Chapter Text
The first thing Lance noticed was the silence. Not the empty silence of the past three years, but a deep, settled quiet, broken only by the soft, even sound of breathing beside him. The second thing was the space—an absurd amount of it. He was sprawled in the center of the massive, Altean-engineered bed in his paladin quarters, the silvery sheets tangled around his legs.
The third thing was the heat. A solid line of warmth along his side, a heavy arm flung across his chest, and the faint tickle of hair against his shoulder.
He turned his head slowly on the pillow. Keith was on his stomach, face half-buried, one arm possessively draped over Lance. In sleep, the usual sharpness of his features was softened. He looked younger. Lance felt a strange, fierce ache in his chest, something tender and protective.
He must have shifted, because Keith grunted, a low, displeased sound. His arm tightened, pulling Lance closer. “Go back to sleep,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep.
A slow smile touched Lance’s lips. This was new. This was… unbelievable. The memories of the night before—the brutal honesty, the shattered distance, the desperate, hungry way they’d come together—flooded back, not with shock, but with a profound sense of rightness.
“Can’t,” Lance whispered, his voice raspy. “Brain’s on.”
Keith cracked one violet eye open, glaring at him with bleary irritation. “Turn it off.”
“Wish I could.” Lance’s smile faded.
Keith closed his eye again, nuzzling his face back into the pillow then he let out a long, slow breath and rolled onto his back, scrubbing a hand over his face. He kept his other arm anchored around Lance’s waist.
Eventually, Lance shifted, tracing the line of Keith's shoulder with his fingertips. "So," he began, his voice soft.
Keith made a low, interrogative sound against his hands where his face was buried.
"All that stuff last night," Lance said. "The... 'I've been in love with you since I cradled you' stuff."
Keith went very still for a second, then relaxed with a sigh that was half-annoyance, half-amusement. "Here we go."
"No, I'm serious!" Lance propped himself up, looking down at him. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. "I just need to know the rules. Is this a full-time thing? Do I get a schedule? Are there performance reviews?"
Keith cracked one eye open, fixing him with a flat stare. "I take it back. I hate you. The feeling is gone."
Lance's grin widened. He leaned down and kissed him, quick and firm. "Liar." He settled back, his head on Keith's shoulder. "I'm just saying. It's a big adjustment. From whatever we were to... this."
Keith's arm tightened around him. "This isn't complicated," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. "You're here. I'm here. That's it."
"That's it, he says," Lance mused, playing with Keith's hand, lacing their fingers together. "The great Keith Kogane, master of emotional complexity, reduces a three-year epic tragedy to 'that's it.'"
"It should have been that simple," Keith said, his voice quieter. "I made it complicated. I'm... sorry for that."
Lance squeezed his hand. "Hey. I made it complicated too. I gave you the 'I hate you' script and expected you to read the subtext." He let out a long breath. "But we're here now. No more scripts."
Keith was silent for a moment. Then, so quietly Lance almost missed it: "I love you."
The words weren't flowery. They weren't whispered like a secret. They were stated. A fact, solid and unshakeable as bedrock. They stole the air from Lance's lungs all over again.
He turned his face into Keith's neck, hiding the sudden, overwhelming swell of emotion. He pressed a kiss to the warm skin there. When he could trust his voice, he said, "Yeah. I love you, too." He said it to the hollow of Keith's throat, a confession given right back to the pulse that had haunted his dreams for years. "Even though you're a stubborn, emotionally constipated pain in my ass."
He felt the rumble of Keith's laugh more than heard it. "Even though you're a dramatic, skincare-obsessed menace."
They lapsed back into that easy quiet, the new words settling between them, not as a weight, but as a foundation. Lance watched the simulated sunlight creep across the far wall, content in a way he hadn't been since he was a kid on the beach, with no greater worry than the tide.
Then, his brain, ever the traitor, piped up with a cheerful, terrible thought.
He lifted his head, a look of pure, comical dread dawning on his face. "Oh, no."
Keith tensed beneath him. "What?"
Lance looked down at him, eyes wide. "Do you think they're okay?"
Keith blinked. "Who?"
"Them!" Lance gestured wildly toward the door. "The peanut gallery! Our beloved, deeply unhinged family! Pidge has had hours. Hunk has probably baked a 'Sorry Your Best Friends Murdered Each Other' cake. Allura is definitely using her royal authority to justify scanning for our life signs. Shiro is... actually, Shiro might be the only sane one, but he's probably drafting a very disappointed incident report in his head."
He flopped back onto the pillow, throwing an arm over his eyes with a melodramatic groan. "They're going to dissect us. They're going to have charts. Hunk is going to try to feed us his feelings. Pidge is going to ask for details."
A slow, genuine smile spread across Keith's face. He’d missed this. The full, ridiculous, theatrical force of Lance’s anxiety. It wasn't a cold, silent fury anymore. It was loud, and alive, and theirs.
"Let them," Keith said, the smile turning into a smirk. He rolled, pinning Lance to the mattress again. "We have more important things to do."
Lance peeked out from under his arm. "More important than preventing a team-wide psychological breakdown?"
"Much more important," Keith murmured, leaning down.
And as Keith kissed him, Lance decided, with his last coherent thought, that maybe the fallout could wait a little longer after all.
***
The scene was one of sleep-deprived chaos. The STAR-CROSSED credits had looped into oblivion hours ago, replaced by a starfield screensaver. The air was thick with the scent of stale popcorn, synthetic cheese dust, and what Coran called "Altean Wake-Up Fizz," which smelled like burnt oranges and static electricity.
They had, in fact, attempted a four-hour nap on the couches. It had been a failure. Now, they were running on fumes, anxiety, and competitive spirit.
