Sunday, December 18th
1:06 A.M.
"Move your ass over."
Keith grunted into his pillow. "No."
Lance made a deep, overly dramatic noise at the back of his throat. "Why can't you be nice to me?"
"Because." Keith spoke blankly. "You're taking up the entire bed."
"Um, no I'm not, I'm the one who just asked you to move over."
Keith moved farther away from Lance's side of the mattress, hoping that the two extra centimeters would satisfy him. At this rate he'd fall into the space between the bed and the wall. Keith could already foresee what an awful experience that would be.
"Is that better?"
He could hear the disappointment in Lance's voice. "Not really."
Keith couldn't take this. It was hot, he was sleeping on a tiny twin mattress, and his unfortunate bed mate was Lance Sanchez, the notorious bed hog. He missed the basement couch. Missed it.
In a spur of annoyance, Keith thrashed out of his crushed position against the wall and crawled over Lance's body to reach the nightstand. Lance complained the whole time, and Keith whacked at his protesting arms.
Once Keith flipped the lamp's switch bright light flooded the room. It was an eerie sort of light, making strange shadows on the wall from any sudden movement. Keith slid off the bed and limped to the closet, sweat sticking to his skin.
"What are you doing?"
Keith reached into the closet half blind, searching for any other leftover blankets and sheets. "What does it look like? I'm making a bed on the floor."
"Why?"
The glare on Keith's face should've said enough, but Lance is stupid, and sometimes he doesn't understand body language.
"Because you're the worst bed hog I have ever come into contact with." Keith began to unfold the few blankets he'd found onto the floor. "And it's fucking hot."
Lance gave a sheepish frown. "Ah, sorry. My room is the hottest in the house."
"Yeah," Keith mumbled. "No shit."
Keith lay a few more blankets onto the floor before snatching a pillow from the bed. He was grumpy, Lance could possibly tell, and it didn't help that the time was past one in the morning. After a few more adjustments to his bed and shutting off the lamp, Keith finally flopped down onto his back and glared up at the ceiling.
Stars. There were glow stars stuck to Lance's ceiling.
Maybe it was his exhaustion, maybe it was the heat. Keith wasn't sure, but something about the glow-in-the-dark stars made his heart feel hollow. He'd never had stars like those as a kid, never had a permanent place to put them. Lance? Lance had lived in this house since he was a child. Lance had a place to put his stars. Right there, up on the ceiling that glowed above him.
Keith tried to close his eyes so he didn't have to look at the stupid things, and for a moment he thought sleep might just take him.
"I can't sleep."
Keith was ready to fucking kill this kid.
He let his eyes open a crack to peer in Lance's direction. Lance had turned the lamp on again.
"What."
He forced the simple word through gritted teeth, and he hoped maybe Lance would get the message that he was tired. Tired, as in wanting sleep, as in wanting silence. And for him to turn the damn light off.
Lance sat upright. "I can't sleep, alright?"
"Can't you just close your eyes? What's the issue-" Keith halted, watching from a fairly pleasing angle as Lance began stripping off his old t-shirt. The lack of clothing revealed brown skin freckled with moles, and shadows from the lamp danced off his shoulder blades.
Keith gulped. "W-What are you doing?"
"Taking my shirt off?" Lance spoke like this was obvious. "I'm hot, I can't sleep with it on."
Lance tossed the shirt towards the laundry basket in the corner, missing entirely. He was completely oblivious to Keith's eyes on him, not finding the willpower to rip his eyes away. It was, in some ways, just as Keith expected. Keith knew what shirtless men looked like, he wasn't a virgin. And he could use his imagination, he was smart enough to guess what Lance looked like bare. Yet, looking at Lance like this for the first time still managed to surprise him. It was just so entirely Lance . The skin was unique to him and him alone, the tiny mole near the seam of his pants, the small dimples on his lower back, the faded blemish under his hairline. Yet, the one thing that struck Keith's attention the most was the large scar that ran across his abdomen. It wasn't a pretty sight, stitched up and pink, like there had been an incision in his belly.
"Do you mind me asking you a personal question?" Keith whispered, his lack of sleep forgotten.
