Shiro Had Warned Him. Hunk Had Warned Him. Coran Had Warned Him. Hell, Keith Had Even Warned Him, And

Shiro had warned him. Hunk had warned him. Coran had warned him. Hell, Keith had even warned him, and offered one of his hoodies.

But had Lance listened? No, of course not. His stubborn ass refused any sort of layer and marched right out to the chilly planet in nothing but his jeans and baseball tee (he forwent his jacket in what Keith firmly believed to be spite), denying that he was cold through teeth chattering so badly that none of his words were actually legible by the time the negotiations wrapped up and they headed home.

“You sure you don’t want my hoodie?” Keith had asked, admittedly a little smug.

“Ch — choke to d — death,” Lance had replied, with as much dignity as he could with his lips turning blue.

(It’s not even that the planet was below freezing, or anything. It was maybe 14°C, give or take a couple degrees. But Lance had the shittiest circulation of anyone Keith had ever met, and as a result could not stay in cold environments very long without really starting to feel it. Sometimes Keith affectionately called him his little gecko, which Lance hated and everyone else found hilarious. Keith will admit that the gecko comment may have been part of the reason that Lance refused to wear a goddamned hoodie.)

Regardless of the reason for the Red Paladin’s stubbornness, when he walked into the kitchen the next morning with a red nose and a duvet wrapped around his shoulders, looking absolutely miserable, Keith can’t quite hide his smile.

He’s not the only one.

“Morning, popsicle,” Pidge greets, smirking.

Lance doesn’t even look at her, squinting at the space in front of him with bleary eyes. “Go fuck yourself.”

Hunk smiles into his cup, shaking his head, but Shiro has the good grace to at least look sympathetic.

“Got a little cold, there, buddy?”

“I’m actually dying.”

Allura snorts. “You don’t have to milk it, doofus. I’m not going to make you train like that.”

Lance sniffles, coughing wetly into his elbow. Keith starts to feel the first stirrings of pity in his gut.

“Good, because I might have died. My shrivelled lungs would have given out and collapsed, and that would be on your conscious.”

“Your lungs are fine, dear,” Coran says, eyes twinkling.

Lance tries to scoff, but it gets caught in his throat and turns into another cough. “None of you love me.”

He finally shuffles over to the food goo machine, squeezing out the smallest bowl Keith has ever seen him eat — his appetite must be shot — and makes his miserable way back over to the table, collapsing next to Keith.

As soon as he’s settled, Keith hooks his ankle around the leg of Lance’s chair, dragging him closer. He throws his arm around his boyfriend’s shoulder hoping his ‘seriously insane levels of human furnace — are you half Galra or half red sun’ (Lance’s words, obviously) will help Lance feel a little comfier. He pulls back the duvet hood just enough to expose Lance’s face a little, and presses a kiss to his temple.

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” he whispers, “even if I damn well told you to wear a jacket.”

Lance huffs, but a smile threatens to break free of the deep frown he’s forcing on his face.

“Shut up.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, jerk.”