Archive of Our Own

Keith leans over the wooden chest, his foot elevated against the wood frame as he grips the laces of his boot. Beside him, he hears shuffling sounds. Back and forth, a pacing that threatens to drive him mad. He tightens the spun thread around his boots and straightens stiffly. Ordinarily, servants would have attended to his dressing. At least, that’s the expected standard ever since returning from the battlefield many months back. Ordinarily, Keith would grumble and groan and protest the help, but with the castle on lockdown, the creature-comforts of attending to himself returned tenfold. Keith stands to his full height and lets his gaze drift to the shuffling, scuffing sound nearby.

Lance paces in a silk robe, the fabric fluttering around his legs as he moves in panicked, distracted steps. 

“You’re going to create a trench if you keep that up,” Keith comments mildly with a lifted brow. However, Lance doesn’t stop his erratic steps, Keith watches as Lance drags a hand through his hair, catching tangled snags in the process. Keith sighs and takes a few long strides toward Lance and grabs him by the waist. 

“Lance,” he attempts to break through Lance’s frenzied panic. Lance’s eyes remain wide and tearful. 

“Shh,” Keith soothes, lifting his hand to Lance’s flushed cheek, “it’ll be okay.” He assures, rubbing his calloused thumb against Lance’s face. Lance presses his lips together and emits a soft sound as he leans into Keith’s touch. 

“You don’t know that,” Lance breathes no louder than a whisper. As Keith rubs Lance’s side, he can feel him shaking. 

“Doubting my skills? I thought you found me magnificent,” Keith teases and leans close enough to press their foreheads together. Lance lets their heads rest there long enough before he closes his eyes and pulls away. 

“You don’t understand,” Lance shakes his head, “you don’t know what-” he swallows and squeezes his eyes shut. 

A puff of hot air exhales from Keith’s nose as he reaches out and tugs Lance’s lithe frame back, forcing Lance to turn, even if his eyes remain steadfastly closed. 

Three days have passed since Shiro interrupted their sleep and informed them of Lotor’s imminent arrival. Since delivering the news, Lance slowly loses his grasp on calm, composure. Instead, the young noble paces and whispers to himself and shakes like a leaf. Since then, Lance remains tight-lipped and wild eyed and barely sleeping. Keith can’t coax the truth from Lance, apart from recognizing the fear that thrums under his skin. Lance deflects and remains mum. Not even Keith pushing, threatening, and demanding more information from that guard, James, gets him any closer to the truth. 

Keith doesn’t quite understand the root of Lance’s fear. Certainly, Keith had faced against the Galran ever since he was old enough to lift a blade, Keith knows the threat they hold. And yet, Lance’s palpable fear feels different. It feels shrouded in a mystery that Keith wishes to unveil. 

Lance tries again to pull away, his breath shallow as he looks out of the window and chews at his lower lip. 

“Lance,” Keith repeats, fighting to keep his attention as Lance’s eyes dart anywhere and everywhere but him. “Lance, is there something you aren’t telling me,” by the sharp inhale, Keith knows he’s hit the nail on the head. Lance almost collapses into Keith’s arms, and again, Keith feels the shaking, nervous energy coming off Lance in waves. Keith carefully tucks his arms under Lance’s legs, cradling him to his chest and taking a few steps to their shared bed. Not fully theirs, in the legal sense, but in almost all other ways their resting place.

“Lance,” Keith carefully sets Lance down onto the bed, watching as the other curls up, his arms tucked tightly around his waist. “Talk to me,” he stands over Lance, a shadow over the hunched form of his lover. But even as he hovers, he realizes that Lance doesn’t need him lording over him. Lance, from all that he’s learned of the young man, uses the skills asked of him to meet the expectations of others. To ensure their happiness and good will. To make others appeased and pleased. 

But Keith doesn’t want to be like the others. He never wanted any of this in the first place, but, admittedly, he’s glad he’s got it.

Slowly, he shifts to the side of the bed, not quite willing to undo the laces of his boots. He settles on the edge of the bed, resting his palm on Lance’s hip, he feels Lance’s body relaxing. 

Lance whispers something that Keith can’t quite catch, a mumble against his palm as he ducks his head. Keith wants to fill the space and ask for more, but instead, he quietly slips his hand down Lance’s side and entwines his fingers with the noble’s skinny digits. 

Silence hangs heavy, it practically consumes the space. 

And then Lance fills the quiet, “He never stopped writing me.” Keith listens to Lance’s shallow breath, “he said,” a whistle of breath, “he said he’d respect my choice, that I-” once more Lance’s voice fades out and all Keith hears blends with the soft sounds of distress coming from Lance’s throat. 

“He never stopped.” 

Keith frowns, his back straightening as his hand tightens around Lance’s trembling fingers. 

“Show me the letters.” Keith orders, he recalls briefly Lance reading words over by the fountain, it feels like ages ago. It had been. It was before Keith recognized his feelings for the curly-haired noble, it was before he felt Lance tremble for reasons outside of fear. It was before all the desire bubbled up into kisses and touches of longing and need. 

Lance’s body flinches as he curls up tighter, trying to hide away. From the world. From this threat. From Keith. 

“Lance,” Keith’s voice sharpens, “show me the letters, help me understand.” 

Lance tenses again, under Keith’s scrutiny, but then slowly unfurls. He presses his palms against the bed, taking in a shaky breath before slipping his hand free from Keith and sliding off the bed. He looks around for a moment, lifting a hand and absently twisting his finger in one of his curls. Keith doesn’t think Lance realizes this act of nervousness as he pensively thinks. While Keith knows he has much to learn about his consort-to-be, little moments like this aid in painting the picture of the Altean noble. 

“It’s in the other room,” Lance concludes, “my old chambers, I… I haven’t moved all my things.” Lance scrunches up his face and exhales a tired sigh. “I… don’t even know why I kept all of them,” he releases a puff of breath, “or why I brought them here.” He brushes a hand against his face. Perhaps that lack of sleep catches up with him. “Silly to need proof when it proves nothing.” Keith stands and slips an arm around Lance’s waist, squeezing gently.

“I’ll be the judge of that. Lead the way,” he prompts, nodding toward the entryway. 

Lance glances down at the silken robe covering his body and frowns, “let me just get on something more presentable,” he reasons. 

Keith lifts a brow, a skeptical expression covering his face - maybe it’s a gut instinct but Keith feels like Lance is purposely stalling. Keith narrows his eyes and pulls his hand from Lance’s waist only to gather Lance around the waist and lift him like he is no more than a feather. Which, in all honesty, Lance sort of is, he weighs practically nothing even as he lets out a surprised squeak and squirms in Keith’s grip. Keith tucks his arm around Lance’s legs as the other’s frame tucks against his shoulder. It is perhaps not the most romantic of holds that Keith offers Lance but, it will do when Lance insists on deflecting. 

“Keith! What are you doing?” He reaches around to make sure all of himself is covered, however, Keith secures the robe neatly around his arm as he carefully adjusts Lance’s bent form over his shoulder. 

“Not letting you stall,” he reports and proceeds to carry Lance away from the comforts of their bed and toward the doorway. 

“Keith,” Lance gasps and bemoans, “I’m barely dressed,” Keith can’t see Lance’s face but he knows the strain in Lance’s voice and the predictable flush on his russet cheeks. 

“Lance,” Keith mimics the pitch of Lance’s voice, “the only one who cares is you. Drop the act, you don’t have to be so worried about all that.” 

Against his back, he feels Lance’s hand curl in a fist and hit firmly against Keith’s back. “Then let me down.” 

“You gonna actually show me these letters or stall?” Keith responds, not reacting to Lance’s well-placed hit. Lance huffs from his position and unfurls his hand from a fist to press against Keith’s back. 

“Please, just put me down,” he exhales tiredly, and, hesitating only a moment, Keith lowers Lance back to the ground. He lets out a surprised breath as Lance slips his arms around Keith and buries his face in Keith’s shoulder. Keith nervously lifts a hand. The sensation of trepidation fills him, not sure where to place his arms. Eventually he folds his arms around Lance and tugs him into a tight embrace. 

“Lance, no matter what the letters say, we’ve managed to keep Lotor and Galran forces away from our borders for years.” He rubs his palm against Lance’s back, “there’s nothing to worry about, I will keep you safe.” Keith feels Lance stiffen before relaxing in his arms with a heavy exhale. 

“C’mon, let’s let you get dressed,” he offers, going back on his words but as their eyes meet and Keith sees the glitter of appreciation in his eyes, Keith knows it was the right call. 

Lance pulls away, scurrying into the closet that is slowly filling up with Lance’s share of things. Keith busies himself with sharpening his knife, the sharp shing sound resounding as he focuses on his work. It is accompanied by the flutter of fabric and Lance’s soft, introspective hums. 

Lance slips from behind the dressing panel, Keith letting his eyes drift to the other man. While not all of Lance’s belongings have yet to make it to the comforts of Keith’s closet, Lance wears a light blue shirt, slightly tucked into his dark pants, the shirt billows as he moves, Lance shifts to admire himself in the nearby mirror before turning to face Keith. 

Cautiously, Lance extends a hand for Keith to take. Keith, shaking the reveries of admiring his lover, pockets his blade and takes Lance’s hand. They walk, hand in hand, passing through the doors. Keith glances behind him and sees the rigid expression of James’ face as he bows in their direction, following a few steps behind the royal and his betrothed. Lance twists his head a little and exhales a relieved sigh in seeing James trail behind them. 

Keith’s hand tightens around Lance, almost vice-like as Lance winces and turns his eyes toward Keith. Lance’s connection with James never abates, even as Lance falls easily and eagerly into Keith’s embrace. Lance continues to share inside jokes and a smile that is just for the guard. To say Keith’s jealousy lingers would perhaps undersell the flurry of emotions that thunders inside of his chest. Least of all, witnessing Lance visibly relax upon seeing James struck a sore spot in Keith. He’d been the one in the heat of battle, not James. Keith is clearly the better candidate to protect Lance. Keith slips his hand from Lance’s hand and wraps his arm tightly around Lance’s waist. If Lance notes the slight flush and deep frown on Keith’s face, he does not comment on it. 

Behind him, he hears the slightest exhaled laugh from the guard.

Fucking bastard.

Keith ignores James’ irritating presence and focuses on walking with Lance to his chambers. As they walk, Keith notes Lance flicking his gaze around as they pass corridors. Lance stiffens as they round a corner and a pair of staff come into view. Keith can’t help but recognize how polar Lance’s behavior had become in the past few days since the news dropped. Keith, while never having met the infamous Prince Lotor of Galra, knows not to ignore the threat he holds. After all, Lotor saw no issue with continuing his father’s fight to conquer Marmora. 

And still, Lotor is no more than a figment, a story told to him from those who had the pleasure, or perhaps, displeasure to meet him. To Lance, however, he is an all too real demon that plagues him with palpable anxiety and strips Lance of all the attributes Keith recognizes in the young man. The deep frowns replace clever smiles, tension thrumming in Lance’s body overwrites his pirouettic dancing. Whispered words and unsteady breaths instead of silver tongued quips and a puffed up chest. Lance becomes a shell of himself in a matter of moments - and Keith can’t quite understand why.

Soon, after a few more turned corners, they arrive at Lance’s chambers. The doors open with a creaking sound and Lance slips inside, quickly followed by Keith. Behind them, James hovers by the door, a secure figure in the entryway.

Keith leans against the frame of the bed as Lance fiddles with the cords of his window curtains and tugs firmly, bringing forth light to the darkened room. As light filters in, Keith’s gaze flicks around the room, taking in Lance’s unpacked luggage resting beside the bed. He looks questioningly at Lance, the noble glancing his way before casting his gaze away with a tight expression.

“It’s taken a while to actually believe you wouldn’t send me away,” Lance answers the unspoken question, flicking his eyes back at Keith before glancing away. Keith pushes away from the bedpost and covers the steps to Lance, slipping his arms around the other man’s slight waist.

“That’s not happening, not anymore,” he affirms and slowly, like inching molasses, Lance exhales a heavy sigh and returns his gaze to Keith. Lance nods, managing a cautious smile before glancing at the wooden bureau by his bed. 

Keith follows Lance’s gaze and pulls away, walking toward the bureau as Lance stands in the middle of the room. Keith hears Lance’s shaky breaths and, when he glances behind him, Keith sees Lance standing rigid as a pole, staring at Keith with a tremble in his breath. 

Keith turns to face the bureau once more, and with minimal searching tugs open a drawer, seeing a stack of parchment and folded papers tied up with a coarse thin rope. The sharpness of the breath behind him provides all that Keith needs to know regarding his find. Keith tugs out the parchment and straightens, turning to face Lance. The young man’s eyes are closed, his fingers trembling by his sides. 

Keith returns to Lance’s side, the parchment tucked against his arm as he places his other hand on Lance’s shoulder. “Do you want me to read them here… or our room?” He pauses, wetting his lips, “or, I could come get you when I-”

Lance’s body looks as tense as ever, but slowly, Lance opens his oceanic eyes and looks directly at Keith. “It’s fine, lets, uh, we can read them together, here.” He motions to the end of the bed. Lance glances at James, standing in the doorway, “James, could you…?”

James nods and, without another word, closes the door softly - providing privacy for the prince and his noble.

Lance walks featherlight to the edge of the bed, releasing a heavy breath as he looks up expectantly at Keith. The prince settles beside Lance, tugging free the binding around the papers. “How long has he been writing you?” Keith asks as he notes the wear and tear of the paper on top. 

“Since the summer I came of age,” Lance slowly meets Keith’s gaze and then glances out of the window. “And it was all perfect.” He exhaled a breath of laughter, “The perfect words, the perfect poise, the perfect… all of it.” Lance places his hands behind him, shifting his gaze from the window to staring up at the bed canopy. “All of it making me feel like a fool for not,” he swallows, “for not saying yes.” 

Lance’s chest rises and falls, an internal struggle as he forces more words from his lips. “It was all perfect. But it felt so absolute.” Lance’s fingers curl against the bedding, “like it was a foregone conclusion, like, if I had a choice, it wasn’t one I was actually deciding.” 

Keith doesn’t interrupt as more words slip from Lance’s lips, more than he’s ever confessed, he leans on his skill-set for silence. As Lance talks, he leans his shoulder against Keith, carefully resting his head against Keith’s shoulder.

“Whenever I think to mention it to anyone,” Lance whispers, “I think… I know they’ll think I’m crazy. Because it’s been perfect, he’s never done anything wrong - I just.” Keith watches Lance fiddle with his fingers, a nervous dance of digits. “I just never felt right about it. It always felt like an absolute, and I-” Lance wets his lips and lets in a shaky inhale. “I think he tried to sabotage my other options. I can’t… I can’t prove it, but I think he… he wanted me to feel like I had a say. Really, he would just force my hand.” 

