Archive of Our Own

Keith's fingers burn.

It's an uncomfortable prickling sensation that travels from the tips of his fingers and spreads over his arm. The nerves in his shoulder scream in agony as the prickling makes its way up, nagging at an old injury that never really healed correctly.

Keith's fingers shake.

He doesn't really remember when he developed the tremor in his hands, but he doesn't have any room in his head to care about that, about himself. Keith pops the top off of the bottle in his jacket pocket and downs the remaining contents. With still shaking hands, he knocks back the rest of his drink and swallows. His stomach lurches, a warning from his body to stop, but he doesn't listen.

"You never listen"

Despite being months since he heard it, the words still sting more than anything he's ever heard before. It feels like his heart has been punched straight through and left him with just a big, empty, cavernous hole where his emotions should be. Where his love should be.

It isn't what words were said that makes Keith's chest ache, but who said them.

The reminder brings his attention back to the beat up, old cell phone on the bar-top in front of him. Keith's vision swims and he struggles to get his eyes to focus on the screen. Not that he has to, he has this number so seared into his brain that he could dial it without looking. He can, and has, dialed it drunk off his ass. That, and it's the only number he's called in months.

Sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead and temples, but there is a chill that has settled bone deep inside of him that leaves him feeling cold and achy no matter what. Keith flicks his hand at the man behind the bar, thinking that maybe, this time, the whisky will penetrate deep enough to give him warmth. Deep down, Keith knows it won't work. He knows why he has a chill that runs through the deepest parts of his body.

Keith lost his sunshine. The source of his warmth was snatched out of his hands and out of his life, leaving him cold, drunk, and alone. Keith had caged the sun and was selfishly holding it and keeping it for himself. Then the sun escaped and ran away. Away from him.

He wants his sunshine, his heat, his warmth, his heart, back.

Keith rubs freezing hands on his damp jeans to try and get some heat back into the frozen digits.

The whisky in front of him has been magically replenished, though Keith couldn't say when or how long ago this happened. He chugs half of it in one gulp. He is still cold.

The phone lights back up when he taps the screen. Keith's hands are still shaking, but likely for a different reason this time. He taps the screen again.

Ring. . .

. . . Ring. . .

. . . Ring. . .

. . . Ring. . .

Beeeep.

"Fuck," he spits, cradling his head in his hands. Keith hits the end call button with nearly enough force to break the screen. Nearly.

He calls again.

And again.

And again.

He orders another drink.

He calls again.

And again.

And again.

And again and again and again and. . .

Silence.

Not a beep, but silence.

Keith perks up, sitting up so fast that he has to bite his tongue to hold in the contents of his stomach. He presses the phone harder against his ear to make sure he isn't mistaken. There is someone on the other end of the phone this time, not an answering machine.

"Hello?" is all he can think to say, too stunned that anyone actually picked up to remember what he wanted to talk about. No response. "Are you there?" Keith knows he is slurring so he tries to enunciate as much as possible. Still, he hears the breathing hitch on the other side of the line. "I miss you," he slurs, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. It's true.

This time the breathing turns into a small gasp, a sharp inhale that makes Keith think (hope) that they're about to say something. Instead the silence continues.

"I still love you" ,"You mean the world to me" , and "Please, take me back" is what Keith wants to say. He feels the words sitting on the tip of his tongue. They're heavy and bulky in his mouth and he knows it would be so easy to just open his mouth and let them fall out for the phone to hear. "You didn't block me," is what comes out instead.

A laugh falls through the speaker of Keith's phone, but it's a bitter, broken, ugly thing that makes Keith feel like the walls are closing in on him. "Keith," follows after that horrid laughter and Keith really thinks the whole room is about to collapse under the weight of those words. It's begging. He's begging Keith to stop and to let it go, let him go.

He can't.

Despite everything, a wave of warmth washes over Keith. Months. It has been months since he has heard that voice. It is just as beautiful as he remembers. Keith should tell him that. He should just tell him that his voice thaws the months of frost building up in his joints and his head and he doesn't want to do this without him and-

"Why didn't you?"

A soft sigh that would have shattered Keith's heart if he still had one. If Keith had been sober and less obtuse, he might have heard the "Because I miss you too" hanging in the space between them, but he isn't.

"I still-"

The line clicks dead and Keith has to set the phone back down on the bar before he snaps it in half. He calls again. Just to make sure it still goes through and just in case someone picks up again. It does, but there's no answer. Which is fine, since Keith had promised to forget him. He couldn't of course. Who could? So what if he promised he wouldn't keep doing this? It isn't Keith's fault, he's not in his right mind.

Keith slides the empty whisky glass across the wood surface, the scraping noise earns him several annoyed stares that just pass right through him. Through the gaping hole in his chest. He stands from his stool, white knuckling the edge of the bar to keep his himself from collapsing while he waits for his head to stop spinning. Keith tosses his money down and flicks his eyes to the bartender. Their eyes meet and sympathy flickers over the bartender's face. They both know that Keith will be back tomorrow because being blind drunk is better than the sadness that threatens to consume him. It will if he lets it. Sometimes Keith wants to.

A hard shove to his injured shoulder pulls Keith out of his haze. He snaps his head up to send his patented scowl at whoever just knocked into him. Another one of the regulars Keith can't recall the name of is sneering down at him. The guy has a good foot and a half on Keith, but Keith has never been one to back down. "What?" he hisses, his other hand moving up to rub at his sore shoulder.

"Mind your damn business."

Keith rolls his eyes, the movement making his head spin. He's had a long day and that sweet bartender has already given him his last warning. If he gets into anymore fights, they'll have to call the cops or ban him or something. Keith hadn't been paying attention at the time since he had been nursing a bloody nose with a semi-cold bottle of beer, but he got the gist. No more fights. This asshole certainly isn't worth losing the only thing he has left.

Keith steps around the guy (Logan? Luke? Lane?) and keeps heading for the door. There's a sharp tug at the collar of his shirt that makes him choke. His feet plant firmly on the floor and the top half of his body is jerked backwards into the asshole, who is built like a brick shit-house. Keith grabs at his collar to relieve the pressure and tears himself out of the stranger's grip.

"What's got your panties in a twist, huh Kogane? You've been acting like a pussy all night," the harsh growl in the stranger's voice sounds familiar and Keith realizes he has definitely fought with this guy a time or two before. Fuck he is so wasted. He knows there's something he's missing, something between them that he's forgotten, but his head is too stuffed full of alcohol and pain killers, his brain cells too dead to remember.

When Keith doesn't respond, the stranger continues, "I bet it's that little whiny bitch of a boyfriend. He probably can't get it up looking at your ugly mug. That's why you're so pent up." The stranger's words have a smug lilt to them that makes it sound like he knows more than he is letting on. He probably does. Keith's pulse thunders inside his skull as he tries to wrack his brain for memories but all he finds are pieces of his sunshine, broken and scattered around the surface of his mind like a picture frame that's been knocked over. "Speaking of, haven't seen him around lately," he eyes Keith, waiting for a reaction. "Did that stupid fucking fag finally leave your sorry ass in the-"

Pain shoots up Keith's arm from where his fist collides with the asshole's jaw. Hard. But not hard enough. The stranger is reeling back and hitting Keith square in the side of the head before his alcohol muddled brain can catch up and dodge out of the way. Black spots bloom in his vision and the force of the hit sends him stumbling back. There are shouts coming from everyone around them and the sound of chairs scraping the floor as people stand up quickly, but everything sounds far away and muted, as if he's underwater.

Keith's head and chest are squeezed tight with fury and the edges of his vision are tinged red. He doesn't even try to attack with his fists anymore, Keith launches himself at the asshole, clawing at his face and chest and anything he can reach. Keith doesn't know when he starts hitting him again but his hands are coming down onto the stranger's face in balled up fists when his blurry vision finally rights itself again. Keith sees red in anger and he sees red painting his hands and his face and the floor, but he can't stop. This piece of shit doesn't know what he's talking about and his boyfriend is none of this guy's business and nobody calls his boyfriend names. Nobody.

"Keith. Keith! Keith!"

Strong arms wrap around his middle and the floor suddenly falls away out from underneath him. He has to screw his eyes shut tight to keep from hurling at the feeling.

"Whoa, dude, are you okay?" Keith feels the floor underneath his feet again and he glances at the source of the voice. Is he okay? Something wet slides down the side of his face. He reaches up and feels whatever it is, sticky and viscous, between his fingers. Keith thinks he still might hurl. He peels his trembling fingers away from his temple and stares down at them. They're red with blood. His hands are covered in it. Keith turns his hands over and stares at the red on his knuckles. Not his.

