Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do you think if I fake a fainting spell, they’ll let me drop French?” Hunk asks, balancing his water bottle on top of his head as he walks. “Like, just full-on fall and hit my head in the middle of class?”

Lance shoots him a sidelong glance. “Only if you quote Molière while going down.”

Hunk lets out a long, tortured sigh. “Yeah. I figured as much.” 

The two of them meander across campus like they've been doing it forever, taking the worn concrete path. Past the old arts building with its sun-bleached murals from last year’s art club seniors and the chain-link fence tangled with ivy that just won’t die under the Arizona sun. 

They walk under the bronze clock tower planted right in the middle of the quad. It had become their unofficial checkpoint over the years, whether between classes or just for a mid-day debrief.

“So far,” Lance starts tiredly, “I’ve already had one existential crisis, two syllabus quizzes, and it’s not even lunch break. Like, c’mon now. How was I supposed to know I had to study over the summer, for real?”

“Three AP classes will do that to you,” Hunk replies, lowering his water bottle down, “You’re a better man than me, that’s for sure.”

“Correction.” Lance holds up three fingers, “Three mandatory AP classes. Spanish for cultural guilt. Biology because I desperately need the college credit. And English because my counsellor gaslit me and I tend to make bad choices under academic pressure.”

“You’re in too deep,” Hunk says solemnly, “That’s why I told myself I was only taking two.”

“I mean, luckily for us,” Lance says, pulling his half-opened backpack to his chest and taking out his folded schedule, “we made one good call. CP Econ. Fourth period salvation.”

“That loophole was a gift from the scheduling gods,” Hunk nods. “I saw Morvok’s name for AP Gov and noped out so fast I think I tore spacetime.”

“Four-foot-ten and still has the presence of a Sith Lord,” Lance agrees. “Yeah, I'd rather take my chances dealing with the lesser evil in Iverson.”

They reach the building, and together, along with a crowd of students, they take the staircase to the second floor. Stopping right outside Room 202B, Lance pulls open the door.

The second they step into the classroom, Lance’s face cracks.

“Ugh,” He groans, halting mid-step. “I see a seating chart.”

At the front of the classroom, the whiteboard beams like a passive-aggressive warning:

PERIOD 4 – U.S. ECONOMICS
MR. IVERSON SEATING ASSIGNMENTS
ALPHABETICAL ORDER — DO NOT SWITCH

The red words are written in all-caps with such clean symmetry. There’s even a laminated copy tacked beside the board, just in case someone dared to try and alter the names.

Nearing closer, among a few other students, Lance scans the chart. 

“Damn. You’re in the second row, fourth seat,” He whispers over to Hunk behind him, “I’m all the way in the back, last row, last column.”

“Well, at least no one’s going to look over your shoulder,” Hunk offers, patting his shoulder, “And, you could totally take a nap without anyone noticing.”

Lance huffs. “Yeah, but who am I supposed to talk to during downtime?”

Hunk gives a reassuring smile. “Maybe your new seat neighbor’s friendly. Besides, worst case scenario, we can still text.”

That helps to make Lance feel slightly better.

After separating from Hunk, he navigates through the maze of desks, eyeing at the other students who trickle in and look for their own seats. Most seemed to be okay with playing along with the alphabetical tyranny, though some others were as equally devastated as he was to find out.

Lance slows as he reaches the desk assigned to his name.

Someone else’s already in his seat.

“Hey,” Lance says, keeping his tone light. “Uh… I think you’re in my seat.”

The guy has a hood up and one earbud in, dark hair sticking out in soft curls that graze the edge of his jaw. Leaning back in his chair, he keeps his eyes closed, distinctly choosing not to notice Lance.

“Hey,” Lance tries again, tapping the corner of the desk. “McClain. That’s me. You’re in my spot.”

This time, the guy glances up barely. Then he closes back his eyes, as if Lance never existed.

Lance stares at him, momentarily stunned. Did this dude just ignore me?

He stands there for a beat longer than necessary, eyebrows slowly lifting in disbelief. The guy wasn’t even pretending not to hear him. He simply kept existing in a whole other plane of “not my problem.” 

Okay. So that’s how it’s going to be.

With a tight smile that hurts his cheeks, Lance turns around and plops into the seat in front of him. If he was reading the seating arrangement right (and he most definitely was), he’s now sitting in the assigned desk for ‘Keith Kogane’.

Keith’s probably the same guy that took his seat.

“Fine,” Lance mutters under his breath, loud enough to be heard. “Let’s just play musical chairs. Not like anyone’s going to notice.”

Instinctively, he glances towards the left for Hunk. 

Hunk’s already grinning, deep in conversation with a girl in floral overalls sitting beside him. She looks seemingly excited to talk about whatever she was going on about, along with hands. Hunk nodded along enthusiastically.

Lance leans back in his seat with a sigh, propping up his elbows.

Great. Hunk was thriving already. Meanwhile, Lance had landed the one seat in the room with a human brick wall behind it.

He keeps his expression neutral as the rest of the senior students settle in. Hunk finally catches his eye from a few rows up and raises his brow in question. Lance gives him a subtle thumbs-up and tries not to let the irritation burrow.

The bell rings sharp, and at precisely 11:00 AM, the classroom door slams shut.

“Let’s begin,” said a grown voice from the front of the room.

Mr. Iverson stands behind the podium like it was a command post. His brown suit looks perfectly pressed and his yellow tie knotted tightly at the collar. 

In Lance’s personal opinion, Iverson looks like a teacher who irons his syllabus and goes over his bullet points with military precision.

“This is U.S. Economics. It is a required course. No, you will not be allowed to switch over to Gov. And no, you will not switch seats.”

He gestures toward the whiteboard, where the seating chart was presented. “Seats are assigned alphabetically. You are to remain in them for the duration of the semester.”

Lance sinks into his chair, peeking up at the ceiling like the universe might grant him an emergency transfer. No dice.

He urges himself not to glance back.

From what he could hear, Keith’s earbud emits faint music, muffled and indecipherable, as he bounces his leg in sync rhythm, on Lance’s metal rack under his seat.

Lance exhales slowly. It was totally fine. He wasn’t about to make a scene over a desk on the first day. He was well matured and emotionally evolved to do that his senior year.

Still, as Iverson drones on about expectations, supply lists, and responsibility, Lance can’t resist glancing back at the student again.

Keith wears a deep red hoodie with the sleeves slightly pushed up, revealing the pale skin of his forearms. His baggy jeans were black, scuffed at the knees. Thick, dark hair curls softly around his ears and neck, way too long to be committing to dress code.

If he feels Lance’s gaze on him, he doesn’t show it. Keith doesn’t so much as turn towards Lance’s direction, looking off to the side.

For reasons Lance couldn’t explain yet, that bugged the hell out of him.

It’s Thursday, second week of school, and Lance is already counting the minutes until lunch.

With a pointer in hand, Mr. Iverson clicks through yet another minimalist PowerPoint presentation at the front of the classroom. 

Lance lets his head fall softly against his desk with a soft thud. He swears he’s trying to stay focused, but his stomach is already making noises that earn him side-eyes from his neighboring classmates, and he’s pretty sure his last granola bar wasn’t built for this endurance test.

From his pant pocket, he slips out his phone under the desk, sliding it low enough to avoid drawing attention. He sends a text to Hunk.

[Lance] you alive up there buddy?

He peers toward the front of the room where Hunk sits in the second row, in line of Iverson’s ever-watchful gaze. Lance watches as Hunk’s hands never reach toward his pockets.

Lance sighs and shoves his phone away. He doesn’t blame Hunk. Iverson has already given detention to some idiot classmate for texting during lecture. He doubts Hunk’s mothers would appreciate getting a call from the dean’s office this early into the school year.

He sighs and gives up on a response, shoving the phone back in his back pocket and slouches low in his seat until his spine’s no longer legally upright. 

His eyes drift lazily toward the row of windows lining the classroom. One desk over from the glass windows, he’s got a decent view of the lawn, the bike racks, the alley between the west wing and the art building—

—and movement.

He straightens slightly, squinting.

Through the gap in the hedges, just past the art wing’s shadow, Keith climbs the fence. Hood up, one strap of his backpack slung haphazardly over his shoulder. He hops down cleanly, with the casualness of someone who’s done it a dozen times. After looking around, Keith walks off campus.

Lance blinks, mouth parting. Is he seriously ditching again?

He glances back at the seat behind him. Empty, of course.

It’s not the first time he’s heard about Keith cutting class. Whispers during lunch, occasional sighs from teachers in the halls. But seeing it actually happen is somehow different than hearing rumors or watching Keith in the mornings, dragging himself through the front gates.

As he waited on the front lawn for Hunk to show up to school, Lance often found his eyes drifting toward the gates. And without fail, Keith would shuffle in a few minutes before the bell.

He always looked like he’d barely slept. Or like he wasn’t quite convinced school was worth showing up for in the first place.

Watching from the side window of Room 202B, Lance saw the same image replay, but in reverse. Keith wasn’t dragging himself in. Now, he was vaulting out, purposeful and fast.

“Is he even real?” he mutters under his breath, leaning sideways in his chair. “Why even bother showing up to school if you’re just going to Houdini out the side gate by fourth period?”

The girl in the desk beside him, glances over. “Who?”

“Keith,” Lance replies without thinking. “The guy who sits behind me.”

She blinks. “He came to school today?”

Lance frowns, surprised by her surprise. “Yeah, and left like, a minute ago.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk,” she adds. “Is he mute?”

“Who knows. Maybe he’s allergic to people.”

That earns him a soft laugh, before the girl turns back to her notes.

Lance leans back, fingers drumming lightly against his desk. He’s not mad, exactly. It’s surely not his job to care. So, he should let it go already.

He taps his pen once more against the edge of the desk and forces his eyes on the board.

Why even bother showing up? That’s the thought that sticks in Lance’s head. 

Maybe Keith’s forced to come to school. Like someone takes him in every morning, and he runs off from there. Or perhaps he’s merely skating by on minimal effort, like school’s a formality and nothing more.

Lance sighs, slouching in his seat. It’s not his business.

Yet, it nags him over and over again. How he can’t help but notice Keith.

The door creaks open mid-sentence, dragging every pair of eyes to the back of the room. Mr. Iverson pauses mid-slide as if personally offended by the interruption.

Keith steps through, earbuds still in his ears. He wears a worn black hoodie layered under a light washed denim jacket. He doesn't bother to look around the room, staring at him.

From somewhere near the front, James whispers, “Oh look, the school emo returns.”

Lance hears it. So does Keith. Probably.

Mr. Iverson’s voice cuts through the murmurs. “Kogane,” he says dryly, “Nice of you to join us.”

A few kids snicker. Someone lets out a loud, exaggerated cough that’s clearly meant to be a laugh. 

Keith refuses to look at anyone. If anything, his scowl deepens.

However, as he walks across the room, Iverson meets him halfway. He pulls down Keith’s earbuds out of his ears, with a quick tug on the thin cable.

“If I see those earphones again, they're mine,” Iverson sternly says. “Sit down and don’t be a distraction.”

The laughter dies in the air instantly.

Giving a short nod, Keith trudges down the row and slides into his seat behind Lance without a word. His shoulders remain hunched, but not in that panicked, guilt-ridden way. No, it’s like silent resignation. As if the exact situation has played out more times than he can count, and it’s not even worth reacting to.

Around him, whispers fill the gaps between bullet points.

“Wonder where he even goes when he leaves.”

“Probably smoking in his car.”

“Is he, like, homeless?”

“Bet he thinks he’s cool or something.”

Lance grips his pencil tighter.

He doesn’t even like the guy. Barely even knows him. As far as Lance is concerned, Keith’s just that one infuriating classmate who stole his seat and never bothered to return it. The guy who skips out on school after third period almost everyday and never says a word when he’s there.

But watching Iverson talk to Keith like that and seeing the room turn him into a punchline, bothers Lance. Because, despite his actions, Keith doesn’t talk back. He never takes the chance to start yelling at anyone to defend himself. He doesn't scoff or roll his eyes or crack a deflective joke.

He just kinda absorbs it. Takes the blow, lets it pass through him, and keeps his head down.

Lance slowly chances a glance over his shoulder.

Keith sits motionless, eyes locked towards the window. It’s almost like he’s mentally not here.

A hundred questions cross Lance’s mind in a flash, ones he’d never say out loud. 

Is he okay?

Why’s he always late? 

Does he even have anyone at home who worries for him?

It’s stupid. He shouldn’t care. Keith clearly doesn’t. He’s made that clear with every missed period, ditching effort, and dead-eyed stare.

But Lance still feels the tight coil of something settle behind his ribs.

It feels weird watching people laugh at someone who don't even try to fight back.

Keith shows up on the first exam.

Lance almost does a double-take when he walks in, on time for once. He wears his usual blank expression, like he hadn’t missed the majority of the units covered.

However, there’s a deep shadow under his eyes that suggests he didn’t sleep the night before.

Mr. Iverson passes out the exams. “No talking, no phones, no excuses. If you didn’t study, let today be a clear sign that you should’ve.”

Lance flips open the first page of the exam, eyes scanning over the first twelve multiple choice questions. 

It’s not a hard test. Especially if you’ve actually been here for the lectures and the pop quizzes and the five-minute rants about supply and demand. Take notes. Participated. Give a damn.

Which Keith, obviously, hasn’t.

After brief consideration, Lance exhales slowly through his nose.

