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Diamonds are Made Under Pressure but the Overwhelming Exhaustion Sure Doesn't Feel Great

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When Lance rocks up to the library, the others are already there, paper strewn across the table, their backpacks and Hunk’s longboard leaning against the table legs.

“Sup losers,” he greets, shooting them all a salute before collapsing into his chair, taking an obnoxious drag from his Frappuccino.

“Bitch.” Pidge greets, though they could just be talking to their laptop, or the pen that slipped out of their hand.

Hunk groans at him, thumping his head onto the table.

Keith doesn’t say anything, fingers tapping away at his laptop, overhead headphones perched on his head.

“Hello Lance,” a very British voice says, and he turns to see Allura walking towards him with her arms full of books, white hair pulled up into a high bun.

“You leaving already ‘Ura?” Lance asks, head tilted back against the back of the chair so he can see her as she approaches.

“Yes. I just wanted to get some extra study done. Romelle and I are going to the cinema.”

“Show off,” Pidge mutters, the little gremlin, eyes not even visible above the table anymore. “Hunk your longboard is in my fucking way.”

“Can your feet even reach that far?” Hunk responds calmly, grabbing Pidge by the scruff of their neck and pulling them out from under the table. “I got it.”

“Oh, Hunk is that a new tattoo?” Allura asks over Pidge’s hissing, gesturing to the film-wrapped ink curling out from the right sleeve of his yellow t-shirt.

Hunk rubs at the back of his head, slightly dislodging his bandana. “Yeah, had four hours last night. One more session on Saturday and then it’ll be done.”

“Thanks awesome Hunk!” Allura says sincerely, blue beaded earrings bobbing. She checks her watch. “I really have to go now though, see you later lovelies.”

And with a wave of a bracelet-laden wrist and whiff of vanilla perfume, she is gone.

Hunk rolls out his shoulder. “Does anyone else feel incredibly inadequate?”

“Undoubtedly,” Pidge says, their hands fiddling with several pieces of metal.

“Always,” Lance agrees. He may be talented at a lot of things but time management is not one of them.

With that thought, a sigh, and great reluctance Lance drags his bag up onto the table and starts assembling his life. He pulls out his laptop, headphones, charger. All of the essentials. 

“Jesus, you got enough food there?” Pidge bitches, all five foot nothing and excessive rage.

Lance makes eye contact whilst loudly finishing his Frappuccino. He shrugs, “I get snacky.”

At Hunk’s look, whatever Pidge was going to say dissolves into muttering. Then they suddenly dive forward and type something furiously on their laptop before going back to fiddling with the metal like nothing had happened. 

It’s no secret that Pidge is the smartest out of them all, 17 years old and in their second year of a double engineering degree but Lance is sure they’re more focused on building robots or world domination than the mere task of finishing their assessments.

Lance smirks to himself, hooking his sunglasses into his shirt and opening his laptop. Waiting for it to boot up, he drums his fingers along the desk quickly - as to not get into a beat - glancing around the room. They’re in their usual table on the fifth floor, tucked into the corner of the open-floored semi-quiet floor, surrounded by a line of tall bookcases. Lance’s chair is facing the window with a view of the sprawling Altea campus, which is always a dangerous game since he can never concentrate in the first place.

“Oh, when did you get here Lance?”

“Five whole minutes ago Mullet,” Lance replies lazily, turning to look at Keith who has slid his headphones down around his neck and is blinking somewhat owlishly at him.

“That makes sense,” Keith says absent-mindedly, playing with the ring on his middle finger. He gives Lance a small close-lipped smile before sliding his headphones back on and leaning back in his seat, one leg coming up in a bend.

Lance fiddles with the bracelets on his wrist, sighing deeply and pulling up his study notes. If he doesn’t want to fail tomorrow’s exam he better get onto it.

As sometimes happens he quickly loses track of time, focused so intently on transferring quotes from his textbook onto his laptop and occasionally humming along to the piano music in his ear that he startles like mad when a hand comes down on his shoulder. 

“Hunk!” Lance gasps, hand on his wildly beating heart, “you may be the light of my life but give a man some warning!”

“I tried,” Hunk replies quietly, smiling. “You were in focus mode.”

“My bad dude,” Lance says, kicking his high-tops onto the table. “What’s the time?”


Nice, two whole hours of work. Lance notices Hunk’s longboard is under his arm. “You off?”

