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autisticlancemcclain · 2 years

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Keith blinks.

It was — it had been right there.

Right?

He squeezes his eyes shut, thinking back. No, it had been. He’s sure of it. It had been on the hangar right next to his fancy schmancy Altean suit, which was the worst thing in the world and something he avoided at any and all costs. (One frequent cost, for example, being his dignity. Take last week. The team was tasked to attend some stuffy gala, and the formalwear was non negotiable. No chance of wearing his armour instead. Well, there was no chance of Keith wearing that stupid fucking suit, so he’d had the wonderful idea to fake a case of intense diarrhea so he could skip the gala entirely. He was real proud of that excuse, too, until the self-appointed Garrison Trio started giggling to themselves, and he’d realized — too late — that he’d taken a pretty large L.)

Forcing his brain back to the problem at hand — truly a herculean effort — he glares at the closet and all its contents harder. Maybe he’d somehow misremembered? He flicks through each of the garments in his closet, one by one, but he still doesn’t see it. Confused and a little frustrated, he starts throwing shit out of his closet on into his bed, wondering if it’s somehow hidden by the other clothes.

Nothing.

Fully annoyed, now, he starts digging through his dresser drawers, wondering if he had somehow completely misplaced it, but nothing turns up. He throws his hands up in indignation, finally giving up on the apparently fruitless search.

His favourite flannel! Missing!

Scowling, Keith shrugs on a random black shirt. He glances around the piles of clothing strewn about his room, and decides it’s not a problem for Current Keith, and Future Keith can handle it.

He makes his surly way down to the common room, as was his original intention, just…colder. (Does he have other flannel shirts he could wear? Yeah. But he wants his blue flannel today. His fancy flannel. His favourite flannel. So he will suffer until damn well finds it, because no other flannel is going to cut it now that he has his mind set on the one he wants.)

Hmph.

As he walks, he toys with the idea that perhaps someone else knows where his flannel is. Maybe he left it around, somewhere, and someone picked it up? He tends to be forgetful, so it’s very possible. Maybe he left it in the kitchen when he was helping Hunk bake last week? (‘Helping’ being the operative word. He was sitting on the counter and bitching about various things that had pissed him off that week, because Hunk has forbidden him from touching anything kitchen related — you blow up one damn spaghetti pot and you get a lifetime ban, so unfair — but Hunk is also insatiable for any form of drama.) Or maybe he left it in Pidge’s workroom, when he was handing her tools a couple days ago. Or maybe he left it in the training room when he was sparring with Allura and Shiro yesterday?

Man, but he was so fucking sure he saw it in his closet!

He walks into the common room with a scowl that could turn air to stone, admittedly stomping a little.

“Hey, Keith,” Hunk greets absentmindedly, fully engrossed in what looks to be an intense staring contest with Pidge.

Keith decides he doesn’t want to know.

“Has anyone seen my flannel?”

“Isn’t your closet, like, 80% flannel, you useless gay person?” Pidge asks, which earns her a flick on the ear (and subsequently makes her lose her staring contest with Hunk, which has two direct consequences: Keith is now in Hunk’s good book — which means more treats and preferential kitchen chore treatment, hell yeah — and in Pidge’s bad book — which means Keith has to Watch His Back for the foreseeable future, yikes).

“I have a normal amount of flannel,” Keith says, lying and unashamed about it. “Anyway. I was talking about my good flannel. The blue one. The formal one.”

“There’s no such thing as formal flannel,” Allura says, looking at him with disdain. “You fashion disaster.”

Keith sniffs. “It is so fancy. It’s got a nice collar and buttons on the cuffs. That’s formal, right there.”

“What’s that term Lance used? What was — oh, yeah.” Allura gives him a deadpan look. “Okay, you country fucking bumpkin.”

Keith lets that sit there for a moment.

“You should go back to being annoyed every time Lance walks into the room,” Shiro says sagely. “I miss when you didn’t know what fuck meant.”

Allura shrugs. “I’ve made my peace with it. Unfortunately for me, he’s funny, so.”

“Guys,” Keith says again, with more urgency, but he is still largely ignored because his family is full of mean people. “Important problem at hand. My flannel. It’s missing.”

Pidge and Hunk have now moved from intense staring contest to a furious round of rock-paper-scissors, so they offer no input.

“You know, I bet Lance has it.”

