Chapter Text
The first thing Keith noticed wasn't the smell of old paper or the rich, dark aroma of fresh espresso drifting from the corner counter. It was the light. It didn't just filter through the high, arched glass windows of the record store; it streamed in like heavy, golden velvet, illuminating floating dust motes until they looked like tiny, suspended stars.
To his left, the café side of the shop hummed with quiet, idyllic life. Steam hissed softly from a polished chrome espresso machine, accompanied by the gentle clink of ceramic mugs and the low, collective murmur of an afternoon crowd that felt entirely at peace. Plush, mismatched velvet armchairs were tucked into cosy corners, where patrons sat reading beneath the warm glow of low-hanging Edison bulbs. The air carried the comforting, intertwined scents of freshly baked pastries, rich coffee beans, and the distinct, nostalgic musk of aged cardboard sleeves.
A warm acoustic guitar track hummed softly from vintage speakers tucked away in the wooden rafters overhead, the rhythm bouncing perfectly in time with the scene. Keith blinked, his mind feeling strangely heavy and soft around the edges, like he'd just woken up from a sleep that had lasted years. But the sheer, cosy perfection of the shop easily anchored him, wrapping around him like a heavy blanket.
He tried to trace his steps backwards, to anchor himself to a solid memory of how he'd even gotten here, but his thoughts slipped away like water through his fingers. Had he driven here? Walked? The harder he tried to reach for the answers, the more they receded into a thick fog. His hands felt detached from his body, and it took a moment of hyper-focus to realise he was already cradling a heavy stack of vintage albums against his chest. He didn't remember picking them out. He didn't even know what bands were pressed into the wax.
A fleeting spike of cold anxiety flared in his stomach—a sudden, instinctual feeling that he was supposed to be somewhere else, somewhere loud and dark—but as quickly as the panic flared, the warm indie music overhead seemed to swell, washing the unease completely away. A strange, hypnotic contentment took its place, guiding his feet forward.
He adjusted his grip on the slick cardboard edges of the sleeves. There was a pull in his chest now, a sudden and undeniable gravity drawing him toward the back of the shop. He took a step forward, his boots clicking in perfect sync with the steady beat of the acoustic track humming overhead. The fog in his mind cleared just enough to let a spark of nervous excitement through.
Keith turned the corner into the alternative rock aisle—and ran directly into a solid chest.
It wasn't a painful crash, but it was sudden enough to shatter his trance. The records slipped from his arms, scattering across the highly polished wooden floor with a loud, rhythmic clatter that seemed to perfectly cut through the background music. Keith froze, an apology already tightening in his throat as he prepared to snap at whoever had been blindly walking around the corner.
But as he looked up, the words died instantly on his tongue.
Standing across from him, bathed in the exact centre of a spectacular beam of golden sunlight, was Lance.
He looked movie-star perfect. Not a single strand of his brown hair was out of place, and he was dressed in a classic denim jacket that looked effortlessly stylish. Instead of looking annoyed or startled by the collision, Lance simply blinked, a slow, brilliant smile spreading across his face as he dropped to one knee to help scoop up the scattered records.
‘Careful there,’ Lance chuckled, his voice smooth and warm, without any of the rough edges Keith somehow expected. He picked up one of the albums, glancing at the cover before looking up at Keith through his eyelashes. ‘Though I suppose I can't blame you for losing your grip. This record is known to sweep people off their feet.’
Keith blinked, the sudden, sharp wit of his own voice surprising him before he could even think it through. ‘Is that your excuse for walking blindly into people? A bad music pun?’
‘Hey, it's a classic,’ Lance countered smoothly, sliding a sleeve across the polished wood toward Keith's boots. He didn't look rushed; every movement was fluid, almost rhythmic. ‘And technically, you ran into me. I was just minding my own business, searching for something with a bit more soul than…’ He glanced down at the record in his hand, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. ‘...whatever aggressive garage rock this is.’
‘It's an absolute masterpiece, actually,’ Keith shot back, dropping to a crouch opposite him. His hands moved automatically, gathering the remaining sleeves, but his eyes stayed locked on Lance. The defensive walls that usually guarded his every word simply failed to launch. ‘But I guess it's a bit too heavy for someone who looks like they only listen to Top 40 radio.’
Lance let out a dramatic, breathless gasp, resting a hand flat against his denim jacket. ‘Top 40? Ouch. You don't even know me, mullet, and you're already breaking my heart. I'll have you know my taste is incredibly refined.’
‘Is that so?’ Keith found himself smiling—a real, genuine smile that felt entirely unprompted by the fog in his head.
‘Absolutely,’ Lance said, standing up effortlessly and offering Keith a hand. His palms were warm, his grip steady and light. ‘Tell you what. To prove how incredibly cultured I am, let me buy you a coffee from the counter. We can debate the artistic merits of your garage rock, and you can apologise for assaulting me in the aisle.’
‘I didn't assault you,’ Keith laughed, letting himself be pulled up. The background indie track seemed to swell perfectly as their fingers parted. ‘But I won't say no to a free coffee.’
‘Perfect,’ Lance said, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that looked almost practised, like a close-up shot on a movie screen. ‘Follow me, garage-rock boy.’
He turned on his heel, and Keith followed him out of the vinyl aisles and into the café side of the shop. Here, the heavy golden sunlight seemed to fracture through the high, arched windows, scattering across the room in long, hazy beams of amber and dust. The air grew thicker, warmer, laced with the sweet, dark fragrance of roasting espresso beans and melted sugar.