Then, without so much as a noise, he leans slightly to the left, keeping the movement casual and measured. Enough to tilt his paper outward, so the answers are angled and visible, not outright blatant.

His elbow rests loosely at the desk’s edge, doing his best to not obscure the page, and his circles his answer deliberately large.

There’s no real logic to it. No specific reason he can defend if someone were to ask. He doesn’t even know the guy, but something in his gut tells him Keith needs help.

So, Lance circles the first twelve answers, slow enough to be read, but not suspiciously slow. 

Then he waits to see if Keith takes his chance.

After a while, from behind him, he hears the gentle sound of a page turning.

Lance flips his own test to page two, like it’s just the next step in a rhythm they’re both pretending not to play. He continues answering, letting his pencil drag cleanly across the paper.

Near the end of the section, he briefly pauses again, carefully listening.

He hears Keith turn to the next page, faint but unmistakable.

So, Lance flips his test again, one beat behind.

Lance doesn’t need to look back to know when Keith’s reading over his shoulder. He can feel it in the breath of space between their desks.

By third and last page of the exam, he finds himself waiting a beat longer to make sure the pattern's completed. 

He catches the sound of Keith’s test being flipped down. He's finished.

Lance waits a few seconds, then places down his pencil and flips his own test down too. He crosses his arms on his desk, and rests his head on them, eyes closing. He figures he will try to sneak a nap in, as he waits for the rest of the class to finish.

Finally, Iverson’s voice breaks the quiet. “Pencils down. Pass your exams down to the front.”

There’s a groan of chairs pushed back, the scrape of rubber soles. Lance reaches backward without lifting his head. Without missing a beat, Keith’s test is already in his hand.

He stacks his test with Keith’s own together, but in that short moment, his eyes skim the front pages.

And sure enough, their answers mirror one another. 

Keith copied him.

He lets out the smallest huff of relief that might be a smile.

Then, he passes their exams forward.

When the bell rings, Keith stands up, slides his hands into his hoodie pocket, and simply walks off

Lance watches him go.

No nod. No thanks. Nothing.

But he really doesn’t mind.

Because sometimes you do things not for thanks, not even for understanding.

Just because something in your gut tells you someone needs help. And maybe, for situations like these, it’s okay to give it without asking why.

Halfway through the worksheet, Lance's pencil gives one final, pitiful scratch and dies.

He clicks the lead advance button once. Twice.

Click click click.

He tries again, more aggressive this time.

Click click click click click click.

“No, no, no. C’mon,” he mutters, shaking the pencil like it might miraculously sprout lead from sheer desperation.

Hurriedly, he checks his pencil pouch. It’s full of betrayal; broken erasers, snapped lead stubs, and one red ink pen that he knows will not fly under Iverson’s radar.

Lance leans over his desk, craning his neck to whisper loudly across the room for Hunk, but Hunk’s locked in, focus deep in the worksheet. Besides, even if he could hear Lance, there’s no way he’d risk drawing attention.

He sighs softly and starts to scan the room for another possible savior. He considers maybe the girl in the purple sweater or maybe that guy who always carries multiple colored pens. 

His thoughts cease when he feels something nudge softly against his elbow.

He turns around.

Keith looks up at him, one arm propped up to hold his head, while the other stretches out to offer a black mechanical pencil towards Lance.

Lance mouth opens, then closes. “...Thanks.”

Keith gives a small shrug. Barely a motion. “Welcome,” he murmurs, quiet and flat. He drops his gaze back to his paper, already done with the moment. Like he didn’t just casually help out Lance.

Lance watches him for a second longer than necessary, then looks down. He turns the pencil in his hand.

He scribbles a test line in the margin and hums under his breath. The graphite’s soft, probably 2B. Slightly smudgy and very easy to glide. 

Of course, Keith uses premium lead.

The edge of his frustration fades with each smooth mark across paper. He works quietly, finishing up the rest of the worksheet with practiced ease, though his eyes flick back to Keith once or twice. 

But Keith doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he chooses not to.

When the bell rings, Lance turns in his seat and holds the pencil out toward Keith.

“Here. I appreciate the save.”

Keith reaches for it, then gives the barest dip of his chin, like it’s more reflex than thought. Then, he stands up from his seat and leaves, bag slung over his back.

Lance leaves the classroom thinking that’s probably the most social interaction they’ve had in their entire fall semester.

Later, standing by his locker, while Hunk excitedly blabbers on about the lunch his mother packed him, Lance stares at the side of his palm. 

He notices a smear of silvery dust smudged into the skin. Probably from Keith’s pencil. He thinks about washing it off, before he opts out of the idea. 

During lunch, Lance catches himself being a little more dazed than usual, and when Hunk points it out, he doesn’t have a good answer.

He just shrugs and says, “It's been a weird morning.”

The class sighs in collective relief when the substitute, Ms.Florona, walks in with a travel mug and a big, easy smile. 

“Mr. Iverson’s out sick,” she informs the class. “He left you all an assignment. It’s due by the end of the period. As long as you finish it and don’t make me regret being nice, I don’t mind if you talk.”

Lance immediately walks over to Hunk, taking an empty desk on his right, so they can be together.

Hunk glances at the first question and snorts. “Another pizza supply scenario?”

“Seriously, econ textbooks think we live off delivery and lease sedans,” Lance sighs, “If I had a nickel for every example involving cheese and cars…”

“I’d spend it on pizza and a hatchback,” Hunk finishes, with a grin, and together they laugh.

“Yo, where are you guys going to college?”

The question from James cuts through their chatter.

Suspicious, Lance narrows his eyes. “Why do you care?”

James shrugs. “Felt like asking.”

“You mean being nosy.”

“We’re about to split up, right? Might as well know where the nerds are headed.”

“We’re not nerds."

“Didn’t say you were,” James says, smirking. “But if the shoe fits, well, sure.”

Hunk, ever the peacekeeper, chimes in without looking up.  “I’m looking into a couple of state schools. Something with a good engineering program, like ASU Poly.”

Lance adds with a shrug, “I’m still deciding what I want to do. Got a few schools in mind, definitely staying in-state, though.”

James nods once, then shifts his gaze toward the back of the room.

“Hey, Keith,” he calls out.

Keith doesn’t respond. His classic earbuds are back in, chin in his palm, eyes glued to his textbook. Whatever he’s listening to is probably loud enough to drown out the world.

Turning back to Lance and Hunk, James grins, nasty. “Guess the burnout’s already practicing for unemployment, right?”

“Not funny,” Lance says, sharper than even he expected.

“What? I’m making conversation.”

“You’re being a jerk.”

Rolling his eyes, James waves him off. “Relax, Lance. It’s a joke.” Then, with the self-righteous swagger of not giving a single fuck, James gets up and walks straight toward Keith.

Lance straightens in his chair. “James, don’t—!”

He already plucks one of Keith’s earbuds out. “Hey, man. We’re doing college talk. Thought I’d include you, since I’m feeling nice.”

Keith’s head jerks up, eyes flashing. For a second, it looks like he might punch James straight in the throat.

Instead, his expression calms. “Put that down.”

Instead, James leans on his desk, twirling Keith’s earbud. “So? Where’s an emo kid like you going after this? You got some grand plan, or you're going to wing life forever?”

“Why do you care?”

Lance feels his lips twitch upward. It’s the same response he gave.

Stupidly, James waves Keith’s earbud in front of him, like an owner to an uninterested cat. “I don’t care, really. I just want to hear if you actually have a future for yourself.”

Keith scowls. His hand shoots out to take his earbud back, which James easily lets it go.

But before he puts it in, Keith mutters, “California.”

Then he turns back toward his textbook, shutting the conversation down completely.

Faltering, James blinks, clearly not expecting a real answer. Then, he huffs and walks away, and slinks back to his desk. 

Meanwhile, next to Lance, Hunk whistles under his breath. “California?” he whispers. “Dang, that’s crazy far. I can’t believe he’d actually try going for that.”

Lance still watches Keith.

The way he sits, elbows on the desk, earbuds back in his ears like nothing happened. But noticeable to Lance, his jaw is set, and the line of shoulders look a little higher.

And now Lance’s head is spinning.

Because California definitely means escape for Keith. It means he’s choosing distance and that he won’t be around after high school.

Lance taps his pencil against the textbook, frowning in thought.

The desks have been rearranged into two messy arcs facing each other like some low-stakes academic arena. Mr. Iverson has perched himself at the back, grading papers with the casual air of a man who knows he won’t have to lift a finger for the next forty minutes.

“It’s called discussion-based learning,” he says, settling into his seat. “Impress me, and you might gain extra credit.”

The topic? Economic policy. Specifically, open trade versus protectionism. Iverson splits the room down the middle, assigning positions like he’s dealing cards.

Lance ends up on Team Open Trade. No complaints. It’s easier to sound smart when your argument has the word freedom baked into it. He’s barely aware of his surroundings until Keith slides into the open seat beside him.

“Wait, you’re on this side?” Lance blurts, twisting in his seat.

Keith looks at him weird. “Yeah? Am I not supposed to be?”

“Do you even know what we’re arguing about?”

“Something against tariffs. I’m pretty familiar with that.”

Lance leans closer, squinting. “If you drop some flawless monologue about the issues behind tariff tax, I’m flipping this desk. I seriously mean it.”

Keith offers the ghost of a smirk. It’s gone before Lance can decide if it was real.

The debate kicks off awkwardly, as all things in Room 202B tend to be, where the majority of students signed up thinking Econ would be a chill senior elective, and barely anyone wanted to argue about politics or policies like it was sport.

However, from the protectionist side, James jumps in, straightening in his chair, shifts his binder forward like it’s some podium.

“We’re talking about shielding key industries from unfair foreign competition,” He says, sounding rehearsed, “Without tariffs, our markets get flooded with cheap goods that destroy local businesses. How is a small-town factory supposed to compete with overseas labor that pays two bucks an hour and skips every environmental regulation?”

Someone hums thoughtfully. Another snaps their gum.

“And don’t even get me started on national security,” he continues, gesturing with his pen like it’s a mic. “Do we really want to depend on another country to manufacture our steel? Our tech? Our medical supplies? Without protectionist policies, we’re just handing the keys to our economy over to corporations that’ll outsource everything and governments that don’t play by the same rules.”

Lance leans sideways toward Keith, whispering, “Okay, he totally got that from aggressively watching cable news all weekend, right?”

Keith simply rolls his pen slowly against his fingers, eyes narrowed, jaw working like he’s thinking on a rebuttal.

James, oblivious, flashes a victorious smile and relaxes back in his seat.

Then Iverson calls, “Kogane, why don’t you speak up? Let’s hear your argument.”

Keith doesn’t flinch. He stands up from his seat, eyes half-lidded. 

“Protectionist policies sound good on paper,” he says, voice even. “They make it easy to blame someone else when things get hard. Foreign labor, factories, and policies. But what actually happens is that consumer prices increase and the companies being ‘protected’ lose the push to be better, lowering product quality. Ask anyone who’s ever bought anything American-made.”

James frowns in his seat.

“You want to help our country’s workers? Invest in upskilling. Fund for education. Strengthen labor protection laws. Don’t just build a wall and call it national security. The world’s connected whether we like it or not. Pretending otherwise doesn’t make us look slow.”

He sits down.

Predictably, James scoffs as Keith adjusts into his seat. “Didn’t know you could form full sentences.”

The unnecessary jab lands and rubs Lance the wrong way. He makes a face.

But Keith flatly stares at him, like he can’t be bothered to process the insult. “And you talk like someone who’s never had a thought worth listening.”

The ripple across the room is immediate; stifled laughter and a surprised “damn” from somewhere in the back. It’s not overly loud to upset Iverson. But enough to make James glare at Keith.

Across the room, Hunk’s widened eyes stare at Lance. James getting publicly humbled? Practically a myth. And yet, here it is.

Lance mouths, “Did that just happen?”

Hunk nods slowly, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

When it’s his turn, Lance stands up and breathes. “Building on Keith’s point,” he says, tossing a sideways glance at Keith, “tariffs might sound like a way to protect workers, but in practice, it’s literally like putting a Band-Aid on a sinking ship. Long-term? Consumers pay more. Industries get lazy. We all lose.”

He flashes a grin. “Besides, when has hoarding ever led to prosperity? Ask Jabba the Hutt how that worked out. He’d tell you it’s going swimmingly, but we definitely know better than to trust what a crime lord says.”

A decent wave of laughter goes around the room. 

Iverson frowns. “Keep the debate professional, McClain.”

“R-Right,” Lance stutters, “Sorry, sorry!”

The debate rolls on. More students try to sound like economists with keywords and politician-speak. 

Keith, however, remains seated, merely listening. Even when James tries another attempt to look cool and speak on another protectionism point. 

Class ends with a half-hearted applause from Iverson, appreciating the "solid engagement” as everyone leaves through the door.

As Lance's about to step out into the hallway, Keith walks up next to him and, with the faintest glance, murmurs, “I liked your Star Wars reference.”

He blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Your Jabba joke. I thought it was funny.”

Then Keith’s out the door, swallowed by the hallway crowd.

It takes Hunk to walk over to him and shake him a little for Lance to finally move out of the way and allow the rest of their classmates to walk out of the room.

In a daze, staring up at the cafeteria ceiling, Lance sits slouched at the table, spinning a ketchup packet with the end of his straw. Across from him, Hunk stuffs the last bite of his burrito.

