A/N: I don't know what happened, y'all. I really don't. This was just supposed to be a short little sick fic. Somehow it became … this? Hahaha. But this is a late birthday gift for the incandescent kenbrah, who totally deserves a long fic~ Happy belated birthday, Liv! Thanks for always squealing about klance with me x) I've become entirely dependent on you for my klance fangirling~

Please excuse any minor typos. This chapter is huge and I didn't have time to neatly comb through the entire thing.

I hope you enjoy!

Tuesday

There's a blaring noise searing through his head, and with a muffled moan Keith finally manages to pry open his eyes. He slams his hand on his alarm, arm feeling like lead, and manages another moan.

He feels like shit. Absolute and utter shit. His head is pounding, his ears feel as clogged as his nose, and there's a relentless itch in his throat. He pulls his comforter tighter against the cold dorm air as he glares at the clock blinking 8:49.

There's no way that he'll make it to class on time, even if he somehow manages to haul his ass out of bed in this condition. He turns to the side, ready to let Hunk know, only to find an empty bed on the other side of the room. An overwhelming sense of panic seeps over Keith—did Hunk not come home last night? But he always comes back to the dorm. What if he's hurt? What if someone drugged him? What if—before his foggy brain finally decides to remember that Hunk left yesterday evening for his trip to Hawaii, leaving a day early for Thanksgiving break. Keith lets himself fall back onto his mattress with a muffled thump and a relieved sigh.

His eyelids feel heavy, slowly fluttering back down over his eyes… Wait, no! Keith forces his eyes open once more. He needs to Email his professor first. Then he can sleep all he wants.

He gropes blindly around his nightstand, managing to knock over the half-drunk water bottle from yesterday evening before his fingers finally stumble upon his phone. He types a quick message, hits send, then glances down… only to notice belatedly that the all of three sentences he wrote to his prof are somehow littered with a solid ten typos. Well, maybe the poor state of his Email will convince Dr. Coran to have a little extra sympathy for him.

Keith's eyelids are still fighting a downward battle for all they're worth, but he forces himself to sit up in bed. Instantly his head is reeling, and the entire room feels off-kilter. One deep breath. Then another. And another. Slowly the room stops spinning, and Keith manages to look around.

The itchiness in his throat is taking a turn for the worst, feeling more and more like sandpaper the longer he's awake. The headache hasn't subsided at all. He pushes off of the bed and over to his desk, quickly grabbing and opening the bottle of Ibuprofen… only to find it empty. Shit. Shit shit shit. He hadn't remembered to buy more yet.

With a grimace, Keith bends over in front of the mini fridge. Please let there be water, he begs silently, though with little hope. One small sliver of him knows that he had taken the last bottle the night before, but maybe…

The door swings open, proudly displaying the vast emptiness that lies behind. There is absolutely nothing, not even one of Hunk's pops.

He stands back up, nudging the door closed perhaps a touch more force than necessary. It's possible that Hunk has some medicine lying around… Keith scans the other side of the room, but nothing catches his eye. As much as he likes Hunk, and he thinks Hunk returns the sentiment, Keith is not about to scrounge through his roommate's possessions in search of medicine that possibly doesn't exist.

His head gives a particularly sharp stab behind his eyes, and Keith gives up. Later. He can deal with finding medicine and cool fluids later. For now, his lukewarm, half-drunk bottle from last night will have to do. He screws his eyes shut as he downs a mouthful and flinches as it sears across his throat, before recapping and tossing the bottle back to the ground.

Sleep, his eyelids demand, and he finds he has no room to argue with them. Keith lays back down, pulling the blanket as tight around him as he can manage, and curls onto his side.

He's on the edge of slipping into a—if not peaceful, then at least relieving—slumber when his phone chirps insistently. Keith groans, dragging the covers over his head and scrunching his eyes further closed to block out the noise. Twenty seconds later, it chirps again, the noise somehow managing to sound even louder despite the extra barrier. When it chirps a third time, Keith snarls and turns over, cursing whoever re-ignited the pounding in his head as he grabs for his phone.

Lance (9:04): where r u?
Lance (9:04): ditchin the last day b4 break?

Lance (9:05): unfair mullet head

Keith groans louder, the bright screen threading pain right through his eyes and into his head, even as his stomach does a little flipflop. He rarely has the energy to deal with Lance on a good day, let alone on a shitty morning like today. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that Lance noticed his absence. Of course he did, he tells himself. His lab partner's missing. He's probably worried about having to do all the work by himself. Keith's gruff excuses don't manage to stop his stomach from performing yet another backflip. Damn, why did he have to get so flustered over this stupid jackass?

He squints at the screen, wincing as his head heaves another painful throb.

Keith (9:07): sick

For a split second, Keith considers typing more… But he's already having a hard time keeping his eyes open and focused on the small screen in front of him, and his headache has increased tenfold in the last two minutes. Go figure—Lance seems to have that effect on him. So instead he drops his phone back onto his nightstand and wraps himself into a blanket cocoon.

…

The world is shaking, he notes with no small amount of irritation. It's shaking, and there are hands on his arm, and—

Keith opens his eyes to find Lance's face only inches away. With a startled yelp, he scrambles back in his bed, legs getting caught in his sheets as he violently attempts to push the other man away. He can already feel a bright flush—one that has nothing to do with his fever—working its way down his cheeks and onto his neck. Somehow, he manages to force a bewildered "What the hell!?" out of his tight, painful throat.

Lance frowns—actually has the fucking nerve to frown—at him, then proceeds to roll his eyes. "Dude, I come all the way over here to check on you and this is the reception I get?"

Keith doesn't even know how to respond—is still trying to simply force his throbbing head into functioning properly, because nothing is making sense right now. His mouth works wordlessly for a moment, his brain still trying to comprehend the fact that Lance is standing here. In front of him. In his room. Finally, he manages to choke out, "How did you even get in here?"

Lance waves his hand dismissively. "Hunk showed me how to break in in case he ever needs me to grab something for him."

Wait, what. What?

This is so not okay on so many freaking levels, and he is so going to need to have a talk with Hunk about this. Nonetheless, Lance's explanation still doesn't answer the more pressing question. "Okay," Keith rasps, "but why are you here?"

The question takes Lance off guard—Keith can see it in the way he reels back slightly. And is that … a slight flush on Lance's face? The lights are all still off in the room, so maybe it's just the atrocious headache messing with his perception.

Lance recovers quickly, crossing his arms as he looks down along that stupidly pointy nose at Keith. "You sent me a one word text, and then didn't reply to any of my other texts, like you were dying from the fucking plague," he grouses. He shifts, tightening the grip of his crossed arms, and quickly adds, "I didn't want to be culpable if your sorry ass died or something."

"Oh," Keith manages. Which is really fucking eloquent. Except his head is pounding, and he's still having trouble believing this isn't some kind of fever dream, and his goddamn useless throat seems to be having trouble forming complex sounds. So instead his mouth simply supplies another, "Oh."

Silence stretches between them, and it is becoming more apparent with each passing second that his dual "ohs" are an insufficient reply. Keith closes his eyes and takes a moment to try to gather his thoughts into some form of coherence. When he opens them again, he shoots Lance an apologetic look. "I'm not, uh, dying or anything. Just feeling really shitty, and couldn't focus long enough to type out a better reply before falling back asleep." There's silence again, stretching painfully thin between them, so Keith awkwardly adds, "That's all."

He's pretty sure Lance is, in fact, blushing, since he seems to be turning even more red. His face is still really fucking close, and his mere proximity is turning Keith's stomach into a full out rollercoaster, like the moon dragging the tides, and oh lord this is too much for his fogged up mind to take right now.

Thankfully, Lance takes it upon himself to break the silence with his own, "Oh." Keith is satisfied to realize that they are on the same level when it comes to articulation.

"Well then…" Lance says, fumbling a bit, "sorry to, y'know, bust in." He pushes himself up, the edge of the bed creaking and dipping under his weight as he stands. Half turned toward the door, he adds, "You got enough Dayquil to last you?"

Keith frowns. "... What?"

The effect on Lance is instantaneous: his forehead creases, and strange look of disbelief mixed with incredulity blossoms across his face. It would be rather hysterical if Keith weren't finding it so hard to think straight right now.

"Dayquil?" Lance says. "Or did you take Nyquil instead? Is that why you passed out? When was your last dose?"

Keith opens his mouth to reply—and is abruptly cut off by a wracking wave of coughs that leave his sore throat in tatters. When the fit subsides, Keith manages a wincing shrug and rasps, "I don't have any of that stuff."

Lance frowns, his thin eyebrows creasing his forehead. If Keith didn't know any better, he would almost call his expression concerned. "Okay," Lance says, taking a step closer to the bed, "then what did you take?"

Keith shakes his head—either in answer or in an attempt to clear his mind, he's not entirely sure. "I was going to take some Ibuprofen…"

Lance's eyes narrow suspiciously. "You were going to?" he asks, voice dangerously low. The sound reverberates through Keith's tight chest.

His throat is screaming bloody murder, but Keith somehow replies, "Forgot I'm out."

Lance suddenly straightens up, glaring down at Keith as he places his hands on his hips. His ridiculously slender hips. Keith doesn't understand it. The man's hips look thin enough to snap like a twig, fine enough that it should probably be illegal, and—oh lord, his head is a fucking mess.

"Are you telling me you didn't take anything?" Lance demands.

Keith opens his mouth, then winces as his throat twinges painfully. He settles for a half-hearted shrug, because really, what else can he say? At this point the answer is pretty obvious.

The look Lance gives him leaves shame curling like ashes in Keith's chest, a reaction that takes Keith completely off guard. Right now, Lance looks almost as intimidating as Allura when she catches someone trying to wriggle out of their work. Somehow, the equation of Lance and high expectations is not adding properly in his head.

Lance heaves a long sigh, as if he's the one suffering. But the glance he shoots Keith is full of thinly veiled concern as he asks, "What's hurting?"

