room suddenly looks so appealing, and these crinkly sheets underneath him… Just amazing.

Keith hiccups a little laugh. “Oh no I do, I just never thought you’d admit it,” he says, but the sly tone begins to taper. “Especially not now…”

“What do you mean?” Lance asks curiously as he curls back on his side.

Keith glances at his backpack on the floor, between the two beds. Unassuming, solid black, save for the baby Stitch pin Lance had got him during their Disneyland trip last year. Yeah yeah, he had some money to spare and saw the other eyeing it like a mother in the infant clothes section. Keith’s hands are like, kind of soft too, ya know, when Lance had unfolded one after swearing the gift wasn’t a piece of trash that time.

Anyway.

“Keith, I don’t— I’m not upset about that,” he says. It’s the truth, especially when he can only think of baby Stitch and Keith’s smile —with teeth!— when looking at that plain, zipped up backpack, rather than the sixty dollar yearbook he made a whole show about earlier. Or his suppressed feelings on display in the unmistakable pictures inside with high resolution and vibrant color.

“Yeah but you might be later on,” Keith mumbles.

Lance scoffs. “I don’t get upset about things later on, that’s stupid.”

“This morning you argued with me over a project from last year.”

“It was due on Monday! I remember it clearly, Keith,” he remembers saying to the boy when reminiscing over their great science fair project. They’d been walking past the forensics classroom during their passing period, and just through the propped open door, he’d seen this year’s array of boards leaned against the far wall in several stacks.

“It was due Friday and I ended up being right.” Keith leveled him with a deadpan.

“Monnndaaay,” he said, and carded his fingers through Keith’s hair in a swift movement like he could hypnotize it into the other’s mind.

Keith’s lips curled amusedly as he met Lance’s gaze with lidded eyes. “Friday.”

Betrayal.

“You know what? Don’t talk to me,” he said with a scowl.

“It’s hard to believe you’re actually mad when your hands are still in my hair.”

The paperwork and cited resources were actually due Friday and their board was for Monday, but Lance likes being right, one hundred percent with no crumbs left behind. And while he’d usually just let up on it and drop the subject, arguing with Keith feels less hostile and more like a lame excuse for attention. Not his fault that it always works.

“And I was right. But this is different,” he finally responds.

Keith rolls his eyes, but his shoulders are tense again and he’s already chewing away at his lip while he can.

“I’m sorry though, about the pages,” he continues when tides of guilt start washing in and an inkling of self doubt gives him the idea that maybe Keith actually hates this as much as he suspected Lance would. “If I knew Pidge was gonna do it I’d stop them and— and like, I know it’s supposed to be a joke, but I also know you’re not like, out to everyone…”

It was just the locker room thing. The one where Keith didn’t have a chance to decide who knows and when because only a few bullies and a frightened look across the room made Lance just get it.

“You know I’m gay?” Keith asked quietly, and under any other circumstances Lance would laugh and say something stupid but it’s just not worth it.

He always thought coming out would be like this big moment for everyone in the community. Doesn’t matter if it’s wholesome or heartbreaking, it’s big. It’s confetti and cakes and flags or shouting through angry tears or bloody noses and a baseball coach saying “You’re not okay and that’s okay” after something so terrifying simply because you…

are you.

But this moment is quiet, blanketed in the muffled noise of students mingling in the commons outside the blurred window, Keith’s baited breath and Lance on the edge of being an honest friend with his own secret to share.

“In tenth grade I heard the track kids before practice that one time,” he says with his gaze sunk to the floor and that choked sensation returning from such a jittery flashback. “When they were calling you names and stuff cause you and Caleb kissed or something.”

“Get the fuck away from him! Don’t fucking brainwash our friend you f—“

“I didn’t do anything!”

Caleb transferred schools the following week, and by then, Lance figured what happened was at least real enough to cause some blistering damage. They weren’t just calling names, they were harassing, and Lance didn’t have it in him to bolt out and stop everything because sometimes you just don’t wanna find out if it’s the confetti or hot tears waiting outside the closet. He’s still scared, but at least he had the choice to stay hidden away.

“Oh,” Keith says, and his slumped body is painted in mellow defeat. Lance already feels bad. “I guess a lot of people found out from that.”

“I still didn’t tell anybody. I promise.”

He reaches out his hand, pinky extended into the illuminated space between them, where light casts inside from the far window while the rest of the room is bathed in faint shadow. Even the most unnecessary (albeit genuine) antics Keith still puts up with; a promise is followed by a pinky with Lance as one is followed by a smile with Keith.

Keith reaches out his half-sleeved hand and links their pinkies. “I know, I trust you.”

Lance swallows away his anxiousness as much as he can; this isn’t exactly a moment he can slam a joke on and pretend all is well before going about his day. He’s vulnerable too, and looking at Keith while holding the same secret is like looking into a tinted reflection of things that could’ve been. It was a narrow miss, but it feels unfair to pretend he’s free of it all himself.

“I trust you too,” he says, then slips his hand into Keith’s when it begins to quiver from how absolutely nerve wracking this feels. His entire body is vibrating like his phone during ten missed calls from his mama while a few minutes away from an ass whooping. Holy hell. Here goes nothing.

“I’m bisexual.”

And— and dammit, there it is. The puppy look he was talking about, where Keith’s brows peak and a glint blooms in his eyes. It’s not cartoonish as it is subtle, the boy probably doesn’t even realize it either; it’s just Keith being… Keith.

Cute, in a way.

“Yeah?” Keith says, and his freckled smile is crooked from his cheek pressed into his other hand. Lance wants to freakin’ squish his face or something— and that feels like an even more dangerous idea considering he’s um, out now. Standing in little confetti pieces of Keith’s support. It feels good.

He licks his lips and nods, then gives Keith’s hand a squeeze. “Surprised?”

“Hm, I kind of figured.” Keith’s hold tightens too. “I just didn’t wanna get my hopes up.”

“Your ho—?”

DING

Keith glances away and out the window, where students start to pack up and scurry back to class, or take their time cruising between friend groups before their fourth hour begins. His thumb roves over Lance’s knuckles in a gentle stroke, then his hand slips away.

DING

“Got a test in Iverson’s today,” he mutters over the noisy crinkly sheet underneath him as he sits up and takes his bag, Lance clumsily follows suit.

“Oh, heh, yeah it’s—“

DING

“—actually not that hard. He probably just wants us out of here,” he says as Keith is already standing up.

“Makes sense.”

DING

A hand is out in front of him again. Light, smooth, palm open and inviting below his chin and the sight suddenly feels like a way bigger deal than before, especially with Keith’s patient expression hovering above.

Lance takes it.

And instead of just the helpful tug he’d expected, it takes one pull and an extra step to smell a certain cologne and have his chin hooked over the other’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Keith croaks out.

A hug from Keith without the adrenaline rush of a winning point to prompt it feels almost foreign to him. But he returns it, so fast it’s like he fears the weight within his arms will vanish if he doesn’t hold tight.

His face must be blooming three shades of an embarrassing red right now, and yet, perhaps that could just be his excuse for tucking his nose into the crook of Keith’s neck, curling himself away from the rest of the world.

“Yeah,” he says, and thinks of prom dates and freckles and “hopes up” and everything Keith could’ve meant in all those moments—

And what it means when Lance thinks he wants more of it.

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

So like, maybe coming out to Keith actually was a bigger deal than Lance had expected. And no, it’s not like Keith was bewildered and sucked in a gasp like helium at a birthday party, or vomited firecrackers or really anything that really shouted the reaction “Holy cow, Lance is bi!”

Yeaah no. It’s not outward, per say, it’s… it’s…. —ergh— it’s inside. He’s out and Keith’s out and everybody’s out or whatever, okay? So that means when they’re uh, sort of…

This is going nowhere, but a prime example of how those firecrackers are obviously stuck in his own stomach and heart and mind is when he’s minding his business in the library, hunched over his chromebook keyboard with god, like, the most awful posture, and suddenly right in his ear a voice says—

“Hey there.”

Lance jolts so fast he almost feels like his body glitched.

“Wh-OA h there, dios Keith, you mind like… giving a warning or something?” he says in a hushed voice with his hand clutching at his stuttered chest.

Keith levels him with a look, ya know, the stupid one with the skeptical arched brow that makes his piercing (cool as hell but Lance will never admit) tilt with the movement. “That was your warning,” he says, and stays there for a moment, awkwardly leaned over with his hand stuffed in the pockets of slim jeans as Lance internally counts the last strands of patience he has.

He rolls his eyes, then Keith allows himself to move from the apparent signal he catches in that.

“What are you even doing here?” he asks, thoroughly avoiding this weird instinctual splash of thoughts that spew droplets of “Wow Keith is here in the library— did he come to see me? Keith is sitting right here next to me his attention is on me right now don’t do anything weird do I look okay oh my god is he scooting closer what—“ all across the hollow walls carrying his stupid pea brain. Well, he’s not stupid, but this sort of reaction is already growing infuriating to deal with, and it’s only been a few days since their coming out. He’s never been this self conscious, and for what? For who? Someone with a mullet?

Keith scoops up Lance’s backpack with the same eagerness of a raccoon with this week’s new bundle of garbage or something. “My last class only meets once a week, remember?” he says, then plucks the last piece of watermelon gum from Lance’s pack that was in his bag before unwrapping and plopping it right into his mouth.

And Lance isn’t even mad. Or he is, but he’s mad at the fact that he’s not that mad because… he’s usually more mad. Make sense?

Five cents, he thinks to himself uselessly. He’s been taxing everything the boy borrows or takes ever since his stolen horchata, not like Keith actually listens anyway. It’s starting to feel like a one sided game of monopoly, but those gum pieces and hair ties —that Lance totally doesn’t buy for him— are stacking up, alright? And donating that O negative blood is not gonna come around anytime soon unless Keith proves his suspicions of planning some ~mysterious accident~ so he could just happen to save Lance’s life or whatever and have his seven dollars and thirty-four cents forgiven.

No way.  And no, Lance isn’t obsessed; he's just dedicated.

But aside from his mental price tabs kept on Keith, he feels his mood sink a little at the boy’s reminder because— “Oh yeah,” he says in a small voice, willing his pout to go away, although it probably won’t anytime soon. “Internship ‘n stuff.”

The thing is, Lance doesn’t really know what Keith’s plans are after graduation, even though the seniors are constantly bombarded with this kind of stress all the time, confronting Keith about it is like shouting into the void. Or a lame face with sparkling eyes that make you lose your train of thought so you forget the question to begin with and wait what…

“Yeah,” Keith says, pulling Lance from his mild stupor.

But he still feels it, the twinge of bitterness at a future without this. He plans on heading to California, good ol scholarship coming in clutch thanks to baseball and the excruciating pain of honors and AP classes because really, he isn’t actually dumb. It’s not like he could afford getting there without the brain torture anyway though, any kind of scholarship is a big deal when your family makes less than the ideal amount of income, and sometimes you know the neighbors aren’t just “gettin’ rid of some old clothes”, it’s really like what winter shopping would be for another family. A more average one.

It used to be embarrassing, but he grew out of that. The sound of half-sniffles down the hallway as his mom sorted through countless dead ends of available jobs is just… 

When you’re fourteen and find out the logo on your hoodie was stitched onto a hand-me-down cause your mama didn’t wanna see you sad on Christmas, you start thinking. There’s a lot more to love in those loose threads than the stiff sweaters everybody else has got on.

And sure, Keith is a troubled guy, but his house is nice, really nice, at least to Lance it is. His handful of visits only encountered clean tile and non-markered walls and door hinges that don’t squeak and a bed that could fit not just one, but two , maybe even two and a half stupid mullet-heads in it. Lance felt like he committed a felony after waking up from an accidental nap during their study session and getting drool on Keith’s pillow. And you know what Keith did? Snapped a pic and laughed. Lance bets those pillow cases cost the same as his house’s rent, or he was just really paranoid about messing things up…

“Welp, still doesn’t explain why you’re here with me of all places,” Lance says in a clipped tone as he turns back to his work. The lines of words across his screen are totally muddled, though, all that his attention can latch onto from the corner of his eye is the glint in Keith’s piercing and that absolute mess of shaggy hair. Is it getting longer?

“Hm,” Keith hums simply. “Just bored.”

Lance does his best at typing away, regardless of the total BS that he’s cramming into the search bar of Google, a continuous keysmash just to keep himself preoccupied from… you get it, hopefully, cause he definitely doesn’t.

“How flattering,” he finally responds, then clicks the Enter key as if he actually did something there. Ugh.

“You hopin’ for a different reason?”

gksjfkdbfkendkdndkdjdfbapdjej, the search bar and his freakin’ brain says.

Your search - gksjfkdbfkendkdndkdjdfbapdjej - did not match any documents.

