Work Text:
“Keith” and “party” are, in the best sense, antonyms.
Lively, fun, social… yeah, none of that really comes to mind when he pictures himself. He certainly isn’t outwardly displaying himself that way, either, with the way he’s hiding near the refreshments table, pretending to eat whatever the hell snack-on-a-stick this thing is so that his mouth is more busy chewing than schmoozing. It has the texture of rubber.
The music is loud, lacking any real rhythm— just a bunch of noise like pots banging together and being played back into the microphone. Keith swipes another flute of champagne as one of the servers makes their rounds, looking for a lifeline. The drink goes down smoothly, not as fizzy as it should be— flat as juice and twice as sweet. He can’t even taste the alcohol. Apparently people get drunk quicker that way; Keith’s counting on it.
A local shakes his hand and says something that can hardly be heard over the music. He catches the tail-end.
“And the new leader of Voltron, no less! How do you manage to fulfill such a role?”
Realistically, he doesn’t.
Being appointed leader is like the universe’s worst nepotism hire. He keeps the team united with as much strength as toothpicks holding up a statewide bridge on the verge of collapse. It’s a fresh change that outsiders view as a promotion and wait with baited breaths to see if he can live up to the hype. To him, it feels more like a punishment.
Shiro had disappeared and the ship was sinking, and Keith’s still acclimating to the temperature of diving headfirst into this cold water, disoriented and miserable to his bones. Breaching the surface seems impossible. He feels like he keeps swimming down and down and down.
The partygoer waits for his answer, swaying on their feet and taking a sip of their drink.
“With lots of hard work and patience,” he says back cordially, recalling what Allura and Coran had told him about trying to be more presentable and welcoming with potential allies.
He hates these events. They always drag out for too long, and the pleasantries are grating while the conversations are probing. Back as the red paladin he was able to get off scott-free ignoring these stupid questions. Now, no one wants to join the Coalition if the leader is a total ass. He manages a tight smile that might be more a grimace than anything, and he lifts his empty glass, looking for a good out.
“I’m gonna go get another drink, excuse me.”
He still has a few things to learn about diplomacy, but tonight is not the night. The flashing lights are starting to irritate him, and the crowd of people dancing and accidentally shoving into him is the strike of flint against stone. If one more person tries to start a conversation with him, he might blow up and ruin Voltron’s reputation on Muutare for good. His attitude can’t be the reason for a failed alliance… again.
This place is suffocating. Everyone is bathed in hues of pink and purple, packed close together as they dance and clog the air with too much heat and sweat. Someone steps on his foot, then another person. His vision warps at the edges, the room hard to comprehend and seemingly endless, and his thoughts cloud together with an anxiety he can’t quite shake off. More people turn toward him—hands outstretched for a dance, mouths open for an interview—and he stumbles his way through by pretending not to see them.
Desperately, he has to get out of here. He brings a hand up to his suit’s collar, feeling claustrophobic. He pulls it from where it presses tightly on his neck, and he tries to breathe, nearly yanking the button off entirely in his force. It’s hardly a relief at all.
Where is that damn champagne tray?
He sees Allura and Hunk in the throng of people, heads thrown back in laughter and looking as though they are thoroughly enjoying themselves and not on the verge of self-destruction. He swallows, the music starting to feel like a blooming headache, and he scans the room with the urgency of someone looking for a fire exit.
There’s a server holding up a tower of drinks near the furthest end of the room, and he watches as people clamor to get their hands on one. It’s empty by the time he gets there. He heads for the bar instead, eyeing the line that is long enough to last him all night. He doesn’t have time for this.
With a quick sweep, he reaches behind the counter and pulls a bottle from the bucket of ice it’s resting in, taking a swig as he walks away. Water droplets drip down from the outside of the bottle, splashing onto the ground and leaving a clear trail of the robbery behind him. The liquid sloshes inside the glass as he reaches the nearest door and throws it open, pushing past the heavy curtain hiding the balcony.
