Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Lance had always hated Keith. 

He had hated him in kindergarten when he would mysteriously reach for the exact toys Lance wanted only seconds before he had a chance to get his hands on them himself.

He had hated him in elementary school when Keith completely dashed his hopes of becoming a pro soccer player by completely wiping the floor with him in just about every match they played in P.E., whether he was on his team or the opposing one.

He had hated him in middle school when Keith became the school's heartthrob and effectively cock-blocked just about every other guy in that damn school.

He had especially hated him when in high school Keith's simple little guitar covers of popular songs suddenly went viral, after which he was cast by some big network as the lead for a new TV show and then overnight turned into the entire nation's heartthrob. 

Now, in college, Lance couldn't go a day without the media talking about Keith's new song or Keith's new model girlfriend or Keith's oh so brave decision to leave his big multi-million dollar network deal to pursue a more independent career – as if he hadn't just switched to another multi-million dollar deal with a different money-grubbing company. Even after so many years of knowing the guy, Lance still didn't understand his appeal. He didn't understand why little preteen girls would gather in front of whatever hotel he was in to scream at his window whenever so much as a shadow showed up in it. And he especially didn't understand how Keith's music was so successful, despite being the most run-of-the-mill, mass-produced mainstream pop garbage that no one wanted – except his hoards and hoards of prepubescent fans, of course. Lance didn't even have to see him in person to know that Keith had only gotten even more stuck up and arrogant over the years. Keith rarely gave interviews and when he did – once in a blue moon – they were always incredibly mechanical and painfully scripted. Sometimes he would simply not respond to questions at all. By the looks of it, there was never an authentic moment to be had with him. He was infamously hard to work with, quick to anger and difficult to manage. Not to mention the long list of scandals he had gotten himself into just over the past year or so. Despite all his obvious shortcomings, his fans would defend him to no end, saying he was simply being rebellious and lashing out due to stress. Keith could probably strangle a small puppy on live TV and his fans would still find ways to excuse it.

And so it was with great distaste that Lance found himself at one of Keith's concerts. Surrounded by countless herds of children unironically calling Keith "Daddy", he began questioning every single decision he had made in life to have ended up with this fate. Glancing down at his phone, he found both his best friends absolutely spamming their little group chat with dumb edits of Keith. Pastel Keith, flower crown Keith, goth Keith, it was all in there. "How do they keep finding this stuff?" he mumbled to himself in exasperation, wondering whether any of the original creators of the edits were currently in the vicinity so he could drop-kick them. Fresh out of preschool or not, them and their witchy Photoshop skills needed to die.

Suddenly, his phone began buzzing. "Hey, Hunk," Lance flatly greeted his friend. "And you, Pidge, I can hear you smirking in the background. Stop." He received a muffled giggle in response, confirming that Pidge had, in fact, been smirking. "So what's up?"

"How's that article of yours going?" Hunk asked with mirth in his voice.

"I've already come up with about six equally clickbaity headlines like '10 Things I Hated About Keith's Concert' or '450 Ways Keith Got On My Nerves Today'."

"Haven't you already posted at least twelve of those to your blog?"

"Shut up." Lance hated how much both his friends loved teasing him about his extreme dislike for the pop-star. They absolutely revelled in how long he could rant about the guy, growing more and more irate the longer he went on. "Did you just call me to tease me?"

"Pretty much," Pidge replied nonchalantly. "After all, it's the first time you're actually getting paid to write an article about Keith."

"I hate both of you." Frowning, Lance abruptly hung up, but still got to hear Pidge's cackling. 

As much as his friends teased him, Lance took a lot of pride in his writing. At the very least, he was good enough for a gossip magazine to let him write an article for their online site. Apparently, due to booking issues, they had no other choice but to fall back on the freelance college journalist that sometimes submitted small articles to their site. All that really told Lance was that they didn't like Keith much either. And seeing how the magazine had barely given him two sentences about what to even write, he figured they didn't care much as long as it was vaguely about Keith's concert. 

After standing in line for what felt like hours, people finally began moving once the doors swung open. Immediately, a cacophony of excited chatter kicked off, making Lance's mood plummet even further. He didn't rush, not at all eager to get himself a good place to stand. But despite his lack of effort, Lance found himself in a relatively acceptable place in the end. Not only was he tall, but he also wasn't a preteen girl, so he towered over just about every other person around him. The stage was perfectly visible, even from this distance. Surrounding him was nothing but noise and with a small groan, Lance came to the realisation that the dull throbbing in his skull would probably only get worse rather than better. The low music drifting out of distant speakers seemed to only amplify his building headache, the extreme levels of excitement all around him only serving to drain him of all energy. 

Overall, he felt like shit simply standing here.

At some point, Lance managed to zone out with his eyes focused on the large monitors above the stage, the same colourful graphics flashing across them over and over again. After that didn't help pass the time anymore, he began texting Pidge and Hunk, who only continued bombarding him with more Keith-related photos and videos. If only they could actually be here with him to be annoying like that in person. Then he could at least pass this off as friends ironically going to a Keith concert, forever cementing the experience as a silly little anecdote to tell at parties. But like this, he was simply a college guy surrounded by an army of middle schoolers who were all foaming at the mouth for some scrawny little boy with anger issues. Nothing Lance necessarily wanted to brag about. Ever. 

Lance jumped in surprise when a deep rumble suddenly shook his body, the lights slowly dimming, causing the screams of young girls to reach deafening levels. Hands clamped over his ears, he immediately regretted not bringing ear plugs. He stood like that for quite a while, before the music finally indicated some sort of countdown. The lights drifted towards the centre of the stage, focusing on one spot. 

Suddenly, Keith along with an entire group of people came flying out of the floor, landing perfectly on the stage as the entire stadium burst out into hysterics. Horrified, Lance watched little girls completely dissolve into crying, screaming messes, legs shaking and knees buckling. But somehow, as much as he wanted to say this entire thing was leaving him unaffected, he had to admit that his heart rate was picking up slightly at such a dramatic opening. He had seen that exact kind of entrance dozens and dozens of times over the years, on concert DVDs and internet videos, but actually seeing it in person was an entirely different thing. It almost seemed less real than it did on video. 

Meanwhile, Keith was already kicking off the first song, his backup dancers making his dancing seem all the more impressive and dramatic. Lance watched with a frown as Keith was displayed on large monitors from several angles, cameras regularly zooming into his seemingly flawless face and effectively raising the volume of screaming. Lance's initial awe quickly dissipated at having so many tiny sharp elbows and shoulders excitedly jabbing him in the sides, even some small hands smacking him out of nowhere. Surely, he would come out of this absolutely littered in bruises. Luckily, he soon became completely indifferent to little girls constantly bumping into him in their excitement. Growing up with younger nieces and nephews had already trained him to be endlessly patient. 