Pidge was standing on the central coffee table, a green gummy bear stuck to her temple, gesturing wildly with a datapad. "The biometric data from the hallway scanner is inconclusive! Heart rates were elevated, but that could indicate violent altercation or—"
"OR nothing!" Hunk interjected, pacing a trench in the carpet. He was clutching a stress-baked pastry that resembled a cinnamon roll crossed with a structural support beam. "Elevated heart rates plus zero contact for eight hours equals a negative outcome! My 'Lion-Ego-Apocalypse' theory stands! They finally said the unforgivable thing and now they're in separate brigs! I'm telling you, my twenty GAC is safe!"
"Your theory lacks nuance!" Shiro argued from his armchair. He looked more rumpled than anyone had ever seen him, his hair sticking up. He had a stylus in one hand and was sketching what looked like a conflict-resolution flowchart on his own thigh. "The abandonment issues were never resolved! Keith followed him to confront the issue, not resolve it! This was a final, catastrophic communication failure! My ten is secure!"
"You're both thinking too small!" Pidge yelled, shaking the datapad. "The simplest answer is that they're both emotionally stunted morons who finally had it out over something stupid! My thirty is a sure thing! The dumbassery always wins!"
Allura sat serenely on the loveseat, sipping a cup of something steaming. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. She said nothing, merely watching the chaos unfold as if it were a particularly entertaining play.
"Fine! You want to up the ante?!" Hunk shouted, slamming his pastry onto the table, sending crumbs flying. "I'll raise you another twenty GAC on ego-apocalypse!"
"I'll match that!" Shiro said, throwing his hands up. "Twenty more on abandonment!"
Pidge's eyes gleamed behind her glasses. "You're both on! I'm adding another twenty of my own! Fifty on sheer, unadulterated dumbassery!"
They were leaning into each other, faces flushed, fingers pointing, a three-way standoff of sheer, sleep-deprived madness.
It was at this exact moment that the door hissed open.
Keith and Lance walked in.
They were clean, dressed in soft, casual clothes, standing close enough that their shoulders touched with easy familiarity. They looked rested. At ease. Lance had a faint, fresh mark just above his collar that hadn't been there during the movie. Keith's usual severe expression was softened at the edges, a quiet contentment in his eyes. The contrast to the feral, ink-stained, pastry-crumbed tableau before them was staggering.
The trio didn't just freeze; they petrified. Pidge and her hair that looked like a bird's nest with wiring had an accusing finger was an inch from Hunk's nose. Hunk's mouth was open mid-roar. Shiro was caught in a pose of scholarly indignation.
The only sound was the cheerful, oblivious starfield screensaver.
Lance’s eyes did a slow, comprehensive sweep: the money, the notes, the jam, the mind-map on the table, the gummy-bear adhesive on the screen. A slow, deeply incredulous smirk spread across his face. He nudged Keith with his elbow. “Told you,” he said, his voice dripping with vindication.
Keith took in the scene—the evidence of their night-long, deranged investigation. A single, soft snort of laughter escaped him. His hand found the small of Lance’s back, a casual, grounding touch. “Doubt it,” he muttered, low enough for only Lance. “Looks like they’re trying to solve who keeps stealing Pidge’s screwdrivers. Again.”
Lance’s smirk didn’t falter. He raised his voice to a pleasant, conversational level. “Morning. You guys redecorating? Or…” his eyes flicked to the pile of GAC notes in the center of the chaos, “…having a little fiscal dispute about, oh, I don’t know… us?”
The silence was thick enough to float the anxiety croissant in.
It was a confession louder than any scream. Pidge’s datapad arm slowly lowered. Hunk’s jaw clicked shut. Shiro subtly tried to hide his inked hand behind his back.
Lance nodded once, a sharp, final motion. “Yeah,” he announced, his tone shifting to pure, unadulterated, glorious sass. He hooked a thumb casually between himself and Keith. “We fucked. Solved your case. You’re welcome.”
A beat.
The rec room exploded.
“I KNEW IT!” Allura’s voice cut through the din, triumphant and deafening. She shot to her feet, a brilliant, victorious grin splitting her face. She pointed at the other three. “PAY UP, YOU HEATHENS! I TOLD YOU IT WAS THE THING THAT SCARES WARRIORS! I TOLD YOU! ‘DUMBASSERY’? ‘EGO’? YOU ALL UNDERESTIMATED THE DRAMA!”
Hunk let out a wail that seemed to originate from his soul, crumpling to his knees. “NO! My beautiful, beautiful GAC! Lost to feelings!”
Pidge was staring, her glasses flashing. “The biometrics… the silence… it wasn’t hostility… it was… reconciliation?” She said the word like it was a newly discovered, mildly disgusting bacteria. “My algorithm is flawed! I must rebuild it to account for… make-out sessions!” She looked genuinely distraught, but also fascinated.
Shiro just sank back into his chair, a hand over his eyes. His shoulders shook. When he pulled his hand away, he was grinning, a tired, relieved, beautiful grin. “The money’s yours, Allura,” he chuckled. “Worth every cent.” He looked at Keith and Lance, his expression softening into something profoundly grateful. “You’re… good?”
Keith met his gaze and gave a single, firm nod. His hand was still on Lance’s back. “We’re good.”
“Better than,” Lance added, his own smirk softening into something genuine as he looked at Keith. Then he turned back to the wreckage of his friends. “So. Since Allura’s about to be swimming in GAC, I vote she buys the most extravagant, awkward team breakfast in galactic history. I’m talking waffles shaped like Lions. I’ve earned it.”
The chaotic energy settled into a buzzing, shell-shocked, but immensely relieved quiet. The Cold War was over. The bets were settled. And the Paladins of Voltron, surrounded by sticky notes and pastry debris, faced a new, much more interesting future: one where their leaders were finally on the same page, even if that page was currently covered in Hunk’s jam.