Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lance never really considered falling in love.

It's always been something he knew would happen, and something he now realizes that he's taken for granted. He grew up with a family that were bound to and in love with their soulmates. And while he knew love wasn't a given with soul connections, he assumed his would be.

He had a soulmate. They connected when he was thirteen. And he considered himself in love since the moment that fire raged through his veins.

He never really considered the falling aspect.

He loves his family. He loves his friends. He loves his soulmate.

Life was simple. Until it wasn't.

Until Keith.

Oh, man, Keith.

The thing about actually falling in love? Truly and actually and romantically falling in love. Is that it isn't always obvious until you're so far down that there's no chance to crawl back out. Until you're head over heels and gravity is a thing of the past. Until you've fallen so far that you're floating. Suspended and surrounded and— happy.

Lance always loved his soulmate. It was never a question, but... now that he's looking back on it, he realizes that he never had the chance to fall.

He simply accepted love. Told himself it was true. And that was that.

So it's no surprise that he didn't see it coming when he fell for Keith.

The moments of giddy anticipation. The butterflies that filled his chest. The aimless nervousness with a source that was hard to pin point. The frustration when things didn't work out in a way he didn't even realize he wanted them to. The attraction, absolute and undeniable. The inability to hold back. The urge to touch and be touched.

The warmth in his heart when a smile was pulled from Keith's stubborn lips.

The smile of his own when Keith showed just how much he knew Lance, even in the most subtle of ways.

The understanding that ran so deep and did nothing but weave them tighter together.

The more he understood Keith, the more he realized just how much he cared. Just how much he didn't want to let go. Just how deeply he was buried in Lance's heart.

His fall was slow, gradual, until all at once he was here. Stuck in a place and locked with a feeling he never intended to have. Never thought he would for someone other than his soulmate.

But the thing is... it feels different than what he feels for his soulmate. Keith. Keith is... Keith is apart of him. A pulse in his veins. A warmth in his chest. They fit in a way that's so subtle but so complete. They know each other. Understand each other. He knows how to read most of Keith's more subtle expressions, and Keith knows how to see past his to the heart of him. They know how to comfort each other, whether it's with a joke, a distraction, or a careful touch. And they do so without hesitation. Just being in the same space as Keith is a thrill on its own. A thrill, but also calming. Grounding.

It's how he always imagined being in love would feel like, but it's not like the love he feels for his soulmate.

He always considered his love for his soulmate to be pure and natural.

Now it seems like a mere flickering ember compared to the blazing wildfire Keith has unleashed in his veins.

When he takes the time to sit down. To really think about it. To really dig deep and dissect what he feels... he realizes that his love for his soulmate feels hollow where it never did before. But now that he has a point of reference, it feels more of an echoed image of what could be compared to something that is.

He loves his soulmate because they're his soulmate. His potential perfect match.

He and Keith fit together like Lance always imagined he would with his soulmate, but it's different. They didn't click perfectly into place. They didn't take one look at each other and fall together. It was a long fall. Long and with a few bumps and bruises along the way. They didn't click into place. They learned how to fit together. They learned how the individual jagged little pieces of themselves manage to snap into place.

And it feels so much more rewarding for the effort.

For the learning.

For the understanding.

All the flaws and all the bumps, they fit together so much better for it.

Keith sees him. Really sees him. For all his flaws and obnoxious habits and insecurities and problems and— and still sees something in him worth reaching out to. Worth holding. Worth touching. Worth looking at with those soft eyes that capture stars.

And Lance sees him. Sees past all the hardened edges and scowls and frustrating habits and— and fell in love with him anyway.

And that's exhilarating.

It's terrifying.

Half of him feels like he's betraying his soulmate, and half of him doesn't care. It's a constant battle. Constant chaos. A back and forth, both sides equal in strength and vying for a foothold in his heart. It hurts. It aches. It tears him apart when he lets himself think about it, so he usually pushes it aside. Throws a metaphorical blanket over it and closes the figurative curtain.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

But see, there's a new problem developing. One that makes all of this all the more complex. All the more terrifying.

Because now he knows what it's like to fall. All the moments of breathlessness, dizzy with giddiness, sick with nerves, buzzing with anticipation. He knows what it feels like now. The soft flutter of butterfly wings in his chest. The warmth that settles like embers in his chest, warming his veins with every pulse of his heart.

His soulmate has been talking to him more. Casual things. Nonsense conversations. Idle chatter. Nothing big. Nothing important. No names or addresses or phone numbers or crucial data. But... through all the glimpses and small conversations exchanged, Lance is learning about them. He's slowly gathering pieces and starting to form a picture of his soulmate.

His soulmate.

He feels them through each open connection. He doesn't just get the words, but he gets the emotions attached to them. He's learning. He's beginning to see them. He's beginning to understand.

And it's through that understanding, through soft moments and teasing exchanged in pockets of time throughout their days, that Lance feels himself start to fall.

Starts to see his soulmate as a person again. Which he thinks he might have once, but lost sight of along the way. He approaches them as a friend, and through that friendship, he feels something growing.

Something exhilarating.

Something terrifying.

Because now he knows what it feels like to fall. And now he recognizes the symptoms. He knows that he's hovering on the edge of an abyss, balance wobbling as he struggles to stay above it. To not give his heart to someone he doesn't know. Not again. But... he does know them. He's starting to know them.

And there rises the guilt again. Guilt over Keith. Guilt over his soulmate. Feeling like he's betraying them both. Feeling like he's betraying himself. Loving them both. Caring about them both. Both so deeply embedded into his heart that he knows that choosing will hurt him.

He doubts.

He aches.

He goes around and around and around until he's sucked down into an endless spiral, dark and filled with everything he hates about himself. Stuck in that endless loop until someone comes along to pull him out of it, if only for a moment.

Then he throws a blanket over it.

Closes that curtain.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

A problem for future Lance. Sorry, buddy.

He's never allowed himself to simply enjoy the moment. To live in the present. And he wants that. He wants to. Desperately.

He's... he's happy. He's found a happiness. He's worked for it. And he's confident in that decision. He doesn't doubt his feelings for Keith. He doesn't doubt his relationship with Keith. Not for a moment. Not when he sees that stupid, beautiful smile. He can't deny the way his heart leaps when they touch or the way he craves his presence when they're apart.

He's fallen, and he knows it.

He's falling again, and he fears it.

And the guilt is a constant companion on the way down.

Give them a piece of yourself.

Simple advice. Something he's been putting to work more and more lately. Little things. Little observations. Little jokes. Little rants from his day. Little favorite things. Little doodles.

Nothing like this. This feels... bigger, somehow.

Open the door, but don't force them through.

Honestly, thinking of his soulmate like a cat has helped a surprising amount. And it seems to be working. They've actually been responsive. Taken to conversation. As long as Lance doesn't ask anything outright or push for personal details, he gets a response. He doesn't push when they pull away, and they always come back.

It's thrilling.

It's terrifying.

This is terrifying.

He sits along in his room. Hunk is gone for most of the evening, studying in the library with Pidge. Even Keith is busy. Said he had several art projects to catch up on and would probably be in the studio for most of the night. Honestly, he should probably be in the library, too. He has a few projects and papers he needs to work on, but they're not due tomorrow, and somehow this feels more important.

He got the idea in his head this morning, and he hasn't been able to shake it since. Got the idea when he was lying in his bed, putting off getting up. His eyes had roamed over the pictures of his soulmark paintings on his wall, lost in thought. And the idea came whispered on a breeze, snagging in his consciousness and refusing to let go.

HIs soulmate has shared so much of themself over the years. Perhaps not in words, but definitely in colors. In art. In images and abstract imagery. In the emotions that come across while they paint. They've shared so much, such a big part of themself, and Lance has shared nothing like that.

He may not have the artistic talent that his soulmate has, but... that doesn't mean he can't try, right?

It doesn't mean he can't share.

What had seemed like a great idea all day suddenly feels like a massive undertaking. He sits on one of the beanbags in his room, sprawled out, pants off, staring at his thighs with a skin-safe easily washable soulmark marker in hand. Just kind of... hovering above his skin.

His palms are sweating, and his heart is hammering in his chest. His skin feels hot all over, and doubt is creeping into his head because what if this is stupid— it's stupid, isn't it? No, it's stupid that he's hesitating. His soulmate isn't going to care— but he wants them to care. No, he means they won't mind. Yeah. They shouldn't mind. He's just... sharing something important. A piece of himself that's a little deeper than his favorite flavor of pudding or his favorite season.

He feels... vulnerable. Incredibly so. He's nervous, despite knowing that he has no reason to be, and he wonders if this is what his soulmate feels before they paint. Or does none of this ever cross their mind?

Whatever.

Just do it.

Just... do it.

Just...

He puts the marker to his skin, felt tip strangely cold. His breath hitches, just a little, sounding loud in the silence of his room. His heart does this stupid little jump, but there's no backing out now. He's already started. Might as well keep going. Might as well just—

Draw.

He starts with one star on his thigh, all crisscrossed and everything. He picks up the pen, feeling a strange and exhilarating rush that chases away his nerves. He can do this. He can do this. It's not a big deal. It doesn't have to be.

He draws another star. Then another. They come quicker as his nerves settle down. As a peaceful trance settles over him. It's calming, in a strange way. The glide of the marker over his skin. Forming the patterns of stars that he knows by heart. It gives him the same sort of soft grounding that he gets when he stares up at the night sky.

He draws the pattern for Leo, drawing lines between each of his stars. He writes out the name of the constellation next to it in his best curving script before shifting his leg for another space. His favorite constellation.

He draws Corona Borealis for his mom. Orion for his dad. Cassiopeia for Veronica. Monoceros for Maria. Puppis for Luis. Delphinus for Marco.The Big Dipper for his niece. The Little Dipper for his nephew.

He draws them from the top of his thigh all the way down to his ankle. All the way around his leg. Where ever he can find space. A patch work of constellations. All of his family's favorites. Drawn across his skin in the form of shitty stars and connecting lines. Each one with the name of the constellation next to it.

All the while memories drift through his mind. Family nights out, sitting on blankets and looking at the stars. Huddled around bonfires. Curled up in scarves and jackets and blankets. Pressed around telescopes. Gathered around star maps. Fingers pointed to the sky. Heads upturned as they're swallowed by the heavens.

He imagines another night with his family. Sharing the stars together. Hot chocolate passed between them. Marshmallows roasting. This time with two more additions: his sister's first born and his own soulmate. Someone to press to his side, under his arm, to listen to him as he rambles about the stars.

He imagines dark hair. Entangled and messy and long. Pale skin. The smell of spice and leather. Dark eyes that capture the stars and make them his own—

Lance jerks back, pulling the pen from his leg before the sudden flash of guilt can make it through his soul connection. His heartbeat had calmed down, but now it skyrockets, painful in his chest. Aching and swollen and twisted.

Warm, because he's fond of that image.

Guilty, because he wants it.

Painful, because he knows he can't have it.

Or maybe he can, but...

He shakes his head, pushing it from his mind. Now isn't the time. Right now he's... he's sharing a piece of himself with his soulmate. Pushing it out into the space between them without expecting anything in return. Just... letting it be.

Thankfully, he's done. Mostly, anyway. He puts the pen to the empty space on the inside of his thigh, just below the Leo constellation. He writes, quick and with a sense of relief and finality:

My favorite constellations

And it's done. Done and over with. He breathes out a long sigh, capping his marker and letting it roll away as he leans back on the beanbag. Letting his arms drape along it, he stretches out his leg, holding it up in the air and twisting it to admire his work.

He's never drawn on himself like this, but... he can definitely see the appeal of it. It was strangely relaxing, despite the couple of nervous hiccups. He can see how someone might get into this. Especially someone with a knack for expressing themselves through art.

