The Year Is 1672 And Keith Kogane Is Accused Of Witchcraft.

The year is 1672 and Keith Kogane is accused of witchcraft.

This can’t start with a dialogue. It starts like this:

Lance is cutting across a meadow to the forest line, and then stops when he spots four village men on the footpath. Two men are holding onto a boy's upper arms, whose eyes are downcast. Whose stride is purposeful.

Lance passes the bucket of peels from one hand to the other. Hoarfrosted grass cracks under his feet. The men couldn't see him from the road unless they really looked, with the hazelnut trees covering him, and the men are not looking; one of them tugs an arm and the boy's rhythm breaks. The boy doesn't look up.

He knows this moment will be replaying in his head in empty moments. Because it came as on overthrow when he expected an underthrow. At eighteen years old, Lance has learnt the shortcuts, because he wants a faster way through, because repetition has started to calcify his body and he wants a faster way through.

When things like that happen, they happen like secrets: everyone knows and cares in the way one cares for secrets. People don't really care.

Except. Except Lance knows the boy is eighteen-to-nineteen; doesn’t wear a hat when he goes outside; except Lance knows his name, because Lance knows things, because his mother calls him curious and it's different from nosy.

Because people talk. People say: Keith is an illegitimate child, born out of wedlock in a tavern or a stall or in the shadow of a cherry tree, and left to grow in the dust of the streets.

People say: Keith is Shirogane's brother, by roof-sharing and hands clasped on shoulders and shoulder-punches and everything not blood. Shirogane had enough space in his heart to make up for the absence of space in his hut for a boy who never says hello on the streets. Shirogane has joined the Habsburg Imperial Army and threw a fit when he had to leave Keith behind, walked all the way to the tenant-in-chief, and then wrote a letter to the chairman of the state himself.

People say Keith knows the forest better than the village and couldn't get lost off forest trails. Lance has seen him at the mouth of the forest, a hatchet swinging in hand. And Lance has hesitated at the forest line, sunlight ending on his back, thinking others' words: it's not safe.

Now Lance sees him from close and sees tufts of hair falling in his eyes. Notices the face mark – and then it makes sense. Isolation and being different aren't safe. Lance knows things and he knows who the men are.

Keith is eighteen-to-nineteen and he will not have even come of age by the time Lance will.

Lance stands hidden from the pathway, bucket handle still cold in his hand.

*

He keeps wondering, though. He wonders whether he'd see Keith's house trashed if he walked by. Whether Keith was something to hunt down.

He wonders if Keith is so ghostly because he's always in the shadows; Lance's own darkened skin would explain that. Lance is the colours of a breaking autumn, that is: somewhat behind. The tautology of his thought has been somewhat behind, but now he is wondering about Keith, anew. He bets Keith's hair doesn’t get lighter in summer.

Two days later, he hears someone else mention the trial. It’s like this, some people mention it and some don’t. Maybe because of the uncomfortably thin line between knowing and being. Lance feels uncomfortable.

During Confession, he lies and doesn't feel bad about it, then feels bad about not feeling bad. Maybe he shouldn't, though. Priests who have been coming to their church, with city accents, say quite honestly and call that honesty.

He receives his absolution and then steals the pastor's keys.

*

Going before nightfall is a simple choice. Lance can feel the blue hues of dusk on his skin, and people might still be around, but – darkness blinds, alright.

He notices he’s trying to walk soundlessly, and that is false stealth. Revealing stealth. Shut up, he thinks at his boots, and steps on a twig.

It’s there: the bare-brick church extension that Lance has seen used for funerals. For storing bodies with soulless mouth curves and walnut pies and poppy seed bread, pretty things. What a cut-throat irony.

As he walks, he stretches his sleeves over his fingers. Like he's cold; not like he's clutching a set of keys. They feel like rusty metal, which makes Lance loosen his grip. He knows of a woman who has died from an axe cut.

What a cut-throat irony, huh.

