“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” Lance breaks the silence, mouth brushing against his now-worn slacks, kneecaps showing.

Keith grunts, staring forward into the crisp night. “It’s fine.”

“And I’m sorry for punching you in the face.”

Keith hums in acknowledgement.

Lance shrinks further into the tight cocoon he’s concocted for himself. He chews at his lip, leg bouncing up into his mouth. “And I’m sorry for not giving you an answer.”

“It’s fine,” Keith repeats quickly. “I didn’t expect one.”

Lance drums his forefingers into his kneecaps, shifting on the cobblestone steps. He hears Keith rustle, sighing next to him. Back inside where the party continues, he hears the faint and familiar sounds of ABBA and the clinks of glasses. He feels like a child, again, not allowed back into the extravagant fun until he’s settled things between him and his notorious rival. He doesn’t even blame Keith for this. It’s his fault he’s been unable to emotionally process anything since the war. How Keith got better at it than him is beyond anything he can comprehend.

The question cements itself into the air and though the anger is gone, the confusion remains. Though his persona says otherwise, Lance never truly thought he was someone that would experience the fierce loyalty that Keith has shown, Keith has shared, Keith has stated to him, until now. “Why?”

“‘Why’ what?”

“Why me?” Lance finally turns to look at Keith, and sees Keith brushing a gloved finger under his now-dry nose. The blood stays caked above his lip, and Lance feels even worse. Lance probably broke it, and Keith’ll have to reset it before they head back into the party. “Why do you love me?”

Keith stops his ministrations, cocking his head lightly to the side. Lance watches Keith process his words, thick eyebrows crinkling downwards, and it’s quiet for a moment. Lance nearly backtracks his question until Keith meets his gaze fiercely, and Lance feels his breath hitch. “I didn’t think I needed a reason to,” he answers, like that’s all there is to it. Nothing more, nothing less. “I just love you.”

“Okay,” Lance drawls, lips pursing. He’s not satisfied with the ‘just because’ of the answer, which pretty cements the entire statement as a non-answer. Keith could be dodging the question entirely, but Lance sees the ferocity of his eyes and thinks back to the past few months and determines that no, he probably isn’t. It could just be it for him. “What’s it feel like?”

“What?”

Lance turns his wrist over and over, gesturing onward. “Like, what’s loving me feel like?”

“Are you genuinely curious, or are we feeding your ego?”

Lance glares and pouts, but he sees Keith smirking back at him, so he takes it as a step in the right direction. “No, geez. Like,” Lance purses his lips and thinks back to his days in Voltron. He thinks of silver hair and blue eyes, and juniberry flowers. “Like when I loved Allura, I felt giddy. Like my stomach was in knots. Sometimes, it was like my heart would stop. Even when I was sad, I felt like I always needed to chase the feeling.”

Keith nods back at him, silent, and Lance quietly wonders if Keith’s love is similar to what Lance felt back in those days. Or if he’s judging him for such an immature way of looking at love.

Lance has learned, both in space and on Earth, that love has many forms. He’s still learning. ‘Amar es ser’ as his mamá preached on the steps under the porch light, when his tears would finally dry up after planting rows upon rows of juniberry flowers. To be sad, to be lonely, to grieve. No one love is the same, he knows that. And love never truly leaves. In these two years following the end of the war, all he’s known is grief and heartache, and has believed that’s all love could be. He sees Curtis and Shiro, Hunk and Shay, and just knows he’s never going to have that again. That giddy feeling in his stomach. He’s stuck, grounded.

“Like flying,” Keith finally answers. “Loving you feels like flying.”

“Like flying?”

“Like it’s second nature,” Keith laments. “I don’t really think about it, I just do it. And when I do have to think about it, like if there’s an asteroid field to get through, or I dunno, ‘this,’” he gestured between the two of them, banished from Shiro’s party in trashed clothing stained with dirt, “it’s exhilarating,” Keith exhales sharply from his mouth, a cloud of air puffing out into the chilly night. “It’s my favorite thing in the universe.”

“Oh.”

