#keith kogane

Pairing:Keith/Lance
Words:8.5k
Rating: M
Warnings: mild violence
Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

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Time, like most things in Keith’s life, has always been a luxury he never could afford.

It passes him by when he sits on the roof of his third foster home, knees skinned and wide-eyed, yearning for a place among the stars. It slows down when he’s seated in a cockpit, knuckles curled over the smooth leather of the controls, ever pliant to his direction. Every blink, every beat, every stride— he survives each second, waiting for the next with bated breath and clenched fists. He abides by its rules, taking his cue and going through the motions, hoping beyond hope that there’s something at the end of this long tunnel.

Time is different in the quantum abyss. Different in that it is a house guest, coming and going as it pleases. It visits Keith, embracing him like a long, lost friend, gifting him its presence and exchanging stories of a past he doesn’t remember and a future he doesn’t know.

It shows him things. Things that go far beyond the cluster of neutron stars that surround him, expanding into the Blue Lion’s shield and his father’s smile, mirrored in the eyes of his newly found mother. It colors the fur of his wolf, bounding along the stretch of a beach he’s never seen, sand shifting under his feet as he walks through a footpath framed by tropical leaves. Some of them are secondhand images, the rocking of his mother’s arms and the curd taste of vrepit sa, and others, the stinging bite of a glowing hand aimed at his heart and the sweet laughter of his team over a distant fire, are scenes he lives and relives, over and over again.

“It’s coming,” his mother says, eyes snapping to him and finding his own already looking back.

The dark stars awake, exhaling life into this corner of the universe, casting them into its shadow of light. It stretches and stretches and stretches, fingers exploring Keith, running a thumb over his lips and down his chest. It closes his eyes with a kiss, promising secrets in return for his time.

Keith gives it.

Water surges up to grasp his ankle, wet fingers running up and down his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Grains of sand shift underneath him, following the curves of the shore and his body. Something warm and thrumming with life presses against his side, nestled under his chin and tickling his nose. It smells like citrus, vibrant and alive.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice, low-pitched and rolling with the distant sound of waves.

“Hey,” Keith says back automatically.

“I’m glad you stayed.” A hand weighs heavy over his stomach, skimming over his chest and up his neck, aiming to brush through damp hair. A hum vibrates his throat, brazen in its pleasure over the intimate act. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

He does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

It lingers, seeping deep into his skin and fitting itself into the tight space between his ribs. Unable to wedge his fingers through the cracks and pull it from his chest, he lets it stay, breathing around the radiation it emanates. With every heartbeat it contaminates his existence, slinking into his bones and voice, bouncing off warped pieces of organic debris whenever he walks or talks.

He has started calling them flashes. Flashes of light. Flashes of time. Flashes of life.

They happen in ambiguous intervals, gripping his mind on a whim and refusing to let go until he submits to its desires. When he walks the waking world it flares up, a rush of wind and the weightlessness of falling, and when he drifts off to sleep it slinks past the curtain of his eyelids, phantom limbs clinging to him and his own voice yelling shut up and trust me.

He watches his mother slow to a stop in front of him, eyes glazing over in a far off look. Her hands suddenly go lax and the crate of supplies in her hands slips, and it is only the quick reflexes of their newly acquired Altean companion that saves it from this planet’s abnormal gravitational pull. Her body goes rigid just as her face goes slack, a paradox of existence that reflects in the yellow of her eyes, neon in the absolute darkness of space.

Careful, he makes to touch her elbow. “Mom?”

Like a flick of a switch, she returns. Her eyes snap to him, wild and fierce, brows angled in an expression that he’s seen in the mirror. The stillness around her recedes and recognition shines through.

“Keith.” It’s soft, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”

He nods, taking her hand. “I’m here.”

They don’t say much about it, but both are aware of the threads that link them together. His father had tied the first knot, linking them by blood, and the Blades, through trials of forbearance, had secured the second. Now the flashes anchor them, a single point, absolute in a world full of variables.

So they stick together, stepping back into a world governed by time, following its orders to march along a linear plane, and letting the vacuum of space seal them into an Altean pod, depressurizing and locking the abyss’ byproducts into their lungs. They watch silently as the pod’s navigation system leads them to a castleship made by a dead king, crumbling under the weight of a friend turned traitor; all it takes is a snap, betrayal in the name of good, and the world is tilting off its axis, spinning faster and faster as Voltron fights its own twisted image. Time passes and passes, skipping a stone over a great lake of stars— skipping one, two, three.

And for Keith, it is nothing. He has watched time fly by for two years, hardening his skin and broadening his shoulders; he has lived days as short as an hour and as long as a week, inhaling in the dawn and exhaling the dusk. It is just another moment in the sea of many.

It is nothing, until it’s not.

Without warning the large expanse of space is too loud, too vast, too much. Life on the back of the celestial whale had been muted, a peaceful isolation that he doesn’t appreciate until it’s taken away from him. Reality comes crashing down like a clash of swords, sparks jumping as metal slides against metal, aiming to slice and dissect. Warships surround them, clouding the atmosphere of Earth in a timeline never considered; hysteria crawls along the edges of their voice and wistfulness in their sighs, in time to the ominous beeps of their oxygen levels.

And he takes the mantle of leader once again, wearing the Black Lion’s pelt like a second skin. The others step up beside him with not a blink of vacillation, following him whilst totally unaware to how much he’s changed. The weight of it is heavy and some days he feels out of place, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He tries his best to stitch himself back into their lives, but his fingers fumble with disuse, hypothetical needle pricking him and staining his work with blood.

And the flashes, they persists, trying to convince him of a life that isn’t his.

For as long as Keith can remember, he’s known he was different. A temper that flares like molten fire and a talent that could have him flying, upwards and onwards, across the night sky. He’s been nothing but problematic his whole life— it starts with him climbing out the window of his first foster home and getting caught by the local sheriff stealing canned beans from the general store down the street, and ends with him getting lost in the stars he shot for. He is a boy conceived in the throes of chance, bred for the taint of war, and suspended in the cockpit of space. Wild and detached. Endlessly adrift, searching for a reason to bleed.

But the flashes say different. They tell a story filled with rising suns, holoscreen calls and a family found.

He doesn’t know what to believe, but he knows what he wants.

A ribbon of moonlight cast over the crest of a nose, highlighting pools of navy, zoetic like a cradle of stars. It comes with a feeling, timid but yearning. A seed, newly planted, breaching the surface and stretching towards the light.

He extends a hand—

Home.

—and grasps nothing.

~

Life on Earth after is nothing like life on Earth before.

The world had been cotton-edged when he first woke after the battle, fuzzy in a disorienting way that makes his nerves buzz and eyelashes flutter in the rays of new day’s sun; shapes sway in a colorful charade that eventually merge together to form the familiar faces of those important to him. Aches cramp up his muscles, a distant throb that a doctor had affirmed would heal with time. Time spent restlessly laying in bed as he listens to what his mother and Kolivan have to report about the state of the universe. Medical staff skitters around the two, unable to meet either of the Galrans’ gazes when they talk about newly found Blades and high-profile rebel groups taking back what was stolen from them. It keeps Keith grounded, hand buried in the soft mane of his wolf, anchoring him to the now.

A week and he’s deem fit for discharge, walking out of the hospital ward with his mother at his side and his bayard at his belt, ready to be thrown back into the fight— only to find out that there are none left.

The damage done to Earth is glaringly obvious the moment he steps a foot outside. Scorch marks burn into runways while decimated and overturned vehicles alike litter its path, fritzing wires and broken glass giving a simple stroll a dangerous edge. Buildings sag in their seats, missing chunks out of their sides where lazer blasts had struck true, left unprotected by a rudimentary particle shield and humankind’s own inexperience. The people appear even worse for wear, faces drawn and ashen; military persons walk with purpose around the ruin, uniforms ripped and weapons drawn, towing away rubble and guiding lost-looking refugees.

The planet is grieving and they are only a fraction of its whole, attempting to pick up its pieces.

(“It reminds me of Daibazaal,” Kolivan had said to him one early morning while they wait for the rest of the base to wake. The sunrise paints over his usually harsh features, softening the puckered skin of his scar and the hard ridge of his brow. “From what your Blue Paladin had divulged, Earth had shined like our planet once did, before the comet brought it crumbling to its knees.”

Keith had paused, head tilted. “Were you there— when it happened?”

“No.” A deep breath, pained but strong. “It was many decapheebs ago. However, the story has been passed down through our ancestors. Every Galra know the story of our planet’s end. It is the reason we still fight today.”

A blink and he was a ghost looking over his mother’s shoulder, down at the blade that’s placed in her calloused palm. The moment weighs heavily in his mind, a burden given and a duty shouldered, taken on by oath of blood. A figure looms over, the shadow of a beast tamed by war; they have many titles, many names, but Keith knows only one. Father, a young Krolia whispers, kneeling in the decaying relics of an empire, what do we fight for?

To the west, the Black Lion overlooked its pride. “Let us hope Earth does not make the same mistake.”)

It takes two months to finish cleanup, even with the help of the Lions. Sterilized by war, the Galaxy Garrison is a mere extension of the surrounding desert; a man-made mountain turned canyon, draining of hubris. Rebuilding what Sendak destroyed will take time, a currency that inflates in periods of trouble, dragging down the empty pockets of the castaways of strife. It’s a costly endeavor and even with contact of whatever remains of the coalition, it might not be enough.

