Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moon beams down on him even as the sun begins to sprout from the mouth of the horizon like a blooming flower. The water around him ripples gently with each breath he takes and sloshes against his ears every so often. Slowly do the clouds begin to shift and rest upon the stars that were sparsely laid out in the softly pinkening sky. 

It’s nice to watch the sunrise like this, from what would be the perspective of the sea, and admire the warm tones from the east melding into the darkness of the west. Lance lets out a deep sigh, somehow failing to notice the quiet chitter of his teeth that follows almost immediately. September really was no time for swimming, and much less a time to float on your back listlessly for an hour or two, and for no real reason but to watch the colors in the sky and breathe. 

Lance’s hands hover over the water, not quite breaking the surface, just feeling with his fingertips. It’s only the second week of the school year, but he’s already so tired. 

“Lance?” A voice calls, and Lance can tell it’s Veronica even with water covering his ears and warping his hearing. She is always the one to bring him out of his morning trances so he wouldn’t miss the late bell at school. So, “Lance,” she calls again. But of course he doesn’t answer (he never does, because she knows exactly where he is).

Lance smiles to himself, amused by this routine they've come to perfect since the cheery spring. 

And, as expected, his elder sister steps up to the edge of the poolside and peers down at him with crossed arms and a scowl on her face, looking just like their mother would if she wasn’t so busy preparing breakfast for five inside. 

“Ma’s making pancakes,” she starts with, hoping that’d lure him out, “and your friends’ll be here in thirty. Mamá wants you to eat.” Veronica then drops to a crouch and holds out her hand, offering her aid in reeling him back to shore. But Lance rises, then dips his body back into the water. Veronica squints at him and drops her hand.

“I’ll see you later.” she tells him, promising, with her lips pursed just slightly and in a way that does something to Lance’s stomach. He dips further into the water, lips sloped into a frown, now aware of the fact that his action had made his sister upset though he didn’t mean to. Veronica rises and steps back from the pool, about to make her leave.

And Lance feels bad. He needs to reach out to her, say he’s sorry, ask for forgiveness, or do something, because she’s leaving, she’s leaving him, and he doesn’t know what he’d do without her, and can’t even begin to fathom what his life would be like if she weren’t here and…that’s too much of a hassle, isn’t it? There’s too little time for all that, and there’s a little too much to unpack there. 

So at the last second, he springs forward hard and flails his arms into the water, generating a splash of water that sprays over the edge of the pool and onto the legs of Veronica’s denim pants.

Veronica squeals like a young schoolgirl and whips around with a shocked expression on her normally composed features, with her mouth quirking up on the left side, a telltale sign of that silly McClain Mischief that the entire family shares. She stomps her foot and her hair curls around her chin. “Oh I would so jump in if I didn’t have class this morning.” she swears at her youngest brother, narrowing her eyes. And Lance, despite himself, chortles, and then snickers gently into his hand. (He doesn’t miss the delighted glint in Veronica’s eyes, but he doesn’t understand what it means.)

He doesn’t say goodbye, but he wipes his smile away as best as he can and wiggles his fingers at her. Veronica still watches him with that weird glint, but grins back nonetheless, turning on her heel and finally walking back into their house. Lance lets his smile creep back onto his face as soon as she’s gone and sinks down further into the depths of the pool, blue eyes wide and aching against chlorinated water where he watches his own hands clench and unfurl in a mesmerizing dance. 

Not seconds later, he’s suddenly hyper aware of his own body.

A wave of slow, delayed exhaustion comes up over him, swallows him whole, and then spits him out, leaving his limbs heavy and hurting and just like lead because oh my God, he’s sinking and there is nothing for him to grab onto, and there is no one there to give him a hand, look at him with carefully narrowed eyes and a curled lip that gives out an airy chuckle and says,

(Hush now, Lance.)

“Breathe.”

Lance gasps when he goes topside and heaves, finally cutting his lungs some slack and sucking in the cool morning air into them, desperate to breathe again. But he sputters, then coughs, and then, stupidly, nearly chokes on his own spit. And blood rushes up, and up, and up and his fingertips go cold and he reels his head back to the sky—to the stars—and shudders so violently it takes everything he’s got to not pass out right then and there. 

But then his throat goes tight, then relaxes, and he burns, and slaps a hand on the base of his neck in relief because finally there was something to focus on and he’s able to bring himself down from that excruciating high, whatever it was, and then laugh at himself. 

Well that was pathetic. He’s held his breath for longer than one minute and forty seven seconds. 

Lance shakes his head, sighing hard. He wipes his face with his hands and shudders again, lightly, before slicking his hair back and finally swimming over to the edge. He carefully throws his arms over the poolside and lifts himself out of the water, brown skin breaking into goosebumps against the autumn breeze almost instantly. Lance shivers and regrets ever leaving the water just like he does every morning. 

Sluggish and almost dazed from nearly drowning (because that’s what it was, really. Like he had forgotten how to swim or how to breathe altogether) (how do you forget something you love so much?), Lance makes his way over to the lounge chair where he laid out his towels earlier, in the dark and quiet of 5 am. He brings one of the towels to his face and it’s rough against his skin. He dries his hair off the best he can, leaving it damp and curling at the ends before grabbing the other towel and drying off the rest of his body.

The moon is still in the sky by the time he finishes, though a little faint amongst the shifting clouds. The sky itself was warming up with shades of peach and pink, softly forming the crown of the rising sun. Lance folds up the towels in his hands and sets them back onto the chair, squinting at the sight for a moment. It’s nothing special, and nothing to write home about, but maybe he’s been desensitized. To him it looks like it always does. 

But that’s where the beauty of it lies, right? There’s solace and comfort to be found in routine, if he’s not mistaken. (Is he? Well, he doesn’t know. There’s supposed to be.)

Lance doesn’t quite understand the swirling feeling in his lungs every time he witnesses the sun rise from its sleep, with his face and chest numb and cold from the wind while the rest of his body lied engulfed in water, but he does know it’s not the solace or comfort he’s, maybe, supposed to get. From watching. From feeling. (Oh, does he want to feel something.)

Maybe that’s his fault. Maybe he’s not worthy of feeling.

He messed up. He took a wrong turn and ended up at a dead end. Ended up dead in a ditch somewhere. He was ignorant and arrogant all in the same and all of it has now come back to haunt him for the rest of his dead-end life where he watches the sky morph from black to blue and nearly kills himself in the process. 

Then again, what was “all of it?” 

Did “all of it” cause this repeated loop of a broken record player he called his life? This friction of needle twitching upon groove again and again, hitting the same crevice each time, hitting him where it hurts because damn, he can’t enjoy music like he used to because he had always sung outrageously off-key a little too much and a little too loud. 

Did “all of it” cause the days to slowly melt together like ice cream between his fingers during the searing hot summer because the sun refuses to sleep and then something within Lance does too and if you stumbled across him at four in the morning and asked what he was doing up so early he’d duck his head sheepishly and you’d realize he hasn’t slept a wink since you bid him goodnight at 9 pm. 

Did “all of it” cause this smothering something that bursts hot and sweltering in Lance’s lungs and has his mind and body and practically every fiber of his being absolutely swimming with it when he thinks about any of it for a little too much for a little too long?