Keith nods once at him, “Yeah.”

flash forward roughly two years and keith has actually been holding a candle since then, when he was trying to bury it all. and by the time he’s settled into the blade of marmora, all he can feel is a desire to be by lance’s side. but lance has grown cold and distant and is shrouded in grief. keith loves him, sure, but god, he is sad. shiro knows, and is worried, hunk too, and pidge is at an utter loss, but keith keeps going back for more. he’s flying straight into an asteroid field and lance just keeps chucking rocks in his direction, trying to send him away, but keith won’t. he’s going to navigate it like the ace pilot he is, take his face in his calloused palms and promise him he’s there, he isn’t leaving, take him, it’s his.

“Mullet-Head! There you are!” Lance hears himself slur. He clumsily places his fruity drink on the windowsill, not thinking of the possibility of it falling. He trots over to his friend and places his hands on his shoulders, shaking him in a drunken haze. “Keithy, come on, we’ll go ask the DJ to play some early 2000’s emo rock for you,” Lance tugs at the lapels of Keith’s jacket, but Keith stands rooted and firm. 

“No,” he replies shortly, and alright, that settles it. Lance needs him to drink, he’s seen him on the castle ship post-nunvill and knows he can be a good time. Whatever brooding bullshit this is has got to go. 

“What, come on,” Lance drawls, and he jumps up at Keith. “Come on, do a shot with me, we’ll race each other like old times.” 

“No, Lance. I’m not in the mood.”

In Lance’s intoxicated state, he finds himself searching for why Keith is suddenly so, ugh, Keith-like. He was fine when they got there. He was fine surrounded by his friends. He was okay during the first round of drinks, even when Lance was drinking slightly more than what his tolerance was allowed to be. It went downhill once the dancing began. He sways slightly in his shoes as he thinks and, oh, right. 

“Is it because I was dancing with Nadia?” He guesses, and yup, he sees the clench in his jaw and knows that’s definitely it. Why him dancing like a drunk idiot at his own party is causing Keith to go full emo, his alcohol-riddled brain may never know. “I’ll dance with you next,” Lance reasons. “Let’s just drink and have fun! Stop being a party pooper!” 

Keith’s face is turned away and his glare hardens, staring out into nothing. Lance tightens his grip, because geez, him and Keith were having fun, weren’t they? He was laughing with him like, ten minutes ago. Things have been good, have been fine. Sure, Keith’s been kind of weird around him, but it’s definitely better. Their rivalry is gone, and now it’s been like solid ground, almost. Keith and Lance, war heroes turned friends. Keith opens his mouth, and Lance’s drunken state itches for a fun quip he’s been used to all night. 

“You’re never not going to be Loverboy Lance, as long as you can get some.” 

He releases the zipper of his coat, suddenly sober. Keith must sense it too, because he sees the resolve crack, and he turns to Lance in noticeable horror. The cloud of fun has dissipated, and he’s back to dealing with a Keith that, in short, doesn’t respect him. Never has, never will. 

“Shit, no, that’s not what I meant,” Keith tries to backtrack, rewind, but Lance’s fingers itch as he drops his hands to his side. He stares at Keith like he’s a stranger.

“Then what did you mean?” 

“Nothing, geez, Lance, just -” 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Lance demands, voice hoarse. 

Keith immediately stiffens up and steps back. Lance can practically see the particle barrier around Keith rise. “I don’t have a problem,” he states, final. 

“Yeah, you do,” Lance replies, and God, he just wanted to do shots and dance and forget. In his peripheral, he sees Shiro step out from the bar, looking for the two of them. Shiro walks carefully their way, like walking into a pool of sharks. Careful, concerned. “If you don’t want to celebrate my birthday with me, then just tell me.” 

Keith glares, defensive. “Maybe I just don’t want to watch you flirting with everything that moves.” 

“Keith!” Shiro steps forward, intercepting the blow. But it lands just the same. 

Lance scoffs. “Then leave.” 

“Lance -” Shiro tries to reason, but Lance doesn’t want to hear it.

“I’m serious. Go,” he states, crossing his arms. “You’re being an asshole and I don’t want you here.” 

Keith draws a gloved hand down his face, hair falling out of his ponytail. He’s very evidently sober, and looks tired, and Lance is anything but. He’s wired, he’s hot, and his thoughts are a storm of unabashed anger. He’s drunk, both on alcohol and rage. Keith has been on his ass, despite their good run, and he’s sick of it. “Lance, look -” 

“Leave, Keith.” 

