There, nestled against my pulse

Chapter 3

"Do you ever wash those," is what Lance says the moment Keith walks out of his room.

He glances across the hallway and rolls his eyes.

Lance stands there with his arms crossed, glaring at Keith's gloves. Of course it's his gloves.

Last week it was his shoes and how they stink. The week before that had non-stop jibes at his pores, of all things, and interspersed with predictable mullet comments. The entirety of last month saw Lance grumbling about the stains on Keith's shirt, which Keith was one-hundred percent certain he was lying about because you can't see stains on black and Keith would know, he wore this exact shirt for two weeks without anyone noticing the mustard stain dead center.

To be fair, that was when he was living out in the desert, but whatever.

"Do you just stand out here waiting for me every morning?" Keith retorts. "Because this is the fourth time this week I've had to see your face first, out of everyone on this ship."

Not that I mind, he doesn't say. It's a nice face.

Lance snorts and starts for the dining room, brushing past Keith. "Right, because I would absolutely take the time to do something that dumb."

"I mean," says Keith, "there was that time where you tried to convince Hunk the food goo was haunted again but just ended up with your pants full of—"

Lance whips around and points a finger at Keith's nose. "You. Shut up."

Keith stares down at the finger. Looks back up. Raises an eyebrow.

Lance narrows his eyes. "I do not wait around your door just to ask you if your gloves are dirtier than they look."

"I don't know, that's kind of what just happened," Keith says, and he digs his nails into his palms because it's getting difficult not to laugh at the rising flush on Lance's cheeks. Cute.

"Wha—well, I bet you don't wash them anyway!"

"Yeah, you're right." Keith nods decisively. "I've never washed them, and I never will. I like to have my hands forever caked in dirt and sweat and blood. It's great for the grip it gives me with my sword."

He makes a fist, shakes it for emphasis, and starts walking again. He has to force himself not to react to the hilarious mix of angered and confused noises Lance makes as he catches up to Keith.

"Why are you so concerned anyway? It's not like I touch anything you own with my dirty hands," Keith says.

Lance gestures vaguely with a wide, sweeping hand. Keith ducks under it, sighing.

"You're just! Always wearing it. It's suspicious. You gonna sue me for being curious?"

Keith glances over at him. Lance genuinely doesn't look anything else but inquisitive, in that irritated way he gets when he's stuck his teeth into something and is determined not to let go until he's satisfied. Keith gets flashbacks of him hunched over under a blanket, thumbs stabbing away at a game controller and staring dry-eyed at a screen proclaiming KILLBOT PHANTASM I.

"...It really is for better grip," he says, which is half the truth.

It's less conspicuous than leather bands, is the other half.

They're almost at the dining room doors and Keith stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket, noting how Lance's gaze flicks down to them.

"That's it?" Lance asks doubtfully, "You wear them to eat, too. Is that for better grip with your spoon?"

Keith feels a flare of irritation at the tone, but he swallows it down. It's too early to get into this with Lance again. "My hands get cold, alright?"