Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Here’s the thing.

Lance is okay with the human body.

Even if his friends say he’s got no game, he’s had a good amount of experience with plenty of naked people. His sophomore year of college was spent trying to get over a bad breakup, okay, and if he was a little slutty for the entirety of that year, no one can fault him. Anyway, he doesn’t blush or laugh at a whole lot of skin anymore. And he’s also been in this course for almost two quarters of making art of naked people, often in the least sexy of ways.

Point is, Lance has become pretty desensitized to nudity. He thought.

But also. What the shit.

“What are you doing here.”

Keith Kogane, the most annoying best friend of all time, is sitting cross legged on the modeling chair in the center of the room − his phone leaning on a sweatpants-covered knee, a signature slouchy beanie pulled over his gross too-long hair, a half-zipped sweatshirt revealing too much chest for there to be a shirt underneath. Lance can see a bit of the article Keith is reading through half lids. It’s the format of his favorite alien conspiracy theory website.

Lance hates him.

Keith’s gray eyes flick upward to send Lance a gaze laced with way too much boredom through his bangs. “Earning money.”

“By...by doing nude modeling? For my art class?”

Keith shrugs. “There are different art classes. I didn’t realize this was yours.”

“Of course you didn’t!” Lance claps a hand to his forehead. “I have your schedule memorized back to front, I probably know your professors better than you do, but you came in to pose naked for my class without even realizing that this is the only art class that meets on Fridays, when I am never free!”

Keith has the gall to laugh. Just a chuckle, a snicker. Full Keith laughs are pretty rare, unless it’s really late at night, or he’s drunk, or they’re in the middle of some weird-best-friend-hanging-out-inside-joke-high thing. Like when Lance accidentally stole three bags of cheese puffs from the grocery store between their houses when they were fourteen, and he’d run all the way back to his house because he was so scared they’d know he’d done it, but he’d also kind of been crying because he felt guilty, and when Keith had huffed to a stop at the end of Lance’s driveway, Lance was sitting there, his face patchy red from crying and covered in snot and he couldn’t breathe, and Keith couldn’t stand up for a while because he was so busy laughing for all he was worth on his hands and knees in the gravel. Keith will still laugh about it, even now.

“What’s the big deal, anyway?” Keith returns to smirking at his dumb crop circle pictures. “I’m nude modeling for your art class. We used to take baths together, for chrissake.”

“Yeah, when we were like, five!” Lance doesn’t want to sketch Keith naked. Bring back the grandma from three weeks ago.

“Ew, Keith. No thanks. Go back to your cryptid cave and keep your pants on.” Pidge passes by Lance with their sketchpad under their arm, heading toward a drawing bench. The classroom is empty, Lance always gets here early to size up what – or who – he’s going to be sketching, to have an opportunity to charm the model just in case they’re, you know, hot.

Keith smirks even more at that, sliding his phone into his pocket. “See, Pidge I can get. Honestly, I don’t know why they want to be in this class in the first place −”

“I may be sex-repulsed but I won’t have my art suffer for it!” Pidge calls out.

“− but Lance, really. What is it?”

Lance chews on his lips even though he knows that that’s a bad idea when they’re already so easily chapping in the last vestiges of winter, and tries to come up with a witty retort, but he doesn’t have one. What is the big deal?

“I just...I’d rather not have to spend my Friday staring at your junk!”

“Worried you’ll be insecure?” Keith is standing up now, unzipping his jacket more, shrugging it off. Grinning the most shit-eating grin directly at Lance.

And Lance’s throat is doing something funny, something kind of dry, something kind of heavy. He’s seen Keith shirtless plenty. Keith usually sleeps without a shirt, and with his usually nocturnal sleep schedule, and Lance’s “early bird gets the worm” disposition, there’s been lots of bursting into Keith’s room to wake him up over the years.

But Shirtless Keith is not usually soon to be followed by Completely Naked Keith.

“N-no,” Lance mumbles.

“Compare dicks later, please.” Pidge looks like they’re ready to throw a stick of charcoal across the room as they start to set up their supplies.

“Put your shirt back on,” Lance commands in a voice he hopes doesn’t sound weak. “You’re gonna get cold. The professor isn’t even here yet.”

“Now you can’t handle my abs?”

Yeah, Keith has some nice abs. Although when it comes to dudes, Lance is more of an arms kind of guy. Except Keith has that going on too.

He said Keith would get cold, but actually, isn’t it kind of hot in here?

“No,” he retorts, his voice solidly not wavering for a single syllable of the single syllable he just uttered. Score. Just a couple more. “I just don’t want to have to deal with you whining for me to take care of your sick ass because you caught cold from a freezing classroom, all right?” Still a little shaky. It’s okay. He clapped back.

