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Lance is no stranger to hot weather.
Growing up in Cuba pretty much prepared him for that sort of thing. Summers with sweltering heat and a town overflowing with carnivals and festivals late into each night had been his lifestyle for a good fifteen years, and he still remembers, distinctly, the way blue raspberry slushies melt along his tongue, contrasting starkly with a harsh sort of humidity. It’s a nice thought; there’s a certain liveliness to walking the shoreline with a group of friends that he misses, backlit by fairy lights and the taste of funnel cake along the back of his tongue.
He sighs. Homesickness is a bitch.
Still, despite his upbringing and natural inclination towards the warmer spectrum of weather, he is willing to admit when an alien planet has the Caribbean well and truly beat in terms of ungodly, hellfire temperatures, and fuck if the planet Horaes didn’t do that to an absolute fault.
“This is unbearable,” he huffs, spread out in a miserable array of long legs and noodle arms. The ground beneath him feels strangely like grass from Earth – which is why they all agreed on this planet as a vacation spot, after all – and he feels it poking uncomfortably into the small of his back and tickling his neck.
Beside him, Pidge wrinkles the bridge of their nose. Somehow, despite Shiro’s insistence that they all separate themselves from their equipment for just this one hour of respite, they managed to sneak a laptop onto the field, which they are currently hammering into from their hunched position, fingers tapping with a dexterity that is impressive, to say the least. Lance wonders what they could possibly be working so vigorously on and privately hopes it’s world domination. Maybe Pidge would let him sleep later than Allura does.
He suddenly remembers the time Pidge rigged his alarm to blare ABBA’s Dancing Queen at five in the morning back at the Garrison, unable to be turned off without a password that they refused to give him, and shivers. Definitely not. He silently and profusely apologizes to the Allura in his head for ever doubting her and curses Pidge’s very name.
“I don’t necessarily consider myself an optimist, but I liked to think that you’d stop complaining if we were ever permitted a small vacation.” The wide brim of their sunhat flops around as the shake their hand without looking up from the LED screen in front of them. “I guess I was just naïve.”
Mouth twisting, Lance turns over just enough to poke at the exposed portion of Pidge’s stomach below their binder, right where their belly indents into a soft roll. Pidge rolls their eyes, but otherwise says nothing. “Don’t tell me you disagree! You’re as white as a snow cone, compadre.”
Frowning, Pidge says, “Doesn’t the color of a snow cone depend on its syrup?” They hold up a hand when Lance opens his mouth. “Actually, never mind, it’s really not worth getting into the semantics of shaved ice. To answer your question, no, I don’t disagree with you, but because I’m not pathetic and useless, I’m not going to complain to my friends who can’t do anything about it.”
Lance huffs and props himself up on an elbow. “Maybe I was complaining to God.”
“God, much like the rest of us, has better things to be doing than catering to your whims and discomforts.”
“Hey,” Lance says indignantly, poking his finger into the hard Velcro of Pidge’s binder. “Jesus loves me.”
“I don’t know why he would.”
Sputtering, Lance retracts his hand to cross himself. “That’s sacrilege.”
Mouth quirking wickedly, Pidge ignores him in favor of gesturing to the people around them. “Don’t you have someone better to bother?”
Lance, deciding to indulge Pidge’s request, allows the action to drag his eyes in the direction of their teammates, currently scattered in front of them.
“Well,” he says, extending the word in mocking consideration. His condescending tone doesn’t go missed by Pidge, whose fingers seem to stiffen and tighten their grip on the keyboard in their lap. “Shiro is reading – not exactly a two person activity, and in all seriousness, he deserves a break more than anyone.”
Pidge hums in acknowledgement beside him. It’s not really a common thing anymore, seeing Shiro’s face smoothed out in what looks like genuine calmness. Watching him, leaning against the smooth bark and curled around some translated Altean novel with a quiet, contented smile on his face, puts something at ease in Lance’s core that he hadn’t known was there. The tense line of Shiro’s shoulders remain, but he figures it’s to be expected. Baby Steps.
“Hunk,” he starts, looking for any sign of his teammate.
