laundry

Sunday afternoons in the springtime on Arus were times to be savored. The smell of wet grass and wet earth, the distant toll of the Royal Cathedral's bells from across the lake, the sweet song of birds just returned to the castle from warmer climes all combined to make afternoons of story-book proportions. Keith, however, didn't have a single romantic bone in his body and the advent of spring and Sunday afternoons didn't pull at his heart the way it did for most of his team. Sundays were practice days, just the same as every other day of the week, whether the weather be rain, shine or perfect days like those found only in works by Dickens or Twain. So when Keith canceled practice on this particularly storybook Sunday, Lance became somewhat suspicious. When the young captain couldn't be found anywhere in the castle, Lance became first worried and then curious. And so, off he went, plumbing the depths of the castle because if there was anything Lance hated more than Sunday practices, it was an unresolved mystery.

He found Keith down in the basement, humming an inane song as he sorted his clothing into colors, whites and delicates. He sounded...happy, and Lance wondered why that surprised him.

From the top of the stairs, Lance could watch every move Keith made in his slow, sensual, solo dance. He made the simple act of adding laundry detergent look sinfully erotic, even though Lance knew any erotic actions on Keith's part were painfully unconscious. Unconscious or no, they made Lance's heart beat fast enough that he had to sit, suddenly, almost painfully on the wooden steps and watch his captain move about his domestic tasks.

The hum of the dryer already in service was muffled by the piping and cracked plaster of the walls. It was probably a good thing Keith was doing his laundry now, Lance reflected, as the normally reserved captain had been forced to wear one of the joke shirts Hunk had got him while on leave and a very old pair of gym shorts. Not that Lance minded, particularly. Those shorts, too tight to be decent, rode up on Keith's nice, round ass, outlined the strong muscles that flexed gently, kinkily in Lance's opinion.

Too fucking sexy.

Yellow sunlight speared into the room in long shafts from the small, narrow windows that sat high on the walls. When Keith stood and stretched, he flashed quick glimpses of smooth, pale skin. Lance imagined that skin beneath his hands, warm and dry, and he felt the first stirrings of arousal. If he sat and watched much longer, he would have to retreat to his room and jerk off in secretive, hasty, shame.

Still, better self-gratification than no gratification.

The stairs creaked beneath him as he shifted, preparing to stand and retreat, and Keith looked up, smiling easily and pushing a heavy lock of hair out of his eyes.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

Lance swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He hadn't realized Keith was wearing that particular shirt. He remembered when Hunk gave it to Keith, who unfolded it and looked blankly at the wording without understanding.

"'Seme-It's lonely on the top,'" he had read aloud, and Lance remembered thinking it was a good thing Keith didn't actually know any Japanese. Everyone else knew what it meant, of course, even Allura, and there had been a few desperate moments when they all tried to stop blushing. Keith had just looked at Hunk with his wide, black, innocent eyes and asked, "What does 'seme' mean?"

Hunk had hemmed and hawed and blushed a bit before mumbling something about being on top. And still, Keith didn't get it, didn't know that this was Hunk's way of propositioning him. He thought it was just another joke about his perfectionist attitude, so he had smiled politely and put it on, just to be polite, and never noticed the way those gathered about him began to breathe just a little hoarsely.

But that was Keith; Keith, who was so very sweet, and smart, and kind, and so goddamn blind, because he didn't even have a clue about what his very presence did to his team's libidos.

"Something wrong, Lance?"

Lance shook his head and stood. "No. I was just, um, wondering where you were."

"Well, you've found me."

Lance nodded slowly, knowing the smart thing to do would be to retreat and save himself the self-inflicted agony of unrequited lust. But it was so very rare to catch Keith out of uniform and by himself.

So, instead, he went down the creaking wooden stairs and hopped up onto dryer. "Why are you doing your laundry, anyway? Doesn't Nanny take care of this stuff?"

Keith shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose so. It's just. Well. Back home, laundry was always my chore, you know? And it's kind of...I don't know. Relaxing."

Lance nodded, pretending he understood. He'd never had to do a single load of laundry in his life, and all the warning and directions stitched into his clothing labels meant nothing to him. But, whatever. It wasn't as if Lance had the healthiest means of relaxation.

Below him, the dryer beeped, signaling that it was done. Keith crammed a few more shirts into the washer and snapped it closed. Lance watched him with hooded eyes, legs kicking idly against the dryer's door.

"Lance." Keith stood in a beam of sunlight, hands crossed over his chest, one hip thrust out slightly, so that the sharp bones of his hips cast shadows across his flat stomach. Lance smiled and thought cold thoughts to keep his erection from becoming too noticeable, but didn't move. "C'mon, Lance. I need to get my clothes. Hop off."

Lance shook his head, a perverse thrill running through him. Keith sighed and grabbed Lance's legs, pushing them apart, before kneeling and pulling out his laundry. Lance leaned back to compensate, resting his slight weight on his long-fingered hands. He could feel his heart speed up, thundering in his chest like a caged bird beating against its bars. He wondered if Keith had any idea of what the sight of his head, framed between Lance's long legs, was doing to the other pilot.

