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In about half a varga, they’ll land on Nethara—a planet Keith’s only seen in passing, fifty light-years out from Earth. Allura and Coran are up front in the common room, the holo-screen flickering with images of blue-green vegetation and pink city skylines. They’re talking through the details, prepping everyone for the diplomatic meetings with Nethara’s eight-person board. Keith tries to listen, but the words blur together, all politics and protocol. He slouches deeper into the couch, thumb running over the handle of his knife. Open, close. Open, close. The click of the blade is the only thing keeping him tethered to the room.
“I highly encourage you all to really see Nethara,” Allura says, her eyes bright. “I know we’re here for diplomacy, but this planet— they know how to live. That’s why we want to ally with them in the first place. They just… really appreciate life. They have uhm...” She pauses, tapping her finger against her chin, searching for the right word. “What do you call it? Nightlife!” Her face lights up. “They have quite the nightlife, you all must see it for yourself.”
Pidge snorts from where she sits slouched on the couch. “Are we sure that Lance didn’t just manifest this planet?”
Keith doesn't know what comes over him. What in the world possesses him to say the next string of words. Maybe his extreme boredom killed any functioning thought processors.
“I’ve never gone out dancing before,”
“What?” Lance squawks around a mouthful of goop. Little bits fly from his mouth.
Pidge wrinkles her nose, “Ew, Lance, that's disgusting.”
Lance doesn’t even glance at Pidge, his focus zeroing in on Keith instead.
“Are you serious?” Lance says, sounding incredulous.
Keith frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know, why would you?”
Kieth gives him a placate shrug. “I don't know. It’s just not really my…,” he furrows his eyebrows as he draws the word out, “scene,”
Lance lets out a laugh. "Oh yeah? And what is your scene, then? Weirdos with too many utility tools?"
"Hey!" Pidge calls out, not even looking up from her spot on the couch. "Keith's tools have saved our asses more times than I can count." Out of the corner of his eye, Keith catches Hunk nodding along, quiet but firm in his agreement. Keith just rolls his eyes. Lance always has something to say—about his hair, his clothes, his attitude. It’s almost a routine by now.
Keith turns his attention back to Lance. He narrows his eyes as he stares him down.
“Why do you care so much anyways,”
Lance freezes, caught off guard, all the color draining from his face. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out—just a useless flutter, like he’s searching for words that won’t come. Before he can manage anything, the Castle shudders beneath them, surging forward as it breaks into Nethara's atmosphere, the world outside blurring past until they finally touch down.
Allura claps her hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the cabin. “Alright, Paladins. We’re here!” she announces, her voice carrying a note of excitement that seems to settle over the group. Keith shifts in his seat, glancing out the window as the ship hums beneath them.
Uniforms are pulled on in a rush, the fabric still settling against their skin as they step out of the castle and onto Nethara’s soil. As Keith walks ahead, he swears he can feel it—Lance’s gaze, sharp and insistent, a prickling heat at the back of his neck.
______________________
Keith is exhausted. After what felt like endless hours of mind-numbing diplomatic meeting after meeting, they finally make it back to the Castle. If Keith had known of all the negotiating—just all of the talking—he’d have to do in Voltron, he might not have even joined. It’s all just so fucking boring. Once he's in his room he peels off his uniform and chucks it into the already growing pile of discarded shirts. Keith makes a mental note of needing to do laundry. He slips into a shirt, quickly brushes his teeth before falling into the warm familiarity that is his bed.
Keith wakes with a jolt. Someone’s banging on his door—loud, insistent, impossible to ignore. Then a muffled hiss: "Keeeeith."
Keith groans, rolling onto his stomach and shoving his face into the pillow. "Go away, Lance," he mutters, voice muffled by cotton.
“Come on Keith. Open up,”
Reluctantly, Keith drags himself out of bed, the cold floor biting at his bare feet. He pads to the door, every step heavy. The door slides open with a gentle hiss and Lance is standing there, way too awake for this hour. Too awake for any hour, really. Keith glowers at him.
“What do you want, Lance,”
For a second, Lance looks almost vulnerable, something raw flickering across his face. Then it’s gone, replaced by that usual, over-the-top enthusiasm.
“Lets go dancing,”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope,” Lance says, popping the ‘p’.
“Uh-huh,” Keith deadpans, “And do you have any idea what time it is,” he shifts his weight and stares at Lance.
