Chapter Text
Lance curses as he pushes the dead weight of the Galran soldier off his chest. The body rolls and lands with a heavy thud beside him. Lance winces, staring down at the sword sticking out of his chest. He heaves a deep breath and stares in frustration up at the sky, light glinting off the edge of the blade. He purses his lips and glares at the clouds floating by like it's another ordinary day.
Lifting his head Lance finally looks at the sword, assessing how bad it is.
“Great.” He probes at the blade with his fingers but can't tell how deep it goes. It doesn't feel like it's pinned him to the ground so at least it hadn't pierced through the back of his armor; though the front has been obliterated. But a glowing plasma sword will do that to just about anything. He's just glad it's deactivated now.
Grabbing hold of the blade Lance gives it an experimental twist and feels the tip scrape against metal, the edge of the blade grinding against bone and he winces at the feel of it against his ribs and spine.
Gritting his teeth he yanks the blade out in a series of awkward tugs. It doesn't comes out of his chest as easily as it went in. He has to struggle with the little hook on the end as it catches on his ribs, shredding organs as it goes; it's a disorienting sensation though not one that hurts.
Still, it's certainly unnatural and by the time Lance pulls it free he can feel a layer of sweat on his skin beneath his suit.
He tosses the sword angrily to the side, waiting for his chest to stop bleeding. He can feel it pooling inside the suit and wonders how much of the slick feeling trapped inside the material is blood and how much is sweat. He doesn't want to have to explain a wandering blood trail.
The wound doesn't hurt and that's always been the eeriest part about it. The ones that are supposed to kill him never do. He can feel the damage, feel the gaping hole inside him, sees the blood staining his armor, stark red against the white, but he can't feel it.
Lance raises his head and glares at the soldier for ruining another suit of armor and kicks him out of spite. This one was less than a week old. Either the Galra were getting better or he was growing lax.
He's not sure which option is more favorable.
The sword lies several feet away and Lance stares at it in morbid fascination. For the moment he's angry but he knows before he leaves he'll pick it up and take it back to the Castle of Lions with him, put it with all the others he's been collecting.
It's a macabre habit but one he can't seem to squelsh.
Feeling the wound begin to slowly mend itself Lance sits up, probing at it with his fingers. He can't tell how far across his chest it spans beneath the armor, but he knows his under suit is ruined. Again. There's no way he'll be able to explain away the damage.
“Alright,” he mutters, “next option.” He flicks blood from his gloves and casts his eyes about for a solution to his problem.
“Camouflage.” His eyes alight on a mud pit nearby. He can smell the sulfur in the air as it bubbles and just hopes it won't hurt too much.
Rising to his feet he uses his foot to roll the Galra down the hill and into the mud where he slowly begins to sink.
Lance takes a steadying breath, pulling at the self-healing seam of his glove until it gives, and stuffing the fabric between his teeth. In spite of what he hopes, he knows this is going to hurt and the last thing he needs is to be screaming. For all he knows the others are close by.
Clenching his teeth around the glove he jumps into the pit.
~
It takes a few minutes for the blisters to heal over. Lance feels like he's been cooked inside his armor and it's incredibly unpleasant. He wonders if this counts as another death.
There's a thick sludge coating both the inside and outside of his armor and undersuit. He desperately wants a shower but first things first.
Lance digs at the bank where the mud is thicker and slaps some into the hole in his armor, packing it tight against the skin of his chest, grinding it down for good measure. He does a baseball slide back down the hill, grass and mud packing itself against the edges of his armor. He wants to make sure his appearance matches his story.
Satisfied by his efforts and that the wound in his chest is finally closed, Lance cracks his neck. He scoops up the sword and shoves his helmet on, activating the comms. He forces as much casual cheer into his voice as he can.
“Hey, everybody okay?”
“Lance! There you are, what happened?” Allura’s voice sounds high with panic and relief for a brief moment before levelling out again and Lance smiles.
“Sorry Princess,” he apologizes, making sure to sound adequately contrite as he slathers a layer of mud over his helmet. “Soldier got the jump on me. Knocked my helmet off.” He swings the sword experimentally. Plasma sword was a new first.
