Chapter Text
Lance didn’t hate music. He just didn’t get the obsession with bands.
Especially college bands. They were always the same: too loud, too broody, and too convinced they were going to be the next big thing despite playing to half-empty auditoriums and tipsy underclassmen.
So naturally, when Pidge shoved a flyer in his face that morning, he groaned.
Tonight at The Pit: NIGHT SHADE — with Keith Kogane (vocals), James Griffin (drums), Matt Holt (bass), Shiro Shirogane (guitar).
Free with student ID. Earplugs not included.
“You’re kidding,” Lance said, flicking the edge of the paper. “They look like they time-traveled straight out of a 2005 Hot Topic.”
“That’s the point,” Pidge said, like it was obvious. “It’s nostalgic. And besides, the lead singer is hot. Like, tragically poetic hot.”
“You think everything in eyeliner is tragically poetic,” Lance muttered.
Hunk gave him a look. “Come on, dude. It’ll be fun. It’s either this or another night of you monologuing about that TA who looks like Pedro Pascal.”
Lance threw up his hands. “That man radiates academic tension, Hunk!”
“Band. Pit. 8 p.m.,” Pidge said with finality.
⸻
The Pit was a campus dive bar turned venue, lit with moody reds and heavy with the scent of beer and teenage angst. Lance leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, while Pidge and Hunk pushed forward into the crowd.
The lights dimmed.
A pulse of feedback. A cheer. Then—
“Hey.” The mic crackled as a low, gravelly voice broke through. “We’re Night Shade.”
Lance sighed… and then the spotlight hit him.
Well, it hit him.
Center stage, under a mop of dark, choppy hair, was the singer. Tight jeans, black boots, sleeveless hoodie clinging to lean muscle. Eyes like storm clouds and a mouth that looked like it hadn’t smiled in a year.
Keith Kogane.
He grabbed the mic like it had done him wrong in a past life and started to sing.
Lance’s breath caught.
It wasn’t the genre—it was raw, emotional, angry—but there was something electric in Keith’s voice. Something that cracked through Lance’s practiced indifference and made his heart trip over itself.
He scoffed.
Nope. Not doing this.
But as Keith’s eyes swept the room, they landed on Lance—and stayed. Just for a second.
Lance straightened.
Keith didn’t look away. He sang right into the next verse like he meant every word for him.
Lance had no idea what the lyrics were.
But suddenly, bands didn’t seem so stupid anymore.
Lance wasn’t lingering. He was waiting for Hunk and Pidge, who had vanished toward the front during the last set. He definitely wasn’t standing near the backstage door in hopes of catching a glimpse of a certain emo lead singer.
He was better than that.
Until said lead singer walked out, towel slung around his neck, jaw sharp under the stage lights, black tank clinging to a chest sculpted by at least three years of brooding gym visits.
Lance blinked.
“Oh. It’s you,” Keith said flatly, voice hoarse from screaming lyrics into the crowd like they owed him money.
Lance crossed his arms. “Wow, nice to meet you too, Mr. Sunshine.”
Keith stopped. His gaze did that sharp, unsettling once-over thing again—like he was trying to figure out what Lance was and why he didn’t fit into any neat little box.
“You were watching,” Keith said.
Lance scoffed. “I was dragged here. Against my will. But congrats on yelling your feelings into a microphone for an hour. Very edgy.”
Keith stepped a little closer. Close enough that Lance had to look up—way up, because apparently emo singers came in 6’2” now and packed enough bicep to make Lance reevaluate every “twink vs. jock” meme he’d ever made.
“And yet, you’re still here,” Keith said, low and challenging.
Lance’s brain short-circuited for a second. “I’m waiting for my friends. Obviously. Not all of us are backstage groupies, you know.”
Keith tilted his head slightly. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a ghost of amusement in his eyes now. “You don’t like bands?”
“Not especially.”
“But you watched.”
“Doesn’t mean I liked it.”
Keith leaned in a little. “Liar.”
Lance’s heart kicked. “Excuse me?”
“You liked it.” Keith’s voice dropped into that same raspy, intense tone he used on stage. “I could tell. You were standing at the back. Arms crossed. But your eyes didn’t move.”
Lance opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“…You think you’re really something, huh?”
Keith shrugged, muscles shifting under the fabric. “Not really. But I know when someone’s into it.”
Lance stared up at him, annoyed at how warm his face was getting. “Okay, brooding frontman. Cool down. I’m not about to throw myself at you just ‘cause you can scream on pitch.”
Keith stepped back, finally, just enough to let Lance breathe.
“Good,” he said, turning toward the parking lot. “I don’t date fans anyway.”
Lance blinked again. “Excuse me—”
But Keith was already walking away, towel slung over one shoulder, dark hair messy and damp from sweat.
“See you around, Blue Eyes.”
“Wha—what the hell?!”
Pidge popped up next to him, sipping from a stolen soda. “So… how’d your first contact with the Emo God go?”
Lance was still staring after him, flustered and fuming.
“He’s infuriating.”
