Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lance loved the holidays.

Really. He did.

Fuzzy socks and eggnog? Check.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire? Also check. He was totally into that shit.

Subjecting his poor dog Cocoa Puff to exclusive performances of “Last Christmas” by Wham!? Check, unfortunately. But Lance maintained that there were sadder things in life than shaking his reindeer-clad ass to George Michael for an audience of one.

Like this, for example: stuck working the closing shift at Wimbleton’s on Christmas Eve while some lady with a bad manicure and a leopard print handbag howled for the manager because the store wasn’t carrying the hand cream she wanted.

This. This was the sadder thing.

“Or maybe you just hate Christmas, is that it?”

The woman brandished a hand to accentuate the claim, her gaudy pink fingernails slashing through the air an inch away from Lance’s nose. Jesus Christ, was she trying to take out his eyes?

“Ma’am, I don’t-”

“That’s it! You hate Christmas, and you want to make mine miserable, don’t you?”

“No, ma’am!” He couldn’t keep from sounding incredulous, because - seriously, what the fuck was this logic? “I assure you Mr. Wimbleton-Smythe will be down in no time, but we’re completely out of-”

“Out?” God, this lady was fucking unhinged. Lance was genuinely worried for his own safety.

…Okay, maybe not. But still - yikes.

“Do you have any idea what this will do to my granddaughter, young man? She’ll be distraught! Destroyed! All because you couldn’t bother to check the-”

“Madam, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Lance’s sigh of relief was audible as his boss descended the spiral staircase from his office, practically gliding down each step as if he were an angel sent from the heavens. That is, if angels rocked pinstripe suits and bright red handlebar mustaches.

Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton-Smythe was…something else, alright. Lance had barely been able to keep his shit together the day Coran had interviewed him for the job, because the guy was as quirky as his name suggested. He spoke like a vaudeville star trying to project to the back row, muttered to himself when he thought no one was looking (like, seriously - full-blown conversations), and had this weird habit of sprinkling little made-up words into his vernacular and claiming that they were common terms from his homeland of New Zealand.

(They were not. Lance had looked them up).

Most confusing of all was how genuinely good the guy was at his job. Coran was always kind, no doubt about that - but when a customer walked into the store, it was like a switch would flip. Goodbye to quirky Coran, hello to the smooth-talking owner of Wimbleton-Smythe’s.

Who, coincidentally, Lance had never been more grateful to see.

“Mr. Smythe!” he greeted, mortified when his voice cracked. “This customer-”

“This customer,” the woman scoffed, and Lance’s smile twitched.

Would you rather I’d called you ‘This Bitch’? Would that have been better?

“Mrs. Carmichael,” he hastily amended, blessedly remembering the name the woman had spat at him five minutes earlier, “was wondering-”

“I can speak for myself, young man,” she sniffed, shooting him that patented ‘I’ll-have-you-fired-by-the-end-of-the-evening’ glare that Lance loved so much. “You’ve done enough damage for one Christmas.”

“Of course, Mrs. Carmichael,” Lance acquiesced, trying his best not to sound sarcastic. It didn’t work, but luckily for Lance, this woman was either too angry or too dumb to pick up on the complexities of intonation.

Also lucky was Coran’s knack for realizing when to swoop in and pluck a Capital-S Situation out of Lance’s grateful, Christmas-ruining palms.

“Perhaps I might be of service,” he mused, bowing slightly as he gestured to the spiral stairs. “If you’d be so kind as to accompany me to my office, dear Mrs. Carmichael, I’m sure we’ll be able to resolve the matter.”

Clearly impressed, the woman’s ultra-thin eyebrows crept into her hairline and - after throwing a triumphant little hmph in Lance’s direction - she waddled off towards the stairs. Coran followed closely behind - but not without shooting Lance a knowing wink, which…only slightly helped his mood.

The second the two of them were out of sight, Lance slumped against the perfume counter, groaning wearily as he rubbed his eyes. He’d normally never conduct himself like this if there was even a chance that a customer might walk through the door, but he was nine and a half hours into a ten hour shift on Christmas Eve, and he’d apparently managed to wreck the entire holiday in like, five syllables or less.

Plus, he did have a letter to write. His newest correspondence from Dear Friend had arrived just that morning, and he’d made an executive decision not to read it until after he’d returned from work - a decision he was now kind of regretting. He’d hoped it might be enough motivation to get him through the day, but now, all he wanted to do was hoard a giant tub of ice cream, bundle up under every blanket he owned, and write Dear Friend back.

So, given all that? Sue him for losing his composure a little bit.

“Oof. That looked rough buddy.”

Hunk’s voice, as always, was a welcome balm, as was the hand grasping his shoulder.

“I ruined Christmas, apparently,” Lance told his palms, still clasped tightly over his face. “That’s a first.”

“What, because we’re out of the Antoinette’s?”

Lance sighed, dragging his hands down his face and turning to his best friend, who was frowning as he re-stocked candles on a shelf. “Because we’re out of the Antoinette’s,” Lance confirmed, leaning back against the glass case he’d so lovingly disinfected that very morning. “Seven years here - Jesus. You’d think I’d know what we do or don’t have in stock.”

“Right,” Hunk agreed with a snort. “I’m sorry, man. I don’t know how you do it, honestly.”

“Hell if I know either,” Lance grumbled. “But I’m gonna need to deal with this crap all the time if…well. You know,” he finished, his face growing warm as Hunk grinned at him.

“Has Coran said anything else about it?”

“I mean, not explicitly. He just keeps…you know.” Lance waggled his eyebrows and mimed nudging someone in the arm - a poor impression of their boss. “I don’t know. He said sometime after the holidays, so…I’m assuming soon.”

“Hmm.” Stepping back to examine his handiwork, Hunk moved one of the pine candles a centimeter to the right before dusting his hands onto his apron. “Sales Manager McClain. It’s got a good ring to it.”

“Yeah. It’s a big fucking deal,” Lance murmured, gripping his elbows as he stared at the ground, his gaze growing unfocused. “I just…hope I don’t let him down.”

Even like this, zoned out and retreating deep within himself, Lance could hear the frown in Hunk’s voice. “Lance-”

The bell over the front door chimed as someone entered, miraculously relieving Lance from whatever Ooey-Gooey-Feelings-Talk his remark had nearly merited. Instead, he snapped to attention, clapping Hunk on the shoulder and pretending to ignore the concern on his best friend’s face as he bounded towards the door.

“Merry Christmas!” he called, his brain nearly stalling when a pair of striking gray eyes snapped to his. “Welcome to Wimbleton-Smythe’s!”

“Uh…thanks.” The customer was somewhere around Lance’s age and handsome - jaw-droppingly so. Gloved hands reached up to loosen the red scarf wound snugly around his neck, revealing that the man’s inky black hair reached his collarbone.

Cute. Lance had always been into long hair, and this guy totally rocked it.

When the newcomer blinked distractedly around the store as if he’d never been in one before, Lance cleared his throat. “Anything I can help you with, Sir?”

“No.” Gray eyes widened, panic flashing through them as the man back-tracked. “I mean - yes! Well, not you, but-” His eyes slipped shut and he exhaled once through his nose before leveling Lance with a drained expression, as if this entire interaction was sapping every ounce of energy he possessed. “Is Coran Smythe in?”

“Oh!” It was rare that anyone came around asking specifically for Coran, and Lance couldn’t help but wonder if the guy was some sort of relative. A very distant, non-ginger relative, perhaps.

“I’m afraid Mr. Smythe is currently helping a customer in his office, but I’m more than happy to see what I can do.”

The guy’s thick eyebrows furrowed…and then he was giving Lance the most disdainful once-over he’d ever received in his entire life.

Like - seriously. He wanted Leopard-Print Lady back. It was that bad.

“I don’t think so,” Pretty Boy replied.

(That was his name now, Lance decided. It sounded adequately derisive and condescending in his head, and not at all complimentary of the newcomer’s striking eyes and rosy cheeks.)

“I assure you I can help,” Lance recited, biting back a handful of more sarcastic comments in favor of the Tried and True. And then, because the guy just rubbed him the wrong way, “I’m practically the Sales Manager here.”

Pretty Boy raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a way Lance decidedly hated. “Practically?”

“Well - you know. Almost. Any day now.” Fuck, how red was his face? And why the hell was he letting this guy get under his skin? “My point is, I know this store like the back of my hand. If you need anything, I’m your guy.”

I’m your guy? Really? Pretty Boy’s growing smirk was doing nothing to help the heat creeping up Lance’s neck. You work at a high-end parfumerie, McClain. Act like it.

“I - I mean-”

“I’m good. Unless you’re in charge of hiring, Mister…” Pretty Boy paused as he glanced at Lance’s name tag. “Almost-Sales-Manager McClain?”

Lance’s eye twitched. I will fucking fight you, he thought…and then Lance’s slighted brain finished downloading the rest of Pretty Boy’s sentence.

…Oh.

“Uh - well. No.” He cleared his throat, patting his hands awkwardly against his thighs. “No I am not.”

That smirk was seriously becoming infuriating. “Didn’t think so. I’ll just wait for Mr. Smythe here.”

Without waiting for an invite, Pretty Boy turned and helped himself to a stool at the jewelry counter like he owned the damn place. Lance scrambled after him.

“Wait - hold on a second!” Pretty Boy froze halfway down to the stool, eyebrows shooting up expectantly. “We’re not hiring. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but right now we’re-”

“Look.” The newcomer let his ass fall soundly onto the stool with an air of finality. “I don’t need a babysitter. Just do your job.”

Normally, Lance would have shaken it off. He would have excused himself, slipped into the back room, and yelled into a pillow until he felt better - like an adult.

But, to reiterate, Lance was nine and a half hours into a ten hour shift on Christmas. Fucking. Eve. And - promotion be damned - he was not going to take that one sitting down.

Or - standing up. Whatever.

He’d just gathered the courage to let a scathing insult fly free (something about the guy’s hair, that…stupid, pretty hair), when the sound of feet on stairs drew both of their attention. Pretty Boy shot up clean out of his chair, hands clenching and unclenching with nervous energy at his sides.

Leopard-Print was giggling as she cleared the last of the stairs. “You’re a true gentleman, Coran Wimbleton-Smythe. Not many of those left in the world.”

The minute her eyes fell on Lance, the smile was wiped clean off of her face. She gave him another little harrumph. “Not many left at all.”

At Lance’s side, Pretty Boy had the fucking audacity to snort, turning it into a sneeze when Lance glared at him.

“Jeez - what’d you do, Ladykiller?” Pretty Boy whispered as Coran directed Mrs. Carmichael over to Pidge at the register.

“Nothing,” Lance hissed back, having long-abandoned the polite store-clerk schtick. Pretty Boy had all the manners of a chimpanzee - any niceties would be lost on him.

Besides, it wasn’t like the guy was actually getting a job here.

“It’s none of your business,” he continued, “because you don’t work here. And even if you did, I wouldn’t-”

“Lance!”

Coran bounded towards him like a golden (ginger?) retriever, beaming ear to ear. He clapped Lance’s shoulder and gave him a fatherly little shake. “My apologies, dear boy,” he murmured, keeping his voice low. “We’ve cleared up the animosity - though I’m afraid Mrs. Carmichael may not be your biggest fan.”

Pretty Boy sniggered and Lance’s jaw tightened. “Sir,” he started, trying to ignore the walking, talking asshole behind him, “all I told her was that we were out of-”

“Not to worry, lad. You weren’t a foot out of line.”

Lance couldn’t help himself. Before he could think better of it, he was turning to shoot Pretty Boy a smug smile, inadvertently drawing Coran’s attention to the newcomer.

“Hello there! Have you been assisted, young man?”

“Uh, no, but I’m not here for. Um.” Pretty Boy swallowed. He looked nervous again, if the red creeping up his pale cheeks was any indication. “I’m here for a job, Sir.”

“Oh!” Coran waved a hand as he turned back to the spiral staircase. “I’m afraid we’re not hiring at the moment, lad. I’m sure Mister McClain informed you.”

The Mister McClain in question threw Pretty Boy a self-satisfied grin and a pair of finger guns, hoping to convey through actions all that words could not say.

Namely: get fucked, dude.

“Sir,” Pretty Boy continued, seemingly resolute in his mission to ignore Lance. “My - my name is Keith Kogane, I’m-”

“Ira Kogane’s nephew?” Coran’s eyes had widened, and Lance’s heart sank. His boss…knew this guy?

When Pretty Boy - Keith - nodded, Coran laughed, surprised yet elated. “But of course! How did I not see it sooner!”

With zero warning (because Coran just did shit like this on the regular), he grabbed Keith’s face, trapping it between his palms as he turned it back and forth. “You’ve got the same nose,” he observed, entirely oblivious to Keith’s bewildered expression. Gray eyes flicked to Lance in a plea for help, and Lance found himself shrugging.

You’re the one who wants to work here, dude.

“-and the same eyebrows,” Coran prattled on. “Goodness, you’re practically a little carbon copy!”

“Uh…right,” Keith grumbled, red-faced but recovering from his surprise enough to pry Coran’s hands from his face. “She says hi, by the way,” he added, reaching into his coat and procuring a battered envelope. “Wanted me to give you this.”

Deft fingers tore the envelope open in seconds, withdrawing a small letter from within. Coran read it in silence, his eyes softening fondly as they darted back and forth.

Then - to Lance’s horror - they pooled with tears.

“A remarkable woman, your aunt,” Coran whispered hoarsely, thumbing away a tear as he folded the letter into his breast pocket. “And a cherished friend. I’d always quite hoped we might…well, if we ever reconnected…” He cleared his throat before smiling sweetly at Keith. “Ah, nevermind that now,” he sighed. “I assure you I’d give you a job in a heartbeat, but I’m afraid-”

“I’ll do anything,” Keith interjected. “Clean, run errands, sell-”

Lance snorted, and Keith leveled him with a poisonous glare. “Got something to say?”

“Uh…” What was up with this guy? He had to be the single most confrontational person Lance had ever met in his life. “Well. You’ll forgive me for saying it, but sales requires a certain level of…finesse?” Lance finished. He shot Keith a faux sympathetic look, as if he were consoling him rather than insulting him.

He was definitely insulting him, and judging by the look on Keith’s face, the guy was smart enough to pick up on it.

“I’ll show you finesse,” he growled, and before Lance knew what in god’s name was happening, Keith had snatched the closest item from its shelf and was stomping over to where Mrs. Carmichael was thanking Hunk at the register.

“Shit,” Lance hissed - and then, when he realized what Keith had taken, “Shit! Kei-”

“Let him go,” Coran murmured, placing a hand on Lance’s shoulder. “I’d like to see how this plays out.”

Across the room, Keith placed the item he’d filched - the lone remaining bottle of a perfume so odorous, it had been discontinued before their order of it had even arrived - on the counter. Hunk shot Lance a panicked look.

“Sir,” Lance whispered, ignoring Hunk’s silent plea for help, “no one has been able to sell that stuff for months. It smells like a skunk’s as-”

“Give him a chance, my boy.” They watched as Keith ran his fingers over the bottle, engaged in a discussion with Mrs. Carmichael that neither of them could quite make out. “He may surprise us.”

God, Lance thought as Keith took the stopper from the bottle and held it up for Mrs. Carmichael to smell. I fucking hope not.

“We don’t have any positions open,” Lance tried, desperation creeping into his voice as Mrs. Carmichael - for whatever fucking reason - laughed jovially upon smelling the noxious sludge masquerading as ‘perfume.’ “You said we wouldn’t hire until after the holidays, remember?”

“I did.”

Over at the counter, Mrs. Carmichael fished her purse out of her bag, and a completely dumbstruck Hunk bent to retrieve wrapping paper.

“But I think we might make an exception for greatness, don’t you, my boy?”

No, Lance thought, watching as Keith shook Mrs. Carmichael’s hand before leaning nonchalantly against the counter. This can’t be happening. It’s…it’s Christmas Eve.

That son of a bitch.

As if Keith could sense Lance’s impending meltdown, he cast a lazy look back in Lance’s direction. Their eyes met, Keith’s crinkling at the corners as he smirked, and then - as soon as Mrs. Carmichael was occupied with receiving her change - he shot Lance a pair of finger guns, smirked, and made a show of blowing away fake smoke.

“Wow,” Lance muttered. He’d intended for it to be like, ‘wow, you are a raging asshole’, but apparently Coran heard it as, ‘wow, this guy is good’.

“I couldn’t agree more, my boy,” he chuckled good-naturedly, and then, raising his voice, “I see you’ve met our newest hire, Mrs. Carmichael!”

Keith’s gray eyes glittered as he grinned - the first genuine smile Lance had seen him wear.

“Oh!” Mrs. Carmichael strutted over, her shopping finally packaged and bagged. “A relief to know that this establishment hires some real gentlemen.”

Keith pressed his lips together. Lance’s eye twitched.

“Mrs. Carmichael-”

“Has been shopping for hours,” Coran interceded, before Lance could stick his foot in his mouth for the nth time that day. “Mister Kogane, if you’d be so kind as to escort your customer to the door?”

“Of course, Sir.”

The second they were out of earshot, Lance gripped Coran’s elbow, turning the two of them away from the door to give some semblance of privacy.

“Coran, we’re friends, right?” he asked, voice hushed. “Like - outside the store?”

“But of course!” Coran returned, struggling to keep his voice to a whisper.

It was exactly the reaction Lance had been hoping for. Coran was…god, the guy was predictable and so, so easy.

“Right. So - friend to friend? I am asking you not to do this.”

“Do…?”

Lance jerked his head in Keith’s general direction, and Coran chuckled.

“Ah. Well whyever not, my boy?”

“I dunno, I just…” Lance glanced behind him, trailing off as he took in the sight of Keith nursing a private smile as he shut the door behind Mrs. Carmichael.

…Oh. So his smile could be as gentle and sweet and charming as Keith himself was not.

“Perhaps you can give him a chance,” Coran whispered, pulling Lance out of his musings with a squeeze of his shoulder. “Guide him, teach him what you know. You may find a friend in him in the end.”

“You want me to train him?”

“I don’t see why not, my boy. You’re certainly up to snuff, and the boy seems eager to prove himself.”

“I am.”

If anyone had asked, Lance would have sworn he didn’t yelp as he spun to find that Keith had materialized behind him, that infuriating smirk back on his face.

“I won’t let you down,” he said, his voice all low and teasing like he was just goading Lance to respond, “Mister McClain.”

“I’m quite sure you won’t!” Coran heartily agreed, clapping Lance on the shoulder as if to say, see? Told you so. “Now, if you two gentlemen will excuse me, I must retire to my office,” he sighed, backing towards the stairwell. “There’s paperwork that needs tending to, I’m afraid. Keith? Congratulations, my boy. You start Monday.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.”

Coran smiled, eyes softening again. “You’ll give your Aunt my regards, I trust?”

“Of course, Sir.”

With a small nod, Coran raised a hand in farewell before vanishing up the stairs, leaving Lance…very, very alone with their newest hire.

