Chapter Text
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
"Keith! Come look!"
The older of the two slips from his bedroom into the hallway as morning crests the horizon. He looks toward Lance, still in his cosy pyjamas, one hand braced against the edge of the open balcony door. His smile is blindingly white, lifting into his dimple with anticipation when he looks back at Keith, "Get over here! Quick!"
"What's—" he yawns, "—What's wrong…?" Keith asks quietly, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes. Keith shuffles toward the door, then stops short. His jaw falls slightly, caught between disbelief and delight. "Is that…?"
"Yeah," Lance's laughter rings out, softening his awed expression. His smile is easy, breezy, beautiful. Kosmo steps next to Keith, sharing a kinship with their big stretch and yawn, wondering what the hubbub is about. Lance's voice lowers, hushed with wonder.
"…It's snowing."
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
December.
The holidays are coming up — too quick and blindingly early, melting the days like the cascading sunrise.
It doesn't typically snow near the Garrison nor near their apartment, but, as the little children who believe in Santa would argue, holiday miracles do tend to happen.
They’re both on the balcony; sitting in wooden chairs with metal frames as they watch the sunrise with a cup of hot cocoa, whipped cream, and marshmallows. It's a special occasion, watching the snow settle into place beneath the morning rays. It's just a little chilly, so it may just frost over or melt from the sun by the afternoon, but, a pleasant surprise nonetheless.
"I've never seen snow growing up in Cuba," Lance whispers over the rim of his mug. A bit of whipped cream dabbles on his nose, his cheeks perky in pink, his marks sparkling,
Keith sips, staring intensely at the cream on the tip of his nose.
"What?" Lance asks with a blink, "What's wrong?"
Keith hums in acknowledgement. He places his mug down on the small wooden table in front of them, and leans over with his thumb to get the whipped cream off of his nose.
"Oh," Lance blinks again, "Thank—"
Keith puts his thumb in his own mouth, humming in contemplation at the taste. "Mm, tasty," and picks up his hot chocolate again.
Lance is steaming.
"Y-You can't just—!!"
"You have therapy today, right?"
Lance, stunned and full of betrayal (much to Keith's delight) stops in his blistering tracks. His mouth opens and closes like a nutcracker. He flushes a little, but he'll blame that on the early morning chill. The sunrise continues to be the centrepiece of interest for Lance. "I do."
"Are you nervous?" Keith says, watching him closely.
He may be talking about therapy, or he may be talking about what he's doing to Lance right now.
All he knows is that it's warm, he feels on fire, and it's very unclear on his end.
"A little." Lance is not talking about therapy. "It should be okay… I guess."
Let's backtrack.
Since Keith left him those beautiful sunflowers, Lance has become acutely aware that Keith is fragrantly, eloquently, absurdly attracted to him.
It's not that he didn't know that before, but I'm sorry—sunflowers, a scribbled on red lion picture, and a poem detailing how he's the blue orbiting star to his red? How he'd wait for him?
Despite stress-after-stress biting him in the ass and Keith taking the brunt of it?!
Lance is pleasantly surprised that Keith didn't leave after all of that.
He seems to be really good at that.
…Well, at least, he thought so?
“Lance, I can’t do this anymore,” Fantasy Keith says, Kosmo in tow with his packed bags and his unbearably attractive BOM uniform. “I’m moving out.”
“No! Por favor, Keith!” Lance yells, dropping to his knees on the hallway floorboards. “But I lo—”
“Enough,” Fantasy Keith scolds, as harsh as winter winds. “I’m taking the dog, dumbass.”
Maybe that's another discussion point to unpack in therapy.
Maybe not today.
Anyway.
There's this acute awareness that sort of shakes him to his core now that, maybe, was subconsciously there, but is now always at the forefront of his mind?
It just… Keith makes him nervous now.
He knows he feels it too.
Asshole.
"What time is therapy?" Keith queries.
Lance checks the time on his datapad on the table in front of them: 6:32AM.
"At 9AM, so roughly two and a half-ish hours from now?" Lance sips on his hot chocolate, mindful of the whipped cream touching any part of his nose this time. "And then I gotta meet Pidge in their lab."
Keith's gaze doesn't leave him, despite the horizon line sending them a gorgeous hello and a heavenly view. He takes a snapshot with photographic memory, detailing the morning sun bathing Lance's complexion, coaxing out the quiet razzle-dazzle he’s carried within him all along.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Lance leans his hand on his own cheek, propping his elbow on the back of his chair to carry the weight. His body language is open for Keith, and yet, his gaze is fixated towards the morning skies.
If he did, he'd notice Keith isn't looking at the same sun.
"Yeah," Keith murmurs, a grin hiding behind the mug's rim, "Sure is."
Lance hears the tease in his voice and turns, finally meeting his gaze. He sends him with a coy smile, brows knitting in silent appreciation.
Keith's physique is shimmering in slow, reverent waves of honey gold sunlight. It warms the curve of his lips like the taste of honey on pancakes. It drenches his messy, black hair in amber; softening each strand into a warm, luminous brown. He shines through his eyes, his reflective lilac hues basking in shimmering wonder.
Peaks of light settle home within the planes of his face, they highlight his lovely scar on his cheek and seep into the hollows of his throat and shoulders, warming the slopes of his shoulders that are free from his tank top, and capturing his skin's ivory radiance as if the heavens are beckoning his call.
He is a gentle constellation: constant in presence, and yet, orbiting a touch out of reach. So, Lance has to wonder...
Keith's gaze flickers across his face with an searing intensity; longing with no bounds.
