I hate everything about you.

Why do I love you?

You hate everything about me.

Why do you love me?

~Three Days Grace / I Hate Everything About You

ooo

Keith hated himself for liking Lance.

His limber build, the way he carried himself with shoulders raised and chin held high. His blue eyes, dark like the sea's deep, inky bottom. His tangled mess of dark brown hair that stood at odd angles, and never seemed to obey Lance's vigorous brushing. His smooth, light brown skin as he crinkled his nose, or batted the sand from his eyes on a particularly windy afternoon. Even his laugh, as loudly obnoxious as it was, Keith adored. And that was the worst part, because, unlike Keith, Lance hated him.

With every word he uttered, an argument seemed to arise. Lance constantly joked and poked fun at Keith, determined to one up him in every way imaginable. So, in all retrospect, Keith had every right to detest Lance in return. But that was the thing: he didn't. Even as Lance stood before him on the worst days - face scrunched and reddened, throat hoarse from the shouting - all Keith thought as he stood stone faced, eyes locked on Lance's chattering lips, was: wow, I really want to kiss this shit-head. And then he was both mad at himself and the world. Mad at himself for imagining Lance in ways he shouldn't, and mad at the world for allowing Lance to be in his life in the first place.

It was torture. As powerful as a lash to the chest, or a hammer to the kneecap. Especially now, as Keith stood above Lance's cold, unflinching corpse. The dead boy's bony hands crossed over his chest, shoulders squared atop the white, velvet cushion that rested inside the opened coffin. He wore the best suit and tie money could buy, and had his shaven scalp hidden by a head of hair that was similar, but could never match the boy's old image. The image before cancer. The image before hell. The image before Keith's every being crumbled to dust.

The funeral was soon. Keith knew he needed to get changed. But he couldn't. Though he knew it was Lance's last wish, he couldn't bare to go along with the charade. Three weeks before his death, Lance wrote a to-do list. More specifically, he wrote a funeral to-do list. One hundred and forty nine rules total, all typed and printed neatly onto a handout each guest revived along with their individual outfit requirements. But, when Keith read it for the first time after Lance's death expecting to weep, he was surprisingly greeted by a sense of confusion, then annoyance, than anger. Keith's costume requirement: dick costume. Damn Lance. Even in death, Lance still found a way of belittling him. Then he thought of Lance's malicious smirk, and was immediately hit with another wave of dread.

He could still remember the oh so dolorous trip to Party City merely a week ago. He stood in the back aisle, surrounded by a cluster of shopping customers - most of which kids - as he begged the store manager for them to somehow magically poof a dick costume into existence. "Please!" Keith pleaded, perhaps a bit too loudly. "You had them in October. I don't understand why you don't have them now."

"Like I said before sir," The manager sighed, middle-aged face slack and unshaven. "We don't offer the penis costume in December. We only have it for the Halloween holiday. If you want a Santa or reindeer suit however, we've got it covered."

"Can't you check the back or something? I really need this penis. Like, really do." Keith's face was tomato red with embarrassment. Words passed in aggravated bursts through his clenched teeth. Everyone was staring at him now, kids giggling to one another, and mothers attempting to cover their children's ears.

"I'm sorry, sir." The dude repeated for what felt like the millionth time. "But we can't-"

"My friend is fricking dead because of cancer, and wanted me to attend his funeral dressed as a giant dick. Can you not make an acceptation?"

The saggy faced manager opened his mouth and inhaled as though he was going to say something, then closed it into a thin line, bushy brows scrunched in contemplation. He looked both sympathetic, annoyed, and confused all at once. Finally, with one last exasperated sigh, he mumbled, "I'll check the other stores."

In short: Keith was forced to travel five uncomfortable hours on a train to get his dick costume, and five extremely uncomfortable hours back, unsuccessfully attempting to hide the Party City purchase in his lap.

In the present, Keith stepped from Lance's coffin, allowing the brown skinned boy to vanish from his line of sight. His insides crawled, and, if only for a second, Keith felt just as dead as Lance looked. He wasn't even supposed to be in here, but Keith needed a few seconds of real mourning before the chaotic circus known as Lance's funeral began. Because, though he was still mad at Lance for putting him through this whole ordeal, Keith wanted to see him. He wanted to reach out and touch Lance. To feel Lance's skin on his own as it was before, soft and warm. Not cold, as it felt currently.

Keith remembered observing Lance before he passed. He always payed extra attention to his long, bony fingers as they wrapped around the steering wheel of his old, crap BMW. The way they tapped against the leather, dancing along to a tune only audible inside Lance's mind. Then Keith's gaze would move up Lance's arm, and land on the curvature of his jaw. He had narrow features. Sharp and boyish. Keith especially liked the way his lips mouthed along to the unheard song in his head. In his dreams, Keith imagined those same lips pressed against his ear, whispering silent nothings while his long fingers tapped against Keith's shoulder, and slowly, gently, ran across Keith's bare skin.

Sometimes, if Keith looked long enough, he could catch the tune Lance was mouthing, and silently sing along. Other times, Lance caught him staring, and twisted his head with a frown. "What are you looking at?" He would ask.

"Your pores." Keith would respond dumbly.

"What? Are you jealous of my face? It's not my fault you don't moisturize."

Then the conversation would end with a single one-worded remark such as: "Whatever." followed by a head turn and eye roll. Keith would look out the window, face red, and ears burning. Pores? What the fuck was he thinking?

In the present-day, Keith turned on the balls of his feet, his hands shoved in his pockets, and shoulders slumped. He had the itch to grab his earbuds, but remembered he left them back at his house. Rule 3: No electronic distractions.

It had taken Keith's entire willpower to go without his music, and he almost defied the rule before Shiro cut in, reminding him of the very first, most crucial rule: All guests must follow ALL the rules! No exceptions!