Keith shifts uncomfortably in his blankets. Lance is making this into too big of a deal, because really, as shitty as he feels right now, things will be fine. But when he meets Lance's gaze, all he finds is stubborn expectation, and Keith suddenly knows that Lance is not going to leave him alone until he comes clean. Gruffly, he says, "My head hurts. My nose is running, and my ears are ringing, and my throat hurts like a bitch." He stops to consider, then adds, "I might be running a fever."

Before his mind can process the action, Lance is leaning over him and placing his cool palms on either side of Keith's neck. Keith is stunned into immobility, eyes wide and heart racing furiously as Lance gently prods beneath his jaw. His hands feel nice—too nice, cool and calming against his skin.

Lance hums thoughtfully, pulling his hands away. Keith immediately misses them. "You're warm… but your glands aren't swollen, so I doubt it's strep," Lance informs him. "You're not puking?"

Keith shakes his head, not trusting his voice.

"That's good," Lance says, nodding his head. "And you're congested and have a headache. Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's safe to say you just have a cold."

Keith's head is spiraling.

Did Lance somehow become a medical provider in the last twenty-four hours? Because Keith isn't sure how else to explain the class jackass standing here before him, succinctly analyzing his symptoms and providing his professional diagnosis.

He's still blinking away his confusion when Lance says, "Hold on. I'll go grab the Dayquil from my room."

Whereas all the other of this morning's surprises have left Keith speechless, this one jolts the words right out of his mouth. "No," he says quickly, already feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. "Really, you don't have to—"

Lance doesn't even bother to listen, instead holding up an insistent hand to shut Keith up as he walks to the door. "Don't whine or I might change my mind," he says, shooting Keith a glare. "I'll be right back."

I definitely need to do something about that lock, Keith decides, watching critically as Lance drags the door closed behind him. The thought of Lance being able to just walk in at any time—yeah, nope. He cannot handle that possibility.

The room feels oddly quiet, now that Lance is gone. It's not silence, but rather the intrusive, noisy kind of quiet that presses in on his already stuffed ears and produces a low, endless ringing. Even the air feels too close, as if it's as congested as his head, and leaves him feeling squeezed into the box of his room. And his head and throat are feeling as shitty as ever. With a groan, Keith drops back down onto his pillow.

Who even knew that Lance could be so … capable.

Then again, Keith wonders why he's even surprised at this point. They've been stuck together as lab partners all semester, and Keith realizes that he should know by now that nothing about Lance is as straightforward as it seems.

On that first day, when Keith had looked over at the other massively late, rain drenched student that he had been stuck with as his partner, he had been pissed at his heart for suddenly picking up its tempo. (Because really—first day of school, first class of the day, freshman year, and he's already got a thing for his lab partner? Is it possible to be any more cliche?) He had been even more pissed with himself, however, when his partner had opened his mouth and revealed what a whiny asshole he was. Being attracted to his lab partner would have been embarrassing, but manageable. But being attracted to the physical embodiment of a shithead? That's just downright shameful.

Or so he had thought.

In reality, Lance is just … Lance. A walking contradiction who somehow evades any logical explanation. Sure, he's annoying and talks too much and is overly cocky and generally a real pain in the ass. But Keith also figured out pretty quickly that the guy actually cares about getting a good grade in their Physics lab. He doesn't just dump all the work on Keith, but actually puts in his fair share… even if he complains enough for four people.

And then there's the fact that Hunk is Lance's best friend. Obviously there has to be something good about the guy, if he's earned such loyal friendship from someone as kindhearted and genuine as Hunk.

Hell, even his shitty little playboy attitude seems to be more of an act than anything. As much as Lance hits on any person he finds mildly attractive—including their goddamn TAs, much to Shiro's embarrassment and Allura's chagrin—Keith has seen Lance apologize on more than one occasion and back down with good grace when someone tells him to lay off. He could definitely use some additional education in picking up on more subtle clues to back the fuck off, but the guy is actually less of a douche than half of the other guys on campus.

Somewhere along the way, Keith has stopped being pissed that he's attracted to an annoying asshole. Which, he decides, is a problem in and of itself. Because without that excuse to fall back on, Keith is finding it harder and harder to stamp down the fluttery feelings Lance always seems capable of yanking into his stomach.

There's a thump on the door, and Keith has only a moment to half push himself up in bed before Lance is fumbling with the handle and walking back into the room.

"Kay," Lance says, kicking the door closed behind him. Kicking, Keith realizes, because his hands are completely full. "I grabbed the Dayquil. You should take this right away so it can work it's magic. Aaaaand"—Lance flourishes a travel coffee mug in front of him—"I brought you some water to wash it down. Try to drink all of it to keep yourself hydrated." Lance places the two bottles down on the night stand, freeing up one of his arms.

"I also brought these," he says, placing two applesauce cups beside the Dayquil. "I don't have much food lying around my room, but I know how painful eating can be with a sore throat, so those should be good."

Finally, he chucks a box of tissues onto the bed, right next to Keith. With a shrug, he says, "Those are pretty self explanatory."

Keith struggles to force his mouth closed. Instead, all he manages to do is stare at Lance in disbelief.

Lance rolls his eyes. "Sorry, do you actually need me to walk you through this one, mullet head?" He grabs a tissue. "You use these to blow your nose. I can demonstrate if you—"

"Oh, shut up!" Keith manages to snap, swiping the tissue away before Lance can give him a play-by-play. He immediately thinks better of it and mumbles, "Just… thanks."

"No biggie," Lance says with an offhand shrug. He reaches down to take out his phone, then flinches and mutters a barely audible, "Shit!" The quiet exclamation takes Keith off guard, but before he can ask, Lance is already shoving his phone back into his pocket.

"Alright, you should be good for now," Lance tells him, glancing one last time at the pile of supplies he brought with him. "Sorry to take off so quickly, but I gotta run. I'll check on you later."

With barely a backwards glance, Lance is out the door and gone, leaving Keith alone and completely confused.

Pushing away his lingering butterflies—Lance would check on him later? He was coming back?—Keith reaches over to his nightstand and picks up the bottle of meds. As he does, he catches a glimpse of his clock: 10:31.

Oh. Oh. Sudden realization washes over Keith. His addled brain had simply assumed that he had slept well into the afternoon, but obviously he had only been asleep for a little more than an hour. Their lab ends at 10:05 on Tuesdays, and Keith is well aware that Lance has a class that begins at 10:20 sharp on the same end of campus. He's heard Lance griping on more than one occasion that he doesn't even have time to grab a quick breakfast between classes since his hardnose prof won't accept excuses for being late.

Their dorm is on the west end of campus. A solid fifteen minute jog from their Physics lab.

Keith watches in disbelief as the clock clicks to 10:32.

Did that idiot actually run over here as soon as the lab was done to check on him? Run literally across campus knowing full well he'd be late to his Communications class just to make sure that Keith wasn't—what were his words?—dying from the fucking plague?

"Oh shit," Keith mutters. He desperately wishes he could melt into his blankets and never get up again. It isn't fair—Lance isn't allowed to be so friggin' cute. Stomach bubbling with giddiness, Keith quickly attempts to distract himself and refocuses his attention on the bottle of Dayquil in his hands.

He reads the label to get the dosage information and takes a quick glance at the warnings. It seems harmless enough. He twists off the lid, sniffs, and—

The strong scent of alcohol nearly knocks him backward. It's sharp, accompanied by the smell of overly sugary syrup that makes him cringe. He pours out a dose of the nasty orange stuff into the accompanying measuring cup and eyes it with distaste. Another quick sniff reveals it to be just as nasty as his first whiff.

Keith forces himself to just knock it back and get it over with quickly. The liquid is runny and light, instantly coating his tongue with a sickening amount of sweetness. Surprisingly, it burns his throat as he swallows, searing its way to his stomach. He is exceedingly thankful that Lance brought water as well, and quickly grabs the mug to try to rid himself of the awful taste. It's cool in his mouth and soothing on his tender throat. It doesn't do much to wash away the terrible flavor, but is a welcome relief nonetheless.

After several gulps, Keith sets the bottle and the mug back on his nightstand and settles down on his bed. The sheets are oddly stifling, and he kicks them to the foot of the mattress before curling up on his side and hugging the box of tissues to his chest.

Now that he's awake, Keith finds that he isn't particularly tired, despite feeling exhausted. His head is still throbbing, his throat still constricting tightly with each breath, but his eyes remain insistently open. His ears are ringing again, and Keith does his best to block out the noise.

For likely the hundredth time in his life, Keith is forced to confront how much he hates being sick.

He doesn't mind being alone, usually. Doesn't mind the quiet, or sitting still, or simply thinking. But when he's sick, sitting in the quiet becomes a particular kind of torture. It's not the pain or discomfort—not that either of those things are a particular joy. But there's something disconcerting about his body feeling wrong and being powerless to do anything about it.

He finds himself wishing Lance were back already, if for nothing more than to have a distraction. It's a selfish thought—and a touch unnerving at that. Instead, he rolls onto his other side and squeezes the tissue box tighter.

…

It's a bit startling, Lance decides, how little Keith seems to know about taking care of himself properly. Or, at the very least, how little he bothers to.

He juggles the plastic bags he's holding into his left hand, freeing up his right to grab out his keys.

Because seriously. Does the guy even know what Dayquil is? The blank stare he'd given Lance earlier seems to indicate otherwise.

Lance twists the key in the lock and bumps the door open with his hip, careful not to crush his bags in the process.

Pidge looks up from their laptop as he ambles into their double. "Dude, are you gonna pack?" they ask, adjusting their glasses. Lance spares a glance to see a stuffed duffel bag sitting on the bed beside them. "Wasn't your mom gonna pick you up tonight?"

