Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Not for the first time tonight, Lance wonders if he could be swallowed by the crowd without a trace in the midst of the festivities. There are almost too many people shoved into the ballroom, even by Altean standards, with barely enough room for a person to breathe without elbowing someone—let alone room to mingle and celebrate the new coalition. In one corner of the room, he can spy a faction of his personal guard struggling to keep up with his strict mingling schedule and almost has to laugh a little to himself, wondering in the back of his mind as he always does if some random face is going to try something while his entourage is just a smidge too far to be keen.

Lance is happy for the new coalition—of course he is, it saves his people and his kingdom from further heartache and pain against the Galra Empire and all of the embers of its death still remaining—and he’s proud of his father for what he’s accomplished in uniting the struggling planets and sectors against their common enemy, but he hasn’t been able to tame his still-simmering bitterness at his being barred from the negotiation table. That leaves Lance to feel selfishly bittersweet in the celebration no matter how hard he rationalizes himself against feeling as such. Allura had been there, of course, sending him fleeting but guilty glances whenever he caught her on her way in or out of discussions, but all those looks in the world didn’t allow Lance in, and he felt that dismissal like a hot brand in his mind, leaving an inkling of his predicament to fester behind his thoughts.

He’s simmering, floating at the edges of the crowds celebrating in the ball and only bringing himself to attention appropriately when an announcement for an arriving dignitary that would need his attending is made or when Hunk or Romelle find him to pass along some information that may be necessary in any general mingling he might get caught in. They don’t know he’s not feeling like himself, and they don’t have to because they wouldn’t assume that anything would keep Lance from the festivities, as peaceful as the universe is feeling all of a sudden. They’d be right, and Lance so is only giving himself an appropriate amount of wallowing, because he has a duty regardless of his simmering bitterness, and he’s pretty good at that duty. Each smile he gives to a foreign Duchess or Jullibee monarch are for the good of their newfound coalition, little as they may seem, so he knows regardless of how he’s feeling he can’t let himself be distracted by the burning distaste in his stomach.

King Alfor had patted his cheek when he caught him in the lingering halls near where the negotiations were being held, and he had whispered some wise, poetic blither about fatherhood that made Lance want to scrunch his face up a little, but he was affected still by that interaction and still unable to meet his father’s eye. It wasn’t that Lance was excluded for who he was, he knew that in any other situation he would be in the room attending with Allura to discuss the situation freely as junior advisors to the King later, but it was a tell Alfor didn’t feel the need to cover up. It didn’t take princes and princesses and kings and queens alike from every planet Lance had ever heard of to begin arriving for him to realize what was going on in the sidelines of the festivities and the coalition negotiations, each entourage bigger than the last and with twice as many gifts, it was truly only that pat to the cheek and that closed door.

So, Lance edges out of the ballroom when he knows his guards have been disadvantaged by the swelling crowd again, and he breathes the night air on one of the overflowing garden balconies, feeling pretty lousy in general. He mentally calculates how long he can spare in his mental wallowing this time, factoring in how many hours the ball will go on and adjusting his mental schedule for more wallowing when he thinks will be most advantageous—just after those foreign dignitaries less inclined for all-night festivities have tucked away, perhaps. He had always known, in a way, where he would be headed. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, and it certainly shouldn’t have weighed him down in the midst of their galaxy suddenly looking wider and brighter than ever, because this was his duty, too. Through and through, there had never been a doubt to Lance’s position in the kingdom just as there had never been a doubt to how he would be leaving it, barring Allura’s unthinkable potential untimely death from that equation.

He leans on a tall explosion of potted flora, sighing, and only when he’s settled does he hear someone follow him out onto the landing, huffing and puffing quite a bit in their own daring escape. They’re pressed to the doors, holding them closed with their back to Lance and seemingly willing the entrance to disappear entirely. Lance privately thinks it’s very funny the way people show their cards such as this, sometimes. This person was clearly not experienced enough or polite enough to know they would need a mask between each room as well, let alone when trying to slip out in obscurity. The grumpier part of Lance is a little miffed that someone else stole his plan of escape during his very well coordinated moment and bemoans that he will not have the wallowing privacy he wished for.

“You should be more careful,” Lance teases to the figure’s back, feeling a little bold in the chilly air and wanting the advantage of a surprise if he’s being cornered somehow in the least stealthy way Lance can imagine, “Some of the side doors are actually plummets. They’re built to be open for the Kixie birds to fly in as they please in the morning, so they don’t all have balconies like this.”

The figure, hands still on the door, stills in the most minute ways, by almost just the tick of his shoulders and the draw of his breath. If Lance didn’t have such a keen eye he thinks it would be imperceptible. He has a small satisfaction in knowing he’s startled them, just because. “That’s dumb.” The stranger says, and when they turn Lance feels a clumsy little breath build in his lungs. “Is that a backhanded punishment for trying to catch some fresh air from a night like this?”

It may be the dim of night, but Lance thinks the stranger’s eyes are almost pitch, and they match his dark and messy hair quite well. He ogles, plainly, and the stranger smirks a bit when the silence is a tad too long to be polite. “Yeah.” Lance eventually says, leaning himself back a bit to square his shoulders well, “It is. We’re real big on not leaving parties.”

“You must have a pretty good excuse, then.” The stranger steps forward and pauses again, and Lance watches with muted amusement as the pitch eyes glance up from Lance’s face just to the crown of his head and flick quickly back down. Not an assassin, then, that was good news. Lance pats the space next to him where he’s made himself comfortable on the garden structures, trying to spur the stranger closer if he even thinks of hesitating for the sake of formality. He takes the bait, moving forward again and hopping up to perch with Lance. “Well?”

Lance huffs a laugh, “I’m ruminating on the effects the war has had.” He lies, certainly not going to admit to some random dignitary that he’s pouting because he can’t sit at the big boy table and he’s being used as a bargaining chip. “Looking at the sky knowing it’s peaceful seems like a much more sensible way to celebrate at the moment.” Hunk would be proud of him for that one, he would have to tell him later so he could write it down for the next speech Lance had to deliver. “You?”

“Oh,” The stranger says, like he truly expected something entirely different, “It was just way too stuffy for me.” His dark eyes blink at Lance, then, like he thinks maybe he shouldn’t have said that to the Altean Prince.

Lance can’t help but laugh, tilting backwards a little more from his perch and having to right himself lest he slip in front of his new friend. “Okay, same. What’s your name?”

His smirk returns, and Lance wishes he didn’t have to be in all of his get-up right now so he had even half of a chance to take this anonymous stranger to a dark corridor without being followed at the heel. “It’s Keith, and it’s a pleasure.” His eyes flick to Lance’s crown again, and Lance feels his own lip twitch.

“Lance.” Is all he says after a few moments, knowing Keith knows what he’s leaving out. He crowds into Keith’s space instead of elaborating properly, though, and he skirts a hand a little boldly across some of the medals dancing on one side of Keith’s tunic. Some are apparently much more worn than others, but he only vaguely recognizes a few. There are Altean ones in the mix, even. “Would you like to—”

The door swings open again, and Lance hops down without allowing his composure to fizzle. There Hunk is, because of course he knows where to look for Lance, and he looks pretty stressed out. Lance does let that give him a bit of guilt at how long his wallowing session lasted, ready to comply to whatever’s next on the agenda if only so his best friend has a bit of an easier time navigating this very busy historical event. “Your majesty,” Hunk bids, so formal in the face of strangers, “You’re needed for an urgent meeting briefing. If you’ll excuse us, Ser.” He bows his head politely to Keith, who gives a casual little wave and nod. Lance follows dutifully, and when he glances back with a shrug he sees Keith’s pitch eyes are crinkled just the slightest bit at the edges, amusement written in each line and masking the soft pink on his cheeks.

He closes the door behind himself and Hunk, just to be polite to Keith and give him the privacy he had clearly been seeking.

“I’m going to kill you if you do this to me again.” Hunk mutters just over a whisper, Lance having to strain just a bit to hear it, “Romelle wrangled Allura almost ten doboshes ago, are you trying to get my funeral planned?”

Lance rolls his eyes, unable to help his laugh at his friend. “If they planned your funeral you would rise from the dead just because you’d be afraid of everyone being late. Let’s just get this over with and I promise you can yell at me later, who are we meeting?”

Hunk sends him a withering look but doesn’t protest, pulling his datapad from under his arm and scanning for the appropriate section of the very exhaustive and lengthy schedule for Lance and Allura’s night. “I have a long list of royalty for you to meet from the newest coalition members. It was just uploaded into mine and Romelle’s plans, so it comes from the top and it is the highest priority in mingling. I’ve got all the details; I just need you to get re-formed and looking nice.”

“I do look nice.” Lance pouts, not wanting to have his hair done again when it was coiffed in his favorite sort of wispy way.

“You do,” Hunk concedes, “But Coran says he wants you looking spiffy, not like a debonair hooligan as he likes to say—”

“Let’s just meet them,” Lance huffs, feeling impatient, “Allura’s ready, right? I’m sure if any of them are so eager to meet me they won’t want to see me any sexier than right off the ballroom floor. I’ll take the heat.”

“You taking the heat doesn’t actually mean anything, you know.” Hunk grumbles, uttering something foul under his breath, and then he shoots a message to Romelle with no further prompting and holds Lance by the elbow so he can’t weasel into the crowd again. It’s as much of a go-ahead as Hunk usually grants when it has to do with disregarding parts of the plans, and Lance will take it.

He meets princesses and princes, kings and queens, and plenty of knights and squires enough to exhaust him. Allura and him play a fun game of quizzing one another when they have a chance to breathe, testing to see if either of them can remember which queen said this or which squire had the sneezing affliction, and then Romelle announces, “Last one, eyes sharp,” and it’s a weight off of their shoulders in the slowly dawning morning. Parties like these were the worst for plenty of too-crowded reasons, but most of all because nobody had a sense of time, and Lance was missing a lot of beauty sleep.

They had already met with King Kolivan days ago when he had first arrived for negotiations, so Lance is surprised when Hunk briefs them on the Marmoran Prince separately. He has his own entourage aside from his king, it seems, and Lance thinks that’s awfully presumptuous in a ballroom they didn’t own. Marmora is a new territory, fully recognized in the wake of one of the Galra Empire’s greatest defeats yet, and that territory is one put together with scraps and small triumphs enough to inhabit a planet worth taking note of. Their efforts in the rebel forces and against the Empire were and remain invaluable, though, so Lance and Allura are truly honored to meet them.

“Okay,” Hunk grabs their attention again after he’s finished drilling them with planetary information and other inconsequential-to-one-meeting types of facts. His voice is just a touch conspiring, and Lance loves the gossip in him he sometimes sees come out, “Broad formalities. I would say Galra customs just to be safe because of the origins, but we’re flying a little blind while we’re rusty, here. Everything above the belt, Lance, and hands open. Keep the conversation light. They’re very private people, so keep the war talk small and don’t make any of them nervous.” A little quieter, he adds, “They look totally ready to bail.” He concludes just fifteen feet from the party, well-timed as ever.

Lance halts them, though, just for a pace, because he recognizes the dark mop of hair a little more than he should.

“Do they like jokes?” He asks, scrambling for a reasonable explanation as to why he needed to stop them. He doesn’t need them to know he was ready to ravish Keith in his mind just hours earlier. He doesn’t have a joke ready, but it’s at least some kind of excuse while his mind reels just a touch.

Romelle cuts in before Hunk can, “Coran reported that it looks like they could use a joke but we were going to ignore him. That’s geezer dignitary stuff.”

“Like I said, Galra formalities,” Hunk nods, putting away his data pad, “Stuff might go over their head.”

“Thank you, Hunk.” Allura says magnanimously. He smiles warmly in return, and Lance ignores them because Keith turns to look at them—him, really—and he looks fussed over, too. He’s a lot more put together than he had been just those hours earlier, that’s for sure. There’s a crown on his head and everything, just a little tilted on his dark locks as if remembered hastily. The medals make a little more sense if he’s a high-profile Marmoran prince, but he looks at Lance with that same soft pink that had appeared at their departure from one another earlier, as if embarrassed to be caught in the spotlight himself.

Lance swallows as they walk again, feeling a little flustered as he watches one of Keith’s entourage jab his side and quickly right his slightly crooked crown. It’s pretty damning, looking that unprofessional, and Lance knows it’s the type of thing Allura will remember and make mental notes of for later scrutiny but he personally thinks it’s awfully endearing and he feels secretive in knowing he hadn’t even been wearing it when he had met him earlier. “Dibs.” Lance says, even though they’re a little too close to say anything improper and even though he knows Allura can’t even have dibs if she wanted them because Lance is the one on the gilded platter right now. He’ll enjoy it if just for this meeting, at least.

Hunk is furious at the simple word, but it manifests in his tighter smile and crazy eyes that say He can hear you and if you speak again I’ll kill you before Coran kills me. Lance ignores that, too, meeting Keith’s dark, dark gaze as a challenge and feeling himself smirk because he can feel it in the air—Keith definitely thinks he’s hot.

Romelle and Hunk sweep forward in tandem, as they are trained to, and they bow first and turn to announce Princess Allura, Heir of Altea, and Prince Lance of Altea. Allura sweeps her hand to the side in a welcome gesture, and Lance bows as low as is appropriate.

“I’m—” Keith begins, but one of his party holds a hand in front of him a bit, his smile a little fond and taking over.

“Your majesties,” The knight says, bowing low, “If I may introduce Prince Keith Yorak, heir to Marmora.”

Keith’s smile has tightened in a desperate way that Lance recognizes, and he almost laughs to himself at how it seems the other needs to mentally rehearse his next lines before he says them. “It is a pleasure.” Is all he says, sweeping forward and bowing as well. His crown slips a little and he lifts his head, holding a hand forward in a very practiced way and kissing both Lance and Allura’s hands once each as they are offered.

“Would you like to dance?” Lance asks, his smile admittedly a little wicked and definitely preparing himself to get chewed out by Hunk later for asking this instead of what Keith’s opinion on the blooming whatever trees they had on display right now was.

Allura, who looked poised to ask that very question Hunk had decided would be best, can only hide her souring expression from those who aren’t familiar with her minute details. Lance ignores all of them but Romelle, who stifles a laugh, and Prince Keith, who blinks, straightens, and nods. There’s a hesitation to his agreement, as if he’s never been asked for a dance or if he also had a script he’s going to get in trouble for not following by his entourage, but Lance thinks both of those things don’t matter so much as having a little bit of fun might. He can especially justify it in the face of his current suspicions weighing him down, and he takes pleasure in his hand finding Keith’s surprisingly calloused one, dragging him to the finally less-suffocating dance floor.

The song the orchestra is playing must be familiar to everyone in the galaxy besides Keith, because his movements are just slightly stilted, though Lance doesn’t desire any complicated court dance so he’s easy enough to keep up with. “What do you wield?” He asks Keith when he finally decides that Keith really won’t start speaking unless prompted. He squeezes his hand for emphasis of his question, so Keith knows Lance just wants to know a little more about him and has deduced as much as he can on his own.

He hums, though, meeting Lance’s eyes. In the slow-creeping morning light, they’re a lot easier to discern, swimming with dark hues of purple and indigo. Lance is a little jealous of eyes that imploring. “A knife, mostly, that can turn into a sword. Lots of swords.” Where their hands are connected, he traces his thumb over the ridge of Lance’s pointer finger and wiggles under the pad of his thumb to feel the same. “You’re a sharpshooter?”

Lance huffs a little laugh, secretly pleased when Keith tugs him a bit closer as another dancing couple gets a hair too close to be appropriate. They are now just a hair too close to one another to be appropriate, but Keith doesn’t seem to recognize that line, and Lance thinks Keith is hot so he doesn’t mind either. “In a way. I’ve been trained a long time as one, though I haven’t been given a lot of use for it, personally.” A little conspiring, he decides he wants to grill Keith slowly. “Are you glad I saved you from endless polite chatting with my sister and attendants? She was going to ask you what you thought of the blooming Gildyuv trees, so you’re going to have to tell me so I can pass it along.”

Keith makes a complicated face that Lance wonders if someone closer to him may be able to decipher. “I actually had an answer to that one.” He admits, “It was on the little question sheet my King’s attendant forwarded me.” Lance laughs at that, and Keith seems pleased to have amused him, if only by the tick of the corner of his lips upwards. “They’re nice.” Is all he says to them, and it makes Lance want to laugh even more.

“They’re my favorite, actually.” He says pleasantly, “They only bloom when luck is at the fullest, whatever that means, so a lot of our oracles took it as a sign for the coalition’s success. They’ve also only bloomed around the castle twice in my life, so it’s been a rare treat.”

“That’s pretty cool.” Keith mumbles, seeming distracted by something. Lance wonders if he’s trying to find a balcony again and weighing the options of a potential plummet by escaping too quickly. Then, his attention is back, his dark eyes full of, well, something else Lance can’t discern but would like to think is arousal or amusement or something he all of a sudden wishes he had time to learn from Keith’s gaze. “My party will be leaving soon. Can I ask after you, Lance?” His hand leaves Lance’s own to near his face, and Lance automatically jerks back at the reach, feeling his earring tap into this neck a few times from the sudden movement and cursing himself in his head for being so obvious about something.

Keith’s still waiting for an answer, though, despite Lance’s strange reaction, and Lance is feeling very flustered all of a sudden. He’d been asked after before, of course, and he had a long line of people hoping for his hand that was attended to by thousands, but there’s something boyish in the way Keith asks, like there are no exterior obligations to something as simple as having a nice time with someone your age you’re attracted to. It makes Lance realize with both jealousy and dread that Keith, for as hot as he was and as ready as Lance was to ravish him no long while ago, existed in a different understanding of politics than Lance himself, and Lance feels a phantom weight pulling his hand at that thought. He remembers that he’s on a gilded platter pretty resolutely, and despite wanting to feel carefree a little longer in Keith-who-had-no-obligation’s arms, he smiles and shakes his head, just once.

“That wouldn’t work out, but I appreciate it.” Is all he can say, knowing it sounds a touch cryptic. Something complicated wrinkles in Keith’s gaze, and Lance again wishes he had the time to fool around and learn to read the little things about Keith suddenly, but he knows he’s being sappy because he thinks he’ll never have the time to learn anyone’s little things of his own volition, and Keith has brought the death of that dream to it’s full realization for him tonight.

Keith’s face does smooth, though, and Lance credits him just a bit for it because at least some part of him is trained enough to not let his whims get the better of him on a foreign ballroom floor. “That’s alright.” He says lightly, shrugging and tugging Lance around still to the music. “Thanks for calling dibs, I guess, it definitely was the highlight of the party.” His polite smile borders a little on a smirk, but Lance doesn’t mind, grinning in return.

He wants more time, not just with Keith but with himself, and he knows he doesn’t have it, and his simmering has returned in his gut at that knowledge. “You’ll have to look for me next time you’re around.” He says despite knowing he won’t be here himself, most likely, “I’m not sure you’ll have my undivided attention like tonight,” He leans in, so the rest is a whisper, “But I know I’d like to give it, if we ever get that chance.”

Another minor, unreadable expression takes Keith’s features, but Lance has a small satisfaction in knowing that it’s probably want, and he kisses Keith’s hand where they’re still linked to accentuate that point.

“Right.” Keith says in return, hiding most of his own fluster by his steely eyes. His smile is still poked up though, just at the corners. “I’ll look for you.” The music swells and ends all at once, and the dawn of the first sun has broken through the balcony doors, which are thrown open one after another to allow the Kixie birds to flutter in as they please. Neither of them tear their gazes away to bask in the morning, though, and Keith concludes with a quieter, “Thanks again, Lance,” before he drops their hands and turns away.

Lance, more than a little affected in the center of the quiet ballroom floor, sways alone just for a minute before Hunk is at his side and ushering him away. There is never a moment when he’s not ushered, he realizes though he’s always known it to be true, and he misses already the quiet and easy conversation he had with Keith, despite how short those moments had been.

“I know I’m getting married, Hunk.” He lets slip when he’s in his chambers and Hunk is straightening a few things on his desk that will need attending first thing when he wakes. Hunk’s shuffling stops, and that’s enough of a tell.

Hunk doesn’t try to deny it, though, and that stings a little worse to Lance’s night of wallowing. “I’m sorry, man.” He says, quiet as well. Lance can only shake his head to try to tamp down any denial of his duty or any of his wants and crawls into bed, fully clothed and feeling drained to his core. He hears Hunk leave shortly after.

Lance is finally allowed in the negotiation room after every foreign dignitary has left the castle for good at the conclusion of the celebrations, and that feels like a bigger insult. His father is in the room with Coran, and when Hunk and Lance enter they hush immediately.

“My son.” Alfor says in the way he always does when he thinks Lance is overthinking or when he’s afraid Lance forgets or something equally just a bit too patronizing for Lance to appreciate when he’s already frustrated. He continues, “Come, sit beside me. Coran, I’ll leave you to show Hunk what we discussed.”

Hunk shares a meaningful look with Lance, one that looks startlingly like the guilty little glances Allura has been casting him at each stolen opportunity in the last movement, and Lance tries to steel his gaze in return to reassure the other. Coran gathers Hunk and leads him out, harping pretty enthusiastically about his whatever step plan they were preparing to implement for some diplomatic genius or whatever.

Lance sits, and accidentally levels his steeled look to King Alfor before he thinks better of it and tries to make his face impassive and serene. “My son,” Alfor bids again when the room is suddenly, suffocatingly silent, “Will you tell me what’s been on your mind?”

Lance won’t, but he attempts to think of the best way to avoid the topic entirely as he mulls it over. Strewn before Alfor are the notes and details regarding their treaty, some on parchment but likely most of them contained in the few datapads he has at his elbow. Lance begins shuffling the papers for him, not letting his eyes skim for too long lest he give his curiosity away. “It was a great celebration,” He finally says when he can think of nothing else, “And it was an honor to meet so many people who have given everything they have to the cause and who have gotten to see the light at the end of this war. The coalition will be good for everyone involved, and I’m happy to be here for these days in our history.”

He’s too obvious, and he knows Alfor sees it as soon as Lance does, so he latches on. “If you were to part, what would you miss most about Altea, Lance?” He asks instead of just telling Lance what he already knows.

Lance blanches, because he hadn’t ever prepared a request for this moment and there’s nothing else for him to respond with that he’s had time to carefully consider. “Hunk,” he answers honestly, instantly regretting it, “And my family, of course.”

Alfor considers this visibly, something deflating in his shoulders as he watches Lance shuffle away. Eventually, he says, “I would like to talk to you about your future arrangements, Lance. It seems the long line has finally procured a proper suitor, and I would like you to consider the terms.”

It’s a negotiation, Lance realizes at once, and Alfor is creating the illusion that Lance will have the capacity to protest when they both know Alfor is too wise a King to put Lance in this position at all if he didn’t fully believe in the benefit the arrangement would doubtlessly bring to the kingdom. Lance is Alfor’s largest and most flexible bargaining chip, and Lance has known this since he was old enough to waddle through the unfamiliar castle corridors. It all feels so draining and facetious for Lance to entertain, but he must, because he knows Alfor is feeling the guilt of handing away Lance to somewhere he would never object, and Lance despite all of his simmering bitterness would never allow his father to feel that way about what was a clearly wise decision.

