underneath the arrogance,
underneath the performance,
underneath every careless grin
and every self-centered comment
is just me.
someone terrified
that none of this will matter.
I make everything louder than it needs to be
because silence gives doubt too much room to speak.
so I laugh first, because its easier.
I act unbothered first.
I pretend confidence comes naturally,
like I was born knowing I’d become something.
alas, the truth that I can't escape is
I’ve spent so long trying
that failure no longer feels embarrassing,
it feels personal.
like every sleepless night,
every sacrifice,
every piece of myself I traded away
was placed into the hands of a future
that might never arrive.
and I don’t think I need fame.
I don’t think I need everyone to understand me.
I just need proof
that I wasn’t foolish for wanting this so badly.
proof that all this effort
was building toward something real.
because underneath all the dramatics
and all the noise,
I am still just someone
trying to convince myself
that hope was not a mistake.
TWs: legalized slavery, references to electrocution, PTSD references/hallucinations/real or not real
Notes: this was born from a conversation with @peachy-panic and spiraled from there. takes place somewhere around 8 months after the beginning of luke/leo first contract.
Table of Contents
“Bring me the fucking collar, Leo.”
Leo’s hands are shaking worse than they have in a long time as he fumbles through the drawers of the desk. He saw Luke put it here, god almost… six months ago, at the same time that he had made him promise not to touch it again.
He buried it deep in this drawer, Leo is almost positive he did as the tears spring to his eyes.
He knows… he knows he saw him put it in here, but it’s dark, and his palms are covered in sweat and his head is pounding and he can’t… he can’t find… where is it?! His mind is screaming to find it, to find it fast because Luke is upset and Leo doesn’t know why, he doesn’t kn… he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. He’s barely breathing and tears are starting to flow freely down his cheeks and he wants to scream at his own weakness because he knows that it makes Luke more anxious when he cries. He frantically pushes around papers and pens and finally his fingertips contact the familiar plasticky-metal band and… there’s a sick moment of relief. He found it. He found it, so he won’t… he won’t have to tell Luke he couldn’t. He can breathe, just for a second, and he does. He pulls it out, squeezing it tightly. Luke will go easy on him, right? It’s Luke. Kind and gentle and good Luke. He’s angry, but he’ll be fair. He repeats it, over and over, as he walks back toward Luke’s room.
He’s disoriented. His mouth is dry, and he puts all his focus onto taking slow breaths so that he doesn’t hyperventilate.
“He gets himself so worked up,” one handler says to the other. “Makes it harder on himself.” Leo closes his eyes, every muscle in his body ready for the–
His toes are curling on the cold wood as he takes hurried steps, warring between getting there quickly and trying to stall, to at least get control of the tears, and what fucking time is it, how much trouble could he have gotten into? Maybe he was… maybe he was shouting in his sleep again, and he knows that Luke hates when he shouts in his sleep.
He’s standing in front of the door, he doesn’t completely remember getting here, but his feet brought him, and he doesn’t know if Luke wanted him to knock or wanted him to just bring it in so he knocks softly, then a little louder, but Luke doesn’t answer.
Leo shakes as he opens the door silently, and he wishes he had used the bathroom and had eaten something. Sometimes it helps. He can barely see anything in the dark but he can feel the band and the attached metal box tightly in his hand and he can almost feel it burning him, the phantom heat that isn’t really there but it… it will be.
“I–I…” His voice is soft, too soft for Luke to hear. He walks to the side of the bed that Luke sleeps on, and his stomach is in knots, and his heart is pounding, and he decides to kneel on the floor next to the bed and speak a little louder. “Luke,” he says, his voice weak and frightened and he knows that’s going to upset Luke more, so he tries again. “Luke,” he says a little louder, injecting all the confidence that he can find.
It’s a moment or two before he hears the bed shift. “Leo?” Luke’s voice is hoarse. “What…?”
“I brought it,” Leo says, too quickly. He swallows back as much of the fear that he can, he holds the training collar out; his hands are shaking but he clutches it tightly so he doesn’t drop it.
“Brought what? Where…?” Luke reaches across himself and turns the light on, and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust and for him to scan the room before they land on Leo. Leo flinches and shrinks down further.
✥ ✥ ✥
Leo is on the floor next to his bed, on his knees but hunched over as far as he can be, the… mother fucking shock collar is held out in a white-knuckled death grip and he’s trembling so hard he’s very nearly vibrating.
