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Lance is – well, he’s frustrated. And having a bit of a crisis. Frustrated because of the crisis. Also, completely at a loss as to what to do.
He’s lying on his bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling, cogs turning as he tosses his bayard up in the air then catches it. The repetitive motion isn’t doing much to bring him closer to a solution, but he continues to do it.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Up and down – it slips past his fingers and smacks into his nose.
“¡Mierda!” he hisses, the bayard clattering to the floor with a dull noise, and that’s pretty much a perfect analogy for how things have been going for him lately. He gets to his feet and half-heartedly kicks the inactive weapon, pacing slowly as he runs his hands through his hair and mutters angrily under his breath:
“Keith estúpido, con su estúpido cabello y su estúpida cara. Que cabron.”
He hears his phone vibrate but doesn’t bother to check it. It’s definitely Pidge, most likely telling him to grow a pair and fess up. Again. He wishes it were that simple. His stomach feels like it’s doing flips, and he drums his fingers nervously against his thighs as he considers everything that could go wrong. That list is currently very long. He knows that all his misery could be over with a few simple words, but why on earth would he take the easy road out? Endless suffering is almost definitely the safer option here, especially considering the person in question.
Another buzz. He can imagine what it says. Lance, you ass, if you don’t tell him, I will.
He groans and comes to a standstill. Whoever thought that going to space and forming a giant robot out of lions would involve this much moping around? He certainly didn’t, and he’s not sure he can take much more of it. The others (besides Pidge) are starting to notice, like when he pulls his jacket off during training to reveal muscled arms and all Lance can do is stare, or when their eyes meet across the room and his gaze softens slightly and Lance just wants to melt, how their trademark bickering now ends with breathless laughter instead of stony silences. He’s tired of ignoring the elephant in the room, of dancing around this… thing, but the only way out he can see is following Pidge’s advice.
A tick passes, then another, before he finally relents.
“Fuck it!” And before he can lose his courage, he exits his room and sets off to find the cause of his problems.
He hammers on the door across the hallway, and when no answer comes he heads for the training room. He nearly trips over when he peers through the glass panel and catches a glimpse of dark hair, but it’s just Shiro throwing punches at a training droid and he relaxes. He’s not in the kitchen where Hunk and Pidge are making adjustments to the dispenser that once tried to kill them, nor the bridge where he stops to chat with Coran about their next destination, and unless he’s wandering the many labyrinthine corridors of the castle there’s only one place left.
The lounge doors open with a hiss of compressed air and there he is (dios mío, there he is) – sprawled on the couch, jacket and shoes discarded on the ground in favour of comfort, hair perfectly dishevelled as per usual, stupidly handsome, dark eyes flicking up from his well-worn novel at the sudden intrusion.
There’s a beat of silence, and Keith arches an eyebrow, and Lance kind of…
Well, he loses it.
“Okay, I can’t take this anymore!”
Keith blinks innocently, although something in the tightness of his mouth gives away a kind of wariness. “If this is about me insulting your sparring form earlier, then I’m –”
Lance cuts him off by jabbing the control panel by the door, locking it so that no one can interrupt. He spins back round and sees that Keith is perfectly still, having closed his book and set it down beside him, and his expression is guarded. Lance imagines that he just looks really pissed off, all dark circles under his eyes and clenched fists, and he dully thinks that it might be a good idea to calm down before he says anything.
“This is actually gonna kill me if I don’t get it off my chest,” he blurts and, okay, not calming down is fine as well. “It’s just been eating away at me for – carajo, it feels like forever. And it’s not gonna feel right until I say something.”
“Lance,” says Keith as he gets to his feet, “Lance, you –”
If he stops talking he won’t be able to start again, so he powers through his protests and looks everywhere but Keith. “No, please just let me… I just… I, uh…”
But the words won’t come. They’re right there, on the tip of his tongue, ready to escape his throat and finally, finally become more than just a relentless internal monologue, more than experimental whispers in the dark. And he’s trying to get them out but his pulse is stuttering and he feels like he might collapse.
“Lance.” Keith is no more than a metre away now, hands raised slightly as if in a placating gesture, looking up at him through dark lashes.
It’s now or never.
“I really like you, Keith,” he says softly, and it feels like the weight of the world has suddenly been lifted from his shoulders; but then he can’t stop talking. “I can’t look at your stupid lips because I won’t be able to stop myself from kissing you, and I can’t look at your hands because I really want to hold them, and my heart just kinda – it hurts whenever you so much as look at me. Everything about you is driving me up the fucking wall and I hate it.”
He spits out the last few words with more venom than intended and he blinks at how wrong they sound, takes a shocked half step back. He doesn’t hate it, of course he doesn’t. Sure, it’s frustrating, because of course he falls for the reckless dumbass who’s meant to be his rival; but he wouldn’t trade the universe for this weird bond that they’ve developed over the past few months.
But Keith… Keith is just staring at him, his expression shocked into blankness, and Lance feels a little bit sick. He shakes his head and starts to back away, mouth barely cooperating to form coherent words, and he tastes the bitter tang of horrible regret on his tongue.
