Archive of Our Own

“I’m calm, I’m collected,” Lance whispers furiously at his reflection, hands braced on either side of the mirror. He didn’t feel calm or collected, nor did he look like it when his face pinched tight with nerves. Lance bit his lip and shifted his weight from foot to foot as he took in his appearance, the sapphires in his ears catching in the light at the movement. The fact that he was in Altea’s ceremonial white and gold set his stomach bursting with another wave of butterflies. 

He wore a white shirt embroidered with gold thread, its collar reaching high up his neck before plunging down to his solar plexus. The neckline was cut so his skin peeked through, chest criss-crossed with golden chains under the fabric. At his waist, a sheer satin sash wrapped around his body, blue like the marks on his cheeks. The same material made up for the lack of sleeves by clipping to his shoulder cuffs at one end, and around his middle fingers on the other. Lance’s trousers were a deep royal blue to compliment the sky blue of the satin, and his shoes were embroidered in the same way his shirt was. The entire outfit was comfortable enough to breath and eat in, but still flattered his lean figure nicely. 

Two traditional gold bangles adorn each of his wrists, placed there by his family. They were one last relic of his premarital life, but they would be taken off by his husband after the wedding.

Lance groans, and lowers his forehead against the cool surface. “Calm. Collected.” He repeats more insistently, bringing his forehead down with every word. Even leaning against the mirror, he could see the lilac coloured box sitting on his coffee table just out of the corner of his eye, tantalizing him. 

Veronica watches him with amusement in her eyes, her pretty gold dress glinting in the light as she leans against one the windows that lines the wall of Lance’s bedroom. “You sure about that?”

Lance hesitates, smushed against the mirror. “Yes?” 

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” she says, for the hundredth time that day, pushing off the wall to meet him in front of the mirror. She gives him a pointed look through the reflection. “You’ve met him, remember?”

“Yeah, six years ago!” Lance retorts, twirling one of the golden chains that criss-crossed over his chest around his finger. “What if we’ve changed our minds?”

Veronica slaps his hand away and spins him around so he faces her. “Have you changed your mind?” she questions seriously, “You can tell me if you have,” and despite his nerves, Lance finds himself shaking his head. 

Her frame eases slightly at that. “Then there’s nothing to worry about. He’s here, isn’t he?” 

It doesn’t do much to comfort him. “I… suppose so.” 

“Like you said,” she continues gently, noticing his rigid stance, “it’s been six years. If he wanted to step back, he would have done it a long time ago,” 

Lance sags under her hands, which were still on his shoulders. “Right.” 

Veronica tips her head to the side, a smiling a little. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s nervous too,” she reveals. 

Lance’s brows rise in surprise. “You saw him?” 

She nods and takes a step back to swipe the lilac box from the table. “To grab this,” she holds it out to him, “Are you going to open it now?”

Lance’s fingers slide over the satin ribbon as he takes the box from her, the material like the whisper of wind against his skin. Inside is a gift from his suitor, something he would wear during the ceremony and after. Lance sent his own gift off some time ago with Keith. 

It was a good question. Was he going to open it now?

At length, he nods under the argument that he would have to do it sooner or later. “Might as well,” he murmurs, and pulls the ribbon loose before thumbing the lid off the box. 

Veronica leans in curiously as he peels back the layers of tissue paper. Lance's eyes fall on the short stem and the bright blue petals first, and he surprises himself by letting out a warm bubble of laughter. 

“Oh,” Veronica breathes, features softening, “how sweet.” 

What were the odds that they’d choose the same gift?

Lance plucks the juniberry flower out of the box, and inspects it in the light. It’s a rare variation of the flower, growing only in the mountain ranges south of where he lived. Lance had sent a very similar flower with Keith, only that one was a pretty lavender, and only grew in an environment that gave it a lot of sunlight. 

It’s just that: a juniberry flower, but for a moment Lance is taken back to the night they first met, the night of their unofficial engagement, under a pavilion woven with flowers. He had been so sure of this arrangement back then, only sixteen, and he used that to ground him now. 

They wanted this then, Lance reminds himself, and they’ve had six years.

“There’s a note!” Veronica's voice cuts through his thoughts as she points excitedly inside the box. 

Lance fits the flower in between his fingers so he could flip the card open. Inside is a simple message, written in a cursive from a steady hand. For your hair. 

Lance blushes bright and red, and turns on his heel sharply to hide his face. 

He hears Veronica snort from behind him. “Are you still doubting him?” she teases. 

“Oh, be quiet,” he mumbles as he twirls the stem between his finger and thumb, but it’s half hearted, even to his own ears.   

Veronica hums knowingly. “Well, go on then,” 

For once, Lance does as he’s told and places the flowers just above his ear, taking care not to crush the petals. It was just the right size, sitting against his temples without covering his face. The petals came up just a little longer than his thumb and brushed against his skin soothingly; for a moment, he could pretend the petals were actually the pads of warm fingers as they came up to brush the hair out of his eyes. 

He clears his throat sharply, the thought making his face burn, and suddenly he’s glad that he’s still turned around. 

“What’s the other one?” 

Veronica’s voice gets him moving again, reaching into the bottom of the box. His fingers brush over something cool and he lifts it out of the container, eyes drawing to the way it glinted metallically in the soft light. 

Now, it was Lance’s turn to offer a small, surprised gasp. 

It was a polished gold arm cuff. Lance ran his thumb over the engraved surface, honing in on the thin lines as they blended together to show the McClain family’s signature bluebird, perched on a delicate branch. The Shirogane’s four-pronged star was shown next to it. The depictions were stamped alternatively all the way around the band.  

His heart flutters in his chest as he takes in the gift. It was… beautiful. It was beautiful. It was luxurious and it was incredibly thoughtful, and Lance was heating up like a schoolboy receiving sweets from the boy he fancied. 

