Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Someday, Lance tells himself with a flicker of hope. 

Someday, when his patience finally runs dry—and by dry, he means barren desert levels of nonexistent—he’s going to grab something sharp and rid the universe of Keith’s tragic, outdated mullet. Just for the sheer, unadulterated satisfaction of it. A ceremonial snip-snip, vengeance served cold for all the sleepless nights Keith's nightmares have inflicted on Lance. Nights filled with blood-curdling screams that rattle through the wall like some washing machine in its final, desperate spin cycle.

At this point, days have blurred together—an endless loop of exhaustion, accidental naps during mission briefings, and the faint, inescapable echo of Keith’s screams playing in Lance's brain like a broken mixtape. His caffeine dependency (or whatever you want to call needing two doses in the early morning of Hunk’s suspiciously coffee-like sludge) has reached dangerous levels. Sure, it tastes like sadness and regret, but it keeps his eyes open during missions and training hours, so that’s all that matters.

The Keith-crisis has spiraled so far out of control that Lance isn’t even sure how long it’s been since either of them had a full night’s sleep. He’s stopped counting. Instead, he’s developed a survival routine—a carefully honed system that kicks in automatically the moment the screaming starts:

Step One: Groan into the endless void of his room. Loudly. For himself, for the universe, and for the sheer injustice of being this tired while fighting intergalactic evil.

Step Two: Drag his hands over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes until the darkness behind his eyelids explodes in sparkly little starbursts.

Step Three: Execute three firm, perfectly measured thuds against the wall. Not too aggressive (he’s not an animal), but just enough to convey the universal language of "Shut. The. Hell. Up."

It’s simple. Elegant. Efficient. Most nights, it even works. Keith’s screams usually taper off into awkward, guilt-ridden silence, and Lance is gifted with a few precious hours of uninterrupted sleep. Some little peace and quiet when he can close his eyes, convince himself the world is fine, and pretend they’re not all stuck in a flying metal death trap trying to save the galaxy.

But not tonight. Tonight, Keith’s screams cut through the silence like a buzzsaw, relentless and raw.

Lance smashes his pillow over his head in a futile attempt to block them out. It doesn’t work. It never works. The frustration burns under his skin, hot and prickly, but worse than that. creeping in with something heavier: guilt.

If Lance is being honest—really honest, which is hard to do even in the privacy of his own brain—he knows this isn’t just Keith being, well, Keith. This is something deeper, something raw and jagged that’s been chewing away at him for weeks. And Lance knows, with a sinking weight in his chest, that Keith’s unraveling is kind of… well, kind of his fault. It wasn’t intentional, of course. Lance isn’t a villain, for quiznak’s sake. It was just one stupid, reckless decision—a flash of impulsive overconfidence that only Lance McClain could muster. The kind that comes when you assume you know someone so well that you take them for granted. He thought Keith could handle this shit. Keith, who’s practically the poster boy for tough, unbreakable walls.

But that’s the thing about walls—they crack. And when they do, it’s not a gentle process. It’s messy. Catastrophic.

So, to really get why Lance is spiraling into the abyss of frustration, guilt, and petty mullet-related vengeance at 4 AM, let's rewind a little. Three weeks, to be exact, just right  after the mission to the Blade of Marmora’s hideout.

At first, Lance didn’t notice anything unusual. So it wasn’t until the strategy meeting at the Bridge that something actually felt… off. Keith kept pacing, a restless energy radiating off him that Lance could practically feel. He avoided eye contact, gave clipped and distracted answers, and his entire presence screamed don’t talk to me or I will explode. Weird? Sure. But nothing earth-shattering. Keith had always been a little strange, a little too intense. The guy could snap at the drop of a hat, and Lance had long since gotten used to it. The way you get used to the slightly burnt aftertaste of space goo coffee or how Pidge mumbles to herself in binary when she thinks no one’s listening. It’s just… Keith.

In retrospect, perhaps a simple "Hey, are you okay? Did something happen back at that place?" would have sufficed. Lance knows that. But instead of prying, he focused on other things: on Allura and Shiro, their voices weaving together in that calm, unshakable way they had as they mapped out strategies and spouted war jargon. On Hunk, who was snoring softly in his seat, blissfully unaware that Pidge was quietly filming him for her ever-growing collection of blackmail material.

Keith would be fine, Lance told himself. He always was.

Then Keith didn’t show up for dinner.

The guy missing a meal wasn’t exactly breaking news. He's known for losing himself in training sessions with the gladiator bots, disappearing for hours until someone drags him back or his stomach finally rebels. Lance even made a snarky comment about it, something about Keith "hanging out with his only friends," which earned a quiet chuckle from Pidge and a silent look from Hunk—whose gaze kept flicking toward the door, concern flickering on his face. So dinner passed as usual. The team discussed strategies, upcoming missions, and the latest weird quirks of Voltron tech. Shiro shared some old Garrison anecdotes, Allura laughed politely, and eventually, everyone dispersed to their rooms like it was any other Tuesday in space.

Around 3 AM, everything went straight to hell. The first screams tore through the silence so violently that Lance shot out of bed, tripping over his blanket and grabbing his bayard on pure instinct. His brain was already in full-on panic mode, heart pounding, every nerve on high alert as he barreled into the hallway.

It had to be Galra. Some stealth mission gone wrong. A midnight ambush.

But then it hit him—the screams weren’t coming from outside. They were coming from Keith’s room. Honestly? Lance would be lying if he said he didn’t almost crap his pants right then and there. It was that bad. Like someone was having way too much fun rearranging Keith’s insides. He stood there for what felt like forever, staring at Keith’s door as the screams clawed at his ears, his heart, his everything.

And then, just as suddenly as they started, the screams stopped.

The silence that followed was suffocating, worse than the noise. Lance didn’t move. He couldn’t. He stood rooted to the spot, chest heaving, bayard clutched in a death grip.

The next morning, he plastered on his best nonchalant smile as he stumbled into the kitchen, determined to tackle breakfast with a hefty side of false bravado. What else could he do? This was Keith, after all. The tough, stoic Keith. A couple of bad dreams wouldn’t break him. He’s no kid. Keith would shake it off, Lance told himself. He’d bounce back the way he always did, and everything would go back to normal.

But Lance was wrong. So, so wrong.

By the end of the first week, the nightly screams kept coming, relentless and bone-chilling. And Keith? Keith kept vanishing during the day like clockwork. No explanations. No excuses. Just ghosting through meals and team meetings like some moody space wraith.

At first, Lance told himself it was normal. Everyone needed space sometimes—especially Keith. The guy practically had lone wolf engraved on his forehead. Sure, he was quieter than usual, but at some point Lance couldn’t brush it off anymore. The cracks in Keith were impossible to ignore. Something wasn’t just wrong; something was broken.

It was in the little things. In the way Keith’s sharp, snarky remarks had dulled into silence, like someone had hit mute on him. In the way he sat hunched over his plate at dinner, barely picking at his food before slipping out the door like a shadow. In the way he looked—pale, hollow, like someone had drained all the fire out of him and left behind nothing but exhaustion and dark shadows beneath his eyes.

But it was also in the big things. 

Keith wasn’t fighting anymore—not really. Sure, he still showed up to training, still went through the motions like the good soldier Shiro had trained him to be. But that spark? The one that set Keith apart, the one that made him burn brighter than anyone else in the heat of battle? It was gone. The quiet competition that had always thrummed between them—the unspoken rivalry that pushed them both to be better—had fizzled out, leaving a gaping void that Lance hated with every fiber of his being.

The breaking point came one night in the common area, that Lance accidentally found himself eavesdropping on a conversation between Hunk and Shiro. Not on purpose, obviously. He isn't some snooping gossip hound or anything. He was just… there. Flipping lazily through holo-charts, minding his own business. Piece by piece, the conversation pulled him in. Lance’s ears perked up like a dog hearing the crinkle of a snack bag.

It wasn’t like Shiro was whispering or anything, and Hunk was—well, Hunk isn’t great at keeping his voice down when he gets nervous. They probably wanted someone to overhear, right? Right. It wasn’t his fault the words were right there. Loud enough to catch. He caught snippets at first. Words like Marmora and heritage, phrases like he’s been different ever since and maybe it’s something he’s still processing.

Lance froze. His ears perked up like a dog hearing the rustle of a snack bag. It wasn’t until Shiro said Galra that the full weight of their conversation hit him like a meteor to the chest.

Keith. Galra.

The pieces started clicking into place, each one more gut-wrenching than the last. The tension. The nightmares. The way Keith had been more distant lately, like he was trying to make himself disappear. It all made a horrible kind of sense.

It was one thing to fight the Galra; it was another to realize one of your teammates might be one of them.

For a while, Lance convinced himself it wasn’t his problem. He wasn’t blind. He could see Keith was spiraling, could feel it in every interaction—or lack thereof. But what the hell was he supposed to do about it? Keith wasn’t the type to talk about his feelings. Not to Lance, at least. Even if Lance wanted to help, what could he say? “Hey, Keith, I noticed you’ve been acting super sketchy ever since the Blade of Marmora mission. Want to unpack your potential Galra identity crisis over some space goo coffee?” Yeah, no. That would go great.

So, Lance did what he always did when things got too messy to handle—he shoved it aside, threw on a smile, and pretended everything was fine.

Looking back, that was his big mistake.

Because now, three weeks later, nothing’s gotten better. Keith is still screaming himself hoarse night after night, and Lance? Lance is running on fumes, a massive sleep deficit, and a dwindling supply of patience that’s hanging by a thread. He’s lying in bed at 4 AM, staring at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes, feeling completely, utterly, officially at his wit’s end. Torn between two equally bad options: ripping his own hair out or—better yet—marching into Keith’s room and strangling him awake. Maybe even tossing a bucket of cold water over his head for good measure.

Something, anything to make this stop.

Not out of anger, obviously. Lance is a paladin. He should be above petty vengeance. This would be a selfless act, practically a public service. A totally justified, slightly twisted mercy mission to end Keith’s suffering—and by extension, his own.

Okay, fine. Strangling Keith probably isn’t the most heroic thing Lance could do.

With a loud sigh, Lance drags a hand down his face, fingers scraping against the eyebags that've been forming thanks to his sleepless streak. He knows he can’t go through with it, no matter how tempting it sounds. Paladins have a long list of duties: defending the universe, maintaining peace, and—apparently—playing impromptu therapist to emo rivals with enough unresolved trauma to power a starship.

It’s a raw deal, no question about it.

On any normal day, Shiro would’ve handled this whole situation with ease. Shiro, with his calm authority, his endless patience, and his uncanny ability to talk Keith down from the brink of total self-destruction. Shiro could stroll into Keith’s room, say two words—maybe three—and poof, crisis averted. Keith would sulk for ten minutes, tops, before straightening up and pretending he hadn’t just been an emotional powder keg about to detonate.

