a love like an anagram

Pairing:Nursey/Dex

Words:20.5k

Rating:General

Warnings: No Warnings Apply

Tags:POV Derek “Nursey” Nurse, Poet Derek “Nursey” Nurse, Frenemies, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings Realization, The D-Men Bond is Sacred and Gay

Summary:

Dex cracks first because he’s always the one who does. “So, are you going to say it or should I?”

“Say what?”

Dex nails him in the shoulder. “You know what.”

Derek thinks he might. He manages to squeeze in the last of his books on the bottom shelf of his newly gifted bookcase and leans back to survey the entire thing. It’s a perfect fit, but he knew it would be. “You don’t hate me.”

“I actually don’t,” Dex says and there’s a hint of wonder in his voice.

(Or, Nursey and Dex realize that they might maybe more than tolerate each other.)

[Part 1 of Triangular Theory of Love Series]

READ IT ON AO3

Pairing:Keith/Lance
Words:10.5k
Rating:M
Warnings: mild violence
Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

READ IT ON AO3

The day of the Alliance Feast comes and Keith finds himself sulking in a corner as he watches an alien chat Lance up.

Allura had stuffed them all in Altean formal wear, color-coded and high-collared, capes draped tastefully across their shoulders. The material of the suits are surprisingly breathable despite all its excess, stretching and bunching up in just the right places to cut them all into impressive figures. The princess had been very particular in how she wanted them all to look and had forced herself into more than one fitting room back at the Garrison; Shiro’s hair is slicked back, Hunk’s headband folded into the pocket of his jacket, Keith’s loose ponytail tied with a red ribbon, Lance’s waist adorned by a silver chain and Pidge’s glasses exchanged for a sleeker pair. If the star-eyed looks they’ve been receiving ever since they landed on New Altea is anything to go by then she must have succeeded.

Lance, Keith must admit, looks particularly dashing. His suit makes his shoulders look broader and it’s a problem. More so because it’s obvious that the red paladin isn’t the only one to take notice, more than one individual coming forward to introduce themselves to the friendliest member of Voltron.

Keith glares.

The alien doesn’t take the hint and keeps talking, going so far as to place one of their four hands on the blue paladin’s upper arm when they laugh. Lance looks pleased.

“You should go talk to him.”

A crick forms in his neck when he jerks to attention at Allura’s voice. She fills up the once empty space next to him, having somehow snuck up on him, wearing low heels and a pale pink dress; she looks the epitome of aristocratic, with jewels dripping across her collarbone and dangling from her ears. His heart jumps at her words when they finally register, unable to help the quick glance he sends to the tables. “No,” he says immediately, turning away when he catches the unilu delegate peering at him from over the blue paladin’s shoulder. “He looks fine where he is. I don’t want to butt in.”

The princess frowns, obviously displeased at his reluctance. She crosses her arms and juts out a hip in a move that’s far too Keith-ish in nature for his liking. “You know, Lance loves to dance and—”

“Awesome,” Keith grouses.

Allura glares. “—and I’m sure he would say yes to one if someone asked.”

There’s no denying that the blue paladin has had no shortage of dance partners; ever since the band had started playing the boy had been on and off the dancefloor, spinning past him with someone new every few minutes. Some bitterness sneaks into his tone when he says, “I’ve noticed.”

“Now that’s not fair. You’ve had all evening to make your move. Don’t be upset that others are doing what you can’t.”

The words sting and Keith isn’t quick enough to hide it.

Allura’s expressions soften and he bristles a bit, less at the thought of being the recipient of someone’s pity and more knowing that he’s actively doing everything to deserve it. “Keith,” she says, and it’s soft and encouraging. “You are one of the most courageous people I know and you’ve faced things far more imposing than this.” She ducks her head to look him in the face. “It’s just Lance.”

“I know,” he says eventually, making a visible effort to relax. He sighs. “I know. It’s just… I don’t want to mess it up.”

“There’s nothing to mess up,” she assures, touching his arm. “Lance is a fellow paladin and, more importantly, your friend. You’ve been through much together and nothing could break the bond you have because of it.” She pauses, carefully manicured hands digging into his sleeve. “And if he’s the one from those visions of yours then talking to him would be the first step towards the rest of your life.”

He really regrets telling her about the flashes.

“It’s him, isn’t it.” It’s more of a fact than a question and Keith can’t even conjure up the energy to deny it.

Lance laughs again.

At his silence, Allura gasps. “I knew it! Oh! How romantic! It’s just like those books Hunk recommended to me, but better because—well, this is real, isn’t it?” Her hands clap together excitedly. “To think, the history you share is just a precursor of what is to come. It must be destiny!”

“Allura,” he warns.

“If he is from the visions, then you mustn’t just talk to him. You have to dance with Lance too! Keith, you absolutely must!”

“I don’t think that’s the best idea.”

“And why not?”

“Because, well, we’re not… it’s complicated. Plus, I don’t really dance.”

Allura tuts at him, booping him on the nose as she takes on a tone of one talking to an ignorant toddler. “Not with that attitude, you don’t. Come on. It will be fun.”

“And what if I don’t wanna have fun?”

The princess purses her lips and she tugs at his sleeve impatiently. He resists when she makes a move to drag him away from his corner, twisting away from her with a scowl. Knowing of her strength and how it outmatches his by miles, he karate chops her other hand when it reaches out for him. She gasps, offended at his defiance, and then redoubles her efforts.

