Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lance has a problem.

And no, it’s not the usual stuff—like running late for his 8 a.m. class or forgetting to submit his psych homework until the literal minute it’s due. No, this problem is deeper. Sharper. A dull ache he carries with him in the pit of his stomach every damn day.

The problem has a name.

Keith.

Keith Kogane.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a narrow waist and that lean kind of muscle you only get from years of martial arts and a metabolism that never quits. His skin is pale, always a little flushed like he’s just come in from the cold. His mullet shouldn’t work, but somehow it does—wild and messy, like the rest of him. His eyes are dark and serious, so intense it feels like they can slice right through Lance if they linger too long.

Which they never do.

Because Lance isn’t the one Keith looks at like that.

He used to think the way his stomach flipped whenever Keith walked into a room was just a passing crush. A silly thing, a flicker. But then that flicker became a flame. Then an inferno. Now, it's just smoke choking him every time he sees Keith walking down the hallway, his silver piercings catching the light, tattoos slipping out from under the sleeves of his black hoodie.

Lance noticed him from day one.

Hell, anyone with eyes noticed Keith.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem is that other people started to notice, too. That Keith, who used to avoid eye contact and skip out on group projects, suddenly had a boyfriend.

A boyfriend.

It was like a punch to the chest the first time Lance saw them together—Keith with his hands casually tucked into the back pockets of someone else’s jeans. And that someone else? Of course, he had to be pretty. The kind of pretty that’s quiet and effortless, all pale skin and perfect posture. Straight hair that looked like it never frizzed, a mouth that always curved into this soft, knowing smile.

The kind of pretty that Keith would fall for.

The opposite of Lance.

Lance with his warm brown skin and sun-touched curls that refused to behave, even with the strongest gel. Lance who ran his mouth when he was nervous, who filled silences with jokes and sarcasm and fake bravado. Lance who wore his heart too loud, too messy, too much.

So yeah. That’s when it started.

At first it was subtle.

A little eyeliner, a glossed lip. A tighter shirt, maybe something with a scoop neck. Then he started painting his nails—just a soft peach at first, then daring reds and navy blues. He started learning how to style his curls so they framed his face better. Swapped out his jeans for flowy trousers, added rings and earrings.

Not to be like Keith’s boyfriend. No.

But to be… someone Keith might look at.

And the weird thing was—he liked it.

Liked the way he felt when he looked in the mirror. Liked how the shimmer of highlighter on his cheekbones made his whole face come alive. Liked the softness, the femininity. It wasn’t about pretending anymore. It was about finding comfort in something he never gave himself permission to explore.

But even with the confidence, the self-love, the thrill of reinventing himself, none of it stopped the ache.

Because Keith still wasn’t looking.

Not really.

He was still with him. That boy with the soft hands and the soft voice and the perfect everything. The boy Keith kissed goodbye on the quad before class. The boy Keith let lean on his shoulder during movie night. The boy who got to run his fingers over Keith’s tattoos, who got to press kisses to the skin just under his jaw—where Lance's gaze always, always lingered.

And God, Lance hated that it made him feel small.

He hated the ugly twist in his gut every time he saw them together. Hated that he wanted Keith so badly it made him feel like breaking something. Hated that the person Keith wanted—wasn’t him.

He didn't want to be jealous.

He didn’t want to be that guy, petty and bitter and dripping envy like cheap perfume.

But sometimes—when Keith laughed at something his boyfriend said, head tilted back, face flushed with happiness—Lance would have to look away.

Sometimes he’d go to the bathroom, lock the door, sit on the floor with his back against the cool tiles, and just breathe. Try to remember that Keith is allowed to love whoever he wants. That no amount of lip gloss or pretty earrings or polished confidence is going to change someone’s heart.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he’d imagine Keith looking at him like that.

Imagine Keith’s hands on his hips, rough and gentle all at once. Imagine Keith calling his name, low and quiet, like it means something.

And those nights, Lance would press his cheek into his pillow, lips trembling, eyes wet—whispering promises to no one.

That he’d be okay.

