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“I know I don’t need to tell any of you how dangerous this mission is,” he began, his voice measured, his gaze touching each of them. Adam stood a respectful few paces behind, a silent, supportive presence. “We have one night. One night before we launch into what might be the longest fight of our lives. So my only order for today is this: spend it with the people you care about. Really be with them. It might be the last chance for a long while.”
A solemn quiet settled over the paladins. Hunk sniffed loudly, rubbing at his nose. Pidge adjusted their glasses, their usual sharpness softened. Keith’s arms were crossed, his expression inscrutable but his eyes serious. Lance fidgeted, the reality of it all pressing down on his usually buoyant spirit. Allura’s hand went to her throat, to the absent crystal that usually rested there, a gesture of subconscious longing.
They filed out into the hallway, the silence stretching between them, filled with thoughts of families, of goodbyes, of uncertain futures. It was Allura who broke it, her voice clear yet gentle, stopping them in the wide, sun-warmed corridor.
“A moment, everyone,” she said. They turned to her. In her simple Earth clothes, she still carried an otherworldly grace, but now it was edged with a vulnerability that was uniquely for them. “I… I know you all have loved ones to seek out today. Parents, siblings, partners.” She glanced at Shiro and Adam, a small, knowing smile on her lips. “And I am so glad you have that. But my family… my home… it is here. With all of you.”
She clasped her hands in front of her. “So, I was hoping, perhaps… we could all gather tonight? One last evening of peace, just us? Before we face the stars again.”
The request, so simply stated, dispelled the lingering heaviness. Hunk let out a gust of air that was half-sigh, half-sob of relief. He slumped against the cool wall. “Oh, thank every star in the sky. Yes. Please. My adrenal glands are filing for union protection. I need an activity that involves exactly zero point-zero percent chance of explosions or impalement.”
Shiro’s shoulders relaxed, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “That sounds perfect, Princess. A quiet night is exactly what we need.”
Pidge nudged Shiro’s arm, a wicked gleam in their eye. “Especially after you spend the whole day doing… whatever it is you and Adam are gonna do.” They waggled their eyebrows. “You’ll need to recover your stamina.”
Shiro’s composure shattered. A brilliant, crimson flush erupted from his collar, racing up his neck to the tips of his ears. “Pidge!” he sputtered, while Adam coughed into his fist, failing to hide a laugh.
Keith’s lips twitched. He gave a single, firm nod. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Lance chimed in, his voice warm. He shot Allura a grin that was only slightly forced at the edges. “Can’t let our Princess face the last night on Earth without her knights, right?”
Allura’s smile was radiant, touched with gratitude. “Wonderful.”
“Great!” Pidge pushed their glasses up, their mind already clicking into planning mode. “I know just the spot. Officer’s relaxation deck, Level 7. It’s got a killer hot tub, sound system, the works. Very… hydro-therapeutic.”
Keith’s brow furrowed, a familiar line of skepticism appearing between his eyes. “The hot tub. Isn’t that facility designated for post-mission physical recovery? For documented musculoskeletal injuries?”
A perfect, synchronized wave of deadpan stares washed over him from every other member of the team. Hunk blinked slowly. Pidge’s mouth flattened into a thin line. Allura looked politely confused by the question. Shiro just shook his head, fondly exasperated.
It was Lance who broke the silence, his laughter bursting forth like sunlight, rich and full-bodied, echoing down the empty hallway. He doubled over, slapping his thigh. “Oh my god! Mullet, we all need recovery! We need recovery from existing as Voltron Paladins! My hairline is receding from stress! Hunk has developed a nervous tick that makes him hum the Galra anthem! Pidge hasn’t slept in three years! We’re a walking, talking set of musculoskeletal injuries! A hot tub it’s a medical necessity!”
The tension dissolved into a chorus of chuckles and agreeing nods. Even Keith’s stern expression cracked, a reluctant, amused huff escaping him. “Fine, fine. Whatever.”
They settled on meeting at 2100 hours, the promise of the evening a bright spot on the horizon. As they scattered—Shiro and Adam heading out hand-in-hand, Hunk off to his family’s temporary quarters with a wave, Pidge buzzing away to who-knows-where—Lance watched Keith. He didn’t head towards the dormitories or the commissary. He just shoved his hands in his pockets and turned down the corridor that led to the hangar bays.
Lance knew exactly where he was going.
***
The Black Lion was a silent, majestic sentinel in the vast hangar. The setting sun streamed through the high windows, painting the colossal metal form in fiery orange and deep violet. There, a small, dark figure was perched on the Lion’s head, legs dangling over the edge, looking out at the desert beyond the open bay doors.
Lance made the climb quietly, his movements practiced. The metal was still warm from the day’s heat. He sat down beside Keith, not too close, leaving a respectful foot of space between them.
