Work Text:
i (1)
He had thought the goodbye on the bridge would be all.
Naively, maybe, because Keith knows he still has to pack up a few things, stop by his room to grab his communicator and maybe a change of clothes (he hasn’t been officially assigned a bunk in the Blade, not yet, so he’s not sure if they provide clothes for off-duty, which seems so witheringly domestic when put next to the serious sheen of the Blade), and perhaps a knick-knack or two from his travels. Not that Keith collects much, but at some point, Lance had started shoving a trinket or two into Keith’s palm and he’d never the heart to discard them with Coran, for the collection of things from their travels in one of the spare rooms. Often, Keith would clutch whatever was in his hand (sometimes gemstones, figurines, little games or toys, whatever struck Lance’s fancy the day of) until he’d be back in his room and realize it was still there, and then it would end up in a drawer. Or, like the ceremonial blade of planet Tauran, crafted by a Tauranian swordsmith (apparently specifically at Lance’s request, according to a smirking Pidge), it would come to rest on the surface of Keith’s desk. Just little reminders of the places he’s been, the worlds he’s helped save and free. All picked through Lance’s eyes, handed over with a gentle reverence and explanation (never as to why Lance insists on picking things out for Keith. Just the history of the item, why this stone stood out from that one).
The Tauran blade makes it into Keith’s bag, and a particularly smooth blue stone, and he wraps them both up carefully beneath a t-shirt. He tosses his communicator in without half as much care, knowing that the chances of him using it beyond reading coalition reports are low. Maybe, mission permitting, he’ll take photos, if he can, of landscapes and of the Marmora base. Because Lance (has been whining about Keith’s absence and demanding he take photos so that Lance can at least see) and Hunk like those sorts of things. Maybe he’ll send Pidge some schematics and Allura some reports, call Shiro every so often. He doesn’t know. The work may not allow it, and the mission comes above all else.
He takes a final look at the room he has called home for a near-decaphoeb, offers it a courteous nod, and then heads to the hangars.
Keith makes it past the kitchen without incident (feeling something strange twinge in his chest when he’s surprised to find it devoid of Hunk), then past the training deck, spying a training sword abandoned on the floor. The hangar is filled with his fellow Garrison cadets, though, and he almost considers backing away to wait until the coast is clear.
But Hunk has spotted him, is already crying again, and he lifts Keith bodily off the floor. “I’m gonna miss you so much,” he wails, planting his face firmly against Keith’s elevated chest (Keith doesn’t even mind that he’s going to get the wet patches of Hunk’s tears on his chestplate), “who’s gonna do cool stuff with their sword?”
Keith pats Hunk placatingly on the shoulder, smiling when he’s set on his feet again. “I’m sure Allura can take over.”
Pidge slams into him next, though Keith has gotten no closer to the shuttle he was intending to use, her grip surprisingly crushing, considering her unchanged standing as Number Five. “Come back soon, okay? It’s weird without you here.”
Keith nods (it’s not going to be weird without him here, because he’s already been halfway out the door for weeks. It’s already weird without him here, and Keith’s foot slides further out of team Voltron’s orbit, putting a safe distance between them again), slow to hug back, one hand still firmly on the strap of his bag. “I will,” he fibs, because he has no idea when he’ll be back.
Hunk drapes himself over Pidge when she pulls back, keeping a respectful distance as Lance approaches. “I’ll fly you out,” he grins, throwing in a little shrug, looking all-too-pleased with himself.
“I can take myself,” Keith offers, though he’s already trailing behind when Lance turns, already throwing a final smile over his shoulder at Pidge and Hunk as his feet carry him to Red’s hangar.
“Nah,” Lance flaps his hand at Keith, “Hunk played a lil’ with Red’s boosters, so I wanted to try ‘em out anyway.”
“Okay,” Keith agrees, not minding so much when Lance throws an arm over his shoulder (for all he knows, this could very well be among the final friendly touches Keith receives for a while. Maybe ever again, if a mission goes wrong).
“Oh,” Lance says after a moment, withdrawing his arm (Keith instantly aches for the warmth again, and this he squashes down very low). He pulls his helmet from beneath his arm, reaching into it. He pulls a dagger from it, as if the helmet is nothing more than a basket, obsidian black and almost sparkling, reflecting the universe and the soul-dismantling blue of Lance’s eyes. It’s not very big, handle big enough for a palm and blade big enough for a second, but it’s captured Keith’s gaze completely, and he holds it with reverence when Lance passes it over.