A gentle and caring hand feels Keith's forehead, parting the bangs sticky with sweat to feel directly at the warm skin. "I think you might have a fever. Keith. . . are you okay? You don't seem. . ." the voice hesitates. Keith manages to pull his eyes away from the gore smeared across his skin to look up at the sound. The bartender. Keith knows the bartender's name he just can't. . . he can't think. Keith can't remember anything or think anything or feel anything besides loneliness.

The bartender stumbles back a few steps, stunned at the look on Keith's face. The bartender frowns, an unmistakable sadness comes over his face that is so dominating that even Keith, in his current state, can see it. Keith feels something tug at the empty hole in his chest. Those big warm brown eyes should never have a sadness like that in them, that should be reserved for his own cold, dark ones.

Keith coughs into his elbow, hoping his voice won't sound as unused as he knows it is. "Yeah, 'm okay. Sorry. 'm not- . . . 'm not supposed to be fighting in here, you- you told me not to, 'm sorry, please. . . please don't- don't throw me out. Can't. . . - can't lose this too."

The bartender sighs, glancing back at the two other employees helping the other guy off the floor. He takes a small step to the side, successfully hiding the stranger from Keith's view. If Keith were sober, he would realize that he is trying to keep Keith from seeing how much damage he did. He's protecting Keith, but he doesn't understand why. "I'm not- . . . Keith, look, I've gotta throw you out, but just for tonight. I won't ban you or anything. Not tonight. I. . I heard some of what was said. But you've gotta get it together, buddy. I can't keep covering for you. I'm doing it because I know he would-", the man stops, snapping his mouth shut as if he is trying to keep something fragile and important from escaping.

Keith's whole body feels like it's being electrocuted at hearing the bartender mention him. Maybe if Keith begs, the man will do it again. Will mention him again. Keith's brain is working too sluggishly to do any begging and the man continues on as if Keith's whole world wasn't just tipped on its head.

"Keith," the bartender has his large hand on Keith's shoulder and his voice is firm and unwavering to match, "Go home."

The frigid air makes Keith tug his jacket tighter around himself. His jacket is too loose on him at the moment and it wraps further around him than it should. Keith knows that his body is starting to eat away at his muscles now that so much of his fat content is gone, he just can't make himself care. The alleyway is pitch black aside from the single lamppost at the end by the road, and even then, the light that it casts doesn't make it very far. The darkness seems to eat at the minuscule light source and push it in on itself until it is only a small concentrated circle of light.

And Keith is stuck in the dark.

The worst part? Deep down Keith knows that the break up was his fault. He, with all his abandonment issues in tow, knew that this relationship was special. It was either going to end in an earth shattering explosion of heartbreak and pain, or it wouldn't end. And he made his decision. When the time came to commit or leave, he panicked and he fled.

If he was being honest with himself, he hadn't captured the sun at all. He never had the sun caged and his warmth never escaped. On the contrary, the sun had him wrapped around its long slender fingers. The sun was there by choice and had loved him with the kind of passion and intensity that you could only find in someone like that. A human with the heart of an exploding star.

Keith had the love of someone that could warm a galaxy with one crooked smile, and he ran. He has always been cold and alone. A creature of habit, of darkness, of shadows. The daylight scared him. He fucked up. Keith had started to feel himself get his own heat back. He had felt his passion and happiness returning. Keith had started to feel warmth in parts of him that had been frozen over since his dad died. He was scared of what that meant and he was terrified of the person that was thawing out inside of him. Keith ran because the sun was reaching parts of him that he didn't even remember existed and it terrified him.

And he has spent every waking moment since, regretting his choice. Regretting the fight he started. Regretting the vase he threw. Regretting the look on that pretty face. A look that was so broken that Keith wanted to claw through glass, bleeding and gutted, his heart on the floor between them, as he picked up the pieces and put everything back together.

The sun had loved Keith, and instead of letting himself be brought into the light, he cast the sun into the shadows. He dimmed the light of the brightest person he'd ever met. And it haunts him. He doesn't deserve forgiveness.

Keith would never admit this sober. He's too scared and frustrated and heartbroken to reach out in the light of day. Too embarrassed to admit he was wrong and that he lashed out. But when the skies open up with rain, the sun sets, and the bitter alcohol kicks in, he finds himself drunk dialing that number every time. He's almost certainly ruining his chances even further, but the sting of drink numbs his mind to everything but what he's missing. Who he's missing. And he's stopped caring what the sun thinks of him and his shadows.

The lights from the bar window aren't enough to penetrate the thick, sticky darkness, but it's enough for Keith to see the bartender watching him from inside. Keith looks away as shame floods his body. Embarrassment nags at his chest.

Go home.

How? How is he supposed to go home when his home won't answer his phone calls.

God he royally fucked up. He has to fix this. He has to get the love of his life back, no matter what, no matter that he feels like he doesn't deserve forgiveness. He needs this. He needs him. He needs something besides the poison he's been ingesting to keep the sorrow from eating him up from the inside.

Keith climbs onto his motorcycle with as much grace as he can muster through the fog in his head. His limbs feel like ice and as if they're weighed down with lead.

He knows he should wait until he's sober for this but he's afraid that once the liquid courage wears off, he won't want to make amends anymore. He doesn't wait.

Keith starts his motorcycle and drives off slowly, the lines of the road sway in front of him and he can't tell where they're supposed to be. Doesn't matter. He knows where he's going. He's going to the apartment that was his home for nearly two years. Their home. Keith drives faster.

It's late and there isn't any traffic, which is good, since Keith is swerving over the lines, unable to keep himself in the correct lane. Just a little bit further and he'll be home. He told Hunk he would go home, so really it's Hunk's fault that he's doing this. That'll make a good excuse for when L-

Hunk. The bartender's name is Hunk.

A wave of memories crashes into Keith so hard that he nearly tips his bike over. Hunk, who was always so good to him and so caring. Hunk, who fed him and talked him through his doubts when he needed it. Hunk, who told Keith when they broke up to keep coming back to visit him if he ever needed anything.

Fuck. Keith feels like such a dick. A stupid, wasted, high, dick. His head is so stuffed full of cotton that Keith can't even recall when he forgot Hunk's name. How did he forget Hunk's name? His head swims and his vision goes hazy again, the slime dripping down the side of his face makes it hard to concentrate on the road. Fuck, he doesn't feel good.

Keith pulls over.

He needs help. He needs to call someone. He. . . .

He dials the number. It's the only one he knows.

There's a harsh flash of lights behind his left shoulder that makes his whole body feel off balance, the dizziness spreading as if his whole world has tilted. It probably has.

Whatever it is, it isn't important. He has to call him. Keith has to warn him he's coming and he has to tell him he loves him. He loves him and he's coming. He loves him so much and he's coming home and he'll never leave again.

Cold wracks through Keith's body causing him to tremble violently, but he still pulls out his phone, tapping out the number that he knows by heart and muscle memory alone. Keith starts to press call.

A loud siren behind him makes Keith's ears ring. He whips around fast, too fast, and stares hard at the bright lights. His motorcycle wobbles beneath him and he attempts to drunkenly put the kickstand down to avoid having to lay the bike down. The bright lights make another sound. A loud smack, probably that of a car door closing.

Fuck he really needs help. Keith's world is a blur as he taps the call button where he knows it to be.

"Hey buddy, put the phone down and step away from the motorcycle."

Keith's heart sinks, the phone in his hand is still ringing. "No wait, c'mon I- I gotta. . . I gotta call him. Someone. I gotta. . . I gotta call s. . someone. He needs- I. . . I need him. . . his- his help," Keith hiccups, the contents of his stomach push against his esophagus, not wanting to be a part of this train-wreck anymore. He covers his mouth with his hand and knocks the phone onto the ground. It collides with the asphalt with a sickening crunch and skids a few feet away from him. He can see from here the screen lighting up to show a call in progress.

He answered. Oh my god he actually answered me!

Keith moves to step towards the phone but stumbles, his feet catch on a crack in the road and he falls flat on his face. The source of the wet sticky blood on his cheek gives a painful throb, screaming at him in pain.

"Kid, are you drunk?" It's no longer a disembodied voice. Now Keith sees a cop stepping out of the bright flashing lights and striding towards him. There is a disgusting swagger to the guy's walk that shows an unearned confidence only found in guys like him. The cop clearly knows he has caught Keith red handed. Literally.

Keith shakes his head fervently, "No! No I- . . .ugh. No. I don't- I don't feel good. I need to get my phone. My boyfriend. I'm- I'm calling my boyfriend." Not quite sure when he got up off the road, Keith starts towards his phone again, he can still see it lit up and he needs to get over there before they hang up again. The cop shines a bright light in Keith's face, disorienting him. He holds up his arms in front of his face defensively.

The cop smirks and it is nothing like the pretty, smug look his ex used to make. No, this smirk is ugly and makes Keith's stomach churn. It turns out to be one time too many and Keith doubles over, losing what little he had in his body into the grass on the side of the road. He coughs and splutters, his nose and throat burning as if he was spitting up fire. The flashlight shining in Keith's eyes is not helping.