Lance falls quiet, and Keith jolts when a wet droplet falls onto the top of his hand. Keith glances down at Lance and shifts his hand to lace with Lance’s, “I believe you, Lance,” Keith hears Lance inhale sharply and turn his face against Keith’s shoulder, dampness soaking the linen of his shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” Keith whispers, “I’m sorry that you had,” he pauses, a weight to his words, “to pick me to get away from him.” 

At this, Lance pulls back, his face slightly puffy and his eyes brimming with tears, “I’m not.”

Lance’s voice retains some strength and power once more, “I’m glad I got to pick something for myself for the first time in my life.” Wordlessly, Lance takes the unread letters from Keith’s hands and puts them to the side, taking both of Keith’s hands in his own. 

“I don’t regret this for a moment.” 

Lance’s eyes shine, still from the waves of upsetness that strike him, but Keith notes a lightness in Lance’s expression as his lips curve into a gentle smile. 

Keith feels a new kind of silence overcome him, one where speechlessness hangs heavy on his tongue. Lance’s sincere words beat rapidly against Keith’s unsteady heart. Keith slowly tests the words on his lips before he slips a hand from Lance’s grip and brushes a stray tear from Lance’s cheek. 

“We don’t have to read them,” Keith nods to the letters, “your words are enough.” Keith hopes this assurance is what Lance needs to feel settled here, safely in Keith’s arms and his nation’s security. 

Lance’s willowy breath fills the room, and then, slowly, he shakes his head. “No, it’s important that you read it.” He lowers his eyes, “James knows what to expect and you-”

“James? James read this before me?” The words rush out of Keith before he can stop it. Lance jerks up his head, his brows knitting together. 

“Yes… James is my friend…” Lance remarks, his lips downturn, then he reaches up a hand and flicks Keith’s frowning forehead. “Remember, you gave me the cold shoulder before, I couldn’t just do nothing.” 

Keith releases a puff of breath, his eyes flashing as he weaves his arms around Lance and tugs him into a possessive embrace. Lance’s furrowed brow loosens as he lets out a laugh at Keith’s antics, “So now you want me,” he teases, a slight hiccup erupting from his chest as he presses his lips to Keith’s cheek. 

“I was a fool for not recognizing it sooner,” Keith mumbles against Lance. Lance releases a relaxed sigh, sinking into Keith’s arms as, carefully, Keith tugs out the first of many letters from the pile. 

Securely resting in each other’s arms, Keith fills in blanks he had never known existed. Lance settles deeper into the security that Keith promises him. Keith reads through and pulls free the next of many letters from the man who haunts Keith’s consort-to-be. 

Creating a mosaic of understanding with every looping letter. 

✽

Keith spends most of the night reading over the letters Lance provides from his exchanges with Lotor. Keith learns that the correspondence is far more one-sided as Lance informs Keith that he only manages to write a few letters during the whole exchange. Keith gathers the letters, reading only a few in Lance’s old chambers before he takes Lance by the hand and walks them both, with James steps behind, back to his rooms. 

Then, with gentle words that feel foreign on Keith’s tongue, he exhales, “Get some rest, Lance.” He lifts a hand, brushing Lance’s bangs from his face, “I’ve got, uh, some reading to do.” 

Lance cautiously peels away from Keith and slips back into simpler dressing, pushing back the sheets as Keith continues to pour over Lotor’s cursive script. He tucks his fingers into the sheets as he stares at Keith. The prince sets the letters down on the side table, tucking out of his boots and donning a simple shirt. He moves around the room, stoking the fire to life, closing the blinds, all the while Lance’s eyes watch him with a pensive expression. 

With a soft sigh, Keith turns and walks toward the bed. Lance still sits up on the large mattress, his fingers twisting around the bedding. With a grunt, Keith rests his hand on Lance’s shoulder, looking pointedly at him. Lance purses his lips and huffs. 

The exchange is wordless, yet the communication is understood unquestioningly between them. 

Lance flops on the bed and curls up as he mumbles under his breath. Keith slips into bed, gathering the papers, glancing down at Lance only once before letting the lantern light illuminate the cursive script before him.

While Lance is still awake, Keith asks Lance if he knows what this or that word means, the letters almost impossible to translate in Keith’s mind. 

Soon, Lance’s eyes drift shut as he tucks himself close to Keith’s protective form, seeking the warmth and safety that Keith offers. Keith absently brushes his fingers through Lance’s thick curls. The candlelight and roaring fireplace provide an ambiance of light and the crackle of embers that consume the room. Keith tears his gaze from the page, this one detailing the time in which Lance’s parents passed, the words sounding contrite and soothing. Through the numerous letters Keith has read through, he can understand Lance’s sentiments. There is nothing inherently wrong with Lotor’s attentive and flowery script, all the words perfectly poised and far better than Keith could ever imagine to espouse. 

It is perfect. Too perfect.

The kind of perfect that has even Keith questioning Lance’s fear, the kind where the slightest moment of doubt creeps into his head as he glances from Lance to the words on the page. Lance’s fear could possibly be exaggerated when Lotor’s words seem tame, polite, and considerate. Keith has never met the man, despite being embroiled in an unending fight with Lotor or, namely, Lotor’s father - their paths never crossed. Lance knows far more than Keith could ever learn from written words and absent experiences. 

It isn’t until late into the night that it clicks for Keith. Lance twists in the bed, splaying out, soft exhaled breaths in sync with the crispy crackle of the fire. Keith glances down at Lance, a curl brushing against the side of Lance’s face. Keith’s eyes focus on the gentle rise and fall of Lance’s chest, the soft puffs of exhales that leave his lips, and the way his eyelashes flutter in sleep. 

Lotor’s emphatic statements of Lance’s beauty encompasses all that Keith witnesses and more. Lance possesses beauty and poise, and when he laughs, Keith feels lighter than air. Keith doesn’t blame Lotor for his statements, even if they do little to ease Lance, but as he rereads the words on the page - it all comes together as one. 

Keith is no stranger to lack of choice. He never chooses to be born into this royal responsibility, leading the people of Marmora to a brighter future. He never feels as though he has all the skills to do those looking to him justice. And as he glances down at Lance, he is once more reminded that choice, or the lack thereof, is a kinship they share. Keith’s obligation to a crown he’d been born into. Lance’s obligation in the role that is expected of him. Somehow, amongst all the weighty responsibilities neither of them asks for, they find a way to choose each other. 

Or at least Lance has. A desperate alternative, by Lance’s account. 

Keith, well, he just went with it, in the end. 

Keith’s eyes gloss over the slanted words on the page, and he exhales slowly. For all the ways that Lance apparently got choice in his betrothed - the prose shifts from possibility to absolutes. From ifs to whens. From promises to proposals. Keith reads the next letter, and again, it no longer exudes warmth and hypotheticals, rather firm language veering toward commands. 

Keith’s eyes flick to Lance once more, in slumber, Lance scrunches up his nose and exhales an uncomfortable sigh before pressing closer to Keith. 

Keith sets the letter down on his lap, rubbing his eye as he stifles a yawn. He sets the letters to the side, the candle creating dancing shadows across the parchment. Keith brushes his hand against Lance’s resting palm, Lance unconsciously curling his fingers against Keith’s hand. Tiredly, Keith lowers himself and turns on his side, staring at Lance’s sleeping form. 

Lance must notice himself being watched as his eyes flutter open with a soft sniff, and his crystal blue eyes look at Keith with a furrowed brow. Lance bites at his lower lip as their eyes meet. 

Keith shifts his hand to gently brace against the side of Lance’s face, cradling it and brushing against his cheekbone. “I didn’t need the letters to believe you,” he assures, Lance closing his eyes and pressing his lips together with an uncomfortable expression, “but I understand,” Keith lifts a hand, brushing Lance’s bangs to the side. 

“I felt like I was going crazy,” Lance whispers, his eyes opening as he stares shakily at his unsteady hands. “Why wouldn’t I want,” he audibly swallows, “want what he has to offer, but then the other suitors, and all that lead up to… and it still was so perfect, and after…” Lance starts to ramble, Keith hearing his ragged breathing. Keith rests his hand against Lance’s back and gently guides him into his arms, Lance shaking against him. 

“Shh, Lance, c’mon, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself.” Keith assures and physically feels Lance relaxing in his arms. 

They must hold each other in restful quiet for some time, Keith listening to Lance’s steady breathing. With a blink, the sun peeks through the curtains, and the day’s expectations begin. 

✽

Despite his fervent pleas for solitude, especially in the midst of the necessary preparations, the break of dawn brings with it insistent knocks at his door. Keith’s advisors, in their unyielding commitment to his impending union with Lance, urge him to continue with the arrangements. Keith’s disdain for the formalities intensifies, exacerbated by the looming threat from their enemies and Lance’s delicate, fragile state. 

“This can wait,” Keith argues, standing with his arms crossed and glaring at the advisor. Keith knows Shiro likely told him the advisor’s name, and the rest of them milling behind the bespectacled man. But if Keith is honest with himself, he never cares enough to learn. It never matters in the scheme of his life and his obligations. 

“Sire, the more we delay, regardless of an attack, the more likely an incursion without your union will bring strife to both kingdoms. It is better that we move forward as though nothi-”

“Nothing is wrong?” Keith barks out, rolling his eyes, “Is that really the best strategy, or should we take the fight to him?” Keith curls his hands into fists and scowls deeply. If not for Lance’s gentle hand on his shoulder, turning all their attention to him, Keith thinks he may have taken his frustrations out on the unexpecting advisor.

“Keith,” Lance begins, his head slightly bowed, “I believe we can find a way to balance both.” Lance's voice is a steady anchor, his eyes meeting Keith’s with unwavering determination before shifting his focus to the cluster of advisors. 

“General Shirogane is well equipped to begin any preparation needed to face the Daibazaalian Prince.” Keith notices Lance avoids saying Lotor’s name, their eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before Lance looks away, “but in the meantime, there’s no harm in practicing a little, right?” Keith looks at Lance’s soft expression, noticing the way, in the dapple of morning light, Lance’s freckles paint a constellation across his face. Lance’s smile sends Keith’s heart in a spiral before he takes a steadying breath. 

“Fine.” 

Keith follows it with a grunt that spreads a smile across Lance’s face.

So Keith finds himself in scratchy, fitted clothes standing near a ceremonial arch. The same bespectacled advisor is talking at him, giving him the instructions for the upcoming ceremony. Some sort of joining of cultures and peoples, Keith can’t be bothered to listen as Lance emerges from the hallway, James escorting him as he steps lightly into the echoing large room. 

Lance’s soft expression emulates delight as their gazes meet, his eyes dancing as he steps featherlight toward Keith. Lance offers a wink just for him and quickly follows with an impish bow, lifting his gaze when Keith unconsciously takes Lance’s hands in his own, cradling them against his chest. 

The advisor speaks again, words that float and flitter around Keith, but his gaze can’t break from Lance. 

The other man looks at him with a knowing expression, and as the advisor sucks in an audible breath, Lance leans forward and whispers, “You’re staring,” Lance’s lips feel soft against Keith’s ear. 

As Keith rests his hands on Lance’s hips, the diatribe flowing from the advisor’s lips easily swims around them, and Keith’s eyes flash with easy interest. 

“How can I not?” His lips twist into a wolfish grin, and Lance huffs out a laugh. 

The advisor clears his throat, “Gentleman, save this for your first evening together.” 

Lance lifts a hand and covers his mouth as he laughs, “Too late for that,” Lance tilts his hip against Keith’s hand and returns his heated expression. 

“Excuse me, what does that-” 

Lance, this time, ignores the advisor’s protestation and presses his lips against Keith’s, the idea of practice for ceremonial responsibilities briefly forgotten as they sink easily into each other’s arms.

The hours of grueling formality pass them by. With every lecture, Lance flashes a smile at Keith, and for every snappish order, Keith slips his arms tighter around Lance’s waist. 

They stand face to face as the stern-faced advisor clears his throat, “Now, let us move on to practicing your first dance.” He commands, and Keith’s brows furrow. No one had said there was going to be dancing. His furrowed brow turns into downturned lips, and he frowns as he glances at Lance. Comparatively, Lance’s expression appears calm and considerate. Keith watches Lance smooth out his shirt and step from foot to foot as if testing out a future pirouette. 

The advisor clears his throat, Keith flicking his eyes up and over to the man. “Your Highness,” he urges, with a wave of his hand to motion Keith to make the first move. 

Keith, instead, fidgets just as a melodic melody springs from off to the side as a trio of musicians strum out a tune. Pensively, Keith glances over to Lance, the noble’s expression fills with fondness as he extends his hand out to Keith. 

Cautiously, Keith lifts his hand and takes a startled breath as Lance glides his hands to a specific position. Keith feels the warmth emanating from Lance’s body from his palms all the way to their bodies as they gently brush against each other. Lance carefully guides them toward the center of the room, their steps echoing as he leads. Keith stumbles more than a few times, his cheeks warming with every faltered step. 

In moments like these, he feels less like a prince and more like a soldier with a royal decree, vulnerable and uncertain. 

Keith looks at Lance and sees a softness to Lance’s expression, an unspoken understanding in the blueness of his eyes, the slight crinkle in his eyes as he shares a gentle smile. “Did they never teach you to dance?” Lance asks, the words teasing in a way that doesn’t draw ire from Keith but rather a sheepish shrug.

“I’m sure they tried,” Keith remarks as they spin at Lance’s lead. 

“None succeeded?” Lance asks, his head tilting just enough so a curl slips in front of his eyes. Keith pulls his hand from Lance’s waist and tucks the stray lock behind Lance’s ear. 

“I suppose I never had the right teacher,” Keith concludes, his hand briefly cupping the side of Lance’s face as Lance leans into the warmth of his palm. Keith watches in a mix of awe and amusement as Lance’s eyelashes flutter shut, and a gentle smile passes over his expression. 

“Are you in the market for one?” Lance asks, eyes open and earnest as he adjusts their hands and gently urges Keith to lift his hand up toward the ceiling. The motion allows enough space and room for Lance to twist and turn before resettling their hands back at the original placement. 

“I think I’ve already found him,” Keith whispers as he leans forward and presses his lips to Lance, their dance skittering a step as Lance maintains the balance for the both of them. The thoughts of dancing are abandoned as Keith urges the kisses to be a bit deeper than chaste. 

Off to the side, the advisor makes a disgruntled sound. 

“Your Highness, the practice-”

Lance lets out a muffled laugh as Keith captures Lance by the hand, and they leave the frazzled advisor in the dust. Sure, they go through all the necessary procedures and performance preparations for their upcoming ceremony. Keith may not have memorized the words, but their weight feels comfortable on Keith’s tongue. He may not know the steps, but he feels unison with a man who is to be his partner. He’s confident he can say them when the time is right, especially when he looks into Lance’s crystal blue eyes.