“That shit doesn’t actually happen. You know that, right, Lance? You don’t catch a cold by being cold. You can have lowered immunity, maybe, but −”

“Yeah, Pidge, we all can take ten different classes every quarter about every subject on the planet and know everything about everything.”

“Hey! I take classes about subjects on other planets, too.”

And it’s okay again, because Keith and Lance can look at each other on cue like they’re from The fuckin’ Office because that’s what they do when Pidge says things like that.

But Keith also doesn’t put his sweatshirt back on, just crosses his arms and sinks back into the chair. But that...doesn’t matter one bit. Definitely not.

Lance busies himself setting up his own drawing station. Think about other things. The cool thing about this class is that they cover a whole lot of different mediums – he’s made sculptures, taken photographs, created paintings...pretty much all of at least mostly naked people. Today, it’s your basic old sketches.

He sneaks another glance up at Keith as he lays out his different pencils. The nerd has pulled out his phone again, an earbud tucked into his hair this time, focused on some YouTube clip. It is cold in the classroom − there are goosebumps running along his arm now. Lance traces them to a veiny hand holding up the screen – okay, time out. “Veiny”?

He blinks many times, hard, and doesn’t look at Keith’s pecs, or the dark hair that trails from his stomach down into the waistband of his pants, or –

Lance is pretty sure he’s got one of the weirdest expressions he’s ever made plastered across his face as he determinedly stares into space, because there’s a quiet Pidge snicker from across the room as the door opens and the people who arrive at regular times start to trickle in.

Because was he kind of just...checking Keith out?

See, that doesn’t make sense. But also, why is he feeling so weird about drawing Keith?

Back when Keith came out to him as a flaming homosexual, they’d been sixteen. And Lance had maybe been the tiniest slightest bit homophobic about it at first. Mostly because hey, it was a bit of an unwitting coping mechanism for how he liked to watch Max Jameson’s ass when they were in gym class, and how maybe he’d looked at a couple of his swimming buddies and subconsciously thought that he’d be a-ok tapping that.

But then Lance took a long hard look at himself (and some, uh, gay porn) and announced to Keith very loudly in the middle of math class the next day that he was actually a proud bisexual and Keith had half-glared half-winced at him for the rest of the period.

But it had never been a question of a romantic or sexual thing between them. After all, Lance had seen Keith after an hour of puking his guts out during his first major hangover. He’d held Keith’s sweaty hair back and wrinkled his nose at his best friend’s bluish tinted skin and dull eyes and the disgusting, disgusting mess.

Meanwhile, Keith had known Lance pre-dermatologist, orthodontist, and speech coach − covered in zits, his teeth all fucked up, and with a lisp so bad even his father, whose first language was English, couldn’t understand him sometimes.

When Lance hits on dudes, Keith isn’t on the menu. He isn’t even on the same block of restaurants from which Lance is ordering. He’s probably across town, in the slums, rooting around in a run down nerd shop for some old X-Files comics. And Lance is pretty sure the feelings are mutual.

They aren’t each other’s type. Keith likes douchier guys. Real jock style fuckboys. Maybe that’s why he goes to the gym enough to look like that. Lance isn’t like those guys.

And Lance likes...

Okay. He’s maybe...hooked up with guys who were like Keith before.

What.

That doesn’t mean he’s attracted to Keith though!

It hadn’t been intentional.

He can’t believe he’s thinking about this.

Honestly, thinking that those dudes even looked remotely like Keith is a stretch. Or acted like him. Except for Michael. Michael was maybe a little bit – maybe a lot − like Keith. Or Alex. Alex was, kind of... Also Peter...

The professor has finally come in, but he’s also come way, way too soon –

He isn’t attracted to Keith.

The professor is speaking to the class, holding up some of their materials, turning to Keith, Lance isn’t hearing a word of it –

He can’t be. That’s absurd.

Keith is pulling off his beanie and setting down his phone, fluffing out that stupid dark hair and reaching down –

Off come the sweatpants and Lance McClain is well and truly fucked as he realizes he’s drawing a nude Keith Kogane, his best friend of all the twenty one years they’ve been alive...and the subject of one of the biggest, dumbest, most obvious blind crushes Lance has ever had in his life.

Chapter Text

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

Lance hasn’t heard a word of Beyoncé’s crooning since he robotically stuck his earbuds in an hour ago. The inside of his head’s too loud for that.

Beyond more than a passing glance, he’s been trying to avoid looking at the man in the center of the room for about as long.

Aside from the actual pose, Lance thinks he can actually pull most of this off without looking. Of all the faces in the world, Keith’s might be etched into his memory the most. Definitely top five.

But that’s a dangerous thing to think.

“Lance.”

Lance jumps about a mile at his professor’s voice behind him and yanks out the earbuds to spin around.

