Chapter Text
The crisp morning wind nipped at Lance’s skin, rustling the paper in his hands and forcing him into performing a funny sort of dance before huddling close to Hunk in an attempt to keep warm until practice officially began.
With football season about to begin, signaled by the football team’s sluggish return from their brutally soul-destroying training camp, Altea State’s marching band was due to start learning an abundance of new routines. The band had been called down to the field for an early practice to get acquainted with their new formations and to review the overnight changes that had been made to the band’s lineup for the upcoming season.
As underwhelming as the lineup sheet that had been handed around was, it turned the wind around Lance even colder and quickly brought an end to his warmth-inducing jig.
Since his high school days, Lance had been playing the trumpet and marching at whatever football game, competition, or over-the-top schooling event that he was told to march at. And in that time, he had never, not once, impressed his band director enough to land the coveted position of section leader.
He was always too goofy, too loud, too boisterous to ever be considered for the role. His high school band director would cackle just at the idea of Lance rising to the challenge he was determined to conquer; but college was his chance to buckle down and focus (and possibly suck up to his new band director a little more, too).
Coran, the most comical professor Lance had ever encountered and the director of Altea State’s marching band, was on far better terms with Lance. Still, it was evident by the - in Lance’s opinion - insultingly small size of his name printed on the flimsy handout that he still had a long way to go.
Matt released a guttural groan, combing his fingers through his hair and slumping against the side of Hunk that Lance hadn’t already claimed. “I can’t even think of a word to describe how much I hate football season.”
“Don’t think too hard, your brain might short-circuit,” Pidge muttered, already tucking the sheet of paper into her clarinet case before her eyes drifted over to Lance. “Are you sulking?”
Lance pulled his eyes away from the page and surely enough, found himself face to face with Pidge’s quizzical stare. He stuffed the handout into the pocket of his gym shorts, feeling them grow increasingly damp the longer they sat out on the field. “This is the fourth audition I’ve flunked. You can’t let me throw a pity party just once?”
“Well, you know what they say, fifth time’s the charm,” Matt said absentmindedly, trying to pick lint off his track pants.
Hunk nudged Lance and Matt off him so he could get to his backpack. “Look on the bright side, dude. At least you don’t have to talk to Lotor.”
An unattractive snort escaped Lance as he punched Hunk in the arm. “I swear he only carries around his baton outside of practice because he’s compensating for something.”
Pidge scoffed. “Please, his baton isn’t even that big, either.”
With all the movements Lance had to memorize before the first game of the season, the last thing he needed to put up with was an overly pretentious drum major sending him dirty looks from his prime field position and otherwise ignoring anybody who wasn’t in a position of authority, and yet, that is exactly what Lance had to put up with.
“Anyway,” Hunk went on, clasping a comforting hand over Lance’s shoulder and easing some of the tension he was holding, “you’re only a sophomore, man. You’ve got plenty of time to impress.”
Pidge pulled a hoodie over herself as it became increasingly evident that Coran was too enthralled by his conversation with the coach of the football team to start practice anytime soon. “Are you sure it’s just that?”
“Just what?”
“Your audition and the insufferable presence of Lotor,” she said. “You look like you’re about to snap.”
Hunk sniggered, leaning in close to keep his voice low. “He’s convinced the quarterback drunk his iced tea from the common room fridge this morning.”
“I saw him do it!” And snap he did. “It had my name written on it in bright blue marker and he still sipped right from the bottle and then put it back in the fridge.”
Hunk’s courteous volume, accounting for the fact that the football team were beginning to gather on the sidelines, was no sooner undone by the outburst. Matt fell back against Hunk once more, laughing enough for Lance to twist around and smack him squarely in the chest.
“Can’t you reprimand him?”
Matt raised a brow. “Reprimand him? No.”
“But you’re the resident assistant,” Lance argued, “who else is meant to deal with stuff like this?”
It was common knowledge within their group that the most Matthew Holt had ever accomplished as the resident assistant for their floor was lie to freshmen about all the outlandish rules they had to obey upon arriving in their dorms. A ban on forks and the imposition of a mandatory floor-wide interpretive dance every Thursday were the most memorable.
