Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

No thinking.

No feeling.

He's not Lance right now.

He focuses on the pluck of the strings. Taut and rough. Sliding against the fading callouses on his fingertips. It burns, in a way. It also feels good. Feels familiar. Feels... freeing.

He loses himself in it. In the pull. In the resistance. In the release. In the vibration. In the sound.

He focuses on his other hand, fingers pressing strings to the frets. Pressing hard. Cutting into skin that's no longer used to it. Enjoys the slide of fingertips along the strings. The press. The release. The curl and stretch of his fingers.

It's been a long time since he touched his guitar. Way too long.

He hadn't missed it before, hadn't thought about it all semester. But right here, right now, he realizes just how much he had. Maybe it's because he hadn't needed it before, and how much he needs it now.

He sits back in his chair, rocking it back. One ankle resting atop the other knee. Leg pressed into his desk. Guitar cradled on his lap. Eyes closed. Fingers on the strings. He plays.

He plays everything.

He plays nothing.

He lets his fingers move as they might. He lets them run through scales and chords, reliving and flexing his muscle memory. Reminding his fingers of their home on the strings. He shifts from chords to patterns. Patterns to songs. Familiar. Drilled into him. Hidden in the memory of his body and pulled from the depths back into the light.

Patterns.

Chords.

The pluck of the strings.

Songs he knows. Rhythms he made up. Each one leading into another. There's no sense to it. There's no plan. It flows. The chord progression of one song shifts into another. Shifts to him plucking out a melody. Shifts to a different tempo. Shifts to a new strumming pattern.

He hums under his breath.

He doesn't know what he's humming.

Fractions of phrases. Bits and pieces of songs. Lyrics and melodies that twine and weave, wordless and soft. Drifting along with the endless flow of music. Bits. Pieces. Woven together. Chords. Rhythms. Melodies. A tapestry of sound. Of everything. Of nothing. Of muscle memory taking control and leading him aimless.

He loses himself in it. Gives himself over to it. Lets himself be embraced by the nothing. By the everything. By the sound of vibrating strings and the cut of them on his fingertips. Loses himself in the vibration of his voice, bits of lyrics that dwindle into wordless melodies. English. Spanish. Intertwined. Doesn't matter. Wordless. Sounds.

He loses himself.

Lets himself float down the river of his own making.

Eyes closed.

Heart open.

Pouring out into the waters and letting them go. Refusing to dwell on them. Refusing to think about them. Refusing to give name to the things he's feeling and just... releases them. Releases it all.

He feels lighter than he has in days. Feels emptier. He feels numb. He feels everything. It hurts. It burns. It feels good. It feels cold.

In the sound. In the rhythm. In the melody. In the taut pull. The vibrating release.

No thinking. No feeling. No Lance.

He hears the key in the door. Hears the lock tumble. Hears the door open and shut. It's soft. Distant. At the end of a tunnel, like he's hearing it in an echo. Takes him a moment to realize it's his room. His door. His space.

Takes him a moment longer to realize it's probably Hunk.

He keeps playing.

No thinking.

No feeling.

"Lance?"

Right. He's Lance. He doesn't want to be, but he is. And he feels the firm tug in his chest. Feels himself dragged back into the moment, into his body. He tries to resist, but he can't. The taut pull. The release.

His fingers stop. Hovering over the strings. Vibrating and distantly aching. He opens his eyes. Stares at the table in front of him. At the laptop with a dark screen. At the textbooks opened and piled in front of him. At the notebooks filled with scribbled handwriting. At the mug of coffee that's no doubt gone cold.

Right.

He's Lance.

He doesn't want to be.

But he is.

"Uh, Lance?" Hunk repeats, making him wonder just how long he's been staring at his desk in silence.

He shakes himself. Shakes his head. Rolls his shoulders. Flexes his fingers. Pulls himself back to himself and back to reality. Settles himself firmly back in his body and into this moment. It's strange. Like coming down from a high. Like waking from a dream. He hasn't lost himself like that in a very long time.

"Yeah, buddy?" His voice is hoarse. He clears it. It still aches. Still feels thick. He tries to swallow down the emotion choking him. Force it down to ache in his chest instead.

"You, uh... you're playing your guitar." Steps from the old linoleum to the rug in the middle of their floor. The drop of a bag, clanking against Hunk's desk. The unzipping of a coat. Rustle of fabric.

Lance's lips quirk. Just at the edges. Small and wry. "So I am."

"You okay, buddy?" It's quiet, uncertain. Worried. He hates that it's worried. It tugs at his chest and spirals guilt to his gut.

So he puts on a smile and hopes it looks genuine. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" He turns, shifting the chair back upright and moving both feet to the floor. He makes eye contact with Hunk just long enough to see it's not working before he busies himself with putting the instrument away.

Hunk shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it to the back of his desk chair before plopping down with a sigh. "It's just... you only play when you're feeling a lot, you know? And I can usually tell by what you play and how loud you sing whether it's a good a lot or a bad a lot."

Lance looks up then, blinking at his roommate with his guitar hovering above its case. "Really?"

Hunk nods, opening his laptop and booting it up. "Yeah, dude. Like... you know how when I go on a cooking spree, you can tell by the kinda stuff I make what mood I'm in? It's like that. But with you. With music. And you usually only touch your guitar when you're feeling shit you can't sort out, or it feels like too much you know?"

He frowns, averting his eyes as he puts his guitar away, leaning the case against the wall by his desk. He knows Hunk is right. He knows. Music is... very close to his heart. His guitar, a piano... they're a spigot he can put to his chest and let out all the overflowing emotions rattling around. Everything that he has a hard time talking about or doesn't want to talk about. When things are too much and keep him from being able to think straight.

He knows.

He knows his guitar is his escape. His spigot. His go-to balm for an aching heart.

He just... hadn't realized Hunk had noticed. Hadn't realized Hunk can read read him so easily. He shouldn't be surprised. He notices all those little things about Hunk, too. It's a side effect of being so close for so long, but...

"I'm fine, buddy. Really." He's not. He tries for another smile anyway. He turns away before Hunk can read too far into it. Before he can see the cracks.

Hunk hums, and it doesn't sound at all convinced. "Is it the same thing that's making you avoid our friends?"

Lance rolls his eyes, moving his mouse to wake up his laptop. "I'm not avoiding our friends." He is.

"You are."

"I've just been busy." Not a whole lie. Not a whole truth. He has been busy. Classes are almost done, which brings about study week, which will lead into exam week. There's a lot to do. A lot to focus on. A lot of pressure. They're all feeling it.

It's as good an excuse as any.

And it's one Hunk isn't buying.

"But you've been hermiting, Lance. You only hermit when things are bad. Did you even hear the music you were playing?"

Lance's brows furrow, lips curling a little as he aimlessly flips through the tabs of powerpoint lectures. He should be reading them. He doesn't. "Yes? Sort of... No? I wasn't really paying attention to what I was playing."

"You were playing sad songs, dude. Like... the super bitter sweet ones? That kinda sound happy but not really? And you were humming. When you're good overwhelmed, you sing. When you're sad, you hum."

"I'm not sad." Not a whole lie. Not a whole truth.

"Then what's up?"

"Nothing, dude. Just... there's a lot going on right now." A whole truth. An understated truth.

"You know you can talk to me about whatever... right? I'm always here, man. Anytime. For anything. Just say the word, and I'm an ear and a shoulder. No judgement. You know the bro code."

A smile touches his lips. Smooths out the pinch between his brows. It feels genuine, even if the relief is fleeting. "I know, buddy. I know." He says, sigh escaping his lips. He stares down at the open text book on his desk. What was he even reading about? He barely remembers. His focus has been scattered even more than usual. "I just... don't want to talk about it right now."

He doesn't think he can. Talk about it, that is. Doesn't want to. Really doesn't want to. Talking about it would be acknowledging it. Acknowledging it would mean facing it. Would make it more real. Would mean accepting the reality that Keith is—

No.

Nope.

Not going there. No feeling. No thinking.

Numb. Cool as a cucumber. Chill as ice. That ache in his chest? Nothing. Can't feel it. The dizzy feeling and tingling in his limbs? Pffff, limbs who? Don't know them. Shortness of breath? Who needs deep breaths anyway? Not him.

"Okay, well... I'll be here when you're ready." It's soft and gentle, genuine and wholesome in the best way. Just like Hunk. It makes the ache worse.

His smile becomes strained. "I know. Thanks, dude."

"No problem, man."

Silence floods the room, but that's fine. Silence is better than talking. Talking requires thinking, and thinking inevitably leads to thinking about—

No one.

Nothing.

He's fine.

Studying. That's what he's doing. He can hear Hunk typing and tapping away at his computer, the rustle of notebooks, but he doesn't look. Doesn't care enough to. He busies himself in trying to organize his own things. He can at least pretend to be studying. He can at least act like he's organized in all of this chaos.

Right, so he has a paper due Friday, but he's almost done with that. Just has to do the citations. He's gotta finish up some lab reports. He'll need to meet up with Pidge at some point to study sociology, and he really needs to buckle down and study for art history—

Oh god, art history.

He knows he made plans to study with Keith, but— those are cancelled now, aren't they? Or maybe they wouldn't be. Would it be weird? It would probably be weird. Especially since they haven't talked about this whole— mess yet. And he's not ready to.

He hasn't seen Keith at all since that day in the gym. And that had been— what? Three days ago? Four? Two? Time has been weird. He's just been sleeping, waking up, studying, and working. Classes fit in there somewhere. Keeping himself busy. No feeling. No thinking.

He should think about it, but he doesn't want to. It's too much. It's overwhelming. Keith is— Keith knew— Keith—

Maybe he's wrong. Yeah, he's probably wrong. He could've totally misread the situation. Maybe he just wanted to see his soulmarks in Keith's art. It's not like he hasn't thought about Keith being— so yeah, maybe just... wishful thinking?

There's no way Keith is his soulmate. His soulmate for fuck's sake. The one who gives him rich paintings and feels so much through their soul connection. The one who loves space, and cryptids, and thinks Lance's pick up lines are bad, and teases him but is overall incredibly kind and endearing, and—

And who's been afraid of their soul connection.

Who... stopping talking to him right about the time Keith and Shiro lost their parents.

Who's been opening up to him more and more as he and Keith have been getting closer...

That's— No, that's not Keith. That's— nothing like Keith. At all. It's just... coincidence. He wants them to be the same, so he can stop agonizing about how he feels about them, but that doesn't make them the same.

But... if he wants Keith to be his... then why isn't he happy?

Why does he feel... like this?

He runs his fingers through his hair, digging in and pulling at his roots. Stifling a groan, he leans forward, planting his elbows on the desk and burying his face in his hands. Why isn't he happy? Why can't he be happy? What's wrong with him? Why can't he accept that Keith is—

Stop thinking.

Stop feeling.

He's not— there's no way he could be— Keith would've told him sooner, right? Surely he would have. Keith's not a dick. He knows Keith's not a dick. Keith has his own problems and his own reservations and he knows— he knows— he—

"Wanna grab dinner with us later?"

"What?" He looks up, startled, turning automatically to gaze blankly at Hunk. There's a brief moment of panic, a brief tightening in his chest from a fear that somehow— by some feat of magic— Hunk can hear his thoughts, that Hunk knows.

But he just glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "I asked if you wanted to come have dinner with us later."

"Who?" He asks, but he already knows.

"Pidge and Keith."

Yup, there's that tightening in his chest again. Who needs to breathe anyway? "No, thanks."

Hunk sighs, exasperation starting to weigh on his features. He gives Lance that look he gets when tough love is coming. "You need to get out of this dorm."

"I leave the dorm."

"Class and work don't count."

"They do, too!"

"When was the last time you ate something that wasn't ramen or Hot Pockets?"

"I... do I have to answer that question?"

"Lance." Hunk pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling louder than is strictly necessary. When he opens his eyes again, his hard gaze locks on Lance, and Lance squirms. "Why are you avoiding everyone?"

"I'm not—"

"You are! Did they do something? Say something?"

"No." Yes... kind of.

His gaze softens, voice lowering. "Then come on, dude. You've been cooped up in here for too long. Studying is good and all, but you're gonna burn yourself out. Breaks are good for you. Just come eat dinner with us."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I..." He looks at his computer, then to his notes. His gaze slides to his phone. Technically, Allura had asked him... "I have to work."

Hunk's eyebrow raises, voice flat and dry. "Seriously?"

He shrugs, leaning on an elbow and keeping his eyes on the screen of his laptop as he idly scrolls. "Yeah, sorry. Allura asked if I could pick up a shift so she could finish a paper, and I said yes." The silence is stretched and telling. He glances over his shoulder to see Hunk staring at him, eyes narrowed. "What?"

"You never pick up extra shifts."

He straightens. "I do, too."

"Rarely."