Things continued like that for a while. With each new song the stadium erupted into hysteria anew, while Keith looked more and more sweaty and flushed as things progressed. His backup dancers would change, but he continued on, belting out song after song almost endlessly. The breaks in between each song were almost non-existent. It got to a level that it made Lance wonder whether the guy was actually human. He had known of Keith's monstrous stamina ever since primary school when the guy easily outdid everyone in long distance and relay races. Lance would know because he always got second. And while he had always been close to dying after each competition of any kind, Keith had always looked completely unbothered, as though he hadn't even moved at all. 

When one of the cameras suddenly zoomed in on Keith's face, close enough you could see every single pore in his ridiculously smooth skin, Lance with a start noticed the faint scar running through his left eyebrow. He vaguely remembered getting into a fist fight with Keith over a lost soccer match in elementary school, a fight that they had both left bleeding and bruised – in particular the wound on Keith's face had required stitches and had lasted for weeks. Lance had expected his parents to then get into a huge argument with Keith's parents, seeing how that was how it usually went with incidents like that. But nothing of the sort ever happened. That was when he had found out that Keith lived with foster parents who only ever kept him for a few months before passing him over to someone else. It was difficult enough to raise well-behaved foster children, not to mention ones with impulsive and aggressive tendencies like Keith. Or at least that was what he had overheard some teachers saying at the time.

Lance was stirred from his daydreaming when the stage suddenly dimmed completely, before a spotlight shone on a lone Keith sitting on a stool with an acoustic guitar. Quietly groaning to himself, Lance glanced around to find the rest of the audience already swooning and gushing, furiously taking photos and recording every second of this spectacle. His eyes wandered back to the stage as Keith strummed his first chords, his smooth voice soon mingling with the soothing melody of his guitar. Despite his better judgement, Lance ended up oddly transfixed by the sight, unable to take his eyes off of Keith. This was the first song to feel genuine and not like a fabricated, hollow money-printing tune. Almost as though in a trance, Lance found himself taking in every single word that came out of Keith's mouth like it was some sort spell. Despite the song's calm tune, it was oddly electrifying to hear belted out through an enormous sound system, physically vibrating through Lance's body. Something about it was mesmerising and he couldn't quite decide what. Whether it was the volume of the audience having quieted down considerably, or Keith and the way he looked completely content where he was in that very moment, or something else entirely, he couldn't tell. All Lance knew was that he was suddenly glad to be here, happy to be able to witness this.

And before Lance knew it, the song was over and Keith opened his eyes to direct piercing eyes at his audience. When the screaming instantly kicked off again, Lance could almost see something unreadable swirl in those dark eyes, something that pulled you into unknown depths the longer you looked, before Keith abruptly jumped up to prepare for the next song. The set of backup dancers that then surrounded him was almost completely different from the people that had danced with him in the beginning. Lance unknowingly shook his head slightly at the implications of that. If even professional backup dancers couldn't keep up with Keith's pace, then what did that make him?

From there, Lance found himself watching intently as Keith performed song after song, sometimes using the breaks in between to speak to his audience. Lance couldn't hear a word he was saying over all the screaming and he doubted Keith could either. Any exchanges between him and his audience were short-lived, any kind of meaningful conversation impossible. And yet Keith still tried, somehow shambling together some sort of conversation each time. Lance had seen articles about this kind of thing happening, but seeing it in person was somewhat disheartening. Despite that, Keith never showed any signs of being frustrated or annoyed. 

Now hyper-focused on what was happening on stage, Lance found himself with his eyes glued to Keith, ears completely filtering out any sound besides his singing. It was completely involuntarily and when he realised he was doing it, Lance tried to snap himself out of it. He couldn't quite put a finger on what made Keith so enrapturing, what caused his attention to be so inevitably drawn to him. It was some sort of odd mix between awe and curiosity. Seeing the occasional smirk or brief happy smile flash across Keith's face, Lance couldn't help but wonder what happened backstage. How much of what Keith was displaying in front of the dozens of cameras – pointed at him from all sides every single day of his life – was actually him? It made Lance want to peel back the layers of facade and image management to see who Keith truly was. Over the years he had read countless interviews all claiming vastly different things. Industry peers called Keith both hardworking and invested in his music, others called him arrogant and childish. His friends were devoted and loyal, while his enemies maintained a burning dislike for him. His most vocal fans could, in a split second, shift from showering him with love and adoration to absolutely hounding him or people close to him with the most vile things anyone could say to another human being.

The moment that completely turned things around for Lance came towards the end of the concert, when the backup dancers disappeared and left Keith to begin wrapping things up by himself. He was in his encore, the very last song coming to an end, Keith then wandering around to interact with some fans over the heads of the security guards lining the area around the stage. Lance wasn't all that interested in Keith's little talk segments, so he began drifting off again, wondering when he could finally leave and even attempt to process this experience. At least until he heard something that made his perception shift completely and all his senses hone in on what Keith was saying, intent on catching every minute detail of what was unfolding.

"Ti voglio bene."

Three simple words and Lance's mind blanked out completely. Keith's exhausted, husky voice replayed over and over in his head, making him feel as though they were still echoing through the stadium. He didn't even know what the hell Keith was saying, all he knew was that he needed to hear more of it.

"That's about all I remember," Keith chuckled, somewhat sheepishly running his hand through his sweat-slicked hair. "What next?" As expected, he immediately received an almost indistinguishable mess of screamed answers. "Spanish? Uh…"

Suddenly, Lance was incredibly impressed at Keith's ability to actually pick out any words from this barrage of chaotic screaming. 

"I was in Cuba a couple weeks ago," Keith continued, readjusting his little earpiece as he continued strolling around. "There's one thing… Estas hecho un mango. Did I say that right?" His question almost couldn't be heard over the renewed screaming. "Is it mango or mangon?"

This was when Lance could feel his entire body suddenly go hot, heart thumping wildly in his chest. Something about hearing Keith speak his native language so fluidly absolutely stole his breath and made his stomach do weird somersaults. It wasn't simply Keith repeating something someone had said to him in order to shallowly appeal to a certain group of fans. He had clearly, at some point, put effort into learning how to pronounce it correctly and make it sound as genuine as possible. It was such a small thing and would probably get completely lost in the greater context of this entire concert, but to Lance it was something that completely turned his view of Keith upside down, whether he wanted to or not.

Watching Keith go through phrases in several other languages, Lance slowly came to the realisation that there was no way back from this. He suddenly understood on a very intimate level what Keith's appeal was. He understood why all these preteen girls fawned over him so much, he understood why Keith's music fascinated so many people and he understood why his fans defended him so vehemently. 

It was because there was no way not to end up enraptured by him, taken in his by undeniable stage presence and talent. Hate him or love him, there was no escaping.

Fat drops of rain smacked against the window as Lance lounged on his saggy living room couch, lazily watching Hunk tinker with his broken laptop. "Think you can fix it?" he asked his friend, resignation already heavy in his voice.

