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Keith always looks good, it's kind of like, his thing.
He has this effortless handsomeness to him— His dark, midnight hair, swooping down the nape of his neck, fringing his forehead, loosely shadowing his eyes. Those same eyes, those deep mauve orbs, that swallow the light and swirl it in them. Lance didn't know purple eyes existed before meeting Keith.
Everything about him is so, sharp. So conniving. It's all so dark yet beautiful; chaotic but harmonious. In short, he's a decent looking guy.
But tonight, something about how Keith looks is causing knots in Lance's stomach, and Lance doesn't know what to do about it.
Tonight's his older sister's wedding. He's been preparing for this night for what feels like 10 years, only 6 months in reality. From the floral arrangements to the serving stands on every guest's table; he promised he would make his sister's wedding the perfect wedding night just for her.
Veronica, his sister, truthfully didn't care that much. She asked Lance to handle the responsibility because she had no interest in discussing the difference between off white, beige, tan, cream, and white chiffon for the tablecloths. Eventually, instead of asking Lance's opinion on every little detail, she just gave him the event planner's number and let him handle it.
This carelessness towards a wedding would be sign of a bad start to a marriage, if it were any other couple, but Veronica and her husband loved each other too much to pay mind to anything else. The wedding felt more like a formality. An obligation.
Lance, despite him, relishes in such obligations.
"You want ME to plan your WHOLE wedding?" He questions, freezing in place, jaw dropping in shock. Dramatic, as always.
"I really couldn't care less about this ceremony mijito, and you know how much I trust your taste. You've never failed me, and I think mamá would be happy to see your skills in action." Veronica is calm and reassuring.
She calls him mijito out of habit sometimes. Lance hates the nickname coming from his mother, always followed by something condescending or backhanded. But from his sister Veronica, it's nostalgic and endearing— a telling reminder of their history together.
And, she's right. Lance does need to prove that as an interior designer, he's talented; blooming with potential which his mother seems to believe will send him to unemployment. He understands, she can't help herself. Not seeing her only son turn out to be anything but a doctor must tug at her mind, at her instincts, at the way she was raised.
But Lance loves his job, and his job loves him. He's known since he was little, he's always had a thing for design. Veronica would always ask for Lance's intake on her outfits. He was relentless and merciless with his critiques, but always right. And that's why she trusts him. But Veronica would trust anyone who could fathom the difference between off white and cream.
So, Lance finds himself on the night of the reception. He's supposed to be riddled with anxiety, running around, checking if everything's right. Phone calls, left and right, checking if the catering's on time, if the tablecloths are cream.
But he just can't seem to care, because Keith looks like a million dollars right now and Lance is fighting the urge to check him out, over and over again.
Again, Lance has known that Keith is a good looking guy. As his best friend, he has had to go through the motion of rejecting girls asking for the boys number over and over again. But part of Keith's appeal is how rough he is.
Ripped jeans, messy hair. Dark eyes, chapped lips. Callused hands, bruised knees. Denim jackets, distressed t-shirts.
He always smells like tobacco or cologne, or a disgusting mix of both. And it works. Keith is such a caricature of rebellion and it works on him.
He's vicious, striking, mysterious. That's his appeal, it's his whole shtick!
So why does a suit and tie look so fucking good on him right now?
.
.
.
Keith spent an ungodly amount of time getting ready today. Which is unlike him—no really, it's odd.
Normally, Keith just throws on what feels right, mists himself in whatever cheap cologne he found at the duty-free, and goes on with his life.
He doesn't believe he looks particularly good, but frankly, he doesn't care. He believes that the last thing he has time to care about is how he looks, and he's never been told he looks bad, so it never really mattered.
But tonight is special.
Keith rarely finds himself confronted by occasions where he has to "look good". Even on dates, he can't bring himself to put in the extra mile and just, fix the mop of dark fleece on his head.
But tonight is special.
Lance has been telling Keith that every single day for what feels like an eternity. And where usually Lance's nagging never really got to Keith, tonight, it did.
Of course Keith was going to wear a suit, he can still apprehend standard wedding etiquette despite himself. But where he'd usually skip on the tie, and opt for sneakers, tonight, he's really trying his best. (Which realistically is not a lot, but it is far more effort than he would like to admit he has ever put in his appearance.)
It's to the point that Lance was concerned, knocking on the door of the hotel bathroom, where Keith's been for two hours now.
"Keith, I really won't sympathize with you if you died right now, because I have to pee so bad and you cannot be taking this long." Lance knocks on the wooden door for the 10th time in the last hour it seems.
To measure the time Keith takes to get ready with hours is freakish, Lance thinks to himself.
"I'm really sorry man, trying to figure out this whole "hair gel" thing. Let me tell you, it's not doing me any favors right now."
Hair gel? Is Lance hearing this right?
"I can lend a hand if you'd like, but I will NOT be able to help you if I piss myself; so could you please just, I don't know, do your hair outside or something?" Lance's tone is urgent; despite wanting oh so badly to cherish these moments where he should be making fun of Keith.
"No, no— it's alright. I think I'm done anyways."
Lance can hear Keith shuffling, something falling, and a mumble of curse words following. He exhales a chuckle finally, reassured that it is still Keith in that bathroom, and not some alien dupe of him.
The door unlocks, and out comes Keith, at last-
Keith stands there. Kind of awkward, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the suit he's wearing, and picking and fiddling with his hair, which is definitely gelled down.
"Uh... How do I look?" Keith asks, insecure in his ensemble.
In the 18 years Lance has known Keith, Lance has never heard those words come out of his mouth.
"You look..." Stunning . Lance has to pause for a moment, take it all in.
