Writing The Tides

Cheiloproclitic (adj.)

One hand on the doorknob, and the other clenching into itself, Keith knew better than to turn around.

But he did anyways.

"I said, where the fuck do you think you're going?"

"Why, do you care, Nyma?" Keith stated, stressing out every syllable.

"So you think you can make out with my boyfriend and walk off? Your little crush is pretty obvious, and don't think that I'm just gonna watch you pine for him. You're a writer aren't you? Lance said you were, so write this down: Lance, will never like you back. Understood?" Her face was twisted into a scowl, her eyes fixated onto Keith like prey.

"Don't worry, I know I'm not his type. He seems to only be interested in fake, abusive, twats." Keith scolded, watching her flame up in unadulterated anger.

"Why, you-"

"And another thing," Keith stepped closer, looking her dead in the eye, "You don't deserve him."

He didn't wait for her reaction before storming off, slamming the door behind him.

As he walked through the silent street, the moonlight his only accomplice, he had two things on his mind.

The taste of caramel and a ride home.

///

'What the fuck just happened...'

Lance had been hiding out in the bathroom for at least 10 minutes now, and had no plan of ever coming out.

Immersing himself with water, he tried to focus, but found it immensely difficult to even begin to think straight. He watched himself in the mirror, his hair soaking and curling up, he pushed it back and let his fingers rest on his neck. What in the world was he gonna do now?

Lance believed he loved Nyma. They'd been dating for almost a year now, and he was in such a bad place before. He hadn't always been in the best relationships....He didn't wanna deal with another heartbreak, he didn't think he could handle it.

But his heart wasn't very good at handling anything; especially this, whatever the fuck this was.

Lance liked Keith.

But was it like that?

Their kiss couldn't have lasted for more than thirty seconds. Lance couldn't even recall if Keith kissed back, all he could remember was the cheering and the shouting and the peer pressure nesting in his mind.

And the feel of long hair through his fingers.

And rough hands gently tracing him.

And the taste of strawberry.

He groaned. Why did life have to be so shitty?

Keith was a good guy. Pain in the ass sometimes? Hell yeah. Difficult to get along with? Definitely. But he was a good guy. Lance cared about him, and he'd like to think that maybe, under that horrible hairdo, Keith cared about Lance too.

And, despite denial, Lance did think he was cute. Especially when he got mad, or put his hair up, or did that lopsided smile of his, or laughed....

Anyways. Lance's heart was completely torn. He couldn't see himself without Nyma, but would he have to never see Keith again?

He choked. Never seeing Keith again would be...

Lance gulped.

He needed beer.

///

Keith could not, for the life of him, remember the word he needed.

He finally got home, after calling Matt to pick him up and making him swear on his life he wouldn't tell Shiro. Thankfully, he wasn't home when Keith got there, even though being lectured about staying out too late would've certainly been the icing to this shit cake. Instead, he sat in front of his laptop, trying to form coherent sentences and some how bullshit it into a storyline.

He was only a paragraph into his final. And at this point, he was just trying to get it done. So he could finally stop worrying about his assignments, drop out of swimming classes for good, and never have to see Lance Asshat McClain for the rest of his life.

"I'll just move to Sweden, yes that'll work...." Keith opened a new tab, ready to book the next flight to Boden when Shiro's voice called out from the doorway.

"Keith! You have a, erm, guest..."

'What?...I have only two friends who could it possibly be...' Keith walked out of his room, gawking when his eyes found the boy by Shiro's side.

"Hey mullet..."

///

Three beers later and Lance's conscious was swamped with black haired boys.

More specifically, a black haired boy.

He kept tracing his own lips, trying to mask the berry taste with no prevail.

Maybe if he just talked to him...

"Where is he anyways?" Lance thought aloud, getting up to search for his missing friend when he found Nyma crying beside the kitchen.

"Oh no, babe what's wrong?!" Lance stumbled over to her, when she looked him up and down in disapproval.

"Wouldn't you know? Your stupid friend of yours lashed out on me and left, called me a slut..." she blew into a handkerchief, muffling her loud sobs.

"Keith?" Lance's brows furrowed.

"Who the fuck else? It's not like you have any other friends." she rolled her eyes.

"Nyma, that- that doesn't sound like Keith."

Her eyes widened, "Do you think I'm lying?"

"What, I didn't say-"

"Well maybe you don't have to say anything. In fact, why don't you go after him instead, I'm tired of your shit." storming off, she left a teary-eyed Lance and a trail of deceit behind her.

Lance needed to scream. To run, something to get him away from this horror show.

His legs only allowed him so far, collapsing beside the nearest beer keg, and letting his hands do the rest.

Swallowing the sharp drink, he let his body lead him to nowhere in particular, eventually falling on some random front yard.

His eyes gazed over the stars, counting them before lulling into sleep.

He dreamt of girls with dreadlocks, the taste of strawberry, and a boy with the words to change the world.

He woke up to a metal arm hoisting him into the back of a car.