Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even in the modern age, no one is certain how or why soul connections exist. They're something that's been apart of human physiology for as long as history can be traced. Even when mankind didn't know what it meant, they existed. There are records of the mysterious marking that would appear on skin. The feeling of being connected to something or someone else.

It spawned many theories throughout history. Many belief systems. Many fears. Many hopes. Many dastardly plots and many stories of love and trust.

It's not until the modern age that mankind has come to accept and respect them for what they are. Research has been put into place to try to figure out the details of the how and why. Desperate attempts to figure out precise reasons and algorithms behind the strange way mankind is connected, and exactly what sort of forces weaves people together.

Yet the how and why of soulmate connections are still a vague mystery.

No one knows with certainty how the universe manages to decide who a perfect potential match is, and no one knows exactly when it will happen.

But while the how and why remain vague at best, there are certainties that have become modern day fact. On average, a First Connection happens during early to mid puberty. There are theories, of course, about what activates or triggers the connection, but there’s been no solid proof, and it’s rarely the same for everyone, making it difficult to pin point.

As for what it feels like during the First Connection, it differs for everyone and every connection. It’s a mingling and connecting of hearts, souls, and bodies. There have been vastly differing accounts throughout the ages. For some, it’s so mind-blowingly overwhelming that it’s led to fainting. For others, it’s so subtle that it was written off as something else entirely and the connection wasn’t recognized until the marks started appearing.

There is a theory that the feeling of a First Connection mimics and foretells the First Meeting. It is a difficult theory to test and prove, as the things souls feel during the First Connection are vague and varying, and First Meetings are tricky to put to words.

But it's a prevalent theory. One that's gained traction in the modern era. One that's widely accepted. One that states, if you pick apart the things felt during a First Connection, they can be framed in the form of a foreshadowed metaphor for the First Meeting. Perhaps, even, for the connection as a whole.

However, people rarely understand the meaning of their First Connection until much later in life, when things have settled and they can look back through memories with a clearer lens and level head. When they can see the cosmic irony and humor of the universe.

Shiro was fourteen and Allura was thirteen during their First Connection.

It felt like a sudden disembodiment, a lightness in their heads and chest. A light summer breeze rolling through them, wrapping them in subtle warmth. It felt like sunshine on their cheeks, and the vague scent of flowers. It felt like the light tingling of adrenaline at their fingertips before leaping from a cliff, and then the burst of warm, bubbling joy as they take flight. A loss of breath in a gust of wind as it plays with their hair and caresses their cheeks.

Coran was twelve, and it was subtle.

It felt like the tickle of hair against his neck, his cheeks, his arms. It felt like laughter in his ear, too soft and too silent but causing shivers to run down his spine and settle in his gut, warming and bubbling into his own laughter. It felt like the warmth of the crackling embers in a fireplace in his chest on a cold winter’s night. It felt like a tingling in his limbs, a lightness in his spirits, a happiness in his heart. He had woken up in the middle of the night laughing from a dream barely remembered and slipping from his mind like grains of sand through his fingertips. He thought nothing of it until he woke up with foreign words written on his arm in a messy script.

Pidge was twelve, nearly thirteen.

It felt like a spark. Like the brief crackle and zap and tingling from a sudden static shock. It sparked deep in their chest, crackling and disappearing so fast they were left sitting with a hand on their chest, wondering if they had imagined it. Then it was a slow bloom, so slow and subtle that they barely noticed at first. A bloom of warmth like sunshine, a soothing brightness. Like moonlight. It grew in their chest, spreading and crawling it’s way throughout their body, seeping into their fingertips and toes with the easy trickle of water. Slowly, calmly filling them with the warmth on their skin and the pleasing coolness in their veins. Like a pool on a summer day. Then their fingertips sparked, crackled like static, and everything disappeared just as quickly as it had come.

Hunk was fourteen and Shay was fifteen, nearly sixteen, and it felt like an earthquake.

The tremors started out slow, rolling through them with all the subtly of an unexplained shiver. The rumble deepened, shaking them to the core. Everything felt like it was moving, yet they felt perfectly grounded. A connection in their chests, a glow that was invisible to the eye but easy to feel. It felt like the warmth of another body, the comfort of a hug, the comfort of watching the sunrise chase away the shadows of night. It felt like a song drifting past their ears, unable to be grasped but drawing out feelings of nostalgia, the comforting notes of home. And while it felt like a rockslide was crashing through their bodies, they stood completely firm, balance unwavering, strength firm. And then the rumbling stopped, echoes of it tingling in their fingertips. The glow in their chests took longer to fade, like a sunset, colors slowly shifting and fading against a cloudless sky, giving way to the peaceful blanket of stars.

Keith and Lance were both thirteen.

It came on quickly, causing both of them to stutter in their steps. It came like a flash of ice, fracturing in their chests and shooting out through their veins, chilling their blood and oozing into their core. And it held for a fraction of a second, cool and hard and sparkling like crystal, before the flash of fire blazed from the crystal’s center and burned it’s way out, trailing along the fractures of ice. The fire raged hot and heavy.

The ice had made them gasp, but the fire made them scream, choking and singing. Then it was gone. The intensity of it left them both on their knees, shaking and dragging in ragged breaths. The storm was quick, overwhelming, and with a strength that left them both reeling. The shock was so great that at first, neither of them noticed that the connection still remained.

It felt like the casual blaze of a bonfire, bright and hot, crackling and humming, surrounded by the warmth and contentment of loved ones, autumn nights, and sleeping under the stars. And while that fire burned in their chests, the slow, steady flow of water trickled through their veins, cool and serene, ever sure and ever strong, diverted but never stopping, always moving forward. Like the flow of seasons into the next, of the flow of time, of things unchanging but never the same.

It was the calming balm on their shocked nerves, easing them back to consciousness while the warmth of the fire crackled with steady strength in their chests. And while they caught their breaths, heartbeats slowing and calming, the sensations faded.

Their First Connection Closed gradually, until it was as if the sensations were never there in the first place. But the echoes of them could never be forgotten.

And deep in their chests, the embers still burned. Hot and bright. Stubborn and defiant. Resilient to the weather and the change of the tides.

A warmth. A passion. A home.

They come together like ice. Clashing and fracturing. Caught in a moment in time where neither are soft. Neither are kind. Words caught in the wrong places. Misunderstandings freeze like fractals. Jagged and sharp. Crack like fissures. Building a frozen landscape between them. Separating them with glacier of their own making.

Until the ice melts, and they're brought together by the current of the flood.

They come together like fire. Hot and blazing. A passion that burns. Emotions fueling the flames. Higher and higher. Not safe. Not controlled. One that burns. One out of their control. Spiraling into the sky. Desperate. Stubborn. Defiant. Consuming. Singing their hearts and boiling their blood until they've burned out.

Until there's nothing but ash in their wake.

And beneath that ash lives embers. Embers that still burn. Embers that refuse to be put out. Embers that refuse to die. Embers that continue to burn, warm and defiant and steady. Until they catch. Until a flame builds. Smaller. More controlled. Building something similar, but something newer. Something better.

A warmth on a cold night. A breath of air at sea. A connection that refuses to die. Formed in ice and forged in flames. Molten turned hard in the cold storm. Flexible and strong. Unable and unwilling to break. Keeping them connected even during the storm. Warmth in the heart of a blizzard.

They come together like the shy burning of an ember to a flame. A precious thing. Small and fragile. But with the potential to grow when fueled. The ability to become controlled. The warmth of a fireplace. The warmth of a bonfire. The warmth of two bodies held close on a cold winter's night.

They come together, fractured and broken and hesitant.

They come together, passionate and reckless and torn.

They come together, stronger and new, understanding and patient, warm and lasting.

It's a cold day. One where the crisp wind blows, biting through layers to settle deep within your bones. But despite that, the sun is out. Shining bright with few clouds in sight. Glistening off the snow piles that remain, coating campus in a near endless blanket of white. Cut through with the wet, dark asphalt of sidewalks and walkways.

Lance closes his eyes, tilting his head back. The sun warms his face, pleasant on his cheeks, despite the bite of the chill. His hands are warm where he holds two coffee cups, the heat sinking through his gloves.

It's a strangely pleasant balance of hot and cold. There are enough points of warmth to ward off the chill, but the crisp air feels clean and refreshing in his lungs. He breathes it in greedily. Lets it slowly wake him from the hibernation of study week. Lets it slowly bring him back to life.

He feels... lighter. In head and heart and body. He had known the weight of his emotions, torn and splintering, was a heavy press on his chest, but he hadn't realized just how bad it had gotten until he's free of it. Until he feels like he can breathe again. Until he feels like he's giddy, weightless, floating.

He feels the curve of his smile. Pulling up despite himself. Despite everything. As weightless and light as the rest of him. Tugging up at the corners.

He hasn't felt this good in years. Perhaps ever. Exam week is here, the pressure of the semester is compounding, yet he feels... freedom.

He feels... happy.

He hears the doors of the art building open, bodies pressing out into the cold air. It starts as a trickle before quickly condensing into a flood. Voices spill out into the crisp air, muted and private conversations, building atop one another and colliding into the din of campus.

Leaning against the brick wall of the building, he listens.

Voices. The sound of car wheels on wet streets in the distance. Laughter. The crunch of shoes on the salted concrete. The rattle of the wind drifting through barren tree branches.

"Lance?"

He opens his eyes, gaze immediately fixing on the man standing in front of him.

Disheveled dark hair. Messy and curling at the edges. Pushed down by a charcoal beanie. Hanging partially in front of his face. A deep red scarf wrapped around his neck. A familiar dark jacket that stretches across broad shoulders. A large art bag hanging at his side, strap over one shoulder.

Dark smudges under dark eyes that gaze at him curiously. A little surprised. A little hesitant. A little hopeful. Pale skin already starting to redden around his nose and high on his cheekbones from the chill in the air.

He tilts his head, brows pinching in the center, lips pursed as he stares at Lance like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

Cute. The thought is accompanied with a flutter in Lance's chest and a flipping of his stomach, no longer edged with the sharp, jagged barbs of guilt and doubt. He feels dizzy with it.

"Hey." He pushes off the wall, taking several steps forward and stopping just in front of him. Far enough away to give them space. Close enough to still be intimate. He feels his smile soften, tapering down to something almost shy. "How'd it go?"

He blinks. Eyes narrowing just slightly. Brow relaxing before lifting. Pursed lips easing, parting, and closing again. Small things. Small minute ticks of his expression. Small lines shifting as he sorts through his thoughts. Confusion clearing in one place, but still hanging overall. Awe still fixed. Hope growing.

Lips easing, pulling at the edges into a small smile. A fragile, tentative little thing. A shy ember in the ash.

And Lance is witness to it all. All the small, barely there changes in his expression. All of them easily visible to anyone who knows him well enough. He's expressive, each and every thought having control of his features, but they're not big reactions. Not grand. Subtle. Small.

Lance sees them. He knows them. He can read them. And the realization that he knows his soulmate so well warms whatever chill has sunken into his bones.

"The exam?"

"No, your dentist appointment." Lance huffs a short breath, watching it turn to smoke in the air. He rolls his eyes, pushing forward to lightly shove Keith's shoulder with the back of his hand. "No shit, your exam, you doofus. How'd it go?"

Keith chuckles softly, breath catching in the air. He rocks back with the light shove. Rocks forward a step. Closer. "Fine, I guess. Won't know until grades come out, but I'm pretty sure I passed." He shrugs, hiking the strap of his bag further up. He shifts his weight, glancing away before glancing back. Through his lashes. Uncertain. Voice softer. "What're you doing here, Lance?"

Lance shrugs, lifting his hands a fraction. One closer to himself. The other extended. "Thought you could use a pick-me-up after your first exam of the semester. Especially an eight am one, yikes. I can tell by the bags under your eyes that you haven't slept. A little devil's juice outta make you slightly less zombified."

