Chapter Text
The cockpit hums with the low, wounded thrum of failing systems. Keiths fingers hover over the control panel, reading the dim orange flicker of the damage report.
He's been staring at the same line of Altean script for maybe two minutes now, the symbols blurring into jagged shapes that mean nothing to him. Outside the viewport, the nebula spins in slow coils of violet and sickly green, stars stop smearing into streaks as the shuttle slows down.
"Ugh. Did we win?"
Lance. Awake. Finally.
Keith lets his shoulders drop a little in relief that he refuses to acknowledge to himself. He scoffs.
“Oh no. We lost didn’t we? Are we dying? We’re dying aren’t we? Is this what space coffins look like?”
"We're not dying."
He pauses and coughs wetly. "Why is it so cold? Keith. Why is it freezing?"
"Life support's at forty percent." Keith turns the pilots chair and faces the cabin. Lance is half-upright, one hand braced against the bulkhead, the other pressed to his ribs where a bruise is already purpling beneath his undersuit. His helmet id gone, hair a tousled mess, and there’s a smear of something across his cheekbone. "You've been out for almost two varga. The Galra fighter clipped our port engine before I could shake it. We're drifting. I can’t slow us down either though. There was a lot of force but we’re starting to slow down."
Lance blinks at him, "Okay. Okay. So. Rescue?"
"Distress beacon's active. But the ion storm we flew through scrambled comms. Could be hours before anyone picks it up." Keith turns back to the console, not because there’s anything new to see, but because looking at Lance—disheveled, breathing shallow, alive—sent a weird spike of something through his chest that he doesn’t want to examine. "We conserve power. That means minimal heat. Minimal light. No unnecessary systems."
"Great. Cool. Love a good ol’ minimalist lifestyle."
Keith catches the shiver in the words. "So we just... sit here. In the dark. Getting colder."
"Pretty much..."
Lance clicks his tongue, “Cool. Coolcoolcoolcool.”
Silence settles between them. The life-shuttles interior is small—a cockpit with two seats, a narrow strip of cabin behind it, a sealed storage locker. Designed for short-range evacuation, not long-term habitation. Lance can’t help but curse whoever designed a rescue shuttle for space similar to a life boat at sea.
C’mon man. Space is endless! Sure the oceans big but at least theres some end to it!
Keith can stretch out his legs and nearly touch the rear hatch. He's already done the math: two bodies, decreasing oxygen, dropping temperature. Sharing warmth isn’t just practical; it’s essential.
He just hasn’t figured out how to say that without Lance making it a thing.
"You know," Lance beats him to it, and Keith hears the grin creeping into his voice without looking, "this is usually the part in the survival movies where the two survivors have to huddle together for body heat. Strip down. Get real cozy."
Keith's jaw tightenes. "Don't."
"Don't what? Point out basic thermodynamics?" Rustle of fabric. Lance is moving, shifting in his seat, and when Keith risks a glance back, he sees him unzipping his flight suit with deliberate slowness, peeling the damaged sleeve off one shoulder.
Keith looks away immediately.
"Because I'm pretty sure Shiro would want us to be smart about this. Conserve warmth. Share resources."
"We're not stripping."
"I'm already freezing my ass off over here. If you want to sit in that chair and shiver yourself into hypothermia, be my guest. Meanwhile, I'll be in the back, wrapped in the emergency thermal blanket that I know for a fact is in the storage locker, questioning all your life choices."
The thermal blanket. Keith forgot about that. One blanket, standard issue, 12 on 12 feet. He's been so focused on the engine stats and the oxygen levels and the impossible math of their survival plan that the first aid kit slipped his mind entirely.
He hears the locker hiss open, a rustling sound, then the harsh hitting sound of something being shook open and then more rustling and crinkling
"You coming, or what?"
Keith closes his eyes. Counts to five. The cold is starting to seep through his own flight suit, pricking at his skin like tiny needles. His fingers are stiff. And Lance, for all his irritating qualities, isn’t wrong.
He stands up.
The cabin is dimmer now, the cockpits emergency lights barely bright enough to cast any hard shadows. Lance already settled himself against the rear bulkhead, the thermal blanket draped around his shoulders like a cape, his ruined flight suit pooled around his waist. Beneath it he’s only wearing the thin black undershirt, and Keith can see the goosebumps raised on his arms, the faint tremor in his hands as he rubs them together.
"Took you long enough." Lance lifts one edge of the blanket, a silent invitation. "Come on. I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely."
"I'm not asking for anything."
"You never do."
