Chapter Text
“Why do you have girls’ hair?”
“Um.”
“What is that on your face? Did someone draw on you? Tío Lance lets me draw on his hands sometimes. Yesterday I drew a flower.”
“That’s,” Keith blinks rapidly, looking increasingly helpless by the moment. “Uh. That’s really…cool?”
“Yeah,” Sylvio sighs, dropping his shoulders dramatically and flopping back against the couch cushions. “I’m probably the best drawer in my class.”
A pause. “You mean artist?”
Sylvio shrugs, peering over at Keith with a slight frown. “I dunno. Are you my tío’ses boyfriend?”
And there it is. Goes right in for the kill, this one. Not that Lance had expected anything different.
Keith, however, makes a noise that lands somewhere between a cough and a choke, color blooming high on his cheekbones and spreading all the way down to the line of his jaw.
“I—um,” he begins, then proceeds to splutter a bit. “We don’t—uh. We’re not. I mean—” Lance smothers the urge to laugh when Keith turns from Sylvio to look at him, eyes pleading and desperate as he manages a croaked, “Lance? Want to jump in here?”
“Uhhh, nope.” Lance shakes his head, feeling somehow like he’s won something. He has though, hasn’t he? This is probably the most entertaining thing he’s ever seen in his life. “Looks like you’ve got this one covered.”
“Lance.”
For context, Lance had managed to coax Rachel downstairs and Keith into the living room around twenty minutes ago with the intention of making introductions. Of course, Rachel had skipped right over those in favor of interrogating Keith for details on Acxa (to then relay back to Veronica, most likely), which is…well, Lance isn’t really sure how to feel about that one just yet. Jot it down on the list of things he can worry about later, once he’s lying in bed or standing under the spray of the shower head, trying his absolute hardest not to think about Keith.
Naturally, Sylvio had then wandered into the room just as soon as he’d heard voices, which brings us here, now, with Keith leaning heavily on the armrest of the couch and Sylvio seated right next to him, practically shoulder-to-shoulder. Really, it’s more shoulder-to-head, as Sylvio is still a good few inches shorter than Keith, even sitting down. But Sylvio might as well be six feet tall; Keith leans away from him like he’s afraid he might catch whatever’s making him so chatty, his eyes growing increasingly wide by the second.
Lance stands in the doorway to the living room, a silent observer. Rachel has migrated back to the kitchen, where she’s likely intercepted their mother, who is not usually one to accept relative strangers into her home without making a spectacle of it. A good spectacle, sure. But too much, too soon. Lance would rather Keith be allowed to settle in a bit before he sics the rest of his family on him. Especially since Keith looks just about ready to pass out from the effort it takes to make casual conversation with a nine year old.
“Tío Lance doesn’t bring people here. Not ever.”
“Oh.”
“Are you an alien?”
Lance laughs, abruptly, then smacks a hand over his mouth as Keith’s eyes shoot over to him, narrowing to slits.
“No,” Keith tells him, teeth gritted. “I’m not.”
Lance shrugs, leaning his head to the side. “Welllll—”
“Lance.”
“My friend Maria met an alien once,” Sylvio goes on, unperturbed. “She said they were purple and yellow with five arms.”
Keith shrugs. “Well, yeah, that’s definitely pos—”
“They had fangs, too. Like a wolf. And a tail. Do you have a tail?”
“I—” Lance is pretty sure Keith has only spoken in single syllables for the past few minutes. “Um. No? I don’t—”
“Do you want to go play cars? I got a new one for my birthday. It’s red.”
“Play…cars?”
“I have lots. Trains, too. And planes.”
“I know my way around real planes.”
“That’s cool, but I don’t have any of those. I want to go flying one day. Tío Lance says I’m not old enough yet, but one day I can learn to fly at the Garrison.”
“The Garrison, huh?” Keith raises his brows, tone approving.
“Mhm. He says that’s where he learned how to shoot, too. He’s really good.”
Keith hums, smiling faintly and tossing Lance a brief glance. “Yeah. I guess he’s alright.”
“He never misses,” Sylvio says matter-of-factly, then turns to look Keith dead in the eyes when he asks, “Do you?”
Keith laughs, a little stiffly. “Um—”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Ooo-kay,” Lance cuts in, sounding a little shrill. He hurries over from the doorway to the couch, ruffling the top of Sylvio’s hair as Keith works down what looks like a painfully dry swallow, his Adam’s apple dipping. “I think that’s enough questions for now, bud.”