But, of course Keith knew this. I mean, who in their right mind could forget the very next rule? Rule 2: Each guest must memorize, and know this list by heart before the funeral. Well enough to recite it in sleep.

Keith exited through the cluttered wing of the stage. Though he normally would have found it odd to have a funeral in a theatre, it wasn't nearly the weirdest thing Lance had wished for. Could be worse. At least a theatre had seats. Keith was honestly surprised he didn't chose a location such as the side of a mountain, or Chucky Cheese.

When Keith got through backstage to the hall that led to the main entrance, he saw Pidge. Her hair was a matted mess, and gray costume scruffy with the hot-glued feathers. She propped a plaster mask between her right arm and hip, and wore two three pointed shoes that defied all laws of physic. When her gaze met the sluggish Keith, she narrowed her eyes, and thinned her lips disapprovingly. "Keith!" She exclaimed, squinting her eyes even further, due to her lack of glasses. "Why aren't you dressed? The guests are already arriving!"

Keith averted his eyes, hand twitching uncertainly in his pocket without the cold surface of his phone to feel. God, was this how old people felt before handhelds? How did they even live? "Yeah, yeah. I'm going now." He rolled his eyes.

Pidge gave him one last look before shoving her pigeon mask over her head, and wobbling away. She nearly fell over due to both the atrocious shoes, and her sore lack of vision. At least my costume doesn't have a mask, Keith thought, then remembered that it wasn't a good thing. Pidge could hide her face. Keith couldn't.

Keith walked a few more steps, and finally stopped when he arrived at the door labeled only by a small image of some stick figure dude. Some days, Keith wished he could take the stick figure dude's place. He went into the bathroom, and opened the cabinet under the sink. He spotted the stashed, full body suit, crumbled and hidden from sight. With a sigh, he unfolded the material, and glared at the horrid, pink beast. The maker somehow thought it funny to add little, completely necessary details to it, such as veins. So, not only was Keith meant to wear a dick costume, but a giant, pink, throbbing one. Damn Lance. That shit head.

Looking to one end of the bathroom to the other, Keith made sure he was alone before hastily slipping the costume over his clothes. Immediately, he felt as though he wanted to die. Granted, he wanted to die about 99% of the time. To join Lance in the bottom most part of hell, where he could finally get his revenge by strangling that stupid, beautiful boy's neck. Keith didn't know if it was possible to kill someone in hell, but he was going to try anyways.

Keith looked in the mirror, and got a glimpse of his sunken expression. With his long, dark hair, under-eye baggage, and five o'clock shadow, he looked like the type of dude mothers warn their children about. But his costume told a different story. One of an escaped insane asylum patient. Either way, he was sure no logical thinking mortal was going to get anywhere close to him, let alone walk on the same side of the street as him. Once again: damn Lance, that shit head.

Keith, face almost as red as his costume, left the bathroom. As he did, he caught glimpse of Shiro maneuvering past. His two toned head of hair was covered in a chef hat, nearly as tall as Shiro himself. He was nearly naked beside the ruffly, pink apron draped across his muscular chest reading: cereal chef, and tight, tight, tight, underwear. Lance was extra specific about his costume, and Keith suddenly found himself thankful that at least he didn't have to walk around freezing his balls off. "Oh, Keith." Shiro turned, eyeing Keith's attire. He didn't laugh, which Keith appreciated. Besides, there wouldn't be a point in doing so since he looked just as ridiculous. "Almost everyone's here. We're only waiting for the cousins."

"Which cousins?"

"Uh... The Valdez, I believe."

"Never heard of them."

Shiro shrugged, and turned. "Lance has a big family." And with that, Shiro walked back down the hall to where the guests were gathered.

Keith was not looking forward to meeting Lance's family. Not only his parents, and his multiple siblings, but his seemingly endless amount of aunts, uncles, cousins, half cousins, and so on. Keith, who grew up basically by himself, could never imagine what Lance's life might have been like. A house full of constant activity and rowdy kids. It was great deviation from Keith's loner lifestyle.

When Keith turned the corner, he was immediately overwhelmed. People of a multitude of different ages, colors, and sizes stood shoulder to shoulder, all with outrageous costumes, and lips tugged down in a frown. It was like a really bad Halloween party, but with a bunch of depressed people, and with a sore lack of girls in tighter than life, bust and bottom revealing suits. Keith, even in his throbbing dick costume, fit right in.

He spotted his friends in the corner, checking and double checking their lists, along with about a hundred other people Keith didn't recognize. He only had the chance to behold Lance's mom in a photo once before, and had no recognition of her other than her face shape. Round and chubby like a beanbag. Keith wasn't even sure he wanted to meet her, as it would remind him of just how much Lance loved his mother. Before, when he was gushing over Mrs. McClain, Lance would grandstand, bragging endlessly of her hard work and caring.

"Attention, attention, all guests." A voice came over a loudspeaker, and Keith recognized it as Allura, one of Lance's old friends and crushes. "The theatre is ready. Please take your places for the show."

Show? Keith thought. That's a morbid way of defining whatever the hell this is.

The people immediately stopped their chatter, and turned toward the two double door entrance ways. They began packing into the doors, bumping and squishing up next to one another on the way. Keith waited until everyone else went in before going himself. Skin to skin with strangers wasn't the pleasantest of thoughts.

Keith sat down awkwardly in his suit. He took a seat in the back row, alone, in a dark corner where he could remain unseen. He remembered the eighth rule: all guests must get as close to the stage as possible, but he didn't care. This was all so stupid. He wanted to just leave, but remembered the seventh rule: no guests will leave while the funeral is taking place. The fifteen minute bathroom break will be in the middle, after the magic show. Why did Lance have to make the list so specific?