That even if Keith never saw him that way—never saw him—he’d still be someone worth looking at.

Someone worth loving.

Even if he had to learn how to love himself first.

One and a half years.

That’s how long Lance had been in love with Keith.

That’s also how long he’d been quietly trying—trying to be what Keith might want, trying to be someone who stood out. But eventually, something in him snapped. Not in a loud, dramatic way. No fireworks. Just this quiet moment in front of the bathroom mirror where he looked at himself—eyes tired, eyeliner smudged, lips pulled into a tight, unhappy line—and asked: Why am I doing this to myself?

It wasn’t that he stopped liking Keith. Feelings don’t just disappear like that. But he realized he didn’t want to revolve around someone who barely saw him.

And he was a hot piece of ass, okay? He wasn’t going to deny that.

His cheekbones could cut glass, his ass looked phenomenal in high-waisted jeans, and he had a laugh that could light up a whole room. He wasn’t going to keep chasing someone who didn’t chase him back.

So he started focusing on himself.

He picked up yoga again, dyed his hair a warm caramel shade that glinted in the sun, started going out more—not to find someone new, but to find himself. He hosted game nights with Pidge and Hunk, joined a queer film appreciation club, learned how to make a killer matcha latte.

The ache didn’t go away, not completely. But it dulled.

Until it just became part of the background noise.

And that’s where Lance was now.

A chill Tuesday night, lounging on the couch in his apartment in soft pajama pants and an oversized tee, a clay mask smeared across his face while some trashy reality TV show played in the background.

He hadn’t been expecting company.

So when a knock echoed from the front door, Lance blinked, confused. He paused the show, peeled himself off the couch, and shuffled over, his socks slipping a little on the wood floors.

He opened the door.

And froze.

“Keith?”

Keith stood there like a ghost.

No, worse.

Like someone who hadn’t slept in days.

His black hoodie was soaked near the shoulders from the rain still falling outside, sticking to his frame. His hair was plastered to his forehead in damp strands, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were rimmed red. Puffy. Bloodshot. Like he’d been crying hard and long.

Lance’s heart lurched before he could stop it.

Keith didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in the hallway light, breathing shallowly like he’d run to get here. His lips trembled. His hands were balled into fists.

“I—I didn’t know where else to go.” His voice cracked halfway through. “I’m sorry.”

Lance’s chest squeezed tight.

“What happened?” he asked softly, already reaching out to pull Keith inside, already moving instinctively, like his body knew what Keith needed even before he did.

The door clicked shut behind them. Keith stood there in the entryway, dripping and shaking, like the storm had followed him inside.

“He cheated on me,” Keith whispered.

And just like that, his knees buckled.

Lance caught him before he could hit the ground, arms wrapping around his torso, dragging him down gently to the floor. Keith clung to him, burying his face into Lance’s shoulder, and the sob that tore out of him was raw. Guttural. Like something had broken open.

“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering, like it was his fault. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.”

Lance held him tighter, one hand moving instinctively to run through his soaked hair.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

He wanted to hate Keith’s ex. God, he wanted to. But mostly, all he felt was this crushing, helpless ache. Because even after everything—even after Lance had moved on, or at least tried to—this boy still held pieces of his heart.

And now Keith was here, in his arms, crying like the world had fallen out from under him.

Lance didn’t say I told you so.

Didn’t gloat.

Didn’t ask why now.

He just held him.

Because maybe—just maybe—this was the moment something shifted.

Maybe this was the start of something Lance had stopped hoping for.

But for now, he whispered soft comfort into Keith’s ear, letting him fall apart.

And for the first time in one and a half years, Keith was holding him.

Keith stayed curled up in Lance’s arms for a long time.

The rain kept tapping against the window like it was trying to get in, but inside the apartment, it was warm. Dim. Quiet, except for Keith’s shallow breathing and the occasional hiccup of a sob he couldn’t quite swallow down.

Lance didn’t rush him.

Didn’t ask questions.

Just sat there on the floor, back leaning against the wall, holding Keith as gently as someone might hold a piece of shattered glass. His clay face mask had long since dried and cracked, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the way Keith’s hands were fisting his shirt like he was afraid Lance would vanish if he let go.