A movement later, Lance keeps these words in his mind when he’s sent away to a planet he has never stepped foot on, as it had not existed prior to the war. He holds the falsehood close to his heart that this is as much his choice as it was the kingdom’s, and he makes sure to repeat as often as he can that it benefits the coalition, the struggling people in the aftermath of the war, and the relations of his home.

He can’t help the flare of anxiety when Hunk is with him, though, wordless for most of their journey and probably damning Lance in his mind for having dragged him along for his own comfort. He also can’t help the flare of resolute hatred he keeps locked away when his pod touches down at the Palace of Blades on the planet Marmora. He pictures Keith, smug and satisfied and asking after him in an illusion of Lance’s choices inflated, and he wonders if Keith feels like he won when he tricked Lance into a lovestruck night while Lance was none the wiser to the arrangement Keith must have been privy to in advance. He decides, then, that he will be a little brat at every opportunity to the disillusioned prince with no grandeur if only so Keith can feel his venom in how he has been tricked and how he knows it, and their tensions can smother each other instead of Keith thinking he has a pretty Altean Prince to be at his side at his whim.

So, he’s feeling very bitter as he pastes a serene face onto himself and is received to the kingdom. To his chagrin, Keith isn’t even in the reception and they do not speak of his whereabouts even as Lance is led to his chambers. This is another point of contention for Lance, as when his luggage is delivered and he takes a seat on the bed that is frankly smaller than he’s used to, he casts a glance around at the same time Hunk seems to be mentally concluding something and groans to himself because his chambers aren’t private.

It’s written in every detail of the room once Hunk and Lance are left to their own devices. There are strewn clothes in one area of the room, just by some closed dressers and wardrobes, and the large desk is disorganized and frankly overflowing with parchments and devices. Across the room from the desk, Lance notes with a personal, muted horror that there is a little target with knives and scissors and letter openers—any manner of sharp thing, it seems—plunged into it and pinning a scrap of paper into place. What a violent, messy creature this Keith is, and what a wonderful second first impression to make on your future husband by revealing that side of himself.

“Okay.” Hunk says because he likely can sense Lance’s spiraling. “I’m going to do a security scan, and we’ll go from there.” Under his breath he doesn’t hesitate to grumble something about the lack of a guard detail and the detachment of the team who had delivered Lance not only to the planet, but to the messy chambers. Lance nods mutely, flopping back onto the bed as the blue scanning equipment roves over the room.

Their door opens, though, and Lance shoots up, taming his expression again. It’s only a teenager, though, looking messy—and maybe lost? Lance has a brief moment where he incredulously wonders what the security protocols must be within these walls that allow for a random wayward teen to barge into the chambers of the Prince, but Hunk speaks first. “Can I help you? In the future we will ask that you announce your presence before barging into any of the Prince’s private quarters.” Lance loves when Hunk does the authoritative thing with his voice but hates that Hunk feels the need, swallowing.

“Yo.” The teenager says, throwing a hand up and a peace sign to Hunk, then Lance. Hunk’s jaw sets just a fraction, likely in distaste at the informality when he is so trained to be sharp to it. “I’m Pidge, head of security.” Her voice is bland, like she would rather be doing literally any other task than attending to the Prince’s arrival, and Lance can’t help but be a little offended. “I was told to introduce myself and I forgot what time it was, so sorry I didn’t meet you guys outside.”

Hunk shifts in place, closing his scanning software on his datapad and eyeing Pidge, likely because she seems a little hard to believe. “We can do a run down of the protocols, then?” He asks, and Pidge cocks her head, probably wondering if all Alteans are as stuffy as Hunk and Lance definitely must look in the face of her breezy attitude. “I have some regulations and requirements that need to be met as per the treaty, and I wanted to discuss some guard details and get familiar with the system you must use here.”

Pidge rears her head back a bit, clearly thinking, and she sniffles a little. Lance wonders if she’s going to spit-hork into a bucket at some far edge of the room to really seal her image into their minds as impenetrably unphased. “Yeah,” She eventually says, eyeing Hunk’s datapad pretty blatantly, “We can do that, for sure. You got time now? I’m pretty familiar with what was discussed in the treaty because my brother was one of the negotiators, but I want to know based on your systems what your understanding of those protocols are. I think we could do something pretty flashy by combining our systems with some of your Altean tech systems for biorhythms and stuff. Cool?”

Lance watches in thinly veiled surprise as Hunk seems to be a little taken aback by the ease of that conversation, and he wonders if Hunk was prepared to be a lot more defensive for Lance’s sake. He’s a little touched by that. Hunk turns to Lance, then, and they have a sort of non-verbal discussion with only fractional expression changes. Pidge says nothing, and Hunk finally turns to her and says, “Yeah, let’s work on that if you have time now. Thank you.” Pidge nods and then nods to Lance before turning and exiting with no other word, likely assuming Hunk will follow her.

Hunk hesitates, though, despite his mental agreement with Lance, and Lance waves a hand before he can fuss. “I’ll be fine.” He lies, anxiety roiling in his gut as he currently does not know the exact security of this very room, “This is important, and I’m jet-lagged anyway. Wake me if you need me.” Hunk sighs at that, but he nods and he’s off as well, leaving Lance in total silence.

Lance thinks, in the time that passes as he lets his anxiety crawl, that it’s nice to have an unplanned moment of wallowing for once. It’s very freeing, even, and it’s only interrupted by yet another person barging into the room unprompted and scaring the quintessence out of Lance.

He jumps up, alert, and when King Kolivan sweeps into the room Lance falters more than he thinks is appropriate before bowing, low. There is a space wolf at his heels, not minding either of them as it sniffs around and pads through the room.

“Ah.” King Kolivan says, voice neutral, “You’re here.” Lance tenses at that, and wonders who the heck organizes anything in this castle if they aren’t all kept in the loop about matters like this at all. “It is good to see you, Prince Lance.” He tacks on, and when Lance straightens he can see even in Kolivan’s neutrality that he is looking around the room for something.

“Thank you for your hospitality, your highness.” Lance says, hesitating only because Hunk isn’t at his side to tell him whether it’s rude to address Kolivan in his kingdom or whether there’s some strange rule about speaking directly to the King or not. Kolivan waves his hand, unfazed, and Lance thinks he can see a bit of Keith’s dark gaze in Kolivan’s own, telling nothing and yet so expressive in their blankness.

The space wolf eventually gives up what it is looking for, hopping onto the bed and digging at the heavy blankets a bit to make a sort of nest. “I take it you were not received as you anticipated.” Kolivan says, unprompted, and Lance doesn’t know what to respond so he continues speaking when Lance mulls over his words, “I didn’t anticipate your arrival so soon, and I am sorry we must look a bit disorganized in comparison to your home. Rest assured that you are welcome here, and I will hunt down there whereabouts of my son so you can have a formal greeting.”

He refers to Keith in the same way that Alfor refers to Lance, he notes dully, and Lance wonders to himself if Kolivan also overcompensates the emphasis on the son in the way Alfor does so it can remain unchallenged. “Thank you,” Lance decides on again instead of any of his much less important plaguing thoughts, “I am excited to see one another again. I’m sure we can create a strong bond that will benefit our marriage and future negotiations to come.”

Kolivan hums in agreement, seeming distracted again but face betraying nothing. He gestures to the space wolf, who is cozy on the bed and snoring lightly, his tongue lolled just a bit. “That is Kosmo, the boy’s pup. At least you can meet the much more refined of the two now. My apologies, again. Let somebody know if there’s anything that may assist you, Prince Lance. Someone will be happy to accommodate you and your attendant.”

Lance nods, smile tight, and Kolivan leaves without a further word.

Hunk does not return that night, and Lance decides that he is either dead or has determined Lance is safe and will not require attending for the remainder of the evening and night cycle. He is a little offended, though, as Hunk is aware of his anxieties and he would have appreciated some re-assurance. He doesn’t dwindle on it because Hunk being there at all is a blessing Lance knows he must appreciate. He falls in and out of rigid, fitful sleep, and sometimes when he wakes Kosmo is already staring at him, so he can only imagine he’s being a nuisance for the dog’s rest as well.

When he can’t catch more sleep, he lies in the night and wonders what time it is on this planet, curious if his datapad will localize if he prompted it or if Hunk will have to fiddle with it. There is very dim moonlight as the only illumination in the room, so unless Marmorans were nocturnal Lance assumed he would be left undisturbed in the silent night. He’s awake when the door opens again, though, and he seethes to himself and feigns sleep while he mentally prepares to teach every occupant of the castle about knocking—it is a private chamber for stars sake. The train of thought doesn’t quite distract him from his anxieties, but it is enough to pretend it’s doing so.

Someone is laughing in the hall, lightly and unaware of the disturbance the light and the sound are making in the dark room. Kosmo stands, and Lance has a moment where he thinks with bewilderment that the dog will defend him for some odd reason, but then someone in the hall bids, “Actually, wait, Keith—” and Lance tenses with every muscle in his body.

Keith has seen him, and even if Keith thinks Lance is asleep, Lance doesn’t trust anyone at the moment and he certainly wouldn’t trust the stranger who tricked him just a few nights ago and who he is going to be marrying—Keith’s voice is quiet when he speaks, the light still streaming in from the doorway, and Lance momentarily thinks in wonder that Keith is trying not to wake him by the whisper, “Who do you have, Kosmo?” There is a sound that Lance recognizes instantly, the scrape of metal in a sheath to imply a drawn weapon, and Lance can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears and skull, willing himself to be still.

Kosmo gives a low whine, kneading and pawing on the bed in an attempt to lure Keith into bed, likely, but someone whispers something too low for Lance to hear even in the echoing silence, and Keith gives a sharp, quick intake of breath before the door closes. Kosmo whines again, and that’s how Lance concludes Keith must have left the room.

He tries not to fall asleep again, not knowing when Keith will return and wanting to be both alert and defensive in case it’s required for his survival, but the exhaustion of his anxieties catches up to him, and he falls into another rigid and fitful sleep. When he wakes next, however, the dawn has broken over the Palace of Blades, and Lance quietly, slowly lifts his head to take in his surroundings. Across the room on a small lounge chair where Lance has most of his luggage and things piled by the wall, Keith is curled up and asleep, his posture loose and relaxed.

Unfortunately, that just pisses Lance off.

Chapter Text

In the morning, Hunk meets Lance outside of his doorway the second Lance crosses the threshold in his clothes from the day before, and Lance can’t hold back for any pretense and needs to hug his friend. Lowly, so the servant just a ways down the hall who is inspecting a vase can’t hear, Hunk asks Lance if Keith had arrived. When Lance nods into his shoulder, Hunk stiffens, but Lance shakes his head in return then so Hunk knows he was not made uncomfortable or felt unsafe with him particularly, nor was there any presumptuous activity, and Hunk’s tense shoulders settle almost right away. It’s true enough about Keith’s actions, but Lance does hate to downplay his own anxieties at the moment when he’s still unsure about his security detail.

Hunk leads Lance away, then, with a schedule already made in the way Hunk is trained to have accomplished even in his short time in this kingdom. Lance makes a curious noise for the datapad Hunk holds, but Hunk shushes him and just begins reading off of it as they walk.

“In the morning, you’ll be meeting a few local dignitaries after breakfast and after that you’ll be alone with your thoughts and me to get your stuff unpacked, so get excited.” Hunk muses, scrolling quite a bit for how little he reported. “Prince Keith will be with you for your unpacking, so I guess that’ll be a bonding moment for the two of you. It would help if you got changed before your morning meetings, but I understand if you want to wait until Prince Keith has cleared the room if you haven’t had a formal discussion about the arrangements yet.”

“That’s it?” Lance is wary to ask, feeling tricked.

Hunk nods, nudging Lance to turn down a different corridor with him. “That’s it. Your new family doesn’t care for meetings very much, so you won’t have a lot of those to worry about yet. I might have Pidge drop by your chambers later so me and her can talk to you directly about some of the security measures, and she wants to see the earring.” At Lance’s soured expression, Hunk chuckles, “Don’t look so glum to not be busy, I think this will be good for you to ease some of the tension, and I’m going to start worrying about a body-snatcher having gotten you if you keep pretending you want more stuff to do.”

Lance sighs then and resists the urge to grumble something Hunk will definitely not care about hearing. He doesn’t like the idea of any prying eyes he’s not familiar with looking into his private security measures, but Pidge being the head of security certainly smoothed over that tension specifically. He would just have to grin and bear it until that security was either proven or disproven, though he isn’t quite willing an assassination attempt into existence.

When they’re fully alone in the corridor, Lance admits very quietly, “I’m not afraid of anything presumptuous, but when I woke up he was sleeping on the couch and this whole thing is putting me on edge that he snuck in without me realizing it, honestly.” He again doesn’t want to admit his discomfort to Hunk, who has been dragged behind him in the wake of this treaty, but Hunk looks encouraging when Lance meets his eye, so he continues, “So, there’s that bonding moment if we’re looking for one. He didn’t even wake up when I left, he hasn’t said hello to me yet.”

Hunk hums, then decidedly points out, “You could have woken him up. Or let him know you were awake so he could say hello last night.”

“That’s not the point.” Lance cringes to himself at the thought, sighing hugely when they track further down another corridor. “Can I have my dignitary run down now if this is the only brain-tickling task I’m going to be doing?”

Hunk launches into his explanation and Lance commits the usual facts and rules to memory, thinking vaguely on how this life will play out for the foreseeable future. Each new name he hears he mentally slots into a puzzle he does not know the outcome of yet, and it seems like the only proper way for him to focus his energy instead of letting his anxieties buzz inside at the suffocating loneliness that is suddenly surrounding him.

He thinks, for the briefest moment, to ask Hunk to schedule a video call with Allura, but he stops himself at the last minute. Allura is likely elbow deep in further treaty negotiations and coalition work, and all Lance has to do for the rest of his entire life is shut up and accept the hand he was dealt. There was no reason to bother Allura with his petty problems when she’s the one who has to pull all of the political weight for Altea from now on.

Lance and Hunk are crossing through the gardens to the west of the palace, still pleasantly chattering with higher-ranking rebellion officials who are involved in Marmora’s political atmosphere, when Lance spots Keith, awake and in the light, for the first time since the ball. He’s in a grassy field flanked by flower beds, and if the racks and items strewn about the beds and perimeter are any indication it serves as a sort of outdoor training ground.

Keith is a sight to see with his hair pulled back and his chest bare, laughing and swinging at someone Lance recognizes from his entourage at the coalition ball just a week earlier. In any other circumstance Lance would allow his weak knees to overtake his higher thinking, and he would allow the butterflies in his stomach at the sight transform into honey-like suavity to try and reel Keith into him, but he can ignore all of those feelings to instead allow the cold venom and bitterness from his core erupt at the other man’s obvious delight in his training. Lance lets something ugly twist in him at Keith’s easy-going pleasure, when Lance himself has been riddled with almost instantaneous feelings of isolation and discomfort from the moment he heard Keith was going to be his husband. He has time to train and not to find his future husband and properly re-introduce them, and Lance knows his nostrils are flaring before he can cool himself.

So, he excuses himself pleasantly and ignores Hunk’s wary gaze as he walks through the garden’s winding paths to reach that training field. The companion notices Lance first and Lance memorizes his features to get his name from Hunk later, but he ducks away with a pat to Keith’s shoulder and gives them the privacy Lance would have wanted anyway. Keith looks visibly confused, but he twists in place to see Lance, too, and drops his weapon. His features go through microscopic changes before settling on a muted surprise, and Lance wants to scowl at him if only so he knows that Lance can see through his little act of incomprehensible and objectively incompetent social interactions.

Keith clears his throat when Lance is close enough before Lance can speak first, though, and that makes Lance’s gut twist even more, hot fury branded on his face in a way he knows he can’t physically tamp down. Keith is none the wiser to the expression, damning him further as he opens his mouth to speak.

Lance cuts off the intention, still reaching to have the upper hand, and he bows low and says in the most sickeningly sweet voice he can manage, “Thank you, Keith, for asking after me. I hope we will have many wonderful years together and I’m honored to have been considered for your hand.”

When he looks up, Keith’s face has morphed into one that looks like it will vaguely be ill soon, so Lance thinks his work is done. No response from Keith comes, though, and Lance turns to leave just as quickly as he had come, a sick satisfaction curling in him. As soon as he reaches the edge of the field, though, Keith seems to get his wits and Lance hears him step after him quickly.

“Prince—” Keith begins, but Lance snaps.

“If we’re going to be wed, and we now share chambers and our bed and our lives, then don’t you think it would be best to call me by my name, Keith?” He can’t keep his voice from being anything but snide, and when he looks to Keith behind him the other’s expression is suddenly a lot more open, as if he weren’t sure how to mask this one quite as well.

Keith looks at Lance like he isn’t sure at all what he’s seeing, and the expression makes the hot and ugly thing in Lance’s gut swell and clog up his throat as well. The other’s eyes, dark and as swimming in the sun as ever, are wide in incredulity, and Lance thinks to himself that he must not be used to being challenged enough if a simple little bicker would catch him so off guard. So, because Keith says nothing else, he begins walking again without a proper dismissal.

When he reaches Hunk again and their party resumes their walk, Hunk kindly pulls Lance just a hair behind so he can whisper, “I don’t think they noticed what was going on but because I did I wanted to tell you that I don’t think it was very helpful.” He doesn’t say it in a way that Lance thinks he will remember to bring up later, but it still makes warm frustration curl on his face and something in Lance just wants to stand at the edge of a lake and scream.

He pastes a pleasant smile onto his face and laughs politely at a joke one of the dignitaries have made and they keep walking.

Hunk is right, as always. They don’t see Keith for the rest of the day despite the planned unpacking together, and Lance never gets to unpacking himself anyway due to a long laundry list of other people who suddenly wanted to meet Lance as soon as possible once his first formal morning meetings had concluded. The day finally winds down, though, and when Lance enters a small, private dining room later that night on Hunk’s arm and only Keith is there to receive them, he can feel his frustration warm his face again and he’s left feeling embarrassed for his outburst, despite not wanting to take it back or apologize. Hunk visibly winces when Lance takes a seat without waiting for an invitation, and Lance only feels a little bad because it’s the exact kind of behavior that they would both be getting chewed out for if Coran had seen Hunk condone such a thing.

“Hello, Lance.” Keith says, voice quiet and careful and eyes not straying from Lance’s face. It’s more than a little uncomfortable, and Lance is beginning to feel like he’s under a microscope. “How have you been liking your stay?”

Lance remembers when Keith had first properly introduced himself in front of Lance and Allura, his words sounding just fractionally stilted and so often practiced despite their simplicity. He sounds the same now, and Lance feels his expression twitch in distaste before he can refrain from embarrassing himself further.

“Considering the planned outcome of my time here, I don’t really think it’s right to talk about it like a little vacation.” He bites, finding a bottle of wine and pouring himself some in a goblet. He starts dishing himself and ignores Hunk’s pointed looks, knowing in a proper moment he would bat his eyelashes at Keith and Keith would show his devotion by fixing Lance’s plate for him as an act of gratitude for his presence. They weren’t following Altean rules anyway, and Lance was content with ignoring them in only the wake of his pettiness while that was the case.

“I didn’t—” Keith grunts, stops himself, and then starts making his own plate, unrestrained in his glower as he does so. He speaks again only after his plate is full, like each piece of food added to his mental script. “I wasn’t told about our arrangement, and I’m sorry if my surprise came off as…uh, disapproval. When we danced at the ball I had no idea this was happening, okay? I wasn’t just being a dick.” He shovels something vaguely meat-like in his mouth, as if forcing himself to stop talking.

Lance sips his wine to keep his expression from darkening to match Keith’s. Hunk behind him is breathing very carefully as he does when he’s getting anxious for a situation as well, one of his most reliable and only tells. Lance sets his goblet down and calmly says, “Hunk, I would like to dismiss you for the night. Thank you for everything today.”

Hunk leaves with only a polite thank you, and Lance knows when he checks his own personal datapad tonight that he will have no less than thirty messages regarding his feelings and making sure he didn’t say anything offensive to his future husband and Lance doesn’t really care about all of that now so much as he cares about putting Keith in his place. Keith is still chewing like it’s going to keep him from death itself, and Lance catches their gazes together so he can watch Keith’s minute and inscrutable expressions with each word he’ll say.

“I am very jetlagged,” He begins, resisting the urge to grit his teeth, “And very tired, so you’re going to have to elaborate for me. You didn’t know you were going to have a husband delivered to you? You were kept completely in the dark about this entire thing until I was literally in your bed?”

Something colors Keith’s cheeks warm, but his eyes remain hard at Lance’s challenge, likely knowing he’s being called a moron under the thin veil of Lance’s questions.

Lance doesn’t actually give him the opportunity to respond, though, “And your formal meeting me again here is still just so you can defend that you didn’t know what was going on—” He takes a deep breath, feeling gross and having something emotional crawl under his skin in a way that’s pretty unprofessional. When he speaks again, reveling in Keith’s uncertain eyes and pinched brow, he huffs a humorless chuckle out of himself. “Even if that is true, do you think I care about what they told you? One week ago I was told I would be shipped here to marry you and was crammed into a room with your dog and given no other details. Whatever you know about this arrangement is twice, at least, more than what’s been told to me, and at least this is your home.”

Keith averts his gaze, visibly biting his tongue, and Lance feels something cathartic shudder out of him when he finally just stands and downs the rest of his wine. “Goodnight.” He says simply to Keith, stalking out of the room on his own and feeling a sick satisfaction at giving him no room to respond. He can feel it in the air with Keith now, though, that there is a bite behind his teeth he’s been taught to restrain. He can’t wait to see what that bite is.

Thankfully, Keith doesn’t follow Lance. It takes Lance some time personally, asking some directions from some servants as he wanders the castle, but he eventually finds their dreadfully shared chambers. Keith isn’t there, either, and Lance feels that same satisfaction knowing that his words have affected Keith enough to take a hint and stay away at least until he felt a little cooler.

He lets himself into the bath of the chambers, making sure to lock the entrypad behind him and refusing to meet his own eye in the mirror. He pokes and fusses with the mechanics of the bathtub itself, almost breaking down to bother Hunk on his night off just to figure out how to draw the damn water, but eventually the tub pools from the drain in steamy, already perfumed water, and Lance sinks in without hesitation so he can properly brood.

He feels gross, even while getting clean, and he knows there is an itch under his skin that will not be satisfied by time and yet he won’t settle for any other route—asking Hunk will reveal his language to Keith, which was a no, and asking for further discussion with Keith that may heal his discomfort at their exchange would just be asking for more frustration. He knows the itch, though, feeling used and like a shiny, pretty object that has been gifted to somebody who doesn’t want him. He’s felt the same itch crawl under his skin periodically throughout his entire life, and he shouldn’t be surprised that once he’s changed hands again it’s back with a vengeance. He cannot control the whims of those who are able to give him away, and to know he’s been given to someone who not only didn’t ask but seemed shocked at his arrival leaves him feeling uprooted and disgusted.

