Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Keith hummed cheerily as he heaved himself onto the banister beside his cousin, wiping at the sweat dribbling down the side of his neck. His thoughts were so preoccupied with the morning’s training (or indeed, with the previous night’s cathartic resolution to two weeks of antagonism) that he hardly noticed Shiro’s cocked brow.

“You seem… chipper.”

“Hm?”

Across the deck, Lance clambered down from lookout, forgoing the last few rungs and leaping the remaining distance to the ground below. Keith fought to suppress a snigger as he watched Thorn bat lightly at the back of his head, likely berating him for the stunt.

“I said,” Shiro over-enunciated, as if Keith were a toddler, “—you seem like you’re in a good mood.”

Tearing his eyes away from his bunkmate, Keith shrugged, helpless against the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I dunno. Is that illegal, Commander Shirogane?”

“… no.”

“That’s good. ‘Cause when I’m in a good mood—” Keith reached into the deep pocket of his cargo pants, procuring a guyvva fruit he’d nabbed from the galley, “—I bring the people I love extra fruit.”

He tossed the pink fruit over to his cousin, whose eyes widened as if he’d just caught dangerous contraband. “Keith, you can’t just—”

“Yeah, so quit waving it around, would you?”

Shiro stole a nervous, furtive look around the deck before shoving the fruit into his pocket. “Oh hell. I’m an accomplice now,” he lamented, hamming up the dramatics for Keith’s sake, who sniggered.

“How’s it feel to be a common criminal, Shirogane?”

“Honestly?” Shiro leaned back against the rope rigging, patting his pocket as he grinned. “Like I’m not gonna starve before lunch. Thanks, Keith.”

“No problem.”

“You sure Silver—”

Keith groaned, letting his head fall back and his eyes slide shut. “Shiro, no. It’s a nice morning. Nice thoughts only. Besides, what Silver doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He cracked open an eye, peering at his cousin with faux suspicion. “Unless you’re planning to squeal, you filthy criminal.”

His cousin snorted, raising a hand to shove at Keith’s head. “Shut up, you’re in such a weird—”

But Keith had stopped listening. His attention was drawn once more to Lance, who was laughing at something Thorn had said—his eyes crinkled, his head thrown back and his hands clutching at his chest.

Something in Keith’s stomach—something that fluttered with burning, restless wings—stirred to life. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Lance laugh like that.

As if heralded by Keith’s distant attention, Lance’s gaze swept the deck, and their eyes met (like magnets, Keith thought as his heart jumped into his throat). For a split second, they both froze as if caught in one another’s spell.

And then—

Lance’s face relaxed into a warm smile that crinkled his eyes and revealed a singular dimple, and he raised a hand in a greeting that was almost shy, as if he were testing unexplored waters.

Well. Who the hell was Keith to keep him waiting?

He wasted no time in returning the wave, and Lance’s smile expanded into something brilliant—radiant enough to rival the sun.

“Did I miss something?”

Reluctantly ripping his eyes from his new friend (friend—Keith hadn’t had many in his life, and the thought that he might have found one in Lance sent a thrill up his spine), he turned to find Shiro glancing between the two cabin boys with undisguised confusion.

Keith made a noncommittal noise. “Not much. Just a food fight.”

“A food… what?”

At the other end of the deck, Lance cocked his head in beckoning invitation. Keith leaped to his feet, unable to hide the volume of his smile.

“Stars above, did you—did you finally apologize?”

Spinning to walk backward, Keith turned his grin on his cousin, whose expression fell into a knowing smirk. “You did, didn’t you? You—why are you backing away from me?”

“Lance needs me,” Keith shrugged.

“Lance needs—Keith, what the fuck!”

Still walking backward, Keith laughed. “I’ll tell you later!” he called, snorting when Shiro threw his arms into the air. “After dinner!”

“I’m holding you to that! I’ve put up with enough of both of your drama, you hear?” The distance between them grew, and the volume of Shiro’s voice grew to match it. “I deserve this!”

Sniggering, Keith turned and shoved his hands into his pockets, leaving his cousin in suspense behind him. Shiro would get his answers later, but for now…

Despite his best efforts to contain his unbridled giddiness, he couldn’t prevent the spring in his step as he approached the other boy—nor could he stop the grin that practically consumed his entire face. It certainly didn’t help that Lance looked just as bright and eager as he felt, as if the events of the previous evening had finally pulled them into one another’s harmonious orbit.

“Morning.”

Lance’s smile was crooked. “Mornin’.”

“Gotcha something.” Keith lowered his voice, stepping closer and rummaging through his pocket. As quickly as he could, he tossed the second guyvva he’d collected that morning between them. Lance caught and stowed it in one fluid motion, surprise flickering quickly across his face before being replaced with an expression so soft and grateful that Keith’s stomach swooped.

“Awful thoughtful of you, haircut.”

“Still with the nickname?”

“Still with the nickname.”

…

“What’s your favorite color?”

Keith straightened, leaning on his mop and drawing an arm across his brow. Sweat ran in rivulets down his face, dripping out of his hairline and down into his eyes. “Can’t believe you haven’t asked me that yet.”

Beside him, Lance sniggered, leaping over a freshly mopped area to reach a spot Keith had forgotten. “There were more pressing questions.”

“More pressing—you asked me what my favorite star was, yesterday.”

“And I stand by the fact that Vitor-3 is superior to Alarayan.”

“I’m not doing this again.”

The responding laugh sent that newly familiar thrill through Keith’s gut, as if the family of sparrow-gulls residing there had been startled into flight. Over the past couple days of their budding friendship, Keith had grown to crave that laugh. He chased it through hours of busywork and chores; hours of idle conversation and silly games.

“I’m serious, Lance. Start that shit again and I’m throwing myself overboard.”

“Okay, okay!” The other boy gasped with laughter, and Keith thought: score. “Favorite color!”

“Guess.”

“Ooh.” Lance tapped his chin with the handle of his mop. “Something dark and broody.” He splayed his hands out dramatically, voice lowering to a ridiculous hiss. “The darkest shade of the blackest night.”

