From the goddamn moment he was born, Lance did not know peace.
Okay, yes, he’s being a little dramatic. But in his defense, he really hasn’t ever known peace — you try living with nine older sisters on a farm. That shit is hard. Lance didn’t experience silence until he was four years old, only a delicate child, and at the time it frightened him. He’s been surrounded by noise and chaos (and more noise, somehow) since his inception, basically.
So you can understand why the castle is kind of a nightmare for him.
Growing up, whenever he was annoyed by his family (which was frequently), he would stomp off the the barn and yell about how when he was grown, he was going to move out to a private beach house and never hear another soul again. He’d bitch and moan to the cattle about how he couldn’t wait to grow up and finally sleep in a room all his own, with no annoying sisters or nosy roommates or anything, really. He’d mutter about it every time Hunk read his journal, fume about it every time his sisters banged on the bathroom door and yelled at him to hurry up. He swore up and down to everyone that would listen that when he finally found peace there would not be a goddamn thing in the world and beyond that would stop him from protecting it.
Well, then he got his peace, in the form of a castle that doubled as a graveyard. His own room, for once in his life, and not a single person to bother him unless it was life threatening, basically.
And oh, how Lance hated it.
He tossed and turned like no one’s business on the first days, but brushed it off as getting used to a new space. And as he kept tossing and turning, night after night, getting maybe three hours of scattered sleep of he was lucky, he continued to blame it on a myriad of things: fear of a freaky haunted castle, weirdly stiff Altean beds, freezing cold castle temperatures, nightmares. All true things, of course, but eventually Lance had to concede — the castle was too goddamn quiet.
Tough pill to swallow, that one.
He’d tried to handle it himself. Stole Pidge’s headphones, hummed out loud to himself; hell, he even left the bathroom sink running for some white noise. None of it worked. None of it was the same as the constant sound of someone breathing right next to you, the grumbles of their snores and strange mutterings of their sleep-talk. The very thing Lance hated with a passion turned out to be the one thing that actually helped his insomniac ass actually sleep. Mother nature, you trick-ass bitch. You have a personal problem.
Now, of course there was an easy solution to this. He shared the castle with six other people — one of them his Garrison roommate! Surely, he could bunk with someone else.
But… no one else seemed to have trouble sleeping. At least, not for the same reason as Lance. And as much as Lance liked to play the obnoxious role, as much as nothing was funnier than pushing just the right buttons to make someone else explode… he couldn’t be that much of a nuisance. It was too much.
So Lance got real used to being sleep deprived.
Of course, he wasn’t stupid about it. He never went more than three days without sleep. On particularly rough nights, he’d crash Hunk or Pidge’s rooms raving about a sleepover, or convince the rest of the team that they should have a movie night, and then just happen to fall asleep right there on the couch. By circumstance, he and Shiro ended up helping each other out pretty often, too — the black paladin was kept up by nightmares about as often as Lance was by plain old insomnia. The man was usually too proud to accept Lance’s help, but every once in a while he allowed it, and they both slept soundly, for once.
Keith, though?
His help was a surprise.
Keith, as it turns out, has as much pent-up energy as the goddamn Energizer Bunny on steroids. On days they don’t have missions that will pump them full of so much adrenaline their hearts are at risk, he trains himself to exhaustion, else he’ll be up all night.
Training with him doesn’t do anything for Lance’s insomnia. It does, however, do wonders for their relationship.
Without Lance’s permission, angry, after-hour fights evolve into playfully competitive spars. Those spars evolve into genuine lessons, both of them teaching each other things neither ever considered learning before. (Turns out Lance’s flexibility comes in handy in swordfights, and Keith’s reflexes lead to excellent pistol work. Who knew?) And then, week by week, month by month, those late nights turn into a tension so thick that neither of them can bear it.
It may have been Keith to make the first move, but Lance thinks he deserves some credit. They wouldn’t be here without his complete inability to sleep like a normal person, after all.
The great thing about dating someone, though, is that eventually, bed-sharing comes into the mix. Eventually both parties start looking for excuses to stay in each other’s space just a little bit longer.
Lord above, is it ever a relief.
No longer does Lance need to desperately look for an excuse after seventy-two straight hours of prying his eyes open. Now he justs follows Keith to his room when the night cycle starts, wrapping around him like an octopus and stealing his warmth like a leech. Keith is the worst, most annoying sleeper in the world — he snores, he tosses and turns, and regularly talks and even yells in his sleep — and Lance fucking relishes it. It is a relief of biblical proportions to finally be able to have a good night’s rest, on a regular fucking basis.
It does, though, make nights when he has to sleep in his own room that much worse.
He doesn’t even have to, technically. Like, there’s no indication that Keith ever wants him to go back. In fact, the man always pouts when Lance stops at his own door, muttering petulantly to himself as he presses a kiss to Lance’s forehead and makes his way to his own room. Honestly, Keith would probably like it if Lance moved into his room, for good.
Lance bites his lip, considering.
Still. He doesn’t want to be annoying.
But there’s no way to know unless he goes for it, right?
“Hey, babe,” Lance tries, testing the waters. They’re both in the bathroom, getting ready for bed; Keith braiding his hair as Lance applies a myriad of skin products to his face. “Do you think you could make some room in your dresser for my socks? And, like, other clothes?”
Is it a coward’s way to voice what he’s really asking? Yeah. But Lance is nervous, okay? Cut him some slack. If this backfires then he’s back to sleeping twice a fuckin’ week.
Keith stills. He abandons his hair, turning slowly to face Lance. Lance looks away, fiddling with the hem of his pajama shirt.
“Lance,” Keith says, placing both hands on his shoulders. He’s quiet until Lance finally looks up at him.
“Yeah?”
Keith’s face is mission-level serious; eyebrows drawn together over dark indigo eyes, mouth set in a firm line.
“I would reach my hands into a live fire and swallow hot coals for you if you asked me to. Do you understand that?”
There’s a beat of silence. Keith’s expression remains unmoving, dead-serious, entirely unfazed by what he just said.
Lance bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking under Keith’s heavy hands, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Keith’s collarbones.
God. This is Keith. Why was he nervous, again?
“I just need a couple drawers, doofus. No need for theatrics.”
Keith presses a kiss to his hair. “Just want to make sure we’re on the same page. Yes, by the way. I cleared out half my shit weeks ago. I’ve been waiting for you to finally move all the way in.”
Lance smiles, hidden against Keith’s shirt.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
He never has to worry about sleep again.
———
based off this video