The theatre which he sat was a small one. It had one stage on the far wall thrusting out into the audience, with red, velvet chairs on either side. The kids sat in the front, their heads craned up as their parents watched in the seats just behind. On the stage rested a microphone, stool, drum set, amps, electric guitar, and a bass. The red curtain which covered the portion of the stage that held Lance's casket was drawn. That was probably for the best, Keith thought. It would be even harder getting through this thing whilst seeing Lance's cold, limp body. Still, just knowing it was there sent a shiver down Keith's spine.

Coran, Lance's favorite college professor, ran onto the stage. He went to the mic stand, and leaned in to speak. Out of everyone, Lance gave him the biggest role to perform. Though he didn't know Coran very well, reading his requirements, he couldn't help but sympathize. Especially with the song he had to sing to start the thing off.

Coran, dressed in a white priest uniform, with a large black cross on his hat, and robes draped to his feet, spoke. "Alright, alright, alright, alright." He began in his best impression of an announcer, orange mustache shifting with each airy syllable. "Who is ready?"

"We are!" Everyone but Keith screamed at the top of their lungs, going back to rule eleven: when asked a question, all guests must respond as loud, and enthusiastically as humanly possible. Doesn't matter what sort of question it is.

"I can't heeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrr yooooooooouuuuuuu." Coran sang, raising a hand to his ear.

"WE'RE READY!" They shouted louder than before, straining their vocal cords, and shaking the walls and roof that surrounded them. Keith cringed, sinking back into his costume.

"Then let's gooooo!" He called, grabbing the mic from it's stand.

Suddenly, and band of headband wearing men in leotards came running on stage. Some sported grease filled, slicked back hair, and others wore mullets (and not the ok kind, like Keith's). Each one got to their designated instruments, and waited for the signal. Coran, who was front and center, stripped off his priest robes and large hat, revealing the yellow tank top, blue jeans, and red, furry wristband just above his right wrist. Keith felt the idiocy suffocating him.

The drums cued in the bass, beginning the song. The guitar stepped in next, and they all played silently, waiting for the beat to pick up. A few seconds later, and Coran brought his mic close to his mouth and sung, "Steve walks warily down the street, with the brim pulled way down low. Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet, machine guns ready to go."

Unexpectedly, Coran was actually a good singer. A bit rusty, sure, but passable. Like, a good while ago he was in a band, but quit later on, and never really practiced since. Keith imagined Coran, rock band at his side, and terrible fashion with bright, clashing colors, rocking out with a giant, red poof he called a hairstyle. The image was quite scary actually.

"Are you ready? Are you ready for this? Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?"

"YES!" Everyone shrieked the answer. Apparently rule eleven applied to lyrics as well.

"Out of the doorway the bullets rip to the sound of the beat!" Coran continued, his shoulders rolling, and hips swaying as he paced up and down the stage. Kids were jumping from their seats, shimmying to the beat, and reaching out, attempting to touch the performer.

"Another one bites the dust. Another one bites the dust." Coran began the ironically cruel chorus, his arms creating circles as he moved, and music picking up to a upbeat rhythm. Keith was never going to hear this song the same way again, and he could wholeheartedly say that for the others in the theatre as well. Only the young children seemed to be enjoying the show, their brains not developed enough to compromise the situation. "And another one gone, and another one gone. Another one bites the dust!"

A smoke machine hidden in the left wing roared to life. It filled the stage with a blanket of white fog which seeped into the audience. A few kids screamed and laughed as they attempted to catch the visible gas in their hands. Lights of all different colors shot across the room, illuminating the performers and their instruments. Their already crazy attire was made more ridiculous with the extra layer of clashing colors.

Wow, this was stupid so stupid, Keith couldn't help but roll his eyes. Watching Coran dance around the stage like an orangutan, while a band of elderly, skittle colored fuckers played a song about biting the dust at a twenty one year old's funeral, was pretty dang overwhelming. Not to mention Keith's dick costume, which he was still embarrassed about.

Not even a minute later, the song stopped abruptly at the word, beat. The lights flicked off, and fog machine rumbled to a halt. Oh, yes, can't forget the very crucial eighteenth rule: every song must last only one minute and thirty seconds, no more, no less. That was going to drive Keith crazy later on, he just knew it.

Coran stopped his eccentric strut, and turned to the mic stand and stool. Sitting down, he brought the mic close to his bushy mustache, and spoke in a monotoned, British accent, "Before we continue with the show, there is a few things I would like to say."

Coran reached into his jean pockets, and pulled out a stack of assorted, white flash cards. On them, Keith saw scribbled sharpie written messily across the blue lined surface. There was no debate about it: that was defiantly Lance's outrageous, practically unreadable handwriting. Coran placed the mic in its stand. With a cough to clear his throat, Coran squinted, and focused on the colorful words. "Why does Waldo always wear stripes?" He asked, crossing his right leg over his left, and letting his eyes scan the audience. Keith slid down in his chair, hoping Coran wouldn't notice him. As the fourth rule clearly stated: when a fellow guest does not following suit with one or more of the rules, the others must point to them, and boo until they fix themselves. Keith already had enough people trying to fix him, he didn't need them to start booing because of it.

The guest's answers varied, but were all just as loud and obnoxiously upbeat as before. Once they settled, Coran continued. "Because he doesn't want to be spotted!"

Everyone turned to their right, and punched the person next to them violently on the arm. Rule 20: after each punchline, punch the person to your right. How hilarious. Keith wished he was seated beside Lance's caskets, so he would have an excuse to punch him. Maybe if he hit hard enough, Lance would be able to feel it from down under. If there even was a down under, that is.

"What do you call a bear with no teeth?" Coran asked, shuffling the last zinger to the bottom of his deck.

Another wave of in incomprehensible yelps.

"Gummy bear."

Once again, the extravagantly dressed people turned, and punched their shoulder partners with - in Keith's opinion - too much unnecessary force. Keith was thankful no one sat by him. He wasn't even sure he could land a good punch in his attire, which greatly restrained most arm and leg movement. Even his neck and head was affected. He could only face straight to see through the dick's head hole. If Keith attempted to turn to his right or left, he would only get lost in the costume.