“If you read my job description,” he said, as though he had read it himself, “I can’t mend conflict until you create conflict. Did you talk to him about it?”
Lance sunk into himself, crossing his arms over his chest. Of course he hadn’t. He had been too busy gawking at the sight of the ever-famous quarterback wrapping his lips around his drink. “You’re useless. I can’t believe you guys aren’t mad about this.”
The others paid him no attention.
“You know, I heard from one of the cheerleaders that he doesn’t even like football,” Lance said to himself, “he’s probably just out there for the attention and the chicks.”
Matt barked out a laugh. “If we’re talking about the same quarterback then trust me, that guy hates being in the spotlight more than you hate Professor Rizavi’s politics class.”
Pidge hummed in agreement and shrugged. “Honestly, Keith’s a pretty nice guy.”
Hunk gave a simple nod. “Yeah, man, I’m sure he didn’t try and get under your skin on purpose.”
“And if you’re so mad,” Pidge added, “go confront him about it.”
“No way! I’m not getting my lights punched out by a footballer over some iced tea.” Lance knew the limits of his courage, and bailing up a footballer in front of all his buddies that were the size of titans was well beyond it.
“Cool,” Pidge said, “so, problem solved.”
Lance’s subsequent grumbling was cut off by the shrill sound of Coran’s whistle, beckoning the band over to the center of the field to review their positions.
Hunk extended a hand to help Lance up. “Do you think they’re gonna stick around?” He asked, gesturing at the footballers nearby. “My tuba is practically a walking target for that football they’re throwing around.”
Lance scowled, picking up his trumpet. “Better not. The field is ours today, fair and square.”
Coran climbed atop his step ladder to look over the slowly gathering members, directing the group into their first formation as Matt reluctantly left to tend to the tech station over by the bleachers.
Fair and square or not, while the coach of the football team had disappeared, his players were still very much present, strutting around like the owned the place. Lance could barely focus on formations, or his music, or anything at all for that matter, because the noise coming from the crowd of brutish jocks that lingered nearby had effectively drowned out any sound that Lance attempted to make with his instrument.
Their incessant whooping only died down as part of the team turned to ogle at the color guard members who had just arrived at practice, most of whom were too busy sorting through equipment to care. Though it seemed no sooner than Lance had pulled his focus back onto his footwork that the footballers returned to tossing the football between themselves, still standing far too close to the sideline to put the band at ease.
Of course, they were professionals; division one athletes who knew exactly what they were doing, or so Lance sincerely hoped. That football was safe in their hands, and Lance really had no excuse to be almost falling out of time because of his mounting irritation with the player’s decision to flaunt their talent on a field that was not theirs between the hours of seven and ten o’clock on Wednesday mornings. However, his decision to put the players and their antics as far out of his mind as he could manage was swiftly interrupted.
The football that was being casually passed around the group landed into the tight embrace of the quarterback’s hands. He cradled the ball with a great deal of care — and then launched it out of his hold as though it had suddenly caught fire in his hands. It spiraled through the air in a horribly zigzagged pattern, soaring over Hunk’s giant tuba target to land a walloping blow right in the center of Lance’s back.
Lance’s trumpet slipped out of his hands the moment the ball knocked into him, his hands sprawling out in front of him in a failed attempt to break his fall as he plummeted face first into the ground, taking in a mouthful of bitter grass in the process.
Practice was promptly halted with another sharp blow of a whistle as Coran crawled down from his ladder to inspect the damage. The music and chatter ceased, leaving Lance to struggle in a humiliating silence before Hunk dropped his own instrument to rush towards him.
Coran looked positively shaken by the abandoned trumpet laying in the kicked-up turf, but the trumpet was the least of Lance’s concerns. The wind had been entirely knocked out of him, his breath shaky as he winced at the pain of what would undoubtedly become an impressive bruise by morning. He moved to wipe the dirt from his lips, though his muck-covered hands were rather unhelpful at doing so.