"Depends on what you're asking." Lance moved to lay on his side and prop his head up with an elbow. At this angle Keith could observe the scar even more, and he noticed it draped over his left side. It looked so out of place on Lance's skin, contrasting the rest of his skinny torso.
"How did you, um," Keith bit his lip, debating if asking the question was worth it. "How did you get that scar?"
Lance's face paled, a gulp of air rolling visibly down his throat. "It's, um," He stuttered, fumbling up his words. "It's sort of, ah-" It was evident he didn't want to answer, or even knew how in the first place. "It's sort of personal."
Keith watch Lance subconsciously reach to cover the scar with his hand, as if he was self conscious it even existed. Keith couldn't help but let theories flood his mind. What was it? Why was it there? Why was Lance so self conscious about it? Was this something Lance had been hiding?
Keith pierced his lips in deep thought. "Alright," He muttered quietly. It was obvious Keith still desperately wanted an answer. Keith wasn't good with patience, especially when it came to Lance Sanchez.
Lance switched the lamp off again, enveloping the room into total darkness. Even though he couldn't see anything but the ceiling's glow stars, Keith let his eyes stay open. The two boys were silent, no noise except for the occasional ruffles of movement from the bed.
Deep thoughts plagued Keith's tired mind. This is what Keith did at night when he wasn't sleeping. Keith would think and wonder, making mental checklists, cringing at old memories, indulging in his fantasies, and dwell on his insecurities. Laying on the hardwood floor, staring up at glow stars, it all just added to his existential thoughts.
"We should play a game."
Keith wanted to smack his head on something. Wasn't Lance asleep? He'd been so sure the kid had zonked out. The silence had lasted so long, even Keith had begun to let his eyes drift closed.
"It's one a.m., Lance. Just go to sleep."
A small, tired yawn radiated from the blackness. It was cute, if you considered twenty year old man yawns to be cute "But I can't."
"You just yawned," Keith pointed out, talking to the dark room. "That means you're tired."
It was like talking to a restless toddler. Lance was so vastly against sleeping when he was so obviously drained. Keith could hear more blanket ruffling, Lance moving around in the bed to find a comfortable position.
"Jesus Christ-" Keith grumbled, twisting in the makeshift bed. "Fine. We'll play a game. What do you wanna play?"
"I don't know," Lance mumbled into the darkness. "You choose."
"You're the one who wanted to play a game! You choose."
Lance paused for a moment, running different games through his head. "Well," He began, squirming a bit more beneath the blanket. "There's, uh-"
"There's nothing we can play. It's too dark and I am not leaving my bed."
Silence.
"How about twenty questions?"
Keith was prepared to refuse, until he realized that Lance's suggestion didn't sound half bad. It was dumb, definitely dumb. Twenty questions was a game you played on the first date, not between two boys who were fake dating. Obviously.
Still, it didn't require any movement, and it wasn't the lamest thing Lance had thought of. It was just questions, and answers, and getting to know each other. So he indulged.
"Alright," Keith agreed. "You go first."
"What is…" Lance trailed off into thought, searching for a question. "What is a nasty habit you have that no one is allowed to know about?"
Keith spoke without missing a beat. "Masturbation."
Lance screeched like he'd touched a dead animal, now whacking Keith with his pillow. "Keith! You can't just say stuff like that!"
"It was funny!" Keith giggled, his laughter dying down. "But yeah, that's my legit answer."
"So," Lance whispered. "You admit that you masturbate?"
Alright, so maybe Keith should've thought his answer through before mentioning masurbation. Keith figured he could talk about that stuff with Lance, that's just what guys sometimes did. Plus, they were buddies now. Buddies. Bros. Pals. Friends. Roommates. Fake Boyfriends. Fake Boyfriends?
Oh my god , Keith thought. I just told my fake boyfriend that I masturbate.
Keith swallowed, realizing there was no backing out now. "Y-Yeah. I do."
"Okay. Nice. Same."
Keith wanted to bang his head against the rock hard floor. He wanted to do it repeatedly.
"Way to make it weird, Sanchez."
"You're the one who brought it up! I was just rolling with it!"
