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autisticlancemcclain · 1 year

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“Woo-oof, Mullet. How has training every second of every day made you worse, somehow?”

Keith clinches his jaw, forcing himself to keep his attention on the gladiator in front of him, and ignore the taunting to his left.

He doesn’t understand what Lance’s problem is. A couple months ago, he was putting a soft hand on Keith’s shoulder and saying he trusts the Black Lion’s judgement, sticking with Keith even when he makes dumbass decisions, and now he’s back to that stupid — rivalry? Again?

What’s his fucking angle?

“I’m still doing better than you,” Keith grits out, because the high road is for losers. Unfortunately the jab doesn’t have the intended effect, and Lance only smirks.

“Not for long.”

Faster than Keith can fully process, Lance fucking back handsprings out of his gladiator’s range, widely avoiding its attack, and then he flips forward, using the momentum to hit the gladiator full force in the chest. As the gladiator stumbles, Lance wraps his legs around its shoulders and almost throws his own body to the ground, sending the gladiator’s head to the floor at frightening speeds. It cracks on impact, Lance scrambling a couple feet away, and then a low hum fills the room as a robotic voice announces: “Level 24 complete, Red Paladin. Congratulations. You are in the lead.”

Lance turns and smirks in Keith’s direction. He doesn’t even say anything, but the smugness drips off him in waves.

There’s absolutely nothing Keith can do to stop himself from what he does next. His fuse is short, he knows that, and Lance has fucking burnt it to a crisp. He feels something implode in his stomach, and he sees red.

He lunges for the gladiator, using his training staff to vault off the mat and throw himself right at the gladiator’s chest, just like Lance did. He twists his body, trying to wrap his legs around his shoulders and bend his back to get the right momentum.

There’s no noise, no crack or snap, but Keith feels something give in his lower back, and he drops to the ground , trying and failing to bite back a pained shout. The gladiator, obviously undeterred, raises its staff above Keith’s head, whipping it down so quickly it whistles. Keith throws himself out of the way, which hurts so badly his vision actually whites out a little.

“End training sequence! End it! Stop!” shouts a panicked voice. The robot voice confirms the instruction, and Keith hears the whooshing sound of the gladiator dematerialising, then footsteps hurrying towards him.

“Holy shit, Keith, are you okay?” Lance leans over him, brown eyes wide in concern, hand resting gently on his arm.

Keith scowls. He pulls his arm away and pulls himself up and out of Lance’s reach.

Well, he tries to. The second he tries to sit up the same agonizing pain from before radiates from his back, and barely manages to muffle his groan.

“Jesus, Keith, don’t move —”

“I’m fine,” Keith interrupts gruffly. He grits his teeth and drags himself upright, ignoring the way the pain makes his ears ring. “Leave me alone.”

Keith’s movement makes Lance’s hand shoot out on reflex, but he stops himself right before he makes contact. He meets Keith’s gaze, glaring heavily.

“Don’t be a dumbass. Let me help you.”

Keith bites back the urge to tell him what he thinks of his help, because he knows that’s a step too far, even though he really wants to take it. Some part of him, something mean and angry that he can barely keep a hold on, wants to hurt Lance’s feelings as much as Lance’s weird mixed signals have been hurting him, lately. Worse.

Keith has more control than that. He will have more control than that.

“I’m fine,” he insists again. “Training’s over. You won. Go brag to Hunk, or something.”

Lance does nothing for a moment, then he sighs, getting to his feet and walking away.

Keith’s heart sinks, even though he doesn’t want Lance’s help and he’s perfectly capable of handling himself. It’s good that Lance is leaving him alone. Keith doesn’t fuckin’ need him. He’s handled himself since he was twelve goddamn years old, thanks ever so, and that’s not going to change now.

Only Lance doesn’t walk out the training room door. Instead he walks over to where he’s discarded his jacket, digging through the pockets for a moment before pulling out something long and thin, rounded on the edges and an off-white colour. He shoots it at Keith, and before he can speak up to ask Lance what the hell he’s doing, a blue laser shoots from the white thing.

A scanner.

Lance runs it over Keith’s back and torso, then mutters something angrily to himself, too quiet for Keith to hear, and tucks the scanner on his jeans pocket, walking back over to Keith.

“You threw out your back, stupid,” he informs him. “That shit’s not going away. Let’s go. Can you stand?”