Keith is dressed in all black, head to toe. Nothing out of the ordinary for him, yet so astonishing in formal clothing. Black satin shirt, a fitted black blazer with satin lining the lapel over it. Black slacks shape the curve of his legs, as the silver buckle of his belt shines bellow his blazer, matte and muted.
Keith is wearing loafers. Not combat boots, or busted Converse, loafers. Like pointy, and black, and leather.
His hair is gelled back, out of his face for the first time since he's grown out his hair, but of course, in rebellious Keith fashion, he's left out a few strands falling in the middle of his face so elegantly.
Keith opted for silver cuffs instead of the usual black studs in his ears. He's changed his chunky, rusted copper rings for new ones. He sports his classic Chopard white gold watch, given to him by his father on his 16th birthday. Keith has never worn this watch in his life, until today.
Finally, like the ribbon bow on a present, a black bow tie circles his neck. He fiddles with it stiffly, not used to the feeling, usually leaving his shirts open.
At this point, Lance has taken an obscene amount of time to respond. The awkward expression on Keith's face shifts to one of horror.
"Oh my god... I look horrible don't I? It's the hair gel, it has to be. Man, I don't know what good gelled hair is supposed to look like! I've watched this guys tutorial like a hundred times and I still can't tell the difference between him with gel and without." Keith's hands, priorly trying to adjust his bow tie, are now shuffling at his hair, over and over again, too solid from the hair gel for any of his futile attempts at "fixing" it.
The odd string of words coming out of Keith's mouth is enough to wake Lance out of the daze he's in. Lance has to physically shake himself out of it. This... this can't be real.
"No.. no.. you look great. Your hair is fine, stop fiddling at it or the gel will flake." Lance tries changing the conversation topic.
"Oh really? Cool, thanks. Didn't you want to use the bathroom?" Keith drops his hands instantly, reassured by Lance's trustworthy intake.
Lance awakens a second time from his daze to which he'd returned. He's supposed to answer Keith right now. What did Keith say? Oh right, the bathroom.
"Yeah! I did, bathroom hogger!" Lance moves towards the bathroom, jokingly shoving Keith who stands in front of its door. Keith lets out a sarcastic huff of a laugh, moving out of the way. Lance shuts the door, a little too strongly for the matter, locking it behind him.
God, that shove was way too aggressive for how delicate Keith looks right now. What is Lance even thinking?
Lance falls to the floor. He didn't hear a single thing Keith said in that whole exchange. Dios mío, Keith is fine. He doesn't even seem to know it.
The effortless wispy strands falling on his face, escaping the faintly shiny gel cast of his slicked back mullet. The way the bow tie cuffs his neck so perfectly; the tightness of those slacks hugging his legs, his thighs, his a-
"Lance, I need you to tell me if this cologne's nice or way too much. I got a new one." Keith calls from outside the bathroom.
"O-Oh! Sure, sure. Just a minute." Lance is still on the bathroom floor. Thank god Keith interrupted the dark spiral his brain was heading into. What's wrong with him? This is Keith.
Lance fails to remember why he was in the bathroom in the first place, standing up and dusting himself off. He has to wash his face a few times to get that "I just saw the love of my life." Look off of it. He's being dramatic, nothing new.
After a brief segment of recollecting himself and his dignity, Lance steps out of the bathroom.
Keith is just sitting on the side of the bed, flipping through his phone. But god. It's all just so much; the suit, the satin shirt, the silver jewelry, the slacks, the bed— Lance is right back where he started.
"Lance! Come, come." Keith motions for Lance to come sit next to him on the bed.
Lance does so in silence.
Keith points at that skin between his neck and his ear, the spot he always puts his cologne in. You know, the spot where everyone puts their cologne?
But suddenly, it is so new to Lance, who from the motion, understands that he's supposed to lean in and get close enough to smell Keith.
Lance feels his heart beating, this is insane. Lance has known Keith since middle school, he has never felt a moments worth of anxiety with this boy. Yet the mere thought of getting this close to Keith's warm skin is driving him nuts.
Lance leans in steadily, hands firmly planted on the mattress they're sitting on. Keith is unwavering. Lance's nose is practically brushing at Keith's nape, and part of him wants to kiss the skin there, biting it and bruising it all over. He blinks the thought out of his head. He sharply inhales. Hes flooded with the scent, briefly dizzying him.
It's Tom Ford, Black Orchid. Lance instantly recognizes the aphrodisiacal notes of the cologne. He fucking loves this cologne. Only reason he never uses it is because he's too loyal to his Dior Intense, and because it's too dark for him.
But of course, nothing's too dark for Keith. He finds himself unable to pull away from Keith's neck as the "brief" moment turns into seconds.
"...So?" Keith asks, anxiously. What's with the lack of confidence today?
"I mean, if you want to hear something bad about Tom Ford you have come to the wrong person, let me tell you that." Lance tries.
Keith chuckles in relief, exhaling. Why was Keith holding his breath?
"Lance, of course I'm not asking you to criticize your 'lord and savior' Tom Ford, I'm just wondering if it's working for me?"
Working for him! What does Keith want him to say? That the black truffle goes with the black suit carving his body so perfectly? That the bitter bergamot parallels the bitterness of Keith's personality, the strikingness of his attitude? The notes of rum make Lance feel like he's drunk just standing next to him?
"Yeah, it's working for you. Now come on, we're late." Lance gets off the bed and away from Keith because this is about to be a long night and if he doesn't get his act together-
"By the way, you're not looking too bad yourself, mijito. I like the blue tie. Makes your eyes pop." Keith winks at Lance playfully as Lance makes one last attempt at holding his tears back.
He forgot to add that Keith calls him mijito as well.