“Why?”
“Because Keith is new here, and he’s had a long day.”
It’s only eleven AM, but that’s not important. He’s not sure Sylvio can tell time, anyway.
“Why?”
“Because traveling is stressful, and it makes you extra tired.”
“Why?”
“Because it just does,” Lance tells him, shrugging. “Cool?”
Sylvio takes a long, thoughtful moment to think on it, brows furrowed, before he nods. “Cool. Can I show him my room instead?”
“Uhhh,” Lance stalls, looking to Keith for a cue. To his credit, Keith seems to have recovered smoothly from before, nodding with a small smile and mouthing sure. And all of a sudden, Lance reeeeally wants to lean down and kiss him on the tip of his nose, just to say thank you, thank you, thank you. You’re amazing.
“Yeah,” he says instead, grinning like an idiot and feeling something warm and gooey spread its way through his chest. “Yeah, let’s all go.”
“No,” Sylvio says, shaking his head. “Just him. You’ve already seen.”
Lance frowns. “Well, yeah, but—”
“Lance,” Keith cuts in, reaching up to grab onto the cuff of Lance’s sleeve and tug. Lance goes still, trying his absolute hardest not to melt into the floor when Keith’s thumb swipes gently across the inside of his wrist, then presses down against the bundle of veins leading to Lance's palm. Distantly, Lance wonders if Keith feels the way his pulse jumps. “It’s fine. I’d love to see your room, Sylvio.”
Sylvio smiles, like he just knows he’s won. Sneaky little shit. Lance swears he’s never loved his nephew more. “It’s where I keep my planes.”
Lance is standing with his ear pressed up against the wall of Sylvio’s bedroom when his mother intercepts him, her grip like a vice around his wrist as she practically yanks him down the hall and into the nearest empty bedroom. It’s Veronica’s—Lance realizes just as the door snaps shut that one of her posters has slipped off the wall, leaving only the little bits of double-sided tape behind.
“Lance Lius Hernández,” she begins, speaking in a whisper that’s really more a hiss. “I know you did not bring that poor boy home without so much as mentioning it to a single one of us. Mi diosa, mijo…What were you thinking?”
Lance sighs, closing his eyes. “Mamá, please—”
“Rachel says you took your father’s truck all the way to El Paso. Is it true?”
“Uhhhhh—hah,” Lance laughs nervously, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “So. Like. Yes? But if you’ll just hear me out—”
His mother laughs. Outright laughs, then sighs heavily closes her eyes with a small shake of her head. "Oh, no, no, no. I have heard you out plenty."
Which is...yeah. Lance can't even deny that one, wincing a bit at the resigned tone of his mother's voice.
"Why is he here?” she asks.
And it’s right about now that Lance wishes he’d made better use of those two quiet hours in the car on the way back from El Paso. “Um.”
“Lance,”
“I don’t know, alright!” Lance throws his hands up, then lets them drop back down to his sides with a muted thwap. “I don’t know, and I wish I did, but I don’t know how to ask him. I don't think he's ready to be questioned.”
“It's not so difficult,” she frowns, the faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes scrunching up. “You just ask.”
“That is not how our relationship works,” Lance grits out, starting to feel a little itchy. “Look. Keith called, and I answered, simple as that. He clearly needed a place to stay, and whenever he’s ready to tell me why, I’ll listen. But until then, I am counting on all of you to please, please act normal around him.”
That earns him an eyebrow raise. “Meaning?”
“Meaning normal. Ya know—smile. Be friendly. Maybe offer to give him a haircut, I don’t know. Just—” he blows out a sharp breath. “Don’t ask him when he plans on proposing or anything, alright? It isn’t like that, and you’ll probably shock him into a coma.”
His mother sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Dios mijó…where you get your flair for dramatics from, I will never know…”
“He can stay in my room,” Lance blurts, figuring he’s already dug himself a deep enough hole. Might as well bury himself six feet deeper. “If you really aren’t okay with him being here, then I promise you’ll never have to see him. And he's quiet. Really. Like, he'd just disappear for days on end on the Castle. Shiro would have to go searching for him.”
Somehow, his mother's frown only manages to deepen at that, and there's a moment where it seems like she's just about to respond before a sharp knock comes from the doorway, startling them both at once.
"Sorry to interrupt this lovely conversation," Rachel drawls, one hand braced against the frame while the other eases the door open. They hadn't even closed it fully, Lance realizes, which is fun and cool and not at all concerning. Hopefully, Keith's still distracted enough by Sylvio that he wasn't able to hear. "Lance, you might want to go rescue your man. Sylvio's trying to braid his hair."