“We should apply to schools in California,” he says, casual as anything.

Hunk stops mid-chew. “California?”

Lance nods, tone breezy. “Yeah. Like Los Angeles or San Diego."

Hunk squints. “You mean the land of $12 smoothies, $2,000 rent for a shoebox apartment, and an impending earthquake that will destroy half the state?”

“We’re not buying property, dude. We’re applying to colleges. Arizona’s close to California. The tuition will be reduced compared to other states. It’s not that wild to consider an option.”

Hunk sips his water suspiciously. “Since when have you been researching tuition brackets?”

Dropping his ketchup-straw, Lance leans forward. “We both know we’ve got decent grades and solid transcripts, Hunk! You could end up designing robots on the coast. I could, I don’t know, crash a class I wasn’t supposed to be in and accidentally discover I’m a filmmaking prodigy and make a new Star Wars trilogy.”

Hunk laughs. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

Hunk raises a brow. “This doesn’t have anything to do with someone from Econ, does it?”

Lance chokes. “Wh-What? No! Obviously not!”

“Uh-huh.”

Lance presses on, throwing a napkin at him. “Look, all I’m saying is that this might be our only shot. We graduate soon, then what? We stay here forever? Go hang out at the same food court and die of heatstroke in the same Circle K parking lot for another four years?”

Hunk sighs, playing with the edge of his food tray. “I’ll… ask my moms. See what they say.”

“Really?!”

“I said I’ll ask,” Hunk says, raising both hands, “No promises!”

The next day, Lance keeps his word. He’s called into his counselor’s office during his second period.

Mrs. Ryner, his counselor, sits him down and pulls out a manila folder with his name on the tab.

“So,” she says, adjusting her glasses, “you’re interested in out-of-state options?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, trying not to sound too eager. “California.”

“Well, you’re in a strong position,” she nods. “Our students are eligible for the WUE program. It’s reduced tuition at participating schools. Still higher than in-state, but much better than full out-of-state rates.”

Lance already knew, but he nods in feign surprise. “Oh, wow. That’s amazing.”

Lance leans forward as she flips through papers, her pen scribbling figures and bullet points across a planning sheet. She lists schools; CSU Long Beach, San Diego State, UC Merced, Santa Cruz. Even a couple of high-tier community colleges with transfer programs.

As she slides paper after paper toward him, listing upcoming application deadlines, Lance tries not to feel overwhelmed by his decision.

At the end, she looks him in the eye and asks, “This a path you’re willing to commit to?”

Lance hesitates only a second.

Then he nods. “Yeah. I want this chance.”

She smiles. “Then, I wish you the best.”

When Lance walks out of her office, full of printouts and possibilities, he almost doesn’t notice the figure sitting across the hall.

Until Keith looks up from his phone.

Their eyes meet.

“Oh, hey."

Keith looks up. He gives a small nod. “Hey.”

“Guidance?” Lance asks, jerking his chin toward the office behind him.

“Yeah. Just checking I didn’t tank my chances of graduating. You?”

Lance clutches his folder tighter. “Out-of-state stuff. College.”

“Where to?”

“California.”

Keith stills. “...Huh.”

“...What?”

“Nothing,” Keith says. But there was definitely something in his eyes. Maybe recognition? Surprise? It’s gone too fast for Lance to catch. “That’s a good destination.”

“I mean, it’s not final!” Lance hurriedly blurts out, “Yet. But I want a chance to get out of here, I think. Explore what else is out there, you know?”

“Yeah. I get that,” Keith hums. “Trust me.”

There’s a pause. It’s heavier than it should be.

Then Keith says, voice quiet, “Hope it works out. You’d probably like it out there.”

Lance rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks. And… I hope graduation clears for you. N-Not that I think you’d, like, fail or anything. I just—yeah. Hope you’re good.”

Keith smiles, crooked and fleeting. “Me too.”

Just then, the guidance door opens. Mrs. Ryner pokes her head out. “Keith Kogane?”

With that, Keith stands from his seat.

“See you around,” he softly says.

And then, he disappears into the office. The door closes behind him.

Lance stands in the hall, replaying the interaction for a moment.

It’s the fifth “C'mon, Hunk” of the week, and it’s starting to sound like a demand more than a suggestion.

“C'mon, Hunk,” Lance starts, trailing after him through the lunch crowd. “We are basically required to go to every dance, and that includes winter formal.”

Hunk groans and flops dramatically onto the cafeteria bench, backpack sliding with a thud. “Dude. Dances are awkward. There’s loud music. Sweaty people. I don’t even know how to exist at social functions.”

Lance drops his tray onto the table like he’s staging an intervention. “Don't think like that! We’re going to wear matching suits, pretend we’re on the cover of Vogue, and enjoy every second!"

“But what if you meet someone?” Hunk protests. “I don’t want to be the awkward third-wheel. I'd rather die than see some girl grind on you, again.”

Lance makes a strangled, dying-bird noise. “Hunk! I promise we're going together. No dates! Besides, it’s our senior year. This is it! After this, it’s job interviews and loans and realizing your undergrad degree doesn’t guarantee financial stability.”

“But we already went to homecoming,” Hunk insists, arms crossed as he attempts to make himself one with the cafeteria bench. “Why do we have to go to winter formal too?”

Lance points a defiant finger. “Because winter formal is the one where they rent out the Arizona Snowbowl Lodge! And, we have the best view of the snowy mountains and winter wonderland vibes.”

“…With hot cocoa,” Hunk adds, already weakening.

Lance pounces. “Exactly! Imagine our hot cocoa while we look incredible. And, you’ll finally get a chance to break out the cologne Rachel gave you last Christmas.”

“That stuff smells too strong for me.”

“And yet it works! Trust, we’ll dance until we sweat and have a good time, without worrying about stinking up the place with our body odor.”

Hunk sighs like it’s his last breath. “Ugh, fine. But if this ends with me slow dancing by myself in a corner, I’m hating you for a solid week.”

By the time winter formal comes around, Lance and Hunk are more than ready to enjoy the night.

The resort lodge is decked out like a Pinterest board. Fake snow flurries fall just as they arrive inside, toasty compared to the biting cold outside. String lights frame the entryway. Inside, silver and white streamers hang from exposed beams, glittering like icicles.

Everyone looks like versions of themselves pulled from some teen drama finale.

Hunk trails behind him, visibly overwhelmed until Lance snatches two tiny cups of cocoa from the refreshment table and hands him one for a toast.

Once on the dancefloor, Lance lets his body loose. He dances with elbow rolls, hip-pops, full-body grooves. Hunk takes a while to warm up, but by the third song, he’s matching Lance move for move, allowing himself to get comfortable.

Then the DJ shifts gears and the opening beat of “Rock That Body” hits like adrenaline in their bloodstream.

Hunk gasps. “That’s our song!”

With bright eyes, Lance grabs his hand and pulls Hunk into the center of the dancefloor.

They’re belting lyrics off-key, stomping and jumping with the rest of the crowd around them, when Lance spins and catches sight of the far end of the ballroom.

Alone, Keith stands by a wall, a cup of cocoa in hand.

Keith didn’t come to Homecoming.

Lance remembers that clearly. He remembered glancing toward every doorway to see Keith and feeling something strange when it never happened.

But Keith’s here now.

His suit is wrinkled, and looks slightly oversized over his body, with the black tie sitting loose at his collar. However, his long hair’s slicked back, revealing cheekbones Lance didn't even know existed.

Lance stutters mid-step. Misses the beat entirely. Hunk bumps into him with a startled “Lance!” and he barely catches himself.

“What the hell,” he breathes, more to himself than anything.

The odd feeling lingers, low and insistent in his chest. Keith, who treats his presence like an optional state of being. Yet tonight, under fairy lights and the thump of a bass line, Keith is here like he didn’t miss this dance. And he looks good simply standing there.

Underneath the booming music, Lance mumbles to himself, “Is it… normal to notice when someone’s hot? Even if they’re a dude? I feel like that’s normal. Right?”

He tells himself it’s fine. He’s just being observant. Human appreciation.

People-watchers do this all the time.

Hunk yanks him by the wrist. “Yo, move your body, Lance!”

Lance laughs, letting himself be pulled back into the fray and forget the weird moment. He joins the crowd, half-shouting the lyrics and throwing his arms in the air.

Still, at one point, just briefly, Lance turns back toward the far wall.

The spot by the wall is empty now.

The first snow arrives like magic; thick, slow flakes drifting past the tall windows of Room 202B. 

Half the class crowds toward the glass, expressions pressed with the kind of joy that only senioritis and sudden weather can brew together.

Iverson, for his part, tries for exactly ten minutes to maintain control, then gives up.

“Five minutes,” he sighs, dropping his pointer like it wounded him. “Then someone tell me what 'The Invisible Hand' means in economics, or you’re all writing essays about it in MLA format.”

“Move,” Hunk hushes beside Lance’s seat, “I’m trying to see the snow from your seat.”

Giving some space, Lance leans over to Hunk and grins. “Bet you five bucks the district forgets to salt the roads until someone hydroplanes into the staff parking lot.”

Hunk snorts, eyes still fixed on the snow. “I’d double down if we’re talking about Mr. Janka’s Prius.”

There’s a quiet huff behind Lance, very short and almost easy to miss.

Lance glances over his shoulder.

Keith is looking out the window too, chin propped on one hand. He’s smiling. Not at Lance, Hunk, or anything, really. He simply stares at the snow like it’s made him forget for one second how much he doesn’t care about being here.

It’s the first time Lance has ever seen his face that relaxed. There’s something boyish about it.

Hunk bumps his elbow lightly. “Lance?”

Lance turns back around quickly, oddly flustered. “What? Yeah. Fine. Just—it’s snow. Wild stuff,” he mumbles, reaching for his phone just to have something to fidget with.

But even as he busies himself going through his social media apps, he can’t help but let the thought fester in him.

He really does have a nice face when he’s not scowling.

And worse, Lance wants to see that soft expression again.

The day of the presentations, the air in the hallway feels charged. The seniors mill outside Room 202B with the look of soldiers about to storm the gates of public speaking. Everyone's clutching poster boards like shields, trading nervous jokes or last-minute fact checks.

Hunk grips the edges of his black-and-yellow board like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence. “Bro, I’m not built for this. My stomach is staging a coup.”

“You’ll be fine,” Lance says, nudging him as they walk inside the class. “You just gotta imagine everyone’s in their underwear.”

“Th-That’s supposed to make it better?!” Hunk chokes, and Lance laughs.

By the time Iverson unlocks the door and announces, “Boards to the front, line up by presentation order,” Lance’s confidence dips. Not that he’d admit it out loud, but the second he sees Iverson setting up a clipboard and timer, something in his gut tightens nervously.

Students go up one by one. A girl explains interest rates. James gives a passionate, well-organized breakdown of GDP fluctuations. 

At first, Hunk stumbles through his introduction on the relationship between supply and demand, but he ends up recovering well. His presentation actually makes Iverson hum thoughtfully, which in their world might as well be thunderous applause.

After more presentations, Keith goes up.

His board is black and white, cleanly divided, sharp contrast. On one side reads ‘Minimum Wage’, the other ‘Cost of Living’. In between, a line chart that nearly covers the entire poster. The lines aren’t perfectly drawn, but the data’s clear and damning.

He starts talking. No cue cards. No script. Yet, his voice remains steady.

“I picked this topic because I feel this is still ongoing problem many Americans face today. When we actually compare the minimum wage to modern housing and food costs, you start to realize the math doesn’t work out for adequate survival.”

Someone in the back whispers something. Keith doesn’t falter.

“According to this year's statistics, in Arizona, the minimum wage is $8.05 an hour. A one-bedroom apartment averages over $652 a month. That’s before utilities, groceries, transportation. Before anything else, really. And, while we do see and increase in wages every year, there's also an increase in all prices.”

He gestures toward the jagged line that climbs steeply across his board.

“This chart tracks the federal minimum wage against inflation-adjusted living costs over the last 20 years. If the minimum wage had kept pace, it would be closer to $9.65 today. But the federal rate remains stuck at $7.25 an hour, unchanged since 2009."

Keith frowns, staring over at the rest of class.

“Nearly 60% of minimum wage workers are aged 25 years and older. Many who are parents and guardian, taking care of a child or more. Some work two jobs just to scrape by. So, instead of calling people lazy, we should start asking why the system keeps making living difficult.”

The room is quiet for half a second too long after Keith finishes his presentation.

Lance hadn’t even realized he’d leaned forward in his seat. 

Keith’s oddly good at public speaking. Like, really good.

His voice, the way his eyes sharpen when he talks about inequality, and how he doesn’t care whether anyone’s paying attention or not. It’s almost hypnotic.

For a second, Lance isn’t thinking about economics at all. He’s thinking about how Keith’s voice would sound in a quiet room, saying words only for him to hear.

“McClain.”

Lance blinks.

Iverson’s voice sharpens. “McClain. That’s the third time I’ve said your name. Let’s go.”

A few scattered laughs. “Earth to Lance,” James mock-whispers.

Lance bolts upright, heat crawling up his neck. “Yep—yes—sorry! On it, going now. Going up!”

He hauls his poster to the front, fumbling with the easel. The moment he hears someone mutter “distracted much,” he wants to fold himself into the poster board.

He clears his throat, tries to find his usual rhythm. “So, yeah. My project is on 'The Psychology of Spending'. Or, uh, why we buy stuff we don’t need.”

