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There's something freeing in a fight—running off instinct, the whirlwind of adrenaline. Working on muscle memory drilled in by countless hours of practice. Something that doesn't take real thought. Switching between stances he's long since learned, bayard feeling less like a sword and more like part of himself. The training deck is never a match for the maelstrom of the real thing, but Keith isn't exactly going to complain about that.
Lance looks bored out of his mind. That's not new; he'd come in here looking like that and sprawled out on a bench in a position previously thought to be only attainable by things with the consistency of food goo. Keith isn't entirely sure Lance isn't made out of some new state of matter. One long leg is dangling over the side, and his face is smushed into the bench. He'd seemed decently interested when he came in, insofar as Keith knows how to read him (normal people are hard enough), but now it's starting to look like his brains are about to leak out of his ears.
"Do you ever do anything but train? I mean, obviously you do, but it doesn't seem like it. Are you sure you don't have some kind of issue with your room?" Vague hand gesturing. It's not the first interruption from him and it probably won't be the last. Keith doesn't mind much (despite his protests), but neither does he bother looking over, keeping his focus on the gladiator. He's got it on a low level, not sure if he could keep up with something stronger right now, especially with Lance as a distraction. And he is a distraction—Keith wonders if Lance hasn't noticed the looks he's been sending towards the bench, when he can.
Ever since they've started (he hesitates to call it) dating, Keith has felt distracted. Not in a bad way—in the way where there always seems somewhere he'd rather be, when not with Lance.
"Do you ever do anything but complain?" Now that they're dating, the bickering has evened out to something more comfortable, worn-in. Lance grins. "I could do you."
The gladiator swings and nearly knocks Keith's bayard out of his hand. He recovers in time, but the tips of his ears burn hot. "I thought you said I never did anything but training. And since you're not training...."
Lance groans. "Look, man, the required daily training is enough for me. Any more than that and I'm out. Catch me melting into a puddle on the floor after Allura makes us run laps. God, I thought the Garrison was bad." A pause. He rubs his eyes, squinting, which is the last of his face Keith sees before the fight with the Gladiator makes him turn away. "Are you sure your room's okay? No leaky ceilings? The mice didn't chew on any wires? Nothing needs to be fumigated?"
Keith blinks. Almost doesn't parry a strike in time. He's been on the decline since earlier this afternoon (in what counts as afternoon on the Castle's time), but doesn't that just mean he should practice more? "Why the hell would my room need to be fumigated?"
A noise that sounds like a verbal shrug. "I dunno. Germs, probably. Keith germs." Lance swings his dangling foot along the floor. Keith squints. He's pretty sure Lance's mind works on a different level from the rest of them. Whether that's a good thing or not depends on the situation. "I—you don't fumigate germs. And we've shared a bed every night this week, Lance, if I have germs, you've probably got them too."
Lance makes a gesture like he's brushing something off. His gestures are less emphatic today, not quite as over-the-top as usual. Keith can't tell if something's wrong or Lance is just that bored. Both? "Oh, god. Look what you did, Keith. You infected me. I caught Keith disease."
"I'm not responding to that," Keith mutters. His shoulders are starting to burn with exhaustion, and he knows he'll be just as sore tomorrow morning as he has almost every other morning. The gladiator feigns a swing, and when he blocks, it pulls back and kicks sharp at his chest. Off-balance—he tries to keep himself on his feet, but he's so worn-down after today that he stumbles backwards to the floor. His shoulder takes the brunt of the fall, and he grunts on impact.
"End training sequence," Lance says, scrambling up from where he was sprawled. The gladiator deactivates (he was almost worried it wouldn't). Lance steps over and peers down at Keith, 'I told you so' written in every inch of his face, but he doesn't look smug. "Alright, no, I'm calling a break. Boyfriend-mandated. I knew that was coming. Need a hand?"
Keith glares at him, taking a moment to catch his breath before standing up on his own. Lance takes his hand anyways, pulling him over to sit beside him on the bench. His hand is cool against Keith's, especially after training. Keith squeezes it, leaning into Lance's side to settle down, free hand squeezing his sore shoulder. Dizziness bounces around in his skull—maybe Lance has a point about training too much.
"If you pass out in here one day, I'm not carrying you to sickbay," Lance says, head resting against his own. It says volumes that Lance is willing to tolerate him even while sweaty and kind of gross, really. Keith sighs. "I know how to take care of myself, Lance."
"Not if you knock yourself out! Unless you sleepwalk." A pause. "Please tell me you don't sleepwalk. I don't know if I can handle that. You kicking in your sleep is already bad enough." "You're the one that turns into some kind of... koala bear in your sleep!"
Lance looks at him for a long moment. "Why is your go-to description koala bear instead of octopus? Everybody in the world says—no, wait, I'm getting off topic." Keith snorts. "You're developing self-awareness. I'm so proud."
"Yeah, yeah, don't get used to it." Lance lets go of his hand only to put an arm around him, leaning forward to try and get a look at Keith's shoulder. His hold is more comfortable than Keith is liable to admit. "How's your shoulder? Your bones aren't, like, exploded? Turned into dust? Ground into a fine powder that Zarkon would use to sweeten his tea?"
"I fell on it. One time." He's taken far worse hits, on and off the training deck. They all have, in battle. He lifts his head up and runs a hand over his face, eyes half-lidded.
"Your entire ribcage is now particles in the air." Lance bounces his leg. "Icepack? Or do you want me to kiss it better?" An eyebrow raise. Keith groans. "Neither."
"You're gonna be more bruise than person later, dude," Lance mutters, suddenly skirting the edge of seriousness. "Not exactly the best for like... anything. Existence at large."
There's a trace of concern to his voice. It's still a relatively new thing, to Keith—something like walking in a shoe not yet broken in. He's never been entirely sure how to respond to these things. "It wasn't that bad."
"Either way, I'm getting you out of this training room if it means I've got to drag you by the feet." Lance kisses him, a peck to the collarbone that makes his breath catch. "Dinner's probably soon. You missed yesterday for training, which means Shiro will be on your case if you miss today." "Oh, god."
"Yeah, I know how to motivate." Lance pokes him in the shin with the tip of his foot. "Can't say I like seeing you all bruised-up and exhausted all the time." Genuine—spoken a little quieter, with averted eyes. Something soft to his face that makes something airy and warm take hold in Keith's chest. It builds up into an impulse, the good kind of impulse, that has him leaning forward and pressing into a kiss. Some of the soreness of an afternoon of training falls away forgotten.
Lance grins when they part. "I have no freaking clue what makes you tick, dude. Didn't you just get done with the 'oh, look at me, I'm a big tough guy who feels no pain ever' act? Now you're out here macking on me."
"It won't happen again, if you keep saying 'macking'." "Macking." A glint to his eye. Keith groans, detaching from Lance and walking away. "Yeah, no, I take that kiss back."
Lance looks at him from the bench in mock shock. "I can mack it up to you!"
Keith stops and turns back to face him, failing to hide a small smile. "Are you coming to dinner or not?"
The release of training is something, but he's finding it harder and harder to compare with letting himself be pulled away.