Professor Shirogane’s expression is mildly reproachful, and he reaches past Lance to tap the clearly empty section of paper – the waist down − with his prosthetic finger. Rumors about how he’d lost his arm and gotten the nasty scar across his nose abounded, but no one really knew. Lance’s favorite theory was that Shiro, as everyone called him, had wrestled a crocodile. Or maybe it was an alligator.

“Sketch it all out, Lance. I thought we’d gotten past this stage. It’s just a body.”

“Y-yes,” stammers Lance, swallowing and turning back to his drawing. But the professor remains standing at his back. After a few moments of trying and failing to begin the line of a right leg, Lance glances back nervously. “Um, do you...need something, sir?”

“It’s...actually looking very nice. You’re good at this medium.” The man is peering closer at the paper, and gives Lance a slight smile. “I hope you’re considering pencils for your final project? I think it would turn out well.”

“Ah,” Lance says vaguely, nodding, because, oh, yeah, shit. Final project. That’s coming up, isn’t it? The quarter will end in a few weeks. And he’d forgotten.

As if reminded by the conversation, Shiro paces away and says to the room at large, “You should all have ideas for your final projects, at the very least, remember, it’s due the second to last class! Something beautiful to you – incorporating the human body, if possible. In whatever format you like.”

Shit.

Lance almost forgets what’s going on, who’s reclining across the chair in front of him − distracted, he looks up and directly catches eyes.

Keith is staring at him like he’s been looking for a long time, waiting. His eyes widen a little, meaningfully, an eyebrow arching slightly. What’s going on with you?

Lance’s gaze skitters away and he swallows, roughly penciling in a leg dangling over the corner of the seat. The other one is spread outwards, Keith facing him almost head on. God, he really does have...the best seat in the house.

He’s not looking, not looking.

When he looks back up, Keith’s in full on bitch glare mode, and Lance knows if he doesn’t do something quick, he’ll never hear the end of it.

And he can’t let Keith wheedle out of him what’s wrong. Not in a million years.

He makes steady eye contact before allowing his eyes to cross, sticking his tongue out, and it works, because there’s the quietest snort.

When he looks, Keith is suppressing a tiny smile through a glower, and Lance’s face is splitting into a grin without him realizing it, because that’s what he does when Keith looks at him like that; all exasperated and mostly fake angry, but also like he’s a second away from breaking into laughter. And he feels kinda warm and happy and oh god yeah that’s right Keith is naked.

Lance ducks back behind his sketchpad and inhales sharply, staring at his work.

This is going to be a long class.

He manages to block it all out, roughly trying to estimate everything going on past Keith’s bellybutton without looking too much, and returns to the face. Lets his eyes linger there, his fingers follow to try to capture the line of Keith’s nose properly, to find the angle of the flip of a lock of hair, to do those dark eyes justice.

Keith is actually a really pretty model. And Lance gets paranoid of mind reading as he looks back and his best friend’s gaze is suddenly on his again. And Keith smiles a little, and Lance’s hand stills.

No, Keith is just pretty.

What. The fuck.

“All right. Break time!” Shiro surprises Lance bad enough to drop his pencil this time, and he has to duck and scuttle for it on the floor, feeling for the damn thing that seems to find it fit to roll a million miles away. Around him, the noise of classmates beginning to stand and chatter about cramped limbs sweeps the space, people heading out for bathrooms and vending machines. But when Lance pops back up, there’s somebody at the side of his bench and he jumps at that too.

It’s Keith, in nothing else but sweatpants riding low on his hips, arms crossed as he appraises Lance’s drawing. Of him. In the nude.

Lance feels a ridiculous urge to throw his body in front of the paper and cover it up. But that would only raise more questions.

“Huh. You’re good.”

Lance coughs and pulls floor fluff from his pencil, resisting taking note of Keith’s body heat at his shoulder. When has he ever noticed his proximity to Keith before? “Nah.”

“Yeah. I mean. I don’t know. I don’t look at your art enough. But I look really...I guess...soft? Happy? I don’t remember looking like that. I have resting bitch face, as you like to remind me every chance you get.” Thankfully Keith is still looking at the drawing and not at Lance’s steadily reddening face.

“Yeah, well, guess I’m just so funny that I was always making you laugh, so.”

Keith rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to refute that, but a feminine voice interrupts. “Um.”

Two of Lance’s classmates are standing at Keith’s elbow, biting back giggles, trading glances with each other. Keith blinks and turns slightly to accommodate, but they don’t even look at Lance, all eyes on Keith.

“Hey, so, we were just wondering...”

“We think you make a really great model!”

“Right, so, maybe you’d, like −”

“Would you like to help us with our final projects?”

Giggle. Giggle.

Ah, yes, the vapid ones of the classroom, Lance’s head fills in, entirely unkindly, considering he can’t recall having much interaction with either of them at all before now.

