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cold "It's cold," Lance says and Keith flinches away when he puts his numb, bare hands on Keith's cheeks. The tips of Lance's fingers burn where they've touched Keith, which Lance thinks is odd because Keith's cheeks are bone-white except for two very red spot right in the center. Lance glares at Keith, who is comfortably bundled in his somber, elegant trench coat, and thick, dark blue sweater, and knitted hat, and burgundy red scarf, and gloves. Only Keith would be anal retentive enough to check all possible weather reports before dressing. Lance had just thrown on a sweater beneath his leather jacket and over his turtleneck, and now he was paying for it because it was fucking cold. "Twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit," Keith says, though not smugly. "And negative five degrees Celsius, and zero degrees Arusian," Lance says back, but with a sniping tone. "No matter what you call it, it's still fucking cold." He puts his white hands on the back of Keith's warm neck this time, and Keith does a funny little head twist sidestep combo to get away. Lance feels a bit vindictive and goes after the Keith's nape again because it's all Keith's fault that they're standing out here, in the fucking cold, watching Allura play Mrs. Claus to Hunk's Santa. And it's beginning to snow. Or hail. Lance can't really tell. It's 'frozen precipitation'-which is what Keith would call it because Keith's. Yeah. Just like that. "Stop it," Keith says the third time Lance sticks his hands beneath Keith's scarf. He shoots Lance and exasperated look. "I'm fucking cold!" Lance whines. He thinks his ass is frostbitten. Keith sighs and takes off his gloves. He blows into them, and then slips them onto Lance's hands, and they're black leather lined with cashmere and a perfect fit. Lance opens his mouth to say thank you, but Keith is now behind him and his hands are in the pockets of Lance's jacket, his mouth next to Lance's ear because Keith is singing children's songs in a smooth, untrained tenor. Lance can feel the rumble of Keith's voice through the layers of cloth separating them, and he is wrapped in wonderful warmth-especially his hands in Keith's gloves-that protects him from even the bitter wind. Ahh, Lance thinks. So this is love. |