"Um…" Hunk was trying his best, really, but it seemed like a lost cause. "I mean… usually spilling any liquid over your laptop is a death sentence, but I might be able to salvage at least the hard drive. Pidge probably knows what to do, you know. I'm not as big of a computer expert."

"God no," Lance immediately spat. "If that gremlin finds out I dropped an entire latte on my laptop, I'll never hear the end of it." Lance almost fell off the couch in surprise when the door suddenly smacked open and Pidge stormed in, hair wet and tousled – seemingly from running through the rain.

"Who are you?" 

"What?" Lance replied quietly, dumbfounded at Pidge's intense expression. He then watched as Pidge stomped towards him to point an accusing finger at him, lit up phone in the other hand. 

"Did the magazine censor you or something?" Pidge yelled, eyes heated. "Is this really an article you wrote?"

Slowly, it dawned on Lance. "Oh, the Keith one?" When Pidge nodded furiously, he sunk slightly lower into his ratty couch and shrugged. "I wrote all of that, word for word. No edits by the magazine. Any problem with what I wrote?"

"Just the fact that you didn't passive-aggressively make fun of Keith's mullet even once! That was the only good thing about your articles!"

With Pidge so up in arms over Lance's article, Hunk suddenly seemed intrigued and pulled out his phone to see for himself. "Why didn't you tell me that they published it?" he murmured quietly, already scanning over said article.

Shrugging again, Lance opted to stare out of the window and watch as rain fell from an increasingly dark sky. "It's not that big of a deal."

"Not that big of a deal?!" Pidge screeched in disbelief. "You made it sound like you enjoyed his concert in this, Lance! What? Did someone pay you off? Who even are you? What happened at that concert?" 

Before Lance could further brush it off, Hunk spoke up. "Yeah, um… Pidge is right, Lance. Ever since that concert last week, you haven't ranted about Keith even once. Do you feel okay? Did any fans attack you or something?"

"No, nothing like that," Lance sighed, finally tearing his eyes away from the rain and sitting up straight. "As if anyone would even care about some random dude with a blog. I just… I guess I realised that I really don't know Keith and that it's useless constantly complaining about what he does." Ever since Keith's concert, Lance had been weirdly out of it. A big chunk of his life had consisted of making fun of Keith and shitting on just about everything he did. Not having that anymore left him feeling… empty.

"So no more overly sardonic rant pieces about how overrated Keith is?" Pidge questioned with a tinge of sadness. "But those always brightened my day! Don't you know that I feed off of your completely pointless and unwarranted anger towards a celebrity you'll never ever meet in real life and who couldn't give a flying fuck what you think?"

Lance responded with a deadpan look, badly suppressing the frustrated frown that wanted to form on his face. "I'm aware." To his horror, Pidge's sneaky gremlin eyes then snapped to the remains of his laptop laid out in front of Hunk on the floor.

"Is that–"

"Shut up, Pidge," Lance immediately snapped, shooting an absolutely scathing glare at his friend.

"Dumbass." Pidge chuckled mirthfully, sporting a knowing look. "I told you you shouldn't eat breakfast while–"

"I knoooooow, shut up already!" He continued glaring and could only watch with growing frustration as Pidge's mocking grin only widened.

"Want me to fix it?"

Eyes narrowing, Lance didn't immediately reply, instead turning his head away to angrily stare at a wall. "Yeah." He did desperately need that laptop, seeing how he couldn't afford simply buying a new one. Out of the corner of his eyes, he then saw Pidge quietly walking up to Hunk, before crouching down in front of him to inspect the disassembled laptop. 

Despite how annoying they could both be, especially when together, Lance was glad to have the two as friends. He probably would have aged about ten extra years without anyone to complain to about Keith all this time.

 "Um… Lance?" 

Barely registering the nervous tone of Hunk's voice, too busy scoping out the area, Lance continued on his search for a possible entrance. At least one that didn't require him to pole-vault over this fence. "Hmm?" he absent-mindedly hummed back.

Hunk gulped, hesitantly following after his friend. "You sure you wanna do this? This is really illegal."

"It's only illegal if we get caught," Lance immediately shot back. "Right, Pidge?"

"No, I'm pretty sure it's illegal either way." Pidge's eyes were tirelessly zipping around the property, or at least the tiny bit that was visible through the high fences and rows of bushes. "Just keep looking for a sticker or sign that tells us what type of security system is installed here."

"Why are we here?" Hunk then asked, visibly anxious.

In response, Lance cackled evilly, a smirk widening on his face as he eyed the endlessly high fence surrounding the enormous mansion. "To get some dirt on Keith."

"I thought you were over that!" 

Pouting now, Lance steadfastly continued on his way. "I can never get over acquiring blackmail material on Keith." 

Suddenly exhausted, Hunk dragged his hands over his face. "So you're trying to ruin his career?"

Lance didn't immediately reply, lost in thought for a moment. "No… I just…" Trailing off, he buried his hands in his pockets. "Look, I just want some confirmation that he's not this enigmatic music genius that everyone thinks he is. I'll just go in, find some shit, get out and then I can go on with my life knowing that I have Keith's greatest weakness in my hands."

It took Hunk a while to even come up with a possible response, eyes wide with astonishment. "What are you even trying to find?"

"Dunno… his… freaky fetish porn stash or something? His creepy doll collection?"

Hunk replied with an absolutely exasperated look, a drawn out sigh leaving him. "The second I hear police sirens, I'm gone." His eyes then wandered to his other, hopefully more sane friend. "Pidge, why are you doing this?"

"Because I'm a rebellious teen," Pidge dead-panned.

Hunk had to resist the urge to face-palm. "You know, usually teen rebellion involves going out past your curfew or breaking windows, not hacking into a celebrity's security system so you can break into their house!"

"Ah hah!" Just then, Pidge's eyes fell on a small blue sign stuck in the lush green lawn behind the fence. Reading what was written on the sign, Pidge suddenly let out a near villainous laugh. "Jackpot."

"What is?" Lance immediately questioned, trying to make sense of whatever had Pidge so excited. "GDS…" he read out loud, scratching his head. "Is that the security system?"

Pidge was already sitting on the ground with a laptop, typing furiously. "Yup. Wireless without any encryption. Knowing the maker helps narrow down the frequency I can use to jam the entire system so it doesn't trigger. No cameras, no motion sensors, no alarms."

Hunk then leaned down to watch what Pidge was doing. "Don't these systems have anti-jamming features?"

Immediately, an amused little chuckle left Pidge. "You just need to turn the jamming off for a second or two and then turn it back on to bypass the anti-jam protection."

"Wait, seriously?"

"It's totally genius, right?"

Not quite understanding anything that was happening, Lance simply watched as Pidge gleefully continued typing. "So what if security people see us?"

