There is only one bed. It’s a rather large bed at least, in Lance’s opinion, with thick blankets and an assortment of both sleeping pillows and the decorative kind. The Olnari set them up with their best guest suites after Voltron liberated their continent of the Galra. Unfortunately those best suites only numbered six, which meant two would have to share a room, which somehow lead to that pair being him and Keith.
Like he said, a nice place but the problem is still the lone bed.
Neither of them make any attempt to step further into the room than past the door that had closed silently behind them. Keith turns to Lance with a grimace. It’s a mirror to Lance’s own expression.
“You don’t snore, do you?”
Lance scoffs. “You know I don’t, asshole. Do you hog the blankets?”
Lance prays his brown skin conceals the heat staining his cheeks. How the hell is he supposed to respond to that? ‘I sleep hot.’ Lance bets he does; he’s hot all the time; sleeping wouldn’t make him uglier. He’s fully aware of what Keith meant, but better word choice next time, please. He’s begging.
So yeah, the other problem? Lance's big, giant-ass crush on his fellow paladin who is currently breaking the barrier they set between themselves and the room by toeing off his boots and jumping onto the bed. He bounces slightly and seems enamored by that. A smile pokes out on his face that is somehow directed right at Lance, if unknowingly.
Jesus Christ, that’s cute. How the hell is he going to survive one night?
“Really?” Lance says instead as he crosses his arms and drags himself closer. “You’re sleeping in your day clothes? Didn’t anybody tell you that’s gross?”
Keith glares but that stupid, cute smile hasn’t fully vanished, almost like he wants to laugh at Lance or maybe this entire situation. “You’d prefer me sleeping naked? Because that’s the only other option. They didn’t lend us pajamas.”
Lance splutters. “First” —he holds up one finger, the middle one— “I didn’t say strip naked. Boxers are perfectly acceptable sleepwear, jerk. And two, I prefer you not sleeping here at all.”
Keith pats the open space next to him. “Come here, scaredy cat. I don’t bite.”
Lance grumbles something unflattering under his breath but heeds the command, though not before stripping off his clothes—except his boxers—like a normal person.
Unfortunately, the bed is not as spacious as previously thought. Somehow, now matter how Lance shifts himself, one of his limbs knocks into Keith. They’re practically on top of each other; it’s ridiculous. Keith grunts at the seventh time Lance flips his position to try to get comfortable and grabs onto Lance's stiff arms, dragging him forward until he’s spooning Keith.
“This is better, right?” Keith says before Lance can stammer his way to infinity.
It is better. Because Keith does sleep hot—a goddam furnace—and Lance’s cold feet have somewhere to go—between Keith’s calves—and he hasn’t made a single complaint about it. Lance grumbles as he buries his nose into Keith’s stupid mullet that somehow smells like flowers thanks to Altean shampoo.
“Good night, Lance,” Keith mumbles with a laugh, his voice trailing off as if this new position is already lulling him to sleep.
Lance breathes out through his nose and tries to calm his racing heart. “Good night.”
If he wakes in the morning and accidentally kisses Keith because his brain is still half asleep and his desires gain control, and if Keith kisses him back, equal parts pleased and surprised, that is a future-them problem.
For now, Lance falls into a blissful sleep, hoping they won’t have to mention this ever again.