Chapter Text
Nunvill has never been one of Lance’s favorite drinks, but it gets the job done. Smells like fermented piss and doesn’t taste much better. Bites the whole way down, but settles like liquid heat in your veins.
The burn at the back of his throat is familiar and comforting, but it makes the cut on his lip sting something fierce.
He hisses, grimacing as he runs his tongue over the swollen gash. Not bleeding, but still tastes vaguely metallic. The pain quickly settles out into a dull throb. It’ll be heal over soon. Be mostly gone by morning. Leaving nothing more than a red spot that might linger for only a couple of days.
Dragons heal fast. Thank the heavens.
It hurts like a bitch, but it’s not going to stop him from enjoying tonight. Besides, he doesn’t regret it. Not in the slightest. Only wishes that he had gotten a few more good hits in before they were pulled apart.
In fact, there’s a certain pride that fizzles through his veins at the memory of Griffin’s face twisted in anger and pain, spitting fury and blood.
It’s what he gets. It’s what he deserves. No one— and he does mean no one— is allowed to speak about Keith like that.
No one but Lance.
“Hey.”
It’s a familiar voice. Low. Rumbly. Coarse around the edges, but leaking warmth when you know what to look for. Like a crackling fire. Dangerous, but comforting. It’s not loud. Not accusatory. Not even remotely enthused.
Just a casual, quiet, and indifferent hey that breaks the silence and announces his presence. It’s a habit he’s picked up after years of Lance’s complaints that he’s too sneaky. Slipping through shadows on silent feet. After one too many heart attacks, at least now he has the decency to let Lance know when he’s around.
He can’t wait until they present, when their scents get less neutral and their sense of smell becomes stronger. Then Keith’s sneaking days will be over.
Keith will probably have a strong scent. A hearty scent. One that Lance would be able to pick up for miles. Because Keith is going to be a strong alpha. There’s really no doubt in his mind.
And the thought… doesn’t really bother him as much as it used to.
“Hey,” Lance says. Doesn’t bother to look up. Sips his nunvill again and winces as it burns.
Keith comes to stand next to him. They’re perched up on the third floor. In one of the many alcoves that form balconies that look down over the ballroom below. Few people come to the third floor. It’s quieter. More for privacy than socialization. Lance had come here to be alone with his dizzying thoughts, but he can’t bring himself to be upset that Keith is here.
He leans against one wall of the alcove with a shoulder. One arm crossed over his chest. The other holding his cup. Right up against the railing, his eyes are on the wide open room below. Where his people move and dance. The slow, rhythmic beat of heavy drums and the cry of reeded instruments encouraging them to move their bodies in mesmerizing ways.
Usually, he’d be among them.
He’s a fantastic dancer, and the entire clan knows it.
He loves the eyes. The attention. The praise. The hunger.
But tonight, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Because he’s been thinking, and while they’re not bad thoughts, they’re certainly life altering. A shift in perspective. Acceptance comes easier with the burn of nunvill and warm fog enveloping his mind.
“You look like shit,” Keith says. Because that’s Keith. Blunt. To the point. Sharp as ever.
It’s that same tone that used to make Lance bristle. That led to them constantly fighting. Butting heads like the couple of young pups they were. Bashing horns and spitting sparks. Because Lance used to take it personally. Used to think Keith was just an asshole. Keith probably thought the same of him— even said so on occasion.
Lance called him a dirty mongrel begging for scraps and thinking himself king.
Keith called him a pompous noble with his head shoved so far up his ass he could give himself heartburn with his own breath.
They’re better now.
They know better now.
They’re know each other better now.
Somehow, in all the fighting, in all the ribbing, between all the hurled curses and flung fists, they’ve managed to learn about one another. Come to understand one another. Seen each other’s pain, and realized that… they’re really not too different. They’re both just struggling to find their place. Struggling to live up to expectations.
Lance, born into a wealthy house, high up the food chain of the Altean clan. A noble by blood, but the youngest of five children. All the notoriety, all the expectations, but without a place to call his own.
Keith, one of the last of an ancient bloodline. One of the last remaining members of the Marmora clan, who were nearly wiped out when they rebelled against the overreaching Galra clan. Sent to the Altean clan at a young age to be raised. A refugee. Taken in by the famous war hero, Takashi Shirogane himself.
Somehow, Lance’s number one— self proclaimed— enemy became his number one friend. And he’s not sure how the hell that happened, but he’s not about to regret it. Not when he’s learned that earning Keith’s trust— being on the receiving end of his mischievous smile and being the one to make him laugh, being the one Keith leans into for support and the one Keith is willing to defend— is so much more rewarding than being his nemesis.
They’re still rivals, though. Make no mistake.
But it’s no longer rooted in a place of envy and aggression. It’s firmly planted in admiration and fueled by the desire to do better and be better.
So now that he knows Keith, he knows that his commentary isn’t a sharp jab, but a stab right into the heart of things. No beating around the bush. Right to the point. Blunt and crass, but laced with concern and a furrowed brow as his eyes linger on Lance’s busted lip.
He scoffs. Rolls one shoulder. Slides his gaze to look at Keith sidelong. Trying not to wince as his lip curls into a cocky smirk. “You should see the other guy.”
“I did. His eye is swollen closed. Bruising down to his jaw.”
That only makes Lance grin wider— especially when he can hear that subtle pride in Keith’s voice— but this time he does wince as his wound stretches. He covers it by taking another sip, face contorting in disgust as he swallows. “He deserved it.”
“What was it this time?” Keith leans a hip against the railing. Facing him. Arms crossed over his chest. “A crass remark about Allura? About Veronica?” Something dark flickers over Keith’s features. “If he was going on about your place in the guard, I swear, I’ll—“
“It was about you, actually.”
“Me?” Keith blinks. Brows creasing in the middle. Head tilting to the side. “What did he say?”
Lance looks back down to the ballroom below. It’s a celebration for Allura. She presented as an alpha a few weeks ago, and now that her first rut is over, the clan is celebrating their princess. As a high born noble, he should be down there. Mingling. But he’s not. Here’s up here. Alone with Keith.
And strangely enough, he doesn’t feel like he’s missing out on anything.
“He was talking shit again,” Lance huffs. “The usual. That you don’t belong here. That you don’t deserve to be a knight. That you’ll never be an alpha like Shiro.” He grits his teeth, hand flexing around his goblet. “That it doesn’t matter what you present as because no one will want to mate with you.”
Keith, however, doesn’t feel the same anger that flickers in Lance’s chest. He only scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Griffin is all smoke and no flame.”
“I know, but I’m tired of hearing it.”
“I can fight my own battles, Lance.”
“I know.” No hesitation. No doubt. A slight snort of amusement because no one could ever say that Keith couldn’t fight his own battles. He looks to Keith with absolute confidence, a small smile touching his lips as he says softer, “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him talk about you like that.”
Keith says nothing. His dark gaze roams over Lance’s face. Picking apart his features. Trying to read him. It’s an intense stare. One that has his feeling fidgety and flighty, worried about what Keith might see. But he refuses to move. Doesn’t look away.
And finally, Keith’s expression softens. Just slightly. Barely perceivable. But Lance knows him. Lance sees it.
“You used to talk about me like that.”
“Yeah? And if I could go back in time, I’d kick my own ass.”
Keith lets out a sharp breath. That barely-there laugh that trickles out into an almost chuckle. He shakes his head. Looks away. Gaze down on the dancers below. He tries to hide his smile, but Lance sees it. He always sees it. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
An amiable silence settles over them. That’s another thing. Silence. Something that he’s always hated. Always made him feel restless and antsy. It feels comfortable with Keith. He doesn’t need to fill it. Doesn’t need to entertain. Keith is content in his presence, and Lance is honored to have that sort of trust.
He downs the rest of his drink. Ignoring the burn. Hissing out a breath as he runs his tongue over his lip once more. He lowers his arm, letting the goblet rest against the railing. The warmth oozes out through his veins, making him feel boneless and relaxed. It curls through his head, light and foggy. Dizzying, but in a way that buzzes pleasantly through his limbs, down to his fingertips.
The music below pulses through his feet. The heavy beat of the drums. The cry of the melody. It demands he move, and his body obeys without question. Swaying where he stands. Hips rolling, torso following through with the wave. His head shifts from side to side, feeling the pulse, obeying the trance.