Hunk joined them, raising an eyebrow. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not—!”
“Oh, he’s gone,” Pidge said cheerfully. “And you’re doomed.”
Chapter Text
t had been five days.
Five entire days since the encounter—and Lance had successfully avoided all things Night Shade, all things eyeliner, and especially all things Keith Kogane.
He hadn’t thought about the parking lot stare-down. Or the biceps. Or the smug little smirk when Keith called him Blue Eyes.
Nope. Not once.
Totally fine. Totally normal.
“Lance,” Pidge said over coffee, not looking up from her laptop, “you’re stirring your drink like it insulted your mother.”
Lance glanced down. His straw was a mangled mess of plastic, bent in ways nature never intended. “…I’m just cold.”
“It’s iced,” she replied flatly.
“I like cold drinks.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I am never weird.”
“Uh-huh.”
Before he could snap back something clever, a voice broke through the hum of the café.
Deep. Calm. Irritatingly familiar.
“You’re in History of Modern Philosophy?”
Lance froze.
Slowly, like a man accepting his fate, he turned around.
There he was.
Keith. In jeans and a black Henley that did terrible, illegal things to his upper arms. Hair damp from rain, textbook in hand. And looking confused—as if Lance’s mere existence was a philosophical problem he hadn’t solved yet.
Lance stared. “You—what are you doing here?”
Keith lifted a brow. “Same class. Tuesday-Thursday at noon.”
“No, no, I mean here. In my café. My turf.”
Keith glanced around at the crowded tables. “It’s a campus café.”
“It’s my vibe!”
Keith blinked. “You don’t even like bands.”
“What does that have to do with—okay, you know what? No. I’m not doing this.”
Pidge slurped loudly beside them. “Hi, Keith. Still brooding? Cool.”
He gave a small nod. “Pidge.”
Lance stood up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “This is fine. Everything’s fine. I’m just going to go. Study. Somewhere. Far from anyone in a band who thinks smoldering is a communication style.”
Keith, unbothered, just stepped aside to let him pass. “You’re really dramatic.”
“I’m Cuban,” Lance said, like it explained everything.
He stormed out.
It wasn’t until he was halfway across campus, rain soaking into his hoodie, that he realized Keith had been holding the same textbook as him.
“Oh hell no.”
Thursday.
It was a normal day.
The sky was blue, Pidge was threatening to hack the campus Wi-Fi again, and Lance was perfectly, totally ready for his 12 p.m. philosophy class.
Except he wasn’t.
Because Keith Kogane was already in the lecture hall when Lance arrived. Sitting in the third row. Alone. In black. With that usual look on his face that said “I don’t want to be here, but I’ll win at existing anyway.”
Lance’s first instinct was to turn and run.
His second was to act cool, because if Keith thought he was flustered, he would never hear the end of it.
Lance slid into a seat four rows behind him.
Keith didn’t even look back.
Which was good. Perfect. Amazing. This was working.
Until Professor Grenwick clapped her hands and said the worst words in the English language:
“Alright, everyone! Turn to the person next to you. Let’s do some partner discussion!”
Lance’s blood ran cold. He looked to his left. No one. His right. Still no one. Everyone was paired.
Except Keith.
Who turned.
And met his eyes.
Lance pointed to himself. “Me?”
Keith gave a lazy shrug and patted the empty chair beside him.
Lance wanted to scream. Or throw himself out the window. Or both.
He walked down like a man approaching the gallows.
“You’re kidding,” he muttered, dropping his notebook onto the desk. “This is the universe punishing me for that time I stole candy from a nun.”
Keith side-eyed him. “We’re talking about Socrates.”
“Socrates can suck it.”
“You really hate this class, huh?”
“I hate you.”
Keith looked mildly amused. “That’s new.”
“I just mean—” Lance waved vaguely, “—your whole thing. The brooding, the staring, the band that sounds like someone set heartbreak to a drumbeat.”
Keith flipped open his book. “You’re talking a lot for someone who supposedly doesn’t care.”
Lance narrowed his eyes. “I care about the philosophy. Not your… aesthetic.”
“Right.”
They worked in silence for a minute, scribbling down thoughts on virtue and self-awareness.
Lance peeked sideways.
Keith’s handwriting was surprisingly neat. Thoughtful. Controlled. His arms flexed a little as he wrote. His lashes were so dark they looked painted.
Lance blinked hard and looked back at his notes.
Don’t look. That’s how he wins.
Then Keith’s voice, low and casual, cut through.
“You actually get this stuff?”
Lance frowned. “I mean… yeah? Kind of? I skim the chapters.”
Keith turned toward him, one arm resting on the back of Lance’s chair.
Too close. Way too close.
“I don’t,” Keith said, quietly. “It’s harder than I expected.”
Lance blinked. “Wait. You’re asking me for help?”
Keith looked away. “No.”
“You are!”
“I’m mentioning that it’s hard.”
“Oh my God.” Lance grinned, wide and unbearable. “The emo god is mortal.”
Keith rolled his eyes. “Forget it.”
