Hearts don't break around here

Chapter 13:cinnamon rolls

Present Day

Lance's house is just as comforting as it always used to be.

They haven't really visited home in quite a while, but the minute Keith hears the familiar creaking of the wooden floorboards, it takes him back a decade. The musty smell of old flowers and worn out wood fills his senses and leaves a buzzing warmth beneath his skin. Lance's family is asleep--it's 3AM, after all. It leaves the house dark and quiet, just like it used to be when Keith and Lance would sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night to eat junk food and leftovers from dinner; with nothing but the refrigerator light filtering through the darkness.

Spontaneously traveling to Rossway Cliff was a very stupid, mushy, and cliche idea in Keith's eyes. He honestly couldn't really believe that he did it. It was something straight out of a bad romance novel. But a couple of good things came out of it. A couple...great things.

Because now he's home again...which is great.

And now , Lance is pressed close to him, tangling their fingers together in a messy bunch and leading him through through the doorway with a soft smile on his face.

And that... .is even greater.

"Everyone is asleep." Lance whispers, turning around. His skin looks so soft in the fuzzy darkness. He doesn't let go of Keith's hand. "Wanna go upstairs?"

Keith feels heat flooding his cheeks and nods nervously, letting Lance lead the way. They make their way up the creaky staircase, onto the fluffy carpet of the upstairs hallway. He doesn't know why he's nervous. He doesn't know why he feels dizzy, but it may have something to do with the millions of butterflies that have just been consistently exploding in his stomach for the past half hour.

Lance loves him.

Lance. Lance McClain . Lance with the curly hair and the gapped teeth, Lance with neon rubber bands on his braces and a spatter of freckles, Lance with smooth dark skin and bright, blue eyes.

Lance loves him.

It doesn't fit anywhere in his head. It doesn't fit in his chest. It feels like it's too much, too warm and wild and wonderful and Keith has never had to stomach anything this exquisite. It's a new feeling that doesn't know how to make it past the skin on his burning, burning cheeks.

Lance's fingers detangle from his as they pad into his old room; a room that Keith knows like the back of his hand. Lance doesn't even have to turn the light on for Keith to see the photos littered on the walls, some of Lance with his family, some of Lance with Keith. He already knows the soccer trophies on the dresser are lined up by height. He knows the sock drawer doesn't close all the way and hasn't , for years. He knows there's an embarrassing stain on his bed from when they tried to sneak red wine in here at sixteen years old and spilled it because Lance's mother burst in, scaring them half to death.

He wraps his arms around himself, feeling way too many things simultaneously. He glances around the room, eyes flitting over everything once, twice, three times, before they find Lance's face.

Lance is smiling at him, softly and earnestly. He looks at Keith with questioning eyes and tilts his head slightly, towards his bed. "Wanna sleep?"

Keith manages a smile back, not trusting his voice, and nods.

Lance, almost as a force of habit, strips off his shirt. Keith is struck dumb by the sight of it, suddenly very very aware of the current situation that they are in and very, very unprepared. He watches Lance kick off his socks. He just stares, like an idiot , the heat in his cheeks finally traveling to the tips of his ears, and then back down his neck.