Lance feels wanted, desired, lusted for, in a way that makes him shift in his seat.
Lance sips his hot chocolate slowly, deliberately; allowing the passage of time to do the heavy lifting.
Keith tastes the longing; the flares of hot and fucking bothered on his tongue.
At one point, they both steal a glance at the other's lips.
They catch the other doing it too.
Yet still.
They do nothing.
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
Keith (8:54): good luck
Keith (8:55): proud of you
Lance (8:56): Thanks 🙂 I'm twitching in my seat. >_<
Keith (8:57): hot
Lance (8:57): Ew, Keith?! I meant my leg?!?!
Keith (8:58): i mean
Lance (8:58): Don't you dare
Keith (8:58): it's kind of a leg
Lance (8:59): You are awful
Keith (8:59): and u are—
"Lance McClain?"
He stiffens, like a startled cat, snapping upright in his seat. "Yes?"
A woman steps out of the office, her short, dark hair tied back. In contrast, her eyes are bright and gentle, sharp behind her circular-framed glasses. His nervous stare meets her halfway with the calm assurance in her gaze, and he feels some of the natural tension melt out from his shoulders.
"Hey, Lance," she says softly. "My name is Dr. Julia. I'm a therapist who specialises in working with war veterans and high ranking officials. It’s really nice to meet you."
The term war veteran sits ugly in his throat, bleeds into his bloodstream like lead. He's trying, and he tries to ignore the nerves, offering a tiny, sheepish smile.
"It's, uh, really nice to meet you too. Not to be rude, but where's—?"
"Oh!" Dr. Julia exclaims. "Apologies, they're not here anymore. They, uh, moved from the Garrison to Public, so I'll be your therapist moving forward."
Okay. Now he's a little nervous.
"Follow me," she swipes her card and a light flickers. Her door opens. She immediately springs a light conversation as they walk into the room together, "Do you have any cats, dogs, any animals?"
Odd question, but sure, he'll entertain it.
"I have a space wolf…" he considers his next words as he takes in the clinical room. Thankfully, there’s a blue feature wall, neat bookshelves, a few plants tucked into the corners. It’s pleasant. Could use a bit more razzle dazzle. "…And a cow which is staying on my family's farm—her name is Kaltenecker— and then some space mice, but they live on New Altea right now."
"Wow! Almost like a farm, huh? Well, if they were all in the same place, anyway." Julia chuckles, resetting the couch and fluffing the pillows quickly. "Have you ever had a cat? I have two—Merlin & Nova—and they're quite a pair!"
This is a good start.
He eases into friendly conversation.
"Actually, we had a cat named Flash waaay before the war. He was attached to the hip to Veronica, oh, uh, my sister?" Lance stumbles, a little tense (a lot tense). He is, however, very grateful for the small talk. "My family would take in every stray we found, so he stayed with us for a while."
“That’s really sweet,” Julia says, her tone sweet. “Sounds like a lovely home.”
The therapist pats a spot on the couch and moves to her seat. Sitting in her plush chair, she settles in, attentive, ready to listen.
Lance sits down cautiously. Pats the material.
The couch is nice… Plush. Cosy.
"Before we begin, I want you to know that you’re in control of what we talk about today. All of our conversations are completely confidential. I do take notes, however, that is for my records only, aaaand, you should commend yourself, it's not easy coming to therapy," Julia laughs. "I should know."
Lance perks up, "You go to therapy too?"
"Every week," she nods. "You can also drop the doctor if it makes you more comfortable."
His last therapist, though lovely in her own right, wasn't this… approachable.
Wow, the more you know.
"I also want to say it’s completely normal to feel a little unsure in a first session. We’ll go at a pace that feels comfortable for you. There’s no right or wrong way to do therapy. Therapy is for your journey and yours alone. It can be every day problems or it can be the much larger discussion points that blend over, but whatever it is, I am here to help you unpack it in a way that's comfortable for you."
Okay. Awesome.
Lance nods quickly.
"If you also have a therapy animal or a loved one, you are more than welcome to bring them anytime for support; whether that be a mouse or a space dog… look, I'm not sure about a cow—"
He barks out a laugh. She laughs too, matching his energy.
He's surprised at how at ease he feels right now.
"—and not saying you have to, but we do offer it as an option as it can be quite beneficial for the more difficult conversations. Or, I can bring one of my cats if you'd prefer that option, too. Probably Merlin, he's a sweet little boy with hot girl tummy issues."
Cooooooool.
Are his palms sweaty? They feel sweaty.
They're not sweaty, but he brushes his palms on the pants of his uniform anyway.
"Sorry," the therapist says, scratching her head with a red pen. There’s writing along the side of the pen, but Lance can't make it out. "I'm a bit of a yapper sometimes."
Lance laughs kindly. It's the first genuine laugh of the day. "No, don't be! I can be too."
"Oh, thank god." Julia groans, leaning back in her seat. "I promise when you speak, you ARE the first priority. I'll do my best not to interrupt. I just needed to get the formalities out of the way."
"No, I totally appreciate it." Lance expresses with sincere gratitude, "Thank you."
"No problem. Now, all that being said…"
Dr. Julia shuffles in her seat, nice and cosy. Yeah, his hands are definitely sweating now.
"Let's begin, shall we?"
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
♪♫~ ...Have a holly, jolly Christmas, It's the best time of the year… ♫~
Pidge's voice rings across the lab, "Bae Bae, get out of the cables!"