The first thing he notices isn’t the cool air hitting his skin, which allows him to breathe properly after hours of the dancefloor’s same recycled humidity. It’s not the peace his eardrums feel as he distances himself from the stereos, no longer pounding from the bass, either. No, his eyes grow wide and burn the image of Lance’s silhouette—illuminated like a diamond under light, radiant and dazzling—into his mind like paper developing an image in a red room.
Lance is resting against the railing, and Muutare’s moon creates its own spotlight for him in a glittering fog, clear amongst the deep blue sky that nearly blends into black. The cape of his formal wear drapes down against the marble floor, swooshing as he turns his head over his shoulder, looking shocked by Keith’s arrival.
Keith stays frozen, hesitating as his hand fumbles on the door’s handle and shuts it closed behind him. The music grows muffled as the party rages inside, and the two of them stand in a momentary silence. Lance immediately turns back around to face the sky, bringing a hand up to his eyes.
“What are you doing here, Keith?” Lance asks, voice clogged with something close to embarrassment.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Keith takes a tentative step forward, warily thinking that his drinks are starting to catch up with him and this is all just a trick of the light. “Parties are your thing. Sneaking off is mine.”
When had Lance even come outside, anyway? Last Keith saw, Lance had been dancing with one of the Muutareans and smiling up a storm as he twirled them. Keith had bitterly taken his third drink at the time.
“Maybe switching to Red is rubbing off on me and I’m becoming you.” Lance barely turns his head, clicking his tongue. “Geez, Keith. A whole bottle?”
Keith looks down at the champagne bottle in his hand; he’s clutching it by the neck the same way someone would carry a dead goose. “We can share.”
He doesn’t know what it is that always brings him and Lance into each other’s orbits. The two of them will fight on the ship, storm off in opposite directions, and wind up in the same room each time without fail. Tonight Keith searches for solitude to drink his problems away, and Lance appears like a beacon, as though there’s no space he can escape to that Lance won't already be occupying. It’s comforting, in a sense— expected, anticipated even.
“So if I wasn’t out here you’d just be getting shitfaced alone?”
“You’re drinking alone too,” Keith points out, gesturing at the glass in Lance’s hand.
The balcony overlooks a sparkling ocean, waves calmly rolling and distorting the moon’s glowing reflection with every ripple. Lance seems to be watching it intently, making a disgruntled noise and motioning for Keith to leave, still facing away. “Just… go mingle!”
“I came out here to not mingle!” Keith steps closer, leaning an elbow against the railing and trying to look at Lance’s face. “I can’t fucking— this is all too—” he breathes out, frustrated at having to be the new Voltron poster boy, at having to be on his best behavior, at having to pretend he knows what the hell he’s doing. He watches Lance’s jaw clench, redirecting with, “Are you okay?”
Slowly, Lance gives a defeated sigh and faces Keith fully, shoulders slumped. His face is red in a way that isn’t entirely the alcohol’s fault, and his eyes are downcast and glistening. He leaves his glass on the edge of the railing.
Around a rough swallow, Lance says, “I’m not exactly having the time of my life tonight.”
“What happened?” Keith nearly reaches forward, jostling the bottle in his hand from the aborted movement. His mouth forms questions he doesn’t know how to ask, hanging open uselessly. He shakes his head, looking through the windows at the rest of the party, then back at Lance. “Did someone bother you or—”
“No. No— I’m wallowing.” Lance gives a fake laugh, bringing the heel of his palm to the corner of his eye, ridding himself of any evidence of crying. “I’m fine. I’m good. I just needed a breather.”
Teartracks silently stain Lance’s face, visible only when the light hits just right. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and a frown replacing his naturally winning smile. Keith doesn’t know what to make of this expression on Lance. He doesn’t like it at all.
“You don’t look fine. Or good.”
“I always look good,” Lance complains, waving at his face snootily.