Lance chokes a little. "My—he's not—whAT?"
By the time Lance reappears on the scene, Sylvio has, in fact, begun to divide the longest strands of Keith's hair into three rough sections, managing to get them criss-crossed enough that it sort of resembles a braid. Lance, admittedly panting a little from his mad dash down the hall, hurries over to crouch down in front of Keith, who's sitting obediently at the foot of Sylvio's Lightning McQueen themed twin bed, his hands folded in his lap.
"Oh my God," he whispers, shaking his head. "Please tell me you agreed to this willingly."
Keith huffs, glancing up at Lance through dark, fanned lashes without shifting the angle of his head so that Sylvio won't fuss. His lips turn up into a small, victorious grin that's honestly so endearing Lance's self control threatens to boil over. And Lance has to literally stare at Keith's lips to make out his reply, which does not help in the slightest. "Anything beats playing cars."
"You look ridiculous," Lance tells him.
Keith raises a brow. "Yeah?"
Ridiculously adorable, that is. "Mhm."
"What are you guys whispering about?" Sylvio asks at regular volume. Lance clears his throat, bracing his hands on his thighs as he stands back to full height.
"Taxes. Paperwork. Boring adult stuff," Lance tells him, reaching out to ruffle his nephew's hair. "Hey, mind if I steal Keith for a minute? I've gotta show him where he's staying."
Sylvio shrugs. "Okay. I'm finished, anyway. Look."
Lance does, peering down at the back of Keith's head and whistling at the sight that greets him; Keith's hair looks like he's gotten caught up in some sort of wind storm. It literally could not be more perfect. "Wow, bud. I mean, just—wow."
Keith reaches back, blindly feeling out the shape of it with gentle pats. "Feels great, too."
"Oh yeah, I bet."
"Mmm."
Mmm, indeed, because really, what words are there? Keith stands with a huff of effort, and Lance nudges his shoulder, then pokes a finger into his side. Leans in close and whispers, "You didn't tell me you were so good with kids, you jerk."
"I'm not," Keith murmurs, glancing not-so-subtly over his shoulder to find Sylvio, still sitting on his bed, now distracted by a small, red toy car that rolls over his knee with the help of added sound effects.
"Boom, crash, aaahhhh," Sylvio whispers to himself, letting the car slide down into his lap. Lance snorts.
"He just...doesn't seem to hate me, I guess."
Lance hums, that warm, gooey feeling from earlier starting back up in his chest.
"Huh," he says, pretending to think on it. Keith rolls his eyes, shoving back against his shoulder and making for the door as Lance trails after him, shrugging. "Yeah, I guess you're kind of alright. Occasionally."
"Before you say anything," Lance starts, "I know it's not ideal."
His bed is small. There's really no other way to put it. It's small, and old, and creaks like a whiny, rusted door hinge when Lance so much as breathes atop of it. So, yeah, maybe he should've thought this through before telling his mother he'd keep Keith in his bedroom, meaning that they would also both be sleeping in his bedroom. Which is like. Whatever. Cool. Totally chill and fine and not at all anxiety inducing. It also doesn't help that his mind immediately jumps from Keith and bed to Keith in his bed, with him.
Clearing his throat, Lance straightens up, trying to appear as if he's never been more okay with anything else ever. Standing beside him in the doorway, Keith blinks rapidly, clutching his backpack against his chest as his eyes flick around the room. "This is your childhood bedroom?"
Lance hums. "Yep. What gave it away?"
It's a rhetorical question. Above his bed, a 24" by 26" poster of the Galaxy Garrison's crest hangs slightly lopsided on the wall, the corners crinkled from the many, many times Lance has tried to readjust it. A small, chipped desk sits tucked into the far corner, its surface covered by old binders and scrap paper. Pencils. A ruler Lance is pretty sure he's never used in his life. Some empty glasses that used to hold water are stacked up right at the edge, ready to be brought down to the kitchen. More posters cover the walls. Some of women. Some of men. Both a little...ya know.
Honestly, Lance should probably feel a little embarrassed, letting Keith see into his younger self's brain like this. Then again, he figures Keith is probably uninterested in thinking too much about Lance's preferences, much less those of his pre-pubescent self.
"You can take my bed," Lance tells him, moving over to pat the comforter. "The sheets are clean, don't worry—I just did laundry the other day."