And for some diddly dumb reason, his vocal chords decide to play friendship bracelets and tie together before he can even think of choking out a response. “Hoping” — pfft, who does Keith think he is? Yeah, Lance was totally hoping for…

For…

“I just didn’t wanna get my hopes up.”

I-Is there some sort of projection in this or—

“Shut up,” he says with a side-eyed scowl, mostly to himself but Keith happens to be in front of him anyway. This library lighting better make this inexplicable blush look like some sort of sunburn or something…

And so Keith does. But if there’s one thing Lance has learned about his friend here it’s that Keith, already the reserved, quietly aloof type, manages to be annoying in several ways that aren’t necessarily vocal. Most importantly, number one:

Staring.

It’s not exactly bad having Keith’s attention on him though, it’s just unsettling. Like, what’s he supposed to do now? Search up the intriguing history of ‘gksjfkdbfkendkdndkdjdfbapdjej’? Which, apparently, doesn’t have one to begin with. So now Lance here is left as the captain of one hundred mini-Lance’s (or however many brain cells he has left at this point) as he scrambles for the next step of his project that needs to be completed by this weekend, kind of like that one episode of Spongebob.

This way, he looks preoccupied, unaffected— oh, right, and he’ll actually be DOING WORK TO BEGIN WITH.

Get it together, idiot, he thinks with a sniff, then adjusts in his chair. But it’s hard and Keith is so… Eurghhhhhhhh. All those mini-Lance’s are flocking to the windows of his eyes, just to spot Keith out the corner of them, tossing theories of what he’s thinking back and forth and ultimately feeding a raging fire of sudden self consciousness.

He scowls, glances Keith’s way and feigns indifference toward the waiting gaze already landed on him. Keith’s eyes are dark like this, and shadowed under the hanging roof of his thick lashes and brows. They peep above his arm from where his head rests on the table now, cushioned against the sprawled pillow of his equally dark hair and the other arm bent underneath it.

Lance gives up, just a little, and flops his open hand over Keith’s taunting eyes. “I said shut up.”

“But I’m not saying anything,” his friend mumbles lamely into the sleeve of his jacket.

He puts the pads of his two fingers over Keith’s resting eyelids just for good measure, letting the lashes tickle his skin while all the mini-Lance’s flutter around his head like cartoon birds.

This is hopeless, and very, very concerning. Like, for one, he’s absolutely sure something must’ve slipped into his drink earlier. Maybe Gianna really did mess with his hydro flask (yes, he’s basic) during their second hour this morning. Or— or he has a concussion! Or Keith sprayed too much of that godawful ocean breeze cologne with a hint of citrus a— yeah that, and now Lance is like one sniff away from his last decaying brain cell. Next thing he knows, Keith is gonna start looking pretty to him. God, wouldn’t that be a nightmare… heh… 

And this doesn’t even seem like the kind of Keith he’s usually around, or has he just not been paying attention? Just… with his hand up to touch Lance’s fingers, and mindlessly hold them as he glazes his thumb over each tip with calm attention. He’s probably jealous of Lance’s expertly cleaned nails or something.

But this whole thing is giving him some weird deja vu. And past his heated cheeks and every nonsensical thought popping up like a useless bunch of overexcited rice krispies, he feels like this is something… It—

It almost seems like something he would do, actually. Especially to Nyma, Allura even, once they’d become tight during Spanish: one of his easy A classes, despite being shoved ahead once the teacher caught his fluent babbling in the hallway. He remembers the creeping grin on his own face that time, both from entertainment and disbelief at one of his ploys being stupidly cracked in front of his equally trouble-making friends.

He also remembers this kind of stuff, playing footsies or more like pinkies with Allura under her subtle, arched-brow gaze. Back then he was utterly convinced she’d totally had a thing for him, now though he’s sure it was just a way to keep Ms. Garcia’s lessons veered away from his otherwise rowdiness in the classroom.

And Keith was always pissy that year — last year— for some reason; had his freakin’ panties and miffed little face in a twist when they’d leave the classroom. He wasn’t sure why Keith even bothered taking Spanish since his language credit was already finished from French. Now that he thinks about it, Keith had somehow jumped to the advanced course too. What, did he just like, take a class so he could torture Lance with that grumpy-cat attitude? Sounds accurate enough.

“Geez, what’s your problem, man?” he’d said after a particularly snappy remark.

And Keith carried on down the hallway, his nose tipped up. “Maybe you’d know if you weren’t playing with your little girlfriend.”

Lance honestly can’t remember that much, just that one thing led to another over the days and Keith, more sour than sweet than ever, landed a low blow in front of passing students during their umpteenth argument. “If you weren’t such a loudmouth maybe we’d all actually want you on the team,” he spat.

And it felt like sheer betrayal. He’d done everything for Keith, and for some stupid, mindless reason it ended in a sudden snap like a broken pencil and him shoving Keith to his ass in the gravel where they’d stood outside.

“Fuck you, Kogane.”

As tough and careless as he wanted to be known for, his first detention and first fight with someone he felt he shouldn’t even care that much about had hit too close to home. Lance got two week’s worth of detention from Ms. Garcia, and if he wasn’t already crying in the bathroom before their fifth hour everyday since then, he sure as hell had felt like it.

Things are different now, sure, but it aches the same, that memory of huddling himself in the stall and saying over the phone in a hushed, wavering voice— “Y-yeah the uh, the game is actually cancelled today, Ma. I’ll just take the bus home.”

And a second too late he’d noticed those black sneakers planted on the other side of the barrier, a sheen of light swiped across the glossy Nike logo and Lance just wanted to burn them with a single glare. Of course, of-freaking-course Keith had to be there, looking at Lance in the reflection when the latter stepped out with a quivering breath.

Don’t say anything, please don’t say anything—

“The game’s not cancelled today,” Keith had said bluntly, like Lance’s reasoning was the passing storm clouds and semi-damp dirt rather than this boys equally mucky face at the time.

Lance had stuffed his phone back in his pocket before, rinsed his hands while desperately swallowing away his anger the same way the drain chugged down all that extra faucet water.

Creeeak. The water stopped running.

Then, he looked Keith right in those stupid grey eyes with the most pissed-off face he could muster, and said—

“Like you’d care if I went, jackass .”

He vowed to never look Keith’s way unless there was clear despise in it, just to make his teammate understand that dreadful stomach drop feeling from only a stare.

Lance is stubborn.

But not stubborn enough to last over a year, clearly, because his very sworn team rival hasn’t been subjected to any sort of genuine glare for the past ten minutes— days , even, with how weirdly his brain has been malfunctioning lately… 

He wonders what the heck even had to happen for them to end up here of all places, as an unlikely pair of friends to begin with, where venom-spiked remarks in an empty school bathroom had turned into… his eyes not holding even half their amount of old and angsty puddles of resent, even when Keith is gnawing away at his attention just by merely existing.

“Uh, distraction isn’t limited to talking, mister mullet,” Lance says in a parrot to what goes through his mind.

“What am I doing that’s distracting then?” Keith says in the most clearly feigned tone he’s like, ever used before. His bangs have slid back into their rightful arch, framing the curve of his face, shielding light from his eyes and the pair of dots from his piercing that peek between the blinds of certain strands. Lance feels his fingertips twitch against the other’s open palm. Soft, just like in Disneyland.

Lance rolls his eyes just to stall for a little time, what could he even— Aha!

“You’re looking too much,” he delivers in a smooth and casual voice. “See, I know my good looks are irresistible and all,“ —he flicks his other wrist and leans closer— “but listen…”

Keith arches his brow.

“Prince Charming needs some time for this study sesh without the goo-goo eyes.” And then he winks. For good measure and for his own sake because apparently being a whole hunk of a flirt at Keith ( jokingly, of course) is way more rattling than pulling these stops with his lady classmates, or the Dunkin’ Donuts worker he smooth talks just for a regular discount on his iced coffee… So what? He’s tight on money, and In-n-Out did the bare minimum for part time employees since he last worked there.

And just like his manager had been when he’d chat up a girl on fry duty for too long, Keith gives him a long, slow blink, and deadpans.

“You’re ridiculous,” he grumbles, the apples of his cheeks flushing nearly red under the fluorescent light. Poor guy probably doesn’t know how to apply sunscreen without Lance’s help, it’s honestly sad at this point. 

“Where’s the fun without that?” Lance pouts as he strings Keith along into sliding their hands palm to palm. He’d do that with Allura too. Her fingers were nimble and almost dainty looking, but hoooo boy could she probably drop kick his sorry butt with a single thrust from all that aggression and arm muscle.

Keith has muscle too. Like, the swell of it is very much present, especially when his poor lobster burn darkens into a reasonable tan and it’s just wow. Like it’s right there undulating under the sleeves of his t-shirt and shifting into the thick veins of his forearms, sometimes it’s a little distracting because—

Okay, Gianna totally spiked his water with something. Heh, yeah no way that’s, yeah it’s only “distracting” because Keith’s mullet makes his head still look too big for his body or— or something like that.

“There’s no fun either way,” Keith says lamely, then presses Lance’s fingers back until he flinches from a sudden spike of pain. “Just torture.”

“You take that back you jerk,” Lance snaps through a harsh whisper. He lunges at Keith, sly as a panther— well, like, a baby panther that’s hardly ever walked before.

Keith chuckles and readily holds Lance away by the grip on his arm, his teeth are bared in a pleasantly wicked smile and the balance he’s got on this chair is nearly admirable if he hadn’t just insulted Lance two seconds ago. “Never.”

“You’re just—“ Lance struggles, his grabby hands only grappling with the air and not Keith’s stupid freckly cheeks. “—You’re just saying that— because you have— the personality— of a mall cop— urghhhh.”

And Keith actually giggles from that, probably because he’s tossing Lance’s limbs away like a baby on a havoc spree during play time. “I dunno, driving a segway seems kind of nice if you ask me.”

“I’m gonna burn all your pants,” Lance growls through a couple more directionless swats, “and then I’m gonna stick a segway up your—

Ahh!”

Lance topples over with a squawk, one wrong twist of the heel and suddenly his balance from the table is knocked into Keith’s lap. He prays to every existing deity that Ms. Chaffer is still on the other side of the library, confusedly checking out the manga section or telling Ricardo he can’t use the bathroom pass just to makeout with his girlfriend behind the building. Anything, anything besides her being right around the corner.

But alas, his luck is… absolute crap, for lack of better words, and the doomed silence that follows Keith’s tapering laugh is all he needs to know before tilting his head back, just to be met with the upside-down sight of his teachers fiery, vibrant red hair and tacky purple glasses.

“I… don’t think that’s what segways are for, Lance,” Ms. Chaffer says with a pursed, albeit amused smile. She’s like a mom, well, not his mom, more like one of the ladies at his old church who could guilt him into behaving with a disappointed look alone.

And oh yeah, he does definitely feel guilty already, and from the way his friend’s throat bobs from a nervous swallow, Keith definitely does too.

“Uh— right,” he says as he scrambles back onto his own seat without a peep of resistance from Keith. “Sorry, Miss Chaffer.”

“Right,” she hums pleasantly, then turns to Keith’s stock-still figure. “Keith, how are you doing today?”

He’s never had Ms. Chaffer before, but Lance has had her twice and it seems that any class Lance is in, Keith may as well be too. Whether by chance of the boy needing a quiet room to make up a test, or Lance’s habit of yapping about him for very good reasons. Such as baseball, and his outrageously outdated, totally-ugly-but-kinda-soft hair.

“I’m… good,” Keith says stiffly, but he smiles anyway. “Short schedule this year.”

And however awkward Keith is, Lance still feels an inkling of pride because… the boy doesn’t really know it, but there’s this certain look he gives sometimes with this unintentional, kiddish charm. Lance swears he’s seen a sparkle in those wide pupils before; if this man isn’t a vampire then he’s surely a witch.

“That’s wonderful, but Lance here needs to work on his project and—“

“I’m almost done!” Lance yelps, and hurriedly snatches his chromebook up just to show his document smothered in research with a cluster of tabs open, including the “gksjfkdbfkendkdndkdjdfbapdjej” one, which he prays is left unheeded. It’s beyond him how the device is still functioning at this point, but he won’t question it. “There’s only the conclusion paragraph and then I’m finished! Off the hook, no need to worry about me, Miss,” he says with a wave of his hand in the most convincing tone he can muster. “Or the segways…”

Ms. Chaffer glances at the screen, then meets Lance’s desperate gaze once again. And here’s the thing, Keith can get in trouble for all he cares, it’s not like he’s trying to drag Keith out of this or whatever. He’s just saving his own sorry butt, of course… No mushy-gushy coming of age plot where ~friendship~ wins in the end. Bleh .

So, completely for his own sake…

“Keith’s my study buddy.” He wraps his arms around the other boy after setting down his chromebook. “My partner in… completely legal activity. The apple of my eye, the reason I passed your class sophomore year,” he says matter of factly. Yeah he totally just copied off all of Keith’s old assignments since he’d taken the same course before. Shortcut to acquaintanceship: Lance gets homework answers, Keith gets one less minute of pestering during practice. A satisfying deal, if you ask him.