"Arf!!" Bae Bae barks back, yanking some free cables from a box in their mouth and running for the door. The lab door slides open with a woosh, and Lance yelps, stumbling back as Bae Bae, Pidge's lovely fawn, short-haired Bull Terrier bulldozes through the door with a random assortment of cables in their mouth.
Pidge calls out their dog's name kneeling on the floor, completely outraged, and deflates immediately with a moan.
"Wow, Bae Bae and Kosmo are two peas in a Earth… Space… pod, huh?" Lance says, disrupting the tension.
"Huh?" Pidge lifts a brow in disbelief. "How?"
Lance thinks of the horror film scenario Kosmo put him and Keith through. He thinks of the dildo, the freaking blade in his jaw, and internally screams.
"You know what?" Lance sighs in resignation, eyes falling flat to the world. "Nevermind."
As he steps inside their lab, he sees metal pieces, robotic body parts, some half eaten food, a radio and their laptop open on the table, and cables all over the floor. Piles of books (new and old), gift wrap cut into pieces, a wall filled with blueprints with some of Lance's notes on their project, stationery in an array of places across the room (scissors in a cup, pens in a tub).
It's a wonder they can find anything in here—it’s organised chaos.
It reminds him of their room back on the Castleship, and he feels this odd, sickly longing thickening down his spine. He feels nauseous.
Instead, he whistles, putting on a brave and bold face.
"Was your lab this messy last week?" Lance asks, stepping next to the table. He lifts a book up with two hockey players on the front cover, sifts through the pages lazily. "What happened in here?"
"Well," Pidge sighs, eyes drifting towards Lance with defeat, "This morning, more concepts got appr—DROP THE BOOK."
Lance jumps with a shrill shriek and a shiver, dropping the book.
Pidge stands to attention and snatches the book from his filthy (clean) hands. Holds it close to their chest, almost possessive.
He blinks in surprise, deadpans Pidge with a disappointed look.
"What are you—"
"No."
"But that—"
"Abupbup."
"I don't even kn—!!"
"You must NEVER breathe it's NAME."
"Pidge," Lance tsks, crosses his arms. He almost looks like Colleen with the way his eyes burn into them with a fiery look, "You are being way too dramatic, and that's coming from me."
They look at the book in their arms. Look back to Lance. Look back to the book. Releases a deep breath.
"…I was, I-I was just curious…"
"…About?" He asks, quirking a curious brow at them.
The way Pidge lifts their gaze at Lance has him almost laughing; like a little kid who stole a chocolate bar from the gas station. Rich, brown, boba eyes and a fruitful pout, with a small breeze of a blush that stains their cheeks. They look (almost) ashamed.
"Okay, FINE."
Pidge gives up and hands over the book.
In a way, he does get why they act so young vs. other days where they're a bonafide inventor, researcher, etc.
They were just teens when they flew into space; into a mission beyond what they were ever prepared for. Growing up too fast, they didn't have the chance to be teens.
Lance almost feels bad.
Until he reads the book title.
He gasps, looks at the book in horror, and lifts his blues to their browns.
"Pidge."
"I KNOW, BUT I WAS JUST, I DON'T… I-I DON'T KNOW?!"
"Pidgey."
"I SAW IT IN A SECONDHAND BOOKSTORE, AND THE SCENES, LANCE, THEY'RE WRITTEN SO WELL."
He wants to laugh so bad.
"You," pfft, "You bought a hockey novel," he's biting his cheek, "that's based," hah, "on a fanfiction between Keith and I?"
Pidge shrieks, launches at Lance with lightning speed. Lance cackles ruthlessly, lifting up the book with his longer arms. Pidge is blushing up a storm, shrieking at him to, "GIVE IT BACK!!" but Lance opens up a pages and coo's at the words high up in the air, putting on a storytelling flair with a fragrant ahem.
“Kole couldn’t BELIEVE what he had been REDUCED to by Landon and his mischievous eyes. He was... infatuated," he twinkles his fingers in a flamboyant manner, a devilish smile too while Pidge rough houses him like a cat with zoomies. "Disgustingly infatuated with his rival."
Wow, no words have resonated so bluntly before from a homoerotic romance novel.
"GIVE. ME. THAT!"
Pidge leaps into the air like a squirrel monkey, attempting to kick him where the sun don't shine in the process, and snatches the book in the air. They huff, embarrassment laced on their cheeks.
Lance decides to give them mercy.
"Sooo… approvals?"
As Pidge slams the book on the table with a pout, they perk up at the word and turn around like nothing ever happened five seconds ago.
"Yes! THREE concepts were approved by the Ambassadors!"
Lance gasps, grins wide with pride: "HIGH FIVE PIDGEY!"
"WOO!" They both high-five, over the moon with the news. Pidge softly smiles, "It means our hard work is finally paying off."
With a gasp, they jog towards their laptop, "Oh! I also found those files you were looking for from when I archived everything from the Castleship."
Lance looks at their laptop with interest. "Oh? What did it say?"
Pidge's smile falls into a small frown, "Well…" and they show off their laptop screen. All of the text is blacked out. Lance frowns at the screen, just as perplexed, "What do you…"
"I'll dig deeper, I promise. I need them for the Altean tech side of things, so I have to figure it out one way or another. In the meantime, let's go over the remaining concept revision notes." They pat the chair across from their table and sit on the other side, "You'll probably need to sit down for this one."
Lance groans loud, uncrossing his arms and falling into the seat.
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
Keith's looking through the fridge for ideas for dinner when he hears the front door open.
A stomp of footsteps echo throughout the hallway.
Before he can even turn his eyes towards the hallway from the kitchen, his body is SLAMMED with another, spinning around the Cuban man in his arms — he hadn't even taken off his beige coat.
