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+++ Lance +++
Lance glances at his watch for what feels like the hundredth time in the past hour and a half.
"Come on, asshole," he mutters, glancing around the room with no real expectation of seeing Keith. Which is probably a good thing for his lover, at this point, because Lance is going to kill him: honest-to-God, drag-out, beat-down, body-slam the bastard into the mat while wearing a wrestling mask, kill him.
"Romantic troubles, friend?" the alien bartender across from him questions, two of his four arms polishing blue crystal glasses. Lance has been to probably a hundred space-stations in a hundred galaxies in the past five years, but the one thing they all have in common are bartenders with psychiatric degrees.
Lance sighs, taking a healthy swallow of what constitutes as Vodka for this sector (and drinking on an empty stomach is probably not a great idea, but probably neither was marrying an emotionally-stunted asshole exactly one year ago; Lance is just full of fantastic decisions). "You could say that," he says vaguely. "I think I've been stood-up."
The bartender nods, refilling Lance's glass. Lance likes him. "Well, I've seen a lot of that in this place. And the best advice I have is to not to give someone a second chance at a first date."
"Thanks," Lance says glumly. "I'll let him know he lost his chance before he and I go to bed tonight."
The bartender blinks his three orange eyes at him in confusion before being called over to assist another patron at the opposite end of the bar.
Because yeah, it's kind-of irregular that Lance can't always manage a successful date with his better half. Not that he doesn't try: he's planned evenings out and weekend trips and just plain times to get away and be together. But Keith, who accepts his surroundings with equanimity, is largely unaffected by Lance's attempts to breed nostalgia in their relationship.
Which is cool, but come on: it's their goddamn anniversary. This shit is important, right?
Just as Lance is considering giving up entirely on the evening and making the long, unpleasant trek back to the ship, he notices that he's being furtively watched, but not by anyone he knows: another alien is perched two stools down from him, giving him a friendly smile. Pidge once voiced a radical theory that all humanoids are derived from one, supreme species of humanoids, and that they were spread like seeds across the fields of the galaxy by ancient, technologically-advanced aliens.
Looking at this guy, who (with a human-like body but sporting impressively long dark hair and gold, pupil-less eyes) is so obviously not of Lance's own species but close enough to be attractive, Lance can believe the theory.
When the guy moves next to the seat directly to Lance's right, Lance gives him a wary smile. "Is this the part where you say, 'What's a place like you doing in a guy like this?'" he asks, casually placing his palm on top of his glass; you never know what kind of weirdos you're going to run into at a space-dock.
To his credit, the guy doesn't miss a beat, humming thoughtfully at Lance's nonsense question. "Is this part of the Earthling mating ritual? Confusing the subjects of one's sentence?"
"Only after we've had too much to drink."
"Let us get started, then," the guy says cheerfully, waving a hand to the bartender.
Lance shakes his head. "Save your credits. It ain't happening, man."
"I have no idea what you mean," the other man says with intentionally over-the-top innocence, and Lance can't help a snort.
"I know your type," Lance says. "Hell; we're probably cut from the same cloth."
The guy moves a little closer to him, but not uncomfortably so, still leaning casually against the bar rather than sitting. "If you know me so well, then you should at least know what I am called."
"Thanks, but I'm good."
"Golann." Golann smirks, holding out a dark, long-fingered hand, palm up.
Lance sighs, but places his hand on top of the other man's. "Lance." His eyebrows then shoot up in surprise when the contact causes a faint, friendly buzz at the base of his skull. Golann grips his hand politely for a brief instant and then lets go, and the sensation vanishes. "You're a telepath?" Lance asks, recognizing the buzz from previous experiences with telepathic aliens.
Golann shrugs. "Among other things. I look forward to demonstrating, later."
"Yeah..." Lance says with exagerated remorse. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm booked for pretty much-" he glances at his watch "-oh, forever."
Golann just leans slightly more forward, giving Lance the full-on alien smolder (and man, if Lance didn't have Keith, would he really be like this guy? He likes to think that he wouldn't be so obvious in his come-ons to complete strangers). "I have complete confidence..." Golann says, looking at Lance through his long dark eyelashes, gold eyes glinting in the low lighting of the club. "...that you and I will be spending this evening in one another's company."
