tired and emotional

by bobtheacorn

The one where Keith and Lance get a little wasted, and a little frisky, and then talk about their feelings.

-x-

tired and emotional

-x-

Sometimes the peace rallies and diplomacy meetings aren't all flashing, extravagant things. Sometimes they're a little more subdued, held on ships or intergalactic stations in deep space, or what passes for a fancy hotel lounge in the alien version of Vegas, on a planet safely in the thick of the burgeoning Coalition. Don't get him wrong, Lance loves the parades, but the quiet events have their merits, too. He loves the photo ops, and the interviews, and the impromptu autograph sessions; he loves the attention. He loves being face to face with people who want peace, who are willing to work together in order to achieve it.

And he's so proud to be standing beside his friends on these occasions. He's proud to be a part of this, because look how far they've all come together.

Also, Lance knows he has to be content with the little things.

Like going to save his sulky-looking de facto leader from some well-intentioned aliens. The Fruxians are genderless tripedal aliens with really kind faces, who are graciously hosting this event for the Coalition and several of whom are currently crowding Keith in on either side, wanting something he clearly has no capacity to give. Polite conversation, for example. Since Keith looks about four seconds away from pulling out his Marmora knife or bolting (or worse), Lance hurries across the hall.

He slides easily between the Fruxians and puts an arm around Keith's shoulders. Because the antisocial guy has his arms crossed stiffly, his elbow digs into Lance's side. Lance ignores this, and dazzles their alien allies (or fans? Hard to say) with an apologetic smile, gesturing at Keith.

"Mind if I steal him from you guys? You know, Voltron business and all that."

"Of course, Blue Paladin," one of them twitters, seeming embarrassed.

The aliens scuttle away, their heads ducked together, casting furtive looks over their shoulders as they disappear into the crowd. Lance actually feels the tension leave Keith's body once they're what he determines to be a safe distance away, a sigh punching out of him. Lance props his free hand on his hip, keeps his weight leaned against Keith, and waits.

"They wanted an autograph," Keith complains. Like the nerve.

Lance can't help grinning.

"And you didn't give one to them because?"

"Because it's dumb?"

"Hey, I give out autographs."

"Yeah. And you're the dumbest one here."

Lance huffs, looks away. He splays his hands in a sort of shrug, but doesn't withdraw his arm from around Keith's shoulders.

"Alright, you're cranky because we haven't eaten yet so I'll let that one slide."

Keith groans, "Don't remind me."

He looks around like he's on the verge of despair, taking in the hallway that's fit to burst with a variety of aliens - diplomatic envoys and their guests, a few dozen delegates from different planets, important members of the Coalition, and of course the smaller party of Team Voltron. The meetings and other fun stuff let out about twenty minutes ago and everyone is waiting for the banquet the Fruxians are hosting next. The volume level is understandably pretty high, and though the hall is enormous, it's also a little warm with everyone crowded so close.

Definitely not Keith's scene, and he's been weirdly quiet all day.

(Well, weirdly quieter than usual.)

"I'm so sick of this," Keith is saying, "When can we go?"

Lance tries to have some sympathy, but he's also gotta be honest, "We're probably not going anywhere until after the dinner - er, banquet, whatever - I'm 100% sure." Keith groans again, his head dropping forward. Lance gives him a little shake. "C'mon, I know you're starving. That part'll be fun and you know it! Some polite socializing just so Shiro and Allura don't hit us with a spork and then we sneak off to our own table where we can try all the weird delicacies in peace."

When Keith's only answer is to cross his arms tighter and square his shoulders more (as if that's at all possible), Lance lets him go with a small sigh. He drops his arm and puts his hands in his pockets, casually shifting his stance. He doesn't step away, but it gives Keith back enough of his space that he sort of relaxes. That's what Lance was going for, so, mission accomplished, he keeps on talking.

"Hey, at least we're comfortable," he says.

To be honest, he's really digging the new threads - not just his, but everyone's.

This event is much more low-key than some of the others have been, so they've forgone their armour for once in favor of more casual clothes that Coran had tailored for them. Altean-style formal wear is actually pretty snazzy, and pretty comfortable considering it's basically suit-and-tie wear minus the tie. Slacks, undershirt, jacket, only cut nicer and more form-fitting.

The color-schemes mimic their armour as much as possible, and they're supposed to be color-coded to their Lions still, for continuity's sake; white and black with accent colors.

That worked out well enough for Pidge and Hunk, who are able to rep their respective colors without hesitation. But Allura still insists on bearing the color pink (which is understandable), and Lance personally believes he still looks much better in blue than in red (which is… kind of only part of the reason). So there's been a little bit of confusion about who's flying what Lion, but it really hasn't come up often enough to be a genuine issue with anyone.

Unlike the other thing.

Keith had outright rejected Coran's original fitting for him - primarily black, signaling his position as the leader of Voltron - and Shiro's insistence that he not only head the meeting, but introduce himself to others as the Black Paladin.

Which, alright, Lance had readily sided with Keith on the meeting thing, for a number of reasons, and no one really pushed the issue after Keith blew up about it and refused to do it. Keith is not a motivational speech deliverer. He's not even a really great talker. Shiro is. Allura is. It just made more sense to let them do most of the speech- and- lecture-giving stuff when it was for something like this because they both have the mindset and the experience for it. They both did a great job today (though Lance admits, he may have dozed off at some point).

Keith would have swallowed his own tongue from nerves or blurted out something tactlessly.

Totally not his fault, by the way. He's just…. Like that.

He hasn't had a lot of practice.

With Shiro back, things have been kind of rocky in places. And seeing Keith so closed off like he is now when he should be mingling and celebrating with the rest of them - when he has before and Lance knows he knows how to have a good time - it makes Lance wonder if maybe he should have pushed him a little harder to step up to the plate today. Keith is the leader. He won't be able to figure out how to do leader things his own way if he doesn't have the opportunities to, if he isn't willing to try.

And now he's just thinking in circles, giving himself a headache.

Lance sighs and puts his arm around Keith again, pulling him down into an almost-headlock and dragging him forward, "C'mon, let's go find Hunk and Pidge," and Keith grunts in annoyance, stumbling, but let's himself get pulled along.

-x-

The banquet turns out to be a buffet and a pick-your-seat kind of deal.

It's nice and casual, and after the boring, lengthy meetings all day it is an exciting change of pace. It's held in the main ballroom of the hotel and the gracious space is ringing with so many active voices, the faint undertone of music. They have all gotten up at some point to interact and share tables with the other guests because that's the polite and sociable thing to do and because they're expected to do it as Paladins of Voltron, but after about forty minutes of it Hunk, Keith, Pidge and Lance sneak off to an empty table in the corner to take a break from everyone else.

"I want to try some of these desserts they're carrying around," Pidge says, sitting on their knees in their chair with their arms crossed on the table, watching the Fruxian servers that are flitting in and out among the other guests.

"You said you were stuffed like ten minutes ago," Hunk says, raising an eyebrow, "Also you ate like four plates of that weird pasta stuff, I don't think there's anymore room in that tiny body of yours for anything else."

"I have plenty of room for a dessert or two, trust me. They look really good?"

"I want to try one of these bubbly blue drinks," Lance says, also craning around. He faces forward again, though, slumping down in the seat with his head thrown back against it. "But if I have to initiate one more conversation with another person I'm going to slip into a coma."

"Same," Pidge sighs, sagging forward and bonking their head gently against the table.

"I am definitely feeling that," Hunk says, chin propped in his hand, "I wonder if I wave if they'll just bring that whole tray over here and leave it. Is that rude? That's way too rude."

Keith scoots back his chair without saying anything and gets to his feet. The others look up, frowning as he stalks off, wondering how they could have possibly said something to make him mad - until Keith hails a server with an awkward jump of his hand. The Fruxian bobs their head and smiles widely as Keith talks, and then they're passing the tray of ornate desserts into his hands.

He brings it back to the table.

"Here," Keith says, setting it down. He looks at Lance. "You serious about wanting to try the drinks?"

"Uh, yeah," Lance says, surprised, shifting up out of his slouch, and Keith is off again, catching another server and bearing the tray back.

This time it's laden with a bunch of different drinks in glasses of all shapes and colors. Pidge and Hunk are already sticking their utensils into as many of the desserts as possible, wary at first (they have long since learned their lesson about trying alien foods) and then with more enthusiasm when their tongues don't go numb or nothing crawls out of the pastries and creams and crackers.

Lance snags a drink for himself, one that fizzles into a starburst of bright blue as the liquid in the glass is disturbed, that prickles his face with carbonation when he brings it up to tentatively sniff. It smells like blue candy and something sharper that he can't quite place. Keith retakes his seat and Pidge reaches out to set a plate of what may or may not be cake in front of him.

"Keith, you are officially the best today," they tell him, then add, "Sorry, Hunk."

"No, I totally agree!" Hunk says, "Thanks Keith, you're the best."

"It's no big deal," Keith says.

He pushes the plate around, but doesn't show any sign that he's actually going to eat it. Now that Lance thinks about it, hesitating with his face in his glass, poised to drink, he doesn't remember seeing Keith eat more than a few bites of anything. He doesn't know how to come right out and say that without making an ordeal or a fight out of it, so instead he lowers his glass and says,

"It really isn't." Even though Lance is agreeing with him, Keith shoots him a look that's meant to be exasperated and just looks incredulous because that's how Keith's face is. Lance grins, leaning his elbows on the table, holding his drink aloft. "He's barely said more than twelve words to anybody all day, he's gotta fill his quota - hey! Hunk!"

Hunk stands to pluck the glass out of Lance's hands, effectively derailing him, and then sits back in his seat. He lifts it under his nose to gingerly sniff the contents.

"Ah man, you had to pick a fruity one didn't you? Is that like your instinct?"

"Obviously, now give it back!"

"Nope," Hunk puts a hand on his chest, straightening his spine, "Official taste-tester duties dictate that I should try it first incase it's poisoned - that's how I'm gonna go, Lance, we already decided."

Lance's brow knits in confusion as he leans against the table. "Um? Who decided? I don't remember having this conversation."

"Oh, sorry," Pidge says, grinning. They wave the weird utensil in their hand. "That was us. Last week? During that asteroid mission? You were with Allura, and the three of us were bored waiting around for that info to download, so we started discussing our ideal ways to go."

"Go as in like die, Pidge? What the heck's wrong with you guys?"

"It was something to talk about."

"How do you want to go?" Keith seems genuinely curious as he turns to Lance, and Lance is (appropriately, he thinks) outraged.

"Of old age, peacefully in my sleep, Keith, how do you want to go?"

