Chapter Text
The second he shuts his door, Lance feels like the weight on his shoulders gets four times harder to carry. He slumps forward, head on the frame, and sighs deeply to himself, sagging deeper and deeper into the hard polymer like if he tries hard enough he can sink right into it.
He’s tired. His bones ache. His eyelids are heavy as boulders, and his muscles haven’t been this sore in months. He wants to sleep for eight thousand years, right here in his doorway.
He sighs again, forcing himself to get up. He can’t do that. He’s the fuckin’ Red Paladin, he has an example to set. He needs to be the one to keep his head up, to keep something like a smile on his face, a facsimile of hope in his voice.
And, maybe, to keep the grease from his hair.
He forces himself upright, peeling off his armour and chucking it into a random corner of his room — he’ll pick it up eventually. Probably. He trudges barefoot to his ensuite bathroom, snagging two towels from his shelf on the way in and setting them on the counter with the rest of his products.
Routine. Routine. Routine is good, he reminds himself. And skincare will make you feel less shitty. You can do this.
He turns the water as hot as it can go, smiling tiredly to himself as he hears Keith in his head, grumbling about how he’s going to boil himself alive. The thought is as sad as it is comforting, and before he can stop himself, he reaches for Keith’s shampoo, squeezing a dollop into his hand and massaging it into his hair.
Keith’s shampoo is dogshit, really. It can barely even be called shampoo. Lance works very hard on his hair, and should not be putting this garbage product in it. It’ll only ruin his hard work.
But he fucking misses his boyfriend, dammit. And God only knows when Keith is finally coming back, so if rationing the bottle of the stuff is going to make him feel less like shit than so be it.
He spends a truly ridiculous amount of time in the shower, letting the steam and heavy pressure of the water soothe his sore muscles. He manages to convince himself to go through with his whole routine; shaving, scrubs, moisturizers and all. He is going to smell good as hell and his skin is going to be as soft as a fucking…smooth egg, or something. He doesn’t know. He’s too fucking tired for similes right now.
He emerges out of the shower with renewed energy and vigour, intent on treating himself tonight. He is going to use all his favourite products. He is going to put fresh sheets on the bed. He’s going to burn some incense. He might be shaving pieces of himself down to the fucking bone to fight this war, but he’s going to at least look good doing it, dammit. He deserves it.
He ties on his silkiest robe; a loose red one that falls down to mid thigh. He pulls out all his bottles and jars to start his routine but pauses before he can get started, glancing consideringly at his watch.
It’s only eight. He doesn’t usually call Keith until after he’s ready for bed, around ten. He leans back, peeking out his bathroom door and looking hard at his laptop.
It’s not like Keith would mind. If anything he’d probably be pleased. Why the hell is he denying himself, anyway? Why is he making himself suffer? What is the point of that?
No. Mind made up, he strides back out to his bedroom, face still clean and bare, opening his laptop and booting up Space Skype. He smiles when he sees Keith’s status set to online, putting through a call immediately. It barely even rings once before Keith’s face fills the screen. He smiles slightly, lifting his hand in a dorky little wave.
“Hey, baby.”
Lance barely holds himself back from bursting into tears.
“Hey, yourself,” he quips back, watery grin still in place. Keith must see the look in his eyes because his face creases in concern, and before he says anything more he turns to someone off screen, murmurs something, and then the screen wobbles as he gets up and heads out of what Lance assumes is the barracks. He turns down hallways and skirts past other Blades until he makes it to an out-of-the-way door that looks like it’s opened once a century. Keith sets his tablet down on the ground, motioning for Lance to wait a second, then slides out his blade, jimmying the lock open and ducking inside.
“There,” he says once he’s settled, back to the wall. He smiles at Lance again, indigo eyes softer than ever. “No one will bother us now.”
Lance wipes away the wetness in his eyes and tries to match his grin. “Good. I missed you today, Samurai.”
Keith hums. “Me too. That why you called early?”
Keith’s comment makes Lance remember that he’s not even started his routine yet, and he hurries to do so, pointing his laptop to the bathroom so they can still talk as Lance gets ready.
“Rough day,” Lance calls, opening his bottle of cleanser and working it into his forehead and cheeks. “Got back and I just wanted to hear your voice for a bit so I don’t kill someone tomorrow.”
Keith snorts. He shifts, placing his tablet somewhere so he doesn’t have to hold it, then puts his chin on his hand, watching Lance as he carefully applies a face mask. “Lotor pissing you off again?”
Lance scowls. “Like you would not fucking believe. Acts like he’s the goddamn head of Voltron, and Shiro lets him, for some reason. If I get one more snotty little piece of advice from His Royal Highness I’m going to stick my foot so far up his ass that he’s going to taste it.”