But, alas, Shiro is busy. Busy with his own galaxy-sized problems—the kind of issues you acquire after disappearing on a doomed space mission for over a year, only to come back with one arm less and a metric ton of unresolved trauma. He’s probably curled up somewhere on the second floor, dead to the world in one of those rare, blissful stretches of sleep, completely unaware of the 4 AM hell that’s been ongoing for weeks. Which leaves Lance. Lance, who has no patience, no qualifications, and frankly, no idea what he’s doing—on one side of the wall, teetering on the edge of madness, and Keith on the other, grappling with… oh, you know, the small, inconsequential fact they’re indefinitely stuck floating in the middle of the starry void because his family tree includes cultists with a flair for interstellar chaos.

But hey, if playing therapist is the latest role Lance has to take on for the sake of Voltron, fine—he’ll do it. He and Keith may not get along—Keith makes very sure of that fact—but they’re teammates, and isn’t that close enough? Teammates are supposed to have each other’s backs, even when one of them is neck-deep in shit. And let’s face it—Keith isn’t just neck-deep; he’s practically drowning in it. So despite Lance loathing him approximately 70% of the time—spending way too many hours daydreaming about landing a satisfying punch square on that ridiculously chiseled jaw— he doesn’t actually want to listen to Keith scream bloody murder every night.

This? This is a sad prelude to disaster.

Because if nobody steps in, the odds of them clashing during an important mission are astronomical. And when they do, it won’t end pretty. The most optimistic outcome? Both of them, unavoidably, dead. The worst? Drifting through space like two deranged idiots, no plan, no backup, and only each other for company. And that’s the thought that truly makes Lance’s stomach turn. Just him and Keith. Sharing oxygen. Staring at each other. Slowly unraveling into madness. Trapped in the claustrophobic silence of a spaceship with nothing but their dumb rivalry and simmering tension for company. 

Yeah. That’s the nightmare Lance wants to avoid most of all.

And then, as another scream rips through the silence, Lance knows he can’t ignore this anymore.

He’s tried—tried to pretend Keith's nighttime battles aren’t his problem, tried to convince himself that the idiot could work through it on his own like the stubborn loner he is. But the guilt? The guilt is relentless. Gnawing at him, flipping that familiar neon sign in his brain—the one that’s been glowing since childhood, a byproduct of growing up in a household bursting with siblings and cousins where chaos reigned supreme. Growing up as a McClain meant never getting to ignore someone else’s mess. Whether it was mediating a knock-down, drag-out argument over the last slice of pizza, yanking his younger brother out of a tree before gravity got its say, or managing mid-birthday-party disasters involving too many cousins and not enough cake, Lance didn’t get the luxury of opting out of responsibility. It’s woven into his DNA at this point. 

So, Lance makes a decision.

One second he’s groaning into his pillow, silently begging the universe for a break, and the next, he’s up. Bare feet meeting the ice-cold floor, hair sticking up at wild angles, the cool, damp air shocking him into motion as he shuffles down the hallway toward Keith’s room.

When he gets there, he doesn’t hesitate. Knocks twice. Soft, barely-there taps, just enough to let Keith know someone’s there. Someone awake. Someone irritated as hell.

"Keith!" he growls, leaning closer to the door, voice teetering between exasperated and pleading. "I know you’re in there! If you don’t open this door right now, I swear to God, I’ll—" he cuts himself off before he says something he can’t take back. 

So he waits. 

Breathes in. Breathes out.

The only response is the sound of uneven breathing on the other side.

Lance presses his forehead against the cold metal of the door, letting out another groan. "Come on, man," he mutters, softer this time. "Just… talk to me."

Still nothing.

Hell, if only Keith were more like Hunk—sweet, calm, able to hold a conversation without making you seriously contemplate launching yourself out of the nearest airlock—this whole mess would be a lot simpler. If Keith were Hunk, Lance would’ve come armed with a steaming mug of whatever space equivalent to tea he could scrounge up, a sympathetic ear, and  maybe even an awkward, too-long hug for good measure. Because Hunk is the kind of guy you can hug without fearing for your life. He’s predictable. Cuddly. Safe. No knives involved.

But Keith? Keith is the kind of psycho who keeps a dagger under his pillow, perfectly positioned for a quick, efficient throat-slash in case someone gets too close. Which, of course, makes this situation a whole lot more complicated. Because the last time Lance had tried to help, Keith’s response was a barrage of threats so visceral that his heart didn’t stop racing for an hour afterward. So, maybe—just maybe—staying out of reach of Keith’s sharpened weapons for one more night isn’t the worst idea in the world. That's what Lance convinces himself to do—just walk away. He even starts to turn, ready to slink back to his room and drown his frustration under the warm, heavy weight of his blankets.

But then—then—a tiny, muffled whimper snakes through the crack in Keith’s door.

It hits Lance like a sucker punch straight to the gut. His heart skips a beat, his brain screaming at him to retreat before he dives headfirst into an emotional minefield he’s definitely not equipped to handle. But the sound echoes in his ears, looping over and over until it’s the only thing he can hear, and his patience—which was already hanging by a thread—finally snaps.

The guilt, the exhaustion, the bubbling frustration—it all surges forward. Rational thought? Gone. Self-preservation? Out the window. In its place, an overwhelming urge to do something before that pathetic, pained noise coming from Keith drives him completely insane.

So, in true Lance McClain fashion, he lets his sanity pack up and leave. One second he's backing away, the next he’s charging forward, slamming his foot into the door with a reckless, solid kick.

The sliding panel gives way with a loud crash that reverberates through the silent hallway, announcing his entrance in the least subtle way possible. The air in Keith’s room is thick, practically suffocating. Sweat, tension, the unmistakable tang of emotional baggage, it all hits Lance like at once. The dim lights barely flicker on, casting long, eerie shadows that make everything seem distorted. But none of that registers fully on his brain, because right in the middle of all that darkness is Keith—curled up on the bed, breathing erratic, fingers clutching the bedsheets and his whole body is wound up so tightly it looks like one wrong move will snap him in half.

Without thinking, Lance moves. He’s beside the bed in an instant, hand reaching out, fingertips barely brushing Keith’s shoulder when—bam—everything flips.

Before he can blink, Lance is flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling in a dizzy, breathless shock. Keith is on top of him—knees digging into his sides with the precision of someone who’s trained for this exact kind of violence—dagger glinting dangerously in the dim light, hovering just a little too close to his throat.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy!” Lance wheezes, his heart practically leaping out of his chest because, oh great—there’s a freaking knife at his throat. And it's Keith holding it. Keith, whose face is now way too close, whose wild, heavy breaths are fanning over his skin like he’s about to rip him apart. The blade presses in, just a hair more, enough for Lance to get the very visceral realization that: yep, this is officially a life-threatening situation.

And, yep, Keith’s not fully awake.

Shit.

Keith’s eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, glazed over like an animal who’s been cornered. There’s no recognition there, just raw survival instinct. It's unnerving, terrifying even. Lance’s brain kicks into overdrive, running through every possible exit strategy—how to move without getting gutted, how to defend himself when he's pinned like this. But Keith’s elbow is pressing into his neck and the sharp angle of his knees is crushing into his ribs making it damn near impossible to breathe, let alone think straight.

“Keith—” Lance croaks, panic lacing every syllable. He raises his hands slowly, cautiously, wrapping his fingers around Keith’s wrists. He can feel the tension thrumming beneath Keith’s skin like a live wire ready to snap. “It’s just me,” he manages to squeak out, trying to keep his voice steady even though it sounds more like a fragile squeak at that point. It's a horrible mixture of panic and trying-not-to-die bravado. He covers Keith’s knuckles with his hands, brushing his thumb gently over the bone as he tries to ease the knife away, just a little. “Just me, okay? Chill.”

Then… something shifts.

Lance glimpses how the fog lifts in Keith's eyes. Like a switch being flicked, the raw, savage intensity fades, replaced by something softer, something more human. Recognition dawns in his gaze, the harshness melting into confusion, then into horror as the realization hits him in full force. 

"Lance...?" Keith gasps, blinking repeatedly, as if he's just woken up from a nightmare he can't quite remember, only to find himself standing on the edge of a cliff, with no idea how he got there. The knife slips from his hand, hitting the floor with a sharp clatter that cuts through the silence as he scrambles back, visibly shaken, and runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He starts tugging at the strands of hair like he can punish himself into coherence. "I didn’t mean to—I—I thought…" he croaks.

Lance, still flat on his back, still trying to process how in the name of all things holy he ended up in this position, is too shocked to move. He's still feeling the ghost of the knife’s pressure on his skin and the weight of Keith’s body pinning him down just moments ago. So it takes a beat—a painfully long, awkward beat—before he can finally catch his breath, before he can string together enough words to say something, anything.

"Uh, well..." Lance props himself up on his elbows, rubbing the back of his neck as he searches for the right words. He probably should just tell the truth, but it feels awkward as hell.

"W-what the hell are you doing here?" he asks, stepping back until the side of the bed bed hits the back of his knees and he collapses onto it.

Lance probably should just say something normal. Something to break the tension. But his brain is still trying to reboot after almost getting murdered, so what comes out instead is: “Man, I haven’t slept in, like, three weeks because you’ve been screeching like a dying animal every night.”

It’s not the most graceful explanation, but it’s the truth.

Keith stares at him, torn between looking horrified and completely mortified. Probably both. His eyes flicker from Lance to the knife on the floor, then back up again. For a moment, he just looks... lost like he's catching up to what's been happening in Lance's life for weeks now..

“What?”

Lance sighs, extending his leg to casually nudge the knife out of reach. “Yeah. I’ve been hearing you for days now,” he says, as if that explains everything. “You sounded… y’know, distressed. I figured I should check if you were, like, still alive or something,” he pauses, watching Keith’s face for any sign of reaction. “Dude, you were screamign really bad minutes ago. Are you... okay?”

At first, Keith doesn’t respond. He just stares, his expression flickering between anger and something sharper, more raw. The suspicion in his eyes fades, slowly draining away until all that’s left is something hollow. Something broken.

"I don’t need you checking up on me," Keith says and sinks further onto the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers dragging over his eyelids like he’s trying to scrub away the memory of the last few minutes. "Just… go back to your room."

It’s the way he says it—low, quiet, dangerously calm—that makes Lance’s stomach tighten. That kind of calm usually means he’s about two seconds away from getting socked in the face if he doesn’t back off.

But Lance being Lance—whether it’s stubbornness, stupidity, or something entirely more reckless—can’t walk away.

Instead, he pushes himself all the way up from the floor, crossing his legs as he settles next to the bed. Not too close—just enough that their shoulders are almost brushing, a deliberate not-quite touch. "Listen," Lance begins, his fingers fidgeting nervously in his lap, twisting together like they can anchor him. "I’m not here to mess with you or whatever, okay? I just thought maybe… maybe you could use someone around. Even if it’s just me." His hand hovers awkwardly mid-air before he lightly touches Keith’s trembling arm, the gentlest, most hesitant contact.

It’s a mistake.

"Don’t touch me," Keith jerks back violently, slapping Lance’s hand away with a sharp hiss and shoving him square in the chest. It’s not a hard shove, more of a reflex than a real push, but it’s enough to knock Lance off balance. He stumbles back, barely catching himself before he ends up flat on his back again. 