Keith shifts, looking confused. “I...appreciate it? But no thanks.”

Disappointment, but hope is still in the girls’ faces. “Aw, all right. But maybe −”

“Do you think you could −”

“Would you, like −”

“He’s gay,” Lance says loudly. Butting into a conversation he wasn’t invited to in the slightest. He busies himself with reorganizing his pencils, wiping away eraser pieces from his bench as the girls suddenly are glaring at him, quiet.

“What do you know?” one of them finally snarls. “Y-you don’t know that.”

Keith’s brows are furrowed now as he glances between the pair and Lance. Arms still folded. Biceps looking nice, not that Lance is, ahem, looking at that. “Actually, he does, and I am.”

“Agh!” One of the girls splutters, turning to stomp away.

“Well, maybe you should know that your boyfriend flirts with everyone in this classroom whenever he gets the chance,” the other one hisses at Keith before stalking after her friend.

Keith seems lost as he looks after her. “Boyfriend...?”

He turns to Lance. “What just happened?”

Lance shrugs, feeling surly. “I don’t know.”

“No, but like, what did you just do? What was all that?”

“They were flirting with you, and were about to ask for your number. I just saved you from a whole lot of unnecessary, clueless chatter, that’s all.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. Looks altogether too smug. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Good thing there’s an invisible pencil smudge to erase on the corner of this paper that Lance has to look at very intently.

“Good thing I had my boyfriend to protect me from the scary girls.”

Lance laughs awkwardly, after too long a pause. “Yep. That’s...good...A good one.”

Keith shoves at Lance’s head, looking amused. “You’re so weird, Lance.”

“You’re weird,” Lance returns automatically, locking his own arm around Keith’s to try for a retaliatory tussle. And he would have had it, too, but for Shiro calling that break was over and Keith had to go back to pose again.

After drawing Keith’s ass for a long, long period of time, Lance is ready for when the class collectively just knows that it’s time to leave − the ruffling and rustling of paper, the clicking of pencil boxes being closed up, the gathering of coats. He’s up and cleaned up in no time flat, which ends up backfiring, because it means he has to (gets to) watch Keith dress. Because they’re probably going to hang out after this, because they always hang out after classes they have together. Although maybe that’s presumptuous. And even if it isn’t, maybe it’s a bad idea to hang out, when Lance is being dumb like this.

Pidge nudges him on the way out, and he barely acknowledges them in time, hurriedly nodding to their “I’m suspicious” expression before turning back to eye the freckles sprinkled across Keith’s pale back, scattered between sharp shoulder blades and down his spine. Lance has carefully graphed each one for the last half of class, shaded those cute dimples just above...

Keith turns around, tugging on his beanie, and pulls on his sweatshirt, zipping it up. Then immediately heads toward Lance. Without anything else but his phone in his hand.

Lance must be making a face, because Keith stops in front of him, raising an eyebrow up at him. “Something the matter?”

“It’s freezing outside!”

“Yeah, and?”

“You’re not even wearing a real shirt, Keith! You don’t have −” no, now he’s thinking about it, he can feel heat creeping up his neck and into his face, he’s blushing again “− underwear on! You didn’t bring anything else to wear?!”

Keith shrugs. “Whatever. It’s not like I’m staying outside.”

Lance throws his hands in the air and just starts walking, shaking his head. “¡Dios mío!”

When Keith catches up to him in the stairwell as he’s taking the stairs two at a time, he’s grinning, the bastard. “I love it when you speak Spanish. It’s how I know I really pissed you off.”

“Yeah, because you were an idiot who decided frostbite would be fun. Look, it’s snowing! Goddamn.” Lance has shouldered his way through the doors and now soft flakes are drifting from the gray sky. He glares at them, and looks over at Keith, who’s blinking up at them too. One catches in his eyelashes, and Lance feels like punching a wall.

Keith looks up at him, apparently completely unaware of how utterly adorable he looks right now, snowflakes landing in his hair, his cheeks and the tip of his nose already beginning to flush, his hands dug into his sweatshirt pockets and his shoulders hiking up to his ears.

He’d said something. “What?”

“I said, we can just go to your apartment, then. It’s close.”

Hanging out in Lance’s room? Oh no. Oh, bad. “Did you take the bus?”

Keith shakes his head. “My bike.”

Motorcycle? In this weather? “Keith!”

“What?”

Lance swears Keith likes getting Lance angry, because he’s bringing his hands up to hide a grin, but his hands are encased in his sleeves, he’s got little sweaterpaws, and god that’s so cute!!

Lance growls and yanks off his more appropriate winter jacket to tug it around a surprised Keith’s shoulders. It’s going to be a long, cold walk across campus. “You’re an idiot, Kogane. Let’s fucking go.”