"Lance," Keith says, frowning. Which is ridiculous, because he still looks cute, and Lance wants to hit him. "I can't take your bed."
"Uh, yeah, you can." Then, when Keith's frown only manages to deepen, that little furrow appearing between his brows, "Really, man, don't sweat it. I have a sleeping bag in the closet that's deceptively comfortable."
"It's your bed."
"And I don't want it," Lance insists, crossing his arms. "Are you saying you'd rather sleep on the floor than in my bed? What, afraid I have cooties or something?"
"That's—" Keith swallows, with effort, his fingertips sinking deeper into the fabric of his pack. "No. That's not—"
"Because I really don't. Like. There's not even a little bit of a chance. I shower twice a day."
"I don't think you have—" Keith stops. Inclines his head to the side. "Twice a day? Really?"
"I like to feel clean. Sue me."
Keith rolls his eyes, smiling a little. It's just a slight tug at the corners of his mouth, but it's there. After a beat, he nods toward the bed, still a bit hesitant. "I mean. If you're sure..."
"I'm sure."
When Keith still doesn't make any sort of move toward claiming the bed, Lance huffs, stomping over and snatching the backpack out from Keith's hands. Keith fusses a bit, chasing after him and trying to reach around his front to grab it back. Still, Lance is able to get the zipper mostly undone, tipping the pack upside down and shaking it with no small degree of force.
A few things tumble out—a flip phone. Some chip bags and a pack of beef jerky. Keith's wallet and blade. Some assorted items of clothing. Mostly t-shirts and boxers. Nothing that takes up too much space. Lance frowns, more than a little distracted by the way Keith has moved to press up against him from behind, still grabbing for the straps of the now-empty backpack. He's up on his tip-toes, actually, trying to compensate for the few inches Lance has on him.
It's cute, and a little funny. But mostly it's just a lot. Keith is warm. And kinda heavy. And every time he inhales, his chest expands to press into Lance's back, their bodies lined up at the hip. Were Lance to wiggle his hips a little—press back into the bend of Keith's body and grind down...
He allows himself the briefest of moments to imagine the hiss of air that might escape through Keith's clenched teeth, his hands landing heavily on Lance's hips and guiding him into a slow, purposeful rhythm that has them both gasping, arching back.
"Damn, Mullet," Lance says, a little roughly, peering over his shoulder as Keith finally goes still, sinking back down to the ground with a sullen expression. "I knew you traveled light, but this is just sad."
Keith's mouth twists, his eyes hardening. "Would you fuck off?"
"Hey, woah," Holding his hands up in front of him, Lance turns back to face Keith, brows raised. "I'm not attacking you or anything. Just making an observation."
"Yeah, well." Lance's gaze flicks down to catch the moment Keith's fists curl. Loosen. Curl again, the skin stretched over his knuckles straining white. "Don't, if you can help it."
Which is just. Just. Lance scoffs, hurt prickling like a light breeze against raised hairs on the back of his neck. "Fine, man. Whatever."
A long, strained silence drags between them. Lance can feel his cheeks growing hot as he resolutely does not look in Keith's direction, focusing instead on the wall behind his head. The dirtied plate he'd left on his bedside table, and the paddles of the ceiling fan that spin with a low electric hum.
That nagging, seemingly cellular-level urge to continue to needle at Keith is just as present as it always has been. The only difference now is circumstance. He just barely manages to bite his sharpest insults back, thinking hard about how wrecked Keith's voice had sounded on the phone. How badly Lance had wanted to see him. How any late-night drive would have been worth it, if it meant being here, now, with Keith standing in his childhood bedroom, staring determinately at the toes of his boots.
"Hey," Lance says, breaking the surface tension. Keith looks up, still frowning, but softens a bit when he realizes Lance has no intention to prod at his weak spots. Not today, anyway. There'll be plenty of time for that later, when the ground beneath them doesn't feel quite so shaky and unfamiliar. Like landing on a new planet to find there's a different sort of gravity to adjust to. "Come on. I've got something to show you."
The fishing pond loses its appeal just as soon as Keith gets bit.
It's his fault, really. Lance told him not to mess with the geese, no matter how big and bad he thinks he might be. Geese are vicious, man. Just evil. I mean, really, have you ever looked a goose in the eye and wondered if there's any sort of soul behind them? Because there's definitely not.