He sighs again, letting his leg drop back to the floor. Now that it's over with, and the endorphins that came with it are fading, he... really should do some work. They're getting close to the end of the semester, and shit is starting to pile up. Preparing for final exams, projects, papers. He's pretty sure he has some reading to do, too.

He rolls onto his stomach, awkwardly stretched out over the beanbag as he reaches across the floor to where he had abandoned his phone.

He's in the middle of texting Hunk and Pidge, asking them if they're still in the library and if they need anything, when he feels it.

His soul connection opens up with a hesitant touch. A shy touch. The subtle touch of a single raindrop before it pours. Running down his skin, light and cool. A bubbling that starts in his chest as the connection opens, a fresh spring that seeps out with each beat of his heart.

A few gentle brush strokes down his leg. Soft. Hesitant. A whispered question on the wind. The quiver of a question. A trickle. A stream. Held back by a fragile dam of doubt.

It takes only a second, and he feels the moment that dam breaks. The moment the flood waters rush through. Surging through his chest, pouring out through his veins in a lightness that feels giddy and a fondness that gives him chills.

He feels the cool and bold sweep of a paintbrush down his leg, curling and long. His breath hitches, stopping mid-gasp as his heart seems to stutter in surprise. He starts, rolling haphazardly off the beanbag and onto the unforgiving floor. He hits an elbow. Lands weird on his hip. He doesn't care, sitting up quickly and staring down at his leg.

The brush of midnight blue curls down his thigh, over his knee and down his calf. Weaving through the constellations he drew.

He watches, eyes wide and lips parted, as the night sky comes to life on his leg. Blues and purples and black swirl between his crudely drawn constellations. Speckles of white blink into existence to fill the space. A swirling galaxy.

His own stars are outlined in white, silver, and gold. Exactly as they are. His precise lines. But embellished and added upon until they fit with the rest of the painting. Glittering constellations on his dark skin with the flowing river of a galaxy between them. Each name of the constellation is brushed over with a thin brush. Perhaps a marker. Making his attempts at fine script look more like calligraphy.

From thigh to ankle, his leg is a beautiful testament to the stars. His stars. His family's stars.

And the feeling flowing through their soul connection isn't grand. It isn't harsh. It isn't full of doubt or full of affection. It's soft. Gentle. A cool and soothing breeze. The settling calm that comes during the night, staring up at the stars. A bubble of peace where nerves and doubt fade away. Where the stars remind you how little it all is in the grand scheme of things.

And in his chest, surrounding his heart, is a gentle glow. A gentle warmth. One reminiscent of a campfire's warmth on his cheeks.

It feels like a thank you.

It feels like a gift.

And it fades with the whisper of a breeze as the connection closes.

It's with a chest that feels far too full, with the prickle of warmth in his eyes, and a trembling smile on his lips that he puts his pen to the top of his foot. Beneath where the painting ends. The words are few and the sentiment simple.

Thank you, space cadet

He shows up at the library that night with his bag heavy and ready to study. Pidge and Hunk welcome him with tired smiles that are strained on the edges. They look miserable, but their eyes brighten a little when he puts their coffee orders down in front of them.

Before he gets down into it, he goes to one of the school's computers to print off the newest pictures of his leg painting for his wall.

But when he gets back to the table... he puts the pictures in his bag, discreetly and without preamble. Slides them away and out of sight.

He doesn't think much of it, but it nags at him. Nags at him the same way the denim of his jeans itch at his skin.

He doesn't realize what the itch is until the next day.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hunk asks, sounding for all the world like a kicked puppy. He no doubt looks like one, too, which is why Lance is pointedly not looking at him.

They trudge through the biting autumn wind, hands buried deep in their pockets and chins tucked into scarves. It whips between buildings as they make their way through campus, no longer hinting at the approach of winter but warning of it. Lance goes out of his way to step on the crunchiest looking leaves. He keeps his eyes on them, a minute childish thrill going through him when the sound is satisfying.

"I just... didn't think about it," He mumbles into his scarf, shoulders rising.

"But you always tell me." They're momentarily split apart as they weave around a large group of students leaving the cafeteria. Hunk snags the door before it can close, holding it open for Lance to walk through. "In high school, you used to call me whenever you got one. Hell, man, just a few months ago you woke me up in the middle of the night to show me one."

Lance hurries out of the cold, steps slowing as he's hit by the wall of warm air. His shoulders drop, lifting his chin out of his scarf. He reaches up to pull it looser, still avoiding Hunk's gaze. "I'm not that bad."

"You are." He falls into step beside him. "But as much as I rag on you for it, I think it's sweet. So why didn't you tell me this time? Is it bad? Is it—“ He gasps, leaning closer and putting a hand up as if to block his loud whisper from carrying. "Is it a naughty painting?"

Heat flashes hot and sudden in Lance's chest, creeping up his neck at a rapid pace. He chokes back a startled laugh, shoving Hunk away. "What— Dude, no!"

Hunk smiles as he steps away, but there's still something in his eyes. Something hurt. "Okay, but why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't tell you what?" Lance jumps as Pidge's voice sounds right behind him. He whirls around to find them standing right at his elbow, completely nonplused and grinning as they adjust their glasses.

"Where did you even comes from?" He hisses, relaxing as he turns. Keith is behind them, stepping up slower. Which lets him know right away that Pidge had hurried to slip into a spot to startle him. The little gremlin.

"We were hanging out over there," They say, pointing over their shoulder with a thumb. "You walked right past us. Looked distracted though. So what's this you're not telling Hunk?"

Hunk shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, head drooping as his bottom lip sticks out. It makes Lance feel like a monster. "Lance didn't tell me about his new soulmark painting."

Pidge blinks, expression incredibly blank. When they turn to look at him, slow and methodical, Lance fidgets. He feels his own pout forming. "It's not that big of a deal—"

"But you always tell us about those." Pidge's eyes narrow. Just slightly. Looking him up and down like she's trying to pick him apart and find whatever screw came loose.

"I know!" Hunk says, throwing his hands up in the air for emphasis. It's a habit Lance is pretty sure he got from him. "I had to find out from the wall. The wall, Pidge!"

Pidge lifts her chin, eyes narrowed to slits. "Who are you?"

Lance huffs, rolling his eyes and cocking one hip out to the side. "It's not a big deal, okay? Can we just go get food? I'm starving." He's not, but he's desperate to escape this conversation.

"Depends," Pidge says slowly. "Are you going to show us?"

"Nope," He says, popping the P as he turns on his heel, marching decisively toward the food options. He can hear them behind him. After a few more comment on it, the conversation changes pretty quickly, and it's only then that the tension eases out of his shoulders.

He grabs a tray, making a beeline for the pasta line.

"Hey," He hears, turning to find Keith has followed him into the line.

Lance smiles, reaching up to tug playfully on the edges of his slouching gray beanie. It's cute. Perched atop messy black hair. Turning his leather jacket and red scarf look from punk kid to hipster in training.

"Hey," He says. More of a whisper than anything. He knows the smile on his lips is far more fond than it needs to be.

Keith's smile is barely there for a second before it fades. He looks away, making a show of looking over the pasta options while they wait. "So..."

"So?"

He glances up, just out of the corner of his eyes. "You didn't tell Hunk about your soulmark painting?"

Right. That. Lance sighs, deflating a little. One hand shoved in his pocket, his empty tray hands down by his side. He idly taps his leg with it, staring at the ground as he shrugs. "Nope."

"Is it... bad?" There's a hesitancy there. A doubt and uncertainty that Lance can't even begin to dissect.

His head snaps up, eyes going wide as he takes in the look on Keith's face. Brows pinched. Lips pursed as if he's trying desperately not to frown but can't quite help it. There's a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there a moment ago. He's worried, and Lance can't phantom why he would be, but he feels the air punched from. his lungs all the same. Had Lance been making it seem like he was ashamed of his painting? Jesus fucking— no wonder his friends are worried.

"Oh, god, no," He breathes, then shakes his head. "No, no, no, not like that, it's just..." He huffs out a breath, aiming it upward towards his hair. He turns his gaze over the pasta options, if only to look away and get some semblance of privacy as he mumbles, "It's just... special. This one is special, and I just... I guess I wanted to keep it private, you know?"

"Oh." It's soft. A noise that could be easily missed if Lance weren't straining to hear.

He glances over to find Keith's eyes on the empty tray in his hand. "Is that... weird?"

Keith's smile is small. It lifts his cheeks more than his lips. Shines in his eyes more than anything. But he shakes his head, bangs falling to hide them from view. "No." There's something there that catches on Lance's heart and sinks in, making him feel far too warm for far too many reasons.

Butterflies and hornets.

Heat of his own fondness and the heat of his guilt.

Keith nudges him, lightly shoves him with his shoulder. "You're up next."

"Oh, right." He spins around, setting his tray down and waiting for the student worker to give him their attention.

"And Lance?"

He glances sideways. "Yeah?"

Keith isn't looking at him, but that phantom of a smile is still in place. "I think it's sweet."

Lance's chest tightens.

Butterflies and hornets.

"Keith! Your boys are here."

He pokes his head out of the office where he had not-so-subtly been shoveling cake in his mouth. It was one of the manager's birthdays, and she had brought in cake to share with everyone. The whole staff had been taking subtle breaks to slip into the backroom for a piece.

"Hey there, Keith. It's us. Ya boys." Lance's voice carries back to him, and he has enough of a warning to school his smile into something more deadpan.

"I don't have any boys." He says, voice flat but loud enough to carry.

He walks around the corner, sucking frosting off his thumb, to find Ginny swiveling in her chair at the front desk, half turned to grin at him. Hunk and Lance stand on the other side of the tall desk, elbows on the counter as they lounge against it.

"That hurts, man," Hunk says, putting a hand to his chest and wiping away an invisible tear. He even sniffs loudly. Keith can definitely see how these two grew up together.

"You can't deny us, Keith." Lance slouches over the counter, arms outstretched straight as they hover over the front desk. He pouts, but there's definitely a grin cracking through. "We're your boys."

Keith takes his seat, swatting Lance's arms away. "I'm disowning you both." He glances over at Ginny, who's watching with with a smile on her lips and an eyebrow raised. He sighs. "Pidge and I made the mistake of showing them Buzzfeed Unsolved, and now this is what I have to deal with."

Lance stands a little straighter, pulling his arms in to cross them casually on the counter. He gives up the fight and lets his smile shine through. "I gotta make fun of it or I'll be paranoid for weeks."

"It's true. It was so bad he almost didn't go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Despite the fact that the hallway lights are always on in the dorms."

"Yeah, but the bathrooms have these motion sensor lights to preserve energy, and I swear they always go out when I'm in there. Like, hello? I move around a lot! They shouldn't go out." To emphasize his point, he steps back from the counter, arms flailing and body moving in that fluid way that's just so wholly Lance.

Keith can't taper down his smile even if he tried.

"So what're you guys in for?" Ginny asks, swiveling back and forth in her tall desk chair, one leg idly swinging. In the months that Keith has worked here, she's come to know his friends fairly well. Enough for them to exchange small talk without the awkwardness. She's his favorite coworker, and Lance always makes a point of stopping by to say hi when either of them are working.

"It's swim day," Lance says brightly, and Hunk utters a soft groan, hunching slightly.

"How're the lessons going, Hunk?"

"Better," He admits, scratching the back of his head. "I can get across the pool now without stopping, at least."

"He's being modest," Lance says, slapping him on the back. "He's learning quick. I don't have to watch him as much now, so I can actually get my own swim in."

They talk for a few minutes more. Small pleasantries that actually feel pleasant with the company instead of awkward and forced. But eventually Hunk and Lance have to pull away. Have to get on with their work out.

Hunk turns to leave, waving goodbye as he heads toward the locker rooms. But Lance hesitates. He's looking at Keith strangely, but before Keith can question it, he's leaning across the counter. He reaches out, gently swiping the pad of his thumb over the corner of Keith's lips. Slow and languid.