Lance casually takes a sip of his drink, pressing his pinkie into the center of Golann's chest so that he leans back again. "When we part ways, Big Guy, the only thing of mine that you'll have been inside is my personal space."
And, naturally, because Lance's life is just that difficult, Keith chooses that particular moment to arrive:
He's in his work-out gear, sweaty and flushed and still stupidly, effortlessly attractive, but he also looks pissed; when he catches sight of Lance, hand on the chest of an obviously horny alien leaning towards him, he looks even more pissed.
"Balls..." Lance says, quickly swiping his card through the slot in the bar to pay his tab. "Speaking of which," he says to Golann over his shoulder as he slides off the stool and quickly moves toward his fellow paladin, "You should probably cover yours, if you have them."
Golann just gapes at the obviously enraged, dangerous-looking human prowling in his direction. He backs up against the railing of the bar, seemingly unsure whether to run or to stay as still as possible. Keith stalks right up to him, glaring, opening his mouth to say something, but no-one gets to find out what: Lance snags him by the back of his loose, sweat-damp shirt, and drags him out of the establishment, a hundred strange, alien eyes watching them curiously.
+++
They're still having an epic shit-storm of a domestic when they return to the ship; all the other members of their entourage start peeking curiously over the balconies of the main palace foyer, obviously unsure as to whether or not they should interfere in a potential bloodbath.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Keith questions from the bottom of the stairs.
Lance stops halfway up and whips around, feeling his face heat up in a rare moment of rage. "Me?" he shoots back, ignoring the gaping faces of their friends around them. "What the flipping, flying fuck is wrong with you? You were the one trying to pick a fight in a bar! Way to spread the paladin message, Keith, we should make you the official liaison!"
"Hey," Keith says, jamming a thumb into his own chest. "I spent nearly an hour trying to find you on the station. I thought you were lost or hurt or... I don't know what." He stalks up the stairs so that he's standing just a few feet below Lance. "Instead, I see you chatting up some asshole in a bar, looking... really, really nice," Keith finishes, eyes curiously raking up and down Lance's body, as if he's just noticing the fitted clothing and the freshly cut hair.
Lance gives a roar of frustration, slapping one hand over his own eyes. "If you think real hard, do you think you can remember my reason for being there at all? Do you have even the tiniest clue in that thick skull of yours?"
Keith frowns, eyebrows scrunching together in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
They both turn to glare at Shiro when he clears his throat faintly from above them. "What?" they shout.
"Uh, guys?" Shiro says, still managing to maintain a sense of leadership despite also looking really, really uncomfortable. The other paladins, Allura, and Coran are huddled at the top of the stairs, watching with wide eyes and occasionally dipping their hands into a large tub of popcorn held in Hunk's grasp; Lance realizes that he and Keith are interrupting movie night.
"Yes, Shiro?" he and Keith reply in unison, still sounding somewhat hostile.
"Do you think this is going to come to blows? Or can you both handle it?"
"Yes," Keith says at the same time that Lance answers, "No!" Neither specify the question to which they are replying.
Shiro rubs tiredly at his eyes. "Alright, then..."
"Don't worry, Shiro," Lance says, stomping the rest of the way up the stairs and into the hall. "I'm done with this conversation."
Lance is both grateful and disappointed that Keith doesn't follow.
He's disappointed, because fighting with Keith feels like sticking his own arm in a blender: senseless, painful, a complete betrayal of his own person; if they have to have it out, then he'd rather they do it quickly and privately.
But he's also grateful, because, right before he reaches their room, he has to angrily swipe at the moisture collecting in the corners of his eyes, and he doesn't want Keith to see it.
+++
Later that night, Lance can't sleep. And about three hours into it, he gets tired of lying stiffly next to Keith and pretending to be unconscious, so he tosses off the blankets and stomps to the kitchen.
He is not going to apologize first. No way. Not when he hasn't done anything wrong.
...But by the time he's seated on the edge of the table, taking big swigs of juice directly from the carton, most of the fight has gone out of him. Because avoiding Keith is like relieving himself of the aspects of his lifestyle that give him the most stability: how is he supposed to sleep without Keith spooning his back like a particularly aggressive octopus? How is supposed to eat meals without their typical, quick-paced banter? How is supposed to shower, for Pete's sake, knowing full well that the odds of it turning into impromptu sex are practically nil? This mutually-inflicted silence is hurting more than it's helping, but Lance has no clue how to end it, has no clue if the things that are bothering him are even worth being bothered about.