He shrugs, waving Hunk off. "Allura needs me. Can't say no to a lady, dude."

"Mhmm..."

HIs shoulders slump, and he falls back in his chair, tilting it backward. His arms hang limply to the sides as his head lolls back to look at Hunk. "Come on, dude, don't give me that."

Hunk hasn't looked away. Those big brown eyes search his face, and Lance does his best to hold his exhausted pout in place. Prays Hunk can't see the cracks.

"You promise this has nothing to do with our friends?"

He sighs, putting one hand to his chest and lifting the other in the air. "I promise." A lie.

"And you'd tell me if they did something to upset you?"

"Of course." A partial truth..

Finally, Hunk sighs, a smile creeping across his lips that's genuine enough to have relief crash through Lance's veins. Relief and guilt. "Okay, buddy. Just... don't overwork yourself, okay?"

Lance's smirk is wry and tired. "I'll try not to."

Hunk goes back to whatever it is he's doing, and Lance grabs his phone, shooting a quick text to Allura that he'll pick up her shift after all. Then he throws himself into studying. Throws himself into the paragraphs of text and lets the intricacies of marine life flood his head. Fill up the space. Leave no room for anything else.

He doesn't know if he's actually absorbing any of it, but he actually feels productive, and that counts for something.

An hour later, he gets ready for work. Shuts his laptop but leaves the books scattered around his desk. Stands and stretches and relishes in the pop of his spine. He turns around carefully, keeping his eyes on the floor and on his dresser and definitely not looking toward his bed.

Because his bed is where his pictures decorate the wall. Pictures of his paintings. His marks. His soulmate's marks. Keith's—

In his frustration and rage, he had nearly torn them all down. Nearly. Almost. But he's not ready to talk to anyone yet, and that would be a huge fucking red flag to Hunk. So he left them as they are, but just... tries not to look at them.

Grabbing his keys and wallet, wrapping his scarf around his neck and swinging his jacket on, he mumbles a goodbye to Hunk and slips out the door. Walks down the fluorescent lit hallways of his dorm in a daze.

When he steps outside, he pauses. Hands buried in his pockets, he tilts his head back. Feels the rush of cold on his neck, slipping in the space between skin and scarf. Feels the bit of the chill on his cheeks. He gazes up at the cloudy sky as the light of day begins to fade.

It's starting to snow. First snowfall of the year. Big, fluffy flakes that drift down on a lazy breeze. They land on his skin, melting at his touch. He closes his eyes against the cold. Lets the snow melt on his cheeks. On his eyelashes. On his lips.

He thinks about Keith. About how he's fine with the cold. How he looks bundled in his leather jacket and with his chin buried in a scarf. How even when his mouth is hidden, his cheeks rise out of it when he grins. How his face pales in the cold, but his nose turns bright red.

Keith is...

Keith is his soulmate.

Keith is his soulmate.

His soulmate is... Keith.

He wanted this. He hoped for this. He hated himself for dreaming about this... so why isn't he happy? He wants to be happy, he does, he just...

He's frustrated. He's mad. He's embarrassed and ashamed that he never fucking noticed. And Keith didn't tell him. Keith had to have known for months. He trusted Keith— He trusts Keith, but—

It's so much.

It's too much.

The juxtaposition of his soulmate and Keith is a gaping cavernous trench, and he can't... he can't just fit the pieces together. Not yet. He has an imagine of Keith, and an imagine of his soulmate, and they just... overlapping them is harder than he thought it would be. They don't line up just right. They're out of sync and out of focus.

It's... a lot.

A lot to think about.

A lot to digest.

And he doesn't want to think right now.

Doesn't want to feel.

Hunching his shoulders and burying his face in his scarf, he trudges across campus to work. And as he watches the snow fall and begin to gather on the pavement, he very pointed does not think about how Keith would look with snowflakes melting in his hair.

"Pidge."

"Hmm?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm one of your puzzles. My face isn't an equation, so stop staring."

He tilts his head, to the side, lazily giving them a sidelong glare. They meet his flat stare with one of their own, eyes narrowing just a fraction. They tilt their chin up, lifting a hand to adjust their glasses.

"You'll crack eventually, McClain." There's a certainty in their voice that rubs against his nerves. Makes his hackles rise. "You always do."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he looks away. He slouches a little further in his chair, shoulders hunching as he buries his chin in his scarf. His hands dig deep into his pockets, lets stretched out in front of him.

They sit at one of the small tables in the lobby of the gym, before the turnstiles into the gym proper. It's a big open space, echoing and muted all at once. There's a cafe counter off to the side that sells smoothies and protein snacks, but the only ones in the lobby right now are the gathered quidditch players.

With the weather getting colder and the recent snowfall that's managed to stick, outdoor practice is a no-go. They've tried it before and found that it's extremely unproductive and a good deal miserable.

So, like when it rains, they take their practice indoors.

A surprising amount of players have already gathered. With it being the end of the semester and the official start to study week, they don't really have any expectations for attendance. They're students first, and everyone has shit to do. But they also know staying in shape is important, and the more they practice, the less they have to whip into shape next semester.

So Pidge and Hunk sent out a message about quidditch practice being held in the gym, just a quick work out and some dodgeball. No mandatory attendance. No pressure. But a lot of players have shown up already. About two-thirds of the team.

Perhaps the promise of doing something physical and getting the fuck outta the library for a time is motivation in and of itself.

Still, as much as he knows he could use the stress relief, he almost didn't come at all. Because there's the possibility that Keith will be here, and he's not sure he's ready to face Keith. Not ready to pretend everything is fine and normal. The thought of it had his chest getting all tight and anxiety churning in his gut.

He nearly puked. That would've gotten him out of it for sure. But Hunk's goddamn puppy dog eyes got him. All big and brown and sad and pleading. How can he say no to that face? He can't. It's a weakness, and Hunk knows it.

So here he is, sitting at a table while Pidge stares him down, clearly trying to pick him apart like a goddamn equation, while he stares at the wall of windowed doors.

Every time he sees movement, his gaze snaps to it. From the parking lot. From the walkway. From the stairs leading up to the gym. His heart leaps each time, hammering a few erratic beats before the false alarm has him calming. Feeling stupid. Feeling ridiculous.

See, he's got this weird bit of I-really-don't-want-to-face-Keith-because-I-don't-know-how-I-feel mixing really chaotically with a bit of I-can't-wait-to-see-Keith.

That second part is winning out at the moment, and that's only because it's fueled with this little self-righteous, cruel sense of amusement.

He wonders if Keith is brave enough to show his face.

He wonders if Keith will try to hide it.

He can't wait to see his handiwork.

Can't wait to revel in his embarrassment.

"I know you're not okay," Pidge says, matter-of-fact but gentle. Like they're trying to pull it out of him. He knows they mean well, but it's not going to work.

"No one is okay, Pidge." He says flatly, almost bored. "It's almost exam week."

"I've seen you during exam week. Several times. You're usually loud when you're school miserable. I usually hear all about it. I've heard nothing from you for days. Something else is at play here, and it's bad enough that you won't even tell Hunk."

He looks to Pidge, eyes sharp. Lips pursed into a thin line. "What's Hunk been telling you?"

They smile, but their eyes are still curious and calculating. "Enough to make me worry."

He looks away, feeling that sliver of guilt in his chest that twists and writhes and is becoming far too familiar a sensation lately.

"You know you can talk to us about anything," They say, voice dropping.

He huffs through his nose, mumbling into his scarf. "I know."

"If you would just talk to us, we could help you—"

"Pidge," He bites out. That sliver of guilt hardening into something more volatile.

"I just mean—"

"Drop it, okay?" It's sharper than he intended it to be, and he can see the hurt in their eyes that their frown doesn't quite mask. But he can't bring himself to feel bad. Not completely. Not when he's tired of everyone pushing him. Tired of people prying and pushing. He's just tired.

"Fine." It's harder, but he knows this conversation isn't done. Just put on hold.

"Thank you." He pulls out his phone, checking the time. They're set to start soon, and still no Keith. For a moment, just a moment, his thumb hovers over the messages app. But with a scoff and a rolling wave of irritation, he clicks his phone off and shoves it back into his bag.

No. Nope. Not messaging him. He had told Keith not to contact him, that he needed time, and Keith has respected that. If Lance opens up communication now, that's giving permission for Keith to talk to him. And he... doesn't know if he's ready for that.

Besides, he's not going to have the first message he sends him after finding out about the whole soulmates thing be about quidditch practice.

But he wants to. Ooooh, boy, part of him really fucking wants to. Wants to just send an innocent coming to practice? like a silent dare. A challenge. A taunt.

Instead he lets the dare hang in the dead space between them.

"I'm calling it," Pidge says, chair scrapping the floor as they stand up. They shove their phone in their pocket. "Hey Hunk, ready to start?"

Hunk glances over from where he'd been talking with Allura and Romelle at another table. Smile bright as he says, "Yeah, sounds good."

They start calling the scattered quidditch members together. Give a little speech or pep talk or whatever before they go in. Lance just pushes himself to his feet, already heading toward the gym. Shoulders slumped. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. He knows the whole spiel already. He already knows the plan for today. And he really doesn't feel like standing around with everyone.

He's not exactly in a team player kind of mood.

He has his student ID out, poised over the card reader at the turnstile when he hears the doors open. When he hears the Hey, Keith! that echoes around the open lobby. Hears the loud gasps and choked, surprised laughs.

He pauses, taking a step back to look over his shoulder.

Keith steps into the circle that's gathered around Pidge and Hunk. His workout bag is slung over one shoulder, one hand holding the strap while the other is buried in his pocket. His scarf is bundled around his neck, hiding his frown. A hat slouching over messy hair. Even from across the room, Lance can see the heavy bags under his eyes.

But that's not what draws his attention.

Oh no.

Everyone's gaze is immediately drawn to the dick tattooed in solid black lines across his pale face.

It's a work of art, really, and Lance is quite proud of it. The heavy nut sack hangs down over his left jawline, drooping down his neck. The shaft is long and curved, stretching from his left jaw, across his cheek, nose, and ending high on his opposite cheekbone. Thick head. A few sprigs of hair. A few droplets down the side of his face for flavor. A few veins for realism.

Yup. Definitely Lance's best work.

In a little bout of frustration over the situation and panic that he would probably see Keith today, he had let that irritation brew into something angrier. Something darker. Given into that writhing beast in him that just wants Keith to feel as embarrassed and he does. That just wants Keith to suffer.

So while Hunk had been out, he had taken one of their soulmark markers and drawn the best dick of his life across his face. And with a manic grin he had washed it off.

Now he gets the twisted satisfaction of seeing that same dick etched in dark lines across Keith's face. Complete with his pursed scowl.

A little childish? Maybe. But right now, he doesn't give two shits. It's the funnest fucking thing he's seen all week.

Keith looks up then, catching his gaze across the room. He had hoped, somewhere deep in that twisted knot in his chest, that Keith would be angry with him. He wants Keith to be angry with him.

But when Keith's eyes narrow, as his frown deepens, it's not with anger. There's a spark of shame. Lines of guilt. Things so subtle that Lance knows he would miss them if he hadn't gotten to know Keith so well.

And somehow his shame hurts more than his anger would have.

So Lance just smiles. Lets his lips curl into a sardonic grin to mask his pain, and he turns. Swipes his ID and steps through the turnstile. He heads to the locker room without looking back, hearing the quidditch team start to pour into the gym after him.

He ignores them as he gets ready. He keeps his eyes down as they pour into the gym. He barely acknowledges them as they say hi, and he pretends he doesn't hear when they ask if he's okay. He changes into a t-shirt and shorts. Laces up his shoes and grabs his phone. Shoves his earbuds in as he stares down, shuffling through his music, using it as an excuse not to look at Keith as he passes him.

He's already running on the track when the rest of the team gets there. Already has two laps under his belt. Passes by them as he hears Pidge say they'll go for thirty minutes, and everyone should push their endurance but go at their own pace.

He's already gone before he hears the rest.

The indoor track isn't crowded. In fact, the whole gym is pretty empty. That's fine. Less obstacles for him.

He zones out. Lets the music drive through him. It's a rough playlist. Loud. Pounding beat. Fast pace. Angry. Aggressive. He pushes himself. Feels the burn in his lungs and the ache in his legs. Loves the beat of his feet on the track. Feels it with the pound of his heart.

No feeling.

No thinking.

No—

One of his earbuds is pulled out, and the surprise of it causes him to stumble. He catches his balance quickly, resuming his comfortable jog and turning to find Keith running next to him.

His hair is pulled back into a pony tail that's extremely adorable, and he fucking hates it. He hates the cute little pout on his lips. Hate how they looked chapped from the cold wind and how that does things to his insides. Hates the little furrow in his brow that's so familiar it's endearing. Hates the guilt and fear and shy wariness that's being trampled by a fiery determination that sparks in his dark eyes and sends shivers of heat through Lance's chest.

