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So, Lance still has to wash out the blood from beneath his fingernails.
It's his own – he got this hard scrape against his side from a large metal shard, as he was bodily thrown into a wreckage of debris by one last Galra droid. He was ambushed, and Lance was too late to shoot it, too far from his teammates for them to do anything about it in time – but he went down hard, clutching at his side, soaking his fingers in his own blood. Lance blearily remembers that Shiro nearly punched the thing’s head off – but honestly, he wasn't super conscious at the time, so he might've been totally imagining the look of fury and succeeding panic in those metal-gray eyes.
Next thing he knows is that he's stumbling out of a healing pod, alone.
Fingers still instinctively going to clutch for the hole in his side; it's not there. Been stitched, sutured, healed up like magic, convenient and easy, and it feels doubtful that the team is gonna lose an injury-prone Blue – Red Paladin anytime soon, not with machines like this at their disposal. So, it's – fine, it's fine that they left him alone, he's fine and good and healed up and that's great, and emo preteen Lance can just stop bitching about it.
Lance does end up falling to the floor – the pods are a bit inconvenient, like that? Maybe they should be horizontal or something, so healing patients can rest easy on their backs like delicate corpses before they wake up gasping like terrified, screaming zombies, panting desperately for more air in their cryo-fluid-slicked lungs.
Or something.
Lance is pulling himself up to his newly-bruised knees, tugging down at where his skin-tight medical shirt is riding up – he’s in here so often that they could probably just stitch his name into the fabric and call it a present. He blearily rubs the frost out of his eyelashes, tries to lick the taste of antiseptic out of his teeth. The lights are dimmed low and the thrumming of the castle ship whistles through the walls.
Huh. There’s really no one else here.
Lance ignores the sharp stab of knife-winged butterflies in his stomach.
The floor feels smooth and hard beneath his just-recently-healed-just-recently-sore knees – they had scrapes, they were all scraped up, he sure got a lot of scrapes tumbling down like that during the fight. Lance huffs, sits up, lifts up his shirt to look at the damage.
His left side, it’s fragile-looking, pinkened with light scar tissue running up awkwardly along his flesh, in a ragged, pale wobble of a line from where the debris almost knifed his guts out.
Lance can ask Allura for some of that scar-preventing salve, probably. It’s pink and light like cotton candy, but it smells like medicine, and it doesn't always work – Lance still has a few burn marks flared out on his back, and the solution couldn't get rid of that annoying, ugly little scar Lance has on his right hand, from when he was twelve and got his hand stuck in the door handle while trying to fight his big sister Maritza for the bathroom. A little piece of his skin got ripped between the wobbly handle and the actual door, and Lance spent, like, a year reopening the cut each time it healed, with his nails and his scratching, or his teeth and his biting. Which, uh, he regrets now, like, a lot. ‘Cause, a) his past self was an idiot, and b) his current self now has this awkward, awkward pockmark.
But, yeah. Alien healing salves don't actually fix stupid mistakes, which is something they should start doing because man, the GAC you could make off of opening up a space shop like that, that lets you erase dumb decisions and bad ideas, that's something Lance really needs, heh –
Lance snickers to himself, a little smug, but a lot depreciative.
And then he shuts up, ‘cause he sounds loud and misplaced in a room overstuffed with quiet and castle hum.
With a sigh, Lance stumbles up to his feet. With his shoulders in a slump, he glances at his dirty, blood-ridden fingernails, raw with hangnails. Bitten jagged and sharp because he started that gross childhood habit again – and they were looking so nice before, clean and cut nicely and taken care of. His nails used to be pretty and painted, before, him and his sisters would give each other manicures and he kept a bottle of aqua nail polish on hand for when he got homesick at the Garrison – way back before, before Lance got swallowed up in an ever-expanding cosmic war where they fight with laser guns and lion’s teeth and loneliness.
But. Whatever. Gotta fight for what's right, gotta fight for what's good, and just because Lance only knows how to pull a trigger doesn't mean he can't try to help – even if someone more worthy could replace him.
