It goes like this: Lance is a bit of a sore loser.

Okay, that's an understatement. He's an incredibly sore loser, if only because competition runs in his veins and the mere thought of losing to anyone in anything reminds him vividly of the run-down apartment he shares with his mother in the middle of Brooklyn's projects as she works herself to the bone to support them both. Failure means letting her down, and letting himself down, and it's unacceptable when scholarships are so goddamn competitive and the system is so fucked up that he'll never excel in society without the assistance.

It would be a lie to say that it isn't satisfying to hear his peers commenting on his prowess, too. There's something to be said about the fact that he studies hard to excel in classes, and soaking up the attention from people who misjudge him as an airheaded idiot may contribute to his constant cockiness. (They're a fickle crowd, though, and for this reason Lance strives to never lose their recognition.)

Regardless of its origins, though, Lance's inability to recover gracefully from loss is notorious among his closest friends.

It's also why the very existence of Keith Kogane irks him so much: the teenager thinks he's perfect with his stupid haircut and stupid fingerless gloves, and he always manages to score on-par (or higher) with Lance in their classes as well as on the lacrosse field, and it always looks so goddamn effortless on Keith's part that Lance can't help but despise him.

The teen is also stupidly attractive, which is frustrating solely in that he seems to effortlessly command the attention of girls that should be looking at how charming Lance is, not how standoffish Keith is. (And it's certainly not something Lance would ever pursue, anyway. You're supposed to beat rivals, not fuck them.)

Keith is a constant thorn in his side, an unyielding threat to the world Lance has fought so hard to cultivate, and it makes his blood boil.

Which brings Lance to now: staring at the red 95 scrawled across the top of his pre-calc exam as the teacher explains that the highest score to set the curve was a 96 out of 100.

A 96.

And a 96 is definitely not written on his test, which means that someone else in his class has scored higher than him. Lance looks around, a quick, narrow-eyed perusal at the classroom's occupants to determine exactly who has usurped his first place position, and his gaze falls on none other than Keith fucking Kogane.

He really should have known.

Keith is the bane of his existence, and the worst part about it is how he manages to wordlessly flaunt his seemingly endless talents over Lance's head.

There's only one thing to do, then, and Lance grabs his exam before scowling and moving over to where Keith is seated.

"You!" Lance says, a bit too loudly, as he points an accusing finger at Keith.

"Me," Keith echos, looking up from the test resting on his desk. From this angle, Lance can see the score written across it, and he feels a pang of annoyance at confirming Keith's higher grade.

"You're going to turn yourself in for cheating, right?"

"I didn't cheat," he says, sounding more surprised than angry at the accusation. It's far too mild of a response for Lance's tastes, and he slams his own test on top of Keith's with a huff.

"That's impossible! There's no way you could've gotten a higher score than me without resorting to unfair tactics," Lance argues. And his accusation has to ring true – he'd studied his ass off for this exam, and he should've been the one to set the curve.

"Look, Louis – "

"Lance – "

"Lance – whatever – I don't cheat. Maybe you should study harder next time if you want to score higher than me."

This isn't the first time they've butted heads about grades, and it certainly won't be the last. It's infuriating that Keith apparently doesn't even remember his name, because he's definitely Lance's arch nemesis, and his jaw aches with how hard his teeth are clenched at the words.

The bell rings before Lance can yell indignantly about the insult to his intelligence, though, and Keith shoves his desk away from him (and into Lance's stomach, motherfucker) before grabbing his things and leaving the classroom.

Lance takes a moment to recover from Keith's attempt to impale him via school desk, and winces as the cute blonde girl that sits in front of him giggles a touch too condescendingly at him as he clutches at his aching stomach. Fucking Keith, ruining even his attempts at flirting with attractive classmates. Will nothing stop him?

Keith's score on the pre-calc test and subsequent nonchalance about besting him again put Lance in a foul mood, and not even Hunk's self-deprecating humor during lunch can rouse him out of it.

Classes after lunch pass by quickly, and when the final bell rings, Lance grabs his skateboard from its position in the back of the classroom and makes his way through the bustling hallways.

His mom works a double shift at the diner on Wednesdays, and won't be home until after midnight, so once he makes it out of the school, Lance figures he'll grab a quick dinner out before heading home to study.