And it’s in this trance that his thoughts slip through. Formed on a tongue that feels thick and heavy. Shaped in a voice that’s low but lilting, soft and thoughtful.
“Griffin doesn’t know what he’s talking about anyway. Everyone knows you’re going to present as an alpha, and anyone would be lucky to have you as a mate.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Keith turn to him. But he doesn’t look. Just closes his own eyes and continues to say, a smirk playing at his lips. “In fact, I bet all the omegas are going to line up, practically begging you to court them.”
Keith hums, low and thoughtful. “I doubt it.”
“I don’t.”
“What about you?” Keith asks. Casual. Curious. Carefully… something. “What’d you think you’ll present as?”
Lance scoffs, opening his eyes merely to roll them. They’ve had this conversation often. They all have. It’s a common one. Everyone always wonders and debates and talks about what they think they’ll present as— what they want to present as. Some have preferences. Some don’t. Some are obvious— like Keith, clearly alpha material.
They’ve sat around with the other knights in training. Lazing around between sparring, when Shiro is too far away to tell them otherwise. Blowing steam. Puffing out their chests. Everyone claiming they’ll present as an alpha because of course everyone wants it— needs it.
After all, while omegas are allowed to train as knights, they’re only allowed to be part of the home guard. An elite force, yes. Vital to clan protection, yes. But limited.
“Clearly, I’m an alpha,” he says, automatic and confident, gesturing down the length of all of him. Not missing the way Keith’s eyes follow the gesture.
He wants to be an alpha. Always has. Has always seen it as an inevitability. He has to be. Not that he has anything against omegas, or even betas. His mother is an omega and the fiercest woman he’s ever met. It would be an honor to be an omega like her. And betas are the backbone of the clan.
Still… he wants to be an alpha. Wants to be a war hero. A knight. A strong and yet gentle man— like Shiro— who can provide for his mate and his family. He knows he’s going to be an alpha. He can feel it in his core.
Still… lately, he’s been thinking… that maybe— there’s just a possibility— that it wouldn’t be so bad if he… didn’t.
And those are the thoughts that slip out, here in this private moment between them, raw with honesty. “But if I do present as an omega, I’d definitely want you to court me.”
A pause.
A consideration.
A hesitant and surprised, “…Really?”
“Yeah, man.” He lets out a low laugh, breath shaky. He blames the nunvill for his admissions. Doesn’t think he’d ever be able to breech this topic otherwise. But it’s a thought that’s been growing lately. A thought he can’t shake. “You’re already like… the perfect alpha. You’d be the perfect mate.”
He doesn’t look at Keith. Doesn’t think he can. There’s a pause. A silence that feels like it’s eating Lance alive. But then he says, “I’d take good care of you.” His voice is soft, but firm. Rigid with that unwavering confidence and stubbornness that Lance used to hate him for. And beneath it all, there’s something… more. Rounded and soft. Fond. Awed? Reverent.
It sends shivers down his spine.
Has heat coalescing in his gut.
Has a thrill rippling through him as his inner dragon shifts and coils, rumbling and pleased. Awakened by whatever this is.
“I know you would.” He’s proud when his voice doesn’t waver. When he sounds put together and coy instead of molten and shaky like he feels. “But don’t expect me to submit to you. You’ve got to earn it, buddy. I wouldn’t be a house omega. I’d be out there fighting right alongside you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
He still can’t look at Keith, but he can hear the smile in his voice. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
They don’t talk about that night again. The sentiments are never echoed. Never repeated. Not a word of it slips past lips or finds voice.
And yet, neither of them can shake it.
Something shifts between them. Something so fragile, hot to the touch, trembling under pressure and ready to combust if either of them dare to bring it to light.
Neither of them do.
They let it fester. Let it bubble and brew. Let it heat the air between them, growing taut and heavy.
It’s in their stares. There’s always been a spark between them, but it’s different now. First, it had been annoyance and unfocused irritation, rage. Then it was competitive in nature, mischievous and kind. Now, it’s… heated. Heavy. Languid and dangerous.
It’s in the way they reach for each other, touches casual but lingering. In the way Keith will go out of formation while they fly, just to flick his wing against Lance’s, throwing him off. It’s in the way Lance bumps into Keith, leans against his shoulder.
It’s in the way they’ve both grown quiet during presenting conversations. Eyes avoiding each other until they meet and lock, Lance’s fingers curling into claws in the soft earth before he looks away.
It’s in the way Keith’s gaze tracks him from across crowded rooms, watching him from the shadows, wholly focused and predatory.
And Lance? He loves it. Loves the thrill of Keith’s eyes focused on him, weighted and intense. Overwhelming. Sucking the breath from his lungs and making his hackles rise. Once, he might have taken it as a challenge, but now… now it’s something else. Something that has him preening, basking in Keith’s attention.
It makes him feel… confident. It isn’t a confidence like he’s used to, but it’s addicting all the same.
Makes him tilt his head to the side when he knows Keith is watching, exposing the curve of his neck— teasing, coy, taunting. Makes him stretch out his body during training, poised in ways he knows makes him look good, smirking when he sees the way Keith licks his lips.
Keith’s eyes on him… it’s a thrill unlike any he’s ever known. It’s tantalizing. Makes him feel powerful in ways he never expected. It’s addicting.
Their kind— dragon shifters— take longer to present than any other shifter species. They live for longer. Develop slower. Have more drastic bodily developments. They don’t present until early adulthood, giving their bodies plenty of time to build up the appropriate hormones and prepare for the changes.
And as their peers start to present around them, the tension between him and Keith only grows.
Pidge and Hunk present first, as betas are wont to do. And the fact that he and Keith are taking this long is proof that they’ll be either alpha or omega.
Lance has always been excited about presenting, but it’s a different sort of excitement now. There’s a heated thrill— like that of the chase— twisted up with a dread that feels like lead in his gut.
He’s not sure what he wants anymore, twisted up and torn.
All he can do is hope that he won’t be disappointed.
Disappointment, unfortunately, is exactly what he gets.
He presents as an alpha.
And while the first thing he feels as the first wave of his rut rushes over him is joy, it’s followed swiftly by the crushing realization of what this means for him and Keith.
He had known the first rut and first heat are terrible. Hormones are released in heavy waves that are overwhelming and overstimulating. The body is put through excruciating pain as they’re forced to shift into something new. It’s unlike the pain of shifting to their dragon forms— which is brief pain followed by ecstasy. This is a burning sensation of being torn and stitched back together as the body grows new organs.
Female alphas grow a cock. Female omegas grow an omegan uterus. Male omegas form an omegan slit. Male alphas grow a second cock. They all develop glands beneath the skin that are rife with pulsing hormones. Their sense of smell awakens, making everything overwhelmingly too much.
Lance had known all this, but the reality of going through it is so much worse.
He spends his first rut writhing in a nest made by his mother, surrounded by family who coo and coddle him, comforting him with their scents as he writhes in the waves of pain that sear through his body.
And in the moments of respite, he sobs quietly to himself. Not from the pain. No, he can handle that. But from the weight that feels like it’s crushing his chest.
He mourns the loss of what could have been.
When his rut is over— when he’s recovered and reintroduced into the clan— his life is the same… but different.
Things have shifted.
Things are always shifting between him and Keith. Always. From the very beginning. Never staying static for long. But before, it felt like they were always shifting toward something. Barreling down a path toward something— something— and now it feels like they’ve deviated. Like they’ve been forced from that path into something else.
And Lance feels lost in the wilderness.
He smiles because it’s expected of him. He flaunts his new status because of course he does. Despite the heavy weight in his chest, he’s proud to be an alpha. It’s all he ever wanted. To be strong. To protect. To provide. To court a mate and sire a family. To be useful to the clan.
His family congratulates him. His friends are happy for him. Allura smiles at him with pride.
And yet Keith…
Keith does all the same, yet there’s an air of… something somber about it.
And Lance feels it, too.
Hates it all the same.
Keith tries to maintain what they had— whatever closeness they had gained. He tries to treat Lance the same, but Lance just… he can’t. He can’t handle it. He doesn’t want to, but he feels himself pulling away. Putting space between them.
Distance.
Distance, he thinks, will make it better.
Though unfortunately, it doesn’t help the ache in his chest.
Still, he smiles. He steps into his new role. His new position in the clan. Takes it with pride and confidence.
He’s an alpha dragon. It’s a badge he wears with honor.
Everything else— everything that could have been— were just new and fleeting fantasies.