“Leo,” Luke says, dropping quickly to a crouch next to him. Then he mouths what the fuck? Leo can’t see him, it’s mostly a question that he’s asking himself but he wouldn’t be upset if Leo just offered him the information.
“I’m… sor… sorry,” he gasps. “I brought it, I’m sorry it… it took… too long… it was hard to f–find in the d…desk but I…”
Luke reaches out and pries it from his hand; he should have destroyed it the last time Leo used it, but it’s fitted with a fucking microchip directly connected to the DLS databases and it would have raised alarms. He should have locked it up. He sets it on the bed just as Leo bows his head, giving him access to his neck. “Leo, what the fuck?” This time he whispers it loud enough for Leo to hear him, but Leo doesn’t respond.
“Hey.” Luke is careful with his movements and soft with his voice as he hooks a finger under Leo’s chin. “I need you to look at me for a second.”
He applies just enough pressure to coax Leo’s face up, and Leo is cooperating with him, until his eyes, filled with absolute fucking terror, meet Luke’s. “I don’t know what you think is happening here,” he says gently, keeping his tone as clear as he can. The backs of his fingers ghost across Leo’s forehead. He glances at the clock. It’s been a few hours since Leo fell asleep. His eyes are unfocused, he’s covered in sweat. “Can you tell me?”
“I…” Leo swallows. “I don’t know. I…” He goes distant, and Luke can see as Leo tries to pinpoint what’s real and what’s in his head. When his eyes come back into focus, his brow furrows. Luke’s finger is still at his chin, and he pulls it back. “I got… the collar… for you?”
“I can see that,” Luke replies. “I didn’t ask you to bring me this, Leo.”
“You said to get… get the f… get the collar, so I did? I… I don’t…” Reality is coming back to Leo in waves, pieces are falling into place for Luke, too. He puts a hand on the side of Leo’s neck, exerting just enough pressure to get a read on his pulse, and Leo leans into the touch. Luke lets it happen, his other hand gripping at Leo’s shoulder, then moving down to his arm. “You didn’t?”
“No. Can you try to stand up with me?”
Luke’s hand is on his forearm, keeping him balanced. “I’m sorry,” he says. Confusion colors his tone, which is better than the fear, Luke thinks. “I don’t– I don’t know… I’m…” Leo sits on the side of the bed slowly, silent tears still rolling down his cheeks.
“It’s okay. Just breathe, for a couple of minutes, okay? You’re coming down from something pretty scary, give it a little time. I’ll get you some water, alright?”
Leo nods, curling his legs up, wrapping his arms around them. Luke grabs the collar as he stands, and Leo tenses, his eyes following Luke as he takes it away. When he returns with no collar and a class of cool water, Leo’s eyes are open, he’s no longer actively crying, but he’s not focused on any one thing in the room. “Jesus, Leo.”
They sit in silence, Luke helping steady Leo’s still shaking hand as he sips it. “You alright?” he eventually asks, as Leo eases himself down onto the bed. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, Luke guesses it probably won’t be the last. Maybe it’s never been quite as intense, but when his nightmares get specific, reality sometimes gets… distorted. It’s been building for the last couple weeks, since the disastrous fundraiser, and Luke thinks he probably should have seen the signs.
“I think so,” Leo whispers, not looking Luke in the eye. “Can I… sleep here… for tonight?”
“Of course,” Luke whispers back. Leo stares ahead, and Luke wonders how many days it’s been since he has slept through the night. In the morning, they’ll make a game plan.
He drapes the blanket over Leo’s shaking shoulders, whispering, “Close your eyes, okay? Get some sleep,” as he does. He brushes his hand once more across Leo’s forehead, pushing the hair off of his face.
“I’m sorry,” Leo repeats; he’s fading quickly.
“It’s okay.” Luke’s voice is low. Within minutes, Leo’s breathing evens out, although he grips the blanket tightly in both hands. Luke allows himself just a few minutes of watching him; he tells himself it’s to make sure he’s okay, and it’s mostly true.
“It’s okay,” he says again, but he knows Leo doesn’t hear him. “It’s alright, buddy.” He turns off the light, but he doesn’t sleep.
