Anathema | KLANCE

ELEVEN: The Day You Died

Arms enveloped Lance into a tight, desperate embrace, his legs stumbling until they were both backed up into the building's wall. Different shades of red engulfed Keith's frame, whether it was blood or blush.

"Hey, what happened? Why are you in a hospital gown? And Jesus Christ, you're bleeding!" A flustered Lance gently pushed Keith off him, eyeing his bruised, stitched-up body in full glory.

"I'll tell you later... do you guys have a hotel room? I need to take a shower-"

"No shit, you're bleeding everywhere. Hunk, can you put in the address?"

Pidge interrupted the two, digging in their bag for a couple of spare Band-Aids to keep the suspicious figure from dying via blood loss. Hunk, who followed behind their shorter friend, was covering his eyes to avoid the gruesome scene, not being able to take gore well in general. Lightheadedness was taking over the scarred boy's brain, not taking in enough oxygen after he ran through a ridiculous number of roads and avenues to get here.

One of Keith's wrists was held onto by Lance, dragging him along with the other two as they navigated their way through the city streets. Everything about Manhattan was bothersome to him – the obnoxious car horns, the stench of cesspools lingering in his nostrils on each block, the blinding street lights. Places he once loved were ruined for him, like a domino effect, all because of two people: Elliot, and himself.

Nerves surged through his slightly-unconscious body, swallowing uncomfortably. He was too focused on his pensive thoughts to realize they made it beyond the west of Times Square, clicking Floor 5 in the elevator of Comfort Inn. A warm palm was brushing up and down his back, a fleet of goosebumps following the simple, yet soothing, touch.

Everything was coming out choppy to him: the noise of the crowds outside, the walk down the hallway, somebody punching the vending machine that stole their dollar... The next thing he knew, he was planted on a cheap stool, peroxide being dabbed onto his wounds and waking him up completely.

A weak chuckle blessed his eardrums, Lance displaying a genuinely-awkward grin. "Sorry, I'll be as gentle as I can," Another cotton ball was doused in the liquid invented by Satan's reincarnated soul, the black bottle being snapped shut.

"Thank you..." His voice croaked out, Lance's eyes peeling open to stare up at him. The hospital gown was pulled down from his upper torso, but was still tied around his waist – panic flooded his system, backing away from the peroxide-covered cotton that would probe the gashes all over him. "Did-did you see it?"

His high-pitched question was answered by a solemn nod, Lance continuing the sanitation of the other's cuts without acknowledging the frown forming on his lips. There was a string of battered, minced skin down his spine, appearing to be a galaxy of both bruises and cuts. Keith still couldn't contain himself from wincing each time something grazed his wounds, and he wasn't sure exactly what was hurting him once Lance was finished stitching everything back up.

"Is it really love if someone would beat you like that?"

Words – sharper than the needles that closed his lacerations, sent chills down Keith's body, his head turning to face Lance's intense gaze.

"What?"

"Elliot did that, didn't he? He carved his initials into the back of your shoulder," He lit the tip of the needle on fire, sterilizing the areas where it had made contact with blood. "I don't think that's what real love is. You should call the police: it's bad enough he beat you, but what if he does that to someone else? Hasn't he... you know... killed people before?"