He yelped when Keith, who was trying hard to suppress a grin, shoved him so hard that he was forced to stagger backward. “Shut up. I’m not that edgy.”

“I’m not that edgy,” Lance mimicked, pitching his voice down into an awful imitation of Keith’s.

“Oh, fuck off.” He couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice, no matter how hard he tried, and Lance grinned at him as if he’d just won the lottery. “It’s red, you moron.”

“Ah, red,” the other boy echoed sagely. “Color of blood. Fitting, knife boy.”

Divulging that particular piece of information had been… a mistake. He’d accidentally revealed his affinity for knives during a conversation they'd had a couple days ago (the morning right after ‘The Great Kitchen Catastrophe’ as Lance liked to call it; or simply ‘The Incident’ as Keith had dubbed it). Lance’s eyes had lit up with the information, and Keith had received yet another nickname—as well as Lance’s incessant insistence to bring knives up whenever possible.

Keith flipped him off. “It’s because of the flowers where I grew up, asshole.”

Lance blinked, the smile slipping from his face. “Oh. Really?”

“Yeah.” Heat crept up the back of his neck, and Keith cleared his throat, scrubbing at a patch of floor that he’d already mopped to death. “My—um. My dad used to collect them for the dinner table, when I was really little.”

For a long second, his openness was rewarded only with silence. He stared at the sudsy patch of deck, determined not to look back up.

“Huh.”

The sound of Lance’s voice cracked Keith’s will in half, and he scrambled to meet the other boy’s gaze. When he finally did, he found that he was being watched with that same soft expression—the one that drove the sparrow-gulls in his chest to insanity.

“That’s... actually really sweet.”

“Um.” Oh… fuck. That damned smile. Keith’s cheeks were so hot, he wondered how Lance hadn’t noticed. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” Lance’s expression twisted into a devious grin, “—flower boy.”

With a growl, Keith whacked his sopping mop into Lance’s legs. The cyborg squealed in surprise, the sound tapering off into mischievous giggles.

“That’s what you get,” Keith smirked. “I hope your fucking cogs rust.”

That was another nugget of information Keith had recently collected about his bunkmate. The night of The Incident had been the first time Keith had ever seen Lance’s cybernetic leg. He’d tried not to gape at it when Lance had emerged from the shower, and he took special note of the way the other boy had taken a timid step backward under Keith’s surprised gaze, fists tightening around his towel in a rare display of self-consciousness.

(Keith had promptly torn his eyes away from the prosthetic and challenged Lance to a race back to the galley.)

He hadn’t brought it up since then—at least, not in a way that held any promise of meaningful conversation. Having watched Shiro struggle with the loss of a limb, Keith knew better than to pry; and though he couldn’t deny that he was curious, he’d willingly resigned himself to the fact that the prosthetics on the right side of Lance’s body might forever remain a mystery.

Now, with Lance practically choking over his own laughter, the shadow that had fallen over his eyes that night in the washroom was nowhere to be found; replaced instead by the sparkle of mirth.

“They don’t rust, flower boy. I know it looks cheap, but it’s not that—would you stop hitting me?” Lance yelped as he nearly lost his footing over the wet floor, and Keith sniggered, his mop threateningly raised in his hand.

“Only if you can it with the fucking nicknames—”

“No promises.”

“—and tell me what your favorite color is before I decide I’d rather talk to Roth.”

“Boo, gross.”

“For star’s sake, just—”

“Blue.”

Satisfied, Keith hummed. “That fits.”

“Yeah?”

Keith nodded, transfixed by the little dimple between Lance’s eyebrows where the inner ends had quirked together. “Yeah.”

A shy smile overtook Lance’s features, and—after tucking a lock of hair behind an ear—he turned his attention back to mopping.

…

“Favorite band?”

They’d both thrown themselves down atop a pile of rope, hot and exhausted from a joint training session. They’d been in space for a little over a month and a half, and Thorn had decided it was time to implement yet another variable into Keith’s training in the form of Lance. Consequently, training had become twice as chaotic, Keith squaring off against both Lance and Thorn all at once—which was incredibly unfair, considering that (to Keith’s very limited knowledge) Lance had been Thorn’s pupil for quite some time.

(Some days, Thorn simply asked Lance to observe; and the other boy would perch up in the rafters and provide a colorful running commentary of Keith’s progress.)

Considering Lance’s question, Keith fanned himself before tightening the band holding his ponytail. “I dunno. Uh… there’s a bunch my dad likes.”

“What do you like?”

He hesitated for a beat before responding. “Flight of Stars is pretty good.”

“Ooh, oldies! Didn’t peg you as a fan of folk, but it makes sense. Those guys are from Eden-2, right?”

Keith blinked. “You know them?” he asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

“Mhm. Thorn’s got a couple of their albums on her holo-pad.”

“Shit.” He made a mental note to ask Thorn if he could borrow her extensive music library at some point. He and Lance had been the only crewmembers not assigned holo-pads (Silver had deemed them ‘unnecessary for cabin boys’). “Dad and I would listen to them all the time. Used to dance around our living room.”

“You guys have similar taste?”

“Well, yeah. He was practically my best friend.”

Lance propped himself up onto his elbows. “Was?”

Oh… shit. Fuck. Keith squirmed uncomfortably, pulling restlessly at his ponytail. “Uh. Yeah. We sort of… drifted apart, over the years.”

For a few beats, he could feel Lance’s eyes on the side of his face; and then his companion was humming nonchalantly. “Favorite song?”

And fuck, if that wasn’t one of the things Keith liked most about his new friend. Lance seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing precisely when he’d trod into dangerous territory, and was always so quick to change course that Keith would never feel pressured to reveal anything he wasn’t ready to divulge.

“'Dream a Little Dream',” Keith hurried, latching onto the subtle change in topic like a lifeline.

Lance wagged his eyebrows, fixing him with a lopsided grin. “Very romantic.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, avoiding the other boy’s eyes in favor of aiming a kick at his boot. “Uh… favorite movie?”