Leaders and followers alike swarm him with this fact, pulsing in a beat that’s deleterious to his sanity; they want control and they want knowledge, demanding it from where he stands on the dais they put him on. It’s frustrating, how they try to tie him down; he pulls against the rope, a runaway searching for freedom. He had found it in the cockpit of the Red Lion, accelerating until they were one and the same, a bullet shooting out of a pistol, piercing an alien planet’s stratosphere in a blaze of condensed water and Altean alchemy. It had felt right back then, rivers of clouds buffeting armored plates with the intent of inching his ribs apart and grasping for his heart, trying to reclaim what rightfully belonged to the stars. Faster, he would chant, impatient now that the universe is spread out at his feet, faster, faster, faster.

Now there are responsibilities that go beyond him, all under the jurisdiction of Voltron’s astronomical shadow, and he is only one of the five gateways to that power.

Someone must say something to their superiors because he is put in charge of a new training regiment for the MFE recruits, a precaution turned requirement. It’s Shiro who first mentions it, sitting at Keith’s bedside with a bouquet of flowers Keith doesn’t bother asking about. His new arm levitates just below where the junction of an elbow should be, glowing faintly under the fluorescent lights of the room, soothing the scarring warlords have carved into him. The request ends with a robotic hand on his shoulder and, “I wouldn’t ask of it if I didn’t think you could do it.”

So Keith agrees. A nod and he’s in charge of Earth’s only space infantry, renewed and steadfast. A last defense to a planet on the edge of collapse.

“At ease,” comes Commander Iverson’s stark direction. Keith looks on as Garrison recruits shift to parade rest, gaze unwavering forward even as the red paladin walks through their numbers. Lieutenants, sporting bands of valor on their shoulders, march behind him, the precise clips of their steps barricading any option of retreat. “This is Cadet Kogane and he will be heading this operation.”

A few eyes flicker to Keith.

“You have been trained for space exploration, not in militant strategy, and you’ll need guidance beyond what Earth can provide you. Kogane has more than enough experience in the area— his time with both Voltron and the Blade of Marmora will give us an edge that our normal combat routines lack. You few have proven your worth in paving the way for what could become the norm in the Garrison’s combatant regiment, so I expect not to be disappointed.”

A brisk salute that even Keith reciprocates and the commander about faces, leaving.

Once the door slides shut behind him and his entourage, all eyes of the room snap back to Keith and he tries not to bend at the weight of them. Like a brick to the temple, it hits him. Whatever they take away from this experience could either save them or damn them. It’s a lot, being the deciding factor of life or death. What if he forgets something? What if it’s not enough? What if—

Someone clears their throat.

Awaiting his order, the recruits are lined up along the perimeter of the room, varying in age, color and body type. A few of the faces he vaguely recognizes, abstract characteristics he remembers passing him by in these very same halls years prior. A scatter of freckles and straight-cut bangs. Dreads and a chiseled face caught in a blank expression. Straight-edged glasses and petite hands. Light brown hair and a pointedly unimpressed frown…

He takes a step forward, shoulders back like and head high, thinking of Allura as she pilots the Castle of Lions and Shiro as he walks up a docking ramp. “We’ll be starting tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred hours. All training equipment will be provided, so come ready to work. Dismissed.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, birthed from the terseness of his words, but all it takes is for Keith to raise his eyebrows and they are saluting back and filing out of the room. A few send him looks over their shoulders, whispering to each other, but he ignores them. Ignores them until the last of them are gone, leaving only Keith.

“You know,” a familiar voice starts just as he’s about to leave himself. “When they first said that you had come back, I didn’t really believe them.”

Keith turns.

“But,” James continues, standing just outside the perimeter of the mat, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exactly the same, bangs sweeping over the arch of his left eyebrow and a thin upper lip curling in a smirk. “Here you are. I’m not surprised, not really, but god, it makes me angry. You really had to prove you were better than the rest and get caught up in some galactic war, huh?”

Annoyed by the silent undertone of those words, Keith rudely asks, “Did you need something?”

The boy’s eyebrow ticks, but his face is composed mere seconds later. Without any fanfare, a small holoscreen is slipping out the folds of a bag and thrust into his hands; marked with the Garrison’s logo and having no pass code, it opens to a desposity of files, each with a military photo and a corresponding list of statistics. The detail put into it is superlative, giving a number of categories that range from dexterity to psychological analysis. Every member of the class is noted within the digital archive, with maybe the exception of Keith himself.

“Thought you might need something to base your regiment on. I don’t want this to be a complete waste of time and I’m betting you don’t either. Think of this as a peace offering.” When Keith doesn’t say anything, James’ eyes narrow. “It’s not that hard to understand. You want to defeat the Galra and I want to keep Earth safe— two goals with the same outcome. We don’t have to be friends or anything, but it’ll be in both of our best interest to put our difference aside and work together for once.”

Keith considers it. A mutual cooperation doesn’t sound completely terrible, but still something doesn’t feel right. Something that the other had said…

“What do you mean? Two goals with the same outcome. We both want Earth safe.”

“Keith,” the other says and it’s a shock, how his own name can be said in such a way that it makes him want to flinch. Pity had never been an easy pill to swallow. “We both know that you never cared for anything permanent.”

Rust coats the curved blade twisting in his gut and he stumbles back, unprepared for the pain that follows.

Unaffected, James nods and shoulders his bag. “See you tomorrow.”

The exchange ends just as it quickly as it begins, leaving Keith unhinged. He feels called out— for what, he doesn’t know—but it had him being pushed under the scope, magnified and focused to unimaginable degrees, only to find the results wanting. His body vibrates, buzzing for talk, for action, for something.

It takes only a thought for his bayard to materialize and form its commonplace sword. It takes another thought to realize that he can’t find solace here; there are no gladiators to battle against, no programmed levels to best, and no invisible mazes to run through. The Galaxy Garrison might be leading humanity into a new age, but it still lacks the basic commodities Keith had taken for granted on the castleship. His grip tightens and then loosen, weapon dematerializing.

He looks down at the holoscreen.

His own face, young and sporting a split lip, glares back at him.

Past the memory, his reflection sits. Two sides of a coin, forged in the fires beneath this planet’s crust but branded by a long-dead star’s radiation. Somewhere along a comet’s tail as it passed through this solar system, a divergence was made. It’s two feet planted on the ground but a gaze to the sky. It’s the alien blood that runs through his human veins. It’s a blade underneath his pillow. It’s the controls of the universe’s strongest weapon in his blistering grip. It’s what do we fight for? and who better than the very best?

Earth may be different, but so is Keith.

When his father passes away, Keith loses the ability to build a home. Instead, he builds bridges. He keeps to the space in-between, never taking that final step for fear of falling. Suspended in a loop, kicking up dust as he follows the skyline in search of an elusive end. Something that he can call his.

Keith makes bridges he can’t cross.

Like all things, life goes on.

A semblance of normality settles over Earth and its residents, putting together the pieces of what was torn apart. Buildings rise from the ground and people with them. Families, diminished in size and changed through trauma, attempt to flower from their recently upturned roots. Routines are revived as society takes its first breath through the trailing smoke of funeral pyres, looking less to survive and more to live.

At Shiro’s urgence, Keith and Krolia do the same and move into his apartment on Garrison grounds.

The space feels empty despite its modern furnishing and newly-stocked kitchen, but the two don’t mind, finding that it’s a better alternative to a dusty, old shack that holds too many painful memories. Not that their new home doesn’t have its own ghosts, for something still lingers of the man that smiles at them from the many photographs littered around the place. And though Shiro doesn’t say anything about it, it’s hard to ignore the wistfully sad look that overtakes him when Kosmo finds a set of keys between the cushions or an extra pair of glasses on the kitchen counter. Nonetheless, he doesn’t relocate to the captain’s quarters on the Atlas, keeping to his humble abode with its somber memories.

It takes not even an hour to transfer what little belongings they have from the Black Lion and try to fill up the space, conjuring a future in what remains of the past. Day by day they live, trying hard not to stumble.

Everyday, he wakes and does what’s needed of him. He’s showers and trains and teaches and salutes, habitual as he fits himself into a mold. There are no complaints, not when he leaves no room for them, mouth downturned in an impressive frown. It’s tedious, but Keith bears it, knowing that it is in this niche which he is most useful.

He doesn’t see the rest of the team as often as he’d like, what with their busy schedules, but there are glimpses; a passing smile as a lieutenant escorts Allura and Coran into a another conference and a quick greeting from the Holt siblings before they’re off, fumbling with a treasure trove of blueprints they carry, tempered by the side-hug Hunk bestows and fist bump Lance gives before the both of them are being called by their families.

Keith tries not to feel hurt by how easily they drift apart.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Shiro tells him over breakfast, somehow knowing exactly what is wrong despite Keith having not said a word on the matter. “There’s just a lot going on. Everyone’s still trying to find their balance.”

Keith just crosses his arms and shrugs noncommittally, pretending he doesn’t realize how petulant he must look. “It’s fine,” he says. “They can do whatever they want.”

“Keith, you’re allowed to care.”

The other’s tone, gentle and supportive, has Keith unwinding the knots in his muscles with a sigh. He looks to his friend and then away, fixing his gaze to the group of students huddled together under a tree in the Garrison’s main quad. One of them says something he can’t hear and the rest erupt into laughter. “Yeah, I know.”

“Things will work themselves out, just you wait. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And like about most things, Shiro is right.