The counter itself was beautiful, dark mahogany that caught the light like polished glass. Behind it, a massive chrome espresso machine gleamed beneath the warm, low-hanging Edison bulbs, sending up gentle plumes of white steam that curled lazily toward the exposed wooden rafters overhead. Every clink of a ceramic mug, every soft murmur from the patrons tucked into the velvet armchairs, felt cushioned and perfectly mixed, like high-end sound design. It was a space entirely removed from the harshness of the outside world, suspended in a permanent, cosy afternoon.
Lance leaned against the mahogany counter with an easy, unbothered grace, gesturing toward the chalkboard menu overhead. ‘Alright, name your poison. But choose wisely—your choice will completely solidify my judgment of your personality.’
Keith looked at the chalk script, the fog in his mind swirling just enough to make reading the words feel slightly distant, though he didn't care. ‘Just a black coffee. Keep it simple.’
‘Black coffee? Man, you really are committed to the moody, brooding aesthetic, aren't you?’ Lance teased, shaking his head with a dramatic sigh as he turned to the barista. ‘We'll take a black coffee for my friend here, and one vanilla latte—extra sweet—for me, please.’
When Lance turned back to him, the golden light hit his blue eyes so perfectly it looked unnatural. Keith felt a strange, fleeting tug in his chest; a sudden, cold whisper in the back of his mind that told him Lance didn't usually drink sweet coffee, that Lance used to complain about too much sugar. But before the thought could take root, the barista slid the warm mugs across the counter, and the aroma of espresso washed the brief unease away, plunging Keith right back into the perfect, sunlit fantasy.
Lance scooped up the two mugs, offering Keith's with a dramatic, sweeping bow that made a pair of girls at a nearby table giggle softly. ‘Your liquid shadow, sir.’
‘You are ridiculous,’ Keith said, but the laugh slipped out before he could catch it.
They wove through the hazy patches of sunlight to a small, circular iron table nestled right against the brick wall. A large, leafy monstera plant shadowed the space, its green leaves catching the amber glare from the window. Keith pulled out a black metal chair that scraped against the wood with a softened, perfectly mixed sound, and Lance slid into the seat opposite him.
Lance set his vanilla latte down, wrapping both hands around the ceramic mug. ‘Alright, back to the trial. Defend the garage rock. Why the angry guitars, mullet?’
Keith wrapped his hands around his own mug, letting the sharp, bitter heat of the black coffee ground him. ‘It's not angry. It's raw. It feels... real. Like the people making it didn't care about a perfect radio edit. They just had something to say.’
‘Mmm, standard brooding boy defence,’ Lance hummed, resting his chin in his hand and leaning forward. His blue eyes locked onto Keith's face with an intensity that felt entirely consuming. ‘But what about the melodies? The harmony? Don't you want something beautiful? Something that feels like…’ He gestured vaguely to the sun-drenched shop around them, the acoustic music swelling overhead right on cue. ‘...this?’
‘Life isn't a studio track, Lance,’ Keith replied softly. The words left his mouth before he could consciously process them, carrying a sudden, heavy weight that felt entirely out of place in the warm room.
Lance didn't skip a beat. He just chuckled, a rich, melodic sound. ‘Maybe not. But wouldn't it be nice if it was? If every conversation had the perfect backing track, and the lighting was always exactly like this?’
Keith looked at Lance's face; at the flawless curve of his jaw, the impossible brightness of his eyes, the pristine denim jacket. For a split second, the contentment in Keith's chest stuttered. Lance was right there. He was talking, laughing, breathing. Yet the way he spoke felt so beautifully structured, like a character written to say exactly what Keith needed to hear.
‘Yeah,’ Keith murmured, taking a slow sip of his coffee to wash down the sudden dryness in his throat. ‘Yeah, I guess it would be.’
‘Exactly,’ Lance beamed, completely oblivious to the brief shadow across Keith's face. He picked up his mug, taking a long sip of the sweet latte. ‘Now, tell me everything. If you're going to crash into me and force me to buy you coffee, the least you can do is give me your life story.’
Keith leaned back in his chair, staring down into the dark, swirling surface of his coffee. ‘My life story? There isn't much to tell, honestly. I just... I work with cars. Fixing them up. And I spend a lot of time on the road.’
‘A mechanic who loves garage rock and long, brooding drives,’ Lance chimed in, a teasing grin lighting up his features. ‘Wow, you really are committed to the brand. Where do you drive to?’
‘Nowhere specific,’ Keith said, the words tumbling out automatically. ‘Just out past the city limits. Where the highway opens up, and it's just the headlights and the dark.’
As the words left his mouth, a strange, hollow sensation opened up in his chest. He blinked, staring at the brick wall behind Lance. The backdrop of his own life felt incredibly flat, like a summary printed on the back of a book jacket rather than actual memories he'd lived. He knew he fixed cars; the phantom scent of motor oil and the memory of grease under his fingernails felt real enough. But when he tried to picture his apartment, his childhood, or the face of anyone else he knew, there was only a vast, blank static.
It was as if his backstory had been sloppily written ten minutes before he walked into the record store.
‘Hey,’ Lance said softly, his voice cutting through the fog. He reached across the small iron table, his warm fingers lightly brushing the back of Keith’s hand. ‘Don't go getting lost on the highway just yet. You're still here with me.’
The touch was an instant electric shock of warmth. The moment Lance’s skin met his, the unsettling fogginess vanished, swept away by a sudden, intense rush of safety. The fake, superficial feeling of his past didn't seem to matter anymore. Not when Lance was sitting right here, looking at him like he was the only person in the room.
‘Right,’ Keith murmured, forcing a small smile and turning his hand over to catch Lance’s fingers for just a second before pulling back to grab his mug. ‘Sorry. Just got distracted.’