Oddly, Hunk’s ears go red which is hard to see under his skin tone but Lance just knows these things. “I’m seeing Shay.”

Lance mock-gapes at him before breaking into a  grin. “Hunk, you dog. Out of the way everyone, Hunk the ladies man coming through!”

With a laugh, Hunk taps his knuckles against the side of Lance’s head when he nearly shouts his last few words. “Knock it off man, you don’t want to be kicked out of the library.”

“You should be more worried about Keith than me then,” Lance quips but a glance shows Keith to be asleep, head rested on his crossed arms and face hidden by a mess of black hair.

Lance pouts. Teasing someone is only fun if they can hear you. And riled up Keith is the most fun.

“See you Lance, Pidge,” Hunk says, breaking Lance’s inner monologue like the big sexy Samoan he is, squeezing the back of Pidge’s neck gently. “Tell Keith I said goodbye when he wakes, and that we’ll get coffee before the exam tomorrow.” 

With a backwards wave he’s off, weaving through the bookcases.

Lance watches him go. “What a hunk,” he says with a laugh to himself.

“Shut up Lance,” Pidge says, eyes hidden by the light from the laptop reflecting off their glasses.

God he forgot how bitchy Pidge got during exams. Tearing a strip of paper out of his notebook, Lance carefully molds and throws a paper ball at them with all the talent of a sharpshooter. 

Pidge deflects it without looking.

Lance crosses his arms over his chest. Looks out the window moodily. “Hey! When did it start getting dark?”

Pidge ignores him. Keith sleeps on.




Concentration eludes him for an hour and a half and he watches the clock on his laptop slowly tick over to 7:30. 

The sky has long since faded into black, backlit by the yellow, orange and white lights of the city. Lance’s eyes keep catching on insignificant details around him; like the slowly thinning amount of people on the floor, every time Pidge adjusts their glasses - which is a lot - the brush of Keith’s eyelashes when he shifts in his sleep. The peeling of his yellow nail polish which he picks at, the burgeoning ache in his lower back and the grate of the music through his earphones. 

Eventually it gets too much and he stands, stretching obnoxiously. Semi-silent floors may help to eliminate distractions but it doesn’t magically fix his concentration. With the constant jittery-ness under his skin and the pain in his lower back, it’s like he can feel both everything and nothing at once. 

Lance grabs his waterbottle - Hunk must’ve thrown out his empty Starbucks cup bless - and Keith’s to refill. In place of Pidge’s is a ridiculously oversized coffee thermos.

When he returns, Keith is awake, clicking away as if nothing had happened. Lance might be both a night owl and an early riser but even he shows grogginess just after waking. 

Dropping a kiss into the wild nest of Pidge’s hair as he passes their chair, Lance comes around the table to place the now-filled waterbottle in front of him.

“Thanks Lance,” says Keith with another smile that Lance would like to enjoy but can’t really with the deep punch-purple etched under his eyes. 

Lance doesn’t say anything, just squeezes Keith’s shoulder before dropping into his seat. 

They all know that Keith had been worried sick more than anyone else after Shiro had injured his good arm when he tried to stop a fight. Theoretically, they all know he is fine - with Adam to look after him and ongoing therapy sessions - but having a dislocated shoulder as well as a prosthetic arm didn’t make things easy. Keith had absolutely lost it when he had heard about the accident and Lance had been tasked with calming him down, but even now they all knew he still wasn’t sleeping properly.

Anyway, concentrate. 

Pidge scrunches their nose at him when he cracks his knuckles and Keith glares half-heartedly when Lance kicks at his foot.

Let’s go.



By 10:30, it is obvious that their concentration has well and truly frayed. Pidge is holding their now thrice-empty coffee mug to their head mouthing the words on the screen. Keith’s eyes are half-closed at best, and his head keeps bobbing as he keeps startling himself out of dozing. 

The pressure against the skin under Lance’s eyes have increased, and the words have begun to not only swim but to do the macerena across the screen. He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes for a few seconds. He should’ve gotten to sleep earlier last night, but that was easier said than done, and he’d ended being awake until 2am, deep in the Wikipedia archives.

The worst part is that he has so little left to go over but it seems like a gargantuan effort. Lance starts holding his eyes open by stretching his eyelid and under eye in an effort to make his eyes focus.

“What are you doing?” 

“Reading, my dear Pidgey,” Lance says far too loudly - he never was good at measuring his volume - and gets a glare from a girl the table across from them.

“Well you look stupid,” Pidge says. Gremlin. 