As days pass, so does the madness. Walking through the barracks of the Garrison is still weird, but it gets easier to ignore the whispers that follow his form, snagging onto his borrowed clothes, tracing the outline of his scar and burrowing deep into his pores. The walls don’t press upon him as much, sparing his lungs a great deal of effort when it comes time speak, and the polite murmurs of paladin from men and woman twice his age no longer makes his skin crawl. It becomes commonplace to cut through the base and see the lions, behemoths in their own right, sitting in the shadow of the human-altean hybrid Atlas; all silent observers to the going-ons of the base and the people that call it home.

People congregate, fulfilling the genetic deep need for interaction during mealtimes in the cantine, talk bubbling into something casual and among individuals made close by circumstance, stark against the backdrop of wreckage that still sits outside their windows. Faces become more familiar in that distant sort of way, crossing his path frequently enough to garner a nod in greeting or a vocal acknowledgement; it’s almost similar to time at the Garrison before Voltron, but different in that the attention is based on earnest admiration over his actions rather than grudging revere over his skill.

It’s then that the team comes back together.

Pidge is the first, dropping herself into the seat across from him as he eats breakfast, already halfway through a conversation she expects Keith to participate in. “I just don’t understand how an entire military base could be so stupid. It’s a wonder things ran so smoothly without me before now.” A huff and then, belatedly, “Hi, Keith”

“Hi,” he says past the initial surprise, followed almost immediately by small, pleased smile that he hides behind his hand. “What’s got you in such a mood?”

“Oh, nothing!” The girl stabs at her hashbrowns, cutting with vengeance, and he remembers her doing the same to the food goo back at the castle. “It’s just that everyone in the technical department has their heads shoved so far up their butts that it’s a miracle they can see the tabs on their computers! Can you imagine thinking that a single-sideband modulation is enough to broadcast a signal from one solar system to another? Absolutely crazy.”

He opens his mouth to try an attempt at consoling, but is interrupted by a tray heaped with food nudging against his own and a sturdy body is pressing up against his side.

“What’s crazy,” Hunk begins around a full mouth, brandishing his spork like a baton, sending a glop of oatmeal to the floor and to splatter on a passing figure’s shoes, “is how you think a double-modulation is necessary at all. You’re just salty that people are agreeing with me. We didn’t need it for the castle in deep space and we don’t need now. Like, think about it, what would we even— oh, hey Keith.”

“Hi.”

Ignoring the spluttering Pidge undergoes at his previous words, Hunk turns to fully face the red paladin and it’s just like it was before, easy. As if it hasn’t been weeks since they last had a real conversation and only hours. “Haven’t seen you around. That class of yours keeping you busy?”

Keith shrugs. “I guess. Depends on the day.”

“Yeah, I feel that. Sometimes I’m so busy that I feel overwhelmed, and other times I have so much free time that I don’t even know what to do with myself.” It’s a tell of their time together in space that Hunk doesn’t press him for details on his class, for which Keith is thankful. “They have me and my dad working on the coiling of the Atlas’s main inductors. It’s slow work cause of the size of them, but we’re getting there. Hopefully it’ll stop the Atlas from shutting down secondary functions when in full mecha-mode. Then it’s straight to work on altering the zero gravity chambers.”

Pidge pouts. “Man, I’m so jealous. You get to work on the Atlas while I’m stuck teaching idiots basic coding back at home base.” She cups her chin, elbow nearly in her mashed potatoes, and sighs dreamily. “What I wouldn’t give to see what’s hiding in that ship’s mainframe.”

“Hey, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be— most of what we do is test out the system.” He lets out a gruff noise from the back of his throat, a cross between a scoff and whine. “It’s so annoying because we have get clearance for every one we do, which is a lot. Ever since they set up a connection between Atlas and that robobeast, things have been on edge. I mean, I totally get it — no one wants to be responsible for the termination of Earth’s only connection to the universe, but, still, it makes my job just that much harder. Dad’s going crazy over it and the limitations of what we can do. Clearance and all that, you know.”

Keith pats the boy on the bicep. “That suck, big man. Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s whatever.” But he sends Keith a smile before perking up considerable. A sparkle that Keith recognizes shines in the dark brown of his eyes. “But it does mean that whenever something does slip through the clearance, I’m the first to know.”

Pide, the youngest and most susceptible to the yellow paladin’s gossiping ways, cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Hunk nods enthusiastically. “Her pod is a few doors down from the engine room. People are always going in and out.”

And Keith, though never one to dip into the rumors that run their course through the base, can’t deny the curiosity that spikes at the mention of the mysterious girl found at the apex of the robobeast’s heart. “Is she awake?”

“Not that I know.”

“Do they know why she was in the robobeast at least? Why it attacked Earth? Who sent it?”

“Not sure, but Romelle did say that she looked familiar, so she might be from the colony— though it’s already been so long since she left that she can’t be for sure. Still, how many colonies of Alteans are there in the universe? I’m guessing whoever took them is the one behind all this.”

That’s been the hook to a great many theories over the subject, Keith’s included. By this point, it isn’t of a matter of what but a matter of why. The reason behind the attack that nearly cost Earth everything is still a well-kept secret and will probably remain so until the Altean girl wakes from her self-induced hypersleep.

“I can’t believe this,” a voice declares loudly from Keith’s right, startling him and drawing the attention of not only their huddled group but that of the tables surrounding them as well. “We have our first ever gossiping circle as a team and I’m the last to be invited.”

It’s Lance, because of course it is. Standing tall and casual, hands on his hips and lips pursed in the usual fashion, the boy cuts a vibrant figure against the pale backdrop of the facility.

At his side, stands a girl.

“Oh yeah, this is my sister, Rachel. Everyone, Rachel. Rachel, everyone,” he introduces— unnecessarily, it would seem, because anyone would have to be blind not to notice the similarities between the two. The resemblance is uncanny. Both sport long limbs and the same sun-kissed skin, clear of any blemishes or imperfections. When she smiles in greeting, dimples appear in the apple of both cheeks, eyebrows arching in a familiar grin that has even Pidge casting a second glance. “But seriously, are you guys gossiping without me? How rude— you know I live for the drama.”

Hunk, the only person capable, chuckles. “We’re just talking about that new Altean girl.”

In unison, the newcomers shove their way into seats on either side of Pidge, tilting forward with matching expressions of intrigue. Keith quells the urge to lean back in response, sharing a look with the girl unfortunate to be squished between them.

“The one they found in that thing you guys fought?” Rachel asks, voice pitched high with excitement and flowing with the same lilt as her brother’s. “Everyone’s saying that she was in league with that Sendak guy.”

Pidge makes a pained face. “Better not let Allura hear that. She’ll freak.”

“Yeah, she’s already stressed enough as it is,” Lance says quietly, eyes soft in the way it always is when concerning the princess. “We don’t wanna make it worse.”

“Yeah, best just to stick with our assignments. I’ve seen how crazy stressed Romelle is lately. With Allura working with the new admiral, it’s up to her and Coran to try and find  where the colony has gone. There weren’t any new leads last time I asked.” Hunk licks the back of his utensil, eyes flickering across the cantine and stopping at various individuals, be they civilian or military. “I hope nothing else goes wrong. We’re kinda sitting ducks as it is.”

“Kolivan is doing his best to reunite what’s left of the coalition. Once that’s reinstated, I’m sure everything else will fall back into place.” Keith, says, trying his hand at reassurance. “Try not to sweat it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

After that, the topics digress into something lighter. They exchange stories, recounting first meetings and divulging in embarrassing mess-ups, laughing when they all start to one-up  each other and the anecdotes get more and more outrageous. It seems like both Lance and Rachel have an endless cache of embarrassing stories to tell and it doesn’t take long until Keith’s smothering a laugh into the sleeve of his uniform.

Eventually, the morning sun rises high into the noon hours and the obligations of the world start calling them. It’s too soon when Hunk’s pager goes off, signaling the end of his breakfast and their time together. Lance whines and Keith secretly wants to do the same when Pidge joins the engineer when he collects his belongings and gets up, trying to convince them to stay. But it’s all for nought because all it takes is another beep from the pager and they’re gone, promising to make time for another group meal even as they wave goodbye.

“So,” Rachel starts once it’s just the three of them, pushing her brother until she’s seated directly in from of Keith rather than diagonally. “You’re the famous Keith Kogane I’ve heard so much about.”

Unsure what her tone means, Keith proceeds with caution. “Yeah…”

“Is it true that you sucker punched Iverson and got expelled?”

“Ray,” Lance hisses.

But the girl is shameless, instead leaning forward, chin propped on her steepled fingers. She eyes him and sends a wicked grin his way, sharp like shrapnel. “I just wanna know if all the rumors are true. Iverson didn’t always have only one good eye and what I hear is that you’re the reason behind it. How about it? Are you up to the hype or is my baby brother a liar?”

“Baby brother,” Lance scoffs, offended. “We’re only—”

“Yeah, I took Iverson’s eye out.”

The sibling squabble stops before it can start, and Keith’s left with two very different expression angled his way; while Lance’s jaw drops in surprise, his sister’s drops in uncontained glee.

“He wouldn’t tell me the truth about Shiro. No one would,” he clarifies, focusing more on Lance and his utterly stupefied face. Honestly, he had thought this had been common knowledge after he left, spread through the student grapevine, and it feels odd talking about it now. It was so long ago and explaining why he did what he did feels like an out of body experience. “You know… back when everyone still thought the Kerberos crew was MIA. I was just really frustrated and well, Iverson was there and… yeah.”