“So.” Keith’s voice was a complacent purr that grated on Lance’s every nerve, chipping slowly away at his self-control. “How was that for finesse?”

Lance inhaled through his nose, measured and sharp. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not gonna work. Coran’s gonna see right through your schtick in no time.”

“My schtick.”

“Your schtick. This whole - raw talent schtick. It’s not gonna get you far here.”

“Hmmm.” Keith’s brows furrowed in faux consideration. “You know what I think?”

“Not interested.”

“I think,” he continued, “that you’re jealous because I just sold a completely unsellable product in about two minutes.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you think that bottle was unsellable?”

Keith’s lips twitched in a smile. “Well, for one, the bottle was dusty. Two, it was the only one of its kind, and three, it wasn’t on display the way it would be if it was special. Seemed like something you just couldn’t get rid of - which definitely made sense once I smelled it. I think it and Mrs. Carmichael will be very happy together. They’re a good match.”

Shit - that…that was super observant and made a lot of sense. What an asshole. “Okay,” Lance drawled, pursing his lips together. “Well you know what I think?”

The bell over the door jingled as Hunk flipped the store’s hanging sign to ‘closed’, and Lance’s mouth snapped shut as he remembered where they were.

Before Lance’s frazzled brain could string together any semblance of a recovery, Keith was throwing Lance a little salute as he tightened his scarf around his neck. “Guess I’ll see you Monday, Ladykiller.”

And with that, Keith Kogane stepped out into the frosty night.

…

Dear Friend,

Where to begin.

I’m sorry it’s been a couple weeks since my last letter. It’s been a total shit-show-whirlwind at work, if I’m being honest. We got a new…blech. You know what? No. Enough work talk.

It’s not all bad, because every time things get hard, I just…find myself thinking about you. That’s…so corny, oh my god. Whatever. There. I said it.

I think about you and everything just gets easier. I feel lighter, happier. All I have to do is open my desk drawer and see all your letters and I’m just…okay again. It feels a little like home.

Anyways. Enough of that. Real talk now, because I gotta come clean. Please tell me I’m not the only one nervous to meet. Like - don’t get me wrong: I. Cannot. Wait. For our…god, what do you even call this? Appointment? Rendezvous, if we’re feeling French?

…Date?

But what if we meet and my laugh is too weird, or I talk too loud, or I’m not…what you were expecting?

Nerves aside, I can’t believe I finally get to meet the man behind the Jane Austen and the Agatha Christie. God - you know what? I’ve just remembered that you’re a total dork. Would you look at that? Poof. Nerves gone.

Can’t wait to say it to your face.

Until next time,

Your Friend

—

Dear Friend -

I was starting to wonder where you’d gotten to, or if I’d scared you away. Turns out, you were just hoarding up insults on my reading material. And here I was almost beginning to think I was cool. I’m glad you’re around again to put me in my place.

Seriously, though, it’s fine. I started a new job too, so I’ve been pretty busy. It’s pretty chill, for the most part. The boss is nice, most of my coworkers are nice, but there’s this one guy who acts like I ran over his dog every time I open my mouth, when all I was trying to do was -

You know what, not important. I’ve got to be honest with you. That part of my life, the daily grind-type stuff, feels a lot less real than this - this, like, private little world we’ve made here, just the two of us. That sounds crazy, right? I mean, we haven’t even met, but ‘talking’ to you is the most real thing I’ve ever done. I feel the most like myself when I’m writing to you.

I think about you too. All the time. At work, at home, on the train, getting the mail, making dinner - doesn’t matter. I’m always thinking of things to tell you about, things I know you’d find funny or interesting, and how much I’d love to be able to actually see when it makes you smile.

So maybe you do have a weird laugh, but maybe I do, too. Dunno. But I do know that I can’t wait to hear it in person, and to finally make this…this whatever we have…real real.

It’s - yeah. It’s a date.

A date that I’m nervous as hell for, but…it’s time.

When we meet at Lelys Cafe, look for the guy with a red rose stuck in his book, pretending to read when he’s really just trying not to pass out.

Just for you, I’ll make sure it’s Austen.

See you soon.

Your Friend

…

Lance had never been much of a reader before Dear Friend. He hadn’t been a particularly devoted literature student in school, so he’d mostly coasted by with SparkNotes and reading the last few pages of each chapter. Now that he was an adult, he usually preferred to be doing something active in his free time. Sitting in one spot staring at dead trees just didn’t sound like his idea of a good time.

That being said, Dear Friend was always so cute when he went on rants about this great novel or that bestseller that Lance figured the least he could do was give it a try. Plus, it would give them something to talk about, right?

He totally wasn’t doing it just because he wanted to impress Dear Friend. That would be lame. It just never hurt to be an educated, classy kinda guy.

In the time that he’d been writing his anonymous penpal-turned-potential-boyfriend? he’d put a ton of Austen under his belt. It was alright stuff, especially when Matthew Macfayden was on the cover looking broody. Lance wasn’t usually one for broody, socially inept dudes, but every now and then he could make an exception. Since he’d moved on from his new buddy Jane and right into the Brontes, though, he found he was struggling a little more to find stuff to talk about. It just wasn’t as soap opera-y, okay? Or it kinda was, but not in the ridiculous, fun way - more in a depressing, foggy, everyone’s dead and has the same name kind of way.

The best he could come up with was to flip through the book and try to find something Dear Friend might think was sexy.

Dear Friend, (he wrote, tapping his lip with his pen as he scanned through the novel)

Okay, you weren’t kidding. Wuthering Heights is a very different vibe. I don’t not-like it?? But when you start the book with an angry bachelor whose upstairs bedroom is haunted by the ghost of his true love, you can pretty much bet you’re not in for a rosy ride, right? I know you said you really like this one, so I promise I’m sticking with it. Just this guy, Heathcliff, seems like a major bummer, so I’m kinda wondering if -

“Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad, only do not leave me in this abyss where I cannot find you. I cannot live without my life. I cannot live without my soul.”

“Gah!” Lance’s chair slammed back down onto all four legs as he fumbled and snapped his book shut. “Keith. Don’t do that!”

Keith blinked at him over a box of Mireilles. “Do what? Recite Wuthering Heights? You’re reading it; I figured you’d recognize it.”

Lance glared at him, heart pounding and cheeks heated. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to creep and quote, man?”

“My mother is dead.”

Well, fuck. Leave it to Keith to cram Lance’s own foot in his mouth for him. Before Lance could mutter out a chastened ‘sorry,’ Keith was leaning closer to get a look at the letter in front of him. Lance scrambled to grab it, and for a half-second’s worth of panic-induced insanity, considered cramming it into his mouth. Instead, he balled it up and stuffed it into his pocket.

“What are you doing back here anyway?” Lance demanded.

Keith blinked at him. “My…job?”

Right. Keith was scheduled for inventory, like usual. Lance was the one who’d hidden away in the back room, so desperate to respond to Dear Friend that he hadn’t considered that he’d entered Mulleted Man Territory.

So this was technically his bad, but like hell he was about to admit that to Keith. Dear Friend time was Alone Time, and the idea that he’d almost been caught in the middle of his sappiest pastime…the thought was more embarrassing than Lance could bear.

“Well…well…” Man, he was so off his game. Writing to Dear Friend always had a way of making reality disappear, so being caught with his literary pants down had his guard flying up in defense. “Inventory 101! Creeping isn’t required.”

Keith shuffled the box in his hands and knelt to start backfilling perfume. “I wasn’t creeping,” he said, his voice either distracted or just a little bit awkward. “I was trying to make conversation. About your book.”

“What - you read Brontë?”

It came out a tad more condescending than Lance had intended, and Keith’s eyes predictably narrowed.

“I had the same thought about you.”

Yep. Lance had definitely, definitely brought this on himself - but Keith didn’t need to be such a dick about it.

“Excuse,” Lance remarked sarcastically. “I’ll have you know I have read, like, all the greats by now.”

“Oh yeah?” Keith quipped from behind him, amused. “So like…Clifford the Big Red Dog? Goodnight Moon?”

“Hilarious. You really missed your calling as a stand-up comedian. You’re wasted as a stockboy.”

To his surprise, Keith actually chuckled. “Okay, so, why are you reading Wuthering Heights in the darkest corner of the back room? Looking for ambiance?”

Just like that, the walls that had been creeping down shot right back up. The last thing he needed was to tell anything resembling the truth and get flack for that, too - and Keith definitely seemed like the type to ridicule him for falling in love with his anonymous penpal. “For quiet, actually,” he mumbled, not realizing how harsh the words sounded until they’d left his mouth.

For a few tense moments, Keith didn’t respond; just kept stacking perfume until every clatter of glass bottles might as well have been an atomic bomb in the oppressive silence. Then he stood and dusted his hands on his pants.

“You’ve got ten minutes until the truck brings the next delivery. If you want quiet, find it somewhere else.” He paused at the door long enough to send Lance a flat look over his shoulder. “And by the way - your book is upside-down.”

“It’s-” Lance blinked down at his book, which was indeed upside down - because of course it was. The universe seemed determined to make him look like a moron in front of Keith. “Oh. Well I - wait! Keith!”

Keith sighed, peeking back through the door with his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Swallowing his pride, Lance forced himself to look Keith in the eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He could more or less see the cogs behind Keith’s eyes turning as he processed, but where Lance had expected maybe a ‘Oh, okay’ or a ‘Yeah?’ all he got was Keith just…nodding, then closing the door behind him.

End of discussion, apparently. What an ass.

But at least now Lance couldn’t say he hadn’t tried.

…

Dear Friend,

Okay, you weren’t kidding. Wuthering Heights is a very different vibe. I don’t not-like it?? But when you start the book with an angry bachelor whose upstairs bedroom is haunted by the ghost of his true love, you can pretty much bet you’re not in for a rosy ride, right? I know you said you really like this one, so I promise I’m sticking with it. Just this guy, Heathcliff, seems like a major bummer, so I’m kinda wondering if he even counts as a romantic protagonist. Like, how are you going to be a leading man if you just come off as grumpy and confrontational all the time? I get that he’s mostly just being defensive, but damn.

Anyway, I’m making pretty good progress, so you’ll have to tell me what I should pick up next. I’m pretty swamped at work until the weekend, but I’ll make a point to stop by the library to stock up. We’re supposed to get a crapload of snow, so it’ll be nice to kick back by the fire with a Dear Friend-Approved book, and pretend that we’re reading it together.

Kind of a cozy picture, don’t you think?

Maybe we could consider it for date number 2 ;)

Until next time,

Your Friend

—

Dear Friend -

I’m not surprised that Wuthering Heights isn’t as far up your alley. It’s pretty dark and depressing, even for me, but I guess that’s kind of what I like about it? Even in a pretty bleak place, they still managed to find each other…even if it does kinda go to shit from there. There’s a line that Heathcliff says that I really love about preferring madness to loneliness and - wow, god, it sounds pathetic when I spell it out, but I sort of understand? Being lonely is…just about the worst thing I can think of.

Gonna be honest - I don’t have a lot of friends. I’m pretty shit at talking to people and just striking up a conversation. I always seem to say the wrong thing and drive people away. That’s why writing to you means so much to me. I guess I can’t really explain it, but I feel like, even if I messed up trying to talk to you, you wouldn’t judge me for it? At least I hope so.

Ugh, writing is SO much easier than talking. It lets me gather my thoughts before I just blurt out something stupid. Sorry in advance if I ever do that once we meet.

Maybe if I don’t fuck it up too bad, we really could share that book by the fireplace sometime soon.

Your Friend

…

“Kei - shit, why the fuck is he like this? KEITH! I said gimme a second, for god’s sake, you’re gonna bring the damn chandelier down!”

From his precarious perch atop the two chairs he’d haphazardly stacked, Keith glared at Lance around the top of the Christmas tree, fingers stilling inches away from the star topper.

“I’m five feet away from the chandelier, Lance,” he insisted testily. “There’s no sense in waiting when this works just as -” The topmost chair tottered, cutting Keith’s sentence short as he fought for balance.

With an alarmed gasp, Lance dove forward. He threw his hands out to stabilize Keith by the calves, throwing him a dirty look once he'd managed to steady him.

"We. have. a. ladder, shit-for-brains," Lance hissed, red-cheeked as he released Keith's calves and withdrew his face from where it'd hovered dangerously close to Keith's ass…ets. "This is exactly why I told you to wait."

“I was fine!” Keith snapped back, refusing to look at Lance as he wrestled the star topper from a tangle of fake balsam. “I only resorted to this anyway because you were taking a thousand goddamn years to put five ornaments back in a box.”

"A thousand - !" Briefly, Lance contemplated 'accidentally' knocking his foot against the bottom chair. He'd never actually do it, of course, but damn was it tempting. "You've got a real flair for drama, you know that? I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you, Your Highness."

“You’re forgiven.” Infuriatingly nimble, Keith leapt down from his Perch of Certain Death, star in hand. He waved it in Lance’s face, one obnoxious inch from his nose. “You’re just butthurt that I’m efficient. You have been from day one.”

"Oh, have I?" Lance trailed after Keith as he stomped towards one of the decor boxes, tossing the star atop a bed of tinsel. “Have you maybe considered how goddam infuriating you are?”

“You’re the one always starting shit! You turn everything into a - a fucking competition! Like I’m some sort of bitter rival!”

By the end of his retort, Keith was practically shouting in Lance’s face, so close that Lance could see he actually had a ring of indigo around the dark steel of his eyes. Or maybe it was a side effect of how heated and angry his cheeks had become as he glared daggers - no, you know what? He’d bypassed daggers and gone straight to chainsaws - into Lance’s primordial soul.

But Lance would be damned if he let this jackass intimidate him.

“Oh, I have done nothing,” Lance seethed, overanunciating as he was prone to do when uppity pretty-boys pissed him off. “You’re the one who walked in here like you owned the damn place, buddy.”

“I just needed a job, but you were determined to hate me from the get go. All I did was try to have a fucking conversation!”

They might have gone on like this a while more, but then Keith did the worst thing he could have possibly done.

He placed both of his hands on Lance’s chest and gave him a shove - nothing much, just an inch or so - but enough to ignite all the rage embering inside Lance into actual combustion.

"Ohhh. So is this," he retorted, shoving Keith right back, "your idea of a conversation?"

“If that’s what it-" Keith shoved harder, “-takes!”

Lance couldn't remember a time he'd been so infuriated. Dizzy with anger, he prepared to strike back -

And stopped, mortified, as he locked eyes with Hunk - who'd frozen in the middle of the doorway on his way out of the break room.

"Lance?" Hunk's eyes flicked back and forth between them, and it was only then that Lance realized Keith's shirt was bunched in his fists. "You two…okay?"

Shame crept up Lance's neck, red-hot and burning. "Uh - yeah," he coughed, releasing Keith and letting his hands fall back down to his thighs.

He gave them an awkward pat, resolutely avoiding Keith's eyes. "All good here."

Hunk's concerned gaze swiveled to Keith, and jealousy churned in Lance's gut.

Why the hell do you care about him?

Keith, for his part, was scowling at the floor - face hot and twisted with silent rage and a suspicious shine to his eyes.

“Fine,” he said, heavy as lead and just as cold. Then he spun around and stalked towards the back, snagging his coat from behind the counter as he left.

The back door slammed so hard it shook the glass in its panes. Lance whistled lowly. “Wow.”

“Lance-”

“I mean, wow,” Lance interrupted, pointedly ignoring Hunk as he sifted aimlessly through a box filled with decorations - anything to quell his trembling hands. “Can you believe that guy?”

“La-”

“Talk about anger issues, I was literally just trying to-”

“Hey!”

Firm hands closed around his shoulders, turning him to meet eyes filled with worry. “What’s been going on with you lately?”

Lance averted his gaze, not trusting the sting behind his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You aren’t fine, Lance,” Hunk murmured, casting a cursory glance around the shop to make sure they were alone. The only other person working was Romelle, who was humming such an off-key rendition of “Frosty the Snowman” that Lance suspected she wouldn’t have been able to hear them from this distance if she’d tried.

“Come on.” Hunk’s voice was impossibly gentle, but Lance wasn’t going to look. He wouldn’t. “This isn’t you. I know it isn’t.”

“What isn’t me, huh?” Lance snapped, knocking Hunk’s hands away and ducking out of his hold. “Caring about my job? My coworkers?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then say it.” He whirled on Hunk with a ferocity that he didn’t deserve. “Say what you mean.”

His coworker’s face crumbled, his hands rising up in defense. “I’m not trying to attack you, Lance.”

God. Lance wasn’t sure what was worse - the sad little crease between Hunk’s brows, or the fact that he’d been the one to put it there.

Feeling adequately disgusted with himself, Lance sagged against the counter as guilt crept into the pit of his stomach. “I know,” he muttered hoarsely.

“You’re my friend. I just wanna help.”

Fuck. Well great - now he was gonna cry. “I know. I just - I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything he does just…”

“Rubs you the wrong way?”

Lance groaned, collapsing onto a stool and burying his head into his hands. “Yeah,” he told the safe darkness of his palms. “It’s like he knows exactly how to piss me off, and I just…I can’t control myself around him.”

The stool next to him clattered slightly as Hunk eased himself into it, settling a hand along Lance’s back. The touch was like a balm over the burning anxiety that Keith had left in his wake, and Lance found himself blinking dolefully up at Hunk through wet lashes.

“What am I supposed to do, Hunk?” he asked, dragging a sleeve across his nose. “I don’t think I can do this much longer.”

“I know, buddy.”

Hunk pulled him close, resting his cheek on top of Lance’s head and running his hand up and down Lance’s arm.

The air settled around them for several moments before he spoke again. “Have you considered talking to Coran?”

“No way.” Lance straightened, sniffling as he brought his sleeve back across his nose. “He’s just gonna give me some lecture about how Keith is god’s perfect little gift to humanity, and I’ve gotta learn to work with him if I’m gonna be Sales manager, and blah blah blah.”

“That…does kind of sound like him, yeah.” Hunk huffed a laugh. “But…I also know he cares about you, Lance. You’re like family to him. If something’s wrong, he’d wanna know.”

“Family,” Lance grumbled, anger creeping back up his throat. “Right. He cares so much, he hasn’t even promoted me yet.”

“Buddy…” Hunk trailed off, fidgeting nervously for a moment before drawing a sharp breath through his nose. “Have you considered that it might have something to do with you and Keith?”

Lance didn’t want to hear this. He really, really didn’t want to hear this, but his mouth moved of its own volition. “What do you mean?”

“Like - you know.” Hunk sounded nervous again, which in turn immediately set Lance on edge. Hooray, anxiety. “What if he’s waiting until you can get along with Keith? Like…some kind of test.”

The sound of Lance’s stool against polished marble was enough to draw even Romelle’s attention. She blinked at him from across the room as he stood, averting her gaze immediately when he scowled at her.

“I’ve worked here for seven years, Hunk. I’d say that’s a pretty sick idea of a test.”

