Archive of Our Own

Keith loses himself in the static.

It’s the only sound in his cramped dorm room—a place he still can’t think of as “home” no matter how hard he tries.

(But then again, nothing ever has felt that way. Not really.)

He can barely comprehend that he’s here in the first place. He keeps replaying the memories in his head over and over again to make sure they’re real: the months of scraping his life back together, the endless hours of studying and completing applications … and then finally holding the weighty envelope from Galra Tech University, Shiro’s hand on his shoulder and his proud smile as he said, “You did it, Keith. You got in.”

But he still can’t believe it. He still hasn’t unpacked most of the boxes in his room, terrified that at any moment this vision will shatter and he’ll find himself on his own again. The first week of college has already passed in a haze of orientation events and crowded lecture halls. He’s already grown weary of introducing himself to everyone he meets, rattling off his name, pronouns, and undecided major (“probably either aviation or astronomy, I don’t know yet”).

He hasn’t made many friends. There’s Shiro, of course, but Keith has already known him since he was a mentor at the Garrison, and now he’s a busy grad student at Galra Tech as well. Besides that, the only person he’s hung out with much is Pidge.

Meeting new people has never been something Keith enjoyed. He’s still trying to comprehend and accept that friendships can be more than temporary, fleeting things. So many people have woven inconsequentially in and out of his life that he can barely match names to faces in his memories.

But maybe things will start to turn around this year. Maybe if he actually made an effort …

Right now, he doesn’t want to think about it. He lies on his bed in the darkness, staring at the gray stripes of light on the ceiling coming from the street lamp outside.

On the desk next to him, a digital alarm clock displays the passing minutes in glowing red digits. Its radio is turned on, static crackling. Keith has always found the white noise calming––so every night before he lies down to go to sleep, he carefully nudges the dial back and forth until he finds the empty space between stations.

The dull roar drowns out everything else. No thoughts. No worries. Just a gentle rush of meaningless noise.

Tonight, though, it doesn’t seem to be working. No matter how many times Keith has closed his eyes and tried to sleep, he’s still wide awake. With a frustrated groan, he turns over and squints at the alarm clock. It’s a few minutes past midnight.

Keith is no stranger to insomnia, and he can always tell when it’s going to be one of those sleepless nights. This feels like one of them.

He sits up in surrender, trying to decide what he should do. Now that he’s awake, he might as well do something. Maybe some late-night studying, or even go for a walk, or––

A new sound from the radio distracts him. There’s a slight hiccup in the static like something is trying to break its way through. And sure enough, moments later, he can hear a voice, although it’s too muffled and distorted to make out the words.

Keith picks up the alarm clock and fiddles with the dial. He barely needs to touch it before the voice comes through with sudden clarity.

“… Testing, testing. Is this thing on? I’m gonna assume it’s working.”

There’s a faint buzzing noise in the background.

“Oh, my friend is texting me and he says it’s working. Shouldn’t you be asleep, Hunk?”

Another buzz.

“Okay, fair enough. But this was the only slot they had available. Also, I always stay up super late anyway.”

Keith frowns. “What is this?” he mutters. He lays a finger on the power switch, ready to turn the radio off, but for some reason he hesitates.

“Hey, so … I guess I should introduce myself or something,” the voice continues. “So, hi out there, to anyone who’s listening. The name’s Lance. And this is my brand new radio show! Which doesn’t have a name yet. I should probably think of one, huh? If anyone has suggestions, lemme know.

“I was thinking maybe I’d call it Space Base … that’s got a nice ring to it. Ooh, it could be ‘bass’ with two S’s ‘cause you know like … music … but then people might think I meant ‘bass’ like the fish. But, you know, it’s pronounced differently. And also the idea of space fish is super cool, to be honest.”

Unexpectedly, Keith finds himself smiling at that. His finger still hovers over the power switch, but he finds himself slowly drawing his hand away. There’s something so open and casual about the way this guy––Lance––is talking. It almost feels like he’s sitting right there in the room, and Keith is strangely intrigued by it.

"Guess I should mention that this show is coming from Altea College," Lance continues. "I'm a freshman here––or, well, we say 'first-years' here, which is kinda cool. Feels like Hogwarts. Anyway, they have this nice little cabin thing in the woods with a bunch of sound equipment and stuff, and students can have their own radio shows, which is how I'm doing this.

"I know having a show at like midnight isn't super ideal, but hey––you can always listen when you can't sleep, or maybe you're doing some midnight homework. Or you just want to listen to my beautiful voice and excellent music taste."

Keith huffs and rolls his eyes. But he doesn't turn the radio off.

"Also, like I said, there weren't a lot of time slots left, and I'm usually up really late anyways. So, yeah! Here we are.

"Well, I've probably said enough for now, and I should probably, you know, actually play some music. So, I've got a bunch of sweet jams coming your way. A little Arcade Fire, a couple things from The Killers, some Walk The Moon ... I don't know, I'm kind of just making this up as I go. But I hope you enjoy!"

There's a moment of silence, and then the music starts––a few electrifying guitar riffs that crescendo into a soaring melody. Soon a voice joins the instrumentals, singing about the passage of time and the pain of growing older. It's a song Keith thinks he heard years ago but has never known the name of. He finds himself listening attentively, holding the alarm clock between his hands, balanced on his knees. The bass of the music hums pleasantly in his fingers, and he closes his eyes.

That first song segues into another, and then a third. Keith slides the radio back onto the desk next to his bed and lies on his side, an arm folded under his head. His mind wanders every once in awhile, but the music pulls him back in over and over again. The tension eases out of his muscles and his eyelids start to grow heavy.

Time slips by, guided by the strings of melody. Every few songs, Lance will interrupt the music to speak again. At his voice, Keith cracks one eye open––he's not irritated, just ... curious, waiting to hear more about who this guy is. But Lance doesn't really say anything else about himself, just cheerfully lists the names of songs he's played and announces what's to come.

He has eclectic taste in music, skipping between genres so that Keith never quite expects what will play next. But somehow, despite the lack of predictability, the songs all weave together in a surprising way.

It's a little past 1 AM when the music finally comes to a stop.

"Well, guys ... that's all for now," Lance says before he lets out a yawn. Keith yawns, too. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I am super tired. But this was really fun, and I hope you all tune in again on Thursday––same place, same time. This is Lancey Lance signing off. Good night!"

There's a soft clicking noise, and then the sound dissolves into static again.

Keith blinks sleepily at the glowing numbers on the clock, feeling as if he just woke up from a dream. But at the same time, a warm feeling has seeped into his bones, and he finds that he can no longer keep his eyes open.

For once, he sleeps soundly throughout the night.

--

"What do you know about Altea College?"

Keith and Pidge are doing homework in Pidge’s room, which is the complete opposite of Keith’s––a haphazard minefield of dirty clothes, crumpled papers, empty boxes, candy wrappers, and an insurmountable number of other unidentified objects. Keith has no idea how she’s managed to collect so much garbage in the span of less than two weeks, but he’s impressed.

Keith sits on a bean bag on the floor, laptop perched on his knees. On the bed, Pidge sits cross-legged with a textbook open in front of her, but she seems more preoccupied with sticking pens between her toes than actually reading anything.

She glances up at Keith’s question, eyes narrowed quizzically behind her round-rimmed glasses. “Altea College? Why? Are you thinking of transferring already?”

“What? No, it’s not that. It’s …” Keith absently drums a finger against the side of his laptop, trying to determine how to explain this without sounding crazy. “I just know it’s another college somewhere in the area, and uh … I’m curious about it, that’s all.”

Pidge still gives him a questioning look. She wriggles her toes and one of the pens falls out and clatters onto the floor. “Damn it! Hey, can you get that for me?”

“No offense but … no. Gross.”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll get it later.”

Pidge sets her textbook aside and leans her elbows on her knees, resting her chin in her hands.

“Anyway … I don’t know much about Altea, honestly. I think Matt has a couple friends who went there, so he might know more than I do. But, from what I know, it’s kinda out in the middle of nowhere. Like, it’s not far away––maybe like twenty minutes or so––but it’s basically in the middle of the woods. And it’s a small school. Like, less than two thousand students, I think. It’s also kind of ‘alternative’, you know?”

She puts air quotes around the word.

“Alternative?” Keith repeats.

“Yeah, like they don’t have majors or anything. The students have to kinda design their own education. I don’t really get how it works.”

“Huh. That’s cool, I guess.”

Pidge shrugs. “I guess. Personally I feel like it’d drive me nuts. I need structure, you know?” She frowns at her textbook. “Although I could deal with not having to take all these required courses. I feel like I already know most of this stuff.”

“Well, not all of us can be child prodigies.”

“I’m not a child prodigy.”

Pidge tosses a piece of crumpled-up notebook paper at him, and it bounces off Keith’s forehead.

“Hey,” he protests indignantly, but they both smile. “I just mean, you got into college at age sixteen. That’s kind of the definition of prodigy.”

