Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keith’s first day at his new school was going to suck—he could feel it in his bones.
Junior year, new state, new school, new everything. California. Why the hell had they moved here again? It was hot, loud, and smelled like body spray and BO on a good day.

He lay sprawled on top of the sheets in his new room, which still didn’t feel like his. The walls were bare, the air stale, and the unfamiliar quiet made his skin itch. Shiro kept saying it was a fresh start, but Keith wasn’t buying it. He’d stopped believing in "fresh starts" a long time ago.

With a sigh, he rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. Another school. Another chance to be the weird, quiet kid who didn’t talk to anyone unless he had to. Great. 

Keith sat up slowly, rubbing a hand down his face before dragging himself out of bed. The hardwood floor was cold under his feet, a sharp contrast to the heat that always seemed to cling to the air here. He grabbed his clothes from the half-unpacked duffel in the corner—same stuff he always wore. Black Affliction long sleeve, worn and soft from too many washes. Baggy dark jeans with frayed hems. A heavy chain around his neck, silver rings slipped onto his fingers, and his wrist cuffed with black leather.

He turned toward the mirror above the dresser, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. Three small silver hoops glinted along the edge of his right ear. Shiro had told him once that he looked like he was trying too hard. But Keith wasn’t trying to be anything—this was just the version of himself people stared at the least.

As he slipped his shirt over his head, his thoughts drifted—unwanted and familiar—to his last school. He’d never fit in there either. No matter how quiet he kept, no matter how much space he gave everyone, he was always the outsider. Too angry. Too intense. Too weird. The foster kid with the bad attitude and the quiet eyes. He'd stopped trying to explain himself years ago. No one really listened anyway.

He pulled his sleeves down over his hands, hiding the faint scars on his knuckles. New school, same problems. Keith didn’t expect anything different.

But at least here, no one knew him yet.

Keith made his way downstairs, footsteps quiet against the creaky steps. The smell of eggs and toast still lingered in the air, though it had already started to fade. In the kitchen, his parents sat at the table sipping coffee, talking quietly between themselves. Shiro was there too, offering a tired smile when he noticed Keith.

Three plates sat neatly on the table—each one already scraped clean. The sink was filled with empty pans and the faint sizzle of heat still hummed from the stove. No fourth plate. No extra seat.

Keith didn’t say anything about it. He never did.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze flicking over the table once before looking away. He didn’t like breakfast anyway. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he always told himself.

“I’m heading out,” he muttered, not quite looking at anyone.

His mom gave a polite nod, barely lifting her eyes from her phone. His dad didn’t even glance up. Shiro, at least, looked like he wanted to say something—his mouth opened, then closed again, like he was thinking better of it.

Keith turned and walked out the door before anyone could try.

The garage door creaked open as Keith slid into his car—a beat-up black Mustang with more attitude than safety features. The paint was faded, the engine roared like it was angry to be awake, and the air inside still smelled faintly of smoke and cheap cologne from the previous owner. But it was his. Shiro had helped him fix it up over the summer, and somehow, it still ran. Barely.

He shoved the key into the ignition and turned it hard. The engine coughed, sputtered, then growled to life like it wanted to start a fight.

Keith peeled out of the driveway a little too fast, tires screeching against the curb. His mom yelled something through the open window—probably about slowing down—but the wind and engine swallowed her voice.

He drove like he didn’t care if he made it to school or not. One hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the radio that never quite worked right. He swerved around a trash can, clipped the edge of the sidewalk on a turn, and ignored every speed limit sign like it was a personal insult.

People stared when he pulled into the school lot, engine growling and brakes squealing as he parked crooked across the lines. Keith just sat there for a second, fingers tapping the steering wheel, staring at the building like it had already wronged him somehow.

This was going to suck. But he’d survived worse.

With a sigh, he grabbed his backpack, slammed the door shut, and made his way toward the front entrance—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, and walls already sky-high.

He made his way to the counselor’s office, shoulders hunched slightly under the weight of his backpack. Starting junior year three weeks late wasn’t exactly ideal. Everyone else already had their routines, their cliques, their inside jokes. Keith was just the new kid—again.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, quietly taking a seat in the small waiting area. A woman at the desk looked up and offered a warm smile.

“Hi,” she said, cheerful but not fake. “Mr. Kogane?”

“Yup.” Keith gave her a half-smile in return—polite, but cautious. He wasn’t a monster. He could be decent when it mattered.

“I’m happy to welcome you to Galran High,” she continued, standing to greet him properly. “I’m Mrs. Allura, your counselor. I’ve got your schedule here, and in a minute, I’ll have a student show you around so you’re not wandering the halls like a lost puppy.”

Keith winced slightly at that, but her tone was light, teasing—like she was trying to put him at ease. It didn’t really work, but he appreciated the effort.

She handed him a folded paper, crisp and freshly printed.

“Here’s your schedule. You’ve got Chemistry first, English after that, then Algebra III, and so on. You’re in mostly junior-level classes, though I saw you tested into the advanced lit section—impressive, by the way.”

Keith just nodded, folding the paper once more and slipping it into his pocket. Compliments made him uncomfortable.

“Give it a few minutes. Your guide should be here soon.”

The door creaked open behind him, and Keith glanced up, expecting another counselor or maybe some other unlucky transfer. Instead, in walked someone who looked like he belonged in a teen drama, not real life.

The guy was tall, tan, and casually confident in a way that immediately irritated Keith for reasons he didn’t care to unpack. His skin was smooth and sun-warmed, and his full, soft-looking dark hair flopped perfectly over his forehead like he’d just rolled out of bed and somehow made it work. He wore light-wash, low-rise jeans that hung baggy on his hips, and a blue sweatshirt that matched his eyes. His arms were crossed loosely, posture relaxed, like he had nothing to prove.

He was… pretty. Keith hated that it was the first word that came to mind.

Mrs. Allura perked up. “Ah, Lance! Perfect timing.”

Lance flashed a grin, and even his teeth were annoyingly nice. “Hey, Mrs. A.”

She gestured between them. “This is Keith Kogane—new junior. Keith, this is Lance McClain. He’s going to show you around today.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lance said, stepping forward with easy confidence. “Welcome to Galran High, home of overcrowded hallways and the world’s worst vending machines.”

Keith gave a small nod, barely making eye contact. “Cool.”

Lance raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. Instead, he turned toward the door with a dramatic wave. “Alright, mysterious new kid, follow me. Let the grand tour begin.”

Keith stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, keeping a careful step behind Lance as they left the office. 

They stepped out into the main hallway, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, lockers slamming and voices echoing off tile floors. Keith kept his head down, letting Lance take the lead. It wasn’t like he had a choice.

“So,” Lance said, walking backward in front of him with practiced ease, “this is the main hall. You’ve got your science wing that way, English is down there, and the bathrooms you probably don’t want to use are to your left.”

Keith arched a brow. “Why wouldn’t I want to use them?”

Lance shrugged dramatically. “You could … if you’re into weird smells, broken stalls, and questionable substances on the mirror.”

Keith blinked. “Right. Good to know.”

They passed a group of students huddled near the lockers. A few of them waved at Lance. He waved back with that easy, charming grin that made Keith want to roll his eyes.

“So, what’s your deal?” Lance asked casually. “You don’t talk much. Mysterious past? Brooding loner thing? Or are you just super shy?”

Keith glanced at him. “I’m not shy. I just don’t like talking to people.”

“Ouch,” Lance said, pressing a hand to his chest like he was wounded. “And here I thought we were bonding.”

“We’re not.”

Lance smirked. “You’re kinda mean, huh?”

“I’m honest.”

“Mmm. Tomato, tomahto.”

Keith shook his head, lips twitching despite himself.

They turned the corner toward the cafeteria.

“And this,” Lance said, swinging his arms wide, “is where dreams go to die. Also known as the lunchroom. Hope you like pizza that tastes like cardboard and sandwiches with exactly one slice of meat.”

“Sounds gourmet.”

“Oh, it is. Gordon Ramsay weeps every time he walks past.”

Keith snorted before he could stop himself.

Lance looked over, triumphant. “Was that a laugh?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “You talk too much.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lance led the way past the gym, arms swinging like he was on some kind of personal runway.

“And here we have the glorious gymnasium,” he announced. “Birthplace of many sprained ankles, emotional trauma from dodgeball, and—of course— me , star wide receiver.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You narrate your life out loud a lot?”

Lance glanced back, grinning. “Only when I’ve got an audience.”

Keith muttered, “Wasn’t aware I signed up for a one-man show.”

Lance let the comment slide with a dramatic sigh, like he was being personally wronged. “You know, most new students are grateful. I’m giving you the deluxe package here. Friendly local guide, charming commentary—what more could you want?”

“Directions,” Keith said blandly. “Maybe a map. Less noise.”

Lance stopped walking, turning on his heel with mock offense. “ Noise ? Wow. Hurtful. I’ve been called a lot of things, but never noise. ”

“First time for everything.”

Lance narrowed his eyes just slightly, the edge of his smile twitching. “You’re kind of intense, huh?”

Keith tilted his head. “You’re kind of… not.”

Lance huffed, then turned back around, muttering just loud enough for Keith to hear. “Maybe they should’ve assigned Hunk or someone. At least he appreciates my humor.”

Keith didn’t respond, but the slight twitch in his jaw said plenty.

They passed by a trophy case full of dusty awards. Lance gestured lazily to it.

“Here lies Galran High’s athletic glory,” he said. “Mostly football and track. I’d show you the academic trophies, but… they’re somewhere between nonexistent and laughable.”

Keith scanned the case, unimpressed. “Guess we’re not winning any spelling bees.”

“Oh, look! A joke.” Lance shot him a look over his shoulder. “Careful, people might think you’re warming up to me.”

Keith didn’t blink. “That was sarcasm.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. “You’re, like, allergic to friendliness or something.”

“Not allergic,” Keith said evenly. “Just selective.”

Lance let out a laugh, but this one sounded more exasperated than amused. “Man, this is gonna be a long year.”

Keith shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

Keith looked at him. “I could be you.”

Lance stared at him, mouth opening slightly—then shutting again. He turned away with a scoff, stomping off toward the next hallway with dramatic flair. Keith followed, quietly pleased with himself and already regretting it.

After a few more stops—including a rushed walk past the arts wing and a wildly unnecessary detour just so Lance could point out the vending machines—Keith’s patience was wearing thin. He didn’t say much, and Lance, for all his animated commentary, finally started running out of things to say.

Then the bell rang, sharp and shrill overhead, sending a wave of students pouring into the hallways like a flood.

Lance clapped his hands once. “Well, Keith, it’s been real. Welcome to Galran High. I gotta catch up with my friends—people who, you know, actually talk back when I speak.”

He turned around to where Keith had been standing.

But Keith was already gone.

Keith didn’t like lunch. Never had.

It was loud. Crowded. Messy in ways that made his skin itch. He didn’t care to fight for a table or try to decode the social hierarchy of yet another cafeteria in yet another school he didn’t want to be in.

So instead, he slipped through the shifting crowd, quiet and unnoticed, backpack slung low, footsteps soft against the tile.

The library was empty—blissfully so. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the rows of books stood like silent sentinels, untouched by the chaos just outside the double doors. Keith moved past the front desk without so much as a glance, heading toward a corner near the back where the windows let in filtered sunlight and the world felt far away.

He sat down, dropping his bag to the floor, and leaned back in the chair.

No noise. No pretending. Just quiet.

He liked it that way.

Lance wove his way through the cafeteria, offering waves, finger guns, and smirks to various tables as he passed. He spotted Hunk easily—sitting where he always did, near the back wall where the sun hit just right, with Pidge already half-buried behind a tablet and a tray of tater tots.

“Miss me?” Lance announced, sliding into the seat across from them.

“You were gone for twenty minutes,” Pidge deadpanned without looking up.

“Plenty of time to be missed.”

Hunk grinned. “How was tour guide duty?”

Lance flopped dramatically, arms splayed across the table. “Painful. I think my soul actually tried to leave my body somewhere around the science wing.”

Pidge raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“That bad,” Lance confirmed. “He barely said three words, and when he did talk, it was like... all dry sarcasm and judgey stares. And he kept looking at me like I’d personally offended him by breathing near his general vicinity.”

Hunk winced. “Yikes.”

“Right?” Lance shook his head. “He’s like one of those broody loner types from a vampire movie. Black clothes, scowl included. Probably journals about the void.”

“Did you even catch his name?” Pidge asked, finally looking up.

“Keith something,” Lance said, waving a hand. “Kobayashi? Kodama? Whatever. Point is, he dipped before lunch. I was mid-sentence, turned around, and he was just gone. Poof. Real ninja behavior.”

There was a quiet chuckle from next to Hunk.

“Oh, right,” Hunk said, gesturing between them. “Lance, this is Shiro. He’s new too—senior. Just transferred here a couple weeks ago.”

Lance turned, and for a moment his expression flickered with surprise. “Whoa. You’re the guy from chem, right? With the metal arm?”

Shiro gave a polite smile. “That’s me.”

“Man, you’ve got a cool vibe,” Lance said, immediately shifting gears. “Like if Captain America had a goth phase.”

Shiro huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking back to his tray.

Lance leaned in. “Anyway, you’re lucky. You didn’t have to be babysitting today. That kid—Keith—was a whole storm cloud in skinny jeans. Bet he’s already haunting the library or brooding on the roof.”

Shiro stayed quiet. He didn’t even blink.

Pidge shot him a look, like she was trying to decide if he was holding something back. Hunk just kept eating.

Lance didn’t notice—too busy mimicking Keith’s unimpressed face and dramatic sighs.

“Seriously,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “‘I don’t talk to people.’ ‘Maps, not noise.’ Dude’s allergic to joy.”

Shiro picked up his water bottle and took a long, steady sip.

Still didn’t say a word.

The bell rang, cutting through the last of Keith’s peace and dragging him out of his corner in the library.

He moved through the hallways with his usual quiet stride, dodging the chaos without effort, and finally slipped into the chemistry lab just as the second bell echoed overhead. The classroom smelled faintly of rubbing alcohol and burned plastic—familiar. Predictable. He liked that.

Most of the seats were already taken, students clustered together in pairs at lab tables. Keith’s eyes scanned the room until he spotted a girl seated alone near the back, goggles already pushed up into her short, messy hair. She was flipping a pencil between her fingers, bored but focused.

Keith made his way over and slid into the seat beside her without a word.

She glanced at him sideways. “New kid?”

“Keith,” he said.

“Pidge.” She stuck her hand out like she meant it, and Keith shook it.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, not awkward.

“I figured they'd pair me with someone who couldn’t tell the difference between an Erlenmeyer flask and a beaker again,” Pidge said, rolling her eyes. “You don’t look like you’ll set anything on fire. Accidentally.”

“No promises,” Keith said, and the corner of Pidge’s mouth twitched up in a grin.

“Fair. At least you don’t smell like Axe body spray and dumb decisions.”

Keith blinked, surprised by the joke. Then, unexpectedly, he smirked. “Let me guess. Your last partner?”

“Freshman football kid. Nice, but his idea of chemistry was seeing what happens when you light gummy bears on fire.”

“That… sounds kind of awesome.”

Pidge laughed. “It was. Just not during finals week.”

Mr. Iverson stepped into the room, clapping his hands to get their attention. “All right, scholars. Goggles on. We’re running a basic acid-base reaction today. Try not to blind anyone.”

Keith and Pidge both reached for their goggles at the same time, syncing up like they’d been partners all year.

As the class got started, Keith found himself actually listening—for once not because he had to, but because Pidge kept making quiet, dry comments under her breath that made it hard not to smirk. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t nosy. She didn’t ask him stupid questions or try to fill every silence with words.

She was just… easy to be around.

When Keith got to his next period he slumped into the back row of the classroom, dropping his bag to the floor with a quiet thud. The day had been long. Not hard—just long . He was used to keeping his head down, but that didn’t mean he liked the constant buzz of unfamiliar voices or the way everyone around him seemed to exist at full volume.

At least it was the last class of the day.

He rested his chin on his hand and stared out the window as students filtered in. A few he recognized. Most he didn’t.

Then the door swung open again, and in came Lance, laughing at something Hunk had said, Pidge right behind them. Shiro followed a few steps later, quieter but smiling, like he belonged with them. Like he always did.

Keith sank lower in his seat.

Of course.

Lance spotted him immediately, and his smirk grew. “Well, well, broody made it past lunch. Wasn’t sure you’d survive the cafeteria.”

Keith didn’t look at him. “Didn’t go.”

“Tragic,” Lance said, sliding into a seat diagonally across from him. “You missed a thrilling debate on whether tater tots count as a vegetable.”

“They don’t,” Pidge muttered as she took the seat next to Keith without hesitation.

The teacher, Ms. Holt, stood and clapped her hands. “Okay, listen up. We’re starting a group project today—The Great Gatsby. You’ll be working in teams of five. Presentations are due in two weeks.”

Groans followed. A few kids tried to pair up on the spot.

Ms. Holt ignored them. “Groups are preassigned.”

Keith felt his stomach drop.

“Table seven,” she said, scanning the room. “Shiro, Lance, Hunk, Pidge… and Keith.”

Keith blinked.

Pidge looked delighted. “Oh, perfect.”

Lance leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “This day just keeps getting better.”

Keith didn’t move.

Ms. Holt gestured. “Table seven. Let’s go.”

They all shifted seats, dragging desks together until the five of them were clustered in a loose circle. Shiro sat directly across from Keith but didn’t meet his eyes. He said nothing.

Keith didn't either.

“Alright,” Hunk said brightly, flipping through the packet Ms. Holt handed them. “So, we each take a theme, right? I can handle the American Dream part.”

“I call anything that lets me make a slideshow,” Pidge said, already opening her laptop.

“I’m obviously narrating,” Lance said, flashing a grin. “Gatsby would’ve killed for my voice.”

Keith exhaled slowly through his nose.

Lance noticed. “Unless you want that part, mystery man?”

Keith shrugged. “I’ll take whatever’s left.”

Silence followed.

“Okay…” Hunk said gently. “Well, there’s symbolism. That’s kind of a big one.”

“I’ll do it.”

His tone was flat, but final.

They all glanced at each other. Shiro looked like he wanted to say something—but didn’t. Instead, he opened the book and pretended to read, his expression unreadable.

Pidge gave Keith a side glance, thoughtful.

Lance leaned closer to Hunk and muttered, just loud enough for Keith to hear, “He talks less than Gatsby’s conscience.”

Keith didn’t rise to the bait. He opened his copy of the book, pen already in hand, and started underlining.

They could talk. Laugh. Joke. He didn’t need to.

