Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

NIGHT 0

“Okay, Lance. Don’t freak out. But, I opened a portal to the nether realm.”

This is a lot to take in at once. Lance darts his eyes to Hunk, a heavy-set 19 year old with nervous eyes, who supplies an unhelpful shrug. It’s 10PM on the first Tuesday of fall semester and Lance is in the apartment of two engineering majors, standing at the door. He’s staring at where Pidge, the world’s smallest diabolical genius, is squatted on the shaggy carpet.

“I--” He breathes in. Lance makes a flat gesture with one arm, then clasps his hands in front of his face. “...You know, Pidge, I know you like making me feel stupid and all, but this is just really pushing it.”

“No, no, no no no,” Hunk stands up and ushers Lance closer to where Pidge is, to where the contraption apparently is, and says earnestly, “Dude, I couldn’t believe it either, but this is real. Like, look at the EMF readings--”

“EMF? As in, ghost signals? As in fake science?”

“It’s not fake, Lance.”

Pidge studies the small meter grasped in hand, turning slowly back and forth in place. “Yeah, it’s not fake and this portal is definitely real.” The light moves from green to light green, “And besides, you do a good job of making yourself feel stupid without my help.” With a grunt, Pidge stands abruptly. Hunk and Lance are nearly knocked back when the shortest of their trio blows past them towards the back wall.

“Anyway,” Lance stands akimbo in the middle of room, letting Pidge’s last comment roll off his back, “if this portal is real, which it probably isn’t, where is it exactly?”

Hunk and Pidge are both on the other side of the room now, in front of the closet. They look like a totem pole, Hunk hoisting Pidge on his shoulders as the latter stretches the reader high towards the ceiling. “Okay. Now move towards the door.”

“Guys--”

“Lance.” Hunk turns the totem pole around to face him, concern wrinkling his brow. “I know you won’t believe us, but Pidge and I just got back from this weird supernatural experience--”

“Experiment--” Pidge reaches down and taps his shoulder impatiently, pointing to the next location.

“Yeah, anyway, we were in the woods near the campus and Pidge pressed a button and all of a sudden the entire forest got quiet. Not even the crickets were chirping. Sort of like Hudson’s lectures when he decides to make a joke about integrals--”

“Those are actually funny though.”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Hunk chuckles and sighs, moving towards the beds, “Maybe not the integrals, more like the Riemann Sums. Those ones are kind of dry--”

“Hunk,” Lance is two seconds away from grabbing his backpack and booking it out of there, “You were saying?”

“Yeah, as I was saying, something totally bizarre happened and we kinda freaked out and ran back, so now we’re checking for abnormal electromagnetic frequencies...just in case.”

“Just in case…?” Lance trails off, eyebrows raised and waiting for either of them to continue.

“Just in case there’s a ghost with us.” Pidge deadpans, hopping off and holding up the reader. It’s on yellow, three out of five levels. “Maybe there’s one with us right now--”

“Oh my god. You can’t be serious.”

“The EMF reader says all. I spent sixty dollars on this I’m sure we can trust it. We just have to go back to where I set up the experiment and read the levels there.”

“I’m not going off campus at 10 at night.”

“Lance. This is crucial, to like, the fate of the world.” Hunk is dead serious. Lance, with his year of a physics major under his belt, can honestly not believe it. He throws his arms up, prepared to shout something like, “My face looking good in the morning is crucial to the fate of the world!” but the EMF reader goes off once his hand hovers nearby it.

“Holy shit,” Pidge says.

“What.”

Hunk suddenly takes a step back from Lance, two hands up like he’s ready to surrender--the lights come on in Lance’s head.

“No.”

“It’s on you, Lance! What are you feeling? Violent? Angry? Evil?”

Lance snarls, his nostrils flaring as he hisses: “Oh, I’m definitely feeling the first two, but it’s not because I’m-- I don’t know, fucking possessed or something!”

“Sounds like something a possessed person would say.”

“Oh my god,” Lance says, feeling like he might breathe his last breath if he stays any longer. “I’m going back home.”

Pidge and Hunk just look at each other, unsure of how to read Lance-- apparently taking the blinking red light on the Ghost-O-Matic 3000 with more seriousness than Lance himself. Figures.