Grasping onto Hunk’s extended hand, Lance hoisted himself back up, stretching his back out with a suppressed grunt. The posture that he prided himself on during performances was far from the unappealing hunch he was presently bent over into.
Hunk flicked a blade of grass off Lance’s nose. “Are you alright, dude?”
Lance’s response came out as a low croak more than anything remotely intelligible, mostly on account of the culprit of the blow arriving at the scene, looking him over in a frenzy of panic.
Keith Kogane’s stare was unwavering. His head moved with Lance’s, eyes flicking across Lance’s body as if he was checking for damage. His dark tousled hair and stained jersey looked drastically out of place in amongst the uniform band, and his tentative movements made it obvious that he was well aware.
The footballers, who had fallen into a silent stupor while Lance was scrambling around on the ground had returned to their usual snickering now that their captain was rambling in front of the student he had just likely injured with his appalling excuse of a throw.
“I’m—” His hand was hovering unsurely around Lance’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”
The boy’s voice sounded as breathless as it did during his postgame interviews; except he’d barely moved an inch the whole time he’d been out on the field, let alone sprint from end zone to end zone while dodging relentless tackles.
Lance waved the issue away with an uncaring hand, stumbling back into Hunk’s hold without offering the other more than a grunt. He seriously thought he could just stride over and not even apologize when it was his responsibility as captain to clear his band of babbling jocks from the field instead of passing the football around like it was some kind of frisbee?
Even without Lance working to distance himself from Keith, Coran soon cut between the boys, cupping Lance’s chin so he could lean uncomfortably close and assess his pupils.
“Coran, I don’t have a concussion,” Lance managed to say, his voice muffled with the man’s fingers squeezing into his cheeks.
“Somebody take him to get some ice, we’ll resume practice in five,” Coran decided, releasing his grip so he could wave Keith away like he was a nosy fly, leaving room for Hunk to help Lance over to the bleachers.
Lance was all too aware of Keith’s lingering presence, his intense gaze no doubt following him as he was escorted off the field. A part of him was seriously regretting the fact that he had snubbed the footballer’s sorry attempt at checking on him, certain that Keith would yank him backwards by the collar and punch him across the jaw before he could even get some ice on his aching back.
But the punch didn’t come. Keith stood uncomfortably around the band for a moment longer before shrinking into himself, appearing much smaller than he did during a game as he rubbed the back of his neck and quietly returned to his team. Something told Lance he wouldn't have been so reserved if Lance had told him it was he who deserved a smack across the jaw.
“Lance, buddy, are you good?” Matt was jogging over with a water bottle, dropping various important looking cords as he went.
“Yeah, just peachy.”
Hunk eased him down as they reached the benches and gave him a soft pat on the arm. “I’m gonna get you an ice pack. Sit tight, okay?”
“Thanks,” Lance huffed, reaching down to brush off the cold mud that was drying on his knees. “Is this enough conflict for you?” He cocked a brow at Matt who only smirked.
“You know he didn’t mean to do that.”
“Yeah, yeah. He just happened to make his abysmal throw curve around all the other band members to hit me specifically.”
“Yep,” Matt deadpanned. “Come on, man, everyone knows quarterbacks have superpowers, it’s basic knowledge at this point.” He handed over the bottle of water and poked Lance in the back, right where the ball had landed. “Is it sore?”
“Ouch! What the hell is wrong with you?”
He grinned. “Such a weakling.”
Lance used a lazy arm to push him back before turning to squint at the center of the field. “Did neither of you guys get my trumpet?”
“Oh, right... Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Matt knelt down to better meet Lance’s line of sight. “Did you uh, get your grade back yet?”
Ah, yes. Lance’s blow to the back was but a soft flick in the arm compared to the agony that his most recent psychology paper had caused him over the past few weeks, not to mention Professor Iverson and his passion for projecting sheer bitterness upon his students; particularly Lance.
“Yeah,” he said, averting his eyes to count the bits of grime that had collected on his previously pristine shoes. “I went past Iverson’s office on the way here to check.”
“Oh yeah? Top of the class?” There was an air of humor in his voice.
