Chapter Text
For the most part, Lance tried to live with no regrets.
This was, partly, because it was a good philosophy in general, and also partly because-
Well, he got to see what happened if you died with too many regrets.
And in this particularly instance, he was looking at it. Er, her in this case—sitting on a man's lap, gently stroking his chin stubble in a coffee shop while he taps away at his laptop, reaching to scratch the spot she was fondling every few seconds like he had some kind of irritating itch.
Christ.
People who thought that a comment section on the internet was the ultimate testament to how far people would go when given anonymity, had nothing on the stuff he had seen.
Lance jerks his head to the side when the girl glances his way—shit, had he made eye contact??--only to be staring directly into the face of one very miffed-looking Pidge.
“Hi Space Cadet, come back down to Earth yet?”
And, right, of course. He hadn't told Pidge—or Hunk, actually, who was sitting on the other side of the table from him—because somehow “I see dead people” just doesn't quite have the same effect that it surely had before 1999, go figure.
(Also, the last time he decided to tell them he had the impeccable timing of choosing Halloween, and no one takes anything you say seriously when you're in a hot dog costume. The only response he had gotten to, “Guys, I can talk to ghosts,” was a sarcastic “Yeah Lance, we all remember the time you tried to bargain with the five-year-olds in white bedsheets for a Snickers.”)
Lance blinks, before laughing maybe a bit too loudly. His eyes dart back to the girl, who's lost interest and is back to gently stroking the dude's not-beard. Phew.
“Oops, sorry. Just thinking about, uh, my new place.”
Pidge snorts, tapping their fingers on the table in front of the trio. “We help you move and you repay us by offering to buy us coffee and then ignoring us the rest of the time. How surprisingly thoughtful of you.”
“Hey!” Lance grins, throwing his arms around the two of them. Lance, Pidge, Hunk, the unstoppable trio. “Couldn't have done it without you. And you know that as soon as I get settled in, it's house party all day everyday.”
“Dude, your complex is full of like sixty-somethings.” Hunk points out, as Lance releases them and leans back. “Don't old people go to sleep at... I dunno, 9PM?”
“Yeah. But you know what else old people do? Turn off their hearing aids after 9PM. They won't even notice.” Unlikely, but Lance will deal with the noise complaints as they come in. He knows for a fact that landlords don't do anything about it until at least your third offense.
“You're like a fountain of misinformation.” Pidge frowns. “You're going to last like, three months there before they kick you out.” a sigh, long and drawn out. “Impending homelessness aside, are you sure you have it from here? You still need to arrange everything, and we can come back tomorrow...”
“Nah, I'm good.” More like great. Lance had never lived alone before; and he was totally ready to just hang around naked on his couch. “You guys start class tomorrow and while you're basking in the smell of freshly-printed syllabuses, I'll be at home, enjoying my new freedom.”
“Until you have to go to work.” Hunk helpfully points out. “You know, I don't think classes will be the same without you, man.”
Lance shrugs. “Life marches on! And my life has led me down a road with less student debt and less stress. Win-win all around.”
“It wouldn't be stressful if you had actually done your homework. And also, maybe, not failed so many classes that they put you on academic probation.” Pidge says.
“Tried to put me on academic probation. Key word: tried.”
“Dropping out because you were a semester and a half behind does not give you a leg up on the school!”
Lance opens his mouth to respond but Hunk clears his throat loudly, cutting him off. “Guys. Let's talk something a little more happy, on our last day of freedom?”
And like that, the subject is dropped.
Their conversation turns to nothing of substance after, switching from topic to topic while Lance keeps his gaze firmly away from the chick across the cafe. Avoiding staring is something he's become excellent at, because there's nothing to quite draw suspicion to your own sanity like locking your gaze onto something (or, in his case, usually someone) that isn't visible to anyone else.
Out of the corner of his eyes he sees the guy that the stalker-ghost was hanging around close up his laptop and slink out of the cafe. Seeing an opportunity, Lance slumps back into his seat, rolling his neck.
“Well, it's been lovely chatting with you lads, but I have a brand new cozy house to go hang out in.”
“Sure, if six carboard boxes stacked into the living room is your idea of cozy.” Pidge deadpans. Lance wiggles an index finger in their direction.
“Which is exactly why I have to go start making my bachelor pad now. The only cardboard boxes that should be littering my apartment floor, are old pizza boxes.”
Hunk makes a disgusted noise. “Ew, dude.”
“Make that three months that I talked about earlier two.” Pidge says, before grabbing their empty coffee cup and chucking it toward a trashcan. It lands, dead center, and Pidge raises both hands to receive a double high-five from both Lance and Hunk.
“Nice. And hey, I'll throw out the trash when it starts getting too smelly! I have it on very good authority that girls don't like the smell of stale pizza, so you know. Can't let it get too out of control.” Lance fingerguns toward the both of them, scooting his chair back and standing up. “But I also have to assert the fact that my place is a bro den. Hunk understands. Right?”