None of his reactions or thoughts can be trusted in his moment, so he focuses on the giant dick tattooed across Keith's face instead.

"Nice soulmark," He says, lips quirking into that sardonic smirk as the words bite.

Keith winces, turning forward as his eyes fix on the track. "We need to talk."

"No," He says, reaching for his dangling earbud. "We really don't."

They do. They really do. But not right now. Not yet. And definitely not here. He's definitely not about to rip his chest open and bear his bleeding heart to Keith in the middle of the gym.

So he puts his earbud back in. Lets the music consume him. And he runs faster. Puts distance between them on the straight of the track. Sprints around a couple of beaters jogging before he slows back to his usual pace.

It makes no sense. He can't hear anything over the drive of his music and the beat of his heart, but he swears he can feel Keith's footsteps as he runs up to him. And this time he anticipates it when his earbud is ripped out, dropped and left swinging in front of his chest.

"Lance, you can't avoid me forever."

And if that ain't a sharp stab to the chest with a nice little twist for good measure. He finds the laughter bubbling out of his throat. It tastes acidic on his tongue. He turns to look at him, eyes sharp even as he smiles. Far too wide and far too sweet. "Why not? You were going to."

He sees the moment it hits. The moment it sinks in. The moment there's pain. Sees it in the way his eyes widen a fraction and his lips part. Sees it in the depths of his gaze.

Good. He wants Keith to hurt. He hurt Lance. Fair is fair, or whatever.

So he buries that spark of guilt deep, deep down and keeps running.

He lifts his earbud, but only gets it about halfway there before Keith grabs his wrist. "Will you just—" Lance rips his arm away, glaring at him. Lance speeds up, kicking his jog up to a steady run. Unfortunately, Keith is the only one on this damn team who can actually keep pace with him. "Lance, I'm trying to apologize."

"Yeah, well I don't want to hear it," He snaps.

He runs faster. Keith speeds up with him.

"Stop being a dick—"

"From what I can see, you're the one that's a dick." He grins that far too bright and far too saccharine smile. "In more ways then one."

Keith frowns, but it's not the angry scowl Lance wants. It's all guilty and ashamed and ugh. "I'm trying to not be—"

"Too late for that—"

"Will you just let me—"

"No."

"Why not?" He grabs Lance's arm, vice grip stopping him in his tracks and pulling him around. Keith drags him off the track, off to the side and gets in his face. Gets far too close for Lance's poor heart. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as his fists clench and relax. He exhales as he opens his eyes, and Lance is struck by the depths of those dark irises. The pain. The vulnerability. The desperation he sees swirling there. Chaotic and reaching out to drown him. And he can't even distract himself with the dick on Keith's face because those fucking eyes are swallowing him whole. "Lance, I—"

He slaps his hand over Keith's mouth. Halts him mid-sentence. Keith stumbles back, eyes going wide and confusion clear. Lance keeps his hand there, firm and maybe a bit too forceful.

He stares at him, hard and sharp. Lets Keith see him. Really see him. Lets him see exactly what he's feeling. Watches Keith's brows furrow and his throat flex as he swallows.

"No," He says, firm and biting. Then he sighs, letting his shoulders sag and his eyes close. For a moment, just a moment, he lets his defenses drop as he whispers, "Not yet. I'm not ready to forgive you yet. Just... wait."

He lets his hand drop. Opens his eyes but just looks past him. Can't make eye contact because he feels that fucking telltale burning in his eyes and he is not going to cry about this in public.

He shoves his earbud back into his ear, drowns himself in his music once again, and takes off once more around the track.

For the rest of their time on the track, Keith doesn't try to catch up to him, but neither does he fall behind. He doesn't pass Lance, and Lance doesn't pass him. He just runs an equal distance behind Lance, keeping pace behind him. And he can feel his eyes on him. He can feel him staring.

He hates it. It makes his skin crawl just as much as it makes his heart race. Makes his skin run hot and cold in turns. It crawls up his spine and grates against his nerves because can Keith please stop staring for two goddamn seconds? Staring at him with those big, soulful, beautiful eyes. Eyes that are wretched in pain and guilt and shame.

He knows, alright? He knows Keith is sorry and regrets what he's done, blah blah. Oh, woe is Keith. Woe is him. He's having such a hard time, isn't he? Lost his plaything and his soulmate. Forced to wait out his soulmate's chaotic emotions for who knows how long like Lance has done for years.

He knows Keith is sorry. He knows there's regret there. But right now? Right fucking now? He doesn't care.

Because seeing Keith's sad puppy dog eyes makes him feel bad. Makes him feel bad for feeling rightfully and justifiably upset. Makes him feel guilty because he's not giving Keith comfort.

But what about him? What about his feelings, huh?

Yeah, fuck all that noise. He's tired of all the questions. Of all the worried looks and concerned frowns. He's tired of all the prying and the guilt. And you know what? He's tired of Keith's goddamn pretty sad eyes.

He sees them every time he rounds the edge of the track. When he glances over his shoulder to shoot Keith a glare. Catches Keith staring and gets the brief but fleeting satisfaction of startling him.

He's tired of the staring though.

He's tired of the sadness.

Keith doesn't get to be upset right now. That's not fair. Lance gets to be upset. This is his moping time, and Keith does not get to infringe on that.

Fuck that.

Fuck this.

Fuck him.

He steers off the track, slamming through the heavy glass doors as he stomps to the drinking fountain. He rage guzzles as much as he can, comes up for several gasping breathes, then goes again.

Fuck this. Fuck the universe. Fuck soulmates. Fuck this whole goddamn situation.

This isn't fair. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be patient, supportive, and encouraging. And then in a few years, he was going to be rewarded by having a romantic and amazing first meeting with his soulmate and—

Oh god.

Their first meeting.

He— No— Fuck— He spilled a smoothie all over Keith for their first meeting.

He groans, turning to the wall and slamming his forehead against it. It hurts, but he doesn't fucking care. Pulls his head back and lets it drop again for good measure.

This is so fucked up. Everything is so fucked up and confusing and he has lab reports to do and exams to study for and just— man, fuck Keith for not telling him sooner. For letting him make a fucking fool of himself with the whole pining after his soulmate thing. For letting him fucking agonize for weeks over the fact that he had his soulmate and Keith and didn't want to choose between them because he—

Nope. Nu-uh. Not going there.

Movement catches his eye, and he turns as Pidge leads the mob of quidditch kids out of the track area. He tugs an earbud free in time to hear Pidge's loud laughter.

"I mean, I knew you'd fuck up eventually, but holy shit. You have a dick on your face."

"Shut the fuck up, Pidge." Keith glares at them, but the sharpness of it is dulled by the blush creeping up his cheeks.

"What did you even do?"

He glances up, catching Lance's eye from across the hall. His lips purse as he looks away, grumbling a sharp. "Just drop it."

"Okay, but you're telling me later."

He glares at them, glances at Lance, then huffs. He turns on his heel and heads toward the front desk, muttering, "I'll go get the dodgeballs."

Lance watches him go, stomach churning unpleasantly. Fuck Keith's pity party, he doesn't deserve—

"Oh man, have you seen Keith's face?" Pidge asks, sliding up next to him.

Lance pulls out his earbuds, robotically wrapping them up with his phone. "Yeah, I saw."

Pidge chuckles, hands on their hips as they shake their head. "I hope he didn't royally fuck things up with his soulmate, because I would love to meet them someday. I have a feeling we'll get along great."

Lance's smile is small and wry, a rush of dry amusement whispering through him. "I bet you will."

Pidge punches his arm then. Not hard. More of a playful shove than anything. "Come on, Sir Mopes-A-Lot. Let's play some dodgeball."

He's glad Pidge has moved past the whole prying are you okay thing, but his relief is short lived. It's short lived because as soon as they've gathered in the empty indoor soccer field on the third floor, he has Keith's eyes on him.

Those sad, miserable, ashamed eyes that make Lance's skin burn and itch and crawl.

He's tired of it. He's just fucking tired.

It all twists in his gut. His frustration. His irritation. It itches and it burns and it writes inside him. Grips tight on his own sorrow and embarrassment and shame and buries it. Drowns it. Leaves him with nothing but fraying nerves and a bitterness on his tongue.

Because fuck this.

Fuck Keith for not telling him. How long had he known? It would have to be months. Months. He shows off his soulmark tattoos all the damn time, and Keith would surely fucking notice.

He's known. He's known, and he's selfishly gotten to get closer to him, use him, all while knowing and keeping Lance in the dark. All while Lance has been agonizing about betraying his soulmate. Feeling guilty over wanting Keith.

Fuck the universe.

All he ever wanted was a happy soulmate story. Is that too fucking much to ask? And when he can't have that, he starts to fall for one of his best friends, and it's perfect, and wonderful, and— and then they're the same. And he should be happy. He's fucking dreamed of Keith being his soulmate. Wished for it. Wanted it so fucking much.

By all fucking rights, Lance should be happy. He should be over fucking joyed.

But he's not. He's fucking not. And that makes him even more frustrated. Even more upset. At himself. At Keith. At the universe. At every single fucking person who asks him if he's alright because no. He's not fucking alright.

But Keith keeps looking at him with those big, sad eyes and making Lance feel like he shouldn't get to be upset and making him feel bad that Keith is upset when Keith upset him to begin with and—

And he knows, he knows, that Keith doesn't mean to. He knows Keith knows he has a right to be upset. He knows Keith is respecting his wishes and not pushing and actually keeping a distance because he's respecting Lance's time to be upset.

But those eyes.

They're pissing him off.

And the fact that beneath it all, buried deep in the heart of his aching chest, he really just wants to fucking kiss that stupid fucking mouth of his and find comfort in his stupid arms, but he can't and he wont' and he's— he's just— angry.

He feels so much, too much, and it twists and collides and knots together in his chest with no outlet besides fraying nerves and burning veins and itching skin.

Pidge chooses him and Keith to be the team captains. Lance, because they know he fucking loves dodgeball and he knows they're trying to make him feel better. Keith, because they want to call him Captain Dick-Face. He gets a twisted enjoyment from that and does nothing to hide it.

This also means they're on opposing teams.

Which means he gets to hit Keith.

And ooooh boy, does he hit Keith.

Pegs him every single fucking time he's on the court. Lance's aim and long shot are legendary, and he puts far more force into than necessary. Enough force to make the sound echo and the ball ricochet way the fuck away. He aims for skin because it makes the best sound. He aims for his chest just to hear him lose his breath.

And every time he walks off the court, he sends Lance a glare that has him smiling. Grinning. Because fucking good. He wants Keith angry. No more of those sad, pitiful eyes. No more of that fucking adorable pout. Keith's anger justifies his own. Fuels him. Burns the fire in his chest hotter and higher.

He wants to scream.

He wants to rage.

He can't, so he settles with pegging with with a dodgeball from across the court.

He's not subtle about it. He can feel the eyes on him. Hears the whispers. Sees the winces and hisses of sympathy when the ball collides with Keith again and again. Keith takes it in silence, though. Grits his teeth and bears it. There's a fire in his eyes now, too. His own rage.

Good.

He fights back. He's not as great at throwing. Aim kinda sucks, actually. But he's good at dodging. Picks up on Lance's game and actually starts to avoid his shots. Gives Lance more of a challenge, and he likes that. Likes the bite of it hot and sharp on his tongue. Makes it all the more satisfying when he hits him.

People start avoiding the two of them. Let them have their own little stand off on the side because no one wants to get in the way of Lance's shots. Lance locks eye with him. Watches his every move. Bends down to pick up ball after ball. Keith watches him. Eyes sharp and calculating and angry.

And Lance doesn't hate him. Knows that deep down, he never could. Never will. But he's angry. He's hurt and he's angry. He's angry at Keith. He's angry at the universe. He's— he's angry at himself.

Why can't he just be fucking happy?

He throws. Keith ducks. Lance scoops another ball up and hurls it forward. Keith doesn't have time to react. It hits him in the face with a sound that echoes throughout the room, sharp and painful. Enough to make even Lance wince.

His head snaps back, and he stumbles before falling to the floor. Play stops. Gasps around the room. It's silent and tense and Lance can't fucking breathe—

Keith sits up, scowl on his features as he rubs the reddening mark on his face. Thankfully he turned his head enough to avoid a broken nose, but he looks dazed. His eyes don't look focused.

"Dude!" Hunk's voice, more panicked then reprimanding.

"That wasn't fair, Lance!" Pidge's voice, far more sharp.

He doesn't look away from Keith. Can't look away as the bubble in his chest bursts. As his anger pops and fizzles and leaks out. Fire turning to ice in his veins. His eyes burn. They prickle and ache and he feels his throat closing up.

