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There’s a fight in Keith.
A fight, like he’s three people at once; struggle, like something’s (someone’s) pulling him from corner to corner, from a star constellation to the galaxy he’s had distant dreams of, from the book of planets to the copy of old photographs, symbols in fields, footsteps on snow.
It turns him restless.
(It turns him scared.)
Shrugging off his jacket, Keith pockets his fear, he plans to sleep. He plans to forget, like Shiro, selfishly wishing he’d remember, remember so they could talk, so he’d confide in him, so he wouldn’t feel this powerless, this alone; why is his knife the answer in all of his thoughts?
(Why did the Galra ship respond, why did it connect with his skin?)
He brushes it off, brushes off how the symbols make him feel at home, how the strangest, alien colours in his eyes distress him; how he thinks he’d remember to understand how to write in Galra scripts, if he wanted to.
There’s no use.
(He needs Lance; he needs him to distract him.)
((He wants him to make him forget.))
—
Lance is never in bed, never when he’s supposed to be, especially after a fight, after visits to planets unknown, shower damp, adrenaline awake, his bruises clinging, aching, some cuts they don’t heal and Keith can understand that, even if nothing about Lance makes sense, any other time.
He just knows there’s a lot of Lance, at all times. The room’s full of him, like he’s giving out shards of himself through every sound, in any direction he goes, and wherever Keith goes, Lance seems to follow him, annoyingly, persistently, how has he not noticed him at the academy?
Because Keith can’t get him out now, can’t throw him out of his skull, but when he looks, when he searches, Lance is never there, never where’d Keith expect him to be, never predictable, never a habit to shake.
(Keith’s own, personal UFO sighting.)
((Speaking of –))
“Lance,” he says, spotting him in the lounge room, the presence of him, the easy, languid sprawl.
(And people talk this way, don’t they?)
Names, purposes, wants. They talk, and they watch each other’s faces, look for differences, for smiles, homes, lost along the way.
So Keith walks in front of him, stops there. Lance sits up, from the slouch he’s been dipping into, his face something illegible, scribbles Keith would need a dictionary for, but all he has is his mouth and Lance’s attention, Lance’s unsure stare.
(It’ll have to be enough.)
“I want to kiss you,” he says, blunt and Lance – stares, more, stutters, “Wha – with – with me?” and Keith says: “Yes.” like it’s the simplest thing, like it’s just an unfulfilled chore, stuck on the fridge for the past week, waiting to be done, the last on the list.
“What?” Lance manages, dumfounded and Keith shifts, turns his chin to the neons of the window, to the stories trapped in lights, because this isn’t how he’s needed this to happen, this isn’t how Lance is supposed look at him –
“You can say no.” He shrugs and it doesn’t matter, it won’t matter and destroying training gear is just as satisfying, just as consuming, just as distracting as Lance’s mouth probably is or would be, and it might be lonelier but he’s never been too good at making friends, at talking to others like he’s happy with their company, like he’s not there just because he has to be and now it’s just uncomfortable, with Lance silent and Keith standing above, like one of them is a bullet and the other a victim, and so Keith decides to go, again, decides to use fists instead, to tire himself out, differently, in other fast paced, possibly painful ways when Lance says, “Okay. Okay. Let’s – kiss. Or something.” and he’s next to Keith, knocking into his elbow, in a careless move, a bit red in his face, a bit too stiff and awkward as he holds his hand so Keith leans in, touches Lance’s lip, the upper stories of his mouth and something buzzes through him, electric and warm, but Lance jumps away from him, slaps his hand onto Keith’s mouth.
“Dude! Not here!” he hisses, like they’re spies.
“Where?” Keith asks then, muffled, tastes the soap on Lance’s palm, he frowns.
( It tastes nothing like coconut; at all.)
“Your room. Or mine,” Lance answers and Keith nods, “Okay.” and walks ahead, without waiting, without a glance, because Lance won’t get lost here, he can’t, not when his room is this close and Keith can simply invite himself in, anyway, into the mess of things he would have no use for but Lance loves to own, cups Lance’s face the second he appears, the annoyed frown wasted on his unfinished sentence, “Keith, what the hell, why can’t y–” and – this is it.
This is the worst, the absolute, absolute worst because – because Keith can kiss, Keith can probably make a double knot on a cherry stem, Keith can kiss and he can kiss Lance until all life’s gone from him, probably, like one of those monsters Keith believes in and Lance laughs at but –
Jesus.
(He has to breathe.)
“Jesus. Jesus, Keith. You can’t kiss me like that, I’m a virgin.” he blurts out and how is he – how is he half hard, from one kiss, from Keith just sticking his tongue into Lance’s mouth like they’re not new at this, like they haven’t argued this morning, like they’ve been wanting this for months, for ticks and ticks and ticks and –
(Have they?)
“I’m a virgin too. How is it related?” Keith asks and Lance curses, into Keith’s neck.
(Of course he’d pick the most oblivious guy to ever live in the same time and space as him.Of course.)
“Is this your first erection or something?” Keith asks, again, like it’s a completely valid question, like he’s concerned, like he’s breathless just looking at the silhoulette of Lance’s dick and – oh.
“You’re hard.”
“Yeah.”
“You have a boner.”
“I already said yes before.”
“Oh my God you kissed me and it gave you a boner.” and he’s – laughing, helplessly, and Keith’s just – confused, doesn’t think it’s a joke he knows of, doesn’t think it’s funny or supposed to be and he should have just fought that robot, because his dick apparently has a sense of humour his body lacks and Lance is snorting into his collarbone and screw this, Keith just wants to sleep.
(Or alternatively – punch Lance.)
((Twice.))
“Why is that funny.” Keith huffs, but stays still, stays under Lance’s weight and finally, Lance looks up, tear smears under his nose and he smirks, smug.
“It’s hilarious,” he answers, confident, like he wants to share it with the rest of the crew and if he does – Keith might really have to eject him into space.
(That, or, you know, murder him in his sleep.)
((Keith votes for ejection, personally.))
“But it’s also cute,” Lance admits, forming a fist full of Keith’s shirt, tugging; their noses bump.
“I don’t know if I want to kiss you again,” Keith says but Lance is already opening his mouth, Keith’s stiffly following his lips with his eyes and it’s only when Lance licks his mouth that Keith lets out a sigh; soft, warm.
(He gives in; yielding but fierce.)
((Lance gives him his all.))
—
He sleeps over in Lance’s room that night, a bit too warm in all of his clothes and with Lance under the blankets, too, getting up three hours before they have to, just to take off his shirt and Lance stirs at this, watches Keith undress, lazily, asks him: “Are we having sex?” as he lies on his stomach, clutching the pillow to his head, yawning loudly and Keith stretches his back, shakes his head.
“I’m just hot,” he answers and Lance nods, closing his eyes.
“You sure are,” he agrees, sleepily and before Keith knows what to say, Lance is snoring, into his arm.
So Keith throws his shirt onto the floor, pushes Lance’s arm away, far enough to lie down too, comfortably; holds Lance’s hand like an afterthought, like it’s routine, something ordinary between the two of them.
He smells coconuts; as he’s falling asleep.
(He smells home.)