He passes the church entrance and steps off the beaten path, onto grass and dry mud. This contrast: mud and bricks. Mud fits with death and funerals. Bricks, though. Should be too luxurious. For death sentences. Four keys are attached to the key ring; he'll have to test them one by one. Maybe the one with a smoother surface is—

And he falls hard.

The door slams into him and he falls hard – falls with the door atop him, the boards breaking apart.

He hadn’t, but he could have imagined it just like this: a body is framed by the doorframe, like a saint statue in front of stained glass. Lance would recognise just the outline.

Keith takes a step back.

He’s breathing shallowly, and Lance wonders which one of them seems more real to the other. Lance is fixated as Keith’s gaze sweeps the surroundings, and starts when Keith looks at him again.

''Sorry,'' Keith says and starts striding away.

''Wait,'' Lance says. Keith doesn't turn. Keith's arms encircle his body as though he was guarding his possessions. He starts running, and Lance runs after him. ''Wait, I'm helping you.'' He holds up the keys.

Keith stops. Nothing falls out of his arms uncoiling when he turns.

''Thanks? I need to—'' Keith blinks at his unfound words and then gestures at the church.  Lance needs a moment to realise Keith isn't pointing at him. Feels like a flinch at being pointed at. Them standing like this, eye to eye, creates the duality: Keith, edged, Lance, an idler. It's not true. It's not nice, to dispute someone's truthfulness just by being nearby.

Lance opens his mouth, but Keith walks off, again. Across the meadow, making Lance think, this is what we are, huh, stretched across a meadow.

''Hi, uh. I'm Lance. What’s your—'' he stops, because he thinks Keith so loudly.

Keith ignores him.

''Hey. Hey. Where are you going? It's too dark for the forest. Hey. Walking right—'' Keith turns suddenly, and Lance almost crashes into him, the energy in his fisted hands vanishing too slowly. They both take a step back.

''Look — why are you following me? Stop.''

Your senses are innervated all wrong, Lance thinks.

''I'm trying to help.''

Keith glances at Lance's hand enclosing the keys. ''I don't need it. Thanks.''

''Literally,'' Lance starts, stops. ''Where are you going, the forest?''

Keith tries to kick the mud off the soles of his shoes, face scrunched up. Some flies into Lance's legs and Keith’s face smoothens a little. Still doesn't look at Lance.

''What about bandits,'' Lance says.

Keith shakes his head. And then moves so slowly, barely perceptibly, but Lance picks it up; the slow bent of knees, into a maybe-fighting stance. A ready stance. And Lance processes it slowly like pressing on a pressure point, wishing for a skilled reflex. Instead, he grabs a handful of soil. As defence. As an explosive projectile.

Keith breathes out before abruptly stepping away. He looks surprised.

''Wait,'' Keith says. ''I'll just walk away. Okay? I can’t give you anything.''

''Wait,'' Lance says, and it ends up being a repetition, but it's not. ''Wait. I don't want anything.'' Jesus. A hypocrite. His own judgements about senses are obviously beyond his judgement. Get the hell attuned. Listen for a damn second.

''Okay,'' Lance says slowly. It feels like placating, and that’s rich coming from him. ''You live on, like, the other side of the village. I live closer. There,'' he points.

The silence feels long, thickening, the breathing of Lance's heart quickening. The soil in his hand feels stupid. He resists the urge to look at the grass that's caught in it. Keith shakes his head.

''No what,'' Lance bites, and Keith looks at the forest.

''They took my jacket.'' It's pushed through his teeth.

''I have a jacket,'' Lance offers.

Keith shakes his head again but doesn’t divert his gaze, and Lance thinks, there's something there.

''This isn’t a joke,'' Keith says lowly. ''What do you want?''

''Nothing. I don’t know,'' Lance replies honestly. ''But I can give you a jacket.''

Under the weight of Keith's consideration, he hopes he looks truthful. The meadow is at this time is short and mud-clamped and faded and dead.  The grass is dying with winter and things are waking up under Lance's skin.

He's angry. Angry, maybe, or maybe canceling the falling quality of his organs, and now everything is in his chest. He's the promise of a glint of a sickle. Not a joke, yeah. He lied because of this.