“No, no, you can’t take it back now. I’m going to tutor you. Personally. You’ll be quoting Plato in your sleep.”
Keith raised an eyebrow. “And what do you get out of it?”
Lance paused.
He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“…I get to annoy you. Obviously.”
Keith’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile—but it was close.
“Fine,” he said. “Annoy me.”
Chapter Text
Lance wasn’t jealous.
Nope.
He was sitting on a library couch, completely calm, watching Keith talk to Allura across the room, and not thinking about how her hand had rested on his arm for just a second too long.
They were probably just talking about music. Or politics. Or world hunger. Something smart and hot that only people with absurd bone structure could discuss casually.
Hunk nudged him. “You okay, man?”
Lance blinked. “What? I’m—yeah. Chill. Totally relaxed.”
“Your eye’s twitching.”
“It does that when I’m extremely calm.”
Across the library, Allura laughed at something Keith said. Tossed her long, silvery braid over one shoulder like she was starring in a shampoo commercial. Keith didn’t laugh, but his expression softened—just a little. Enough to make something in Lance’s chest clench.
“Ugh,” Lance said, slumping against the backrest. “Why do the hot ones always find each other? It’s like dating Darwinism.”
Pidge appeared with an armful of books and a bag of Cheetos. “You mean Allura and Keith?”
“No! I don’t mean them. I mean—like, generally. In the world.”
“Sure you do.” She dropped the books. “You’ve been staring for fifteen minutes.”
“I’m allowed to observe. It’s called being aware of your surroundings.”
Hunk coughed, poorly disguising a laugh.
“Look,” Lance whispered, “I’m just saying, Keith’s not her type. She’s all polished and graceful and future diplomat, and he’s—well—he’s got piercings and unresolved trauma.”
“Maybe that’s her type,” Pidge said, licking cheese dust off her fingers.
Lance’s eyes narrowed. “They better not bond over Nietzsche. I swear.”
Just then, the library’s glass door swung open—and Coran, their wildly overenthusiastic TA, practically floated in. Bright red hair, bright blue vest, too much energy for a Tuesday.
“Ah! Keith, my boy!” he boomed, drawing half the library’s attention. “I’ve been meaning to ask about that quote you scribbled on your last paper. Very Nietzschean, very moody. Loved it.”
Lance’s mouth dropped open.
Keith. Keith “I Don’t Understand This Stuff” Kogane was quoting Nietzsche?
Coran clapped him on the back. “We must discuss! Oh, and Allura—always a delight.”
Allura beamed. Keith nodded, polite but unreadable.
Lance stood abruptly.
“I need coffee.”
Hunk raised a brow. “You just drank an espresso.”
“I need more.”
“Want me to come?”
“No,” Lance said. “I need to be alone with my… caffeine.”
He stormed out, trying not to think about Keith being interesting and well-read and surrounded by beautiful, intelligent people while he—Lance McClain—sat there internally combusting.
He wasn’t jealous.
He was just freaking out, and there was a difference
Chapter Text
Lance had cleaned his dorm room.
Like, actually cleaned it. He’d even Febreze’d the throw pillow he never used and shoved a bunch of clothes into his closet so it looked effortless.
“Not that I care,” he muttered, rearranging a stack of philosophy books for the third time. “It’s not a date. It’s just… helping a guy. A broody, six-foot wall of angst. Who quotes Nietzsche now. Whatever.”
A knock at the door.
Lance jumped and immediately tried to look casual—like he hadn’t been pacing in socked feet for the last twenty minutes.
He opened the door.
Keith stood there in his usual all-black, hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that looked like they could bench press Lance’s entire GPA. His backpack was slung over one shoulder. His hair looked slightly wind-tossed.
“Hey,” he said.
Lance stepped aside. “Welcome to my humble abode. No shoes on the bed, no setting fire to my notebooks, and no dramatic monologues unless I get to go first.”
Keith walked in, eyeing the room like he wasn’t sure what to do with all the color. There were fairy lights around the window, posters of beaches and stars on the walls, and a half-eaten bag of gummy bears on the desk.
“Yours?” Keith asked, pointing at a glittery llama sticker on the laptop.
Lance narrowed his eyes. “I contain multitudes.”
They settled on the floor, backs against Lance’s bed, books open between them.
“So,” Lance said, flipping pages. “We’re covering moral relativism today. Buckle up, it’s about to get existential.”
Keith leaned in to look at the notes, shoulder brushing Lance’s just barely.
Lance did not flinch.
Totally normal academic contact. Nothing to see here.
“Okay,” Lance said, pointing to a paragraph. “This bit—people argue that what’s moral is subjective depending on the culture or situation, right? Like how some societies value community over individual freedom.”
Keith nodded, eyes on the page.
His thigh was still touching Lance’s.
“So then,” Lance continued, forcing himself to focus, “what does that mean for universal ethics? Are there any values that apply everywhere?”
Keith looked up, slowly.
His eyes were dark. Serious.
“I think… some things should be universal. Like protecting people. Loyalty. Standing up for what’s right even when it’s not easy.”