“Uhhh, dancing time?” Lance tries, offering him a pleading smile. It doesn't work. “Come on Keith,” he whines. “You’ve never gone out dancing and this is like totally the best opportunity for that. When else are we gonna be on some planet that literally values partying and having fun. Please?”
Keith smirks. “Nice try, but no,” he says, before the door quickly slides shut in Lance’s face.
"Goodnight!" he calls out half-heartedly, ignoring the protests echoing down the hall. Finally, Keith crawls back into bed, the warmth swallowing him whole. He waits for sleep. Nothing. It doesn’t come. Minutes pass. He rolls over. Then again. Still nothing. Frustrated, he flops onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. The ceiling stares back, blank and unyielding. He drags his hands over his face and lets out a deep breath.
Okay, so maybe Keith can’t stop thinking about Lance’s offer. His words keep echoing in his mind, stubborn and bright, refusing to leave.
Lets go dancing
Keith groans. He would never say it out loud. Not to anyone. Especially not to Lance. But it’s there, this thing, this feeling. He likes him. More than he should. The thought sits heavy in his chest, pressing down until it hurts. Keith hates it. Hates the way it makes him feel. Raw. Soft. Exposed. It’s too much, all tangled up inside him. He tries to swallow this feeling down, but it just won’t go away.
He tells himself he shouldn't care, shouldn't let Lance get under his skin. But Lance is just—Lance. All easy charm and careless warmth, always reaching out, always giving more than he has. There's something about the way he looks at the world, like everything is worth noticing, worth saving. Recently, Keith tries not to notice the way Lance's hand lingers on his arm after every mission, the way it leaves him unsteady, heart stumbling in his chest. But it's too late. Lance has already found his way in.
Fuck it, Keith thinks.
He throws the blanket off himself, feet hitting the cold floor, and storms down the hall before he can think better of it. He knocks, once—nothing. He raises his hand to try again, but the door slides open, and suddenly Lance is there, eyes wide, surprise flickering between them. Keith’s hand hovers, caught in the act. He looks away, shifting his weight, a cough catching in his throat.
Keith folds his arms tight across his chest, eyes fixed somewhere past the floor. "Fine," he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. "Let’s go dancing."
“What’s that?” Lance leans in close, cupping a hand around his ear. Keith repeats himself under his breath.
“Wha—I can’t hear you. You wanna—go what?” Lance’s eyes are too bright, and Keith catches the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It takes him a second, but then he gets it. Lance is fucking with him.
Keith punches him in the shoulder, not hard, but enough to make Lance wince and rub at the spot. “Asshole,” Keith mutters, heat prickling at the back of his neck. “Are we going or not?”
But Lance’s grin is blinding.
“Oh fuck yeah,”. He does this ridiculous little fist pump, something Keith knows he shouldn’t find endearing. But he does. Of course he does. “Keith, as excited as I am to go out dancing, you're seriously gonna need to change.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Keith glances down, and there it is—black shirt, boxers, bare legs prickling in the hallway air. Right. Of course.
______________________
The thing about Nethara: it’s never really actually night. The sky glows, dark purple and orange, even when it should be black. Keith walks, really taking in his surroundings. The buildings rise up around him, all strange curves and sharp angles, nothing quite matching what he remembers from home. Every line is just a little off. The city glows with a soft pink light, like it’s breathing, like the whole place is alive. Trees—huge, lush, impossible—reach up and fill the sky where there should be stars. The air is warm, almost like Arizona, but cooler when it brushes his skin, unfamiliar and new. Nethara at night is nothing like the quiet of the day.
The sidewalks, empty before, are packed now, people everywhere, voices and footsteps and laughter all tangled together until it’s just noise and movement. The whole city hums, electric, ready for whatever the night has to offer. Keith spots a group of Netharians weaving through the crowd, their clothes light and flowing, skin shimmering purple, eyes wide and black, sleek horns curling back from their foreheads. They remind him of antelopes, if antelopes were purple and walked on two legs.
Lance walks next to him, easy as always, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks good. Blue jeans, obviously, but tonight he’s ditched the jacket. Just a white tank top, snug across his chest, and a pale blue button-down thrown over it, thin white stripes running down. The fabric shifts with every step, catching the pink light and turning it softer. He looks like he could belong anywhere. Earth, maybe, on some summer night where nothing feels out of place.
