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There were some conversations, Keith had found, that could only happen at two a.m. He’d had a few: cracked, bald words and whispers spoken through tears or shaking limbs, the taste of blood on his teeth. Things that can only be spoken in the tired and naked dark.
He’s now found there are conversations you can only have at two a.m. while the room spins; warm, oily feeling in your belly promising hell to pay tomorrow, with your equally wasted new best friend sprawled out on your dorm room floor.
It was, of course, Lance’s fault. It usually was.
After about two months of Lance going out of his way to be a jerk – which Keith still didn’t understand - their bickering had descended into an all-out shouting match in the student bar. They kicked up a fuss, got kicked out, and spent a long, cold walk home complaining about getting banned.
After that, they were friends. They shared a lot of lectures, the same social circle – who went from moaning about the constant sniping to rolling their eyes at their endless pranks and competitions – and actually, a lot of the same interests. True, Lance was loud and open and flamboyant in a way Keith could never match. Lance told him he was surly. But they just… kinda worked.
So when Lance declared that he really ‘needed’ his best friend to go for a drink with him that night, the change in status wasn’t a total shock. It was… nice. Really nice. A warm feeling in his chest, in his toes. It felt right, being with Lance; talking and playing with Lance; even having Lance crash in his room after one too many. Or two or three too many. Keith might have let the best friend thing go to his head, along with the beer.
Not that Lance was much better. He struggled to sit up, leaning heavily on the long brown arm laid along the mattress by his head, close enough that Keith could see the flecks of bright light he always seemed to have in his eyes.
“Hey. This’s gonna sound really stupid an’ childish an’ whatever.”
Keith wished the walls didn’t sway when he turned his head, hair tangling against the pillow. “S’nothin’ new.”
“Shuddup,” Lance retorted without ire. Even in the dark, Keith could tell his cheeks were flushed. His lips stretched around a grin and a deep breath, and he pitched forward to confess in a rushed, slurring whisper: “I wanna meet my soulmate.”
“Yeah?” said Keith, foggy brain lumbering to catch up. “Doesn’ everyone?”
“No no no no,” Lance retorted, shuffling closer and resting his chin on his folded arms so they could talk face to face. He kept trying to tilt his head to match Keith’s, perpendicular. “I mean for real. Meet them an’ glow an’ be with them forever an’ shit.”
Keith frowned, taking his time to parse what Lance was trying to tell him. “You mean actually find them? In real life?”
“Yeah!” Lance smiled wider. “An’ college’s, like, perfect place. Loads of people here.”
“Lance...” Keith’s brow creased as he tried to come up with the words. “Thas’ not gonna happen.”
“Heyyyyy,” Lance drawled, pouting. “Why not? Don’ be a jerk, jerk.” He pushed an elbow across the bed to dig into Keith’s shoulder, sheets scraping. Keith grunted and rolled onto his side, groaning when that made his head wobble. Lance laid his head on his arms so they were the same way up.
“Iss stats though,” Keith argued, slack. Lance flinched when he slurred spit. “Chances are, like... huge.” Astronomical, in fact. With a world population of more than seven and a half billion, how could anyone expect to meet and fall for the one person who made their soul shine, marks lighting up their skin? Even if they did, it wasn’t necessarily requited. Mutual soulmates were so rare they made international news; inspired films and national holidays, pictures of their marks circulated far and wide for years after.
“I know,” Lance admitted, stale and hoppish, making Keith’s nose wrinkle. “Know all that, Keith. But I jus’ know. Know I’m gonna find them.”
Frowning, gaze locked in on Lance to ignore the spinning, Keith noticed the use of ‘them’ rather than ‘her’. His chest thudded.
“You can’ know,” he protested, but Lance closed his eyes tight, lines wrinkling the sun-kissed skin, rubbing his cheek against his wrist as he tried to shake his head.
“I know,” he insisted. “Can feel it. My grandparents were, right? My gran’parents were soulmates. An’ everyone in my family says I’m jus’ like grandpa, so -”
“ ‘snot how it works.”
“Screw you,” Lance said then, lifting his head, arms slipping from the mattress. “I’m gonna do it, Keith. Watch me.” He flopped back down to the floor. Keith heard the bump and the muffled cry as he flopped too hard.