“You’re not going to find him,” Pidge admits begrudgingly. “He went further into the woods after finding some fruit that looked similar to the agriculture on Earth. He wants to cook a dinner tonight that ‘tastes like home.’” They hook their fingers in the air, in case the deeper voice isn’t enough indication that Pidge is quoting Hunk directly.
Not bothering to hide his smug grin, Lance simply gestures towards Pidge. “Exactly. You just answered your own question, buddy. Can’t exactly hang out with Hunk if he’s nowhere to be found.”
Undeterred, Pidge insists, “And Keith? Don’t you have something to argue about?” Lance is moderately surprised that Pidge is even willing to go so far as to instigate a fight between Keith and Lance just to be left alone. Then again, it is Pidge. They can be kind of weird about their techie stuff.
Still, he adopts a ‘you poor, naïve child’ tone to his voice. “Keith is my rival and sworn-enemy, Pidge. This is a vacation.” He stresses each syllable, eyes now searching for his least favorite MMM – or, Moody Mullet Man. He’s still proud of that ingenious alliteration. “I’m not going to waste my precious stress-free time with some lousy—“
His eyes land on Keith, who’s currently lounging against the wood of a tree nearby.
Lance isn’t sure how he missed this before they landed, but Keith is actually wearing something other than his black v-necks for once. And sure, all of them are wearing something a little different than their usual fashion in response to the heat – in Lance’s case, this meant no shirt, necessary to spare himself from the brutal temperature -, but there’s something about Keith in particular that catches him off-guard. His brain short-circuits – only for a brief moment, but significant nonetheless.
The jacket that Keith all but sleeps in has been exchanged for a tank top with dropped holes in the arms – so much that it’s practically just a sliver of fabric at the bottom –, and the white of the top has long since gone sheer in response to the slick of sweat along his chest. Below the cut-off of the thin fabric is mostly just a long expanse of skin with the barest fraction of dark denim, and Lance swears under his breath. The shorts underneath must be high-waisted, if they only cover up that much of his thighs.
“Lousy,” he repeats absent-mindedly, already noting the way Keith’s bangs have been messily pushed back, the damp sweat of his forehead acting to keep them in place - which should be gross but very distinctly isn’t. Lance isn’t sure what it is, but he’s confident when he says it’s not gross.
Buttercream skin tone has been muddied by florid cheeks, natural flush creeping down his jawline and spreading into the valley of his loose shirt collar. The same heat that curls, oppressive, over Lance leaves Keith looking glossy, toned planes of his shoulders and arms seeming to glow softly against the wood behind him. Like he could be a mirage. Like if Lance blinked, he might disappear.
Long fingers are curled around what looks like a peach – it gradients from a dark plum color to a deep red –, and Lance wonders if this is one of those fruits that inspired Hunk to go searching for more in the forest. Entranced, he watches as Keith presses it to his mouth, lips – alarmingly pink, reminds Lance of the lemonade he used to make during the worst days of summer back home - parting to make way for his teeth, which immediately sink into the flesh of the alien-peach and slowly, as if savoring, drag the bite back into his mouth.
Some of the juice spills down and traces the line in Keith’s neck, collarbones acting as gutters and allowing it to plunge somewhere lower beneath his neckline. Keith, brow wrinkling in irritation, absently and efficiently licks the residue off his fingers, tongue tracing the taut skin between his thumb in forefinger. Ever the quick learner, this time when Keith brings the fruit back to his mouth and bites down, he makes sure to suck before pulling away. Noisily.
Lance whimpers, subconsciously squeezing his legs together.
Drawn out of his trance by his own noise, Lance flushes and peeks cautiously at Pidge, praying to all things sanctimonious and the God that loves him very much that Pidge, who is a blasphemous devil, had not heard him or noticed that he had been kind of gaping openly at Keith.
Pidge leers at him. Look, I know lust is a Seven Deadly and all, but can’t you give me a break?
“I’m sorry, Lance. I don’t think I caught that last bit. You said Keith was a lousy what?”
“Um,” Lance stutters, looking around frantically for anything that could possibly help him in this situation. “I didn’t say anything.”
This only seems to goad Pidge on. “Actually, you’re right. I don’t think what you did was speaking. It was more like…” They tap their chin thoughtfully before making a noise that sounds more like a begging puppy than a horny teenager, but Lance is deeply embarrassed regardless.