Keith stares at Lance, willing him to drop the act. Things haven't been as tempestuous or strained between them as they used to be. He doesn’t want to go back to that. Lance, thankfully, seems to give in easily, honoring their peace treaty.
“I’m—” Lance sighs again, sliding down against the railing and sitting on the floor. His cape spills around him in waves as he leans his back against marble and stares at the party. “It was too loud in there, so I came out here, and then the fucking ocean doesn’t even smell the same as home, and now I’m like... I’m all up in my head, y’know?”
Keith looks down at Lance, debating what to say. He’s the leader now— consoling his teammates is part of the job description. He’s not sure he has enough practice, but everyone starts somewhere, right? He tries to give it a shot.
“Okay,” he says, clumsily sinking down to meet Lance on the ground, sitting side by side with him. He nudges his shoulder to Lance’s, then he rests the bottle between the two of them. “What’s going on in your head, then?”
Lance kicks his legs out in front of him, eyeing the bottle and resting a hand at the lip of it before picking it up. He brings it to his mouth for a long, heavy sip, throat bobbing with the motion. Keith watches, entranced in a way that really doesn’t read the mood. He settles back and waits.
“I’m not cut out for this shit,” Lance admits, hardly able to face Keith as he says it. He passes the bottle back.
Keith stares at the glass, at where Lance’s lips just were, and is unable to bring it to his own. It feels too intimate. He frowns, sorting through things in his mind. “…For parties?”
Lance looks at him like he’s being purposefully dense. “For Voltron.” He rolls a hand out toward the sky. “For— for being out here in space.”
It makes no sense to Keith. Lance brings balance. He has a naturally good heart and grounds the team, works his ass off during missions, and has adapted to an entirely new lion with tremendous success. Even Keith’s bond with Black still feels like he's playing understudy.
“I should be back on Earth,” Lance continues, “not doing— this.”
“You’re the red paladin,” Keith replies slowly, thinking that should be enough of an answer. Proof that he’s essential. It’s obvious.
“I know that,” Lance grouses, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not, like, throwing a pity party to quit and sip mimosas by the beach, I just— look, when you line me up with everybody else, I’m not measuring up.” He nudges his head toward the party. “Someone in there asked me what it is I do, and I didn’t even know what the hell to say. I fly around sometimes? I smile for the cameras?”
Apparently it’s not obvious enough.
“You’re not serious.”
Lance hunches in on himself, face twisting further. “Whatever, Keith, sorry my problems are so stupid—”
“I didn’t— I don’t mean it like that,” Keith amends, his mind and mouth not cooperating well enough together. “Lance, you defend the universe. You’re our sharpshooter. What other title could they possibly want from you?”
“Anyone can—”
“No, nobody can shoot like you do, are you joking?” Keith interrupts before Lance can get his dumb remark out. “You give me a gun and tell me to shoot a target and I’ll miss by five yards. You can do it with your eyes closed.”
Lance makes a face. “No you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would.”
“I’m not trying to fish for compliments, Keith.”
“I’m not giving you compliments, I’m telling you the truth! I wouldn’t ask Pidge to use Hunk’s cannon, or Allura to use my sword, or you to use Shiro’s—” he tries to think, remembering that Shiro didn’t have a bayard, “—his arm.”
“Shiro’s arm,” Lance repeats flatly.
“You know what I mean!” Keith argues, eyebrows furrowing. “We all play to our strengths.”
“Then why does what I do not feel as important?” Lance argues back, taking another drink. “Pidge is a tech genius, Allura’s a princess with magical powers—”
“You’re comparing yourself to totally different things!” Keith throws his arms out. “No one else can do what you do!”
“I’m literally just a guy that shoots a gun!”
“It’s not just about shooting a gun!”
“Then what?” Lance asks, arms bending over his knees, drawing into himself. “I have to do it? Because out of the millions, billions— however many galaxies there are, I was the one chosen to be a paladin? What difference does that make? I don’t think it should have been me!”
