discontinued - Smooth Criminal

Chapter 5

One week. Seven days.Yeah, Lance could do this. It would be bearable - Keith seemed earnest enough. He looked over at the other boy, and how his eyes had lit up for the first time since their unfortunate meeting earlier that day. Keith was admiring the city from the small window, craning his neck so as to get a better angle, and while Lance tried to concentrate on the view, he simply couldn't; wanting to watch the other boy be at peace forever.

Eventually Lance pushed himself away from the window to begin unpacking his small bag. He arranged his belongings neatly, making sure everything had a place where it could serve its purpose. The sun ducked behind the clouds, rays poking through occasionally, and birds flitted through the wiry branches and between towering buildings. The bustle of the city could be heard in the distance - most notably car horns and police sirens. No voices. Not here. Nobody came here.

Keith joined him soon after, and they settled into a comfortable, domestic silence. He unpacked quickly (quicker than Lance, anyway) and resumed his position at the window. He sat, resting his head in a hand and gazing contentedly at the skyline. So far he hadn't spoke. Maybe he liked it that way, Lance thought, or maybe it was out of habit. He quickly pushed these disturbing thoughts out his mind.

"Hey, Keith," Keith didn't move "do you want a drink? The guys left us some bottles." There was silence, and Lance waited with bated breath.

"No." Lance cocked his head in confusion.

"Okay..." he said, drawing out the o's "What about something to eat? You can't have eaten since this morning, dude."

"I'm good." Keith replied, answers short and curt as always. Lance was beginning to get frustrated. The other boy had to take care of himself, he was virtually skin and bones. If Lance's mother was here, she'd have piled Keith's plate high with food, and wouldn't have stopped until she was forced to. He smiled lovingly at the memory of her, pushing away the haunting pain of homesickness and replacing it with happier thoughts of Keith - no, the thoughts that he would see his family again, soon.

"Come on, man, you've gotta have something. Look, if you're a picky eater we'll find something. My brother Marco was and we always managed to get him to eat-"

"I said I'm fine, Lance." Keith growled crudely, turning to face him. Lance was taken aback. A stunned silence hung over the room, as Keith processed his words and recoiled in horror.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry, I-" He was flustered, stumbling over his words, red in the face and flailing his hands about as he tried to grasp at the right thing to say.

"No, it's fine." Lance said quietly. Maybe he should be scared of Keith. Maybe he really was capable of more than what Lance originally thought. Maybe he was a hardened criminal, dangerous, and easily able to escape the confines of this room. Lance had to step up his game, and fast. He was not letting Keith get away. And if he did escape? Lance wasn't sure whether he'd be able to live with himself.

"Hey, Lance, um, tell me about yourself. I want to get to know you, since..." Keith trailed off and rubbed the back of his neck, visibly cringing at his futile attempt to rescue the conversation. It seemed to work. Lance's face lit up; excited to talk about himself. But at this moment, he found himself at a loss for words. What did he say? What could he say? Lance took a deep breath and began anyway, without pausing for breath - he had always been notorious for rambling.
"Well, for starters, you know I'm a cop. But I'm not actually American. I come from Cuba. Like Alexander Hamilton, I'm destined for great things here!" Lance laughed as Keith's eyes widened at the mention of the ten-dollar Founding Father.

"I love to swim. And surf. My brother taught me how to do both those things. But also taught me how to cook, so I have to admit I don't trust his surfing tips at all. Adding onto that, I managed to burn pasta once." Keith snorted.