“Hey.”
Lance grunted.
“Hey, don’ be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Lance said then, but Keith could hear his pout. “My bes’ friend doesn’t think I can fin’ my soulmate but I’m not mad. I’m sleepy.”
Keith rolled onto his back once more, trying and failing to focus on the ceiling, gut heavy and slippery and protesting its forty-percent-proof diet. Unseen on the tattered carpet, Lance’s breathing began to even out, sleep creeping in.
Keith’s thoughts were sluggish, stewed and steeped in the longing he was no longer sober enough to pretend wasn’t there. “Iss not like you have to find them.” Lance groaned a protest, though whether it was against the statement or being kept awake, Keith couldn’t tell. He went on instead, voice as bleary as his vision was becoming. “You could jus’ fall in love.”
Like he was doing, his treacherous brain warned, in a voice that sounded like his brother’s.
“Like, y’know, mos’ people,” he finished. It seemed enough, to him. To find someone who loved you back; no glowing signs or destiny or fate involved. Something that maybe, just maybe, he could learn to hope for; no maths or probability to argue with.
“Keith.”
He started, something sharp and hurt in Lance’s voice pulling his attention like a papercut.
“Why don’ you want this for me?”
“I do!” He rolled again, rolled and gripped the side of the clapped-out dorm bed so he could peer at Lance’s huddled shape in the dark. “I do wan’ it, Lance.”
“Yeah?” Lance didn’t turn.
“Yeah,” Keith made the effort to nod anyway; a mistake that had bile rising in his throat. He fought it back down. This was more important. “Wan’ you to be happy, Lance. You deserve it.”
Did Lance’s shoulders relax? Perhaps. He should have gotten him a blanket. Did he have a blanket?
He fought his wandering mind to explain. “I jus’ don' wan’ you to end up throwing away somethin’ good for somethin’ that might never happen.”
Would probably never happen, no matter how much Lance wanted it. No matter how much Keith wanted to want it for him.
“Right.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Keith allowed himself to lie down flat again, steady exhaustion deep in his bones. A headache was already starting, pounding pain behind his left eye, as fast as his pulse; only slightly more bearable than the feelings flooding him.
When he blinked, his eyes felt cold. It took a while for him to realise it was tears sliding down his temples, into his hair.
“For - for what iss worth,” he began, half choking on the words, “if I thought it was gonna happen for anyone, it’d be you.”
Lance’s voice was barely audible, ragged with sleep but hopeful even so. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Keith admitted, throat clenching on his own confession. “You’re... you’re an easy guy to love.”
Lance didn’t answer, and Keith couldn’t ask him to. His heart was painful against his ribs, so loud he wondered if Lance could hear it... but then his friend was clambering up, the neck of the t-shirt he’d borrowed slipping to one side, rubbing his eyes and shuffling on his feet.
“Move over.”
“What?”
“Move over,” Lance repeated, and Keith lurched as the mattress sank under Lance’s knee. “Can’ sleep on the floor. Shift.”
He shifted, scrabbling clumsily against the sheets until his left shoulder was jammed against the wall. The hairs on his neck prickled as warm flesh pressed against his side; Lance’s body stretched along the length of his, and a surprisingly weighty arm resting on his belly. Lance snuffled a bit as he got comfortable, pushing his face into his stolen portion of Keith’s pillow, oblivious to the effect he was having on the boy beside him. And Keith was breathless, pulse pounding in the roof of his airless mouth, because Lance was so close...
He tried not to watch as this best friend fell asleep, quickly and completely. Tried not to listen to the even, restful sounds of his breathing; or to the cacophony of his own limbs, crying out to pull Lance closer. But he couldn’t help looking once he felt Lance’s chest pushing against him then falling away, pushing and falling, a pulse. Lance’s cheek was squashed up and his nose wrinkled, minuscule creases written over his skin. It dimpled a little into a tiny frown between his brows. A stray curl of hair had got stuck to his forehead. He was drooling a little.
So, so easy to love.