Lance sniggered at the possibility. “Right, in another reality, maybe.”
Still unlikely, he thought. A million realities and Lance would probably have the utter pleasure of being chewed out by Iverson in every last one.
“Seriously, though,” Matt said, “how’d you do?”
Lance shifted his shoulders weakly and Matt didn’t press him any further. The grades that hung outside of Iverson’s office were more humiliating than the band’s lineup sheet, and to top matters off, Keith Kogane’s name was the one that sat atop the class they shared together while Lance’s name trailed miserably behind.
But there was no celebratory “in your face” brag from the unfairly talented quarterback. Instead, Keith was muttering to the now huddled group of footballers, eventually prompting them to break apart and retreat from the field, taking their pig-skinned projectile with them.
Another poke in the back drew Lance’s attention away from the group. “Have you considered getting a tutor?” Matt asked. “I have a friend who’s doing his masters in psychology here. I’m sure he’d be happy to help you out,” he offered with a shrug.
“You know I genuinely have zero understanding of the entire course though, right? I’m a lost cause, Matthew.”
“Bullshit,” he threw back, “Hunk said you aced the test on sleep patterns.”
A sudden cold rush rippling down his back forced a gasp out of Lance, who then jolted at Hunk’s timely arrival with his much-needed ice pack.
“He did, should’ve seen the look on Iverson’s face,” Hunk added with a grin.
Lance shoved the ice pack under his shirt with a grunt. “Guys, I only passed that because my whole life is a sleep pattern.”
Matt shushed Lance with a hasty flick of his wrist. “This guy’s good, dude, I promise. He’s got an apartment nearby, do you want me to give you his number?”
Lance bowed his head and reluctantly returned a nod, handing his phone over to Matt. As embarrassing as it was to lay his abundance of failed tests and papers out in front of a stranger, the thought of phoning up his parents and telling them he’d failed a class was...sufficient encouragement.
“Sweet,” Matt said, handing him back his phone, “I’ll let him know you’ll call.”
“Thanks, seriously,” Lance said before peering back out onto the field. “I’m gonna get my trumpet before it gets trampled. D’you think Coran will mind if I ditch the rest of practice?”
Hunk shrugged. “Eh, I can tell him your brain was oozing out of your ears or something if you get me a breakfast burrito on your way back to the dorm.”
“Done.”
Keith stifled a yawn into the sleeve of his jacket, shuffling into the communal kitchen to fill his mug with coffee.
The space was usually empty and quiet in the mornings, just as he liked it. It was a small opportunity to clear his head in peace before he had to slam a helmet on and work himself through practice as though he was being paid for it; which he most definitely was not.
Today, however, was not so empty and quiet at all.
Someone was humming along to something on the radio, and said someone was also planted right in front of the microwave, which just so happened to be the one appliance Keith needed to use; preferably before practice started and not after this guy was done dancing around the kitchen.
Heading down to the coffee house was certainly an alternative option, but the last time he was down there this early he was almost inducted into the drama club and cast in their faculty’s latest production of Cats. Too risky.
He eyed the stovetop and sighed. It was better than nothing.
The other student jolted when Keith cleared his throat and came into the room, the humming coming to an abrupt stop as the music on the radio was left to play on alone.
Keith looked him up and down now that he had a better view, and any drowsiness that was still lingering in his system was knocked out of him as though he had just been tackled to the ground by one of the Galra's biggest players. He quickly brought his eyes away from the coiffed brown hair he had initially been drawn to.
Shit.
Wondering why he didn’t just take his chances with the coffee house, Keith took a clumsy step towards the coffee pot, bringing it over to the stovetop that was unfairly close to where the boy was standing. He half-expected to get chewed out for the entire floor to hear, but nothing was said. The boy only offered Keith an unimpressed glance before turning his attention to the microwave that still had several minutes to go.
Then, the guy stretched. He bent back and forth, twisting his torso around and making sure Keith heard the small grunt he made when he rubbed a slender hand over the center of his back, right where Keith had landed his almighty blow yesterday. Seriously?