“Knew I’d find you brooding out here,” Lance said, his voice softer than his usual ribbing.
Keith didn’t jump. He’d probably heard him coming. “Not brooding,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky was melting into a pool of liquid copper. “Just… watching. It’s different now. Seeing it from up here.”
“Yeah,” Lance agreed, following his gaze. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the quiet of two people who had shared a war, who didn’t always need words. The desert wind, dry and cool with the approaching night, swept over them, carrying the scent of dust and sage.
“Pretty insane to think about, huh?” Lance said after a while. “From trying to one-up each other in the simulator, you being a mysterious dropout legend, me being the cocky cargo pilot… to this.” He gestured vaguely around them—at the Lion, at the hangar, at the stars beginning to prick the deepening blue above.
“We’ve come a long way,” Keith agreed, his voice low.
“You hated me,” Lance stated. It wasn’t entirely a question. It was a piece of their history he needed to touch one more time, here in this liminal space.
Keith finally turned his head. The dying light caught in his violet eyes, making them gleam like amethysts. He studied Lance’s face, his expression unreadable for a moment. “I never hated you,” he said, the words deliberate. “You were just… incredibly, relentlessly, ear-gratingly annoying.”
Lance clutched his chest, feigning a mortal wound. “Wow. Harsh. And here I was, about to get all profound and sentimental about our journey. You’ve wounded me, Samurai. Deeply.”
A flicker of a smile touched Keith’s mouth. “You’ll live.”
They lapsed back into silence, but it felt easier now. The vast, open world before them made their past squabbles feel small, almost silly. Lance pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. “I didn’t go see my family today,” he confessed, the words muffled slightly. “I mean, I did a video-call this morning. Mom was crying… the whole deal.” He sighed, a real one, full of weight. “If I’d gone in person… if I’d sat at that table, smelled my mom’s cooking, let my little niece climb into my lap… I don’t think I could’ve walked back out that door. It would’ve broken something in me to leave again.”
Keith was quiet for a long moment. The wind tousled his hair. “I get that,” he said finally, and the simple understanding in his voice meant more than any grand speech. “It’s… a different kind of hard.”
“What about you?” Lance asked, turning to look at him fully. “How’s your nostalgic Garrison tour? Visit all your old haunts? The detention hall? The roof you probably brooded on?”
Keith’s expression closed off, just a fraction. A shadow passed behind his eyes. “It’s… fine. A lot of hallways that feel too narrow now. Classrooms that smell like frustration. Seeing faces in the halls that used to look at me like I was a problem to be solved.” He shrugged, a tight, defensive motion. “I had lunch with Shiro and Adam. That was enough. More than enough.”
Lance felt that familiar, protective ache in his chest, the one Keith always seemed to ignite without trying. Without overthinking, he shifted. He closed that careful foot of distance, so their shoulders were pressed together from arm to hip. The solid, warm reality of Keith against him was a grounding force. He lifted his hand and placed it on Keith’s shoulder, his touch gentle, a firm anchor.
“Then you should spend your time with people who love you,” Lance said, his voice dropping to a tone barely above the sigh of the wind. It was intimate, meant only for the two of them and the falling night. “Even if it’s not on this dusty, memory-filled rock. We’re your family, too. Shiro, Allura, Pidge, Hunk… Coran. Me.” The last word was a breath. “You should… you should let yourself cherish that.”
His hand, acting on an impulse older than the Black Lion itself, began to move. It slid slowly, so slowly, down from the curve of Keith’s shoulder. He felt the shift of muscle and bone under Keith’s thin shirt, the definition of his bicep, the taut line of his forearm. His fingertips traced a path all the way to Keith’s wrist, then over the back of his hand, rough with callouses and scars, until they came to rest, feather-light, against his palm.
The contact was a shockwave in the still air.
Keith’s breath caught, a sharp, audible intake. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he turned his hand, just slightly, so his fingers could slot between Lance’s. The connection was tentative, a question. His gaze, when it lifted from their joined hands to Lance’s face, was intense, blazing with something raw and unmasked. “Lance…” he whispered, and his name in Keith’s low, rasping voice was a novel, a confession, a prayer all at once. It held galaxies of unsaid things—years of side-glances in the cockpit, of backs pressed together in battle, of quiet respect that had slowly, inexorably, fermented into this.
Lance’s heart was a wild, frantic drum against his ribs. The air between their faces seemed to thicken, to crackle. He could see every fleck of deeper purple in Keith’s irises, the faint scar through his eyebrow, the way his lips were slightly parted. The pull was gravitational, inevitable. He felt himself leaning in, saw Keith doing the same, their noses a breath apart. The world dissolved into the scent of desert and Keith, into the feel of their clasped hands, into the stunning vulnerability in Keith’s eyes. The sunset behind them was a final, spectacular blaze of color, a backdrop for a moment that felt stolen from time.