“Lance, I didn’t mean-”

“I’m tired,” Lance cut in, longing suddenly for his warm sheets and the large tub of Rocky Road waiting for him in the freezer. “Think I’m gonna call it a night.”

“Right.” Hunk sounded so crestfallen that Lance almost wanted to apologize - but what the hell was he even supposed to be apologizing for? It wasn’t like any of this was his fault.

Fucking. Keith.

Lance nearly sent the coat rack flying as he yanked his jacket off of it. “I’ll see you Monday, man.”

His last image of Wimbleton-Smythe’s that day was that of his best friend, sitting at the jewelry counter and gazing pensively into space.

…

Dear Friend,

I think I might be losing my mind. The closer we are to meeting, the less I can think about anything else. I zoned out selling to a customer yesterday because she recited that one Shelley quote you really like (don’t ask why. Rich customers, man.) It was the one about…uh…something something pride and wisdom?

…Is me not being able to recite Mary Shelley at our date a dealbreaker? Because - say the word. I will study the fuck up. Stand on the table and recite that shit to you like in Dead Poet’s Society.

Nope. That’s definitely not a romance. Great. Now I’m sad.

So I’m clearly a rambling, idiotic mess. Please ignore me. I’m just - so nervous to meet you. It’s insane. It’s insane, right? We’ve been talking for months. I feel like I know you like the back of my own hand - hell, better. So why am I so…this? Every time I think about seeing you, it’s like there’s this whole family of butterflies taking flight inside me, and I can barely think or move or function until they’ve settled down. And the closer we get to meeting, they just…don’t settle. The butterflies, I mean. They make me feel like I’m floating.

You make me feel like I’m floating, Dear Friend. The very thought of you makes me feel giddy and bubbly - and we haven’t even met.

It’s funny what they say, you know. About falling for a person. Because falling seems the wrong word.

No.

I’ve been floating ever since I met you, love - and I don’t think I ever want to touch ground.

Until next time,

Your Friend

—

Dear Friend -

It might surprise you to hear this, but I never considered myself much of a romantic.

I’ve read a lot of the greats, as you know, and way more of the trash than I care to admit. It’s…it’s a lot. I even got library cards to three separate counties just to read all the bullshit romance they could offer. Even then, I knew there was a definite line between the way love operated in the books and the way it happened in real life.

In real life, there was no fuzzy pink filter over every interaction. No one shows up with a white horse hitched to an old fashioned sleigh at Christmas. People definitely don’t stay together despite all odds. It just doesn’t work like that, you know? That’s what makes the books so easy to digest and fun. It’s nice to pretend, so long as you remember they shelve these things under Fiction for a reason.

But then…then we started talking and…god. I really started to see things a little pinker around the edges.

Suddenly, that kind of doesn’t seem so far-fetched. And honestly?

That scares the shit out of me.

But then I started thinking…maybe the authors of those books know something the rest of us don’t, and if we’re really lucky, we get the chance to find out it’s not so fictional after all.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: if you feel like you’re floating too, I’ll meet you on Cloud 9.

See you soon.

Your Friend

…

Lance was a wreck.

He had been all day - just a fluttery, nervous trainwreck of a human being. He’d been holding it together the best he could, but as the hours crawled along at a snail’s pace, Lance had slowly begun to unravel. He’d fumbled order after order, screwed up with customer after customer…he’d even spilled an entire bottle of sampler perfume all over one of his regulars because his stupid shaking hands hadn’t screwed the lid back on right. He’d tried to take breaks, regulate his breathing, and had even made it a point to avoid Keith at all costs - but nothing quelled his growing apprehension.

Not even the surprise arrival of Coran’s niece, Allura Dupont.

Although it’d been a few months since her last visit to the city, Allura had greeted Lance like an old friend. She’d wrapped him in a hug, broken only when Keith shoved past the two of them with a box of supplies, grumbling like an asshole when Lance threw a pointed “excuse you” in his direction.

Apparently, the look on Lance’s face must’ve been funny, because Allura sniggered. “Friend of yours, I take it?”

“Hah hah,” Lance grumbled, hoping Keith would feel the metaphorical daggers he was glaring into his back. Die. Die. “The worst.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen him around before.” She still sounded amused, which earned her a heated glare.

“He’s new.”

“Oh?”

Her eyes held a strange sparkle that had Lance’s nose wrinkling. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like-” Lance imitated her expression, relaxing a little when she burst into laughter. “Like that, you weirdo,” he muttered, a smile tugging at his lips. It was…sort of really, really hard to stay annoyed at Allura. “You’re doing a whole thing with your face.”

“I’m not trying to!”

“Ah!” Lance threw a ribbon at her, which fluttered pathetically to the counter an inch away from his hand. “Out with it.”

“Alright, alright! It’s just…well. He’s rather handsome, isn’t he?”

“Oh my god.”

“What!”

“He’s not handsome - he’s a dick.”

“And? One can possess an…unsavory character and still be easy on the eyes.”

“Unsavory character. Jesus Christ.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know!”

“I can’t believe this,” he grumbled, setting to work cutting and curling a reel of red velvet ribbon. They didn’t need more ribbon cut, per sé, but - whatever. He needed something to do with his hands. “The guy is the bane of my existence for weeks and you come in here crushing on him.”

“I’m not!”

He threw her a flat look. “Trust me. The guy is bad news.”

“Okay, well…how about some good news then?” The sparkle was back in her eyes as she leaned across the counter. “How have things been with…you know?” She glanced around the store, and the tips of Lance’s ears blazed with heat even before she turned back to level him a shit-eating grin. “Your dear friend?”

Lance’s stomach tied itself in knots. “They’re good.”

She frowned. Lance pretended to ignore her as he curled a too-short piece of ribbon. “Just good?”

“Uh, well.” His voice cracked slightly. “We’re…meeting?”

“Oh.” Allura blinked, reeling away from him in surprise before clapping her hands together. “Oh! Well, Lance, that’s brilliant! When?”

“Hmm.” Lance swallowed. Was breathing this quickly normal?

Probably not…yeah. No. This wasn’t normal.

“Tonight?”

“Tonight?!”

“Mhmm.”

“Lance.” A hand fell over his, effectively stilling his manic ribbon-work. He hadn’t even noticed how hard his hands had been shaking until she squeezed them. “This is wonderful!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” She clicked her tongue, squeezing his hands again and tucking his hair behind his ear. “You poor thing. You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“Uh - yeah. I’m a little terrified,” he hissed, settling the scissors onto the counter. “It’s like - what if I get there and he thinks I’m annoying? Or I spill my wine on him, or sneeze in his face, or drop my-”

“Do you normally make a habit out of sneezing in people’s faces?”

She was smiling again - but this was more intimate than before, all soft and sympathetic and fond.

“You know what I mean,” he groaned, squeezing her hand. “I just…I can’t screw this up, Allura.”

“Oh my god.” Her smile softened further, her eyebrows creeping upward in gentle surprise. “You’re in love with him.”

Lance gaped at her. “I-”

“Aren’t you?”

His jaw worked. “Yeah.” It left him as a shuddery exhale. “Yeah, I’m - I am, but I’m afraid we’ll meet and he won’t…”

Like me, he wanted to say. Couldn’t say.

Allura laid a palm against his cheek, her touch grounding and tender. “He’ll love you, Lance,” she whispered, as if she’d read his mind. She had a weird knack for that. “I promise.”

Lost for words, Lance nodded, and her smile turned brilliant. “You’re quite impossible not to love, you know.”

He smiled back, a little bashful, and opened his mouth to return the compliment. Instead, he was interrupted by an alarming bang as Keith - much like his third cousin, the proverbial bull in the china shop - stomped his way into the main room with enough force to rattle the shelves. When he glanced up to find both Lance and Allura looking at him (though most likely with very different expressions), he just gave Lance that pinchy, sour-lemon face he so desperately wished he could punch.

“Flirting on the clock?” he asked, letting the box he was carrying settle on the counter with an indelicate rattle.

He should have just told Keith to fuck off. Really, he should. It would have been so simple - two words, nice and succinct. Fuck. Off. And they’d have been done with it.

But he really wasn’t in the mood for Keith, and it really wasn’t the day to piss him off, so instead…he made shit worse.

Like - monumentally worse.

“See?” Lance seethed, nodding towards Keith as he addressed Allura. “What’d I tell you?”

Keith’s eyes, which had been narrowed in irritation, definitely darkened at that.

“Ah, Lance,” Allura tried, reaching for his hand. “Perhaps we could continue this elsewhere?”

“Oh no.” Keith’s voice had never sounded so cold. “Don’t mind me. I’d love to hear what he was saying.”

Lance scoffed. “Would you?” he retorted, sarcasm thick on his tongue.

“Yeah. I would.”

“Lance-”

“Well, in that case.” Lance tugged his hand out of Allura’s and threw Keith a snide smile. “We were just chatting about how fun you are to work with.”

“Because you’re such a picnic yourself,” Keith snapped back. “The difference being that I don’t talk shit about you to every person I meet.”

“Yeah? Well maybe if you were capable of listening to anybody but yourself, I could bitch to you about you. Would that be better?”

“At least it would be to my face, instead of behind my back like a coward!”

And…okay. Okay, fine. Maybe Asshole Kogane over here did have a point, but - what the fuck did he expect Lance to do?

"Right! Because you're so easy to talk to!"

“I am, when I’m not talking to self-absorbed dickheads like you!”

"Holy shit, look who's talking!" Lance was seeing red. He was distantly aware that Allura was still standing there, staring on in horror…but he couldn't find it in himself to care anymore. Not about Allura, not about work, and especially not about Keith. "You're so far up your own ass you can't even-"

"Mister McClain!"

Coran’s voice made Lance jump so hard, he swore his soul nearly left his body. Embarrassment warmed his cheeks as the red haze cleared from his vision, leaving cold reality in its wake.

They’d been caught arguing in the back room in the middle of the workday - no. That wasn’t quite right. He’d been caught.

He swallowed down a surge of mortification and anger. “Sir?”

Keen eyes - more stern than Lance had ever seen them - flicked between Keith and Lance before ultimately settling on the latter. “My office, Mister McClain.”

Well - that didn’t bode well. In seven years, Lance had never been commanded into Coran’s office. It was always “If you’ll accompany me to my office, dear boy,” and only because Coran couldn’t unlock his phone or needed a second opinion on stock.

But this? Yeah. Lance was definitely in the shitter.

Head hung, he followed Coran out of the back room, ignoring Allura’s sympathetic wince and Keith’s furrowed brows. Part of him wished he’d flipped Keith the bird or something - might as well, if he was getting fired - but shame had momentarily sapped him of all fight.

Up the spiral staircase they went, Lance trudging despondently along as if headed to his own funeral…and then Coran was ushering him into his office.

The door shut behind him with a thud, and Lance swallowed another wave of anxiety.

“Sir-”

“Sit, Lance. Please.”

He did as he was told, glumly awaiting the verdict as he watched Coran settle into the desk chair across from him. What was worse - he had to watch the laugh lines around Coran’s eyes droop in what almost looked like defeat.

He’d been braced for a lecture, but the tone he got instead was much worse. Coran wasn’t angry; he was disappointed.

“My boy,” he began, rubbing the bridge of his thin nose. “Would you care to explain what any of that was?”

Lance shifted. “I - just…a misunderstanding with Kogane, Sir.”

It won’t happen again, he wanted to add - but his mouth wouldn’t form the words. It was a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep.

Coran eyed him as if he’d heard the words regardless, which made Lance’s choice to swallow them loud and clear. “Not the first, I’ve been told. Hunk informed me that you had another such altercation just the other day.”

All Lance could imagine was a breathless little, "oh," as if someone had kicked him in the stomach, which - wow. Hunk might as well have done.

Thanks a bunch, buddy.

“I’ve seen you handle customers meaner than rattlesnakes and still walk home with a smile, Lance," Coran continued, his voice growing even softer. "What on earth is the issue between you and Keith?”

"I don't know." His voice cracked around words he hadn't meant to say. He wanted to tell Coran he'd be more professional, that this wasn't like him…but the truth clambered out of his throat before he could stop it. "I think he just hates me."

Good old Coran - at least he didn’t jump straight to denying that it could be so. He only frowned thoughtfully and tugged at one end of his mustache. “And what led you to that conclusion?”

With a tired sigh, Lance wound his arms around himself and shrugged. "Dunno. Just feel like every time I open my mouth I say the wrong thing, and he gets pissed, and then I'm pissed, and…"

Don't cry, don't you dare cry.

He took a shuddering breath. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."

“Come now - surely it can’t be all that bad. You’re a master of charm and charisma!” Coran leaned forward and smiled, patting him warmly, if a little awkwardly, on the shoulder. “Keith may be a bit prickly, but he’s got the makings of greatness in there. If you’d only just-”

“Greatness?” Once more, red tinted Lance’s vision - or was it green, this time? He shook Coran’s hand from his shoulder. “Coran, the guy’s a grade-A asshole! What the hell do you expect me to do?”

The smile Coran gave him was worn and tired. “I was…quite hoping you might tell me, actually.” He sat forward, his smile turning kind as he folded his hands together and laid them atop his desk. “How can I help you, Lance?”

“Fire Keith.”

It left him before he could think any better of it. Coran’s eyes widened in surprise, and Lance scrambled to explain. “I can’t…” Inhale. Exhale. “I can’t work with him, Coran.”

“My boy…” Clearly stunned, Coran sat back in his chair. “Mister Kogane is a valuable asset, I cannot just-”

“It’s either him or me.” Again, the words left him as if he were a spectator outside his own body as someone else took the reins…only this time, Lance thought, good. He’d suffered weeks of hostility - it was about time he stood up for himself.

When Coran just blinked at him, his mouth slightly agape, Lance shrugged. “I can’t work with him, Coran,” he reiterated, conviction creeping into his voice. “This isn’t working.”

“Ah.”

Lance swallowed thickly. “Are you gonna help, or not?”

He’d known the answer before he’d even asked - known from the remorseful set of Coran’s brow and the regret shining in his eyes. “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m afraid I cannot give you this.”

Wow.

Just…wow.

Seven years of loyalty - of busting his ass and showing up on time and full dedication - and he couldn’t do it? Lance never asked for anything, and now the one favor he needed…nothing.

“Okay.” Lance nodded once before giving the armrests a pat of finality and standing. “Then I quit.”

Coran’s expression morphed into one of pure horror. “Lance-”

“It’s cool!” Nothing about it was remotely cool. Lance’s fingers shook as they fumbled with his nametag. “And I sincerely,” he added, finally unpinning the stupid thing and waving it in his hand as he spoke, “hope Keith turns out to be the prodigy you think he is.”

Some unintelligible noise left Coran’s mouth, as if he wanted to speak but had no idea what to say. Not that Lance cared to hear it, anyways. Before Coran could find his way to words, Lance had laid the pin on his desk and was storming out of the office and back down the spiral staircase.

Keith waited for him at the bottom, chewing at his lip and looking - well. If Lance didn’t know any better, he’d almost say the guy looked nervous.

“What happened?” he demanded, his thick brows furrowed.

Unable and unwilling to hold his eyes, Lance shrugged. “Nothing you need to worry about,” he grumbled, his jaw tight. He was distantly aware that every employee’s eye was on him as he weaved through customers and towards the coat rack by the door.

It was…awful. Mortifying. A walk of shame he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy - not even the bull-headed employee trailing close behind him.

“The hell is your problem?” Lance had finally reached the coats - almost home free - but then there was a hand around his elbow, and Keith stepped into view.

“I’m just trying to make sure you weren’t-”

“Fired?” Lance finished, removing his coat from its hanger so aggressively that the whole rack nearly toppled. “No,” he laughed bitterly, “I wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Keith exhaled, as if he were relieved. “Good.”

For whatever reason, the words bothered Lance more than they should have. “Why do you care, anyways?”

You should be happy. You won, after all.

He was rewarded with Keith’s signature scowl. “You know I don’t actually hate you, right? Like - I’d feel like shit if I got you fired.”

Lance laughed again, cold and harsh. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore,” he remarked, finishing the last button on his coat and reaching for his scarf. “Because I just quit.”

For a gratifying second, Keith seemed to have been struck speechless.

“…What?”

In the time it’d taken him to find the word - good talk Keith, advanced stuff - Lance had already wound his scarf around his neck. “Yep. Figure that should make you pretty happy, huh?”

“Wh - no!” Keith scrambled after him as he threw the door open and stepped down onto snowy steps. “Lance!”

He froze with his back to Keith, heaving a sigh as he waited to hear whatever the guy had to say.

When Keith spoke, his voice was a lot smaller than Lance had ever heard it. “I didn’t…this isn’t what I wanted.”

Without turning, Lance smiled ruefully up at the snow flurries falling across his face. “Yeah, well. That makes two of us.”

…

What should have been a major shift in his world - something as earth-shaking as leaving his very beloved job of nearly a decade - was actually surprisingly easy to push to the back of his mind. It really came down to one simple truth: nothing much mattered to Lance anymore outside of Dear Friend. He knew how to chase a good thing when it landed in his lap - hell, that was how he’d wound up selling for Coran in the first place - and right now, as it always truly had been, Lance’s priority needed to be his own heart.

The sight of the Lelys Cafe through a quiet drift of snow was straight out of a movie. He’d never been to this part of town, but he definitely should have. The cafe sat at the intersection of two relatively empty streets, lit by strings of white lights winding through the caged trees. The sidewalks were all brick, and every business had window boxes and planters flush with winter greenery. The glow from the crosshatched cafe windows made the whole scene idyllic and warm in a way that seemed almost dreamlike.

Not that he was surprised, but damn - Dear Friend sure knew how to pick a place.

Pretty as it was, he could only stand so long admiring the picturesque setting before he had to…to…(what was that Macbeth line Dear Friend liked to use? Screw his courage with a stick? Or something?)

…Man up. Whatever.

It was time.

Lance hunkered down into the snow-dusted collar of his coat and approached the cafe.

He’d never felt the sensation of his own heartbeat in his throat before. It was like every molecule in his body was vibrating so hard he might just shake apart into a thousand little bits before he’d even reached the front door. He wanted to throw up, or scream, or dance, or run, or hide.

Instead, he decided he’d allow himself one small luxury: getting his first glimpse of the person he’d fallen for before they could see him. If he could get the initial shock out of the way, he could play it off much cooler when he actually approached the guy.

At least, that was what he’d figured. But then Lance looked inside, and all thoughts of playing it cool were out the fucking window. His whole world ground to a halt, his breath catching in his chest as he stared at the impossible nightmare before him.

It couldn’t be. He refused to believe what he was seeing.

Framed by the glistening snow that’d settled along the windowsill, equipped - as promised - with a scarlet rose peeking out from the pages of a book, was none other than Keith Kogane.