“Gross,” Keith says mildly.
“Good. That’s what I was going for. I hate him and his stupid fucking hair.”
Lance takes a deep breath, grounding himself, knowing that if he lets himself get worked up this night will go very south very quickly and he does not have the energy for that kind of shit. Plus, he just took off his undereye masks, and if he makes himself cry any worse than he already has, which he’s prone to do when he’s mad, then his eyes will get all puffy and his whole routine will be ruined. Not happening.
“I hope you don’t hate his hair like you hated my hair,” Keith teases.
Despite his mood, Lance can’t help but laugh. His boyfriend looks inordinately pleased with himself, goofy smile on his face, showing off his crooked incisors that Lance loves so much. The Cuban feels butterflies erupt in his belly, even though they’ve been together almost as long as Lance has piloted Red.
Keith’s good at that, though. Making Lance flustered, making him feel good. It’s like his number one priority shifted when they started seeing each other seriously, like all the intensity he usually had for missions and saving the universe was suddenly applied to keeping Lance happy.
It’s selfish, and he knows it, but Lance basks in the feeling.
“Nothing in this plane of reality can compare to your monstrosity, Mullet,” Lance teases right back.
Keith rolls his eyes playfully. “Yeah, yeah. You don’t seem to have that much of a problem when you’re yanking on it when we —”
“Do not tease me,” Lance orders, ears as red as his lion. “You are not allowed to do that when you’re thousands of lightyears away from me, you douchebag. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
Keith smirks. “I can make you finish no problem.”
“I am going to hang up,” Lance threatens. He’s no more going to hang up than fly to the moon, and Keith knows it, judging by his widening smirk even as he holds his hands up in surrender.
“Alright, alright. I’ll cut it out.”
Lance huffs, smile fighting its way on his face. “Jackass.”
He scoops up a bottle of body lotion and his laptop, carrying them both to the bedroom and setting them down on the bedside table. Keith says nothing as he digs through his drawers, looking for a clean set of sheets, content to just sit with him in comfortable silence as Lance makes up the bed.
God, Lance loves that man. So fucking much. He’s never had someone who can calm him down so easily, who can make his frustrations almost disappear in minutes.
“You know, the worst part of this whole Blade thing isn’t the near-death missions,” Keith says, speaking up for the first time as Lance smooths his final blanket over the bed and crawls on top of it.
Lance hums, crawling forward to grab the bottle of lotion and settling back onto the mattress, propping up one leg.
“Hm? What’s the worst part, then?”
“I can’t sleep for shit. Somehow, even though you are the worst blanket hog in the world and you kick me literally all hours of the night, I always sleep better when…”
Keith voice cracks and he trails off mid-sentence. Lance looks up from where he’s been rubbing lotion into his calves, just in time to see Keith’s eyes snap back to him, flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, twice, before speaking again.
“Uh, I miss sleeping with you. Is my point.”
Lance raised an eyebrow. “I’m well aware, horndog.”
Keith glares flatly at him. “That’s not what I meant, you goober. I was trying to be sweet.”
“And you were almost halfway there,” Lance coos, but the fondness in his voice gives him away.
He misses sleeping with Keith, too. Keith talks in his sleep and constantly wakes Lance up, but now that he’s sleeping alone again, Lance would give his fucking right hand to hear muttered gibberish in the dead of night again.
Lance finishes rubbing the lotion into his legs and sets it back on the bedside table, leaning over the laptop screen to grab his hairbrush. He mutters a near-silent “Shit, sorry,” as he accidentally bumps the screen with his chest, catching the edge of his robe on the corner of the screen and loosening it. He adjusts the screen again, carefully grabbing his brush and moving back away so as not to hit it again. When he settles back onto the bed, he catches Keith’s eyes looking hastily back to his face, again. He shakes his head fondly as he untwists his towel from his hair and starts to brush through the damp curls.
Poor Keith. Must be hard for him to do anything…fun, ahem, in shared barracks. Rip to him, honestly, because Lance does not have that problem. Say what you will about the castle, but at least he has his own room and a lock on his door.
“You’re distracted today,” Lance comments, smirking slightly. He lets his robe slip down his shoulder, watching Keith’s eyes follow the movement.
“Am not,” Keith protests, whipping his attention back to Lance’s face.
Lance laughs, tilting his head back in a way that shows off his neck and collarbones, just to be a douchebag. This time Keith tries his damnedest to keep his eyes locked on Lance’s, but gives up when Lance stretches his legs out, falling back on the bed and letting the hem of his robe slide up slightly.
“You are a goddamn fucking menace,” Keith growls. “And an asshole.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lance says primly. He considers what else he can do before Keith snaps and steals a pod, storming his way to the castle to do exactly what Lance can tell he wants to do.