Lance drops the grocery bags onto his bed unceremoniously, rubbing at the crease the plastic has dug into his palm. "Nah," he replies with a shrug. "I'll have her pick me up tomorrow."

Lance bends over to dig through the bags, pulling out several items as he searches for the box of gum he'd picked up.

For a moment, the room is filled with the sound of rustling plastic. Then, slowly, Pidge asks, "Is that … soup?"

Lance pauses mid-search, looking over at the few items he's placed on his covers. A can of Campbell's chicken noodle lies nestled between two bottles of Canada Dry. "Yeah?" Lance replies, perhaps a touch defensively. "What's it to you?"

He doesn't miss the way that Pidge's eyes narrow suspiciously. Lance willfully ignores their look, and instead digs back into the bag to retrieve his box of Stride.

"Dude," Pidge says. "Did you stop by the Union on your way home to pick all of that up … for Keith?"

They're using a certain tone—a tone that's filled with all sorts of implications that Lance doesn't want to think about. So he just ignores them, turning on his heel and walking over to his desk.

He can feel a small amount of heat threatening his cheeks, though he aggressively swipes his wrist across his face to keep it away.

So yeah, okay? Maybe he did go out of his way to stop at the Union. Maybe he did stop to pick up some stuff for Keith. So what? It's not a big deal. He can't just let a friend—because they are, surprisingly, friends—suffer all alone. His crush on Keith has nothing to do with this. Of course not.

Lance grabs his bowl, a spoon and fork, and two mugs from his desk, then turns to find Pidge grinning slyly over the top of their laptop.

"Boy," they announce, "you've got it baaaad."

Lance looses a huff and throws his hands in the air, bowl and silverware clutched in one hand, the two mugs clutched in the other. "He didn't even have any medicine, Pidge, did you know that? Nothing—not even some Motrin!" Lance shakes his head and moves back over to his bed, putting the kitchenware into one of the bags. "He was just going to lie in bed and waste away until, I dunno, his parents came and picked him up or something."

"His parents?" Pidge asks, sounding confused. "I thought Keith wasn't going home over break."

Lance stops cold, frozen halfway through the motion of re-bagging the soup. His mind in stalling, grasping for the reason he had so grossly misunderstood what Pidge just said. Because there is no way that he heard correctly. Five, ten, fifteen seconds later, his mind is still turning up blank.

Lance whirls around to face Pidge and finds his roommate watching him with a small shrug.

"Seriously?" he asks, just in case. Because maybe—

"Well, yeah," Pidge replies. "I'm pretty sure that's what I heard him say the other day."

"Oh hell no," Lance swears fiercely. He shakes his head, taking a deep breath to try to reign his frustration back in.

Was that idiot serious? What had Keith planned on doing? Just lying in his bed and dying for a week straight? When nearly every other person in the dorm would be gone? What if his cold had gotten way worse? What if he had had strep? Or the flu? Had Keith even bothered to let anyone else know he was sick?

Lance hisses an irritated groan that borders on a growl, then quickly turns back to his bed. He packs up the last of his supplies, nearly throwing the second bottle of Canada Dry into the bag. Which, on second thought, might not be the best idea.

Oh yeah? Lance thinks to himself. Well maybe Keith isn't such a great idea. Ever think of that? The threat sounds as lame as it does nonsensical, even in his own head. Lance growls again, a wicked frown dragging down on his lips.

"Well," Pidge says, interrupting his harried thoughts. "I'm going to be heading out in about ten minutes. I hope you have a nice break. Tell Keith I hope he feels better."

Lance hefts his bags and grunts. "Yeah, you have a good break, too. Say hi to your mom for me."

Pidge merely waves in return, not even bothering to throw in a jibe as Lance heads back out the door. This is, he supposes, a testament to how agitated he must appear, since Pidge never misses an opportunity to slice Lance up with their silver tongue.

As he heads down the hall, Lance slides his phone from his pocket. He thumbs down through his texts, then pulls up his messages with his mom.

Lance (3:24): hey mamá

Lance (3:24): sorry for the last min notice but a friend of mine is sick

Lance (3:24): im gonna stay with him to make sure hes okay since every1 is leaving for break

Lance (3:25): u dont need to bother to pick me up tonite

Lance doesn't even have the chance to lower his phone before it lights up with her reply.

Mami (3:25): Oh dear, okay. Should I pick you up sometime tomorrow instead?

Lance reads the message, then hesitates, unsure how to respond. The logical answer would be to agree. He can stay an extra night at the dorm to make sure that Keith is well enough to survive, then head home for Thanksgiving.

Because Thanksgiving. He loves Thanksgiving. Though Lance would never admit it to anyone, it even beats out Christmas for his favorite holiday. It's the one time of the year when his entire family gets together—not just his mom's side, who all live close, but also his dad's siblings and parents, who live much further away. Everyone brings their specialties, resulting in entire tables filled with the most delicious food he has ever come across. And it's nice to simply visit with everyone—even his siblings and cousins, competitive though they may sometimes be.

Lance has been looking forward to it for the past month, using Thanksgiving break and the accompanying buffet of wonderful food as a way to get himself through the past few particularly grueling weeks of classes.

And yet…

What if Pidge is right? What if they somehow hadn't misheard Keith? If that idiot is actually staying at the dorm, Lance will feel pretty shitty leaving him behind all by himself. While he's sick, no less.

Lance glances at his phone again, mouth twisting into a frown. Am I seriously considering giving up Thanksgiving dinner to take care of this trainwreck of a jerk?

On second thought, he decides it's better not to answer that question and all that it implies. He sighs, then types up a reply.

Lance (3:26): i dunno yet ill text u back later

He shoves his phone back into his pocket, trying his best to ignore the small voice in the back of his mind—one that sounds suspiciously like Pidge—telling him that he already knows what the answer is.

…

This time, Keith wakes to the sound of knocking at his door. Despite the fog hanging heavy in his head and a small wave of irritation, he decides he strongly prefers this type of wake up call to being shaken.

Keith tries to respond and is silenced by phlegm catching in his throat. He heaves a solid cough to clear it, then manages a hoarse, groggy, "Yeah?"

"I'm coming in!" Lance calls from the hallway, voice muffled.

Before Keith can gather the energy to protest, the handle of his door jiggles, produces a worrisome chank, and then gives way. He frowns in concern as Lance enters. This needs to be addressed, he decides, even as his head gives an insistent throb. Right now. Because Lance coming in whenever he wants is a problem, and—

Keith's thoughts are cut off completely as Lance sits on the edge of his bed and leans over him. "How're you feeling?" Lance asks. His voice is far too gentle to be fair.

He reaches forward and places a cool, lithe hand against Keith's forehead. Any possible reply instantly dies on Keith's tongue, giving way to an accidental sigh. He might be feeling slightly better than he had this morning, but he isn't feeling great by any definition of the word. In contrast, Lance's touch is reassuring and calming and so good. Even the ache at the back of his head fades somewhat. Without meaning to, Keith's eyes slide closed.

I want him to leave his hand here forever.

The thought is sudden and startling, and Keith feels the bottom fall out from his stomach. It's the truth, however, and he feels too comfortable here, with Lance's hand soothing him, to even attempt to pull away.

Lance hums thoughtfully and shifts ever-so-slightly on the bed. His fingers gently brush Keith's gross, sweaty bangs away from his forehead, then pause suddenly, hesitating in the act. After a moment, Lance's hand pulls away completely, and Keith has to resist a disappointed sigh as he reopens his eyes.

"You still feel pretty warm," Lance tells him, frowning a bit. "Can you sit up?"

Keith groans, closing his eyes again. He may be awake, but simply the thought of moving seems like far too much effort. Can't he just lay here in peace, preferably with Lance's cool fingers tracing across his forehead?

Groggy though he is, Keith recognizes this as the exact wrong response to give—for several reasons. So, with a deep breath, he manages to push himself up to sitting, his arms feeling surprisingly weak as they support his weight.

He takes another deep breath once he's upright, his head spinning ever so slightly. He's almost feeling steady when Lance leans forward, his face suddenly very close to Keith's. The spinning in Keith's head kicks up a notch.

"You still haven't answered me," Lance admonishes. His face is close enough that his words brush light puffs of air across Keith's cheek. "How're you feeling?"

"A little better," Keith mumbles, not quite able to meet Lance's eyes. "My head hurts something awful."

"You still sound pretty stuffed up, too," Lance replies, his frown growing when Keith nods in agreement. He looks down at the clock on Keith's bedside table. "It's only 3:30. You took the meds when I told you to?"

"Yes," Keith croaks, swallowing at the snot running down the back of his throat. Lance passes him the half-empty travel mug from his nightstand and he hums in thanks. The water is warm by now and still makes him wince as it glances across his sore throat, but it provides some small degree of relief.

Lance sighs as he watches Keith drink. "There's still another hour until you can take some more, but the first dose is probably already wearing off. Are you hungry?"

The question takes Keith off guard. He lowers the mug slowly as he considers. "Yeah, actually. I am," he replies, a bit surprised to recognize the hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. Come to think of it, the only thing he's eaten all day was one of Lance's apple sauces when he had woken up briefly around noon.

Lance nods, then pushes himself up from the bed. "Okay, c'mon. Grab your blanket and follow me."

Keith watches Lance with a skeptical frown. His bed is warm and offers at least some level of comfort. And out beyond his door are people and cold, too large spaces. "I mean," he stalls, glancing longingly at his pillow, "I'm sure everyone else won't want me getting them sick…"

Lance scoffs. "Well, seeing as basically everyone has either left or is on their way out for break, I'm pretty sure they could care less."

Keith opens his mouth, ready to protest, but is cut short as Lance takes a step closer to the bed. He holds out his hands in a clear offer to help. Keith stares at his proffered hands for a moment before looking away in embarrassment. "I can get up by myself," he grumbles.