Keith even holds onto Lance’s arms, albeit still stiff and all around awkward, he’s seemed to get the message, yeah? Fake it til ya make it, honestly it’s a job well done, Lance would almost think his friend is actually alright with him getting all huggable, going by the veil of supposed fondness washed over his absent expression. So now his teacher has no choice but to admit defeat.

Ms. Chaffer puffs out a laugh, then tucks her clipboard back into its unassuming grip where the papers aren’t hovering just beneath her nose anymore. “I’m sure that’s what the yearbook says.”

And Lance, ever so compliant in such an unsure situation, immediately nods along. “Exactly what the yearbook says!” He even throws in a finger gun too.

That seems to do it, because his teacher gives them one quick glance over, her eyes settling on Keith with a tinge of intrigue before rising back to attention. “Just focus on your work,” she says.

“Miss Chaffer, where’s the bathroom pass?” Sofia calls from down the aisle.

Yeahhh… she’s about done here. Lance does his best to hold in his laugh at the idea of Ricardo getting lectured again.

“You two can have your fun later. This weekend, Mister McClain, have that submitted,” she insists pointedly.

He smiles, and nods practically a thousand and one times just to usher himself out of this embarrassing situation. “You got it.”

He peers closely at Ms. Chaffer’s wandering figure, clinging around Keith as he waits until the last step around the corner and his teacher’s matching, vibrant purple heels vanish into the next aisle. For some reason, staying like this, with his arms around Keith, doesn’t seem so bad. One taste at being embraced and suddenly Lance feels himself toeing some koala-like tendencies and hanging on like this boy is nothing but a tree.

A strong, bulky, and nicely structured tree… With warm hands and… hair that smells like pomegranate and—

Trees don’t have hair.

“Wellll!” he says with a start and readily flings himself away with the speed of someone outrunning a sudden sneeze. “Glad we got out of that one, right Kogane?”

Keith curls back into himself, just as reserved as before as he tucks some strands of hair away and goes to unlock his phone with a downcast gaze. He chuckles. “So I’m your crush now?”

What the—

Lance feels himself stop. Everything. Stops rocking his chair, tapping the table, jumping his knee to a steady rhythm that matches his whirring excitement (or more like anxiousness) from that close save out of trouble. Keith still scrolls through his phone.

“Huh? Wh— who told you that? Did Hunk say something? I never even—“

“Lance.” Keith says, solid, blunt. He sets his phone aside and gives Lance this… this unreadable expression as he turns his way. “You just told your teacher ‘Exactly what the yearbook says’. Which by the way,” —he slings his own backpack over the table and unzips it, pulling out none other than the item in question, with a glossy blue and white cover and their lion mascot stamped right in the middle. “Forgot to give this back.”

Ohhhhh. He feels himself mentally facepalm, and now his floundering reaction is starting to make him quite embarrassed. The yearbook, hah. Yeah, just his way of getting them out of a lecture, nothing past that or anything. Just guys bein’ dudes.

“Oh my god,” Lance breathes out as he takes the book into his grasp with one hand and clutching his heart with the other. “Seriously don’t scare me like that, you jerk.”

“What,” Keith says and furrows his brows curiously, “got something to hide, McClain?”

Lance can practically smell the amusement in that inquiry, along with the citrus-hinted, pomegranate shampoo of some sort that just has to work well because his friend’s hair is so… shiny, seamless and curved at the ends. Like what if Lance just happened to twirl his finger around—

“As if,” he chokes out. “I would vomit. And you know what? First thing I do once I get home is burn those cursed pages in my backyard.”

He actually considers the idea for a moment, wonders if it’s really worth it for the sake of drama and proving a point. Probably not, but it’s not like he’s desperate to hold onto such a thing with vice-like fierceness. He’s honestly kind of contradicting that phone case idea from that day, but who cares? The design was cool, but— but the title?

“School crush”. Pssh, yeah the last thing he could see himself doing is tracing those pages at a late hour, soaking up every detail and particular pictured smile in the glow of his nightlight like some... lovestruck school girl or something.

He still feels his stomach sink a little, though, seeing as Keith’s playful mood has shifted into something else. Something timid, almost like he’s a little disheartened by Lance’s snark and… and maybe it was kind of rude for him to say, but it’s nothing new, right?

“Yeah,” Keith says flatly, then scoops his phone back up. “I don’t doubt it.”

But Lance admittedly does. He doubts himself, so much so it’s concerning and perhaps it’s just in the name of friendship, not wanting to screw up badly enough that he loses one of his best friends— cause that’d suck, obviously.

There’s unspoken words playing at the base of his throat like he’d swallowed a mouthful of restless, emotion-coated pop rocks. They don’t come out, can’t even reach his brain up above so he’s left dealing with this vague feeling of guilt.

In a wordless apology, Lance shifts his chair closer, hooks his ankle with the boy’s beside him as he goes back to studying—

And he doubts himself.

Chapter Text

Jealousy is a disease Lance can proudly say he’s completely and utterly immune to, and if he’s said otherwise then… well that’s just him being humble.

On certain occasions though, other emotions are often mistaken for this silly, petty jealousy, yet his friends readily smack that label right on like a 50% off sticker at any chance they get. Clearly it’s a reach, and Lance won’t stand for it any longer. But it’s like the more angry he gets, the more he’s somehow “proving” this point they’ve got hanging over his head— which is calm and level, thank you very much.

So all of this being said, when he does feel that sort of sprout from a small, burning seed in his stomach at the sight of a familiar face, it’s well within reason to say it’s not jealousy , it’s… like, exhaustion— exasperation. Because c’mon!

This guy again?!

Pidge follows Lance’s wordless stare beaming over their shoulder, over to the briskly approaching figure headed toward the set of doors for the attendance building nearby.

“—re you looking at— oh ,” Pidge mutters, then lifts a quizzical brow when they turn back to Lance and Hunk before another take. “Is— Is that Caleb?”

Oh and it sure as hell is. Lance barely recognizes this kind of attire, just a casual set of slim jeans, nice sneakers and a long sleeve crewneck fit to a vaguely familiar person underneath it all.

Caleb Murry: swim team prodigy with a .8 second lead on Lance’s breaststroke record time— old time (sophomore year), class clown of freshman English, honors student with a promising ranking, and…

owner of Keith Kogane’s first kiss.

Lance would recognize that kind of swagger anywhere, especially when he should be the one owning it. The swag, of course! Like, all the coolness and not the uh… not him owning Keith’s um…

“Yeah,” Lance blurts, shaking himself back into focus.

“Dude he got freakin’ built, bro. Wait— Pidge, you know him?” Hunk asks curiously, his eyes squinting through the afternoon light reflected off their friend’s glasses.

Pidge perks up. (Does everyone just have to have that kind of reaction about this guy? Like, he’s not all that great…)

“Yeah he went to my old school. Was the new kid at first,” they say with a chipper nod. “He’s pretty nice, ‘lot smarter than he seems too— Oh! You know he also uses—“

“—uses the same color coding system that we do?” Hunk readily finishes in a single gush.

“Yes!”

God, Lance is gonna vomit. Like actually. Caleb was supposed to be long gone and over the hills by now, over the mountains, more like. And highways and buildings and continents and planets like yeah that’d be pretty ideal too.

He’s not bad , per say, and maybe that’s the thing. It’s hard to pluck such a trait out of him besides the obvious, honestly. And that being his annoying goofiness, how everyone falls for his stupid pickup lines somehow— even the teachers! (Well, not like that…), his social butterfly-ness or whatever where he practically inhales popularity through a vacuum and exhales school-wide reputations for being chill and blah blah blah before that one incident happened. He’s not even intentionally put together or anything either.

At least not until now. Because it definitely shows; the confidence radiates even more off of him like a gleaming sheen of sunscreen off his dark skin, the way a limousine shines under glares of paparazzi flashes. All eyes on who comes out the backseat— whoopie, it’s Caleb. Pansexual heartthrob or whatever, who, by the way, should’ve graduated at the new school last year so Lance can’t say he knows what the f—

“Caleb!” Pidge calls out cheerily, and when the boy looks their way Lance wants nothing but to wack his little garden gnome-sized friend with a shovel.

Recognition seems to puff right in Caleb’s face since he turns all pleasantly surprised and whatnot. Aaand he’s headed their way.

“Pidge what the heck,” Lance finds himself sputtering, but it’s as effective as a little baby water gun spitting on hot asphalt. It dries up into nothing, and his friend doesn’t look amused at all.

“What?” They shrug, their hefty backpack jostling with the movement. Lance forgot how tightly knit nerd gangs could be; he wonders what kind of coding thing Caleb probably found off reddit that won over his friend. “I haven’t seen him in like over a year, dude— hey man!”

“Piiidge. Hey, what’s up,” Caleb says once his saunter comes to a stop and he can dap them up because he’s cool and remembers all of them and stuff. And no his hands aren’t soft. Well, not as soft as Keith’s or anything…

Hunk catches his eye and Lance can practically whiff the silent “Be on your best behavior” from it. What? Not like he has it in him to act up anyway.

“I almost didn’t recognize you. Holy cow, you’re all…” Pidge makes a couple vague gestures toward Caleb’s clearly grown body. Tenth grade versus college is a drastic hop for not seeing someone, honestly, and Lance is right there with his friends for this kind of shock.

It’s like Caleb glowed up twice or something, with a clean faded cut that does the tight, dark coils atop his head plenty more justice than Lance had ever seen before. He’s like Lance’s height but double his mass in all the right, stupid, places. Topped off with a pearly cheshire smile that says this boy— this man is aware of it too. If Lance doesn’t look half as good after graduation? Just shoot him.

He wonders what Keith is gonna look like in a year… Heh, grizzled? On Keith? Yeah like that'll ever be a good look on his arms… or sturdy chest or… or thighs that could probably strangle some—

“I’ve been hearing that all day,” Caleb says through a trickled laugh.

“They feed you guys somethin’ else over at Marmora?” Hunk asks humorously.

Marmora?!

Lance’s stomach lurches, and his buzzing train of thought screeches to a stop when he notices this pullover Caleb is wearing is branded with a Marmora University logo stitched neatly across the front in swirling letters. MU is one of the top universities in the country, besides Altea (of course). Caleb may as well have flipped the biggest bird to all the bullies here when he came back hotter, smarter, and borderline richer. The lintless fabric says it all…

But Marmora is basically Altea’s enemy, at least when it comes to their swim teams and other various sports. Laughably though, the two universities have cooperated well performance-wise in academic competitions, so Lance can’t really say for himself what this churning feeling in his stomach means.

Caleb chuckles again and crosses his arms. “Can’t say I’d know, honestly. I live off campus and my classes are mainly for that computer science degree.”

Pidge gasps. “Does that mean you got the scholarship from our old club?” they ask excitedly.

Lance feels another twinge of bitterness. Their old classmate is practically everything Lance could be if he was the person everyone else expected out of him. He could never keep up with all the science jargon, and trying to ease his friends’ anxiousness over the next robotics competition or multi-media project just resulted in a hand swat and “This isn’t the time for us to fool around like you, Lance”.

Right, he often forgets his class ranking of eleven boots him from the school’s top ten that everyone else cares about. Hunk, Pidge, and even Keith stand on that star-student platform above him, and it feels like being only one step away like this has stretched out into a freakin’ mile with how excluded he’s ended up.

“—y phone’s dead, I’ll just show you on Lance’s,” he hears Pidge say before getting his asscheek violated from his friend's hand shoved into the denim pocket to fish out the device.

“What the—?!” he squawks, but Pidge flips it out in just the next moment and readily leans over to shield the screen from the glaring sun. He doesn’t even have to think twice before understanding this is probably about the last competition he cheered for them in, because he’s a good friend and perhaps a bit obsessed with taking pictures for the sake of memories.

Caleb shuffles to stand at Pidge’s side, curiously peering down at the screen that flicks to life and—

show Lance’s lock screen of him and Keith.

What? It’s not like it holds any sort of significant meaning or whatever. In fact, he’d only set it as such just to provoke a reaction out of his friend— an eye roll, just as he’d expected.

They’d been on a field trip. Yes , one of those, ya know where you actually leave campus and explore that big, scary “real world” their teachers speak of like a looming tower of doom, waiting to crush all your hopes and dreams.

Well they went to an aquarium. Luckily their electives lined up through their mutual association with the CTE program, and their class became another strike in the endless tallies of the exact same trip for probably the past decade . As long as downtown stayed intact enough for two double doors and decipherable attractions, Voltron High was there for an annual visit.