Shiro puts a hand on Lance’s shoulders, and Lance only just realizes he’s shaking under his blue jacket. He shrugs him off, gaze steady on Keith. Shiro, trying to reason with them both, sternly turns to Keith. 

“Keith, please -” 

“I’ll go,” Keith interrupts, eyes locking with Lance’s. Though Lance has stood fierce and unwavering since stepping outside into the desert air, the look has him feel small. The swirls of his irises speak to something that Lance’s drunk self can’t place, the unspoken words he’s been trying to read for the past few weeks. Lance finds himself turning away, unable to hold his stare.

“Good. Go.” 

“Both of you, just -” 

“No, Shiro,” Keith shakes his head. “I’ve ruined the Birthday Boy’s night as it is.” 

Lance finds that he is sobering up too quickly, and his fingers itch for his drink. He turns away from the brothers and in a haste looks around. His drink is spilled on the ground, staring sadly up at him. Damn it, he really needed that. He stomps away back toward the bar, a loud techno song echoing out into the night. He hears Keith and Shiro quietly talking, and chooses to ignore most of what they’re saying about ‘reason’ and ‘patience,’ until he hears Keith’s concerned and tired voice filter into his inebriated ears.

“Can you just please make sure he’s safe?” 

“I’m fine!” Lance turns quickly on his heel and nearly trips off the ledge leading back into the bar. He slings out a hand against the brick wall to steady himself, and yeah, he’s drunk. But definitely not enough; he’ll fix that. “I’m going to be even better when I can’t look at you!” 

He ensures that the metal door slams following his hasty exit, and dark, humid air of the club welcomes him back and somehow settles his nerves. The red, green, and blue lights blink back at him as he maneuvers against the bodies blocking his way back to his friends, but before he goes to them, he snags a shot waiting at the bar for a patron, and ignores the indigent squawks in protest as he takes it back to his reserved table. 

Lance sloshes into the booth with whatever-the-hell this clear liquid is, and manages to avoid it spilling onto his clothes. He tilts his head back and like the champ he is, swallows it back whole. 

Hunk and Pidge glance warily up at him from the round table, drinks nearly finished. “Where’s Keith?”

“Gone,” Lance answers, slamming his glass down onto the counter. He rubs his arm ungracefully across his lips, ignoring the pitiful looks of his friends. “I’m going to dance.”

When she was small, before the explosions and the hammers and the wind, the wonderous wind, her mother would take her to Never Lake to pick roses.

Rosy liked all flowers, sure. Lilies laid beautifully on beds of water and gold. Sunflowers turned towards the brightest object they could find. But roses, as she learned from her mother, were something else entirely.

“These here,” her mothers’ paws clipped away a green rose damp from morning dew, “these are only grown here, at Never Lake.” Rosy looked on in wonder.

“What does it mean?” Her voice came out as a squeak, eyes widening with wonder.

Her mother smiled and patted her head carefully. “New life,” she answered. Rosy looked on at the green rose shining under a golden sun with fondness. She turned toward the sky; no clouds, no worries. An atonement for the grief her village had come across lately.

“A new life…” she echoed.

“All roses have different meanings,” Her mother kneeled carefully next to her, smoothing her daughter’s upturned quills. “Like what I’ve been teaching you, with your cards.”

Between the famine and the cold that has wracked her small, frail village, Rosy had few to look forward to as of late. However, days like this at Never Lake proved that maybe things were worth a positive outlook. It was difficult, when one was small and had nothing to look up to.

“My tarot cards told me I was going to find my soulmate tomorrow, Mommy.”

Her mother laughed, a graceful sound. Rosy looked up at her in wonder. “Don’t read too into them, now, dear.”

“I’m telling you, they did!” Rosy said excitedly. She stood and turned to her mother, gloved paws in fists. Her orange skirt twirled in the wind. “I’m meeting them tomorrow and we’re going to have a new life in our village, like the rose says!”

Her mother tilted her head fondly, “A new life, huh?” She looked carefully at a lone cloud that passes over Never Lake.

Rosy stared at her mother, really looks; raggedy, beat-up apron wrapped around her waist, tired eyes staring up into the sky, but hope. She sees it there, in that moment. It’s fragile, but it’s there. Sometimes she thinks these moments will be stolen from her, and any hope left in her mother will fly away into the wind. She tried not to think like that too much; she never wanted to worry her mother more than she already was. Her tarot cards called for a new life too – she wants her mother there to experience it with her, and meet this wonderful soulmate of hers.