Then again, he’s probably just overreacting. Maybe there wasn’t an “all of it” to be a bumbling idiot about, and there probably wasn’t anything that followed after. Maybe everything is actually all kinds of fine and sooner or later Lance is gonna realize he’s just being paranoid, or something along those lines. Overthinking things, focusing a little too much; it’s just the kind of guy he is. 

His mind halts to a full stop when the back door suddenly slides open and his younger sister Rachel pokes her head out to say “Hey, Mami says to get your ass inside and eat something before you leave,” with her hair falling down to her waist in loose waves. Lance looks over at her and only nods in response, throat a little too tender to say anything (not that he would, that is, but you know, if he would). Rachel tips her head and taps the doorframe with her palm, the ring on her middle finger clicking against the metal and echoing in the morning quiet before she walks back inside. 

Lance waits a beat before sighing quietly and following after her, shivering lightly when a cool breeze hits and ricochets down the notches of his spine. Once he steps inside though, his muscles relax and his shoulders slump. The air is warm and familiar and of course, filled with the scent of butter and cooked bacon wafting in from the kitchen. Not thirty seconds later Lance finds himself smack dab in the middle of their open kitchen instead of the bathroom where he was supposed to shower after his swim.

“Lance came inside.” Rachel announces loudly when she sits herself down at the table next to Veronica’s empty chair (Lance figures she’s probably already off to Northlove Community knowing her, adamant about making it to class on time), as if no one had eyes and he wasn’t clearly standing right there in front of them. Lance gives his eyes a roll and jokingly makes to smack her upside the head. Rachel only dodges, smiles weird (that glint in her eye is there too, the one Veronica gave him), and continues to shovel her syrupy pancakes into her mouth. 

“Good morning. Bueno ver té, hijo.” Lance’s father Miguel greets in a teasing voice as he peers over the top of his striped coffee mug, the left corner of his lip quirked. And maybe that’s where they all get it from; the glint, and the mischievous sneer—those weird looks from Veronica and Rachel and even Mamá sometimes—maybe they’re all Papá’s and mirroring body language comes a little too natural for the McClains because Lance then smirks back at him, a mimic to a T, and crosses his arms, tipping his head up in a way that says “Nice to see you too,” in that same playful tone Miguel had challenged him with first.

The father-son duel is put on hold when his mother Rosa turns away from the stove and raises her eyebrows at her son, challenging him in a different manner, with a spatula in hand. “Vas a comer?” she asks right away, voice laced with an odd tone and paired with a different weird glint (and Lance can only place any of that as hopeful although he absolutely could not understand why) before she slowly looks him up and down and then deflates slightly. “O te vas a bañar?”

And Lance can’t stand seeing her look so upset, but his friends will be here in maybe twenty minutes and he needs a hot shower. So, rather sheepishly, Lance shrugs one of his shoulders, sticks out his thumb, and points it behind him.

Rosa huffs and waves her spatula at him disapprovingly. “Okay, dale pues. Báñate,” she grumbles before turning back to the stove, occupying herself with flipping another pancake. Lance pouts playfully and walks up to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and giving her a gentle squeeze.

“Aye Leandro, you’re wet. Ya vete.” Rosa bats at him, then shrugs him off, but Lance sees the little curl of her lip. So he grins, ducks her flailing hand, and quickly leaves the kitchen, heading off towards the bathroom while waving at his dad, knowing he’d be off for work soon. 

It doesn’t take long to strip down and hop into the shower, but once the warm water begins to rinse him over, he finds himself not willing to do anything but just stand there and just feel. Water pours over his skin rhythmically, as if with a pulse of its own, and when he turns it trickles into his eyes and mouth and tastes so different from being engulfed by it all. 

It’s weird tasting that difference on his tongue. Sensing that difference in his mind and body. He can almost breathe here. Almost feel here.

But it’s rather hard to do that when he no longer feels much of anything these days. And yeah, he won’t care to admit to himself when it crosses his mind, but he’d give just about anything to feel the way he knows he can. To feel the way that he used to. To be the way he used to.

Who he used to be, however, is perhaps what has brought him to this point in the first place. 

The way he used to be, or more so the person he was, felt a little too much. About anything, and practically about everything. And he was always a little too this or a little too that. A little too much of something (it’s smothering, sweltering, and he’s swimming) with nowhere to go. Mind going a mile a minute and mouth running like an open faucet. Hands hardly ever still and eyes kept wide even in the dark hours of the night. Everything was a little too much. He was a little too much.

(Hush now, Lance.)

Maybe there’s something wrong with him. Maybe something is just inexplicably, undoubtedly, wrong with him. How does someone just stop like that? How does someone just forget how to feel? Or even worse, never know how to properly?

There’s a banging at the door and it startles Lance into a hard flinch, bringing him back from wherever his mind had wandered off to and forcing him to realize the water above him was running cold and had been for a while. “Lance! Hurry up! I gotta pee!” Rachel shouts from behind the door, voice muffled by the wood. Lance huffs and wipes his face, eyes aching as he presses his fingers against them. He sighs and shuts the water off, growing cold by the second. 

Lance steps out of the shower and grabs a towel from the rack closeby, unfolding the material and bringing it to his body. He dries off quickly and ignores the dull feeling of exhaustion buried deep inside his muscles, down to his very bones.

After wrapping the towel around his hips he catches sight of himself in the foggy, blurred out mirror. 

And he looks fine. He’s doing alright. His eyes are maybe a bit tender and there are light bruises under there if you look long enough, but he’s fine. He hasn’t really slept in the past week, and has only snagged a couple of hours here and there, but it’s more than he got the week before that. He’s fine.

Rachel then pounds at the door again, her knuckles rapping a heavy tune against the wood. Lance flinches and shakes himself out of his head, turning away from the mirror. (And he’s fine.) (Faintly, he thinks, if something is repeated enough it’s bound to hold some truth, and if something is repeated enough it’s bound to be true.) (Because there’s solace and comfort to be found in routine, if he’s not mistaken, and routine is good, and it can’t be broken.) (Hush now, Lance.)

He opens the door. 

Rachel stumbles, rights herself, and then lowers her fist. “Finally,” she drawls in a specific kind of annoyance that holds no malice or truth, and then rolls her eyes to the side as she barges in. She flicks her hands at him when he stands dumbly in the middle of the doorway, a universal sign of get out. “Mami still wants you to eat something before you leave.” 

And Lance only raises one hand in defense because the other is clutching the towel at his hips like some sort of lifeline (out of habit maybe, out of routine), and then gives a mocking hum paired with a playful sneer before walking out. Rachel does her own rendition of a weird hum and sticks out her tongue, eyes narrowed (glinting) before she closes the door right in his face. Lance snorts. 

He gets dressed.

He’s five minutes into deciding between two floral patterned button ups of outrageously similar print in his jeans and shoes when he realizes that, actually, it would be better to just wear a sweater in this chilly weather. (It’s not past him to notice that the thought had a little rhyme to it so despite himself, he laughs under his breath, and then promptly snorts in surprise at it tickling him so much.)

