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***
Everything is exactly how Keith left it.
And two years, more than two years really…two years is a long time to leave a place, and find it the same. It hurts, just a little, to see his sketchbook half shoved into the drawer under his bed, the boots lined up by the closet, the half-eaten rations bar still far from stale. A cloud of post-it notes on the wall above his pillow, their reminders long expired. There’s a kind of betrayal there— everything here is just the same as he left it; everything here is the same, except for him.
Keith lets the door to his bedroom slide shut behind him. He’s still holding the helmet that attaches to his Marmoran flight suit...he didn’t even realize it was still in his hands. How long has he been holding it? He sets it down next to his bed. His bed. That’s a strange thought: he’s been sleeping out of doors for so long. If, on the back of a giant creature roaming the cosmos outside of time is considered outdoors. And before that, he slept in an assigned bunk for whatever mission the Blades gave him.
But this is as much his bed as any has ever been. He made it before he left; he always made it. Foster homes and military barracks have a few things in common. No matter how old Keith gets, it’s likely he’ll make his bed as soon as he gets out of it. Keith unhooks his knife from his back and sits down.
He’s back. He’s thought about this so much, but now that he’s here, it doesn’t seem real. He takes down one of the post-it notes from the wall above his bed, the only one that’s not in his handwriting. Get mullet-y ass kicked 9 AM, it reads, and then there’s a strange drawing underneath that’s meant to be Lance’s bayard.
There’s an air duct overhead on the opposite wall. It opens with a click and a whoosh as the air starts cycling and Keith, lost in thought, jumps at the noise. He has his knife in hand and he’s on his feet before he realizes what made the sound.
Jesus, was that always that loud?
He closes his eyes, takes a steady breath in. Exhales. Just the air duct. No reason to be this on edge. The ancient castleship has plenty of quirks— the brr of the line drive, the harsh grating of the goo dispenser, the inexplicable rock as she moves through space. He used to know them all, so much so that they faded into the background. Not anymore.
There’s a wardrobe across from the bed. Keith touches the wall and a panel opens. The Blade armor, the gauntlets, his chest piece, that fits easily— there’s not all that much inside his closet, because there’s never been all that much inside the closet. His jeans are hanging on a hook just inside the door. They might not fit the same as they used to. He’s taller now, he guesses, though he didn’t notice the growth until Lance pointed it out.
He won’t think about that.
Mechanically, he finishes undressing. There’s a thin scar that wraps around his left leg. A close call with one of the many nameless creatures on the surface of the space whale. If it would have happened here, a few minutes in the healing pod would have all but erased it. As it is, he’ll probably always have the scar.
In the attached bathroom, he leaves his knife on the sink atop his clothes. It’s only a pace away from the shower, but not having it within arm’s reach makes him feel more exposed than taking off his armor and undersuit ever could. He’s always kept it close, but for the last two years, it was in his hand more often than not.
The taps run hot and strong and it seems like a miracle. “I’ll never take hot water for granted again,” Keith says with a sigh, stepping under the spray. The sound is wrong, the way it echoes against the tiles. He swallows, realizes that his voice is hoarse. From talking so much since he returned to the castleship this morning. He’s spoken more today than he has for the past two years combined, probably. Krolia isn’t much for talking.
He stands there for a moment, the hot water beating his shoulders, watching the steam roll up towards the ceiling. He really is back, huh?
All the bathrooms, when the five of them first arrived at the Castle of Lions, all of the showers were stocked with these pinkish-translucent bars of soap. The castleship seemed to have an endless supply, just as it did with Altean laundry detergent, and the food goo, and Coran’s weird smelling aftershave. They were a part of his life that Keith never gave much thought to. Now Keith picks up the bar of soap and it feels like something precious, something foreign, something that used to be his that he lost.
He’s moved around a lot in his life. He would have never expected his return to his team to be so jarring. Like flying weightless only to be caught in a turbulent atmosphere. Coming back, coming home, should be good, but. The re-entry is rougher than he expected.
The bright voices of Hunk and Pidge and how— even though they always used to impress him with their expertise— they just seem so young , now. It was like they didn’t grasp the immediacy, the severity of the situation when he returned. And, even Shiro. Shiro, who has been the steadiest presence in Keith’s life for so long. Why did Shiro’s hand on his back, why did his touch seem wrong somehow?