A snort came from Keith's right, followed by a loud, obnoxious chain of laughter.

Keith gasped. His heart dropped to the floor, and throat went dry. Unable to turn properly, he had to shift his position in his chair to look in the direction of the voice. His limbs trembled, and mind spun violently. He could have sworn he heard Lance, but that couldn't be true... right? Maybe it was just one of Lance's many siblings that sounded like him? Keith didn't remember anyone sitting near him, but maybe some kid sneaked away from the crowd to join him without his knowing. Still... the laugh put an unsettling scare in Keith's stomach.

When Keith finally managed to turn, he was greeted by nothing. Absolutely nothing, but empty seats, and darkness. Must have been his imagination. Yes, that's what it was. Imagination, had to be.

Keith, his heart pounding hard against his chest, turned forward. Coran was still on stage going through each flash card, smacking the audience with zingers left and right that would make even the puniest of Dads cringe. But Keith couldn't seem to focus on anything else. His brain was racing, and body sweating, though he felt an odd chill in the air. It was as if... he was being watched.

"Why did the baker need to go to work everyday?" Coran's voice sounded hollow and distant. Like muffles passing through a thin wall, or a tv with its volume turned down low. "Because he kneaded the dough!"

This time, Keith heard a snort come from his left, and an even louder series of chuckles. A high pitched squeak following a deep inhale. Identical to Lance's laugh. It was uncanny.

Faster this time, Keith maneuvered his body around to his left. When his vision adjusted, he let out a pathetic squeal, his jaw nearly falling to the floor, and eyes bugging from his head. Thinking he wasn't seeing things right, Keith closed his eyes, and vigorously rubbed his hands over his eyelids. When he first opened them again, the image seemed to have vanished, but when he looked harder, he realized it was still there.

A semi transparent mass, which radiated a faint, white glow around a body of washed out colors. It took on the shape of a human; long and lanky, the outline of a sharp jaw, and bony fingers. His colors, which were hard to really decipher, seemed to shift with each passing second. At some points, Keith could see the figure's brown skin as clear as a human's, and other times, he seemed completely transparent. His hair was messy, with strands sticking out at weird angles. He wore a baggy, army green jacket, as well as blue jeans, and a gray shirt with blue sleeves. Lance's favorite outfit.

At first, Keith was thinking: this can't be Lance. That's impossible. But when he looked closer, there was no denying it. This floating, snorting, see-through figure was Lance. Loudly - perhaps a bit too loudly - Keith yelled, "WHAT THE FU-"

He paused. Everyone, including Coran, who looked up from his deck of cards, and the audience, who ceased their attention from the show, turned to him. They were silent for a brief second, unsure if Keith's sudden outburst was included on the list, or if he was simply just insane. Even the ghostly figure of Lance raised a brow. He distastefully scrunching his nose. Keith knew that expression all too well. With a click of his fading in and out tongue, Lance asked, "What's your problem? Breaking the rules, and blurting out for no apparent reason?"

Keith stared up at him in horror. Much like Lance, all his color was drained. "I - I uh..." He stuttered, not daring to break away from Lance's prying eyes.

After a second of confusion, Lance widened his eyes. His mouth made a circle shape, as he pointed to his own chest in disbelief. "What the fuck? Wait. You can see me?"

From the crowd down below, one of Lance's many family members was the first to speak. "Boooooo!" A young girl, who couldn't have be more than five or so, pointed her thumb down, and called out with disapproval.

Everyone else, a bit begrudgingly, joined in. The theatre filled with sounds of boos, but Keith was more focused on the floating thing, which took on the image of Lance, next to him, sporting the same, equally as baffled expression as himself.

"You can see me?" Lance repeated, shifting his body - if you could even call it that - closer to Keith. His legs dangled behind him, barely touching the seat below. Lance hovered his head over Keith's, so that the ladder had to crane his neck up slightly to look him in the eyes.

Keith drew back, his hands grasping the end of his chair's hand rests. In a whisper, he exclaimed, "Fuck this. I'm hallucinating."

Not bothering to give the statement an affirmative yes or no, Lance reached his hand out, and slid it through one of Keith's cheek to the other. The sensation was odd. Of course, why wouldn't it? Keith generally liked having other people inside of him, but this was taking it to a new extreme. It felt cold, and spine chilling. "Whoa!" Lance gleamed. "This is insane!"

Keith had to agree with that sentiment. This was defiantly insane. It was basically anything but normal, and Keith was kinda freaking out. No, scratch that, Keith was 100% freaked the fuck out.

Coran's voice cut through on the mic. "Come on, Keith. You have to move eventually. We have to get on with the show!"

"Uh, gah..." Keith stuttered, suddenly remembering the horde of booing family members and friends. "I need to go to the bathroom."

"But it's not break yet!"

"It's an emergency." Keith grumbled through clenched teeth.

Without waiting for a response, Keith stood from his seat, and paced hurriedly towards the exit. Lance followed, all the while staying silent.

ooo

Tell me all that you've thrown away

Find out games you don't wanna play

You are the only one that needs to know

I'll keep you my dirty little secret

Don't tell anyone, or you'll be just another regret

My dirty little secret

~All American Rejects / Dirty Little Secret

ooo

It was years ago when Keith first came out.

It had been terrifying to reveal his innermost held secret - as it always was for the majority of youths in the southernmost parts of Texas - but here's the thing: Keith hadn't anticipated on coming out in the first place. It was more of an... accident during a particularly heated discussion with the pre-cancer Lance. Now, if he thought back to it, Keith couldn't remember what the argument had been about, or how it had started. Something like this: Keith says something that Lance doesn't agree with, then Lance calls him out for it, and then they continued fighting until, a: someone cuts in, b: Keith lets Lance win, or c: they both get so upset, they don't talk with each other for another week or more.

