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"Training deck, begin level two."
Giving a short sigh, Keith tightens his grip on his bayard and lowers his stance, pointedly ignoring the persistent discomfort he's been feeling for the past three sparring sessions.
"Level two, begin," a disembodied female voice echoes, and he bites his lip and readies himself as the robot (is it even a robot? That's what he's been calling it, but he isn't sure) drops to the floor in front of him and begins attacking. Keith easily dodges and blocks the offensive blows being thrown at him, but finds himself having a difficult time actually landing any attacks himself. It's irritating him more than normal, especially since he's been practicing on the same training level for five sessions straight.
If he's being honest with himself, the reason that he's off his game, that his footing is awkward and unsteady, that he's unusually brash in his attacks but somehow still guarded against moving too suddenly, is that he really, really needs to piss.
But he isn't being honest with himself—he's being stubborn and prideful and he knows it, and, somehow, that's the worst part of this whole situation. Keith knows full well that there's absolutely nothing stopping him from just taking a break, emptying his bladder, then coming back, yet here he still is, constantly shifting uncomfortably on his feet and letting out quiet gasps every time he overexerts himself. The only reason he's still here is clearly some sort of weird, fucked up personal issue at this point—some part of him just feels like it would be so ridiculously weak and childish of him to stop the simulation halfway through just because he has to pee. In real battle, he rationalizes to himself, there are no potty breaks—he'll just have to tough it out. So he's not giving himself any breaks now, either.
He'll beat training level three—the one he's repeatedly been struggling with—and then go relieve himself, he decides. But for now, he can hold it. Definitely. Without a doubt.
Finally seeing an opening, Keith strikes, feeling his bladder protest at the sudden motion, biting back the desperate whimper that threatens to escape his lips, but savoring the sight of the robot finally hitting the floor and dematerializing in front of him anyway.
He lets out a nearly inaudible sigh of relief at the small break he's getting between sessions. God, it's worse than he thought. His legs are shaking and he's trembling all over with desperation, his thighs pressing together without him even thinking about it.
How long has he been holding it, he wonders? Keith's always had the tendency not to excuse himself to use the bathroom around the others, or even to admit that he has to go, out of—well, out of embarrassment; he's used to living alone and it's still fairly awkward for him. It's never caused him any real problems since he doesn't have too much trouble holding his bladder, but on days when there's a lot going on—days like today, when just in the past few hours Hunk cried about there being no dogs in space, Pidge broke and then fixed the entire navigational system within the space of fifteen minutes, everyone gushed over Shiro's newly perfected puff pastry recipe, and Lance insisted on showing anyone who would listen one of his hundred-something shirtless selfies (and Keith may or may not have been his chosen victim a suspiciously frequent number of times)—he tends to forget to find time to privately slip away.
Keith chews anxiously on his lip, feeling himself fidget and bounce desperately, his hands twitching with the desire to hold himself, and thinks back. He'd used the bathroom after waking up, and...not since, now that he was thinking about it. That would make it about...seven hours straight he's been holding his bladder. God, why is he like this?
A wave of desperation overtakes him without warning, and he can't psychoanalyze himself for another second because he's suddenly in very real danger of leaking. Without thinking, a hand shoots down between his legs and squeezes, a soft, whimpery groan falling from his lips as he forces himself to regain control.
It takes a few seconds for the desperation to return to a bearable level, and another few seconds for him to process how ridiculous he must look. Scowling, Keith forces himself to remove his hand from his crotch, ignoring the pained whine that he makes as a result—he isn't a goddamn preschooler. What if someone were to see him like this?
Fighting will distract him from the increasingly persistent pressure in his bladder, he decides. He just has to keep training.
"T-training—" he curses the way his voice shakes and tries again— "Training deck, b-begin level—oh, god damn it—!" Keith gasps shakily and nearly drops his weapon, shoving a hand between his legs again as he feels his underwear dampen slightly. It was just a small trickle, but he's full-on panicking now, and he wants to drop to the floor and dig his heels into his groin, to bounce and whine and do something to stave off his desperation, but he can't, because—
"Level two, begin," that same infuriatingly calm voice mocks him, and Keith wants to completely decimate that stupid software and then himself.
He's back at the same training level he literally just finished and he doesn't have the goddamn time for this, he has to piss, and badly. He barely has the time to wonder how the fuck it interpreted "god damn it" as "two" before the combat simulator drops down and immediately lunges for him.