He hooks the shirts back into the closet and makes a quick beeline to his dresser, where he’s sure his sweaters are tucked into, snug in the bottom drawer. It’s only when he discovers said drawer empty he remembers that his last clean sweater was thrown in the overstuffed hamper in his closet, not-so-clean ever since he and his niece and nephew, Nadia and Sylvio, had gotten into an overly enthusiastic food fight last time they visited, and all parties ended up smacked and smeared with a wide variety of sauces and creams. 

Lance lets out an irritated huff and then scowls at himself for forgetting to do laundry yet again. He circles back to his closet, flicking through the plastic hangers until he finds the jean jacket he was looking for. It’s not the one he uses often, since that one is probably way at the bottom of his dirty laundry, but it’ll make do for today. It’s big enough to throw over his white Altean Academy hoodie (in which was just-clean-enough for him to shrug on though he’d already worn it the day before) so it doesn’t feel uncomfortable when he moves around.

He’s fumbling with the clasp of his necklace (a dainty little thing from his grandmother, golden and shimmery with a small cross that sits right under the base of his throat) when his door knob rattles. 

“Lance? Leandro, ábreme.” His mother says when she realizes he had locked his door. She knocks, then tries the doorknob again, and says, “Lance, para hoy, hijo,” as Lance makes an indignant squawk and goes to the door, necklace hanging uselessly in his hands. His mother is about to repeat herself when he finally flicks the lock with his thumb and opens his door, letting her in.

Rosa appears slightly miffed at first, having been made wait in the hallway, but once her eyes fall onto her son struggling to put on his own jewelry, she caves, and a bemused smile crosses her lips. “Here,” she tells Lance, and all but shoves the yogurt packet in her hands into his. “Gimme that, I’ll do it.”

And Lance isn’t one to refuse Mamá, so he wills away his embarrassed blush as best as he can and sets his necklace into her awaiting palm, his own hands curiously wrapping around the Gogurt tube that was usually reserved for his niece and nephew when they stopped by to visit their grandparents.

Rosa is quick to clasp Lance’s necklace on and is more than happy to fix and rearrange the cross so it sits right side up where she tucks it safely into his hoodie. She then smiles up at Lance (por dios, that boy is getting tall) and then pats his hands. “Comete eso. Your friends are outside.” she tells him sternly and Lance nods rather absently as he stuffs his yogurt tube into the pocket of his hoodie and moves away to collect his things.

Rosa watches him carefully from the doorway, her dark eyes squinted as Lance moves about his room, picking school things from his desk and sticking them in his school bag before removing his cellphone from its charger and then pocketing that too. It takes no less than a minute for him to get his bearings and once he does, he stops in front of her and grins, big and toothy. Rosa fakes an exaggerated grin of her own before quickly dropping it. “Listo?”

Lance smiles at her again, smaller this time, and nods in affirmation, waving his hand at her in a back up gesture. Rosa softens, smiles back, and side steps out into the hallway as Lance leaves his room, closing the door behind him. He walks down the hall with Mamá on his heels and his phone vibrating in his pocket (messages from his friends, probably, that were not-so-patiently waiting right outside).

When he makes it to the front door, he whirls around and goes to grab his keys from the coat hanger only to find Rosa with his lanyard already in her hands, holding it out for him to take. Lance grins at her (the dimple on the left side of his chin pops out and Rosa swears he has never looked so much like his father) and snatches his keys out of her hands. Her eyes glint all weird, but it's probably a trick of light. 

“I love you.” Rosa tells him when they’re out on the porch.

And maybe this is it. Maybe this time he can finally let it out of his system without feeling so bad about it afterwards. After all, he does love Mamá, and so much so it’s practically pure instinct making him want to say it back—shout it back—and repeat it over and over until his throat goes raw and his voice doesn’t sound like his anymore. (What does his voice sound like? It’s been a while.)

But he hasn’t eaten today. 

Mamá had looked him up and down and weird, and he had left her. She had asked him gentle, with care, and with that soft Cuban lilt of hers that made his head swim (and he had considered for a second not leaving, but his body ached something terrible and he reeked of chlorine) and he had left. He saw her face fall, crumble, and then harden into something that pained him to see because it wasn’t the first time it had happened and still, he had left.

And he keeps doing that—leaving—even though it makes everyone (Mamá, his sister, you name it) so upset. (Faintly, he thinks, it’s becoming too much again. He can sense it, in his fingertips and in his mouth, but what is he supposed to do? Things have always been this way and they will continue to be this way because old habits die hard and it’s normal, it’s routine, and you can’t just break routine, right?) (There’s solace and comfort to be found in routine, if he’s not mistaken.) (Hush now, Lance.)

Before Lance could make up his mind, the van right at the end of his driveway goes off in a series of honks, so painstakingly loud this early in the morning (about half an hour till seven, but the street is still a bit sleepy) that he startles so hard his pulse stutters in his throat. He whips around to glare, but the windows are tinted and he can barely see the collection of shadows wavering behind the glass. He huffs and then pouts instead, turning back to smile at his mother in a silent I love you too.

Rosa seems to think nothing of it—his silence, but she suddenly looks so much older than she should, weary and wary all the same.

Lance turns and walks down the driveway. 

The van door is already slid open when he makes it to the curb, a warm series of familiar grins greeting him on sight followed by the usual routine slew of Good mornings. It’s only until Lance is crawling over his friend Pidge he realizes that the van is just a tad more full than it normally is and no longer is this one of his usual mornings that replay and repeat over and over until he can’t distinguish them anymore because he spots Allura perched in the furthermost right seat and a definitely-not-familiar face sitting in his. Lance pales when they catch his eye. 

“Hope you like to squeeze!” Matt, Pidge’s older brother, calls from the driver’s seat, tone teasing and chipper-like, before resuming his animated conversation with the other not-so-familiar face who sat on the passenger’s side. 

Lance flushes instantly when he realizes he was going to have to sit himself between Allura and this other kid who was already eyeing him all weird for just standing there in the middle of the van like an idiot, head ducked to avoid hitting the roof. Lance pointedly avoids any more eye contact with the kid and instead warily stares at the slim spot between them and Allura where everyone expected him to sit.

Allura seems to catch onto his nervous hesitance because she smiles warm and pats at the small space beside her thigh. “Oh c’mon, Lance. He doesn’t bite.” she reassures kindly, though all it does is make him blush even harder and have his friends behind him snicker quietly. The “He” in question even snorts a little, as if he actively disagreed with her statement. And, por dios, if people could die of embarrassment Lance would be six feet under.  

So without putting any more thought into it, Lance plops himself right in the middle of the two, effectively crowding their space with his lanky limbs and broad shoulders. It takes the three a few more minutes than necessary to rearrange themselves thanks to Lance fumbling to get his backpack off and nearly elbowing Allura in the face and then the sudden jolt of Pidge slamming the door shut that startles Lance so much he rocks forward and knocks heads with the kid to his left much to his growing mortification. He doesn’t even know this guy’s name yet and look at the impression he’s making for himself!

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” the guy says immediately after he hisses in pain (and right before Lance could even begin to think about talking himself up to apologize), holding his head with a bandaged hand. He glances over at Lance, who is a little more than beet red in the face and on the edge of woozy from their collision, and then glowers a little, much to Lance’s dismay.