"This is a public sidewalk," Pidge immediately clarified. "We have every right to be here." 

"We're loitering," Hunk cut in. "So they can totally get us to leave. Worst of all, they can sick the police on us." 

Grinning, Lance clapped Hunk on the back in a comforting manner. "Don't worry, if they try, I'll just talk us out of trouble."

Hunk shot another flat look at his friend, not appearing reassured at all. "I'm surprised you haven't gotten arrested yet. No, actually I'm not surprised about any of this. All this honestly just feels like another Saturday afternoon with you two."

Before Lance could continue sweet-talking Hunk, Pidge interrupted him. "System is jammed now. Get in quickly and don't stay for too long."

Giving Pidge a mock salute, Lance took a few steps back, breathed in deeply, then dashed and jumped at the tall fence. Slightly impressed, both Pidge and Hunk watched him swiftly climb up the fence and then land on the other side somewhat clumsily, before immediately rushing over the lawn.

"So Keith is really not home?" Hunk asked, sighing as Lance slowly disappeared in between bushes and trees.

Pidge simply shrugged. "Should be. Can't be sure." Arms crossed, Pidge then lazily leaned back against the fence. "How much you wanna bet Lance finally gets arrested?"

Releasing a pained groan, Hunk could only shake his head.

"Cancel it."

"Keith, this meeting is import–"

"No, listen to me, Shiro! You don't get it!" Dragging a hand over his tired eyes, Keith let himself fall onto his pristine snow-white couch. "The last time we worked with those guys, they told us it was just a simple shoot for swimwear, but then showed up with nothing but underwear, remember! I'm not going through that bullshit again! Whatever they're offering, just reject it!" When he was met with nothing but pregnant silence, he rolled his eyes and waited for the inevitable lecture. 

"No matter the final decision, you still need to show up. These are industry professionals and if they–"

"I don't care what they are! They're scumbags!"

"Keith–!"

"I'm hanging up." Even when he pressed the button to end the call, he could still hear Shiro berating him. Keith felt bad treating his oldest friend and manager this way, but he had his boundaries. He knew he was probably being a brat, but the thought of having to deal with those two-faced, scheming executives again made his stomach turn. And so he slid down further into his couch, rubbing at his tired eyes until they hurt.

With only a week until his next cycle of what felt like daily concerts, he couldn't quite find it in himself to truly relax. It took him three days to even just recover and feel normal again. And the day before he would go back on tour, he would probably get pulled into countless checkups, practices and organisational meetings. So technically, he only had two or three days where he could truly relax and simply hang out. Today was one such day. And he was bored out of his mind.

Keith began lazily scrolling through his list of contacts, not quite finding anyone he really wanted to talk to. He was on somewhat friendly terms with quite a few people, having formed friendly but shallow relationships in the entertainment and music industry over the years, but he didn't exactly have anyone he would call a true friend – except for Shiro, who also happened to be his manager. It was on days like this that he wished they could go back to simply being friends aiming for the same goal, sharing a dream. After the accident that had damaged Shiro's body forever, becoming a musician had seemed pointless to Keith. Why even try if he was going to end up doing it alone? But when the chance had actually presented itself, it was Shiro who had ultimately pushed him to make that first step. In the end, Keith was thankful – he loved his job and he loved making music. But as always, it made him wonder if it was really worth losing Shiro over. Was it worth his best friend practically throwing his life away simply to support him? 

His musings were abruptly cut short when Keith heard a rattling sound that startled him into sitting up straight. The sound had come from his window and glancing into the direction the noise had come from, he froze.

There was a guy in his window. There was a guy in the middle of breaking into his house, just hovering in his window, halfway into his living room, staring back at him with almost just as much shock as him.

"Oops," the guy said, smiling awkwardly.

Jaw dropped and eyebrows drawn together into a confused frown, it took Keith a while to find his voice again. "How the fuck did you get in?"

Eyes shifting around nervously, the guy lingered exactly where he was. "The window."

"Did security let you in?" Keith barked, tense fingers digging into his couch. "Why?"

The guy suddenly smirked. "I'm a charming guy."

Incredulous, all Keith could do was stare back in shock. "What about the security system?! How did you know the fucking password?"

"I have my ways."

Keith was close to tearing out his own hair now, realising that he wasn't going to ever get a straight answer out of this guy. "Who are you?"

"Really, dude?"

Now, Keith wasn't entirely sure what to make of the almost offended look on the guy's face. He was motioning at himself and pointing at his own face with increasing intensity as though Keith was supposed to somehow magically know who he was. And when Keith didn't respond and simply continued staring in confusion, the guy let out a loud, frustrated sigh.

"We went to kindergarten together," he grumbled. "And elementary school. And middle school. And high school." 

No matter how much he rifled through his memories, this guy's face just didn't seem familiar at all. For all Keith knew, he was just some delusional stalker. Fearful that any sudden movement could somehow set the guy off, Keith remained sitting on the couch, heart wildly pumping in his chest. 

"Lance?" the guy then said, motioning at his own face again. "You punched out one of my milk teeth in elementary school when I smeared finger-paint in your hair?" 

"How am I supposed to remember something from that long ago?" 

A frustrated sigh left Lance, before he slipped and finally fell out of the window and squarely landed in Keith's living room. Groaning to himself in pain, he slowly picked himself off of the polished wooden floor. "You broke two of my fingers in soccer practice," he then grumbled as he straightened out his slightly dishevelled clothes, sending a disgruntled look at the other. "My pinky is still crooked!" He then held up his left hand, showing off that yes, his pinky was indeed slightly bent inwards. 

Keith could only shake his head, drawing an absolute blank. "I really don't know what you're talking about." Despite himself, he was beginning to settle down, subconsciously coming to the conclusion that this guy, Lance, probably wasn't dangerous. He could easily take him in a fight.

Meanwhile, Lance had clapped both his hands over his face and was quietly groaning in frustration. "Okay…" he murmured, slowly breathing out. "Hunk was right. This was a bad idea."

Hearing the name, Keith perked up. "Hunk?" he mumbled, vague flashes of memories passing through his mind. "Oh, I remember Hunk."

The words seemed to make Lance just absolutely short-circuit, leaving him unable to form words for quite a while. "You remember Hunk but not me?" he screeched. "How?!"

Keith shrugged and finally allowed himself to relax slightly. "He gave me a cookie in third grade." When Lance continued staring back at him in disbelief, Keith couldn't help but grow defensive, a frown instantly forming on his face. "It was good!"

Slowly, shaking his head, Lance raised his hands in surrender. "Whatever," he mumbled. Suddenly, his eyes began scanning the entire room, obvious awe entering his gaze as he eyed the enormous LCD embedded in one wall, as well as the elaborate sound system surrounding it. A cherry-red piano sat in one corner of the room, while an entire row of guitars lined one of the black walls. "You really live here by yourself?"