He was seated at a table off to the right, obvious from any doorway but still intimate enough that any conversation would stay relatively private. He looked good - Lance could admit that. His long hair was neatly bundled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, his shirt was the right kind of fiery scarlet to complement the rose, and the black vest and tie he wore made him look like a model. He was reading Pride and Prejudice, because of course he was, but there was something about the fingerless black gloves cradling that book, a symbol of everything Dear Friend was in Lance’s mind, that made him see stars - and not in a good way, either. It was like Keith was tarnishing Lance’s fantasy with all his…his…Keithness.

And how dare he? How. Fucking. Dare he?

That, more than anything else, drove the boiling rage that tugged Lance into the Lelys.

In retrospect, he should have stayed away - left Keith then and there to sit alone in the warm glow of the hearth fire. He should’ve gone home, opened a cheap bottle of wine, and drank until he’d forgotten all about Dear Friend.

But instead, Lance felt as if he were trapped in a waking nightmare, unable to reconcile the idea of the man he’d fallen in love with with the sight of a person he so strongly despised. It just…couldn’t be happening. There was no way it was real, no way Keith was…was…

Feeling equal parts enraged and sick, Lance pushed through the door of the Lelys. He waved off the poor hostess, ignoring her chipper greeting as he stared with single-minded focus across the room. He’d almost expected (hoped, maybe) that Keith might have magically vanished by the time Lance had stepped through the door, as if he were only a product of Lance’s anxious psyche - but there he was, still sitting in Dear Friend’s spot, holding Dear Friend’s book and Dear Friend’s rose.

He hadn’t noticed Lance yet, but that was just fine. Lance was all too happy to make his presence known.

The dining couples seated at the surrounding tables startled as Lance stomped by, happily driving any romance right out of the fucking air. Yeah, that’s right, bitch, he thought, wrinkling his nose at an older woman who’d fixed him with a hearty glare. It’s about to get all fucked up in here.

When Lance finally reached Keith’s table, he dropped into the empty chair with such a loud thud that Keith nearly jumped out of his skin.

Which kind of…felt like a win.

“Hi,” he grinned, knowing there wasn’t a shred of kindness in the smile. “This seat free?”

Keith’s face went ashen, then his eyes narrowed dangerously even as his cheeks burned. “No. It’s not.”

"Ooh. Touchy." Lance flagged down a waiter, returning his attention to Keith as soon as he'd caught someone's eye. "Waiting on someone?"

Keith ignored him, pulling his book closer to his chest like a shield. “What the hell do you want, Lance? Look, I’m - I’m sorry about today, I’ll talk to Coran, but now is really not the time, okay?”

"Nah, it's all good, man! Bygones are…bye-gones, and all that."

The waiter who had scurried over set silverware and a spare wine glass in front of Lance - which, coincidentally, had been exactly what he'd wanted.

“He’s just leaving,” Keith snapped at the poor guy, who, frowning, went to take the glass back.

"Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa!" Lance's fingers closed around the stem, inadvertently wrapping around the waiter's fingers like an awkward version of that one scene from the Lady and the Tramp. "Just a glass!"

Without letting go of the glass (or of the waiter, who was inadvertently trapped in this awful showdown) Lance turned back to Keith. "One drink, and then I'm gone."

Keith glanced between the waiter, then Lance, then curtly nodded. His face was still bright red, and Lance got the sense that his acceptance was more about getting people to stop staring at them than it was his willingness to entertain Lance’s company.

As soon as they were alone, Keith turned his full, hard stare back to Lance. “I’ll ask again - what are you doing?”

Lance frowned, pretending to be taken aback as he helped himself to wine until his glass was practically brimming over. “What? Can’t a guy enjoy a drink with his ex-coworker?”

“No,” Keith said bluntly. “And you know it. So just say what you want to say and go.”

“Oof. Tough audience,” Lance laughed, throwing back his wine glass and chugging.

He wasn’t proud, per sé - but he returned it to the table nearly empty.

“I guess I was just…in the neighborhood, and wanted to say congrats, is all.”

Keith’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “On what?”

“Well, you know.” Lance gestured absently in Keith’s direction. “Now that I’m out of the way, promotion’s practically all yours.”

Keith scoffed, letting his book drop to the table so he could cross his arms across his chest in typical Keith pose. “I don’t fucking believe this. I don’t want the promotion, asshole! I never did! I hate talking to customers, what is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” As if he couldn’t help but be pulled into Keith’s shitty orbit, Lance leaned forward. “What’s wrong with you?” he retorted, not caring that he was getting a little loud. “If you hate talking to people so much, why the fuck would you take a sales job?”

“Because I needed a job, and even if I hate it, I’m good at it. Did it seriously never occur to you that I spent most of my time doing inventory for a reason? No, of course not, because you were convinced from day fucking one that I was out to get you, and I still don’t know why! Unless you really were that offended by me flirting that it turned into a full-blown grudge.” Keith threw up his hands, narrowly missing the rim of his own wine glass. “And now you’ve come all the way out here to - what - get, like, revenge? By fucking up my date?”

“A-ha!” Lance practically yelled, slamming a hand onto the table. “So it is a date!”

He wasn’t sure why he said it. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know Keith was waiting on - well, him, though by no stretch of the imagination was Lance going to tell him that. Oh, no. He was taking this secret to his fucking grave, and burning every one of Dear Friend’s letters for good measure.

No, Lance was painfully aware that Keith was out on a date, but hearing him admit it - seeing the splotchy red that spread across his face - was almost as intoxicatingly gratifying as it was infuriatingly beautiful.

What he hadn’t really expected was the glimmer of hurt behind the embering rage, which for a brief moment felt something like a kick to the stomach - but Lance shook it off, determined to stand his ground.

No. Keith wasn’t winning this one. There was no way Lance was letting him get away with this - with taking both his job and Dear Friend from him - so easily.

“That hard to imagine, huh,” Keith murmured, looking askance as his fists clenched in his own shirt. “But yes. So if you’re done being a giant dick, maybe get the hell out of his seat. Don’t think it sends a great message if he shows up and I’m sitting with some other guy.”

“What’s he like?” The wine was hitting already, Lance was sure of it. He couldn’t fathom why else he’d asked. “Your date?”

“None of your business” Keith countered. “So - bye.”

“Come on - what makes him so special? One little detail and I’ll leave.”

“Fine.” Keith’s eyes narrowed and grew cold. “You wanna know what makes him so great? He isn’t you.”

That…hurt way more than anything Lance had expected Keith to throw at him. It knocked the wind out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and brittle.

He is me, Lance wanted to say. It’s me. I’m Dear Friend.

He’d wanted to say those words for so long - had pictured himself saying them in this very spot for weeks - but now everything was wrong, and Lance knew he’d never get the chance.

Instead he stood, lips pressed together in a tight line as his chair screeched across the floor. “You know, Keith?” he started, voice breaking. “For his sake, I sincerely hope he never shows.”

It took Keith a few moments of almost baffled silence to formulate a reply. When he did, it might as well have been poison made speech.

“Fuck you, Lance.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t the fairytale romance he’d spent months imagining, it wasn’t his happily ever after. It was just…some sort of sick joke the universe had decided to play on him, and Lance’s broken heart was the punchline.

You knew it was too good to be true. It was all gonna fall apart eventually.

Suddenly feeling sick, Lance nodded and stepped away from the table. “Bye, Keith.”

He was met with silence as Keith stared resolutely off towards the fireplace. The low glow of the flames almost seemed to magnify the damage Lance had caused, illuminating the wet shine to Keith’s eyes and darkening the terse line of his jaw.

If you feel like you’re floating too, Dear Friend’s letter had said - Keith’s letter had said - I’ll meet you on Cloud 9.

Somewhere off towards the bar, a lone violin began to play, its song poignant and searching.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

I’m sorry, Lance wanted to say, but the words eluded him as swiftly as the plaintive melody that danced upon the air. For months he’d had Dear Friend, for months they’d been tethered together as they floated into one another’s orbit.

Now Lance had crashed straight to the ground, left to wander the wreckage alone while he mourned something that had never really existed at all.

Chapter Text

Morning was such an…introspective time of day.

Things tended to be easier to ignore at night, when mistakes could be hidden away under the cover of darkness. The night made people brave, made emotions wild and consequences seem…well. Inconsequential.

Morning was a different story.

Things always looked different in the morning, when the harsh light of day highlighted every crack and flaw in the things that had seemed so sure the night before. The morning dragged those things into stark reality, leaving no room to hide as Lady Consequence paid a visit.

Lance had endured three mornings since the cafe, and Lady Consequence had whooped his ass on every single one. She’d brought her friends around, too - those shitty bitches Guilt and Regret and Heartbreak, and then they’d brought their crappy boyfriend Self-Loathing, and-

Whatever. The short of it was: Lance had fucked up. He’d fucked up real, real bad.

Keith was Dear Friend. Grumpy, moody, snarky Keith was sweet, charming, shy Dear Friend. As much as it fucked with his head - as much as the thought wouldn’t leave his brain no matter how many times he pinched himself - that was the truth.

He’d spent months of his life falling for a guy who wanted nothing to do with him.

It was almost funny how nervous he’d been before the Lelys. He’d been so worried about what Dear Friend would think of him when they met - but he’d never considered the option that Dear Friend might already hate his guts. Lance had been doomed from the start.

They’d been doomed from the start.

…Or had they? They’d been just fine when they were Lance and Dear Friend, so why were Lance and Keith such a monumental disaster? Lance loved Dear Friend, so shouldn’t that mean…

Where had they gone so wrong?

When he’d met Keith, the guy had pushed all the wrong buttons - everything that twisted a screw into his major insecurities - and Lance had lashed out. Keith had countered. Lance had countered back. Every day they worked together was either spent avoiding each other or bickering.

But then, it wasn’t as if Lance had ever actually tried to get along with him after the initial clash.

Sure, Keith had been abrasive and rude at times, but…hadn’t Lance sort of ensured that? They’d fallen into a cycle of pissing each other off that Lance had just accepted without a second thought.

Now, pouring over Dear Friend’s old letters for hours on end, Lance ached with regret. He missed Dear Friend, but most importantly, he longed to make things right by Keith, to clear the air between them and start anew - to see if he could recognize his dear friend in his surly coworker.

Which was how he found himself back at Wimbleton-Smythe’s three days after the Lelys, shaking snow out of his hair as the bell chimed above his head.

It was Allura who was manning the front, her bright customer service smile falling when she caught sight of him. She didn’t even work there, but Lance would be lying if he said her gentle presence wasn’t a relief. He didn’t know if he could handle the snuggly aggression of a Hunk-brand lecture right about then.

“Lance,” Allura greeted as she stepped from behind the counter. “You’re looking…”

“Cute, right?” he joked, fully aware that he hadn’t even brushed his hair before he’d bolted from his house. “Hey - where’s Keith?”

Allura blinked at him, her surprise - and, if he knew her at all - curiosity growing by the second. “I haven’t seen him in days. They were short-staffed, so Uncle asked me to come in and help.”

Fuck - what did that mean? “In - in days? What, like you haven’t seen him at all this week?”

“I’m afraid not, I - Lance, what’s this all about? You look dreadful. Like you haven’t slept in a week.”

For a moment, he stood and stared at her as he weighed his options. He had to find Keith, but on the other hand, Allura was the kindest, most patient person he’d ever met, and if anyone could help…

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he murmured.

Immediately, her entire demeanor changed and she was all business. She hurried forward to take his hand in hers, warm and grounding. “Where shall we go?”

Lance nodded his head towards the back, guiding her to the break room and shutting the door behind them. As soon as it clicked, he slumped against it with a sigh.

“I fucked up bad, Allura.”

Allura settled herself primly on the singular couch and patted the spot next to her. “Let’s hear it.”

“Uh, so -” Lance sank onto the cushion beside her. “I’ll rip the bandaid right off, I guess, uh…Keith is Dear Friend.”

Sometimes it seemed impossible that Allura and Coran were actually related - that was, until times like these when her hands flew to cover her mouth in a theatrical display of shock. Lance might have teased her for it if his own reaction to the news hadn’t been similarly extra.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Lance. That is…certainly a predicament.”

“Yeah, that’s putting it nicely.” Lance ran his hands over his face. “I was such an asshole to him when I found out, so I came here to make things right and now he isn’t here and - fuck, this is a mess.”

“Well, how did Keith react when he found out?”

“Uh…well…” His voice rising in pitch, Lance nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “He kind of…doesn’t know?”

Allura frowned. “What do you mean, ‘He doesn’t know?’ What happened?”

“I was stupid, that’s what.” Lance let his head fall into his hands. “I got to the cafe, and Dear Friend told me he’d be waiting with a rose and a book, and…it was Keith.” The image of Keith sitting by the fire - rosy-cheeked and beautiful - returned unbidden to his mind. “I freaked out. I went in and made a scene and…Jesus, Allura, I told him I hoped his date never showed up.”

There was a moment of silence during which Lance was afraid to peek between his fingers, too ashamed to see whatever look Allura was giving him. When he finally inhaled to explain himself further, it was cut off by a swift smack to his bicep.

“Ow,” he protested, pouting at her. Sure enough, Allura’s brows were set sternly, but she immediately relaxed into a smile and patted the spot she’d just slapped.

“You deserved that,” she said, not unkindly. “But you’re not a bad person, and believe it or not, neither is Keith. You two are the definition of oil and water the way you clash - practically an oil spill at sea - but I do think you can have another go at things if you’re willing to look below the surface. That, and apologize.”

“Another go,” Lance grumbled, still rubbing at his arm. “Yeah right. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bite my head off.”

Allura’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “He may bite Lance’s head off…but what about Dear Friend’s?”

The second her words sank in, Lance leapt off the couch. “Wh - no! Fuck no! Allura, he hates me. What the hell is he gonna do when he finds out I'm Dear Friend?”

“Likely melt down much the way you are, at first…but after that wears off, I suspect he’ll reevaluate at least a bit. And who knows? The result may be in your favor.” She tilted her head, giving him her best, most manipulative smile. “At worst, you’ve nothing to lose, right?”

Winding his arms around himself, Lance swallowed thickly. “I can't,” he insisted, his heart rate skyrocketing as his breath quickened. “You didn't see the way he looked at me, I can't - he wouldn't-”

In another moment, his attempt at self-soothing was replaced by a stronger, much more calming hug. Lance let his face be tucked into Allura’s shoulder, the sweet strawberry smell of her shampoo helping to settle him as much as her embrace.

“You’re being very stubborn and very silly, Lance. When last we spoke, you were head over heels for Dear Friend. Has that really changed?”

“I don’t know,” he moaned. “Everything’s just so confusing.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” She stroked a hand through his hair. “If there’s one thing the Lance McClain I know is good at, it’s following his heart. Why else are you here, asking after Keith?”

“Because I - I…”

Fuck. Shit.

“I love him,” he admitted quietly. “I love Dear Friend, which means I love Keith, and I can’t - I can’t lose what we have.”

Allura pulled away to cup his cheek and fix him with a meaningful look. “If you don’t tell him, you’ve already lost it.”

Damn her. Damn her and her knack for always being right - although if Lance was being honest with himself, this was exactly what he’d needed.

“I will try. I promise. But first…I want him to like me for me,” he realized. “For Lance. Not for Dear Friend. And then maybe when we’re both ready…”

“That’s the spirit!” She gave his cheek a pat and smiled with her whole body, just like her uncle.

Speaking of Coran…

Lance wound his hands in his hair and groaned. “God, Allura. Why the fuck did I quit?” How had he managed to lose everything good in his life in the span of one goddam day? It was almost impressive. “I was so stupid - I love this job! What the hell was I thinking?”

Allura, the absolute demon, just laughed.

“I’m having a mental breakdown,” Lance grumbled. “And you’re laughing.”

“Oh, Lance. My uncle has been beside himself since you left. Just go ask him to come back; he’ll accept you in a heartbeat.”

“You think so?” Lance asked, his heart leaping into his throat. “But I…I just left.”

“You did,” she agreed, “and he was devastated. I’m fairly certain you’re the son he never had, which means you could likely get away with all manner of sins, just as I have.”

“Says the actual angel,” Lance snorted - and then, when he’d sobered, “Okay. I’ll talk to him.”

“Good.” Allura reached up to tidy his hair, stepping back to appraise him from head to toe, then nodded. “That will do. And once you’re done with my uncle, you’re going to find Keith even if you have to knock on every door in the city.”

“Hopefully Coran actually knows where he is. Should save me a few knocks.”

“Lance.” Allura gave him a flat look.

“What?”

“I was being facetious. You’ve been his penpal for months…as in, the sort that mails each other letters. To their home addresses.”

“I know that, I just mean - do you think he's home? He never misses work.”

Allura shrugged, pushing him towards the door. “I couldn’t say, but you’re wasting time talking to me about it. The sooner you get your job back, the sooner I can go back to sleeping in instead of helping out around here. My motivations are purely selfish and every moment you drag your feet comes between me and my beauty rest.”

“Oh my god. And here I thought you actually liked me,” Lance sniggered, caught off-guard by the unexpected joke. “Alright, princess, I'm going. Hold onto your crown.”

“Chop chop!” Allura giggled. “True love - and gainful employment - waits for no one.”

…

Talking to Coran had been surprisingly painless.

Allura had been entirely right - which on one hand sucked, because Lance was totally going to have to admit that to her, and she was definitely the type to say ‘I told you so’ and hold it over his head forever and ever.

On the other hand…Lance had his job back.

Coran had nearly spontaneously combusted when Lance had begged to return: wrapping Lance into a hug before he was even done asking, clapping him on the back, and telling him to come in the next day. That…had been it, really.

Of course, he’d also asked about Keith. He’d apparently been out sick all week, which was news that had Lance practically flying out the door and to the nearest grocery store before he’d remembered to say goodbye to Hunk and Allura.

Whatever. He’d see them tomorrow. The important thing was getting to Keith before he could lose his nerve - and Keith - forever.

So here he was. Standing outside Keith Kogane’s door equipped with a container of vanilla ice cream and zero plan. Awesome. No going back now, he supposed.

Lance’s heart thundered as he raised a fist and knocked.

It took a while, but eventually he heard the chain slide in the lock, and the door creaked open a crack, revealing one red-rimmed indigo eye. As soon as Keith saw him, Lance could tell he was scowling, even if he couldn’t see his whole face.

“Lance,” he said, his voice as harsh and raspy as a desert storm. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I come in peace,” Lance blurted, holding his hands up as if that was supposed to convince Keith. “I just wanna talk.”

Keith’s one eye made it clear he didn’t believe that for a second. “No thanks. Bye.”

“Wait, Kei - FUCK!”

“Lance!” Keith accused, finally sliding the lock off and opening the door completely to examine Lance’s pancaked fingers. In retrospect, using them to keep the door from shutting hadn’t been his brightest move, but look, he’d been desperate, okay? “What the fuck?”

“Pain,” Lance wheezed, his voice operating at a pitch only dogs could hear. “Bad.”

“Ugh.” Keith tried to sigh, but it just turned into a snuffly huff. He grabbed Lance’s coat sleeve to pull him inside and shut the door behind them both.