“You dropped your keys.” the guy says curtly, short and clipped. He raises the hand that isn’t nursing his head and presents a blue lanyard that indeed was Lance’s, if the shark keychain with his name on it dangling at the bottom was anything to go by. Lance goes a little light headed. 

Still thoroughly embarrassed by the everything about this, Lance snatches up his lanyard from the guy’s hand and shoves it into the front pocket of his jeans before crossing his legs, not thinking about how said guy isn’t even trying to mask his blatant staring. Por dios, Lance is making himself look like the world’s biggest moron. 

To add more salt to the horrifically bleeding wound, Lance’s foot bumps right into Hunk’s cheek, earning a surprised cry of pain. Lance’s eyes go wide as he tries to take his foot back down and somehow try to convey how sorry he is for literally kicking his friend in the face, but Hunk laughs it off as he takes Lance’s foot in his hand and moves it over before spinning around in his seat with an amused smile.

“Keith, this is Lance,” he says, nodding his head toward him. “Lance, this is Keith.”

Keith, Lance thinks absently, and as if on cue Keith holds out his hand for him to shake, as if people actually did that anymore. Lance takes it anyway, just to humor him. His hand is clammy, but warm, and Lance doesn’t have any more time to think about it because Hunk is talking again, pointing a thumb behind him. “Shiro’s brother. You remember Shiro, right?” he asks.

At his name, the person in the passenger’s seat turns around and sends Lance a smile accompanied by a small wave and Lance is absolutely floored because oh, that’s Shiro in the front seat and oh, this is Shiro’s brother, and finally, Shiro has a brother my age? Since when?

Distantly, Lance realizes he’s still shaking Keith’s hand. 

“Pothole!” Matt suddenly hollers over them all, sounding all too excited than he should be, and then almost instantly does the van bounce and jostle everyone inside, knees and shoulders knocking against seats and doors and in Lance’s case, Keith. He has half a mind to just curl up and die right then and there because courtesy of the damned pothole, Lance had been launched out of his seat and then painfully slammed back down directly onto Keith’s thigh, their hands still clasped despite it all.

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Keith repeats with the same hiss he had given when they had bonked heads not a few minutes ago, squirming around in his seat before taking back his hand and gently maneuvering Lance off his lap like he weighed next to nothing. (Lance sees him flush all the way to his ears but only out of the corner of his eye because forget the thought of him ever looking Keith in the eye ever again.)

Lance sputters unintelligibly, ignoring the ache of his backside in favor of racking his brain for some kind of apology because oh my God, he’s making the worst first impression known to man right now and he deeply hopes that no one saw any of it.

The awkward quiet that settles in the van forces him to remember he should know better.

Lance closes his eyes and tries to block out everything; the itch in his fingers, the comfortable warmth pressed to his left thigh, and the fixed stare that he can practically feel boring a hole into the side of his face. He focuses on his breathing instead, wholeheartedly determined to snuff out the embarrassing flame growing in his cheeks.

There’s solace and comfort to be found in routine, if he’s not mistaken. Thanks to Keith, this is anything but.

Chapter Text

The day starts at 5 am.

It’s considerably far much earlier than Keith has grown accustomed to in the past year, but, and rather disdainfully, he figures he doesn’t have much of a right to complain, especially considering the circumstances.

Still, he isn’t particularly fond of waking before the sun, and much less of waking to his elder brother flicking his bedroom lights off and on in a repeated sequence before sauntering over to his bedside and eagerly shaking at his shoulder until Keith groaned in sleepy acknowledgment, all while blabbering something about schools and carpools and probably some other number of things that Keith had missed in his drowsy state.

“Matt’ll be here in fifteen.” His brother Shiro tells him when he finally manages to sit up in bed, the red comforter falling and pooling down at his waist, exposing his upper body to the cold of his bedroom. He shivers lightly and then frowns, the gears in his mind moving slowly but surely as he processes his brother’s words. It all takes him just long enough for Shiro to leave the room, do whatever it is adults do this early in the morning, and then pop back in again to check on Keith’s waking progress. 

Now significantly more coherent than he was a few seconds ago, Keith’s frown grows even deeper, and he sends his brother a distasteful look just short of a scowl. “And you chose to wake me now?” he asks in accusation and a little bit in offense, voice still raspy from sleep. If he was being honest, he only managed to snag a handful of hours the night prior, way too out of his own mind to do anything but stare at his ceiling from nine till two as his nerves went haywire about the upcoming day. 

Today was Keith’s first day at a new school. 

It’s not unlike him to relapse like this before starting afresh in a brand new environment, and having been moved from school to school as a kid when his father had bounced around for work acted as testimony to this poor habit of his.

There wasn’t something in particular that wrought this type of reaction from him, and according to the incoherencies Keith himself had cursed and mumbled in between the ragged gasps and breaths that Shiro had been so incredibly unlucky to witness two years ago (he almost had a full blown anxiety attack himself when he saw his little brother sat on his knees and pulling at his hair in desperation), it was more of a collection of things that made his lungs go tight and his face burst in suffocating warmth.

It was almost everything about starting a new school that overwhelmed Keith, Shiro worriedly came to find out. From the dizzying unfamiliar territory to the unwanted plethora of eyes watching his back and the dramatically loud whispers that simultaneously agitated and intimidated him. There was also the difference in academic curriculums, something in which Keith always ends up stressing out about even though there was no need because he was a stupidly smart kid that was always at the top of his class. 

Realistically, the only thing Keith potentially has to worry about is keeping out of trouble. 

All his life he had been placed in dingy public school after dingy public school, all drab and dreary and not very memorable, but always with a constant of groups of rowdy boys that would happily pick fights with Keith right on the first day and Keith, being the new kid with an unbearable burning in his chest that surely will still be there even if he moves away again in three weeks, would outright refuse to back down from any them, and would not hesitate to smash his fist into some poor kid’s face. 

(And then there’s Keith’s adamant problem with any and all authority, which is a whole other thing in and of itself.)

Progress had been made when he first entered high school, and he no longer fought with anyone who looked at him the wrong way, but then last week happened and now he was here, blinking tiredly from the lack of sleep and glaring at his brother with bloodshot eyes, bed head, and a boxer’s fracture that was bandaged yet still tender.

Keith curls his cold fingers and throws his bedsheets to the side. His socked feet meet the carpeted floor with a soft thump. Shiro leans his shoulder into the doorframe and seems to bite down a smirk. “You would’ve gotten all glowery if I woke you sooner.” he tells him, a knowing look on his face. Keith blinks slowly at him, like a deliberating cat. It does sound like him, given that his last school G-Tech started at 8 am and wasn’t far of a walk, therefore he would wake ten minutes before the first bell and be right on time. Any sooner and he’d be cranky until lunch. 

Still, Keith resents that. “I don’t glower.” he says in half-assed defense, knowing full well that yeah, he glowers sometimes, when the situation calls for it. 

Take last week, for example. 

Galra Tech was a grade A high school, one of the top schools in the country in fact, but it lacked in proper student etiquette, i.e. practically everyone there was an ass and there wasn’t even one person Keith could stand for longer than a minute. This, of course, also extended to the teachers (hence Keith’s earlier mentioned problem with authority), and all Keith did in that school was glower, a permanent sneer stuck onto his face. That and get into too many fights than one can count on one hand. 