Lance had pulled Keith into another ( loose ) headlock from behind one of the outside benches during their lunch break, slung his other arm forward to snap a selfie and cooed “Say cheese, Keithy!”— to which his friend actually did. Or more accurately, curled his mouth just enough for the expression to at least not be mistaken for anything besides an amused smile, accompanied by lidded eyes and an arched brow.

The picture actually turned out decent, since the afternoon sun did Keith’s freckles and Lance’s toned skin some justice. He’d stayed there for a moment, the other boy sitting between Lance’s arms propped on either shoulder, just long enough to swipe and tap the screen a few times to set “this amazing candid” as his lock screen.

He’d hopped onto the bench just in time to see Keith inevitably roll his eyes, but the lingering smile, still there from before, wasn’t left unnoticed.

Pidge huffs humorously at the sight now, goes on to unlock the device with their thumbprint which is… beyond scary, but if Lance hasn’t heard anything about his questionable search history lately, even with constant incognito mode, is he really one to question it?

“That’s just Lance’s boyfriend,” Pidge says in their usual tone, sarcasm twisted right around it to the point where separating genuine from literally anything else is a challenge in itself.

Lance immediately sucks in a breath, the comment registering like an offensive dart struck between his eyes.

“H—“

But he sees Caleb’s shoulders stiffen, plump lips purse, and neck go rigid: a blink-and-you-miss-it experience.

But Lance doesn’t miss it, and for some reason that breath of air deflates just before Lance was about to allow the truth to blow out in a single gust. Because whatever , Keith isn’t his boyfriend and frankly he doesn’t need to be for Lance to know he’s got more than enough credit in saying they’re close even without his own lintless Marmora pullover or gleaming chain.

Even when he wears plain clothes with trendier logos stitched on like some closeted wannabe, and Keith still pays it no mind when the patch starts to fray because he borrows that jacket so often perhaps it’s nothing new.

Even when he’s ranked just below, forever and an extra step away from that sweet taste of a good reputation and finally being able to fit in and prove himself.

Even when Lance feels like he’s the biggest embarrassment to be around just by breathing or wearing his stupid bugsy-eyed glasses or laughing too loud or not being enough in all the places he should be. Throughout it all, Keith is still with him and… maybe that makes Lance a little less ashamed of himself.

Caleb clears his throat. “Hm, yeah, I know Keith,” he says as casually as ever, anyone who hadn’t known of what happened wouldn't see that tension subtly fly right over their head.

It still irks Lance though, maybe a little too much but ugh like, who seriously cares when this guy’s got nothing to lose with some proper life over at Marmora? Lance doesn’t have enough consideration in him to stop himself from saying—

“Yeah well I know him better.”

It’s petty and kinda-sorta sounds stupid the second it comes out of his mouth, but he crosses his arms anyway and tries to let his glare simmer when Caleb eyes him curiously.

“Okay Lance, no one cares,” Pidge mutters absentmindedly before opening up their text conversation to pull up the competition photos. “So this first round was timed and…”

As Pidge goes on with their little science spiel to Caleb, Lance finally lets out a small breath that’d been welling up inside his chest. It’s honestly completely normal for him to be protective over his friends. They’re great company in his life when he’s not feeling too bad about himself, and when he is they’re there for him. Keith’s there for him, with a stiff hand on his shoulder or an awkward “Well… wanna see my beyblade collection?” when Lance is one tear away from a breakdown over finals week. Keith can be comforting in a stupid way but sometimes that’s just what he needs instead of some self worth or meditation lecture flying right past his muddled thoughts.

And opposed to that is Caleb, who sets alarm bells off in Lance’s head probably because he’s all new and improved and totally show-off material by the way he’s apparently repping Marmora for Voltron’s “future friday”, in which the push for choosing careers and colleges is all but slammed into all the students. Especially seniors like himself. He’s just glad it’s about the end of the day, the bell should be ringing anytime soon now and he wants nothing more than to sleep off this drooping exhaustion from this unwanted visit.

By the time Lance finally gets his phone handed back to him, Pidge and Caleb have long since delved deep into their own mumbo-jumbo he doesn’t have in him to even bother understanding. And yet surprisingly, there’s one voice he hasn’t heard enough of, one from someone who does know this stuff but isn’t… excitedly tuning in? What happened to that excitement over color coding?

Lance turns back to Hunk and yup, there it is, that telltale stare of disappointment streaked across his face, the same kind his mama wears when Lance’s shoes tracked dirt in the house as a kid.

‘What?’ he tries to convey through a subtle shrug as he steps closer. “You alright?” he asks.

Hunk sighs and hesitantly glances over to the others before looking back at Lance. His eyes are dark like this when they’ve stepped right underneath the nearby ramada’s shade, and it makes whatever’s about to come out his mouth feel a lot more intimidating than Lance would like to expect.

“I’m fine,” Hunk says, “But are you alright?” he lifts a challenging brow.

“Um… is that a trick question?”

Hunk deadpans. “Dude, you didn’t even correct Pidge back there when they said Keith is your boyfriend.”

“Well that was just cause—“ Lance is ready to explain in a huff.

But Hunk isn’t having it apparently, cause of course he’s gotta look this deep in places Lance clearly stands completely secure in. It’s because Caleb just needs to know where the lines lays here! And if it takes Lance being his friend’s supposed boyfriend just to prevent all this unwanted overstepping, then so what? Not like it’ll matter, Keith doesn’t even know and the chances of him crossing paths with his stupidly-more-handsome-than-before, old school fling or something are pretty slim to begin with. That bell will ring and when the last chime fades out, so will the little seed of mysterious doubt still dwindling inside Lance’s chest.

Of course, some people just beg to differ.

“Because what, Lance? Because you actually want people to think you and Keith are together since you aren’t even fessing up in the first place?”

Lance feels like he just got his face smacked with a steel pan.

“ What?! ” he shrieks incredulously, and students roaming by spare their curious glances but he doesn’t bother with the embarrassment. “Wh— you think this is about— this has to do with me and— my—“ he tried grappling for the words through all this ridiculous disbelief, but it feels like searching for a one of a kind piece in a pile of a thousand legos. A thousand pieces of proof that could perfectly explain how outrageous his friend is being right now, but he just can’t find the perfect one that would put all of this at ease.

He isn’t given the time to anyway.

“About your obvious crush on Keith.”

This attempt at Hunk trying to knock some ridiculousness in him feels like only a pinch from Tinkerbell or something. He scoffs. “That’s it, you are actually insane.” Gianna probably got a hold of his friend’s gatorade too or something, next thing he knows the whole school is gonna be acting all looney over what was clearly a weak punchline in the yearbook.

Hunk groans. “You just made each other playlists last week— which by the way, you call ‘the epitome of romance’” —he finger quotes— “And have been listening to Boston and the Scorpions on repeat since Monday.”

Lance can’t help but roll his eyes and try stifling his blush. “I said that about Nyma last year,” he grumbles. “And believe it or not, I’ve been listening to classics since like, way before Keith ever crammed them all on his spotify!”

“Oh that’s not enough? Fine, I’ll go further.”

“Oh my god you don’t—“

He does.

And it’s like Hunk obsessively check marks every interaction Lance has ever had with Keith. Weird and stupid and pointless, from—

“You were sad on your birthday because he was upset.”

“I’m an empath,” Lance shrugs.

to—

“You sent him one of those anonymous roses for valentine’s day.”

“A prank.”

“And then got mad when Keith came out of third period with two instead?”

Lance hesitates, then crosses his arms and glances around for a good stall at something that should be obvious to Hunk. “Also… a prank.”

“How is that even—?!” Hunk shrieks under his breath like a frantic mouse, tugging at the loose strands of his glossy hair from what Lance would love to call sore defeat , except the boy reigns in self control once more and levels him with a heavy stare. “Fine. Maybe nothing will make you see what I do, or probably what fu— frickin’ everyone does—“

(Another eye roll from Lance)

“—but I’ll bet Appa you would’ve accepted it way before if it wasn’t like this. The only reason you made some ~random~ freshman varsity player your ‘rival’ was because he wasn’t random at all. And you're just mad that Keith Kogane never recognized you from that Pima game back in middle school. ”

...It gives him whiplash: the sudden memory of it and how he barely considered Hunk would ever recall such a time.

He remembers the feeling of being there, at least, and all other added sensations of the setting cling to that root nostalgia like a woven cobweb. Air wafting around the scent of dewy grass from nearby fields, freshly watered by sprinklers; cleats scraping against the dirt— his neon orange ones sleek and far unlike the beat up state they’re rendered to now, stowed away in the garage; the blue of his jersey, thick red of the opposing teams, and a glittering sheet of stars watching over their late night game. Arizona club baseball.

He’s not sure the particular order of events, hell he can barely recall his coach’s first name, all he remembers is their team holding onto the hope of a promising win, and all that kept them holding their breath was the ball clenched tight in Lance’s hand and a downright glare from the focused batter ahead.

They were both still rookies, that’s all he can confidently say about such a time of ameatur beginnings, but Lance was overcome with an adrenaline rush like no other from what’d felt like his best pitch yet.

The ball went whizzing almost faster than his own eyes could comprehend, but that damn batter was ready. He was born to hit that, it seemed, and the red team’s number ten had pounced from plate to plate with impeccable speed and ease as Lance’s teammates scrambled to catch up.

Red team secured four points when the boy’s cleat slid on the last base over the deafening cries of their cheering spectators. A tie, but in all fairness, Lance would have to settle and at least look on the bright side, where all those other moments of his plays won the favor of impressed parents from either side almost all throughout the game.

And still, the order of these events has almost completely flown over his head now but he remembers this. When he and his best buddy who’d come to cheer him on were playing catch with his extra scuffed up ball, and his awkward gangly legs had lost coordination as he’d stumbled straight into the back of another person.

Keith Kogane, fresh out of seventh grade— Lance swears it though he hadn’t known at the time. With young, plush cheeks and dark eyes that rivaled a nine o’clock sky, black hair clipped too short for a ponytail but it was long enough to ruffle across his forehead like one of those unkempt little dogs. He looked different without his cap on, different enough for Lance to gulp away this weird spark of awe from it.

“O-Oh crap, um—“ Lance had said (at least something like that), scrambling a fair distance away as the other player’s marbled stare jumped to him after hastily turning around. “Sorry about that.”

The boy had looked at him skeptically for a moment, almost like he couldn’t talk or something, before glancing at the ground and (surprisingly) scooping up the dropped ball planted at his feet. He held it out to Lance.

It was just awkward, even thinking about it now makes him feel a little choked, but he’d thanked the player anyway before taking it back.

“Nice pitching,” the boy— Keith had said to him.

It took him a moment to realize what the other was referring to, clearly not Lance and Hunk’s lousy game of catch that made them knock together. Pitching, the game, pitch ing — not just once. He’d been observing Lance.

Lance hates himself for not remembering it all, there’s only so much that his idiot, thirteen year old self would dwell on enough to recall more vividly, like that embarrassing time he’d gotten a fidget spinner stuck in his mouth during science class… God, that was a gross amount of spit.

He just knows there was another “Thanks”, and probably a “You too” before something like “I-I mean nice batting”. Ugh, cringe. What only really stuck with him the most, the deepest , was seeing the number ten plastered on the back of that boy’s red jersey as he’d eventually left: a mirror to the two digits on Lance’s own blue one.

And the impression it made felt a little too close to fate.

It’s not that it was a big deal, that Keith seemingly not recalling such an irrelevant event during tryouts in ninth grade had made him the bane of Lance’s existence or anything. It was the fact that Lance just couldn’t let it go. That he’d heard so many times during that game “number ten is gonna go big later on, don’tcha think?” and was left wondering just which player they were really talking about if he and Keith had both swallowed up the spotlight.

It was a Thursday afternoon, February of freshman year, when the stout, burly coach for junior varsity barked out listed names of who would get the honor of having Coach Takashi Shirogane for the season. The man was practically a national star, with wicked reflexes and a charming smile that made just about anyone weak in the knees, including young Lance, who’s admiration for Shiro just about rivaled his terribly huge celebrity crush on Ryan Reynolds. Not something he will ever subject himself to admitting now… 

So he’d spent nearly all previous days that week busting his butt to prove himself, and all those moments in between guzzling down water and scanning the rest of his competition— including a particular someone, whom he’d managed to recognize on the first day of school. Keith’s hair grew long enough since that last August to tie it back in a short stub, and even from a fair distance away, Lance could see the boy wasn’t as short as he’d been over a year ago.

But Keith ran just as fast, batted just as far, and while Lance had shown off all his charismatic sportsmanship with fellow players, Keith’s stupid lone wolf tendencies somehow won over individual praise from Shiro at the sidelines. It felt like he was pitching for nothing, for another measly rookie game at most, despite how confident he really was.

And he still tried just as hard, maybe that’s why it hurt so badly.