Lance. Keith bites his lip. The two of them slipped right back into their familiar bickering, and that was good. Almost like slipping into an old jacket to find out that it still fits the same. Still warm. But, yeah. Not quite. Maybe in that jacket, the sleeves are too short now, or maybe the fabric is stiff. Lance was loud, as always, but even Lance, even Lance seemed off. He seemed so surprised that Keith had changed. Keith tilts his head back, the water flattening his hair to his skull, streaming down his face.
It’s just...two years.
He inhales.
Two years.
Two years of his life have passed.
He exhales and it’s not exactly a sob because this isn’t exactly sadness. He swallows. Just holding it. Holding the bar of soap and holding the tightness in his chest.
He swipes the bar over his chest and the smell of juniberries threatens to overwhelm. He’s back and everything is the same, but nothing is the same. And changed most of all, is him.
*
His bed will stay made a little while longer.
He decides as much as he gets dressed.
He and his mother and the Altean, Romelle, arrived on the castleship at the brink of chaos— the power of the empire in flux, the suspicions they have about the fall of Zarkon and his witch, the rise and fall of Lotor and his generals. The misgivings that Keith feels about the time he lost are insignificant in comparison.
“I’m not even gonna try the jeans,” Keith says, clearing the hoarseness out of his voice. The black leggings from the paladin under-armor are made to be stretchy. And his tee shirt is tighter now, but it still fits too. He doesn’t bother with boots.
It’s late, and the team has a lot of work planned for tomorrow. But sleep doesn’t feel right. Not yet. On the space whale, where things were ever changing, it was normal for he and Krolia to keep watch, even at night. They took turns, but it still meant that he developed strange sleeping patterns. Keith decides to take one lap around the castle, at the very least to check that their defenses are holding and that everything is quiet for the next few hours. Better than lying awake in bed.
That hasn’t changed at least— Keith smiles, wry, at himself in the mirror as he runs his fingers through his hair. Something is bothering him? He shoves it down deep and stays focused. It might not be the best strategy, but it’s worked for him so far.
Ensuring that his knife is once again holstered at his back, Keith moves to leave. Since he left, it’s only been weeks, not years, for these guys, but maybe the kitchen is stocked with something other than food goo nowadays? He can at least check.
He touches the pad next to the door, the automated lock clicks out of place, the door slides open, and,
Lance is standing there, wide-eyed in the dark hallway.
Directly outside his door.
Looking at him.
“Uh,” Keith blinks. “Lance?”
“Keith!?” Lance blinks rapidly. “What are you doing here?”
Keith frowns. He points over his shoulder. “This is my room?”
Lance’s gaze follows the direction of Keith’s finger and then he shakes his head. His eyes snap back to Keith’s,
(and, oh.
Keith is taller than when he left.
He must be, because Lance is looking up at him, just the smallest bit. That’s…
That’s weird.
But also.
Keith doesn’t. Exactly. Hate it.)
Lance’s eyes snap back to Keith’s. His face does that pinched expression, the one where his skinny brows angling impossibly inwards, the one that Keith can picture so clearly but hasn’t seen in so long, and he says, “Duh, Keith.”
He takes a breath: “Duh, this is your room. I know that.” Pokes Keith in the chest. “But you’re supposed to be sleeping.”
Keith looks down at Lance’s poking hand and counters: “If I’m supposed to be sleeping then that also means that you’re supposed to be sleeping. Lance!”
Lance’s cheeks blow out and his lips pucker and he narrows his eyes. Keith thinks that he might be about to explode, but instead Lance’s narrow shoulders drop and he sighs.
“Here,” he says. And he hands Keith his jacket.
Keith’s jacket. The red one.
Keith looks down at it in his hands. The jacket, too, seems almost mocking in how it’s stayed the same. He hasn’t seen it in so long, but here it is, just as he...wait. Keith lifts up one of the sleeves examining it.
“Lance?”
Lance stops. He’s turned to head back to his own room, hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched as he walks away. At the sound of Keith’s voice, his shoulders rise up to his ears. He pivots on one foot, turning back towards Keith with his hands still buried deep in his jeans. “Yeah?”
Keith takes a step forward. His bedroom door slides shut behind him. “Did you…?” He holds up the sleeve. He remembers, when he left, the stripe of white was frayed, coming apart at the seam where it met the red.
“Did you fix this?”
Keith jogs over to where Lance is standing in the hallway, catching up with him. He holds up the part he’s talking about— and sure enough, there’s a neat little row of stitches, barely noticeable, knitting the two pieces of fabric back together. Keith uses his thumbs to pry the white part from the red, making the stitches more noticeable.
