Clickity Click, Here Be the Fics

“What do you mean the parking garage is full?” Lance sits in the passenger seat and he stares sightlessly at his phone screen, trying to distract himself from laughing at Keith’s exasperation. His boyfriend has the window rolled down, and his hands are tight around the steering wheel, which is clearly the one thing keeping him from going off the deep end. In his peripheral, Lance can only see the back of his head. Lance notices how the mere twenty seconds or so the window has been open has made Keith’s hair entirely drenched. “These are spots for the event, right?” Lance glances up from his phone to see the woman inside the booth nod, face taut and nervous. “The event celebrating the paladins of Voltron,” Keith clarifies, and she nods again; she’s even more sheepish. “We’re the paladins of Voltron!” And now, Keith throws his hands in the air, and they clap limply down against the horn. Sharply, it honks, before his fingers return to strangling the edge of the wheel. Finally, Lance gives in to the ridiculousness of the racket and snickers into his palm.

Keith gives him a downright nasty look.

The woman in the booth slips a hand out of her box, pointing down the road the duo pulled up from. “There’s another parking garage a couple blocks down,” she suggests weakly. 

The groan Keith musters makes Lance snort loudly. Begrudgingly, Keith puts the car in reverse, but keeps his foot on the break until he has the chance to bitterly murmur, “But it’s raining.” 

One hand releases the wheel to wipe water off of his face before he rolls the car out of the driveway, nose wrinkled in frustration. 

“It’s okay,” Lance says. “We’ve got umbrellas in the back seat! A couple blocks is nothing us paladins of Voltron can’t handle.” Keith flicks him a sidelong glance, perhaps meant to be snide, but it comes out mild. To reenforce his point, Lance is the one who offers to walk in the rain to the back seat for the umbrellas, once Keith finds a place to park. And when he’s halfway into the second row of seats, he conveniently pretends he’s just remembered his umbrella isn’t there (It’s safely tucked into his closet back home, where no one will think to ‘helpfully’ find it—but Keith doesn’t need to know that). He passes the singular umbrella up to his boyfriend in the front. “I guess I left mine at home,” he remarks, pretending to be absent minded about the statement, when the intention of this ‘accident’ is clearly scrawled in the smile on his lips. 

Keith’s mood changes so quickly, Lance thinks he might have broken the sound barrier.

“Oh?” Keith leans over the center console of the car, face pressing close to where Lance’s bunched cheeks hover on the other side. He takes the umbrella, a smooth and devious grin blooming on his face, and one of his brows twitches upward in mock question. Yet comprehension is written in his eyes; he doesn’t need to ask how Lance had supposedly forgotten. His fingers twiddle along the handle of the umbrella. His eyes drift up and down Lance’s face. His lips quirk back, so his teeth shine through his smile. “Is that so,” he breathes, and Lance doesn’t shrink the pride on his features, though he’s begun to feel a sweeping warmth dancing up his spine. The tickling sensation pushes him forward—his nose brushes with Keith’s—so he can peck his boyfriend on his cupid’s bow. Rolling his eyes, Keith opens his car door and pops his umbrella undone as he slips out. 

Lance follows him, scurrying to catch up to Keith. Not so much as a heartbeat after he gets there, Keith compensates for the need to share the umbrella. He lifts his arm so Lance can shimmy his shoulders under it, and Lance smooths a kiss on his cheek in thanks. 

Their sides are flush; Lance relishes in the contact. They’ve got half an hour before the event they’re here for begins, so Lance is in no rush to escape the rain. Not if it means leaving Keith’s touch behind. He fully intends to savor every moment of contact he can. 

It’s unfair how warm Keith’s skin manages to be. Constantly. There is a perpetual drive deep in Lance’s stomach—and at the base of his skull, in the curve of his spine, along the tips of his fingers, everywhere—to be close to Keith. One moment, he feels the desire to tangle his hands in Keith’s hair, to brush his palms over his boyfriend’s warm scalp. And then, right as he begins to consider satisfying the impulse, he’s struck with the need to kiss somewhere else, like his shoulder. Or to lean his cheek there, or to simply rest his chin along the fabric of his shirt, if only to breathe closer to him. Once again, though, Lance simmers with a different inclination. This time, maybe it’s to hold Keith’s hand, to kiss his nose, to kiss the tip of his ear. There’s an unsatisfiable itch to shut his eyes and enjoy basking in the body heat Keith is so willing to share. One craving comes after another, after another, all for the sole purpose of being close to Keith. The mere idea of fulfilling those wants tastes intoxicating. 

And yes, Lance knows Keith’s heat isn’t really the reason he’s pining.

Keith hums to himself, seemingly no longer peeved by the storm. Lance selfishly thinks—profoundly wants to believe—it’s because his boyfriend also enjoys the lack of distance between them. He greedily hopes Keith also feels the buzz of affection in all his joints at the comfort they share. Pleads the feeling is something familiar for Keith, like it is for Lance.

Lance feels the same about Keith now as he’d felt about rain while in space. He’d swallowed the lump of longing in his throat while among the stars, a longing formed from the sheer intensity with which he’d needed to feel the rain against his skin. And now, that sensation is doubled; it’s the desperation with which he chases after Keith’s touch. Keith’s hands, addictive and gentle on his nape when they kiss, Keith’s scalp under his scrabbling fingers when they pull apart, Keith’s lips on his neck, Keith’s teeth when he smiles against the same spot. 

The intensity haunts him, even now, though there’s not a millimeter of distance between them.

When Lance stares up at his ceiling in bed at night, he thinks of Keith, like he used to stare at the stars through a window of the castleship and think of Earth. Of home. 

Yeah, he thinks that’s what Keith is.

