Work Text:
Six months. That’s how long it took for Voltron to fall apart. How long it took for Lance to realize that Keith wasn’t coming back.
Nine months ago, if you had asked him, Lance would have thrown Keith a farewell party, complete with a balloon that said, “Good Riddance” and a sign that read, “Wish you weren’t here.” But that was before Shiro went missing. Before Keith became the new Black Paladin. Before Lance became his right hand man.
He’d relished the chance to finally be useful, to be more than just another pilot. He finally felt useful in a way he hadn’t before, and while Lance wouldn’t ever wish Shiro gone, he couldn’t help but feel like this was meant to happen.
When they found Shiro, Lance had been thrilled, of course he had, but he couldn’t deny that little worm of insecurity, the one that always sat just below the surface of his skin, rising up once again.
This time, though, he didn’t have to go it alone. Or so he thought.
Showing up at Keith’s door had been one of the scariest things Lance had ever done. He laid himself bare, broke himself open for the good of the team, and Keith had just smiled softly at him, told him things would work out.
Lance shouldn’t have believed him.
The worst part wasn’t that Keith left, though thinking too hard on that felt like someone was stabbing a red-hot poker through his heart. No, the worst part was that Keith did it slowly. First, it was being late for meetings, then not even showing up for the parades--all with the excuse that he was training with the Blade of Marmora. Eventually he didn’t even show up for battles.
When he confessed he was doing it on purpose, that he didn’t want to be a paladin anymore, Lance turned away so no one would see the tears threatening to spill out of his eyes.
This wasn’t about him. It was about Keith. It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about him .
They say if you repeat something often enough, you’ll start to believe it. Lance never did.
Shiro didn’t need a right-hand man. He just needed someone to wield the sword.
And so Lance let himself fade into the background once again, throwing himself into training. Though Allura pretended to be Keith for the public, Lance was the one really playing the part.
When he unlocked the Altean broadsword, he felt a moment of pride before his stomach sank with dread. He wouldn’t ever be more than Keith’s shadow, except now, there was no Keith to follow. He was a mere shade, listless and drifting.
But still he practiced. The training room always felt empty now, with Hunk and Pidge off constructing Galra-tracking equations, Allura, Shiro, and Coran talking strategy. It was business as usual for Voltron, except when Lance was bored he couldn’t go bug Keith into taking a break and racing him to the pool.
Keith wasn’t gone gone, not at first. Sometimes Lance would spot him in the kitchen late at night, coming back for a briefing with Allura about the status of the Blade’s missions. Those times it almost felt normal, sitting there in the quiet, elbows knocking together as they ate the alien equivalent of cereal. One time Lance even got a laugh out of him when he accidentally missed his mouth and jabbed himself in the nose with the straw of his water pouch.
That was three months ago. Two months ago, Lance realized he was in love with him. One month ago, he finally stopped looking for Keith every time he saw something funny or did something cool and new with his sword.
It was now, spotting Keith in his Blade uniform, his Marmora blade inches from slicing through Lotor’s heart, that Lance understood that Keith had never intended on coming back.
It was with a heavy heart that he pulled the trigger.
Lance tried not to laugh at the shock on Lotor’s face as Keith’s blade went spinning out of his hand. He’d been vocal about not trusting him, and he was proven right, but that didn’t mean he deserved to die.
Keith dove for his blade, transforming it into his sword as he swung around to face his enemy.
“Lance?”
Lance tried not to flinch at the voice crack, tried not to let himself feel anything but determination at Keith’s shock.
“Let him go, Keith. We’ll take it from here.”
Keith looked in disgust at Lotor. “And do what? Put him in jail? Lance, you heard him. He’s been harvesting Alteans . He deserves to die.”
Lance didn’t look away from the sight on his pulse rifle. “That’s not for you to decide. Now step away before I have to shoot you.”
Keith’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Keith,” Lance pleaded.
“I have to finish my mission.”
Lance willed his hands not to shake as he stepped in front of Lotor, not taking his eyes off Keith, but his voice was still wobbly with emotion. “No, you don’t. The Voltron Coalition will decide.”
Keith circled like a shark, his hands tightening imperceptibly on the hilt of his blade. “I don’t want to fight you, Lance, but I will if I have to.”
“We don’t kill people,” Lance said, blinking away tears. “That’s not who we are.”
“We?” Keith laughed, and Lance had never heard anything so wounded. “I’m not part of Voltron anymore, remember? I’m a Blade, and you will get out of my way and let me finish my mission.”
If Lance’s heart hadn’t already been broken, it was at that moment it would have shattered. He couldn’t help the tear escaping, rolling down his cheek, but he didn’t dare move to wipe it away, couldn’t look away from this scared, broken boy he hardly recognized.
“No, Keith,” Lance said, and he pulled the trigger.
Lance’s aim was true, but he was counting on Keith’s lightning reflexes to save him. It had been months since they’d sparred, but Lance still knew Keith by heart.
Keith dodged the blast, moving in close with his blade, trying to gain the advantage like he always did, expecting Lance to dance away, like he always did.
Instead, Lance shielded his eyes against the flash of his bayard, bringing his sword up to meet Keith’s in a clash of sparks.
Keith’s eyes widened.
“Surprised?” Lance asked, pushing his advantage, and shoving Keith away. He moved into his stance, swinging the broadsword with practiced ease. “It turns out we still needed a swordsman.”