Keith brought his arms uncomfortably over his chest and pretended to have taken up a keen interest in watching the entrance to the kitchen.
He couldn't say anything; he shouldn't. Even if he didn't manage to get an apology out on the field Keith would just be taking up more of his time by doing it now, surely. I mean the guy looked so busy, what with watching the microwave blankly and all...
On the other hand, if Shiro found out he hadn’t righted his wrong when he had the chance, he could pretty much put money on the fact that he’d be grabbed by the ears and strung around the room the moment he stepped into his apartment.
Keith's fingers twitched involuntarily against his arm as he tried to force his eyes away from the other in the hope that it would kill the suffocating silence between them. He grasped the fabric on his shirt before bringing his hands back down to his sides, stomaching a despairing groan.
“You’re Lance, right?”
His question seemed to surprise Lance, who gave him a brief but scrutinizing once-over before turning his attention back to the microwave and responding with a disinterested “yeah.” If he was trying to make Keith feel like an asshole, fuck, it was working.
And maybe he was, but even still, did he really have to keep looking at Keith like he was a certified puppy kicker? He was trying his best here.
He shifted the pot on the stove and scuffed his shoe against the floor. “You were right,” he eventually went on, “about yesterday. We shouldn’t have been on the field.”
Lance remained quiet. It was almost like he was getting a kick out of making Keith flounder in the silence. Scratch that, he was definitely getting a kick out of making Keith flounder in the silence.
Keith moved his arms away from his chest, averting his eyes only for them to spring right back onto Lance. “I really didn’t mean to hit you.”
Lance snapped his entire body towards Keith before he could even take another breath. “Are you sure?" He asked, his eyebrows were about as high up on his face as they could possibly be. "Because there was a hell of a lot of force behind that throw. Trust me, I felt it.”
Keith couldn’t help but wince at each word that hurtled towards him. He supposed he really had hurt him; not just enough to warrant him an ice pack, but enough to vex him for all eternity, apparently.
He shuffled in his place, wrapping his arms back around himself. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say, “it was my bad. I swear it was meant to go long, but it slipped out of my hand.” A sheepish laugh escaped him whether he wanted it to or not. He was lucky his coach hadn't seen any of it unfold, or he'd be benched for the entire season.
Lance pursed his lips together and placed one hand onto his hip. “Aren’t you meant to be the star quarterback or something?” He asked, his voice dripping in smugness as his lips curled up at the sides.
The comment, as scathingly offensive as Lance had seemingly meant it to be, actually forced Keith to hold back a snort. It was maybe – no, without a doubt – the first time someone outside of his small circle hadn’t acted like he was anything special, and it was refreshing even if it was meant to piss him off.
But Lance didn’t stop there. “You know,” he added casually, “you’re a lot smaller up close.”
Never mind, he was pissed off.
“What?”
“Well,” Lance went on, “everybody’s always talking about how big and intimidating footballers are, but you’re not that big. In fact,” he said, squizzing Keith over, “I think I might be taller than you.” His eyes were practically gleaming with satisfaction.
“You’re not.”
His baggy hoodie masked most of his figure but from what Keith could make out, the guy was practically a twig. Taller, maybe, but that was something Keith wasn’t ready to admit, at least not out loud. He wouldn't be held responsible for feeding this guy's confidence like a Gremlin after midnight.
“I think am."
“No way.”
Lance made a small noise of annoyance and turned back to his food as the microwave let out several piercing beeps. He retrieved his plate and moved its contents around with a fork. Whatever it was smelled delicious and almost tempted Keith to blow off practice just so he could get something from the café across campus.
Picking up his food, Lance gave Keith one final glance. “You should probably get to practice and learn how to throw so you don’t lose the next game for us.”
And with that, he left, leaving Keith to almost burn his coffee while waiting for his mouth to decide whether it should frown or grin. Keith had apologized, hadn’t he? Part of him knew he should call back after him and tell him to just drop it already, but he couldn’t help but smirk to himself at the comment, letting his shoulders relax as his coffee finally seemed hot enough to take off the stove.