Keith crosses the small space. He drops down beside Lance, their shoulders brushing, and immediately the foil blanket's reflective warmth envelops him.
"This isn't going to work if we're both just sitting here like stiffs," Lance says after a moment. His voice is quieter now, the teasing edge filed down to something more genuine. "Body heat. Direct contact. And the blanket needs to close around us. That's how this works. You know… science."
"I know how it works."
"Then why are you sitting three inches away like I've got a contagious disease?"
Because proximity to Lance id dangerous in ways that have absolutely nothing to do with cold OR disease. Because Keith spent months shoving certain thoughts into a box labeled "deal with later," and later seems to rapidly be becoming now in the cramped dark of a dying shuttle.
He doesn’t say any of that of course. He just shifts closer.
Their sides press together, hip to shoulder. Lances arm wraps around him automatically, adjusting the blanket so it drapes across them both better, and the sudden intimacy of it makes Keiths breath catch. Lance is warm. Warmer than he has any right to be, given the circumstances. The heat seeps through the layers of their undershirts.
"See?" Lances breath ghosts across Keiths temple. "Not so bad."
"Shut up, Lance."
"No, really. I'm going to talk. It's what I do. You should know this by now." But his voice is softer, lacking its usual performative sparkle. "Keeps me from thinking about the fact that we're probably going to die out here."
"We're not going to die." Keith forced certainty into his voice. "Coran will find us. He always finds us."
"Coran's great, but Coran's also dealing with a scattered team and a compromised castle and, oh yeah, the Galra fleet we just barely escaped. I'm just saying, if this is my last few hours of existence, I'm not spending them in awkward silence." Lance shifts, his shoulder digging into Keiths arm as he settles more firmly against him. "So talk to me. Tell me something. Anything. Distract me."
"I'm not good at talking."
"Yeah, no duh. That's, like, the whole problem." A pause. "Okay, let's try this: what's the first thing you're going to do when we get back to the castle?"
The question catches Keith off guard. He isn’t used to thinking beyond the immediate crisis. Mission, fight, survive, repeat. The concept of after feels like a luxury he happens to have been granted so far but who knows about next time. But Lance waits, patient for once, and the cold makes everything feel sharper.
"Shower," Keith says finally. "A long one. Hot."
Lance hums, and the entire blanket vibrates with the sound. "Solid choice. I'm going to eat three entire bowls of Hunks weird purple stew and then sleep for a quintant. Maybe two quintants. Maybe I'll just hiber—“ Lance hisses.
“What?”
“Mhn’thin’”
“Lance is your side still hurting?”
“Well… sure a little. What, d’ya think it’d just heal that fast?” Lance quibs.
“No but… We haven’t even taken a look at it yet. That hit was pretty bad so I probably should have already done that actually now that i think about it. Just… you were unconcious and I didnt wanna… yunno, overstep so i thought I’d wait but then you woke up and I forgot because….” He trails off.
“Because what?”
“Because you’re so annoying, Lance. That’s why.”
“Pfffth…”
“Now c’mon. Let me take a look okay?”
“It’s just a scratch,” Lance says quietly.
Keith looks at him.
“A scratch.”
“Yeah.”
“You were thrown a solid couple of feet through the air.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Lance, for fucks sake, stop being difficult!”
“But it’s nothing!”
“Well, then you can show me, right? If nothings wrong, there’s no reason not to let me have a look!”
Lance opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because Keith is right. He has no reason not to show Keith. And because the concern in his voice is making something warm and terrifying twist in Lances chest.
Keith reaches for the med kit.
“Show me.”
Lances breath catches slightly.
Not because he doesn’t want Keith to help. Because he does. A little too much, maybe.
And because there is something about Keith being this focused, this close, this careful, that makes Lances brain stop working.
He slowly pulls his undershirt over his head, with another wince.
Keith immediately goes quiet.
The injury is worse than Lance made it sound. There are bruises already spreading along his side, deep and ugly from the impact. But the worst part is the scrape running across his ribs. It’s true. It’s a scratch. But it’s not just a scratch. It isn’t deep, but it’s large. A long tear across the skin, angry and raw, still bleeding.
Keiths jaw tightens.
“Lance.”
Lance looks at him.
Keiths eyes are fixed on the injury.
“Look I genuinely didn’t know it’s that bad for what it’s worth!”
There is something in the way he says it. Something that makes Keiths chest tighten. Keith isn’t annoyed. Well maybe a little. But mostly he’s scared. Scared because he’d been careless enough that he missed this. And enough to forget to treat it.
So he’s more annoyed with himself right now.
“I’m okay,” Lance whispers.
