[A similar apology was resting uncomfortably in his throat, creating a ball of nothingness -- a pang of guilt he wouldn't be feeling if Lance weren't so goddamn careless, if he (himself) weren't such an asshole. Whatever these feelings he's feeling for Lance, outside of what he's doing now and even beyond their stupid argument is manifesting in the weirdest way. Keith's a guy of extremes, similar to Lance's Dramatiques™, and when giving a shit fiercely resonates with every other aspect of himself it comes out like diarrhea spaghetti. Too much, too narrow, dogmatic in the worst way.]

Don't be.

[Quietly, looking elsewhere just the same, focusing on a corner of the dumb room he abandoned over something dumb that also made no sense. His eyes shift to the wall that exists in a square that separates their beds. It's barren -- the whole room is. There's nothing decorative or personal, bare and without a cork-board of conspiracies, theories -- where did his wooden halfassed I Got Deserted On An Alien Planet And While I Wasn't Dropped In The Ocean I'm Still Using This Flimsy Two-By-Fourish Thing To Mark The Days, Like A Prisoner At Alkatraz go? Why is the naked wall making him feel like shit?

Oh, right. It's himself that's making him feel like shit -- or, his previous actions as iterated by Lance. It's an extended apology that enters his brain as way to go idiot and progresses as patience yields focus, moron.]

It's -- no. You were right. [A harsh swallow, trying to free his throat up of that knot of stress.] You took care of me before. Without yelling at me.

[He's moving to settle his skinny ass on approximately six inches of mattress space, purposely making himself scarce while re-personalizing the conversation.]

I just don't want you to get hurt again.

[Not to oversimplify Lance's thoughts, but what a hivemind.]