Home.

“You’re completely transparent, you know,” Keith says softly. Lance turns to him, suddenly ensnared by the intimacy in his voice and his tender, half-lidded eyes. Keith stares at the inside of the umbrella as he talks, following the silhouetted trails of raindrops as they drip in swirls down the plastic. His expression is truly immeasurably fond. Lance knows it’s not the rain he’s fond of. Every day, Keith makes it clear just what he loves so much.

Lance smiles, watches the droplets with Keith for a while, then nudges his boyfriend with his elbow. “Would you rather I play hard to get again?” There’s mirth in Keith’s gaze when he lets it fall across Lance. And the usual sweet, fixated adoration. He switches which of his hands holds the umbrella so he can tangle their fingers together. 

Quietly, like it’s the rain whispering to Lance, Keith says, “No.” He leans over to kiss Lance’s temple. Something so simple makes something so complex and pleasant knot in Lance’s gut. Wrinkling his nose and eagerly accepting the touch, he laughs, and then sighs when Keith moves to look at the expanse of sidewalk ahead of them once more. “No, I like what we have now,” he reiterates. 

“Yeah,” Lance says. His response is almost too smothered in love to understand. As if Lance’s love is gallons upon gallons of sugar water, and his voice is a bubble sifting and wobbling to the top. Keith doesn’t seem bothered by it.

Silence gingerly takes their walk, leaving Lance to his thoughts of Keith’s scarred cheek and his touch, which carves soft, endearing scars all along Lance’s heart. And then Keith speaks again, passing the umbrella to Lance. “Hold this,” he mutters. Lance does, wincing at the chill of the metal handle, and he glares at his grip on the item, as if he can blame his fingertips for being cold. Then, there are even colder fingers on his cheeks. 

The umbrella is tight in Lance’s hold, clenched desperately, because he is certain that as soon as he begins to loosen his hands, it’s as good as gone. Keith’s fingers are splayed across his cheekbones, thumbs drawing circles close to his lips. That motion alone has Lance ready to fall over, his heart pounding so fast that the umbrella trembles. And when Keith slides one hand to Lance’s chin, it pushes a lovestruck note past the tightness of Lance’s throat, curled to sound like his boyfriend’s name. 

Tugging Lance closer with his icy hold, Keith presses their lips together, and Lance’s hands itch to touch Keith. His arms shake, begging to wrap around his boyfriend’s neck. And when fingers knot in the back of Lance’s shirt, he arches his chest closer, compensating for the contact his hands can’t satisfy. One of Keith’s palms remains where it had initially flattened against Lance’s jaw, and its fingers curl to the tender spot behind Lance’s ear. At the same time, Keith smooths their lips to just the right angle, so the two can feel the perfect amount of proximity. His lips are the perfect warmth, and his hands are the perfect pressure, and his taste is the perfect blend of sweet and strong. And Lance feels himself falling, losing his grip on his focus, slipping away into the hold Keith has on his cheeks and his spine and his heart—

The umbrella slides from his hands.

Keith pulls apart—Lance murmurs an incoherent, desperate sound of pleading as he pursues his boyfriend’s retreat—and stares downward, at the item’s impact. He shakes his leg, nodding at the stains the umbrella’s splash left on his pants. “Aw, man,” he mutters, only a fraction of sincerity in his voice. “They’re ruined.” Lance shakes his head. 

“They are definitely not ruined! It’s just water.” His head is still dizzy, like he’s barely woken up (which isn’t that far off), and his words come out shaky. Though he knows he ought to pick the umbrella up, he still wants to brush his fingers through Keith’s hair, and his hands are finally free to do so. The desire is so strong, but he resists, instead reaching for the umbrella. Keith snatches it first and captures Lance’s grasping fingers with his other hand. He uses the tangle of their fingers to draw Lance along as he lifts the umbrella up over their heads.

“First you take my umbrella, then you drop it,” he quips. Yet his arm lifts for Lance to snuggle under again as they walk, despite the bite in his words. “Next time you forget your umbrella, I’m making you walk in the rain.” But he’s still got Lance completely under the shared umbrella, even though one of his shoulders is is out of the cover to make space for him. With his free hand, Lance pushes the umbrella so it’s split equally between them.

Smugly, he shakes his head. “You wouldn’t.” And Keith looks at him, blinking slowly and narrowing his eyes. Lance gives him a loving smile, spreading all his affection and all his gratefulness along the part in his lips. Keith slyly returns the grin, slow, as if it’s something he doesn’t want to admit. As if he doesn’t want to agree quickly. But Lance knows—in this moment, more than he knows anything else—that his assumption is right. The love in Keith’s actions is too formidable to push aside; Keith would never deny him anything. All he needs to do is ask.

Keith brings their joined hands to his lips to kiss Lance’s knuckles. The yearning in Lance’s stomach simmers for the hundredth time in the last hour, boiling over in an instant, until Lance is lightheaded and mindless all over again. He’s so thankful. Overwhelmingly, heart stoppingly thankful, because there’s nowhere he’d rather be than here, nothing he’d rather be doing than walking alongside Keith. Because it’s Keith. It’s always Keith. He swears it always will be Keith. His favorite place will always be right where he is at this moment: nestled as close to his boyfriend as he can physically be.

Lance has always loved the rain. It was a memory he cherished while he was away from home, a piece of Earth he took with him across every galaxy he could ever imagine, tucked safely in his heart. It had been the smell of his childhood, the smell of a home he couldn’t reach. Now, it’s an excuse to do things he doesn’t need excuses to do. An excuse to be close to Keith, even though he knows he’ll be received with open arms no matter what.