Lance sinks himself under the water and tries to hold his breath for as long as he can, only plunging up for air to remind himself that he is human. He wants to go home, and knows the damage is too far done for him to serve any purpose to Altea. He is Marmoran property now, through and through, and no good would come from contesting that—which, he remembers in frustration, he has always known would be the case. He tells himself he shouldn’t be so frustrated with his own acknowledgement of this fact in its inevitability, but unsurprisingly it does little to settle his roiling discomfort and nerves.

He's always been emotional, so he doesn’t deny himself a good cry before he considers himself wallowed out, and only when Lance has been in the tub getting pruney for a few hours does he hear Keith return, his footsteps quiet and cautious. Lance notes a little snidely in his head that of course Keith would not consider that Lance needed more space, but he feels he’s being unfair even as he thinks it, taking a deep breath and spluttering a little in the water.

He drains the tub, watching the water swirl away by his ankles and taking more deep breaths to get himself pumped and ready for the encounter. A little more than resolutely, Lance decides he has no reason to hesitate to see Keith, wanting to look strong and strike another conversation so their marriage isn’t entirely ruined by Lance’s continuous outbursts. If he hesitates more than a few minutes behind the door, waffling on whether to put something on other than a robe or if it’s the perfect level of enticing to convince Keith to forgive him non-verbally, then it’s only he who knows in the otherwise silent bath.

When he finally has pep-talked himself into opening the door, the chambers are dark aside from a cool-hued lamp flicked on at the desk. There are two shadowy lumps on the bed and Lance, feeling a little winded at wasting his own time getting freaked out, only moves to the desk to flick off the light and make his way to the bed too, feeling stubborn. When he reaches the desk he finds that the light is on to bring attention to the plate of food sitting square in the middle of it, covered in a stasis film to keep it fresh.

He looks to the lumps on the bed again, willing a petulant glare but knowing he isn’t mustering one. Then he sits, heavily, and begins to eat his building misery away.

Keith’s desk looks as though it’s never known what tidiness could be. There are stacks of parchments and datapads interrupted by random debris, seemingly to organize the work haphazardly, and there are a fair share of small rings and patches of stickiness from drinks left behind or spilled and forgotten. It’s more than a little gross, so Lance tries to pointedly ignore it all while he eats, steadily getting more and more irritated—this time at himself—for allowing his festering feelings to blow up in front of Keith, who still reached out with a kind gesture. He wants to chuck the plate of food out of a window.

He finishes eating and shoves his plate away, resigning himself to poking around drawers until he can work himself up again to try and approach the bed. Every now and again, he’ll poke something a little too much and it’ll make a disturbing noise in the night, but the most that he gets as a response is a small grunt, or Kosmo lifting his head.

Lance wakes up to a gentle hand on his shoulder, and despite the skimming touch he freezes, jerks, and twists so he can pin the hand and the head of the person attached to the desk surface. He huffs into awareness as soon as he’s done, and he feels the fingers of the hand he has pinned flexing by the twist of his wrist, but instead of immediately retreating he goes through his mental checklist and remembers his bearings.

Keith grunts, “Okay. Good morning. Let go.” Lance’s fingers curl in Keith’s hair, just at the nape of his neck and a few inches and a bit of pressure away from being deadly, and all at once he slumps and retreats, feeling defeated at himself.

“You’re jumpier than I thought.” Keith hums, voice sounding tired. When Lance meets his eye he has a sort of pinched expression on his face, as if he hadn’t meant to say that, but Lance also notes he seems sleepy still, and just a touch disoriented at the sudden rush of a potential fight. Then, Keith mumbles, “I guess I should finally clean my desk…”

Lance blanches, takes a deep breath, and scoots back a bit in the chair he had fallen asleep in. His mind screams for him to flee or take further action or do something that would be appropriate, but all he can do is squeak out a half-hearted, “Yeah. It’s a mess.”

He wonders, not for the first time, if his being sent to Marmora was a trial and a death sentence. There is something thrumming in him that is begging him to flee before they have time to even consider the word ‘execution’, but Keith reaches over and straightens his lamp mutely.

Keith’s eyes are dark when they finally cast on Lance again, and Lance meets his hard stare, trying to keep himself steady. “I’m sorry,” He forces out, “I am jumpy.”

Then, something changes in Keith’s expression. Fractionally, as always, something flexes in his jaw and his brows slowly lower. He clears his throat when Lance looks away, feeling powerless. “You are safe here.” He says, voice low and words slow, “I’m sorry if it doesn’t feel like it.”

Lance zeros in on that unspoken admission, the implication that he has not been tended to enough for that to be conveyed appropriately, and he nods, his lungs burning with some kind of rattling breath he needs to let out but is waiting until he can do it without it sounding shaky. Keith’s gaze flicks down, lazy and still sleepy-eyed, and Lance pinpoints that instead so he can keep himself from fainting. He turns away, straightening and tightening his robe around him from where it had drawn open and loose in the night, and Keith grumbles behind him as he walks away, unwilling to respond.

His face is heated, so he shoves it in his bags and cargo looking for an outfit for the day. He can tell Keith is eyeing him warily, like he’s a dog ready to pounce at the first signs of aggression, and he wills himself not to rise to that unneeded challenge.

“Do you want to go on a walk? Through the gardens.” Keith bids, surprising Lance enough to pause in his heated rummaging. “Before breakfast.” His request is painfully awkward in wording alone, but Lance spares no time to parse the informality when he was the one who has made an ass of himself first this morning.

He slips off his robe, thinking as he pulls a slim pair of trousers and a tunic on and refusing to acknowledge the tingle on the back of his neck telling him Keith’s heated gaze is on him endlessly. “Yes.” He finally says, trying for neutral but still sounding a little dodgy to his own ears.

“Okay.” Is all Keith says a moment, and Lance resolutely keeps his gaze fixed in the luggage he had procured an outfit from, calming himself with every silly mantra Coran and Hunk had ever taught him for when he was spiraling just a smidge. Then, Keith tacks on, “You wanna clear that with your secretary first? I’m not going to kidnap you.”

Lance whirls around at that, but Keith’s posture is already defensive, as if he had sensed the air change the second the words left his lips. “Hunk is a cultural liaison and royal advisor,” Lance snaps, “And if you don’t heed his title then you are insulting him as my only friend and staff.”

Keith looks like Lance has just blown up, eyes cautious and posture closed off, but he settles on another, “Okay.” He nods, then, and Lance has only felt like wanting to punch someone this much one other time; when James Griffin from the Garrison team had visited and accidentally proposed to Lance in front of a swathe of foreign delegates. He was younger, then, and it was certainly not the last time Lance would be publicly proposed to only to have to reject them kindly and give Hunk the stare that said remove them now please, but it had been the first time, and he was filled with so much rage and embarrassment at Griffin’s careless gesture that he had almost erupted on the spot.

They leave the chambers a bit stiffer than even would be expected, shoulders tense beside one another and Kosmo none the wiser trotting at their heels. Lance vaguely wishes for the oblivious bliss the dog must experience when it crosses the threshold of the bedroom, because stars would he love to have that blankness of mind just for an hour since his arrival in the palace. Hunk is just outside the door when they step through, as well, and he blinks at Lance and Keith’s side by side arrival, giving Keith a very practiced and polite smile and turning it to Lance with eyes that say please tell me if you need help. Hunk is reliable like that.

“I’m taking him out.” Keith grunts, turning to Lance to scrutinize how he will affirm. Lance shrugs and nods, and Keith turns back to blinking at Hunk.

Hunk’s gaze becomes much more obvious to the two of them, likely without his intention but still begging a silent question for Lance’s personal boundaries nonetheless. Lance nods again, and Hunk sweeps forward to bow a bit before the both of them.

“I can collect you both after breakfast for your first fitting.” He decides, smile never wavering but eyes heavy on Keith when he’s righted again. “Let me know if either of you require anything.”

Lance gives Hunk a little wave as he walks off, and Keith gives a strange stare to his retreating back that Lance doesn’t appreciate. He fingers the clasp of his earring, fingers careful and delicate, and sighs when Keith begins leading them in the opposite direction, turning immediately into some dark corridor Lance hasn’t had the pleasure of traversing yet.

“This isn’t the way I took to the gardens yesterday.” Lance points out, careful to keep his voice from straying into the not-liking-this implication. They weave into another dark corridor, and Lance wonders if they just haven’t weighed the costs of lighting the entirety of the palace when it’s out of use. “What’s wrong with the main hallways?” He asks as they turn down another dark one, and Keith snorts.

The morning light eventually finds them as they exit the palace, though, and Lance notes with a muted curiosity that where they have emerged from is a small door that becomes flush and undetectable in the wall once they’ve both passed through it, without even an entrypad to imply its existence. He follows after Keith, who seems pretty dead set on making the walk as methodic and forced as possible, and just to spite him into realizing his tactic Lance adopts an intentionally slow pace, taking in the scenery.

The garden is just as simple and beautiful as it had been the day before, small blossoms peppering unfamiliar foliage and implying a blooming season upcoming. Maybe by their wedding, even, that might be lovely. Lance thinks to the grand topiaries and water features in the grounds of the Castle of Lions, wondering in the face of such a simpler environment if any of that would ever be necessary. “Who tends these?” He can’t help but ask, wondering if there is a greenhouse team he can meet. He would like a plot, he decides, and wonders how long he’ll have to be in the palace before it would be appropriate to ask. Hunk would know—maybe it’ll be years.

Keith shrugs, and Lance squints at him. “I can find out?” He offers as an afterthought in the wake of the silence his non-answer creates.

Lance only hums in return, feeling just as noncommittal as Keith would like to paint himself. He wants to tug his sleeve and ask what they’re doing dancing in their awkwardness when all he can feel that either of them want to do is snip at one another so they can move past it properly.

“What’s your favorite color?” Keith asks, his dark gaze cast to Lance very, very seriously all of a sudden.

Lance blanches when he realizes he’s been zoning out. “Blue.” He responds automatically, looking to the warm morning sky and avoiding the imploring gaze. “Yours?”

“Red.” Keith replies, easy, “What’s your favorite—” He stops suddenly, and Lance can practically see him floundering and wondering what the next step in whatever script he had created for him was. He gazes around, and finally settles on, “Flower?”

“Gildyuv blossoms.” He doesn’t elaborate, knowing Keith knows what they are now, and Keith hums.

“They were nice.” He says simply, not offering his own favorite flower. Lance wonders if he’s ever thought to have one.

The questions roll forward, awkward from Keith and only improving fractionally when Lance caves and asks a few of his own. When they’ve lapped the gardens finally, Lance squints tightly at Keith without heat, and Keith admits that he’d like to know a few things about Lance if only so if he gets cornered by a counselor or organizer for the impending wedding he’ll know a few things to say for sure.

Lance laughs at that, admittedly, because it is just a touch more endearing than he anticipated. “You probably already know more about the planning than me,” He makes sure to point out again, no venom in his words this time, “I don’t even know what day we’re getting married.”

The way Keith considers this is visible, tilting his head a bit and looking far off. “I don’t know either.” He says as if he’s just realized, and Lance muffles another small laugh.

“Hunk will know, then.” Lance reassures, not wanting him to linger too long on it. The comment makes him pause, though, and he stops walking so Keith will notice and do the same. It’s only a step and a half before he turns, expectant. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

Keith’s gaze is serious, then, but in a way that Lance hasn’t seen quite yet. He has his seriousness in neutrality, in all of his minute expressions and the like, but this is a true seriousness that Lance can see plainly through all of his other indecipherable emoting. “Yes.” Is all he says, not a trace of hesitation.

“I want to know where Hunk technically stands in the Palace of Blades.” He doesn’t know how to explain to Keith that he doesn’t know and can’t ask Hunk for fear that Hunk will say something horrible and incriminating as if he has no title at all any more—Lance has done enough damage uprooting his life as it is. “He followed me here, and while he would be respected on Altea as an advisor I don’t know what that means in this kingdom, let alone this planet.” Then, he swallows, willing himself to be fully frank with Keith so Keith takes his request seriously. “I need to make sure he has the title he deserves for coming here, he’s my closest friend.”

Keith does not respond at first, and Lance averts his gaze so he doesn’t have to over-evaluate Keith’s own and get irritated again. Then, he gives a quiet, “Sure.” It’s enough for Lance, taking a deep breath and waving his hand to show Keith his palpable relief. “I thought—” Keith stops himself, considering, before beginning again, “I thought he came as your friend, but I just assumed that. I can find out for sure.”

Lance smiles, fond thinking of Hunk but tight in the wake of where they have gone. “We grew up together once I was crowned, but Hunk was trained since we met to be an advisor to the royal family. If Coran, my father’s advisor, ever decided to retire, Hunk would go to Allura, and Romelle, her advisor, would go to the side of the King. He’s my best friend, but he’s not mine.” He licks his lips before he speaks again, thinking of the best way to phrase what will inevitably be pretty pathetic sounding, “I assume his summons won’t even let him stay here permanently once the wedding is finished and the treaty is upheld, because…well, I’m not Altean royalty to advise for future rule anymore. He’ll be helping Allura.”

This visibly confuses Keith, and they begin walking again, slowly. Lance marvels a little at how easy it supposedly is to confuse the prince, and he wonders if anyone has ever talked to him about how anything officially works in a castle—he didn’t even know the greenkeepers or who tended the gardens, for stars’ sake.

Instead of commenting on the deep sadness that is Lance’s only companionship being built only through a staff obligation, Keith asks something that makes Lance feel even smaller than he thought possible. “Who would have come with you, if not Hunk? When our marriage was decided and you were scheduled to be sent here….”

“Nobody, probably.” Lance cuts in breezily, waving his hand again and getting about a half-step ahead of Keith as they walk. He likes it better, just a little ahead, and he hopes that because of that small distance it’s just a smidge harder for Keith’s scrutinizing eyes to take in Lance’s definitely pained expression. “As soon as the ink on the treaty was dry, I’m pretty sure I belonged to Marmora, and now I’m your problem. I asked for Hunk to come with me as a gift, when my father told me he gave my hand in negotiations.” He shrugs again, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Keith catches Lance’s eye despite Lance’s efforts, and he can’t help but huff a little at the gesture. There is something so pensive in Keith’s eyes, though, and Lance mentally reminds himself to stop obsessing over the gaze of the prince if only to get on agreeable terms. He had many years of ogling to come, he could spare some now. Blithely, with nothing else to say, Lance tacks on a final, “You’re awfully uninformed about this for someone who was expected to marry a foreign ally. Were you hoping for a loophole that would send me back home?”

“No.” Keith says, voice unwavering. “I am.” Lance squints but realizes that Keith is calling himself uninformed despite it being a jab, and they walk in silence for a bit before Keith begins again. “I was only crowned a prince ah…maybe five deca-phoebs ago, when Marmora’s kingdom was established. I think I’m realizing our worlds are a lot more different than I thought.”

“I know.” Is all Lance can say, feeling his stomach flip at the mention of one of his other sources of anxiety—Marmora itself, let alone it’s kingdom and rule, existed in less time than Lance had been alive, and yet Alfor had thought it was the best suited deal to place Lance in their hands. Negotiations must have been grim for this to be the best course of action.

Lance trusted his father, though, and knew he had to keep telling himself that no matter how impossible and ridiculous it all seemed.

“I bet you feel like a piece of meat.” Keith says suddenly, distracting Lance from his spiraling frustration at his father’s cryptic decisions. He’s not wrong, but Lance’s stare must convince him that he needs to elaborate. “I felt like one when Kolivan told me about the marriage—I was so pissed—”

“Gee, thank you.”

“—but you said yesterday, during dinner…” Keith huffs, and Lance knows he didn’t plan this script in advance but it feels better to hear it that way, as if Keith is impassioned on his behalf to get his words out, “The way you phrased it made me realize I definitely didn’t have the raw deal here, your side is at least twice as bad.”

Lance doesn’t say anything, but Keith turns to him as if he should. When the silence stretches, Keith continues, hesitantly, “I know that would feel worse. It’s not something I could imagine, but I didn’t imagine myself being an heir to a throne either, so it’s outside of even the outside of my realm of possibilities. Does that make sense?”

Drily, Lance observes, “You realized you feel bad for me.”

“Yes.” Keith says, still never hesitating. Then, a moment later, “No. Not that. I want you to know I understand this is harder for you, and I wish it weren’t and that we had more time to see this through differently instead of your weird arrival that I didn’t know anything about until I saw you in my bed.” Lance nods, understanding the sentiment, and Keith barrels even further on to surprise him. “I can’t change Kolivan’s decision—and I likely wouldn’t, if I saw the treaty myself, him and King Alfor know what they’re doing—but I want us to at least be friends if we’re going to be married for the rest of our lives.”

And okay, the last part sounds more than a little practiced. Lance wonders if he has index cards tucked somewhere with the exact words scrawled on them by someone.

Lance realizes that Keith is uncomfortable, and the way he does is in the most minute and small gestures. He’s learning, he realizes, that each of Keith’s twitches and movements is a tell unless there is a clear directive. He flicks his gaze away, aborts, and his dark eyes meet Lance’s again, as if to say that Lance has been silent for way too long at Keith’s grand declaration.

“Okay.” Lance says, granting him mercy and mocking him a little bit. He can’t help but cling to the way Keith’s shoulders tick, almost imperceptibly, to relax under his armor. “I want us to be friends, too. Thank you for saying all of that.”

Lance files the conversation away for later, under his ribcage where it can pound against his heart for both the reassurance and hope it has built so simply. The rest of our lives, Keith had said, and Lance clings to that tightly, as if that alone is a reassurance that he is not in danger in unfamiliar territory. It shows a future, at least, and under all of the typical fears and stomach-flipping observances, Lance wants them to be friends, too, truly touched by Keith’s words, so he clings and repeats and chants the words in his mind.

They walk on, conversation only a bit halted and stilted when they trip over a question or answer in a less-than-flattering way. Lance even manages to draw a smile out of Keith, and Keith draws plenty of laughter out of Lance once his irritation has settled far away from their date.

That’s what it is in the end, Lance realizes as they are winding down. It was a date.

Lance is not too proud or humble to admit that he is beautiful, and he has used that fact to leverage many a conversation or mild negotiation in his favor—people were a lot less hesitant to say yes or no to a pretty prince of Altea with a sweet request—but he’s feeling a little awkward in the dressing room with Keith. It might be the air the Marmoran Prince puts off, or perhaps it’s simply the fact that Lance is vividly remembering trying to look desirable and like walking sex out of spite just the night before, but either way Lance twitches a little at the thought of being naked in front of the other in the bright light of this wing of the castle.

It doesn’t help that they’re both a little grumpy again, their pleasant conversation being stalled this morning by Hunk’s finding them and ushering them along—breakfast be damned. Lance makes a mental note to see about guilting Keith into grabbing more meals for him in the future as he had last night. It wasn’t an intentional outcome of the awkward dinner they had, but it was convenient when Lance had let himself get carried away without a meal.

Keith isn’t changing, though, and that snaps Lance out of his undressing to squint at him. He’s unabashedly staring at Lance, to make matters worse, and Lance knows he’s hot but doesn’t need Keith to let his own acknowledgement of that be so…flagrant. Keith has the decency to meet Lance’s eyes from where they had been roving when Lance stalls in his undressing just a moment long enough to grab his attention, and an attendant flits to Keith’s side to measure and pull at various pieces of the uncomfortable looking armor he wears.

“You’re not going to take that off? Is it glued to you?” Lance teases, hoping for a light tone but knowing if someone listened just a little too close they would hear his distaste.

The armor is dark swathes of purple and indigo, and it’s clearly from his time in the war representative of the famed Marmoran stealth, but it’s not exactly…wedding attire, to Lance. He hopes not to Keith, either. It also, frankly, looks pretty stiff and objectively off-putting.

Keith blinks, like he’s a little more than surprised Lance is asking. Maybe it’s obvious to the people of Marmora that Keith would wear his armor, then, and Lance has horribly offended him and everyone else in the room attending. He ventures a glance at Hunk where he is talking to Ezor, their new wedding planner, and neither of them look concerned enough to interject, so he must be fine.

“I planned on wearing this.” Keith says finally, despite it being what Lance most feared.

Lance nods accordingly, stripping the rest of the way so he can be handed his wedding appropriate attire. “I see.” Is all he can say a moment, then, “Are you sure?” They could probably afford to avoid another fight, but Lance is finding himself feeling very opinionated.

Keith says, still simple, “Yes. My medals and honors would have to be displayed—”

Lance grunts, cutting him off, and he makes a grabby motion towards Hunk. A datapad finds its way into his hands without Hunk ever breaking conversation with Ezor, and Lance grumbles and flicks through data pools until he finds the chamber he’s looking for, searching and procuring images of Altean traditional wedding wear. “You don’t have anything like this?” He insists, shoving the image towards Keith so it can hover before him. Keith squints down at it, thinking. “It’s a military uniform, but a relaxed one for formal events.” He doesn’t want to point out that it’s a thing on Altea, but it seems like it should be a thing everywhere so he keeps his gaze imploring.

“No.” Keith decides after some consideration, flicking the image away. “Why would I need two uniforms?”

“For—” Lance stops himself, wondering if he’s imagining this conversation, “I just said. For formal events.” An attendant taps his arm, and he lifts it so she can observe and measure some part of him.

Keith’s shoulders shrug, probably not as much as they could have in the stiff and stuffy uniform. “I just wear this.” After a moment of Lance’s continued scrutiny, Keith’s lip quirks just a fraction and he tacks on, “You liked it enough to ask me to dance in this, or did you forget?”

Lance can’t stop himself from huffing, dropping his arm and slightly startling the attendant still ducked a bit under it. He sends her an apologetic glance, and she waves her arm to bid him to lift it again, as she wasn’t finished. “I didn’t say it wasn’t hot.” He makes sure to say, feeling like both a winner and an idiot once it’s left his mouth. “It’s just not what I would consider—” He falters, works his jaw, rephrases, “What I would think of for a wedding.”

Hunk’s conversation with Ezor stills a bit, and Lance focuses on that silence instead of the silence coming from Keith. It doesn’t come with any suitable distraction, though, because when Ezor and Hunk resume chatting it’s only so they can show one another different flora and fauna to coordinate between Altean and Marmoran wildlife they would like to incorporate in the designing.

Keith speaks up, then, his voice just quieter and clearly having gnawed on Lance’s words. “We can look into…something less stiff, I guess.” He seems uncomfortable down to each syllable, and Lance almost wants to laugh at how painful it looks for him to say, but he’s sincere, and throwing Lance a bone he can’t even bring himself to downright ask for. Keith turns to his seamstress, then, and she blinks and seems a little stunned under the sudden attention. “I’ll need something a little more relaxed.” Is all he says, and she nods politely, as though neither of them are sure how this exchange is supposed to go.

