Chapter Text
Lance is in the kitchen when Keith gets home.
It’s late, it’s always late when Keith gets home. It was midnight when he left the studio, wrists cramping from a day full of drawing. And redrawing. And fixing the intern’s mistakes because he refused to do it himself. It was late, Keith was sore, and he was ready to just fall onto the couch and sleep. He was not ready to see Lance standing at the stove, sniffing the mushy contents on his ladle. His first reaction is to take him away from whatever he’s cooking to save both their intestines and taste buds. Maybe hug him from behind, lean into his warm heat and entice him off to bed.
Like old times.
His brain kicks in, and his face falls as he realizes how stupid it is of him to long for that. Things are too different now. Too broken for them to just...go back.
Oh, how Keith longs to go back.
They haven’t shared a bed in months, haven’t even glanced at each other with anything more than polite civility. And, God, he feels like such a sap, longing for Lance like this again. Actually, scratch that. He’s always longed for Lance— to be by his side, to hear his voice, to hold his hand, to be near, to be close. And he had it— Lance was his, was right there, pledged to spend his life with Keith.
But they’re drifting, and Keith’s heart aches in ways it hasn’t ached since those first few months of lingering gazes and shy smiles and hesitant affections.
Keith stays there, lingering in the entrance to the kitchen, watching as Lance tastes his concoction and screws up his nose at the taste. He mutters something under his breath, dropping the ladle in the pot and going back to the recipe on the counter next to him.
Lance squawks, jumping as he turns around. He relaxes when he sees it’s Keith, slumping forward and rubbing his eyes. “Keith, hey,” he looks at the clock on the stove, brows furrowing, “oh, uh, you’re— you’re home late.”
“...yeah.” Keith blinks, pushing himself off the wall. “One of the interns messed up and I had to redo a scene.” He crosses his arms, shrugging. “Don’t...don’t you have a shift today?”
“I called in.”
“Oh....”
They stand in awkward silence for a moment, just watching each other. It’s tentative, experimental. Both pushing a little to see how long they can act like everything is fine. Keith clears his throat, taking a few steps forward. “Craving a midnight snack?"
Lance startles, blinks, as if hearing Keith brought him out of a trance. "Huh?"
Keith nods towards the pot, which smells somewhat foul now that's he's closer. Lance looks at it, running a hand through his hair. "Uh, nah, I've felt like shit all day so I was attempting to make soup and..." he pouts at the pot of mush. "Yeah..."
Keith purses his lips to hold back a smile, choking down his laughter. No matter how many times Lance fails at something, he's always jumping back up to try again. It's admirable, and Keith admires him for it so much. He just wishes...that quality was used left often towards things like cooking and maybe redirected towards them.
He wants to fix this, wants to build a bridge across the ravine that keeps growing and growing between them. He's so, so tired of whatever is going on here, of the ache in his heart whenever he sees Lance. He's always ached for Lance, always, but it's painful. It's the ache of losing someone you love, someone you want to keep by your side no matter what. It was an ache he was familiar to, one he'd grown accompanied to. He just...didn't think that ache would ever be associated with Lance.
Keith sighs, stepping forward and gently nudging Lance out of the way. "Okay, Gordon Ramsey." Lance's pout deepens. Keith lets himself freely smile. "You go get ready for bed, I'll make the soup." Lance starts to protest, and Keith grabs his hand to stop him. "Just...let me do this for you...okay?"
Lance's eyes soften and he tentatively nods, "okay," he whispers, "Yeah, okay." Keith swears he sees the smallest of smiles on his husband's lips before he turns away and leaves the room.
And, oh, how Keith longs.
Longs to reach out and grab Lance's hand, to pull him in close. Hold him tight and become enveloped in his arms. To ask him to stay, to talk, to work this out because he can't...he can't lose Lance, too. Not after everything. He lets out a shaky breath, letting his hand reach out and wrap around Lance's wrist. Gently tugs to get his attention. Lance turns to look over his shoulder.
Let's go to bed together, this time.
He can't help but notice the lack of warmth and joy and love in those dark blue eyes. The hollowed-out cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. The messy, unkempt hair in need of a wash and a cut. How long has Lance been sick and Keith just...hasn't noticed? How long had he been drifting in a completely different solar system than Lance?
And work this out in the morning...please.
Keith's throat constricts as he opens his mouth, ready to start fixing this. Open the path to communication. Finally, finally , start working this out before it's too late. He closes his mouth, brow furrowing. It's so, so simply and yet so, so hard to say. Just spit it out, he thinks. It'll be worth it.
I need you.
Lance's hand slides up, lacing his fingers with Keith's. Connecting them, comforting him, letting him know that he's there. Then, the anxiety trickles in. Seeps through from the cage in the far corners of his mind. Tells him it's already too late. That he was made to break and be broken. It's why his mother left, and his foster parents always kicked him out after a month, and why this all happened in the first place.
He lets go of Lance, fingers tingling from where they touched. "I..." I want to fix this. Fix us. "I'll take the couch tonight."
Lance's arm drops to his side, his expression crashing down like fallen ruins. His eyes gloss over, mouth opening to...say what Keith couldn't? To yell and shout and express all the frustration they both must be feeling? He doesn't say anything. Just nods, shoves his hands in his pockets, and mutters, "thanks."
Then he turns to leave, and Keith aches and longs.