Keith rubbed at his temples, letting a soft, exasperated moan escape his lips. It was universal knowledge that people maturbated, and within this knowledge, there was a code to follow. And what did the code say? Never talk about masturbation unless you're with a bro. Or a lover.
And what was Lance? A bro? A lover? God, Keith feared for the day he realized which one Lance fell under.
"Alright, I'm asking the next one." Keith then muttered the first question that came to his mind. "If you could have sex with anyone in the world, who would you bang?"
Lance snorted. "Oh, that one's easy. Harrison Ford."
Keith yelped in surprise, immediately clamping a hand over his mouth when he forgot that there were people sleeping in the next room. "Lance!" He loudly whispered, remembering to be quieter. "He is seventy fucking years old!"
A giggle could be heard from Lance's direction. "No, not old Harrison Ford, I'm talking the young, Indiana Jones type of Harrison Ford."
"Oh," Keith replied, nodding at the ceiling like he understood. "Well, in that case, I would too."
"I'd probably bang Carrie Fisher too. And Mark Hamill."
"Just have a good ol' Star Wars Orgy." "It's not gay if it's a three way!"
"There would be four of you, Lance."
The two of them giggled at that, so much that Keith had to shush Lance so they didn't wake anyone. It was sort of fun, talking to each other while looking at nothing, sound as their one and only source of communication.
After a bit the two calmed down, and Keith could hear Lance roll onto his side. Keith wondered if Lance was looking at him. Even if he couldn't see, Keith swore Lance's eyes were boring into his skull.
"Okay, serious question," Lance began, his voice now quieter.
"Yeah?"
Lance scooted a bit more towards the edge of the bed. "What are you most afraid of?"
That immediately hit a nerve. Air hitched in Keith's chest, and he felt his stomach tie itself into knots. That was the type of question Keith tended to avoid, avoid like the motherfucking plague. Keith had a lot of insecurities, a lot of problems, a lot of emotions, and he knew that. Keith was not new to feelings. He could remember the nights in his room, high school calculus textbooks at the end of his bed, piles of laundry left unattended on the floor. He could remember crying into his pillow, rubbing at his eyes from the tears because there was just so much. So much unresolved conflict in Keith's head, so much that he dealt with in highschool. He remembered realizing he was gay and having no one to come out to. He remembered trying out for the baseball team and being denied. He remembered being bullied for having sex with the team's head pitcher, the same boy who gave him a concussion from just one punch. He remembered moving from school to school, home to home, never having a permanent family. Never having anyone.
Keith didn't talk about this type of stuff with people. He didn't, he never did. Keith was a private person, and his emotions and feelings were intended to stay a secret between him and himself alone.
So why did every fiber of his being scream to confide in Lance? Why did this feel right?
"Um," Keith started, feeling the knots within him grow even tighter. "It's sort of.."
"If you tell me what you're scared of, I'll tell you how I got my scar."
That caught Keith's attention.
Maybe Lance would keep his secret. Maybe he actually could talk to Lance about this sort of thing. Maybe Lance and him could become better friends through this. Maybe this was a good idea, maybe he truly did need to get his feelings out. Maybe…
Keith bit his lip and made a decision.
"I'm afraid of love."
Oh god. Why had he said it?
Keith hadn't realized he was holding his breath until Lance spoke.
"Oh," Lance answered, his voice lower than a whisper. "Why?"
The truth? Keith wasn't sure why.
He'd gone through it several times in his head, and every time he thought about it, the more stupid his fear became. Being afraid of love? That wasn't normal. Everyone had love, and to be afraid of it was to be selfish. Keith's fear had led him to many disastrous relationships, many emotionally damaging nights, many one night stands.
"I'm-" Keith stuttered. "I'm not sure why."
It was quiet again, that awkward silence between the two of them that lasted only moments.
Then Lance spoke, and his voice was the kindest he'd ever heard it. Keith wasn't even sure Lance had the capability to sound so contained, to sound so compassionate.
"I don't think you're afraid of love. I think you don't understand it."
Keith wasn't sure how to respond to that, and he wasn't even sure if he should. Lance was right on the money there, like he had read Keith's mind.