"Alright, alright!"Lance holds up his hands in mock surrender, trying to stay calm even though, inside, there’s this tangled knot of frustration building—not from the shove itself, but from the force of Keith’s constant rejection. "Not touching, message received," he pauses, exhaling slowly to keep his own temper in check. "But jeez, man, relax, I’m not here to fight you, okay?"

Keith bolts to his feet so fast it makes Lance flinch, the bed creaking beneath the sudden movement. His hands fly to his hair, fingers yanking through the dark strands in a way that looks more punishing than soothing. He starts pacing, quick, sharp steps that cut through the dim light of the room, back and forth, back and forth, each one more frantic than the last.

The energy rolling off him is wild, volatile, like a storm barely held in check, and Lance can practically feel it crackling in the air.

Stay calm, Lance. Keith’s about to blow. You need to calm him down before this whole thing goes nuclear, Lance says to himself.

"Keith," Lance says softly, standing up but keeping his movements slow, deliberate, like he’s approaching a cornered animal. "As much as I appreciate being serenaded by your nightly battle cries, you’re seriously starting to freak me out, man," he tries for a grin, weak and wobbly but there. "And, uh, hate to break it to you, but I’m not going anywhere."

"No," Keith snaps, his voice cracking in the middle. "I don’t want you here."

"Yeah, well," Lance raises an eyebrow, stepping forward with the kind of casual confidence he definitely doesn’t feel. "You shouldn’t be screaming loud enough to wake the dead every night, but here we are," his eyes flick down to the knife still on the floor, and with an almost lazy motion, he nudges it even farther out of reach. "I’m not great at following orders, Keith. And I’m here now. Too sleep-deprived and way too tired of your nightly banshee impressions to care what you want. Deal with it. I’m not leaving you like this."

That’s when Keith freezes. His pacing comes to a dead stop. His hands fall limply to his sides, and for the first time, he locks gazes with Lance. Lance moves forward, cautious like he’s approaching a wild animal—one wrong move, and it could all go sideways.

"Hey," Lance says, softer now, stepping forward cautiously. "Just let me stay. I won’t talk. I won’t even be annoying—okay, no promises there, but I’ll try. Just… let me stay until you calm down," he pauses, tilting his head with a faint, rueful smile. "Or at least until I’m sure you’re not about to stab anyone else, yeah?"

Keith doesn’t answer right away. There’s a moment where Lance can see the internal struggle playing out—the way Keith’s shoulders tense, his jaw working as if he’s biting back words. His gaze flicks away, then back again, like he’s looking for an escape but can’t quite make himself move. His guard’s still up, but it’s cracked. Lance wants to fix it. He wants to pull out a toolbox, patch Keith up with some good-natured banter, a half-decent joke, and maybe a shitty metaphor about how teamwork is like Voltron itself—separate parts, stronger together. But Keith isn’t someone you can just mend like that. He’s not a quick fix. He’s a storm, messy and unpredictable. And you don’t fix storms; you ride them out. You wait for the calm to settle.

Finally, Keith speaks, his voice so low it’s almost swallowed by the silence.

"I don’t… I don’t know how to stop it," he says, fingers twisting into the fabric of his pants like he’s trying to hold onto something—anything—tangible. "The dreams. The... rage. It’s like—like it’s always there. And I hate it. I hate that I don’t know what to do with it."

Lance thinks he gets it, at least a little. No, he’s not Keith. He hasn’t just discovered he’s half-Galra, and hasn’t had the weight of the team’s expectations press down on him from every angle. but he knows what it’s like to feel too much. To have all that anger, fear, and frustration bottled up with no real outlet. He knows what it’s like to feel like you’re on the verge of exploding, and there’s no one who can help because you can’t even explain it to yourself. It’s like trying to sort through a mess with no clear way out, and sometimes it just feels too big. Too overwhelming. And when that pressure builds, it’s impossible to know what to do when it explodes. Lance knows that boiling feeling, the way your chest tightens and the anger burns so hot it feels like it might scorch you from the inside out. The way you want to scream, throw something, do anything to release it—but nothing ever really fixes it. Not permanently, anyway.

And maybe Lance, for once, is better at understanding that than Keith. Because Keith doesn't know how to control his emotions. He's a guy, who’s always so in control, always so stubbornly independent, that is now sitting here, feeling like he’s unraveling at the seams. And that? That’s something Lance can’t let slide.

"Yeah," Lance says softly, shifting a little closer but not enough to push. "I get that. You don’t know what to do with it, so you shove it down. You push people away. You think that if you just keep it buried, maybe it’ll disappear. But it doesn’t, does it?" He tilts his head, voice quieter now. "It just sits there, waiting. And then, bam—it’s in your face again, and you’re stuck trying to deal with it on your own."

Keith's fingers loosen their death grip on his pants, just slightly, but he doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the floor, his jaw tightening as Lance’s words sink in.

"And the nightmares," Lance continues, his tone dropping to a near-whisper. "They drag it all back up, don’t they? All the crap you’ve been trying to ignore. All the stuff you’ve been burying—it’s right there, in your head, and you can’t escape it."

Keith exhales sharply, his jaw working like he’s trying to keep himself from snapping. For a moment, Lance wonders if he’s gone too far, if he’s pushed Keith into a corner he can’t get out of. But then Keith lets out a breath, shaky and uneven, that sounds too heavy for someone who’s always carried himself like a one-man army.

"You can’t understand it." 

"Yeah, I can," Lance replies, firm but not unkind. "Because you’re not the only one who feels like that. You’re not the only one who’s angry, or scared, or confused. Hell, I feel like that sometimes. Like my head’s so full of noise I don’t even know where to start. And it sucks. It really sucks. But it doesn’t make you weak, okay? It doesn’t make you any less of a person."

"Lance..." Keith starts, and Lance can hear the struggle in his voice, the hesitation. He takes a deep breath, and then, with a shaky exhale, he drops the bombshell: "I could’ve killed you."

Lance’s throat tightens. He knows it’s not a threat—it’s not even a confession. It’s just... Keith’s way of saying how close they came to something irreversible. How close he was to losing control completely.s.

"Yeah," Lance says softly. "And you didn’t. And you’re not going to."

Keith shakes his head. "You don’t know that. Next time—"

"There won’t be a next time," Lance cuts him off. "Because I trust you."

Keith freezes. His head snaps up, and his eyes lock onto Lance’s, wide and disbelieving. It’s like the words don’t compute, like his brain can’t even begin to process them. His breathing picks up, shallow and uneven, as if he’s trying to figure out if Lance is messing with him.

"I trust you," Lance says again, quieter now but no less certain. He leans forward slightly, his tone soft but steady. "Because I know you, Keith. I don’t care if you’re half-Galra, or whatever else you think makes you dangerous. You wouldn’t hurt me. Not like that."

And then it happens. The shift.

Keith exhales, and it’s like the fight drains out of him in one long, shaky breath. He squeezes his eyes shut like he’s bracing for something that never comes. Before Lance can say anything more, Keith takes two small, unsteady steps back and slides down the wall. His knees draw up to his chest, and he wraps his arms tightly around them like he’s trying to make himself smaller, like he’s trying to disappear.

Lance doesn’t move. He watches, silent, as Keith crumples in on himself, and for a moment, he doesn’t know what to do.

On any other day, Lance might’ve laughed. He might’ve poked fun at Keith for being so dramatic, maybe thrown out a light jab about how this is so not the picture of the team’s resident badass. But this? This isn’t funny.

Keith looks fragile in a way that Lance isn’t used to. He doesn’t want this Keith—fragile, cracked, like he’s just barely holding himself together. No, the Keith that Lance knows is strong, infuriating, impossible to break. The guy who can stare down Galra warships without blinking. That Keith isn’t supposed to look like the world’s falling apart from the inside out.

So he crouches down, careful not to crowd him, keeping just enough distance to give Keith space while still being close enough to reach out if he needs to. His fingers twitch, itching to offer some kind of comfort, but he holds back. He’s already made peace with being the brainless, impulsive jackass everyone assumes him to be. It’s become a part of his identity, the role he plays in their motley crew. But above all that, Lance’s always prided himself on being a nice guy, the one who cares, the one who’s there when it counts. So he just sits there, quiet and steady, waiting out the storm. Because sometimes, Lance thinks, you don’t need to fix everything. Sometimes, you just have to be there.

And that’s exactly what Lance does: he stays. 

Of course, Keith doesn’t make it easy. He never does. "Lance," he mumbles. "I don’t need your pity. Please, just... go. I'll be fine."

Lance doesn’t buy it for a second. He rolls his eyes so dramatically it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck in orbit. "Oh, sure. I’ll just waltz right out of here and leave you quaking in your boots like a baby kitten, all trembling and shaky. Clearly, you’re doing great, huh?" he says, taking a slow, deliberate step forward. 

Keith clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Fuck off," he mutters, but there’s no real bite to it. The usual sharpness, that typical defensive snap, is gone. It’s softer now, like all the fire’s been snuffed out, leaving only smoke and embers behind. 

"Yeah, real convincing," he says, moving even closer until he’s practically standing in Keith’s personal bubble, looming just enough to be annoying but not quite threatening.

He leans down just enough to be in Keith’s line of sight, trying to catch his gaze, but Keith keeps staring at the floor like the dust patterns are the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen in his life.

"So...  Lance tilts his head, casual as you please, like they’re chatting about the weather and not Keith’s impending emotional collapse,. "What’s the deal?"

Keith finally looks at him and blinks, like the question short-circuited his brain. "What?"

"You know, your..." he gestures vaguely with his hand, slicing through the air in a dismissive motion. "What are they about?"

Keith’s face shutters immediately. "There’s no way we’re having that conversation."

"Why not?" Lance presses, refusing to let it go. "I mean, if you’re gonna keep waking me up, we might as well talk about it. Look, I’ve survived Galra prisons, giant space monsters, and, most impressively, being your teammate. I think we can manage a little nightmare therapy."

Keith rubs the back of his neck, a flicker of something—irritation, maybe embarrassment—crossing his face. “I’ll talk about it when I feel like it.”

Lance raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, right. And when’s that gonna be? Next year? The day after never?"

Keith’s silence speaks volumes. Lance gets immediately what he's trying to imply. 

“Come on!” Lance groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I get it, okay? I’m not your feelings guy. Shiro’s the one who does the whole wise older brother, let’s talk it out thing. But guess what? He’s not here. And someone’s gotta be the adult in the room because—newsflash—your mess isn’t going to fix itself.”

Keith’s laugh is short and bitter, like broken glass scraping over concrete. "You?" he scoffs, finally glancing up at Lance with a look that’s dripping with disbelief. His voice is mocking, eyes narrowing. "An adult? Don’t make me laugh. I don’t need a lecture about ‘opening up’ from the guy who thinks sarcasm counts as emotional intelligence."

"Yeah, well, tough luck!" Lance’s arms flail out. "Because I’m the one stuck on the sidelines—" he gestures wildly toward the wall between their rooms, his voice picking up speed. "—night after night, listening to you scream and thrash like some kinda possessed space goat! And you think I can just sit there and do nothing? Pretend it’s all fine? Maybe Pidge or Hunk could let you wallow in your dark little corner, but me? Not happening."

"Lance," Keith’s voice drops dangerously low. "Shut. The fuck. Up."