He remembers the stalled time it’d taken for him to realize he didn’t actually make it, and how the dirt dwindled through his loose fingers along with that defiant sense of hope. “Rest of you are with me,” the man had said before Lance ever heard himself be called. One by one the JV players stood from where they sat on the dusty bench or crouched low with the dirt. And after a last look to the backs of a whole retreating huddle of now-varsity players, sans himself, Lance figured he’d gotten his answer about which number ten really mattered.

The one standing across the field.

He still feels bitter about it now, clearly, but everyone’s got their own piece of old angst like some old t-shirt you’ve grown out of but just don’t have the heart to toss away. Sure, he’s grown out of… of this petty sort of mindset, and jabbing at Keith is less of a war zone now and more of like, a cat fight that settles with a bop on the head.

But it is not a crush.

“Well you can kiss your chihuahua goodbye,” Lance says flippantly when the rush of those buried flashbacks finally died away after a small reminder of what his friend’s little “agenda” here is. “A shark could bite off my head before that’d ever be true.”

Hunk lets out a hefty breath and looks Lance up and down and… anywhere, really. Like Lance is human and not one of those mechanical projects the other is always in it to solve. He feels vulnerable from it because it doesn’t even look like Hunk wants to argue, the way he finally sums up all this composure with pursed lips and an almost apologetic stare makes Lance all the more apprehensive. The boy opens his mouth and—

“Later, Hunk!” Caleb’s deep voice calls out. God it’s like one of those annoying radio show hosts that you dread hearing at the end of a song. Just skip to the next freaking track! No one wants to hear about your discount code for JCPenny!

“Lance,” Caleb continues with a nod, and Lance bids him goodbye with all the politeness he can muster in a single hand wave. He feels kind of bad for being a jerk, honestly. Caleb was never someone he really cared to know all that much past his reputation, and hating him feels almost as ridiculous as hating an actor for playing a villain. Just… one of those things he can’t really help when there’s just something in the way.

The bell rings. Hunk turns to him after calling out a “Later, man!” over the noise and adjusts his backpack with tense shoulders. “I’ll tell you what,” he says to Lance as Pidge makes their way over. “Invite Keith with us tomorrow. And if you don’t get this figured out by Monday I will literally make this ten levels of embarrassing for you once it hits later.”

“Ooo a challenge? What we talkin’ about?” Pidge asks curiously as they hand Lance’s phone back over.

Lance scoffs as he takes it. “This is stupid. And I already planned on inviting him anyway because I’m nice.” C’mon, how could he miss out on another way to drive Keith insane? He bets his friend won’t last two rollercoasters without barfing, and the annual fair is the perfect place to put that theory to the test. Also Keith has an unhealthy obsession with kettle corn.

“Wow I wonder why…” Hunk says with an eye roll and the utmost attitude in the world as Pidge snickers at his side.

“Because I’m nice!” he says.

“Alright, Lance,” Hunk shrugs, then begins his retreat toward the front gate where a line of buses rumble just around the corner. “Remember this deal!”

“Yeahh Laaance,” Pidge tilts their head side to side, heels scuffing the pavement underneath their sneakers as they walk backwards.

“Whatever! Have a nice day, idiots!”

“You too, moron!” his friends call out in unison before marching away and onward like a pair of insufferable nutcrackers.

Suddenly, he is very much dreading Monday.

Chapter Text

Page 58 of the 2012–2013 Voltron High School yearbook is smothered in the most horrendous, flashy backgrounds and age-old memes pasted to the corners of nearly every grainy photo of rowdy students and disappointed staff members. It reeks of a cringe nostalgia that any public school kid kinda-sorta longs for now, with wrists clad in silly bands and a battle between baggy jeans and the ripped kind that readily suffocate your legs.

High school, in reality, never really held onto those class stereotypes in those coming of age movies, at least not after the 90’s. Instead the campus was (and always will be) a great cluster of unlikely and way too likely combinations. Cheerleaders with unyielding friendships to their fellow history club members; stoners-slash-skaters crammed between the library shelves and crowded around the tiny screens of their gameboys; home-ec packed with alt kids desperate to make patches for their backpacks with the sewing machines—

and a particular jock flashing his painted blue nails to the camera while wearing a trademark impish grin.

“I feel like I’m supposed to be less and less surprised every time I see something like this,” Keith says as his fingertip flicks the top of page 58’s corner back and forth.

Takashi Shirogane (NN: “Buffer”, Shiro) shows off school spirit for Voltron’s varsity baseball team before the 2013 state tournament.

The man— uh, boy’s dark hair is swept back and up by the power of glossy hair gel, so shiny Keith can almost feel the crispness of those strands between his fingers now, like trying to comb through the spikes of a hedgehog. He looks so young that his face is almost beyond recognition despite it having been only about eight years. No scar struck across that narrow nose, baby cheeks still softening the curve of his jaw, and a smile cheery enough to crinkle the edges of dark brown eyes. He was a looker, no doubt. Well, still is.

Shiro —in present time— glances away from the computer screen in front of him with his chin still lamely hooked into the palm of his hand.

“What’d you find this time,” he asks after a puffed laugh.

“Your nails are painted,” Keith says. “Next to a picture of a doge meme…”

“Lion pride, amiright?” Shiro answers simply, and the sounds of his slow paced, mindless computer game carry on with small blips from a set of cheap speakers.

It’s almost become a loose tradition for them now. Keith had grown tired of coming home to an empty house— either house, whether his mom is filling out copious amounts of paperwork at her office yet again, or his dad is staying on duty well into the night because apparently people still light firecrackers on hiking trails and teenagers just foam at the mouth from the idea of getting their ass stuck in a kid’s swing.

Passing time is boring. And no offense to his handful of online friends from his sketch dump account, but his eyes and thumbs have reached a new level of soreness from typing away at a screen for hours on end. At least if he’s not already watching one of the billion animes Lance has blabbered about because maybe it’s nice to like, bond over stuff with his friend and… stuff. Yeah.

So after countless times of getting his ass chewed out by pissy school aids for not having a hall pass or going home in general, he’s taken all his bland habits to Adam’s office for some decent company. Not like Adam is there because he’s darting around and actually doing his job , but the man’s fiancé on the other hand shares Keith’s misfortune of a short schedule and apparently loves to nag as much as Keith wished he’d let himself do to friends if he wasn’t so worried about being a bother.

Because he’s gotta face it. Even the mere thought of asking someone to “hang” or whatever makes his hands clammy and throat choked up because… what if he’s just not interesting? What if he takes too long to open up again and has yet another potential friend walking away like an impatient customer waiting at some shoddy, disappointing McDonald’s? Ohohoho and don’t even get him started on how he somehow managed to turn a simple library visit into another weekly crisis because—

He likes me back, right? That’s a blush— no it isn’t. Why does it even matter? You don’t even…

He doesn’t even know how he feels . But it’s got a lot to do with linked pinkies and a hundred-and-one exceptions. Or with the way his friend’s personality has rubbed off so much there’s no telling if Keith is just really really glad someone’s actually stuck around… or if staring this much means it’s something a bit more than that.

He’s fucked, though. At least he knows that.

“Did you ever sign up for Future Friday?” Shiro asks. “Or just…”

“Just stayed in second hour,” Keith finishes blandly. He never saw the appeal in that kind of stuff, which doesn’t really make him special since there’s plenty of other students dull minded at the thought of what lies ahead after high school. Baseball was meant to be a side thing, an activity that kept Keith preoccupied during his parents hassling with their jobs and the doom of a crumbling marriage. The field to him was what a television would be to another kid: a guaranteed distraction from anything beyond its bubble of entertainment.

The possibility of Keith actually being good apparently only came as an afterthought, going by his mom’s thoughtful curiosity as his coach spewed on about scholarships and private lessons , or how his dad called out to him for a hearty and proud embrace after scoring the last few points that saved them from a loss against the club’s blue team.

It should make sense for his career choice to matter to them, or at least any decisions of the sort, especially with parents who’ve worked tooth and nail at their own jobs to the point of separation because there was just no time. No time for setting work aside to pick Keith up from school (thus, baseball after hours), or for sparing a glance at his sketchbook he sometimes even purposely left out and opened in hopes of hearing something about his hobby. No time for being involved, no time for love .

“I’ve got to stay at the office late, this case is getting tense and—“

“You said you would be able to set everything up, though.”

“My client’s family is in jeopardy.”

“And so is ours , Krolia.”

He can’t say he’s too fond of birthday parties now, especially after spending his ninth watching Iron Man 2 alone in the living room while the mother and son his own mom was working with had sat in the kitchen around the corner, discussing what sounded like a distant reality of what Keith was living too, Mom just refused to acknowledge it. Divorce, fighting, doesn’t care, scared—

scared scared scared.

“I know you probably don’t wanna think about it like everyone else,” Shiro says, dragging Keith out of his delve into self pity by the sound of a knowing tone. “But this stuff is still important and just—“ he lets out a breath, “—at least just consider your options. College isn’t for everyone you know—“

“I know,” Keith says, and he shuts the yearbook as casually as he can. Shiro sees him with a somehow magnified look at what’s bothering him the most, and it’s both agitating and somewhat relieving to know someone finally cares enough to notice.

Shiro’s a lot worse at concealing his own intentions though, because the next moment his coach is leaning back in the office chair with a creeeak and kissing his teeth with obnoxious nonchalance.

“Heard Lance is shooting for Altea…” he twists his mouth and glances about the room.

Keith feels the telltale skip in his chest and he readily rolls his eyes because the power of a name is ridiculous, and especially the way this dumb teacher hits it right on the head. “So what.”

Shiro shrugs. “Just sayin’.”

“Yeah you're awful.”

“Um rude because I haven’t even done anything.” But the stupid gleam in his eyes is saying otherwise, even when they’re trained back on what’s probably atari breakout taking up the screen.

“You let that dumb yearbook thing happen,” he finds himself blurting before he can help it. It’s been about a week or two since that incident, and ever since, Keith has had to deal with the excruciating effort of not throwing a stapler at his coach. Or should he say Mister Shirogane : teacher of Voltron High’s film and photography class that allowed such a horrendous page to happen. It’s almost as bad as this man’s awful fashion in the 2010s since Keith can’t even think about their current yearbook without recalling a familiar, brash voice saying “I would vomit” and “—burn those cursed pages in my backyard” . Too close to that smack in the face every middle schooler feels at sheer rejection from a crush.

Crush…

But Lance is like the master of mixed signals, playing with a wheel of (mis)fortune when it comes to twists and turns in making Keith feel like a sponge desperate to soak up affection, or a teapot ready to burst with angry steam from some ignorant shit digging at a weak heart. He says “vomit” , but Keith feels a cheek kiss from last year. He says “shut up” but Keith hears echoes of “I trust you too” .

But… But it’s so obvious it’s not what he’s hoping for, because that loverboy side of his friend is so easily recognizable, Keith’s gotta have it down to the T now from how much jealousy came from stolen attention drawn to Allura in spanish class. God she didn’t even have to try. Just play volleyball and be perfect and snatch one of Keith’s only friends up when her deadpan was going for the complete opposite.

“And I’m sorry about that, Keith,” Shiro says. “I only saw Pidge making the collage while everyone was working on their custom pages. I didn’t know it said…”

“But a whole page with pictures of me and Lance wasn’t suspicious to you at all,” Keith responds flatly.

Shiro twists his mouth again, the same feigned oblivion as before but Keith smells the self awareness so much he can taste it like a tinge of something sweet and sour. “Okay, well…”

“It was. But I’ll bet you figured it’d be some weird bonding thing, hm.” He crosses his arms.

“Yeah, I mean you and Lance have come a long way—“

“And if you wanna keep it that way and not get your office almost burnt down again—“ (or Keith’s hair, long story) “—then maybe don’t let your students play matchmaker if it took like three years for him to even tolerate me.”

Lance had a problem with him since day one, when the boy gave an indignant gasp as both their hands landed on jersey number ten, but he’s got a feeling that despite this vague beginning, Lance’s timeline of resentment started up way sooner than Keith could even bargain for.

“You had number ten last year!”

“How do you know that? You weren’t even on the team last year.”

In all honesty he’d said it out of genuine confusion, but his teammate’s face flushed like never before and Keith only realized a second too late the embarrassment he’d caused in front of their snobbier players, who were quick to snicker at the newbie of the team. He’d felt bad, but one thing he’d never got around to finding out, even to this day, was why exactly Lance had been watching him before.

“You know Lance wouldn’t have thrown all that away,” Shiro says in his annoying parental tone, ever so optimistic in youth these days despite having seen Keith go through hell and back for this very reason.

He glares at Shiro, then to the clock, knowing the bell should ring any second now and make this sudden flare of irritation a lot more manageable. He stands up and slings his backpack over one shoulder, swallows away as much bitterness as he can help, though it’s just as good as foamy soda crawling up his throat.

“I wouldn’t speak too soon for that,” he says as he stuffs his phone into his pocket and grabs his helmet from where it sits right beside the chair. “And you know exactly why.”

