#this is a compliment because lance is kinda one of my top ten characters of all time

[miadeardn]

so i read the darkness outside us

[lykezoinks]

[ a/n: alright, this is my last entry for @klangst-week. thanks everybody for all the likes and reblogs! it keeps me writing, and it’s just nice to see people enjoying what i’m putting out! also, the works everyone’s created have just been amazing, so keep it up, y’all! ]

title: impulse control words: 3,547 prompt: secrets/betrayal rating/genre: T for language, modern au, college au, angst & hurt/comfort with a tinge of humor trigger warning(s): mental illness (implied depression and anxiety), depersonalization, mentions of injury (bruises and blood) extra notes: keith and shiro are adoptive brothers (it’s mentioned very briefly), klance is established

Yes, he works in the most hipster coffee shop within a twenty mile radius of campus. And yes, he loves it. Sure, The Underground sounds more like a sketchy bar you’d find in an alleyway that may or may not host fight clubs every other night, and yeah, it kinda smells like pencil shavings even after he mops the floors three times at opening, but at least it has character. Most people would roll their eyes at the always pretentious shop-goer in their thrift store clothing and knit hats, but Lance can’t help but find them interesting. Not that it surprises anyone.

Lance became famous around campus after only one year of being a— totally amazing, if he may say so himself— residence hall assistant. Almost anyone who lived in Levine Hall found a friend in Lance McClain. Eager to please and even more eager to befriend, it’s no secret that he falls in love with almost every social interaction he can muster up.

So he really doesn’t mind if a customer wants to discuss their latest film project, and he’s always happy to adhere to any non-dairy milk preference. Though he doesn’t have a septum ring to match his coworkers’ and he’s a bit too smiley for the spoken poetry nights they host on the stage in the back, that doesn’t stop anyone from placing a dollar in the tip jar after he compliments their tattoos or ends a pleasant conversation with a smile and a wink.

The night shift is easy enough to work. People stop entering the cafe sometime after ten, staying their welcome to study on the couches and leaving before closing. Lance’s manager insists Lance work the front while Floyd takes on the side work. So the remainder of Lance’s shift is spent leaning his elbow against the counter and letting his fingers fall one-by-one against his cheek. He tells leaving customers to enjoy the rest of their night as they leave behind a buzz of idle chatter and a ding of the door. Once the cafe clears out, all that’s left is the sounds of Floyd sweeping the floors and an acoustic song from some band that Lance thinks should have never left their basement.

“Am I free to go, bossman?” Lance asks, drumming his hands against the counter, wiggling his hips in time with the beat as his eyes dart between Floyd and the analog clock on the wall.

“You’re good to go,” Floyd nods, sliding Lance’s wallet across the countertop.

With a happy sigh, Lance punches a few buttons on the register, pulling the drawer out and placing it in the office in the back before clocking himself out and grabbing his keys from the hook. The second he does, his phone rings from its spot in his jacket pocket. Slipping it into his palm, he drags his thumb across the screen and cradles it between his ear and his shoulder. “Perfect timing! How’s it hangin’, Pidgeotto?”

“Lance! Hey, um…” The way Pidge says ‘Lance’, high pitched and cracking, tells him he’s about to get bad news. Before he can stop her, Pidge is already stringing together a plethora of subject changers that just seem ridiculous given that the two of them weren’t on a particular subject to begin with.

“Pidge,” Lance interrupts partway through some bullshit commentary having to do with the ‘crazy weather we’ve been having.’ Lance knows that no one has to explain climate change to Pidge, given its something she rants about at least twice a day. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah, okay… Um, we’re at Black Spot… And, uh— Hunk… Hunk, would you— No, grab him! Jesus… “

“What happened?” His sigh is heavy as he closes the door behind him after giving Floyd a curt wave, already headed toward his car. The Black Spot never means anything good, ever. Why his boyfriend so loves the town’s shadiest bar is beyond Lance; he doesn’t exactly find peeling paint and stained floor boards charming. And the muscled biker guys that do nothing but take up space at the bar to glower at the assorted whiskeys along the wall and ramble about their Navy days— or something like that— don’t exactly put Lance in the partying mood.

“Lotor happened.”

“Oh, God…” Lance drags a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose.

He doesn’t need context. Any instance in which Lance’s current boyfriend and Lance’s ex-boyfriend are in the same room usually results in disaster. And a night in the E.R. And, lo and behold, by some cruel twist of fate, these disasters are becoming more and more frequent in recent months. Lance is half convinced that they’re destined to kill each other, like Lotor is Tybalt and Keith is a far less flamboyant Mercutio. Lance refuses to be the Benvolio in this situation. “Just stay put. I’ll be there in a sec.”

