Keith doesn’t place his helmet on the ground as much as he slams it. It bounces and rolls away out of sight, but his mind is elsewhere. He doesn’t even bother to wait for the ramp to descend; he jumps out of Red’s mouth the second she lands. Tremors wrack his joints but he doesn’t care. There’s something more important to focus on. Someone more important.
“Lance!”
Keith skids to a halt in front of Blue and bangs his fists on her hatch. “Let me in! Lance, let me—”
There’s muffled coughing from inside the lion. It’s minute, but it’s there. It makes Keith’s heart skip. He’s alive. He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive.
“Lance?” He croaks.
He can’t tell what picture will be painted once he breaches the cockpit. Whether it’ll be covered in shades of red or blue. Whether Lance will greet him with a weak wave and a tired hug, or he’ll be on the floor, limbs twisted in odd angles. The hit he took during the battle looked heavy, but there wasn’t much Keith could see past the blinding explosion. There was no telling how the impact rattled Lance. In that moment, when orange and white seared the inside of his eyelids and his heart plummeted to his stomach, Keith had been so sure Blue had been burst into pieces.
But now he stands outside the intact lion with its pilot still inside, still alive, but who knows for how lo—
“Lance, baby,” Keith croaks with his head against the metal door. It’s still battle-warm. “Won’t you let me in?”
There’s a slight whirring noise before the door slides open. Keith all but collapses inside. He searches wildly, eyes roving everywhere, looking for a body, a suit, tan skin, anything—
Lance is slumped over in the pilot’s chair. “Yahoo,” he mumbles, “Right here.”
“Lance,” Keith inhales a bated breath and rushes over to assess him.
He receives a half-hearted peace sign for his troubles. Lance’s fingers tremble. “Hey, good looking. You come here often?”
Still joking. That’s good. Keith pats his body down to assess for injuries. He meticulously starts removing armor when the bulky plating gets in the way.
“Woah, woah! At least three dates before the clothes come off, man. I’ll have you know that I’m a decent guy.”
“We’re literally dating, Lance.”
“Oh.” He dishes him a lopsided grin. “Well, in that case, proposition away.”
Keith ignores him. He’s concussed, that’s for sure. Who knows what other injuries are hiding? He wishes he had more light, but any more brightness would surely stab at Lance’s eyes. He continues to peel off pieces of armor and feel his limbs up and down. Keith only stops when he hears Lance wince.
He holds his forearm precariously. “Here? It hurts here?”
Lance nods. “Yeah it—I was holding the throttle lever when it, you know—fuck.” He grits his teeth and clenches his eyes shut.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t—I didn’t notice—I’m,” Lance takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“You’re not difficult,” Keith rushes out quicker than he breathes, “Don’t be sorry. Ever.”
Lance lets out a watery laugh. “Ever?”
Keith nods solemnly.
“What if I do something evil? Like uh, get rid of all food that’s not goo? Or chuck your jacket out the airlock?”
“I might cry.”
“Fuck,” Lance hisses, “That’s worse. So much worse. Don’t uh—Keith, don’t do that.”
“Don’t cry?” Keith finds a gauze to wrap his bleeding arm in. Lance winces when he tightens it around the wound.
“Ah—yeah. You can’t cry. It’s illegal in ten states. And all of space.”
It takes all of Keith’s willpower not to burst into tears in that moment. He swears he’s not trying to be spiteful or petty, but the tightness in his throat suddenly has him in a chokehold. Everything catches up to him once he’s got Lance safe and secured in front of him. He’s here. Lance is here. He’s alive and he’s not hurt—not too badly—not skewered or impaled or crushed by anything, not unconscious or unresponsive. God, it could’ve been worse. So, so much worse. He could’ve, Lance might’ve—
“What?” Lance cries. “Did you have the waterworks ready on cue? What in the grammy-nominated actor is this? Are you—what are you—” He splutters. Despite all of it, Lance reaches forward with his uninjured arm to whisk the stray tears off his face.
“Guess I’m—” Keith hiccups. “Guess I’m an outlaw.”
With slow, stiff motions, Lance detaches himself from the seat and leans downwards to where Keith is kneeled. He winds his arms around Keith’s neck and fists his fingers into his hair.
“What are you doing? Your injury, it’s—”
“I’m obviously arresting you, genius. Hands behind my back.”
Keith sniffles but he still complies. “I thought it’s hands behind my back.”
“Nuh uh.” Lance shakes his head. “My lion, I make the rules.”
They stay like that, in their awkward embrace, until well after it becomes uncomfortable and Keith’s limbs get sore. They’re still drenched in their battle sweat and it’s a little gross, but he doesn’t want to let go. Lance’s heart beats against his, and what’s most important is that it beats. Keith feels it, feels the rise and fall of his chest, the little breaths against his neck, and the hair tickling his shoulder. He lets himself soak in it and he remains ever so grateful that it, this, can exist for even one more day.
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