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thatgirlonstage · 1 year

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Shared over from twitter, mermay prompt for @/Slotheye on there, Sebaciel and "rose." Under the cut because it's a long boy.

If you want the sea-witch’s help, you must bring him something worthy of his fascination. If you search under the sea, only strange and secret things from the deepest and most hidden crevices will do. Objects from the surface world are better, but even there, you must be careful. Many of the things humans consider precious—their gold, their jewels, their wine—sink with their ships often enough, and are no particular novelty to the sea-witch. If you wish to truly capture his attention, you must do so with something rare and difficult to find beneath the waves.

That is why Ciel, even bruised and bleeding and broken, even dragging himself, tail heavy with disuse and injury, through the hurricane that broke the walls and shattered the tank and finally set him free, even cutting his hands and scales on broken glass, even with the wind howling in his ears and the rain tearing his face like they mean to strip his skin from his bones, even though he risks the humans who had—stupidly—remained to ride out the storm coming to find him, even through all of that, he does not head for the ocean right away. Instead he hauls himself, inch by painstaking inch, to the desk in the far corner of the room. A piece of debris strikes him on the back of the head, makes him sprawl. He grits his teeth, curls his cut and bloody hands into fists, and pushes himself back up, continuing to drag himself across the floor. The desk is still in place, jammed in an as-yet undamaged corner of wall. The wind has knocked everything off of it, though: papers have gone flying, the stapler has skittered away across the floor, the family portrait smashed. Ciel’s prize is under the desk. The pot is broken all to pieces and the soil is turning to mud in the rain, but the plant itself hasn’t been totally destroyed. Not yet. Heedless of the thorns, Ciel chooses a single, blood red rose, and snaps its stem.

It takes all his concentration and all his energy to create a bubble around the flower, sapping the little magic he has. He slumps into the ground when it’s done, breathing heavily. His eyes flutter. He cannot fall asleep. Not here, not now. He cannot give up. Not when his brother—

He shakes his head violently and forces his eyes open. Gripping the bubble in one arm, he begins the even more arduous journey all the way back across the room, over the remains of the collapsed walls, and out into the storm. The wind and the rain are even fiercer here, and he is disoriented. He does not know where he is, how far from home, or which way will bring him quickest to the sea. The roads are flooding. He heads for water.

It is a long and horrible journey, battered by human debris and the force of the storm. He struggles against the current at every moment, fighting to swim away from land rather than be brought further in. He chokes in the dirty, poisoned floodwater, and gets battered by the wind every time he surfaces. When he reaches the ocean, he struggles his way past the brutal motion of the waves, the drag of currents and crashing downpour. It is a long time before he is deep enough and far enough that the storm fades to a distant pounding on the surface. Finally, exhausted in every scale and bone, he curls around his precious bubble, lies on the sand, and sleeps.

He wakes to a quieter ocean, an empty blue expanse. For several long moments, he only gazes up at the water. His fingers hold tight to his bubble. The rose glistens brilliant red where it is suspended inside, as bright and flawless in each petal as if it were freshly plucked. He breathes in and out, his gills fluttering, the ocean wonderfully, wonderfully fresh and vast after—months? years? he lost count—of the filtered tank water.

He still does not know where he is, but that does not matter: the sea-witch’s lair is not bound to something so mundane as a place. He finds a coastal shelf and follows it until he finds a place where it cracks apart, where a crevasse descends deep into the ocean, a pocket of cold and dark sliced through the rock. He follows it down and down and down, letting himself take every turn that wends him deeper, farther from light, every turn that tugs his stomach with dread. He takes every twist and unexpected turn until he finds himself utterly lost, with no notion of which way the surface lies. That’s when he enters the sea-witch’s lair.

The shift happens in bioluminescence. He realizes he is no longer clawing his way along a cave wall in complete darkness, but swimming through a corridor with faintly glowing plants spotting the walls—just a few at first, and then growing thicker and thicker until the walls are coated in phosphorescent green. The plants wave and pulse in the current, brushing against his arms, his tail, the back of his neck. He shivers. He clutches the bubble with his rose tightly, paranoid the plants will try to take it from him.

“Well, little minnow, what have you brought me?”