“Me either!” Keith blurts out. He pulls at the wrong thread, watching Lance’s face unravel into something pitiful. He scoots in closer, attempting to fix his words. “Not… not you. I mean, I wish I wasn’t chosen either.”
Lance’s lips thin into a line, uncertain. “But you’re better suited for this than anyone else. You’re a good leader, Keith.”
Yeah, right, Keith thinks, nearly scoffing. The anger—or perhaps the proper term is closer to injustice—he feels from Lance being unable to see his own self worth slowly fizzles away, replaced by something more defeated.
“What are you talking about?” He snags the champagne bottle, bold enough now to take a drink despite Lance’s mouth having just been on the rim. He wets his lips as he mulls the words over, upset. “I’ve screwed over so many missions. I still don’t even… My battle plans suck because now I have to think about everybody and not just myself. I’m guessing what to do each and every time.”
“Well,” Lance taps his fingers against the floor, “you always manage to figure it out.”
“The only reason things ever work out is because you point me in the right direction,” Keith admits.
Lance frowns. “You do that on your own.”
“That’s not true,” Keith says, looking at Lance earnestly. “You make it easier. All of this leadership stuff—” the bottle settles between them again, and Keith plays with the label “—is easier for me to handle with you around.”
When he glances back up, Lance is in silent disbelief, mouth parted like he’s caught on a gasp and eyes crinkled as though he’s waiting for Keith to take it back. He doesn’t.
“It makes a difference to me. You’re not filling up space. You’re— right now, you’re the only thing keeping me steady. It’s like…” Keith barrels on, motioning his hand and trying to find the words. “You know that game, the one with those little blocks that you pile up?”
“…Jenga?”
“Yes!” Keith nods, the movement uncoordinated. “We’re— you’re a block that we need, one that can’t be pulled out.”
Lance drinks, looking uncertain. “I think pulling out blocks is the whole point of the game—”
“We’d collapse!” Keith says, putting a hand on Lance’s arm. “We wouldn’t be Voltron without you. I— I wouldn't want to be in Voltron without you. You keep my head on straight.”
A tiny, bashful smile crawls across Lance’s face, his cheeks flushing as he maneuvers the bottle out of Keith’s reach uneffectively. “Alright, I think you’re way drunker than I am.”
“You’re doing enough,” Keith keeps going, ignoring Lance trying to downplay his reassurances, even if he might be far beyond just buzzed. “You’re doing more than enough, because most of the time you’re doing my job for me.”
“Don’t gas me up so much. I’m not doing your job,” Lance says, kicking his shoe against Keith’s. “I’ve just got your back.”
Keith hopes his expression is clear enough, able to convey his honesty for what it is and not a drunken ramble. “And I’ve got yours. I— I need you on my side. You’re like my other goddamn leg keeping me up.”
There’s a second as Lance’s eyes begin to glisten again, and Keith worries maybe he’s not doing a good enough job at this, but Lance starts to laugh, light and playful, saying, “I’m actually an arm now.”
Breaking into a laugh himself, Keith holds tighter onto Lance’s bicep, shaking with the motion. He nearly topples the bottle of champagne over.
“You’re laughing?” Lance asks, full of glee. His eyes sparkle, face just as rosy as Keith’s is. “At one of my jokes?”
“It was funny!”
Lance smiles, hand overlapping where Keith’s holds onto his arm. “Definitely not that funny.”
Keith hums, taking a sip and passing the bottle back to Lance, who watches him intently as he swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, some alcohol dripping past his lips and down his chin.
Lance takes a heavy breath and leans back on the palm of his hand. Cheeks flushed, he takes a swig. “Thank you. I didn’t realize you cared that much about—” he shakes his head, finishing on a mumbled, “sorry that I— thanks.”
“Of course I care, Lance,” Keith answers, pouting more than he’s proud to admit.
