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Keith never gets used to the stares.
There isn’t a single city on Earth, or in the known universe, for that matter, that hasn’t imprinted his face into their memory. That isn’t to say everyone loves him. There were a couple of political groups after the war who considered Voltron’s “regime” more oppressive than the Galra Empire. But those all consisted of rich bastards who once benefited from Zarkon’s genocide, who were now whining over losing their blood money.
Yeah, Keith doesn’t pay much attention to those guys.
It is impossible, however, to walk through a shopping centre without seeing stacks of plushies of the Voltron Lions or, more recently, giant adverts of Lance posing for his latest brand deal plastered over the walls. People have to make money somehow, after all.
But Keith has always hated the spotlight, and it’s a curse that he always inadvertently ends up right in the centre of it all. He blames his adventurous spirit for that.
Now, rightfully, he always feels the toll of fame as he wanders around the city– any city, really, and people stop to stare, or worse, ask to take pictures with him. The swarms aren’t as rampant as they were right after the war (Keith spent a lot of his time at the Galaxy Garrison back then), but there are still enough Voltron fanatics for him to dread wandering the streets alone.
He’s found a solution for all of that, now. When he visits Earth, if he’s not on official Blade business or seeing Shiro and Adam, Keith hops in his ship and flies to Cuba. There, on the edge of an unsuspecting coast, is a small beach town, the residents of which have all grown so accustomed to him by this point that Keith could probably walk around naked with a banana on his head and all he’d get in response is a polite ‘hello’. It’s only a bonus that this small Cuban town is also Lance’s home.
Keith stomps his way up rackety porch steps, dusting off his gloved hands against his thighs, and rings the doorbell. Immediately, there’s noise on the other side – a muffled shout as something crashes, then a rushed-out ‘coming!’ before the door is swinging open. Lance’s smile is brilliant where it lands on him, and Keith can’t help but hold his breath, savouring the feeling of it in his chest.
“Hey there, Samurai,” Lance’s voice lilts in that half-teasing, half-flirting way it’s used to. “Wasn’t expecting you this early. Couldn’t wait to see me?”
Keith snorts, ears burning. “You wish.”
Lance’s grin only widens as he pulls him into a tight hug.
“Man, why are you always in this stiff uniform when you visit? It’s so uncomfortable to hug you like this,” Lance grumbles the same complaint he always does, but he’s yet to skip out on his hug.
“I come here straight from work, you know this,” Keith answers as usual, pulling away.
Lance smirks, “Eager much?”
Keith elects to ignore the question, instead stepping around Lance and through the threshold of the house.
“Oh, sure, please, come right on in!” Lance drawls sarcastically, with no real bite.
Keith’s shoes are deposited to the left of the door, a pair of Red Lion slippers replacing them on his feet. He’s long since given up arguing with Lance (and his mother) on the dangers of walking around the house barefoot. His bag meets the hardwood floor beside the shoes. Finally, Keith pauses to take everything in.
It’s become a habit, by now, to check what has changed in Lance’s house in his absence, things that wouldn’t be obvious unless you spent as much time there as Keith has. The fallen picture frame that lay on the coffee table the last time he visited has now been rehung on the far wall of the living room. There’s a new potted plant sitting on the windowsill in the kitchen. But most importantly, when his eyes rake over Lance, they notice a change in him, too. It’s not super obvious, and he’d doubt anyone would even pay attention to it, if only they didn’t know him as well as Keith did. And Keith did.
A light dusting of pink is sprinkled over Lance’s cheeks alongside his freckles, and there’s a looseness in his shoulders that Keith’s never seen before. He can see that the past year away from the aftermath of the war has done him good.
“You look good,” Keith voices honestly. He watches the flush on Lance’s face deepen with a widening grin.
“That is such a lie. I’ve spent the past few days fixing the shed out back and I’m exhausted,” Lance groans, leaning his weight into Keith’s side.
Keith takes it easily, barely flinching at his friend’s dramatics. He nudges him lightly, rocking him to the side, but not hard enough to push him away.
“Well, come on, then. I’ll take you out to eat.”
Lance points his soulful eyes right at him, and, wow, they’re a lot closer than Keith initially thought. Lance drags his eyes down his face slowly, pausing somewhere near his chin, before continuing down. His face scrunches up.