Lance wonders if Keith is unused to asking for things, even if politely.

“This isn’t what I expected when you told me not to ask after you.” Keith says suddenly, and Lance whips his head up and holds his tablet out for someone to take from him.

Lance wants to snap something as a knee jerk reaction, but he says a little Coran-crafted mantra in his head to keep himself from being a bit of an ass. “I would have let you,” He says truthfully, “In any other circumstance. I already knew I was going to be given away, though.”

“You didn’t—” Keith begins, then stops, mind rolling through it.

Lance guesses, “Know where?” Keith nods, and Lance shakes his head in return. “No, I didn’t. I’ve always had an idea it was going to happen, though. You would have been top of my list, don’t worry.” He throws a wink to Keith for good measure, and the seamstress on his side doesn’t hold back the smallest giggle imaginable. “Before I realized you were a prince you were on my list, too, you know. Very sneaky of you to play on my heartstrings by pretending to be a random war-time dignitary trying to get away from all the noise. Very humble, I’ve always liked a boy without a ring on his head.”

That makes a small, short laugh huff out of Keith. “Until a few years ago I was a random war-time dignitary. Sometimes I just forget that it’s different with it on.” His admission is quiet, and the room is beginning to quiet as well with general chatter, so Lance wonders if he’s starting to get embarrassed.

Lance only has brief memories of the time before his crown, and he’s not quite sure if he’s ever chased the fleeting thought of daydreaming of his actions without it, so he can’t relate even a little to Keith’s sentiment. Even so, he has a yearning for understanding that simplicity. He doesn’t think in all of Altea he could enter a room and people would be unsure of who he was—there was far too much to know and scrutinize—and he certainly can’t do it on Marmora, being one of two Alteans in all of the area he knew of in their freshly created treaty, but the notion appeals to him all the same.

Chapter Text

Hunk leads them back to their chambers for their next appointment after lunch, but it’s a ruse to get them to unpack Lance’s things. “The longer this goes on without attending the less likely it is to get complete.”  He says as he nudges Lance into the room and gestures for Keith to follow, “So, please unpack. The rest of the afternoon is free and this is the last time that may be possible in the next few weeks.”

Keith looks indignant at the implication that his own schedule is planned, if Lance had to guess what his brooding at the suite door is for, but Hunk is long gone by the time either of them make a move to address the luggage still piled against the wall in an almost comically large arc.

“It’s all yours,” Lance jokes, “It’s a dowry.”

The faces Keith cycles through are, in order, surprise, muted disgust, horror, and unconvincing gratitude. He opens his mouth, gaping for the smallest moment before words finally spill forth. “Thank you—”

“I’m joking.” Lance says, because it was pretty painful to watch. “You have to help me, though, because your room is very…uniquely organized.” He settles Keith with a look so he knows that he meant almost filthy and a little unbecoming but decided to sound nicer aloud, and Keith makes a face on the edge of grim that implies he understands. Lance approaches the first box with confidence, dragging it aside to the bed so he can pull from within it a large manner of fine cloaks and tunics. Keith hasn’t moved, though, so he makes a small tut tut at him to spur him into action, and it actually works, throwing Keith forth so he can open the seam of his wall closet and begin shoving things aside hastily.

Distantly, Lance thinks he’ll have to do a lot better than that to convince him his things were going to fit, let alone wouldn’t be riddled with old closet boot smell. He walks to Keith’s closet with his first armful of items anyway, pursing his lips to keep his expression from being too scrutinizing. When Keith looks back, he pauses and looks a little wide-eyed at Lance’s proximity, and Lance can’t help but think he looks like a kid who thought he had more time to clean his room before someone came round to check.

“Hm.” Lance hums as he looks past Keith to see drab and drabber tunics in deep purples and blacks, nothing truly straying from the seemingly standard uniform. He thrusts forward the pile of clothes in his arms, “Hold these.”

Keith complies, and he looks down at the garments like they’re a surprise. Lance ignores him and pats his shoulder so he moves aside, and he complies to that wordlessly as well. A little ruthlessly, Lance begins flicking each garment along the bar they’re hung on, thinking. There’s little remarkable at the pieces individually, but they seem very fitting. “You don’t wear much else.” He says, not leaving it open for an answer, “That’s a shame, you’d—”

“What are these?” Keith cuts in, holding up an older overcoat Lance had waffled on bringing. It’s a little faded with age, having seen more than it’s share of walks around the garden in the sweltering Altean sun, but Lance has kept it because it brings out his eyes. Keith shakes it a little in his hand, as if Lance should have answered already—impatient—and he gestures with his other mostly full arm to the patterning on one of the sleeves.

“Oh.” Lance finally says, “The embroidery? They’re Gildyuv branches. Some have the flowering patterns, see?” He walks over to grab the sleeve of the coat, tracing a finger over the design. “These were the—Uh, we talked about these. They’re the lucky flowers, remember?”

Keith says his own, quiet, “Oh.” After another moment, he tacks on, “They’re nice. You have a few different things that have the same pattern.”

Lance shrugs, “They’re my favorite.” He smirks at Keith when their eyes meet again, “What can I say? I like feeling lucky.”

Only a beat passes, but Lance can tell Keith doesn’t really understand what he’s getting at, so he moves to the closet himself and moves more of Keith’s things around on the hangers. “Is this all you wear? I know it is, don’t answer that. You—” He steels himself, his eyes boring holes into a near-threadbare grey linen coat. When he begins again, he does so with careful layers of casualty. “I could pick out some great colors for you.” He would have to ask Hunk if he knew of there being any colors that were offensive to Marmorans. No pink, if only for his own sake.

“Oh.” Keith says again, his favorite phrase.

Lance sighs noisily at that phrase, turning away from the closet and opening another duffel. “Here.” He emphasizes, holding out a worn red sweater. It’s a bit of a gamble, but he doesn’t think his usual clothes will entice Keith like something usefully comfortable may. “Take this. You can wear whatever of my stuff you want, and I don’t typically offer so keep that in mind, but anything to see that you know how to change your clothes.” Keith doesn’t move at first, so Lance holds out the sweater with more emphasis than necessary. “All yours, Mr. Emo.”

Just in his fashion, Keith says, “Okay.” He gently takes the sweater, his face pensive in a way that Lance isn’t quite familiar with yet, and when he does he trades it for the pile of clothing Lance had handed him. Lance huffs a little quietly to himself and begins hanging them appropriately once the rest of Keith’s things are shoved to take up just half of the closet space.

“We can get another closet added.” He says suddenly, like he’s just realized the amount of things Lance has brought along with him is somewhat imposing. He swallows audibly, “If you want that.”

Lance turns when he’s done filing away his first pile of clothes, thinking of if he can remember which of his packages and containers have the most of his garden-party ware, as it seemed most appropriate for the upcoming wedding planning there was to be done. He catches Keith’s gaze again, though, and Keith is looking a little open at the seams, his eyes blown wider than strictly necessary and his mouth a thin, thoughtful line. The sweater in his hands is clutched pretty intensely, and Lance can’t help but think he’s going to stretch some of the stitching but he just gave it to him so he’s not going to call him out about it. “Sure.” Lance decides on, monosyllabic in a way that is only making fun of Keith.

He thinks to add on some other thought, but the door cracks open after a short few knocks, and Kosmo leaps in before a timid staff member pushes a cart in as well. She addresses the two of them very formally before ducking away, and despite her small voice as she announces dinner she cracks a tiny smile when Keith nods.

Kosmo noses into the closet and starts rummaging around in whatever Keith had been shoving about earlier to make room, and Lance snickers a little. When the staff member has closed the door again, Keith huffs and works at minimizing damage from Kosmo while Lance moves to check out their food.

“It’s a little funny that you don’t mind having food delivered but you don’t have someone to pick up your laundry.” He muses, thinking of the food the night before and wondering suddenly if Keith had even brought it in himself. Even as he thinks it he realizes it must have been Keith, even with his doubt, as no cook or maid would think to bring Lance a plate in the dead of night unless instructed. Still, “Do you sort your greys from your blacks for them?”

Keith’s huff might as well be a laugh, and he pulls Kosmo from the closet with difficulty before he presses the wall for it to snap closed. She whines, and Keith ignores her. “I ask that they don’t enter unless it’s an emergency or someone’s told them to.” He sits heavily at his desk, and Lance thinks it’s a little bold of him to assume Lance will continue bringing the food over but he does, setting one tray in front of Keith at the center and sitting at the corner of the desk to eat his own.

“I sort of like my personal space.” Keith grumbles pretty quietly, tearing into his food. Lance can’t help his discomfort at the words, not really knowing if Keith meant them in that way but not really having another option of how to process the comment.

He embraces Keith’s conversation style, and wonders if Keith uses it as a defense mechanism. “Okay.” Then, when he’s unsatisfied with that defense, he adds, “Would it be possible for me to get a room or…I don’t know, we could add a chamber or something. My father said something about my comforts being paid for, if that’s a problem.” He shoves something vaguely root-like and undoubtedly delicious around on his plate, “Maybe we could even just add a bed or—”

“Not you.” Keith decides, voice stronger. “You don’t make me uncomfortable by being here. Unless you want another room. That’s different.” Lance wonders if he’s practiced this, as well, as it always seems that way when he speaks more than a bit at once. “I just don’t—I don’t even have all of that security junk in here. It feels too suffocating. I don’t like people I don’t know in here.” He shoves food in his mouth but keeps talking, and Lance glances back just to make sure he isn’t imagining it because ew, “We’re going to be spending the rest of our lives together, we should be comfortable doing it.”

It’s hard for Lance to think on that without retorts immediately coming forth thoughtlessly, because this is still an improvement on their first blushes of one another from the day before. He settles on, “Just because we’re going to be with each other for the rest of our lives doesn’t mean your comfort doesn’t matter. We don’t have to…” He sighs through his nose, thinks, and continues when he hears Keith shovel more food in, “We don’t have to throw ourselves at one another, the least we could do in this arrangement is respect one another’s privacy and alone time.”

Keith makes a small noise of disagreement, and Lance is pleased to know his minute disgusted expression worked when he hears Keith swallow before speaking next. “I’m fine. Do you want to sleep in the bed, also? It’s big enough and I’m not—” The silence following is deafening, and Lance wonders if maybe Keith spoke without thinking and was hoping Lance would answer before he could continue. Lance doesn’t. “I’m not going to do anything, but I can sleep on the lounge chair if you’d rather I do or look into getting another bed installed, like you mentioned.” He swallows again, but Lance knows he hasn’t eaten another bite.

He can’t help but roll his eyes then, shoving another root to the other side of his plate and saving the best bites for last. “If you’re comfortable, I’ll sleep in the bed with you.” He turns away from Keith so he doesn’t have to watch his shoulders settle from where they’ve undoubtedly been pinched, but he hears the rustle of his armor enough to know it’s happened.

When their eating drags on too long without further conversation on the topic, Lance finishes his last root and asks, “So, are you buttering me up to practice for the wedding night?”

It has the exact intended effect, Keith sucking in a sharp breath and clearing his throat so he doesn’t choke more on his last scraps of food. He doesn’t wait to swallow properly this time, and Lance decides he can’t win them all. “Yeah, I’ve got no idea about that.”

Lance was joking, so he’s caught a bit off guard by the answer and makes a curious noise in response. Keith continues, albeit much more hesitantly when Lance turns around, “I just haven’t done any of that in years. Probably since the height of the war, before I was crowned.”

“You—” Lance splutters immediately, not needing an explanation but admittedly just very surprised. Keith was an attractive man, and a prince at that, he had all the potential if he wanted—“Do you want to?”

“Right now?”

“No!” Lance rushes to say, shaking his head. He flusters, wants to shove his head in a pillow, and almost has to laugh at himself. “I meant in general. We can—I’m sure there’s some kind of arrangement, aren’t concubines a thing to Daibazaal?”

“Okay.” Keith holds up his hands, placating, “I don’t want a concubine. We really don’t have to worry about this. Are you telling me you were able to find a lot of time for that stuff as a prince, too?”

Lance shoves a few things over on the desk, sitting in front of Keith once his plate is cleared away. “No, I mean, I snuck around. Not everyone knew I was a prince, I bet. Altea holds enough parties that it wouldn’t have started another war if I made out with one random dignitary or two.” Keith leans back against his seat, clearly a little embarrassed, but Lance thinks this is a good opportunity for some necessary pressing that will lead to bonding if done correctly. “I don’t want to burst your bubble but you could have had game at any time if you wanted, you know. I mean, I was certainly ready to give you game at the ball—”

“We don’t get a lot of visitors.” Keith says, as if that’s the ultimatum. It does explain some of it, but Lance can’t help but press a little more, just because Keith looks so ruffled finally, and Lance doesn’t feel like the only exposed one all of a sudden.

“You know we’re going to have to kiss at the wedding, right?” He says, unable to tamp down his grin, “I don’t want to freak you out, but that’s definitely a thing, and I’m going to require at least a pre-wedding kiss to make sure you know what you’re doing and keep up our image of a strong allied couple forged in the heat of war and the birth of a new galaxy.”

“Okay.” Is all Keith says, staring Lance down. His eyes work across Lance shoulders, and Lance braces his arms against the desk in a way that he knows squares them a little nicer. Looking closely enough just a small space away from Keith, he likes to imagine he sees his eyes dilate. Again, Keith says, “Okay.” Then he adds, “So, you want me to find time to practice kissing you in the next few movements?”

Lance just can’t resist, leaning forward just a touch into Keith’s space. “Well, don’t work yourself up about it. Just kiss me now, I already told you I thought you were hot and it’s not going to hurt us in the long run if we practice for the galaxy now instead of later.”

Keith’s eyes are focused like lasers, and Lance is beginning to learn to appreciate that about him. The intensity he holds in each and every one of his actions is fascinating to the smallest degree. He says, “Okay.” Just like every time, Lance wants to laugh to himself, but he loves to hear it now, adding it to his laundry list of things in Keith that are beginning to drive him wild.

He doesn’t need any other prompting, so Lance leans forward, slow enough for Keith to pull away, and he brushes their lips together. Keith remains stiff, and if they knew each other a little better maybe Lance could make a joke, but he doesn’t know what quite to say yet and knows he can only act it out instead. He presses forward, and Keith’s are warm against his own. He’s hesitant to move at first, and when Lance cups a hand gently to his scarred cheek it seems to remind him of the other’s presence, and suddenly there’s all these fractional, Keith-like additions to the kiss. Down to each detail, Keith is expressive even in the way his lips slot against Lance’s, and they share a short and sweet kiss that nonetheless leaves Lance feeling a little light-headed.

Maybe he would ask Hunk if Galrans could be hypnotic. Instead of voicing that idiotic thought, he pulls away and says, “Okay. That’s where the wedding kiss would end, simple and sweet.”

Keith looks a little starry-eyed, and Lance has some sort of deep and dark satisfaction that wants to chase that expression despite knowing it’s reflected on his own face. He knows already what drives him with Keith, though, and that’s knowing that Keith in general is hard to draw expressiveness out of. His eyebrows are drawn almost permanently down in a line, even when smiling, and to see his eyes wide and his gears turning over something Lance showed him makes Lance want to do a cartwheel.

So, he says, “And this would be a behind-closed-doors kiss, in case you were confused.” He leans forward again, and Keith leans in to meet him, and suddenly their kissing moves from simple and sweet to just a bit raunchy. Then, Keith stands into Lance’s space and crowds him against the desk, and it becomes a lot filthier than even Lance intended but would not stop if the world caved in.

One of Keith’s hands, unprompted, finds Lance’s waist to pull him just fractionally closer to the edge of the desk—closer to Keith standing before him—and Lance’s breath hitches just a touch enough for Keith to apparently be driven to chase the noise, pressing in with his chest and keeping Lance in place on his perch.

They’re panting when they pull away properly, Keith seeming to get his better senses and taking a step back, ignoring the clatter of the chair when it hits the back of his knees in his haste. He clears his throat, and beats Lance to saying something stupid first, “Good to know.” He clears his throat again, “We might have to cover that a few more times before the wedding just to be safe.”

“Sure thing, handsome.” Lance agrees right away, biting his tongue at how stupid he feels being so smitten all of a sudden. “Anytime. You know where to find me.”

Unpacking is a lot harder to take care of afterwards with them both distracted, but they manage.

Hunk stops by just one more time before Keith and Lance are permitted to turn in for the night, and he brings Ezor with them to properly introduce her now that they’ve had the day to go through all of their pre-planning discussions to take inventory of one another’s thoughts. She’s charming in a sharpened, persuasive smile kind of way, and Lance can appreciate that about her.

“I met her through the cook, who recommended her because she had been pretty high on the staff list for the last few years in both her care of the palace and her time as an active solider. Also, she loves Altean flora, how great is that!” Hunk is gushing, and Lance grins at each word he explains because he’s just thrilled to know Hunk is enjoying the job despite all surrounding circumstance.

Keith’s disinterest is palpable, but Ezor doesn’t seem offended—Lance thinks maybe that’s explained by her being a staff member in the castle already, they all must be used to his expressions. Lance can see the gleam of recognition in his eyes, at least, and that’s all he can gripe about.

“It’s excellent to meet you, Lady Ezor,” Lance makes sure to lay it on thick, knowing Hunk’s gleam in his eye is nothing to ignore and wondering what he has up his sleeve long-term for this woman, “I’m sure we’ll be able to plan a fantastic event that meets all of our expectations.”

Ezor grins, all teeth and all sharp, “And more. I’m hoping me and Hunk can raise the bar for whatever you’re anticipating and raise it again afterwards. Marmora is long overdue for our wedding of the century, and it’s high time we show the galaxy that we know how to throw it!”

Hunk gives a muted but enthused cheer at the words, and Lance can’t help but laugh a little at the sudden influx of positive energy. It’s a very nice change in comparison to the stoic dignitaries he’s met in the last few days and really any other Marmoran save for Kosmo. “I’m looking forward to it and—” He stops himself, swings his arm around Keith’s, and tugs him close, “So is he! I can’t wait for us to discuss all the themes we’d like to incorporate from both of our homes, isn’t that right?”

“Right.” Keith responds, almost automatically. His face has colored quite suddenly and he averts his eyes from Lance, but it only spurs a sort of pride in him at the reaction.

They delve into some of the more common wedding questions right away, and despite Keith being a little off put they manage to piece together the opening picture for Ezor and Hunk to get off the ground with some ideas. Overall, it seems pretty surprisingly productive, and Lance knows by the end of it he’s glowing in the excitement and attention.

All the way up until their departure, it seems Lance is preening, even to himself. He can’t help the feeling that sinks in the second the door closes and Hunk is gone with it, though, and he feels himself deflate.

Keith is climbing into bed, movements quiet but jarring in the otherwise silent room. That’s what’s next, and Lance is reminded of that with hot embarrassment suddenly, wondering if he’s safe and wondering what he can do if he isn’t. He can’t help his spiraling mind, but when he turns to Keith he can help his cover for it, snapping, “Okay, no. You’re not sleeping in that.”

Keith freezes, halfway tucked into the bed and completely clad in his armor save for his outer chest plate and his boots. Slowly, his eyebrows climb together so he can convey his swimming confusion.

Lance almost groans aloud, but holds that in, shucking off articles of jewelry and outerwear he would never sleep in and organizing them by the closet so they can be put away properly once he has time to think on it. “No armor. Not a thing you have on right now is bedwear.”

“What if I get cold?” Keith asks immediately, and Lance would think he was joking if he didn’t stay completely still in the bed.

He falters, looks around the room, and finds the sweater he had gifted. “You have a sweater. I’ll let that slide.” He tosses the article over, and to his mild surprise Keith actually nods and stands, beginning to undress.

Lance tries not to watch, but he’s more than a little transfixed by the view. Keith leaves each item littered at the floor where they drop, one dull thud of armor after another, and when he reaches his formfitting suit that each of his pieces connects to, he moves to remove that as well. Lance wants to avert his eyes, then, feeling a little creepy, but he realizes that he doesn’t know what to expect from Keith. Each patch of skin that gets uncovered as he removes the suit has it’s own story, a small scar or smattering of some kind of marking, and Lance remembers a little abruptly that the man before him served in the war effectively enough to be named a successor of the cause birthed from it.

Keith doesn’t address that Lance is watching him, though there is no way he isn’t aware. Instead, he throws his offered sweater on and crosses the room to look for something to pair with it. He pulls on a pair of loose shorts from a different pile on the floor, and when he finally turns back to meet Lance’s eyes with his own dark ones he does so to gesture to himself and wordlessly ask for approval.

“Yes,” Lance decides, shaking his head a fraction to clear his thoughts that are beginning to obsess over the way Keith’s forearms are pulling at the sweater’s stitches just a touch. He looks softer, suddenly, like a person Lance can actually get to know instead of wanting to fling around with or be stuck with for their lives, and he’s a little affected by that. He continues, “That’ll do.”

“Good.” Keith grunts, making his way back to the bed to flop over onto it and shove his head ruthlessly into his pillow. Kosmo moves at the foot of it to find his feet through the covers, seemingly wanting to keep them warm, and Keith makes a small clicking noise in the back of his throat to her.

It mystifies Lance a bit when he realizes that Keith had changed without an ounce of complaint or protest, but instead of dwelling he pulls on a robe and makes his own way to the bed, the lights dimming at Keith’s random press of a button on his nightstand. He lays at the other end, where Keith is furthest from him, and neither him nor Kosmo stir at his presence.

He tries to force an ease to him, but his mind is still wandering. The ceiling isn’t particularly interesting, but it’s hard for Lance to tear his eyes away to scrutinize his surroundings and think on them further. This is a test, he can feel it in the air, and if he fails to sleep or get comfortable then they will be backpedaling over what was a good day and omen for their future.

Time passes, though, and Lance still can’t sleep. He listens raptly to each small breath from Keith and each occasional snuffle from Kosmo, mind unsatisfied, and he worries if time passes too quickly he’ll look like a gaunt corpse if he stays in this pose when he finally succumbs to sleep. He turns away from the ceiling at that thought, and Keith is curled towards him, eyes asleep and breaths quiet.

He looks even softer like this, so Lance looks away so he won’t feel as though he’s taking advantage of this vulnerability. He stares at the desk across the room instead, and the blank walls beside it, and his mind wanders to wonder how fortified the windows lining the room are. He turns around again, because that train of thought will not be productive or him, but there Keith’s face is.

Keith’s brows have pinched, just a touch, but his eyelids don’t flutter and his breath doesn’t pause, no other signs of his awareness. Lance wonders if Keith has ever wondered about the sturdiness and safety of his own room, but he somewhat doubts it. He turns to the ceiling, and when he realizes it’s just as boring as before he turns to the desk again, sighing and holding his breath afterwards when he has a quick flash of guilt for the noise.