Carefully, Keith edged his left arm up and out of the covers, sliding past the chill of the painted wall, reaching across. Biting his lip and swallowing his own breathing, he brushed carefully at the escaped lock, sliding it off the golden-brown skin. Lance didn’t stir, complexion radiant under the red light.
Red light?
Keith turned his palm. He flinched automatically, eyes shutting against the sudden assault, bright through his eyelids. When he eased them open, peering through the fringe of his own lashes, glowing red marks shone back at him.
He had marks. Glowing marks.
Lance was -
His soulmate stirred, lines on his nose deepening, and Keith balled his hands, speeding them under the covers before the light could wake him.
He had marks.
Lance was his soulmate.
“I met a girl.”
Keith shifted, allowing more room for Lance to throw down his bag beside his own. It was lunchtime, and they’d joined most of the rest of the campus on the lawn, eager to soak up the last warmth of the year. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Lance nodded happily, sprawling out next to their things, long limbs stretching across the grass. “She’s in my class.”
Keith tried to remain non-committal, watching a frisbee game progress a short distance away. Still, he felt tension building in his forearms, leaning on his elbows. “And you’ve only just met?”
“I’ve seen her around,” Lance answered. “And noticed her, oh man. She’s the gorgeous one I told you about, remember? We finally got talking.”
One glance showed Keith all he needed to know; the giddy, happy smile lifting Lance’s face into beauty, turned up to allow the sun to gild it. He looked away again. “Right.”
“Dude, I think she might be it. My soulmate.”
He couldn’t help it. His fingers curled into the turf, acutely aware of the worn inside of his leather gloves against his palms. “Oh.”
Laughter and chatter floated around them, incongruous and stifling in their sudden stillness.
“You still think it’s impossible, huh?” Lance said then, voice layered with sadness rather than reproach. Keith’s fingers clenched tighter, pulling up blades of grass.
“Not impossible.”
“But so unlikely it might as well be.”
“No, Lance.” He had to look; but he couldn’t stand the steady blue gaze for long. He spoke into the air instead, eyes following the frisbee players without really seeing them. “I thought about it. And... it makes sense that your soulmate would turn out to be close by. Similar interests... similar lifestyles probably help to make you soulmates.”
“Exactly!” Lance jumped in, excitement bleeding into his voice, making him lean closer. “You never know, right? If all goes to plan and we fall in love, we might both just light up!”
And Keith would have to watch. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Lance lay back on the grass, smiling up at the sky, cloudless and blue as his eyes. They simply sat for a while, just being; lavishing in the warmth of sun on skin and of each other’s presence, words unnecessary. Slowly Keith relaxed, tension unwinding and unspooling from his fingers and arms, shoulders settling back down as he released his grip on the grass, tossing aside torn up greenery.
“Hey, what’s with the gloves?”
His heart clenched, body curling around it as his fists tightened once more. He should have realised Lance would notice eventually.
“They’re for my bike.”
“Well duh,” Lance said, and Keith didn’t need to look to know he was rolling his eyes. “I mean why’re you wearing them all the time now? You didn’t even ride in today.”
He should have prepared more for this. Come up with some excuse. “No reason. Just habit.”
“Uh-huh,” Lance retorted, sarcasm loud. “A habit you’ve just suddenly picked up, huh?”
Keith didn’t answer, teeth tightening. He could feel a pulse in the taut skin over his jaw. A prodding finger dug into his bicep.
“What is it, dude? Hickey? Embarrassing drunken tattoo?”
“On my hands? Like shit.”
“Right,” Lance agreed. He fell to silence, allowing Keith to unravel once more, shifting into comfort.
“Sike!”
Keith’s back hit the floor, air punched out of him as Lance seized his hand, pulling his elbow out from beneath him. Keith gasped and slapped him away, but the lanky boy threw one leg over him to straddle his waist, scrabbling at the popper holding the glove on. Keith shoved and rolled, trying to throw Lance off, but even as the taller boy toppled he felt nails rake against the thin skin of his wrist, and the glove came off with a snap.
“Ahah!” Lance yelled, flourishing the black leather bundle. Keith snatched his hand back, but too late.
Blue eyes widened to twin pools.
“SOULMATE MARKS!”