A few polite smiles. One cough.

However, among the disinterested classmates, Keith’s looking at him. Attentive. like he genuinely wants to hear what Lance has to say.

Lance’s mouth goes dry, as he readjusts his poster. “You ever go to the store for, like, one thing, and end up with five? Yeah, well, it’s actually not entirely your fault and bad impulse control. There's a science to it.”

A weak cough bubbles up from somewhere in the room. Lance pushes on.

“There’s this thing called emotional spending. Like, if you’re sad, you’re more likely to buy… snacks. Or shoes. Or… ten unnecessary candles at Bath and Body.”

He hears a quiet snort, might be Hunk, and that gives him a little courage.

“Retail therapy’s real. Not ‘therapy’ therapy, obviously, but it does light up the reward system in our brain. Like, dopamine. Basically, your brain is very good at telling you to sabotage your wallet. It's like joining the dark side.”

Keith's still staring at him. Lance's face feels warmer.

“Th-There’s also this thing called anchoring bias. Like when stores slap a discount tag on something, and suddenly it feels like a deal, even if you didn’t need it at either the retail or low price. This drives production… but it also leads to overconsumption, credit card debt, and a whole mess of financial instability. Especially when people are targeted by predatory marketing.”

He points to a couple images on his poster.

“Studies show people are more likely to make purchases after negative emotional triggers, like breakups or bad grades. Companies know this. That’s why ads hit harder late at night or during exam season.”

He glances out, surprised to catch a few people actually nodding along.

“So, yeah. That’s my topic. Basically, our brain and your wallet? Not always buddies.”

When he finally finishes, Iverson nods once and says, “Work on your presence next time. You’ve got decent ideas, McClain. But you talk like you’re reciting them to your mother.”

Despite the laughter in the room, Lance mumbles a “yes, sir”, before fleeing back to his desk, slumping into his chair like he might melt into it.

His phone buzzes in his jacket pocket.

[Hunk] what happened to feeling confident??

[Lance] sorry man, i ended up dying

[Lance] tell my family econ got me :/

He barely notices Keith leaning towards the side, catching Lance’s gaze.

“You did good,” he says quietly.

Lance stares for a beat. “...You think so?”

Keith nods, offering a small reassuring smile.

And just like that, something settles between them. Not quite friendship, but the mutual comfort that maybe, for all of Lance’s floundering, Keith saw the effort behind it

It’s the last day before winter break, and Lance throws his backpack into the back of Hunk’s trunk with a groan dramatic enough to echo.

Hunk starts the engine. “What now?”

“I left my coat,” Lance mutters, shoulders slumped. “Back in Econ.”

“Dude, get it after break. I doubt anyone will steal anything from Iverson’s room.”

“I can’t.” Lance frowns. “It’s the nice, black coat with the fleece lining. My mom got it for my birthday last year. If I lose this, I will be disowned by New Year’s.”

Hunk groans, letting go of the steering wheel. “Fine, go. I’ll guard the aux cord with my life.”

Lance bolts across the pavement, slipping slightly on a patch of slush near the sidewalk. The front doors are thankfully still propped open, old holiday event flyers fluttering on the corkboard beside them.

He hits the staircase two at a time, hoping Iverson’s still in the classroom, or at least left the door open out of some miraculous oversight.

He reaches Room 202B, breathless. He turns the knobs.

Locked.

He exhales sharply through his nose, ready to punch the air, when he hears footsteps down the hall.

A janitor rounds the corner, keys jangling from a belt loop.

Lance immediately adjusts his face into a friendly, harmless student expression. “Excuse me, ma’am? Sorry to bother you! Totally my fault. I left my coat in one of the classrooms. Any chance you could unlock it? Promise I’ll be quick.”

She eyes him for a beat, probably assessing whether he was genuinely being serious, then sighs and reaches for her keys. “Which room?”

“202B.”

After some consideration, she steps in and unlocks it with a practiced twist. “One minute. I’m not patrolling this whole floor for some forgotten article of clothing.”

Lance hurriedly slips inside as the door clicks open. He makes a beeline for his seat.

His coat is still there, draped neatly over the back of his chair like it had been waiting patiently for him this whole time. 

Relief crashes over him in a wave. He grabs it almost reverently and shrugs it on.

But just as Lance’s pulling his second arm through the sleeve, something snags the corner of his vision. He steps closer, peering down.

The desk behind his own had a pencil etching written on the top corner.

Not like one of the old pencil-drag hearts or bored ballpoint stars. This one’s fresh, sharp, with the letters deliberately scribbled on.

It reads, “The guy in front of me kinda talks like Han Solo.”

Lance stares at it for a long moment.

Then rolls his eyes, followed by a slow, inevitable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Rude,” he whispers.

It’s not signed, obviously. And there are at least three other Econ periods that meet in this classroom. Could’ve been anyone. Of course, he can’t prove it definitely was from Keith.

But he also really, really thinks it’s from Keith.

He glances once more around the room, slips out with the door clicking shut behind him, and races down the stairs two at a time, almost forgetting the chill outside.

When he slides into the passenger seat of Hunk’s trunk, Hunk raises an eyebrow at him.

“You found your jacket?”

“Yup!”

“That’s good! How are you feeling now?”

Lance’s smile widens as he buckles in. “Never better.”

Hunk hands Lance the aux cable, and they drive off under a sky pale with snow, music thumping and warmth blooming quietly in his chest.

It’s one of those post-testing days where no one wants to do anything, including Iverson. 

On the whiteboard is a hastily written objective: 

INDEPENDENT REVIEW: STAY IN YOUR SEATS

“Pretend to be productive,” Iverson says, already reclined in his chair. “Study and work on what you need to do. If you don’t have anything, pretend you do. Or I’ll give you something myself.”

While some of the students took the time to study for the upcoming AP exams, most people easily slip into whispered, hushed conversations about spring break plans. Lots of addresses are shared, with house parties being the main topic going around school.

Rubbing the eraser tip of pencil across his lip, Lance stares down his notebook, angled crooked on the desk. He prefers to study at home, not in a classroom. So, he lets his artistic mind wander.

The rest of the page is slowly becoming home to a thriving population of funny looking sharks; some with sunglasses, others wielding top hats and mustaches, one wearing a little graduation cap.

He’s mid-fin drawing a shark giving a thumbs up when he hears a tiny rustling sound.

A pen.

It rolls lazily to a stop by behind his left sneaker.

He turns around towards Keith.

Slumped over his desk, Keith sleeps, his arm tucked beneath his head, face half-buried in his elbow. His ponytail came undone, with long strands of his hair falling across his cheek. 

His usual sharp features soften as he snoozes.

Lance stares longer than he should.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. That he’s bored. That anyone would pause at the sight of their normally bristly classmate finally knocked out cold during Econ.

But the truth is Keith looks different like this. Less like the guy who doesn’t care about anything and more like someone who’s been carrying quiet exhaustion for months and is finally letting himself rest.

Lance bends down, picks up the pen silently, and places it back beside Keith’s worksheet with careful fingers.

He glances again at Keith, half-expecting him to stir. But Keith remains asleep.

Lance leans back in his chair, shifting his notebook to one side.

A moment passes.

Then he carefully rips off a fresh sheet of paper from it and starts doodling again. This time, no cartoon silly sharks.

For a long time, he sketches with the faintest lines first and then presses down on his pen. A vague shape that might, if you squint, look like a head tilted against a desk, with hair that curves around the face, and—

A deep flush creeps up on Lance’s face and slaps the finished doodle, face-down.

For the rest of class, he sits in the quiet, suddenly hyper-aware of the pen smudge on his fingers from his drawing and the rhythmic sound of Keith’s breathing behind him. 

“I will be assigning you in pairs,” Iverson announces, already passing out thick packets of reading and questions. “You will be sharing, reading, and annotating the provided packet together. One packet per group. I don't want to hear any complaining.”

Naturally, everyone complains. Especially when everyone figures out the pairs are based on seating arrangement.

“McClain and Kogane,” Iverson calls, monotone as ever, as he strides down the aisle between rows. He slaps a thick packet onto Lance’s desk without slowing, already moving on to assign the next pair.

Keith already sits behind him, so easily, Lance turns his desk to face Keith. At this point, Lance feels like they might as well be fused at the hip.

“Okay,” he says, placing their shared packet between them. “Which paragraphs do you want to read over? Odds or evens?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He kinda expected Keith to respond with that.

Then, he unzips his pencil pouch with practiced ease. He rummages through it and settles on the only two highlighters he can find; blue and pink.

He holds them out to Keith across their shared packet. “Pick your weapon,” he says lightly, tilting both toward him like a peace offering.

Keith eyes the options, then takes the blue with a faint, almost hesitant smile. “Thanks.”

Barely more than a breath. But it lands somewhere behind Lance’s neck. It echoes in his mind and makes his skin tingle.

He shrugs, aiming for nonchalant, and places the pink highlighter close to his side. “Don’t mention it,” he says, a little too quickly. His voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “Uh, we should probably stick to the important stuff. Highlight key points, write notes in pencil if we need to.”

Keith simply nods, already uncapping the blue. His focus switches, scanning the front page.

The packet’s dry, full of vaguely phrased hypotheticals about supply chains and labor shifts, but the two of them ease into a quiet rhythm. 

Keith highlights quietly in his corner. Occasionally, he taps the paper once to show Lance a stat he thinks matters, or nudges a sentence, silently asking Lance if it’s important.

His handwriting is messier than Lance expects. He writes in tight, sharp letters, along the margins of the packet, the words leaning into each other in a barely contained urgency.

In contrast, Lance writes a lot slower and neater. His cursive flows in smooth, wide looping arcs that thread neatly between the spaces of printed paragraphs.

They don’t talk much, but it’s not uncomfortable. Every so often, Keith leans in just slightly to read a line over Lance’s shoulder, and Lance pretends not to notice the subtle shift in proximity.

They flip pages in sync. Their knees bump once. Keith murmurs a quiet “my bad,” and Lance waves it off so quickly he nearly swats their packet off the desk.

Then, about halfway through their packet, they both reach for the pink highlighter at the same time.

Their fingers meet, almost clasping one another in a hold.

It shouldn’t even register or mean anything.

But it does. Lance slightly jolts. Keith’s hand retracts instantly.

“Sorry,” Keith whispers, “Thought it was the blue.”

Lance laughs. Nervous. Awkward. “I-It’s fine. You’re good. No worries.”

Nodding, Keith reaches for the blue highlighter, which was right beside the pink one, and goes back to highlighting the next key points in his paragraph.

Lance makes the conscious choice to act normal.

He keeps reading and annotating. However, internally, he keeps thinking about how Keith’s fingertips felt, or how Keith pulled away like he noticed the spark between them, too.

They work in silence for another twenty minutes. But the air between them feels different to Lance now, charged in the smallest way, like a thread stretched taut between the two desks that wasn’t there before.

Lance urges his brain to not tug on it.

It’s one of those Arizona spring afternoons when the wind graciously counters against the blazing sun’s heat. Lance’s flip-flops slap lazily against the concrete as he ambles to the curbside mailbox, expecting bills, flyers, and his mom’s relentless supply of beauty catalogs.

He swings the mailbox open and gathers them in his hands. He lifts them one by one, tucking each one behind the other once he looks over them. 

Bills. Spam. Coupons. Catalog.

Then, a white envelope.

San Diego State University. His full name typed cleanly across the front.

Lance stares. The wind brushes past him, but he barely feels it now. His fingers tremble as he tears the seal and unfolds the letter, right there in the middle of the driveway. 

The letter trembles slightly in his hands.

Congratulations. We are pleased to inform you…

You have been awarded a merit scholarship…

Fall semester course enrollment starts…

He’s already sprinting before the words even finish registering, leaving one flip-flop on the porch as he stumbles into the house.

“Mamá!” he shouts the second he flings the door open.

His mom steps out of the kitchen, drying a plate with a dish towel, face full of concern. “Ah! What, what?! You’re scaring me, mijo!”

“I got in!” Lance yells, holding out the letter, eyes bright. “San Diego State! I got in!”

For a moment, the house is silent.

Then, his mother screams so loud she nearly drops the plate she holds. She quickly sets everything down and launches into a full leap, clinging to Lance. They bounce around together, in their embrace, laughing excitedly.

From the backyard, his father hurriedly comes inside, running. He appears in the kitchen, worried with a baseball cap on top of his head. “¿Qué paso? I heard screaming!”

“He got into San Diego!” His mother shouts.

Breathlessly, Lance holds up the letter to his father.

His father scans the words, then looks at Lance with a proud expression. “Whatever it takes, Lance,” he assures him, “We’ll make it happen.”

Lance blinks hard. But the tears come anyway. His mom’s already pressing kisses to his forehead, muttering, “Bright. Smart. My brilliant son,” like a prayer.

She floats toward the kitchen, giddy. “When your siblings come down for break, they will so, so thrilled for you! Ah, let me cook something! This calls for a celebration!”

Later, the house smells of cumin and garlic, as his mother ladles a spoonful of ropa vieja onto each plate. At the dinner table, there's already a steaming bowl of congrí and a platter stacked high with mariquitas, still warm from the fryer.

Upstairs, Lance paces his room, staring at his phone before hitting the call button.

Hunk picks up immediately. “What’s up, Lance?”

“Dude. Guess what?”

“Chicken butt,” Hunk replies instantly, then winces audibly. “Wait, sorry. Reflex. What?”