Keith takes the offered cup gingerly, cradling it in his hands and close to his chest. He looks down at it, a small smile playing across his lips. Chin tucked into his scarf. "Thanks."

It's Lance's turn to shuffle, shoes crunching on the salt that decorates the sidewalk. He looks to the side, lips pursed in his attempt an nonchalance. He opens his arms wide. "And, you know... I thought maybe you could use a hug, or something..."

He doesn't see Keith's face. Keeps his eyes averted to avoid it. Feels the heat rising up his neck to settle on his cheeks. But he hears the soft huff of breath that nearly forms a laugh. Hears the crunch of salt as Keith shuffles forward.

And then there's a body pressed against his. Strong and firm. Warm and fitting against his in all the right places. Arms wrap around his waist, and Keith ducks his head to nuzzle into Lance's scarf.

He expects hesitancy. He expects shyness. He expects things to move awkwardly. Stilted as they try to fit back into the pieces they once were. As they try to figure out how they fit together again. As they figure out where they stand and wade into these new, uncertain waters.

But it isn't like that at all. Keith falls into his arms like he's meant for it. Like he's been craving it. Like he's needed it and can no longer hold himself back. He steps into Lance's embrace and fits himself into place perfectly. With a certainty. With a sigh of relief. Body melting against Lance's with his exhale. Stitching them together with every breath shared.

It feels... nice. It feels right.

Lance's arms settle around him, wrapping tight at the shoulders. Coffeecup held in one hand and the other rubbing up and down his back. He tilts his head, resting it atop Keith's. "I was also thinking, if you don't have anything to do right now, maybe you'd wanna come by my dorm?"

Keith stiffens in his arms. Voice merely a breath. "Your dorm?"

"Yeah, so we can, you know... talk and stuff. We haven’t really gotten a chance to.“

Keith's arms around him tighten for just a moment, pressing them closer before he lets go. He steps back, smile small and sheepish. Exhaustion plain on his features. "Right. We should... probably do that."

"Yup," Lance nods, reaching out and snatching Keith's free hand before he can shove it in his pocket. He blinks, face going blank as he stares at their hands. Lance weaves their fingers together, and when Keith looks up at him, lips parted and eyes wide, he winks, a laugh on his tongue. "Come on, space cadet."

They walk together in companionable silence. Listening to the sounds of the early morning around them and the crunch of salt and snow beneath their shoes.

It's strange being hand in hand. Familiar and new all at once. He's memorized how he and Keith fit together, how their fingers slot between each other, but having that knowledge out in the open, on display, is something new entirely. It's... exhilarating. Thrilling. Makes his chest flutter and giddy bubbles pop on his tongue.

He squeezes Keith's hand and lifts his coffeecup to his lips to hide his smile when Keith squeezes back.

"So..." Keith shifts his weight in the beanbag chair, knees bent, arms crossed over his chest. His empty coffeecup sits on the floor beside him. Lance can tell he's aiming for nonchalance, but he's failing miserably. In an attempt to not fidget, he's far too stiff. His eyes trail around the room. Noticeably anywhere but at Lance.

"So..." He echos. He sits in the beanbag across from him. Bodies angled so they're nearly facing each other but not quite. His sits with his legs lazily stretched out and bent, arms spreading out along the beanbag on either side of him. His empty coffeecup is held loosely between his fingers, idly tapping against the beanbag.

"I, uh..." Keith trails off, eyes darting to him out of the corner of his eye before snapping away. He purses his lips. "I owe you an explanation..."

"Yeah, you do," He says, not accusatory, but matter-of-fact. Lilting on the end with a lightheartedness bordering on amusement. Keith looks at him then. Not directly, but through his lashes. There's a pitiful purse to his lips, but a slight quirk to his brow. Lance tilts his head, smile softening. "But I don't need one."

It takes Keith by surprise. His brows rise, leaning a fraction away from Lance as his lips purse and eyes narrow. His gaze darts around Lance's face, looking for any sign of a trick, any telling crack or seam. But Lance has nothing to hide. He's being honest.

"I... I don't..." Keith trails off, uncertain.

Lance chuckles, a low huff of breath that bubbles past his lips. "Dude, stop thinking so hard. This isn't a puzzle, and I'm not trying to trick you."

Keith's eyes narrow as Lance's grin widens. He tilts his head, feeling his smile in his eyes. Feels his lids droop as his gaze softens. Feels the fondness flutter in his chest as he takes in Keith's pouting frustration.

He shifts a leg, prodding Keith's foot with his own, needing some point of contact. Keith looks down at it, and when his gaze flickers back, Lance continues. "I know you, Keith. I know you a lot more than you probably realize. I know so much about you, and I know so much about my soulmate. I'm not gonna lie, fitting the two of you together was a little hard at first, but now... now I can't imagine you as two different people anymore."

He doesn’t need Keith’s explanation because he already knows. And more than that, he understands. He’s heard it from Keith before. He’s felt it from his soulmate. They don’t need to go around and around with why did you do this and why why why. He knows. He knows Keith knows exactly the impact his actions have had. Because when it comes down to it, Keith knows him, too.

Still, he wants to say his peace. He’s already forgiven Keith. Forgiveness comes easy, everything considered. It’s moving forward that’s tough. He thinks they can do it, though. They’re both stubborn enough for it. He merely wants to say what he needs to. To get the last of it out in the open and out of his system. Let it out like a sigh and breathe in something new.

And he thinks Keith knows it. From the way he stares at Lance with an intensity that says he’s waiting. He’s patient. He’s listening. Lance has his full and undivided attention.

“You hurt me,” He says softly, holding that intense gaze. He sees the flicker in Keith’s eyes, but he doesn’t interrupt. “And I’m not talking about when we were kids, because fuck all that. We were young and dumb. I’m not exactly happy about you ignoring me for the majority of our teen years, but I’m not gonna blame you for it. We didn’t know each other back then, and you didn’t owe me anything. You hurt me because you didn’t tell me months ago. Because we’re friends.” He holds up a hand when Keith opens his mouth, pressing forward before he can speak. “I know why you did it, okay? Shiro told me about your mom and his dad. How you watched them… become soulmates.” Keith stiffens, and Lance’s voice softens. “You were scared, and we do stupid things when we’re scared. I know… I know you just wanted me to see you as you.” He offers a small smile at that, drawing the ghost of one from Keith. “More than that, I understand. I’m embarrassed as hell that I didn’t notice sooner, and I’m pissed that you made me look like an idiot for months, but… I can move past that. I can forgive you.”

“Really?” Keith breathes, wary and hopeful all at once.

Lance nods, rolling his head to the side. “Really. That’s what friends are for, dude. And… you know, all things considered… this could’ve gone way smoother, but I’m not exactly upset that you’re my soulmate.”

Keith’s smile rises and fades. He looks down, eyes glued to the point of contact where Lance's toes press against his ankle as he mutters, “I never meant to hurt you, and it was just… a lot, and I wasn’t ready.”

“Are you ready now?”

A twitch at the corner of his lips. The ghost of a wry smile. “I am. I think I have been. I’m sorry."

"I know," Lance whispers, lips quirking at the corners. "I am, too."

Keith's gaze snaps to his, features pursed in a spark of righteous fury. "You have nothing to apologize for, I was the one who--"

"Ah bub bub bub," Lance holds up a hand, cutting him off as he shakes his head. "I didn't exactly handle the situation like a saint either, okay? We both did stupid things, we were both assholes, and I'm sorry, too."

Keith purses his lips tight, but he nods. "Okay." He lets out a pent up sigh, looking away as he runs his fingers roughly through his hair. "Look, I really am sorry, Lance. I didn't mean for it to go this way, and I swear I was planning on telling you. I just... I was scared. I didn't want--"

"For things to change?"

Keith looks at him sharply, expression open and vulnerable, desperately trying to keep the pieces of his composure in place.

Lance just smiles, letting that fondness fluttering around in his chest shine through as he tilts his head, lazy grin stretching across his lips. "I told you, man. I know. I know why you did the stuff you did. I know why all of this freaked you out so much-- why I freaked you out so much." Keith opens his mouth, but Lance puts up a finger to cut him off. "Don't deny it, I did. And I know now that my whole view on soulmates wasn't exactly... healthy either. We both fucked this up."

Keith's smile is a small and fragile thing, slowly blooming across his lips until it dares to touch his eyes, shinning in dark indigo depths. "Yeah. Yeah, we did."

They share a moment of silence. Not strained or stiff, but companionable. A moment lost in their own thoughts. The touch of a smile on their lips. Eyes distant as they let the remaining tension of guilt and uncertainty dissipate into the air. The weight drifting away and leaving them lighter.

Then Lance nudges Keith's leg, toes pressing into his calf again and again until his leg bounces with it. "Hey... hey, Keith." He says, voice comically hushed. Whispered yet still loud in the silence of his dorm room. "Hey. Keith. Hey, Keith. Buddy. My man. Dude. Keith. Keith, Keith, Keith, Keith--"

"What, Lance?" His eyes are sharp. Frown pursed. Glare heated in a spark of annoyance that somehow manages to hold not a single drop of actual malice.

Lance merely grins. Let's it slowly split his lips and lift the edges of his eyes. "You're my soulmate." He hadn't meant to say it so breathlessly. So full of awe. But there it is, quiet and hushed in the space between them.

It's the first time either of them have really acknowledged it to each other. No dancing around it. No implications. Straight forward. To the point. Words so simple and so fleeting, yet holding so much weight.

Keith blinks, face going lax in his surprise. He stares at Lance for a long moment, eyes impossibly wide. Pretty lips parted. And then slowly, like a sunrise, he smiles. The corners of his mouth curve just so. His cheeks lift just enough. His eyes go lidded, darkening and shining. Voice equally breathless as he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"I want to go back to the way things were."

"Me, too."

“But we can’t. It’s always gonna be different.”

“I know.” A shift of his weight. A plea in his eyes. A bite of his lips. Voice softer, more vulnerable. “I don’t want to start over…”

Lance is surprised by the soft laugh that slips out of him, a bubble of relief popping on his tongue. “I don’t either. I spent way too much time breaking down your stubborn walls.” He looks down, feeling something settle in his chest. “And… I miss you. As my friend and whatever the hell else we were. I know it’s not gonna be the same, and I’m not saying we should rush things, but… I miss you. Feeling bad for myself is exhausting, and I wanna move forward. I wanna let myself have this.”

“Me, too…” It’s soft. Choked. Cracked. Caught on the edge of a relieved, half-formed laugh. Raw and whispered in the space between them.

Lance sets his empty cup down and holds out his hands. Keith stares at him blankly for a moment, lifting a brow. Lance merely rolls his eye as he groans, "Oh my god, Keith, just come here." He flaps his hands, fingers curling, gesturing him over.

Keith smirks, eyes lidded as he uncurls from his beanbag seat. He falls forward on his hands and knees, crawling slowly across the distance between them. Shoulders shifting with each stretch of his hand. Each step. Eyes never leaving Lance's. Hair messy and framing his face. Framing that perfect coy tilt to his lips.

Lance swallows hard, heat rising to his cheeks and pooling in his gut.

And then Keith is crawling on top of him. Pressing them both into the beanbag. He straddles Lance's legs, sitting firmly on his thighs, knees bracketing his hips. His hands press into Lance's stomach, fingers spread and searching as they push up his chest to rest on his shoulders.

"Here?" He asks, all innocent and coy. Head tilting to the side. Lips curled in a devilish smirk.

Lance's heart is pounding. Mouth feeling dry as heat sears through him. Body tingling where they touch. Still he manages a smirk of his own, hands coming to rest on Keith's thighs, sliding up his strong legs to rest at his hips. "Yeah, right here."

Keith's eyes are too bright. Too lidded. Too full of far too many things all at once. Lance feels overwhelmed by them. Drawn in by them. Wholly willing to let himself drown.

But there's something he has to say first, so he lets his own gaze trail away from them. Down a perfect jawline and kissable lips. Down that tempting neck of his to the beautiful dip of his collarbones.

"You know, I've been thinking..."