“Alright, well, I’m going!” He makes a show of going for the door when Pidge rushes up to stop him so fast if you’d taken a picture you’d have only seen a smear that resembles a white kid. The EMF reader goes off again, wailing like a siren and immediately Hunk makes a wild dash for the counter and unscrews the cap off their salt shaker before dumping it down Lance’s shirt.

It is, once again, a lot to take in at once. The reader goes quiet. Both Hunk and Pidge sigh, Pidge going lax against the door.

“Ooooh my God! My shirt! My pants! My everything!” Lance is batting out of shirt like it were unsoftened laundry and feeling nine different kinds of betrayed. “Hunk! Buddy! Pal! Why in the name of all that is--”

He wants to spend more time yelling, trying to get his point across that this ghost hunting thing had gone too far when there was salt in the fly of his jeans, but Hunk gives him a hug and a kiss on the head, acting genuinely relieved. Lance decides he needs to let himself be the complacent victim and gathers his things when Hunk lets go. His walk back to the dorm is quiet, even with the distant pulsating sounds of welcome week parties.

Waiting for the elevator up, he feels eyes on the back of his neck fleetingly. Nobody is manning the information desk at this hour, but he’s too focused on the idea of showering to linger on it when the metal doors slide open. His twin mattress has never felt more welcoming.

DAY 1

“So, Mister Keith ‘likes to take walks in the’ Park wants to learn Vietnamese, huh.”

Keith makes a face at that. Is that supposed to be an insult? “Uh, yeah. I signed up for the second level this year, but--”

“Ah, ah, ah I don’t wanna hear it.” They’re in chairs facing each other in the center of the student union. Lance is slouched all the way into his posed with the tips of his fingers resting on each other in a bridge. It takes every fiber, every cell of his being to not roll his eyes or just storm off. Instead Keith exhales, leaning on the armrest away from the smug guy sitting beside him.

“Look, can you, I don't know, not be an asshole for two seconds?” He shifts in his seat, reaching beside him to dig a crumpled paper out from his backpack.

It almost physically hurts him to say that he needs help from him of all people. Instead, his grip tightens, crinkling the sheet in his hand. He huffs through his nose when Lance, tongue stuck out, says that he apparently cannot stop being an asshole, that something about Keith just ‘brings it out of him’.

“I,” breathe, Keith, breathe, “Okay, so we’re both studying languages. You’re good at Vietnamese. I’m good at Korean. We were paired in the program to...help each other.” He holds up the paper, a clipart of a smiling Earth with limbs waving in the corner. The speech bubble next to it reads Your partner is Lance Lê!

“Oh, the K Man wants my help?” Lance has the biggest shit eating grin and the last of his patience snaps.

“Actually, no. I don’t need your help. I’m just saying what’s written on the paper.” He shoves it back into his backpack and cups his face in his hand. With a huff, Keith opens his mouth but Lance beats him to it.

“I’m glad we’re in perfect agreement for once. I don’t need your help either.” After stretching his arms above his head, he grabs onto the armrests and hoists himself up. “I guess I’m just gonna go and ask to be re-paired since we both don’t want to be here.” Slinging his bag over one shoulder, Lance peace signs and stands. Keith sits with his mouth agape and feeling of his own words drop into the pit of his stomach.

“See you around. No, scratch that. I don’t want to see your dumb mullet so don’t see you around.”

“Wait!” Before he can walk off, Keith grabs his wrist.

“What?”

“I…” His mouth clamps shut.

Lance shakes his hand free of Keith’s, slipping them into the pockets of his bomber jacket. His eyes are expectant, one brow arched. They both know what scarce budget the Asian Languages department has is split between Chinese, Japanese, and Korean. Vietnamese is twice a week, online. Korean is five days a week, in person.

“Hey, Keith. Dont’cha know it’s rude to keep a lady waitin’?”

“I get it. I know. There’s a lot more Koreans in the program, so I…” Brows furrowed, cheeks flushed, he mumbles something under his breath.

Lance smiles wickedly. Hands on hips, he leans down to meet Keith eye to eye. “Sorry, didn't hear you the first time. Loser says what?”

He is fucking infuriating, that lopsided grin, the self-satisfied expression plastered all over his face. Keith would punch him if they weren't in the middle of the student union.