Eventually, Keith’s crying slowed to little tremors. His breathing evened out. He was still trembling, but now it was quieter—less like breaking, more like the aftermath.

“I’m sorry I showed up like this,” Keith said, voice hoarse.

Lance shook his head, brushing Keith’s hair back from his face.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he murmured. “Not to me.”

Keith closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against Lance’s collarbone.

They sat there like that a while longer until Lance gently helped Keith up, leading him into the living room.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you into dry clothes before you turn into a sad popsicle.”

He handed Keith a towel and some old sweats from his drawer—soft, worn-in things with a faint scent of laundry detergent and vanilla. Keith didn’t argue. Just took them with a quiet nod and disappeared into the bathroom.

Lance used the time to set up the couch. He grabbed his fluffiest throw blanket, a pillow from his bed, and even lit a lavender candle to help soothe the lingering tension in the air.

When Keith came out again, dressed in Lance’s clothes, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, he looked… smaller. Not in size. In presence.

Like someone who’d been fighting too long and finally lowered his fists.

“You can crash here,” Lance said, patting the couch. “I don’t bite. Unless provoked.”

Keith gave the tiniest smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, but it was something.

“You sure?” he asked.

Lance just raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t have gone through all this effort if I wasn’t. Now sit. Blanket. Chill.”

Keith sat. Lance draped the blanket over him. Their fingers brushed—just for a second—and Lance swore his heart skipped.

He moved to leave, give Keith space, but a quiet voice stopped him.

“Can you…” Keith hesitated, eyes flickering up. “Stay for a bit?”

Lance blinked. Then softened.

“Yeah. Of course.”

So he sat down beside the couch, close but not too close, knees drawn up to his chest, and leaned against the armrest. Keith didn’t say anything else. Just pulled the blanket tighter around himself and stared at the ceiling.

They sat like that for a long time, wrapped in quiet, the TV off, the rain still pattering against the glass.

Eventually, Keith’s eyes fluttered shut. His breathing slowed.

He fell asleep like that—his face finally peaceful, lips parted slightly, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.

Lance watched him for a moment, heart aching.

Even now, even after everything, Lance’s chest still tightened at the sight of him.

But he didn’t let it show.

Instead, he grabbed another blanket, curled up on the armchair nearby, and closed his eyes.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Didn’t know what Keith needed or what this meant.

But tonight, he could give Keith a safe place to land.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Keith was out cold within minutes.

He hadn't even tried to fight it—just curled up beneath Lance’s blanket, his breathing finally even and soft, his lashes resting delicately against his cheeks. Lance stayed a little while longer, sitting on the floor beside the couch, chin propped on the armrest as he watched the boy he’d loved for so long sleep in his living room like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t let himself think too hard about what any of it meant.

Instead, when he was sure Keith was deeply asleep, Lance got up as quietly as he could. He gently adjusted the pillow under Keith’s head and lifted the blanket to properly tuck it around his shoulders. Keith stirred slightly but didn’t wake, just let out a soft sigh and snuggled deeper into the warmth.

Lance smiled. Small. Tender.

“Goodnight, Mullet,” he whispered.

Then he turned off the living room light and padded softly to his bedroom, heart heavy and full all at once.

The morning light crept in through the blinds in thin gold streaks.

Lance woke earlier than usual, the memory of last night still fresh behind his eyes. For a second, he stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it had all been a dream. But then he heard it—soft, slow breathing from the other room.

He got up. Pulled on his robe.

And he knew exactly what to do.

The kitchen came alive with quiet movement: the clink of mixing bowls, the faint hum of music from his phone speaker, the familiar rhythm of his favorite comfort ritual.

Chocolate chip pancakes. Keith’s favorite.

Lance remembered once, over a year ago, when the team had pulled an all-nighter for finals and crashed at Shiro’s place. Keith had been half-asleep on the kitchen counter, grouchy and bleary-eyed, until someone handed him a plate of chocolate chip pancakes. He’d perked up like a flower in the sun, mumbling, “These are the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Lance hadn’t forgotten.