He broke a kid’s nose last week. He was kicked out. 

“Yeah, you do. Matt’ll be here in ten,” Shiro replies easily before leaving Keith to his own devices, going out into the hallway to do who knows what and not bothering to close the door behind him. Keith narrows his eyes at the empty doorway and scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. 

Keith stands from his bed and cradles his right hand with his left, gently holding the bandaged fingers. “I thought you said fifteen,” he calls after his brother as he sulks at the open door. As expected, Shiro pokes his head back in, smiling brightly, almost impishly.

“Yeah, five minutes ago.” he says in a dumb tone, and then disappears again. Keith grunts. 

Briefly, he considers rolling himself back up into his sheets like a swaddled newborn and calling it a day even before it could actually begin, but then (and rather begrudgingly) he remembers all the great lengths Shiro had gone to in order to enroll Keith into this new school.

After the incident, practically every school in the county was wary about accepting a student with a record of one too many demerits in conduct and a lawsuit (though abandoned). Even Altean Academy, Shiro’s old high school, had initially turned down Keith’s application when they got a whiff of the situation.

It wasn’t until Shiro had talked to his lawyer and then pulled some strings with one of A Academy’s guidance counselors (in which he knew very well and still talked to even though he had graduated three years ago) that Keith was accepted with some conditions put down by Northlove County’s and A Academy’s administration. 

Those conditions included weekly meetings with Mr. Smythe and agreeing to the notion that no other noses will be broken within the duration of his senior year of high school. 

Keith leaves his room.

With not enough time to shower, all he does in the bathroom is hurriedly brush his teeth with Shiro’s weirdly fruity cavity-preventing toothpaste (it tastes like shit but his brother would just scold him and tell him to buy his own if he complained about it and Keith can’t be bothered to actually do that) and apply some deodorant when he admits to himself he wasn’t smelling all that pretty this morning. 

Shiro takes up to buzzing around his ear like an insisting bee, hopping all around their small apartment over and over, doing little morning tasks of his own before popping in on Keith every other second to ask if he was decent yet. Keith rolls his eyes and gives him a hard no each time he suddenly materializes by his side, but each time Shiro only nods, seemingly understanding, and then reappears with the same question.

Faintly, Keith thinks he’s doing it on purpose, just to annoy him. (Or, possibly, to distract Keith from his First Day nerves, which sounds more likely because Shiro is just like that.)

“Here, eat up,” Shiro chirps happily at Keith when he finally emerges from his bedroom dressed in all black save a large red cardigan which probably was Shiro’s once if the wide shoulders and long sleeves were anything to go by, and hands him a peach fruit cup and a chocolate chip granola bar. Keith shoulders his schoolbag into a comfortable position and takes the snacks with his good hand, amused.

“Mm, yum. Breakfast.” he responds dryly, blinking up at his brother. Shiro raises an eyebrow, squints down at him, and then reaches forward, the pointer finger of his prosthetic hand sweeping the inner corner of Keith’s eye. Keith flinches and then pulls a face like he’s about to sneeze. He bats Shiro’s hand away. 

“Yeah, mm, yum,” Shiro deadpans as Keith prys open the chilled fruit cup with his teeth. He perches his hand on his hip. “You don’t like it when I wake you to eat with me.”

Keith fiddles with the plastic on the cup and sips at the juice. “You’re a terrible guardian.” he says flatly before tipping his head back and slurping up most of the diced peaches so he wouldn’t have to use a spoon. Shiro blinks at him and then pushes his hand down so Keith nearly chokes.

“I will unadopt you.” he threatens with zero malice. 

Keith finishes his cup. “Nah, you’re too soft.” he quips automatically and all too knowingly. Shiro scowls at him and taps his head with his open palm, just hard enough to sting a little, but doesn’t say anything regarding the statement. Keith rubs at the spot without complaint.

It was true, really. Shiro would rather throw himself in front of a moving car before letting his little brother end up in the foster system again. (Keith was only in it for a couple of months back in middle school, right after his father passed away and before Shiro’s mother had adopted him, but he’s told Shiro enough about what he experienced in the homes that he had transferred back and forth from to scare and scar the older kid into the protective big brother he never got to be.) Keith silently appreciates it.

A light ding quickly cuts through their conversation and has Shiro fishing his phone from his front pocket. “Matt’s here.” he says with a special little smile that Keith would have loved to tease if he was slightly more awake at the moment.

Though he would sooner dig his own grave than admit it, Keith found Shiro’s friendship with Matt Holt sort of endearing, and he had never met another person that made his older brother laugh the way Matt does. (It must be nice, is what he means, and he’s happy for Shiro for finding such a friend.)

“Let’s go.” Shiro’s hand claps his shoulder, skims up Keith’s neck, and threads itself into his hair, giving it a short goodhearted ruffle. Keith then groans in annoyance, shivering at the sensation, and then slaps the back of his own head just to get rid of it. Shiro laughs and then practically skips out the door like an energetic bunny rabbit. Just how excited was he to see his friend? He just saw him yesterday for crying out loud! Keith doesn’t understand him. 

He pockets his granola bar and throws away his empty peach cup. 

He follows.

There’s a slight breeze outside and it’s soft against Keith’s pinkening nose as it gently tousles his hair into his eyes and mouth. Keith spits away any strands stuck on his lips and then tucks them away behind his ear as he locks up, house key twisting left then right until there is a deep click. He turns the doorknob for good measure and it doesn’t budge.

Satisfied, Keith walks toward the minivan stilled at the end of the driveway.

Matt Holt waves at him happily through the darkened glass of the driver's seat, a big smile on his freckled face. Keith lifts a shy hand in return and slides the door open, stepping inside with his head ducked cautiously, not wanting to hit his head. Expectedly, his brother is already perched in the passenger’s seat. Unexpectedly, there is another person in the car, and Keith nearly falters in surprise. 

“Morning Keith! D’you mind going all the way to the back? I’ve got more to pick up.” Matt cuts in before the weirdly familiar stranger behind Shiro could say anything. 

Keith blinks. “Uh, yeah. Sure,” he says, and then starts his awkward waddle to the furthermost right seat. Once he’s settled, the stranger in front of him slides the car door closed per Matt’s request, though they grumble a little under their breath when they sit back down and buckle up again. Matt only laughs at them and then looks up at Keith through the rear view mirror. 

“How’s the hand? Must’ve sucked. Heard Shiro got you into A Academy. Pidge goes there too, they can show you around if you’d like.” Matt offers, tone all chipper like it usually is as he pulls out back into the street.

Keith’s cheeks go hot. “Oh, no, it’s okay—”

“That’d be great, actually!” Shiro immediately cuts Keith off, beaming at Matt with his one thousand megawatt smile before looking over his shoulder and giving Keith a threatening look. “We’d appreciate that lots! Long as Pidge’s cool with it.”