Instead he glares, leaning forward until their foreheads almost touch. Fists clenched and slightly embarrassed, Keith grits his teeth, “I...Need...You…”

Lance leans back from Keith. His smirk is so tight, mirth gleaming in his eyes, and Keith knows what’s coming before Lance even opens his mouth. In the middle of the student union, where students are sleeping curled up in chairs, working on assignments, reviewing their syllabi, Lance Lê shouts at the top of his lungs, “DID EVERYONE HEAR THAT? KEITH PARK NEEDS MY HELP!”

He howls like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. He probably has. Everyone is staring at them and Keith has to scramble to stand up and clamp his hand over Lance’s big mouth. Up close again, Keith watches Lance’s little brown nose scrunch up. He allows his hand to be swatted away as Lance closes the gap between them to butt their foreheads together.

“You’re lucky you’re wearing those stupid emo gloves, otherwise I would’ve licked your hand.”

“You’re disgusting and they’re not emo,” Keith responds without a beat, his voice low and resentful.

“Whatever makes you feel better, Joe Jonas.”

“That’s not my name--”

Suddenly Lance scoffs and blows a huff of air into Keith’s face. Keith jerks back, the smell of peppermint buzzing in his nostrils. He growls at the realization that he’s lost their unspoken contest.

“So,” Lance says. “I guess this means I need your number.”

“You’re right, for once.”

“I resent that. And I resent you.”

Lance’s phone is hot in his hand, snapchat, facebook, tinder, and three different games running in the background as he types in his number. There’s also a huge crack running diagonally on the screen. He sends himself a text and hands it back to Lance, who has been watching him with an unusual amount of care, foot tapping.

Lance looks at his phone, then to Keith’s face. His expression is unreadable-- then again, when it comes to people, Keith is basically illiterate.

“Well, I guess we can, uh… Talk later.” Keith awkwardly reaches for his bag, unsure of how he’s supposed to interact with Lance when they aren’t arguing. In hindsight it’s for the best that Lance is always an asshole to him. At least it’s consistent.

“예, 선생님.”

Keith flinches in the middle of adjusting the straps of his backpack around his shoulders. When he looks up, Lance’s grin is fading.

“I said that right, didn’t I?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Cool.” Lance makes a show of wiping pretend sweat from his brow, the short brown hairs fluttering. “I’m pumped to start-- I’m a super quick learner, so get ready to be blown away by what’s up here.” He points at his temple, body all bravado once again. Keith couldn’t roll his eyes harder if he tried.

“똥 강아지.”

Lance blinks. “What?”

“Nothing. I gotta go to class.”

“What-- you fucking said something, didn’t y-- Keith! Oh, okay, you’re just walking away! Real mature! Well, I have stuff to do too! Thằng mất dạy! Look! I’m walking the other way!”

Lance is on his phone he whole way out and to class, switching between flappy bird and sending rapid fire texts to Hunk and Pidge. They’re both asking him if odd things have happened to him today; he honestly isn’t sure if getting paired with Keith Park as a tandem language partner counts as the kind of ‘odd’ they’re looking for. The sun is shining, but summer is breathing its last breaths: across the campus there are leaves turning orange and girls in infinity scarves.

“Are you free tonight?” Pidge has a yellow highlighter balanced between upper lip and nose. Linear Algebra and Its Applications by Pearson Publishing is being scrutinized through Pidge’s heavy glasses prescription when the highlighter slips out and lands across fold of the pages, rolling forward slightly. “Preferably between 9pm to 6am.”

“Uh, yeah most likely. Why?” Lance looks up from his laptop. The three of them are at the the library for a group homework time. Books, papers, and binders cover every inch of the table. The laminated sign taped in the very center that reads No Food Allowed is conveniently covered by an illegal chip bag, courtesy of Lance.

“Well, according to a quick Google search, those are the prime hours for ghost hunting. The psychic hours.”

“Guys--”

“Sh!” Hunk brings a finger to his lips, glancing around frantically. “We’re at the library.”

Pidge shrugs and leans across the table, peeking over the screen of Lance’s laptop. “So, are you free or not?”

“For ghost hunting? I’m not, nope. Just remembered. Not free from 9 to 6. Nope, not at all.” Ah shit, what is he supposed to say? He definitely doesn’t have anything going on. “I’m...meeting someone.”

“You’re meeting someone at 9pm?” Pidge raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying his flimsy excuse. “Who?”