If his biggest character flaw is being a sore loser, then his biggest weakness is greasy cheeseburgers, but it's an imperfection he will willingly deal with when it grants such mouthwatering food. The meal he orders is unhealthy but delicious, and he relishes the taste. It's not exactly enough to make him forget about Keith and his stupid 96 percent, but Lance entertains himself by drawing a shoddy picture of the dark-haired teen in ketchup before promptly demolishing it with a handful of french fries.

He really isn't a 12-year-old, no matter what Pidge says.

It's getting dark by the time he leaves the fast food joint, and Lance knows he'd be chewed out by his mother if she knew. He's lived in the projects for his entire life, and certainly knows how to scrap in a fight, but adding to her infinite worries really isn't on his priority list if it's avoidable.

At least he doesn't run the risk of getting caught, which is the only reason he tucks his board under his arm and moves back toward the housing project that he calls home. He's not in a hurry, after all, and maybe he can walk off the sulk that comes with the reminder of the crumpled up math test shoved in his backpack.

There seems to be some sort of argument between four men on the other side of the street as Lance walks, and he tugs his collar up to his chin and averts his gaze, focusing on moving away from the altercation as inconspicuously as possible.

Getting involved is a decidedly bad idea, and Lance can hear Pidge's voice in his head as she scolds him for his infamous nosiness, but as he walks past the group, the curiosity killed the cat thing really does seem to hold a lot of water.

He's like a moth drawn to a flame, especially after one of the men yells loud enough for the word quintessence to echo out over the empty street, and Lance isn't a complete idiot, people don't throw words like that around without a reason.

The fight is drug-related, then, which isn't terribly surprising given their location. One of the men, tall and broad-shouldered with a wicked-looking scar cut across the bridge of his nose, has his hands splayed in a gesture of surrender. The other men surrounding him spare him no mercy, though, as one shoves at him harshly and the others fan out aggressively.

Lance pauses, eyeballing the men from a safe distance away, and can't help but consider the possibilities. Maybe the scarred dude failed to pay for his drugs and is now being threatened to cough up the money? Or possibly they're all dealers, and buff-guy-with-strange-hair is taking a bigger cut from the profits than he's supposed to.

"Shit," Lance mutters under his breath as he's drawn out of his imaginative thoughts by the escalating argument. Even from this far away he can tell that it's about to get physical, because the men are all posturing offensively and the tones of their voices are growing louder and angrier. The ones surrounding the scarred man reach into their coats, and instinctively Lance tenses.

Time seems to slow as he recognizes the weapons in their hands for what they are, and then two things happen simultaneously: he realizes that he's frozen in place just as one of the thugs turns and sweeps his gaze around the street – scoping for possible witnesses, he thinks as an arc of panic races down his spine – and spots him, and then there's a sharp barking order a split second before something whizzes past his head, too quick to see, and embeds itself into the wall behind him with a sharp crack!

Canarsie's not exactly the Upper East Side, but it's not usually a complete warzone, either. Lance has at least enough self-preservation to dart quickly for cover, but his heart's pounding a frantic tattoo against his ribcage as he realizes exactly how close that bullet had been to penetrating his skull instead of a brick wall.

When it comes down to a few inches between life and death, he knows he's in serious trouble.

"Shit," he says again, because these thugs have guns, and the adrenaline pumping through his body is shrieking at him to flee even as he considers the person who probably has several guns trained on him and is in clear need of assistance.

He's just a teenaged brat, though, and Lance can't help the flinch when another shot rings out, this one not aimed at him.

Abandoning the guy feels innately wrong, but Lance swallows down on the hesitation as a bullet shatters the glass of the bus stop advertisement he's hiding behind. Saving his own skin wins out over rescuing the poor bastard who obviously did something to warrant getting shot, and Lance doesn't even bother hiding the loud slap of his skateboard hitting the concrete as he steps onto it and kicks off the ground with as much force he can muster.

(Lance makes it home safely enough, all things considered, and all of the lights of their apartment are still off as he fumbles with trembling hands to unlock the door. He lies shock-still in bed when he finally hears his mother unlock the front door and quietly step inside, hoping she can't hear the ceaseless pounding of his heart through his closed bedroom door. Sleep is impossible to come by, and he can't close his eyes without envisioning the man hitting the pavement in a bloodied heap against the back of his eyelids.)