‘Good. Because I don't share my vanilla lattes with ghosts,’ Lance laughed, taking another sip. ‘Come on. Finish up your liquid shadow. The sun’s too nice to stay inside all day, and I want to show you the park down the street.’
Keith nodded, lifting the ceramic mug back to his lips. He let the bitter, heavy heat of the black coffee pool on his tongue, swallowing slowly just to feel the burn of it in his throat. It was the only thing in the room that didn't feel softened around the edges.
Around them, the café seemed to drift into an even deeper, almost hypnotic haze. The golden dust motes danced in lazy, perfect spirals through the amber beams of light, and the quiet clink of porcelain mugs sounded like notes in a symphony perfectly tuned to the background acoustic guitar.
Keith stared at the way the light caught the edge of Lance’s jaw, completely mesmerised. A heavy, syrupy warmth settled deep into his bones, a comforting weight that practically begged him to stop questioning the static in his head, to stop searching for a past that didn't seem to matter anymore.
Why care about where he came from when the present was this beautiful?
‘Time’s up, brooding boy,’ Lance’s voice cut through the golden fog, smooth and full of easy affection.
Before Keith could answer, Lance stood and reached across the iron table. His fingers slid effortlessly into Keith’s, his grip warm and entirely certain. The physical touch sent a sudden wave of clarity rushing through Keith, anchoring him completely to the boy in front of him.
Lance pulled him up from the metal chair with an easy laugh, guiding him away from the mahogany counter and toward the glass front doors.
As the vintage bell above the door chimed a perfect, melodic note, they stepped together into the brilliant, blinding glare of the afternoon sun.
***
‘—and I’m telling you, it’s a scientifically proven fact. Two straws make the milkshake taste exactly twice as good. It’s fluid dynamics, Keith. You can’t argue with physics.’
Keith let out a breathy, helpless laugh, shaking his head as they strolled down the wide stone path of the park. ‘I’m pretty sure physics has absolutely nothing to say about strawberry milkshakes, Lance.’
‘That’s because scientists are cowards who are afraid of the truth,’ Lance shot back instantly, flashing a quick, sidelong wink that sent a familiar, dizzying flutter through Keith’s chest.
The park looked like it had been pulled directly from the final frame of a high-budget romance film. Everything was hyper-saturated, painted in a palette of impossibly vibrant greens and deep, blooming floral pinks. Overhead, the canopy of ancient oak trees filtered the afternoon sun into a shifting, dappled mosaic of emerald and gold, casting a warm, forgiving light over the pristine lawns. Couples in perfectly coordinated outfits sat on checkered blankets, laughing in soft, muted tones, while a gentle breeze swept through the grass, carrying the sweet, clean scent of freshly cut lawns and blooming jasmine.
It was a world entirely devoid of sharp edges or shadows. Even the gravel beneath Keith’s boots crunched with a satisfying, rhythmic softness, perfectly mixed into the background soundscape. Walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Lance, their hands occasionally brushing with a spark of static warmth, Keith felt the last lingering threads of confusion dissolve entirely. The fogginess from the record store was gone, replaced by a heavy, sun-drenched euphoria that made him feel utterly weightless.
‘Aha! Look,’ Lance said, suddenly snagging Keith’s wrist and pointing toward a retro, striped awning nestled near a massive stone fountain. ‘The holy grail. Come on, let’s go put my physics theory to the test.’
The fountain in the centre of the plaza was a massive, tiered structure of cream-coloured stone, sculpted with elegant classical figures that looked impossibly pristine. Water cascaded down its levels in smooth, glass-like sheets, catching the sunlight and throwing a brilliant, sparkling halo of rainbow light across the stone plaza. The sound of the splashing water didn’t roar or drown out their voices; it was a soft, melodic white noise, perfectly balancing the gentle indie-pop soundtrack that still seemed to hum from the very air around them.
Right beside it sat the ice cream vendor, a beautifully vintage cart wrapped in crisp white and pastel-pink stripes. The chrome accents gleamed so brightly under the sun they looked almost polished by hand a minute earlier. A small, circular white metal table with two matching wire-back chairs sat directly in the shadow of the striped awning, surrounded by a vibrant patch of manicured pink hydrangeas.
Lance didn’t let go of Keith’s wrist, his grip warm and full of infectious energy as he practically towed him across the sun-warmed cobblestones.
‘Table for two, right by the water feature,’ Lance announced with dramatic flair, pulling out one of the wire chairs for Keith with a theatrical bow. ‘Sit, enjoy the view—meaning me, obviously—and prepare to have your mind blown by the power of strawberry dairy products.’
Keith laughed, dropping into the chair and leaning his forearms on the cool metal tabletop. The faint, sweet mist from the fountain drifted over them, cooling the sun-warmed skin of his face. He watched Lance slide over to the vendor’s cart, his denim jacket catching the light as he leaned against the counter to order, entirely at home in this picture-perfect world.
Keith leaned back in the wire chair, resting his chin in his hand as he watched Lance banter with the vendor. From this angle, the sun hit the back of Lance’s hair, creating a soft, glowing rim of light around his shoulders that looked remarkably like a halo.
It was mesmerising.
Keith let his eyes drift past Lance, scanning the rest of the sun-drenched plaza. The fountain continued its flawless, rhythmic splash, the water dancing in perfect, identical loops. On the grass nearby, a golden retriever chased a red ball, catching it mid-air before trotting back to its owner in a motion that felt strangely familiar, like a video clip set to repeat.