With a deep breath, he clasps the band on his left arm and watches as it morphs to fit around his bicep perfectly, admiring the way the gold complimented his skin before dropping his hand. As soon as it falls away, Veronica moves towards him with renewed awe. She turns his arm this way and that as she takes in the ornament with parted lips. 

Veronica looks up and stares at him. Lance stares back. 

“You better cherish him.”

“I will.”

The ceremony is starting. 

Lance is stiff with nerves beside his father, who silently waits for him to give him the go ahead before opening the doors of the temple. His father offers him his support by merely standing there, a solid presence to steady Lance’s wobbly knees, and Lance leans into it as much as he can as he prepares himself. 

He stares deadeyed at the ornate door, mind spiralling in a million different ways. The gifts he had received were minutely comforting weight against it all. 

He had nothing to be worried about, but he worried anyways. 

What was he going to do when he saw him standing in front of the altar? Would he forget what was supposed to come after? Would he just … stop?

Lance knew how he had changed. How he had been forced to change. 

He had gone to war and lost a piece of himself there before he came back. With an ache, he wishes his first glimpse was in private, just so they could take each other in before committed themselves to each other under the eyes of their guests. 

And, like a viper under whatever confidence he was scrambling to gather, he was trying to convince himself that the man on the other side of this door still wanted him. 

He’s here isn’t he? 

Lance takes a steadying breath, and his father looks down at him. “Ready?”

Lance nods. “Ready.” 

His father holds his arm out, and Lance reaches up to grasp on. He nods again, and the doors slide open.

His blood races in his veins as he walks down the aisle, because Shiro’s right there at the altar, with his pointed violet cheek marks and his pretty grey eyes. He could be a prince dressed like that, in white and cold, chest adorned with an array of military medals. 

A metal prince, Lance thinks, because Shiro’s prosthetic glints noticeably in the midday light that streams through the windows.

They catch eyes from across the room, and Lance’s mind nearly blanks before he reminds himself of the crowd on either side of him. 

The look in Shiro’s eyes? Lance has never seen anyone look at him like that. 

Lance’s father escorts him until they reach the stairs which lead up to the altar. His father stops first, and plants a kiss against Lance's forehead before taking a step back, arm sliding away from Lance's hands. His father smiles encouragingly, and Lance steadies himself with another breath. He turns away, and ascends the steps of stairs alone. 

Lance goes to the sage first, dipping his head respectfully. The sage taps both of his shoulders with a whispered blessing, and steps back. Lance takes this as a signal to straighten and turn towards Shiro, his stomach fluttering with nerves. 

They reserve a moment to take each other in. Lance can hardly think because somehow Shiro is much more regal up close. Everything about him radiates honor and prestige, from the straight-backed way he stands to the confident tilt of his chin. Those eyes that had stolen his gaze earlier dips down now, to Lance's arm to notice the gold band, and Lance finds himself doing the same, eyes searching down the length of Shiro's chest.

The lavender juniberry flower Lance gifted him was clipped just over his heart, and his other gift, a silver bangle that matched the color of Shiro's eyes, dangles over his hand. Lance was so unsure if when he picked it out, but it looks natural there around on his wrist and even ends up matching the silver jewels in Shiro’s ears. 

He lifts his eyes again, only to find Shiro already looking. Lance offers a hesitant smile. 

Getting one back is strangely rewarding. 

The sage looks up at the ceiling as they call to the gods, letting them know of the union taking place in their home. Lance and Shiro listen silently from where they kneel in front of the sage, heads bowed and eyes lowered. 

“Stand,” the sage commands, and they do. Lance warms when Shiro offers him a hand to help him up. 

When they face each other, the white and gold cloth is brought out. Shiro glances at Lance, a silent question in his expression, and Lance raises his hands in answer, giving him permission. Warm hands come up to meet them in the air, larger than his and a little rough.

“It is now time to make the final vows, beneath the watchful eyes of our deities and the those present here in this room to bear witness,” The sage holds one end of the cloth up. “Takashi Shirogane, will you vow to seek a lifetime of peace for yourself and your husband?” 

Lance feels a zap of current run down his spine at the word. 

Shiro looks directly into Lance’s eyes, voice steady. “I vow to seek a lifetime of peace for myself and my husband.”

The sage wraps the cloth around their hands, once. “Will you vow to remain alongside your husband in sickness and in health?”

“I vow to remain alongside my husband in sickness and in health.” The circles them again, binding their hands tighter. 

“Do you, under the all knowing eyes of the gods, commit yourself to your husband, and your husband only?”

“I do.” 

The sage makes a third wrap, and Lance would have cried if his turn wasn’t next. 

“Lance McClain, will you vow to seek a lifetime of peace for yourself and your husband?”

He gives Shiro a smile. “I vow to seek a lifetime of peace for myself and my husband.” 

“Will you vow to remain alongside your husband in sickness and in health?”

“I vow to remain alongside my husband in sickness and in health.”

“Do you, under the all knowing eyes of the gods, commit yourself to your husband, and your husband only?”

Lance hasn't looked away from Shiro's at all. “I do,” Lance promises softly.

By the time Lance finishes his vows, there’s no more cloth to be wrapped. Their hands have been bound completely by the fabric, and Lance can feel the heat of Shiro's palms mingling with his own. Shiro's fingers twitch against his skin, and Lance's breath hitches at the realisation of what they've promised to each other. It terrifies him, just a little, but the more overpowering sensation is hope. 

“You may now complete the rites,” the sage announces, and steps aside. 

Lance is still trying to regain his footing, so Shiro pulls himself closer to him. Their tied hands brush against his chest, and his face dips down-

And Lance tilts his own up to meet it -

Their lips find each other halfway. 

Every bit of Lance’s body buzzes loud enough to drown out the clapping of the guests. Shiro’s lips are like his eyes: warm and soft and gentle. 

Lance finds himself getting lost in the feeling. 