Keith had stood in front of his closet for too long, staring at the same black shirts, the same jeans. He hasn’t bothered to shop since the whole “being in space” thing. Now, for the first time, he actually regrets it. The shirt he picked is too tight, fabric stretching when he moves, hem riding up and leaving a strip of skin bare. The air brushes against him, cool and nice.
Eventually, just before Keith can ask where exactly Lance is taking them, warm fingers encircle his wrist and Lance is pulling Keith into a bar that looks just as packed as outside. Or maybe it’s more of a nightclub, Keith wouldn't know. Inside, the lights are low, shadows everywhere, the center of the room is packed with bodies moving together, sweat and heat rising off the crowd. The air is thick, heavy with the smell of sweat and alcohol.
Lance maneuvers them toward a high top table, barstools tall and cushioned, perched just at the edge of the dance floor. The table is sticky beneath Keith’s fingers. He keeps his hands hovering, careful not to let his skin linger on the surface.
“How’d you find this place,” Keith shouts over the loud hum of the music, settling into the stool.
Lance makes a face at him “What,” he shouts back.
Keith leans in closer. “I said,” he gestures around them, “how did you find this place,”
Lance shifts in a little closer, voice dropping low, “I overheard some locals talking about it when we were heading back to the castle.”
Keith hums, low and content, reaching across the table for one of the menus. The edges are frayed, corners bent, and soft from too many hands. He settles back into his seat, eyes scanning the extensive drinks list. The words blur together, all in Netharan, no pictures to help, just lines of text that might be descriptions, warnings, or both. Coran’s crash course in the language hadn’t done him any favors. Keith chews at his bottom lip, silent, letting the minutes stretch out as he tries to puzzle it out. Eventually, he gives up and glances over at Lance.
“Hey, Lance,” Lance looks up from his menu. Keith continues, slightly embarrassed, “I-uh, I can’t read any of this.”
Lanc throws his menu onto the table. Relief floods his shoulders, “Oh, thank god,” he sighs, “Me neither,”
A laugh bubbles up from Keith's chest, warm and sudden, and Lance can’t help but join in. Their feet swing under the table, brushing together every so often. Heat creeps up Keith’s neck, settling just beneath his skin. He feels hot all over.
“Okay,” Keith says, trying to steady himself. His cheeks ache from smiling, a few stray giddy laughs still slipping out. He leans forward onto his elbows. “So how are we going to do this?”
Lance purses his lips, humming as he thinks. “We could do eeny, meeny, miny, moe? Or just blindly point at a drink?”
Keith wacks him with the menu as Lance lets out a loud protest. “That sounds stupid,” he says, but there's no bite behind his words.
In the end, they order at random, hoping that whatever they ordered doesn't taste awful, or end up being completely inedible to their fragile human stomachs.
Keith weaves his way back from the bar, cocktails in hand, and sets Lance’s glass down before sliding into his seat. He watches as Lance lifts the drink, takes a careful sip, eyes narrowing just a little as the taste hits.
Keith follows suit, taking a sip of his own. He doesn't miss the quick downward flick of Lance’s eyes—first to his mouth, then back up. The taste is earthy, almost like blackberries, with something sharp underneath, maybe lime. It prickles at his throat. Not terrible, but not exactly good either.
Maybe Lance is psychic, or is just incredibly skilled at reading people, but he leans in and swaps Keith's drink with his own, without a word. He tries Keith’s, takes a steady sip, sets it down.
“Hmm,” Lance hums, fingers gently tapping the side of the glass. “Yours is better.”
Keith’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Is that so,” he murmurs. Lance nods, slow and sure. Keith lifts Lance’s glass, takes a slow sip. And yeah, Lance’s is better. It tastes of strawberries and peaches. Refreshing. Keith shifts, leaning in, just a little closer. “Interesting,” he says, voice low. “I think yours is better.”
“How interesting,” Lance says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Whatever shall we do?” Maybe it’s the alien alcohol, burning strange and sharp in his system. Or maybe it’s just Lance—always Lance, impossible to pin down, impossible to ignore.
Keith feels heat curling under his skin, a steady thrum in his veins. Lance always has this way of pulling him in, closer and closer, until there’s nothing left but the space between them. Their knees brush under the table. Keith doesn’t move away.