“Why must you be so difficult?” she growls, circlet slipping over one pointed ear as she shoves herself in his space. Her elbow digs uncomfortably in his gut as her other hand fumbles for the wrist of his hand. “I’m only trying to help.”

“Allura, I swear—”

“Well, don’t you two look cozy.”

The two freeze and it’s almost comical, getting caught like this—the red paladin and the altean princess, important figures in their own right, mid-scuffle and cursing at each other—yet Keith doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t laugh because while they had been arguing, a figure had snuck up on them. A figure with very broad shoulders.

Allura recovers first. “Lance!”

The boy belonging to the name smiles. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Of course!” Allura gushes, letting go of Keith and all but pushing him at the blue paladin regardless of the fact that he hadn’t specified who he wanted to dance with. She takes a moment to fix her appearance, smoothing down hair and adjusting her dress, looking haughty. “I’ve gotta find Coran and make sure he’s not overdoing it on the nunvill, so you boys enjoy yourselves.”

And with that, she leaves. Leaves Keith in the middle of a party with his bonafide first and only crush.

He looks up and meets Lance’s eyes. It’s been months since he came back from the abyss and the half inch he had over the other boy is gone now, making them eye level. He knows neither of them are done growing and their heights will continue to change but Keith finds that he likes it this way for now.

“So,” Lance starts, biting his lip. “Dance?”

A quick look across the hall and his stomach flutters nervously. “I’ve never really…”

But Lance is already moving right along, grabbing his hand and tugging him in the direction of the dancefloor. Dazed, Keith lets it happen, focus torn between their clasped hands and the back of the other’s head. The crowd parts easily for them, curious looks and whispers following at their heels only to be hastily hidden when he glances away from the pinking ears of his partner. Lance must be determined to ignore their audience, expertly spinning Keith around to face him and guiding their bodies in a starting position.

The music is already in full swing and Lance takes a step to match that of the other dancers, gently tugging Keith along in a strange mix of a waltz and shuffle, confident where he is stiff.

After maybe a half a minute where they steadily avoided each other’s eye, Keith speaks up. “Is this something we do now? Dance.”

Blue eyes flicker past his face and he doesn’t have to imagine the silent conversation that’s happening over his shoulder. Lightning quick he looks behind him, but, much to his chagrin, Hunk has already schooled his expression from where he sits at one of the many tables and is staring back at him with all too innocent eyes.

Lance clears his throat and Keith turns back to a nervous smile. “Yeah, I thought we could try it out… See how you—er, we feel about it.”

There must have been something in the drink he had earlier of his because Keith can feel himself melting.

“It’s nice,” he says, watching as the other boy’s smile turns into something more lighthearted. “I’m not very good but, yeah, it’s… it’s nice.”

Eyes twinkle in the warm light. “I think it’s nice too.”

There’s a bit of a hitch in the music and Keith spies a few of the musicians being switched out, exchanging string instruments for ones that look like a cross between trumpets and accordions. It must be getting later in the evening because some of the dancers leave, replaced by a much younger crowd. He spots a few familiar faces, both humans—Atlas technicians, old classmates, Garrison faculty—and aliens—bounty hunters, altean colonists, royal dignitaries—all unabashedly shedding their professional appearance in exchange for a good time. The energy pulses upwards, pushing them closer together and causing the weird rumbling in Keith’s chest to give way to butterflies, transparent wings brushing along the inside of his ribs in a way that has his heart thumping madly.

When the song increases in tempo Keith accidentally steps on Lance’s foot. He cringes. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Lance assures. ”Just lighten your steps and pretend it’s a training session. Move with me, not against me.”

Keith tries the step again and nearly trips over his own feet when he miscalculates how many times his partner would step back, causing a table of girls nearby to twitter with amusement at the sight of him. Lance doesn’t mock him for his clumsiness, just adjusts his hand so it presses a bit lower on his back; Keith feels the touch like a brand, barely catching onto the way his palm shifts in accordance to the next step.

It gives Keith something to focus on and, eventually, he falls in line with the steps.

“See? You’re a natural.”

Keith snorts and Lance grins, proud. “Not really—not like you anyway. How did you get to be so good?”

“I’m Cuban,” he says as a means of explanation, swinging his hips leisurely with the beat a drummer starts playing, obviously enjoying himself. It’s… distracting. Especially when the song changes to something with more bass and he lines their bodies together, starting up a heavy sway that Keith falls into after the initial jerk of surprise. Then there’s a thigh fitting between his legs and Lance is letting go of one hip to guide his gloved hand to the small of his back, casual as can be as the boy rolls back into the touch.

“This is, um.” Keith takes in a shaky breath. “I’ve never done this before.”

“Yeah, I don’t think there are many opportunities for this out in the desert. You really missed out—the Garrison dances always ended up this way. Didn’t matter how many chaperones they assigned.” Lance’s voice is level with his ear, their cheeks brushing as they move to the music, causing goosebumps when he feels the contradictory smooth-roughness of the other’s freshly shaved skin. “But we’ll count this as making up for all the ones you missed. Better late than never, right?”

Breathing is difficult but Keith manages it, if only just. “Right.”

Lance makes a noncommittal hum, pressing closer to let a couple trip pass them. Keith watches them go from his view over Lance’s shoulder, only slightly scandalized when the shorter alien unabashedly slips a hand over their date’s backside. It causes his hand to twitch, the pad of his thumb finding the indent of his partner’s lower back through his suit. With a startling clarity, Keith realizes how far his hand has fallen and tenses, waiting for Lance to notice and take offense.