There’s a break after lunch for the guests to rest and change before the dinner. Realistically, Lance knows he’s expected to go to Shiro’s manor now, where they would spend a few hours together before making their appearance at dinner. 

Lance just didn’t know what he was supposed to do once they were alone. The energy he had been exuding for the ceremony quickly fizzles out of him and leaves him feeling physically and emotionally drained. 

He couldn’t tell you the path they took up to Shiro’s room even if he tried. He was no stranger to wealth, but the size of Shiro’s home made him blink in surprise. It was something straight out of a fairytale: ornate ceilings, massive, twisting staircases held together by thick bannisters. Even his room was huge, equipped with a small office and a separate sitting room made to entertain a handful of guests, before a heavy double door which led to the bedroom. The bedroom itself is furnished with a canopied bed that resembles a night sky and multiple, floor length windows lining the walls. 

Lance can feel Shiro’s eyes on him as he pokes his head around, but busies himself in the task of unclipping the silver jewels in his ears. “You can rest in the bedroom if you’d like,” he says, and the deep baritone sends a shiver down Lance’s spine. 

He looks back at him, but finds it difficult to meet his eyes completely now that they were alone. “Will you be coming?” Heat floods his face immediately, and Lance wants to kick himself. 

Shiro sets the piercings down on the table in the sitting room. “I’m not very tired. You can wear one of my shirts, if you want. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to start getting ready.”

Lance blushes even harder at the prospect of wearing Shiro’s clothing, and he looks pointedly away. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and ducks back into the bedroom, heart beating fast. He shuffles awkwardly, wanting nothing more than to unwind himself out of the sash at his waist and take a comfortable nap. Only, no matter how far Lance twists and claws at himself, he can’t for the life of him figure out how to untie the satin. After struggling for a few minutes, he huffs and gives up, arms burning from being bent at unnatural angles. 

His eyes wander towards the door, which is left often just a crack. He could ask…

No. Nope. 

Lance turns on his heel, burning at the thought of being undressed and makes a beeline for the bed. He toes out of his slippers, and after a second of contemplation, he claims the side closest to the windows. Easing against the fluffy pillows is probably one of the most comfortable things he’s done all day and his exhaustion seeps out of him with a relieved sigh. 

At the last second, he remembers the flower behind his ear and his hands fly up to remove it. Thankfully the petals are intact, so he tenderly places it on the night table beside him.  

He settles back again, the pillows under him settling in all the right places, and lets the night sky of the canopy usher him into sleep. 

He doesn’t mean to clock out. It was supposed to be a light nap, not a fourth-dimension slumber, but after a few hours he’s being gently shaken awake. 

Lance had rolled over sometime in his sleep, back facing the wall. He groans and sluggishly whacks away the hands. “Five more minutes?” he slurs, eyes still closed. 

There’s an amused chuckle behind him, “I’d love to give you them, but I’ve already let you sleep in fifteen. If you don’t get up now, we’ll be late.”

And just like that, Lance’s eyes pry open and he twists around so he can sit and stare at Shiro, who’s already dressed in a white sleeveless tunic for the dinner. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, eyes surveying him with amusement. A quick glance outside the windows tells Lance they're approaching dusk. 

Shiro laughs again at the horrified look on his face. “It’s alright. There’s still plenty of time,” 

That couldn’t be farther from what Lance was worried about, Lance thinks as he pats himself down, smoothening the flicks of his hair that stood out funny. Oh gods, what if he was drooling?

He hasn’t said anything in response, and he probably should, because doing that would be much better than whatever limbo his mind was doing right now, split between worrying about his own appearance and swooning over Shiro’s. 

“R-Right,” Lance stammers as he stares at Shiro’s very defined arms, his voice still hoarse from sleep. 

Lance tears himself away from the picture of health that is Shiro in favour of throwing his legs over the edge of the bed. Shiro’s hand comes down by his face, and Lance allows him to pull him up, his gold bangles clinking noticeably as his hand settles against Shiro’s. 

Shiro tilts his head as Lance rises to his feet. “You didn’t change,” he notes.

Lance blushes, and looks away. “I, erm, I couldn’t undo the sash,” he admits sheepishly, gesturing at his waist. 

Shiro’s eyebrows lower as he glances down at the article in question, and Lance can feel his gaze. “You could’ve asked me to help,” he says with a frown, “I can’t imagine it was comfortable sleeping like that.”

“I honestly couldn’t tell,” Lance replies with a slight smile, “I didn’t even realise when I fell asleep.” 

All he gets is a thoughtful hum as in response. They’re still holding hands. 

Clearing his throat, Lance steps away quickly and tugs his hand out of Shiro’s, clasping them behind his back. “Do you know where my clothes are?”

Shiro blinks at his empty hand before lowering it. “In the sitting room. They were brought up a little while ago.”

Lance nods and hurries towards the bedroom door. Shiro watches him go without moving. 

The garment bag is hung over the sofa, and Lance swipes it up on his way towards the bathroom, trying to get himself under control. He opens the door to the bathroom and slips inside quickly. As soon as the door is closes behind him, he leans his forehead against it, clothes still bunched in his arms, trying to ease his pounding heart.

"Get it together," he mumbles to himself with a sigh. He pushes off the door determinedly, shaking out the garment bag before hanging it on the rod behind the door. He reaches down to his sash, before he remembers. He smacks his forehead and curses himself. 

He scolds himself, You literally just told him you couldn’t get it off yourself. 

He… this time he wasn’t even going to try. There was no way he was getting it off on his own. Stuffing his embarrassment as far down as it could go, Lance throws the bathroom door back open and strides into the sitting room again. 

Shiro’s migrated onto the sofa, arms crossed over his chest and head tipped back, his eyes closed. At the sound of the door opening, he cracks one eye open curiously. 

“I need your help taking this off,” Lance blurts, pointing at the sash. 