He freezes. The seeking tendrils of the plants shrink back toward the wall as a section of shadow detaches from the depths of the cave and drifts towards him. Two red embers appear in the shadow and resolve into eyes. Despite himself, Ciel shrinks from the gaze. After a moment, he holds out the bubble. Two long black tentacles emerge from the shadow and take the bubble with surprising care. The eyes consider it, the tentacles turning it around to consider it from every angle. After a moment, the tentacles tuck the bubble out of sight, and the eyes turn back to Ciel, accompanied by teeth arranged in the shape of a smile.

“You have my attention,” the sea-witch says. Ciel takes a deep breath, gills fluttering with nerves along his neck.

“I want to make a deal.”

The shadows emerge a little further, enough for Ciel to make out the general shape of a torso, of arms, of a writhing mass of tentacles that could crush Ciel’s whole body with barely a twitch. The smile stays, unwavering. “That is generally my business, yes. What is it you seek, little minnow?”

Ciel’s gills flutter, and flutter, and he makes himself look up into the fire-red eyes. “I need legs,” he says.

The smile shrinks and the shadow draws back. The sea-witch sighs. “Such a boring request,” he laments. “I have no interest in indulging a youthful conviction that the seaweed is always greener elsewhere.”

Ciel grits his teeth. “I need legs so I can kill the humans who took my family,” he says in a rush.

The sea-witch pauses, gaze raking over Ciel once more. Then he snorts. “You?” he says. “Even if I give you legs, what are you going to do, minnow? Naked and lost in a world you know nothing about, a tiny frail child, and you think you can avenge your family?” A tongue darts out from between those razor-sharp teeth and licks the shadow of the witch’s lips. “Someone or something will gobble you up before you make it off the beach.”

“I’ll—” The word comes hot with the desire to retort, but Ciel stops himself. I’ll figure it out sounds weak and worthless even in his own head. He huffs and folds his arms. “Fine,” he says. “Then I wish you to give me the means for revenge. Including legs.”

The sea-witch shifts closer to him again. The tentacles swirl, rise, swoop around him, cupping his tail and his arms and pulling him close until the sea-witch finally comes fully into focus, a pale body with threads of purple and black spreading beneath the skin like veins. Ciel has to tilt his head back to look him in his face. The sea-witch smiles down at him, slitted red eyes bright and consuming. Ciel is acutely aware of his own bare neck, of the ligature marks around his throat and wrists where they kept him tethered and shackled inside the tank. A tentacle traces over one of the bruises, curious, and abruptly presses against it until Ciel hisses with pain but refuses to thrash or attempt to escape. The tentacle withdraws. After a moment, from somewhere beneath him, the sea-witch reproduces the bubble with the rose.

“You must know,” the sea-witch says, taking the bubble in his hands, “that this is only your fee to enter my lair. Magic comes with a price.” He leans down over Ciel, until their faces are only inches from one another. “What are you willing to pay for such a grand wish?” he asks softly. “What does a little orphan minnow have that could be worth that much magic?”

Ciel feels himself smile. Just a little. Just enough.

“I’ll be your lure,” he says. He feels the tentacles go still around him. The sea-witch tilts his head.

“Explain,” he says.

“You’re an old and fading myth,” Ciel says. “And in the stories that do still get told, you’re always a villain, and you always cheat.” He reaches a hand up and sets it on the sea-witch’s cheek. “You’re a forgotten, pathetic remnant of another time, and you must be starving down here.” He strokes a thumb over the witch’s cheek. “So I want to offer this contract: give me my revenge. Deal honestly with me.” The smile that’s just been touching his lips grows into something real, and feral, and for the first time since the nets dragged him from the ocean, he feels alive again. “And then, I will find you dozens, hundreds of people to cheat. I will bring you as many stupid and evil humans or merfolk as you could want.”

“Bold assertions,” the sea-witch says. He takes Ciel’s jaw loosely in his hand and swipes a finger over his lips. “What makes you think you could be such effective bait?” Ciel blinks up at him, eyes wide and innocent.

“They’ll all see a frail little orphan minnow. The easiest creature in the world to manipulate.”