"Life isn't fair," He says, voice soft and low, but carrying across the stunned silence. He knows they can all hear his voice crack, but he turns away before they can see him cry.

Turns and walks toward the stairs without looking back.

There's a knot in his chest, and it's been there all day.

It was there when he woke up. A tension caught between his ribs, stitching them together far too tightly and pulling them far too close to his lungs. Breathing is hard. Short and shallow. Any attempts at deeper breaths are only temporary relief. Only achievable when he focuses on it.

He had hoped that it would slowly unravel if he ignored it, but he was wrong. It's still there. It's still twisted and writhing with every beat of his heart.

And every pulse sends a skittering across his skin. An anxious crawling that simmers just below the surface. Makes him restless. Makes him twitchy. Even as his bones feel heavy and his movements sluggish.

His head feels hazy. Dizzy. And he's not sure if that's just numbness in the wake of his faded anger or if it's from the shallow breaths he's forced to take.

He sits on the stool behind the register, slumped and slouched until he's lying out over the counter. He had been standing. Had been cleaning up the lobby of Local Lion. But it's spotless now, and his mind and body are fluctuating heavily between restless hyper-fixation and extreme lows with dragging movements. While he had been fine while he was a flurry of cleaning vengeance, without anything to focus on and without the frantic cleaning to keep his body busy, merely standing still left his skin buzzing and head far too light than was probably healthy.

Maybe he's had too much coffee. That's likely, to be honest. Study week is in full swing. A whole week after classes end and before exam week begins. A week off that somehow manages to make students even more of a disaster than they already are. A week full of bad sleep habits, bad eating habits, far too much stress from last minute studying, and far too much partying in a desperate attempt to relax.

Oh yeah, he hasn't really been eating well either. That's a thing. Or sleeping, for that matter. Hasn't really felt up to partying, but he's had enough caffeine in his veins and not enough food in his stomach to absorb it lately to make him feel drunk.

He should probably sleep more. Wants to sleep more. Wants to sleep more than anything, really. But his brain doesn't like to shut up, and that's a problem. The only real sleep he's gotten lately, the kind where he passes out without mental interruption and emotional turmoil, are the hours he can catch between studying where he's sprawled out on the floor or curled in a chair in the student union.

He's caught up in this idea that if he studies really hard, and really fucking applies himself that the universe will grant him a restful night's sleep. Hasn't worked so far, but doesn't stop him from trying.

Studying also keeps him from thinking about Keith. So that's cool.

And he knows damn well that the knot twisted between his ribs and the restless nights have pretty much everything to do with Keith, and are just compounded on with the stress of school, but he'd rather not dwell on that.

So he blames the caffeine overdosing for the jittery nervousness crawling beneath his skin. The lack of proper nutrition for his hazy mental state. The lack of sleep for the lethargy that seeps heavy and slugging into his bones.

Maybe if he just... does well in school, things will be okay.

Maybe if he just... ignores it, things will go back to normal.

God, what he wouldn't do for some normalcy.

To have things go back to the way they were.

Maybe not to when he was being eaten alive by guilt but... before that. When he was happier. When things were easier. Simpler. When he could sneak moments away with Keith and kiss that stupid face of his and he was getting used to the idea of doing things for himself for once.

He wants that back. So fucking much. But he doesn't know if he can have it. Doesn't know what to do to even try.

He's been using the upcoming exam week as his anchor. Uses it to keep him grounded in something. Anything. As long as he knows he needs to study for his exams and write his papers, he knows what to do. No matter how lost he feels and how much he's drifting, he knows what to do. He knows what to throw his energy into.

It's his escape.

It's his anchor.

He doesn't know what the fuck he's going to do once exam week is over. He'll be left to drift, and he doesn't know if it'll be away into the ether or to be set out to sea where he can drown. Neither sounds pleasant, to be honest.

He keeps telling himself he just needs to survive past exams, but... he doesn't know what awaits him on the other side. Winter break, for one. Maybe it'll be good once he can get away from school— away from all of this— and be with his family and—

Oh god, his family.

His family.

How is he going to tell them— oh my god, he doesn't want to face them. This situation with his soulmate— with Keith— is so fucked up. He wants to tell his mom and curl up with her on the couch and have her rock him like when he was a child, but—

Would she be disappointed in him? Would she disapprove of how he's handling this? Would she also think he's being a total fuck up because he should be happy but it's hard and it's not all his fault, Keith is to blame, too—

Oh fuck, what if she got mad at Keith? Would his family hate—

Movement catches his eye, and he lifts his head to see two familiar faces crossing the street in front of the coffeeshop, headed right for it.

Pidge and Keith.

One short and one taller. Both bundled up nearly beyond recognition, if he wasn't familiar enough with both of them to know their winter wear. A mop of orange and black hair, both buried beneath beanies but a mess all the same. Chins buried in scarves and hands buried in pockets as they hurry across the street before traffic can start up again.

And that knot in his chest, the one he's been ignoring, tightens. Constricts. Demands his attention.

He sits up, one hand gripping the counter and the other curling into the front of his shirt. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, squeezed tight and frantic in its cage.

He stares. Watches as Keith and Pidge trudge through the snow pile at the side of the road, stumbling down into the parking lot. Keith glances around, eyes darting between Pidge, the ground, and the coffeeshop.

He looks as nervous as Lance feels.

And as nervous as he is, despite anxiousness running cold and clammy through his veins, there's that dull and deep ache. A pulsing of genuine warmth. Snuffed and stifled, but miraculously still alive.

He can't tell his family about Keith.

What if they get mad him?

Not yet— Not while he's this torn up about it— Not when they'll be able to see how hurt he is.

What if they hate him?

He can't— That can't happen— Yes, Lance is mad, too, but he doesn't hate— He could never hate—

What if they never forgive him?

No. No, no, no, no. They have to like him. They have to love him. He's an idiot, but he's Lance's idiot. He's his soulmate, and he wouldn't be able to bear it if his family hated him—

The knot in his chest squeezes. The stitches binding his ribs together tightens. There's a tingling fizzling across his skin. His hands are numb. He can't feel his face. He can't breathe— He can't breathe— He can't breathe—

It happens all at once. And, still staring at Keith as he is and with his mind working a million miles a minute, Lance sees it all happen in a strange sort of slow motion.

Keith takes a step, and his eyes widen comically. It's only half a second later that the reason becomes apparent. His foot slides further than it should, slipping out from beneath him. He over compensates, weight thrown completely, bending forward and then bending back. His other foot just as useless as it catches the ice as begins to slip as well.

His hands get caught in his pockets, arms lifting his whole jacket as they struggle to get out, struggle to balance him.

It's almost impressive that he manages to stay standing for so long. His feet slip back and forward, scrambling and failing to find traction. They slide out from under him, and he topples backwards. As he goes, his hands finally pull free of his pockets and grab the closest thing in his panic: Pidge.

Pidge yelps, laughter turning to horror as Keith frantically wraps his arms around their shoulders. They try to pull away, but it's too late.

Keith lands hard on the iced pavement, Pidge falling back on top of him. Their bodies are tense with the impact and slide several feet backwards before coming to a stop. And, with what looks like a sigh of defeat, their bodies relax.

They lay there for several long moments, a defeated pile of limbs, wallowing in their misery on the cold, hard ground.

And the tight knot in Lance's chest pops.

It bursts into a choked and cracked laughter that bubbles up his throat, startling and unbidden. He slaps a hand over his mouth, but the sound oozes out from between his fingers. His shoulders shake with it. It eases the tension between his ribs and leaves him feeling giddy.

And then Pidge and Keith try to stand up, only to slip and flail and shout and fall back down all over again.

He laughs. Deeply and genuinely. Unable to stop the wide grin spreading beneath his palm. The rush of it is exhilarating, endorphins crashing through his veins and leaving him feeling lighter than he's felt in weeks.

By the time the two of them make it to the front doors, Lance's grin is in full swing and his cheeks ache.

Pidge's eyes snap to his the moment they're through the door, narrowing as they purse their lips. Their cheeks are dusted with a faint blush that Lance knows isn't entirely to blame on the cold. "Not a word, McClain."

He lowers his hand, grin tapering into a smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He glances at Keith, but he hangs behind Pidge, eyes sweeping out over the coffeeshop and pointedly avoiding meeting his gaze. His face is buried in his scarf up to his nose, but Lance can still see the evidence of his scowl. His beanie is askew, hair a mess, and his cheeks are burning.

Lance tries not to think too much about it.

He clears his throat, already reaching for a cup. "The usual?" He aims for casual but falls short of the mark. He can already hear the strain creeping in.

"Yeah," Pidge says, already digging in their bag for their wallet. "I have a group project together, and I'm going to need a heavy dose of caffeine if you want to avoid a murder. Also a couple maple donuts. Keith?"

Keith blinks, eyes darting back to Pidge. He glances up at Lance through his lashes, impossibly shy, before looking away with a shrug that he's sure is meant to be casual. "A medium drip coffee and a chocolate espresso donut," He mumbles into his scarf.

He takes payment from Pidge, swiping it and handing the tablet over for them to sign. As they do so, he grabs their cups. It's automatic and robotic. Pulling out the Sharpie and scribbling Pidge's usual order. He sets it aside, reaching for Keith's cup—

And he pauses.

Because he doesn't need to write anything on it. It's just a drip coffee. Pass it over and let him go fill it up at the station. But...

He pauses.

Because Keith still isn't looking at him, and Lance's chest aches.

He's hit with the sudden desperation for normalcy. To have things back to the way they were. It crashes into him like a wave, stealing his breath away and flooding through him. Sweeping away his doubt and his hesitancy and drowning out his confusion for just a moment— just a second—

Just long enough for him to scribble on the cup and set it down, pushing it across the counter before he can change it mind.

He's written Devil Juice on Keith's cup, adding next to it a sloppy doodle of his version of Mothman giving a thumbs down.

He turns, refusing to look at them as he goes through the motions of getting the donut papers, the tongs, grabbing them from the glass display case, putting them in a bag with napkins, pushing them to PIdge before grabbing their cup and turning around.

Making their drink is robotic. Something he's done countless times. But his heart hammers and his hands shake.

He hears the two of them move. Hears Pidge go claim a table across the room, chair scraping across the floor. Hears Keith quieter steps move toward the drip coffee station. And curiosity is a beast he's never learned to contain.

Lance lifts his head, tilting it to the side to glance down the long counter to the far end, where the drip coffee urns sit. Watches as Keith lifts his cup to the middle one. The one that Lance recommended to him so long ago. Watches as Keith freezes suddenly, one hand on the tap but cup not quite beneath it.

He twists his wrist just a little, turning the cup. Lifts it a little higher to get a good look at it. Eyes going wide and lips parting.

Then his head snaps to the side, meeting Lance's eyes.

They stare.

And they stare.

And they stare.

Seconds tick by like hours. Breath stolen from Lance's lungs as he's pinned by the familiar and dark gaze. As those sharp eyes search his own, search his face, brows pinching just slightly.

And then he smiles. So small. Just a mere tilt of his lips that shows more in his cheeks than anything. A soft look. A shy look.

And in that moment. In that brief and fragile moment. In those couple of seconds that feel impossibly like hours. Lance gets what he wanted: a sense of normalcy.

Small and fragile and delicate, but normalcy all the same.

Then Keith is turning away. He fills up his cup and doesn't add any cream or sugar to it, just like the heathen he is, and turns to scurry to the table Pidge has claimed. When Pidge's drink is done, he takes it over to their table before walking back to his station.

He and Keith avoid looking at each other. They don't say a word. They're back to silted and awkward and unsure. But for a moment, just a moment, he had a taste of what they used to have.

And he desperately wants it back.

"Coran?" He says as he steps into the kitchen. As soon as the door closes, he leans back against it, weight slumping as his knees threaten to give out. Coran looks up from where he's manning the fryer, one eyebrow raised. "Am I a bad person?"

Coran's brows furrow quizzically, lips pursing into a thin line. "Not that I'm aware of." And just as quickly, his expression clears, grin splitting is face, wide and honest. "In fact, you're possibly one of the best people I know."

While he's grateful, he can't help the tired sigh that leaves his lips, trailing off into a groan as his head drops back against the door. "Then why does all the bad shit happen to me?"

There's a beat of silence before he hears the basket lift from the fryer. Hears Coran set it aside to cool before there's a shuffling. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Coran has turned to face him, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms over his chest. "What's going on, Lance?"

And it's just so... so patient and kind and unassuming and genuine, and there's just something about it being Coran that makes his last defenses crumble. Something about the fact that Coran has always been an older and wiser presence that Lance has always looked up to. Something about him that makes Lance want to curl up on his lap and be held like his dad used to do when he had nightmares.

Or maybe he's just too fucking tired of keeping it bottled up.

"It's Keith..." He mumbles, eyes sliding closed.