This. This is what he’s always wanted.
So why isn’t he happy?
Months later, he shows up to the training ground to find Keith no where in sight.
“Where’s dark, broody, and scrappy?” He asks, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed as he surveys the fields. His vision has gotten sharper since presenting— coming fully into his dragon senses— but he can’t find any sign of that mop of unruly hair. And Lance would recognize it anywhere.
“Why do you care?” Griffin asks, stretched out on the grass nearby, eyes closed and hands behind his head. Soaking up the sun in the moments before Coran calls them to attention.
Lance’s brows furrow, irritation flickering through him. “Why wouldn’t I care?”
“Uh, maybe because you’ve been avoiding him for the past month?” Rizavi supplies.
“I haven’t been avoiding him,” Lance scoffs, but he can’t deny the trickle of guilt that creeps down his spine.
“You have,” she says, giving him a flat stare. “And we’ve all noticed.”
“It’s awkward,” Griffin adds.
“I haven’t been avoiding Keith!” He snaps, throwing his hands up. They all look at him with unfazed, flat stares— Griffin, Rizavi, and all the other trainees who glance over at his outburst. He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anyway, where is he? It’s not like him to skip training.”
Rizavi shrugs. “Dunno. He hasn’t shown up yet.”
“He’s probably moping around at home because Shiro had to go on a mission without him,” Lance says with a roll of his eyes.
Despite the fact that Keith isn’t a proper knight yet, Keith somehow thinks he’s up for the task of accompanying Shiro on— no doubt dangerous— missions. Missions that he’s often sent on as a member of the royal guard and an expert in war tactics. That’s Keith for you. Reckless and stubborn to a fault. And not above brooding along in his home like a forgotten pup.
“I’ll go get him,” he says, already turning on his heel and jogging back down the path towards town. “Tell Coran we’re going to be late!”
He knows the way to Keith’s home by heart. He’s run along these worn streets many times before. As a member of the royal guard, Shiro has a cozy little home near the palace, and that’s where he practically raised Keith. From the scruffy, half feral boy he was into the strong, confident man he is now.
The thought of how far Keith has come has Lance smiling all the way up the path to the door, but he freezes with a hand poised to knock—
Nose twitching— inhaling deeply— letting out a shuddering breath.
That— that. It’s a scent that has a shiver running down his spine, coiling low in his gut before it warms, radiating heat.
Alpha.
It smells like alpha. Pure. Unadulterated. Raw. Concentrated. Intense.
A rut. An alpha’s rut. But Shiro is gone, which means—
Keith.
It hits him hard, breath rushing from his lungs. Keith is presenting. Keith is presenting. Keith is presenting as an alpha right now. He’s in the midst of his first rut—
Alone.
He’s alone. He’s home, yes, but he’s alone. Lance remembers exactly how painful and frightening his first rut had been, and he had family surrounding him and comforting him. It’s customary for family to be there. To help presenting dragons through it. To create an atmosphere of safety.
But Keith… Shiro is his only family, and he’s gone.
He’s alone. In pain. Body twisting and contorting. Left extremely vulnerable and no one to ease him through it. No one to comfort him. No one to hold him when the waves hit and the pain feels like it’s splitting him apart—
Lance’s chest hurts, stomach twisting and nauseous, but a fire burns in his veins. Molten and turning to steel as he sets his jaw, eyes flashing. Decision cooled and hardened, and choice already made.
He reaches for the doorknob and finds it unlocked. This tells him many things. That it hit Keith suddenly. That he no doubt panicked and retreated to his room. That he’s been in too much of a state to think about locking the doors. Or… that he can’t emerge to do so.
When Lance steps into the house, the scent hits him like a wall.
It’s a slap in the face of alpha. Pure and raw and overwhelming. He stiffens. Freezing once more. Body going rigid and hackles rising on instinct. His inner dragon coils and hisses, reacting to the scent of alpha. It’s choking. It claws at his senses. It makes him want to fight, challenge, maim.
He closes his eyes. Breathes it in deep. Starts to sift through the scent just like his mother has been teaching him—
And he smells—
He smells—
Keith.
Beneath the intensity of the rut and the onslaught of hormones, he smells Keith. Earthy. Sharp. A heat that reminds him of cinnamon and cloves. The crackle of smoke on the back of his tongue. He knows this scent, has been getting used to it in the months since he presented. Keith’s scent hasn’t changed, but it’s gotten… more.
Blooming beneath the rising tide of his rut.
And Lance can smell the lingering sour edge of fear. The trembling bite of anxiety.
Lance hates it, and it solidifies his choice. Chases away any doubt he might have had. Call it being a friend. Call it dragon instincts. Alpha instincts. Whatever. Point is, Keith is alone and vulnerable and in pain, and Lance can’t stand it.
Unless they’re family, alphas don’t comfort alphas during their ruts. It’s simply not done. Hormones can clash. They can get aggressive and territorial, unable to control it in their rut addled state. And that sort of anxiety and stress can make the rut worse.
But Lance… once the initial wave had settled down, once he had scented Keith beneath all the alpha musk, his inner dragon had settled down. It growls within him, not from aggression but from worry.
He doesn’t give a fuck about custom. About what is and isn’t done. About what people will say.
He moves swiftly through the house, heading straight for Keith’s room— only to find it empty. He finds Keith in Shiro’s room instead, curled up in his bed in a haphazardly made nest to ride out his first rut surrounded by the scent of family.
As he steps into the room, the figure beneath the blanket goes rigid. It shifts. A mop of dark hair peeks out.
“Keith…” He says, though he can hear him scenting the air. “It’s me.”
A confused whimper.
A questioning growl. Too soft to be a warning. Pitched on the end like a whine. Like a plea.
Lance approaches the bed slowly, cautiously, making low comforting sounds at the back of his throat. Sounds he hadn’t even been aware he could make but come naturally. Instinctual. Driven by the need to protect. To comfort.
The blanket shifts, revealed Keith— sickly pale and shirtless. Heavy bags beneath his eyes. Gaze lidded and hazy. Hair a mess. A thin sheen of sweat covering his skin. He grips the sheet tight as Lance comes near, body coiled tight.
Lance can’t blame him. There’s another alpha in his space, and his instincts are no doubt going haywire. He wonders if perhaps he made the wrong choice. Overstepped some bounds. Wonders if his presence will make Keith’s rut worse—
Then he breathes in deep, eyes closing, and Lance watches as he immediately relaxes with a long, relieved sigh.
He reaches out— reaching for Lance— making these deep and pitiful sounds that melt Lance’s heart.
Lance slips easily into the bed with him, taking Keith into his arms and holding him tight as he shivers— pain wracking through his body as waves of hormones surge through him. He’s hot to the touch, burning against Lance’s naturally cooler skin, but he doesn’t let go.
And when the wave is done, he nuzzles under Lance’s chin. Scenting him. Pressing his nose to Lance’s neck and inhaling long and deep— sighing as his body relaxes. Melting into Lance’s embrace.
Lance stays with him through his whole rut.
Holding him as the waves hit. Cooing and rumbling in his ear, whispering calming words. Running his hands down Keith’s back and through his hair. And while he slips into an exhausted sleep, Lance goes out in search for food. Tells Veronica what’s happening and to cover for him at home before slipping back before Keith can wake. Bathing him gently between waves. Washing and changing his sheets when they’re soaked in sweat.
And he’s pleased to note that he never once catches a whiff of fear or anxiety from Keith while he’s there.
What he does… it’s unheard of between alphas. But given the circumstances, Lance sees nothing wrong. It’s nothing his family wouldn’t have done for him.
But… Keith isn’t family.
And he leaves after Keith’s rut feeling, again, like something has shifted.
A promise unvoiced. Whispered in the shadows. Something that neither of them dare to form into words.
A silent question with an unspoken agreement.
Nothing happens during Keith’s rut, but Lance walks away with anticipation tingling beneath his skin and the echo of next time whispering in his minds.
Next time.
It’s a haunting thought. One that’s never been spoken aloud, yet echoes in the recesses of his mind all the same. Persistent. Constant. A subtext that hums beneath every interaction he has with Lance.
And he can see it haunting Lance as well. Can see it glisten and spark behind those beautiful blue eyes. Can see it curl his smirk just a hair too wide. Can see it in the way his long, lithe body curves when he knows Keith’s is watching.
He’s cocky.
He’s annoying.
He’s a tease.