“Yeah,” mumbles Keith, who seems to lag behind for a minute before jogging back into place at Lance’s side.

Lance lives with Hunk, a very lovely man who in another life would probably be Lance’s best friend. Because Hunk bakes. Oh god, does he bake. And he gives great hugs.

But also...

Keith. Keith is the best friend of 4am phone calls and panic attack calm downs, the best friend of adventures and breakup ice cream. Keith doesn’t hug a lot, but the ones he’s given and gotten have usually been tearstained and rib-crushingly tight, ones that have meant a hell of a lot more than a thoughtless happy squeeze. Keith of fighter’s spirit, red in the face from shouting at Lance, but also tears in his eyes from his parents’ screaming, chin pressed to his knees, not breathing as he sat on his bed, knuckles white, clenched against jeans. Lance had heard them too, that day, when they were fourteen and had been fighting for two weeks, and they’d broken their feud for Lance to instead curl up against Keith’s headboard and awkwardly, clumsily pull Keith against him.

Keith’s real and human and flawed like Hunk has never been open enough to reveal to Lance, so when Lance opens their door to the warm smell of cookies, he hugs his apartment mate back but only steals a single hot melty piece from the sheet before hustling a shivering Keith to his room and shutting the door.

He’s bundling Keith up in blankets before he considers that this is again, a very bad idea, having him in here alone. But Keith is cold, and Lance likes to keep his room toasty warm, so...

“Thanks,” Keith mumbles, huddling up on the bed, and his eyes drift shut a few times before he blinks them open to look at Lance – a good few feet away from the bed, standing away because this is just not good –

“Why are you all the way over there?”

“I’ll get you some cookies,” Lance says quickly, but once his plate is piled high and he has to make his way back to his room, there’s no more excuses.

“You’re shivering too, dork.” Keith is drowsy, but he lifts the corner of the blanket, inviting Lance in. “You were the one who gave me your jacket, come on.”

So Lance crawls in, scattering cookies across the sheets, and tries to relax as Keith topples them both back against the pillows.

Close, really close. Shoulder-to shoulder. Keith kind of sighs and turns in, tugging the blanket tighter around him, and now they’re chest to chest.

“Is modeling that tiring?” Lance’s mouth runs away with itself, as it usually does.

Keith opens his eyes to peer up at him, half-jokingly miffed. “Wouldn’t you be tired after hours of staying in one position, freezing your dick off while a bunch of strangers stared at you? Besides, I’ve been trying to catch up on classwork recently, so I haven’t really slept.”

Lance rears back. “Like at all? Dude!”

Eyes drift back shut. Tired sarcasm. “Bro.”

Lance eyes the lines of his neck, the curl of fingers absently pressed between them, against Lance’s chest. Something he finds beautiful for his final project. He wonders if Keith can feel how hard his heart is pounding, because it’s never been this weird, they’ve done this before...

It’s been so long since anyone said anything that he thinks Keith might have fallen asleep when he clears his throat and murmurs, “Keith?”

Keith’s voice is already thick with sleep. “...Mmm?”

“Would you model for my final project?”

An awful long pause, and sleepy Lance brain actually kicks into gear. “I mean, ha, never mind, you said no to those girls right? And it’s kinda weird, I don’t know, I was just...”

“No, I’ll do it.” Keith cracks his eyes open. A hint of a whine enters his voice. “Right now?”

“No, no, like...like next week!”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll model for you.” And then Keith goes to sleep, and Lance inhales and screams on the inside.

Chapter Text

Lance presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and wonders again why he’s done this to himself.

A week, he’d kind of half-addledly figured, would be enough time to get this out of his system. It was a weird momentary issue that he’d figure out and by the time it came time to draw Keith again, he’d have his head on straight.

But here he is now. With his head the opposite of straight.

If anything, it all seems to have gotten worse. Lance caught himself sniffing his pillow after Keith left, and that was really creepy, right? And watching Keith leave in his jacket (because he couldn’t very well ride his motorcycle back to his own place in the cold, of course) had been way too nice.

They’d passed each other in the hall a few days ago, and their secret handshake had turned into a weird moment of hand holding, and Keith had done a bit of a double take. Sitting next to Keith in English, Lance had kept scribbling stupid notes in Keith’s notebook to make him laugh quietly, because it had made his stomach all fluttery.

Lance runs his tongue over his teeth and jams his hands deep into his pockets. He shouldn’t have done this.

“Hey.” Fingers not his own brushing hair out of his face. Lance nearly karate chops Keith in the nose and tries to restart his heart.

“Jumpy much? You’re buying me food in return for this, remember. No takebacks.” Keith smirks at him and strides past into the art building.