''If you call anyone,'' Keith starts. Then exhales, and Lance thinks, yeah. He is too all half-finished thoughts. He would too be in trouble. Please. They’d both be dead. Watch him.

''I won't,'' he says, seriously, and it’s a promise.

*

They walk in silence. Fast and intentional, and Lance wonders whose intention is more defined. This feels like pretending, which is again a lie of a feeling. He feels on the edge of his silence. Too many questions to ask. And Keith — who knows? He has the confidence of nobility but a tongue too tied.

Maybe this is why Lance says: ''We're building a chimney,'' when they step over the stones in their yard. Keith doesn't say anything. Lance speeds up, arms folded.

Once inside, Lance watches Keith take in the rosary on the wall and the sunflower on the table.

''Wait here,'' he orders, or requests, or maybe he still feels the unrealness of his act. He can figure it out. He pulls his second jacket out of the chest in the loft, with a hole on the elbow. Brings water for both. He can figure out how to help. Even if Keith doesn’t know what he needs. Lance is good at picking up the sides of people unknown to them and make it a gift when he wraps them right and they're accepted with a crooked smile and eyes spelling enchanted—

But Keith has just not been saying anything.

Lance brings bread, a little too dry, and a handful of dried apple slices and shoves them at Keith until he offers his palms. God. Keith is just looking at him. Lance shoves too many into his own mouth.

''What are you gonna do?'' he asks around them.

''Go somewhere. Away,'' Keith answers, looking like he knows what he's saying is inescapable anyway. Should Lance be feeling more of, what, empathy? Less fizz, maybe. Keith doesn’t look like he wants empathy. Lance is good at reading people.

Lance nods, with his whole body, bouncing, feeling like he's stalling. Keith eyes the jacket in Lance’s arms.

''Can I,'' Keith starts and hesitates until Lance almost says just say it, can you what. ''Can you give me a knife,'' he says, not entirely a question, a little skewed, a little far from the side of questions.

''A knife?'' Lance repeats, somewhat alarmed. ''To what, skin dormice in the forest?''

''Well, yeah,'' Keith says, immediate, and Lance thinks, okay, alright. ''Look, you could go to my house and take something. The house isn't mine but you can look if you find— I'm not sure I have anything though.''

''Yes, you do,'' Lance says instantly, stubbornly. Because if there wasn't anything about Keith, they wouldn't be looking at the large air hole in the bread Lance is holding halfway out. Because he imagines a tint of sadness. Because of the vicarious blandness.

''So what do you want,'' Keith asks. A little darkly.

''Nothing. I don't want anything. Keith,'' Lance says. He pushes the jacket into Keith's hands and starts buttoning his own.

''What? You can’t come with.''

''Well, but I am, aren’t I,'' Lance says, with a forged copy of confidence. He couldn't say, but I’m hooked. But this feels irrevocable. But you’re real and I feel real.

Keith licks his lips and turns his gaze to the side, away from Lance. Lance sees it, he does, why it was him. The line of reasoning goes like this: it starts with destroyed crops. In winter, crushed buckwheat tastes like a broken oath, which is to say, it's not something to taste at all. Keith is somewhere in the middle. It ends with the law: harm inflicted by witchcraft is to be compensated by burning at the stake.

*

They walk to the forest. Lance doesn't know why. He has heard people have gotten impaled on a stake and left to die. Some people have gotten sold into slavery.

They make a fire, which they probably shouldn’t, but Keith just goes for it, while Lance blinks through the – something. A magnitude. They sit down on dry leaves and ivy and moss and lean on waist-high rocks. Lance thinks: are we supposed to relax now?

''What about bandits,'' Lance asks, again.

''I’ve seen their tents,'' Keith replies, and Lance thinks, that’s not great, is it, but then Keith adds: ''They’re not here.''

''Okay,'' Lance says. Makes his shoulders untense, but it’s cold, so he sits back up, tight.