Keith glances behind him as they stroll down the halls, Lance maintaining a smile for once instead of the familiar furrowed brow. 

Keith squeezes Lance’s hand, and they wander out into the gardens. 

The last time Keith had been here with Lance, they parted ways with uneasy accord. Keith felt a sense of intense want for a man he hardly knew. Keith glances to the side, the setting sun bathing a golden light across the cobblestones as his gaze settles on Lance. The other lifts his head toward the gentle light, his eyes closed as a partially formed smile brushes his lips. 

Keith has not honestly gotten to know Lance beyond the surface level of Lance’s hopes and fears. In many ways, the young man is as much a stranger as he was when Keith’s eyes first settled on him. Keith knows that, soon, he may venture beyond the protection of the castle walls to rejoin his own battalion. Soon, Lance will be left alone - under the guard of the kingdom’s best, but alone to linger and fester on his worries. 

They walk by the familiar fountain, a sober somberness settling between them. Lance sits on the edge of the marble rim, his finger dancing across the rippling waters. Keith cautiously sits beside him, his fingers brushing against Lance’s extended fingers resting against the marble. Lance turns to look his way, his eyes sparkling like the waters they sit beside. 

“I must be pretty lucky to marry you,” Keith states without thinking, his lips glossy as he wets them. He watches Lance’s widened eyes, the warm flush that dusts his tan freckled face. 

“Lucky?” Lance manages, the words seemingly weighty on his tongue. “I, uh, I don’t know about ‘lucky,’ but-” he ducks his head a bit. Keith intervenes and presses his lips against Lance’s lips. The action is quick and sweet in ways neither of them have been in the past few weeks of exploring the others’ bodies. Keith’s lips twist in a sly expression as Lance’s flush deepens. 

“Yeah, I’d say I’m lucky.” He reports, the smile lingering on his face. 

Lance pulls back, his gaze settled on his lap as the water brushes against the fountain’s rim. “So, where do we go from here?” Keith leans forward enough to catch the softness of Lance’s words, the tremor that he almost misses if not for their proximity. 

“With what?” Keith asks, the words more blunt than intended. Keith watches as Lance’s gaze drifts up and out to the ivy creeping up the tall walls. 

“With any of this,” Lance speaks out into the open air, “with the fact that I’ve brought more danger to your door,” he brushes his foot against the stone wrapped around the fountain. “I thought that this was the best thing for both our kingdoms, but,” he releases a bitter laugh, “maybe I was just selfish and scared.” 

Keith looks at Lance’s reserved demeanor and solemn words. “So?” He asks, a bit blunter than he means. 

Lance jerks his head up, his brows dancing momentarily before knitting together. 

Keith fills in the question Lance’s expressive face offers, “From how you describe it, it was inevitable that some force from the Galra would knock at our door, we’ve been playing this game,” Keith grimaces at his own words, as the recollection of his wounds and the endless fight feels very little like a game in his memory, “for far too long,” he concludes. 

“Even if nothing changes, he wanted something that only you could provide.” Keith turns toward Lance and takes Lance’s long, delicate fingers in his own, encompassing them around his palms. Their hands radiate warmth as Keith admires the softness of Lance’s skin. Despite being a prince, Keith’s hands are covered in the roughness of a honed warrior.

“You tilted the scales, and well, we’ll deal with whatever happens next.” Keith squeezes his hands around Lance’s before letting his hands drop. Lance counteracts this by grabbing Keith’s retreating hand and holding it tightly. 

Keith hears Lance’s breath pick up, and a quake enters Lance’s voice as he responds. 

“And if I made things worse?”

Keith’s eyes linger on Lance’s hand as it wraps around his palm. Then, slowly, he looks up, “Couldn’t be worse,” he lifts his other hand and tucks a curl behind Lance’s ear, “if it brought you to me.” The pads of Keith’s fingers brush against Lance’s flushed cheeks, and Lance’s averted eyes slowly drift back to looking Keith’s way. 

“And,” Keith adds with a considerate expression, “how about having a bit of faith in yourself in the decision you told me was best for our peoples.” 

At Keith’s reminder, Lance’s back straightens, and he huffs out a laugh. Lance leans into Keith’s touch and smiles, “So, stop feeling sorry for myself?” 

Keith offers a hum in response, “Or maybe just believe in the people you put your faith in.” Lance releases a weighted breath and nods cautiously. He pulls back and glances from Keith to their garden surroundings. He presses his palms against the stone and tilts his head back, the sun’s slow descent into the depths of the earth painting Lance’s tan skin in a warm glow. 

Lance closes his eyes, and Keith quietly tracks the small micromovements of his expression. 

Silence settles over the garden, only broken by the gentle lapping of water against stone. 

Then Lance breaks it. 

He grabs Keith by the hand, pulling him up, and, with a stumble and a step, twists them into standing. “Teach me how to fight.” Lance’s eyes shine with interest and a bright smile. Something in Lance’s expression bleeds childlike wonder and a playfulness that contrasts the severity of their conversation. 

Keith looks at Lance with a curious expression, his lips lifting up into his own smile. While Lance has shared more than his fair share of smiles, something about the lightness in Lance’s expression draws out a deep inhale from Keith. There are things he cannot promise the noble, even if he wishes it so, there are things that he cannot change about the weight of choices and obligations that weigh them both down. But this? Keith can offer Lance this tiny bit of independence and goodwill. Keith nods and glides Lance’s hand to brace against the hilt of his sword. 

“As you wish.” 

Lance’s cheeks turn a lovely shade of red against his tan skin at Keith’s words. Keith can’t help admiring the hue against the soft blues of Lance’s outfit. Keith blinks from his dazed state and reaches his hand against his sheath. Carefully, he draws it out and places the flat end of the sword against the palm of his hands. Lance leans down to take in the sword, seemingly admiring it and taking it all like it is his very first experience with a blade. 

Keith shifts his palm, extending the blade out for Lance to take, offering a nod as Lance’s eyes widen. 

“Are you sure,” Lance asks, looking down at Keith’s prized possession. 

“No better way to train you than with the sword I know how to wield by heart,” Keith explains as Lance’s long fingers curl cautiously around the hilt. Lance takes the weapon from Keith, shifting his weight as he adjusts to the steel blade. Keith watches Lance’s lips turn downward, a slight crease in his brow as he lifts the hefty metal and returns his gaze back to Keith. “Now, I want you to swing at me.” Keith orders, his expression resolute even as Lance blinks rapidly. 

“You want me to do what?” Lance squawks as he takes in Keith’s unarmed state, “What if I hurt you?” 

Keith’s lips turn up slightly in amusement as he leans forward, his hand resting on Lance’s cheek as the blade rests against his side. He offers a genuine smile and gently kisses Lance’s pursed lips. 

“Lance, I think we should be more concerned with you hurting yourself.” 

He pulls back and instantly sees a flash of a spark in Lance’s eyes. He wonders what it will take to coax that spark into a flame, warm and fierce and ready to fight, however that may be. 

Keith takes a step back and observes Lance as the other adjusts the blade in his hand before lifting it and arching it across at Keith. Simultaneously, Keith weaves out of the way and Lance stops short, letting in shaky breaths. Keith covers the distance and grips Lance’s hand firmly, guiding the blade up again. 

“Don’t hold back.” He orders, his gaze resolute as he squeezes his hand around Lance and once more prepares for a strike from Lance. This time, Lance only holds back a little, stumbling as he propels his body too far forward. Keith once more evades the attack. He places his hand on Lance’s arms and gently instructs Lance on how to move his body to work with the weapon. 

Keith tracks the swings Lance takes, noting with the traces of a smile that Lance adjusts to the weapon’s weight with some ease. While Keith wouldn’t call Lance a natural, he glides in a movement that works for him, a dance with a sword in hand. Lance arches the sword once more, filling his chest with a puff of air as Keith deftly sidesteps him. Lance lowers the sword and tightens his grip around the hilt as Keith observes from a pace away.  

“They,” Lance starts as he gathers his breath and his energy for another swing of the blade, “didn’t really teach me this between all the etiquette lessons,” he flashes a quick smile. Keith snorts and slips out of reach of the tip of the blade. 

“I skipped those,” Keith remarked with a flash of amusement in his eyes. 

Lance huffs and, with a move that Keith argues belongs on the dancefloor, twists, and twirls on his feet, arching the blade up a mere hair length from Keith’s chest. “That much I can tell.” He grips then adds under his breath, “Lucky.” Lance lowers the blade and winces as he flexes his fingers. 

Keith approaches Lance slowly, delicately taking Lance’s hands from the sword - he tucks the blade back against his side before returning his focus to Lance’s palms. The beginning of redness peppers Lance’s untrained hands, and Keith brushes his thumb against Lance’s warm, swollen palms. He carefully walks Lance to the fountain’s edge. 

“Sit,” he orders, and Lance dutifully does so. Keith tugs out a bit of cloth that his servants insist he has at all times. Keith wets the fabric under the fountain’s spout before sitting beside Lance. “I don’t know if it’s luck,” Keith picks up their conversation, “or just,” he tilts his head, “hating being told what to do.” He flashes a smile at Lance as he gently dabs the cloth against Lance’s palms. 

“No one can tell the great Crown Prince Keith what to do?” 

“Many have died trying,” Keith muses with a leveled smile.

Lance laughs and hides a wince as Keith applies pressure. “What fools those people are.” 

Keith shrugs and coaxes Lance to press his palms together against the damp cloth. “I think one may live to tell the tale.” He looks up at Lance through his dark hair and he can hear Lance’s shallow breath and the way he looks searchingly at Keith. Lance straightens and presses his palm against the cool stone of the fountain. 

“Just one…?” Lance asks, his voice barely audible over the flow of the fountain. 

Keith nods slowly and lifts his free hand to encase Lance’s cheek, “Just one.” He murmurs as their lips meet. 

He pulls back, and Lance barely meets his eyes. The warm redness in his cheeks is once more an inviting sight for Keith to take in. While he understands he only knows a fraction of who Lance is, from his motivations to the tragedies and triumphs he has undergone, Keith also knows that Lance has a propensity to overthink. Keith can sometimes be guilty of doing the same.

Keith fuels his preoccupied mind with the fire to fight with his words, fists, and anything he can reach for. He creates chaos in his wake. However, comparatively, Lance retreats into himself with smiles and a glossy shine meant to disarm any looking his way. Lance builds the world around him for others. Keith tears it all down when given the chance. They circle each other, and Keith feels the ability to build where all he ever does is sow chaos - and he hopes Lance finds the ability to tear his own walls down. 

Keith knows overthinking. He gets this. And he knows the urge to be anywhere but stuck in his own uncertainties and overwhelm. 

“Well,” Keith interjects the growing quiet, “Shiro thinks he can sway me, but-” Lance blinks and releases a shocked laugh. “Yeah, just one,” Keith finishes with a warm smile. 

“I’m glad for that, then,” Lance responds and tucks the cloth in his hand, looking intently at Keith. Lance wets his lips and flicks his eyes down at the blade hidden back at Keith’s side. “Can you show me what else you’ve got to,” he pauses, “protect this great kingdom.” 

Keith takes the challenge up with a nod and lets Lance watch as he draws out his blade and with a dance all his own, plays out a battle with his sword. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lance carefully wet the cloth, pressing it against his palms before attentively watching Keith’s skilled movements. 

Garnering admiration isn’t a common occurrence for Keith. Certainly, the soldiers in his charge admire his skill in battle and the command he offers. However, under Lance’s observant gaze, Keith finds a warmth building up that feels as foreign as it feels welcome. Lance’s sharp blue eyes track Keith’s singular battle with astute observation, seemingly tracing where Keith will move next before Keith even determines it himself. 

Keith appreciates the attention, he does. But as graceful as his moves are, the weight of the past wounds throb painfully. Keith grits his teeth, half spurred on by his stubborn need to fight the pain, and the other half to keep Lance’s observant, admiring gaze focused his way. Keith wants Lance to believe in him, believe that in choosing him, he chose right. They both did. Keith wants to prove his strength, ability, and skill. Keith wants to -

He grunts as a spike of pain drowns out his wants, and the sword clatters to the stone floor as he grips his shoulder painfully. 

Lance launches to his feet and runs to Keith without a second’s hesitation. 

“Keith, what-” he begins, his voice panicked as he presses his hands attentively to Keith's body. “Are you hurt? What was-”

“It’s fine,” Keith assures as he takes a steadying breath, his hands shaking a little by his side. “I just,” he’s inclined to come up with a lie on the spot. The sudden urge to protect Lance’s predictable worry. And perhaps, a need to defend his own pride. “I just should’ve stretched before, nothing to worry about.” He reaches out a hand and carefully pulls Lance’s attentive hands from his own, encasing them carefully in his own palms. The heat from their hands mingle. 

“Nothing to worry about,” he repeats as their eyes meet. 

Lance looks at him searchingly, biting at his bottom lip. He seems ready to say more, prepared to fight the subject, when his eyes flick away and he nods, his posture demure. 

Lance’s gaze remains downcast as Keith squeezes Lance’s hands, breaking the silence to whisper, “If you insist.” And with that, the worry ends. The concern breaks. And they pull away, their gazes not quite meeting, even as their fingers brush in time with their own departing steps. 

✽

“Sire, do you think that this is entirely the best idea?” The nervousness from the advisor gives Keith pause as he tucks away the feather-tipped pen to complete the last part of the paperwork. Keith wonders if this endless busy work serves to distract him from poor decision making, given how often this same advisor has stacks of papers to sign. And if so, who ascribed this busy work? Keith narrows his eyes at Shiro, sitting idly across from him. 

“Of course it is,” Keith responds with his chest puffed out, moving to stand. He rolls his shoulders and attempts to stretch. His body is still stiff from the past two days of perpetual practice for his upcoming marriage and courtyard sword practice.

Across from him, he hears Shiro huff out a laugh. 

“Well, you heard him,” Shiro teases, “you know our crown prince, once he’s decided something, little deters him away from that pursuit.” 

The advisor releases a heavy sigh, “Yes, but surely our soldiers can serve as a deterrent to the Daibazaalian Prince,” the man reasons with a twist of his wrist, “enough that you, sire, do not need to put yourself in harm’s way.” 

He might agree with his advisor’s sentiment if Keith had been a different man, not one forged with a sword in his hand. But Keith long abandoned the sentiment of what he is meant to do as a ruler of Marmora. He isn’t his father, and he doesn’t know enough of his mother to know for certain where their traits align. 