Lance pretends not to hear—or just ignores the statement. He steps even closer, wrapping his hands around Keith's and giving a soft but steady tug. Keith's hands instinctively tighten in his grip. His heart is hammering so loud that he worries Lance can hear it in their close proximity. With a grumbling sigh he relents, allowing Lance to help pull him to his feet.

For the briefest of seconds they're left standing face to face, hands still clasped and all but an inch of space between them. If Keith's head was spinning before, it's positively reeling now.

But then Lance slides his hands from Keith's grip and steps away, reaching down to grab something. The sudden emptiness is cold and hits Keith squarely in the chest. He sucks in a harsh breath as he fights off a wave of shivers.

"Here," Lance says, standing back up. A small weight presses down on Keith's shoulders as Lance drapes his comforter over him. Lance tugs at the corners, making sure the blanket is held in place over his back, then proceeds to fuss at the edges so they wrap snugly around him, leaving no bit exposed to the prying chill in the air.

By the time Lance straightens, Keith's face is in flames. Although the medicine has taken some of the edge off from his fever, Lance seems to be doing everything he can to bring it right back up again.

"Ready?" Lance asks, seemingly oblivious to the devastating effect he's inflicted on Keith.

"I…" Keith's voice utterly fails him. He coughs, then manages a rough, "Uh… yeah."

There's rustling as Lance scoops up some bags that Keith hadn't noticed from the floor. Then Lance shoots him his usual cocky grin—the one that so desperately annoys Keith—really, it does—it's annoying—he does not find it endearing—and says, "Right, let's go get you some food."

Keith swallows down his fizzling uncertainty as he follows him from the room.

Lance leads him toward the dorm's small kitchen. Keith has never been more grateful that the communal room is located on their floor. It's not that walking is painful or anything, but his head still feels clogged and each step is an effort.

It's not a full kitchen, of course—the university doesn't trust a bunch of freshman with an oven, which seems like a smart decision to Keith. But the room has plenty of counter and cabinet space, two microwaves, a toaster, a sink, and a full-sized fridge. The kitchen is open and connected to a general lounge that's furnished with a few tables to eat at and several couches and arm chairs. Normally the area would be thrumming with conversation, but as Lance pointed out, all the residents are now focused on getting away as fast as they can, leaving the rooms empty and quiet.

Keith blinks in surprise as Lance drops his pillow onto one of the arm chairs—when did he manage to grab that?—then heads over to the kitchen. He plops his bags onto the counter with little grace and immediately begins to rummage through them.

Curious, Keith inches closer to get a better look. First out is a mug, which Lance quickly fills with water, then pops into one of the microwaves. There's another mug next, adorned with curling letters that state My mother was right about everything. Lance throws on the faucet again, this time all the way to hot, then sticks his fingers under the water.

Keith watches on, feeling a bit lost. He wonders briefly if he should offer to help, though he has no idea what Lance is doing in the first place. Before he can make up his indecisive mind, Lance is already filling up the second cup. He places it on the counter, then reaches up to open the cabinet doors.

"Do you… need help?" Keith asks when Lance opens the third cabinet in a row.

"Nah," Lance replies, a deep frown creasing his brow. "I could have sworn we had some—aha!"

Keith cannot help the surge of skeptical confusion as Lance proudly holds up a container of salt. He watches, speechless, as Lance measures out an entire teaspoon of the stuff and then proceeds to stir it into the mug on the counter.

When he's done, he turns and offers the mug to Keith with a satisfied grin. "Here, take this," Lance says, attempting to hand off the mug. Attempting, because Keith's hands have remained stubbornly glued at his sides.

"That's… for me?" Keith asks flatly. His eyes narrow as he surveys the simple yet disgusting concoction before him.

"Duh." Lance rolls his eyes. Why is he acting as if Keith's the one not making any sense here? "Do you see anyone else around?"

"I am not drinking that." Keith takes a solid step back, his head shaking ardently.

"Pfft, oh my god, no!" Lance bursts into laughter and gives Keith a disbelieving grin. "You don't drink it. You gargle with it."

Keith is not convinced. He looks back down at the drink in Lance's hands, sniffling as he feels his nose start to run.

"Oh my god," Lance groans. He takes a step forward and shoves the mug toward Keith, who has no choice but to take it. "Just do it, you ding-dong. Seriously. It'll help your throat feel better, I promise." Lance gestures toward the sink. "Try not to make a mess."

Keith shoots Lance a nasty scowl—or, well, as nasty of a scowl as he can manage as he sniffles yet again. He shuffles over to the sink, mug clutched tightly in both hands. For a moment he considers just upending the cup down the drain. He sneaks a quick glance at Lance, only to find him standing to the side, arms crossed and eyes narrowed in hawk-like disdain. Seriously, the guy must be taking lessons from Allura or something. It's kind of unnerving. Deterred, Keith grumbles and turns back to the sink.

Keith takes a hesitant sip, and nearly spits the drink right back out. It's disgustingly warm and so salty that he feels a touch nauseous. He slowly tips his head back and attempts to gargle. The water feels even more gross bubbling in his throat, and he manages for all of two seconds before his head pitches forward to spit the shitty water into the sink.

Even after spitting, the heavy taste of salt clings to his tongue, cheeks, and the roof of his mouth. He glares with watery eyes at Lance, who simply gestures for Keith to try again. Keith closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to refrain from strangling him.

After a moment, he lifts the mug back to his mouth and takes another sip, smaller this time. It makes it slightly easier to handle, now that there's less of the crap in his mouth, and Keith manages to gargle for a solid ten seconds before he bends over the sink and spits once again.

It takes forever—or, at least, that's how it feels—to take the entire mug in tiny sips. By the time Keith nears the bottom, his headache has actually managed to get worse from the strain of trying not to throw up.

There's only a little left in the bottom, so Keith quickly takes it all in one swig and tips his head back. This, however, is a mistake. It's a far larger mouthful than any of the others, and as Keith attempts to gargle, the water begins to squeeze its way down his throat. He sputters and chokes, quickly leaning forward and retching the liquid into the sink. He does his best to ignore the way his stomach heaves in response and somehow manages to stop from actually puking by taking long, shaking breaths.

Lance pats him on the back in what is probably meant to be a reassuring way. "Did you almost choke?" he asks, voice far too cheerful to be acceptable. "Well, at least that'll help even more! You got it further down your throat."

Keith snarls, wiping aggressively at his watering eyes. Lance's tone is not helping in the least bit. He's starting to wonder if this is all some elaborate joke on Lance's part to make him look like an idiot—if it is, Keith will kill him—when Lance pushes a second mug into his hands. Keith looks down, ready to outright refuse whatever new shit Lance has handed him, to find a cup of tea warming his palms.

"Sorry, I hate gargling that shit, too," Lance says with a sympathetic shrug. "It tastes nasty, but it really does help you feel better. Anyways, the tea should help clear away some of the taste."

Keith blinks, all of his anger melting away. Okay, so it's not a joke—just Lance continuing to be strangely helpful.

Lance takes him by the shoulders and steers him over to one of the lounge chairs. "I'm going to make you some food really quick," he tells Keith, pushing him into the chair. "You just sit down for now and drink some of that." Keith watches on, speechless, as Lance tugs at the blanket to make sure Keith's legs are covered, then tucks Keith's pillow behind his head.

He mumbles what could be taken for an embarrassed "Thanks" as Lance gives his blanket one final pat. Lance shrugs and waves Keith off, then heads back into the kitchen. Glancing over the edge of his blanket, Keith can see Lance digging back into his bags and getting to work.

There's an absurd amount of post-nasal drip easing its way down Keith's throat. Irritated, Keith swallows repeatedly to clear it away, then stops as realization dawns on him. The salt. It's helping to clear out his sinuses.

That's… well, quite honestly, that's disgusting. But, with a small flicker of guilt, Keith realizes that Lance's method is actually helping. As he swallows again, Keith notices that his throat also feels … weird. Not quite numb, but not quite normal either. It's a strange sensation, but it doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as it did before.

Keith shifts in the chair, considering the words weighing down his tongue. Finally, he asks, "Where did you pick all of this… this..."—he gestures uselessly as he searches for the right word—"caretaker shit up?"

Lance snorts, turning his head over his shoulder to roll his eyes at Keith. "Why?" he asks, voice taunting. "Are you surprised?"

"I mean, yes?" Keith answers truthfully. His tone is only slightly mocking.

Lance shoots him a genuine pout. Lip jutting out, eyes quivering, entire face dragging down in disappointment—the whole nine yards. Keith rolls his eyes with exaggerated emphasis before burying his face in his mug to hide his rising blush. Goddammit, even his stupid pout is adorable.

The tea is a surprising balance of grassy and sweet, thick with honey that Lance must have mixed in. It's the perfect level of hot without scalding, and it sooths Keith's throat more than any other remedy he's tried so far. He takes several long sips, relishing the warm relief, before cradling the mug back in his lap.

Lance has remained surprisingly quiet, now fussing over some bread from one of his bags. As he shoves a couple slices into the toaster, his back to Keith, he finally says, "I've got three younger siblings, y'know?"

No, actually, he doesn't. Keith's never heard about Lance's family, and this is news to him. But he keeps quiet, patiently waiting for Lance to explain further.

Lance gives a short, awkward shrug, attention still focused on the food in front of him. "We've got a big family, and my mom works evenings. Often times when my siblings would get sick I was the one who took care of them and made sure they were resting up and getting better while my mom went to work." He shuffles his feet, then adds, "You pick stuff up pretty quickly that way."

The toaster suddenly pops, and Lance busies himself with grabbing the slices and placing them on a paper towel.

Everything suddenly makes sense. No wonder Lance knows what to do and so easily slides into the role of caretaker. That's just how it's always been for him. It's a bit weird to think of Lance as a nurturing older brother, but Keith supposes that it'd be hard not to pick up such skills in a big family.