Lance blinked. He hadn’t expected an answer that sincere. Or that quietly intense.
“That’s… actually kind of profound,” he said.
Keith looked at him. “You sound surprised.”
“I just figured your moral compass was tied to, like, punk lyrics and eyeliner.”
Keith snorted. “You’re annoying.”
“You’re broody.”
They stared at each other a moment too long.
Lance looked away first, pretending to flip a page. “Anyway. Next section. Don’t get all deep on me, Kogane.”
Keith didn’t move. “You blush when you get flustered.”
Lance choked. “Excuse me?!”
“You just did it.”
“I’m not flustered, I’m passionate. There’s a difference.”
Keith gave a barely-there smile. “Sure.”
Lance threw a gummy bear at him.
Keith caught it.
With his mouth.
Lance blinked again. “Okay. What the hell.”
“So?” Pidge asked, not even looking up from her Nintendo Switch. “How was your emo-boy tutor date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” Lance snapped.
“Uh-huh.”
“It was academic collaboration.”
“Right. And how’d that academically collaborative moment where he caught a gummy bear with his mouth go?”
Lance flopped onto his bed with a groan, face down into his pillow. “Pidge, he didn’t even blink. I tossed it at him to be annoying and he just snatched it out of the air like a wolf. It was weirdly hot. Why was it hot?”
“Because you’re falling for him.”
“I hate you.”
“You like him.”
Lance groaned louder. “He was so close. His leg was touching mine the whole time. And then he said something about loyalty and I had this weird urge to write a poem or something.”
Pidge paused her game. “Okay, that’s concerning.”
“And his eyes—they do this smoldery intense thing like he’s reading your soul and silently judging your Spotify playlists. Which is rude because mine’s fire.”
“Lance.”
“I’m losing it.”
“Yes.”
“I think he’s haunting my brain.”
“You deserve it.”
Lance groaned into the pillow again. “I can’t like Keith Kogane. That’s a rule. He wears combat boots to 8 a.m. lectures. He probably doesn’t even use conditioner.”
Pidge shrugged. “He’s hot, smart, probably emotionally repressed—he’s basically your exact type.”
Lance rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “I am so screwed.”
⸻
Meanwhile, across campus…
Keith walked back to his apartment with his hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, the cool air brushing through his hair. His earbuds were in, but he wasn’t listening to music.
His mind kept looping back to Lance’s laugh. The way he waved his hands when he got excited explaining moral theory. The flicker of embarrassment when Keith had caught the gummy bear midair and smiled.
And the way Lance had looked away when things got quiet—like he felt something too, but didn’t know what to do with it.
Keith tugged out one earbud.
He should’ve said something else. Or stayed longer. Or—
No.
It was just tutoring.
Friendly tutoring.
Right?
Chapter Text
It all started with a tangle of extension cords and a minor existential crisis.
“Matt, I swear to God,” Shiro growled from behind a mic stand. “If you keep tripping over that cable I will duct tape you to the wall.”
“It’s not me! It’s the universe!” Matt snapped, holding his guitar like a weapon. “The cable moved.”
The campus quad show was supposed to be chill. Just a fun, low-pressure performance for the arts fest. Except the band’s tech guy bailed, the sound board was glitching, and Keith was ten minutes away from walking off into the woods to scream.
Enter: Lance.
Pidge had dragged him to the show with the promise of free snacks and a perfect view of Keith in all his emo glory.
“I’m not here to work,” Lance said, sipping his slushie. “I’m here to judge and be beautiful.”
But then he saw Keith crouched behind a speaker, jaw tight, wires everywhere, and something in him—very stupid and heroic and slightly pathetic—kicked in.
He walked up. “Need a hand, Batman?”
Keith looked up, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
Lance gestured to his own face. “Bringing morale.”
Keith snorted. “We’re cursed.”
Lance crouched down beside him. “Let me help. I worked stage crew in high school. Also, I once untangled four sets of Christmas lights under duress.”
Keith blinked. “Seriously?”
Lance was already unplugging and re-routing wires. “I have hidden depths, Kogane.”
Fifteen minutes later, the band was sound-checked, functional, and shockingly ready.
Shiro clapped Lance on the back. “Dude, that was amazing. We owe you one.”
Matt gave him a gummy worm. “Thanks for saving my life.”
Keith just… looked at him.
Not smiling, but something in his eyes had gone soft.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I—um. Can I get your number? In case we ever need backup again?”
Lance tried not to look too pleased. “What, you gonna hire me?”
“Maybe.” Keith’s voice was steady, but there was something in it. “We could use someone who knows what they’re doing.”
Lance handed over his phone, heart doing very stupid things.
As he typed, Keith hesitated. Then added:
“You should come hang out with us sometime. Rehearsals. Shows. Maybe… join the team?”
Lance blinked. “You mean like. Be part of the band?”
“You don’t have to play anything. Just be around.” Keith shrugged, but there was tension in his shoulders. “People like you. You make things better.”
Lance stared at him.
“Are you asking me to be your emotional support groupie?”