He wishes he could call his mother.
"Hey. Why aren't you in bed?" Keith's voice suddenly murmurs into the quiet of the room. He's standing half in the doorway, almost tentative, if Keith could even be called tentative.
Lance sighs, crossing his arms. "I'm sorry, but Lance isn't home right now. Please leave a message at the bee-"
"I don't want to leave a message, Lance," Keith says with a scowl, moving completely into the room. He spies the open carton is Lance's hand, filled with juice that has obviously been contaminated with Lance's saliva (not as contaminated as Keith, though, Lance is positive) and raises an eyebrow. "And Hunk's going to be pissed when he finds out that you broke rule #17."
Because of course Keith has somehow read and memorized all 236 of Hunk's ridiculous kitchen rules.
Lance takes a very pointed swig from the carton inches from Keith's nose. "I'll live," he says. "Vibrating gerbils are scarier than Hunk."
"Lance," Keith says, eyes subtly imploring, to anyone who knows him well enough to see it. There's a faint, inexplicable ring of purple around the pupils, as otherworldly as the person behind them. "Just..." he sighs. "Just come to bed. I'm beat."
Lance frowns down at the spotless kitchen floor. "Then go to bed. No-one's stopping you."
"You know that I can't sleep without you."
"Well, maybe you should have thought of that before making a complete ass of yourself tonight," Lance retorts, trying to muster a bit of irritation so that he doesn't just give in to Keith's idiosyncrasies, like always. "Karma's a bitch: get a helmet."
Keith's fair complexion flushes with rekindled anger. "Okay, so I may have been out of line, but you're not completely innocent in this either."
"Me? I didn't do anything!"
"You were flirting with that guy."
"Keith!" Lance says, slamming the carton down on the counter. Flecks of juice fountain out of it. "For the last goddamn time, I was not flirting with him!"
"I could tell that he wanted to sleep with you," Keith says, leaning smugly up against the wall, like his argument is infallible.
This just makes Lance even more pissed. "Well, I wasn't going to. It's kind-of a two-way street, genius."
"Hey, guys," Pidge says, popping into the room in long, polka-dotted PJ's. "Is this going to take long?" Pidge points to the ceiling of the kitchen. "Because somehow I can hear your voices in my room through three feet of reinforced, Altean titanium, and I just want to know whether or not I should keep trying to sleep."
Keith and Lance glare at one another for two more beats and then leave the room with matching, angry grunts.
"Great," Lance hears Pidge say sarcastically into the room as he storms down the hallway in the opposite direction of his partner. "What a nice way to start a Monday."
+++ Keith +++
"I don't get why he's acting like this," Keith says the next morning, shaking his head at the small pastry Hunk is setting in front of him. He's not really a sweets person, but he tears off a portion to vent some of his frustration. "It's irrational."
"He's still not talking to you, huh?" Hunk says, taking the seat across from him. He hands Keith a steaming mug of something that smells vaguely like cinnamon, giving Keith slight nostalgia for the home-life he never experienced. "Don't worry: Lance'll come around."
"How can you be sure?" Keith asks, wrapping his fingers around the warm mug. "He's never stopped talking to me before. And Lance talking is one of the few things I thought I could rely on."
Hunk shrugs, expression compassionate but not at all worried. "Because you guys are soulmates. Whatever you did couldn't be bad enough to interfere with the cosmic forces at work."
Keith gives him a flat look. "I don't believe in 'Cosmic Forces.'"
Hunk holds up two hands in supplication. "Hey, just because you don't believe in them doesn't mean they aren't working hard to keep you two together. You believe in energy, right?"
"Yeah, but that's different: energy is all around us, for good or bad. It doesn't think." Keith sighs and pushes his plate away from him, appetite as nonexistent as helpful, spiritual entities guiding his love-life. "If I could just figure out what's broken, then maybe I could fix it. Somehow."
"Let's retrace your steps, then: what exactly did you do yesterday?"