He blinks, inundated and full of surprise. He barely hears the joy vibrating in his ear.
"W-Wha…?" Keith asks in a daze.
"M-My concepts were approved!!" Lance laughs with a joy brighter than the sun, lovelier than the moon. "Three of them!! Oh my gosh." Keith thinks Lance hasn't noticed that his arms are wrapped around his shoulders and he's nose-to-nose, and oh, wow, he feels dizzy.
"They've been in limbo for a few months and one with a lot of notes FINALLY got approved after so many revisions and rejections, a-and—"
Are there roses behind Lance's head as he shimmers and sparkles in Keith's gaze?
Maybe he's got a concussion.
Maybe he's in love.
Who knows.
"Keith?"
He blinks. Lance does too in response.
Lance then notices how his eyebrows are thicker up close; the cute crease just hidden beneath the hair of his left br—oh.
Oh shit.
He jumps back a little, standing like a toothpick. Lance brushes both of Keith's shoulders with his palms, jitters as he follows the natural curves of his shoulders, his biceps, his stupidly leany-buff arms and slides his hands into his.
Because that's what ro—okay, who are we kidding here.
"HAH," Lance caws like a bird, "S-Sorry, that was, HAH," he swings their hands, his palms twitching in Keith's while the other stares at him starstruck. "WOW, I-I was veeeery close, I am sooooooooo sorry, ha, HA."
Lance was not sorry.
In fact, he would like to do that again.
"Y-You have nice hands." Lance compliments, face rosy with panic. "S-Strong! Masculine. Sexyyy…"
What the fuck is wrong with him.
Keith finally snaps out of his stupor. His expression surprised, and his brows raising into the stratosphere.
Is he…
Are they…?
Oh.
Oh.
"Are you free tonight?" Keith asks with a hopeful kind of confidence.
Lance's heart swooshes into space, face vibrant with colour. He looks to the floor, slides his hands away, and points his index fingers together.
"I-I mean, maybe? Possibly?" He's suddenly very animated; his hands fly around his nervous aura, gesturing outwards in fast motions. "I'd, uh, I-I m-mean, I'd check a schedule, but, uh, i-it is almost dinner time, right? Right, so probably if time persists—which it does, I mean, time a-always persists, it's time, a-and, it allows, that is to say—"
He claps his hands together. Breathes. Smells the metaphorical roses and dares to look upwards, meeting Keith's gaze.
"Yes."
Keith stares in bewilderment.
Lance blinks. Keith does too in response.
Finally, Lance—a touch nervous, two parts shy—confirms bashfully: "Yes… I am… free?"
…And the crowd goes wild!!
(In Keith's head).
Lance pokes him on the nose. Boop.
"Keith?"
Shit, what does he say. Think, think, think.
"Uh."
Nice one.
Lance graces him with a small smile, a tiny blush, sparkling eyes, and roses all around him in the background like the protagonist everyone chooses in a dating sim.
A crowd of Keith's representing all sides of his emotions are watching this train wreck unfold and are screaming at him inside his abyss of a brain, begging him to SAY SOMETHING.
"WHY IS HE SO STIFF?" Exasperated Keith yells at the screen. "WE LITERALLY MADE OUT WITH HIM LAST WEEK?! WHAT'S HIS PRO—"
"Yield, gentlemen." An arm shoots out in front of him—it's Focused Keith, with ongoing faith. "He's got this."
"Great! Uh, cool, er," Keith says smooth and suave.
Lance giggles at his incredulous stupor. “C-Cool. So, uh, where do you wanna go?"
Great question—one with many answers.
The gaggle of Keiths yell a variety of answers, including sushi, italian, cuban, malaysia, thai, texan barbecue.
Focused Keith growls, "Will you just LET HIM PICK?"
"Uh," Know-it-all Keith chimes in, pushing up his glasses like an anime villain, "We're his mind? Technically, we're ALL a culmination of his thou—"
"SHUT UP," Frustrated Keith snarls, "He's about to speak!"
"I have an idea." Keith says with an alarming amount of confidence, it's almost believable. "Be ready in two hours. It's a surprise."
Thankfully, Lance buys it!
He gleans with appreciation, gratitude, and a gentle curve of a sheepish smile, "Ooo, a surprise? I like surprises, heh."
"Wow. Nice move."
"That… was so smart."
"Did he buy himself some time?"
"A bold move. Strategic."
"Yes, quite. Indubitably so."
All the Keiths around him nod, some clapping in a spectrum of poses, overlapping words in unison as they watch the scene unfold.
Keeping up with his charming image, he lightly grabs one of his withdrawn hands, pulls it to his mouth and presses a kiss on the back of it.
“And for the record," he sends him a sneaky side eye with a coy grin, "I like your hands too."
Lance. Implodes.
Mouth agape, he's speechless as colour boils to his neck, his face, the skin of his cheeks, his forehead. He's as stiff as cardboard, as tight as granite. A soft, incoherent sound exudes from his throat, and the prince charming in front of Lance snickers, boyish and kind.
He then walks away, eyes tracking Lance with each step he takes.
"I'll see you in two."
And when Lance finally turns around, full of shock and vigor to send him a piece of his mind, Keith's bedroom door is already shut.
(Meanwhile, Keith leans on the back of his bedroom door and fist pumps in the air with the biggest grin he's ever felt on his face.)
(The crowd roars.)
(Well done, Keith.)
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
Lance is nervous—two shots of holy shit please in his nerve-ridden cappuccino.