“Hey! Don’t tug at it like that, dude, you’re gonna rip it again,” Lance tuts, knocking Keith on his shoulder with the back of his hand. Shaking his head, he mutters, “I just saw there was a tear, okay? Sorry if I shoulda just left it or something.”
Hands tight in the fabric, Keith shakes his head. He’s caught up in the image of Lance carefully laying the seam, pulling the thread taught, turning the sleeve inside out to check his work. Lance has slender, steady hands and an eye for detail. He did a good job with the repair; the care is evident. He kept the jacket safe until Keith came back. It seems... Keith clenches his jaw against the emotion. It seems like something someone would do for someone special to them, like an act of love. Something simple. Something caring. He’s not sure if anyone has ever done something like that before. For him.
“Thank you,” Keith says, ducking his head. He wants to bury his face in the jacket. The not-quite-sadness feeling is back and this time there’s no rush of water to hide it. Keith clears his throat as quietly as he can. “This is. Good of you. Lance. Thanks.”
Lance shrugs. He’s not looking at Keith. “No big.”
Apart from the mixed up mess of emotions unraveling in Keith’s chest, he frowns. He would have expected fanfare and trumpeting from Lance. Preening at the idea of showing off a skill, at least.
Come to think of it, apart from Keith’s initial return, Lance has been abnormally quiet all day. The team has been busy but Lance almost seems withdrawn. And Keith heard Hunk and Pidge teasing him earlier, but Lance wasn’t laughing. Keith tilts his head, taking in the circles under Lance’s eyes, the heavy set of his brow as he frowns, avoiding eye contact. The delicate skin of his bottom lip is broken, like he’s bitten it chapped.
Maybe there’s been more going on since Keith left than he realized.
“That’s it?” Keith asks, keeping his tone level. He leans back against the wall of the hallway, lifts his chin, raises an eyebrow. “No big?” Still hugging the jacket close to him with one arm, Keith turns the other hand over in the air. “I would’ve expected more of a production from The Tailor himself.”
Lance winces. Noticeably.
Keith’s hand hangs between them like a false start. A conversation that can’t get off the ground. Were things always like this between them? Or is this something new?
Keith shifts on his feet. He’s never been good at this kind of thing, and now he’s lost two more years of potential practice.
He juts his chin out, stubborn enough to give it one more try. “That was a joke,” he offers.
Lance gives him a smile then, even though it’s off-kilter. “You, tell a joke?” he asks.
“Stranger things have happened,” Keith drawls, flat.
Suddenly, Lance is close to Keith. He’s up against the wall, standing on his tippy-toes next to Keith. There’s a window slightly above eye-level, that runs the length of the hall. Lance cranes his neck to look out into the inky deep of space.
“What are you doing?” Keith asks, completely flabbergasted by this abrupt change. “Lance?”
“I’m looking out the window, Keith,” Lance says, grinning now. He leans, one shoulder pressed into the wall, and looks at Keith. “I need to know if pigs are flying around out there.”
“Pigs?” Keith repeats. He frowns. What is he...
…
“Laaance.” He sighs, when he realizes. Pigs, flying. Him, Keith Kogane, telling a joke. Ha.
Lance snorts, and looks entirely too happy with himself. “And now he gets it. Took you long enough, hotshot.”
Keith laughs then, a full bodied laugh, one that comes from his chest. He thinks that maybe Lance is surprised by the sound— his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline— but he’s happy too. The smile that tugs at his mouth is genuine. His blue eyes light up. Keith knows him well enough to know for sure. Even though time has passed, Keith still recognizes it.
Talking to Lance like this, it feels normal. In a way that nothing really has since Keith’s been back. Impulsive, Keith reaches out and squeezes Lance’s hand. Slender and steady, but strong. And, Keith knows, unequivocally there for him. He means, I appreciate you.
He says: “I missed this. I missed you.”
Lance’s hand spasms in Keith’s. He wiggles his fingers and with his opposite hand, points to his face. As if to say, Me? Really?
Keith nods.
“I, um, wow, Keith, really throwing me for a loop here, dude, y’know, with the, and all,” Lance flails, eventually freeing his hand from Keith’s grasp. He seems to not know what to do with it from there, and, after waving it around, ends up shoving it in his pocket. “But, yeah, man, that’s cool. I missed. Um. I missed you, too.”
Keith smiles at him, small. His heart light and fluttering in his chest.
“I missed you a heckuva lot, actually,” Lance admits further. He has one hand on the back of his neck, gaze now downcast. “It’s not the same without you here. It’s not right.”
“How so?” Keith asks, leaning against the wall again. He crosses his arms.
