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Miami was many things. Keith Kogane had been living there long enough to tell you that much. It was sweltering hot, which had been expected from the start, but it was also strikingly humid—the type that caused your clothes to stick to your skin and sapped the energy straight from your bones. The city was diverse, a rich blend of cultures that left Keith’s head spinning. Most importantly, it had a pulse, a rhythm that didn’t abate no matter where you were. The city was electric. There was an undercurrent of energy that permeated the air, giving every night a heady significance. Standing in the unbelievable queue to get into Casa Altea, a nightclub on the outskirts of Miami Beach, Keith was confronting all of those facts. “We’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes, linda. What’s the holdup?” Some asshole behind Keith yelled at the bouncer in front of them. She simply gave the guy an icy look and resumed typing away on her phone. “ Puta de madre-“ “I don’t really get why we’re here,” Keith huffed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The bass from inside the club reverberated through him. “This line isn’t worth it, Pidge.” “We’ve already been through this,” his friend dismissed impatiently, “I promised Matt I’d come to his show and I have some friends I want you to meet. Stop asking questions.” “It wasn’t a question,” he mumbled petulantly, ignoring the subsequent glare. Casa Altea, he had been told, was quickly becoming The Spot. The new club had garnered a reputation among locals for its vibrant scene, cheap drinks, and live music. On any given night, you could find students from Garrison Tech trying to sneak in without having to flash fake IDs—Pidge among them. A mob of girls pushed through them to exit, giggling and bathing the parking lot with neon light for a brief moment before the door swung shut again. “IDs, please,” the bouncer asked when they reached the front of the line, raising a blonde eyebrow at Pidge. To her credit, Keith’s younger friend didn’t bat an eye. She handed the woman a picture-perfect fake alongside Keith’s real ID, wordlessly waiting for approval. The bouncer didn’t like it, seemed to know that Pidge was only nineteen, but couldn’t find a problem with the ID. She sighed reluctantly and handed them the cards. “Go ahead,” she allowed, holding the door and sidestepping to let the pair into the building. Pidge nodded her thanks, dragging Keith forward by the hand and, holy fuck. Maybe it was the bass thumping from speakers overhead. Maybe it was the way that glaring neon signs doused the club in pink and blue light. Most likely, it was the bowl that he and Pidge had smoked an hour earlier, but Keith felt as if he had entered another dimension. The club was stiflingly hot and smelled strongly of smoke, booze, and cologne. Rock music was being pumped through the room, slinky guitar riffs sending shivers up his spine. It was hard to get a feel for the true size of the place because of the sheer amount of sweaty people on all sides of them. Naturally, they gravitated toward the bar. “A Manhattan and an Aperol Spritz, thanks,” he called to a pretty blonde bartender after squeezing through the crowd and a moment’s wait by the counter. She gave him a wink and turned to make the drinks. “I didn’t realize Matt’s band was this popular,” Keith shouted over the clamor, leaning down so Pidge would hear him. “Maybe it’s the venue,” she shrugged. “Casa Altea tends to get packed on Friday nights. Garrison kids. I’m sure Matt’s shitting his pants,” she smirked, pulling out her phone to fire off texts. Keith took the time to scan his surroundings, noticing how the crowd thickened near the stage. As the drinks arrived, a woman stepped onto the stage. Keith handed Pidge the Aperol Spritz and asked the bartender to keep a tab open. “Hello and welcome to Casa Altea,” the lady spoke into the microphone with a silvery, honeyed voice. Keith was immediately intrigued by her silver hair and slim figure—as was everyone else, apparently. The woman received thunderous applause and whoops from the crowd, to which she smiled gratefully. “I’m Allura, your hostess for the night. It’s an absolute pleasure to be here with you all.” What was that accent? British? No, not quite. Keith sipped his Manhattan. “Now, for the moment you’ve been waiting for, I’d like to introduce…” she paused for effect as the room began to cheer,” “Blue Wave!” She strutted off the