“From the show of arms,” Lance explains, (blessedly) casting his arm across Keith’s shoulders again, “similar to obsidian, but way stronger. It’s pretty thin but not brittle, so it shouldn’t break if you drop it or anything. Can cut clean through wood and a bunch of other shit. So be careful. It’s kinda small for battle, so it’s sort of decorative but.” He shrugs, jostling them both, “thought you’d think it’s cool.”
“It is cool,” Keith concurs, testing the weight of the blade, tossing and flipping it blade over pommel. It lands comfortably in his grip and he smiles, turning to Lance, “thank you, Lance.”
Lance goes soft, his arm tightening for a moment, “glad you like it.”
And Keith looks away (he can’t take the weight of that gaze, not when he’s leaving. He can’t), instead setting the blade into one of the pockets of his belt. Lance looks satisfied when their gazes meet again, and he flies them out to the Blade with relative ease, practically lounging in his seat (his ego may be big, but at times like these, Keith sees the skill back the bravado up).
And when they land, Lance hesitates all of two ticks before he hugs Keith tight, pulls on his hair and says, “you’d better keep in touch, Mullet.”
He looks earnest when he pulls away to look at Keith, his bottom lip half between his teeth.
“I’ll do my best,” Keith assures, slapping Lance’s out of his hair without an ounce of strength.
Lance smiles a little at the action, but his hand settles on Keith’s shoulder.“Promise?”
“Sure, promise.” Keith nods. He’ll leave this much of himself behind. This much and not an ounce more.
“Don’t die,” Lance tacks on, stepping backwards into Red’s maw, “and be safe.”
Keith gives him a thumbs up, watching Lance pause at the entrance to the cockpit. “You too,” he tosses back.
Keith will do his best.
i (2)
He isn’t thinking, not really, when he’s flying toward the particle barrier.
Or, rather, he does think. Just not about dying.
He thinks about his team, his family (because even Keith can admit now that that’s what they are, what they were), about their yells of pain and about their sudden silence. If this is what it takes, then so be it. Voltron can’t go down. Mission first, Keith second (he’s always been a bit self-sacrificial by nature, but it can’t be helped when it’s for the greater good. When all he can see are the faces that he has learned to belong within).
He barely has time to pull up when the ship is destroyed.
Barely makes it out of the blast zone and onto the castleship out of sheer muscle memory.
But he lives, and perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned from that, but the only thing he seems to comprehend after the fact is that he’s upset Lance, and he’s already crumbling in anger when he spots Keith, and that is not a look Keith wants to be responsible for.
He lives, and all he gleans from it all is that there is a hardy black dagger tucked tightly into his boot.
ii (1)
09:18
hello idiot
Is that how we’re doing this?
yes. youre an idiot
Gee, thanks, Lance.
anytime.
when are u coming back
I don’t know.
have you asked to leave mullet.
Kolivan’s busy
mullet.
Weirdly enough, the name calling isnt working in your favour.
>:(
MULLET.
12:56
ANSWER ME EMO MAN
keith thinks hes forgiven for trying to fly into particle barrier
keith is wrong
23:24
Little worried here, Keith
Sorry, all good. Just debrief and training. And I asked Kolivan.
HE LIVES
don’t leave me hanging like that man
what did father kolivan say
Sorry
Please don’t call him that.
you’re right my mistake
Daddy kolivan.
He said I could go but now I don’t know if I want to.
YAY FATHER HAS RELEASED YOU
*DADDY
Gross
He thinks you guys need me for something can you have Coran make something up
on it, team leader :)
or . ex-team leader, breaker of hearts
Okay, Lance
Tell me what day Coran settles on. I’ll take a pod
we’ll get you
will let you know when
24:15
Thanks, Lance
Ye B-)
ii (2)
Kolivan takes notice of the texting. He has to, because Keith goes from never having his communicator to carrying it around to the mess hall or leaving it with his utility belt when he goes to train. Has to, because Keith is using the heavily encrypted servers of the Blade to reach out. Which is fine, because plenty of other Blades reach out to loved ones, and Kolivan never has an issue with Keith’s occasional calls to Shiro, but Kolivan isn’t stupid. He picks up on it before Keith, the warm clinginess he develops for Lance. The way he delays leaving the castle on his almost-biweekly visits, the way Lance always comes to pick him up a few dobashes early and Keith is always headed into Red’s cockpit before she’s even properly lowered her head.