“Not wearing that, you’re not,” he declares, flicking one of the lapels of Keith’s uniform with distaste. “Go change.”
“Bossy.”
“Asshole.”
They smile at each other. Keith struggles to remember a time when that kind of exchange was said with malice rather than soft affection.
They’re quick to change into something more appropriate for a late afternoon on the town. Lance’s hair is fluffed in that special way that always gets Keith in between his ribs, pushed up off his forehead with sunglasses. He’s sporting navy shorts and a white tank top paired with a patterned shirt, hanging unbuttoned over his shoulders.
Keith is dressed similarly, in maroon shorts and a dark t-shirt, both items stolen from Lance’s closet. Though Keith’s always doubted the validity of that. The clothes Lance gives him always fit him a little too well for someone who’s supposedly two sizes bigger than him. And all too often, they contain muscle tees with cuts that just so happen to show off the Voltron tattoo on his left bicep.
The road to the town centre from Lance’s house is a straight line along the coastline. Keith basks in the fresh ocean air as they walk, taking in the sounds of crashing waves and children splashing around. It feels like he’s entered a whole other world right here, on Earth, where the biggest problem he has to deal with is how to decline Mrs. McClain’s fifth attempt to give him extras of dinner when he’s already had three portions.
“Leandro!”
Lance perks up as they approach the food vendor, flashing him a blinding smile.
“Hola, Señor Armas.”
They make small talk as Keith practices reading through the menu, even though he’s been here enough times to know exactly what to order.
“The usual?” Mr. Armas asks, already turning around to get started on the food.
“You know it!” Lance confirms and sneaks Keith an excited glance.
Physically incapable of keeping his hands to himself as he stares at the falling golden rays across Lance’s face, Keith slides his hand to the small of his back. Lance instinctually drifts closer and sighs out a small breath. His head tilts back as he takes in the sunlight gracing his skin, delicate and glowing. His eyelashes flutter closed, and his lips push up in a soft smile. The lines of his face have smoothed out, and he looks incredibly serene like this, Keith thinks. Beautiful.
He blinks, and suddenly, Lance is pointing that gorgeous smile his way. His eyebrow raises in an amused question, but Keith just shakes his head, tightening his hold around his waist.
“There you go.”
They snap out of their moment when Mr. Armas comes back with the food, smiling knowingly at them. Lance quickly grabs it and leaves to find them a table to sit at while Keith pays.
“You know, he rarely comes here on his own,” the man tells him as Keith counts up the money from his pocket. It makes him pause and lose count, glancing up to look at him. “He always says it’s not the same without you, so make sure you come around more often. I’ll be in better business,” Mr. Armas finishes with a grin, taking his money and deftly counting it up, leaving him the change, and bids him a good day.
Keith walks a little stunned to where Lance has found them a spot at a small bench facing the ocean. He hands Keith the meal, knee bumping against his.
“You alright?” he asks, because of course he’s already noticed Keith’s shift in mood.
“Yeah, it’s nothing.”
Lance blinks at him once, assessing his face, then turns to his food and bites into it. He moans against the taste.
“Man, this guy knows his shit! I could eat here every day.”
Keith pauses halfway through taking his own bite to frown.
“Really? Mr. Armas told me you only come here with me.”
There’s a second where Lance’s eyes widen, like he’s been caught in a lie, before they’re smoothing out into something more teasing.
“The food just tastes better on your dime,” he smirks.
Keith brushes his thigh against his knee.
They eat in companionable silence, and Keith doesn’t think about how nice it feels to know they have A Place together.
Nights, by far, are Keith’s favourite.
He doesn’t know how it started, but somehow, the couch Keith had exiled himself to the first time he visited Lance’s house has since remained untouched by him. Lance was quick to wrangle him by the back of his shirt, shaking him like a misbehaving kitten, and throw him to his bed. They’ve been sharing it ever since.
Maybe he shouldn’t be admitting this, but Keith enjoys the domesticity of it all. He’ll brush his teeth and fall into bed, rubbing Kosmo behind his ears if he’s nearby, while Lance does his nighttime routine. Inevitably, by the time Lance joins him, he’s already half asleep and barely hanging onto the whisps of consciousness.