Keith squints at the steam coming out of the mug, as if reading it for answers. "I ate breakfast."
"And after that?"
"I took a shower."
"Aaand?"
"...I worked out on the training deck? That's pretty much all I did," Keith says, shrugging. He's having trouble conjuring anything that might have pissed his lover off.
Hunk blinks at him. "You worked out all day?"
"Yeah. I've been told that I can get pretty absorbed in it." He quirks his head as something tickles at the corner of his memory, something that feels suspiciously significant. If only he could put his finger on it...
"Huh." Hunk leans back and takes an impressive chomp of Keith's pastry, devouring half of it in one go. "Weird. Though, I gotta say I'm surprised you two didn't do anything for your anniversary."
Keith knocks over his mug in a extremely rare display of clumsiness. "What?" he asks, horrified.
"Your anniversary, yesterday? I was going to cook you guys a nice dinner, but Lance said you were going out." Hunk tosses the last corner of the pastry delicately into his mouth before peering closely at Keith's pained expression. "Ohhhh," he says in revelation. "I get it now. But, hey! At least we solved the mystery for why he's mad at you."
"Shit," Keith mutters to the hot, milky fluid pooling slowly on the smooth surface of the kitchen table. "Fuck."
"Hey," Hunk says, brown eyes sympathetic as he places a big hand on Keith's shoulder. "He knows you're not great with this stuff. He probably should have reminded you."
"He did." Keith groans, clawing his fingers through his own thick hair. "Three times. I can't believe it was yesterday..."
"Well, then I got nothing. Maybe you should get a calendar?" Keith groans again. "You want me to talk to Lance?"
"No," Keith says, sighing. "It's my mess, I'll clean it up." He cups his hand at the corner of the table so that droplets of milk stop trickling over the edge and onto the clean floor. "But there's something that I still don't understand: he knows I care about him. What does a specific day of the year matter? It's not like I care any less when it isn't our anniversary."
"Lance comes from an emotionally-balanced family-unit. These kinds of traditions carry a lot more weight with that kind of background."
"I never had them." Keith rests his elbows on the table, clasping his hands lightly in front of him. "You don't think..."
"Think what?" Hunk asks, concerned, when Keith doesn't continue.
"You don't think he regrets not making a more... traditional choice of partner?" Keith asks, swallowing, feeling suddenly very cold.
"No," Hunk says, as firm as he ever sounds, and Keith looks up. "Definitely not. But I think he does expect you to compromise a little. Lance gave up a lot of what he's used to in order to be here. Maybe you should do a little of the same?"
Keith nods, Hunk's words doing somersaults in his mind long after they're spoken.
+++
When Keith finds Lance later that evening, it's on the observation deck, a place Lance has been known to gravitate to in times of strife.
But Lance isn't flipping through virtual galaxies, tracing his way to Earth through his fingertips: instead, he's looking sadly at pictures uploaded from their last visit to Lance's family, sliding his finger across the tablet's surface as he catalogs all that they've missed, being so far away, and all that they're going to miss.
Lance told him once that he thought space was the ultimate adventure: exotic cultures and experiences and ideas all categorically marked by an infinity symbol, just waiting to be lived by those bold enough to make the journey.
"Why don't you ever get excited?" Lance asked him, incredulously, in their first few months after discovering Voltron. "We're in fucking space, doing what no-one else can, seeing things no-one has seen! That has to light even your poorly-styled wire."
Keith sighed, looking out the viewscreen to which Lance was enthusiastically gesturing. "Look, be as excited as you want, but all I see are infinite opportunities for a fight."
"You know," Lance said, shaking his head, like Keith was being purposely difficult. "My dad says that if you look for a fight, then you're always going to find it."
Keith shrugged, because he'd heard this line many times before, from people far older and wiser than he. Not that it ever made any difference. "Better than never finding anything at all, I guess," he said.
Because Keith (who has never had any difficulty cutting through life's weeds and brambles until he can trace the very grain of the wood) has always seen space for what it really is: persistent emptiness, broken only by the things one loves enough to bring consolation in the cold, silent nights. And if it's not the job of the Blue Paladin to bring that consolation, be it with a laugh or a bad joke or a thought of safer places and better times, than Keith doesn't know what is.