He is solely himself. And he knows that there is little that will change him. Except, perhaps, the blue-eyed young man currently secluded in their chambers where Keith left him. 

Keith places his hands on either side of the signed paperwork as he hovers over both of them. “It’s not up for discussion,” he states, pushing away from the table - intent on finishing this chapter of tedium so he could return to his betrothed's side. 

“Sire,” the man interrupts again, and Keith grits his teeth, his hands curling by his side. “I only ask that you consider the necessity of venturing beyond these walls. Of doing so before this deal is signed. Of ensuring the risk the Daibazaalian Prince poses is reduced.” Keith rests his hand on the top of the chair, turning to face the advisor and Shiro. 

Keith understands the man’s reasoning - he can see the path to the words and their intent. But he thinks about Lance’s eyes, the way fear shines in them anytime Lance thinks Keith isn’t looking. He thinks about how Lance leans into his form, a tremble that he tries to suppress even as they hold each other wordlessly. They don’t quite have a relationship. It’s far too soon to really believe the depth of knowing Lance is there. However, Lance puts his trust in Keith, in believing that this, indeed, must be the best path for both of them. Lance looks at him earnestly, Keith feeling all too undeserved for how little he’s done for Lance. 

Lance looks at him and believes him worthy of something unspoken. A promise. A hope. A belief of something that neither of them can speak to, not just yet. 

Keith curls his fingers around the chair’s wooden frame, closing his eyes and envisioning Lance as he had left him only hours before. The room falls quiet, only a subtle shift of papers as someone collects the signed parchment. Behind his closed eyes, Keith sees the slight rise and fall of Lance’s chest as he finally, finally finds the rest he needs. However, that will always be short-lived as long as the threat remains. 

Keith knows he needn’t be on the front lines to address this concern, but staying behind as Lance struggles to remain calm in the face of uncertainty. No, Keith can’t sit around and wait for this to be addressed. He needs to take care of it through action, through force, through knowing that Lance’s fitful sleep will be brief and will break upon his return. 

Perhaps he needs to hold his head up high knowing through his actions, he provides Lance the calm and certainty and rest he deserves. 

Keith opens his eyes and meets the beady gaze of the advisor. “This is not up for debate,” he repeats, dropping his hand from the chair, “my future betrothed,” the words feel odd but right on Keith’s tongue, “will never find peace, we will never find peace until this ends. And I will make certain that it does.” 

He steps away from the table, turning his back on the pair as he retreats. He hears the scrape of a chair against the flooring and doesn’t need to peer behind him to know that Shiro is only a step behind. 

“Keith.” 

Shiro’s voice and steps echo Keith’s determined walk. 

“Keith,” Shiro repeats, his longer legs keeping pace with Keith. 

“What?” Keith whirls and glares at the man. 

“Are you certain that now is the best time to rejoin the fight,” Shiro’s gaze does not waver despite the fury Keith throws his way, “if you would prefer that I go,” Shiro offers. Keith reluctantly takes in the softness of Shiro’s eyes at the extended offer. The sentiment is kind even as Keith’s head buzzes with noise and uncertainty. 

Keith draws his arms around himself, tucked against his side, before lowering his hand to rest on his scabbard. He thinks about the last time he went to battle, about the wound that still aches when the weather chills. He thinks about the heavy weight of his sword and the shaking of his sword arm, how blows that were once forceful felt all too effortful. He wants to believe that he can protect his kingdom and his consort, but perhaps the time for fighting has passed. 

He looks off to the side, watching the afternoon light peek through the partially drawn windows. The floor is painted in a constellation of colored glass, refracting the light of the sun. The light reminds him of Lance as he dances through the gardens, a lightness that Keith feels honored to witness. A lightness that he wants to restore. Even if he has to do so against advice from others. 

“No, I have to take care of this myself,” Keith returns his gaze to Shiro, the other man’s pensive expression filling Keith’s vision. Shiro takes a step forward, placing his hand on Keith’s shoulder. 

“I still insist that I should go with you,” Shiro concludes, squeezing Keith’s shoulder as Keith frowns and shifts in place. 

“I’d rather you stay behind,” Keith argues, “protect the castle,” he shrugs off Shiro’s hand and turns slightly to the side, his gaze peering out at the window. He watches birds flit past the blurred glass.

“I understand,” Shiro expresses, “but I think that I am better utilized by your side.” 

Keith opens his mouth to protest, the words dancing on the tip of his tongue, but at Shiro’s pointed gaze, the words disappear, and he reluctantly nods. 

“Fine.” 

At Shiro’s slight smile, Keith releases a huff of frustration and twists on his heel.

“You know,” Shiro begins as they walk in time, Keith’s steps memorized as he walks down the familiar path to his chambers. “As your advisor mentioned, Lotor’s threat would hold a lot less weight if we did not delay your wedding.” He taps a hand against his side as they walk, in time with the steps they take. 

“It may,” Keith glances to the side, taking in Shiro’s thoughtful expression, “reduce the sway he thinks he has over your betrothal and the connection with Altean resources.” 

Keith chews at his lower lip, considering the words carefully as their steps echo against the stone. He flicks his gaze off to the side at Shiro, the man content to hold the silence as Keith contemplates his words. Ultimately, Lance has not been consulted about this. Keith wonders as he approaches where he left the young noble what Lance will make of any of Keith’s choices. Keith considers Lance’s steadfast resolve, the early belief of what is best for their lives and kingdoms. Keith knows Lance had not taken this choice lightly, for all that Keith learns of his lover’s body, he also learns bit by bit of his past and the onus to his family.

Obligation is perhaps underselling the heavy weight on Lance’s shoulders. 

Lance determines through the little sway allotted to him that this path makes the most sense - and Lance’s willingness to take on rejection after rejection from Keith’s stubborn streak is impressive all on its own. Lance holds his own, strong and beautiful and abundantly better than Keith perhaps deserves. Lance weaves stories that yield laughter and pirouettes to a dizzying degree. Lance is steadfast and reserved and composed and brilliant and Keith hates that he does not recognize that from the moment their eyes meet. 

Keith understands wanting Lance. He understands, perhaps, why Lotor wants Lance. Lance has the ear of any who will listen and enough charm to make the most stubborn of people melt like liquid gold. 

He has access to Altea, a bountiful kingdom, springing like a force of nature from the ashes of tragedy. Just like Lance. 

Keith may be a fool for bureaucracy and diplomacy. He rarely knows what it is he signs into existence or why his advisors insist on stealing hours of his life over paperwork. Keith’s skill for the sword yields him the results that he strives for. Keith’s skills for all other things are lacking, well, they were lacking - as Lance completes the areas that Keith struggles in, and he does so with a smile and a flourish of unbridled skill. 

Lance is an asset solely his own. 

However, in the few glimpses Lance allows, Keith witnesses the doubts and worries and pacing and soft utterings of uncertainty. In the few glimpses that Keith takes in, Lance seems to be the only one who can’t see how utterly priceless he is. 

Keith wants Lance to know that Lance choosing him goes both ways. 

“If I move this forward,” Keith breaks the silence, his gaze passing over a pair of unfamiliar guards. He shakes his head and returns his gaze forward as they walk in tandem, “then Lance will think it’s because I want what Altea has to offer. Not him.” He reasons, and maybe there’s logic to this, and maybe, as the flicker of worry that lingers in his memories, he just wants Lance to have faith in him. Perhaps for the first time since they happened to bind their futures together. 

“Can you just tell him,” Shiro reminds, “tell him that you are choosing him, and wanting to protect him?” Shiro’s expression darkens for a moment, and Keith knows without uttering a word that he is envisioning a loss of his own. A loss that Shiro never speaks of - the grief for a lover too much for Shiro to find the right words for. Keith never knows how to ask after something like that, and when the opportunities come, few as they are, Keith never has the right words. Now feels like no exception as with a short blink, Shiro straightens and reaches out to take Keith’s arm, slowing them both down, “I don’t want you to regret putting things off.” 

Keith glances down at Shiro’s hand wrapped around him, the roughness of the pads of Shiro’s fingers bracing around his bare arm. Keith looks up from the hold to Shiro’s tight expression. As he turns to face Shiro, he sees the pair of guards turning the corner. A frown still rests on his face, flicking his gaze to Shiro. 

“I won’t regret it. It’s what’s best.” 

Shiro manages a tight smile, “Alright, I won’t fight you on this,” he amends, “but I will accompany you to the front.” 

Keith releases an audible groan, which morphs into a laugh as Shiro swings his arm around Keith’s shoulder, and they walk companionably back to Keith’s chambers. Keith takes in the warmth of Shiro’s arm around him and the comfort that the man offers when Keith is determining his fate for the first time. 

“Do you think Lance will, um,” he wets his lips, his cheeks warming slightly, “will he understand?” 

Shiro’s lips turn slightly down, “If you want Lance to understand, you will need to talk to him. I can’t know how he will respond when you tell him. This is your burden to bear.” 

Keith’s expression grows pensive and his steps slow, Shiro slows in time with Keith and glances down at him, the strands of gray and white hair brush past Shiro’s temples as he peers down at Keith. 

“Right,” Keith manages, his hand curling at his side as he stares at the door down the hall, and the conversation he must have with Lance. 

“Part of taking on your role as the future king of this land, Keith,” Shiro continues, squeezing his hand against Keith’s shoulder, “is coming to terms with the decisions you make and the choices and conversations that follow. You cannot please everyone.” at this Shiro laughs, “You are certainly skilled enough on that. However,” Shiro’s words turn serious, “you will also disappoint others. Me. Lance. Those who look to you. This is a part of the weight you carry.” 

The heaviness of Shiro’s words drags against Keith’s body. His chest tightens and his breath quickens. When embroiled with a battle, such weight does not bother him. However, as the pressures mount and his responsibilities to the crown grow, Keith struggles to maintain the crafted balance. 

“And still,” Shiro’s voice filters back in, “you must make these choices for yourself and live with them. Whatever they may be.” 

Keith blinks and the door is before them, James stands off to the side with an impassive expression. Until their eyes meet, that is, then James’ lips curl in a smug, teasing expression before moving away from the door. 

Shiro squeezes Keith’s shoulder once more and then pulls away. As Keith turns, he watches Shiro bow slightly and depart with a final refrain, “I will prepare the forces. We can depart at first light.” 

And then, with the heaviness of steps that know the battle to come, Shiro vanishes behind the corner, and Keith finds himself alone with James standing guard. 

“Sire,” James greets with a lifted brow and a slightly bowed position. 

Keith narrows his eyes and turns back toward the door. “Stand watch,” he orders, earning another tilted brow and twist of a smile in return. 

“So, do what I have already been doing. Understood, Sire.” James’ voice grates on Keith’s nerves, and if the nerves of talking to Lance weren’t consuming him, he may have favored raising his voice at the guard. “If you’re worried about Lance,” James continues, unprompted, “I’ll keep him out of trouble. I’ll keep him safe.” 

Keith expects the words to tear at his insides and make him draw out his sword in protest. But instead, as he looks into the storm-gray eyes, Keith sees the sincerity of the words, the earnestness James expresses. 

Lance always says that James is his friend. However, in moments of desperation he and James’ gazes turn heated and earnest for reasons other than sincerity. Keith never explores it, Lance’s express devotion to him enough to counterbalance any of his worries and fears of not being enough for the young noble. As Keith looks at James, he sees that self-same sincerity, their gazes linking before in tandem looking to the door. 

“Fine.” Keith snaps, “Just,” he huffs, “keep others away for now.” 

James offers a short bow and their eyes meet once more before Keith pushes open the door and slips inside his chambers. 

Keith sets down his sword, a soft ‘clunk’ as it tips over to the floor. The door closes behind him, and Keith leans down to tug at the laces of his boots. He can hear Lance’s steady breathing, passed out and deaf to his surroundings. Keith may have been worried about Lance’s lack of alertness. Still, given the tension thrumming in the noble’s body, Keith will take the steady heartbeat and peaceful sleep. He tugs off his boots and steps lightly, glancing off to the side and seeing the amber embers of the dying fire. He steps towards the fireplace and stokes the flames back to life, a crackle filling the silence. 

Keith hears a soft groan, the shifting of fabric as Lance seemingly stirs back into waking. 

“Keith?” Lance’s voice sounds strained and still drenched with tiredness. Keith turns and sees Lance’s bedraggled hair, the silken shirt sleeve slipping down his tan shoulder as he pushes himself up. Keith sets the poker down, the coolness of the metal forgotten as the room fills with the warmth of a burning fire. Lance blinks sluggishly and lifts a hand to rub at his eye. “Are you done with the meeting?” Lance asks as he conceals a yawn behind the palm of his hand. 

Earlier, Lance asked if he could attend the meeting, eagerly wanting to prove his value for all the ways his tutelage provided him in his youth. However, Keith noted how Lance could barely keep his eyes open, and with little urging, Lance tucked into the bed, and Keith endured the lecture from his advisor. 

Keith keeps his steps light as he comes to Lance’s bedside, the other’s blue eyes blinking tiredly as a soft smile brushes his lips. Keith nods and brushes his hand through Lance’s dense curls, “Yes, all done for now.” He twists a curl in Lance’s hair before setting his hand against Lance’s face. He feels the steady warmth of Lance’s cheek as Lance tilts his face into his open palm.

Lance slips his arms around Keith’s shoulders and sighs contentedly, “Good, then I can have you all to myself.” He concludes, covering the distance and pressing a soft kiss against the corner of Keith’s mouth. Lance pulls back and looks at Keith expectantly, quietly urging Keith to lay claim on whatever is on offer. 

Keith places his hand against Lance’s side, warmth emanating from his lithe frame as Lance twirls his finger through Keith’s hair. Keith knows he must tell Lance that he’s soon to be departing. For the foreseeable future, Lance will be left in the safety of their castle walls. Keith doesn’t want to consider time apart, even if he must. He hopes the spark between them burns as intensely as the fire roaring behind them. 

Keith settles his palms on either side of Lance’s sides, and they fall into bed. The chaste kisses deepen. 

Keith brushes his hands against the fabric settled around Lance’s body, the material scrunching up as Lance tucks himself back against the bed and looks up at Keith with wide blue eyes. Soft kisses resume as Lance tucks his fingers against the back of Keith’s head and drags their lips together. As mouths mesh and breaths mingle, Keith can feel the rising heat of Lance’s body as the loose fabric slips open to reveal stretches of copper tan skin. Keith brushes his hands against and around Lance’s body, adjusting his position as Lance releases a soft moan that sends vibrations through Keith. 

Keith interrupts their impassioned kisses and hums against Lance’s lips, “Right now, you do.” He answers Lance’s statement which felt forever and a thousand kisses ago. 