Some nerve.
Lance was beyond relieved to arrive back at his dorm. He'd had assignments dumped on him in each and every one of his classes over the course of the day, and Iverson's jabbering during today's lecture was so intensely bitter that Lance had even begun to crave the scarcely comfortable embrace of his suspiciously stained dorm couch.
What he didn't expect, was a slip of paper to greet him as he opened the door, demanding that Lance postpone his relaxation retreat to decode it.
If Hunk had forgotten his keys again Lance figured he would have been greeted with six-hundred text messages instead of an outdated and honestly unsettling messaging system. And if Pidge had visited while both of them were out, well, Lance was pretty sure she'd forged her own key at some point or another anyway. Regardless, the door was unlocked, Hunk had already made himself at home in front of the TV, and Pidge was nowhere to be seen.
Lance dumped his backpack inside and picked the flimsy piece of paper up off the floor.
You should probably get to practice so you don’t bore the crowd at the next game.
Oh, no way.
“Hunk, get over here.”
There was a soft groan from amongst the couch cushions. “Do I have to?”
“Did you see this?” Lance asked, flapping the piece of paper around in the air.
The pile of pillows on the couch broke away, falling to the floor as Hunk heaved himself up from the couch. “See what?”
“This!” Lance thrust the note towards him. “Can you believe this?”
Hunk scanned the piece of paper, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed it. “Man, I must have walked straight past it, unless someone slipped it under the door recently. Who’s it from?”
Lance clenched his jaw. “Keith.”
There was no doubt about it. Nobody else would go out of their way just to try and be rude. His name even left a sour taste in his mouth, if that was anything to go by.
Hunk didn’t look so mad anymore. “Are you sure, man? It’s not like it’s signed or anything.”
“He tried to give me a spinal injury, Hunk. Would you put it past him?”
Seriously, what the hell was with this guy? He dazzled the crowd game after game, thank you very much.
Hunk read the note over again – every last condescending word. “Jeez,” he said finally, “maybe you should just apologize.”
“Me?”
Hunk threw his hands up in defence. “I'm just saying! I told you calling him out was a bad idea, didn't I?”
Yes, a hundred times yes, and Lance could always count on Hunk to be his voice of reason in any situation, but upon finding Keith alone in the kitchen what was Lance supposed to do? Not rile him up and taunt him?
A knock at the door made Hunk drop his hands. Lance huffed. So much for relaxation.
“I’ll get it,” he grumbled.
Hunk bowed his head in thanks, grabbed a bag of chips from their kitchenette and made his way back to the couch as Lance pulled the door open to be greeted with—
"What the hell, man?"
Keith’s face was inches away from his, his person almost falling into the dorm. His brows were knitted up in annoyance as he glared daggers into Lance's soul, delivering just about the least relaxing sight Lance could have hoped for.
It was absolutely clear that Keith was projecting his seething rage onto him, but that didn’t stop Lance from peering around in the hopes of finding another unwilling recipient of Keith’s unwarranted hostility.
"Uh, what?"
Keith scowled, only making him look more menacing as he let one of his hands reach up to grip the door frame. Lance felt a flush wash right over him. Jerk.
"Look, I'm not interested in a prank war, or a rivalry, or whatever the hell you're trying to start."
Lance shook his head back and forth like it would somehow enlighten him on why his nightly routine of flopping onto the couch was being delayed because of this. "Dude, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Keith tsked under his breath but composed himself; kind of. "Listen, I'm sorry if you took that note the wrong way, but that doesn't justify you taking six whole containers of my meal prep."
It took everything within Lance not to let out an indignant gasp. "Excuse me? I took nothing." What was this guy's problem? Was knocking him over in front of the entire band not enough for him?
"Do you think I'm an idiot or something?"
"Well,” Lance said, crossing his arms over his chest to mask the way his voice had shot up an octave in his exasperation, “you are accusing me of something completely ridiculous before even explaining it to me."
He could have sworn he caught Keith’s mouth snap immediately open in response, but he regathered himself with a gentle cough. "I made six containers worth of meals for this week and put them in the common fridge. I went to get them tonight and the containers were there but the food was gone."