Keith frowned slightly, a faint ripple of unease disturbing the warm euphoria in his chest.
He looked closer at the couples strolling along the stone paths.
They were all walking at the same pace.
Two women by the rose bushes laughed at the same intervals, their shoulders shaking in perfect synchronicity.
Even the wind felt orchestrated. It swept through the pink hydrangeas beside his table right on cue, lifting the scent of jasmine into the air just as the background indie track shifted into a softer, acoustic bridge.
It was all so beautiful, so deeply comforting, yet a tiny, locked-away part of his brain whispered that it was too safe.
Real life had sharp edges. Real life had dirt, and traffic, and unexpected rain.
Here, there wasn’t a single leaf out of place on the manicured lawns.
‘One world-changing strawberry masterpiece, as promised.’ Lance’s voice broke the spell, smooth and bright as he slid a tall glass soda mug onto the table.
Keith blinked, forcing the subtle unease back down into the dark corners of his mind as he looked up. ‘You actually went through with it. I thought you might chicken out and buy two.’
‘And ruin the integrity of my own hypothesis? Never,’ Lance said smoothly, sliding into the wire-back chair opposite him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the cool metal table and pushing the glass mug into the exact centre of the space between them.
The milkshake was a vibrant pastel pink, topped with a mountain of whipped cream and a single, unnaturally glossy red cherry. Two striped paper straws stuck out of the cream, angled perfectly toward each of them like a pair of invitation cards.
‘Alright, brooding boy,’ Lance smirked, his blue eyes flashing with a playful defiance that made Keith’s pulse quicken. ‘No backing out now. On the count of three. One... two…’
Keith leaned in, his lips catching the edge of the striped straw just as Lance counted three. They leaned over the table together, their heads just inches apart, close enough that Keith could smell the faint, clean scent of Lance’s soap beneath the overpowering artificial strawberry aroma. He took a sip, the cold, sugary sweetness immediately bursting across his tongue.
Lance pulled back first, wiping a tiny speck of whipped cream from his upper lip with a laugh. ‘Well? Tell me the truth. You can taste the physics, can’t you?’
‘I taste a massive sugar rush,’ Keith replied, though he couldn’t stop the wide, helpless grin from taking over his face. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. ‘But I suppose the delivery method has its charms.’
‘Oh, “its charms”?’ Lance repeated dramatically, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. ‘Is that your way of saying you like sitting this close to me, Keith?’
‘I’m saying the strawberry flavour isn’t terrible,’ Keith countered, his voice dropping into a softer, lower register that felt completely instinctive. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘Too late,’ Lance beamed, his smile so bright it seemed to amplify the golden-hour light pooling around their table. ‘I’m already incredibly flattered. And you’re trapped here sharing a milkshake with me, so you have to listen to me boast about being right.’
Keith rolled his eyes, but his foot subconsciously tapped against Lance’s beneath the small table. ‘I’m only here for the whipped cream, Lance. You’re just a convenient prop.’
‘A prop?’ Lance gasped, splaying a hand over his chest as if he’d been mortally wounded. ‘I am a cinematic marvel, mullet! Look at this jawline. Look at the jacket. I am the main event. You’re just the mysterious stranger who crashed my scene to steal my drink.’
‘Pretty sure you ran into me,’ Keith countered smoothly, leaning forward again to take another sip from his straw just to prove a point. ‘And if you’re the main event, the critics are going to give you terrible reviews for your ego.’
‘Hey, confidence is a crucial element of my charm,’ Lance said, mirroring Keith’s movement and leaning back in. Their noses were nearly brushing now, the distance between them shrinking to a breathless, dizzying fraction. Lance’s smirk softened into something a little more wicked. ‘Besides, you haven’t left yet. That means the audience loves the chemistry.’
Keith held Lance’s gaze, his heart doing a frantic, happy flip against his ribs. The banter felt like a perfectly choreographed dance, every step matching the rising swell of the indie-pop playlist still lingering in the air.
‘Maybe I’m just waiting to see if the sequel is any better.’
‘Oh, the sequel is always better,’ Lance whispered, his voice dropping into a low, smooth cadence that sent a shiver straight down Keith’s spine. He winked, completely unbothered by the proximity. ‘More budget, higher stakes, and definitely more kissing scenes.’
‘Bold of you to assume you get a kissing scene in the first one,’ Keith shot back, his voice thick with a playful, challenging edge.
‘I always get the ending I want,’ Lance laughed, pulling back just enough to grab the glass mug and tilt it toward Keith. ‘Now shut up and help me finish this before it melts. We have a third act to get to.’
Keith didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned back down, the final remnants of their flirty banter humming in his veins as they buried themselves in the rest of the milkshake. The cold strawberry cream vanished quickly between them, their straws making a loud, desperate sputtering sound against the bottom of the glass mug.
Lance pulled away with a dramatic groan, tossing his paper straw onto the table and slouching back into his wire chair. ‘Died a hero,’ he lamented, patting his stomach. ‘A tragic loss for the culinary world, but a massive victory for my physics theory.’
Keith set his own straw down, his fingers lightly tracing the condensation pooling around the base of the glass. The heavy, sun-drenched euphoria was still blanketing his brain, but the word Lance had used earlier—sequel—lingered in his mind, sparking a sudden, quiet thought.
He looked over at the fountain, watching the sparkling water cycle through its perfect, endless loop.
‘Hey, Lance?’ Keith asked softly, turning his gaze back to the boy in the denim jacket. ‘Do you like the sea?’