“Got into a bit of a mud wrestling competition.” Something coy and teasing curls in his words and he can't help the flirty remark that follows. “I'm afraid you might have to come scrub me down.” If he could see her he would have winked.
Allura snorts and Lance's grin widens.
After his initial infatuation wore off he and Allura had become fast friends and when she'd let him down gently Lance had waved off her concern.
“I'm not saying I wouldn't be interested Princess because hot damn.” He'd wiggled his eyebrows at her teasingly and that had done the trick. She'd laughed, the tension in her shoulders finally easing.
“But I don't flirt to get something from someone. I don't know if it's like that for everybody, but I flirt to make other people feel good. To make them laugh. People are amazing and they deserve to feel that way.” His smile falls for a moment. “It wasn't...meant to make you uncomfortable. It didn't did it? Make you-”
She'd put a hand over his mouth and told him to shut up. From then on the teasing and flirting had been received in good humor and Lance had earned himself another sister. Someone he trusted to confide in and spend late nights talking with when he needed company.
Allura let him braid her hair and talk about how homesick he felt and slowly she'd opened up her own grieving heart to him, something he deeply valued.
He'd felt guilty for talking about how lonely he felt considering she'd lost everything; her father, her planet; an entire civilization gone. Lance is terrified of waking up to the same thing.
Allura hadn't known what to say to that, just hugged him and asked to one day be introduced to Lance's family. He’d readily agreed, saying his mom would love having a new daughter and all his other siblings would adore her as well.
He proudly informed her that she was now an honorary McClain, like it or not. Lance had held her as she'd cried.
It had been months later on another planet that it had happened. He wasn't sure what it was exactly, just knew there was an explosion. He'd been holding a small sphere he'd picked up in the market, talking idly with the shop owner about it.
There was a loud boom, one he'd felt more than seen, a flash of light and when he'd come to he was buried under rubble. The market had been destroyed, the glass sphere in his hands shattered and Lance walked out without a scratch.
He thought he'd just been lucky. He didn't find the scar on the side of his head until three weeks later.
Two weeks after the initial incident he broke his wrist in a fall and had sat in shock for the next few minutes as the bones wove themselves back together and the pain vanished. He'd felt every excruciating moment of it but then it was gone.
A little concerned he'd asked Coran to run a scan on his wrist saying he'd fallen on it funny and wanted to make sure it was fine. Nothing major, just thought he might have bruised it or something. The scans said there was nothing but an old break and there were no sign of any recent trauma.
He'd laughed off Coran's concern and mumbled something about a childhood injury.
Coran had smiled good naturedly and told him it was better to be safe than sorry.
The same thing had happened with a hit he took to the head and later a laser blast that caught him just under one of his greaves. Both minor injuries, each one healing rapidly until the scars looked like they’d always been there. It wasn't until he was cornered by an assassin without backup that Lance realized how bad it was.
He had never been much good in hand to hand combat and when she pressed him into a corner he'd lost his balance, flailing one arm up to correct and that's when she'd struck. Darting in under his arm she slammed the hilt of a dagger the length of Lance's forearm into his armpit. Three hits, all rapid fire, Lance feeling nothing but the pressure of the strikes.
She'd stared a him in open mouthed surprise when instead of going down Lance planted his bayard under her chin and fired.
She'd teetered for a moment, hollow eyes staring at Lance in a way that left him sick in the corner before her body crumpled.
He'd pressed a hand to the wounds under his arm but couldn't feel anything though his hand came away slick with blood. It was like the strikes never happened, but the side of his armor was painted red and he probed the spot with his fingers, sinking up past his knuckles and had promptly thrown up again.
Using a piece of fabric from the alien’s cowl he'd stuffed it under his arm to staunch the flow of blood and waited. Like the others, the wounds closed in minutes, leaving a series of raised scar, already pale with age.
He swiped his hand through the assassin's blood and covered his shoulder with it to make it look like she'd bled out on top of him.
Lance kept his bayard in the form of an assault rifle cradled to his side so he didn't have to lift his arm, exposing the three tell tale holes now in his suit and had stuck the knife in his boot. He wasn't sure why.
That was the first one he'd kept and he'd taken over a dozen more weapons since then.