“I just worked really hard in high school, okay?” Pidge says, crossing her arms. “Plus I had triple legacy at Galra Tech, so that probably helped a little.”

"Yeah, yeah."

Keith slouches on the bean bag, leaning his head back against the wall. He tries to engross himself in his astronomy reading again, but he finds himself skimming through the file of scanned pages without absorbing a single word.

"You never really answered my question," Pidge says, interrupting his thoughts.

"About what?"

"About why you're suddenly so interested in Altea College."

Keith sighs, rubbing at his temples. "Oh, I don't know. It's nothing. It's just ... the other night I came across this radio show. And the guy hosting the show said he went there."

"And ... ?"

"And nothing! That's it. I was just curious about where the school was."

"Okay, okay. Jeez."

Pidge lifts up her textbook and rests it on her knees again. They both fall back into silence, but Keith can see Pidge watching him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye.

--

Keith hasn't touched the dial on the radio in three days––not since he first heard Lance's show on Monday. He remembers Lance saying something about how the show would be back again on Thursday, and yet for the past two nights he's laid awake past midnight listening to the static, quietly hoping to hear something.

Well, it's Thursday now. And at midnight, Keith is wide awake as always.

He sits at his desk, a small lamp casting a yellow glow over his notebook. For the past couple hours, he's been attempting to study for the physics quiz he has tomorrow, but at this point he feels like the information dissolves as soon as he tries to absorb it into his brain.

Blearily, Keith rubs his eyes and slouches back in his chair, pushing it slightly away from his desk. It's then that his gaze falls on his alarm clock and the digits glowing in the dimness.

12:04 AM.

Wait. Shit.

He's almost embarrassed by how fast he reaches for the radio and switches it on, his heart leaping into his throat in anticipation ...

And there's nothing. Just the droning static.

Frowning, Keith moves the dial back and forth a little bit, but he still doesn't hear anything. With a defeated sigh, he moves the dial back to its original place and lowers the alarm clock back onto the desk. At least maybe the white noise will help him concentrate better.

But just as he picks up his pencil again, the static comes to an abrupt stop. Keith's eyes flash towards the radio.

"Hey, everyone!" a voice says. "It's me, Lancey Lance, back on the mic. Sorry for the late start. I was busy with a research paper, which naturally I put off until the last minute.

"Anyway, happy Thursday! Or, technically it's Friday now, I guess. Almost the weekend! I don't know about you guys, but it felt like a super long week to me. I know you all missed the sound of my voice––and don't worry, you'll hear plenty of it in this next hour––but since I'm starting a bit late, I should probably get right to the music, huh? I thought I'd start out with a little CHVRCHES and some St. Lucia to get the groove going.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention! There’s a phone here, apparently? So if anyone has requests or, I don’t know, you just wanna shoot the breeze, feel free to call in.”

Keith perks up at those words.

“The number is uhh …”

Lance pauses and there’s a slight rustling noise before he lists off the digits. Hurriedly, Keith scribbles them down in the corner of his notebook page. And then he just stares at them, twirling his pencil between his fingers.

"So, yeah. I should probably get those tunes started, huh? Well, here we go. See ya on the other side."

A song starts playing––something upbeat and electronic––and Keith reaches over to turn the volume up. His gaze shifts between the radio and the phone number he wrote down, as his fingers grip tighter around his pencil.

As the first song fades into another, Keith is still sitting in the same position: his homework spread out on the desk in front of him. His cell phone sits next to his elbow, and he stares at it for a few moments before sighing and pushing it away.

No. No way.

Over the course of the next few songs, he tries to concentrate on studying again, flipping textbook pages and skimming over his scrawled notes. The steady beats of the music seem to lull him into a trance.

Lance's voice pulls him to the surface again, as he speaks enthusiastically between sets of songs. This time around, he talks a little more about himself, and Keith finds himself taking mental notes: Lance mentions that he's interested in music––obviously––but he's also studying astronomy (Keith drops his pencil at that). His two best friends at Altea are named Hunk and Allura.

Lance and Hunk have known each other since they were kids. (“We always said we’d go to the same college and now that’s exactly what we’re doing! How cool is that?”) Hunk is studying engineering and culinary arts, and according to Lance he is the smartest person in the world. (Lance’s phone buzzes in the background. “Well, it’s true, Hunk!”) Allura is the daughter of Altea’s school president, and she’s super nice and down-to-earth; she’s studying diplomacy and international relations but is also interested in animal behavior and studio arts.

Keith listens with his chin propped on one hand, smiling as he listens to Lance gush about his friends. Even though he’s never met the people Lance is talking about, he almost feels familiar with them from the way Lance speaks about them in such caring detail. Just like the first time Keith listened to the radio show, he feels like Lance is talking directly to him, like they’re sitting in the same room.

He freezes, flipping back to the notebook page where he scribbled down the phone number. His hand slides toward where his cell phone lies on the desk …

He snatches his hand back again. What would he even say? That he likes the radio show? And then what? Some kind of meaningless small talk? The thought of actually having to make conversation makes him physically cringe. All he would do is make an idiot of himself.

Instead, he just sits backs in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face, and he continues to listen in silence.

—

One. Two. One. Jab. Jab. Hook …

Keith steps back from the punching bag, breathing hard. His palms are damp inside the thick boxing gloves, and his knuckles have started to ache. The bag swings back and forth in front of him, creaking on its chain.

“Nice job, Keith!” Shiro says behind him. He claps Keith on the back so hard that it practically knocks the wind out of him.

“Thanks,” Keith wheezes. He coughs and tries to catch his breath.

Shiro grins and hands him a towel. “Pretty soon you’ll be able to beat me up.”

Keith scoffs, peeling off the boxing gloves and dropping them to the floor before he takes the towel from Shiro’s hand. “Doubt that,” he manages to say, still trying to get his breath back.

He scrubs the towel over his face as he walks over to the bench in the corner of the small room and sits down. Shiro follows him and sits at the other end of the bench, frowning as he adjusts his prosthetic arm slightly.

“So, how’ve you been?” Shiro asks, wiping sweat from his brow with his own towel. “You keeping up okay? Doing your homework?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “Didn’t realize you invited me here to interrogate me.”

“Hey, I was just asking how you’re doing, that’s all,” Shiro says defensively.

“I know, I know,” Keith says with a smirk. He tugs the elastic out of his hair, freeing it from the short ponytail at the back of his neck. “Well … everything’s fine, I guess. I like my classes, for the most part. Got an A on my first physics quiz.”

“Nice!”

Shiro holds up his fist and Keith bumps his own against it.

“Seriously, though. I’m really proud of you, Keith,” Shiro says, smiling.

Keith smiles back. As much as he’s always beaten himself up, he does have to give himself some credit for how far he’s come in the past few years––and no one has seen that more than Shiro.

Before that, Keith hadn’t had many positive adult figures in his life, and it was thanks to the Garrison’s mentorship program that he ended up meeting Shiro and finally finding the guidance he’d always needed. Someone who had become the closest thing he’d ever had to family, who believed in him when no one else ever had. A few years ago, Keith could never have seen himself graduating high school, much less getting into college.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he says sincerely.

“Aw, come on. Don’t get mushy on me.”

“You started it!”

They both laugh.

“So, what else have you been up to?” Shiro asks. “Making any friends?”

At that, Keith’s smile fades. He shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve mostly just been hanging out with Pidge.”

“Matt’s sister?”

“Yeah. She’s really cool … super smart, too.”

“Runs in the family,” Shiro says with a chuckle. He pauses, draping his towel over his shoulder. “I’m glad to hear you’re getting along with Pidge. But maybe you should get out some more. Make more friends.”

“I have friends! I have Pidge. I have you.”

Shiro huffs out a laugh. “You’re not embarrassed to be friends with an old man like me?”

“Oh God, not this again. You’re not old, Shiro.”

“I’m almost thirty.”

“Twenty-five isn’t almost thirty. And thirty’s not old, either.”

“Ancient,” Shiro insists woefully.

Keith whacks Shiro’s arm with his towel, and Shiro shoots him a wounded look. “Hey! Respect your elders.”

“Whatever,” Keith says, and they both laugh again.

They fall back into a comfortable silence for a minute, and Keith runs his fingers through his hair.

“Hey, uh, Shiro? I wanted to ask your advice about something.”

At that, Shiro’s smile drops and he sits up straight. It’s almost funny how fast he turns serious whenever Keith asks for advice. He’d probably never admit it, but Keith is certain he enjoys being needed, that he prides himself on being Keith’s mentor. Shiro has never had a younger brother and Keith has never had an older brother, so it’s kind of a symbiotic relationship in that sense.

"Of course," Shiro says. "Why, is something wrong?"

"No, not exactly. It's just ..." Keith scratches the back of his head, staring intently at the cement floor of the gym. "There's this guy ..."

Shiro's eyes widen. "Oh."