Keith recovered quickly, darting in close and swinging at Lance’s legs. Lance jumped, bringing his blade up to parry Keith’s.
Keith fought in whirls and circles, in fancy blade work and flashy distractions, but Lance steadfastly met each and every one of his swings, dodging with smooth, practiced motions.
It was so at odds with how they usually were, Keith always being the straight shooter, the blunt instrument, and Lance flitting about from thing to thing, always working some new angle---but they had become different people, in their time apart. They had fashioned themselves into something Lance couldn’t recognize.
His heart grew heavy when he saw the slightest opening in Keith’s whirlwind offensive, but there was nothing but determination in his swing.
Keith’s blade skittered across Lance’s, sparks flying everywhere, and he darted back, eyes wide, but Lance didn’t give him a chance to recover. Instead, he stepped forward, hitting Keith with a relentless volley of strikes and counter-strikes. Keith lost ground, his rhythm stuttering just a bit but still meeting each blow of Lance’s blade with his own.
Lance didn’t relent, a new wave of conviction flooding through him. Every strike wasn’t against Keith, but for him. The Blade had fashioned him into a weapon, something emotionless and cold, but with each clash, Lance saw the old Keith flash across his face. He was still there, the stubborn, headstrong, brash, reckless, brave idiot Lance had come to know and love.
Lance must have let his guard down. It was a millisecond at most, a slight dip to his otherwise impeccable stance, but it was enough.
Keith took the opening, pressing his advantage, any sign of distress vanishing as he started a competition of brute strength, shoving Lance back and swinging his sword over his head.
All those months of practicing, all those hours of doing form after form had honed Lance’s instincts, and habit brought his arm up, and the force of Keith’s blow sent shockwaves through Lance’s body.
His knees threatened to buckle as Keith pushed his whole weight into his blade. Victory flashed in Keith’s eyes, and Lance could tell he knew he was going to win this. He’d always been the better fighter, after all.
But Lance didn’t relent. Keith had no idea how many hours he’d logged with the training bot, no idea how often he’d find himself in the training room when he couldn’t sleep. And he had no idea how hard Lance had worked to fill the void Keith had left.
Lance planted his feet and stood tall, turning the tide as quickly as Keith had, and pushed Keith down.
Keith had been the best fighter in Voltron. But he said it best. He wasn’t a part of Voltron anymore. Lance had always been stronger, but unrefined. He was shining now.
The sword clattered out of Keith’s hand, skittering across the floor, transforming back into a dagger as it slid out of reach.
The tip of Lance’s bayard hovered above Keith’s throat, but Lance took no joy in the look of shock on Keith’s face, not like he once would have. All he wanted was his friend back.
In a flash, Lance returned his bayard to its original form, sheathing it in his suit. He offered his hand out instead.
“Keith. Please come home,” he said, and it wasn’t until he spoke that he realized that his voice was choked with tears, cheeks wet.
Keith looked between his hand and Lance’s face, his despair evident in the sheen in his eyes, in the downturn of his mouth.
“I don’t have a home anymore.”
Lance shook his head. “You’ll always have a home with us. With me.”
For a moment, a dreadful moment, Lance thought that Keith wouldn’t take it, wouldn’t let himself have this. But then Lance felt the still-familiar calluses on Keith’s palm as he gripped Lance’s hand, letting Lance haul him up.
Keith stumbled on his feet, but Lance was there to catch him. He’d always be there to catch him.
He wrapped his arms around him, Keith warmer and softer than Lance had imagined in the hidden corners of his deepest hope.
“I missed you,” Lance said, like a confession. And like a prayer, he said, “Come back to me?”
Keith nodded, and Lance felt the moment he let it all go.
Lance let him cry, smoothing a soothing hand over his hair, noting how small Keith seemed wrapped in his arms like this. Lance felt the echoes of Keith’s sobs in his own body.
“I love you,” Lance whispered, and unlike before, baring his soul before Keith wasn’t scary. Instead, it felt like releasing a breath he’d been holding for far too long.
Keith drew back the barest bit, eyes darting across Lance’s face, as if he was searching for a deception, waiting for Lance to take it back.
“I love you, Keith,” Lance said, stronger. “I just thought you should know.”
Keith reached up a hand between them, cradling Lance’s cheek in his palm and wiping the tears from his cheek with a delicate swipe of his thumb.
Lance felt like he could drown in the deep blue of Keith’s eyes, felt like he could peer into Keith’s very soul, yet still the brush of Keith’s lips against his own surprised him.
“Wh--”
“I love you, too,” Keith said in the matter-of-fact way that Lance had come to adore. “I always have.”
Lance shook his head. “How?”
Keith leaned up and gave another, lingering kiss. “How could I not?”
And finally, Lance started kissing him back. Wrapped him tighter in his arms, bringing him as close as he could with his armor clacking against the sleek lines of Keith’s Marmora uniform. He didn’t even mind the sharp edges digging into his skin as he licked into Keith’s mouth--
A throat cleared behind him.
“Are you quite finished?”
Lance looked Lotor in the eye and then turned back to Keith, dipping him and giving him a frankly filthy kiss before pulling himself back up.
“For now.”
Lotor scoffed, but held out his hands for Lance to cuff him.
Lance turned back to Keith and offered a palm, which Keith took without hesitation.
“Let’s go home.”