He’d do the work. He’d keep his head down. Just like always.

And if Shiro still couldn’t look him in the eye?

Keith was already used to that too.

By the time they made it past the first page of the project packet, the conversation had wandered completely off-track.

“I’m just saying,” Lance insisted, leaning across the desk toward Hunk, “if Gatsby had been born in modern times, he definitely would’ve been a crypto bro.”

“Absolutely not,” Pidge said without looking up from her laptop. “He had too much taste.”

“He threw parties with live orchestras and no plumbing. Taste is debatable.”

“You’re just bitter you can’t pull off a white suit,” Hunk teased.

Lance placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “Excuse me, I can pull off any suit.”

Keith didn’t laugh, but his pencil paused against his notebook for half a second.

Pidge nudged him. “What about you, Keith? Think Gatsby’s secretly a tech bro in disguise?”

Keith glanced up, caught off guard. “I think he’s obsessive. Kind of sad.”

There was a short silence. Not judgmental—just surprised.

“Okay,” Lance said after a beat. “Didn’t expect insight. Thought you were still refusing to speak in full sentences.”

Keith shrugged. “I talk. Just not all the time.”

“Yeah,” Shiro said with a small chuckle. “He’s been like that since we were kids.”

Hunk blinked. “Wait— since you were— ?”

Pidge’s head snapped up. “Hold on. Kids ?”

Keith stiffened slightly, but Shiro just kept smiling—like he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud.

“Wait— you two are related? ” Lance burst out, pointing between them. “Like actual, real-life brothers?”

“Adopted,” Keith muttered, eyes back on his notebook.

Shiro’s smile faded just slightly, settling into something quieter. “Yeah. He’s my younger brother.”

“You’ve been here this whole time and didn’t say anything?” Lance looked between them again, scandalized. “I’ve been trash-talking your brother all day, and you didn’t stop me?”

Shiro held up his hands. “I figured you’d dig your own hole eventually.”

Keith glanced sideways, unimpressed. “You let him keep going.”

“You looked like you could handle it.”

Lance opened his mouth to argue, then paused. “Okay, fair.”

Pidge grinned. “This is better than Gatsby.”

Hunk laughed. “Way more drama.”

Lance pointed at Keith. “Alright, mystery solved, but this still explains nothing about why you act like you’ve been raised by wolves.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Better than being raised on attention.”

“Ouch,” Lance said, though he didn’t sound that hurt.

Soon after, the bell rang.

Backpacks zipped. Chairs scraped. The classroom emptied in a rush of chatter and slamming lockers. The group split off naturally—Lance calling something over his shoulder to Hunk, Pidge chasing after them with her laptop still open, Shiro giving Keith a quiet nod before turning down another hallway.

Keith didn’t say goodbye.

He never really did.

Out in the parking lot, the heat clung to the pavement in waves. Keith made his way to his car, the matte black Mustang already shimmering under the California sun like it had been baking in an oven all day.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

The engine didn’t start.

Keith leaned his head back against the seat and let out a slow breath. He didn’t even put the keys in the ignition. Just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, letting the silence fill the space around him.

The smell of leather and faint old smoke clung to the seats. One of Shiro’s hoodies was still shoved in the back, forgotten. The little things grounded him. Reminded him where he was.

But it still didn’t feel real.

New school. New people. New expectations. None of it made him feel any different. The air still felt too thick in his lungs. His thoughts still moved too fast, too sharp around the edges. He could still feel the phantom weight of being the kid on the outside looking in.

Even when he was sitting at the same table.

Even when Shiro was right there.

He ran a hand through his hair, breathing out through his nose.

Then, finally, he turned the key.

The Mustang roared to life like it was protesting. Keith backed out of the space too fast—his tires screeched a little when he turned. 

He didn’t want to go home.
Not yet.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he drove with no real destination in mind, windows cracked just enough to let in the wind, engine too loud for the quiet stillness in his chest. He ended up at the beach—because of course he did.

Funny, right? A beach.
Not exactly where you’d expect to find an emo.

Keith parked near the edge of the lot, where the sand met a half-broken sidewalk and a rusted bike rack no one used. He killed the engine and stepped out, hands in his pockets, boots already filling with heat from the pavement.

The late afternoon sun was gold and low, painting everything in soft oranges and pale pinks. A few families still dotted the shoreline. Kids ran in and out of the water, their laughter shrill and distant. A couple was laying on a blanket, tangled up in each other. Seagulls screamed like they were in pain overhead.

It was... peaceful. In an annoyingly public kind of way.

Keith kicked off his shoes and stepped onto the sand. It was too warm and too fine and definitely going to get stuck in his jeans, but he didn’t care. He walked until he was close enough to hear the tide. Then he sat down, knees pulled up to his chest, elbows resting lazily on top.

He didn’t know what he was doing here.

He didn’t like loud places, or crowded ones, or places that screamed relax when all he could do was think.

But it was better than home.
Better than pretending to be someone Shiro wasn’t ashamed of.
Better than sitting in his room waiting for someone to remember to knock.

He stared out at the water.

Maybe California wasn’t all that bad. The ocean wasn’t the worst thing. It was big and messy and endless and loud—kind of like his head—but still soft around the edges. Still moving.

He could live with that.

For now.

Chapter Text

Mornings in the McClain household were loud. Always had been.

Lance barely cracked open one eye before he heard the unmistakable thud of little feet racing down the hallway, followed by a high-pitched scream of, “¡Tío Lance! Wake uuuup!”

Before he could brace himself, the door burst open and two tiny bodies launched onto his bed.

“Ugh,” he groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “Nadia, Sylvio—why. Just why.”

“We’re going to the zoo today!” Nadia announced, climbing over his back.

“ Lisa and Luis are taking you to the zoo,” he mumbled, still half-asleep. “I’m going to school. Where dreams go to die.”

Sylvio laughed like that was the funniest thing in the world.

Eventually, they scrambled off, chased by the sound of Lisa’s voice calling them to breakfast. Lance sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The sun was already spilling in through the wide windows of his room, warm and golden across his desk and the pile of laundry he’d been ignoring.

He stretched, groaned, then pulled himself out of bed.

By the time he made it to the bathroom, Rachel had already hogged the sink.

“Seriously?” he groaned.

She side-eyed him through the mirror. “You’re lucky I even let you use this bathroom, baby brother.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Rachel was kind of terrifying in the morning. Instead, he waited until she left, then brushed his teeth and ran wet hands through his curls until they looked semi-decent.

He pulled on a pair of light-wash jeans and a clean white T-shirt, layered under an oversized flannel that matched his sneakers. Casual, effortless—but still undeniably Lance.

As he slipped on a few rings and spritzed cologne, his thoughts drifted—annoyingly—to Keith.

Keith, with his dark eyes and quieter-than-death attitude. Keith, who always sat just far enough away to seem distant, but not far enough for Lance to ignore. Keith, who corrected him constantly and acted like every word Lance said was some kind of personal offense.

It wasn’t that Lance hated him, exactly. But something about the guy just got under his skin.

Which would’ve been fine—if Shiro didn’t keep taking his side.

That part made no sense. Shiro was cool. Friendly. One of the only upperclassmen who didn’t treat Lance like he was annoying. But anytime he and Keith clashed—and it happened often—Shiro would jump in with a calm, “He’s not wrong, Lance,” or a subtle head shake like you’re being dramatic again.

It bugged him. Not enough to ask about it. But enough to stew a little.

Lance shook his head, grabbing his backpack.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like coffee and cinnamon. Marco was already dressed and on his laptop at the counter. Veronica was half-asleep at the table, sipping from a “Don’t Talk to Me” mug. Lisa flipped pancakes while Nadia and Sylvio colored at the corner of the table.

Luis looked up from the newspaper when Lance walked in. “You’re late.”

“Fashionably,” Lance said, grabbing a piece of bacon from a plate and dodging Lisa’s attempt to smack his hand with a spatula.

He kissed his mom on the cheek, nodded at his siblings, and grabbed his keys off the hook. “Later, fam. Try not to miss me too much.”

“Bring home good grades and not detention,” Lisa called after him.

“No promises!”

He grinned as he stepped outside. Sun on his face, keys in hand, and one week and a half into junior year. So far, so good—except for the storm cloud in black denim that kept showing up everywhere he turned.

The quad was already buzzing by the time Lance strolled in, warm sunlight reflecting off the metal picnic tables and the stretch of pavement that students used as an unofficial hangout zone.

He spotted the group easily—Shiro sitting on top of the table with a book in his hand, Pidge and Hunk arguing over something on Pidge’s phone, and Keith leaning against the backrest, earbuds in, hood up, arms crossed like he wanted to disappear.

Classic.

Lance jogged over, slinging his backpack onto the table with a grin. “Hey, nerds.”

“Morning, Your Loudness,” Pidge replied without looking up.

Hunk smiled. “Hey, man.”

Shiro nodded. “You’re actually on time today.”

Lance held up a hand. “Let’s not jinx it.”

Keith didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look up.

Lance glanced at him, then back at the rest of the group. “So, I was thinking… it’s hot, it’s Friday, and we deserve something not school-related for once. What if we hit the beach after classes?”

Pidge blinked. “Like... all of us?”

“Yeah.” Lance looked around. “C’mon. A little swimming, a little sun, a little dramatic sunset moment—”

“I’m in,” Hunk said immediately. “I already packed snacks just in case today needed saving.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Pidge muttered.

Shiro chuckled. “I’ve got nothing else planned. I’m down.”

They all looked toward Keith, who hadn’t moved. His eyes were still fixed somewhere far away.

Lance tilted his head. “You going to ignore the invite or pretend you didn’t hear it?”

Keith pulled one earbud out slowly, finally looking at him. His expression was unreadable, but his tone was dry. “Didn’t sound like you meant me.”

“Oh, I definitely meant you,” Lance replied, giving a dramatic flourish. “What kind of group hang would it be without Mr. Eternal Brood tagging along?”

Keith narrowed his eyes, but Shiro cut in with a quick, light voice. “You should come. Could be good to hang out outside of school.”

There was a weird pause—just long enough for Lance to notice how carefully Shiro avoided saying “get to know each other.”

Keith shrugged. “Fine.”

Lance blinked. That was... easier than expected.

“Great,” he said, flashing a grin. “Bring swim trunks, not that sad long-sleeve shirt you wear like it’s armor.”

Keith didn’t respond. But he did glance at Lance, just for a second. Just long enough for Lance to wonder if maybe—just maybe—this beach trip was going to be a little more interesting than he'd thought.

Keith stood in front of the mirror, jaw tight, arms aching.

The red swim shirt clung to his frame, sleeves pulled down to his wrists. He adjusted it for the third time, tugging at the fabric like it would somehow hide the heat still ghosting under his skin. His black swim trunks sat low on his hips, sharp contrast to the bright red of the shirt.

“You’re really wearing that?” Shiro asked from the doorway, towel slung over his shoulder. His voice was careful, but Keith heard the judgment underneath it anyway.

Keith didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”

Shiro stepped farther into the room. “You know it’s almost ninety out. You’re going to roast.”

Keith opened the top drawer, pretending to search for something he didn’t need. “It’s fine.”

“You’re going to stand out, Keith.”

“Good. Then no one will try to talk to me.”

That earned a sigh. The quiet kind. The kind Shiro used when he was trying not to say the wrong thing. Or maybe just trying not to start a fight.

“I’m just saying,” Shiro said eventually, “if you don’t want to go—”

Keith spun around. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t seem like you want to.”

Keith’s fingers twitched at his sides. “Maybe I’m just not good at pretending I enjoy stuff I don’t.”

Shiro’s mouth flattened. “You think I’m pretending to like my friends?”

“I think you’re pretending not to be embarrassed I’m going.”

That hung between them like a slap. Shiro looked stunned for a second—offended, even—but didn’t deny it. Didn’t say a word.

Which told Keith enough.

Keith grabbed his towel off the desk chair and pushed past him, heart hammering, throat dry. He didn’t want to go to the damn beach, but he didn’t want to stay here either. Not in this house. Not with the empty dinner table and two ghost parents and Shiro looking at him like he was a problem to manage.

He was halfway down the hall when they heard the honk.

A white Jeep pulled up to the curb outside, music thumping from the open windows. Lance was in the driver’s seat with one arm slung casually over the wheel. Pidge and Hunk sat in the back, sunglasses on, laughing about something.

Keith hesitated at the door. Shiro came up behind him.

“Don’t make it worse than it needs to be,” Shiro said quietly.

Keith didn’t answer. He just pushed the door open and stepped outside.

The sun was way too bright. The Jeep was obnoxiously white. And Lance was already grinning like this was going to be the best day of his life.

God, Keith regretted everything.

Keith and Shrio got in the car. 

The Jeep’s engine hummed as Lance pulled away from the curb, the open windows letting in a rush of warm wind and salty air from the coast. Music thumped faintly through the speakers—something upbeat and summery that made Keith want to roll his eyes on instinct.

Shiro sat up front, his arms folded, one foot braced casually against the dashboard. His plain black swim trunks and neatly packed beach bag screamed “responsible adult,” even though he was only a senior.

Keith sat squeezed in the backseat between Hunk—who smelled like sunscreen and joy—and Pidge, who was scrolling through their phone with one knee pulled up to their chest. They were wearing a moss green tank top and brown swim trunks, and their hair was tucked beneath a backwards cap.

Lance, shirtless and obnoxiously tan, turned the music down a little as they hit the main road. “Fifteen minutes to paradise,” he called over his shoulder. “You guys ready for the best beach day of your life or what?”

“Only if you don’t crash us into the ocean,” Keith muttered.

Lance scoffed. “Relax, Emo. I’m an excellent driver.”

Hunk leaned in conspiratorially. “He once reversed into his own mailbox.”

“Unprovoked slander,” Lance said, but he was grinning.

Shiro laughed lightly, and Keith couldn’t help but feel the pressure of his brother’s presence beside him, even with a whole row of seats between them. He didn’t know what to say. He was still mad. Still stinging from what they hadn’t said back at the house. But pretending nothing happened was easier. And less exhausting.

“So,” Pidge said suddenly, turning to Keith, “you ever been to this beach before?”

Keith shook his head. “Not really a beach person.”

“Yeah, you look like you belong in a haunted forest more than on a sunny coastline.”

Keith blinked. Then—unexpectedly—he snorted. “Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment,” Pidge said, smirking. “Haunted forest kids are way cooler than beach bros.”

Hunk laughed. “You just say that because you’d burst into flames in the sun.”

Pidge flipped him off without looking away from Keith. “Anyway. You like any games? Cards? Board games? We do beach Uno like, religiously.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now.”

Keith nodded once. “Alright. I’m in.”

“Just so you know,” Lance called out, glancing at them in the rearview mirror, “I don’t lose at Uno.”

“You also said you don’t hit mailboxes,” Pidge shot back.

Shiro chuckled softly, shaking his head. Keith caught the sound and looked at him—just briefly. Shiro met his eyes, and for a second, his smile faltered. Like maybe he wanted to say something. Maybe even apologize. But then he looked away.

Keith looked out the window again, arms crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his red swim shirt pulled tight at the wrists. The road curved along the coast now, ocean blue and endless on the horizon.

The Jeep rolled to a stop at the edge of the beach parking lot, tires crunching over gravel. The ocean sprawled out ahead of them, glittering under the late afternoon sun, waves crashing in a steady rhythm that was too perfect to be real. Surfers dotted the water, umbrellas were scattered along the sand, and music drifted from a speaker farther down the shore.

“Alright, beach crew,” Lance announced, throwing the Jeep into park and hopping out, “let’s make some bad decisions and blame it on the sun.”

Pidge groaned. “If you say that one more time—”

“I will!” Lance grinned. “Every trip. It’s tradition.”

Hunk started pulling a cooler from the back while Pidge grabbed the beach towels. Shiro stepped out more slowly, scanning the beach like he was looking for the quietest, safest place to plant them all.

Keith lingered for a second in the backseat before climbing out, adjusting his long sleeves and already bracing himself for the heat.

“Keith,” Shiro said quietly, tugging at his arm before he could walk off with the others. “Can we talk for a second?”

Keith froze. He didn’t want to. Every bone in his body screamed not to. But Shiro had that tone—the one that made saying “no” feel like failure.

So he followed, off to the side, near the back of the parking lot where the dune grass whispered and the ocean was just white noise.

Shiro crossed his arms. “What happened earlier? At the house?”

Keith shrugged. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I was just trying to help.”

“You were embarrassed I was coming.”

Shiro sighed, “Keith, can you blame me? You’re embarrassing. I mean, you see how mom and dad-” 

“Y’know what Shiro, fuck you I dont care. Nothing you say is going to change anything, especially when you don’t even mean it.”

Shiro opened his mouth to speak- “I’ve never cared what you had to say. Never.” 

Shiro’s mouth shut slowly, lips pressed into a thin line.

For a second, neither of them said anything. The air felt too heavy to breathe.

Then Keith turned to walk away, jaw locked tight—just as Lance rounded the corner of the Jeep, beach towel slung over his shoulder and a teasing smile half-formed on his face.

It froze instantly.

“You’ve never cared what he had to say?” Lance repeated, voice sharp, the sarcasm gone. “Wow. Real nice.”

Keith blinked, thrown off. “What?”

“You know, for someone who acts like the world’s out to get him, you’re kind of an ass.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t supposed to be listening.”

“I wasn’t trying to!” Lance snapped, stepping closer. “But it’s kind of hard not to hear when you’re yelling at the one person who’s had your back since day one.”

Keith scoffed, starting to push past him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? I’ve known Shiro for, what, two weeks? And I already care more about him than you apparently do.”

Keith stopped walking. Slowly turned back around.

“Don’t pretend you care about him,” Keith said, low and cold. “You just want to be liked. You want to be the guy everybody picks first. Hero complex bullshit.”

Lance flinched. “At least I don’t push away the people who give a damn.”

“Because you don’t have any real ones,” Keith snapped back. “Just a crowd of people who laugh at your jokes until they find someone better.”

The words hit harder than he meant them to—and they both knew it.

Lance stared at him, the wind catching in his hair, mouth parted like he didn’t know whether to yell or walk away.

“You’re exhausting,” he finally said, voice quieter. “No wonder you’re always alone.”

Keith didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.

Lance shook his head, backing off, turning toward the sand without looking back.

Keith didn’t go down to the beach.

He waited until they weren’t looking—until Lance had disappeared into the dunes, and the others were unpacking their bags—then turned and started walking. The sun pressed down on him like punishment, but he didn’t stop. His sleeves stuck to his arms. Sand got in his shoes. Every step away felt like a relief and a regret.

