Work Text:
The apartment is quiet except for the sound of Lance humming something half remembered, some jingle from a commercial or a song Keith doesn't know. The window is open. It's June and the air smells like the city warming up suncream and grass and something faintly floral from a neighbor's window box.
"Sit still," Lance says.
"I am sitting still."
"You're sitting tense. That's different." Lance taps the side of his own cheek in demonstration. "Relax your face."
Keith relaxes nothing. He watches Lance from the corner of his eye the little brush in his hand, the small paint kit open on the coffee table, the concentration pulling at the corner of his mouth. Lance gets like this when he's making something. Focused. Gentle.
"This is a lot of effort," Keith says.
"It's pride month."
"I'm aware."
"And we're going out." Lance glances up. "Together. In public. Like a couple."
"We do that."
Lance gives him a look that is very kindly not saying *you walk two feet ahead of me and startle like a cat when I grab your hand*. Keith has learned to read all the things Lance chooses not to say.
"I know it's not your thing," Lance says, quieter now. "The whole" He waves the brush. "Spectacle of it."
Keith is quiet for a moment. Outside, someone's car goes by playing music with the windows down, something with bass. The June sun cuts across the floor in long golden bars.
"I didn't say I wasn't going."
Lance looks up again. This time he doesn't look away.
"You didn't have to," he says. "You said yes when I asked, that was"He stops. Clears his throat. "That was enough."
Keith looks at the paint kit. There are two colors set out, already loaded on separate small brushes. Black and grey striped with purple. Pink and purple and blue.
"Will it come off," Keith says.
Lance laughs quick and bright, the kind that sneaks out before he can decide if it's allowed. "Yes, Keith. It washes off."
"Fine."
Lance moves in close, one knee on the cushion beside him, and Keith goes still in a different way. The tense wires in him don't ease exactly, they just shift. He knows this. His body trusts it.
"Close your eyes," Lance says.
He closes his eyes.
The brush is small and cool and precise. Lance works without rushing. He hums again something shapeless and content. Keith can feel the warmth radiating off him. Can smell his shampoo, the familiar scent of it. His shoulders drop an inch without his permission.
"There," Lance says, softly, when he finishes one cheek. "My turn."
He does the other side of Keith's face in little petal flowers with all the colours. Still humming. Still careful.
When Keith opens his eyes Lance is sitting back a little, the brush held loosely, looking at him with an expression Keith doesn't have a name for it has pride in it and something more private, something that's just for him. He's seen it before. It still does something to his chest.
"Don't look at me like that," Keith says.
"Like what."
"You know like what."
Lance leans in and kisses him on the forehead careful, barely more than a press of lips and Keith's jaw does something complicated before he lets himself go still and accept it. Just that. Just this small warm thing.
He doesn't pull away.
Lance notices. He always notices. He stays close for another second, not pushing, just there, and the city hums outside and the light goes gold and something in Keith's chest settles.
"Ready?" Lance says eventually.
Keith looks down at his hands, then back up. "Yeah."
Lance grins the full one, the real one. He picks up his jacket off the back of the couch and offers his hand and Keith
Keith takes it.
They go out.