So there's a bite mark on the back of Keith's hand, and Lance uses it as an excuse to fuss over him in close proximity. Clicking his tongue, he reaches out to wrap his fingers around the circle of Keith's wrist and tugs him closer. He goes, willingly, and stands in front of Lance as he inspects the damage. Splaying Keith's hand out flat, Lance flips it over, his thumb ghosting lightly over the abused skin and earning a sharp inhalation of breath from between Keith's teeth.
Keith's palms are especially rough, Lance finds. Rough, and calloused, and pale, too. Jesus. He'll get Keith to stand in the sun for ten minutes if it kills him.
"It didn't even break the skin, you big baby." Lance tells him, delaying the inevitable moment when he'll drop Keith's hand. Or Keith will pull away. Whatever comes first. "I'll grab you one of Sylvio's Star Wars bandaids when we're back inside."
"I don't need a bandaid," Keith grumbles, scuffing the heel of his boot against the grass. "Stupid bird."
"The bird lives here, Keith. You're the one who's hand is the same color as white bread."
That earns him a scoff. And then Keith is pulling away, reaching down to wipe both his palms against the front of his jeans, and Lance is—well. He's a little offended, honestly. His stomach does a funny little flip that feels distinctly not very good, thanks. But whatever. So much for the chance to bond over a shared hatred of water foul.
In the end, Lance defaults to plan B: walking Keith around the property and showing him the highlights. The barns are underwhelming, probably, but Lance does his best to talk them up. He feels a little like one of those guys on the late night infomercials, trying to sell a crappy set of burp-sealed tupperware to fifty-somethings spending their retirement watching mindless TV.
The stalls. The hay. The horses. Oh, look! A stray cat. We get lots of those. Sometimes they have kittens, but Sylvio has the tendency to get over-attached, so we have to hide them for the first few weeks until they look like plain old cats.
Keith entertains it all with a small, reluctant smile, occasionally asking basic questions Lance is pretty sure he already knows the answers to.
Cows. Chickens. No, don't walk too close to the coup. It smells exactly like you'd imagine. Here, try some corn. Just peel the stringy parts off first. Yes, it's fine. The pesticides give it extra flavor. Yes, Keith, I'm obviously joking. Jesus. Ooh, don't step in that red ant hill. That one, right there. Ohmygod Keith, are you blind? The horses? They're still out in the pasture. Yeah, pretty old. No, they don't bite. Are you seriously telling me you fought in a space war and you're afraid of horses? No, Keith, they cannot smell your fear.
The day passes easily enough this way. By the time Lance leads Keith back toward the house, the bottoms of his boots are caked in mud and dirt, little bits of hay caught in his hair from when Lance tossed a handful at him back in the barns. He'd acted annoyed in the moment, but Lance is pretty sure he caught him smirking out of the corner of his eye, so really, it was fine, and he has no regrets.
They go in through the back this time—passing through the living room and into the hall, then stomping up the stairs. Lance makes it all the way to his bedroom before collapsing atop the mattress, limbs splayed out like a starfish.
"Oooh, that's nice," he mumbles, his cheek squished up against the comforter. "Sweet, sweet sleep. How I've missed you."
From somewhere behind him, Keith huffs. "It's only seven o'clock, genius."
"Mmmm, no. It's bedtime because I say so." Lance takes a few long moments to simply breathe, his nose pressed so deeply into the duvet that the bridge aches. He also wonders briefly if Keith is checking out his ass, because, like, come on. It's right there. Were he a better man, he'd make more of an effort to resist the urge to wiggle his hips a bit, getting more comfortable and making a pleased little sound in the back of his throat once he's fully settled.
From behind him, Keith coughs into what sounds like his elbow, which doesn't really prove anything one way or the other. Regardless, Lance can't help but do a quick mental fist pump, closing his eyes for a few breaths to savor the moment. When he's ready, he rolls over onto his back and sits up, letting his shoulders droop.
"Imma take a shower," he says, decidedly. "I'll grab some fresh towels for you, too."
"Oh. That's..." Keith says, just blinking again, and Lance has half a second to try and locate the source of his discomfort before Keith seems to snap himself out of it. He shakes his head, then reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, wincing. "Yeah. That's—thanks."
Lance narrows his eyes a bit, raising a brow. "Let me get this straight. You're afraid of geriatric horses and fresh towels?"
"I'm not—" Keith scoffs, rolling his eyes even as his cheeks go pink. The tips of his ears, too, which is so freaking cute Lance thinks he might just—fuck. Who knows. Explode, probably. Burn up on the spot and turn to a pile of smoldering ash. "Shut up. I am not afraid. I just don't need them."