The walk home was long. Too long. And quiet in a way that made his thoughts too loud.

By the time he reached the front door, the sky had started to burn orange at the edges. He shoved the key into the lock, stepped inside, and tried to pretend he wasn’t hoping no one would be home.

But of course they were.

His mom looked up from the kitchen, mouth already tight. His dad stood by the counter, arms crossed.

“Where the hell have you been?” his mom snapped.

“Beach,” Keith muttered, already moving to pass through.

“You didn’t tell us,” his dad said, voice low and simmering.

Keith dropped his bag at the bottom of the stairs. “Didn’t know I had to report in every time I breathed.”

“Excuse me?” his mother snapped.

“You heard me,” Keith said, biting the inside of his cheek.

His dad stepped forward. “Watch your tone.”

“I’m talking ,” Keith bit back. “Something you don’t seem to care about unless I’m already in trouble.”

“Don’t start with that attitude—”

Keith laughed—short, bitter. “Too late.”

And maybe it was the laugh, or maybe it was just everything else that had built up between them—but suddenly his dad’s hand was flying, and the sharp crack of it echoed through the house.

Keith’s head snapped to the side, cheek stinging.

Silence.

His mom didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look surprised.

“You want to act like this?” his dad said, breathing heavy. “Fine. Keep it up. We’ll have no problem sending you back into the system.”

Keith’s heart twisted, sharp and familiar. He didn’t let it show. Not this time.

He wiped the corner of his mouth with his sleeve and looked his father dead in the eyes.

“Do it,” he said quietly. “At least I won’t have to live here.”

Then he turned, climbed the stairs, and didn’t look back.

Keith barely made it to his room before he heard the heavy steps behind him on the stairs.

He didn’t turn. He just stood there, hand on his doorknob, staring at the scratched-up wood like it might give him an out. It didn’t.

“Don’t you walk away from me,” his father growled, voice low but dangerous.

Keith stayed still. “You said what you needed to say.”

His father moved fast. Rough fingers caught the fabric of his sleeve and yanked, spinning Keith around to face him. “I’m not done. You think you can disrespect this family and stomp around like we owe you something? You think we won’t actually send you back?”

Keith clenched his jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Then his phone started buzzing in his pocket.

His dad’s eyes dropped to the sound. “Take it,” he ordered.

Keith hesitated.

His dad leaned in, voice sharp with threat. “ Take the damn call. ”

With a slow breath, Keith pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. Shiro. Of course.

He swiped to answer, putting it on speaker without needing to be told.

“Hey, Keith,” Shiro’s voice came through, light, casual—still at the beach, the sound of waves and laughter behind him. “You good, man? You kind of vanished.”

Keith cleared his throat, then forced a smile into his voice. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“You sure?” Pidge chimed in. “You didn’t say anything—Lance thought maybe he scared you off or something.”

Keith let out a fake laugh. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just wasn’t feeling great. Needed to head out.”

“You could’ve said goodbye,” Lance’s voice broke in. “Kinda rude, emo boy.”

Keith bit his tongue and kept the smile in his voice. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to ghost you.”

His father stood close behind him, arms crossed, listening to every word.

“Well, if you feel better later, we’re still here,” Shiro offered. “You could come back down.”

Keith forced the softest laugh he could muster. “Maybe. I’ll see.”

There was a pause on the other end, and Keith could almost feel Shiro reading between the lines—but before he could say anything else, Keith cut in.

“Tell them I said hi. And thanks again.”

“Alright,” Shiro said slowly. “Talk later?”

“Yeah,” Keith said. “Later.”

He ended the call before anyone could respond.

The moment the phone went dark, Keith felt his father’s eyes boring into him.

“Keep it up,” he muttered. “Act like everything’s fine. Maybe then you won’t screw this up like you screw up everything else.”

Keith didn’t answer.

He didn’t move until his father walked away, the footsteps retreating back down the stairs like a storm passing over.

Only then did Keith slip into his room and shut the door quietly behind him, breathing through his nose like that might hold everything together.

Back at the beach, the sky had shifted into that hazy, golden hour glow. The waves crashed in the distance, but the group had settled into a quieter rhythm.

Lance was tossing a frisbee between himself and Hunk, both laughing when it veered off wildly and nearly took out a seagull. Pidge was sitting in the sand, squinting down at a portable speaker, fiddling with the Bluetooth.

Shiro stood a few feet away from the group, staring down at his phone.

The conversation with Keith played again in his head. It hadn’t been what was said—it was how he said it. Too even. Too polite. Not Keith.

“He sounded fine,” Lance said as he wandered back over with the frisbee in hand. “Honestly, I’m kinda impressed he didn’t cuss you out.”

“Yeah,” Hunk agreed, flopping onto a towel. “That’s probably the chillest I’ve ever heard him.”

Shiro didn’t answer. His eyes stayed locked on his phone like he was waiting for something more.

Pidge looked up from the speaker. “You okay?”

“I’m going home,” Shiro said abruptly. “Something’s wrong.”

Lance blinked. “What? He said he was fine.”

“He said he was fine,” Shiro muttered, already reaching for his towel. “But that’s not how he talks. Not with me.”

Hunk frowned. “You sure you’re not overthinking it?”

“I’m sure,” Shiro said. His voice was tense in a way that shut the rest of them up.

“I’ll drive you,” Pidge said suddenly, standing up and brushing sand off their tank top.

“You don’t have to—”

“You don’t have your car,” they said, already reaching for Lance’s keys where they’d been tossed onto the cooler. “Let’s go. You’re not getting back to him fast enough on foot.”

Lance lifted a brow. “Whoa—uh, my car?”

Pidge ignored him. “If I’m not back in two hours, I’ve stolen your Jeep and started a new life in Oregon.”

“I’m serious!” Lance called after them.

“So am I!” Pidge shouted back.

Shiro glanced at Lance once, then nodded and followed Pidge toward the parking lot without another word.

The three left behind exchanged confused looks.

“I still think that was a normal phone call,” Hunk muttered.

Lance didn’t answer, just watched the Jeep drive off, a strange twist in his gut he couldn’t quite explain.

The Jeep hummed steadily beneath them as they sped through the quiet residential streets, the sky streaked with orange and lavender. Pidge kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the radio, but didn’t turn on any music. The silence was sharp.

“You’re really not gonna tell me what that was about?” they asked, eyes flicking toward Shiro.

Shiro didn’t answer right away. He sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“I mean, I know Keith’s your brother and all,” Pidge continued, undeterred, “but that was a little intense. Did something happen between you guys earlier?”

Shiro sighed. “No. Not really.”

“Shiro.”

“I don’t know,” he said finally, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s probably just sick or something.”

Pidge glanced at him. “You don’t actually believe that.”

“He’s been quiet lately. I thought maybe the beach would help, but—” He cut himself off, staring out the window. “Forget it.”

Pidge didn’t press, not yet. But they drummed their fingers on the steering wheel, thoughtful.

“I’ve known him for, like, a week,” they said eventually. “And even I know that wasn’t Keith.”

Shiro didn’t respond. His silence said enough.

They rode the rest of the way in tense quiet, the fading sun casting long shadows over the dashboard.

Pidge turned onto Keith’s street. “You want me to wait out front?”

“No, go back to the beach, maybe me and Keith will catch up later.”

“Okay, see you Monday?”

“Yep,” Shiro smiled and Pidge drove off. 

Shiro watched the taillights of Lance’s Jeep disappear down the block before turning toward the house. The front door was shut, the porch light still off even though the sun was nearly gone. He stepped inside, the quiet of the house pressing in around him.

His mom sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a magazine with a steaming mug of tea beside her. She looked up as he entered.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, offering her a soft smile.

“Hi, baby,” she replied, smiling back. “You hungry? Heard you boys had a beach day.”

Shiro and his parents had always gotten along well. The problem wasn’t them—it was how they acted around Keith. The difference in treatment was subtle sometimes, but it was always there.

“I’m okay for now. I’m just gonna go hang out with Keith for a while.”

His mom hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the staircase. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice lighter than her expression.

Shiro made his way upstairs, taking the steps slowly. He didn’t bother knocking—he never used to need to—and opened Keith’s door.

The room was dim. Keith sat on the floor near his bed, legs pulled in loosely, staring at the wall like he wasn’t really seeing it. He had changed into black sweatpants and an oversized long sleeve that hung off his shoulders like a borrowed hoodie. His face was blotchy, cheeks streaked with dried tears he hadn’t bothered to wipe away.

Shiro’s heart sank.

He quietly crossed the room and sat down next to him, close but not crowding.

Neither of them spoke at first. The silence felt thick, fragile.

Then Shiro asked gently, “You okay?”

Keith gave a small nod, like it physically hurt to move. He wiped at his face with the sleeve of his shirt, but it didn’t do much. His eyes were still red, his expression tired.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, voice rough.

Shiro didn’t believe it. Not for a second. But he didn’t push.

A few more seconds passed before Keith exhaled shakily and spoke again, barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry… about earlier.”

Shiro turned his head slightly, glancing at him.

“I shouldn’t’ve said that stuff. I was being a dick. I just…” Keith swallowed hard. “I know I’m hard to be around. I know I’m embarrassing. You don’t have to say it. I know.”

Shiro blinked, startled. “Keith—”

“I mean it,” Keith cut in. He still wasn’t looking at him. “You try to help and I just make everything worse. You’re doing fine and then I show up and suddenly everyone’s tense and everything’s messed up. I get it. I do.”

His voice cracked at the end, but he forced it down with another swipe at his face.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology hung in the room, brittle and soft, like if Shiro breathed too loud it might break.

Shiro was quiet for a moment, letting Keith’s words settle. Then he shifted slightly and wrapped an arm around Keith’s shoulders, pulling him in just enough that Keith could lean if he wanted—without pressure.

“You’re not embarrassing,” Shiro said gently. “You’re my brother.”

Keith didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. That was something.

Shiro let the silence stretch for a bit, the weight between them settling, until he finally asked, “What happened earlier? On the phone?”

Keith stiffened instantly.

“Nothing,” he said too quickly, too flat.

Shiro’s arm stayed where it was, steady and warm. “Keith…”

“I said nothing happened.” His voice sharpened.

“You sounded weird. Not like you.”

Keith let out a frustrated breath and pulled away from Shiro’s arm, shaking his head. “Why do you care? You don’t get to act like you care now.”

“Keith—”

“No. You don’t get to question me after you humiliate me in front of everyone and act like I’m a problem. Just drop it, Shiro. It doesn’t matter.”

His words were tight, clipped, a fuse burning low and fast. He didn’t look at Shiro when he said them. He couldn’t.

Shiro didn’t say anything right away. He just stayed there, sitting beside Keith on the floor like they were kids again—like he hadn’t messed up earlier, like Keith wasn’t trying so hard to disappear into the carpet.

Keith swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his oversized shirt, but the tears kept slipping out anyway. He turned his face away, jaw clenched.

“’M sorry. I’m just tired,” he muttered, the lie paper-thin and cracking down the middle.

Shiro didn’t call him out on it. He didn’t need to.

Instead, he leaned in a little, keeping his voice soft. “I know you are.”

Keith sucked in a shaky breath, shoulders curling in. He looked so small like that, like the fight had drained every ounce of fire out of him and left nothing but smoke.

Shiro hesitated for a second before reaching out again, gently this time—his hand resting on Keith’s back in a steady, grounding way.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, y’know,” he said quietly. “Whatever happened tonight… you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

Keith didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away either. His head dipped slightly, just enough to lean into Shiro’s shoulder. Just enough to let the wall crack. 

Keith stayed like that—head barely resting against Shiro’s shoulder, body stiff with the effort of not letting go. His breath came in shallow pulls, like each one was a fight.

“I’m fine,” he muttered suddenly, voice low and shaky. “It’s not… it’s not a big deal. You don’t have to… sit here like I’m falling apart or something.”

Shiro didn’t move. “I’m not here because I think you’re falling apart. I’m here because I care.”

Keith gave a wet, humorless laugh. “Yeah? Well, I don’t need anyone to care.”

But his voice cracked on “need.”

He covered his face with both hands, pressing hard like he could shove everything back in if he just pushed hard enough. But it didn’t work. His shoulders trembled, then started shaking harder. And when he let out a breath, it turned into a sob he couldn’t swallow down.

“God—dammit,” he hissed under his breath. “I hate this. I hate feeling like this.”

Shiro stayed silent, his arm still around Keith’s back, fingers gently rubbing between his shoulder blades.

Keith kept trying to pull it together. Every time he sucked in a breath, it came out shakier. “I’m not—some fragile little kid, okay?” he tried to insist, tears slipping past his fingers. “I don’t need you to fix me.”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Shiro said softly. “I’m just trying to be here.”

Keith shook his head, hands dropping from his face as he leaned forward, arms wrapping tightly around his knees. He looked exhausted—emotionally wrung out and angry about it.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he said, almost to himself. “I didn’t ask to be in this house. Or with them. Or with you. Everyone just keeps… expecting me to be normal and I’m not.”

There it was. The core of it. Raw and bitter and breaking.

Shiro’s voice was steady when he finally replied. “Keith… you don’t have to be anything but yourself. And you’re not alone. I promise, okay?”

Keith didn’t answer. But he didn’t argue either.

Instead, he leaned back into Shiro again, his whole frame tense and trembling—but still there. Still holding on, even if it was just by the threads.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Monday came around quicker than Keith would’ve liked.

He spent the weekend in a kind of quiet autopilot—muttering short answers to his parents, holed up in his room with the door locked, and staring at the ceiling like it owed him something. He didn’t bother doing much. Mostly, he thought. About stupid things. Things that snuck in when he was too tired to shove them back out.

Like Lance.
Lance, with his perfect teeth and loud voice and stupid laugh.
Lance, who always had something to say, who didn’t know how to shut up, who talked to Keith like he was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.

And yeah—Keith had been thinking about that beach trip way more than he wanted to admit. Not just the fight with Shiro, but everything before. Lance teasing him in the car, splashing Pidge with water, sitting on the sand like he owned the whole damn coast. Acting like he knew Keith.

But he didn’t.
Keith knew himself. Better than Lance did.
He didn’t need some loudmouthed golden boy making observations like he was some kind of expert.

So why the hell did it still bother him?

Why did the things Lance said stick to his ribs like wet paper?

Keith yanked on his jacket that morning like it had personally offended him, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and headed to school with a chip on his shoulder the size of a small country. He was tired. He was wired. And he wasn’t in the mood.

Especially not for Lance.

Especially not when part of him was hoping to see him anyway.

First hour was Advanced Math. Keith walked in with his hood up, earbuds in, eyes scanning the rows without really looking. He usually kept to the back, near the windows, away from the eager hands and loud laughs of people who actually liked being there.

He slid into his seat and pulled out his notebook just as the teacher clapped their hands for attention.

“Alright, new unit means new partners. You’ll be working together for the next two weeks, so get comfortable.”

Keith didn’t look up until he heard his name.

“Kogane and McClain.”

He froze. Looked up.

Of course.

Lance was already standing, making his way across the room with that familiar swagger, twirling a pencil between his fingers like this was just another game he’d win without trying.

“Hey, stranger,” Lance said as he dropped into the seat beside him. “Didn’t think you’d survive the weekend.”

Keith stared straight ahead. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

Lance blinked, caught off guard. “Okay... cool. Great energy. Love that.”

Keith didn’t answer. He pulled the assignment sheet toward him, already scanning the equations.

Lance leaned in a little. “You mad at me or something?”

Keith didn’t flinch. “No.”

“You sure? ’Cause you’ve got that whole ‘silently brooding’ thing going, which, okay, fine—on brand—but usually you at least grunt at me.”

Keith’s pencil scratched across the paper. “You’re imagining things.”

Lance huffed. “Okay, wow. I try to be civil— friendly , even—and you act like I keyed your car or something.”

Keith finally looked up, slow and sharp. “You’d have to be important to get that kind of reaction.”

Lance blinked again. “Dude. Seriously?”

Keith shrugged, expression unreadable.

Lance leaned forward again, resting his chin on his hand as he watched Keith fill in the first answer without even discussing it.

“You know, I’d offer to help, but clearly you’ve got this covered, Mr. Anti-Social Math Machine.”

Keith didn’t glance up. “Then don’t offer.”

“Oof,” Lance said, placing a hand over his heart. “Wounded. Devastated. You’re so good at making people feel welcome.”

Keith’s pencil paused for a fraction of a second. “I’m not here to make friends.”

“Well, congratulations. You’re absolutely nailing it.”

Keith finally glanced at him, eyes cool and unimpressed. “Do you ever stop talking?”

Lance grinned, leaning in closer, voice dipping into a teasing lilt. “Only when I sleep. And sometimes not even then, if you ask my siblings.”

Keith blinked slowly, then looked back down at his paper like Lance wasn’t worth the air between them.

Lance watched him a moment longer, then leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. “Man, and here I thought we had a moment on that tour. You remember that? The chemistry? The tension? It was giving enemies-to-lovers energy.”

Keith snorted, just barely audible.

“Was that a laugh? Did I just make the Great Wall of Kogane crack?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet, tragically, we’re stuck together. Two whole weeks of this,” Lance said, grinning now like he wanted to be annoying. “Better buckle up, Emo Supreme.”

Keith turned his head slowly. “You come up with that one in the mirror this morning?”

Lance gave a dramatic gasp. “You are listening to me!”

Keith smirked just slightly, the tiniest curve of his mouth—gone in a blink.

But Lance caught it.

Lance twirled his pencil between his fingers, watching Keith scribble down equations like he had something to prove. He tapped his fingers against the desk rhythmically, grinning when Keith’s eye twitched at the noise.

“So, where’d you learn to do this stuff?” Lance asked casually. “Advanced math just built into your DNA or what?”

Keith didn’t answer, so Lance pushed further, teasing.

“Or is it, like… secret alien adoption math powers?”

Keith froze.

Lance chuckled. “C’mon, I’m kidding. You’re adopted, right? That’s what Shiro said at the beach—like, not in a bad way! Just… makes sense. You’re so different.”

Keith slowly turned his head. His face was unreadable—blank in that way that wasn’t calm, but too still.

Lance blinked. “What?”

Keith’s jaw tensed. “Say that again.”

Lance raised his hands, confused but still playful. “Whoa, it was a joke. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Right. Because being a joke is just built into your DNA, huh?”

Lance’s smile faltered. “Dude—”

But Keith was already standing. “Say one more thing about my family.”

Lance stood too, eyes narrowing. “You need to chill, Keith. Seriously. It wasn’t even that deep.”

Keith shoved him.