“You’re right,” Keith says. He releases Lance’s hand to card his own through the hair stuck to Lance’s forehead. His eyes are deep and loving and infinitely sentimental. He kisses the spot he’d revealed, and when he pulls away he’s looking directly into Lance’s eyes, smiling. Rain is on his cheeks, in his hair, dotting his lips like twinkling beads of blown glass. The ones in his hair glow the same shade as his eyes. They catch the light, but their hold on the sun is nowhere near as magnetic as the hold Keith has on Lance’s stuttering heart. Squeezing, but in the sweetest, most doting way, until nothing is left in his lungs but the honeyed scent of their intoxicating love. “You’re definitely right. I never would. I’ll take any excuse I can to hold you. I love you too much to deny you anything.”

Catching Keith’s hand, Lance grins as he swings their arms a few times. He sings, “I know! I love you, too, you beautiful sucker!” Keith laughs and his hand squeezes around Lance’s, pulling them both tighter together. The taste of love is sugary in Lance’s mouth, vivid enough to stay with him for days.

Yeah.

Lance definitely loves the rain. 

Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t love the thrill and flow of every crowd. Days like this remind him of as much. Irritation is a headache between his eyes and a lump at the top of his throat, and he’s constantly finding himself on the brink of a meltdown. He doesn’t know why the frustration is there, but he definitely feels it, thick and burning, at every turn. Since he and Keith arrived this morning, he’s been quick to veto every outfit he’s put on in dressing rooms. He’s been snappy with anyone who isn’t Keith or an innocent employee. At least four times, he’s stopped shopping to steady his breathing in an attempt to keep himself from crying. When he’s not distracted, he feels awful about himself; he’s hardly smiled all day.

Lance hopes it’s only the hunger. 

Deep down, he suspects that’s not all it is.

But he’s been attempting friendly conversation with other customers in the food court, with the hopes they’ll snap him out of his irritable mood. A few positive interactions, and maybe the tense and heavy stress in his shoulders will ease away. And thus he’d started a chat with another person in line.

In response to Lance’s question, the man in front of him looks up from his phone and smiles weakly over his shoulder. Discomfort makes his fingers twitch as he pushes his glasses up his nose, then makes his dark hair stick to his forehead when he tries to push it off. “Ah,” he starts, “my fiancé. Expensive tastes. No shopping at Target with that one.” He laughs, and it sounds only a little fake, as he pockets his phone in compliance with the idle chit-chat. His laughter draws a beat or two of joy out of Lance. “What about you?” Lance observes him a second, eyes catching on the small rainbow sticker that’s worn and faded on the side of his glasses. A smile unfolds on his lips as he decides he’s safe not changing Keith’s pronouns this time around. 

“Same here.” He shrugs. “My husband and I got invited to his brother’s wedding; we’re clothes shopping. I’m the picky one, though.” He squeezes a look of mock guilt between his brows, but unwinds it a moment later. The stranger’s face had lit up the moment Lance said Keith was his husband. At the word husband alone, he had gone from passively interested out of boredom, to wide-grinned and attentive. Lance thinks he looked the same when Shiro first mentioned a boyfriend, too. There’s just something about finding someone like you in a person you wouldn’t expect. “I’m Lance,” he greets, extending a hand.

The stranger eagerly takes it. “Yuuri.” Then the lady at the counter shouts for the next customer and his face contorts with distress. Though he’s at the front of the line, he looks as though he doesn’t want the newfound conversation to end. Like he has more to say. He yelps under his breath as the woman calls for him again. Reluctantly, he turns and scuttles to the counter to make his order, but he lingers after he’s gotten his food. Once Lance also gets his meals and finds a way to balance both his and Keith’s trays, he makes his way over. Yuuri swiftly knocks his glasses up with his wrist—his two trays wobble where he has them teetering on his forearm. “I know this is awkward, but I don’t have many friends here in the U.S., so would you and your husband want to eat with my fiancé and I?” 

Makes sense, there is an accent in his voice, though it’s not thick. 

Shuffling his trays, Lance nods; Yuuri seems kind, and Lance could use the reassurance that someone other than Keith enjoys his company. Yuuri’s face bunches happily, proudly, and he nods in the direction of his table. Lance follows leisurely, but his mind is elsewhere, as he glances around the dining area in hopes of finding Keith. That’s the trouble with separating from his husband and not having his phone on him. Well, he assumes it will be trouble, except, as he and Yuuri reach the table in question, it seems finding the hothead won’t be much trouble at all.

“Oh, boy,” he hisses, as he sees Keith in a quarrel with a light haired man. That’s bad enough, but when the stranger points aggressively at Keith, Lance notices he has a golden ring that looks strikingly like Yuuri’s. And Yuuri has a wrinkle in his nose like he’s as embarrassed as Lance, like his partner is acting shameful, too. 

Of course, just when Lance is trying to make friends with someone, Keith has to go and get in a fight with his fiancé. 

Panic seizes Yuuri, and he freezes maybe a foot away from the table. Pinching his nose, Lance huffs. The sour taste of frustration is fresh on his tongue; he wants to cry. Stepping forward, he groans, “Keith, what the hell are you on about?” His husband turns from the fight, the angry wrinkles of his scowl instantly smoothing into a smile, as recognition flits along his lips. Leaning forward to peck Lance’s nose, he takes both trays from Lance. 

“Thanks, babe,” he says, and then turns back to Yuuri’s fiancé. “Look, I was here first, so just let me have the table. If it weren’t so crowded, I’d be happy to let you have it, but it is crowded, so buzz off.” Unceremoniously, he drops the trays onto the polished wood. He’s staked his claim. Huffing and dragging out a chair, he tosses himself down to claim that, too. The other man doesn’t back off, though, and he plops into the booth on the other end of the table, eyes narrowing. 