He may as well have just announced he'd sighted bigfoot, because Lance was definitely looking at him like he had. "And you think I ate it? All six containers?"
"Okay, maybe not ate,” Keith conceded, “but you did something with it."
"I didn't touch your food," he said, emphasizing his point by prodding a finger against Keith's chest, drawing Keith's gaze down to where he had made contact before he withdrew his hand. "I don't have any reason to! My roommate and I have a fridge, and,” he said, pausing to point back at Hunk who was doing a pretty abysmal job at pretending not to listen in on their conversation, “my roommate is like, the best cook in the building. Why the hell would I eat your protein goop?"
Keith’s eyes didn’t travel towards Hunk, he just pressed his tongue firmly against his cheek like he was trying to stop himself from making another outburst. He sighed like it was Lance who had come to his dorm just to waste his time with this.
"Like it would've been anyone else."
Come again?
Keith bit his lip, bringing his hand off the doorframe and back down to his side. His expression seemed to soften, his eyes losing their harshness as he appeared to mull over his next words in a more careful manner. "Look, I thought what you said in the kitchen was funny, okay? That's why I left that note. I wasn’t trying to be rude."
Lance blinked back at him. "Okay?”
"Okay, so it obviously offended you, because who else is just going to throw out six containers of food that isn't theirs on a whim?"
Lance rolled his eyes, irritated beyond what any couch could cure. "Dude, I didn't eat, take, or throw out your food. Hunk, tell him I didn't take his food!" He called back into the dorm.
"I really don't want any part in this, Lance!"
Lance turned back and dropped his volume to a harsh whisper. "You know, you have some nerve coming to my door just to yell at me for something I didn't even do. Heck, I didn't even know your food was there!"
Keith scoffed, leaning over to one side against the doorframe. "Fine, whatever,” he decided. “I don't have time for this. If you're just going to be difficult about it then I'm leaving."
For someone who didn't have the time he certainly seemed to linger in Lance's doorway for a while before finally pushing himself off the frame, taking a step back and granting Lance a slither of personal space that quickly proved useless as Lance took a step into the corridor.
This time he allowed himself his indignant gasp. "You're not even going to apologize to me first?"
Keith's expression turned dark. He actually looked vaguely threatening in the shadow of the overhead lights. "Why would I do that?"
"For assuming that I'm some kind of food stealing asshole!"
"No," he said simply, looking back at Lance like he was daring him to challenge him right here in the corridor. "I'm just gonna go remake all the food that I should have already eaten by now."
Lance could have erupted with a plethora of petty comebacks, but an idea crossed his mind and he opted to offer Keith a smile that was all too sweet for his cutting tone. "You know what, why don't you go complain to the resident assistant while you're at it," he taunted.
Instead of reacting in the way Lance might have hoped he would (causing a scene and losing all respect for himself in front of the entire floor) Keith ran a tongue over his bottom lip and started to make his way back down the corridor.
"Maybe I will."
Lance took another step out of his dorm. "Great!” He called after him. “I'd love to know how that goes for you!"
"Good,” Keith called back, hardly even looking over his shoulder, “because I'm sure you'll be hearing from him soon."
As much as he could feel his blood boiling just at the mere sight of this hotheaded jerk retreating back to his dorm that was so stupidly close to Lance’s, he sniggered once Keith was out of sight. He’d pay money to see the look on Keith’s stupid face when Matt ignored every accusation Keith made against him.
Hunk was gawking at him as he stepped back inside and closed the door, but Lance could only bother to sigh and brush the incident aside. God, he was beginning to crave his sacred downtime more than air itself.
Before he let his tired legs carry him over to where Hunk waited with snacks and a patient ear that was readying itself for Lance's incoming rant, he rummaged through his bag to retrieve his phone, locating his most recently added contact (courtesy of Matt) so he could cross one final task off his to-do list.
He brought his phone up to his ear, rubbing his thumb and index finger together as he waited for his call to connect.
“Hey, is this Adam?”