The worst part, however, is that Keith doesn’t know when next time will even be. Or what it will look like. Or what it will entail. He assumes their next rut, but what if next time is a moment neither of them can deny? A moment where they’re close. Where they spend a night together. It could be at any time, on any day, and it leaves Keith feeling this anticipatory buzz whenever Lance is around— waiting, watching, hoping.
And if next time is one of their ruts… then whose? And how do they even approach that? Would Lance even want Keith around during his rut? And Keith… after having Lance hold him all through his first one, the thought of spending the next without Lance is nauseating. But… how would he even ask?
Alphas and alphas… it’s just not done.
He and Lance… they’re not meant to be together. They’re not biologically and hormonally compatible.
And yet next time… it’s haunting and exhilarating and impossible to ignore.
For better or for worse, neither of them have to worry about next time for a while. Ruts (and heats, for that matter) come slow in the early years. Allowing the body to adjust and settle with the new hormones.
But something has shifted.
His relationship with Lance… whatever is between them… it’s always shifting. Always changing. Always amorphous and undefined. Whenever Keith thinks he knows where they stand, whenever he reaches for it— it slides through his fingers like smoke.
He can never get ahold of Lance. Never fully understand. Because it’s always changing. Always shifting.
He feels like he’s constantly a step behind, and right when he feels like he’s caught up— Lance steps again. In another direction. Leading them in a strange dance that Keith can’t keep up with and can’t predict.
And yet he follows all the same.
Always has. Fears that he always will.
Because Lance… he’s addicting, and Keith is far too weak to resist.
Months pass, and yet the strange, humming tension between them only grows.
Something is different, and yet Keith can’t name it. Is afraid to. They’ve opened a door on something that neither of them will openly acknowledge. Both faced away from it. Aware that the way is open, but both of them refusing to be the first to approach it, let alone step through.
They’re both left standing there, stubbornly, feeling the draft and whisper of unvoiced promises that send chills down their spines.
Yet neither look.
And the tension grows.
They’re knighted at the same time. Graduating from trainees to full fledged protectors of the clan. Shiro is proud. Allura is beaming. Coran tears up. Lance’s family all gathers to congratulate them both— Keith has become a somewhat permanent fixture in their lives, and he’s not entirely sure when that happened.
They were notable as trainees, but as knights, their notoriety only grows.
As alphas, their bodies grow stronger, faster, and more durable. Keith had already noticed the way Lance has been filling out since presenting— going from a lanky and somewhat gangly young man to fit and firm and lithe with slender, corded muscle— but now he feels that transformation himself.
Their instincts lean toward rage, aggression, and territorial tendencies. All of this, curbed and combined with their desire to protect their own— friends, family, the clan— fuels their fighting prowess.
And as such, with so many hormone driven alphas together, all striving and training to be warriors, there’s a lot of showing off. A lot of posturing. A lot of preening and bragging. A lot of flexing.
They goad each other. Push each other. Strive to show off. Try to take ground and nudge each other, just to prove that they can. Not to put each other down, but to prove their own strengths. It’s a game of pride. A game of figuring out themselves. A game of figuring out the subtle internal hierarchy of alphas.
Keith and Lance are no different.
Lance is more into the posturing, but Keith is always ready to take on a challenge.
And Lance challenges Keith more than any of the others.
They’ve always been competitive. Right from the start. Especially with each other. Despite this odd friendship they’ve grown into, their rivalry has never ceased. The maliciousness has faded. It’s far more amiable and far more friendly, but it’s still there.
Except… things have shifted, and friendly is now too mild of a word.
Because when Keith spars with Lance, there’s a new level of tension between them. Whatever has been growing between them, it rises to the surface when they spar.
It’s aggression. It’s predatory. It’s animalistic in nature, their dragons crawling just beneath the surface. It’s violent and cocky. But it’s not… negative. It’s… strangely, bewilderingly positive. It feels good. It feels right.
To outside eyes, he’s sure they look like typical alphas, but Keith knows better.
He can feel the difference.
Eyes never leaving each other. Movements graceful and fluid. Predatorily. Agile as cats. Bodies liquid like snakes. Scales rippling beneath the skin as their muscles flex with every movement. They circle each other, eyes flashing like gemstones and pupils slitted. Spines growing on their backs. Claws sharpening and growing, wicked and curved from their nail beds.
But… it's not anger. It's not just rivalry. It's not the usual alpha desire to dominate. It’s not the same sort of aggression Keith feels when sparring with other alphas.
It's something... more,. Not just to dominate, but to dominate each other. Specifically Lance. To prove to Lance that he’s strong. That he’s worthy.
And he can see the same sort of drive in Lance’s movements. Showing off— not to prove that he’s better, but to prove that he’s enough. To prove that he’s strong.
Even when he’s sparring with others, Keith catches Lance’s eyes on him. Pointed. Sharp. Making sure he has Keith’s attention before looking away. He wants Keith to watch, like Keith ever really would do otherwise.
And Keith would be lying if he said he doesn’t fight harder when he knows Lance is watching.
It’s complicated.
It’s become second nature.
It’s constantly shifting.
Keith never knows where he stands with Lance, but he knows that where ever it is, it’s always at the center of his attention.
And that, in and of itself, is addicting.
It's an instinctual drive when they clash. Coming together like fire, heated and building and raging, fueling each other’s flames. It's relentless. It's heated and desperate. They hiss and snarl and roll over one another. Scales risen to the surface— Keith’s dark and red, Lance’s shades of blue. Claws scraping off one another, cutting wounds that they barely feel in the adrenaline and rage.
They pin each other to the ground, thrashing with an unbendable will, writhing snakes that are impossible to keep down for long, neither of them willing to submit—
But one always submits in the end.
It's never the same, the one who ends up yielding. This time, however, it’s Lance. After a long, and drawn out fight— as they tend to be— he’s finally got Lance pinned.
Keith is poised above him, one knee pressed into Lance’s back, grinding his chest into the dirt. One hand is on on Lance’s wrist, twisting it around to his back and rendering it useless. His other hand is on the back of Lance’s neck. Claws pressed firmly to his skin. Not hard enough to pierce, but rough enough to nearly do the trick. To show him that he could, if he wanted to.
After a moment of thrashing, Lance finally calms. Finally relents. Body going lax beneath Keith— which in and of itself is a feeling that has Keith’s adrenaline spiking.
They stay like that for a moment, chests heaving, breaths heavy. Keith’s inner dragon is preening, satisfied and proud, the victory tasting sweet on his tongue.
Then Lance is twisting his head, tilting it to look back at Keith out of the corner of his eye. There’s something there. A fire still raging behind those blue gemstone eyes, lined with beautiful crystal scales, pupils still slitted. There’s something burning there as he stares up at Keith, and it’s not rage. It’s not sour or bitter. It’s not frustration at his loss.
In fact… he stares up at Keith like he’s won.
Lips curled into a coy smirk, Lance tongue— forked at the tip in their adrenaline fueled state— slips out. Runs along his fangs. Along those wet, red lips.
Keith’s gaze is drawn to the movement. Fixated on it. Hands flexing as his body goes rigid, claws digging into Lance’s flesh. It causes a noise to escape Lance’s parted lips, low and pleased.
A noise that goes straight to Keith’s gut, building up a new kind of fire.
A noise that has Keith growling low in his throat, a deep rumble as he feels his thighs tighten, resisting the urge to rut forward against the man he has pinned beneath him—
Then Shiro clears his throat, and they snap out of it, scrambling away from each other and to their feet as the next pair steps up to spar.
They walk away without making eye contact, and as the adrenaline starts to peter out and his dragon starts to recede, he can feel the bruises and scrapes starting to set in. He mentally takes stock of them. Of all the points on his body that hurt and sting. He always walks away with more of them from spars with Lance than any other.
And yet he can’t bring himself to mind.
Glancing sidelong, he can see Lance is in much the same condition. Perhaps worse this time. Keith hadn’t exactly been gentle, and he knows that his claws caught flesh quite a few times.
And usually, at this point, they’ll go their separate ways. As they have every time before. They’ll take some space to calm down from whatever is brewing between them. To breathe. To tend to their wounds in private and the rush of it all washes away.
It’s happened many times before.
Too many to count.
And yet this time, Keith deviates from their pattern.
“Come on,” he says, reaching out and snatching Lance’s wrist, catching him before he can walk away and tugging him toward the training hall.