Lance lays back on the bed, the twisting curls from his earlier sleep bending in front of his face as he peers up longingly at Keith. The prince can’t quite translate the expression on Lance’s face. The slight lowering of his eyelids and soft exhale of breath draws a tightness in Keith’s body. He berates himself enough for all the past ways he ignored and dismissed Lance. He can’t undo that, and odds are, he wouldn’t have responded any other way. However, as Lance’s blue irises glint in the light and he brushes the pads of his fingers against Keith’s cheek to draw him close, Keith can’t help but regret leaving Lance behind. 

It is necessary, a necessity, but the ache still thrums in Keith’s body. Their lips brush as Keith tastes a sweetness melting into spice against Lance’s tongue. Keith draws his lips away, tucking them against the gentle warmth of Lance’s body as he places kisses against the softest of skin. He listens to the shudder of Lance’s breath as his lips brush against his pulse point. Lance shifts only enough to shrug off the robe braced against his body, revealing stretches of tan skin unmarked by any throes of affection. 

It is necessary, Keith thinks, that he must cover and remind Lance of all the shows of affection as he sees to leave him behind. Keith slips his lips firmly against Lance’s pulse point, the kisses sharpening as Lance lets in a gasping inhale and buries his fingers against the folds of Keith’s shirt. Lance’s skin tastes salty against his tongue, and the steady beat of Lance’s heart is a beacon to draw Keith onward. Keith pulls back just enough to admire the bruise blooming in place of where his mouth lay and tilts back to admire Lance fully. 

Lance tries to hide his growing arousal, but with no fabric on hand, Keith can see him clear as day. Lance’s cheeks bloom with heat, a warm redness against the tawny skin. Keith brushes a finger against Lance’s hip, a forward motion before retracting and feeling Lance’s radiant heat. 

Lance manages to push himself up by his elbows, their gazes both gravitating to Lance’s evident arousal and Keith’s barely hidden one. Lance wets his lips, the blue of his eyes hidden behind the depth of darkness from his blown pupils. “What are you waiting for, Keith?” Lance cocks his head and offers an inviting smile that is all too easy to get lost in. 

“I want you all to myself,” Lance continues, lifting one of his hands and running a finger down Keith’s chest, “think you are up for the task, Your Highness?” He asks with a lift of a brow. 

Keith is many things. He’s a royal with no interest in ruling. He’s a soldier without the endurance to fight. He’s a man without many who understand him. He’s a man to be married to… Lance. And he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. 

Keith doesn’t deign Lance with an answer. Instead, he grips the folds of his shirt, unhooking it from the tightness of his pants and throwing the discarded fabric to the side as he slips into Lance’s space and determines just how to thoroughly ravage him. 

Keith presses kisses along Lance’s flushed skin, Keith’s lips brushing against the intoxicating warmth of Lance’s exposed skin. Keith feels Lance’s pulse thump and steady beat against his lips as he leaves another mark on his tan skin. As he does, he listens to the threadiness of Lance’s breath as he makes his way up to capture Lance’s lips. Lance slips his hands up Keith’s back, tucking his fingers into Keith’s hair. Lance’s grip feels firm and unbreaking as Keith presses his lips against Lance’s, the heat from Lance’s mouth sending sensational warmth through him as he bends his body over Lance’s slim frame. 

Keith glides his hand against Lance’s side, feeling Lance’s body jump as Keith’s fingers brush against sensitive skin. Keith tries to pull back to take Lance in. However, Lance’s grip on his hair keeps him firmly in place as their gasps and pants fill the air between kisses. As the kisses deepen, Keith feels Lance’s firm grip melt away, the noble’s hands leaving Keith’s hair and settling against the pillows by his side. Keith pulls back just enough to take in Lance’s swollen lips, shiny from their heated exchange of kisses. Lance’s eyes glow like sapphires in the flickering light as his eyelids flutter and his chest rises and falls. 

Keith wants to embrace this moment, a moment he never thought he would have. A moment he never thought he would desperately want. The moment here is when someone looks to him with trust, want, lust, and maybe even the inklings of love. Keith wants to work against everything inside of him - not to rush into things or look without thinking. He wants to savor this moment. 

Keith tucks his legs around Lance, his hands brushing against Lance’s sides. Lance’s eyes close as Keith’s calloused hands dance along his heated skin. Keith picks up the slight hitch in Lance’s breath as Keith’s fingers brush against Lance’s nipples. He leans down once more, coaxing Lance’s head to the side as he leaves another mark of remembrance under Lance’s jaw, savoring the sweet sounds that escapes Lance’s lips. 

Keith pulls back enough to take in Lance before shifting his body and slipping his mouth around Lance’s aching flesh. Lance makes a surprised sound as his hand brushes against Keith’s dark locks. Keith finds himself focused on creating a symphony of sounds from Lance, he finds himself uniquely inspired to draw forth a display of pleasure that they both can hold onto in memory during the cold nights apart. Keith doesn’t know what the future holds, but he knows that at present, he finds a unique honor in the sounds that flutter from Lance’s lips. 

Keith presses his tongue against the throbbing member, hearing more hitched breath followed by a breathy, “Keith…” from Lance’s lips. Through his dark bangs, Keith takes in Lance’s face, watching as Lance bites at his lip and lifts his other hand to brace against his cheek as Keith continues to coax pleasure to Lance’s body. Lance gasps, and Keith’s mouth floods with Lance’s release. 

Keith lifts himself from Lance, swallowing the substance that coats his mouth as he peers down at Lance’s panting chest and the dusting of red that flushes against Lance’s tan skin. Their gazes meet as Lance takes in a staggering breath. Lance slips his arms around Keith’s shoulder, drawing him into deeper, more desperate kisses. 

They twist in the bed, Keith flopping onto the bed with an audible ‘thump,’ his hair splaying out around him as he peers up at Lance. The noble’s blue eyes dance in the firelight as he places his palms against Keith’s chest and wraps his legs around Keith’s waist. While neither men were novices of each other’s bodies, Keith can’t help but revel in each shift of movement Lance performs as he presses needy kisses along Keith’s chest. Keith lifts a hand and buries his fingers in Lance’s thick hair as their lips meet once more. 

Lance releases a soft puff of air against Keith’s lips as Keith tugs at Lance’s loose curls. Wordlessly, they pull apart long enough for Keith to push up and gather the items to ease their intimacy. Lance leans back on his heels, bare and beautiful, as Keith fumbles with a container of oil. As Keith looks up, Lance tilts his head to the side and offers an amused expression. 

“In a hurry?” Lance asks, then flicks his gaze to Keith’s tight clothing, the noble’s smile twisting in deeper amusement. “Oh, Your Highness,” Lance’s voice lilts as he brushes a hand across Keith’s waist, Keith managing a forced grunt at Lance’s featherlight touch. 

Keith listens to Lance’s gentle laughter and hides a smile behind his ducked head. Then they move like clockwork, Keith slipping out of his remaining clothes, the movements challenging around his aching flesh. Lance shifts like flowing water as Keith guides his body this way and that, eliciting soft moans as his body opens up for Keith. The slicked oil between Lance’s thighs is a welcome invitation for what is to come. 

Lance’s body feels warm to the touch as Keith’s calloused hands brush against Lance’s sides and cups his face. They draw into kisses that allow time to melt away. Lance shifts and slips his arms around Keith’s shoulders as his body presses against Keith, their breaths sync together as their cocks rub together. Keith positions them again, Lance once more splayed out on the bed with his chest rising and falling. Lance’s long legs loop around Keith’s waist, one leg dropping to the mattress as Keith hikes Lance’s limber frame with a lift of his leg. 

Keith pauses long enough to rub his palm against Lance’s thigh, their eyes meeting as between breaths and the crackle from the fireplace. Lance’s hands settle against his stomach, moving up his chest to emphasize his slim waist before he lifts his hands up and over, attempting to draw Keith into another deep kiss. Keith can’t argue with that enticement. As their lips press and push, the heat of Lance’s breath mingling with Keith’s steady inhales, Keith shifts his body and positions himself against Lance’s entrance. 

Their kisses persist, only pausing when Lance lets out a breathy whine, his fingers curling into Keith’s hair and giving it a valiant tug of encouragement. 

For all the ways they were strangers, Keith has started to determine Lance’s silent urges and the soft translations that remain wordless but eager. Lance shudders as Keith carefully pushes against the pressure. Lance curls his fingers in Keith’s hair, the puffs of breath steady and resolute as Keith rolls his hips - the movement predictable that tiny gasps leave Lance’s lips. The motions slow and methodical as the pleasure builds. 

Then words flutter past Lance’s lips, “A-ah,” Lance gasps, “Keith,” he drags his hands from Keith’s hand and glides them across Keith’s back until they settle around his arms. Keith leans forward as Lance urges him to deepen their embrace. 

“Mm,” Keith starts, his eyes dancing in a bit of delight as Lance chews at his bottom lip. Is Keith moving slowly just to rile Lance up… perhaps, but Keith’s not one to admit that just yet. 

“Ke-," Lance's voice cuts out, then a whine slips from his lips, "Faster, please.” 

Keith quickly complies, rolling his hips back and then thrusting forward, his hips moving in a rhythm that draws grunts and moans from both men. Keith’s thrusts have enough forceful momentum that his hands plant on either side of Lance’s head. Their breathy gasps fill the chambers as Lance’s fingers dig into Keith’s back, and he throws his head back. The rock and rhythm catching on as Lance releases a moan of unbridled bliss. His cock regains its stiff position, resting between them as Keith presses his body against Lance’s. 

“Your Highness,” Lance gasps as Keith lifts his hand back to curve Lance’s flexible body into a new position that drags a moan of pleasure from Lance’s lips. His body twists to the side, and Keith leans down adding another bounty of marks to Lance’s tan skin. Lance tightens around Keith and pulls a groan of delirious pleasure past his lips. 

They part long enough for Keith’s cock to throb and ache for the warmth of Lance’s body and for Lance to move his limber body around on the bed. 

Lance turns fully, his bare back facing Keith as he presses back, and with a fierceness Keith never predicts, cranes his neck and orders with a serious expression on his face, “I said,” he inhales heartily from his nose, “faster.” 

Keith jolts at the commanding tone, if Lance and he weren’t sharing the intimacies of their bed, Keith would argue that Lance holds the voice of a ruler. Just as worthy as Keith - perhaps better if he has the voice to back it up. Keith shakes this reverie from his head, the thoughts of their shared future can wait - they must wait. 

Instead, he leans over Lance’s bent frame, a perfect puzzle piece on top of Lance, “Are you giving me an order,” he asks, nipping Lance’s ear playfully.

Keith can’t make out Lance’s expression, but he hears the amusement, “I am. So, who are you to deny me, Sire?” 

Keith huffs a quick laugh, then returns to settle between Lance’s thighs, embracing the welcoming tightness that nearly draws stars to his gaze. “I would be a fool to deny you.” He grunts and then wordlessly heeds the command of his lover.

And they fall into each other’s embrace, bringing forth pleasure that draws bliss and gasps and waves of pleasure - until pure exhaustion has them settled into the comforts of Keith’s bed.

Lance tucks himself against Keith’s frame, one leg resting over Keith’s knee as Lance curls against his chest. Keith listens to the steady breaths and takes in the sensation of Lance’s warm frame pressing against him. Keith thinks that Lance may be sleeping. However, Lance adjusts his head against Keith’s bare chest, and shifts his hand to trace along Keith’s sweat-stained body. 

Keith lets out a heavy sigh, the weight of his words hanging heavy on his chest. He moves his hand to tuck into Lance’s curls, resting at the back of his head as he stares up at the ceiling. Or, more accurately, the fabric draped over his bed, blocking the light from view. By now, it is stretching toward evening, and Keith suspects that he may never find the strength to admit the journey ahead if he does not tell Lance now. 

“Lance?” Keith breaks their comfortable silence. 

“Mm?” Lance hums, continuing to paint patterns into Keith’s skin. The sensation is alluring as it is distracting. Keith nibbles at his lower lip as he considers his words.

“I wanted to tell you,” he pauses, “that I will be heading out to the border by first light.” 

Lance pauses, his finger frozen against Keith’s chest as his breath shallows. Keith continues, filling the sudden silence as the words tumble out, “It’s what’s best, and then we can handle Lotor and be done with all of this.” He explains, shifting his palm to brace against Lance’s back and rubbing slow circles. “Shiro will be with me, and it’s not as though I haven’t battled against Lotor’s forces before.” 

“What about your shoulder?” 

Keith’s shoulder twinges with soreness at the mere utterance of his injury. Keith closes his mouth with a click and twists a little to gaze down at Lance. Keith can’t make out Lance’s expression, his head tucked downward, his eyes away from view. As much as engaging in conversation feels like a recipe for disaster, the heavy weight of uncertainty draws forth more words from Keith’s mouth. 

“It’s going-” 

“What if you get hurt,” Lance asks, turning his head to look dolefully up at Keith. Lance bites at his lip and blinks slowly as his gaze doesn’t waver from Keith. He braces his hand against Keith’s chest and moves with Keith as they adjust their position. Keith slips both his arms securely around Lance’s thin waist. 

“What makes you think I will?” Keith counters, his lips forming a frown. 

Lance mirrors the expression and narrows his eyes, “Do I need to remind you how our practice went? I… I know it wasn’t because you didn’t stretch.” Lance’s words short and curt as he pulls back fully, the blanket resting at his waist slips down as he pushes his palms against the bed. “Is this really-” He sucks in a deep breath, “Why do you want to do this?” Lance asks as Keith mirrors Lance and brushes his fingers against Lance’s hands, cradling them in his own. 

“Because I want this to be done, for you not to worry anymore.” 

Lance’s brows knit together, and Keith watches his lips quake as he tries to find the right words. “You don’t… I don’t need you to prove yourself to me, I don’t need a hero, I… I need a husband. I don’t want you to be in harm’s way, that’s not why I wanted any of this.” Lance’s shoulders tuck against his ears, “I just…” 

Keith wraps his hands around Lance’s trembling hands, “Lance, you told me once that I would have to choose when to lift the sword and when to give it to someone else.” Lance visibly stiffens at Keith, drawing the past forward. “This is not that time. I need to protect my kingdom.” He lifts a hand and brushes his palm against Lance’s cheek. 

“I want to protect you.” 

“But I got you in this mess,” Lance whispers, his eyes closing as the guilt of his choice seems to rock him to his core.

“We have been fighting for as long as I can remember,” Keith brushes his thumb against Lance’s cheek, “the fact that you chose to be by my side is… just that.” Keith leans forward and draws Lance into a gentle kiss. “It will be okay, Lance,” he assures, tasting a saltiness against his tongue. 

As he pulls back, he sees the shine of Lance’s eyes as the tracks of tears slip down his face. 