A swift breeze carries his admission in the air. There’s a beat, nothing but the sound of the ocean pushing and pulling at the shoreline and the DJ switching tracks as everybody cheers inside. Eventually the words land.
“I wouldn’t want to be here without you, either,” Lance offers him, a silent confession that barely makes it past his lips.
Keith wants to keep rambling and cement the fact that Lance is integral to the team, to say something that will beat it into his skull that there is no Voltron without him. He squeezes his hand on Lance’s arm, wondering if it communicates the same idea.
A slight shift in Lance’s posture angles him further into Keith’s bubble. Maybe he receives it well enough.
Out of nowhere, Keith’s mouth begins to move before his brain can filter out the inane comment for something more appropriate. “Red suits you. Looks nice.”
The comment has nothing to do with anything, but it tumbles out anyway. Keith’s inhibitions take the backseat and let the oddities in his mind play out. His hand is buried in the red cape that drapes over Lance’s shoulders, the fabric glittering under the moonlight. This used to be his color, back when his suit was tailor-made to match his temper, but if Lance is going to fair this well in it, he never wants it back.
It’s warm like the rest of Lance, as inviting as a sunbath or a campfire roast, rather than full of blistering fury and stop signs the way Keith had originally worn it. There’s a gorgeous contrast that highlights Lance’s stormy blue eyes, almost like it’s begging to draw attention there.
Keith freezes like an idiot when he looks back up, seeing Lance’s face brim with curiosity. Unsure if yanking his hand away is a worse option than letting it linger, he stays stuck somewhere in the middle.
Lance, however, doesn’t seem put off or blindsided. His gaze drags all over Keith, the tone of his voice hard to decipher as he replies, “And you look nice in black.”
The air is electric, wayward sparks flying out of the socket and desperate to catch fire. He doesn’t remember being this close—feeling Lance’s exhale on his face, smelling the sweetness coating his tongue—but he finds it impossible to pull away.
It takes Keith a second to realize that Lance is staring at his mouth. Was he doing the same? He tries to look anywhere else, but his eyes catch on Lance’s shirt, undone at the third button and exposing more of his chest than strictly necessary. His wind tousled hair and the red painting high on his cheeks aren’t a fair distraction either.
All of a sudden Lance is closing his eyes, lips parting as he clumsily sways forward. It’s almost fantastical, and Keith’s half convinced that he’s blacked out and is in bed having the best lucid dream of his life. Lance wouldn’t ever— he wouldn’t— he drank too much, he might—
“Are you about to barf?” Keith asks stupidly, eyebrows raising as he puts his hands on Lance’s shoulders. It makes more sense than what he thinks Lance might be doing.
“What? No! I was gonna—” Lance reels back, offended. He pops his eyes open, holding a hand up to his mouth. “Are you saying I looked like I was gonna throw up?!”
Keith scrambles, his shoulders hiking up in a shrug. “No, I was just asking because—I don’t know!”
Right. Then Lance had been about to— okay.
Lance grumbles and drags a hand down his face, embarrassed. Keith clamps his mouth shut so hard he might have just sprained his jaw.
He looks toward the party— all the other paladins are inside, swept up by the music and oblivious to his and Lance’s disappearances. The balcony stays perfectly isolated, existing for just the two of them and granting them this moment for a little while longer. He feels the music vibrate the floor and shake the windows slightly, and he’s trying to get his train of thought to cooperate with him.
Be professional. Be professional. He can do this. Kissing his teammate is a no-go. It’s a good thing he didn’t.
They sit through a song and a half without uttering a word. Keith can’t think of a single thing to break the ice, half convinced he’s being given the silent treatment right now. Lance’s stare is pretty much melting a hole into the side of his head.
“Wow… Sure is cold out here,” Lance eventually says, apparently sick of the quiet and trying to start something again. He scooches just the slightest bit closer, foot tapping against the ground.