He watches, eyes wide and confusion clashing with the way his heart skips a beat, as Lance leans back. He smirks, coy and playful. Eyes going lidded as he puts his thumb in his mouth. "You had some frosting there." He says, and then he's gone. Turning on his heel and playfully striding away. Not without an extra little swing in his hips. Which Keith very much notices and very much appreciates.

And is apparently obvious in the way he appreciates.

"Is he your soulmate?" Ginny's voice cuts through his thoughts, and he jerks, eyes snapping to hers. He doesn't like how she's looking at him. All sly and knowing. Casually leaning an elbow on the desk as she scrolls through her phone.

"No," Keith says. Habit. An automated response. A defense so deeply engrained in him that despite the lie, despite the fact that his heart beat picks up into double time, it comes out sounding like the truth.

Her face falls, lips twisted into confusion. "Oh, sorry."

Keith waves her off, turning to log into the computer. "It's fine."

"Shame, though. He's cute."

Keith can't help the slight quirk of his lips. "Yeah, he is."

There's a long pause. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the movement of her leg has stopped. She's no longer swiveling in her chair, and her phone has drooped considerably.

"Oh my god." Keith feels the bubble of amusement in his chest. She leans in close, hissing in a whisper, " You two are fucking."

He feels the laugh, but he catches it in time to hold it down. A burst of surprising happiness. Of contentment. Of a giddy realization that, yes, he is tapping that, and there's no shame in it. Instead, he turns to her, grin gone sly as he lifts his chin, humming softly. "What gives you that idea?"

"Keith," She leans back, laughing as she playfully punches his shoulder. "You're getting some. I'm so proud."

He finally allows a chuckle, surprised when it's genuine and without any nervousness. He turns back to the computer, idly flipping through all the grunt work they're expected to do in their down time. And, because he's curious, and because conversation with Ginny is always easy despite heavier topics, and because she's gone so far as to show him a dick drawing contest she had on her arm once, he asks, "Have you ever been with someone besides your soulmate?"

"Nah," She says, already back to her phone. Already back to swiveling. Occasionally looking up to glance around the gym and make sure no one's breaking rules at first glance. "But before we met, we used to masturbate together."

Keith chokes. On his own saliva, so that's a feat. He coughs, turning to look at her with wide eyes and a cough-strained voice as he says, "What?"

She grins. Cheshire and amused. "Have you never done that?"

"No."

She shrugs, leaning back in her chair as she stretches. "it's pretty simple. Just, you know, do the do while you have your soul connection open."

He wants to drop the subject. Knows he probably should. But curiosity is a powerful thing, and now that the surprise has faded, he finds curiosity is winning out. Because... it's not something he ever would have considered before. Not when he refused to even speak to his soulmate in the vain attempt to not give him hope. But now... now that he's actually starting to open up to Lance as a soulmate. Now that he's actually letting that line of communication grow. Slowly, yes, but steadily...

Well, it's... an interesting idea.

One that has heat running through his veins and pooling in his gut. Goosebumps rising across his skin as he thinks about that. As he thinks about letting a paintbrush run across his skin as he takes himself in hand— thinks about Lance— feels Lance through the intimate bond of soulmates—

"Does it feel good?"

Ginny laughs. "It's like nothing you've ever felt before."

Keith hums, turning back to the computer. That's... interesting. Very interesting. He'll think about it.

Fuck, he's going to think about it a lot.

Keith finds Lance deep in the recesses of the library, at one of the tables that line up with the bookshelves. To be honest, he's a little surprised Lance managed to find a table at all. The library is crowded daily now, with students driven inside in droves from the cold weather and the increase in work load that comes naturally at the end of the semester.

More group projects. More lab reports. More essays. More studying.

Even Keith is feeling the strain. While he doesn't have as many papers due, and he's past the days of lab reports, he has projects stacking up. So many projects. Honestly, he should be in the studio still, covered in paint and charcoal and trying to come up with a goddamn concept for his art exhibit coming up.

But where a lot of the students here find the library to be a prison, for Keith, it's his escape.

The fresh air on the walk from the art building to the library, cold on his skin and crisp in his lungs, has already helped settle his rising frustration and stress. The smell of coffee is heavenly, and the bitter bite on his tongue is exactly the pick up he needed.

He may be here to work on an art history paper, but that's a welcome change of pace from the four hours he just spent in the studio.

And he'd be lying if spending time with Lance wasn't also a motivator.

"Hey," He says, setting the large coffeecup down in front of Lance's face. He's currently sitting with his arms sprawled out over the table, hunched forward, and cheek pressed into a text book that's resting atop his keyboard.

His eyes open slowly, lidded and lazy until he sees the coffee. Then they snap wider, and he sits up with a groan. "Oh my god, Keith, you're a godsend." He takes the cup, cradling it between his hands as he sits back, pulling his knees up to his chest and planting his feet on the edge of the seat. He takes a sip, head lolling back and eyes closing as he sighs. "This is perfect."

"It's a heart attack waiting to happen." His free hand reaches out to playfully ruffle Lance's hair as he walks past. It's an easy gesture. One he doesn't think about until it's already happening. Until his fingers are harding through soft locks and Lance leans into it, humming low in his throat.

It's with a surprisingly amount of reluctance that he pulls away, setting down his own coffeecup before pulling his backpack off, dropping it to the table as he sinks into the chair next to Lance.

"How many pages have you gotten done?" He asks as he pulls out his own materials.

Lance's eyes remain closed as he sips again. "What did I say last time you asked?"

"Five pages."

"I think I'm at six."

"That was two hours ago."

"Really? Because it feels like I've been dying for seven."

"Here." Keith pulls out a muffin that he'd shoved clumsily into his pocket. It's a little smushed on one side, but still fine within the packaging.

Lance's eyes open, blinking lazily at it as Keith slides it toward him. He looks up, and for the first time, Keith can get a good look at the bags under his eyes. They're dark and sunken, and his skin lacks its usual glow. He looks haggard. Tired. Exhausted.

Honestly, he looks about how Keith feels.

"You got me a muffin?" It's a question. Unsure in delivery but hopeful and fond on the back end.

Keith smirks, turning back to his laptop as he opens it. "It's a please-don't-die muffin. I need you and your mess here or else I’ll have to fight off haggard students from claiming the table. Pidge said those ones are your favorite."

"They are. Though, to be fair, if I die, you can just leave my body slumped over the table. I’ll look no different.” He hums, taking the muffin. The crinkle of plastic is loud as he wrestles it open. Keith sighs as he stares at his browser, full of tabs upon tabs of research and references. "You look like shit."

Keith scoffs, a sharp exhale through his nose as he deadpans, "Thanks. You do, too."

He nearly jumps when he feels fingers drag across his shoulder. Nearly, but not quite. He's growing more and more accustomed to Lance's casual touches. Has subconsciously learned when to anticipate them. That doesn't, however, stop the heat from flaring to life in his chest every time.

His hand rests on Keith's shoulder, fingers idly tangling in the hair that's curling out from beneath his slouching beanie. He glances over to find Lance leaning forward, cheek pressed to his palm and elbow resting on the table. He stares, eyes lidded and distant, at where his fingers card through Keith's hair, never once hesitating as they reach his neck, digging into the sore and tense muscles there.

He smiles, small and gentle, and Keith wonders if he even realizes he's doing it.

"I had a late night," He mumbles. “Your hair’s getting longer.”

"Didn't mean to keep you up so late."

"Wasn't just you." He pulls away then, and Keith mourns the rhythmic and soothing press of his fingers instantly. Lance sighs, turning back to the work scattered around the table, eyes and hands flitting around as he tries to refocus.

He's wrong, though. It was just Keith.

The evidence is on their phones and scrawled out across their arms.

Keith keeps his hidden, carefully peeling off his leather jacket but leaving the long sleeves of his sweater pulled down to cover the heels of his hands. Lance doesn't bother trying. The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows. His forearms are decorated with a smattering of doodles and scribbled conversation. Two pen colors. One fading naturally and one tattooed across his skin.

They had both stayed up far later than they should have. Texting as Keith and Lance. Writing on their bodies as soulmates. It had been a strange kind of exhilaration to do both at once. To juggle the two conversations. To bounce back and forth between digital and a pen. Feeling their soul connection open up between. To feel Lance's tired contentment. To feel his amusement and muted giddiness.

Exhilarating in ways Keith had never experienced. He's still not used to talking to Lance as a soulmate. He's spent so long shying from conversation that it it still feels strange. Feels oddly exciting. Feels incredibly nerve wracking.

It feels like it did when he spent the night with Pidge, writing to Lance on his arms about Mothman. But now, this time, Keith knows it's Lance. Knows and cares for the boy on the other end of the connection.

It's... strange.

It's new.

It's terrifying.

It's exhilarating.

He never thought he'd reach a day where he was excited to talk to his soulmate, but here he is. He can’t help but feel the churning nausea in his gut, the worry and doubt that are so deeply seeded in his heart, growing to shadows in his mind. But... it's Lance. And he's a brightness that chases those ghosts away.

He doesn't know if he's ready for Lance to know. Not sure if he's ready to connect Keith and soulmate together. Not sure if they're ready for that, or if what they have is still too new and fragile and might break under the pressure. That's a question that brings all the anxiety to the forefront. All the paralyzing fear. But... he thinks he might be getting there.

He thinks... with Lance... maybe he can do it.

"You're talking to them more," He says, thoughts manifesting themselves into words before he really has a chance to think it through. He blames his own giddiness. The knowledge that those words he sees on Lance's skin mark his own as well.

"Hmm?" Lance looks up, confusion plain as he blinks. Clearly torn between whatever he had been trying to get back to with his essay and the vague non sequencer Keith has thrown at him.

He reaches out, tapping Lance's forearm gently before opening his notebook, looking for the hastily scribbled outline for his paper. He uses it as an excuse to avoid eye contact. "Your soulmate. You've been talking to them more."

"Oh," It's soft. Realization wrapped up in something else that Keith can't quite put a finger on. "Right, yeah. I have."

And that's... not the excitement Keith had been expecting. He glances over, surprised to see the pinch between his brows and the slight frown on his lips. That's... not at all what he was expecting.

"I'm happy for you," He tries. Soft and genuine.

Lance glances up at him, surprise bleeding to confusion melting into— something. He looks away before Keith can get a firm grasp on it. Whatever it is, he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it. He doesn't—

"Thanks." Lance smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Keith's chest tightens, limbs feeling strangely numb as his breaths come short and his heart hammers in his ears.

Life drawings are a pain in the ass. He's pretty sure the human form and anatomy are his weakest areas as an artist. Shiro insists he's wrong, that he's good at it, but that doesn't change the fact that Keith hates it. It's boring and tedious.

He sits hunched over his easel, eyes flickering habitually between his page and the model. The riffs of classic rock fill the room, soft and muted. At least he can appreciate his professor's music tastes. It's about the only saving grace he has.

His eyes are dried out and tired. Tired from staring so long and tired from the sleep deprivation that's becoming more common as they near the end of the semester. His back aches from sitting hunched for so long. The hard wood of the stool is making his ass numb, and he shifts restlessly in a vain attempt to find some sort of comfort in their fourth hour of this hell.

He's been known to lose himself in art. Hours fly by like minutes when he's painting. But life drawings? He feels every minute drag by like hours. Feels them like sandpaper on his skin.

The room is way too warm. Hot enough that his skin feels overheated and he's thrown his hair up into a haphazard bun just to get it off his neck. His long sleeved shirt is pushed up to his elbows, showing the fading lines of a one sided conversation.

His own side of the correspondence had easily come off in the shower. Lance's marks, however, are slower to fade. It's surprising, actually. Usually his words fade pretty quickly, lasting no more than twenty-four hours. Maybe a little more. Concentration and focus play a part into the duration of soulmarks, though scientists have never really been able to figure out just how much.