“Oh wow, are we really doing this?” Lance asks. “Right here, right now?” Keith doesn’t say anything, and Lance mutters, “Guess we’re really doing this.”
“Guess so,” Keith says.
Lance leans on the wall next to him, close enough that his shoulders are touching Keith’s. He’s wearing a tee shirt too, a short sleeved one that Keith had never seen before today. His elbow brushes Keith’s, and Keith notices that Lance’s skin is warm against his.
“Things have been weird,” Lance says, tipping his head back to rest against the wall. He swallows and Keith watches his adam’s apple dip.
As Lance starts to talk, Keith’s focus shifts from the column of his neck, to bow of his mouth, to the words themselves. There’s frustration there, mostly at himself, and a desperation, and a kind of loneliness, too. Keith recognizes it because it mirrors so many of the things that he felt over the past two years.
“Lance,” Keith says, when Lance has talked himself out. He’s staring at their feet, side-by-side in the hall. Lance is wearing the ridiculous blue lion slippers, and for some reason, it makes Keith smile. Maybe both of them have changed, and maybe things have gotten more difficult, but Lance is still Lance. He lost time. But he didn’t lose Lance.
“I know you,” Keith tells him, straightening up. Blue eyes find his. “And I know, Lance, I know. You made the best decisions you could, based on the information that you had, and the way things were. You’re sharp, Lance. And you care, not just about the team, but about all of us as individuals.” Keith shrugs. “That’s...part of the reason why I felt like I could leave. I know I can depend on you.”
He finishes, and finds Lance staring at him. His mouth is slightly parted, and his eyes are full. It’s an expression that Keith has never seen before, exactly.
“What?” Keith asks. Did he say something wrong? He feels his face warm, and he loosens his arms from his sides. “I’m—”
“Keith,” Lance says, voice choked, and he rushes into Keith.
It’s abrupt enough that Keith doesn’t at first realize what’s happening. And forceful enough that he almost loses his balance. One moment they’re standing together, and the next moment, his arms are full.
It’s not the kind of polite hug that people do sometimes, short and light, withdrawing almost before it begins. It’s tight. Lance embraces Keith like he’s holding on to him. His arms are wrapped around Keith and he squeezes— it feels like joy and disbelief and, and, it feels like care for something worn. A simple repair that means something significant. It feels like love.
Lance says his name again, only this time, it’s muffled against Keith’s neck. He’s pressed into Keith, holding him tight. Keith encircles his hands around Lance, slowly, gently. Almost disbelieving that this can be real.
It is real. It’s real in the way that Keith can feel Lance’s hands bunched in his shirt, can feel the solidness of Lance’s chest against his own. He can hear the thump of his heart. It’s real in the way that he can smell Lance: sunshine, somehow, and citrus, and clean, and boy. Keith inhales, holding him close enough that their shadows in the low-light of the after-hours hallway becomes just one long form, spreading out over the floor. He’s warm and Keith might be melting.
“I missed you too, Keith,” Lance says. And the way he says it is secret enough that Keith shivers— either from that or from the way that Lance’s mouth presses the words against his skin.
Lance is right in his arms.
Years have passed and things are shit and Keith is changed, but this, this is right. Keith holds him tight and his heart beats it over and and over again as a mantra.
When Lance pulls away, his eyes are wet. He does a cough-sniffle-throat clear trying to hide it, red flush coloring his cheeks. He tangles a hand in his floofy hair, twisting a lock around his index finger before it drops back to his side. Almost sheepish in the way that he smiles up at Keith.
“See you in the morning, Keith?” Lance asks.
Before— when Shiro was gone, and Keith was leader and Lance was at his side— before Keith left for good, the mornings were theirs. Keith doesn’t think that Lance is naturally an earlier riser, but regardless, he was there, every morning, waiting to meet Keith on the training deck. Before everyone else was awake, the two of them used to spar and go over strategy together. It was how they perfected their teamwork. There, they were partners.
“Yeah, Lance,” Keith says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
The two of them move to go their separate ways, but not really. Their rooms are side-by-side.
Once Keith is inside his room, he indulges in a whim: he slips on his jacket.
It still fits. The brightly colored material creaks as he bends his arms. It’s tight, especially in the shoulders, but it fits. He turns his arm over, examining the repaired sleeve. He runs his finger along the seam, bites the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling.
He has a feeling that he’s settled enough to sleep now.
As he’s taking off the jacket, something crinkles in the pocket. Keith dips his hand inside, and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Like the post-it note from before, he recognizes Lance’s handwriting:
‘Welcome home Keith!’
***