The sea-witch drops his grip on Ciel and laughs, the sound hollow and unsettling as it echoes through the water and off the cave walls. He grins, his teeth shining in the bioluminescent lights. “All right, little minnow,” he says. “You’ve intrigued me.” He holds up the bubble with the rose and reaches a hand inside it, to grip the stem. He beckons Ciel forward. “Bind yourself to me, then,” he says, his voice soft and yet all-encompassing. “If you truly have the stomach for this contract.”

Ciel doesn’t let himself hesitate. He reaches forward—his hand pausing just a moment, afraid of breaking the bubble, but the sea-witch is maintaining it now, the magic far more powerful and malleable than any minor common abilities. Ciel’s fingers sink through the skin of the bubble. He takes hold of the stem of the rose and slowly, almost sensually, presses a thumb down over one of its thorns. The skin dents, and then breaks, and a bead of blood wells up around the wound. The sea-witch pricks his own thumb and presses it to Ciel’s, intermingling their blood, and Ciel feels the sea-witch’s magic pour through him like lightning. He thrashes, at the suddenness of it, at the intensity, but he cannot move his hand out of the bubble. He feels a bleeding, tearing, blinding sensation of pain ripping its way up his tail. He probably screams; he can’t quite hear. He tries to breathe and his gills feel as if they are glued against his neck. The pressure of the water is suddenly unbearable. His ears pop like his entire skull means to explode out of his head. Darkness presses over his eyeballs with a weight he cannot withstand. He spirals, and falls.

He comes to himself with the sound of land in his ears: the rushing of waves against shoreline, the cries of seagulls, and the strange too-loud reverberations of sound waves coming through air rather than water. He is lying on something warm and irregular, and his whole body feels strange. He blinks his eyes open.

Above him, holding Ciel in his lap, is a man who is both familiar and unfamiliar. His features have softened and remolded to look more human than monstrous. Yet the eyes still have traces of red, and when he smiles, his teeth are too sharp.

“Finally awake, minnow?” the sea-witch asks. Ciel looks down, across his strange and aching body, and sees— legs. Pale, skinny, undeniably human legs. He sits up—unbalanced, shaky, clinging to the sea-witch’s chest for support—and when he looks down at the sea-witch’s lap, he finds legs there too. Two human legs, wrapped in fabric—pants, he remembers, from the scientists who held him captive—and bent to cradle Ciel in them. He lifts his hand and finds that over the thumb he had pricked with the rose sits a swirling binding mark. He holds it close to his bare chest, sucking air unnaturally through his mouth. The sea-witch stands, brushing off sand, and then offers him a hand. Ciel, wary, takes it. He lets himself be lifted to his feet. The sea-witch smiles.

“Come now, little lure,” the sea-witch says. “We’d best get you your revenge.”

#black butler #sebaciel #mermay #ciel phantomhive #sebastian michaelis #my writing

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whitesilverandmercury · 7 years

Note

Just fuck me up with a Klance exes meeting again after not speaking for years au pls

fic prompts ☆ fuck me up here

disclaimers: don’townprompt: see above, @slotheyes hope you like ;)a/n: bc keith as a barista with that stupid little ponytail and lance wearing a star wars t-shirt was the first thing i saw, pls excuse my ridiculous music references, what i listen to as i write always goes into the finished product bc i’m a dweeb

also☆ here ☆on AO3

BITTER SHOTS.

There are plenty of awkward moments in life, some moremortifying than others, some less. Falling up the stairs. Swimming into someoneelse’s lost Band-Aid at the public pool. Working at a late-night coffee shop ona slow, soggy Tuesday evening — hiss and grind of espresso machine, rattle andclink of dishes in the sink, soft hum of the building’s heater overlaying shopmusic as the last few regulars pack up, last few non-regulars drift out, ato-goer hurries with his umbrella poised to open — and turning around fromwashing some house mugs to find your high school ex staring at you from theother side of the Square tablet and register.

Keith stops short, dish towel still crumpled in dried hands,and stares at Lance as Lance stares back, kind of frozen half-leaning on thecounter, one shoulder cocked, free hand hovering forgotten at his side.

“Oh,” Lance says, slight lilt of surprise. “Uh, hey.”

“Hi,” Keith replies.

“You work here?”

Keith raises his brows slowly.

Face pinching, Lance issues a tight little chuckle. “Ha, I mean,obviously you work here. Duh.”