But nothing happens. No one comments on how close the two paladins have gotten, probably because they aren’t the only ones to do so. The dancefloor is a mesh of bodies, all moving to whatever dance they know and hiding them from the view of the spectators sitting at the tables. He’s not pushed away in disgust, nor is he laughed at. Instead, Lance drapes his free arm over Keith’s shoulder, smoothing down the baby hairs at the back of his neck.

It gives Keith the courage to glance over; he spies half-lidded eyes and a warm flush under golden skin. Enticed by the fluttery feeling low in his gut, he settles his remaining arm over the other’s bicep, just above the edge of his elbow-length gloves. A slow inhale, followed by an even slower exhale, and the pulse under his fingers jumps.

He’s never been held like this before, as if he was the beginning of an addictive end.

The song—the fifth they had danced to and Keith deliriously wonders where the time had gone—starts to come to a climax, and Lance stirs. He looks at the band, then the other dancers and then Keith. There’s something in his eyes and it’s like taking a deep breath before diving under, adrenaline-inducing, willing to be pulled wherever the current takes him. The moment builds like a cresting wave—higher and higher, curling with seafoam and impending desire—until Keith is sure that they’re going to crash together, that he’s going to lean in closer and kiss him. Involuntarily, he slips his eyes closed.

“And now, the big finish!”

His eyes fly back open. “What—”

But Lance is already twisting them around and throwing himself backwards. And Keith has no choice but to hastily lean with him, biceps flexing as he tightens his grip around Lance’s waist and hastily puts pressure between his shoulder blades. The top of his head barely misses cracking against the floor. Still, Lance cackles like it’s great fun.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Lance says too loudly when they’re back to standing normally, clapping with the rest of the crowd as the band announces their fifteen minute break. The moment officially over. “I usually drop my partners when I try to dip them.”

“That was embarrassing.”

“Eh, you liked it.”

A little called out, Keith hunches his shoulders and scowls. “I did not.”

But Lance goes on like he didn’t say anything, giving him a million-watt smile. “We did pretty well, all things considered. Probably cause we make such a good team.”

And how is Keith supposed to keep things together when he goes and says things like that? All sincere and butterfly-inducing. “Yeah,” he tells the boy, feeling brave and scared and more than himself, making it so that the back of their hands brush. “We really are.”

After that the party winds down.

The crowds thin and people start saying their goodbyes, respectful salutes paving way for hearty handshakes and more than one inebriated embrace. There seems to be a line forming in front of Allura, everyone wanting a final word with the princess before the night is officially over; Keith merely gives a wave as he and Lance pass her by towards where Hunk and Pidge dally around the buffet table, thinking nothing of the quick smile she gives in return before looking at the diplomat talking to her, knowing that he’ll see her tomorrow at their usual movie night.

Hunk is polishing off his plate of what looks to be pigs in a blanket while Pidge shoves leftover hors d'oeuvres into her shoulder pack. “I’ve got to get this recipe,” the former is saying when the pair come within hearing distance, looking up at the sound of their footsteps and doing a triple take before not-so-subtlety nudging his smaller companion with his elbow. With both gazes trained on them, Hunk gives a too-innocent smile. “Looks like you guys had fun. How was the dancefloor?”

“Crowded,” Keith replies at the same time Lance says, “Cozy.”

The yellow paladin’s eyes flicker between them. “Okay, yeah. Well, we were gonna head out soon… Are, um, you guys gonna…”

“It is getting pretty late,” Lance agrees, leaning forward to steal the last bit of the food from Hunk’s plate before slipping around Keith and draping an arm across his shoulders. He pops the finger food into his mouth and makes a show of chewing loudly when Keith frowns. “You’re going back to the Atlas, right?” he asks him, oblivious or uncaring of the two pairs of eyes that dissect the entire interaction. “Do you think I could hitch a ride with you? I’m staying with Veronica tonight and I think she already left.”

“Sure.”

“Cool.” Lance leans away far enough that he nearly topples the two of them over and Keith has to lightly brace his hand on the other’s waist to better balance them. “See you later, paladudes.”

They four exchange fist bumps and then the red and blue paladin are angling themselves towards the exit, Keith trying not to combust when their arms stay wrapped around each other. More than one eye sticks to them and even more bodies put themselves in front of them to give a deferential goodbye; Lance takes it in stride, giving a sincere wave here and an over-the-top wink there, and it more than makes up for Keith’s own stilted replies. He only blunders once and that’s when Shiro catches his eye over the brim of a champagne glass, smile smug and unbearable.

Finally, they make it to the building’s transport dock where the Black Lion sits docilely.

The forcefield dissipates before Keith even asks and there’s a low rumble in greeting when the pair walk up the ramp, which Lance reciprocates with a light pat to one of the wall panels before following Keith to the cockpit. Then it’s just a means of setting a course to the Atlas and watching the stars pass them by as the mechanical lion does the rest.

The Atlas is empty save for the night shift, all of whom pause in their work up in the control room to watch the Black Lion land and the two paladins that exit it make their way across the room. It is almost eerie how their footsteps sound like a military march in comparison to absolute quiet that reigns once the cabin pressurizer comes online but Keith doesn’t give himself any time to consider it, not when he has a preferable distraction walking alongside him. Lance fills in the silence easily, looking princely as he charms Keith with anecdotes of parties past, laughing alongside him as he recalls the time he had won the Winter Formal crown and the resulting awkward dance that had followed, set to an early century song that he attempts (and fails) to beatbox. It makes the trip up to the floor with their quarters all the more enjoyable and when it’s over, Keith wishes it wasn’t.