“I got in,” Lance says, heart hammering. “San Diego.”

After a long moment, Hunk breathes out a deep breath. “Oh, thank God. I got in too,” he confesses. 

Lance jolts upright. “Wait—what?”

“I found out last week,” Hunk says sheepishly. “Didn’t want to say anything until you knew your application status. I was scared I’d terribly jinx it for you!”

“You jerk,” Lance says, collapsing back onto his bed, eyes wide with disbelief. “We could’ve been panic-texting each other this whole time!”

Hunk laughs. “True. But hey, now we get to jump into the celebration part.”

Lance grins into the ceiling. “Okay, but one important question still remains.”

“What?”

“You want to be my roommate, right?”

“Dude,” Hunk says, chuckling. “You think I agreed to moving to California with you without that in mind? There’s no way I would have done this by myself.”

Lance grins, stomach somersaulting. “We’re going to make that campus regret admitting us.”

Their laughter bursts through the phone so loud that Lance’s dad knocks on the wall. “Hurry up, Lance! Dinner’s going to get cold!”

Before Lance hangs up, Hunk adds, “I’m really glad we’re doing this together.”

Lance’s chest tightens in the best way. “Me too.”

Downstairs, his mother and father are already gathered. Together, the three of them clasp hands for a long prayer and give their sincere thanks for both the meal and Lance's acceptance to San Diego State.

Dinner is loud with clinking forks and laughter. His mother peppers him with questions about packing and visiting back home. His father wants numbers, especially in regard to gas mileage and how far San Diego is from Flagstaff.

Between mouthfuls of shredded beef and swipes of plantains, Lance offers answers as best as he can.

But his thoughts drift.

He wonders if Keith got accepted to a school in California, too. 

Maybe, just maybe, they're heading toward the same coast.

Of course, all his siblings had to come down back home from college and university for Lance’s prom night. Like the planets aligned for them to join forces and make Lance’s day more hectic.

In front of his closet mirror, Lance finishes combing back his hair, fingers pausing before reaching for the pomade like he’s bracing himself. Behind him, Veronica leans in the doorway, arms folded as she assesses him.

“Honestly?” Veronica says, squinting. “I still think you’d look better if you just left your hair alone.”

Lance doesn’t look away from the mirror. “We’ve been over this.”

“And I still disagree.” She smirks. “I don’t understand why you’re using pomade. It’s 2016.”

“Stylish people still use pomade!”

Across the room, Marco sprawls across Lance’s bed like he owns the place, one leg propped against his knee and a Fanta soda can sweating in his grip.

“Can’t lie,” Marco lazily grins, stretching, “I gotta respect the hustle. Didn’t think you had it in you to ask someone. Figured you’d wait until prom night and just hope fate handed you a pity dance.”

“Thanks for the faith,” Lance mutters.

“Might as well lose your virginity while you’re at it.”

“Marco!” their mom’s voice rings from the kitchen. “Stop talking like that! Atrevete!”

Veronica throws a slipper at Marco. “Seriously? Why are you talking like that?”

He shrugs. “What? I’m being supportive in Lance’s journey to manhood. He needs to have the courage to take some girl out and show her a good time.”

“You’re being gross,” Lance mutters, turning back to the mirror. “I don’t know how you trick women into sleeping with you. You don’t even know what dry shampoo is.”

“This is called sex appeal, little man,” Marco says, running a hand through his curls with exaggerated flair. “You’ll hopefully find some when you go to San Diego. After you gain some experience.”

Ignoring him, Lance stays focused on his collar. His fingers fumble, and before he can fix it, Rachel walks in, blazer draped across her arm like she’s delivering it to royalty.

“You’re sweating,” she announces. “Stop sweating.”

“I’m not sweating.”

“You look like you’re sweating.”

“Yeah, well, you look like you’re not sweating! Shit, no, that doesn’t sound right..”

Veronica chuckles from the door. “Aww, look at Lance getting all flustered and stressed. It’s cute. He’s cute, right, Rach?”

She gives him a long once-over. “I think his suit will do most of the heavy lifting. His only job is to try and not say anything weird tonight. Which I know will be really difficult for him to do.”

“Oh my god.” Lance groans, snatching the blazer by the hanger and laying it on his bed, opposite side to Marco. “You guys are the weird ones. I’m normal.”

“Oh yeah?” Marco says. “Tell that to your alarm labeled ‘emotional prep time’ this morning.”

Veronica grins. “You had a what?”

Lance groans. “Get. Out. Everyone!”

Luis finally appears, walking in with his calm, eldest sibling energy. His arms are crossed loosely, and he surveys the chaos like he’s used to walking into it.

“Alright, that’s enough. Give the kid a break.”

Rachel throws a look over her shoulder. “Relax. We’re giving him encouragement.”

“You are making fun of him,” Luis points out, then glances at Marco. “And you. Dial it back, will you? Not everything needs to be about... sex. Mom's getting upset about it.”

Shrugging, Marco grins, unbothered. “I'm providing Lance the wisdom dad never gave us.”

Shaking his head, Luis redirects his attention to everyone else. “Listen. Lance has got a big night ahead and he's nervous. We’ve all been there before and experienced our own prom panic moment. So, let him have his, without any of us adding to it.”

Lance lets out a grateful breath, catching Luis’s eye with something that feels like relief. Sympathetic smiles pass between them.

Rachel rolls her eyes. “He’s the youngest,” she says in a pout. “It’s literally our constitutional right to bully him.”

“You’re barely a year older than me,” Lance mutters, narrowing his gaze at her.

“Exactly,” Veronica slides an arm over Rachel’s shoulder. “Old enough to pick on you.”

Just then, their mother steps inside with that soft, steady presence that makes every part of the room adjust. She stops, takes one look at Lance, and a heartfelt expression breaks over her face like the sunrise.

Everyone stills, as she makes her way over to Lance.

“Ay, mijo…” she says, with a small breath.

When she faces him, she runs a flat hand over his blue dress shirt, brushing invisible lint from his shoulders.

“You look so grown,” she says finally, cradling the side of his face in her palm. “Muy guapo…”

Lance leans into it a little, smiling.

“Gracias, Mamá,” he says.

As they pull away, their mother smiles through misted eyes and turns slightly, still close to him. 

“Doesn’t he look so handsome?” she asks the room, her voice light but fond.

Straightening upright on the bed, Marco coughs into his sleeve. “Uh, yeah, of course, Mamá. He kinda looks cool. I guess.”

“I’ve always looked cool,” Lance mutters.

“No,” Veronica says. “But you look cool, right now.”

"Very handsome!" Rachel tacks on.

Slowly nodding, Luis smiles with quiet conviction. “Yes, Mamá. He really does look great.”

Their mother nods, satisfied with their answers, and looks back at Lance. Her hand stays on his cheek a moment longer, thumb brushing gently once beneath his eye before she reaches into her bag. She takes out her car keys and presses them into his hands.

“You can take the car tonight,” She warmly offers, “Please, drive safe. Be smart. And come straight home after. God's always watching.”

Lance stares at the keys in disbelief. “Wait—seriously?”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “¿No lo quieres?”

“No! No—I mean, yes! Thank you. Seriously, Mamá. I love you!” He shouts, clutching the keys like they’re made of gold.

Lance finishes getting ready with surprising efficiency, now that the chaos has quieted. He buttons the last of his dress shirt, before pulling on his blazer and smoothing the lapels down carefully. The navy-blue suit hugs clean across his shoulders. Everything fits better than he remembers.

His phone vibrates on the dresser.

[Nyma] i’m ready when you are ;)

His heart jumps a little. The night’s really starting.

He pockets his phone and heads for the front door, where his mom is waiting.

“Your father’s still at work,” she says gently. “But he told me to say that he hopes you have a good time. He wants you to enjoy yourself.”

Lance nods. “Tell him I said thank you.”

As he heads out, the siblings are waiting like a reception line, because of course they are.

Veronica whistles dramatically when he opens the door. “Have fun, Lance!”

Rachel waves from the porch step. “Behave like a gentleman!”

Luis claps him on the back and leans in with a reassured, “You’ll be fine.”

Lance settles behind the wheel, heart hammering in his chest but in a good way. He rolls down the window and gives them a final wave as he pulls out of the driveway.

And then—

“Fuck in the backseat!” Marco yells after him, cupping his hands around his mouth.

“Carajo!” their mother snaps, smacking his arm instantly. “Marco!”

Lance doesn’t stop driving, but his grin spreads so wide it actually hurts. He flips his brother off out the window without turning back, and the roar of laughter from the porch trails him all the way down the street.

Outside Nyma’s house, Lance idles at the curb, fingers tapping the wheel like they’re working off the nerves. His palms are suspiciously clammy, even though he’s already wiped them on his pants twice, and his tie suddenly feels tighter than it did five minutes ago.

He checks his teeth in the rearview. Smiles. Winces. Tries again.

Then the front door opens.

Nyma steps out like she’s gliding, her deep blue dress catching the porch light like it was made to shimmer. Her hair’s swept to one side, makeup sharp, and she walks with the confidence Lance wishes he could order for himself.

The nerves spike.

He gets out quickly, meeting her halfway down the walkway with a wide grin that barely hides how stunned he is.

“You look—wow. I mean—seriously, wow.”

Nyma laughs, looping her arm through his. “You cleaned up nice too, Lance.”

They head inside for pictures. Her parents greet him warmly, but with that unmistakable parental scrutiny. Her mom adjusts Nyma’s corsage while her dad stands beside Lance, glaring.

“You’ll drive safely,” her father says, not a question.

Lance nods, straightening without meaning to. “Yes, sir. I’ll take good care of her. Promise.”

Her dad studies him for another second, then nods once.

After a few more dozen photos, they finally escape.

In the passenger’s seat, Nyma kicks off her heels for just a second and exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the camera shutter clicked.

“Do you think the pictures turned out okay?” she asks, twisting slightly in her seat to look at him.

“I think so,” he says, pulling away from the curb. "Definitely you look amazing."

Nyma glances over. “Is your friend meeting us there? The one from Statistics. Hunk, right?”

Lance shakes his head, thumb tapping the wheel lightly. “Nah. He didn’t want to go. Said it was too much. But I don’t hold it against him. I understand.”

“I see.” She nods. “Then why’d you want to go?”

He shrugs, eyes still on the road. “I dunno... why not? I kinda follow where my heart wants to go, regardless if it makes sense or not.”

Nyma smiles. “I like that.”

Then the venue comes into view.

After parking the car, Lance walks beside Nyma, shoulders loose but heart quietly hammering. The moment they step fully inside the ballroom, they’re swept up by noise and movement. Heat radiates from laughing bodies. There’s no air conditioning, but no one seems to care.

Rolo finds them first, grinning, cheeks already a little flushed, and his tie crooked. His date, Mer, is radiant in violet, and she follows Rolo closely.

“There he is!” Rolo beams, throwing an arm around Lance’s shoulder. “Damn, Lance! You're lookin’ good.”

“Like a Calvin Klein ad,” Nyma giggles, and Rolo wheezes. Lance laughs along, grateful. It helps ease the nervous weight in his chest.

They pose at the photobooth together. Rolo and Lance lift their dates off the ground in one shot. Mer kisses Rolo in another. Lance gives a kiss on Nyma’s cheek for one sweet picture. Then, they’re all laughing out loud when Rolo accidentally brushes the cardboard cutout of the principal and it nearly tips over.

They dance. All four of them, unchoreographed and shameless. The DJ’s on point, grimy bass when it matters, Top 40 throwbacks when everyone needs to scream a chorus into the ceiling. He even sneaks in a couple songs that don’t have the convenient clean version edit attached.

But somewhere after his first slow dance with Nyma, he starts glancing around the crowd.

Every time the crowd shifts, every time a gap opens near the entrance or by the walls, Lance looks.

Just for a second.

Nyma notices, during their second slow sway, when she’s resting her cheek on Lance’s chest. 

“Looking for Hunk?”

Lance startles. “What? No. I’m looking for—” He shakes his head. “Sorry. Forget it...”

She doesn’t ask who. But her eyes are kind. “We can go outside for a bit if you need air.”

“No,” he says quickly, then softer, “Thanks though. I’m good.”

She gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, then changes the subject. She asks if he wants to try the punch again. He plays along and agrees, thankful for the out.

They’re back with Rolo and Mer near the edge of the refreshment station. Everyone’s sweaty and winded, sweating from dancing unholy.

“I swear,” Rolo pants, fanning himself with a napkin, “if I don’t get a yearbook photo out of this night, I’m suing the school.”

“You already got like a hundred pics,” Mer laughs. “You practically did a modeling shoot at the photobooth.”

Lance laughs again, sipping his watered-down punch. Nyma stands beside him, shoulder brushing his gently. It’s perfect.

It should feel perfect.

Yet, every few minutes, Lance’s eyes lift. Searching and hoping for the impossible to happen.

Keith never comes.

It hits him harder than he expects.

He dances. He laughs. He poses for more photos. But his eyes keep drifting to the doors.

Toward the walls.

Just in case.

He realizes on a random Wednesday. 

It happens right in the middle of Iverson’s half-hearted ramble about economic forecasting.

The door creaks open and two students from the yearbook committee poke their head in. “Hi, sorry to interrupt, Mr. Iverson. Can we take a quick group photo of the class for the yearbook? It won’t take more than a minute.”

Iverson sighs like it's personally offensive to his lesson plan, but he clicks off the projector anyway. “Make it quick.”

