Author's Note: Written for day 5 of Klance Week (Ice/Fire). A little late, sorry about that.

Enjoy!

There are some days that are hard.

There are some days that are really hard, and all Lance wants to do is fall asleep for a thousand years. When they come inside from a mission that wasn't as successful as the others, from a mission where there was more loss than victory, and it feels like the weight of the universe is going to roll over them, crush them.

Why are we doing this? What's the point?

Today is one of those days. The air is cold and dead, and so is most everyone else, Galra and civilian alike. Lance shivers as he comes back on board the ship. The cold has seeped into his bones and turned him silent, and he can't be bothered to say or do anything.

What's the point?

It's not fun anymore.

He stands in the main hall and stares at everyone. They're all lost, quiet, eyes floating off into emptiness.

The cold is numbing.

They start to branch away, shuffling to the various corners of the ship to reflect, or cry, or feel nothing at all. Lance wonders if he feels nothing. He doesn't think he does.

His shoulders begin to shake.

I feel cold.

His feet find their way back to his room. He stops in the doorway, feeling something icy, because he shouldn't be okay, he shouldn't - If all those people aren't allowed to be okay, then why am I?

I'm not okay.

It's too quiet, it's too dark. Shadows fall along the walls, elongated, monstrous images, and his whole body is shaking now as he stumbles forward, and the cold has frozen him inside. He falls onto his bed, feels it creak loudly, the only sound in this screaming silence.

He stares at his hand and sees blood, and he stares at his ceiling and feels it drip on him, and he closes his eyes, but he can taste it, its coppery tang like metal on his tongue. He feels it choking him.

Where will they go? All those people? What will they do?

His hands are trembling. He scrubs them over his face. He's tired. He's so tired.

They won't go anywhere. They're dead. You weren't fast enough.

He thinks about them dancing. He thinks about them laughing, singing, picking flowers and feeling happiness, and he thinks about them disappearing in the blink of an eye, a million stars wiped out in an instant.

It's hard to breathe. I wasn't fast enough. I wasn't fast enough.

I couldn't help them. I couldn't do my job.

I failed.

I'm a failure.

He aches, all the way to the depths of his soul.

There's a gentle touch on his shoulder. He opens his eyes.

Keith.

They stare at each other for a few seconds. I don't want him here. I don't want him to get cold.

Keith reaches out and brushes a lock of hair out of Lance's eyes. It's gotten longer, Lance realizes. Time is passing.

"How are you feeling?" He looks so worried. I don't like that. He has more important things to worry about.

Lance shrugs his shoulders and turns over. It's so cold. It's too cold for you.

"Lance?"

He doesn't respond. He squeezes his eyes shut and curls into himself. He's shaking.

There's a pause, and he thinks for a moment that Keith's left, and his heart stutters, even though that's what he wants. What he thinks he wants.

But then he feels the bed creak and dip underneath him again, and arms wrap around his waist and pull him in close until his back is pressed against something solid. Keith's chest.

No, Lance thinks, because he doesn't want Keith to feel this way, the way Lance is feeling right now. He doesn't want him to feel numb. He tries to push him away, but it's half-hearted and weak.

Keith rests his chin on Lance's shoulder and noses his neck. Lance swallows. "Don't."

There's quiet.

"You're too cold, Lance," Keith whispers after a moment, and Lance feels something heavy and breakable fall over them.

He closes his eyes. "So are all of those people."

Silence.

That's done it, Lance thinks. Now he'll leave.

"Then be warm for them. Be warm for their sake."

Lance's heart hurts suddenly, as if Keith's words have pierced through him, and he feels so much pain, too much pain, more than before, because now the ice has been broken. He breathes raggedly, and his eyes open and fly wildly around the room. I don't know where to look. I don't know what to think.

Keith doesn't say anything.

"But it's our fault." Lance's voice is so quiet, he wonders if Keith can hear him at all. "It's my fault. If we'd just been faster-"

"I know."

"If we'd only gotten there sooner-"

"I know."

He feels himself babbling, feels the ice melt and roll down his cheeks. He can hear his heartbeat in his head. "It's not fair, it's just not fair, Keith, why should they have to die? Why do I have to be the one to save them? I can't do it, I can't have their lives in my hands anymore, I can't do this-"

"Shhh," Keith says, and Lance shudders and turns over and presses his face into Keith's neck, and Keith runs his hands up and down Lance's back, and it's warm. He's so warm. I didn't know any person could be this warm. Tears drip onto Keith's shirt, and Lance clutches on to him because what else is there to do?

They stay like that for a long time.

He's so warm.

I feel so small.

"It'll be all right, won't it?" Lance asks, and his voice sounds weird in his own ears, young. "Won't it, Keith?" He pulls back to look at Keith's eyes, because it has to be, this can't be the norm, it can't go on like this. His words are punctuated with gasps. "Because if it's not, I don't want to do it. I don't think I can do it."

Keith looks at him, and Lance knows what his answer is, and the words break off in Lance's throat. He buries his face in Keith's chest, and Keith kisses the top of his head and whispers something to him, something about life and death and how they can't save everyone.

Lance doesn't hear him. He can't hear him. It's so cold inside.

But at least he's warm.