“I wasn’t—“ He starts, but Pidge cuts him off with a hand wave.
“You don’t have to say a thing. I know exactly what’s going on in your head right now, Lance.” Something dark sparks behind their glasses. “Hey, since you couldn’t come up with a good reason not to go bother him, I guess we’ve found your vacation-buddy!” Their tone is disgustingly bright, and Lance heart drops in fear.
“Do not—“
“Keith! Get over here!” Lance refuses to turn around, even when he hears footsteps approaching behind him, choosing instead to glare down at the devil incarnate. The devil incarnate in question stares back, unperturbed.
“Yeah, Pidge?” Has Keith’s voice always been this deep? Lance is pretty sure it hasn’t. Fuck. He really hopes these kinds of thoughts melt away when he’s in the AC. For now, the heat presses down on him, unrelenting. Feverish.
Pidge finally breaks eye-contact to look up at Keith. It’s not a victory by any means, but Lance pretends it is. “I need a favor. Lance is being a pest—“
“I’m right here! Stop talking about me like I’m not!”
“—and I’m trying to get some stuff done. And since you owe me after what happened last—“
“Yeah,” Keith cuts in nervously, and what the fuck, why does Pidge have dirt on everyone in the entire galaxy? “Yeah, I read you.”
Lance feels two pairs of eyes on him, barely noticeable through the thick layer of heat on the back of his neck, and finally decides to flop back onto his back so he can see the both of them at once.
“Pidge,” he says. “I hate you so much.” These are his last words. When he’s dead and buried, everyone will know that it was all Pidge’s fault and that Pidge is a terrible friend.
Pidge doesn’t respond, but Keith leans over him, blocking the sun from his vision and giving him a nice pool of shade. “Let’s go, Lance.”
“I refuse,” he says, and throws an arm over his eyes. It’s completely childish, and thus, brings him true joy. The fact that it distracts him from the dark fan of eyelashes fluttering above him, and the heat that’s more internal than external, right below his belly button, is an added bonus.
Unfortunately, it backfires on him, and he suddenly feels rough and warm hands clamp around his arms and drag him to his feet. Dios Mio, Keith is strong. Like, yeah, he knew that, but understanding that training and hauling around a big ass sword would make any person pretty fit and actually feeling that effect made all the difference in the world, apparently. He purposefully and definitely does not think about those hands in any other place of his body and tries to keep his mind out of the gutter.
The fingers curling around his biceps are just a little sticky, and when Lance realizes why, his entire face flushes bright red.
“Uh,” he says eloquently, hand falling limp to his side. “Lead the way, I guess. Since I don’t have much of a choice.”
Keith shrugs and begins to walk away, Lance hurrying to follow along. God, his heart is pounding. What is he, twelve years old? Get it together. With this new angle of Keith, Lance can see the sharp edges of his shoulder blades through the cotton. He thinks about what they would feel like against the palms of his hands, dragging them down Keith’s back. He thinks about exploring the harsh lines with his tongue.
Whoa there, buddy! He thinks, slightly delirious and very panicky. I’ve taken this whole ‘finding Keith attractive even though he’s my archrival’ thing pretty well, but that’s way, way over the line.
They don’t go very far. In fact, Lance is pretty sure Keith just brought him back to the same tree he had been leaning on before.
Keith clears his throat. “So.” The word sounds rough. Forced. “What do you want to do?”
Suck your dick. “Seriously? God, the dirt Pidge has on you must be good if you’re actually trying to hang out with me and keep me entertained.”
“Shut the hell up.” Keith rolls his eyes. He always acts like Lance is some sort of nuisance, nothing more than a mosquito that won’t leave him alone, and Lance suddenly has a strange urge to please him, just once. “You’re acting weirder than usual. Pidge probably has something embarrassing on you, too.”
Lance sweats. “Haha, what? That’s – That’s just ridiculous. Do you even, even listen to yourself?” Smooth.
Keith gives him a weird look. “Were you even trying to be discreet?”
No. “Yes,” he says, which is the truth. But also, the idea of Keith finding him out is kind of thrilling, in its own way. Then, a beat too late: “Shut up.”
“Wow. What does someone who clearly has no shame have to be embarrassed about?” Leaning against the bark with his arm, Keith keeps his voice nonchalant, but Lance still hears what might be an underlying current of curiosity. Interesting.