“Well,” His eyes shift to the ceiling, to the bookshelves behind Pidge, to the table. “It’s a date.”

“Who goes out at 9pm on a Wednesday night?”

“Cool people, that’s who.” His cellphone buzzes, the lock screen flashing on to show the conveniently timed text. Whoever’s up there must be really feeling generous today. Lance opens his phone with a happy hum, sending a quick “thanks dude” prayer up to the sky. The name of his savior causes his smile to curl into a grimace.

“Lemme see.” Before he can react, Pidge reaches over and plucks the phone from his hand. “Wow.” A look to Lance, then back to the screen, then show the phone to Hunk. “Lance has a hot date with Keith, apparently.”

“It’s more like a study...session. Not a date. Did I say date? I would never. Never ever in my entire life be associated, let alone go on a date with that 80s enthusiast.”

If you could squeeze the essence of the meaning “bullshit” like a fruit, process it into its basic form, make it into a paint, then create an artistic masterpiece, that’s the expression that was on both Hunk’s and Pidge’s faces.

Lance smiles sweetly, ignoring their stares as he extends his arm, palm facing up, “May I have my phone back, please?”

With a sidelong glance to Pidge, Hunk gently places it in his waiting hand.

“Thank you.”

To be completely and totally honest, if Lance had to choose between ghost hunting or Keith “Grumpy Pants” Park, he would rather live a year without his beauty products. Maybe not a year, maybe like a week? Anything besides ghosts or Keith, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The table shifts back into silence as the three focus back on their studies. Lance unlocks the phone, and opens the message.

Keith: When are you free?

Of course. Lance snorts. Perfect punctuation and capitalization.

Lance: Let’s meet up tonight. 9 ok?

A few minutes and his response buzzes in.

Keith: Why?

A groan threatens to rise out of his throat, but Lance scowls instead, grunting at the screen. Hunk looks up from his book and Lance smiles back, his hand vice-like around the phone. Keith better not have anything tonight. Does he even have hobbies? Does listening to My Chemical Romance in a dark room count as a hobby? (Not confirmed, but highly probable.)

Lance: What do u mean..… why

Keith: Why do you want to meet up tonight?

Lance: Ooooh myyyyyyy goddd keith. just say yes

Keith: Wow. Compelling argument.

Lance doesn’t know why, but for some reason he thought interacting with Keith over text would be less of a brick wall to climb. Of course not. He’s just about to say to hell with it when his phone buzzes again.

Keith: Where do you want to meet?

“Did he send you a picture of his dick?”

Lance jerks his head up from his phone. “What?”

“You looked super shocked just now,” Hunk chimes in. Pidge’s lips are curled into a tight smile.

“I--He didn’t send one! He just surprised me, that's all.” A pause. “Not with a dick pic.” Lance sighs, mildly irritated at their identical expressions, “I swear. And you know I would tell you guys, regardless of whether you wanted to know or not.”

“...If you say so.” The highlighter hovers above the text, cap off as Pidge stares long and hard at him. After a few seconds, the tip contacts the page, a soft drag across the surface. Eye contact between the two is never broken as the highlighter stains the page in yellow.

Lance texts back without looking at the screen.

Lance: Mt form

Lance is typing…

Lance: ****my dorm
I live in ford hall so just like lmk when yr there and ill come down

Pidge is snickering.

“Shut up and study your linear algebra, fucking nerd.” Lance blinks his eyes, still dry from the short lived staring contest. He sets his phone face down on the table, slouches back into the stiff chair, and starts flicking at the trackpad of his computer like he can take out his frustration on it.

“Oh, come on. We all know know the studying stopped once we hit the forty minute mark.”

“That’s not true,” Lance says, not even looking up from his twitter feed. His phone buzzes beside his arm.

Pidge makes an exasperated hand gesture at Lance. Hunk gives a noncommittal shrug in reply. Lance misses the whole interaction.

“Anyways. Since scaredy-Lance over here apparently has better things to do,” Pidge begins, voice deliberately increasing in tall-dark-and-allegedly-handsome’s direction. Lance’s ears twitch, but he doesn’t say anything. Pidge is honestly a little disappointed that he didn’t take the bait. He must really hate ghosts-- or, have suddenly found a new love for Keith Park and his greasy, black hair.