“I’m sorry. I’m gonna – I’m gonna go. That wasn’t a good idea. I’ve made things really awkward and I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ll just…” He trails off, shaking his head, and spins on his heel and makes resolutely for the door. His cheeks are burning and he feels the overwhelming urge to simultaneously lie down, cry, and punch something really hard, but he barely gets a few steps away when a warm hand grabs his and –
Oh.
He turns back round, slowly, and looks down at their intertwined fingers. Keith’s are pale and slim, nails bitten down to the quick, knuckles crossed with white scars from being busted time and time again; his own are tanned and nimble, and he can’t see them shaking but he can sure as hell feel it. He drags his gaze up, not really wanting to see the sad expression Keith must be wearing, the pity on his features as he tells Lance that no, he doesn’t really feel that way, sorry.
But he finds the exact opposite.
Keith’s cheeks are a pretty pink, lips parted slightly and eyes averted in what is unmistakeably embarrassment, and Lance can’t stop staring.
“Your hands are shaking,” Keith finally murmurs, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles, and Lance gives a weak laugh, unable to help the breathless waver that enters his voice.
“Well, I kind of just declared that I kind of don’t hate you. That’s scary.”
Keith hums in agreement, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smile, but then – within the blink of an eye – that hesitant gentleness is gone and in its place is an expression that Lance knows all too well and absolutely dreads. The change is startling and has a nervous laugh bubbling out his chest, and he starts to back away but this time Keith follows, fingers looping round both his wrists and mischief lighting up his dark eyes.
“Don’t pull that smug face at me, Kogane, I know what you’re thinking,” he says, trying his best to sound threatening, but his attempt falls flat on his face because his cheeks are burning and all he can think about is how goddamn endearing that smug grin is.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh my god, just –”
Lance’s back hits the wall and Keith is close, too close for his brain to function properly, close enough that he can smell worn leather and the florally body wash they dug out of a storeroom, close enough that he can’t stare at his stupidly pink lips without it being blatantly obvious. He does it anyway.
Keith definitely notices because he bites his lip (what an asshole), then shrugs half-heartedly and gives a pleasant smile. “I just think it’s funny how you – Lance McClain, our resident womaniser – can barely get your words out when you’re admitting that you, uh, what was it? Don’t hate me?” He pauses briefly and cocks his head, eyes half lidded. “What happened to those smooth lines a few planets back, huh? Do I make you that tongue-tied?”
“Dios mio, I take it back! I hate you, I really fucking hate you.”
“Sure you do,” Keith laughs, and Lance thinks that he could listen to that sound forever, especially since he’s the one causing it. He can’t pinpoint exactly when he became so enamoured with the way Keith’s face lights up, how his eyes crinkle and lose that brooding seriousness that seems to be ever present; but whenever he makes the dark haired boy laugh his chest tightens and he can only grin like an idiot while his brain stops functioning.
It’s been silent for a tick too long, Lance openly staring with a slack jaw, and he’s about to continue their familiar bickering, the back and forth dance of insults that has become an integral part of their relationship, when Keith presses closer against him and his breath catches in his chest.
They can argue later.
Fingertips ghost his cheek and he shivers, Keith watching his reactions closely – he can surely see how flushed his cheeks are, how his lips are parted slightly, how his eyes repeatedly flick over his face before coming to rest on his mouth – and he brushes his thumb over his cheekbone.
“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he says lowly, Adams apple bobbing as he swallows, and Lance doesn’t even bother with an agreeing response; he just closes the distance between them, eyes fluttering shut and head tilting slightly, and presses his lips against Keith’s.
The room melts away and then there is just the dark haired boy in front of him – he tastes like perfection, is perfection, has a sharp jawline that he traces absentmindedly as the kiss deepens. There is a hand on his waist and another cupping his cheek and Keith is sighing against him, and the only coherent thought occupying his mind is: yes, yes, this feels right.
Lance threads his fingers through his hair, lets his hands travel downwards, feels his collarbone beneath his shirt and the way that his pulse is thundering beneath his skin. He doesn’t want this moment to end. He wants stay here, forever, with Keith pressed close, lips and tongues and pleased noises as they tell each other how they feel without words.
But when they do break apart, lips swollen and breaths coming quick, he can’t bring himself to feel sad because he now knows that there are more moments like that to come.
Keith smiles, ducks his head to hide how flushed his cheeks are. “I thought you were lying when you were bragging about being good at kissing.”
“Me? A liar? No way,” Lance laughs, leaning closer and nipping at his earlobe, enjoying the way that Keith tenses against him. “But this does mean you like me back, yeah?”
Keith sighs, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Yes, dumbass. Now cállate and kiss me.”
He botches the pronunciation with his accent but still, holy shit, Keith just spoke Spanish at him – he barely has time to register his surprise because then their lips are crashing together, less careful than before, fingers tangled in hair, both of them lost in pure bliss.
But when Lance breaks away and flips them round so that he’s no longer the one pressed up against the wall, Keith tipping his head back with a satisfied hum as he mouths kisses against his neck, he thinks that this was all worth it. All of his worrying, the countless weeks he spent pining and staring in flustered silence and beating himself up about it, has finally come to result in this, and he doesn’t think he could be happier.
Although, he realises with amusement, Pidge is probably still blowing up his phone with more threatening texts. He’ll have to thank them later for finally convincing him to admit his feelings, but they can wait for now. Lance is far too preoccupied with the dark haired boy before him.
He might be, for some time.