Author’s note: Silly angst. (Huh?) You’ll see what I mean . . . (I hope.)

Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron.

On the Tenth Anniversary . . .

Bookworm, Lance thought affectionately as he entered the rec room, seeing the back of a dark head. Keith was sitting on one of the sofas, his head bent, pouring over a book. He knew it was Keith; he’d know his lover anywhere, from any angle. He grinned, and put a firm stop to that train of thought before it derailed completely into the gutter. Or even deeper.

Only Keith, Lance thought. On this, the most gorgeous day of the season so far, he’s inside, reading. He should be outside, with the rest of us. No book could be that good. He shook his head at that, but didn’t stop silently sneaking up behind his absorbed lover. He absolutely lived for these times when he could catch Keith off guard.

"Don’t even think it, Lance." Calmly, Keith turned the page.

Lance sighed. Or not, he thought. Taking the last few steps, he wrapped his arms around Keith’s neck, and leaned down to nuzzle his ear. "How do you know it’s me?" he asked quietly, inhaling Keith’s scent.

Keith closed his eyes and smiled, leaning back to rest his cheek against Lance’s. "My secret," he said. He felt as well as heard Lance’s slightly exasperated sigh, and laughed. "But I did hear the door open and close. Despite what you think, I don’t always lose myself in the book." He set the book on the end table.

"Mmm, I guess." Lance straightened, and ran his fingers through Keith’s hair. He loved the softness of it. Keith purred, leaning into his touch, so he repeated it, smiling. I’ll never know why he likes this so much, he thought. Absently, he watched his hands, sliding through the black strands.

Then he grinned.

Keith made a small disappointed sound when Lance’s fingers stopped their soothing caress and lifted away. He started to tilt his head back to look up at his lover.

"Just hold still," Lance’s voice ordered softly.

Keith tensed a bit, freezing, thinking perhaps that there was an insect or something crawling on him. Funny, though, how he hadn’t felt it . . .

‘Pwick.’ Keith jumped at the unexpectedly sharp feel of a hair plucked from his head.

"What are you . . ." he began, turning to face his lover, his irritation plain. However, Lance bent down, his mouth close to Keith’s ear, one arm around his neck again, making him face forward.

"Keith, how long have we known each other?" he asked, seemingly apropos of nothing.

A bit puzzled by the question, and quite petulant at the amused tone in which it was asked, Keith replied, "Since we got into the Academy."

Lance nipped gently at his ear, and Keith shivered. "And how long have we been together?" he whispered, smiling as the warm gust of his breath caused another shudder.

Keith wanted to continue sounding put upon at Lance’s silly game, but his response this time was accompanied by a faint, dreamy smile. "Since we became roommates senior year . . ."

The husky chuckle in his ear set his hormones racing faster. He contemplated pulling Lance over the back of the sofa and crawling onto him to relive some of the highlights of their senior year at the Academy. In the one small corner of his brain that the blood wasn’t currently considering leaving in a hurry, he wondered at the questions . . .

Just then, Lance’s hand dipped into view over his head, thumb and forefinger pinched together, holding . . . nothing. Keith blinked in surprise. Then his breath stirred the air, and something glittered, twisting slightly in the breeze. In a trance, he reached up to examine the silvery thread more closely . . .

"It’s been a long time, then, hasn’t it? About ten years since we met. Congratulations. You have a gray hair." Lance was hard put not to laugh.

"I . . . what?" Stunned, Keith’s fingers missed the curling hair, and he gaped at it in disbelief. His hand fell into his lap.

Lance grinned. Oh, this almost made up for not being able to startle Keith as he’d intended. "It’s probably not your first, not that that will make you feel any better," he said, his mouth still by Keith’s ear. "It’s just the first one I’ve noticed." Keith didn’t react to the whisper of his breath, though. Probably too shocked by the fact that he’s not as immortal as he likes to believe, Lance thought evilly. "What do you think? Should I take credit for it? I do worry you an awful lot."

Still no response. He frowned slightly, and leaned forward, trying to see Keith’s expression. "Hello? Keith?"

"Hello? Keith?"

"I’m getting old," he whispered, still staring off into the memory. "I’m getting old . . ."

Lance blinked. That flat tone of what sounded suspiciously like horror and hopelessness was quite unexpected. For an instant, he wondered what he had expected- a groan, maybe a half-hearted swat at his hand or derriere, perhaps even a full fledged glare and the threat of no nookie- but it was certainly not what he’d received.

Now was probably the time for some extremely fast and efficient damage control. He’d never dreamed that Keith would be so insecure about aging. But I probably should have, he thought remorsefully. There’s so much that I laugh off that he takes almost too seriously.