But, predictably, Lance doesn’t shut the fuck up.

"You’ve got this whole lone wolf act going on, and guess what? It sucks. I hate it. Really hate it, Keith. But fine, whatever, you do you," he waves his hand like he’s dismissing something ridiculous. "Except here’s the thing—you’re not fooling anyone. Not me, not the team. You train until you literally drop, push everyone away like it’s some kind of sport, and for what? To prove you don’t need us? Congrats, man, you’ve done it! You win! But now what? What’s your grand plan? Keep brooding in the dark until you implode? Because, hate to break it to you, but that schtick? It’s not helping. So maybe—just maybe—try talking about it instead of letting it eat you alive."

Keith takes a deep exhalation, his fists clenching at the fabric around his knees.

Lance presses harder, jabbing a finger at Keith’s arm. "You think isolating yourself is gonna fix things? That it’s gonna somehow absolve you of all that guilt you’re dragging around? The guilt about your Galra heritage, about what happened when Shiro disappeared at Kerberos, like that was somehow your—"

"Don’t you dare talk about Shiro, or me like you know anything about what’s going on." Keith's eyes lock on Lance, blazing with fury. "You’re just some dumb, self-righteous idiot with an inferiority complex. A wannabe hero who thinks everyone’s a charity case waiting for your stupid pep talks to fix them. You don’t know shit, Lance."

Oh, of course he goes there.

"Maybe I don’t know everything," he fires back. "but I know you’re not okay. And pushing everyone away isn’t gonna change that. It’s not gonna bring the Shiro you met at the Garrison back. And it’s definitely not gonna make you feel any less guilty about all the shit you’re trying to swallow alone. So stop pretending it will. You need help, Keith. You haven’t slept for weeks, and you know I’m right."

"You’re such an idiot you don’t get anything I’m saying, huh?"

"Oh, I don’t get it? I don’t get it?" he mimics Keith’s tone, throwing in a little extra whine for good measure. "Then explain it to me! Tell me what’s going on, Keith! Let me in instead of shutting me out every time things get hard." He moves closer, jabbing a finger into Keith’s chest, voice rising. "You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone?! The only one who’s messed up?! I don’t want to fix you, dumbass. I just want you to stop pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."

And that’s when it happens. The switch flips.

Keith explodes.

Before Lance can process what’s happening, Keith lunges. His fists twist into Lance’s shirt with enough force to drag him off-balance, the fabric digging into his collarbone as Keith yanks him forward. Lance’s back slams against the wall with a thud that knocks the air out of him. Keith’s face hovers just inches from his own, his breath hot and furious against Lance’s skin.

"I’ve had enough," Keith growls, his grip tightening so much Lance can hear the seams of his shirt protesting. The anger radiating off him is tangible, a heat that threatens to burn everything in its path. "Pretending? You think I want your help? That I need it?" the words come out jagged, each one spat like it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. "Fuck off, Lance. You can’t just barge into my room in the middle of the night, wave around your stupid optimism and sunshine-filled smiles, and expect me to be grateful for it. What do you want from me, huh? To spill my guts and cry on your shoulder? Sorry, but I’m not that fucking desperate yet."

"Well, maybe I am!" Lance counters with defiance. "Because you’re my friend, Keith! And that’s what friends do—they care when you’re falling apart. They stick around, even when you’re acting like a brooding, moody, emo asshole."

"Oh, fine, go ahead," Lance provokes, waving his palms. "Hit me if it makes you feel better. It won’t change a damn thing."

Keith’s fist doesn’t fly. Instead, it lowers, grabbing a fistful of Lance’s T-shirt. "Listen here, you fucking loser. We’re in the middle of nowhere because fate decided to screw us over. We’re not friends, we’re not buddies, we’re not anything like that," each word drips with disgust. "So go—have your bonding time with your stupid lion. The one I spent a year searching for in the desert while you were off playing Fighter Pilot at the Garrison. Go fool around with your philanthropy somewhere else and let me handle my shit on my own."

Lance blinks, momentarily stunned. There’s something about the way Keith says it, the sheer venom behind the words, that hits a little too deep. But then? Anger bubbles up inside him, hot and uncontrollable. He’s lost count of how many times Keith has tried to push him away, to burn every bridge between them with his jagged, self-destructive words. But tonight? Something inside Lance snaps.

"Wow," Lance scoffs, slow-clapping with a sarcastic flourish. "Congratulations! You’ve officially earned the title of Asshole of the Year! Fine. I’ll go. I’m done trying to help you. Enjoy rotting in your sorrow, man, because you’re doing a fantastic job of it."

Keith’s mouth opens, but Lance doesn’t give him the chance to speak. His voice drops, colder now, sharper. "Maybe you should’ve finished using that knife on me earlier," he says, stepping closer with a shove to Keith’s chest. "Then you wouldn’t have to worry about me sticking around at all."

Keith’s eyes widen, horror flashing across his face, raw and unguarded.

"Lance—"

"Save it!" Lance snaps, shrugging off Keith’s slackened grip like it burns. "You’re right. I’m an idiot. An idiot for thinking we could be friends. An idiot who was just trying to help someone important to them." He spins on his heel, the anger bubbling up hot and uncontrollable, each step toward the door fueled by the fire coursing through his veins. He doesn’t look back—he won’t. Not this time.

He’s so ready to slam that door and leave it all behind, but—Yank.

Keith’s hand clutches the back of his T-shirt, pulling him back so abruptly that Lance stumbles, spinning around with wide, confused eyes.

"Wait—" Keith says. His voice is small, shaky, barely a whisper, like he hadn’t meant to say all those sharp words he's thrown out before. Like everything slipped out before he could stop it.  

Lance freezes, confusion cutting through his anger like a cold gust of wind. 

"What now?" he bites out. 

"P-please... don’t go. "I—" he cuts himself off, biting down on the words like they’re too much to say. His shoulders shake, just a little, and when he finally speaks again, it’s so quiet Lance has to strain to hear it. "I didn’t mean…" his left hand trembles as he instinctively raises it to his mouth, like he’s trying to hold back something desperate, something that’s threatening to spill out.

"I’m tired of being your punching bag."

The grip he had on Lance’s shirt slips away, leaving Lance standing there, shirt crumpled and chest heaving with adrenaline.

And then Lance sees it. The unmistakable wetness glinting at the edges of Keith’s eyes. The kind of glossy eyes of a puppy that has been dumped and is too scared to understand why it’s been left behind in a dusty cardboard box in the middle of a highway.

Oh no.

They stand there, locked in the kind of silence that feels like it could shatter at any moment. Lance’s heart thuds against his ribs as he watches Keith retreat a step, and then another, his gaze darting anywhere but at Lance. He’s doing that thing—the thing where he tries to pretend he’s fine, tries to shove it all down like he’s not two seconds away from falling apart.

And fuck, it’s so painfully familiar.

Then like a freight train, slamming into him with the force of realization, memories of his childhood bubble up, unbidden. He’s reminded, suddenly, not of the fights he’s had with his siblings—those dumb, petty fights where they bickered over the stupidest things, where they’d leave each other bruised but not broken—but of the times after. The quiet moments after all the yelling had died down, when he’d have a nightmare and crawl into one of his brothers' beds. Scared, shaking, but too stubborn to admit it, he’d just lie there, waiting for the inevitable arm to pull him in without a word. He’d hated how much he needed it—hated how much he wanted the comfort despite the bruises and arguments that came before.

And Keith now—this Keith, with his trembling hands and watery eyes and that stupid, unrelenting pride—is exactly the same.

"God, you really are an idiot," Lance mutters, more to himself than anyone else, but there’s something almost affectionate in the way he says it.

Keith doesn’t react—doesn’t snap back, doesn’t argue, just stands there, crumbling. So, Lance makes the decision for him.

He steps forward and wraps his arms around Keith, pulling him into a firm, unyielding embrace.

"You're going to shut the fuck up and try to breathe with me, okay?" he whispers like a promise and a command all in one. His lips hover dangerously close to Keith’s ear, soft enough that only Keith can hear. "Tomorrow, you can punch me in the face if you want. Hell, I probably deserve it. But tonight? Tonight, let me try this, okay? No one has to know. Let’s call it a truce, if that makes it easier."

Keith just stands there, stiff as a board, as if he doesn't know what to do with himself. For a moment he's like a live wire, the tension radiating off him in waves. He's breathing sharply, unevenly, as if he's trying to hold it all in by sheer force of will. Lance can feel it—the anger, the fear, the pain, all circling beneath the surface, a storm that’s been building for far too long.

"Keith, breathe," he says again, softer this time, coaxing him out of the storm with gentle persistence. "I’ve got you."

It takes a minute, but then it happens.

Keith’s shoulders drop, just a little at first, and then all at once, like a dam finally breaking. The tension leaks out of him in slow, halting waves until he’s leaning into Lance, his forehead pressing against Lance’s shoulder. His breaths come slower, steadier now, his head tilting slightly as if he’s too exhausted to hold it up anymore. Lance’s hand moves instinctively, sliding up the curve of Keith’s spine until it comes to rest at the nape of his neck. The damp strands of Keith’s sweat-soaked hair cling to his fingers as he brushes them aside. Keith begins to crumble under the gentleness and lets out a sound—a soft, broken exhale that feels almost like a purr, low and unsteady, vibrating against Lance’s shoulder.

That’s when Lance knows he’s getting through.

It’s a strange thing this quiet surrender: Keith’s head lowering, coming to rest against Lance’s right shoulder with a heaviness that speaks less of defeat than of pure, unfiltered exhaustion. Lance feels something blossom in the pit of his stomach. It’s warm, unfamiliar, spreading like wildfire. Maybe it’s the heat coming off Keith’s flushed ears, the warmth trailing down his neck and seeping into Lance’s fingertips. Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in what feels like forever, Keith is here—not fighting, not running, just here.

The air around them feels different now. Thicker. Quieter. Like they’re suspended in their own little universe where time moves slower, softer, and the rest of the galaxy doesn’t exist. It’s intoxicating in a way Lance can’t quite pin down. Because the truth is, they’ve never had this kind of closeness before. Not like this. They’ve always been too busy bickering, trading barbs like it’s a competition, or locking horns over who gets the last word.

This? This feels sacred. The feel of Keith’s skin beneath his fingers is startlingly real, warm, and vulnerable in a way Lance never thought Keith could be. His fingertips graze the curve of Keith’s neck, brushing over the soft hairs there, and the world around him blurs into oblivion. Lance feels dizzy, like the ground’s been pulled out from under him,

Eventually, Keith moves—just a little. His hand hovers awkwardly, lingering in the air as if unsure of its place, before it settles lightly against Lance’s back. The touch is so tentative, it’s barely there, but it’s enough. Enough for Lance to feel the hesitation in it, the fear of taking up space, the uncertainty of asking for more. And in that single touch, Lance sees it all: Keith, stripped bare of the stubborn walls he’s so carefully built, no longer the fierce, unrelenting warrior he pretends to be. What’s left is a boy—one who’s been left behind too many times, who’s learned to carry his loneliness like a second skin. A boy who doesn’t know how to ask for comfort, doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

It hits Lance like a punch to the gut, a sharp, aching pull that tightens his chest. He’s struck by the realization of something he should have seen all along: Keith isn’t just lonely. He’s been lonely, for so long he’s forgotten what it feels like to let someone in.