stage, iridescent curls bouncing. “Blue Wave?” Keith muttered. Pidge either didn’t hear or completely ignored him, eyes fixated on the stage. Matt emerged from backstage, gripping his bass guitar under his arm. He was dressed in fringed leather pants—Christ, even Keith could recognize the fashion mistake. He waved happily at the throng of people, followed by a tan, bigger dude in a Hawaiian shirt who made his way to a gleaming drum set. And the next guy… He looked like he could ruin lives. Keith tried to assess the tall guitarist that was striding up to the microphone, taking a large gulp of his drink. The man wore a cocky smirk and a black button down (three buttons undone, of course). An electric blue guitar was casually slung over his broad shoulders, glittering against the spotlight fixed on him. He, in every respect, looked like a total dick. A beautiful dick. That was another thing about Miami. The people were unfairly attractive. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out what he liked: tan skin, steady confidence, long legs, and white smiles. The man currently tapping the microphone was the textbook definition of Keith’s Type. “What’s up everybody, I’m Lance McClain and that’s Hunk Garrett, it’s good to see you all,” he greeted with a voice like velvet. “I’d like you to give a warm welcome to our brand new bassist, Matt Holt!” Keith put down his drink to clap, grinning a bit at Pidge’s enthusiastic screams. Matt took a quick bow, looking pale and slightly nervous under the lights. “Without further ado, we’ll get started with our first song for the night. This is “Take Off,” hope you enjoy,” he hummed, winking at someone in the crowd before turning to Hunk. The drummer nodded and began to play a heavy beat with the kick drum. Matt and Lance followed soon afterward, strumming expertly and laying down the intro to the rock song. “They sound good!” Pidge exclaimed over the music, eyebrows lifted. “They actually sound good!” Keith grunted his agreement, gaze fixed on the guitarist’s expert fingers. Lance lowered his mouth to the microphone. “Hey, pretty thing with the quick trigger smile,” he crooned, and Keith swore that a set of mischievous eyes were locked on his own. “If you say you want me, I’ll be yours for a while.” And just like that, the gaze was gone. Keith turned quickly, taking advantage of the crowd’s focus on the band. “Another Manhattan, please,” he ordered, skin prickled and cheeks flushed from the music and the lead singer's stare. “Coming right up,” the bartender nodded. “No need to talk, just take my hand; for the night I’m yours to command,” he sang, a wicked smile crinkling the edges of his eyes, “and, baby, we’ll take off.” He whipped his head back, dark hair flying as swift fingers shredded on his guitar. Keith felt an adrenaline rush that was only bolstered by the screaming crowd and the strengthening buzz of whiskey. Lance was good. No, not just good. Incredible. Showstopping. Sensational. Fucking hell, Keith couldn’t take his eyes off the man. He stared dumbly, absorbing the singer’s features. “Matt’s doing awesome!” Pidge yelled into his ear. “Yeah,” he concurred, mouth dry. “Awesome.” Before he knew it, Blue Wave was halfway into their set and Keith was halfway into his third Manhattan.
“All right, we’ll be right back so stick around,” Lance said into the microphone, taking a quick bow and setting the guitar down on a stand. The band disappeared backstage, leaving a current of excitement in their wake. The room seemed to buzz, laughter and applause ringing out before music began to boom through the speakers. “Come on, let’s go say hi,” Pidge urged, dragging him toward the stage. “Woah, right now?” He asked, putting down his glass and stumbling behind her. No, no, he wasn’t ready to meet Lance. Felt off his game, a little too tipsy and sweaty to introduce himself. “Calm down, he’s nice.”
“What? Who’s nice?"
“Lance, you idiot. You aren’t exactly subtle, Keith, you were basically drooling during the entire performance.” “No I wasn’t-”
“Shut up,” she answered as they approached a door next to the stage, “and stop worrying. I’ve known him for years. He graduated with Matt.” She opened the door before Keith could process the new information, leading him down a hallway and into a small room. Matt, Lance, and the other guy (Hunk?) were sitting on a red leather couch, passing around a blunt. The hostess, Allura, was perched daintily on a vanity table, smiling as she joked with the band members.