So, Kolivan’s not stupid. Keith makes more of an effort to distance himself from Lance when Kolivan shoots him a pointed look or two, starts leaving his communicator behind when he itches to take it with him. He always warns Lance, if they’re in the middle of conversation, because he doesn’t want him to worry (because Lance worries about Keith). It’s none the matter, because Keith stays up late messaging Lance anyway, until he knows he needs to sleep, lest he be distracted come morning.
And for the most part, Keith doesn’t push it. He doesn’t ask for more visits than Coran can bullshit, doesn’t dawdle after the fact, and his focus is unwavering.
So, aside from an occasional raised brow, Kolivan doesn’t comment on it.
And fortunately, it works in Keith’s favour when he slams into Kolivan’s office with as much grace as he can offer. “Voltron needs me,” he huffs out (no, he did not come running from his bunk), “need a second pilot for Red.”
Kolivan gives Keith a bit a look, unimpressed but otherwise unbothered, and he takes his sweet time flicking through scheduled missions to find Keith’s assignments. He should be clear for the next few days. Maybe.
After a moment, he narrows his eyes at Keith. “What is their mission?”
“Small-scale intelligence-gathering op. Lance is on the ground for it, but they need Red for observation. So, me.”
“Why hasn’t Coran informed me?”
“He asked me to tell you directly. He’s been busy recalibrating the castle.” Keith offers, thanking whatever higher power has blessed him with the sudden ability to bullshit. His lies are, admittedly, flimsy, but Kolivan doesn’t seem to care about loyalty so long as Keith is back for his missions and not going about divulging classified information (at this point, Kolivan trusts Keith to do good on both counts).
“Be back before the opening closes again,” Kolivan warns, but he dismisses Keith, and off he goes, shooting toward the hangars with as much restraint as he can manage. A few Blades (Marmorites, Lance calls them) he’s come to exchange idle chatter with seem to smirk at him as if he’s open book.
But he presses past anyway, only barely containing the need to leave (to go home) running the length of his limbs.
Because:
pidg and hunk wont leave me alone </3
Why, what did you do?
ye of little faith
theyre calling me moronsexual >:’(
What.
like i like morons apparently
So you
You have a crush on someone. In space
don’t sAY IT LIKE THAT
You have a crush on someone in the middle of an intergalactic war. Embarrasing.
Who’s the lucky moron
i dunno YOURE kinda a moron
What are you trying to say
idk keith what AM i trying to say
Lance.
oh look at that coran needs me what timing!
haha bye moron!
LANCE.
moron.
Lance.
Fine. I’m on my way
Because: there are blue eyes that Keith knows better than his own bouncing around in the depths of his brain. Because: there’s an impractical little black blade shoved up the pocket in his wrist (and there is a blue stone on his headboard and there is a drawer full of memories and warm hands and gentle touches back on the castle), and because there is a piece of a heart with Keith’s name on it and perhaps Keith had known it was there, though he had never imagined it to be like this.
Because: every ridge in his spine is alight with this revelation, with the very idea—
Because: maybe, perhaps, Keith is a moron.
iii (1)
Lance is Keith’s boyfriend.
Or, space-ranger-partner-boyfriend.
His other half.
iv (1)
The simple fact about revelations is that Keith has never been good at having them.
There have been moments, like the moment Lance had kissed his head after yelling his desperation at him and Keith had known, deep down, that the toiling in his sternum had more to do with the arms around him than his near-sacrifice. Moments like when Lance had brushed his knuckles to Keith’s shoulder and Keith had nearly buckled beneath the tenderness of it. Moments like Shiro gone for Kerberos, gone for what Keith thought would have been good, though he tried not to believe it.
And there are moments, like when the memories of lives long-past lived flooded surely and steadily into his skull, drowning him as he had in the 20s, washing him in affection and kindness and pain, like the two children somewhere in his last life, like the arrow in Leander’s throat, that make every moment with Lance make sense.