Beside him, Lance stiffened, and Keith’s stomach sank.

It was hard to tell when it was going to happen; but every so often, one of Keith’s questions would send Lance’s walls rushing back into place. Although he lamented the loss of the boy’s open, carefree nature, Keith had come to accept that there were things that his new friend wasn’t ready for him to know.

He couldn’t say that he didn’t understand. Lance paid him the very same courtesy of respecting his privacy, for which he couldn’t have been more grateful. Back home, his less-than-sunny disposition and troublesome reputation precluded him from having friends, but here—hundreds of miles from petty fist-fights and threatening cops—he wanted to be so much more than what he was.

With Lance, Keith felt as if someone had finally given him a chance to be seen: not as Keith the Delinquent, or Keith the Let-Down, but as… as…

He wasn’t sure he knew yet.

“Hey.” He nudged Lance’s stiff shoulder. “You don’t have to answer, you know.”

When Lance remained quiet, Keith hummed lightly. “Favorite… oh, I know; fav—”

“I’ve never seen one.”

The words had been uttered so softly that Keith almost hadn’t heard. “You… what?” he asked, turning to his companion with knitted eyebrows. Lance was staring down at his hands as if they held a way out of the conversation. “Like, you’ve never seen—”

“A movie, yeah. I—stars, this is fucking embarrassing,” he added, face reddening under Keith’s stare. He ducked his head, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, as seemed to be a nervous habit of his. “I just never had a holo-screen growing up, you know? So… no movies,” he finished lamely.

Keith chewed thoughtfully at his lip, digesting one of the only pieces of information about Lance’s past that he’d ever willingly offered. He filed it away for safekeeping alongside what precious little he knew about Lance: the dog he’d offhandedly mentioned having; the marble he carried, clearly a token of history and sentiment; the night terrors, from which Keith now carefully woke him; the cybernetic limbs adorning the right side of his body, which frequently required tightening after a long day’s work—

Of course, Keith had accumulated smaller tidbits of information, as well. Favorite color (blue), favorite food (‘Coran’s goo,’ had been the sarcastic answer), favorite star (Vitor-3, apparently—lame choice, but okay), favorite animal (giant spore, whatever the hell that was).

Other tokens of information, too; irrelevant, perhaps, to anyone but Keith. The way Lance tended to talk with his mouth full when he got excited. The way he’d curl in on himself when he laughed—the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle and his nose would scrunch. The way he’d gaze out at the stars when he thought no one was watching; that forlorn crease between his brows growing more pronounced as some unknown demon plagued his thoughts.

(The way he’d smile at Keith; the special one that he seemed to reserve for Keith and Keith alone—the soft one that brought dimples to his cheeks and warm sunshine to his eyes.)

“Please say something.”

Startled from his reverie, Keith turned to find that Lance had dragged his knees to his chest, his forehead resting upon them. A faint blush dusted the back of his exposed neck, and Keith averted his eyes from the spot.

“It’s not embarrassing. Just means I get to make you watch all my favorites,” he said lightly, nudging the toe of his boot against Lance’s.

The other’s eyes were on him, wide and surprised; and before Lance could even speak, Keith was leaning in to whisper, “Tonight. Meet me in the mess hall after hours, okay?”

“What the hell are you—”

“KOGANE!”

Keith resisted the urge to roll his eyes, the sound of Silver’s voice sending an immediate jolt of irritation throughout his being. “Just meet me there,” he hissed, dusting his hands against his pants as he stood.

He could swear he felt Lance’s eyes on his retreating back.

…

“Wait wait wait—Kya was one of the bandits?”

“Mhm.”

“But how’s she gonna—oh, Dav’s not gonna get to her on time—NO! DAV!”

Trying (and failing miserably) not to giggle like an idiot, Keith reached into the mass of blankets huddled against his side, clamping a hand over Lance’s mouth. “Keep it down, you jackass,” he whispered, grinning giddily. “You wanna wake up the whole ship?”

“Mphomphiphew,” came the muffled response, and Keith smirked, absentmindedly swiping his free hand across the borrowed holo-pad in his lap to pause their film.

“Sorry McClain; didn’t catch that. What was—”

Something wet ran along Keith’s palm, and he retracted his hand from Lance’s mouth with a disgusted gasp, trying to wipe it on the other boy’s sleeve. “You little asshole!”

“I said,” Lance giggled, nearly falling over backward in an attempt to get away from him, “—I’m gonna lick you.”

Keith grunted, shifting onto his knees as he attempted to smear his wet palm against Lance’s face; who was now practically lying on the floor, breathless with laughter. “That wasn’t a lick, you slobbery freak,” he hissed. “You’re worse than Kosmo, just—” he grunted as Lance writhed beneath him, accidentally kneeing him in the stomach, “—fucking stay still—”

Silent laughter wracked Lance’s body, rendering him more and more powerless to fight back, and Keith finally managed to drag his wet palm along the other boy’s cheek. “There,” he panted, petulantly socking Lance (lightly) in the stomach for good measure. “Even.”

As his bunkmate shook with mirth, Keith hovered overhead, caught up in the way Lance’s eyes had scrunched shut and his mouth hung open in noiseless merriment. He looked so… free, and before Keith could think better of it, he’d swept up the forgotten holo-pad.

In the time it took Lance to calm himself, Keith had managed to swipe a discreet picture of the jovial boy, who was too lost in his own wave of happiness to have noticed. The only evidence of the act lay in Keith’s cheeks, which—if their burning was any indication—had darkened considerably.

“You done now?” Keith asked, smacking Lance’s knee and wincing as his knuckles met jagged cybernetics through the material of his pants. He shook his hand out, offering it instead to the boy now grinning up at him. “Can we finish the movie?”

Grabbing the proffered hand, Lance heaved himself into sitting, falling once more against Keith with a tired huff. “Fuck, man. I haven’t laughed that hard in... shit, I can’t even remember.” From the corner of his eye, Keith watched as Lance pulled his blanket back around his shoulders before snuggling back up against Keith’s arm. “Whew. My stomach hurts.”