Around them, cries went up. Movement flickered around the edges of his vision; people turning, a crowd forming, stares forced their way. And in front of him; wide and shocked and staring was Lance; glove clasped in one hand, the echo of his shout dying on open lips.
Keith twisted into sitting up, awkward as he dug his exposed hand deep into his pocket.
“No, I didn’t,” he said, loud enough that the people near them would hear. “You’re wrong.”
“I saw it,” Lance whispered, gaping. Heads turned to look at him too, avid. “Red marks -”
“No,” Keith said, unable to think of anything else. He stood up, pushing off his gloved hand so he could keep the bare one hidden. “No,” he said again, shaking his head. Some of the more adventurous watchers were beginning to press forward, keen to see from themselves. “No,” he told Lance, who was still on his knees on the ground, expression hovering between shock and horror. And with that, Keith turned and walked away, fleeing the eyes making his skin prickle, and his soulmate didn’t call after him.
Lance swallowed as he stood outside Keith’s door, a shopping bag full of cans and snacks heavy in one hand and Keith’s glove, just as weighty, in the other.
Keith might hate him for this. But he had to know.
Lance knocked, leather flapping. Through the cheap board, he heard only footsteps before Keith answered, as if he was waiting for him.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted, as soon as Keith’s dark head was visible. “I’m sorry I did that and I’m sorry I yelled and I’m sorry I made a fuss when you didn’t want one and… yeah. Can I... come in?”
His breath tasted sour in his throat as he waited. Keith might say no. He’d probably have said no. But after a moment’s frigid stalling, Keith stepped back and walked over to his chair, allowing Lance to follow.
Keith’s room was bare and beige in the manner of most student dorms, only a few cheap posters of his favourite bands to personalise the space. Whereas Lance lived in clutter; his moisturisers and cleansers and photo after photo of family, of home; Keith lived like he was moving on tomorrow. It’d been two months before he even unpacked his clothes into the wardrobe.
Keith simply watched silently as Lance sank onto the bed; the cheap, exhausted mattress sagging easily under his weight. He offered Keith his glove, and the boy took it without a word. He’d covered the hand Lance had seen with a winter mitten, as brightly scarlet as the mark Lance knew glowed underneath. He rasped as Keith tugged the mitten off to swap over.
“Can I see it?”
For a fraction, Keith paused, then extended his hand.
It took a moment for Lance to squint past the glowing haze to make out the shape. It was a strange symbol; jagged but elegant, surprisingly intricate over the lines of his palm. The pale skin around it was stained pinkish by its light. Swallowing, Lance looked up, and Keith withdrew, sliding the mark back under the confines of black leather.
Lance reached into his bag and pulled out two cans, holding one out. Keith accepted it with a nod. Gas hissed into the room and they both drank, chill slicking over Lance’s throat so the thorny, scratchy words could get out.
“So,” he said, finally.
“So,” Keith agreed.
“You... met your soulmate.”
“Apparently.”
“And you fell in love with him.”
“Yes.”
“Who - who is it?”
Keith’s eyes were dark under his brows, endless as the night sky. They bored into Lance as though Keith were mining out the answer from deep inside him, rather than his own heart. It felt hollow. “It doesn’t matter,” Keith replied, eventually.
“How -” he stopped himself. He took another swig, thumb denting the can. “You don’t want to tell me?”
Keith didn’t answer him. He simply looked until Lance was fidgeting.
“But it’s someone I know?” His mind swam. He knew Keith was gay, so... Hunk? James? Ryan?
“It doesn’t matter,” Keith repeated. He threw his head back abruptly, and Lance watched his throat bob as he swallowed. Keith wiped his mouth as he pulled back, leaning back more heavily in his chair like he intended to endure Lance’s questioning, rather than take part in it. But Lance couldn’t stop.
“Is he – whoever he is – is he glowing too?”
Air hissed through Keith’s teeth. He shook his head, fringe swaying in front of his eyes.
“Then...” Keith’s soulmate didn’t love him back yet. Lance’s stomach turned over. “Then, you’re not close? You’re not together yet? Does he know it’s him, or -”
“- we’re close enough,” Keith interrupted, something harsh edging the words. Lance stared, heard the click as Keith’s thumb dented his can. “He doesn’t know. I don’t want him to.”