“Oh my god,” Rachel says in the stunned silence that follows. “Oh my god, you’re exactly like Lance says. Unbelievable.”

Now, Keith has never really cared about what’s been thought of him by his peers. It had never mattered before. But he can’t deny his curiosity as he watched the blue paladin shoot his sister a look of utter betrayal, as if this interaction breached some unspoken contact. He wonders what his teammate had to say about him and if it differs to what would be said of him now.

Another side-eye, slow and sly, is thrown his way, accompanied by the rise of a signature eyebrow and smirk. The girl tips on her elbows, chin raised and closer than he normally lets strangers be. “You really are all that, huh. I guess I can see the hype.”

They have the same eyes, Keith thinks idly, a blue so dark it looks black

Then all he can see is brown curls and feel lips pressing to the apple of his right cheek. Across from him, Lance splutters, hands flailing as he says something in rapid Spanish, embarrassed on Keith’s behalf. Her responding giggle fills up Keith’s personal bubble until she moves away, nonplussed as she stands and responds back in kind before giving her brother a kiss on the cheek too. Another Lance-ish grin and she’s skipping away, ponytail swishing with the movement.

It takes a minute or so for Lance to reboot, flush receding. “Sorry about that. Rachel thinks anyone with fancy hair is fair game.”

The ghost of fingers skims along his cheek, tucking a long strand of hair behind his ear, and Keith fights against the urge to chase after the miniscule flash. Instead, he clenches his fists and stares hard at the other boy’s forehead. “She thinks my hair is fancy?”

Lance bristles suddenly. “Don’t get any ideas, Mullet.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” A pause, filled with the talk of others, and then Lance is glancing over at him, lips quirked just enough to entice an excited flip of Keith’s stomach. “You wanna take the lions out for a spin? First one to the Atlantic wins.”

And isn’t that the bulk of it? Their relationship, two opposing forces that revolve around one another, waiting for that precise moment to either clash or conjoin. Lance, who fits so easily into people’s lives—seemingly without any effort at all too— sneaking his way into Keith’s, uncaring of the tight squeeze. It’s contradictive, how they can butt heads one moment and then share a smile the next.

Nevertheless, he has the intention to accept the offer, because it’s been a while since anything has got his heart racing and there’s nothing that does the job better than flying. Every intention to pipe up a witty remark just to see Lance react and then take a running head start to the lion hangars while the other boy was distracted thinking of a suitable comeback. It’s second nature, the push and—

—pull of hands around his stomach, secured tight as he guides a hoverbike faster. The wind is strong and merciless as it snags at his hair, coming loose from the strap of the goggles he wears and curling erratically at his temples. The body seated behind him presses flush against him, chest to back and legs straddling warm leather, while a chin juts over his shoulder and a smile skims over the shell of his ear.

There is no destination, just a direction, always forward and never back. Forever forward, on and on and on. It’s nice and he’s happy, filled with content and a desire for it to never end.

“—kay? Keith?”

Like a whip, he snaps back. Gone is the upward sweep of handlebars, the press of palms against the base of his ribs, the wind buffeting his face— all the tell-tale signs of a joyride, shared with a someone who he can’t put a face to. In its place, the distinctive rush of a crowded canteen.

It takes a moment for him to recognize that he’s been asked a question and a moment more to realize that he has to answer.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” The lie rolls off his tongue without a hitch, floating in the air and saturating the atmosphere with its flimsy misdirection. It’s starting to become difficult to keep his breathing steady. “Actually, I just remembered that I have to pick up some equipment for my class tomorrow. Can we do a rain check on the race?”

Lance blinks. “Oh, um, yeah. That’s totally— of course. Next time then.”

“Next time,” he agrees, distracted. Then his body is on autopilot, knees unbending and back straightening as he stands, the eyes of the many digging into the back of his skull. He leaves before anyone can notice the way his fists clench, knuckles going white, holding back a dam of memories that aren’t his. He doesn’t look back.

By the time his class starts two hours later Keith has mostly calmed down. It’s time spent doing cardio drills, working up a sweat until all he can focus on is the burning sensation in his muscles and the accelerated beat of his heart. It leaves no room for anything else, narrowing the world into a single point, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

His students must notice how on edge he still must be, because when they walk in and he’s adding another ten pounds to his already maxed out barbell, not one advises against it. Even James, who always seems to have something to say, keeps quiet and simply nods when he brusquely instructs the lot of them to pick up a staff and pair up. They leave him be, though not without the judgmental look or two as they pass his station by.

But, in the end, it’s not enough.

Not enough because even as he lays there, shirt plastered to his skin and the cushion of the bench molding to the trembling slopes of his shoulders and back, the flash somehow sneaks back. It hides in plain sight, stalking the length of his arms and tensing as they push the bar up and away from his chest, locking his elbows in a strain that isn’t healthy. Hides until he’s holding his breath, trembling under the weight and a second to utter collapse, only to surprise him with a reveal of phantom hands, transparent and long, following raised veins to the bony bend of his wrist.

Carefully, as if they were real, the hands run a thumb over his pulse, applying pressure until Keith feels like jumping out of his skin. A beat, loud and clear, reverberates through his body. It makes him want to let go and be held. But the weight of the bar nearly chokes him at the thought, recoiling in the suddenness of it all, and has the ghostly hands evaporating in a puff of smoke. Gone just as quick as they came, and he’s left with a bursting chest, gasping for breath.

No one notices his blunder, but it shakes Keith all the same.

Keith asks Allura about the flashes.

It takes a while, not because he’s gearing up to bring the topic forward, but because Allura is a hard person to catch in the months following the battle for Earth. It seems like everyone everywhere wants the princess’s focus, grabbing her outside of conference rooms and tailing behind her in hallways, proposals and questions alike dripping from their lips. It’s progress, imperative for the success of human and Altean kind alike, Keith knows, but still inconvenient when he’s tracking her down for a private moment.

But Keith is nothing if not determined, forgoing pinging her comm and scheduling time in favor of simply cornering her as she’s leaving the base headquarters after a meeting he saw her walk into an hour prior. He glares as the entourage that follows her, daring them to do anything other than watch as he grabs his friend by the arm and spirits her away.

“Keith,” she greets with a muted smile, following him down the outside corridor and to the south quad where a lone bench sits under a yellow palo verde. “To what do I owe the surprise? How are you?”

But Keith has no time for such pleasantries. Now that the moment has arrived, to finally receive an answer to an immortal question, he can’t focus on anything else. Making sure there’s no one within hearing distance, he makes his stand, feet shoulder width apart and arms crossed. “I need your help,” he tells her without preamble, pushing all the frustration from the last few days, weeks, months into his words. “Something’s wrong with me.”

The change is immediate. Pale eyebrows furrow and dainty shoulders square, kaleidoscope eyes zoning on him with intensity that matches a burning nova in the woes of death. “Tell me.”

So he does.

She doesn’t interrupt him when he speaks, merely sits there, ankles crossed and hands clasped delicately in her lap, and listens. Listens as he recaps his time in the quantum abyss. Listen as he recounts how the dark stars rose and set infinitely, blurring time in its most basic sense. Listens as he talks about the flashes, how they take over in the absence of sense. Listens to his frustrations at its perseverance, to its unyielding hold on his life. Listens to his want of its end.

“And this has been going on since you returned from the abyss?” she asks when he’s done.

He slumps next to her. “Yeah, and it’s only gotten worse since we returned to Earth.”

It’s quiet between them. Keith spends it anxiously rubbing his thumb over the jut of his knuckles, waiting to be reassured. Because if anyone can solve this, it’s Allura. Allura, one of the few remaining relics of the Old World, is a medium by which the universe communicates through. Whatever has happened to bring him to this moment must follow some precedent, something to pursue and procure.

“My people believed time was an limitless thing,” Allura begins after Keith has rubbed his skin raw, voice even and slow. “Something that the Life Givers had bestowed upon us in the age of chaos. Only those who knew the ancient art of alchemy could hope to understand its ubiquitous attributes. Some, like my father, even got close— discovering a source of energy that went beyond the simple science known previously.”

“Quintessence.”

Allura nods. “A substance with the highest known energy per unit volume in the universe. It has the power to alter and warp reality, creating rifts that might otherwise not exist. We saw as such with General Hira and her immoral troops.”

He remembers. The fight for the trans-reality comet and its precious ore, wanted by those who wanted peace in every reality, but only accomplished in tearing it apart. He also knows that the subject is still a sore one for the Altean, a reflection of what could have been if things had been different.

“It’s thought that quintessence ties us to this world. That it is merely a means of creation, not the origin of it. It’s something to be harnessed, like with the Lions and your bayards— but you can’t have power without limitations. You need something to counter it, to maintain it…” She clears her throat. “I believe that the abyss may be a pocket of what used to be the beginning of our universe. A pocket that doesn’t follow the natural order of time and instead uses quintessence to warp it, existing in an almost limbo state. Trying to balance between past and present. But in all honesty, this is only a guess. I’ve never heard of anything like this, from my father or Coran otherwise.”

The information is a welcomed addition to the nothing Keith already knows, but it’s not a solution and he’s says as much.

Her eyes flicker downward. “No,” she says quietly, “I suppose it’s not.”

“But there is a way to stop this, right? Something you can do?”

The girl hesitates.

And doesn’t that just get his temper going. The girl who should have the answers, silent in the face of the question. “You don’t have anything,” he accuses just shy of harsh, breathing hard through his nose. “Nothing to help me?”