“I can’t believe you licked me.”

“Oh, come on. You really didn’t see that coming? It’s like, a classic move, dude.”

“For a five-year-old, maybe.”

Lance grinned, wiggling to make himself comfortable. “I’m four, actually.”

“Advanced for your age, then.”

“Thank you,” he replied with a prim sniff.

Keith rolled his eyes, pressing his mouth into a tight line to hide his smile. “Are we gonna finish this fucking movie, or what?”

“Uh, I’m not the one who attacked me.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not the one who—” Keith caught sight of the telltale arch in Lance’s eyebrows and promptly cut himself off. “You know what? No. I’m not playing this game with you,” he growled, ignoring Lance’s answering snigger and turning to retrieve the holo-pad from the floor. He pulled it into his lap, balancing it atop his and Lance’s touching knees. “Okay, so—before someone decided to yell in my ear, Kya—”

“Was apparently at the saloon the same day as Dav, which like—plot twist.” Lance spread out his hands, his eyes glittering with the same awe with which he’d regarded the first hour of the film. “By the way, if Dav dies right now—”

“You think the first movie I’d show you would be one where the love interest dies at the end?”

Lance huffed petulantly, adjusting his blanket so that it covered the top of his head. He looked ridiculous, and Keith suppressed the urge to snigger. “I dunno! But I swear to the stars, Keith—if they don’t get to kiss the living hell outta Kya by the end of this, I’ll—I’ll—”

“Relax,” Keith soothed, nudging his companion with his elbow. “It’s a happy ending, dork.”

“Good.”

He sounded so genuinely relieved that Keith chuckled, continuing to watch the other boy from the corner of his eye as he pressed play. All at once, Dav sprung back into action, dramatic music swelling as they avoided a close brush with death; but Keith’s focus was far from the film. “Didn’t know you’d be so into the romance.”

“Yeah, well.” There was a brief moment of silence, and then—in a voice so quiet Keith couldn’t be quite sure he’d heard it correctly: “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Kogane.”

I want to know everything, if you’ll let me. The words rose into his throat, itching to be spoken and sitting heavily on his tongue. He wanted so badly for Lance to hear them—wanted to cast light upon the shadow that had darkened those features; wanted to reach out and take the hands nervously curling and uncurling around his blanket. In his mind’s eye, he saw himself reach for them, holding them gently in his own to still their restless fidgeting, and—

On-screen, Dav burst into Kya’s containment cell, and Lance’s hands finally stilled. “Oh, thank fuck,” he sighed when the reunited lovers kissed. The shadow melted from his face as if it’d never been there, relief taking its place. “That was beautiful.”

“Told you,” Keith breathed, wholly unable to remove his eyes from his companion; grateful that Lance’s focus was so resolutely devoted to the holo-pad. “Happy ending.”

Halfway through their second movie (Lance had insisted on watching another, despite the hour), Lance fell asleep on Keith’s shoulder.

Keith pretended not to notice.

…

It was a full week later that Shiro approached Keith during one of his breaks, his hands tucked casually into his pockets as he sauntered toward Keith’s perch atop a beam.

“Hey cuz,” he greeted, his voice a little too casual. “How’s the day treatin’ you?”

“Fine?” Keith tentatively responded, an eyebrow creeping up into his hairline. “How’s yours?”

“Good, good!” His cousin glanced around before fixing Keith with an expression he’d never really… seen Shiro make. “Is, uh—is Lance around?”

Instantly suspicious, Keith narrowed his eyes into slits, hoping that his expression might dampen Shiro’s freaky smile. “He’s in the mess hall with Silver… why?”

“No reason! It’s just—you two have been pretty attached at the hip lately, huh?”

“Uh, yeah. We work together. What’s—why are you making that face?”

His cousin’s weird expression intensified. “What face? I’m not making—”

“That!” Keith cried, pointing like a lunatic and drawing a couple stares from the passing crew. He made a conscious effort to lower the volume of his voice, and it left him in a hiss. “That face! What the fuck is that?”

“Nothing!” Shiro insisted, holding up his hands in defense. “I’m just… really glad you and Lance have been getting along.”

What the fuck?

“Uh… okay? That’s not exactly news, Shiro. It’s been, like, two months—”

“I—” Shiro cleared his throat. “I found the picture.”

Keith blinked. “What—” He cut himself off immediately as he watched Shiro pointedly tap a finger against the holo-pad in his utility belt. Realization crashed into him, his mouth suddenly going dry.

“Sorry, Keith. Thorn and I were taking pictures of the wind damage to the hull, and I didn’t mean to snoop—or, well; it’s my pad, technically, so—”

“Gah! Stop talking!” Keith pleaded, burying his burning face in his hands. He’d completely forgotten about the picture—or, indeed, why he’d even thought taking it with the pad he’d borrowed from his cousin had been a good idea in the first place.

It had just… seemed right, in the moment. Necessary.

He leaped down from his perch, shoving his hands into his pockets and stepping around Shiro as he retreated to the galley. “Look, just delete it, okay?”

“Hey hey hey—wait.” His wrist was caught in a gentle grip, and Keith turned to find his cousin staring at him with wide, alarmed eyes; not a trace of the strange expression he’d been wearing moments earlier. “Why would I do that?”

Keith shrugged, unable to look his cousin in the eyes. “I dunno,” he mumbled, shifting from foot to foot. “Because it’s weird?”

“It’s not weird to enjoy seeing a friend happy, Keith.” Ever so gently, he was spun around to meet a gaze that was so open and earnest that Keith felt his walls crumble.

And—well. He certainly hoped that his cousin was right, because: stars above and hell below, did he like seeing Lance happy.

“I think he’s my best friend.” The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, considering he’d never used them to refer to anyone but Shiro. It also wasn’t as if he’d ever really had any friends; he’d routinely pushed away anyone that had tried to approach him at the Garrison, generally favoring his own company to that of others. The concept of having a best friend when there were none to choose from in the first place seemed like a bit of a fallacy, but at the same time…

At the same time, he was pretty sure he’d pick Lance. No matter how many people he met, no matter how many friends he made—Lance would be the best one he had.