“Keith!” Lance rose a little where he sat, leaning towards to boy folded in the chair. “Even if he doesn’t love you yet, this is just the start, right? Once he’s got to know you, he’s bound to -”
“Stop.”
He reeled himself back, mouth sagging and dry. Keith winced at the look on his face.
“Stop. Please.” He turned his head, downing another long draft of beer. He grimaced afterwards, and Lance knew it wasn’t the taste. “It isn’t like that.”
“Why not?”
Keith tried to shrug, but it came out as more of a slump. “Because it isn’t. We don’t... we don’t have that kind of connection.” He paused, tongue prodding at his lip. “I don’t even know for sure if he’s into guys.”
“You can’t give up.” It was a plea, worming its way from Lance’s chest before he knew it was there. “You’re so - so lucky, Keith. You can’t give up on a chance like this.”
The can crumpled in Keith’s hand, beer overflowing, sticky bubbles on his skin. “I can’t just wait either, Lance! For what? Keep on going and hoping for something that might never happen? That might actually be impossible? That I can’t do. I can’t.”
There was a void in Lance’s chest, and it was being crushed like the flimsy aluminium in Keith’s hand. “I can’t,” Keith repeated, and there were tears forming in his eyes now, sharp and acidic, and Lance wanted to wipe them away, but couldn’t make his trembling fingers move; didn’t know if Keith would even let Lance touch him. “Don’t make me,” Keith whispered, a broken plea, and Lance’s questing hand fell.
“I won’t,” he promised, his own voice scratching, eyelashes sticking together with damp. “I won’t.”
Keith wanted, as much as possible, to go on as they were.
Lance tried. He really did. They fell back into their old routines and hangouts. If anyone else noticed Keith’s gloves, if they put two-and-two together with the rumours of a guy with marks on his hands, they chose not to say anything. If they noticed that Keith was even quieter than before, that his smiles didn’t stretch so far and his jokes had lost the razor edge that made them so funny, they didn’t mention that, either. Lance began to count the days since he’d last seen Keith laugh.
And they went on, Lance’s brain crawling with suspicions.
There was a guy they sat behind in a couple of their classes, blonde and muscular. Didn’t say much, never asked questions, but could probably bench press Lance if he wanted. Was that Keith’s type? Strong and silent and failing Physics?
Keith did a group project with the Korean guy from one of his electives, didn’t he? Could it be him, all smiles and perfect hair, baggy jumpers and coffee? He was about the only person Keith had spent any time with, aside from himself and their friends. They’d got an A.
… more likely it was one of their friends, and Lance often found his eyes trailing over their faces when they hung out, jokes and chatter passing blindly past him as he wondered; is it you? Is it you? Is it you?
About a month after Keith last laughed, Lance decided he didn’t like Keith’s soulmate. Couldn’t like anyone who remained so elusive, so absent, while Keith’s soul cried out for him loudly enough to stamp it on his skin. Clearly, whoever Keith had fallen for didn’t deserve him. And if Keith was going to be hurting and laughless, his smiles never quite scrunching his eyes up into half-moons, until this guy saw sense and finally stole Keith away from Lance, well then... then Lance was going to do everything he could to stop him hurting.
He started with small things. Snacks, snuck into Keith’s backpack or under the desk. Memes. Jokes scrawled onto passed notes in their more boring lectures. Lance was left giddy and they were both shushed when Keith actually snorted at Lance’s angry caricature of Professor Iverson.
Lance tried harder. He looked up a bunch of crazy conspiracy theory documentaries for Keith; eventually watching them with him, lounging on Lance’s bed with his laptop balanced on a stack of pillows at their feet. Not whining when Keith inevitably dropped crumbs on the sheets. His chest swelled like a balloon inflating when Keith smiled afterwards, a mumbled ‘that was good’ following him as he stumbled from the door back to his own dorm.