"High then, aren't you? Your pupils are as big as dinner plates."

Keith scowls swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand before he can remember that it has someone else's blood on it. "I'm not. I don- don't feel good. I have to call him. I- I need help. I gotta go home."

The cop's eyes land on the blood smeared across Keith's face and they widen slightly. "Where are you coming from, kid? Bar fight?"

Keith looks down at his bruised and swollen knuckles, shrugging in response, unsure what else to say. He was, wasn't he? In a bar fight? Yeah, yeah that's why he had to leave. Why Hunk told him to go home. He is trying to go home.

The cop sighs, lowering the flashlight away from Keith's face. "I'm gonna need you to try to walk in a straight line for me. Touch your heel to your toes on the other foot, one at a time," he gestures at the side of the road with his flashlight, indicating the path he wants Keith to take. Clearly uninterested in helping someone in visible distress.

Keith spits at his feet, vomit coating his mouth and making him salivate. His temper claws at his throat and threatens to follow the same path as his stomach contents. Keith swallows it down. "I'm not drunk. Look- look my phone. I need my phone," he points at the abandoned cellphone in the middle of the road. "He- He answered me and he's still there. I need- I need to talk to him."

The cop glances at the phone in the road. It went dark and he's pretty sure there hasn't been anyone on the other end of the line for a while now, but he doesn't tell the kid that. "I'll get your phone. Walk, now."

Keith spits in the cop's direction now, "Fuck you. I'm- I'm not doing shit until I get my- my phone. My boyfriend-"

The cop shoves Keith's shoulder hard, making him tumble in the direction of the car. "Don't make me ask again," he seethes, patience worn thin and ready to start a fight, anything to get Keith arrested.

Keith rights himself and crosses his arms, "No, fuck- fuck you and your stupid test. I want- gotta call him."

The cop's hideous smirk blooms across his face again, "Are you refusing a field sobriety test?"

". . .yeah?"

Keith gets his chest slammed up against the hood of the car and he thanks anyone that can hear him that he already emptied his stomach. He drops his forehead against the cold metal of the hood, his mind fogging up again as the cop starts saying something behind him. He feels the cuffs digging into his wrists in a way that is intentionally too tight and a bit painful.

" . . . to remain silent. Anything you say, can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right. . ."

"My phone."

". . .if you cannot afford. . ."

"Please," Keith begs, his voice cracking with the effort of holding back months of buried emotions, his bottled up feelings are finally about to burst him open at the seams.

". . .one will be provided for you. . ."

The rear car door is opened and Keith is thrown into the back of the cop car, his teeth clattering together with the force of it. He hears the lock click when the door is shut behind him. Keith sniffles, tears prickling at his eyes.

The cop sits down in the driver's seat, holding up a small black device for Keith to see, "Look, I got your damn phone, so quit fucking whining about it."

"My. . My bike. What about my bike?"

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to drive it for a mile completely wasted."

"You were. . . you were following me?"

The cop doesn't respond, but the smug air is back and Keith already knows the answer.

Keith rests his face against the ice cold window of the cop car, watching the streetlights streak past as they go way faster than they should. He presses closer to the glass, hoping he can force himself to sober up a bit with the cold of the window. Keith flexes his wrists from where they are behind his back, trying to loosen the cuffs a bit, just enough so they don't dig into his skin.

"Lance- Lance McClain. He- He's my emergency contact. Please. You have to call him. . . I- I need him, I need help."

Silence.

Lance isn't perfect. He has flaws. For one, he is selfish as all hell.

He's selfish because he knows he should have blocked Keith's number. He knows he should let Keith go, force him to move on. Force both of them to move on. But he can't, because he's selfish. It was stupid and selfish to answer the calls tonight but he missed Keith's voice. Months of drunk calls finally wore him down.

Keith is the one that left him. He shouldn't keep holding onto him so tightly. If Keith doesn't want to be together, Lance needs to learn to let him go. But he's so cold.

The apartment is so cold and empty without Keith. Lance misses him, but it is so much more than that. He feels like he is drowning and he can't breathe without him. He has had his heart broken a million times before, but nothing has ever hurt this badly.

If he is honest with himself, Lance knows that it's his fault they broke up. He knew he had exactly what he wanted, exactly who he wanted, and he was afraid he was going to lose it. He did what he does best and he fucked everything up. Lance dug his claws into Keith and held on for dear life, afraid he was going to lose the thing he loved the most. But he was wrong. Lance knew he was pushing Keith too hard. He was trying to get Keith to go faster than either of them could handle, and all he did was push Keith away. Lance wanted to tear down Keith's walls instead of slowly picking them apart with his hands and Keith couldn't take it.

The fight was his fault. He started it. If Keith was going to tear himself out of Lance's cold, dead hands, he wanted to make sure his fingers left bruises. He wanted to make sure Keith would have claw marks when he left.

So Lance is selfish.

Lance knows it was his fault for pushing Keith away, and yet, he can't bring himself to let Keith go. It used to make his heart flutter knowing that Keith still thought about him enough to call him blackout drunk. Now it only fills him with dread. His chest feels too heavy and too full of feelings and he yearns for an emptiness to replace it. That would be better, right?

Weak. Lance is weak, and he knows it. He isn't strong enough to cut Keith off and let them move on. Instead, he told Keith to forget him, to leave him alone. He just can't bring himself to fight it when Keith calls him. It feels good to hear his voice, to know he is alive and thinking about him. It is so, so selfish and so, so weak. He knows that, but he can't help it.

Keith is a fucking mess and it is all Lance's fault. He doesn't deserve Keith's forgiveness, but fuck does he want it.

Still, Lance feels his heart in his throat when his phone rings for the millionth time that night.

"Book him for a DUI. Refused a field sobriety test."

The cop forces Keith into a chair next to a desk overflowing with paperwork and candy wrappers. He can't sit still. He watches the man sitting at the desk with caution, "Wh-Why's he leaving?"

The new cop smiles, but like Keith, it is missing all of its warmth. "I'm officer Frank, I'm just gonna take it from here so officer Barley can go home for the day."

Frank. Keith lets the name swirl around in his mouth and he tests the feel of it on his tongue. "Frank, I gotta call Lance. You- you have to call him for me. My phone-"

"You'll get your call in due time. Right now we have to sort out your charges. You don't look like you're doing too well and I don't want to put you in a cell before we get this situation figured out." The ancient, crinkly old man goes back to the stack of paperwork closest to him.

Keith shakes his head with more force than necessary, "You don't understand. Lance, he- he's my emergency contact. You have to call him for me- you-. . . you have to. I need him." His voice starts to tremble and he feels desperation claw at his skin. Keith thinks he might die if he doesn't get to hear Lance soon. His eyes sting as tears slip free despite his desire to hold them back. "Please I need him. I want to go home," he sobs, snot and blood and tears streaming down his face.

Frank sighs, his resolve crumbling. "Fine, you can take your call now, if only it means you'll stop crying." Frank lifts the receiver off the phone on the cluttered desk and glances at Keith, waiting for the number. Keith recites it like a prayer, his words clearer than they have been in weeks. Frank turns the phone towards Keith and sets the receiver back down, hitting the speaker button. He gets up from his desk and steps away, "I'll be down the hall, just call for me when you're done."

Before Frank can even finish his walk down the hallway, the sound of Lance's voicemail plays out through the speakers. Frank winces, a pang of sympathy for the kid shoots through him before he can help it.

Keith thinks he might lose it. Lance's voicemail sounds too loud and fake in his ears. This cannot be real. Lance didn't answer again. He probably just didn't recognize the number. "W-wait, he doesn't- he doesn't know this number, he wouldn't answer. Please, let me call him on my phone, please."

Frank sighs, "Son that isn't how this works. You only get the one call. Look, we'll let you sleep it off and we can call again in the morning it-"

"No," Keith is practically screaming, his bundle of emotions he keeps locked away has been blown open and the contents are laying out, raw and open for anyone to see and it hurts.

"Son-"

"No! Please! I'm begging you-" Keith struggles, remembering to "be respectful" to get what he wants, "-sir, just let me call." When the begging doesn't seem to work, he speaks up again. "Come on, please, I'll- I'll do the stupid sobriety test or whatever. Please. I'll stay the night in the cell. Anything if you just let me call."

"He didn't answer, Keith, we'll worry about it in a minute."

Keith wants to scream and cry and kick and bite and hit and anything to get this guy to listen. "I called him on my phone just a bit ago. Please, let's wait? I swear, he'll call me back. He will, I promise. He has to. He has to because I can't do this without him." Keith has started squirming in the hard metal chair, his breathing is picking up and he doesn't feel good. He needs help and he needs Lance.