It isn’t that he’s fallen in love with a soul, no (though his own soul has, deeply intertwined and caught beneath the weight of it). It’s that he has fallen for Lance, and those strange echoes of need, those aches to wind his fingers in those bronze-brown ones come unbidden from this life. But with the memories, he aches more, aches with a thousand unfair lifetimes, with the handful of comfortable ones, warm baths and sun-catching rings and hours spent in a stream only to dry off in the sun, Lance at his side all the while.
Leander, at first, Léon later, but a rose by any other name smells as sweet because it is a rose, and because Lance is a rose and because Keith can map out the constellations on those freckled cheeks as much as he wishes with the confidence of lifetimes cut short. Because he can stare into those ocean-blue eyes (Keith has never seen the ocean. Not in this life, but he has sat on the beach and he has watched the sunset coat everything in gold) and be stared back into, see into the soul of swimming warmth and understand that the tide will not tear him apart so much as lull him to the safety of shore, and, should he choose to roll back into those currents, will allow him to float unbidden and free.
The simple fact about revelations is that Keith does not understand them, not at first, but when does, he comes to pang in ways he did not know possible, and he has come to find a hand to hold his all the while.
“It’s weird,” Lance murmurs, Keith’s leg trapped between his own, their hands clasped on the bed in the space between them, “but it makes sense.”
Keith is certain Lance sees the request for elaboration in his eyes. He continues, “like Naxzela. Matt said he wasn’t sure if you made it and I felt like everything was being torn apart. Like nothing I’ve ever done even mattered.”
“Me, too,” Keith whispers, his fingertips gentle where they trace across the curve of Lance’s cheek, “I thought you were gone when the comms cut, and it didn’t matter what happened after it.”
Lance hums in agreement, in understanding, “and whenever you went a long time without responding to my messages, I flipped. I knew you were fine, but it was like I was getting ready to be broken. Shattered. Humpty Dumpty.”
Keith frowns, “I’m sorry.”
“I knew you were okay,” Lance smiles, and he brushes Keith’s hair away, pressing a kiss to his lips before curling into his arms.
He sighs, deflating against Keith. “Hey, Lance?”
“Mhm?” Lance’s arm goes secure around Keith’s waist, anchoring them together.
“I’m… not saying this ‘cause of all the memory stuff,” he starts softly, “but it gave me… some clarity.”
Lance pulls back a little, though his fingers stay tracing Keith’s spine at the small of his back. He knows what Keith is going to say, surely (not that Keith’s ever been very good at being vague), and he looks about to burst with it, holding his breath.
“I… I love you.”
And Lance bubbles over with it, and his eyes well up and he bursts into laughter, hands leaving Keith just to cover his own face (for a moment, Keith almost worries he’s said the wrong thing). And then he slings his entire weight onto Keith, hands going to grab at Keith’s cheeks, teardrops falling thick like honey onto his face (like the purity of rain, this cleanses Keith, as if Lance is the petrichor of desert storms and land-saving monsoons). Lance kisses Keith with all the conviction of a soul undone and draws back only far enough to breathe, “I love you, too, Keith. So much.”
And, oh, there’s not a word in the universe that Keith can say that could encompass the way his chest fills, the way his eyes fill, and he can’t even be upset when they well over because he’s looking into those gem-blue eyes, putting every nebula in every galaxy to shame, looking like the only place Keith has every truly known how to call home.
It is a gentle thing, an impossible thing, to be drawn into an uncertain universe only to find his one true tether to existence. To be tied together across the ages, to be sought after without any knowledge and to acquire, anyway, because the powers that be have never been kind, not like this, not to Keith.
The past does not make sense, not the way Keith wishes for it to, but this moment, this boy… fits perfectly into the puzzle that Keith has never had all the pieces for.
iv (2)
Krolia knows about Lance.
A little bit, at first, just flashes in the abyss. A kiss, a dance at a diplomatic ball sometime in their first few weeks together. A quiet moment stolen on a balcony beneath three glittering moons.
But she works so diligently to earn Keith’s love and trust (she doesn’t need to, because she had it the moment she told Keith she left to protect him, the one she most loves), to carefully and slowly open him up when he is willing, that some days it is all that keeps him sane to tell his mother about the boy with the universe in his gaze and Keith’s heart in his palms.