Lance doesn’t say a word. He just shifts slightly, pulling Keith closer, aligning their breaths. Each inhale and exhale presses against his own chest, slow and steady, guiding Keith’s breathing until it matches his. One beat at a time. The tension between them begins to melt, like ice thawing in the sun.

And then, Keith speaks.

"Lance."

It’s barely louder than a breath, but Lance hears it.

He tilts his head slightly, his brows lifting in silent acknowledgment. "Hmm?"

Keith's hand twitches slightly against Lance's back. Then, with that familiar, deadpan delivery that’s so uniquely Keith, he whispers, "I’ll kill you tomorrow."

Lance can’t help the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I’ll take my chances."

Chapter Text

Because nothing with the Galra is ever simple, what starts as a straightforward rescue mission—quick extraction, get in, get out, minimal drama—unravels with the inevitability of a cheap sweater. One second, they’re helping prisoners shuffle out of their cells, and the next? The galaxy’s most chaotic laser show erupts. Suddenly, they’re weaving through an asteroid field, dodging beams of death while those new Galra drones—bigger, rounder, and somehow angrier—swarm after them like robotic hornets on steroids.

Lance spends the next eight hours of his life locked in a battle of wills with his own impending panic. His mantra is simple: shoot, quip, breathe, repeat. It’s not foolproof, but it’s gotten him this far. Every time he takes down one of those bloated mechanical spheres, he spits out commentary so overly detailed it’s practically a sport. Anything to keep his mind from spiraling while Pidge hacks into the prison ship’s defenses, Shiro and Hunk are loading prisoners, and Keith is—somewhere, probably off being dramatic in the shadows.

"Lance, we’re almost done with the prisoners, but we need cover fire!" Hunk’s voice crackles through the comm, panicked but steady, like only Hunk can manage in the middle of a galactic shitstorm.

"On it, buddy!" Lance shouts, yanking Blue into a sharp roll to dodge a streak of incoming fire. The controls vibrate under his fingers, the engines groaning in protest, but there’s no time to worry about that. He leans forward in his seat, squinting at the endless barrage of lasers and chaos ahead. "Just—hold on a little longer!" he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. It’s practically a prayer now. Almost there. Almost.

Blue dips and dives like she’s alive, threading through asteroid debris and searing beams of light with precision that borders on miraculous. Lance’s hands ache from gripping the controls too tightly, and his jaw feels locked in place, but he can’t stop, won’t stop—not when they’re this close.

Somewhere between obliterating his sixth Galra drone (the one that looked like a pissed-off purple volleyball) and weaving Blue toward the rendezvous point, Lance finally feels the smallest flicker of relief. Shiro’s already in Black, hovering nearby with all the stoic reassurance of a galactic dad ready to catch them if things go south. The prisoners are being loaded onto the escape ship in record time, and for a second—just one—Lance dares to crack a grin.

Then the universe reminds him that peace is a luxury they’re not allowed to have.

A sudden blaze of light explodes across the void, so bright it sears the blackness into white-hot chaos. Blue shudders violently as the shockwave slams into her, tossing Lance like a ragdoll. His heart leaps into his throat, and for one horrifying second, he’s sure they’ve been hit.

"Holy—what the hell was that?!" Hunk’s voice bursts through the comm as he scrambles into Blue’s cockpit, eyes wide and frantic, half-wearing his helmet like he put it on mid-run. He looks every bit like a man on the edge, which, honestly, fair.

Lance barely spares him a glance. His focus snaps to the radar, eyes scanning the chaos for a pattern, for something to make this mess manageable—and that’s when he sees it. A flash of movement way too far from the safe zone, darting dangerously close to the Galra warship. It’s Keith. Of course, it’s Keith. The galaxy’s most reckless, death-defying idiot out there playing bait like he’s auditioning for a lead role in Top Gun: Space Edition. He’s weaving through laser fire and enemy drones, pulling the Galra’s attention away while the rest of them—Lance, Hunk, Shiro—are desperately trying to scrape together a semblance of survival.

"Keith," Hunk mutters, his voice a mix of awe and horror as he follows Lance’s gaze.

Lance’s jaw tightens, his hands clenching around Blue’s controls. His heart is thudding painfully in his chest, but it’s not just fear—it’s frustration. Of course Keith would pull this stunt. He always does. And worse, it’s working. The Galra’s fire is focused on him, giving the rest of them room to breathe. But that doesn’t make it less infuriating. Less terrifying.

"Keith, fall back! The prisoners are safe!" Lance shouts into the comms, his voice raw, verging on desperate. He needs Keith to listen. Just this once. But Keith? Keith never listens. Instead of pulling back, he dives deeper. Another explosion rips through the void, shaking Blue so hard Lance nearly bites his tongue.

"Seriously, what the hell are you doing?!" Lance yells, his voice cracking under the strain of keeping it together. "Keith we have to retreat—now!"

Static crackles over the comms, followed by Shiro’s steady voice barking orders, and Hunk muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer. Lance doesn’t have time to process any of it because his focus is locked on Keith, on the streak of Red Lion darting dangerously close to enemy fire.

Then it happens.

Through the chaos of drones and debris, Lance watches in horror as Red dips too low, too close. A laser catches it square on the right side. There’s a blinding burst of light, and for a second, Lance’s heart forgets how to beat. His breath catches in his throat as Blue jolts under another shockwave.

"Keith don't—" The word rips out of him before he can stop it. His voice is raw, panicked, barely audible over the chaos.

The comms crackle again, sharp and static-filled, before Keith’s voice cuts through, breathless but somehow calm. "I’ve got this! Just trust me! Get the prisoners out and I’ll handle the rest."

Lance gapes at the comm as if Keith can see him. "Trust you? Are you out of your mind?!" he snaps, even as Blue jerks to the left, narrowly dodging another incoming blast. He doesn’t even know if Keith hears him. "You just took a hit! You’re not handling anything but a one-way ticket to the afterlife if you don’t pull back!"

But Keith doesn’t answer. Instead, Red dives headfirst into another swarm of drones, dancing through the chaos with the kind of reckless precision that makes Lance want to scream. Or cry. Maybe both.

Hunk groans next to him. "Why is he always like this?" Hunk asks, his voice high and shaky.

"Because he's reckless, idiotic and completely allergic to self-preservation," Lance growls, as he throws Blue into another evasive maneuver.  "So buckle up," he commands and Hunk, looking about two bad turns away from throwing up, nods weakly.

"I swear, if we survive this, I’m installing child locks on Red. Keith isn’t allowed to play hero without adult supervision anymore," Hunk says. His face is pale, his hands trembling against the seatbelt, and Lance would feel bad for him if they weren’t literally in the middle of trying not to die.

"You good?" he asks, sparing him the quickest glance he can manage.

Another shaky nod from Hunk. "Define ‘good,’" he croaks. "Let’s just… let’s get out of here in one piece, man."

"Working on it, buddy," Lance says sounding steadier than usual, in a desperate attempt to keep the knot of frustration and dread threatening to choke him from spilling over.

The next few minutes are pure, unrelenting chaos. The mission devolves into what can only be described as a cosmic game of pinball, with Keith as the ball, ricocheting wildly from one near-death experience to the next. Each second drags out like a lifetime, explosions lighting up the dark void around them in a relentless, brutal display. Red dives again, a streak of defiance against the backdrop of chaos, and Lance has to yank Blue hard to the left to avoid a chunk of debris. He can feel his blood pressure skyrocketing, the adrenaline burning through him like fuel.

Keith is out there, flying like he’s untouchable, like the concept of mortality doesn’t apply to him, and Lance—Lance is stuck here, watching it all unfold, scrambling to pick up the pieces and keep them all alive.

It’s infuriating. It’s terrifying.

And yet, somehow, it’s so Keith.

***

By the time they finally make it back safely to the Castle, Lance is stumbling out of Blue’s cockpit all shaky legs and no dignity. His heart’s racing so hard it feels like it might punch a hole straight through his ribs. Relief should kick in by now—should be washing over him like a warm wave, soothing the edges of his frayed nerves. But it doesn’t. Instead, there’s this sharp, burning sensation deep in his chest, like someone’s struck a match inside him, and if he doesn’t let it out soon, he’s going to combust.

His gaze locks immediately on Keith. Keith, the adrenaline junkie. The reckless space gremlin. The walking disaster in a slightly-too-tight jumpsuit who’s already swaggering out of Red like they weren’t just inches away from being vaporized. Lance hates that swagger. It’s infuriating. It screams, Look at me, I just survived yet another reckless stunt because I’m Keith Fucking Kogane and the laws of mortality don’t apply to me.

Lance's blood pressure spike and his brain short-circuits after that. He rips off his helmet letting it clatter to the floor as he storms across the hangar. His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides they’re starting to ache, but he doesn’t care. The anger’s bubbling up fast, threatening to spill over, and Keith—Keith, the bane of his existence—is about to get an earful.

"You have any idea how close we were to getting vaporized back there?" he shouts, voice cracking on the last word. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t even try to hide the frustration crawling up his throat like fire. "You could’ve died! We could’ve died! What the hell were you fucking thinking, Keith?!"

Keith doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t so much as spare him a glance.

"Do you even care about the rest of us?!" Lance yells, words tumbling out too fast, too loud. "You can’t keep pulling this shit every time we go on a mission!

Keith takes of his helmet and just keeps walking, unbothered, like nothing happened at all out there. Like they didn’t just survive a nightmare scenario that could’ve ended with them scattered across the galaxy as tiny bits of stardust.

That—oh, that does it. That shoves Lance right over the edge of whatever fragile restraint he was clinging to. 

"At least have the decency to look at me when I’m talking to you, you asshole!" he closes the distance between them in a few long strides, hand shooting out to grab Keith’s shoulder. But something stops him—a firm grip on his arm, steady and unyielding.

"Lance, let it go," Shiro says, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the air. There’s no anger in his tone, just that quiet, authoritative edge that demands obedience. "I know you’re angry. But this isn’t the time."

Lance freezes, blinking up at Shiro, who looks exactly how you’d expect after a day like this: done. Not angry, not exasperated, just… done. Shiro’s exhausted gaze shifts briefly to Keith, then back to Lance, and that’s it. That’s all he has to do to defuse the moment.

Mostly.

Lance glances at Keith one more time, hoping—praying—for some kind of acknowledgment. A half-hearted apology, a snarky comment, even a stupid shrug. But no. Keith just keeps walking, his back straight, his eyes locked on the elevator. He presses a button from the pannel and the doors hiss shut behind him without so much as a backward glance. Lance feels his stomach twist. The lump in his throat swells, bitter and hot, and he doesn’t know if he wants to scream or cry or punch something until his knuckles split. 

"Man... I can’t feel my legs," Hunk mutters weakly from somewhere behind him, breaking the suffocating silence.

Lance turns, the sharp edge of his anger blunted by the sight of Hunk slumped against the nearest wall, looking about two seconds away from collapsing completely. His helmet is hanging lopsided in his hands, and his eyes are half-closed, the sheer weight of exhaustion pulling at him.