Nothing stirs in the room, but suddenly a hand wraps around Lance, and he sucks in another noisy breath. He almost protests, but he’s dragged back the distance to Keith’s chest, and Keith holds fast. “Calm down.” He murmurs, voice low. When Lance gently turns his head a fraction to see if he can glance at Keith over his shoulder, the hold around his waist tightens just fractionally, and Lance curses how warm and flustered he feels suddenly. Keith makes a sleepy noise, one that makes Lance second guess his consciousness, and he mutters, “…I’ve got next watch.”

Kosmo stands and turns in place before settling back down over all of their feet together. “Oh.” Lance accidentally breaths aloud, his mind racing now for another reason. He hasn’t been held like this in—well, ever, maybe. Not since him and Allura were old enough not to have sleepovers any longer and certainly he never had a lover who could stay with him long enough for him to feel this tenderness in his bed—Keith shuffles behind him again, his palm warm where it holds Lance in place. Ultimately, it’s just one more reason Lance thinks it’ll be difficult to find sleep, but he feels Keith’s breathing through his back, and works to keep his own in sync, so his fight or flight dies in his stomach and he simply wants to exist in the moment that this is, breathing together.

The fight against his spiraling mind doesn’t last much longer, but Lance’s resolve hadn’t been much stronger, anyway. He chalks it up to his already set-in tire for why he’d fallen asleep so quickly after that.

He wakes up the next morning without Keith behind him, but Kosmo is still curled around his feet radiating warmth, and he knows then that he’s either won the pup over or Keith hasn’t been gone long. He pushes down the roiling in his gut that tells him someone exited his room without his being aware, and when he peers around the lightened room he sees that square in the middle of Keith’s desk is a vase of branches—Gildyuv branches, specifically, if the colored buds along the stems were anything to go by.

It’s more than a little sweet, and plenty to make Lance tear up a little at the thoughtfulness. He vows to himself to thank Hunk at the next opportunity and ensure he has some time off unexpectedly in the next movement. He was always so good to Lance, he deserved just the world.

And he tells him as much when he sees him next, swinging an arm around his friend and advisor and smushing him a bit as he thanks him. His heart feels lighter and he can’t quite describe why, but he knows Hunk will know he appreciates it all the same, even if he does look a little surprised and confused at the praise.

He can’t look at the buds and branches for too long in-person without feeling homesick, but he thinks on them fondly for the next few days, so purely delighted by the gesture. They even seem as if they’ll bloom soon, and that would be some sort of prophetic treat that Lance would love to be witness to.

The days pass in a blur once Ezor is introduced to their planning routine and dives in head-first. She is ruthless in a way that Hunk is not, packing each moment of their schedule with someone to turn to, or an organization to answer for. She maintains each minute of it, as well, with a sharp grin and unwavering gaze that can unnerve even the most accomplished in her field. It’s her ruthlessness that gets Lance the most details, though, and he finds out the name of the gardener, and the date of the impending wedding, and all other manner of things he hadn’t thought to ask yet.

The gardener’s name is Ryner, the wedding is in three movements, and he does not feel prepared.

Keith is irritable with the newfound activity he is bound to—though Lance thinks he may just always be irritable and he would have no way of knowing, because they were strangers before this all had started. It does irk Lance more than a little, though, because Keith’s schedule must be pretty generally light if he can’t keep up with a back to back schedule without letting his irritation show. He grunts his answers and lets his eyes wander where Lance thinks he would never, but when Lance speaks for the both of them and feels out of turn Keith looks at him with a muted gratitude so profound to Lance that it makes him double-take. Even more irksome, if you ask Lance.

There are sweeter traits Lance is reluctant to recognize in Keith through their busy schedule, as well. When they try recipes from the cook, slowly piecing together what will be the meals at their banquets and the desserts to follow, no matter how many times she explains the dishes or their names, Keith cannot keep them straight. Either he is loathed to pronounce them wrong or say the wrong word, or he simply can’t keep straight any of the dozens of names they hear at a time, opting instead for, “not this” or “this one is good.” It’s simple in a way that Lance is surprised he admires about him, and he sometimes has to hide a smile when Keith finishes a dish simply because it’s worth finishing, not concerned about the courses they’ll have to go through following.

He always thanks the cook for each meal, too, which Lance was taught to do as well, and knowing that part of Keith regardless of how small makes him feel a sudden connection to the other. He realizes their similarities when presented with Keith in any air that isn’t defensive. There are the glaring similarities, of course, like their positions and predicament, but there are also mannerisms that tell to histories that are unsorted.

Keith fidgets with his hands when they sit for too long, and it is each motion in those fidgeting that Lance wonders what they are products of. He rubs his thumb across his forefinger as if he is channeling the energy there, and Lance grabs his hand to interlock their fingers and tease him the nth time he’s noticed it, listening to Hunk explain something about their seating chart. Keith stills at the action, and Lance lets the teasing die on his tongue, struck suddenly by how accepting Keith was of the gesture. His face betrays nothing, his eyes laser-focused head to the diagram Hunk is editing, and Lance just watches him.

Keith’s fingers flex, but he stays put. Lance wonders if he’s ruined his focus by distracting the channel to his energy, but the next time a meeting drones a little longer than is comfortable and Keith begins that fidgeting, he pauses and finds Lance’s hand, like Lance has started something that is only natural and it eases him regardless of Lance’s intended outcome. Lance makes a habit of grabbing those hands more often when he sees them in the corner of his eye just a touch more agitated than usual, and that seems to do some kind of trick for Keith, as well.

During another discussion that requires their rapt and endless attention that drones on a touch too long, Keith’s hand finds Lance’s knee under a table, stilling it’s jittery bounce and revealing to Lance that Keith’s been finding his tells as well.

He presses Keith into a wall in one of the winding corridors in the Palace of Blades later that afternoon, just to feel as though he still has the upper hand. Keith is endlessly receptive, even when it seems like Lance has caught him off guard. He gives easily, and lets Lance take and take from him, stealing one breath after another until they’re both flushed and messy to see even in the ever-dim lighting of the lesser used halls. “Good practice.” Keith huffs, mouth just a touch apart from Lance’s. It sounds like he could be joking, and Lance thinks it’s very sexy of him to say.

Each night they fall asleep similar to their first together, as well, and that does nothing but add to the building in Lance. His initial thoughts have returned with a vengeance, the innocent-enough ones where he presumed Keith was someone who could keep them both happy for a night and they would never see each other again, so that small world of an evening was theirs to cherish. Keith’s hands keep him close and Lance thinks nothing of his worries at the edge of his mind and instead lets himself wander with that warmth, feeling simpler. He wakes tired and still isn’t sleeping as well as he’d like, but the lingering warmth is enough to remind him each morning that his sleep, no matter how little, had been a reality.

“Do you want to spar together?” Keith asks one dim morning, rousing Lance for the first time instead of leaving him to wake alone with Kosmo.

Lance only looks at him for long moments, groggy and processing what he’s being bid with. He rolls, confused, and turns his head fully to take in Keith’s appearance. His armor, as usual, and nothing to betray any sleep on him. Maybe he’d even already been awake a while and come back to wake Lance after some pre-training.

“Yes.” Lance agrees mindlessly, mentally undressing Keith from his uncomfortable armor and letting that initially humoring thought get the better of him.

Keith nods, and when they stare at each other a beat longer Lance realizes he’s being waited on, waking up a little further. He gets out of bed quickly—but not too quickly—and moves to change, pulling on one of Keith’s worn tunics if only with the excuse that he hadn’t brought any training uniforms as he has not been in training for quite a few deca-pheobs.

Keith’s staring at him when he turns, but Lance finds he’s not surprised because he seems to find a way to always do that. When he’s ready, Keith leads him through the palace halls, slowly becoming familiar to Lance, and while they do not follow the path to the usual garden training area he finds Keith in, he’s not surprised where they end up. It’s a large, impersonal room, not as bright as the training decks in the Castle of Lions but serving the same purpose, surely. There are small facets in the wall where Lance can pinpoint where one might manually bid supplies and structural changes, but it is otherwise smooth and seamless like no battlefield is.

Lance realizes with a bit of a start that he might not be ready for this. He does not let his gulp become audible, however, even with that realization, because he is not ready to let Keith see his hesitation. He can stand his ground and bare a bit of teeth and keep the playing field a little even, but Keith is war-scarred and grizzled and there is a part of him that wonders if that’s all he’ll be able to do, if he ever needed more as he once has.

“Do you want to start on some hand-to-hand or do you want to show me some of that sharpshooting of yours?” Keith asks, walking to a random portion of the wall that makes sense to him and bidding forward a datalog to play with.

Hand-to-hand. Lance looks after him, licking his lips and wondering if he could hold his own enough to make Keith sweat, to feel them roll over one another like in some dumb romance novel Coran would pretend he isn’t reading between meetings. It’s not the first time, but Lance jolts a bit when he realizes he’s thinking of what Keith’s hips would feel like slotted over his own, even if just to pin him to the hard floor or vice versa. Between this and the mental undressing he had caught himself doing this morning, Lance can only mentally berate himself for letting his mind run too free without check.

They’re not bad fantasies, at least. He can only be so mad.

“Let me show off.” Lance says instead, looking forward into the emptiness and thinking it will be a good dominance establishment if he sets off from the gate with a display of his proficiency. That way, if Keith destroys him in hand-to-hand it won’t look pitiful when he blows him away with his long range in the aftermath—less like he’s grasping at straws. “Long or short range won’t matter.” He clarifies, because it’s true and he thinks it’ll look even better if he doesn’t have a preference.

“Sure.” Keith only says, tapping away at a few things. Lance watches as targets materialize, some moving and spinning and some stagnant, and there is a certain thrill he feels at seeing a new set-up. The Castle of Lions training rooms always randomize, but it is within a certain margin, whereas this new training room in the Palace of Blades is truly new. A moment after their appearance, Lance turns to the sound of Keith’s shuffling and is handed a rifle by him. “Here.”

Lance nods his thanks and moves to the center of the deck, motioning for Keith to back up and ignoring his snort in reply. He complies anyway, and when Lance has mentally accounted for a few dozen targets, he begins in rapid succession to ding each and every one of them that have materialized. It’s new, and there are a few irritating shots that Lance will remember not quite missing the mark, be that to the outer rings of the targets or just grazing their sides, but overall it’s not the most difficult exercise so he’s finished shortly.

He turns to Keith when he’s done, who looks stoic and just as serious as ever. “Good form.” Keith says before Lance can come up with some witty comment, and he tries not to resent that the opportunity was taken from him to be momentarily charming in the silence.

“Thanks.” Lance replies, realizing that the quiet in the training deck is going to start getting eerie. “Are you going to challenge me to a duel so you can show off, too, or were you just trying to watch me flex these bad boys?” He gestures to his biceps one at a time, and Keith pushes himself off the wall with an amused look, moving to the datalog again.

Keith sasses, just a bit, “Just watch you flex, but that’s not a bad idea.” Two hilts thrust from the wall, ready to be drawn, and Lance complies to Keith’s gesture to hand over the rifle. “You said you had experience with swords, right? Long?” He moves over to the side where the hilts have appeared and draws them, two twin broadswords of energy materializing as he does.

It’s a shame to miss out on further hand-to-hand daydreaming, but Lance can’t help his grin anyway. “I never got fully trained in any kind, but I dabbled a lot back in the day. They focused me a lot on ranged weapons when they realized I had the eyes.”

Keith nods, “As they should have. Those eyes are—” Lance doesn’t miss his tell; the smallest hiccup as Keith turns his gaze away from Lances, flips one of the blades, and thrusts the attention away from his words forcibly as he tries to hand Lance his sword. “—Nice. You’re good.”

“Thanks.” Lance grins wider, feeling a little romanced despite the simplicity of the words and the admission being obvious.

They go at it without further exchange necessary, moving to the center of the room again and sparing each other no quarter. Keith is good—war-fit good, of course—and Lance admits to himself his less than stellar ability to keep up with it all, but at least he can hold his own for enough of a time to see Keith’s laser focus, driving his dark eyes into total neutrality. It’s a little scary in a way that Lance will memorize, for future reference should the need to recognize it ever occur.

Lance’s sword is knocked from his hand first, and he playfully throws his hands in the air and keeps himself calm while he stalks off to get it. He can feel Keith’s eyes on his back, but he focuses more on the final moves to their back and forth so he can walk himself through it. Keith doesn’t know he’s mentally walking through it, though, so he begins, “That last twist you did wrecked your form, that’s why you had to compromise yourself at the last second. If it were for a killing strike, that would be one thing, but you moved for a leg instead of something more fatal.”

“I see.” Lance agrees placidly, already having told himself the same thing. He memorizes Keith’s words for it, as well, so he can turn those over in his mind when the nights get long. “Good to know.” He retrieves his hilt, the energy of the sword re-appearing, and when he turns to Keith of course he is already being stared at.

Keith isn’t finished. “I liked your moves, they’re refreshing. You’re more defensive than I thought you’d be, which is always the better side to be on. I have trouble with that, myself. When you carried your stance, did you have to force your corrections? A lot of it seemed natural.”

“Sure.” Lance hums, moving back to Keith. “The stance is the first thing they teach you, so that’s the part I guess I won’t be forgetting anytime soon. Were you taught the same?”

A strange, uncomfortable look crosses over Keith’s face. It’s not quite pained, but it’s not quite tolerant either. “I learned on the fly. Rebellion, and all. It wasn’t the first thing I was doing, but there was a point where everyone was expected to pick up a sword or a gun, and I drew a straw and got what I got.”

Lance waffles, mentally panics, and again says, “I see.” He wants the floor to swallow him up despite it being a perfectly acceptable answer, one that is so simple even Hunk would compliment him on not revealing too much of his opinion on the matter—perfectly demure. Instead of clinging to that knowledge, he plows forward so Keith is appropriately re-assured, “Well, you seem trained, so I’m glad to know you must have inspired many on the battlefield. It looks like you were born to swing that thing.”

Keith swirls his energy sword in the air, and Lance laughs so he can correct himself. “Well, maybe a real one, but the principle stands.” Keith’s uncomfortable look falls away, then, to make room for a small smile, and Lance realizes that maybe Keith was anxious of his reaction to news regarding the war. It’s a silly thing to be anxious about, because Lance knows every detail people will spare him regarding the war and it’s activity, let alone their relationship being the product of it’s conclusion. The last thing he would think to do is slight someone who was broken-in due to necessity in the heat of it, regardless of how uncomfortable that reality might have been.

He stops himself just in time to keep a question from his lips. He swings his sword again, instead, hoping to catch Keith off guard with that instead of his wanting to know how long Keith had served, and where he had come from in the first place. He could read these things, he could ask them, surely, but it feels deceitful to not know them from Keith’s answers, so he won’t ask Hunk later. He knows Keith isn’t royal by the standard of him being Kolivan’s son, but Kolivan isn’t royal by the standard of Altean traditional royalty either, so that holds no judgement. All of Marmora is new, but Keith’s presence is an enigma to Lance, like a contradiction he can both relate to and directly undermines the existence of.

It’s not long before Keith knocks his sword away again, and he has all the more comments for Lance. His eyes remain focused, and Lance finds he likes to see them that way despite the vacancy there. He wonders, briefly, when he sees a bead of sweat roll down Keith’s temple, if that focused look comes in other activity that doesn’t require so much violence.

He’s spiraling again, though, so he’s glad when Hunk arrives to tell them they’re going to be late for their next appointment with Ezor and the cook. It’s always the cook first thing in the morning, and Lance is starting to think Hunk just wants to see Shay while she explains their breakfast to them.

It’s just before lunch, in the garden, that Lance starts to feel his tire again. Ezor and one of their dozens of florists are engaged in a discussion about symbolic and necessary Altean flowers and how best to incorporate them in the décor, occasionally asking Hunk for a snippet of context, and Lance and Keith only stand at the sidelines nodding mutely to decisions that are the last of their worries.

Occasionally, as is becoming the case in these long meetings that are more so about Hunk and Ezor’s agreements than Keith and Lance’s input, Keith will lean over to Lance and regale some story about Ezor that doesn’t fit in line with Lance’s supposed image of her from their more recent work together. There’s a past they both share, and Lance has garnered that she was vital in rebellion work as recently as the last deca-phoebs before the treaties were even begun, and Lance finds himself marveling at the fact that each person who walks on Marmoran territory is someone who has willfully chosen to defect against the Galra Empire, and that value runs clearest through them all.

He’s telling Lance another of these stories now, speaking just under his breath as to not interrupt the conversation to their side about Vilxennj blossoms and their color against the typical shade of Juniberry. It has plenty of highs and lows, even, and moments that Lance can’t help but stifle a laugh, imagining a years younger Keith being bossed around by Ezor in the heat of a battle and being reprimanded for not listening. It’s hard to keep up with at some points, both due to Keith’s detail-missing and Lance’s swimming mind, but the gist of it all sticks with Lance, and he tries to commit to memory the importance of Ezor in Keith’s life outside of wedding planning. He would have to ask Hunk where he had grabbed her from.

Things get quiet suddenly, though, and Lance realizes it’s because he’s awkwardly unbuttoned the top of his collar and Hunk has silenced them at the motion. He tries to convey something to Hunk—confusion, maybe—but whatever he is willing Hunk to understand falls on deaf ears, because Hunk looks away and asks someone to get a chair and an umbrella.

It seems excessive, and Lance snorts to himself as he turns back to Keith, but his head swims again and this time his vision goes with it. He feels strong hands clasp around his arms, steadying and warm, and he sighs. “Lance?” He hears Keith ask, but the sound is faint and his own eyes are too unfocused to meet the others’ again. Spots of black wipe his mind for a few blank and blissful seconds.

Lance wakes with a start, discomfort crawling over his skin and automatically assuming Allura must be near if how ruined he feels is any tell. There’s shade over his eyes but he still feels sweaty and uncomfortable, and his head is being cushioned from the grass below by a warm hand.

“Oh my stars—Stay down.” Hunk grumbles, cutting himself off to keep a forced calm that Lance can see through. Under his breath, he mutters, “You are going to give me grey hairs and then I’ll never hear the end of it from you.”

Lance swallows and finds his throat feels very dry. “You would look hot with grey hair, at least.” Hunk rolls his eyes and puts a serene smile on when someone else arrives. Lance realizes he’s laying on Keith’s hand, who is beside him looking awfully put out by the situation. Ezor, in the background of Lance’s mind, can still be heard chattering with the florist.

The new arrival begins checking his vitals routinely, and Lance knows his face is coloring for a lot of reasons but mostly due to embarrassment from being so fussed over all at once. He feels a little like a drama queen. “This is Ulaz.” Hunk says after the stranger has moved to dig in his bag for something, as if he has an autopilot to get Lance through all interactions even when his only role is to be doted on so they can assure he isn’t dead. “The Palace’s medical chief.”

“Good to meet you, Chief Ulaz.” Lance automatically replies, his voice slurring as he fades a bit again. A sharp snap sound jolts him again, and he weakly glares in Keith’s general direction, knowing his other hand was the source of the offensive noise.

“Stay awake for a few more seconds until Ulaz is done.” Keith’s voice is strong and clear this time, at least, and Lance scrunches his nose up so Keith can know his distaste.

Ulaz says something, but Lance’s sluggish brain forces words out to cut him off without realizing it. “Hunk, am I—”

“No.” Hunk thankfully answers before he can embarrass himself with what would be a random and wild fear to anyone else. “You’re just dehydrated.”

“That he is.” Lance hears Ulaz this time, “And very tired, by the looks of it. You need sleep and lots of fluids, and I’ll have Keith see to it that you’ll be getting both.” He talks to Keith, then, Lance can tell by the way his addresses change and his voice gets softer, not needing Lance’s sparse attention. “Bring him to my lab after he’s had at least the night, and make sure he goes soundly. I’ll do a full physical for him in the morning to make sure there’s nothing residual we should be keeping an eye on.”

“M’ Fine.” Lance hums the words mostly, but he whines when the hand under his head disappears. He knows he made the sound, is the worst part, and he wants to rip off his mouth at the neediness he’s publicly let slip.

Keith’s warm hands return, though, this time under his waist and knees and lifting him against his shoulder. He’s strong—stupidly strong, really—and Lance doesn’t hear so much of a grunt of exertion from him as he’s raised. He barks a few things at some of the nearby staff and Lance wants to twist in his arms and send apologetic gazes to whoever’s on the receiving end of this rude, rude prince, but he’s feeling his tire pull at him warily again. He can only hold himself back just enough to keep his hands from wandering for a comfortable purchase, but he can’t stop himself from his face finding the crook in Keith’s neck, breathing deeply and allowing the scent and presence of another person he trusts to ground him.

And just before he falls under again he realizes those implications for what they are, because Keith is suddenly someone he trusts.

Chapter Text

The next time Lance rouses again he almost wants to believe it was a strange dream, because above him is a familiar ceiling and at his feet is the familiar warmth of Kosmo curled up. There’s no warmth to betray the lost presence of the ever early-rising Keith, though, and the moonlight is still streaming in enough that Lance knows he should be there, anyway, so he turns to find him and is not disappointed.

Keith is sat by the side of the bed, a datapad in his hand but his eyes trained away from it, to where Lance is. He keeps his eyes trained to Lance’s own until Lance’s expression grimaces, and only then does he speak, as if he had been waiting for assurance that he was actually awake. “Good…” he checks his datapad, “…morning.”

“Morning.” Lance replies, his throat still feeling dry but his mind significantly clearer. “Not my worst medical fiasco.” He thinks the medical fiasco he’s referencing is implied, but Keith’s expression in return betrays nothing. “Everyone okay?” He thinks the is Hunk okay is implied, but he doesn’t want to draw attention to asking after him, or his grey hairs.

“How are you feeling? Our Medical Chief will need to see you in the morning for another examination, but did something happen?” Keith’s questions are made with an unyielding tone, like there is no doubt or room for Lance to wiggle out of answering them. 

Lance hums and tries anyway. “Not really. Just got caught at a bad time.”

That answer is unsurprisingly not up to Keith’s satisfaction, and he sets his datapad down to lean forward and look at Lance more sternly. He’s almost eye-level with him on the bed in whatever small stool he’s found, and Lance sits up to prepare his defenses both physically and emotionally, because he doesn’t like his space being crowded in a conversation such as this.

“Why did you let yourself get tired to the point of exhaustion?” Keith asks more forcefully, no anger in his voice but still unyielding, like there is no other way out of the conversation. “It was easy to assume Alteans needed less sleep, so explain why you coasted on that instead of letting me—Hunk, or someone, I guess. Anyone, really—know that you weren’t keeping up your health.”

The words are an insult enough, but the mention of bringing the issue to someone’s attention—let alone Keith’s, who he’s just come to the realization would have been a point of trusted confession—makes Lance sneer openly, trying to hide his embarrassed flush and general mortification of his being so caught up in this event. “I thought I was sleeping fine, this literally doesn’t matter. I’m sorry for causing a fuss. Can I get a glass of water or something?”