Then, the fear rushed in. Cold and paralyzing. What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t mean it like that? What if I ruin everything? The weight of his own feelings, too big and too desperate, threatened to crush the beautiful fragility of the moment.
He didn’t say, ‘Don’t get the wrong idea.’ He couldn’t give voice to the fear. Instead, he broke the spell by sheer force of will, pulling back abruptly, putting a few inches of cool, evening air between them. He let go of Keith’s hand as if it had burned him, but the phantom warmth seared his skin.
Keith didn’t move, but his eyes searched Lance’s face, confusion and a flicker of hurt replacing the warmth that had been there. The tension didn’t dissipate; it coiled in the space between them, thick and charged with everything left unsaid.
Lance couldn’t bear it. He stood up too quickly, the metal of the Lion clanging softly under his boots. He brushed non-existent dust from his pants, a nervous, jerky motion. “I, uh… I should go. I told Veronica I’d grab a late dinner with her. Garrison chili night. Can’t miss it.” The excuse was pathetic, and they both knew it.
Keith’s face smoothed into a neutral mask, but his eyes were still soft, still troubled. “Right,” he said, his voice back to its usual, carefully controlled evenness.
Lance began the climb down, his movements clumsy. Halfway, he paused. He couldn’t leave it like this. He looked back over his shoulder. Keith was watching him, a lone silhouette against the star-dusted indigo sky.
“Don’t be late for the hot tub, Samurai,” Lance said, managing a small, genuine smile that felt wobbly on his face.
Keith’s lips quirked, just a little. It wasn’t the smile from before, but it was something. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured.
Lance fled, the image of Keith alone on the Lion burning behind his eyelids.
***
The walk to the relaxation deck was a blur. He’d ended up in Veronica’s room, ranting for a solid twenty minutes about Keith’s stupidly perfect jawline and infuriatingly cryptic behavior and the way his hand felt and how much of a coward Lance was.
“Hermano,” Veronica had said, not looking up from her tablet. “You have two options: confess your undying love in the dramatic, steamy setting of a hot tub, or die pining. I recommend the first one. It’s better for your complexion.”
He was, consequently, the last to arrive. Pushing open the heavy door to the relaxation deck, he was met by a wall of humid, chlorinated air and the glorious, chaotic symphony of his friends.
The room was sleek and modern, with panoramic windows overlooking the now-dark desert. The centerpiece was the circular hot tub, sunk into the floor and lit from within by a default, harsh green glow. It was bubbling invitingly, sending plumes of steam into the cool air. It was a bit small for six adults, but they’d made it work. Pidge and Hunk were perched on the wide rim, their feet submerged, leaving the main body of the tub free.
Inside, Shiro was leaned back against one side, his eyes closed, a look of profound peace on his face. Allura sat beside him, her hair piled in a loose bun on top of her head, looking serenely amused as she listened to Hunk. And Keith…
Lance’s brain stuttered to a complete halt.
Keith was on the opposite side, directly across from the door. He was shirtless, his arms stretched out along the tiled rim, head tilted back against the edge. The unforgiving green light carved the planes of his body in sharp relief, glistening off the beads of water tracking paths through the dusting of dark hair on his chest, over the defined ridges of his abdomen, down into the waterline that lapped just below his navel. His black swim trunks were a stark contrast to his pale skin. His hair was damp, dark strands clinging to his temples and the elegant line of his neck. His face, all sharp angles—the blade of his nose, the cut of his jaw—was softened by the steam and an expression of relaxed ease Lance rarely saw on him. He looked powerful, at peace, and utterly, devastatingly beautiful.
“Finally!” Pidge crowed, shattering Lance’s trance. “We sent out a search party. Thought you might have fallen into a vat of your own moisturizer.”
Lance forced a laugh, wrenching his eyes away from Keith. He could feel Keith’s gaze on him now, a physical weight. “Hey, a seven-step routine doesn’t execute itself,” he shot back, his voice thankfully steady. He dared another glance. Keith was watching him, a knowing, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips as he cocked his head. The look was pure, undiluted Keith: challenging, observant, faintly amused. Lance felt a flush creep up his neck.
Trying to project an air of nonchalance he absolutely did not feel, Lance kicked off his slides and pulled his shirt over his head. He avoided looking at anyone, especially Keith, as he folded the shirt with unnecessary precision and set it on a lounger. He then sat on the edge of the tub opposite Keith, dipping his feet into the blissfully, almost scaldingly hot water with a sigh.