"An explosion," Keith deadpans.

"An alien pathogen," Pidge says, shrugging.

"Preferably: saving you guys from eating something that's poisonous to humans," Hunk says, "but I'll also take: miscellaneous kitchen accident, or: the food was just so good I couldn't be bothered to chew it properly and accidentally choked. I want my tombstone to say He died doing what he loved."

Lance raises his hands.

"Okay. You guys are bringing some seriously bad mojo to this table."

He shifts around in his seat, digging through the pockets of his slacks.

Producing a GAC, Lance stands, rubbing it between his hands, and then yeets the coin clear across the ballroom. Unfortunately, he does this just as Allura is approaching the table. She watches the small glint of silver sail right over the head of the Delmeriant Prime Folso - who very clearly hears it hit the floor nearby and casts about in confusion, his antennae wiggling - before turning to look at Lance as if she can't believe what she's witnessed.

"What are you doing," she whispers, barely hanging onto her poise. She actually grips the back of Keith's chair to support herself.

Lance intelligibly says, "Uh."

Pidge grins without sympathy. "Busted. You can't even call that an Earth Thing, that's just a Lance Thing."

"No no," Hunk says, in Lance's defense, "That's a Cuban thing. His abuela does it. You rub the bad vibes off on a coin and then get rid of it and it's supposed to clear the air. He will not pick change up off the ground for anything, believe me I've purposefully left change lying around just to see if he would and he won't even touch it because it's ~bad mojo~."

"Hunk, man, I told you that in confidence!"

"You just did it right in front of everyone. You weren't going to explain yourself?"

"No! I'm allowed to be quirky!"

Keith snorts, suppressing a laugh behind his fist.

Pidge arches an eyebrow, but they're smiling when they point out, "We literally raided a water fountain at the space mall for coins."

Lance waves a hand, "That's different."

"Whatever it is," Allura says, bemused, "Try to refrain from throwing things at our supporters and allies. Galaxy-wide, it's generally considered very rude."

"It won't happen again, Princess," Lance says, spreading his hands. He sits back down, and then moves like he's going to roll right back out of it to his feet, because there are only four seats at the table. He looks up at Allura, asks, "You gonna sit with us a minute?"

"No, no, that's alright, Lance," Allura says quickly, motioning for him to stay where he is, "I just wanted to thank all of you. I know you're still not quite used to the diplomatic side of things, and these events can be morbidly boring even if you are, but you've all handled yourself and all these discussions marvelously. I'm so proud of you! I'm so proud to be able to call myself a Paladin of Voltron alongside you. It really is an honor."

As if the speech wasn't enough of a surprise (albeit a pleasant one), Allura tips back the glass she's carrying. The blue liquid disappears expertly, and Allura gusts out a sigh afterwards, snapping the glass down on the table beside Pidge's elbow. The four of them stare at her in disbelief. For the first time, as Allura leans across the tray of drinks to pick up another, Lance notices her cheeks are a bit flushed, her eyes and the markings beneath them brighter.

"Allura," Keith says tentatively, "Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

"I'm fantastic," Allura says, smiling. She taps her new glass with a fingernail and looks a bit sheepish. "Although I have had about four of these and I'm just starting to feel liberated. They're very good." She lifts the glass and only takes a sip of it this time, conspicuously turning to look over her shoulder as she does it. "Coran will have a litter of troglopods if he finds out. But I have to talk to the Averian Minister and his consort. Do you know how hard it is to listen to them complaining about the shortage of Estaverian pernickle seeds in their quadrant when there is a literal war going on? Some people have no sense of priorities - "

"UM," Lance says loudly, pointing at the drink Hunk is still holding, that is undeniably the same as the one Allura just drained, "Allura, are you wasted?"

"Have I wasted what?" she asks softly, bewildered.

"No, y'know - wasted? Sauced, tipsy, hosed, snockered - "

"Lance, why do you know so many euphemisms for getting drunk?"

"Well, let's think. I have four uncles who cook almost exclusively with tequila, two vodka aunts, and my cousin Louie, whose sole contribution to family dinners for the past five years has been a cake de ron that literally knocks you down the second you peel the tin foil back so, I dunno, Pidge, I guess I just really like euphemisms?"

"Allura," Hunk redirects, in his I'm not going to be mad, just disappointed voice, "Are you maybe a little drunk?"

"Oh! Goodness, no!" she says it with a bat of her hand though, in a tish-tosh sort of way that makes Lance and the others snort.

"So these drinks are nonalcoholic?"

"No, they are. Alcoholic, I mean," Allura says excitedly, "Fruxia's main culinary export is the tsuna berry and its various products. They're valued all across the star-system."

"So all of these are made with that, all of these are berry juice?" Lance asks, gesturing around at the tray and the colorful drinks that none of them have touched yet. They hadn't even seen these drinks being passed around until just recently, and it's a little later in the evening, so it kind of makes sense. "And we're allowed to just have them?"

"Wow, Lance," Pidge says, dropping open their hands in exasperation, "Just blow our cover."

"The tsuna berry is extremely potent," Allura says, looking a bit concerned now, "Even before it's brewed into any sort of drink, the scent alone is often powerful enough to intoxicate someone. They have to wear specialized suits in a quarantined area to even harvest them."

Lance doesn't hesitate to call her out, arching an eyebrow, "And how many of these drinks have you had, Allura? Like five? And we're not allowed to have one? I don't like that double-standard, what happened to that good old solidarity we were feeling a minute ago?"

"Alteans have a much higher metabolism than Earthens," Allura says, with a seriousness that is hard to take with how warm her cheeks look. She contemplates for a moment, boldly taking another sip from her glass. "Though I suppose it's alright. I don't see why you can't have a celebratory drink, as well. You've earned it, and they are quite watered down for marketing purposes."

Allura suddenly stills as she glances off into the crowd. She must spot Coran.

"I have to go," she says, lifting the glass again to take a hurried swig and the setting it, half-empty, back onto the table. Before she dashes off, she adds sternly, "Please pace yourselves!"

"We can do that!" Lance calls after her, grinning.

He starts drum-rolling his hands against the table, upsetting the silverware and glasses, looking expectantly at the others. Hunk looks at Pidge, who nudges up their glasses.

"Okay, Pidge, do the math."

"Alright, well. The liver processes about, what, ten grams of alcohol per hour? So, assuming each of these has relatively the same alcohol content as a regular glass of champagne, I think divided between the four of us over an extended period of time, we should be fine. As long as none of us decide to up and chug down an entire bottle of the stuff - or five glasses of it all at once. Allura's been to a million of these, she's probably a pro, metabolisms notwithstanding."

"And why do you know so much about champagne, Pidge?"

"I have been to a lot of fancy Garrison parties with my family, Lance. And, as someone who has had some experience with champagne, honestly? It's not that great."

"It's kind of an acquired taste thing, I think," Hunk says, "Wine's the same way. It's kind of bitter? Well, some of it is."

"Whatever," Keith's abrupt tone surprises them all - it's the first thing he's said in a while. "Sounds good enough for me."

He grabs the nearest glass off the tray, the dark liquid that swirls black and flashes bright pink in the light. Keith downs almost half of it in one gulp, as easily as if he were chugging a glass of water after a strenuous exercise, and the others stare at him, open-mouthed. Pidge recovers first, grinning and leaning their elbows on the table, an eyebrow arched high.

"Way to assert your dominance, Keith."

"Shut up," he says faintly, tilting the glass and looking at it curiously, "I definitely thought it would taste worse. Like copper or something."

"Dude, what have you ever had that tastes like copper?" Lance asks, half suspicious and half impressed as Keith ignores him and practically drains the glass right in front of them.

"Did you hear anything about pacing ourselves or drinking these in moderation?" Pidge asks, even as they choose a glass that's full of lime green liquid, a bright blue straw twisting out of it. They hum thoughtfully, swishing it around. "What do you think it taste like?"

"I dunno, but this one's good."

Keith sets his empty glass aside and reaches to pick up another one. Lance shoes his hands away from them flippantly, ignoring Keith's glare, "Alright, how about you save some for the rest of us. Hunk! That's the one thing I wanted to try, give it back!"

"I still get to taste test it," Hunk says, "You're my best bud, and we've already probably lost Keith."

He sniffs a little just to be dramatic and Keith looks alarmed, blurts out, "Hunk, dude, I'm fine!"

"I know, but - "

Lance waves at them both to shut up and points at Hunk, "You can have one sip to make sure it isn't poisoned or doesn't taste like copper!"

"Alright!"

Hunk makes a show out of it. He lifts the glass of blue liquid to his nose again, swishes it around a bit so it gets all fuzzy-looking with bubbles, and then he takes a small, deliberate drink. Immediately, his face scrunches up, twisting in discomfort. The others start hooting with laughter as Hunk presses his lips together and clamps a hand down over his mouth. Hunk is a champion, but it takes him a second to actually swallow it.

"Oh man," he struggles to say it around his throat closing, staring down into the innocently-looking liquid, "It tastes like sour candy but it goes down like - pop rocks."

"Gimme that, amateur!"

Pidge grins like the devil, right as Lance lifts the glass to take a drink. He already has a mouthful of it, the liquid fizzling and popping against his tongue and cheeks -

"What're you saying, Lance, that you're good at swallowing?"

- and spits it out all over the table.

"Pidge, wow that's not okay to say!" he shrieks, red in the face, while Pidge buries their head in their arms and laughs. Trying to diverge from his embarrassment, ignoring Pidge's insistence that they could not resist, Lance stares down into the glass and says, too loudly, "It tastes like raspberries, Hunk, not sour candy!"

"Lance, raspberries are sour."

"Since when?"

"Since forever? Though, they are a lot less tart than blackberries - "

Pidge huffs, "Keith!" and Lance and Hunk turn to find him draining another glass. Lance takes it out of his hands, almost choking Keith in the process and fumbling as he tries not to spill his own drink all over the both of them. Keith coughs wetly into his fist, wheezes, "Lance," and Lance leans back from him, scowling and pointing with the hand that's wrapped around the glass.

"Slow your roll, cowboy," he says sternly, "you're already on your third glass and the rest of us haven't even gotten started yet! We're sharing these, remember?"

"Fine, whatever," Keith says.

He makes no attempt to get it back, just watches Lance owlishly with his brow slightly furrowed, and - Lance is a little bewildered by that, but he hands the glass back, anyway. He also very pointedly slides the tray closer to Hunk's side of the table and Hunk, catching on, stacks the empty dessert plates aside and pulls it closer. Hunk picks up an orange drink with what is hopefully a chunk of sliced fruit floating around in it. Pidge decides to bite the bullet and takes a sip of their green drink.