Lance's quick conversations have always been quick to fade. His pick up lines. His random questions. His doodles usually last longer, but that's about it. Now, however... Now that they're talking more, his words are staying on Keith's skin longer. Pushing it up to at least two days. It's as frustrating as it is a little endearing.

It has to be a good thing, right?

He hopes so, but Lance has been a little... off lately. It's a subtle shift. He can feel it when their connection is open. Just the barest hint of something sour beneath his radiating enthusiasm. Something that Keith can't place. He can't describe or name it, but it makes him feel... well, off. Uneasy.

He sometimes catches the same shadow of that uncertainty when Lance turns away from him, echoing in his silence.

He doesn't know what it means. One moment they'll be fine. Better than fine, really. Close as friends. Happy with their benefits. And getting better as soulmates. But then...

Maybe he's overthinking things. He knows he has a tendency to do that. Especially when it comes to Lance.

Lance is probably just... stressed. They all are. Exams are coming up, and they're all starting to feel the pressure. It's going to be a huge breath of relief when they're done and over with. Allura is already planning an end of the semester party.

Maybe... maybe that's when he'll tell Lance. Not at the party. Too many people around, and he doesn't want to risk it when he doesn't know how Lance will react, but... after exams. Before they head home for winter break.

At least then they'll have time apart if things go bad.

His pencil breaks. Tip of it snapping as he puts too much pressure to the paper. He freezes, staring at it in surprise, and he can see the people to either side of him turn to look. It hadn't been that loud, had it? He glances at his neighbors, and they give him sympathetic smiles before looking away.

Okay, so maybe it had.

He sighs, leaning back and taking a moment to stretch, popping his back and shaking out his arms. They're almost done, and this is their last life drawing session for the semester. Thank fuck. With this out of the way, he'll be able to go back to stressing out about other things.

Like what he's going to do for his mandatory art exhibit.

He's in the process of sharpening his pencil, slow and methodical, zoning out as he watches the shaved pieces form and curl, when he feels his soul connection open up.

It happens in a rush. Like a punch to the lungs. Pushing all the air from him in a short exhale. HIs heart pounds wildly. A tightness in his chest. Anxiety wound and rigid as it flutters through his limbs. It hits him quickly as soon as the connection opens, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's not coming from him. It's coming from Lance.

Quick. Rushed. Panicked. A nervousness that he catches on the backend as the connection closes just as quickly and abruptly as it had opened.

It's strange and unexpected, and the whole thing leaves him bewildered and winded.

He's left sitting there, frozen as the muted classic rock rolls over him. The sound of pencils scratching against paper. The tick of the clock on the wall. His own pencil suspended between his fingers, half sharpened.

Then his eyes trail down to his arm, where the echo of pressure still haunts his skin. There, on his left forearm, are fresh words. Darker than the rest. Scribbled frantically and quickly.

And as Keith reads the words, he realizes that what he had felt as panic was probably closer to embarrassment than anything. A shy shame and the need to do it before doubt takes hold. He's felt that kind of rushed embarrassment from Lance before. Seen it in person. And here it is again, written across his inner forearm.

Hey so like do you remember yesterday when I wrote a quick grocery list on my arm?

He vaguely does. Lance has been known to write reminders on himself, and they always come like a whispering spring breeze. There and gone before Keith really realizes their connection has opened up in the first place. They fade quickly, barely enough intent and focus to keep them on his skin for long.

He reaches out to set his pencil and the sharpener aside, glancing out of the corner of his eyes. But no one is watching him. They're all wholly focused on their work, or at least zoned out while they do it.

He knows his hesitation comes from habit alone. From months of hiding any trace of his marks from his friends. But... none of his friends are in this class. Hell, he barely knows anyone here. They don't know anything about his soulmate troubles, and he doubts they would care anyway. It's what had given him the courage to sit with his sleeves pushed up, exposing fading soulmarks.

And now he's just going to be another person writing something to their soulmate.

It's... strangely nice. More so than he thought it'd be. To sit with his fading marks open and exposed. To have no one care or bat an eye at it. To reach into his bag and pull out a pen, putting it to his skin before writing out a quick and simple:

Yeah?

Something so simple shouldn't make his heart pound the way it does. Or give him the rush of adrenaline he feels surging through his veins, making his limbs tingle and his foot bounce restlessly.

He reaches for his pencil once again, but he doesn't have to wait long for a response. It comes instantly.

Okay so that was a list of things my roommate asked me to get at the store yesterday, and I was stupid and only wrote it down on my arm because we were talking anyway, but I wrote it with a soulmark pen and it washed off in the shower and now I'm at the store and the bus is leaving soon but my roommate is in a class giving a presentation so he can't answer my texts and I was wondering if the list is still there? On you, I mean

Now that the connection is open for longer, and now that he has words to fill in context, Keith can definitely feel the embarrassment and the shy shame. There's still a panic, but now that he knows, he can feel that it's not directed at him. It's not about their connection. It's about his own time constraint.

Before he can respond to the new paragraph that's scribbled on his arm from elbow to wrist, there's another tingling sensation on his other arm. The faint pressure of a phantom pen. The strange weightlessness of their connection being open.

He looks to his other arm, holding it up as a circle comes to life on his skin. An arrow points to it, along with the text, Somewhere around here?

Keith doesn't realize he's smiling until he feels the ache in his cheeks, pushing up into his tired eyes. But he doesn't feel as tired as he had before. Not as heavy. He feels... lighter. The bubbling sensation of fondness and amusement a hit that momentarily chases away his exhaustion.

He puts the pen to his arm, tracing Lance's own words. The list is faded and gray. Another ten hours or so and it would be gone completely. As it stands, he has to turn his inner arm to the light to catch the offset of color against his skin tone just to read it.

He traces Lance's list, keeping true to his own handwriting as he sends the grocery list back to him. The quickly drawn circle only cuts off a few of the faded words. He’s barely done before he gets a response.

Oh my GOD, you're a goddamn angel

Impressive guess work on the circle

I'm a man of many talents ;)

You're a man about to miss his bus if you don't hurry

FUCK. There's a pause, and then, almost shyly, Thanks, space cadet

Something else appears, something that looks suspiciously like a heart before it's scribbled and blotted out. Instead, several tiny stars appear around the nickname.

And for once, Keith doesn't pull down his sleeves. Doesn't hide the dark and clear evidence of his soul connection. There's a small level of pride he feels as he reaches for his canvas once again, continuing his drawing. It's a pride that flickers like a small but steady flame as he sees the marks out of the corner of his eye while he works.

It's a pride he's never felt before. A strange surge of endorphins that leave him lightheaded. Limbs buzzing. Smile gone completely rogue as it refuses to leave his lips.

He loses himself to the chorus of graphite on paper. The soothing riffs of an old guitar. The beat of a steady drum. The feeling of friction as his pencil drags across the page. The sight of Lance's handwriting in the corner of his eye, inked onto his skin.

It's warm in the studio. He doesn't mind.

"Shay kinda reminds me of the Gorons."

"Dude, what?" Lance looks up from his phone, glancing across the room to where Hunk is lounging on a beanbag in front of their tv. He's got a Nintendo 64 controller in his hands, and Zelda Ocarina of Time is on the screen.

It's his destress game. Lets him zone out and detox for a bit. He had come back from the library about two hours ago, immediately plopped down and turned on the console. He's been at it ever since. Lance can't blame him. He's got a huge project due at the end of the semester, and from what Lance has heard, his group members are insufferable.

"No, seriously, like... hear me out."

"You just compared your girlfriend— Nay, your soulmate, to a rock."

"Very cool rocks."

"Still a rock, dude."

"She is a rock. She's my rock."

"Oh my god," Lance groans, dropping his phone to his chest and rubbing his hands down his face. He can't help the laughter that bubbles up. "That was so fucking cheesy, man."

He can hear the smugness in Hunk's voice. "You thought it was sweet."

"If you get to complain when I brag about my soulmate, I get to complain when you get all mushy about yours."

Hunk hums. "Fair point. Seriously, though. She reminds me of the Gorons."

Lance rests his hands on his chest, fingers tapping at his phone as he glances at the screen. The Gorons are pretty big and strong, and Shay's pretty big and strong, too. Tall and solid and curvy. Perfect for Hunk in so many ways. Still, there's not much else he sees. "Mmm, not sure I see it, buddy."

"No, like, listen. They're these big and intimidating rock people, right? But they've got hearts of gold. They just like to roll around, and have fun, and have competitions, and dance, and they're honestly just big softies in the bodies of rocks. Sturdy and strong and stuff, but soft on the inside. Shay's like that."

"Oh." Honestly, he wasn't expecting such a genuine response. "I guess I can see that."

"Plus, I love the Gorons, man. I love them. They're my favorite."

"I've always been a Zora man myself."

"I know, buddy. You have a thing for fish people."

"You have a thing for rock people."

"Touche."

The conversation lapses into an easy, companionable silence. Their room is filled with the sounds of the game and Hunk's occasional mumbled commentary, and Lance doesn't mind. It's familiar and comforting. He lounges on his bed, stretched out on his back and half propped up by his pillows. One hand behind his head, he other holds his phone on his chest as he idly scrolls and refreshes social media.

Hunk has his decompressing methods, and Lance has his.

It's the first real quiet night they've had in a while. Their schedules are getting more hectic, but at least some of his papers are turned in now, and the workload is dwindling. Gives them some time to breathe before final exam week.

He exits tumblr and opens up his messages instead.

Lance
> Hey nerd, you busy?

Sass Master Keith
> Unfortunately
> I take it you're bored?

Lance
> Incredibly

Sass Master Keith
> Isn't this your first night off from studying in a while? Shouldn't you be enjoying it?

Lance
> I'd be enjoying it more with you ;)

Sass Master Keith
> As much as I'd love to take you up on that offer, I shouldn't

Lance
> Shouldn't and can't are two very different things

Sass Master Keith
> Next time

Lance
> You're killin me here
> I need some good old fashioned stress relief
> Preferably in the form of greasy food, a movie marathon, cuddles, and possibly a blow job
> Not necessarily in that order

Sass Master Keith
> Are you asking to give or receive?

Lance
> You know I’m not picky

Sass Master Keith
> Next time

Lance
> Okaaaaaay :(((

Sass Master Keith
> Adding more parenthesis to the frown just makes you look more pitiful

Lance
> I know
> It's a carefully devised tactic

Sass Master Keith
> What're you doing?

Lance
> I'll allow the change of subject, but I want you to know that I'm still thinking about "next time"

Sass Master Keith
> Noted

Lance
> I'm just lying on my bed fucking around on my phone. Hunk's playing Zelda
> I should probably shower but I lack the motivation to get up
> What about you?

Sass Master Keith
> I'm about to start on an art project

Lance
> You do so many of thoooose

Sass Master Keith
> The woes of being an artist
> I think this one will be fun though

Lance
> Well, good luck

Sass Master Keith
> Thanks

He sighs, letting his phone drop back to his chest. He stares at the bottom of Hunk's bunk, letting the disappointment wash over him. While he's seen Keith a lot lately, they haven't really been able to sneak in time alone. Not really. They've gotten quick moments. Stolen time where they get each other off in a heated rush.

He supposes this is fine. He's been covered in fading conversations with his soulmate lately, and while Keith insists that he doesn't care... Lance can't shake the guilt of Keith seeing them.

But, if he's being honest, he misses... Keith. Getting off is great and all, and boy does his body appreciate it, but... he kinda wants to take things slow. Be able to take his time with Keith. To really feel him. To actually take their clothes off and just... god, he's a fucking sap. He just wants to cuddle naked with the guy, alright? There's just something incredibly peaceful and intimate and wholesome about curling up with Keith in his bed, bare skin pressed tight.