Krolia listens, smiles softly when Keith drops into a murmur, sets her hand on his shoulder when he sees a bite of his past in this life.
The guilt wears on Keith, with every day that passes. He knows that he will be older or younger than he should be when he returns, that he won’t quite match up and fall into place with Lance. It tears him apart; he can only imagine what the silence does to Lance.
But it assuages him in some measure to see glimpses of a future, to see Lance at his side somewhere far in their years, both a little older but still smiling when they catch each other’s gazes.
“He loves you,” Krolia reminds quietly, when they’ve touched down in the hangar, when Keith is still burning up inside at the sight of Lance’s look over the comms, his back when he’d walked off the bridge after remarking, vaguely miffed, that Keith looks bigger. “Not much time has passed for him.”
And he shouldn’t have worried. Because when he steps from the ship, Krolia, Romelle, and his wolf trailing behind, he’s slammed into so hard that he hits the deck, arms full of Lance.
He’s shaking, maybe angry, maybe crying, but he’s squeezing so tight that Keith can only hold him back with as much conviction (they have loved each other through worse), because Lance smells like home. And he’s murmuring into Keith’s hair, mumbling over and over again in Spanish. An actual prayer, this time, a thank you, maybe. Little by little, Keith’s frayed edges begin to hem again, and he is not so threadbare with those lips whispering into his ear, those hands tangled in his hair.
And when Lance sits back, all his weight settled on Keith’s stomach, he looks so terribly torn apart that Keith feels shame rip through him (he has made Lance crumple again, made him break into teary eyes and wobbling lips). His fist comes down on the plating of Keith’s chest, half-hearted because a moment later his hand flattens and spreads, touching at the broadened shape of Keith’s clavicle and shoulders, the changes he finds seeming to draw his brows tighter together.
“You are bigger,” he says at long last, reaching up to scrub at his face with his free hand, “what’s the deal with that?”
But by then the rest of the team has come upon their spectacle, so Lance turns his gaze away and stands, offering his hand out to hoist Keith to his feet. He’s taller than Lance now, though not by much, and perhaps this is the thing that rips through Keith the fiercest.
For a moment, for one terrible, aching moment, Keith almost thinks that Lance will go to stand on the fringes of the group. But he settles close at Keith’s side, looks up and catches his gaze, and then smiles a little timidly, even though his eyes are red-rimmed and he looks positively exhausted. Keith sets his hand on Lance’s shoulder, squeezes, murmurs, “we’ll figure this out as soon as we can.”
But, as Keith has come to intimately know, the universe is not kind to him, and he is chasing after Shiro before he can think better of it, think better of Lance, of those constellation-streaked cheeks and chest-bursting smiles.
He’ll find his way back.
He always has.
iv (3)
“Hey,” Lance greets, his orange jacket half-open. He’s wearing the standard-issue turtleneck beneath it, so it shouldn’t be even half as distracting as it is, but Keith’s gaze still zeros in on the dip in Lance’s collarbones as he brushes past to make himself some tea.
“Hey, Lance,” Keith manages, and he sounds normal enough, so he congratulates himself for it.
“What’re you up to?” Lance seats himself next to Keith, leans close enough that Keith gets a noseful of whatever soap Lance has been using, something antibacterial and reminding Keith of his days before being kicked out of the very establishment aiding them so steadily now. But beneath it, home.
“Iverson gave me some reports to read over.”
“Sounds riveting,” Lance smiles into his tea as he sips it, and Keith has no choice but to slide the tablet away, propping his chin in hand, elbow on the table.
Lance doesn’t seem to mind when he becomes the focus of Keith’s attention, instead mirroring his pose, mug steaming between them. He smiles with so much warmth that Keith’s heart stutters, takes a moment to gather itself up again. And his eyes are no help in the matter, so deep blue and understanding, and even when it tugs at Keith’s chest, he can’t find the strength to look away.
“You’re pretty,” Keith observes softly, the fingers of his free hand flexing on the table in want to reach out, to tuck Lance’s hair back behind his ear.
Lance’s lips twitch up, into something a bit shier, and he wraps his hand around his mug again, glancing down.
“You’re so dumb,” he murmurs, shoving the mug away.