(me: *trips. words spill from my pockets. There’s 2127 of them*)
Lance had dealt long enough with living around that damn coat, his every attempt to have Keith just let him fix it turned down time and time again. Once he even managed to make the offer with no weirdness, no fumbling, no antagonising bites about it at all. Total stallion to stallion. Heart to heart. Or… something. It was damn cool, anyway.
(He’d deny having practiced a dozen times to the audience of his own reflection.)
Yet still Keith refused.
(And Lance did not sulk about it. Absolutely not.)
But he figured it out, after weeks of peripheral listening and observation and sheer determination to see it through. Keith wouldn’t accept reasons of ‘just because’ – not even from Shiro – but he would accept trades. So, Lance targeted the easiest one he could think of and caught Keith down one of many endless halls.
He’d spar with him for a full session – no complaints! – and in turn Keith would let him put a brush to his sides. Also with no complaints, though that part had been more or less implied since Lance was abiding by a strict no-button-pushing rule at the time.
Keith had pulled an odd face as he considered the proposal - finally mumbling something like an agreement after the longest, most agonising minute Lance ever had to wait in his life - and all while refusing to look any higher than Lance’s chin.
Lance only cared about that fact that he accepted and bolted at once to collect his things.
By the time they were making languid cool-down laps of the training deck, their sides lathered and legs shaking in the result of their sparring efforts, the giddiness of anticipation began to rise beyond the threshold of his control. It skipped his pace and littered his strides with prancing steps, kicking up waves of delight that manifested in half-restrained grins and more than once caused Keith to scowl obvious queries of why.
The instant they turned in towards the platform of the spectator stands, the single level they’d raised decked out with a box of water pouches and their discarded articles, Lance raced to his little bag and snatched it from atop his folded jacket, turning on a dime towards Keith and barely able to contain his eagerness to begin.
He was dismayed to find Keith had instead busied himself in removing the red binds from his legs, pointedly keeping his back to him and thin tail swishing quietly. Right, right, of course they wouldn’t jump straight into transition. That’s cool. At least Keith hadn’t just beelined for the exit. And they were still a little sweaty anyway, the wait would do them good.
Setting the pack on the floor Lance opted to follow suit. For it was, damn him, a good idea.
He thought himself incredibly patient as he watched Keith from the corner of his eye, strategically busying himself in removing his own blue wraps and guard pads to roll up the set, all while trying not to spend every other second tracking Keith’s languid progress. Lance found it impossible to match him he moved that slow, and yet Keith didn’t really seem to care much for winding the lengths of bind properly at all. Each looked more wadded up than decently coiled, and were dropped in a messy pile atop the half open duffel bag rather than in it. Which, if he was deliberately stalling, wasn’t what Lance expected.
Finally, Keith heaved a short sigh and tossed the last one amongst the rest, empty hands now tugging the hem of his shirt as he shifted weight across his legs, flexing them out one by one. He dallied a moment longer to take a water pouch, fiddling the straw between his fingers as his tongue flicked to wet his lips.
He was officially out of things to do. He had to be.
“Okay, fine. Get on with it,” Keith conceded, ducking at his own voice.
Lance dropped the wrap he’d wound up twice already and zipped beside Keith in a heartbeat, impatiently pacing on the spot when the mullet-head veered sideways in surprise.
“It’s about time this got handled! You’re in the hands of a professional now.” Lance beamed, immediately latching onto the fur of those scruffy withers as if he could possibly pull Keith back towards him.
“Uh… okay?”
Keith didn’t sound convinced but boy was Lance gonna prove it.
He sized up the full scope of his task, finger combing through pale hairs and flipping a hand over to find it covered in a fine dust, quickly concluding Keith had likely not seen proper care in yonks. Which was gross. And mildly horrifying. Jiminy crickets just the thought of letting himself get like that put a shiver down Lance’s spine.
He really, really wanted to tackle the remains of that old winter coat first now that he got a good look at it, for it was the clear culprit to all of his suffering. It just made the guy look so damn unkempt!
That is, until he realised the shaggy patches along his top line were as sleek and summer-fine as the rest. It certainly didn’t tuft and pull away when he clamped onto the strands and determinedly dragged them through. Lance had seen this coat uniformly short before – back in their Garrison days – so he was certain this was something new and it raised a whole plethora of questions that simplified to what the bloody hell. He stopped pulling when sturdy muscle flickered irritation beneath his attention. Keith gave a terse little grunt, turning just enough to glare from the corner of his eye.