His eyes drift closed as he lets himself imagine it.

The slight chill of Keith's apartment soothing on heated skin. Lying on their sides facing each other. Trailing his hands along Keith's side. Alternating between feeling him beneath his palm and skimming his fingertips along goosebump riddled flesh. Keith's skin is smooth. The way he reacts to Lance's touch is divine. Body squirming and unable to keep still.

His own hands on Lance. Firm in their conviction. Gentle in their revere. Fingers curling in desperation and clinging in need. Maybe he'd even get Keith to take off those stupid gloves and feel the heat of his bare hands on his skin.

He'd take his time. Letting himself feel out Keith's body. Take it all in before they scoot closer. Before Keith slots a thigh between Lance's and pulls his leg over his hip. Hands trailing up his thigh, over his hip, around to his back, down to the swell of his ass.

Lance's hands on Keith's chest. Fingers dancing across his collarbones. Arms wrapping slowly around his neck to play with his hair. Rolling his hips forward. Slowly. Steadily. Feeling the subtle and gentle friction. Loving every long, slow drag—

He doesn't notice it at first. He mistakes the heat for his own.

He's too wrapped up in his own gentle fantasy to immediately recognize that familiar breathless sensation. It feels like a draft. An extra and subtle breeze through a room. Noticeable that the air is no longer stale, but gentle enough that it's hard to pinpoint at first.

It feels like the flicker of a candle against his eyelids. The smallest of lights in an otherwise dark room. Gentle. Soft. A glow that does little more than offer you bare definition in the shadows.

It takes him a moment to realize that it's not entirely his feelings warming in his chest and occupying his heart. There's something else. It's no longer stale. There's a breeze from the open connection of his soul.

Once he realizes it, the rest become noticeable.

A brush along his thigh. Light and fleeting. Not firm, nor determined. Not a confident stroke. One that starts above his knee and curls upward, slow and lazy. Almost... coy? The phantom pressure against his skin is incredibly light and incredibly soft. Barely there. A wisp. A whisper. The muted glow of a candle. A warmth trailing in its wake. It leaves goosebumps on his skin even as the warmth remains and echos.

He finds himself absentmindedly reaching down, trailing his own finger along the path he feels the brush, nail dragging against his jeans.

It doesn't feel like it usually does. He's learned how to distinguish the emotions and mindset that accompany a painting and those that trail in the wake of words. This feels like neither of those. Nothing decisive or confident about it, which is strange. Everything his soulmate does is purposeful. But... that's the thing. While they don't feel like they usually do, they don't feel particularly aimless.

The brush strokes, curling and coiling and exaggeratedly slow are purposeful. He can feel that. He just... doesn't recognize the purpose.

His brows furrow, tongue running idly to suck on his teeth as he tries to decipher the feelings filtering through their connection. Subtle. Light. Drifting. Almost playful. Coy? A question, definitely. A shy question. A heated question—

His eyes snap open. Holy shit.

No, he's wrong. There's no way— there's no fucking way—

The brushstroke ends around his hip, curling and circling around his hipbone, and— holy shit.

Heat curls through him. Running down his back. Pooling low in his gut. Goosebumps rise as he shivers.

Holy shit.

No, he's not mistaken that. He knows exactly what that feeling is, and it's not his. There's definitely a question hidden in that brushstroke, but it's not one he ever thought his soulmate would pose.

The connection drifts shut, and Lance is left staring at the bottom of Hunk's bunk. Eyes wide. Heart hammering. Trying not to hyperventilate because— holy shit.

His eyes flicker to Hunk, but he hasn't seemed to notice anything. Good. That's good. Really good. Oh god, what's he supposed to do now? Is his soulmate going to just continue? Is he supposed to— like— give them a sign? Did he imagine it? Oh fuck, what if he's just projecting again—

The connection opens. Quick as the familiar tingling sensation starts up on his arm. It's gone and closed before Lance can really pick out any emotions beyond his own frazzled headspace.

Is this okay?

He stares at the bold dark words written on his skin. Mouth feeling dry. Heart jammed firmly in his throat. Okay, okay, fuck, he didn't imagine it. He's not projecting. This is happening. This is happening. This is—

He rolls out of his bed, and it's not at all graceful or coordinated. He hits the floor hard in a tangle of limbs, and he barely manages to catch his phone before it falls, tossing it back on the bed as he scrambles the couple of feet to his desk.

"Dude."

"Yeah?" He grabs a pen, hurriedly writing the exact same sentiment on his arm. Yeah.

He stares at it, breathless and body buzzing with anticipation, when he realizes that the game sounds have stopped. He turns then, finding Hunk staring at him. Wide eyed. Confused. Brows pinched. He looks to the pen in Lance's hand, understanding smoothing out his features. "Oh, they said something?”

"Yeah," Lance says, trailing off with a nervous laugh.

Thankfully, Hunk doesn't seem fazed by it. He just smiles and turns back to his game. "I'm happy for you, buddy."

"Yeah," Does his voice sound too high? He thinks he's starting to sound hysterical. "Me, too."

Hunk doesn't look away from his game, but he does raise an eyebrow, tilting his head to show Lance he has his attention. "You okay?"

"Me?" Oh god, why can't he stop laughing. "I'm fine. I'm—" His whole body convulses as his soul connection opens up very suddenly and very intimately. A brush stroke starts at his knee and moves up his inner thigh, leaving a teasing heat in its wake. It's direct. Faster than previously. And the feeling filtering through their connection is anything but subtle. It moves up his inner thigh, shifting at the last minute to slide up the crease of his leg, circling and toying at his other hipbone. "Fffffuck," He hisses out through clenched teeth.

"Lance—?"

"Shower!" He shouts, straightening for only a moment before he scrambles across the room. "I'm going to take a shower!"

"O... kay?"

Lance can't look at him. He can't. He grabs his towel and shower caddy as quickly as he can, hurrying out the door and stumbling down the hall as he feels light strokes move from hip to hip, trailing like fingertips below his belly button.

He bursts into the bathroom, breathing out a sigh of relief that it's empty, at least for the moment. He bypasses the sinks and heads straight for the sectioned off space for showers, stepping into the stall in the corner and pulling the curtains closed. His shower caddy clatters to the ground, and he tosses his towel haphazardly onto the waiting hook.

He grabs the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head and looking down. Purple streaks are inked onto his skin, drifting from side to side. Lazy lines drawn under his belly button. His heart pounds against his ribcage, ringing in his ears, urged to dizzying speeds by a thrill that's not wholly his.

He strips quickly, dropping his clothes to the bench in the dry area of the shower stall. Then he looks down, and his breath catches in his throat.

The trails of purple are exactly where he anticipated them being, but it feels surreal to see them all the same. New spots are forming a he watches. A widening spot just under his hipbone. Stroke back and forth. Back and forth. Almost... Almost like a thumb.

Then five lines of purple move down the front of his thigh, firm and confident, no longer light and teasing, and the way they all form at once— holy shit.

His soulmate is using their hand. That's not a brushstroke. It's their fingers. They're painting on themself as they work themself up. As heat starts to pour through their connection. What had started as the muted glow of a candle flame has grown. Slowly and steadily. Heat building. Anticipation tight in his chest and singing in his veins. It's his own, but there's an echo of it. An echo of tension that sends shivers down his spine. A tingling in his fingertips. The quiver of phantom muscles twitching.

Breathlessness.

A breathlessness that's not his own.

A build. A build as hands covered in purple paint drag across his thighs. The phantom touch alternates between light and teasing, and firm and deliberate. He can feel the intent in his chest. Amusement with the teasing, and a hunger with the firmer lines. A consuming, heated hunger that feeds his own.

The bathroom door opens, and he hears someone turn on one of the sinks. Fuck, right, he's in the shower. He needs to at least pretend.

It's with shaking hands that he turns on the water, angling the spray a little to the side and adjusting the temperature.

But the touches keep coming. They never stop. His soul connection is still open, and he can feel his soulmate's teasing amusement bleeding into something headier, something needier. He feels something in his chest, twining around his heart.

A question? No— A plea.

His eyes snap to his shower caddy and zero in on the soulmark marker that he had haphazardly thrown in there in his mad dash to leave the room.

He grabs it, leans back against the wall. Feels the cold tile against his heated skin. He bites off the cap, holding it between clenched teeth as he reaches down, presses the tip of the marker to the flesh of his thigh. Lets everything he's feeling rush through their connection.

He feels the fluttering hesitation from his soulmate. The moment of pause before the heat is returned tenfold. It surges into him, stealing his breath away, fire in his lungs.

He looks down to see a blatant hand print on his leg, dragging up his inner thigh— holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

He doesn't know what he's drawing. He doesn't care. He moves the marker aimlessly across his leg, up to his hip. He's half in the spray of water, and it washes most of the ink away. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It transfers anyway at the touch. It doesn't matter that his soulmate will have black squiggles all over their skin as long as he keeps the connection open— as long as they can feel what they're making Lance feel—

He gasps, a whine catching in his throat as he feels a very distinct spike in pleasure, hot and coiled in his gut. He feels the flush of relief through their connection, and he knows they're touching themself. They're touching themself while painting purple across Lance's thighs, his hips, a purple hand sliding up his abdomen to smear it across his chest.

He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched to hold back the sounds that desperately want to escape. His head falls back against the tile, chest heaving with every panted breath, hissing past his lips.

He takes himself in his freehand, several long strokes pouring his own shivering pleasure and relief through their connection. He feels the returning eagerness. The spike of pleasure. Of need. Of hunger. Of desperation. Of more, more, more—

His hand shakes as he drags the marker in aimless lines. As his soulmate smears purple across his skin with a desperate touch. He feels the increase in his soulmate's urgency, and he picks up the pace. Faster, faster, faster—

Behind his eyelids, he sees Keith. Pictures him sprawled out in his own shower. Pictures his hand smeared with paint, desperately gripping his spread thighs as his other hand works at his swollen cock. Imagines his head tossed back, to the side, exposing his pale neck. Imagines his face pinched in pleasure, lips parted, just like all the times Lance has seen it.

Imagines how sweetly he'd whine Lance's name. How it would sound falling from his lips as Lance pours praise and pleasure through their soul connection— as he feels Keith's— as they drive each other over the edge—

He feels a sound rumble in his throat, but he's too far gone to hear it. He doesn't care. He doesn't care as white hot pleasure floods through his soul connection, burning out from his chest. It tips him over the edge, muscle spasming as warmth spurts over his hand.

He keeps the pen pressed to his skin. Letting his soulmate feel it. Feeling their own calm. It settles over him. His own afterglow and the echo of his soulmate's. A strange tingling. Distant and drifting. A contentment. A fondness.

The connection closes. Not abruptly, but easing closed all the same. Lance lifts the pen from his leg, sliding down the shower wall to the floor. Trying to catch his breath. Eyes closed against the warm spray of water that rushes down his body. His body that's smeared with hand prints and the evidence of his soulmate's pleasure.

And it's then, beneath the spray of water, when he's finally alone with his thoughts. Alone with his own emotions. That the guilt rushes in.

That he realizes exactly what he's done.

He— with his soulmate—

But he was thinking about Keith.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to steady himself against the rolling wave of nausea and guilt and dread.

He breathes through it. In and out. In and out. Tries to let the tingling pleasure of his afterglow keep the sharp edges at bay.

Butterflies and hornets.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, man! When it snows next semester, we're gonna have to show you. There's seriously no better sled than a cafeteria tray."

Keith feels his lips pull into a small smirk. They're laying on his bed, heads and shoulders propped up by pillows as they sprawl out on their backs. Side by side. One hand behind his head and the other arm stretched out to the side beneath Lance's neck, his head cushioned on his shoulder. He stares up at the ceiling as he talks, hands waving around to emphasize his words.

