Keith sighs heavily, twisting around distastefully as he looks at himself in the full-body mirror. He had some event that he was meant to go to later with Shiro, a fancy dinner with Shiro’s world peace agency (or whatever) that his name had somehow gotten dragged into. In honor of the event, Shiro had even bought Keith a new outfit.
“You need to look classy and presentable,” Shiro had said sternly one morning, while Keith simmered at the assumption that his normal style apparently wasn’t presentable enough for this dinner. “So, I bought you this.”
Then he threw several garments at Keith’s face, topping them off with a pair of shoes and—Keith raised an eyebrow—a new pair of earrings. He had thrown Shiro a questioning look, but the man was already off to work, calling over his shoulder, “I won’t be home till late tonight, but I expect you to have tried these on by the time I am!”
And that is why Keith is now standing in front of a mirror, assessing himself critically not twenty minutes after school had let out. He’d even delayed his homework for this!
The outfit fits fine, because one of Shiro’s many talents is picking perfect sizes for people on the first try. And, Keith must admit, it does fit into his stylistic aesthetic—only amped up a few notches and sprinkled with a suitable layer of sophistication. He stretches out and angles his neck for a better look, allowing the embroidered pattern of red roses draped across his throat and shoulders to be thrown into the light, accentuating the paleness of his skin and slope of his torso. He fidgets slightly, folding his arms and pulling the black fabric taught against his skin—the shirt is already tighter than he’s used to.
Keith sort of thinks he looks like a shadow in this thing. Shiro seems to have granted him permission to wear his usual attire of black skinny jeans, as that’s what he’d bought, though they perhaps fit a little better than his usual pair; the shoes are sleek noir as well, but nothing special. They clack against the ground like heels when Keith gives them an experimental scuff, which he finds delight in for some reason.
The earrings, however—those are different. They’re vines, solid black and shiny, snaking from his piercing towards the top of his ear; Keith isn’t sure where Shiro got the idea that these were classy, as they make him feel more like some sort of goth prince more than anything. Maybe Shiro’s just gay, though.
But, all in all, he likes it. The looks isn’t bad, and he can deal with the vague discomfort that comes with clingy clothes. Nodding to himself, Keith begins to untuck his shirt from his skinny jeans.
“Hey, Keith!” A voice floats from outside of his room. “Are you done? I wanna see this outfit too!”
Oh, right. Lance is here.
He’d basically invited himself over after school, unattaching himself from his usual group of friends to run over to Keith, who’d just been trying to get into his car unbothered. And then he’d flung an arm around Keith’s shoulder, smiling wide and warm, and asked something that Keith hadn’t actually heard but automatically said yes to.
When Lance proceeded to jump into the passenger side of his car, Keith had been a little confused. But he’d rolled with it, and now he has his friend-slash-crush-slash-rival(?) at his house while he tries on clothes.
And, of course, Lance wants to see Keith in them.
“It’s really nothing special,” Keith calls back, keeping his arms tentatively on his still-tucked shirt, just in case Lance buys into what he’s saying and lets it go.
“Aw, anything you wear is special, baby,” comes Lance’s simpering, sweet voice, and Keith drops his forehead against the mirror in an effort to avoid seeing himself blush. Then he remembers that he’s leaning against a mirror, and turns around abruptly, hand covering his face.
“Fuck off,” he answers, but the highness of his voice kills any bite the response would’ve had. He hears Lance’s laughter through the door and an unbidden smile stretches across his face. He rolls his eyes. Fine. Lance wants to be disappointed by Keith’s clothes? Sure. Keith will let him be.
“I’m coming out.”
Lance’s laughter dies down into expectant silence, and Keith opens the door and steps out, spreading his arms in an almost-playful gesture of dress-up. He doesn’t look at Lance for the first few seconds, but when the mocking he was expecting doesn’t come, he chances a glance at the couch where he’s sitting.
Lance is red. There’s a hot blush coloring his cheeks and neck prettily, and his lips are parted in a small “o” that makes Keith both excited and confused. His eyes are sweeping up and down Keith’s form, catching in certain spots (Keith makes a list: shoes, thighs, shoulders, neck, earrings, lips?) and then stuttering shakily away.
“Wow,” he says, and Keith nearly stumbles back at the sheer breathlessness of his voice. “That—really suits you.”
“You think?” Keith turns around experimentally and hears a sharp intake of breath from Lance. He ignores it. “I think it’s a bit much—”
“It’s definitely a bit much,” Lance echoes, but he sounds faint and it doesn’t come across as an insult, or with the same meaning as when Keith had said it. Keith turns back around and is nearly startled into silence at the greedy, unadulterated look of hunger that Lance is giving him—that is, for the few seconds that he can see it, because the moment they’re fully facing each other again Lance seems to make a conscious effort to wipe his face clean of emotion.