"That's dangerous."

Lance snorts, playfully swatting Keith's thigh. "Funny. You're funny, Kogane. Ha ha ha. Hilarious."

"Sorry," He murmurs, though he doesn't sound like he means it. But his fingers trail up to play with the curls at the back of his neck, and he supposes he'll forgive him. "Go ahead.”

"I don't want to go back to exactly the way things were." Keith's fingers in his hair still. Lance can see him holding his breath. He looks up then, through his lashes. He can feel his smile shrinking to something meek and shy. "I was thinking... maybe boyfriends would be better?"

Keith surges forward, capturing his lips.

It's not their first kiss by far, but it feels entirely new. Because right here, right now, Lance is kissing his soulmate. And while he's done it before, now he knows it. His soulmate is right here, on his lap, kissing him with a desperation that feels like relief.

His eyes drift closed, tilting his head and narrowing his world down to the feeling of Keith on his lap and Keith's hot mouth on his. Tongue sliding past his lips. Teeth teasing and playful. His hands slide under Keith's shirt as Keith's card through his hair.

He missed this. He's missed this so fucking much. Everything feels right. Keith feels right. It's so much, and yet it's not enough. He feels like it's been forever since they've touched, since they've kissed, since he's felt this good--

He doesn't register the sound of the lock tumbling until it's followed by a voice. "Hey, guys, sorry to interrupt, I just need to grab--"

He freezes. Keith stills on top of him. Mouths broken apart but hovering close. Breaths shallow and quiet. He meets Keith's eyes, equally wide. He doesn't have to look to know that Hunk has frozen, too, gaping at them in silence.

But the panic is only momentary. Fleeting. Because... because it's not a big deal anymore. They're allowed to do this.

He turns his head slowly, watching Keith do the same out of the corner of his eye. Just as he thought, Hunk stands in the open doorway, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Ooooh my god," He whispers.

"Hey, buddy," Lance says, voice surprisingly even.

"Oh, shit. I am so sorry. You guys were-- Oh fuck." He starts, entire body jerking into motion. He slaps his hand over his eyes, shuffling into the room sideways, free hand outstretched toward his desk, waving in the air. "I just-- I'm just gonna grab something, and then I'll go. Like I was never here. I didn't see anything."

"Oh my god, Hunk." A giddy lightness bubbles up inside him, drawing his lips upward and lilting his voice with amusement. "You don't have to cover your eyes. It's not like we're naked."

"Oh, oh no. That's what I'm gonna have to worry about from now on, isn't it? Walking in here and finding you two naked." He reaches his desk, slapping around blinking and knocking things over.

"I mean, technically that kinda already happened--"

"What?"

"But Keith was hiding under the covers."

"Oh my god."

Keith groans, forehead dropping to Lance's shoulder.

"I'm just-- gonna-- aha! There it is." He grabs his wallet from the desk, quickly shoving it into his pocket before hastily retreating back to the door. But not without nearly tripping twice and running into his open wardrobe door.

"Hunk! Just open your eyes!"

"No! I'm pretending like I'm not intruding on your moment!"

"Hunk!"

"I was never here! Goodbye!" The door slams shut, echoing in the hallway beyond. Hunk's footsteps hurry away, voice calling back to them through the door, "Don't defile the beanbags!"

Keith groans again, and Lance wraps his arms around his waist, pulling him close and muffling his laughter in the curve of his neck. He feels Keith's smile press into his temple.

The coffeeshop in the student union is packed. It has been for weeks leading up to exams. During study week, it was filled to the brim with lifeless students, desperately seeking out caffeine to stay alive, slipping into naps resembling comas as they sprawl across available flooring and the cushioned armchairs that line the corners. Or simply draped over the tables, listless and lifeless.

It's a different kind of packed now.

Now that exam week has official started, the crowd has a new life to them. A frantic and desperate life. There's an odd mix of listless misery, panic induced haze, and exhausted relief. It hangs in the air, creating an atmosphere that's a strange mix of tension and utter defeat.

Still, no matter where students fall on the exam week emotional spectrum, they all need caffeine. And the coffeeshop in the student union is a safe haven that promises comfort and a quick fix.

Keith sits on the stage at the far end of the coffeeshop. The piano is covered, the mics put away, and it serves as nothing more than another place for students to lounge. And right now, he and his friends have claimed it.

He sits with his back to the wall, slouched down until his neck is at an odd angle. He can already feel it aching, but he ignores it in favor of not moving. Body stretched out, knees bent, his laptop props up on his stomach and thighs as he mindlessly scrolls his notes, doing some last minute preparation for his final speech for his public speaking class later.

Pidge sits next to him in a very similar position. Eyes glued to whatever powerpoints they're looking over. Chin tucked into their oversized hoodie. Their sleeves are pushed up to their elbows, and there's faded handwriting on their skin.

When he had first seen them, he had braced himself for the family queasy flip of his stomach, but... it never came. Instead he felt nothing but a fluttering warmth as he had pushed up his own sleeves, revealing Lance's messy script and lazy doodles. Faded and worn into his skin like they belong there. Capturing a moment in time when they both had been procrastinating from exam prep.

It feels odd to have his soulmarks on display. Odd, but exhilarating.

Pidge had taken one look at the doodles and snorted, rolling their eyes before going back to their work. Keith had merely smiled.

Allura sits nearby, legs crossed and a thick textbook open in her lap. Her elbows rest on her knees as she leans over it, eyes relentlessly scanning the pages. Shiro sits behind her, leaning against her back. His head tilts back against her shoulder, arms loosely crossed over his chest and legs stretched out. His eyes are closed, face lax, but it's difficult to determine if he's truly asleep.

Hunk sprawls out in front of them, lying on his back. One arm lies at his side and the other folds over his midsection. His phone lies on his face, screen already dark. He had been holding it above his head before he had accidentally dropped it, and he hasn't moved since. Just let it there and closed his eyes with a defeated groan. He hasn't moved in a while, but Keith doubts he's asleep.

His mind is a whirlwind of information, running through the things he needs to say in his speech, making sure that he remembers his facts, when he feels his soul connection open up.

It shimmers through him like a winter breeze, tingling across his skin and making him shiver. A cool rush of air that fills his lungs and stills his mind.

His eyes dart from the computer to his arm, where there's the phantom press of a pen, tingling and light. He feels a flood of exhaustion fill his chest, making his body melt with the heavy edge of relief. He knows it's not his own, but it makes him slump further all the same. And yeah, his neck is definitely going to hurt later.

The connection closes as quickly as it appears, leaving a messy and hasty message scrawled between the fading marks of the previous night's conversation.

Where are you guys?

"Anyone have a pen?" He gets a few glances and grunts in response, but it's Allura who reaches into her open bag and tosses him a pen. "Thanks."

"Lance?" She asks, corner of her lips pulling into a knowing half smile.

He feels the heat flood his face and resolutely ignores it as he puts the pen to his arm, just below Lance's question. It's still so new. Acknowledging it in front of the others like this. But it feels... nice. Really nice. A lot nicer than he was expecting it to. A lot more natural than he had anticipated.

"Yeah," He says, feeling the ghost of a smile on his lips as he writes.

Student union coffeeshop. On the stage. You could've just texted.

The response comes quickly, a light and bubbling amusement filtering through their connection, filling his chest and popping with a fond warmth.

You could've, too

He doesn't dignify that with a response, but the smile is still fixed on his lips as he sets the pen aside. As his attention fixes back to his laptop screen.

Yes, they could've just texted. In a lot of ways, it would be easier. But... this is something they've never had. An easy back and forth. The opening of their connection without fear or doubt or worry. The ease of it. The normalcy of it. It's so... domestic, and Keith finds that he enjoys it a lot more than he thought he would.

They never had this as teenagers. They never had this when they were young and the connection between them was fresh and new. It's always been a tremulous thing. An uncertain thing. A thing he's feared and been wary of. For the first time, he's able to revel in it. He's able to see it and treat it as a normal extension of himself. A simple part of his life, with no need to hide it or feel shame for it. Without needing to fear it.

It's a strange giddiness that he's pretty sure most people get out of their system in their teen years, but they never got the chance. But they have the chance now, and... he thinks it might be better this way. Here and now, he can actually appreciate it. Appreciate Lance. Appreciate the bond that they have. Because for the first time in his life, he actually wants it.

He's lost once more in frantic recollection, picking apart facts and mentally trying to phrase his thoughts, when Lance arrives.

He announces his presence with a loud groan, causing all of them to look up at where he trudges up onto the small stage. He drags his feet as he walks toward them, shoulders slumped. Face lined with exhaustion.

"Hey, Lance," Hunk says, eyes cracking open and phone falling to the stage as he turns his head.

"Hello, Lance," Allura says, though she doesn't look up. Shiro cracks open an eye, mumbling a greeting as he lifts a hand in a halfhearted wave.

"Hey, nerd," Pidge greets unceremoniously, eyes going back to their computer screen.

Lance grunts his own form of a greeting as he steps through them, coming to stand in front of Keith. He stares for a long moment, brows furrowed and lips pursed into a contemplative pout.

Keith meets his gaze, though the angle is difficult. He lifts a brow. "What?"

Lance kicks his foot, dropping his backpack to the ground. "Move it, space cadet." Keith's lips purse as he frowns, kicking him back. Lance's head lulls back, body shaking as he pathetically kicks at Keith again. "Keeeeith."

He can feel the tug at his lips, threatening to break his disgruntled scowl. He tries to keep it at bay, despite the fact that he's certain the ghost of it shines through. To cover it, he sighs loudly, rolling his eyes as he grabs his laptop with both hands, lifting it above him as he spreads his knees.

Lance's grin is small. A hair triumphant but mostly just tired as he drops to his knees and falls forward. He settles himself between Keith's legs, draping himself across his chest. He nuzzles into Keith's sternum with his nose and cheek, face buried in the folds of his sweater. His arms wrap around him, squeezing him tight as he sighs, entire body collapsing onto Keith's.

A rush of air escapes him. Lance is heavy. His neck still hurts. But he can't bring himself to move. Instead he sets his laptop down on Lance's upper back.

"Rough exam?"

"It's over. That's all that matters." Lance's voice is mumbled into his chest. Lance's eyes drift closed, and Keith feels himself losing the fight with his smile. One hand remains on his laptop, steadying it and scrolling his notes while the other rests atop Lance's head, fingers idly carding through his hair. The soft hum from Lance's throat vibrates through his chest.

It’s familiar, this kind of back and forth. It’s been easy to slip back into. To fit back together. It hasn’t been without trepidation and without shy hesitation, but it’s been easy to get back into the flow of their friendship. Of the banter. Of the fond and simple touches. This time unhampered by guilt and doubt and uncertainty. It makes him hopeful, and it makes him giddy with relief. That all the ways they’ve learned to fit still work. That they can still snap back into place. That things aren’t torn between them.

"Ready for your final speech later?"

"No."

"Did you do notecards like I told you to?"

"Sort of."

"Lance."

"It's fine. I'll wing it. I'm great at winging it."

"I hate that you're right."

"Aww, don't be nervous, babe. If you get stage fright, just look at me and imagine me in my underwear."

Keith huffs a short laugh, flicking Lance's ear as the body on top of him shakes with silent laughter. "I am not doing that."

It's only then that he notices the strange silence that's fallen over their little ground. They were quiet before, but there's a strange weight to it now. One that prickles at his attention until he's forced to acknowledge it.

He looks up to find everyone staring at them. Eyes wide and blinking. Expressions twisted into various states of surprise and amusement. He glances between them, brows furrowing and scowl returning. "What?"

"This is... so weird," Pidge says slowly, eyes narrowed like they're trying to assess a puzzle. They adjust their glasses, lip curling into a small grimace.

"I think it's cute." Allura tilts her head to the side, resting her head atop Shiro's. Her lips curl into a pleased smile, even as her eyes gleam with mischief. "They're adorable."