Keith’s mouth twitched. “Maybe.”
“Then I accept. Under one condition.”
Keith raised an eyebrow.
“You name a song after me.”
Keith held his gaze for a beat.
“…Already working on it.”
The band’s rehearsal space was technically just a converted garage off campus, rented by a guy named Varkon who may or may not have been legally allowed to sublease it.
But it worked.
The walls were lined with soundproofing foam and random band posters. The air smelled like dust, old guitar strings, and faintly of Monster Energy.
Lance had never felt more out of place.
“I still don’t know why I’m here,” he said, sitting on an amp.
“You’re moral support,” Matt replied, tuning his bass. “And you’ve got better hair than all of us.”
Lance flipped it dramatically. “Facts.”
Shiro tossed him a soda. “You’re also the only one who can actually get the soundboard to stop hissing.”
Keith was quiet, adjusting the mic stand. His hoodie sleeves were rolled up, tattoos peeking out, forearms flexing every time he tightened a knob. Lance tried very hard not to look. It was unsuccessful.
“Ready?” Shiro asked.
Keith gave a short nod, and just like that—they launched into it.
Lance had heard them play before, but never this close. Never like this.
Keith’s voice hit different in a small room. Raw. Unfiltered. Like something too sharp to be caged. His eyes stayed mostly on the floor, or sometimes the wall, or sometimes—Lance.
Lance pretended not to notice, even though he absolutely did.
During the second song, Keith stepped forward, singing into the mic like it owed him something, and—yes. Now he was looking right at Lance.
Lance’s stomach flipped.
He crossed his legs, tried to act bored.
Keith smirked.
Smirked.
That bastard.
After the song ended, Shiro was saying something about tempo and Matt was playing around with a pedal, but Lance and Keith?
They just looked at each other.
Until Lance said, “You seriously going to stare at me the whole time?”
Keith shrugged, eyes glittering with challenge. “You’re distracting.”
Lance’s throat went dry.
“I—uh—what, like in a bad way?”
Keith tilted his head. “Didn’t say that.”
And then—then—he turned back to the mic like nothing had happened.
Lance stared.
“What the hell,” he muttered.
Pidge texted him two seconds later:
📱 Pidge: You’re down BAD.
Chapter Text
The show had gone better than expected.
Crowd hyped. No sound issues. Matt didn’t break anything. Keith definitely stared at Lance during the chorus of “No Halo,” which was fine.
Totally fine.
Lance had clapped, cheered, and maybe yelled “I love emotional men with unresolved issues!” once, but that was neither here nor there.
Now the stage was packed up, the night was warm, and Lance was walking back toward the dorms with Keith beside him.
Quiet.
Close.
The air smelled like late spring and cheap pizza from a food truck still packing up. Streetlights buzzed. Campus was half-asleep.
Lance glanced sideways. “You always walk people home like this?”
Keith shrugged. “Only the ones who fix our sound board and throw gummy bears at me.”
Lance smirked. “So I’m in the inner circle now?”
“You’ve been in it.”
The way Keith said it—quiet, offhand—but heavy?
Lance’s heart did something traitorous.
“Hey,” he said, after a beat. “You were really good tonight. I mean, you always are. But that one song—the second one? It hit different.”
Keith kept his eyes ahead. “Thanks. That one’s new.”
“What’s it about?”
Silence.
Then: “Someone who drives me insane.”
Lance laughed. “So, your cat?”
Keith’s mouth twitched. “Sure.”
They walked a few more steps. Their shoulders brushed. Lance didn’t move away.
He looked up at the stars, the quiet above them.
“You ever think about doing this for real?” Lance asked. “Like… big-time? Labels, tours, screaming fans, the whole emo fantasy.”
Keith hesitated.
Then: “Sometimes.”
Lance nodded. “You’d be great. I mean, you are. Just—if you ever go, don’t forget about us little people.”
Keith stopped walking.
Lance blinked and turned. “What?”
Keith’s expression was unreadable. “Would you want me to go?”
Lance’s stomach flipped. “I mean… if it’s what you want, yeah. Of course.”
Keith was quiet again. Then, softer: “Would you miss me?”
Lance opened his mouth. Closed it.
Then said—too fast, too loud: “Pfft, nah. I’d be way too busy, obviously. Like, living my glamorous life and—y’know—doing cool guy things.”
Keith smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
“Lance.”
Lance swallowed. “Yeah?”
Keith looked at him like he wanted to say something else. Something real.
But all he said was: “Goodnight.”
And then he turned and walked away.
Lance stood there a second too long, staring after him.
“Goodnight,” he whispered back.
The next rehearsal started late.
Keith was already in the garage, fiddling with guitar tuning he didn’t need to fix. His hoodie was on, sleeves pushed up, jaw tight.
Matt walked in first, squinting at him. “You okay, dude?”
Keith didn’t look up. “Fine.”
“Right. Because people who are fine totally re-tune the same string for ten minutes.”
Shiro came in next, balancing two iced coffees. He handed one to Keith. “You haven’t slept, have you?”