Heat rises to Keith's face. "No, no it's not like that. I mean, I don't know. I just ... I want to talk to him ... ? But I don't know how."

"I see." Shiro plops his hands down on his knees and releases a long breath. "So, who is this guy? Is he in one of your classes?"

Keith doesn't know how to answer. He doesn't want to explain to Shiro that he's never met Lance face-to-face or even talked to him. He doesn’t even know what Lance looks like, come to think of it. But the last thing he wants right now is a lecture on stranger danger.

"No," he says carefully. "He … He doesn't go here. He goes to Altea College."

"Oh ... cool," says Shiro, like he doesn't know what else to say. Keith braces himself for a barrage of questions, but luckily Shiro doesn't pry any further. "Well, what do you know about him?"

Keith shrugs, rubbing a hand against the side of his neck. "Not very much, if I'm being honest. He has good taste in music. And he seems really nice. Friendly."

"Okay. So, what've you got to lose? Just go up and talk to him. Be yourself."

Keith practically flinches at the suggestion. "Are you serious? Be myself?"

"Yes. Groundbreaking, I know."

"I can't––I can't just ... It's not that simple." Keith slouches with a frustrated sigh. "I'm not like you, Shiro. I'm not––" He gestures vaguely, not sure what word to choose.

Shiro just blinks, and Keith almost rolls his eyes at how oblivious he is. Shiro has always been naturally charming in every way––the star graduate of the Garrison and now the golden boy of Galra Tech as well. Keith has never had that natural magnetic quality, and he doubts he ever will.

“Keith,” Shiro says with a reassuring smile, “I think you’re selling yourself short. You’re one of the nicest, smartest people I know. And if this guy doesn’t realize that, he’s not worth your time.

“I know it doesn’t really help to be told ‘don’t be shy’ but … I’m just saying, you won’t know unless you take that risk. And who knows, something good might come out of it.”

More like something completely humiliating, Keith wants to retort, but he stops himself.

“I don’t know, maybe. I don’t even know if he’s single––”

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them, but it’s too late. Shiro immediately perks up, eyes alight with teasing glee.

“Oh, so it is like that. I knew it!” He punches Keith lightly on the shoulder.

Keith groans, mentally scolding himself for that slip of the tongue. He’s never going to hear the end of it now.

“Please, don’t make this embarrassing.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” Shiro promises, but he side-eyes Keith in a way that suggests otherwise.

“Uggh!” Keith throws his towel over his head so Shiro won’t see how red his face is probably turning. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“Hey, I mean it. I’m not gonna be nosy about it. But you know that if you ever want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”

“Yeah, I know.” Keith still keeps the towel hanging over his head. “Thanks, Shiro.”

—

Just talk to him.

It’s such simple advice, and yet the thought makes Keith feel like there’s a rock lodged in his throat.

Be yourself.

How can he be himself? Who is he really, anyway? Just some kid who’s had a really messed-up life, has been tossed from home to home, has horrible abandonment issues, almost got kicked out of high school more than once … What’s even remotely likable about that?

The bitter thoughts circle in his head like a dark carousel as he paces the perimeter of his room. His cell phone feels as heavy as a brick in his hand. A few times he’s tossed it onto his bed like it had physically burned his skin, but every time he picks it up again and goes back to pacing.

On the radio, an acoustic song plays quietly––the lyrics creating an image of lazy summers and sunshine on skin. It might be calming if Keith wasn’t so stressed out right now.

With a deep sigh, he steps towards the desk, where his notebook lies open. He touches the page where he wrote down the phone number, fingers running over the digits.

The song fades to a stop.

“Hey out there, beautiful listeners,” Lance’s voice breaks through the silence. “Your ears have just been blessed with ‘I Wanna Get Better’ by Bleachers followed by ‘Anna Sun’ by Walk The Moon. I’m pretty sure I’ve played both those songs multiple times, but you know what? I don’t care. They’re both amazing jams.

“But yeah, if there’s anything else you want to hear, feel free to call me up. Or even if you just have a question or comment, or you wanna talk to me or whatever … That’d be cool. Usually I’m texting Hunk during the show, but I think he fell asleep doing homework again ‘cause he’s not responding to me. Anyway, the number is––”

Keith doesn’t have to listen. He holds his breath and dials the numbers he wrote down.

The momentary silence is deafening before he hears the first droning ring in his ear. At the same time, he hears a trilling noise on the radio, followed by Lance’s exclamation of surprise.

“Oh hey, look at that! Someone’s actually calling.”

There’s a faint click, and then, “Hello?” There’s a disorienting echo, because Keith can hear Lance speak on the radio at the same time he’s talking right into Keith’s ear.

Keith doesn’t say anything. He stands stock-still at the center of the room, hand clenching around his phone, heart hammering against his rib cage.

“Hell-ooooo?” Lance says, drawing out the second syllable. “Is anyone there?”

With his free hand, Keith reaches over to turn the volume down on the radio to lessen the distracting echo.

“Listen, if this is some kind of prank call––”

“It’s not,” Keith says quickly, finding his voice all of a sudden. “I mean, uh. Hi.”

He winces, holding the phone away from his ear for a second as he mentally screams at himself for his own awkwardness.

“Hi,” Lance says. His voice sounds a bit clearer over the phone than it does on Keith’s dusty old alarm clock. There’s a note of suspicion in the greeting, like he still thinks Keith is trying to pull some kind of joke.

“Why is your show on so late?” Keith blurts out.

It’s not what he wanted to say, but somehow it’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

“Excuse me?” Lance says. He doesn’t sound angry necessarily. Just … confused.

“I just meant, ah …”

Keith squeezes his eyes shut, reaching up to clench his fingers in his hair. He’s struggling for words, but it’s too hard to think past his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Oh, no. He’s paused for too long. Say something, damn it …

“It’s … Your show is on so late at night,” he tries to explain, as if Lance didn’t know this already. “I guess I was just wondering why that is.”

A crackling silence answers him, and Keith’s stomach sinks. Did Lance hang up? Keith can’t exactly blame him.

But then he hears Lance make a noise––a short huff of breath that might have been either an impatient sigh or a quiet laugh … Keith has no clue.

“That’s the reason you’re calling? To complain about my time slot?”

Keith can’t tell if Lance is genuinely offended or whether he’s just joking; it’s difficult to determine without being able to see a facial expression to clue him in.

Hang up. Just hang up, this is only going to go downhill, his mind screams at him. But as usual, Keith can’t listen to his own advice.

“I … no, I’m not complaining. I was just asking, that’s all.”

“O-kay,” Lance says slowly. There’s a faint creaking noise, like he’s leaning back in his chair. “Well, I’ve explained before that there weren’t a lot of spots available when I signed up. The only other ones left didn’t work with my schedule, so I decided to go with the late-night one. Does that answer your question?”

“Uh, yeah. I guess.”

Keith sits on the edge of his bed, rubbing the heel of his hand against his left eye. He can feel this conversation quickly reaching a dead end, and he scrambles to find something else to say.

“I just wanted to say … it’s kinda nice, actually. The show being on so late, I mean,” he manages. “I’m usually up really late because I kinda have trouble sleeping, so … it’s nice to have something to listen to.”

“Oh,” Lance says, and there’s a sudden change in his tone––the usual brightness seeping back into his voice. “Well, cool. I’m glad to hear that. That you enjoy the show, I mean. Not that you have trouble sleeping.”

The tightness in Keith’s chest loosens, and he manages to laugh a little. “Yeah, I figured that’s what you meant.”

Lance laughs, too. “I know how that feels. I have some trouble sleeping, too.”

That catches Keith by surprise. “Yeah? Why is that?”

He regrets the question as soon as he asks it. Great. Just as the conversation was starting to feel relatively normal, he had to go and make it awkward again.

It doesn’t help that Lance takes a second to answer, and Keith worries he asked something too personal.

But when he finally answers, Lance doesn’t sound offended––just … thoughtful, like no one had bothered to ask him before.

“I don’t know, really. Guess it’s a combination of things. Mostly I think it’s just that my brain won’t shut up at night. Like, when I lie down to go to sleep, everything hits me at once, you know? I start worrying about every little thing. I know it’s stupid to worry about stuff I can’t control, but …”

“It’s not,” Keith says, and then clears his throat. “It’s not stupid.”

There’s another pause before Lance responds. “Well, thanks. I’m glad you think so.” He sounds like he genuinely means it.

Keith senses that the conversation is going to draw to a close, soon. And he’s about to make some excuse to hang up when suddenly Lance says, “How about you? Why can’t you sleep?”

He shouldn’t be surprised by the question, since he was the one who asked it first. Yet, he's momentarily too shocked to answer. As he tries to formulate a response, he slowly lies back on his bed and glares at the ceiling.

"I guess it's kind of like what you said. Part of it's just worrying about lots of things. And I don't know, just general insomnia. But I get a lot of bad dreams, too."