“Aw, c’mon,” he says, leaning his elbows on the table to cover as much of the surface of it as possible. Agitation prickles Lance’s nape when Keith scoots a tray forward to push him off. He’s not usually so petty, and Lance can’t begin to piece together what bothered him enough that he decided to pick this fight. “My fiancé just won a skating competition, can’t you cut us some slack? We’re celebrating!” The man turns his head to Yuuri, smiling something forced as he pushes his resistance against Keith’s tray. Also petty. Great combo, Lance wants to mutter sarcastically, and he hates how easily he’s being pushed to breaking down. 

Keith grits his teeth, rolls his eyes, looks to Lance, and then nods to Yuuri’s fiancé, as if to say, can you believe this guy? As though Lance will back him up in his unfounded pettiness. Lance will not. He slants his eyebrows downward and juts his bottom lip out in disappointment. Honestly, Keith can’t compromise worth shit.

Lance notices the way Yuuri’s fiancé shifts his face into an instigating expression, like he’s expecting a backlash. Lance finds the calculatedness of it suspicious, but doesn’t say anything before the stranger’s words are matching the provocation in his expression. “What’s your husband done that’s so impressive?”

Oh no. 

Lance puts a hand on Keith’s shoulder, as the man immediately riles up. He winces as his husband’s hands clap against the table, and though the dining hall is far too vast and noisy to pick the singular slap out over the clutter of other sounds, Lance can’t help feeling like everyone in the room is suddenly staring at them. A kid walks past, stops to gawk, before his mother drags him away. Apologetically, Lance waves with his free hand, and then he hides his face under his palm; he swears he can’t breathe from the embarrassment. His other hand squeezes Keith’s bicep, requesting, begging him to let the argument go. It’s just a table, for the love of— 

Obviously, no one lets anything go. Keith leans over where he’s stationed his arm, looming as much as he can over the light-haired man. “Excuse me? You have no idea what he’s done. He’s fucking amazing, you damn—”

Exasperated, Lance hisses, “Keith.” His husband looks at him briefly, and for a moment, Lance believes he sees Keith smirk through the gaps between his fingers. He clears his throat. “Let it go.” Keith’s line of sight hooks on Lance intensely—the pensiveness in his gaze is impossible to swallow—and he holds it there. Swipes it over the humiliated tears in Lance’s eyes. He sighs, falls back into his seat, and his arms lock across his chest. 

“Why the hell should I?” He grabs a fry from the tray, and as he grinds it under his teeth, he wrinkles his nose at Yuuri’s fiancé. “He ought to know how great a shot you are, how compassionate you can be, how strategically you think, how helpful you are, just inherently.” And now Keith is watching Lance intently again, with all that foggy passion. Keith’s eyes are smitten, glazed with love; he snatches Lance’s hand away from his face, so he can swirl his thumb over its knuckles with the same emotion. It makes Lance’s head throb with sweltering heat. His breath is coming out short and choppy, his throat constricts so tight he squeaks. At least, he thinks optimistically (for the first time all day), his swarming irritation isn’t at the forefront of his mind anymore. “You’re handsome and smarter than you give yourself credit for. Oh, and you can win people over so easy! Everyone adores you, like, I mean everyone, and—“

“Okay!” Lance can’t meet his eyes. “Stop, stop, stop! Oh, my God, Keith,” he says, batting his hand around until Keith releases it. “You are just—ohh, you are just so bad. Anarchy. Absolutely, absolutely cruel.” Yuuri snorts into his palm at Lance’s reaction, but Lance doesn’t have the peace of mind to say something bitter to him for it. He’s wholly flushed; Yuuri probably has every right to crack up over him, the pleased panic on his face, the crack in his voice. Yuuri’s fiancé is laughing, too, which makes it indescribably worse. “You’re a menace, Kogane. I’m so angry I could—”

Ever hopeful, Keith leans closer, finishing Lance’s sentence with, “Kiss me?” 

“Oh, you wish, Kogane!” There’s a dramatic pout playing on Keith’s face as he falls against the back of his seat once more. 

Yuuri’s fiancé pipes up, and Lance cools some when the attention is off of him. “That’s fair, but Yuuri’s still better. He manages to do so much, even when he gets so anxious so easily! Seeing him overcome his self-doubt is so inspiring.” Lance looks at Yuuri, who’s losing his hold on his trays. They teeter, and Lance watches them warily. His gaze flickers from them to the fog on Yuuri’s glasses. Hastily, Yuuri passes the wobbling trays to his fiancé, so he can rub his glasses clean on the collar of his shirt. “He’s won medals; he’s a celebrity. And a cute one, too. He’s got squishy, little cheeks, and a round, little nose—”

“Viktor,” he squeaks, the name dragged long and mortified on his tongue. “Viktor, stop! You’re both awful!” Viktor squints and tilts his head to one side, as though he’s about to argue. Or compliment Yuuri more. “Nope! Stop! We’re all just gonna share the table. No more of this. Say hello to Lance and his husband, our new friends, who we are not going to argue with anymore.” 

Placing one palm on the dwindling open table space for balance, Lance throws his other hand as far over the table as he can reach while still pressed close to his sitting husband. Viktor extends his own, expression far more amiable than it had been with Keith. “Nice to meet you,” Lance says, “I heard you’re just as picky with clothes as I am.” Pleasantly, Viktor laughs at the statement, not at all offended. 

