#sleapea

Lance had a bad day.

He’s quiet when he comes through the front door. So quiet, that Keith barely hears him enter at all, save the light click of their apartment door as it locks shut.

“Lance, that you?” Keith calls from where he sits in the living room, turning the TV off and shifting his attention to the quiet shuffling he can now hear from around the corner. After a few moments of silence, he calls his name again. When Lance still doesn’t answer, Keith gets up.

Keith hesitantly turns into their front hallway, arms crossed in front of his chest as he peeks around the corner. He’s greeted to a view of Lance with his elbow and forearm propped against the wall, steadying himself as he slides off his dress shoes.

“Lance?”

Lance starts, reaction delayed. He looks up slowly, meeting Keith’s eyes with a small smile. “Oh, hey babe.” Keith’s brow furrows when the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

He watches him for a few moments as Lance finishes taking off his shoes, and as he fumbles with his blazer before hanging it on one of the hooks against the wall. His actions are slow and muddled, free of his usual vigor, as if he’s trying to navigate through a thick fog. He spends about a minute looking for his briefcase, which he left right next to the door, before loosening his tie with a finger and letting out a deep, weighted sigh.

Keith clicks his tongue, having seen enough. He quickly turns on his heel, leaving Lance at his back and walking decidedly down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Although the sound of the bath filling is loud, Keith knows that Lance won’t notice what he’s up to given the state he’s in. As it fills, he pours in a combination of bubbles, scented oils, and bath bombs that he always thought was a little much, but he knows Lance loves. When the tub is full and the room smells like a Bath and Body Works threw up in their en suite, he nods and stalks into their bedroom where he knows he’ll find Lance.

“Naked.” From where he’s seated on the edge of their bed, Lance looks up slowly with a quirked brow.

“Wha-“

“Now.”

Lance stares at him for a few moments, confusion evident in his expression. When Keith’s hard gaze doesn’t relent, he stands up with a light sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck. Something that Lance has learned over the years is that sometimes, it really is easier just to trust him.

As Lance begins to undo his dress shirt with awkward, clumsy fingers, Keith’s face softens. He walks over to his boyfriend and gently removes Lance’s hands from his shirt buttons, squeezing them once to soothe him as he jumps in surprise at the sudden contact.

“Just let me take care of you, okay?” Keith meets Lance’s eyes, and, maintaining eye contact, places a kiss to each delicate set of his curved fingertips in succession.

“Okay.” Lance’s voice is barely above a whisper, but Keith can feel his answer in the breath against his skin. He responds with a soft smile, lightly guiding Lance’s hands to his sides before letting them go. Quickly, he begins to unbutton his blouse with deft fingers, and they finish undressing him in a comfortable silence.

Almost.

Lance is barely finished kicking off his underwear before Keith is already scooping him up and into his arms, and for the first time since coming home, Lance’s face animates.

“Keith?!” He squeaks out, face blushing in patches starting at his collarbones and spreading to his cheeks. Keith is smaller than him in a lot of ways, but not any less strong – something that Lance tends to forget.

Keith says nothing, choosing instead to turn around and carry Lance bridal style across their bedroom floor. When they reach the bathroom, Keith prods the door open with the ball of his foot, and doesn’t set Lance down until they reach the side of the tub. He lowers him into the warm water so gently, as if handling something fragile, that it sends a shiver up Lance’s spine.

Before he’s even fully registered the environment change, Keith’s already stripped and climbing into the tub behind him.

“Keith? You don’t have to-“ He’s cut off when Keith places both hands firm against his waist, pulling him backward until he’s between his legs and his back is against his chest.

“Shh,” Keith breathes out, so close now that Lance can feel it against the shell of his ear. “I told you to let me take care of you.” Keith wraps his arms around Lance’s chest and squeezes, placing a light kiss to the back of his shoulder.

He keeps planting kisses against Lance’s warm skin; his shoulder blades, the back of his neck, the underside of his ear; until Lance finally relaxes into his touch. Keith lets out a contented hum when Lance gives, nuzzling playfully into his soft brown hair and hugging him tighter.