Lance will attempt to smear moisturiser on his face, and Keith will grumble, but not with enough force to get him to stop. He’ll crawl over his curled-up body and settle on the pillows next to him like a familiar weight. And if the dip in the mattress makes him fall deeper into Lance, that’s not his fault. It’s only natural for him to then wrap his arm over Lance’s waist, snuggling against his chest and breathing in the floral scent of his fabric softener.
“Watcha thinkin’ about?” Lance’s whisper against his neck startles Keith from his spot on the couch.
They’re already sitting close enough for their shoulders to brush whenever Lance so much as breathes. But the last ten minutes or so, he’s been restless, worrying the knitted threads of the quilt thrown over their legs as the main character – coincidentally an astronaut of sorts – rifles through his deceased crew members’ belongings.
Keith looks at him, trying to gauge where his anxiety is coming from.
“Do you not like the movie? We can watch something else.”
Lance’s eyes widen.
“What? No! The movie is great, super funny. I totally relate to the main guy,” he trails off towards the end.
Ah.
“What do you mean?” Keith asks, sitting a little straighter.
Lance’s fidgeting gets worse for a second, then abruptly stops. He sighs.
“Like– guy who has no business being in space in the first place gets sent there against his will, who ends up lost in space and needs to find his way back home, making friends with a rock-shaped alien in the process.”
Keith laughs at that, eyeing a picture under the TV showing Hunk with Shay and the rest of the team at a waterpark.
“He’s also funny and smart, so, you know, definitely me,” Lance huffs, clearly deflecting from the rest of his sentence.
“Totally,” Keith drags out sarcastically, earning him a slap on his thigh. Lance’s hand stays there after its assault, warm and encompassing.
“He’s just, I don’t know, showing exactly what it felt like to be stuck up there, not knowing if you’ll be able to go home, being the world’s only hope for survival, and all that…” The look in Lance’s eyes is forlorn and faraway, as if remembering an old, haunting feeling from the darkness of his mind.
“Lance,” Keith covers the hand still resting in his lap and meets his gaze, “we made it back. We’re here.”
“I know,” he breathes out shakily. “It’s still hard to believe, sometimes. I keep thinking I’ll go to sleep one day and wake up on the castle-ship again,” he chuckles wryly and stares down at their hands.
Frowning, Keith tilts his full body towards him.
“Lance, we’re here,” he repeats with more emphasis, swiping an arm around them. “We’re in Cuba, and your family is next door sleeping peacefully because you stopped Zarkon and Haggar. You saved the universe, Lance.” In one impulsive moment, Keith brings his free hand to cradle Lance’s jaw. “You deserve some peace, too.”
Lance nuzzles into his hold and closes his eyes. He takes a steadying breath and lets it out through his nose.
“We deserve it,” he murmurs against the skin of Keith’s wrist before standing from the couch and pulling Keith up with him. “Let’s get some sleep, hot shot. We can finish the movie tomorrow.”
Keith lets himself be led to the bedroom. It’s not an unfamiliar path by that point, but there’s something about Lance’s hand in his that makes it feel like the first time he’s ever stood on his own two feet.
The next morning, Lance’s mother invites them over for breakfast, so, with matching mugs of coffee, they make their way down the road to his parents’ house. It’s never an empty house at the McClains’, and breakfast welcomes them along with different aunts and uncles and distant cousins that just happened to stop by.
Keith sits next to Lance at the dinner table, listening to the chirping birds from the open window nearby and the radio providing a soft soundtrack to their morning. He watches absentmindedly as Lance picks up his fork to dig into the food, then pauses, looking around. Immediately, Keith’s hand shoots out to the sauce bottle on the opposite end of the table.
“Tío, could you pass me that, please?” he asks one of the uncles, then hands over the bottle to Lance.
Without even sparing him a blink, Lance takes it from him and mumbles a sleepy, “Thank you, guapo.” The pet name rolls off his tongue naturally, and Keith knows enough Spanish by now to recognise its meaning.
Someone hollers from across the table.
One of Lance’s uncles has leaned over to not-so-subtly whisper to Keith, “Our Lancito is always much brighter when you come around. You make him very happy.”