Lance makes a startled sound. Something quiet and questioning. But he follows easily, falling into step behind Keith.
He can’t pin point what about this time feels different, but it does. Perhaps it’s the lingering heat settled low in his gut. Perhaps it was the fire he had seen in Lance’s eyes, desperate not to let that ember die out. Perhaps it had been the awkward way Lance had been holding himself after their spar, uncharacteristically uncertain, brows pinched and movements stiff. Keith knows him well enough to know what his doubt looks like, and he doesn’t want to see it. Not when it comes to him— to them— to this thing.
And perhaps this time is only different because that’s their nature. The ever constant shifting. Perhaps it had been too static for too long, and Keith had finally gotten fed up with it.
Perhaps he simply wanted to be the catalyst for a shift for once instead of being simply tugged along in the wake.
Either way, he finds himself taking a bold, blind leap.
The training hall is a large structure just on the edge of the training fields. Inside is a large mess hall and storage rooms. A place for everything they might need during a day of training, without having to go all the way back to town.
Just after their afternoon meal, the hall is nearly empty.
Keith leads Lance to the far end, to a table that’s nestled and half hidden in a private alcove, bordered by pillars and out of sight of the few knights that laze around.
“Sit,” he says, finally releasing Lance’s wrist and pinning him with a firm stare. “Stay.”
He catches Lance’s amused smirk as he turns away, but he doesn’t look back. He moves on autopilot, refusing to think about what he’s doing. Thinking has never gotten him much besides worry and doubt. With Lance, he’s found, it’s better to simply act.
His instincts have never steered him wrong, and with Lance, his instincts are loud.
His instincts are telling him to take care of him.
And that’s exactly what Keith intends to do.
He heads to the med bay, gathering up bandages and a wash bowl. Things he’s gotten unfortunately familiar with over the years, though he’s been told his ferocity and fighting prowess are marks of a good alpha, that he’ll be a good mate.
He can only hope it’s true.
He finds Lance sitting where he left him, straddling the bench and leaning sideways to rest an elbow on the table. Chin in his palm, he glances around the room, but the moment Keith sits down next to him, his gaze is sharp, focused, confused.
“What’re you doing?” He asks. Not accusatory. Not cautious. Simply curious.
“Helping.” Keith sits so he’s straddling the bench, facing Lance. Gets close enough that their knees knock together. Doesn’t meet his eyes as he pulls the bowl close and and wrings out the wash cloth.
Lance doesn’t say a word as Keith gets to work. He holds out his arms when Keith wordlessly reaches for them. He twists and exposes his wounds to Keith. Shallow scrapes, blood already dried but messy. He doesn’t hesitate to guide Keith to spots that he missed, showing him wounds that aren’t immediately visible.
As Keith leans close, running the wash cloth gently along the pinpricks in Lance’s neck— where his claws had dug in a little more fiercely than he had noticed— he realizes how intimate this is.
How close they’re sitting.
How vulnerable Lance is as he exposes his neck and his wounds to another alpha, humming with contentment as Keith’s touch lingers.
Keith, however, doesn’t let himself get distracted. He’s focused on his task. Of cleaning Lance up and bandaging the deeper wounds that have yet to heal on their own. There’s a pinch between his brows and a purse to his lips. He refuses to meet Lance’s gaze, knowing that doing so would not only be distracting, but call attention to just how close they are. Still, he can feel Lance’s eyes on him, on his every movement, hot and heavy.
And when he’s done, he moves to grab the bowl, halfway to his feet before Lance’s hands are on his arm, holding him still. “Wait,” he says softly, tugging Keith back down. “Sit.” He takes the bowl from Keith’s hands. “Let me.”
He returns the favor. Hands strong and fingers slender. Movements gentle and sure as they move across Keith’s body, taking stock of his own injuries, washing and bandaging them with practiced ease.
Keith lets his eyes flutter shut, wholly focused on each and every spot where they touch. Where Lance touches him. It’s a spark between them, sizzling and igniting beneath Keith’s flesh. Building up the heat that’s settled low in his gut. Making his inner dragon coil and squirm.
Every touch is exhilarating. Igniting. Making his breath catch and making his body hum from the anticipation of where the next will come.
Pleasure, he thinks. This is what pleasure feels like. From something so simple. And yet nothing with Lance has ever been simple.
He’s barely keeping track of the injuries Lance is tending to, wholly wrapped up in the sensations of it all. Memorizing and savoring every fleeting and lingering gentle touch, wishing for it to never end.
But end it does.
He hears Lance set the cloth aside. Hears the soft plop into the water. Hears the gentle scrape of the bowl as it’s pushed away.
He draws in a breath, expecting Lance to stand, to take their supplies away—
And then that breath gets caught in his lungs as he suddenly feels a touch at his jaw.
Not the touch of fingers. The touch of a— nose?
Lance nudges under his jaw, leaning in close enough for Keith to feel his breath. One of his hands rests on Keith’s thigh, slender fingers strong as his grip flexes, thumb rubbing lightly. He makes a sound, soft and questioning, running his nose along Keith’s jaw and nudging once more.
Keith breaths in a sharp breath, holding it for only a second— questioning what to do— before letting it out in a shuddering exhale. With it, he relaxes. Tension leaking out of him. Body turning to putty as he gives in. Surrendering to his instincts, even if they clash with the whispered doubt in the back of his mind.
And with his surrender, he tilts his head— with a soft huff, just to sound begrudging, just to sound somewhat resistant for the sake of his pride— exposing his throat to Lance. Fully and open in invitation.
The happy sound that slips from Lance’s lips makes it all worth it as he leans closer, knees pushing together as he dives into the crook of Keith’s neck.
There, Lance nuzzles him. Running his nose along Keith’s sensitive flesh. Lips brushing against areas Keith has never let anyone touch. His breath ghosting over Keith’s scent glands, causing goosebumps to rise and shivers to run down his spine, violent and full bodied.
Lance buries his nose and breathes in deep. Lets out his own shuddering breath— so content and warm— that Keith finds himself collapsing forward, pushing further into Lance’s space. His hands find Lance’s arms, fingers curling and nails biting. Not in warning, nor to push him away. But to ground himself and hold Lance there while he spirals, dizzy with a giddiness and heat he’s never known.
Because he’s scented with Shiro before. They’re family.
But Lance isn’t.
And scenting another alpha is…
Strange. Not done. Uncommon. Weird.
But it doesn't feel weird. It feels... good. So good. So natural. So instinctual. So exhilarating and calming and fueling this heat he feels brewing in his veins. A heat that whispers forbidden things. Things he hasn’t dared to think about in the context of Lance. Things that aren’t done between alphas.
He tries to think of the other alphas he fights and trains with, but he instantly rejects the idea. He hates the thought of them being this close when he's vulnerable. Of them being this close in general. Taking in his scent. Squeezing his thigh. Running their lips along the column of his throat—
He can't imagine this sort of soft intimacy with anyone else.
Not another alpha. Not a beta. Fuck, not even an omega, and everyone— everything their society is built on— says he should be finding this sort of intimacy with an omega. Someone soft and gentle with a sweet scent that will balance him out and complete him.
But he doesn't want a sweet scent.
He wants Lance's scent. Salty and fresh. Crisp like an ocean breeze. Musky and dark, earthy like a forest after rain. Smoldering like a fire that's been put out, wood heated and wet.
He's haunted by that scent. By Lance's scent. He smells it everywhere. Clinging to his clothes. To his skin. To the air around him long after Lance is gone. He finds himself craving it.
As a knight and warrior, he's surrounded by so many strong scents all the time.
Strong and acrid and aggressive. Both male and female. Alphas and betas in constant training. In constant preening. Presenting themselves. Proving themselves. Fighting each other to be at the top. It's exhausting. It's suffocating. Keith hates it.
But then Lance comes around, and while his scent is strong and masculine, there's something refreshing about it. Something that immediately eases Keith's tension. Makes his shoulders slump. Inhaling deeply and letting out a long content sigh as soon as Lance is near.
He’s pretty sure Lance has noticed.
He can tell his scent gets stronger when Keith is around. Can pick up those notes of comfort whenever Keith is agitated or upset. And despite Lance’s smug little smirk whenever he catches Keith leaning in and breathing deep— as subtle as he tries to be— he can’t bring himself to mind.