The upside to securing a model this early is the last minute studio bookings haven’t filled up the schedule yet, so Lance can take his time with perfecting his piece. And oh − he thinks as he watches Keith slide out of his stolen jacket, one of those tight dark shirts he always wears underneath − he’s gonna.

This weird Keith thing has to stop. But fuck if this isn’t going to be one last indulgent moment Lance allows himself.

The student studio space is in the basement, but the shop where Lance is grabbing his props from is in another section of the building entirely, so he has an excuse to peel off from Keith, send him downstairs and away, and collect himself again.

Bumping the heavy door open with his hip alone is harder than it should be, but Lance is trailing flowers as it is. He has to have dropped half his original load in his trip here. Even though the remaining plastic-y petals crushed against his skin only come up to his chin now, holding on to the remaining few will be worth it.

“Shit, do you need help −”

“Got it.” Lance opens his arms for the fake blossoms to cascade to the floor and closes the door, rubbing his hands together and looking up to find a only-boxer-clad Keith standing by the studio couch.

Keith has the grace to look embarrassed, but not enough to be aware of the kind of shit that comes out of his mouth sometimes. “How do you want me?”

Lance nearly groans God take me now aloud. He doesn’t.

But it’s close.

Setting up the lights is quick work – he just wants a bit of dynamic shadow, nothing fancy – but setting up his actual subject is harder.

He has Keith lay out on the couch, wrinkles his nose and chews on his lip and arranges limbs before clearing his throat and awkwardly handing Keith a sheet, gesturing in the most abstract and definitely least crude way to Keith’s underwear. “So, um, maybe you could...yeah?”

Keith gets the message and snorts, sliding off his last remaining article of clothing and tugging the sheet to drape across his crotch. Less skin this time. Lance can handle this. “Eloquent. Is this good?”

Another adjustment to Keith’s arms and it’s time to litter his naked body in flowers.

Nice.

Lance is a genius.

“Why do I feel like I’m from fucking Titanic?” Keith gripes, still in position with his arms draped across the pillow cushioning his head as Lance gathers up flowers from the floor. Lance turns and appraises him and grins.

“I mean, I guess. But I don’t have any fancy necklaces to drape over you, Rose. Just your namesake.” With that, he tucks a bloom into Keith’s hair, and starts arranging them down the couch.

Keith flips him the bird and Lance tuts. “No moving. I don’t think Jack had to deal with this from his model.”

“But she also dropped him into freezing water to die, so.”

Lance gasps. “Spoilers!”

“We watched that movie together years ago, idiot!”

They had − after a long day of being stuck babysitting the perpetually sugar-high younger McClains, Lance had locked himself and Keith both in the TV room and raided his older sister’s DVD collection in retaliation − and Lance had shed many a manly tear. (Meaning, he’d blubbered like a kid who got coal for Christmas.) Keith had been stoic, but his eyes had been red. (He’d kind of started hugging a pillow by the end, and maybe had buried his face in it for a minute.)

(They didn’t talk about those things.)

Dropping a last loose petal to fall where it may, Lance backs up to his own seat and looks Keith over again.

Keith stares back at him, a hint of what seems to be sudden and surprising insecurity creeping its way into his gray eyes, but Lance doesn’t know why. With the way his ink black hair pools across the pillow, creamy pale skin shifts ever so slightly against the gray cushions of the couch. The colors of the flowers don’t matter, since Lance is using graphite pencils, so he’d grabbed whatever he could carry. But a lot of the flowers are red − bright, blood red, like the one nestled against Keith’s cheekbone.

And god, Lance’s bi ass might have been salivating at Titanic’s power duo of leading man and lady, but Jack could go jump in a lake, crooked grins and all, and Rose and her sultry glances had fucking nothing on Keith Kogane right now. Red and white and black and gray, all smooth, sharp angles. Lance can’t breathe. He suddenly desperately wishes he’d planned for photography, he can’t properly capture the sight of his gorgeous best friend draped across the couch scattered with flowers with a couple measly pencils.

“Good?” Keith murmurs again, the hesitance creeping through, and Lance can’t trust himself to speak, so he just nods, and nearly misses his chair as he sits down in front of his paper.

It takes a couple minutes of silent pencil scratching at paper for Lance to remember –

“Oh, yeah, music, here!” Keith’s gonna be bored enough as it is! Staring at Lance’s stupid slack face for who knows how long. He reaches to pull up a playlist, shuffle it. Easy beats.

I'm selfish, never did think about anyone but myself.

Back to the paper. More sketching. Focus.

You're fearless, never been afraid, don't start that now.

Keith’s eyes are intense, Lance marvels. Even as he lies there in an uncomfortable position, unable to move.

Tonic and gin, blood's getting thin, you haunt me. I'm never gonna let you go-oh-oh.

As he works on the drape of fabric across skin, the song changes again, the gentlest piano and drum. Lance finds himself humming along, catches those eyes softening in a glance upward, a smile playing along Keith’s lips.