Kosmo sits politely on his bed, watching his Papa whisk around the room into various places—pulling out drawers, going through his wardrobe, finding the right outfit.
Is this a date? Nah, can't be.
Right? Right.
Of course not, don't be silly.
But then why were they both so nervous? Why were they giddy like two teenagers asking each other to hang out after school? Why are they… Why are they treating it like one?
Lance holds up two shirts—one in black; woven fabric with red stripes under both armpits that lead downwards towards the bottom of the hem, and one in yellow; linen fabric that's bright and fun and makes his eyes pop.
"Whaddya think, Kos?"
Kosmo assesses, sniffs both from his spot, and deliberates. Conclusively, he shakes his head.
"No…?" Lance squeaks with disappointment, lowering the shirts in his hands. Kosmo, unfortunately, huffs with confirmation.
"Okay, okay, no, we're cool, it's fine—" Lance searches around the room like a maniac, while Kosmo leans their head down for a lazy, poised nap. Lance huffs, squeaks, bangs his knee on a drawer ("Ow."), and finds two more shirts—one pink button-up shirt, also linen, and one amethyst long-sleeved polo, cotton with a lower v-neck line that accentuates his chest (just a smidge, nothing too dramatic).
He lifts them up with fluffy confidence. "Okay, pick."
Kosmo lifts their head, sniffs both, nuzzles his head towards the purple one.
Lance looks concerned with their choice in fashion.
“Are you sure, Kos…?”
In response, Kosmo sends him a dirty look that screams, are you questioning me right now?
"Hm… Okay, I suppose you're right."
To strengthen his confidence, Kosmo rolls over, stretches his legs upside-down, and points his nose at the purple polo. He then disappears with a zap, reappears in front of a photo of Lance and Keith together in their BOM uniforms posing together, and points with his nose.
"Hm?" Lance looks at the photo, his grin erupting into a fond smile, and scoffs. "I don't think it matches our uniforms, Kos."
Kosmo huffs, points again—specifically at Keith.
"Keith?" he thinks about it, considers, tries to read Kosmo's mind here, "…You lost me."
Kosmo stares. Lance stares back. Kosmo boops the photo again. Lance looks closer.
"Is it… his eyes?"
"Woof!"
Lance looks at the long-sleeved polo, feels the rough and warm texture under his fingers, and smiles, his eyes lifting into crescent moons, marks twinkling.
"Ooooh, do you think it matches his eyes?"
Kosmo affirms with a nod.
“Very cleverrrr, pupperino."
Welp, that settles it, Lance thinks to himself.
He pets Kosmo's head, strips out of his work clothes with precision and speed, pulls the polo on, and looks in the mirror, black boxer briefs and all.
He swivels around, checking out his butt and long legs from over his shoulder with a quirky smoulder. "Well, hellooooo, sailor."
Shimmying his booty with a chuckle, he kneels down in front of his bed where Kosmo has found his comfy spot again, grabs a paw, and asks for his hand… in roleplay.
"Kosmo, mon cheri, is it okay if I practice with you for a minute?"
Consent is sexy.
Kosmo nods.
"Good," he smooches his paw, looks into his dazzling wolfy eyes with his fierce smoulder, "Keith, I—"
Knock, knock.
Lance shrieks, jumping ten feet in the air in fright.
"Lance, you ready?" Keith's voice rings out, "It's almost seven, we gotta go."
His face drops, stress lines present under his eyes.
Oh, cheese and freaking crackers.
"Uh," Lance yells eloquently. "Can you give me, uh, an extra…" he cringes at his next request, "ten?"
There's a slight pause (probably Keith checking the time) before he receives his stellar confirmation, "Alright, don't be too long."
"Thanks!"
Lance hears the sound of footsteps dimming towards the kitchen. He then does what anyone else would do under a time crunch: panic.
He hops up and over his bed like an olympian hurdle jumping champion and leaps to his pants drawer. He quickly shoves on some jeans, leaps backwards, yanks the side table drawer open, grabs a pair of socks, shoves them on, and kneels in front of Kosmo (who's been watching him the whole time).
He kisses up from the paw and back down with murmurs of, mi amor and sir puppers, before leaping back to the door and looking down the hallway.
He sees Keith on his datapad… in his nice black winter coat and fancy slacks.
"Fuck," he whispers before slamming his door closed.
Keith looks back at the empty hallway with a confused expression, shrugs, and twiddles with his datapad.
Leaping back to the drawer, Lance swaps his jeans for his nice brown slacks (a fan favourite) and races out of his bedroom.
He closes the door, leans back and sighs.
"You—"
Lance SHRIEKS, sees Keith a foot away from him and almost dies on the spot. Keith jumps, blinks at his skittish behaviour. "You… Okay?"
Ahem.
"Yep! Great, never better. Woo. Dinner, am I right?"
What the quiznak, shut UP, he thinks as a bead of sweat drops down his temple.
Keith shakes his head, grins cocky, and walks towards the front door, "Well, you look great. Get your shoes and coat on, we have half an hour to get there."
It's effortlessly cool; the picture definition of handsome, and Lance hates it (loves it).
He clear his throat, grabs his brown coat and swindles it on with excitement bristling all over.
"So… where we going?"
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
"Welcome to Davdabhau's Hot Pot!"