Shiro straightens and waves him over towards the couch. Lance pads over until he’s standing in front of him. 

“Do you remember how it was tied on?” Shiro asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he inspected the material. 

Lance did not. He had been busy trying not to throw up this morning when his tailor fitted him in. “I wasn’t paying attention,” he says vaguely. 

Shiro frowns again, and his metal hand raises before pausing in midair. His eyes flick to Lance’s. “Can I?”

Lance jolts at that. “Oh,” he blinks, “Yes, go ahead.” He uncrosses his arms and holds them out so Shiro can tug at the fabric freely. 

He stays as still as he can, because the whispers of Shiro’s fingertips are sending shivers up Lance’s spine and Shiro absolutely can’t know, not right now. 

Suddenly, Shiro goes very red. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to turn around. I think the end is tucked back there,”

Oooooh, how Lance is dying. He bets the gods are laughing at him, somewhere up in the sky. 

Lance spins around without a word, not trusting his voice. 

Feeling Shiro’s hand against his back is decidedly more unbearable than by his hips, Lance decides. 

There’s a tug, then another, and the end of the sash pops free. Shiro unwraps it once before handing the end to Lance. 

Lance turns back around to thank him, and is glad that he’s not the only one struggling to meet eyes at the moment. 

Lance changes into his last outfit of the day. It’s still white, because it’s still his wedding day, but this one is a much more comfortable tunic, embroidered in swoops stitched with golden thread. Shiro is wearing something very similar, just made to account for the array of military badges he’s required to wear. 

When Lance steps out, Shiro’s eyes wander over him, just for a second, before looking back up at his face. “You look lovely,” he says softly. 

Lance smiles shyly, and makes his way over to the couch opposite to the one Shiro’s sitting on. “You do too,” he says sincerely, leaning against the sofa back as he admires him. Shiro still looks like a prince, with his hair neatly combed back and the glittering jewels back in his ears. Lance is pleased to note that the bangle he had gifted him seemed to suit him more and more the longer it was on. 

It takes Lance a moment to register the silence that’s blanketed them. It takes him one more to realise that, the entire time he had been admiring Shiro, Shiro had been admiring him back. 

Before they leave, Shiro slips back into the bedroom with a quick, “Wait here.”

Lance pauses, in the doorway, staring after him questioningly. 

Shiro’s only gone for a few seconds. When he steps back into view, he’s holding the blue juniberry flower in his metal hand. 

He walks towards Lance and pauses to slip the flower back against Lance’s ear. 

“There,” he says, “now we can go.”

Dinner is yet another formality, but it’s one Lance could tolerate. 

Lance’s family is there, and so is Shiro’s, made up of a kaleidoscope of individuals. There was the Holt family, comprised of Sam and Colleen, their lanky son named Matt and Shiro’s longtime friend, and their youngest, Katie. 

“But don’t call them that,” Shiro warned before they stepped into the dining hall. “They’re Pidge, unless you want your kneecaps kicked out.”

Lance couldn’t help but grin at that. “Noted.” 

There was Keith, too, someone who Lance already knew from their time in school. “He’s the closest thing to a real brother that I have,” Shiro had whispered to him years ago. 

Lance had already familiarized himself with the stained glass window of Shiro’s family back when they had gotten engaged. Now, the Holt’s welcome him with warm arms and even Keith smiles when they walked in. He quickly notices that they all called him Takashi, but Lance had only ever been asked to call him Shiro, so he stuck with that, not wanting to overstep a boundary when they were still so new to all of this. 

There was Lance’s family, too, much larger than Shiro’s and seated across the table from them. Hunk was seated right next to his brothers, because Lance couldn’t picture his family without seeing him there too. 

Lance had expected a few name slip ups here and there, especially considering Lance’s brothers had gotten married in the six year period, but he was pleasantly surprised to learn that Shiro had already adjusted to include Alleia and Hera, and their children into the picture. It was a simple gesture that indicated Shiro had spent time getting to know his family, and it filled him with a warmth he hadn’t expected. 

The dinner is a nice change of pace from the ceremony earlier in the day; they eat and laugh and get to know each other a little better. Lance finds himself easing next to Shiro, who’s metal hand finds its way to settle against his thigh somewhere between the second or third drink. 

Lance is warm inside. There’s still a bit of space between him and Shiro, but it’s already starting to thaw. They catch eyes while they talk and they don’t look away. Lance slips back into his normal joking nature and it’s received well by Shiro, and Lance preens at the laughs he’s getting out of him. 

It’s small, but it’s still a start. 

Lance is starting to get a little sleepy. The moon is high in the air and their fathers are steadily getting more and more tipsy as the night wears on. It's when Lance's father grabs Sam for a dance that Lance feels something trail up his left arm, slow and gentle. 

With a shiver, Lance perks up enough to look down to find Shiro’s finger grazing over the golden cuff. Lance gives him a curious look, but Shiro is looking down at his arm with the same soft, unabashed look he had given Lance at the altar.

“Do you like it?” Shiro asks, and his voice is honey, is velvet against Lance’s skin. 

Lance nods sleepily, settling back against his chair once he's noticed it's just Shiro. “I love it,” he murmurs back. He gestures towards the band around Shiro’s wrist. “What about you?”

Shiro glances down at the bangle, eyes thoughtful. “I didn’t expect to like it as much as I do,” he admits, metal hand lifting from Lance’s thigh briefly to play with it. 

Lance is very aware of how he misses the weight of Shiro’s hand against him. “It suits you.” 

Shiro smiles at that, and meets Lance’s eyes. “I think so too.”

Lance is so tired he collapses into their bed as soon as he’s changed. 

He opens the bedroom door to let Shiro know he can come in before flopping face first onto the bed, exhaustion reducing his ability to overthink what he was doing. 

“G’night,” Lance mumbles against a face full of pillows. 