Allura covers his hand with her smaller one, flinching when he jerks away from the touch. “Keith, it’ll be alright. I’m sure we can figure this out. Together, with the help of the team—”

“Oh no, we are not telling the others about this.”

“What? Why not? I’m sure they would want to know.”

“If I tell them then I’m going to have to tell them what I’m seeing and…” Anxiety curls at the points of his ribs, unbridled and uncalled for, when he thinks about the flashes and what they might means. The thought of such private scenes translating from mind to reality, of being spoken into existence, is too much for him to handle. “I can’t— I refuse to do that.”

“I’m sure no one will judge you for what you see. Whatever it is, we don’t yet know if it’ll even come true. If you’ll just—”

“No, Allura.”

They stare at each other, stubbornly trying to convince the other to have their way. It doesn’t last long because he knows that Allura’s moral compass won’t allow her to do anything in disagreeance to his own well-being and that forcing him to do this will bring her in direct contradiction with such Altean ideologies; she looks away first, frowning in such a manner that it cracks her symmetrical face, and the win goes to him.

“Alright,” she agrees grudgingly. “I won’t tell the rest of the team, but,” she adds quickly when she catches him letting out a breath, “you’ll come to me if they start getting worse. Of course, I’ll be looking into any surviving Altean archives to see if I can find anything that might explain this phenomenon, but any changes at all and I’m the first to know. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They shake on it, like its some big business deal.

“And am I allowed to ask what the visions entail?”

She looks to be genuinely curious and it elicits a fight or flight response in him, not that he acts on either of them. But it still has him tensing abruptly, boots scraping against the dirt in a involuntary twitch.

“No,” he says and that’s the last of it.

Until it’s not.

Here’s a little something I wrote for a one-shot I had planned but will never finish. Basically, after the war, Keith goes back to space with his mom to help the Galra get their shit together, while Lance decides to stay on Earth with his family. They are both head-over-asses for each other, pining like dumb 13-year olds, but have yet to actually vocalize said feelings. It was just a lot of fluff.

But, yeah, here is their reunion of sorts, Keith comes back just in time to go the birthday party of Lance’s youngest niece, Sophie. Enjoy.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“In a little bit,” he says, reaching over to ruffle his nephew’s hair. The laugh, light and bright, that bubbles out of Sylvio’s mouth as he tries to dodge the offending hand brings a smile to Lance’s face. He pushes the boy in the direction of the door. “Go on and take the cake out, yeah? Luis will want to start soon and Sophie has to be spaghetti free before then.”

Sylvio nods eagerly, picking up the giant container of part supplies and carefully waddling out the door and down the slope toward the canopy.

The screen door hasn’t even closed all the way before Lance is turning to the little girl in his arms, hitching her higher. “Alright, princess, let’s clean you up.”

He hums while he works, lulling Sophie into complacency with a song that his mother would sing to him before bed when he was younger; it works, the toddler foregoing any tantrums and watching him wipe down her arms and hands with a moist towelette. Though she does start squirming when he switches his attention to her face, making disgruntled noises when his dips the cloth over her mouth and chin. Amused, he mirrors her expression as she wrinkles her nose when he gets the hint of snot inching out of her left nostril.

Someone takes a deep breath behind him.

Lance is already turning, half laugh pinching his cheeks into a smile. “Don’t tell me you need help unpacking the cake— oh.”

He stops because it’s not Sylvio standing there.

It’s Keith.

Keith, tall and pale skinned, who looks fresh and warm in a flannel and band tee, an unfairly good centerpiece to the backdrop of his home. Keith, whose dark hair curls in the aftertaste of more than one salty breeze and whose face sports a trail of love bites from the sun across pronounced cheekbones. Keith, who he hasn’t seen in heaven knows how long, but still makes Lance’s heart skip a beat or two at the mere sight of him.

Lance blinks, momentarily surprised. “Hey.”

His voice must snap the boy out of whatever spell he’s been stuck in, because he does this small shake of the head, eyelashes fluttering. He adjusts his shirt and steps forward into the cluttered kitchen, hovering awkwardly in the space beside Lance.

“Hey.”

There is no way to stop the pleased smile unfurling across his face. “You made it.”

Keith nods. “I did.”

There’s a pause in which Keith shifts from one foot to the other, eyes looking anywhere but Lance— the sink, the curtains, his shoes. It’s only a displeased gurgle from his other side that Lance shakes himself awake, back to reality and away from the way sunlight streams through the window and catches on thick eyelashes.

“Oh, sorry, I almost forgot to introduce you!” Lance twists and juts out his hip, making a show of bouncing the toddler in his arms. “This is Sophie, the girl of the hour— Miss Birthday Girl, herself.”

Sophie curls a few fingers around his ear and leans into him, chubby cheeks and pouty lips on full display. Shyly, she peeks at the newcomer.

“She’s cute.”

“The cutest,” Lance agrees wholeheartedly, tickling the girl under the chin and grinning when she laughs, likening the sound to bells. “Cutest niece ever— but don’t tell Nadia that or I’ll be downgraded to second favorite uncle, and I cannot let Marco win. But yeaup, now she’s the whopping age of four and already has the world wrapped around her little finger. They grow up so fast.”

“She has your eyes.”

Lance stops. He doesn’t mean to, but the words are unprecedented in their forthcoming and leave him no time to school his reaction. Their eyes meet, and once it happens, he can’t seem to break away. Liquid obsidian mixes with sea blue, dissociating until there is nothing to distinguish the two; it is the paint of the universe, swirling into stars as it hits canvas.

“And your smile,” Keith adds because he wants Lance to self combust, not a shred embarrassed at the things he’s saying- the truths he’s divulging. “You guys have the same smile.”

His brain stutters and takes the time to rerouter itself, skipping over fried wires and flustered gears. “Well, technically, they’re my grandma’s eyes, but, yeah, she, uh— she does.” He clears his throat, finding a lump of some indescribable emotion clogging it. “Though I don’t know about the smile. Sure we both have dimples and I floss regularly, but that’s… it’s nothing to brag about.”

“I like your smile.” A first. “I think it’s nice.”

Heat rises to his cheeks. “Oh, um, thanks.”

There’s a swell in noise from outside, the clunk of the gate and the crow of welcome of new arrivals. He hears a scolding from his aunt, spinning into a row of laughter after the sound of something big falling and a loud cry of a seagull.

“I like your laugh,” Lance blurts out before he can help himself.

Keith looks downright surprised. He does this thing where he blinks rapidly and inches his head back, frowning, and it takes Lance a moment to realize he wasn’t fishing for a compliment in return. “My laugh?”

“Yeah, it’s…” His mouth is dry and his palms sweaty. “I like hearing it.”

And wonders upon wonders, Keith flushes. It creeps up from his chest and colors the entirety of his face, a pink hue that reminds Lance of sunsets during spring. The thought gets him going again and then they are just two boys awkwardly standing in a kitchen, glowing bright red and refusing to look each other in the eye. Eventually it becomes too much and Lance makes himself focus on the toddler in his arms, clearing his throat way too loudly and shifting until she’s better situated in his arms.

“Well, we, ah, better head out there. Can’t really start the party without the girl of honor.” He makes to grab Sophie’s bag, but Keith sees and quickly snatches it from where it’s hung on the chair. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“No, it’s fine. I can get it.”

“I don’t want to make you—”

“Lance,” Keith says and they make direct eye contact this time around. “You’re not making me do anything. I want to do this. I want to be here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

This time, they share a smile.

A/N:A scene I wrote for a fic a lifetime ago, but never posted. I give you ‘we were raiding my neighbors garden and got caught and, oh shit, is that a pitchfork?! run!!!!’

Lance’s head snaps up, alert. “What?”

“I said that there’s some guy over there,” Pidge tells him, pointing. She’s dressed band tshirt and his sister’s overalls, and he can see a thin sheen of sweet on her top lip from where she squats in his neighbors strawberry patch. “I think he’s trying to say something- he looks pretty angry and wow, is that a pitchfork? I didn’t think people still used those. How twentieth century.”

Rachel meets his gaze from across the patch and, even after light years of distance and an intergalactic war, Lance is happy to know they are on the same page. He feels his cheeks rise in an all encompassing smile, one that is mirrored in the feminine face across from him, and together they shoot to their feet.

“Last one to the car—”

“—is a rotten egg.”

Then, without a second’s hesitation, he reaches down and hauls Keith up, legs already moving forward. Caught off guard, his friend stumbles a few steps and drops most of his haul in the precious time it takes to establish his balance once more. Instinct and experience of battles fought together have the paler boy automatically extending his strides to match Lance’s, following his lead with no other prompting than the loose grip around his wrist.

Lance spies his sister all but pluck Pidge from the ground and sprint off in the opposite direction.

And now, it’s a race.

He guides the two of them around the line of strawberries and down a clear pathway framed by saplings. He dodges between the skinny trunks, only half careful of the branches that scrape against exposed skin, and gives a small tug on the hand he holds captive when he catches sight of the red barn to their left. They veer toward it, taking shelter in the shadow of some hay bales.

“What’s the plan?”

The words are hot on his jaw and Lance has to stamp down the instinct to lean away. In retrospect, Keith isn’t all the close, but the sun is really glaring down today and Lance can feel the sweat collecting at the nape of his neck. He shoves the other boy’s face away.

“Okay. First of all, breath mint— ever heard of it, Keith?”

