It’s never easy to tell when a war is over. That sort of simplicity is reserved for historians writing textbooks rather than the history itself. But the Galra are broken into pitiful fractions, yesterday Allura tried her first donut, and they’re on a Garrison shuttle back to the city rather than to a battle. So things are looking tentatively... good. Tentatively really good.
The bus is rumbly, old. Lance is in a seat first and turns down a bright-eyed, optimistic looking girl who moves to sit next to him. He says he has strategies to discuss with Keith - he's sorry. She walks away deflated, but not questioning. Workaholics - that's what you get when you go for someone at the top of the Garrison food chain.
Keith gets there and Lance asks if he wants the window seat, moving over. They're sharing an air pod each and looking out the window, chatting idly. Keith reads for a little while. Lance takes off his powder blue hoodie and Keith shucks it on with a wordless grin. He's in Lance's colours, the colour of the sky, of summer and daydreams and dawn seas. And he looks so, so soft, and disarmed. Usually he's only like this in Lance's room, standing in his boxers and Lance's shirt ready for bed. But here he's in public, sort of - and it means something, to see Keith trust Lance with this side of him out in the world, where he's infinitely more exposed.
They've hiked up the arm rest between them so they can slouch together. Later, Keith naps, folding into lance's side, head resting on his shoulder. Their hands are held loosely together, mindless and natural even in sleep. Lance looks out the window at the passing landscape, unknown in its specifities but achingly familiar in the way that all Earthen terrain is. It's a familiarity he's come to appreciate and nurse after his distance from it.
He becomes aware again of the music he's listening to after being lost to his thoughts, as the strings and electronic staccato swell and flow: trip down the hill, strawberry fields, Are you even real? She said, "tell me how you feel" Are you even real? Are you even real? He feels the feathery brush of Keith's hair against his cheek, the weight of his head rolling over his shoulder, the softness of his expression lax in sleep, the blush on his cheeks from the warmth of Lance's hoody and Lance's side and Lance's grasp. Are you even real? It's all Lance can think.
Spurred by rising tide of love that suffuses him without hesitation, prompt or mercy, he turns his head and presses a firm kiss to the crown of Keith's head, and stays there. He lets his lips rest as he watches the dusk fall thicker by the minute and the blue wash of light against their clasped hands, and wonders how he ever got so lucky as to have Keith sleeping in his arms.
Later, his phone buzzes with a notification. Pidgeon te envió un mensaje. Setting his device to Spanish: another luxury he now finds absurdly indulgent. The message is a photo of him and Keith in the low light, Keith in his hoodie and Lance in his bright white t-shirt, hands clasped, Keith turned almost completely into Lance's side, and Lance's lips pressed to the crown of his head. “Thought you might want to save this one for the wedding slide show,” the message reads. Lance turns to look at Pidge, who is resolutely not looking at him, being averse to emotional displays and casually sappy sentiments generally. But Lance feels her recognition of what they have deep in his bones, and he goes up and gives Pidge a side hug wordlessly, with a warm smile, and drifts away before she can shrug him off.
He wanted to thank for her suggestion, because it's a good one.
titsay
gummygunk
2087
prguitarman