Dodging over and over again is the only thing he finds himself able to do, and he's completely miserable. He can feel his bladder sloshing back and forth with every quick movement, and it's all he can do not to let out a pathetic whimper every time he takes a step. Why did he decide to do this? Why did he make himself do this?
"Fuck!" he spits loudly after a minute straight of nothing but dodging, caught off guard by a fake-out to the left and then a holographic sword straight to the lower stomach, and he crumples to the floor immediately, gasping with pain and desperation. Feeling more dampness between his legs, he panics and grabs himself again, shaking and whimpering and nearly curling up; then, slowly, agonizingly, he forces himself to his feet, because how goddamn pathetic of him was that?
Watching the robot approach him, he whimpers involuntarily, unaware of the tears swimming in his eyes, and backs away with shaky footsteps, nearly doubled over with the effort he's exerting to hold it in.
Then—footsteps. Footsteps that aren't Keith's or the simulation's. He panics.
"Dude, watch your language." A snort. "There are kids on this ship, you know."
...What?
"Lance, please... just leave me alone, okay?" Keith focuses every bit of his spare energy on keeping his voice under control—anything to get Lance to just keep moving and not look at him when he's like this.
A lanky, slouched frame strolls leisurely into his field of view, and Keith swears under his breath, dodging again and again and again, doing his best to hide the way his legs are shaking.
Lance snorts with laughter again, and Keith would probably go over there and shove him out of the way were he not so close to pissing himself right here. "What's up with you, Keith? You've been holed up in here for, like, an hour by now. I thought you would've at least gotten past level two. You're losing your touch, hotshot," he teases, but Keith barely hears it over the sound of his heart hammering in his chest. His breathing's gone shallow and his legs are locked up—he can't even move, he has to go so bad. His mind is racing with how to get Lance away from him because he's at his breaking point by now, and he feels like he's choking even just thinking about it, but there's no longer a chance of him making it to the bathroom dry—he's going to wet himself no matter what he does. The only scrap of pride he has any hope of retaining is making sure Lance just doesn't see it happen.
A spurt leaks out of him without warning, and, in desperation, Keith snaps, his voice thick with emotion and welling tears, "Lance, f-fuck— j-just go away!"
His smirk falls off his face as if it died. "Keith..." Lance mumbles, and it's a gentle tone of voice he's never heard him take before—almost hesitant, careful, like he's a goddamn wounded lamb. "Is something wrong? Are you hurt?"
Keith turns his head to Lance, opens his mouth to respond, and is immediately cut off by a gasping, desperate whimper as he takes a sword to the stomach again. It's impossible to make any sort of argument for himself like this—doubled over, eyes brimming with tears, one hand cradling his bruised lower stomach and swollen bladder and the other desperately squeezed between his thighs—and it isn't like he has the ability to speak anyway. He can only watch, helpless, immobile, leaking uncontrollably, and frantically fighting a losing battle for control over his own bladder, as Lance brandishes his bayard and takes down the simulation himself in five shots.
He's turning to Keith now, walking closer, asking him questions—"Are you alright? Do we need to get you to a pod? Keith?"—but the only thing he can manage to do in response is shake his head over and over, unable to even meet Lance's eyes. He's going to piss himself. He's going to fucking piss himself right here in front of Lance, and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it.
"Don't look," Keith barely manages to choke out, just before losing control altogether. "Please, d-don't look—"
—But Lance looks, and the humiliation is so overwhelming that for a moment he doesn't realize that his bladder has already given out.
And then, after a completely silent moment, he realizes, feels the sensation of piss streaming out of him and staining his pants, flooding his clothes in wet warmth, and makes some sort of pathetic, ashamed noise, humiliated tears starting to roll down his cheeks. Keith's been holding so much and for so long that it takes him a couple seconds of release before he feels any real sense of relief, but when he does, the sensation hits him like a truck, and he can't hold back the shaky, relieved moan that slips from his lips as he stands there, legs shaking, hands shoved pointlessly between his damp thighs, feeling himself soak his clothes in piss and hearing urine stream into the growing puddle at his feet.
He can feel the heat on his cheeks and knows that his face is probably dark with a humiliated blush, and for good reason—Lance is practically staring at him while he's wetting himself, and Keith wants to disintegrate on the spot. All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and do his best to block out this humiliating situation as shameful tears drip from his jawline, urine streaming down his legs and puddling on the ground for at least a full minute before he's finally, finally empty and the last few accursed droplets are rolling off of his legs.