Keith glares at his brother, only to get a small smile as he lifts his brow. "Agreed. Even when Keith looks like a disgruntled cat."

"He's a cute disgruntled cat," Lance mumbles into Keith's sweater, lifting a hand to blindly try to pat his face. He succeeds in pressing his palm flat to Keith's cheek, fingers pushing at his nose and poking his eye. Keith slaps it away, and Lance just chuckles, arm returning to wrap around him.

Hunk eyes them both through narrowed eyes, lips pursed out as he thinks. Then finally, he nods before rolling back onto his back and placing his phone back on his face, eyes closing. "They're cute, but it's definitely still weird."

"Are you guys going to be gross all the time now?" Pidge asks with a quiet groan.

"No," Keith says.

At the same time Lance lets out a muffled, "Yes." He shifts his head, still resting it on Keith's chest but turned to look at Pidge. "Get used to it, munchkin."

They flips him off, and he sticks out his tongue. Then their group lapses back into comfortable silence. Shiro, Hunk, and Lance attempting to rest while Pidge, Keith, and Allura study. Quiet but together. Lance's weight pressing in on him, warmth comforting. His fingers passing idly through the short, curled locks.

It feels... right.

When Lance starts to drool on his sweater, and Pidge pokes and prods him until he groans and nuzzles into a pool of his own saliva. When Hunk gets a text from his group about their project, and it spurs him on an animated rant fueled by sleep deprivation and stress. When Shiro loses a game of rock, paper, scissors and has to get up to get them all a round of drinks, but instead takes off his arm and tosses it aside to claim that he can't carry them all.

Everything feels right.

Lance had never asked, but he hadn't needed to. Keith knows he's curious. Knows that he wants this. Knows that he knows how personal it is. Knows he won't ask for fear of overstepping boundaries. Some invisible lines Keith has inadvertently drawn between them with his own actions.

Lines that have no meaning anymore. Lines that he wants to erase. Lines that he ignores as he steps over them, reaching a hand out to Lance with a shy olive branch.

Lance had been surprised when he suggested it. Surprise that quickly dissolved into unfiltered and unabashed excitement. A joy that sparked in his eyes and split his lips into a wide grin. A breath of awe and a thrilled sound caught in his throat. All before he tapers it down. Reigns it in. Coughs and tries to pull his grin back into something more casual. Something more manageable. Something that wouldn't scare Keith away.

But he'd already seen it, and it sparked something deep inside his chest. His own excitement. His own joy. His own thrill at sharing something so deeply personal with someone who means so much.

Exam week is nearly halfway over, and Keith's art exhibit is tomorrow. He's spent nearly the entire day setting up the room in the student union, door shut and curtains pulled over the windows.

He'd lost track of time, only coming back to reality when Shiro arrived to drag him to dinner.

And now he's back in his apartment, pushing his furniture to the side. Clearing out a space in the center of his floor. It's something he's done hundreds of times before. In this apartment and back home. Spreading out the familiar and stained paint tarp over the floor. Pulling out the paints he'll need and his worn brushes, putting them to the side.

Going through the motions are usually automatic. Calming. Readying him to lose himself in the colors and texture of paint.

Now, however, his heart can't seem to calm down. There's a buzz in his veins he can't quite be rid of. It's a jitteriness beneath his skin. An anticipation that pulls him taut and tight.

A soft knock on his door. Almost hesitant. Not at all the boisterous, rapid, and obnoxious rhythms he's used to hearing from Lance. His heart skips a beat all the same, stuttering in his chest and sending a jolting vibration through him.

His steps feel stiff and stilted as he hurries to the door, breath catching in his throat as he swings it open. Lance stands just outside. Chin tucked in his scarf. The bite of cold causing a flush of pink across his cheeks. Melted snow glistens in his hair and on his lashes as he gazes up through them. Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.

His smile is a lift in his cheeks rather than a tilt of his lips. "Hey," He says, voice accompanied by a fog in the air. He sounds as breathless as Keith feels.

"Hey."

He moves aside, opening the door wider, and Lance steps inside. He steps in close, smile sparkling in his eye as he leans in, running his cold nose along Keith's cheek before pecking him on the lips. Keith shies away from the chill, but smiles under the touch all the same.

"Hey," Lance repeats, breath warm against Keith's lips.

Keith leans into him, swinging the door shut before resting his hands on Lance's hips. He surges forward to capture his lips. Firmly. Gently. Guiding them in a lingering, languid kiss that has Lance's cold lips parting beneath his. Mouth warm and eager. Pliant and willing as fingers weave through his hair.

Keith pulls away first, leaning back far enough to stare into hazy, lidded eyes. "Hey."

Lance's gaze roams over his face, thumbs caressing his cheeks while his fingers tuck away wayward strands of hair. His fingertips are cold, but Keith doesn't mind. He closes his eyes under the touch anyway, humming softly.

"Are you sure about this?" Lance asks, voice soft. Keith opens his eyes to find the gentle pinch between his brows. Lips pressing together in the barest of frowns. "I know this is like... super personal for you and kind of a big deal, and don't get me wrong, I'm fucking honored you asked me if I wanted to watch, but I don't want you doing it just because you think you should, because you don't have to--"

"Lance," He says flatly, watching Lance's mouth press shut. He tilts his head, pressing his cheek into Lance's palm. "I want you here."

"Okay," He lets out in a rush of air, visibly relaxing. Frown dissolving into a shy smile. "Okay, okay, okay."

Keith huffs a short breath, rolling his eyes as he pulls away. "It's not a big deal, Lance." It is, but not really. He'd never do this in front of others, but Lance... He's alright if it's Lance. He moves toward the kitchen, filling a couple cups with water to clean his brushes with. "I used to do this with my mom all the time."

"Yeah, but your mom was super important to you."

"So are you."

He doesn't realize the impact of what he's said until he's met with silence. He glances up, cups of water in hand, pausing mid-step as he looks at Lance. He's frozen with his jacket half unzipped, in the process of kicking off his shoes. He stares openly at Keith, eyes wide and lips parted. Expression open and awed and far, far too earnest.

Keith blinks. "What?"

Lance's mouth snaps shut, brows coming together as his pursed lips quiver. "Babe."

"Oh my god, Lance--"

"No, you said something sweet, and I'm getting emotional." He's jump started back into action, kicking off his shoes haphazardly and struggling out of his jacket, leaving it in a pile on the floor with his scarf thrown over it.

"It's not that big of a--"

He suddenly has his lanky beanpole of a boyfriend wrapped around him, and Keith stumbles back a step with the sudden impact. Lance's arms wrap around his middle, body pressed flush and face buried in his neck. Keith can feel his breath against his collarbones and the chill of his nose against his throat.

He holds his arms out to the side, barely managing to keep from spilling the cups in his hands. "Lance--"

"Shush."

"Lance."

"Don't ruin the moment."

Keith sighs, turning his head to rest his cheek against Lance's. "You're ridiculous," He says, exasperation wrapped up in a bundle of fond amusement. He lets Lance have the hug for a moment longer before he starts to wiggle in his embrace, pulling away and playfully kicking at his leg with his bare foot. "Now go. I have to finish setting up."

"Fine, fine." He makes a show of groaning, huffing and pouting as he shoves his hands in his pockets and slinks away, but there's a smile tugging at his lips and a sparkle in his eyes. "Bossy."

He sits on the end of Keith's bed, legs stretched out comfortably and leaning back on his hands. Keith moves to the center of the tarp, sitting crosslegged and facing him. He then sets to work putting the cups of water and paints in front of him, organizing them by color, all within reach.

When he's done and there's nothing else to distract himself with, he sits up straight, hands resting on his knees as he takes a deep breath, eyes drifting closed. That buzzing of energy still crawls beneath his skin, eager and vibrant. But there's a calmness that settles in his chest. A peace and a stillness.

"Don't be nervous."

He opens his eyes to meet Lance's, lips quirking wryly. Lance looks far more nervous than he does. Shifting his weight. Foot bouncing. Lip caught between his teeth. Smile wavering. Keith has a feeling the words aren't necessarily for him.

"I'm not nervous," He says, surprised by the truth of it. Surprised by how even and calm he sounds. He reaches behind him, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. He tosses it aside, rolling his shoulders. He doesn't miss the way Lance's eyes go lidded, nor does he miss the way his heated gaze moves down his body. Keith smirks, feels it play across his lips as his body inherently stretches and tightens under Lance's gaze. "I'm excited." His voice drops in a way that has Lance's eyes snapping back to his.

He swallows hard, tip of his tongue peeking out to wet his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Lance sits up, reaching behind him to pull off his shirt as well. He struggles with it, caught for a moment in the fabric before wiggling out of it and tossing it aside. Keith feels his smile widen at Lance's sheepishness, fixing his mused hair as he slides off the edge of the bed to sit on the floor, leaning back against it. Facing Keith.

He takes a deep breath, hands on his knees, eyes drifting shut. Mimicking the way Keith had centered himself only moments before. When his eyes open, they're calm. The ocean of his blue gaze settled and still. Confident and serious, meeting Keith's gaze steadily. The intensity makes his stomach flip.

"I'm ready." Even his voice is low and even, intense despite sounding breathless.

Not quite trusting his own voice, Keith merely nods, eyes dropping to the paints set out before him. He has them split into two groups. One of reds and oranges and golds. One of blues and purples and silvers. His hands shake as he picks up his brush, but stills as he presses the paint to his skin.

It's a familiar feeling. Cool and smooth. The texture of the paint. The texture of the brush. It calms his nerves. Settles the buzz of anticipation. Until he feels grounded. Losing himself in the familiarity. He breathes out a long breath as he smears a waving line of blue down his bicep.

He hears Lance's soft gasp. The hitch in his breath. He feels their connection open. Feels the strange tingling in his chest like a dam lowering, slowly trickling emotions from him. Slowly leaking them through the connection.

He doesn't dare look at Lance. Isn't sure he can just yet. It's still so new, having an audience. He had expected it to feel strange, but he hadn't prepared for how vulnerable he feels. How raw and open. He can't meet Lance's gaze yet, isn't sure he's prepared for what he'll find.

So he loses himself in the familiar touch of paint. In the stroke of a brush. In the familiar poignant smell. Keeps his eyes locked onto the colors he smears across his skin. Lets himself be lost in his thoughts. In the things he can't bare to face without the touch of paint. Lets the things he feels take shape in the form of color.

Blues dance down his arm, from shoulder to wrist, spreading across the back of his hand. Dark shadows and icy swirls. Highlighted with purple and silver. Lines stiffer at his upper arm. More jagged. Fractals and cracked sheets of ice. Melting as it moves down his arm. Turning to swirls and waves of water. A current that wraps around his arm. A trickle that spreads down to his knuckles.

From jagged and hard to soothing and playful.

Colors deepening from the pale shades of ice to the dark waters of the sea.

He drops the brush, setting it aside and reaching for another with a sense of fervor. He turns to his other arm, covering in in warmer shades. In the reds and oranges of fire. A blaze comes to life on his upper arm. Yellows and golds. Bright and blinding. A blaze trailing high over the curve of his shoulder. Flames swirling and chaotic. Consuming.

The tight spirals and frantic spirals calm as they move down his arm. Evening out into gentle curves. Rolling waves of flame. Deepening in color. Darkening. Reds and oranges. Darkening across the back of his hand, dotted with the gentle glow of persistent embers.

He thinks of Lance. Of his soulmate. Of them being one in the same.

He thinks of their First Connection. Of everything that transpired when he was nothing more than a faceless presence that he never asked for. He thinks of their First Meeting. Of how he felt when he realized who Lance was.

He thinks about the panic and chaos he felt when he saw the stars tattooed across his skin. He thinks about all the chaos he struggled to wade through. He thinks of his denial, his anger, his misery, his acceptance. I pulls those emotions from the vault of his mind, bringing them to the surface, feeling through them with the more steady peace of mind that comes with time. He lets Lance feel them, knowing it will do far more to explain himself than words ever could. Knowing that Lance will know what he’s giving to him.