“So,” Hunk was saying, gesturing with a slice of pizza he’d somehow procured. “The look on Iverson’s face when the green goo from the cafeteria catapult incident dripped from the ceiling onto his freshly polished head? Priceless. Worth every hour of detention.”
The conversation flowed like the water around them—easy, loud, and wonderfully familiar. They regaled Allura with tales of their Garrison mischief. Shiro, with a gleam in his eye, recounted Keith’s impressive list of disciplinary hearings.
“Fighting in the commissary, fighting in the simulator bay, fighting near the fuel lines…” Shiro listed, counting on his fingers.
“They were starting things,” Keith grumbled, but there was no real heat in it. He took a sip from a bottle of water.
“He was a total hothead,” Shiro concluded fondly.
“And now he’s just… broody,” Allura observed, her smile playful. “It’s a marked improvement. More dignified.”
“Progress,” Keith said dryly, but he was smiling too, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made something warm and soft unfold in Lance’s chest. He watched this version of Keith—the one who could sit still, who could laugh at himself, who was surrounded by people who loved him—and felt a swell of affection so powerful it stole his breath.
Hours melted away. They talked about everything and nothing: the weirdest alien food they’d eaten (Hunk won with “sentient, screaming pudding”), the most beautiful nebula they’d flown through (Allura described one in the Rygnirath system that brought a tear to even Keith’s eye), the time Lance tried to teach a group of Olkari how to do the “floss” dance.
Eventually, Shiro stretched with a long, bone-deep groan. “I am officially an old, tired man. This was perfect, Allura. Thank you.” He climbed out, water streaming off his impressively sculpted frame. He reached for a towel.
As he pulled his shirt on, Pidge let out a low, appreciative whistle. Hunk nodded sagly. “Looking sharp, Shiro. Dad-bod who? More like Galaxy-Dad bod.”
Lance, feeling buoyant and mischievous, joined in. He put a hand to his heart. “I’m blinded. Captain America needs to step up his game. The universe’s finest, right here.”
Keith’s expression, which had been relaxed and open, instantly soured. A scowl darkened his features. “Will you all stop being so weird? He’s my brother.”
Shiro laughed, a full, hearty sound. He walked over and ruffled Keith’s wet hair, messing up the already-damp mullet. “Don’t be jealous, Keith. There’s enough of me to go around.” Keith splashed a wave of water at him, but Shiro just chuckled, dodging it easily. “Goodnight, everyone. Sleep well.”
Allura followed, graceful as always, thanking them again. Then Pidge and Hunk, citing the need to “process carbs” and “run a final systems check” respectively. Their cheerful goodbyes faded, and the door hissed shut behind them.
The silence that descended was profound. It was no longer filled with the hum of camaraderie, but with the low churn of the tub’s jets and the frantic beating of Lance’s heart. The air felt heavier, charged. Lance stood, feeling suddenly exposed. He grabbed a thick, plush robe from a hook and slipped it on, the soft fabric a poor shield. He fumbled with his flip-flops, picked up his towel, reached for his phone.
“You’re leaving?”
Keith’s voice cut through the quiet. It was low, steady, but there was an undercurrent in it—something that stopped Lance cold. He slowly turned.
Keith hadn’t moved. He was still in the same position, arms on the rim, head now tilted to watch Lance. The green light painted his skin in eerie tones, but his eyes were dark, intense, pinning Lance in place.
Lance offered a weak smile. He walked back to the tub, sitting on the edge, his robe-clad body curling forward, arms wrapping around his knees. “It’s, uh… it’s getting a little cold in here. Out here, I mean.”
Keith didn’t reply. He just hummed, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated in the steam-filled air. Without breaking that unwavering eye contact, he reached behind him. The movement made the muscles in his arm and shoulder flex, a beautiful, deliberate display of strength. His fingers found a dial and turned it. A low mechanical whirr joined the sound of the jets, and the water began to bubble with renewed aggression. Thick, billowing clouds of new steam erupted between them, swirling in the green light.
Lance’s mouth went completely dry. That was the hottest thing I have ever witnessed.
“Guess I have no choice, huh?” Lance’s voice was a husky whisper. He stood, his fingers going to the belt of the robe. He untied it with deliberate slowness, letting the heavy fabric slide off his shoulders. It pooled at his feet with a soft whump. He stepped over it and back into the tub, sinking into the churning, almost-too-hot water until it lapped at his collarbones, a small sigh escaping him.
They stared at each other from across the four feet of bubbling water, a silent, palpable challenge hanging in the steam.
“So,” Lance began, desperately trying to reclaim some semblance of their usual dynamic. “You’d rather marinate in here than go dramatically slay some training bots? I’m shocked. The great Keith, choosing relaxation over combat.”