“Hm. Well, maybe I’ll tell you.” God, what is he doing? The majority of his brain is screaming abort, abort, abort, but he appears to be functioning solely on autopilot and poor impulse control as of the second he saw Keith eating that stupid not-peach. “If you tell me what Pidge has on you.”
In Lance’s fantasy, they’re directly correlated. Keith will admit to wanting Lance’s hot bod and Lance will tell him he understands, who wouldn’t? A tender embrace. The curtain falling dramatically because they can never show the good stuff in the movies.
Eyeing him warily, Keith seems to assess him for a moment before shrugging. Because Keith is terrible, he leans in and whispers, breath hot against the shell of Lance’s ear and melting him into a puddle. “Pidge caught me trying to download porn.”
Lance gapes at him, flabbergasted. “What? That’s it? Dude, I do that every day. Pidge practically recommends me the good stuff! I offer you my tantalizing secret, so secure it’s shoved in a safe that’s shoved in another safe and buried at the bottom of the ocean in Earth which is millions of miles away, and you give me this completely average teenager thing?”
Thoroughly amused, Keith simply shrugs again. “I was more worried about Shiro finding out. You were the one who offered the trade, dumbass.”
Idiot, idiot, idiot. He mumbles a few things in Spanish that would make his abuelita feed him a bar of soap. “I retract my offer, since your secret was lame.” There’s no way he could admit to this now. Keith would hold it over his head for the rest of his life.
“No can do.” Keith is shorter than him; Lance is sure of this, but the way Keith straightens makes Lance feel like he’s towering over him. “That wasn’t a part of the deal.”
“You being an asshole wasn’t part of the deal either, but I’m not complaining.” This is good. Arguing is familiar territory.
“God, you’re insufferable! There’s no way it was that bad - just tell me!”
“Make me,” Lance spits back, automatically. His face colors. Uh.
“What.” It’s not a question. Keith definitely heard him, and even he apparently knew that was undeniable flirting. Lance might as well have gotten on his knees and begged Keith to fuck him. Now there’s a thought.
“What?” Lance squeaks, ear tips probably bright red. Oh, god. Oh, god. He is so fucked.
But then, curious – and probably not with the authoritative tone he’s looking for – Keith says, “Maybe I will.” And steps closer.
Somehow, despite the heat already cloying to Lance’s skin, the temperature noticeably jumps up a few degrees at the proximity of Keith’s body. Somehow, Keith manages to back Lance up against the bark of the tree, nose inches from his own.
Somehow, Lance manages to choke out, “Maybe we should go somewhere else?” He notices Keith’s pupils are dilated, and his stomach flips. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Keith says no. He’s not sure he has the self-control not to do something right here, in front of everyone.
“Okay,” Keith whispers, and he feels it on his own mouth, and Lance is suddenly unsure his jelly-knees can make it anywhere farther than the distance from their current position to the ground.
“Okay,” Lance repeats because he’s not sure he can do much else. Thankfully, Keith takes the lead, grabbing his hand and slipping farther into the dense tree line and further from the clearing they had managed to find earlier.
The sun continues to beat down, relentless.
The second Keith is able to glance behind them without seeing Pidge or Shiro tucked away in their respective positions, he pushes Lance back into the nearest tree and kisses him, top lip tucking between Lance’s part mouth and sucking along his bottom lip. Lance makes a quiet mmph, muffled against Keith’s mouth, and unsteadily places his hands along Keith’s hips.
Keith is rough, a little needy, but ultimately inexperienced. It doesn’t matter to Lance. It feels really fucking good. Refreshing. Like pink lemonade on an unbearably hot day, ice clinking around inside the glass. When Lance traces the dip of Keith’s lip with his tongue, he inhales – sharp –, and when Keith drags his teeth along Lance’s lower lip, he keens.
Lance slips a hand underneath Keith’s tank top and runs it along the hard planes of his stomach, and Keith presses into it, his own hands buried in Lance’s hair near the nape of his neck.
“Oh,” he says, a little breathless, when Keith tugs. “Oh my god. This is happening.”