Keith ignored him and took a sip.
Matt plopped down on the couch. “So. How was your romantic nighttime stroll with Lance?”
Keith paused mid-sip.
Shiro raised an eyebrow. “You walked him home?”
“It wasn’t—” Keith set his coffee down. “He was heading that way. It wasn’t a thing.”
James came in last and immediately flopped onto the floor with his guitar, eyes gleaming. “Keith’s got a cruuuuush.”
“James, shut up,” Keith muttered.
“No, no, let’s unpack this,” Matt grinned. “You’re writing songs about him now, aren’t you?”
Shiro, gently: “You’ve been different since he started hanging around. Softer.”
“I am not soft.”
“Last week you told him he was ‘good at organizing cables,’” Matt said. “You literally complimented his cord management. Who does that?”
Keith scowled at the floor.
Matt leaned forward. “Seriously, though. Are you okay? Like—do you like him? Or are you just… spiraling because you do and you don’t know what to do with it?”
Keith didn’t answer. Not right away.
Because the truth was—he didn’t know.
Lance made him feel loud inside. Not in a chaotic way. In a terrifyingly real way. Like being seen. Like being heard. Like finally wanting something he couldn’t control.
Which sucked.
Keith hated not being in control.
Especially when the label offer was still sitting in his inbox. Especially when every time he almost said something real to Lance, the timing broke beneath him.
Finally, he muttered, “He’s just… hard to ignore.”
The band fell quiet.
Then Matt, softer: “Yeah. We noticed.”
Shiro patted his shoulder. “You don’t have to rush it. Just don’t ghost him when things get hard. He deserves better than that.”
Keith flinched.
Because he knew.
He knew the LA offer would blow all of this up eventually.
And he didn’t know if he was brave enough to hold onto Lance—or stupid enough to let him go
Chapter 7: “Is This About… Me?”
Chapter Text
It started with a text.
[Shiro]: Hey, rehearsal got moved to 6 if you wanna swing by.
Matt’s working on something new. Might be worth hearing 👀
Lance read the message twice, then grabbed his jacket.
He told himself he was just going to help with the mics.
He was not going to pine in the corner like some lovesick Shakespeare extra. Definitely not.
The garage was warm, filled with that familiar low hum of amps and anticipation. The band was already set up. Keith sat on a stool, acoustic in his lap, hair tied back, brows drawn in quiet focus.
Lance froze for a second.
Because the way the light hit him—messy and golden and real—it felt like a song waiting to happen.
“Hey,” Keith said, barely looking up. “You made it.”
Lance nodded, settled in near the wall with a soda, trying to act normal. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Matt glanced at Keith. “You playing the new one?”
Keith didn’t answer. Just adjusted the strap on his guitar and started strumming.
The room fell silent.
The song was slow. Simple. Raw.
Lyrics soft, rough at the edges.
“You talk like sunshine,
laugh like waves,
walk into a room
and I forget my name...”
Lance’s heart stalled.
The chords shifted. The next verse cut deeper.
“You hate bands,
but you stay anyway,
help untangle chaos
like it’s just another day…”
Lance blinked.
His soda went still in his hand.
“You say it’s nothing,
but you look at me like I’m worth something.”
His chest tightened.
Matt glanced at him.
Then quickly looked away.
Keith finished the song in a whisper, head down, fingers fading out on the strings.
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Then James went, “Damn.”
Keith didn’t look up.
Lance stood slowly, walked outside without a word.
The air was cooler than he expected. It hit like a slap.
He was halfway down the sidewalk when the door creaked behind him.
“Lance.”
He stopped.
Keith stood there, tense. Hands still shaking a little. “You okay?”
Lance turned. “Is it about me?”
Keith hesitated.
That alone was answer enough.
“You weren’t supposed to hear it like that,” Keith said quietly. “It’s not finished.”
Lance’s voice was barely above a whisper. “But it’s real?”
Keith looked up. And Lance saw it—all of it. Every piece Keith had been holding in. Every almost. Every almost-confession. Every song that started with a look.
“Yeah,” Keith said. “It’s real.”
And Lance?
He didn’t run.
He just stood there in the dark, heart open, letting the song settle into his bones.
The campus buzzed for days.
Flyers everywhere. Group chats exploding. Professors pretending not to care but asking very specific questions. The student-run Spring Arts Fest was already big—but this year?
The headliner was Keith’s band.
Main stage. Outdoor setup. Lights. Sound system rented from some sketchy local place with real roadies. Even the university president tweeted about it, calling them “a rising local phenomenon.”
Lance, being unofficial band liaison/honorary roadie/potential muse, found himself very busy.
“Okay,” he said, clipboard in hand (yes, he had a clipboard), “we’ve got the warm-up acts loaded in by three, soundcheck at four, your slot starts at eight, and Keith—do not fight the sound guy this time.”
Keith, sitting on the edge of the stage, looked up with an amused blink. “That was one time.”
“One time too many,” Shiro called from behind a stack of amps. “He’s banned from touching the mixing board.”