But then they would come back. Why? Because that's what they always did. When a person has been friends with someone for as long as Keith and Lance, there's this sort of inseparable bond that always connects the pair, no matter the unfavorable circumstances. Because, beyond all rhyme or reason, that's what they were. Friends. One couldn't have Lance without Keith, or vice versa. Through thick and thin, ups and downs, ins and outs, the two managed to stay together, and that was a true miracle.

Keith remembered Lance saying something such as: "Oh yeah? If you're so great, then how come you never have a girlfriend?"

Keith didn't follow that up with a response.

"What? You, like, scared of naked women or something? Don't know how to process around them?"

A few more lines were thrown back and forth that Keith honestly couldn't remember. In short, the discussion got increasingly heated, and Keith, not thinking straight (literally and figuratively), was finally compelled to blurt out, "Lance, I don't even fucking like girls, ok. I like boys! I'm fucking gay, are you happy? I like dicks, you got a problem with that?"

No more than a millisecond after he said that, Keith felt his stomach contract uneasily. Never before had he said those lines, and never before did anyone know his secret. Keith wished he could die of embarrassment, dragging Lance down with him. He could almost hear the laughs and looks of the other kids once the word inevitably circulated. And, in a tiny school such as this, the task of gossip took no time at all.

When Keith did look up at Lance's expression, he was more than a little surprised. Instead of a maniacal grin, or outlandish laughter, Lance's face was slack, and eyes bugged. And was that... red running across his cheeks? Keith thought as though he was going insane. Why in the world would Lance be blushing? It went against all his presumed knowledge of the known universe.

"You... um... oh..." Lance stuttered, averting his eyes. All yelling seemed to have ceased.

"Look, Lance." Keith rubbed the back of his neck, his ears heated. "Just... Ignore that last part, ok. I know you're going to make fun of me, but please. I, well... haven't told anyone else, and stuff, so..."

Keith honestly wasn't sure what Lance's answer would be. Something unfavorable most likely, as all Lance's actions seemed to be. But what he said next killed Keith. Not because it was mean, or whatever, but because it was so... unLanceish. He said, "I won't tell. And I'm... glad you had enough courage to tell me, and crap."

Ok, first of all, Keith didn't actually own that courage Lance spoke of. Again, coming out was just a mistake. But, honestly, in the long run, Keith was glad he did.

When Keith and Lance were alone in the theatre's hall, Keith took Lance's wrist.

He dragged Lance all the way down the hall and into the bathroom. The entire time, Lance kept his legs up behind him, never once touching the ground. He was like a balloon. An odd shaped, really heavy balloon. Keith slammed the door behind him, locking it for extra measures. He took a deep breath, before turning, and saying, "Ok, what the fuck?"

"Yeah, exactly." Lance huffed. "You're breaking like, all the rules. Do you even care?"

"That's not the concern here!" Keith dragged his hands through his long, jet black hair. His mind was reeling. "W-when the hell did... this happen?"

"Uh, this?"

"This! The whole fucking... ghost thing! Like, what the hell is even - what is even - I'm kinda freaking out here, man!"

"Hey, I'm just as weirded out as you are. Imagine waking up, and finding out you are a ghost. It kinda screwed me up, but that's no excuse to disobey my rules. I was very clear on them."

"Again, not the concern! How long has - how long have you been like this?"

Lance paused, looked Keith up and down, then began to giggle. He quickly hid his mouth behind his fist, but Keith saw a few laughter tears form in concentrated drops below his eyes.

With a scowl, Keith asked, "What's so funny?"

Lance burst out into his annoyingly amazing cackle. Clutching his chest, his shoulders heaving up and down with each breath. "I'm sorry. It's just, I can't take you seriously in that outfit. Like, holy shit! This is too good."

Keith narrowed his eyes, looking down at his costume. Oh yeah, the whole 'best friend is a ghost' scare made him completely forget about the giant penis that he was currently sporting. Keith swiftly took off his costume, and tossed it aside. He was officially done with this entire charade.

"Hey! You're not allowed to change either! Did you even read the instructions?"

"When did this happen?" Keith repeated, ignoring Lance's bickering. "When did you become a... whatever you are."

"A ghost? I don't know. When did I die?"

"You don't know when you died?"

"Not exactly... I kinda just woke up one day, and I found myself in this... meat locker. But then I discovered I could phase through the walls, so that was cool. Plus flying. It was pretty sweet, until I found out the dead part. I tried like, haunting people and junk to get people's attention, but it didn't work... I'm still working out all my new ghost mechanics. Time works kinda differently now. I can't really explain it." Lance shrugged his semitransparent shoulders.

"This is insane."

"You're telling me."

"And I'm not going crazy?"

"Pshh, I don't know. Maybe."

"Then why am I the only one that can see you?" Keith asked, his brain a tornado of unanswerable questions. "And how come I haven't seen you before?"

"I don't know, dude. I'm freaking dead, why are you asking me?"

"Please tell me I'm not going crazy." Keith mumbled, leaning his palms on the sink's counter, and looking at his paled face in the mirror. Lance was barely visible in the reflection behind him.

"Again, I don't know if you are or not, but sure. You're not going crazy, Keith. Beside the fact that you're the only one who can see me, and was earlier wearing a giant dick."

"You made me wear that thing!"

Lance let out another snort. "Yeah, that was pretty good."

Keith turned around, his face full of tears, and cheeks sunken. Surprising both himself and Lance, Keith leaped forward, and pulled Lance in for a hug. His arms wrapped around the ghost's back tightly, hands gripping the material of his favorite army jacket. Digging his head in the crook of Lance's neck, Keith thought about just how weird he felt. Like a mass that wasn't particularly solid, though he didn't slip through.

"Whoa, ok." Lance stuttered after gasping. "There, there." He patted Keith's back awkwardly, his feet still lifted from the ground. Keith wondered if he could even stand properly.