He poured the batter onto the hot pan, careful not to let any burn. He even added a pinch of cinnamon—something he’d figured out made the chocolate pop just right.

By the time Keith stirred awake, the apartment smelled like vanilla and melted chocolate and something warm and homey.

Keith sat up slowly on the couch, his hair tousled, eyes blinking against the light. He looked around, still groggy, before his gaze landed on the kitchen.

Lance stood at the stove, in his plaid robe and fluffy slippers, flipping a pancake like a pro.

Keith blinked.

“You’re… cooking?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.

Lance turned, spatula in hand, and grinned. “Good morning, sunshine. You’re just in time for the best pancakes in the western hemisphere.”

Keith looked stunned.

And maybe a little overwhelmed.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, turning back to the stove. “I know. But I wanted to.”

Keith didn’t respond. Just sat there watching Lance work, his expression unreadable but soft around the edges.

When the pancakes were done, Lance plated them carefully—three stacked high, topped with butter and just a little syrup. He slid the plate onto the coffee table with a fork.

“Breakfast of champions,” he said, giving a little mock bow.

Keith hesitated. Then picked up the fork and took a bite.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, something like a smile broke over his face.

“These are still the best pancakes I’ve ever had,” he said quietly.

Lance gave a crooked smile, suddenly shy. “Yeah, well. Only the best for you, Mullet.”

Keith looked at him then. Really looked.

And Lance couldn’t read it—couldn’t tell if it was gratitude or grief or something in between. But there was something fragile and real in Keith’s eyes, something raw that made Lance want to wrap him up in his arms all over again.

Instead, he said, “I’ve got more batter. You want another stack?”

Keith nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I… I’d like that.”

So Lance turned back to the stove, pretending he didn’t feel Keith watching him. Pretending his hands weren’t shaking just a little.

Because this?

This felt like the beginning of something.

And for the first time in a long time, Lance was starting to believe he might be ready for it.

They ate together in the quiet of the morning, sitting on the couch with mismatched plates and steaming mugs of coffee. Lance still had sleep lines on his cheek, his robe slipping off one shoulder, and Keith looked like he was trying not to fall apart with every bite.

But the pancakes helped.

And so did the silence—easy, comfortable, filled with the kind of calm that only comes after a storm.

After a while, Keith pushed his plate aside and leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands. “I should head out soon. I’ve got stuff to deal with.”

Lance nodded. “You want me to call you a ride?”

“Nah. I’ll walk. It’s nice out.”

Lance didn’t try to argue.

He followed Keith to the door, and there was a strange tension in the air—something soft and heavy and unspoken. Keith pulled his hoodie up, hands fidgeting at the hem.

“Thanks… for letting me crash here. And, y’know. For the pancakes.”

“Anytime,” Lance said, smiling. “Door’s always open. Especially if you’re bringing dramatic entrances and tears.”

Keith let out a quiet laugh. “I’ll try to keep those to a minimum.”

He lingered for a moment, like he wanted to say something else. But then he just gave a short nod and stepped out into the hallway.

The door closed softly behind him.

Lance leaned against it, staring at the wood for a moment before sighing and padding back inside.

Later That Afternoon

The group chat had been quiet for most of the day—just a few memes from Hunk and some weird TikTok Pidge had dropped without context. Lance had been halfway through repainting his nails when his phone buzzed.

KEITH [4:26 PM]:
you guys wanna hit the club tonight?

Lance blinked.

The club? Keith?

Keith never suggested the club. He barely tolerated the club.

A second later, the chat exploded.

PIDGE [4:26 PM]:
who are you and what have you done with keith

HUNK [4:27 PM]:
👀 someone’s entering their post-breakup chaos arc??

ALLURA [4:27 PM]:
depends. are we talking trashy basement club or somewhere with actual lighting?

SHIRO [4:28 PM]:
is this a cry for help

KEITH [4:29 PM]:
lol no
just figured it’d be nice to go out

KEITH [4:29 PM]:
i could use the distraction

LANCE [4:30 PM]:
👁️👄👁️
who are YOU and what have you done with MY emo wallflower??