He thinks about how things changed. Gradually. Slowly, but strongly. How things shifted between them. How he shifted. How Lance changed him for the better. How Lance gave him the strength to face the things he's feared. How he's done the same for Lance.

He thinks of Lance.

Just... Lance.

Everything he feels. Everything he's ever felt. Letting it collide in his chest. Painful and overwhelming. Filling him and expanding until it catches at his ribs, ripping him apart at the seams. Lets it flood through their open connection in a chaos of color.

All his fears. All his doubts. All his uncertainties. He lets himself feel those, too. He doesn't hide any part of himself. Any shadow. He gives them to Lance. Shows them to him in the most intimate way he knows how.

He shows him the overwhelming fondness he feels. The attachment. The attraction. The hope he feels whenever he sees Lance. The blinding light that seems to radiate from him. The relief that surges through him whenever they're together. The calm that settles deep in his bones at Lance's touch. The spark and sizzle of electricity whenever he sees his smile.

The overwhelming warmth that fills his chest whenever he thinks about Lance. About the fact that Lance is attached to his soul. The warmth that burns low and hot deep within his heart. A core of molten heat. Where fire becomes liquid. Where the two mediums meet in a form that fills him to the brim.

He spreads the fire from his arm across his chest. Swirling flames across his pec. He takes the other brush and does the same with the crystalline blue waters. Spreads the two colors across his chest, swirling and rolling, until they collide in the center.

Right over his heart. In a playful swirling cloud of purple.

And he lets himself feel what he's been afraid to touch.

That feeling that's still so new. Still so fragile. Something he's been afraid of feeling. Something he's been afraid to acknowledge. A sprouting seed deep inside his chest. One that's already taken root.

He lets himself see it. Brings it to light. Lets himself feel it. Cradles it gently, wary that it might shatter, wary that it might break him. He feeds it with the water and the fire. The chill and the heat. He brings it to the surface and lets it unfurl. Lets it bloom.

A feeling he's still too shy to name, still too scared to say aloud, but one he knows Lance will understand all the same. Knows that one day, he’ll put it to words.

And as he makes the last stroke. As he lifts the brush from his chest. As the connection between them begins to close like echoes fading into the night. He looks up.

Lance hasn't moved. He still sits on the flood. Back to the bed and legs crossed, hands resting on his knees.

His arms and chest are now decorated in bright color. Vibrant and practically glowing with the intensity of what Keith had transmitted through their connection. Standing out brightly against his skin like a new tattoo. A perfect mirror of what's on Keith but without the mess of paint. Without the sticky tack and the drying peaks rising off his skin.

Just... color. Bright and vibrant. A storm of fire and ice, meeting in the middle in a beautiful chaos. Brought to life on his flesh like it was meant to be there.

Beautiful.

When Keith's eyes lift to his face, his breath catches.

Lance is staring at him. Openly and earnestly. His eyes are wide, irises dark and tormented. Swirling with so much. Glistening and glassy. Lips parted. Brow pinched just so. Wet tracks trailing down his cheeks.

He looks dazed. Eyes seeing through Keith. Straight into his heart. A storm of emotion swirling in the depths of his irises. Playing across his features as he tries to process. As he tries to cling to the echos as their connection closes.

He looks as raw and vulnerable as Keith feels. Stripped bare of his defenses and left to feel so much. Too much. Overwhelming and filling him to the brim.

It takes him a moment to realize there's a familiar burn around his eyes, too. That there's moisture on his cheeks. That his breath is coming short and ragged. That he feels like he's drowning.

And then Lance is surging forward. Throwing into momentum hard and fast. He scrambles forward, knocking aside paints and spilling a cup of murky water. It makes a mess. It smears across the tarp. Across their pants. But he doesn't care because then Lance is in his lap, fingers combing through his hair and holding fast as his mouth comes down on Keith's, hot and desperate.

And he feels like he can breathe again.

Keith falls backwards with the momentum, dragging Lance down with him. Until he's lying on the floor amidst spilled paint and water. Lance straddling his hips. Fingers tight in his hair and long fingers cupping his face. Lance's mouth on his, open and panting. Eager and desperate.

Their kiss is all teeth and tongue. All heat and quick breaths. Driven by a hunger that fills them. Claws at them. Urging them to be closer, closer, closer. A heat that consumes them. Catches on what's been blooming in his chest and builds it higher.

His arms wrap around Lance's back. One wrapped tight around his waist while the other moves up his spine, digging his own fingers through Lance's hair, holding his head firmly in place.

Lance's hips rock against his, and Keith responds instantly. Quick and rhythm jerking. Fueling their desperation. Accenting their need.

When they finally break apart to catch their breath, they don't go far. They stay pressed flush, paint sticky and oozing between them. Smeared over both bodies. Smeared through their hair. He's grateful that marks only transfer by drawing on your own skin, otherwise Lance's new painting would be completely ruined.

And Keith needs him to be the star of his show tomorrow.

Lance rests his forehead against Keith's. Close enough that everything else disappears, Keith loses himself in his eyes.

"Now you're covered in paint, too," He says, lips moving against Lance's.

Lance chuckles, breath fanning out across Keith's cheeks. His voice lowers, eyes lidding as he playfully nips at Keith's bottom lip. "Then I guess you better clean me up."

"My shower isn't big enough for two people."

"Don't worry." Lance rolls his body, pressing his hips to Keith's in a slow grind. He pulls back far enough for Keith to see that heated smirk. "I'll stand real close."

Keith's shower is, in fact, too small for two people. But they make it work.

He's awake long before his alarm goes off. The anticipation wakes him early and the nerves refuse to let him go back to sleep. But he doesn't get out of bed. Not yet.

Instead he turns his alarm off and curls back under the covers, wrapping himself around his sleeping boyfriend. His soulmate. His... Lance.

Lance sleeps soundly and heavily. Lips parted and drooling on the pillow. His hair is mused from sleeping on it wet. Eyes closed and face lax, lashes long and dark against his cheekbones. His arms, chest, and shoulders are decorated in a tattoo of fire and ice. Colors still vibrant from the night before.

It stirs something inside him to see it. To be able to lazily trail his fingers along the patterns without shame or guilt. It makes him feel light and dizzy, a bubbling filling his chest and bursting with little jolts of pleasure.

He didn't get through the night unscathed either. His neck and chest are marred and bruised, carrying the marks left like Lance's desperate teeth and eager mouth.

He lays in bed for hours as his room slowly brightens with the sun peeking through his blinds. He stays where it's warm and comfortable. Curled around Lance's body, arm wrapped around his waist, legs tangled together, and fingers loosely intertwined.

He simply lays there and lets himself breathe.

Breathe with Lance. Focus on his heartbeat. As time shifts sluggishly, hanging thickly in the air like a fog. The haze of morning, lethargic and refreshing all at once. His body aches from the night before, but it's a good ache. It's an ache that reminds him of good things. Of Lance. Of the intimacy they share. It's satisfying, and it's an ache that makes him feel alive.

He revels in it. This new feeling of calm. It's a peace he's never really known, and one he never thought he would.

It's... contentment.

True contentment.

He's nervous about his art exhibit. He's worried about his grades. He's anxious to meet the rest of Lance's family and spend the holidays with him. His future is uncertain, and there are so many things in the world he fears.

But Lance is no longer one of them. His soulmate is no longer one of them.

The guilt is no longer a weight on his shoulders, crushing him and caving in his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe. He feels lighter. Stronger.

He feels... happy.

Actually and truly happy. And that's... that's a genuinely new thing.

He thinks he could get used to it.

When it is time for him to go, it's with great effort that he disentangles himself from Lance. And it's not without a fight. As soon as Lance seems to sense that he's leaving the bed, he rouses. Or maybe he hadn't been that deeply asleep to begin with.

He clutches onto Keith, clinging to him. Long, gangly limbs wrap around him, awkward and desperate. His face nuzzles into Keith's bare skin as he mumbles his protests, voice slurred with sleep.

Keith chuckles under his breath, voice low and hoarse with disuse. He pacifies Lance with languid, lazy kisses. Kissing him deeply until he melts back into the bed and releases his grip.

Lance watches as he gets dressed, lidded eyes, heavy with exhaustion, following him around the studio apartment. Body bundled and tangled in the blankets. Hair messy against Keith's pillow.

He gets dressed quickly, pulling on the nicest things he owns while still trying to remain casual. He tries to tame his hair, but it's more or less a lost cause, so a neat ponytail will have to do. He packs his bag with last minute things, slips on his nicest boots, and slips on his leather jacket.

When he sits on the edge of the bed, Lance immediately curls his body around him, wrapping an arm around his waist in a half-formed hug and a half-formed spoon.

"You're coming by, right?" He asks, voice soft in the morning light. Gentle with fondness. Light with amusement. Breathless with a buzzing sense of nervous anticipation.

"Wouldn't miss it, babe." Lance hums, nuzzling into his side. "Don't forget to leave your key, so I can lock the door behind me."

"Actually..." He unzips one of the small breast pockets of his jacket, reaching in to pull out the small piece of metal. "I have something for you."

Lance rolls away from him slightly, just enough to half lie on his back. Looking up at Keith with one eyebrow raised. Keith presses it into Lance's hand, wrapping his fingers around it. Lance frowns, moving to hold it above his face, eyes darting over it and the space between his brows tightening like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "This isn't your key," He says slowly. "Your key is older than this and attached to that old cowboy keychain Pidge got you as a joke."

Keith hums, tilting his head. "You're right. That's not my key." Lance looks at him then, and Keith feels his lips tug upward at the edges. "It's yours. I had it made yesterday."

Lance's eyes blow wide, mouth falling open as he breathes, "You..."

Keith leans down, capturing that pretty little mouth in a kiss that's twisted with his own smile. When he pulls back, he cups Lance's jaw, thumb brushing across his cheek. Lance stares up at him, eyes color and sparkling with awe and far too many other things to name. "So you can come and go whenever."

"Keeeeith," Lance whines, throwing out his arms and dragging Keith down into a hug.

He chuckles, pressing his lips to Lance's jaw before pulling away. "I've gotta go." He stands, making his way to the door. "Don't forget."

"I'm not gonna forget about your big art exhibit," He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he rolls himself bodily back into a blanket burrito.

"And Lance?" Keith pauses in the open doorway, half turned to look over his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"Wear something sleeveless."

"... What the fuck is that supposed to-- Keith!”

Keith closes the door behind him, smiling as he hears Lance’s muffled shouts.

Lance slips into the student union on a gust of cold air, letting out a sigh of relief as he's hit with the wall of warm air. It burns against the chill on his cheeks, but he doesn't mind. The walk from his dorm to the union had been particularly cold with the wind chill and his lack of a vital layer.

Wear something sleeveless. What the hell kind of request is that in the middle of winter.

He'd done it, though, and his arms had suffered under the sole layer of his jacket.

He shivers as he steps down the wide hall, brushing the snow from his hair and coat. He unzips his jacket, loosening his scarf so he won't be dying of heat stroke with the way the heaters are on full blast. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he heads off through the union.

The art exhibit is a room near the center of the student union. Right smack dab in the middle of the busiest section of the building. A decent sized room with glass walls that face the hallway, so any passerby can peer in. Good for art, he supposes. Despite that, he's never paid particular attention to the room. He's passed it thousands of times over the past three years, but it's never caught his interest. He's seen art and exhibits, sculptures and paintings, but he's never cared enough to actually look. Didn't realize it was for art students until Keith had said something.

He's... a little late. Not that there was a set time he said he'd be here. Keith's exhibit isn't over until five, so it's not like he's cutting it close. He just feels like he's late. He'll admit that maybe he overslept, but in his defense, Keith's bed is super comfortable and smells like him, Lance needs his beauty rest after the hell that exam week has brought, and he had to go by his dorm to shower and change.

Still, he probably feels like he's running late due to the barrage of texts he's gotten from Hunk, Pidge, Allura, Coran, and Shiro, all telling him to stop by Keith's exhibition, don't forget the exhibition, man you gotta see Keith's thing!