"Son, are you a danger to yourself?" Frank runs his fingers through his short, cropped hair. He's legally required to ask if he thinks there is a mental health issue in someone they have arrested.

"Fuck that, I don't care. I'll be okay when I get home."

Frank sighs again and sits back down at his desk. The kid is clearly not in the right mind and he isn't going to get anywhere trying to argue with him. He pulls the papers towards himself again and starts writing, ignoring the whining and squirming drunk next to him.

When all the paperwork is sorted, Frank glances over at Keith, wondering why he is so quiet all of a sudden. Keith's head is lulled back as he fights either sleep or fainting, which it is, Frank can't tell. "Hey," he nudges Keith's foot with his own, knocking him forward and jerking him awake. "Just one more time tonight, okay? Then you're gonna go sleep it off in the cell." Keith nods, worried if he opens his mouth he'll say something that will make the cop take back his offer.

Frank hits the redial button and the phone starts to ring. It rings and rings, but nothing happens.

Keith feels like he lost Lance all over again. His chest squeezes until his heart pops and fizzles out like a balloon. "I- I fucked up. He isn't gonna answer. Lance probably thinks it's me calling and he won't answer. He hates me. He is never gonna forgive me for leaving and I'm gonna die a fucked up drunk without him."

Frank watches Keith, startled at the sudden outburst and lack of slurring or confusion. It is as if Keith is parroting words he has thought in his head so many times that they don't have any issues falling right out of his mouth. "Uh. . ." he starts, unsure if he should interrupt.

"I miss him. I love him more than anything and I left. God I'm so fucking stupid. He was perfect- is perfect. I can't- I can't fix it because I'm too stupid drunk and too scared and ashamed sober. He wanted to get married and I fucking freaked out on him. Crashed my fucking bike and hurt my shoulder. The pills- fuck Frank, the pills. They gave 'em to me for my fucked up shoulder. I'll have to take 'em for the rest of my life. I tried to leave Lance and the universe put me on my ass and permanently fucked up my shoulder as a punishment. I take too many. I want them- want them to get rid of Lance. When I take them I don't have to think about how he smelled or the way his eyes- ugh." The monologue is cut short by another wave of nausea and Frank quickly shoves the trashcan into Keith's hands just in time.

"Ooookay kid, I think that's enough from you tonight. Why don't we-"

"Keith?"

Keith lifts his head up out of the trashcan and glances at the phone on Frank's desk. The receiver hasn't been hung up yet so maybe Lance actually answered this time. "Lance?", Keith asks the empty air, hoping against everything that Lance can hear him.

"Yeah, I'm here. Are you okay?"

Keith sniffs, tears welling up in his eyes again. He stares at the phone and wills it to get up and morph into Lance. He begs the voice to suddenly turn into long tan legs and curly brown hair, but it doesn't. "I am now," is all he can say in response, his tongue feeling too heavy and his words getting stuck in his throat like they always do around Lance. He'll have to work on that.

Keith can swear he can hear a smile in Lance's voice, "Don't be a flirt. You're in so much trouble right now."

"I know," Keith drops his eyes down to his shoes, dejected. "I'm sorry. I. . . I want. . . fuck, can you come get me?"

Lance honest to god laughs and it isn't the sharp bark from earlier, but a soft chuckle that sounds like birdsong first thing on a bright spring morning. Keith's heart gets stuck in his throat. "Yes, Keith, I will come get you," It has to be the alcohol, there's no way he hears amusement in Lance's response, not towards him at least. There's just no way.

"Hurry, please, I need you. I need help. I wanna go home," he repeats his mantra he has been saying since he got thrown out of the bar. He needs Lance and he wants to go home.

There is a long stretch of silence and Frank awkwardly clears his throat, "Uh, I assume you have the discharge paperwork filled out?"

Lance doesn't immediately respond, pausing as he thinks carefully through what he is doing. "Um, no, not yet. I need to get the bail sorted out too."

"Bail? Wait, are you bailing me out? You're coming to get me?" Keith starts to regain feeling in his frozen fingers, warmth tugging at them from wherever Lance is.

They both ignore him.

"Why the hell did they send you back here? I swear to god- " Frank huffs, standing up from his desk, "-get back to the front and we'll get this sorted out. Someone should have done this already."

"W-well there was nobody at the desk and you guys don't have a bell for me to ring to let you know I'm here, which is crazy this is a police station why would there be a bell. I mean it's so late I bet you're the only one here so," he has started to ramble in that adorable way Keith knows means he is nervous.

Wait.

Keith turns around so fast that he nearly has to ask for the trashcan again. "Lance, oh my god. You didn't- you didn't answer, you're here."

The corner of Lance's mouth twitches, faintly amused that it took Keith this long to figure out what was happening. It's probably because he's so fucking wasted he doesn't know what's going on around him. Lance's faint smile falls again.

Frank points a fat, wrinkly finger in Keith's face, "Stay here, don't move."

Keith starts to argue and try to get up anyway, but he sees Lance send him a pleading look over the cop's shoulder. Keith bites his tongue and settles back in the chair.

After Lance leaves, time seems to pass like molasses, it drags and pulls and it feels too thick to move but too slippery to hold onto. Keith really needs to lie down. Finally, Lance and Frank file back into the room and Keith feels like he can breathe again. He is lifted up out of the chair and twisted around so he is facing away from Lance. With soft clicks, the too tight cuffs fall off from around his wrists. He stretches and rubs at his shoulder, unaware of how Lance's eyes follow that movement, guilt pooling in the blue irises.

The cop says some stuff to them, but Keith can't hear him, nor does he care. He can only think of getting home with Lance.

As soon as the door to the police station shuts behind them, Lance grabs his face, worry creasing his pretty skin and causing ridges in the smooth surface. Keith frowns with him.

Lance gets choked up as he turns Keith's head from side to side, his emotions pouring out of him like always. "Oh fuck, Keith, are you alright? Fuck, he said you looked bad but I didn't realize it was this bad," he babbles, tears forming in his gorgeous blue eyes. Keith loves those eyes. He loves the boy they're attached to as well.

"I love you."

Lance groans in frustration, "Not now, okay? I can't-" They stare at each other for a moment that seems to drag on forever and Keith wishes he could read Lance's mind. ". . .I love you too."

Keith smiles for the first time in months, his lips stretching too tight against his teeth, old cracks from chapping split back open and coat his mouth with blood but he doesn't care.

Lance seriously contemplates hitting Keith. He pats Keith down, stopping at the lump in Keith's jacket pocket. The jacket that Lance helped him put back on before they left. Lance reaches into the pocket and pulls out the empty bottle of pills. He holds it up to try and see it better in the light pouring from the station windows. His voice shakes, "Keith this was filled two days ago. How many of these have you taken?"

Keith narrows his eyes at the bottle, trying really hard to focus on what Lance is asking him. This is important, he can tell. "I. . . I don't know."

He watches Lance's face contort in what he can only think to describe as agony. "Oh Keith. . ." is all he says, the agony never leaving his face. Keith doesn't think Lance looks as beautiful with that horrible look on his face. Even worse that he's pretty sure he is the cause of said look.

Keith feels Lance's hands on him again and he forgot how good it felt to be this close to him. He should tell him.

"Please don't. Whatever you're about to say, please don't say it."

"You're so. . . you're so good at me. You're an expert on Keith, I think. It's cool. How'd you know?"

Lance ignores him, still searching him for something, but Keith doesn't know what. Finally Lance relents, looking somewhat relieved that he didn't find whatever it was he was looking for. He pulls on Keith's arm, leading him towards the beat up, blue car he instantly recognizes as Lance's. He helps Keith into the passenger seat and even buckles his seatbelt for him before shutting the door and climbing into the driver's seat.

"Thank you."

"For what, Keith?"

"Answering your phone."

Lance laughs, "I didn't answer my phone."

"Then. . . thanks for coming anyway."

"I'll always come."

"How'd you know?"

"Hunk called me," he says, turning out of the police station and onto the dark road, heading in the familiar direction of their old apartment.

"Why'd you answer him and not me?"

Lance doesn't answer. Nothing he says, despite how true, will be enough for drunk Keith to comprehend. "He told me you got into another fight and he had to throw you out on your ass," he shakes his head, hardly believing this is the same sweet boy he used to fall asleep holding every night. "He said you looked pretty bad and was gonna text me and ask me to check on you. Then he said he watched you pull away on your motorcycle, completely plastered, and he freaked out. Called me immediately."

Keith nods, fighting back sleep and trying to hang on just a bit longer so he can hear what Lance is saying to him. "How did you find me?"

Lance glances away from the road just long enough to send a sassy, raised eyebrow in Keith's direction. "You sure have a lot of questions today." He shakes his head, smile creeping back just a bit, "When you called me again after that, I picked up and I heard sirens and shouting in the background. It had only been a few minutes since Hunk called me so I knew you couldn't have gone far. Precinct 19 is the closest station between your house and Hunk's bar. You weren't there. You were at 20, the one between the bar and our- my apartment."