KEITH [4:30 PM]:
you in or not, pretty boy

Lance stared at his screen for a beat too long.

Pretty boy.

Okay. Okay??

His fingers hovered, heart thumping, before he finally replied:

LANCE [4:31 PM]:
i guess i could be convinced to make an appearance 😌

LANCE [4:31 PM]:
only if we pregame at my place though. non-negotiable.

KEITH [4:32 PM]:
deal.

Lance flopped back against the couch, eyes wide, stomach flipping.

This wasn’t how he expected today to go.

But maybe… just maybe… things were starting to change.

Lance had his apartment spotless in under an hour. It wasn’t like anyone would care, but still—if Keith was coming over again, he wanted things to look nice.

He lit two candles (vanilla and sandalwood, because vibe) and queued up his “Party But Make It Classy” playlist. Then he threw on a sheer mesh shirt, high-waisted jeans, and a thin gold chain that sat perfectly just above his collarbone. His lips had a little gloss, his eyeliner was sharp, and his hair had that effortless volume he absolutely spent twenty minutes on.

By the time the knock came, Lance was pouring cherry soda into a cup of rum and pretending he hadn’t been pacing near the door for five minutes straight.

He opened it, and there was Keith—dressed in black, obviously, but with his sleeves rolled up and a silver chain around his neck Lance had never seen before. His hair was damp, like he’d showered just before leaving, and his piercings caught the light like tiny stars.

Lance blinked. “Okay. You are in your post-breakup hot phase.”

Keith smirked, but it was soft. “Tried a little.”

Lance stepped aside. “Get in here, Mullet.”

They were the first ones there, of course. Hunk, Pidge, and the rest were notoriously late to everything that didn’t involve free food.

Keith sank onto the couch while Lance handed him a drink—vodka with something fruity. Sweet, cold, and dangerous.

Keith took a sip, eyes widening. “This is good.”

“I know.” Lance flopped down beside him, close but not too close. “It’s called taste. Look it up.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered.

The music pulsed low through the room, bass gentle, not overwhelming. The lights were dim and golden, bouncing off the glittery rim of Lance’s highball glasses.

They talked for a while—nothing too deep. Just stupid memes, upcoming exams, how weird it was seeing Allura at a rager last weekend. But there were moments where Keith looked at Lance a little too long, where Lance’s laugh softened just for Keith, where something hovered between them like a spark that didn’t quite catch.

After a lull, Keith glanced around, then asked, “So… is this what you always do before you go out?”

“Duh,” Lance said. “It’s called romanticizing your own life.”

Keith looked at him, eyes flicking over the lip gloss, the mesh shirt, the way Lance’s legs were crossed just so.

“You look good,” he said, and it sounded so matter-of-fact, like he didn’t even realize he’d said it.

Lance blinked.

He covered it with a grin. “I always look good.” But his cheeks were definitely pink. “Still, thanks. You don’t look terrible either.”

“Wow,” Keith deadpanned. “High praise.”

They both laughed, and this time the silence that followed was loaded.

Just as Lance was about to say something else—maybe tease him, maybe ask why he was looking at him like that—the buzzer rang.

Hunk’s voice crackled through the intercom. “I brought pizza and fireball. Let us in or I swear to God.”

Lance groaned, but he was smiling.

He got up to let them in, throwing a wink over his shoulder at Keith.

“Get ready, Mullet. We’re making chaos tonight.”

And Keith, looking at Lance like he’d forgotten how to look at anyone else, just muttered:

“I think we already are.”

The door burst open about thirty seconds after Lance buzzed them in, and the apartment filled with the sound of laughter, footsteps, and the unmistakable rattle of a Fireball bottle hitting the table too hard.

“Pizza delivery with a side of bad decisions!” Hunk announced proudly, balancing two greasy boxes and a bag of snacks.

Pidge followed, immediately beelining for Lance’s speaker and switching the playlist to something far louder and faster. “We’re not pre-gaming, we’re summoning spirits.”