"Bad dreams?" Lance repeats. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, man."

Keith's face feels warm. Maybe he shouldn't have brought up this subject.

"It's okay. Most of the time they're not really bad or anything. Just ... stressful, I guess. And sometimes I get sleep paralysis too––you know, like, when I wake up I can't move at all for a few minutes. So that sucks, too."

"Jeez, sounds scary."

“Sometimes it is, a little bit. But I’ve just gotten used to it at this point. Mostly it’s just annoying.”

He’s starting to worry that he’s oversharing, and he tries to steer the conversation back into less personal territory.

“Anyway, like I said before, I’m glad I found your show. Makes it easier to fall asleep.”

“Wow, are you saying I’m boring?”

Keith is pretty sure Lance is kidding, but he still feels tongue-tied at the accusation.

“I—What? No, I just meant it’s … It helps me kinda wind down, you know? That’s all,” he stutters out.

Lance laughs quietly. “It’s okay, man. I was joking.”

Keith catches himself smiling. There’s a moment of quiet in which he suddenly remembers he’s talking to Lance on the air—that other people might be listening to this conversation. For a minute there, he almost forgot. It feels like it’s just the two of them.

The pause has drawn out for a long time now, to the point where it starts to feel awkward. Keith searches for something to say, anything at all.

Luckily, it’s Lance who speaks first. “So … can I ask where you’re listening from? Do you go to Altea?”

Keith snaps out of his daze. He eases up onto one elbow, holding his phone to his ear with his free hand.

“Oh … no, actually. I’m a student at Galra Tech.”

“Wow, you can hear this show all the way from GTU? Man, I thought I was only reaching people within like a one-mile radius. We’re kinda out in the middle of nowhere here. Anyway, that’s cool. What year are you?”

“Freshman. Same as you,” Keith answers, and then wonders if that sounds stalkerish. “That is, uh … I think you’ve mentioned before that you’re a freshman.”

“Yup, sure am.”

“And you said something about studying astronomy?”

“Yeah … or, at least, it’s one of the things I’m interested in. That and music. What about you? Decided on a major yet?”

“Not yet.” Keith sits up again, scratching the back of his head. “But I’m interested in astronomy too, actually. And aviation.”

“Dude, no way! So you’re gonna like become a pilot or something?”

“Well … I already am, kind of. Not like, professionally, but I studied piloting in high school. I know it’s a long shot, but … I kind of want to be an astronaut.”

“Holy shit,” Lance says. “That is awesome. You’re gonna do it, man. I believe in you.”

Keith is so taken aback by that instant enthusiasm and encouragement that he doesn't know how to answer for a second. But he finally manages to say, "Wow, thanks. That means a lot."

Their conversation lasts another minute or two as it winds down to an end. They talk a bit about adjusting to college life––how it's stressful but also kind of exciting. As Lance speaks, Keith finds himself mentally trying to create a picture of his face, shaping that warm voice into a living, breathing person.

He feels like he can almost see Lance on the other side, leaning back in a chair in front of some kind of soundboard. He imagines the little shack in the woods that Lance has described, nestled amongst the pine trees, under the soft glow of the moon.

He wonders if Lance is trying to imagine him, too.

"Well, thanks for calling," Lance says at last. "I should probably get back to playing some music. Got any requests?"

Keith feels like he's suddenly been shaken awake from a dream, and he doesn't know how much time has passed.

"Oh ... I don't know. Got anything by The National?"

"You got it, man. Nice choice." Lance pauses. “Hey, you never told me what your name is.”

Keith freezes. It hadn't even occurred to him to introduce himself. He's about to answer, but something holds him back.

"I think I'd rather stay anonymous, if that's okay," he manages to say.

"Oh. Yeah, that's cool. I get it," Lance stammers. Maybe Keith is imagining it, but he could've sworn he heard a note of disappointment in the words. "You have a secret identity, like a superhero."

Keith huffs out a laugh. "Something like that."

"Well, you're gonna need a superhero name. I'm thinking Space Ranger."

"Space Ranger?"

"Yeah, 'cause you're gonna be out there exploring space someday. Defending the universe. Fighting aliens."

"Not exactly what I had in mind, but I'll take it," Keith says, still smiling. "Anyway ... Bye, I guess. Maybe I'll call again sometime."

"I'd like that," says Lance. "See you, Space Ranger."

Keith's cell phone beeps, signaling the end of the call. He sits still for a few seconds before reaching over to turn the volume on the radio back up, just as the first few echoing drumbeats of "Bloodbuzz Ohio" fill the empty room.

I'd like that, Lance's voice repeats in Keith's head.

He adds the phone number of the radio show to his contacts.

--

"So, what you're saying is you have a crush on him," Pidge says bluntly.

"What?" Keith sputters, eyes darting around the crowded dining hall. "I didn't––"

Pidge dips a french fry into some melted ice cream and shoves it in her mouth. "Seems pretty obvious to me."

"Okay, first of all, that's disgusting. How are you eating that? Secondly, I didn't say I have a crush on him. I just said I ... I don't know. I talked to him once and it was nice ... ?"

"First of all, it's delicious, so sue me. Secondly ... okay, fine. But you're about as red as a fire truck right now, I'm just saying."

Keith can't think of a comeback, so he just slouches back in his chair with his arms crossed. He glares at the stray pasta left on his tray.

"I ... fine. Maybe I do. But, I don't know. Is that even possible?"

"What, to have a crush on someone you've never met? I mean, sure. I've had crushes on internet friends before and stuff. It's not that uncommon."

As she speaks, Pidge reaches for her laptop, which is sitting on the table next to her elbow.

"Do you even know what he looks like?"

"No," Keith admits.

"Well, we've gotta fix that." Pidge pries her laptop open. "Have you looked him up on Facebook?"

"I don't have a Facebook."

"So? You can still look people up even if you don't have an account."

She's already tapping away at the keyboard, the glow of the screen reflecting in her glasses.

"What's his last name?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know his last name?" Pidge tsks. "Well, that's okay. We know he goes to Altea College, and there's not a lot of students there. Plus his name is Lance, which is not super common. Should be pretty easy to find."

Her eyes flit across the screen as she types something.

Keith sits up straight. "Wait, you're not looking him up right now, are you?"

"I most certainly am."

"Pidge!" Keith hisses. He's about ready to snatch her laptop out of her hands, but he resists the urge. "Not here ..."

“Why not? It’s not like anyone around us is paying attention.”

She has a point. The two of them are seated at the back corner of the dining hall, fairly isolated from the other students. Besides, everyone else is too absorbed in their own conversations to be listening to anything Keith and Pidge are saying.

“Found him,” Pidge says.

“What? Already?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.” Pidge clicks on something, and her eyebrows shoot up. “Huh.”

Keith grips the edge of the table with one hand, waiting for Pidge to say something else––anything to give him some kind of sign about what she’s found, but she remains strangely silent with an inscrutable expression on her face.

“What, is something wrong?”

“No,” Pidge says. “Kind of the opposite, actually.”

“What do you––” Keith starts to say, but he stops when Pidge turns her computer around to face him.

On the screen is a photograph of a boy. He’s standing on a beach, with a brilliant sunset shining over the ocean behind him. The golden light glows on his brown skin. His dark hair and gray T-shirt flutter in the wind, and he’s grinning at something off-camera like he’s about to break out into laughter. There’s a faint dimple in his left cheek.

Keith just stares. He doesn’t say anything.

“Keith? Hello?” Pidge says. She shrinks back a little, slowly starting to turn her laptop back around.

“That’s …” Keith’s mouth suddenly feels dry, and he clears his throat. “That’s him? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.” Pidge is already back to furiously typing. “His profile looks pretty legit, although it’s hard to tell since I’m not friends with him––so, you know, there’s only so much I can see. He appears to be a real person as far as I can tell, but I’ve seen too many episodes of Catfish to not be a little skeptical.”

“What? What’s Catfish?” Keith asks, and then shakes his head before Pidge can answer. “You know what, never mind. So, you really think that’s him?”

“I mean, unless he faked both a radio show and a Facebook profile––which seems a little ridiculous––then yeah, it’s him.”

Keith sits back heavily in his seat, not knowing how to process all this. He drags a hand down his face.

“Huh, his relationship status says he’s single,” Pidge says, and Keith glares at her. “What? I’m just reading the available information here.”

She clicks a few more times and then sighs. “Anyway, I gotta get back to my robotics homework. Think I can bullshit an essay in …” She checks the clock. “... 47 minutes?”

“Pidge, you could probably build an entire rocket ship in 47 minutes.”

“Flattering, but I doubt it.” She picks up another french fry and points it at Keith. “Now, don’t talk to me. I have to concentrate.”

“Okay, okay.”

Keith pulls out his phone in hopes of some kind of distraction, but he doesn’t have any notifications to keep him occupied. Instead, he finds himself tapping on his contacts, pulling up the short list of names.

Lance.