Keith opens the kit and starts checking him properly.
Not just the injury.
Everything.
“Look at me.”
Lance does.
Keith lifts two fingers.
“How many?”
Lance blinks.
“What?”
“Fingers.”
Keith moves them slowly.
Lance follows.
“Two.”
“Good.”
Keith watches his eyes carefully.
“Any dizziness?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
Lance hesitates.
Keith notices.
“Lance.”
“A little.”
“How much is a little?”
Lance sighs.
“Keith.”
“How much?”
“Like… a three? Maybe? I guess? I dunno…”
Keith studies him.
“Out of ten?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“I don’t know.”
He reaches up carefully, running his fingers along the back of Lances neck, pressing strong on either side of Lances spine, checking for swelling or tenderness.
“You’re quiet,” Keith murmurs.
“I’m concentrating.”
“On what?”
“Not moving.”
Keith pauses and looks at him. “You need to tell me if something hurts.”
“Yeah, well, everything hurts.”
Keiths expression softens, “Okay. I’ll be more carefull.” He turns back to the injury. “I’m going to check the bruising.”
Lance swallows, “Okay.”
Keith places his fingers lightly against Lances side.
Very carefully.
Not pressing hard.
Just enough to feel.
Lance tries very hard not to react.
Because Keith is touching him like he is something fragile.
Because Keith is close enough that Lance can feel his warmth through the cold air.
The butterflies are ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
He is injured in a freezing escape pod and Keith is checking for a concussion and somehow his brain has decided that the thing to panic about is Keiths hand is on him.
Maybe he really is concussed.
Keith starts around the edges of the bruising first, checking where the pain changes, trying to figure out if anything is broken.
“Here?”
Lance shakes his head.
“No.”
“Here?”
“A little.”
Keith adjusts.
“And here?”
Lance sucks in a breath.
“Mhm.”
Keith immediately stops.
“Sorry.”
The apology is quiet.
Almost instinctive.
Lance looks at him.
Keith gently moves a little lower.
“And here?”
Lances fingers curl into the blanket.
“Yeah.”
“Sharp or dull?”
“Sharp.”
“Okay.”
Keith nods to himself.
Then he moves back toward the scrape. “This is going to sting.”
Lance gives him a tired look.
“I’m aware.”
Keith almost smiles. Then he starts cleaning it.
And it hurts.
The second the antiseptic touches the wound, Lances entire body tenses.
He tries to stay still.
He really does.
But the sting turns into a sharp, burning pain that shoots through his side. His hand moves before he thinks. He grabs onto the nearest thing.
Which happens to be Keith.
More specifically, Keith’s hair.
Keith freezes.
Lance freezes.
Keith looks up and for a second, neither of them moves.
Lances fingers are tangled in Keiths hair.
Keiths face is inches away. And the realization hits both of them at the same time.
Lances face goes bright.
Keiths does too.
“Sorry.”
Lances hand hesitates. Then slowly drops.
Keith sighs and keeps cleaning. He watches Lances reactions. The way his hand now clenches but onto nothing. So he gives Lance his hand.
Lance hesitates but takes it. Unfortunately, Keith realises, he needs both hands. So he guides Lances hand back into his hair. To hold onto. Of course. No other reason. Nope. Not at all.
“Better?” Keith asks.
Lance swallows hard.
“Yeah.”
His voice is quieter than before.
Keith nods once and looks back down.
“Okay.”
Keith doesn’t look at him, so he doesnt see the way Lance blushes and swallows hard, only notices that he’s holding his breath. He nudges his chest with his palm to remind him.
He opens the small container of salve. Keith dips his fingers into the treatment and spreads the salve carefully over the scrape.
Slow.
Gentle.
But Lance still hisses and pulls at Keiths hair. Which, ow. But also, like, hot.
The shuttle is too quiet.
Lance can hear every tiny sound.
The hum of the failing systems.
Keiths breathing.
His own heartbeat.
The way Keiths fingers move with impossible patience, making sure the treatment covers every part of the injury without pressing too hard.
His hand moves so carefully along his side, steadying him while he applies the salve.
One hand stays near Lances ribs to support him. The other works across the injury.
And Lance is painfully aware of where Keith is touching.
His fingers near his chest.
His palm against his side.
The careful pressure lower down where Keith treats the edges of the injury.
It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He is injured. They’re stranded. This is not the time for his brain to short circuit because Keith is being gentle.
But apparently his brain did not get that memo.
Lances fingers tighten slightly in Keiths hair again.
Keith notices. He raises an eyebrow.
Lance sighs.
“Okay, okay. Fine. It stings. There. Happy?”
