Chapter Text
The door to Lances quarters slides open with a soft hiss. Keith nudges it with his hip, both hands occupied with the breakfast tray, and steps into the dim room.
Lance is still asleep.
Sprawled on his stomach, one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress, the blankets twisted around his waist in a way that leaves his bare back exposed. The morning light from the observation window paints gold stripes across his shoulder blades, catching the faint dusting of freckles there. The bruises Keiths mouth has left along his throat have darkened overnight—purple and blue, stark against his sun-kissed skin.
Keiths chest tightens.
He sets the tray on the nightstand as quietly as possible. The pitcher of water clinks against the edge. Lance doesn't stir. Doesn't even twitch. His breathing stays deep and even, the slow rhythm of someone whose body has been pushed past its limits and is demanding recompense.
For a long moment, Keith just stands there. Watching. The memory of the night before—of Lance's tear-streaked face, his wordless cries, the way his body has trembled through every aftershock—surfaces unbidden. Followed immediately by the memory of Shiro's steady voice explaining condom application on a cucumber.
His face heats all over again.
He drags the desk chair to the bedside. Sits down. Reaches out and brushes a strand of dark hair from Lances forehead. The touch is feather-light, but Lance's brow furrows. His lips move around a murmur that might be Keith's name.
"Hey," Keith says quietly. "Wake up. I brought breakfast."
Nothing.
"Lance."
A grunt. Lances face presses deeper into the pillow. His fingers curl loosely against the sheets, and his shoulders shift in what is clearly an attempt to burrow further into unconsciousness.
Keith leans closer. Presses a kiss to the curve of Lance's bare shoulder. "You need to eat."
"Mmrgh."
"And drink water. Shiro's orders."
That gets a reaction. One blue eye cracks open, unfocused and bleary. Lances voice comes out hoarse, scraped raw from the night before: "Did you just say Shiros orders?"
"I'll explain later."
"No, no—" Lance shifts onto his side with a wince, the blanket slipping to his waist. Every movement looks deliberate, careful, the way someone moves after pulling a muscle. "Explain now. Why does Shiro have opinions about my hydration?"
Keiths mouth opens. Closes. The flush that has been simmering since the dining hall surges back with a vengeance.
Lances expression sharpens. Even half-asleep, even wrecked, he can still smell embarrassment like a shark scenting blood. A slow grin spreads across his face. "Oh my god. What happened. Tell me everything."
"Eat first."
"Keith."
"Eat." Keith grabs a piece of the toast—slightly burned, because the castles food synthesizer has it’s own opinions about what "lightly toasted" means—and holds it to Lances lips. "Open."
Lances eyebrows shoot up. But he opens. Takes a bite. Chews slowly, his eyes never leaving Keiths face, a question hanging in the air between them.
Keith breaks off another piece. Holds it up. Lance accepts it, still watching him with that sharp, delighted curiosity.
"You're hand-feeding me," Lance says around the toast.
"You can't hold a fork."
"I absolutely can hold a fork."
"You're sore." The word slips out before Keith can stop it, and Lances grin widens into something positively sinful.
“Yeah in my ass, you dickhead!”
“I don’t care. You’re sore”
"So you said. At breakfast. In front of everyone."
Keiths hand freezes mid-reach for the water. "Who told you."
"No one told me. Pidge send me a message. Well—" Lance props himself up on one elbow, the blanket pooling dangerously low on his hips. "She send me twelve messages. All caps. Lots of exclamation points. Apparently Hunk recorded the whole thing."
"He what."
"Kidding. I think." Lances grin softens into something gentler. "Seriously, though. What happened? You look like you've been through a war."
“Can you just let me do this for you? I like it…” Keith says with a sigh and a blush.
Lance sighs too and closes his eyes in an ‘okay’.
Keith pours a glass of water. Presses it into Lances hand. Their fingers brush, and Lances thumb traces deliberately over his knuckles—a small, grounding touch that makes Keiths shoulders drop half an inch.