The team had been horrified by the blood slicking his armor but Lance had shrugged it off and grinned saying it wasn't his. And if it was, would he really still be standing? That seemed to placate them and they'd stopped staring at him with probing looks. Keith shot him a look or two but didn't say anything.
That night Lance destroyed his first undersuit. When he'd asked for a new one he'd told Coran it was because he couldn't stand the idea of wearing something that had been covered in someone else’s blood and made a face, passing it off as dramatics.
Coran seemed to buy the excuse and had even gotten used to Lance randomly destroying and asking for replacements, going so far as to show him how to fabricate new ones so he could do it on his own. Lance had been relieved to no longer have to come up with new excuses.
Looks like now he'd have to find another.
“I'm not that far out from where I parked Blue,” Lance says, twisting the sword, watching it catch the light. “I'll meet you guys back at the castle.” He frowns into the visor like they can see him. “Seriously though, I really need a shower. The mud down here reeks.”
He flies back to the castle in silence, listening to the chatter from his other teammates but has nothing to add and thankfully they don't try to pull him into conversation. Or don't notice his silence. Either way he's grateful.
Pidge laughs when he descends the ramp, sword in hand and Lance strikes a pose. “Sexy right?” Pidge snorts and snaps a photo. Lance sticks his tongue out in retaliation but asks for a copy.
“I’m guessing everyone else fared better than me?” he asks with a wide smile, threatening to catch Pidge in a headlock and give them a noogie. They dart quickly out of reach and hide behind Keith, the cheater.
“Well you are the only one covered in mud.” Allura's eyes are teasing. “Trying a new product?”
Lance's grin turns a touch more sincere and he swipes a hand over his hair, slicking it back with mud. “I will have you know mud has many healing properties,” he says smugly, sticking his nose in the air. “People pay thousands to go through what I just did for free.” He pokes delicately at the skin around his eyes. “How do you think I stay so young and fresh looking?”
“Certainly not fresh smelling,” Keith snorts and Lance whirls on him, brandishing a mud slicked hand, his grin wicked.
“Come here Mullet, maybe we can finally get rid of those wrinkles you're getting,” he teases. “Keep frowning like that and you're gonna crease. A little mud will do you wonders.” He makes to slap a hand against Keith's cheek but Keith catches his wrist, a wry smile on his face.
“I'm good, thanks.”
Lance lets Keith fight him off for a moment before relenting.
“Seriously though, I really need a shower. Meet to de-brief in five?” he asks, cocking one hip to the side.
Keith rolls his eyes, flicking dried mud from his gloves from where he'd grabbed Lance's wrist. “Since when do you only take five minutes in the shower?”
“Hey, it could happen,” he throws back.
Keith snorts again and Lance considers it a win. He needs time to toss both the armor and his undersuit.
“Alright, so it'll be more like twenty,” he amends, grateful for the excuse, “sue me.”
Shiro sighs tiredly putting an end to their banter. “Alright, bridge in twenty, everyone else grab a quick snack while we wait for Lance.”
Lance salutes smartly and winks. Shiro rolls his eyes.
Lance waits for the others to file out of the room before he makes a dash for the showers, helmet falling from where it was cradled against his hip.
A couple of small space roombas follow behind him as he leaves a trail of dried mud in his wake.
He tosses the pilfered sword in the corner, tearing at the buckles of his chest plate, tossing it to the side too. The inside of the back piece is sporting a deep hole. The jet pack is ruined.
Glancing in the mirror he twists, trying to get a look at his back. The sword has indeed cut a hole in the front and back of his suit and it's far too big to patch.
Lance glares at the gaping hole between his shoulder blades as he looks at it in the mirror. A second scar is already winking back at him from under the dried mud and he swears.
A single cut he could more easily explain away if someone saw him patching the material but a through and through was harder to disguise. And the scars make it unerringly obvious he’s been stuck through like a pin in a butterfly. He swallows thickly, touching his fingers to his chest, staring at the matching scar on his back.
With any luck he'll be able to toss both the undersuit and the armor tonight before anyone finds it.
The door to the showers hiss open and Lance freezes, eyes locking with Keith as he stands in the doorway, a bottle of shampoo in his hands.