There is a short standoff — though devoid of the samepotential for violence, just an awkward moment of uncertainty, on edge, afriction between them as Lance runs his hands through his burnt cinnamon hairto lace his fingers at the back of his neck and Keith shifts his weight to onefoot and then the other, palms pressed to the counter, shoulders bunched up.

Overhead, soft and low from the shop speakers, musicbounces through the quiet, dulls the clink of more dishes being washed in theback, machine parts being cleaned and air-dried. Keith hooked up his phone tothe stereo not too long ago, music on shuffle — this is Clairity, infectiousbeat, smooth voice, synthpop. One of those retro-spacey-sexy sort of songs. I’m dancing with my elbows, I hack into yourcell phone, the cool kids got those shell-toes, but I look good in Velcro —And it is so comically unfitting for this moment that it is awkward in its ownhilarious right and it kind of uncoils the tension in his shoulders becausewhat a fucking movie moment, right?

Lance McClain, class of 2014 heartthrob, varsity baseballteam star pitcher, throat firmed up a little and his chest broadened, buthis face is still smooth and soft as ever, those stormy blue eyes and darkbrows. Lance McClain in a thin, rain-freckled anorak jacket and open hoodie, Star Wars shirt underneath, while Keithgawks from his side of the coffee bar, dark hair pulled back in a stub of ahalf-back that is all the ponytail he can get without pieces falling loose atthe nape of his neck, at his ears, across his brow. Black T-shirt and blackjeans, scuffed floral-printed Converse, the toes of which are milk-stained andsyrup-sticky, like the tiny hip-apron he’s already taken off for the night andtossed in the back. And the synth beat bounces on.

Fall asleep to techno,I make up my own tempo, a prom date told me hell no —

Glances dance around, swerving too close, veering away,avoiding. Evading. There’s a guy that came in with Lance, off by the sofas atthe window, busy on the phone. Landmine. Field of emotional landmines.

“So what do you want?” Keith asks.

Lance laughs, his awkward laugh, that slightlyraspy, edge of sarcasm chuckle. “Man,” he says, “just as chipper as ever, huh? I mean, I want coffee, obviously, this is a coffee shop. I know it’s late forcoffee, but, you know, long day, long night — ”

“Yeah,” Keith grunts, “I mean what do you want, what are youordering?”

Flustered, Lancechuckles again, this one more kneejerk and genuine. Just a little open-mouthedgrin and knotted brow. A smile tugs at the corner of Keith’s mouth; he bites itback, almost unsuccessfully.

“Yeah, can I get … ” The smile goes out like a light andLance twists around to the guy near the windows. “Hunk, what did you want?”

The guy — Hunk, apparently — leans away from his phone callto say: “House dark, black.” His big brown eyes veer to Keith; his face dimplesin a friendly smile, apologetic. “If you still have some. You don’t have tomake a new brew or anything!”

Keith doesn’t wait for Lance to repeat the order. “You likeFrench press?” he asks. “It’ll be fresher for you.”

“Sure,” Hunk says.

Keith pulls over the coffee grinder, eyes flickering up tothe guy and back to Lance and down to the coffee again. He knows. It’s beenthree years and he can still read Lance like the Highlights back page scavenger hunt when you’re a kid sitting alonein the dentist’s office —

“So what are you up to?”

Keith cuts Lance a look as he rolls open a bag of wholebeans, the smell blooming rich and sweet below his nose. “What, now? Or inlife?”

Lance inclines his chin, shrugs limply, shoves his hands inhis pockets. “Both,” he suggests, and cracks one of his uniquely charmingsmiles. A little more subdued now, less reckless and misplaced. It’s weird and terrifying how much he’s grown up in three years when Keith doesn’t feel like he has himself, at all.

“Well.” Keith straightens, tossing hair out of his eyesbefore flipping on the grinder. Through the growl of it, his eyes roam theempty coffee shop, the few little sweeping piles waiting to be dusted intobroom pan, half the tables with chairs stacked, leather sofas near the window,repurposed patio lights strung along the one brick wall. His gaze finds Lanceagain and he presses his mouth in a firm line, raising his brows. “Working,” hereplies dryly. “Or, trying to. I’m in the middle of closing, but. You know,customers.”