Keith pulls back from the kiss, his face warm, and Lances eyes are still half-lidded, that lazy grin tugging at his lips. "Okay," Lance murmurs, voice rough and fond. "One more bite. Then you have to kiss me again."
Keith doesn't argue. He breaks off another piece of toast, holds it to Lances lips, and watches him take it slowly—deliberately, this time, his tongue brushing Keiths fingertips before he pulls away.
"Chew," Keith says, but he is already leaning in.
Lance swallows mid-laugh, and Keith catches the sound with his mouth. The kiss is softer this time, less urgent, a quiet conversation that doesn't need words. Lances hand finds the back of Keiths neck, fingers threading through his hair, tugging gently.
When they break apart, Keith grabs the spoon. Scoops up some goo. Holds it out.
Lances grin turns wicked. "You're going to run out of food at this rate."
"Then I'll get more."
He feeds Lance the spoonful, and Lances eyes stay on him—warm, drowsy, full of something similar to trustvthat makes Keiths chest ache. This time, when Keith sets the spoon down, Lance pulls him in before he can reach for the water.
The kiss tastes like breakfast and sleep and the ghost of the night before. Keith lets himself sink into it, one hand braced on the pillow beside Lances head, the other still tangled with Lances fingers.
"Okay," Lance whispers against his lips. "Now water. Then more kissing."
Keith laughs—a short, surprised sound—and reaches for the glass.
“Shiro gave me the talk” Keith sighs while Lance is sucking at his neck. Which obviously makes Lance pull back
"The talk? What talk? Like— like THE Talk? Like—" Lance makes finger guns and taps the tips together, his voice dropping into a poor imitation of Shiros cadence. "When two paladins love each other very, very much—"
"No. Worse." Keith grabs a spoonful of food goo. Holds it up. Lances mouth opens automatically, and Keith feeds it to him before continuing. "He covered condoms. Prep. Positions. He used words like 'come-hither-motion' and ‘reservoir’ and ‘anatomy’. He made me demonstrate."
Lance chokes.
Keith thumps him on the back—gentle, mindful of the bruises—and waits while Lance wheezes into his fist. "Demonstrate? Demonstrate what?"
"Condom application." The words come out flat. Dead. "On a cucumber."
Silence.
Then Lance laughs—hoarse, cracked, helpless—fills the room. He collapses back against the pillows, one arm thrown over his face, his whole body shaking with it. "A cucumber. He made you put a condom on a cucumber."
"It gets worse."
"How can it possibly get worse?"
"He had a Dildo, Lance. A Dildo! A baby blue one that was weirdly smooth and— uagh” Keith shudders. Actually shudders, a cold running down his back that makes him shake. “From the Space Mall." Keith shoves another spoonful of goo at Lance, who is laughing too hard to protest. "Bought months ago, apparently.”
Lances laughter tips over into something that sounds a little unhealthy. Tears—mirth, this time, not overwhelm—leak from the corners of his eyes. He grabs Keiths wrist, steadying himself, and manages to gasp out: "I love him. I love him so much. He's insane."”
"I told him it was cruel." The humor drains from Keiths voice. He sets the spoon down. Looks at his hands. "He brought up Adam.
Lances laughter faded.
“Used him to make me listen. And I—I called him out on it."
Lances grip on Keiths wrist tightened.
"What did he say?"
"That I was right. That he used Adams memory because he knew it would make me listen. But that he didn't regret it, because if embarrassing me was what it took to make sure we didn't hurt each other, he'd live with being the villain. And he isn’t sorry." Keiths throat tightens. "He said he wished someone had had that conversation with him. Before Adam. Before everything."
The silence that follows was heavy.
Lance tugs at Keiths wrist. Pulls him closer. Keith climbsonto the bed, settling against the headboard, and Lance shifts until his head is resting on Keiths thigh. The blanket tangles between them. Lances hand finds Keiths and interlaces their fingers.