Lance is too afraid to move, as if it'll draw Keith's attention to the massive split in his suit, to the heavy scar over his heart that he can't hide; to the unanswered questions they all had earlier; to the gaping holes in Lance's story that don't add up, that haven't added up for a long time.
Keith is staring at him in wide-eyed surprise as his eyes flick to Lance's chest, the mirror at his back exposing the second hole and the matching scar. Lance can only watch as Keith starts putting the pieces together, the gears in his mind whirring. Lance is helpless to stop it.
Keith’s eyes dart over the armor and sword lying a few feet away and he can see the moment Keith puts it together, his heart giving a hard lurch in his chest.
The shampoo bottle goes slack in his fingers and Keith pales.
“Lance…?” His voice sounds weak and Lance has never heard him sound like that.
“It's not what it looks like.” Lance spins around, putting his hands up in front of him as if to fend him off.
Keith’s reaction is immediate. His eyes narrow and he storms across the room. He grabs the chest plate, cracking it sharply against the floor.
“It's not?” Keith snarls, pulling back and striking it again.
The mud cracks and falls away as Keith does it for a third time, the sound reverberating around the room and making Lance wince. The mud gives way, revealing the massive puncture from the sword that had impaled Lance less than an hour ago. He latches the two halves back together, seeing the deep groove on the inside.
“If it's not what it looks like Lance then tell me what it is,” he demands, glaring up at him. Lance doesn't know what to say.
Keith snatches up the sword and slots it through the hole, never breaking eye contact with Lance as he does. The tip of the blade slots into the groove seamlessly.
“Because this is what it looks like.” He lets his eyes dart to the armor where it lies pinned to the floor by the blade before glaring up at Lance again. His grip on the sword is white knuckled and his eyes flick to the scar bisecting Lance's chest.
Lance looks away, hands clutched in front of him like a shield, trying to hide.
Keith takes a deep breath and Lance can hear it shudder. He's not used to seeing fear in Keith's eyes but there it is, hidden under the rage.
When Keith speaks again his voice is thin and weak. “What the hell Lance. I don't-” His face is pale, his expression clouded with confusion and horror and Lance wishes he was angry instead.
Angry Keith, Lance knows how to deal with. This? He has no idea how to deal with this; whatever this is. Keith and fear, vulnerability, are not things Lance knows how to associate with Keith. He's always been so sure and distant. This is different and Lance is at a loss.
He looks away and starts to remove the under suit before someone else can walk in. He can't take the feeling of Keith's eyes on him.
“I don't know,” he breathes and he can feel Keith's anger swell more than he sees it. He knows it's a flimsy excuse but it's all he has. He doesn’t know how it happened, but he has a suspicion.
Lance unbuckles the rest of his armor, tossing what's usable into another one of the showers to rinse off. The chest plate will have to go but at least he won’t have to fabricate the rest.
“How can you not know,” Keith grinds out, “You were literally just run through with a sword.” His voice is bordering on a shout and Lance's eye dart nervously to the door.
Keith shudders, feeling sick. He pulls the sword out, tossing it aside and he kicks the armor away from him. He stands, wiping the hand that was holding the weapon on his pants.
Lance struggles to get out of the undersuit and grunts in frustration, his arms getting caught in the material.
“I don't-”
Keith reaches out and gives it a sharp tug and Lance's arms are free but Keith doesn't let go. His fingers twist in the suit as if to keep Lance from running.
His eyes are fixated on Lance's chest where the sword ran him through and he looks like he's struggling to put the two images together. Then his eyes are moving, the weight of his gaze making Lance’s breath short.
Interspersed between the fatal wounds are numerous smaller ones, a mishmash of scars covering Lance like landmarks. His body is a battlefield and he watches as Keith takes it all in.
There is no part of him that isn’t unmarred. The little ones on his hands, his face are easy enough to brush off, but together with all the others they paint an ugly picture.
“How?” Keith rasps, looking up at Lance whose hand has somehow found its way to Keith's arm. His fingers are curled loosely around his forearm, more to comfort than force away as Keith visibly struggles to accept what he’s seeing. Lance feels naked under that gaze, stripped down and vulnerable. It makes him want to run. He hasn’t looked in the mirror in months.