Lance stumbled back, stunned for a second—then shoved him right back, harder. “Okay, psycho. You wanna go?”

And then fists were flying.

Desks screeched as the two crashed into them, Keith throwing punches like he didn’t care if they landed wrong, Lance cursing and swinging back, less experienced but not backing down.

“Hey—HEY!”

The teacher’s voice cut through the chaos as she rushed across the room, shouting for them to stop. Other students backed away, wide-eyed and whispering.

“Break it up! Break it up! ”

It took a solid minute and another teacher from the hallway to drag them apart—Keith breathing hard, face red with rage, Lance flushed and furious with a forming bruise on his cheek.

“You two— principal’s office, now. ”

Keith didn’t speak. Lance didn’t either. They just stared each other down, like neither had any idea how it got this far—but neither was ready to be the first to look away.

Keith’s lip was split, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. His cheek was red and swelling, and his knuckles looked worse than they probably felt. Lance didn’t look much better—he had a dark bruise blooming along his jaw and a scratch trailing across his temple from when they’d knocked over a desk.

The walk down to the office was silent.

Keith kept his head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and his face unreadable in that same icy, too-still way that meant he was holding something in. Lance stole glances at him, once or twice opening his mouth like he wanted to say something—but he didn’t.

They stepped into the main office where the secretary barely spared them a glance before directing them down the hallway. Mr. Coran’s door was already open.

“Gentlemen,” Coran said with a sigh, adjusting his suspenders and motioning them both in. “Sit.”

They did.

The tension in Principal Coran’s office was dense, like humid air before a thunderstorm.

Lance sat slouched in one of the chairs across from the desk, trying to act casual despite the purpling bruise forming along his cheekbone. His arms were crossed, his foot tapping restlessly against the carpet. Beside him, Keith was completely still, head tilted slightly down, his hands limp in his lap. A faint red mark had bloomed across his jawline, but it wasn’t the worst of it. What stood out more was how completely… absent he seemed. Like someone had hit pause on him.

Coran glanced at the boys again before clearing his throat and straightening his tie. “Well, I appreciate you both coming quietly,” he began, his tone as kind as it was firm. “But I think you understand the severity of what happened today. A fistfight in the middle of first period? This isn’t something we can brush off.”

Lance groaned. “It wasn’t—like, I didn’t think he was gonna actually hit me. I made a dumb joke, that’s all. It wasn’t even mean.”

“Even friendly joking can cross a line if someone feels disrespected,” Coran said patiently.

Lance looked at Keith, brows furrowed. “Dude, come on. You know I didn’t mean it.”

Keith didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor. He didn’t even blink.

The door opened, and all three turned.

“Mr. McClain,” Coran said with relief, rising from his chair.

Luis McClain stepped into the room, a tall man with kind eyes and warm energy. He looked first at Lance, scanning him head to toe, then at Keith, and something in his face subtly shifted. Not dramatically—just the way his eyes lingered a moment longer on Keith’s posture, how his hands sat awkwardly open, his stare vacant.

“You alright?” Luis asked softly, settling into the seat next to his son.

“Yeah,” Lance said. “Just a misunderstanding. I swear, Dad.”

“Still got your fists involved in a misunderstanding,” Luis replied, but not harshly. He looked back at Coran. “What happened?”

“We’re still piecing it together,” Coran said. “From what I gather, a joke was made during class that Keith didn’t take well.”

Lance raised his hands, palms out. “It was stupid, I know. I made a crack about him being adopted. It wasn’t meant to be mean. He just looked like he was gonna punch me, and then—he did.”

“Keith?” Coran turned his attention gently to the other boy. “Do you want to tell us your side?”

Keith blinked, slowly, like he was coming back from far away. “I overreacted,” he mumbled. “It was a dumb joke. It’s fine.”

Luis glanced at him again. Keith’s voice was dull, flat. His eyes hadn’t moved from the floor since he walked in.

“Fine?” Coran repeated carefully. “That’s not really the impression I got when you were swinging at your classmate, son.”

Keith didn’t respond.

Before Coran could press further, the door opened again. This time, harder. Marcus Kogane stepped in with a tired, annoyed look, keys still clutched in one hand.

“Keith,” he said by way of greeting, and not kindly. “What’d you do now?”

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Kogane,” Coran said, gesturing toward the remaining seat.

Marcus didn’t take it. He stood instead, arms crossed. “So what? He picked a fight?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Lance cut in quickly. “It was both of us—”

“I didn’t ask you,” Marcus snapped.

Luis sat up straighter, but said nothing. Coran cleared his throat to ease the moment.

“Keith got upset at something Lance said and reacted physically,” Coran explained. “I don’t think this was premeditated. More a lapse in judgment. But it’s serious all the same.”

Marcus scoffed. “He does this at home too. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t talk. Just shuts down or explodes.”

Keith’s posture had changed as soon as Marcus entered—he was even stiller now, like his limbs didn’t quite belong to him. His expression hadn’t changed, but something about him was different. Distant.

Coran noticed the silence and spoke more gently this time. “Keith, anything you want to add? I want to understand what led to this.”

“Keith,” Marcus snapped when he didn’t respond, “answer him.”

Keith flinched just slightly. His voice was flat when he spoke. “I messed up. I hit him. It won’t happen again.”

Luis shifted his gaze toward Keith again, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Well,” Coran said slowly, “thank you for being honest, at least. Now, as for consequences. I’ve thought about this, and while suspension is necessary, I think there may be a better approach.”

He glanced between them. “You two clearly used to get along, or at least weren’t enemies. Maybe there’s something salvageable here.”

Lance looked confused. Keith didn’t react.

“I’m assigning you both to in-school suspension,” Coran continued, “together. One room, supervised. You’ll complete your classwork, eat lunch at the same time, no phones, no distractions—and maybe, learn how to talk things out instead of throwing punches.”

Luis gave a small nod. “That sounds fair.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Whatever. It’s your school.”

Coran stood up. “I’ll email both households with the formal notice and schedule. It’ll start tomorrow.”

Luis stood, offering a handshake to Coran. “Thanks for handling this. I appreciate the approach.”

Lance got up and turned to Keith. “Hey. I really didn’t mean it like that. I swear.”

Keith looked at him, but his eyes didn’t focus. “Okay.”

Luis gave Keith a long glance again—longer than anyone else had that day—but he didn’t push. Instead, he clapped Lance on the shoulder. “C’mon, bud. Let’s get some ice on that.”

They left together.

Keith still hadn’t moved.

Marcus finally huffed. “Let’s go,” he muttered, and Keith stood on command.

He didn’t say goodbye to Coran. Didn’t meet his eyes. Didn’t speak at all as he followed his father out of the room, down the hall, and out the front doors—his footsteps quiet, as if he was trying to disappear between them.

The sun had begun its slow descent by the time the two families stepped out into the school parking lot. The breeze carried a hint of cooling air, brushing past the tension that clung to the group like humidity.

Luis walked a few steps behind his son, watching as Lance fidgeted with his backpack strap, shooting quiet glances back toward Keith and his dad. Keith followed his father in silence, a slight slump in his shoulders. Marcus’s hand rested heavily on his shoulder, not quite affectionate, not quite forceful—just… there. Like a reminder.

Luis caught up.

“Marcus, right?” he offered, his tone light and friendly as he slowed to match their pace.

Marcus looked over, his expression unreadable for a moment, then quickly morphed into something polite. “That’s right. And you’re…?”

“Luis McClain. Lance’s dad.”

“Ah,” Marcus said, his smile tight. “Right. Sorry for the trouble. Keith’s a handful sometimes.”

Keith didn’t even blink.

Luis gave a small, disarming laugh. “Well, they’re teenagers. Handfuls kind of come with the territory.”

“Sure, sure,” Marcus replied, chuckling along. His grip on Keith’s shoulder subtly tightened. “Still, it’s no excuse. I’m real sorry for whatever part Keith played in this mess. He can get a little reactive. We’re working on it.”

Luis’s eyes drifted to Keith. “No need for an apology,” he said kindly. “I just hope the boys can work things out. They seemed close before.”

“They were,” Marcus said quickly. “Keith doesn’t always… understand boundaries. Takes things personal that aren’t meant that way. It’s a sensitivity issue.”

Luis hummed thoughtfully. “That so?”

Keith still hadn’t spoken. His gaze was locked ahead like he was walking through a tunnel, not even noticing the conversation happening around him.

“Well,” Marcus continued with a huff of a laugh, “consequences will help him think twice next time. He just needs a little structure, that’s all.”

“Structure’s good,” Luis agreed, but his voice was quieter now. He was watching Keith again. Watching the way the boy’s arms hung too still at his sides. Watching the faint red along the line of his jaw. Watching the way he didn’t react, didn’t shift, didn’t flinch—like he’d trained himself not to move unless told to.

He didn’t say any of that. Just offered another small smile. “Well, here’s hoping they come out of this better friends.”

“Wouldn’t hold my breath,” Marcus muttered with a dry laugh. “But we’ll see.”

Luis nodded once. “Have a good night, Marcus. Keith.”

Keith blinked slowly, only offering a quiet, “You too,” after a sharp squeeze from the hand on his shoulder.

Luis watched them cross the lot until they disappeared behind an older SUV. He didn’t say anything as he got into his own car. Just sat there for a moment, one hand on the wheel, his eyes still lingering in the direction they’d gone.

“Something’s not right there,” he murmured.

He didn’t say it out loud to Lance. Not yet.

But he’d keep his eyes open.

The silence in the car was soft at first, just the low hum of the road beneath the tires and the steady rhythm of the turn signal as Luis took a left toward their neighborhood. Lance slouched in the passenger seat, arms crossed over his chest, cheek resting against the window. The swelling on his lip had gone down some, but the bruising would definitely bloom by morning.

Luis glanced over at him, then back at the road.

“You know,” he said eventually, “I wasn’t planning on spending my Monday afternoon in the principal’s office.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, me neither.”

Luis didn’t respond right away. He let a few more seconds pass. Calm. Intentional.

“I get that you and Keith have your differences,” he said. “But getting into a fight—at school—isn’t how you solve that.”

“He started it,” Lance mumbled, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

Luis gave him a look. “Did he really?”

Lance hesitated. “...Okay. Maybe not really. But he was being a dick.”

Luis huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you get to swing at him, mijo. I raised you better than that.”

Lance squirmed a little in his seat. “I didn’t mean to. He just—he got under my skin, you know? And then he—he just looked so smug about it. Like he didn’t care at all.”

Luis’s fingers tightened on the wheel just slightly. “I know it’s frustrating when someone pushes your buttons. But you’re smart, Lance. You’re thoughtful. You’ve always been the kid who stood up for others, not someone who lashes out. So what changed?”

Lance didn’t answer right away. His shoulders tensed, and his mouth twisted into something halfway between a frown and a pout. “He said something about me being fake. Like I didn’t know who I really was.”

Luis glanced at him again, more gently this time. “And that hurt.”

Lance shifted uncomfortably. “I mean—yeah. Maybe. I dunno. It’s just—he acts like he knows everything. Like I’m some open book and he’s this tortured mystery and everyone should just feel sorry for him.”

Luis was quiet again. Thoughtful.

“You know,” he said, “sometimes people who act like that… they’ve got their own stuff going on. Stuff they don’t talk about.”

Lance didn’t answer.

Luis sighed and reached over, ruffling Lance’s hair even as the teen ducked away with a groan. “You’re a good kid, Lance. But being a good person doesn’t mean always being right. It means doing the right thing—even when someone else doesn’t.”

“I know,” Lance muttered.

“Then show it,” Luis said, his voice firm but warm. “You’ve got in-school suspension with him now. That’s not punishment—it’s a chance. Maybe try to figure out what’s really going on with that kid instead of assuming you know everything already.”

Lance stared out the window, frowning.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

But his dad’s words stuck.

______________________________________________________________________________

The door shut harder than it needed to. The seatbelt clicked into place like it might snap from the tension strung tight between them.

Keith kept his head down, fingers twisting the frayed cuff of his sleeve. The car was dead silent, save for the hollow thump of his dad’s fingers tapping the wheel—once, twice, like a warning shot—before the engine roared to life.

They didn’t even make it to the end of the parking lot before Marcus started.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Keith blinked slowly, eyes fixed on the dashboard. He didn’t answer.

“A fight? At school? Are you trying to make me look bad?” Marcus’s voice was low and dangerous, the kind that built like a storm just before it broke. “Getting hauled into that office like you’re some punk off the street—do you know how humiliating that is?”

Keith’s throat tightened.

“I bust my ass to give you a home, to keep you fed, and this is how you thank me? Acting like some rabid little dog?” Marcus spat. “If you want to go back into the damn system, just say it. Maybe you’d rather get shipped off to another family who’ll deal with your mess.”

Keith pressed his forehead to the window, trying to stay quiet. Still.

“Don’t give me that silent treatment. You wanna play the victim now? Huh?” Marcus snapped. “Say something, Keith.”

Keith finally did. It came out as a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Marcus laughed bitterly. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You embarrassed me. You embarrassed yourself. And what the hell were you even fighting about, anyway?”

Keith flinched. His breath was stuttering now, chest tight and hurting in a way he couldn't press down fast enough. “I don’t—It doesn’t matter…”

“Oh, it matters,” Marcus hissed. “It matters that you can’t keep yourself under control for five minutes in public. That you make everything harder for me. And you know what? I’m starting to think maybe the school’s right. Maybe you are just some angry, ungrateful—”

He didn’t get to finish. Keith’s shoulders jerked as a sob cracked out of him, sudden and sharp and unplanned. It was like the dam broke on accident.

Tears streamed down his cheeks. He covered his face with one sleeve, but it was already too late.

Marcus went quiet.

For the first time since they got in the car, he looked over at his son.

Keith had never cried in front of him before. Not once. Not when he got hit. Not when he was grounded for days. Not when he went to bed without dinner.

And now?

Now he was falling apart right there in the passenger seat, trying to suck in ragged breaths between quiet sobs that refused to stop coming.

It rattled Marcus. But only for a moment.

“Stop your crying,” he snapped, voice lower now, but no softer. “Or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Keith stiffened instantly. His breath hitched, and he forced the sound back down his throat, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He rubbed at his face with both sleeves now, as if that might erase what had just happened.

The rest of the ride was silent. Not peaceful.

Just quiet the way cold rooms are quiet.

______________________________________________________________________________

It was Tuesday morning, but it already felt like the week had dragged its nails down Keith’s spine and left him hollowed out.

He walked the halls like a ghost, hoodie up, black sweatpants hanging loose on his frame. The sleeves covered everything. His hands stayed buried in the front pocket. He didn’t look at anyone, not that there was anyone to look at—he was late, and the halls were quiet, save for the faint hum of buzzing lights and the distant sound of lockers closing.

His eyes were bloodshot. But not from crying, not this time.

He hadn’t meant to show up high. Really, he hadn’t. But when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking that morning, and the noise in his head wouldn’t shut up, it just… happened.

The weed helped. Kind of. At least now everything felt muted. Slowed down. Like he could breathe, even if his lungs still hurt.

He opened the door to the in-school suspension room.

Coach Robbins didn’t look up from his crossword puzzle.

But Lance did.

He was already in his seat, backpack tossed lazily beside him, doodling absently on a sheet of notebook paper. He looked up as the door clicked shut and tilted his head slightly. His eyes scanned Keith—quick, calculating—but he didn’t say anything.

Keith walked past him, quiet, heavy-footed. The scent of weed clung to his hoodie, and when he slumped down into the desk one row over from Lance, he saw the way Lance’s eyes flicked toward him again, sharper this time.

Still, no words.

Keith exhaled, slow. Head tipped back against the chair.

Everything was fuzzy. Not in a bad way—just soft around the edges. It made it easier not to feel every throb in his arms, or the tightness in his chest that hadn’t gone away since Sunday night.

Lance tapped his pen once, twice, then spoke—voice low, casual.

“Morning.”

Keith didn’t answer right away. He turned his head a little, just enough to see Lance watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey,” he muttered eventually, his voice a little raspy.

That was all. No fire. No sarcasm.

It was strange. And it was enough to make Lance pause.

But then he leaned back in his chair again, arms folding across his chest like he hadn’t just clocked something off. Like Keith didn’t reek of a too-early high and old smoke and something worse buried underneath.

Keith closed his eyes for a second. Let the silence stretch. Let the buzz sit behind his ribs like it belonged there.

Coach Robbins kept writing in his crossword, completely uninterested.

Lance didn’t say anything else.

But Keith could feel his eyes on him every once in a while. Not judging. Just watching.

Like he knew something was wrong.

And for once, Keith didn’t bother pretending it wasn’t.

Lance waited maybe five more minutes before his patience ran out.

With a long, dramatic sigh, he stood up, gathered his stuff, and plopped down in the desk in front of Keith—spinning around in the seat so they were face-to-face, knees bumping under the small table. The movement made Coach Robbins glance up for all of two seconds before going back to his crossword like his soul depended on it.

Lance slapped a folder onto the desk between them, flipping it open to their math packet.

“Okay, so since we’re forced to be together in here like it’s detention in a bad sitcom,” he said, digging out a pencil, “you’re gonna help me figure out this math crap.”

Keith blinked slowly, like Lance was speaking a second language.

Lance raised an eyebrow. “...You’re gonna help me, right?”

Keith stared at the paper for a solid ten seconds. Then looked up at Lance, dead serious.

“Is this… the one with numbers?”

Lance snorted. “Yeah, Keith, math famously has numbers. Welcome to education.”

Keith squinted at the worksheet. “This looks fake. Who made this?”

Lance grinned. “Mr. Brenner.”

“Mr. Brenner should go to jail.”

“Okay, hot take,” Lance said, stifling a laugh. “But seriously, can you just look at this one problem?”

He pointed to a long equation that looked more like a spell than math. Keith leaned forward like he was about to take it seriously, nodded slowly, then said—

“That’s definitely a duck.”

Lance stared at him. “A what.”

Keith tapped the paper. “Right here. This shape? It’s a duck. Look, see? Head. Little foot sticking out. That’s a duck.”

“That’s a seven, Keith.”

Keith made a thoughtful face. “Hm. Agree to disagree.”

Lance collapsed forward dramatically, forehead hitting the desk with a thud. “You are absolutely zero help.”

“I told you. I’m not in a… math mood.”

“What mood are you in?”

Keith blinked at him, totally serious. “I’m in a foggy canoe, drifting through space.”

Lance gave him the most unimpressed look he could muster. “You’re high as balls, aren’t you.”

Keith gave a half-hearted shrug, like that was a complicated question. “I’m high in balls. Or maybe around them. Orbiting.”