Keith wants to argue, but finds that he’s…exhausted. All the pain hits him at once and he barely stops himself from sagging forward so as to not hurt his back any further.

“Probably.”

Lance helps him anyway, putting one of Keith’s arms around his broad shoulders before slowly helping him stand.

It hurts like hell, and Keith lets him know it.

“Mother of fucking God that smarts like a cactus spike up the shitter fucking hell —”

“I am trying so hard,” Lance starts, voice shaking, “to be serious and helpful, dude, but I am going to lose my mind if you keep going. Please cuss like a normal person and not a cowboy that just got kicked in the nuts by a horse.”

“Hurts about the fuckin’ same,” Keith shoots back, but tries to reign it in anyway.

Lance helps him out of the training room, guiding him down the hallways until they finally make it to their rooms.

“Few more steps,” Lance says encouragingly. Any teasing attitude evaporated somewhere between when Keith hit the floor and when Lance helped him up. “You can do it, Samurai.”

They finally make it to Keith’s door, and he slaps his free hand to the lockpad and stumbles to his bed.

“Lie on your stomach,” Lance advises.

Keith furrows his brow. “Isn’t lying on your stomach bad? Aren’t you supposed to lie on your back when you hurt it?”

“Well, it’ll be pretty hard for me to massage the pain out of your muscles of you’re lying on them, dork-brain.”

Keith pauses. “Huh.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Will you just shut up and do as I say, Commander?”

“Um, no,” Keith says. For whatever reasons his heartbeat has increased, and his palms are sweaty through his gloves. “I’m just going to sleep it off. You can go now.”

Lance crosses his arm. That stubborn look enters his face, the same one he gets when he knows he’s right and he doesn’t care who agrees.

Keith has never, not even one time, won an argument with him when he gets that expression.

“Bed. Now,” he orders. “Ditch the shirt. I’ll be back in five minutes, and if you’re not doing as I say I’m going to knock you out and shove you in a healing pod.” Without waiting for a response, he turns around, marching out the door and somehow making it slam behind him, even though the doors are literally automatic and Keith has never once seen them slam before.

Keith glances at his bed. He glances at his lockpad.

It’s not like Lance can strongarm his way through Altean lock security, right?

Keith takes one step towards the door. His back twinges, and he winces.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

He chucks off his shirt, wincing as the movement makes his back twist, and gingerly lays down on his stomach. He shifts until he finds a position that hurts the least, pillow tucked under his head and over his arms.

Whatever. He’s doing this because he doesn’t want to sit in a stupid pod, not because Lance ordered him to.

As promised, his door opens again five minutes later, and Lance’s near-silent footsteps approach the bed.

“See?” he mutters. “Doesn’t kill you to listen to me.”

“I hate you.”

“Uh-huh.”

There’s a shuffling sound, then a creaking as the bed dips, and the next thing Keith knows, Lance has a leg on either side of Keith’s hips and he sits gently on Keith’s thighs, right beneath his ass.

Keith’s face flames. He shoves his face into his pillow and prays for death.

(No one has ever been this close to him in his life, probably. It’s weird.)

“My hands a freezing,” Lance says apologetically. “Might feel weird for a sec.”

Cold fingers trace gently down the curve of Keith’s spine, covered in what Keith assumes is some kind of medicinal lotion. He shivers, goosebumps erupting all over his bare flesh. The air suddenly feels suffocating.

“Where’s the pain?” Lance whispers.

Keith swallows. His throat is so dry that it takes him several attempts. “Lower back.”

The cool fingers slowly move to the backs of his hips, one on each side. Then, without warning, they dig into his flesh.

“Fucking — ow, Lance!”

“Baby.”

Keith glances back at him incredulously, face still burning. “In what world is now a good time for pet names?!”

Lance snorts, a small smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. “I’m not calling you a pet name. I’m insulting you. Baby.”

Keith’s jaw drops. “You —”

“Shut up and let me focus, Mullet.”

Keith does.

But not because Lance tells him to.

Eventually he gets used to the hard kneading of Lance’s bony fingers. Every once in a while he winces as Lance digs into a particularly painful spot, and once he outright shouts in pain. Lance hurries out an apology, easing up a bit and moving to a different part.

“I suppose I should apologise,” he says after several minutes of silence, interrupting only by Keith’s various grunts of pain and relief alike.