Lance blinked, his playful smirk softening into a look of genuine enthusiasm that lit up his blue eyes. ‘The sea? Are you kidding? I love it. The open water, the salt air, the smell of fried food from the piers... It’s the best place in the world. Why do you ask, garage-rock boy? Planning our next destination?’
‘Maybe,’ Keith murmured, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.
A sudden, vivid image of a wooden boardwalk and crashing waves flashed behind his eyes; vague and unanchored, like the rest of his memories, but completely comforting. Something about it felt familiar in a way he couldn't explain. ‘I just thought it sounded nice.’
‘Say less,’ Lance beamed, instantly bouncing out of his chair and offering his hand across the table once more. ‘If the mystery stranger wants the ocean, the main event delivers. Come on. I know a boardwalk that looks spectacular when the sun starts to go down.’
Keith didn't hesitate.
He reached across the table and slid his palm into Lance’s, his fingers interlocking seamlessly with a familiar, grounding warmth. The phantom static in his mind instantly went quiet the moment their skin met, replaced by a sudden, exhilarating rush that made the foggy afternoon air feel crisp and alive.
Lance’s grip was firm and certain as he pulled Keith up from the metal chair, their shared laughter melting into the soft hum of the fountain. Without breaking the connection, Lance turned and began leading the way down the stone path, towing Keith behind him as they walked out of the park and toward the coast, where the faint, briny scent of the sea was already waiting on the breeze.
***
The boardwalk was bathed in a deep, bleeding amber as the sun finally began its slow descent toward the horizon. Keith leaned his forearms against the cool metal barrier, the rhythmic crash of the waves against the wooden pilings below sending a faint, salty mist into the air. Lance stood right beside him, his side pressed against Keith’s so firmly that every breath he took sent a wave of comforting heat through Keith’s leather-clad shoulder.
They didn’t speak. The silence between them felt thick with anticipation, perfectly scored by the gentle, fading chords of the acoustic track still hovering in the background. Their hands hung loosely between them, pinkies looping, untangling, and playing with each other in a quiet, private rhythm that felt entirely safe.
Beyond the railing, the amusement park on the pier was slowly waking up for the evening, unfolding like a pop-up book beneath the deepening twilight. One by one, long strings of exposed bulbs strung between the wooden rafters flickered to life, casting a warm, humming canopy of golden light over the worn planks and turning the strolling crowds into soft, moving silhouettes.
In the distance, the massive Ferris wheel began its slow, silent rotation against a bruised violet sky, its neon-pink and blue lights bleeding together in long, electric streaks across the dark, churning surface of the ocean below.
The tide was coming in. Waves struck the massive timber pillars with a deep, resonant thud that vibrated through the soles of Keith’s boots, a steady heartbeat for a world that felt entirely suspended in time. The air grew cooler as the ocean breeze picked up, carrying the rich, nostalgic scents of fried funnel cakes, caramelised sugar, and salt spray.
Everything around them felt intensely romantic, wrapped in a soft-focus lens that blurred out the rest of the world until there was nothing left but the two of them.
As their pinkies brushed together once more—a tiny, grounding point of contact in a sea of gold—Keith let out a quiet breath, completely surrendering to the heavy, sun-drenched peace washing over him.
It was a perfect, untouchable frame, preserved entirely in amber.
‘So.’
Lance’s voice broke the silence, smooth and quiet, carrying a gentle, rhythmic weight that perfectly matched the steady crashing of the tide below. He didn’t untangle his pinkie from Keith’s. Instead, he shifted his weight, turning his head so his chin rested against his arm on the metal railing.
‘What made you think of the sea, brooding boy? You looked like you were a thousand miles away back there at the fountain.’
Keith opened his mouth to give a quick, witty reply, but the words instantly died in his throat.
A sudden, violent wave of fogginess slammed into his mind, thicker and far more suffocating than the haze in the record store.
Behind his eyelids, a vivid image flared—not of this neon-lit pier, but of a vast stretch of white sand and a crystalline ocean that bled into a breathtaking shade of turquoise.
Varadero.
The name echoed through his thoughts with the force of a physical blow, heavy and fiercely real.
He could feel the scorching heat of the tropical sun on his skin, the sharp sting of salt in his eyes, and the sound of a very different laugh—one that sounded rougher, louder, and deeply exhausted.
A cold, nauseating panic clawed at Keith’s stomach.
Where was Varadero?
Why did the name make his chest ache with a grief so profound it threatened to choke him?
He tried to search for a map in his head, to place the beach, to remember who had been standing on the sand with him, but the memories were completely unanchored, floating in a vast, dark void.
The realisation that he didn’t know his own mind sent a shudder of raw terror through him.
The neon lights of the Ferris wheel seemed to flicker violently. For one terrifying second, the roar of the ocean sounded less like water and more like a deafening, metallic crunch.
Then Lance’s pinkie gave his a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
The grounding warmth of the touch immediately flooded Keith’s veins, washing the terrifying static away like a receding tide. The suffocating fog lifted. The neon lights stabilised into a warm, comforting glow.
The cold panic dissolved, leaving only the soft, syrupy contentment of the dream world.
Keith swallowed the dryness in his throat and forced a soft, breathless laugh, looking over at Lance’s perfect, movie-star face.
‘I don't know, honestly. Just... a feeling. I think I used to want to go somewhere tropical. White sand, warm water. A place called Varadero.’
Lance’s eyes brightened instantly, his easy, scripted smile returning without a trace of hesitation.
‘Varadero? Wow, look at you, garage-rock boy, secretly craving a luxury beach getaway. I knew you had a soft side under all that leather.’
‘It's not a soft side,’ Keith countered, the easy banter flowing out of him automatically now that the discomfort had been buried. ‘I just think I'd look good in sunglasses on a beach.’