There it is, just his first name and the number of the radio show, with no other identifying information. But it’s still enough to make Keith feel like something is squeezing tightly around his heart.

And now he has a face to match to the name, to the warm voice, to the contagious laugh.

Shit, he thinks.

This is bad.

--

Keith calls the radio show again.

This time, he goes into the hallway lounge––no one is there at this time of night––and walks out onto the small balcony with his phone in one hand and his small radio tucked under his arm. He sits down with his legs crossed.

Below him, street lamps illuminate the parking lot behind the dorms. In the far distance, hills line the perimeter of the school grounds, dark against the night sky. The faint autumn chill is starting to set in, stirring in Keith’s hair, and he tugs his jacket closer to his body.

Taking a deep breath, Keith opens up his contacts and presses on Lance’s name.

The phone only rings twice, but each of those rings feels like an eternity long. Keith’s heart beats so fast that it almost feels like it’s buzzing in his chest. But he only has a second to mentally chastise himself for how pathetic he is when he hears a click on the other end and a familiar voice.

“Hey, Lance speaking! You’re on the air. What’s up?”

“Hi,” Keith says, and then realizes he didn’t really have a follow-up. “It’s me. That guy who called the other day.”

For a split second he has an irrational fear that Lance won’t remember him, but then Lance says, “Oh! The mysterious Space Ranger. Hey, man. How’s it going?”

Keith shrugs, forgetting for a moment that Lance can’t see him. “Pretty good, I guess. Had a lot of homework and tests and stuff this week, but otherwise I don’t have much to complain about. You?”

“Same here. Mostly just a lot of schoolwork, but I’ve had some time to just chill, too. I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m starting to get used to this whole college thing.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, smiling. “I guess I am, too.”

Keith normally hates small talk and is usually terrible at it, but somehow with Lance it’s not so bad. Even as they talk about boring things like classes and the weather, Lance’s natural enthusiasm keeps the conversation upbeat and interesting.

They talk about how the leaves are starting to change and how nice all the colors are. Lance has never seen snow, so he’s excited about the winter. It rained all day yesterday but neither of them minded; they both love the rain.

These are small things, but Keith clings to them.

“So, you’re also studying astronomy,” Lance says. “What got you interested in that?”

The question catches Keith off guard. He didn’t exactly prepare to be interviewed. But his panic is short-lived, since he has a feeling Lance won’t judge him for whatever he decides to say.

He takes his time to answer, looking up at the sky as he does so.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “I guess I was always interested in it—learning about all the different planets and the names of all the constellations—ever since I was a little kid.

“I … moved around a lot back then. Nothing in my life was permanent, really. So, it helped me to fixate on that, I guess. Knowing everything about space. It was the one thing that was constant. Like, no matter how many people moved in and out of my life, the stars would still be there.”

He stops speaking abruptly, surprised at himself. He hasn't really admitted something like that before. Not to anyone.

"Whoa," Lance says. "You should write poetry or something, dude."

That wasn't the response Keith was expecting, and he lets out a short laugh. "Thanks, I guess." He hesitates. "I guess it's also like ... I don't know. I never really felt at home anywhere. So the idea of traveling to another galaxy or something never seemed so scary to me. It actually seemed kind of comforting.

"I just remember being a little kid and seeing photos of the Earth from space, and I always liked the idea of being up there, looking down at Earth. I always imagined it being really peaceful, really quiet. You know?"

Again, he can sense himself starting to ramble, so he cuts himself off. Despite the chilly air, his face feels warm. Lance probably has no idea what he's talking about.

But surprisingly, Lance's response is almost instantaneous. "Whoa, yeah! That's kind of what inspired me to study astronomy too, actually. I always loved seeing pictures of Earth from space––all the oceans, the glittery lights where all the cities are … It made me feel small, but not in a bad way. More like, in an inspirational way. It made me realize how much is out there, how there’s so much to explore and so much we don’t know yet.

“I don’t know if I’d want to go to space myself, though. The thought of being up there, being so far away from Earth … It sounds so lonely to me. I already miss enough people as it is.”

His voice drops a little on those last words, and Keith feels a sudden flicker of concern.

“Why? Is your family far away?”

He worries that was a tactless question, but Lance still answers it after a slight pause.

“Yeah. I have a big family, so they’re kinda scattered all over the place––but a lot of them are back in Cuba.”

“Oh,” Keith says. “I’m sorry. That is really far.”

“It is. I miss them a lot.” Lance is silent for a second, and then lets out a long breath. “But as corny as it sounds, looking up at the stars always makes me feel a little closer to them. It’s comforting, knowing we’re all under the same sky.”

At those words, Keith’s eyes are drawn upwards again. It’s difficult to see many stars, what with all the street lamps shining below, but he can still pick out the pinpricks of light in the darkness. Something flickers to life in his chest, like a warm glow surrounding his heart. He’s always thought of space as being dark and infinite and maybe a little frightening––but the way Lance describes it, it suddenly seems different, somehow. It’s something that encompasses them all, every living thing on the planet.

“What about your family?” Lance asks.

Just like that, the warmth in Keith’s chest sputters out.

He considers lying––he often avoids telling the truth on the matter, just to avoid the inevitable pity. But somehow, he feels the truth spilling out of him as if it’s beyond his control.

“I don’t have a family.”

A second passes before Lance hisses in his breath. "Oh, gosh. Shit, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have––"

"It's okay," Keith cuts him off. "Yeah, it's just, uh ..."

His throat feels tight. He glares down at his feet as he wraps one of his loose shoelaces around his finger.

"My parents both abandoned me,” he says quietly. “My mom must have left right after I was born, I guess. Don't remember her at all. My dad ... I only sort of remember, but he also disappeared when I was like four years old. Just left the apartment one day and never came back, and no one ever found him.

“Luckily the neighbors heard me crying or something and came to check on me and figured out what had happened. Good thing they did, 'cause I was alone for like two whole days."

"Oh, God," Lance breathes. "That must've been terrifying. I'm really sorry."

"It's alright. I mean, it's not, but ... I don't really remember it. All I remember is what happened after that—constantly moving from one home to the next and all that.”

“I’m sorry,” Lance says again. “I know I keep saying that, but I …”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Keith breathes in the night air, which is growing colder by the minute. “It’s nice just to have someone to listen, you know? I—I don’t talk about this stuff much. Sorry for dumping all that on you, though.”

“Hey, don’t apologize. You can always call in if you want to talk. Seriously, I mean it.”

Warmth spreads into Keith’s face again. “Thanks.” Despite all the painful memories he’s just recalled, he’s smiling again. “You can always talk to me about stuff, too.”

“Aw, thanks dude. That means a lot.”

A short silence passes, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Keith keeps the phone pressed to his ear. A gentle wind stirs in the distant trees.

“I know we don’t really know each other and all,” Lance says. “So, maybe this is weird of me to say, but … I’m proud of you.”

Keith sits up straight, a hand clutching at one of the bars of the railing in front of him.

“What?”

“I, uh … I just mean, it sounds like you’ve been through a lot. But you made it all the way here. That’s a pretty big deal.”

Keith doesn’t answer right away, and Lance suddenly sounds panicked.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean––”

“No, you didn’t,” Keith interrupts him. “It’s just … not a lot of people have said that to me before.”

In fact, he’s more used to hearing the opposite––to believing he’s a disappointment, to thinking he’s destined to be a failure. Shiro is really the only one who’s ever told him otherwise. Well, until now.

“Thanks,” he manages to say.

“Hey, no problem. I meant it.”

Keith is surprised to find that his eyes sting, and he wipes the back of his hand across them. He quickly composes himself.

“So, uh. You probably want to actually get to the music part of your radio show, huh?”

"Oh, right," Lance says, like he had forgotten. "I guess I probably should. But hey, it was nice talking to you. Call again sometime, okay?"

Keith can practically hear the smile in his voice, and he's suddenly thinking about the photograph he saw––Lance's cheerful grin, the dimple in his cheek.

"Yeah," he answers quietly. "I will."

"Great. Hope we talk again soon, Space Ranger. Bye!"

"Bye, Lance," Keith says, but he's not sure Lance even hears him before the call ends.

As soon as he pulls his phone away from his ear, Keith feels strangely hollow. The night feels big and empty around him, and he's suddenly aware of how alone he is, sitting on the balcony with the infinite sky above him.

He switches the radio on, slowly easing up the volume until he can hear the music. The steady drumbeat and smooth harmonies make him feel a little less lonely, as he lets the sound wash over him and drown out everything else.

Far above, a wispy cloud drifts across the bright moon. Down in the parking lot, a single car circles with its headlights glowing.

Keith zips his jacket all the way up to his chin and draws his knees up to his chest. He buries his smile into his collar and looks up, and he thinks about Lance looking at the same stars.

--

Mondays and Thursdays become Keith's favorite days of the week. He anticipates those days with frenzied energy, with tapping fingers and glances at the clock as if that will make the time pass more quickly. When midnight strikes, he always has his phone in hand and the radio at his side.