A voice cuts through the haze. Keith blinks, swallows, pulls back just a little. The warmth in his chest lingers, stubborn. Lance clears his throat awkwardly.
“Excuse me.” The voice belongs to a Netharan girl, tall and slender, her skirt drifting low on her hips. She stands angled toward Lance, all her attention fixed on him. “Sorry, I was wondering if you’d like to dance,” she says, nodding toward the crowded floor. Lance glances at Keith, mouth parted like he’s about to say something, but before he can answer, Keith lifts a hand, stopping him.
“It’s fine,” he says, before turning to the girl. “He’d love to.”
She smiles at that, before turning back to Lance. She offers her hand. “Alt’yae,” she says. Lance takes it, fingers curling around hers. “Lance.”
Keith leans back in his barstool, watching as Lance lets her pull him out onto the dance floor. The empty space beside Keith feels colder than it should. He downs Lances—now his—drink in quick succession, before getting up to order another one.
Keith leans against the bar, eyes drifting over the crowd. It’s impossible not to notice Lance—he stands out, somehow, even in a room packed shoulder to shoulder. There’s a pull in the way Keith’s gaze keeps finding him, like gravity, like he’s the only one in the place who matters.
Lance is mesmerizing. He moves like he owns the floor, every twist and turn loose and easy, like he doesn’t care who’s watching. He jumps, lands, lets the music pull him wherever it wants. His shirt clings to his skin, sweat shining along his collarbone, and he looks—God, he looks good. The girl beside him is just as striking, her skirt swirling around their legs as she matches him step for step, hips swaying in time. Together, they’re impossible to look away from.
The bartender sets the drink on the counter. Keith's fingers grasp around the cold glass as he takes a slow sip from his drink, eyes fixed on Lance. The freckles scattered across Lance’s cheeks catch the glow from the low lights, turning his skin golden every time he smiles. It’s impossible not to notice how he lights up the whole room just by being in it. Keith can’t look away. There’s something about the way Lance moves, the easy tilt of his head, the way his laughter seems to fill up every empty space. A mixture of warmth, and maybe even jealousy, spreads through Keith’s chest, curling around his ribs, settling somewhere deep as he watches him, watches as Lance dips the girl low, her hair fanning out behind her while she lets out a laugh that cuts through the music. She spins back up, pressed close against Lance’s chest, her back fitting perfectly to him. She tilts her head, mouth close to his ear, saying something Keith can’t quite catch. Lance just smiles, soft and a little secret, and shakes his head. Whatever she said, she doesn’t seem to mind his answer—she just grins and slips away, swallowed up by the crowd.
He stares as Lance scans the room, eyebrows drawn together, searching. The moment Lance’s eyes find him, they light up. Lance weaves his way to where Keith stands at the bar, breath coming in slow, uneven pulls after all that dancing. He shrugs off his button-down, letting it hang over the back of a chair, and sinks into the seat next to Keith. His grin is wide, cheeks flushed, chest still rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath.
“Come on, man, it’s your turn,” Lance huffs excitedly.
Keith frowns. The insecurity creeps in, sudden and sharp. “I can’t dance,” he says. Not like her, anyway.
“Not with that attitude.” Lance’s voice is light, teasing, but Keith stays rooted to the spot. “Oh, come on, Keith,” Lance groans, reaching over to take the drink from Keith’s hand and setting it aside. His fingers find Keith’s, weaving them together, gentle and careful. The touch is soft, grounding. “I wanna dance with you,” he says, voice dropping to something quieter.
It could be the alcohol, or maybe Keith’s just tired of pretending, but he nods and lets Lance pull him into the thick of the dance floor. The crowd presses in on all sides, bodies shifting and swaying to the pulse of the music. Keith tries to match the rhythm, legs stiff and out of sync, every movement feeling a little too sharp, a little too obvious. Heat creeps up the back of his neck. He feels stupid. He keeps his eyes on Lance, hoping no one else is watching.
“Here, let me show you.” Lance’s hands are warm, settling against Keith’s the bare skin of his hips. Heat blooms under his touch, spreading out, slow and steady. Lance pulls him in, careful, guiding Keith’s movements to the rhythm. Their bodies sway together, caught in the music. Keith’s hand finds the small of Lance’s back, fingers curling into the fabric of his tank top, holding on.