Dragging Lance down the narrow hallway to a pitifully small kitchen, he pushed Lance into the only chair.

“Ice,” he said, “then you leave.”

“Roger that.” As much as Lance wanted to insist on staying - to insist that they needed to talk - something told him that Keith would kick him out on his ass if he didn’t play it cool.

Which, let it be known, was very hard to do while in pain. He cradled his limp hand close to his chest and sucked his lower lip between his teeth as he examined his purple fingers.

“That’s not finger color,” he lamented as he poked one. “Ow.”

“Don’t stick your fingers in people’s door frames.” Keith passed him a dish towel full of ice cubes, then did his best to position himself as far away from Lance as possible: a span of about five feet in his little cubicle of a kitchen.

If this had been a few days ago, Lance might have found some way to turn the blame back on Keith. Instead, he found himself smiling sheepishly as he touched the ice to his bruising hand. "That's…probably good advice."

Keith seemed like he’d been expecting an argument, if his confused frown was any indication. “Why are you even here sticking your hand in my door in the first place?”

“Uh - that’s a fair question I guess,” Lance chuckled, suddenly hyper-aware of the plastic bag hanging around his elbow.

You can do it, he coached himself. Just apologize for the damn cafe - well, for everything, really - give him the ice cream, and get out of his hair. Easy peasy.

But as Lance stared into those stormy gray eyes, he found the words evaporating like water off asphalt in the worst heat of July.

He could have said anything - I came to see how you were feeling or I’m sorry for everything or Hey! I’m Dear Friend! I’m so in love with you it makes me feel insane!

Instead, he blurted the first thing that came to his mind. “I got my job back.”

Of all the reactions he might have been expecting, seeing Keith’s pinched expression relax into relief was not high on the list. It wasn’t even on the list in the first place, truth be told.

“Shit. I mean - god, I don’t mean shit like that’s bad,” Keith hurried to amend. “That was - I’m glad. That’s good. Yeah, that’s…that’s good news.”

“It…is?”

“Well, yeah.” Keith’s voice crackled on the word and he bent to muffle a cough into his elbow. It sounded like he was doing his best to appear normal, swallowing down whatever fit he’d just suppressed, but it made his tired eyes shine. “I mean - I don’t want to be lead. I never did. Plus, Hunk is the only one who can do the major lifting so…of course it has to be you. Plus you’re-”

He seemed to catch himself at the last minute and just gave a half-shrug. “Yeah, anyway, congrats I guess. But you could’ve just told me at work.”

“Uh…” God, what the fuck was going on? He thought the news would’ve had Keith foaming at the mouth - which was the whole fucking reason he hadn’t intended to let it slip. But now they were totally off-script, and Lance had no clue what was happening. “I guess I could have. Yeah.”

“Okay, so…” Another thing seemed to occur to Keith that had his pink nose wrinkling. “Wait, how did you even get my address?”

Fuckin’ Eureka, an opening! Back on script.

The gears in Lance’s head revved back to life as he reached into the plastic bag so hastily that he nearly smashed his bruised fingers against the tub of ice cream.

“Oh, uh - Coran gave it to me when I swung by the shop for you,” Lance lied. “Told me you were out sick, so I grabbed this on my way over.” He grinned tentatively, holding the freezing tub out towards Keith. “For you,” he clarified stupidly, as if waving it underneath Keith’s nose wasn’t enough indication of that. “My abuela used to bring me ice cream when I was sick, so…figured you could use a pick-me-up.”

They stood there for a few long, awkward seconds before Keith hesitantly took the container from his hands, never once taking his eyes off Lance. It was like he was waiting for a trap to spring - and as much as he hated to admit it, Lance couldn't quite say he blamed him.

It was weird. This had been a weird plan. Oh god, why the fuck had he done this?

“You,” Keith repeated carefully. “Stopped by the shop to see me. And then got my home address. To bring me ice cream.”

Act. Normal.

“Mhmm!!!” Lance's voice came out about three octaves too high.

“…What’s in it? Rat poison?”

“Wh - no!” Despite his nerves - or maybe because of them, Christ, Lance wasn't a psychiatrist - he exploded into laughter. “No,” he giggled. “Pretty sure it's just. Vanilla. And uh. Ice. And cream.”

Despite himself, Keith seemed to be fighting the barest hint of a smile of his own. “Okay…” he drawled. “I’ll bite, I guess. Why did you go to work to see me - someone you loathe so much that you quit your job, then interrupted a date just to wish that I’d get stood up - only to show up at my place with ice cream?”

“I -” The smile slowly left Lance's face. He sighed, closing his eyes as he gathered his thoughts. “I never…loathed you, Keith.”

Keith gave him A Look, then turned to put the somewhat squishy ice cream container into his freezer. “Could’ve fooled me. And by the way, this should make you happy - you got your wish.”

Something about Keith's tone had dread crawling up Lance's throat. “My wish?”

“My date never showed. So. Good one. If you ever quit your job for real, you could consider being a fortune teller.”

Lance's stomach twisted. He was out of his chair before he knew it, standing uselessly in the middle of Keith's kitchen like that was supposed to make him seem more earnest, or something.

“I should never have said that,” he said quietly, watching the terse line of Keith's back. “I'm sorry. And I'm sorry he didn't show. He…he must have been totally out of his mind.”

Trust me. I’d know.

Keith snorted but kept staring at his fridge, as if he was looking for answers in its tacky mint vinyl.

“I think,” he said darkly, “that honor goes to me for sitting there until close, then standing in the snow for another two hours just in case. So now I’m sick and he’s ghosted and that’s the end of that I guess.”

When he turned around to look at Lance again, he was facing into the afternoon sun in a way that made it obvious just how sick he’d been. Keith’s hair was limp, his nose and lips were chapped, and his eyes were bruised with sleeplessness.

The thing was, there was no way all that misery was the result of a bad cold alone.

Lance could recognize the after effects of a broken heart as well as anyone who’d ever dreamed of the kind of love he thought he’d found.

The worst part of it all was knowing that he’d caused it.

“Keith, I…” He had no idea what to say. What the hell could he say? Keith had waited - for him!!!! - in the freezing cold. For hours.

He swallowed, pressing a purple finger against the table. It protested in pain, but Lance sort of figured he deserved it at this point.

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could think to say, as if the two words were the only ones that existed in his brain anymore. “I’m sorry your date sucked and I’m sorry for - I mean, fuck, everything. I was stupid, and jealous, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I thought maybe…well. It doesn’t matter. The point is, I was a total monster, and I’m sorry.”

Keith studied him for a second, tilting his head like a cat sizing up a long jump.

“…Is that why you’re here?” he finally asked. “To apologize?”

“Yeah,” Lance admitted, giving Keith a weak smile. “The other night at the cafe - the way I acted? All the things I said? There’s no excuse. I’ve been awful, and you…haven’t deserved any of it.”

Finally - finally - Keith returned the smile, wan and exhausted though it was. “I mean, I gave as good as I got. So I guess I better apologize too.”

“Eh…” Lance shrugged, trying not to look too excited by Keith’s reception. “Can’t say I blame you. I’d probably go nuts if I had to deal with me.”

Then something strange happened, something that Lance had thought impossible until now.

Keith laughed.

It was more of a giggle, husky and low and mostly just breath, but it lightened the tired shadows of his eyes, crinkled his nose, and showed the very faintest gap between his front teeth that Lance had never noticed before.

This time, Lance’ stomach twisted for a completely different reason.

Turned out that Dear Friend’s laugh was…pretty fucking cute, after all.

“I really am sorry, Keith,” he found himself saying as he stepped towards him with an outstretched hand and a tentative smile. “Think we can start again?”

“…Yeah. Sure. I’m just, uh,” Keith gave him a crooked little grin that was almost bashful. “Not gonna shake on it, since it would be a dick move to get you sick after all that.”

“Ah, right.” Wow, Lance's face was hot. He retracted his hand, patting it awkwardly against his thigh. “That's, uh - jolly good of you, sir,” he added, slipping into an awful British accent for no reason whatsoever.

What in the sweet fuck?

“I don't know why I did that,” Lance hurried on, face burning. Good lord! Hands were not supposed to sweat this much! “I'm nervous.”

Seriously, what the fuck was wrong with him? Was this his first interaction with the human species? It was like the sound of Keith's laughter had severed the connection between Lance's brain and his mouth.

To Lance’s surprise (and delight) Keith actually did laugh again but it was quickly overtaken by coughing. He couldn’t suppress it this time, but he did turn away to spare Lance. When it passed, he gave up all pretense of being okay and leaned heavily on the counter. “Ugh, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize! That sounds cruddy, man,” Lance added with a sympathetic wince.

“Heh.” The corner of Keith’s mouth curled in a smirk. “You know, if I hadn’t been sick before, that terrible accent might have done it anyway.”

Lance snorted and pursed his lips to fight his burgeoning smile. “Shut up. You should really sit down though, man. You’re not looking so hot.”

“Thanks a lo-whoa.” Keith cut himself off, pressing his hand to his head and swaying on his feet.

Before Lance knew what he was doing, he was at Keith’s side, slipping an arm around his back to steady him. “I got you, buddy,” he murmured. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Keith looked a little horrified at that suggestion. “I’m fine - it’s fine.”

“Totally! And I’m Hunk.”

When Keith glared at him, Lance sniggered. “Come on. Let me help, it’s -” Hit by a sobering wave of guilt, the smile was wiped clean off of Lance’s face. “The least I can do,” he finished, his voice caught between earnest and glum.

Either Keith was too weak to argue or Lance had been really convincing - probably some of both. He nodded and allowed Lance to manhandle him to the bedroom.

It’d take a moron to miss that Keith was embarrassed about Lance seeing his room, but Lance had figured his squeamishness would be about messy clothes or like, dirty dishes laying around. Normal people stuff, especially normal sick people stuff. But when he opened the door, he opened it to a perfectly tidy little room. Obviously space was an issue, since Keith’s apartment overall was about as bare-bones as a dorm and like, half as big, but it was organized and cozy. There were a few lamps giving off a warm glow, a lofted bed in the corner where he’d clearly been laying before Lance had arrived, and along the far wall, a decent sized fish tank where a red betta was mean-mugging Lance from inside a fake skull.

The real kicker was the books. Holy shit, did Keith have a ton of books. They lined every shelf of several bookshelves, sometimes doubled up so there were two rows stacked perpendicular. There were stacks on every surface, and even a few loners lying scattered around with bookmarks or post-it notes sticking out of their pages.

And then Lance noticed something beneath the bed that made him swallow hard: an old-timey writing desk with some very familiar stationary.

“If you’re gonna make fun of me,” Keith grumbled, “get it over with.”

“Why would I make fun of you?” Lance asked, tearing his eyes away from the stationary before Keith could catch him staring. “This is awesome.”

“Um. Really?”

“Oh yeah. I got a friend that’s a big bookworm, too. Betcha he owns every book in here.”

In fact, I know that he does, the absolute dork.

“I doubt it. There are a lot of limited prints and first editions,” Keith said haughtily, though the effect was lessened a little by his stuffy nose. At the amused look Lance gave him, he huffed in embarrassment and turned his head. “Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to. You said it with your face.”

“My face didn’t say a word! Seriously, I think it’s really cool, man.” He could feel his smile turn genuine. “You’d be surprised - I probably know more of these books than you’d think. My friend’s a pretty big Austen fan,” he explained, trying to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible as he pointed to the row of Austen novels shelved over Keith’s desk. “He’s got me hooked.”

“Really? What’s your favorite?”

“Northanger Abbey,” Lance lied, knowing full well that he’d told Keith in a letter that his favorite was Persuasion. “‘The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.’”

When Keith gaped at him, Lance grinned and shrugged. “What? I like that line. Pretty sick burn, if you ask me.”

He’d definitely scored points on that one. He saw Keith’s eyes light up despite himself. “That’s my-”

Favorite, Lance thought. I know.

“-favorite. Not many people really ap…” Keith interrupted himself to wrench away, covering his face to sneeze so hard it sent him stumbling. “Ugh, god, sorry.”

“It’s okay! Come on.” Lance jerked his chin towards Keith’s lofted mattress. “Up you go, bookworm.”

Keith made a face at him, but went to his ladder nonetheless. As he climbed, Lance found his eyes straying once more towards the intricately carved desk.

He cleared his throat.

“Pretty fancy desk you got here, dude. You write a lot?”

Keith’s face peeked over the side of his bed. “It was my aunt’s, actually. She raised me when my parents died, and she used to rant all the time about how letter writing was a lost art, and hand writing your feelings out was what made books so great in the past because it required more forethought, etcetera blah blah. I didn’t always put a lot of stock into it, but I do know she used to have a pen pal she really loved. She wrote him a whole stash of letters from that desk. She never really explained why they lost touch but…three guesses who the guy was.”

“No way - Coran?”

“Mmhmm.” Keith crossed his arms on the side of the bed, resting his head in the crook of one elbow. “Anyway, she sent this with me when I moved and…well, long story short, I tried it. The whole letter writing pen pal thing. That’s how I met my date from last night. We’ve been talking for a few months now and I really…”

His voice trailed off and he sighed. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Carefully, Lance placed the back of his hand against Keith’s clammy forehead. “You really like this guy, huh?”

Keith looked at him in flustered surprise, but didn’t pull away. “I…” he started, then stopped, frowning and blinking hard a few times. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure I loved him.”

He immediately sat back, clearing his throat and putting some distance between them at the same time. “Stupid, isn’t it? Falling for someone you’ve never met?”

“I don’t think so.” Lance offered him a small smile. “I think it’s romantic, and sweet, and I’m just…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe that jerk stood you up.”

Yeah. Fuck that guy.

“The dumbest part is, part of me thinks there must be a good reason, you know? Like…I don’t know, maybe his car broke down or something. It’s not like we’ve exchanged numbers. It was my stupid idea to stay anonymous - I was trying to keep the whole old fashioned feeling going.” Keith wasn’t looking at Lance; he’d taken up picking at a thread on his ancient quilt. “So I just keep wondering…how many times do you make space for someone to hurt you? How many chances do you give a person before you have to give up?”

Lance’s entire stomach flipped. “I guess I can’t really tell you that,” he murmured, reaching out absentmindedly to rest a hand over Keith’s elbow. “You don’t owe this guy another chance, but…if your heart is telling you there’s more to it,” he said quietly, reaching for the stack of stationary and the closest pen and offering them up to Keith, “then I think you deserve some answers.”

It wasn’t as if he’d said anything all that profound, but Keith was looking at him like he was dumbfounded. It was hard to reconcile the surly, impatient guy from work with the one who was sitting on the lofted bed: a guy with his hair in a short, messy braid, his cheeks and nose the same shade of red as his pajamas as he eased into a shy smile.

“…Yeah?” he asked quietly, then, “…Okay. Yeah. Um…thanks, Lance.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Silence fell over them, buzzing with the electricity of words unspoken. Lance cleared his throat, suddenly acutely aware of his nerves.

“Anyways. I should probably be heading out,” Lance hurried, patting Keith awkwardly on the forearm. God, why was he like this? “Let you get your beauty sleep, and all that.” Realization struck him, and Lance scrambled for words as he backed towards Keith's bedroom door. “Uh! N-not that you need it, you're already - I mean objectively you're - uh!”

Pump the fucking breaks, McClain!!! Holy shit!

“I'm gonna go!!!” he wheezed, voice cracking as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Okay?” Keith confirmed-slash-asked, blinking at him in concern as Lance nearly stumbled over a stack of books by the door. “Um…thanks for the ice cream.”

The shy sincerity in Keith's voice was a stark reminder that Lance wasn't the only one that wanted this to work. “Yeah. Uh…” Lance felt his smile soften. “I hope it helps.”

“Oh, and the-” Keith waved a hand around vaguely. “You know…listening and advice. And stuff.”

“Hey.” God, for a guy who was so eloquent in his letters, it was actually kind of charming how real and tangible Keith was in person. “That’s what coworkers are for.”

Keith stared at him blankly. “No it’s not.”

“You’re right, bad joke,” Lance snorted. “But maybe that’s…what new friends are for?”

“Mmm.” Keith’s hum was skeptical, but his eyes were crinkled as he fought a smile. “Depends on the ice cream.”

Lance grinned and nodded, knocking a hand against the doorframe. “That seems fair,” he conceded, chuckling as he turned to leave -

And then, in a rare surge of bravery, Lance turned back around. “Hey, Keith?”

“Hmm?” Keith asked, already arranging the blankets around himself.

“Thanks. For the second chance. I’m not gonna waste it. I promise.”

The smile Keith had been suppressing broke through, thin and warm and sleepy as first light on a summer dawn. “Ditto.”

Nursing a small smile of his own, Lance closed the door and retraced his steps through Keith’s house with a renewed sense of purpose and a spring in his step.

He had a letter to write, after all, and he wasn’t about to keep his Dear Friend waiting again.

…

Dear Friend,

I’ll be honest. I don’t know where to begin.

I fucked up. I guess that’s as good a place as any. You trusted me with your heart, and I let you down. I’m sorry. If you don’t want to read this, I understand. You don’t owe me anything, and I’m sure excuses are the last thing you want right now.

But you deserve the truth, so I’m making myself sit here and explain my stupid brain the best I can.

I guess I should just rip the bandaid off - I was at the Lelys. I showed up, but I never went inside.

It was gorgeous. I remember thinking it was such a you place to suggest for our first date. Romantic. Warm. Secluded and candlelit.

Perfect.

Maybe if I’d gotten there first, things would have been different, but I’d had a tough day at work and…well. None of that really matters now. I was running late. I was late, and I stopped outside the café to catch my breath, and when I looked through the window…

I saw you.

I saw you, Dear Friend, for the first time. Glowing in the firelight, rosy-cheeked and beautiful, buried deep in the pages of your book - and the breath was stolen from my lungs.

I chickened out. That’s it, plain and simple. My nerves got the better of me, and instead of fighting - instead of pushing through that door and being the person you deserve - I was a coward. I left you there alone, and that is something I’ll never forgive myself for.

I don’t expect you to forgive me, either. I don’t expect you to write back, or…anything, really - but I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t even try to fix things. You deserve a guy who’s gonna come through for you. You deserve a guy who’ll show up, someone bold and brave who’ll fight to be with you instead of running.

So on that note…here goes.

You don’t owe me a second chance, but if I’m lucky enough to get one…I wanna be that guy, Dear Friend. I want to show you that I can be as brave as you were, that I can rise to the occasion and conquer self doubt and insecurity to be with you. And I don’t want to scare you, but

I don’t mean to alarm

I’m not trying to guilt

Ugh. Fuck it.

I want to show you how much I love you. How deeply, hopelessly in love I’ve fallen with you. I want to get to know you outside of these letters, and I want to keep falling - no, floating - for as long as I’m allowed to stand in your light.

