Notes: Inspired by this ficlet by forest. The stuff between the //s was written by forest.

un-light

//"I don't know what to do. I don't..."

Lance kissed his temple. "It will. Just let it. Let me..."//

He trailed off, breathed shallowly. Words wouldn't help, wouldn't explain. And he wasn't good with words, anyway, only action.

So he acted.

Lance shrugged his jacket off in one, slow motion, his breath still shallow, still light. He couldn't think about this too much, could only remind himself Keith needs this. If he thought too hard he'd freeze up, become too wrapped up in fear: fear of their situation, fear that one of the others would wake up and stop this moment and Keith would stay in this dark, empty place forever. That Keith was too far gone already. So he didn't think too much as he stripped himself down -- didn't think about other times he and Keith done this, had fucked each other because of a burning curiosity to know what it felt like; because of desperate, aching, urgent horniness; because there had been nothing else to do on certain sunny, lazy days and it had been almost a joke to tear off each other's clothes, laughing and sweating and annoying their neighbors with their unrestrained noise. He didn't think, just moved slowly, carefully, forcing back the unneeded embarrassment that threatened to make his ears burn when Keith just watched him, blankly, emptily, accepting Lance's growing nudity with the same resignation that he accepted the kiss.

He took Keith's face in his hands again. Stared into the emptiness of Keith's eyes and, for a moment -- aching in the way it seemed to stretch on, in the fragile, brittle way it seemed to hang, suspended, outside of time -- he thought that he'd done exactly the wrong thing. That Keith didn't understand what he was offering, that Keith couldn't see that this was the only way Lance knew how to say that everything would be all right.

He shivered. Leaned in and kissed Keith again, trying to say all that without having to fumble for the right words.

Keith kissed him back -- still passive, still resigned; but the kiss was apparently enough to jumpstart Keith out of whatever stalled mental process he'd been in, let him shift gears into pure, physical gratification. He undid his pants, moved just enough to slide them off, shed his shirt. His hands came up and they were cold -- shockingly cold -- where they touched Lance's skin. Cold and harsh in the way they pressed down on Lance's body.

Lance reached down, fumbled in the darkness until he found Keith's cock, not quite erect, and he stroked it as carefully as he could. It swelled in his hand, and Lance moved down Keith's body -- kissing here, petting there, tasting, memorizing, trying to burn "We'll make it" and "It isn't your fault, it never was, it never will be" into Keith's skin, since he couldn't make his mouth actually form the words.

Keith shuddered, a little, when Lance closed his mouth over the tip of Keith's cock, and his hands came up to rest heavily on Lance's head, his fingers not quite kneading, not quite stroking. Lance took this as a good sign, and he slid his mouth down, tried to take as much of Keith into his throat as he could. He'd never learned quite how to deep throat and even now he ended up gagging, a little, when Keith thrust up unexpectedly. He pulled back, let himself breathe. Keith's hands left his hair and Lance felt a moment of fluttering panic constrict his throat.

I'm just breathing, I'm not stopping, he wanted to say. Don't pull away. Don't quit on me yet. Let this work.

He licked the underside of Keith's cock instead, made small circles with his tongue. Above him, Keith made a small noise in the back of his throat and his hands were once more heavy on Lance's head, his fingers once more gripped then released. Lance closed his eyes, concentrated on the way Keith tasted, the way he felt -- salty and heavy and solidly warm, solidly real, alive despite the deadness of his gaze -- and ignored the way his neck was beginning to ache, the chill roughness of the stone floor, the cold air against his cock. With one hand he stroked the hard shaft of Keith's erection, stroked Keith's balls, his skin; he pressed the other against the hard ridge of Keith's hip, braced himself against Keith's body, felt Keith trembling; and when Lance opened his eyes, peered up through the messy veil of his hair, he saw that some of the shadows had fled from Keith's face.

But it wasn't enough. The hard lines of despair still lurked beneath the flush of pleasure. This wasn't enough to drive the hopelessness completely away, if only for this one night.

Lance pulled away and Keith made the same small noise, opened his eyes. For a fleeting breath, need filled his eyes -- need and confusion and a spark of human life -- and then the hopelessness slid back into place. But that moment was enough. So even though he grimaced, mentally, Lance stuck three fingers into his mouth, got them slick and sticky with his saliva, reached behind, stretched himself slowly, carefully, using all of the shortcuts he knew that would get him relaxed enough to be fucked. He didn't look away from Keith -- still hard, still slightly disheveled, still brushed with the red glow of arousal -- as he pushed first one finger, then another, into himself, his cock twitching with each new penetration. He stared, brazen, unashamed, and Keith stared back at him, breath hitching, touching himself almost absently.

Still stretching himself, still trying to make spit do the work of proper lube, Lance leaned forward once more, ran his tongue down Keith's length a few more times until Keith's cock gleamed slickly even in the dim light of the cell. He turned. Braced himself against the floor. Looked back over his shoulder at Keith, who still sat against the wall, pale nakedness almost blindingly white against the dark, dark stone.