Lance shakes his head. “I don't know.”
“You should be dead.” Keith's voice is thick with horror and it catches Lance sideways. He sounds wrecked.
He feels Keith sway under his hand. He hadn't expected this. Hadn't expected Keith of all people to be so upset. But he looks terrified and to Lance's surprise his head tips forward until it's resting against Lance's shoulder, his breathing shallow.
He's trembling and Lance's other hand goes to his waist in something like a hug, afraid he’s going to fall. It's awkward and Keith shudders, Lance tightening his grip, doing his best to ground Keith even though he doesn't understand.
“Hey,” he says softly, bumping his head against Keith's in a gesture Keith ignores, still clinging to him. “I'm not.” He tries to smile but Keith just looks sick when he finally looks up. Like the fact Lance isn't dead is not a comforting thought.
He takes a half step away from Lance but doesn't let go, one hand still tangled in the material at Lance’s hip. The other is white knuckled on Lance’s bare arm.
“How?” he asks again, still numb.
Lance shakes his head. He doesn't have an answer. “It started after that explosion in the market.”
Keith's eyes go wide. “Lance that was almost a year ago,” he hisses and his fingers curl tighter in the suit.
Lance winces in guilt and looks away.
When he chances a glance back at Keith he can see his mind working, going over all the times Lance has come back with a “trophy” weapon he'd captured from an enemy, the slashes through his suit, the lucky misses, the close calls and Lance sees Keith go a little green.
“I think I'm gonna be sick.”
Lance catches him as Keith's knees buckle, lowering them both to the floor.
“Woah, easy.”
Keith's eyes fall to the sword he'd kicked aside, his breathing ragged and Lance is worried he’s going to hyperventilate.
“Is that why you started collecting weapons?” He looks at Lance, his eyes wide. “They were just supposed to be stupid battle trophies,” he says and his voice is pleading. “Not some...morbid reminder of all the times you should have died.” He scrubs both hands over his face and holds them there, trying to collect himself. Lance feels him shudder.
“How many?” he finally asks, voice raw, and Lance rubs small circles into Keith's arm where he's still holding him, their legs splayed together.
“You don't want to know.”
“Lance.” Keith's tone is biting.
“It doesn't matter, they've already happened. Knowing won't change that.”
“Please.”
And stars if that doesn't break him. Lance closes his eyes, can't take watching Keith watch him. “Seventeen.”
Keith makes a sound like a wounded animal and Lance's eyes fly open. Keith pulls Lance into a hug and cries into his shoulder.
When he gets over the surprise, Lance hugs him back, running a hand over his hair.
“Hey, shh, I'm okay,” he promises and Keith trembles. “I'm okay.”
It takes a moment for Keith to catch his breath but he doesn’t pull away, his breath sweeping over the tender skin of Lance’s throat.
“But you're not. This shouldn't have happened. We should have been watching your back; it's our job to protect you. To protect each other.”
“It's not your responsibility to keep me from being a dumbass,” Lance teases but to his surprise Keith sits back and glares at him.
“Stop it,” he snaps. “Stop deflecting.” He wipes a hand angrily over his face. “How are you not upset about this? Why didn't you tell anyone?”
“Because I was scared. I didn't know what was happening or why and when I finally figured out I couldn't be killed it just sort of...became a thing.” He flushes and looks away. “Besides we need every advantage we can get and I'm such a screw up-”
Lance jerks against the fingers wrapped tightly around his chin, yanking his head back around. He winces but Keith doesn't let go.
“You're not. I don't know who the hell told you that but you're not. You're one of the best pilots I've ever met, you're selfless to a god damn fault, and you're a hell of a marksman. So shut the fuck up.”
Lance flushes, his face burning under Keith's fingers but he can't look away from the fierce determination in his eyes.
“Stop being mean to my friend,” he hisses as the door slides open, starling them both.
“Lance, get-oh.” Shiro freezes as he sees them sitting together on the floor, Lance still covered in mud, Keith's fingers gripping his chin. His flush deepens as he realizes Keith is practically sitting in his lap. He makes no move to remedy that as Shiro smirks at them.