I have no right to ask this of you, and I’ve given you no reason to trust me, but I wanna try again. I want to make it up to you, Dear Friend. Valentine’s Day is in a few weeks - let me take you out. Give me an address, and I’ll pick you up after work and take you to dinner. My treat, obviously. Call it the ‘Ditched You On Our First Date’ tax.

…Too soon. I’m sorry. I’m stupid nervous right now. Leave it to me to ruin an apology letter with a bad joke.

Until next time (here’s to hoping),

Your Moron

…

It’d been five days since he’d written Dear Friend. Five days since he’d rushed home from Keith’s apartment, so eager to write an apology letter that he’d drafted half of it in his head by the time he’d pulled into his driveway-

And still no response.

It wasn’t like he was expecting one. Lance had royally fucked up - that was completely irrefutable. Any sympathy or forgiveness would be a complete miracle at this point, as far as he was concerned.

But it didn’t stop him from hoping, or wondering, or acting like a complete flustered trainwreck at work every time Keith so much as waved at him.

He hoped the dopey smiles he offered Keith in return were charming, at the very least.

The fact that he was beginning to see more and more of Dear Friend in Keith certainly didn’t help. Until Lance’s peace offering, it was as if there had been a filter over his perception of Keith - a special, terrible filter that prevented Lance from seeing any redeeming qualities whatsoever.

Now that angry haze was gone, and Lance was finally able to spot glimpses of the man he’d fallen for underneath his guarded exterior.

Like today, for example.

Though the morning had been exhaustingly busy, they were having an afternoon lull and Lance found himself sighing as he slipped into the back room, desperate to take a break with the soothing monotony of Wuthering Heights-

Only to find that both his book and the back room were already occupied.

Keith stood at one of the work desks, lost to the world as he scanned the open page with an untroubled brow. It wasn’t like Lance had ever spoken in person with Dear Friend as…well, Dear Friend, but there was something familiar about the reverence in Keith’s expression, something that had Lance wondering how he hadn’t seen Dear Friend there before.

“That…would be my book,” Lance observed, snorting when Keith whirled around. He looked adorably cowed, like he’d been caught doing something much more insidious than sneaking a peek at Lance’s open book. He held his hands up and gave Lance a smile that was mostly grimace.

“Sorry, sorry - I wasn’t trying to snoop, it was just open and I wanted to see what part you were on, that’s all.”

“It’s cool!” Lance grinned, hoping to ease Keith’s nerves. “Told you I was making my way through the classics. I’m a pretty smart cookie.”

That got him something a lot closer to a smirk as Keith cocked his head, lifting his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Takes a really smart cookie to actually enjoy this book - like a macaron or something - and I always figured you more like a Fig Newton.”

“Ooh, burn.” Lance scrunched his nose as he chuckled. “Fig Newton’s are fuckin’ gross, dude. I’m glad I graduated.”

“Jury’s still out,” Keith teased, biting back a smile. He picked the book up again, perching on the end of a card table in a way that bunched his work slacks, revealing trouser socks that were sporting quite a few holes at the ankles. Not that Lance couldn’t have guessed, but clearly clothing and fashion were not high on Keith Kogane’s list of ways to spend his money…which made sense, actually. How else would he be able to afford all those books? “What do you think so far?”

“Eh…not my favorite, if I’m being honest?” Lance mused, running a hand through his hair. “Kind of dark, right?”

“Mmm.”

He’d only half-kept Keith’s attention. The other half was scanning along the page where Lance’s bookmark was holding his place. As he read, his eyes softened and his wistful expression returned - as if he were the one off pining on the…the moors, or whatever. It reminded Lance of how Keith had looked in his own room: a dork in plaid pajamas, surrounded by mountains of books.

It was a definite contrast from the dour guy who showed up to work on the back of a red Kawasaki, that was for sure.

“It is dark, but the worst part is right here, where you are now.” Keith held the book up so Lance could read along as he recited the lines by heart. “It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Edgar’s is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.”

As Keith read, Lance was transported - as if he were standing on the moors of Yorkshire rather than in the back of a parfumerie. He could practically hear the wind rattling in the non-existent trees, could feel the chill of the fog as it crept beneath his shirt collar.

Most enchanting of all was the brush of dark lashes against pale skin, the gentle murmur from ruby lips that had Lance bewitched as his face grew hot and his tie too tight. He swallowed, highly aware of the way his Adam’s apple bobbed around his dry throat.

In that moment, it was like watching two shadows merge into a single being - two half-formed ideas of a person overlaying into a strange, magnetic, irresistible whole.

If Lance knew one thing for certain, it meant that his poor, dumb heart was in trouble.

“That’s pretty impressive, you know,” he finally murmured. “How many times have you read it?”

Watching Keith turn all manner of red at that statement was especially fun, as was admiring the way he tried to scoff to play it off. “I - I dunno, seven or eight? Anyway, you’re missing the point. It’s this moment right here that everything goes to shit. Just the fact that Heathcliff is listening, but he runs off after he hears Cathy say it would degrade her to marry him. He misses all of the other stuff about their souls being the same. If he’d stayed…maybe they could’ve fought harder. Had a chance. I dunno.”

Keith sighed and turned the book around, thumbing lightly at the corners to make the pages flip. “It just bothers me, is all. One miscommunication, and you lose your chance at love.”

“That’s…true,” Lance began, slow and careful. “But that’s not the way it has to be.”

“What d’you mean?”

“Well, the way I see it…” He broke off, searching for the right words as he ran a hand through his hair. “Sometimes, miscommunications can lead to something new. Something you weren't expecting.”

Keith gave him a flat look and held up the book. “Everyone dies and the ones who don’t are miserable.”

“No, I meant - well spoilers, first of all,” he chided playfully, nudging Keith's foot with his own. “But I wasn’t talking about the book. I meant, like - us.”

“Us…” Keith repeated, as if turning the word over slowly would reveal its meaning. Then his eyes widened just a touch. “Like…like us?”

Ignoring the heat that'd risen to his cheeks, Lance hurried to clarify. “Right! Like - god knows we had our fair share of miscommunications, right? But now…” He trailed off, casting Keith a shy smile. “We're friends.”

Keith blinked a few times, letting his arm lower until the book was in danger of slipping from his fingers. Then, at last, he smiled back - a small, quiet little thing that turned into a self-conscious chuckle as he tucked his hair behind his ear.

“Yeah…Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

Lance grinned. “So…does this mean I get to be a macaron?”

“Heh.” Keith smirked, placing the book back where he’d found it. “Not quite yet. I’d say you’re hovering somewhere around a, mmmm, Chips Ahoy?”

“Okay! Chips Ahoy, I can work with that!”

Keith huffed his not-quite-a-laugh again, but the smile left his eyes. Without the book to keep his hands occupied, he settled for shoving them into his pockets, his gaze going a bit unfocused as he thought hard at the ground.

“Hey.” Lance leaned forward, suddenly uneasy. “You okay?”

“Yeah…just thinking.”

Oh boy. “What’s up?”

The little shrug Keith gave was stiff. “I mean, we’re friendly. But does that really make us friends? Just seems fast.”

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be qualified,” Lance gently suggested, taking a seat on the desk beside Keith. “Can’t ‘friends’ be something we choose?”

For a moment Keith turned that over privately, weighing Lance’s words with whatever his holdups were, the gears in his head so loud that Lance could practically hear them churning. Then, Keith’s lips quirked up at the corners and he looked up at Lance through his bangs.

“Guess so. Maybe you are a macaron after all.”

Swinging his legs, Lance sagged back against the desk and fixed Keith with a fond grin.

“Well then…I’m honored.”

…

Dear Friend -

It took me a while to respond to this, mostly because I wanted to sort out my thoughts. I can’t pretend I wasn’t hurt, and my better judgment tells me that replying is opening the door to be hurt all over again. But a friend told me the other day that, at the very least, I deserved answers. Now that I have them, I’m just not quite sure what to do with them.

I’ve never really been a logical person, though. I tend to follow my heart way before my head, cheesy as that sounds, and my gut tells me you mean what you say. So - sure. Yes. Let’s try again.

Because the stupid, irrational, impetuous truth is that I’m not ready to give up.

Do you know Wimbleton-Smythe’s in the Galleria off town square? That’s where I work. I’ll wait there after close on Valentine’s Day.

This time, you bring the rose.

Yours

…

So.

Life had handed Lance some lemons, and he was gonna make a killing in the lemonade department.

Lemon one: By some miracle, he and Keith were actually friends. Like - cool, smart, gorgeous Keith had actually looked at Lance, who’d been a raging asshole only a couple weeks back, and gone, Sure. Fuck it. Let’s be friends.

Lemon two: Keith didn’t just want to try again with Lance - ohhh no. Keith wanted to try again with Dear Friend, which meant Lance actually had a shot at getting this whole mess back on track.

He was - more or less - walking on sunshine. Lemony, lemony sunshine.

It was stupid, how smitten he was becoming with Keith. For one, the guy had the cutest fucking laugh of all time - all husky and adorable when Lance actually managed to coax one out of him. For two, Keith was incredibly funny - snarky and witty in a way that kept Lance on his toes, easily falling into the playful banter that’d become common between them.

For three, Keith Kogane was charming as hell when he wanted to be. For a guy who wanted nothing to do with human interaction, Keith had a way with their customers, and some days it was all Lance could do to keep himself from staring.

Today, Lance was barely able to rip his eyes away as Keith entertained an elderly woman at the perfume counter, chuckling good-naturedly at whatever old person crap she was showing him on her phone.

“Close it, Kogane,” he murmured, sniggering when the woman looked briefly away and Keith’s expression fell momentarily into aggravation. “You got this.”

When the customer looked back, Keith smiled - though it looked slightly pained, as if he’d just swallowed a cactus.

Lance couldn’t exactly blame him - he’d been on the receiving end of the whole, ‘customer-subjects-innocent-store-clerk-to-their-entire-life-story’ thing, and…it was not fun.

“Wrap it up, dude. Aaaaaaand…” Across the room, Keith pushed the perfume bottle he’d been attempting to sell across the counter and the woman beamed before scooping it up and trotting eagerly over to Hunk. “There it is,” Lance breathed, sighing dreamily as he sagged against the counter. “Nailed it.”

The worst part about Keith (read: best) was the stupid little smile he’d do when he thought no one was looking - the one he saved for after he’d made a sale, all proud and quietly celebratory. He was doing it now, the bastard, and Lance wanted nothing more than to march over there and share in his success. Taste it, as it were, from the source: right off his upturned lips.

Which…come to think of it, there wasn’t really anything stopping him, was there? Not the - not the last part, but the first one. They were friends now, right? So if Lance wanted to compliment his friend, he was gonna do just that.

He sidled over to the perfume counter the moment the front door shut, hands shoved into his pockets. “Hey,” he greeted, trying to come across cool and nonchalant, as if he hadn’t just been staring at the guy’s lips for the past ten minutes - but the second Keith’s eyes met his, he was a mess.

Nonetheless, he was a man on a mission, and if there was one mission Lance Alejandro McClain would always see through to the end, it was his ability to flirt despite sweating buckets. “Slick work, hotshot.”

Keith grinned, a sort of goofy-looking, sideways thing that showed off the sharp point of an incisor. “Thanks. Didn’t think she’d ever pick something. I had to look at about 40 pictures of her cat to make it happen.”

“Ooh, hardcore sales tactic. Respect.” Lance sniggered as he slid onto a stool and practically draped himself over the counter, resting his chin in a palm in full ‘sell to me like one of your French girls’ mode. This wasn’t unusual for the two of them nowadays - Lance inviting himself into Keith’s space under the guise of a compliment or conversation piece, but sure, maybe he was crowding in just a smidge more than ever before. “Was it cute, at least?”

“Not really.” Keith spoke easily as he began reshelving sample bottles. “Kinda looked like a grizzled war veteran. It was missing an eye and the whiskers looked like they’d been singed. Which, in retrospect, maybe I should’ve asked about…”

“Yikes. No kidding,” Lance mumbled, drumming his hands against the counter for an awkward moment while he struggled to think before settling on the Dumbest Segue Ever.

He was here with a purpose, after all.

“So, uh - speaking of…asking about things, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d heard back from-” Lance lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Dear Friend?”

It wasn’t like he didn’t know the answer to that question, but it sure would help to hear it straight from the mulleted horse’s mouth. He’d read Keith’s letter of course, but it definitely had a different tone from the ones that had come before, so it was hard to gauge exactly what Keith had been thinking when he’d written it.

Keith paused in his shelving, staring down at the label of the bottle in his hand. “Oh, um. Yeah, actually. I did.”

“Oh?” Ugh, why was he so nervous?

“And…it was a pretty decent apology, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” Lance asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. “What’d he say?”

Keith glanced at him, then just as quickly looked away. “Basically that he’d gotten cold feet.”

“Huh. And uh…do you buy it?”

“Yeah…I think I do.” Keith sounded surprised by this, as if he hadn’t been completely sure until he’d voiced it out loud. It put a little smile on his face that had Lance covering his own burgeoning smile with the tips of his fingers. Once he’d finished shelving, Keith gave Lance his full attention, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms in thought. “It felt pretty sincere, and I guess I can understand. Or maybe I just really want to think it was sincere and I’m being an idiot. Either way, we decided to try again.”

Lance’s stomach swooped. He wasn’t sure how else to describe it. It was like the type of elation that came with riding a roller coaster, the same sort of weightless euphoria that accompanied the drop. “That’s awesome, man!” He could no longer help the grin that had shoved its way onto his face. “I’m happy for you.”

Fuck - I’m happy for us.

Keith’s cheeks warmed and he rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. “Heh…thanks.”

Before too much silence could gather between them, Lance cleared his throat. "So…are you doing anything for Valentine's Day?"

He watched Keith’s head snap up, those strange gray-violet eyes searching his as if looking for a punchline. Finally Keith licked his lips and hesitantly asked, “…What did you have in mind?”

“What did I…” Lance’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion - and then he was blinking in realization, waving his hands frantically in front of him. “Oh! You thought I meant - no, no no, I meant - well not that I wouldn’t - Dear Friend!” Honestly, if the floor opened up and swallowed him whole, Lance would not complain. How the hell was he so smooth with Keith on paper, but so this with him in real life? “Do you and Dear Friend have Valentine’s Day plans?”

“Oh, o-” Keith buried his face in his hands long enough to muffle a desperately mortified ‘ohgod.’ He then ran a hand through his bangs, avoiding Lance’s gaze so he could turn his cherry-soda-red face to the shelves. “Obviously, sorry, I thought you - duh. Um. We…I guess we’re going to dinner. He’s supposed to pick me up here.”

“Nice!”

What the fuck had just happened? Had Keith…wanted? To…with him?

Anyways.

Lance cleared his throat. “You excited? Nervous?”

“...Both?” Keith fiddled with the chain of keys attached to his beltloops - a nervous habit Lance had picked up on over the last few weeks. “Not as much as I was the first time. Now I think I’m just more nervous about being stood up again. If that happens, I’ll probably swear off dating for life.” He lolled his head to the side, and though his cheeks were still hot pink, he gave Lance a wry smile. “What about you? I’ve never even asked.”

“What - Valentine’s Day? Or like…”

“I’ve never actually asked if you were, um…seeing anyone or not. That’s, like, a thing friends do, right?”

Am I seeing someone? Lance thought. Boy howdy, Keith, I just might be. If both of us are lucky.

“Hell yeah it is! But…nah,” he said instead, his smile warm with affection as he laid his cheek back against a palm. “Not seeing anyone right now, but - who knows? Anything can happen on Valentine’s Day, right?”

He watched Keith’s face go through a series of unidentifiable emotions, even something that looked a teensy bit like jealousy, before settling on a completely neutral smile.

Interesting.

“I guess,” Keith offered, noncommittal. “Including getting ditched by your anonymous pen pal because you’re a moron who never just offered to swap numbers.”

God, Lance’s heart couldn’t take this anymore.

“Okay, look.” He stood, resting his elbows on the counter as he leaned towards Keith. “New plan. You say this guy’s picking you up after work?”

Keith eyed him suspiciously. “Yeah…?”

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Lance straightened, fixing Keith with what he hoped was a charming grin. “The two of us’ll close up on Valentine’s, I’ll wait with you till he gets here, and if this schmuck stands you up again…” Lance extended a hand in invitation. “You and I go somewhere instead. Deal?”

Sighing, Keith turned away ever so slightly. “I appreciate it, but I don’t really love the idea of being a pity date in case I’m stood up.”

“Uh, hello?” Lance wiggled his fingers, fighting the urge to reassure Keith that his date would not, in fact, stand him up. “Alone and single on Valentine’s Day? I’m the pity date, dude. You’d be doing me a favor.”

That got a small smile out of Keith, and he slowly slid his hand into Lance’s.

Fuck - the guy even had pretty hands: fine-boned, if a little short and square, with ink stains around the nails.

“Okay…deal. Just…not Lelys, okay?”

Lance snorted, though he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or out of relief. “Fuck no,” he agreed, giving Keith’s hand a couple shakes before sheepishly tacking on, “Don’t think anyone wants to relive that.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot. They had really good gelato, you know. Now I can never eat it again.”

A few weeks ago, Lance would have probably missed the small smirk and the raised brow, but now…

“Uh huh.” Lance rolled his eyes, barely able to keep the grin off his face as he poked Keith in the forehead. “We’ll go out for gelato then. Will that make it better, you big baby?”

There was that husky giggle again, the one that had made Lance’s heart swoop the first time he heard it. Keith batted his hand away and gave his shoulder a little shove; nothing like the kind that had landed them in a fist fight. This was familiar and playful in a way that betrayed just how comfortable Keith had become.

“Yes. Yes it will.”

“Good, Jesus. You’re really something, you-”

“Mister McClain!” Coran stood on the balcony above them, gripping the guardrail as he waved. “If you’re quite finished usurpring Mister Kogane’s time, I believe you and I had an appointment…” he glanced down at his watch before returning his attention to Lance with a teasing twinkle in his eye, “oh, five minutes ago?”

Oh shit - how long had they been talking? Lance ducked his head in embarrassment. “Coming, Mister Smythe! Sorry, I’m - sorry,” he repeated, directing this one to Keith. “I gotta run.”

Keith wiggled his fingers in a wave. “Later. Tell him I said we need new box cutters.”

“Sure!” Lance turned to the metal staircase…and then immediately doubled back, grabbing an unsuspecting Keith’s hand before he could think twice of it.

“Keith.”

Gray eyes widened in surprise, and Lance gave the hand in his a reassuring squeeze. “I promise you won’t be alone on Valentine’s Day.”

“Ah-” was all Keith managed to say.

Another squeeze, and Lance felt his smile go soft and fond. “Cross my heart.”

…

“Alright people, looking good!” Lance weaved through the shop as his coworkers decorated, clutching a box of gold fairy lights to his chest. “Awesome window display, Hunk! You mind if - ah, where’d he go - OH, Keith!”

From his spot up on Coran’s balcony, Keith perked to attention, nodding when Lance waved him down.