Something in that thought jogs Keith's memory. He takes another look around the very quiet, very empty common room. What had Lance said earlier—that everyone was either leaving or already gone for break? Hadn't Hunk said that Lance was going home tonight too? Tightening his grip on his mug, Keith asks, "So, what time are you heading out tonight?"

"Hm?" Lance asks distractedly. He's holding the fridge door open with his hip, examining a container of butter in the light. "You think this belongs to anyone?" he asks, turning the box around in his hands. "I don't see a name. Doesn't that mean it's fair game?" He purses his lips, then nods. "Yeah, totally fair game."

He closes the door, then catches sight of Keith still watching him with an expectant look. "Oh, right," he replies, waving his free hand as he turns back to the toast. "I just told my mom not to bother."

Keith is fairly certain his heart has up and stopped. Because what? He had been talking with Hunk about their plans for break just yesterday. Keith knows for a fact that Lance should technically be leaving any minute. Why did he change his mind?

A steady, persistent flush works its way across Keith's neck and into his cheeks. This isn't because of him, is it? It's a ridiculous thought, and Keith instantly struggles to stamp it down. There's no way in hell that Lance would willing choose to stay at the dorms with him. … Right?

Lance, it seems, has also picked up on this possible implication. He's frozen in place at the counter, turned slightly as he watches Keith silently implode. When he notices Keith's attention, his face turns a charming shade of pink—Keith is absolutely certain of it, this time, since Lance is standing directly under the kitchen lights.

Lance frowns defensively, quickly turning back to his toast. "It's all kind of up in the air right now," he says. He seems to be going for forced nonchalance, but the words are falling far too quickly from his mouth to be believable. "She's still trying to decide if she'll come pick me up tomorrow, y'know? It's not really a big deal. My family's only a few towns over—it's just a short car ride to get here. Like, no biggie. I see them all the time. Honestly, it would be more of a break not to have to deal with them."

He's rambling, Keith realizes. Lance fucking McClain is rambling as he blushes over the toast on the counter. He still hasn't even explained why his plans changed. Which kind of sort of seems to imply that Lance decided to stay for Keith's benefit.

Which is too much for either Keith's heart or head to handle at this moment.

Thankfully for both of them, the microwave chooses this moment to beep. "Oh look!" Lance says with far too much enthusiasm. "It's ready!"

He busies himself with the appliance, firmly keeping his attention everywhere except Keith.

Keith lets him. He's far too embarrassed to voice the thoughts swirling through his mind right now, anyways. Instead, he watches silently as Lance makes his way over to his chair.

"Okay, make sure you use the potholder, cause it's pretty hot," Lance warns. He takes the mug of tea from Keith's hands, then carefully places the bowl in his lap. The warmth instantly begins to seep through the blanket. Unable to resist, Keith holds one palm above the bowl to feel the satisfying steam curl around his fingers.

Lance sets the mug down on the coffee table in front of Keith's chair, along with the plate of toast. "Be sure to blow on it until it cools off," Lance tells him. "And let me know if you need anything else to drink. I can grab you a cup of water if you want. Is your blanket still good?"

Keith can't tell which is harder to suppress: his resurgent blush or the laughter threatening in his chest. Lance is acting like a fussy mother hen, and it's almost more than Keith can take.

He settles on a small shrug and a wave of his hand. "It's fine," he mumbles. "This is … great."

More than great, if he's being honest. Wonderful. Overwhelming. But now doesn't feel like the time to mention that, so Keith leaves it at that.

Lance gives Keith a stern once-over, hands finding their way to his slim hips yet again. "Well…" he says slowly, not sounding convinced, "if you need anything else, just be sure to ask."

He continues to glare until Keith ducks his head and mumbles, "Right, sure."

This seems to be a good enough answer for Lance. Keith watches from under his bangs as Lance heads back into the kitchen. He digs through his bags yet again, then pulls out a package of cup ramen. Keith blinks in surprise as Lance begins to rip the plastic wrap off.

"Lance, seriously," he says, guilt gnawing at the edges of his stomach. "I'm fine. Why don't you go get yourself a real dinner?"

"Nah." Lance shrugs as he washes out the other mug—the one Keith used to gargle—with soap and then fills it with water. "By the time I get over to the Union, they'll be closed anyway. They were already starting to close up shop when I stopped there on my way back from class. I think they've got shorter hours today because of the break."

Lance sets the mug in the microwave and gets it started, then turns back to Keith. "Besides, this is good enough for me." He gestures to the ramen and grins. "They had my favorite flavor."

Keith can't help the skeptical frown that tugs at his lips. "You have a favorite flavor?" he asks flatly. "Of ramen?" Personally, Keith has always chosen to stay away from the stuff after trying some at a friend's place back in high school. The food isn't particularly appealing—at least not the pre-packaged, poor college student kind.

"Uh, duh?" Lance asks, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. "Everyone knows that the shrimp ramen is the best. It's even got mini shrimps in it!"

Keith's mouth opens in horror. "It has what?" he questions, glancing toward the foam cup. "But those things aren't refrigerated, right?"

Lance shrugs. "I mean, it's not fresh shrimp. It's, like, freeze dried or something. Or dehydrated maybe?" Lance frowns and shakes his head in irritation. "Anyways, the details aren't important—all that matters is that it's delicious."

"That's disgusting," Keith replies, still not quite believing what he's hearing. People eat that crap? And—if Lance is to be believed—somehow enjoy it?

Lance seems unperturbed. "More for me, then," he sings. The microwave beeps, and he busies himself with pouring the water over the noodles. Then, retrieving his fork, Lance heads back over towards the lounge. He sets his ramen on the coffee table and plops into the armchair opposite Keith. "That should be good now," he says, gesturing towards Keith's lap.

Keith looks down at his bowl of soup. The amount of steam wafting from the surface has decreased significantly over the past few minutes. Tentatively, he lifts a spoonful to his lips and is pleased to find that the broth isn't too hot. He eats a few mouthfuls, glad to have yet another warm liquid making its way down his throat.

"How is it?" Lance asks.

"Salty as fuck," Keith replies frankly. This doesn't stop him from downing another spoonful of too-soggy noodles and briny broth, however.

Lance, to his surprise, merely laughs. "Yeah, it wouldn't be Campbells otherwise." He heaves a small shrug, as if to say Whattya gonna do. "But it'll make you feel better, at least."

And that's the thing, really. Keith is starting to feel better. His headache is still ever-present, but it's been reduced to prowling around the outskirts of his head. He's starting to feel somewhat less stuffed up as all of this salt works its magic on his sinuses. And, perhaps most importantly of all, it no longer feels as if he has several knives shoved down his throat.

Part of Keith wants to be surprised by this realization, but a much bigger portion of him accepts this fact with very little resistance. As much as Lance's help had taken him off guard at first, Keith now fully trusts that Lance knows what he's doing. At least when it comes to cold remedies—Keith is staying far, far away from Lance's freeze dried, dehydrated, absolute shit shrimp.

For a while, the common room is filled with near silence, interrupted only by the scrape of Keith's spoon along the bottom of his bowl. But somehow it's … nice. They're not talking or anything, and Lance has even pulled out his phone to scroll through his texts, but something about the moment is comfortable. Keith savors the feeling, which is only amplified by the growing warmth in his stomach as he nears the end of his soup.

Lance huffs, and Keith catches sight of him rolling his eyes as he slides his phone into his pocket. He raises a questioning eyebrow at Lance. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Lance says with a little wave of his hand. He leans forward to grab his ramen off of the table. "Just Pidge."

This does little to explain the way that Lance isn't quite meeting Keith's eyes. But Lance is so focused on digging into his dinner that there isn't much room for Keith to press the matter.

Instead, Keith trades his empty bowl for the plate of toast on the table. By this point it is completely cold, the butter already beginning to thicken, but it'd be a waste not to eat it. Beside that, Keith figures it's better to eat as much as he can stomach now so he won't get hungry later.

As he munches, he steals a glance over his toast to watch as Lance eats his so-called food. Lance has somehow managed to keep all of the solid contents of the cup held back with his fork as he drinks the broth. Keith watches with part amusement, part exasperation as Lance drains the entire thing. He doesn't quite understand how Lance manages to keep the noodles from falling right onto his face.

Apparently satisfied that all the broth is gone, Lance proceeds to use the fork to literally shovel the noodles, veggies, and not-quite-shrimp into his mouth. Keith can't help from snorting at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

"Wha mahn?" Lance asks, a bunch of noodles hanging from his mouth and down past his chin.

"Uh, hungry much?" Keith asks, shooting him a bemused smirk.

Lance merely flips him the bird before proceeding to shove another overflowing forkfull into his mouth. Still chewing, Lance adds, "I's bettah th's way."

This seems debatable. Keith can feel his eyebrows still stubbornly stuck near his hairline as he eats the last of his toast. He calmly ignores the withering glares Lance keeps shooting in his direction as he polishes off the ramen.

"Alright," Lance says once he's downed the last of the noodles. He stands up and stretches, nearly dropping his fork from the empty foam cup as he does. "You should be good to take some more Dayquil, now."

"Oh, yeah." In all honesty, Keith had completely forgotten about the medicine. As Lance gathers their dishes from the table, Keith adds, "It's still in my room."

Lance nods as he heads back into the kitchen. He dumps the foam cup into the trash, then unloads everything else into the sink.

Keith frowns as Lance walks back over, leaving the dirty dishes where they are. "Aren't you gonna wash those?" he asks, gesturing toward the sink.

"It's cool, it's cool," Lance says nonchalantly, slapping Keith on the back. Keith pins Lance with his flattest stare. "No one's here anyways, I'll just wash them tomorrow."

Keith isn't sure he would trust his dishes in the common kitchen, even with all but a handful of students left in the dorm including themselves. But these aren't his dishes—they're Lance's—and so he lets it drop.

"Anyways, you should probably head back to your room now," Lance says, giving Keith a gentle nudge to get up from the chair.

"Oh…" Keith bites back a frown and forces himself to start moving. "Right."