Lance continued. "Shiro told me you've never had a permanent family before."
Keith nodded slowly, and when he realized Lance couldn't see him, he spoke. "Er, yeah. I was born in Korea and brought to America as an infant." Keith felt his breath hitch.
"And you were in the foster care system until you were eighteen?"
"Yeah."
God, this had took a depressing turn. Keith wanted to make a joke, and he wanted to make it now . Except, something inside him pushed against that idea. First of all, making jokes to cover up his insecurities just wasn't Keith's style. That was Lance's thing; yet here Lance was, actually indulging in a truly mature conversation.
"So." Lance continued, mumbling as if the situation were a puzzle, and it was his job to solve it. "You don't understand love. I wonder...I wonder if it's because you've never been loved."
Damn , Keith thought. Who knew Lance could be so smart?
Keith felt his bottom lip rub underneath his teeth absentmindedly, a habit he'd picked up when he was anxious. Keith wasn't sure what he was feeling inside, but a part of him wanted to talk about it. To let it out, to release the pressure. Keith had only been at the Sanchez household for a few days, and already he had things to say.
Keith dug his nails into the inside of his palms.
"You have the most loving family in the entire goddamn world."
There. He said it.
Lance sat up in his bed immediately, and suddenly the light was on, shadows on both their faces.
His eyebrows were furrowed in that signature Lance look, though they were more concerned than anything. Lance wasn't known one to be concerned, especially for Keith Gyeong. Yet the way Lance's eyes flickered across Keith's face made him feel fuzzy, like Lance cared. Actually, truly cared, like he wanted to wrap him up into a hug and never let go.
"We may be loving," Lance whispered almost silently. "But we aren't always like that."
Keith sat up as well, clutching the light blue blanket to his chest. His eyebrows were raised in question, and he stared at Lance, expecting an answer.
For a moment they just stared at each other, and Keith wasn't sure if Lance was going to talk or burn his face with heat vision. And when Lance spoke, Keith feared that he'd start to cry. Genuinely cry, his eyes were ringed with red and he kept biting his lip to force away emotion.
"Every family is different, Keith. Society says that in order for you to have a healthy family, it needs to be perfect. No fighting. No hatred, no anger, just a clean house and a nice car." He swallowed. "Being in a family isn't like that. Being in a family sucks. And sometimes? Being in a family is the best thing in the world. But the reality? Every family has issues."
Keith didn't want to pry, but the question slipped out anyway.
"What...what issues do you guys have, if you don't mind me asking?"
Lance sucked in a loud breath. Had Keith pried too far? Had he pushed Lance over the edge? Keith was beginning to regret that last sentence, and just as he was about to take it back, Lance spoke.
"Sophia got pregnant when she was seventeen. Sophia doesn't talk to us anymore. Sophia hates me and won't let her parents see their own six year old granddaughter. My parents have a bisexual son, and sometimes they fight because their son is a twink, because he likes men, because he likes women too, because he won't make up his goddamn mind between one or the other. Because they have different views, because they don't know how to accept me without hurting me. And-"
Lance had talked so quickly, lips moving so fast that he took no breath. Keith realized that he was naming off issues, problems. Keith barely had enough time to process it all. But the last thing Lance said? Keith had never, never , been prepared for.
"And Benji? Benji had cancer when he was thirteen. Acute myeloid leukemia. That was the biggest thing, the most stressful, because it was no one's fault and we couldn't even blame anyone. It was just God, or science, or some stupid asshole in the sky. And it almost ripped us apart. He almost died, Keith. He almost died. "
"Wait-" Keith gulped down this strange, new, painful information. "He what?"
Lance finally looked down, as if trying too hard to keep a straight face had finally taken it's toll. He wasn't crying, just holding back tears. Knuckles clutched at his blanket, the skin turning white from lack of oxygen.
"Benji had leukemia. It spread to his kidney after a year of chemo, and he needed a transplant. We-" Lance swallowed."We were lucky."
"Why?"
Lance pointed to the scar that ripped across his flesh.
Oh.
Oh.