Lance snaps his tongue against the roof of his mouth, alittle tch sound as he gives Keith apointed look. Ha ha, that look says. Funny.

Keith can’t bite back a grin fast enough so he tries to hideit, but he knows Lance saw it. Some sort of tension releases in Lance’sshoulders for it. He drums his knuckles on the counter, smiling faintly inturn.

“School,” Keith says then as he adds the hot water to theFrench press and starts a pocket timer. “I’m graduating next spring. Trying todecide whether I want to accrue more debt for grad school or not.”

“Oh, right on.”

“What about you?”

Lance rolls his shoulders back in a little shrug, heaving along sigh as if unsure whether his reply is appropriate for a firstconversation after three years. Always so exaggerative. Always so entertaining.Finally he says, “Well, I really want to go to school for film, but I’m puttingit off for a little bit … ”

“I meant your drink,” Keith murmurs. “But … also all that.”

Lance flushes faint pink, stutter of sheepish laughter. “Oh.Uh … ”

Keith watches him grind his tongue along the ridge of histeeth as his eyes scan the chalk board menu overhead. Dishes rattling in theback. On the shop stereo — Nobody wantsto dance with me, don’t wanna dance with nobody, I don’t wanna dance withnobody … Rain whispers at the window. Hunk laughs, on the phone. Lancegrinds and grinds his tongue and Keith remembers how he tastes like metal afterthat, tastes like blood, and at one side, he picks at his thumbnail with hismiddle fingernail and Keith snaps, “You’re doing that thing with your mouth youdo when you’re nervous. Why are you nervous?”

With a flutter of lashes, Lance jumps just a breath or two,before his face pinches in gentle defense. “I’m not nervous, I feel pressured.You’re staring at me and I don’t know what I want to drink. Surprise me.” Morewords hover on his lower lip for a moment, and his face darkens a tiny bit more— no, he retreats, and when Lance’s smile retreats like the tide, it makes Keith nervous. Nice to know that muchhasn’t changed, either. It’s very weird to feel like he knows him yet doesn’tknow him. He is like a ghost. Ghost of a first kiss, ghost of dark bedroom,blue sheets, making out in the high school black box theater, brush of tanskin, midnight laughter, the unopened condom that got lost between the mattress and thewall, borrowed shirt smelling like laundry detergent, deodorant, skin, the waysunlight fell at a slant across a book in a coffee shop and lit dark hair aburnt cinnamon sort of color —

“And yes,” Lance husks, eyes burning into Keith. “Yes, I’mnervous. I didn’t expect to run into you. At all. Are you happy now?”

Are you happy now?

It’s probably supposed to be sarcasm, defiance. There, happy now? But it comes out likehe’s asking something else. His voice is thick. He says Are you happy now? and it doesn’t feel like attitude.

Are you happy now?

Without me?

And that’s not fair. They were seventeen, eighteen. Theywere dumb and they were teenagers and dumb teenagers crazy in love are neveractually in love, love comes after, when the maelstrom of hormones levels out,and attraction softens from obsession into something more rational, lessdesperate, more lucid and focused, and queer awakenings are always fucking hard—

“Yeah, I’m happy,” Keith says. His voice tries to flattenitself to the roof of his mouth. He clears his throat. “But I wasn’t unhappy. With you.”

Lance doesn’t seem to know what tosay. His eyes flicker elsewhere, anywhere else, and Keith wonders if it’sbecause he didn’t mean to ask that,if he didn’t want to ask that, or if he secretly, subconsciously asked anddidn’t realize until Keith answered.

“Are you?” Keith saysnext over the grind and hiss of the espresso machine, tapping Lance’s to-go cupon the counter idly to channel the mild discomfort somewhere. Mildguilt. Mild frustration. Mild excitement to see him even if he feels like aghost. Mild regret for the things said, the things done. Mild ache forunfinished business. Stale resentment that just doesn’t feel as satisfyinganymore, not at all.

“Yeah.” Lance nods resolutely. “Yeah, I’m doing good.”

“Good.” Keith nudges the bar fridge shut and pours milk intothe steam pitcher with one hand, stirs Hunk’s French press with the other. Overhead,the music — new alt-J, Deadcrush.