Like he's gonna forget or something. Come on, he's not an idiot, and he's not a monster. He knows this means a lot to Keith.

Speaking of...

He rounds the corner into the main hall, spotting the room further down. He's not at an angle where he can see through the window walls, but Keith stands just outside the room. Arms crossed loosely over his chest, occasionally using his hand to gesture while he talks, deep in conversation with an older man and an older woman. Probably a couple of his professors.

Lance slows, taking the time to really appreciate his boyfriend as he approaches. Because damn that boy deserves to be appreciated.

He's wearing his best pair of black skinny jeans, the ones that cup his ass just right, and boots that emphasize his calves while still managing to look classy. In a badass punk-gone-formal kinda way. His collared button up clings to the width of his shoulders and his upper arms, sleeves rolled up to the elbow to emphasize forearms that make Lance embarrassingly weak at the knees. Overtop, he wears a dark red vest that hugs his torso and his trim waist.

Hair pulls back into a little ponytail with strands falling loose to frame his face. The peek of hickies from beneath his collar, just enough to allude to more beneath (and there are a lot more, and Lance is quite proud of that). Even his dumb fingerless leather gloves don't look quite so dumb anymore, and Lance would be lying if he said he isn’t into it.

Because he is.

He's very much into it.

Keith glances around the hallway as he talks to his professors, and at first his gaze brushes right over Lance, only to snap back. He sees the moment Keith pauses, freezing minutely, words dying on his tongue. Then the man says something, and Keith jerks back into motion, blinking and turning back to them, smiling sheepishly.

Whatever he says has both of them turning, eyes fixing on Lance as he approaches, smiles wide and welcoming, and the attention makes him pause for a second.

"Hey," He says as he steps up next to Keith. He longs to reach out to him. To pull him into a quick hug. Maybe press a kiss to his temple. But it feels awkward with his professors staring at them, so he keeps his hands in his pockets.

"Hey." Keith sounds strangely breathless. A weird sort of strain in his voice.

"So you're the muse," The older man says, reaching out a hand, which Lance takes more out of habit and drilled manners than anything. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

He blinks, brow furrowing as his lips try to find words. "I'm the what?"

"He, uh... He hasn't seen it yet," Keith cuts in, eyes averted, clearing his throat and absently covering his mouth with his hand.

"Oh," The man's eyes go wide, as does his grin. "I see. I apologize."

Lance stares at him as his hand is dropped, turning his confused gaze to Keith. "What--"

Keith just nods his head back, gesturing toward the room. "Maybe you should... go look. I'll be right there."

Lance raises an eyebrow, but Keith only meets his gaze for a moment before looking away. "I, uh... Okay? I'll see you inside then, I guess." With a sheepish half-smile and a little wave toward the professors to excuse himself, he turns toward the room.

And he gets approximately one and a half steps inside before he freezes.

The room itself is longer than it is wide, stretching out in front of him. Paintings hang along the walls. Close together and offset in a pattern of one higher and then one lower. The canvases vary in size, but most of them tend to be roughly the size of his torso. Medium sized? He doesn't know what the standard is.

Pedestals are set up throughout the empty space in the middle of the room. Each one has two more paintings displayed, propped up back-to-back.

There's a good handful of people within the room. Students and teachers wandering around slowly, gazing at the paintings and the plaques that hang beneath them.

But he barely notices the people.

He's wrapped up in the colors.

In the nostalgia and deja vu that hits him like two freight trains coming from opposite directions, crushing and shattering him.

Because he knows these colors. He knows these paintings. Even when he takes them all in at once, unable to focus on one but absorbing them all as a whole, he can't shake the familiarity. And as he takes a hesitant step forward, and then another, eyes darting from display to display, he realizes why.

He's seen them painted on his skin.

He's lived them.

He's seen them recreated on the pages of a private journal clutched in his shaking hands.

His... his soulmarks.

He stops in the center of the room, turning slowly as he tries to take it all in. Old paintings. New paintings. All of them he remembers. All of them he has pictures of. All of them-- wait.

He stops by one of the pillars, looking at a painting that he remembers from his first year of college. Below the propped up canvas, stuck to the side of the pillar, is a plaque made simply of laminated paper.

It has the vague title of Thorns. Beneath that is the brief description, "The stress of community college", finished with a date.

It's the picture below it that catches his eye. Because he knows that picture. That picture has been on his wall all semester. It's an image of his own thigh, covered in a mass of bright and vibrant green vines, wickedly dark thorns, and pale, crumpled roses.

It's... it's him. The original soulmark. Displayed below the recreation on canvas.

And as he looks around, he realizes there are more. Every canvas as an image below it. One of his pictures. Taken with his phone. Printed to be hung on his wall and saved in photo albums. Candids. Weird lighting. Odd angles that Hunk often had to help him with. His legs, and arms, and chest.

Keith's colors adorning his skin.

HIs face is cropped out of most of them. Not by Keith's doing, but his own. But in some of them he can see a glimpse of his proud smile or cocky smirk.

The paintings line all three walls, and at the back wall, above the line of canvases, are words.

The Marks We Make, by Keith Kogane.

"Hey."

He's not sure how long he's been standing there, staring at the words, at Keith's name, with the colors dancing in his peripheral vision. But Keith's voice draws him out of his trance. Deep and soft, hesitant but hanging on the edge of excitement. A thread of anticipation pulled taut.

He turns, blinking away the haze. Keith stands next to him, arms crossed loosely over his chest. He's facing the same direction, toward the back wall, but his head is tilted toward Lance. Gazing at him sidelong.

"Hey," Lance breathes, not quite trusting his voice. Not quite grounded yet.

"Um... surprise?"

At that, a surprised laugh bubbles out of him, filling his lungs and popping on his tongue, stretching his lips with it. "Yeah, no shit." He half turns, arms held out to gesture to the room around them. "Dude, this is... this is incredible."

Keith watches him warily, tension around his eyes relaxing. A small, hesitant smile touching his lips. "You're not mad?"

"Dude, why would I be mad?"

He shrugs, eyes sliding away. "I didn't ask you if it was okay. The paintings may be mine, but these..." He gestures to a podium next to him, where there's a picture of Lance's forearm tattooed in a silhouetted forest landscape. "These are yours, and it's your body." His bottom lip is chapped and red, and judging from the way he pauses to gnaw at it, Lance has a feeling he's been doing that a lot today. "I wanted it to be a surprise, but I didn't think about how this might be invading your privacy until people started showing up, and--"

He cuts off as Lance reaches for him, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a hug. He's stiff for just a moment before he relaxes into it. Hands coming to rest lightly around Lance's lower back.

"Surprised? Definitely. But mad? No. This is... really sweet." He pulls back, holding Keith at arms length with hands on his arms. Keith's shoulders are hunched slightly, head bowed and gaze shy. It's clear he's not used to praise, especially about his art. He's not really surprised, with how private he is about it. "How'd you get these pictures anyway? Most of them are still on my wall, and I think I would've noticed them missing."

He shifts his weight, eyes darting away before returning. "Uh, do you remember a couple days ago when you came over to study for art history?"

"And we ended up watching Netflix and making out instead. I remember."

Keith's smirk is small. Sheepish and playful all at once. "Hunk took them down and scanned them for me before putting them back up."

Lance gasps, tilting his head back as his eyes drift to the side. "That's why some of them looked out of place. I knew I wasn't going crazy. I look at that wall every day. I know where they're supposed to be. Exam stress and bad cafeteria garlic knots my ass, Hunk."

Keith chuckles. Just soft huffs of air that qualify as laughter. He looks lighter. More at ease. The tension of anticipation has snapped, melting away. He looks better like this, and Lance can't help the warm bubble of pride in his chest knowing he's the one that's caused the shift.

Lance smiles, dropping his hands to start peeling off his jacket. He glances around as he does, eyeing the other students wandering between the paintings. None of them pay either of them much mind. "Is this why you wanted me to be sleeveless?" He asks, smirking as he looks back to Keith, folding his jacket over his arm. "Wanted to show off your latest work and these guns?" He flexes for good measure, and he's rewarded with the lift of Keith's lips.

Keith hadn't given him any direction other than sleeveless, and for a moment, Lance had nearly just grabbed one of his muscle tanks. But this is a big deal to Keith, and Keith had dressed up nice himself, so Lance thought he'd do him the same courtesy.

So he'd gone with a plain black sleeveless turtleneck. Shows off his arms and his lean figure while also being more weather appropriate than a loose tank. Not to mention the black puts emphasis on the swirls of fire and ice racing down his arms.

Keith takes a moment to look him over. To drag his eyes up and down, dark with appreciation and lidded with what Lance has come to recognize as desire. He watches Keith's gaze linger in places, but none more so than his arms. His soulmark painting from the night before is still bright and fresh.

Keith's smirk is lopsided and fond, lifting his cheeks and crinkling his eyes. "Put those away, sharpshooter." He reaches for Lance's jacket, taking it and his scarf. "But... yeah, that's why. You don't mind?"

"Nope," He says, popping the P as he follows Keith to a table near the front.

Keith dumps his jacket atop his own in a chair behind the table. The table itself is covered in pamphlets about the exhibit, as well as a sign in sheet for all the art students who are forced to come.

"I am, after all, your muse," He says, crossing his arms over his chest and bumping his hip against Keith's before leaning in and lowering his voice. "And your favorite canvas."

Keith glances at him, eyes lidded and smirk playful. He bumps Lance right back. "Technically, I paint on myself."

"But it's not pictures of you hung up around this room."

Keith hums, turning to absently look around the room. "True."

Lance leans back on the table, resting his hands on the edge. "So... how'd you come up with this idea, anyway? Last I checked, you were super secretive about your soulmark paintings. And I know that wasn't just with me. Pidge never recognized any of my marks."

Keith shifts closer to him, leaning back to sit on the edge of the table. He puts his hands behind him, one of them right next to Lance's. His fingers stretch, overlapping a couple of Lance's. "You did, actually."

"Me?" A short laugh bubbles out in his surprise, colored with confusion. "I know I'm your muse and all, but I didn't do anything."

Keith tilts his head, eyeing Lance out of the corner of his eye. His smile is more in the lift of his cheeks than on his lips. Lance waits, but Keith merely watches him for a moment before looking away. Before letting his gaze sweep once more across the room.

Students and teachers come and go. Some alone and some in small groups. They roam throughout the room, pointing out paintings, pointing out the pictures on the plaques, talking amongst themselves. The usual loud din of the student union seems muted in here. A bubble of space that's calm amongst the chaos. Strangely detached.

Keith speaks softly, voice low and private. Kept solely between them in the strange hushed atmosphere of the room. "Did I ever tell you why my mom used to paint on herself?"

That's... not really where he expected the conversation to turn. He's not gonna lie, at first he thought Keith's mom would've been the inspiration for this whole thing. After all, she gave Keith his love of art. She's the one who taught him to paint on himself. She's the one who gave him all of this.

But then Keith had said he was the reason, which, while flattering, doesn't explain why they're suddenly talking about his mom.

Still he finds himself saying, "No?" Attention and curiosity fixated on Keith as he looks around the room.

But while his gaze is on the paintings, there's a far away look to his eyes that tells Lance his attention is far away. "Neither did she." His smile is small, fondness hedged with a deep wistful melancholy that always surfaces when he talks about his mom. "She never told me, but... I know why. I figured it out."

"And?"

"She didn't start painting on herself until my dad passed away. After that... her body became her favorite canvas. I didn't understand when I was a kid because if she painted on herself, she couldn't save the paintings. It seemed like a waste. So she started inviting me to join her, and... I realized it was fun. It helped when I was sad or scared, so I figured it was the same for her. I didn't question it for a long time. It was just... cathartic.

"But... I know why she did it now." Keith pauses, trailing off into silence as he loses himself in memories.