Chairs scrape back, desks shift, and students swarm toward the front of the class. Poster boards and backpacks are shoved out of the way to make space. Friend groups move instinctively, as people grab one another close and get ready to smile.

At the far-right end, Hunk tosses an arm around Lance’s shoulders. “Okay, what are we doing? Peace signs? Duck faces? Sad faces over college tuition?”

Lance snorts. “Big grins. I think that’s the vibe.”

As people settle into place, a yearbook staffer gestures toward the group. “Hey, you at the far, far right? Yeah, come slide in a bit! Fill the frame.”

Lance turns to his right to see if they’re talking about him and Hunk. But then, he freezes.

Keith blinks, then straightens slowly. There’s a pause, like he’s calculating whether it’s worth it.

Then, he steps closer into the group.

He moves into the space beside Lance, leaning his body close. 

His chest brushes the back of Lance’s arm.

And Lance’s thoughts slam to a halt.

Keith’s hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, but one strand comes loose near his jaw, curving against his cheek. It sways every time he adjusts his stance.

Lance’s heart stumbles over itself. He hopes he doesn’t look as tense as he feels.

It’s fine.

It’s just a photo.

Totally normal for your classmate to stand beside you for a yearbook photo.

Keith glances sideways, his brow crinkling faintly. “Am I too close?” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s meant to disappear between them.

Lance’s heart jumps. “Uh, no, nope. You’re good. All good.”

Keith nods once, looking forward again.

Desperately, Lance stares straight ahead but sees nothing. His pulse is in his ears. His hands are burning. His focus is entirely consumed by Keith’s knuckles beside his own, their nearly-touching arms, the closeness of their bodies.

He wants to reach over and hold Keith by his waist.

Oh.

Oh no.

“Okay!” the yearbook kid calls out cheerfully. “Everyone ready? On three! One... two... three!”

The flash goes off.

Keith doesn’t move. Neither does Lance.

As everyone spills back into their seats, excitedly chattering about being in the official yearbook, Lance realizes he can’t remember where he was looking. 

Was he looking at the camera or Keith? 

All he knows is that his heart was pounding louder than the shutter click.

And all he can think is—

Shit.

Outside, the June heat sneaks through the windows. Inside, Mr. Iverson is reclining in his desk chair with a coffee mug and desk already cleared down to the bare essentials.

It’s their last class of CP Economics.

“No lectures. No work,” he announces, like it’s a line he’s been waiting all semester to deliver. “If you’ve got questions, I’ll be pretending not to hear them. You’re soon-to-be graduates. Figure it out.”

Instantly, yearbooks are whipped out like trading cards. Covers are already messy with Sharpie hearts, chibi drawings, and inside jokes that won’t make sense by August. Music murmurs from someone’s phone speaker, loud enough to feel like summer break already.

Lance leans across Hunk’s desk, capping a metallic blue pen between his teeth as he finishes writing:

'Best friends for life! I love you forever— Lance'

He adds a cartoonish sketch of his own smirking face, then slides the book back with a grin.

“That’s art,” Hunk says, “It looks just like you.”

“Frame it,” Lance declares. “Put it above your dorm bed like it’s the Mona Lisa.”

Hunk laughs, flipping the book around to sign in Lance’s, when someone on the other side of the room calls him.

“Hunk, sign my yearbook!”

“You’re quite popular, buddy,” Lance notes, amused.

“I had the best desk neighbors,” Hunk says brightly, “And we bonded, I guess.”

Lance waves him off with a smile, watching Hunk move back to the cluster at his desk, where his small group laughs and trades pens and sharpies. For a moment, he watches, content that Hunk was able to make some friends this year.

Behind him, Keith remains quiet.

He lies his head down, arms folded like a makeshift pillow, chin tilted slightly toward his chest. Minding his business among the lively conversations.

But Lance notices there’s a yearbook peeking from the mouth of Keith’s backpack, on the ground, leaning against his desk.

He hasn’t pulled it out.

And something about that hits Lance strangely hard. Like maybe Keith brought it, just in case. Like maybe he hoped, even for a second, that someone might ask.

Lance hesitates.

Then, without overthinking it, he grabs his own yearbook and twists around in his chair.

“Hey,” he says gently, poking Keith's shoulder.

Blearily, Keith blinks, head lifting slowly, like he hadn’t expected to be addressed at all during his nap. “Huh?”

“My yearbook,” Lance voices, balancing it on the edge of Keith’s desk. “You want to sign it?”

Keith’s brow lifts, skeptical. “You sure?”

Lance shrugs, casual, even as his heartbeat ticks up half a beat. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he says. “Unless you’re planning on writing ‘have a good summer’ and then disappearing into the wind like some mysterious cryptid.”

Keith doesn’t laugh, but there’s the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

“What if I don’t feel like writing anything?” he asks.

“Then draw a stick figure with judgmental eyebrows. I don’t know. It's really up to you.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, almost tentative, before Keith reaches out. Slowly. Like the moment’s fragile and he’s trying not to break it.

“All right,” he murmurs.

He takes the yearbook from Lance’s hands with a surprising gentleness, flipping it open to a blank page near the back. He pulls a pen from his backpack and pauses, brows knitting in thought.

Lance suddenly feels unreasonably nervous. He watches at how Keith's lips purse in concentration. What was he planning to write? Something ironic? Short? Something that would knock the air out of Lance’s lungs the way Keith’s little sideways glances sometimes did when he wasn’t looking?

“Stop staring,” Keith mutters, eyes still on the page.

“R-Right, sorry,” Lance says, spinning slightly in his seat. His face warms at getting caught.

A few minutes pass. The voices in the classroom keep going; Hunk’s laughing across the room. Someone’s doing a dramatic reading of a joke page in their yearbook like it’s Shakespeare. Another is making fun of someone’s writing. But for once, Lance sits still.

Eventually, the sharp edge of the yearbook presses gently into his back.

When he turns around, Lance notices Keith hands back his book closed. 

Curious, he flips it back open to the page.

'Thanks for not being annoying. — Keith.'

“Wow.” He taps the page lightly. 

Keith shrugs. “I could’ve written something worse.”

“Oh, so this is you being sweet?”

“You got off easy.”

They fall into a soft silence again, but it’s lighter now. It makes Lance smile.

Then he glances toward the yearbook still peeking from Keith’s bag.

“You got yours with you?” Lance offers kindly.

Keith stills, just for a second. Then, quietly, he nods.

Unzipping a little more the top of his bag, he slides it out and places it on the desk between them. The book looks pristine and untouched. 

Lance doesn’t say anything clever or make a stupid joke about it. He simply takes Keith’s pen, opens the inside cover, and begins to write.

His words come easily, as if they’ve been sitting in his chest for a while, just waiting.

'Thanks for stealing my seat. Don’t forget about me. — Lance'

He caps the pen, closes the cover softly, and nudges it back across the desk. 

Wordlessly, Keith stuffs his yearbook back in his backpack.

Lance eyes at him carefully. “Not going to read it?”

“Later,” Keith replies.

“Why not now?”

Keith glances at him briefly. “Because you’ll watch me. And I’d rather not be stared at while I read.”

That makes Lance laugh. “Yeah, I would do that. My bad.”

Then across the room, someone calls out, “Lance! Yo, sign mine before the bell rings!”

Lance starts to stand up, grabbing his yearbook with one hand, flashing Keith a genuine smile. “Thanks for signing, by the way. I appreciate it.”

Keith just nods, before lying his head back down. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the class period.

The venue is massive. An indoor arena with high rafters and blinding overhead lights, the kind that make everything feel monumental. Orange and gold streamers twist around the railings, and a giant banner stretches across the back wall:

CONGRATULATIONS, CLASS OF 2016!

The stage is planted in the center, flanked on all sides by endless rows of folding chairs. Students on two sides, families on the other two. The palpable anticipation mixes with the squeak of dress shoes against plastic chairs and the rustle of gowns.

They’re calling up graduates in two blocks: the top twenty honor students by GPA, alphabetical, and then the full list of graduates.

In line, behind the stage curtains, Lance claps politely as the early names are called, readying himself to hear Hunk’s name first. 

“Tsuyoshi Garrett,” the announcer calls out.

As he walks across the stage, Hunk smooths down his gown, exhales slowly, and gives a bright smile towards the crowd. 

Leaning outside his spot, Lance cups his hands around his mouth. “Yeah, that’s right! That’s my boy, Hunk! Let’s goooo! Whoooooo!”

Loud cheers explode from the Garrett section; Hunk’s moms, aunties, and at least two tiny cousins holding a sign that reads, “Hunk Is The Big Deal!”

Hunk flushes deep red, he beams when the photographer takes his photo with the principal of Garrison. He catches Lance’s double thumbs-up on the way down and laughs, teeth showing.

More names. More applause. Lance’s heartbeat starts to spike, pulsing in his ears. His mouth feels dry. His stomach is somewhere near his dress shoes.

“Lance McClain,” The announcer finally calls.

When he walks on the stage, his family section erupts, shamelessly.

Marco and Rachel scream like they’re at a concert, lunging halfway over their seats. Veronica practically shrieks his name, holding her phone at a terrible angle while trying to record. Luis whoops low and proud. 

His mother cries into her father’s arms, who’s whistling with two fingers in his mouth. His abuela shouts rapid fire Spanish that Lance can’t translate in real time, while his grandpa raises the Cuban flag high.

Lance rushes down the stage, with a big grin and his head held high. He shakes the principal’s hand with gusto, raises his diploma, and poses for the flash.

Then, because he has to do it, he pumps his fist in circles, before hopping off the stage. His family cheers him on, laughing at his antics.

He slides back into his seat, cheeks aching from smiling.

Eventually, the honor student list ends, and the general group begins. A few names Lance knows. He claps for all of them, a little more relaxed now, diploma warm in his lap.

“Keith Kogane,” The announcer reads off.

The room’s noise quiets into polite clapping, respectful but soft.

But Lance’s head turns instinctively, checking to see if Keith had anyone cheering for him. 

In the family section, a man stands up.

Tall, proud, and with clean-cut black hair. In a navy military uniform. He claps loudly.

Lance considers he looks way too young to be Keith's dad, so maybe that's his brother. They do look related.

Facing back to the stage, Lance watches Keith walk the stage with a quiet ease. For the first time, Keith smiles wide, giving a brief, almost shy wave over to the man.

Then he steps forward, takes the photo with his diploma in hand, and walks off.

After another hour or so, finally graduation ends.

The principal thanks the parents. The crowd roars as the new graduates throw their caps in the air, and the balloons above their heads release, floating down on them. The pre-chosen senior exit song kicks in and the floodgates burst among the graduates.

Lance walks through the crowd, craning his neck and trying to find Keith in the leaving crowd.

“Lance!”

Suddenly, Hunk barrels into him like a human freight train, arms wrapping around him in a bone-crushing hug that lifts him two inches off the ground.

“Dude, we did it!” Hunk yells, nearly shaking him. “How is this possible?!”

Lance wheezes out a laugh, thumping Hunk’s back. “I was hoping we’d get through this without spinal trauma, but I guess not!” he says tightly.

They barely break apart before the next ambush hits.

“¡Mijoooooo!”

Lance turns just in time for his mother to barrel through the crowd, arms wide and teary-eyed. She throws herself around him in a teary hug that nearly folds him in half.

“¡Así se hace!” she cries, kissing his cheeks, forehead, probably one eyelid. “I am so, so, so proud of you!”

“Aww, Mamá,” Lance says, voice cracking like a kid again, eyes stinging.

When his mother releases him, his father steps forward and pats a firm hand Lance’s back. “Bien hecho,” he quietly says, with his mustache lifting against his smile.

On cue, the rest of the McClain family descends like a hurricane.

With his parents on either side of Lance, Veronica stands in front of him, already trying to fix his hair. 

“Ugh, Lance,” Veronica says, brushing his hair with her long nails, annoyed. “Your hair is trying to fight me! What gives?”

“Mama’s side is mine!” Rachel announces, sprinting into place with purpose.

On his father’s side, Marco tugs at the collar of his dress shirt. “Can we hurry this up? I’m getting bored, already!” 

“¡Cállate!” their grandmother snaps, pinching his earlobe with the strength of a lifelong matriarch. “¡Me tienes hasta el último pelo!”

“Ay—ow! ¡Abuelita!” Marco yelps.

Luis appears next, siding up next to Hunk, and holding his DSLR camera. “Hunk, sorry to rope you in, but could you please take a few photos for us? I will gladly take some for your family, in exchange.”

Hunk fumbles the camera. “I—I got it! Wait—how do I—what button do I—?”

“Rachel, spit out that gum!” Veronica snaps. “You’re ruining the moment!”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“¡Hijas!” Their mother scolds.

Walking over to Marco’s side, Luis sighs, “Guys, please calm down.”

Lance glares over at his sisters. “Yeah, you two are ruining my moment.”

“I’m on your side!” Veronica insists, “Rach, here, just doesn’t like to listen!”

“I would like to chew in peace!”

Suddenly, their grandfather lets out a sharp whistle.

Everyone stops. Heads snap toward their grandfather, who stands at the edge of the group with his cane in one hand and timeless authority in the other, glaring at everyone.

In near silence, they all shuffle into place; men on Lance’s left, women on his right. Rachel tucks her gum into a napkin and puts it in her purse. Marco glares quietly, his left ear bright red.