Keith’s lips twitched. A chuckle escaped him, the sound rich and warm, seeming to ripple through the water between them. “Even samurai need to rest their swords sometimes,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’d rather relax. For a change.”
“With me?” Lance asked, unable to keep a hint of amused, self-deprecating disbelief out of his tone. Why would you want to? hung unspoken in the air.
Keith’s ghost of a smirk returned, more defined now. He cocked his head, studying Lance as if he were a complex, fascinating puzzle. “Hmm,” he murmured, a non-answer that was somehow more loaded than a confession.
Lance barked a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re such an ass.” He lifted an arm from the water, examining his skin under the stark green glow. “Ugh, and this lighting is a crime against humanity. Makes me look like a sickly Martian. Who chose this? It’s vile.”
“Pidge loves green,” Keith said, as if that single statement explained the aesthetic choices of the entire Galaxy Garrison.
“Pidge has questionable taste,” Lance grumbled. He spotted the small control panel on the tiled wall beside him. He reached over, his fingers brushing the buttons. With a decisive click, the harsh green vanished, replaced by a soft, luminous purple. It was a deep, royal shade, tinged with magenta, transforming the steam into ethereal, lavender ghosts that curled towards the ceiling. The whole room was suddenly bathed in a magical, intimate glow.
Keith’s eyes darkened. They traveled a slow, deliberate path from the water droplets on Lance’s shoulders, up the line of his neck, over the dusting of freckles on his cheeks, finally meeting his gaze. “That’s better,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Much better.”
They talked then, the words a lifeline in the tension. They spoke of the Olkari’s tree-cities, of Balmera crystal songs, of Shiro’s uncanny ability to find the most responsible person in any room. Lance talked about Veronica’s promotion, the pride in his voice real and warm. The conversation was easy, but the undercurrent was a riptide, pulling them both towards a point of no return. Lance felt the moment crystallize, sharp and fragile. This was his chance.
He took a steadying breath, the steam filling his lungs. “So,” he started, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near ‘nervous interrogator’. “You and Acxa. You guys seemed… pretty tight. Back on Olkarion, when we found Kolivan. And when she swooped in to save our skins from Zethrid and Ezor. That was some dramatic timing.”
Keith blinked, then let out a short, genuine burst of laughter, as if the idea was absurd. “What? No.”
“Come onnn,” Lance pushed, paddling a little closer through the water. The distance between them shrunk by half. “We’ve been traversing the cosmos for ages, Mullet. No brave, handsome alien warrior ever caught the eye of the great, brooding Black Paladin? Guy or girl? No late-night chats over space-maps? No sharing of rations in a lonely cargo hold?”
Keith was still smiling, shaking his head, a faint flush on his cheeks that wasn’t from the heat. “Nah. Extraterrestrials…” he paused, his eyes locking with Lance’s, “…are not really my type.”
Lance gawked, paddling even closer until only a couple of feet separated them. “How can aliens not be your type? They’re incredible! The diversity, the cultures, the extra limbs, the cool skin tones… it’s refreshing! It’s like the universe’s best dating pool but humans are pretty cool too!”
Keith’s eyes glinted with mischief and something deeper. “Sounds like you like a bit of both.”
Lance’s mouth fell open in amused surprise. He recovered, a slow, sly smile spreading across his face. He leaned his arms on the submerged bench between them. “Maybe I do,” he said, his voice low and provocative. “I’m an equal-opportunity admirer of beauty and brave hearts. Sue me.”
He held Keith’s gaze, the image before him imprinting itself on his soul: Keith, backlit by purple, water sheening on his skin, his powerful arms framing his body, those laser-focused eyes seeing past every defense Lance had ever built. He felt a dizzying, adolescent rush of heat and longing.
The flirtation became a subtle, playful dance. Keith teased him about his “extensive” diplomatic contacts across three galaxies. Lance shot back that at least he was friendly, unlike some lone wolves who communicated in grunts. Keith retorted that his grunts were “economical and effective.” Lance, feigning deep offense, shoved at Keith’s shoulder. “Jerk.”
Keith laughed, grabbing Lance’s wrist under the water to stop the assault. “Crybaby.”
They were close now, chests almost touching, laughing breath mingling with steam. And then, as their eyes met and the laughter died, Lance saw it all again—the sunset on the Lion, the electric touch, the terrifying pull. The panic, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He couldn’t. He just couldn’t risk it.
He wrenched his wrist free and retreated, swimming quickly back to his original spot, turning his back to Keith. He heard the water slosh, heard Keith exhale—a heavy, frustrated, almost pained sound that cut through the hum of the jets.
“Why do you always do that?”
Lance froze. He plastered on a mask of cool confusion before turning around. “Do what?”