Their noise of surprise draws everyone's attention. Pidge claps a hand over their mouth and swallows, gushing, "Oh my god! It tastes like fruity pebbles! Like literally exactly like fruity pebbles, what the heck? It's not gross or acidic at all? It's so good."

"Easy, Pidge, you weigh like ten pounds."

"Hey, I weigh ninety, thank you!"

"So, nine sips then."

They start passing the drinks around so they all get to try each one, trying to be responsible or whatever, but also just having fun with it. It's a great way to end the day. Lance is anticipating Hunk's pick to taste like orange crush, but it's more like a creamsicle. It goes down as smoothly as a cold glass of milk. The contrast to the warmth Lance feels spilling all down his insides, pooling at the bottom of his feet, is - weird. It's definitely not unpleasant.

"There's no way there's any kind of alcohol in these," he says, handing it to Keith, "They taste way too good."

"I don't think taste has anything to do with it," Hunk says, sniffing Pidge's alleged cereal drink, "But yeah these are really good like? How? I've gotta find the kitchen or get a tour of one of those berry farms or whatever because I don't know how I've lived my life up to this point without having this in it. There's so many different textures and flavors and they're all from the same berry? My mind is blown."

"Okay," Pidge laughs, "These might have some alcohol in them. Also Keith? This tastes like red licorice and I'm honestly offended."

"If you don't like it, give it back."

"No, you've had enough of this one, it's going to ruin your tastebuds!"

Keith doesn't really say anything, and Pidge and Hunk start talking about licorice or something. Lance nudges Keith with his elbow.

"You feeling okay, Keith?"

Keith arches his eyebrows at him, lips around the rim of the glass, poised to take a drink.

"Yeah?"

Lance points, "That's your last one, you hear me?" trying to rile him up, to get him to argue, to something. He doesn't like this quiet, brooding Keith that's resurfacing a lot, he likes Keith when he's being obnoxious. Or - whatever.

Keith snorts.

"You are definitely not the boss of me."

He doesn't say it with any kind of hostility, just that low challenging tone that makes something warm writhe around in Lance's chest. Flustered, Lance doesn't know what to do with that. So he chugs the rest of the fruity, sweet drink Hunk passes to him before Keith can have any of it, and he grins brightly at the offended look on Keith's face.

"Lance, dude, you just said we were sharing!"

Finally.

"Serves you right for sucking down three of them all by yourself, mullet."

-x-

They may or may not to have totally spaced on one very important factor that could be pretty detrimental to their good time. After what is probably his third or fourth drink (counting is too much of an effort at this point, and Lance is feeling giddy) he remembers with a jolt, lowers his glass and looks at the others with a moderately horrified expression.

"Shiro."

The four younger Paladins freeze and then turn as one to scan the ballroom. It's easy to spot the only other human in a sea of aliens.

Shiro is just a few tables away, talking to the diplomats from Khetreu. He must sense the attention, because almost as soon as they look at him he glances toward them and then does a double take. There's not a doubt in Lance's mind that Shiro knows exactly what they're drinking. And while it's probably fine for him, Keith, and Hunk, who are technically almost adults, thank you very much, there's a little bit of a gap for Pidge.

To Lance's utter amazement Pidge does not even break eye contact with Shiro when they take another deliberate drink from the glass. Shiro does that thing that parents do when they are alarmed to realize their kid is doing Some Shit - he jumps forward, "Pidge," and then immediately tries to play it cool and act like he isn't sprinting across the room. Pidge is already bolting with their glass upturned, knocking over their chair like a startled raccoon, trying to drain the last of the green liquid and power walk at the same time.

Shiro forces out a sigh that is audible even from where the other Paladins are sitting and swiftly moves to intercept Pidge before they can catch another server unawares. Lance, Hunk, and Keith watch this spectacle, laughing until they're almost crying. They make sure to knock back their own drinks before Shiro comes for them, too.

And he does, huffing slightly, the crease between his eyebrows the only evidence Lance needs to know Pidge is MIA. Shiro stops at their table and catches his breath. None of them say anything. Hunk very obviously hides his drink under the table. Keith finishes his drink with the same brazenness as Pidge had, though he doesn't look at Shiro when he does it. Lance clamps his hand down over his face to hide the fact that he's grinning, glass tucked behind his arm.

As if the night has not been full of enough surprises, Shiro picks up one of the remaining glasses and drains it before he says anything.

He points.

"This is not happening."

And he picks up the tray, ignoring the array of protests that break out; "Aw, c'mon, Shiro, live a little!" "Dude, seriously, we promise not to get carried away, these aren't even that strong!" "I've had like five of these and I feel totally fine!"

-x-

Lance is lamenting, "Well this blows!" when Pidge sneaks back to their table several minutes later, carrying four empty glasses and the biggest bottle Lance has ever seen. They're grinning as they set it on the table, bumping their glasses back up on their face and taking their seat again.

"Shiro chased me into the kitchen," they say by way of explanation, "And all the servers here are really nice, like. Really. Hunk, how do you open this?"

-x-

"Pidge, you wanna bet I can get Lance to laugh so hard he either spits his drink all over Keith or it shoots out his nose?"

"Always!"

"Lance, bud! What's the Spanish word for snack? Or is it snacking? Starts with an M?"

"Uh... Merienda? Why?"

"You guys know an easy way to remember that? Because snacks make you merry in da tummy."

"Lance! Dude, gross!"

-x-

Okay, so, Lance is thinking. Maybe taking a shot every time one of the alien members of the Coalition does something, well, alien, wasn't the best idea. They went through that bottle pretty quick. He's still kind of wrapping his head around how messed up some alien species are and that's really hard to do when he's feeling so weightless. When he can't stop smiling and laughing. When his thoughts keep tumbling and getting snagged hopelessly on things that they shouldn't.

Things like Keith's laugh, like his incredulous tone when he beats his fists against the table and argues with Pidge for twenty whole minutes about conspiracy theories and cryptids and junk. Like, Bigfoot stuff. Lochness Monster stuff. Illuminati stuff. It's embarrassing and dumb and it's weird but it's.… It's just Keith's voice. It's his unexpected enthusiasm, this passion for something that isn't flying that has unearthed itself out of nowhere.

It's doing things to Lance.

And he normally feels sort of like this when he's around Keith, anyway. Envy claws it's way up into his chest, bitter and snarling, because Keith has everything - and something more somber (awe, admiration, something else that starts with an A that he doesn't necessarily want to name) swats it back down, says sensibly, He doesn't and It's not even what he wants and Don't be like this. So he's basically a molotov cocktail of conflicting emotions 90% of the time.

It's at least easier to temper that part of himself now because he actually knows Keith.

It is nothing like when they were back at the Garrison together. When Keith only seemed rude and standoffish and like he was too good to hold a conversation with you because he was just naturally amazing at everything. The several months they've spent is space together has done wonders for Lance's perspective (and maybe it's humbled him a little bit). Keith the image and Keith the person are very different people.

Lance knows Keith is awkward and quiet and that he really cares about others, even though it can't manage to escape his mouth in anything that even remotely resembles empathy. Lance knows he's reckless, and stubborn, and he doesn't consider the emotional or physical consequences before he says something or jumps into action. That he's brave, and smart, and kind and -

Lance has it bad, okay.

He's had it bad for a while.

Keith takes another deep drink of whatever is in his glass and - okay, yeah, Lance should probably not be watching his Adam's apple bob while Keith swallows, or watch his tongue snake out to catch a drop of blue off the corner of his mouth, but he does. He feels that warm rush like static popping low in his gut and takes another drink himself to let that warmth chase it away.

He's aware that he's touching Keith more than he normally does, probably more than he should, but he can't seem to stop himself. Lance puts his hands back in his lap, back on the table, back around his glass, and they gravitate to Keith, pulled by some unseen force. His heart thrums in his chest every time Keith leans into his touch instead of brushing him off. Every time he reaches out and Keith is always right there, every time he doesn't pull away.

Lance says something flirty, and Keith unhesitating shoots something back, his mouth quirked upward, and Lance's chest fills to the brim with that fluttering sensation. It pushes the air right out of him. Makes him worried that butterflies are going to pour out of his mouth. He tries half-heartedly to pay attention to what the others are saying, but he's gotten wrapped up and invested in this and it's hard to focus on anything that's not Keith.

His rasp of laughter, his wide smile, the way his eyes crinkle up in the corners.

When did he stop doing that? When did it become such a rare thing? Why is Lance's heart all warm and trembling just looking at Keith when he's like this, with all his walls down for once?

Oh. Lance thinks.

He grabs onto Keith's leg.

How did he not realize that Keith hasn't been happy? That he hasn't been happy in a while? How could he miss something like that? What kind of teammate is he? What kind of Right Hand?

What kind of friend?

"Keith," he blurts out.

Lance hasn't realized how close they were sitting. Their chairs are practically pushed together, their shoulders touching, and when Keith turns his head, their faces are just inches apart. Keith's eyes are a dark, deep grey that looks almost purple, his irises blown wide, and Lance temporarily forgets he even said anything until Keith prompts him, expectant, "Lance?"

"W-what?"

"You said my name?"

"So?"

"So," Keith repeats, suddenly leaning closer. He cants his head to one side. "Did you want something?"

The rush of blood to his face almost makes Lance swoon. His face feels too hot, the air he's sucking in suddenly too much and not enough because it is thick with Keith's scent. His usually sweaty self, only it's not gross and overpowering because he's been on the training deck for four hours and won't take a shower before he sits down to eat; he smells like some kind of space soap that reminds Lance of sandalwood incense, of walking in the woods, of rain splashing into the ocean.

He wants to bury his face in Keith's neck, in his hair, and breathe in that smell until it fills him up. He says dumbly, "I… I um…"

"Lance, you okay?"

"I'm great," Lance says, still completely, totally dazed, and painfully aware of how far gone he is. He doesn't care. "Dude, you're so beautiful."

Keith blinks at him. He laughs in surprise, rubs his face and looks away.

"What...?"

Lance wraps his fingers around Keith's wrist and pulls his hand down. He watches Keith's face, already flushed pink from so many drinks, turn noticeably darker, and his heart is pounding. He watches Keith's tongue wet his lips, watches Keith's eyes drop and then jump back up to meet Lance's, sees his lips part as he pulls in a breath. He feels the tension in Keith's whole body, thrumming against his.

Lance forgets breathing is even a thing.