The way he’s fidgeting and his still-red cheeks, though, give him away.
“Hey...” Keith begins, slowly advancing towards Lance without even thinking about whether he should or not. He’s still stuck on that look Lance was giving him. “Are—Are you okay?”
“I—” Lance swallows, crossing his legs tightly as Keith comes closer (and wincing, Keith notes with interest, gears turning in his head). “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, just, ah—you look really nice in that.”
“Do I?” Keith’s voice is quieter now, his words floating into the air and staying still between the two of them. He’s standing right in front of Lance now, less than a foot away from him. Lance is pressing himself almost desperately back into the couch, looking anywhere but at Keith’s form hovering in front of him.
“Yeah—alright, look—” Suddenly and with all the grace of a jack-in-the-box, Lance springs up from the couch, nearly plowing straight into Keith as he does. Keith catches himself, though, and manages to stay put, essentially putting them chest-to-chest. Keith has no idea why he’s doing this, why he hasn’t fled from the awkwardness yet, but the air feels heated, buzzing with electricity, and Lance looks almost painfully wired through the roof. And if Keith’s rapidly forming conclusion is correct, then Lance…Well, he shouldn’t necessarily mind being this close.
“Keith.” Lance licks his lips, a gesture Keith’s eyes latch onto and follow, quickly building heat in his own tingly body. Lance’s eyes are darting around anxiously, and he’s still got his legs bent awkwardly even though he’s standing, and Keith’s not brave enough to try looking down—thinks he might get hit if he so much as tries—but he’s pretty sure, almost certain that if he did, he’d find all the proof that he needs of his hypothesis.
“Keith, I—if you don’t let me go soon then we’re going to be dealing with a very fucking awkward situation. Please move,” Lance says, shifting from one leg to the other, and Keith may not be the most perceptive person in the world but god damn if porn hasn’t taught him anything about these signs.
He raises his hands and places them gently on Lance’s shoulders, causing the other boy to snap his head up and give Keith a quizzical, panicked look.
“You’re—You’re turned on, aren’t you?” Keith says quietly, but his voice still seems to reverberate through the empty house. Lance’s breathing gets substantially heavier, and Keith finally deems it necessary to look down, and—
Keith breathes in and out through his mouth, eyes widening. “You are.”
“Fuck,” Lance swears, shaking his head rapidly. “I—fuck, look, I’m sorry, just—sometimes this just happens and I didn’t mean to make things awkward, I’m sorry—”
Keith silences him with a light push to his shoulders, nudging him somewhat forcefully back onto the couch. Lance, albeit looking more flabbergasted with each passing second, allows himself to be moved.
Then, Keith settles himself onto Lance’s lap and Lance curses again, loudly, and the sound curls itself into Keith’s belly and stays there, exciting every nerve around it.
“Wh—What are you doing?” Lance asks, voice meek and marred with panic.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Keith keeps eye contact with Lance as he starts to grind down, ever so slowly, causing Lance to hiss and his head to fall back against the couch.
“It looks like you’re—fuck, Kogane, if this is a fucking joke—”
“It’s not,” Keith says honestly, and he means it. He reaches forward and grabs Lance’s hands, placing them against his hips and then rolling them purposefully. Lance’s eyes are blown black by now, dilated almost into darkness, and Keith has never felt so insatiable in his life—the heat building in his belly, in his pelvis, in his dick is like fire, simmering low and hot for now but just on the border of uncontrollable. He’s also never felt hotter—if someone like Lance can become this unraveled just by seeing him in a nice outfit, then god, he can’t be that bad off, can he?
“Don’t you like it?”
Lance lets out a hoarse, harsh laugh, gripping at Keith’s hips with shaking fingers. “No, of course not, I hate having a gorgeous guy grinding down on my lap, it’s my least favorite thing—” Lance cuts himself off again with a breathy little noise as Keith pushes forward in an exceptionally forceful way, and Keith grins, leaning in closer.
“I like it too,” he says, in a voice tuned low and quiet. Lance stares at him with dark, misty eyes, hardly blinking. “You can touch me, Lance. I want you to touch me. Don’t you want to touch me in these clothes?”
Lance stares at him a second longer and then, with a noise of frustration, tears his hands from Keith’s hips and presses them against his collar bones, against the roses painted onto his clothes, and then pushes his hips up into Keith, causing Keith to cry out in surprise and grapple for a hold around Lance. From there, though, Lance doesn’t hold back; he pulls and tugs at Keith’s shirt just long enough for Keith to get worried that he might tear it, and then he’s suddenly pulling the buttons apart, exposing Keith’s skin to the cold air. Keith lets out a breathless noise and presses closer into Lance, seeking warmth, but Lance surprises him by encouraging the movement, looping his hands around Keith’s waist and helping him further into his lap.