Lance scoffs to himself – seriously, is he just gonna sit here moping, he’s got – he’s got blood in his fingernails, he's gotta wash them – !
So Lance, with his brows furrowed and his hands twitching nervously, starts to make his way to the door.
Wash his hands – no, take a whole damn shower. Rid himself of grime and rust and blood, get into his cute fluffy lion-patterned pyjamas, and sleep. It must be the nighttime rotation with the lights so dim, and if it isn't then whatever, Lance is sleeping anyway, there's no daytime in space –
His eyes are so downcast on his bitten-nailed, door-scarred hands, and his head is wrapped so tight around the thought of real Earth sunshine, that Lance doesn't notice when the door to the infirmary opens.
Lance doesn't notice Shiro fumbling in, a stack of clothes in hand. Doesn't notice until he walks smack into Shiro’s broad chest.
“Lance!”
Blinking a little dumbly, Lance looks up.
Shiro is – handsome as ever, of course he is, Shiro is very pretty and knocking Lance out with blood loss isn't gonna change his opinion on that. Shiro’s hair is stress-ruffled and fluffed up, and his lips are bitten down into this pretty pale pink color, and he's fully dressed but rumpled like he hasn't really slept, and he's glancing down at Lance with his eyes wide and full of metal-colored concern.
“Hi,” says Lance. “I need to wash my hands?”
“You – ” Shiro’s breath comes stuttered and weak. “Lance, you’re awake, you – you overstayed the time listed on the healing pod, you took too long, I was – ”
Shiro cuts himself off, and Lance can hope that Shiro was about to say that he was worried, but – but –
But Shiro would say that to anyone, Shiro is a good person, of course he would –
“Oh,” Lance says weakly.
“I got you some clothes,” Shiro breathes.
Lance smiles, forced and not strong enough, but still a little genuine as he takes the clothes Shiro offers. “Thanks, man, you're a real – ” lifesaver, Lance is gonna say, and he would've said it but he runs his fingertips over the soft black shirt and sweatpants folded up neatly and tucked into his arms, and this is doing the opposite of saving his life, this is making his heart stop – “These aren't mine?”
Too big for him. All black. Lance tries to physically fight the flush in his cheeks.
Shiro coughs, roughly. Awkwardly. “They're mine.” He doesn't look at Lance’s face at all, which, uh, if he didn't want Lance to be suspicious all he has to do is look at Lance’s nose or something, it's not like Lance would notice if Shiro wasn't looking him straight in the eye. There's tricks and trades to talking to people you don't wanna talk to, okay? Lance knows this.
“Oh,” Lance says, and admires the shape and turn of Shiro’s nose just to make a point to himself. Even his scar is a pretty color, unless that's like, a weird thing to say, or something. And Shiro’s mouth is primrose pink, and Shiro’s eyes are ringed with exhaustion, and he's smiling so nervously at Lance.
Lance thumbs at the fabric in his arms. C’mon, Shiro, be real with me, please.
“Your room – it's locked, I don't know the passcode,” Shiro continues, and Lance doesn't mention the fact that their rooms all have the same passcode, ever since the time Keith accidentally got bitten by a vacuum-travelling space spider and was stuck dying in his room for like, an hour since no one could open the door and he kept saying he was fine.
(Keith better be taking care of himself out with Marmora, because ugh, that kid.)
(Also, Red keeps pestering him to vid-call Keith to check on him, and she keeps projecting her worry. Seriously. It's all her. Seriously.)
Anyway – Lance tries not to pout, because no, Shiro, you do know the password.
“I’m sorry, you'll have to deal with these for a bit,” Shiro says sheepishly, and he rubs at the back of his neck with his flesh hand, which is so cute and just makes Lance want to curl up in a blanket and scream over how adorable Shiro is and how Lance’s crushes are always unrequited.
“They might be a little big,” Shiro admits.
And Lance still has a stack of Shiro’s clothes in his arms, clutched tight to his chest ‘cause he's trying really hard to keep his shit together.
Shiro wants him to wear his clothes. No, Lance’s heart is not stammering like crazy, thanks.
