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Summary
He still wanted to shake Lance senseless. Still wanted to force every stupid self-destructive thought out of his head permanently. But not like this. Not while Lance was bleeding through half-finished bandages and barely standing upright.
“Come here,” he said more gently.
Lance looked at him warily for half a second before the exhaustion apparently won out. Keith guided him carefully down onto the bathroom floor instead, maneuvering him until Lance sat between his knees with his back angled toward Keith’s chest.
The position felt immediately, dangerously intimate. Lance’s bare back rested inches from his chest now, warm and solid and distractingly close. Keith could smell the sharp disinfectant still lingering in the air beneath the cleaner scent of soap and the faint metallic trace of blood.Or
After a mission gone wrong in all the right ways, Keith storms into Lance’s room ready to start a fight over another reckless stunt, only to discover Lance is far more injured than anyone realized. What starts as anger turns into patching wounds on a bathroom floor, old insecurities dragged into the open, and the realization that they’ve both been holding back too much for too long.
Series
- Part 1 of The Art of Falling Apart
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