As they enter, Keith and Lance is in complete awe. Above them is a mighty dragon statue, glittering gold that scales across the high and vast ceiling. It stares at the entrance, incredible in its presence, almost as if watching over each customer sitting in every seat below it. In front of them is an even greater staircase, leading to another dim-lit floor. The restaurant is bustling with people and aliens alike, waiters and waitresses bursting from every section with sets and carts in abundance. The lights bathes the atmosphere in red hues in low lighting, perfect for a romantic setting. The sizzles invade their ears and the spices invade their noses. Hunger doesn't even encompass the rumble they feel in their stomachs.
"Oh my gosh," Lance whispers, "The furries run this restaur—" Keith elbows him quiet. Well, tries to. "OW."
"Hi!" One Davdabhau greets them in a hurry, menus already in their arms. "Table for two?"
Keith finally finds the words, "Uh, we had a reservation under Keith?"
The purple cat-like furry humanoid looks at the two, blinks, then startles with realisation.
“Oh! Yes, my apologies, we got you a private table upstairs. Thank you for your service to the universe." She bows politely, "Please, right this way."
Saving the universe gets you some nice perks.
As they reach their booth, the busy nature of the restaurant lowers in decibel, a softer sort of ambience lingers in their air.
She places down the menus, asking if they've ever been to a Hot Pot restaurant before. Keith nods (went once with Hunk for research purposes) but Lance shakes his head with apologies on his tongue. She explains how it works, says she'll be back with their drinks, and bows again.
Lance takes off his coat and stares at the dragon above them. Holy guacamole.
Keith laughs low, "Holy guacamole?"
Man, he's GOT to stop voicing his thoughts out loud.
Shy with embarrassment, Lance doesn't address his question. Instead, he pivots to complimenting his roommate slash date: "Wow, you really went all out, huh?"
"I mean, three concepts approved by the government is no easy feat, right?"
Unfortunately, Lance's mind derails from that comment alone: Right. This is not a date. This is a congratulatory dinner. In nice outfits. Together. With nobody else. But them two. Two best friends.
"But," Keith appears bashful, and when Lance looks his way, it throws Lance off-kilter to be caught in his appreciative stare, "I wanna take care of you too."
…Oh.
"You work hard," Keith adds, earnesty in his eyes. "You deserve nice things, Lance."
Lance leans back in his cushioned seat, the heat of the invisible hot pot sizzling in his cheeks.
"Oh," Lance fumbles in the heart-stuttering silence. "Y-You think so?"
"I know so," Keith reassures across from him, taking off his coat—revealing his white dress shirt that accentuates his stunning muscles.
Sweet mother-of-fucking pearl.
They're not even ten minutes in, but man, does he want to kiss Keith silly. The thought has Lance completely rattled, numb and flustered in his seat.
Thankfully, he's saved by the waitress who places down their drinks.
"There you go! Did you guys need some time to—"
"No thanks," Keith swiftly cuts in with an audacious, cocky little grin that gives Lance heart palpitations from across the booth, "We'd like the romantic set for two, please."
ROMAN—
Lance short circuits in his seat, melts against the plush and turns into ash. He shoots a side-eye at the menu and his eyes expand three sizes out of pure, unadulterated shock.
It's a three hundred dollar set, what in the lord's grace is he flipping doing?!
"Of course!" The Davdabhau known as 'Khamalah' taps away on their tablet. Lance is gonna die on the spot. "How would you like your soup bases?"
"I'll get the," Keith taps on the table, peering at the menu. "Sichuan Spicy, Pork Bone, and Laksa. And for the Wagyu beef that comes with it… We’ll order the highest grade please."
He just increased the price by a hundred bucks, holy smokes.
"Certainly! Would you like any additional sides?"
"Lance likes vegetables, so if possible, we'd like one of everything but as smaller side dishes, please."
Is Keith even looking at the price?
"Lance?" Keith catches his shy gaze, and he could swear he sees red roses blooming around his head. "Do you want anything specific?"
He rushes to look at the menu and dies inside at the price. His gaze gleans over the rice, flickers back while he shakes his head, "No thanks."
Unfortunately, Keith caught that look: "Does the set come with special fried rice?"
"It comes with steamed, but we can swap it over or you can have it as an additional side."
"Let's add it,” Keith chuckles charmingly, raising the hair on Lance's skin. "I'm hungry tonight."
…That was so fucking attractive, lord have mer—NO, BRAIN. CEASE AND DESIST.
"Most certainly!” She finishes her taps and the tablet flies into her pocket. Innovative. "I'll come back soon, just call out if you need anything in the meantime."
They both send their thanks as she walks away. When they're finally alone, Lance gives him a whopping side eye and crosses his arms with a pout. Keith is smirking like a hound dog.
"What? I'm hungry."
"Liar."
"Mhm." He doesn't even deny it. Keith leans on the table, palm on cheek. "So, tell me about these concepts that were approved."
Slowly but surely, Lance opens up—perking him out of his shy demeanour.
He tells him about how if Pidge didn't archive those files, the project would be a bust (amongst the other things in his life).
He tells him about all the failed ones, the half-revised ones, the ones that had ambassadors scratching their heads, and the approved ones that took months of back and forth.
It's funny, the more he yaps on about the project, the more at ease he feels about tonight.
Before they know it, Khamalah arrives with all of their food. The spread is drool-dropping, mouth-watering, and their stomachs rumble when she turns on the heat on the side of the table.
"Feel free to dig in on some of the dishes on the left, the rice is here too. All the dishes on the right, you can cook in the hot pot once it heats up a bit more." She bows again, courteous and kind. "Enjoy."
The two men are stunned by the spread.
Smiles creep up on their faces, and as soon as they grab their chopsticks, they go to town—stacking their plates with all the food they can muster.