Lance can't keep his shit together.
“Oh!” he stumbles out, shooting Shiro a big trembling smile and trying to keep the hysterical laughter out of his voice. “Thanks, thank you, I don't mind, it's okay if they're big, really, I – just – ” Lance takes a step forward, but that puts him too close to Shiro’s chest, and Lance is the perfect eye level to stare at the pale curve of Shiro’s neck, so he drags himself backwards. “I just gotta take a shower.”
“Of course,” says Shiro, staring at Lance with his eyes a little wide and his brows lifted ‘cause he thinks Lance is a crazy motherfucker, probably.
That’s okay. Shiro can honestly think whatever he wants about Lance, and, uh, as long as it’s about Lance, that’s pretty cool.
(Okay, no, that’s a filthy lie if Lance has ever told one, ‘cause if Shiro actually actively disliked Lance, then Lance might actually, literally, like, seriously die. Fuck.)
The thing is, though – Shiro’s looking at Lance. With his mouth wobbling like he wants to say something, his eyes wide and swallowing down every movement Lance makes, his flesh hand’s fingers twitching against his metal arm where he holds them there. Messy white hair falling over his pretty, distressed eyes.
And Shiro’s face softens, smoother than cotton candy, and his shoulders relax, and Shiro says – no, he breathes in relief, “I’m so glad you're okay, Lance. I'm so glad.”
Lance licks his teeth nervously, looks up at Shiro through his eyelashes.
Shiro stares back, this time. His mouth trembles, just a little.
And that – that's not dislike.
That's not dislike, not at all, not even a little.
Lance brings Shiro’s folded clothes up to his face, hides his smile behind them. He says, as gently as he can, as sincerely as he can, “Thank you, Shiro. I gotta shower, so I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Confession time: Lance’s cheeks strain from his grin, no matter his new scars and the ache in his knees. His teeth will hurt, maybe, but Lance doesn't mind, not really. He already grinds his teeth together often enough, with how he tries to keep Shiro’s name from spilling from his mouth whenever he fucks himself up. Which is ridiculously often, by the way.
“Yeah – of course,” Shiro says, back straightening up from his nervous slouch. He's so cute, like a puppy. “I’ll wait for you.”
Lance hums. “‘Kay. If you really wanna.”
Shiro gives him that look, gunmetal gray eyes so full of something vast, something Lance doesn't wanna try to name.
“‘Course I want to,” Shiro murmurs.
Lance lifts his face from swaths of black, fresh-smelling fabric. He beams up at Shiro.
“If you really wanna,” Lance sings breezily. His stomach twitches in anxiety because what the hell is this shit, Lance, but Lance glides past Shiro with purpose, barely brushing his shoulder against Shiro’s. “Then walk me there.”
So Shiro walks him there.
✰
Lance groans and rests his head against the shower stall’s wall.
His fingernails – clean, thank god, even if they're still jagged and sharp. His scar is throbbing and fragile underneath the Altean healing salve, and Lance hisses as he drags his fingers up the tender skin.
And if he pokes his nails in a little too hard, well, it’s just him and the water and possibly some cosmic deity. No one else has to know.
Except, said cosmic deity might be the Lions – Red, probably, specifically, since Blue never talks to him anymore – but, whatever. Lance is fine with that – Allura’s an absolute star with Blue, she’s doing so well, so good – and it’s not like Lance could ever –
And then Red’s hum rumbles deep and warm through Lance’s mind. No more of that, spoken not in words, but in fire and lighter fluid.
Lance chuckles to himself breathlessly.
Red’s a good girl.
So – so Lance tries to relax. Turns his face up to the water and hums at the pressure, runs his fingers across his skin to cleanse away the rust-dirt-grime-blood. He’ll have to reapply the salve later.
The thing is, though – Lance is gentle with himself, right now.
And, honestly, he doesn’t really like gentle.
Lance squints blearily at the shower head, scrubs his hand through his hair. Altean soap is a dream – soft on his hair and it smells like spice and sugar, and maybe Lance only chose this soap because Shiro uses the same. He knows that now, he got his nose all pressed up against Shiro’s sweatpants and everything.