It’s the first helpful piece of information Keith’s heard all day. Shiro is officially re-instated as his favourite brother. (He was knocked down yesterday because he stole all Keith’s fucking almost-peanut butter ice cream, and Keith barely held back from killing him for real, because how fucking dare he. He’s lucky he’s stronger than Keith and that Keith loves him, or else he would be dead.)

“Lance? Why would he have my flannel?”

“Because he never wears his own fucking clothes,” Hunk says, scowling as Pidge beats him — scissors to his paper. “I swear to god. He didn’t even come to space in his own clothes. He was wearing Marco’s jacket and Veronica’s jeans. He steals my hoodies on a regular basis.”

“He steals my socks on a regular basis because he is the worst,” Pidge complains. “He fucking stretches them every time. Why are older brothers so obsessed with doing that?”

Shiro, looking pointedly away because he’s an asshole who is also guilty of doing that (Pidge is right — seriously, why??) and pipes up next. “He keeps stealing my pants. I don’t even know why. They’re too big for him.”

“None of you get to complain,” Allura says venomously. “He has raided my closet at least three times a week since he fucking got here, I swear on the sky. I keep having to steal all my favourite skirts back! It’s not fair!”

Keith feels something like jealousy writhe around in his stomach, which is stupid. He’s not jealous that Lance doesn’t steal his clothes.

He’s happy. Lance’s stupid stinky butt shouldn’t be in his clothes, anyway. This is a good thing.

“Lance never steals my clothes,” Keith says, unable to tamp down a scowl. “So that can’t be it.”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth that Lance comes waltzing into the room, pleases as punch, visibly smirking.

He fucking is wearing Keith’s good blue flannel.

The bitch.

“You stole my fucking shirt!”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Lance says breezily, draping himself on top of Pidge, who immediately sends him tumbling to the floor via hard shove. Lance is not phased in the slightest, and simply gets up and drapes himself over Hunk, who has had over ten years to get used to Lance as a person and so he does not react. “I bought this shirt for myself at the space mall.”

Keith is incensed. Fuming. Rage-filled.

(And a little pleased to see that Lance is wearing his clothes.)

(A little.)

(Like, the most minuscule, tiny amount. It doesn’t even count, really.)

“Take it off, you asshole! It’s mine!”

Lance hums, insufferably smug. He doesn’t even have the decency to look at Keith, pretending instead to investigate his nails. “No.”

That’s — it’s the self-satisfied smirk, Keith thinks. That’s what makes him snap. He wants to wipe it off so fucking badly. That fucking smirk haunts his dreams.

(Nightmares! Nightmares! He fucking meant nightmares!)

He lunges at Lance, snarling, who shrieks at the top of his lungs and begs Hunk for protection.

Hunk does not provide it. (Hell yeah. Keith knew being on his good side would be awesome.)

Lance, who is woefully unprepared, has nowhere to go when Keith tackles him to the ground, sitting on top of him. He immediately tries to unbutton the flannel and rip it off, and Lance, who is screeching so loud that they can likely hear him from Earth, is desperately trying to button it back on. Keith pins Lance’s wrists above his head to stop him.

“Stay still, you brat,” Keith growls.

Lance keens. His face lights up bright red, pupils dilating so wide they almost swallow up the brown of his irises. He stops struggling.

Keith freezes, captivated by the heat pouring off Lance’s face in waves.

Holy shit.

“You’re blushing.”

“Fuck off! Fuck right off! No I’m not!”

“You are.” Keith’s voice is almost awed. Unbidden, his free hand comes up Lance’s face, backs of his fingers pressing to his cheek.

“Oh my God,” comes a gleeful mutter behind him, along with a camera shutter. It shocks Keith right out of his stupor, and he throws himself off Lance’s lap — holy fuck, he was on Lance’s lap — with a strangled shout.

“G-give me my flannel!” Keith yells, ignoring how red his own face is getting.

“Fine,” Lance says, voice stretched and reedy. His fingers shake as he unbuttons the shirt.

Keith’s mouth goes dry, watching those long brown fingers fiddle with the buttons.

Oh, no.

Oh no.

“I love my life,” Shiro says, rubbing his hands together like a goddamn cartoon villain.

Lance shoves the flannel in Keith’s face, and then scrambles to sit next to Allura (who, he says, is the only person who hasn’t betrayed him).

The flannel is warm. Keith is already sweating.

Lance is still redder than Keith’s lion. Keith wants to bite him.

Oh, God.

What is he doing to do?

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