Keith tilts his head, eyes on Lance's profile. On the slope of his nose. On the sharp jut of his chin. On the angle of his jaw and the shadow of it on his long, lean neck. When he lifts up his hands, the collar of his shirt lifts, and Keith can see the fading purple smears on his chest.

It makes something spark in his chest. Radiating heat. Feeling like contentment.

When his left hand catches the light just right, Keith can see the fading purple hues that hand managed to transfer in his absent minded painting.

He watches Lance's lips move as he talks. Watches the curve of them. The stretch of his smile. The glint of his teeth. The lift of his cheeks.

"A cafeteria tray doesn't sound like a very good sled."

"I know, but it is. It's witchcraft, I swear. A perfect little single seater. Everyone does it, though the school hates it. We've developed a system." He tilts his head, eyes glinting mischievously while his lips curl into a wicked smirk. "Hunk shoves them under his jacket."

Keith can feel himself grinning. "You're kidding."

"Nope," He says, arms falling across his middle as he wiggles a little bit in his pride, chin lifting. "It's a perfect system."

"I can't wait to see that."

"Next semester, I'm telling you. First snowfall, we're stealing trays."

"Shiro's gonna think you're all bad influences on me."

Lance scoffs, rolling his eyes. "His soulmate is the one who told us about it. Besides, I'm sure he's done it, too. It's like a rite of passage at this point."

Keith hums, gaze drifting from Lance. To the ceiling. To his mom's painting on the wall. His eyes linger over the brush strokes, bold yet careful as they weave together a landscape dipped in a sunset.

It's quiet for perhaps a moment too long before Lance moves. He rolls over until he's lying half on top of Keith. Arms crossed over Keith's chest and resting his chin on his wrists. Long, lean torso pressed up against Keith's. One leg thrown over his. As he moves, Keith's arm moves with him. Automatically draping over the small of his back.

Keith looks back to him, meeting his gaze as Lance stares at him. His eyes narrow, lips pursing like they do when he's thinking. This close, Keith can see the light smattering of freckles over his cheekbones.

It's a stare down. One that Keith knows he'll win easily. He's fine remaining silent, using the excuse to look at Lance. And he knows Lance isn't one to keep a silence when there's something obviously on his mind.

After a few moments pass, Keith cocks an eyebrow, and that's all it takes for Lance to crack.

"Alright, spill."

"What are you—"

"You've been moping all day."

Keith frowns. "I haven't—"

"Yup, you have." Lance reaches out, pressing a finger to Keith's lips, smooshing them around until they're both fighting off smiles. "I've been around you long enough to know whats normal Keith quiet and what's sad Keith quiet. So spill."

Keith sighs, letting his head push back into the pillows, lifting his chin and moving his gaze back to the painting. "I'm not sad."

"Then what is it?" It's soft and gentle. Not demanding he answer, but... leaving the door open for him. Letting him walk through on his own.

"Just stressed."

He glances down in time to see Lance's lips quirk at the edges, head tilting to the side. The finger that had been pressed to his lips trails down until his hand rests on his chest. "Aren't we all?"

A finger traces along his collarbone. Keith's lips pul into a wry smile. "It's just... my art exhibit coming up."

Lance lifts a brow. "Art exhibit?"

"The art majors are supposed to put on an art exhibit once a year. There's a room for it in the student union. Across from the coffeeshop."

"Oooh, that's what that room is for."

"Yeah, and my time slot is coming up, but... I haven't even started."

"Do you know what you wanna do?"

Keith exhales through his nose. Not quite a huff. Not quite a sigh. Yet somehow both. "No."

Lance lets out a low whistle. "Dang, dude."

"I know."

"Aren't those supposed to be like... pretty big deals? Like with a lot of stuff?"

Keith closes his eyes. "Yes."

"And you haven't even started?" Keith doesn't bother answering, and Lance sighs. "That sucks."

"Yeah."

"Do you at least have any ideas? Even vague tiny ones?"

It's with begrudging frustration that he admits, "No." He opens his eyes, tilting his head to look at the painting on his wall. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do? I've gone to a couple of my classmate's exhibits, and they've had themes and variety and it's this whole presentation, and I feel like I have to do something big and deep like that, but I have no fucking clue."

Lance hums, finger still tracing his collarbone, back and forth in a soothing continuous motion. "Well... what's important to you?"

"What?"

"Well, if something is important to you, then it'll come across, right? Like, if something is a big deal to you, and you're passionate about it, then you can get it done quickly." Keith gazes down at him, and Lance smiles, sheepish but no less bright. HIs eyes are lidded and there's a fondness in his gaze that tugs at Keith's heart. "When you're passionate about something, it shows. Other people will like it because you like it."

Keith smiles, hand slipping beneath Lance's shirt to idly run his fingers along his spine. "That's... actually kind of helpful."

With the way he's laying on top of him, Keith doesn't miss the proud little squirm. "I have my moments. So does this mean I finally get to see your art?"

Keith looks away, strange feeling of anxiety and excitement twisting through his chest in tandem. "Maybe."

He lets his eyes wander back to his mom's painting. Back to the splash of a sunset over a Texas landscape. Painting had been important to his mom. Painting and expression through colors. A reflection of her heart and soul, exposed for the world to see.

Painting had been important to her. And through her, it's important to him.

"Pidge!" He says it perhaps a little too loudly, slamming his hands down on Pidge's desk.

They jump, blinking rapidly, face twitching a little. With their notebook in hand, hovering halfway to the backpack in their lap, they turn to stare at him. It's a blank stare. Narrowed eyes. Heavy bags hanging under them. "Lance," They say, voice flat and gravelly. "I say this with the upmost love and affection. But what the fuck?"

"Sorry, sorry," He says, pulling his hands off the table, holding them up in the air and stepping back so they can stand. They swing their backpack over their shoulder and head for the door. Lance trails after them. Heart pounding. Feet feeling strangely tingly and uncoordinated. He's pretty sure his knees are shaking.

Once they're out of the classroom, Pidge reaches up to rub their eyes, pushing their glasses to the top of their head. "Okay, I can tell whatever this is has got you all amped up. I just have one question. Can it wait until we get coffee?"

Lance hums, the sound going far more high pitched than intended the longer he drags it out. "I'm gonna saaaaay... no?"

Pidge tilts their head to glance at him, brows furrowing. They settle their glasses back on their nose and look him over, taking in his restless fidgeting and the way he bites his lip. They step apart to move around a group of students, and when they come back together, Pidge says, "No?"

He rubs his hands together, anxiously cracking his fingers. He can feel the words practically burning on his palm. "Not gonna lie. I'm kinda freaking out here."

"Wow, okay. Give me a second." Pidge takes a moment to breathe deeply, eyes fluttering closed. Then they let it out slowly, opening their eyes wide. Lance jumps when both hands suddenly come up to slap both of their cheeks. Repeatedly. Rough enough to leave their skin pink.

"Pidge, what the—"

"Shush," They say as they smush their cheeks around, blinking rapidly. It's a weird sight, and Lance can't help but stare. When they step out of the building, Pidge lets their hands drop, shaking out their arms and shoulders, rolling their neck until it cracks. "Okay. I think I'm awake now."

Lance cocks an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Seriously? That's what that was about?"

Pidge glares at him, lifting a threatening finger as they step out into the mass of early morning student foot traffic. "Listen, you know I'm barely a person this early, and neither are you. You and I both barely function in this class. I don't know what's gotten you all wound up, so it must be something big to wake you up like this."

He runs a hand down his face, rubbing his own eyes. They're dry and they burn and he's tired as hell, but he's so fucking wound up right now he doesn't think he could sleep if he tried. "It's not really a big deal—"

"Whatever it is, it's big to you. So spill."

Lance sighs, but it's relief that floods through his system, leaving behind the buzzing wake of an excited giddiness. He lets his hand fall from his face, but he holds it out in front of Pidge. Pidge grabs his wrist, holding his hand steady as they gaze down at his palm.

On a scale from 1 to 10, you're a 9... And I'm the 1 you need

"This just looks like one of your shitty pick-up lines."

"That's because it is." Pidge gives him a flat look and lets his wrist go. "So I wrote that this morning right? Like I always do. And while we were in class, I got this."

He shoves his other hand in Pidge's face, close enough that they blink and pull back. But then their eyes widen, and they snatch his wrist, holding it at a more manageable distance from their face. "Holy shit," They whisper, adjusting their glasses.

"I know."

They twist his hand to see it from different angles, flattening out his palm. The words remain. Words that are in a handwriting that's not his own. Words that are clearly risen from within his skin and not faded ink on top. "Holy shit, dude."

"I know."

"They responded to you." Pidge sounds as awed and off balance as he feels. "They responded to your terrible pick-up line with a terrible pick-up line.”

"I know!"

"Holy shit." They drop his hand, but they're grinning. He feels himself mirroring it. Like he's allowed to now. Like he had been waiting for confirmation from someone else that he's allowed to feel happy about this. That it's real. That it's happening. Pidge's grin glitters in their eyes, and they playfully punch Lance's arm. "They really are your soulmate. Congrats, dude. This is a big step for you guys."

Lance laughs, and it feels like he's teetering on the edge of hysteria.

Lance's grin makes his cheeks ache. It's wide and wild and the feeling in his chest is a fluttering mess. He feels full. It strangely stings. Excitement and something nauseous rolling into a chaotic storm that's hard to pick apart.

Are you from Tennessee? Because you're the only 10 I see

His palm burns. His heart hurts. He's happy. He's ecstatic. He's over the fucking moon. He's falling, falling, falling— He knows it'll hurt when he lands.

Butterflies and hornets.

His skin is breaking out, and he knows it's because of stress.

End of the semester stress is something that doesn't get easier, but it is something he's used to. He usually breaks out around this time of the year. Less sleep. Dehydrated. Stress from juggling projects and papers and exams. But it's never been this bad.

His hands rest on the counter as he leans forward, staring at his reflection. It might just be the cheap florescent lighting, but he thinks he looks paler than usual. The bags under his eyes are bad, but pretty normal at this point. His hair is a mess, and he's finding less and less energy to try and fix it.

His arms hold the fading marks of his soulmate. Words disappearing into his skin with time. Words from the person connected to his soul.

His neck and collarbone are marred by the fading marks of Keith's lips. Of his teeth. He has matching marks on his hips and thighs, fading into sickly yellow as they heal.

Butterflies and hornets.

His chest feels tight all the time, and his mind is a constant buzz without any real concrete thought. Too many thoughts. Too many things. All bumping around and vying for his attention and drifting into the ether before he can firmly grasp any of them.

Worries. Doubts. Excitement. Thoughts. Things to do and things he wants to do. They all slip through his fingers like sand, and he can't keep hold of them.

He's restless constantly. More so than usual. And he can't find an outlet for it. He throws himself into his schoolwork, but he can only focus for short bursts. He throws himself into quidditch, and that helps for a while, but practices are coming to an end with the semester. He goes to the gym just to blow off steam, but Keith is often there, and that starts up the buzzing all over again.

Butterflies and hornets.

He's even gone so far as to frantically clean their entire dorm room, and that was the moment Hunk knew something was wrong. Lance only goes into frantic and hectic cleaning escapades with a single-minded intensity when he's really fucked up. When his head is so cluttered and messy that the only way he can hold onto sanity is to clean something else. To show that he has some semblance of control in at least one aspect of his life.

He tells Hunk it's just school.

Hunk doesn't look like he fully believes him, but he doesn't push. For that, Lance is grateful.

It's not a lie either, it's just not a whole truth.

School is stressful. He's starting to delve into more of his major's classes. Higher level ones with more coursework. But if it was just school, he wouldn't be this hung up about it.

It's his soulmate.

It's Keith.

It's how he feels like he's falling in two different directions at once, and it's threatening to tear him apart at the seams.