Keith immediately put all the factors together. Benji was so skinny, no muscle and so sickly that he looked younger than his age of sixteen. This was the reason Lance and Benji were so close, the reason Lance looked at Benji and was so proud. The reason Benji looked at Lance and saw the world.
And this? This was the reason Lance always let Benji win their wrestling matches. Because Benji had been so close to death. And Lance would let his little brother win a thousand wrestling matches against him, just to guarantee that he'd be there in the morning when he woke up.
Lance had been Benji's donor.
Keith wasn't sure how to respond after that. The two of them just sat there, silent, on their respective beds, warm shadows flickering under their tired eyes. Neither moved, and Keith feared that even breathing too hard would cause a shift in the balance.
"I was only seventeen. I was supposed to worry about college, and finals, and friends, and being a stupid teenager in high school. Not whether my baby brother was gonna live another year."
There was obviously much more hidden inside Lance's mind, that much was certain. Keith wasn't going to push it, he wasn't going to ask much more of Lance. He was to give him time, let him reveal more memories and emotions as he pleased. But Keith knew a sad face when he saw one; he saw it in the mirror everyday.
"I was the only one in the family qualified enough to be a match." Lance confessed, tears finally falling from his eyes. "It's sort of funny how that worked out. Benji and I were always so close," He chuckled. "Still are. I guess, I guess I thought that giving him my kidney would help in some way. So that if he did die, I could go on knowing I tried."
God. This night had started out so differently. Dancing in a kitchen, listening to Abba, playing twenty questions, and now? Now Lance was crying, Keith had found out every Sanchez secret there was to know, and Lance knew the truth about Keith's fear.
What a roller coaster this was. And it hadn't even been 24 hours since their drive in that stupid beige car, listening to Lance's ridiculous Kesha.
Keith wasn't sure how to comfort Lance. He wasn't always the best at that sort of thing, he'd never had many friends to comfort. Keith's first memory of ever being this close with someone had been freshman year of high school. Zoe, one of his only childhood friends whose father left the family, had cried into his shoulder often. She was so funny, green eyes, ridiculously curly hair, a little chubby, freckles that were on every inch of skin ever. He remembered watching Star Wars with her in his bedroom under the sheets. She'd kissed him during a school football game, and he'd ran away. Then he moved to Nevada to live with another family, and he never saw her again.
Sitting there, looking up at Lance cry, it reminded Keith of Zoe. He'd cared for her so much, and the moment she showed him her true self, he ran away. He couldn't make that mistake this time, Lance was too important. Even if he hated his guts, even if Lance made his skin crawl and his blood boil, even if sometimes Lance said the stupidest things that made Keith want to whack him with a baseball bat . Even then, even with all the frustration he held for Lance, he needed to show he cared.
Keith still had no idea how to do that. So he said the first thing that came to his mind.
"Can I touch your scar?"
Lance's blue eyes locked on Keith's own, and for a moment there was a silent conversation. Keith feared that asking such an intimate question would push Lance away. He'd fucked up, most definitely. God, Keith, you're an idiot.
Then, in only the slightest of movements, Lance moved the blanket so that his scar was bare. It was like a silent invitation, and Keith realized that this was Lance giving him permission.
Keith hardly broke eye contact with Lance, even when he crawled onto the bed and lounged on his knees. They situated their positions, moving so that their knees barely touched and their bodies faced together. It was so quiet, so strangely intimate in a way that Keith had never experienced.
When Keith reached out his hand, he barely even moved. At first he went slow, fingers slightly shaking, and it was obvious he was scared. Scared of what? Not even Keith really knew. He was just hesitating.
Then, as if ripping off a bandaid, Lance gripped Keith's hand and placed it gently on the scar. Warmth laced itself against Keith's fingertips, and his thumb trailed lightly over stitches in the skin. It was rough and course, yet smooth at the same time, and the sensation was foreign. Keith let his finger trace the scar line, following the narrow mark like it was a road leading to nowhere.
"Alright," Lance whispered after a moment, reaching for Keith's hand. "I think that's enough." His hand was shaking, and Keith realized he was scared. Ever so gently, Keith grabbed his hand and held it tight.