He just… couldn’t see himself caring about anyone the same way. Couldn’t see himself wanting to know anyone the same way. Couldn’t see himself wanting to be known by anyone the same way.

A light breeze sent his bangs into his face, and Shiro brushed them aside, his expression fond. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said; and Keith was grateful he’d said that and not something truly embarrassing, like, glad you’re finally making friends, champ.

Thanks, Shiro,” he mumbled, his cheeks aflame. He ducked under his cousin’s arm, spotting Lance and Silver emerging from the mess hall across the deck. “I gotta go, but, um—don’t show that to him, okay? He doesn’t exactly know… uh.” He stopped, praying that Shiro would piece together what he was too mortified to say.

“Oh.” Understanding passed behind his cousin’s eyes. “Got it. I’ll see you later then?”

Keith shot him a thumbs up before turning on his heel, willing away his blush as he approached the other cabin boy and their Quartermaster.

…

They’d been sailing for nearly three months when the Leviathan attacked.

The day had started normally—a fact Keith found ironic, considering the way it ended. There’d been no warning on the breeze, no eerie hush befalling the crew before the moment of disaster.

One minute, he and Lance had been playing their almost daily game of: for fuck’s sake, Kosmo; give back the fucking mop—

And the next, there’d come a massive, rumbling roar from beneath their ship; so mighty and tremulous that the deck beneath their feet shook with it.

In the matter of seconds between Kosmo dropping the mop with a clatter and Thorn’s voice yelling, “LEVIATHAN!” the deck broke into chaos.

Something gargantuan slammed into the Melenor from below, and Keith and Lance both went careening to the floor as the ship pitched precariously to the side. Lance was the first to recover, crawling over to Keith and offering him a hand—

There was another roar, and the two of them froze in terror, hands clutched tightly between them as they watched a tentacle the width of the mast peak over the side of the ship mere feet from where they stood. It slowly unfurled to its full height, taking its time with predatory lethargy—although Keith thought that perhaps fear had momentarily slowed the time around them.

“MOVE!”

Lance’s voice broke fear’s spell, and—not needing to be told twice—Keith moved. He and Lance leaped apart, throwing themselves out of the way just in time to avoid the tentacle that came crashing down over the spot they’d occupied moments prior; splintering the banister and sending shards of wood raining over them.

Somewhere, Allura was yelling orders; but her voice was drowned out altogether by an ear-splitting screech. Still on the floor, Keith turned onto his back just in time to witness Lance removing his sword—now dripping with green blood—from the thing’s tentacle. The look in the other boy’s eyes was nothing short of feral, and Keith was alarmed to see a line of ruby blood trailing down his temple.

The tentacle retreated, slithering blindly along the deck until it slipped back over the side, and Keith used the opportunity to pull himself to his feet. “Lance!” He couldn’t manage much more than the other boy’s name as he staggered toward him across the shaking deck. Lance met him halfway, and the two of them grasped desperately at one another’s forearms.

“We need to get to the Captain,” Lance urged, having to yell over the Leviathan’s deafening howls of pain. Despite the wild light in his eyes, he seemed eerily calm and collected, and Keith fleetingly wondered how many times the other boy had danced with death.

Together, the two of them half ran, half stumbled toward Allura at the helm. However fierce Lance might have looked, the Captain was downright animalistic, teeth bared in a snarl as she wrestled the ship from the beast’s hold. The wheel beneath her hands tugged this way and that as if it were a living entity, and as Keith and Lance approached, Allura cried out in anguish as it ripped itself out of her hands. It spun wildly as the ship fell fully under the Leviathan’s control—

And then Silver was stepping out of nowhere, bellowing in anger (and then in pain) as he caught the wheel’s spokes. Beside him, Allura fell back against the balustrade, her chest heaving with exertion.

“Captain!” Lance hollered as they approached, and her icy gaze swept to them. “What’s the plan?”

Her eyes lingered for a beat on Lance’s injury before she turned to take stock of their crew. Towards the prow, the Leviathan had resumed its assault on the ship, nearly swiping Morena and Rave overboard.

“KEEP AWAY FROM THE BLASTED EDGE!” Allura bellowed as she nursed her wrist, and the sisters barely managed to avoid a second swipe.

Also preoccupied with the onslaught of tentacles were Thorn and Shiro, who Keith was immensely relieved to see were both solidly holding their own. Thorn was a blur of movement, dodging and whirling, slicing and slashing; while Shiro rolled and stabbed, equally deadly in the heat of battle.

Accompanied by another hair-raising roar, the ship shook violently as if it were about to shatter, and something in the Captain seemed to snap.

“ROTH! DAVY! On the canons—now!” she yelled, wincing as she tried to grasp her pistol with her injured wrist. “Mister Silver, you’re on the wheel until further notice. Coran—” She growled when she noticed the Lieutenant grappling with the ropes of the sails a few feet away. “Nevermind the sails!” she called. “Are you able to climb lookout?”

“Aye, Captain!”

“Go!”

Coran rushed to the mast, slipping into one of the safety harnesses with practiced ease before embarking on a climb that had been rendered more dangerous than ever.

“Should we harness the rest of the crew, Captain?” Keith asked, watching as she handed her secondary pistol to Lance, who took it with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m afraid we don’t have time.” As if to punctuate the statement, two more tentacles rose into the air, and Allura swore. “McClain—Silver tells me you’re a good shot?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t you dare waste a single bullet.”

Lance smirked, clicking off the safety in one fluid movement. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.”

“Now find a bloody tentacle and get to work.”

Wrapping a hand around Keith’s wrist and shooting him a smirk that made his heart race, Lance pulled him into the fray—and get to work they did.