Keith looks down again.
“Thought so.”
The salve is finished.
Keith reaches for the dressing.
Lance watches him prepare it.
The same careful focus. The same little crease between Keiths eyebrows when he is concentrating.
Keith places the dressing over the injury.
The adhesive touches his skin first, then Keith smooths the edges down carefully.
Lances breath catches.
Because Keiths fingers are so low on his stomach right now and theyre brushing even lower.
And they’re so gentle. Lance thinks he’s gonna combust. Keith has one hand braced against his back now, keeping the dressing secure while he presses around the edges.
Lance can feel every movement.
His fingers on his chest, the hand supporting him high along his back, the way Keiths other hand rests against him just below the injury, making sure nothing shifts.
“You’re shaking,” Keith murmurs.
Lance immediately stiffens.
“I’m cold.”
Keith looks at him. He does not call him out. He just finishes securing the bandage.He checks it one last time. Makes sure it is tight enough. Not too tight. That it is actually helping. Only then does he let his hands move away.
It feels like more of a loss than Lance expects.
Keith settles back under the blanket with him.
For a moment, Lance keeps holding his hair. Then he realizes. His face burns.
Keith just reaches up and carefully adjusts the blanket around Lance’s shoulders.
Lance's head tilted, and suddenly his cheek rests against the top of Keiths shoulder, a casual intimacy that short-circuits every rational thought in Keith's brain. "What's the second thing?”
“What?”
“After the shower? Whats the second thing you’re doing when we get back?"
"Why are you asking me this?"
"Because I want to know. Because you're always so locked up, Keith. I can count on one hand the number of times you've actually told me something real about yourself." Lances voice drops, barely above a whisper, and the absence of his usual bravado is frankly a little disorienting. "We might not make it. So if this is it—I want to know you. The stuff you don't say."
Keiths throat tightens. The cold has become a secondary concern; the real danger is the way Lances words peel back layers he's kept around himself for years. He could be mean. Tell Lance to stop talking. But Lances arm is around him and the cockpit lights are flickering ominously, suggesting that even the emergency power isn't going to last much longer.
"I'd—" Keith stops, "I'd find you. And... tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"That you're... not as annoying as I pretend you are."
Lance laughs, a short huff of air that brushes Keiths temple and makes the hair on his neck stand up. "Wow. High praise. Really sweeping me off my feet here, Kogane. How am I to ever come back down from this high.”
"You asked."
"I did. And that was... actually kind of sweet." Lances hand, resting on his own knee, shifts. His knuckles brush against Keiths thigh, a featherlight contact that could have been accidental. Could have been. "Okay. Another one. If this is the end, what do you regret?"
Everything? Nothing? All the words he never said, all the moments he let slip by because it was easier. Once again, Keith doesn’t voice that. Instead he turns his head, just a bit, and finds Lance is already looking at him. The flickering glow from the console catches his eyes, makes them glint and glitter—deep and streaked with something unreadable. His small irises with his pupils blown so wide make the blue rings almost non-existent.
Ugh, gad damnit! Why would he think that?! Now he HAS to do something about it!
Keith sighs, the decision made. "I regret not doing this sooner.”
And he kisses him.
Keith leans in with the awkward momentum of a choice made between all of two heartbeats, and his mouth met Lances with none of the finesse that the moment probably deserves. Their noses bump. Lance makes a startled sound, muffled against Keiths lips, and for one terrible second Keith thinks he misread everything, crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed—
Then Lances hand cups the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and he kisses back.
There’s a dry chap to his lips, and a warm slide of his skin.
Lance kisses like he talks—eager, playful, a little messy—but there’s an urgency underneath it that makes Keiths stomach drop, a hungry pressure that tells him this isn’t a joke, isn’t a game, isnt something Lance is gonna laugh off later.
The thermal blanket crinkles as Lance pulls him closer, the foil edging scraping behind and between them.
Keiths hand find Lances waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants, and the heat of his skin was… wow. So warm. So alive. The contrast with the cold air is dizzying, a sharp deviding between the world outside their bubble and the sudden, blazing reality of this.
"I—" Lance breaks the kiss, chest heaving. His forehead presses against Keiths, both of them breathing the same small pocket of air. "Okay. Okay. That was—wow. Not what I expected. But definitely not complaining. Like, I have been wanting to do this for literally years" Lance's laugh is breathless and a little ragged.
“Wait, years? As in before Voltron?!”
"Well— yeah?! Obviously. Why the hell did you wait until we were dying, you complete disaster of a human?!"