Keith finishes Hunk’s drink, snaps the wand down into the pitcherof milk for Lance and as the shriek of steam rips between them, he sighs. Tosses the dampsanitizer rag hand to hand, hooks one ankle around the other and leansagainst the counter, tipping his head and waiting for Lance to meet his eyes.

“So,” he says, nostalgic smirk plucking at the corner of hismouth, “did you spill coffee all over himto pick him up, too?”

Lance scoffs, kind roll of the eyes. Ah, the bittersweetability to laugh about things in the past, not quite comfortable but distancedenough. “No,” he says. But then herealizes he’s admitted without even admitting, and he scrambles to save face.“Wait — what? What do you mean? Who?”

Typical Lance. Such a well-meaning dummy sometimes. AndKeith had really been hoping that what happened between them might have changedsomething. Make all that shit at the end worthwhile. But now he’s worried that’s not the case. He nods towards the guy waitingpatiently at the window, still on the phone speaking rhythmic andbeautiful that Keith guesses is something Native, or Islander. Pretty, whateverit is. The guy, Hunk, he laughs and it is the sweetest sort of man giggle thatsomehow goes perfectly with guys like him, real bears in stature, broad anddense, yet somehow soft at the same time.

Keith finds Lance’s eyes again, raising his brows as if tosay, New type?

Lance is blushing and flustered and tongue-tied for a momentand that is enough of an answer. Keith smiles to himself, satisfied by that. Hetransfers the foamed milk, follows with espresso shots over top.

“Fuck, Keith, you know that was an accident,” Lance mumbles,meaning the spilled coffee, at a different coffee shop, on a different day. Theday they first met, actually. Spillcoffee all over him to pick him up, too?

Keith’s smile broadens to an idle grin, tiny flash of teeth, chuckle like half a breath. He knows it was an accident. Hejust doesn’t think he’ll ever stop giving Lance shit about it.

“At least he didn’t give me a fake number like you did,”Lance mutters.

Keith leaves the spoon in the milk pitcher and grabs the seasalt sprinkles, the bottle of sweet drizzle. He laughs, tapping one toe behindhis heel, in the same realm as twiddling one’s thumbs when guilty of notfeeling guilty. “I was being cautious,” he reminds Lance playfully, and itgives him pause, the way Lance looks at him as if hearing him laugh issomething in which he’d lost hope.

But Lance recovers quickly, picks back upthe teasing after a moment.“Did you do that to your new boyfriend?”

“No.”

Lance slaps a hand on the counter gently, points a finger.“Aha! So you have a new boyfriend, too — ”

“Hey, babe,” Shiro starts saying, poking out from around thecorner near the sink, where front of house becomes back of house, his hair afinger-combed mess and a splash here and there from the back sink on his shirt.And if that is not the most typical, yet cruelest joke of perfect timing life could play —

Keith jumps, almost drops the milk pitcher and spoon on hisway to the sink, and Shiro sees the last two customers of the night andhis tired informality instantly recoils back into assistant managerprofessionalism, a more reserved and responsible sort of sociability — embarrassedfor saying babe in front ofcustomers, unprofessional as he fears it is. He clears his throat and saysunder his breath so he doesn’t make the to-goers feel rushed, “You wrapping upafter this?”

“Yeah, I mean, I have to finish cleaning and then I’ve gotto pull the till and stuff … ”

“I’ll do that for you, just let me know when you’re done.”

“Okay.”

Shiro smiles, nods at Lance, at Hunk, and ducks back ofhouse again. In his wake, Keith stands at the sink staring at Lance and Lancestands at the counter staring at Keith and there is nothing but blushing andstaring and the hum of music in the background.

Finally, Keith says, “What do you want to ask me?”

Lance blinks, face pinching. “What? Huh?”

“You’re doing it again, that thing with your tongue that youdo when you want to say something but you won’t.”

Lance doesn’t even hesitate; his face goes cool and evenlike the bay on a windless night and he says flatly, “You went ghost,Keith. You just … stopped talking to me.”

Keith opens his mouth to reply, but there is nothing. Littlepause, dimple of guilt, skittish glance — eyes darting away lest Lance catchthe chagrin, the remorse, the lingering injustice on his end. A cold, grimfrown more like the husk of a pout blooms on his face. He shifts his weightfrom foot to foot, slipping his hands in his back pockets and finally findingLance’s eyes again.