“Pinching wasn’t the deal.”
“Hydration test,” Lance covered smoothly, straightening as he set both hands against the small cape of weirdly shaggy coat with a quick yes-all-good-here pat.
Keith just looked outright puzzled then, swerving his softly knitted frown from the water pouch in hand and back again.
“But I’m drinking. Right now.”
Shit, he was. Uh.
“Yeah- but uh, maybe it wouldn’t be enough! Those capri-suns are ridiculously tiny. Sheesh, whatever, okay, stay still.” Hands still braced over Keith’s spine Lance backpedalled the short step to reach his small pack. He hooked it with a back hoof, dragging it forward with enough force to flick it up and keep the strap over his foot. Despite the pendulum swinging it stayed put, allowing Lance the smug satisfaction of success as he twisted to meet his outstretched leg. Cradling the bag in the crook of his arm he dug through its contents, setting at least three different brushes atop the width of golden hindquarters before letting it thud back by his feet and pushing it aside. He cracked his knuckles and plucked up the round comb first.
The desire to chatter was a consistent tremble on his tongue as he worked the quick tight circles, but he wanted to play this cautiously. Safe-like. It had taken long enough to even get to this stage, and Keith… like, hated talk. And if he really hated it, he’d probably leave, deal or no deal, no hesitation about it. They agreed to grooming, nothing more nothing less. So! Lance was fully capable of not talking. Absolutely. For sure. Wouldn’t say a word. Easy peasy.
Instead he worked studiously to raise every bit of loose hair out of the light coat until Keith looked like a fuzzy dust bunny from withers to tail, every inch of fur rumpled up in every conceivable direction. The sheer volume he dislodged was appalling, really. Stars, how could the guy not be itching out of his skin running around like this.
Well, at least Keith wasn’t too much of a squirmer. He was tense and kind of twitchy, rocking away from the occasional sweep (ticklish, maybe?) and only once reflexively tail whipping him in the face, but otherwise Keith remained in reach. By comparison, trying to get this much work done with his niece and nephew was a riot. Lance missed this though, achingly so, for it had been such an integral part to his family routine. A deep-chested sigh suddenly rumbled beneath his hands and Keith shifted just enough to drop a third empty water pouch atop the raised seating. Third. Had that much time gone by in dead silence?
Surprisingly, Lance hadn’t found it all that unsettling. Huh.
He took up the broader brush then, running his palm against the stiff bristles and humming his satisfaction before setting into round two. He spent his time mulling over the relative silence, curious of the weird taste it carried and his uncertainty in what to make of it, and fastidiously focused on sentencing every discarded strand to flutter to the floor or tangle in the brush, every long sweep carefully following the grain. Glancing down as he crossed his hooves and side-stepped away from one very (and proudly, he could say) tidy looking shoulder, he could’ve smirked at the pale cloud collecting around the mullet-head’s feet.
It wasn’t until he’d worked down half the count of Keith’s ribs – still too prominent, did he even eat – that Lance noticed, and could only wonder when it changed. Keith had settled back, hip tilted and hind leg loosely bent, resting the tip of his hoof on the ground. Lance followed the dark line of his back then, careful to maintain all nonchalance as he noted how Keith’s forelegs compensated and his upper shoulders had taken on the gentle slope of a dozing lean.
Lance couldn’t see his face, but he was pretty sure Keith wasn’t looking anywhere but the back of his eyelids.
It filled him with a warmth that began in his belly and rapidly swelled up in his chest.
Hell yeah, he was great at pampering, and if he could get Keith of all people to relax like this then clearly he was a pamper god. It was all the proof Lance needed.
The feeling followed him the rest of the way through, chasing his palms and tingling in his wrists through every flick until Keith was – successfully and completely – brushed down. Truly, a marvel of his efforts. Lance was particularly proud of the delicate shine he managed to buff into the sandy gold, and could only imagine how much more it might show with a proper conditioned scrub.
He didn’t want to finish though. Not quite yet. So, sizing up his chances… he started over, running the soft brush in continuous gentle sweeps, too aware that any one of them could stir Keith and break the airy spell settled over them. Now and then Keith’s head drooped, the dark curls still drawn back in a ponytail bobbing on the return.