It really isn’t. With the alcohol making them warmer and Muutare lacking any extreme weather, it’s temperate at best.
“It is,” Keith agrees anyway. He can feel Lance’s eyes on the side of his face, watching him. He clears his throat. “Do you feel better?”
“I told you I’m not sick,” Lance replies, slightly bothered.
“No, like— do you feel better about earlier?” Keith corrects.
Lance sighs, scooching closer yet again. His hand brushes Keith’s on the floor. “Yeah.”
God, someone spare Keith some willpower.
“If you ever want me to tell you that stuff again, I will,” Keith says, moving his hand and fiddling with the rings he’s wearing, trying to distract his mind from Lance being practically an inch away from him.
“Which part?” Lance tilts his head, fingers brushing at the edge of Keith’s cape now. “That I’m a good teammate? That red’s my color?” He looks up through his eyelashes. “Or that you need me?”
Keith finally drags his face up again, peeking through his bangs. His breath is caught on a stutter, and he feels his heartbeat climb as his nose nearly bumps into Lance’s. He hardly manages to say the words.
“All of it.” His eyes dart up and down Lance’s face. He swallows. “Whichever one you want.”
Lance takes a second, debating something in his mind. His breaths come quickly like he’s trying to behave himself. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again to finally ask, “Then say you need me.”
The request ignites something, a single flame engulfing them both as Keith’s body twists closer, burning from the proximity and unable to retreat. He licks his lips, and Lance’s eyes track the movement eagerly.
“I need you.” It comes out instantaneously, the admission falling from Keith’s lips like it’s all he was ever meant to say, the drawstring on his back recoiling and waiting to be pulled to confess it again.
“You do?” Lance asks as if he’s not sure he fully believes it. His eyes shine.
“Yeah.” Keith tries to exhale, his voice sounding punched. “I do. I need you.”
Lance’s hand slides up Keith’s arm to his shoulder, resting near his neck. Words fanning over Keith’s lips, he says back, “I need you, too.”
Fuck. Fine. Okay. Keith can’t be professional. The titan Atlas may have held the world on his shoulders, but he never had Lance McClain’s drunken, halflidded eyes directed at him before. Keith is not as strong a man as he seems.
There’s no way to tell which one of them movies first— one second they’re nose to nose swapping breaths, the next they’re clashing together in a clumsy, drunken mess of teeth and lips. The bottle of champagne spills over and rolls across the floor, some of the alcohol seeping into Keith’s cape, into the knees of his pants. He doesn’t give a crap.
Fisting his hands into the egregiously open collar of Lance’s silk shirt, Keith drags him closer, bringing them nearly chest to chest as he pulls at Lance’s bottom lip with a bite. Lance gasps into his mouth, hand wrestling itself into the back of Keith’s hair and holding on for dear life. Their teeth clack together, and then Lance tilts his head to fix the angle, sliding his tongue into Keith’s mouth— hot, heavy, and sweet as candy.
Keith crawls closer, pushing Lance down onto an elbow, groaning as the hand in his hair tightens. Their mouths stay glued together, overlapping with reckless abandon and drawing noises out of Lance that Keith can feel in his throat. He swallows it all down, hands wandering from Lance’s chest to his neck and back around again.
The wide windows of the party don’t obscure what they’re doing from everyone else, but neither of them pay that any mind. Lance detaches his mouth, focusing now on working a bruise onto the skin between Keith’s ear and jaw. Keith sighs into Lance’s ear, hands breaking another button of his shirt free. For the life of him he can’t say if that’s accidental or not.
Lance crowds forward, pushing at Keith and speaking against his neck.
“Keith—” Lance kisses at the skin, “—we should—” another press, longer this time, “—we should get out of here.”
Keith blinks his eyes open. He sees the way the moonlight drizzles down on Lance and paints his hair almost cerulean, the flush on his face magenta. Lance’s pupils are blown wide, his focus hazy and his mouth swollen.