Keith just stared. He hadn’t moved from his spot, but his relaxed posture was gone. He was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, head still tilted in that unnervingly perceptive way.
He looked utterly in control of the situation and completely, devastatingly sincere. “Every time we’re in the moment,” Keith said, his bluntness a shockwave in the steamy, intimate air, “every time it feels like we’re about to say something real, you shut down. You run. So I need you to tell me, straight. Do I have the wrong idea?”
The directness was a spear through Lance’s carefully constructed defenses. It left him raw, exposed. He couldn’t evade this. Slowly, as if moving through syrup, he moved through the water again. He stopped an arm’s length away, unable to meet Keith’s eyes. He stared instead at the swirling vortex of purple light around the jet between them.
“Maybe…” he began, his voice shaky. “Maybe I feel… insecure.” The admission was like pulling teeth. “All the time. I feel too much, Keith. And I know how it looks. I know I can seem… desperate. For a laugh, for a compliment, for a… for a look.” He risked a glance. Keith was listening, utterly still, his expression unreadable but open. It gave Lance the courage to continue, the words now spilling out in a torrent.
“And you’re… you. You’re Keith. You’re the leader of the Blade of Marmora. You’re the Black Paladin. You’re… you’re hot, okay? Like, stupidly, unfairly, model-in-a-space-rebel-magazine hot. And you’re cool, and capable, and you just… are. You don’t try, you just exist and you’re amazing at it. And I try so hard. With my looks, and my dumb jokes, and my piloting, and my leading… I’m always trying. And sometimes it feels like it’s never, ever enough. But if I keep trying harder, I’ll just look even more desperate, you know? I don’t want to be that guy. The annoying, too-much, tries-too-hard guy that everyone tolerates.” He was rambling, his hands flying above the water, his voice climbing with hysterical pitch.
“I mean, look at this! A hot tub! It’s the biggest cliché in the book! And I changed the lighting! Who does that? That’s peak ‘trying to set a mood’ behavior! My skincare routine is seven steps! Seven! And sometimes on slow days, Hunk and I do matching clay masks and I worry that my eyebrows aren’t symmetrical and that my left nostril is slightly bigger than my right and that I talk with my hands too much and—”
He took a huge, gulping breath, finally running out of words and air. He sank lower in the water, wanting to disappear into the purple bubbles, humiliated and vulnerable, waiting for the gentle let-down, the awkward pat on the shoulder.
It didn’t come.
Keith had watched his entire spiraling monologue with a look of fond, rapt attention. As if Lance’s neuroses were the most fascinating poetry he’d ever heard. Now, he let his gaze travel over him—a slow, sweeping inventory that felt more intimate than a touch. From the damp, messy brown hair, over the flushed cheeks and the constellation of freckles scattered like gold dust across his nose, down the line of his throat to where his shoulders, broad and strong from years of piloting, disappeared into the churning water.
Keith chuckled. It was a soft, private, utterly tender sound. “I really like you, Lance.”
Lance’s head snapped up. He couldn’t have heard that right.
Keith continued, his voice low and steady, each word chosen with a care Lance had never heard from him before. It was a recitation of truth. “I like your personality. The way you can walk into a room full of people grieving their destroyed world and make them smile with a stupid joke. I like your eyes. I’ve traveled across galaxies, Lance. I’ve seen nebula, dying stars and oceans of liquid light. I have never, ever seen a blue like yours. Not once.”
He swallowed, his own vulnerability showing now. “I like the way they light up, like whole sectors are switching on, when you get excited about something. I like your freckles.” He pointed to his own face. “How they’re dusted right here, and across your shoulders. I like your stupid pout when you don’t get your way. I love your smile. The way your accent gets thicker when you’re talking about your family, or when you’re really, truly pissed off. You are…” He leaned forward, closing the last of the distance, his face now inches from Lance’s. “…more than enough. You’re everything.”
Lance could only stare, his vision blurring. The steam wasn’t helping. His heart felt too big for his chest. Keith’s words were a balm and a brand, healing and claiming all at once.
Keith leaned even closer, the water shifting around them. That ghost of a smile was back, but it was tender now. Certain. He searched Lance’s face. “So,” he whispered, the word a soft vibration in the space between their mouths. “Do I have the wrong idea?”
Lance moved.
There was no thought, only instinct, only a gravitational pull he’d been fighting for years. He closed the final distance until their chests were flush under the water. He placed a trembling hand on Keith’s sternum, feeling the strong, frantic beat of his heart thundering against his palm. His other hand came up, fingertips brushing the damp, soft ends of Keith’s hair at the nape of his neck. He finally, finally met Keith’s gaze, and what he saw there—the raw want, the affection, the patience—shattered his last reserve.