“Kinder words have never been spoken Pidegon.”

They roll their eyes but there’s a smile on their face now.

It makes him grin. Then Lance turns back to his laptop and deletes the utter gibberish masquerading as his last two sentences.

Then habitually, as is his wont nowadays, his eyes flick up to Keith. He has the hand his cheek is resting on tangled in his hair, black eyes tracing the words on his screen. His hand blindly searches across the table before closing around his bottle and taking a swig. Stupidly handsome Keith. 


Lance grudgingly turns back to his laptop and another hour of startlingly mediocre work passes. 

When the clock hits 11:14pm, Pidge shrieks. With their glasses askew and lips upturned like a cat, they shut their laptop sharply and crow, “I’m done!”

Excitedly, they lean over the corner of the desk with an outstretched fist to which Keith - surprisingly as Lance wasn’t sure he was currently aware of his surroundings - knocks his knuckles gently against Pidge’s without looking up. 

Now brimming with energy, they stack all of their things into a haphazard pile and when they come around the table, get close enough to let Lance wind an arm around their skinny waist to pull them into a side hug. Pidge’s bird-like body is warm and Lance leans in his seat to press his face against their side, other arm moving to join the other.

“Hey! Watch it!” Pidge warns, their stack of papers, laptop and contraptions wobbling, but despite their words they lean into Lance for a minute, usual unsure edges marred by familiarity and tiredness. When they pull away they’re smiling. Genuinely too, without the maniacal look in their eyes. 

With a well managed peace sign and a “see you later fuckers,” Pidge is gone.

Keith is frowning between his textbook and screen now, thick brows furrowed, fingers of one hand trailing up the edge of his laptop. Suddenly his head pops up and he’s looking Lance straight in the eye. 

He has to press his hand to calm his racing heart. Jump scare. 

“Lance. What’s the word?”

“I’m gonna need more to go on than that buddy,” Lance laughs.

Keith nods, mainly to himself, and mutters a string of rapid-fire Korean. Lance will take this to the grave - though Pidge and Hunk probably know - but he finds Keith speaking his first language incredibly hot.

“The seeing glass thing,” Keith explains, holding his arm bent at the elbow, palm bent in kind of an upside down ‘L’ shape. “Like this in a submarine.”

Sometimes he forgets that even though English is Lance’s second language as well, that Keith didn’t have the dual-language upbringing he did and that Keith didn’t learn English until he was eight. 

“A periscope?” Lance says slowly, but doesn’t question it. It must have something to do with his engineering exam. 

“That’s it! Thanks Lance!” Keith says excitedly, with a small smile, turning back to his laptop, tongue poking out between his lips.

And screw whatever Keith he’s said is his favourite before, exam-prep exhausted is his new favourite Keith. 

Lance manages another half an hour, fingers starting to cramp. He rolls out his neck slowly, feeling the stretch as he rotates his shoulder. He watches the large tree at the edge of the University and the way the leaves ruffle gently. What he would give to be outside right now instead of in the artificial stillness of the library. 

His eyes drop to Keith who is hunched over his seat like an old man - terrible posture that one - pushing a chunk of hair behind his ear. 

Lance watches with stinging eyes as it slowly shifts and swings into Keith’s face again. Keith shoves it back slightly more aggressively but it doesn’t take long to fall in his front of his eyes. Lance can see Keith is getting overly frustrated in the way only an exhausted person can get. 

Lance sighs and unwinds his long limbs from the chair, pulling the blue hairband from his wrist up and over onto his hand. He snaps his fingers together, feeling the resistance where the band sits mid knuckle. He’s been wearing it on his wrist ever since the disastrous few weeks he’d dated Allura last year, before she’d realised they weren’t right for each other and that she was still caught up on Lotor the shady foreign exchange student. Dick. She still lets him do her hair occasionally at least.

Lance huffs, coming up behind Keith, and touches his hair gently as to not startle him. “Ponytail or braid?” He asks, after tapping the side of Keith’s large overhead headphones. 

“Ponytail would be easier wouldn’t it?” Keith’s asks after pulling his headphones down to his neck and his voice is uncharacteristically lazy, scratchy and low and wow Lance get your brain away from these thoughts right now. 

“I can do either but for a substantial braid your hair would have to be longer,” Lance replies, beginning to comb his fingers through thick black strands. As a theatre kid and having grown up with a big family, Lance is proficient in all types of braids and plaits and hairstyles. When his fingers gets caught for the fifth time he huffs; “Do you ever comb your hair?”