Because no matter how obnoxious Lance can be, and no matter how much it might fuel his ego, it’s a testament to how much Keith trusts him. Conflicting feelings aside, Keith cares for Lance as he doesn’t for anyone else. Trusts him like he trusts no one else. And Lance deserves to know that he matters, even if it’s just to Keith.
And if he’s being honest… when he pushes the doubts aside, he can see that Lance is much the same way.
That he trusts and finds comfort in Keith in much the same way.
Being noble born, Lance’s bloodline is in high demand. Always being watched. Always being judged. And he's an alpha.
He may be the youngest, but there are expectations weighing on his shoulders. Keith has watched him. Always performing. Always putting on a front. Always proving himself. Always trying to hide himself. Struggling and pushing himself to be the best he can at any given thing and at any given moment of every single day.
Keith has watched.
He’s observed.
He’s ached.
He hates seeing Lance string himself out like that.
But with Keith? All of that seems to… melt away. He can see Lance’s mask slipping. He can see the tension in his jaw ease. HIs smiles look a little more genuine. Smaller, yes, but more relaxed. More real.
And Keith would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the way Lance leans in to breathe his scent when he thinks Keith isn’t paying attention.
He’d by lying if he said he didn’t strengthen his scent, full of comfort and safety and something heated just to listen to Lance shudder beside him.
It’s gotten to the point where Lance often seeks Keith out when things are overwhelming. When he’s frustrated and his alpha hormones are raging. When his dragon is slithering close enough to the surface to leave scales dotting his skin, and he looks like he’s just itching for a fight. Or to fly. Or to run.
He’s not sure Lance even realizes it. That he always comes to Keith.
But Keith knows. He always knows. Always lets Lance have it without question. They spar. They race. Keith runs him ragged flying over the mountains. Fighting. Until he's too physically exhausted to do anything anymore.
And it’s the moments after that Keith treasures the most. When— bodies heavy and minds light— they’ll seek out a private place, away from prying eyes, and curl up together. Laid out in the warmth of the sun or under a blanket of stars. A head on a shoulder. Hands tracing patterns on patches of skin, mindless and idle. Fingers picking at one another, still too shy and hesitant to actually intertwine.
And they'll talk. They'll share. It feels quiet and calming.
And then they’ll go home. They separate, and when the next day comes, they won’t talk about it. Won’t address the soft and intimate moments they share.
Like a secret.
Like a taboo.
They're two of the strongest young alphas in the clan. Powerful upcoming knights. Beautiful dragon forms and handsome human forms. Two single alphas fighting each other to the top.
Omegas swoon across the clan for them. Their fights are well known.
They're competitive. They're harsh. They don't hold back because that would be an insult. And they want to prove themselves. To each other. They get scrappy. Anything to win. Anything to come out on top. They often leave training battered, bleeding, and bruised.
And the clan knows.
They see it as a good thing.
They see it as proof that both he and Lance are two of the most eligible bachelors out of all the young alphas.
Sometimes they even think that he and Lance still hate each other, pitting them against one another and building up their rivalry into something that it’s not.
Because there's no aggression between them. No frustration or resentment or anger. There may be stubbornness, pride, and unyielding determination, but it's also playful... edged with this sexual heat and tension that neither want to acknowledge but both feel simmering between them.
And it’s in those moments…
In these moments. Soft and intimate. With Lance nuzzling against his throat, hand slipping slightly higher up his thigh— that Keith wants to acknowledge it.
Wants to voice it.
Wants to reach out and take Lance’s face in his hands and pull him in tight to rut against his aching body—
But then they hear voices.
A group of knights entering the training hall.
And Lance is pulling back. A small, sheepish, shy smile on his lips. Cheeks tinged red as he coughs. Clears his throat. Mumbles a half hearted excuse that Keith can’t even catch.
And then he’s gathering up their bandaging supplies and walked away, pace quick. Retreating, as he always does, under the curious gaze of others.
And Keith is left sitting there.
Stewing in an aching want. The ghost of Lance’s hands on him still haunting. His scent still thick in Keith’s lungs. Burning coals of desire still hot, tingling through his veins.
Trying to tell himself this is nothing.
Wishing he could forget.
A week later, next time happens. It’s unexpected and sudden.
Keith is in the courtyard of the palace, speaking with Shiro. He doesn’t remember about what. Training, no doubt. Plans. Recent scouting movements on the outskirts of their clan’s territory.
But one moment he had he relaxed, arms crossed loosely, listening intently to Shiro’s words, and in the next, his mind had gone blank.
His body froze, muscles going rigid as his eyes snapped open wide. Nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. He catches it on the wind. Just barely. Just a hint. Something so subtle that it takes him a moment to pick it apart, to sift through it, to figure out why his body is reacting.
Something… familiar. Extremely so. Familiar and comforting— damp earth after a storm, the salty crispness of the sea at dawn, the gentle smokiness of wet ashes— but different. Stronger. Heated. Spicier. Darker.
It’s barely there. Just the slightest little thing. Vague and diluted on the rolling breeze. Drowned out by the scents of the castle— the stone, the earth, the perfumes, and the gardens. Beneath the layers of everyone around— other alphas, omegas, and betas.
Yet Keith catches onto it— senses quick and honing in— body reacting before his mind can fully piece it together. It knows before he can put a name to it.
He’s moving before he’s fully processed, before his brain has fully caught up to his heart— slamming in his chest and bruising his ribs.
He doesn’t remember leaving Shiro or the courtyard— doesn’t remember if he said a word or if he just left him there. Blacks out and comes to while he’s running, sprinting through the castle grounds.
And it’s then that the word finally forms in his mind, confirming what his body already knows.
Rut.
Lance’s rut.
And the barest hint of distress.
Keith isn’t sure how he picked up on it, and right now, he doesn’t care. Lance had been here for some sort of political meeting with a neighboring clan. Something all the high nobles and royalty were supposed to attend. Which means he might be surrounded by strangers— left vulnerable—
He sprints through the palace. Down halls. Up stairs. Following his nose. Pausing occasionally to scent the air before sprinting once more.
He’s frantic and desperate. He knows there must be a wild look in his eyes and fire on the tip of his tongue as he growls at people to get out of the way. He hears the whispers in his wake. Hears the gasps. Sees the servants cower. Hears the omegas coo and the alphas scoff.
He doesn’t care— doesn’t care— just needs to find Lance— has to find him— protect him— be with him—
He finds Lance in an empty back hallway, far from any of the main thoroughfare. Leaning up against the stone wall, head fallen back, claws digging into the mortar between the stones.
He looks weak, crumpled, like his legs might give out any moment. Lips parted as he pants, desperate for air. Eyes squeezed shut. A pretty, pretty flush dusting his cheeks. Body shaking, quivering, muscles tensing and relaxing in intervals that have his thighs and stomach clenching, visible and tantalizing. Accentuating the outlines of his duel cocks, visible in his unfairly tight formal attire.
And his scent. So thick and dark and needy. Oozing desire. Making a fire in Keith’s chest rise. Making his hands clench with the need to touch. He smells absolutely filthy. Delectable. And what Keith wouldn’t give to be able to taste. What he would love to do—
Lance’s eyes snap open the moment Keith steps into the hallway, freezing at the sight of him. Nostrils flaring as he takes in Keith’s own scent— letting out a shuddering breath through parted lips.
Keith doesn’t know what his own scent is doing, far too wrapped up in the way Lance’s fills his senses, wrapping around his mind and suffocating him with heat. But he can see the way Lance’s pupils dilate. The way his body shivers with it. The way his breath catches.
Distantly he wonders— fears— what’s happening. Faced with another alpha’s rut, he should find it abrasive, sour, and bitter. It should be so wholly unpleasant that he retreats, hackles rising— it’s happened before as other alphas have suddenly gone into a rut nearby— but with Lance… it’s always different with Lance.
“Keith,” he whispers, licking dry lips, voice cracking. Unlike his scent, however, his voice isn’t needy or sultry or full of desire in his mounting rut.
It's soft and cracked and pleading. Desperate, but not for touch. For help. Help from Keith. And while Keith would never approach another alpha in a rut, he doesn't hesitate to hurry to Lance's side. Because Lance isn't posturing aggressively or snarling a warning.
He’s practically begging for Keith, and leans into him the moment Keith wraps an arm around him, nuzzling his face into Keith’s neck and breathing deeply. Letting out a long sigh that’s so full of relief and contentment, but trailing off into a soft groan.
And that groan goes straight through him, his cock twitching with interest.