He has a million questions. All welded to his breaths. How does he breathe them out? It keeps being just breathing.

He rolls a leaf of a deadly nightshade between his fingers. It grew on the way, the jaws of the forest. He holds it up.

''It makes you see things,'' he tells Keith.

''What things?'' Keith asks. Not with reciprocated caution. Not secret-like.

''Do you think I'm a—''

'I don't believe in witches,'' Keith says.

And Lance realises: the way Keith holds his gaze is a form of caution. No – it’s very deliberate. A secret in itself.

''Okay,'' he says, again.

Here is a secret: Lance knows more about hallucinogenic plants than a magician priest. He knows about ointments, but – he doesn't know what to believe in, and – doesn't use them, either, with no belief-ground to stand on. He calls that stagnant knowledge.

It's something he doesn't tell his family. His sister has put a forked stick in his hand and said, draw on the ground how much you love me. Lance stores village rumours to tell as goodnight stories, and he'd burn the whole of cultivable land for them. Breathe in the ashes. Of course he'd coat a foul interest in something nicer. Of course he'd keep his mouth closed.

And now he's telling Keith. Because Keith stands outside of law? Because the fire is melting Lance's better sense, huh. Huh.

''It would be easier for you if you went to church,'' Lance decides.

Keith shrugs, inspecting his laces. Something about that is so bothersome. ''It doesn’t matter, I guess. I didn’t confess. I got out.''

The way Keith looked at the keys in Lance’s hand. Lance says: ''Anyway. It’s a travesty of justice, anyway.''

Keith raises his eyebrows at him.  And Lance is caught thinking about how he used to ask his mom to sew collars like royalty onto his shirts. He thought Keith’s silence translated to stupidity, thought that he saw through. Stupidly, an hour ago, he thought: Keith, temptation, Lance, redemption. He had felt good using words like travesty. But now he thinks: what does that translate to?

''Do you believe what they tell you? That—'' Keith looks at the flames and Lance watches them flicker in Keith's eyes. ''I don't know, buying indulgences?  And talking to toads, and that.''

Lance throws the night shade into the fire. Maybe it’s really not the fire, with how much Keith feels like causality.

''Because you say things like that,'' he says. ''You can't just say things like that.''

''That's why I don't,'' Keith says, then frowns and looks sideways.

There's something compelling about the flames, transforming matter like rebirth that light-boned boys like Lance yearn for; flickering and cracking in a pattern no man with a diploma from Vienna can predict. It makes Lance not matter, and not mattering okay. It feels like — like the first night-chilled breath that fills your lungs when you step away from an overcrowded room, through the door, and let your body fall into resonance with cricket calls. It feels like relief.

''So what’s the plan,'' Lance asks. All bare this time.

''What's my plan?''

Yeah. Nosy. Lance? He’s a bit weird. Intense. Nosy.

''That's what I asked.'' He watches Keith watch the flames.

''I don’t—'' Keith shakes his head. Lance nods.

''You could be imprisoned,'' Lance says absently. Keith looks at him slowly and it takes Lance a moment to register the weight. ''No, I'm just telling you. That's how it is.''

''I would be burned,'' Keith says, plain as a field. ''Sacrilege and all that. Purification and all that.''

Lance, a collector of pretty things, thinks of that: how extravagantly these words fall down a tongue, the sound of them a luxury Lance haven't had the chance to chase, always burning away getting soil behind his nails, always mudding his clothes, leaving white shirts to Sundays and making him hate how they feel like play-pretend—

''I'll find Shiro,'' Keith announces.

''You couldn't,'' Lance says. ''How?''

''Watch me,'' Keith says, and it works as an answer.

Keith touches the back of his hand to the wound on his cheek, then with his sleeve, and Lance says, ''You should clean that.'' Clears his throat. Keith narrows his eyes at him.

''I'll do it,'' Lance says then, too quickly. Looks at his fingers, dirty, and his shirt, the same. He clears his throat, and it feels like again. Pulls his handkerchief from where he has it tucked under his waist, and then he thinks about that, and then he doesn't want to think about it anymore.

