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Keith can safely say he is not a morning person. At all. He will personally reincarnate Zarkon if there’s the slightest chance of getting an extra 5 minutes.
So, naturally, if and when he wakes up earlier than 11am, he’s grumpy until his morning run, a shower and three cups of coffee.
Today, however, he wakes up to a view. A very pretty, sleepy, messy hair and puffy lips and soft snores kind of view—a Lance view.
Keith glances at the clock, it’s barely past 9am. He sighs, closing his eyes, and turns around; Keith wraps a hand behind the other’s shoulder and brings him closer; Lance’s breath softly blows at his white strands, causing them to flutter.
Their bedroom is bright, the morning sun casting slender golden lines from the blinds. Keith frowns and peeks with one eye, glaring at the window and wishing he had some kind of telepathic powers to close those damn blinds completely. But, alas.
It’s no use trying to go back to sleep now, once he’s awake, even only a little, he just kisses the sleep goodbye and starts his day.
Keith blinks and clears his blurry vision, and looks at Lance.
The boy is sleeping peacefully, his one arm tucked under his head and the other is draped around Keith’s middle, a light, comfortable weight that Keith got used to over the weeks. Even like this, asleep and almost motionless, Lance radiates his usual summery vibes—a Lance summer, a significant warmth that even the sun can’t rival with—that remind Keith of warm evenings at the park or cool afternoon breeze in hot days.
The sunlight draws smooth lines across his face, on his neck and shoulders; Keith can see his freckles under the orange glow and he notices now that not just the bridge of his nose and cheekbones, but his shoulders are also dusted with the faded dots. He stares, a little surprised that he’s only now noticing this. Keith reaches out and trails a finger on his skin, on the freckles there, his touch careful and loving.
Looking at Lance right now and not kissing him is like having a kitten in your lap—a cute, bone-meltingly adorable kitten—and not petting it. So, not really fighting back the urge to kiss Lance, Keith leans forward and brushes his lips against the smooth skin of his shoulder, kissing the newfound freckles there; he loves them already.
Lance doesn’t even budge. Keith leaves a trail of chaste kisses, making his way up to the other’s neck. Lance’s skin smells like coconut from his lotion and Keith is drunk on it, he breathes in the smell and, with an already sleepy mind, he almost feels intoxicated by it. His hand slides up the other’s side, exploring the curves of his waist all over again and when Keith feels the muscles jump underneath his touch, he smirks.
Keith leans back, eyeing Lance who is still pretending to sleep. Playing along, he leans forward and kisses his cheek, right where the sun is casting a thin line. The kiss is featherlight and soft, the kind Keith knows makes Lance’s stomach jump and fingers twitch. He moves down, kissing his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth; Keith lingers there for a while, feeling the way Lance’s lips jerk a little.
Keith looks at him and when Lance has a growing, lazy smile on his lips but still refuses to open his eyes, he kisses the tip of his nose, and because Lance is cute and Keith can only take so much of him being this adorable, he gently bites it.
“Ow, okay,” Lance mumbles, giggling.
“Mornin’” Keith smiles at him, then pecks him on the lips.
“GM,” Lance says sleepily and Keith laughs at the abbreviation.
“Too early to use actual words?”
“Yeah,” Lance says, lifting a hand from under his head to rub his eyes. “Why are you up?”
“Dunno,” says Keith, shrugging.
Lance stretches, reaching his arms forward so their above Keith’s body and then drops on top of him full-bodily, his face flat on Keith’s chest.
Lance has a cowlick and Keith reaches a hand to play with it—push it down only for it to bounce back up. He snickers.
“Stop making fun of my hair.”
“You always have it brushed and fixed,” Keith speaks quietly, an amused smile on his lips as he continues to mess with the short locks. “It’s cute like this, you look like a hedgehog.”
Lance tilts his head to the side so his cheek is squished on Keith’s chest and gives him a blank look.
“They’re cute,” Keith reasons.
“I’m cuter.”
“Maybe,” he is, of course.
Keith strokes his knuckles on Lance’s cheek. He gently swipes his thumb at the tiny star birthmark, then swipes back again because he can and he cherishes it deeply.
Lance keeps looking at him. “It’s weird,” he says. “White is weird on you.”
“Should I dye it back to black?”
Lance hums, thinking for a moment before answering: “Nah.”
Keith pinches Lance’s cheek lightly and leans further into his pillow; his eye catches sunlight while doing so and he blinks quickly at the sudden brightness.
“Wait,” Lance says and he abruptly lifts up, his upper body lingering above Keith and his elbows are on either side of Keith’s shoulders.
“What?”
“Don’t blink,” Lance says and Keith furrows his brows, confused, but obliges.
Lance cups his jaw, his fingers mild and his touch almost timid. He moves Keith’s face so the sunlight shines directly in his eye. Keith squints but doesn’t blink, instead, he stares up at Lance, the other’s face completely awestruck and wondrous.
Lance’s mouth is slightly agape; Keith wants to kiss it.
“I never noticed your eyes were this purple,” Lance whispers, still looking at Keith’s eye like he’s seeing the starry sky for the first time.
“Purple?”
“Violet,” says Lance. “You have some violet lines,” Lance continues, bringing his hand up to slide a tentative line with his thumb under Keith’s eye, like he’s touching something fragile, something he doesn’t want to hurt or break; Keith relishes at the touch—Lance does this sometimes, he caresses Keith so, so carefully and lightly and tenderly his heart stops, makes him feel warm and safe and cared for.
“Babyyy,” coos Lance; Keith’s chest overflows with fondness and giddiness. “You have violet eyes!” Lance says like it’s the most endearing thing he’s seen in the world and he looks so fucking gleeful about something as simple as Keith having a touch of violet in his eyes that Keith thinks he might die. Lance McClain will kill him with his bare existence.
“They’re beautiful,” Lance adds softly and smiles down at him with that smile—cheeky and charming, the kind that crinkles his eyes and brightens up his whole face.
Keith’s breath hitches at that smile—so utterly beautiful and breathtaking and just so Lance—he sits up, pushing Lance up with him by cupping his cheeks, and peppers his face with kisses, making Lance laugh and wiggle in his hold.
“You,” kiss “are” kiss “so” kiss “fucking” kiss “precious” kisskisskiss.
“Oh my God,” Lance laughs, he sounds shy and happy and Keith kisses him more.