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Their apartment is small. The tap always drips, the radiator in the bathroom doesn’t work, and Keith is one-hundred-and-ten percent convinced that they’ve got mice living in the floorboards of the kitchen.
All that is easily forgotten on mornings like these; lazy Sundays spent in bed together, feet tangled under their thin sheets, fingers brushing against every inch of skin they could find.
“G’morning, sleeping beauty,” Lance says, propped on his elbow.
Keith rolls over onto his back, and grins. Lance’s voice is always a little rough in the morning, and it’s gorgeous; Lance is gorgeous. His skin is warm and soft and tan, and his teeth are perfect and white. He smiles at Keith as though Keith were the very last of his wishes to come true.
Keith’s fingers reach out to him. They tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. Lance is looking down at him with so much love Keith’s afraid he could burst or cry or laugh, or something, which would be a mistake; mornings like this were quiet, and fragile.
Lance ducks down and pressed his chapped lips against Keith’s, and even after all these years, nothing prepares Keith for how searing and nerve wracking yet grounding it feels. It feels like coming home after a long day, Lance feels like home, Keith decides, as he scratches at Lance’s scalp and tilts his head and opens his mouth.
Minuscule breaths of air fan onto Keith’s cheeks as he licks at Lance’s lips, at the roof of his mouth, before pressing against Lance’s tongue. Lance shifts, a little, above him to deepen the kiss; until they can’t breathe and their lungs are burning but they won’t let go, they’ll never let go.
Eventually, they do part; Lance presses his body against Keith’s and lets his mouth trail against Keith’s neck and jaw until Keith is gasping underneath him and rolling his hips, arching his back, mouth parted and whispering hushed tones of Lance-- Lance, I need you-- I--
Things like that make it hard for Lance to hold back; Keith knows that. Lance likes to tease him, to draw things out until Keith’s begging for it, but he doesn’t want that today. It’s early.
“Lance,” Keith chokes, “I love you.”
It’s the most powerful thing in the world, Keith thinks, to be this vulnerable to someone; to give them everything, and then some.
Lance traces an invisible line with his forefinger from Keith’s temple to his chin, and then cups his cheek.
“I love you, too,” Lance tells him, and God , Keith hopes he doesn’t start crying. Lance’ll never let him live this down.
Things progress from there. Keith’s nails dig into Lance’s shoulder-- those broad, wonderful shoulders of his-- and he rolls his hips-- hot, sensitive, aching skin sliding against skin-- until Lance shakes, and holds Keith in his arms. He rests his forehead against Keith’s, looking him right in the eye.
“I love you,” Lance repeats, “I love you so much it scares me; I love you-- I love you-- I love you .”
Then the tears start to fall; Lance is the first to cry, but Keith comes in close second, or maybe it’s the other way around. It’s hard to tell when their bodies are this close. Keith could feel Lance’s chest rise and fall against his; a steady pull-and-push, at equilibrium.
“Fuck,” chokes Keith as he thrusts against Lance once more, “Oh, fuck --”
Lance follows thereafter.
“Love you,” he whispers against Keith’s wet cheek, “Love you; love you the most.”
Keith grins.
“Not possible,” he hushes against the gap between Lance’s lips.
Lance smiles, at that; brilliant and true.