And then Lance finds two empty chairs at an otherwise full table, asks the people there if he can have them, and drags them back for Yuuri and himself. Viktor gives his booth spot up to his fiancé, though, so Lance and Yuuri end up huddled together to chat at one corner of the table. They mindlessly babble back and forth and exchange funny images in their camera rolls for a bit, while Keith and Viktor are virtually silent on the other end of the table. There’s an understanding in their silence, however, and once the conversation between Yuuri and Lance gets going, they face each other with an unspoken scheme deep in their chests.

Keith and Viktor meet eyes and highfive, low and quiet, under the table, where their partners can’t see. “Pleasure conspiring with you. Sorry I approached you out of the blue like that. And to ask for such a weird favor, too,” Viktor says, tone jovial, as he pretends to listen to the other two men prattle comfortably. “No one would buy it if I told them a fake argument was all it took to make Yuuri feel better about himself.” He places his chin on his palm and he stares fondly at his fiancé. There’s a moment in which Keith only watches him do it, a sort of companionship and friendly fondness warming against his lungs. It’s familiar. The glow on Viktor’s face reminds him of the ache of his own persistent smile, stretching his face whenever he sees Lance. In his head, he sees the way Lance looks at him when he’s listening to Keith tell a story. That’s the look Viktor has. Love is a universal expression, the same soft gaze and curled lips. Keith thinks he likes that. The uniformity of it. The simplicity.

And he lets the same tender smile unfold on his cheeks, turning to his own husband. “Happy to help,” he whispers, curt and simple. He’s unfathomably proud of the shift in Lance’s mood, how much cheerier he looks. The way Lance rolls his head back as he laughs, the skylights drawing a shadow on the table and a ring of white on Lance’s scalp. His vast and blue eyes, crinkled at the corners as Yuuri amuses him with something silly on his phone. His cute, sharp nose, that points upward at the sun while he giggles to himself, like he’s a part of the warmth of the room. Like he’s pointing at his reflection, since his newly found grin is brighter and more pleasant than the sunshine could ever be. Keith knows he’s staring, unashamed and easy to spot, but no embarrassment surfaces in his gut. No, he just sighs at the confident smile on Lance’s face as he shows Yuuri something in his camera roll. Yuuri sputters over the drink he’d been swallowing, wheezing with laughter—Viktor laughs along with—and Lance says something Keith’s too lovestruck to hear. Knowing Lance, it’s probably a meme, though. “I think,” he whispers, and Viktor reluctantly tears his eyes from the duo to watch Keith. “I think Lance needed a boost, too. Look at him.” He’s laughing harder now, eyes twinkling with overjoyed tears. It’s unfair how easily he can clutch the heart in Keith’s chest, steal the coordination in his thoughts, seize the steadiness of his breath. “God.” He shakes and ducks his head, pulse quick. 

Viktor seems to understand what Keith’s getting at, seems able to recognize the same shade of love painted over all of Keith’s presence. “To helping the insecure men in our lives,” he whispers, and he holds his paper cup out to Keith. Lifting his head, Keith grabs his own soda and swishes it, so the fizz crackles. He knocks it once against Viktor’s cup, then takes a mouthful through the straw.

He flicks his eyes back to Lance, keeping them there. Keeping them against the delighted wrinkle in his husband’s nose. The rosy tint of a laugh on the tips of his ears. Keith’s heart gets warm when he focuses, when he makes the clamor of the room fade out of his consciousness, so all he can hear is Lance’s uninhibited, radiant sounds as he chuckles. He’s dazzling. 

- nsfw (I’m underage, so I’m not rlly comfortable with it)

- anything where underage characters are dating adults

- abuse (unless the abuser is actively the antagonist)

- intense gore

- changing only one character in the ship’s gender (don’t ask me to make it straight, is what I’m saying here lol. my gay ass won’t stand for that)

I reserve the right to deny any request I’m not comfortable with, though, even if it’s not on this list (I’ll add more to this list as I think of them!)

What I will write:

- kissing

- cuddling

- platonic/familial love

- rlly!! most normal things!! tbh!! as long as I don’t find them gross or just don’t like them in general haha 

Keith’s got his Garrison uniform on, the one with the red sleeves and gold stripes, and Lance’s eyes snag on the way the colors broaden his shoulders. Or maybe it’s the way he’s standing, tall and confident, with that smug, little smile on his lips. But he looks so genuinely happy to see Lance, and that ties the whole image together. It’s something Lance will stare up at his ceiling thinking about until the next time Keith comes home. The next time Keith gives him something he can’t sleep over. Keith licks his lips, and the taunting image scrawled through Lance’s mind shifts. A shudder passes through Lance’s spine. He knows exactly what triggered it.

He nods at Keith, hands fumbling for the papers on his desk as a source of distraction. Quietly, he clears his throat, “Hey, Keith.” And there’s a smile in his voice, warm and fizzing, as he flashes a smitten look at his shuffling hands. Too stubborn, too apprehensive to let Keith know how profoundly giddy he is, but too pleased to keep a smile away. The pages click twice against the desk as he straightens them. Calculated. Nervous. “Didn’t think I’d see you during my lunch break today.” Lance flickers his eyes up and away from his work, and Keith’s grin in response is irrepressible. As if Lance just looking at him is enough to satisfy everything he’d ever wanted. Doesn’t he know how much Lance looks at him? It isn’t that special. But the way Keith smiles at him definitely is, and Lance feels his stomach roll in gratification, so he hides himself in his work again. His ears are hot.

Keith strolls in from the entrance and the door clicks back into place behind him. “Where else would I go?” He sounds so sincere. Lance smiles, the bunches of his cheeks burning from how wholly he feels the emotion behind his grin. His body sways, only slightly, with a drunken buzz of delight, and he presses a hand to his desk to keep himself steady. The papers he’d stacked so neatly only a second ago wrinkle under his hold, retaining the creases because of the sweat on his palms. God, was he always this blatantly skittish around Keith? The flush of his cheeks is so irredeemably nervous. He hears Keith flop onto the swivel chair behind him. His heart pools and bubbles in his stomach when Keith laughs at the way the seat skids back and squeaks. “You’re my favorite person to spend time with, Lance.” 