They fought back to back, twisting and twirling around one another in a seamless dance borne from weeks of joint training. Lance’s style had grown almost as familiar to him as his own. Where Keith was brash and bold, Lance was calculated and smooth—his perfect compliment. They fought like they’d done so for years rather than months, and Keith was surprised to find that—with Lance at his back—he never truly felt that he was in danger.

Euphoria licked at his heels, keeping his steps light and quick. It thrummed through his veins like the unrelenting beat of a drum, extending through his arm and into the blade of his knife as it arched through the air.

Their dance swelled to a fever-pitch when Keith turned too slowly to block an incoming tentacle—a mistake that might have seen him gravely injured, had the limb reached its intended target. Instead, a shot rang through the air, and the Leviathan screeched in pain. The wriggling tentacle retreated, and Keith turned to find smoke curling off the end of Lance’s pistol, still raised in his outstretched hand.

“I got you, buddy. Told you we make a good team,” the cyborg panted, shooting him a lopsided grin and a wink for good measure.

For a second, Keith could do little else but stare at the sight before him.

A sheen of sweat covered Lance’s face, his wavy locks wet where they fell limply across his forehead. His complexion was ruddy and flushed from the fight, the look in his eyes unshakeable and determined. In his right hand, Allura’s spare pistol glinted wickedly in the light of day; and his sword hung at his left side, brushing the deck with a blood-soaked tip.

He looked every bit the swashbuckling hero Keith had always dreamed he’d meet. He was just so… so…

Beautiful, Keith thought, feeling a smile stretch across his face that was inappropriately self-indulgent for the moment. Around them, the symphony of canon-fire and the beast’s agonized roars seemed to fade until it was just the two of them, caught mid-battle in their own bubble; and Keith was rendered completely and hopelessly unable to tear himself away. He’s beautiful.

Of course, the passage of time had other plans, only allowing the two of them to stare at one another for so long before an almighty shriek pierced the air. The ship’s inhabitants dropped to their knees, weapons clattering to the floor as their hands flew to their ears. A few feet away, Roth staggered onto the deck with a deranged look in his eyes, yelling something Keith couldn’t make out over the Leviathan’s infernal noise—but judging from the meaty fists Roth was pumping into the air, the message was loud and clear.

They’d won.

The Leviathan’s retreat left the crew shattered; a mess of limp limbs collapsed onto the floor in exhaustion. When Thorn found Keith and Lance a few minutes later, the two of them had crawled over to one another and were lying on their backs, their heads on each other’s shoulders as they caught their collective breaths.

She hovered in their vision, a scaly eyebrow raised as if she’d found them lounging around and playing with Kosmo instead of doing their chores.

“Hey, Thorn,” Lance greeted in a reedy voice. “Glad you’re not dead.”

“Up.”

Lance grumbled, removing his head from Keith’s shoulder as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “Nice to see you too, Lance,” he muttered lowly. “So relieved you’re alive, Lance.”

Thorn’s mouth quirked into the ghost of a fond smile. “I need to check the two of you for injuries. Up,” she urged, kicking lightly at Keith’s boot.

He scowled at her before heaving himself up with a groan.

The Sailing-Master crouched, carefully cupping Lance’s face with her clawed hands and turning his head as she inspected him.

“I’m fine, Thorn. Can you check Keith? I think he might have bruised—”

“Me? Lance, you’re bleeding.”

“Am not—”

With a feather-light touch, Thorn swiped a finger against Lance’s temple. Despite her gentleness, he hissed in pain, his eyes going wide when she held a stained finger up to his face. “Oh,” he muttered airily. “Would you look at that.”

Keith snorted and exchanged a look with Thorn, who rolled her eyes. “You’re concussed, Blue. You’re to go below deck until I’ve sent someone to patch you up, understood?”

Lance moaned miserably. Thorn ignored him, shuffling instead toward Keith. “Come.”

He complied, shifting to allow her to gently take his face and pat through his hair. “No concussion here, at least,” she muttered. “Make sure he stays awake, then.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Keith promised.

She cocked her head. “Where—”

“Left ribs, I think,” Lance interjected. “He was favoring his right while we were fighting.” When he caught Keith gaping at him—because, what the fuck?—he folded his arms primly. “What?! I pay attention!” he objected, flushing under Keith’s incredulous stare.

“Lift,” Thorn commanded, tugging at the hem of Keith’s shirt. He tore his attention away from the other boy, ignoring his own burning face as he raised his shirt over his head, trying not to gasp at the ugly purple bruise decorating the left side of his ribs. Thorn hissed, but Lance was speaking before she could open her mouth.

“I’ll wrap it for him,” he volunteered—and, fuck. Keith’s face was so hot.

“Very well.” Thorn straightened, and the two of them squinted up at her. “You’ll tend to each other in the mess hall until I send someone to inspect your wound further, Mister McClain.”

“It—does it need further—”

“Stitches, very likely.”

Lance groaned, throwing himself sideways so that he was lying draped across Keith’s lap. “Fuck me.”

“I must respectfully decline,” Thorn deadpanned, her voice so dry and the joke so unexpected that it surprised laughter out of both boys. Keith winced as his bruise throbbed painfully. “You’ll be fine,” she continued. “There’s a medkit in one of the cabinets. You know the one. I’ll send…” she hummed in consideration, her eyes roving across the deck. “Mister Shirogane, perhaps.”

A jolt of guilt raced through Keith’s heart. It couldn’t have been more than a mere minute or two since the Leviathan’s retreat, but Keith had been so caught up in thoughts of… other matters that he’d yet to spare a thought for his cousin.

“Shiro! Is he—”

“He fought well and is unharmed. I would not have let danger befall him.”

Keith released the breath he’d been holding, relief flooding his veins. “Thanks, Thorn.”

She nodded, and before she could leave, Keith hurried to ask, “Wait—what about you?”

“Me?” She cocked her head at him, her reptilian tongue flicking into the air.

“Well, yeah. Are you okay?”

From his spot in Keith’s lap, Lance hummed his assent; and Thorn regarded the two of them with a long look, her reptilian eyes blown wide with surprise. It occurred to Keith that someone as hardy as Thorn was rarely checked on, and he promised himself that he’d grant her that same care that she gave so fully to their crew.