Keith glances back at him, a sour look on his face, blocking Shiro's view of Lance with his body. Shiro's expression is smug and he crosses his arms over his chest.
“I realize you're having a moment but we still need to debrief.” His eyes sparkle like he knows something.
“Not now Shiro.” Lance's eyebrows lift from where he's still trapped by Keith’s hand, a shiver running up his spine. He's never heard Keith sound that commanding. Instead of waiting for Shiro to respond Keith turns back around to face Lance, deliberately dismissing him and wow, he’s never done that before either.
Shiro glances back and forth between them, the teasing air sliding away from him. “O-kay. I guess I'll...see you both later then.”
Keith ignores him, only releasing Lance when the door hisses shut behind him.
Lance winces and reaches up to rub his bruised jaw, the pain already receding.
“You're an idiot,” Keith snaps. “And don't take that to heart,” he threatens, putting a finger in Lance's face. “We're going to reverse whatever it was that happened to you and then I'm going to do a better job of making sure you're safe.”
Lance rolls his eyes, dropping his hand. “I don't need a babysitter.”
Keith looks pointedly at the sword in the corner and yeah maybe he has a point.
“Show me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said you've nearly died seventeen times right? Show me.”
“Keith...” Lance sounds tired and exasperated but he reaches up and touches his chest where the sword used to be and Keith's eyes track the motion.
“Show me,” he says again, and this time he’s asking, his voice soft.
And Lance does. He points the scars out one by one. He tells Keith about the time he'd had a knife stabbed into the side of his throat. The one he'd told them was a stray shot from a laser rifle that had only clipped him.
That one still gave him nightmares. Sometimes when he swallows he can still feel it, the knife inside his throat. He shivers, the weight of Keith’s hands helping to ground him.
He tells him about the time he'd been stabbed in the back, right in the kidney, the blow taking his breath even without pain; the two times he’d been stabbed under his ribs, this one made three if you wanted to get technical. He'd stopped going to the pool after that.
He'd had his femoral artery cut, his head bounced off a bulkhead so hard he knew it should have killed him only because he couldn't feel it, and the three times he'd been shot. He showed Keith the scars hidden under his hair, the one just over his brain stem he'd grown his hair out to better hide.
He’d been choked to death, drowned, stabbed again (that one had nearly eviscerated him), been ejected into space without his helmet, and had his neck broken.
He told Keith about all of them, describing each one in detail as Keith prodded for more information. He pinpointed each spot on his body where a would be blow had nearly killed him and watches as Keith memorizes them.
Keith traces every patch of skin with his fingers as if to make sure the scars are really there, wishing they weren't. It’s the ones that don’t scar that seem to bother him the most and his fingers always linger when Lance tells him about them. Lance shivers beneath the touch.
By the time Lance is done Keith is limp beside him, leaning against Lance's shoulder for support. Lance curls an arm around him.
“It doesn't happen again,” Keith tells him like it's an order. “I'm not letting it happen again.”
Lance doesn't argue, just lets himself hold Keith, savoring whatever it is that's brought them together. He tips his head to the side so his cheek is resting in Keith's hair.
“Promises, promises,” he teases and Keith jerks away leaving Lance to stare down at him in shock. It takes him a moment to realize Keith thinks this is his fault, that Lance getting hurt is because he failed to protect him, Lance can see it in his face.
“Nope, nope stop that.” He catches Keith's face in his hands, holding him there. “This isn't your fault. If it's not mine then it isn't yours either.”
Keith looks raw and hurt and Lance would do anything to chase that pain away.
“I can't…” Keith's hands clench into fists at his sides and he closes his eyes, his weight pressing into Lance's hands like his head is too heavy for him to hold up on his own. “You know I'm in love with you right?”
Only the feel of Keith's cheeks in his hands keeps Lance from jerking away from him in surprise. He settles for staring at Keith owlishly.
“Umm… yeah, no I missed that memo.” Lance's fingers tremble against Keith's skin, eyes darting around the room, unsure of where to land. He blinks rapidly, trying to get the static in his brain to clear. He feels numb under the adrenaline that's now pounding through him leaving him cold. He feels blindsided, the breath knocked from his chest at the sudden confession that's come from seemingly nowhere.