James grinned. “But not from touching Lance—”
Keith threw a guitar pick at his head.
Lance choked on air.
Matt wiggled his eyebrows. “Okay but seriously, is this show gonna be The One? Like... the turning point? Epic fame? Tears? Fan proposals?”
Everyone quieted a little.
Because yeah. It was a turning point.
Keith still hadn’t told the others about the LA offer. Not officially. But Matt had seen the unread emails. Shiro had heard him playing at 3AM. They knew something was up.
And Keith—Keith kept stealing glances at Lance like he was trying to memorize him.
Like he didn’t know how much longer he’d get.
Lance sat beside him on the stage, swinging his legs. “You nervous?”
Keith shook his head, then nodded. “This one’s gonna matter.”
Lance nudged his arm. “You say that like it hasn’t mattered already.”
Keith didn’t answer. Just looked out at the field where the crowd would be soon. Hundreds. Maybe more.
This wasn’t just a gig anymore.
It was the moment before everything changes.
And Lance, bless him, was still in the dark.
The sun dipped lower, casting long gold streaks across the stage.
Soundcheck was done. The techs were clearing out. The crowd was already forming like a slow-building wave on the campus lawn, music-lovers and bandwagoners alike buzzing with anticipation.
Backstage was a mess of cables, cracked concrete, and adrenaline.
Lance leaned against a stack of amp cases, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to escape. Keith was a few feet away, pacing, one hand gripping the back of his neck.
The air between them buzzed.
It had been buzzing for weeks, but now it was thunderous. Heavy. Inevitable.
Keith stopped pacing.
“Lance,” he said, voice low.
Lance looked up, suddenly aware that they were alone behind the curtain, the dull roar of the growing crowd muffled just beyond the tarp.
Keith stepped closer.
“I need to say this before I go out there,” he said, eyes burning, throat tight. “Because if I don’t—I’m gonna sing that whole set and think about you the entire time and hate myself for not saying it.”
Lance blinked. “Keith…”
“I like you,” Keith said. Not soft. Not shaky. Certain. “I’ve liked you for a while. And it’s not just because you’re hot and funny and yell at me when I forget to drink water—though that’s part of it—”
Lance laughed, stunned and breathless.
“—but it’s more than that,” Keith continued, voice rough around the edges. “You make things feel real. You walk into a room and I want to stay. That never used to happen to me.”
He stopped, hands clenched at his sides.
Then, quieter: “And if this is all I get—just this, before whatever happens next—I had to tell you.”
Lance stared.
The stage lights flickered above them, painting Keith in warm, fractured color.
Lance took one step forward. Then another. And then—
“I like you too, you dumb emo bastard.”
Keith’s eyes widened.
And Lance—finally, finally—grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, pulled him in, and kissed him.
It wasn’t perfect. Keith’s nose bumped his cheek. Lance’s hand got tangled in the drawstring.
But it was real.
It was every almost and maybe and late-night glance crashing together in one bright, breathless kiss that made Keith’s knees feel like static and Lance’s chest swell like a song he didn’t know the words to.
When they finally broke apart, Lance rested his forehead against Keith’s.
“You’re gonna kill me out there,” he whispered.
Keith’s lips curled into a half-smile. “Good.”
From behind the curtain, Matt’s voice shouted, “We go on in five! No more making out, lovebirds!”
Lance groaned.
Keith just grinned and laced their fingers together for one brief, blazing moment—before pulling away to take the stage.
Chapter Text
The stage was already vibrating.
It wasn’t just the bass or the amps or the scream of the crowd echoing across the field—it was the *energy*, thick in the air like smoke before a fire.
Lance stood near the side of the stage, in the shadow of one of the towering lights. Close enough to see Keith pace backstage before they were called up, thumb tapping restlessly against his thigh, eyes flicking toward Lance like he didn’t want to look—but couldn’t stop.
Then the lights went down.
Cheers erupted from the crowd, students packed shoulder-to-shoulder across the campus lawn, all hyped on sugar and noise and end-of-semester adrenaline.
Matt stepped up to his synth. Shiro tapped his sticks against the snare. James rolled his shoulders, already grinning wide.
And Keith—Keith stepped forward into the light like he was walking into battle.
Hair slightly damp from sweat. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. All black. That impossible stillness he got before a show—like he was holding his breath just under his skin.
Lance swallowed.
He hadn’t seen Keith like this since the first time. No jokes. No teasing. Just raw focus. Sharp angles. Beautiful, and *a little dangerous*.
“Hey,” Keith said into the mic, voice low and cool. The crowd quieted.
“This one’s new.”
No name. No intro.
Just music.
Matt started the chords. A soft, eerie pulse.
And then—
> **“Can you feel it in the air?
> Our love is falling everywhere…”**
The words poured out of Keith like smoke curling from the edges of something burning.
Lance’s heart jumped.
There was something different in his voice tonight—less polished, more vulnerable. Like he wasn’t singing *to* the crowd.
Like he was singing *through* them.
> **“Do you see it in your dreams?