Classic McClain family manner – dropping a bombshell like that, then leaning back in their seat, smugly twirling their metaphorical (or literal, as this uncle has) moustache as Keith’s perception of reality shifts a degree. He looks back over at Lance, who is pretending not to hear their conversation as he chews his food, and Keith is suddenly struck with an overwhelming, violent desire to squeeze his blushing cheeks.
Quietly, Keith whispers to himself, “It’s mutual.”
Clanking rings through the gym as their swords collide. This time, the force of it pushes Keith back an inch. He smirks to himself.
“You’re getting better at this.” He twirls out of the deadlock, deftly bouncing back into an en guard position. “I nearly lost my balance there.”
“Oh, shut…up…” Lance gasps out. Sweat rolls down his face that he messily wipes away as he matches Keith’s stance. “I need more practice.”
Keith’s smile turns sharp.
“Then show me what you got, guapo.”
Then, he lunges.
Lance fumbles for a second too long, and it’s enough for Keith to get the upper hand on him. In one fell swoop, he’s pushing away Lance’s blade aiming towards him with his own and sliding behind him. One hand clutches Lance’s hip as he lays the blunt side of his Marmora blade against his throat.
“Come on, now that was just sloppy,” Keith speaks against the shell of Lance’s ear.
“It’s not fair,” Lance says and throws his Altean broad sword on the ground in surrender. “You distracted me.”
Unable to contain himself, Keith bursts out laughing and steps away from him.
“The great Loverboy Lance can’t handle a little flirting during a spar? I thought this was your forte.”
Lance whips around to glare at him.
“I can, too!”
“Didn’t seem like it to me.”
“Just you wait, Mullet. The next time you visit, I’ll be so zen’d out on sword fighting I’ll be able to disarm you in my sleep!”
Keith looks him up and down, settling his gaze on the curl of wet hair behind his right ear.
“You want to bet?” he asks, holding out his palm.
Lance hesitates for a moment, then takes his hand.
“If I win, I get to take you out.”
Keith frowns at that. Lance ‘winning’ already implies him ‘taking Keith out’ in the fight, but Keith just chalks it up to Lance wanting to rub in the victory by beating him one more time. It’s not the worst fate, so Keith agrees.
“Deal.”
Keith storms into the Galaxy Garrison emergency unit and beelines for the front desk, slamming his hands down on it.
“Where is he?”
The nurse behind the counter jumps a little, slowly rising from her seat and warily eyeing the security guard on the other side of the room.
“Sir, you need to calm down–“
“Where is Lance McClain?” Keith demands, chest heaving from having run all the way from the hangar. His hands grip the front desk as he towers over her, feeling that burning heat under his skin that usually indicates his Galra features coming out. A quick run of his tongue over his teeth confirms the presence of inhumanly sharp fangs. As the nurse quickly types something into the computer, he takes a few steadying breaths, fingers uncurling from their death grip.
After a few seconds, she looks up.
“Mr. McClain is in room 158,” she says, but Keith is already halfway through the door to the ward, ignoring her yells of protest.
His vision blurs as he zips through the hall, nurses, doctors and patients alike shadowing around him until he finally reaches the door numbered 158. With faltering coordination and no lack of brashness, he barges in and is immediately frozen in his tracks by the sight.
Lance lays on his back on the hospital bed in a mimicry of peaceful slumber. His head is tilted into the soft pillow, chest rising shallowly with each breath. His torso is bare, save for a section of intertwining bandages that wrap around his ribs and stomach. Carefully, Keith approaches his bedside, eyes following the twitch of his nose as a stray strand of hair tickles his face.
“Excuse me.” The door swings open behind Keith to reveal a man in his forties, evidently the doctor. “Are you Mr. Kogane?”
Keith swallows against the dryness in his throat.
“Yes,” he answers, eyes drifting back to where Lance lies still.
“Is Mr. McClain your partner? I’d like to discuss his condition with you.” The doctor quickly jots something down in his notes and steps properly into the room, giving Keith his full attention.
“Yes, is he okay?” Keith rushes out without preamble. His mind isn’t currently being very helpful in providing frivolous pleasantries (not that it is much usually, either), or he would’ve caught onto the fact that the other man was asking if him and Lance were together. As it stands, though, his misguided confirmation seems satisfactory enough for the doctor to begin reciting Lance’s ailments to him.