Keith let out a breath, then let go of Lance. He turned away, the corners of his lips dipping into a frown. "So... does this mean, you're like... haunting me?"

"Uh... I guess. Is that what I'm supposed to do?"

"I don't know. This is really weird." Keith shrugged, wiping the last tear from his eye.

"So, should I like, lurk in dark corners, and move objects, and scratch people in their sleep, and junk. That's what ghost do... well, at least on tv."

Keith heard footsteps. He turned to the door, anticipating for it to open, then remembered it was locked. Three loud knocks came, following a familiar sounding voice. "Keith? You in there?"

"Um... Yes, Hunk." Keith called back, looking nervously at Lance.

"Oh, ok." Hunk's voice was low and sympathetic. "Well, can we talk for a second? I have something to give you... It's from Lance."

Keith heard Lance wince, his shoulders raised, and forehead dripped with perspiration. He never knew ghosts could sweat, but apparently they could. Who knew? "No." Keith saw Lance mouth, swiping his hand across his neck.

"Um..." Keith answered, ignoring Lance's pleas. He wondered what he should say. Should he reveal his discovery? No, it was too soon for that. "Yeah, hold on."

Keith opened the door, and was greeted by Hunk. His tan skinned, burly friend sported a Lady-Gaga-like meat shirt and hat, that both smelled and looked horrible. Keith had to pinch his nose to bear the stench. Hunk looked at Keith up and down, his eyebrow raised. "You took off your costume?"

"Uh... Yeah." Keith glanced behind him to where he had left his suit. Lance was hovering over it, his already pale face drowned even paler than before. Why was he so nervous? "It was... hot." Keith continued. "I mean... like, in the temperature sense, not... you know what I mean. So, uh, yeah."

Hunk paused for a second, then nodded slowly. "Right." He muttered, stepping into the bathroom, and letting the door close behind him. "It's ok. You don't have to go along with this, if you don't want to. I know it's hard for all of us, so..." His voice trailed. He dragged his finger along the brim of the sealed, white letter he held. "Everyone grieves in their own way, but... I know he would have wanted you to have this. We were supposed to hand them out at the end of the funeral, but... you should probably have yours now. Just read it, then you can go. It's a letter from Lance."

Hunk outstretched his chubby arm, the letter hanging between his fingers for Keith to grab. Keith looked down at it, then over his shoulder at Lance. Hunk gave him a questioning glance.

"Uh... What are you looking at?" Hunk asked, glancing over Lance to see what exactly he was watching. All that was there was a blank, blue tiled wall.

"Nothing." Keith snapped his head back, and swiftly grabbed the envelope. "Thanks, Hunk."

"No problem." Hunk muttered, continuing to give the wall behind Keith an accusatory squint. After a second, he nodded, his steak hat flopping atop his forehead. With one last wave, Hunk backed out of the bathroom, leaving Keith alone once more - well, not quite alone.

Immediately, Lance pounced on Keith. With a gasp, Keith drew back, holding his hand high in the air, away from Lance's reach. Unfortunately for him, Lance's long limbs stretched much higher than Keith's ever could. Plus, with his new ghost flying ability, Lance easily retook the envelope. When he had it securely in his hands, Lance flung himself to the other side of the bathroom, clutching the paper tightly to his chest. "Don't" He snapped, floating higher into the air.

Keith, having to crane his neck to look Lance in the eye, jumped up. "What the heck? Don't fucking attack me!"

"You were going to read it!" Lance countered with a huff, shooing away Keith's flailing arms.

"Well, duh. It's my letter." Keith stopped jumping, knowing it was useless. "Why the hell can't I read my own letter? You wrote it for me!"

"Yeah, but, that was before -"

"Before what?"

"J - just before, ok! So, stop -"

The door opened. Gasping, Lance lost grip of the letter - or did it phase through his palm? - letting it fall to the floor. Keith's reflexes kicked in, causing him to slide down to the floor, snatching the envelope, and tearing it open before Lance had time to blink. Did ghosts blink? Keith still had so many questions.

"Uh..." A child's voice mumbled, staring wide eyed at Keith, who was hastily unfolding the stapled together, crumbled pieces of paper found in the aforementioned envelope. "Sir? Who were you talking to?"

"Myself." Keith answered, not looking up. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the kid was about eight or nine, and likely one of Lance's nephews. Being the youngest child in his family, Lance had many - and Keith meant MANY - nephews and nieces.

The kid sported a costume which made it look like a dragon was engulfing his head. He had a numerous amount of freckles across his brown skin, and his black bangs laid unevenly on his forehead. Lance looked down at him with an unreadable expression. "Ok..." The kid looked unconvinced. "Are you sure you're not schizophrenic or something?"

This caused Keith to pause. "What? No! How do you even - you know what, never mind."

Lance - translucent skin red - clasped his hands together, and shaking them in frustration. "Keith! Don't read that letter."

"You saying that is only going to make me want to read it more."

"Oh, come on. Cut a dead man some slack."

"Who are you talking to now?" The kid scratched his freckled cheek in confusion, looking Keith up and down as if he was some sort of mythical creature.

"My ghost buddy." Keith grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"Whoa! Seriously?"

Keith was through with all these distractions. Without another word, he looked down at the hastily scribbled wording of Lance's letter, and began to read.

Dear Keith,

Um, hello there, Keith. Wow, this is awkward. It's like, I'm writing letters to everyone, so I'm kinda obligated to write to you too, but I don't really want to, because you are the worst, so, lol.

I've already completed all my other letters and stuff, because I actually knew what to say, but, this is weird. Right now, I have no fucking clue what to tell you. We've been friends for a long time and all, but, I don't know... Honestly, I haven't got a clue about how I feel. About you, that is. I've got a lot of emotions and junk, and I don't really know what to do with them. But, I guess I'm dying soon, so it doesn't matter now, does it? Haha.