Because Keith doesn't even know who he is anymore without Lance at his side, gently wiping the blood from his wounds and calling him an idiot. He's not sure he'd like the version of him that never got the chance to know Lance, to love him.
He clears his throat.
"Hey," Lance says, not looking up. He doesn't sound angry anymore. "I'll come to bed in a bit."
"I wasn't coming to ask that," Keith says, moving forward until he's standing in front of the other man. His shadow falls over Lance's seated form, and Lance looks up. "I came to ask you to dinner. If you don't still hate me, that is."
Lance blinks, taking in Keith's uncharacteristically formal attire. "Wow, you look... just wow." He sets the tablet aside, standing and tugging the edge of Keith's tie with one hand. "Where did you get this?"
Keith shrugs, crossing his arms defensively and trying not to look as embarrassed as he feels. "Shiro."
Lance smirks, but there's a glint to his eyes that Keith has learned to associate with Good Times. "Did he tie this for you?"
"See?" Keith says, glaring. "This is why we don't do this. Because you are a terrible person and you make fun of me."
Lance holds up both hands, still grinning. "Sorry, sorry, my bad. I'm just shocked to see you in a suit and tie, that's all."
"Well, I stand by my opinion that ties are worthless and a strategic weakness. It's like begging someone to strangle you."
"Then why wear one?"
"Because I'm trying to meet you halfway," Keith says honestly, and Lance stops smirking. "I'm sorry that I forgot our anniversary, and I want to make it up to you."
Lance raises his eyebrows. "Really? Did you figure it out on your own?"
"No, Hunk told me," Keith says, and Lance rolls his eyes. "And I made him swear to remind me every year from now on." When Lance doesn't say anything in response, Keith feels his entire face burn. "Come on, give me a sign. This stuff is convoluted."
"It's not that complex, Keith, jeez." Lance crosses his own arms, leaning back on one leg. "Just be... I don't know. Appreciative?"
"Do you think that I don't appreciate you?" Keith asks, surprised.
Lance sighs, rubbing his temples. "Dunno. Do you? Because sometimes I feel like I have to schedule a fucking appointment just to be with you; you've already got Hunk working as your relationship secretary."
"Hey..." Keith moves forward, cupping the angled lines of Lance's jaw in his hands. Lance's eyes begrudgingly catch his own. "Of course I want to spend time with you."
"Then why was planning this date like holding you down and pulling every one of your annoyingly perfect teeth?"
"You like my teeth," Keith argues, and Lance looks like he's fighting a smile. "And celebrating an anniversary is hypocritical for us."
"Why? Because normal people enjoy them and we aren't normal?" Lance says, a hint of bitterness in his voice.
Keith slides his hands from Lance's jaw until they meet at the base of the other man's throat, thumbs resting on the faint pulse there. "Because no day with you feels different than the others. I always want you. I always will." Keith feels Lance swallow against his palms. "I don't need anything to remind me of that."
Lance keeps his face neutral for a few more seconds (and Keith has a sneaking suspicion that it's purely to make him sweat) before busting out into an crooked grin. "Okay. That was pretty smooth, you big jerk. But I'm only going out with you because you look good in a tie."
Keith sighs in relief, feeling himself grin as well. "Great. Asshole."
"Prick."
"Loser."
"Idiot."
"Punk."
Lance closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against Keith's. "Jerk," he murmurs.
"You already said that one," Keith says, closing his eyes as well.
"Whatever, just kiss me."
And Keith does. And it isn't like their usual kisses, which are often hurried and snuck in between moments of strife or in rare seconds of privacy; or even their slower, more sensual ones, locked together as they roll around and pant beneath their sheets. It's almost chaste, gentle: like a kiss you would give to a spouse before you left for the day, knowing they would still be there at the end of it.
Just as they end it, they hear an audible sniffle from the other side of the room.
"Hunk!" Allura hisses to the large man; she's crouching in front of a group of eavesdroppers hunched around the entrance-way. "You're interrupting!"
"I can't help it," Hunk gasps, fat tears sliding from the corners of his eyes. "It's just so great..."
And Keith thinks he'll start making anniversaries for all of his and Lance's big relationship moments, if only for an excuse to get out of the castle.