''No, never mind, do it yourself,'' he tosses the handkerchief into Keith's lap.

They both watch the burns on Keith’s hands. Not overawed, shut up.

Lance thinks: this is empathy. Don’t call it— don’t call it what it’s not. Dreamy reasoning, that is, the reasoning of a boy asleep. He is not, okay. Unlike what people think: that he acts without the thought of consequences. But it’s all so deliberate. And they are bullshit deducing.

He has found a word for himself, the sifted form of his mother saying head in the clouds: wishful.

They both watch the burns, and Lance thinks: so we have that too in common, huh.

Keith just doesn’t– ask anything about Lance. It’s frustrating. But he’s scowling, hugging his knees, and he has lived alone, word has it, and he has burns on his hands, and these must be things Lance doesn’t understand.

''We could,'' Lance offers, revealingly tentatively, ''wait until dawn in my house. It’s safer. And warmer.''

''I can't sleep in your house,'' Keith says.

''I'm not giving you my bed.''

Keith bites his lip and Lance has to stop himself from mirroring that. ''Look— what's your name?''

Lance freezes. A wave rolls from his core up. He is – so sick of feeling like the wrong superlatives.

He stands up, but is tugged back by his sleeve. ''Sorry, I just, I wasn't paying attention. Sorry. What’s your name?'' Keith looks flustered. ''Sorry.''

Lance pulls his arm back. His voice is steel. ''Lance.''

Now he is the one to raise his eyebrows. Thinks: how funny.

''Lance. You have a family. You can't be serious.''

''I’ve told you before.'' Steel. But he’s thinking: told you what? I don’t know.

''What,'' Keith breathes. In a small voice.

''Whats your problem? You can't be serious –it’s my house, not an— not an, I don't know, a cathouse, I'm not inviting you into my bed, so I don't get what your problem—''

''Bark beetle,'' Keith jokes. He stands up. Lance stands up, too.

Keith shakes his head – but goes, because he's eighteen and without a name that would give him anything.

*

Lance holds out the blanket. ''Here.''

''Hello,'' Keith says absently, dumbly, and then he takes it. He unfolds it, shaking it, and brings it to his nose; and Lance is suddenly aware it must smell like smoke, but so does his and—

''Ouch,'' Keith turns to look at the wall at his back. It must be a nail, Lance knows there are nails hammered into the walls of this stall, in places that don’t make sense.

''Watch out,'' Lance says in reversed causality. Then sneaks out, sneaks back in with his hands full.

''Bread and milk, baby,'' he says. Keith makes a mhm sound. Lance thinks: okay.

The air of the stall is irritating. Keith looks surprisingly calm. Lance – feels hyperaware. The undercurrent of this space contains so much of his life, and he has Keith in it. Lance has carved an L into one of these walls to self-permanentise.

He wants Keith to be interested in him.

''Are you not—'' he starts, then stops before he says something deleterious. Makes a fatal mistake.

''Am I not what?''

Keith's small frown is all in Lance's mind, and Lance is obligated not to look away, because that would be telling. He needs to stop not having reflexes. He's stumbling too much. Never knows how to catch himself.

''Nothing,'' he says, thinks, damn. Keith raises his eyebrows and Lance extends his hand in front of Keith's face front of his face, and Keith flinches back, and Lance flinches, too.

''God, sorry,'' Lance realises he touched the hurt skin. He lightly touches the skin around the wound as remedy, on impulse. Keith is still, again with that dumb spacey expression.

Lance leans back heavily. The silence is something that burns with smoke and he's caught on that spaciness. It's so intriguing.

''That feels nice,'' Keith says, gaze fixed on the hand that Lance withdrew. Lance catapults.

''The unpredictability of it, right?'' Lance says. A fatal mistake.

''Oh? '' Keith voices smugly. Because he seems to take it as a compliment, in a way Lance doesn't understand, and now Lance is half-dead.

Everything about this. He has the last few hours playing inside him, all at once.

''You could buy an indulgence,'' Lance jokes.