Keith doesn’t have an answer to that. He spent so long running—from his past, from his emotions, from anything that felt like it might anchor him because anchor means grounding and grounding means holding him and taking his—that stopping had never occurred to him. freedom. If he’s grounded, how is he supposed to fly? He’s a pilot! But here, in the dark, with the oxygen thinning and the temperature dropping and Lances pulse hammering against his palm, stopping feels like the only logical choice. And it feels like both is possible.
He kisses him again. Slower this time.
Lance sighs into his mouth, a sound of pure relief, and his fingers tighten in Keith's hair. The kiss deepens fast, no longer the frantic collision of first impulse but something measured, exploratory. Lances other hand slides up Keiths arm, tracing the line of his bicep through the undersuit, and the sensation sends a shiver down Keiths spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
"This blanket sucks," Lance murmurs against his lips. "Not enough coverage. My back is freezing."
"Maybe we should—"
"Yeah."
They shift, awkward and tangled, but different to what Keith thought, Lance moves into Keiths lap. Straddling him. The new position brings their bodies into full alignment—chest to chest, hips slotted together, legs intertwining in the cramped space. Keith can feel every inch of Lance against him, the rapid rise and fall of his breathing, the unmistakable pressure of arousal that matches his own.
"Better?" Keith asks again , and his voice came out lower than intended, roughened by the desire he's been suppressing for far too long.
"So much better. Like, I want to complain about the circumstances, but I'm honestly too distracted by the fact that I …" Lance's gestures, “Never thought I'd get you like this. I thought you'd make me work for it."
"You've been working for it since day one."
"True. But you're not exactly an easy read. Half the time I figured you just wanted to punch me."
"Sometimes I did." Keith murmurs. "Well… Most of the time actually." He dips his head, presses his mouth to the corner of Lances jaw.
The skin there is smooth, warm, and the hitch in Lances breath is a reward all of its own. "Most of the—oh." The words brake as Keiths lips trail down the column of his throat, pausing at the hollow where his pulse flutters. "Oh, okay, that's—that's a thing you're doing."
"Too much?"
"No. Don't stop. Do not stop!" Lances hand fists in the back of Keiths shirt, the fabric bunching. "Just didn't expect you to be so... thorough."
Thorough. The word pulls a quiet laugh from Keith, unexpected and low. He isn’t thorough about much in life—he tends to charge headlong, instincts over strategy, speed over precision. But this, Lances body responding to every brush of his lips, the way his hips shift restlessly beneath Keiths weight—this deserves patience.
"You're still shaking," Keith says, mouth still against Lances skin.
"Cold. Not nerves." But Lances voice wavers, betraying the lie.
The temperature id still dropping. Keith feels it in the way his own fingers and toes are going numb, the chill seeping up through the deck plating. They need more contact, less fabric between them. The math is simple, even if the execution feels impossibly charged.
"I should take this off." Keith tugs at the hem of his undershirt. "Skin-to-skin. More efficient."
For once, Lance doesn’t have a quip. His eyes—dark in the low light— search Keiths face for a long moment, and whatever he finds there makes something in his expression soften. He nods.
They peel away layers with clumsy, shivering hands. The thermal blanket slides off one shoulder, then another other, and the cold air rushes in.
And then there’s skin.
Lances chest is lean, scattered with faint freckles that Keith never noticed before—never been close enough to notice. A scar curves along his ribs, silver-pale against the brown of his skin, and Keiths fingers trace it before his brain catches up. Lance shivers, but not from cold. His own hands find Keiths waist. His palms ate rough from god knows what, from weapons drills, from the same endless training that shaped them both into paladind. They map the planes of Keiths stomach with a deliberateness that make his breath stutter.
Pressing together again is everything. The foil blanket settles over them again, trapping a pocket of warmth. Chest to chest, the sensation is electric—Lances heartbeat against his own sternum, the smooth skin, the fine tremors that run through them both. Keith buries his face in the crook of Lances neck and just breathes.
"This is nice," Lance whispers, "I mean, we're still probably dying. But this is... really nice."
"We're not dying."
Keith lifts his head, meeting Lances gaze. The proximity makes it impossible to focus on both eyes at once; he finds himself switching between them, "I won't let anything happen."
Lances expression flickers—surprise, then something achingly vulnerable. "Keith..."
"I mean it."
"I know you do. That's the terrifying thing." Lance cups his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone with startling tenderness. "But you don’t know that. This… you can’t do anything about this."
The admission sits between them, heavy and unpolished. Keith has never been good at this—putting words to the things that live in his chest. Action is his language. Deeds, not declarations. So he lets his body speak instead: the press of his hips, the way his lips find Lances again, the slow, searching rhythm of the kiss that asksa question he can’t phrase any other way.