“Is that so?” Lance wheezes as he asks that, playing it off by laughing in short spurts after the fact. He turns around slowly, squatting on his desk where his papers aren’t. “Never would have guessed.” And he means it. Him? Keith’s favorite? He bites back the urge to sigh at the weight such an assurance takes off his shoulders. Pleasure burns at his nape; he lifts his hands there, as though to swat it back down. 

As he slides himself farther up his desk, so the crooks of his knees hook on the edge, he watches Keith make up for the distance. Hands close around the desk, one on either side of Lance’s thighs. “Absolutely.” Lance loses his voice at the certainty in Keith’s tone. The glint in Keith’s eyes turns wicked as he stands up and leans closer, shrinking the distance between them to something so small, Lance knows he’s not imagining Keith’s body heat swarming his own. “I heard something interesting from Pidge and Hunk when I came in this morning,” he says, bringing his hands closer to Lance’s legs, an inch away from touching. Lance dizzies at the thought, wonders what his hands feel like when they linger for more than a fleeting touch. 

“What did you hear?” Lance has to restart the sentence a few times, emotions too thick in his throat to allow words passage. Keith smiles something tender at the jolts in Lance’s voice. One of his hands releases the desk and instead, it drifts to Lance’s cheek. Though he puts infinite effort into an attempt, Lance can’t seem to keep his eyes open. He can’t see it when Keith swoops in to smother their lips together, but he feels it so perfectly, so completely, he swears the image is right there, on the backs of his eyelids. Surely on his ceiling tonight, too, as he’ll be kept up again. One of Lance’s hands grips to ground himself on the desk, while the other reaches for the hand Keith kept beside his thigh.

When Keith straightens his spine and thus places distance between them once more, it becomes painfully clear the sort of thing he’d heard. “Pidge said she was tired of watching you ‘stare at’ and ‘pine’ over me. Hunk begged me to make the first move.” Twitching his nose, he pauses, and the hand along Lance’s cheeks trails downward to his neck. Keith looks concerned. “How long?” It’s fragile, the way his face seems to fold in the middle, where his eyebrows wrench together, as though trying to meet. A welt of sadness taints Lance’s throat.

“Do you mean how long I was going to wait to kiss you? Or how long I’ve already been waiting?” Lance’s fingers begin to slip away from where they’re nestled over Keith’s, but they’re stopped when Keith desperately draws them back, pinning the hand under his own. Shyly, Lance admits, “Either way, the answer is pretty close to forever.” A sour note wrenches from Keith’s throat.

Pressing closer, touch hot enough on Lance’s neck to scar, Keith weakly ponders, “Why?” 

“I’ve been busy, and you’ve been busy, out with the Blades—”

“You’re not busy right now,” Keith says, tone sharp with urgency, but countenance a heartstopping mild. His eyes are scalding, a swirling grey like thick, stifling smoke, and Lance is suffocating in them, how they lock onto him. Stern, gentle, intoxicating. Those eyes dip to Lance’s mouth. A tongue darts over Keith’s lips when he brings his eyes upward again. “I’m not busy with the blades, either. What’s stopping you now?” Lance feels Keith’s hand on his neck crawl around to his scalp. He lets it happen, leans into the cup of gentle touches. 

Lance whimpers, “But you will be busy. When you leave again in a few days.” After hearing that, Keith tugs Lance closer by his hair, so he can kiss him again. Longer, deeper, and this time, Lance kisses back. He doesn’t care that the discussion has been paused, doesn’t mind postponing it, if it means he gets to taste more of Keith’s lips, circling and pushing along his own. Keith’s leaving, he tells himself. It isn’t a good idea to indulge in something that’s doomed to crash and burn, he reminds himself. But, ultimately, he admits that it feels too right to ignore. Lance curls into Keith, so indescribably satisfied he feels he might fall down onto his desk. His back shudders at the thought, like it’s about to give out under the affectionate assault, as though to confirm such a thing would be fitting. He wraps his arms around Keith’s neck to hold himself together.

The hold Keith has on Lance’s scalp falls away. He’s at the bottom of Lance’s shirt, now, and searing fingers swipe a patch of skin on the small of Lance’s back. It makes Lance arch closer. Keith eagerly takes the invitation, sliding his whole hand up under Lance’s shirt, just to cradle his shoulder blades. All his actions, all his motions whisper, caress, sing, I’ve waited too long, over soft skin. The drag of his tongue along the roof of Lance’s mouth says the same. So do the scribbled circles that loop around to Lance’s stomach, because Lance finally leans his spine down against his desk. He’s taking Keith’s cheeks, his addictive lips, with him. Keith swirls the nails of that one hand over Lance’s middle, and his other hand hastily moves from the edge of the desk to the space beside Lance’s head, where his fingers curl into the wood. 

Meanwhile, Lance grapples Keith’s cheeks like he’ll fall right into oblivion without Keith and his lips holding him in the present. His fingers wind through, and undo, Keith’s ponytail, so the hair tie clicks against the classroom floor. He doesn’t spare a thought in its direction; he’s waited too long to have Keith pushing, prodding, brushing teeth against his lips. Waited too long to kiss and be kissed by someone he feels so strongly for. To kiss and be kissed by Keith. When Lance whines, low and pleading in his throat, Keith lifts from Lance like he’s out of breath. Like he’s been drowning in something, and Lance feels the same. He can’t pry his eyes open, his lungs heave, and he feels Keith’s pulse from where he’s holding him by his cheeks, telling him Keith’s as antsy, as excited, as he is.