“Uh,” Hunk blinks at Lance's expectant smile. “I'll... Bring by some air freshener as a housewarming gift later.”
“You wound me, man. I thought you'd be on my side here.” Lance huffs. “And also, don't bother with it, I already bought 15 car-fresheners. You know, the ones shaped like trees. I'm going to hang them around the apartment, and my place is going to smell like a forest. Pine fresh.”
Pidge makes a sound like they're dying.
As it turns out, moving furniture around by yourself is surprisingly difficult, even with as little as Lance had. Most of the boxes he had were clothes—and hair products—and one box was even stuffed with what little decorations he had accumulated while living at the dorms. He had a small couch, one TV that he forgot to buy a stand for so he shoved some empty cardboard boxes together under it and hoped for the best, and his old mini-fridge that he was going to use as a makeshift end table.
Two birds, one stone, baby. Pull a drink out, and set it right on top. Too easy.
A few hours and two redbulls later, his beautiful new home was furnished. Even the mini-fridge was stocked. He still hadn't bought any real food for the actual fridge, which was in the kitchen, but eh. Priorities.
Triumphantly, Lance flops onto his new couch and sighs, eyes closing.
“Home, sweet sweet home.” he kisses his thumb and forefinger with a loud mwah, shaking it into the air like a chef introducing his masterpiece.
But wait, something was missing.
Something important.
It only takes Lance fifteen whole seconds of relaxation to realize.
The car-fresheners.
Of course, how could Lance have forgotten? The five packages of three tiny-trees each, waiting at the bottom of a shopping bag he had tossed into the corner for later. He could practically taste the overpowering scent of Pine Fresh already, which was exactly how he imagined the color green smelled. Fifteen of those bad boys all at once would be enough to give any weaker soul a massive headache, but Lance was no weakling. No, he had the essence of a lumberjack on Christmas morning inside of him.
Bring on the Pine.
He sits up, ready to make his apartment smell like his abuela's old Cadillac when he catches something out of the corner of his eye.
It's a guy. Standing there, staring at him like he's totally unamused.
There's a beat where nothing happens. The world is frozen, just for a single moment. And then--
Understandably, Lance screams. Kicking the back of the couch where he was previously sprawled out, he manages to tumble off of it and, in an absolutely incredible recovery that he's sure would astound millions and go viral on YouTube had it been captured on camera, hops to his feet and makes the most intimidating karate pose he can think of.
“Wh-Who are you and how did you get in here, please answer me honestly so that if I don't die today I can tell the landlord to change the locks!”
And, to his credit, the other guy looks just as shocked. He blinks a few times, glances behind him like he expects someone else to be standing there, and then looks back toward Lance with a confused deer-in-headlights look.
“... Me?” the stranger points to his chest, almost hesitantly, and Lance drops his pose. Just a little.
“... Um. No, the other uninvited stranger standing in my living room. Wait, did you live here before or something, because if so you didn't leave anything behind, I'd know since I pretty much...” he trails off, watching the other guy become more and more frazzled as he runs a hand through his dark hair. Lance cocks his head. “Dude. You okay?”
“You can see me?”
And then it clicks, suddenly, in Lance's brain.
And then, he kind of panics.
To be honest, if Lance was given this gift—this gift to see the invisible undead—to become some sort of medium, or to use this talent to help others, he was kind of shitty at it. As in, it was a big, huge waste of God or whoever's time because Lance hadn't talked to any ghosts since he was seven years old and his mom just thought he had a very active imagination. As a matter of fact, Lance spent a good portion of his time actively avoiding this very situation because:
-
It looked like he was talking to himself, if anyone ever saw him,
-
Dead people were kind of downers, and he tended to try and surround himself with positivity and,
-
He was totally and completely unqualified for anything supernatural, despite being born with this amazing ability that really wasn't all that amazing in practice.
And so, with all of this information put through a very special thought process, the next thing Lance says is:
“Dude, did you like die in the 80's or something because you totally have a mullet going on, just to let you know.”
The guy is still looking at him like he can't quite believe what he's seeing, which seems pretty ironic to Lance considering it should probably be the other way around. He seems caught between scowling at the comment or continuing to stare at Lance, his eyebrows kind of twitching like they can't make up their mind.
It's a little amusing, actually.
But beyond that he's making no sort of action to indicate that he's going to respond, and from what Lance remembers about talking to ghosts when he was a kid, he probably doesn't even know when he died.
So, Lance scratches the back of his head and at least tries to seem friendly toward the other.
“Well, uh, do you at least remember your name?”
He kind of stares at Lance, warily, like he's still not quite sure this is happening—or maybe it's that he doesn't trust him, who knows. But finally, he responds.
“Keith.”
“Okay, well, great. Keith. That's a start. So, uh...”