Keith grabs his face in both his hands and kisses him hard, and Lance hasn't kissed a whole lot of people that weren't family, but he knows it's not supposed to hurt. In his enthusiasm and inexperience, Keith just sort of knocks their faces together. He catches the corner of Lance's open mouth with his, their teeth pinching their lips, their noses bumping.

It's funny and annoying and it's so Keith, pushing too hard, wanting too much right now, that Lance completely melts inside. Wow. He's such a sap. Keith backs off as quickly as he came on, but only by a few inches. His hand drops between them. He's rubbing his mouth, looking embarrassed, face twisting with fear or regret, or -

Lance never wants to see him look like that.

The feeling is so powerful he almost vocalizes it - a noise he muffles against Keith's lips after gently pulling Keith's hand away from his mouth, coaxing him back to try again.

It's a lot easier when they work together. It's a lot better. Lance presses his lips against Keith's, and he knows he's smiling and probably ruining it but he can't help it. Not when Keith's hand is cupping the back of his neck, or when he parts his lips after a few seconds, panting without pulling away. Lance copies him, tipping his head so their mouths slot together more firmly, his whole body electrified at the slightest brush of Keith's fingers, the scrape of his teeth, the sound that's pulled deep from his chest, that rumbles up between them.

Several kisses later, they're much more coordinated.

More frenetic, more desperate. Keith's mouth skims across Lance's jaw, and Lance can only hold onto his shoulders and tremble, fingers fisted in his hair.

Keith pulls him out of his seat and Lance goes so willingly, climbing into his lap. He holds Keith's face in his hands and kisses him again, and again, and everything else fades away. The room, the people, the voices. Every part of him that's touching Keith is singing and Lance thinks, wildly, overwhelmed - pulling Keith closer and spreading his thighs, echoing the soft noise Keith makes against his open mouth - that it's a song he wants to listen to for the rest of his life.

-x-x-x-x-

Shiro feels like he turns around for five minutes, and everything goes off the rails. He leaves Keith and the others at their table out of the way, he confiscates their drinks, and then he goes to find Coran to ask him to help keep an eye on them the rest of the night. They're good kids. He knows that, and he's proud of them, but there are a million other things going on that he also has to worry about.

There's no harm in them having a little fun when they're perfectly safe here for the time being. No pressing need to form Voltron, surrounded by friends and allies. He just doesn't want them to get carried away on accident.

Which, unfortunately, looks to be exactly what they've done.

Shiro spots Pidge slowly weaving in and out among the tables, notices their stumbling, swaying gait, hears the too-loud drop of their voice over the noise of the crowd, and breaks off mid-conversation with a delegate from the planet Dek to bee line for them. Pidge happens to turn and spot him, squeaks, and dashes underneath the robe of the Heresty Minister. The Minister squawks in surprise at the intrusion, her feathered crest ruffling.

Pidge is muttering, "Sorry, s'cuse me, sorry," as they crawl out the other side. The Heresty Minister lifts her robe with a great air of indignity. Shiro grabs Pidge by the back of their jacket and hoists them to their feet. He bows, pulling Pidge over with him, and says, "Our apologies." Then he carts Pidge away with his hands under their arms before the Minister can respond.

Pidge goes limp like a cat that knows it's about to get thrown outside for the night, that knows struggling is pointless. They do kick their feet a little and groan, their head dropping back against his chest. Their voice swoons, "Aw, man, Shiro, gimme a break - "

"Nope, you're done," he says firmly, scanning the crowd for Coran, "Where are the others?"

"Still at the table," Pidge sulks, kicking their foot out. They notice his hand around their midsection and start picking at the prosthetic with their fingernail, attentive all of a sudden. "Hey, would you let me take this apart sometime? I have been meaning to ask, but the seems kinda rude? Of course, I'd be super careful, can you feel anything with this? I know it's hooked into your nervous system, but what type of material is this even supposed to be? Some sort of plastic? Is it biotic like the Olkari's plant machinery or is it something the Galra have engineered specifically for - "

Shiro tunes out the rest of Pidge's rapid-fire train of thought, casting a worried glance in the direction of the table. He sees Hunk, but not Keith and Lance, though from this distance and with all the aliens milling about it's difficult to tell. He hails Coran when he spots him and Coran strides over with an eyebrow quirked at Pidge, who chirps, "Hi, Coran," in a slow voice, beaming.

"Would you mind taking Pidge upstairs?" Shiro asks.

"Not at all!" Coran says, "What seems to be -?"

His question falters when Shiro attempts to set Pidge on their feet and Pidge sags like their legs are made of jello, both arms wrapped around Shiro's prosthetic for support, eyes going wide as they blink mulishly in surprise.

"Ah," Coran says instead, twirling his mustache and trying not to smile, "I see someone got their hands on the berry beverages."

"Pidge isn't the only one," Shiro says, because if Pidge is in this state, he can only imagine how the others are faring.

"Ah, well, it's not like a little sauce will hurt them," Coran says enthusiastically, scooping Pidge up under the arms the same way Shiro had, only in reverse, "Alright, come along, Number Five, let's get you somewhere quiet where you can rest your weary little eyes."

Pidge drapes their arms over Coran's shoulders and insists that they can walk, but their legs dangle uselessly. They insist they're not tired even while they're stifling a wide yawn behind their hand, their eyes drooping closed. They still start chattering before Coran has them two paces away, "Coran, why is your hair so orange even though you're like a hundred years old? Are you shapeshifting or is it just naturally like that? Do Alteans age the same way we do, because Allura's hair is white and she's like? How old? Do the markings on your face mean anything or are they just for aesthetic? I've noticed them glow sometimes - "

Shiro makes his way across the ballroom, pausing long enough to exchange polite greetings with a few diplomats before he finally gets to the table. Hunk is sitting there alone, nodding off, both hands clasped around a glass that still has some orange drink left in it. There's a pile of fruit on the plate beside him that he has obviously picked out, orange liquid draining into what looks like lemon meringue pie.

"Hunk," Shiro says cautiously, coming to stand beside him, "You doing alright?"

Hunk's head swings up at the sound of his voice and he blinks a few times. Then he breaks into a wide grin, "Aw man!" and throws out his arm, pulling Shiro into a tight hug that has him tumbling against the teen, bracing his hand against the back of the chair.

"Shiro, there you are, man - man, I've just been wanting to hug you for like an hour, now," Hunk gushes, giving Shiro such a hard squeeze that it forces the breath out of him, "We really really missed you, y'know? I'm like - so glad you're back with us."

His voice gets a little thick, and Shiro laughs softly, patting Hunk's back although the angle is awkward and he's worried his knees are digging painfully into Hunk's leg.

"I'm - glad to be back too, Hunk," Shiro says, trying to pull away and straighten up once Hunk loosens his grip, "You sure you're alright?"

Hunk is nodding. A lot more than necessary.

"I feel great, actually, I feel really safe and really warm - Oh wait," Hunk's voice drops as he looks down into his drink with wide eyes. He's unnaturally still for a minute, and then he laughs nervously and looks up at Shiro, "Actually, man, I'm freakin' out. It's the food. Why does food always betray me like this - am I being brainwashed again - "

Shiro puts a steadying hand on Hunk's shoulder.

"Hunk, you're fine. You're just a little drunk, everything's okay."

Hunk sags forward with relief, "Oh, good! Okay. Whew, man, I had a minute. I think I'm done. I still feel great, and safe, and warm, but I'm definitely absolutely done, I am ready for a nap, like a good solid ten hour nap."

He puts his glass aside and rubs both hands over his face, his elbows braced against the table. Shiro is scanning the room again, frowning while he pats Hunk's shoulder.

"Hunk, where are Lance and Keith?"

"Uuuh. Pretty sure they're under the table? But I haven't actually seen 'em in a while so…?"

"What - " Something bumps the table then, rattling the plates and empty glasses; what is unmistakably a moan rising faintly from somewhere in the vicinity of Shiro's feet. Shiro bends and yanks up the tablecloth. "No! Nonono! None of that!"

Shiro grabs Lance by the leg and hauls him out. To his embarrassment, he has to grab Lance again by the waist of his slacks and try again, because his first attempt only leaves the taller boy planted more inappropriately between Keith's thighs (and the noise that Keith makes in response, squeezing his legs around Lance's chest, is one Shiro is immediately trying to purge from his memory).

Lance sits back on the floor, braced on his hands, looking dazed and rumpled like he's been run through the wash a few times. For someone who claims to hate Keith's hair, he seems to have done a fantastic job of combing his fingers through every inch of it. It's sticking up all over the place when Keith emerges right after him with his clothes rucked up and his belt undone, with hickeys dotting his neck and his face brick red. He's desperately trying to pull his shirt down over his stomach and slide out from under the table at the same time, panting.

"Shiro - "

"We weren't doing anything!"

Lance would probably be able to make a more compelling argument if his words didn't slur together slightly; if his own shirt wasn't twisted, his jacket hanging open; if he weren't noticeably flushed and out of breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Shiro grabs him by the elbow and pulls him up, and does Keith the same way. They're pliant, if a little slow, stumbling as they climb to their feet.

"Time to call it a night. Let's go. Hunk, just stay put, alright, I'll be right back."

"Gotcha," Hunk says, shooting him a thumbs up.

He's already dropping his head onto the table as Shiro walks Lance and Keith toward the nearest exit without giving them the chance to argue. Keith tries anyway, making an effort to adjust the front of his slacks that is not as subtle as he probably thinks it is. The heat in his face has spread to his ears and neck, his eyes wide and downcast. His voice is deeper, breaking a little,

"I - I need - a minute - "

"You don't have a minute and I hope you're embarrassed," Shiro says without looking at him, "This isn't the kind of image we want to send to the rest of the galaxy."

"Ooh man," Lance says, drawing the words out slowly. He's taking in the ballroom as if he hasn't seen it before; the bright lights, the wait staff flitting in between the tables, the members of the Coalition, "I forgot there were so many people here. Should we apologize?"

"Nope. You should keep walking and not make eye contact with anyone - especially not Allura, don't even look in her direction. You've already gotten sloppy drunk in front of our allies, I don't want to have to explain to her why you're discussing what you two were doing under the table with any species that reproduces asexually."

"I'm not sloppy," Lance protests.

And yet he somehow throws himself off balance by simply turning his head, and it's only Shiro's firm grip on his elbow that keeps him from eating the ballroom floor. Lance laughs loudly as he almost goes down, "Whoa there, cowboy!" and his voice rings in the room, drawing a few amused looks, a few laughs and twitters and whistles. Shiro barely manages to keep a straight face. Lance leans heavily against him once he's mostly upright, stumbling over Shiro's feet, trying to look around him at Keith.