"The towels?"
"Yeah. I've already got everything I need."
"Dude." Lance levels him with what some might describe as A Look. "Come on. You didn't even bring a toothbrush."
Which is really none of Lance's business in the first place, and probably not something he should bring up so soon after Keith already snapped at him for looking through his things. But hey. He's never been the best at knowing what to say. At finding the line and stopping himself from dancing over it. So if Keith's immediate instinct is to go on the defensive, Lance figures he really can't be blamed.
Instead, he sort of just...deflates, his shoulders sinking as the fight goes out of him. And Lance almost wishes he had snapped—wishes he'd say something sharp and a little mean because holy fucking shit, Lance really does not know what to do with vulnerable.
The Keith he knows has jagged edges. Barbed wire. Armed guards at all his weakest points. This person before him is...very much not that. So not that that it's a little startling, all of Lance's usual tactics flying right out the window and leaving him defenseless.
"Yeah, well," A muscle feathers at the line of Keith's jaw. "I kinda left the Blades in a hurry. Didn't put much thought into what I brought with me."
"You," Lance stops. Swallows. "Hold on. How much of a hurry? Did you even, like...tell anyone you were leaving?"
Keith makes a low, noncommittal sort of noise in the back of his throat. Lance exhales, heavily.
"Keith."
"It's not a big deal, alright?" Lance looks down at Keith's feet when he begins to scuff the sole of his boot against the floor, avoiding direct eye contact. "They didn't need me for anything, anyway. I was just..." A sharp breath leaves him. "I don't know. I guess I just needed a second to breathe away from it all."
Lance stares at him. Stares some more. Says, eventually, "That's...fair."
Which is definitely not the correct response to that statement. Lance knows immediately that the words don't feel right on his tongue. Don't settle comfortably in the space between them. It's just that...well, he really doesn't know what else to say. His instincts tell him to simply stand up, walk right over to Keith, and wind his arms around the back of his neck, tugging him close until their foreheads press together, noses grazing and breath mingling in the space between them.
Obviously, he doesn't do any of that. Which leaves him with nothing and no idea what to do about the furrow that appears between Keith's brows, his lips pressed into a flat line.
"You think I shouldn't have left," Keith says. Not asking.
"I didn't say that."
"But it's what you're thinking, isn't it?" And Lance really doesn't like the tone Keith's voice has taken on. It isn't clipped like he'd expect, but slightly hollow. Empty. Like he doesn't even have the energy to try and defend himself. "That I defected."
Lance's throat feels a little dry. "Keith—"
"I'll stop by the store tomorrow," Keith says, shortly. "Get some of the stuff I forgot to pack."
"Um," Lance stands, reaching down to wipe his palms against the front of his jeans. "Okay. That's fine. I'll go with you, if you want. Just—hey," without really thinking it through all the way, Lance reaches out just as Keith begins to turn away, his fingers wrapping firmly around Keith's wrist. The skin beneath his fingertips is unusually warm, soft and thrumming lightly with the faint beat of Keith's pulse. Lance lets his thumb smooth over the base of Keith's palm, glancing down between them. "You don't have to...ya know. Explain anything to me or anything. Not unless you want to."
Keith is staring at him. He can feel it more than anything else—a faint, prickly awareness that makes him feel warm all over. When he finally works up the nerve to look back up, the awareness dials up to a blaring siren. Flashing lights. Alarm bells. They are standing close. Like. Really close, forcing Lance to take an unsteady step back before he does something insane.
"I honestly don't care why you're here," Lance admits, his voice softening to something almost...intimate. It's weird, probably. Definitely. Probably-definitely. He should stop. Pull away and get his shit together. Instead, he says, "Stay as long as you want. Stay forever, for all I care."
Keith's throat dips a little. "Lance,"
"Just..." Lance shakes his head. Drops Keith's wrist and forces himself to put at least four feet between them. Four seems right. Four seems safe enough. "Don't disappear on me again, okay? I kinda just got you back."
Keith is still staring at him. His lips are parted, just a little, and it takes all of Lance's strength not to hone in on the way his tongue darts out to wet them. On the soft puffs of breath that leave him, barely audible even in the otherwise dead silence of the room.
"Okay," Keith says, decidedly. And it's like something lost to the cool, forgotten depths of outer space re-slots into place like a moon pulled back into orbit. "Yeah. Okay. I won't."