It’s all the warning Keith gets—all the warning he’ll ever need—before Lance bridges the gap between them, lips soft and chaste when he kisses Keith (for the first time in eons. For the first time in two-and-a-handful-of-months years, finally filling the rippling ache that had settled somewhere in Keith’s lungs). He pulls back with a little sigh, though his hand stays on Keith’s jaw. His eyes are searching, questioning, asking, was that okay?
And Keith reaches up to tuck that hair away behind the curve of Lance’s ear, leans closer in and kisses him again, the way he’s wanted to for so, so, so impossibly long, with all the intent he can pour into it, with all of the I love you s and I missed you s and that was okay s.
And Keith kisses the corner of Lance’s lips, takes his face into both hands and kisses the tip of his nose, the space between his brows, the crest of his cheek, every inch he can reach and every inch he has missed with the hollow ache of a love too far out of reach. And Lance laughs under the assault, covers Keith’s fingers with his own, presses their foreheads together so he can catch his breath and look up at Keith through the veil of his brown eyelashes, the blue striking even when feathered and unfocussed.
“I’m ready if you are,” Lance murmurs, “I think we’re good.”
He murmurs: I understand you again. I see you again. I know you are there and I know I am here and I know how to stitch you together again. I have relearned how.
And Keith nods against Lance’s forehead, presses another kiss between them because he can, again, “I’m ready.”
And Lance laughs a little bit, and maybe they both tear up a little bit because such is the life when you are so horribly and wondrously in love, and Lance tangles his fingers in the collar of Keith’s jacket and says, “I love you.”
The absurdity of it, the realness of it, that is what draws Keith in closer, until he cannot tell where he begins and when Lance ends, and he says back, with every ounce of emphasis he can manage, “I love you, too.”
He runs his hands over the face he has longed to touch (has only touched fleetingly in recent times, in moments where the line between friendship and love were blurred), remaps every inch of warm skin, tanning once more under the heat of an Earthen sun, freckles born anew, touches at the curls of hair that he has missed like he has missed the feeling of ground beneath his feet.
He feels, for the first time in years, like when he breathes it won’t be beneath the garble of phantom water, the thorns of the flowers in his lungs turned more to gentle blossoming morning glory, curling around his ribs as they surge apart with unbridled loved, coming in roaring tides and gentle waves, licking at his throat and into Lance’s, laughter and smiles pressed between them until it is all Keith will allow himself ever to know.
No more of the bad aches, he decides, only the good.
“Oh, God, ew. My eyes.”
Keith doesn’t even mind Pidge’s gagging, her pointedly averted gaze as she heads to the kitchen, Hunk in tow.
“Hey, that’s cute!” Hunk protests, hands bunched into enamoured fists beneath his chin, “you guys are so cute.”
Lance buries his face into Keith’s shoulder, hiding what are surely flushed cheeks, but Keith can only find it in himself to smile, to thread his fingers through the hair at Lance’s nape and fit them together like they’ve always seemed meant to.
“We know,” Lance says, voice muffled.
And Pidge sits down with something that might be meatloaf, smiles a little, “it’s good to see you guys back together. Kinda weird not walking in on this sort of stuff.”
“We don’t do this stuff that often!” Lance exclaims, withdrawing only to hook his chin over Keith’s shoulder, pouring himself half in Keith’s lap, “and leave me alone! I haven’t kissed my boyfriend in forever.”
“Gross,” Pidge smiles, at the same time Hunk coos, “cute!”
And it feels right, to have Lance in Keith’s lap, to have their arms twined around one another and for Lance to share his tea (if only because he can, and what a heady thing that is indeed).
Keith’s puzzle is coming together, piece by piece, under the careful watch of that midnight gaze, hand in hand.
v (1)
“Hell,” Lance grunts, heaving a bale of hay up. He throws it onto the pile in the corner of the barn, then sets a hand on the small of his back and bends, cracking it.
“Who’s the older guy now?” Keith muses, though he struggles with his own bale.
“Shut up, alien husband,” Lance replies easily, holding his hand out for Keith.
Keith takes it, still catching his breath, trailing behind Lance to pet Kaltenecker. She moos softly, old age leaving her tired. It will be difficult when she dies, Keith thinks, this cow who has been with them since the start, who has seen lifetimes of space and war. No one is really sure how of her age, but she’s still kicking, good and strong, and that’s good enough for now (Lance had asked Allura if they could have a Kaltenecker AI, and she had genuinely considered it, just as attached to the cow as the rest of them. Coran had already been tearing up when he’d exclaimed that he would get to work on it immediately).