“I am,” came her eventual response. Her voice was so much more gentle than Keith had been expecting, and it coaxed a smile onto his face. She returned it, uncharacteristically fond. “Thank you, Mister Kogane.”

Without another word, she turned heel and stalked toward the next huddled pile of sailors, leaving Keith lost in thought.

“That feels nice.”

“Hm?” Keith asked, watching as Roth demanded Thorn give him a high-five.

“Feels good.”

Keith blinked, his fingers immediately stilling in their absentminded combing through Lance’s soft hair.

You fucking moron.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, extracting his hand. “I was just—”

Lance whined as if he were a child, chasing after Keith’s retreating fingers. “No, keep going; it felt so nice—”

“No.” His voice was firm, despite the fluttering in his chest and the almost unbearable burn in his cheeks. Ever so lightly, he bounced his knee, and Lance jostled in his hold. “Get up so I can look at your head.”

With a profuse amount of grumbled complaints, Keith helped Lance stand on shaky legs, the two of them propped against one another as adrenaline seeped out of their bodies. Together, they stumbled down to the mess hall, pulling out the spare first aid kit as they straddled a bench.

Lance remained stock still as Keith reached up to gingerly cradle his face, brushing the hair from his forehead with the pads of his fingers. He could feel Lance’s eyes on him, but he didn’t dare look away from his task; nor dared he to breathe as he dotingly cleared excess blood from the wound.

“How’s it lookin’, doc?” The words were uttered between them in a voice so low and intimate that they were nearly slurred, and Keith suppressed a shudder.

“Think you’ll live,” he whispered, his mouth twisting into a smirk. He turned, discarding a bloodied fiber-pad and pouring disinfectant onto another. “Might leave a scar, though.” The bottle of sterilized solution shut with a snap, and Keith resumed his tender ministrations, clicking his tongue. “Cuts right through your eyebrow too—was this from the wood?”

“Think so.”

If Keith subtly rubbed the thumb of his unoccupied hand against Lance’s cheek, the other boy certainly didn’t comment on it. “Shit. It got you good.”

“Eh. I’ve had worse.”

Keith hummed, his mind turning to Lance’s cybernetics and immediately feeling the need to lighten the atmosphere. “Kind of surprised you’re not demanding we patch it up with nano-tech, pretty boy,” he teased, not immediately registering the way Lance stiffened underneath his fingers. “Couple insertions and you’re good as new.”

It certainly hadn’t been the first time Keith had teased Lance about his obsession with his looks, and he thought the comment might elicit a chuckle, or perhaps even just a smile. Instead, Lance shrugged, his voice cold and flat when he muttered, “Not a fan of nano-tech.”

For a few seconds, Keith frowned down at the blood-soaked cloth in his hands, wondering what in the hell he could have possibly done wrong.

He’d just returned to dabbing at Lance’s brow in tense silence when realization hit him like a sand-speeder, heat rushing to his cheeks as he cringed. Of course the subject of nano-tech would be a sore spot for someone who’d lost two limbs. Keith remembered Shiro having to explain to him that his arm could never grow back—that most nano-tech affordable to the general public could only alter existing biology, not create.

Fuck, he was an asshole.

“Oh. Lance, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” the other quickly reassured; though his voice was off. When Keith pulled back to look at him, Lance shot him a shallow smile before his eyes darted away.

“Lance—”

“Besides.” He laughed, but the sound of it was all wrong—all awkward and strange. “Not like anyone on this ship’s got nano-tech, of all things.”

He still wouldn’t meet Keith’s eyes, and Keith wanted so badly to make him look. He wanted so badly to finally ask, what happened to you? How can I make it better?

Footsteps slammed down the stairs, and both boys jumped, Keith scrambling off of Lance’s lap as if they’d been caught in some illicit act. The sight of Shiro’s face was a welcome relief, and Keith wasted no time in distancing himself from both the bench and the tension of the unresolved conversation still sitting in the air.

He threw himself fully into his cousin’s arms, grateful to be able to hide his burning face. “You okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

“His ribcage is bruised,” Lance sing-songed nonchalantly.

Keith turned to throw him a withering glare, pleased to find that some of the usual glow had returned to Lance’s eyes. “Will you stop going on about my ribs? Shiro, he needs stitches—”

“I can see that,” Shiro winced, sucking air through his teeth. “What the hell happened?”

“Shrapnel,” Lance grumbled; and Keith tucked himself across the table from them as he watched his cousin administer his best friend’s stitches.

Shiro hummed as he worked, whatever sappy song that’d been his and Adam’s first dance at their wedding. Unsurprisingly, Lance recognized the tune and joined Shiro in his off-key rendition, which inevitably led them into an overly detailed discussion of Shiro’s wedding.

“Was Keith your best man?” Lance was asking, trying to look at Keith and shooting Shiro a sheepish smile when the man was forced to clamp a steady hand around his jaw.

“Don’t move. And yes. The grumpiest best man in all of history.”

Keith scoffed, and Shiro shot him a withering look. “Wouldn’t even dance with me. Just stood on the side all night like my personal bodyguard.”

Lance looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. “Sounds like Keith.”

Bristling, Keith folded his arms across his chest, glaring holes into the side of his best friend’s head. “Not my fault I never learned.”

“Wait, hold up.” Shiro did not, in fact, hold up; and Lance’s eyes strained sideways as he attempted to look at Keith. “I thought you said you and your dad used to dance?”

“I mean, just around the living room, yeah,” Keith acquiesced. The notion that Lance had retained that particular piece of information sent his heart racing. “But we never like, dance-danced. It was more… spinning in circles till one of us got nauseous.”

Shiro snorted. “Stars, I miss your dad.”

“Yeah,” agreed Keith, who suddenly became fascinated by his palms (it was better than allowing himself to be swept away by a wave of homesickness). He could practically feel Lance staring at him, but he refused to meet the other boy’s gaze.