Lance digs into the fried rice, whilst Keith goes ham on some pickled radishes and some spring rolls. They both moan as the food grasps onto their taste buds.
"Keith," Lance moans, swallowing his food. "How in the world did you find this restaurant?"
Keith, in a hunger-fuelled mission, admits with too much confidence and a shrug: "Honestly? I saw the dragon on the ceiling and booked."
Lance chuckles, peeping at the crease in between his brows as Keith demolishes his plate with the grace of a Galra.
Too cute.
Classic Keith.
Steam simmers over their food from the hot pot, and Keith grins so wide, it eclipses a cute little dimple on his bare cheek.
“Hot Pot's ready."
"Oh, how do I do it?" Lance asks with excitement. He flutters his lashes and perks his tone, a little too highly; almost imitating a damsel in a 1930's film trying to convince the detective to solve her case.
"Can you show me, Mr. Kogane?"
Keith stiffens, lingers his chopsticks over the Wagyu meat. He blinks at him with surprise. But, as any man gets when given any opportunity to educate their love interest, he obviously, suddenly, intellectually becomes the Gordon Ramsey of cooking and smirks, ready to impress.
He responds, confidently low: "Watch and learn, sweetheart."
And fuck, that does something to Lance.
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
"I hope it's okay that you spent so much," Lance ponders, the sea breeze wind rustling through his widow's peak.
Keith grins, lets out a cute, low laugh in response. "Don't worry about it, it's the best meal we've had in years."
"Man, you got that right."
A block away from the restaurant is Lance's favourite place in the universe—the beach.
As part of Keith's stellar plan, they walk off all the food they devoured on the pier, the nighttime waves splashing underneath.
They also got some ice cream, because why not.
"You could've at least let me pay for the ice cream…" Lance murmurs, feeling a little bad for being spoilt so much.
Keith shakes his head, the sea's winds breezing through his bangs. "Nope. Not happening."
"Such a jerk," Lance snickers, taking a final bite of his mango sorbet.
"Meh," Keith shrugs, finishing off his strawberry ice cream. "You love me, so."
As Lance chokes down his sorbet, Keith steals his cup and throws both of theirs into a nearby bin. He glints back over to Lance, whose cheeks are a little red and shivering a tad, and walks back to him.
Keith loops his arm around his with hopeful, purple eyes and a toothy grin.
In front of them is the beginnings of a pier that extends long and vast over the ocean.
Above them, the stars shimmer in the night sky, no lights amongst them other than a few cruise boats a while away.
Undoubtedly alone, there's a palpable edge of energy lingering in their air that buzzes between them as they stroll along the pier—with warm bellies and fuller hearts, they take their time, conversing away and poking fun at each other with banter.
As they reach the end of the pier, Lance leans his back against the railing.
Keith stands in front of him, hands slowly falling into his, and the air shifts, thickening between them in the comfortable silence.
They lock eyes.
And Lance hums.
"So," he trails, swinging their hands together gently. Lance looks down and Keith's notices a big tell of something—avoidant of Keith's gaze. "Tonight was really nice."
"Mm."
"Super nice."
"Yuh huh."
"Excellent, even."
"Lance," Keith begs with an amused eyeroll. "Look at me."
He does, gradually meeting his gaze.
The flames of connection thickens, formidable in how they steal the air away with his blazing blues. It's disruptive, chaotic, vast in how their blood shifts into molten honey with one look.
It's imminent, unavoidable, and all too much.
Keith bites the bullet, and no matter how much he wants to say fuck it and throw all his morals into the wind, "there's no expectations here… I just, I want you to know that, okay?"
A soul-crushing want envelops Lance.
He feels it blazing through his bronze skin, blistering and relentless as his lids reach the horizon line of his gaze.
Oh, how fucking wrong Keith is. How so wrong he continues to be.
"None here either, Kogane."
Both of them are liars tonight, it seems.
As they stand face to face, the ocean is clear in its resolve—waves restlessly hitting the pier's pillars, almost as if mother nature is urging them to do something about this poor, unfortunate tension.
"You know, I didn't take you for a spicy guy," Lance offers, poorly hiding a touch of desire in his tone. "Beat my Cuban bloodline in how much you could handle tonight."
"Yeah?" Keith matches it in kind, "Surprised you thought I couldn't handle spice knowing you, McClain."
Lance bites his lip, plays with the fire between them with a whisper.
"…Are you sure about that?"
His gaze sharpens, and Keith takes one step closer to him with a singular dare lodged in his throat. Lance steps back, his spine stiffens as it meets the railing, but his gaze doesn't falter.
With no place to go, his right hand man is cornered against the pier's edge.
Keith's hands glide under his coat, over his waist. Body to body, chest to chest, the air gets tight with every shuddering, anxiety-filled breath they take.
Lance, lifts the palm of his hands over Keith's chest, captured by his starlit gaze. He thinks quietly for a moment, looking between the stars in his eyes. He craves to taste his lips once more, and god, does it feel right—like a fish launching out of water and crash landing into the unknown.
Lance wants to.
God, does he want to so badly.
"Tell me no," Keith begs, by god, does he beg. It throws Lance in for a loop. "Lance, if you don't want this, tell me no."
And suddenly, he halts—a flicker of a crease appears between Lance’s crinkled brows.
Hesitation.
Of course, Keith notices.
He safely takes a small step back, gracing him with some breathing room. However, it's unlikely they'll have another soul-crashing moment like this again, lest they fall back in roommate territory.
Lance realises what Keith’s doing immediately and yanks him back into his orbit, ready to scream 'fuck it' to the rooftops, ready to bask in the implosion.