“Shut up,” Keith says, running his mouth along Lance’s jaw. “Don’t ruin this by talking.” Teeth dragging down the length of Lance’s neck, he lets out a wobbly breath. Reminds him of the peach. Keith sinking his teeth into the skin, Keith sucking along the bite, mouth wet. His mind is a broken record, skipping back and replaying that one moment on repeat. Standing up on his own isn’t something he thinks he could manage right now, so he’s grateful that Keith is basically propping him up.
“Excuse me? That’s a pretty rude thing to say, considering you’re making out with me and all. You trying to pretend I’m someone else? The audacity. How could you— aagh oh my god.”
Keith doesn’t necessarily smirk, just raises an eyebrow coolly, but he seems entirely too pleased with his knee firmly pressed between Lance’s legs. Lance whimpers at the pressure. “You were saying?”
“I was saying that I hate you so fucking much.” Lance grinds down against Keith’s thigh, gritting his teeth. The air is sticky.
Desperate to wipe the self-satisfied expression off his face, Lance bites into the crook between Keith’s neck and shoulder and licks, tasting the salt of sweat and something sweet just under the surface. Keith moans, pushing further into Lance without thinking and increasing the pressure against Lance’s dick.
“Shit,” Keith murmurs, mouthing at Lance’s ear. “Can I suck you off?”
Lance cannot be blamed for the way he yelps. “How can you just say stuff like that?”
“Sometimes I worry about sounding like an idiot or embarrassing myself, but then I remember who I’m talking to.”
“Hey, that’s—“ Lance snaps his mouth shut, silenced by the sight of Keith dropping to his knees.
In a surprisingly affectionate moment, Keith presses a kiss into the palm of Lance’s hand before returning his attention to his crotch.
“Stupid Keith,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Stupid hair and his stupid mouth and his stupidly seductive eating habits.” Unimpressed, Keith makes direct eye contact with Lance and drags the zipper of his shorts down with his teeth. Lance bites his own knuckles.
“Have you ever done this before?” Lance blurts, and immediately manages to flush even more. Is that something he can even ask? He’s losing all hope that he’ll ever be able to control his tongue.
“Uh,” Keith pauses, brow furrowed and hands bunched in the fabric of Lance’s short – which are currently at knee-level –, thoroughly caught off-guard. “Yeah. Once.” And pulls them the rest of the way down, pooling them at Lance’s ankles.
“Oh,” he says. Keith presses his tongue flat against the fabric of Lance’s boxer. Wet heat seeps through, and he feels it against his dick. Shuddering, Lance digs his nails into the rough bark behind him. Don’t babble, he thinks. Don’t babble, please do not babble, if you babble you will never have sex with someone this hot ever again and you’ll fucking die, so just do not babble. “I haven’t.” A beat. Fuck! “Done this before, that is. I’ve never had sex of any kind; I’m a virgin, like Madonna, except that she was only like a virgin, and I actually am a virgin, so I guess—“
Keith tugs Lance’s boxers down the rest of the way and licks a long stripe up Lance’s cock.
“Dios,” he moans. “Oh, Dios.” Pidge would be snickering if they could hear him now, would say something like ‘now that’s sacrilege’ before probably taking pictures for blackmail. He thinks, why am I thinking about Pidge while getting my dick sucked? Which actually shuts his brain up, momentarily.
Keith pulls back, suddenly seeming bashful. Along his lower lip line, some of Lance’s pre-cum collects, shiny, into a mix with Keith’s spit. “I’m about to – uh, you know.” Steels himself, then continues, this time speaking very matter-of-fact. “I’m about to go down on you, and if you want to pull my hair you can.” He grits out the last part, not waiting for an answer before popping Lance’s leaking head fully into his mouth.
Immediately, Lance’s hands fly to Keith’s hair, fingers combing and pushing back his bangs – which are surprisingly soft; he wonders absently what products he uses. It takes everything not to thrust into Keith’s mouth, but Lance manages, finding a shred of self-preservation inside of him. He is 99.9% sure that Keith would probably kill him.
“Fuck,” Lance breathes, finally speechless, and removes one hand from Keith’s hair to drag it down his face and over his mouth, muffling the moans tumbling off his tongue.