They passed the remaining time in silence, each of them lost in thought. When Shiro finished tending to Lance, he turned expectantly to Keith, only to be practically ushered out of the mess hall by Lance (“I got it, big guy! You just go help Thorn—Haircut will be perfectly fine with me.”) They didn’t speak when they were finally alone, nor did they speak as Lance spread salve over his extensive bruise with the barest press of fingers.

It wasn’t until later that night—hours after his ribs had been wrapped with the utmost care, hours after the deck had been cleaned and the crew had retired for the evening—that Keith was able to decipher the thoughts behind Lance’s uncharacteristic silence.

…

“Keith. Hey. Keith.” There was a hand on his forehead, brushing his hair out of his face. “Wake up, flower boy.”

Keith grunted, his sleep-addled brain urging him to roll toward the touch, and someone snorted. “No, no, no—come on man, get up.”

“Lan’?” he slurred, confusion piercing his semi-conscious thoughts. “Wha’s goin’ on? Attack?”

“No, nothing like that.” Fingers combed through his hair. “Got a surprise for you.”

“Surprise?”

“Yeah. You just gotta wake up and come with me, okay?”

“’S so late.”

“I know, doll. I—you can go back to sleep if you want, I just—”

“No, ‘m comin’.” Though sleep still pulled at his mind, Keith was cognizant enough to at least be aware of the slight note of disappointment that’d crept into Lance’s voice. And he wasn’t about to have that. “Gimme a sec?”

“Of course, yeah. I still gotta finish setting up, but—meet me above deck in five?”

“Yeah.” Keith forced his eyes open, squinting through the darkness at his friend’s outline. “I’ll be there.”

The hand in his hair retreated along with its owner, and Keith was left blinking the sleep out of his eyes, wondering if he hadn’t just dreamed the entire conversation. In the gathering silence, it might have been easy to imagine that he might have—if not for the empty bedroll lying a few feet away.

He pushed himself into sitting, the simple action pulling at his ribs and prompting the breath to leave him in a pained hiss. The sharp throbbing around his torso was enough to pull his mind from the remains of sleep, and he clung to his newfound awareness with desperation and urgency as Lance’s words finally registered.

Surprise. Above deck.

Pain suddenly seemed irrelevant; the need to reach Lance overriding any logical thought for his own well-being. He grunted as he hoisted himself onto his knees, ignoring the way his head spun and his vision swam with exhaustion.

It was then that he heard it.

At first, he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t just hallucinating—that perhaps the all-too-familiar notes of guitar wafting through the still night air were just a delusion borne from delirium and homesickness.

But then clarity struck him, and Keith thought: ribs be fucking damned.

He launched himself to his feet and ran, careening up the stairs like a man possessed, and—

Stopped dead in his tracks, his heart leaping into his throat.

He’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

The deck was aglow with the light of the safety lanterns; their tiny flames dancing against the night sky and casting warm light across the floorboards. On a pile of rope sat a holo-pad, happily casting the opening notes of 'Dream a Little Dream' into the Etherium.

And in the middle of it all stood Lance, ethereal and bewitching, offering Keith an upturned palm and a breathtaking smile.

“Dance with me.”

What is this? Keith wanted to say.

You know I can’t dance.

It’s too much.

I didn’t know I could feel like this.

… Am I dreaming?

A plethora of responses rose to his mind, but the words would not come. Instead, his body moved on pure instinct, reaching to take the proffered hand in almost perfect time with the robust entrance of the bass. He allowed himself to be tugged into a warm chest, and Lance guided his hands to his hips. “So. Your hands go here, and mine—can I touch you?”

Keith nodded, still not trusting himself to speak.

“Mine go like so,” he continued, splaying his right hand over Keith’s hip before clasping Keith’s right with his left. He held their joined hands out to the side, throwing Keith a lopsided grin. “And this is a slow-dance song, so we sort of just sway like… yeah! You got it, partner.”

Feeling as if his heart was lodged in his throat, Keith swallowed thickly, wetting his lips as he finally regained some semblance of composure. “You—you did all this?”

“Well, yeah.” Lance shrugged; though the radiance of his smile belied the casual indifference of his body language. “Figured you could stand to learn to dance to your favorite song. I’ve got a couple more lined up, too. Plus—I mean, I might be overstepping, but earlier you—you seemed a little homesick, maybe?” He swallowed, and Keith tracked his Adam’s apple as it bobbed. “I thought that maybe… uh…”

Keith stepped closer—as close as he dared, considering the very real risk of trodding over the other boy’s feet—and squeezed the hand clutched in his own. Lance’s mouth snapped shut, and Keith was relieved to see some of the nervous apprehension drain from his expression.

“Thank you.” His voice came out as little more than a whisper, and Lance’s expression melted into The Look.

“You’re welcome.”

Before Keith could say something stupid like, you have no idea how you make me feel, Lance was grinning and crowing, “piano break!”; grabbing Keith’s hands and swinging the two of them in dizzying circles until they were both gasping with laughter.

The smooth, crooning voice eventually returned, and Lance reeled him back in with a smile that showcased his dimple and sent Keith’s heart hammering away. Under the all-too-convenient guise of fatigue, Keith let himself slump against his dance partner, relishing the way Lance’s breath hitched as he did so. Spurred by a sudden rush of impulsive bravery—as well as the desire to be closer—Keith hooked his chin over the other boy’s shoulder, praying that Lance wouldn’t feel the way his heart went into overdrive as he awaited his dance partner’s reaction with baited breath.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Lance mirrored the action, tentatively bringing the side of his head to rest against Keith’s and finally relaxing into the embrace with a soft exhale.

It felt like an admission—a response, and Keith relished the heady rush of jubilation that set his veins on fire, sure that he’d never felt so content in his entire life.

As he listened to Lance sing along—his voice barely even a gentle murmur, as if any loud noise might wake them from this ethereal dream—Keith bit his lip, grateful that Lance couldn’t see his hidden smile.

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you

But in your dreams whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me