"That's actually kind of beautiful," Lance says quietly. "In a horrifying, deeply embarrassing way."
"I know."
"Are you okay?"
Keith looks down at Lance—his sleep-mussed hair, the shadows under his eyes, the fading marks of Keiths mouth on his throat—and feels his chest crack open.
“Just… I know you were close…”
"I'm fine. Just..." He pauses. Searches for words. "He cares. Shiro. It's weird and invasive and I wanted to die the whole time. But he cares."
"He does." Lance lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to Keiths knuckles. "And you came back and fed me toast. So he must've said something right."
"Eat your goo."
"Make me."
Keith scoops up another spoonful and holds it to Lance's lips. Lance accepts it, but when Keith tries to pull back, Lance catches his wrist and tugs him down to kiss him. It’s slow—a soft, exploring press of lips that tastes like the strange sweet-salt of the food goo. Lances free hand comes up to cup Keiths jaw, thumb stroking along his cheekbone.
Keith reaches for the spoon again, but Lance moves faster. He shifts, twists, and presses his mouth to the side of Keiths throat—right where his pulse hammers.
"Lance. Food."
"Mmph." Lances lips drag along Keiths jaw, slow and deliberate. His teeth graze below his ear, and Keiths hand falters. The spoon clatters back back into the bowl.
"Lance—"
"Feeding me," Lance murmurs against his skin. "You're feeding me. I'm multitasking."
Keiths breath hitches as Lances mouth finds the hollow of his throat. His fingers tighten on the edge of the tray. The butterflies in his stomach are going insane—a full swarm, chaotic and electric, making it hard to think.
"You need—" Keith starts, but Lance sucks gently at a spot that made his voice crack. "—to eat."
"I am."
"That… doesn’t count… you… You're distracting me."
"Working as intended." Lances hand slides up Keiths chest slow and teasing, until he has his palm flat over his heart. "You're very easy to distract, you know that?"
Keiths head falls back against the headboard. His eyes flutter closed. The spoon is definitely not going to make it to Lance's mouth at this rate.
"After this," Keith manages, voice rough, "you're finishing the goo."
"Deal."
Lance kisses the corner of his mouth. Then his cheek. Then the bridge of his nose. Each one softer than the last, but no less devastating.
Keiths resolve starts crumbling. But he grabs the spoon anyway. Holds it up blindly.
"Eat first. Then kiss me."
Lance pulls back just far enough to look at him—eyes dark, grin wicked, thoroughly pleased with himself. "Fine. But I'm holding you to that."
Keith has just scooped up the last bite of the goo. Bit theres still bread so he brakes off a corner of the toast, holds it to Lances lips, and watches him part them in that now-familiar invitation. But this time, Lance doesn't just take the toast.
His mouth closes around the bread—and then keeps pushing. Warmth envelops Keiths fingers. Lances tongue curls wetly tracing the length of his index and middle finger. He takes them deeper, one slow inch at a time, never once breaking eye contact.
Keith.exe has stopped working.
His brain short-circuites. The toast crumbles against his fingers, when Lance hollows his cheeks and sucked. Hard. The sensation iss electric—a wet heat that sends a jolt straight to Keiths groin. He holds his breath but his hips still shift involuntarily against the mattress, and then he feels it. There’s no hiding it. The thin blanket does absolutely nothing.
Lances eyes flick down. Flick back up. A glint of triumph sparks in his face. He pulls off Keiths fingers with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment before it brakes.
"Oops," Lance says, voice rough with barely held back laughter. "Got distracted."
Keith’s a mess—flushed, rock hard, his fingers tingling where Lances tongue just was. He fumbles to set the tray aside.
"You—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "You did that on purpose."
"Did I? " Lances grin is pure sin. He shifts, the blanket slipping lower, and Keiths eyes catch on the bruises blooming along his collarbone.
"Yeah. You did." Keiths wet fingers find the curve of his jaw. He leans in, close enough to feel Lances breath on his lips. "Two can play that game."