“See?” Lance murmurs, eyes dropping to where their hips meet. “You’ve got this. Like a pro.”
Keith lets out a small shaky laugh. “Only you’d think that,”
Keith lets Lance hold him, swaying together in time with the music. As the tempo shifts, Lance spins them across the floor, never letting Keith drift too far. Keith’s heart thuds against his ribs, the closeness of Lance pressed up against him making it impossible to ignore. Lance smells like sea salt and linen—clean, familiar, something Keith could get used to.
“Why’d you let that girl dance with me?” Lance’s voice is quiet, low, barely more than a breath between them. They’re close enough that Keith can make out every shade of blue in Lance’s eyes, the way his lashes cast shadows across his cheeks. Like the ocean, Keith thinks.
Keith shrugs, slow and uncertain, Lance’s hands still resting on his hips. "I don’t know," he mutters. "Didn’t want you to get bored."
“Bored?” Lance asks, intrigued as he peers down into Keith's eyes.
Eye contact is too much, Keith decides. He slowly shifts his gaze, staring down at his shoes instead.
"Yeah," Keith huffs. "I guess. I just wanted you to have fun." Lance goes quiet, turning the words over in his head, weighing them before he says anything else.
A few seconds slip by. Then Lance says, "Who says I’m not having fun?" His voice is gentle, almost soft enough to break. The words hang between them, delicate, like something that might shatter if either of them moves too quickly. Keith’s heart pounds, the air between them thick and heavy.
Keith’s hand finds its way to the back of Lance’s neck, fingers weaving into his hair—soft, a little too long, overdue for a cut. The touch is careful, almost shy.
“Yeah?,” Keith whispers, hopeful.
Lance swallows nodding slowly, “Yeah,”
Keith moves before the moment can shatter, pulling Lance in, mouths colliding. For a second, Keith thinks he might actually see stars—bright, sharp, bursting behind his eyelids. Lance's mouth is fever-warm, desperate. A gasp, half-formed, slips out, but Keith catches it, swallowing every sound, every tremor. Lance tastes like sweat and blackberries, maybe strawberries, sweet and sharp at the edges. Keith feels Lance's hands digging into his hips, grounding him, anchoring him here. It’s too much and not enough. He doesn’t want to let go. The rhythm in the room picks up, everything around them moving faster, sharper, but Keith barely notices. He lets it all blur at the edges, lets himself drift closer to Lance, slow and steady, like nothing else matters.
Keith pulls back, just enough to look up. Lance is staring at him, wide-eyed, breath caught somewhere between them. Stunned. Like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“Oh fuck,” Lance gasps, voice barely there, and then he’s chasing Keiths lips, desperate, hungry. Keith laughs into his mouth, teeth knocking together, sharp and real. It feels so good.
It feels so right.
Keith’s hand slips from where it's pressed into the back of Lance's neck, fingers trailing to cup his cheek. The kiss deepens, slow and hungry, Keith's mouth opening wider as he leans in. Lance's teeth catch on Keith's lower lip, a gentle bite, just enough to draw a sharp gasp from Keith, his body arching up into Lance's touch, every nerve alight.
“Let's get out of here,” Lance breathes, voice low against Keith's mouth. He doesn’t need to be told twice. Keith nods, the words settling somewhere deep in his stomach, warm and slow, sweet and heavy.
______________________
They slip down the hallway, half-running, half-stumbling, trying not to make a sound. Lance is practically vibrating with energy, his laughter caught somewhere in his throat as he fumbles for the panel beside his door. It takes a few tries—his hands are shaking, too eager, too alive—but finally the door slides open. Keith barely has time to register the darkness before Lance is pulling him inside, pressing him back against the cold metal wall. The chill seeps through Keith’s shirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Lance’s body, the way Lance’s hands are already tugging his shirt off and tossing it somewhere behind them. Lance’s fingers are clumsy at Keith’s belt, his mouth finding the hollow of Keith’s throat, lips brushing, then teeth scraping, then sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Keith’s breath stutters out, a sound caught between a gasp and a moan.
“Is this okay?” Lance whispers, a tremor in his voice. A hand ghosts the buckle of Keith's belt.
Keith nods his head shakily.
“Words Keith,” Lance murmurs, “I need words.”