"Hey," Keith whispered, holding Lance's palm to his chest. "It's alright." He let his mouth tilt into a crooked smile, though it was small. Lance nodded, and he wiped at his eyes.
"Life fucking sucks," He muttered, not letting go of Keith's hand.
"Agreed," He whispered. "My life sucks, your life sucks, I'm pretty sure even Beyonce's life sucks sometimes too."
Lance giggled. "I highly doubt that. Beyonce is a fucking goddess . She probably lives in the sky on a big ass cloud with wings and a crown."
Alright, so Lance was back.
"Um, no, that is not realistic." Keith crawled over to the side of Lance, slipping his feet underneath the blanket. "And anyway, if Beyonce was gonna live anywhere, it would be in a castle of gold."
"That's ridiculous! Cloud."
"Castle of gold."
"Cloud!"
"Castle of gold !"
Lance shoved at Keith lightly, and the two of them giggled like children. Keith stretched out in the bed and lay his head down on Lance's pillow.
"Hey-" Lance bellowed, looking down at Keith from his sitting position. "I thought you were sleeping on the floor?"
"Uhm? No? Why in the world would I do that?"
Lance raised an eyebrow. "I thought I was, and I quote, 'the worst bed hog I have ever come into contact with'."
"I did not say that."
Lance snorted. "Yes you did!"
Keith closed his eyes and snuggled up against the pillow, wearing a smug grin. "Nope, don't remember. I'm going to sleep. Goodnight."
" Oh my gooooddd-"
Fake snoring sounds erupted from Keith's nose and throat, and the childish groans only halted when Lance yanked the pillow from beneath Keith's head. Keith launched into a sitting position and scowled, raking his palms at the pillow.
"This is mine , idiot."
Keith reached for the pillow and almost fell off the bed, instead landing atop Lance's legs. Lance's long arms were too much of a match for Keith's short ones, and Keith rolled over to stare up at the thief.
"Why can't you be nice to me?"
"Because," Lance answered, pushing Keith off his legs and onto the other side of the bed. "You're a dork, and I am dork repellant."
Keith sat up and huffed, folding his arms over his chest and pouting like a toddler. "We just had a bonding moment! We soul searched and shit!"
"So?"
"So be nice and give me the pillow!"
Lance moved the pillow behind his head and yawned loudly, the sound escaping his open mouth. Keith tried not to stare too hard at Lance's chest when he stretched into the yawn, or at the skin that peaked over the rim of his pajama shorts.
"The bonding moment is in the past, and I don't look to the past."
"You sir, are an asshole."
Keith crawled over to the floor to grab his own pillow. While leaning over Lance's legs to reach off the bed, he could've sworn Lance was staring at the length of skin poking out from beneath his shirt.
After a few moments of bickering, giggling, and a couple subtle glances (they really weren't the most subtle), Lance finally turned off the lamp and the two boys settled down into their bed.
Keith turned on his back to look up at the glow stars, Lance resting up against his arm.
You need to sleep, Keith urged himself. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
Except, after that roller coaster of a night, how could he? Everything ran through his mind, flooding him, suffocating him. He just couldn't do it, and he continued to think and ponder. There was so much more he needed to tell Lance. The kid had just poured out his soul to him, and yet here Keith was, keeping even more inside.
Later. He'd tell him later.
Keith listened to the subtle shift in Lance's breathing, and for a moment he was convinced he'd fallen asleep.
He was proved wrong with three little words, mumbled into the fabric of his pillow, as if spoken in a half conscious slumber.
"Count the stars…" Lance muttered, his eyes sealed closed and his body limp on the bed. Then he was out, truly out, soft snores rumbling in his throat.
Count the stars?
Keith looked to the only stars in the room; the plastic stickers that were glued to the ceiling. Keith wondered if Lance's last moment of advice would really work, if counting the stickers could truly get him to sleep. Images of a small Lance, only about six years old, entered Keith's mind. He wondered if Lance too had counted these exact stars, lying on the top bunk of his old bed. Maybe wrapped in a star wars comforter, a teddy bear tucked underneath his arm. If a young Lance could count the stars, then so could Keith.
One.
Two.
Three.
After a total of fourteen stars, Keith was out.