His voice dips into a whine, "Babe, was I sloppy?"

"Maybe a little." Keith gets over his bashfulness long enough to grin and unabashedly add, "I liked it."

"Stop." Shiro says, trying to pretend like he didn't hear that, either, "Just stop talking."

-x-

It's a bit of a task trying to swipe the card for the suite rooms they've been allowed to use during their stay on Fruxia and trying to keep Lance and Keith on their feet and separated all at the same time. They keep reaching around him for each other, though it's mostly Lance who's getting handsy, tangling their legs and arms and tripping them up, talking almost nonstop. He huffs about the physical barrier Shiro has made, tells Keith he's so pretty, dude you are so pretty how is that fair like. Keith keeps telling him to shut up and rubs his face like that will wipe away the heat in his cheeks, but he keeps reaching around Shiro's back, too, trying to grab Lance's hand.

And all this affection would be fine if, 1) Shiro was not in the middle of it, and 2) they were both not wasted beyond recovery, basically asleep on their feet. They went downhill fast once they hit the elevators. Keith got quiet first, a little motion sick from the upward jolt, and Lance went right after him as usual, like the tail of a comet. Being relatively still and quiet for just a few minutes, with the excitement that kept them active ebbing out, it gave the alcohol more than enough time to finally settle into their systems.

Lance falls longways across his bed the second Shiro guides him into his room and lets him go, and he lays there face down, breathing into the mattress. Shiro grabs his ankle to take off his shoes so he can sleep more comfortably, trying to remember what helped him preemptively deal with hangovers in his college days.

"Lance, you really should drink some water before you - Keith. No, you're not - "

Shiro ends the command on a sigh, because it's too late.

Keith is sinking down onto the bed, flopping onto his back half-across Lance. He probably just couldn't hold himself up anymore. Shiro leaves him where he is for now. He can only do one thing at a time. He pulls off Lance's shoes and sets them out of the way to he won't trip over them if he gets up again, scoops his legs up onto the bed properly (this is a bit difficult with Keith in the way). Ideally, Lance should be on his side with one foot on the floor to stop the room from spinning (because the room will spin and probably make him nauseous), but Shiro leaves him like he is.

Last of all, he grabs a packet of water out of the mini fridge and sets it on the bedside table where Lance can reach it easily.

"Lance. If you want anything else off you're going to have to get out of it yourself," Shiro says, giving his shoulder a small but firm shake. He is honestly surprised neither of them have gotten warm and started taking their clothes off prior to this, so he's counting his blessings.

Lance mumbles, "M'kay 'm good," and finally turns his face out of the sheets to breath. His face is flushed and his eyes are closed. Shiro pats him across the back and then grabs Keith by the wrists, trying to urge him up with a, "C'mon, Keith." He pulls, and Keith really tries to stay with him but he barely gets upright before he's gone again, falling back, boneless in Shiro's grip.

"Keith," he says again, more firmly, "Come on."

Keith makes a few grumbling, incoherent noises before he finally realizes he's being pulled on, and the word, "What," snaps out tiredly. His eyes aren't even open, and Shiro suppresses a laugh.

"You can't sleep in here with Lance. Come on, let's get you to your room."

Shiro infers more than actually hears what Keith says next, whatwhynot all jumbled together as Keith's head dips back down and then snaps back up. Shiro drops his voice into something steadier, still holding onto Keith's wrists to keep him sitting up, at least, "Because I don't want you guys to make any choices you're not ready to make unless you're both sober, and you've already come pretty close tonight. Now let's go. You're right across the hall, we're all right here together."

Keith moans, "Oh no," in a wobbly voice, and Shiro realizes talking to him is a lost cause. He ducks down and pulls Keith over his shoulder, puts one arm around Keith's knees and the other around his waist to keep him from slipping as he stands. Shiro checks that Lance is definitely asleep before he cuts off the light, and then carries Keith out the door.

Keith groans and mumbles something that doesn't make it all the way out. His arm is hooked awkwardly around Shiro's neck and he's moving like he wants to be put down, feet bumping into his legs. Shiro tightens his grip on Keith's knees to stop most of the squirming and absently rubs his hand across Keith's back, hoping to put him more at ease.

He pushes the button to open Keith's door with his elbow and does his best not to bang Keith's head against the doorframe when he keeps moving. Suddenly exhausted with the additional heat and the clinging fabric, Keith is trying to fumble out of his jacket at the same time that Shiro is trying to set him down. Shiro gets an elbow in the back of his head for his efforts, a knee sharply in his gut, before he gives up any effort to do this gently and just drops Keith altogether.

Keith bounces on the bed, a little stunned and more rumpled than ever because his jacket is hanging off his shoulder and his pant leg has snuck up out of his boot. Shiro grabs the cuff of one sleeve and holds onto it while Keith rolls out of the jacket across the bed. He manages it somehow, and then lies spread out on his back, half on top of it. Shaking his head, Shiro lets go of the sleeve.

"Close enough, I guess."

He sits on the edge of the bed and works to unlace Keith's boots. Keith stirs after a few seconds, lifts the foot that Shiro isn't holding and thumps his heel against Shiro's lap.

"Shiro," Keith mumbles, unable to regulate his volume but meticulously getting the words out, "Shiro, 're you mad?"

Shiro stops pulling at the laces and looks up, his brow knotting. Keith's eyes are closed but he turns his head, his face scrunching up like he's in some kind of pain, hands pawing at the end of his shirt and pressing against his stomach.

Misinterpreting this, Shiro carefully says, "I'm not mad, Keith. Are you going to be sick?"

"No…"

Keith slowly shakes his head, his mouth pulling down into a frown. He blinks his eyes open, but he doesn't really seem to be able to focus on anything and they droop closed again after a moment. Shiro isn't sure whether to believe him or not, but then Keith's fidgeting hands still and he relaxes, his breathing settling as he falls asleep.

Shiro finishes removing his boots and sets them aside, moving Keith's feet out of his lap. He considers trying to work the blanket out from under him (and then going back and doing the same for Lance) instead of leaving him on top of the sheets like this. When he tugs on the blanket, though, Keith starts upright, elbows digging into the mattress.

"Shiro."

"What?" Shiro asks, startled.

"Are you...are you…" Keith reaches out across the bed, and Shiro sits back down, holding out his hand. Keith grabs onto it like a lifeline, and Shiro is surprised by the strength of his grip even though his head is nodding and he's struggling to keep his eyes open. "Are you disappointed…?"

Shiro laughs a little in relief.

"No, Keith." He pushes Keith back down and Keith goes easily, letting go of Shiro's hand, turning over to curl his arms around the nearest pillow. Shiro puts a hand on his shoulder, rubs his back. "I'm not disappointed. You had a little too much to drink. It happens. It's fine."

"S'not what I … meant," Keith mumbles into the pillow, "S'not what i meant… sorry….m sorry..."

Shiro realizes what he meant.

"Keith," Shiro says, brushing his hair back from his face, "All I can ask is that you do your best. I know you're trying."

Keith hums softly, but his breath is evening out again. Shiro stays with him for a while, rubbing his hand across Keith's back until he's sure that he's asleep this time. He wishes more than anything that Keith was in a good enough place to remember this in the morning, that he was in a good enough place to know it without Shiro having to say it.

-x-x-x-x-

Something is thumping against the door, an erratic rhythm broken up by small pauses. It's really annoying. Finally, it registers as a noise that's happening in reality and not inside some weirdly vivid dream, and Keith lifts his head out of the pillow, grimacing and numbly trying to brush his damp hair out of his mouth, away from his face. His room is dark and he can't make out much. The nighttime lights filtered through the closed curtain of his window cast a blue glow around the room, and the shadows and shapes in the dimness are all different than what he's used to.

For a second, Keith doesn't remember where he is.

He thinks he should be vaguely alarmed by this. The conscious thought does nothing to actually bring any concern to the front of his mind. Keith is still pleasantly warm and his head is still fuzzy, his inhibitions muted, and he can't seem to make himself care about anything at the moment. That thumping starts up again. This time a voice follows it.

"Keeeiittth." It's Lance, bumping his fist against the door to Keith's room. Keith cares about that. He props up on his elbows, turning his gaze and his attention toward the door. Lance's voice is slow like he's trying to pick out the right words before he says them, "Buddy, I am trying real hard to open this door but something is…. happening. I can't …. I can't find the thing."

"You…. What?"

"The thing. The - the turny thing that opens the door."

"The doorknob?"

Another thump. "Yes, doorknob, that's the word," and he mumbles something under his breath that Keith doesn't catch through the door.

Keith rubs his face, trying to think.

"Lance… there's a panel, it's … On the side of the door. On your left - uh. Right. I think."

There's a long pause, and then Lance's shrill, surprised laugh makes Keith grin. His door slides open and Lance stumbles in, catching himself with one hand on the door frame, briefly sagging against it. He's trying and failing to keep his laughter quiet. Even in the dark Keith can see the flash of Lance's dopey smile as he staggers to the bed and climbs in on his hands and knees, murmuring, "That is so cool, dude, mine does that too. Why space is so futuristic?"

Keith smirks, rolling onto his back to make room for Lance.

"You remember futuristic but not doorknob?"

"¿Quieres que recuerde algo más?"

He says that a lot easier than he's said anything in English. Or maybe Keith can't tell the difference if Lance slurs his Spanish or not, because it all sounds like rolling vowels to him anyway. And Lance is leaning over him, bracketing him in between his arms, and it's… distracting. The smell of vanilla mixed with sweat, the heat of Lance's body as he drapes himself across Keith's chest.

Keith barely has the sense to shakily ask, "Huh?" before Lance is nuzzling under his jaw, open mouth against his neck. Then he doesn't really care what Lance said, could have been reciting the ingredients off the back of a cereal box for all Keith knows.

The past few hours are kind of muddled together because of the drinks, but some of it stands out better than the rest. Keith doesn't remember much from the earlier part of the day; it was boring and overwhelming in equal turns. He remembers some of the banquet; the food was good, and he wasn't forced to socialize beyond what was considered polite. He remembers trying all the different drinks with Lance and Hunk and Pidge, and being hyper-aware of that faint humming warmth as it bloomed under his skin, spread like fire through his veins and lightened some of the burden he's been feeling lately.

It made him take deeper drinks.

Probably not his best choice, but honestly he has yet to see a downside.