“Yes, Fuck, s’more than okay,”
Something tight coils in Keith's stomach as he feels Lance’s fingers work at his belt, slow and careful, then pop open the button of his jeans. Keith barely has time to breathe before Lance’s hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, and oh fuck Lance is actually touching him.
His hands are warm and nervous, as he wraps around Keith. The sensation is overwhelming—Keith’s knees threaten to give out, and if Lance wasn’t holding him pressed against the wall, he’d probably melt right down to the floor. Lance’s touch is gentle and firm all at once, coaxing heat from Keith’s skin, making him feel like he’s coming undone at the seams.
Keith leans in, catching Lance’s mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and heat and desperation, his other hand tangled in the fabric of Lance's back, anchoring him there. It’s messy, a little clumsy, but it’s perfect—Keith is nothing but shivers and gasps, every nerve ending lit up, every thought burned away by the way Lance touches him.
“God,” Lance mumbles against his lips, “So good Keith. So good,”
Keith squeezes his eyes shut. Every touch, every whisper, every kiss coaxed out by Lance is leaving him breathless, burning up until there's nothing left. Keith can barely focus on Lance or his mouth or his hand. The coil in Kieth stomach tightens even more, closer and closer to snapping, and he knows he won't last much longer. He can feel the pleasure building up.
“Lance, I’m gonna-,” Lance just nods, hand picking up in speed.
Keith opens his mouth, but the words never make it out. He’s falling—everything blurs, a rush of white heat tearing through his chest, burning down to his legs. He clings to Lance, knuckles white, the world slipping out from under him. All he can do is hold on, unraveling piece by piece.
All consumed by thoughts of Lance, Lance, Lance.
Keith lets himself sink against the wall, the cold metal pressing into his back. His mind is foggy, still buzzing with the aftershocks—static clinging to the edges of his thoughts. The tension in his limbs unspools, slow and calmly.
Lance is pressed up against him, close enough that Keith can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his own chest stutters and rises, breath coming too fast. Everything is sticky, skin tacky and raw, sweat cooling in patches. Lance pulls away, slowly glancing down at the mess drying, the evidence of them.
"You're definitely going to need to change." Keith just nods, still a little dazed, senses swimming of pure bliss.
Lance gently guides him over to the bed and sits him down, tugging Keith's pants down and over his hips, tossing them onto the floor. Keith looks around, taking in the room. It feels lived in, warm in a way his own never manages. There’s a jerry-rigged gaming console on the floor, wires tangled and casing patched with tape, the kind of thing Pidge and Hunk would have built with Lance on a slow afternoon. There's a dresser cluttered with what must be tiny photographs of Lance's family, little rocks and stones from planets they've visited, all jumbled together. All of it, so unmistakably Lance.
“Your room,” Keith starts.
Lance hums from where he stands at the drawer, rummaging through clean clothes. “What about it?”
“It's different.”
“Really,” Lance says, looking around. He plops down a clean shirt and sweatpants next to Keith, “All the rooms are supposed to be the same, I thought."
Keith nods slowly. "No, yours is…different. Your room—it feels like you actually live here. Like it's yours," he mumbles, watching as Lance disappears into the bathroom. Keith can hear the sound of water running. A moment later, Lance comes back out with a damp washcloth. He kneels beside Keith and wipes him clean—quick, but gentle. Lance helps him into a clean shirt and sweatpants.
"Yeah, I guess you're right," Lance murmurs thoughtfully, pressing a soft kiss to Keith's jaw once he's dressed. The pants are a little long on Keith, but he doesn't care. Lance's clothes are soft, and they smell like him.
Keith’s eyes linger as Lance peels off his own sweat-soaked shirt, the fabric sticking stubbornly to his skin before finally giving way. They move in tandem, wordless, slipping beneath the covers where the sheets are cool against bare skin. For a moment, the only sound is the rustle of fabric and the quiet exhale of breath as they settle side by side, the space between them humming with leftover adrenaline and something softer, quieter, that neither of them is quite ready to name.
He watches Lance's face, half-buried in the pillow, edges blurred by the soft blue light spilling across the room. Lance reaches for his hand, turning it over so his long fingers can trace slow lines across Keith's palm.
“You know,” Lance starts, "I've always wanted to do that,”
Keith snorts. “Do what, stick your hand in my pants?”