Truly, Keith does not need to think twice.
He stands quickly enough to nearly give himself vertigo, swaying as he yanks Lance and the almost-empty bottle of champagne up with him, as if that’ll clear any evidence of them being out here. Lance cascades into him on wobbly legs, not even following his own suggestion as he backs Keith into the railing, kissing him again. The bottle nearly flies over the edge and into the ocean below.
Lance pulls Keith in, hands bunched in the fabric of his shirt and basically untucking it from the sash around his waist. Keith tugs Lance flush against him, palms settled on his bare chest. The song inside switches into something more upbeat.
Keith drags Lance’s lip with him as he moves back, earning a whine that he wishes he could hear better.
Wait.
That's right… The whole point of standing was to go somewhere private. Focus. He needs to focus.
When Lance moves to dive back in, Keith turns his head to the side, eyeing the door. Lance kisses the corner of his mouth, grumbling as he brings a hand up to turn Keith’s face back to its original position. Keith grabs that hand and uses it to pull Lance with him toward the door, uncaring of the few Muutareans watching them from inside like they wished they had a bag of popcorn.
Lance moves with flimsy footsteps behind him, and their hands stay interlocked as Keith pushes through the curtain and back into the crowd. He navigates through the party, sidestepping all the locals that bump shoulders with him. He leaves the emptied champagne bottle on the bar.
There's a group blocking the way toward the hallway out of here, all standing around and cheering as they watch some other partygoers have a dance-off. Keith stops to look past them, assessing the best way forward even as his mind works at half its normal speed. He feels Lance’s hands settling around him from behind, and he figures to hell with these people, shoving past them and marching straight through the dance circle.
He and Lance manage to get to the door, nudging past Hunk, who raises an eyebrow at their getaway. Keith ducks his head low at being caught, meanwhile Lance smiles and waves, mouthing something about getting lucky.
They get through the hallway with enough hurry that one would think they were being chased by druids. Lance presses the elevator button. Keith smacks it another four times, willing it to arrive faster. He worries that if they stand around idly then whatever this is will slip away from them.
Lance must be thinking the same thing. He kisses Keith against the wall, hands making a mess of Keith’s clothing, pulling his shirt up and grazing his abdomen. The elevator’s floor indicator dings lightly, getting closer and closer.
“Lance—” Keith starts, lips smacking against Lance’s. He brings his hands up to push Lance gently. The leg between his thighs really isn’t helping him think straight. “C’mon, we need to make it to the castleship.”
“I literally don’t think I can wait that long. I'll die.” Lance exaggerates a frown, hands cupping Keith’s face. “Do you want my death to be on your conscience?”
“You’ll be fine,” Keith laughs, pulling Lance into his space despite his previous words.
Lance sighs dramatically like he’s being asked to do the hardest thing in the world. “I could make a broom closet work. Even a bathroom stall. I’m good at compromising.”
“We’re not hooking up in a damn bathroom,” Keith argues, yanking Lance down to meet his mouth. “You’re coming to my room.”
“Coming to your room,” Lance says into the kiss, “or coming in your room? Like—”
The elevator door slides open with a soft chime. The people inside step out into the hallway, and a scandalized mother covers her child’s eyes as they make their way past them. Keith and Lance disentangle, the two of them stumbling on their feet like they’re walking on a sheet of ice. Lance mumbles a million apologies to the family as he follows behind Keith, hanging off of his shoulder.
In such small confinement, it’s physically impossible to keep their hands off of each other. The heat from the alcohol and exhilaration radiates off their bodies and turns the tiny box into a damn sauna. They steal each other’s breaths and swallow it down like it’s their only source of oxygen. Keith squeezes in closer, panting into Lance’s mouth. He accidentally presses Lance against the door panel, lighting up the buttons to every single floor and delaying their trip tenfold. The brilliant idea of hitting the emergency break is suggested.
They really don’t wait long enough to make it to the castleship.