Keith continues to stare at him. Lance stares back. It's a very moving conversation.
“... So, how long have you been here? I mean, since this is now sort of my place and all...” he tries, just to get something beyond pure silence between them. Keith shrugs.
“I don't know.”
Lance's eye twitches.
“Okay. Uh, look. You're not exactly giving me a lot to go on here, and while it was great meeting you...“ he trails off and clears his throat as Keith gazes at him coolly. “Well. I'm sure there are other ghosts around the area that could probably help you more, or something, or maybe looking around outside could jog some memories--”
“I can't leave.”
Keith interrupts him, darting his dark eyes from Lance's face to look at the living room door. Lance follows his line of sight, glancing from Keith, to the door, then back again.
“You can't leave?”
“No.” Keith still isn't looking at him. Lance frowns.
“Like... What, are you scared? I can show you a map--”
“I'm not scared.” Keith rolls his eyes, and Lance thinks that that's probably the most emotion he's gotten out of him that wasn't blank stare or shocked stare. “I mean I literally can't leave. Physically. Something's stopping me.”
“That doesn't even make sense.” Lance's voice is flat, and Keith scowls at the tone.
“What, you think I like being stuck in an abandoned apartment that I can't even leave for who knows how long?” he snaps back. Well, at least this was some sort of conversation. Lance watches as Keith takes a few long strides toward the door, noting that his steps don't make very much noise as he walks, almost as if he was tip-toeing across instead.
He reaches the door and pulls it open, extending out his hand—and then he stops. His palm is raised, flat in their air, as if he was pressing it against something invisible.
Lance stares at him, long and hard. He doesn't look like he was lying—while he did kind of seem like the emo loner type to sit in an abandoned apartment, that probably had to get old at some point, and that's some pretty good acting right there. With the level of irritation he was showing, glaring at Lance as if “I told you so,” was right on the tip of his tongue, Lance was pretty sure that if he could just leave he would have already.
Damn. Maybe he should have talked to more ghosts growing up. Was being stuck in a single place normal?
“Well, fine. No need to be a dick about it.”
Oh yeah, if Keith could leave he'd definitely be gone by now. His face says it all.
“Anyway,” Lance carries on, “I've already paid for the first month here and this is the cheapest place around, so I don't plan on moving anytime soon.” he says, and before Keith can interject with anything else, continues, “Guess we're roommates. This would make a pretty hilarious sitcom, actually.”
Lance makes a mental note to add that to his “Genius Ideas” list. It's taped to the mini-fridge, because he doesn't have any magnets.
Keith doesn't look interested in his sitcom idea. “We're not roommates. I'll just stay out of your way until I can figure out a way to leave.”
“Oh, no. No. No way am I gonna be having some dude hang around my apartment and I'm supposed to pretend like you're not even there—that's gonna be so awkward, man.” Shaking his head, Lance pinches the bridge of his nose. Keith scowls, dropping his hand from the invisi-wall to cross his arms in front of his chest.
“You're probably not even supposed to be able to see me. I'm not even supposed to be here, right? I'm a ghost? Or something?” Even Keith doesn't sound sure of it himself. Lance leans onto the back of the couch. Might as well be comfortable, he's been standing long enough.
“Yeah, well, there are like people in the world who can see ghosts. There are also people in the world who pretend they can see ghosts and make reality TV shows about it, but that's beside the point.” Lance makes a dramatic hand wave. “And I, am one of the few blessed with such a gift. Along side many, many other gifts.” he waggles his eyebrows, and Keith groans.
“And yeah, hopefully you're a ghost,” he continues, “Unless you just want to get to know me so bad you're pretending to be one to live with me, in which case, that's pretty gay. Not that that's a problem. But it would be. Gay, I mean. Not a problem.”
Keith stares at him blankly. Lance clears his throat, before moving toward him and extending out his palm. “So. Agree to be roommates, until you figure this out, even though I'm just paying rent for one but ohhh well?”
Keith gives his outstretched hand a suspicious look, before sighing like he's resigned to his fate. A little rude, if you asked Lance. But then he reaches out to grasp Lance's hand and fuck, Lance forgot just how weird ghost touches are—like they're just barely there, kind of like a tickle—and then they were shaking on it.
“I don't know why you'd trust me, but whatever. I could be trying to kill you.”
“If someone who's wearing fingerless gloves kills me, I deserve to die.” a pointed glance toward their handshake. Keith snatches back his hand from the grip. “And also, because I'm paying for this place and I don't have any other choice. Just like a true roommates agreement!” Lance grins.
“I'm not sure whether you being the first person to see me is a blessing, or a curse.” Keith replies.
And it's a truly beautiful moment, a bond between man and the supernatural.
Suddenly, Lance gasps. “My car-fresheners! You can help me hang them around the house!”
A very brief lived, beautiful moment indeed.