Lance flashes a smile at him. “Night, Samurai.”

He sighs in return. “Night, Sharpshooter.”

Then the boy is turning around, disappearing down the hallway with only one look over his shoulder. And Keith, not wanting to look more foolish than he already has by getting caught staring at the spot his crush had occupied, quickly unlocks his door and slips inside.

His mother is in the kitchen, slicing up something that looks like a blue tomato, and looks up when he lingers in the doorway. “You’re back,” she says neutrally, transferring the food to a serving platter and pointedly ignoring the cosmic wolf that watches her every move, drool starting to collect at the base of his largest molar. “How was the party?”

He shrugs. “It was alright.”

“Just alright?”

He shuffles away and into the living room, collapsing onto the couch. His neck cranes back, giving him a perfect view of the ceiling tiles. There’s a scorch mark in the top-right corner from when Kosmo had mistaken one of Krolia’s blasters for a chew toy. He squints at it, thinking, and his mind instantly snags onto the phantom brush of thighs and the strum of an alien guitar. Mouth dry and more than a little embarrassed, he squeezes his eyes shut.

The couch dips slightly and then a clawed hand is stroking his hair, pushing his bangs out of his face and behind his ear. The gesture quells the loud noise in his chest and he lets his head dip to the side, heated cheek squished against the cool felt of the couch.

“It was maybe more than alright,” he finally answers. For some reason, it’s this admission that had him blushing and curling his toes in secondhand gratification. “I had fun, more fun than I thought I would have anyway.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She doesn’t ask, but he knows she wants to know. Better yet, he wants to tell her.

“Everyone was there.”

She hums and continues to comb through his hair.

“Shiro, Pidge and Hunk and Allura. Lance too.” A pause where he clears his throat, far from casual. “We danced.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, it was—nice.”

They sit in silence for a bit and his mind lingers on the dance he had shared that evening. He plays it on loop, going over every detail until he could sketch it out on paper, framed and made all the more real. Eventually Krolia stops her grooming in favor of offering him a slice of the strange fruit; he takes it and plops it into his mouth without question, surprised at the sweet taste.

“It’s weird, feeling this way,” he says absently, grounded but with his head in the clouds. “Weird that this is where I am. That life’s like this now.”

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” she tells him with a hum and he would scoff at such a cliche saying if it weren’t for the way his mother says it so genuinely. “Sometimes, it takes a lifetime and a half to find your place in it. I’m glad you’ve found yours.”

The flashes start coming faster and—

—Lance’s warm hand in his as they walk through a line of stalls selling alien wares. Merchants offering gossamer scarfs the same shade as the rising sun and jewelry that shines like they’ve been plucked straight from the night sky. Gaggles of children running through the streets, laughing as they dodge through the crowds. An ornate dagger purchased and gifted—

—fingers gently rubbing a sticky substance over the stretch of his cheek while a voice drones on about the benefits of skincare—

—his shoulder leaned against a doorway as he watches Lance address a class full of recruits, eyes twinkling when they catch sight of him hidden in the shadows. The loud trill of a bell and the shuffle of children eager for lunch, tempered by the arms wrapped around his neck and the kiss bestowed on his cheek—

—the shudder that goes through him as they rock into each other, skin sweaty and breathes loud. Hands gripping his thighs and his teeth nipping at an exposed neck, leaving marks so the world would know who they belonged to, now and to the end. Words whispered in the dark just as stars burst across his vision—

—eyes connecting over a crowd, secretive and happy—

—Keith fumbling with the black box in his pocket as he paces their room, repeating the words he wants to say to the man that he loves, nervous and excited and everything that comes after—

—he never wants them to stop.

They are hanging out in Keith’s room three days after the ball, sitting on the floor and leaning against his bed as they enjoy each other’s presence. Between them, Kosmo rolls onto his back, expecting belly rubs now that they’re no longer distracted by the show they had been watching, ending credits rolling after twenty-three minutes of terrible storytelling and bad animation. Lance is talking with the assumption that Keith will listen, going on loudly about how his character in the show is the main protagonist while delivering pats to the space wolf.

And Keith is… distracted.

Distracted in a sense that he can’t focus—or rather, he can’t stop focusing. On the energetic hand gestures and the expressive emotions that flit across Lance’s face as he speaks, pausing intermittently in order to coo at Kosmo and ask his opinion on things, always answered with a happy pant and an excited tail wag that has the blue paladin nodding sagely before continuing. He focuses on the way he feels now, in this moment, content like he’s never felt before.

A wet tongue licks a stripe up Lance’s cheek and he rears back, half disgusted, half charmed, and Keith can’t keep quiet any longer. Just blurts out, “We should do something this weekend.”

His friend blinks owlishly. “What?”

There’s fire coursing through his veins, invigorating him. It gives him courage to continue, to make so that the flashes are no longer flashes but memories. “I said we should do something this weekend. Do something together.”

“Yeah, okay.”

The casualness of the answers makes him think that the boy doesn’t quite understand the request. Assumes what he’s asking is for something they’ve always done. They hang out all the time, yes, but this is different. He wants this to be different.

“No, I mean we should go out this weekend.” Keith sends him a certain look, waiting for Lance to catch on.

He doesn’t catch on. “Huh?”

Dark eyes roll toward the ceiling and Keith shakes his head, and there’s that something again and oh, it’s fondness—it’s a look of fondness quirking his lips.