“Oh,” Keith says when Lance presses the palms of his hands onto his now-bare chest, rubbing across his skin and thumbing briefly at his nipples. Keith keens and moves his hips again, suddenly desperate for some sort of friction, sensation, anything—he’s got the same problem as Lance does, now.
“You’re really hot,” Lance says, leaning forward and up, mouth closing around Keith’s neck. Keith moans, and Lance exhales sharply against him. “You sound hot.”
“Lance,” is all Keith can say, rocking on his lap, and Lance answers with a low whine and starts kissing up his neck, to his jawline, nipping at his ear.
“H-Hey, stop me if I’m going too far, yeah?” Lance lets his head fall back into the crook of Keith’s neck and he focuses on his collarbone, now, kissing and tonguing across the skin and then—
Keith gasps and then lets out a loud noise, nails digging into Lance’s shirt, because holy shit, he’s biting and sucking now, sucking so hard it hurts, and he’s going to leave a mark—
“Fuck,” Keith swears, tilting his head the opposite direction to give Lance more access, which he takes hungrily.
“As much as I love you in these clothes, Kogane,” Lance starts, voice thick and harsh with arousal, as he gives Keith a hooded look, “I think you’re wearing too much right now.”
“I think so too,” Keith responds immediately, moving his hands quickly to his zipper. He looks up at Lance. “Y-You too, though. If you want. If that’s okay.”
“Uh, yeah.” Lance nods vigorously and starts pulling his shirt off. “I have Keith Kogane on my lap, there’s no way I’m letting this pass—”
Keith whips his head around and, yep, that’s definitely Shiro’s shadow, if he needed any confirmation other than the Japanese greeting. He turns back to Lance, eyes wide, and they both stay frozen like that for two, three seconds, and then they split.
“O-Okairi!” Keith yelps hastily as he jumps and falls off of Lance, and then cringes, because that did not sound as calm and collected as he thought it would. He’s on the floor now, though, so there’s not much he can do about that; he quickly scrambles to standing position, only wobbling a little, and hurries to straighten his clothes and look as normal as possible before Shiro inevitably enters the room.
Turning back to check on Lance, Keith groans internally; he’s struggling with getting his shirt back on from the half-shed state it was in, and his body does not seem to be getting the memo that they’re done. Swearing under his breath, Keith stumbles quickly back to Lance, grabbing the other side of his shirt in an effort to help.
“Get off, I’ve got it—”
“You clearly don’t got it, McClain, I swear to god—”
“Uh…Keith? Who’s this?”
Both boys freeze. Keith does a quick survey of the position they’re in, matched with the rosy tone to their skin and ruffles clothes, and concludes that it is very, very suggestive. Turning to face Shiro feels like the hardest thing in the world right now, but Keith bravely straightens and does so anyway.
Lance, finally (too late, Keith thinks bitterly) getting his shirt back on, fluffs out his hair and then peeks out at Shiro from behind Keith. He raises an embarrassed hand in greeting. “H-Hi.”
Shiro looks like he’s trying to hold back laughter. Keith hates him. “Nice to meet you, Lance. Are you one of Keith’s…friends?”
That hesitance before he said the word “friends” is going to be listed as the cause of Shiro’s death in a second here, because Keith is going to kill him.
Lance’s gaze flits, unsure, back to Keith, who answers evasively, “Kinda. I wanted a second opinion on my outfit.”
Shiro nods slowly, still smiling. “Of course. Seems like he had a very good opinion of it?”
Keith turns bright red again, but not for the reason he wishes he was. “I—Shut up! Shut up, I think he liked it, shut up—”
“Uh huh, I hear you.” Shiro saunters over to them, looking like he’s having the time of his life. “Well, just so you know, we’re leaving in about three hours.” He ruffles Keith’s hair. “Why doesn’t Lance stick around until then, eh? I’d love to get to know your friends.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lance says in a small voice. Shiro looks exhilarated. Keith wants to throw himself into space.
“Go on, change before you ruin your clothes, and we can play some get-to-know-you games.”
Feeling sullen and bitter that he just got cock-blocked by his own brother, Keith doesn’t say another word before turning around and stalking back towards his bedroom. After a moment of hesitation and an unsure smile at Shiro, Lance gets up and follows.
“Oh, you guys?”
Keith and Lance turn back, pausing in front of the doorway to Keith’s room.
Shiro smiles brightly. “Door open, please.”
The door slams shut behind them.