So he crawled over the back of the sofa, and slid down to sit next to Keith. He still had the gray hair wound up in one hand, but he didn’t want Keith to see it, so he slung that arm across Keith’s shoulders.

"You’re not getting old, love," he said quietly, giving Keith a gentle squeeze. "I was just teasing you . . ."

"I’ve started to have gray hair . . . that means I’m getting old." Keith was still staring straight ahead.

"Who said?"

"My mother . . . she said I was making her old before her time . . ."

"She was just kidding, Keith."

"How would you know?" Keith asked with some bitterness. He stopped staring into the middle distance, and slid his eyes toward Lance. "You weren’t there . . ." But she was laughing, he thought.

Lance rested his forehead against Keith’s temple, and said, as if in confidence, "Didn’t you know? Gray hair isn’t caused by outside influences like worry or stress; it’s caused by genetics. If your mother went gray early, or your grandmother, or something, you’ll go gray early. It has nothing to do with the frustration I give you or the worry the Princess gives you or anything. It’s all genetics. My mom was starting to get really gray before she was 30."

"Forgive me if I find that argument less than convincing." Lance had to smile at the extremely dry tone Keith used, knowing that, in their current position, Keith wouldn’t see it. "If you’re like this now, you must have been a hellion as a child, and more than capable of driving your mother to drink, much less cause her to gray early."

Lance sat back, putting a hand to his breast. "Hey," he protested in a mock wounded tone, "that stings, it really does." But he was still smiling; if Keith could smile at him and make comments like that, he was recovering a little from the shock. And that was good. "And anyway, I’ll have you know that I was the youngest child . . ."

Keith rolled his eyes. "Probably because after you, your mom decided she couldn’t stand any more . . ."

He stuck out his tongue at that, then continued, "While I’m sure my sisters weren’t angels, Mom did mention that I was the worst of the lot. Satisfied?" When Keith nodded, smiling slightly, Lance grinned. "But I wasn’t born until my mother was just past 30. She told me she started to go gray while she was in college. And that’s younger than you are now, plus she didn’t have half the worries and stress you do, between me, Pidge, Hunk, and the Princess- especially the Princess- and losing Sven and saving Arus from the clutches of Doom on a nearly daily basis." His vision wavering at the edges, Lance took a deep breath, having winded himself. "All right?"

Keith laughed. He’d been watching, eyes wide, as Lance turned red from lack of air. "I guess . . ." He relaxed into Lance’s embrace.

"You’re so . . . solemn, sometimes," Lance murmured fondly. "You can make the silliest things into something life-threatening. Now, now," he rushed on, feeling Keith stir in his arms, "don’t get all offended. I don’t take the serious things seriously enough sometimes, I know." He let one hand stroke Keith’s hair, pressing the dark head against his shoulder. "It’s only a gray hair. Actually, it’s not gray, it’s silver. You know what my mom said? The people with dark hair don’t go gray, they go silver." He chuckled, turning his face into Keith’s hair. "So, when we all do get old, Allura’s hair won’t turn from gold to silver; she’ll go from blond to a nasty yellowish gray. Mine will probably just turn white. But you will look so distinguished, with silver streaks in your hair . . . probably starting right here." Lightly, he brushed Keith’s temple with his fingertips.

"When I was little, I told my mom that her hair looked pretty, the silver against the black." Though the words were muffled into his shoulder, Lance heard them clearly, and smiled.

"There, you see? You said it yourself. Why didn’t you listen? Please, stop feeling bad about this. I’m sorry I teased you, but I didn’t know you’d take it that way." He said the last in a low, very apologetic tone.

"Yeah, I know. And I’m sorry I overreacted."

"’S’all right." There was a long moment of silence, the only sounds in the room their quiet breathing and the whisper of Lance’s fingers through Keith’s hair.

Quietly, Keith asked, "Was any of what you said true, about it being genetics rather than stress?"

"Did it make you feel better?" Lance countered immediately.

"Yeah, a little."

"Then it’s all true." He grinned as Keith poked him in the ribs. "Anyway, so what if we get old? I’ll still love you tomorrow, and when we’re 30, and at 85 and . . ."

"Oh, will I never be rid of you?" But the potential hurt in Keith’s words was undermined by the joy in his voice, and the way his arms wrapped tightly around Lance.

"You’ll have to beat me off with my own cane," Lance assured him.

"A cane, huh? Sounds like you’re planning to grow old gracefully." Keith shifted against him as he spoke, but made no move to pull away.

Lance’s grin grew wider. "Can’t fight the rain, love, and you look silly trying."

"I suppose you’re right."

Again, there was silence.

Then, in his most falsely innocent voice, Keith asked, "So what’s the deal with that bottle of hair dye in your bathroom, then?"

***

May 30, 2002

© randi (K. Shepard), 2002.