As he stands, Keith does his best to ignore the disappointment seeping in through the cracks in his blanket. He had kind of been hoping, well, y'know, that Lance would want to hang out a bit longer or something. But maybe he misunderstood. Maybe Lance isn't staying back because of Keith after all. Or maybe he just feels obligated to take care of his sick classmate. As little as twelve hours ago, Keith would have dismissed this possibility as laughable, but now … Well, Lance does seem to have a strong sense of obligation when it comes to helping out people who aren't feeling well, if his story about his siblings is any indication. And it's kind of sweet—really, it is.

Just … Keith had sort of been hoping … y'know. That maybe—

Keith pushes that thought away before it can complete itself in his mind. Instead, he wraps his comforter more tightly around his shoulders.

Lance picks up Keith's pillow from the chair and starts down the hall. It's totally petty, but Keith can't help but feel glad that Lance is at least going to walk back with him to his room. Keith falls into step beside him, wishing that each second could last an hour, instead of flying by as quickly as they currently are.

"So…" Lance says, breaking the silence and taking Keith a bit off guard. "I heard you're not going home over break?"

Keith shrugs, readjusting his grip on his blanket as he does. "Nah."

From the corner of his eye, Keith catches a frown twist at Lance's mouth. "That's kind of a bummer," Lance says. "That you can't visit with your family, I mean."

Yeah, a real bummer. Keith's first reaction is to snort, though he manages to reign the reflex in. Instead, he forces another shrug. He struggles to think of something appropriate to say, but everything sounds too cynical in his head, so he just keeps his mouth shut.

Lance's frown deepens, and silence returns. Keith suddenly wonders if he fucked up. As far from bummed as he is about staying at the dorms over break, maybe it would have been worth a bland lie. At least then he could have talked with Lance a little longer rather than scaring him off with this awkward silence. This is just great—he could kick himself.

Keith is still stewing as they reach the door to his and Hunk's room. He opens his mouth, ready to thank Lance—not to stall—of course not—even if he wants to—oh god, who is he kidding, he just wants to keep Lance here as long as humanly possible—what is wrong with him—

But Lance beats him to the chase, quickly shoving Keith's pillow back into his arms. "You take this and wait here," Lance says with a surprising amount of determination. "I'll be right back."

And then he's off, striding down the hall and disappearing around the corner. Keith stares after him in confusion, still too taken off guard to completely understand what's going on.

He looks down at his pillow, then glances around the empty hallway. Lance had said to wait here, but did he actually mean to stay here waiting in the hallway?

Hell no, Keith thinks to himself. He shakes his head in irritation, reaching down to pull his keys out of his pocket. Even if he did mean it that way, there is no way that Keith is going to stand around waiting in the middle of an empty hallway. Definitely not for Lance McClain. Grumbling to himself, Keith shoves the key into his lock and heads inside to take another dose of the cold medicine.

…

Lance stalks down the hallway, his entire face furrowed into a stern frown. He would be crossing his arms right now if they weren't otherwise occupied by his laptop, blanket, and pillow.

Because seriously? What. The. Hell. What the hell?

Keith is actually planning to just sit alone in his dorm all break long, as if that is a perfectly normal thing. As if he isn't sick.

Lance can already tell how well that would have gone over—that is, not well at all. As smart as the guy is—because, though Lance hates to admit it, the truth is that Keith runs circles around him in their Physics class—apparently Keith is utterly hopeless. What would he have done for food over break? Even with a dose of Dayquil in him, Keith still barely looks able to walk between his dorm room and the kitchen. And with the Union being closed, he would have had to trek three blocks just to get to CVS in order to grab some cold medicine. Three blocks in the cold, rainy, blustery autumn weather. While he's sick.

The thought is so ludicrous that Lance huffs a bitter, incredulous laugh.

And then, as if that's not enough, there was that silence when Lance had asked about Keith's family…. It leaves an uneasy feeling roiling in Lance's gut.

So, that settles it. There is no way in hell that Lance is going to let Keith spend his Thanksgiving break all alone. Which is totally, one hundred percent because Lance is such a good person and not at all because of his own selfish reasons.

Besides, Lance tells himself. He can still go home on Thursday for Thanksgiving dinner if he wants. And then he can come back the next day to make sure that Keith doesn't do anything more to kill himself via illness for the remainder of break. That's reasonable, isn't it? Something any friend would do, right? For another friend? Right?

His frown has worked itself into an outright scowl by the time Lance reaches Keith's door.

He tries the handle and is a little surprised to find it unlocked. Even with his overflowing arms, Lance is able to open the handle with an awkward twist of his wrist. He uses his hip to push it the rest of the way open, then kicks it closed with his foot.

Keith looks up from his spot on his bed, still wrapped snugly in his blanket, and Lance struggles to push away the thrill that runs clear through his middle. Why does Keith look so ridiculously cute like this, with his cheeks slightly pink from the fever and his face half-buried in his comforter? It makes it stupid-difficult for Lance to concentrate.

But then Keith gives Lance a good once over, and suddenly Lance is nervous. Now that he thinks about it, he never actually, y'know, asked if Keith wanted him to stay over break. Maybe he'll think that Lance is being weird? Or maybe he just likes being all alone? Or maybe, worst of all, he just doesn't want to spend time with Lance.

But, well, on the other hand… Lance has the feeling that Keith is the type of person who wouldn't speak up and just ask someone to stay with him, even if he wanted them to. No, he would definitely be the type to suffer in silence—y'know, exactly like he tried to do this very morning when he was sick. And Lance will be damned if he lets that happen.

Because they're friends, of course.

So, ignoring Keith's surprised look, Lance strides over to Keith's bed and, with a jerk of his head, demands, "Scoot over."

Keith doesn't make room, and instead only watches Lance with a growing look of shock. Which is unfortunate, because Lance is already halfway through the motion of sitting on Keith's bed. Or what little space of Keith's bed that he can fit his ass onto while the big lump just sits there.

"Uh."

The slight fever flush is now creeping from Keith's face and down onto neck, which should, in theory, be a big enough hint for Lance to pick up on. Should, but Lance simply nudges Keith's shoulder with his own and says, "C'mon, move over."

Keith coughs, still not moving even as Lance leans against him with even more pressure. "Are you… Are you wearing PJs?"

"Uh, yeah?" Lance replies, attempting to wiggle into a slightly more comfortable position. He spares a quick glance down to his loose PJ shorts and old swim team T-shirt and shrugs. "We're the only two people on this goddamn floor—practically the entire dorm—and I wanna do something, but you're sick, so it's gonna have to be a night in."

Keith splutters—like, actually fucking splutters, what the hell?—as his face deepens another shade. "And you're intending to just sleep here?" Keith manages to ask. "In my bed?"

Oh. Oh shit. He hadn't—

"What?" Lance practically squawks, his own cheeks suddenly feeling hot. Bad. This is Bad. This is so so sososo Bad. Lance struggles to quickly reign it in. He takes a deep breath, then knocks Keith's shoulder with his own and laughs. "Oh c'mon, don't be such a big baby. I'm gonna sleep in Hunk's bed, duh."

Somehow, miraculously, the words come out sounding light-hearted and airy—like a joke. Somehow. Because internally, Lance is pretty fucking close to keeling over. Oh lord—he hadn't even thought about—he hadn't considered—he didn't mean to imply that they should sleep together.

He tries to take a few more inconspicuous, deep breaths. There is no way he is going to let his heart rip itself right out of his fucking chest. Don't make it weird—don't make it weird! Not that, y'know, it would necessarily be weird. He definitely wouldn't be opposed to sleeping with Keith. But—! Because, like, it was fine, right? It would be no big deal, right? He had passed out in Hunk's bed enough times—but if Keith—if he didn't—if he wasn't okay with that—then of course Lance wouldn't try to force him—!

Oh Jesus fucking Christ, he needs help bad.

Trying to force his thoughts away from anything that might spark instantaneous combustion, Lance busies himself with setting up his laptop. He doesn't ignore Keith as he pushes the power button, per se. He just, y'know, conveniently shifts to focusing his attention to detangling the ball that his power cord has somehow worked itself into. And tries not to pay any mind to the very calm, not awkward silence that fills the room. Key word: tries.

Dammit, seriously? Not even two minutes in and he's already fucked up.

Lance nearly heaves a relieved sigh as he finally loosens the last knot. He plugs one end into the computer, then leans over Keith toward the wall, where he can see the plastic edge of an outlet. It's a slightly further reach than he originally assumed, and Lance is forced to use one hand to steady himself as he plugs the other end of the cord into the wall.

He's just about to push himself up when it occurs to him how ridiculously stiff Keith has gone. He can tell, because he's leaning over Keith's legs. On Keith's bed. And—

"OOOOO-KAY!" Lance announces loudly, quickly sitting back up so he's not practically plastered over Keith's lap. Holy fucking lord, how did he not notice that until just now? What is wrong with him!? "Let's get started!" His laugh is totally not forced.

Keith doesn't reply, but his shoulders do seem to relax somewhat, which Lance takes as a good sign. He wiggles down so that he can lie back onto his pillow, shifting his comforter as he tries to get comfortable with the small amount of space Keith has left him on the single.

After readjusting his laptop so the screen is angled properly, Lance looks over, only to realize that Keith is still sitting upright. He's watching Lance with his brows furrowed in a rather confused look, and Lance's stomach sinks. He tries to push away any of his uncertainty, however, and pats Keith's pillow beside his head. "C'mon, just lie down, would you?" he asks with a small chuckle.

For a terrifying moment, Keith simply continues to stare at Lance, seeming utterly dumbfounded. Oh god, he isn't going to, is he? This the part where he kicks me out and never talks to me again, isn't it?

"I'm sick," Keith says.

Lance snorts. "No shit, Sherlock. I did bring you Dayquil earlier, y'know."