Ready to utter those heedless words that's been aching on his tongue for years.
"I—"
BRRRRRRRRRR!!!
A second too late, a cruise ship honks into the night.
A second too late, Lance is startled into silence by the interruption.
A second too late, Keith takes two steps away, swivels his sullen expression to the cruise ship honking in the distance.
Lance stares, slips into a subtle frown and chews on his cheek.
He swears not to let out a sickening groan of frustration, but my god, is it fucking hard.
He was a second too late and blew it, missing their chance.
Again.
He's such an idiot.
Ruined it all.
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
The walk to the motorbike is quiet, although Keith tries to quip a joke or two. Lance doesn't respond.
The ride home is even quieter.
The walk back into their apartment is so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.
They were close.
So fucking close.
Lance could blame the whims of fate. He could blame the cruise ship, shattering the tension between them with the ferocity of a lion's roar. He could blame all the external factors that stopped them from winning a taste of an angel's kiss.
But… Lance is fatigued after tonight, and he feels as if he has no one to blame but himself.
Keith, on the other hand, leans against his bedroom door, watches Lance disassociate in the living room. It's devastating how much Lance withdraws when he gets into one of these headspaces. Keith zones out at the thought, wonders how much more of this 'will they, won't they' he can take before they karate kick fate out the window and just go for it.
"Keith?" Lance fiddles with a bracelet underneath his polo. Anxiety. "I… Did I ruin tonight?"
If Keith's honest? Lance makes him nervous in all the right ways.
After saving the universe, Keith's cocky confidence has grown into a mature sense of invincibility. And, well, can you blame him? They almost died several times from a space dictator, a space prince, and a space witch (a family feud, you could say) and they all barely made it out the other side.
Love should be nothing in the grand scheme of things! It's not harrowing like the quantum abyss, it's not life-threatening like a druid (Keith shivers at that one), and it's just an evolution; a natural development for two individuals with a bonded connection.
For whatever reason, it seems so much scarier than anything he's ever faced in Voltron.
And while he mulls about it in silence, Lance sighs, snapping him back to reality.
"I did, didn't I?" Lance weakly mutters, taking his silence as confirmation. He stands up from the couch. "Of course I did, nothing new there."
What?
Keith tries, "Wait—"
"It's okay. I get it." Lance strides towards his bedroom door. "It's fine."
"God, no, Lance, don't say that." Keith exclaims, his hands latching onto the closest arm and stopping him in his tracks.
His partner lets out a small gasp, locking eyes with him, and there's too much honest energy exchanging between them that it incinerates him from the inside out.
"Tonight was incredible, and you didn't ruin anything. I'd do anything to do it again."
A palpable silence—a heartbeat too thick—lingers between them.
Lance curtly frowns, looks to the side with a trickle of a blush. He thinks about his next words, steady without the sharp glass of emotions prickling them both.
"I… How long are you willing to wait for me?"
He can't help that a shard cuts through Keith like glass.
"As long as it takes?" Keith attests with a frown. "You read the poem."
He snaps in utter frustration, "B-But we don't have the luxury of time, Keith! Life is—"
"Then tell me to stop," Keith protests.
Lance's ambition to fight dissolves on the spot.
"Tell me to stop and I will," Keith frowns, "I won't pursue you, and we can just be roommates, or space ranger partners, or… whatever you want to be. I can even leave if you want me to, just…" he begs, "Tell me. Tell me what you want and I'll do it."
Keith concludes with a sense of firm hesitancy, clear honesty, and yet so nervous of the outcome.
Keith is selfless.
Lance is selfish.
"I," he swallows the lump in his throat, beckons the tears to cease behind his eyes. "I can't—I-I," he admits selfishly, feels his heart break at the thought and tears on his tongue. "N-No, I don't—I never want you to stop, and I don't want you to leave, but… I understand if you do."
Lance feels the spill of tears leak through. "I'm sorry."
Maybe Keith is a sick, sick man.
Maybe he's just tired of playing these games.
Maybe he's a lovesick fool bound to get his heart shattered and blended into blood-soaked sand by the warm, cupped hands of Lance McClain.
But.
With the way his love's expression falters, and the way he looks at him so helplessly, Keith knows he can't bare the thought of leaving him alone tonight.
And maybe, that's him being selfish in his own right.
"Sleep with me tonight."
Maybe he knows he wants it just as much.
Lance sniffles, leans against him—forehead to forehead—and tries not to cry more out of sheer relief.
It's not even a question at this stage, and he knows in his heart that he could never deny such a thinly veiled luxury from the breathtaking man in front of him.
The hand latching on Lance's arm slips down into his own, and with Keith's warm touch, it's enough.
"Mm," Lance murmurs a chime of something lighter than air, chuckling a little too low. "O-Okay."
"Thank you for tonight," Lance hums softly, grounding the tides of terrifying emotions for a hot minute. In the silence, his blues blister his purple. He can't help sneaking a glance at his lips, too. "I loved it."
Keith's gaze crinkles with a grin in response, "Anytime, sweetheart."
Lance melts into him like chocolate, fonder than fondue, laughter so giddy with light, that Keith swears he sees angel wings lift over his shoulders.
Maybe he's delirious.
"Did you intentionally try to match your shirt with my eyes?"
"Heh, blame Kosmo for that one."
"Ah, smart wolf."
Later, Lance can't sleep.
Keith is knocked out cold in his arms, snoring away.
He briefly wonders what it would be like to touch heaven's light.
Instead, he grabs his tablet from the bedside table, and decides to scroll through his work emails.
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