Not having expected that kind of question, Keith at first didn't know how to answer and simply nodded. He was still in shock over the whole situation, not quite able to even begin to decide what he should do.

"Aren't you going back on tour again soon? Why are you spending your free time just sitting in your multi-million dollar mansion by yourself?"

The question puzzled Keith, making him cock his head at Lance. "You know about my tour schedule?" Considering Lance seemed to be harbouring an impressive amount of dislike for him, it was surprising that he knew he was on break.

For the first time, Lance was speechless, standing there with his mouth open but no words coming out. Eventually, he snapped his mouth shut and a slight pout took over is face. "I'm supposed to write more articles about you. Of course I know."

Suddenly, things clicked into place for Keith and his body went somewhat slack in resignation. "Oh… so you're just here for a story." A curt, humourless laugh passed his lips, before he abruptly got off his couch to properly face Lance. But before he could get another word in, Lance was already cutting him off.

"Wait, you think I'm some stalker journalist who breaks into celebrity houses for stories?"

"You aren't?" Keith shot back flatly, smirking with quite a bit of satisfaction when Lance immediately looked incredibly offended.

"No, I just…" Lance was speechless again, struggling to find words. After all, he was breaking into Keith's house at this very moment.

Crossing his arms, Keith already had his phone in hand, ready to send off the text that would immediately send security flying in. "Why else are you here then, huh?"

Matching Keith's anger now, Lance looked equally miffed. "I guess I was just… curious?" 

Narrowing his eyes and shaking his head, Keith then glanced at his phone and sighed. "I'm calling security."

Almost instantly, Lance panicked. "No, no, no, no, wait, I'll leave! I'll be gone in a second, okay! Just don't call anyone!"

Watching the other already backing away towards the still open window, Keith rolled his eyes. "Ten seconds. And I better not see anything about this in the press tomorrow morning. Remember that I know your name and face now."

"Alright, thanks, bye!" Lance called over his shoulder as he quite literally jumped out of the window. 

Left behind was Keith, who could only stare at his open window wondering if he was so stressed and exhausted that he was hallucinating now. There was no way that had just happened. If not, then he had just had an actual conversation with an insane stalker journalist who somehow knew how to bypass every measure meant to keep people like him out of his house. It wasn't the first time someone had broken in trying to get to Keith, but it certainly was the most memorable. 

"I need to get a guard dog."

 Keith awoke the next morning with a splitting headache, the sunlight piercing his eyes and coaxing a groan out of him the second he opened them. He rolled to the other side of his king-sized bed in an attempt to go back to sleep, but soon found that it was no use. He was awake and there wasn't much he could do about it. Being friends with literal rockstars who would drop by unannounced to party through the night was undeniably amazing, but also inevitably led to killer hangovers. And fun as it was, it left Keith having to deal with the aftermath in the morning. He could wait for the maid to clean it up, but she only dropped by every other day, which would mean living in this mess until she did. And so Keith dressed, skipped breakfast and then began the long process of trying to somehow make his house liveable again, all while being hungover. The trash bags of garbage quickly grew to impressive sizes, the amount of hand towels he had to use staggering. He was sweating by the time the process was nearing its end. 

Just like the day before, Keith jumped slightly hearing a commotion in his living room. Garbage still in hand, he quietly made his way there, intent on whacking any possible intruder with the heavy bag. Pressing himself to the wall next to the living room doorway, he waited to hear any other indication that someone was actually breaking in, already suspecting who it might be. 

A loud crash then came from the room, followed by a whispered "Ah, shit".

Already rolling his eyes, Keith dropped the garbage bag and entered his living room with heavy steps. "Lance, what the fuck are you doing here?" 

Like a deer in headlights, Lance froze where he was sitting on the floor and silently stared back at Keith for a moment. "Uh… trying to apologise for yesterday?"

"By breaking into my house again?" 

Smiling nervously, Lance then held up some sort of small plastic bag. "I brought cookies!"

Exhausted after a good hour of cleaning and general tidying up, Keith simply sighed heavily and let himself fall onto his couch. Despite there being an actual intruder in his house, he couldn't even muster up the energy to get angry. Additionally, whether he wanted to or not, Lance did invoke an odd feeling of nostalgia deep inside him, some sort of familiarity that made him want to trust him. 

"Hey, uh… I'm actually really sorry," Lance suddenly began, standing up and immediately shifting around awkwardly. "I honestly didn't mean to get some kinda scoop on you. I'm just a freelance college journalist anyway. No one would care even if I did write something sensational. They would just pass it off as me trying to bolster my own name."

Already half asleep on the couch, Keith watched the many emotions flashing across Lance's face. He shrugged, unable to really decide how he should feel about all this. "I haven't seen any headlines about what happened, so I guess I believe you." 

For a moment, Lance stood in the middle of the room, looking unsure about what to do. But then he suddenly dropped his bag to the floor again and shuffled through it, before pulling out a large blue book. "Just to prove I'm not a crazy person…" He flipped open the book, quickly sifting through the pages until he arrived at whatever he had been searching for, "I brought a yearbook."

Keith didn't even move when Lance suddenly held the book in front of his face. He simply narrowed his eyes as he struggled to get his sight to focus on the pages, headache quickly creeping back at the action. Eventually, he was able to get a look at the yearbook and found rows and rows of photos of elementary school children, none of which looked even remotely familiar to him. At least until he found his own face. And right next to it, Lance's, who was wearing a beyond goofy smile, one of his front teeth missing. "Huh," he mumbled in a mix of astonishment and resignation. "I guess you weren't lying."

"See!" Lance immediately exclaimed, pushing the yearbook even closer towards Keith. "I'm not a crazy stalker!"

Hearing Lance yelling like that, Keith's headache suddenly came back full force, making him groan in pain.

"You okay?" Lance asked, voice much quieter, instinctively coming closer to inspect Keith. "You look like shit."

And that just about eliminated Keith's theory that Lance belonged to the delusional, crazy in love stalker category. "Just hungover." 

Lance lingered for a moment, watching Keith silently. "You know, I make a pretty mean Bloody Mary. I always make some when I have a bad hangover."

"You want to feed me more alcohol?" Keith grumbled, sending a tired, annoyed look at the other.

"I mean… yeah? It's a pretty common hangover cure." Seeing the doubtful look on Keith's face, Lance shrugged. "I can just not add any vodka."

Somehow Keith managed to sink even further into his couch. His only response was a dismissive wave of his hand, skull still pounding with pain as he watched Lance run off. A moment later, he could hear him walking all over the place in search for the kitchen. Keith had the impulse to use this chance to sick security on the guy, but found himself unable to find Lance threatening enough to warrant that sort of action. Keith would stay cautious, for now, but so far Lance seemed harmless. And at the very least, his presence took his mind off of this pounding headache.

"Do you have any hot sauce?" he then heard Lance yell from the kitchen.