There’s an amused chuckle in the direction of the walk in closet, and the sound of a light switch being flipped. “Goodnight, Lance,”

His name travels through him like lullaby, and he’s asleep before another thought can cross his mind. 

When Lance wakes up the next morning, the first thing he notices is the unruffled sheets beside him. With a frown, Lance pulls himself up and glances around the room. The sun is strong outside the windows, an endless blue sky stretching for miles and miles. He can’t help but notice he’s the only one in the room. 

He rolls out of bed and pads out of the room without his shoes on, warm feet leaving marks against the cool marble. Poking his head out, he finds Shiro seated behind a large desk on the other side of the room. 

At the movement on Lance’s end, Shiro looks up.

“You let me sleep in?” Lance says, still roaming somewhere in his dreams. 

Shiro hums, and sets down his quill. “You look like he needed it,”

Lance nods to himself, like that made sense, and steps into the sitting room. “What are you working on?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. 

“Reports,” Shiro sighs, leaning back in his chair, “Unfortunately, deadlines exist and I am getting dangerously close to missing them.”

“Right,” Lance remembers suddenly, his mind starting to wake up, “Captain. What kind of reports?" He leans against the door of the office. 

Shiro hums again, "Training reports, mostly." Then, he says, “Would you like to eat in the room or downstairs?” 

Lance turns it over in his mind. “Downstairs,” he replies, making his way to the bathroom to get changed for the day. 

When he’s in a fresh set of clothes, Lance finds Shiro waiting for him against the wall. 

“Ready?” he asks, pushing off. 

“Ready,” Lance confirms, and they head down together. 

At breakfast, Shiro brings up the bangles. 

“When do you want to take them off?” he asks gently, eyes light in the midday sun. 

They’re sitting outside on the terrace, on a little table filled with a lush variety of fruit, sweets, and tea. 

Lance slows his chewing, and focuses on his wrist where the gold glints teasingly. Good question. He knew it would come eventually, but for some reason he didn’t expect to be asked about it. The bangles were the last thing from his premarital life, and while the idea of taking them off made his heart squeeze, they’d have to come of sooner or later. 

“We can do it after breakfast?” Lance suggests hesitantly, still staring at his wrist. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Shiro smile. “Okay.”

The bangles don’t come off. 

Lance stares at his wrists in confusion. He’s one hundred percent sure the bangles slid on without any effort yesterday. He is also certain he didn’t gain enough weight in a day to change the circumference of his wrist. 

“Here, let me try,” he says, and grasps onto the gold. He tugs softly at first, but when they don’t budge, he tugs more insistently. He struggles for a few moments, his hands turning red and starting to burn at the effort, without any success. 

“Lance-” Shiro intervenes, setting a hand against Lance’s to stop him, “Hey, it’s fine. We can try again later,”

Lance pushes the bangle back where it sat earlier, and his skin sighs in relief. “What do you mean later?”

It’s Shiro’s turn to look confused now. “The bangles,” he says slowly, “you know how they work, right?”

Lance frowns. “They’re supposed to be taken off after the wedding,” is all he says in response. 

To his surprise, Shiro blushes, bright and red. “It’s fine,” he repeats, looking away, “we can try again later.”

Lance is still perplexed, but he allows it.

The first three days after the wedding pass by in a haze. He’s still getting used to calling Shiro his husband, but he works on rectifying that as best as he can.

Lance still wakes up to an empty bedroom every morning. The bangles have not come off, despite the two of them trying every day. 

That night, they host a small party; Lance has met a variety of people, ranging from close friends of Shiro’s to esteemed military officials. It’s all customary, but Shiro reassures Lance he’s doing great, and Lance does his best to let that calm him. 

Shiro exists in the middle of it all, polite and confident with all the air of a high ranking captain. He keeps Lance by his side and includes him in conversations that are otherwise very well out of his understanding. 

It’s between conversations when Lance realises he quite likes the way Shiro pauses to ask for his opinion, or the way he remembers the little things about him that would interest their company, ranging from his archery skills to his family’s role in the evolution of alchemic technology.

Lance knows Shiro’s doing this to prevent him from just awkwardly standing there, but he can’t help but flourish a little at his attention.

Five days after the wedding. 

He wakes up parched during the early hours of morning. His hands search for a glass of water from his night table and come back empty. With a tired groan, Lance sits up and rubs his eyes, swallowing thickly in an attempt to hydrate himself. 

He looks over to the other side of the bed, where Shiro is-

Lance blinks, coming awake all of a sudden. 

The sheets are undisturbed. 

Shiro is not there. 

Lance pushes the covers off his frame, and scoots out of bed, not even bothering to put on his slippers. He opens the bedroom door, ready to search the sitting room, only to stop in his tracks. 

Shiro is sleeping on one of the two sofas, his shirt riding up his stomach to reveal a sculpted expanse of skin. It couldn’t have been comfortable, sleeping like that, because Shiro’s legs hung awkwardly over the armrest and one of his arms was thrown over the sofa back while the other cushioned his head. 

Lance pads over and pokes him in the arm, disbelief clear on his features. 

Shiro stirs immediately, eyes fluttering open. His gaze is unfocused for a few seconds.

“Lance?” he asks blearily. 

Lance is baffled. “What are you doing out here?” he whisper yells. 

“Sleepin’,” Shiro replies as if it was simple, voice rough with sleep.

Lance huffs out a laugh, “Why aren’t you sleeping in the bed?” 

“Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable…” Shiro says, eyes already drooping. 

Lance pauses as guilt flashes through him. The truth was, he had been a little awkward, but now he just felt bad. It had been five days sleeping like this, on a tiny couch that not even Lance could fit properly on. He had no idea how Shiro, who was much larger than him, was getting sleep at all. 

“Get up,” Lance sighed finally, shaking Shiro awake again, “Come on. Up, up, up. I’m taking you to bed.” 