‘Oh, please,’ Lance laughed, a rich, melodic sound that seemed to cue the background indie-pop music to swell back to its perfect, comforting volume. ‘You'd be the guy wearing a black T-shirt in ninety-degree weather, complaining about the humidity while I’m out there living my best life in the surf.’
‘A black T-shirt?’ Keith scoffed, a genuinely playful smirk returning to his lips as he turned his back against the metal railing. He leaned back on his elbows, purposefully closing the remaining distance between them until his arm was pressed flush against Lance’s side.
‘I’ll have you know I can adapt to the tropics just fine. Besides, who says I’d be watching you from the sand? Maybe I'd be out in the water, pulling you under.’
Lance’s breath hitched, a faint, perfectly cinematic flush creeping up his neck beneath the warm neon glow. He turned his body to face Keith fully, trapping him against the railing by resting one hand on the metal bar beside Keith’s hip.
‘Is that a threat, mullet? Because it sounds a lot like an invitation.’
‘Take it however you want,’ Keith murmured, his voice dropping into a low, daring cadence. His eyes deliberately dropped to Lance’s lips before snapping back to those bright blue eyes.
The proximity was dizzying. The heavy scent of caramelised sugar and salt air seemed to wrap itself around them.
‘You're the one who claims to be the main event. Let's see if you can handle the stakes.’
Lance let out a soft, breathless laugh, his gaze darkening with an intensity that made Keith’s heart do a frantic, ecstatic flip. He leaned in even closer, until Keith could feel the literal warmth of his breath against his mouth.
‘Oh, I can handle them. In fact, I think I'm doing a fantastic job. Look at you—you’re completely captivated.’
‘I'm amused,’ Keith corrected smoothly, though his hand unconsciously moved to grip the lapel of Lance’s denim jacket, anchoring him there. ‘There's a difference.’
‘Keep telling yourself that,’ Lance whispered, his smirk turning utterly wicked as his thumb lightly brushed against Keith’s waist. ‘But the audience knows the truth. We're practically at the part of the script where the music swells, and the main characters finally stop talking.’
Keith let out a soft, breathless laugh, though his fingers tightened slightly on the denim of Lance’s collar.
‘You and your movie talk,’ he murmured, looking directly into those impossibly bright blue eyes. ‘What is with you? Scripts, audiences, sequels... we're just standing on a boardwalk, Lance. Why does everything sound like it’s being read off a page?’
Lance didn't blink.
His expression didn't falter.
He simply remained there, frozen in that flawlessly charming, leading-man smile.
‘Because it is, Keith,’ he replied smoothly, his voice entirely light-hearted and casual. ‘It's just the script. It’s exactly what you wanted to hear.’
The words hit Keith like a bucket of ice water.
It’s just the script.
The heavy, syrupy euphoria in his chest instantly curdled into cold, suffocating dread.
The neon lights of the Ferris wheel behind Lance didn't just flicker this time. They glitched, snapping into sharp, blinding lines of green and white that looked terrifyingly like a digital monitor. The rhythmic crash of the waves turned deafeningly mechanical, a harsh, rhythmic beep... beep... beep... echoing from the bottom of the ocean.
Keith’s breath caught in his throat as the world around him began to warp, the dream-like façade violently tearing at the seams as his brain scrambled to understand what Lance meant.
He opened his mouth to gasp out a question, to beg Lance to tell him what was happening, but before the terror could completely pull him under—
Lance leaned down.
And kissed him.
The moment Lance’s lips met his, the terrifying, mechanical ringing in Keith's ears snapped into immediate silence.
The kiss was devastatingly sweet, carrying a deep, aching familiarity that sent a violent jolt straight through his chest. Yet beneath the rush of heat, an unsettling puzzle fractured Keith’s mind—it felt entirely right, but he couldn't grasp why. It was the phantom taste of a memory he couldn't fully see, an agonisingly beautiful ghost pressing against his mouth.
Before Keith could pull away to question it, Lance shifted. He stepped closer, his physical presence completely overwhelming Keith as he deepened the kiss with a sudden, consuming intensity. Lance stood directly in front of him now, his hands sliding up to cup Keith’s jaw and anchor him in place.
Keith let out a soft, helpless gasp into the kiss, his body instinctively yielding to the pressure. His spine curved backwards, his lower back arching over the cool metal barrier of the boardwalk as he completely surrendered his weight to Lance’s touch. The dark, roaring ocean beneath them didn't matter anymore; the glitching neon lights stabilised into a warm, flawless amber glow, forcefully locking Keith right back inside the safety of the script.
They lingered in the kiss for a few breathless moments longer, the cool ocean breeze whipping around them as the world outside their tiny bubble completely ceased to exist.
When Lance finally pulled back, his thumbs gently brushed across Keith’s cheekbones. He didn't look flustered. His expression was completely serene, untouched by the frantic racing of Keith’s heart.
‘Well,’ Lance breathed, a slow, roguish smirk pulling at his lips as he dropped his hands back down to Keith’s waist. ‘I believe the critics are going to call that a box-office hit. Five stars. Absolute masterpiece.’
Keith let out a shaky, half-amused laugh, his hands sliding down Lance’s denim sleeves until his fingers found Lance’s palm, squeezing tight.
‘Don't get ahead of yourself. It was a solid three stars. Maybe three and a half if you're lucky.’
‘Three and a half?!’ Lance gasped dramatically, turning on his heel to start walking down the wooden planks, towing Keith right along with him. ‘Ouch. Your reviews are brutal, mullet. I guess I’ll just have to work twice as hard in the sequel to earn that extra star.’