He took Keith shopping. Keith grumbled the whole time, but he also insisted on carrying the bags afterwards; squabbling with him all the way home on the bus. Lance even persuaded him all the way up to his room, to sit almost patiently while Lance slathered him with the facemask his pores so desperately needed; chuckling away at Lance’s playlist of dog videos.
On what the weather claimed would be the last sunny weekend of the year, Lance accosted Keith outside the gym.
“Get your bike. We’re going somewhere.”
“We are?” Keith’s brow raised, but he hefted his backpack anyway, leading the way to the parked motorcycle.
“Yep,” Lance replied, brandishing his own pack. “I got stuff ready.”
Keith’s glance was suspicious as he looked his friend over, retrieving the spare helmet and gloves from the seat compartment of the bike, dragging his own from the backpack and stuffing it viciously into the small space. “Where are we going that needs stuff?”
“The beach.”
The journey rushed past; the wind a fierce, biting chill on his exposed wrists; his jacket not quite long enough for his lanky arms. He didn’t think he’d ever told Keith how much he loved being on the bike, slipping through the air like a blade, leaning into the corners and seeing the tarmac rush underneath you like you were flying. His chest was practically flush against Keith’s leather-clad back, arms wrapped tight around Keith’s waist to hold on. He couldn’t help but squeeze a little tighter, a little firmer than he needed to; a message without words: you’re not alone.
“Why’d you want to go to the beach now anyway?” Keith asked, voice tinny through the radio mics built into the helmet. So he could talk to his brother when they went for a ride, Keith said, but he mostly used them with Lance now. He liked it. It felt like having Keith right beside him, talking into his ear even as he felt smooth and solid at his front.
“It’s the beach, Keith,” Lance replied, accustomed enough to know he didn’t need to raise his voice over the engine noise. “Who needs an excuse to go to the beach?”
Keith snorted. Lance squeezed a bit more.
It was mid-afternoon before they reached the shore; and Lance whooped as he saw the long expanse of blue stretching away. Keith wove carefully through traffic as he took them down into the carpark, drawing the bike into a rumbling purr. Lance pulled off his helmet and gasped as the taste of salt filled his nose.
“Oh man,” he said, handing his equipment off to Keith. “I’ve missed this.”
“Yeah?”
Lance turned, and his excitement morphed into wriggling butterflies at the look Keith was giving him; fond and smirking. He really looked his best like this; untidy, unfashionable mullet pushed every which way by the confines of his helmet, face curled into something softer than his customary frown. When Keith looked like this, Lance wondered how he ever forgot how handsome his best friend was. If Keith’s soulmate only saw this, he’d love him too.
Something heavy weighed his stomach down.
“Ice cream?”
“What?” Lance blinked.
“I might not know as much about the beach as you do,” Keith said, shrugging. “But I know if you go, you get ice cream.”
They found ice cream, and lockers to hire, not far along the beach front; noses practically pressed against the glass like children as they drooled over flavours. Keith ended up with a towering pink thing, fragrant with strawberry and raspberry and peach flavours, drooling cream and syrup. Lance shuddered at it as he enjoyed his coconut sorbet and waffle cone, strolling down to the sand side by side.
Lance paused to wipe off his hands and shed his shoes, and Keith surreptitiously licked stray sweetness off his gloves when he thought Lance couldn’t see. He waited until the ridiculous desert was gone before he nudged the boy beside him, grinning.
“Almost there.”
“Almost?” Keith frowned, tilting his head to one side. “This looks pretty beachy to me.” He kicked up sand to prove his point, grains rushing off the seams on his bike boots.
“No no no Keith,” Lance said, shaking his head in exaggerated mock condescension. “You haven’t actually been to the beach until you hit the water.” He nodded at the lapping vista, sapphire toned and gorgeous. And then he shoved Keith in the side. “Race ya!”
He heard Keith spluttering and cursing him as he sprinted off, bare soles and toes curling into the soft give of the dry beach, ocean running up to meet him, frothing scalloped edges chasing foam over the darkened sand. He splashed into the shallows with a yelp, icy water leaping up his ankles, and then cried out again as a heavy weight smashed into his back.
Lance stumbled and toppled, brine filling his mouth and burbling up his nose as he landed face down in the waves. He jerked up onto his hands and knees, spluttering and coughing, laughter loud in his ears.