By now, Keith knows Lance like the back of his hand. When he’s upset, much to Keith’s chagrin, he has an awful habit of retreating into himself to avoid burdening the people around him. By choosing to be quiet, Lance thinks he does a good job at hiding how he really feels. But to Keith, who’s used to seeing Lance light up every room he enters, the fact that something is wrong is all the more obvious.

Keith used to get frustrated with him for not opening up, but that frustration quickly faded into a soft sort of affection that only Lance could inspire as he came to understand him more. After holding the team together for so long during their Voltron days, it’s a habit that Lance just can’t help. So instead, when Lance comes home uncharacteristically quiet after a long day, Keith chooses to shower him in affection until he feels ready to come out of his shell on his own. Keith had never been any good at comforting people before, but for Lance, he’d quickly learned how. To him, learning to be soft was a small, simple task for the boy he’d gladly give the world to.

So he keeps Lance close as he washes his hair for him, his body. He spends extra time kneading at his scalp, listening to Lance as he slowly begins to recount his day. When he’s squeaky clean, Keith massages his shoulders until Lance is a puddle against his stomach. With Lance lying content and warm against his chest, he can’t help but wrap his arms around him once again, planting soapy kisses to his flushed cheeks. When Lance dips his fingers into the water, gathers a handful of bubbles and blows them through a soft, contented giggle, Keith’s heart nearly melts. All it takes is a single, playful pout for Keith to give in and let Lance paint a bubble mustache under his nose.

When the water begins to cool down, they finally get out of the tub. Keith quickly grabs a fluffy towel and wraps it snug around Lance, content to simply hug his warm, burrito boyfriend instead of drying off himself. Lance wiggles in his grasp until his arms are free, using the edges of the towel the dry and ruffle Keith’s hair. Keith protests, but freezes when he hears Lance speak.

“Keith?” Lance’s voice is warm and sweet, like melted honey. Keith looks up to meet his eyes, and Lance, with his hands still holding Keith’s messy hair against his cheeks, plants a soft kiss against his nose.

“Thank you.”

“Sorry it took me so long,” Lance starts, squirming slightly in place where he stands under Keith’s scrutiny. “Rachel rearranged the makeup drawer and didn’t tell me.” He huffs a little, but his smile doesn’t fade.

When Keith doesn’t respond, Lance flushes from head to toe. He doesn’t mean to stare— he really doesn’t, but he can’t help himself. He just… he needs a moment to convince himself that the image before him, of Lance Mcclain wearing a dark shade of red lipstick that compliments the rosy red of his cheeks, is real.

“W-when we were talking during lunch last week,” Lance stammers, rambling to fill the silence.

But Keith already knows what Lance is going to say. When they were talking during lunch last week, Kinkade mentioned that his boyfriend surprised him with a new shade of lipstick the night before. Keith had blushed, and at the time, he’d really hoped that Lance hadn’t noticed, but now...

He gets to his feet, crosses the room so fast Lance’s next sentence catches in his throat. “I know,” he breathes, “I love it.”

Lance instantly calms, and Keith brings his hands up to cup Lance’s cheeks, tilts his head up so that he’s facing Keith. This close, Keith can count the freckles across his nose, his cheeks, even in the fading light. Although, Keith could probably still count them in the dark— he’s had a crush on Lance since they were kids, afterall. He’d been following the freckles along Lance’s face even before he knew how to count.

He unabashedly stares at Lance’s lips, covered in red, soft and supple and warm and practically singing his name. He wants so badly to lift his thumb and press it to Lance’s bottom lip, but he thinks Lance might kill him if he does.  

“It’s the same shade as your motorcycle,” Lance says triumphantly. “It took me awhile to find, but I think I came pretty close.”

If Keith wasn’t already in love with him, he’d fall for Lance again, right here, right now, cupping his warm cheeks in his hands and watching as a pleased smile crosses his face. A smile, one lined with the deep red of his bike. His bike. His.