A near collision and a half-assed parallel parking job later, Lance walks himself outside the bar, feeling exceptionally underdressed as the Winter weather dusts over his arms. He has to push himself through a crowd of people waiting to be let in by the bouncer before he sees a head of familiar wild hair. In her NASA sweatshirt and minimalist alien hat, Pidge looks like she belongs at a performance art showcase rather than a night out on the town, but Lance is too exhausted to comment on his friends’ poor fashion decisions. Even if that Hawaiian shirt is so not Hunk’s color.

Instead, his focus shifts onto his leather-clad boyfriend, and rather than point out the fact he looks like a Danny Zuko knock-off with a red beanie and black baby gauges in his ears, he steps forward with his arms crossed instead.

“Hey, Lance,” Pidge sighs, sounding somewhat relieved. Hunk is a bit busy grabbing at Keith’s shoulder every time he tries to take a step toward the street. Handling a Drunk Keith is like— as Keith would say in True Texan Spirit— herding cats.

“Hey,” Lance says briskly, marching passed Pidge to strap a hand on the collar of Keith’s jacket. “Lemme see.”

Keith huffs and turns his head, looking utterly indifferent as Lance’s eyes widen.

“Shit, Keith…” He squints a little, scanning over his boyfriend’s busted lip and the fresh patch of bruises, purples, blues, and reds bleeding from underneath one eye, across the bridge of his nose, and all the way under his other eye.

“It’s not that bad,” Keith slurs, holding up a wavering hand.

“Not that—!” Lance has to close his eyes and suck in a breath through his nose, counting to ten just like Mama McClain taught him, before he can open his eyes again. But his glare doesn’t disappear.

“Sorry, man,” Hunk all but mewls beside him, rubbing at the back of his neck in a flustered fashion. “I tried to pull them off of each other as soon as I could.”

“It’s not your fault, big guy,” Lance assures, turning to his best friend with a soft smile before glaring right back at his boyfriend. “It’s yours.”

“Why is it that all of a sudden—” Keith starts, but Lance knows better than to let him divert Lance’s attention.

“There’s no way Lotor with his pretty boy hands was the only culprit. Who the hell were you picking a fight with this time?”

Keith chews at the inside of his cheek, opting to take out his pent up anger on the ground as he fixes it with a fiery glare.

Pidge steps in for him then, pushing her circle glasses further up her nose. “The usual suspects.”

“Great,” Lance grumbles, never breaking his staring contest with Keith’s profile. “So now you wanna take on Lotor and his frat buddies. All of whom are very rich… And can hire very. Good. Attorneys.”

“Lance.” Hunk sets a hand on Lance’s back, offering a sympathetic look that makes Lance’s hunched shoulders deflate. “I know you’re mad, but do you really wanna do this out here?”

It’s then that Lance realizes he’s making a scene, the crowd of people on the street gawking in their direction. And he also realizes that it’s making Keith antsy. That’s apparent in the way he starts shifting his shoulders in every which way and pales a little in the face.

“We’re the ones who let your boyfriend off his leash,” Pidge admits, saying “your boyfriend” like he’s now completely Lance’s responsibility. Saying it like she hasn’t been Keith’s best friend since the fifth grade.

Lance fishes his car keys from his back pocket, still trying to cool off from the anger burning something fierce in his chest. “You guys enjoy the rest of your night, okay? I’m gonna take Keith back to the apartment.”

“Are you sure? We can come with you,” Hunk offers, the concern never leaving his eyes for a moment.

“No, seriously, it’s fine. Besides, I thought I saw a familiar little curly girly named Shay head into that other bar a couple blocks from here.”

Hunk reddens just a little, but nods in agreement as Pidge makes some complaint about being a third wheel. In a mess of goodbyes and repeatedly reaching for Keith’s hand— his opposition to PDA is counterproductive given that he can’t walk by himself without stumbling— Lance finally gets the chance to unlock his car and slide into the driver’s seat. Keith flops down into the passenger’s seat next to him, pulling one leg up to rest his foot on the polyester as he plays absently with the laces on his high tops.

The drive home is silent, mostly because Lance can’t think of a decent lecture that won’t end in a two-way silent treatment, something that’s proven to be agonizing given they’re the only two living in a one-bedroom apartment. After Lance parks, helps Keith climb the stairs, and fumbles with the key in the lock, Keith finds a spot in their too small kitchen, sliding down the lower cabinets to sit cross-legged on the floor. Because apparently he’s a household pet.