Lance answers. His hands roami, nails scraping lightly down Keith's spine, tracing the ridges of scars and muscles.
"Moment of honesty," Lance gasps, breaking the kiss to drag air into his lungs. "I've thought about this. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount."
"What exactly did you think about?"
Color floods Lances cheeks, visible even in the dim light. "Don't make me say it."
"I'm making you say it."
Lances reaction, the way his pupils blow wide and his mouth falls open, tells him it’s working. "What did you think about?"
"I—you—" Lance swallows hard. "You. Taking charge. Obviously. You're always so, like, contained and intense and I just wanted to see—what happens when you stop holding back."
"And now?"
"Now I'm finding out. And it's… It's a lot. In the best way."
The thermal blanket slips again. Keith catches it, tugs it back over them, and uses the motion to shift his weight more firmly against Lances hips. The friction pulls a groan from them both, low and involuntary. Keith can feel the shape of Lances desire through the thin remaining layer of their flight suit bottoms, the heat and hardness unmistakable, and the knowledge that Lance wants him—has been wanting him— brings out something possessive in his chest.
"We should probably slow down," Lance says, but his hips buck up, contradicting the words.
"Probably." Keith doesn’t slow either. His mouth latches onto Lances collarbone instead, tracing its ridge with his lips and his tongue, and Lance makes this sound that’s half-moan, half-laugh.
"I think you might not be very good at that, huh?" The teasing hint comes back, but undercut by his ragged breathing.
"At what?"
"At… like, not completely wrecking me." Lances fingers hook into the waistband of Keiths flight suit, not pushing, just holding. "I'm supposed to be the smooth one. The charmer. But you kiss me once and I'm a disaster."
"Good." Keith lifts his head, fixing Lance with a look that makes his breath catch. "I don't want smooth."
The words land. Lances grip tightens, and he just looks startled now. "You— you can't just… say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's—because I—" He trails off, laughing helplessly. "Because I'm already gone, you idiot. I've been gone. And if you say more stuff like that…"
“Then what?”
“I don’t know! Okay? I think i’ll cry or something”
“Then cry."
"I'm not—" Lances voice cracks. "I'm not going to cry. I'm going to kiss you again. And then we're going to figure out how to survive this, because you promised me a hot shower and a chance to tell me more stuff I'm not annoying. So you can't die. And neither can I."
“Okay I didnt actually promi—“
Lance cuts him off.
The kiss is different. Softer and slower. Their mouths move together with an ease that wasn’t there before and it shuts down the awkwardness of the first kiss, learning the rhythms and pressures that made the other sigh. Lances hands slide up to frame Keiths face, holding him like something precious, and the tenderness of it is almost unbearable.
"Your hands are still cold," Keith murmurs, and takes them, bringing Lances fingers to his own mouth. He breathes warmth against the chilled skin, lips brushing over knuckles and palms and the delicate skin of his wrists. Lance watches, barely containing himself.
The shuttle groans around them—metal contracting in the cold, or maybe a system finally succumbing to its damage. The emergency lights flicker once, twice, then steady at a dimmer orange. Keith gets up to go to the control center.
"Power's dropping," Lance says, his voice strained. "How long do we have?"
"Life support? Maybe two more varga. Less if the temperature keeps falling." Keiths mind, which had blessedly shut off for a few moments, kicks back into tactical mode. "We need to share heat more efficiently. Stay as close as possible.”
Lances smile widens but then Keith added, “Keep moving as little as possible—conserve oxygen."
"So cuddling. You're talking about cuddling."
"For survival."
Lance smiles, a genuine, unguarded expression that makes Keiths heart clench. "I can live with that. I guess I can handle that. Would have lived something else but that works." He tugs Keith back, arranging them so Keith lays on top of him, their legs tangled, the blanket wrapped around them like a cocoon. "There. Maximum contact. Very efficient. I give this survival plan five stars."
"Shut up and keep me warm."
"Your bedside manner is terrible."
But Lances arms are around him, his hands rubbing slow circles on Keiths back, and the rhythm is as good as hypnotic. The cold still nips at the edges—their shoulders, the exposed skin of their necks, the places where the blanket can’t quite reach—but their cores are warm. Hot, even, where their bodies meet. Keith can feel Lances heartbeat, a steady thump against his ribcage, and the sensation grounds him in a way he hadn't anticipated.
"Hey, Keith?"
"Hm?"