Keith is… enthusiastic. Not like in a messy, boisterous kind of way – he just looks blissed-out, like there’s nothing better he could imagine doing, nothing he could enjoy more than sucking dick, lips parted wet and red around Lance’s shaft. It’s a sort of focus that Lance is familiar with, the same attention Keith gives to fighting and piloting, but instead it’s zeroed in on Lance and how best to make him feel good, and the thought makes Lance twitch.
If he thinks the planet’s atmosphere is cloying and warm, it has nothing on the feel of Keith’s mouth, which might be burning Lance. He’s not sure. It just feels so good, an indescribable sort of good that leaves him feeling gooey and tight all at once.
“Keith,” he says, and he winces because he knows he’s about to start rambling again, but he can’t help it, just drags the hand from his mouth to his hair, sweat slicking it up like hair gel. “Keith, you’re so good at this, so warm, fuck.” He’s whimpering into the open air, eyes squeezed shut and fingers tugging in sporadic bursts at Keith’s hair.
Keith moans around Lance, so he looks down and finds Keith blushing, not the natural, ruddy heat flush but an actual blush, a delicate pink that rides the slope of his nose and the highpoints of his cheeks.
Lance blinks. Hesitates. Fuck it. “You look so perfect like this, on your knees. Wanted you so bad, Keith.” Which, he believes, is technically true. He may not have realized it, but he thinks the jealousy-slash-rivalry thing was actually a lot more of a gay thing than he thought.
It has the desired effect. Keith seems to melt under Lance’s ministrations, sinking deeper around Lance’s dick and humming, which leaves Lance’s core suddenly feeling tight and liquidated, heating dipping into his waist.
“Keith—“ he gasps, palms sweating and desperately pulling at anything he can get his hands on. “Keith, I’m so close – please, fuck.” But Keith doesn’t pull away – instead, looks at Lance under lidded eyes, irises warm and pupils dilated beneath a canopy of dark eyelashes. Lance watches him as he slips a hand past the waistband of his own shorts, hips rolling and bucking as he presses the heel of his hand against his dick jerkily.
Lance thinks he’s going to die, everything feeling incredibly intense in the fraction of a second. “Good boy,” he babbles, practically sobs, hands sliding around messily in Keith’s hair. “Such a good boy, always taking everything you’re given, always perfecting any talent, so perfect for everyone.”
Keith slurps around Lance’s cock, obscene and completely unnecessarily hot, and swallows, lips and chin shiny with spit. Lance comes, everything white white white like his body is too focused on the feeling of it all to process normal senses like eyesight, and his toes curl into the grass beneath his feet. The forest smells sweet, smells earthy and utterly foreign, and it’s the first thing to return to him as collapses, boneless, against the tree behind him and sinks to his ass.
“Holy shit,” he says, eyes towards the heavens and looking to the world like he just recovered from a religious experience.
Grass crunching beneath him, Keith crawls into Lance’s lap on his knees. “Shut up and get me off,” he says, and shoves Lance’s hand past his waistband.
“Bossy,” Lance chides, but complies while Keith roughly tugs his shorts and boxers the rest of the way down. Keith props himself up with a hand on the tree behind him and pulls Lance into a kiss, which is more licking into each other’s mouths than it is actual lip-contact which - whatever – it’s hot.
Lance feels Keith’s breath, hot, against his teeth, tastes peach on Keith’s tongue, and tightens his grip around Keith’s dick.
It doesn’t take long. Lance runs his hands along his cock a few times and swipes his thumb along Keith’s head, and he’s coming, white painting Lance’s stomach and dipping into his belly button. He appreciates the view, the deep curves of Keith’s waist, the way he shakes against Lance and moans, lower than Lance thought possible.
And then Keith slumps back, resting on his heels, and they’re left just sort of looking at each other, forest suddenly seeming achingly quiet.
Lance looks down at his stomach and wrinkles his nose. “Gross.” And Keith laughs, a genuine thing that peels out of him like wind chimes, looking boneless and sated and content.
He picks up his tank top and tosses it to Lance. “Here, wipe it up with this.”
When they return to the clearing a few minutes later, still looking a little disheveled, Pidge glances up from their screen just long enough to full-on grin at him, entirely self-satisfied. Lance sticks his tongue out at them, flicking them off.
The sun glares overhead, heat present but manageable, and everything feels the same but somehow distinctly better.