Lance shifts his hand, twining their fingers together on the table. Squeezing just enough to reassure him. To ground him to this moment. Keith lets out a shuddering breath before continuing.

"She did it to connect with my dad, but also... to connect with herself? She lost her connection. She felt it break, and I was there to see how much it hurt. She painted on herself as a way of... paying tribute to my dad, but also as a way to give herself soulmarks when no one else would."

Lance feels his lips lift at the corners, voice as soft and private as Keith's. "It was a self love kinda thing? Be her own soulmate?"

Keith nods, smile growing. Fond and wry all at once. "Yeah, something like that. She never said it, but I think she was lonely. Even when you're not with your soulmate, you're still connected to someone. And I think she was lonely without that. So she... learned to love herself. Expressed herself through it. Worked through her shit like I do."

He gestures around the room with his other hand. "All of this? She did it to connect with herself. With my dad. She used it to connect to me. Then she used it to connect with Shiro's dad. The marks she made? She used them to connect to the people she cared about."

Keith looks at him then, and Lance finds himself falling into that dark gaze. Lidded eyes and pupils wide. There's so much beyond the sea of his irises. So much emotion there. Tremulous and raw. Far too much to pick apart. Everything that Lance felt from him the night before, when Keith had opened up their soul connection and poured everything through it, leaving himself bare and vulnerable.

He looks at Lance now with that same intensity. Open and honest, without hesitation and without fear. His fingers squeeze, the corner of his lips quirking a fraction wider. "You told me to do my exhibit on something I care about... And I care about you. I use my art as a way to connect to people. To my mom. To myself. To you."

"Keith..." Aw, man, he can feel his lip quivering. He can hear it in his voice. His eyes have that little burning sting they get right before he gets super emotional.

Keith looks down at their joined hands, thumb brushing along where blue waves dance across the back of his hand to his knuckles. "I didn't always paint for you. Most of the time it was for myself because it's one of the only ways I know how to deal with stuff. It wasn't for you, but... I think I always liked knowing there was someone there on the other end."

"So even though you hated the idea of soulmates--"

"I didn't hate it."

Lance gives him a flat look, one eyebrow raised. Keith meets his stare with one of his own, lips pursed into a small frown. "I didn't..." He huffs, looking away, down at his lap where he picks at his jeans. "I... I think I really liked the idea of soulmates. Mom and Shiro's dad... they were great together. But there's so much that can go wrong, and fucking up can hurt. I think... I think I liked the idea of soulmates so much that it fucking terrified me."

Lance snorts. "You can say that again. You were so scared of fucking up that you fucked up anyway."

He expects a scowl at the dig, but instead he gets a soft gaze and a playful smirk. "But you're still here..." He says softly, almost wistfully.

"Yeah," He looks away, unable to handle the soft intensity of Keith's gaze. "Yeah, I am. Guess I'm just a sucker for cute boys with stupid haircuts who make a lot of mistakes but are good at learning from them."

Keith's head falls to his shoulder, his hair tickling the underside of Lance's jaw and his upper arm. His head tilts automatically, leaning his cheek against Keith's.

"She'd be proud of you, you know." He says softly, voice barely above a whisper. He hears Keith's breath hitch. "Your mom would be proud of you and all of this. How much you've grown. How far your art has come." He smirks, turning his head to press it against Keith's forehead. "And I would know. I've had a front row seat."

Keith squeezes his hand, voice hoarse and raspy as he says, "Thanks, Lance."

The silence between them is comfortable. The stillness that settles is peaceful. They stay like that, listening to the amorphous din of voices from the student union, the hallway, the foot traffic, the coffeeshop across the hall. They listen to it from their strangely muted bubble of a room, surrounded by Keith's art and the soft appreciative whispers of the people who flow in and out.

It's nice, but Lance is who he is, and he can only stay still for so long.

"Come on," He says, pushing off the table. His fingers tighten in Keith's, pulling him up as well. He takes a few steps backwards, facing Keith as a smirk plays across his lips. "Let's take a trip down memory lane."

He catches Keith's answering smirk before turning back around, tugging Keith along behind him as he dives into the room filled with paintings. There doesn't seem to be an order to them. Not chronologically and not by color or theme. Just a chaos of paint strokes and color pallets. Much like the chaos of emotions that always filter through their connection.

"I remember this one," He says, stopping in front of a canvas filled with the swirling warm colors of a fire. Much like what's currently tattooed on his arm, but wispier and gentler. The statement itself is redundant. If he's honest, he remembers every single painting in this room. Even the older ones. Given time, he can probably recall exactly where it was painted and what he was doing when it started without even looking at the laminated plaques. "First day of school."

He looks down at the plaque, seeing that it says just that. The picture is of Lance's left arm.

"Yeah," Keith stands next to him, fingers still loosely intertwined, his other hand in his pocket. "My first day of classes here. I couldn't sleep."

"I know," Lance says with a lopsided grin. "You woke me up."

"Oh... I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I'd rather be awake when you paint anyway. I always have."

Keith hums, at a lack for words. But he leans into Lance's arm, pressing their shoulders together, and he finds that they don't need words for him to feel the sentiment.

"This was the first day we met." Lance taps the picture of himself with a finger. "Our official First Meeting."

"And you spilled a smoothie on me," Keith says without malice, lips twitching at the corners.

"And you were an asshole about it!"

"I was in a bad mood because some random dude just dumped a smoothie all over my desk. And then you were an asshole."

Lance places his free hand on his hip, half turning to glare at Keith. It's a struggle to keep up his indignant scowl. He can feel it doesn't really reach his eyes. "I was defensive because you were being rude."

Keith loses his battle with his smirk, and Lance feels his own mockery of a scowl give way. "Figures we would have a disastrous First Meeting."

"Yeah, we're quite a pair." The fondness in his voice has Keith looking away, clearing his throat as he tugs Lance further along the wall.

"I didn't know you were my soulmate then. For a while, whenever we met up, your marks were covered."

"When did you realize it was me, then?"

"Here," He stops in front of another painting. One of the ones on a pedestal. The canvas is smeared with galaxies and dotted with stars. The plaque displays a picture of Lance's stretched neck and bare shoulder. The title is simply Searching. Keith stares at it, voice soft as he says, "You had written on your hand a time and a restaurant. I didn't know if it was the same one we have in town, but Shiro encouraged me to go. Just to see if I could see you. That maybe if I knew who you were, I'd feel more in control and less scared. So I painted the stars in a place that would be harder to hide so I could easily spot you."

Lance remembers this painting. He remembers that day. "The Spanish dinner Pidge and I went to," He whispers.

Keith nods. "I was sitting at the cafe across the street."

"You saw me."

"Yeah..."

He doesn't need to ask what happened after that. Keith had shown him, in the most intimate way possible. He had relived those chaotic feelings and poured them through their soul connection as he painted a storm of ice on his arm. Lance had felt it, as if the panic and fear had been his own.

The hurt hadn't lasted long, however, because Keith had shown him so much more than his fear. So, so much more.

With a soft punch to the lungs, a piece of the puzzle clicks into place and the air rushes out of him. "That's why you were randomly mad at me."

At his side, Keith stiffens. "I wasn't mad at you."

"Yeah, but you took it out on me."

"I... I guess." He shuffles his weight, glancing sidelong at Lance. "Sorry about that. It was... a lot to process. And I couldn't even take time away from you without Pidge getting mad at me for avoiding you. And I couldn't even tell them why without them meddling."

A surprised laugh bubbles out of him, "Oh man, they would've meddled so hard."

There's a tug at his hand, and Keith pulls him around the pedestal to stand in front of the painting on the other side. He recognizes this one, too. There have been a lot of sunset paintings over the years, but this one has always stood out. Perhaps it's the specific arrangement of colors, or perhaps it's the emotion that tore through his chest and left him raw, vulnerable, and strangely at peace, but he doesn't think he could ever forget this one.

Beneath it is a picture of Lance's forearm with the sunset tattooed into his skin.

The title simply reads: Acceptance.

He remembers the emotions that blew through his chest. The pain. The relief. The settling of peace. Acceptance.

"Oh..." He breathes.

"This was when I came to terms with our connection," Keith whispers, but he doesn't need to.

He leans into Keith, resting his head on his shoulder. Squeezing his hand. The moment stretches between them as the new information settles into place. As Lance mentally pulls that memory and fixes the new knowledge to it. The new lens to view it through. Before carefully and fondly setting it back into place.

His eyes wander as he does so, and before he realizes it, he's staring at a swirling storm of blues and shadows. Chaotic where sky blends into sea. It hangs above a picture of him wearing a cat-face crop top, focus on his midsection, hands proudly on his hips.

Before he can help it, he snorts a short laugh.

"What's so funny?" Keith asks, curious but edged with caution.

As if Lance might be laughing at his work. As if he could. Fat chance of that happening.

"That one," Lance points to the painting further down toward the back wall. "I just realized that my plan of waiting outside the art building actually worked." Something bubbles up in his chest, fluttering and expanding until it bursts, a giddy laugh on his tongue and a prideful smirk on his lips.

Keith eyes the painting, humming thoughtfully. "I guess it did."

"I'm a genius."

"Don't get carried away."

Lance pulls him around the room, and in turn, in a mismatched randomized order, they stop at all of the paintings. Lance asks questions. The meanings behind them. He learns even more about Keith. About what prompted the paintings that were tattooed on his skin and the emotions that were seared through his chest.

And slowly, the parts of Keith and his soulmate that are still a little blurred where they overlap, start to come together. Until they slowly slot into place. Until the picture shifts into focus, and all he can see is just... Keith.

Until he can't imagine his soulmate ever not being Keith.

And Keith learns about him, too. He shares his own anecdotes. About what he was doing when the painting started. About the times he nearly tripped over himself in public when the connection opened up and the times he ran to the bathroom to strip off his shirt in the middle of class. About how he displayed the marks and the compliments he got.

He learns about Keith's mom's favorite flower while looking at a canvas covered in lilies.

He learns that the cool metal leg was Keith spiraling about the car accident and imagining himself in Shiro's place.

He learns from a wistful smile and a bashful gaze that Keith's favorite painting is the one that displays Lance's favorite constellations. The one they made together. And that's why it hangs on the back wall, right in the center.

He stays with Keith for the entire time his exhibition is open. Sometimes hand-in-hand. Sometimes with their arms playfully linked. Sometimes Lance wraps an arm around his shoulders and leans into him in a show of casual nonchalance. They walk through each painting. They walk through memory lane together. Some pleasant and some shaded with melancholy. All of them nostalgic. All of them memories they share together, experienced from two different sides of the same coin.

And Lance keeps some point of contact with Keith through all of it. Unable to not be touching him. Needing that grounding anchor. Overwhelmed by the desire to be close.

Occasionally Keith steps away to speak with a professor or curious guest. He speaks with students and adults alike, answering questions and awkwardly taking their praise. Lance hangs nearby, saving him when he's floundering with small talk.

Lance gets his fair share of compliments, too, as people realize what his arms are displaying and recognize him from the pictures.

He ends up being the last piece of Keith's exhibition, on display and glowing in the praise.

And he doesn't mind. Not when he can show off his soulmate's work and actually watch his soulmate gaze at him with that soft, fond intensity that completely wrecks his insides.

After he's done closing up the exhibit, they go across the hall to the coffeeshop. They sit with their drinks cradled in their hands. Talking about everything. Talking about nothing. Their legs hooked around each other under the table.

His soulmate. His best friend. His Keith.

They have a party at the end of the year. After exams. Before everyone goes home for winter break.

Shiro offers to host it at his apartment, and they invite the entire quidditch team. Not everyone can make it. Some have already gone home. But a fair amount of people show up. Plenty of booze is acquired, a gift from Coran. Everyone brings snacks, but they order pizza for dinner anyway.

One last get together. One last hurrah before they don't see each other for weeks. A chance to get drunk and celebrate surviving their exams, high on the exhilaration and relief of being done.