As Lance’s eyes squint open, he sees Keith’s cheeks are flushed. And Keith looks self conscious. Worried. He pulls his lips apart, huffs a few airless breaths, and then he suggests, “What if I don’t leave again? What if I stay here, not busy, with you?” He thumbs Lance’s bottom lip, he watches himself do it, as if he’s about to dive back in. If he went for it, Lance would let him. Lance would let him do anything. There’s no one he trusts more. In fact, he indulges the selfish look in Keith’s eyes, lifting his torso up to Keith’s so they can kiss again. Keith sighs against him, and Lance can feel the relief as his tense shoulders relax. 

They kiss until Lance is too overwhelmed by the heat behind it to breathe, and he pats Keith’s cheek. Instantly, Keith unlatches from Lance. They lock eyes for a moment, before Keith tickles his nose against Lance’s jawline experimentally. When Lance opens the spot to him, humming, Keith pecks a couple kisses down his neck. Fingers clutching into fists, Lance knots them together at the wrists, behind Keith’s head. His mind is fuzzy, his words slur as he quietly questions what Keith had proposed. “You’d do that for me?”

Keith chuckles against his pulse. Every exposed patch of Lance’s skin smolders, every one of his brain cells is stolen to play the sound and the feeling on repeat. God. God. He could keep Keith there forever, ask him to say every little thought he has there, and Lance still wouldn’t tire of it. He’s certain. It feels too good. Too perfect. So much so, he almost wants to ask Keith to stop, before he’s too drunk to teach later. Worst of all is how he knows, if he were to ask Keith to keep kissing and whispering along his neck, the man wouldn’t hesitate to do it. He’d probably smile and rumble with laughter and—

“Would I? Oh, Lance,” he breathes, then he’s leaving a kiss that’s longer than the rest, one that lingers after he’s pulled away again. “As if there’s anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Then stay,” Lance says hastily. Now that Keith’s suggested it, Lance can’t get the thought out of his head. How badly he wants Keith to stay with him. To kiss him every day, to laugh with him, to visit him during his lunch breaks. His heart revs up at the thought, his eyes swell with tears. Lance begs, “Please stay. Go on a date with me, keep kissing me, do whatever you want. Just please do it here, on Earth. Stay.” His breath is shaking. Now he’s crying. “Please, Keith. Stay with me.”

One last time, Keith kisses him on his mouth. Sweet and brief. Lance’s whole body shivers.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, too soft for any malice to ride upon his words. “He’s just a town over to get some dumb, fancy fabrics a customer requested. It’s only been a day and he’ll be back tonight. He’ll be fine.” Loudly, he sniffs, drags his hand down his face, and steps off his stool. He joins Hunk on the ground, as close to the door as he can be safely, in case it opens. In case Lance returns. When Pidge moves, he tugs an arm over his eyes to block the sunlight streaming in from the window she’d previously been blocking. A groan is heavy on the top of his throat.

“Or he’s being mugged on the walk back,” she muses, a lopsided shrug stealing her shoulders. Keith easily takes the bait. He sits up, eyes wide and cheeks hot with concern. His hands tangle in his lap, his foot starts to jump and jitter. Behind him, Hunk sits up, too, giving Pidge a cold look. Speaking of cold, “He could be buried in the snow, ya know. Happens all the time.” Slyly, she leans forward and smiles. “Maybe he’s already dead!” 

“Pidge!” 

She laughs and sticks her tongue out at Hunk’s cry. And then she stalks away, takes the stool Keith had abandoned, and holds a hand out to thumb wrestle with Allura. Her role in the conversation is effectively over. 

“I’m sure Lance is fine,” Hunk breathes, dropping a hand onto Keith’s shoulder. “He’s not even later than he said he’d be; there’s no reason to worry yet, man.” Hunk is right. As usual. He’s always right, and Keith is not in the mood for it. He wants to brood. He’s not in a good place, mentally. It’s only been a month or two since Lotor took Lance, and Keith hadn’t been, by any means, ready to let Lance out of his sight two days ago, when Lance had mentioned a supply run. But it isn’t as though Keith would have stopped him from doing his job. It isn’t his place.

Yet, as he stares at the clock on the wall, he wonders more and more if he should have at least gone too. More aware of how Lance said he would be back by dinner tonight. Because it is four in the afternoon. He figures it’s pretty late in the day to have gotten no news of Lance whatsoever; Keith’s giving him an hour before he puts a search party together. 

Huffing, Keith pulls at the roots of his hair. 

A moment later, the door opens. He stands up with a grin wide along his face, but when he sees who’s at the door, it shrivels. He leans on the table, all the excitement sucked from his posture. Just Shiro, carrying a stack of papers and frowning at the loss of enthusiasm. “Good to see you, too, Keith,” he grumbles, tossing what was in his arms onto the table. Keith flips him off. “I had some good news, perhaps about Lance, but,” he hums as Keith’s smile blooms again, eyes bright and wrinkled at the corners, “maybe you’re too grumpy to hear.” The head knight’s mouth flops open, an excited noise rising from his lungs. Shiro turns to Allura and cuts off anything Keith might have to say. A sly grin is vivid on his cheeks. “Now, I got all the documents Iago signed to outlaw magic, so we can get to reversing them...”

Keith furrows his brows, eyes happy, unable to pass as a glare. “Shiro! Gimme the news, dammit!” Much to his dismay, his voice is entirely a whine, and Shiro’s lips buzz in a chuckle at that. The rest of the room follows his example, laughing as they gather around the table and the papers scattered upon it. Allura is the first to stop and, nodding at Keith, she waves a hand. “Are you—wait, I can go? I don’t have to be here for this?” She shrugs. And then everyone’s eyes are off Keith, a dutiful example of I’m choosing not to see your negligence, so he shouts a word of gratitude and sprints for the door. 