Keith's eyes sparkle and Lance feels his chest curve inwards the way it does when he's watching the stars.

''Bullshit,'' Keith says, and his eyes sparkle, and — Lance finds himself seeing more and thinking what if's as if Keith was a damn sky, and maybe it's the strayness of shooting stars he's drawn to. Maybe it's the life he doesn't have.

Lance makes a little hay-nest for himself and watches out for nails. Him and Keith fall quiet. He can’t fall asleep.

*

In the morning, Lance panics. He wakes to a hand shaking his shoulder and his name hooking right into his brain, and he ghostly opens his eyes. The thumb on his collarbone is just a pressure, static, and shouldn't feel like that; like his collarbone is a rewarding body part to have. Then there is a quiet and distanced thump and Keith drops his hand and Lance panics.

Keith stands up steadily, in the way Lance has learnt, too quickly, to take as reassurance. Reassurance that throws his heart rate over the steep rock face and into expectation. He notices Keith has folded his blanket, placed atop a hay bale, centred and aligned with the wall.

The thump must be his mother awake. It must be handling pots. Maybe she's pushing her sleeves up right now, the way she always has and the way that had little Lance imitating, possibilities on the tip of his mind. Maybe she's dividing her hair into two and twisting both sides, then tying them together and turning them inwards and the way that mesmerised Lance ever since he remembered to pay attention one day when he was thirteen. Maybe she's squishing her cheeks in the way that makes Lance think that longing is contagious.

She must have noticed Lance wasn't home last night. She must worry.

''You're not going,'' Keith tells him, reading into something that Lance thought he folded between the fabric of his own blanket, ''you have a family.'' And Lance, who has waited a lifetime to prove something, says, ''Watch me.''

They could study in Vienna, or Prague, or Bologna. They could become knights.

His sister has called him a misfortune – Lance, a boy among his five sisters. Lance, with the length of whose legs there's never quite enough space when the six of them sit on the fireplace. His grandmother greets them by where are you, vermin, and thinks she's hilarious. Lance has a lot to leave behind.

Keith biting the inside of his cheek is all the unbeautiful words Lance has never liked. Lance is intrigued.

''Are you going to — are you going to say something to them?'' Keith looks uncertain. Lance sees so much sympathy, the sole observation insults village rumours, or maybe the rumours insult him.

''Nah,'' Lance says. He can't.

At the end, he doesn't take anything from home; the payment day is in five days, and increased tax has been flowing into military defences. Lance works on the field, so he knows. Shiro is gone, so Keith knows.

''Keep the jacket,'' Lance says, and Keith shoves his hands deep into the pockets, like it's something dear, and it makes Lance's heart ache. He's turning around, looking for a way to ease the hurt while Keith just watches him, looking calm and taut at once. Keith glances outside, and Lance gets it, he does. He ends up pulling the hay from where it's bundled and arranges it into a smile on the floor, as a message, as easing worry. He feels better once they step outside.

They are waiting by the road, just outside of the village. Lance knows of a man that rides out a few times a week. If today isn't one of the days—

''I don't know,'' Keith sounds irritated and it surprises Lance. ''Like, I guess I don't get it. I'm going to Shiro and you just—'' he drags the backside of his hand over his cheek, looking away instead of finishing.

''We could go to the city,'' Lance says, not wanting to think about that, could like helium, like head in the clouds. ''Have you been?''

''I’ve been,'' Keith replies and drags the tip of his shoe through the dirt, leaving a line. Self-permanantisation. Says it like it's nothing. Like city curfew laws aren't intriguing, being something that can be broken.

''What is it like?'' Lance asks, casually.

''You know,'' Keith shrugs, like Lance would know, like it's nothing. ''I don't understand German.''

''Oh, damn, that's right. How will we communicate? And we'll have to find a way to pay for things.''

''Lance.''

''But I guess communication comes first. Like, you have to say what you want to pay for. Not that you want to. Or maybe the city people take the pay first, and don't—''

''Not everybody in the city is from the city,'' Keith says, finally facing Lance fully, like a bayonet to the gut, but not bad at all. ''Lance.''