They play card games until people are too scatterbrained to focus. They split up into smaller groups. Some play video games. Some continue card games. Some just gather and talk, groups amorphous and constantly shifting as people move about the apartment in a social haze.

Lance stay glued to Keith's side, but he swears it's not on purpose. They just tend to gravitate toward each other. Always ending up back in each other's orbit despite spending whole conversations apart. They simply end up near each other. Greeting one another with a casual touch. Casually leaning into the other.

Not overly affectionate. Not obnoxiously so.

Gentle. Soft. Tender.

A touch at the hip. Draping an arm around his shoulders. A chin hooked over his shoulder. Brushing the hair out of Keith's face.

He can't resist, and while their friends tease them for it, there's no heat behind it. No mockery.

He plays beer pong with Hunk against Pidge and Keith, just barely managing to scape into a win with some heavy diversionary tactics that may or may not have involved taking off his shirt.

He tires to get everyone dancing, but Allura is the only one who can keep up with him. He sweeps her off her feet, and she follows gracefully. They laugh, show off, and barely manage to keep from knocking over one of Shiro's lamps. All the while pretending not to notice the way the two brothers stand close across the room, whispering to each other and casting them fond glances.

He attempts to make midnight hot pockets with Pidge, only to instantly burn his tongue in his drunken haste. Pidge laughs, but does the same, only to spit their bite out onto their shirt and send Lance into a laughing fit that lands him on the floor.

He and Shiro start up an intense game of quarters that gathers a surprisingly enthusiastic crowd, building up the energy as they chant and cheer. It leaves dents all over Shiro's kitchen table, but he says he doesn't really care.

He ends up wrapped up in a conversation with Coran, both of them leaping from one topic to another at a rapid pace, fueled by their own scattered headspaces and the influence of alcohol. They manage to talk about Coran's soulmate, about the new dnd campaign he's planning, about some insane combinations for new donuts.

He ends the night curled on the couch with Keith sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest. He leans his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed, hands lost in the repetitive motion of running his fingers through Keith's hair and absorbed in the sensation of how soft it is.

He can feel Keith talking, vibrations rumbling through him. He can hear his voice, low and slurred, clinging to the soothing quality rather than the words. He's pretty sure him and Pidge are having a debate about the legitimacy of the Jersey Devil, but he stopped listening a while ago.

Hunk sits on the floor next to the couch, leaning back against Lance's hip and arm. He's having some sort of conversation with Romelle and Kinkade, one of the team's chasers. About yeast? He's not sure.

He falls asleep like that. Curled up on the couch with his soulmate. Surrounded by the voices of his friends and teammates. Warmed by their laughter. Alcohol a tingling buzz in his veins.

People he likes. People he cares about. People he trusts. A family away from home.

Keith is warm against him. A grounding point in the center of it all.

And this... this is all Lance has ever really wanted. His friends. His soulmate. All together. Weaving together to make a patchwork quilt that he can wrap himself up in. To feel safe. To feel at home.

Despite the way the alcohol makes his head spin, he feels strangely grounded. He feels a stilling calmness in the center of his chest.

He feels... happy.

It’s not the story he always imagined having, but it’s the story he has. Perfect in all its imperfections. And he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The air is cold, but the sun warms his cheeks and soaks into his clothes. Fresh snow covers the ground and crunches beneath his boots as he leads Lance through the maze of headstones.

Lance's hand is warm in his. The cellophane that bundles the flowers in his other hand crinkles in his grip.

His mom and Shiro's dad are buried toward the back of the cemetery, past the older and worn headstones, towards where the rows get neater and the headstones become more uniform. Right next to a large, withered oak tree. One that Keith has spent many afternoons sitting under, talking to them.

He hasn't been here in a while. Not since the summer, when he visited before leaving for his new college. It's only been six months, but it feels like ages. Feels like so long ago, when he was alone and scared and stubbornly defiant. So long ago when his soulmate was nothing more than a far off problem. So long ago when his only friends were Pidge and Shiro.

So very long ago.

And yet here, it feels like nothing has changed. Like a bubble surrounds the cemetery and time moves slower. Keeping it in tact longer. Keeping things the same while the world around them changes. A liminal space. A trapped space between the present and the past.

For the first time in a long time, his heart beats erratically in his chest as he walks the familiar route to his mother's grave. But it's not anxiety or nervousness. It's not the stress of the world or the sorrow that came from her passing.

It's a strange, fluttering nervousness. New and strangely bright.

Because this time Lance is with him.

He never thought he'd be able to share his soulmate with his mom. Never dared imagine things would work out well enough to.

When they reach the familiar headstone, Keith stops, and for a moment, they stand in still silence. Staring at the large double headstone with the names Krolia Shirogane and Ryou Shirogane carved in elegant script.

Then Keith lets go of Lance's hand, taking a deep breath as he steps forward, falling to his knee to wipe the snow from the base of the headstone, clearing out the small stone vase.

"Hey, mom. Hi, Ryou," He says softly, voice cracking. "It's been a while. I just finished my first semester at that university Shiro goes to. It was... a rough semester, but... a lot of fun. I made a lot of friends. Pidge made me and Shiro join the quidditch team. Shiro found his soulmate. Her name's Allura, and she's... she's really great. I think Shiro's gonna bring her by soon."

He places the roses in the vase gently and carefully, taking his time to make sure they sit just right.

Then he stands, reaching a hand out behind him. "I brought someone to meet you..." Lance's hand slips into his once more as he steps up beside him. "His name is Lance, and... and he's my soulmate." His voice cracks, and he has to pause to take a deep, shuddering breath. He can feel the familiar sting behind his eyes that he knows has nothing to do with the cold. Lance squeezes his hand, and Keith holds on tightly. "I found him, mom..." He whispers. "It wasn't... it wasn't easy. I fucked things up, and he's an asshole sometimes, but... but we're okay now. We're gonna be okay. I'm gonna be okay."

He trails off, reaching up to rub at his eyes before any tears can escape.

Lance clears his throat, standing up a little taller at his side. "Um, hi, name's Lance, and it's nice to meet you, Mrs. Shirogane. I'm a big fan of your work." His hand leaves Keith's, wrapping around his waist to pull him to his side.

Keith turns into him, wrapping his arms around Lance and burying his face in Lance's scarf. Lance's arms wrap around his back, cheek resting against his hair.

"You've done a great job raising this guy," He continues, voice hushed but personable. As if he were really speaking to her. Keith appreciates the effort, a bubble of warmth expanding in his chest. "And his art? Man, you would be so proud of him. Thanks for teaching him how to paint on himself, by the way. I've gotten a lot of cool ass soulmarks because of that. And.. you don't have to worry about him anymore. I'll take good care of him. I promise."

Keith's hands tighten, fingers curling into the back of Lance's jacket, and Lance chuckles. It rumbles through Lance's chest and into his.

"Yeah," Lance says, a smile in his voice. "We're gonna be just fine."

They stay until their fingers are numb, and they can no longer feel their toes. They stay until even Lance's nose turns pink, and he can't stop sniffling as it runs. They stay, buried in their layers and huddled together.

And the whole time, they talk. They talk aloud to Keith's mom and step dad. They tell them how they met, and everything that's happened since. How they became friends. How they grew closer. Lance tells them all about Keith's soulmark paintings, bragging about his exhibition. Keith tells them about quidditch, sharing stories about his new friends.

At first Keith had been worried that Lance might not have gotten it. That he might not have understood the need to talk aloud to them. To share everything as if he were talking directly to them.

But... Lance seems to get it. He goes with it, going to far as to ask whether or not it's weird to curse in front of him mom. And it doesn't feel like Lance is just humoring him. It feels... real. Lance understands.

It's several hours later that they make their way back through the cemetery, retracing their steps in the snow. Hands buried deep in their pockets for warmth, but shoulders bumping together in an instinctual need to keep contact.

It took several hours to get here, and they have several more hours to go. Stopping by the cemetery in Keith's hometown had been a pretty big detour, but when Keith had shyly brought it up, Lance had latched onto it with far more enthusiasm than Keith could have hoped.

This was just as important to him as it was for Keith.

The drive to Lance's house is still a few more hours from here, down towards the coast. Lance had asked Keith to join him for the holidays, and Keith... well, he can't really say no to Lance when he looks so heartfelt and excited. So he'll be spending most of winter break with the McClains.

They'll be leaving early, though. Stopping at Keith's place for a few days before returning to school, so he can see his grandparents and Lance can meet them.

He feels strangely giddy about that prospect. Nervous and excited all at once. He wasn't sure his grandparents would ever get to meet his soulmate, and he knows how much it means to them that they can.

They stop as they reach Lance's car. But instead of going around to the driver's side, Lance stops next to Keith at the passenger's side, turning to face him with a lopsided grin. "Well, as far as first impressions go, I think I made a good one."

Keith smiles, tucking his chin into his scarf. "They would’ve liked you." He pulls his hands from his pockets, reaching out to Lance. His hands are barely on Lance's waist before Lance steps forward into his space, his own arms lifting to rest on Keith's shoulders, wrapping loosely around them. "I wanted to thank you..." He says softly, breath fogging in the cold air.

Lance tilts his head, lopsided smile still in place, eyes softening. "It's no problem, Keith. I wanted to come. I know how much this means to you."

He shakes his head. "Not just that."

He lifts his chin to meet Lance's gaze. Unwavering and unafraid. He wants Lance to know he means it. Want him to know how much he feels. All of this warmth filling his chest until he's bursting at the seams. Wants Lance to know it, to see it, even without opening up their soul connection.

"Thank you for always being there for me," He says softly, voice surprisingly steady despite the waver he feels in his breath. "Even when I didn't want you to be. Even when I was pushing you away. Thank you for being there. For listening even when I didn't want you to. Even when I painted only for myself, it was nice knowing... I wasn't alone.

"Keith..." Lance breathes, grin fading into something softer. Something far more vulnerable and far more shy. Like a smile he doesn't mean to have but can't quite hide. His hands shift, pushing the hair back from Keith's face, eyes lidded and meeting Keith's with a storm that threatens to blow him away. "Thank you for giving me a chance. For getting me out of my own head, and just... not letting me change myself for you. For letting me be me. For loving me for me."

"I never said that..." Keith breathes, a smile in his voice even if it doesn't quite reach his lips.

Lance chuckles, leaning forward to press his forehead against Keith's. His eyes drift closed, smile on his lips lifting a fraction. "You didn't have to. I felt it."

Keith pulls him closer. Until they're pressed together and his arms are wrapped tight around Lance's waist. Lance's fingers comb through his hair and hold him in place. As if Keith would ever want to pull away.

"I know we said we wanted things to go back to the way they were..." Lance starts, opening his eyes and pulling back far enough to look at him, but staying close enough to feel his breath. "But... I'm starting to realize that I don't mind change. I don't mind this kind of change." His thumb brushes along Keith's jaw, down his neck until it reaches his scarf.

"I don't mind either." Keith feels his lips tilt upward, lifting of their own accord. One of Lance's hands cups his jaw, and Keith leans into the touch. He turns into it, holding Lance's gaze as he presses a kiss to his palm and whispers against his skin, "I'm glad it's you."

He feels the shudder run through Lance. Watches it run down his spine and back up, lifting his smile wider until it crinkles at the corners of his eyes. "I'm glad it's you, too, space cadet. Makes the whole falling for you thing less complicated."

Keith's breath hitches. Lance's grin curls coy and lopsided, and Keith surges forward to capture it. Lips melding together. His hands tight around Lance and Lance's fingers clutched in his hair and around his shoulders. Lance exhales through his nose, a deep sigh as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss.

Their lips are cold. The touch of their noses is like ice. But the heat between them burns. Low and pulsing and bright. Building and surging through their veins.

He knows things won't be easy. He knows life never is. He knows things won't be automatically perfect, and he knows they'll have to work for it. But with Lance... he thinks it'll be worth it. And he knows that they'll be fine.

He's with his soulmate, but they're not at their happily ever after.

They're still writing their story with every mark that they make.

And he hopes this is a story that never ends.