"If we do get out of this—when we get out of this—is this still going to be a thing? Or is it just, like, a survival situation one-time deal?"
Keith considers the question. Considers the months of bickering and bating and barely concealed longing. Considers the way Lance looks at him now, vulnerable and hopeful, all his defenses stripped away by the cold and the dark and the kiss. Considers the confessions they’d both made. The fact that both of them have wanted this for such a ling time that pretending it was only for this situation would be practically impossible.
"It's a thing," he says. "If you want it to be."
Lance exhales, a long breath that seems to carry some of the tension out of his body. "Yeah. I want it to be." His hand slides up to cradle the back of Keiths head and his fingers tangle gently in his hair.
"Okay. So now we definitely can't die,” Keith breathes a bit shaky.
Lance snorts, “Wouldn’t that just be the universes cruelest joke. Get the guy, immediately perish." He sighs, "Allura's gonna be insufferable about this, you know. She's been dropping hints for months. Pidge, too. And Hunk—Hunk probably already knows. He knows everything."
"Coran will give us a lecture on interspecies relationship protocols."
"Oh, quiznak, I forgot about Coran." Lance groans. "He's going to use words like 'courtship' and 'decorum' and we're going to have to sit there and nod."
"You'll have to sit there and nod. I'll just leave."
"No, you won't. You're not bailing." Lances voice hardens slightly, a thread of seriousness beneath the it. "That's non-negotiable. You don't get to kiss me like that and then disappear."
"I wasn't going to disappear."
"Good. Because I'll find you. I'm annoyingly persistent."
"Just annoying’ll do it.”
“Keith I mean it.”
“I know."
They fall quiet. The shuttle hums its failing song. Outside, the nebula spirals on, indifferent to the two small lives suspended in its embrace. Keith catalogues the sensations: the slow thud of Lances pulse, the warmth of his skin, the rustle of the thermal blanket against their bare shoulder. He’s cold and scared but somehow more hopeful than he's been in years.
"We should try to sleep," he says eventually. "Conserve energy."
"Hard to sleep. My brain won't shut up."
"What's it saying?"
"That I'm terrified. That I'm really, glad you're here. That I wish I'd said something sooner so we didn't waste so much time." Lance's thumb traces the shell of Keiths ear, a touch so light it tickled. "That I really, really want to kiss you again. That I want to do a lot more than kiss you, but this is probably not the time."
Keiths body responds to that suggestion with a speed that might not be healthy. He shifts, trying to mask his reaction, but Lance—of course—noticed already.
"Oh. Oh, wow." A delighted, breathless laugh. "Yeah, okay. Not just me, then. Good to know."
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to keep us both awake and alive, and if that involves a little teasing, so be it." Lances hands slips lower, resting on the small of Keiths back, just above the waistband of his flight suit. The touch is innocent enough, but the potential is there and they both know it. "Besides, we established that you like the teasing."
"I tolerate it."
"Sure. And I tolerate your mullet." Lances grin is sharp in the dimness. "We both tolerate things. It's a whole tolerance-based relationship."
"Relationship," Keith repeats, and the word feels strange in his mouth. Heavy and light at the same time. And he can’t help but smile at it.
"Yeah. That's what this is, right? If we're going to be a thing. A relationship." Lances bravado flickers, uncertainty bleeding through. "Unless that's too—"
"NO!" Keith cuts him off, the word more forceful than intended. "Sorry. No. It's not tooanything. It's... good. It's what I want."
"Okay. Okay, cool." Lances relief is obvious. "Me too. Just…checking."
The lights flicker again, more violently this time, and a warning chime sounds from the console. Keith tenses, instinct urging him to get up, to check the readout, to do something—but Lances arms tighten, holding him in place.
"What's that?"
Is… is he really that afraid?
"Probably the oxygen sensor hitting critical." Keith forces himself to relax, muscle by muscle. "If we freak out, we use more air."
"So freaking out is counterproductive. Got it." Lance is quiet for a moment, and then, very softly: "Hey, Keith? In case the rescue doesn't—"
"It will."
"In case it doesn't." Lances voice is steady now, stripped of all its usual bullshit. "I want you to know that I'm glad it's you. Here. With me. If I had to be stuck in a dying shuttle with anyone in the universe, I'd pick you."
The words hit harder than any blow. Keiths throat closes, and he has to breathe through his nose for a long moment before he can speak. "I'd pick you too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Lance kisses him—soft, brief, a benediction—and then tucks his face into the curve of Keiths neck. His breath is warm and even, and the tension slowly bleeds out of his frame as he allows himself to be held. Keith wraps around him as best he can, the blanket pulled tight, their bare chests pressed flush, hearts beating in sync in the cold dark.