Lance grins, the edges of it a little uncertain, and shakes his head, flustered by Keith's bluntness, "Yeah, but also no." His voice drops, barely more than a breath. He exhales, shaky, like he’s trying to steady himself. "I've wanted to kiss you," he says, the words slipping out soft, "for as long as I can remember."
Keith’s heart stutters, warmth blooming up in his chest, sudden and bright. Keith squeezes Lance’s hand.
“Me too,” he whispers, voice barely there. Lance squeezes back, fingers tight around his.
Keith glances at Lance, throat tight as he swallows. There’s a restless hum beneath his skin, nerves sparking in quiet, frantic patterns.
“Lance,”
“Yeah?”
He lets out a nervous breath. His face feels warm, uncomfortably warm. “I don’t want this to be a one-time thing with you. I really don’t.”
“Me neither,” Lance blurts, the words tumbling quickly. Keith’s heart stumbles, then soars, the feeling almost too much—too bright, too sharp. It’s as if every nerve is lit up, the world narrowing to the space between them. The words hang there, fragile and impossible.
Holy shit. This is actually happening.
“So,”
“So,” Lance parrots back.
“What does this mean, for us,” Keith whispers.
“I think it means that we're together.” Lance's voice is small, barely there, fingers anxiously stroking Keith's hand. “If that's what you want.” The words slip out, softer and softer, until Keith almost misses them.
“Yes,” Keith says, fast and breathless. He watches as the anxiety melts away from Lance's face, replaced by the softest look of adoration.
Something inside Keith feels weightless, like he's about to float right off the bed. He’s on cloud nine. He’s beyond cloud nine. He sits up, shifting his weight until he’s straddling Lance, rolling them over in one smooth motion. His hands find Lance’s wrists, pinning them gently to the mattress, palms warm and steady where they press into his skin. He can't remember ever feeling this giddy in his life. Not once.
“Holy shit, you like me,” Keith says, low and sly. He can feel the corners of his mouth pulling up into a wild, crooked grin as he stares Lance down.
Lance rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning just as wide. “No, I actually despise you,” he says, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Of course I like you.” Keith’s smile breaks open, wide and reckless. He leans down, pressing a small, quick kiss against Lance’s lips. It’s soft. Gentle. Still, Keith feels the weight of it. Lance is warm underneath him, their legs tangled together in the sheets.
Keith pulls back, just enough to really look at Lance. Lance is sprawled out beneath him, all long limbs and soft lines, hair a mess against the pillow. He looks completely undone, and Keith can't help but think all mine. The words slip out, barely above a whisper. "Say it again.”
“I like you,”
“Again,”
Lance lets out a sigh, trying for annoyance, but it doesn't land. The look he gives Keith is anything but irritated—it's soft, awestruck, like he can't quite believe this is real. "Oh my god, Keith, I like you," he says, voice warm and soft.
“Good.” Keith leans in, closing the space between them, and catches Lance’s mouth in another kiss. This one is slow, unhurried, nothing like the frantic edge from before. Lance feels the warmth of Keith’s lips, the gentle press, the way time seems to stretch out around them.
“I guess this means we're dating,” Lance mumbles drowsily against Keith’s lips.
“Would appear so,” Keith muses, his voice low. He can feel something bright and fizzy bubbling up in his chest, impossible to keep down. He starts to laugh, the sound tumbling out and catching on Lance’s lips, giddy and breathless and so alive it almost hurts. Lance’s laughter joins his, and suddenly they’re both dissolving into a tangle of laughter and kisses, messy and warm and a little bit clumsy.
Keith lets go, only to curl himself around Lance, fitting close. It's late—so late it's almost early—but Keith doesn't mind, not with Lance's arm tracing slow, lazy lines down his back. Lance doesn't seem to mind either. They have all the time in the world.
______________________
Morning hits Keith like a freight train. His mouth is dry, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his head throbs in time with his heartbeat. Every muscle aches, a dull reminder of too much alcohol, too much dancing, and Lance pressed up close against him.
Keith slips out of Lance's room and pads down the hallway toward the kitchen. His stomach growls, loud enough to echo. God, he's starving.
He makes his way into the kitchen. Mostly everyone is already there, gathered around the table with this morning's bowl of goop, lost in their own little worlds. Allura and Shiro are pressed so close their shoulders nearly touch, heads bent together over a mess of conference notes. Their voices are low as they talk, threading through the quiet as they pick apart yesterday’s diplomatic chaos and prepare for whatever is installed for them today. Pidge is half-slouched in her chair, fingers flying across her data pad, eyes narrowed in concentration. Next to her, Hunk is hunched over what looks like an alien crossword, brow furrowed, pencil tapping against the table as he tries to puzzle out the next clue.