“Shh,” Keith soothes and finds Lance drawing out of him a gentleness that he never knew. He slips his arms around Lance and cradles him in a steadying hold. Then, a thought crosses his head, and he pulls back, “Come on, get dressed, I want to show you something.” 

Lance looks at him dazedly, but with a frown and a nod, he follows Keith’s instructions, slipping on silk threads and combing his fingers through his hair. Keith tucks his own shirt back on and takes Lance’s hand as they walk hand in hand. Outside, the sky draws warm light through the window, painting the hallway in sunset colors to guide them toward their destination.

✽

Lance’s hand feels warm against Keith’s as he walks with purpose down the halls. Keith knows that the guard is only a few steps behind them, staying vigilant in ways that feel both irritating and a relief. Keith turns to glance behind him, catching Lance’s gaze and offering a slight reassuring smile to Lance’s knitted brows and pensive expression. Silently, Keith squeezes Lance’s hand and watches as Lance’s lips turn into a tentative smile. 

Soon, the chill of the coming evening settles around them as they step outside. Keith knows his domain like the back of his hand. Even with the time away, the foundations of his home remained the same. Leaves crunch underfoot as they walk, and Keith glances behind him only once to see the amber light of the fading sun dance in Lance’s blue eyes. And then, with intent and purpose, Keith takes them down through the arches and brick foundations of his home, their home, and in front of the sturdy wooden structure of the stables. Keith presses his palm against the worn wood, hearing the sound of the horses as they greet the pair, with James steps away. 

Lance tucks himself closer to Keith as they step inside the stable. 

“Keith,” Lance whispers as their hands part, “why are we here?” Keith lifts a lantern hung on the wall and moves about the stables to light other discarded lamps resting on various hooks. Upon finishing his task, Keith turns to face Lance, taking in the sight of his slight form as he looks at the animals with a tentative expression. Keith extends his hand for Lance to take, and with only the briefest of hesitations, Lance takes Keith’s hand once more. 

“You said you’re worried about me,” Keith begins, lifting the lantern up and catching the shadows that dance across their faces as the fire flickers, “that you don’t want me to get hurt.” He muses as he rolls his shoulder, the twinge still present even if he never comments on it. “I want you to know who will be at my side. Beyond just Shiro.”

Keith squeezes his hand around Lance’s palm in a quick reassuring gesture before setting the lantern down against one of the free hooks. Keith’s horse comes into view as the light chases away the shadows. Against the firelight, the chestnut-colored creature almost looks like fire itself, the warm reds of her hair coming into view with the flickering light. 

He hears a soft gasp from Lance as he takes in the horse, “I’ve never been particularly good with names,” Keith admits as he lifts a hand and rubs his palm against the top of the horse’s muzzle, “so try not to laugh,” he glances behind him and catches Lance’s frown before the other man lifts his brow. 

“This is Red.” 

“Red? You named your red-colored horse… Red?”

“I did warn you, not good at names.” Keith manages a cheeky smile, willing to admit this failing of his, “still don’t know my advisors’ names.” Then he pauses, “And I don’t really care to learn them.” He adds with a considerate expression, he flicks his eyes back to Lance and catches sight of a soft smile on his lips, followed by a snort. Lance tries to hide the displays of amusement behind his hand, but Keith sees right through him. 

Keith can’t help but wonder how easy it has become to see and understand Lance. How easy it’s become to wish and want to know Lance in all ways. It almost feels addicting.

Keith tugs Lance forward, catching him against his chest as Lance stumbles in his steps, and then Keith tucks his arm around Lance’s waist. The sensation of Lance’s warmth steady against his body feels as steadfast as Keith’s heartbeat. He turns his head and looks into Red’s dark, soulful eyes. 

“She’s protected me in battle at every opportunity.” Keith continues, his palm still braced against Red. He lowers his palm, the heat of a snort from Red quickly follows. “And she will again for tomorrow and all the days to follow.”

He doesn’t force Lance to move, content to hold him by his side until Lance decides for himself. Slowly, Lance lifts a hand, his fingers slightly curled as he cautiously places it against Red’s mane. Keith listens to Lance’s soft breathing as he combs his fingers through her hair. Their eyes meet, and Keith offers an encouraging smile. 

Lance wets his lips and looks directly at the horse, “You better keep him safe.” Keith’s lips twist in a smile at Lance’s set expression and Red’s soft nicker in response. 

Keith pulls away, his hand lowering as he moves to the side of the stable and pulls out a thick woven blanket and Red’s bridle. Lance continues to focus his attention on gently petting the creature as Keith slips behind the barrier and places the fabric on his horse’s back. Keith wordlessly continues to tuck the bridle over Red’s face, pausing only when Lance’s hand gets in the way and then, with a hum, returns to Lance’s side. 

“You know,” Keith remarks, his palm braced around Lance’s waist, “she almost never warms up to anyone this quickly.” 

Lance turns his head enough for their gazes to catch, “She and I came to an agreement.” He says with a confident smile, “For you, we will get along.” 

“Do you want to ride her?” Keith asks, nodding back to Red. 

Lance looked up at the horse and then offered a small but noticeable smile and nod, Keith guiding Lance and his horse out into the starry evening. Above them, the stars flickered in rhythm with the beating of their hearts, the air around them cool and crisp against Keith’s face. He glances up at the moon, hidden partially by a patch of clouds but shining brightly down upon the open field. 

James stands at the ready by the entryway, a stoic expression on his face, before offering a nod toward the pair. 

Keith resettles the blanket on her back, and with practiced ease, he swings himself up onto the steed. Lance stares at him with a small glint in his gaze that Keith cannot translate. He can’t determine if there is mischief within Lance’s depths of blue or if it holds a fire hidden behind Lance’s front of passivity. Keith extends his hand down to Lance, and with his good arm, he pulls Lance up and onto Red. Lance slips his arms around Keith’s waist as Keith takes the reins in his hands and turns his head slightly in Lance’s direction. Their eyes meet, and Keith traces a smile against Lance’s face. 

Keith refocuses his gaze on Lance and, with a little effort, sets the horse off on an easy cantor out of the stables and into the embrace of the night air. As they ride, Keith senses a lightness overcome Lance; the weight of all his worries seems to slip into the night. Any ache that lives in either of their bodies vanishes into the night. The wind picks up as they ride, the sensation of flowing through water over a field of green as Red picks up the pace. Keith has never been one to take things slow, and his horse is no exception. 

Lance tightens his grip around Keith’s waist, the heavy footfall of hooves overshadowing the sound that either of them can make. Keith’s hair blows about his face, covering his eyes as he glides the horse through the open fields. He cannot help the bubble of laughter that balances from his lips, the sensation of pure adrenaline racing in his veins. Lance seemingly mimics this delight as he pulls one arm from Keith’s waist and leans back as he takes in the open sky. 

The stars blur together in Keith’s eyes, but he wonders if he looks hard enough, as he may see the stars glowing in Lance’s eyes. He turns back enough to see Lance’s gaze lifted upwards, a genuine smile on his lips. As Keith turns, Lance tilts his head forward, and their eyes meet with a shared smile. 

They ride with the movements and motions of Red, and Lance returns his hands, encircling Keith in an embrace as he urges Red onward into the sea of stars and the embrace of night. 

✽

That evening, Lance tucks up against Keith, practically clinging to him in sleep. Keith doesn’t mind too much, Lance’s even breathing and warmth fills Keith with a quiet comfort. He knows these moments won’t last. Long before Keith ever imagined looking down at someone’s sleeping face and imagining a life with them, Keith knew the call to battle. He grew up with that need, urge, and demand running through his body. 

But as he watches Lance’s steady breath and the weight of Lance’s body against his, all Keith can think is how lucky he feels to even have a moment of this time. A moment of peace - even if it’s before a storm. 

He knows there is much about Lance that he understands only a fraction of, and he’s certain Lance would express a similar sentiment. And yet, as the calm moment continues, Keith finds that his steady comfort with Lance is enough. For now, at least. 

He thinks, at some point, his eyes must grow heavy with sleep, and the fatigue takes over. His eyes close, envisioning the starlight in Lance’s gaze that mirrors the stars glinting in the window. And when he opens his eyes, the beginnings of dawn’s amber light spills in from above. Keith absently rubs at his eye, suppressing a yawn as he shifts and clears the sleep from his eyes. As he fully wakes, he sees Lance laying on his side. His hands tuck against his face, his fingers curl slightly as he adjusts on the bed. 

Keith thinks Lance is still deep in the blissfulness of slumber but with a steady exhale, Lance’s eyes flutter open, and he peers at Keith with an open expression. It’s moments like these, small and almost indescribable, that Keith recognizes that the weight of his responsibilities can be shared by someone with a smile that beams sunshine. It helps him realize that all that he hates about his station and the obligations accompanying it; he feels lighter whenever Lance’s too-blue eyes focus his way, the slight glint in his gaze hiding all sorts of musings that Keith longs to know. Keith knows he’s lucky. He knows he’s unlucky. He knows he has obligations and he also has freedoms. He knows that as his eyes trace the freckles on Lance’s face, he will want to count them for eternity. 

Is this what love feels like? 

How could all of this happen so quickly, so needingly, so desperately, so joyfully, so- 

Lance places a finger against Keith’s brow, rubbing it for emphasis. “You’re thinking too loud,” Lance remarks as he pulls his hand back. Keith grabs Lance’s retreating wrist, holding him in place as he looks into Lance’s eyes. 

“Thinking too loud?” Keith mimics with a lifted brow. He brushes his lips against the tips of Lance’s fingers, his warm breath blowing softly against the digits. 

“Mhm,” Lance responds, his eyes closing briefly before flicking open. “So noisy.” Keith smiles at the sleep-addled words slipping from Lance’s lips. Keith loosens his grip on Lance’s wrist and brushes his fingers against the side of Lance’s face, tucking in a stray curl. 

“It’s going to be okay, Lance.” 

Lance’s lips twitch at Keith’s words; he glances Keith’s way, then, just as quickly, looks away. Keith hears the shallowness of his breath and the way tension thrums off of Lance like a taut wire. Keith brushes the backs of his fingers against the side of Lance’s face. “You believe me?” Keith prompts gentleness in his words, which always feels foreign to his lips but always feels right with Lance. 

“I… believe you believe it.” Lance offers in earnest. “I believe that… I don’t think I can stop you.” He wets his lips and shrugs, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. Keith presses his lips together, slipping his hands to rest at Lance’s sides. 

“You could stop me.” 

“Evidence has proven the contrary, Your Highness,” Lance bites out without heat. 

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it with a frown. Lance offers a half-hearted smile. “Just promise me,” Lance offers when all Keith can give him is silence, “that when this is over, you’ll find a way to fight another way.” Lance cups Keith’s cheek, his thumb brushing under Keith’s eye as silence falls between them. Keith finds his heart beating a mile a minute as his head rushes from Lance’s soft expression looking his way. 

He manages a small nod, his outer shell melting all the more when Lance’s lips curve into a light smile. Then Lance exhales and drops his hand, 

“Let’s go. It’s time for you to abandon me in my hour of need,” Lance pushes himself up with a perfunctory movement, flicking his hair from his face. 

“Lance, I-” Keith splutters, attempting to right himself in the bed. 

Then Lance’s bright blue eyes focus on him, and the smile widens, “You’re too easy, Your Highness,” he hums as he meets Keith’s slightly agape lips with his own in a quick kiss. 

Lance slips from the bed, the smile still on his face as Keith stares at his retreating form. As Lance turns, Keith catches sight of the soft frown that slips on Lance’s lips, the slight way that he folds his arms around himself as he ducks behind the panel to change. Keith wants to push the subject, then let the jokes wash away and acknowledge the growing uncertainty and overwhelm that plague them both. The words he wishes to say and all he wishes to be for Lance weigh his tongue down. Keith never has a talent for words, and he struggles to find what he hopes to say at this moment, which would bring him back to an already untested relationship. 

Keith slowly pushes himself off the bed, tugging a hand through his matted hair and exhaling a heavy breath. He hears shuffling behind the dressing panel, and pads slowly behind the blockade. Lance has one arm tucked into his sleeve as he twists and looks at Keith with his expressive eyes. 

Keith acknowledges, he understands, he’s decided, he will take this path even if his shoulder aches, even if a man he barely knows but wishes to know intrinsically wraps around him like a sea of fog. Lance slips on the shirt, and Keith rests his hands on Lance’s sides. Lance bites at his lip, his eyes settling on Keith before he shifts his gaze and his body away from the other man - wordlessly completing his dressing as Keith’s dark eyes follow his movements. 

Keith wants to interrupt, to name the disconnect and discomfort in the air, but instead, he grabs a tunic shirt, tucking it and his other clothes on. They move in tandem, the dressing of bodies until Lance turns and faces Keith. The quiet continues as Lance takes Keith’s hand, and they walk, only pausing for Keith to fetch his sword before they step in sync out the door and down the hall. 

Keith spots James trailing them just a step behind. Lance takes a few steps ahead, all flowing fabric and light step, giving Keith enough distance to turn to James with narrowed eyes and a set expression. 

“Keep him safe.” The words are sharper than he means them to be, yet intent with every aspect of his refrain. 

James’ lips thin into a firm line. 

“That you don’t need to remind me.” He remarks and stares past Keith to Lance. The young noble turns, seemingly oblivious to their sharp exchange, though as Keith takes in Lance’s flicking gaze, he wonders if that is merely a mask that Lance wears. The sweet demureness hiding the avenues of Lance’s intellect and swift skill of observation. 

“You coming?” Lance asks, extending his hand toward Keith, and with a final glance behind him at James, Keith returns to Lance’s side, treasuring the final moments he has with the noble. 

And they walk. Keith with certainty and an ache in his shoulder. Lance with a bright, too-forceful smile even at this moment of departure, and it follows a quiet worry that Keith traces in Lance’s ocean-blue eyes. 

They walk until being hand-in-hand is no longer an option. Until their hands brush and whispered words are captured by furtive kisses. Until Keith can no longer feel Lance’s warm embrace near him. Until Keith looks at Lance from upon his steed. 

And then, until he’s a speck in the distance, the watery blues of Lance’s eyes the last thing Keith sees whenever he closes his eyes. 

And as he opens his eyes, he sees the expanse of open terrain in front of him and the long journey ahead.

✽

Keith finds the return to the border to be one of solitude and quiet contemplation. Sure, Keith’s far from alone, surrounded by soldiers who treat him as their equal, just as he does for them. There is little room for titles and rank in battle, just the extremes of clashing blades and battle cries. Keith knows, in this way, he has the back of others while they also watch his back.