The stranger—Pidge—looks up from where they were tapping away on their phone and looks between Shiro’s smile and Keith’s slight grimace. “Oh yeah, it’s no problem. I can help out.” they say with a nod as they nudge their big round glasses further up their nose (now that gesture is very familiar and it’s only until now Keith realizes oh, this is Matt’s younger sibling), though Keith suspects the quick agreeance is due to Matt staring Pidge down with a look that screams “Go ahead and disagree with me, watch what happens.”

Keith locks eyes with Pidge. 

“I’m Katie, but you can call me Pidge. She/they,” they roll a shoulder casually even as they both share a knowing exasperated younger sibling look that neither Matt or Shiro seem to notice. Keith nearly snorts. 

“Those don’t correlate at all,” Keith says automatically, not entirely thinking it through. He cringes at his own straightforwardness, but Pidge only barks out a quiet laugh into their palm.

“Yeah,” they agree almost flatly, tone dry but amused. Keith flushes up to his ears. 

“Keith. I’m a senior.” he says, ignoring the annoying red warmth growing in his face. 

“Oh, I’m a sophomore actually, but I’ve got mostly senior friends though, so they can help show you around too. They’re the ones we’re picking up right now.” Pidge tells him and Keith can only nod as to not embarrass himself again. He needs to breathe. Calm down his nerves even for a few minutes. He can practically feel his heartbeat in his throat at the moment. 

“Wait, Pidge, who else did you say we’d have to pick up again?” Matt suddenly calls with a knit in his brow, leaning back in his seat though his eyes were kept on the road. Pidge looks away from Keith (which he lets out a quiet sigh of relief at because, finally, and he was starting to squirm under their curious gaze) and leans into their knees, stretching out their seatbelt more than necessary. 

“Oh, Allura’s car is in the shop right now, something about the engine or something, so she asked if we could pick her up and drop her off for the rest of this week.” Pidge explains to their brother, who drawls out an ohhh and nods his head as he does.

“Okay, we’ll get her first then, since she lives closest. Hunk ‘n Lance after.” he says more to himself than to his younger sibling, though Pidge nods in agreement. Keith finds himself grabbing his heart by the strings and yanking at those reins to slow the rhythm of their beat behind his rib cage. He manages to calm down his nerves just as Pidge turns in their seat and addresses him with a sloped smirk. 

“So did you actually beat a kid up?” They ask with teasing yet genuine interest. Keith flushes again. 

“Katie Holt! You can’t just ask that!” Matt then gasps dramatically, apparently scandalized by the somewhat innocent question. 

Pidge turns to stick out their tongue at their brother as they cross their arms in front of their chest. “Well you guys won’t tell me what happened and it’s nicer to ask upfront than just assume! Plus,” Pidge then turns back to Keith, “Keith is a big boy, he can decide whether or not to tell me. I just wanted to know what’s up, honest. You don’t need to tell me.”

Keith chuckles awkwardly, willing away the warmth in his face. “Well, technically I didn’t beat him up. I just broke his nose,” he clarifies before lifting his bandaged hand and showing Pidge his broken fingers. “And his face broke my hand.”

Pidge gapes at him unblinking, looking on at him almost in awe. Keith doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“You broke his nose. You just broke his nose. You just broke his nose.” Pidge says slowly, taking their time to process the information. They look away, down at their own hand, before looking back up and just repeating what they said before. If they weren’t in a moving vehicle Keith bets they would’ve walked away with their head in their hands, going over the phrase in unbroken tandem. 

“He broke my hand,” Keith says weakly, not thoroughly understanding what exactly the big deal was. Noses are pretty fragile, and they are not very hard to break. Of course the types of punches Keith’s fists could give would be able to break a nose. He packs a killer right hook. 

As if they weren’t put into a trance of disbelief just seconds before Pidge perks up and shakes their head. “Nuh uh,” They tut smartly, holding up their index finger. “His face broke your hand. The force of the punch you gave broke your hand. All I’m hearing is he had no chance against you and your fist.”

Keith stifles a laugh, scoffs instead, and for the first time this morning he feels oddly at ease. “Well, he deserved it.” he says before crossing his arms, pointedly ignoring the warning glance Shiro sends him through the rearview mirror. (Didn’t Matt need that?)

Pidge raises their hands defensively. “Hey, I’m not saying he didn’t, but like, was it worth it? Where’d you even go?”

Keith freezes. 

Now, it’s not he feels bad about his situation or is ashamed of it (actually, he is a little embarrassed, but it’s mostly for Shiro and how he had to deal with G-Tech’s principal seeing as how the kid whose face Keith had punched in was her son’s), but technically the whole ordeal was under the administrative discretion of Galra Tech, Altean Academy, and even the entirety of Northlove county because G-Tech’s principal wanted to sue Keith and Shiro at first.

Only after some charges, contracts, and contacts with lawyers, Keith’s “aggressive behavior” was chalked up to needing “intensive therapy” by an experienced professional (in this case, A Academy’s guidance counselor Coran Smythe) and a big old expulsion from G-Tech. 

So legally, he’s not really supposed to talk about it.

“Ah, well,” Keith sets his mouth into his clammy palm, growing warm all over again. “I went to—” The last few words he says are warbled and sound nothing reminiscent of the english language. 

Pidge frowns at him and tilts their head. “Huh? You went where?”

What proceeds is just another combination of sounds that mean jack to either of them. Pidge sends him a flat look when he then repeats the gibberish once more. “Keith, dude, c’mon.” they say, nearly fed up. 

“Gawa Tek,” Keith insists as if it means anything. 

Pidge squints at him. “Gawa…Tek…” They frown, feeling the words in their mouth. Their eyes then go big and wide, green and gleaming. “Galra Tech?! You went to goddamn Galra Tech?!” Pidge screeches in a jumble of emotions, shock written all over their face as they lightly bounce in their seat.

The van comes to a sudden halt. 

Pidge’s twisted torso veers forward violently thanks to their overly stretched seatbelt and the back of their skull bangs the back Shiro’s head rest. Keith sputters at them after he fixes his own belt (which had nearly choked the hell out of him) and almost panics himself into a frenzy for not knowing how to help before Pidge sits up all on their own, groaning as they cradle the back of their head. 

“Holy shit, Matt, fuck.” They curse all at once as they settle back into their seat. Matt hums. 

“You should’ve been facing forward,” he reprimands with an innocent tone, both of his hands resting mockingly at ten and two as if he actually drove like that. You’d be lucky if he even bothers to use both hands in the first place. 

“I was talking to Keith!” Pidge exclaims, gesturing behind themself and toward Keith. Keith purses his lips and then nods, agreeing. That was a sentence he’s never heard before. 

“Good excuse.” Matt then chortles, as if reading Keith’s mind, before looking back at Keith through the rearview mirror and winking cheekily. Keith rolls his eyes to the side just as he spots a new figure hurriedly walking up to the minivan with a flailing limb. Keith shifts in his seat nervously. He sees Pidge wave back and not ten seconds later the door slides open for the new stranger. 

“Hi, hello, good morning!” An english accent greets happily and breathily as the stranger (Allura, Keith presumes) crawls into the van with a sight crouch. “Thanks for picking me up by the way, my car was being such a pain.” She complains to Matt with a sarcastic, exasperated drawl as she slides the door shut. Her eyes then fall on Keith and twinkle like little gems.