"No, I mean…" Keith's frown grows, and he grumbles, "Aren't you worried you'll get sick too?"

That is… surprisingly considerate, seeing as this is Keith. And also fucking adorable. Which is a terrible combination that seems hell bent on giving Lance a heart attack.

But it is also totally fucking ridiculous—so much so that Lance can't help but roll his eyes. "Dude, I've taken care of kids who were way worse and way more contagious. My immune system is, like, on steroids or something." Then, grinning and giving Keith's pillow another pat, he adds, "Now seriously, lie down, I want to get started."

Keith huffs grumpily—not adorable, Lance tells himself, so not adorable—and looks away. Lance is just about to open his mouth and argue the point further when Keith finally shifts, unwinding the comforter from his shoulders and wriggling down to lie next to Lance. Lance almost feels bad for forcing Keith. Almost. But on the other hand, Keith has a stubborn, not-quite-pouting frown on his face the entire time, and Lance kind of maybe—okay, scratch that, totally—has the urge to flick Keith in the head for being so difficult, sick or no. But on the other hand, holy fucking shit. He is lying next to Keith. In Keith's bed. In Keith's room. All alone. In a nearly empty dorm.

If Lance somehow manages to survive this night, it will be a fucking miracle.

Thankfully, his computer has now fully booted up. Lance pulls up Lifetime and clicks on the video.

Keith snorts. "Project Runway? Seriously?"

Lance shoots a flat look at Keith. "Uh, yeah? Tim Gunn is amazing. Besides, because of classes I haven't caught any of this season's episodes yet."

"Dude, that's—"

Lance silences Keith by blindly reaching a finger in the general direction of his mouth. "Shh, shh! It's starting!"

Keith sighs, but surprisingly doesn't argue further. Lance takes that as a victory. He settles further down under his blanket and intently watches as this season's contestants are introduced. It's always the most difficult part of each new season—Lance tries so hard to ingrain everyone's names and faces into his head, but it usually takes him until sometime in the second or third episode to finally get them all down.

"Ugh," Keith says, rolling his eyes at one of the guys on screen. "Man bun."

Lance can't help the flat stare he gives Keith in return. "Dude. Dude. You have a fucking mullet."

"There's nothing wrong with my hair," Keith snaps back. Nonetheless, Lance doesn't miss the way Keith runs a self-conscious hand through his bangs. Goddamn, why does his hair look so ridiculously silky? Fucking mullets should not be fucking attractive. This man is ruining him.

Five minutes in, as the contestants are running around and ruthlessly trashing the room for outfit materials, Keith groans. "Seriously, Lance. What next? Please don't tell me you avidly follow Toddlers and Tiaras or something."

Lance scoffs. "Excuse me? I do have standards, y'know. I have two little sisters—there's no way in hell I'd support a show that's so degrading to little girls."

"Oh."

Lance waits a moment to see if Keith has anything further to add, but his response seems to have taken Keith off guard. Really? Toddlers and Tiaras? Can't Keith give him a little credit?

Lance feels the bed dip as Keith shifts slightly. "Seriously, though," Keith mumbles finally. "I don't understand why you even like this show. You're probably one of the least fashionable people I've ever met."

Lance gasps loudly, clutching a hand to his chest. "Ouch, man. We can't all have some natural, innate sense of fashion like you."

Keith freezes, and a beat of silence echoes through the room. Oh god, did he really just—? Keith slowly looks over at Lance with the wickedest grin Lance has ever seen, and Lance knows he's screwed. Yes, apparently. Yes he did.

"So, you think I have good fashion sense?" Keith asks. The bastard looks far too smug.

But the thing is: uh, hell yes? Somehow, no matter what he wears, Keith always manages to look fucking amazing. Like any second he's expecting to be grabbed off the street and whisked away to a photoshoot. It's more than a little infuriating, especially because most days Lance is just happy if the color of his shirt doesn't clash with his pants. He has a tendency to just throw on the first thing he finds that looks comfortable enough.

Feeling a very unwelcome blush work its way onto his cheeks, Lance rolls his eyes and quips, "It doesn't take an idiot to see that you put way too much effort into your clothes everyday."

Keith chuckles, still sounding far too satisfied with himself. Biting down a grin, Lance bumps his shoulder, then turns back to the screen.

After a while, Lance feels the telltale shifting of the mattress yet again. "Do you want some popcorn or something?" Keith asks, sounding a touch awkward. "I think Hunk picked up a box last time he was at the store."

"Dude, yes." Lance shoves the computer off of his legs and onto Keith's lap. "Here, you hold this. Where's it at?"

Keith grimaces as he struggles not to drop the computer. "It should be right next to the microwave."

"Oh, found it!" Lance grabs a package out from the box, silently thanking Hunk for his beautiful foresight and promising to replace his stash. Probably. If he remembers to.

He throws the bag into Hunk's small microwave and then walks back over to glance at the screen. One of the contestants is helping calm down a few of the others, doling out positive feedback and support.

"He's being surprisingly helpful," Keith says, frowning at the screen. "I thought this was a competition."

"It is," Lance says with a shrug. "But you can't make enemies of the people there—nobody likes a dick." Lance watches as the guy reassures one of the girls about her choice in material. "I really like this guy—already a fav. What's his name, Alex?"

"Uh, I think so?" Keith replies.

"Oh, oh! And here comes Tim with his first critique!"

Keith laughs, giving Lance a side eye. "You are way to into this."

"It's good," Lance argues. He hears the popcorn start to pop behind him. "Just watch. Tim is amazing."

He gestures to the screen, where one of the contestants is getting feedback. Lance scoffs as the guy digs in his heels and completely rebukes all of Tim's advice. "Oh god, he's going to get fucking slayed. Not taking Tim's advice? I'm calling it right now: he's going to be first out."

As Keith rolls his eyes, the microwave beeps. "Yeah, sure, just go grab the popcorn."

"Shh, shh, in a minute," Lance says, waving Keith off. "I want to see the rest of these critiques."

The show cuts to commercial break, and Keith groans. "There, see? It's a break. Just go get the popcorn."

"What?" Lance whines, watching a commercial for the new Corolla. "But this is Lifetime—there are barely any commercials. I'm gonna miss something."

"Well then I guess you'd better be quick," Keith quips back. "Seriously, it's all of five steps away. Just grab the fucking bag."

"Fine, fine," Lance wails. He pushes himself dramatically away from the bed, hand thrown carelessly over his brow. "I will make this sacrifice… for the popcorn…"

"I swear to god, I will throw your pillow—"

Lance yelps and hurries to the microwave. "No, no, no need! I got it! Jeez…"

He grabs the steaming bag carefully by one of the corners and hurries back over to the bed. "Now budge over, I need to see the rest of the critiques."

Lance opens up the bag and grabs a handful, wincing as the too-hot bag brushes against his knuckles. Then he holds the bag out to Keith and takes the computer back from Keith's lap, situating it back on his own.

"That is a lot of yellow," Keith says, giving the girl on the screen a skeptical look.

"No kidding," Lance replies. He munches on his handful of popcorn. "And Tim's right—she's barely got anything done."

"She seems kinda…" Keith trails off, apparently searching for the best word to describe the eclectic girl on screen. "... something."

Lance laughs. "Yeah. She's pretty carefree, considering how behind she is. I dunno, I think we've got another bust here."

Keith hands the bag of popcorn back to him, and Lance takes another handful.

"Wow, wait," Keith says. Lance glances over to see Keith frowning yet again. "Alex is just dropping everything he's doing and giving this guy a pep talk?"

"I guess so…" Lance replies. Alex is now listening to the other's guy's doubts and assuring him to just be himself. "Jeez, man. How is this guy so sweet? I think I'm in love."

Keith chuckles, grabbing the popcorn back. "Really? I didn't take you for a piercings type of guy."

"Are you kidding me?" Lance asks, gesturing to the cutie on the screen. "I think they can be pretty freaking hot. Or just outright beautiful. Look at that gorgeous septum ring Dexter has."

Keith hums thoughtfully. After a moment, he says, "Y'know, I've always thought it'd be kind of cool to get a septum ring."

Lance chokes on the popcorn in his mouth. Which is actually really fucking painful. "Wait, wait…" he says, swallowing roughly to try to stop the watering in his eyes. "Really?"

Keith shrugs. "Yeah. Nothing big or anything. But some of the smaller ones look really nice."

Oh holy mother of fuck. Lance does not need this in his life right now. Thoughts of Keith with septum rings are flooding his mind completely unbidden, and it's enough to make Lance's head feel ready to explode. Because, fuck. Keith would probably look so good. He's got the right sort of style to pull off some of the more elegant rings.

"What?" Keith asks flatly.

Lance winces. "Nothing. You just surprised me, that's all." Don't think about it…. Don't. Lance makes face. "Like you said—I just never really took you as a piercings kind of guy."

They fall into silence again—not quite as awkward as earlier perhaps, but far more plagued with unwanted thoughts of Keith's ridiculously beautiful face. It's more and more easily broken, however, as the show goes on:

"What the heck," Lance groans. He slaps a hand over his eyes. "Erin, c'mon! She's totally not gonna make it, is she? She's barely gotten anything made still."

"I don't get it," Keith says. "There's just so many gumballs. Why?"

"That one." Lance points at the screen. "The paper lanterns—that is gorgeous."

Keith winces at a particularly mean comment. "Wow. Alex doesn't like that dress, huh?"

"Did you see how many feathers came off of the coat?" Lance asks, shaking his head. "How is she not sneezing?"

To Lance's immense relief, Keith seems to be getting more into it as the show goes on. When the contestants line up and get ready to leave for the runway, he even gasps. "Holy crap," Keith mutters. "I can't believe she got it ready in time."

Lance nods, glancing appreciatively at the absurdly yellow, but also shockingly awesome outfit that she's managed to create. "I'm so surprised. But it looks amazing."