But Lance just laughs—soft and spent. "Maybe later. Right now I think you need to—" He gestures vaguely at Keiths lap. "Handle that. Or take a cold shower. Your call."
Keith groans, drops his forehead to Lances shoulder, and feels the laughter rumble through them both.
Lances eyes—half-lidded, drowsy, but there—watch him, waiting. Not pushing. Just... waiting.
Keiths restraint shatters.
He dives forward, capturing Lances mouth in a kiss that’s nothing like the soft, careful ones before and more in the direction of the ones yesterday. This one is desperate, hungry, everything. His tongue pushes against Lances, and Lance gasps into his mouth, fingers fisting in Keiths shirt.
“Keith," Lance breathes, the word half-lost against Keiths mouth.
But Keith doesn't answer. He just kisses deeper, his tongue sweeping in. His fingers stay locked below Lances jaw, holding him steady, claiming him with out hurry.
Keith doesn't stop. He shifts, one knee finding the bed beside Lances hip, and pressed their bodies together. The friction is immediate—electric and maddening. He grinds against Lances thigh through the thin layers of fabric without deciding to do so, and a sound comes out of him.
Lances grip tightens.
Keith rolls his hips. And just lets out everything—the embarrassing talk, the vulnerable confession, the overwhelming tenderness of being seen. Lances hand slid down, palm flat against Keiths ass, pulling him closer, and Keith groans into the kiss.
He ruts against Lance like a man possessed. The friction is barely enough, but Lances bitten-off moans and the way his body arches into each thrust pushes Keith higher. Higher. Until the tension in his gut and snaps.
He he makes a strangled sound against Lances lips, shuddering through the aftershocks, his forehead pressed to Lances.
They stay like that for a long moment. Breathing. Shaking.
When he finally pulls back, Lances eyes are dark and dazed, his lips reddened and wet.
"Okay," Lance whispers finally, "That works too."
"Finish your water," he says, but his voice is rough around the edges now.
Lance laughs and reaches for the glass.
Keith laughs too—hoarse, relieved, alive—and gets up to change his pants into some of Lances sweatpants. Then he kisses him again, softer this time. His hand moves before his brain catches up.
Keiths thumb traces along his cheekbone. Slow. Lingering.
He slides his palm along the curve of Lances jaw, fingers curling just under his chin, and tilts his face up. Lances eyes flutter open—heavy-lidded, confused, trusting—and Keith leans in. His grip on Lances jaw is firm but gentle, holding him still, keeping him exactly where he wants him. Lance makes a small, surprised sound against his lips. His hand find Keiths wrist and holds on with his thumb brushing over his pulse point.
When they brake apart, Lance is smiling. Tired and wrecked and beautiful.
"Thank you," he says. "For the breakfast. For the cucumber story. For—" He gestures vaguely at himself, at the bed, at the whole situation. "All of it."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. I want to." Lances eyes flutter half-closed. The exhaustion is dragging him back under, even after getting so much sleep. "Stay? Just for a while?"
Keith pulls the blanket up over Lances shoulders, rushes his hair back and presses a kiss to his forehead.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." Lances voice already slurs, "Because if you leave, I'll have to tell Shiro you didn't follow the aftercare protocol."
"Go to sleep, Lance."
"Mmm. Love you."
The words hit Keith like a physical blow. Lance is already half-gone, his breathing evens out, his grip on Keiths hand goes slack. He probably won’t even remember saying it. Probably didnt even realize he did say it at all.
Keith sits very still. He hears his hammering. His throat’s tight.
He looks down at Lance—asleep again, vulnerable again, trusting again—and feels the words rise up in his chest rather than thinking them first.
"Love you too," he whispers.
Lance doesn't stir.
Outside the door, the castle humms its quiet morning rhythm. Somewhere in the dining hall, Shiro is probably still whining. Pidge is probably still pissed. Hunk is probably wondering where his cucumber went.