Hunk glances up from his crossword puzzle as Keith steps into the room, then down, then back up again. For a moment, something unreadable passes over his face, gone as quickly as it came. He settles into a usual smile. "Good morning," he says.
“Morning,” Keith grumbles, steering towards the kitchen counter. He makes himself a cup of coffee with the world's shittiest coffee machine and scoops himself a hearty bowl of what appears to be yellow goop, undoubtedly something new Coran wanted to try, and sits down at the table, spoon in hand. He catches Hunk staring curious looks at him. Keith quirks an eyebrow, “What?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Hunk says all too quickly, leaning back in his seat before returning to his crossword puzzle. Keith shrugs it off, and goes back to his goop. He takes a small bite. It's not too bad actually. It tastes oddly like bacon, and slightly like onion. So Keith sits there, eating away as everyone does their own thing respectively.
“Sooooooo,”
Oh, fuck. Keith freezes, spoon halfway to his mouth. Hunk’s ‘sooooo’ is never a good sign. Not ever.
Keith tries to sound casual. "What's up?" But his voice wavers, just a little.
“Are you trying out a new look?”
Keith pauses and frowns. “Huh?”
"Nothing wrong! Just curious. Are you experimenting with your style? Or, uh, your color palette?" Hunk’s voice is careful, like he’s tiptoeing around something.
Keith drops his spoon into his bowl. “I don’t understand.”
Pidge pipes up from where she sits slouched at the table, "What Hunk is trying to say is that you’re wearing Lance’s clothes."
Keith glances down. Lance’s shirt, Lance’s pants. He’s still in them. Fuck.
“What’s going on guys?” Lance says as he strolls in. Perfect timing.
Pidge snorts, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
"Know what?" Lance slides in beside him. Their thighs press together under the table, warm and close.
“Why is Keith wearing your clothes?” Pidge narrows her eyes at them and smirks.
Keith can feel Lance still besides him, mouth fumbling as he tries to find the right words, the right explanation. "We had a sleepover,” is what Lance decides on. Keith doesn't say anything, just keeps his gaze pinned to the table, fingers tightening around his mug. The silence stretches, so Lance tries again, voice a little too bright. "Just a friendly, casual sleepover. Nothing weird."
Pidge shoots Lance a look that’s all disbelief. Her gaze flicks from Keith, to Lance, then back again at Keith. Hunk sits silent beside her, caught somewhere between horror and amusement.
“Uh huh. Sure,” she observes dryly, “And is that why Keith has a hickey on his neck?”
Keith’s ears burn. He buries his face in his hands, trying to hide the blush and the horror. "Oh my god, please shut up," he blurts, the words tumbling out too fast. He’s so going to kill Lance later.
Hunk lets out a strangled squawk, while Lance just slides out of his seat and onto the floor, mortified. Shiro glances up from his notes, shakes his head, and goes right back to work.
Pidge turns to Hunk, palm outstretched, fingers wiggling in silent demand. "You owe me twenty bucks."
"What," Lance shrieks, still sprawled out on the floor. "You guys made a bet about us?"
Pidge just shrugs, not even trying to look innocent. "No shit."
"Alright, that's enough." Shiro's voice slices through the chatter. "Pidge, that's enough. Keith, Lance, I'm happy for you. But we need to leave in half a varga, so let's get moving." Everyone groans, pushing their bowls around, but the room settles. Lance climbs back into his seat, leaning in until his head finds Keith's shoulder. Keith presses a soft kiss into his hair, lingering just a second longer than he needs to.
"Holy shit, you guys are gross."
"Pidge." Shiro's voice is stern, with absolutely no room for argument.
"Sorry," she mutters, but not before shooting Keith one last look, eyes narrowed in mock accusation.
For the rest of the day, the questions come one after another—mostly from Pidge— until they all blur together. Lance answers most of them, sometimes glancing at Keith with a crooked smile, and Keith finds himself relaxing into it. Time on Nethara slips by, hours folding into each other, the heaviness of the day fleeting with Lance beside him, fingers warm and certain in his grasp.