At first, he remains timid. Something at the back of his mind keeps insisting that he's being obnoxious, that Lance doesn't want to keep talking to him––and yet, when Lance picks up the phone and hears Keith's voice, the enthusiasm with which he exclaims "Hey, man!" every time makes Keith doubt his fears. After all, at the end of every conversation, Lance always tells him to call again.

And so he does. Again and again.

Sometimes he calls at the beginning of the show, sometimes at the end, but he calls every time without fail. Their conversations usually start with the typical small talk––comments about the weather, about the leaves changing color and falling, the air getting colder. They talk about classes and homework, about how midterms are steadily approaching.

Lance talks about his family and how much he misses them. He tells Keith the names of all his older siblings, his little nieces and nephews. Keith always asks about how Lance’s friends at Altea are doing, and Lance answers with heartfelt enthusiasm––always eager to talk about how smart and talented his friends are, to talk about whatever new projects they’re working on.

He has a tendency to ramble, and at times he’ll frantically apologize for it. But Keith always tells him he doesn’t mind. He means it.

They learn little things about each other over time. Keith takes every fact he learns about Lance and tucks it away in his mind, like each one of them is a precious souvenir.

Lance believes in ghosts but not in Bigfoot. He also strongly believes in aliens; that one, Keith can agree with.

“I mean, the universe is infinite, right? There’s no way that in the entire universe––in all those millions and billions of planets and galaxies––that there’s not some other form of intelligent life out there.”

“Right, exactly!”

If Lance could be any animal, he’d probably choose a dolphin. Or a shark, maybe.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know. A tiger? Or a hippo.”

“A hippo? Are you serious?”

“Hey, hippos don’t get enough credit for how badass they are! They can literally crush a human skull in their jaws.”

Keith prefers indie movies; Lance is more into big blockbusters with lots of explosions. But they both love Star Wars.

Lance misses the ocean. Keith misses the desert.

On some nights their conversations are wistful and subdued. Other nights, Keith laughs until his stomach hurts.

No matter what, he always hangs up with a smile on his face.

It gets to the point where, between their conversations, Keith mentally collects little details of his day to tell Lance about later––frustrations about school assignments, funny stories he’s overheard, what kind of crazy robotics project Pidge is working on, some bit of advice Shiro gave him.

It gets to the point where Keith starts to imagine Lance standing beside him, what it would be like to just be able to turn around and ask him something, or to tell him something funny and see his smile and hear him laugh.

It gets to the point where sometimes, Keith forgets the only phone number he has to reach Lance is the number for the radio show––where sometimes, he feels a sudden need to just talk to him but he can’t.

It gets to the point where Keith feels like somehow, he misses Lance even though they’ve never met.

—

“Wait, you still haven’t told him what your name is?” Pidge exclaims. “Seriously? You’ve been talking to him for, what, two months now?”

Keith scratches the back of his neck and stares down at his homework––an array of notebook pages, a textbook open on the floor next to his left knee, his laptop by his right.

“Something like that. I haven’t really been counting.”

“That’s not the point.” Pidge rubs her temples, moving her laptop onto the floor. "It doesn't bother you that he doesn't even know your name? Don't you think that's kinda weird?"

"No ... I don't know," Keith stammers.

"Look, I'm not trying to be nosy or anything. But like, I'm just saying ... you've talked a bunch of times. He goes to a school like twenty minutes away from here. Maybe you should just meet him in person."

"No," Keith says right away, maybe a little more vehemently than he meant to.

Pidge blinks at him, her shoulders hunched. "Okay! Sorry, I didn't mean to ... Forget I said anything." She leans forward to narrow her eyes at her laptop screen. "Hey, you know anything about programming? God, this final is gonna be the death of me."

"No, sorry," Keith mutters.

They return to studying for a few minutes, but Keith keeps losing concentration. He feels like there's some loose threads he needs to tie up, like there's something he still needs to say.

"You okay, Keith?"

"Hmm?"

Keith looks up to find Pidge staring at him with her head tilted, a concerned frown on her face. "You look ... upset. Did I say something––"

"No, no," Keith cuts her off. "It's not about what you said. I mean, it kind of is. But it's ... ugh."

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs in frustration.

“Keith?” Pidge scoots closer to him and crosses her legs. “Hey. What is it? Did something happen?”

"No, it's ..." Keith can't look Pidge in the face. Instead he keeps staring out the window, at the raindrops trailing down the glass.

He's never been good at articulating what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Instead the emotions just fester inside him, and he wishes he could let them out but he can't, he can't ...

"I'm sorry," Pidge says, backing away again. "I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't mean to––"

"What if he doesn't like me?" Keith says.

Pidge stares at him. "What do you mean? Hasn't he talked to you, like, more than a dozen times by now? I'd think if he didn't like you, he wouldn't keep talking to you."

"That's not what I meant." Keith draws in a deep breath, and it feels like shards of ice in his lungs. "I mean, he doesn't really know who I am. And if he did ... if he knew my name, if he met me in person ... I don't know. The thought of that really scares me."

"Why?"

"I don't know," Keith bursts. "I guess ... I guess it's just easier talking to him anonymously. That way I won't ..."

He can't say it, but he can feel it like a blade between his ribs.

I won't disappoint him.

Fortunately, Pidge doesn't urge him to complete the sentence. She just nods, like she understands.

"Okay. You should only do what you feel comfortable doing. I'm sorry if it seemed like I was pressuring you." She looks down, idly flipping over a page in her textbook. "But you know you can always talk to me if you need to, right?"

"I know," Keith says. He attempts a smile, but he doubts it's very convincing. "Thanks."

They go back to studying in silence.

--

Keith has braced himself for the question for a while now––knowing that one day Lance would ask him, but he's never been prepared to give an answer.

"Why do you keep calling?"

Keith is standing in the corner of his room, leaning against the wall next to the window. He stares out at the stillness of the parking lot below, at the glow of the street lamps.

He thinks about looking at Earth from very far away. He feels very small.

He says nothing, pressing the phone to his ear, as a panicked buzz starts to build in his chest.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that to sound rude or confrontational or anything," Lance rambles. "I really like talking to you and everything. It's just ... no one else ever really calls in except you. And I know you don't want to tell me what your name is or anything, and I'm not pressuring you to, it's just ... I don't know. I just want to know why."

Keith tries to come up with an answer, but every one of them sounds like a lie. What excuse is he supposed to give? That he calls because he can't sleep? Because he has nothing else to do? He could just tell the truth, but the thought of that makes his chest ache, makes his throat burn like he's swallowing fire.

"I don't know," he says. It sounds so hollow, so distant, like someone else talking with his own voice.

“You don’t know?” Lance repeats.

He doesn’t sound angry. Keith almost wishes that he did. Instead he sounds … hurt, like Keith has betrayed his trust somehow.

And as much as he hates himself for it, even though each word feels like poison on his tongue, Keith can’t seem to stop the lies from spilling out.

“I guess it’s just … I don’t really have anyone else to talk to at this time of night.”

Lance is silent on the other end, like he's waiting for more, but Keith can't bring himself to say anything else.

"So ... that's it? It's just that you have no one else to talk to in the middle of the night and I just ... happen to be there?"

Something in Keith screams in protest. No, that's not it. He knows it. He knows what the real reason is, and he knows he should say it. But the thought of being so vulnerable, of finally letting down his walls, makes him so dizzy with panic he can barely think.

"Yeah," he forces himself to say. "I guess that's it."

"Oh. Okay."

There's suddenly no emotion in Lance's voice at all. His response is stiff and almost formal, like they've never spoken to each other before.

"Okay," he says again, and then clears his throat. "I was just wondering."

Keith feels like a barely-contained explosion is building up inside him, like if he keeps talking to Lance for even one more minute he's going to break. He can't let it happen.

"I should go," he says.

Another long, crackling silence from the other end.

"Alright," Lance said. His tone is oddly cautious, void of its usual brightness. "Well ... good talking to you, Space Ranger."

Keith feels a painful twinge in his chest at the nickname. The street lamps grow blurry in his vision as he stares at them. "You, too."

"Bye."

"Bye."

The room goes silent.

Keith would usually turn the radio back on at this point––but this time, he doesn't. He slides down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, phone dangling limply from his hand.

He can't help but realize that, for the first time, Lance didn't tell him to call again.

--

And so he doesn't.

Keith tries to distract himself. In some ways, it isn’t that hard, what with homework piling up and finals just around the corner. He tries to drown himself in work when he's not in class or hanging out with Shiro or Pidge. But even keeping himself busy can't distract him from the nagging guilt at the back of his mind.

He doesn't listen to the radio show for one week.

The days pass at an impossibly sluggish pace, and at random intervals Keith will have a sudden feeling like something is missing. It's not that life is unbearable without talking to Lance. He can function without it ...

But, he slowly realizes, he doesn't want to.