"Come on, Hunk," Lance says, exhaling a long, shaky sigh as he crouches down next to him. Without a second thought, he throws one of Hunk’s arms over his shoulder and helps him to his feet, supporting most of his weight as they shuffle toward the hallway. "I’ve got you."

It’s not much, but it’s something to focus on. Something that isn’t Keith or the fiery mess of emotions clawing at his insides. 

Together, they shuffle toward the elevator, Hunk wobbling like a drunk giraffe while Lance does his best not to crumple under the combined weight of exhaustion and mild humiliation. By the time they make it to the Bridge, Lance’s legs are screaming, and his nerves are on high alert, bracing for what he knows is coming: the Allura Special.

He’s already mentally rehearsing his apology speech as he shoves Hunk into a chair and collapses into one himself. His pulse is still racing when Allura finally steps forward, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

"You’re lucky to be alive," she says, her voice eerily calm. Too calm. Lance tenses immediately.

Here it comes, he thinks. The brutal, no-holds-barred verbal smackdown. The scathing debrief where every single mistake is dissected with surgical precision. The promise of a training session from hell to hammer those lessons in.

Except… it doesn’t come.

Instead, Allura just looks at them. Really looks—taking in their bruises, their exhaustion, the way they’re all slumped in their seats like ragdolls. And for a moment, it’s like she’s reconsidering whatever fury she had lined up.

"There are a lot of things I’d like to say," she begins, her tone so measured it’s almost unnerving. "But I’m in no condition to be objective right now, and I’d be unfair if I tried. So we’ll debrief tomorrow morning, and..." She pauses, her gaze flicking briefly toward Coran. "—Coran and I are preparing a special training session for the evening. Rest up. You’re going to need it."

And with that, she turns on her heel, drags herself toward the door and leaves. 

The room is left in stunned silence. Lance’s stomach twists even more as the seconds tick by. That’s… it? No drill-sergeant-style scolding? No detailed dissection of every single one of their mistakes? Just “get some rest”?

It feels wrong—like they’ve been tossed into some weird, floating limbo where their sentence is delayed but not forgotten. And somehow, that’s almost worse than being yelled at.

"You heard her," Shiro says after a beat. He walks over to Lance and gives him a pat on the back, his bittersweet smile doing nothing to ease the collective tension in the room. "Rest up, guys. All of you. We’ve had a long day." he doesn’t say much else, just turns and follows Allura out with a little sprint.

"Did we just dodge a bullet?" Hunk mutters.

"Nah," Pidge replies, barely looking up from her holo-screens as she flicks a switch that dims the Bridge’s lights to something softer, less retina-destroying. "You’re just on probation until tomorrow. Welcome to purgatory."

Lance straightens up immediately, crossing his arms with dramatic flair. "Purgatory?! What does that even mean?!"

"It means," Pidge says, deadpan as ever, swiveling in her chair to face him, "you get to sit with your bad decisions and think about what you’ve done. Enjoy."

"Hold on a second," Lance snaps, pointing a very accusatory finger in her direction. "Why are you not including yourself in this, huh? You’re part of the team too!"

"Because, unlike you, I get a golden pass for staying here hacking Galra shit and not making a hundred bad quips on an open comm channel in the middle of a mission."

"Oh, come on! I was helping! You can’t punish me for being helpful! I saved the day out there! I’m the reason we’re alive right now!"

"You’re the reason I have a headache," Keith mutters from across the room. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his usual brooding energy dialed up to eleven,

"Excuse me?! I was easing the tension! You know, morale boosting! Keeping things light while I was dealing with those drones and dodging deadly space explosions—that you caused, by the way!" Lance shoots back, gesturing wildly at Keith. "A little humor is good for morale!" 

"Oh, sure. Because nothing boosts morale like a play-by-play of every single shot you take, followed by an ego trip about how devastatingly handsome you look in your pilot suit," Keith grumbles, leaning casually against the far wall, arms crossed, too busy staring out at the starry void to care about he is the very reason they were dodging said space explosions. 

"Wait—hold up—" Lance stammers, his hands flying to his hips in indignation. "You actually heard that?! I thought you weren’t even on our comms channel!"

Keith raises an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed. "Hard not to when you’re being distracting all the damn time and screaming loud enough to drown out the explosions."

“What else did you want me to do, huh?" Lance shoots back, getting up from his seat. "I was under a lot of stress, okay?! Dozens of drones kept chasing me for eight hours! Sorry for saving your brooding, reckless ass while you were out there playing chicken with a Galra warship!"

Keith’s jaw tightens, and he pushes off the wall with a sharp motion. "I wasn’t playing chicken. I was being strategic."

"Strategic?" Lance barks out a laugh, full of disbelief. "You flew straight into their line of fire, you absolute maniac!" he waves his arms in the air, pacing a little now, as the frustration simmers again under his skin.

It’s not just the mission—it’s everything. The reckless stunts, the constant need to prove himself, the way Keith acts like he's invincible when he's gotten too deep into action. The way he doesn't look like he cares about his own life and nobody seems to watch him for that. 

"I knew what I was doing!" Keith snaps defensively, pushing off the wall. There's that edge again, the one Lance has become all too familiar with—the one that screams, I won't back down. "I needed to get close so Pidge could disable their shields. And it worked, didn’t it? Hunk and Shiro got the prisoners out safely. We’re all standing here, alive. What are you even complaining about?"

"Oh, I don’t know," Lance says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe the part where we almost died because you decided to play lone wolf hero again. Or the part where Hunk wasn’t even in my Lion yet, and you still thought it was a good idea to blow the place up like some space kamikaze!"

From the corner, Hunk—who’s been sitting quietly, nursing a bottle of suspiciously neon space water like it’s his last tether to reality—looks up at Lance with a pained expression.

Lance, sensing backup, beams and turns to him. "Hunk, buddy...?" he asks hopefully, borderline desperate. 

“Uh...” Hunk fidgets awkwardly, clearly caught between loyalty and honesty. "Pidge and Keith kinda have a point. I mean, it was messy, sure, but Keith’s move bought us the time we needed. And, uh, maybe... sometimes... you do talk a little too much? Like, during missions? Don’t get me wrong—I love you, buddy—but it’s... a lot sometimes."

Lance gapes at him, utterly betrayed.

Pidge swivels in her chair. The windows slide shut with metallic blinds rolling down from the outside of the ship. She stands up intertwining her fingers like she's done with the job until they disgustingly crack and says: "See? This is why I’m not included in purgatory. I know when to shut the hell up."

Lance crosses his arms and glares at the group.

"I cannot believe this," he says with disbelief. "I am surrounded by traitors who can’t appreciate good commentary when they hear it."

Keith snorts. "Oh, please. What’s there to appreciate? You took out, like, five drones. Tops."

"Excuse me?!" Lance squawks, whipping around. "I took out, like, fifteen drones by myself!"

"Five," Keith repeats, holding up five fingers like Lance is a kindergarten student struggling with basic math. He even wiggles them a little, just to drive the point home. "The rest? Let’s just call them... optimistic attempts."

Lance groans so loudly it echoes in the vastness of the Castle’s Bridge. "Fine! I get it! This is how things are today, huh? Everyone’s ganging up on me after I saved all your sorry butts. Thanks, guys. I really appreciate it." He levels a dramatic glare at the room before turning his sights back on Keith. "Even Mr. Brooding McSilent over here suddenly has an opinion about me.

"My only opinion," he says with just the faintest edge of amusement in his voice, "is that you should save your energy for tomorrow’s real battle." The way he says it makes it painfully obvious he’s talking about Allura’s inevitable debrief—a guaranteed marathon of criticism and corrective training.

Lance waves his hands in the air, pure disdain dripping from his every movement. "Yeah, yeah! Go get your royal beauty sleep, Sleeping Beauty. The rest of us will just stay here and convalesce in agony! Don’t worry about us mere mortals!"

Keith, of course, doesn’t even flinch. Because why would he? No, instead, he stretches with the kind of infuriating grace that Lance is absolutely not noticing—except, of course, he totally is, because Keith’s shirt rides up just enough to reveal those unfairly toned hip bones. It’s obnoxious. Lance is mad about it. Keith casually strolls past them, utterly unfazed. Then, as he walks away, he raises his hand without even glancing back and flips Lance the middle finger. It’s perfectly timed, perfectly casual, and the message is loud and clear: I’m too tired for this, but you’ll regret that later. And with that, he vanishes down the hallway.

Lance just stands there, with anger itching at his fingertips. 

Pidge covers her mouth with a hand, containing a snort of laughter.

Hunk lets out a long, exaggerated sigh and says, "You know, sometimes I don’t understand how you two haven’t killed each other yet." 

***

An hour later, Lance is alone in his room feeling every inch of his body protesting with a dull, persistent throb that pulses through his muscles. The adrenaline from the mission has long since fizzled out, leaving behind a kind of bone-deep exhaustion that makes him feel like he’s been steamrolled by a Galra warship or like the Castle’s gravity decided to crank up a few notches just to make his life more unbearable.

With a groan that sounds way more dramatic than it needs to, Lance trudges to his dresser. He pulls on his trusty threadbare T-shirt—the one that’s probably older than the Castle itself—and he’s ready to collapse back into his mattress harder than an asteroid into a planet.

The bed cradles him like it was handcrafted by angels, and for a split second, Lance thinks, This is it. I’m done. This is where I die, and honestly, what a way to go. Sleep should come easily. After all, he’s drained. Every fiber of his being is practically screaming for unconsciousness. But, of course, his brain has other plans. Instead of drifting off into blissful nothingness, Lance just lies there, staring at the ceiling like a chump. The mission replays in his head: explosions, drones, Keith doing Keith things (read: trying to get himself killed), and every moment where it felt like they were about five seconds away from becoming space dust. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries counting sheep, tries counting space sheep, but nothing works. He keeps shifting under the blankets, frustrated, limbs feeling like overcooked noodles and his back acheing from the awkward angles he’s been stuck in all day.

Why isn’t Keith the one stuck awake? he wonders bitterly.

Keith, with his reckless stunts and suicidal maneuvers, should be staring at the ceiling, rethinking every terrible decision he made. But no—it’s Lance, again, stuck dealing with the aftermath—his body aching, his brain on overdrive—while Keith, the human comet, gets to just exist.

It doesn’t help that the Castle is too quiet. Maybe that’s part of the problem. Sure, he's been complaining about Keith screaming his lungs out every night, but right now, he almost misses it. At least that would be something to fill the empty space. Because this—the hum of the engines as a faint, background drone, too steady to be comforting, too quiet to drown out his spiraling thoughts—only makes him miss the noise of home. The chaotic, messy, beautiful noise of his family. The TV blaring in one room, his mom’s voice carrying through the house, his siblings bickering over literally nothing, and the occasional crash of something breaking because someone decided to test gravity for the millionth time. Chaos. Comforting, familiar chaos. The kind that drowns out the overthinking, the anxiety.

How could Lance overthink anything when his sister was launching stuffed animals at his head or his cousins were trying to set the kitchen on fire?