"Keith?" Confusion bleeds into realization, but never fully dissipates. "Is this about what happened at practice? I'm sure Keith doesn't mind the blow he took. Yes, it was a little hard, but he was only dazed. Besides, the two of you have gotten close. I'm sure if you apologize, he'll readily forgive—"

"He's my soulmate."

He can't stop the words. It comes out in a rush. Blurting the truth that he's just begun to acknowledge. He doesn't know why he says it, only knows that he needs to. Needs to get it off his chest and out in the open and—

And he's surprised by how good it feels to say aloud.

"He's my soulmate," He says again, softer this time, a fragile whisper.

"Oh," It's surprised, followed by a low whistle. "Well, that's... my, what a surprise." While the surprise doesn't fade, it's slowly overtaken with... awe? And suddenly bubbling chuckle. "I must admit, I knew you two were getting closer than strictly friends—"

Lance groans. "Was it that obvious?"

"Yes, my boy, incredibly so, however, soulmates, that's... unexpected but— well— incredible. Congratulations, Lance! You found him!"

Lance groans again, reaching up to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes.

There's a heavy pause, followed by a wary, "Correct me if I'm mistaken, but shouldn't this be good news?"

"I don't know, maybe?" He says, voice mumbled as he drags his hands down his face. When he opens his eyes, he levels Coran with a pleading look, brows drawn and lips pursed. He feels small under the man's patient gaze, but not in a bad way. It is, however, overwhelming. So he looks down. Kicks the tiles with his shoe. "He's known for months and never told me. I found out on my own."

"Oh," Coran hums. "I see."

And while he doesn't elaborate, Lance knows that he does see. He can hear the understanding. He can also hear the sympathy, but it lacks the biting edge of pity. And while the silence stretches, it doesn't feel tense. Doesn't feel weighted. Coran doesn't push or pry, merely waits patiently for Lance to say what he needs to say.

And that's, perhaps, why he found himself opening up to Coran in the first place.

"I used to think..." He stops as his voice cracks, sighing with frustration. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, as if it might help stop the way his ribs feel fit to burst. "I used to think things would be easier this way. If— If he was my soulmate. I used to think everything would just be okay if it was him. Now I don't know... Everything just... It's complicated now? It shouldn't be, but it is, and I don't know how to fix it. It feels like things will never go back to the way they were, and I... really miss the way things were."

"Does he make you happy?"

Lance looks up, brows pinching as he frowns. "What?"

Coran's eyes are patient, smile small as he says, soft and low, "Does he make you happy?" Lance looks away, gaze dragging across the boxes of coffee beans and cups and napkins. He doesn't trust his voice, so he simply nods. "Then don't worry so much."

"What if..." He licks his lips, hating the way his eyes burn. "What if I fucked up?" What if I can't fix it? What if I handled it the wrong way and I’m the reason things will never be the same?"

"Then I suppose you should fix it." It sounds so simple. Said with that lilting edge of amusement. "For what it's worth... he looks like he wants to, too."

Lance glances back at him, but his eyes are turned elsewhere. He follows Coran's gaze to the line of monitors along the far wall. The ones that show the security camera feeds. In one, he can see Pidge and Keith at their table.

Keith looks.... well, miserable. He keeps glancing away from his notebook, pen tapping on the page, furrowed brows turned toward where Lance knows the door to the kitchen is. It never stays there for long, snapping back to his notes with that frown that Lance knows is self-berating.

But then he looks at his cup, and the soft, small smile is enough to make Lance's heart lurch.

"I don't know if it'll be that easy," He whispers, not bothering to hide his fear. His trepidation. The anxious worry that seems to live beneath his skin lately. He lets Coran see it, knowing that he'll never think less of him for it.

Coran merely hums, and wistfully, thoughtfully, he says, "Nothing in life ever is."

Eyes on the monitor, he can't help but say, "It was for my family." He hates the bitter taste on his tongue. The sour roll of jealousy in his gut.

"Was it though?"

His eyes snap to Coran's, unchanging in their thoughtfulness. That small, secretive quirk to his lips still in place. "What?"

"Was it really that easy for them? I've heard your stories before, Lance, and I want you to really think about it. They may be happy now, but was it really that easy for them?"

Lance nearly scoffs. Nearly waves Coran off and tells him that of course it was easy for them. Nearly brushes it away.

Nearly.

Nearly, because then he actually thinks about it.

Thinks about how Marco and his soulmate had spent years denying each other. How they fought and picked on each other, and while it eventually became fond teasing, it wasn't always that way. He was young, but... he still remembers the nights he found Marco crying. The nights Marco punched holes in his wall in his frustration.

Thinks about Veronica, and when she first found out her best friend was her soulmate. How she hadn't even known she liked girls, and having to come to terms with that realization while also trying to find new footing with her closest friend. He remembers the awkwardness. The doubts. Veronica spending hours sitting with their mom in the kitchen while she vented her worries over half empty mugs of cooling tea.

Thinks about Maria. How... how strained she is when people ask about her future. Whether she'll stay here or move to Cuba. About how lonely she gets. About how, beneath her boisterous attitude and beneath the laughter and the grins... she has her own uncertainty. Her struggles. Her regrets.

Thinks about Luis, and how hard it must be to be seventeen and never feel a connection in a world where connections mean everything. How hard it must be to know that he'll have to be patient for long after the connection happens.

He looks back to the monitor, to where Keith taps his notebook and sips his coffee. To where his gaze occasionally drifts to the kitchen before snapping back to place.

Maybe having a soulmate isn't easy, but he wishes it was. He'd give anything for it to be. He'd give anything to just go back in time and change things. He doesn't even know what he'd change, but he just—

He wants his friend back.

He wants Keith back.

Study week is a war zone, and the students are nothing more than tired soldiers clinging to life.

The library and student union are open for twenty-four hours a day, and students fill up every nook and cranny in an attempt to find somewhere to work that isn't their dorms or apartments. Every space is filled. Tables. Chairs. Floors. Corners. Students holed up with their things strewn about them, bundled in hoodies and blankets. It's not uncommon to find them sleeping. Just a nap. Just closing their eyes. Crammed in the strangest places and the strangest positions.

They do what they've gotta do, and there's no judgement during study week. Everyone moves about like a ghosts, tried and heavy, on the verge of hysteria yet somehow still hanging on.

You don't blink when you see someone sprawled across the floor in the stairwell, fast asleep. You merely step over them and wish them a silent good luck.

And Lance? He blends right the fuck in. With the dark as shit bags under his eyes and messy hair and skin that's far too oily for his own good.

He managed to get a table in the library though, so that's one saving grace. Not that he really needs a table. He had been doing just fine in the corner of bookshelves he'd scoped out and turned into his study nest. But when the group at the table nearby left, he'd swooped right in and claimed it.

Feels good to sit at a table.

Makes him feel more like a person.

Too bad it doesn't help him study.

He has his laptop out and open, half finished essay staring at him with the cursor blinking. His browser is open to at least ten tabs of research and articles that hurt his head every time he tries to read them. His textbook is opened next to him, but he's not sure if it's even the right page, and he has at least three notebooks scattered around the table.

And he's currently hunched over, forehead resting on one of the notebooks with his arms sprawled out over the table.

He tried. He really tried. He had hoped that by getting everything set up, he'd be kickstarted into the right mindset. He's wrong, of course. What else is new? He managed to limp his way through a couple more paragraphs of his paper, but now he's thoroughly run out of steam, and he's pretty sure he's dying.

Truthfully, he's not sure what he expected. He's been miserable all day, and going to the library was a last ditch effort to force himself to get something done. That, and to escape Hunk's probing stare and awkward attempts at conversation.

He heaves a heavy, defeated sigh and wishes...

He wishes Keith were here. That Keith were here to surprise him with coffee and a muffin. To give him easy conversation and dry humor. To give him just enough of a distraction to lift his spirits a little.

Though, he supposes, if that were the case, his spirits wouldn't need lifting to begin with.

He groans, rolling his forehead back and forth over the notebook beneath him. This is such a mess. Such a fucking mess. He just wants Keith back. He wants his soulmate back. He... he still has trouble trying to fit those two pieces together. Like the edges don't quite line up and the outlines of them are blurring, but... he'd like to. He'd like to more than anything.

Too bad he's a fucking coward and a miserable stressed out piece of shit—

Someone clears their throat, and Lance's head snaps up. He blinks, staring at the person hovering next to his table for a solid five seconds before his sluggish brain is able to fully decipher what he's seeing.

"Shiro?"

The man smiles, and it's that same kind of patient, warm smile that Coran has. Yet despite all the easy confidence Shiro exudes, despite being tall, broad, and handsome, he manages to look small and sheepish as he lifts one of the two coffee cups in his hands. "Peace offering?"

Lance lifts a brow, lips pursing. "Why are you extending a peace offering?" He asks, but he's already stretching his hands out, taking the cup from Shiro. It's a large, and it's warm. He leans back in his seat, cradling it between his hands.

Shiro nods to the seat across from him. "Mind if I...?"

Lance just shrugs. "Go for it." He eyes the cup curiously. It smells like coffee, but there's a hint of vanilla so that's gotta mean it's not straight up bitter juice, right? Still, even if it was, he'd probably drink it anyway. He puts it to his lips, sipping cautiously, and is pleasantly surprised by the sweetness, even if it does burn his tongue.

"Keith told me your favorite drink," Shiro says as he pulls out the chair.

Lance tenses at the mention of his name, heart already reacting far more than it should. He takes another sip to hide whatever expression is on his face at the moment. He's too tired to be able to control it.

Shiro sits, but while he makes himself comfortable, he doesn't settle in. His bag sits on the floor, propped up against the table, unopened. His scarf is unraveled and his jacket is unzipped, but he doesn't take it off. He sits forward, cradling his own cup between his hands on the table.

He's clearly not here to stay, or to study. The look in his eyes as he meets Lance's, patient but tired and cautious, tells him that Shiro is here to talk, and that puts him on edge. Makes him squirm in his seat under the weight of that gaze. Makes him want to hide behind his computer screen and his coffee cup.

But he already accepted the coffee, so now he has to listen.

Man, fuck social conventions.

"Thanks for the coffee," He says, if only to break the silence. He tries for a smile and thinks he hits it at least fifty percent.

Shiro's smile is a mere quirk at the corners of his lips. "No problem, I figured you could use it." He sighs then, eyes dropping down to his own cup as his smile fades. Lips pursed, his fingers tap against the sides of the cup. "Lance, I'm here to apologize."

Lance heaves a heavy sigh, dropping his cup to the table as he rubs his eyes with one hand. Great. Figures Keith would tell Shiro. "Look, if this is about Keith—"

"I'm not here on behalf of Keith."

Lance's eyes open, narrowing in suspicion as his hand slowly drops to the table. "You're... not?" Shiro shakes his head, and Lance quirks an eyebrow, lifting his cup a fraction. "Then what's with the peace offering?"

His smile is small, edged with a guilt that Lance doesn't understand. There's still warmth in his steady gaze, but beyond that is a plea... a plea for forgiveness. "I want to apologize on behalf of myself."

"That... doesn't make sense, Shiro," He says slowly, carefully, feeling a trickle of confusion and uncertainty slip down his spine.

A wry smirk. Exhaustion in his eyes. He tilts his head to the side, breathing in deep and letting it out long. "I knew, Lance. Keith told me the day he found out. I've known this whole time."

Dread. Confusion. Surprise. He feels his lungs squeeze, air rushing past his vocal chords and letting out a soft, "You knew?"

Shiro rests an elbow on the table, bending forward to run his fingers through his hair and rest his forehead in his palm. His shoulders slump, fingers of his prosthetic tapping repeatedly on his cup. "Yeah," He says with a sigh. He... doesn't sound too happy about it. "Yeah, I knew. And it wasn't my secret to tell. I knew Keith had to handle this in his own way, and I don't regret keeping his secret. But... I am sorry I had to. I'm sorry it went like this. I know it's not what you wanted."

"Yeah, well..." A bubble of incredulous laughter drips from his lips, sounding dry and cracked as he mutters, "We don't always get what we want."

"For what it's worth, I did try to get him to tell you. And he was going to. Soon, I think. But he needed time. More time than most people probably would've needed, but... he's... complicated."

"Don't I know it..." Lance snorts, rolling his eyes as he lifts his cup to his lips and tries to take brief solace in the sweet, caffeinated heat. It's probably not good for his already racing heart, but he doesn't really care. It settles his nerves all the same.

A silence stretches between them. Lance isn't sure what to say, and it looks like Shiro is lost in thought. Eyes on the coffeecup between his prosthetic fingers, thick brows furrowed and lips pursed. Lance lets him have the time to collect his thoughts as he tries to do the same.