The bell does ring, thankfully, and with good timing he’s able to turn on his heel and head for the door before Shiro can lecture him about “true friendships” or whatever. Instead, his coach only settles for a defeated “Have a nice weekend, Keith” before Keith has enough courtesy in him to mutter “You too.”

It’s not something he wants to talk about, even the general topic of friendships and betrayal still makes his breath quiver from delicate, delicate memories of the best-turned-worst school year of his life: tenth fucking grade. If Lance’s pointless torment was just a prick from a sewing needle, then the absolute hell Keith had fallen into with people who were more than just strangers at the time would’ve been a knife hurtling straight for his chest.

He doesn’t wanna talk about it, even think about it, yet the universe loves to bark it’s sadistic laughs at him before a single misstep and—

“ Oof! ”

Only a few steps from the door frame and Keith knocks straight into the side of someone passing by. Just his luck. He stumbles a little, hands up and wary as he finds his balance and gathers enough wits to throw out an apology to this person.

He looks up.

“Guh,” he hesitates. Because said person looks familiar, the kind that flashes before your eyes before recognizing someone in a snap, but right now, between wobbly legs and a swaying backpack, that snap just isn’t coming.

It makes his stomach wrench though, and his breath catch like that split second before the dip of a rollercoaster, or more accurately: a punch to the nose .

“Keith?” this not-so-stranger says, a living embodiment of “small world” that’s too coincidental to happen right after practically storming out of Adam’s office for almost this very reason.

Caleb Murry: player on the junior league’s red team with him in middle school, outstanding swimmer with a witty mouth, Keith’s first ever crush and… and everything that came after that.

Keith used to think he just wasn’t the romantic type growing up. Girls were uninteresting to him, and so were boys in almost every sense because as his classmates hid their hushed giggles behind hands when one boy looked particularly dashing for picture day, he’d find himself yawning at the back of the line with the flattest of spirits. Probably wondering when his teacher would give him back his beyblade or something.

Caleb was different though, not necessarily an immediate sort of thing like a gust of glitter to the face before getting bonked between the eyes by the crush-fairy, or uh, whatever happens to those other people. His impact took far more time to ruminate over before Keith’s heart finally seemed to catch up and swell for his best friend. Two years of hanging out in that non-forced way and suddenly he just couldn’t stop soaking up everything about that boy. His dark skin and how it reminded Keith of the charcoal in art class he’d use to brush together portraits of all those smiles he could remember. Locs that jumped from pinched fingers like pen springs, how Caleb once tucked back a few strands of Keith’s hair and murmured “Yours is a lot softer than mine” but Keith liked his friend’s all the same.

For Keith, it’s either all or nothing. His drive for romance is so careful and immersed he just can’t feel it if it’s not built from something profound. He’d learned the word for it, words , perhaps, much later on. Demi… something.

“—only after forming a deep emotional bond.”

But even now he’s too scared to know because that’s just showing hope for a “ next time” . One that might never happen with the sheer amount of distrust all this fondness for crushes has been replaced with. There’s nothing else left when all those inside jokes and months and years of vulnerability were wiped away as easily as sprayed Windex on a gas station window. 

“Hi,” he says.

And Caleb looks at him as he probably would a stranger, he even looks like a stranger to Keith. Much taller now, maybe Lance’s height, and enough muscle for Keith to suspect his fr— Caleb had swept up some kind of health routine the way Shiro’s body building knowledge had done Keith and his scrawny, fifteen year-old self way more justice overtime than he even expected.

“P.P.,” Shiro calls it with this particular smug smile resorted for when he’s delivering the worst punchline ever. “Puberty and protein shakes come a long way.”

Oversimplified but… true, he’ll at least admit. Even for Adam apparently, during his own delayed transition into a body image— an identity far more fitting for himself that his family back in the south would ever imagine allowing, both for Adam and the rest of the trans community in general since they seem to think everyone’s gender is their business to dictate over…

Shiro had treated Adam like any other client when they’d met in California, eventually becoming his workout buddy before inevitably catching feelings, because apparently the way to that man’s heart is getting Captain America-type ripped from drinking raw eggs together or something. Okay, he knows it’s a lot more heartfelt than that but still, the whole fitness story wasn’t surprising at all apart from Adam coming out to him in the process of telling it.

Keith doesn’t have it in him to feel that usual bit of humor at such a passive thought, though. He remembers Caleb as a short, gangly limbed kid more than anything. He was swift: a track star, and a swim record-holder from slithering through the water like his home before sending Keith a dopey smile at the ledge with neon green goggles sucked over his eyes. Where Caleb went, so did Keith.

Until he couldn’t.

“How’ve you been?” Caleb asks, and his shifting feet stall to a stop before lifting out a hand.

Keith looks at it, then up, then… clasps it.

It wouldn’t mean nearly as much to anyone else, but shit the feeling of a foreign kind of relief washing over him floods from their joined palms all the way to his chest. He’s welcomed, for once, even if it’s in the most glazed over politeness any stranger would expect in a greeting. It means this much because having no closure meant blaming himself, believing in rumors, having the most horrid and deprecating thoughts burst in his head like popcorn kernels until the pops started to sound more like flurries of gunshots than just a snide comment he could flick away. His history with Caleb wasn’t between just them, it was between them and what felt like the entire fucking school.

“Yeah— I mean, good. I’m good,” He says with a pinched smile, but this boy doesn’t know the half of it. He’s good now , what came before was inexplicable and it still has his heart racing because ‘He hates me he hates me he hates me— all my fault— I shouldn’t have done it— just take back two seconds’ .

“That’s good, man. You look great, by the way,” Caleb says as he gives Keith’s shoulder a pat after their hands unclasp and it’s so weird . Has he forgotten everything that even happened? “It’s been so long, I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

That’s what makes the flood stop. All the relief Keith felt before goes solid and freezes painfully in his joints, even his erratic heart can’t melt through the layers fast enough.

There’s so much to unpack in such a brief moment like this, but one thing stays steadfast and consistent in Keith’s towering list of regrets: kissing Caleb good luck behind the bleachers was a mistake. As much as it hurts, every single part of that sentence is true. Kissing because that was his most important friend above the others he’d made before; behind the bleachers because in only a moment one of the track kids turned the corner and was met with some unbelievable sight of their teammate being involved in something… “abnormal”.

And because the thought of Caleb reciprocating, Caleb being gay in any way to begin with, was so incomprehensible to other people, that means Keith was forcing himself on him .

Keith can’t fully trust smiles now. His friend had worn a shy one that time, the kind he scribbled in his sketchbook and ignored his classmate saying some shit like “Looks like someone’s goin’ girl crazy'' since there was nothing left to accompany the lips. Caleb looked like he enjoyed it, or didn’t mind, and Keith remembers even now how absolutely red his face must’ve gone after one impulsive peck.

Caleb had turned right, toward the end of the bleachers that bordered the track’s entrance.

And Keith had turned left —hands gripped tight on his sports bag and his heart all but leaping with joy— where someone he’d eventually know to be Nyma Williams stood at the end with her arms haughtily crossed, all but ready to ruin his life.

Word spread like wildfire, and the burning bits of it had both been spat to his face and bouncing around the rest of their peers. It was Nyma who saw it, told her little track crew and apparently feigned concern about what Keith was getting her friend “involved in” . Everyone was on Keith’s ass within a week, and there’s only so much ignoring he could do before wondering what was true and what wasn’t. Grey areas don’t exist with gossip, it’s either you’re guilty or not; you’re still friends or you aren’t.

“I always knew that kid was sus.”

“Yeah, Caleb told me it made him uncomfortable and honestly like, I get it ‘cause I would be too…”

“You should apologize to Caleb before this ruins his rep.”

No one wanted to be his friend anymore.

And… And imagine being forced to apologize for your first fucking kiss . Something that’s supposed to be exciting and special and god just— he couldn’t just have one fucking thing, huh?

It sounds ridiculous, but he started to believe it. Maybe they were right, maybe Caleb didn’t like it and didn’t tell him and now he’s avoiding him. Maybe Keith did force himself on him, and he isn’t allowed to feel this hurt and upset about having such an innocent thing ripped away from him because… it was a mistake. And he’d never managed to come across Caleb between that last track meet and those spurts of blood dripping from his nose after a beating in the locker room. He never got to apologize, if that’s even what his friend had wanted. And even if it wasn’t then who fucking cares? Because if the hundred-or-so people who are watching from the sidelines don’t see it or hear it for themselves, whether they even fucking knew either of them enough to actually care and not just hop on the bandwagon, then he’s done for.

There’s no grey area in gossip. Just black, white, and red all over the tiled floor.

@caleb.murry.225 — User not found

“A— yeah,” Keith chokes out, and he figures now is as good as ever to just be blunt. Not like it would really hurt him or something… “I didn’t have your number or anything, we only talked on instagram.” Because sure his old friend was far from an art kid, but one peek over his shoulder during study hall and suddenly Caleb was ready to scour through his profile, gawking with comments like “I never knew you were this good, dude!”

After the… incident (more like an entire week of hell), he had no way of contacting his friend— wasn’t even sure if he was meant to if he’d supposedly ruined the boy’s life. There was no goodbye, just overhearing some kid say Caleb exchanged schools after his name was mistakenly called for attendance, and Keith felt his heart all but plummet while checking his phone the next second, clicking on their old messages before his tap on the profile only led to… nothing. Probably blocked, and then it was his turn to hog the bathroom pass for a shameful amount of stifled crying in the last stall instead of Ricardo using it to makeout with his girlfriend, which he apparently still does. Old habits die hard, both when it comes to… spit-swapping — eugh — for some people, and the steady, suffocating clench of anxiety around his heart until he’s forced to flee from wherever and just— just—

“Hey there, cowb— Whoaaa, what the— Keith, are you okay?”

“I-I-I don’t know, I just wanna go home.”

“But… we’re going to Mi Fondita soon, the bus is right outside!”

Lance has a weird way of comforting (in his opinion). Like, the panicked kind where he probably doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, but the pureness of it puts Keith at ease. Just a friend who wants the best for him, with eyes that have an obscure impact of slowing his fretful hiccups. They’re blue, really blue, a shade as dark as the rippling lake near his grandparents’ cabin. Deep in any light, and tame friendliness in even an eye roll as Keith sipped away at the boy’s horchata later that night. The sensation of fingertips tickling his back in the restaurant still remains, Lance’s arm had been slung across the back of the chair, and by all means , Keith was happy to avoid ever speaking of the heat crawling up his neck so long as no one acknowledged it.

He… He’s mostly moved on from the past now. With new friends and a far more mellow life than what the onslaught of gossip and bullying had brought before. Caleb used to draw him in with his own doe-eyed stare, the same vague kind of peace as Lance but now it’s empty or just plain out foreign. Keith doesn’t know old affection even when it’s right in front of his face. This encounter feels like picking at a scab, if anything, and white cells have already worked a layer over the wound, thick enough to replace the good and bad, the butterflies and blood. Healed, but still tender.

Caleb’s brows furrow. “Instagram? I don’t have— oh shit, right .” He snaps his fingers and his jaw drops in a gape of realization. “My… My mom made me delete it back when, like—” he swallows before shoving a hand in his pocket, “—all that stuff happened.”

So he does remember.

But even with a vague explanation, Keith still feels a bitter twinge pinch at him. “I never heard,” he says as flatly as he can manage. If he could sound friendlier then he’d try, but his vocal chords already feel like laminated paper wobbling in his throat.

Caleb sighs. It’s guilty, Keith knows it, and maybe he feels like snatching up a bathroom pass for old times sake of ditching an oncoming attack, but there’s closure here in the form of what he’s missed so dearly that it hurts to realize he doesn’t seem to want that reality anymore now that’s it’s happening.

“I’m sorry, Keith.” Caleb says with a tense jaw.

“I thought you blocked me.”

Keith thought a lot of things, so did the rest of the school, and instead of clearing things up Caleb just fucking leaves him. Because he was lucky enough to already be out to his parents, whom he specifically remembers to be steadfast and supportive allies after understanding the pain of being excluded and everything that came with it. They wanted the best environment within reach for their kid, and god did Keith just envy it sometimes when his own parents were practically on standby and rarely ever mentioned their opinion on anything remotely LGBT. Keith was desperately hidden away in the closet with a baited and unsure breath, and even as horrendous monsters crawled at his feet, he couldn’t afford asking for help.

Caleb, though, was at least secure with those who held him close. The chance he took of moving schools and carrying on was the kind Keith wished he himself had.

“We lived in Utah til I was twelve or something before heading here,” Caleb had said back in middle school, scratching at the bus seat with a downcast stare. “We lived in one of those white neighborhoods and like, it wasn’t really bad or anything but people stared a lot and were rude for like, no reason.” He shrugged, but Keith could see his pout and wondered about all the words his friend was holding back, the pinprick details that led to this strip of self consciousness.