"I trust you," Lance said without words, and Keith moved, pushed himself up and away from the wall. He leaned into Lance, heavy and warm, and Lance took slow, deep breaths and tried to trick himself into relaxing.

The hand Keith rested on his ass was cold.

Lance listened while he breathed, concentrated all of his attention on Keith; listened to the movement of skin on stone as Keith positioned himself, trying to brace himself without leaning too heavily on Lance; felt Keith move and then thrust, miss, thrust again, hit, enter and.

It wasn't graceful.

It wasn't graceful, and it wasn't beautiful, and in all it was a little painful. The stone floor was too cold and no matter how experienced Lance was and how carefully Keith moved, it still hurt like fuck all when Keith finally entered. Too much of the spit had dried in the cold air of the cell, and as hard as he tried, Lance couldn't relax enough to compensate for that. And when Keith moved, adjusted, moved again, thrust, found that small, wonderful spot that always made being fucked worthwhile, Lance found the pleasure that made his teeth ache was undercut by the pain of stone cutting into his palms, by the jarring impact as his hand slipped and he landed on his elbow. His own erection faded from the pain.

Keith stopped moving again, began to draw away again, and Lance thrust back, clenched down. "It's okay," he whispered with his body. "Even though bad shit happens, it can still be okay. Because you're not the only strong one here. You can let go. You can lean on us. We can take it."

He didn't know if Keith understood, entirely, what he was trying to say, but some of his message must have been received because Keith began to move again, began to thrust again -- gentle and careful even though it was fast and hard. Lance let his head drop. His breath came harsh and panting, and he tried to be quiet, to keep in the small grunts and moans, because lord above the last thing he needed right now was for the others to wake up. The kisses Keith dropped on his shoulders, his neck -- kisses that were gentle, careful, like the fucking -- left cool ellipses on his skin. His cock grew heavy as the pain began to ebb and the pleasure built, higher and higher, tightening his muscles in a sweet agony.

Keith's fumbling hand found his cock and gripped it and pulled in counterpoint to his thrusts. Lance whimpered and bit his lip to keep from crying out. He closed his eyes and almost, almost, he could ignore the stone floor beneath him and the way he shivered from the cold and the still present -- always, forever -- threat that tomorrow would only bring torture or death.

He felt Keith come, then pull out, and he was still hard, still wanting, so for a moment he almost opened his mouth and protested. But reality came crashing back down and he sighed instead, already resigning himself to a few quick strokes later to finish the job Keith started. Because it wasn't important if he got off or not; his own pleasure wouldn't make Keith see that it was okay to be lost and not know what to do and just be human -- that they were all just human and nobody expected him to be a superman.

It was a shock to feel Keith's arm wrap around his waist, feel Keith pull, fall back until they were sitting back-to-chest, and Keith's legs were splayed to either side and his hand was still on Lance's cock, still stroking, gently. Keith kissed his neck, used his free hand to play with Lance's nipples, to hold him tight when he tried to move, to turn, to look into Keith's face.

Lance opened his mouth, trying to find the question that he wanted to ask, and Keith whispered, "shhh", his breath warm and moist against Lance's ear. Lance whimpered, again, and surrendered himself to Keith's hands, to the tension that gripped his body and spiraled up and up and up until it seemed as though he would break before it did.

When he came he did cry out, a little -- a small, squeaky cry that cut off in the middle -- and arched away from Keith's back, spraying his load across his chest and Keith's hand. He thought he felt Keith smile against his shoulder, but he wasn't sure.

They dressed in the same silence with which they had just fucked.

Lance's ears still pounded with blood, and he trembled from the cold, from exhaustion, from the aftermath of pleasure -- shaking so much that he had problems buttoning his pants. It was if all the fear and hesitation and doubt and pain he'd pushed aside was descending on him, exacting retribution for being ignored.

He was cold, and he wanted to wrap himself up his jacket and sleep, but he wanted to clean off his chest first. He fumbled in his jacket pockets, searching for a tissue, a scrap of cloth, anything. He was shivering too hard, body shaking uncontrollably -- trembling like he always did after eating a particularly satisfying meal and then stepping out into a chilly evening.

Maybe he should just put his shirt on and damn the discomfort.

"Here." Keith touched his shoulder, handed him a handkerchief. Lance tried to grab it but his hands were shaking too much, and he dropped it. Keith picked it up, wiped away the cold mess on his chest. "Why are you shaking?"

"Just. Cold." Lance stared into Keith's eyes, breathed a little easier when he saw that there was...something there, something warm and human and alive. "I don't like the cold."

Keith nodded, slowly. He helped Lance pull on his shirt, helped him shrug on the heavy leather jacket. Lance's hands were still shaking and Keith grabbed them, held them still.

His hands were warm and rough.

"We're still trapped," he said. "I still don't know what to do."

"That's okay. It'll all be okay." Lance leaned in, rested his head against Keith's shoulder. "We'll think of something tomorrow."

Keith nodded slowly and closed his eyes, leaned in as well, let himself be supported by Lance's body.

"Yes. We will."

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