He’s so lost in it, in Lance, and he can’t seem to break it. All he can see is blue— the colour of the room as the sun fades, the wide, bright eyes of Lance staring up at him, and red— his lover’s lips, the high apples of his cheeks.

“Did you know,” he says, without thinking. “That blue and red are complementary colours?”

He doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t know where it came from. He doesn’t even know if it’s true.

Lance raises an eyebrow, and when all Keith does is gape in his own silence, he bursts into a fit of laughter.

“Don’t you mean red and purple?” Lance asks, and Keith’s cheeks instantly heat.

“Uh…” he stares helplessly at Lance, at his boyfriend, into the vivid blue of his irises and how could it be purple when all Keith sees is blue.

Lance stands on his tip toes slowly, rests his hands on his shoulders, and plants a lingering kiss against his lips. Keith remains still, eyes blown wide and searching.  

Lance pulls away, lipstick still pristine and perfect. “There,” he smiles, eyes flitting down to Keith’s lips. “Now it’s complementary.”  

It takes Keith a second to put it together. He lifts a hand up to his lips, touches his own skin. When he pulls away and looks at the pads of his fingers, they’re stained red.

Although, to him, his eyes were a blurred mix of black and grey, Lance had always said they were purple. “In the light, Keith. I don’t know how you can’t see it. It’s the prettiest shade of purple I’ve ever seen—” And he’d blushed so bright that day all Keith could do was laugh. And now…

Red and purple are complementary. Lance is wearing the red across his lips, and it’s Keith that has the purple in the gaze he fixes lovingly onto them.

He leans in closer to Lance’s face, smiles. “Can I…” he whispers, but Lance never lets him finish. He answers him with a soft and breathy ‘yes,” winds his fingers around the back of Keith’s neck and draws him down and against him and into the warm, wet heat of his mouth.  

The party is loud. Too loud, he thinks. Too loud, and full of too many people. It’s making his head spin.

He really hadn’t wanted to come, if he’s being honest. He takes a sip of his drink, leans against the kitchen counter, and wonders, for a moment, why on Earth he’s here?

That’s when he looks up, and he sees him.

From where he leans against the kitchen counter, he can see Lance in the other room. He has his arm slung over Pidge’s shoulder, and it looks like they’re talking to a group of classmates. Pidge huffs up at him, but he pretends not to notice. Then, he laughs, big and open and easy, at something someone in the group says. It looks like he’s having fun.

Lance looks up. He doesn’t see him right away, but when he does, their eyes lock. Lance looks away fast, as if he hadn’t seen him. Keith shrugs, turning away his gaze. A few moments later, he can feel Lance’s eyes back on him, and he grins. Mostly, because he can’t help it. A little bit, because he knows it’ll get to Lance.

Keith’s eyes are back on him the second he knows Lance isn’t looking anymore and God — he laughs again, and Keith can’t help but stare. Lance’s cheeks are flushed from drinking, freckles peppered over a canvas of pink as his cheeks dimple around a smile. His hair is mused and messy from the heat, from running his fingers through it, and small strands are beginning to curl at the back of his neck.

Keith doesn’t know if it’s the whisky, but he really wants to kiss him (well, he knows it’s not the whisky. But the whisky definitely isn’t helping). He really wants to kiss him. And he knows that he shouldn’t want to, but fuck if it doesn’t stop him from wanting.

Lance meets his eyes again, and this time, Keith knows it was on purpose. He wants to kiss the freckle that sits at the edge of his smile.

He watches as Lances eases himself from his friend group, ruffles Pidge’s hair. He wants to trace the outline of his cupids bow, run his thumb over his lower lip.

He watches as he makes his way over, through the crowd in the next room. He wants to tilt his chin up slow, breathe him in —

Lance comes up beside him, breaking his daydream. He leans against the counter next to him, red solo cup in hand, before turning to him and grinning.

“Whatcha doing over here, all on your lonesome?” He drawls, head tilting in his direction.

Maybe it’s the whisky, but Keith feels like he takes his time looking him over. His t-shirt is loose enough to reveal the slimmest bit of collarbone when he shifts to face him, and Keith swallows.