''I know what you want to say,'' Lance snaps. ''You don't have to say it, okay? Thanks.''

*

At the end, he lies again. They are sitting on a cart with barrels. It almost didn't work, convincing that someone will be awaiting at the city gates with payment. A dubious but possible eventuality. The lie is all his. He wonders if Keith feels bad.

Lance's acts are deliberate, even when his wishfulness overtakes him; or maybe sometimes they are not when his wishfulness overtakes him. They are watching the road elongating under the wheels, and Lance is carefully watching Keith. He watches Keith like everything he wants to tell him. Like leaving home and stupid comparisons.

Keith glances at him suspiciously and Lance turns back to the road, eyes unfocused. He tries to relax. This is a familiarity: no matter how heavily he sits, he's always on the edge of his seat, always—

Keith looks at him again; Lance sees it in the corner of his vision, honesty to his previous lie. Keith looks twitchy, but he blinks away, shaking his head.

‘’What?’’

Keith suddenly stands up, sways until he regains his balance. Keith nods at Lance, as if that explained anything. Lance stands up, looking around, feeling uncertain. And then Keith is in his space, and Keith's hands caught on his jacket, and his eyes very close and getting closer. And then still, waiting.

Lance swallows. ''I don't know what I want.''

Keith half blinks and it's almost ridiculous, and then he's blinking rapidly, fluttering, eyebrows furrowed, eyes on Lance's cheeks. It's ridiculous. In how deliberate it looks, and Lance would bet such awareness is not something Keith even thinks about.

Lance thinks, he likes my freckles, and then swallows around that.

''What are you saying,'' Keith whispers. Lance swallows around that whispering, too.

''A warning.''

And then Keith pushes him off the cart.

It's like the church again, but Lance's reflexes don't lock him in: his hands drag Keith down with him. Both fall on their sides. Keith's eyes are squeezed shut and when he opens them they stare at each other.

And then Lance sprints to the cart and pulls himself up, seeing Keith follow. They both plop down.

Keith is breathing heavily, looking down at his lap. Cranes his neck backward, covers his eyes. Lance waits for him to say something, but Keith doesn't.

''Keith.'' His voice is permeated with indignance, with hurry, with coming to a stop. It's unfair that Keith gets to hear that, a liar – he just stood by Lance while he lied to the rider. Retrospect leaves such a nasty scrape burn.

Keith shakes his head. Just continues not saying anything, so Lance pulls his hands from his face, leaving Keith blinking at the ground.

''What,'' Lance says, voice too high. I tried helping you.

''I don't know, okay.''

''The hell,'' Lance hates how upset he sounds. ''The hell do you not know, Keith.'' Keith looks to the side, at the growing distance from the village.

''You're not thinking straight,'' Keith says.

Lance keeps swallowing, keeps breathing, feeling brittle and like something that wobbles. Feeling an indescribable magnitude of something inarticulate.

''I said I wanted to go. I thought we were past this, you fucking jerk.''

''I changed my mind.''

But Keith has joked. He has said watch me.

''You could have said just. You could have just said, like, now. If you didn't want me to go with.''

Keith shakes his head and frowns, still not looking at him. Lance feels it: a fissure in coherence.

''I can't believe you. I wanted to go. You're just— you were just there.'' He can't even tell if he's lying. He had all this – hope.

''They're your family,'' Keith says, tender, and Lance can’t.

''You do not get to sound like that. Shut up.'' He hopes Keith will resent the resent in Lance's eyes. He hopes for Keith to burn.

''What are you gonna do now,'' Keith asks, again sounding tender. Keith could have just said if he didn't want Lance to come with.

''Shut up, I'm in the assessment stage. I haven’t figured it out yet.''

''You decide,'' Keith says and Lance just looks at him, breathing shallow, contempt compact in his throat. ''You decide. Not figure out.''

''Shut up.'' Lance is horrified. ''Oh my god.''

*

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24413080