Time blurs. Maybe minutes, maybe an hour. The shuttle drifts, and the stars wheel overhead, and the cold creeps in from the edges, persistent and patient. Keith doesn't sleep. He watches the console lights through half-closed eyes, tracking the slow decline of their life support, doing mental calculations that all end the same way: not enough time.
But Lance is warm. Lance is breathing. Lance is here, and that makes the math feel less final.
The kiss changed something. Not just between them—though that too—but inside Keith. He spent so much of his life braced for impact, expecting loss, that the possibility of gain had never factored into his worldview. But here it’s, cradled in his arms, snoring lightly against his collarbone. Gain. Addition. Something worth fighting for beyond survival.
He will get them out of this. He will find a way.
“Stop looking at the console,” Lance mutters sleepily.
Keith glances over. “I’m checking the systems.”
“You’ve checked them six times.”
“They’re damaged.”
“Theyre not gonna get less damaged because you look at it more often.”
“You dont know that!”
“Yes actually. I do. A good thing can get worse without doing something to it but a bad thing doesnt get better when you dont do anything to it.”
“But it could get even worse than it already is—“
“Keith. Shut up”
“Oh YOU’Re telling ME to shut up now? Thats rich, man…”
“No. Look.”
The console chimes again—but this time it isn’t the oxygen alarm that’s light was blinking. Keiths head snapps up, eyes focusing on the readout.
Incoming transmission. Proximity alert. A ship is approaching.
"Lance." He shakes him, not gently. "Lance, look!"
"I’m the one who told you to look—"
"Lance. There's a ship."
That gets through. Lance jerks upright, the blanket sliding off his shoulder, his eyes wide and suddenly alert. "What? Where? Is it—"
"Don't know yet." Keith is already reaching for the comm controls, awkwardly angled from where they lay. The screen flickers, resolving into a signal pattern—familiar, Altean. "It's the castle. Lance, it's the castle!"
Relief crashes through him so hard his vision goes spotty. Lance sobs relieved and grabs Keiths face in both hands, planting a kiss on his lips with smacking force.
"We're saved. You magnificent, stubborn bastard, we're saved!"
"I told you—"
"You told me, I know, you're always right, shut up and let me be relieved." Lance is laughing now, giddy and breathless, tears tracking through the grime on his cheeks. "Coran! Hunk! Anyone! Do you read us?"
No answer. Both their hearts sink momentarily.
“Repeat. Castle of lions, this is Keith and Lance do you copy?”
“It’s actually Lance and Keith. Youre always supposed to say the other person first…”
“Lance please stop talking. Repeat, Castle of lions, do you copy? This is the red and blue paladins!”
“Blue and red!”
“Oh my— ugh… Coran? Shiro? C’mon, anyone? This is the blue and red paladins. We’re on low life support. Please respond.”
The comm crackles.
“Hello? Castle Of Lions can you hear us? Repeat Castle Of Lions do you copy?”
A voice—tinny, distorted, but definitely Coran— "...Paladins! We're reading your beacon. Hold tight, we're maneuvering for docking. What's your status?"
"Alive," Lance says, and the word breaks on a laugh. "We're alive, Coran. Cold and—" his eyes meet Keiths, and the grin that spreads across his face is beautifully unstandable "—and very, very ready to come home."
Keith takes the comm. "Life support's at ten percent. Two varga max. But we're stable."
"Splendid! We'll have you aboard in half a varga. Hang in there, lads."
The channel goes quiet. The proximity alert keeps chiming, a steady pulse of approaching salvation. Lance slumps back against the bulkhead, dragging Keith with him, and for a long moment neither of them speaks. They just breathe together, in the tiny pocket of warmth they've created.
"So," Lance says, when the silence stretched too thin. "Half a varga. That's enough time, right?"
"For what?"
"For..." He gestures vaguely between them, a flush creeping up his neck. "You know. Continuing where we left off. Before the near-death experience interrupted."
Keith's pulse kicks. "You want to—"
"I want to pick up exactly where we stopped. Kissing. Touching. All of that." Lances voice drops to something low and private, a secret shared between their mouths. "Unless you'd rather wait until we're back on the castle. Warm beds. Privacy. No time limit."
The suggestion paints a vivid picture. Warmth. Time. The freedom to go slow—slower than slow—without the constant threat of oxygen depletion. Keith wants that. Desperately. “To be honest i’d rather wait. I dont wanna hurry this and have to fit it in a time frame. Is… uhm… is that okay?”
“Of course it is.”