Lance stands in the middle, grinning brightly. He glances at Hunk, who looks up from behind the viewfinder, nerves visible in the way he grips the camera.

“Uh… okay. Three, two, smile?”

And somehow, they manage.

It’s hot. Unfairly hot. Midnight clings like sweat, and the McClain AC has betrayed its post for the third summer, which is how Lance ends up visiting Hunk’s house.

He’s half-melted into a beanbag chair that sinks at weird angles, while Hunk lies stomach-down on his bed, face in a pillow, and hair damp at the temples. The ceiling fan spins above them.

“Hey,” Lance whines, nudging Hunk’s leg with his heel. “Bust it out. You know you want to.”

Hunk groans into the pillow. “S’mbarrassing,” he says, muffled.

“It’s essential,” Lance insists. “We graduated. We earned the right to sit here, slow-roasting in our own body heat, and judge everyone from high school.”

Slowly rolling off the bed, Hunk digs into his drawers to retrieve his yearbook.

Lance claps. “Yes. Let’s be bitches.”

They crack it open with reverence, flipping past the staff spread (“Mr. Iverson’s photo still looks like a mugshot”) and the club pages (“I didn’t know we had a fencing team?”). Then they hit the senior portraits.

The commentary begins immediately.

“Okay, wait, Ryan looks good.”

“He got so tall and chiseled,” Hunk agrees, in genuine awe. “Where did all that come from in six months?”

“Late puberty, probably.”

They flip to another page.

“Huuuuunk!” Lance coo’s, beaaming, “Damn, buddy. You need to pull back your hair more often!”

Hunk’s face turns red. “Thanks, man. But, I don’t know, I think my forehead looks abnormally big.”

Lance shakes his head, “Not even. You have a beautiful forehead.”

Then, their eyes go down another row of seniors. 

“Ugh, look at James.” Lance sneers, "Even his smirk annoys me."

“Oh my god, his quote is literally just ‘Grind harder." Hunk mutters, "He couldn't be any less creative?"

Lance wheezes, leaning sideways and clutching his stomach. Even Hunk chuckles a bit.

They dissolve for a moment, in a deep, breathless laughter that only hits after midnight when the world feels a bit stupid.

Then they reach the middle alphabet.

“Oh!” Hunk grins, tapping the page with a pointer finger. “There you are. You actually look good! Like, no lie, that photo’s better than mine.”

Lance leans in to inspect his own photo; neatly styled hair, a confident smile. Not bad. But his eyes are already drifting two spots down.

The photo is grayscale like the rest, but the lighting is perfect. Keith’s hair is tightly tied back, framing his sharp features without obscuring them. His smile is barely there, but it’s there, very subtle.

Lance reads Keith’s senior quote.

“This is where the fun begins.” — Anakin Skywalker

He always had a hunch they were into the same series, but seeing Keith's quote? It was finally the proof he needed.

His heart flutters, unreasonably at the thought.

Hunk leans in from the bed. “Huh. Wouldn’t have pegged him for a Star Wars guy. Kinda tracks though. He’s got that brooding energy like Anakin.”

“I mean,” Lance says, voice a little too tight, “It’s a classic. Everyone likes Revenge of the Sith.”

He swallows, suddenly hyper-aware of his grip on the yearbook. His thumb hovers above his photo, like touching Keith’s lips might accidentally mean something.

“Lance?”

A hand waves in front of his face.

Instantly, Lance looks over at Hunk.

“You zoned out,” Hunk informs, watching him closely. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m just… tired,” Lance lies, flipping the page too quickly.

“You want to crash for the night? We can finish it tomorrow.”

“No!” Lance says, way too fast. He clears his throat. “Let’s finish it. C’mon, we’re on a roll.”

They move through the sports teams, the awkward prom photos, the senior superlatives (Lance scowls when he sees who won “Best Smile” over him), and eventually land on the section for classroom candids.

Hunk gasps. “Dude! Our econ class made it in!”

Lance cranes his neck as Hunk tilts the page toward him. Sure enough, there’s the wide group shot; students squished together, half of them blinking mid-photo. Some are mid-blink. A few are clearly talking during the photo.

His eyes land on his own face first: relaxed posture, half a grin, arm slung around Hunk’s shoulders.

But he’s not looking at the camera.

He’s looking at Keith.

And worse, it’s painfully obvious. Clear, full-face smile aimed directly at Keith’s profile. 

Keith, who’s posing politely for the photo with an awkward, small smile. Keith, who has no idea why Lance is staring at him like he’s sunlight personified.

Lance’s stomach drops into his toes.

He slams the yearbook shut like it’s cursed.

“W-Well!” he stammers, voice high and brittle, like someone had wrung it out “I’m exhausted! So tired. Yep, that was fun. So much fun. Hahaha, whoo!”

Hunk’s brows lift slowly. “Lance…”

“Don’t,” Lance says fast. “Seriously, don’t.” He tries to stand and escape, but the beanbag traps his leg and sends him stumbling back into it with a groan. His hands cover his face. “Ugh. Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

Hunk barely flinches. “Dude. It’s fine. Chill.”

“No, it’s not fine!” Lance half-shouts, his cheeks burning hot. “That photo is humiliating! My face—God, my face. Everyone with a yearbook can see it. Oh, and Keith has one. Great, I’m screwed, I’m so, so screwed. When he sees that photo, he’s going to think I’m a weirdo!”

“I really don’t think he would.”

“Did you even see my face?”

“I did, actually. And it was sweet.”

Lance lifts his head just enough to glare. “Sweet? Hunk, I look stupid!”

Hunk glances at the closed yearbook, then back to him. “It’s not that deep. You like Keith. It’s not the craziest thing you’ve ever done.”

“Oh my God! You knew?!”

Hunk smiles kindly. “I’ve suspected it for a while now. But this was definitely confirmation. Not to mention you admitted it anyway.”

Lance groans again, turning his body away, face squished against the bean bag material.

Hunk stays quiet for a moment, then adds softly, “You’re allowed to like someone, you know. Even if it’s embarrassing. And it doesn’t make you stupid at all.”

“...I didn’t want anyone to know, though,” he mumbles. 

“Well, too late. Now I know, and I still like you. So you’re stuck with it.”

Lance sighs. “I hate it here.”

Hunk leans back, flipping the yearbook open again with care. “Then let's finish roasting people. We don’t have to talk about Keith tonight. C’mon, we can’t let James get one insult from us.”

Lance thinks about it, chewing his lip. “I can’t stand him,” he says.

Hunk grins. “Neither can I. We can look at more photos and try to see if he looks ugly in them.”

The air cools a little. Not because the fan works harder, but because Hunk accepts Lance, without any further question.

And that calms Lance a little.

It’s nearly 2:00 AM, and the Arizona heat hasn’t let up. It clings to the air like a second skin. The desert wind stirred occasionally, but it barely gave any relief.

Reclined in the passenger seat, Lance lies in Hunk’s truck, head tilted against the window, sweat collecting on the back of his neck and around his temples. Hunk’s next to him in the driver’s seat, head resting on the top of the steering wheel. In the center console, their gas station slushies melt, despite the AC blasting.

“You think people, like...” Lance begins, “...show up in your life for a reason?”

Hunk turns toward him, slow and half-lidded. “Whoa. Deep thoughts at 2AM.”

“I’m serious,” Lance says, but there’s no bite to it.  He picks at the ends of his tank top. “I mean, I’ve been thinking about it. How people drift in and out, and sometimes you think they’re just background at first, but then they start to matter. In ways you didn’t expect.”

Hunk hums thoughtfully. “You’re totally talking about Keith, huh.”

Lance jolts upright, nearly hitting his head on the roof. “What? No, I—I mean, yeah. Maybe. I don't know!”

“You know it’s okay, right? I have two moms. Of all people, I’m not going to look at you weird.”

Lance groans and lies back down in his seat, his cheeks feeling warm. “I’ve never been this hung up on a guy before. It’s ridiculous. I’m supposed to be obsessing over girls that remind me of Padamé. Not stupid Keith.”

“Honestly? Yeah, I thought you were pretty straight,” Hunk admits. “But my moms tell me my gaydar is completely off, so who knows, really.”

“I thought I was, too!” Lance insists, before sighing in deep resignation. “Keith just pulls me in, I guess. In the beginning, I would notice him, because I thought I felt bad for him. But I didn’t realize how much I cared for him until it was too late.”

“I don't think it's too late,” Hunk says simply.

Lance turns his head. “No?"

“You’re not dead yet. He’s not on Mars. It’s not too late unless you let it be.”

“...What if I missed my chance?”

“Then you make a new one,” Hunk replies. “That’s the cool thing about people. Sometimes they orbit back. And I would think life likes to give second chances. Maybe more, if you’re highly favored.”

“You’re way too wise for someone who used to religiously dip barbecue chips in banana yogurt.”

“Growth,” Hunk says sagely.

While Lance pouts, deep in a lovesick mood, Hunk grabs his slushie and takes a long, loud sip, chewing the straw a little out of habit.

Eventually, Lance mumbles, “I hope he shows up in my life again.”

Hunk doesn’t tease this time. Just reaches over and nudges Lance’s shoulder with his own. “I think he will. We’re all going to be in California anyway.”

Lance stares up at the night sky, wistful.

Lance’s room looks like the aftermath of a personal hurricane. 

Unopened cardboard boxes rest on his doorway. His t-shirts and jackets dangle from chair backs. A pair of sneakers resting on top of notebooks on his desk, like that’s where they belong. 

He’s been “packing” for hours, which really just means he’s been emotionally spelunking through his life, one drawer at a time.

Among the dead pens, crumpled papers, and miscellaneous items, Lance keeps getting stuck. He picks something up, gets flooded with a memory, sets it aside, then starts over. His first baseball glove. A friendship bracelet missing half the beads. A letter from his grandma. 

The cycle is vicious. Sentiment always wins.

He’s halfway through the bottom drawer of his desk when his fingers brush something smooth, tucked in the corner.

A photo strip from winter formal. 

Him and Hunk in their matching suits. One frame has them striking 007 poses, with finger guns. Another has Lance mid-wink, Hunk flashing a wide, toothy grin. The last frame shows them leaning into each other, smiling with peace signs

Lance smiles. He thinks how blessed he’s been to have a best friend like Hunk. He was well prepared for them to separate for college, but luckily for them, they’re able to maintain their friendship even through the start of this new chapter.

Hunk’s been his constant; his best friend who stuck beside him through every embarrassing phase, every dramatic mood, and every overthought spiral. He hopes he mirrors the same support for Hunk.

He slips the strip back inside the drawer gently. 

Next, he picks up and opens his old Econ binder, aiming to clear it out and reuse the binder. Most of it is trash; handouts, thick packets with notes, a graded quiz. 

And then he sees the crumpled drawing.

Blue pen strokes form the outline of Keith’s sleeping face, the moment captured. 

It’s not the most accurate drawing of Keith, but one can tell it’s him from the long hair, the thick brows, and the shape of his face. 

Lance stares at it.

This might be the last time he ever sees Keith. The last version of him that Lance gets to keep.

He almost tosses it in the trash bin.

But he doesn’t.

He smooths the paper out with his palm, folds it neatly, and places it carefully back in the drawer.

It’s a golden hour evening, with the sun melting into the horizon, cicadas humming somewhere in the trees, and the scent of grilled meat thick in the air.

In the McClain backyard, chaos blooms like it always does when all the siblings are home. 

Marco mans the grill like he was born to do it, flipping chicken thighs one-handed, holding his tongs. He wears an apron that says “Kiss the Chef.”

“Don’t burn those,” Lance calls from the pool, using a dolphin floater as he slowly drifts. “I still want to taste things in college.”

“Shut up and drown!” Marco shouts back. “I know what I’m doing!”

Rachel runs back and forth with a sparkler in hand, trying (and repeatedly failing) to light one. “Why do these suck so bad?” she yells. “Are they expired?”

Veronica lounges in a lawn chair nearby, eating a paleta and not offering help. “You’re using a citronella candle stick, genius.”

“You’re a citronella candle stick.”

“Mature,” Veronica deadpans, then throws her paleta stick at her. Rachel gasps, when it sticks behind her leg, and whines at the gross factor.

Their dad weaves through the yard with a cooler under one arm and ice clinking inside. Bending down, close to the edge of the pool, he hands Lance a beer, before he even gets a chance to protest.

“Have fun, mijo,” he says, grinning.

Lance raises the can to his lips. “You’re enabling me.”

“You’re leaving in a week. Let me.”

From across the yard, their mom shouts, “¡Laaance, ven acá! Meet Luis’s girlfriend!”

Lifting himself out of the pool, Lance saunters over to the patio table where his mother sat.

Luis stands near the patio table, cool as ever. His arm draped casually around a girl wearing denim shorts and a magenta blouse. She has pale skin, dark curly hair down to her shoulders, and offers a nervous, kind smile towards Lance. 

“Lance,” Luis says, gesturing. “This is Lisa.”

“Lisa, huh?” Lance repeats, slowly lifting his beer. He takes a long, loud sip, “I thought she was imaginary. Glad she survived the drive.”

Despite Luis narrowing his eyes, Lisa simply laughs. “The drive wasn’t too bad,” she says. “Though I slept most of it.”

Lance smirks. “Did you know that Luis used to post bad rap songs online? Like, full-blown lyrics about hustle and heartbreak recorded in our pantry. He thought he was going to get discovered. And the best part? He forgot the password. I mean, if you’re interested, I’ve got the link.”