It’s never going to happen, Lance knows that, he knows Keith is too noble to abandon his post…
But God, it’s a nice fantasy.
“Have mercy on me,” Keith pleads, switching gears. “I’m a warm-blooded man, Lance. Well, half. There’s only so much I can take.”
Lance huffs a laugh, deciding to have mercy. “Oh, alright.” He straightens back up, pulling his robe back on properly — a tragedy, really, having Keith at his mercy like this makes him feel as powerful as flying a lion does — and places the laptop on his knees, tilting the screen so it’s only really showing his shoulders up.
He supposes the torture is a little mean.
Keith stares at him for a moment, then sighs. Lance tenses, because he fucking knows that sigh. He does the same thing when he’s being obnoxious.
He’s about to hear the cheesiest thing come out of his boyfriend’s mouth. He’s fucking sure of it.
“Don’t you fucking start,” Lance warns, but Keith is already grinning, theatrics are already in motion. (God, Lance has way too much of an influence on him, although honestly Keith has always been a touch dramatic.)
“It’s no better,” Keith laments dramatically, gesturing at Lance’s newly modest position on the screen. “You’re too beautiful. I’m doomed. I look into your eyes, darker than the darkest Earth and twelve times as hauntingly breathtaking, and Cupid’s arrow strikes my heart a million times over. I cannot bear it —”
“Feel free to shut the fuck up at any time,” Lance interrupts, face flaming.
That was the worst thing he discovered about himself, those first few months of them dating. How fucking quickly he folds. All Keith would have to do was put a hand on his thigh during dinner, slowly moving his pinky back and forth, visible smirk on his face, and Lance would go so red it would hurt, a little. Trying to explain that to the rest of the team without giving the two of them away was nearly impossible, and Keith was never sorry about it, and worse still Lance couldn’t stay mad at him.
He was and is the worst. Ugh. Lance is embarrassed about how much he loves him.
“Only because I think your poor heart has been through enough today,” Keith says. Some of the teasing has faded from his expression, leaving behind only softness, like before. “Tell me about your day, sweetheart. I can’t hold you, but I can maybe make you feel better anyway.”
The mention of what they can’t have makes his heart twinge a little, but Lance sighs anyway, pushing through it.
It’s not forever. Keith will come home to him soon.
He talks with Keith for the next two hours, ranting about the screwed up team dynamics for a while, and hearing Keith grumble about the rigidness of the Blades. They switch gears to lighter topics eventually, chatting and teasing and joking until Lance can barely keep his eyes open.
“Hey,” Keith says softly, after Lance has to blink himself awake for the fourth time in a row. “It’s late, Bluebell. Get some rest.”
“I don’t want to,” Lance complains, well aware he sounds like a petulant child and not caring. He does want to sleep — he’s exhausted — but all of his loneliness seems to hit him as once, reminding him how fucking badly he truly misses his man, how much he wants to sleep next to someone again, someone who helps with the nightmares and who he can hold close and who just makes everything less shitty. They have these nightly calls, of course they do, and they help, but they aren’t the same. Lance misses sharing space with him.
“I know,” Keith says quietly. He does know, and it’s evident in the longing in his voice. “I know, my love. But you need to sleep. Me too, honestly. We’ll be able to meet up soon, okay? I have a longer mission with someone named Krolia next week, and I won’t have much signal for a couple days, but I have some time off right after. I’ll come visit.”
Lance fights the urge to make him promise, knowing that’s not fair to either of them. “Okay.”
“I love you, Leandro.” Keith kisses three of his fingers and presses them to the screen. It’s cheesy as hell and Lance should be embarrassed, but he’s not; he’s close to tears for the third time tonight.
“And I love you,” he whispers, mirroring the action. He stretches out his goodbye as long as he can, forcing himself to hang up and shut down his laptop when the time comes. He sets it on his bedside table with a sigh, looking forlornly out to his room. He hesitates when his gaze lands on his closet. He fights for himself for a moment, wondering if it’s worth it. It’ll only hold the scent for so long, after all. He doesn’t want to waste it.
Fuck it. His day sucked and he fucking misses his boyfriend. He stomps over to the dresser, yanking open the bottom drawer and pulling out Keith’s shirt, pressing it to his nose and inhaling deeply, trying to pretend that Keith is only gone on a late night mission rather than stationed billions of miles away. He slides the shirt over his chest, crawling under the covers and sliding over to Keith’s side of the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending that Keith will slip into the room in a few hours, exhausted, peel off his armour without bothering to put on pajamas, smiling when he sees Lance curled up in his space, sliding in behind him and holding him close.
He falls asleep to the imaginary feeling of Keith’s skin pressed to his and his snores filling the room.