Excitement is something hot and tangible in his stomach, thick and steamy in his chest, and though he never celebrated his birthday as a child, Keith thinks it would have felt something like this. His cheeks are numb with a growing smile as he approaches where he knows the stables are, where he knows Lance will be. And then he turns a corner, and his feet almost fly out from under him when the stone path ends and the dirt of the stables begins. He presses a palm to the wall, both to keep himself from slipping and to catch his breath.

Not that it matters. Lance is there to steal it again, anyway. 

He’s there, hair sloppy and shirt crooked, as he wrestles with a saddle that’s knotted too tightly around the horse he’d borrowed from the castle. Keith sees him in profile, appreciating the slope of his nose and the length of his lashes, the golden glow of them in the sunset. Maybe it’s only the sweet swell of Lance’s cheeks as he smiles, but the light seems gentle, like candlelight. A brushstroke of peach is on the tip of his nose, a twinkle of starlight yellow sits in either eye. He’s got a pucker to his lips, and the sunlight flickers against it as he moves and light catches his features in different ways. All his body is traced in orange, like the sun dribbles down his back and pools at his ankles. Like the light scattered on the ground is there because of him. Like the only reason the sun exists is to make him shine.

Lance’s shadow is long, slender, and elegant on the dirt, but it’s missing the personality portrayed on Lance’s features. His tongue pokes past his lips in concentration, his cheeks puff when his horse shuffles and he loses his hold on the knot. He’s pouting, frustrated, but he whispers a gentle word or two in the animal’s direction, anyway. Love swells in Keith’s chest.

Crossing the distance between them in a rush, he wraps his arms around Lance’s middle, nose tucking into his nape. He kisses there a couple times. “You’re home,” he murmurs, and he grins when his husband shivers under his voice. His arms tighten, and he breathes deep and slow. Lance doesn’t smell like he usually does; he smells of the places he’s been and of the leather of his saddle. Keith kisses farther around his neck, then just below Lance’s ear, where he still smells right. Briefly, he spares the breath for, “Was worried,” before continuing to trace his lips over his husband’s shoulders. 

“Why’s that?” Lance spins in Keith’s arms, looking as thrilled to see Keith as Keith is thrilled to see him. His eyes aren’t catching the light anymore, but Keith can’t seem to keep his eyes from being caught within them, regardless. Seems Lance traded one trapped thing in favor of ensnaring another. Mindlessly, Keith trails a hand up to Lance’s cheekbone. His husband’s eyelashes drift downward at the contact, a rumble sounding in his chest. At that, there’s a thrumming in Keith’s chest, too. He smiles tenderly, pitches forward, and places his lips between Lance’s brows. “Keith,” Lance hums. Around his spine, on his shoulder blades, Keith feels Lance’s hands settle into place. His heart whirs. 

His hands trickle down Lance’s body, as he says, “Dunno. Missed you, though. Shoulda gone with you.” The last part’s a grumbled bit of hindsight that makes Lance ring with laughter. When Keith’s hands reach Lance’s thighs, he stops moving them, instead taking hold and tugging Lance up. Positively bubbling, his husband locks ankles behind his waist, and his hands loop through Keith’s hair. He’s smiling down at Keith, sunlight back to dripping liquid heat around his silhouette, and he looks angelic. Heavenly, in the kind of way that just has to be tasted. Batting his lashes once, Lance angles his neck to slot his lips against Keith’s. In answer, Keith flexes his fingers around his husband’s thighs. 

Their kiss is all smooth caresses and swipes of tongue. “Missed you too,” Lance says as he pulls away. Keith chases him. “Aren’t you just insatiable,” he giggles, before Keith jostles him briskly, which throws their lips back together. Slowly, easily, Keith carries Lance away from the knotted saddle and the troublesome steed, until he’s got his husband’s spine curled against a wall. The fingers in his hair tug, weakly, and he releases Lance’s lips with a pop. It takes a second for his husband to open his eyes again, and Keith makes his question of why Lance asked to pull apart apparent by pursing his lips and raising a brow. Lance shakes his head, simply. “I just wanted to see you. You’re really pretty, you know that? I missed seeing you. Missed your eyes...” With a fingertip, he draws an unassuming line under Keith’s eye. 

Keith’s heart wrenches in the best possible way. He feels, in that instant, like he’ll die if he doesn’t have Lance in his arms, if he can’t kiss his cheeks and neck whenever he wants. Like the only thing keeping his feet on the ground is the weight of his love for Lance pumping in his stomach, in his chest, in his lungs. His fingertips tremble with the joy of it, his eyes start to water. He bows his head, browline tucking against Lance’s collarbones. His husband kisses the crown of his head, then rests his chin over the spot. “Stay with me,” Keith whispers, lips tickling the collar of Lance’s shirt. He feels the skin warm as he speaks.

“Always,” Lance squeezes from his lungs. He sweeps a lock of Keith’s hair behind his ear, then gathers his lips over the same place. Keith shuts his eyes tighter, braces his thumbs more tightly around Lance’s thighs, and grits his teeth so as not to cry. But his fondness for Lance wins in the end, and he can’t help the tears that manage to slip past his defenses. A thumb eases under his chin a moment later, and he lifts his gaze to Lance. Lance. Beautiful, kind, warm, loving Lance, and all his benevolence, and all the grace and bliss his smile brings to Keith’s heart. Lance, who is also crying. “As long as you’ll have me.”