Work Text:
Keith is beautiful. So fucking beautiful.
The twin suns of the planet become the perfect backdrop, outlining him in shimmering gold. A concerning amount of dried blood paints the side of his face, crusted and flaking. His bottom lip is busted, his nose probably broken, his armor just as dented and bruised. Despite it all, maybe even because of it all, he’s stunning.
Enough for Lance to stop and stare as he picks himself off the ground after a Galra soldier punted him against the rocky cliff face. His teeth still rattle from the impact; his entire body is a scream of agony, but he manages to stand.
Keith flicks the blood off his bayard before it transitions out of its sword state. He steps over the body of the Galra soldier to stand directly in front of Lance. He pats Lance’s cheek, amused by Lance’s obviousness as a twitch of a smirk presses a dimple into the corner of his mouth.
“I didn’t think you hit your head that hard.”
“Shut up.” Lance grins, reaching out to hold Keith close. His free hand, gun still activated by his side, tangles with Keith’s wild hair curling near his jaw. With his helmet lost ages ago, his hair is a wild, sweaty mess, bangs plastered to his forehead. Lance gently brushes a thumb over a newly formed bruise, and Keith’s eyelids flutter at the touch.
They’ve been at war for years. Maybe Lance has gotten too desensitized to things and maybe that’s not a good thing—but that’s something he and his future therapist can discuss whenever—if ever—they return to Earth. But present Lance doesn’t have to worry about why he finds a battle-worn Keith stupidly hot; he accepts it. Because he can. Because they’re dating now. So openly admiring the Red Paladin of Voltron? Fully on the table as suitable options during any time of the day.
“Sue me for thinking my boyfriend’s attractive,” Lance mutters, breathy as if they just kissed but really he’s just tired from the battle, tired from the war. Every day weighs heavily on him but that weight is always easier to bear with two or six.
Keith cups his face with both hands. “I’m glad you survived,” he says instead of ‘I love you.’
Because they made some sort of deal with themselves, that since they started dating in the middle of an active war, they promised no ‘I love yous’ to each other, no concrete declarations of long lasting affection, nothing emotionally compromising. In reality, it means the same thing. They both know it does, but they continue to use the placeholder anyways as if the façade makes the situation less personal, less likely to destabilize them if anything were to happen to the other during battle.
Lance leans forward until his forehead rests against Keith’s. “I’m glad you survived too.”
One day he’ll say ‘I love you’ to Keith. One day he’ll say it on the shores of Varadero Beach with his family’s house only a few miles away. One day it will happen. Not if.
But until then, he wraps his arm around Keith’s waist as they hobble back to the rendezvous spot. He nuzzles his nose into the soft part of Keith’s cheek, ignoring the sweat, dirt, and blood, and smiles as Keith’s hair tickles his nose. Until then, he will whisper those words into Keith’s skin and dream about their future.