Shiro is a glorious, pliant tangle of limbs when he’s sleepy, which means he gets to his feet without too much resistance. Lance walks him back to the bedroom, arms hovering around him just in case he tips over. Once they’re at the bed, Shiro climbs in, and Lance pulls the covers over him. 

He takes in the sight: Shiro, rumpled with sleep, eyes blinking hazily as he tried to gain awareness. “Just sleep,” Lance whispers to him, feeling bold enough to run his fingers through Shiro’s hair. He’s absurdly pleased when Shiro lets out a tired sigh and leans into his touch. 

But the reason he’s awake is because his body was dehydrating slowly in his sleep, and he is still painfully aware of it. So, he lets his hand drop so he can step away and make his way to the bathroom. 

“Where… goin’?” Shiro mumbles out in the dark. 

Lance doesn’t even pause on his way to the door. “Grabbing some water. I’ll be right back.”

He finishes the task as fast as he can, gulping down mouthfuls of water before filling up a glass to take back with him. 

Shiro is still awake and waiting for him when he makes it back. Lance sets the glass down on his night table, and crawls into bed. 

Immediately, Shiro shifts so that there’s a sliver of space between them. He watches through lidded eyes as Lance settles against the pillows. As soon as his movements still, his eyes slip close, and he drifts back to sleep. 

Sleeping with Shiro is different, but a good kind of different, Lance thinks as he looks across the bed at Shiro. There's no tension in his features as his chest raises and falls slowly, pulling Lance a little closer with every movement until they're just about to touch. He lets the space linger, though, content enough with just this for now. 

One week married to Shiro, Lance notices three things about him. 

He’s an early riser by nature, but is quiet in the mornings so he doesn’t disturb Lance.

Shiro hums whenever he’s thinking.

Shiro has nightmares that wake him up in the middle of the night. 

Lance realised this last fact the second night they sleep together. Shiro's pain-filled grunts startles Lance into consciousness, his mind scrambling to place the sound before his eyes fall on Shiro, curled in on himself on his side of the bed. It startles Lance so badly that he hovers over Shiro, shaking him awake urgently. "Shiro? What's wrong?" he rushed.

It was definitely not the right decision, because Shiro came to violently. His elbow flew out, and Lance ducks to the side sharply to avoid the collision, landing on the mattress with a soft 'oof!'.

As he's straightening himself, Shiro lurches up so fast Lance almost falls over again. Apologies are already falling from Shiro's lips as he scrambled towards, his hands hovering on either side of Lance’s face. 

“Oh gods,” he whispers, eyes wide as he scans over Lance's face for injuries, “I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to-”

“Shiro,” Lance says breathlessly, hands itching to hold onto his arm. He holds himself back, because he's unsure if his touch would be received badly again, “it’s okay. You didn’t hurt me, I promise. I’m sorry I touched you, I was just scared and I-I didn’t know what else to do and-”

Shiro shushes him soothingly, which didn’t seem fair considering he was the one who was nearly crying in his sleep. “No, you did fine, it’s okay-”

It wasn’t okay to Lance. He wants to make the problem easier to manage, not make it worse. "What happened?" he asks softly, sitting up so they're chest to chest. 

Shiro swallows visibly. "Nightmares," he says weakly, as if he didn't want Lance to know. 

Lance falters at that, and reaches out to hesitantly settle a hand against the cool skin of Shiro's wrist, which is still up at his cheeks. Thankfully, he doesn't react this time, other than to slip his palm against Lance's. 

"It wasn't real," Lance whispers, rubbing small circles into Shiro's skin with his thumb, "You're at home,"

Shiro nods, not quite meeting Lance's eyes. 

Something in Lance squeezes. "Do you have them often?" he questions quietly. 

There's a beat of silence before Shiro nods again, almost shamefully. 

“Hey, now," Lance ducks his head to meet Shiro's eyes with a soft smile, "It's okay. Better I know now than never. What do want me to do if this happens again?” 

The question brings Shiro to a full stop, and he stares at Lance as if he was seeing him for the first time. “I-I can deal with it on my own,” he stammers, his other hand dropping from Lance’s cheeks. 

The stutter in his voice makes Lance sit straighter in attention, and shake his head. “None of that,” he says determinedly, “We're together now, which means we deal with this together. Tell me what I can do to make this better.”

Shiro swallows thickly, and looks away, eyes far away as he turns Lance's words over. At length he says, “I don’t know. I’ve never had anyone…” he trails off. 

Anyone see him, Lance guesses. “We can figure it out,” Lance reassures him softly, bringing his attention back to their conversation. “Start with the present: what do you want right now?”

Shiro hesitates, his eyes flicking to Lance before skirting away. Finally, he leans back against the pillows, their clasped hands dragging Lance down with him before letting go. Lance leans on his elbow as Shiro adjusted himself, twining their fingers together. Once settled, Shiro gestures for Lance to lie down on his side. When Lance is where Shiro asked him, he pulls Lance's arm over him and flips to his side as well. 

Lance blinks, then blushes when Shiro’s back presses against his chest. “Comfortable?” he asks shyly.

Shiro hums out his affirmation, so Lance readjusts his position so he’s holding Shiro’s hand over his chest. It takes a while, but he waits until the steady falls of Shiro’s breath take him back to sleep before drifting off himself. 

Almost every night, Lance brings Shiro back from his nightmares. It’s an experimental process, but eventually - a week and a half after the initial incident - Lance has narrowed down that the best way to wake him up is to talk to him. So, Lance familiarizes himself with a soft voice that pulls Shiro out of his sleep. 

“Shiro,” he says, gently but loud enough to rouse his husband, “Shiro, you’re dreaming. Wake up.” 

Slowly, Shiro comes to, eyes opening wide and unseeing. Lance has learned to wait for the fuzziness in his eyes to vanish before attempting to touch him. 