Allura and Shiro were close behind—her in glitter heels and a silky two-piece that made everyone stare, him in all black like some kind of handsome nightclub bouncer.

The energy shifted in the best way. The apartment glowed with friendship and loud music and the smell of pizza grease and cinnamon whiskey.

Lance floated between people like he was made for it—refilling cups, pulling Pidge away from his eyeliner stash, stealing bites of pizza, nudging Keith in the ribs every time he caught him brooding too hard on the edge of the couch.

Keith, surprisingly, didn’t shrink away.

He smiled more than usual. Laughed quietly when Lance danced in the kitchen with a slice of pizza like it was a microphone. He wasn’t loud or flashy, but he was present. Something in him was shifting, opening.

And Lance… noticed.

The Club

By the time they rolled up to the club, the sky was fully dark, and the street lights reflected off the glass like stars. Bass thumped from the building, and the line outside was long—but Allura winked at the bouncer, and suddenly they were in like royalty.

The second the doors opened, they were swallowed by heat, light, and sound.

The club was lit.

Pulsing LED lights cast everyone in neon pinks and deep purples. Fog machines hissed every few minutes. The DJ was already spinning something dirty and fast, and the crowd was moving like a living wave.

Lance’s heart was already racing.

“I love this place,” he shouted over the music.

Allura twirled beside him. “I know you do!”

Keith stuck close to Lance’s side at first, half-overwhelmed, half-intrigued. He looked good under the strobes—shadowed and sharp, jaw tight, chain glinting at his throat.

Lance nudged him with his hip. “Relax, Mullet. You look like you’re about to fight the DJ.”

Keith gave him a sidelong smirk. “I might.”

Hunk and Pidge dragged Shiro and Allura to the bar for tequila shots, while Lance grabbed Keith’s hand and pulled him toward the edge of the dance floor.

“Come on,” he said, leaning close. “Let loose a little.”

And somehow, Keith did.

He didn’t dance, not exactly, but he let himself sway a bit to the beat, nodding his head, tapping his fingers on his leg. He watched Lance move—watched the way his hips rolled, the way his shirt shimmered every time the light hit him.

And Lance?

He danced like he owned the night. Like the floor bent for him. Like he was born to move and knew everyone was watching.

But the only eyes he kept coming back to were Keith’s.

By the time the first drinks kicked in and the second round was halfway gone, the line between fun and flirtation started to blur.

Keith stood a little closer. Lance let his hand linger longer when he touched Keith’s arm.

Every time they leaned in to speak, their faces hovered just a bit too long.

The air between them was charged.

And neither of them quite knew what to do with it.

The lights spun, the music swelled, and the club felt like another universe—sweaty, electric, loud, and untouchable.

Keith was closer now, closer than he’d ever let himself be. His hand brushed Lance’s waist when someone shoved past them, and he didn’t move it away. Lance leaned in, lips dangerously near his ear, and said something stupid and soft—he didn’t even remember what, he just wanted to feel Keith laugh under his fingers.

And he did.

Keith smiled, genuinely, the kind that reached his eyes.

Lance’s heart thudded loud in his chest.

They were standing so close now that if one of them leaned in just an inch—just one inch—something would happen.

But then—

“Keith?”

The name hit like a slap.

Both their heads turned.

And there he was.

Keith’s ex.

Tall, sharp-jawed, too perfect in that glossy magazine kind of way. His straight black hair was slicked back, his pale skin lit in purples and reds from the club lights. He wore a smug expression like it had never once cracked.

Lance felt his gut twist.

“Oh,” the guy said, tilting his head, eyes scanning the way Keith and Lance were nearly touching. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Keith stiffened immediately, like a live wire. The warmth in his face vanished, replaced with something cold and unreadable.

“I could say the same,” he said flatly.

Lance hovered, jaw tight, eyes flicking between them.

The ex stepped closer, and his gaze settled on Lance—slowly, dismissively. “This your rebound?”

Lance bristled. “Hi,” he said sweetly, “I’m literally right here. You can look at me when you insult me, coward.”