“Nothing,” he says, voice rough. He wishes he had the control that Lance did, the ability to coat his voice in sugar and let it pour sweet like honey. But he doesn’t, and instead, it grates between them like sandpaper. Lance raises an eyebrow.

“It looks like you’re brooding,” he says, taking a sip from his cup. His lips are stained red from whatever he’s drinking. “You should come join the rest of us.” But Keith doesn’t want to join the rest of them. Actually, he’s happy just like this, with Lance next to him. He wants him to stay, wants to keep talking to him, wants to —

“Do you want to try this?” Lance says, eyes lighting up as he lowers his cup from his lips. “Hunk made it for me, it’s really good! I forget what he called it… but it’s definitely better than whatever you’re drinking.” He snorts, something he only does after a few drinks, laughing at his own joke. Keith doesn’t want to find it endearing, but he does.

“Yeah,” he turns to face him, voice low. “Can I?”

Lance grins, holds his cup out to him. And, it’s definitely the whisky… but Keith grabs his wrist instead, pulls him closer. Leans in and captures Lance’s mouth in one, fluid motion. Lance tenses at first, but he doesn’t pull away. Keith draws back slowly, contemplating.

“Cranberry,” he whispers, “It tastes like cranberries.” Lance flushes a deep pink, and Keith realizes what he’s done.

“O-oh,” Lance stutters, clearly taken aback “Is that what it is…” He averts his eyes, blush reaching his ears.

“Shit.” Eloquence is not his strong suit. “I’m so sorry Lance, I don’t… I shouldn’t have done that.” He releases Lance’s wrist, and Lance draws it back, sets his drink down on the counter.

“Hmm…” Lance hums, slowly shifting his eyes back to meet Keith’s. “You’re right… you shouldn’t have done that.” His tone is even, and Keith deflates.

“You totally ruined the moment when you apologized. Shouldn’t have done it.” He continues after a long pause, almost casually. But there’s a playful lilt to his voice. “It was really smooth until then… I was practically swooning.” And Keith gapes.

“Do you remember,” Lance muses after a few moments, voice quiet as a smile toys at his lips. “When I said that you were probably drinking something terrible?”

“Well, you didn’t say it like that, but —”

“It wasn’t that bad.” He cuts him off, takes a step closer to him. Rests his hand tentatively on the counter next to Keith’s hip. “I would hazard to say, I kind of liked it…”

Before he can continue, Keith’s already diving back in, slotting their lips together. Lance laughs into him, against him, and the sweet taste of cranberries fills his mouth. The room is hot — so is their skin, and so is their breath, but it doesn’t stop Keith from lifting his hand to cup his jaw, tilt him closer. When they part, he pulls back enough to let a thumb trace along the curve of his lip. It’s soft, and his heart skips.

“God,” Keith laughs, low and clumsy, nerves finally bubbling to the surface. “You scared me for a second.”

“Good.” Lance shrugs, leaning away from him. He takes another sip of his drink without breaking their eyes. “It’s your punishment for taking so long.” He’s smiling again, but this time, coy. Keith’s not sure what kind of expression he’s making, but Lance takes one look at it and laughs. He picks up his drink with one hand, and takes Keith’s hand in the other.

“Come on, let’s go. Shiro wants to see you.” He coaxes, guiding Keith into the crowd in the next room. “And maybe, if you’re lucky, Hunk will make you one of these.” He lifts his drink, winks, and then turns to begin making his way back through the crowd with Keith in tow.

“I think I like yours better,” he whispers. Lance squeezes his hand, and from above the music and chatter, he can still hear the laugh that escapes him.

First, there’s an explosion to his right. An angry, hot burst of fire and pressure that fills the hall and sends him flying backward.

Next, the air is punched from his lungs, his body cracking against something hard and unforgiving. There’s a pain, sharp and hot, that whites his vision. Then, for a moment, there’s nothing.

But only for a moment.

The first thing he registers is the taste of blood in his mouth. He doesn’t remember falling to his knees, but now, they’re crumpled beneath him, heavy and shaking. His ears are ringing, and the room is hazy. There are voices around him, and he’s pretty sure they’re shouting, but it all sounds so far away.