I just want you to know that I'm not as selfish and shit as you might think I am. Well, It's not like I know how you really feel. But, I assume because of how badly I treat you. Or, did treat you. And, well, I hope you don't hate me or anything, because I've never actually hated you. I'm not sure if it was jealousy that made me act like such a bitch. It's just that, whenever I saw you, I for some reason wanted to prove myself. I thought: "Wow! Keith is really freaking cool! I wanna be like Keith!" So, I tried by attempting to be better than you. Of course, it never worked. I mean, I'm just an average dude, and you are like, a superhero! Everyone in the group is great in their own way, but especially you. You're like a kung fu samurai or some shit. It's freakin bananas, dude. Out of you, and the rest of our gang, I kinda feel like a seventh wheel. Well, used to that is.

Well, anyways, please don't be mad at me and stuff. That's like, the last thing I want. Actually, I wish I could've lived a bit longer just so that I could finally tell you about my... ah, um... never mind. It's embarrassing. Like, immensely so. Plus, so, so, stupid. But... I really want you to know. It will probably make you sad, mad, grossed out, or all three. God dammit. Shit, this is so stupid... Oh, what the hell. It's not like I can be embarrassed when I'm freaking dead.

So, you remember that time in fifth grade? Ha, of course you wouldn't. It wasn't as though it was an important day per say, and I wouldn't expect you to remember every single detail about your life, or anything. But something kinda, good, I guess, happened. So, like, I was all sad and shit because my dog, Chico died, and I was crying all day on the playground, refusing to go to school. I remember you coming up to me, and comforting me even though you had to miss class. I went on and on about stories of Chico, and you just sat there patiently, listening to me ramble. And, at one point, you reached out you hand, and wiped a tear from my cheek. My heart jumped, and I felt my skin tingle where you had touched. I never felt that with anyone else before that point, and, at the time, I didn't know what it meant.

Then a few years later in high school, we were having a fight, and I was teasing you for not having a girlfriend and crap. But, I remember how you answered me word for word. "Lance, I don't even fucking like girls, ok. I like boys! I'm fucking gay, are you happy? I like dicks, you got a problem with that?"

Damn, my heart sped to the speed of light. And to think I was the only one to know. Jeez, it made me... hopeful and crap? Like, I don't know, maybe I had a chance. But, of course I screwed it up by being an asshole. Your coming out only made me colder toward you, and more afraid of what others would think if I ever did the same. My Dad especially would fucking murder my sorry ass.

So, I attempted to suppress these emotions by telling myself that what I am is wrong. I took my frustration out on others, calling them names such as gay, pansy and other awful slurs.

Then I had this dream. I was laying in my bed, and you were beside me. You held me in you arms, and pulled me close. I remember thinking as though it was the safest I've ever felt. I wasn't scared of my dad killing me, or concerned about what others might think. All that was important was you. And then you leaned over me, whispered in my ear, kissed me on the neck, then locked your lips with mine. It felt so real and wonderful. I want to kiss you now, but, you know. That would be pretty weird considering you still hate me, and, before this point, I've done nothing but make fun of you. I guess all I can do is daydream, and pretend all of this shit isn't happening until I die in a few days, or hours, or however long I have left.

Gah! This is too cringe. Why won't the sweet release of death just take me already? Just promise me one last thing before I go. Please, keep this note a secret. I beg of you! Jeez, it's so fucking embarrassing. Burn it if you have to.

So, yeah. That's it. I'm bi, and shit... surprise! You can forget you ever read this letter if you want. Ha, it's kinda ironic, isn't it? I was the first to know your dirty little secret back in high school, and now you'll be the first and last to know mine. If only I had the courage you did.

Um, yeah... So, hope you have a life opposite of mine. Long, fulfilling, and free. Goodbye for good, Keith, I love you.

GAHHHH! Ignore that last part too. Burn it in a fire, and feed it to the sharks, holy moly. Why am I always so awkward?

Bye and shit,

Lance McClain

Keith looked up, the letter trembling in his grasp. His heart was in his mouth when he saw Lance with his head in his hands, hovering in the corner farthest from where Keith stood. The freckle faced kid - who was still there for some reason - looked at Keith, concerned. "You ok sir?"

Keith swallowed, and forced himself to avert his eyes. "Honestly," He answered, head reeling, "I'm not sure anymore."

ooo

I'm sick of feeling cheap,

cheated, and abused.

I'm sick of losing sleep

thinking about you.

~The Downtown Fiction / I Just Wanna Run

ooo

Keith was petrified.

This was already a crazy situation, but the letter - finding out Lance had feelings for him - that was what made it feel like a dream. Keith didn't know what to say or what to do. He simply kept his focus on his shoes, wishing things would magically fix themselves. Keith felt a surge of tears swell inside of him. But, why? This was what he wanted, right? But, it wasn't. Knowing the truth was not enough. It came at a terrible price. Life in exchange for a secret, it didn't seem fair. But the world wasn't fair, Keith knew that early on. Still, during moments like these, he couldn't help but get enraged. Yes, he wanted Lance to like him, but, no, not like this. Not with Lance dead.

If he had an option to switch places with Lance, he would've done in a heartbeat. Unlike Lance, who had hundreds of people who he cared for, and who cared for him, Keith only had one he held dear in his black hole of a heart. If Keith died, no one would miss him. When Lance died, everyone was crushed. Including Keith. Especially Keith.

Keith sniffed once, biting his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. The freckle faced boy - who was still there. Why was he still there? - tilted his head, his dragon nuzzle tipping in front of his sky blue eyes. "Sir, are you - crying?"

"I'm sweating." Keith grunted through clenched teeth.

"Through your eyeballs?"

"Look, kid. I don't have time for your sarcasm." Keith snapped, glancing over his shoulder at Lance. The ghost floated high in the air, half of his forehead hidden due to it merging into the ceiling. Keith wondered if he even noticed.