> I swear I’ll give you everything…”**
Keith gripped the mic stand tighter. His eyes scanned the crowd—then locked on Lance.
And *stayed* there.
Lance didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Because suddenly it felt like the world was tilting on an axis only the two of them were standing on. And this song? It was balanced right between them.
> **“I’m the best mistake you’ll ever make,
> I’m your worst line you’ll ever say…”**
Lance’s breath caught.
Keith’s voice cracked just slightly on *“mistake,”* and Lance could see it now—the weight in his shoulders, the storm behind his eyes.
This wasn’t just a performance.
This was *Keith unraveling*.
> **“So don’t say a word,
> just come over and lie here with me…”**
The lights swelled, warm and dim. The crowd swayed like they were under a spell.
And Lance?
He wasn’t swaying. He was rooted.
Every word started to feel like a mirror. A message.
> **“'Cause I'm just a number to you,
> just another number for you…”**
The chorus dropped like thunder.
And Lance *flinched*.
Because he heard it now—not just the lyrics, but the ache underneath. The *anger*. The longing. The fear.
Keith didn’t just write this.
He *lived* it.
And Lance was in every line.
> **“So you can keep counting,
> but I won’t be waiting for you.
> 'Cause I’m more than a number,
> I’m a name you’ll forget too soon…”**
Lance stepped back.
Because something had shifted.
Everything they’d shared—quiet moments, late-night tutoring, soft laughter over shared fries, *the kiss*—it was all in this song.
But so was the thing Keith *hadn’t* told him.
The thing that made the air between them feel heavy.
> **“And you’ll lose me,
> like you lost all the rest…”**
Keith hit the last line with a grit in his voice that sounded too real.
Too close.
Like he’d already said goodbye.
The music faded. The crowd cheered, screamed, lifted their phones high.
But Keith didn’t move.
He just stood there, staring at Lance across the glow and chaos, as if waiting for something—*anything*.
And Lance?
Lance turned and walked.
Not fast. Not angry.
Just—*quiet*.
Because now he understood.
And Keith had never said it out loud.
The record store was tucked between a tattoo parlor and a 24-hour donut shop, its neon sign buzzing faintly as Keith pushed the door open.
Lance trailed in behind him, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking distinctly unimpressed.
“Smells like 1974 in here,” he muttered.
Keith smirked. “That’s called character.”
The place was a maze of mismatched shelves and dusty bins. Posters of Bowie, Hayley Williams, and the Ramones lined the walls. The owner—a bored-looking woman with purple hair—nodded at Keith like he was a regular.
He was.
Lance wandered, flipping through albums with mock disdain.
“Oh look,” he said, holding up an old My Chemical Romance vinyl. “Your ancestors.”
Keith raised an eyebrow. “Careful. That’s sacred.”
Lance grinned but didn't put it down. His fingers lingered over the cover. “Did you always want to be in a band?”
Keith hesitated. “Not really. I just… needed somewhere to put the noise in my head.”
Lance looked up. His smile softened.
They left with two records—Keith’s pick was a scratched-up Paramore EP. Lance impulsively grabbed a Queen album. “For balance,” he said.
Later that night, they stood outside a cramped little venue lit by string lights and raw anticipation. Keith’s band had a slot at a local college bar. It wasn’t fancy, but it was packed, and the energy was buzzing.
“You sure I can hang out back here?” Lance asked, ducking into the small backstage room. “I’m not, like, band crew.”
Keith handed him a coiled cable. “Congratulations. You are now.”
Lance rolled his eyes but didn’t let go of the cable.
The others filtered in. Matt offered Lance a slice of lukewarm pizza. Shiro clapped him on the back like he was already part of the team.
“You nervous?” Lance asked Keith as they waited by the curtains.
“Always,” Keith admitted. “But it’s better with you here.”
Lance didn’t know what to say to that. His heart answered before his mouth could.
“You’ll kill it,” he said. Then added, quieter, “You always do.”
Keith didn’t respond. He just looked at Lance with something unreadable in his eyes.
Then the lights went up.
And Keith was transformed.
He wasn’t the quiet emo guy from the back of the lecture hall anymore. He was on fire—voice low and sharp, presence magnetic. The crowd moved with him, like he was pulling strings with every note.
Lance watched, stunned.
Because damn it. He was falling.
Afterward, the two of them slipped out the back door, avoiding the crowd. The night was warm and heavy, streetlights humming above them as they sat on the curb behind the bar.
Keith was still catching his breath. Lance handed him a water bottle and bumped their shoulders together.
“You’re unreal,” Lance said. “Like. That was stupid good.”
Keith blinked at him. “Thanks.”
There was a pause.
Then Lance looked down and muttered, “So do I have to join a band now, or…?”
Keith laughed—actually laughed—and Lance couldn’t stop staring at him.
Then Keith said, too casually, “You could be our photographer. Or lighting tech. Or just… be around.”
Lance swallowed. “You want me around?”
Keith turned to him. “Yeah. I do.”
And for a moment, the air between them buzzed like an amp just about to hum.