Okay, so Lance is a little creepy. Just a little. Give him a break, please. It’s Shiro.
Lance huffs softly to himself. Ugh, it’s Shiro.
That’s the thing.
Shower thoughts about Shiro usually end with Lance smushing his face into the tile and biting his lips raw to keep quiet. Ends up with Lance running his hands up his thighs and pinching his skin ‘til big dark marks bloom across his flesh. Ends up with Lance fisting his hair in his hand and pulling hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. Ends up with Lance’s fingers poking ruthlessly and brutally into his still-healing, still-aching bruises.
And god, sometimes it’s so, so good. Sometimes it just leaves him shaky and satisfied and humming blearily as he tries not to sink onto the tiled floor, blissfully boneless in the hot water and thighs quivering in exhaustion. When he’s bruised up his hips and thighs by his own hand, stretched himself open too rapid and too rough – and he’s left feeling hazy and breezy and dizzy with pleasure, blurry with pain.
– and sometimes, it’s so fucking frustrating that Lance wants to screech.
Lance can’t – god, Lance isn’t good with frustration, okay? Lance breaks so easily when he’s almost there, when he can taste it and feel sparks scorching up the insides of his veins, accelerating his bloodflow, quickening his heartbeats. Almost there, when he’s scratching himself up and pressing his thumbs into the pulse at his neck. Almost there, so close, with Shiro’s warm eyes on his mind and the memory of Shiro’s roughened, fight-weary voice loud and bouncing around the insides of his head and the thought of Shiro’s big hands and the pretty primrose color of his smile –
Lance thinks, sometimes, when he’s being overdramatic, that maybe, maybe he’s a sea siren. Desperate for the grit of sand beneath his fragile, unfamiliar feet. Craving the sensation of being run through with the sea witch’s sword, yearning for the feel of getting fucked up, poisoned, tainted. Maybe he’s a sea monster who sold his voice just to walk on knives, just to feel that dreamy torment and savor that gorgeous, gorgeous hurt.
Maybe the little mermaid was a masochist.
If Shiro’s the prince, in this scenario, then that’s okay – Lance wanted the knives, not the love.
If Lance disintegrates into sea foam, underneath the hot shower of water as he drags his bitten fingernails down the tile and tries not to slip, then, well, he’s just gonna have to be okay with that.
...Even if it would be nice, to feel Shiro’s touch, to feel his flesh and metal fingertips trailing up Lance’s spine as a hot, hot mouth presses sharp kisses to the side of his throat. It’d be good, great, amazing, Shiro’s eyes all smoky through the steam of the shower as he grabs Lance by the back of his thighs and heaves him up to press him harshly against the cool wall –
And Lance has fantasies about lots of people, and it's obvious, and he’ll admit it, alright? He’s got a filthy mind that catalogues any filthy thought he’s got. Allura’s pretty mouth open and panting as her thighs shake around Lance’s head. Hunk using his strength and bulk to hold Lance down and work him open ‘til he cries. Keith straddling his waist and knocking his fist into Lance’s jaw.
But when it's Shiro, with Shiro’s hands around his throat and Shiro’s mouth spouting absolute trash, well –
Nothing gets Lance off faster than that.
(Nothing makes his heart hurt worse than that.)
And –
And –
And –
...Except, wait, waitwaitwait! Lance just doesn’t have time for Shower Thoughts About Shiro, oh, gosh, ‘cause it’s still the middle of the nighttime rotation and Shiro is waiting for him, standing right outside, and if Lance couldn’t keep quiet before then he definitely doesn’t have the shame to keep quiet now. Shiro’s presence would just make him...louder...
Lance lightly smacks his forehead against the wall again and tries not to scream.
God, why is he like this?
✰
Shiro really wasn’t lying ‘bout the clothes being big.
Lance’s hips are skinnier than Shiro’s, so he’s gotta keep pulling the sweatpants back up, but they're also really warm and soft against his legs and this goddamn castle has always been too goddamn cold, so – c’mon, let Lance revel in some warmth for once!