He knows it shouldn't be a problem right now. He knows. He hasn't even met his soulmate. He doesn't know how long this thing with Keith will last. Keith is fine with him talking to his soulmate and has never given him a reason to think otherwise. Hell, they even started this thing with Keith saying he doesn't expect Lance to change his view on soulmates. But...

But maybe he has?

Maybe he hasn't.

He doesn't know.

The future is looking scarier and darker and more and more unclear. Unfocused. Hazy. It looks like the unknown, and it's terrifying. Lance has always thought he knew what his future would hold, and now he's not so sure. He know what he wants, and it's terrifying.

He tries to throw a blanket over it. Close the curtains. Ignore the future to live in the present.

He shouldn't have to worry about the future. He shouldn't have to worry about choosing because no one is making him choose. No one is telling him he has to. No one is pressuring him to. He doesn't even know who his soulmate is yet, so it shouldn't be a problem.

But he still feels trapped.

He still feels worried.

He feels happier than he's ever been, and it's a rush of endorphins and ecstasy. But it happens because of two different people, and every burst of warmth feels like it's simultaneously singing the edges of his heart.

Butterflies and hornets.

Keith.

His soulmate.

He's falling— falling— falling— and he doesn't know where he'll end up.

He tries to throw a blanket over it.

Tries to close the curtains.

Tries to push the problem away.

But as he looks at himself in the mirror, he wonders how long it'll be before he breaks. He wonders if it'll get better when exams are over. He wonders if it'll get better once he just gets used to juggling and separating his affection for Keith and his soulmate.

He wonders if it'll get easier once Keith meets his soulmate. Once Keith opens himself up to his own connection. Once Keith embraces the person the universe gave to him.

And that—

Oh god, that makes it worse.

Butterflies and hornets. Hornets and butterflies. Wrecking havoc in his chest and choking him with fluttering wings and stings that tear at his heart.

"Lance," Keith says, breath hot on Lance's lips and amusement lacing his tone. He tries to pull away further, but Lance's arms tighten around his neck, pulling him back down until their bare chests are pressed flush once more. "I need to go."

"Mmm, five more minutes," He mumbles, fingers threading into Keith's hair as he tilts his head, lifting his chin to capture his lips.

Keith groans, and it sounds like frustration and surrender. Lance feels his weight settle back on top of him, and he grins, soft chuckle bubbling out of him as Keith playfully bites at his lip. Keith's body rolls, and Lance's back arches into the touch, humming happily as Keith's tongue sweeps into his mouth.

All too soon, Keith is pulling away again, moving up onto his hands and knees even while he keeps his lips locked with Lance's. Lance clings to him for as long as he can, legs wrapped around his hips and arms wrapped around his neck, leaning up to keep the taste of his lips on his tongue.

"Lance," He tries to say it like a warning, but it comes out like a laugh.

"Keeeith."

"I'm going to be late for work, and you have to meet Hunk for dinner."

"Hunk won't care if I'm late."

"No, but my boss will."

It's with a huff that Lance finally lets go, body going limp on the bed and limbs sprawling. Keith chuckles, a rumble of breathy exhales as he leans down, pressing a quick and light kiss to the tip of Lance's nose. He whines, heat rushing to his face as Keith climbs off the bed.

He sighs, rolling onto this side to watch as Keith rummages around the pile of their discarded clothes. It's a nice view. He has a strong back and a nice curve to his perky little ass. His pale skin still shows angry red marks where Lance had dragged his nails. He likes the look of them. Likes the fall of Keith's messy hair on his bare shoulders. Likes the way his shoulder blades shift.

He grabs his jeans and stands, digging around in his pocket for his phone. He pulls it out, clicks it on, and immediately lets out a loud, "Fuck!"

The frantic speed at which Keith gets dressed is as hilarious as it is impressive. Lance just watches, lounging on his bed with a smile on his lips. He feels a little bad, but not enough to not enjoy the show.

When he's done, he shoves his phone into his pocket, grabs his leather jacket and scarf from the back of Lance's chair, and leans over the bed. It's only then that he slows back down. Pauses as he hovers over Lance. Smile almost shy as he mutters, "See you later."

Lance grins, running his fingers through his hair to pull him down into one more heated kiss.

It's shorter than Lance would've liked, but then Keith is pulling away and out the door without another word.

Lance sighs, rolling onto his back. The contentment and afterglow buzz in his veins, but he can feel the familiar creep of anxiety waiting in the wings. Waiting for the warmth to fade so it can slink back in. Being alone makes it worse. Being along with his own thoughts is a surefire way to get into a spiral.

But no. Not today. Not tonight. Not after he just had an amazing time with Keith.

With a huff, he rolls off the bed, climbing to his feet. He pauses when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, and his expression softens as his finger run over the fresh marks on his collarbones and chest. Hands skimming down his side to touch at the bite marks on his hips and thighs. Something warm fills his chest, making it easier to breathe and chasing away the colder touch of his worry, if only for a moment.

He and Keith may not be soulmates, but they can still mark each other.

The rest of his body is bare. He's been caught up with things, school and quidditch and Keith, and hasn't really had much time to talk to his soulmate. And likewise, his soulmate hasn't reached out to him. He didn't push it. Let them have a couple days of space. And he tries not to dwell on the fact that he knows he gave them that space so their marks would fade from his skin.

So he could spend time with Keith, touching Keith, without proof of Lance's soulmate hanging over him. So he could pretend, for just a moment, that it doesn't matter that Keith isn't his soulmate. Pretend that maybe Keith—

He shakes his head, moving on autopilot to grab his robe and his towel, nabbing his shower caddy as he slipped out the door. There's a slight hobble to his steps as he makes his way to the bathroom, but he doesn't mind the sting.

Thankfully, the afterglow carries him through his shower. Keeping his mind in a blissful state of static and numbness. He moves through his routine with practiced motions, and he leaves the bathroom feeling refreshed, rejuvenated, and ready to tackle the study session he and Hunk have planned for the night.

He's halfway dressed, running the towel through his hair, when his phone buzzes loudly on his desk. He expects it to be Hunk, but a quick glance at the time tells him that he's technically not late yet. The text is from Keith.

Sass Master Keith
> I forgot my bag in your room

Lance
> Yup, I can see it right there, all abandoned and lonesome next to mine
> So irresponsible

Sass Master Keith
> I was distracted

Lance
> Was it a good distraction?

Sass Master Keith
> I think you have the hickies to prove it

Lance
> And you look like you got mauled by a tiger

Sass Master Keith
> A very good distraction

Lance
> So want me to drop your bag off on my way to dinner?

Sass Master Keith
> Please?

Lance
> Np
> I'll be over there soon

He shoots a quick text to Hunk saying he'll be a little late, and hurries to finish getting dressed. His hair is still a little damp, which he knows is going to be cold as shit once he steps outside, but he'll just throw a hat on.

Jacket? Check. Shoes? Check. Keys? Check. Student card? Check. Phone? Check. His own backpack full of textbooks and misery? Check. Keith's backpack slightly less heavy because his art classes don't require as many books that weigh as much as a small horse? Check—

But when he picks up Keith's bag, he does so haphazardly, not realizing that it was left unzipped. Several books tumble out, along with a few loose papers, scattering across his floor. He groans, dropping to his knees to shove it all back in the bag so he can go. The gym Keith works at is in the opposite direction from the cafeteria, and while he knows Hunk doesn't mind, he hates making him wait, and—

He pauses, all thought processes screeching to a grinding halt as he stares at the book in his hand. It's familiar. A plain and ordinary journal of decent size with a simple black cover.

Keith's sketchbook.

Not the one he uses for school assignments, but his personal one. His private one. The one that he was drawing in the first day Lance met him. The one he almost spilled a smoothie all over. The one he's seen Keith drawing in several times since then, but every time Lance asks to look, Keith snaps at him. To the point where Lance has stopped asking, stopping trying, but never stopped wondering.

Keith has always been so... elusive about his art. He'll share his school projects and assignments, but he never shows anything else. He never shows what he draws for himself. It's the only part of Keith Lance doesn't know. The only thing Keith keeps from him.

He thinks it has something to do with his mom. He's said before that his mom was his artistic inspiration, so his personal art has to be connected to her. In a way that's so personal that he feels... embarrassed? Shy? Hesitant to share, definitely.

But Keith has no reason to be nervous. Lance has seen some of his work. The stuff he does for assignments, sure, but Keith is good. Insanely so.

The thought of seeing the art he does because he wants to, fueled by his own passion and not just because a professor told him to... it's temping. Really tempting. Really, really, really fucking tempting.

He shouldn't.

Keith has made it clear that this sketchbook is private.

He shouldn't.

He shakes his head, reaching down to put the sketchbook in the backpack. Slides it between two other books, but— he can't get his fingers to let go.

He pulls it back out, thumb brushing agains the innocent, plain cover.

He shouldn't.

He shouldn't.

He shouldn't.

One peek wouldn't hurt, though, right? He just... wants to see this part of Keith's life. Just get a glimpse. He's so fucking proud of everything he does, and he wants— he just wants to see. Wants to see what happens when Keith pours his heart and soul into something. Wants to see what kind of amazing things he can create.

Because he— He really likes Keith. Cares about him. Is proud of him. And wants to know every piece of him. Including this.

He shouldn't.

He should wait until Keith shows him on his own.

But... curiosity is a dangerous thing. It's a creature that lives inside you. It rears it's head and digs it's claws into a thought, an idea, and won't let go. Won't go away. Whispers all the things. Whispers all your wants and desires. Pushes you toward something, be it good or bad.

Curiosity is a monster you can't shake, or at least Lance has never been able to, but the thing is... he can never tell if it's good or bad. Sometimes curiosity is what he needs to push him in the right direction, to overcome doubts and find his courage. Sometimes it tells him to do things he shouldn't and gets him into unfortunate situations.

There's no way to tell until it's over and done with, and Lance— he can't shake the monster. Can't shake his curiosity.

One peek. That's it. Just a couple of pages. He'll just open to a random page, sate his curiosity for now, and then put it away. Keith and Hunk are waiting for him, after all.

His hands shake as he sits back on his heels, excitement running through his veins. He feels like he's doing something wrong, but there's no guilt in it. Like taking a cookie from the jar after your parents say no. Where the reward outweighs the crime.

One peek, one peek, one peek.

His thumb skims along the pages, stopping at a random place about halfway through. He opens it quickly. With a rushed flourish. Like ripping off a bandaid. Nice and fast so he can't back out.

He stares at the page.

And stares.

And stares.

He blinks.

He stares.

It's not that it isn't what he was expecting, because he honestly had no expectations. And it's not that it isn't beautiful, because it is. The two pages each show a different drawing, both done in colored pencil. They're intricate in design, but there's a flawless fluidity to it. One that feels natural. And the use of color is impeccable.

To be honest, it's exactly what Lance had been hoping for. A peek into Keith's creative passions. A glimpse into the art he makes for himself. And he can see it. Can feel it. The way he blends and swirls color together to make a bigger, more intricate design just feels... so wholly Keith. He hadn't known what to expect of Keith's art style, but now that he sees it... he's not surprised. Not at all. It makes sense. It's beautiful. It's just—

It's just something is nagging at him.

The monster of his curiosity has calmed down, quelled in the wake of actually opening the sketchbook. But now there's something new.

Something he just— can't shake.

It's a subtle tug. Something that's hooked into a distant thought or memory. Something in the back of his mind that's caught. Trapped in the breeze. Drawing attention to itself, but too distant to make out yet.

He doesn't know what it is, but it's caught his attention.

A deja vu feeling.

He wades toward it slowly, easing into the murky dark waters of his memory. It's slow going, and he's careful not to rush it. Lest he scare the memory away. Lest he reach for it too fast and it crumbles away. He tries to ease it out of the shadows. Ease it into the light. Tries to put his finger on that thought, that memory, that idea that's fluttering just out of his reach.