“What I’m saying is…” He takes a quick moment to shift on his hip so that their knees are almost touching and, after a moment of consideration, Keith slides his hand down and over until the tips of their pinkies bump into each other. “We should go out this weekend, like go on a ride out to town. Whatever you want, really.”

Lance’s blinks once, twice, three times, and—there. Comprehension floods and it takes only half a second before a high pitched noise scratches out of the boy’s throat. His eyes are wide, comically so, and he stares at Keith, mouth parting in an eclipse of a red moon. Then, just as Keith is committing the image to memory, he snaps his mouth shut and visibly shakes himself. “O-okay, I see. You mean like a scouting mission, right? For any lingering drones out in the desert. Well, yeah, um, as long as it’s okay with Shiro—”

“No,” he quickly cuts off, partially frustrated at the gap in communication and partially embarrassed that they would need clearance for what he has in mind. “I meant—a ride together—as in, you and me. No mission. Just us… together.”

The boy swallows loudly and Keith tracks the moment involuntarily.

“Oh.”

A lapse follows, not uncomfortable, but full. Keith buzzes in the aftertaste of his impromptu proposition and holy hell, he just asked Lance out. They’ve still yet to talk about the ball and how they had danced all night, and, despite the looks they receive from their teammates, neither of them have been brave enough to breach the silent agreement of keeping whatever feelings they had to themselves. However, now everything threatens to burst. His heart finally catches up to his words, beating in overdrive as he waits for an answer. But Lance seems not to care for the nervousness pulsing in his veins or the butterflies fluttering in the base of his stomach because he keeps up the uncharacteristic silence. It remains that way for a solid thirty seconds, until, finally, Keith can’t take it anymore.

He clears his throat. “So, is that a yes?”

Lance jerks to attention, looking caught. “I, uh, what?”

“Do you want to go?”

Something incredible happens then. It’s wild and previously unthinkable, but Lance blushes.

He blinks and his vision doubles, half of it going auburn in a wash of caribbean light. He is by the waterfront, the sound of crashing waves dissolving into background noise when compared to the breathy laugh that washes over his face. Darkened cheeks lift in a smile that crinkles eyes and Keith goes a bit red himself at the image. The flash indulges him in a scene of utter bliss; velvety sand and supple lips, parting against his own.

Without thought he leans in, chasing the moment not yet passed. It causes present Lance’s eyes to go wide and it’s nothing like the cool burn of his half lidded gaze on the beach, salt drying on his lashes and sun-born freckles prickling his cheeks.

“I—ah, um. I—I’ll go.”

“Yeah?”

Lance looks away and then back. His voice is the quietest he’s ever heard. Almost shy. “Yeah.”

And it really is that easy.

The days go by slow after that, drawling in an agonizing pace. Second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour. Nearly stagnant, Keith hangs under time’s dispassionate influence, watching the clock and willing it to move. It’s a blessing when it finally hits five o’clock on the following Saturday. He stops the pacing he had been doing for the past hour and checks his reflection for the sixth time in as many minutes, tucking and untucking his shirt and running a hand in his hair in an futile attempt to tame it. When the results only further his agitation he gives up, collecting his nerves to the best of his ability making his way out the door with the intention of a quiet getaway.

Which makes him startle when he runs into Romelle outside his door, hand raised and poised to knock. “Keith! I’ve been sent to retrieve you!” He sees her gaze flicker down to take in his outfit—his cleanest pair of jeans, a corded necklace with a hanging Marmora pendant, and a leather jacket so new that its tag is stuffed in his back pocket—and he stops himself from turning back around and locking himself in his closet till the end of time. “Dinner is almost ready and Coran has made the most spectacular—”

“Actually,” he interrupts, unable to maintain eye contact, “I’ve got other plans.”

Romelle opens her mouth, but Keith, knowing the girl’s knack for rambling, is already speeding through the hallway.

Unfortunately for him, the living room is not as empty as he had previously thought. The yellow and green paladin are sitting on the couch, surrounded by a hurricane of blankets and pillows, the leftovers of a raid on Shiro’s candy stache sprawled across the coffee table.

“Aw, Keith, you look nice. What’s the occasion?”

Pidge looks up and over her screen, lips curling in a sly grin that instantly puts Keith on edge. “Yeah, Keith, where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” he says immediately. Then, “Out.”

“Out with Lance I bet. Isn’t your date today?”

Hunk gasps. “You guys are going on a date?”

“How did you…?” He spots his phone on the couch next to her and huffs angrily, stomping over and snatching it back. He quickly unlocks it, frowning when his last conversation with Lance immediately pops up, the other boy having sent a barrage of emojis in affirmation that their outing was still on. “Stop looking through my stuff and for the last time, we aren’t—it’s not a date. We’re just going for a ride, maybe check out the town market. It’s whatever.”

“I don’t know, that sounds a lot like a date to me. Hunk, any thoughts?”

Hunk has just one. “It’s totally a date.”

Heat flushes his cheeks. “Don’t you have your own quarters? Why are you even here?”

Pidge leans back, priggish smirk still in tact. “Matt and N-1 are having their rebel friends over and I didn’t want to third-wheel it, so Shiro said I could crash here for the night.”

Keith internally curses Shiro and his mother hen tendencies. Outwardly, he searches for the key card he’s pretty sure he left on the table the night before. His hair falls into his face as he ducks to check under the furniture and he brushes it back behind his ear, thinking maybe it would be more manageable in a ponytail.