What he wouldn’t give to hold Lance in earnest. To touch him. To bring him that relief he so clearly craves and needs— but he can’t. Not here. Not when they’re in the open. Where any alpha might wander by and aggravate his rut. Or any omega might send him spiraling.
Not when Lance is so vulnerable. No one should get to witness him in this private state. Keith can’t stand it. The thought of eyes seeing him like this. Of others scenting him like this.
Lance paws at him, clinging tightly and snuffling along the collar of his shirt. This isn’t like their first rut together. Keith’s first. When each wave had brought about a pain so excruciating it had been hard to focus on anything else. No, this is a more natural rut. One of raging hormones that leave the body aching in new ways.
In more intimate ways.
In ways that leave Lance hard and leaking— because Keith can smell that too, salty and earthy and making his mouth water— rutting his hips against Keith’s thigh or open air whenever he can as they stumble through the castle.
But Keith keeps a level head for both of them.
No matter how much his body burns, cocks already hardening and mouth practically drooling, he keeps his head clear. It's surprisingly easy— far easier than he imagined— when his desire takes a back seat to the overwhelming need to get Lance somewhere safe.
He manages to half help, half drag Lance home, and it’s no small feat.
Lance isn’t too far gone that he can’t walk, but the early waves of his rut are strong, surging through his body and making him weak and dizzy in turns.
Not to mention his wandering hands, groping and pawing— weakly but stubbornly— at Keith.
Like he's trying to hold back, but he also can't resist.
Keith likes to think it's because it's him. Because they're close. Because there's something between them. Because Lance might feel a fraction of what he feels.
But he knows it could also just be his rut talking.
Drugged out on hormones, Keith is a warm body with a scent that Lance is familiar with and trusts. Alpha or not, he knows that Lance's body is getting increasingly desperate for relief and friction and Keith is right here.
With a steady arm wrapped around him, Keith steers them through the lesser used hallways. Through dusty servants stairs. Outside and through back alleyways.
When they pass by others, Keith growls at them, emitting a scent that's as threatening and commanding as he can. Hopes that it’s acrid enough to overshadow Lance’s.
His eyes are like fire, fangs extended as he bares his teeth with a snarl, sparks licking at his tongue. His wings grow, draping around Lance like a shield. Dark red scales ripple out across his skin.
And when someone doesn't heed his warning— or doesn't leave fast enough— Lance stiffens, snarling lowly, claws digging into Keith as he leans into him almost— protective? Possessive? Seeking comfort? Seeking safety?
He doesn't know. Doesn't know if it's to hide himself or to keep them from approaching Keith. It makes him dizzy. Makes him uncertain.
He calls out when they reach Lance's home— a nicer villa carved into the mountainside with a private cave system attached. Lance's family spills out, immediately recognizing the scent.
They rush out to help, but Lance won't let Keith go, clings tight. Too tight.
Keith can see the apprehension and confusion on his family's faces as they try to calm him— glancing between them— little worry lines forming around their mouths— furrowed brows—
And Keith... hates it. Hates the judgement. But he understands their worry.
Lance's attachment to another alpha, especially in his rut, isn't normal. It’s not done. Ever. It's... concerning. For them. For a family that has notoriety and reputation and expectations.
Nevertheless, they let Keith guide Lance through their home and into his room, finally disentangling himself as he drops off Lance onto his bed.
However, he hadn’t anticipated how hard this would be. Distancing himself. Leaving Lance.
His heart tears and his body aches as Lance reaches for him, whining when his claws find nothing but air.
But Lance's family is watching, and Keith doesn't belong here. So he forces himself to go.
Lance, however, isn't having it.
He snarls. Launching himself off the bed. Moving for Keith at an alpha speed— but his brothers catch him. Wrestle him down. They yell at Keith to go.
But Keith can't bring his feet to move. Frozen with his heart in his throat.
He can’t leave. Not when Lance is looking at him like that. All desperate. Eyes wild and pleading. Not when he whines so softly, so pitifully, and something sour enters his scent— rejection.
It smells like rejection and looks like heart wrenching sorrow.
So Keith makes a decision. Something impulsive. Something he probably shouldn't do but does anyway because he has to leave, but can't leave Lance like this. It's not good for his rut to have these negative emotions, no matter how irrational. Nothing is rational in a rut, and Keith’s perceived rejection could make him spiral. It could make him sick.
So Keith rips off a strip of his clothing. A swatch of fabric that's not too large, but not at all small. Enough for Lance to nuzzle into if he needs to.
He wipes it across his neck, soaking it with his scent, before kneeling down and giving it to Lance.
The way Lance's eyes light up at the gesture— the low, rumbling sound he makes in his throat— the way he watches Keith leave—
It haunts him long after.
Carries him all the way home.
Won't leave his thoughts, even when he's panting and exhausted. Cocks aching and raw, yet still stubbornly half hard. Covered in his own seed. Dried cum and sweat on his skin as he lies on his bed. Staring at the ceiling. Taunted by the smell of lance lingering on his clothes.
The following days are a waking nightmare.
He’s haunted by Lance, in his thoughts and in his dreams. Memories playing, and playing again. A never ending loop. What he looked like within the grips of his rut. How he smelled. How he clung to Keith. The outline of his cocks in the tight and fitting formal attire.
Wondering how he’s feeling… imagining exactly what he’s doing… if he’d take his cocks one at a time or at the same time. Each in a hand? Two in one?
More than once he wakes in the middle of the night, caught in a cold sweat, chest heaving with every breath, desperately trying to cling to the ghost of Lance’s touch from fading dreams.
He catches himself daydreaming often, coming back to himself half hard and ashamed, hoping that no one noticed the shift in his scent.
He's more aggressive in training without Lance to calm him down. More reckless. More impulsive. More dangerous. To the point where Shiro has to pull him away and tell him to take a flight and cool it before he seriously hurts someone.
He’s not sure if it’s just Lance’s rut that’s put him on edge, or if he’s always been like this and Lance has just always kept him stable.
As the days pass in a strange haze of restlessness, aggression, and aggravating horniness, he never goes far from Lance's home. If he stops paying attention, he’ll end up walking toward it. Pulled by the invisible force of his instincts.
But he always catches himself before he ventures too close.
He can't forget the looks Lance's family gave him. The looks of the people they ran into on the streets. Confusion. Apprehension. Wariness. Nothing harsh like disgust— not yet— but it hurts all the same.
Reminds him that what they're doing— what they're almost doing— what they’re tiptoeing around— the path they’re on—
It's not right. Alphas aren't meant to be with alphas. It's not done that way. They’re too aggressive together. They can't reproduce. Even an alpha female and alpha male will have a low birth rate.
And especially in a family as high as Lance’s, there are expectations of him. As an alpha. To find an omega mate. Carry on the line. To produce strong heirs for the clan.
Keith can't do that for him.
He'll never be a soft, sweet omega. He's alpha, through and through. Hard edges. Hard body. Aggressive. Strong. Stubborn. He's wild fire incarnate, and he'll never be a cozy little hearth fire.
And he may not want that omega mate life— may not want that sickeningly sweet scent and soft body by his side— but... what if Lance does? His family definitely wants that for him. He’s one of the most eligible young single alphas, and the clan thrives on the anticipation of who he’ll choose to court.
Hell, most omegas in the clan are already preparing to present themselves for when he starts looking. Already vying for his attention. Trying to catch his eye.
It’s only a matter of time until someone does.
Until someone else is the center of Lance’s attention.
Until any ember of hope he dares to harbor about what they might be is snuffed out for good.
It only gets worse.
Or better?
Depending how he looks at it. It feels like both. A twisted version of heaven and hell, wrapped into one thrilling and cruel package.
Because after Lance’s rut, when he returns to his life and they fall back into their usual patterns, everything goes back to normal, for the most part. Everything is the same, except for one thing.
That strip of cloth.
The impulsive decision Keith had made to give a rut-crazed Lance a token to hold his scent to calm him down— it’s come back to bite him in the ass.
Because Lance now wears it.
He has it folded and wrapped around his wrist. It's subtle. No one thinks of it twice. Keith doubts it even smells like him anymore after going through Lance's rut. All it is is an accessory. It’s not uncommon among their tribe to tie cloth in areas.
No one is the wiser
Except Keith. Keith knows. Knows that dark red fabric was his. Drenched in his scent and given to his best friend to help him through his rut. And instead of tossing it out, or giving it back, Lance is wearing it.