Because Keith's art reminds him of something. What he sees on these two pages? It's... it's snagging a memory. It reminds him of something he's seen before, but he can't figure out where.

In a movie. In a game. In a book. In a museum. On a wall—

He's so deep into the recesses of his mind, trying to grasp that fluttering thought, that he hasn't realized his gaze has drifted. That his eyes have wandered of their own accord. Fixing on the wall by his bed.

On the pictures of his soulmark paintings—

No—

His eyes snap back to the sketchbook. His heart is in his throat, choking him, making it hard to swallow. HIs chest feels tight, too tight, and his breaths come quick and shallow. There's a ringing in his ears. His hands feel numb. The sketchbook in his hand seems to zoom away from him as his vision tunnels and narrows.

He knows where he's seen these drawings before.

They were painted in brilliant tattoos on his skin the summer before the semester started.

Yes—

He doesn't feel his hands move, but suddenly the pages are flipping.

Flames that he's seen in brilliant relief as they consume his arm—

No—

Beautiful cappuccino lily's and twisting green vines that he's seen spiraling up his feet and ankles—

Yes—

A galaxy and stars that have been smattered against his neck—

No—

A sunset in beautiful colors, warming the hues of his skin—

Yes—

The coiling golds and yellows of a snitch design he asked for—

No—

He flips the pages, faster— faster— faster— At the beginning of the sketchbook, drawings reminiscent of paintings he remembers from years ago. At the end—

His favorite constellations cradled lovingly in a swirling river of space.

He turns. Slow and methodical. His body feels numb and distant. The ringing in his ears is loud. He can feel the pound of his heart in his throat as he holds up the sketchbook. Holds it up to the foreground of his vision while his wall stretches across the background.

Perfect copies.

No—

Copies of his paintings.

Yes—

Of his soulmate's painting.

No—

Not just the ones on his wall, but also of ones Lance has in photo albums under his bed. Dating back months. Years.

No—

His vision blurs. Everything burns. Everything aches. He can't breathe— He can't breathe— He can't breathe—

No, no, no no nononono—

Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

The blanket is pulled back.

The curtains are open.

He feels himself crumbling in the wake of the brilliant, burning light of realization. Feels himself crack and shatter and splinter.

Butterflies and hornets. Chaos inside. Devouring him from the inside out. Until the wings are shredded. Until they rip each other apart. Tear him at the seams. Rise up his throat to choke him.

Butterflies and hornets.

Keith should be working right now, but he's not really in a rush. He just clocked in, and he'll be here for several hours more. He's been put on window cleaning duty, but it can wait a few more minutes. Lance should be here soon with his bag.

Lance.

He literally just saw the guy, and his chest is already light and fluttery with the idea of seeing him again. The afterglow hasn't faded. The happy buzzing in his veins. The giddy contentment settled over him, warm and encompassing. Ginny had been able to tell right away that he'd gotten laid, but it's so much more than that.

It's Lance. Just... Just Lance. Spending time with him settles something in Keith. Makes him feel like the world isn't too much. Makes him feel alive and excited and calm all at once. Makes him... happy.

Happy in a way that's different from what he feels when he's with Shiro. Or Pidge. Or Allura and Hunk and Coran. It's a special kind of happiness. One that's wholly Lance. One that doesn't necessarily make him feel complete, because he's always been complete, but makes him feel... more comfortable in his own skin.

Makes him feel like he can breathe when he hadn't realized he'd even been struggling in the first place.

He makes the colors brighter. Makes Keith's worries seem less daunting. Makes him feel like everything, no matter how bad things may get, will be fine.

He always thought soulmates were supposed to make you feel complete, but he's realizing that's not the case at all. He doesn't need Lance to feel complete, but... having him there makes Keith feel stronger. Makes him feel like he can be better. Makes him want to be better.

He thinks this is the feeling his parents were missing.

He thinks this is what his mom found with Shiro's dad.

He never thought or dared to imagine he'd feel this way about anyone, let alone his soulmate, but... he knows better than most that life is full of surprises.

He stands on the opposite side of the front desk, arms crossed and resting atop the tall counter as he leans onto it. The bottle of window cleaner and cleaning rags resting next to him. It gives the illusion that he's on his way to work without actually doing it. Soon he'll wander around the gym, spraying down all the window panes that separate the different rooms, taking his time and zoning out.

For now he waits, leaning against the front desk and casually chatting with Ginny.

"Your boy is here," She says, glancing over his shoulder with a knowing smile.

He firmly ignores the way his heart leaps. Trying to act casual as he turns and not like he's a goddamn teenager with a crush. Trying to pretend like the heat in his chest isn't surging to his neck and threatening his cheeks just because Lance is here and the last time he saw Lance he was naked and Ginny knows that's the case.

But as soon as he turns, as soon as he catches sight of Lance swiping his student ID and moving through the turnstile, he knows something is very, very wrong.

It's in his posture. Stiff and rigid. The pull of his shoulders is tight. His steps are strangely measured. His weight is pulled back and tense. Keith hadn't realized just how much he recognized about Lance's normal movements, his natural gait and the way he holds himself, until it's wrong.

It immediately puts him on edge. The warmth in his chest stills, cooling into concern. A concern that immediately chills into unease when Lance locks eyes with him.

His gaze is... empty. There's tension in his jaw. Lines around his eyes, etched into his forehead, and at the corners of his lips. Lips that are pressed and pulled into a thin frown.

His eyes are ice, empty and expressionless as they bore into Keith's. As they see past him, through him, yet seem to fixate on him wholly and completely.

Unease mingles with dread, an uncertainty that winds itself around his heart, through his chest, crushing his lungs. He smiles anyway, not bothering to hide his confusion and worry but at least trying to be welcoming and reassuring. "Hey, Lance."

Lance stops in front of him. Gazes at him with eyes that cut through him like fractals of crystalline ice. They're so wholly... empty. Like there's a chaos of something happening behind them, but it's hidden from Keith's view. He's locked out of it.

For the first time ever, he can say that Lance looks emotionless and expressionless, and it's incredibly unnerving.

A shiver runs down his spine.

Lance drops his backpack to the ground at their feet, and then suddenly something is being shoved into his chest. Hard. Unforgiving. It makes him stumble back a step, hands scrambling to catch it as Lance lets it go. As his arm drops back to his side. Keith stares down, eyes widening as his fingers wrap around his black sketchbook. Not his school one, but his—

"Hey, space cadet."

Keith's eyes snap up to meet Lance's. He's never heard Lance talk like that. His voice matches his gaze. Cold. Expressionless. Blank. Empty.

No—

Realization and horror mix with the unease and dread in his chest, squeezing it tight. Punching the air from his lungs. Making his heart stutter in his chest. Pulling his mind away until it feels like he's drifting— distant— his body feels numb and tingling and he can barely feel it.

No—

Time seems to stop. He feels it slow. Feels the air press in on his skin. Compressing. Tightening. Thick and suffocating. The sounds of the gym fade. The constant din of conversation. The squeak of shoes. The hum of the ventilation. The beat of footsteps. The pound of basketballs.

No—

"You knew." Lance's voice snaps him back to focus. Snaps his mind back into his body. Back into the dread, real and chaotic and tearing at his insides.

No. No. No no nononono—

He thinks he moves his mouth, but no words come. He can't find his voice. Can't find the words to say. What can he say? So much. There's so much he can say. So much he wants to say. So much he needs to say.

But the look in Lance's eyes has him frozen. Has his panic overriding everything else. Has his mind viciously spiraling into a pit of denial, hoping that this isn't happening— it's not happening— it's not happening—

Lance's eyes search his own, and he can clearly find the answer in Keith's silence. He breathes deep, whole body moving with it. He sighs through his nose, and some of the tension bleeds out of him. But it's not relief. It looks more like defeat.

And somehow, it seems worse than before.

"Where you going to tell me?" His voice is softer. Emotion slipping through the cracks. Emotion that tears at Keith more than the ice had.

He swallows past the lump in his throat, somehow managing to find his voice enough to say, "Yes."

A sharp look in Lance's eye. A tight press of his lips. "When?"

Keith feels his knees shaking. Feels his hands shaking as he clutches the sketchbook to his chest. He speaks softly, and his voice cracks anyway. "I..." He has to tell Lance the truth. A lie feels too sour on his tongue. "I don't know."

Lance sighs again, sharp through his nose. He looks away then. Frowning to the side, eyes narrowed and glassy. "Fuck," One hand on his hip, he runs his other through his hair, making the damp strands stand on end. "Fuck, Keith."

"Lance," Keith takes a step forward, reaching for him, but Lance's eyes snap back to him. He freezes as Lance takes a step back, pulling away from his outstretched hand.

"No— you— you— you knew, Keith. You knew, and you still let me make a fool of myself— Let me look like an idiot."

"I didn't mean to—"

"Yeah, well you did." It's sharp. Final. Making Keith snap his mouth shut hard enough to bite his tongue. It stings, but he barely feels it. "Whatever the fuck you meant to do doesn't change what you did do. And what you did do was— was make me feel like an idiot— dude, I trusted you. I told you so much shit— I— I fuckin' tore myself up over you— because my soulmate— I mean, just— fuck, man."

"I know," He says quickly, words coming out in a rush as panic grips him tight. "I'm sorry, Lance. Please, just—" He reaches for him again, but Lance twists away.

"No! Just—" He runs both hands through his hair, gripping it tight as he spins on his heel. He stomps several feet away before spinning again and marching back to him. He shoves a finger in Keith's face, and Keith stumbles back. "Look. I'm gonna need to hear an explanation from you. And it better be a fucking good one. But right now..."

His hand drops. His shoulders slump. His eyes are still cold, but they're no longer empty. They're glassy torrents of far too many things to name, swirling and chaotic. But the pain is clear. It's clear in the pinch of his lips and the lines around his eyes. It's clear in his voice, ragged and pulling at his seams.

"Right now," He says, voice low and shaking. It cracks, and he pauses to lean back. To clear his throat. To take a breath and steady himself. To encase himself once more behind that wall of ice. "Right now, I just.. need time. Alone. Please, don't... don't contact me." He looks down, and the ice melts just enough for Keith to see how tired he is. How defeated he is. How hurt he is. "Just give me time to think."

"Lance—"

But he's already turned around. Already walking away. Pace brisk and rigid, hasty in his retreat. He ignores Keith's cracked whisper. He doesn't look back.

Keith watches as he slips out the doors and into the night.

He feels the world crumbling around him. Fading away. Feels distant. Feels like he's floating. Feels like he's drifting. Pulling from the ache in his chest and the whirling downward spiral of panic in his mind.

He thinks he's trembling, but he's not sure.

He thinks he's breathing, but he's not sure.

He thinks Ginny is talking to him, but he's not sure.

All he can hear, all he can feel, is the frantic pounding of his heart.

Keith
> Hey, uh, this is Keith's brother, right?

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Yes? Who is this?

Keith
> My name's Ginny, I work with your brother at the student recreation center. I was wondering if you could come pick up Keith? I remember him saying you go to school here, too

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Of course, but why? What happened?

Keith
> He's fine! No worries. He's a little shaken, but fine.
> He just had a pretty bad panic attack, and our manager insists that he goes home. But he still looks a little too shaken to move much, let alone walk home, so I was hoping maybe you could come get him? Make sure he's not alone?

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Of course
> I'll be there in twenty minutes
> Tell him I'll be on my way soon

Keith
> Will do

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Thank you for looking out for him

Keith
> No problem
> Just take care of him, yeah? I'm worried about him

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Do you know what happened?

Keith
> I don't really know. He'll probably tell you about it later. He's said you guys are pretty close
> But... I think?? He met his soulmate??

Sir Nags-A-Lot (Shiro)(ICE)
> Make that ten minutes