Keith tries a smile, but ends feeling too queasy to go through with it. The stranger doesn’t seem to mind. She sits herself right at Keith’s side. She buckles up as Matt starts driving, fixing her long platinum hair to sit in front of her shoulders before turning to Keith with an easy smile. 

“Hi, you must be Keith!” She says brightly as she holds out her hand for Keith to take. Keith flinches in surprise. “Pidge told me you were the new transfer! You’re new to A Academy, right? I’m Allura Quinn!” 

Keith blinks at her. Allura’s eyebrows furrow. 

“Like Principal Quinn.” he says without thinking, not even asking, much like he did with Pidge and their names. His face goes hot all over again and his heart starts to beat in his throat rather than his chest. 

Allura only blinks back at him, surprised by the non-question. She blushes. “Ah, yes. I’m his daughter. That’s not weird for you, right? I know your transfer here was rather special—not that I know any, uh, specifics, since it’s personal information not meant to be accessed by other students and, uh, yes. Principal Quinn’s my father.” Allura rambles sheepishly as her blush travels further up her cheeks. 

Keith chuckles nervously. “Um, no it’s okay, I just—I don’t have good experiences with principals’ kids.” he says as he awkwardly takes Allura’s outstretched hand with his good one, the angle not really working for either of them. Allura only nods like she fully understands his predicament without needing any background information about it.

“Um, right,” she says, taking her hand back into her lap. “So, if you don’t mind, why are you transferring to A Academy? Where’d you go before?”

Before Keith could answer either question Pidge turns in their seat, tuning into the conversation with a mischievous grin. “He punched a kid in the face.” they state smugly, as if they were proud of Keith for having done so. 

“Pidge!” Keith hisses in embarrassment as Allura’s eyes widen at Pidge. 

“Really?” She says in disbelief before tilting her head back toward Keith. “How’d that go over?”  

Keith rolls a shoulder. “Almost got sued,” he says on automatic before adding “And expelled. Well, I got expelled. So now I’m going here. To Altean.” He gets the point across with as little detail as possible, but then Pidge huffs, squints their eyes at Keith, and opens their big fat mouth Keith didn’t expect they’d have. (He should’ve. They are Matt’s little sibling after all.)

“He broke a kid’s nose so they kicked him out and now he’s going to Altean with us.” They summarize, blinking innocently when Keith sends them an unimpressed look. 

Allura puffs up her cheeks and Keith can’t tell if it’s in astonishment or judgement. “Wow…” she drifts lightly. “Was it worth it?”

Keith thinks. 

Had it been worth it? Throwing away a much desired spot at Galra Tech? One of the most exemplary schools in the country? Keeping all the doors it could’ve opened up for him under lock and key just to feel the sweet satisfaction of punching one of the most annoying people he’s ever met in all his seventeen years of life directly in the face? Had knocking G-Tech’s principal’s son down a peg or a two (or ten) been worth all those lost opportunities?

…Actually, you know what? He already knows the answer to that question. 

“I kinda wish I didn’t have to break my hand for it but yeah. It was worth it. He deserved it,” he says.

Unexpectedly, Allura barks out a laugh. “Ha. Remind me not to get on your bad side.” she teases. 

Keith smirks. “Will do.” he says as he casually leans back into his seat, much more relaxed than he was earlier this tired morning.

Considering the last time he switched schools (actually no, let’s not think any more about that, Keith’s not really in the mood to reminisce about that shitshow), things were going extremely well today, and he hasn’t even stepped foot on campus yet. 

He deeply hopes it stays that way. 

The van then comes to a much gentler halt at the end of a new driveway lined with lively oranged shrubbery. They’re in a slightly more rural part of town now, where houses edge the line of the thick stretch of Northlove Forest, with less intersections and a lot more trees.

Curiously, Keith watches as a new figure emerges from their home, school bag and medium-sized tupperware container in tow. They shout something into the house, a bid goodbye, before closing the front door and making their way down to the van, a big smile pasted on their lips.

“Ayy!” Pidge cheers as they unbuckle and slide the door open for the new stranger before plopping back into their seat and promptly beginning to bounce in great excitement. “Whatcha got for us, Hunk?”

The stranger—Hunk—gives out happy good mornings all around with a warm smile upon his lips before settling down in his seat parallel to Pidge, the scent of hot coffee and cocoa following suit.

Promptly, Hunk hands their tupperware container off to Pidge to slide the van door closed and buckle their seatbelt. “I’ve got chocolate chip-marshmallow, fresh out the oven about fifteen minutes ago!” They exclaim as Pidge hands back the container, prying the lid off to reveal the soft brown cookies. Pidge and Allura both lean in, ooh-ing and ahh-ing over them dreamily. Keith can practically see their mouths water. 

“Ready?” Matt then asks over his shoulder, eyes peering through the crook of his seat and the car door to check up on Hunk. Hunk nods with a smile like sunshine and gives Matt a confirming hum.

When Matt starts driving Hunk turns in his seat to face Pidge better and then holds out his cookies. “Try’em! They turned out really good and I already had a few so,” He says, and immediately Pidge and Allura stick their hands into the cookie container and take a few of the cookies at a time.

Shyly, Keith looks the cookies over, not entirely sure if the offer extended to him as well.

As if he read his mind, Hunk turns to Keith, yet another smile on his face. “You’re Keith, right? I’m Hunk! Want a cookie?” Hunk rattles the container at Keith, and Keith feels his face flush slightly. He nods shyly, and then grabs a cookie from the tupperware, giving it a small bite as Pidge ogles him intently. 

“Well?” The sophomore asks him, eyebrows high on their forehead in anticipation. Keith’s eyes flicker down to his lap, a little surprised and put off by the excessive staring from the kid. 

“It’s good.” He says with a slight nod of his head, involuntarily growing more and more shy by the second. He wipes invisible crumbs off his mouth before then looking up to Hunk. “You baked them?”

Hunks nods enthusiastically. “Yuh-huh! My moms helped me out too since they were already baking for Momma’s book club.” He says before turning away to offer Shiro and Matt his homemade treats.

Keith hums appreciatively around his cookie. 

Just as he finishes it off, Hunk swivels around in his seat while closing up his tupperware, a slight pout appearing on his lips. “Hey, do you think Lance’ll want any this time?” He asks mostly towards Pidge and Allura. 

At the mention of a new name, Keith simultaneously perks up and slouches into himself. He had forgotten there was one more person that was going to carpool with them. Nervously, he wipes his palms on his thighs and decides to listen into the conversation half out of curiosity, and half out of anxiety. 

“Well,” Pidge starts as they chew at their cookie thoughtfully. “He’ll probably be too full to have any because of breakfast. Best to ask during lunch.”

Allura nods along as she leans in to add onto Pidge’s reasoning. “Yeah, and you know how Mrs. McClain is! The big breakfasts and everything. Loverboy’s probably gonna be stuffed.” She says with a light, airy laugh. Hunk and Pidge giggle along. 

“Aw, I wish I ate breakfast. I would’ve, if it wasn’t for someone,” Pidge then raises their voice in a rather obnoxious tone as they send a glare toward the side of their older brother’s head, “who just had to get to their boyfriend’s place at exactly five fifteen like he had promised even though he could’ve spared a few minutes!”