“He has a shallow laceration on his torso and a slight contusion at the back of his head from when he fell as a result of the primary injury. We stitched him up and dosed him with some painkillers, which knocked him out, as you can see,” the doctor waves a vague hand at Lance’s dozing form. “He was fully coherent when he was awake and didn’t seem to be exhibiting any signs of a concussion, which is always good,” he shoots Keith a reassuring smile. “He’ll be up and at it in no time, and he’ll be free to go home tomorrow. We just need to monitor him for infection overnight. The nurses at the front desk will give you a script for the antibiotics.”
Keith nods along to the words mindlessly, eyes caught on one bulky section of the wound on his left side.
“Thank you,” he gives the doctor a quick, courteous glance in gratitude before the other is hurrying out the door. Once he’s gone, Keith pulls up the plush chair resting against a nearby wall up to Lance’s bedside and flops onto it heavily. He leans forward and rests his forearms on the hospital bed, only then realising that he’s still fully clad in his Blade of Marmora uniform, dramatic sashes and all.
A dull headache slowly starts forming behind his eyes. He’d been at a nearby star colony when he got the call that Lance was in the hospital. Of course, Keith takes his humanitarian relief work very seriously, but in that moment, his mind tunnel-visioned until the only thing that mattered to him was Lance. He barely remembered telling Acxa where he was going before he hopped into his ship and started a course towards Earth. The Garrison hadn’t given him any details over the phone, just that Lance had an accident and was taken to the on-site hospital’s emergency room, so Keith’s flight home was filled with gruesome imaginings of every worst-case scenario his mind could conjure.
Now, though, as he maps out his friend’s gentle breathing, Keith finally lets out a sigh of relief. He moves closer, tugging off his obtrusive gloves to free his hand, which has started slowly creeping up to Lance’s forehead. His fingers brush against the stray hair covering it, pushing it back and behind Lance’s ear. He looks so calm like this, so still. So unlike Lance. It spawns an uncomfortable feeling in Keith’s chest. Lance deserves to be boisterous and vibrant and alive, not lying comatose in a hospital bed.
He suddenly thinks back to all their close calls while they were still fighting the war, how many times Keith sat just like this watching over him as a healing pod reconstructed the better half of his skin and organs, how they had actually kept count, for some stupid morbid satisfaction, how often each of them ended up in one of those pods, and how they were always somehow tied for the title of Most Reckless. The same feeling of helplessness fills him now as he continues brushing the hair, nothing to do but wait for Lance to wake up.
He doesn’t wait long. A couple of minutes later, a sleepy hum rumbles from Lance’s chest as his whole face scrunches up. Keith’s hand pauses at his temple, sliding down to rest a thumb against his cheekbone.
“Lance?” he asks and watches the consciousness slowly flow into the man.
“Keith?” Lance blinks at him, face half obscured by the pillow it’s still pressed into. “What’s going on?”
At hearing his voice, Keith subconsciously starts tracing comforting circles into the skin of his cheek.
“You’re in the hospital,” he says mutely. His murmuring tone is soothing and calm. “Do you remember what happened?”
Lance groans as he shifts one of his legs, going to bend it and suddenly freezing before he’s able to fully pull his knee up. He sucks in a sharp breath, and Keith’s hand immediately hooks under his knee to ease it back down into the mattress. Once it’s laid comfortably, his hand lingers there, continuing its crawling ministrations until it comes to rest on his lower thigh.
“Lance,” Keith calls again, more insistently this time, “what happened?”
There’s a moment where Keith knows Lance considers lying. He’s done it before – hidden injuries and the severity of them, hidden times he’d nearly died and even one time when he did. But then Lance’s expression clears into something more tired, worn out, and Keith knows what’ll spill next from his lips is the truth.
“I was practising my sword skills,” Lance admits sheepishly. His eyes drift away from Keith’s and focus intently on the IV bubbling fluid into his vein instead.
When he doesn’t elaborate further, Keith prods, “Okay…then where did the wound come from? You didn’t stab yourself, did you?” he scoffed, because that would be incredibly dumb and unfortunate, even for Lance.
