Lance knows they’re in for it the second his brain decides to wake him up, because there’s no way he’s up on time. Simulated light shines brightly on their bed, lighting the whole room up, and Lance is groggier than he usually is. They’ve most definitely slept in.
He squeezes his eyes shut, allowing himself three seconds of peace before dragging himself upright, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the mattress, blankets still pulled up to his hips. There’s a low groan from beside him, despairing almost, and the sign of it makes Lance’s lips quirk up despite his morning grouchiness.
“Time to get up,” he says quietly, trying to blink the bleariness out from his eyes. He glances at his slippers, trying to convince himself that it’s worth getting up and facing the day. (It does not go well.)
He boyfriend grunts again, then shifts slightly, dragging his arms out from under his pillow and clamping them around Lance’s waist instead. He squeezes for a moment then relaxes, breath huffing on Lance’s bare skin. Lance places his hand on Keith’s head, brushing through the tangled mullet without looking. Keith makes several pleased noises, muffled by Lance’s hip, where he has decided to keep his face until further notice.
“We’re late for training, baby.”
Keith hums, tightening his hold. “Mhm. Tragic.”
Lance huffs, grin getting a little wider. He tries to look back at his slippers, really convince himself — they are the leaders of Voltron, after all, what kind of example does it set for the rest of the Atlas crew if they don’t bother waking up in the mornings — but he can’t pull his gaze away from Keith.
He doesn’t get the chance, often, to stop and stare. Keith gets self conscious, rarely allowing it, and they’re so busy besides. To have the chance now is a treat. A luxury. A gift, really.
And who is Lance to turn away a gift?
He settles back into the pillows with a sigh, upright enough that he won’t fall back asleep, but reclined enough that it’s clear he’s not getting up, either. The position isn’t lost on Keith, who smiles widely enough that Lance feels it, the slightest press of crooked incisors on the soft skin of his hip.
“Don’t get used to this,” Lance warns. “It’s not happening again.”
Keith kisses him slightly, not moving. “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”
Lance tugs on his hair, rolling his eyes. Keith’s shakes slightly as he laughs, completely unintimidated, then settles back in to the bed. His breathing evens, and he’s out within seconds.
“I hate how you can do that,” Lance mutters. “Goober.”
He sits for a while, contemplative, as Keith’s snores full the room again. He traces the shape of Keith’s bare shoulders, the curve of his rins and waist, the jut of his hipbone, the bend of his knee. With his eyes, first, then with light, careful fingers; running along the heat of his boyfriend’s skin, over the sheer just barely covering his backside, as far as he can reach. Not to start something, for once, although he wouldn’t be opposed to it, but to feel his chest expand with every breath, the coarseness of short black hairs covering his skin, the bumps and stutters of scars crisscrossing everywhere he can look. The ridges of a map he’s studied thousands of times before, worshipped, noted and re-noted again and again and again, committed to memory.
“You are the most beautiful thing in this goddamn universe.” It’s a breathless kind of awe, the way he says it, like he’s just discovered it. He hasn’t — he’s known Keith was beautiful for as long as he’s known Keith — but he’s reminded every day, every morning they wake up together, every time they train and Keith’s grace and power is entrancing. He never forgets, but every time he looks at him he’s reminded.
His eyes start to grow heavy. He’s not tired — not really — and he’s only just woken up from hours of sleep, but Keith is so warm. He slides down the headboard of their bed, adjusting himself in Keith’s arms, resting his head on his chest and sliding his hands up his back until they’re resting almost on his shoulders, hooked under his underarms, gripping him like a buoy in deep water. He presses his ear right above his heart, closing his eyes as the steady beat pounds, and matches his breathing to his boyfriend’s snores.
Training can wait.
———
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