Rubbing over his aching eyes, Keith struggled to string together any coherent thought. "Fridge?" There was some shuffling and clinking, followed by a triumphant "Found it!", causing Keith to finally focus on what was happening. With some effort he opened his eyes and peered into the hallway leading to his kitchen, before sitting up and stretching slightly. Dizziness immediately swam through his head, muddling his thoughts and knocking him off balance. He nearly fell over and could only chuckle humourlessly at the way his stomach churned. 

Suddenly, Lance came rushing into the living room, a glass full of some sort of blood-red mystery concoction in hand. "Had to replace some ingredients you don't have, but it should taste pretty okay," he explained as he handed Keith the drink.

Eyeing the drink suspiciously, Keith didn't immediately take a sip. After all, he was still slightly suspicious of Lance. "So why are you here again?"

Suddenly annoyed, Lance immediately pouted. "I told you, I just…" A small sigh then left him as he crossed his arms. "I got chewed out for breaking into your house. Hunk ended up ranting at me all day afterwards. It's kinda messed up and stuff, so… sorry. I guess."

Entirely unimpressed by the apology, Keith hesitantly sniffed at the still untouched drink in his hand. "So you live with Hunk?"

Lance nodded, eyes wandering off to stare out of the floor length windows. "Neither of us can afford an apartment of our own. Our dorm rooms are kinda shitty, but at least the neighbourhood is decent, you know." Lance then finally seemed to notice Keith's hesitation in actually drinking. "If you're not drinking that, I'll drink it."

Seeing Lance already reaching for the drink, Keith instinctively pulled it out of his reach. "'S fine," he mumbled, before pointedly taking a small sip. Immediately, he could feel his throat soaking up the moisture like a dry sponge. The thick liquid smoothly trickled down his throat and, luckily, didn't seem to upset his stomach further in any way. "It's okay," he murmured, taking another sip.

Lance rolled his eyes, but didn't respond. He continued watching Keith drink silently, expression neutral. But before long, his attention ended up drawn to the many things scattered around Keith's living room. He seemed especially drawn to his cherry-red piano sitting at the other side of the room, eyes eventually wandering to the small collection of retro game cartridges stashed on a wall-mounted shelf.

Eventually, Keith reached the bottom of the glass. He would never tell Lance this, but he did genuinely feel better already. Something about the odd mix of tomato juice, hot sauce and horseradish made him feel refreshed and energised. He then made to set the empty glass down on his couch table, but somehow completely missed the edge. Already inwardly sighing, he waited for the inevitable sound of the glass shattering. In the exact moment Keith mentally gave up on the glass, Lance however, on some sort of instinct, reached out for it in an attempt to catch it. Somehow that made the sound of the glass shattering on the floor a lot more disconcerting. 

Along with the sharp sound of the glass breaking into hundreds of little pieces, Lance let out a quiet noise of pain, quickly retreating his hand. "Shit," he hissed.

Suddenly wide awake, Keith tensed up watching a distressed Lance trying to keep in the chain of expletives that wanted to fall from his mouth. "You're bleeding," he murmured, almost too quiet for the other to hear.

"Huh… wha–" Lance finally took a closer look at his palm, at last noticing the blood already pooling in his hand "Oh…" He clamped his other hand over the wound, looking desperate to stop his own blood from dripping down and tainting Keith's expensive-looking carpet. "Shit, sorry. You got any bandaids? I'll get out of your face once I patch myself up."

"Um…" Keith was at a loss for a moment, eyes locked on Lance's bloody hands. "Wait here," he mumbled, before hastily getting to his feet. In his hungover haze, he stumbled slightly on his way out and with all the adrenaline now rushing through his system, immediately forgot all about the nausea and exhaustion. Suddenly antsy, he made his way to his bathroom and tore open drawer after drawer, cupboard upon cupboard, before cheering to himself triumphantly when he finally found bandaids. Recalling just how much Lance had been bleeding, he ended up also picking up a pack of fresh bandages and a towel, before hastily making his way back to the living room. 

Meanwhile, Lance sat there, utterly shocked at the amount of things Keith was dumping in front of him. "Oh…" When Keith dunked the fluffy towel in a glass of water and then thrust it at him, he seemed hesitant to take it. "That looks like a really expensive towel. Wait, does that have your initials stitched in?"

"Just take it," Keith groaned, forcing the pristine white towel into the other's hands. He then watched a frown of concentration forming on Lance's face when he began cleaning the wound on his own hand with practiced movements. Lance seemed oddly skilled at dressing his own wound, swiftly covering it in a large bandaid after a while and loosely wrapping bandages around it to keep it in place. "Do you get hurt a lot?"

Taken aback by the question, almost as though he had forgotten Keith was even there, Lance didn't answer immediately. "Nah, I just have little nieces and nephews. When I still lived at home, I had to put cartoon bandaids on scrapes almost daily." In that moment, Lance tied off his bandages, snipped them, then eyed his own handiwork. He seemed satisfied, because he then stood up and made to leave. "Sorry about that. I promised I'd get out of your face, so I'm leaving. So… bye? I guess…"

At a loss for words, Keith watched him already heading to the window, a pit suddenly opening in his stomach. "Lance…"

Face neutral, Lance swirled back around to send a questioning look at the pop-star. "What's up?"

Keith wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to do, his mouth suddenly going off on its own. "Um… if you have time… do you wanna maybe hang out… for a bit? Or something?"

"Uh…" Lance was completely dumbfounded for a moment, eyes narrowing into a suspicious glare, before lightening up into something more friendly. "I mean… sure? Why not? I guess…" He then awkwardly made his way back to where Keith was still sitting on the couch and simply stood next to it. By the looks of it, he wasn't sure if he was even allowed to sit on the couch. Clearly, he was intimidated by anything that looked even remotely expensive.

"It's just a couch," Keith grumbled. "Sit."

"Yes, Sir," Lance immediately replied, stiffly sitting down next to Keith. It took him a moment, but eventually he relaxed enough to lean back and actually enjoy the softness of the cushions. He seemed to remember something all of a sudden, which made him pull out his phone and type out some kind of message. "Oh, right!" He then suddenly perked up and leaned down to rummage around in the bag he had brought along. A moment later, he fished out the little bag of cookies – it was tied up with a small black bow. "Hunk made these," he explained with a small smile. "Said I should bring them as an apology."

Still slightly dazed from being so hungover, Keith watched Lance open the bag and then let him place one of the golden-brown cookies in his hands. "I probably can't eat these," he then said, eyeing the cookie longingly. "I have a nut allergy."

"Oh, I know," Lance immediately dead-panned. "They're nut-free."

Hangover daze lifting again somewhat, Keith abruptly straightened up. "Wait, how do you know that?"

Biting into a cookie of his own, Lance stared back at Keith flatly. "Cause I'm allergic to nuts too and we used to fight over the last nut-free oatmeal cookies in kindergarten."