He... really isn't surprised that Shiro had known. Like, initially? Yeah, surprised. More than a little embarrassed. Because Jesus Christ, Shiro's been watching him blunder around Keith for months and gushing about his soulmate and knowing that Keith is that soulmate— god, what he wouldn't give to have the library floor just open up and swallow him whole.

So yeah, embarrassed as hell, true, but not really surprised. And... he can't really blame Shiro for not telling him. He's a good guy. Loyal and pragmatic. Lance believes him when he says that he thought it would be best for Keith to tell him. Lance thinks so, too.

Is he hurt? Maybe a little. But the new revelation doesn't really make much of a difference when everything is already aching. Just another pebble on the top of a pile of stone.

At least he can rest easy knowing that no one else probably knew. Pidge might be one of Keith's closest friends, but they suck at keeping secrets and would've definitely meddled. For the briefest of moments, he wonders if Allura knew, but— no. He doesn't think Shiro would've told her. If he said he kept Keith's secret, that meant one hundred percent.

"Has Keith told you about his parents?" Shiro asks.

Lance blinks, looking away from the spot on his keyboard where he'd been zoning out. How long had they sad in silence? He clears his throat, shifting a little in his seat. "Uh, yeah... yeah, he has."

And that's... oh god, that's his soulmate's story. Like, he knew that. Logically. But... while he's had all the pieces, he's never really put the puzzle together? Never really looked into what exactly that meant because he was trying not to think about it at all, and...

Keith's parents rushed things, and it ended poorly, and he's been terrified of his own soulmate doing the same, and— oh god, that's him.

That's—

He's—

There's a level of irony in the idea of Keith being afraid of fucking things up and then all of this going down, but it's overshadowed by the ache between his ribs.

That's... that's why his soulmate— Keith— always avoided direction questions and Lance's poorly disguised attempts to learn who he was...

He's taken back to a moment shared on the parkway. Sitting on a rock and overlooking the rolling mountains, painted in colors of autumn.

Shiro lets out a breath that sounds like relief. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Yeah, okay, that's good. Because that's... not really my story to tell. But he's already told you, so... that's good. Has he told you about our parents?"

Lance blinks, not really sure why that matters. He shakes his head all the same. "No, not... really? He's said they were really close and loved each other and you used to joke they were soulmates, but that's about it. He... doesn't really like to talk about them. I think it still hurts too much."

Shiro nods. "Yeah, it's... still a bit of a raw topic." He trails off, turning his head to the side as his hand drops, fingers idly pressing into his prosthetic wrist beneath the layers of his jacket. He clears his throat then, straightening as he turns back to Lance. "Anyway, that is partly my story, so I can tell you about them. What you gain from it and what you learn about Keith... well that's up to you."

Lance lifts an eyebrow, intrigue and curiosity starting to gnaw at him, heart racing in a familiar giddy anticipation at the prospect of learning a new puzzle piece that makes up Keith. He hates it, but it's there. He wants to know. He wants to understand. And whatever it is, Shiro seems to think it's important.

He says nothing though. Simply waits. Waits for Shiro to gather himself and his thoughts. Waits because somewhere deep down, he fears that his voice or movement might shatter the moment. Might somehow scare Shiro away and he'll never learn. Never understand.

"It's not really a long story," Shiro starts, each word said slowly and carefully. His lips curve into a wry smile, eyes distant. "We didn't just joke that they were soulmates, Lance. They were soulmates."

"But that's—" Lance's eyes narrow, mouth snapping shut to frown as he sorts through memories. "Keith said that his birth parents were soulmates."

"They were." Shiro's smile widens. Still wry, but amused. The edges of his eyes crinkle with it. "As were mine." Lance opens his mouth, but no words come out. So he settles on a frown instead. Lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes. Shiro chuckles. "I know it sounds strange. Unbelievable, even. Keith's parents were... well, you know about that. My parents were different. They were soulmates, and they loved each other. But my mom... she had cancer, and it was a very slow decline. After we lost her, he... wasn't happy for a long time. He tried, for me, but I could see the weight of it. Then he found Keith's mom, and everything was lighter. He smiled more. He laughed. He was happy again."

Shiro's smile is fond. His eyes distant but... softer. Lance feels himself smiling with him.

"They dated for two years before their First Connection happened." Lance's smile fades as his mouth drops open, eyes widening along with Shiro's smile. Whatever he looks like must be exactly what Shiro was expecting because the man chuckles, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know, it sounds crazy, but... they were one of the rare few. The ones that prove it can happen, but no one likes to talk about because it makes it harder when it doesn't happen to them, you know?"

"They..." Lance mouth feels dry, and there's a lump in his throat. He knew it was a possibility. Everyone does. But it's so damn rare. Rare enough that some people believe it's myth, despite couples out there existing as proof. "They formed their own soul connection?"

Shiro nods, smile gentle and eyes wistful. "Yeah. It happened when Keith's mom was painting one day. She's the one who taught him how to paint on himself. They must've been doing that, and— and I was with my dad at the time. He dropped a plate and shattered it all over the kitchen floor. He looked so startled, but happy, too? I remember him crying, and I was worried until I saw the colors on his arm."

"That's... incredible," He says, breathless and awed.

"I know," Shiro's smile could blind the sun. "They were incredible. They found so much happiness in each other, fell in love without soulmarks, and... and then their connection grew naturally. It was incredible to see growing up. To know that kind of love is possible. But..." His smile doesn't fade, but it shifts. It's in his eyes. The melancholy edge. "I also had birth parents who were original soulmates and just as happy. Keith..."

He trails off. Doesn't finish. Leaves it hanging in the open, dangling the puzzle piece in the air, waiting for Lance to pick it up and set it into place.

And he does.

It's all laid out before him.

Mind whirling as the pieces shift together.

Keith, growing up knowing that soulmates don't equal happiness, that nothing is guaranteed. Watching his mom suffer and lose a father he'd never known. Watching his mom meet someone new. Fall in love. Love so deeply that their souls, broken and alone, reached out for one another and let the universe stitch them together...

"He wanted you to fall for him, and he wanted to get to know you. Not as soulmates, but... just as Keith and Lance." Shiro says, voice soft and gentle. Not so much breaking him from his thoughts as slipping into them. "He didn't want you to like him just because he's your soulmate."

Lance closes his eyes, breath shaking as it leaves his lungs. He slips further down in his chair, tilting his head to rest on the back of it, arms still lifted at an odd angle to grip his coffeecup on top of the table. "I know, Shiro," He says, voice cracking before dropping to a whisper, "I know."

And he does.

He really, really does.

As much as he'd like to rage and scream and shout that it isn't fair, that Keith should've done things differently, that he wouldn't have changed just because Keith is his soulmate— he can't. He can't, and the fight has already left him. The heat and fire of his anger has already puttered out. Leaving nothing but a cold and numb pit.

Because he knows.

When he thinks about it, when he really lets himself think about it, he knows Keith's fears weren't unfounded. He knows, deep in the shadows of his heart, that he would've changed. Would've seen Keith differently. Would've done anything and everything to appeal to Keith.

But he hadn't needed to.

He hadn't needed to change a damn thing about himself, and yet Keith still managed to look at him with that soft fondness that makes his heart leap and touch him with a grip that's desperate and fingertips that are reverent. Like he's a treasure. Like he's precious.

He squeezes his eyes harder, feeling the burn and the prickle and refusing to give into it. He's not going to cry in the library. He refuses.

He takes a deep breath, letting it out with a shaky exhale. "I know, Shiro. And I... I understand why Keith didn't tell me. I... I get it. I really do. But... I'm still allowed to be mad."

"I know you are," Shiro says, all patient calm and without a hint of judgement. If anything, there was an understanding there. One that made Lance feel better about the way his insides have been twisting themselves up. "But... are you?"

Lance frowns, opening his eyes and blinking the burning away. He looks at Shiro, lifting a brow. "Am I what?"

"Mad," He says simply, lips curling into that same faintly amused smile he's seen on Coran. One that's patient and kind, but lined with the amusement that comes with understanding. "Don't get me wrong, you have every right to be mad, but... are you?"

He opens his mouth to say yes, and instead he says, "No." Frowning, he looks down at the table, at the cup in his hands. He's surprised by his own answer. By how right it sits in his chest. "I was, but... Now I just... I just want Keith back." He says it so softly, voice barely above a whisper to keep it from cracking. Hates how small and vulnerable he sounds, but feels his chest flutter all the same as the words leave his lips.

He refuses to look up at Shiro. Not when there's a rush of heat creeping up his neck to settle on his cheeks.

"You should tell Keith that."

He purses his lips, glaring at his cup. "It's not that easy..."

"It's also not as hard as you're making it." It's quiet. Patient. Amused. And Lance feels like it should sound condescending, but it doesn't.

Instead, it makes a little spark of something crackle in Lance's chest. Hope, maybe? Hope that maybe Shiro is right. God, he wants Shiro to be right.

He licks his lips, voice barely audible above the general din of conversation in the library. "What if things aren't the same? What if he changes around me? I just... I just want things to go back to the way they were, but everything is gonna be different now."

Shiro chuckles, low and rumbling. Lance looks up at him sharply through his lashes, frown pursed against the light in Shiro's eyes and the quirk of his smile. "Sorry," He says, lifting a placating hand. "It's just... funny, because Keith has been afraid of the same thing."

Lance opens his mouth, only to snap it shut. His gaze drops back to his cup.

And slowly, so very slowly, a smile rises unbidden to his lips. Just a curve. Barely there. Can hardly be called a smile. Yet it's there. Lifting his cheeks. A bubbling in his chest making him feel lighter than he has in days.

The knot in his chest unravels, just a little, slowly but certain. Releasing with it a rush of endorphins that hum through his veins. Eroding away the lingering shadows and doubts and the digging claws of uncertainty.

He's still embarrassed. Still hurt. Doesn't think those will go away so easily, but... he's not mad. And he's tired of existing in this miserable state.

"Thanks, Shiro," He says, voice like a sigh, tasting of relief. "I... thanks."

"No problem, Lance." His own shoulders slump. His own relief palpable. He reaches across the table, setting a hand on Lance's wrist. Meeting his gaze with eyes crinkled and lips quirked. "It's okay to make him squirm for a bit, I can't say he doesn't deserve it, but don't torture yourself in the process, okay? You can let yourself be happy."

Lance smiles, but can't find his voice. There's a lump in his throat and tears burning in the corners of his eyes, and the most he can do to keep from cracking is to just sit still and silent.

It's enough, however, because Shiro pats his arm before pulling away. Before standing and swinging his bag back over his shoulder. "I'm going over to Keith's to help him with an all-nighter. Don't follow our example, though, and try to get some sleep."

"I'll try," He says, quirking a wry smile.

Sleep, however, is the last thing on his mind. He has a better idea.

By the time he leaves the library, it's late. Nearing midnight.

After Shiro had left, Lance had been overwhelmed with a desperate and frantic wave of hyper-fixation. He rode the tide, brain churning a million miles a minute as his fingers struggled to keep up. It wasn't a pleasant hyper-fixation. It was one that felt scattered and desperate and like he was scrambling to finish before he crumbled.

Because he needs to talk to Hunk. And Pidge. And quite frankly, Keith.

He'd like to say that his hyper-fixation and frantic attempt to get some work done was out of a sense of responsibility. Get your homework done before you go have a heart-to-heart with your friends.

But he knows that while the need to pour out his guts was a boiling and rolling itch beneath his skin, finishing his paper was done more out of procrastination and putting off the inevitable while he gathered the strength to do what needed to be done.

While the library had been bright and crowded, campus itself is dark and quiet. It snowed while he was locked away. A lot, from the looks of it. There's a thick layer of snow on the ground, untouched save for the trails of footsteps on the main walking paths between the library and the dorms.

The rest of campus is blanketed by a thick layer of white. Untouched. Pristine. Glowing under the soft yellow light of the streetlights that line the walkways.

It's still snowing, but not heavily. Drifting lazy flakes, catching the light and dancing on the breeze.

It's... peaceful.

Calming.

Settles something inside him that had been writhing and coiling.

He feels... strangely, and incredibly, at ease. Centered. Light. Not numb, but... calm.

He's not surprised to find Hunk is still up when he gets back. He'd been counting on it, actually. Their room is dimly lit, a welcome comparison to the bright hallway. He slips inside, dropping his bag off on the floor. But he doesn't unzip his coat. Doesn't kick off his boots.

He stands in the entryway, staring at Hunk. Waiting patiently for his attention.

The only light source is his computer screen and the lamp on his desk. A soft light. A comforting light. One that makes their room glow gently and warm the shadows. It's warm. Smells like cookies and knows instinctually that Hunk must've taken a break from is project to go to the kitchen downstairs to stress bake.

Cookies. Chocolate macadamia nut, if he's not mistaken. Not a bad stress, then. More like the kinda overwhelming need to take a moment away to reorganize thoughts. He probably had to rewrite some major portions of his paper—

Wow, okay, so maybe Hunk was right about the whole knowing-each-other's-stress-habits thing.