“Hunk, you mind if Keith and I give it the finishing touches?”

“Go for it,” Hunk acquiesced, giving the pink tulle he’d styled one last fluff. “But I’m right here. You sure you don’t just want me to do the lights?”

Lance refused to look at him. “You’ve pretty much done the whole thing by yourself, dude. I’m giving you a break.”

“Sure, Lance.”

Turning to playfully scowl at him, Lance prodded him in the arm. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means - sure, Lance. Can’t think of any other reason you’d need me gone and Keith down here.”

“Shut up,” Lance hissed, unable to keep from grinning as he smacked Hunk with a piece of tulle - which of course did 0% damage. “Sure, Lance,” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, ignoring Hunk’s laughter. “That’s how you sou-”

“Hey, you need me, Ladykiller?”

Lance jumped as Keith practically materialized behind them. “Keith! Yep! Yeah, just gotta put these bad boys around the window display. You down to help?”

“Yeah, sure.” Keith ran his wrist under his nose with a wince. “Beats hanging stuff up there with Coran’s ceiling spiders. I think I ate one.”

“Gross,” Lance giggled, elbowing Keith in the arm as he handed him one end of the fairy lights. “Okay, so we just unravel this and drape it over those little hooks up there - see ‘em?”

“Uh huh.”

From behind Keith’s back, Hunk was giving Lance a look he didn’t like - one that looked awfully knowing and smug.

“Hunk! You had a thing to do over…somewhere else, right?” Lance asked, using Keith’s momentary distraction with unraveling the string of lights to draw his thumb across his throat.

“Absolutely. My somewhere-over-there thing.” Hunk cheerfully clapped Keith on the back, hard enough to send him teetering forward. “Have fun, kids.”

Keith straightened and watched him go. “What’s up with him?”

“Who, Hunk?” Lance half-laughed, a little too loud. “Nothing, nothing’s up - uh…not anymore anyways, cuz he’s not on the ladder!”

Crickets.

“Ba-dum tssss?” Lance added pathetically, sealing his death warrant with an actual mimicry of playing real drums - because he apparently had zero idea when to quit. “No?”

When Keith raised an eyebrow, Lance released the most awkward laugh of his life. “HaHAhaaaaaanyways - lights?”

His entire soul cringed at the complete lack of grace in…well, any of that, but (kind of insultingly) Keith seemed to find it par for the course and simply shrugged.

“Lights,” he confirmed, heading for the ladder. “Spot me?”

After a few moments of decidedly not looking anywhere near Keith’s…hrm, assets, they’d gotten the lights tethered and had begun winding them through the hooks. It was kind of cool how well they worked together - passing the bundled lights back and forth without saying a word, offering tools and zipties before the other knew they needed it - and in no time, the job was done.

…Which wouldn’t do, so Lance asked for Keith’s help hanging all the festive signage and dangling the red hearts Coran insisted on, which in turn led to a pseudo-argument about placement that devolved into them finding ways to whack the other with “FALL IN LOVE WITH 50% OFF!” posters whenever their backs were turned.

At one point, Lance had even gotten up the nerve to serenade Keith to Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E” when it had played on the radio. They’d both heard it about a thousand times by then, given that the shop played its seasonal music on loop - but when Lance heard the first notes, something had possessed him to grab the nearest Sharpie and go full silverscreen on Keith, while Keith did his best to hide how much he was secretly loving it. Every time Lance got up in his face or swung around one of the interior columns “Singing in the Rain” style, Keith would shove him away with the reddest cheeks and the most poorly-disguised smile Lance had ever seen.

Sometime amid the laughter and bickering and jukebox-era love songs, the sun set and the shop closed and neither Lance nor Keith noticed until the first crack of thunder startled them out of their work.

Keith glanced around the shop, removing the thumbtack he’d been holding with his teeth. “Where’d everyone go? Did they just leave without us?”

“Uh-” Lance followed Keith’s gaze, blinking around at the empty store. “What time is it?” he murmured, fishing into his pocket for his phone, and then, “The fuck? How is it eight already?”

“We just started!”

Frowning, Lance dismissed a couple email notifications before opening a text from Hunk that’d come in at 7:41.

You guys were just having so much fun we didn’t want to disturb you :) see you Monday, Loverboy ;)

Warmth spread up Lance’s neck. Fuck off, Hunk, he typed back.

“They left,” he announced, as if Keith hadn’t already come to that conclusion. “Hunk texted.”

“They didn’t even say anything.” Keith tacked the last heart into place and leapt down the seven ladder steps to the ground, frowning at the look Lance gave him. “What?”

“What is it with you and stairs, dude?”

“It’s just faster! There’s no point in-” Keith’s protest was cut off by another loud crack of thunder that shook the windowpanes. Almost immediately, the sky ripped open and rain started pelting the glass.

“Damn,” Lance murmured, pulling a face as he cupped a hand against the window. “It’s really coming down.”

Keith made a noise that was distinctly nasal, somewhere between a whine and a groan. “I drove my bike today. I’m gonna get soaked. Ugh, I hate rain.”

A lightbulb went off somewhere in Lance’s brain - the dusty part that housed the one or two good ideas he had per year.

“We could always just…grab a bite to eat while we wait for it to let up,” he suggested nonchalantly, attempting to appear engrossed with watching the rain against the window. “There’s this noodle place a few doors down that Hunk and I always go to.”

There was a long pause and Lance spent all of it trying hard not to turn around. When he finally gave in, he was met with what looked to his helpless heart like a distinctly flirty smile.

“First a serenade,” Keith drawled, “and now you’re taking me out to dinner, McClain?”

Outside, rain pelted the window, but hoo boy did that tone have Lance feeling hot under the collar. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

With a hum, Keith turned to the coat rack and reached for his coat. “As long as you let me take the bill.”

“HAH! Funny! But absolutely not. This one’s on me.”

“Food now, bicker later?” Keith asked, turning back to him with a grin.

“...Deal.”

And that was how they found themselves sprinting through the rain, Lance’s jacket held high above their heads as they giggled madly and careened into one another. By the time they made it to the restaurant’s awning, Keith had locks of wet hair sticking to his eyelashes and he was laughing so hard he was out of breath. He was likely just as soaked as he would have been on his bike, but well…

If he wasn’t gonna mention it? Neither was Lance.

…

Dear Friend -

I hope you’ve been well. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. There’s a lot going on at work, since Valentine’s Day is apparently the biggest time of year for the shop. That probably shouldn’t surprise me, but it never really crossed my mind that there would be a ‘season’ for perfume. Seems kind of dumb if you ask me. If you like someone, or want to give them something, why wait for some stupid holiday? Just do it, you know?

I guess I’ve never understood why people wait at all - like in general. In my experience, you either take what you want, or you watch it walk away. Then again, that might be hypocritical of me. Lately I’ve started trying something new: standing still, and trying to have faith that if I’m brave enough to stay put, to not run before I can be hurt, that what I want might actually show up for me for a change.

I guess I’ve got a new friend to thank for that. He’s really given me a lot to think about recently, and I think we might be

There’s something I’ve been meaning to

Is your name really

Are you

Anyway, hope you’ve been enjoying the nicer weather. That rain last week was crazy, right?

Looking forward to Valentine’s Day!

Your Friend

K

…

For being peak rush time before Valentine’s Day, the shop was unusually quiet. That likely had a lot to do with winter’s last hurrah, a wet flurry of snow that was pretty through the glass windows, but had been no fun to drive in. Lance had spent the morning actually being sort of worried about Keith riding his bike in the snow and slush, checking the door whenever the bells chimed only to be disappointed when it was just a customer. That didn’t exactly make him feel like employee of the year, but still! No one could blame him for worrying over the well-being of a fellow coworker!

When Keith eventually did tramp through the door, he was barely recognizable. A red, snow-dusted beanie covered most of his hair, and a thick woolen scarf hid everything but his eyes. He didn’t even bother to tug them off when he entered, instead making a direct line for Lance and shoving a travel cup at his face.

“Huryurssupdkumpikaduhkohee,” he said.

Lance took the cup more out of reflex than comprehension. “Come again?”

“Pfah.” Keith yanked the scarf down and took a breath, glowering at Lance’s cup. “I said, here is a stupid, complicated coffee. You’re lucky you’re such a fucking regular at the place down the block that they know your ridiculous order by heart. I was just gonna bring it to you black.”

“You-” Lance blinked, and then grinned involuntarily. “You got me coffee?”

“Yes,” Keith said impatiently, then, as if it explained everything: “It’s cold out.”

God, the way Lance’s heart swooped - he was so fucking stupid. It was just coffee, for god’s sake. It wasn’t like Keith was proposing. “Thanks, Keith.”

Keith grunted and moved past him, making for the back room.

Aaaand…that was the last Lance saw of him for a while. Keith made himself scarce in the back room until lunch, and even then he still didn’t emerge.

Which totally wasn’t anxiety inducing. Things between them had been going so well - hell, a little fucking more than well - so why this sudden stoicism? Sure, Keith’s last letter to Dear Friend had been…less effusive than usual, but Lance figured that was sort of par for the course when trying to mend a broken heart. But why go through the trouble to bring Lance a coffee if the guy was just gonna grump around all day?

He lasted about five minutes into his lunch break before he could no longer stand to exist in his own brain and headed to the back room, knocking gently on the doorframe as he entered.

“Keith? You in here?”

He heard a clatter, then Keith’s voice gruffly asking, “Yeah? What do you need?”

Ouch. That wasn’t how these exchanges normally went for them - not anymore, anyway. Lance glanced around, trying to track Keith’s voice. “Whatcha hiding for, Grumpypants?”

There was a sigh, then Keith came around the corner carrying a stack of boxes that came up to his eyes. His hair was a mess, suggesting he’d been crawling around the stacks, rearranging all the shelving for inventory - by himself. That was stupid and reckless, even for Keith.

He gave Lance an impatient look and shifted the boxes. “I’m not hiding. And I’m not grumpy. What do you need?”

Lance frowned. “I don’t need anything, man. Just checking on you. Feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”

Keith averted his eyes. “I’ve been busy.”

“Wiiiiith inventory?” Lance asked cautiously, cocking his head and wrinkling his nose. Clearly something more was going on, but what he couldn’t figure out was why Keith was acting so skittish around him. Had Lance done something wrong? Or had Keith…

Dread rose up Lance’s throat. Had Keith figured it out somehow, before Lance had even had the chance to tell him? Was he angry that Lance had known and hadn’t come clean?

Stop that, he coached himself. If something was bothering Keith, he was going to let Keith open up about it before he jumped to any conclusions. “You know I can help you with that.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it. You have to cover the front.”

“Keith.” Lance stepped forward, hurrying to help Keith bear the brunt of the box he was carrying. “Seriously. What’s going on?”

Something in his voice must have cracked the surface of Keith’s weirdly icy mood, because he sighed. “…It’s nothing, Lance. Don’t worry about it.”

The two of them set the box on the closest desk with a thud. “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” Lance argued. When Keith began to turn away, Lance laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. You know you can talk to me, right?”

Ooh that - that might have been the wrong thing to say for some reason, because Keith looked almost pained. “I…I know. It’s just…dumb personal stuff.”

“Okay,” Lance muttered, chewing at his lower lip. “Was it…something I did?”

“What?” Keith blurted. “No! God, no, of course not.” He sighed again and gestured vaguely at nothing. “It’s just - I’ve been doing some thinking. About…about Dear Friend.”

Fuck. Was this what a heart attack felt like? He’d waited too long, and Keith had figured it out, or moved on, or…or…

“Uh - what kind of thinking?” he asked before he could spiral any further.

“Um…” Keith’s arms came up instantly, wrapping himself in a defensive hug. It was a move Lance hadn’t seen from him for some time, and it felt wrong to see Keith that tense and edgy around him again.

“I’m just…not so sure how I feel about meeting in person anymore. It’s been harder lately to come up with things to write about. Almost like it’s awkward, or things have changed.”

“Changed?” Lance asked, cautiously stepping closer like he was approaching a stray cat. “What do you mean? I thought you were in love with this guy.”

“I thought I was too, but lately I’m starting to think it wasn’t really…real. That maybe real love is…” He hesitated, glancing up at Lance through his messy bangs. “Different.”

The air between them was suddenly charged, the tense, electric hush before a tropical storm. Lance’s heart pounded desperately away in his chest as he searched between those beseeching gray eyes, trying hard to read all the things Keith was obviously trying to say.

“Different?” His voice was too hopeful, too yearning - but he had to know. “How so?”

Keith licked his lips nervously. “Like…the kind where things feel just as terrifying as they do exciting? Where reading about love is nice and safe, but then it becomes something tangible and suddenly you have no idea what to do. What if…what if you find yourself face to face with the person you love and everything is messy and complicated and wonderful, but suddenly it -”

His voice cracked and Keith swallowed, finishing off with a whisper. “It’s real. And it scares you half to death?”

The way Keith was looking at him…

Lance stepped forward, feeling as if he’d been caught in a dream. “I think I might know what you mean,” he breathed, his heart thundering.

Keith’s hands loosened their grip on his arms and he licked his lips. “…You do?”

“I think so.” There was still so much space between them, but Keith was standing his ground, letting Lance close the space between them inch by inch. “It’s like there’s not enough air in the room, and your tie is too tight and your tongue gets all heavy,” he laughed, “and suddenly you’re a complete…moron.”

It was Keith who took the last step to bring them together, glancing down at Lance’s chest with lowered lashes. His hand reached across the scant few centimeters left, lifting Lance’s tie and sliding his thumb over the fabric.

“Didn’t figure you for the sort of guy who had trouble loosening up, McClain,” he said, his voice soft.

“Neither did I,” Lance agreed, his smile turning lopsided. He wondered if Keith could feel his wild heartbeat where his hand brushed against Lance’s chest. “But sometimes, the right person comes along and-”

He nearly jumped when a bell clanged from beyond the staff room door - a different sound than the musical chime of the shop’s front door. This was a sound Lance recognized as Coran’s ‘Hurry-Up-And-Gather-Round-I-Have-An-Important-Staff-Announcement’ bell.

“Shit,” Lance breathed, pressing a hand against his racing heart. “What the fuck.”

His coworker wasn’t faring much better. Keith was tensed, turned toward the door like he expected a SWAT team to burst through. “What the fuck is that alarm?!” he demanded. “Is that the fire alarm? How the hell is anyone supposed to-”

“It’s just Coran,” Lance groaned, grabbing Keith’s hand before he could think twice about it and dragging him towards the door. “He rings that thing when he’s got some sort of big announcement, but I’ve got no clue why he’s doing it during store hours, Jesus.”

Keith had to take a few extra steps to make up for Lance’s long strides - something Lance noted for later as fodder for gentle teasing - but they were still the last employees to gather beneath Coran’s balcony. Even a couple stray shoppers had crowded around the stairwell, looking as if they expected Coran to suddenly break into song.

Which - knowing the guy? It honestly wasn’t out of the question.

“Well! It looks like everyone is here!” Coran proclaimed, beaming down at Keith and Lance with a suspicious twinkle in his eyes. As if that weren’t weird enough, Hunk and Allura were also staring not at Coran, but at Lance with knowing looks.

What’s going on? Lance mouthed, suspicion only mounting when Hunk grinned and shrugged.

“If Mister McClain would join me on the balcony,” Coran continued, gesturing to the spiral staircase, “we may begin!”

“Uh…”

“Oh,” Keith murmured at Lance’s side - and suddenly he was grinning too, turning to face Lance with the same strange light in his eyes. “Better get up there. Looks like your lady-killing days are about to pay off.”

Lance frowned, feeling distinctly as if he were the last one in on some big secret. “My wh-”

“Mister McClain? If you’d join me?”

“Uh - sorry! Coming, Sir!”

Trying not to trip over himself in front of about twenty people, Lance clambered noisily up the stairs, the prickle of several pairs of eyes hot on the back of his neck. The silence was deafening, stretching for what seemed like an eternity as he climbed - Jesus, had there always been this many stairs?

“There we are, my boy!” The minute Lance reached the top, Coran was throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him flush against his side. “Now as many of you know,” he continued, once more addressing the crowd at large, “our dear Mister McClain has been with us for seven years - eight, in a couple months. Isn’t that right, Lance?”

“Uh-” Lance swallowed. Why were there so many people here? What the fuck? Like - sure, it was a store, but couldn’t whatever this was be done in private? “Right.”

“I’m sure all who know him will agree that there is no one more dedicated to the success of this store, and no one who loves it more than he.”

Down below, someone - Lance was pretty sure it was Hunk - broke into applause, and the rest of the crowd followed suit.

“It seems we’re all in agreement!” Coran laughed as he turned, and for the first time, Lance registered that he was holding something in his hands. “I can think of none more deserving of this honor than you, my boy. Welcome, Salesmanager McClain!”

There was a general buzz of applause, polite and refined from the customers and absolutely raucous from his friends. It all sort of blended together as Lance scanned the crowd in a daze. Hunk had his hands cupped over his mouth to amplify his hollering, Allura was jumping like an excited toddler, and Keith…

Keith was standing completely still, save for the slow, sweet smile that grew when their eyes met. As soon as their gaze locked, Keith gave him a two-fingered salute and mouthed a few words that Lance could hear almost as if they were whispered directly into his ear.

I knew you could do it.

Shit.

Shit.

Lance had known Coran for years. The guy was like a father to him. Allura was like a sister, and Hunk he’d known since the two of them had been in diapers.

But in that moment, it wasn’t their approval that Lance sought, nor their accolades that touched his heart. It wasn’t even the nametag Coran was pressing into his palm, gold and engraved with the words Salesmanager McClain.

No - it was the secret smile of the boy below him that mattered, that made him feel that for the first time in his life he was someone. The world could dissolve around him, but as long as Keith carried on smiling at him like that…

He didn't need solid ground.

Floating, Lance thought, returning Keith’s smile with one that he hoped said thank you for believing in me and I love you all at once - though judging by the way Keith’s smile deepened, he thought maybe Keith understood.

He thought maybe…

Maybe Keith was floating too.

…

They had a party after work that Friday.

Despite Lance’s reassurance that he didn’t need one, Coran insisted - and whatever Coran wanted, Coran usually got.

Which was how Lance found himself with a paper plate loaded with chocolate cake in one hand, the other shoved deep into his pocket to avoid any more handshakes. The congratulations from the rest of the staff had been sweet (if not a little overwhelming) but before long Lance had sequestered himself off in a corner with Coran, taking a moment to just catch his damn breath under the guise of chatting.

“Seriously, you didn’t need to do this, Coran,” he said for the millionth time. “And the cake? It’s unreal.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t take credit for that, my boy. Nor, even, can Hunk. That was all Mr. Kogane’s doing. I do believe he made the cake himself.”

“He…what? He made it?”

Coran held his arms behind his back and rocked cheerfully onto his toes. “He did! And even made mention that I need not tell you that, which I have chosen to ignore.”