For the first time in months, his body wasn't tense with stress, his mind wasn't turning over constantly with anxious thoughts; I don't know what I'm doing. I'm bad at this. I'm screwing everything up. I'm going to fail and get us all killed in the process. It's too much, it's too much, it's too much -

For the first time in months he was laughing, and talking, and having a good time, and thinking he missed this. Pidge was telling gross stories. Hunk was making jokes and really bad puns. Lance was touching him a lot; grabbing onto him in excitement, shaking him, leaning against him, bumping their legs together, burying his head in Keith's shoulder while he laughed himself sick.

He definitely remembers kissing Lance.

(Though he doesn't necessarily remember why.)

He remembers the stifling air under the table and the cold floor against his back and Lance's hands pushing under his shirt, palms and mouth molten over his skin. Lance mirrors that memory effortlessly now. He kisses Keith like they never stopped. No pause. No intermission. Lance's hand palms down Keith's stomach, fingers catching on his belt, and Keith makes a small noise, tilting his head so the kiss isn't as clumsy as before, shifting his hips up, curling his knees.

Lance's tongue slides across his bottom lip, into his mouth. He still tastes like that drink he was enamored with; tangy and blue, a little sour from where it's just been sitting on his tongue, and Keith should think that's kind of gross but he really doesn't. He digs his fingers into the front if Lance's shirt and pulls until Lance falls flush against his chest and stomach, arching his body, tangling their legs. Lance lets out a huff against Keith's mouth as he breaks away - a laugh, or a moan, or something in between. A sound that trips all the way down Keith's ribs to sit heavy in his naval.

"This okay?" Lance asks belatedly, barely catching his breath.

He starts kissing Keith's neck, under his jaw, below his ear. His hands are warm as they slip under Keith's shirt, hugging his ribs. Keith shudders and slides his fingers into Lance's hair. He tugs, and Lance moans again, closing his mouth over Keith's pulse and sucking hard. Keith gasps and jerks against him, struggling to form words.

"I - ah - yeah - "

Lance hums against Keith's throat, licking the spot where he's left another bruise.

"Keith," Lance's voice drops. It rolls all the way down to Keith's toes, lighting up his whole body along the way. Lance shifts his knee between Keith's thighs, and Keith thinks, frantically, fingers digging into Lance's hair and clothes, that he has got to get the upper hand somehow because Lance is going to be insufferable otherwise. His whole body is hot, his pulse throbbing. Lance chuckles, "Is this a knife in your pocket, or are you just really excited to see me?"

"It's a knife," Keith says, as flatly as he can with his breath catching on the words, with his face so hot he could probably fry an egg.

"You gonna stab me?"

Lance barely gets the words out before a laugh is bursting out along with them - this high, wobbly, dumb laugh that rapidly dissolves into tears. And the euphemism is so bad and Lance is so absolutely stupid for saying it in the middle of this that Keith laughs, too, surprised, annoyed, "Shut up!" He shoves at Lance as he collapses against him, crying with laughter into his shirt. He rolls Lance off, and Lance curls up beside him with his arms around his middle, wheezing and struggling to breathe through his tears and laughter.

It takes them both a while to recover from that one. Keith stops laughing first, because he can't breathe and his belly aches (it takes much longer for the rest of him to calm down). "Why did I say that?" is not what he wants Lance to be moaning into the sheets, but that's where they are.

"You're an idiot," Keith says, with so much affection that it's barely an insult at all.

He's having a crisis.

His body is having a crisis.

Keith rubs his face with both hands, pushing them up to drag his hair back from his face and pulling in deep, steadying breaths. He aches and tingles in a way that's almost painful, but it's fading. Just - really slowly. There are tears on his face from laughing, his whole body overly warm with it and with everything else. The wetness cools his flushed cheeks a bit. Keith still feels like he's hit boiling point.

Once he thinks he's calmed down enough, Keith starts shucking off his pants. Lance lifts his head and quirks an eyebrow, probably thinking he can resurrect the mood.

"Oh, are we goin' again?"

"What do you mean again?" Keith laughs softly, "We didn't do anything."

Lance puts his head back down and lifts his hand, instead, twirling it while he talks, "That's like... the second time we've made out so if we do it again it will be a third time. The third time. God, grammar. I woke up with this song like… stuck in my head. Listen to the Music, but Tiki Pasillas? It's making words… difficult."

"I noticed," Keith says, smirking down at him.

Lance continues trying to explain, "I'm not really thinking so it's all just coming out."

"That's pretty normal for you, actually."

"Keith, we're having a moment here, can you not make fun of me? English is hard."

"I'm not making fun of you. I just think it's funny. Not - not a making fun of you kind of funny, a…. Um."

Lance grins, and Keith feels his face impossibly warm. "A you think it's cute kinda funny?"

"Definitely not."

"Yeah, you definitely do," Lance croons under his breath, poking Keith in the side, "Crees que es lindo, Keith, y eres demasiado gruñón como para admitirlo."

"I don't know what you're saying," Keith laughs, sitting up and smacking Lance's hands away from where they're clinging to the tail of his shirt.

He untwists the stubborn cuff of his pant leg from around his ankle and finally succeeds in kicking them off into the floor. In just his shorts, socks, and t-shirt, he already feels ten times better. He can feel the heat radiating from his skin when he rubs his hands down his calves, and the cool air in the room feels amazing. He wonders if it's normal to feel this hot after drinking or if it's a weird side effect exclusive to alien beverages and (mostly) human biology.

He can't remember exactly how many drinks he had or how long ago it was. He's not sure how long being drunk usually lasts. Right now? Keith thinks he's pretty lucid, like he managed to sleep some of it off, like if he got up he could make it across the room without stumbling. He doesn't feel quite as sluggish, but he still feels kind of… like he's on an extra plane of awareness.

Maybe he should test that theory.

Part of his… problem… might be because of how full his bladder is right now. Keith rolls to the edge of the bed, puts his feet on the floor, one hand on the bedside table. He only wobbles a little bit when he stands. He manages to make it to the bathroom and back again in the dark, and only bangs himself into one piece of furniture - a sofa of some kind that must reach out to grab him as he passes. Keith was sure he cleared it, but Lance's tired bark of laughter from the bed makes him think otherwise.

Now that Keith's eyes have adjusted to the lack of light in the room, as he climbs back into bed and props himself against the headboard, he can see that Lance has stripped out of his formal clothes, too. His long limbs are dark against the bedsheets as he wiggles down to get comfortable, humming a tune that Keith recognizes, that lilts and quickens in unfamiliar places. Whether Lance took all his clothes off in his own room or in the hall on his way here remains a mystery. Keith almost laughs just thinking about Lance leaving a trail of clothes all the way to his bedroom door.

The others will probably jump to conclusions when they find it in the morning.

Shiro will probably jump to conclusions.

This weird, heavy stillness settles in Keith's gut, cold and brushing up behind his ribs. It replaces all the warmth he's been storing, trying to savor whatever this is with Lance. Keith leans against his knees with his arm wrapped around them loosely, combing a hand back through his hair. It's a while before he manages to find his voice.

"Lance."

Lance has almost fallen asleep, stretched out beside Keith's hip with his head pillowed in the bend of his arm. He stirs a little, humming low in his throat to acknowledge that he heard him. He doesn't open his eyes. Keith stares down at him for a long moment and then he looks away.

"Lance," Keith says it more forcefully, "Go back to your room."

Maybe it takes Lance a minute to register what Keith said. After it sits in between them for a while, Lance clumsily, hastily pushes himself upright.

"Oh." His voice sounds funny; tired, rougher. Keith digs his fingers into his hair and stares across the room. "Keith, was this - " Lance gusts out a breath, rubbing his face, groaning, "Sorry. Was this not okay? I'm - I'm sorry, I should've - "

"Lance, no, I… kind of started it. Earlier. It's fine."

"No, Keith. It's not fine."

The conviction in Lance's voice makes any disagreement Keith has die in his throat. He squeezes his hands around his knees, glancing at Lance when he shifts to sit against the wall. It puts a little more space between them. Lance is blinking a lot, and fidgeting, worried if he stays still for too long he might fall back to sleep. He pushes his hands into his hair, drags them back down his face. He pulls at the blankets, aimlessly; finds Keith's jacket and wads it up in his hands without thinking about it.

"I dunno," Lance groans after a few minutes, his shoulders slumping.

Keith sighs and drops his head against his knees.

"Just go back to bed, Lance," he says quietly.

"I didn't…. want to be alone," Lance says. His voice is strained. "I … I woke up by myself and I didn't... I was thinking about…. I wanted…" He either can't land on what he wants to say, or can't bring himself to say it, because instead he blurts out, "Hunk's snoring like really really loud in the room next door and that bugs me. D'you really want me to go?"

Keith doesn't answer.

"Keith."

"Shiro told us not to sleep together."

He's not sure why he says that, and not something else. Probably because that's what's bothering him, and not because he actually wants Lance to leave. He's… wanted to be like this with Lance for a while. He just never thought it would happen. Especially not right now. Things have been kind of strained between him and Shiro lately, ever since he came back. Again. Keith doesn't know what he did to make it like this, and the last thing he wants is to put more pressure on any of his relationships, when he already feels like they're this close breaking apart under his feet.

He doesn't want to rock the boat...

Lance frowns at him, confused. "When?"

"Earlier? Pretty sure he brought us up from the banquet," Keith says slowly, still trying to make sense of the hazy memory.

He remembers Shiro walking them out of the ballroom, but that's about where his awareness kind of fades. He remembers feeling sick in the elevator, and Lance grabbing onto his arm, steadying him. He remembers standing in the hallway and laughing while Shiro was trying to open the suite door while Lance was leaning on him and reaching up to rub both hands through Shiro's hair, saying that he missed the undercut. (Keith is not entirely convinced that part wasn't a dream, but it definitely seems like something Lance would only dare to do if he were wasted, and something Shiro would tolerate only because he was.)

"I don't really remember all of it, to be honest," Keith admits, feeling like there are definitely some pieces missing afterward and in between, "But he made that pretty clear."

"Okay," Lance says, tone defensive, throwing out his hand, "Pretty sure he meant he didn't want us having sex, because Shiro is the Dad Friend like that and he's got to - he's got to - man, I just said it- Él tiene que padre de todos. And. Okay, we were pretty drunk, I mean - are still - kind of a little tipsy maybe, but it's not his business, and we weren't going to anyway. Unless - "

Lance stops, and Keith shoots him a worried glance. Lance is staring at him with this weird expression on his face, his mouth still open, brow creased. And then he looks away, twisting the fabric of Keith's jacket between his hands.

"Unless that's… unless that's all you wanted," Lance says, his voice petering out into an uncertain mumble, "Was to have sex, or just - fool around or whatever - and then…."