They watch with bated breath as the models strut down the runway and the judges make their decisions. When six of the contestants are called forward, Keith frowns.

"Wait, are these the bottom outfits?" he asks, looking concerned. Lance doesn't blame him—Erin's awesome, yellow design has been called out, and it's far from the bottom of the list.

"No, they specifically critique the best and the worst of the bunch," Lance explains. "So everyone here is either really great or really not." He can't help a small ounce of smug pride to see that Ian—the guy who ignored Tim's advice—has been called. The guy totally had it coming.

Not surprisingly, the yellow outfit is a hit, and Ian's is a bomb. Lance watches with barely contained horror as Ian argues with the judges about why his dress is fine as it is.

"Dude!" He takes a kernel and chucks it at Ian's face on the screen. "Just shut up and listen to them!"

"Did you… just throw popcorn at him?" Keith asks.

"Yes," Lance replies. "Yes I did. He totally deserved it." He chucks another kernel at the guy for good measure.

"Uh, could you not?" Keith says, making a face as he picks up the discarded kernels. "You're gonna make a mess of my bed."

"Sure, sure," Lance says with a shrug. "Oh, look, they're doing the lantern one now."

Two of the judges rip the dress to shreds with their critiques, and Lance gasps. "What the hell, Nina! Are you blind?" A piece of popcorn hits her shoulder before the shot changes.

Keith groans. "Lance, popcorn."

They finish the episode, and Lance is silently thrilled to see Keith so excited with Erin's win. "That's pretty incredible," Keith admits. "I totally didn't think she could pull it off, and instead she won the whole thing."

"Right?" Lance asks. He pops a kernel into his mouth as Heidi announces that Ian lost this round. "Ha! I totally called it."

As the credits roll, Lance shoots Keith a sly side eye. "So…" he says slowly, popping a grin. "Wanna watch another one?"

Keith rolls his eyes and shrugs. "Sure, why not. But you've gotta make another bag of popcorn."

And somehow, they spend the rest of the evening just like that: eating popcorn, bumping knees, and binging Project Runway. Somewhere in the middle of the second episode, Keith gives up his crusade to stop Lance from chucking popcorn—which is a totally smart decision, since it's a hopeless cause. Keith starts commenting more and more on the outfits, and surprisingly—or, Lance supposes, not so surprisingly—has some really great insight into the designs and styles of each of the designers. By the third episode, Keith is actually invested in the contestants, and starts arguing with the judges when they choose an emoji-style dress as one of their favorites. Lance loses track of how many bags of popcorn they go through.

The fourth episode is a swimsuit challenge, which Lance is one hundred percent enjoying. There's nothing quite like watching a group of gorgeous models strut around in swimwear. The choice for winner comes down to the wire, with a close battle between cutie-pie Alex's design and a strong contender from another designer.

"Rik's definitely going to win this one," Keith says firmly.

Lance scoffs. "Excuse me? Excuse me? Have we been watching the same show? Alex's will win."

Keith rolls his eyes. "I mean, Alex has a great design. But it's not as sexy and bold as Rik's."

"But Alex's design is closely based on Heidi's dossier and looks fucking fabulous," Lance argues. "He's a shoo in."

"Yeah, and his cover up is just a frilly dress," Keith points out, so calmly that it makes Lance want to tear his hair out. "Rik's pants design is really clever, and—"

He's cut off abruptly as Lance throws a kernel at his face.

"Dude, what the fuck!?" Keith yelps, wiping his cheek where the popcorn landed.

"Alex is gonna win," Lance says simply, tsking with his tongue. "Duh."

"Don't throw fucking popcorn at me," Keith replies. "How many times do I have to tell you, you're making a mess of my—"

This time, Lance throws three kernels in Keith's face. Keith sputters angrily, shooting Lance a death glare—which surprisingly leaves Lance's blood beginning to simmer in an entirely different way. Then, with a growl, Keith swipes a hand over the popcorn-strewn bedspread and flings a handful of kernels at Lance's face.

"Oooooh," Lance crows. "It. Is. On."

He quickly grabs the bag and shoves his hand in, then pelts the entire handful at Keith.

"Alex!" he shouts insistently.

"I'm telling you—Rik!" Keith yells back, whipping more gathered kernels across the bed.

"Alex!" Lance insists. He chucks a handful, then gasps as Keith attempts to grab the bag from his grip. "No you don't!"

Keith gives the bag an insistent tug and somehow manages to pry it away from Lance. "Ha!" he says triumphantly. To celebrate, Keith shoves his hand in and bombards Lance with not one, not two, but three handfuls of the stuff as he grits out, "It'll. Be. Rik."

Suddenly, on the screen, they hear Heidi proclaim, "Whoever wins this round will be granted immunity in the next challenge."

Keith and Lance both stop short, suddenly whipping their attention back to the laptop, lying abandoned on the covers.

There's a long, unnecessarily dramatic pause, and then…

"Rik… you are the winner."

"No!" Lance howls, burying his face in his hands. "What the hell!? Don't they have eyes!?"

"Yes!" Keith hisses, making a triumphant fist. "Rik's is the best."

"Ugh, whatever," Lance groans grumpily. He drags the computer back onto his lap and lies back down, refusing to look at Keith, who is still grinning smugly. "Let's just see who's cut." When Keith chuckles with far too much self-satisfaction, Lance gives him an elbow to the side.

"Ow," Keith gripes, rubbing his side. "You know, you're a really sore loser."

"Yeah, yeah, so Hunk always tells me." Lance rolls his eyes. "What do you say, one more episode?"

"Sure."

Keith snuggles down under his comforter, his hair tickling Lance's cheek as he does. And for a moment, Lance can't help but marvel at the current situation. He's pressed from shoulder to hip to knee against Keith, arguing about and enjoying one of his favorite shows and eating sickening amounts of popcorn. He feels a bit warm and fuzzy inside, which he tries—and utterly fails—to convince himself is solely due to his comfy blanket. Lance chances a glance at Keith to find the other boy smiling faintly as the next episode starts, watching with keen interest to find out what the new challenge will be.

It's funny, and Lance knows that he probably should feel ashamed for thinking so. But he's actually almost glad that Keith woke up sick this morning. Not because the guy felt so awful, obviously, but because Lance is getting to learn so much more about him in one day than he has in the ten weeks he's spent with Keith in class. For as much as they tend to argue in class, Lance is surprised to find that Keith is actually rather, well, easy to get along with now that he's not struggling to complete classwork with the guy. Which isn't helping this whole crush thing in any capacity.

"Oh damn," Keith says, yanking Lance's attention back to the screen. "Team projects? That sounds like… hell."

Lance chuckles. "Yeah, this'll probably be a good one." Grinning, Lance fixes his blanket and settles back, using the movement to inch imperceptibly closer to Keith.

Maybe, just maybe, missing Thanksgiving would be worth it for this.

A/N: This all started more than a month ago when I randomly thought to myself, "Lance, for all his complaining, is probably a good older brother who knows all sorts of things about taking care of sick younger siblings. Wouldn't it be cute if he took care of Keith?" And it was basically all downhill from there.

Once I had the idea for this story, it quickly took over my life and basically all other projects I was working on screeched to a standstill while I vomited the plot summary for this into a word document. I didn't know where I wanted to go with it, so I just kept writing until I ran out of ideas… only to realize that I had so many ideas that there was no end in sight xD

For anyone wondering, there WILL be more. I'm not 100% sure how many chapters there will be, but I'll for sure being doing a chapter each for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, as well as at least one chapter to cover Saturday and Sunday—although it's possible they might get their own chapters as well depending on how this goes. As for when I'll be able to update… as soon as I can, but Chapter 2 will likely be even longer than the first, so it will take a while to write.

As if a massive fic weren't enough, I wound up making a MASSIVE playlist for this story. I wanted songs that match how I usually feel when I'm sick: slower, mellow, slightly hazy songs, some of which are a bit somber, and some that are happier or upbeat. Somehow it became a 136 song beast? The Goo Goo Dolls, Twenty One Pilots, Dave Matthews, Regina Spektor, The Killers, George Ezra, Silversun Pickups, Coldplay, and Death Cab for Cutie all have a number of songs on it, along with a shit ton of other artists. Anyways, you can check it out over on YouTube if you'd like (/watch?v=WFDGg6q_4g8&list=PL5ar6h1LS4nCrYUwOT5sJgyqUr1ggVown)

Originally I was going to have Hunk and Lance be roommates, but then I considered Pidge and Lance rooming and just YES!? Hunk and Lance's friendship is one of my favorite aspects of the show, but ughghghgh, Pidge and Lance sassing at each other just gives me so much life. Buuuut, I couldn't see Pidge and Lance choosing to room together sophomore year (which was the year I wanted to set this fic, originally), so I decided to make this freshman year instead with random roommate assignments.

I hadn't actually had Dayquil before writing this story. But I wanted to describe it, and my dad happened to pick some up for my sister, who had a cold, so I totally filched a tiny bit to try. All the other remedies and habits, however, come from my mother. I've found that I use them on friends without a second thought, even though some of them tend to be rather intimate (like brushing away someone's bangs).

I've never actively watched Project Runway before this. But I decided that Lance should be a total junky for a reality TV show, and this was the one I settled on (mainly because for some reason I could see Lance completely idolizing Tim Gunn? Hahaha, it just seemed to fit). And, in the process of plotting and then writing this fic, enough episodes from this season accumulated for me to write about in the first chapter. So I binged this season's episodes this week so I could incorporate them x)

Oh, and I looked it up. The shrimp in Maruchan's cup ramen is freeze-dried. Go figure. (Shrimp flavor is the best flavor, fight me.)

Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you're enjoying it so far ^^ And again, happy belated birthday, Liv! Thanks for being so patient with me ;~; And also for putting up with all my rambling!

If you wanna come scream with me about this lovely space crew (or any multitude of other fandoms), feel free to join me on Tumblr (Konekat)!