YELLOW [[klance]] [[COMPLETED]]

keith.

life in a hospital can get pretty damn boring.

i mean, yeah, most people who come in a hospital are here because you're dying or fatally injured and all that, but when you're a full time freaking resident, it gets pretty dull. sad and dull.

i haven't had a seizure in a few days. woo-hoo. hurray. somebody bake me a fucking cake.

whatever.

the arrival of lance mcclain is about the most exciting thing that's happened here since they put chocolate pudding on the menu. however, he happens to have an actual family that he spends actual time with, while i am a basketcase that spends MY time solemnly eating chocolate pudding in the TV room.

the chocolate pudding isn't even that good.

i'm doing what i do pretty much 70 percent of the time when lance comes back. his family bids him a long and tedious goodbye, offers me more cookies that i don't have the heart to decline, and then leave.

"so what do you do in this place?" lance says, placing himself on his bed, legs crossed, looking pretty enthusiastic for someone who's sitting on a hospital bed. 

i eye him, but don't look away from my sketchbook. "you're looking at it." i beckon to my tray of colored pencils and go back to drawing.

"you've got to do SOMETHING else but brood," he says, dramatically flopping onto his back.

"hmm, i could show you physical therapy, but that's probably more boring for you than it is for me."

he props himself up on his elbows, looking thoughtful. stupid pretty face. "why don't we talk?"

"yeah, 'cause we don't do that enough," i say sarcastically, coloring in hair with a charcoal pencil.

"no, like really talk," he continues. "it's, what, three? we've got eons until dinner! and eons more to get to know each other. so we should start now."

i look at him skeptically. he doesn't seem to notice, as he happily hops up and places himself on the end of my bed, cross-legged. he pushes the tray away.

"hey," i protest, but he doesn't seem to give a crap.

"okay. why are you here?"

"did i agree to this?"

"you have now! i can tell you first if you want."

i roll my eyes, lean back, and cross my arms. "right. okay. fine."

he straightens, clears his throat, and begins to talk like he's making a speech. "i have cystic fibrosis, an inherited disorder that affects mainly your lungs and digestive system, though it can affect other organs in your body. the first common symptoms show up at a young age, and include coughing, frequent respiratory infections, salty skin, weight loss, and - the best one in my opinion - greasy stools."

he catches my grimace and laughs. then continues talking like he's reading it from a hospital brochure.

"there is no cure but there is treatment, which is why i'm here, duh. these treatments include an airway clearance vest, and ports." he pulls down the lip of his shirt. a clunky circular thing taped down to his skin, nestled beneath the cavity of his collarbone. "i just had this one put in." he brings his shirt back up. "that, and meds and stuff. 'cause i can get sick easily and, y'know, there's mucus build-up and stuff you have to deal with." he shrugs and twiddles his fingers. "i got a respiratory infection a little while ago. blah, blah, got super sick, almost died, got better ended up here." he puts his hands in the air and smiles. "the end."

"oh," is all i say, because i'm an idiot. 

"now." he leans forward and rests his chin in his hands. he's smiling somewhat devilishly. i can see each freckle on his smooth-skinned face, see each truffle-colored curl clinging to his scalp, to the tube wrapping over his ears, inserting little hissing nozzles into his nostrils. his tongue wedges between his teeth and he wiggles his arched eyebrows at me. "what about you?"

"nothing. i'm a figment of your effed-up imagination."

"hardy-har," he says, rolling his eyes and smirking. "i don't think my imagination could come up with somebody like you."

i can feel my ears grow hot as i inevitably blush. "what's that supposed to mean?"

"c'mon, just tell me why you're here," he says, ignoring my question. "you don't have to tell me the details. i just want, like, the jist."

"uhm, no."

"keeeiiitth," he complains. "you agreed to this."

"i literally didn't." annoyance twinges in my stomach.

"lies!" he exclaims. he's smiling widely, his blueberry-eyes sparkling. "keith..."

"if i tell you, will you leave me alone?"

"maybe." he sits back and plays innocent, holding his hands in his lap.

"fine," i murmur. "i was in a car accident. happy?"

"hm." he doesn't answer, just steeples his fingers and stares at them for awhile, as if thinking. "were you driving?"

"no details. remember?"

he nibbles on his bottom lip, still deep in thought. "hmmm..."

"now go away," i say, leaning back and attempting to yank the tray back over despite the blockade in front of it which is lance mcclain.

he stands up without a word, and i'm just trying to clumsily organize my charcoal pencils and sketchbook when my eyes catch a glimpse of lance's feet. he's standing by the bed and looking at me.

"do you ever give up - ?" 

"i'm sorry," he interjects. solemnly. dead-serious. standing above me with his arms crossed, he is as unreadable as ever, with hooded eyes like a stormy ocean, capped with foam. i feel like a damaged boat, awash just by his sincere gaze. 

i look back up at him, silently, for a moment. the lull of the hospital noises surrounding us - beeps and dings, squeaks and murmurs, sometimes a sniffling sob, or unabashed weeping. except we are cocooned in a stuffy and unmoving silence, locked between our eyes. 

"me too," i finally say, and look away. i can hear the delicate pad of his footsteps as he walks to his bed and lifts himself into it. i stare hard at my sketch, which i find looks just like me, minus the jagged scar i find myself absently rubbing with my palm. i close my eyes fleetingly and smell burning rubber, feel the weightlessness of being airborne, the heaviness of learning you cannot fly. plummeting.

i open my eyes and begin to color in the hair of the mini-me on my page, in long black strokes. back to my blank and torpid thoughts, in a mind-numbing push-and-pull like the surf trying to eat up the gulf, again and back and then again once more.

use white-out, blank your thoughts.

it works well if you get good at it.

"one of these days, keith kogane," lance says suddenly, breaking the silence. stretched out on his bed like a sunbather with his elbows winged and his palms behind his head. "i'm going to get you to smile."

"good luck with that," i say sardonically, not taking my eyes away from the page. again, i can feel my ears heat up. 

but i can already feel it, the threat of a bashful smile tugging at the corner of my lips. 

fuck.