Keith feels like somebody reached in and scooped out his insides. There are several emotions rising up inside of him to take their place, and he can't even name them all. Keith knows that, up until recently, Lance sort of hated him. And even though he could never pin down why, or what he did, he thought they were finally moving past that and…. He braces his shaking hands against the bed.

That… hurts a lot. It hurts a lot that Lance would think something like that about him.

"Lance," his voice is a wreck, and he knows it, "That's not what I wanted."

"Okay," the word tumbles out, barely there. Lance nods his head. He still isn't looking at Keith, but his voice steadies, "So just - talk to me, then."

Keith makes a frustrated noise, "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know, Keith! Tell me what's bugging you about this, cabrón," Lance is always so ready to fight with him, it takes no effort for him to switch gears, the words bursting out, "Just talk to me! I can't tell you what you're thinking is stupid and crazy if you don't tell me what it is first!"

"It's not stupid and crazy to think I'm screwing everything up, Lance!" Even though Lance recoils in surprise, Keith keeps going. That heat inside of him - muting the little voice that tells him to stop, to shut up - makes it easier to say the rest of it, to admit out loud what he's been thinking for months, "I'm bad at - at this. I'm bad at all of this! At being the leader and making good decisions and just talking to people in general. I'm definitely bad at whatever this is and I feel like I'm just - I'm ruining everything! I don't want - I don't want things to be messed up and weird between us because I did something stupid. Because I couldn't - I don't…"

His anger burns out with his confession, leaving him grasping at the ends of it. It fizzles like a firecracker shot into the night, and Keith feels dark and empty, sucked dry like he doesn't have anything else left. He drops his head into his hands again, digging them into his hair.

Lance still doesn't say anything.

"We just started getting along…" Keith finishes, voice sticking in his throat, "And it's been so great. This like... almost friendship thing that we have right now, I don't… I don't want to mess this up, Lance, I don't know what I'd do, I can't - "

I can't talk to Shiro like I used to.

I don't have anybody.

Keith startles when Lance grabs the back of his neck, makes a soft, surprised sound when Lance yanks him forward. He was so preoccupied that he missed Lance moving closer and reaching for him. It's only after Lance has pulled Keith practically into his lap and done his utmost to wrap Keith's entire body in his arms that Keith realizes there are tears streaking down his face and his breath is hitching. His vision swims, and he blinks, and more tears well out, getting soaked in Lance's shirt.

Lance's hand finds its way into Keith's hair, pressing Keith's head to rest against his shoulder. Keith resists for about four seconds. That's all he can manage before the tension all bleeds out of his limbs. He reaches up with trembling hands and loops his arms around Lance's waist. He takes a short breath that's too warm through Lance's shirt, that punches into his lungs and gets hung there.

The hand between his shoulder blades thumps him gently. Lance buries his face in Keith's hair.

"Dude, you gotta relax."

Lance's breathless, laughing voice tickles Keith's ear. He rakes his fingers against Keith's scalp, pushing through his hair in slow, soothing strokes from the base of his neck to the ends of his hair. And Keith… he can't even remember the last time someone held him like this.

-x-

At some point, they're both so exhausted that their hug sort of just collapses in on itself and they slump down against the pillows again. Lance with both arms wrapped around Keith's shoulders, Keith with his head resting low on Lance's ribs, where he can hear the rhythm of his breathing and the thump of his heart, where he can feel the vibration of his voice as Lance hums that familiar, lilting tune that's been stuck in his head since he woke up.

Lance stirs, falling quiet.

"Hey." His voice is thick and sleepy-sounding, like he's barely hanging onto consciousness. "Keith. You still want me to go?"

Keith sighs, pressing his face into Lance's shirt.

"No," he says, knowing it's muffled.

Lance laughs, "Kay." He hesitates, fingers moving through Keith's hair, and then he asks, "Are you hot…?"

Keith blows out another sigh, relieved, "Yes," and Lance chirps, "Oh, thank god." They quickly disentangle themselves, rolling to opposite sides of the bed. Keith spreads out flat on his stomach, relishing in the press of cool sheets. Lance pulls his shirt off over his head, causing his short, sweaty hair to stick straight up, and flops onto his back with a contented sigh.

"I was dying," he admits, "But I didn't wanna hurt your feelings."

"You could've said something," Keith mumbles, groping for a pillow to bury his face in.

"Two way street," Lance says. He rolls around until he manages to pull the bedsheet out from under himself and then starts yanking on it where it's pinned beneath Keith. "Under the blanket, mullet, I can't live like this."

"You just said you were hot."

"I've gotta sleep under the blanket, you can judge all you want but you're not sleeping on top of it."

Keith is tempted to stay where he is just to be spiteful, but he acquiesces, shifting up enough for Lance to pull the rest of the blanket out from under him. Lance has the audacity to wrap himself up like a tortilla once he has it, but he does throw a corner of it across Keith's shoulders. Keith puts his face in the pillow and closes his eyes, ignoring the rustling and bouncing until Lance finally settles.

Something touches the side of his face, and Keith flinches, opening his bleary eyes. Lance is closer than he expected. Far enough that they're not smothering in their combined body heat, but Keith can still see the way the soft light in the room brightens Lance's blue eyes, and the way his dark lashes flutter against his cheeks as he struggles to keep them open a little longer. Lance's finger trails along the edge of Keith's forehead, moving a strand of hair that was tickling his face.

"Doesn't have to be weird," Lance mumbles, "What're you so afraid of, huh, Keith? Didn't think you were scared of anything…."

He asks with another breathy chuckle, more than half asleep. Keith realizes Lance isn't aware that he said it out loud, and within moments his eyes have dropped closed. His breathing is slow and even, his face relaxed and his hand slack where it's resting against Keith's shoulder. Keith doesn't move for a long time. He lays there with his tired eyes aching, unable to sleep while he mulls the question over.

A lot of things.

Mostly...

"Everyone leaves me, Lance…."

He doesn't feel any different, having said it out loud. He had kind of hoped that he would. That it would fix something. That it might abate the fear he feels ingrained in his bones, that beats in his veins, that makes him stupid and impulsive and unafraid of everything else, because what compares to this mawing loneliness he's felt for as long as he can remember?

He doesn't have anything to lose… except now he kind of does.

Somehow that's even scarier.

-x-

Keith wakes up under the warm weight of Lance's arm, thrown across his shoulders. The second he's aware of it, the second he peeks open his eyes to find his view swallowed up by the peaceful look on Lance's face - the curl of his tousled hair, his smooth skin, his parted lips - the bedroom door rushes open, and Shiro barks, "Lance." Keith's whole body jerks, adrenaline like a flash flood. His heart throbs painfully, his breath rushing in. He stays perfectly still, thinking maybe he can pretend to be asleep and avoid dealing with this.

Lance ruins any chance of that.

Gripped with some instinct that makes him sit upright out of a dead sleep at the sound of his name, that's exactly what Lance does.

"What," drops out of his mouth, low and rough. His face is scrunched up as he squints across the room, blanket and hands pooled in his lap. When he realizes it's Shiro, Lance actually groans, turns and smacks his pillow into a more comfortable lump. "Relax, padre, we just snuggled."

He drops back onto the bed.

Keith is actually holding his breath, staring at the back of Lance's head with wide eyes. His pulse pounds in his temples, makes him aware of the headache that was sitting at the back of his consciousness just waiting to pounce. His mouth is dry.

From the door, he hears Shiro sigh in exasperation.

"Lance, where are your clothes?"

"Dunno."

"Are they strewn all up and down the hallway?"

There's a pause.

"Maybe."

"Know who's not picking them up?"

"Can I sleep please?" Lance asks, annoyed, lifting his head to frown over Keith's back.

"No." Shiro turns on the overhead light, and it cuts through the soft, semi-darkness like a physical blow. Keith feels it like a knife right between his eyes. Him and Lance both flinch, scrambling to hide their faces under the pillow and blankets, yelping and groaning in protest. There's at least some amusement in Shiro's tone when he adds, "Breakfast. Come on, everyone else is already up."

Keith hears the door slide shut. He groans into the mattress and lets his breath warm his face, both hands digging his pillow down over his head. Beside him, Lance moves; he plants a hand in the middle of Keith's back, pushing another groan out of him, and leans across him, fumbling with something on the bedside table. There's a faint click and Lance sighs, rolling back onto his side of the bed.

Keith peers out from under the pillow. Lance has used the remote to turn the lights back of.

"Nice," Keith says, the word scratching out of his throat. He closes his eyes again, swallowing, but it doesn't really help.

Lance heaves out another heavy sigh in answer, drags it out into a whine. He throws his arms and legs out, thumping them against the bed like a child pitching a fit, and rocks forward to sit up. He puts his face in his hands, bent against his knees.

"Be better if I could go back to sleep. I'm so tired?"

"I slept great."

"Yeah, you would, karate kid, you kept kicking me. Like, constantly moving around and turning over, and pulling on the blanket. I'm usually a pretty sound sleeper, but seriously, dude? You punched me in the neck. Twice."

Keith feels his face heat up.

"Sorry," he manages, "I'm not - I've never had to share a bed with anyone."

"Yeah, I can tell."

Lance is smirking in amusement, though, so he isn't really upset about it. He keeps his head in his hands, cupped over his eyes, for a few minutes longer. Keith takes the opportunity to wake himself up a bit, pulls in a deep breath and stretches the sleepiness out of his muscles, pressing himself into the bed. He shifts around to find a cooler spot. He wishes his head didn't hurt, and he wants something to drink, but he really doesn't want to get up right now.

He groans again to vent his frustration.

"See, this is what I'm talking about," Lance says, "If you were half as vocal during an actual conversation as you are in bed, your social skills probably wouldn't be so stunted."

"My social skills aren't stunted," Keith says, offended even though maybe they kind of are.

"They're basically nonexistent."

"At least I'm not annoying."

And, okay. That's what Lance is talking about, because Keith knows that's a low blow and that it's uncalled for because Lance is just teasing him and he just says it anyway, and his insides get all cold and squirmy the second it's out of his mouth. He's glad his face is under the pillow.

"Trust me, you're plenty annoying," Lance says, and Keith can't read the tone in his voice, so he pulls his head out from under the pillow.

Lance is still folded over against his knees, but he's moved his hands into his hair. Keith is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that Lance isn't wearing anything other than his shorts. He can just see the waistband poking out from under the pool of blanket around Lance's hips. The broad stretch of his back, the movement of muscles under his skin, pulling taut, as Lance scrubs his hands through his hair and down his face, gusting out a noise.