“Of course he did,” Lance murmured, eyes straying to the perfume counter, where Keith sat talking to Hunk. “Coran, you mind if I-”

“By all means.”

Despite what anyone might think, Lance had never been into romantic movies. He’d never bought into the drama, had never bought into the rose-tinted lighting or the swell of music or the concept of The One. None of it ever felt real - and none of it ever had been.

That was - none of it had felt real until Keith.

Now, watching as Keith laughed - backlit by late afternoon sun that gave him an ethereal sort of glow - Lance could almost see the world in pink, could almost hear the swell of a symphony as it declared Keith his One. He thought he’d known love before - thought he’d found it with Dear Friend, but now…now, he believed. After all these years, he finally, truly believed in…in…

Jesus, what had happened to him?

He was smiling by the time he reached Keith, smiling so fondly that his cheeks ached with it. “Hey,” he greeted, fighting the urge to…what? Finally feel those rosy cheeks beneath his fingers? Tuck that gentle curtain-fall of hair behind an ear?

Kiss him? After months of waiting?

“Hi.” Keith turned to him, his eyes crinkled with amusement in the aftermath of whatever Hunk had said to make him laugh. Lance watched as the smile on his face warmed and relaxed into something that made his chest swell with hope.

It was a few seconds - spent caught in each other’s gaze - before Lance remembered their audience. “Hunk,” he murmured, unable to rip his eyes from Keith’s, “mind if I steal Keith for a-”

“Yep!” Hunk’s stool clattered against the floor as he scrambled out of it. “I mean - no, I do not mind, I’ll just be over…uh…I think I heard Allura calling me, anyways, so I’ll just - I’m going now, bye!”

Lance snorted, reaching for Keith’s hand in a surge of bravery. “Come on,” he whispered, and - with no protest from Keith - laced their fingers together as he dragged the two of them to the back room.

The moment they were out of earshot, Lance held the paper plate - still loaded with cake - between them.

“Little birdie told me you made this.”

Keith huffed, so hard it blew one of his bangs into his eyes. “‘Little birdie’ was told to mind his own fucking business.”

“Well I, for one, am kind of glad little birdie snitched,” Lance sniggered, putting the plate aside. He still hadn't let go of Keith's hand - and, coincidentally, Keith still hadn't let go of his. “Now I know exactly who I have to thank.”

“Nah.” Keith ducked his head and rubbed his neck - his go-to when he was feeling exposed or squirmy, Lance had noticed. “Just wanted to say congrats and that I’m glad you got the job - without fucking it up or saying something wrong. I can’t really vouch for the cake, anyway. It’s just from a box.”

“Uh, have you tried this? Box cake fucking rules, man.”

Keith laughed softly. “I couldn’t exactly sneak a bite if I was going to show up with an intact cake. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Oh my - but Hunk had a piece the size of his head! You were, what? Just watching him eat it?” Lance grinned. “You into that kind of thing, Kogane?”

“Wow, you can shut up yesterday.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Lance giggled, raising a hand in surrender as he reached for the cake he’d discarded on a writing desk. “But seriously, kinda fucked up that you made the cake and haven’t gotten to try any. Here-”

And before Lance knew what he was doing, he was holding his fork - topped with a rich bite of devil’s food cake - out to Keith. “You gotta taste it.”

Keith’s eyebrows raised in exasperation as he huffed a laugh. “I’m not eating your cake.”

“Aw, come on!” Lance giggled again. “Try some!”

Rolling his eyes, Keith leaned in and opened his mouth pointedly.

Oh. So. Lance had clearly not thought this through. Because now he had to…feed Keith.

Swallowing, his free hand reached up of its own accord, trailing the pads of his fingertips along the soft skin of Keith’s jaw. He let it rest there, just barely touching the spot behind his ear where he could feel the first brush of silky black hair. Keith’s eyes widened just a fraction before his lashes lowered, soft and intimate in a way that definitely belonged in a bedroom instead of the back room of Wimbledon-Smythe’s perfumerie.

Tentatively, Lance raised the forkful of cake to Keith’s mouth and watched as his plush lips closed around it, sliding slloowwwlllyyy back as he took the piece of cake. His eyes never left Lance’s, darting between them as he chewed twice and swallowed. Lance, heaven fucking help him, couldn’t stop himself from glancing down at the bob of Keith’s throat, a mistake that had heat crawling up his neck by the time he sheepishly met Keith’s knowing gaze.

When he spoke, Keith’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Delicious.”

If it were anyone else - if it were any other scenario - Lance would have probably been a nervous wreck. He'd have probably laughed like a hyena and had to excuse himself, and then would have probably run away and never looked back.

But this was Keith, and Keith had made him a fucking cake, and Lance wasn't running away. Not this time.

"No one's ever done anything like that for me," he whispered, finally giving in and tucking Keith's hair behind an ear.

One of Keith’s eyebrows quirked and his lips curled devilishly. “So it’s you that has the thing for watching people eat, huh?”

That was enough to surprise a laugh out of Lance, whose head ducked closer to Keith's. "I'm being serious, you jerk. This was…really sweet," he murmured, sobering once he realized how close they'd gotten. God, if he leaned in just a little more…

The fingers still in Keith's hair curled themselves snugly amongst velvet-soft strands. "Kind of makes a guy wonder."

Keith - oh shit - Keith leaned into the touch, almost like he was trying not to nuzzle into Lance’s palm. “Oh yeah…?”

Screw waiting until Monday. Screw Valentine’s Day. They’d waited long enough. This was happening now.

Lance grinned - a secretive sort of thing that he hoped might tell Keith exactly what he was thinking. Instead of giving him a straight answer, Lance thumbed at some non-existent frosting at the corner of Keith’s lip.

For his part, Keith was pliant and still beneath his touch.

“You got some frosting,” Lance explained, knowing full-well that he didn’t sound even a little believable.

Clearly, Keith was on board for playing along. He tilted his head up, licking his lips in a way that made it hard for Lance to swallow a groan.

“All gone?” Keith murmured.

“Not sure,” Lance whispered, brushing the pad of his thumb ever-so-slightly across Keith’s lower lip. As if in a dream, he leaned his head to the side, drifting close enough to feel Keith’s breath fluttering against his chin. “I should probably check...”

They were so close now - just another inch and he would finally know what it felt like to take those incredible red lips for his own-

Keith pushed up on his toes, letting his eyes fall closed.

“I think you should…”

The door to the back room burst open with such gusto that Lance yelled - as did a terrified Hunk, whose scream probably alerted every dog in the neighborhood.

“I’m sorry!” he yelled, throwing a hand over his eyes as if he’d caught Lance and Keith doing something quite literally Not Safe For Work. “I should have knocked, it’s just - Coran was wondering where you’d gone, he opened champagne and wanted to do a toast - I’m so sorry you guys-”

“Hunk!” Apparently, Lance’s voice had also reached Dog Whistle Register. “Relax, man! It’s okay!”

“You were finally gonna - I’m sorry, Lance, I’m so-”

Keith’s brows raised. “‘Finally?’ Finally what?”

“Nothing!” Lance squeaked.

“Nothing?” That was irritation, that was definitely Keith sounding offended, oh god-

“Sorry,” Hunk, meanwhile, was fumbling with the doorknob, trying to pull the door closed but catching it on its own lock. “Sorry, sorry, just, when you’re done, I mean, whenever you’re, oh man, why won’t this thing-”

The thing in question finally slammed shut, leaving Lance and Keith staring at each other in a supremely loud silence.

Seconds passed.

Then Keith’s lips twitched, his nose scrunched, and he started to snicker.

Lance blinked. About three seconds ago, he’d been pretty sure Keith was ready to rip his head off. “You’re - are you kidding? Are you seriously laughing right now?” he yelped, aiming a light punch at Keith’s arm. “That gave me a fucking heart attack!”

Keith was laughing, but his face was also an interesting shade of fire hydrant. He nudged Lance back with his shoulder, but put some space between them, hugging himself. “Come on, his face was hilarious. But, uh-” He cleared his throat. “I guess we should get back out there.”

“Uh - right! Yeah,” Lance agreed, trying not to sound too disappointed. He wanted nothing more than to close the door again and resume where they’d left off, but the moment was gone, the air between them changed.

“After you, my good sir,” he said instead, gesturing elaborately to the doorway and slipping into the dumbest accent he could manage - if only to lighten things between them once more.

Keith walked to the door and opened it a fraction…then he paused and turned to Lance, his face uncertain. “Listen, Lance…I just wanted to ask…”

He trailed off, frowning at the floor.

Lance stepped forward. “Ask?”

“If there was something you wanted to…I mean…if you were…”

In another moment, Keith let out a long sigh and gave Lance an apologetic smile. “Nah, nevermind.”

He slipped out the door before Lance could say another word - and for a few seconds, Lance simply watched him go.

Monday, he finally thought, picking up the discarded cake as he followed Keith out into the shop. Whatever it is, tell me Monday.

Then neither of us will have a secret left to hide.

…

Lance thought he’d be nervous.

He thought he’d be a total mess the second he woke up on Valentine’s Day, thought he’d laugh too loud at his coworker’s jokes or trip over his own two feet once or twice.

By all means he should have been - today was the day he told Keith, after all. It wasn’t like he had any idea what to expect. Months spent falling in love, and it could all disappear today. He really, really should have been nervous.

But he’d woken up that morning to bright sunshine and a layer of fresh snow lining his windowsill, the air alive with birdsong and a strange sense of calm. It permeated his body and settled in his heart, grounding him and turning doubt to faith.

He loves me, he thought as he made his bed - and then again as he did the dishes, and again as he showered, and again as he filled Cocoa Puff’s bowl.

He loves me.

He loves me.

He loves me.

The thought carried him to work, turned his footsteps confident and determined as his feet crunched through fresh snow.

Today was the day. He was doing this. Keith wasn’t leaving the building today until he knew the truth.

I’m Dear Friend.

He’d practiced it in front of the mirror that morning, but try as he might, he couldn’t seem to get it right.

I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you, Keith. I just…wanted you to like me. For me.

He loves you, Lance reminded himself as he pushed open the front door to Wimbleton-Smythe’s, greeted with a wave by an unusually sunny (and unusually early) Keith. He had clearly dressed for their date in a mulberry sweater with leather elbow patches that gave off definite Dear Friend, ‘I read a lot of really old stuff’ vibes. He’d also pulled his hair into a high ponytail, which was really doing things to Lance’s heart.

“Wow,” he murmured as he dropped his messenger bag behind the perfume counter. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” Keith smiled and gave Lance an appraising look of his own. “So do you. Almost like you’ve got a date or something.”

“Guess that depends.” With a smirk, Lance leaned across the counter towards Keith, who’d settled into a stool. “I either get to take out a handsome guy who rocks the shit out of a good sweater, or make Cocoa Puff watch Dirty Dancing for the millionth time.”

Apparently there was a big difference between “amazing” and “handsome” on the Keith Kogane scale of compliments. He’d held Lance’s gaze with a smile for the first one, but now he glanced away with a cute little flush.

“I, um…” Lance watched Keith bite at his lip, trying to give him the space to finish his thought. “…Kind of hope we can spare Cocoa Puff.”

Lance sniggered. “I think she’d be grateful for that, to be honest.”

The bell over the front door chimed softly, signaling the arrival of their first customer of the day and the end of their conversation. Lance gently rapped his knuckles against the counter. “Meet out here after work, okay?” he asked as he straightened.

Keith lifted an eyebrow, clearly fighting a smirk. “Are you that confident I’m gonna get stood up again?”

Pretty confident of the opposite, actually.

“Nah, but you know I’m gonna wait with you no matter what. I’d kind of like to meet the guy, to be honest,” he added as he raised an eyebrow and cracked his knuckles. “I still wanna give him a piece of my mind for standing you up.”

Keith’s expression morphed into something Lance couldn’t quite recognize, a Venn diagram of bewilderment, disappointment, and amusement. Just as quickly, he replaced it with his customer service smile. “Noted. Wanna see who can get that lady to buy first?”

…

By the time the last customer had left the shop and Hunk was turning the store sign to ‘closed,’ Lance’s stomach was in knots.

He still wasn’t nervous, per sé - but it was as if he’d been shaken like a soda can, and he was ready to…what? Sing? Dance? Yell?

Confess his love to his anonymous pen pal turned enemy turned friend turned almost-boyfriend?

Jesus, he was a mess.

It hadn’t exactly been an eventful day at work, either. The hours had crept by almost lethargically, as if to mock his eager restlessness, leaving him with little to do other than glance at the clock every few minutes or so.

If this was purgatory, Lance didn’t want to know what hell looked like.

His poor stomach didn’t untie itself after the shop had closed for the day, nor did it untie itself when his fellow employees left the store for the night, all wishing him a happy Valentine’s Day and a good evening as they went.

“You got this,” Hunk whispered as he shrugged on his coat. He was one of the last to leave, hovering around while Coran asked Keith to lock up for the night. “Just be yourself.”

“Right.”

“Lance.” Hunk’s eyes were kind as he placed a hand atop Lance’s shoulder and squeezed. “He loves you.”

Heart fit to beat out of his chest, Lance glanced behind them - and was surprised to find gray eyes already staring back. They snapped away quickly as Keith refocused on whatever Coran was telling him, but Lance didn’t miss the red tint that’d colored Keith’s cheeks.

“I know,” Lance whispered, returning his attention to his best friend and wrapping him in a hug. “Thank you.”

Hunk gave him a final squeeze before heading out into the snow, and before long, Coran was also departing with a wink and a wave-

Leaving the two of them alone at long last.

Showtime.

Lance swallowed around a surge of emotion, balling his hands into fists. “So,” he started nervously, “Coran seemed pretty chipper just now. What’s up with that?”

Keith didn’t seem to be faring much better, fiddling nervously with the keys at his belt. “Well,” he said slowly. “He’s actually got a date tonight. With my aunt.”

“No way, for real?”

“Mmhm.” Keith smiled and his shoulders relaxed by a fraction. “I’m happy for them. After hearing about her pen pal for so many years, it’s nice to see them finally getting the chance they should have had. That old writing desk really does seem to bring people together.”

The mention of the desk clearly had Keith’s mind back on his impending date, and Lance watched him glance towards the windows and back with another bite to his lower lip. He must have been worrying at it all day, for as red and chapped as it’d become, which-

No more. This had to end. Now.

After a whole day spent trying to find the right words, Lance took a shuddering breath and stepped forwards. “Tell me about him. Dear Friend.”

Gray eyes slid over to him and held his gaze as Keith licked his abused lips.

“He, um…” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s…kind. Complimentary. Funny. He can tell a story about the most mundane shit and make it hilarious. He likes to support others, to figure out what they’re into and learn about their passions. He’s hardworking and dedicated to his job, but knows how to have fun. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. He’s sweet and romantic and…honestly?”

Lance followed Keith’s hand as he tucked his hair behind his ear, those stormy eyes staring straight through to his heart.

“He’s exactly like you.”

The breath left Lance in a shaky exhale as he took another step forwards. “Did you ever ask him for a name? Or were you just…hoping you’d know him when he showed up?”

Keith slowly shook his head. “It never seemed to matter. All I needed to know was how he felt.”

“I think,” Lance began, swallowing hard, “he probably feels like he’s floating.”

“He-”

He could see the exact moment Keith realized, his eyes widening as he sucked in a swift, stuttering breath.

Feeling simultaneously more terrified and more brave than he ever had in his life, Lance withdrew a letter - one of the last ones he’d received from Keith before the Lelys - from his back pocket.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: if you feel like you’re floating too, I’ll meet you on Cloud 9.

“And I don’t think he ever wants to touch ground,” Lance whispered, watching Keith’s hands fly to his mouth.

There was a long moment where they just stared at each other, the only sound Keith’s ragged breathing and the chime of the grandfather clock striking 8.

Finally Keith whispered, “Oh my god. It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Lance confirmed. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I just…wanted you to fall for me.”

He watched as Keith searched between his eyes, his shoulders rising and falling as his breath came quicker. “I,” he croaked, “I’d thought…at least, I hoped…”

“You hoped…?”

“That it was you.” Keith’s arms slowly dropped to his sides, leaving him staring at Lance in open wonder. “I hoped like hell it was you.”

Relief left Lance in a ridiculous laugh, euphoric and teary. “You did?”

“Of course I did! I - this whole week, I-!” Keith gestured between them. “Haven’t I?”

Lance laughed again, because - holy shit, had he ever expected anything else? Everything about this was so them that his heart felt fit to burst. They were on the verge of something. He could feel it - feel them, balanced on the edge of a precipice, ready at any moment to…what? “I don’t know what you’re saying!”

“That you…you’re so…”

“So…?” Lance prompted gently.

Keith took a few short breaths, chest heaving as he searched for the right words-

But for some reason, words seemed to completely fail the boy who’d written him so many letters, some which were as delicately crafted as the books he so loved.

The best Keith could do was mumble, “Oh, fuck it,” before he surged forward and grabbed Lance by the shirt, fitting their lips together like they were slotting into place-

And tipping the two of them right over the edge of that precipice.

They were flying. It was the only thing Lance could think as he melted against Keith, weightless and giddy and whole. This was what he’d been waiting for his entire life - not only this moment, but this love, this unshakable elation that came with finding the missing part of his heart.

Keith’s lips were chapped and sweet and perfect. He smelled like ink and amber cologne. He kissed like he was dying and Lance was holding him to this world.

And Lance loved him so. Damn. Much.

Finally, like a storm turning to rain, they parted and Lance watched Keith’s eyes flutter open. He blinked twice, dazed, then gave Lance the happiest, most content smile as he brushed a thumb over Lance’s cheek.

“Hi,” he whispered against Lance’s lips. “I’m Keith. It’s nice to finally meet you…Dear Friend.”

With trembling hands, Lance brushed Keith’s hair behind his ear, marveling at the simple touch. “Keith,” Lance echoed, voice shaking despite the number of times he’d rehearsed this. “‘You must allow me to tell you how strongly I admire and love you.’”

“Ardently.”

Lance blinked. The imaginary symphony that’d been building around them cut off abruptly. “What?”

Keith grinned at him, showing off his one sharp tooth. “It’s ‘ardently.’ Not strongly. But I’ll let it slide because I love you too. Ardently so.”

“Oh my god.” Lance sniggered, leaning back in to steal another quick kiss. “Is this what being in love with you is gonna be like?”

“Worse, probably.”

Laughing softly, Lance pressed a tender kiss to Keith’s palm before glancing up at him from beneath his eyelashes. “What do you say we get out of here?” he murmured, feeling his smile go lopsided. “I still owe you a first date.”

Keith’s free hand found his and laced their fingers together. “And gelato.”

Planting another kiss on Keith’s knuckles, Lance held open the door for his new boyfriend. “Whatever you’d like, Dear Friend.”

‘Friendship,’ according to Austen, ‘is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.’ But as far as Lance McClain figured, if your disappointed love turned out to be a friend you could fall in love with just the same…well. That was like, a million times better.

And you could quote him on it, too.