They don’t talk about what it is he sees at night, still feeling around invisible walls and boundaries.

But they do drift off entangled in each other's limbs. It becomes so inherent to Lance, he wonders how he stood sleeping alone at all in that first week. 

Maybe it was sleeping in the same bed that opened Lance up to a whole other side of Shiro. 

He looks forward to the rare mornings he wakes up before Shiro does. There was something about waking up to Shiro’s features lit up by early morning sleep that makes Lance’s bones hum. He enjoys mapping out the little quirks of his body against the soft sunlight. There’s the scar against his nose, that Lance sometimes kisses when his nightmares are especially bad. There’s the freckles on his back, which Lance spends time connecting in nonsensical constellations over and over again.  

He relishes the few minutes where Shiro’s hair is a floofy tangle that flops over his eyes before he gets ready for the day, the stubble on his chin that scratches against Lance’s bare shoulder, which is flush against Shiro's chest. 

The regal persona is still very much in place, but there are things about him, Lance realises fondly, that soften the edges. 

Almost a month into the soft dream that was their relationship. 

The bangles still weren’t off . 

Shiro had been oddly secretive about what the bangles symbolized after the first time he had brought it up, and it prickled endlessly against his consciousness. 

Whatever it was, Shiro refused to give him an explanation, so all Lance was left to do was wait and wonder.

One day, when things start to lull a little, Shiro decides he wants to see Lance’s archery skills in person. He sets up an entire range in their backyard (their backyard!), and sits back with an amused smile to see what Lance would present to him. 

Lance took one look at the relaxed way he had his legs crossed and the glimmer in his eyes. And, well, when he looked like that, Lance wasn’t going to disappoint him, now was he?

“What do I get if I hit a bullseye every time?” Lance teases, readjusting the leather sleeve over his forearm. 

Shiro pretends to think about it, his lips pulling up in that lopsided way that set Lance’s heart racing. “I’ll give you a kiss.”

Lance stills at that, body temperature immediately rising. They hadn’t kissed since their ceremony, and gods, did Lance want a taste of it again. 

A slow, sly smile pulls over Lance’s lips. “Deal,” he says nonchalantly, and saunters away to the starting line. He doesn't need to turn around to know Shiro was watching him. 

His arrow hits the dead center of each target every time the string of his bow snapped. At the end of his course, Lance lowers his weapon and turns around smugly. “I hope you’re ready to-”

And suddenly there’s an arm around his waist. Lance laughs as Shiro presses his nose against the crook of his neck, placing a kiss against the skin that met Lance’s shoulder. 

“You are amazing, did you know that?” Shiro mumbles against him, and Lance is a blushing mess in his arms. 

“You can definitely mention it more,” Lance replies, grinning as his arms wind against the column of Shiro’s neck. 

“Oh, I definitely will,” Shiro promised, pulling back to fix Lance with star-filled eyes, “I happen to remember I promised you a kiss.”

Lance’s entire body ached for it, but he wasn’t going to say that out loud. “You definitely did,” he said coyly, instead. 

And the butterflies in his stomach were already going crazy. Shiro’s eyes lowered to Lance’s lips before finding his eyes again. Lance is ready to whine that it was taking too long when suddenly, Shiro leans in and places his lips against Lance’s. He hums, and the sound sends curls of satisfaction down Lance’s body.

Their first kiss took Lance’s breath away, but this one?

Time stops. Lance wouldn't be able to tell the difference from left and right if someone asked him. It was a novel thing for Lance to know that there were a plethora of emotions he had never felt until now. The sparks that he feels all the way down to his toes. The way his heart surges and stutters all at once. If someone told him the world started on Shiro’s lips, Lance would not argue against them. He was ready to accept that his life lay in the way Shiro smiled against his mouth, the way Shiro's laughter was his laughter, was their laughter, until that's all he was. 

The kiss thaws the ice even more. 

They can’t keep their hands off of each other. 

Lance does not mind, at all. 

Two months in, Lance asks Shiro to saw the bangles off during breakfast,

Shiro chokes on his tea, and he sets the comically tiny cup down and coughs violently into his elbow. “Absolutely not!” he exclaims, once he has his breath back, “Those are gold, and not to mention the safety risks for trying something like that-”

“You won’t hurt me,” Lance argues, presenting his wrists to Shiro. “You’ll be careful, I know you.”

Shiro looks pained. “Lance, no, that’s not the way it works. There’s no way I could-”

Lance pouts and gives him the roundest, most shining eyes he could manage. “Please?”

Whatever Shiro is about to say dies in his throat. Shiro hesitates, visibly bowing under his look. Then, he sighs. Scowls. “You are despicable,” he mutters, already getting up to grab something serrated. 

Lance smiles. 

Lance is right: Shiro is incredibly careful. 

They’re still sitting at the table where they were eating breakfast, but the dishes had been pushed to the side to give Shiro some space. He saws half-heartedly with a kitchen knife and does his best to protect Lance’s skin. 

Like being cursed to be unyielding, the bangles refuse to move. 

“Oh, come on!” Lance whines, eyeing his wrist in disgust. “Shiro, I hate these so much. We must have something sharper, I trust you to-”

Abruptly, Shiro lets go of his hold on Lance’s wrist, his entire body coils with energy as he set down the knife with a clatter. “What?” he asks sharply, a grin slowly taking over his features. 

Lance is too busy complaining to pay attention. “I said I trust you to saw these stupid bangles off with something sharper,” he huffs, lifting his wrist to inspect the bangles, which frustratingly don’t even show the slightest of signs that they had been sawed against. 

“Wrist,” Shiro makes grabby hands, and Lance obediently holds his hand out without another thought. One of Shiro’s hands curls around his forearm to hold him in place, while the metal one grips onto the bangle and tugs. 

Lance groans at the familiar movement. “Shiro that’s not going to-” 

The first two bangles slide off. 