Keith smacks his hand away and scrunches his eyebrows, looking offended. “My breath doesn’t stink.”

“Oh, yes it does. Smells just like that one time Coran ripped one in the dining hall.” Lance taps a finger to his nose. “I swear, I lost all sense of smell for a solid week.”

Keith looks like he doesn’t know whether to be angry or amused, the twitch of his mouth a possible sign of either. Eventually he settles on the later, a soft puff of laughter leaving him, and nudges Lance’s shoulder with his own. “I’ve been using your toothpaste, so if my breath smells like alien farts, then so does yours too.”

Lance ponders the corner he has unwittingly backed himself into, pursing his lips while he side eyes the other boy. “Touché, Mullethead. Touché.”

Keith looks pleased at the small victory, so, of course, Lance does what he does best and blows right past it.

“Alright, Coran’s flatulence and my great taste in toothpaste aside, we still gotta head to the stables. There’s a break in the fence there where my cousin Rufus and his best friend accidentally crashed into it with his hover bike— or, er, at least, it was there when I was home last.”

“Lance,” Keith deadpans, “that was years ago.”

“Yeah, I know, okay? But I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas, Mr. Doubtful.”

“I would, but, in case you haven’t noticed, I have absolutely no clue where we are. Or why even stopped, for that matter.” He pauses. “Why did we stop?”

“Oh, that’s easy. It’s because Old Man Jack has some hired help who’re probably moseying about somewhere close by and they’re, like, the biggest snitches in history,” Lance explains, peeking over the nearest bundle of straw. “I mean, I don’t blame them. For what he’s paying, I’d sell my own sister out.”

Keith shakes his head. “You would not.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I wouldn’t,” he admits, only partially surprised at the certainty in the other’s tone. “But it’s nice to think about how rich I would be if I did.”

Keith makes to say something, only to stop when footsteps sound out behind them. They both spin around to face the farmhand that had somehow sneaked under their radar.

There’s a moment where neither parties say or do anything, too surprised with the sight of the other. It’s almost comedic, Lance thinks, liking the stare off to countless scenes he’s seen in countless movies over the years; he wonders if now would be an appropriate time to utter a mind blowing one liner.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be here!”

Too late.

Lance, always one with a plan, straightens out of his suspicious looking crouch, scratching at the back of his burning neck and laughing awkwardly. “Well, you see, we were just—”

Without a second thought, he grabs Keith’s hand and sprints down the way they came.

He can hear Keith’s laughter behind him, abrupt and loud and staccato, and can feel the muscles in his arm go taunt when the boy twists to look over their shoulders to watch the farmhand disappear from view. Lance has to tug him a few times, guiding them around the barn and more south, to where he remembers the crack in the fence to be- and lo and behold, when he finally catches sight of the end of the property, there’s a despondent looking break in the wooden pikes.

He lets go of Keith’s hand then, trusting him to keep up, and uses the momentum of his swinging hands to push him harder, faster. Keith doesn’t disappoint, sticking to his side like glue, no matter how narrow the path is or how abrupt a turn he makes. And it sets his heart hammering, quick and hard against the cage of his chest; he loves it, this concept of no matter how hard he pulls, there will be an equal push returned. Like twin shooting stars, they fly over the land in an escapade of shining freedom.

When they finally come to the edge of the property and are able to see the fence (a chunk of its top layer broken and missing), Lance lets out a loud laugh, crazy with exhilaration. Pumping his legs faster, he lengthens his strides as far as he can. Wind rushes past him, tugging at his hair and boxing his ears. Slowly, he pulls ahead of Keith, casting a winning smile over his shoulder and feeling utterly invincible.

With fluidity that comes from years of experience, Lance confidently jumps and bypasses the fence. He lands in a crouch, hearing the thumpof another pair of feet making contact with the ground a second behind, and sets off again.

They sprint down the road, circling around the fenced property that had just cut across, and, just as his uncle’s car comes into view, Lance spots two forms squeezing through the fence a distance away. His burning lungs protest as he pushes forward the last remaining feet, watching his sister do the same.

They collide into the hood of the car, scorching metal biting through his shirt and along his palms, pressing in harder when Keith staggers against him, hand spread wide against his lower back. Still, the pain is worth it when compared to the bright feeling bursting from his chest.

“Ha! We win!” he crows, peeling himself from the vehicle and enthusiastically pumping a fist in the air. He twirls and does a little jig.

“What?” Pidge huffs as she finally joins them, hands resting on her knees as she catches her breath. “No way! It was a tie!”

“Nope!” Lance straightens, feeling the victory settle pleasantly in his chest. “Was totally here first.”

Rachel has a very different opinion on the matter and says it, loudly. Lance is nothing if not stubborn and refuses to budge on his call, even taking time to rub it into the girls’ faces. Pidge pushes him and uses his moment of imbalance to slip into shotgun; usually Lance would complain and throw the biggest fit about the concept of ‘dibs,’ but the young paladin is laughing and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

So he slides into the back, Keith winning the mini scuffle to claim the window seat; Lance lets this loss go too, secretly happy to be next to the groceries and planning to sneak a few snacks in before they get home, and focuses on what’s important—  being better than Rachel. “We definitely won.”

“You’re out of your mind,” his sister argues, reaching back to smack him. After a moment and a conspiratorial smile, Pidge turns in her seat and joins in.

“Hey! Stop that! Mercy, mercy, mercy!” He shies away from the abuse, pressing close to the grocery bags and then to Keith in an effort to get away. It’s all in vain because no matter where he goes their hands follow, relentless in their goal to bruise every part of him. “Keith! Keith, buddy, help me out!”

But the other boy merely raises his hands in a shrug of helplessness, trying to suppress a tiny smile that pulls at his mouth.

Lance gasps. “You’re siding with them?”

“I’m not siding with anyone.”

But Lance goes on as if he doesn’t hear him. “Siding with the enemy— that’s cruel, man. And I thought we had a good thing going? All that bonding and whatnot.” He shakes his head and lets out a fake sigh, reaching over and nonchalantly shoving Pidge back in her seat as his sister starts the engine and plows down the dirt road. “You think you know a guy.”

As punishment, Lance refuses to move back to his seat and makes sure his so-called ‘friend’ has as little room as possible (not that there was much to begin with), squished against the car door even after the attacks stop. When they make a tight turn, he throws himself with it; there are some vague threats and muttered cursing, but Lance just laughs and resolutely stays plastered to Keith’s side.

They take the long route back home.

The wind whooshesas they speed down the road, trees and street signs becoming colorful blurs stretching along the horizon. The bags next to him start flapping and a few loose leaf napkins jump from their place in the ashtray and fly out the window. The sun shines through the window, rays chanting a song of goosebump inducing warmth. The radio plays a song Lance doesn’t recognize, but it is nice in its beat and he grins in the feeling of it all.

Pairing: Keith/Lance

Words: 1191

Chapters: 1/1

“Please, Keith. Where is your heart?”

He doesn’t respond- doesn’t know how. But that doesn’t stop him from reaching that point of enlightenment. For it stares him straight in the face. The light… it holds a heart- his heart. Stolen from him, right out of his chest.

He wants it back.

Notes: Here it is! My @klance-exchange gift for @ssuppositiouss! One of your prompt ideas was to “place them [klance] in the universe of another story (but not a crossover)” and, well, when I saw your tumblr theme, I just couldn’t resist! Kingdom Hearts is one of my favorite games and I thrive on angst, so voila!

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Darkness. From it, entire worlds are born.

It is a universal truth. A standard in which all of creation adheres to, strumming to the same beat across each plane of existence. And what an existence it is. A sudden rush, like an undertow of primitive feeling, and then, suddenly, he is there.

Entity is a shocking thing, abrupt and unstable. Everlasting in its newness, but limiting in its physical constrictions. For a mind is nothing without a body and his is unresponsive, refusing to listen to the intrinsic feelings and desires that run their course. But it is there nonetheless, a solid mass that floats within weightless waters, bobbing, up and down. A sea made of wispy smoke and concentrated ash, filling his lungs with failed dreams and forgotten promises alike- aiming to drown, dissolve, and devour.

But he fights the pull. He is stronger, stronger than those hiding in the tide of shadows that swarms around him, and he wins. The dark sea jerks away from his transcendental touch, shivering at the power that hides within him; he presses further and they bow in submission, an army at his disposal.

It’s amidst this exhibit of force that he spots it.

A light.

A light that shines through the darkness, a beacon to his brief existence. With it comes the notion of warmth, a bonfire within a storm that he hadn’t realized he’d been braving. His form trembles at the conceived loss and he automatically makes a move to reach for that unknown paradise, but only earns a small twitch of his fingers for his effort. For all his strength, the dark waters still sway him, lulling him into something catatonic with hoarse whispers and tainted lullabies.

The compulsion to grab hold of that light and never let go is severe. To latch on, dig into his claws into its soft flesh and and squeeze until that intoxicating warmth bleeds into him. To make it his and his alone. No, he decides then and there, it must be his. No one else craved for it the way he did.

As if sensing his lurking desire, the light trembles, pulsing erratically. Every beat has him viciously clawing at the barrier of his conscious, begging for a taste.

“Keith?” the light says. “Is that you, buddy?”

Oh, what a sound. He has never heard such a thing like it. A song of the cosmos, beautiful and holy. He rocks onto the back of his heels, sucking in a hiss, overwhelmed.

“Pidge, isn’t there, I don’t know, some spell you can do to fix this?”