“No!” Some liveliness returns to Lance’s features, annoyance pushing through the haze of drugs. His head had lifted slightly off the pillow in his exclamation, but he dropped it back down just as quickly with a whine. “You’re g’nna be mad.”
Keith leans forward again, giving his thigh a little squeeze to encourage him to share.
Lance lets out a small sigh of frustration through his nose and finally admits, “I was sparring with James.”
For a moment, nothing happens, then understanding hits Keith all at once.
“With James?!” Keith howls. “Why the fuck were you with James?”
The loudness makes Lance wince and scoot away from him.
“Keith,” he slurs his words with a serious frown, “I wanted to show you.” Lance smacks his lips as if his mouth is filled with cotton, and they pause the conversation momentarily for Keith to fetch him a cup of water.
“Show me what?” Keith asks once the water has been downed.
Lance lowers his gaze once more and weakly stretches his fingers out until they graze Keith’s hand lying on the sheets.
“I wanted to show you how much better I’m getting at using my sword.” Lance’s speech becomes clearer the longer he talks. “You always kick my ass when we spar. I wanted to win our bet.”
Even though a part of Keith wants to yell in frustration that Lance went to James Griffin, of all people, to practice, another part lights up at the fact that he went out of his way to impress Keith in the first place.
“So, you admit, I do kick your ass,” Keith teases, inching his hand forward until his fingers find the spaces in between Lance’s.
“Shut up,” Lance grumbles but doesn’t move away.
They sit like that for a minute in silence, just holding hands in a sterile hospital room, until a thought suddenly strikes Lance.
“Wait, how did you even know I was here?”
Keith frowns. “What do you mean? They called me.”
“Who called you?”
“The Garrison,” Keith responds, confusion tampering his voice at the edges. “Wait, why did they call me?”
He watches as Lance’s face does something complicated and embarrassed. His cheeks colour under the dimmed lights of the room, and it makes everything about him turn a notch softer. Keith doesn’t have thoughts like these often (not that he’ll admit, at least), but in this moment, he can’t deny that Lance looks downright cute.
“Lance,” Keith calls him with a teasing lilt.
Despite his growing sheepishness, Lance answers timidly, “Yeah?”
“Why did they call me?”
“You’re my…” The rest of the words are mumbled incoherently into the pillow.
Keith moves closer to hear him better.
“I’m your what?”
“My em…”
“Lance.”
Lance groans loudly, “You’re my emergency contact!” He grimaces at his own volume, the hand not holding Keith’s reaching up to massage his forehead.
Even though that is the most logical answer as to why Keith was summoned to the hospital, something about it just wouldn’t make sense to him. He’s always gone on missions; why would–
“Why would I be your emergency contact and not, like, your mom or something?” Keith blurts out. His own cheeks have grown a shade darker, and now they were both sitting like two flustered idiots, just staring at each other in the middle of a hospital room.
Lance chews on his words, then lets out a long-suffering sigh and sits up straighter.
“Because you’re my person,” he says down his chin, which is pinned against his chest as he fidgets with the blanket bunched in his lap. “Besides, my mom wouldn’t understand. She’d worry herself sick and never let me near sharp objects again. At least you know why I can’t do that.”
Keith does, and it’s the same reason why he hasn’t already chewed him out for his recklessness, sparring with someone inexperienced in sword fighting. Keith has no ground to stand on with that one. He’s honestly more peeved about James being involved in the whole thing.
“Don’t tell anyone, please,” Lance is suddenly begging him, his shoulders hunched and eyebrows raised in a pleading gesture. “They’ll just worry.”
“And for good reason,” Keith decides to tease a little, and by the completely wrecked look on Lance’s face, it works perfectly.
“Nooo,” Lance whines, wiggling their still-joined hands around in the air. It brings a barely contained giggle up Keith’s throat.
But, of course, rather than smoothly recover the conversation in this favourable direction, his brain catches on one small detail.
“I’m your person?” Keith asks, voice barely loud enough to be heard amidst the beeping of hospital machines.
Lance’s eyes widen momentarily before settling into something more secure.
“Well, yeah,” he confirms somewhat reluctantly, eyeing Keith with a suspicious squint, as if he’s expecting the confession to blow something up. In a way, he’s not that far off.
