"Lance." So much anger leaked out into that word, cutting against Keith's teeth. His brittle nails pressed into his palms.

"Lance.” Keith repeated, the word prying at him. The other man halfway obliged, blue eyes shining in the dark alley. Keith itched to scream at him, but he was afraid of attracting those shuffling noises around the corner. "What are you doing?"

Lance stood, a breathing mannequin obscured by red-tinted shadow. Keith stepped a little closer and he was now able to make out his blood-stiff and ashy shirt, his white teeth framed by snarling lips, the pain in his ocean eyes.

"I'm going home.” Was all Lance said before turning again. Keith couldn't tell if Lance was taking long, deliberate steps or if he just wished they were slow.

"What the hell do you mean, you're going home?" Keith's words were blades that sliced open more wounds inside of him, and for just a second, Keith thought Lance’s tears were blood.

“I mean I’m going home.” Lance spat out, voice thick. “I’d rather be there.”

"You said you'd rather be in hell than stuck in that apartment." Keith crossed his arms, frustration focused into expectancy. Lance recoiled from Keith’s disappointment, and his emotions bubbled to teh surface like tar.

“That was before I had to hold some stranger as she died, watch my best friend die, watch someone I thought as a sister d—” Lance caught himself in a sob, and his hand pushed against his throat as though he could push out the words. “Watch Pidge die! And if Allura’s n-not dead yet, I know I’ll have to watch her die, and I’m going to have to watch you die and I’m—”

Lance voice caught suddenly again. And now the world is silent— no sounds of screeching creatures or scuttling limbs or Kuro’s distant voice or even Keith’s own breathing. Only Lance’s low voice cut through the muted air.

“I would rather just die.”

The sentence punched Keith in the gut and an anger was born from his pain. “So. What? You’re giving up?”

Lance rolled his clouded eyes at the statement, and though his voice was contemptuous, Keith could see thunder building in his bones. “Get the fuck off your high horse, Keith.”

“Sorry for caring about this place! About doing what’s right!” Keith called back indignantly. His hands threw themselves up and slapped loud against his side. Dust flew off his pants.

Lance’s spiteful scoff echoed louder than Keith’s voice. His words felt as rotten as any building’s floorboards. “This place? What’s right? You don’t give a shit about either.”

Keith opened his mouth to respond, breath tumbling out in a response, but Lance didn’t let up. “Don’t front me like this, Keith. You only care about finding your brother, who’s fucking dead. You’re not going to find him. Screw your head back on straight and get the fuck out of here while you can.”

“Shut up, Lance.” Keith didn’t even register his response and none of the words felt suitable for how much poison he tasted in his mouth. He boiled under Lance’s intense stare.

“Just—” Lance ran a hand down his face, eyes closing under the pads of his fingers. His mouth was a tight line. “Take advantage of the fact you can leave.”

Keith’s hands matched Lance’s and went to his own skull, fingers tugging through his greasy hair. His nails scratched, caught and trapped in tangles. Confusion clawed through the exhaustion in his voice. “I’m not the only one who can leave! You’re leaving right now!”

“Yeah. Leaving back to an apartment I can’t get out of— a haunted apartment.” Lance’s voice dripped with resentment. But instead of dousing the flames in Keith’s stomach, it was gasoline. A growling sigh left his throat as Lance continued. “I mean leave, Keith. Really leave. Get out. Go home. Be safe. I don’t— don’t fucking die here for a fantasy.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” The words were barely audible, and Keith felt sick even just staring at Lance’s back. He could make out the tenseness in his shoulders even under his ill-fitting shirt.

“Whatever, Keith.” Lance’s voice sounded as defeated as he looked, and his blood-soaked rubber heels started walking again back down the alleyway. A hole was assumedly bored into the brick, back in those shadows— as if Keith could see it anyway.

“Coward.” He muttered, just loud enough to be purposeful, quiet enough to be dressed up as an accident. His neck burned under his collar.

The lanky man shuddered to a stop. His voice held no such pretense, only a promise eager to be kept. “Call me a coward again. I fucking dare you.”

Keith glared at the ground beneath him, praying to the gravel for distraction— to focus on anything, a puddle or a stone or Lance’s gross, stained Converse— anything to keep him from feeling the blood rushing into his eyes and the burning in his stomach— anything to stop himself from throwing his head up and his words at Lance.

Nothing worked.

“You’re a coward!” The words hissed through his teeth. His throat felt raw even though he didn’t yell. “You’re running off, right when people need you m—”

Keith didn’t register Lance’s movement before his brown knuckles were cracking against his cheekbone. Nerves exploded with pain and adrenaline made his knees quake and his own fists swing up. Lance punched again, grazing the same spot, and then Keith is pushing back with nails raking against his collarbone and knuckles kissing his jawline.

Keith’s grip on Lance’s collar almost tore the fabric, and he pulled him so close he could taste the vitriol pouring from his blue eyes. Lance’s boney knee pulled up, the stained jeans aiming for Keith’s stomach, and he flinched. But instead of feeling a blow to his diaphragm, he just heard Lance’s breath catch and unscrewed his eyes to find Lance instead had steadied his feet back on the asphalt.

Keith pushed away, if only to spit out what tasted like blood. Lance was panting, exerted from holding in the tears that felt like they would split his skull. A bruise was already forming on his jawline.

“Everyone who needs me is fucking dead, Kogane.” Lance finally shuddered out. His hands were shaking, and fisted his own shirt, as if renting the garment would make him feel better. His voice wobbled like it had been the one punched. “They’re all fucking dead. Pidge— Hunk— they’re dead.”

“I know that.” Every consonant felt harsh on Keith’s tongue. He dared to step an inch closer to where Lance was collapsing in on himself. Supernova. Even as the alley seemed to get darker still.

“And they’re not coming back. Just like your brother. They— they’re not coming back.” Lance stuttered. His hands finally released his shirt, fabric stretched into tendrils, and they hung tense at his sides. His fingers jittered with chaotic energy. His voice held venom. “Accepting reality isn’t being a coward. Some shit you can’t fight.”

Keith couldn't stop himself from blurting loudly, too loudly: "Why do you think I don't need you?"

"What?" Lance’s blue eyes went wide for the first time that night, anger hardly tainting his genuine bewilderment.

"You said everyone who needs you is dead,” Keith’s words were stilted, and he realized he was trying to hold in tears. Each sound was a crack in the dam. “I'm– not dead.”

"No,” Lance said slowly, and he took an infinitesimal step forward, head leaning closer as if to check. He watched Keith’s chest rise, and fall, and rise again. “You're not dead."

Keith spoke honestly, voice cracking on every word. "I need you."

But Lance– every boisterous, ever loud Lance, with eyes crystal-blue like the sky and the sea and the color of wonder and hope– Lance was silent. Unmoving. His eyes glassed over and became dark, not with anger but with a hopeless melancholy.

"Lance,” Keith tried to reach him, broken voice offering a hand to the drowning man.

"I need to go home, Keith,” was all Lance said back, voice just as shattered.

Keith forced his despondency back into rage, a compulsory splintering, a strained fracture on his tired mind. "Whatever. Fuck you, Lance.”

Another moment of heavy silence, broken only by the crunch of gravel under Lance’s feet.

"Radio me if you need me,” he said lowly, and then he was gone.