Keith makes an unintelligible noise and leans slightly back into Lance. Lance, who is both desperate and dramatic, breathes heavily up to ruffle the hair that falls onto his forehead. Keith’s shoulder is warm against his hip and the trust, no one is allowed to touch Keith’s hair. God, high school Lance would be losing it - newly labelled bi and desperate, pimples everywhere, and the refusal to acknowledge his attraction to the quiet loner who didn’t even know his name. Even now, Lance’s traitorous heart is doing cartwheels and flips. (He’s tried talking sense into it before, but that doesn’t seem to work).

The gathered hair in his hand tickles his skin where it falls over his wrist. Making his decision, Lance adjusts his hand and twists the hairband around Keith’s hair in a ponytail that sits about the middle of his head. He pulls a few strands through that are looped in the hairband and then steps back.

Looking at his study space, Lance makes the decision to shift his seat next to Keith rather than being all by his lonesome. He drops into the seat beside Keith instead which is cool against his butt, and has the feel of that it hasn’t fit itself to the groove of his body yet. 

“Thanks Lance.”

Lance almost chokes when he looks up, knocking his elbow hard against the corner of the table in the middle of his stretch to pull his stuff over.

Because Keith’s hair pulled back from his face is beyond rare and it’s gorgeous, bangs still framing his face, too short to stay in the ponytail.

“Estúpido,” he groans, holding his elbow, bent over, the pain holding him captive for a second, “Tablas estúpidas y sus estúpidos aristas,” he continues angrily.

“You okay?” Keith asks on the tail-end of a laugh.

“Just peachy,” Lance replies sarcastically before laughing too.

“Hey Lance,” Keith says, when Lance stops hysterically laughing over something that isn’t actually that funny. “I have five pages left and they shouldn’t take me long, what about you?”

Lance rereads what is on his screen and flips ahead in his textbook. “Three.” For a minute he watches Keith’s hands -  gorgeous, calloused, ink-stained hands - flip through his pages and his eyes flicker between them and the screen before letting his converse tap Keith’s motorcycle boots; “Chances of us getting out of here before twelve?”

“Hmm, unlikely,” Keith replies, humouring him, and oh my god, how did Lance not know Keith had a southern tinge when he was tired?

“Is that a challenge?”

“You bet, flyboy,” Keith shoots back, corner of his mouth quirking up.

“You’re on,” Lance retorts, a minute too slow. His brain is foggy from study and lack of sleep but it’s racing purely from the thought of their usual challenging of one another being flirty. He’s probably just imagining it? Attractive Youth Dies Without Having Been Laid in 18 Months due to Overthinking and Imagining Things flashes in front of his eyes.

Finding a second wind, or just trying to stop his mind from spiraling, Lance begins to type furiously, tired eyes scanning the textbook as he paraphrases it into his study notes. Ugh, film themes. Common sense stuff, which he always finds is the hardest thing to explain academically. Lance has to force himself to read every line when he reaches the last page, pointer finger following underneath the words like he’s back in pre-school. His ass is so sore. Nobody ever said a double degree was fun though . At least he already got his music performance out of the way two days ago.

Once Lance finishes, it takes everything within him not to throw his textbook up into the air and yell “hallelujah!” He settles for packing his stuff away and pulling out his phone - he’d stuffed it in his satchel when he got to the library, to avoid temptation and all that - and replies to the thriving group chat with nothing but a RuPaul gif. 

He’s got his chin on the arm resting on the table and is scrolling through his Twitter feed when he feels Keith move - leg going cold with nothing pressed to it anymore. 

“Bless you Gaga, Goddess of all things holy,” Lance mumbles, standing up. Most of his joints crack like he’s thirty years old instead of a healthy twenty-year-old who swims frequently. His jaw cracks into a yawn he can’t stop, and he turns it into a mini scream as he stretches his arms out wide.

Keith snorts, shrugging on the cropped leather jacket that should look stupid but doesn’t, only brings attention to his deceptively lithe form. He slings his backpack over a shoulder and looks around the now empty fifth floor; “You good to go?”

“God am I ever,” Lance says as they start towards the elevator. He swipes the sides of his middle fingers across his cheeks as Keith scans his student ID to open the doors. “My back hurts and my skin is oily. Worse things have never happened.”

Keith huffs out a laugh. Once the elevator doors close he leans against the railing, eyes resting shut. 