The latter is unlikely.

Pidge continues after a long pause, turning to Hunk. “You figure out what kinda gear we should bring this time?”

Hunk looks up at the arched ceiling of the library, eraser of his mechanical pencil poking the soft curve of fat that hangs off his square jaw.

“EMF reader’s a must. That thing saved our lives last night.”

“True.”

“The camera batteries went dead last night, so maybe we should try and find some disposables. Y’know, for evidence.” Hunk winks an eye closed and makes shutter noises; something like ‘ka-chk, ka-chk’.

Pidge does a couple back, though it sounds more like ‘tchk tchk tchk.’ That’s about where Lance draws the line.

“Okay, first of all. It’s--” He holds out an invisible phone just up above his head and smiles at his own hand. “Chk-a chk-a chk-a. Obviously.” Lance’s hands drop as he makes a deadpan expression at his two friends. Clearly the trio is at an impasse on this issue. All three of them have now leaned back from each other, arms crossed.

“Secondly, it’s great that you guys are going to like, go and find the ghost portal or whatever. And by ‘great’ I mean that sounds like you guys will die. But like, what’s the plan? Are you guys gonna catch it? Kill it? I dunno, exorcise it or whatever?”

Pidge and Hunk look at each other, then back to Lance. Pidge’s shoulders shrug with arms still folded. Hunk looks a little apologetic and smiles at Lance before sheepishly admitting that there had, in fact, been no plan other than to go back and try to get something on tape to post online.

Apparently the forum Hunk frequents has been going nuts.

They are at last evicted by a student librarian because of how loudly Lance groans out, “Oh my God! You guys were going to just die and leave me here!”

(“Chill out, Lance. We’d come back to haunt you,” Hunk says on the walk back across campus.)

(“Yeah.” Pidge has brown eyes that gleam with a retaliatory glee. “Plus, I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”)

NIGHT 1

Nine is a late time to meet, Keith thinks as his feet push the pedals. The sun had set hours ago, but thankfully there are lights along this path. Crickets and frogs croak and chirp, faint echoes reaching him from across the lake. It’s a shame that he has to bike along the path right now. If Lance had set an earlier time, Keith would have been able to see the golds, reds, and oranges whizz by in a warm blur. With a contented hum, he leans forward on his handlebars, hair ruffled by the wind, increasing his cadence as the dorm grows closer.

Ford Hall. Clicking the lock shut and jiggling it make sure it’s secure, he holds his helmet under his arm, phone in the other. Wait, should he call or text Lance that he’s here? His thumb hovers between the envelope and the phone icon. Don’t you have to wait a certain number of days before you call someone after getting their number? Then again, Lance was the one who asked for it.

Shrugging to himself, he taps the phone icon and calls him. It rings once, twice, three times.

Hello? Who is it?

“Uh, it's Keith?” Didn't he save the number? He wouldn't put it above Lance to do something as petty as not saving his number.

Oh, ha ha sorry. Didn’t look at caller ID before picking up. What's up, my dude?

“I'm outside.” Keith frowns as he walks to the door. Lance is acting super familiar for a guy who was crowing about his Arch Nemesis needing his help earlier that day. “You told me to let you know when I got here...dude.”

The other side is silent.

He turns, looking up at the sky. “...Lance--”

Lance starts laughing, and Keith holds the phone away from his ear.

I was just messin’ with ya. This is my voice mail. Leave a message after the beep! BEEEEEEEEEEEEE--

The tone beeps and Keith almost throws his phone at the cement. If his grade didn't depend on this idiot, Keith would be staying far away--well as far as two science majors could be away from each other anyway.

Deep breath, Keith, deep breath. He calls again, glaring up at the sky this time.

“Heyo, Keithinator.”

Lance is leaning against the door, arms crossed and expression cocky. It didn't match his sloppy uniform: boxers, a baggy t-shirt, and student ID hanging off a lanyard around his neck.

It's not a bad look.

“That's not my--whatever,” he hangs up and raises his free arm, holding his phone and shaking it, “You didn't answer my call!”

“I didn't want to hear your emo voice before I saw your emo face.” Lance smirks and gestures for Keith to come into the building. “I'd rather have my night ruined in one go, yanno?”