Keith lets all of that information settle in. He rests his head on the car window and closes his eyes, feeling the bone deep chill start to melt away. "I wanted to come home."

"Keith. . ." Lance's voice is so fragile and heartbroken that Keith momentarily contemplates not doing what he came here to do. But only for a moment.

"I miss you," he repeats what he told Lance earlier, but he has sobered up just enough that the words come out strong and genuine like he intended them to.

"I know."

"Do you miss me too?"

"Keith, we can't do this right now. We'll talk about it in the morning."

"But I-"

"Please let it go for tonight," he begs, eyes searching Keith's face and desperately trying to convey his desire to wait until Keith is sober again.

Keith bites down on his tongue to force himself quiet. He has been holding back so much he wanted to say for so long that now that he has the opportunity to let it all out, he is having a hard time keeping it in. He reaches forward and turns on the radio to fill the silence, just in case his traitorous tongue decides to speak anyway.

The speakers immediately start to blast some overplayed pop-folk song from the crackling old speakers. The words force themselves out at max volume and Keith winces, starting to reach out and turn it down to keep the throbbing in his head from getting any worse. He stops when he hears the words.

"I ain't proud of all the punches that I've thrown

In the name of someone I no longer know

For the shame of being young, drunk, and alone."

Keith freezes, a tingle of recognition nips at his heart and he listens with as much attention as he can muster to the familiar words spilling out of Lance's car speakers.

"I gave your name as my emergency phone call

Honey, it rang and rang, even the cops thought you were wrong for hangin' up

I dial drunk, I'll die a drunk, I'll die for you"

A startled laugh catches in Lance's throat and it nearly chokes him with the force of it as he tries to hold it back. He reaches out and turns the volume down, but not off. The song playing more softly through the quiet car. They sit in the moment while the song plays before Lance can't take it anymore and he starts to giggle.

Keith doesn't say it for Lance's sake, even though the admission throws itself against the back of his teeth and tries to fight its way out. He would die for Lance.

Keith watches Lance laugh and just smiles.

The inside of their old apartment is warmer than Keith remembers, soft light bouncing off every surface and creating little streams of golden rays from every lamp in the house. Keith steps inside and takes off his shoes by the door. He remembers how badly Lance hates shoes in the house. Lance tugs on the sleeve of his jacket as if he is afraid to touch Keith directly. Keith follows anyway, allowing himself to be sat down at the kitchen table. He watches Lance dig around under the sink and pull out the large first aid kit. Keith glances down at his hands that are still covered in blood. The movement catches Lance's attention.

"Oh my god, is all of that your blood?" Lance slams the first aid kit down on the table with more force than necessary.

"No, only the stuff on my face. This isn't mine. . . I don't think."

"You don't think? Great. Just great," he grumbles to himself, unlatching the kit and throwing the lid back onto the table with a thunk. He pulls out the alcohol wipes and rips the package open with his teeth, "So you're fighting again?"

"Didn't mean to."

Lance laughs bitterly, "Keith it looks like you broke your hand on some guy's face, I think you won."

Keith follows Lance with his eyes the whole time, watching him prep the supplies like he's doing it on muscle memory alone. He probably is.

"He called. . . Called you names."

"What?" Lance freezes, his hands shaking where they are resting on the packet of band aids.

Keith shrugs, nonchalantly dropping a bomb all over Lance's life, "He was talking shit about you to get a rise out of me I guess. It worked and it works every time. I can't-. . . I can't sit there when they say bad things about you. They're never true."

Lance swallows past the lump in his throat and cups Keith's jaw, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at the split skin because he can't respond to that right now. He needs to go lay down in his bed and cry about it until morning before he's able to digest it. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, his eyes on Keith's red and puffy ones. His voice breaks, "Keith, have you been crying?"

Keith just nods, a flush of shame creeping up his neck and settling on his cheeks. "That's not like you at all," Lance frowns, watching Keith's face to try and read what he's thinking like he used to be able to.

Keith doesn't respond and Lance doesn't try to start up a conversation again. He simply cleans out Keith's split open eyebrow in silence. He pushes the sides of the split together, shushing Keith when he hisses, and holds them together with butterfly bandage strips. Once he is satisfied, Lance puts everything away and snaps the lid shut. He shuffles over to the freezer and grabs an ice pack, tucking it under his arm as he grabs a rag and wets it under the tap in the kitchen sink.

"You're probably gonna need stitches."

Silence.

"And I think your hand might be broken."

Silence.

"Oh and the pope called. He's making me an honorary cardinal since I've been a good boy this year. According to Santa, because you know Santa and the pope are good friends. We decided over milk and cookies that you get coal this year." It's January.

Keith's lips quirk and he finally looks over at Lance. He's missed this little charade. Lance will say something ridiculous or stupid, usually both, to try and get a reaction from Keith because Lance hates silence. It works every time.

"What's a cardinal?"

"Not a clue."

Lance doesn't try to pry anything else out of him, only plops down in the dining chair in front of Keith and hands him the ice pack. He taps his own temple, gesturing, "Not right on top of it, dude, it's still an open wound. Do it like. . .next to it to keep the swelling down. . . Uh, I think? That sounds right, doesn't it?" Keith does what he's told because Lance is usually right.

Lance, once satisfied, holds out his hands, palms down. Keith, without even thinking, mimics the pose and holds his free hand out for Lance to take. Lance's fingers are so warm that it almost feels unnatural as he gently cradles one of Keith's frozen hands. If Lance notices the ice cold chill of Keith's fingers, he hides it very well. With the damp rag, Lance carefully cleans all the blood away from Keith's swollen knuckles.

After everything is finally cleaned and the supplies all put away, Lance goes into the hall closest and pulls out some blankets and pillows, tossing them onto the couch.

Keith's heart drops, disappointment flooding his body until he feels like he might sink down through the floor. "I'm. . . I'm sleeping on the couch?" He knows it's selfish to complain and he doesn't know what he expected, but Lance could've at least let him sleep in the extra bedroom.

Lance rubs at his eyes, "No, I'm sleeping on the couch. You're gonna sleep in the guest room." He sits down on the edge of the couch, the exhaustion from the stress of the night has hit him all at once and he can barely keep his eyes open anymore. "I wanna be out here so if anything happens in the middle of the night I'll be able to hear it," he says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He's gonna sleep on the couch because he can't bear the thought of being on the other side of the apartment and unsure if Keith is okay.

"Just sleep in there with me," Keith blurts, tired of sleeping alone and tired of holding back all his desires for one night. He knows that if he remembers any of this, he'll be cursing himself hoarse come morning.

"Go to bed. We'll talk about it in the morning, okay?"

"Why won't you talk now? I-"

Lance stands up from the couch, cheeks red with anger that only Keith can drag out of him this quickly. "Because, you ass-" he interrupts, "- I don't want to. Not until I know you mean it sober too. I can't- I can't hear this shit now and wake up to you gone again. I can't." He stalks past Keith and into the guest bedroom, angrily setting out a change of clothes to keep his mind off of everything. He can't let himself have Keith back, just for tonight, only to lose him again in the morning. The pain of losing Keith the first time nearly killed him, if he had to go through that again, it would do him in this time for sure.

Keith stumbles through the apartment and leans on the doorway to the extra bedroom to hold him upright as he watches Lance. "I'm sorry," he says, his brain still sludge and his chest still achingly empty.

"See? You wouldn't say that to me if you weren't wasted," the frustration is palpable in Lance's voice and his throat feels clogged up with something worse than anger, forgiveness.

"I've apologized to you before," Keith scoffs. His eyes close on their own, the heat making his aching body want to finally give in to the exhaustion.

"Not like this. Not over anything like this. You always run before things get serious," Lance punctuates his point with a gesture between the two of them.

Keith screws his eyes shut even tighter as the words threaten to knock him off his feet. The danger of letting someone love you so truly and so intimately as Lance loved him, is that, it also leaves you open to the opposite. Lance knows exactly what to say to dig right into Keith's core with a single shot. Only someone that knows him as well as Lance could accomplish such an easy hit.

"We're both tired. If you still want to talk in the morning, we will," he says when Keith's eyelids finally open again. Lance heads into the bathroom and returns with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. He sets them both on the bedside table. The small wastebasket gets inched closer to the side of the bed too, a very pointed look is sent Keith's way because he better not throw up on the floor or Lance is gonna kill him. Lance starts to walk towards him, getting way too close for either of their comfort.

"What-"

Lance ignores him and grabs the bottom of Keith's shirt, a pained expression on his face. "Please don't make this any worse than it already is," he begs, trying to get Keith's soiled shirt off of him.