Keith doesn’t let up, taking a deep breath and leaning back again. “You’ve looked more peaceful sleeping here for the afternoon and evening than you have in all of your nights here, and you had to faint to do that, so I doubt you didn’t know something wasn’t clicking.” He looks to Kosmo, who snuffles and sits up as if she’s been called. “Whatever half-assed sleep you were getting obviously hasn’t been cutting it, so—”

“I’m half human. Like you, I assume.” Lance cuts in, propping his arms up on his knees and resting his head on them. “Ideally I would sneak in an eight hour sleep overnight, but that’s not always something that comes easy, which is human, so—”

Keith cuts him off as well, like a form of payback, “So okay. Why doesn’t it?”

The fact that he follows with no other questions makes Lance irritated, because it all must be so simple for Keith, in his head and in his castle and not understanding another care in the world. That thought is unfair, though, and he knows it, so he holds it behind his teeth and lets the silence marinate between them. He has no reason Keith needs to be explained to, because it should be common sense to anyone what plagues Lance and what might keep him awake for each tick that passes in the night until his body forces him to give in.

He’s beginning to gather that Keith doesn’t have the most common sense, though, and maybe that’s born from his years on the front lines instead of with the people and maybe it’s born from Keith’s disposition to stand outside of a crowd, but either way it is a hinderance to this conversation that Lance needs to suddenly spell out. All for Keith’s benefit, and much to Lance’s continued agony.

“What am I supposed to do?” He bites first, a hot anger rolling up his chest and making him want to clutch at the sheets and throw another knife into Keith’s weird little dartboard across the room from his desk. “I’m sure whenever you felt like you were too exposed you just got the best sleep, didn’t you? You can’t expect my body to just reject the idea that I might be in danger here and—”

Keith cuts him off again, and Lance wants to scream. “You’re going to have to be more clear. Are you saying you feel like you’re in danger?” His voice has an incredulity to it that Lance is appalled by. The sheer bone-headedness that a person must feel to not see the reason behind any insecurity in Lance’s position drives him up a wall, and he can’t help the way he whips his face to Keith’s and glares.

“I touched down on this planet without an entourage besides Hunk, who isn’t combat trained, and the only security detail I got was some teenager showing up to say hi once my stuff had already been put here.” He fumes, his words feeling explosive as they finally leave him, “I’m sorry I’m a little pre-dispositioned to feel unsafe in this type of situation, regardless of whether this is my home now or not. My only guard detail right now is a dog, is that supposed to make me feel safe here? What am I supposed to think when I sit here at night? The only thing that keeps me getting any sleep at all is knowing you could probably hold your own against some kind of attack because at least you have experience,” His mind is swimming again, and he’s thirsty enough to almost get up and leave this conversation all together, “And I…I just want a drink.”

The silence yawns again, and Lance is horrified to realize he’s just exploded at his future husband and is feeling on the verge of tears with all of the warm frustration in him.

“In a second.” Is all Keith says, his voice suddenly much gentler than it had been and so much more pliant to Lance’s ears. He shifts, and Lance looks away, trying to bury his shame and wondering what might be simmering under the surface of Keith if Lance is any model for what can come forth with just soft prodding. Keith begins, voice uncertain and cautious, “I don’t understand the problem with your guard detail, did something happen with your personal guards?”

“What—” Lance jolts, bewilderment taking over any other emotion, “Are you joking? What guards?”

Keith’s voice is still low and cautious, and it sounds as though he’s piecing things together as he speaks. “You have three personal guards that rotate in shifts of two at all times, and at night our suite is attended to by the castle guard staff. Have you not—” He clears his throat, and Lance wonders if he’s afraid of insulting Lance by his language now of all times, “Do you not know about them?”

“No.” Lance replies blandly, still close to disbelieving. “No, I do not know about them.”

There is something slotting into place with Keith’s words, though, uncertain as it is. The original team of Marmorans, long before there was an established planet for their work and to honor their rebellion efforts, had been a band of informants that emphasized intel and undercover research for the beginning workings of uprooting the empire, and Lance knows that because of the dossier he was given on the planet’s history in his movements leading up to his arrival here.

“I mean—” Keith clears his throat again, “They’re pretty undercover most of the time, I can start pointing them out, just because I know them. I would have thought—At least that you would have met them?” He trails off a little, and Lance turns to him again, curiosity replacing any need to avert his gaze. When he speaks again, it’s a little more assured-sounding. “I know it’s not much like the detail you probably had on Altea, but did you really think you had no protection here? Since you got here, your safety has always been part of the staff’s top priorities along with your comfort, it’s even written into the treaty for stars’ sake that your every need is attended to—” Keith cuts himself off abruptly enough for it to startle Lance into realizing that he’s been staring and leaning forward to Keith, drinking in each word with a feverish sort of incredulity.

“Do you want a detail of twenty, Lance?” Keith then starkly asks, shaking his head at himself and unable to meet Lance’s eyes. “Thirty? What would make you comfortable? We haven’t asked that directly enough since you’ve gotten here and I’m starting to realize that.”

Lance flusters then, surprised and unsure. There is so much inside of him clawing to get out and to shatter through each of his carefully laid layers to keep him from open, vulnerable situations exactly like this. With nothing else to say, he only mutters, “That just sounds excessive.”

“It’s not.” Keith assures, his voice firm and unyielding again, “Not if it’s what you want. Not if it’s what makes you comfortable.”

“I would be comfortable meeting my supposed guard.” Lance decides on, feeling uneasy and cracked open in the midst of all of this conversation.

Keith nods, and stands. “I can do that. I’ll have them all gathered properly after you meet Ulaz again in the morning, but if it makes you feel any better in the meantime I can vouch for them myself. They used to be my own, and they were all part of the older factions of the Blade before we became a unified population.”

Lance nods, moving to pet Kosmo where she’s been waiting patiently and trying to mill over their conversation despite it not quite being complete yet. “That does. Who watches over you now?”

“Newer members.” Keith shrugs, walking around the foot of the bed and shucking off armor as he does so. “I let the new recruits do it because they’re easy to ditch if I don’t feel like dealing with it and because I’m probably fine without any at all.”

Mentally filing that away as another Keith issue to address, Lance watches him warily and nods. “Makes sense.” Keith lifts a foot to climb into bed, but Lance holds up a hand to stop him and he complies, not an inch moving further. “I need water.”

Lance meets Narti, Acxa, and Zethrid the next day, and is more than a little put out to realize they have effectively been blending in under the assumption Lance had that they were other palace staff, seamless in the faces of housekeepers and gardeners and scholars he had been memorizing over his movements here. They all seem pleased at a polite and proper introduction, and have no issues walking Lance through a few of his security questions. Lance confesses he didn’t know they existed, as well, and that seems to please them all.

He is a little miffed to find out that Hunk knew about them and hadn’t done a proper introduction, but he can’t be mad for too long because admittedly it was a little cool to have a security detail that could blend into the shadows without a trace.

Wedding preparations start back up again without a single hitch, though Lance feels as though their schedule and conversation seems light enough for him to be suspicious of them all going easy on him. Ezor grins at him with shark-like teeth when they speak one-on-one next, and she reveals with no small amount of glee that she had originally been set as one of Keith’s personal guard as well, and she’s pleased to know her sisters-in-arms were undetected entirely by him. Lance mentally vows to keep her on staff for a long time to come once the wedding is over, and he makes a note to ask Hunk where he even found her in the first place and saw to make her a wedding planner for them.

Keith is abruptly attentive, almost to the point of being strange to Lance due to sheer unfamiliarity. His hand is at Lance’s back when they stand with one another, and his eyes find Lance’s own more often before each answer required of him, like he is in a constant state of gaging Lance’s wellbeing. It would be nerve-wracking to have that sudden interest if it weren’t the exact reassurance Lance was requiring. It’s nice, for now, to feel that attention on him in less of a public way and more in an intimate checking-in sort of setting.

It’s not just through their first few meetings once the wedding planning is resumed, either. Keith maintains this attention all through the day, to the point where Lance wonders if it had always been there under a different guise—if perhaps Keith’s lingering, inscrutable stares were leading to this action on their own in due time, sped only by Lance’s confession in the night. Either way, it is doting, and Keith fixes his plates and each small gesture likewise makes Lance wonder if he’s finally feeling the romancing he’s been waiting for Keith to implement—it especially makes him wonder, like the gazes, if there was something inscrutable from Keith that was leading to this romancing in the first place.

Like the graze of a thumb against old callouses, or the quiet request to innocently ask after a boy you had a nice time with one night.

Lance’s chest is feeling quite full by the time they return to the chambers for the night, their meetings taking them deeply into the evening despite their ease and making Lance truly wish for sleep for the first time in movements, it seems. He stops Keith as he sits at the edge of the bed, preventing him from laying down and getting his feet warmed by Kosmo in the way he’s intending and leaving him to look up at Lance inquisitively.

“Prove you can kiss me.” Lance demands, feeling bold and not knowing what to do with that boldness. Keith’s gaze does something funny, casting away and darkening before his compliance comes. He draws Lance in, making him slot his knees on either side of Keith’s hips and when their lips meet one another it is soft and tender.

Keith kisses Lance gently, his hands never straying from their polite rest on Lance’s knees, and when Lance turns to deepen the kiss Keith greedily follows the example. It’s only when they’re short of breath, well past the point of where an appropriate-before-a-crowd kiss would have ended, that Lance murmurs against Keith’s lips a soft, “Thank you for today.”

When he draws away a bit, Keith looks at Lance with a type of ferocity in his gaze he can’t quite recognize, but he decides to claim is protective. It feels right, to be protected by Keith in that way and for Keith, someone who has earned his trust much later than he deserved through Lance, to give that to Lance as freely as he has given Lance everything else besides his words.

“You better sleep well tonight.” Keith almost threatens, intentionally ignoring the gratitude from Lance and making sure Lance knows it’s unneeded in that way. Lance can’t help the laugh that tumbles from his lips at the urging, nodding and slipping off of Keith’s waist to crawl over to his side of the bed.

He settles down and feels Keith do the same behind him. “I’ll do my best.” He muses, his voice still laced with his amusement. Keith’s hand doesn’t wait for him to be restless before snaking around him, though, and he’s pulled into Keith’s chest slowly so they can slot together at each inch possible, their legs tangling after just a moment of dealing with their new position.

Keith’s voice is low when he speaks, as if he doesn’t want to wake anyone yet the only body sleeping nearby is Kosmo. “If anyone wanted to touch you,” He says, sending a small splatter of goosebumps across Lance’s shoulders and arms, “They would have to get through palace security, our personal chamber guard, the dog, and myself.” His arm tightens around Lance’s middle just a fraction, and Lance thinks it’s more than a little hot. “So, when I say you’re safe, I mean it. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The words, despite their intensity, comfort Lance more and more with each passing moment. Where only anxiety would keep him awake typically, instead he finds himself replaying the words in his mind like a mantra. Keith shuffles to settle down more and catch sleep, and when he rests his forehead in the center of Lance’s back he almost wants to bark with another laugh. It can’t be a coincidence, Keith’s words and his gestures and his position, and Lance feels so exposed and peeled apart and so warm and loved all at once. He lets a slow, long breath tumble from his chest, and he decides if Keith doesn’t know—if his reassurance is out of total devotion rather than assessment of Lance’s situation—than he should, and Lance will tell him so someone who has earned his trust finally holds one of his deeper secrets.

He also decides, just before the lulls of sleep take him for the night, that he knows he will be okay with Keith. Even if that holds to be untrue in the long run, he can’t help but be happy with whose bed he ended up in.

Lance waits the next morning, not wanting to confess to some tragedy without Keith’s prompting and afraid of ruining the calm atmosphere of his comfortable and quiet night of truly peaceful sleep. After Ulaz examines him again still and he is given a stern lecture on keeping track of his own health, he asks Keith if he can request an audience with King Kolivan rather than follow through with their plans of a morning walk before their endless meetings resuming.

“You want to talk to Kolivan?” Keith doesn’t keep his opinion of this being a bizarre request to himself, but Lance persists, “Yeah, you don’t need a formal meeting or anything, he’s always in the study nearest to his chambers.”

Lance declines an escort to find the office, not wanting the chance of Keith overhearing his forthcoming request. It takes some trial and a few helpful maids—or maybe also security entourage?—pointing him in the right direction, but he does eventually find the mentioned study nearest to the King’s chambers. Kolivan is just where Keith says he’ll be, though Lance is caught a little off-guard at finding Kosmo in the chambers as well, chasing her own tail and barking happily at Lance the moment the guards part the door for him to enter.

There’s no guard that follows him in when the door seals again, and Lance knows Kolivan does not need the protection, having been a leader of the rebellion from its stages of infancy to this very day and fighting for that position, but Lance will never be used to the inherent trust there is unspoken in each action. Lance is in no danger because he would be followed if that were a chance, and Kolivan is in no danger because he trusts Lance and can handle himself. It’s a certain kind of realized harmony.

“Prince Lance, welcome.” Kolivan does not look up from his datapad, squinting through small glasses, and he lifts a hand from his grand desk to gesture Lance closer without his attention being divided. Lance wonders if the scar through his eye hinders his vision, and knows he will never ask but privately might ask Hunk if he knows the origin of that mark. “Shiro told me you would be headed here. How can I help you?” Kolivan asks, still not looking up but gesturing again to a chair once Lance is close enough.

Lance sits, then flounders a bit. “Shiro?”

Kolivan hums, finally setting away the tablet and folding his glasses. “Ser Takashi Shirogane. A guard of mine, though I hear they’ve been doing a terrible job of introducing themselves.” He doesn’t try to hide his amusement, but it does embarrass Lance a bit at the implication. There is always an unsaid notice to his competency of lack thereof, and he has no one but himself to blame if he doesn’t know high ranking Marmoran officials or the members of his own guard.

“I see.” Lance settles on, thinking on how nothing gets past any staff in this palace without a report being made. He can’t stall any longer, though, because there is no precedent for his niceties with Kolivan, though there may be someday, when he is a son-in-law and has just a slightly higher foothold under the eyes of a king. “I wanted to ask you about the regulations of the treaty between Marmora and Altea, if that will be made known to me.”

Kolivan hums again, and Lance tries to beat him to where he knows his mind will be racing. Still, Kolivan asks, “Are you trying to find a loophole, Prince? Surely my ward is not that innately irritating.”

Lance couldn’t stop himself if he tried. “He is.” He reports, though he is sure to tack on for the sake of eliminating his planned execution, “But no, I only wish to understand the deal I was made a part of better so I can fulfil my position here to the fullest. I’m feeling…”

“Overwhelmed?” Kolivan interjects.

“No, your majesty.” Lance is quick to reassure, not wanting to seem weak but unsure of where else to go. “Underprepared. I’m sure you can imagine it has been a sudden transition. I am up for that challenge, but I would like to know, if only to sate my own curiosity.”

“I see.” Kolivan says. A long moment passes, and Lance keeps his gaze from roaming to the piles of data and work on the king’s desk to avoid feeling smaller in comparison, like a problem that shouldn’t be created amidst the plethora the palace already faces. “I asked Alfor for you specifically, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Lance doesn’t know what to do with that information, so he turns it over in his mind slowly until Kolivan offers something else more palatable. He nods, just once, to convey his understanding at least.

Kolivan continues, as if his comment won’t send Lance spiraling. “The treaty isn’t in our library quite yet, as I’m waiting for an Altean scribe to finish the formalized and decorated version Alfor insisted on, but I have a copy of the official document I can send directly to you and your advisor, who is also mentioned by name as one of the terms.”

The inclusion of Hunk by name is not enough to make Lance flinch, but he does feel his palms sweat at the immediate guilt that pulses through him. He knows the terms he told his father, and knows it is his fault for any obligation the Altean Kingdom has tied Hunk to Marmora through. “Thank you, your majesty. I would appreciate the insight.”

“Very well.”

Lance reads the treaty snippets at a time in his very limited moments free. He tries to pour each word into his brain permanently, because the terms of his engagement and the paperwork that seals his fate to his home’s own still are perhaps more important to him than any other matter he will deal with for the rest of his sidelines political career. It is lengthy, and quite dense, but he perseveres (as does Hunk, who began reading out of curiosity when he was sent it and who Lance dreads speaking to once he realizes Lance brokered him in akin to his property as part of the bargain), as he must, so he can find his worth quite literally in the lines. He looks for a sign, any indication at all, of what the intended extent of his responsibility and the extent of his obligation to this kingdom was considered as, because while he will remain loyal and perform his duties to all of his power as a Prince, it seems the Palace of Blades lacks the structural integrity to spell that outright for him.

The treaty spares no expense in detailing the honored efforts of high-ranking rebellion fighters and the relief required in sectors large and small who have been casualties of the war. There is only so much in the work that applies directly to Marmora, and even less to Lance himself, because the end of the war and signing of the treaty brought immediate peace to dozens of planets like Altea and Marmora. They were two players in a larger game of Hu-bu Rixull, and there is only a footnote or two referencing the transaction of the Altean prince in the midst of all of the much more effective and important relief.

Lance doesn’t know if he feels better or worse at the simplicity of it. Pure and simple, his hand is offered on paper to King Kolivan’s successor, with a subline for his safety, his comfort at any expense to Altea for as long as he lives, and for him to be accompanied at all times requested by his attendant, Tsuyoshi Garrett, for as long as there is a staffing agreement between the two.

Lance asks, then, at the next opportunity with Hunk, Ezor, and Keith all together, if it would be appropriate to do a small tour of the planet over the days upcoming, before the large festivities are fully underway for the wedding itself. It’s only cycles away, now, and the time is short, but Lance knows his obligations with a small and sudden lack of clarity, and he knows he at least will need to reach to feel as secure as he can. That reach begins past the palace, and hopefully he can find himself in the faces of those he will try to help Keith lead.

“Only if Hunk says it’s okay.” Keith jokes, his face very serious.

Hunk jokes too, but his face must look too imperceptible to Keith, who swallows at his firm voice. “I’ll crunch the numbers and timeline with Ezor. We’ll have to move some centerpiece approvals around.”

After Hunk approves Lance’s request over dinner, tentative plans are made of their departure date and touring schedule. It’s loose, because Hunk won’t be going with them, but something about that no longer sends Lance rocking with terror, because he knows the clauses of the treaty now depend on his being kept alive, and something thrills him at that security for both himself and Hunk.

That night, Keith and Lance spar together before bed. The training room is always empty when they find time to do so, and Lance wonders if it’s Keith’s own private room so he can be undisturbed. Keith goes less easy on Lance with each day that passes, and Lance can tell because Keith lets him pin him a lot less often so Lance can feel that false victory. They still jab at one another, and Keith has small critiques from time to time, but over time he’s sensed that Lance isn’t as interested in those critiques as he is in his acquiring the reaction to Keith’s strikes. He has no desire to be tactically minded in battle and thinks primarily to making sure his self-preservation is as honed as possible.

Lance pins Keith again and it’s no coincidence that it’s just after Lance had huffed at his missing a target and been a little hard on himself about it.

“You would have been good on the battlefield.” Keith says, catching Lance off guard enough for him to stop in the middle of his pretend final blow. “I would have liked to fight with you, even if you would have broken your hand half the time you had to do close-quarter combat.

Lance has never had to think of such a thing, though there was a time he dreamed of that honor, but he knows it was a privilege that he was able to avoid the conflict altogether and still see the benefit of a beautiful world in the wake of such violence. “Thank you.” He breathes, not sure what else to say to Keith that won’t be pitiful for his lack of eloquence in conveying all that he’s aware of. He sets his training sword down beside Keith’s head gently, and he moves his hand away from it to trace the dark scar that curves up Keith’s cheek, making him look roguish and stained with the war. “I’m sorry that you were on the frontlines.”

The words draw a surprised laugh out of Keith, and Lance jumps a little at the sound, marveling the feeling of Keith’s smile pulling at his cheeks under Lance’s own hand. “Well, I’m not,” Keith says, “We won.”

Lance lets his thumb trail the line again, and their eyes catch each other’s with something heated, though Keith’s amusement is still clear. Lance hums. “Still, it’s a shame. The war went on for way too long, longer than either of us have been alive, and I can’t imagine how hopeless that must have felt sometimes for you.”

The smile slowly falls from Keith’s lips, though he doesn’t frown. He looks thoughtful, and Lance wonders if he’s said something to send Keith into an unneeded memorial state that he should be more aware of in the future. “Yeah.” Is all Keith says a moment, quieter than needed. He speaks normally again next, but Lance is uncomfortable because it’s too normal, and too pointed, and too coated to pretend it isn’t. “You have your own marks from the war, I’m sure that felt plenty hopeless, too.”

It shouldn’t, but the words make Lance’s spine want to curve forward and make him want to hide away. He searches Keith’s eyes, plainly trying to discern what Keith is leaving unspoken to see how far he knows, to wonder what extent Keith is aware of his own hauntings.

Keith’s hand traces up Lance’s spine, freezing him further, but almost all at once Lance realizes with dumb relief that Keith is likely only referencing the scar due to his changing in front of him more than once. Anyone would wonder, and most would assume, Lance supposes, about his role in the war with a gnarly scar such as his.

Still, it makes him feel like a bit of an imposter with that assumption.

Keith twists his hips, and Lance’s back is flat on the floor in less than a second, their positions reversed. Keith raises his weapon to do his own false-final-blow, and before he can move to strike Lance utters, “Prove you can kiss me.”

It works, making Lance effectively the winner as Keith also lays down his weapon. Their lips slot together slowly, and they keep the kiss strictly wedding-professional, but Lance can’t help but think it’s one of their best yet. Keith kisses so sweetly, in earnest and in complete contrast with his approach to quite literally anything else Lance has watched him do. It makes him feel like Keith thinks he is precious enough to be sweet to, and he’s okay with over-romanticizing the sensation if only because Keith is his future husband, after all.

The first ceremony for their impending wedding finally happens upon Keith and Lance, and Lance handles it throughout the day with a lot more outward jitters than Keith. It is Keith, however, who snaps before their entrance. They’re steps from the door, and the tie on his complicated and not-standard ceremonial armor slips a little on his bracer, so he stops and steels himself with a few loud, deep breaths.

“Okay.” Lance tries to placate in a bit of awe, finally seeing an unkempt side of Keith that is not out of lack of concern but rather out of attention to others’ perception of him. Lance looks to the door to make eye-contact with Keith’s usual accompaniment, Ser Shirogane, and Shiro nods in acknowledgement, ducking into the room to observe the crowd.

Lance then takes Keith’s arm, pulling his bracer straps looser as he does so and gently working to re-tie them. “You’re fine. Nothing past that door is going to be so bad that it can’t be fixed later.”

Keith’s dark eyes bore into Lance, as if he’s looking at a different person but in a less fond, surprised way. “That’s not very specific advice.” He notices.

Lance hums in agreement, though, and offers nothing else. He’ll let that marinate in Keith’s head while he holds his hand and tries to ground him like any good friend would.