And, of course, there’s Shiro, riding a little distance ahead. Keith knows that when it comes to this fight, Shiro will be wearily watching, ensuring that Keith doesn’t get into trouble. Or too much trouble, as it were. Keith recalls a hint of a smile creasing his lips when he was barely older than his fourteenth year, attempting to steal Shiro’s horse and seek a grand battle. It was only luck that Shiro caught him before his untrained hands could embrace the heat of metal to metal. 

Keith casts his eyes out into the vast scenery of the rocky terrain. His horse steps assuredly through the unsteady ground, the area more of an old haunt for Keith and Red. The wind blows softly through his hair, the black strands cascading down his face until he turns his head to the side. Through his hair, he takes in the hills in far the distance, the hills of Altea, the picturesque greenery standing in sharp contrast to the inky charcoal of the stony surroundings. 

Keith recalls only visiting Altea once, not long after his father passed, and the weight of the world felt all too real and all too heavy on his shoulders. The memories of that visit slip like sand between his fingers. Nothing permeable except the twist and twirl of dancing feet and sharp blue eyes that Keith has never quite forgotten. The rest of the festivities, however, exist as nothing more than a footnote in Keith’s recollection. After all, that had been nearly a decade ago. And Keith’s priorities have changed immensely over the last few years.

Keith turns his gaze from the rolling hills, the lush green lingering in his sight even as he closes his eyes. In many ways, the battlefield he recalls, filled with youthful bravado and camaraderie, mirrors the feeling he has now - the heavy tread of hooves on the ground. However, unlike before, Keith finds himself longing for what lies behind him. Once, Keith would have never considered the castle walls and its obligations his home. However, now, as his eyes close, he sees the glint of a soft smile upon a freckled face. His memories guide him toward home in ways he never expected. 

Keith lets his eyes open slowly, the breeze dusting his cheeks as Red’s steps fill his ears. Keith knows he is not the same man who saw to fight to the last breath for the sake of the battle, not when all that waited for him in the castle walls was obligation and the weighty burden of a crown. Now, he had reasons to fight, and reasons to return from that fight. 

Keith releases a heavy breath, pushing out of his body with a forcefulness that he struggles to name. He flicks his gaze off to the side and sees Shiro’s steady, gray eyes focused on him. The older man offers a slight nod as Keith shifts his reins and guides Red toward Shiro. Silence befalls them as Keith focuses his gaze ahead, the sun casting long shadows across rocky terrain. 

“This was the right choice,” Keith hears the words and blinks, realizing his own lips had formed them. 

“Are you trying to convince me, or ask me?” Shiro offers after a predictable silence.

Keith’s fingers tighten around the leather reins. A soft snort from his horse urges him to loosen his grip, “I’m… not sure.” He mumbles the words barely above a whisper. 

Shiro releases a soft hum, “I can’t tell you the best path, Keith. You are grown. These are choices you make and live by.” He starts, and Keith can already hear the lecture on the horizon. “You analyzed your options, and we are here, and we will make certain that it is the best choice.” Shiro continues, his voice steadfast and comforting, “And then, soon, you can return to the castle.” Shiro allows for a lengthy pause, “And Lance.” 

Keith’s cheeks flush at the mention of Lance, and as he casts his gaze to the side as, Shiro offers a knowing look. Shiro’s upturned lips and slight sparkle in his eyes says more than words allow. 

Keith lets out a grunt, something he’s certain Lance would groan about and say, “Use your words,” the thought of Lance brings a smile to his lips and a sense of renewed energy. He urges Red onward, and the horse picks up her pace as the sound of hooves once more fills his ears. They have reached an incline just as the sun crests over the middle of the sky, the heat of the day a reminder of the trials to come. 

Keith urges Red onward, staying ahead in pace with Shiro before moving ahead to crest over another hill. The route remains familiar as Keith thinks back to his battles prior. Keith can’t quite recall how long ago it was that he stared down Shiro and his advisors when they cautioned him against going to the border to fight. Keith recalls the weighty words that had preceded his declaration. These words told him of his responsibilities to the crown and his people. These words spoke of obligation and ruling without a sword in hand. 

Keith had been naive but determined then. The cloak of innocence has long fallen from his shoulders, and all that remains is the battle before him - wounds still aching but a determination with every step. 

The sky begins to shift toward a burnt umber of the fading sun, and pinpricks of stars emerge from the dying light. Keith takes a slow, deep breath, the cooler air brushing against the parts of exposed skin. He closes his eyes and lets the sounds of chatter fill his senses, the rhythmic thump of his horse’s hooves stepping in time with the other steeds in their ranks. It feels almost odd how peaceful the approach to their borders are - a calm before a growing storm. 

The quiet gives Keith enough time to let his thoughts drift back toward home, toward the fortified castle walls and those who reside inside of them. Or, namely, the person. A memory of Lance’s soft expression, the slight tilt of his head as he looks at Keith with a trust and appreciation that Keith doesn’t feel worthy of. At least not yet. 

The blurred memory of the sun hitting Lance’s face in such a way that his tan skin almost glows, each freckle on his face a dancing constellation of stars. Lance’s long lashes flutter shut as he leans toward the warmth, and the feeling of Keith’s beating heart thundering in his chest then and now in the memory of that moment. 

Keith doesn’t know what he has done in his life to deserve his status as Crown Prince, let alone the trials and triumphs that accompanied the role. He never asks to be the child of the Marmoran Queen Krolia, who led her people toward a new era of sovereignty and prosperity. He never asks to take over after his father passes. He thinks that had the world worked differently, he still would have picked up a sword to battle, but the weight of that decision would not hit him with the weight of the crown attached. 

Keith’s eyes flutter open, taking in the formation of stars as the light of day vanishes from sight. 

Keith cannot dwell on a path not offered to him. He knows this, and from the path ahead and the one behind, Keith thinks, perhaps, his future may hold some prosperity he had not considered. 

His thoughts are broken by the first sounds of swords clashing and raised voices, the procession of armed soldiers arriving at the border. Keith’s heart rate suddenly picks up, though he can’t place if it’s excitement or trepidation that resounds louder in his chest cavity. Red crests over the final hill, the rocky terrain bending her legs at odd angles until they both find solid land, the wind blows a frigid gust of air, sending his hair in every direction. 

Keith’s gaze falls on the rows of lantern light that illuminate the battalion. As his eyes look onward, the spray of firelight that dances in the near distance, just beyond their borders. An unspoken threat.

Keith covers the remaining distance to the familiar stronghold, managing furtive nods and smiles as he spots some of the men he fought with before being sent away. The lingering guilt of leaving them behind still digs at his insides. Still, Keith never gives himself long enough to dwell and resolve the ache of remorse. A part of him knows it’s unfounded, that, as Lance insists, he must find other ways to fight. However, the shame still weaves and winds at his insides as he learns one of his friends, Regris, succumbed to his wounds after another round of battles. 

Keith can tell himself that he can’t hold the guilt of not being there to defend Regris, that with his own injury, he was more a risk and a concern than a soldier prepared to fight. 

Keith can tell himself these things.

Still, as his eyes cast out into the night, scanning the border in quiet contemplation, he feels that lingering guilt everywhere he turns. Guilt for leaving Lance safe, reasonably safe, but alone with only a hope for salvation. Guilt for leaving the fields of battle in the first place, and learning of the losses to mourn that overshadow the triumphs to revel in. Guilt in all the ways he’s not enough of a prince to rule, not enough of a soldier to fight, not enough of a hero to guarantee Lance’s safety. 

Keith sits in quiet contemplation through the night, the tented structure cocooning him from the night wind, letting the information briefed to him earlier sink in fully. He catches movement off to the side and watches as Shiro releases a slow sigh and settles beside Keith. He holds a steaming drink, passing it quietly to Keith. 

Keith takes a slow sip, letting the bitterness of the steeped drink rest on his tongue before he closes his eyes and swallows. 

“Whatever it is you are contemplating,” Shiro breaks their shared silence, “it will not be resolved tonight. Get some rest, Keith.” 

Keith takes another slow sip, the warmth of the drink weighing his limbs down, his closed eyes too heavy to lift. He releases a grunt and doesn’t fight Shiro as he gently plucks the cup from Keith’s hand. 

He thinks another mumble of words escapes his mouth, or perhaps Shiro’s? However, the exhaustion of the journey and the tasks ahead steal the last of his consciousness, and he slips into a deep, dreamless sleep.

✽

The calm before the storm never strikes Keith as accurate to his life… or it hadn’t; until the moment that dawn’s thready lights spill over the rough terrain. It follows a loud, low bellow of a horn that reverberates down Keith’s spine - and suddenly, the peaceful memory of his time within the castle walls comes crumbling down. Keith launches himself back into the throes of the battle, his determination palpable as sweat drips down his face, lifting his sword for the first time in months in the heat of danger rather than the pretend version of it. 

Keith’s breath sounds ragged with each inhale - the chaos of clashing swords, the whistle of arrows flying, the grunts and groans and shouts in the throes of fighting. It rings as familiar to Keith, a tangible memory of the time he spent fighting with fervor and passion to defend his nation. That fervor still exists, like a tiny flame that he coaxes to life, but Keith’s body moves slower than he’d like. His muscles are quick to follow along with the swing of a blade or galloping to and from danger - but not as agile as they once were. 

Keith doesn’t let the rustiness of his instincts distract him from the mission at hand. As the familiarity of battle rehones him, watching as his countrymen lift their swords for the renewed fight, he knows that only one thing will end the endless spill of blood. 

Keith never met Lotor, and he had never felt inclined to prior to Lance walking into his life. Sure, faced with a multi-generational battle of wills and wants that never ceases may be reason enough to face the man behind it. However, Keith never considered himself much of a leader; he never considered himself to be any role ascribed to him, other than a soldier. 

However, now, knowing all that is at stake, seeing the battle renew and men fight and fall by the sword on both sides, he knows it has to end. Somehow - whatever way he can - for the sake of Lance, for the sake of Marmora, and even those in Altea, he must endure and end this fight. Keith knows he is not forged with diplomacy on his tongue, but as he takes in the mayhem around him, he wonders if his sword will suffice. 

The fight endures through the day, Keith pulled back only once by Shiro to talk strategy. 

And then night falls. A surprising peace and quiet accompanies it. 

During the night, Keith scrubs a damp washcloth against his skin and asks Shiro, “What does he look like?” 

“Who?” Shiro asks as he scans the topographic maps laid out on the table. 

“Lotor.” 

Shiro falls quiet for a moment, his hand brushing against the curled edge of the map to pin it down. “Why do you ask?”

Keith drops the cloth back into the tepid water, the resulting splash hitting his shins as he stands and presses his palm to the edge of the map. Shiro pulls his hand back and begins to mark the map with a feather-tipped quill. 

“How else am I meant to end this, unless at the source?” 

Keith doesn’t need to look at Shiro to see the frown plastered on the older man’s face. “There are many ways to negotiate solutions, Keith,” he admonishes with a heavy exhale, “but… this is a different circumstance.” Keith glances at Shiro, tracing the worry in his furrowed brow. 

Keith allows silence to fill the space as Shiro lifts the inked pen from the parchment. “Knowing this does not permit you to act rashly, Keith. It is more than just Lance’s well-being that is at stake here. You are our Crown Prince,” Shiro straightens and places his hand on Keith’s shoulder, “we need you in one piece, hm?” Keith manages not to roll his eyes as he shrugs off Shiro’s hand and nudges their shoulders together. 

“Fine, fine.” Keith huffs, glancing sideways at Shiro as the man shares a smile. Then, Shiro describes the man that Keith wishes nothing more than to run his sword through. Shiro paints a picture of a silver-haired man with a vicious smile and devilish air. “I have not seen him in almost half a decade,” Shiro remarks, “when we visited Altea and you…” Shiro releases a sharp laugh. “Well, I did not expect to be paying King Alfor for the broken vase.” 

Keith grumbles low in his throat at the reminder of his supposed antics in the Altean stronghold. “It is quite possible that his appearance has changed,” Shiro concludes with a tense expression, “nevertheless, if you do see him on the battlefield, do not engage with him alone. If he wishes harm to Marmora and Lance, he will seek out your weaknesses.” 

Keith lifts his hand from the map and crosses his arms over his chest. “That won’t-”

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice sharpens, “I will honor your choices coming to the front of the line. That you wish to be a hero for others… For Lance. But that does not excuse stupid decision making.” 

“Shiro, you don’t trust me to be smart about this?”

Shiro straightens to his full height. The slight advantage of the angle forces Keith to tilt his neck a bit, “I trust that you will act with your heart,” Shiro lifts his hand, “and I need you to act with your head,” he taps gently at the center of Keith’s forehead.

“Understood?” 

Keith’s cheeks warm, and he averts his eyes as he grunts a sound of affirmation. Keith can’t vouch for whether or not he’ll be able to meet Shiro’s expectations. The quiet evening breaks into a chaotic dawn as the fighting resumes. 

A cyclical and cynical existence. 

Keith used to love it - to an extent, he still does. But after two weeks of mixed sleep on unsteady ground and early morning wake-ups, Keith can’t help but long for softer bedding and Lance’s resting expression as the light of day slowly sweeps across his chambers. Keith longs after the slight scrunch of Lance’s nose when he shakes off the dregs of sleep. The way Lance will wrap his arms around Keith and coax him back to slumber. For how little time they’d spent together, the time actually spent leaves Keith with a deep yearning. 

All the more reason to put an end to the lingering threat. 

Keith wakes with aching bones and strained muscles as the second week crests into the third; he squints in the early morning daylight, lifting his hand to block the sun and inhale the morning dew. There is a quiet that Keith finds out of place, even in the early morning, his eyes adjust and the brightness bathes the terrain before him. 

Keith wonders when the silence will break and who among them may lift the sword first. 

Keith twists his hand and drags it through his hair, tugging out the knots that developed overnight. As he scans the horizon, the icy blue of the morning sky coats the land in a sea of blue. The blue isn’t quite the shade of Lance’s sharp blue eyes, but the clear blue skies give Keith enough pause to be struck by another pit of longing. 

He has to hold that feeling at bay in the heat of the battle, tugging him back and into the arms of Lance’s slim frame, listening to Lance’s stifled laughter as they watch the advisor try not to tear out his hair. The pull toward a future he never considers he may want, with softness that never feels possible for how he’s hardened himself. The embrace of a possibility of, impossibly, something different. 

Someone different. 

Keith lowers his hand to his chest, a jagged pain reverberating in his chest as he sucks in a breath. The sensation rings alarms in his head. Is he dying? Keith digs his fingers into the chainmail, the biting metal grounding him as he swallows in deep breaths and closes his eyes. As he does, the flitting image emerges of Lance’s soft smile as a warm light bathes him in a coppery glow. 

Keith unclenches his hand from his chest and opens his eyes. Tears spring to the corners of his eyes as he peers out at the endless blue. 