Keith pulled his sheets from the dryer and dumped them in his laundry basket. "You're a pill sometimes, you know that," he said good-naturedly.

Lance shrugged. "Yeah. So?"

"So, as punishment, you have to help me make my bed." Keith stood, and took a step back into a shaft of golden light, mellowing the sharpness of his face turning his lips a sultry ruby. Lance swallowed and thought even harder about baseball and icy waters and Nanny's underwear. He had to take several slow, deep breaths before he could get the image of a naked Keith out of his mind and reply.

"Okay."

Keith blinked, somewhat surprised. He hadn't been expecting that answer, had only thrown the question out as something to say, something to fill the odd silence that lay between them. Still, he wasn't one to say no to help, and the laundry wasn't going to be going anywhere soon.

"Good." Keith nodded briskly and grabbed the basket. "C'mon."

He strode up the stairs, plastic bin resting on his hip. Lance followed at a slightly slower pace, eyes locked onto Keith's ass. He could feel the little admiral straining against his pants, pressing painfully against the zipper, but even the thought of Nanny in a dominatrix outfit couldn't make his erection disappear.

They walked through the still halls of the castle, mostly silent, Keith because he thought Lance didn't want to talk, Lance because most of his blood was concentrated along 6 very hard inches. He couldn't remember his name, much less rally his mind to the point of forming a coherent sentence. About the most he could do was keep his hands away from his dick, and his dick away from Keith's ass.

Happily, they reached Keith's room quickly, their long legs quickly sending them down the hallway even at a stroll. Keith keyed open the door, revealing a room that wasn't sparse so much as it was lacking in material things. He didn't have enough stuff; that was Keith's problem, he didn't have enough stuff to fill the large room. The golden light turned the room's white walls yellow, and the first sweet smell of new grass wafted through the open windows.

"Okay, you take that end, I'll take this one." Keith dropped the basket and grabbed the under sheet. Lance swallowed and did as directed. They worked in quiet efficiency, and Keith wondered at Lance's silence. And even though it was a horrible thought, he kind of wished Lance would be this quiet and obedient during practice.

"Stay there." Keith grabbed the top sheet and snapped it high above the bed. The cream colored cloth floated gently down, joining its brother on the bed. Keith tucked the loose ends under the mattress, quick and neat and Lance just stood, holding one corner high as Keith made his way around the bed.

He was so close. So close.

Lance couldn't help himself.

He kissed Keith, first quickly and then harder as Keith just sort of...stood there, not reacting at all. So Lance kissed him again, wondering if maybe he had been too tentative at first, hoping to get something--anything!--out of Keith.

But, nothing.

Lance pulled away, suddenly embarrassed, cheeks painfully hot. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thrown away all those years of self-control, self-satisfaction?

"Well," Keith sighed.

"Um. I'll. I'll go now." Lance dropped the mattress, backed away. He fled from the scene of his crime of passion, all prepared to lock himself in his room and hope that in a week everyone would forget what happened. Keith--Keith would probably never forget; but he'd never say anything either. He knew, on a logical level, that all he was running from was himself, that this little incident wouldn't change his relationship with Keith in the slightest. Still, that thought didn't comfort Lance or cause the fire in his cheeks to die.

His room was dark and cold and messy. Lived in. Seriously lived in. His crap was scattered everywhere, thrown about as though a tornado had been through the room. He had heard, whispered through the long castle halls, that the maids considered his room a physical hell, and that Nanny assigned his room as punishment. In a perverse way, that made Lance proud, but right now he wished that he was as neat as Keith, that he didn't have to shove an assortment of clothes and books and projects off of his bed, that he could just flop at will.

Lance lay still and stared blankly at his ceiling. He could still feel Keith's lips, was sure he'd always feel Keith's lips; that he'd always taste Keith, always know what the gate to Eden was like.

It hurt. It hurt, badly.

The door was keyed open and Lance didn't roll over so much as he jerked his head toward the light. Keith stood silhouetted against the hall, and for a breathless moment Lance wondered if he had misjudged his friend, and maybe Keith wasn't as kind and forgiving as he had thought. He could feel his heart hammering in fear as Keith walked forward, a slight frown on his face, and then, suddenly, his heart stopped.

Keith kissed him.

Keith kissed him hard, and sort of half-lowered, half-fell onto Lance, their long legs twinning. Lance strained up, tried to absorb as much of Keith as he could, sure that this was an incubus sent to torment him, but not caring anyway.

He almost cried when Keith pulled away and pushed himself up so that he looked down on Lance.

"Wha--?"

"It was about time you did something, Lance," Keith said. "I was getting tired of waiting."

Lance blinked and tried to think of something witty to say.

"Huh?"

Keith smiled, fondly in a condescendingly amused fashion. "All you had to was ask."