Lance.

A tall figure breaks through the smoke around him, gait confident, almost leisurely, as it makes it’s way toward him.

Lance!

It stops a few feet ahead of him, which is when Lance looks. He looks up, only to a see a face he doesn’t recognize. A face that’s smiling down at him.

Don’t you dare touch him!

Everything happens fast. There’s a blur of purple, and then a streak of red. The hard sound of metal against metal. Then, the room gets louder with the sounds of shouting and gun fire, of footsteps and panic.

Keith!

The name echoes through his consciousness; it cuts through the ringing and the fog and it shakes him. “Keith?” He asks no one in particular. The word grates up his throat, rough and hoarse and painful.

As if in answer, a body shuffles backward, and something warm hits his chest. It slumps against him, rests its head against his shoulder. When it turns, their eyes lock, and all Lance can see is violet. “Keith.” This time, his voice is a whisper.

“Yeah.” The voice that responds is low, fond, but it’s strained. At the sound of it, panic shoots through him. His veins light on fire and his heart beats into his throat and - is there blood on his armour?

Keith’s posture gives, and Lance catches him with shaking hands.

“Wait—” he grapples with the haze and the confusion until the panic cuts through, and then there’s nothing - absolutely nothing but Keith. Keith, in his arms, bleeding through his armour. He gasps, chokes, like he’s been under water, like he’s just come up for air.

“I don’t understand,” he says. His vision clouds, and then a single drop of water hits Keith’s face beneath him. And then another, and another, until he’s turning away. Turning to press his hand against where Keith’s bleeding at his side, to apply pressure, but Keith catches his fingers before he can make it. “I don’t… I don’t— ” he stutters, breath erratic. Keith squeezes his hand, cutting him off. Bringing him down. “Why?” He manages.

“You know why.” His voice is quiet, gravely. Lance holds Keith’s gaze, unable to tear his eyes away. It strips him completely, and he begins to shake.

No, wait — this isn’t right.

Keith’s breath begins to wane.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen.

“I love you, Lance.”

**the bold is to separate each change in setting! Hopefully this isn't confusing eep. Switches between battle setting and current setting

- - - ☆ - - - 

A blast, to his left. He dodges, watches as it hits the wall beside him. Watches as it explodes hot and white in a burst of shrapnel and fire, chest tightening with the realization that it was supposed to land just above his heart.

Hands, all over him. Hungry, needy, and shaking. They fumble with the armour on his chest until he’s relieved of it, and warm palms are caressing every inch of him like they’re starving for it. His heart pounds in his chest, in his ears, pumping blood to his cheeks as they heat and his lips as they bruise against the hungry mouth looking to devour him.

A routine mission turned chaotic, a peaceful planet turned upside down. Shiro is shouting something, he can see his lips moving, but all he can hear is gunfire.

The sound of armour hitting the floor, of sharp inhales and hot exhales. They don’t try to speak, there’s nothing to say that they can’t already see burning in the others eyes, burning in every touch they leave against each other’s skin.

Fire, surrounding him. Smoke filling his lungs, clouding his vision, fogging his mind. But all he can think of is that he can’t see him, can’t find him. He has to find him.

Fire, in his veins as lips crash together, as teeth scrape teeth, as he opens to the boy desperately trying to taste him. It’s messy and it’s desperate, and it tastes like blood and salt and smoke. But it feels like him — it feels like Lance. He grips the sharp curves of Lance's jaw, thumbs hooked against cheeks covered in ash. He’s pushed against a wall until their bodies are flush, and he thinks he’s never been closer to him. His heart aches and his arms try to draw him in, in, in. He isn’t close enough.

When he sees him, his heart nearly stops. Blue armour sprawled across the dirty ground, a head of chestnut hair exposed as a helmet rolls a few feet from where he lays. But then, he moves, and he’s shouting, and he’s still alive. He’s alive. His body makes the decision to move before his mind can catch up, and he’s running. With burning lungs and trembling legs, he’s running.