Who’re You Calling Cute?

Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron.

The only reason that Lance got out as many words as he did was because he was lying on the couch reading a book when Keith entered the living room. “Hey, Keith, I left the keys on . . . the . . .” He sat up quickly, the old couch creaking faintly in protest, and let his book fall, fluttering closed. “What in the hell . . .”

Keith glared at him and crossed his arms over his chest, his hands fluttering as if nervous before he finally tucked them under his arms.

He still couldn’t obscure the horrifyingly pink shirt he wore. Lance could not tear his gaze away from it, eyes wide and horrified. Oh, my God, he thought distantly, Allura’s finally corrupted him . . .

“Not. One. Word,” Keith gritted out. “Where are the car keys?”

Lance started to grin at that, and lifted his eyes to Keith’s face. “Need to do some laundry, do we?” he asked innocently.

Keith growled at him and stomped into the kitchen.

Lance hooted with laughter as Keith gave him his back. It wasn’t just pink, it was a pink sweatshirt with a hood, the kind that Keith swore he hated. He fought his way from the sag in the couch and upright, and followed him over to the kitchen. Then he just leaned in the open doorway, grinning hugely. This ought to be good, he thought.

Keith was searching one of the counters, shifting around the papers and other junk that accumulated there, muttering under his breath. Sensing Lance behind him, he raised his voice just slightly, so he could be heard. “It’s your fault, you know.”

Feigning a wounded expression, Lance replied, “How can it be my fault? I haven’t even been around for an hour!”

Keith spared a moment to glare at him over his shoulder, and then returned to his fruitless quest for the car keys. “You left your paintbrushes for your damned miniatures in the bathroom. When I was reaching for a towel, I . . .” He fell silent, obviously grinding his teeth in frustration.

Lance put on his best expression of guileless purity. “When you reached for the towel . . .?” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“All right!” Keith burst out in exasperation. “I knocked over the cup you were soaking them in and the . . . cleaner stuff . . . splashed all over my shirt.”

Lance sniggered. “It’s called turpentine.”

Keith scowled at him. “It was all green and nasty, whatever it was.” He moved on to the island counter in the center of the big kitchen, maneuvering carefully so that Lance only saw his back.

If he smiled any wider, it would split his face. Lance raised his arms and locked his hands behind his head. “Well, that’s what happens when I use green paint,” he said reasonably.

Keith fumed silently and moved toward the table.

Looking up at beams of the ceiling, still aiming for the innocence that always irritated Keith to no end, Lance asked, “So where’d you get that sweatshirt? I’ve never seen you wear it before.”

“And never will again,” he muttered, and didn’t quite slam the fruit bowl back onto the table.

“Oh, come on.” Lance was terribly glad that Keith still had his back to him; if he saw his face now, he never would be able to continue for laughing. “Pink is such a great color . . .” As it was, he had to stifle a snicker.

“For Allura, maybe,” Keith groused. He moved the morning paper from where they’d left it, draped across the table.

“So it is from her!” Lance nodded sagely, though it was completely spoiled by his grin. “I thought so.”

“A-ha!” Keith pounced across the table, palmed the car keys and turned. “All right, let’s go.”

But Lance couldn’t move. He was staring at Keith’s chest, mouth gaping open.

MY boyfriend is cuter than YOUR boyfriend.

Keith flushed. “Oops.” Face completely red, he crossed his arms over his chest again.

The movement broke the spell that had mesmerized Lance, and he looked up into Keith’s face, smiling.

“Oh, I dunno about that,” he said softly, his voice a caress. “My boyfriend’s pretty cute.”

Keith’s ears were burning, and he tried to glower at Lance again, but the words had completely undermined him, and when Lance stepped forward to embrace him, he heaved a long-suffering sigh, but hugged him back willingly.

After a few minutes, Lance pulled away. “All right, you don’t have to wear that. I’ve still got one clean shirt you can wear.”

Keith fidgeted uncomfortably, and suddenly found the floor to be very interesting. “Um. No, you don’t.”

Lance cocked his head to one side. “Yeah, I do . . . I didn’t manage to spill the wine all over me last night . . .”

Keith scuffed his feet. “Yeah, but I used your shirt to clean up the mess in the bathroom . . .”

He yelped and jumped back as Lance growled. “You used my Dungeon Crawlers Anonymous tee-shirt to wipe up turpentine?”

Scuttling away as Lance stalked after him, he called over his shoulder, “Well, it was your turpentine . . .”

Then Lance caught the smoky look that Keith cast back at him as the chase led to the bedroom, and reflected that the laundry would have to wait a little longer.

***

October 22, 2004