“Hey, I may be the Royal Magician, but even I can’t bring someone back from the darkness.” The owner of these words is smaller, thus weaker, than the rest. In their grasp lays a lengthy weapon of sorts, something that sparks dangerously when even stranger words are uttered.

The sea behind him grows nervous at the show of magic. They convulse, rolling over one another and whispering threats of attack, like a wave set to crash along the world’s shore, mighty and explosive.

Paranoia rushes through him. If the swarm strikes, then what happens to his light? Does it stand and fight? A show of razored teeth and sharp fins. Does it run? Like the sun setting behind a watery horizon. Does it disappear? Gone in a moment like ocean spray.

No. Not his light; he wouldn’t let that happen. His mouth opens and a sound comes out, all broken glass and wounded animal, warding off those who wish to take his light- his prize.

“The Heartless, they’re being held back…” His knuckles gently slide against the ground as he slumps forward even further. “Do you think… maybe… maybe Keith recognizes us?”

“He’s a Heartless, Lance. He doesn’t have any memories to recognize.”

“But,” the voice trembles and his head slips to one side, trying to decipher the sentiment behind the empyrean sounds. “But we can’t just leave him like this. I can’t just leave him like this.”

“Well, there isn’t much we can d- woah, hey! Lance, don’t!” The call is louder than anything he has heard before and he shrinks back, tensing in preparation for an attack; the swarm shifts restlessly, held in check only by his primordial interest. But the light doesn’t seem bothered by the warning, instead creeping forward- closer and closer and ever closer.

“Keith,” comes the voice, high and melodic and a hair’s breadth away, and when he looks up to finally glimpse the body that goes with it, something stirs within him. For another sea surges to greets him, this one vastly different from the abyss he’s birthed from; a surf of stars swirl in twin crystal balls, colored blue- so very, unapologetically blue- and holding the world in their depth, capturing him within their celestial gaze. “Keith, buddy, can you hear me?”

But he is lost among the undertow, never to return.

The figure kneels and now he can see how it shines from within, pulsing with divine light and begging to be corrupted by his wicked touch. “We’ll figure this out, okay? Don’t you worry- we’ll get you back to normal somehow. We’ll get your heart back, wherever it is.”

Heart? What is…?

“Keith, if you can hear me, please, tell me… Where’s your heart?“

A tanned limb rises and braces against its chest, where the warmth and brightness was the most intense. He tries to mimic the motion, wanting to make that connection, but can’t. His fingers brush against only air, nails tracing the edge of the hole making its home at his center.

"Please, Keith. Where is your heart?”

He doesn’t respond- doesn’t know how. But that doesn’t stop him from reaching that point of enlightenment. For it stares him straight in the face. The light… it holds a heart- his heart. Stolen from him, right out of his chest.

He wants it back.

The air changes, full and electrifying. A storm brews and spills over, surging into his limbs and helping him stand to his full height. The light watches him, mouth open and eyes wide, that beautiful voice rising in a gasp that curls in the empty space where his heart used to be. The two figures behind the light tense and make to rush forward, but the swarm of shadows rise from the earth to block their path.

His hand comes up to point toward the light accusingly.

“Keith? What are you- hey, no, stop.” The light flickers in fear. “I know you’re in there. Snap out of it.”

But he doesn’t listen.

And only when he finally takes back his heart, amidst writhing shadows and dead stares, with the light dimmed and a bruised body pressed firmly against his own, motionless, does he realize the truth. That though darkness may mother creation, it does not sustain it. For all he has left- a heart, broken and ravaged- he is still hungry.

Pairing: Keith/Lance
Words: 2584
Chapters: 1/1

“I- I think I love you.”

Keith freezes.

It takes a moment for Lance to figure out what’s happened- what he’s said- and Keith watches as his boyfriend startles violently, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. They stare at each other, the air tense in a different sense than what it’s been for the last few minutes. It’s something close to awkward and Keith would run if not for the compromising position they’re in- naked and in the midst of sex.

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The doors of his room haven’t even slid all the way shut when Lance throws himself at Keith.

There’s the solid thump of twin helmets falling to the floor, kicked to the corner and out of the way by clumsy feet. The inconvenient bulk of their armor is easy to ignore, especially when gloved hands make their way to Keith’s hair, bunching it up and brushing it away from his face. It feels nice and he pushes forward in response, his own hands spread over a firm stomach and the sweet dip of a back; he is too eager and the knee he braces between Lance’s thighs has them stumbling back into the side wall.

Lance grunts at the collision, but welcomes Keith’s weight nonetheless, body arching to the touch in a fashion that goes straight to his groin. Then it’s a familiar dance they move to- back and forth, push and pull, inhale and exhale. It’s a sharp tug on his hair and a quick nip on his bottom lip, nails scraping down and down and down. It’s a grope to his boyfriend’s backside and a low groan of pleasure slipping past the seal of their lips, hips rocking. It’s trailing kisses down the elegant column of a neck and a flower of bruised purple blooming where his tongue lingers, tasting sweat and ash and cinnamon.

“I was worried,” Lance says to the room at large, breathy voice slicing through the loaded silence with such suddenness that Keith breaks away to look at him. His eyes are hooded, but blazing with liquid fire that cools just as it burns.  “During the mission… I was…”

He doesn’t finish, but Keith knows. Keith knows because even tucked away as they are, away from danger and responsibility, it’s still fresh in his mind. The searing heat of an ion cannon clipping his lion’s shoulder and the rush of weightlessness as he fell, pulled into a nearby gas giant’s gravity. The feeling of being helpless of his own demise- so chilling, so abrupt, so inevitable.

The thought of it ending- he imagines drawing his last breath and fading into the background of the lost- is too much and his grip on his boyfriend tightens involuntarily.

“But you’re okay. You’re here- with me,” Lance murmurs, lashes fluttering. A thumb sweeps across Keith’s temple, grounding him to the here and now. “You’re okay.”

Keith swallows past the mysterious lump in his throat. “Yeah, I am. It’s… I’m okay.”

The recycled air of the ship is cool against the sweaty skin at the back of his neck, a medium that makes them- the moment, real. He tilts his chin up a fraction of an inch and Lance responds accordingly, kissing him hard. Keith opens up to him, allowing the tongue to slip into his mouth and explore every corner with expertise and familiarity that breeds satisfaction.

Then it’s a scramble to peel off their suits, hands fumbling with the latches of chest plates and rumpled fabric. They nearly take a tumble when the back of Lance’s knees hit the bed and he flounders for balance, automatically reaching for Keith just as he’s lifting a leg to kick off his boots; they’re only saved by his quick reflexes, hand braced against the bed’s roof. Unconcerned, Lance mutters something in Spanish and reaches behind Keith to unzip his suit, causing goosebumps to rise along his exposed flesh at the brush of cool air. It’s tough with only one hand available and the distraction of soft lips moving against his own, but Keith manages to return the favor and peel black spandex from brown skin, letting it fall to the floor.

A quick shove and Lance is bouncing onto the mattress, neck tilting up so that he can watch Keith crawl on top of him and accept the kiss he bestows. Urging him to scoot further up the bed, he settles himself comfortably, bent legs on either side of sharp hips and skin sailing over skin in beautiful friction. Another point of pressure and Lance is leaning all the way back, body pliant to Keith’s guidance and charge of the situation. It’s no secret that Lance likes to be pushed around in bed.

Keith takes a moment to appreciate the view, the graceful stretch of a torso and lithe limbs, sinew of muscles reacting to the whispers of touch he imparts upon every inch granted to him, and swollen lips glossy with spit. It’s a beautiful sight, one that Keith never gets tired of seeing- and never will.

So, there’s no surprise when he grabs the other’s face in between his hands and, back bowed like a votary commencing worship, pushes their bodies infinitely closer. The resulting friction is everything. They revel in the feeling, gasping into each other’s mouths and trading damp puffs of air while they continue to rub against each other, each trying to gain the upper hand and make the other crack first. Lance cheats and sneaks a hand between them, taking hold of his dick and jerking until Keith starts dripping precum and swears colorfully; which is fine, because Keith gets him back on the next grind, rolling slowly and with enough force that Lance throws his head back with a drawn out moan- only to cut off abruptly when Keith bites down on his neck. It’s not long until they’re itching for more, to reach the zenith of the moment and fall over its edge, burning in a flare of raw stimulus.

It’s hard to tear himself away from Lance and the pretty noises he’s making, but Keith deems it wroth it when his blind patting at the wall opens a compartment to their left. It takes a few tries, because his boyfriend is nothing if not distracting, but eventually he procures a strip of condoms and off-white tube of lubricant- both acquired after an embarrassing trip to a trading outpost that involved a visit to an intergalactic brothel, of which Keith had threatened outright murder if Lance- who was still laughing uncontrollably even as they returned to their lions- ever told a soul what may or may not have happened behind those walls. Still, wounded dignity aside, it’s got nothing against the feeling of his own slicked fingers entering himself.

Lance makes a small noise in the back of his throat, neck craning to see, and only quiets when Keith starts up a shallow thrust. The stretch is good, better than good actually, but he wants to make it better, so he takes one of Lance’s hands from where it’s gripping the sheets and brings it to his face, tilting his head so that his cheek rests in the curve of his palm.

Lance swallows and it’s a loud thing.