“Look at him.” Pidge snickers. “What a schmuck.”

Hunk shushes her with a light pat of the arm. “I think it’s sweet. It means he cares. And don’t you worry Keith, I’m sure Lance will appreciate the effort you put into today. It’s also perfectly normal to be nervous for your first date— ”

“I’m not nervous and it’s not a date.”

Their response is lost when he goes to the office in the next room and searches there. But it’s all for naught because Shiro is a veritable mess when it comes to anything other than flying because there are papers scattered everywhere and it would take hours to file through even half of it.

When he comes back out, Allura has joined them. She perks up at the sight of him, but he ignores her in favor of checking in between the cushions of the armchair. However, Allura is not deterred. “Keith, Pidge and Hunk have just informed me of your date with Lance. If I may, I have some suggestions—”

“I don’t need any suggestions. I just need to leave or I’ll be late.” Pidge squawks indignantly when Keith shoves her to check her side of the couch.

“Yes, you’re right! Punctuality is very important for these types of things. Early duflax gets the wyvin, as Coran always says.” It seems pointless to mention that not once has he ever heard Coran say that. “But if I could impart some advice before you go. Now, I don’t know much about Earthen mating rituals, but Pidge tells me that courting is a common practice here— ”

“I’m not listening.”

“—gifts are imperative for a successful—”

“Can’t hear you.”

“—when you present, do so when tensions are high—”

“Allura, please, stop.”

“—and then, finally, you must lay claim—”

“I’m leaving,” Keith announces loudly, trying and failing to drown out the giggles that come from Hunk and Pidge’s side of the couch. Forget the keycard. It’s not worth this pain. “Bye. I hope you all have a terrible day.”

They are unfazed by his words, grinning like madmen as they wave. He stalks out of the room, shoulders hunched all the way to his ears as he desperately tries to block out the kissy noises Pidge is making. He can’t believe there was a time he was worried that they would be out of his life; he must have been having an existential crisis or something because this is a new level of embarrassing.

He’s so consumed in his thoughts that he nearly barrels into Shiro on his way out. It’s only the steady grip of his automated arms that Keith doesn’t crack his head against the doorframe and give himself a concussion.

“Whoa there. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just…”

“Looking for this?”

There, dangling from Shiro’s prosthetic fingers, is a familiar key card.

Keith lets out a deep breath, a whisper of relief cooling down the anxious fire within him by a few degrees. He sends his oldest friend a strained smile and takes them. “Yeah, thanks. Where did you find them?”

“Under the couch with one of my shoes, the holoscreen remote, Hunk’s headband, and Allura’s earrings. It seems like Kosmo’s starting a life of crime.”

He lets out a chuckle, unraveling just a little less. “I should probably put a stop to that.”

Shiro nods, patting his back in that sorta awkward, manly sort of way. It’s encouraging and he steps past the other man with a deep breath. Feeling more like himself, he secures the key card to his belt loop and turns to head down the corridor, promising himself that he’ll only start running when there’s no one to catch him doing it.

“Oh, Keith?”

Keith whips around, nerves already reinflating. “Yeah?”

Shiro fails to keep his smile in check. “Have fun on your date.”

And before he can even begin to retaliate, the door is sliding shut and he’s left there, standing in an empty hallway, red to his tips.

Lance looks nice. Really nice. Really, really, really nice. It’s actually a little distracting how nice he looks.

They had met up at the east end of the loading docks and Keith had fought to keep his cool when he had spotted the tall form of his fellow paladin casually leaning against a security rail. His white v-neck and ripped jeans contrasted with the industrial setting, his denim jacket faded and adorned with a couple of pins, sleeves rolled up to showcase the collection of beaded bracelets wrapped around his left wrist. But what had truly pulled it all together was the smile he had sent Keith upon noticing him.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” Lance returns. “You clean up good, Mullet.”

The compliment flusters him a little and he nearly walks straight into a support beam, only just managing to avoid it with a side-step that brings him close enough to brush shoulders with Lance. “Thanks. You, uh, you too.”

Unsure of what to say next, he ducks his head and leads them to the area the coordinator had assigned him when he had called in the favor. Section A-26 is large and the usual aircraft that docks there is nowhere to be seen; instead, there his hoverbike sits, scavenged from the Blue Lion’s cave and restored to its previous glory. He hoists himself up into the seat with practiced ease and looks down at Lance expectantly.

Pink tints the other boy’s cheeks, but there’s this mischievous smile on his face as he asks, “Why do you get to drive?”

“Because I’m the one that knows where we’re going.”

“Wow, you actually have a plan. Um, okay, then where are we going? Or is that top secret?” He bounces where he stands, looking for all the word: giddish.

“It wasn’t until you asked.”

Lance looks pleased at the response and climbs up behind Keith.

The hoverbike dips a little at the uneven dispersion of weight and he offers his hand as a brace, blushing faintly when it’s taken. But thankfully, Lance doesn’t see, focused as he is on swinging a leg over the seat and scooting close enough to Keith that his chest brushes sparingly at his back. Then hands are wrapping around his middle, loose, and it’s embarrassing how responsive Keith’s body is to the touch, rolling in one long shiver that’s unmistakable. If Lance notices he doesn’t comment on it.

“Ready to roll,” he says, breath ghosting over the shell of his ear.

