Chapter Text
The ancient Greeks believed that humans once had four arms, four legs, and two faces. We were happy and whole, complete. The gods, fearing that our contentedness would lessen our worship, separated us, damning us to be half of a whole, wandering the earth miserable and in search of what we lost. However, the ancient Greeks didn’t have high school. We can achieve misery on our own. People spend far too much time trying to find someone else to complete them. How many people search in vain for perfect love? And of those who actually find a perfect match, how many are able to keep it? All this suggests that maybe Camus had it right, and life is irrational and meaningless.
Some rather dismal thoughts on love, but an A grade for a high school essay. Or A- if Shiro is in a mood while he’s grading. But it’s an A, or you don’t pay. Keith’s been running this business for 4 years now, and all his classmates know the rules. It helps with bills, keeps Keith and his mom afloat, and if he’s being honest, Keith gets bored in this small town, so writing 6 essays rather than one is a welcome distraction.
As Keith sneaks essays to his fellow students from his seat at the keyboard while the band director drones on about their next concert, his phone vibrates with incoming venmos. Tracking the papers on their route down the aisle, Keith’s eyes can’t help but catch on the bright smile and laughing eyes of Lance McClain. He gestures sporadically, long limbs flinging in every direction as he regales his friends with what Keith’s sure is a riveting tale of the time their football team almost scored a point or maybe of the latest pick up line he’s added to his arsenal. Keith doesn’t spend much time or energy socializing with his peers, but it’s impossible not to know Lance. He’s loud, overly-friendly, and a notorious flirt. Essentially Keith’s polar opposite.
Tearing his eyes away, Keith gathers his things and heads to Shiro’s English class, leaving thoughts of Lance McClain behind.
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“Now you won’t find any fire and brimstone in Sartre’s ‘No Exit’. He may have been the world’s most famous introvert with his belief that Hell is other people.” Shiro’s attempt at humor is met with blank stares and Keith almost feels sorry for the guy. Young, smart, fit, and stuck teaching zombie-eyed teenagers philosophy.
The bell sounds and everyone snaps into motion, shuffling out the room as Shiro assigns a 500 word paper that Keith will surely be writing for at least half the class.
“Please stop trying to be funny Shiro, it’s honestly pathetic,” Keith gibes his favorite teacher, “it’s not worth trying to win them over.”
“Six takes on Plato, very impressive Mr. Kogane.”
“Do not call me that, and you know I only wrote one.”
“Right, and I’m straight as an uncooked spaghetti noodle.”
“Won’t Adam be disappointed to hear that.”
Shiro stares expectantly, not dignifying Keith’s mention of the teacher’s fiancé with a response.
“Well why don’t you turn me in then?”
“You kidding me,” Shiro blanches, “and have to read the actual essays they’d turn in instead? No thank you.”
Keith chuckles, preparing to leave when he hears paper scrape across Shiro’s desk. Glancing down he sees a paper-clipped stack with the Garrison logo in the top corner.
“Shiro, we’ve talked about this.” Keith hangs his head, already exhausted with the same old argument that Shiro just won’t let go.
“I know you’d get in Keith, you’re a smart kid, and I really think you’d flourish at Garrison University. Best four years of my life.”
“Don’t talk about me like I’m a plant. You know I can’t leave my mom like that. I know I can snag a full ride to Arus State. That’s the end of it. Leave it alone.”
“Just take the paperwork and I’ll stop pestering you, promise,” Shiro waves the papers in Keith’s face, making his ‘I believe in you’ expression.
“Fine.” Keith snags the papers and shoves them in his bag, turning on his heel to leave before any other strings are attached.
“Proud of you!” Shiro yells after him. Keith just rolls his eyes in response.
Lost in his thoughts, Keith isn’t people-dodging as well as he usually does (if avoiding people was an Olympic sport, Keith would take gold) and his books and papers are crashing to the ground before he has a chance to dodge the rowdy group stampeding down the hallway.
Cursing under his breath, Keith starts gathering his scattered items, only to see a pair of golden brown hands assisting the cause. Lance McClain straightens the papers he managed to gather, holding them out towards Keith with a lopsided, overly-friendly grin.
“Keith Kogane,” Keith blurts, restarting his stalled hands in gathering the rest of his things.
Lance chuckles, “I know, you’ve played organ for my mom’s services for four years now. You’re her favorite heathen.”