Keith relents, letting himself be undressed and then dressed again in the clean pajamas. They smell like Lance's favorite laundry beads. He is forced into bed and under the covers and the water is shoved into his hands, Lance's long fingers feel his forehead. "Are you feeling better? You're not slurring as much anymore but I'm worried you might have a concussion."

Keith leans into Lance's hand, a contented smile tugs at his lips, "yeah 'm okay."

"Definitely concussed," Lance huffs, tearing his hand away. He eyes Keith warily, "Are you sure you're still drunk? You're not like. . .giggly or dancing on tables or anything."

Keith rolls his eyes and leans back into the pillows, "Was getting arrested, sobbing, and calling you a thousand times not enough for you?" He doesn't let Lance answer, rubbing at his temples, "My filter. It- it goes away. I get more emotional and impulsive. More than usual."

"Check, check, and check. Okay, fine, whatever, you're just a way cooler drunk than I am because of course you are. Whatever, sleep it off, you're gonna be pissed at yourself tomorrow."

"I think the high is gone," he admits.

"The pills?"

"Yeah," he sips the water and relishes how much better it makes him feel already. And maybe he's using it as an excuse to avoid Lance's eyes.

Lance starts to say something else, to ask more questions, but he stops himself. He knows he should wait to talk about this in the morning, even though it's killing him. "Just, promise me you'll still be here when I wake up in the morning?", it kills him to ask, but he needs to hear it from Keith.

"If it were up to me, I would stay forever."

A laugh tugs itself out of Lance's chest, "You are going to be so pissed at yourself if you remember this tomorrow." He takes his time making sure Keith is all set up and cozy before he turns the light off. "Goodnight, Keith."

"Goodnight, Lance. I'll be here when you wake up."

Lance sighs, "We'll see."

The early afternoon sun shines through the living room window and it is in just the perfect position in the sky to nail Lance right in the face. He rubs at his eyes and pulls the fuzzy throw up over his head. The blanket is too short for him and when he pulls it over his face, the blanket pops off of his feet and the bottom half of his legs hang out in the cold air. He gives up and raises off the couch, the blanket still firmly wrapped around his shoulders. He slides his feet into his fuzzy blue shark slippers and opens the curtains the rest of the way, letting the light pour into the room unfiltered.

He throws open the medicine cabinet and pops some pain pills to will away the headache pounding at the backs of his eyes. Lance rubs the bridge of his nose. If my head hurts this bad, I wonder how Keith is- . . . ah fuck. Keith. . .

Lance tiptoes towards the guest bedroom before he can talk himself out of it. He quietly cracks the door open and peeks into the still dark room. For a moment, he can't make anything out and his heart jumps into his throat. Did he leave? Lance glances by the front door where Keith's muddy boots are still haphazardly tossed near the shoe rack. He finally breathes again, unsure when he had started holding his breath. He looks back into the room and this time he hears the soft snoring and Lance calms himself back down. Good. He's okay. He's still here like he promised.

He shuts the door softly, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders as he walks to the guest bathroom. He lays out a clean towel, some soap, and a fresh change of clothes. Lance's heart seizes in his chest, feeling like a traitor to his brain for doting on Keith again. He doesn't know if Keith is going to want to stay, he is being presumptuous. He shouldn't be taking care of Keith at all, they aren't dating anymore and yet he dropped right back into the caring boyfriend role as if nothing ever happened. Lance holds onto the bathroom sink, willing himself to keep going. Please don't give up now. Everything is so close to being over, one way or another. You can do this, don't panic, don't collapse, don't freak out. This is just the natural host in him, he reminds himself, he wouldn't let any of his guests feel uncomfortable and unwelcome no matter who they were. Right. I would do this for anyone, not just Keith. Lance's shoulders slump forward and he relaxes his jaw, the momentary panic oozing out of him as he finds his calm again. Lance grabs one last thing to leave in case Keith wants to use it.

With trembling hands, Lance lays a red and black toothbrush on top of the carefully folded clothes.

Ever since the breakup, Lance has felt lost at sea. He has been out in the open ocean of despair, barely treading water and struggling to keep his head above the murky depths, every reminder of Keith threatening to pull him under for good. He fought hard to stay afloat and keep the loss from drowning him and, finally, he found land. Lance has just made it back to his island in his mind where he is safe and dry, away from the sea of sorrow.

But the toothbrush?

The one that came in a set. The one who's matching blue other half is sitting in a cup in the master bathroom. The one Keith didn't even bother to take with him when he packed a backpack of clothes and disappeared. The one that Lance couldn't bring himself to throw away. The one he has held onto just in case for nearly six months.

The sight of that toothbrush brings a tidal wave of fresh heartbreak rushing towards the calm shores of Lance's island. When the near constant ebbing of regret and dejection had disappeared, he should have realized it wasn't low tide, but a tsunami of wretched unhappiness forming just off the coast of his mind. He feels it rising up into the air, poised and ready to crash into him and drag him back underwater. The toothbrush makes the wave bigger, and he dreads the day that the misery unleashes itself and crushes him under the weight of it all. Hopefully, it will wait another day.

Unshed tears make his eyes burn, forcing him to blink them away. He should make them breakfast.

Lance leaves the guest bathroom without looking back at the neatly stacked care items sitting on the counter. His feet drag as he tries to keep his slippers from falling off with every step, shuffling over to his fridge to pull out what food he can.

Lance would never admit this to anyone but he's been struggling financially. They had put his name on the lease because his credit was miles better than Keith's. It meant nothing at the time because he thought they would be together forever.

But now, alone in this apartment they could barely afford together, Lance has been falling apart. There's barely anything in the cabinets or the fridge besides food that Hunk sneaks to him when he visits. But he rarely gets to visit. Hunk is always working at the bar and it's not fair for Lance to show up there. Lance got all of their friends in the breakup, it's only fair that Keith gets their favorite hangout spots.

He pushes aside containers from Hunk and his mom and grabs anything he can find to whip them up a measly breakfast. It isn't until he's cracking eggs into a bowl that he hears the guest bedroom door slam shut. Lance whips around to see Keith rushing past the kitchen. He tries to croak out an awkward greeting but Keith has sprinted away before he can even open his mouth.

Lance's heart beats against his ribcage with something close to fear mixed with disappointment and. . . Relief? "Keith I-"

The bathroom door slams shut with so much force that it rattles the doorframe.

Uh okay, geez, still not a morning person I guess.

Then Lance hears the telltale sounds of sick coming from the tiny guest bathroom. He shuffles closer, unsure if he should offer any help. The sound of the lock clicking forcefully gives him his answer. Lance goes to the fridge and grabs a bottle of his electrolytes drink and sets it in front of the bathroom door. He turns to the speakers in the living room and turns on some music, quiet, but loud enough to drown out any sounds coming from the bathroom. Not for his own sake, but to help Keith feel a little less embarrassed by making sure he can't hear what's going on.

Lance throws a clean blanket and socks into the dryer and turns it on heat before going back to the stove to finish breakfast. Just a little something to make Keith feel better. A warm blanket and socks fresh out of the dryer would make anyone feel better. He doesn't let himself think about it.

Keith remembers everything.

He remembers every stupid fucking vulnerable, whiny, real, genuine thing he said to Lance. Which is just his legendary bad luck because Keith has never remembered anything after being that plastered before. So of course the universe has chosen today to be the time he is cursed with memory.

Oh fuck, he got arrested.

And Lance bailed him out.

Keith groans and rests his head on the toilet seat because he is completely past caring. His entire body feels like a towel that has been used and wrung out too many times. He glances at the locked door. Keith knows that, realistically, he is going to have to go back out there and face his mistakes at some point. This is so unlike him. He has always been impulsive and quick to fight for everything he gets his hands on. Keith has, his entire life, been the kind of person to face things head on, full force, without ever hesitating or stopping to worry about what might happen. He reaches for what he wants without shame, and once he has it, he fights tooth and nail to keep it.

So why is this different? Why is Lance different? Why does he keep running from all the serious stuff instead of facing head on like he usually does?

Keith gets up off the floor and turns on the shower. He needs to be clear headed when he finally goes in to face Lance and talk this out. (And maybe Keith can't stand the idea of smelling like puke and alcohol when he goes in there to see him). Wait. Is he overstepping? He freezes. God, he is being so rude. He should ask before he just helps himself to a shower. Keith doesn't live here anymore, he can't just run around doing whatever he wants. He reaches to turn the water back off when his gaze catches on the stack of stuff on the sink.

Oh.

Keith shakily steps over to the bathroom sink and stares down at the stuff Lance left for him. A silent permission to get himself cleaned up and feeling better without worrying about asking first. He wants to smile, despite himself, but Keith is pretty sure it comes off as a grimace anyway. He stares down at the toothbrush sitting on top. His toothbrush.

"What's next on the list?"