Keith’s jaw clenched. “Don’t.”

But the guy just laughed, low and patronizing. “Relax, Keith. I’m not here to cause drama. Just surprised to see you out so soon.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Guess some people move on fast.”

Lance caught the slight crack in Keith’s expression—just for a second.

Before he could say anything, the guy turned. “Anyway. No hard feelings.” He walked off like nothing had happened, back into the crowd, swallowed by lights and music.

But the mood had shattered.

Keith stared after him, fists clenched at his sides, eyes burning with something tight and ugly.

Lance touched his arm gently. “Hey…”

Keith didn’t move.

“Do you wanna go outside? Get some air?”

Keith nodded once, almost too fast.

And they pushed through the crowd—leaving behind the lights, the heat, the music.

The night air outside was cold and sharp and real.

Keith leaned against the brick wall just outside the club entrance, head tilted back, eyes closed.

Lance stood beside him, arms crossed.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Keith let out a laugh. Bitter. “I was. Until that happened.”

Lance glanced at him, heart hurting a little. “He’s a dick.”

Keith didn’t deny it.

But he did say, after a pause, “Thanks. For saying something. For being there.”

Lance shrugged, trying not to seem like his heart was beating out of his chest. “Always.”

Silence fell again, but this one felt different. Quieter. More fragile.

The music inside thumped like a pulse behind them.

And the tension… it didn’t go away. It just changed.

Slower.

Heavier.

Closer.

They stayed outside longer than expected.

The cold air wrapped around them, cutting the sweat and heat from inside. Keith hadn’t said much, but that was okay—he didn’t need to.

He stood there, eyes on the pavement, shoulders finally starting to relax. Lance sat on the curb, swinging his feet a little, his cheek resting on his hand.

It wasn’t awkward. It was kind of… peaceful.

For a while, all they heard was the bass thudding faintly through the walls and the buzz of city life around them.

Keith eventually glanced over. “Thanks for not pushing.”

Lance looked up and smiled, warm and small. “I figured if you needed a breakdown, I should at least let you have it in peace. But also I was kind of hoping your ex would trip and eat concrete.”

Keith huffed a laugh. “He might, honestly.”

And Lance beamed. Because that was better than any kiss right now.

Back Inside—But Now It’s War

Once they stepped back into the club, Lance’s entire vibe changed.

He straightened his spine. Re-glossed his lips. Smoothed down his shirt. His walk became a strut.

Keith glanced over. “What are you—”

But Lance just smirked. “Game time.”

Because Lance wasn’t just going to comfort Keith anymore.

He was going to ruin that smug ex’s night.

He turned it on.

The second they were near the dance floor again, Lance slid up to Keith like a dream—wrapping an arm around his shoulders, fingers feather-light against his neck.

“You good?” he asked, voice dripping honey.

Keith blinked at him. “Yeah?”

Lance smiled sweetly. “Good.”

Then he leaned in. Real close. His cheek brushing Keith’s as he said, “You mind if I have a little fun?”

Keith looked dazed. “Uh… no?”

Lance’s grin turned feral.

It started small. A hand on Keith’s chest as they talked. A laugh that ended with him clinging to Keith’s arm. Fingertips tracing the chain around Keith’s neck like it was just there and Lance couldn’t help himself.

Keith looked somewhere between confused and flustered. His ears were visibly red.

And Lance? Lance caught sight of the ex across the room—watching.

Oh, he was watching.

Lance made sure he saw it.

He wrapped his arm fully around Keith’s waist and leaned into him as the music dropped into something slow and filthy.

Keith stammered, “L-Lance—what are you—”

“Shhh,” Lance said, voice like silk. “You’re doing great, baby.”

Keith made a choked sound.

Lance tugged him to the dance floor, pressed up against him, rolling his hips in time to the beat. Not too dirty—but just enough to make it look real. To make it look like Keith had already moved on.

They were a picture: Keith with his arms hovering like he didn’t know where to put them, Lance with his body singing heat, head tossed back in laughter, hands framing Keith’s face like he was the only one in the world.

And from across the room, the ex fumed.