It feels like a ghost is hovering over his shoulder, like some persistent dark presence is following him. He can't shake it off. Every time he laughs at a joke or learns something interesting, the momentary joy or excitement is followed by a pang of regret––because that need to tell Lance about these things is still there.

Finally, he listens to the show again. He tries to resist the urge, but as he's lying awake one night, he realizes what day and time it is and comes to a split-second decision. He's just going to listen, he tells himself. He's not going to call.

Turning over onto his side, he switches the radio on.

Lying there in the dark with the digital numbers glowing and the music playing quietly, he remembers the first night he discovered the show. It feels like so long ago now.

One song bleeds into the next, and another song, and another. Each of them is slow and somber, carving into the darkness with a sound that makes Keith’s limbs ache. He feels like he hasn’t slept in weeks.

In the short pauses between songs, Keith holds his breath in anticipation, but so far Lance hasn’t spoken a word. Each time a new song begins, the sinking feeling in Keith’s stomach grows worse.

Finally, towards the very end of the hour, the music comes to a stop.

“Hey, everyone,” Lance says.

Keith’s heart stutters at the sound, and he raises himself up on one elbow.

“Sorry I haven’t been talking much tonight. I’m … I don’t know. Just tired, I guess.”

He sounds different, more subdued. In fact, his voice sounds hoarse. Exhausted. There’s a lengthy pause before he speaks again.

“Reminder that the phone line here is always open if you have requests, or … you know, if you just want to talk.”

Keith sucks in a sharp breath. He knows it’s supposed to be a message for him, and it almost physically pains him to not reach for his phone on the desk next to his bed. But he keeps his arm pinned down beside him, hand clenching into a fist on the mattress.

He promised himself he wouldn’t call. It will only make things worse.

Lance doesn’t speak for a few more seconds, and then he lets out a shaking sigh.

“Okay, well … Just a couple more songs coming your way. Next up we have some Daughter, followed by––”

Keith doesn’t hear the rest, because he’s already reached over to switch the radio off. Then he turns over again and buries his face in his pillow.

He doesn’t sleep well that night.

--

The next day, Keith tells Shiro everything.

He doesn't even call or text first before showing up at Shiro's apartment, and he doesn't even have to speak for Shiro to immediately know he's upset.

In the living room, Keith sits on the couch and Shiro hands him a cup of tea. Keith doesn't drink it––just holds the warm mug between his hands, glaring down at his distorted reflection as he tries to explain the entire story.

Shiro listens patiently as he always does, sitting still in the armchair across from where Keith is seated.

When Keith's rambling comes to an end, he finally dares to look up. This whole time, he's been afraid to look Shiro in the face and see what his reaction would be. But Shiro looks carefully neutral, his arms crossed and his brow creased in a slight frown.

"Are you mad at me?" Keith asks after a momentary silence.

At that, Shiro's expression softens. "What? Why would I be mad at you?"

"I don't know." Keith slouches, looking away again. Outside the window, an orange-leafed tree shudders in the wind. "Because this has been going on for a while, and ... I told you about him before, but I wasn't totally honest. I thought that if you knew the truth, that I'd never actually met him in person ..." He falters, unsure of how to continue.

Shiro sighs deeply, and then he leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

“I’m not mad at you, Keith. If anything, I kind of wish you’d told me sooner, since it seems like this has been really bothering you.”

Keith tries not to wince, since he knows Shiro is right. He really should have been honest about it from the start.

“I didn’t think you’d understand,” he manages to say. He finally takes a sip of tea and swallows it down, unable to look Shiro in the eye.

“Well … I must admit, it is kind of an unusual situation,” Shiro says, leaning back in his chair again. “But I understand.”

At that, Keith looks up from his mug. “You do?”

Shiro nods, smiling in reassurance. “Of course. You’ve talked a lot to him, and it sounds like he means a lot to you. I get it.”

Keith feels a rush of relief so strong, he could almost jump off the couch and hug Shiro if it wasn’t for the cup of boiling hot tea in his hands. Instead he just smiles back gratefully. But the sense of joy is only momentary.

“But I messed the whole thing up,” he says quietly, staring at the carpet. “It’s too late.”

“What do you mean? You think he doesn’t want to talk to you anymore?”

"No, it's the opposite. It's ..."

Keith doesn't even know how to explain it. He puts his mug of tea down on the coffee table and rubs a hand against his forehead.

"He wants to keep talking to me, I think. But I feel like I shouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because ... Because if we keep talking, he'll eventually want to meet me."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Yes."

"Why? What is it you're afraid of?"

"I ..." Keith starts to say, but then stops himself. He was going to say he doesn't know, just like he always does. But suddenly, he's tired of hiding it. Tired of running from the truth.

"Because I really like him, okay?" he bursts. "And if I met him, I'm afraid he wouldn't like me for who I really am. I'm afraid he ... I'm afraid he'd reject me. There. That's the reason why."

By the time he finishes, his vision is swimming and his throat feels tight. He stubbornly buries his chin in his sweatshirt collar and refuses to look up, terrified that if he says one more word he's going to break down crying.

Shiro is silent for a few long seconds, and then he slowly rises to his feet. He paces around the coffee table and sits down next to Keith on the couch.

"Keith."

He still glares forward, unmoving, his arms crossed.

Shiro sighs, rubbing his hands together like that will somehow help him come up with something to say.

"Did you ever think that maybe he feels the same way?" he says at last.

Keith looks up questioningly. He feels like the answer should be obvious, but all of a sudden he feels so unsure.

"I don't know. Maybe? I mean, no. Probably not," he stammers. "Why would he––"

The words die in his throat as the realization starts to dawn on him: he hasn’t been taking Lance’s feelings into account at all. This whole time, he’s been living under the assumption that there was no way Lance thought of him like that.

But … what if he’s wrong? What if he’s not the only one who’s scared of being rejected?

Suddenly, he’s thinking about how Lance’s voice brightens every time he calls, how Keith can practically hear the smile in his voice. He thinks about how Lance always eagerly encourages listeners to call the radio show, when really it’s only Keith who ever calls in.

He thinks about how disappointed Lance sounded when Keith had said he only called because he had no one else to talk to. He thinks about how tired Lance sounded when Keith didn’t call at all.

“Oh, my God,” he says, snapping back into the present again. “I’m an idiot.”

Shiro chuckles, clapping a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “No, you’re not. You just needed time to figure it out, that’s all.”

Lance likes me.

Keith finally allows himself to consider that possibility, as surreal as it seems. And just thinking those words, thinking they might be true, sends a new warmth spreading through his veins.

But almost right away, the cold sinks in again.

Lance likes me … and after what I said, he probably thinks I don’t like him back.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asks.

Shiro squeezes Keith’s shoulder before he delivers his verdict.

“I think you need to tell him.”

--

Keith isn’t one to make up his mind easily, but he comes to a decision almost right away.

Two nights later, he finds himself on a bus heading for Altea College.

It’s strange, because all this time, he’s known Altea wasn’t very far away. But he always felt as if it were in some separate, untouchable plane of existence. He still can’t quite comprehend that he’ll be there in a matter of minutes.

At this hour, he’s one of the only people on the bus. Outside the window, the world looks pitch black, except for the occasional set of headlights as another vehicle passes them on the road.

Keith’s leg bounces up and down as he compulsively checks the time on his phone over and over again. With every second, his heart beats faster with anticipation.

His phone suddenly buzzes in his hand and he almost drops it in surprise.

It’s a text from Pidge: “good luck!! :)”

He smiles before sticking his phone back in his pocket again.

When they reach Altea, Keith is the only one to step off the bus. He just stands there for a moment as he listens to the bus rumble away again behind him. Under the glow of a lone streetlamp, he pulls up a map on his phone and tries to make sense of it. Finally, taking a deep breath, he starts heading in what he hopes is the right direction.

Compared to Galra Tech’s sprawling campus, Altea College seems a lot smaller and quieter. As far as he can tell from looking at the map, and from observing his surroundings, the school seems to consist of small brick buildings, connected by winding paths lined with lamps. The campus is surrounded by woods, the trees rustling in the wind.

Despite how tiny the campus is, it only takes Keith a matter of minutes to get lost. As he passes each building, he tries to discern which miniscule box it coincides with on the map, but it’s hopeless. Luckily, he runs into a small group of students walking across campus and asks them for directions. They give him confused looks when he asks where the school radio station is located, but one of them tells him he’s pretty close as she points towards a path leading into the woods.

After blurting out a quick thank-you, Keith starts walking again at a brisk pace. With every step, his pulse pounds more fiercely in his ears. Some terrified part of him is still screaming at him to run the other way, but he won’t listen to it. Not this time.

The trees rise on either side of him, dark against the midnight sky. Dry leaves skitter across the dirt path. Fortunately, the moon is full and bright tonight, illuminating the way with an ethereal glow.

At last, Keith sees something through the trees: a cluster of lights up ahead that glitter through the branches like stars.