Twelve. An age young enough to be fretting over video game scores or awkward breakouts on your chin, and there his friend was: slumped on a jostling bus seat from an experience Keith could only understand in a different shade. Like when some kid with ringleted blonde hair rocked from side to side on the playground and asked “What are you?” because his eyes looked “different”. But seven year-old Keith was only used to another kind of question since he had long shaggy hair, naturally his response was: “I’m a boy” and the kid just hummed before they’d dashed back to the pavement together for another beyblade match.

Around that age, twelve or so, he started to get it. Some kids looked “like” him, some didn’t, and what mattered even more was eventually coming to understand what that meant. How he was treated, how his friend was treated, and why it felt all the more dangerous to be… to be them during the incident than anyone else.

Caleb is— was the kind of person who held his words and let the world run its course, even if it meant stowing his own pain away to look strong, unaffected even. Keith may not be the best at reading people, but he had years to learn this and from the way the man stands before him now, it’s clear there were several more reasons behind just… disappearing.

That charismatic reputation didn’t stand a chance if those kids eventually threw their hatred to Caleb too, which is fucking hypocritical but seriously unsurprising. He wonders if the floods of nasty messages sent to his own account looked about the same as those to his friend’s before the boy had enough. Or more like his parents had enough.

“I didn’t,” Caleb says. It’s honest and Keith hates it. He hates it because it can’t just be this easy , he couldn’t have been so stupid before and given up on himself, letting utter despair swallow him whole just for a simple I didn’t .

“Did…” Caleb hesitates, and the little inkling of a plea in his stare looks awfully familiar, one Keith’s seen before in the nurse’s office just down the hall. He must have a type… “Is everything okay now?” the man’s voice almost goes hushed.

No, everything isn’t okay, at least not regarding what happened. But he made do with what he had when the storm passed, how ever many months it took to even think for himself and feel hurt without being convinced it was selfish. Caleb was like the first streak of vibrant chalk on the dry ass sidewalk his life used to be, and when the rain came and those kids stomped the joy into murky streaks because it was ugly and unnatural , he just crumbled .

He couldn’t wipe his nose and walk out the locker room to meet Caleb anymore. Instead he was left choking and spitting blood while tears streamed down his bruised cheeks as his coach frantically checked the damage. It hurt, his limbs ached and he was scared— so scared .

“Yeah,” Keith says. Flat, casual even. “Yeah everything’s—“

drip drip…

“N-nobody wants me here, s-sir.”

Keith breathes.

“Everything’s fine.”

If he didn’t get to know what happened to Caleb, then Caleb doesn’t get to know what happened to him. It’s disgustingly simple and doesn’t do his pain any justice, but who’s to say it’s worth fretting over now? Marmora’s got a campus big enough for a student’s personal life to equal a simple grain of salt. It’s diverse, he won’t have to worry if he ever takes up that baseball scholarship, but he can’t think of it too much when his sketchbook feels three times heavier at the thought of… all the other potential it holds.

“Heard Lance is shooting for Altea…”

Shiro needs to shut up.

“Good, that’s good.” Caleb nods, and his feet start shifting again, already probably itching to leave this little scene. Huh, sounds familiar. “Um, congrats on the boyfriend,” he continues with a modest smile.

“Yeah—“

Wait a second—

“—wait, what?” Keith says, and his nose readily scrunches in confusion. He feels like that angst has suddenly been blown out like a match’s weak flame. Boyfriend? “Who…”

“Oh! Yeah I probably should’ve said. Lance told me— or, well— yeah he basically did.” Caleb shrugs.

God. The hell did Lance do now? Seriously, he’s… great and all. Really great, from the way his name makes Keith feel like his heart is playing leap frog or something which he’s gotta work on before it gets even worse.

But he’s also an insufferable ass. Keith can say he regrets being so bitter to his friend last year by letting his heart get the best of him, and that embarrassing amount of jealousy managed to seep through his words: “your little girlfriend” , aka Allura, typical school girl to Keith and practically the entire universe to Lance. He swears that boy’s eyes would grow twice their size like some sort of cartoon while looking at her, or maybe that was just from his thick glasses lenses, which were pretty… cute on him. Perhaps.

Ever since then, even after repairing their fractured friendship after his ass was shoved to the ground from being too much of a jerk (he’ll admit), the whole “your little girlfriend” thing came back with a bite. Keith spends a second too long with someone now, even the fucking janitor after helping toss a piece of trash into the rolling bin, suddenly Lance is just sooo engrossed in his new “boyfriend” . He wonders what poor soul has reeled its way into his friend’s ongoing joke this time, seems like Lance was convincing enough too.

But then he got this faint, faint idea. And it’s petty, god is it faulty and ridiculous too— but who’s to say it matters? Caleb is only gonna be in town for a bit anyway, right? Marmora’s all the way in California, so just…

Fuck it. If Keith has a supposed boyfriend that’s somehow got Caleb on his nervous little toes since that means he must’ve moved on , may as well take up that chance to fake it for what it’s worth.

“Oh okay,” Keith nods, and tries not to look like he’s swallowing sandpaper. “Yeah he’s— he’s pretty great.” Smile, idiot.

He smiles. It probably looks like a grimace.

“Yeah dude you used to complain about him like, all the time, though,” Caleb laughs. Complained… Who did he complain about? “I mean I knew he probably had a crush on you or something since you always got into fights and stuff…”

Keith forces a laugh. He has no idea what the fuck is going on.

“—Looks like he came around. Wouldn’t take Lance for the fessing up type but I mean, he seems pretty confident with you now.

Okay what the fuck.

Lance? Lance McClain. Lance McClain, his idiot best friend that soaked his practice socks in the locker room after getting pissed off so many times that Keith had learned to bring a second pair in his backpack just in case. At least until his pants became another problem.

The Lance that tackled him into the dirt just to try beating him in their race for the team’s number ten jersey, only to find out James snatched it up anyway, and Shiro actually had them both compete to “win” on the field because he wasn’t in for dealing with their shit the first ten minutes of practice.

The Lance that backs Keith into the fence just to spray tacky sunscreen into his skin even while Keith’s brain is short circuiting and he has to will his eyes not to look at the boy’s agape lips for too long while swift fingers tuck his bangs back with a headband.

Lance McClain: his —supposed— boyfriend.

Sometimes Keith thinks he’d trade his leg to find out what the hell goes on through his friend’s head. Other times he’s too afraid to even consider, and he’s only left to catch his breath in the goddamn administration hallway wondering what in the hell his… his ex— something has been told, and whether it’s worth holding onto or not.

“Really?” he asks. “What’d he say?”

Caleb shrugs. “Just that he knows you better than I do, I guess.”

“Must be right, then,” Keith can’t help saying. 

Because Caleb knows what fourteen year-old Keith looks like when frustrated to bits over a biology project, but Lance knows his strengths and weaknesses, on and off the field. He knows Keith when his palms are scraped raw from a nasty fall during a game, and when his vigor has tampered down to a quiet nap on a bus ride home. He knows linking elbows at Disneyland and dragging Keith to a secluded corner to look at ugly merchandise turned out to be some discount way of relieving his crowd anxiety. Lance knows him in and out, nose to nose or far across the cafeteria.

“Yo, Caleb!” someone hollars, and both their heads whip in that direction. Some other dude, way too grown to look like a student but not quite a staff member, waves his arm. “We’re headin’ out now!”

Caleb nods and turns back to Keith. His frame is stiff and awkward, but he reaches his hand out for one last, loose shake as he mutters “I gotta go, but it was nice seein’ you, man.”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “You too.”

A last clasp and they’re done.

Caleb turns right, toward his newfound cluster of college student friends at the admin building’s exit.

And Keith… turns left, back out the other doors where the bordering gates stretch all the way across campus to where floods of students pour out into the designated parking lot or linger beside the bus lane in an antsy mood to get home quick.

The few moments he’s separated from the outside world feel strange. White bars flicker along the outskirts of his view as he keeps walking to where everyone else is leaving. It feels like he’s been behind bars long enough to stop caring at this point; the fact that Caleb is thriving way beyond is nothing new to him, but it still hurts, like tender flesh blistering from another burn.

When he gets to his motorbike, he slings his leg over in a swift movement, tugs on the helmet and let’s the knowledge that a tinted visor is the only thing keeping everyone else from seeing how unhinged his anxiousness has become. It’s relieving anyway, at least he’s got something to hide behind.

The thing about Voltron High is that it’s smack down in the middle of nowhere, or “nowhere” , he should say. The surrounding desert dirt practically chokes for water til some overdue rain rolls around, and the weather is as indecisive as it gets.

Today it’s cloudy across the great open plain of a breathless blue sky, and the strokes of feathery whites blending into swarms of puffs remind Keith of his old elementary school days. How it looked just the same except he’d been ten times less careful about the mistakes he’d make, unlike now. The sun would warm his skin into the barest shade of a tan, and by the time recess was over, he’d long forget about how the aid outside yelled at him from leaping off the swing in midair.

He can’t let go of it now. Even after finally getting thrown a bone and having a small moment of closure, his appetite for it had crumbled over the years and now it feels more normal to simply keep hating himself for slip ups than believing it wasn’t all that bad. That yearbook page could’ve flung him back to the past— and it did , but this time Lance followed him, even through an entire cafeteria of onlookers like the room was simply bare.

He doesn’t know how many more chances he gets after that.

Sometimes, between Voltron High and the only small town close enough for it to know, the ride to and from either pinprick on a map is the only break a person gets. About ten, maybe fifteen minutes, it’s just you and a crackly car radio, (or the rev of a motorcycle), roving down a long stretch road that weaves beside cheap barbed wire fences.

He takes the backroad this time. It leads to another nook between the hills that separate town from school. It’s far less busy and gives him an extra second or two to look at the sky. Something that holds so much nostalgia to him in the daylight for some reason, it’s just not something to miss it’s so—

His motorbike comes to a stop off the road, and he tugs his helmet off before turning around.

The view is breathtaking. Perhaps dull to anyone else — even him — but today his hands ache to hold it close as he realizes just how little time he’s got left before… before it’s gone. Or at least the feeling of it, being a high school senior with only a matter of weeks left before jumping into the oblivion the “real world” holds.

It’s a sight he just wants to breath in, feel every part from the veiled scent of a creosote bush to dirt crunching under his feet to an elementary school sky reaching as far as the horizon allows.

And he cries.

He just cries.

As tears roll down his dry cheeks the only thing left to think is that the sky is cloudy, and he’s pretty damn glad he stuck around long enough to see it.

Ba-ding!

His phone chimes from a text message, the only notification alert he bothers keeping on after getting his ass chewed out by Lance with all the “What if there’s an emergency?!” stuff. As if he’s gonna text someone in a fuckin’ fire or something

Speak of the devil , he thinks as he takes it out with trembling hands and finds Lancey-Lance 😉 at the top of the screen. Apparently some cutesy contact name for someone like Keith “Boring as ever” as his friend puts it, is absolutely hilarious .

Lancey-Lance 😉

Today 3:46 PM

> hiiii keeeith

> so i was just wondering

> ok yk the fair across town like the annual one w all the rollercoasters and the ;) kettle corn ;)

Yes. <

> oh crap i didn’t think ud respond that fast

What is it Lance <

> geeeez let a guy talk!!

… <

> ok well anyway, we’re all going tomorrow if you wanna come which ofc u do because i’ll be there and i’m so much fun and blah blah u know the vibes

Sure I’ll go <

> REALLY

Yes. <

> okay i’ll text u the details

> … :) <3

❤️ <

Keith laughs, just a little, and wipes his cheeks with the heel of his palm.

The sky isn’t the only thing he’s thankful for.

Chapter Text

Lance’s bedroom floor would be crying for help right now if the dumped clothes scattered all over weren’t suffocating it right now.

He feels like he’s in every makeover transformation whatever-it’s-called type scene where the geeky girl goes from gross to gorgeous in one dress spin and sudden 20/20 vision, no need for those nerdy glasses and shabby t-shirts, right?

“Ergh.”

Well Lance wishes he could say the same, as the bridge of his own pair slide right down his stupidly thin nose while he scours through the wardrobe monster he’s created. It’s literally just a hangout, like seriously, what’s gotten into him? What does it matter if he even wears a pair of rubber duck swim trunks and a striped sweater? The agenda is to have fun with his dear friends, make Keith nauseous from the rollercoasters, then crush him in every game that isn’t rigged enough to leave them both in sore defeat. Easy-peasy.

Except it’s not.

Something’s gotta be wrong with his damn mirror or lenses or something that isn’t his own brain because he swears just this last week these outfits had his spirits high with chicks practically clinging to his elbows.

Okay not really. But Miss Ramirez liked this sweater, and so did Mikyah from Economics, and all the other compliments made him feel just as nice and fluttery but something was missing .

Keith never said he liked it.