“No,” he breathed, the word a puff of air against Keith’s lips. “You don’t. What I feel… it’s so much more than liking. And it terrifies me. I’m scared I’ll be too much.”
Keith’s hand came up, his thumb stroking Lance’s cheekbone with a reverence that made Lance shudder. He looked at him as if Lance had hung every star in the lonely sky. “You could never be too much for me.” His other hand found the small of Lance’s back under the water, a firm, warm pressure that seared through the fabric of his trunks and sent a jolt of pure lightning up Lance’s spine. “And if you are,” Keith murmured, his lips now a hair’s breadth away, his breath mingling with Lance’s, “that’s why I’m here. To be your anchor.”
He brought his free hand up, capturing Lance’s from his chest and lacing their fingers together tightly. “What I feel for you,” Keith said, his voice thick with emotion, “is more than liking, too. It’s everything.”
The relief that crashed over Lance was so profound it left him weak, boneless. He felt like a lost ship finally sighting its harbor light. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his legs, straddling Keith’s lap on the underwater bench. He settled his hands on Keith’s shoulders, feeling the incredible, solid strength there, the proof that this was real.
Keith’s hands slid to Lance’s waist, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles on his hip bones. They leaned in, the world dissolving into the shared warmth of their breath, the scent of chlorine and Keith’s clean skin, the enveloping mist.
The kiss was achingly soft. A first, tentative meeting of lips that was a question, an answer, and a promise all at once. It was sweet, and chaste, and so full of pent-up longing that Lance felt tears prick his eyes. When they pulled apart, just enough to breathe, a soft, disbelieving giggle bubbled out of Lance—a sound of pure, unfiltered joy.
The sound seemed to unravel the last thread of Keith’s control. His eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to Lance’s kiss-swollen lips with a hunger that was breathtaking. He reached up, gently tucking a stray, damp lock of hair behind Lance’s ear. His hand lingered, tracing the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw, the sensitive column of his throat, coming to rest on the curve of his hip. He squeezed gently, possessively.
Lance saw the shift in Keith’s eyes—the tender affection igniting into something hotter, needier, primal. He felt it echoed in the frantic rhythm of his own blood. The purple light, the enveloping steam, the feel of Keith hard and wanting beneath him in the water… it was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever known.
This time, when their lips met, it was not soft. It was slow, but deep and searching, a conversation of tongues and teeth and shared breath that spoke of years of wasted time. Lance’s arms wound around Keith’s neck, fingers tangling in the wet silk of his hair. Keith’s hands slid from Lance’s hips down to his thighs, gripping hard, pulling him even closer until not a whisper of space remained between them. Lance could feel every contour of Keith’s body, and it was maddening, perfect.
They broke for air, panting, foreheads pressed together. Keith’s lips, slick and hot, trailed a blazing path down the side of Lance’s neck, nipping at the sensitive spot just below his jaw, sucking a mark into the skin over his pulse point.
“Keith,” Lance breathed, the name a prayer and a plea as his head fell back, offering more.
“You have no idea,” Keith growled against his damp skin, his voice ragged with want. “No idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you. How fucking perfect you are.”
His hands were everywhere, learning him. They mapped the muscles of Lance’s back, the dip of his spine, the swell of his backside, gripping and kneading through the frustrating barrier of their swim trunks. Lance shuddered, arching into every touch, every searing kiss, every scrape of teeth. He was melting, dissolving into the all-encompassing heat of the water and the infinitely hotter, more specific heat of Keith.
Driven by a need he could no longer contain, Lance found Keith’s mouth again, kissing him with a fervor that matched his own. It was messy, and wet, and perfect. Keith’s tongue swept into his mouth, and Lance met him with equal hunger, a low, desperate moan vibrating in his chest. The steam around them seemed to pulse in time with the frantic beat of their hearts, the purple glow casting their entangled shadows on the wall in a silent, desperate ballet.
Keith’s hands slid back up, under the edge of Lance’s trunks, his fingers digging into the bare skin of his hips. The touch was electric, a claim. Lance gasped into the kiss, his hips jerking involuntarily. He was achingly hard, the friction of their bodies through the thin fabric both torture and bliss.
“Keith… oh, god, Keith…” Lance chanted between kisses, his hands roaming over the broad expanse of Keith’s back, feeling the play of muscle, the old scars.
Keith pulled back just enough to look at him, his eyes black with desire, his lips kiss-bruised and slick. “I want you,” he said, the words raw and unadorned. “Here. Now. Is that… is that too much?”
Lance answered by crashing their lips together again, his kiss fiercer than any word. He ground down against Keith, earning a sharp, gratifying gasp. “It’s not enough,” Lance panted against his mouth. “It’ll never be.”