Lance shuts up immediately, staring bug eyed at the reflective ornament in Shiro’s hand. Without missing a beat, Shiro shifts his focus onto Lance’s other hand, and the bangles slide off just as easily on that side. 

“How did…” Lance stammers, taking turns looking at the bangles and at Shiro’s hand in disbelief. 

Shiro is beaming but is trying very hard to look like he’s not. “The bangles,” Shiro explained as if it answered every single one of Lance’s boiling questions. 

Lance only stared at him, helplessly lost. 

Shiro’s gives up trying to hide his smile. “The bangles only come off when the person that’s wearing them trusts their partner,” he says, meeting Lance’s gaze, “That’s why I have to be the one to take them off.”

Lance has never seen Shiro look so happy, and it’s immediately enough for Lance to blush. Before Lance can apologise for taking so long, Shiro’s mouth is on his joyfully, and he’s kissing Lance as if he just gave Shiro the best gift he could have asked for. 

Four months, exactly. 

Lance doesn’t expect to ever be this at ease around his husband. 

Everything he did, Lance did with Shiro on his mind. They were still very much their own people, with jobs and other acquaintances and lives outside of each other, but somehow coming home to Shiro became the best part of his day. 

They’re much better at reading each other’s signals, and whatever initial awkwardness they’d held around each other evaporating to make way for ordinary intimacies: Lance waking up to Shiro’s arm around his waist, remembering each other’s favourite foods, or Shiro teaching Lance how to fight with a broadsword even though he’s terrible at it.  

Some days, Lance thinks he might love him, or at least is in the process of falling in love with him. 

He thinks it when he’s kissing Shiro back to the present when he wakes up whimpering. He thinks it when Shiro let’s him hold him after he calms down, Lance’s touch working a magic over him that pulls him back to sleep. He thinks it whenever Shiro bends down to randomly place a kiss on his temple as he walks by. Lance smiles and leans into it every time, mind working back  to the blue juniberry flower he had worn behind his ear on their wedding day, it’s soft petals like fingers over his skin. 

There are days when Lance catches Shiro in the act of looking at him as if he was the only thing that existed. As if every clumsy little action Lance performed was a miracle, was something wondrous and new and breathtaking. 

On those days, he’s pretty sure the ‘L’ word is on Shiro’s lips too. 

Six months. 

Sometimes, Lance thinks back to how uncertain he had been the day of their wedding. How he had prayed to the gods that they’d be happy, that they’d still want each other. He compares it to where they are now, with Shiro pacing around the room, shirtless, scars on full display, as he rants about how difficult Altean politics could be. Or, the two of them, in the bathtub together, massaging fragranced soap into each other’s hair while they talked about their most embarrassing childhood memories. 

Or better yet, the night Shiro had leaned over him after kissing him senseless against their pillows, and asked Lance to call him Takashi. 

“Takashi,” Lance fits the word into his mouth, and the effect it has on his husband is immediate and palpable. Shir- Takashi’s pupils dilate, and all of a sudden his hands are winding through Lance’s hair, and it feels so good that Lance whispers it one more time, “Takashi.”

Takashi dips his chin down, and works a trail of kisses up the side of Lance’s throat. “Say it again,”

“Ah,” Lance’s breath catches when Takashi captures the soft skin under his jaw with his teeth, “T-Takashi.”

Takashi pulls away, eyes lidded. Bruised lips. Flushed cheeks. His fringe falling into Lance’s eyes. 

“I love you,” he says, and his voice is ridden with desire and want. 

“Gods,” Lance nearly chokes on his words, hands lifting up and under Takashi’s shirt, relishing the way Takashi’s muscles responded to his touch, “Gods, Takashi, I love you too.”

Like a switch being flipped, Takashi leans back on his knees to yank his shirt over his head. Lance retracts to allow for the action, but as soon as Takashi’s hands are free, he guides Lance back to his body and places his hands on his shoulders. Immediately, Lance slides them up and winds his fingers into the little hairs on the nape of his neck. 

Lance pulls him down, lips barely a breath away. “Can we…?”

“Yes,” Shiro breathes, and pulls Lance’s shirt off as well. His hands are on him immediately, on his chest, on his waist, on his stomach, inching further down. “Yes.” 

Lance once decided his life existed in Takashi's kisses, soft and joyful and intoxicating. He modifies that list now: life is in the way Takashi makes small, quiet noises of pleasure when they're tangled together. Life is in the way they’re pulled into each other relentlessly. Life is the way Shiro’s mouth takes him apart slowly, lovingly, every touch filling him with a heat so needy Lance feels like they need to be closer, until they’re crashing, until they’re falling. 

Takashi indulges him effortlessly, knows exactly how to move to make Lance tip his head back and hiss in pleasure. Passion is a language they’ve been speaking in for months, and it wraps around them, pushing them closer, closer, closer to the edge until all Lance can hear is his own name falling from Takashi’s lips, as if the letters were fit together precisely for the way Takashi pronounced them.  

When the crescendo lulls, all that’s left is this: their clasped hands a lifeline on either side of his head, Takashi whispering ‘I love you’ over and over again into Lance’s hair, and the gentle song of their heartbeats falling into pace with each other.  

Lance loved Shiro in a way that was whole and unyielding. The years had passed, but the soft and warm way Shiro looked at him never faded, and every once in a while Lance was hit with it full force, like stepping off a cliff and falling up rather than down. 

They were used to each other like the sun was used to the moon sharing it’s sky, but they still found ways to learn something new about each other everyday. And Lance is only realising this now, when he’s older, but there will always be another way to speak their little love language. Whatever happens, there’s still one more step they could take, one more blissful kiss they could receive. It all starts with a vow, every morning, every night, in between conversations, in their dreams at night.  

And that vow?

Lance. Shiro. Their names. 

Whispered over and over again, like a story that never ends.