Lance let out a loud laugh and clapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to draw Coach Robbins’ attention. “You are so stupid right now.”

Keith smirked. “Thanks.”

“No, like—it’s amazing. I’ve never seen you like this. You’re usually all,” Lance deepened his voice, “‘I hate people. Everything is dumb. The void is my boyfriend.’”

Keith gave him a lazy thumbs-up. “He’s a good kisser.”

Lance snorted again, but there was warmth behind it. “Alright, foggy canoe boy, just… sit there and be useless, I’ll fail math on my own.”

“Happy to support you in your journey,” Keith mumbled, letting his head fall to rest on the table with a soft thud.

Despite himself, Lance smiled.

This was weird.

But kind of… nice.

Even if Keith was so high he thought the number seven was a duck.

The laughter faded, and silence settled over them like a heavy blanket. The scratching of Coach Robbins’ pencil on his crossword was the only real sound in the room. Lance had gone back to half-heartedly flipping through the math packet, pretending he might care.

Keith’s head was still on the desk, arms crossed beneath it, eyes unfocused somewhere on the back wall.

Minutes ticked by. The light buzzed faintly overhead. The clock clicked once.

Then Keith broke the silence, voice quiet—measured, like he had to think through every syllable before releasing it.

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

Lance’s pencil stopped moving. He looked up, confused at first, like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

Keith didn’t lift his head.

“I shouldn’t’ve done that,” he said, slowly. “At school. Or anywhere, I guess.”

Lance watched him, unsure if Keith was finished. He wasn’t.

“I was already mad. At Shiro. At… a bunch of stuff. Doesn’t make it okay.”

Lance blinked. “Okay,” he said, softer than before. “I mean… yeah, it wasn’t cool. But—”

“I know.”

Keith finally lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little glassy, but there was something alert in them now. Not clear, exactly. But sincere.

“I’m not good at… this. Any of it. Talking. People. Being around them.”

“You don’t say,” Lance muttered with a crooked smile.

But Keith didn’t return it. He was staring at the desk now, fingers twitching against his sleeve.

“I’m also sorry about my dad,” he said, even slower now, like the words were heavy in his mouth. “For how he was. That’s not… you didn’t deserve that.”

Lance’s expression softened. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” Keith cut in gently. “Someone should.”

Lance sat back in his chair, eyes fixed on Keith like he was seeing him through a different lens for the first time. Keith’s face was calm, but his tone was too careful—like each word was a step across ice, and he wasn’t sure how deep the water underneath ran.

“Keith,” Lance said quietly, “is everything okay at home?”

Keith blinked.

Then he smiled.

It was thin. Lazy. Almost convincing.

“Peachy.”

Lance didn’t buy it. But he didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, he just leaned forward and muttered, “Well, if you punch me again, I’m suing. Just so you know.”

Keith nodded solemnly. “Fair.”

They sat in silence again.

But it was a little less heavy this time.

Coach Robbins finally glanced up from his crossword, brow furrowing like he was just now remembering he was in charge of two students in in-school suspension.

He stood with a dramatic grunt, stretching his back before walking over to their table with slow, heavy footsteps and a coffee mug that definitely wasn’t just coffee.

“You two actually working or just playing patty-cake over here?” he grumbled, peering down at their packets.

Keith sat up so fast it nearly sent his chair backwards.

“Yep. Definitely. Totally working. Math. Numbers. Equations.”

Coach raised a brow.

Lance pressed his lips together to hold in a laugh as Keith grabbed the packet and squinted down at the page like he’d never seen a number before in his life.

“See,” Keith said, pointing to a problem, “uh... this one’s… graphable. Because… because it has a… fraction. Which is… like. Slope.”

There was a pause. Lance winced.

Coach Robbins tilted his head. “You alright, Kogane?”

“Peachy,” Keith said too quickly. “I’m just—mathing. Really into the math. Deep focus.”

Lance jumped in before the coach could question it further. “He’s just tired. We were up late studying last night. Y’know, really committed to academic redemption.”

Robbins gave them both a long look. “Uh-huh.”

Keith nodded seriously. “We believe in the power of education.”

Lance had to cough to hide a snort.

The coach narrowed his eyes, clearly not buying a single word, but not caring enough to pursue it. He gave a grunt, took a sip from his questionable mug, and started walking back toward his desk.

“Keep it quiet and keep it moving,” he called over his shoulder.

Keith slumped the moment he was gone, resting his head in his hands.

“That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever said,” he muttered.

“You called a slope a fraction, dude.”

“I panicked.”

Lance snorted again. “God, you’re terrible at being high.”

Keith grinned faintly, eyes still half-lidded. “I’m not usually doing math.”

“Clearly.”

They both let the laughter fade out into silence, but this time the quiet didn’t feel awkward. Just… easy.

Like maybe, for the first time in a while, Keith didn’t feel like he had to brace for whatever came next.

The lunch bell finally rang like a sweet release, and Keith felt like he might actually survive the rest of the day. He and Lance packed up their things slowly, grateful to escape the near-empty classroom and the watchful eyes of Coach Robbins.

“Race you to the cafeteria?” Lance teased, already heading for the door.

Keith smirked, surprisingly quick on his feet. “You’re on.”

They burst out into the hall, laughter bubbling between them as they made their way to the lunch tables where Shiro, Pidge, and Hunk were already waiting.

As Keith plopped down next to Shiro, the older boy immediately leaned over, arms crossed with that trademark “I’m in charge” look. “Keith, did you eat enough? You look pale.”

Keith blinked, heat creeping into his cheeks. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying to avoid Shiro’s intense gaze.

“No, you’re not,” Shiro said, shaking his head. “Did you drink water? Did you get enough sleep last night? You’re gonna pass out, I swear.”

Lance chuckled from the other side. “Dude, he’s not your kid.”

Shiro shot him a look like Lance had just suggested something blasphemous. “I am responsible for him. It’s a big job.”

Keith buried his face in his hands, cheeks burning. “Please stop. You’re embarrassing me.”

Pidge laughed, eyes sparkling. “Honestly, it’s kinda adorable.”

Hunk grinned. “Shiro’s just looking out for you.”

Keith groaned but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. Despite the lingering haze in his head, moments like this made the day feel a little lighter.

“So,” Lance said, nudging Keith, “you ready for round two of math hell after lunch?”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Only if you promise to keep me from greening out again.”

The group laughed, and for once, Keith didn’t mind being a little out of control.

“Wait, you're high right now?” Shiro remarked, everyone looked at him with a “duhhh” expression. 

Lance smirked, nudging Keith’s shoulder. “Yeah, man, he was practically melting into his chair this morning.”

Keith rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. “I was not melting.”

Pidge leaned in, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You definitely were. I thought you were about to float away.”

Keith waved a hand dismissively, cheeks coloring just a little. “Whatever. Don’t make it worse.”

Shiro chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess that explains the extra sass this morning.”

Keith shot Lance a pointed look, who just laughed even harder. The group’s easy teasing filled the air like a warm bubble—something Keith didn’t realize he’d been craving.

Chapter Text

Lance tossed his backpack down by the door as soon as he and Hunk stepped into the house. The familiar scent of lemon cleaner and whatever Veronica had burned while trying to bake cookies last night still hung faintly in the air.

“Home sweet home,” he said with a grin, kicking off his shoes. Hunk followed, a little more carefully, cradling a bag of chips under one arm and a bottle of soda under the other like sacred cargo.

“Your house always smells so nice,” Hunk said, dropping the snacks on the coffee table as they collapsed onto the couch in the living room.

“That’s because my dad is the cleanest man alive,” Lance said, grabbing a controller. “And also because Veronica’s banned from using the oven until she reads the manual.”

From the kitchen, Veronica’s voice drifted in. “I heard that!”

Lance just smirked and turned on the console.

They were halfway through their third round of Smash Bros—Hunk had just KO’d Lance’s Pikachu with his infuriatingly good Donkey Kong—when the soft creak of the recliner caught their attention. Luis McClain stepped into the room with a gentle smile and a cup of coffee in hand, wearing his usual “World’s Okayest Dad” t-shirt.

“Hey, boys,” he said, easing into the recliner across from them.

“Hey, Mr. McClain,” Hunk said cheerfully, pausing the game.

“What’s up, Pops?” Lance added, stretching his arms behind his head. “You come to watch me destroy Hunk for once?”

Luis chuckled. “Tempting. But actually… I wanted to talk to you both about something.”

Lance immediately sat up a little straighter. Hunk blinked, glancing from Luis to Lance.

“It’s nothing bad,” Luis assured them quickly, noting their suddenly tense expressions. “I just… something came up after that meeting at school today.”

Lance’s stomach twisted a little. “This about Keith?”

Luis nodded, serious but calm. “Yeah. I just wanted to ask you both a few things. No pressure, okay?”

Hunk exchanged a look with Lance, then turned back to Luis with a thoughtful frown. “Sure, Mr. McClain. What do you wanna know?”

Luis took a sip of his coffee, then leaned forward, voice gentle. “I just want to understand a little more about what’s been going on. About Keith… and what kind of support he might need.”

Lance blinked, a little thrown by the softness in his dad’s tone. It wasn’t like this was new—his dad had always been kind—but something about it felt heavier now.

He glanced at Hunk, then back at his dad. “Yeah… okay. We can talk.”

And for the first time all day, Lance felt a flicker of something different in his chest.

Responsibility.

Empathy.

Maybe even… friendship.

For Keith.

Even if the guy had punched him in the jaw.

“Now, I don’t want anyone coming to any bad conclusions, okay?” Mr. McClain said carefully, setting his coffee mug on the side table. “But… has Keith ever mentioned anything about his life at home? Anything that stood out to you?”

Hunk and Lance exchanged a glance. Hunk looked like he was trying to figure out where to start, but then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Well, there was that thing at the beach,” Hunk said, voice lowered like it was a secret. “We were all hanging out, and Shiro called Keith on speaker. It was just a normal conversation, but… I dunno, something was weird.”

“Weird how?” Luis asked gently.

“Keith sounded fine, but like, too fine?” Hunk said, glancing to Lance for backup. “He was talking like everything was perfect. Real polite and stiff. And Shiro… he just got this look, and the next second he was like, ‘I gotta go.’”

“He left so fast, ” Lance added. “Didn’t even grab his towel.”

Luis nodded slowly, thoughtful. “That could be something. Did Keith ever say anything to you, Lance? Something about home?”

Lance hesitated. He leaned back against the couch, fiddling with a thread on one of the cushions before sighing. “I asked him once. After we got into that fight at school. I just straight up said, ‘Hey, is everything okay at home?’ He said yeah.”

Luis raised his eyebrows. “Just like that?”

“Yeah. Kinda shrugged it off. Gave me this look like I was stupid for asking. So I let it go.”

Mr. McClain sat quietly for a moment, then shifted in his chair, steepling his fingers together in his lap.

“Boys… sometimes when something bad is going on at home, people don’t want to talk about it. They might even lie to protect themselves. It’s not because they don’t trust you—it’s because they’re scared. Or they’ve been taught to keep it quiet.”

Neither of them said anything, the weight of his words settling between them like a fog.

Luis continued, choosing each word with care. “Abuse doesn’t always look like bruises or yelling. Sometimes it’s control. Fear. The way someone flinches when someone raises their voice, or how they act like they’re always waiting for something to go wrong.”

Hunk bit his lip. “Keith… does act like that sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Lance admitted, softer now. “I always just thought it was him being moody or dramatic.”

“Could be a bit of both,” Luis said gently. “But I’ve worked with enough kids to know when something doesn’t sit right. The way Keith shut down in the office today… I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but I do know that no kid checks out like that unless they’ve learned that staying quiet is safer than being noticed.”

Lance looked down, his throat tight. “So… what do we do?”

Luis smiled, sad but proud. “You do what you’re already doing. Be his friend. Make him feel safe. Let him know he’s not alone. And if something does happen—if he ever says anything or even implies he’s not okay—you come to me, or you go to someone who can help.”

They were quiet for a long moment.

Finally, Hunk leaned back on the couch and murmured, “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, quieter now. “Okay.”

Luis reached over and ruffled Lance’s hair, making him squawk and bat his hand away.

“Hey! We’re having a serious moment!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Luis chuckled. “Dad instincts kicked in.”

Lance rolled his eyes but didn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.

Mr. McClain stood with a sigh and gave Lance’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “Alright, I’ll leave you boys to your game. Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Yeah… thanks, Dad,” Lance said, softer than usual. Hunk gave a small nod in agreement.

Luis offered a reassuring smile before heading out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

The moment he was gone, the room fell into a thoughtful silence. The sound of the paused game screen hummed in the background, but neither of them reached for the controllers.

After a beat, Hunk spoke up. “You think… Keith’s really not okay?”

Lance didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the controller in his lap, staring at nothing in particular. “I don’t know, man. I used to think he was just… you know, intense. Hotheaded. But lately?”

Hunk nodded. “He looked rough today.”

“And not just from the fight,” Lance said, then glanced at Hunk. “He came into ISS this morning totally baked.”

“ Baked baked?” Hunk blinked. “Keith?”

“Straight up stoned. Hoodie over his head, sunglasses indoors, smelled like a dispensary.” Lance snorted, but it was humorless. “Coach Robbins didn’t even notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.”

“Dude…” Hunk leaned back into the cushions. “That’s not really like him.”

“Exactly.” Lance finally looked over at him. “He sat with me and tried to help me with math while high off his ass. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s something. And the thing is, he’s not… bad. He’s kind of funny, actually. Weird, but funny.”

Hunk cracked a small smile. “Weird is funny.”

“I think I want to be his friend,” Lance admitted, surprising even himself a little. “For real this time. Not just because we’re stuck together.”

Hunk nodded again, more serious now

The next day, when Keith walked into ISS, Lance had a plan.

A bold, slightly ridiculous, definitely risky plan.

Invite Keith over.

Not just for homework or some group project excuse—but to hang out. Like actual, real-life friends. Because somehow, despite the fistfight, the suspension, and the weirdness of Keith being high as a kite the day before, Lance didn’t not want to be around him.

Keith walked in, hoodie up again, black sweatpants dragging a little over his sneakers. Less dazed than yesterday, but still carrying that heavy, closed-off energy. He slid into the seat next to Lance without a word.

Lance spun around in his chair with a practiced grin. “Okay, hear me out—tonight, your place or mine?”

Keith gave him a blank stare. “What?”

Lance cleared his throat. “Right. That sounded less weird in my head. What I meant was—come over. My house. I got the new Street Fighter . It’s basically begging to be played.”

Keith blinked. “That’s your plan?”

“Plan?” Lance repeated, feigning confusion. “There’s no plan. What? Nooo. This is just a casual invitation between academic delinquents.”

Keith leaned back, suspicious. “Why would you even want me to come over?”

“Because you’re kind of cool when you’re not trying to punch me in the face?”

“I was high.”

“Exactly. You were relaxed. It was charming.”

Keith narrowed his eyes.

Lance shrugged, softer now. “Look, I know things are… whatever they are with you. I just thought maybe you could use somewhere else to be for a while.”

That seemed to land heavier than Lance meant it to. Keith looked away, tugged his hoodie sleeves down a little further. There was a long beat of silence before he mumbled, “What game did you say?”

Lance perked up instantly. “ Street Fighter VI. I will destroy you as Juri.”

Keith sighed. “Fine. But if you try anything weird—”

“I would never,” Lance said, overly innocent. “Unless we’re talking weirdly good snacks. Veronica went grocery shopping last night. Our pantry’s stacked.”

Keith smirked just barely and shook his head. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but now I’m your annoying friend,” Lance beamed.

Coach Robbins didn’t even look up from his laptop, still fully tuned out. 

______________________________________________________________________________

The front door creaked open, and Lance stepped aside to let Keith in first.

“Home sweet home,” Lance announced, dropping his backpack by the shoe rack. “Marco’s watching the gremlins today, so don’t be alarmed if someone throws a toy at your head.”

“Comforting,” Keith muttered, glancing around the warmly lit house.

From the living room, the sound of giggles and cartoon music floated in. Marco was splayed out on the couch, one leg dangling off the side, as Nadia bounced on a cushion beside him and Sylvio tried to shove a plastic dinosaur into a juice box.

“Yo!” Marco called, spotting the two of them. “Lance! Your demon spawn multiplied.”

“They’re not mine,” Lance called back. “And don’t say ‘spawn’ in front of them, Marco. They’ll start calling each other that at daycare.”

Marco just waved, clearly exhausted, but smiling. “Hey Keith. Welcome to the chaos.”

“Hey,” Keith said, awkwardly.

Nadia spotted Lance and launched herself off the couch. “Tío Lance!!” she shrieked, barreling into him.

Sylvio followed, crashing into Lance’s leg like a puppy. “Tío!”

Keith stepped back, mildly horrified.

“They’ll calm down in a minute,” Lance said, picking up Nadia and setting her on his hip. “They just haven’t seen me since... this morning.”

“You’re very popular,” Keith said dryly.

“We all have our strengths.”

Lance set the kids back down, then leaned closer to Keith. “C’mon, we’ll go to my room before they make you play tea party.”

Keith nodded and followed him down the hall. He paused for a second, glancing back to see Marco wrangling Sylvio into a sitting position on the couch, mouthing a silent “Run” to them before giving a thumbs-up.

“Your family’s…” Keith started as they entered Lance’s room, trailing off.

“A lot? Yeah.” Lance tossed a controller onto his bed. “But they’re also awesome. You’ll get used to it.”

Keith didn’t respond, but he didn’t look as uncomfortable anymore either.

Lance flopped onto his beanbag chair and gestured for Keith to sit wherever. “Now. Prepare to be emotionally devastated by this game. It’s got sword fights, drama, romance—”

“Are you trying to sell it to me or date it?”

“Shut up and play.”

Lance’s room was brighter than Keith expected—almost too bright.

The light gray walls were clean and soft, the corners of the ceiling glowing faintly from LED strips set to a warm gold. The curtains were a deep ocean blue, perfectly matching the bedsheets, and the whole room had a sense of energy and comfort that felt foreign to Keith.

But what caught his eye most wasn’t the lights, or the wall of game posters, or even the mess of clothes shoved halfway under the bed.

It was the pride flag hanging proudly on the wall above Lance’s desk—its colors bold and unapologetic.

Keith stared for a second too long, the familiarity of it stirring something in his chest. Over the years of being shuffled from place to place, living with families who made it very clear what kind of people were "acceptable" under their roof, Keith had learned one thing: secrets were safer than truth.

Being gay wasn’t something you could hang on your wall. It was something you buried under your hoodie, behind sarcasm and silence. Something you never gave anyone the power to use against you.

