A blast, to his left. He dodges, watches as it hits the wall beside him. Watches as it explodes hot and white in a burst of shrapnel and fire, chest tightening with the realization that it was supposed to land just above his heart.
Hands, all over him. Hungry, needy, and shaking. They fumble with the armour on his chest until he’s relieved of it, and warm palms are caressing every inch of him like they’re starving for it. His heart pounds in his chest, in his ears, pumping blood to his cheeks as they heat and his lips as they bruise against the hungry mouth looking to devour him.
A routine mission turned chaotic, a peaceful planet turned upside down. Shiro is shouting something, he can see his lips moving, but all he can hear is gunfire.
The sound of armour hitting the floor, of sharp inhales and hot exhales. They don’t try to speak, there’s nothing to say that they can’t already see burning in the others eyes, burning in every touch they leave against each other’s skin.
Fire, surrounding him. Smoke filling his lungs, clouding his vision, fogging his mind. But all he can think of is that he can’t see him, can’t find him. He has to find him.
Fire, in his veins as lips crash together, as teeth scrape teeth, as he opens to the boy desperately trying to taste him. It’s messy and it’s desperate, and it tastes like blood and salt and smoke. But it feels like him — it feels like Lance. He grips the sharp curves of Lance's jaw, thumbs hooked against cheeks covered in ash. He’s pushed against a wall until their bodies are flush, and he thinks he’s never been closer to him. His heart aches and his arms try to draw him in, in, in. He isn’t close enough.
When he sees him, his heart nearly stops. Blue armour sprawled across the dirty ground, a head of chestnut hair exposed as a helmet rolls a few feet from where he lays. But then, he moves, and he’s shouting, and he’s still alive. He’s alive. His body makes the decision to move before his mind can catch up, and he’s running. With burning lungs and trembling legs, he’s running.
They’re alive, they’re both alive. Keith knows, because he can feel Lance’s heartbeat against his own. Feel his skin against the rough palms of his hands, the hot breaths against the shell of his ear, the hungry lips against the curve of his neck. He runs his fingers through chestnut hair, grips the locks at the base of his nape like they’re a tether to his sanity. He doesn't know when his feet leave the floor but he doesn't care, the legs he wraps around the sturdy waist against him only serve as a means for drawing nearer. Hands run up corded muscles pulled taut, pulling and pulling so that they can be closer, be closer. Until he forgets his own name, forgets where he is and why he’s here, until the lines that separate blur into lines that bind. Of heart beats and nail tracks and shaking hands, of bruises and gasps and teeth against the pulse point of his neck. Lance sobs and he swallows it with his lips, mixes tears and ash as he tries to wipe them away. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing at all except the body against him that’s his and that’s him and that’s alive.