Lance caught his glare and winked.

Keith noticed this time. “Are you—”

Lance didn’t let him finish. He slid his hand down Keith’s chest and whispered, “He doesn’t get to look at you like he still owns you. Not tonight.”

Keith was quiet for a second. Then—

“You’re insane.”

Lance’s smile turned softer, eyes glittering in the flashing lights. “Maybe. But I’m fun.”

And Keith didn’t pull away.

He didn’t step back.

In fact, his hands slowly found Lance’s waist. Hesitant. Careful. But there.

And the next time they moved, they moved together.

The music pulsed low and heavy, like a heartbeat shared between them.

Lance had Keith behind him now—finally—and he didn’t waste a second. He let the beat guide him, hips rolling slow, deliberate, and so close to Keith’s body.

Keith was stiff at first, hands hovering at Lance’s sides like he was afraid to touch.

But Lance wasn’t having that.

He reached back, grabbed Keith’s wrists gently, and placed them on his hips.

Keith sucked in a breath. Loud. Audible, even over the music.

And then Lance moved.

He pressed back against Keith’s front, slow and filthy, dragging his ass against Keith like he knew exactly what he was doing. Because he did.

And Keith?

Keith froze.

His hands tightened on Lance’s hips, fingers digging in, not pulling away this time. His breath hitched, hot against Lance’s neck.

Lance let his head fall back, just enough for the back of his curls to brush Keith’s jaw.

“You okay back there?” he teased, voice low and breathy.

Keith’s reply was rough and quiet, but oh-so sincere. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Lance laughed, all wicked and warm. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

The world blurred around them. Lights flashing, bodies moving, but none of it touched the space they created. It was just them.

Lance ground down harder, slower, pushing back with purpose now—testing how close he could get.

Keith’s hands didn’t leave his body. They roamed, just a little, sliding up to Lance’s waist, thumbs brushing under the hem of his shirt.

Every breath Keith took seemed heavier.

And when Lance tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck, Keith leaned in without thinking, his lips barely ghosting over the skin behind Lance’s ear.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite.

But it could’ve been.

Lance shivered. His whole body buzzing.

He could feel how warm Keith was behind him now. Could feel the way Keith was holding back, trembling on the edge of something he didn’t know if he was allowed to want.

And Lance…

Lance wanted him to fall.

He turned his head, their faces so close now that his lips almost brushed Keith’s.

“Still thinking about him?” Lance whispered.

Keith shook his head, voice like gravel. “No.”

“Good,” Lance said, smiling slowly.

And he pressed back harder, head spinning, heart racing—because for once, Keith wasn’t pulling away.

He was pulling closer.

The night had been everything—loud, wild, electric.

The club lights faded behind them as they stepped into the cooler night air, the city calm now in contrast to the chaos they’d left inside.

Keith walked beside Lance, shoulders a little more relaxed, his jaw unclenched for the first time in days.

Lance glanced at him and smiled, a secret curl tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Hey,” Keith said quietly as they climbed the stairs to Lance’s apartment, “thanks for tonight. For… everything.”

Lance shrugged, pretending to be casual, but his heart was racing like a kid who just pulled off the best prank ever.

“Anything for you,” he said, unlocking the door.

Once inside, Keith collapsed on the couch like it was the softest thing in the world.

Lance kicked off his shoes and leaned against the doorway, watching Keith breathe out the tension of the night.

And then — without warning — a soft giggle escaped Lance’s lips.

Keith looked up, eyes narrowing playfully. “What’s so funny?”

Lance smirked, cheeks flushing just a little. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Lance crossed the room and sat down beside him, nudging Keith’s shoulder. “Maybe I’m just happy. You know, seeing you finally loosen up.”

Keith rolled his eyes but smiled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” Lance said, voice low and teasing. “But you kinda like it.”

Keith’s grin was slow but real. “Maybe I do.”

Lance leaned in just a little, his smile softening. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And Keith didn’t say anything, just reached out and tangled their fingers together.

The night was quiet now—soft music from the street drifting through the window—and for once, everything felt like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.