“For being a dickhead?”

Lance laughs. Keith isn’t facing him, but he can picture his wry smile. “For goading you. I knew you were going to fuck up the takedown I did when you tried it, but I just thought you’d fall or something.” His voice gets solemn. “I didn’t think you’d get hurt for real. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m sorry.”

His hands have stilled, thumbs no longer pressing into the knotted muscles. Only his fingertips gently trace his skin.

His fingers aren’t cold anymore, but Keith still feels goosebumps come up again.

“I could’ve done that takedown thing,” he grumbles eventually. He’s full of shit and he knows it, but he’s sure as shit not about to admit that Lance is better at a hand-to-hand manoeuvre than he is.

Lance snorts. “Yeah, right. I’ve been in gymnastics and dance classes since I was two, bonehead. I’m bendy as hell. I’m good at contorting. I do it all the time when Hunk and Pidge haven’t slept in a while, and I need to make them think they’re hallucinating monsters from sleep deprivation. You have to be practiced at this sort of thing, Mullet.”

Keith opens his mouth, then shuts it again. “What have you been doing to Hunk and Pidge?”

Lance ignores him. “Anyways. I won’t goad you into something like that again, no matter how funny it would be to see you fall on your face.” He pats Keith’s hip twice, then shifts off the bed. “All done. Try sitting up. Does it still hurt?”

Carefully, Keith pulls himself into a sitting position, expecting the same white-hot pain he felt when he sat up in the training room. But there’s nothing.

He looks to Lance with wide eyes. “Holy shit.”

Lance preens. “I’ve got magic hands,” he brags.

“Thank you,” Keith says sincerely. He can’t quite help the small smile he shoots in Lance direction.

Strangely, a light blush burns across Lance’s cheeks. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, Mullet. It’s not like you and your thick head were going to go into a pod, so.” Lance coughs, rocking back on his heels. He looks anywhere but Keith.

Suddenly, a vague memory pops up into Keith’s brain, of himself at around thirteen, venting to an amused Shiro about how one of the boys in his classes, Taylor, kept bugging him about test scores and insisting on some stupid competition.

“I don’t get it, Shiro!” he had said, frustrated frown pulling the corners of his mouth down. “I don’t want to compete! I don’t know what his stupid problem is!”

Shiro had smiled, ruffling Keith’s hair. “He’s pulling your pigtails, kiddo.”

Keith frowned. “I don’t have pigtails.”

“No, I mean —” Shiro had shook his head. “Nevermind. Just ignore him, he’s just getting a reaction out of you because he doesn’t know how else to talk to you.”

Adam had snorted before Keith could comment, reaching over and tugging on Shiro’s forelock without looking up from his marking. “Familiar with the pigtail-pulling strategy, aren’t you, babe?”

Keith hadn’t understood it then, why Shiro’s face had gone bright red or why Adam had laughed louder as Shiro got more flustered. He just remembers being disgusted by their blatant gross flirting, and forgetting about the confusing words entirely.

It hits him now, though, looking at Lance’s red face, thinking about every time he’s driven Keith insane and smirked when he finally lost it, gone against Keith’s orders just to be contrary, literally tugged on Keith’s hair just to piss him off, but why he always sits next to Keith at meals and reassures Keith when he’s sure he’s not fit to lead the team.

Why he offered to rub his hands up and down Keith’s back for a half hour instead of sticking him in a pod.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. He looks at Lance with wide, unbelieving eyes.

Lance glances back at him, and his expression only makes the Cuban more red, somehow.

“I promised I’d help Coran with something,” he blurts. He points vaguely at the door, stumbling backwards. “Right now, actually. Um, bye. Don’t hurt yourself again, dumbass.”

He’s out the door before Keith can stop him, so fast there’s practically a cloud of dust where he used to be, like a cartoon.

Keith sits down heavily on his bed, still staring unblinkingly in front of him. He thinks of the way he rises to Lance’s challenges, every single time. How he always pushes himself harder when Lance is watching, like he has to make sure Lance knows how good he is. How he, too, always seeks Lance out and sits next to him during team meetings or even movie nights. How he almost always assigns them as partners on missions.

How he shivered when Lance’s cool fingers touched his skin.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, a smile fighting its way onto his face. He yanks gently on his own hair.

Butterflies erupt in his stomach.