After a few moments, Hunk looks up. He looks tired, but he smiles. "Hey, man." When Lance doesn't move from the door, he raises an eyebrow, smile slowly fading. "Is everything okay...?"

He hates that question. He really does. But he thinks he's ready to start answering honestly.

He swallows past the lump in his throat, closing his eyes as he takes a deep breath and lets out a choked and ragged, "I'm calling a code sixty-three."

There's a sharp intake of breath. A long pause. A whispered, "Seriously?"

He opens his eyes to find Hunk staring at him. Eyes wide and concerned. Brows pulling together and mouth hanging open. Lance's mouth feels dry and his voice hoarse as he says, "Yeah."

Hunk's mouth snaps shut, pursing into a frown. The shock leaves his face, replaced by a single minded determination. "Right. Got it, buddy." He turns back around, quickly saving whatever document he has open and slamming his laptop shut. He's on his feet in seconds, standing in front of Lance with his hands on his shoulders. Firm and warm and grounding. He ducks his head a little to meet Lance's gaze, eyes searching. "Got anything in mind?"

Lance manages to quirk a wry smile, ignoring how shaky it feels. "There's a lot of fresh snow outside..."

Hunk's eyes widen, a buzz of understanding and excitement daring to lift his frown. "Oh man, we haven't done that since freshman year."

Lance's smile still quivers, but his voice is more solid. "I know."

Then Hunk is moving, scrambling around their room. Changing into warmer clothes. Pulling on his boots. Grabbing a hoodie and his jacket. His hat, scarf, and gloves. He insists Lance puts on a couple more layers, and after half-hearted whining, he does so.

When they're both bundled and far too warm in the heat of their dorm room, Hunk pauses at the door. He glances back at Lance, expression intense and concerned all at once. "Should we get Pidge, or do you want it to be just me?"

He buries his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders. "We need Pidge."

Hunk nods once, and they leave the room, locking it behind them before climbing the steps to Pidge's floor. They knock softly, but firmly. Pidge doesn't have a roommate for them to worry about waking up, but they'd rather not disturb the whole floor.

Neither of them are surprised when Pidge answers, disgruntled but still very much awake. Their hair is a mess, pulled back with various clips in random places. Their small frame is swallowed by pajama pants and an oversized hoodie. They lift a silent brow, eyes roaming over the two of them in their full winter wear.

"It's a code sixty-three," Hunk says before Pidge can voice a question, nodding his head toward Lance.

Lance keeps his hands buried, his shoulders hunched, and stares intently at Pidge's bare feet.

A sharp intake of breath. A pause. A whispered, "No shit?"

Lance purses his lips, not quite trusting his voice as he nods.

"Alright, give me five minutes," They say before disappearing back into their room.

They're ready in two, and the three of them make their way to the elevator. The ride to the ground floor is silent. Neither of them pressing him for answers. They know as well as he does that he'll open up tonight. It's just a matter of time. Of gathering his thoughts. And they'll wait for him and keep him company, because that's what best friends are for.

That's what code sixty-three is all about.

Sixty-three.

The day that his soulmate broke their month long silence to paint an emotional storm on their skin that ripped through Lance and tore him to shreds.

Six. Three.

The day they struggled so violently with their own consuming sorrow that Lance could practically feel their voice through their connection, crying out in agony as maroon fingers clawed down their throat.

June third.

The day his soulmate— the day Keith— and oh god Lance feels a painful lurch in his chest as he realizes that all those emotions had come from Keith— had left him a shattered and hollowed shell, ravaged by a storm he couldn't control and abandoned him shortly after. Helpless and useless and knowing that his soulmate was out there somewhere suffering, and there was nothing he could do.

He had called Hunk that night. Hunk had come over without question. They had stayed up the whole night. Baking. Playing games. Distracting Lance from the echo of his soulmate's storm and his own creeping anxiety. And in the early hours of dawn, they had sat out on his family's old swing set to watch the sunrise in companionable silence.

Ever since that day, he and Hunk have a code. Code sixty-three. It's a distress call and an emergency lifeline. Able to be enacted at any time but only in dire circumstances. It's a call for extreme bro time. It means that whatever is happening, they can't be alone. Everything is too much. They need company and a firm distraction and, usually, to stay up all night for no reason other than they can.

Code sixty-three has only been enacted a few times since that first day. When the stress of life becomes too overwhelming and there's a desperate need to escape, to fight, to survive. To see the sunrise, if only to reaffirm that the night always passes.

They drop everything if someone calls a code sixty-three. If they can, they do. It's just part of being best friends. Of being there, no questions asked. And once Pidge had been pulled into their group in college, they had quickly been taught the meaning of code sixty-three. They've enacted it a few times themself over the years.

It's a safety net, and it's one that none of them take lightly.

They trudge out into the snow, and while Hunk and Pidge flank him, they let him lead. Out into the untouched snow. Off the beaten path and walkways. Out into campus. Out into the night, lit only by dim lamp posts.

He lets himself enjoy the crunch of fresh snow beneath his boots. Lets himself laugh at Pidge as they hilariously try to lift their legs high to walk through deep snow, and at Hunk as he shuffles his feet quickly, bulldozing through it and creating a wide spray of snow in all directions.

He tries to catch snowflakes on his tongue, shoving Pidge when they succeed first and yelping when they drag him down to the ground with him.

They build a snowman army in the courtyard in front of the student union. With mercilessly slain snowman parts strewn across and several others in dramatic poses. They work until their hands feel numb, and then they move on, walking more to get their blood flowing and burying their frozen hands in their pockets.

They walk through the small park on campus. Walking along the little stream that flows through it. Pidge and Lance making Hunk nervous that they're going to fall.

They spend hours walking around campus, playing in the untouched snow, tearing it apart and leaving it a mess in their wake.

It's cold. The breeze is a chill against his exposed skin. His fingertips and toes feel numb, and there's a bite on his cheeks. But in his chest, at his core, he feels warm. He feels lighter than he has in a while. Laughing with his friends. Shoving them into the show. Plowing through the untouched sheets of it.

He's cold, but he feels at ease. At peace. There's only one thing missing, but... he doesn't feel like it's as lost as it was earlier that day.

Maybe Keith will join them for the next code sixty-three. He likes that thought.

None of them have their phones, but the clock tower at the center of campus chimes four in the morning by the time Lance feels settled enough. By the time he's ready.

Pidge and Hunk seem to pick up on his somber shift in mood as he leads them across campus, strides purposeful instead of aimless. They fall into a silence, jokes and laughter petering out. But it's not tense. It's companionable. They let themselves enjoy the night and the stillness, a welcome reprieve from the hectic days of study week.

He leads them to one of the parking decks on campus. Pidge looks confused as he leads them to the stairwell and begins to climb, but he catches Hunk's small smile. They climb, and climb, and climb. Legs stiff and feet numb. And they pause as they step back out into the night.

Just as he had hoped, the entire top floor of the parking deck is completely untouched. An entire open area with a waist high concrete wall surrounding it, covered in a thick pallet of snow. Untouched by footprints or tire tracks. High above the buildings around them. Open to the sky.

Peaceful.

Secluded.

A bubble of stillness amongst a campus full of people.

He walks out to the center, breathes a deep breath, and lets himself fall backwards into the snow. And he lays there. Limbs sprawled out and eyes on the night sky. It's mostly cloudy, but he can see the stars peek out where the clouds shift with the wind. He watches the snow fall. Feels it stick to his eyelashes and melt on his cheeks.

Footsteps. Slow and hesitant. Approaching him. He sees Hunk and Pidge enter his field of vision, but he doesn't look at them. Waits as they lie down on either side of him. Both of them sprawling out the same way.

And they lay in silence. Letting the peace of the night and their own exhaustion sink into them. They're tired. He knows they are. He is, too. But he has stuff to get off his chest, and he knows that they're determined to stick with him till sunrise. He'd do the same for them.

They wait. Patient.

Lance counts the moments pass in heartbeats. Waits for the tense knot in his chest to loosen. Waits for his breathes to even out and the nerves to slink away into the night. Waits for his pulse to slow as a calm settles over him.

An acceptance.

He's ready.

"Keith is my soulmate."

And then he tells them everything.

Lance slouches low in the metal chair, legs stretched out in front of him. His hands are buried in his pockets, but his jacket is unzipped and his scarf unravelled. His skin is still numb, but feeling is slowly starting to seep back into his fingers and toes.

"I think they're more upset than I was," He says, voice lilting with amusement. He glances over at Hunk, huddled in his own chair, with a smirk curving his lips. Hunk just snorts a short laugh, eyes fixed on Pidge but gaze distant.

"Shut the fuck up, Lance." Pidge's voice is muffled from where they lay their head face down on the small table. Their arms are flung out, flopping over the edges. "I'm trying to process everything."

Lance hums his understanding, gaze drifting to the large windows that separate the lobby area from the library itself. It's not as crowded as it had been earlier, but there are definitely a good few dozen students in there. And that's just what he can see on the first floor. Who knew how many more were sprawled across tables and curled up in corners on the other floors.

He doesn't know the time, but he knows it's late as hell— early as fuck?

It's nearly the end of the night, that's for damn sure. He can feel it in the exhaustion clinging to him. Making his eyes burn and heavy. There's a chain of yawning going between the three of them that they can't seem to break.

Still... he feels light. Lighter and happier and just... freer than he has in a very long time. He hadn't realized how good it would feel to tell his friends, but it's euphoric. He's got all the good vibes and shit running through his veins. It's all warm and fuzzy, though that might just be the fact that they're actually in a heated building now.

He told them everything on the top floor of the parking deck, lying in the snow beneath the night sky.

Told them how he and Keith had a thing. Told them how he started to fall for Keith. Told them about how guilty he had felt. About how much he had struggled with that. Got side tracked for a bit and let himself gush about Keith for a while, which was surprisingly cathartic. He hasn't gotten to gush about Keith to anyone yet, and boy does he have a lot of mushy thoughts about that guy. He told them about finding the sketchbook where Keith redraws— or maybe pre-draws?— all of his soulmark paintings. Told them about confronting Keith in the gym and all the fall out that's happened since.

They were shocked, understandably. Surprised, definitely. They interrupted him with a few questions, but mostly listened. Let him get it all out. After some moments of rapid fire questions, several minutes of Pidge pacing and ranting, and a few wordless shouts to the night air, Hunk had suggested they go somewhere warm.

Not wanting to go back to their dorm yet, they went for the library lobby. It's big and open and empty. They sit at one of the small tables that fill the area between the library and the library's coffeeshop. The coffeeshop is, unfortunately, closed, but the library is open twenty-four-seven. Which means the lobby is, too.

Normally not a secluded area, the emptiness of the early morning hour gives them privacy and a place to warm up after trekking around in the snow for hours.

Now that he's gotten it off his chest, now that he feels nearly giddy with the lightness of it all and probably some sleep deprivation, he gets to sit back, thaw, and watch his friends go through all the painful processing that he's spent weeks on.

"You found your soulmate," Hunk says, barely more than an awe filled whisper. He's still staring at where Pidge is sprawled over the table, but his eyes are unfocused. He's been doing that. Muttering phrases like that over and over, whenever there's a lull in the conversation.

"Yup," Lance says, finally allowing himself to be a little pleased by that fact.

"And it's Keith."

"Mmm."

"We've known him for months. How long has he known?"

Lance shrugs, slouching far enough in the chair to rest his head on the back of it. "Dunno. Haven't asked. Part of that whole avoiding him thing I've been doing while I process all of... this."

And it's really the processing that's the hard part. Acceptance is easy once the processing is over. But the processing... it can take time. When you're so sure of something, so certain that things exist in a certain state and a certain order. And then you learn that it's completely different. You have a whole puzzle already put together, and someone gives you a piece you hadn't realized you've been missing. And you've got to find a way to rearrange everything to make that new piece fit.

Takes time.

Can be painful. It was for him, but he's a lot closer to the heart of this than Hunk and Pidge are.

It's... actually kind of amusing to watch them go through it. To watch all the expressions flit across their features, far too sleep deprived to hold anything back. He gets to watch as they shuffle back through an entire semester's worth of memories and see all the things they've missed. Making sense of all the things they never questioned. Seeing their memories with newfound lenses.

Pidge lifts their head suddenly, hands slapping flat on the table, loud and echoing in the empty lobby. "You!" They snap their head to the side, eyes boring into Lance's. They lean forward just a fraction, eyes narrowing as they hiss, "You didn't know who Mothman is."

Lance blinks. Once. Twice. A choked laugh bubbles up his throat and snorts out in a sharp exhale. "I do now."

"I told Keith to dump his soulmate because you didn't know who Mothman was."