How could he even stop to worry about anything else when his brothers were on the verge of blowing up the microwave because they forgot to take the spoon out of a cup and he was too busy being up to his elbows in baby poo while changing his nephew’s diaper?

Here, though? Here, there’s just... nothing. The kind of nothing that gets under Lance's skin, wrapping around until his chest feel tight, until his thoughts slip from the mission to home, to his mom, his siblings, his nephews. To the noise he used to complain about but would give anything to hear right now. The absence of it all feels like a hollow ache, one that sits heavy in his chest and refuses to budge no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

Now everything feels about to overflow, like something that’s been growing and growing for days, weeks—hell, maybe since the moment he left Earth—and no one can hold. It’s the kind of feeling that no amount of missions, no amount of adrenaline-fueled near-death experiences, can dull. Maybe it’s loneliness creeping in, or maybe it’s the fact that he's still mad at Keith. Whatever it is, is enough to make his stomach churn, but that’s when he realizes—oh. He’s also starving. Like, starving starving.

Lance skipped dinner after the mission, too worn out to care. He hadn’t even bothered to grab a snack after his shower. Nope, not even a single protein bar to ward off the impending doom of starvation. Instead, he’d gone straight to bed, thinking that sheer exhaustion would knock him out cold. And now here he is, lying in the dim light, aching in places he didn’t even know could ache, hungry enough to hear his stomach grumbling, and feeling overwhelmingly trapped on the verge of crying.

I could get up, he thinks. He could drag himself to the kitchen, raid whatever Hunk has left over—probably that suspicious green mush he keeps insisting is a delicacy—and try to fill the void in his chest with something warm and edible. But honestly? That sounds like so much effort. And Lance, who’s currently halfway to becoming one with his mattress, is not about that life.

And then there’s tomorrow to think about.

Allura’s voice echoes in his mind, that chillingly calm tone she gets right before she drops the hammer: “Special training session in the evening.”

Translation: Prepare to die.

Lance knows what’s coming. It’s not just training. It’s Allura Training™, which means every muscle in his body will be screaming for mercy by the end of it. If he shows up looking like a zombie—or worse, passes out mid-session—she won’t even blink. She’ll just step over his unconscious body and yell at the others to keep going.

So, yeah. Midnight snack it is.

The noise gets louder, closer. Lance sits up, eyes squinting in the dim light as he listens. The footsteps stop right at his door.

Then—silence. A brief, eerie pause. And then—there. A glint of metal slipping through the tiny gap between the doors.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

What the hell? A knife?

And not just any knife. A Galra knife?!

Lance jolts upright. His immediate thought is ambush. An attack. Right here, right now, in his room.

The knife edge turns sideways, pressing on the doors, forcing them open. Then they slide open with a soft hiss, and standing there in the dim light of the hallway is... Keith.

Keith, with his wild hair, his crazy intensity, and a Galra dagger gleaming in one hand while—wait—what’s that in the other hand?

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Lance’s mind spins out of control. Keith’s standing there in the doorway, half-shadowed by the dim light of the hallway, looking every bit like a deranged assassin about to carry out some dramatic revenge plot.

Keith doesn’t say a word. Instead, he takes a few slow, deliberate steps into the room. Lance’s mind goes into overdrive. It’s like a bad horror movie in slow motion, and he can’t look away.

The events from five nights ago crash into his brain: the night terrors, the stupid knife, the incident—the one where Keith had the same damn knife at his throat. Then Keith looking utterly miserable. Then the argument. Then that painfully awkward hug. Then—oh god, then—Lance praying to whatever cosmic entity was out there that Keith would forget everything. And finally, Keith saying...

Saying...

Oh. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Lance’s heart slams into his ribs. "I’ll kill you tomorrow" Keith had literally said that night. At the time, Lance had laughed it off, convinced Keith was just being his usual brooding, dramatic self. But now? With Keith standing here with a knife? Oh, God. He wasn’t kidding.

The worst part? He’s had five whole days to prepare for this. Five. And what did he do to get his affairs in order during such time? Nothing. He’s spent all that time watching Keith awkwardly avoid him with the same subtlety of a toddler who just broke a vase—casting those fleeting, unreadable glances his way. Glances filled with... embarrassment? Shame? No. Keith never feels embarrassment. Keith causes fear.

The kind of fear Lance is feeling right now.

So, yeah, this is how it ends, Lance thinks bitterly as he begins mentally drafting his obituary:

Lance McClain:   

Galactic Hero. Paladin of Voltron. Beloved by all. Tragically taken from this universe by an emotionally unstable knife-wielder. Please leave nice flowers and tell awesome stories so he doesn’t get too bored in the afterlife! 

Just as Lance’s brain is teetering on the edge of full-blown spiral territory, Keith pauses a few feet from the bed, shifting his weight awkwardly like he’s gearing up for something. Lance has about half a second to decide whether to brace himself for another argument, a dramatic monologue, or, you know, sudden death. All options feel equally plausible.

"P-please, Keith, wait!" Lance stammers, his voice cracking in a way that’s totally dignified. His hands shoot up in classic surrender, palms out like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. "No need for the whole murder thing, okay? I mean, we’re all friends here—kind of, maybe. Let’s... talk this out? Discuss things like civilized people?"

He’s rambling, barely managing to string together words, because what else is he supposed to do when Keith looks like he’s about to—

"Take this," Keith interrupts, launching the words at Lance like precision-guided missiles: sharp, precise, and lacking any embellishments. No explanations, no apologies—just a straight-up command.

Lance freezes mid-sentence, blinking rapidly as Keith extends something toward him. It’s not a weapon (thank God), but what it is doesn’t immediately compute. He looks down at Keith’s hand, confusion knotting his brow.

It’s... a cup of tea.

Not just any tea. The tea. Lance’s tea. The same one he sneaks into the kitchen to make on nights when he’s too homesick or stressed to sleep. It smells exactly right—comforting and warm, like a hug in a mug.

How the hell does Keith know about that?

"Wait—what?" Lance blurts, his hands hovering in mid-air like he can’t decide if he’s supposed to accept this or run for cover. "Tea?"

"Yeah. Tea," Keith repeats, his patience visibly wearing thin. "Drink it," he shakes the cup slightly, as if to say, Come on, get with the program.

The audacity. The audacity of this guy to storm into his room, offer him tea, and act like this is a normal interaction. Lance takes a few precious seconds to process what’s happening, but his brain short-circuits somewhere around How the hell does Keith even know about my tea?

He should probably say thank you. Or, at the very least, make some kind of noise resembling gratitude. But instead, irritation bubbles up, sharp and unexpected.

Tea doesn’t fix everything, Lance thinks, his inner monologue practically screaming. It doesn’t undo the reckless stunts, the death-defying maneuvers, or the constant, constant fighting. It doesn’t erase the fact that Keith doesn’t seem to care how much his actions affect the rest of them. How much they affect Lance.

And yet, here Keith is, standing in his room with this stupid cup of tea, awkward and fidgety like he’s trying to offer this awkward, clumsy, almost-apology that he doesn’t quite know how to deliver. Keith nudges the cup forward again, a small, impatient movement that pulls Lance out of his spiraling thoughts.

And because Lance is an idiot—a complete and utter fool—he takes it.

The warmth seeps into his hands, grounding him almost immediately. The liquid is a deep, rich amber, swirling with flecks of gold that shimmer in the dim light of his room, as if the sun had decided to pour itself into a cup just for him. He stays quiet, watching the steam rise in delicate swirls, mingling with the chilly air. 

Keith breaks the silence first. "You didn’t come down for dinner," he states flatly, as if that single sentence could somehow explain the entire cosmos.

Lance wants to shoot back a snarky reply—And what if I didn’t? You gonna give me a lecture too? —but instead, he lifts it to his lips and takes a sip. It tastes exactly right, too—sweet and floral, soothing in a way that makes Lance hate how much he needs it. The taste is surprisingly similar to how he prepares this tea for himself: a hint of something sweet like honey and something floral that dances across his tongue, soothing and comforting. 

When he finally meets Keith’s eyes again, what comes out, much quieter than he intended, is:

"What are you exactly trying to do with this?"

Keith shrugs, his gaze flicking away like he’s already regretting this whole exchange. "You helped me the other day," he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest, retreating back into his fortress of awkward detachment. "Just wanted to return the favor."

Lance senses Keith's trying to keep this exchange as brief and unemotional as possible, so he raises an eyebrow, incredulous. "So this is... your way of asking for forgiveness about today? Because if it is—"

"I’m not asking for forgiveness," Keith cuts off, leaving no room for argument. 

"Good," says Lance, leaning back slightly, because annoyance is bubbling back to his sternum like a pot left on the stove too long. "Because I’m still pissed off. You pulled some crazy shit today, and honestly, I still want to punch you for that."

Keith doesn’t flinch, but his fingers twitch slightly, betraying the barest flicker of tension. "Fine."

"Fine."

They’re stuck like that for a moment—locked in this tense, stubborn silence, neither willing to back down.

Lance exhales slowly, the grip on his cup loosening just a fraction as the warmth seeps into his skin. He takes a sip. Then another. The tea is... good. Too good, actually. The kind of soothing that’s downright infuriating when you’re trying to stay mad at someone. It’s exactly what he needed, and that realization only makes him more annoyed. Of course Keith would know. Of course.

"I hate you so much right now," Lance mutters, glaring over the rim of the mug. "This tastes amazing."

"Good," Keith says with a self-satisfied nod, as if this was some kind of personal victory. "Drink it all," he pauses, then adds brusquely, "Goodnight," like he’s checked “fix Lance’s bad mood” off his to-do list and can now retreat back to his brooding cave of solitude.

But before he can take a step, Lance is already reaching out, grabbing his wrist.

"Wait," the words slip out before he can think it through. "Why are you leaving?"

He doesn’t even know why he’s saying it. It’s not like he wants Keith to stay—at least, that’s what he tells himself. His brain can’t quite catch up with his heart, but all he knows is that he doesn’t want Keith to vanish into the hallway just yet.

"I thought you didn’t want me here," Keith replies quietly, turning back around. Lance can feel the tension radiating off him, the way his shoulders are drawn tight like a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.

"I said I wanted to punch you," Lance recites, a bit of heat creeping back into his voice, but the bite is softer now. "Not that I didn’t want you here."

"I know what you said," Keith fidgets—nervously running his free hand through his neck, his brows furrowing as his gaze darts away. "But it doesn’t seem like you actually want me to stay," he mutters, the words low and almost accusatory, like he’s bracing himself for whatever comes next.

Lance exhales slowly. Well, Keith's right. His mind is telling him to tell Keith to leave. To go, to let him simmer in his frustration and exhaustion. But he can’t. He hates how much Keith affects him—how much he wants him here, even when everything in his body is screaming that he shouldn’t.

"Keith," Lance sighs, feeling the last of his fight slip away. "Why did you really come here?"

Keith stands there for a moment, tense, conflicted. He doesn’t answer right away, but Lance can see it—the hesitation, the uncertainty flickering in his eyes. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he lets out a small breath.

"I couldn’t sleep." 

Lance raises an eyebrow, waiting for more, because there has to be more. "Uh-huh," he prompts. "And?"