Lance seems to be expecting a response, but Keith only stares. Lance gently shakes the papers he’s still holding between them, prompting Keith to take them back into his possession.
“I’m Lance McClain?”
“I know who you are.”
“Oh…kay. Well,” Lance turns and heads down the hall, presumably to whatever class they’re both late for by now, “see you around Mullet.” He lifts a hand lazily in farewell, not bothering to turn and check if Keith is still watching. He is.
“Mullet?” Keith mouths the word to himself, reaching a hand to tug the ends of his inky black hair. He may have let it grow a bit long, but seeing as he was the one who cut his hair, he could say with absolute authority and certainty that it was not, in fact, a mullet.
Keith jolts as the late bell rings, breaking him from his daze and sending him scrambling to get to his next class.
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Red rumbles beneath Keith as he huffs his way up the mountain road. The bike’s a bit worse for wear, but it’s Keith’s only option for transportation so he prays for it to keep it together, promising to oil the chains when he gets home if it just doesn’t breakdown on him again.
As usual, Keith tunes out his surroundings, focused solely on continuing the endless crawl up the road home from school, so he doesn’t realize someone’s trying to get his attention until he’s physically yanked from behind and toppling to the ground as his bike falls.
“What the fuck?!” Keith looks to see what jackass just dumped him across the shoulder.
“Oh, dude, I am so sorry,” Lance McClain stands over him, offering a hand and a regretful look, “I yelled for like 5 minutes but you just kept on trucking.”
“It’s not a mullet,” Keith states from the ground, ignoring the hand held to assist him.
“What?” Confusion colors Lance’s features, reminding Keith of a puppy unsure why a stick has been thrown across the yard.
“My hair, you called it a mullet earlier. It’s not.” Keith pulls himself up and rights his bike, brushing the dust from his clothes.
“Uh, longer in the back, shorter in the front? That’s a mullet by definition.”
“It just grows like that. Plus I have to cut it shorter in the front so I can see.”
“You cut your own hair? Wait a minute, I’m so off topic, I didn’t knock you off your bike to talk about your outdated haircut.”
“Yeah why did you knock me off my bike, asshole?”
“Dude I’m sorry, I just—you help people with writing, right?”
“$20 for 500 words, $30 for up to a thousand, I don’t do more than that.”
“No, I don’t wanna cheat, I’m trying to write a letter,” Lance holds out a folded paper as evidence.
“Who writes letters?” Keith asks, grabbing the paper from him.
“I thought it’d be romantic,” Lance says as Keith unfolds the top section of the paper.
Dear Allura,
“No.”
Keith shoves the paper back to Lance, swinging his leg over his bike to continue his journey home.
“I’ll pay you!”
“I’m not writing a letter to a gi—to Allura. Anyway I can’t write your letter, letter writing is supposed to be personal and authentic. Part of that ‘it’s the thought that counts’ bullshit.”
“Please man just look it over for me! It has to be perfect!”
Keith pedals away, knowing he’d be no help in this matter. “Get a thesaurus, use spell check. Good luck Romeo,” Keith lobs the comment over his shoulder with as much sarcasm as he can muster, and leaves that problem behind him.
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Keith storms through the school halls, cellphone pressed to his ear as the hold music he’s sure he’ll be hearing in his sleep for the next week continues to play. Sartre may have believed that Hell was other people, but Sartre was never on hold trying to get through to his electric company about a bill. Keith’s frustration from dealing with automated phone systems half the morning trumps his usual priority for avoiding attention as he stomps his way to Shiro’s classroom where he knows he can hide through the lunch period while he waits to be connected with an actual human being. Still, he has to make sure he and his mom will have electricity for the month and his mom’s English isn’t the best, so he keeps the phone to his ear and considers harmonizing with the hold music just to occupy the time.
Finally, the hold music breaks and a human voice tells him the account number he provided is three months late on bills and electricity will be turned off tomorrow unless he makes a $50 payment by end of day.
The line dies, and Keith looks up to see Lance McClain standing at his locker.
“McClain.”
Blue eyes turn to Keith in surprise.
“$50, one letter, nothing more. Those are my terms.”
“Holy crow Keith, you’re the best!” Lance raises his hand for a high five, but Keith has already turned to stalk down the hallway, convincing himself this foray into love letter writing with Lance McClain will be no big deal.