I don't love the way I need to. You need more and I know that much is true.

He tries to get the proper shape of Keith’s head, the fall of his hair, a stay strand poking upward just there. Ignores the urge to smile back and the butterflies.

Cause I know the only thing in my way...Is me...

 A soft, shaky inhale, electric silence, like Keith is going to say something.

Lance glances up, but Keith is looking away, mouth firmly closed.

They don’t talk as Lance draws. Just sit as music plays and the room feels tense, tense in a way that Lance can’t identify, but he knows he has to shake himself out of. He just needs to get into the groove of this. It isn’t Keith lying there. It’s just a body. There’s nothing in the air. And he succeeds, for a while, a few songs.

It’s the beginning of light guitar strumming when Keith does it again. Lance is so absorbed now that he doesn’t hear the first soft calling of his name.

What a strange being you are. God knows where I would be if you hadn’t found me sitting all alone in the dark.

“Lance.”

A dumb screenshot of youth.

“Lance?”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

Watch how a cold broken teen will desperately lean on a superglued human of proof.

“...Why did you want me to model for you?” There’s something so curiously vulnerable in Keith’s faint voice. But what he’s saying can’t be answered.

Lance coughs and again, doesn’t meet Keith’s gaze. “Well, you know, I couldn’t exactly...put up a Craigslist ad for a nude model, right? This was just...uh, easier.”

What the hell would I be without you?

“Oh.”

Quiet, except for the soft music.

“So what bullshit excuse are you gonna feed the professor to justify your subject matter?”

Lance stops shading. Looks up now. “Sorry?”

Brave face talk so lightly, hide the truth.

Keith blinks steadily, face too smooth. “To pretend you drew something you found beautiful?”

Now I’m sick of losing soul mates. So where do we begin?

Lance can’t stay silent on that. His voice is a little hoarse. “Hey. You’re...you’re beautiful, Keith.”

He’s glad his flush, hidden under warm brown, isn’t as apparent as it would be on Keith’s pale skin – like how Keith’s face is stained faintly pink right now. The face that is slowly creasing, eyebrows drawing together, eyes suddenly searching Lance’s. Lips parted.

We will grow old as friends. I’ve promised that before, so what’s one more?

“Lance.”

“Yeah?”

“Take a picture.”

“What?”

“Take a picture, I’m getting up.”

Time and hearts will wear us thin so which path will you take?

Lance fumbles for his phone, tries to snap a couple photos, gets maybe one or two that he hopes will –

Keith is standing, shedding flowers, pulling the sheet around his hips with a hand, stepping towards him.

Lance is stumbling to his feet too, and Keith’s right there, his free hand reaching for Lance, and he murmurs, “Tell me no...”

I’m sick of losing soul mates. Won’t be alone again. I can finally see you’re as fucked up as me so how do we win?

But Lance stutters out “yes” instead, against soft skin a breath away, Keith’s fingers are tangling into short strands at the back of his neck, a thumb sliding against Lance’s jaw, and he sighs ever so slightly before he’s reaching up.

I won’t take no for an answer.

Keith kisses him softly, but like he’s been wanting to do it for years, and as Lance nervously, tentatively lets a hand rest on Keith’s hip, the other doing its own exploring through Keith’s hair, Keith reaches up with his other hand to pull Lance closer, wrapping his arm around Lance’s neck.

Only this means his sheet is unsupported, and they both hear it hit the floor, stiffening in each other’s arms.

They jump away from each other in the same breath and reach for the sheet to knock heads. “Fuck!”

And they both sit there, hunkered down, staring at each other in embarrassed surprise at the twin movements, curse, and...well, everything. Keith gathers up his sheet to clutch it to his chest, and Lance folds his arms over his knees, pressing his lips together and feeling as though his face is on fire.

“So that just...”

“Yeah,” Keith interrupts.

I can finally see, you’re as fucked up as me, so how do we win?

Suddenly, they’re both bubbling with nervous laughter, Keith’s smile wide, Lance’s making his cheeks hurt.

He scratches his head. “Do you want to do it again?”

Keith’s smile fades to something gentle, just as red in the face as Lance still, but his eyes are bright as he nods.

“Yeah.”

Chapter Text

Pidge is a (relatively) patient person.

They can spend weeks calculating an equation for programming their latest gadget, listen to Hunk go on for hours about his lady love Shay, and deal with their brother's stupidly patchy internet connection when they try to Skype.

But goddamn if it hasn't taken Lance McClain an age and a half to realize that he's in love with his best friend. And fuck if Keith Kogane has been just about equally as clueless.

Pidge had only met them their freshman year, and hell, they'd thought the two were actually dating for a month. When Pidge had found out they weren't, it had kind of been a world-shaking revelation.