Besides giving a weak, shuddering sigh at the feeling of finally having relieved himself, Keith doesn't speak. What is there to say? He just wet his pants like a fucking preschooler in front of his teammate, and he expects to be laughed at at the very least, and probably publicly ridiculed, given the circumstances and Lance's personality. Although...doesn't Lance look up to him, or at least envy his skills? He probably hates him now, Keith muses hopelessly.
He isn't sure why thinking about that hurts him so deeply, but he figures he needs to prepare himself for the likely reality.
"Uh— whoa," Lance mumbles after a moment, his eyes straying to the glaringly obvious stain on Keith's crotch, his cheeks visibly dusted with pink (why is he blushing? Keith's the one who just wet his pants). "That was kind of..."
...'Kind of' what? Keith bites his lip, his brain automatically filling in possible blanks. Kind of gross, kind of hilarious, kind of pathetic—what?
He turns away, refusing to speak, finally allowing his shaky legs to give out and trying not to sniffle as he sinks to the floor. His soiled clothing is sticking uncomfortably to his legs, itchy and cold and damp, and he just wants to be anywhere but here.
Sensing movement, Keith flinches, burrowing his head into his arms, and notices Lance approaching him and crouching to his level out of the corner of his eye. He lets out a soft, involuntary sound of distress at the slight splash he hears as Lance steps in the puddle he's made on the floor.
"Keith," he hears, and it's surprisingly—almost unbelievably—careful and gentle. "Hey, it's okay. Look at me, alright? It's fine." He's so startled by his tone that he complies, and when he does, Lance's expression is kind, soft, creased with what looks like worry.
He raises a hand to his mouth quietly at seeing Keith's tear-stained, burning red face, and the concern in his expression grows more apparent. "Are— are you alright? Should I get Shiro or something...?"
"N—no!" Keith cuts in quickly. The last thing he wants or needs right now is more people knowing what happened. "Don't tell anyone. Please, Lance," he mutters, dipping his head in shame at his pleading tone and the pitiful way his voice cracks.
"I won't, I won't," Lance reassures quickly, and Keith doesn't want to trust him so easily, but he sounds so genuine that it's impossible not to. "I understand. I swear, I won't breathe a word to anyone else." Rising to his feet, he extends a hand to help Keith up, and, reluctantly, he takes it, cringing as more droplets of urine trickle down his thighs into the puddle when he stands up. "I'll— I'll help you cover it up, okay? You can go take a shower and clean up, and I'll take care of—" he vaguely gestures to the floor— "all this, and if anyone asks I'll make something up."
...What the fuck?
This situation is running about as close as possible to the exact opposite of the way Keith thought it'd go, and he's consumed with equal parts confusion and relief. "...Y-you aren't—" he swallows nervously, readjusts his posture— "you aren't grossed out or anything? You're not gonna make fun of me?" Lance's expression gains an edge of shame, and Keith realizes that his last statement came out harsher, more accusatory, than he intended. He averts his gaze quickly, muttering, "Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. It's just—god, Lance, I'm seventeen years old and I just fucking pissed myself. How are you okay with this?"
Lance is silent for a long moment, his eyes shut in thought, before he speaks. "...I mean, everyone has accidents, Keith. It's...it's okay. I don't care, it's fine, alright? I have a heart, I'm not gonna laugh at you when you're clearly upset. I just... I can't stand seeing you cry because of something like this." Keith cracks a smile, and then he chides himself for smiling because he shouldn't be comforted by Lance saying something as juvenile as 'everyone has accidents' to him.
Simultaneously, they both realize that neither boy has let go of the other's hand since Lance helped him up, and Keith's heart flatlines when neither pulls away. Holy shit. Holy shit, this is gay. This is really gay, what the hell?
Loudly, awkwardly, Lance clears his throat, his eyes seeming very keen on not straying past Keith's face. "So. Uh. I'll take care of this. Maybe go get a shower," he stutters, and Keith can't help but notice the way he flushes at just the word 'shower'. He isn't sure what exactly this new boundary they seem to have somehow crossed is, but...he doesn't dislike it. He feels cared for, safe, and—dare he say it?—liked.
Finally, Keith forces himself to let go of Lance's hand (his thoughts on the matter, in order, include his hands are so cold and mine are super warm, this is weird and oh, god, is there still piss on my hands? and if there is, he doesn't seem to care and oh my god, there is) and mumbles a quiet "thank you" before heading off to discard his soiled, urine-stained clothes and get himself cleaned up.
Maybe—just maybe—it hadn't been such a horrible decision after all.