Eyes narrowing as he blankly stared into space, Keith tried recalling if such a thing had ever happened. But just as before, he came up with nothing.

"You don't remember," Lance sighed without looking at the other. He seemed to notice Keith shaking his head out of the corner of his eyes, because he then sighed again and let himself sink even further into the couch. "You're cruel, man."

"Sorry… I guess." Seeing how comfortable Lance was, Keith slowly leaned back as well. He found himself somewhat startled at how incredibly comfortable this couch was. Until now he had never actually just let himself lean into it like this, enough to really feel how soft and bouncy it was. 

After downing another two or so cookies, Lance suddenly sat up and eyed the living room again, finding the large garbage bags still sitting near the door. "Who did you even party with to warrant this much destruction?"

"Marmoras."

Lance went completely still at the answer, as though his brain had simply stopped working for a moment. "Wait, Marmoras as in the best band in the world The Marmoras?!"

Slightly stunned at the awe-struck reaction, Keith slowly sat up as well and was able to fully take in the sheer amazement in Lance's shimmering eyes. "I… guess, yeah."

"No way!" Shaking his head, Lance suddenly jumped up from the couch to tower over a still confused Keith. "I've been a fan of them since I was old enough to buy CDs!"

This was the first time Lance seemed to truly look at Keith as an actual celebrity. That it took being friends with his favourite band was slightly upsetting, but somehow it made Keith feel slightly elated nonetheless. "I used to be a huge fan of them too. Back in middle school."

Shoulders sagging slightly, Lance's expression fell and was replaced by confusion. "Used to?"

"Things like that change a little when you actually get to know the people behind it," Keith explained, gaze wandering off to the framed band posters hanging on his wall, many of them signed. "Now they're… guys I'm friends with who also make music I love."

Lance took in the words and slowly began nodding to himself, suddenly deep in thought. His train of thought was interrupted though by the sudden buzzing of Keith's phone.

"Oh, goddammit," Keith cursed under his breath, suddenly aggressively unlocking his phone and typing out a message to someone. "It's my social media manager. I still need to upload a fucking selfie."

Meanwhile, Lance watched as Keith, after a moment of looking down-right murderous, schooled his expression into something a lot more neutral, before quite nonchalantly taking a selfie. It was a bit of an odd sight, seeing how Keith really didn't seem like a huge social media guy. "Why do you use social media if you hate it so much?"

"I'd love to just delete all of it, but I'm contractually obligated to post at least three selfies and one video a week."

Lance's lips froze around the cookie in his hand as he blankly stared at Keith, trying to decipher whether his absolutely neutral expression was genuine or not. "You're joking, right?"

"I wish I was," Keith murmured moodily, already at work haphazardly cropping the photo and putting filters on it and whatnot. "Do you use anything?"

"Nah, not really." Lance shrugged, hand already reaching out to grab another cookie, but ultimately retreating when he remembered that they were supposed to be a gift for Keith. Resisting Hunk's creations was honestly torture. "My social media's pretty lowkey. I only really have work-related profiles. I'm usually too busy to constantly take pictures of stuff or think of something witty to tweet."

"Yeah, I tried arguing like that, but then they smacked me with this stupid contract." Keith continued fiddling with the photo, but generally seemed uninterested in truly making something out of it. "I honestly have no idea what kinda hellhole our legal team was pulled from." The words made Lance chuckle, prompting Keith to shoot him a surprised look, before a small smile began curling his lips as well.

To Lance it was the first time that he felt like he was truly connecting with Keith, like they were finally hanging out. Slowly, he was beginning to realise just how silly it had been of him to so blindly dislike Keith for so long. There was still so much he didn't understand about him, but at least when simply talking to him like this, he seemed like a totally regular person, someone Lance could imagine walking past on campus or sitting next to by chance during a lecture.

"How's your hand doing?" Keith suddenly asked, now downing a cookie as well.

Finally remembering the big gash in his palm, Lance lifted his hand and eyed it, carefully turning it around. "Now that you're asking… it kinda really hurts." Every little movement caused a stinging hot pain that shot through his entire forearm. Perhaps the wound was deeper than he had originally thought.

"Hold on." With that, Keith jumped from the couch on still slightly wobbly legs and rushed away.

Lance was left behind to awkwardly stare into the hallway Keith had disappeared into, giving him a chance to once again examine the room a bit further. Although it couldn't even be called a room, since it was closer to a whole loft in size. A large stairway lead up to another floor and from the creamy white ceiling hung a chandelier that was so bizarrely beautiful, Lance was sure it was some kind of expensive designer piece – the kind non-famous people would only ever get to see in photos on some fancy art blogging website.

"I have three different kinds of painkillers," Keith suddenly said, marching into the room with a look of utter concentration as he read the tiny text on the pill bottles in his hands. "I think two of these are prescription though, so…" Shrugging, he carelessly discarded two of the bottles on a table, then sat down next to Lance again. "Here."

Immediately apprehensive at the sight of the various pill bottles, it took a moment before Lance silently accepted the pills and the glass of water he was handed. He felt slightly odd having Keith watching him so intently as he swallowed one of the pills, causing him to look anywhere but the literal pop-star. The fact that Keith was so caring was a little surprising. 

"You know, I think I might remember you after all," Keith then mumbled thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. "Was that you who broke his leg jumping into a hot tub in tenth grade?"

Lance lapsed into a stunned silence, bewildered eyes staring into Keith's totally oblivious ones. Instantly, he forgot the deep unease over the painkillers that had settled in his gut. "How do you remember that, but not the almost endless amount of literal battles we've had over the dumbest shit? We were rivals for years!"

Keith stared back at the other silently for a moment, before shrugging and taking another bite of his cookie. "My memory's bad. Sorry."

There wasn't really much Lance could say to that. If Keith had a shit brain, was it really his fault? Yes, he decided. Yes it is. "Then you probably also conveniently forgot the time I destroyed you in basketball."

"You mean the one time you did," Keith immediately cut in with a developing frown.

Lance almost jumped off the couch at the words. "So you do remember me!"

"I didn't say that." Keith's quiet voice trailed off as he turned away to continue munching on his cookie.

Suspiciously narrowing his eyes at Keith, Lance decided right then and there that he would make Keith remember him. If that meant using force, then so be it. "Just you wait."

Keith turned around with curious eyes when he heard the quiet mumble. "Did you say something?"

"Just that your mullet looks worse up close." Lance had to suppress a chuckle at how quickly Keith's neutral expression morphed into an annoyed frown. "Do you even know that you started a fucking epidemic? Every time I step on campus these days I see at least one hipster with a greasy fucking mullet like it's some kind of retro fashion statement. And it's your fault."

"You're welcome."

Noting the cocky smirk hiding beneath that nonchalant mask, Lance fought down the irritation that wanted to surface on his face. "Trends die, dude. I'm giving you another year or so before people get really sick of mullets and demand you cut your hair."