He starts running.

When he reaches the small cabin, he feels like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. It’s like something out of a fairytale––like a cozy little house in the middle of the forest, its sloping roof lined with twinkle lights, a lamp casting a yellow glow over it like a spotlight.

Keith can’t feel his feet against the ground as he moves cautiously forward until the door is only a few feet away from him, and then he comes to an abrupt stop. Through the walls, he can hear the gentle pulse of music from within.

What is he supposed to do now? Just kick the door open?

Something stops him. He lets out a shaking breath, which turns foggy in the cold night air.

After a few moments, he steps back and moves a little to the side, where he sees a small window. He can see a glimpse of what’s within: the edge of a soundboard, some kind of microphone sitting in front of it. And … a hand. Fingers drumming on the table in time with the music.

Hardly daring to breathe, Keith moves a few more steps to the left.

It’s him. Keith knows, even though Lance’s back is turned to him. He’s sitting in a swivel chair in front of the soundboard, slouched over with his chin propped on one hand and his other arm stretched across the desk. There’s something endearingly awkward about his sprawling stance that brings an involuntary, fond smile to Keith’s face.

But almost right away, that warm feeling gives way to panic.

He can’t just go in there. He also can’t stand out here forever.

Then, suddenly, he knows what to do.

He reaches into his jacket pocket slowly, as if even the slightest sound or movement will attract Lance’s attention. His fingers shake as he swipes at the screen, brings up his contacts, and scrolls to Lance’s name.

He holds his breath and presses the call button.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Keith stands frozen, holding his phone up to his ear. Then, through the cabin walls, he hears a muffled ringing sound.

Lance sits up very suddenly, like someone just woke him up from a deep sleep. It's almost comical how quickly he scrambles for the nearby phone and presses on the speaker button.

"Hello?" he says breathlessly.

Keith can't speak, because Lance has turned slightly as he reached for the phone, and now Keith sees his face in person for the first time––only in profile, but still. He can see the curve of his jawline, the darkness of his eyelashes as he blinks.

"Hello?" Lance says again. Keith watches him through the window, how his mouth moves with that one word, how a little crease of concern furrows his brow.

"Hi," Keith answers at last. "It's me."

Almost as soon as he speaks, the frown vanishes from Lance's face. A slow, gentle smile lights up his features. And Keith feels like the air was just punched out of his lungs. Does Lance always smile like that when he hears his voice?

"Hey, man." Lance sounds so relieved, looks so relieved. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in a completely adorable way. "I'm so glad you called again, Space Ranger. I was starting to worry about you. I thought I ..."

He trails off, his smile faltering. A pained, guilty look crosses his face––eyes downcast as he bites his lip, his eyebrows furrowing together again.

And God, Keith wants nothing more than to make that look vanish, to bring that smile back somehow.

"It's Keith," he says.

Lance freezes. “What?”

“My name. It’s Keith.”

“Keith?” Lance repeats quietly. He sits back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “Keith …” He says it again like he’s testing it out.

It’s the first time Keith has ever actually heard Lance say his name, and it makes him feel like something is squeezing around his heart. His grip on his phone tightens, and it takes him a few seconds to find his voice again.

“So … I called because I wanted to say something.”

At that, Lance slowly leans forward again. “Yeah?”

“I …” Keith starts to say, but then he feels like his throat has closed up. He takes a step back, wondering if it’s too late to run––but no, no, he can’t turn around now.

He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself, and then opens them again.

“I wanted to tell you that I lied, okay? The last time we talked, when I said I only call you because I have no one else to talk to ... that wasn’t true.”

Lance’s face remains blank, disbelieving, his eyes starting to widen. “It … wasn’t?”

“No,” Keith says. “It’s not just because I want to talk to someone. I want to talk to you.”

He realizes it at almost the same time he says it––and when he does, it suddenly sets forth a flood that he can’t hold back.

“I call you because I like talking to you. Because you’re always so honest with me. Because you listen to me, because I can tell you things I haven’t told anyone else.

“And I’m so sorry I messed that up or made you feel like I didn’t want to talk to you anymore. Because I––I do. I want to talk to you every day. I want you to tell me about your day, about all your friends, about your family, about … anything. Anything you want to talk about. Because I like talking to you. I like hearing your voice. I like …”

Keith trails off, reeling from how much he’s said at once. And this whole time, Lance has been strangely silent. In fact, Keith was so caught up in his own rambling that he barely noticed Lance slowly getting to his feet. Now he’s standing, turning away so Keith can’t see his expression. He runs a hand down his face and holds it over his mouth.

“I like you,” Keith says softly, so softly he’s afraid Lance can’t hear him––but judging by the way Lance’s shoulders stiffen, he can. “In … In, you know, a romantic kind of way.”

It’s not the most graceful confession, but Keith doesn’t even care at this point. He just needs to get the words out, to let Lance know somehow.

But Lance still isn’t saying anything, still isn’t moving. He just stands there with his back turned to the window.

Panic rises in Keith’s chest. He knows he should stop, but at this point he couldn’t, even if he tried.

“I know it’s crazy, because we haven’t even met or anything. And I mean, if you don’t like me that way, it’s totally okay, and we can just be friends. But I––”

“Keith,” Lance cuts him off. He leans both hands on the table, hunched over the phone. His shoulders shake as he lets out a breathless laugh. “I like you, too.”

The words don’t register right away, but then Keith starts to smile in astonishment. His eyes sting. “You do?”

“Yeah. I do.” He stands up straight, and now Keith can see the grin stretching across his face, the way his eyes are shining. “In a romantic kind of way.”

Keith’s phone nearly slips out of his hand, but he manages to hold onto it. His knees feel weak and he huffs out a relieved laugh.

“So,” Lance says, still grinning. “Now that we got that out of the way … when do I get to meet you?”

Keith’s heart pounds even harder. “How about right now?”

Lance stiffens. “Right now? I––I don’t know, I mean … I think the buses might’ve stopped running for the night. I guess I could ask Hunk if I could borrow his––”

“Lance,” Keith says. “Turn around.”

“Turn … ?” Lance starts to say, but Keith can practically see the realization as it dawns on his face––his smile dropping as he turns towards the window.

And for the first time, they make eye contact.

Keith waves awkwardly, starting to lower his phone as he ends the call. But he doesn’t even have time to put it back in his pocket before Lance dashes away from the window and the door to the cabin swings open.

Golden light spills out and Keith blinks into it, at the sight of Lance haloed in the doorway. Somehow he manages to look angelic despite only wearing a baggy blue sweatshirt and jeans, his hair still messy like he just rolled out of bed.

A moment passes as Keith’s eyes adjust to the light, as he sees the awestruck expression on Lance’s face.

And then they’re both rushing forward at once, flinging their arms around each other.

They embrace with such force that Keith can hardly breathe, but he doesn’t care. He buries his face against Lance’s shoulder and closes his eyes, fingers clenching in the fabric of Lance’s sweatshirt. And Lance hugs him back with equal force, his heart beating rapidly against Keith’s chest.

When they finally pull apart, Lance keeps his hands on Keith’s shoulders and just looks at him––really looks at him, for the first time.

“You’re …” he says, and then seems to be at a loss for words. “Wow.”

Keith’s face burns, but he manages to laugh. “You, too.”

Lance grins, and there it is––that little dimple right next to his smile. Keith can’t stop staring at it. Without thinking, he leans forward and presses his lips against it.

It’s a brief kiss, just a gentle press against Lance’s skin––which is super soft, Keith notices––and then he pulls back again. Lance’s smile has disappeared.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers. “Was that …”

But he doesn’t finish, because Lance has reached up to rest a hand against the side of Keith’s face. Keith stiffens in surprise, and then becomes aware of how warm and gentle Lance’s touch is, how he’s smiling again so brightly that it almost hurts to look at him. And then his other hand reaches up to join the first, cradling Keith’s face between his palms.

It’s impossible to say which of them moves first, but somehow that small distance between them closes. The world falls away––the wind in the trees, the leaves stirring around their feet, the bitter cold of the night air.

Lance is so warm in comparison, and Keith keeps seeking out that warmth as he digs his fingers into the collar of Lance’s sweatshirt, pulling him into another kiss and then another. And even though Keith keeps shaking and Lance keeps breaking up their eager kisses with his smile, everything about it is perfect.

It’s like finding a noise in the static. It’s like turning on the radio and hearing your favorite song.

--

Later, inside the cabin, they both sit at the soundboard. There's only one chair, so Keith sits on Lance's lap as they scroll through the music library on the laptop in front of them. Lance's arm drapes across Keith's stomach, and whenever he laughs Keith can feel the comforting vibration of it against his back.

They keep picking song after song, even after Lance's time slot is over, even though no one else besides them is listening at this hour. They just sit together and listen, and Keith lays his hand over Lance's, and they both close their eyes.

And for once, neither of them has to say anything.