Keith finds himself laughing at the joking stab at Matt, and fully enjoys the faux argument that ensues between both of the Holt siblings. 

The amusing show is then cut short when the van stops in front of a new house for the last time. The area is still a little more rural than Keith and Shiro’s place, but is closer to the main bustle of town and A Academy than Hunk’s place. The length of the Northlove Forest had faded away only a block ago. 

Keith rubs his hands on his thighs again, feeling the overly familiar prickle of nerves dancing at his fingertips and swirling in his stomach. He’s not sure if he can handle so many people in such an enclosed space with him. Where was this person going to sit anyway? The floor? That can’t be safe, right?

…Wait a minute.

Annoyed, Keith looks up at the ceiling with a silent groan after recognizing the familiar beginnings of an anxiety attack. He glares down at his shaking hands and breathes in slowly to calm himself down. 

One, two, three, four, five. There are five fingers on his left hand. One, two, three, four, five. There are five fingers on his right hand. Two of them are broken. There’s a black hair tie on his wrist. His fingernails are black. His boots are black. There are rips in his jeans. His sleeves are really long. This cardigan is a really nice shade of red.

Keith sighs. He’s fine. He’s doing good. He’s doing great. He’s doing so well in fact, that he doesn’t even realize the van door was wide open and a new stranger was already steps inside, a chorus of good mornings sung like praises as he does so.

The stranger smiles gently at his friends and he crawls inside, but as soon as Keith catches his eye he goes about as still as a statue. 

This guy—Lance, Keith’s brain helpfully supplies from earlier—seems to pale a little. Keith frowns and then shifts in his seat. What exactly was with all the staring this morning? It’s starting to make him a little uncomfortable. Was this guy okay? Was he sick or something? He looked a little sick to Keith, and he was only judging solely by how unbelievably tired he looked. Lance had heavier eye bags than Keith ever did during finals week last school year. 

“Hope you like to squeeze!” Matt then chirps, breaking the weird trance/staring contest thing that had been going on between the two boys. 

Keith watches silently as Lance shuffles forward only to pause in the middle of the van, his head ducked down to avoid hitting the low roof. Rather absently, Keith concludes that Lance must be taller than him if he had to slouch down that much. Maybe just a couple of inches, though. Not too much. 

Allura then breaks pats at the small space between her and Keith’s thighs with a smile. “Oh c’mon, Lance. He doesn’t bite.” she tries to reassure, though to Keith it seemed like it only made Lance blush and the others giggle. Hell, he even gave a chuckle of his own. 

And before Keith could even register it, Lance was squeezing himself right in between Keith and Allura, long limbs pushing into their already crowded space. Keith quickly shuffles back and away from him as far as he possibly can as Lance begins to settle in. The guy takes a whole minute to fumble his backpack off, and when he does so he almost hits Keith with said bag and then nearly knocks his elbow directly into Allura’s face.

When Pidge slams the van door shut, Lance jolts in surprise, and then knocks his head right into Keith’s.

What the fuck, Keith thinks as he gives out an immediate hiss as his bandaged hand reflexively goes up to cradle his throbbing head. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” He insists through gritted teeth, glowering as he distantly wonders what the hell he even did to deserve any of this today. 

Lance, annoyingly enough, seems unable to articulate any form of words, as all he does is stutter and Keith has to repress the urge to roll his eyes as they fall down to his boots. It’s not like he was mad or anything, it just had really fucking hurt.

“You dropped your keys.” Keith points out flatly as he spots a blue lanyard at his feet, picking it up with his unbroken fingers. Lance makes a weird sound and quickly takes his lanyard from Keith, shoving them into his jeans before crossing his legs pointly.

Unfortunately, whatever point he was trying to make fell incredibly short when he ended up kicking the side of Hunk’s face. Hunk let out a startled cry.

Keith’s eyebrows shot up as Lance frantically tried to take his foot back down to apologize, but Hunk seems to find it more amusing than anything else, taking Lance’s foot in his hand and moving it away before he twists in his seat with a big smile.

“Keith, this is Lance,” Hunk introduces as he nods his head toward Lance and then back at Keith. “Lance, this is Keith.”

Being unexpectedly put on the spot made Keith’s nerves flare like a firework, and without thinking, Keith stuck out his hand like Allura did this morning, body fully on autopilot. Inwardly, he cringed. Lance only blinked down at his hand, like he wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do with it.

I am so sorry, just take it please, Keith thinks pleadingly as if Lance could hear him. Before Keith could awkwardly admit defeat and take back the offer however (it’s getting hot in here and oh, that’s definitely his heart beating against his eardrums), Lance finally seems to catch on, and he takes Keith’s hand without any protest. 

Oh thank god, Keith thinks in an embarrassing amount of relief as they shake hands like actual decent people. Lance’s hand is cold and soft, and it makes Keith realize that he’s sweating.

“Shiro’s brother. You remember Shiro, right?” Hunk then asks Lance, pointing Keith’s brother out in the passenger’s seat. 

As Lance gives Shiro a glance, Keith takes up to wondering why he hasn’t let go of his hand yet. 

“Pothole!” Matt suddenly yells over everyone, sounding much happier than he should, and Keith’s anxiety spikes as high as it can because the entirety of the van rises and falls in a way vans are not supposed to, rattles everyone inside, and suddenly Keith has a lap full of Lance. 

Panicked, Keith finally snatches his hand back (what exactly was that about anyway? Was Keith supposed to let go earlier?) with a catlike hiss. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” Keith repeats more to himself as to not blow his rapidly shortening fuse. He focuses on getting Lance off his lap as quickly and as non-threateningly as he possibly can all while his hands shake and his face burns red hot in embarrassment instead. 

Once Lance is off of him, Keith feels his nerves subdue to nothing but a gentle tingle in the tips of his fingers, relief having washed over him like a cleansing wave. He lets out a deep and quiet breath to get his heart rate back under his control. He counts his fingers. One, two, three, four, five. Five fingers on his left. One, two, three, four, five. Five more fingers on his right. Two are broken. 

Okay. That wasn’t so bad, right?. He got through it. Whatever “it” was. He’s fine. He’s good. He’s great.

Shyly, Keith peeks over at Lance, hoping he didn’t give off too bad of a first impression. Unfortunately, Lance pays absolutely no attention to him—in fact, he was not only turned away from him, but his eyes were closed shut like he was trying not to burst a vein right then and there.

Well. That can’t be good.

Chapter Text

Hello! It’s me.

I just wanted to officially notify you all about this fic. I’m sure you’ve noticed there hasn’t been any update since the second chapter, and I’m sorry about that.

I never meant to abandon this fic, I have just been busy for the past few months for personal health reasons, so I never had any time to write and much less update.

Now that things have settled down, and I am much better health-wise, I want to try to get back into writing again. It will take some time (ok, a lot of time, since I’m still a student after all), but I am determined to finish this fic no matter what. It’s my goal to finish it before the end of the year.

So for now, please be patient with me, and thank you for reading what I have posted thus far. I look forward to having you guys read what I have planned.

So yeah. Sorry for taking so long to address this, and thanks for being here. I don’t know when I will be updating, but I promise I will be trying to write.

Bye now !!