No, he doesn't know. Keith scowls and walks in regardless. He pauses once he's inside, allowing Lance to close the door and lead the way. They head towards the elevator, other residents passing by and nearly stopping Lance in his tracks to talk.

Lance says he’s busy right now, points to Keith without introducing him and smiles with his canines gleaming white. It seems enough to get the two of them alone in front of the elevator. Keith observes wordlessly as Lance slides his ID and presses the button.

He knows everyone in the building, it seems. Keith can’t say he’s surprised.

“You coming up or what?” Lance has his hand on the door.

“Uh, yeah.” Keith does a hop-step into the elevator. The metal doors slide shut, leaving the two of them alone, side-by-side as they start moving.

Being this close, he notices how tall Lance is. Not that tall, maybe just a few inches. His eyes are closed as another yawn overtakes him, dark brown lashes fluttering. Then his hand reaches back and starts scratching his ass.

Keith bores his eyes dead forward at his warped reflection. In the elevator with the walking contradiction that is Lance Lê, a Korean boy asks himself this much: Why am I here?

A few other residents pass them on the way out of the elevator; they and Lance exchange pleasantries and one passes an eyebrow wiggle to Keith. There’s muffled laughter echoing in his head even when the elevator doors close shut again and the strangers are gone. Before Keith can register his skin crawling, Lance is half way down the hall, telling him to “hurry his ass up.” He continues at the same rate, in fact dawdling a bit on the way just to watch as Lance grows visibly irate-- leaning against the door frame, drumming his fingers on his hip, and brow into a flat and unimpressed line over his eyes.

“Oh, ha ha. You’re hilarious. A real jokester.”

“I know,” Keith says with a self-satisfied smile on his face as Lance glares sideways before entering the room without a word. The smell of cinnamon wafts past him and beckons him in as well. Lance’s room isn’t what he’s expecting. It’s clean, lit warmly with white christmas lights and Lance walking into looks warm, too, when he takes a seat on the half lofted bed and returns to eating a half eaten slice of pizza.

Keith takes a seat at the desk shoved perpendicular against the head of Lance’s bed and things get underway. Lance is in the middle of asking Keith what the difference between 데문에 and 는 and what exactly ‘nominalization’ is, anyways, gesticulating with his lanky brown hands in the air when it happens. The lamp on the desk sparks and goes out.

Keith jumps, and stares at the light, which has just the tiniest bit of smoke coming from it. His stomach lurches.

“Whoa,” they both say at once.

“Yeesh! I nearly shat myself,” Lance says, hopping off the bed to unscrew the bulb and change it. Keith’s brow furrows, eyeing the string of lights hanging above Lance’s bed.

“That’s weird,” he says.

“What is?” Lance is reaching for the high shelf in his closet for bulbs.

“If it’d been a surge, the other lights should’ve gone off, too.”

“Dude, light bulbs die. It’s fine.”

The lamp falls over, clattering against Lance’s lime-green studio headphones. Blinking, Keith stands up. The hairs on his neck are standing, skin prickling with goosebumps.

“Lance, I think… something’s wrong.”

“What?” Lance, who Keith did not peg as the type to wear anything lime-green, comes up from behind him, holding the head of the flourescent between his thumb and index finger. His face turns into a pout when he sidesteps Keith. “Aw, what? Why’d you knock it over?”

“I didn’t. That’s what I’m saying.”

Lance rolls his eyes and reaches down to grab the neck of the bending light, his other hand at the ready to replace the bulb. The problem is that it, for some reason, is terribly heavy. Before Lance can even properly get a flabbergasted “What the fuck” out of his mouth, the string of lights above his bed pop off in a cacophony of sparks and the whole room is dark.

For a hot moment after, there’s only the sound of Lance and Keith both breathing heavily. The smell of the candle warmer has been overpowered by the stench of burned plastic. Lance’s eyes, owlishly big, are just starting to come into focus for Keith when another loud noise jerks the both of them five steps back towards the door.

“It’s your phone, you idiot!”

“I’m not an idiot--! I--You jumped away too! Just shut up, Keith!”

Lance stumbles forward, frantically feeling around the surface of the desk before finding his phone. The light of the screen blinds Lance for a moment when he holds it up to his face. His cursing turns into a sigh of relief. It’s Hunk. His fingers fumble, sliding his finger across the screen as he steps back.