"Gee, thanks, Pidge."

Pidge groans, running their hands through their hair before dropping their head back to the table with a loud thunk. "I hate this."

"Imagine how I feel."

"Everything just makes sense. It all makes sense now. Everything just— ugh. I should've noticed. I should've seen this coming. All the clues were right there. It's so obvious now."

"That's the thing, Pidgey. Hind sight is twenty-twenty, and all that."

"Yeah," Hunk adds, pulling off his gloves and rubbing his hands together, flexing his fingers. "None of us saw it coming. I mean, I kinda got that there was something going on between you and Keith. You guys were like, super flirty sometimes. And sometimes I'd catch you like... making these eyes at each other when you didn't think anyone was looking? But I just... didn't push it."

Lance winces, eyes on the table. "Were we that obvious?"

"Yes and no? Like sometimes I could've sworn there was something going on between you, but other times it just seemed like I was making it up? Like... you're affectionate with all of us, so I guess I didn't read too much into it. You did spend the night at his place a lot, but friends also do that, too, so... I... kinda just figured you'd tell me if there was something going on."

Lance closes his eyes, face scrunching up in pain. "Yeah... sorry about that, buddy. I wanted to tell you, but... it just..."

"Hey, dude, it's okay. I get it. It was a weird situation. I'm not mad at you."

He opens his eyes, meeting Hunk's warm gaze. Relief pulsing through him with every beat of his heart. "Really?"

"Yeah, man. It's okay. Seriously."

"I'm mad at you," Pidge cuts in, lifting a hand but keeping their face to the table. "I'm mad at both of you."

"You just don't like not knowing stuff."

"I don't! And I'm mad at myself for not noticing! You're both my best friends! I should've noticed something was going on. I mean, there was that time he was super mad at you or something? Avoiding you? That was probably when he found out! And I've seen his paintings before, but I don't know art enough to know if his style matches the style on your soulmarks. And he never took off his stupid gloves because of your stupid pick up lines, and I really should've made that connection. I should've—"

"Pidge," Lance says, sharp and firm. He knows Pidge. Knows they'll go around and around in circles, beating themself up about this. He has to cut it off at the head. He waits until they've lifted their head, gazing at him from beneath messy copper bangs. "It's not your fault. If I didn't notice, then I really don't expect you to have noticed. Stop beating yourself up about it. You're a genius, but you're not omnipotent."

They huff and look away, but he can see some of the tension leak out of them. A small smile ghosts across their lips. "It's omniscient."

"Whatever."

"So you really had no idea?" Hunk asks, quiet and hesitant.

Lance sighs, tilting his head back once more and closing his eyes. "No, I... I really didn't."

"How, though? There had to be some signs, right?”

Lance shrugs. "I mean... probably? But like... it wasn't even a possibility to me. Keith saw my soulmarks all the time and never said anything about it, never even acted surprised or like he recognized them? So I just... didn't think about it. I figured if it was Keith, I would've noticed. I also..." He squirms in his seat, pursing his lips as he frowns. "I also just kind of always thought I'd know when I met my soulmate, you know? Like it's just know instinctively that they were the one. Anyway, I just... didn't think Keith was a possibility, and anything past that was just wishful thinking on my part, so it was pretty easy to brush anything off."

"Oh my god," Hunk's mouth drops open, horror slowly dawning as his eyes widen. His gaze snaps to Lance, who simply watches as he lifts an eyebrow. "I told Keith that you were so head-over-heels for your soulmate that you'd never do anything with anyone else, but.... Oh..." He blinks, gaze drifting away as he horror melts away into a hilarious mix of perplexed realization and amusement. "I... guess I wasn't wrong, huh?"

Lance can't help it. The laughter bubbles out of him and slips from his lips, sounding a hair too hysterical but genuine all the same. "No, I guess you weren't."

Pidge groans again, loudly and dramatically as they throw themselves backwards off the table, flopping over their chair. Head back, arms dangling off the sides. Glaring at the vaulted ceiling. "I can't believe I was trying to get you two to talk to each other this whole time."

Lance smiles, and he hears Hunk's soft chuckle.

Pidge crosses their arms over their chest, pout evident on their lips. "This is way more complicated than I was anticipating when I introduced you two."

"So..." Hunk says, trailing off and drawing both of their attention. He looks between them, but his gaze lingers on Lance the longest. "What're you going to do now?"

And... that's the big question isn't it? What is he going to do now?

Truthfully... he doesn't know. He hasn't gotten that far yet.

Over the years, he's imagined a thousand different scenarios, and a thousand different circumstances. He imagined a thousand different First Meetings and a thousand different interactions with his soulmate.

But nothing ever like this.

He never expected things to go down this way, but... they have. It's how it is. There's no going back, and there's no changing it. And honestly? He's... not sure he wants to anymore.

He's always wanted stories like his family has. His parents. His siblings.

They're happy. His family. They're happy and in love with their soulmates, but... it wasn't easy. He knows that now. He was blinded by their happiness. By their smiles. By what he wanted— what he wants— that he... he erased their struggles.

Realization doesn't hit him hard. It doesn't flick on like a light switch. It comes slowly. Gradually. Like a sunrise. Where the night slowly fades to gray before colors slowly leak back into the world. Slowly, gradually, and peacefully.

His family... they're not perfect. Their soulmates and connection's aren't perfect. But... they're happy. They're so fucking happy. They have struggles and regrets and doubts, but... they're happy. Maybe they're happier because of them. They're happy now.

It's not the story he wanted, but it's the story he has.

And he doesn't want to let it go.

"I think," He says, idea slowly forming as a smile curves his lips. "We should pay Keith a visit. Do you have a pen?"

Hey space cadet, put on your shoes and a jacket and come outside

It's not hostile. Nor is it angry. He lets the lightness he's feeling pour through their connection. The strange buzzing giddiness. The settled calm. The lilt of mischief. Maybe a dash of the sleep deprived hysteria.

He even lets some of that fondness, some of that affection that he hasn't been letting himself feel, seep through.

He knows the sudden change will leave Keith confused, but that's fine. He'll figure it out soon enough.

"How'd you even know he's awake?" Hunk whispers, leaning in close where they're crouched behind one of the cars in Keith's parking lot.

"Shiro said the two of them were gonna pull an all-nighter." Lance says, holding his arm back, cocked and ready. Perfectly packed snowball in hand.

"I remember Keith mentioning that," Pidge says from his other side. "Something about needing to prepare for his art exhibition."

The door to Keith's apartment complex creeks open. A body steps out. Lance hurls the snowball without a second thought, watching in horror as it splatters across Shiro's face.

"Oh— shit— Sorry, Shiro!" He calls out, straightening from behind the car, hands held up placatingly. "I was aiming for Keith—"

Snow hits him in the face. Cold and biting as it splatters across his cheeks and off his jaw. He blinks. Dumbfounded. Surprised. Caught off guard as his eyes slide to Keith—

Keith, who stands beside Shiro, another snowball already being packed in his hands. The smirk on his face is deadly. The light in his eyes mischievous and smug. Despite how pale he looks. Despite the dark marks beneath his eyes. Despite the exhaustion that hangs on him, Keith looks alive.

Alive and smug and with a fire burning behind his gaze that has an answering spark igniting in Lance's chest.

"Heh," He laughs, smirk curling, eyes crinkling, voice low and rumbling. "Like that?"

There's a moment of tension. A moment where the air between them is pulled taut. Brittle and fraying and— Pidge shatters the moment as another snowball flies, forcing Keith to duck out of the way.

And suddenly they're all shifting into action.

The three of them launch snowball after snowball, depleting their stash they'd built up in preparation. Keith and Shiro take it in stride, managing to avoid most of them and even managing to scoop up a few handfuls of snow themselves to launch back in retaliation.

"Uh, Lance?"

"Yeah?" He glances at Hunk, who's biting his lip and staring at the empty spot where their stack had been only moments before. "Fuck—"

"They're out, Shiro—"

"I'll go left—"

Both of them are already running, sprinting out into the parking lot and moving to flank their position behind the car. Lance yelps, already scrambling to get away. "Scatter!"

Laughter echoes in the early morning air as they chase each other through the snow. Keith and Shiro pursue them as they retreat back toward campus, scooping up snowballs and throwing them as they go. They duck behind trees and statues, the corners of buildings and snow mounds.

They run. Chase each other. Kick up snow and throw loosely packed balls that explode over their backs as they hunch and turn for the impact. Lance gets a mouthful of snow on several occasions, but gives them right back. Pidge uses them as shields before diving into snow piles to avoid being hit. Hunk chases Shiro with a chunk of snow held above his head. Keith turns on Shiro and shoves a handful of snow down his shirt before sprinting away, his brother hot on his heels.

Lance laughs. Loud and long. Doubled over at the waist. Tears forming at the corners of his eyes. It feels a little hysterical, a little maniacal, but it feels good. It feels right.

A weight is lifted from his chest, and the writhing knot has uncurled from his ribs. The hornets have died and leave nothing but butterflies. Butterflies that flutter frantic and manic, until it bubbles up his throat and drips past his lips.

He's here. As dawn rises. As night is chased from campus and color starts to flood back in. Here, in the cold, playing in the snow with his closest friends and his soulmate.

And everything feels right.

He scoops up a tight ball of snow, reaching back to hurl it at Keith. It hits him right where he wanted it to: right on his perky little ass.

Keith freezes, whipping around to gape at Lance. He grins, lifting a hand to innocently waggle his fingers.

And then Keith is charging him, chasing him, and Lance is running. Sprinting through the snow. A laugh and a taunt on his lips. His lungs burn and his clothes are soaked and his legs are tired, but he runs.

He knows Keith will catch him.

Is counting on it.

He's tackled to the ground, the two of them rolling through the snow.

He ends up on his back, arms flung out to the sides and body relaxing in defeat. Snow is plastered to him, melting on his skin, but he doesn't care. Doesn't care because Keith is hovering over him. Straddling his hips to pin him down. Hands on either side of his head.

He's beautiful.

The light of the morning sun catch on the snow melting in his hair. On his eyelashes. He's pale in the cold, but his nose and cheeks are flushed pink. His lips are parted as he pants. As his chest heaves with every breath.

And he smiles. Barely. A small thing. A shy thing. Just the ghost of a curve at the edge of his lips. Just the slight lift of his cheeks.

And his eyes.

His eyes are dark and glistening, wayward beams of sunlight highlighting the color deep in his irises. And they're soft. So incredibly soft and fond as he gazes down at Lance. There's a sunrise right there, but Keith looks at him like he's the only thing worth seeing.

He's always wanted his soulmate to look at him like that, and it may not have happened right away, but... it's happening now.

It's happening right now, and Keith is his soulmate.

Keith...

"I'm ready," He says, words coming out in a rush. His heart hammers in his chest, but it's not the twisting pound of dread. It's lighter. Fluttering. Dizzying as he loses himself in Keith's eyes.

Keith's smile fades, eyes searching his face, thick brows bunching in confusion for just a moment before— before realization dawns on him. Eyes going wide. Lips parting. Shock making his expression blank for a moment before the words are tumbling from him, "I'm sorry. Lance, I'm so sorry—"

He lifts a hand, grabbing Keith roughly by the back of the head and pulling him down. He collapses on top of him, breath rushing out of both of them at the impact. And then Lance wraps him up. Keeps one hand buried in his hair and wraps his other arm around his shoulders. Holds him tight.

Keith tenses for only a moment before relaxing into him. Before burying his face in the divot between Lance's scarf and his neck. Feels the cold touch of his nose, but doesn't care.

Because this? This feels right.

"Can you forgive me?" Keith asks, voice mumbled against his skin, lips cold and sending shivers down his spine.

Lance hums, gazing up at the brightening sky. It's stopped snowing, but it's still beautiful. "I'll think about it."

But he already has.

And judging from the small smile he feels pressed against his throat, Keith knows it, too.

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Remind me to never pull an all-nighter again
> Everything hurts, and I've never been more tired in my life

Keith
> Isn't this supposed to be part of the college experience?

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> The college experience can suck my ass, I'm too old for this

Keith
> Shiro, you're only twenty-six

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Tell that to my back and my immune system
> Did you at least get enough done for your art exhibit?

Keith
> Yeah
> And now that everyone knows, I asked Hunk to help me and he's pretty excited about it. Said he'd scan the pictures for me as long as I distract Lance for a few hours

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Which I'm sure you'll be able to do easily ;)

Keith
> Please never, ever use that smilie like that again

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> I don't know what you're talking about ;)))))))

Keith
> Keep it up and I'll get Pidge to teach me how to program your prosthetic to lock with the middle finger up

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> You wouldn't

Keith
> Try me

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> .....
> Fine, I yield

Keith
> Good

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> So do you think Lance will like it? Your art exhibition?

Keith
> I hope so
> I really really hope so