“Oh,” Keith says quietly. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Lance’s voice rises to a scandalised pitch. “That’s all you have to say to that?”
“Well, what else am I supposed to say?” Keith’s shoulders hike up along with his voice.
Lance rolls his eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, how about, ‘You’re my person too, Lance! How could I ever live without you?’”
“You’re being dramatic,” Keith scoffs even as he feels his face heat.
“No, you’re being evasive.”
“Have you met me?”
“Touché.”
They sit in silence. Medicine carts rattle somewhere outside the room door.
“So…” Lance fiddles with his medical wristband. “Guess it’ll be a while before I can win a chance at taking you out again, huh?”
Keith narrows his eyes, scrutinising his posture.
“You want to beat me up that bad?”
For a long time, Lance is quiet. Then, slowly, he lifts his head and gives Keith the most unimpressed stare he can muster.
“Keith, you beautiful, beautiful idiot.”
“W–what?” the man stutters, automatically on the defensive.
With a monumental sigh that has him wincing with a hand at his side, Lance rolls his eyes and grits out, “I want to take you out, not take you out.”
Keith frowns harder.
“That doesn’t hel– oh.”
“Yes, ‘oh’.” Lance throws the arm on his non-injured side up. “I love you, but you can be really stupid sometimes.”
“Hey!” Keith riots with a blush. “You know social cues aren’t my thing. You have to be explicit with me.” He jerks when a warm hand lands on his arm.
“How explicit do I have to be?” Lance has leaned forward, balancing his weight on one arm with hooded eyes.
Keith swallows as he follows his slow blinks in mesmerised awe.
“Maybe it’s better if you show me.”
“You got it, Samurai,” Lance purrs with a grin, then connects the distance between their lips.
The strangest thing happens next. Or, rather, doesn’t happen. There are no fireworks exploding in Keith’s chest, nothing shifting into place like a missing puzzle piece. It just feels right. Whatever he and Lance have, it all had to lead to this moment.
The kiss is cut short all too soon by Lance’s whimper against his mouth and a wince of pain. The sound does something tingly to Keith’s limbs that he has to push down because, oh, yeah, Lance is in the hospital with a stab wound. He gently nudges him to lie back against the pillows, then cradles his chin in his palm.
“You okay?”
Lance smirks, but it lacks its usual gusto.
“Got a little overzealous with that one,” he chuckles half-heartedly.
With barely a second to think about it, Keith is standing up from his chair and sitting on the edge of the hospital bed.
“Dude! Don’t put your dirty-ass uniform on my sterile sheets!” Lance complains, moving to sit up again, but Keith keeps him pinned in place with his other hand.
“At least I didn’t put my shoes on the bed.”
“Heathen, you are a heathen,” Lance chastises as he relaxes into the soft bedding.
Keith twists his body until he’s as parallel to him as he can be without fully climbing into the bed and leans down, planting an elbow by Lance’s head for balance.
“How’s this?”
Lance’s pupils are blown wide as he stares up at him, mouth hanging slightly open. He swallows heavily.
“Better,” he rasps.
Hand inching its way to the back of his neck, Keith moves in closer and presses a saccharine kiss on his lips. It’s delicate and languid – everything Keith’s always run away from in his life, but he thinks he can make this one exception.
“I think I’m feeling healthier already,” Lance rasps when they pull away. He’s got that cockiness to him that used to piss Keith off. It still does, but now, it also ignites something hungry in his gut.
“Is that why you made me your emergency contact?”
Lance’s teeth sparkle under the fluorescent lights as his mouth stretches widely in a grin.
“Depends. Do I get a healing kiss every time I end up in the hospital?”
“Not if it means you'll end up here more often.” Keith pinches his cheek in disapproval. “I’d prefer to have a boyfriend who is alive, thank you very much.”
Lance freezes, eyes widening slightly, then melts into Keith’s hold, finding his hand somewhere in the sheets and lacing their fingers together.
“Oh, you’ll have me, alright.”
Unable to keep the giddiness in, Keith matches his smile and kisses him again. And again. And again. Until they scandalise some poor nurse, who walks in on them while doing her rounds. Keith can’t regret it much, though. He’s right where he wants to be.