And why the heck does Shiro get thicker fabric to wear? Where is he finding this?
Lance rubs his thumbs against the edges of his sleeves, curls his fingers to press the fabric into his palms – they’re just a little too long, long enough to cover his knuckles. Shiro’s sweatshirt – checkmark yes, it's still too big.
Lance hugs himself and tries not to think about the boyfriend sweater thing.
"Thanks, man," he murmurs to Shiro, blinking up at him. Shiro's got his arms folded across his chest, like he's nervous, and – did Keith learn that from him or did Shiro learn that from Keith? Lance pulls down at the hem of the sweater, pressing his fingertips delicately against the fraying threads. "I – could've just gotten my own clothes, though, y'know? I know my room's passcode."
Lance gives Shiro a look, tries to make it as unimpressed as possible, tries to convey to Shiro that hey, man, we all have the same goddamn passcode, remember? Shiro, though – his mouth is a little pinched and he's staring adamantly at the floor.
Oh...'kay, then.
Lance raises his eyebrow, slightly concerned. "Shiro?"
Shiro jolts and gives Lance a wide-eyed look, pretty and puppyish and goddammit, why does Lance always fall in obsessive, possessive infatuation with people who are too fuckin’ good for him –
"Yes, Lance?" Shiro says, straining his smile and forcing his arms to fall to his sides. He's leaning with his shoulder against the wall to the communal bathrooms, eyes raking down Lance's form absently as he takes in the fact that Lance is in...Shiro's...clothes...
Don't think about the boyfriend sweater thing, don't think about the boyfriend sweater thing, don’t fuckin’ do it –
Shiro clears his throat, watching Lance's – not Lance's face, no, his gaze is pointed lower. His neck? Fuck, is Shiro looking at his neck – ? "No, ah – you can wear them. I don't mind. You – you look good in them." Then Shiro makes an awkward, strangled sound in the back of his throat and looks back at the ground.
Holy fuck.
Lance blinks up at him. He knows he’s looking up through his eyelashes, ‘cause his eyelashes are literally lining the top edge of his vision, and that’s supposed to be, like, sexy, right? Like, Lance can totally just march up close to Shiro and be all, hey, daddy, wanna see how good I look out of them? and Shiro might actually just roll with it.
Except Lance actually has some fucking shame, surprisingly.
“R-right,” Lance says. Then he chuckles hysterically. “Welp, nice chat, man!” C’mon, Shiro, work with him.
“Nice – yeah, nice chat,” Shiro says hesitantly, yes thank god he’s rollin’ with it.
“I’m just gonna – ” Lance points a thumb over his shoulder, awkwardly and aimlessly, because he’s pointing at the shower stalls, isn’t he. “Go to bed.” He’s pointing at the goddamn shower stalls.
“Right,” Shiro agrees, way too enthusiastically, with a way-too-pretty pink blush smattered across his cheeks. “Get some rest, I’ll – I’ll do that too, I’m just glad to see you’re alright – ”
“I’m glad to be alright,” Lance chirps, watching as Shiro shuffles his way out the door.
Except Shiro turns his head back one last time at Lance, flashes this beautiful, beautiful charming smile, happy and full of relief like nothing else, and Shiro says, “I’m so happy you’re safe, Lance.”
And – and Shiro’s smiles are too rare, the strain in his eyebrows disappearing and the curve of his mouth all sweet and pleasant, and it’s just – gosh, Shiro deserves to be happy, all the time, and Lance just wants the sight of that smile to be as common and lovely and inevitable as the Earth’s sunrise and sunset –
– And then Shiro leaves. Leaves Lance alone, standing with his feet cold against the freezing tiled floor and dreaming of cloudy twilight skies.
Okay, alright.
Lance buries his face in his hands.
That’s not dislike. Shiro doesn’t dislike him.
Shiro might actually be kind of into him.
Lance pulls the collar of Shiro’s sweatshirt up over his face and inhales sharply, savors the rush of spice and sweet and Shiro’s scent.
Lance is so fucked.
Oh, god, he’s so, so fucked.