Well Keith is stupid , he thinks to himself. But he tosses the sweater aside anyway because tonight he just can’t afford doubt. Of course it’s ‘cause the fair comes around literally once a year, what’s the point of showing up if he can’t bet on him luring in just as much attraction as those gigantic prizes hanging up top in some game booth? He’s just as much a prize himself, hmph .

Keith’s probably gonna look cool, like always…

Like, he doesn’t even have to try! Or maybe he tries and it actually pays off. Keith thinks a sea of stares means sour judgement and some sort of life sentence to being labeled as the school’s resident loser or something because he’s a freakin’ drama queen. Really. Made Lance haul ass all the way across campus to hold pinkies and promise he’s not a complete jerk just because they were coupled up. And what’s the damage? So maybe people call out about his boyfriend in the halls or— or whatever since then, but an extra page of his own beautiful freakin’ face is what everyone in this school needs anyway, honestly. Along with Keith’s… exceptional one.

If they aren’t picking on his friend for the hell of it, they’re drooling at his shoes— or those sturdy black combat boots because you never know when you’ll need some hot not-quite-delinquent to come save the day. Which is what everyone else thinks. Not Lance.

Lance thinks Keith is normal, so normal his heartbeat stays the same in the face of those dark grey eyes and his knees do anything but wobble when they stand close because… that’s what is normal.

And so is standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom, a heap of clothes at his feet and strewn across his chair and bed, fingers mussing up his hair in frustration because the need to look good because of— of someone —a vague, mullet-shaped someone— is burning an unbeatable fire in his frantic chest.

Completely normal.

“ Dayummm ,” he hears from his doorway, and immediately his joints lock from the sudden noise as Veronica saunters on over as if they both still share a bedroom like their elementary days. A family of seven crowded into a modest, one story house, even with the income his mom scraped together— and father, at least when the man was around to care enough about it.

Lance, Veronica, and Rachel reigned the best kind of chaos when they’d been practically linked at the hips. He and his twin bunked on one side, and took turns trading a notebook and scribbling some goofy crap under the dim glow of the moon outside while Veronica fell fast asleep on their own bed.

He misses it. He misses those giggly nights, aside from a phantom couple where they couldn’t catch those heavy footsteps outside in time, and the ominous figure in their doorway meant hell for them. You always check the door, over your shoulder, walk around like the floor is made of eggshells or stay tucked away with anger boiling a hole in your stomach and a lingering sting on your lip or any other part within reach.

He doesn’t learn to flinch, it just happens. Even when it’s just an obnoxious sibling giving their own unwanted two cents on a mess he’s very well aware of.

“Shut up,” he mutters, movements still quick as ever while Roni lingers at the corner of his eye.

“You headed somewhere?” they ask.

6:46 is all that’s on his mind. Only about fifteen minutes to get ready before heading over and picking up Keith. “Going to the fair— aren’t you going too or did you already go?” Can’t keep track of this family for crap nowadays. Veronica, however much pestering she may be up to, feels like only a ghost beyond all his school worries along with everyone else. Everyone is tuned out, except…

Nope.

“I was going to but the others were busy so we just had to save it for the weekend. Might turn up later though.”

He hums at that. Not quite sure how he’s gonna go about seeing his sibling tonight if they happen to cross paths, but they’d probably just exchange some weird faces and mouth a few profanities before going on about their night. The usual.

“Are you looking for something to wear because jesus christ…” Veronica chuffs as they look around the room, and at this point, Lance is just too hopeless to get snarky.

He lets out a weak, defeated sniff before turning to her with a pout. “Yeah,” he says and pushes his glasses back up for the millionth time. “I hate my life…”

His sibling laughs anyway, but that gleam in her eyes is a sure tell to what's gotta be some useful gears whirring away, scanning their options and being freakin’ helpful at least because maybe they don’t show it but Lance knows their pickiness for style is just as passionate as his own.

“Welp, guess I can help make you a little less miserable… How much time do you have before heading out?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Veronica hops off the bed. “Let’s get to work then.”

He knows this’ll pay off, their joint work is gonna knock the socks off of all bystanders to whatever fresh fit is tossed together. And as he sing-songs a little “Alrighhht” while imagining giving Keith a good run for his money from this, he makes sure not to flatter Roni too much by hiding a smile.

Chapter Text

Sparknotes of the Remaining Team Rival Timeline

(for readers who would like resolve)

The group goes out to the fair and has their fun, eventually Hunk and Pidge had knowingly left the boys behind for the sake of some one on one time and a poor, awkward excuse of a “not date”.

They get to show off their respective skills at each of the game booths, go on the ferris wheel, have some borderline romantic moment (ultimately interrupted by a cellphone or something).

Keith drives Lance home— or, supposedly, that is the case. Until the end of the ride, in which Boston’s “More Than A Feeling” takes over the radio, it’s sweet timing for a kiss, but right as Lance leans over the middle console, he jolts awake and realizes that the drive with his best friend was a dream— and that, in reality, Keith had just been picked up early by his father.

(Filler scenes take place here afterward, hadn’t yet come up with this)

The baseball team has a banquet/awards ceremony, and Lance wins an MVP (most valuable player) award. Keith thinks it’s fitting for him, he recalls a memory of tenth grade, himself tossing aside the bat and walking off the field in the pouring rain, no mental capacity for another baseball game after receiving word that Shiro got in a nasty car accident (thus losing his arm), and was hospitalized. In the midst of his episode, Lance tries bringing Keith back over, but ultimately says “If you won’t step up for the team, then I will” and takes up his place at the bat.

On the drive back from the evening ceremony, Lance hears word of a house fire and gets frightened because the address sounds vaguely like Keith’s. He rushes to the neighborhood, wandering amidst neighbors and firefighters, and comes across a fireman who asks “Are you looking for someone?”, then again, in Spanish, as the fireman thinks Lance cannot understand.

Word slips out: “My boyfriend lives around here”, and the next moment Keith shows up, mostly fine. They embrace for a good while. Apparently his friend was having dinner with the next door neighbors while Krolia was working, but a fire had started and he helped the family get out of there.

The fireman looks startled, but says nothing past that.

It is later revealed in Keith’s narrative that this is his father, as Keith is half hispanic and Lance did not register the resemblance in the moment. Romeo, the father, bugs Keith over his “boyfriend”, but is ultimately accepting as Keith is already out to his parents.

(More undecided filler scenes, haha)

Lance insists on an end-of-the-school-year sleepover with Hunk, but his friend is busy with robotics projects and applications, and suggests Lance invite Keith instead.

He does. Bold move.

Lance frantically tosses aside the embarrassing stuff in his bedroom when Keith comes over, but its exposed nonetheless and found quite endearing. They watch movies, play games, talk about more school memories and family things. Keith finds out about them having first met in middle school when he sees a picture of Lance’s old team. One of those “full circle” moments that he’s pretty in awe of, and Lance feels a bit better having the other actually remember this after all. (“You were a pretty good pitcher.” “Oh pretty good?” “Right, sorry, yeah I meant terrible.” “Hey!”)

(Tw: mentioned suicide attempt)

In the backyard later, while walking around as the music of the next door neighbor’s grad party plays, they talk some more and Lance makes some offhand sarcastic comment about sophomore year, unknowing of what was happening from Keith’s point of view. He’d brought up Keith quitting, and that is when the latter opens up about his incident of a suicide attempt after receiving all that bullying from his friendship with Caleb. Lance is heartbroken, quick to take blame for that depressive episode as he should have heard the boy out when Keith had walked off the field that last time. Keith reassures otherwise and it’s in the past. Tears are shed, but it's a good moment of intimacy, and some sense of closure.

They do end up cuddling later that night. (A classic).

Although, at some point, Lance finds Keith’s phone open on Marmora University’s webpage and grows anxious his friend hasn’t yet let go of Caleb… He tries to stifle the idea in the meantime.

Lance’s niece comes in the next morning asking about the sleeping boy next to him, all “Is this your boyfriend?” “No! Nononono—“ and such. Nadia shrugs her shoulders and dumps the family cat on the bed; Keith wakes up confused. (Just a funny scene).

There is a parent-student breakfast for the top ten of VHS, but Lance’s mom is busy, and while he’s alone, someone comes to sit in front of him: Coran.

His bond with Coran is very much father (or uncle) & son. Lance’s own father was abusive, but he didn’t realize the treatment he got as a kid was considered such until making a comment in psychology class and the teacher —Coran— had told him that it was (unhealthy and abusive). He tears up at the table, feeling a sense of family even with an imperfect situation.

Also, during the breakfast, Lance recognizes Keith’s dad — that fireman — and is painfully embarrassed. *Awkward handshakes*

(It is revealed somehow later on, hadn’t decided how, that Keith’s mother was the attorney in Lance’s family custody case, which was happening during the time of her divorce with Romeo. The McClains & Koganes were affiliated with one another for longer than expected.)

There is an end of the year party at some popular kid’s house. Of course Lance drags Keith along, insistent about making great impressions and fitting in, and ends up getting himself drunk while his best friend stays awkwardly at his side for the most part.

They do finally kiss at the party, kind of more of a makeout, honestly, but Keith catches Nyma step in from the hall from the corner of his eye and is quick to pull away. Unbeknownst to him, as Nyma turns around and walks away, ready for gossip, Hunk is there to (kind of threaten to) expose her father, who was the coach for the track team and hoarded fundraiser money that Hunk and Pidge found out about. Nyma would lose scholarships and gain a poor reputation; she’s bratty about it, but decides to not start a wildfire of rumors again.

Keith doesn’t know of this and avoids Lance in the final days of their last semester, just before graduation. He’s terrified Lance will be dragged into the same situation Caleb was, but Lance thinks Keith doesn’t actually reciprocate feelings and is heartbroken. Keith figures this is a risk worth taking, at least for now.

Hunk puts Keith’s ass in place, tells him what really happened with Nyma and that he has to actually face Lance’s feelings (and his own, for once) before they graduate (before it’s “too late”).

On the night of graduation, Lance finally finds Keith alone in his open blue grad gown on the empty baseball field, crickets chirping and the distant bumble of people arriving from the student parking lot a ways away. He gets angry and brings up how it was a dick move for Keith to just ghost him like that after Lance thought they’d finally gotten together and—

Keith admits he was drinking fruit punch that night. That there was no alcohol in it, and that kissing Lance was wrong even though he hadn’t initiated it, it felt like his only chance to.

Of course it comes as a shock, but after the fact sets in, Lance just exasperatedly shakes his head and says “I would’ve wanted to kiss you, drunk or not, like I do now”. His best friend is an idiot, for… justifiable reason.

Silence.

“…Now?”

Yes, they do kiss again, and the heads of the smartest students of Voltron High, the unbeatable duo of the baseball team, finally are out of their own asses. Keith also explains he had applied for Marmora/was looking into the area because it was close enough to Altea but also had the programs he himself wanted to pursue. Caleb is but a figure of his past.

Graduation is as good as it gets, Lance likely does a backflip on stage just to show off, and when Keith goes up, simply waves to his own father on one side, to his mother on the other, after the handshake with the principal. 

Cap toss, big smooch, it’s all you’d ever expect in a coming of age romance.

There was a general epilogue idea of Keith and Lance visiting halfway between Marmora and Altea, or at least taking turns every other weekend to each other’s place. I’d like to think my last fic for these two will end with a happy ending regardless of “long distance” circumstances.

The rest is left to a reader’s stubbornly active imagination.

Author’s Notes: A Look Into The Background of “Team Rival / School Crush”

I started this work in October of 2020, practically clawing my way out of a depressive episode from losing so many online friends, as well as irl ones, from a series of unfortunate incidents. I was absolutely miserable, had only worked my way to a somewhat stable life from taking up a seasonal job at my local pumpkin patch, and beginning to post updates of “Team Rival” on my instagram to gain a hopeful following on a far safer, controlled platform.

This was supposed to be a one shot. This entire work, all these things, were supposed to be a single one shot of about 5k words with some kind of silly kiss at the end.

I cannot stress enough when I say feedback is absolutely precious to a writer, and that commentary from even one person will make the prolonged story all the more worth it to write. The fic went on for this long because I received continuous comments from one reader (eventually, a friend), that had me rushing home from that damn pumpkin patch every weekend just to make my sunburnt face even pinker from blushing at their excitement in the update I’d post that morning.

Since then, I’d started more fics, posted more to instagram (then here, once finished).

Although I had fallen out of interest in Klance, and Voltron, and figured it was time to move on from the heavy weight of what all those —good and bad— memories would bring, I still believe the community had encouraged a major turning point in my writing as well as all the great people I came to meet from it.

Thank you to any vets of “Team Rival”, or just my fics in general, as well as any more readers who came to enjoy this work.

I have plenty of other Klance fics stored here on ao3, although I do not see myself returning to the fandom. Feel free to check my bookmarks for equally amazing content.

<3,

J