Then, Keith blurts, “You haven’t seen your crown.” It’s like a switch is lit in him, but he pulls away from Lance and begins barking down the hall. “I need Ezor to check on Kolivan’s schedule to meet with the duchess and dukes so I know what his rotation is at the table. Somebody get Prince Lance’s crown, pronto, and make sure it’s escorted by two! Is everyone inside already seated and has somebody done a security scan in the last varga?” Various staff gathered around scramble at the sudden promptings, and Lance almost wants to reach out and stop Keith, unused to seeing his orders or his voice raised, but he realizes that what he’s finding is Keith focused. There are tasks in his mind that need to be checked off and he is singular-minded about those in a way that he makes up for by his overwhelming politeness and distance from the staff on any other occasion.

Still, Lance is caught up, regardless of the plethora of noise Keith is suddenly creating. “My crown?” He asks, incredulous and thinking back on the trinket he had left on Altea. It was traditionally worn by the second-in-line, and so with his departure it would be bestowed on Allura’s children until Allura assumed the throne herself and the crowns shifted accordingly.

It was encrusted with the finest of gemstones found in any healthy Balmera, and carved out of a pure piece of startlingly white Hubian marble, but it was still a trinket nonetheless.

What’s frantically delivered to him mere seconds later, in less time than it takes for Keith to even begin to address him again, is not his Altean crown. It is something new entirely, shoved into his hands and surprising him. It’s larger, frankly, in a way that Lance immediately thinks would be inappropriate by Altean kingdom standards, but it’s the same size as Keith’s own, and the same warm gold color. Where Keith’s crown is encrusted with Earthen rubies and other warm jewels from across the galaxy, Lance’s own is encrusted with hues of blue and sapphire.

Something clicks at the presentation of it, and Lance realizes that each time Ezor had scrambled through a walkthrough of the ceremony they were about to perform, Lance hadn’t thought to ask what he would be bowing his head for. He had assumed piety, as an honor to be welcomed into the kingdom, but he knows with sudden clarity that he will address the select few high-ranking dignitaries and officials allowed in the ceremony, he will embrace Keith, and he will bow to Kolivan so Kolivan can place…a crown on his head.

The realization is jarring, to say the least, and Lance doesn’t know what his face is saying but when Keith takes note of it he winces visibly, so it must be pretty telling of his whirlwind emotions.

“I meant to—” Keith cuts himself off, sighing hugely and still seeming like there are a few things on his to-do list. “I was going to give it to you as a gift this morning, in the gardens, but I forgot. So. Here. Sorry the surprise is sort of sudden now.”

“Why is this crown so big?” Lance asks, unable to disguise his current desperation to understand how anything on Marmora works.

The door pops open, and Ser Shirogane slips out again. “Ezor may kill me if you don’t make your entrance soon.” His voice is very serious, but there is a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Lance envies the ease that seems to come to everyone on this damn planet.

“Okay.” Keith repeats a few times, psyching himself up. Then, to Lance’s surprise, he repeats his words as if they are completely natural, his voice very encouraging. “Nothing past that door is going to be so bad that it can’t be fixed later.”

He’s right, which truly means that Lance is right. Hunk and Lance had meticulously gone over ever detail they could retain regarding this mysterious ceremony, and that studying pays off without a hitch. The dignitaries are jovial but not rowdy, and while they crack a few political jokes there is nothing distasteful in the air. Lance is amazed by how it truly is only a handful of officials, the attendants, and the Palace of Blades royalty with himself, and he wonders the last time he had ever been to a ceremony that involved less than a few hundred people. It’s very…intimate, to say the least.

Lance feels his heartbeat quicken and his palms sweat in a nostalgic way when Kolivan places the crown on his head, the King’s face betraying nothing to his emotions when he looks down from his Galran height at Lance. Lance doesn’t let himself get caught up in the feelings of his confusion leading to his anxiety, though, and he is expert in avoiding Hunk’s gaze lest he make a spectacle of himself in front of his new top-priority schmoozing party by having a silent conversation across a room with his attendant for a moment too long.

They feast on local delicacies and small plates, and bottle after bottle of wine is brought to the table as part of this convoluted ceremony. Lance knew about this part as well, but he is surprised by the volume of ceremonial wine and wonders if he’s expected to drink until dawn. Nunvil itself wasn’t typically brought out at an Altean feast past the first hour until the very last, being far too strong to serve steadily to a crowd, so Lance wonders if there are drinking etiquettes on this planet specifically he had forgotten to ask after.

Keith isn’t hesitating, though, and he’s not rushing either, sipping pleasantly on whatever is poured in his cup by an attending server and not blinking a moment at the contents.

Lance tries to emulate that casual air despite his constant nerves, and it almost works a bit. The dignitaries and officials seem pleased enough at his presence that he wonders if Ezor and Hunk had done some hyping up on his behalf, but there are minute details that Lance knows Hunk wouldn’t have thought to mention—his feats in the relief effort on Arrond, a tiny split of a planet intimate enough not to reach any of Hunk’s ready bragging lists, or his efforts to publicly deny any advances extended privately from Galran-occupied or supporting royalty and generals (again, the line of those reaching for Lance’s hand was long and exhaustive). It gets to be like this at times, where Lance realizes all at once that maybe some remarkable part of his success as a foreign negotiator, ambassador, and prince is noticeable not because he is so good at pretending to be put together, but because he is actually competent and successful in his efforts. It is with great lengths from his team and friends, but it is still success for Altea, and now Marmora, he can only hope for.

He gets caught up in it all, the pleasant conversation and the intimate flow from one story to another, as if he’s been invited to another family’s dinner table and able to hear all the regales of Keith’s reckless war-torn youth, scrapping his way past battlelines to take out towers single-handedly when ordered not to or taking Galra-supporting kings hostage until relief to the people in rank below flooded down to each common walker. He is warm with the wine and delighted by the untold bravery of his future husband, who is embarrassed under the attention but does not deny any of the frankly insane retellings of his time in the war. It adds a lightness to his struggles that Lance knows does not actually lighten them, but at least makes them add light to the Keith he knows now, recklessly brave and straightforward to a fault.

And he can’t help but lean more to Keith when he’s laughing along with the dignitaries describing how they remembered a Keith who could barely heft a Kobbullick cleaver and just so suddenly as the years of the war passed he had become something of a giant himself on the field, and now he is someone they are honored to have as their Prince. Lance wonders if Keith realizes through each story that his old comrades describe him as such and are honored because he was an inspiration, and one that was doubtlessly sorely needed in the too-long battle against the Empire.

He leans just a bit too long on Keith sometimes, too, but he doesn’t care about those specifics in a room with less than twenty people to impress. He does see Hunk wave something, though, and Keith stands to help Lance up.

There’s a moment where he panics that he’s forgotten some integral part of the ceremony, but the dignitaries continue laughing among themselves and don’t blink to attention as Keith begins gently leading Lance away from the table. “Ready for bed?” Keith asks, confusing Lance even more.

“It’s only—” Lance tries and fails to catch a passing clock or ticker, and the door to the ceremony chambers shuts behind them, sealing the laughter behind them as well. “—it’s night.”

That makes Keith laugh for some reason, and Lance leans into him because at least he has no reason to fear for missed duties if they’re out of the ceremony for some reason. Keith shoulders his weight easily, as he always does, and they carry on. “Let me show you how normal parties end on planets that don’t stay up until dawn to look at some random flowers.”

It should be no surprise that Keith is so forward, but it sends a pleasant ripple up Lance’s spine. They turn a corner, and despite Lance knowing now that his guard is probably everywhere and he’ll get no privacy outside of his chambers for his own safety, he can’t help but turn and hum as he skims his fingers around Keith’s chestplate, making their walk just a touch more of a waddle as he clings to Keith’s front and lets his hands roam.

Keith makes a sound, not quite a grunt and not quite stifled enough to be anything else. They continue moving. “You’re going to show me that, are you?” Lance teases, unknowingly showing his full hand far more easily than he’s able to prevent. He slips his hands under the edge of the armor at the small of Keith’s back. “You know, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Oh.” Keith acknowledges, not sounding all that surprised. “I’ve been meaning to ask, alright.”

When Lance glances to his face, a muddy red is crawling around his cheeks and neck rapidly, and Lance chases the primal feeling in him at the sight of that fluster with reverence. He moves one hand to cup under Keith’s ear, reddening at the rounded tips as well.

“it’s okay that you took your time,” Lance tries to purr, but he knows he’s being too sentimental in his subconscious, his mind too flooded with the idea of relief that Keith could want him that same way as well, those original thoughts banished as soon as their arrangement was made official rather than some happenstance on a balcony. He manages a whisper, low, in Keith’s ear, “I’m going to with you, anyway, so it’s only fair.”

Keith shivers, and Lance counts that as a victory higher than any of Keith’s noted regaled feats of the night. Just as he leans back to move in properly for a kiss, Keith turns, though, and they enter their chambers with little fanfare other than the posted guard quietly closing the flung-open doors behind them.

“Sit down.” Keith blurts, more eager than Lance would have anticipated but not unwelcomely so. He can’t hold back his laughter as he complies, stepping away from Keith and flopping onto the bed.

The thick linens of his ceremonial robes are stifling when trying to lay himself before Keith, and that discomfort is more palpable with each passing second Keith is away from him. He begins to lazily unwind his robes while he waits on the bed, hearing Keith shuffling and cursing in the bathroom, but they’re admittedly a little complicated to discern when both in the dark and inebriated.

“Keith,” Lance whines a little, knowing he sounds needy and hoping Keith likes that. “I need your help.”

Keith is in view in a short instant, still red in the face and now half-undressed from his own wardrobe. Lance gestures uselessly to his robes, and lets a pout try to tempt Keith closer as a punishment for undressing without him. “I need you to take them off.” He whines again.

Keith is frozen in place, though, and there is a long, quiet pause where he does not even breathe before he moves again, his motions jerky. He does as Lance asks, his hands firm but gentle as they maneuver Lance a touch here and a touch there to twist his complicated garment from off of him. He says nothing as he does so, as well, his face focused and embarrassed.

When Lance is freed, he can’t help a small giggle from falling from his lips, letting his arms slide around Keith and pull him closer with both of them just in their silk pants. “Thank you,” Lance makes sure to say, voice too earnest, “Are you going to help me with the rest?”

“No.” Keith swallows, but his eyes don’t stray. A small smile quirks on him, and Lance focuses on that instead of his surprise.

Keith’s hands pull away from hovering around Lance to move to his head, removing the crown from where it had been fixed in place. “Let me set this aside and we can sleep.” He leans forward when Lance is silent, and Lance automatically closes his eyes at the proximity, but Keith’s kiss lands on the crest of Lance’s forehead, where the crown had just barely pressed in place.

“Okay.” Lance says, his gut flooding with a different kind of warmth. Keith pulls away and Lance lets him, his arms falling so he can scoot himself back on the bed into his own spot.

They’re quiet when they’re both under the covers, and something is sparking and swelling in Lance’s chest twice fold, his emotions conflated beyond imagine in his influence. He turns to Keith, who is staring at the ceiling, and curls into him first, relishing his warmth.

Keith settles a hand over Lance’s shoulders as though it is entirely natural, and Lance knows that in time it will be second nature if Keith feels even a shred as Lance does. There is some inkling in him, one he cannot suppress without sobriety, and he has a glitteringly pure thought that tells him they were made to hold one another like this, to wear matching crowns, and to stand side by side in this strange circumstance for both of them.

When he wakes up, he will tell himself he was drunkenly thinking far too much on the concept of soulmates and fated pairs, the stuff of children’s stories, but he does not deny himself the sparking and swelling of his heart and feelings for Keith, and a truth settles in him even when recovered for the night. He will no longer deny himself that he has grown to care for Keith, because there’s very little left in him to hide it outside of their awkward obligation, which will end in Lance’s favor regardless, because he’s the one starting to be in love with the careless prince.

Chapter Text

“You sleep so much better now.” Keith’s voice is very quiet and very sleepy, as though he is not aware of what he’s saying in the small hours of the morning.

Lance is sleepy and quiet as well, also unaware of himself. “I feel so much better now, too.”

Keith nods, his face smushing in his pillow and his eyes slipping closed again. “Is there anything we can do—to make you sleep even better?”

A tired laugh just barely passes Lance’s lips. “No…you’re good at protecting me, are you happy?”

Keith’s hum in response is as good of a yes as any, and they pull into one another again, warm and sweaty with one another’s body heat under the covers. They sleep again, as is only natural being so comfortable, and Lance doesn’t know that Keith thinks on those small words in the night for a long time afterwards, but he remembers them nonetheless.

Lance wakes the next morning to find Keith across the bedroom haphazardly shoving items into a few bags. To his horror, not all of them are Keith’s, and Lance can’t help his immediate croak of, “That shirt is Florin Silk, don’t fold it! It’ll never come out!”

Keith startles, and Kosmo barks from where she’s sniffing around his knees. “Oh.” He says with delay, shaking out the shirt and re-hanging it. “Okay. Good morning.”

“Okay.” Lance says, flopping backwards onto the bed again and waiting for the explanation that will inevitably come. Just to tease a bit, he asks, “Are you finally kicking me out?”

Kosmo barks again, so Lance laughs, knowing he must have put a peculiar expression on Keith’s face. “Uh—We’re going into town, to explore the surrounding areas. Hunk and Ezor gave us the clear to head out this morning, and we’ll be a few days, so I’m packing us some clothes.”

Lance hums and rolls over. “Hunk usually packs that stuff for me,” He admits despite knowing it makes him sound a little too hands-off, “He knows what functions and events we’ll be going to, and he’ll know what’s appropriate.”

“Well,” Keith laughs, “Hunk’s not coming, so I guess I’m your escort now.”

That wakes Lance up a little more. He sits up properly, then, not an ounce of sleep left in him as he crosses the room and absent-mindedly pets Kosmo as they cross paths. He peeks into the bag Keith is preparing presumably for him and is horrified at what he finds. He knew Keith couldn’t have much style, his armor practically being a second skin, but he didn’t think someone in any plane of existence would be able to look down into the assortment Keith had gathered and think that they would be fitting components to few days of travel wear.

Lance begins unpacking the bag and re-sorting his clothing, mentally replacing each item with a more suitable article to find. “So, we’re able to leave this morning? So close to the wedding?” He asks despite being the one to have requested the trip.

Keith watches Lance, and Lance realizes with a bit of a striking pause that they have to discuss it at least in plain terms now, because it’s only days away. They can no longer hide behind discussing the ceremonies or the arrangements or the plans, they are looking at one another only as people who will be married in a few cycles.

“Yeah.” Keith says after a moment, shrugging and moving to pack only his own bag now. “Ezor insisted that the only things left were superficial, so they both called it a pre-honeymoon. You know what that is? I think it’s an Earth thing.”

“It is.” Lance laughs, ignoring Keith’s clearly re-assured look when Lance puts things into his bag again, as if he were unsure if Lance was rejecting the trip suddenly despite it being his idea. “Worst case scenario is we have to video call for the last minute table runner decisions, I guess.”

The only accompaniments to the trip are Acxa, Shiro, and the dog, which surprises Lance even more. Above all that, however, he is shellshocked by Keith’s jumping into the helm of the pod they’ll be taking.

“You fly?” Lance knows it’s an obvious answer to his question, but he stands outside of the pod in astonishment. Of course Keith flies, he has more years as a war veteran than he does a prince, but the idea does not compute inside of him. He turns to Hunk even, awaiting at the edge of the lift area to see them off, and Hunk eyes him with a muted amusement.

“Yeah.” Keith simply replies, “I love flying.” He’s got a cockiness to him that Lance usually sees in the training room, but it’s making something stir inside of him out in the open where Lance’s defenses are already on the wayside. “Uh. Do you?”

That sparks the fall. “No.” Lance cries, throwing his hands into the air and ignoring the wince he can see Hunk give in the corner of his eye, “Actually, no! Because it’s too dangerous for a Prince! Of course there’s always an escort!” Keith clearly doesn’t know how to discern Lance’s tone in this moment, because he glances away from Lance’s face to find aid elsewhere. “Move over, I’m flying!” Lance cries then, scrambling into the helm and squeezing himself beside Keith so he gets the hint.

“Okay.” Keith says, still looking away likely to try and have a silent conversation with Hunk. He looks back to Lance to ask, “Have you, uh, flown before?”

Lance starts mashing buttons. “Actually, I’m, like, astounding at the simulators. I’m going to blow your socks off.”

Both Acxa and Shiro crawl out of the rear of the pod with less composure than Lance has ever seen a Marmoran guard possess, and he almost feels a little bad.

“You did great.” Keith says despite the stars in his eyes. His voice is soft, and he’s giving Lance a stunning little sharp grin just to give him butterflies about it, Lance is sure. “You’re a natural.”

Shiro’s face then becomes grave, and he grounds himself through petting Kosmo’s fur as she, too, finally emerges. “Keith, I didn’t think it was possible to find a more reckless flyer. Lance, your highness, you can get lessons. Hands on. It’ll be excellent for your immersion in the kingdom.”

Keith laughs, then, and Shiro turns away to mentally process the flight further. Acxa cuts in to make sure to mention, “I advise Keith to handle future flights, just in the interim of you furthering your…natural talent, your highness.”

It’s pretty thrilling, overall.

And Keith ignores them, still grinning at Lance in the aftermath and giving him a swarming feeling in his gut at the attention.

The point of their landing is a standard outpost at the edge of the kingdom’s central territory, lightly guarded in the echoes of the treaty and the dwindling war and the perfect point to travel on foot to blend in plainly with the rest of the surrounding settlements. The lack of entourage helps, as well, but it sounds like the perfect plan to Lance for them to be able to truly immerse so he can better understand his new people.

It works smoothly up until the point where they enter the nearest settlement and a stall keeper in the opening street market waves to Keith and greets him by title. They’re old war buddies, by the sound of their exchange, and Lance watches as Acxa carefully monitors the stall keeper’s movements and Shiro gives an exasperated little chuckle, a lot more subtle about his own monitoring.

Keith does eventually wave them on, snorting at some long forgotten embarrassment of his time in the field, and it’s no surprise when more people recognize Keith by a passing, casual glance. It hits Lance again that Keith was one of the rebellion in a much more intimate level just years ago, the kingdom of Marmora not even yet a fully realized creation so much of a dream, and of course those he walked side by side with would see him as their own in the most personal way.

It’s something of an honor to be invited into such an intimate kingdom with so little divide between those in the castle walls and those in the surrounding shadow. It makes Lance feel a little more grounded, and much more human than he’s ever felt in the high towers and halls of the Altean Palace. He thinks of the furthest he’s ever been from his place in the palace while still being on Altea, and he’s not impressed with the thought.

There is plenty of recognition for Lance, as well, though not in the way he’s expecting. Merchants fawn at him when he stops at the stalls and while he initially jerks at the reactions, they only offer him fancier and pricier wares, and there are no further comments or weird stares to be had.  It’s a little refreshing, to be honest, to be in a public space and not have someone profess their love for him and urge him to adopt their children. The Altean people were nothing if not bold.

After the third or forth small trinket Lance is unable to refuse from a persistent merchant, Acxa helpfully comments, “There is a superstition going around that Alteans bring good fortune, and that the Prince is blessed to have one join him, so I hear we’re going to become a travel spot for Alteans going forward while that rumor still holds true. Most people don’t seem to realize how lucky the Altean they’re speaking to is.”

That eases Lance a little further, but he can’t help but clarify, “You guys do all know I don’t have luck powers, right? That’s just a thing with some plants on Altea. I’m not even full Altean.”

Shiro glances back at Lance, his brow a bit pinched. “I win shells every time I use an Altean play, so I’m going to choose not to believe you.”

“They’re actually just giving you stuff because you’re pretty.” Keith says, ignoring Shiro’s snort. “I don’t think it’s only the luck.”

Lance laughs, brightened and more than charmed.

One of the more lively points of interest Lance notices in their light traveling, as well, is that many people are selling wares directly in celebration of the Prince’s union, and even homes and other establishments are taking care to do their part in livening the surroundings for the upcoming event. Lance would not have noticed it so much were it not for Shiro’s surprised comment about it the more they saw, and he’s warmed by the inadvertent reception of his joining the kingdom. It’s an honor to be a part of any large, kingdom altering royal event, and he hasn’t had the pleasure of ever being in the main cast of one save for his being named an heir when he was very, very young, so to see it all play out before his eyes to the very streets the people walk is a new wave of reassurance he was unaware he needed.

When they travel between the other territories, the veterans regaling moments of the war when they are in the relevant areas and detailing the hard fights for the peace that surrounds them, Lance is humbled to be in the presence of a planet of fighters who carved a home where the galaxy would not make one for them. They bunk in local inns over the next few days as they go along, and Lance checks in with Hunk twice a day to ensure everything is going accordingly to plan (and to ensure his advisor he hasn’t perished with the distance). It’s uncomfortable at first, staying in an unfamiliar place of a still-new place, but Lance is slowly becoming at ease with the people and with Keith at his side, who has senses more keen than even his dog. He is masterful at distracting Lance from the smallest inkling of anxiety, be it a child running in the street with a crude imitation of a weapon or a lingering gaze that fixates on Lance for too many hares too long. Keith is there, with a casual hand to his back in reassurance and a distracting random comment that Lance will feel the need to correct or react incredulously to.

There is a point where the anxiety heads, though, because Lance can only allow himself to be distracted so often before a gaze pierces him as effectively as his long tamped down nightmares. The current settlement territory they’re in is close to the first outpost in the ring they had traveled around, and their night stay in an inn is their last stay before flying back to the palace in the morning for the last day of preparation before the ceremonies tomorrow, and Lance is at a head with his fears as he realizes it will be the most vulnerable he has ever been in his political career. Before his engagement to Keith it would be easy to assuage his fears with the knowledge that the target Allura held was even larger, but now he is the proud extended family of a new kingdom, and there are as many shadows as there are lights for any occasion.

The inn is particularly noisy, as well, with tituks rumbling and the walls so thin Shiro’s snores can slip in from next door. Keith can sense his unease, which doesn’t help, and so they’ve been laying in an uncomfortable silence willing sleep to undertake one of them or the other for the last vargas, but that relief will not come to Lance’s mind.

“Have you traveled a lot outside of the Castle of Lions?” Keith eventually asks the ceiling, his voice quiet and not sounding an ounce tired. “I’m starting to get the idea they didn’t let you do a lot of that.”

“Ugh.” Lance says immediately, no other knee-jerk reaction to be had about the matter. “Not in years, no. I probably haven’t done excursions outside of the castle since I was a teenager.”

Lance is sure that this information is no surprise to Keith, but Keith asks nothing further for a few long, draining moments. He wonders if Keith’s perception of him by this admission has been altered if even in the slightest, but he doesn’t think his shut-in tendencies were that secretive at all, nor was he trying to hide them in the first place.

Eventually, Keith quietly asks, “Does this have anything to do with the…guard issues?” It’s not very tactile, but it’s earnest, and Lance can’t find it in him to deny an answer.

It’s hard to muster one, though, his mind swimming suddenly with what the issue is and will always be. He twitches, and that must be answer enough, because Keith says an even quieter, “Okay.” Then, shatteringly loud in the night, he asks, “You know you’re safe with me, right?”