Keith puts on the goggles hidden in the front compartment and passes the extra pair he brought to his back seat passenger. Then it’s a matter of twisting the throttle and feeling the engine come to life beneath them, four hundred pounds of metal under his control. And it’s like it was just yesterday he was speeding across the desert with Shiro, tasting freedom for the first time, his hands gripping the handles like they were always meant to; the circumstance has changed but the feeling hasn’t and Keith, with the luxury knowing that he’s got time on his side, grins and drives.

“Woah!” Lance exclaims when Keith tears out of the loading docks, erupting into laughter when they take a sharp turn at the gates of the Garrison compound and startle the men stationed there.

Then it’s just the open desert road, flat and red-tinged. The torrid heat follows at their backs, rolling alongside tumbleweeds and whistling in the wind that buffets the nose of the hoverbike. Dust swirls under the speeder’s anti-gravity fenders, curling over the shadowy silhouettes of cacti that they fly past. It brings the beds of the distance buttes into startling focus, massive against the clear sky and infinite horizon.

It takes twenty minutes to get to their destination.

Keith parks at the outskirts of the town nearest to the Galaxy Garrison, waiting for Lance to dismount before following. Their shoulders brush a bit as they stand side by side, Keith eyeing Lance as he eyes their surroundings curiously. The town market is already in full swing, tents set up and people bustling about, buying and selling wares; already, more than one individual behind a stand is calling out to them, offering a discount if they buy in bulk.

“I thought we could walk around a bit?” he says, hoping that the idea isn’t too lame. “And after—well, there’s an arcade in the plaza a few streets down and they’ve got pizza.”

His fears are unfounded because Lance just grins. "Pizza not made out of green goo? Count me in.”

Things go smoothly after that. The anxiety bubbling in Keith’s chest eases and it allows him the strength to grab Lance’s sleeve and tug him in the direction of a tent hosting a repository of wind chimes. From tent to tent, they go; browsing at board games from planets even they haven’t been to, giggling over misspelled words on shirts, daring each other to try gross-looking foods and petting every dog they see.

And it’s… fun. Keith is having fun.

Lance is great. He’s nice and funny and smart and actually seems to enjoy hanging out with Keith. He nods along when Keith speaks, insanely attentive, and offers his own input with great enthusiasm. They bicker too, playful jabs volleyed back and forth, easy and natural like it never was in the beginning but is now. And although Keith has never thought himself to be an overly funny guy, he finds that pulling a laugh out of his fellow paladin isn’t all that hard and even sort of a reward on all on its own.

It’s like they fit, slotting together like puzzle pieces—or flashes.

“Hey, Keith?” Lance’s hand finds Keith’s elbow. He had discarded his jacket just before they started eating, which is doing nothing to help the hot flush rushing to the apple of his cheeks. The corded muscles of forearms on display is near impossible to ignore and Keith’s eyes follow the dips and curves of his arm, the hard muscle leading up to his shoulder, the soft line of his neck, the defined jawline. “Your fries are getting cold.”

It’s the touch that has him pulling out of the confines of his thoughts, physically shaking his head and straightening his shoulders, not wanting to appear anything less than invested.

Naturally, the world seems to think Keith can’t have a single nice thing without a price because it’s just a few minutes into their meal that his phone starts to blow up with messages. A quick glance shows that most are from his mother, with a few from Shiro sprinkled in intermittently. All of the messages are ones of encouragement, some having been sent while they were driving and others steadily ignored when the two had browsed the stalls of the market.

Eventually all the small pings get to be enough that Keith has to silence his phone.

“You’re really popular today,” Lance notes, slathering an alarming amount of ranch onto his pizza. It’s only when he drowns the unsuspecting slice that he catches Keith’s surprised and guilty look that he elaborates, “Dude, your phone has been lighting up all day. I’d be blind not to notice.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s cool.”

Still, Keith feels the need to explain. “It’s Shiro and my mom. They’re… checking up on me.”

That gets a light laugh out of Lance. He brings out his own phone, showing Keith the mass of notifications on his lock screen. “I get that. I’ve gotten at least five texts asking if you’re secretly an axe murderer. I hope three years in space is enough time to confidently say that I wasn’t lying when I told them you weren’t. Would really put a damper on the day.”

“I don’t even own an axe.”

Lance’s grin grows and when he puts away his phone to continue eating, he doesn’t reclaim the few inches of space he had given away in order for Keith to see the screen. Their elbows knock a few times, but Keith doesn’t mind.

They leave the plaza in a good mood, making their way back to the hoverbike while they talk about nothing and everything. They only stop when they mount the vehicle and when Lance doesn’t ask Keith where they’re going he decides that he doesn’t want the day to be over quite yet, so he revs the throttle and heads toward the direction he knows his shack is. He eventually leads them to a hill that he and his father used to frequent when he was younger, an escape from the world long before the stars were something to shoot for.

It’s an easy hike up the hill and when they settle by the edge, their pinkies are touching.

“You can’t do that,” he says on their fourth game of tic-tac-toe when Lance brushes the dirt and erases his wobbly X, shifting it over a spot so that it blocks Keith’s next move. “That’s cheating.”

“No, Keithy boy, that’s what I call winning.”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“Isn’t it?” Que pursed lips and a sly side-eye. “If it’s not, then why did you dress up for today, huh? Trying to one up me in style too?”

“This is what I usually wear.”

“Pah-lease. Like I don’t know Shiro’s handiwork when I see it. Dude’s got an eye for colors and he did you a solid keeping with the red. Bet he put up such a fuss when you kept the fingerless gloves—they scream embarrassing scene phase that never really went away.” Lance laughs when he doesn’t immediately counter the accusation and it must fuel him because he continues. “I bet you were upset when you couldn’t find any eyeliner for our date—”

As if struck by lightning, Keith straightens.