"People have been demanding that since I debuted," Keith replied casually. "Nothing new." 

This was beginning to genuinely pique Lance's interest. The signature mullet was turning out to be another puzzle piece in the mysterious picture that was Keith. "And you still keep it?"

Shrugging yet again, Keith briefly stared off at some faraway point on his high ceiling, before meeting Lance's eyes again. "I don't see a reason to change it. If I change myself only because people tell me to, I'll probably feel like I'm losing myself."

Lance simply hummed sagely in return, his own gaze drifting off as well. He, in fact, had never seen Keith with a regular person haircut. His hair had always either been way too long and messy or in a mullet. A mullet was probably the closest he would ever get to a haircut. "I guess a mullet suits you," he eventually said, eyeing the charcoal locks curling around Keith's neck. "It's messy and sloppy."

"Then I guess you breaking into my house twice says a lot about what kind of journalist you wanna be."

A gasp left Lance at the words, hand coming up to his chest dramatically. "How dare you!"

"You started it." 

Begrudgingly deciding to drop it – because, for once, Keith was actually right – Lance huffily settled back into the couch and shoved another cookie in his mouth. But not without murmuring a muffled "dickhead" under his breath.

This felt familiar. Lance still remembered all the squabbles and arguments he had had with Keith. At least from the time before their worlds gradually grew further and further apart. In kindergarten, Lance had felt as though he knew everything about Keith and the other children in his group, but with each year and each graduation, Keith had grown more and more out of reach. Soon, Lance wasn't the only one getting into fights with Keith. It almost became a weekly spectacle, Keith brawling with someone over something or other. It was rare that he didn't have a bruise or cut from a fight somewhere on his body. Lance could see them in the changing room during P.E. classes and it made him hesitant to start anything with Keith, but certainly did not stop him. At least until he saw the genuine hate and anger in Keith's eyes. Feeling that kind of burning, relentless thing directed at him had made Lance subconsciously back off on his own, made him only watch Keith from a distance. In hindsight, he knew he probably could have approached Keith differently, but even now he had no idea how to even talk to him without insulting him. 

"You wanna play a game?" Keith suddenly asked, snapping Lance out of his thoughts. "If your hand's okay, I mean."

A little stunned, Lance stared at Keith for a moment, suddenly remembering where he was. "Uh… sure? I think I can play something simple. Didn't you used to hate video games?"

Keith was already getting off the couch and approaching his shelf of retro games. On his way, he shrugged, back turned to Lance as he answered. "The only reason I didn't like them was because I couldn't have them. I never had money for them and no one ever bought me any."

"Oh…" Lance simply mumbled, unsure how to reply. With any other person, he would have said something to express pity or sympathy, but Keith didn't seem like he would respond positively to something like that. And so Lance simply stayed silent and watched Keith going through his collection, taking his time picking a game. Now that he had time to actually look at the quite elaborate shelf, Lance noticed something about the collection of games. He was no video game expert, but he knew enough to at least be able to tell the rough time period of a game. Although some of the games were quite old, from a time before either him or Keith had even been born, a huge chunk of them were from a time when Lance and Keith had been children. 

Keith finally reached for a game that looked old, but not downright ancient. It seemed vaguely familiar, like something Lance may have played at a friend's house in elementary school before. While Keith put the game into a console below the TV, Lance simply watched him moving around. Even off stage Keith had a certain allure to him. Lance knew no other way to describe the way he moved other than that it was efficient and mesmerising. Keith was the opposite of clumsy. Every shift of his limbs and tilt of his weight was deliberate, no energy spent on unnecessary movement. It made him seem light yet powerful. Like you could throw him into a fight with a guy three times his size and he would still knock him on his ass in mere seconds. Something about that thought caused Lance's gut to feel oddly heavy. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.

When Keith finally returned, he dropped onto the couch right next to Lance and handed him a second controller. "What're we playing?" Lance asked him, slightly distracted having Keith suddenly so close to him again. 

"You'll see."

Pouting to himself at the dismissive and vague answer, Lance sent a little sideways glare at Keith. He expected him to have picked out some kind of fighting or racing game, something where they would compete, with one ultimately throwing his controller in frustration. But to his surprise, the game turned out to be some kind of shoot 'em up with spaceships where they both had to work together to take down enemy ships. A lot of it was Keith telling a clueless Lance what to do, until he got a hang of the game and was able to somewhat keep up with Keith and not die every other second. 

Once Lance felt more comfortable with the game, he immediately began bantering with Keith again, who was not at all shy in rising to his every taunt and tease. In time their interactions became more and more fun for Lance, who absolutely revelled in riling Keith up to a point where he would mess up in the game and die. Each time, Lance couldn't help but relentlessly gloat about it, only to die as well soon after. Quite some time passed like that, enough that the sun began going down, dipping the room in a soft, warm light. Soon, Lance began noticing Keith's movements becoming sluggish, his ship in the game being destroyed by enemy ships more and more. Glancing sideways, Lance sometimes caught his head dropping slowly, before snapping up again. The dark bags under his eyes were suddenly incredibly apparent. 

"Tired?" Lance asked him, not taking his eyes off the game and for once not teasing Keith when he died yet again.

"Hmmnh…" was all Keith replied, too out of it at this point to even realise he had died again. He was beginning to sway a little from side to side, looking just about ready to drop and sleep right then and there.

Smiling to himself, Lance silently turned the game off and got off the couch. He saw Keith looking up at him quizzically, eyes bloodshot and blinking incessantly, his eyebrows set in a tired frown. "Come on," Lance simply mumbled, nudging Keith a little and motioning for him to lie down, which he eventually did. The second he was lying flat on the couch, he seemed to immediately fall asleep. Looking around the room, Lance eventually found a thin blanket that he was somewhat haphazardly threw over Keith. Now at a bit of a loss for what to do, Lance listlessly stood in the middle of the room. He couldn't just leave without a word, but he also couldn't stay any longer – he already felt awkward and creepy for literally watching Keith sleep. And so he decided to simply leave a note, which kicked off his long search for a pen and some paper. It took a lot of rummaging through drawers and shelves until he finally found what he needed and was able to write out a quick message explaining why he was leaving. On a bit of a whim, he also added his phone number. Even if nothing came out of it, he would probably feel odd just up and disappearing without any means to contact him. He had handed over his number to people for far less than playing video games with them for an entire afternoon after all.

He left the note on the small table near where Keith was sleeping soundly. For a split second, Lance had the impulse to touch Keith's hair. It looked incredibly messy and downright unkempt, but something about it made him want to brush his fingers through it. Just a little. Shaking his head at the thought, Lance then made his way back to the window he had come through. He wasn't entirely sure what would happen if he tried breaking out of the house, but figured he had to leave one way or another. He only hoped Keith didn't have a guard dog.