Keith shifts his weight uncomfortably, his expression flickering between irritation and something more vulnerable. "I didn’t sleep last night either," he mumbles, his voice barely audible. "I thought that—" He stops, glances at Lance for half a second, then looks away again. "Never mind."

He moves like he’s going to leave, but Lance tightens his grip, pulling him back. "Hey." his voice is quieter now, almost gentle. "Don’t do that. Don’t just... leave. Talk to me, okay?"

Keith hesitates again, then slowly lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. The air between them shifts, the tension easing just enough for the silence to feel less like a weight and more like a pause.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Keith stares down at his hands, fiddling with the edge of his jacket. Lance watches him, waiting, the quiet stretching out until Keith finally breaks it.

"I came to ask if you could... do that thing again," Keith says awkwardly.

"What thing?"

Keith looks away again, clearly uncomfortable. "You know," he mutters, waving his hand vaguely. "The thing. From the other night."

Lance frowns. 

Keith groans, clearly mortified. He reaches out, grabbing Lance’s wrist—not roughly, but with enough intent to make Lance freeze. Then, with a kind of resigned determination, he guides Lance’s hand to his shoulder and drops it there, like he’s showing him exactly what he means.

Lance blinks. Once. Twice. His hand hovers awkwardly, fingertips brushing against the fabric of Keith’s jacket. He glances down at his own hand—his own traitorous hand—and then back up at Keith. Keith, whose expression is dead serious. Determined. Like this is some kind of critical, life-or-death decision.

For a split second, Lance genuinely wonders if he’s about to have an aneurysm. His brain sputters, tries to reboot, and fails spectacularly as Keith awkwardly shifts his weight on the bed. He’s waiting. Waiting for Lance to do... something. And then it happens—the shift. Keith’s shoulders slump, his gaze flicks away like he’s suddenly fascinated by the floor, and—oh, oh no—his ears. They flush bright red.

And that’s when it clicks.

Oh. Ohhhhh.

The hug.

That awkward, half-asleep, emotionally-charged hug from nights ago. The one that neither of them has mentioned since. The one Lance had assumed Keith would want to bury deep in the recesses of his memory, never to be spoken of again. But now? Seeing Keith sitting there, blushing furiously, clearly embarrassed but also desperate enough to ask for it? It feels like he’s hit the jackpot or stumbled upon the holy grail of Keith’s emotional vulnerability.

He flashes back to that night—the ragged breathing, the trembling hands, the way Keith had curled into himself like he was trying to disappear. Lance had acted on instinct, pulling him into a half-assed hug because it felt like the only thing to do. It was awkward. Clumsy. But it worked. Keith stayed. His tension melted bit by bit until he’d fallen asleep, leaning against Lance like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lance had spent the days since pretending it never happened. He’d assumed Keith would do the same. But now? Now Keith is practically blushing and asking for round two, and Lance has no idea what to do with this information.

"Uh, you mean... you want me to, uh, hold you again?" Lance croaks, and wow, does his voice sound higher than usual? Yes, it absolutely does. Fantastic.

Keith's eyes dart to the floor, his whole posture radiating discomfort, like he'd rather face an entire army of Galra than be sitting here, asking Lance for something so vulnerable. He nods, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but enough to make Lance’s heart do a ridiculous flip in his chest.

The warmth crawling up Lance’s neck is unbearable, and he swallows hard, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that his hand is still on Keith’s shoulder. He’s still too caught off guard to form coherent words. His mouth opens once, then twice, as he searches for something to say. How—how the hell did they get here?

Keith shifts, the dim light casting soft shadows on his face. Lance notices how Keith’s hand still rests on his wrist—not pulling, not pushing, just... there. Something about that tentative grip makes all the frustration and resentment Lance had been carrying around all night dissolve. It’s still there, lingering at the edges of his mind, but it feels muted now.

So, yeah. He takes the cup of tea, places it carefully on the floor by his bed, and without another word, slides a little closer, scooting across the bed until their knees are almost touching.

It’s funny, in a way that makes Lance want to laugh and cry at the same time, how much easier this feels compared to the last time. Maybe it’s because now he gets it—he knows what Keith needs, even if Keith doesn’t quite know how to ask for it. And despite the awkwardness of it all, despite the weird, unspoken tension still lingering from their earlier fight, this feels… right.

Without overthinking it (because God help him if he actually thinks too hard about this), Lance wraps an arm around Keith’s shoulders. It’s tentative at first, a soft pull, careful not to squeeze too tight. Not yet. He’s letting Keith set the pace—a role reversal so wild it almost makes him dizzy, considering how much Keith usually charges headfirst into everything, no hesitation, no brakes.

Keith stiffens, naturally. It’s like hugging a rock wrapped in another, angrier rock. But then—then—he exhales, a short, sharp breath that sounds like surrender, and leans into Lance’s side. It’s hesitant, like Keith still isn’t sure this is allowed, but it’s enough. His arms creep around Lance’s torso, landing awkwardly under his armpits. The movement makes Keith’s jacket let out this weird, crinkly protest, as though it, too, cannot believe this is happening.

Lance’s lips twitch. Of all the bizarre scenarios he’s imagined over the years, Keith willingly leaning on him for comfort? Yeah, that one didn’t even make the list.

"You could’ve just asked, y'know," Lance starts after a beat, teasing slightly. "Instead of breaking in with a knife. Just saying."

There’s no point in pretending anymore. Not when Keith is looking at him like that—raw, vulnerable, and maybe a little lost. 

Keith shifts, his head dropping slightly, hair brushing against Lance’s neck like he's searching for warmth. "I thought you weren’t going to answer if I knocked," he mutters, clearly embarrassed. "We fought earlier, so…"

"You couldn’t knock, so you thought, ‘Hey, let me just stab my way in and bring my rival some tea? ’" Lance deadpans, scooting over to give Keith more room. "Sure, that’s not completely psychotic at all."

"We’re not rivals.”

"Oh, right. Not friends either," Lance replies, his tone syrupy sweet with mockery. "You made that super clear the other night. And yet—" He gestures vaguely at the tea, the bed, Keith’s entire existence right now. "—here you are. Bringing tea. Sitting on my bed. Practically asking for a hug. Seems a little contradictory, if I’m being honest."

Keith fidgets. "Yeah—well..." 

"Man, you’re such a pain, you know that?" Lance teases, a grin tugging at his lips.

Keith tilts his head and glares at him for a second, but it’s the kind of glare that’s more about saving face than anything serious. "You’re the one making it weird," he mumbles, clearly grasping for some sort of defense but finding nothing solid to stand on. "It's just a fucking hug."

Just a hug, Lance’s brain repeats, though it sure as hell doesn’t feel like just a hug when Keith shifts a little closer. His forehead is now inches from Lance’s collarbone, and suddenly, Lance is hyperaware of everything. Like how he’s still in his boxers and old T-shirt, hugging the same guy he wanted to punch just five minutes ago. And now here they are, close enough that Lance can smell the faint scent of Keith’s shampoo, the warmth of his breath, the way his stupid mullet tickles Lance’s neck.

Desperate to break the tension (and maybe save them both from drowning in it), Lance blurts, "So… uh… this hugging thing worked, huh? No nightmares?

Keith exhales, a long, slow breath like he’s fighting to keep his composure. When he turns his head just enough for Lance to catch his expression, Lance can practically see the internal struggle.

"I don’t know," Keith mutters, voice barely above a whisper. "I just… slept better after that."

Lance feels a flicker of something warm and achingly soft settle in his chest. He can’t help himself—he’s Lance, after all.

"Wow," he drags out the word, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Keith Kogane, Mr. Tough-Guy-Lone-Wolf, admitting he needs hugs to sleep? Stop the presses."

"Lance. Don’t." Keith’s voice is sharp, but his body doesn’t move away. "I don't want to talk about that today," he says, but It’s more of a bark than a bite. "This is just a truce. Got it?"

Ah, there it is—Keith’s go-to strategy: deny, downplay, and dismiss. Lance can practically see it happening in real time, the way Keith’s entire body stiffens like he’s doing everything he can to pretend this isn’t happening. But it is happening, and Lance isn’t about to let Keith off the hook that easily like the other night. Keith's not fragile. 

"Oh, sure. A truce," Lance echoes, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "A truce between... non-rivals," he adds with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Here I was, thinking we were finally bonding. Guess I’ll wake up tomorrow to find a formal peace treaty on my nightstand, huh? What a disappointment."

Keith starts to protest—probably something grumpy and very Keith about how this isn’t a big deal—but Lance doesn’t give him the chance. In one smooth, absolutely ridiculous motion, Lance yanks him down onto the mattress.

"Whoa—HEY!" Keith squawks, and the sound is so genuinely startled, so far from his usual composed growl, that Lance almost laughs outright. Instead, he smirks, fully committing to the bit as they land in an awkward, sprawling heap of limbs.

"There we go," Lance declares triumphantly, wrapping an arm around Keith’s bony waist like this was the plan all along. The feel of Keith’s frame pressed against him is startlingly solid, warm, and for some reason, completely grounding. "Now this is how you seal a truce. If we’re doing this peace treaty thing, we’re doing it right."None of that boring ‘handshake and awkward nod’ garbage. We’re going full commitment here, mullet," his fingers tighten slightly at Keith’s hips for emphasis, purely to see if it’ll get a rise out of him.

It does.

Keith stares at him, wide-eyed and flustered, his hair sticking out in every direction. 

"Stop—ugh—manhandling me," he snaps, trying to squirm out of Lance’s grip, but not very hard. Not convincingly. His face is an interesting shade of pink—somewhere between "mildly embarrassed" and "furious enough to commit a felony".

Lance only grins wider, thoroughly enjoying the rare sight of Keith looking this off-kilter. "You’re terrible at cuddling, by the way. All elbows and existential crises. Do better."

Keith glares at him, his voice dropping into that familiar growl that’s meant to be threatening but mostly just sounds like a grumpy cat. "Stop sounding so fucking smug about it. This is a one-time thing, Lance."

"Fine, fine..." Lance lets his head fall back against the pillow, his grin softening as he looks up at the ceiling. "So... just to be clear—You’re not going to murder me anytime soon, right?"

Keith exhales sharply, the ghost of a laugh buried somewhere in the sound. "Don’t push your luck."

Lance doesn’t say anything to that. Instead, he closes his eyes, letting the soft warmth of Keith pressed against his side settle in. If this is a one-time thing, if this fragile, almost-peaceful truce is all they’ll ever have, then fine. He’ll take it. He’ll hold onto it with both hands and guard it fiercely, like a precious secret he’s too afraid to share. Every second, every tiny detail—Keith’s steady breathing, the way his hair brushes against Lance’s chin, the heat radiating from him like he’s his own sun—Lance commits it all to memory. Locks it away somewhere safe, somewhere only he can reach, where he can pull it out later when the nights are long, and the emptiness of space feels bigger than it should.

Tomorrow, when Keith goes back to his usual self—closed off, distant, impossible to reach—Lance will have this. And he’ll make sure it’s worth remembering, because this is the closest thing to them coexisting like actual friends he’ll ever get.