A million thoughts resurface from last night. Nothing especially vivid, but it's more than enough to make Keith blush. A sensation drops through his chest, squirming low in his belly. Keith turns over onto his back to distract himself from that. He grabs a fist full of his pillow and holds it against his stomach, just to have something to do with his hands while he stares up at the ceiling, trying to sort out how he feels.

When he risks a glance at Lance, he notices Lance has his hand pressed against his forehead and his face turned away. That slightly pleasant feeling quickly becomes unpleasant.

It's weird.

Lance is, naturally, the one who says something first. He laughs kind of nervously, dropping his hand. He looks toward Keith and then quickly averts his eyes, asks, "You want to… compare notes? Or just leave it alone?"

"It wasn't… that bad." Keith doesn't know whether he's trying to convince himself or Lance. Maybe both. "It wasn't that bad."

"Okay, so let's recap," Lance says. He's scrubbing a hand through his hair again, distracted, and it's sticking up worse and worse. It's really not helping Keith not feel things. "We got wasted in front of a bunch of people we don't know, who we're supposed to be impressing because we're literally the Defenders of the Universe."

"Yeah," Keith says, wincing.

"We made out with each other in front of everyone, in front of Hunk and Pidge."

"Yeah…"

"We somehow ended up under the table, still macking, and then Shiro found us."

"Yeah….."

"Pretty sure my mouth was almost on your - "

"Yeah, okay, Lance. I get it!"

Keith feels his whole body heating up at the memory of it. He pulls the pillow back down over his face to hide the heat rising in his cheeks. That doesn't help. That doesn't help at all. There's a thick, warm pulse that goes straight to his groin. An aggravated noise pulls out of his throat, heightening his headache, and Keith turns over onto his stomach again, pushing his knees into the mattress.

How do you tell your tired body that now is really not the time to be excited about something that was and continues to be completely mortifying?

Loudly enough to be heard over the way he's trying to smother himself in the mattress, Keith says, "This is weird, Lance."

"It's not - weird. It's just really, really embarrassing."

"This is what Shiro was talking about."

"Yeah, probably…. Look, okay - whatever. It doesn't have to be weird! We didn't really do anything, we just got a little swept up in the moment and our excitable teenage hormones, maybe, and that's - fine. Whatever. So - we like eachother… like that… it's not like it's news or anything. We've kind of been flirting for a while now. At least, kind of… I mean, I have - mostly on accident. I didn't really think about it like that until Pidge pointed it out to me and then I just never… stopped. Because it's … it's fun. Talking with you like that. Being… like that…. with you. Even if you didn't… even if you don't - I mean…"

Lance's voice shakes a little and he trails off, sighing. Keith stubbornly stays hidden under the pillow. His fingers tighten in the fabric.

His heart is pounding so hard, he's sure Lance is able to hear it. That's why he stopped talking, not to collect his thoughts or anything. Not because, for once, he doesn't know what to say or how to say it. Keith's own thoughts are speeding out of control. Lance, admitting to flirting with him. Lance, admitting he has feelings for him.

It's taking all of Keith's restraint, his body trembling, not to throw himself out of the bed and bolt.

He can't deal with this.

Not on top of everything else.

He's relieved, and excited, but also terrified. It's too much, it's too much, it's -

"It's fine," Lance says after a couple of minutes of uncomfortable silence, because Keith can't unstick his tongue from the roof of his dry mouth, "It's not like - I mean, we're not - neither of us are ready to like…. Do anything about it. R-right? There's already so much going on, with everything, and…. Keith, I know you're probably freaking out but I really need you to say something right now."

What comes out is, "Sorry…" and it's so faint, Keith wonders if Lance even heard it.

Then he thinks about how wobbly and tight Lance's voice had gotten, and he pushes himself upright, twisting around, dropping the pillow. Keith is breathing like he's run a marathon. Lance has his hand clamped over his mouth and his face turned away. Keith drops his eyes to his lap.

"I mean," he says, fumbling for something to say. He's bad at this. "Okay…"

Really? That's all he's got.

Lance snorts, lifts his hand but doesn't look at him. "Very eloquent."

"Shut up," Keith snaps, rubbing his warm face with both his hands. That's the challenge he needs, though. He throws his hands out, staring intently at his lap. He's going to just come right out and say it, like yanking off a bandaid. "For the record. I've - I've definitely been…. flirting. Like. On purpose. For a while."

Lance actually has the nerve to look surprised. Like, really surprised. He arches his eyebrows high and everything.

"How - " He asks, "How long is a while?"

"First couple of weeks? I guess. You were kind of a jerk about our bonding moment, but after Rollo and the others stole your Lion I felt better about it. It was easier to embrace it."

He smirks a little when he says this, and Lance readily rises to the bait, leveling him with a classic, indignant frown.

"You wanna talk about being a jerk, I was handcuffed to that tree for an hour, Keith!"

"And you kind of deserved it."

"I deserved to have my heart broken like that?"

"Kind of, yeah."

"Okay, fine," Lance relents, partially against his will, probably just for the sake of not starting a petty argument about it. He tosses his hands. "Whatever. But seriously, dude? Practically since the beginning? And I've been Mr. Oblivious this whole time, how is that possible?"

Keith shrugs. "You're more into girls."

"Oh." Lance's face goes a little red. "R-right."

"You know that's - fine. Right? That you like girls too, or more."

"Yeah! Yeah, totally, I know. I don't need you to like, validate my pansexuality or whatever," Lance laughs, flustered and looking away, "I'm feeling that pretty acutely right now, so I'm good. Thanks." He waits a beat, glances at Keith. "Do you, uh. Like girls too?"

"Nope," is Keith's curt, embarrassed answer as he stares at his knees.

Lance lets out that breathy laugh again. "Well, more for me, then." There's another short pause before he asks, "So. What do you wanna do?"

"I guess…" Keith hesitates, trembling. "You're right. It doesn't - it doesn't have to be weird. Just because we're...talking about it doesn't mean we have to necessarily do anything differently. We can just forget it - not - not like, forget it forget it, like this never happened or anything, just, maybe - uhh - "

"Just maybe take it back a step or two?" Lance asks, a tentative smile in his voice, tugging up the corner of his mouth as he glances at Keith.

Keith almost collapses with relief.

"Yeah."

"So I can have the chance to woo you properly?"

"What? N-no!"

It's too late to really protest. Lance is already hamming it up, because that's how he deals with things. He shoots Keith what is no doubt supposed to be a sultry look that absolutely does not work for Keith, and wiggles his eyebrows a little.

"Oh, c'mon, Keith, you've been pining for me this whole time, the least I can do is woo the pants off you. Like, literally. If you'll let me."

"That is not happening. And I definitely would not call it pining."

"Is brooding really any better? You brood over a lot of things, I want to feel special."

"Shut up, Lance," Keith laughs, covering his face.

"You kissed me, remember?" Lance reminds him. He doesn't stammer over it like Keith thought he might with his face flashing as red as it does. He just plows on ahead, "And now you've got the nerve to be shy about it? Seriously?"

Keith wants to kiss him again.

It hits him all at once how bad he wants to kiss Lance again, that he probably could if he just asked. Keith's heart is pounding before his brain really manages to catch up and acknowledge what that blooming pressure in his chest means. He doesn't ask. Just drops his gaze away from Lance's bright, eager blue eyes and rubs a hand across his chest, willing the feeling to go back down into the pit of his stomach where it belongs.

He's too scared to ask.

Last night the alcohol obliterated his deeply embedded sense of self-preservation that only manifests itself as distancing himself from others.

"Keith," Lance says. His voice is firmer now, some of the humor lingering when he says, "You know I'm just teasing, right? I'm not gonna do anything you don't want - "

"I know," Keith says. He realizes he was quiet for too long, and Lance might have taken it the wrong way. He doesn't want an apology. That's the opposite of what he wants. "I know, it's okay. I'm good with… with this. With the way things are right now. If that's - okay - with you, I mean."

Lance grins, relaxed.

"That's cool."

Keith thinks they've probably done enough sharing for one day. He's still gotta say it.

"Listen….. I don't think I would have made it on my own those first couple of weeks that Shiro was gone." He looks at his knees, squeezing the sheets in his hands, "I definitely wouldn't be able to make it without you now. So thanks for just… being there, I guess."

"Hey, no problem." Lance shrugs as if it's no big deal. His smile is soft though. "I kinda like being your Right Hand. Gives me something to do, and I like that you listen to me, now. Even if it's dumb stuff. I feel like I…" Lance doesn't say what he feels like. He suddenly fishes his shirt out of the tangled blankets, makes a show of getting out of the bed. "Anyway! Good talk, now let's get some breakfast. They probably already think we're making out again or something."

He says it so flippantly, and winks, that Keith feels his entire body flush with warmth.

It's exactly the distraction Lance wanted.

He shoves Keith back on purpose as he climbs over him, stumbling off the bed and grinning. Feelings or not, Keith isn't about to let him win anything if he can help it. He wrests himself free of the bed sheets and chargers after Lance. He catches up right away because Lance is trying to pull his shirt on over his head and run at the same time, and he bumps into the door before he gets it open.

They trip out into the hall, where they find a trail of Lance's discarded clothes leading across the hall and down one door. Lance is properly embarrassed by this. He picks up his jacket, and pants, and socks, and shoots Keith a glare over his shoulder when he doesn't bother stifling his laughter.

"I was hot, okay?" Lance says defensively, carrying the armload back to his room.

"You're still pretty hot." They're being like that, apparently, so Keith figures it's alright to say it. Especially since he knows Lance is going to rib him relentlessly about literally everything he's said and done in the past twelve hours. "Or just pretty. Whichever works for you."

He's rewarded with Lance being flustered enough that he rams his forehead into the doorframe. His mouth is open, face steadily turning red. He drops his clothes when he smacks into the door, yelps and stammers, "Wow, no one asked for your opinion, Keith!" as he snatches them back up into his arms and dashes into his room.

Keith remembers why he kissed Lance, now, and just grins. He's going to be fighting like hell to hold onto this moment, to remember what this feels like, for the rest of his life.

-x-

(A/n) I'd say this is something self-indulgent but tbh I never write shit like this so if it's anything it's me just flexing my writing muscles! English (unfortunately) continues to be my first and only language, but I tried to have some fun w/ Lance speaking Spanish and i tried to keep those helpful writing-a-bilingual-character posts in mind. If I botched it and you've got any helpful advice, pls let me know so I can fix it!

Shoutout to my brother for fixing all the damn typeos my phone throws bc it hates me!

Happy Holidays, kids, I hope you enjoyed this! C:

-BobTAC