Lisa grins wide. “I would love to hear them, actually.”

Luis doesn’t even falter. “Art lives on forever, Lance. I’m not ashamed of my past.”

“You think you’re older, wiser, and unembarrassable, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it,” Luis says, taking a sip from his own drink. “I live it.”

Lisa smiles at Lance, her eyes warm. “I’ve heard a lot about you, by the way. I’ve been the most excited to meet you.”

“All lies,” he says. “Unless they were good. Then they were absolutely true.”

They fall into easy conversation, with Lance firing off more failed roasts at Luis and Luis easily brushing them off without a care in the world. Beside him, Lisa smiles like she understands this family’s strange dynamic. 

Lance watches her, slightly impressed. 

She definitely fits right in the family.

As the sun disappears completely and the backyard becomes quiet with the family sitting at the patio table together, Lance retreats inside for a breath.

Turning on the light, he wanders into the quiet living room and sits on the couch. He lulls his head back, and he sighs deeply. He feels his face flushed from the beer.

He pulls out his phone, thumbs lingering over the screen before typing out texts.

[Lance] can’t believe we’re leaving

[Lance] aren’t you nervous?

Hunk replies almost instantly.

[Hunk] duh! i’m hella nervous rn

[Hunk] but we’re doing it together

[Hunk] and that make it less scary :)

Lance huffs a small laugh. He finishes the last sip of beer and slides the phone back into his pocket, closing his eyes for a little.

Behind him, a floorboard creaks.

His mom steps into the room. “There you are,” she says. “You okay, mijo?”

Lance shrugs, managing a smile. “Yeah. I wanted to nap a bit.”

She joins him on the edge of the seat, smoothing down his hair, her fingers pausing at the back of his neck. “Everyone’s out there asking for you.”

“I know. I’ll head back soon.”

“You don’t have to pretend to be ready to leave,” she says softly. “It’s okay if part of you isn’t.”

He swallows. “I think I am. It’s just… big. Sometimes, I don’t know if I’m making the right decision leaving everyone. Feels like everything’s changing all at once.”

She nods, pressing a kiss to his temple. “That’s how you know it matters.”

Leaning in, Lance rests his head on her shoulder for a moment, allowing himself to decompress and be present with his mother.

After a beat, she straightens up and pulls away. “Hurry. Let’s eat ice cream before it melts.”

Lance chuckles, standing to follow her back toward the sliding door. Music pulses from the portable radio.

Outside, Rachel and Veronica twirl together. Marco entertains their mother, clapping as she moves her hips. Luis spins Lisa with ease, as they dance in their own bubble.

Lance slips back into his seat at the patio table. His father is already there, sipping quietly.

“You know,” he says, without looking up, “next week, it’ll be quiet around here.”

 Lance smirks. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Maybe. But, your mother worries about the quiet nights. It’s been decades since it was just us two. You’re the last to leave the nest. She’s going to miss you.”

Lance's grin fades into something gentler. “I’ll miss you too, Papa,” he says, already feeling the deeper meaning nestled beneath his father’s voice.

His father nods, grateful. “Just don’t forget to call. Or come home once in a while. Bring a girlfriend if that’s the only way you’ll show up.”

Lance tries to fight off the small wince tugging at his face. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll bring someone.”

The sun’s high and relentless, turning the McClain backyard into a slow cooker. Cicadas buzz like tiny chainsaws in the trees. A white plastic lawn chair sits in the center of the patchy grass, draped with an old towel.

Lance sits in the chair like a man facing execution.

“I feel like I should’ve signed a waiver,” he says, eyes darting between his sisters.

Rachel grins as she clips a makeshift cape around his shoulders. “Too late now, Lancey. Operation: College Glow-Up is happening.”

“Don’t call it that,” Lance mutters. “Or me that.”

Veronica pumps the spray bottle like a professional, misting his curls until they cling damp to his forehead. “Seriously, you cannot start college looking like a nostalgic tribute to 2012. I’m doing you a favor.”

“I liked 2012,” he weakly grumbles.

“I rest my case,” Rachel says, plucking a comb from her back pocket.

Their mom hover nearby, barefoot and delighted, phone in hand. “Ay, look at my Lance,” she murmurs, stepping in close. “This one’s going on the Facebook.”

“Mamá, no,” Lance whines.

“¡Qué lindo!” she chirps, filming him regardless.

From the open living room window, Marco leans out, voice carrying. “Lance, don’t let them give you that weird triangle cut again!”

“I had a vision,” Veronica huffs, snipping the air dramatically with the scissors. “Not my fault you guys still can't see it.”

“She gave Luis a bowl cut once,” Rachel says, too casually.

Lance jerks his head toward her. “Wait, what?”

“Middle school,” Luis calls from inside, next to Marco. “I cried. Abuela cried. It was a dark time.”

“I still think it was ahead of its time,” Veronica says, unbothered.

“Please don’t take off too much,” Lance pleads, gripping the arm rests. “I still need to flirt with financial aid assistants.”

Veronica grabs the side of his face and faces him forward. “Stay still, then. Or I’ll give you a bad haircut on purpose.”

Snip. Snip. Rachel hands Veronica the comb like a surgeon’s assistant. Veronic quickly moves, fingers weaving through Lance’s hair. 

Lance squints at the little tufts falling to the towel. They say hair holds memories. So, he figured that in order to make new ones, a haircut was timely needed.

When Veronica finishes, stepping back, Rachel turns the mirror toward him.

It’s still him, of course. But now, most of his face showed, as his hair was much shorter, especially on the sides.

“You’re welcome,” Veronica easily says, without any hesitation.

Rachel smiles. “Ohhhh. Glow up unlocked.”

Their mom gasps. “Lance, look over here! Right in the camera, por favor!”

From the window, Luis and Marco clap, relief spreading across their faces, collectively.

"Take a picture," Veronica teases him, "It'll last longer."

“I might,” Lance mumbles, touching the side of his hair.

Later that night, after everyone’s inside and preparing for sleep, Lance stands, in front of his closet mirror in his bedroom.

With the back camera facing him, he lifts his phone and angles it just right, tilting his chin. Then, he snaps a picture, his eyes catching the flash. He takes a couple more, before he looks through them

He took one good picture.

Quickly, he opens his Facebook. But, once he has the photo selected, and has typed his caption, he hesitates, his thumb hovers over the “Post” button.

A part of him wants to share it and have everyone see it and think: Wow. He looks different.

But then he remembers, Keith doesn’t use Facebook. At least, he doesn’t think he does. 

Lance searched once, months ago, out of casual curiosity. But, nothing came up under ‘Keith Kogane’. And, he didn’t know if Keith went by anything else, so Lance assumed maybe he doesn’t have an account at all.

Or maybe Keith does, but it’s private and hidden, locked down like everything else about him. 

Either way, posting suddenly feels pointless.

With a sigh, Lance locks his phone off, leaves it on his nightstand, and crawls into bed.

Lance wakes up earlier than he needs to.

Peering down the hall, he notes that the house is quiet and dark, as the morning sun has yet to rise. 

Despite that, the scent of fried eggs and sweet plantains wafts up from the kitchen, where his mom hums to herself, a sound that’s been part of his mornings for as long as he can remember.

He dresses slowly. Not because he’s being indecisive, but because there’s no real reason to rush. By the time he finishes getting ready, Luis stands outside, packing the trunk of the car with Lance’s boxes and suitcase. 

When it hits 5:00 AM, the rest of the family crowds the front porch.

Lance’s mom cries heavily when he hugs her. 

“You are going to thrive,” she says, through the tears. “No te olvides de dónde vienes. May God protect you and guide you. I love you, my son.”

“I love you more, Mamá,” Lance whispers. 

Rachel tries to play it cool but sniffles, dabbing at her eyes at the sight. She barely holds it together as they have their own embrace.

Veronica grabs his face with both hands and warns, “If you don’t text every day, I will find you and I will kill you.”

Marco throws an arm around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance. “Don’t turn into one of those guys who forgets their siblings exist. We helped raise you.”

Then his dad pulls him aside. He places a hand on Lance’s shoulder, and squeezes.

“You’re going to do amazing things, Lance,” he says. “And as your father, I’m already proud. No matter what.”

Lance nods, eyes wet. “Thanks, Papá.”

With Luis in the driver’s seat, Lance finally climbs into the car, and they wave goodbye to the rest of the family. He watches his home shrink in the rearview, and he silently cries in his seat. Luis lets him. 

Somewhere outside Phoenix, Lance dozes off with his cheek against the window.

Halfway to California, Luis nudges him awake gently as they stop for gas. The station smells like heat and tire rubber. Lance grabs a bag of cheddar chips, a bottle of water, and tiredly blinks away the dream of being back home.

“Snacks for survival,” Luis says, sliding peanuts and an energy drink at the counter.

“I'm barely surviving, right now,” Lance yawns, stretching.

Later, when they cross the California state border, the energy shifts. Lance stares out the window, blinking at the green hills and unfamiliar roads as a breeze feels a lot cooler than what he’s used to.

“You alright, Lance?” Luis asks, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Yeah,” Lance says quietly. “Just thinking.”

They turn onto campus in the afternoon. Despite their late arrival, the orientation chaos still seems to be fully happening. Students rolling suitcases across the pavement, cardboard signs flapping in the breeze, parents triple-checking their children. RA shirts bright against the crowd.

While Luis slows near the parking lot, Lance stares out the window, eyes widening at the influx of students walking in the dormitories.

They spot Hunk waving at the front entrance, already mid-hug with his mom.

Once they park, Hunk appears, bounding toward them, grinning ear to ear. He pops his head through the open car window on Lance’s side.

“Dorm buddy! You're finally here!” he excitedly exclaims. “By the way, I already claimed the right side. It objectively has the superior bed.”

“I will literally fight you,” Lance says, but it comes out light.

Luis pops the trunk and slides out of his seat. “Play nice, kids! You still have to survive living together.”

They start unloading. Lance grabs his duffel bag and suitcase, Luis pulls three of the heavier boxes with a grunt, and Hunk helps to hold onto one box.

One of Hunk’s moms walks over, with sunglasses perched on her head and arms open.

“You boys need an extra hand?” she asks warmly.

“More than you know,” Luis replies with a grateful smile.

They make their way through the crowd toward the dorm entrance, passing students with tearful parents and others walking by without a single regard to anyone. 

They’re halfway to the check-in tent, arms full, when Lance hears it:

“Hey, sorry! Do you know which way South Campus Plaza is?”

The voice. It’s familiar.

Lance turns instinctively.

Keith stands beneath the slanted shadow of a tree, holding a campus map held up in both hands. His hair’s shorter now, neat in a way Lance isn’t used to seeing. He’s dressed in a black tank top, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and dark jeans cinched with a belt buckle. 

The student in front of Keith shakes her head. “I-I’m sorry. I’m heading towards the Zura building.”

Keith’s face falters. “Ah, sorry. I understand.”

Lance stops mid-step, backpack biting into his shoulder. His heart beats wildly in his chest.

He moves forward before his brain catches up.

“…Hey,” he says, soft and surprised all at once.

Keith looks up. His eyes catch the light.

He tilts his head slightly. “Oh, uh, hey?” Keith says, politely confused. “Are you headed to South Campus Plaza?”

Lance feels deep dread sink into his bones.

Keith doesn’t recognize him at all.

Every moment in high school shared together gone. Lance swallows around the tight knot in his throat.

“No, I’m actually... in Huāxyacac,” he says quickly, a little stiff. “Different building.”

“Oh,” Keith replies, looking back down at his map. “I think I’m lost. They told me to check in at South Plaza, but I can’t seem to figure out where it is.”

“Yeah, I definitely feel the same,” Lance says, forcing a chuckle. “Typical move-in day.”

Keith laughs once, soft. “You're right.”

A pause.

Lance adjusts the strap of his duffel, already backing up. “Anyway, good luck finding your building.”

“Yeah. You too,” Keith says with a nod, turning away.

“Wait,” Lance blurts.

Keith glances back, brows raised. “Yeah?”

There’s a moment where Lance could say it.

Could mention Econ class. Or the first exam they had. Or the highlighter. Or that time they stood too close for a yearbook photo. That he remembers every single time Keith spoke up in class and blew him away with his words.

He wants to be able to say, “Don’t you remember me? I remember everything.”

Instead, he points towards Keith’s back. “Your backpack’s unzipped.”

Reaching behind himself, Keith’s eyes widen at the realization. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Yeah, no worries.”

Keith offers a polite smile; the kind people give strangers when they’re trying to be nice. And then, he walks off into the crowd.

Lance stares after him, waiting for him to turn around.

He doesn’t.

Hunk appears beside him quietly.

“…Was that—?”

“It’s nothing,” Lance says, voice clipped, finally turning away. He walks back to where Luis and Hunk’s mother stood, waiting for him.

“Dude, that was Keith, right?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Lance says again, sharper. He adjusts his duffel. “Let it go, already.”

With a sad expression, Hunk nods slowly, not pushing. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, my bad.”

They keep walking, the sun hot on their backs. The crowd surges and folds around them. Their new chapter in San Diego waits just ahead of them.

But all Lance feels is the hollow echo of what’s already slipped through his fingers.

He told himself some people are unforgettable from the moment you meet them. They show up in your life like thunder. You carry them with you, etched deep, impossible to misplace.

He knew Keith was that type of person.

Turns out, he himself wasn’t.