Still, the flag made sense here. Of course Lance had one. He was loud and bold and charming and somehow liked by everyone. Of course he could be this open.

Keith looked away, forcing his focus back to the game Lance was booting up. Good for him, Keith thought, lips pressed tight. Really.

But that would never be me.

The next couple of hours passed in a haze of button-mashing and playful trash talk. Lance was surprisingly competitive, constantly leaning over to shove Keith’s shoulder or yell dramatically every time Keith scored on him.

“You’re cheating,” Lance accused for the fifth time, half-laughing, half-scowling.

Keith smirked, barely looking up from the screen. “I’m just better.”

“Better at being annoying,” Lance muttered, eyes narrowing as he reset the match.

They kept playing through a few rounds, the tension between them slowly melting into a casual, easy rhythm. For the first time in a while, Keith felt like he could breathe.

It wasn’t until a gentle knock came at the door that the spell broke.

“Boys?” Luis McClain’s voice came from the hallway, warm and even. “Dinner’s ready.”

Lance threw his head back with a groan. “I was just about to win.”

“You were losing,” Keith countered, setting the controller down as Lance’s dad opened the door.

Luis poked his head in, offering a bright smile. “You must be Keith. I’m Luis—Lance’s dad.”

Keith sat up straighter. “Hi, sir.”

“No need for ‘sir,’” Luis chuckled, waving a hand. “You’re always welcome here, okay? It’s good to finally meet you.”

Keith blinked, a little thrown off by the warmth in his voice. He nodded slowly. “Thanks.”

Luis smiled at them both. “Come grab some food. Marco made spaghetti. Nadia and Sylvio are already trying to sneak extra garlic bread.”

Lance was already up, tossing a pillow at Keith before darting past his dad. “Last one to the table gets the crusty edge piece!”

Keith shook his head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he stood to follow.

The McClain family kitchen was a cozy kind of loud — dishes clinking, laughter echoing off the walls, Sylvio arguing with Nadia over how much parmesan cheese was too much . The table was packed, but somehow still felt open and welcoming. Marco sat at one end, occasionally lifting a brow at the kids while trying to get them to actually eat their food. Luis was at the other, plate full and smile easy.

Keith found himself squeezed in between Lance and Nadia, his shoulders tense but his face mostly unreadable.

The spaghetti smelled amazing. There was warm garlic bread passed around in a checkered cloth basket and a giant bowl of salad no one but Luis seemed excited about. Keith took a modest portion — a few strands of pasta, one half of a breadstick, a polite spoonful of salad — and even that felt like too much.

“So, Keith,” Marco said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Lance tells me you’ve been putting him in his place in video games.”

Keith gave a noncommittal shrug, poking at the spaghetti on his plate with the side of his fork. “I guess.”

Lance scoffed beside him. “ Please. I’ve been going easy on him.”

“You screamed when he beat you in the racing game,” Sylvio chimed in, grinning.

“Did not!” Lance said, voice cracking as he swatted lightly at his nephew.

Nadia giggled. “You totally did. Like— ‘ AHHH, NOOOO! ’” she mimicked dramatically, throwing her arms up.

Luis chuckled, nudging his salad around. “That sounds about right.”

The room was warm, filled with bickering and laughter and the occasional clink of silverware. Keith offered a faint smile here and there, but mostly stayed quiet, carefully moving his food around with his fork to make it look like he was eating. Every few minutes, he’d take a small bite, chew slowly, then put the fork down again.

Luis noticed, but didn’t say anything.

“So, Keith,” Luis said after a few moments, voice light and friendly, “how’s school been treating you lately?”

Keith blinked, caught off guard. He swallowed the too-dry breadstick he'd just taken a bite of and offered a vague answer. “It’s fine.”

Lance kicked him under the table — not hard, just enough to say hey, it’s okay. Keith didn’t react, just kept pushing salad leaves around.

“You like math, right?” Nadia piped up between bites. “Lance said you’re, like, a genius.”

Keith huffed softly through his nose. “Don’t think that’s what he said.”

“Well, I think it,” she declared, making Keith’s lips twitch up slightly.

The conversation carried on around him, full of side chatter and overlapping jokes. Keith’s plate stayed mostly full, but no one called him out on it. The food was good — better than anything he was used to — but his stomach felt like it was tied in knots. Still, the energy in the room didn’t weigh heavy. If anything, it felt strangely light.

The kitchen was quieter now. Nadia and Sylvio had disappeared down the hall, shrieking with laughter about some cartoon, while Marco and Luis stayed in the living room, deep in conversation about something in Spanish. Lance had dragged Keith into the kitchen, tossing him a dishtowel like it was some kind of team sport.

Keith caught it with one hand, barely flinching.

“You dry,” Lance said, already rinsing off a plate. “I wash. Fair deal.”

Keith shrugged, moving toward the counter. “Sure.”

The light above the sink buzzed faintly, casting a warm glow over the two of them. There was music coming softly from a speaker on top of the fridge — a mellow guitar riff Lance had probably picked without thinking. They stood close. Not touching, but enough that Keith could feel the heat from Lance’s arm every time he reached across to rinse something.

“So…” Lance began, handing over a bowl. “Did you have fun today?”

Keith nodded slowly, wiping the bowl even though it didn’t really need it. “Yeah. Your family’s…cool.”

Lance glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “They liked you.”

Keith gave a quiet snort. “That’s surprising.”

“It’s not,” Lance said easily, dropping a fork into the sink. “You’re not as weird as you act.”

Keith shot him a dry look, but there was no real heat behind it. “Thanks, I think.”

They kept going like that for a few minutes — handing off plates, bumping shoulders once or twice on accident. It was casual, but… not. Keith’s hands were steady but his heart wasn’t, and every time Lance leaned just a little closer to reach the soap or the sponge, he felt like his breath caught in his chest.

Lance’s hair was a little damp at the ends from where Sylvio had sneak-attacked him with water at dinner. Keith noticed the way his hoodie sleeves were pushed up just past his elbows, the way his jaw tightened when he scrubbed something too hard. He hated that he was noticing any of this.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Keith said suddenly, voice softer than before.

Lance looked over at him, pausing. For a second, there was something in his expression — not teasing, not smug. Just real. “Yeah. Anytime.”

Their eyes met for a heartbeat too long. The moment stretched — full of things neither of them could name, let alone say out loud.

Keith looked away first, reaching for the next plate. “Better than ISS,” he mumbled.

Lance laughed, and it cracked the tension like sunlight through a window. “God, yeah. Way better.”

They kept cleaning, the air between them still charged but unspoken. And neither of them had to say it: something had shifted.

But they weren’t ready to name it yet.

And that was okay.

Chapter Text

Keith stepped into the house quietly, locking the door behind him. The lights were off in the living room, the television silent — a bad sign.

"Where the hell have you been?" his father’s voice called out from the hallway, low and already sharp with irritation.

Keith stiffened, his hand tightening around the strap of his backpack. “I was at a friend’s house. Lance.”

“You didn’t ask,” Marcus snapped, appearing in the hallway like a shadow. “You don’t leave this house without telling me.”

“I didn’t think you’d care,” Keith muttered before he could stop himself.

That did it.

Marcus crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Keith by the collar, dragging him down the hall. Keith stumbled, trying to keep his footing, but the grip in his shirt turned to a fist in his hair.

“Don’t talk back to me, boy. You think you're grown? You think you're just gonna run off and play house with some boy and I won’t notice?”

“I didn’t—!” Keith protested, but his voice broke, swallowed by panic.

The door to his room slammed behind them.

Time blurred after that.

Muffled shouting. The sound of something falling. The scrape of a chair leg across hardwood. The dull thud of fists against drywall — or worse. Keith’s voice, cracking, trying to defend himself. Pleading. Then silence.

Keith didn’t even flinch when his knuckles brushed the edge of the sink. His whole body felt disconnected, like it was moving five seconds behind his brain.

He wiped his face with a shaky hand, smearing away the dried tears but not the red around his eyes. His reflection was a stranger: split lip, dark bruise forming along the side of his jaw, and those damned eyes that wouldn’t stop looking so tired.

His arms burned.

He gently peeled the sleeves off and hissed at the sight beneath — raised, red, some still bleeding sluggishly. He hadn’t meant for it to get this bad again. After the fight with Lance, after finally starting to feel something close to okay for once… Keith had made a decision. No more hiding behind pain. No more giving in to it.

But tonight shattered that resolve like everything else in this house.

He opened the cabinet under the sink and grabbed what little medical supplies he had — a half-used roll of gauze, some alcohol wipes, and a hoodie with sleeves long enough to cover the damage.

The sting of the alcohol made his knees buckle, and he gritted his teeth to stop the sound from slipping out. He didn’t have time to be weak. He didn’t have space to fall apart.

By the time he was bandaged and redressed, Keith looked like a ghost of himself. His hoodie was too big, hanging over his hands, and his black sweatpants were the same pair from ISS. He sat on the edge of his bed, unmoving for a long time, watching the door like it might open again.

It didn’t.

His phone buzzed from somewhere in his backpack. He thought about ignoring it, but some part of him — the smallest, most desperate part — hoped it was Lance.

Or Shiro.

Or anyone who might still give a damn.

Finally, with stiff fingers, Keith reached for the phone.

One new message.

Lance:

Mullet, my dad wants you to come over again Friday, he said he wants to go to the lake and since you’re new in town he wants you to come, you down? 

Keith stared at the message. The lake, with Lance's entire family. Was that really a good idea? Besides, what if they see something they shouldn’t? Or what if his dad gets angry with him again?

Keith:

I dunno let me think about it. 

A reply popped up almost instantly.

Lance:
think faster, dumbass. ur already coming. u can sit in the back with sylvio and get car sick like the rest of us.

Keith huffed, barely a real laugh, but enough to remind him there were still people out there who didn’t expect him to pretend he was fine all the time.

He stared at the message, rereading it more than once. There was something comforting in Lance’s casual bossiness, like Keith was just some normal kid being dragged into weekend plans by a friend who didn’t know how to take no for an answer.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard for a while before he typed:

Keith:
…okay fine
but if i puke on your shoes that’s on you

Lance hearted the message, followed up with:

Lance:
deal. also bring that jacket you wore monday u looked hot
like sweaty hot not attractive hot
actually both whatever shut up

Keith rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His arms still ached. His ribs throbbed. But in this moment, none of that mattered quite as much.

He set the phone down beside him and leaned back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Friday. The lake. A family that smiled too much. Kids who screamed too loud. Lance, probably talking the whole time.

It sounded… almost bearable.

Almost. 

______________________________________________________________________________

As Friday approached the boys started to become closer. Facetime almost every day after school, sitting next to each other in every class, fingers brushing each other in the halls. It was casual, it was great. Neither of them felt the need to speak their attraction for another out loud, Lance because well, Keith is not gay. And Keith? Well, his dad would kill him, but it was fun to pretend. Until it got too real. 

The ride to the lake started early. Keith had packed the night before, after an hour of staring at an empty backpack before finally stuffing in a towel, a spare t-shirt, and his red long-sleeved swim shirt with the black trunks he’d worn at the beach. He’d crept out of the apartment before Marcus woke up. No note. No goodbye. Just silence.

The McClain car pulled up like a rescue mission. Lance jumped out of the passenger seat and opened the back door with a mock bow. “Your chariot awaits, Sir Mullet.”

Keith rolled his eyes but smiled faintly, slipping into the back seat beside Sylvio, who immediately tried to hand him a half-eaten cookie. Veronica was already in the front, tapping through music. Marco was driving this time. Luis sat beside him, sipping coffee from a travel mug.

The car ride was loud but easy. Music played, the windows were cracked for breeze, and the kids were all energy and sugar. Lance had his seat reclined back far enough to twist around and talk to Keith the whole time, tapping his knee occasionally like they shared some inside joke Keith didn’t even know yet. Their hands bumped more than once on the seat between them, neither pulling away.

By the time they pulled up to the lake, Keith was actually relaxed.

The place was stunning. Shimmering water stretched wide beneath a bright sky, the trees around them rustling gently in the breeze. The McClains were a well-oiled machine—blankets unfolded, food unpacked, sunscreen applied with military precision. Keith hovered until someone handed him a soda and Luis told him to “kick off your shoes and have some fun.”

Then Lance slapped a towel against his chest and smirked, “Race you in.”

Keith blinked. “What—?”

But Lance was already running. Keith huffed, then took off after him.

The water was cold and clean. Keith dove under, surfacing to the sound of Lance yelling and splashing. They wrestled over a foam floaty at one point, Keith winning only because he was willing to dunk Lance fully underwater. The kids shrieked when they swam by, and Luis laughed from shore.

Keith hadn’t laughed that much in… a long time.

When they finally crawled out of the water, breathless and soaked, Lance threw a towel at him and dropped beside him on the sand, hair dripping, grin wide.

“You’ve got the slowest dive I’ve ever seen,” Lance teased, nudging Keith’s foot with his own.

Keith glanced at him. “Still beat you to the floaty.”

“Only ‘cause I didn’t cheat.”

“You tried to bite me.”

“Fair point.”

They sat there in silence for a bit, towels around their shoulders, watching Nadia chase Sylvio in circles with a squirt gun. Luis grilled burgers nearby, Marco was trying to fix a kite, and Veronica sat sunbathing, pretending not to babysit.

Keith looked over at Lance, who was already looking at him. The sunlight caught the golden in his skin, the blue in his eyes.

Something lingered there—something warm and heavy and unspoken.

Keith’s stomach fluttered.

Lance didn’t say anything, and neither did he.

But neither looked away.
“The sun makes your eyes look nice,” Lance said, casually—too casually.

Keith’s cheeks flushed before he could stop them. He scoffed and looked away, running a hand through his hair like he was unaffected. “Shut up.”

That’s when it happened.

The motion pushed his sleeve up, just enough for the afternoon light to catch the edge of his wrist. Lance’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing slightly. Keith didn’t notice right away—not until he realized the air between them had shifted.

Slowly, Keith followed his gaze and looked down.

A smattering of bruises painted his forearm, dull purple and fading yellow. Just above the crook of his elbow, red marks peeked out, small and scabbed over like old burns or scrapes that hadn’t healed right.

Keith froze.

He yanked his sleeve down fast, but the damage was done.

Lance didn’t say anything.

He didn’t tease or pry or make a face.

He just looked at Keith like he saw him. And not in the way other people did. Not the way teachers gave pitiful glances or strangers tried not to stare. Lance looked at him like none of it scared him off.

Keith swallowed hard and hugged his arms against his chest. “It’s not what it looks like,” he muttered. The words felt automatic.

Lance nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He didn’t say I believe you or I don’t believe you —just okay , like he was giving Keith room to speak if he wanted, but not asking for more than he could give.

And somehow, that was worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide.

They sat there a little longer in silence. The sun began to dip behind the trees. Voices from the rest of the family echoed in the distance, distant and safe.

Keith didn’t move, and neither did Lance.

They just sat, arms brushing lightly, until it felt like the world had quieted around them.

From the yard, a familiar voice called out—warm and casual but loud enough to break the quiet between them.

“Boys! Food’s up, come grab a plate before the little ones eat all the good stuff!”

Keith blinked like he’d forgotten they weren’t alone in the world. Lance stood slowly, brushing off the back of his swim trunks and stretching his arms like he hadn’t just been caught staring too long.

“You coming?” he asked, turning back to Keith with an easy smile.

Keith hesitated.

Lance didn’t press. He just waited, holding his hand out—not offering it to Keith, but gesturing like, hey, I’m going this way if you wanna follow.

Keith stood without a word, tugging his sleeve down just a little tighter before walking beside him.

They didn’t talk on the way over, but Lance made sure to slow his pace when Keith walked a little stiffly. And when they reached the table where Mr. McClain was setting out food and Sylvio was already sneaking a second hot dog, Lance made sure to grab Keith a plate, too.

“Here,” he said, handing it over like it was nothing.

Keith didn’t say thanks. But he didn’t need to.

And Mr. McClain, catching sight of them from across the patio, grinned wide and waved them over like he was calling his own sons.

“There they are,” he said cheerfully. “Took you two long enough. Keith, you still like grilled chicken, right? Got a little of everything if you’re hungry.”

Keith nodded, quiet but polite. “Thanks, sir.”

Mr. McClain gave him a pat on the back as he passed. “Don’t call me sir, you’ll make me feel ancient. Just Luis is fine.”

Keith gave a tiny smile. Barely there. But real.

And somehow, that made the food taste a little better.

Keith’s phone buzzed in his pocket just as he was about to reach for a second piece of chicken. He glanced down at the screen—and his entire body tensed.

Dad

He stood up fast, mumbling, “I’ll be right back,” and slipping away from the patio table before anyone could ask why.

Lance noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t say anything, just watched Keith walk across the lawn toward the driveway, his phone already pressed to his ear.

Then he turned back to the table where Sylvio had somehow managed to get barbecue sauce on his ear and Nadia was quietly trying to put a hotdog in her cup of lemonade.

“Okay, you little gremlins,” Lance said, standing dramatically and placing his hands on his hips. “Hands off my food. I’m on guard duty now.”

Luis chuckled, watching as Lance dramatically moved his plate further from Sylvio. “You know they’re just going to sneak it when you turn around.”

“No they won’t,” Lance said confidently. Then he turned to his niece. “Nadia, are you putting that hotdog in your drink?”

She froze, mid-submerge, looking up like a deer caught in headlights.

“Maybe,” she said innocently.

Lance groaned and reached over to grab her cup. “Okay, that’s it. You’re banned from mixing food groups for twenty-four hours.”

Marco laughed from the other end of the table, rocking Sylvio gently on his lap to keep him still. “She gets it from you, you know. You’re the one who used to dip Cheetos in milk.”

“That was science!” Lance argued, pointing an accusing finger. “I was experimenting!”

Luis just smiled, leaning back in his chair with a look of quiet pride as he watched his kids—well, all three of them—go back and forth. Lance was in the thick of it, laughing, mock-arguing, and cutting up chicken nuggets for the kids while still somehow managing to sneak a few fries off Marco’s plate.

It was chaotic. Loud. A little messy.

But it was also so normal. So full of love.

And just a few yards away, Keith was standing stiffly in the driveway, voice low, back to the table.

Lance caught a glimpse of him through the gaps in the fence. He didn’t look like he was saying much.

But Lance didn’t call out to him. He just made sure the best piece of chicken was saved and that Nadia’s cup had a fresh lemonade in it—not a hotdog cocktail.

Keith paced down the driveway, phone pressed tight to his ear, heart thudding against his ribs. It rang once… twice… then clicked.