‘Keep dreaming, Lance,’ Keith shot back smoothly, the rhythmic thud-thud of their boots on the boardwalk perfectly aligning with the warm indie-pop track drifting back into his head.
The unsettling mechanical beeping from moments before was completely gone, safely buried beneath a thick layer of golden-hour contentment.
‘Oh, dreaming is my speciality,’ Lance countered, swinging their joined hands between them as they wove past the glowing food stalls and flashing lights of the arcade. ‘Next time, I'm thinking a grander gesture. Something with strings playing in the background, or maybe me shouting your name from a rooftop.’
‘Please don't,’ Keith chuckled, leaning his shoulder into Lance’s as they walked. ‘I’d pretend I didn't know you.’
‘Liar,’ Lance beamed, looking over at him with that blinding, perfect smile. ‘You love the drama.’
‘I love the drama when it’s on a screen, Lance,’ Keith replied, nudging him playfully with his elbow. ‘In real life, if you start shouting my name from a roof, I am walking the other way. Rapidly.’
A slow, wicked grin began to spread across Lance’s face, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, mischievous spark beneath the neon glow.
‘Oh, is that a challenge?’
‘It’s a promise,’ Keith laughed.
‘Wanna bet?’ Lance countered smoothly, his grip on Keith’s fingers tightening with sudden, infectious energy.
Before Keith could even ask what he was planning, Lance spun on his heel and lunged forward, forcefully pulling Keith off the main boardwalk and directly into the swirling, hyper-vibrant crowd gathered at the entrance of the amusement park. The air here was dizzying—brightly flashing marquee lights, the mechanical roar of a nearby roller coaster, and a thick, sweet cloud of cotton candy and popcorn wrapping around them. Lance wove through the tightly packed bodies with an uncanny, fluid ease, his denim jacket cutting a perfect path through the strangers as he towed Keith deeper into the centre of the flashing neon plaza.
The deeper they walked into the amusement park, the more it unfolded into an absolute kaleidoscope of colour and light, looking less like a local pier and more like a beautifully produced, multi-million-dollar Hollywood set. Long, delicate strings of warm white fairy lights were woven intricately through the wooden framework of every carnival game stall, casting a soft, shimmering canopy of artificial starlight over the cobblestone plaza.
The air was rich and heavy, scented with fried dough, caramelised sugar, and the crisp, cold tang of the nearby salt spray. Everywhere Keith looked, the park was populated by picture-perfect couples—everyone dressed in pristine, timeless jackets and sweaters, strolling arm in arm while sharing oversized sticks of blue cotton candy or giant plush prizes won from the shooting galleries. They moved with an impossible, fluid grace, never bumping into one another, their laughter rising in soft, perfectly mixed intervals that blended seamlessly into the upbeat indie-pop soundtrack humming from hidden speakers.
The neon signs of the arcade and the nearby roller coaster flashed in brilliant, saturated hues of ruby red and sapphire blue, reflecting off the polished surfaces of the game booths until the entire plaza seemed to glow from the inside out.
It was a world entirely scrubbed of dirt, crowds, or frustration. There were no crying kids, no spilt drinks, and no long lines. Every single face in the neon-lit plaza carried a gentle, permanent smile, completely content to exist as the beautiful, unbothered background to Keith and Lance’s perfect day.
Lance stopped abruptly in the centre of the glowing plaza, his eyes locking onto a low, decorative brick wall bordering a sprawling bed of pristine pink hydrangeas.
Before Keith could even register the sudden halt, Lance turned to him, a brilliant, uncontainable grin lighting up his face. He leaned down and pressed a quick, devastatingly sweet kiss to Keith’s cheek, the warmth of his lips lingering like a brand before he stepped up and launched himself effortlessly onto the top of the brick ledge.
‘Alright, listen up, everyone! Gather 'round!’ Lance shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth as he paced the narrow length of the wall like a stage actor. He was completely unbothered by embarrassment, his voice ringing out loud and clear over the hum of the roller coaster. ‘I have a highly important, box-office-official announcement to make!’
‘Lance! Get down from there!’ Keith squeaked, his entire face flushing a deep, furious crimson beneath the neon marquee lights. He instinctively brought both hands up, burying his face in his palms to hide his burning cheeks, but a helpless, bubbly laugh rippled through his fingers anyway.
He was mortified, absolutely dying of embarrassment, yet his chest was so tightly packed with a heavy, sun-drenched happiness that he couldn't stop the breathless giggles from shaking his shoulders.
‘You see this guy right here?’ Lance declared proudly, extending a dramatic arm downward to point directly at Keith’s covered face. The gathering crowd of background extras instantly ground to a halt, turning in perfect unison to form a neat, smiling circle around the flower bed. ‘This is Keith. He thinks he’s a moody, brooding garage-rock rebel who doesn’t care about Hollywood endings. He just gave our kiss a three-and-a-half-star review! A tragedy! But I’m standing up here to tell all of you—and to tell him—that his rating system is completely broken!’
Keith peeked through the gaps in his fingers, his heart doing a frantic, ecstatic dance against his ribs as Lance paced the edge of the brick wall like a seasoned leading man.
‘Because that was a five-star masterpiece!’ Lance shouted to the sky, a brilliant, cinematic glare catching the edges of his denim jacket. ‘And I don't care if it's not in the script; I am officially declaring to this entire park that I am completely, utterly captivated by him! Roll the credits, play the violins, do whatever you have to do, because this is the best part of the movie!’
The crowd instantly erupted into cheers.