Lance rifles through the freezer, snagging a bag of whatever’s packaged and frozen before all but chucking it onto one of Keith’s thighs. Keith seems to get the message, picking it up and hesitantly pressing it to his multi-colored face. Lance finds the place on the floor across from his boyfriend and sits back on his thighs, staring. For a long while, the only sounds in the room are the hum of the refrigerator and their neighbor’s dog yipping through the walls.

“Are we gonna talk about this?” Lance says it more rhetorically than anything.

Keith swallows hard, trying to cover up half of his face with vegetable medley. His voice is muffled by the plastic when he says, “About what?”

Lance rolls his eyes, shaking his head. He has half the mind to storm off into the bedroom and leave Keith to tend to his own wounds. But being a middle sibling of six has taught him patience if nothing else, so he counts to ten again. “About why your face looks like a Goya painting,” he deadpans.

Keith fidgets under Lance’s gaze. His knuckles would be white if they weren’t bruised too. “You know how your asshole ex is.”

“Keith, you have got to pull your head out of the Middle Ages! I’m not some damsel in distress whose honor you have to defend.” Though Lance would admit it was hot the first time… But seeing Keith beat up with dried blood caked all over his features every other weekend is starting to look less suave and James Deany and more thoughtless.

Keith drops the bag of frozen vegetables. Then his nose twitches. To the untrained eye, it would go unnoticed, but Lance has been dating him for two years and three months. And a nose twitch means that Keith’s hiding something.

“But this has nothing to do with that, does it?”

“Lance, would you just let it go—”

“Okay, fine. You want me to let this one go? Then we can talk about last week. Or the week before that. Or the week before that.”

Keith tries for a glare then, a practiced stare that looks like flames are licking at his irises, but Lance is immune from prolonged exposure.

“And I know you’re not that drunk, so let’s not act like this was impulse alone.”

When Keith shrugs off his jacket and tosses it across the room, Lance sees that the bruises aren’t just on his face. His heart jumps up to his throat as the sound of the ice machine crunches in the background.

“Would you just tell me why you’re being more of a brooding edgelord than usual? Why do you have to be so emotionally constipated?” He places either hand on Keith’s shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. “Let me be your laxative.”

“You really have a knack for making up the world’s most disgusting metaphors.”

“It’s a gift. I’m thinking of turning it into a career path.”

“Stick to astrophysics.”

“Stop changing the subject.” It’s clear that neither of them is budging, so Lance just arches a brow and asks, “Do I have to call Shiro?”

Keith slams his back further into the cabinets with a groan. The older brother card is always the trump card. “Do not tell Shiro about this, please. I’m still getting lectures about my stupid cafeteria fights in high school.”

“Then tell me what’s going on! I thought when we said we were gonna be more open with each other, it was gonna be a two-way street. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“Nothing’s going on, Lance, okay? I hate your ex-boyfriend and his stupid frat bro sidekicks, and I shouldn’t have had that last shot of moonshine, alright?”

While it is incredibly tempting to comment on the moonshine bit, Lance holds off. Because something else catches his eye. Crossing his arms over his chest, he refuses to break eye contact, giving Keith just a few more moments to tell him the truth. The clock ticks away, and there’s nothing. “You’re biting your lip,” he says finally.

“So?”

“So, one, stop it; it’s busted and you’re gonna hurt yourself. And two, that means you’re not telling me something.”

“Would you quit psychoanalyzing me!?”

Patience be damned. Something in Lance snaps then, something that makes his teeth grind and heat bubble in his chest. His fists tremble a little before he throws his hands out to his sides and starts getting to his feet. “Fine, you know what? Fine. Forget I asked. God forbid someone try to care about you, Keith, damn.”

He steps to leave, but as soon as he does, Keith clasps a hand onto his wrist and pulls just a little. The moment Lance turns his head, eyes sharp with ice and prickling rage, he feels his heart jump. The anger slowly trickles out of his system, sending a shiver down his spine. Keith looks a little broken, shoulders squared and eyes pleading in a way that’s so unlike him it makes something in the back of Lance’s head scream.

“I’m sorry, okay? I just… You’re gonna think I’m bat-shit.”

Lance exhales low and deep, turning fully and sitting back down across from Keith. He sets a gentle hand on Keith’s knee, trying to get him to make eye contact. “Try me.”

Keith’s mental illness has been the elephant in the room, always noticed but never talked about. Because Keith refused to talk about it. It took a full year’s convincing, mostly on Shiro’s end, just to get him to start seeing help. Some days he was a mess of the emotions he never learned how to process, and Lance would try his best to be there for him. Other days were better. Other days he was just silent and spacey and tried not to cry.