"Uh," Keith glances down at the crumpled list in his hands, a pang of fondness shoots through him at seeing Lance's swooping, curly handwriting, written in obnoxiously blue ink. He's pretty sure the letters sparkle from certain angles. "Toiletries. Uh, and you wrote, like, a billion things under it. Who the fuck has subcategories in a grocery list?"

"People with taste! Shut up!"

Keith rolls his eyes, "Do we really need all this?"

Lance stops the cart in the self care section of the store, glancing over all the aisles of soap, toothpaste, deodorant, and make up. He seems a tad overwhelmed. Keith reaches out. A gentle hand over Lance's where it sits on the handlebar of the shopping cart. It hovers hesitantly for a moment before resting there, firm and unwavering. Lance's thousand watt smile returns.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Lance asks easily, all evidence of nerves completely erased from his sharp features. There's a rogue curl sticking straight up into the air. Keith grins to himself. That's probably his connection to the mother ship. Or maybe that's his antenna, which is receiving information. Keith thinks that would explain how his boyfriend has a seemingly endless stream of things to say at all times.

"I didn't mean to freak you out. If you put it on the list, then it's important. We'll get it all," he leaves the silent 'I trust you' hanging unsaid in the air. He doesn't have to say it. Lance can practically read his mind.

Lance's smile somehow gets even bigger. It is so bright and warm that Keith thinks he might need to take his jacket off. Sweat prickles his upper lip and across his hairline.

"Thanks for trusting me," Lance replies coolly. Keith's heart thumps. He decides right then and there.

Lance's little antenna is reading Keith's every thought. That's gotta be it.

He bites back a smile at his silly thoughts and reaches up, carefully smoothing the rogue curl back into place. He stares down at the list, ignoring the stupid goofy smile he knows is plastered on his boyfriend's face. God he's the worst. "Okay uh-," he squints at Lance's handwriting, "-next is toothbrushes."

A few minutes later, they find themselves staring at the ridiculous amount of choices before them. Keith scratches his head. "Why's this so complicated? It's just a toothbrush. Grab the cheapest ones."

Lance rolls his eyes, "Ugh, do you know anything at all?" To an outsider, this would sound like a harsh insult, but to them, the playful bickering is one of the ways they show their love for each other. After three years of being together, their flirting has morphed into something altogether disgusting and affectionate.

Keith ignores him, still staring at the packs of toothbrushes. He reaches for the cheapest pack. There's about 10 measly little plastic things in muted colors. He puts it back. "Okay, fine. What do you want then, your royal highness?" This is far from the first time Keith has called Lance that particular sarcastic nickname, and it won't be the last. They both know Lance is a bit on the high maintenance side of the scale. Keith, however, is so far on the other end that he fell off the back of the scale and into the metaphorical weeds. And of course, he likes it down there in the metaphor dirt. It's cheaper. Less complicated.

"The cheap stuff is too harsh. The bristles are too rough and they do more damage to your gums than good in the long run. Plus they don't last long. You have to splurge one time on a nice one and replace it less. It actually saves more money that way."

Keith thinks Lance should run for president.

He thinks Lance is the smartest, sweetest, funniest person he knows and it always surprises him how rational he can be. When they first met, Keith thought his flair for dramatics and outgoing personality made him shallow and unserious. He could not have been more wrong. While Lance may say things with dramatic gestures and a healthy helping of over-exaggeration, the base content of what he says is intelligent and rational. Keith needs that sometimes. He tends to do the first thing that comes to mind without any reason or forethought. Lance thinks of every possible scenario or outcome, no matter how outlandish. They balance each other in ways Keith never thought he would find. He always expected to be alone forever, brash and blunt, with nobody willing to patiently sift through his outbursts. Then he found Lance.

" . . .these would work better than those others I found. And look, this is the best part. You can just replace the tops instead of the whole thing so we can. . ."

Keith glances down the aisle, his eyes landing on an elderly couple at the end of the row of toothpaste. He can kind of make out what they're saying from here if he listens carefully.

"No, you need to get this one."

"Barney, I've been buying the same damn toothpaste for 30 years. What's the problem?"

"Marge, honey, there's been a lawsuit against that company. It's all over the news! Haven't you seen it? There's all kinds of harmful ingredients in that one. I bet that's why your mouth has been irritated."

"But it's just regular, cheap toothpaste. I don't need any of that fancy shit."

Keith smiles, familiarity rushing into his heart and giving his chest a pleasant fullness. An unnamed emotion calls out to him from the distance. If he would have paid the emotion any mind, he would have recognized it as want. Desire. Yearning. He wants what those two have.

"Babe, are you even listening to me?"

Keith snaps his eyes back to Lance, his cheeks feeling more warm than usual. "Uh. . . n-no? Not really. Sorry."

Lance doesn't get mad, instead he just rolls his eyes and tosses the box into the cart without waiting for Keith's approval. Keith glances down into the buggy at the package, one red and one blue toothbrush inside. One for each of them. Keith meets his eyes and Lance just shrugs. "They match," is all the reasoning he gives this time, everything else feeling less important to both of them.

He just nods, sure that whatever Lance picked out is perfect anyway. Keith catches himself staring at Lance as they continue down the aisle. He half listens to whatever nonsense Lance is talking about this time, his brain too focused on his own internal monologue to register Lance's words. He imagines them doing this again. And again. And again. Until eventually grocery trips turn into something they always do together. Something they do even when they are graying and old. His heart clenches. He wants to be old and still bickering with the love of his life in the toothpaste aisle.

Keith should say that. He should stop making it Lance's job to read his mind and he should tell Lance these things himself. He should tell Lance he trusts him. He loves him. That he thinks Lance is so cool and funny and smart that it makes his head spin. He should tell Lance that when he isn't around, Keith brags about him to anyone that will listen. Keith should just open his mouth and tell Lance that he wants to grow old together and fight about dumb stuff in the middle of the grocery store. Keith of course says sweet things to Lance, but the sincere and the real always fight to stay hidden. He should repeat back all the sweet, affectionate things that Lance says to him because Lance deserves to hear them too.

He reaches out and grabs the back of Lance's jacket, curling his fingers around the fabric and successfully stopping his boyfriend's determined march through the store. Lance easily stops and turns to Keith, expression soft and patient, waiting without judgment to hear what Keith has to say. To hear what Keith has stopped them in the middle of shopping to tell him.

Nothing. Keith wills himself to speak, to say anything real and genuine to his loving boyfriend. Anything at all. But his voice catches and gets stuck before it can leave his mouth, a thick layer of all consuming fear presses hard against his throat and he struggles to breathe through it. He is petrified. Keith is trying to get past his long built walls and meet Lance on the other side, but he feels himself digging his heels in the dirt, unable to move any closer to his goal. To Lance.

". . .yes?" Lance prompts after an agonizingly long stretch of silence.

Keith swallows back everything he had planned to say, the fear dissolving just a bit now that he has stopped fighting against it. "Um," he stutters, feeling his face flame again, embarrassment clouding his brain and making it impossible to come up with any excuses. "We uh. . .we need shampoo next. . . the um. The list," he weakly holds up the crumbled paper to show Lance.

"Oh, duh," Lance laughs, turning back the way they came. "Thanks, red, I was going the wrong way," he sends Keith a wink that makes his knees go weak.

"Yeah. . . anytime."

Keith stares down at the toothbrush with so much intensity that his vision starts to go out of focus. He blinks, dragging his attention away.

Two and a half years. That was two and a half years ago. They had been shopping for supplies for their new apartment. Keith remembers it was more than he expected, but they were moving in together for the first time and they didn't have anything but each other.

He stares down at the toothbrush again.

The brush part has long since been replaced several times, but the base of the nice toothbrush is still the same one they bought all those years ago. And Lance kept it after they broke up.

Keith knows what makes Lance different. He knows why this is different from how he handles everything else in his life. He realized it last night too, drunk off his ass and freezing in that alley.

Fear.

He is deathly afraid of Lance. Even worse, he is beyond terrified of ever losing him. He has never loved this fiercely before, maybe ever, and certainly not since he was young. He spent years loving hard and passionately, only to have everything he showed interest in ripped away from him. Parts of himself were always ripped away with it, leaving gaping wounds in his heart and soul that he would have to crawl back into the shadows and tend to all by himself.

Keith has always rushed headfirst into things because he has never cared about anything before. And he cares about Lance. He cares about Lance more than he cares about breathing. Instead of losing bits of himself to loss and grief like he did as a child, losing Lance cut out his entire heart in one big piece. Keith knew he had given his entire being to Lance when he first started falling in love. He had willingly handed over his very life to this boy. Keith gave Lance every single part of himself and when Lance held on tight instead of just tossing him away, he got scared stiff.

