Keith & Lance || klance au

The mum glare is a death glare.

The ride to Keith's apartment complex was completely silent. Lance sat staring out the window with a stoic expression etched to his face, tight grip on Keith's hand as the boy drove.

Keith had never been good at comforting people or expressing his own feelings, so at the moment he just settled for caressing Lance's hand with his thumb and let him latch on to it. If that was what Lance needed, then so be it.

The boys walked into the apartment quietly, Keith reached for the light switch and immediately turned towards Lance when he heard him gasp loudly. He had his hand over his chest as he stared wide-eyed at the black-haired woman standing in front of them in her sleeping gown and a beer in her hand.

"Oh, hi mum." Keith sighed. "Mum, Lance. Lance, this is Krolia."

"Hello," Lance stepped forward offering a handshake to the woman, who was clearly judging him by the way her eyes slowly scanned from his messy brown hair and tear-stained cheeks to his colourful button-up and expensive-looking sneakers. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

She took her time before finally shaking his hand, "Mhmm."

"Hey, over here," Keith called softly, pulling Lance by his arm towards his own bedroom.

"She had this death glare." Lance let out an exhausted breath while looking around Keith's bedroom. The dishevelled old bookshelf on the corner, the boxing gear scattered next to the bed, dirty windows, music posters, empty beer bottles, messy bed sheets and the list went on and on. He'd be lying if he said he felt comfortable.

"That's just how she always looks, don't worry about her."

Hey, Nyma. Can I crash at your place?

"You can sleep here," Keith accommodated the bed quickly, fluffing up the pillow. "And I can sleep on the couch."

Lance sent the text message, keeping his cellphone in his back pocket afterwards.

"What is it that you want from your parents, Lance? Is it money?"

"They set up an account for when I turn twenty-five, but I need the money now because..." Lance watched as Keith changed the bedsheets to a clean set for him to sleep in. He was starting to feel slightly guilty. "Because I don't want to go to college. I want to be a chef."

"Oh," Keith turned to him with his eyebrows raised and nodded. "Very cool."

"Yeah..." Lance nodded too, invisible weight coming off his shoulders when he realized that Keith wasn't going to mock him for what he had just confessed. "I think I would really enjoy doing that."

"Sure, it's a really great profession."

A smile slowly made it's way to Lance's lips until he was almost beaming, watching as Keith looked for some more blankets.

"Thanks. For not making fun at my problems."

Keith snickered, "You're just confirming my theory, though. Rich people are too dumb to be happy."

"Oh? Okay, then please explain why I'm unhappy...?"

"When you're rich, you can do anything you want. But you don't cause you're a bunch of butt heads."

Lance laughed, "I am doing what I want. I'm going to a culinary school in Paris."

"Maybe you can cook something here." Keith offered. "But we only have shit."

-

Keith wasn't lying when he said that they only had "shit." He took out from the fridge some peppers, a packet of cheese, potatoes. A few random more ingredients and then a box of corn flakes and ketchup to feed his own humour.