Lance is helpless to watch. Keith awake is steadfast and alert and seeing Keith like this feels like a gift. Speaking of tired, time seems to move slow as syrup as the red numbers tick down to 1, and the shrill ding of the elevator pushes him somewhat out of his stupor. 

Lance taps Keith’s shoulder as the doors slide open. “Come on Keithy boy.” 

They push open the glass double doors and the night hits them with cold, and Lance is glad for his blue hoodie. The dim yellow of the overhead lamps are no match for the strength of the night, having the overall effect of blurring edges.

“Which way?” Keith asks and they walk down the stone steps.

“That way,” Lance decides, leading them to the right side of the building, and if that way is slightly longer he’s the only one who needs to know. “The scenic forest route.”

“It has about ten trees Lance, it can hardly be called a forest,” Keith points out.

Lance scoffs but doesn’t say anything else and for a moment there is no noise but the breeze. He glances at Keith as they walk, before looking up at the sky, a mottled black-navy. 

“Hey Lance.”

He’s brought back from counting the stars through the trees to see Keith pointing at the pedestrian crossing about three hundred metres away. The red figure of the traffic light starts to flash, a warning to not to start crossing. There are no cars in sight. Keith’s got that look on his face.

There’s a pause.

Then Lance starts sprinting, satchel hitting against his leg with every stride. His high-tops aren’t the best to run in but he makes do, pouring all the speed he can in. He may have longer legs but he’s not built for sprinting the way Keith is. They’re neck and neck until the start of the crossing where Keith overtakes him.

They both come to a stop against the horizontal pole that separates the field from the footpath, panting hard.

For a minute, all there is is the vapour trailing from their mouths disappearing into the air and the sound of their heavy breathing. When Lance regains his breath he straightens from his crouch. “Congratulations on the win Keithereno.”

This loss two years ago would’ve killed him. Now it doesn’t even register.

“Thought you had me today,” Keith admits, pale cheeks pink from the exertion and the cold. 

“Nah,” Lance replies, slinging his arm around Keith’s shoulder, a harder feat now that they’re almost the same height, but easier now he isn’t immediately pushed off. “Still better at sprinting. Now, long distance on the other hand. Or swimming. Maybe volleyball. There’s got to be lots of things I can still kick your scrawny ass at.”

Keith elbows him, jokingly, but his elbows are still bony. Lance flinches with the jab, moving away, arm falling off Keith’s shoulders.

“It’s like a different world out here isn’t it?” Keith says quietly once they’ve turned down the road that leads to the dorms.

Lance hums. It really is, air still.

Keith yawns then, jaw cracking, hand covering his mouth. Not many could tell, Lance is proud that he can, but Keith is actually exhausted, steps dragging slightly and shoulders slumped. He must be extremely behind on sleep then, because Lance knows Keith always wakes up no later than seven after going to bed at eleven and never even looks droopy. 

Lance, watching Keith, somehow knows what’s going to happen before it does, and when Keith’s boot hits the edge of the curb and he pitches forward Lance lunges, throwing an arm out to catch Keith around the waist. He staggers because Keith is deceptively heavy.

Keith stares up at him in the French dip they’ve found themselves in. Surprise is not a look Keith often wears but it’s still lovely. Dark eyes wide. Rose-mouth slightly gaping. Hair like volcanic rock against the yellow of the streetlight they’re under. The deep scar running up Keith’s cheek is cast into shadow and Lance would like to place several kisses there thank you very much sir. Then Keith’s face shutters, fixes itself into neutral.

For a second, Lance’s mind goes terrifyingly blank. But then, because he is wonderfully brilliant, it comes to him. “Hey,” he starts, “now I’m cradling you in my arms,” he quips.

And Keith… well Keith looks offended, pushing himself to a stand, shoving Lance. “You told me you didn’t remember!” He accuses. 

Lance gestures in what barely passes sincerity, and leans over an imaginary microphone. “And now folks, we witness Keith Kogaine catching our gorgeous leading man, Lance razzle dazzle McClain in a lie,” he looks off to the side dramatically, and then back to Keith who is now wearing a quizzical look. “We return after the break to see if Lance is still alive.”

And inexplicably, Keith laughs. Actually laughs. Freely, unrestrictedly, In a way Lance hasn’t ever been privy to, head thrown back and eyes closed.

It feels like Keith just twisted his hold on Lance’s heart even further. 