“What the fuck is going on?” Lance holds the phone against his ear, “This is because of you guys, right? Why am I getting attacked for something you did?”

“Slow down, dude.” Hunk’s voice is calm, “What's happening?”

“I'm sitting in my room, just studying and the lamp just blows and then I go to change the lamp and my fucking christmas lights explode and now I'm stuck in the dark with--holy shit!”

Keith bumps into Lance, causing the latter to screech and run into the wall.

“Is that what you're calling him now?” Pidge’s voice snickers in the background. It’s distant, muffled by the sound of wind.

“Can we please save that for later?” Lance feels around the approximate area of his bed. Fingers touch fabric and he yanks it. He turns it in his hands a couple times. Yup, it's pants.

“Okay, so what you just told me sounds like a classic haunting.” Hunk says slowly, “Just get out of there.”

“...You're kidding, right? Ha ha, guys. You got me, nice prank. Went all out this time, huh? I'm impressed.” He holds the phone on his right shoulder as he shimmies his left leg through a pant leg.

Keith hisses beside him. “What did they say?” Lance waves him away like a gnat and Keith just throws his hands up, exasperated.

“Lance, I'm serious.”

“Oh sure--” A sharp burning sensation runs along his forearms and Lance yelps. Touching his arm, he feels the raised lines of skin trailing upward.

Like scratch marks.

“Lance? You still there, buddy?”

“I-I gotta go, see you.” He hangs up, shoving the phone into Keith's hands as he pulls his pants up.

“Lance, what's going on?” Keith is following him around the room as Lance searches for his lanyard. “Lance--”

A thump. Lance curses, hissing in pain as he walks around the offending object. More shuffling. “Found it. Let's go.”

“Lance!”

They run out into the hallway. It's thankfully lit and devoid of people.

“Lance, stop running for just a second and tell me what's going on!”

“Let's take the stairs. I don't-- the elevator’s too slow.”

Keith, for the life of him, can barely keep up with Lance’s two-step pace down the winding emergency stairs. He can see that Lance is back on his phone again (he’d yanked it back out of Keith’s hand the instant they’d exited the room) and he’s typing furiously with both hands. He misses a step and nearly tumbles forward. Keith catches him by the crook of his elbow.

“Lance.” Keith’s voice comes out raspy. He’s got one hand on the railing with chipped paint, the other clenched around his one-sided rival’s arm. Lance’s shoulders shake in the thin fabric of his shirt, suddenly looking small in the cold fluorescent light. It’s still quiet. Keith keeps talking over the buzz of Lance’s phone on the linoleum steps.

“Look, I don’t think I-- feel whatever it was in there anymore. It’s… It’s okay.”

“Whatever you were feeling in there? Keith, I don’t care if you’ve got indigestion.” You can hear the eyeroll in his voice. Lance wrenches his arm free, but Keith steps closer, dark eyes trailing on the red lines now winding up across tanned skin. After he’s picked up his phone with all its new cracks, Lance rubs the side of his forearm and hisses.

“That wasn’t there before,” Keith says.

Lance shoots him a look. The air is tight with tension, the sound of humming lights all around them and the bass of a song pounding from the wall just beside them.

Keith doesn’t react to the bit about irritable bowels, and that makes Lance irritable. His shoulders sag with a sigh. “God, can we just get out of here? Then you can go home and do whatever. And more importantly, I can go and do whatever.”

“Why do you want to get rid of me so bad? I’m trying to help,” Keith pins him with an angry look in his eye and steps closer. “I can tell you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

Keith looks Lance dead in the eye for a second. Then he jerks forward and lets out a low, growling sound that sounds somewhere between “boo” and a bark.

Lance jumps back like a cat, phone held tight to his chest. Keith looks like he’s just eaten a whole apple pie by himself; that’s how satisfied his smirk is. Thinking on it, proving Lance wrong is a lot like a warm slice of apple pie on a fall evening. The look on Lance’s face is the dollop of ice cream on top.

“That--” Lance stammers. The tips of his ears are fuming red and he grits his teeth and looks ready to tackle Keith. “That doesn’t prove anything! Just-- Jesus, fine, whatever, you can--” he does air quotes with his fingers. “-- ‘help’ me. Just.” The sound of Lance’s inhale is ragged. “Don’t fucking jumpscare me again, you asshole.”