There, nestled against my pulse

Chapter 4

"Alright, team, good work," Shiro says. He wipes a hand across his forehead. "You all know what to work on, but training's done for the day. Get some rest."

They all make noises of acknowledgement, but otherwise don't move from their slumped positions on the training room floor.

Keith leans back against the wall and looks over the room. Pidge lies spread-eagled on her back, eyes closed behind her glasses. Hunk sits a couple feet from her, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed as he takes deep, controlled breaths.

Keith sighs. He should probably start his cool-down exercises too, but Allura pushed them extra hard today and he can't feel his arms. He opens an eye to peek over at her and if he had the energy, he'd scowl. She's sweating, sure, but just barely, not even having the decency to gasp for breath like the rest of them as she stands there talking to Coran.

"Hey."

Something cold touches his cheek. Keith flinches, but then groans, leaning into the blessedly refreshing chill. He reaches up, blindly grasping at what he's sure is a juice pouch. It feels like a small handful of heaven and he cups it in his hands, pressing it to one cheek and then the other.

"Well, okay, then," someone says, amused.

Keith tilts his head up, squinting.

Lance is already bending down, sliding against the wall to sit beside Keith. He's drinking a juice pouch of his own, fingers squeezing the plastic. His nails are perfectly rounded, and the callouses of his fingers and palm are reddened from training.

He took down twice the number of drones today, compared to last week. Keith hates that he notices any of this.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Keith tugs the straw from its packaging, and pokes it into the hole. Or, tries to, anyway. His arms are too weak and flimsy, like wet paper. Pressing harder only seems to bend the plastic under it, and he should feel frustrated, but mostly, he's just really tired and wants a drink, dammit. He stares down at his pouch. Why is this so hard.

"Oh my god," Lance says, "just give—give it here. Please don't make that face, I can't take it."

"What face?"

Keith lets the pouch be plucked from his hands, watching as Lance punches the straw through with deft fingers. He hands it back and Keith eagerly grabs for it, bringing it to his mouth and sucking down an entire mouthful in a second.

Lance puts a hand over his face. "Your pout. Your grabby hands. It's unnatural. Please never do that ever again."

"I don't know what you're talking about." God, Keith would kill for another one of these.

Lance looks at him, mouth twitching. "Dude, what is with you and excessive bodily harm?"

Keith flushes. He didn't realise he said that out loud.

"And how are you drinking that so fast; you're almost finished." And then Lance's hand is tilting toward Keith and—

Keith blinks down at Lance's pouch, inches from his mouth. What?

"Here," says Lance, "you can have mine. Yours was the last one and I don't really like this flavour anyway."

He gestures with the pouch and the back of his hand brushes against Keith's gloves.

The soulmarks on his wrists feel like they're burning. Keith absently makes a mental note to wash his gloves. Maybe Lance was right about them getting gross, if they've started giving him rashes now.