Encouraged, Keith adds another finger and pushes back onto the probing digits, chest heaving as he twists them just so. The movement puts him up close and personal to Lance’s arousal, just as stiff and insistent as his own. He barely fights off the urge to touch himself, knowing he won’t last as long as he wants if he does so, and focuses on Lance’s face, open and flushed, instead, watching through half-lidded eyes as he licks his lips; the attention is gratifying, even more so when, without breaking eye contact, Lance’s free hand runs up his leg to curl around his thigh, squeezing.

He braces a hand on Lance’s chest, rising higher on his knees to better chase down his desire. The hand cupping his face remains where it is, thumb brushing over the swell of his bottom lip until it becomes too much and he gives it a small nip.

“Lance,” he finally breathes, voice broken. His fingers brush against his walls just right and his eyes flutter shut, his lover’s name turning into a drawn out moan.

Lance sits up abruptly and Keith nearly loses his balance, having to shift forward so that their chest brush with every inhale. Filed nails scrape softly against his jaw, moving down his throat with the same languid intent as the hand smoothing over his backside, pausing where Keith works himself. There’s a shudder of breath when their fingers touch inside his stretched hole, slick with sweat and lube; he can feel the bump of knuckles graze along his walls as Lance curls his long fingers, spreading him open. A strangled sound escapes him, and soon he’s going crazy with the stimulation. Lance must share his desire for more because then he’s suddenly empty and he whines something needy, twitching when he hears the rip of plastic and feels Lance’s tip at his entrance. He has time to comprehend dilated pupils surrounded by a thin ring of blue and a reverent whisper of his own name before he’s gloriously full once more.

He throws his head back at the sting of pleasurable pain. Lance murmurs something he can’t hear beyond the white noise pulsing in his ears, but it doesn’t matter because the hands curling at his waist and neck are gentle, and lips are then pecking apologies onto his eyelids, cheeks and nose.

Gray sheets stick to their skin, tangling underneath and in between their legs, rustling with every drive forward. Keith’s breathing becomes labored as the rocking evolves into something more carnal.

They collide in a whirlwind of stardust, compressed into a single moment so profound it’s hard to distinguish where one ends and the other begins. Keith keens when Lance adjusts, leaning partially back on a hand braced on the mattress, and white spots erupt across his vision momentarily, pulled along a string of constellations that ties them together until it’s a wonder they were ever separate to begin with. They move in tandem, rolling like an asteroid in the waves of deep space.

He lifts his hips and twists them on the drop down, unable to stop the zealous groan of pleasure it elicits.

“Keith. Keith. Keith,” Lance suddenly gasps. “I- I think I love you.”

Keith freezes.

It takes a moment for Lance to figure out what’s happened- what he’s said- and Keith watches as his boyfriend startles violently, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. They stare at each other, the air tense in a different sense than what it’s been for the last few minutes. It’s something close to awkward and Keith would run if not for the compromising position they’re in- naked and in the midst of sex.

He opens his mouth, only for the words to get caught in his throat.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Lance assures him hurriedly, wincing at whatever expression makes itself known on Keith’s face. “I didn’t say it because- if you don’t- can’t- it wasn’t to bully you into anything. It was just- the truth.”

His chest aches, and it’s something Keith can’t put a name to; it makes him both queasy and happy, and he doesn’t know whether or not he likes it. This is a bridge they have yet to cross, yet to consider, and it can break just as easily as it can hold; it’s entirely in Keith’s hands and it’s a daunting power to have. So he makes a decision.

“Say it again.”

Lance starts, surprised, but must see something in Keith’s eyes because he grows solemn a moment later, eyes unwavering even as he says, “I love you, Keith.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

A kiss lingers at the corner of his mouth, breathing warmth into him where space cannot, while their rhythm starts up once more, steady and deep. “Again.”

“I love you,” Lance says, more fervent as he pushes forward with a singular focus- to smother Keith with every burning touch and honest declaration. Every thrust is a resounding clap of thunder of the storm they brave together, growing louder and louder until it’s all they can hear. “I love you, I love you, I- oh, fuck- I love you. I love you so much, it- it hurts.Oh god, do I love you.”

The arm around his waist flexes, helping to lift him and eventually driving them to hit that sweet spot. Keith cries out, feeling raw and hysterical and loved. Lance harmonizes with him, hot air hitting his face as they climb to that higher place together.

“I,ha, love you, Keith Kogane. I love you.” The words are spoken of their own accord, making Keith’s toes curl. “I love you to the end of the universe and back.”

His insides burn, magma bubbling to the surface and erupting in a shower of fireworks. He comes with a silent scream that coats Lance’s chest, working himself through it with enough gusto that it’s near painful. Lance is not far behind, riding out the wave with one, two, three thrusts.

They fall back onto the sheets when it’s done, completely spent. With limbs feeling like lead and the static ringing in his ears beginning to die down, he lets himself just lay there; the pillows against his cheek are cool to the touch and from this angle he can watch Lance catch his breath, all parted lips and heaving chest. The dimmed lights of the room cast a turquoise glow to brown skin and Keith isn’t strong enough to stop himself from reaching across the minimal space between them and trailing a finger along a sharp jaw.

“Did you mean it?” he asks in the limbo of silence that reigns, watching as Lance turns his head to face him, cheeks flushed from exertion. It almost doesn’t come out, the question, but he pushes through on sheer will alone, because he has to know. “What you said. Did you mean it?”

Blue eyes go incredibly soft. “Of course I did. I really do love you, Keith.”

Keith’s insides squirm pleasantly and he chokes on his own spit.

Lance takes the reaction badly, inching his head back with a nervous grimace. “Do… do you not want me to say it? I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable I can-”

“No,” he says too quickly and flushes. “No, it- it’s fine. I don’t mind, really. It’s just, uh…”

“Hey,” Lance thankfully interrupts, curled index finger brushing his cheek and the hair sticking to it. “You don’t need to say it back- it’s okay, honest.”

That’s not the problem. The problem is that Keith wants to say it, but can’t. The words aren’t forming properly, catching at the back of his throat and constricting on its aspiration for freedom. I love you just isn’t in his vocabulary- a cipher he hasn’t decoded, a chapter he hasn’t read, a sky he hasn’t flown. It’s a bold step forward on a path they walk together, a tug in the direction of absolution and promise, and Keith is afraid he might trip.

So, instead, he says with utter sincerity, “I would cross the entire universe for you.”

Which is the same thing, right?

Lance seems to think so, because he smiles this smile, with squinty eyes and dimples pinching each cheek, and, wow, Keith is gone. Gone because Lance is staring at himwith that look and the thought alone makes him feel a tick away from becoming ash and being swept away by a stray breeze. But, Lance anchors him there, solidifying his presence into something both sturdy and brittle with those three simple words whispered against his lips.

When Lance kisses him, Keith thinks it won’t be long until he can say it back.

A/N: A klance drabble, because boys will be boys.

“This is awesome.”

Keith breathes hard through his nose, inching back so he can look his boyfriend in the eye. They’re tucked away in some bushes, messing around when they’re supposed to be pulling weeds for his mom, and Lance is the picture of frazzled underneath him, cheeks flushed, hair a crow’s nest and parted lips glossy with spit.

“What?” he asks, because it’s just like Lance to want to talk during heated moments like this.

“I said, this is awesome.” A bony knee knocks against his hip before the leg attached to it rises and wraps around him, muscles contracting to pull them closer together. “Cause it is- really awesome. Like, the awesome-est.”

Lance’s jacket is slipping off one shoulder, pulling at his shirt and exposing the sharp line of a collarbone. Keith takes advantage of this and ducks down to place a sloppy kiss on the skin there, lips trailing upwards when he feels the pulse under his fingertips jump. Encouraged, he nibbles on the lobe of his ear, having one of his hands drift down to press into a fresh bruise on the jut of a hipbone.

The body underneath him twitches. “B-best thing to ever happen to me and oh s-shit, do that again- yeaup, you’re literally the greatest. I’m so, so, so glad we’re together.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Keith goes back to attack the boy’s mouth, trying to hide the fact that his face is quickly becoming a tomato. It’s all in vain though, because Lance laughs this laugh through the kiss, all breathy like a case of the hiccups, and it has Keith’s insides twisting pleasantly. “You’re so embarrassing.”

Lance doesn’t listen. “Aw, look at you,” he says with a long drawl on the first syllable. Fingers entangle with the ends of his hair, twirling- it feels good and Keith never wants him to stop. “You’re so cute when you blush.”

“Just shut up and kiss me again.”

“I will, I will. Don’t get your mullet in a twist. Wait, hold on- there’s a rock digging into my back…” A few leaves rustle when Lance wiggles underneath him, stomach arching up and brushing against his in an effort to find a more comfortable position. Their belt buckles clink together. “There we go- oh, nope, I can still feel it.”

“For the love of-” Keith snakes an arm around the tan boy’s waist and lifts, leaning back until he’s sitting with a gorgeous boy firmly in his lap. The new position puts Lance slightly higher, but that’s nothing a good crane of the neck can’t fix, and it allows Keith the prime opportunity of grabbing a handful of his boyfriend’s ass and squeezing to his heart’s content.

“Ah,” Lance says when he jerks up and elicits a wonderful collision of hips, the sound harmonizing with the hitched breath that whistles pass Keith’s teeth. “Ah, ah, ah.”

He does it again, harder, and feels Lance’s legs spasm on either side of him. Hands trail up his arms and knit around his neck, pulling them even closer; Keith goes willingly, swallowing a moan when sharp hips dip down to meet his own on the next grind.

And, okay, Lance is right. It is pretty awesome.