Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron. The song is by John Schneider.

Welcome Home

Keith looked around. Everything was all set.

He just couldn't allow himself to think, to feel. If he did, he'd never be able to do it.

Actually, he reflected, hefting his duffel bag, it isn't that difficult not to think or feel. I've been trying not to feel for so long that it's almost second nature. He slung the heavy bag over his shoulder and glanced around again.

He would miss this place, he knew, every inch of it familiar. Even down to the occupant of the wide bed, outlined in the soft golden dawn. Don't think about it, he reminded himself, but he couldn't look away.

The bed was rumpled, the blankets kicked to the floor. Lance still slept, his brown hair tousled, falling into his face. He lay on his stomach, arms wrapped around the pillow, smiling slightly at his dreams. Only the sheet covered him, very white against his tanned skin. It was a pretty picture, very pretty, and Keith knew that if he kept staring, he'd lose his resolve, drop the bag, and crawl back into it.

But he couldn't. He couldn't do this any more.

Quietly, he made his way to the bedroom door and eased it open. Then he paused, eyes closed, remembering. His hair feels like silk under my fingers, he thought, wistfully. His lips are warm and soft against mine . . .

Felt, he told himself sternly. Were. No regrets. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and left without another backward glance.

Oh, God, he wanted to, but he kept his eyes forward.

It was hard enough to do this as it was.

Each step down the stair was a hundred miles, and through the living room to the door was another thousand. Keith propped the note up on the mantle, where it might be seen . . . eventually. He pulled his jacket from the closet, and merely stood for a long moment, head bent, staring down at the battered leather, heavy in his hands. It was his favorite jacket. Because it was like the one Lance had had all during their tour on Arus.

He'd bought it because it reminded him of Lance.

Everything he'd ever almost had, wrapped up in the hard-worn leather. Carefully, he hung it back up and chose another.

What a lie.

The quiet 'click' of the lock seemed to echo impossibly loudly in his ears. Keith was about to slide the key under the door, but slipped it into his pocket instead. I may need to come back later for something I've forgotten, he thought, knowing it was a rationalization, but not really caring. I'll just come back when I know he's not going to be here. That made him feel better.

The faint feeling of accomplishment he felt at being able to walk away was overwhelmed by the sense that he'd be alone forever now. And what was the point of life if you were alone? he wondered, but kept walking.

He didn't even know where he was going. All he knew was he had to leave.

Some hours later, the sunlight in his face caused Lance to roll over. Barely awake, his hand felt beside him, searching for his bedmate. He could feel the smile stretching his lips, and it grew wider as he remembered the reason for it. Keith was a fantastic partner, for everything from snuggling to sex and back to snuggling again, knowing his every need before Lance himself did.

And he'd needed all of the above last night . . . Firmly, he put a stop to that train of thought.

But his fingers found nothing but empty linen, and he pouted, opening his eyes. "Keith?" he called sleepily, then sat up at the lack of response, blinking. "Keith?" he tried again, louder this time.

He shivered. For some reason, the house seemed particularly empty.

He shrugged off the feeling, and climbed out of the bed. Keith's robe hung on the back of the door, and he pulled it on. Yawning, he stumbled down the hall, following the aroma of coffee drifting from the kitchen. Thank the gods that Keith always remembers to set the coffee maker on automatic for me, he thought, smiling again. Every motion executed without thought, he reached into one of the cupboards, grabbed his mug and filled it. The coffee was very strong, very bitter, and he made a face as he sipped.

Feeling slightly more awake, he wandered out into the living room and sat on the sofa, one foot tucked under him. He started to wonder where Keith had gone, and why he'd been gone so long. His side of the bed was cold. It's not like him, he mused. He usually tells me where he's going, or at least leaves me a . . .

That's when he saw the note, his name on it, on the mantle. With a grin, he pushed himself up and snatched it.

Only when he was holding it did he feel a shiver of dread. Keith's never addressed a note to me before, he thought, running his fingers over the folded paper. He's just left them on the table for me to find. This is too weird. Taking a deep breath, steeling himself for he knew not what, he unfolded it.

He could feel himself turning white and cold as he read the words, slanting across the page in Keith's usual scrawl. Tears of disbelief, beyond his control, slid down his cheeks. He read it twice, and even after the paper slipped from his nerveless fingers, he could still hear the words in his mind.

You see, I've loved you ever since the moment I met you. I mean, really loved you, mind, body, heart and soul. It wasn't just because I thought you were beautiful, because, if you remember, you were a little worse for the wear, having just come out the losing end in a fight with that group of upperclassmen at the Academy. I just knew. But before I could find the courage to say anything, years had passed, we were through the Academy, you were in love with Sven, and that was that.

He had the impression that the phone had been ringing a long time before he finally noticed it. Wiping his cheeks, Lance reached over to the end table to pick it up. "Hello?" His voice was low, and thick with his tears.

"There you are," Sven's voice came through the line, sounding relieved. "I was beginning to worry, that maybe you had gone somewhere else. I . . . I am sorry. I didn't mean what I said. I love you."

"I'm sorry, too."

"Do you want me to pick you up? Or will Keith bring you home?" He had to admire the way that Sven was able to say that without sounding snide.

"I'm not coming back, Sven." Until the words came out of his mouth, he hadn't made a decision. As he spoke, though, he knew it was the right one. "I'm sorry, but I'm not. Goodbye." He hung up the phone to a flood of outraged Swedish.

"You're right, Keith," he whispered to the empty room. "You usually are. I did always know in my heart that you loved me, but I just chose not to believe it. Just like I chose not to see that I love you. About the only thing you've ever been wrong about is how much I need you. I need you so much that it hurts. And when I can't handle it any more, I let Sven pick a fight and I come here. I'm sorry . . ."

He picked up the note from where it had fallen, re-folded it carefully and slid it into the pocket of his borrowed robe. But I can wait, he thought. As long as you waited for me to see the light, I can wait for you to be strong enough to come back. And I'll welcome you home with open arms.

Then . . . then, I'll be happy.

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March 23, 2002

© randi (K. Shepard), 2002.