“Hey Lance, you good?” Keith asks after his laughter has morphed into another yawn, turning to look back at Lance who’s stopped in his tracks. His cheeks, less round than they were a year ago, are still lifted in laughter. More strands of hair have fallen out of his ponytail from their sprint.

He’s stunning. 

Lance can’t deal with this. He groans into his hands. Lance wishes this was a movie so he could lean into the dramatics, slump against a tree, cry, maybe even perform a dance number about it. 


God, now Keith looks concerned, hand outstretched but held back as if he wasn’t quite sure the touch would be welcomed. 

The dam breaks. Lance grabs Keith by the shoulders, gentling his touch once he has a hold of him. “Keith, Keithereno, Keithy boy. You really have to stop doing that with your mouth. No, your whole face, actually stop just being you in general!”

“Stop being me, in general?” Keith repeats slowly, like he’s not following, almost swaying in his spot. God, he really is tired. 

And Lance could stop here if his mouth wasn’t already running. Should stop. But the words come anyway, in a scoff, “Stop making me fancy you.” 

Then in typical Lance fashion, he panics, striding away because he really just told Keith he had feelings for him. Mierda! Mierda mierda mierda! And the shock on his face. Lance knew Kieth was gay but that didn’t mean shit. It’s not like matching sexualities instantly equaled attraction. 

Lance starts making plans to throw himself onto his bed and cry, quit uni and go back to his family and his cow but before he can fully swallow the pill in his throat there are frantic footsteps behind him. Suddenly, hands grasp his shoulders, spinning him around for a pair of cool lips to meet his own. 

Lance will deny it until the day he dies but he squawks into Keith’s mouth. 

It doesn’t take him long to get with the program though, not with Keith’s smell in his nose and his hands on his shoulders; tilting his head to adjust the clumsy angle Keith had set. For someone who kissed him so forcefully, Keith almost seems tentative, so Lance grabs his face between both hands, fingers stroking his hair as he kisses him back soundly. His heart soars, and Lance wants to curl his toes in his shoes and dance across the carpark. 

It’s a little early in the game for tongue and Keith seems two seconds away from yawning into his mouth so Lance pulls back, satisfied by the red colour of Keith’s mouth. Keith is looking at him with a small grin, and Lance is so so gone on him. 

Lance grins back, face splitting into a smile he knows is a mile wide. “And I’m supposed to be the impulsive one.”

“We both know that’s a lie, you’re the tactical one,” Keith replies, matter-of-fact and voice too steady for someone who just got kissed within an inch of his life. Damn. “The one that overthinks everything. I knew I’d have to do something or we’d never get anywhere.” Keith grimaces, “Even if that was only my third kiss ever.”

He says it so matter-of-fact but Lance feels like he’s been slapped. “Third?” He says incredulously. “Ever? I’m actually offended, who looks at you Keith and doesn’t want to snog the shit out of you? This is a travesty! Blasphemy! Let the world know that Lance McClain is angry about this!” He swears into the night air, shaking a fist, and then shrugs, cutting himself off despite the little upturn of Keith’s mouth his rant brings. Sighs, put-out. “I guess I’ll just have to kiss you everyday myself. Don’t let people ever tell you I’m not a giving person.”

“Lance shut up,” Keith says exasperatedly, but grabs his hand and links their fingers together. The leather of Keith’s fingerless gloves feel odd against his palm but Lance thinks he rather likes it.

They walk in comfortable silence the rest of the way to their dorms. Mamora, Keith’s dorm is first and they stop just in front of the outdoor stairs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You most certainly will!” Lance sings, squishing Keith’s cheeks between his hands. He laughs when Keith bats him away, hushing him for being too loud. 

He places an obnoxious kiss on Keith’s forehead just to be a pain. ““Hunk wanted me to remind you about coffee tomorrow. Oh, and good luck for your exam!”

Keith smiles. Squeezes his hand. “Yeah he text me. Good luck to you too.”

Lance watches him climb to the fourth floor where Keith stops by the railing to give him a small wave. Only when he hears the front door of Keith’s flat shut does Lance move. 

He practically skips to his dorm. 

Lance dances around his room before falling onto his bed, kicking his legs happily. He throws an arm over his eyes, grinning like a fool. It’s 1am, he’s extremely exhausted and he has an exam at 9:30 tomorrow that he didn’t study nearly enough for. But he kissed Keith! Keith kissed him!

So, honestly, Lance is pretty darn happy with the way the day turned out.