“I can't lose you,” Keith says, voice a dry rasp, dragging Lance back to himself. “Any of you. You all matter.” He reaches up to hold one of Lance’s wrists. “I hate that you all matter because it gives me that much more to lose.” He pulls in a rattling breath. “I am terrified of caring about you,” he confesses and that's a feeling Lance can relate to.
He strokes a thumb over Keith’s cheek. “I know,” he says and he does. “Caring about people gets you hurt. It means letting them get close enough to slide a knife between your ribs.” He feels Keith wince, tipping his head more firmly into Lance’s palm, eyes still closed. Lance has had his heart broken so many times he's familiar with the pain. He has a big family and there’s a lot of love but also a lot of loss. He’s been to more funerals than he cares to remember.
Keith slowly takes his weight back and Lance lets him go. “And I know...we’re not exactly friends,” he goes on, “and you don't feel the same way-”
“Hey, stop putting words in my mouth,” Lance interrupts. A sly smile has him wanting to say things about Keith putting his tongue there instead but he bites it back. He settles against the wall instead, arm draping around Keith and takes a bracing breath.
“If we're doing this we're doing this.” Lance sighs and tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts.
“First of all, I do not hate you. You're just beautiful when you're angry." He holds up a finger. "Second of all, our ‘rivalry’ was the only way I could get you to so much as look at me when all this started. You brushed me off back at the Garrison and loathe as I am to admit it,” he drawls, “it hurt.
“Thirdly, I have been sweet on you since middle school when I first saw you in the flight simulator Shiro brought in for us.” He smiles and his cheeks are red, his arm around Keith keeping him trapped in place.
“I guess...after all this started and we had our bonding moment, yes I remember, yes I lied, please shut up,” he says when he feels Keith tense beside him. “It just became a thing and I didn't know how to make it stop.
“You know how to press my buttons and I can't help pressing yours so it was easier to just let it keep being a thing.” He turns his head and finally looks at Keith. “You're a little hard to get close to you know?”
Keith blushes and frowns. “I'm not…” His mouth works silently as he struggles to find the right word, “good,” he settles on eventually, “with people. I don't know how to trust them not to hurt me.
“Being a part of Voltron has been really hard. I'm used to doing everything by myself. Relying on other people isn't easy.”
Lance smiles. “I know. So I guess what I'm actually saying is I think you're gorgeous,” he starts ticking off his fingers again as he goes. “I am extremely attracted to you, and still think you're out of my league. I'm not convinced this isn't some fever dream.”
Keith catches the side of Lance's face as he looks away again, dragging him around into a startled kiss, one he sinks into immediately.
His lips pull heatedly at Lance's mouth and Lance groans, twisting into the kiss, into Keith.
One hand lifts to the side of Keith's face, holding him there and he catches his lower lip between his in a slow drag, stomach turning over. Keith tips Lance's head, licking into his mouth and Lance drags a slow breath in through his nose, stunned. When Keith pulls away Lance is shaking.
“Still think it's a fever dream?” Keith breathes against his mouth.
Lance is too dazed to speak, sparks popping in his brain and he can't form a coherent thought. He feels numb and just stares at Keith dumbly as he pulls back in concern, lips still parted.
“Lance?”
Lance's eyes finally focus and he blinks, licking his lips. “Huh?”
Keith huffs a laugh and kisses him again, pulling away before Lance can deepen it and pulls him to his feet.
“You really do need a shower.”
Lance still hasn't let go of where he's holding Keith's forearm and he's struggling to put his brain back in order.
“You're gonna kiss me again though right? Like, that's a thing that's gonna keep happening?” He blinks dumbly as Keith laughs and it draws a smile from Lance.
“If it gets you all dazed and incoherent, yeah.” He reaches out and scratches a bit of mud from Lance's cheek. “It's a cute look on you.” He grins, the expression sly, before taking two steps back.
“Now hurry up or Allura’s going to come looking for us next.”
Lance's eyes finally clear and he jumps into the shower still wearing his boots and undersuit, swearing.