Lance looked back.
Keith had collided with him, still in his biker boots in the surf, and he was bent almost double, a hand clutching at his knee, his nose screwed up into a little ball as he laughed. He shook with it, staggered a little, his eyes no more than dark crescents, barely open over the sheer width of his mouth. Lance gaped at him, water dripping off his nose, off his chin.
“You laughed,” he said. “You finally laughed.”
Keith was still shaking, struggling to compose himself as Lance hauled himself upright, unpleasant wet chill sticking his jeans to his legs. “What?”
“You laughed,” Lance repeated, dizzy with it. He knew he was starting to smile, felt like there were helium balloons inflating his cheeks, pulling his mouth into a curve. “It’s been ages since you last laughed properly.”
Keith’s expression changed. The gleeful smirk twisted, his mouth sagging open and his eyes dropping wide. “Lance, you -”
“Don’t freak out,” Lance said, putting a hand up to wipe at his own eyes. Perhaps it was from the sea water, but they felt damp. “I get that this has been hard for you, it’s just you were really down and I wanted to cheer you up, so -”
“-no,” Keith interrupting, seizing his wrist and wrenching it away from his face. “Lance, you’re glowing.”
He blinked, lost with Keith’s face pushed so close to his own, violet stare making his head swim. “Wha - what are you -”
“You’re glowing,” Keith repeated, incredulous. “Lance you’ve - you’ve got marks!”
“No I haven’t,” Lance said, stupidly. He looked down at his hands, for some reason, twisting in Keith’s grip to display the palm. “See?”
“Not there, here!” Keith dropped his wrist, and Lance gasped as his hands closed on Lance’s cheeks instead. The leather was worn soft and smooth, warm from Keith’s body as it settled on his jaw. Keith brushed his thumbs in a sweeping movement over his cheekbones, a shiver in the lowest section of Lance’s spine.
“On your face,” Keith breathed; and Lance could see the light now; a vivid aquamarine staining Keith’s skin, reflected in his eyes. “You’ve got soulmate marks.”
“I... I guess I do,” Lance admitted, hands going up to close over Keith’s, still clasped on his cheeks. He didn’t think he could stand without them right now. “I just – I just I fell for you, I think.”
“For me,” Keith echoed, and his breath tasted like wonder and strawberry against Lance’s mouth. Keith’s face split in a sudden, fierce smile. “We’re soulmates. You and I are soulmates.”
And Lance nearly collapsed. “I - hang on – if you and I are – you’re in love with me?!”
“Of course I’m in love with you, you idiot!” Keith retorted, laughter blurring the words. He pulled his hands free and stripped his gloves off, dropping them to sway gently with the shallow water, turning the elaborate marks on his palms up to Lance’s gaze. “I got them the last time you crashed over, while you were asleep. These are yours.” He reached up before Lance could stroke them, and ran his thumbs in the sweeping motion under Lance’s eyes again. “And these are mine.”
“We’re soulmates,” Lance repeated, hands reaching to clasp Keith’s wrists. “We’re soulmates. We did it – we actually did it. We met our soulmates! It’s you!” His voice was climbing into a shout, echoing along the beach.
“Shut up and kiss me, idiot.”
Lance crushed their mouths together in a confusing press, hands still up and in the way, a frantic slide of lips on lips too excited to progress into something deeper, and it still left him gasping, reeling, dizzy with love.
“We’re soulmates,” he whispered, breaking apart for air, breaths tickling the newly damp, sensitive skin of his lip, stretching with his smile. “And you said it’d never happen.”
Keith huffed, tickling his nose. He was gorgeous; flushed and gleaming and eyes full of life. “I also said if it was going to happen to anyone, it’d be you.”
“Lucky me. Lucky you.”
“I am lucky,” Keith said, and Lance nearly cried out, overwhelmed. “I’m the luckiest man alive, and I’ve got the marks to prove it.” He pushed his forehead against Lance’s, sticky salt from his dip sliding between them. “Now,” Keith breathed, smirking in a way that made Lance’s knees tremble. “Are you gonna kiss me again before people come to take pictures, or what?”