“I mean, think about what happened,” he says half throughhis teeth, but it is not cruel. It is a bruise.

Lance nods slowly; now it’s his turn to slide his gaze away,brow knotted. Eyes churning like the tides. Keith knows that shadow. He feelslike it’s his fault. He knows it’s not. Not entirely. Lance cares. Keith knowshe cares. He cares too much. He always has. And it’s not like Keith is any lessguilty of his own crimes.

Clearing his throat, Lance points to thehot drinks, still behind the counter. Keith crosses back over, passing themforth.

“You want to, you know, catch up sometime or something? Getcoffee?” Lance says, just shy of his usual confidence — and not because he’s nervous,but because he just seems tired. “I miss you.”

He throws it in there so simply. Keith bristles, cutting hima look. His stomach pinches; his heart bottoms out fast and brief beforelurching back to his chest. I miss you.

“This isn’t a young adult novel, or a rom-com or something,Lance. We’re not getting back together.”

“Wow,” Lance saysthrough his first sip of coffee, smack of lips and wide, stunned eyes. “Bitteras fuck.”

Keith scowls. “What?”

“The coffee,” Lance parries, flash of a glance. “The helldid you make me?”

“Sea salt and hazelnut macchiato.” Keith crosses his arms,leaning back against the counter. “Sorry, I must have burned your shots,” hemumbles, because it was definitely a shitty thing he just said, a selfish andself-centered assumption. Little bit humiliating, considering the way Lancelooked at him like he is crazy for even suspecting such ulterior motives. Getting back together. Like it’soffensive or something. And really, it is, to accuse him of that. Foot inmouth, for sure.

“Nah, I’m kidding.” Lance waves a hand and digs for hiswallet. “This place has the best coffee.”

“You come here a lot?”

“In the morning.”

“Oh. Yeah. I always work nights.”

“I just meant I miss you as a person.”

Keith freezes up again, this time in the most defenseless ofways, almost a flinch as the words cut straight to his soul swift and sharp asan arrow. Miss you as a person.

“I’m different,” he blurts, because three years’ worth ofwords are crowding in his throat but he will not speak them. Cannot. Not here,not tonight, not first thing. “I mean, I’m different than I was. We wereeighteen, Lance. And I’m sure you’re different, too.”

Nothing but the music and the staring again.

Hunk ends his phone call and starts wandering over. Lancejumps. “Oh, shit — Hunk, I have your coffee,” he says, motioning. He pulls outhis debit card.

Keith waves it away. “We can get coffee,” he concedes, voicefrail but not flat. He glances at Hunk, who looks perfectly confused but notbothered enough to invade their conversation. “And catch up. Sometime. Yeah?”

Lance falls still. He looks at Keith, looks at him but doesn’treally seem to see him. Waiting, perhaps, for the punch line. Wondering if it’sa good idea. Regretting asking, maybe. But then he smiles, and it’s no sunbreaking free of the clouds but it’s warm enough. “Cool,” he says. “Cool, Ilike that idea. Okay. Well, I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah.”

“Bye, Keith.”

“Have a good night, guys.”

Lingering eyes, pause heavy with words like the clouds hadbeen heavy with rain all day. Apology. Vindication. Stubbornness on both endsto say it aloud. What happened. Thinkabout what happened. You stopped talkingto me. We’re different so maybe it’s okay to be friends again —

Yes, they are very different now. And, now, thinking back onit, Keith isn’t sure they were ever friends to begin with. Not like peopleprobably should be before they start doing things together, anyway. And datingLance was like playing on the shore in a storm, and dating himself, heimagines, is like playing with matches, and it’s been three years but if hehasn’t forgotten what it felt like drowning, then he’s sure Lance has notforgotten what it feels like to be burned.

But — Keith sort of feels like he knows how to swim now, andit sort of seems like Lance has learned to play with fire.

So maybe the shots won’t pull so bitter next time.

end.

#voltron fic #klance #fic prompt #i'm so self conscious of my fic posting format now #after i saw that some people don't understand why the disclaimer is there #do i look old lol #WHATEVER

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