Lance saw the eventual dip too far that woke him – running a tiny jolt down the lean back that finished in an abrupt flick of tail – and guiltily whipped his hands away from their prolonged attentions. He stepped back as Keith twisted to study his work with a long, unreadable silence.
“Huh.”
That was it? Huh? Lance’s scowl vanished the moment Keith turned to him though, the smile on that face small and meagre but more than something fleeting. Lance found himself mirroring it right back in a heartbeat, staring as Keith finally moved off to pull on his jacket, and watching still while he fixed both cuffs and tugged the collar straight.
“Um, thanks.” Keith added, rushed and clumsy as if he’d just clicked to what Lance was waiting for. Lance huffed his amusement, hurrying at once to pack his things and stuff both arms into his own jacket, intending a quick exit himself now he’d gotten all he wanted. He didn’t put it past the mullet to suddenly decide locking him in here would be adequate payback.
Yet Keith remained a statue in his peripheral, duffel bag clutched in hand but held low between his forelegs. He swayed only once as if undecided in his departure.
“You should talk next time.”
“Next time?” Lance swung around, a bold smirk covering the simultaneous surprise and excitement of the prospect. He had expected a lot more than that to get here again.
Keith flushed at once, visibly scrambling.
“I mean, if that’s okay? After tr- the same deal. If you want- because you don’t uh… have.. to.” He scrunched his face and almost hid behind a hand, fingers curling against the air as he paused just long enough to suck down a breath and let it go again.
“Ugh,” he continued elegantly, hand dropping with a thwap against his side, “what I’m saying is- this was nice. But you should talk. It’s weird when you just… don’t.”
Lance was positively beaming, even brighter than the solar flare they once passed near Sh'gal.
“Ieyasu?” You called into the empty living room, a sort of pout on your lips when you were met with silence, nothing but the soft sound of the heater and the light chirruping of Ichigo meeting you. You stepped over to the bunny’s cage, smiling when she snuggled up against it for the pets you were keen to provide.
She was as sweet as strawberries, and tart too, often eating the wires of her owner’s headphones, laptops…and one time the blender. A laugh under your breath punctuated that thought, and an extra loving little scratch to her fur.
She was a good bunny.
But that left no clues as to where Ieyasu was, and a search of the living room and kitchen turned up little. You bit your lip. He was one who knew how to worry you, and you swore he liked it, because when you were worried you couldn’t help but cling to him.
And even if he wouldn’t admit it, you knew he loved the fact that you worried for him, needed him, loved him.
It was going to snow soon, a winter storm, and you had asked him, as sweetly and firmly as you could, to be home before then…and had promptly been met with a scoff. He had work to do, the research wasn’t going to find itself, and god forbid he entrust his work to anyone else.
You had thought graduating would maybe lighten him up a bit.
A pipe dream, when it came to what he was passionate about, the flame that burned inside Ieyasu was not easily quenched.
Still, you sighed, opening the door to the bedroom, not expecting much, and fully prepared to head back into the weather on a hunt for him –
Only to be met with a shock of blonde hair peeking out from the blankets, and a familiar groan, as light flooded the room from the hallway.
“Oh. “ Your voice was amused, a flood of love in your veins, as you slowly slid into the room, shutting the door. “Yasu…?” You murmured his name as you sat on the bed, lightly brushing your fingers across the fringe of his hair, peeking down at his closed eyes. He had been sleeping, and that was enough to make you grin, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead. Maybe – maybe you could go on ahead and make dinner, surprise him like that, and he could wake up to snow, and dinner, and you to keep him cozy.
“Not so fast.” His voice, deeper from sleep, spooked you as you went to move, his hand on your wrist. “Where d’you think you’re going?” His eyes, like molten copper, like gold, gazed into yours when you looked down.
“Oh… um…”You could feel the blush on your cheeks, you had gotten caught. “I was just – “
“You’re cold.” He scoffed. “Come here, you’re going to get sick like that, and I’m not going to be the one to take care of you.” The next thing you knew, you were lying in the bed, his body curled around yours, the warmth of him, enveloping you.
“Sorry for waking you up.” You mumbled, turning your face to brush your nose against his, a soft smile on your lips.
“I was waiting for you anyway.” His voice was a grumble, but his words made you weak, even as he pulled you closer to rest his face in the crook of your neck, to place a gentle kiss against your skin. “Now stop talking, let me warm you up.”