“Where the hell are you?”

His father’s voice hit him like a slap. Cold. Sharp.

Keith swallowed hard, his throat already dry. “I told you I was going out. I’m at a friend’s house.”

“You didn’t ask. You don’t just leave my house like you run it.”

Keith flinched. He tried to keep his voice steady. “I wasn’t trying to cause anything. It’s just for the afternoon. I’ll be back—”

“I don’t give a damn how long you’ll be gone. You walk out without permission, you pay for it.”

Keith closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. “Can we not do this right now?”

There was a beat of silence, and for a second Keith thought— hoped —maybe he’d hang up. But then the voice came back, quieter now, but even worse in its control.

“Don’t get too comfortable over there, you hear me? You’re not one of them. Don’t forget that.”

Keith didn’t respond. His grip on the phone tightened.

“You got ten minutes to get home after that lake trip. Not eleven. Ten.”

The line clicked dead.

Keith lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a moment. The background—just some boring default wallpaper—blurred behind the forming sting of tears.

He took a deep breath and looked up, forcing his shoulders back. From the driveway, he could still hear laughter coming from the backyard—Lance’s voice loudest of all.

Keith stood there for a moment, letting the contrast settle over him. Two worlds.

Then he shoved the phone in his pocket, pushed the storm back down inside of him, and walked back toward the sound of lemonade and hotdogs and kids trying to climb onto Lance’s lap.

______________________________________________________________________________

The sun had started its slow descent, casting golden streaks across the lake’s rippling surface. The chatter and noise from the backyard had faded into background hum, distant behind the hum of cicadas and the lap of water against wood.

Keith sat at the edge of the dock, arms wrapped around his knees, his long sleeves rolled back down despite the warmth. He hadn’t said much since coming back from his phone call, and he’d dodged every attempt Lance made at conversation.

Lance finally dropped down beside him, a little too close on purpose.

“Okay,” Lance said, nudging Keith with his shoulder. “What gives?”

Keith didn’t answer. He stared out at the water like it might swallow him whole if he looked hard enough.

“I know that look,” Lance said quietly. “I’ve seen it in the mirror.”

Keith’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

Lance gave a short laugh. “That’s the most suspicious ‘I’m fine’ I’ve ever heard.”

Keith didn’t respond. His shoulders hunched deeper.

Lance leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. “You always do this, you know? Open up just enough to make people care and then slam the door shut the second they get close.”

Keith’s head turned slightly toward him. “Maybe people shouldn’t care.”

“Well, tough luck, Mullet,” Lance said, voice light but firm. “I already do.”

Keith’s mouth parted, but no words came out. The silence stretched.

“I don’t need your life story,” Lance added, quieter this time. “But don’t sit here and act like you don’t want someone to stick around. You do. I see it.”

Keith closed his eyes. He wanted to deny it, say something biting or sarcastic, but his throat wouldn’t work right. Instead, he looked away again, blinking rapidly.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Lance said, softer now. “But I’m not gonna let you act like you’re just some passing shadow. You’re here. You’re real. And you matter.”

Keith’s lips twitched, just barely.

“You’re really bad at this emotional support thing,” he muttered finally, voice hoarse.

Lance grinned. “You’re really bad at not being emotionally constipated.”

Keith huffed a small laugh despite himself.

The tension between them settled into something quiet, something warmer. The air didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. For now, the world was just the dock, the water, and the slowly fading sun.

And Keith didn’t feel quite so alone.

“Boys!” Luis’s voice echoed across the lake. “Come on, time to pack it in!”

Keith and Lance both turned toward the shore where Luis was waving by the car, the others already piling in with towels and leftover snacks. The sun had sunk even lower, the air now tinged with the chill of evening.

Lance gave Keith a nudge with his shoulder. “Come on, Mullet. If we don’t hurry, Veronica’s gonna hog the aux again.”

Keith stood reluctantly, casting one last glance at the water before following Lance up the dock.

The ride back was quiet and content. Nadia and Sylvio were asleep in their car seats, their heads tilted in opposite directions like dropped dolls. Marco was in the passenger seat, half-talking to their dad about some work thing.

Keith and Lance slid into the back together, the soft fabric of the seats warm from the sun. For a few miles, neither of them said anything. Keith leaned against the window, watching trees blur past. Lance sat beside him, arms resting lazily on his thighs, humming faintly along to the soft music coming from the front.

Then, without a word, Lance shifted.

Keith barely registered it until he felt warm fingers brushing against his. Slowly, Lance laced their hands together, palms pressed, thumbs grazing.

Keith’s breath caught—but he didn’t pull away.

He just stared down at their hands for a second, then shifted his pinky slightly to hook more firmly around Lance’s.

No one said anything. The car rumbled forward, soft voices in the front and steady hum of tires on road filling the silence.

Keith let his head rest back against the seat. He didn’t know where this was going, or if it was safe, or smart. But for the first time in a long time, he felt like maybe he didn’t need to be scared of the warmth.

And so he held on. Just a little tighter.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Lance found himself staring at his phone more than usual.

No new messages.

Not from Keith, anyway.

He told himself it wasn’t that big of a deal. People got sick. People missed school. But Keith wasn’t just people, not to Lance—not anymore. Not since that day at the lake. Not since he held Lance’s hand and didn’t let go.

And that was the problem. None of it made sense.

If Keith wasn’t gay, then why did he let Lance touch him like that? Why did he blush when Lance told him his eyes looked nice? Why did he sit so close, look at him like that, act like it meant something?

Lance raked a hand through his hair and flopped back on his bed with a groan. “He’s not gay,” he mumbled to the ceiling. “He’s not gay, he’s not gay, he’s not—”

But that look on Keith’s face when their fingers touched? The way he leaned in without hesitation? That didn’t look straight. That didn’t feel straight.

And now he was just… gone.

Two full days without Keith showing up to school. No word. No snarky texts. Not even a FaceTime call, and that had become almost a ritual between them. Lance tried reaching out—twice. Then three times. The last message was still left on read. No reply.

Shiro had told them Keith had the flu. “He’s fine,” he said with a strained smile. “Just resting. He’ll be back soon.”

But if he was really fine, why wasn’t he answering Lance’s calls? Or responding to texts? Why was Shiro’s face so tight when he said it?

Lance sat up, his chest tight. It wasn’t just about missing his maybe-crush. It was about the pit in his stomach that told him something wasn’t right.

And if something wasn’t right, Lance wasn’t going to sit back and wait. Not anymore.

Keith needed someone in his corner.

And Lance had already decided—he wanted to be that person.

Lance hovered by the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he watched his dad clean up from dinner. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, thoughts spiraling so fast he almost forgot to speak.

“Dad?”

Luis looked up, a bit surprised. “Yeah, mijo?”

Lance stepped inside, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Can I talk to you? Like… seriously talk?”

That got his dad’s full attention. He put the dish towel down and turned to face him. “Of course. What’s going on?”

“It’s about Keith.”

Luis didn’t say anything right away, just nodded and motioned toward the table. They both sat down.

“I don’t think he’s okay,” Lance started, slowly. “Like… really not okay.”

Luis leaned forward, arms resting on the table. “What makes you say that?”

Lance swallowed. “Remember when we went to the lake? And I invited him?”

Luis nodded. “Sure. Quiet kid. Polite. Bit jumpy.”

“Yeah.” Lance paused. “He was wearing a long-sleeved swim shirt, but at one point his sleeve rolled up and I… I saw his arms. They were covered in bruises. Not just like, normal stuff—like, old bruises, healing cuts. Red marks. It looked… bad.”

Luis’s brow furrowed. “And you’re just now telling me this?”

“I didn’t know how to say anything,” Lance said quickly. “And I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. But then there was the phone call.”

Luis frowned. “Phone call?”

“Yeah. At the lake. His phone rang and he got up to take it. When he came back, he was totally different. Shut down. Wouldn’t talk to anyone. And I think it was his dad.”

Luis sat back in his chair, jaw tightening. “Did he say it was his dad?”

“No. But… I just know. It shook him up. And now he’s missed two days of school, and he won’t answer me. Shiro says he’s sick but—something’s not right. I can feel it.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the hum of the refrigerator. Then Luis sighed, rubbing his hands together like he was thinking through a dozen things at once.

“You did the right thing telling me,” he said. “You did good, Lance.”

Lance let out a shaky breath. “So… what do we do?”

Luis looked up at him. “We figure it out. Carefully. Keith needs someone who sees him. And right now? That’s you.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Keith’s room was dark, the curtains drawn so tightly the sunlight barely bled through the edges. He hadn’t turned on the light all day. Not that it mattered—he hadn’t really moved much either.

The buzz of his phone rattled against the nightstand for the third time in an hour. He didn’t bother checking it. He already knew who it was.

Lance.

Keith rolled onto his side, pulling the thin blanket tighter over his sore body. He wasn’t sure if the fever was real or if it was just the bruises aching all over again. Shiro had been covering for him, telling the school he was sick, and Keith hadn’t argued. It was easier than trying to explain why he couldn’t lift his arm above his shoulder. Why the thought of seeing Lance again made his chest squeeze and twist—not because he didn’t want to see him, but because he did.

He let out a breath, voice cracking in the stillness. “I’m so stupid.”

That day at the lake had felt too good to be real. Lance’s family had been too kind. The food too warm. The laughter too genuine. And Lance—God, Lance—he made Keith forget himself for a while. Made him feel like a version of himself that could exist without fear.

But that wasn’t real. It never was. He couldn’t have that. Not when the second he stepped back into his own house, all of it was stripped away like it had never been there.

His phone buzzed again.

Keith finally rolled over and checked it.

Lance:
Still thinking about Friday? Let me know, okay?

Keith stared at the message for a long time. The words were simple, but the care behind them wrapped around him like a second skin. His hand trembled a little as he typed back.

Keith:
Sorry I’ve been quiet. I’m okay. Just needed some time.

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, with cautious fingers, he added another message.

Keith:
Can we talk soon? Just us.

He hit send before he could change his mind.

Then he set the phone back down, laid on his back, and stared at the ceiling. His body ached, his heart felt heavy, but… for the first time in days, the buzzing in his chest felt a little quieter.

He wasn’t sure what would come next, but if anyone could make it feel a little less impossible, it was Lance.

Keith’s phone buzzed again—this time not with a text, but a FaceTime call.

His heart skipped.
Lance.

Keith hesitated, staring at the screen. He considered not answering. But something in him—maybe that tiny spark that hadn't completely gone out yet—pushed his thumb forward and tapped Accept .
He kept the camera off.

Lance's face appeared instantly, brows furrowed with concern but soft around the edges. "Hey," he said, like it was the most casual thing in the world, like he hadn’t been worried out of his mind for two straight days. "You okay?"

Keith cleared his throat before speaking. His voice came out low, raspy—like he hadn’t spoken much at all lately. “Yeah.”

“You sound like you smoked a pack of cigarettes and then ran a marathon.”

Keith huffed a soft laugh, but it ended in a cough. “Sick,” he mumbled, which wasn’t entirely a lie. “Shiro’s been telling people, right?”

“Yeah. And I knew something was off the second he said it,” Lance said, his tone gentle but honest. “You never miss school, Keith. Not unless…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Keith swallowed hard. He stayed quiet, not trusting himself to speak. His arm throbbed just from holding the phone up.

“You don’t have to talk about anything,” Lance said after a moment, softer now. “I just wanted to see your face.”

Keith hesitated. His thumb hovered over the camera button. “I look like hell.”

“You always look like hell,” Lance grinned. “It’s kind of your thing.”

That earned him a weak smile through the phone speaker. Then, after a pause, Keith clicked the camera on.

He didn’t say anything. He just sat there, hoodie pulled tight over his head, face pale and eyes tired, with a faint bruise visible near his jaw. He didn’t meet the camera.

Lance’s smile faltered, but he didn’t say anything about the bruise. Instead, he said, “Hey. There you are.”

Keith didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

They just sat there for a moment—silent, but connected—and for once, the quiet didn’t feel heavy.

Keith kept his eyes low, picking at a loose thread on his hoodie. His voice was quieter now, but less raspy than before. “You… uh. You busy?”

Lance blinked, surprised. “Not really. Why?”

Keith hesitated. He didn’t like asking for things. He hated asking for things. But this felt different.

“My parents aren’t home. Just me and Shiro,” he said, voice low. “You… wanna come over?”

There was a beat of silence. Lance’s eyebrows shot up a little, not out of judgment—just surprise. “Yeah,” he said quickly, already grabbing for his shoes off-camera. “Yeah, of course. You sure?”

Keith nodded once. “Yeah. I just… I don’t wanna be alone.”

Lance’s face softened completely, all jokes and charm put away in favor of something gentler. “I’ll be there in ten.”

Keith’s chest ached at that—for all the right reasons.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and the screen went dark as he hung up first.

He leaned back on his bed, letting out a long breath, staring up at the ceiling.

For once, he was letting someone in .

And that scared him way more than being alone ever had.

______________________________________________________________________________

Lance knocked once before Shiro opened the door, already expecting him. He offered a small smile, polite but tired. “Hey, Lance. Keith’s in his room. Second door on the left.”

“Thanks,” Lance replied, stepping inside.

The interior of the house was spotless. White walls, polished floors, everything pristine and still like a staged model home. Not a single picture hung in the hallway, and there wasn’t a speck of dust in sight. It was cold—not temperature-wise, but in that quiet, sterile way that made Lance feel like he shouldn’t touch anything.

He found Keith’s door easily, hesitating just a second before knocking once and pushing it open.

The contrast hit him like a wave.

Keith’s room looked lived in —but not in the casual, messy way Lance’s did. The chair by the desk was broken in half, tipped awkwardly against the wall. There were three visible holes punched into the drywall, one of them near the closet door, another by the bed. Clothes were strewn on the floor, not carelessly tossed but left there, like someone hadn’t had the energy to pick them up.

Lance didn’t say anything. His eyes took it in, quick and quiet.

Then he saw Keith on the bed.

He was curled up on top of the blankets, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, hair messier than usual. His eyes flicked up when Lance stepped in.

Lance didn’t ask. He just walked over and sat on the edge of the bed beside him.

Keith didn’t move at first, but then—softly—he leaned sideways, his shoulder bumping into Lance’s. And Lance stayed, solid and warm beside him.

No words.

Just the sound of their quiet breathing and the world slowing down for a moment.

Lance didn’t ask questions. He just stayed close, sitting in silence beside Keith for a long while.

Eventually, he shifted, rising to his feet with a softness that surprised even him. He looked down at Keith, who hadn’t moved. His eyes were open, but distant. Tired in a way that ran deep.

“C’mere,” Lance murmured, voice low and tender. He reached out a hand, brushing Keith’s hair out of his face with careful fingers. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Keith didn’t respond, but he didn’t pull away either.

Taking that as permission, Lance knelt beside the bed and gently ran his fingers through Keith’s tangled hair. He was patient, working through the knots slowly, not tugging, not rushing. Just careful, like Keith might shatter if he handled him the wrong way.

Keith let his eyes slip shut.

“I brought some of my clothes,” Lance said quietly, almost like he was speaking to the air between them. “Figured you’d want something comfy. Clean.”

He stood up and pulled a folded stack of clothes from his backpack—a soft long-sleeve shirt and a pair of loose joggers. No logos, no patterns, just comfort. He placed them on the bed.

“Think you can change into these?” he asked gently. “I’ll step out if you want.”

Keith shook his head slowly. “Stay.”

Lance paused, then nodded once. “Okay.”

Turning to give Keith some space, he heard the faint rustling of fabric behind him. When it quieted, Lance glanced back. Keith had changed, but his face still looked worn, pale, marked with fading bruises and dried blood near his lip.

Without a word, Lance disappeared into the bathroom down the hall and came back a minute later with a damp washcloth.

“Sit up for me?” he asked, his voice a whisper.

Keith sat slowly, back against the wall now. Lance moved carefully, kneeling again, and gently dabbed the cloth across Keith’s face. His touch was feather-light, brushing over the bruises like they were sacred.

Keith blinked up at him, something unreadable in his eyes.

Lance didn’t tease, didn’t joke. He just said, “You’re okay now,” like it was a promise. “You’re safe here, alright?”

Keith swallowed hard. He didn’t speak. But his shoulders dropped just a little, some invisible tension slowly uncoiling.

Lance kept going, wiping at the dried blood, brushing Keith’s hair back again when it fell into his face. His hands lingered at Keith’s jaw for a second longer than necessary.

Neither of them said anything.

But it felt like something had shifted.

Something warm and quiet and real.

And Keith, for once, didn’t want to run from it.

Keith felt a tear run down his cheek and rushed to wipe it, “Sorry m’ so sick.” he mumbled even after the second, then third tear fell.

Lance didn’t say it’s okay —because Keith looked like he’d heard that a thousand times and never once believed it.

Instead, he leaned in just a little closer and said softly, “You don’t have to be sorry.”

He reached up and brushed Keith’s hand aside, gently wiping away the tears with his sleeve. His touch was slow, steady, like he wasn’t in any kind of rush to make Keith stop crying, just there to be with him through it.

“I mean it,” Lance added, quieter now. “You’re not weak. You’re not annoying. You’re just… human. And sick or not, I’m still here.”

Keith closed his eyes, trying to bite back the tears, but it was no use. They kept coming in slow, silent streaks down his cheeks. He didn’t sob. Didn’t make a sound. Just… cried.

Lance didn’t look away.

He didn’t let go either. He moved to sit beside Keith on the edge of the bed, shoulder to shoulder now, letting the silence fill the space between them.

“I used to cry all the time when I got sick as a kid,” Lance murmured, like a memory just barely forming on his tongue. “Veronica would tease me, but my mom? She’d sit with me. Just like this. Let me feel it.”

Keith nodded slowly, like he didn’t trust his voice.

Lance glanced over. “So, I’m gonna sit here. With you. For as long as you need. Alright?”

Keith’s voice came out rough, barely a whisper. “Okay.”

And then he let himself lean, just a little, shoulder pressing against Lance’s.

Lance didn’t move away.

He just sat there, hand resting lightly over Keith’s, their fingers brushing.

“Can we smoke?” Keith asked suddenly, like the thought just came over him. Lance frowned, 

“You wanna get high? Like right now?” 

Keith tangled his fingers with Lances more, holding on. 

“Mhm”

Lance looked at Keith, really looked at him.

His face was still pale, eyes tired and rimmed red from crying. His voice had barely come back, and even now, it cracked when he spoke. But his fingers were tangled tightly in Lance’s, grounding himself like that was the only thing keeping him here.

“You sure?” Lance asked gently. “You’re still sick… and kind of a mess, if I’m being honest.”