“No one knows this, okay? Not even Shiro, not even my goddamn shrink, so you can’t…” He trails off, and Lance tries to squeeze his knee in support.

“Keith… Keith, look at me…” When Keith looks up, his eyes are growing misty, pink rings already apparent on the brims of his eyes. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Offering a weak nod, Keith takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he forces himself to speak. “I just… I thought that maybe… Y’know how sometimes people… I don’t know, I thought if I was… Fuck.” He holds up his hands before Lance can say anything, blinking away whatever tears form in his eyes before he lets out a breath and continues. “I thought if I could feel, I don’t know, pain… If I could feel anything I’d stop feeling like…” Keith clamps his teeth down on his lower lip again. Whatever tears he blinks away only come back.

Lance sighs, reaching out his thumb to slip Keith’s lip from his teeth’s grasp. “Keith, you can cry—”

“No, I can’t,” Keith starts, though his voice trembles despite himself. “Because if I start I won’t stop. And I just— Fuck, I just need to say it.” Lance can practically feel the frustration radiating off of the other in waves. With a steady breath, he takes a hand in Keith’s, holding it to his chest and letting Keith know he has Lance’s full attention. Keith hisses in another breath and tries again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me… Lately, it’s just like, like nothing is fucking real, and I can talk and hear and touch things, but it’s like I’m not really there. Like I’m in some weird dream world, and I’m just watching myself or something. Or like everything’s not really there, or maybe it is, and I’m just not a part of it… I don’t know, it feels like I’m going insane.”

“Keith…” Lance doesn’t know where to go from there, watching his boyfriend struggle around his words with a pain sinking into Lance’s chest.

“Sometimes I don’t think I even sound like me… Like when I talk, it’s some kind of automated computer message, y’know? And I went home for Christmas. And I thought… I don’t know, I thought being home and in my own bed might make me feel normal again. But it didn’t. And nothing feels normal, nothing feels… Damn it, I’m going insane.” That’s when Keith’s face twists, twists into something that’s a punch to Lance’s gut. And Keith is squinting his eyes closed, sniffling loudly before a sob emits from his throat.

“You know… You don’t have to be so strong all the time…” Lance says in a whisper, tucking a strand of Keith’s hair behind his ear.

Keith looks up at him, eyes watery as he sobs again, pressing his face into Lance’s chest. Lance wraps his arms around him instinctively, feeling Keith shake, choking and whimpering against him. Lance can only hold him closer, shushing him tenderly as Keith claws at the back of Lance’s shirt, gripping onto the fabric like he’ll disappear if he doesn’t. Each broken little noise that leaves Keith is another twist in Lance’s heart, and he doesn’t dare let go.

“It’s okay, you’re okay…” Lance coos, pressing tender kisses on the top of Keith’s hair. “You’re okay, baby… You’re okay…”

Keith doesn’t stop weeping, not until his throat is raw and all he can do is let silent tears roll down his cheeks as he snivels and tries to breathe normally again.

By the time he leans back, sniffling and rubbing under his eyes with the back of his palm, there’s a wet patch on Lance’s T-shirt. Lance doesn’t mind, too busy trying to read Keith’s expression, setting a hand on the back of his neck.

“Do you feel any better?” Lance asks softly, ducking his head into Keith’s line of sight.

Keith nods his head slowly, wiping his nose with the white cotton of his T-shirt with another wet snivel. “Sorry about your shirt.”

Lance snorts, rolling his eyes just a little. “I have other shirts.”

“Yeah.” Keith’s breath shudders once more as he collects himself and blinks the wetness from his puffy eyes, tears caught on his eyelashes. “I’m just sorry I—”

“No. No… We agreed no more apologizing about this.”

“No, you said ‘Keith, stop apologizing every time you cry.’”

“Okay, smartass.” Lance rises to his feet, offering his hands and pulling Keith up along with him. With a steady breath, he places a gentle kiss on the corner of Keith’s lips, mindful to avoid the forming scab. “Thank you… For sharing that with me.”

Keith nods solemnly, probably thinking something snarky about how Lance is talking like his therapist. So Lance goes for a subject change, placing his hands at the base of Keith’s neck.

“How about you wash your face and pick out a movie, alright?”

They spend the rest of the night tangled up in each other, Lance refusing to move his arms from Keith’s waist even as Keith awkwardly holds an icepack to his face. Eventually, they drift to sleep, heart beats pumping in time while Lance tries his best to whisper words of comfort.

“I love you… And you’re here. Even if your mind’s playing tricks on you. You’re here, and you’re with me. And I love you…”