Lance leans over and presses a fleeting kiss to Keith’s temple, just as they break through the doors of the barn. In the distance, on the crest of the hill, a small altar set up, flowers being arranged by harried assistants, Mrs. McClain directing it all with her terrifyingly authoritative tone. Keith waves when she notices them, her stern look melting into an innocent smile.
“Leave it to Rachel to have the most extra wedding,” Lance grumbles.
“We literally got married on the beach. With giant magic robot lions,” Keith levels an amused look Lance’s way, “we had paparazzi. Fireworks. There were dolphins.”
Lance gives a triumphant grin, “ha! Take that ugly twin.”
“I think being twins defeats the whole purpose of that insult.”
“And I think that you sound like a jealous only child,” Lance raises his chin, preening, and Keith lets go to prepare a tackle.
It’s no use, because Lance takes off running toward the house, screaming to nearby Marco that his life is in danger. Marco tells Lance he probably deserves it, and cheers Keith on.
It ends with them tumbling into the grass, coming to a soft bump at the McClain mailbox. The old wood creaks but holds steady, and Keith props himself up on Lance’s chest, wearing a pleased sort of smile. “I win.”
“Win what, huh? Win the prove-you’re-jealous competition? Nice, one, babe, jealousy thy name is sexy.”
Keith bumps his fist on Lance’s chest, and then collapses all his weight onto him, still grinning when he hears Lance’s soft oof. And, big mistake, because this just ends with Lance pulling Keith onto his shoulder, much to his chagrin. But Lance holds steady, husband splayed over his shoulder, laughing all the while. “I have bested you, only child!”
And Keith slams his hands half-heartedly into Lance’s spine, demanding he be set down. But Lance is nothing if not a terrible listener (Lance is the world’s best listener. The best at hearing Keith and understanding him), and he refuses to put Keith down until Keith goes limp, defeated.
“Let me down,” he says weakly, “you win.”
“I have won every single time ever, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, my hero,” Keith says sarcastically, steadying himself on Lance’s arms when he’s finally let down (not that he’d minded that much. Sue Keith, he loves his husband and his flamboyance).
He shoves lightly at Lance’s shoulder when he makes his way into the house, but he only gets so far before his hands are tangling against those familiar fingers, Lance’s ring pressed to Keith’s palm.
Inside, it’s chaos. Nothing short of what Keith had expected, but he nearly gets trampled by a teenaged Silvio, battle cries following him through the dining room as he heads to the kitchen with a broom.
“Hey, watch the merchandise!” Lance calls, and then shakes his head, following to the kitchen.
“Merchandise,” Keith remarks, “high praise.”
“The highest,” Lance assures, squeezing Keith’s hand with a smile. “C’mon, I promised Lisa I’d help her peel potatoes.”
So they go to peel potatoes, squished next to each other between siblings and family, dutifully working to meet Mrs. McClain’s quota. The motion exposes the soft flesh on the inside of Lance’s left wrist, and Keith spies the little Voltron symbol tattooed there. Keith’s got the same one, same place, just like Pidge and Hunk and Shiro and Allura and Coran do, a stupid little joke between the seven of them gotten on a whim after a night of maybe too much nunvil and a lost bet between Lance and Pidge (Pidge had demanded the price be Lance getting the tattoo, but by the end of it a squirming Lance had not been quelled until lovesick fool Keith had squeezed his hand and let himself be roped into it. The rest of the team had followed, no regrets come morning).
And they help prepare what they can for the wedding, and they more or less stick to one another the entire way, teasing and flirting and just talking, the way they’ve learned to, ebbing and flowing as one and the same (it still scares Keith, sometimes, to look into Lance’s eyes and know that he can see every flaw, every scar and nick spanning the length of Keith’s existence). Their souls have conjoined across centuries for this, and Keith thinks that perhaps that is how all love should be.
That that is perhaps how the two of them were always meant to fit.
And when he watches Lance deliver a speech at the wedding reception, embarrassing Rachel through and through (payback for her speech at their wedding, all those years ago) Keith thinks, yes. These are the good aches.