Something about it all sets Lance on edge, because he does know, so he snaps, “I just don’t feel like dying again, okay? And I don’t feel like thinking about it and when I do it’s hard to stop remembering that it happened, so I should be wary in case it’s going to again!” He thinks he’s allowed that fear, and he will defend that to the high heavens, because he’s talked with enough specialists after the event itself and had enough late night conversations with Hunk regarding it for him to know he is allowed his comforts if they mean his mind is at ease and do not disparage on others his anxieties.

He prepares himself for that defense, but Keith throws him further off guard than he thought possible with a quick and too-loud, “Again?” There is an incredulity in his voice Lance could never imagine in severity, and it makes Lance flinch.

Then, he panics, because once again he’s splayed himself before Keith unprompted and he’s given way too much away. “You know what,” Lance hisses, mentally floundering, “I’m not going to explain what you can read in any tabloid on this side of the galaxy, it was a historical fiasco of the century at this dinner like ten years ago! If you don’t know about it, then I think maybe you’re a little unread on your husband!”

Keith doesn’t rise to the goading, or maybe he is in his own sort of defensive shock, because when Lance turns to him in the dimness of the inn room he can see that Keith’s eyes on the ceiling are wide, and his jaw is set. There could be a million thoughts behind that dark gaze, and it’s going to drive Lance crazy more than feeling vulnerable ever will, so he blabbers.

“Allura and I were sent as representatives for a diplomacy meeting and we were caught in an Empire ambush. Some druid witch killed me and my guard, and Allura revived me with her channel to the lion magic.” Keith turns to him, eyes still too wide, and Lance turns away to the ceiling himself. “Pretty cool scar and a lot of fussing and panic attacks whenever someone stood behind me, and man how time flies. There it is.”

It’s too short, far too little explanation for everything Lance feels waiting at the tips of his lips, but he can feel himself bursting at the seams too much for him to be able to continue. Other than the gossip, the event had died down over the years into a miracle feat performed by Allura as a show for her prowess as a true heir to Altea rather than the tragedy that would leave Lance scarred for the years to come, but he was okay with that—and he was certainly okay with not having to casually discuss it as much as he had when it had all first occurred and he was reintroduced to the court after his recouperation. There were fears that the magic would alter him forever, or that he was in stasis only to succumb at a later date, but Allura had shown her own hand as the heir, and Lance knew he was truly healed by the miracle of Altea’s magic and Allura’s hand alone, with no underhanded exchange to be had, and that event would haunt him for as long as he lived again.

Keith takes one of his shaking hands, connecting them over the scratchy bedding and startling Lance into looking at him again. His eyes are always filled with such a raw emotion that Lance is not surprised to find it there again, but Keith looks much less surprised and instead very sad, and very hardened at the information.

“There’s always a shadow.” Keith says, his voice quiet again and his words freezing Lance to his bones. “There’s always something to keep your eye on. It was something we used to say when we had night terrors in the field. It’s hard to believe that fear gets easier, and I’m sorry you’ve ever felt that way, let alone carried that with you for so long.”

Lance takes a soft, shuddered breath, unsure of exactly what to say but not wanting to leave Keith’s kind words unattended. “I’m so tired.” He confesses, allowing a long sigh to rattle out of him that may as well have been held for the last three deca-pheobs. “I feel like I’ve been looking over my shoulder since I was a teenager, I—It’s just long night after long night sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.” Keith says again, squeezing his hand, and Lance knows he means it.

“I’m sorry, too.” He decides on, “I should have made sure you knew you were going to marry a zombie.” He tries to crack a smile but knows its failed, so he barrels on, “And I’m sorry to…I know I have had so many second chances, I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the second life I was given, it’s a pattern for me. Alfor took me in when my first father died, and Blaytz took me in when my mother needed me to have a better opportunity, and I’ve always…It’s becoming thematic, is all, and I’m sorry if I sound like I don’t appreciate all that has been done for me in changing hands and in saving my life for a grand one.”

Keith snorts, but it’s soft and with little humor. “You don’t have to apologize, why would I care if you’re ungrateful to all of them? I’m just happy you’re alive, and I’m happy you trust me at your side in spite of all that you’ve been through.” He squeezes Lance’s hand again, “It’s okay to hate the cards you’re dealt, stars know I have my own grief—and I got to be the orphan turned prince, which is an insanely easier end of the scale in my opinion. The universe has asked a lot from you, so you have every right to let that frustration spill out. You—” He turns to the ceiling again, then, as if he’s re-processing what they’ve covered. “Stars, Lance, you died. In security negligence, of all things, and you’ve held that all inside—”

“Thank you. For everything, Keith.” Lance insists, and he means it. “I know you understand what it feels like to push yourself to feel like you deserve what you have.” He squeezes Keith’s hand, then, propping himself up on the bed to look down onto Keith’s face, thinking on his own story and his own hand he’s unhappy with. “I always knew I would be given away eventually, you know. Like I said, it’s thematic.” Keith’s eyes stray from the ceiling to meet Lance’s own, and his brows narrow, “I’m so glad it was you, I know you’ll do nothing but make me happy.”

Keith’s brows soften again immediately, and Lance wonders if there would have been anyone else in the entire universe that would have understood Lance the way he needed to be, in the way that Keith does. He is overcome with the thought, then, of how lucky he feels to have Keith at his side and in his hand, and so he does the only thing he thinks is sensible and leans down to kiss him. It’s slow and gentle, with nothing else for either of them to say for the languid moments when they’re attached.

Their lips part only for Keith to again utter a quiet, “Your comfort will always come first.”

Lance knows that he means it, as well, so he laughs quietly. “Thank you. I love you.” Keith’s eyes widen at the words, but they kiss again and they slip closed as they pour into one another again—and then again, and again.

Keith returns the words in the quietest hour in the inn, when Lance is slipped into his side and they’re both half asleep, and it’s the safest Lance has ever felt outside of a palace.

They have little time the next morning before their planned lift off, but Lance still makes some to find a few more trinkets to bring for Ezor and Hunk, and he squirrels away a surprise or two further. Acxa and Shiro’s eyes are sharper in the busy morning market, and Lance notices this with both gratitude and amusement when he realizes Keith’s are, as well, and it must be tied to his admissions last night.

He’s sure to mention to Keith when he gets something for a staff member, because they’ll be from both of them and nothing’s more awkward than people not being on the same page when gifting something, and he details each item and why he’s chosen it in case there’s some unlikely event where he can’t present it himself. It makes perfect sense to Lance, honestly, but Keith seems more politely interested than anything else as Lance describes little market trinkets as gratitude for all of their staff’s work.

He does get caught up eventually as they fly back to the castle, when Lance mentions offhandedly the idea of keeping Ezor on full-time.

“After the wedding I assumed she would go back to her missions, I wasn’t even sure where Hunk found her in the first place and thought she’d be a good fit.” Keith says, his motions thoughtful as he steers them much more calmly than Lance had on their way out. “She’s been good for it, but I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Lance hums, turning over the small bundle in his hands he’s saving for the perfect moment to address. “Well, she has been good for it, I’m glad we agree. I thought she would make a good advisor to you if you don’t have one considered already, because her and Hunk mesh pretty well together and I think you’re a little too impulsive to go without a schedule-keeper for that much longer.”

Keith scoffs, and Lance can tell he’s surprised at the forwardness of his suggestion. Lance does take a bit of pride in that, happy to feel at ease enough to make such an idea of his known after much trial between them and wanting to gage his footing in decisions like these.

“I’ll just steal Hunk when it boils down to it, I guess. It’s not like we’ll need two different schedules.”

Something about the idea must amuse Keith, but it doesn’t do the same for Lance. “No.” He immediately says, tucking away his trinket and holding his hands out as if to keep Keith from Hunk physically when he is nowhere to be seen. “Hunk’s going to be scheduling my appointments forever unless he gets sick of doing it, and then I’ll give him a wing in the palace because he’s my best friend anyway.

Keith laughs, and Lance gets twitchy about it. “It won’t matter that much.” He promises, but that doesn’t comfort Lance.

“I think that’s way too careless.” He makes sure Keith knows, “If you want to be half-competent with the future diplomacy Marmora’s going to see in the wake of the treaty, then you’ll need someone who has all of that knowledge on hand because it’s their job. Your job is for keeping every one of those ten-thousand nine-hundred and eighty-seven people planet-side safe and happy and thriving.” He looks away, to the stars, and thinks about the forty-thousand Alteans he left behind and had trained his entire life for the possibility of leading, in the unsaid event of an untimely demise of all in line before him.

Keith asks, “Is that the actual number?”

Lance rolls his eyes, “Yes, and it’ll grow in a natural balloon after a major political event like the ending of a war, so you’ll have to keep them in mind, too!” He throws his hands up, and when he looks back to Keith he can tell the other’s hackles are raised. Still, he presses on what he sees as necessary, “Coran, my father’s advisor, always used to tell me and Allura that the throne was for those who thought only to the people and how to best serve them, and any good advisor was in charge of seeing the smaller details of that servitude through, even if it means remembering every name for a spoon in the galaxy and making sure you don’t mix them up with the names of ex-militant powers on recovering planets.”

Keith says nothing, so Lance tacks on, “Do you want to memorize every name for a spoon for the rest of our lives? Or do you want someone at your side who can make sure you don’t embarrass yourself when you have to meet thirteen princes who all look the same in one day without mixing them up?”

“Look,” Keith snaps, his sharp teeth on display a moment while his expression morphs into something that will allow his thoughts to be more cohesively spoken, “If Kolivan wanted to make a master diplomat out of me he wouldn’t have chosen someone who is obviously talented at it to be my husband.”

That’s enough to stump Lance a moment, but he counters, “So? What does that have to do with anything? We’re talking about the future King needing to have his shit together, and you can’t steal Hunk for that because he’ll need to help me with other diplomatic missions for relief efforts around the surrounding planets and here so we can help carry out the treaty—”

“You’re going to be King, too!” Keith snaps again, throwing one of his hands away from the controls to articulate his point, “So I don’t think it’s too crazy of us to share a scheduler of all things, and I’ve done plenty fine without one so far. We don’t both need to be hawked by a walking diplomatic encyclopedia!”

“Keith, you literally didn’t even know I was going to marry you until I was in your bed.” Lance hisses as what he thinks is a potent reminder is needing to be said. All thought releases from him immediately following, however, because he realizes what Keith just said. “I—” He tries to speak again but fails, his mind swimming.

Keith’s breath snorts out of him like a bull, too stubborn to admit Lance’s words are true, but he seems unaware of Lance’s dilemma. Lance realizes Keith has either misspoken greatly or is being truthful without an ounce of awareness of the shock that the words are to Lance. “What—” he tries again, “I don’t understand.”

“I just mean—” Keith’s voice is calmer, but he stops himself when he glances at Lance. What he sees there, Lance doesn’t know, but he can see each step of his backtracking in his eyes as he reverses their conversation, milling clumsily about the buttons as his fingers fly over them in an autopilot rote. “Well, what did you think was going to happen when you married a Prince?” He blurts, like it’s so easy.

Once again, Lance thinks blithely to himself that everything must be for Keith, but he knows it isn’t. Keith understands things in a way Lance never has been able to, and Lance is the same to him. A situation like this doesn’t help that, however. “Keith,” He says, his voice slow and calm so he can convey this to Keith as plainly as he can so it can stick to what must be an insane cluster of nothing but action in Keith’s brain, “Just because I marry a King doesn’t mean I would be one in the eyes of the kingdom.”

There is a grave silence at the words, and Keith looks away again, obviously thinking as hard as Lance needs him to on the matter. That silence ticks on, too, long past what Lance believes is appropriate before a response finally comes. “…Maybe not on Altea.” His jaw works, “But if you marry a King here, on Marmora, I’ll call you one, and there’s no precedent that would deny you that title.”

When Lance thought on his inevitable exchange into marriage, he never thought he would be a King. He never thought he would be suited best on a planet that had been settled for less years than he’d been walking the palace walls, either, but that one was easier to process. He tries to see the future Keith is seeing, with crowns the same size and a throne room that will house them both, and he’s not sure if he’s ever been able to picture such a thing.

King was a word that existed before Lance’s name only in the event of a tragedy, and only one that he knew would leave him devastated beyond himself with the loss of his sister and father—or, even, in the loss of his future husband or wife who he was exchanged to. It was not a title he aimed for in particular, despite his training, because he was Plan C.

“You want me to be your king?” He croaks, and like every other time before he is embarrassed as soon as he has let that vulnerability slide away from him, no longer close to his chest.

He was trained to be a king, ostensibly, but he knew what awaited his years were quiet relief efforts and dignitary missions, socialite musings with dukes and duchesses that his future husband or wife might not have had time to ensure relations were good with personally. Being king meant elbow deep in helping his people, new or old, in a different capacity. A loud, foreground type of helping his people, one that he was not all too sure he would excel at.

He doesn’t know what Keith is thinking, and even if he wonders he decides he doesn’t want to know, too embarrassed to have been caught counting on Keith shouldering the burden of the people when Keith thought that their welfare would be shared from the moment they were tied together.

“I’ll hire Ezor.” Keith says, not at all placating but seeming to not know what else to say. Lance is miles away, but he numbly nods, unsure if the buzzing in him is pride at the newfound honor he may have or the rawest anxiety he has felt since the day Alfor asked him to bow so he could accept his crown and his place third in line.

Lance does not stay for pleasantries at the landing bay, waving dimly to Ezor and Hunk as their greeting party and ignoring Hunk’s following insistent gestures to draw him closer. He stalks off, his fingers fidgeting with the trinket in his pocket and his chest ready to burst. Keith calls after him, and he can’t turn back just yet.

He finds Kolivan’s study more easily this time, and there is only one guard attending that lets him in this time, no fanfare added. Kolivan, seasoned by the war as everyone in the castle aside from Hunk and Lance are, greets Lance by name without looking up.

“Your highness.” Lance addresses, digging into a different pocket to retrieve a different trinket and place it on Kolivan’s desk. “For you.”

Kolivan looks over his small glasses and his datapad to the item, his expression twitching just a bit in reserved amusement. Lance gives the trinket a cursory spin so it lights up the way he was shown in the market before he sets it down again for the king.

“Thank you.” Kolivan nods and his eyes skim back to his datapad and he waves Lance to one of the chairs before his large desk. “Did you enjoy your time by the outpost settlements?”

Lance doesn’t sit. “I did.” He looks firmly to the king when he finally meets his eyes, sensing the air, and he wills himself not to back down no matter how much he’s mentally backtracking and trying to remember if it’s disrespectful on Marmora to do so. “I would like to know why you chose me for Keith. I read the treaty, extensively, and there were a great deal of items that I am grateful to have been brokered as exchange for, but there were also a great deal of diplomats who could have done the same for you, and I want to know what found me as the best option for your kingdom.”

Kolivan’s face is unchanging, and Lance thinks that may be a characteristic that is true in any scenario. Still, he takes off his glasses, folds them, and sets them down with his datapad. He folds his hands on the desk’s surface when he speaks next, as if Lance is here in a formal exchange and the information he is providing will be essential to their success. It is to Lance’s, but Kolivan has no stake in this fancy of his, so Lance is grateful for the indulgence.

“You have no true royal heritage in a traditional sense, born as the indulgent son of the paltry thirteenth in line for the Luxian throne and an Earthen farmer, and being brought to King Alfor upon Blatyz’s death by happenstance of their long friendship. You are diplomacy-oriented by nature of growing up in the Altean palace, and that upbringing has made you a skilled tactician, negotiator, and ally in the war beyond a reach I would assume of a young Prince on such an extravagant planet.” He waves Lance to the chair again, but Lance doesn’t budge. “You have seen the effects of the war firsthand in your way, through your injury. I asked about you to King Alfor, as an Emperor had mentioned your hand at the negotiating table, and he discussed your potential to be a great leader. I thought it was the over-sentiment of a father, but my own investigation proved it to be nothing but truthful.”

Lance absorbs the words but cannot bring himself to mull over them endlessly, instead saving that for later that night when he can properly freak out. “Thank you, your majesty.” He says, as he had mentally practiced. He turns to leave, but Kolivan stops him with a last word.

“It didn’t hurt that Keith was obviously enamored with you the second we had touched down on Altea for negotiations.” His voice has a lilt to it, and Lance whips his head around to catch the first sign of a disposition underneath the stoic expression, and Kolivan rolls his eyes a bit as if still exasperated by his ward. “I had to stick Shirogane to him so he wouldn’t run off into corridors he wasn’t supposed to so he could meet you properly sooner.”

“Thank you.” Lance says again, feeling heat crawl to his cheeks despite his engagement to the man interested in him in question. He pretends not to hear Kolivan’s whisper-quiet chuckle and good-bye as he exits the study, and he trips on a corner table as he rounds out of the hallway in a pace that is nothing short of frantic.

He begins processing the words far before he’s ready, finding the darkest corridor he can in the eternally dim castle and burying his face in his hands.

Lance fingers the small surprise trinket in his pocket when he finally makes his way back into their personal chambers, expecting something short of a stilted argument while Lance prepares to swallow his pride and admit to his fluster leading to his bite. Keith is at his desk despite the late hour, stabbing at something on one of his many unattended-to datapads and burying one of his hands into his hair to keep his bangs out of his face.

“Finally working, I see.” He can’t help himself. Keith’s eyes lock with his across the room, as if surprised he’s being addressed.

After a pregnant pause, he snorts. “Ezor gave me homework, I guess she knew I probably wouldn’t sleep. She was happy for the offered position, by the way.” He flits his eyes back down to the datapad, but his fingers don’t move—a poor excuse for feigning work.

Lance drinks him in, taking a deep breath. He’s disgruntled looking, so the supposed homework must be menial, and Lance wonders if what is fraying his edges are nerves for their big day tomorrow.

He’s wearing the sweater Lance gave him, and it sparks a flame in his chest. He has had so much time to overthink his address to this new development, and it falls away when he looks at Keith, because looking at him is a reassurance that they are flying in blind together and they still somehow feel secure.

“I love you.” Lance says, and Keith looks up again, fingers twitching. “I’m sorry I haven’t proposed yet. Would you let me?” He moves fully into the room then, crossing to the desk and leaning down when Keith does up naturally. They kiss, and Keith hums an agreement to a question that Lance almost forgets he’s asked, distracted by the embrace.

Keith pulls away first, though, and beats Lance to it, “Will you marry me? I was meaning to ask, too.”

Lance squawks, then pinches him at the wrist. “You’re joking! Why would you steal my thunder like that?” It makes Keith laugh, but Lance pouts as he pulls out his hidden trinket, revealing to Keith a shiny gold pin, emblemized with intricate local flora and gleaming even in the dim night. He doesn’t wait for Keith to react, moving quickly to place it on the breast of his sweater before he can be bested again.

Keith moves quickly, snapping something around Lance’s wrist and rubbing gently at his hand as soon as it’s secure. He looks down to find a metal band, also gleaming, and watches as it becomes flush with his skin.

“It’s removable.” Keith re-assures, a little awkward. “It just does that.”

Lance leans down to kiss him again, and Keith stands properly into the kiss so he can secure a hand on Lance’s waist. “I’m glad to be marrying you.” He says seriously when he pulls away, and Lance snorts despite his agreeing. “Can I show you my wedding gift now, too?”

“Your—What?”

“My wedding gift to you.” Keith repeats, calm. He drops his hands suddenly, then walks away to the outer wall of the chambers to press at a hidden compartment. Before both of their eyes, the wall folds away to reveal a decorated balcony out of thin air, and Lance balks at the sudden exposure to the night air.

He walks to it immediately, almost convinced it’s a hologram or some trick of Keith’s to never reveal earlier that they had a balcony feature. When he turns to address him, though, his fingers skimming the railing that looks over the gardens below, he realizes that it’s familiar—achingly so.

“When I first saw you, I didn’t recognize that you were the prince, I think I’ve mentioned.” Lance admits, propping himself up on the railing as best as he remembers he was.

Keith stalks forward, “You may have. I remember you still wanted to run away together.”

Lance grins wide. “I did.”

He draws Keith into him as soon as he’s near enough, kissing him with a fervor he’s held back for as long as he’s looked at Keith under the two moons, enamored and impassioned by getting to relive his first Keith fantasy on the night before their union. Keith is passionate, as well, pressing into Lance insistently and holding him by the knees in case they have a near too-passionate waver towards the edge.

They kiss long into the night, far too long for either of them to be well-rested for the day ahead but a much better use of time than lying awake, anyway. Lance feels a lot more alive with the night wind whipping through their hair and warm bodies on the balcony than he thinks he’s allowed himself to in many years, and he relishes that the next day just means they’ve announced their intents to feel that alive with one another for their own eternity to come.

Their wedding is, of course, a blur of a political event, but one Lance will never forget despite the expansiveness of it. It is not the simple affair that Keith certainly would have preferred, but it is quieter by Altean standards, which Lance thinks is worth something.

There is the ceremony itself that they open with, where Lance and Keith look at one another and pretend not to be mentally undressing each other. Keith is beautiful, though, with his hair tamed back by expert hands instead of his training ponytail and his armor being traded in for something softer, still tactical in nature but pliant when Lance settles his hands on his waist. There is an embroidery climbing up one of his sleeves, and Lance privately thinks it must have been a pain to have stitched onto such thick leather, even pliant. Lance recognizes it immediately, though, because it’s stitched onto his own chest piece and his own form of a hopeful blessing to their union.

There are Gildyuv branches everywhere, in fact, and Lance is in wonder of how they are fully bloomed and curled expertly over the archway to their ceremony. It will do a number on the Altean luck rumor mill, and Lance doesn’t mind because he believes in this enough to call it true. Keith’s fingers on Lance’s wrist trace the seam of the engagement bracelet and his skin, gentle, and they both know they’ve heard the ceremony words performed enough times to be able to ignore it now, where they can stare at one another lovingly and think to nothing else.

Kolivan ascends the aisle with a guard flanking either side of him, his formal robes billowing, and Lance is honored to bow his head alongside Keith to receive their crowns again before the eyes of the kingdom. He is honored to become a representative to the people he has now seen face-to-face, and to rule them someday with Keith and his vision of a future with the war behind them and only prosperity with their work.

When Lance looks to Kolivan, he can see the pride in his eyes to his ward, and that pride does not dim when he meets Lance’s eye as well.

They kiss, as the final gesture of the complete ceremony, and the formal attendants cheer and applaud politely as they are meant to. Lance’s fingers trail up Keith’s chest to find his pin with his touch, placed just over where Keith’s heart beats and opposite of his ceremonial adornments of his achievements in the war.

Admittedly, Keith doesn’t keep in mind their practiced lesson of where an appropriate kiss would stop, and Lance would never meet the extra push and pull with anything short of enthusiasm. The applause doesn’t lighten enough for Lance to worry about it, nor is he occupied with anything else besides the body just before him. When they meet eyes again, they are named husbands together, crowned and flushed and open wide before the crowd, and Lance has never felt more at home.