This had to end. He has to find a way to put a stop to this threat. 

Throughout the last two weeks, despite knowing that Lotor was supposedly leading the charge of this brigade, Keith has not seen any sign of silver hair or a cold disposition, even from afar. Keith takes slow, methodical steps through the camp, approaching his horse as he continues to focus his gaze out toward the skyline. 

His steed snorts, exhaling a dewy mist from her nostrils as Keith brushes through her chestnut hair. Keith’s gaze drifts out again as his hands move into rote patterns, tightening his horse’s saddle and lifting his body up with a short grunt. The higher vantage point, Keith’s eyes cast further and farther - a flash of silver catches his gaze, and his head jerks. His hands move with the motion as Red pulls against her reins and follows the jerking movement. 

Keith blinks the last of the brightness from his eyes and narrows them toward the distinctive color. 

His hands grip the reins tightly, his breath shallow as a figure on a horse fills his vision. The figure, a man clad in onyx armor, wouldn’t have stood out from the rest of the Galra that Keith clashes with, if not for the glow of silver locks that stand out in sharp contrast against his dark armor. 

Keith doesn’t need to question who it is. Even without clearly seeing the man’s expression, Keith knows.  

He hears Shiro’s warning words echo in his ears. He feels the judgment and concern from Shiro’s expression even without the man glancing his way. He knows what he shouldn’t do. But he ignores it for the sake… the very idea of ending this torment once and for all. 

Keith looks back only once, a quick motion that strains his neck as he peers at the tent that he shares with Shiro. The tent flap begins to move, the familiarity of Shiro’s mismatched hair coming into view. And then Keith snaps his reins and takes off without a second glance. 

Keith hears the gallop of his horse’s hooves as he races toward the figure. The man catches sight of him, and Keith is close enough to listen to the crack of his reins and the heavy thunder of hooves as he takes off. 

Keith’s lips twist in a smile. Who would’ve thought the man tormenting Lance and his people would be such a coward? Keith pursues the man along their shared border without second thought. The Marmoran infrastructure lessens as Keith rides, as do the Galran foot soldiers. Keith keeps an eye after the man just a pace ahead of him on the other side of the border. Had Keith been in the throes of his youth, he may have considered the chase a race to the finish line. A game instead of the struggles of an endless war. 

Keith urges Red onward, she picks up speed, and he’s now neck and neck with the man who’s tormented Lance. Keith’s hand settles on his sword, grateful that while he may have foregone a helmet, at least his rash decision does not leave him unarmed. 

Then the silver-haired man comes to an abrupt stop, the movement so quick that Keith races past him, and he tugs at Red’s reins so hard she nearly throws him off. Keith snaps his head toward the man, instinct once more dictating his actions as he jumps off of Red. The sound of his sword withdrawing from its scabbard is the only sound until he hears a smug ‘hm’ from the man. 

From Lotor. 

The armored man takes Keith’s lead, disembarking from his steed and resting his palm calmly against his hip, his own sword close at hand. 

Keith doesn’t know how to break this silence that draws between them, the heavy weight of wanting to confront the man that drew nothing but nightmares from Lance. He doesn’t know if words or swords will serve him better. Keith takes in a slow, steadying breath. The gentle warmth of the brightening day brushes against his skin. 

Keith debates with himself, but then reality hits. He has never been a man of words, and he doubts he will be starting soon. 

He lifts his blade and runs at the man. 

Keith comes to fighting like a second skin, he draws in sweeping motions and expert strikes as if born with the skill to dive and dodge. As his blade meets Lotor’s, the metallic verberations run down his spine, the sensation familiar in spite of the foreignness he’s facing. Keith weaves out of the line of fire as Lotor’s blade cascades toward him. 

If an audience had observed them, the shock gasps may have been heard as Keith spins out of reach of the icy metal. As he moves, he shakes off the last remnants of sleep from his body and mind. He remains light on his toes and wets his lips. All the while, only the sound of their horses and the whistle of wind fills the terrain. The pair of future kings remain silent as the grave. 

Keith builds up his endurance for the ongoing battle. However, the weeks of fighting wear on his insides. The soreness of aching muscles running through his body replaces the stiff rustiness from his lack of practice. He has put his all into fighting alongside the others in his ranks, and as he watches Lotor, he realizes that is not a value they share. 

Lotor fights with a smooth grace that, without a sword, Keith may have mistaken for dancing. Keith watches with a hot exhale as Lotor glides across their makeshift battlefield without a trace of pain or hesitation. As if he’s been waiting for this moment, weeks into the start of the fight, to catch Keith worn and tired. 

It hardly counts for a fair fight. Especially as old scars begin to ache anew.

Keith takes in a ragged breath, attempting to suppress the pain radiating from his shoulder - when surrounded by the others, it becomes an easy thing to ignore. The heat of the battle pulls adrenaline forward to finish a fight. Keith feels that same adrenaline pulsate under his skin. It matches his rage and frustration for the man who stands unhindered before him. However, the isolation of this chosen battle plucks at Keith’s old wounds as he’s driven by the weight and pressure of ending this. 

With a grunt, he swings his sword once more. Keith’s eyes flash as Lotor’s eyebrow lifts, and the smug expression fills Keith’s vision. The clash of metal reverberates down his spine as he narrows his gaze at the other royal. 

They pull apart, Lotor making a show of twirling his sword blade with an air of superiority.

Then Lotor breaks their silence. “I thought the boy king would have had more stamina, after all,” he rests the tip of his blade against the damp earth, “stealing my consort is no simple task.” He tilts his head as he peers down at Keith. Their heights set Keith at a slight disadvantage, but he more than makes up for it in his impassioned spitfire. 

Keith doesn’t deign Lotor with an answer. Instead, he throws his body forward, and their blades clash once more, leaving them both inhaling deeply, their gazes sparking a fire. 

Then, with a heavy gust from his lungs, Keith snaps, “He isn’t yours. None of this is.” He snaps and motions around them at the border between them. 

Lotor’s eyes glint in the morning sun, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smile as he continues his blasé diatribe, “You may find that neither statement is true,” he chides. With an almost artful motion, Lotor lifts his blade to meet Keith’s with a resounding clash. The metallic sound echoes in Keith’s ears as he pushes his brute strength against the rival royal. 

“And even if it was,” Lotor continues without a moment’s pause, “I still claim what is mine.” His teeth bare in a vicious expression as he pushes Keith back with his blade. 

Keith stumbles, his resolve steadfast as he stares at the Galran Prince. His eyes close briefly, envisioning Lance’s soft blue eyes as his teeth worry at his lower lip, a hand extended with a well-worn letter resting in Lance’s hand. The letter exchange, one-sided at that, torments Lance with confusing kindness and dizzying declarations. 

Keith growls at the memory and the reminder of who he is fighting for, and with a flash of movement, he thrusts himself forward. 

Behind Keith, Red lets out a guttural whinny, the sound contrasting sharply with the crash and clang of blades. Keith twists his head just enough to catch sight of her wide eyes full of alarm when the blunt end of a hilt strikes his head with a deafening blow. Pain cascades in his head and through his whole body as he shudders. He stumbles - his vision fading out as his throat releases a pained grunt. Then, his body fails him. 

Keith’s body crumples like dead weight, his vision spinning as he tries to ground himself back into reality instead of the sea of stars that swim in front of him. 

Voices echo above him, the fraction of sensical sound between the delirious pain that swarms his skull. 

“Sire, would you like me to finish the job,” a terse woman’s voice comes through the fog.

Keith blinks sluggishly, his palm pressing against the damp earth, trying to push himself up; a dark boot pushes Keith’s body back down to the ground as he hears a “hmph” sound above him. 

“No, I still have use for the little hero.” 

Keith struggles once more to fight against his floundering vision, but as his blurred vision looks up past his assailant towards the open sky. All he sees is blue. Blue. Blue.  

And then black.  

✽

Keith’s entire body creaks as he attempts to starve off the waves of pain. Keith shudders, his palm slipping under him as he shakily tries to push himself up. He forces open his eyes, each tug of the eyelid like bricks pulling his eyes back to shut. He finally manages to keep one eye open without his eyes watering and blurring. At first, with how his head throbs with pain, he thinks his vision has blurred beyond the norm, and he will need to navigate the world in pitch darkness. But slowly, ever so slowly, details materialize and match the sensation he feels against his palm. 

The coldness of frozen stone, the inhale of iron, and the heavy dampness that rests on his tongue. Keith blinks sluggishly, traces of light coming into view from a flickering torchlight off to the side. It seems like the only light source until he cranes his neck, the motion stiff and uncomfortable, seeing a stream of silvery light coming high above him. 

As Keith lets in willowy, unsteady breaths, not many thoughts come through other than Shiro is going to kill him. If Keith even makes it out of the situation he’s in, Shiro is absolutely going to have his head. And shout ‘I told you so’s until he is red in the face. Keith’s strength leaves him as he collapses back onto the cold, hard ground. His eyes flick out, staring in between the bars of his prison cell. Keith blows out a breath, the hair sticking to his face loosens a little before resettling to cover part of his vision. He releases another quieter exhale as he forces his body to move. Little by little, pushing against the lead in his veins, Keith forces his body up.

The movements are achingly slow, his vision swirls as he straightens, he wobbly applies pressure on his right hand as he lifts his left. He presses his hand to the back of his head and winces at the jagged pain that erupts through his skull. He pulls his hand away and, through the minimal light, sees the stain of dried blood against his fingertips. 

Keith digs his nails into the stone as he grunts and forces himself to stand. His legs shake as he rights himself, stumbling a step until his palms hit the iron bars. His palms ache. His whole body aches. He thought the pain in his shoulder took the cake on his worst pain, but the dull thrum that flashes at every nerve overshadows that acute pain. He leans his head against the bars, the slight pressure against the top of his head results in a spasm of agony that he has to hold back a gasp. 

He takes measured slow breaths as he tries to gather his bearings and recognize just how much of a mess he’s gotten himself into. 

Keith may be seeing double, but he has enough sense to know what came of that missing time - he walks right into Lotor’s trap, a foolish, reckless act that only serves to endanger himself and everything he holds dear. 

He knows he has to save the berating for later, for now, he has to find a way out of here without fainting in the process. 

That thought, however, is put on pause as he hears echoing steps on cold stone. 

Keith’s eyes flutter shut as he starves off the pain thrumming in his body and curls his fingers around the icy metal. His eyes flash open, and a deep scowl crosses his expression as he takes in the tall, imposing figure of the Daibazaalian Prince. Lotor wears a self-satisfied smile, a slight lift of his brow as his teeth show in the dim lighting. 

“My soldiers called you the Beast King of Marmora,” Lotor breaks the silence, his words smooth and poised, “but I find you utterly lacking,” he flicks his eyes up and down Keith’s dirt-clad, bloodied figure. 

“Release me,” Keith snarls, his palms bracing against the metal so hard he thinks he will bend it through brute strength alone. Sadly, the metal remains sturdily and steadily frozen in place. 

“I do not take orders from you, princeling.” 

Keith sees red and hurls his fist past the bars, his fingers gripping a few strands of Lotor’s silver spun locks before the man pulls away. Lotor releases a considerate sound, his expression tightening as he peers at Keith critically. “There’s no need for savagery,” he remarks with a curled lip smile, “though, perhaps my soldiers were onto something.” 

Keith seethes and grips the few strands of hair in his fist, his chest rises and falls as he grips the other bar to prevent himself from keeling over. 

Lotor makes a dramatic flourish of movements - Keith can’t tell if his vision fails him or if, perhaps by design, a set changes like a play. Rather than standing mere steps away, Lotor sits in a procured set, a table and lantern set on the makeshift arrangement. Keith sucks in a breath through his nostrils, the sensation calming as he tries to gather his senses to focus. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a pair of servants scurrying out of sight. Keith presses his forehead against the bars as he glares at Lotor. 

The other royal sets down a series of pieces on a gameboard. Keith frowns as he attempts to take in the details of the pieces set on the board. Keith never historically liked games, at least not the type that needed patience and leaned on the mind over the body. Ever since he was old enough to lift a sword, Keith forged his body into the piece that moved through the game of his life. Rather than taking in all the pieces at once - which is probably why he never imagined someone like Lance coming into his life. He never allows himself the idea of seeing all the pieces moving as one. 

Lotor leans back in his chair, the creak of wood catching Keith’s attention as he shakes the dullness from his mind and vision. 

“My intended,” Lotor begins as he moves a piece across the board, not bothering to ask Keith to partake - not that Keith has any intention to, “is quite adept at this game,” Lotor continues, sliding a piece on the opposite side of the board, closer to Keith. 

“Your intended?” Keith asks, his eyes narrowing as Lotor continues to play against himself. “Lance is not yours.” He snaps, though it takes him admittedly long to come to this conclusion. Keith offers himself grace, given his head wound. 

“You will find that, in fact, he is,” Lotor remarks without looking up. One of the pieces on the board falls onto the set. Lotor’s hand swipes the offending piece across the board. It falls with an audible clatter to the ground.

Keith grits his teeth, wanting to berate the point but finding it exhausting to continue on this singular conclusion. Keith doubts that, in his current state, he has any ability to sway this prince’s declaration. He’s not a man with silver lacing his tongue, and he doesn’t have the leverage to convince Lotor that Lance is someone who has free will and will choose however he pleases. Keith needs to gather himself, find a way to secret his own information, and renew his strength. So he braces his lips together and forces the defensive statement back into the pit of his stomach. 

“And capturing me does what exactly?” He spits instead as his eyes track the man’s long-fingered movements across the board. Some choices are quick and reactionary, while others are slow and methodical, like a cat watching a mouse, its tail flicking from side to side. 

“It does a great number of things,” Lotor hums, briefly meeting Keith’s gaze, “I suspect it puts the pieces I need exactly in place.” He releases a laugh, “Though this was not how I intended to go about this process.” His words ring casual, like he and Keith are old friends rather than perpetual enemies. 

“But,” Lotor peers at Keith with unflinching pools of dark blue, “we must adapt to the circumstances we find ourselves in, hmm?” Keith grits his teeth hard enough to ache as he glares at the other prince. Another piece falls on the board. 

“What do you want?” Keith asks, almost exhausted to repeat it. 

Keith does not receive an answer as another piece falls. Keith squints in the minimal light - he doesn’t pretend to know the first thing about the game before him, but the fallen piece is shaped distinctively like the crown his father used to wear. Lotor taps another piece in his hand against the board. 

Tap, taptap. Tap, taptap. 

Then the royals’ eyes meet once more, Lotor’s hand clasping around a piece that Keith cannot make out. 

Lotor once more shatters the silence with a cruel smile and a lift of his head. 

“What I’m owed.”