Dozens of pristine, beautifully dressed strangers began clapping and whistling in perfect, rhythmic harmony, their faces lit up with identical, radiant expressions of joy. It was the ultimate, show-stopping climax to the perfect romantic comedy.
Keith let out another helpless, breathless giggle behind his hands, the warm flush on his face deepening as Lance continued to milk the applause of the crowd. He slowly lowered his palms, a wide, bright smile gracing his lips as he looked up at the boy on the brick wall.
Lance looked magnificent, completely in his element, chest puffed out with a triumphant, leading-man grin.
‘Yeah, that’s right!’ Lance shouted, gesturing wildly to the cheering onlookers as he repeated his cadence. ‘Roll the credits, play the violins, do whatever you have to do, because this is the best part of the movie!’
Keith’s chuckle softly trailed off.
‘Because that was a five-star masterpiece,’ Lance said again.
He turned on the narrow brick ledge, his movements sudden, sharp, and remarkably fluid. He extended his arm back toward Keith, pointing at his face with the exact same angle, the exact same spacing of his fingers.
‘And I don't care if it's not in the script—I am officially declaring to this entire park that I am completely, utterly captivated by him.’
Keith's smile slowly began to falter, a sudden, cold prickle of unease rippling across the back of his neck.
Lance's voice hadn't changed by a single octave. The pitch, the theatrical cadence, the exact breathless pause before the word captivated—it was completely identical.
It didn't sound like a boy caught up in the spontaneous rush of romance.
It sounded like a playback.
‘Lance?’ Keith murmured, his voice entirely swallowed by the thunderous roar of the crowd. He took a small step closer to the brick flower bed. ‘Lance, alright. You won the bet. Get down now. People are staring.’
‘Roll the credits, play the violins, do whatever you have to do, because this is the best part of the movie,’ Lance repeated, his head snapping to the left to address a different section of the crowd with a wide, blinding, unblinking smile.
Keith froze.
The syrupy warmth in his chest completely turned to ice.
This didn't sound like his Lance.
The real Lance was loud, chaotic, and messy. He stuttered when he got nervous, his voice cracked when he shouted too loudly, and his grand gestures always ended with him tripping over his own boots.
This version was too polished.
Too perfect.
He was a flawless, hollow recording looping on a screen, completely deaf to Keith actually speaking to him.
Keith stood paralysed as his mind began to violently unspool from the inside out, the golden-hour euphoria shattering like cheap glass. A suffocating, pitch-black dread rushed into the vacuum it left behind. His breath caught in his throat, coming in shallow, frantic gasps that did nothing to clear the sudden, icy numbness spreading to his fingertips.
His chest ached with a phantom, agonising weight, a crushing pressure that screamed at him that he didn't belong here, that he was missing something vital, something bloody and broken.
He desperately wanted to reach up and grab Lance's hand—to anchor himself back to that safe, syrupy warmth—but his limbs felt heavy, weighted down by a cold reality that was aggressively fighting its way through the dream.
Trembling, Keith slowly forced his gaze away from the looping boy on the wall and looked out at the surrounding circle of onlookers.
The sight made his stomach violently heave.
Dozens of strangers were still clapping, but the applause no longer sounded joyful. It was a terrifyingly rhythmic, mechanical thud. Every single person in the crowd was moving in perfect, robotic unison. Their elbows bent at the exact same angle; their palms collided at the exact same fraction of a second.
Worse than the movement were their faces.
Their eyes were wide, vacant, and completely glassy, reflecting the neon marquee lights like dead television screens. Yet their lips were pulled back into identical, frozen, ear-to-ear smiles that didn't reach their hollow stares.
They weren't cheering for a romance.
They were glitches in a failing system, hard-coded to applaud a script that Keith was no longer playing along with.
Keith looked back at Lance.
Lance's eyes were fixed on him, bright and beautiful, but his expression was frozen in that perfect, movie-poster look.
The indie-pop background music suddenly sounded warped, like a vinyl record slowing down. The smells of the amusement park faded into the sickening smell of antiseptic.
Keith whispered Lance's name, suddenly feeling a cold dread pool in his stomach.
As the single, fragile syllable left his lips, the vibrant world around them began to violently shutter shut, folding in on itself like a dying star.
Lance didn't move.
He didn't blink.
His perfect, movie-star visage remained locked rigidly toward Keith, but his mouth stopped moving entirely, trapping his features in a horrific, static imitation of love. The blinding electric blue of his eyes began to lose its depth, flattening into a cold, artificial glassiness that mirrored the harsh glare of an overhead clinical light.
The boy on the wall was no longer breathing.
He was a cardboard cut-out pinned against a crumbling horizon.
The warped, melting chords of the indie track groaned to a final, agonisingly distorted stop, the bass dropping out completely until the audio sounded like it was drowning underwater.
In the deep, suffocating silence that rushed into the plaza, the rhythmic clapping of the mechanical crowd began to slow.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh transformed, sharpening into a piercing electronic rhythm that resonated deep within Keith's skull—a sound his brain desperately, frantically tried to push away.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The neon-pink and sapphire lights of the Ferris wheel bled out, melting into the encroaching shadows like wet ink. The cobblestone beneath Keith's boots dissolved into a vast, empty void, the ground simply ceasing to exist. The sweet scent of caramelised sugar was utterly swallowed by a cold, sterile air that burned the back of his throat.
Keith reached out, his hand trembling as his fingers desperately clawed for the denim of Lance's jacket, for any piece of the fantasy he could hold onto.
His hands met only empty, freezing space.
The entire universe plunged into a heavy, pitch-black darkness.
The projector had died.
The reel had snapped.
Day One was completely over.