Rosy reached down for the rose sitting in the grass, water lapping near its petals. But something grazes her paw. She squealed, reeling her hand back to the safety of her chest. Her mother’s attention is ripped from the sky. Tears well up in her eyes. How did this rose that promised a new life with her soulmate hurt her like this?

Her mother sighed, tutting as she watched blood prickle out of her daughter’s paw. “Aw, no, my dear.” She takes hold of her daughter’s paw carefully.

“Roses are tricky,” Her mother explains. She brings her bleeding finger-tip to the water, watching red bleed into clear, pristine blue. With her other paw, she wipes at the tears forming on Rosy’s cheeks. “They’re sharp. Beautiful, but deadly things.”

Rosy sniffles. “Like us?”

Keith shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat, blowing out a breath that fogs up toward bright street lamp illuminating them both in the empty park. “I’m sorry,” He stares up at the twinkling stars, dusting the Earth sky; one more glimpse before he gets the hell out of dodge and away from Lance’s prying eyes, his illuminated blue freckles, his laugh, his smile. “I don’t know how this happened.”

Keith, throws his hands in the air, regal in his Blade uniform but anger and fear clashing in his emotional face. He looks young and scared. “Not to kill yourself with them!”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Lance spits, defensive. “How many times have you almost died with the Blade?”

“We were in a 10,000 year old war, Lance, and I wasn’t blatantly sacrificing myself -“

“Bullshit. Naxela ring any bells?”

“I didn’t try to die, though -“

“Yeah, you got lucky -“

“I was trying to save you guys.”

“And that’s what I’m trying to do!” Lance steps forward. His marks are piercing, he can feel the warmth through his fury because Keith needs to understand. He thought he would. ‘The universe is bigger than just me,’ Keith would say during their Voltron days. He knew the risks and he faced them all the time. This is no different. “The least I can do is try. I can’t just do nothing.”

“Lance -“

“Allura gave me these powers and then sacrificed herself for a better universe,” Lance says. “For all of reality. We fought our fight and we lost her and there’s still wars happening. I can make a difference with what she gave me, I can stop this army and protect you, and Hunk and Pidge and thousands of others. I have to try.”

Keith is silent in front of him, gloved hands in fists. Lance mirrors him, standing strong. Keith doesn’t need to support this, even though he thought of all people he’d at least understand. It doesn’t matter. He can make wormholes, he can create alchemy through his fists and fight the bad guys. He can protect this planet from the warships coming to obliterate it and move on. He can end this battle before it starts another intergalactic war. The Blade can’t handle this, but he can. They’ll be safe, no more lives lost. Keith will be safe.

Raven locks cover cosmic eyes, ripped away from Lance’s vision. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Keith nods. “Yeah. Okay, Lance.”

He swallows. “Okay.”

He hears the rustling of stalls, looking out to see people packing their things to board the shuttles to get off planet. Keith follows his gaze: a child is crying into their mother’s shoulder, their mother scrambling to both pack her stuff and soothe their young one. Another women steps towards the child and takes them into her arms, rocking them gently. A family, loving each other as they scramble to escape. He never got to create his own, but Lance is grateful he’ll be able to protect one so beautiful.

“Damn, I didn’t even get the chance to be a husband,” he jokes lightly, “I would have been such a good one, too.”

“Lance.”

He hums in acknowledgement, still watching the young couple run down the beaten path towards where the ships are. A wind blows, and he shivers under his armor. Shit, it’s gotten cold.

“Marry me.”

Lance’s heart stops, restarts, like he’s being resuscitated by a defibrillator. He almost didn’t hear him, Keith soft, yet sure and confident. He looks at Keith incredulously, “What?”

“I can give you that. If this is it for you, for us, that can be the last thing we do,” Keith exhales. “And then I’ll let you go.”

“Keith, what -“

He crosses his arms, almost hugging himself. “It’s not like you don’t know how I feel about you.”

“W-well,” it’s as if he’s choking on his milkshake, stuck in his throat and giving him brain freeze. Keith’s confession on the farm was nothing short of shocking. “Yeah. But -“