Keith gave a crooked half-smile, barely there. “Exactly why I wanna.”

Lance huffed a soft laugh through his nose, not letting go of Keith’s hand. “You are the worst patient, you know that?”

Keith shrugged, like he already knew.

Lance hesitated, eyes flicking to the door and then back to Keith. “Alright,” he said quietly. “But only if we stay here, just us, and you promise not to pass out on me.”

Keith nodded seriously, but with the kind of gleam in his eye that made Lance think he’s not all gone right now. Just trying to cope.

Lance got up with a sigh and squeezed Keith’s hand before letting go. “I’ll get my stuff. You stay here. Don’t move. And maybe—drink some water or something before you green out again.”

Keith saluted him lazily as Lance headed for his backpack near the door. “Yes, doctor.”

“Damn right,” Lance muttered with a small smile. “You’re my patient now, Mullet. And I take care of my patients.”

Keith looked down at his lap, fingers still tingling from the warmth of Lance’s touch.

“Yeah,” he whispered, just to himself. “You do.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Hours passed by and Keith felt like he was floating, Lance had convinced Keith into taking an edible instead of smoking, something about being easy on the lungs. Keith didn’t care. 

“Lance y’know I think you’re very pretty”

Lanced looked over at him, he was working on fixing his chair thinking Keith had fallen asleep, 

“Yeah?” Lance smiled 

“Mhm, like- so soo pretty”

Lance chuckled softly, tightening the bolt he’d been fiddling with. “That the edible talking, or you finally being honest with me?”

Keith was sprawled across the bed like a wet noodle, eyes barely open and cheeks flushed pink. He blinked slowly, processing the question in real time.

“…Both,” he said eventually, voice muffled into Lance’s pillow. “You have such nice eyes. And your nose. And your voice is like… ugh.”

Lance glanced over his shoulder at him, unable to hide the grin tugging at his lips. “My voice ?”

“Yeah,” Keith nodded into the blanket. “Like, if a cloud could flirt with me? That’s what you sound like.”

That made Lance full-on laugh. “Dude, you are so gone.”

Keith smiled proudly, clearly not taking it as an insult. “You’re still pretty though.”

Lance got up and walked over to the bed, dropping beside Keith with a soft sigh. “Well, thank you, Keith. You’re not so bad yourself.”

Keith turned his head to look at him, eyes glassy but sincere. “You’re the only person who makes me feel safe.”

That sobered Lance fast.

He didn’t say anything for a second, just reached out and gently brushed a piece of hair from Keith’s face, letting his hand linger.

“I’m glad,” he whispered finally. “You deserve to feel that way. Every day.”

Keith hummed, leaning into the touch like a sleepy cat. “Can I stay here forever?”

Lance smiled sadly. “You can stay as long as you want.”

Neither of them moved after that. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan and Keith’s gentle breathing, slowing down as the high settled deeper.

And Lance stayed right there—just watching over him.

But all good things have to come to an end.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Shiro’s voice followed, muffled but clear, “Hey, Lance? Our dad’s on his way home. We’re not allowed to have people over this late—you gotta get going.”

It was only six, but rules were rules.

Lance didn’t argue. “Okay,” he said softly, glancing at Keith, who had barely stirred. His eyes were half-lidded, cheeks still warm from the edible, and he looked so at peace—like for once, the weight he always carried wasn’t dragging him under.

Lance stood up quietly, careful not to disturb him too much. “I’ll text you when I get home,” he said, just in case Keith was still listening.

Keith gave the tiniest nod, like his body couldn’t manage more than that.

Lance gave his hand one last squeeze before slipping out the door.

If Lance had known this would be the last time he saw Keith before everything fell apart, he would’ve stayed longer. But he’d always be grateful he gave Keith’s hand that final squeeze of reassurance.

Chapter Text

Lance had barely stepped into the hallway before he heard someone call his name—sharper than usual. He turned, a casual smile already forming, until he saw Keith storming toward him like a bullet.

“Keith?” Lance blinked, confused, slowing his steps.

Before he could say anything else, Keith shoved him—hard enough to make him stumble back into the lockers.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Keith spat, eyes locked on Lance like he was trying to burn a hole through him.

Lance caught himself on the metal behind him, heart stuttering. “What—dude, what are you—?”

Another shove. This one less forceful, but angrier. “What did you do , huh?” Keith’s voice was low and furious, shaking at the edges. “CPS showed up at my house. You tell someone something?”

“What?! No!” Lance’s brows shot up, hands raised halfway in defense, not because he was scared, but because Keith looked seconds away from exploding.

Keith shoved him again, chest to chest now, his breathing fast, his jaw clenched. “Don’t lie to me. You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You, your dad —you think I don’t know what this is?”

Lance pushed back, just enough to give himself space, not enough to hurt. “Keith, I didn’t say anything, I swear. I wouldn’t—I didn’t even know!”

Keith stared at him, breathing hard. The hallway had gone quiet. A few kids slowed down, watching from a distance, but no one said anything. Keith’s eyes stayed locked on Lance’s. Furious. Betrayed.

But also—underneath it—hurt. So, so hurt.

“You ruined everything,” Keith whispered, barely audible. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Lance’s chest ached. He didn’t reach out, didn’t dare, but he didn’t back down either. “Keith,” he said gently, “I would never hurt you like that. You have to believe me.”

Keith’s expression flickered—just a second of doubt. A second of maybe. Then he turned sharply and walked away without another word, shoving through the crowd like they weren’t even there.

And Lance stood there alone, still feeling the heat of Keith’s hands on his chest, wondering how the hell everything had gone so wrong.

Lance rubbed the back of his neck as he slid into his seat in first period, dropping into the chair like nothing had happened—even though everything had . He forced his usual half-smile, leaned back, and stared blankly at the whiteboard as if the equations up there mattered.

They didn’t.

People were still whispering when the bell rang. A few eyes flicked toward him like they were waiting for an explanation.

“Dude,” someone leaned over—Ryan, maybe, or Eric, he wasn’t sure. “What was that with Keith just now?”

Lance blinked like he was just now tuning in. “Huh?”

“That thing in the hall—he looked like he was about to punch you in the face.”

Lance let out a low, amused scoff, not even glancing over. “Nah. Keith’s just having a day.”

“You sure?” another kid asked from the row behind. “He looked pissed. ”

“Yeah, well,” Lance shrugged, tapping his pen against his notebook, “he always kinda looks like that, right?”

A few chuckles followed. The questions stopped. Satisfied that whatever had happened wasn’t juicy enough to pursue, the class shifted back to pretending to care about math.

But Lance stayed quiet, eyes flicking to the empty seat across the room—the one Keith usually took before today. His leg bounced under the desk, his hand scribbled nonsense across his notes.

He didn’t want to admit how off-balance he felt.
Not just because Keith had shoved him.
Not just because Keith thought he’d betrayed him.
But because Keith looked at him like he didn’t know him at all.

And Lance…
Lance wasn’t sure how to fix that.

Because maybe he was the one who called.

______________________________________________________________________________

Keith didn’t sleep.

Not after the knock came at 2:14 a.m.—sharp and steady, like it belonged to someone who didn’t care they were waking up the whole damn house.

He already knew. Somehow, even before he opened his bedroom door and found the hallway lights on, Shiro standing in the corner rubbing at his tired eyes, and two CPS workers asking polite but sharp-edged questions—he knew .

They called it a “bonding assessment.”
A test , they said.
Just routine. Just checking in. Just making sure Keith was safe, stable, connected .

Keith wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw something.
But instead, he sat on the edge of the couch and answered every question with a shrug or a short, quiet reply. His voice didn’t sound like his own.

“Do you feel supported by your father figure?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you feel safe in the home?”
“…Sure.”
“What do you and Marcus like to do together?”
Keith’s throat tightened. “Dunno. Watch TV.”

He could tell he was failing.
They were writing more than they were talking. Their nods were too careful. Their looks toward each other too knowing. Shiro kept jumping in, trying to help, but Keith didn’t want help—not like that.
It wasn’t going to matter anyway. They’d already decided.

And when the door finally shut behind them, it was worse than any yelling.

Marcus didn’t say a word.

He just looked at Keith.
Not angry. Not smug.
Just knowing .

Keith stood frozen in the hallway, the silence wrapping around his chest like a vice.

Back into the system.

He didn’t need to hear the words to understand.
That look said enough.

Now, hours later, sitting in the front seat of his car with his hoodie up and a splitting headache behind his eyes, Keith clenched his jaw and glared at his phone clock like he could force it to move faster. His hands were fists in his lap. His chest still burned from the weight of that night.

And all he could think about was Lance.
And how maybe, just maybe , it was his fault.
Because who else even knew?
Who else had seen ?

Keith had barely made it through the school doors before he saw him—Lance. Smiling, chatting like nothing was wrong. Like everything was fine.

Keith’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His chest was tight, his head still pounding from the night before, from CPS showing up like ghosts in the dark. Testing him. Asking questions with fake smiles and clipped voices. And then that look his dad gave him afterward—a quiet warning. A silent sentence.

And now here was Lance. Carefree. Clueless. Or pretending to be.

Keith didn’t think. He just moved .

“Lance!” His voice cracked down the hallway, sharp and cold.

Lance turned, smiling at first, like he hadn’t caught the tone. “Keith?”

He didn’t get another word in.

Keith shoved him—hard. Lance stumbled back into the lockers, eyes wide now, mouth half open in surprise.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Keith snapped, his voice raw and too loud. He locked eyes with Lance, tried to bore straight through him. Tried to understand if this had all been some sick game.

“What—dude, what are you—?” Lance stammered, confused.

Keith shoved him again. Not as hard, but angrier, more desperate. “What did you do, huh?” His voice cracked. “CPS showed up at my house. You tell someone something?”

Lance’s face twisted with shock. “What?! No!”

But Keith couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t unfeel the way those agents looked at him. Couldn’t unsee that hollow look on his dad’s face when they left.

He shoved Lance again, stepping in close, their chests nearly touching. His breath was fast, mouth dry. “Don’t lie to me. You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You, your dad—you think I don’t know what this is?”

Lance pushed him back a little, just enough for space. “Keith, I didn’t say anything, I swear. I wouldn’t—I didn’t even know!”

The hallway was quieter now. Keith didn’t care who was watching.

He couldn’t stop staring at Lance. Couldn’t stop feeling —betrayed, exposed, cornered.

“You ruined everything,” he whispered, voice barely holding together. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Lance didn’t flinch. He looked like he wanted to say more, but held back. His voice was soft. “Keith, I would never hurt you like that. You have to believe me.”

Something in Keith cracked—just a hairline fracture—but he forced it shut again. His throat was closing, but his pride wouldn’t let it show.

He turned sharply and pushed through the crowd without another word, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

And behind him, Lance didn’t follow.

Keith spent first hour crying on the bathroom floor.  

______________________________________________________________________________

Lance went home that day stressed. 

He barely said goodbye to anyone after school, just mumbled something about a headache and ducked into his dad’s car. The whole ride home, his knee bounced. His fingers picked at the seams of his jeans. His mind wouldn’t shut up.

Keith’s face wouldn’t leave him. The anger, sure—but it was the hurt that clung to Lance. The way his voice broke when he said, “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
It was like something had snapped inside him, like he was drowning and thought Lance had handed him the water.

Lance didn’t know what to do. He meant what he said—he didn’t say anything. Neither did his dad, he was sure of it. But none of that seemed to matter now.

When they got home, he barely spoke to anyone. He didn’t touch dinner. He just went straight to his room, closed the door, and laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He texted Keith.
Then deleted it.

Tried again.
Deleted that one too.

He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make it worse. Didn’t know how to fix a storm he didn’t even see coming.

And for the first time in a long time, Lance didn’t want to joke. He just wanted to fix it . Because Keith mattered. Because whatever this was between them—whatever it was turning into—he didn’t want it to end like this.

“You okay?” Lance’s dad questioned from the driver’s seat.

Lance looked up, caught off guard. The sun was hitting half his face through the windshield, casting sharp shadows over his cheekbones. For a second, the warmth of the light made Lance feel even more nauseous.

He hesitated. “Yeah. Just… school stuff.”

His dad hummed softly in acknowledgment, fingers drumming the steering wheel like he didn’t quite buy it—but wasn’t going to push.

Lance stared at him. Of course it had to be his dad.
The way he’d been checking in more lately. The quiet glances when Keith was over. The long, thoughtful pause when Lance had brought up that call Keith got at the lake.

He had to be the only other person who knew.
The only one who might’ve seen what Lance saw.
The only one who could’ve said something.

Lance turned back to the window, jaw tight. He watched the trees blur past the glass, heart drumming a little too loud in his chest.

“Hey Dad? Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, mijo,” his father said gently, eyes still on the road, voice calm.

“Uh—you know like CPS, right? If someone were to be like—taken, y’know? What would happen?”

There was a pause. Just long enough to make Lance wish he hadn’t asked.

“Well,” his dad said slowly, “it depends on the situation. If they take a kid, it’s usually because they think he’s not safe. So they put him somewhere else. Sometimes with family, sometimes with a foster family.”

Lance’s fingers tightened around the hem of his jacket. “But they don’t… they don’t always stay, right? Like it’s not forever?”

“Not always,” his dad said, careful. “They try to make it temporary. Try to help the family fix what’s broken. But sometimes… sometimes it doesn’t get better. And then the kid stays gone.”

Lance swallowed hard, staring out the window like it could give him answers.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

“Why do you ask?” his dad’s voice came again, gentler this time, cautious.

Lance hesitated. Then shrugged. “No reason.”

But his dad didn’t press. And Lance didn’t say another word the whole ride home.

Keith’s stomach dropped the second he turned the corner onto his street.

A silver sedan sat out front of the apartment building—clean, polished, unfamiliar. Government plates. His feet slowed. His chest tightened. He didn’t need to see the faded Department of Child Services sticker in the window to know what this was.

CPS was back.

His pulse started hammering in his ears. He adjusted his backpack higher on his shoulders, trying to shake the sudden weight pressing down on him. The steps up to the door felt like miles. The front door was cracked open. Voices drifted out—low, tense. His mom’s tight, artificial laugh. His dad’s low grumble. And a voice Keith didn’t recognize—professional, polite.

He stood frozen for a moment at the threshold, fighting the urge to turn and run. But that would only make it worse.

So he pushed the door open.

Three sets of eyes turned to him.

“There he is,” the woman said, standing as she spotted him. Her smile was too bright, too practiced. She wore a spotless blazer, a neat bun, and held a notepad on one knee like she was reporting for a morning news segment. “Hi, Keith. Do you remember me? Ms. Andrews?”

He stared at her. “Yeah.”

Her smile widened like he’d given her a gold star. “Would you mind showing me to your room? We can have a quick chat—just the two of us.”

Keith nodded once, wooden. His throat felt like it had closed up. No words would’ve come out even if he wanted them to. He turned and headed for the stairs, feeling the eyes of both his parents burning into his back.

He didn’t need to ask what this was. He already knew.

It was a test. Another “bonding assessment.” Another check-in to see if he “felt safe.” If this “placement was still appropriate.”

It didn’t matter what he said. It didn’t matter how much he smiled, or how perfectly he made his bed, or how nice he acted in school. They’d already made their choice.

Keith kept his eyes on the carpet as he walked.

He knew it was over.
No point lying.
No point crying.

Not anymore.

They both sat at the edge of Keith’s bed—awkwardly, like strangers trying not to disturb something fragile. The room was clean, meticulously so. Not a sock on the floor, not a single thing out of place. But the tension lived in the walls. In the dented closet door. In the faint scuff marks that hadn’t been scrubbed quite clean enough. Ms. Andrews didn’t comment on any of it.

She folded her hands neatly in her lap, notepad now resting beside her instead of in front. Trying to seem casual. Friendly.

“So, Keith,” she started, her tone light, like they were chatting over coffee. “I know you just started at a new school. How’s that been going?”

Keith’s shoulders tensed. He looked straight ahead at the wall. “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?” she prompted gently, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Made any friends yet?”

He paused. Thought of Lance. Thought of the lake. Of the dock. Of his hand in Lance’s.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“That’s good to hear.” She offered him another smile, soft and non-threatening, before moving on. “Who drives you in the morning?”

“I—uh.” He fidgeted with the edge of the comforter. “I drive myself. Unless I ride with Shiro.”

“Shiro,” she echoed, nodding like she was checking something off in her head. “How is he?”

Keith looked at her for the first time, just briefly.

“Amazing,” he said quietly. And he meant it. The only part of his life that didn’t feel like a lie.

Ms. Andrews tilted her head slightly. “That’s nice. You two seem close.”

Keith didn’t answer, which said enough. She scribbled something down in her notepad anyway.

“Do you feel safe here, Keith?”

The question was asked gently. Deliberately. Like it wasn’t the most important thing in the room.

Keith’s throat tightened. His gaze dropped again, fingers curling in the fabric of his jeans.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s fine.”

A beat. Then another scribble.

She let the silence hang for a moment, then asked softly, “Do you ever feel… nervous at home? Pressured, maybe? Like you can’t always be yourself?”

Keith’s fingers twitched. His heart felt like it skipped a beat. He didn’t answer.

Ms. Andrews didn’t press. She didn’t have to. She could read the spaces between his words just fine.

She closed her notebook slowly, voice soft. “Keith, how would you feel about coming with me today?”

Keith froze.

His blood turned cold. It was like the words took a second to sink in, to mean something.

Come with me.
Today.

They were taking him. Now.

He blinked at her, trying to make sense of it. “What—right now?”

Ms. Andrews gave a careful nod. “Just for a while. Somewhere safe. We’ve already spoken with your guardians. They understand it’s just a precaution for now.”

A precaution. That was a lie. His dad had known exactly what that look meant. Keith could still feel it etched behind his eyes.

His heart thudded hard against his ribs. His mouth was suddenly dry.

“You didn’t say—I didn’t know that’s what this was.” His voice cracked around the edges, like it couldn’t hold steady under the weight.

“I know,” she said gently. “I didn’t want to make you nervous ahead of time. But we really think it’s for the best. Just until things get sorted out.”

Sorted out.
Like he was a messy file on a desk somewhere.

He looked toward the stairs—Shiro’s room. Empty. His one lifeline out of reach. His mom was still in the kitchen, pretending none of this was happening. His dad was planted on the arm of the couch, unreadable. Waiting.

Keith turned back to Ms. Andrews. His jaw clenched.

He didn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

But something in him cracked, deep and quiet and permanent.

“Can I get my stuff?” he asked. His voice was flat.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Just the essentials for now.”

Keith started gathering his things.