“Pidge! Keith!” Matt exclaimed, looking frazzled and drenched in sweat. “How was I,” he asked, jumping to his feet, “was I good? Did it sound horrible?”
“You were better than I thought you’d be,” Pidge replied smugly, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Not bad at all.” Keith distantly hummed in agreement, eyes looking over Matt’s shoulder. The room was unsteady under his feet as Lance locked eyes with him. He, Allura, and Hunk stood up, joining Matt. “Thanks, Katie,” Matt said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Oh. Keith, this is Hunk, Allura, and Lance. Guys, meet Keith.” “How are you, Keith?” Allura asked warmly, shaking his hand. “What’s up,” Hunk grinned, and Keith liked him instantly. The drummer shook his hand amicably. “Hello, Keith,” Lance smiled, even more devastating up close. “Hi,” he answered stupidly. “Want a hit?” Lance asked, and Keith wasn’t sure if he was imagining how close they were. Keith could only nod, unaware of the conversation starting up between Pidge, Allura, and the rest of the band. He felt hazy as Lance smiled a bit, smoothly lighting up one end of the blunt with a red lighter before passing it to Keith. He took two hits, eye contact unwavering. Lance sucked on his lower lip, eyelids lowered as he watched. When Keith passed the blunt to Matt, the spell was broken and Lance took a seat once again. Keith followed, slumping down onto the couch next to him. Was he too close? He felt too close. “So, cariño,” Lance murmured, lips slipping over the syllables like butter, “have you enjoyed the show so far?” “Yeah,” Keith answered, “you guys are amazing.” Words were a struggle. Keith wanted to lay down on Lance’s lap and listen to him speak in that smooth Spanish. “Thank you,” Lance smiled, and Keith couldn’t look away from his lips. After a long moment, Keith realized that he had to reply.
“You’re welcome.” “Mm. I would offer to buy you a drink but you look like you’re already a little faded.”
“Yeah,” Keith responded dreamily. Lance laughed then, a bright, rich sound that made Keith’s heart pound faster. “Tell me about yourself,” Lance said. Was he sliding closer? Keith felt the warmth of Lance’s thigh through his ripped jeans. “Well… My name is Keith Kogane. I'm twenty-one and I just moved here from Texas to study…” he paused, memory short circuiting for a second. “Physics. I’m studying physics. At Garrison Tech.” “I graduated from Garrison in the spring,” Lance said. “It’s a great school. You’ll like it.”
“I hope so. What about you?”
“I’m Lance McClain,” Lance started. Keith registered a melodic laugh in some corner of his brain. Must have been Allura. “I majored in marine biology and now I’m just playing gigs to make a bit of money. It’s been fun. I was born and raised here in Miami. I’m the youngest of four siblings and my sign is Pisces. How was that?” “That was perfect,” Keith hummed, venturing to scoot a bit nearer. His bicep bumped against Lance’s and, before he knew it, a strong arm was sliding around his shoulders. He sighed contentedly, letting his head rest in the crook of Lance’s neck and closing his eyes. He was a sailboat adrift in the ocean, rocking gently on the waves. His mind was pleasantly blank, warmth spreading throughout him as Lance hugged him closer. “I think your friend is out for the count,” Lance told Pidge. Keith didn’t bother to defend himself, too busy inhaling the scent of Lance’s cologne. Vanilla with undertones of sandalwood and tobacco. Keith breathed deeply, body floating. “Lightweight,” Pidge muttered, shaking her head. “He’s fine. Right Keith?”
“Mmhm.” “So, mami, are you going to watch the rest of the show?” Lance asked. Keith felt the vibrations from his body as he spoke. Mami. Keith could get used to that.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”