"I wasn't trying to be sarcastic." The boy pouted, his bottom lip jutting out. "I was only trying to help."

"I told you not to read it." Lance's voice came like a distant whisper.

Keith furrowed his brows, pivoting completely around to face Lance. "I - uh..." He didn't know what to say.

Lance rolled his eyes, "Yeah, yeah. I get it. I'm a fucking pansy, alright. Now you know."

"I wasn't going to call you a -"

"Let's just both agree to forget about this whole ordeal, how about it?"

"But -" Keith paused, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He held the letter tightly in his trembling palm. "Ok... Yeah, sure. Whatever. It's not - It doesn't matter anymore."

"Yeah..." Lance's voice trailed. He looked away.

"Are you talking with your ghost friend again, or were you lying about your schizophrenia after all?"

Keith turned, dark bags sagging beneath his frosty glare. "Why are you still here?"

"Because I haven't left."

Keith grunted, unamused. "Are you always this annoying?"

"My mom thought so, but that's more of a personal opinion."

"Well, first off: shut up. And secondly: get lost... Please."

The kid - freckles dotted across his nose and cheeks

- huffed. "Well, you don't need to be mean about it. I'm not trying to make fun of you or anything. I'm just curious about your..." He gestured vaguely to the back wall where Keith was looking beforehand. "buddy."

"Me and my buddy are just fine, so if you would be ever so kind -" Keith placed a gloved hand on the kids shoulder, and pushed him gently in the exit's direction. Because he was a child, Keith didn't want to be as duchy as he would've been with a teen or adult, though it was in Keith's nature to be harsh. Especially with the... confusing circumstances surrounding him.

"Well, I was going to use the bathroom." The kid frowned, but let Keith guide him to the door. "But, fine, I guess I'll just hold it."

"Yes, yes. You go do that. Now, bye!" When the boy was securely out of the bathroom, Keith slammed the door behind him. God, I hate kids, Keith thought. He then thought back to his childhood and teenage years, cringing at his own past-self.

Lance hovered over the sink, his vague, white glow reflecting a blurry image in the mirror. "Fuck, this is so gay. You know what, I'll just be going now, so..."

Without another word, Keith watched Lance's body drift through the mirror and wall, disappearing from sight. Keith was silent for a brief second, brain deep in contemplation, when a puff of... something formed in front of him. Looking up, Keith saw Lance, narrow jaw and all. He jumped back.

Lance looked down at himself, his eyes wide. "What the - huh? Who the hell teleported me back here?"

"Uh... What?"

"Hold up, let me try this again." Lance said, before immediately dashing back through the wall. In no more than a few seconds, poof, he was back. "What the fuck?!" He yelled in aggravation.

Keith didn't personally hold a wide range of ghostly knowledge, but he was sure random teleportation wasn't a ghostly commonplace. Shoving his letter in his pocket, - making extra sure it didn't rip - Keith took a step forward. "Touch me real quick."

Lance frowned, his face vaguely red. "Excuse me?"

Keith held out his arm. "My hand, idiot. I wanna test something."

"Oh, so I'm a lab rat now?"

"Dude, you're a freak. Of course I wanna learn more about you."

"Eh, fair enough." Lance shrugged, reaching his hand out to touch Keith's.

The same sensation as before ran from Keith's palm, up his arm, and down his spine. Shivering, Keith pulled his hand away, and looked around for an object. He had the letter, but he didn't want to use that. He didn't want it to be ruined. Keith instead seized the dick costume from off the sink, and shoved it towards Lance. The ghost looked down at it in confusion.

"Uh... What do you want me to do with this?"

"Hold it." Keith explained.

Lance, frowning, took the suit, and inspected it in his hands suspiciously. "I'm not putting this on. Sorry to disappoint you."

"You can touch people with them feeling you, and you can move objects."

"I guess... so?"

"So, you can reveal yourself to them."

"Them?"

"Your family. Your friends. Everyone." Keith rolled his eyes. Wasn't this stuff obvious?

"Eh..." Lance mumbled, running his thumb across the hem of Keith's costume. He put his knees up into a criss-cross position, making him look like an ancient statue hovering midair. "I tried, but..."

Keith raised an eyebrow, waiting for Lance to continue. "But what?"

"But, I don't know." Lance huffed. "I just - I'm not really ready... at this current moment."

"We don't have to do it at this current moment, but you are planning on revealing yourself soon, I hope." Keith crossed his arms across his chest. "But, sadly, it looks like I'm stuck with you."

"What? Why?"

Without an explanation, Keith exited the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He then turned to walk down the hall, and only reached a few feet when, poof, Lance materialized before him. The ghost blinked in confusion, his long eyelashes fluttering over his dark blue eyes. "God, fucking, dammit! It happened a third time?!"

"It's because of me, you idiot." Keith grumbled. He wasn't too happy about the newfound information either. "You can't go a certain distance from me, or you'll teleport. Why? I don't know. It's just how things are apparently."

"Well, crap. Do you think God, or Allah, or whoever the fuck is attempting to torture me? Is this actually hell? I wouldn't be surprised."

"I think someone, somewhere is trying to do something that isn't favorable for the both of us." Keith's hand twitched at his side. Oh, how he longed for the feel of his plastic phone casing, and the blaring sound of his music in his ears. It calmed Keith, letting him forget just how screwed the world was, even just for a minute. He also wanted to scan over Lance's letter again. As he read it, he remembered it having a slow beat. A sad, but hopeful tune.

Keith continued, "But the fact is, you're here when you shouldn't be, I can see you when I shouldn't, and we are - for who knows why - stuck together. So, quit bickering, because, frankly, it's giving me a damn migraine."

"Whoa! Jeez, ok." Lance uncrossed his legs, throwing the dick suit back on the sink's countertop. It unfolded itself with the impact, its head partially falling into the sink. "So, what are you planning on doing, smart guy?"