They don't talk about it, but Lance knows what he's doing.
He gives Keith this look sometimes when he adjusts it. When he lifts his wrist to his mouth to drag his lips across it. Eyes all lidded and dark and sparking with crackling fire that ignites something in Keith's chest—
Because Lance is wearing it like a token.
Like a courting gift. Like it's something special between them, taking them to the next step in a normal courtship— but they're not normal. He's not an omega that Keith gave his scent to. His an alpha in his own right.
And Lance's family knows.
They were there when Keith gave it to him. But Lance doesn't seem to care. Ignores their worried glances in favor of giving Keith heated looks.
And it twists Keith up inside, conflicted and torn, but he can't help the swell of pride at seeing it.
Lance carries on as normal as normal can be, but Keith is going insane, seeing that token on Lance's wrist Because despite knowing better, the way Lance is treating it has made Keith start to think of it as such— as a token. Against his skin. Knowing that Lance is doing this on purpose just fires him up more, drives him crazier.
And Lance just watches him fall apart.
All coy and mischievous.
Cocky and smug.
Delighting in Keith’s torture.
And yet he doesn’t treat it like a joke, but as a joy. Like their own private secret. A dangerous, naughty, little secret.
It all comes to a head in the worst possible way.
After a month of Lance's teasing— of wearing that fucking token (because that’s what it is, isn’t it? Even if he never meant it to be, it’s how Lance is taking it and Keith doesn’t mind) every single day— of Lance meeting Keith's gaze with eyes that say far too much— of touches that are getting bolder and bolder—
They're training. As they do. Getting out their natural aggression. Honing their skills as knights. Preparing to defend the territory lines.
And as a bonus, getting to touch each other without it being strange.
And that is the problem.
They're fighting. People have gathered. The two of them always seem to draw a crowd. Two young, strong alphas holding nothing back. Half shifted and graceful and fierce. No punches pulled.
Objectively, he can see how it’s quite a show.
This time, Keith thinks he's won, can taste the victory on his tongue, hot and fierce. He grins, teeth sharp and wicked, reaching for Lance and preparing to use his body weight to swing him to the ground—
But then things are flipped.
Lance is good at that. At reading Keith. At turning the tide.
Keith ends up with his face in the dirt, cheek pressed to the ground, a hand fisted in his hair and holding him there.
Lance is behind him, pressed up against him. His chest is to Keith's back. Lance's legs pressed against his. Their tails entangled. His wings are pinned. He's half shifted, body writhing, fangs bared as his hisses—
And Lance growls, low and demanding, pushing into him.
His grip tightens, digging Keith into the ground. Rocks dig at his flesh, his bruises ache and skin is littered with minor cuts, but it all hurts so good. It’s all so satisfying.
And Lance... Lance is practically mounting him from behind. Holding him in place, hips pressed flush against his ass.
It's all so much— too much—
There's the burn of the fight, of his stubborn pride, of interest curling low in his gut before igniting and surging through his chest, tingling across his limbs and bubbling out as a low groan of a whine from his throat—
And that heat— the sizzling need— he recognizes it. It’s unmistakable. Even though the last time it came over him it was painful, and this— this— this is anything but.
His rut.
It surges through him in a tidal wave, hitting hard like a punch to the gut. He pushes back, and Lance pushes forward, grinding against him instinctively, no doubt to keep Keith down, but instead Keith groans—
Cock twitching with interest, and Lance—
He freezes.
Body suddenly going tight and taut above Keith, still as stone and just as heavy. As Keith's heady rut scent hits him— washes over him— drowns him.
A snarl escapes him before he can stop it, grip tightening on Keith. Focus zeroing in on him— on Keith— presented before him— squirming— needy— hard and hot and wanting.
But as Lance starts to lose himself, realization is dawning on Keith.
Cold fear and sour dread are building, colored with white hot shame and embarrassment, cutting right through his horny haze and surging rut—
Because his rut was just triggered by another alpha, and it happened in front of everyone. Everyone who was watching them spar, like two hot blooded strong alphas, and then as soon as he's pinned and mounted, his rut starts and—
it's too much— it's too much—
There are eyes on him, watching him, whispering about him, seeing him in this position, smelling what Lance does to him—
Panic.
All he knows is panic.
It collides and convulses and swells into this all consuming need to run. To escape. To hide until he's safe.
Instinct take over.
Strength surges as fire burns through him, and he throws Lance off of him as his body rips apart, shifting violently into a coiling, writing red scaled dragon.
He gets to his feet and hisses, breathing fire to get everyone to step away, leaving Lance scrambling backwards—
And then he launches himself into the air. Wings pumping furiously. He has to get away. Has to go. Has to fly somewhere safe to ride out his rut away from prying eyes.
Safe. Safe. Safe. Safe.
He's always been known to be fast, and he pushes his limits. Flying far and fast, diving deep into the mountain range and finding a half hidden cave to hide in.
He spends his rut there, alone and miserable, aggravated and angry at nothing and everything. It’s his first run without pain, and yet he can’t bring himself to enjoy the pleasure.
Shiro finds him days later, claw marks marring the cave walls. He gives Keith his space— not wanting to intrude on another alpha's territory in a rut despite being family— but lets Keith know through his comforting scent that he's there, that Keith isn't alone.
He stays nearby. Leaves food for Keith. Guards Keith while he rides out what is arguably the worst week of his life.
When it's all said and done... Keith doesn't want to go back.
He tells Shiro everything.
How he feels. About Lance. About omegas. About mates in general.
How he and Lance have danced around each other. How they shared Keith's rut once before. What happened with Lance's last rut.
He doesn't want to go back— doesn't think he can. Not after that shameful act. Not now that everyone knows how he reacts to Lance.
It's been building for a while. This decision. Knowing that he could never be what Lance needs. Could never be the mate he deserves. Could never be Lance's omega.
And he's been holding off because he's enjoyed this game, but this has just been a wake up call.
And it’s time for their game to end before they do something that can’t be undone.
He leaves without saying goodbye.
He stays outside of the city and lets Shiro make the arrangements and tell Lance.
And Shiro— bless the heavens and the eternal fire for him because Keith doesn’t think he could bear leaving Lance and Shiro— makes the decision to come with him.
Together, they join the scouting groups. The knights who travel around the outskirts of their clan's territory. Protecting. Guarding.
He goes to the front lines where they push back enemy clans and keep their people safe. Where they fight the ever encroaching galra clan, keeping them at bay.
Because he doesn't know how he can face the clan after that. He’s afraid to face Lance.
He doesn't ask Shiro how Lance took the news, and Shiro doesn't offer to tell.
He hopes this time apart will help them both. Help clear their heads. Maybe this thing between them— this simmering heat and fatal attraction— maybe it's just been because of their closeness. Just hormones. Just their rivalry heating up and mixing up in their heads.
He hopes that maybe, just maybe, being apart like this, growing on their own, will help put things into perspective.
He knows in his head that it's the right thing to do.
But his heart, his body, and his soul, ache at the distance.
Keith is… miserable.
Restless.
Numb.
He travels with Shiro and a group of knights along the clan's territory lines. Hunts. Tracks. Fights when he needs to. Trains. Eats. Sleeps.
Everything feels... dull. Gray. He's aggravated and on edge. He keeps himself separated from everyone, though he’s not sure if it’s for his sake or theirs.
He's quiet. He's always scowling. He snarls when people get too close or things take too long. Easily irritated. He can see the way the others look at him. The way they walk around eggshells. He hates it. It only makes things worse.
But as quickly as his anger comes, it goes out in a puff of smoke. Left smoldering and miserable.
Lonely.
Without Lance's scent, he can't fully relax. He feels tightly wound. Always a second away from breaking, but never broken. Never able to fully breathe, but still breathing.
Shiro's presence brings him some comfort, but it's not the same.
He throws himself into his duties. He protects their territory. From other clans, other beasts, humans, magic users, roving bands of galra left over after the collapse of their clan, corrupt and insane and little more than rabid beasts.
He dives into it all. Loses himself in his dragon and the fight. Stays shifted more and more often because he feels less vulnerable in this form. To the point where he’s heard Shiro say he’s worried Keith will be more beast than man.
He still aches for Lance, but it's easier to sleep.
He’s worried Lance has moved on, yet hopes for it all the same.
He hopes Lance is alright.
He hopes he’s forgiven.