That was all the encouragement Keith needed. The final, silent barrier between them shattered. His hands, calloused and sure, found the ties of Lance’s trunks. His knuckles brushed the damp skin of Lance’s lower stomach, a deliberate, teasing touch.
“No going back,” Keith growled, the words a hot vibration against Lance’s mouth.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Lance gasped, and then Keith’s mouth was on his again, swallowing the words, hot and demanding.
The world contracted to the space their bodies occupied. Keith’s fingers worked at the knot with a focused urgency that made Lance’s breath hitch high in his throat. He broke the kiss, his lips tracing a wet, burning path down Lance’s jaw to the sensitive shell of his ear.
“Tell me to stop,” Keith breathed. It was less a challenge than a confession—a need to hear the permission made explicit.
Lance laughed, a short, breathless sound. He tangled his hands in Keith’s hair, pulling just enough to force their eyes to meet. “Don’t you dare.”
A flash of something fierce and triumphant crossed Keith’s face. The knot gave way. With a rough, impatient tug, he stripped the last of the fabric from Lance’s hips. The humid air was a shock against newly bared skin. Lance’s own hands fumbled at Keith’s waist, his fingers less steady, driven by a need that felt like a live wire under his skin.
When skin met skin, slick with water and sweat, the gasp was mutual, sharp, punched from their lungs. Keith’s arms locked around him, hauling him closer until every hard plane and tense muscle aligned. Lance could feel the solid, insistent press of Keith’s arousal against his stomach, and it sent a jolt of pure lightning down his spine.
“God, Lance,” Keith choked out, his forehead dropping to Lance’s shoulder. His whole body was a cord of tight, trembling tension.
Lance slid his hands down the powerful line of Keith’s back, feeling the familiar play of muscle, the scars he knew by heart. He dipped his head, catching Keith’s earlobe between his teeth, applying a careful, steady pressure. Keith shuddered violently against him.
“Still think this is for post-mission recovery?” Lance whispered, his voice ragged.
Keith’s answer was a low, feral sound. He shifted his grip to Lance’s hips, and in one fluid, powerful motion, lifted him. Lance’s legs wrapped around Keith’s waist instinctively, the new alignment wringing a shocked, pleasured cry from his throat. Keith braced him against the tiled wall, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat enveloping them.
“This,” Keith said, his voice dark and rough as he pressed into him with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, “is the only recovery I need.”
There was no more hesitation. There was only sensation—the burning, exquisite stretch of being filled, the overwhelming rightness of it, the way Keith’s name tore from Lance’s lips as if it were being carved from his soul. Keith’s rhythm was relentless, a driving, desperate pace born of years of pent-up hunger. Each thrust was a claim, each gasp a surrender.
Lance clung to him, nails digging into the hard muscles of Keith’s shoulders, his own hips meeting every movement with equal fervor. The water churned around them.
“Look at me,” Keith demanded, his breathing ragged. “I want to see you.”
Lance forced his eyes open. Keith’s face was a mask of raw concentration and unrestrained need, his violet eyes dark with desire. It was the most beautiful, most terrifying thing Lance had ever seen. He reached up, his thumb brushing over Keith’s kiss-bruised lip.
“Keith…” It was all he could manage, a broken syllable.
Something in Keith’s expression shattered. His rhythm faltered, then deepened, becoming impossibly more focused. He bent his head, capturing Lance’s mouth in a kiss that was all shared breath and desperate heat.
Pleasure, coiled tight and white-hot at the base of Lance’s spine, finally snapped. He cried out, the sound muffled against Keith’s mouth, his body arching as the release ripped through him. He felt Keith shudder, heard his own name break from Keith’s lips in a hoarse, shattered groan as his climax followed, triggering a softer, lingering aftershock in Lance.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the lazy churn of the water. Keith’s arms, which had held him so fiercely, now cradled him, his strength the only thing keeping Lance upright. Slowly, he lowered them both back onto the submerged bench, pulling Lance into his lap, against his chest.
Lance went boneless, his head resting in the damp hollow of Keith’s neck. He felt the frantic, slowing hammer of Keith’s heart against his own. Keith’s hand came up, fingers carding gently through Lance’s sweat-damp hair.
No one spoke. Words were too small, too clumsy for the vast, silent understanding that settled between them. The steam began to thin. The purple light seemed softer now.
In that hidden world, every wall had been demolished. Every instinct to run had been met and conquered.
There was only this: the truth they had forged, written in starlight and sealed in fire. The profound, staggering rightness of it—a navigation lock finally achieving perfect sync.
The long fight ended not with a clash, but a sigh—dissolving into the lavender steam and the quiet, purple dark.
The universe, for once, held its breath. And here, in the space between heartbeats, they simply were.