But now...

"Where's Lance?"

Hunk blinks at Pidge, turning from his examination of one of their classmates' final projects - some bullshit collage that had probably been done the night before (relatable, honestly).

"I don't know. I saw him when I came in. He was over there."

Pidge stares at the table Hunk's pointing at, containing two papers - a drawing Pidge can't make out at this distance, and a sheet of words, context for the project. They're ownerless.

"Keith was with him, wasn't he?"

"Yeah?"

"Goddammit."

"S-should we go out and um - look at your classmates' projects?" Keith gasps, fingers tightening in Lance's hair as he sucks another reddening bruise into Keith's neck.

"When we can do this in here?" Lance mumbles, letting his tongue trail across the mark.

"Well, I mean...we're in a bathroom, Lance."

Lance pouts as he raises his head to peer around the single stall bathroom, and then looks up at his beautifully mussed boyfriend. Keith's hair is fluffy, thanks to using Lance's fancy shampoo after sleeping over last night, and Lance has taken the initiative to run his fingers through it every chance he gets as a result, so it's standing up every which way. Red is flushed high in his cheeks, his eyes heavily lidded, and most importantly, his neck is absolutely littered with hickeys. Lance's fingers are twined through Keith's belt loops, hand wrapped firmly around his hips, and he tugs Keith closer, narrowing his eyes.

"What, like you weren't 100% gung-ho about me pulling you in here."

"Maybe..." Keith laces his hands together at the base of Lance's neck and bites his lip. Lance admires how swollen it is. He did that. Last night, and this morning.

Much later into the morning than he probably should have, but hey, he'd turned in his work, hadn't he?

Pounding on the door startles them both out of their skin. Pidge's voice only heightens the fear.

"Get the hell out of there, you two!"

"Oh shit," Keith whispers.

They sheepishly inch open the door to find a squinting Pidge, hands on hips, and a wide-eyed Hunk. Both of them immediately fasten on the many very apparent marks on Keith's skin, and the two giant ones disappearing under Lance's collar.

Pidge looks immensely satisfied. "I knew it. I fucking knew it."

"You guys are...?" Hunk gasps. "I thought Keith was just sleeping over, I didn't..."

"Good to know Keith wasn't too loud then, buddy." Lance slings his arm around Keith's neck and grins at Hunk.

Everyone makes disgusted noises, and suddenly Lance is shoved halfway across the room with an elbow to the ribs and a strong Keith glare. (Plus an adorable flush, but Lance doesn't want to actually die by narrating that out loud.)

"I can't believe - you're so -" Lance's boyfriend sputters, clutching his arms close around himself.

"Handsome? Alluring? Witty?" Lance slides closer again.

"Dumb...Cheese Puffs."

Lance wails in protest as Keith breaks into laughter, and Pidge and Hunk stare at each other, baffled.

"What kind of weird term of endearment is that?" Pidge finally asks.

"Just...it's an inside joke," Keith giggles, wiping his eyes.

Hunk shrugs and Pidge rolls their eyes. "Well, if any couple could go from hickeys to fighting to dying laughing in two minutes, it would be you two. But no more eyefucking in front of me, like that class when Keith modeled, okay? Have fun, I guess. You gross nerd lovebirds." They wave, headed back towards the classroom.

Hunk smiles apologetically and offers a tentative thumbs up. "Congrats, guys?" He lowers it and looks a little pale. "Just, um? Please don't let me...hear Keith in the future either, thanks."

And he's scurrying off too, and the door slides closed again, and Lance looks at Keith.

Keith raises an eyebrow. "So, you wanna ditch?"

"Who do you think I am, Keithy?"

Keith waits expectantly, and Lance smirks.

"Of-fuckin'-course. Grocery store? Stuff our faces to trash TV at my place?"

Keith's grin overtakes his face. "The biggest tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream they have?"

Lance links their hands, swinging them as they push out of the bathroom. "I'm so glad my boyfriend knows me so well."

"Me too, Cheese Puff."

"Shut the hell up, Nude Model."

"You're not calling me that."

Lance shrugs and sighs dramatically. "A nickname for a nickname, babe."

Keith squawks at the endearment, and Lance kisses his nose because now that he can kiss Keith, he can't stop.

It's not til they're heading back to Lance's, a bag containing an exorbitant amount of mint chocolate chip held between them, that Keith looks up and him and coughs. "I...I um...love you. Babe."

And Lance is the one rolling on the ground laughing now, but he knows even as Keith bends over him, slapping at Lance's arms and chest in retaliation, flaming red - Lance is also blushing from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes, and he pulls his best (boy)friend down on top of him for a disgustingly sappy kiss...

Yeah. Yeah, he's pretty goddamn happy his best friend took his pants off that day in art class.

Thank god, really.