He was horrified that Lance had held onto him so willingly and without question. When Lance had reached out to hold onto the very last piece of Keith that he didn't yet have, Keith ran. Keith realized that if he ever lost Lance like he lost everything else he cared about, the resulting wound would have been too serious to ever mend on his own. He had tried to take back the whole of himself and run away willingly before he could have it ripped away from him. Keith was trying to take the easy way out instead of risking the pain of losing the thing he wanted most.

Keith just didn't realize that he wasn't going to get his heart back from Lance when he left.

He had been right. The resulting wound from having his happiness torn away had been bloody and ruinous. Except he had done it to himself. He shredded himself to ruins trying to get rid of the bond between them and it nearly killed him. His fear of losing Lance had nearly killed him and he ended up losing Lance anyway.

Keith stops white knuckling the edge of the sink, staggering over to the shower and turning it off without ever getting in. He can't wait any longer.

Lance looks up from the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon made exactly the way Keith likes it, anxiety visible in his wide, blue eyes. Keith hates that he's the one that put it there. He clenches and unclenches his fist by his side as he works up the courage to speak.

Lance of course has an almost pathological need to fill the silence so he speaks up first. "Uh, I. . . I made breakfast? You- you um, probably don't feel good enough to eat right now but you'll have to eat something before I can let you take anything for your headache. And your head. How is it? It doesn't look like it's still bleeding so that's good." He rakes his eyes over Keith's still very disheveled form, "It- Was the shower not good? It's kinda hard to get the water to warm up during the winter, but um. . . you. . . you definitely already knew that. You live here, er, u-used to live here. Ahem." Lance clears his throat awkwardly and sets the plate down on the table, a glass of orange juice and a couple of ibuprofen are already laid out for him. Keith watches Lance wringing his hands nervously, dark circles ring both of his eyes and there's a hollowness to his cheeks that Keith doesn't remember being there before. He wonders how many nights Lance has gone to bed hungry, only to lay awake all night. He wonders if it's his fault.

Keith looks down at the bottle in his hands that he had found left for him outside the bathroom door. He takes a swig from it to mask his own nerves.

"I lied."

Lance startles, not sure what he expected Keith's first words this morning would be, but those certainly were not it. "Uh. . .what?"

"I lied to you. When you asked me if I would ever want to get married. I said no, but that was a lie."

"Keith," Lance says it in the only way he seems to be able to say his name lately, choked up and begging, but not sure what he is begging for.

Keith takes a deep breath, "You said we could talk in the morning. It's the morning, and I wanna talk about it."

"You've never wanted to have a serious conversation ever in your life, what's the catch?"

He knows Lance well enough to know that he is hiding behind the bitter jokes like a shield. Keith understands why he feels the need for shielding in the first place so he doesn't hold it against him.

I've never had anything I needed to fight for this badly. Tell him. Say that. For fuck's sake, Kogane, open your damn mouth and tell him. Keith opens his mouth, hoping he could just let all of his thoughts fall out of it like he did last night, but he can't. He is going to have to work for this if he really wants it. And he really wants it. Wants him.

"You asked me if I would ever want to get married to you and I said-" he stops, knowing how much of a slap in the face it was to hear those words the first time, and he doesn't want to put Lance through that again. I would never get married to you. He takes another nervous sip. "Ask me again. I would get married to you right now if you wanted."

"That's not fair," Lance whispers, sitting down at the breakfast bar. He flops down onto the stool as if his legs suddenly weren't capable of holding him upright anymore. "I started the fight, I shouldn't-"

"No you didn't."

"Dude, I have replayed that in my mind like a million times, I think I remember what happened."

Keith huffs, "I said that on purpose. I knew what I was doing. I was trying to get a rise out of you and I was looking for a fight."

Lance lets that sink in, the waves starting to crash at the shore of his island again. "Why?" he asks softly, part of him hoping Keith doesn't hear him so he doesn't have to know the answer.

"Because I-. . . I got scared," Keith forces the words out past his gritted teeth, the admission making him feel childish and small. Lance stays quiet, forcing Keith to either continue explaining himself or sit in the tense silence following that embarrassing confession. God, what an evil mastermind.

"I'm better at fighting. It's. . . safer. I wanted to. . . to fight instead of being. . . real, I guess," every word comes out slow and grating as if he has to meticulously force every syllable past his defenses. He scowls, "This is stupid, do we really have to talk about it?"

"Oh my god, dude, seriously? That didn't last long," Lance looks like he might either cry or hit Keith, maybe both, but he doesn't seem surprised at Keith's failure. That hurts.

"I'm just not good at this! It's- it's fucking stupid. Why is it so hard and- and complicated?" he groans, long and drawn out, his frustration and impatience starting to get the better of him. He slams the bottle he was holding down on the table and starts to pace, a bundle of energy nagging at him and making him jittery to the point of nearly exploding.

"I don't know why it's so fucking hard for me because it's so easy for you. It makes me feel stupid that I can't just say what I'm thinking like you can. You're so good at everything and you say what you're supposed to say and it's so fucking infuriating," he stops pacing for a second to catch his breath.

"But it's annoyingly inspiring. You- you make me want to be better, be nicer, and you were making me better. You are so fucking vibrant and you light up every room you walk into. You're- you're like the sun. Big and bright and- and. . . warm. You are so warm. You were warming up all the horrible shit I keep stuffed down behind all the cold and it scared me. I thought you were going to find something that you couldn't- couldn't stand. The thought of losing you was so fucking horrifying that it nearly killed me. I was. . . I was thawing out and I was starting to become someone I haven't been in a very long time and it was scary. Nobody has ever been able to just peel me open like that before. You were tearing down my walls all by yourself, and, instead of helping you, I just watched in wonder at how fucking good you were at it."

Now that he's started talking, he doesn't think he can stop, the words tumbling out of him like they might poison him if he holds on any longer. Something inside of him, the thing that has been keeping all of this back, fractures.

"And- and then! Then, you brought up marriage and- and, god it freaked me out. I- I realized I was so happy with who I was as Lance's boyfriend because I had given everything to you. I didn't just rip out my heart to give to you, I gave you all of me, Lance. I was so effortlessly devoted to you and wrapped up in you that it would have been impossible to separate us without doing any damage. So what the fuck was I going to become as your husband? Fuck Lance, I was such a coward. I was petrified of how badly it would hurt if everything that was tangled up in you was ripped away. I never stopped to think about how badly it would hurt you too.

"I ran because I thought if I left before you could be ripped out of my arms, I wouldn't be left bleeding and dying on the floor without you, without my fucking heart. But I have been fucking miserable without you. I- I feel like I left every part of me that mattered here with you, and I only took the shitty, pathetic pieces with me. I was so, so stupid. I was worried I was going to lose myself if I lost you, but really I was nothing before I met you, Lance. I was impulsive and reckless and you held onto me anyway. Lance, you helped me be myself again and I took it for granted and I am so sorry. I am gonna regret losing you until the day I die."

Keith is finally ripped out of his violent word vomiting by a soft noise coming from Lance. He stops and looks over, his already broken heart being shattered into a million more pieces. Lance is crying, his cheeks streaked with tears and his eyes red and swollen. He is trembling all over with the force of his sobs. Clearly, he had been trying to contain his noises while Keith was rambling. Neither of them speaks, Lance unable to control his tears and Keith, frozen and horrified at what he caused.

Lance wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. His voice shakes when he finally speaks, "It wasn't only your fault. I fucked up too." Keith tries to argue but Lance continues before he can interrupt, voice firm. "I was pushing you too hard. I knew you were guarded and I knew we had things to work through, but I got impatient. When I finally pushed you to your limit and you left, I let myself think it was all your fault. You left me. I wasn't innocent. I could've reached out. I could've apologized first, but I didn't."

"You always apologize first. It was my turn."

Lance shakes his head, grabbing a paper towel from the kitchen counter and wiping his nose. "Well, I'm sorry too."

Keith shifts his weight from foot to foot, gaze on the floor. He thinks about something he said last night and he wants to ask. This time he does. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Do you miss me too?"

Lance is the one that scowls this time, "Why do you think I never blocked your number?"

Keith feels a smile start to tug at his lips, but he waits. Missing him and wanting to get back together are two different things. Fear threatens to grab at his throat again, but he has to know. He starts carefully, "Do you. . ."

They both wait.

"Yeah, I do." Lance responds, reading his mind.

Keith doesn't wait anymore, he starts to reach out but Lance has already launched himself at him. He wraps his arms too tightly around Lance, holding onto him and he doesn't ever want to let go ever again. They still have big issues to talk about and work through, things to deal with and addictions to overcome. But for now, this was enough. Just being able to hold his sunshine again is enough.

". . .want to get back together?" Keith finishes in Lance's ear, cradling Lance as he continues to cry into his shoulder. He is never going to leave anything unspoken between them ever again.

Because he doesn't know if Lance would answer the phone next time.