“—probably used it all up making yourself look like an edgy, space raccoon going to some street race—”

Our date, Lance had said. He had called this a date. They were on a date right now. Officially. The two of them, together.

“—being emo. But, I mean, whatever works, you know? Sometimes you just gotta paint your nails black and—mmph!”

Keith’s kiss lands on his upper lip, hard and dry.

It’s quick, over and done within a matter of seconds. Lips tingling and heart hammering, Keith pulls back, soul leaving his suddenly flushed body when he realizes he can still feel the other’s breath on his face. He must remain in his catatonic state for longer than he realizes because then Lance’s giving him this particular frown and saying, “What was that?”

With nothing else to do, he shrugs helplessly. “It was a kiss.”

“I know what a kiss is.” Eyes search his. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I wanted to,” he says simply. “Was that not okay?”

“No, that wasn’t… No, it was cool.”

“Cool,” Keith repeats.

Lance scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. I liked it.”

“Me too,” he adds, looking down. A good portion of their game has been accidentally wiped away and he redraws it, purposefully putting all the X’s and O’s in their respective spots before Lance had decided to remake the rules. He nudges the other boy’s foot with his own, biting back a smile when they’re hooked together. “We can, um, stay here? If you want?”

“I’d like that.”

They stay long enough to watch the sun dip under the horizon.

As dates go, it’s the best he’s ever had.

Later, when he’s home and high off the promise of a second date, he walks into the kitchen to find his friends congregated despite the late hour.

“So,” Allura starts as soon as he walks in, boots loud on the linoleum floor, trying to appear casual as she leans against the counter and just failing. It doesn’t help that the space mice are nearly tripping over her hair as they peer at Keith from over her shoulder, adding four tiny pairs of eyes to the many already scrutinizing his every move. “You’re back awfully late.”

Romelle is no better, inspecting her nails even as her ears twitch in his direction. “Yes, how did it go?”

There’s a plate of cookies on the island counter, comically shaped like the lions and dressed in an assortment of colors. He picks up the only red one on top and bites into it, humming at its surprising sweetness. Knowing his audience still expects an answer, he attempts an aloof shrug and nails it. “It was fine.”

There’s a pause and Keith can tell something is coming. He doesn’t know what exactly, but the warning signs are all there, flashing neon when Allura steeples her fingers and gives him a look.

“And the other… thing?”

“What other thing?”

“Why your kiss with Lance, of course.”

He nearly drops the sweet in his hand and immediately goes to look through the kitchen pass-through, spotting the rumpled state of the pillows and blankets by the living room window looking out to the barrack’s hallway. That and the smudge of chocolate on the window sill, coupled with the candy wrappers sticking out of Pidge’s hoodie pouch, can only mean one thing. “Were you watching?”

“No,” Romelle and Hunk immediately deny just as Allura and Pidge say, “Yes.”

Keith fumbles for a plausible reaction. His friends had undoubtedly seen the goodbye kiss that had been exchanged between him and Lance when the latter had insisted on walking him home; it had been a memorable kiss and Keith had maybe lost himself to it for longer than he’s willing to admit, but that’s something else entirely. A little helplessly, he searches the room for a means of end for this absolute embarrassment. He finds none. “That’s—I can’t believe—uncool!”

“Lance texted me almost immediately after,” Hunk offers, as if that makes up for his eavesdropping and then denial of said eavesdropping. “He hasn’t stopped talking about how you sprung one on him. You don’t really beat around the bush, do you?”

Shiro, the traitor, nods. He ignores Keith’s death glare and takes a sip of his tea, eyes crinkling with mirth over the rim of his mug. “Keith has always been very straightforward in what he wants. A real go-getter.”

It’s at that time that Coran makes an appearance, dressed in an obnoxiously orange pajama set with a matching hat, but any hope Keith has of the older man causing a distraction and, by default, a new topic change dissipates when he asks, “Oh, are we talking about Keith and Lance’s kiss? Congratulations Keith, I hear it had quite the impact.”

Pidge looks like she’s barely holding back a laugh. “Yeah, way to go in for the kill, Keith.”

“Can we stop talking about this?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Stop talking. Just stop talking. I don’t want to hear another word.”

Thankfully, they listen and grow quiet. It doesn’t stop the looks that are thrown his direction, especially with Allura nearly vibrating in her slippers in the effort to capture his gaze, but it’s easy to scowl and turn away. He snatches the drink Shiro holds, ignoring the other’s surprised whine, and takes a sip, ready to head to bed and purge this conversation from his mind, never to be brought up again—

“Did you use tongue?”

Keith chokes.

Hunk merely hums. “Yeah, didn’t look like it.”

Keith thought he knew what love was.

It had been an easy thing, once upon a time. It had been his dad’s hugs after a long day, the blade left to him from a mother he didn’t know, a pat on the back following a perfect maneuver from a brother he found. It was as simple as looking up at the sky and letting himself get lost, for space was everything he had ever wanted, vast and exciting and impossible. Constant and safe and easy, a look to the heavens that held every dream.

But this is new.

New in that he is utterly blindsighted and unprepared for when it happens. A change in heart, from wistful ache to hopeful relief, sudden in the wake of new love. Stitched together through time and soft words, it beats again. Thump-thump,thump-thump,thump-thump, it goes, drumming loudly against his chest, swelling at touches that burn like supernovas, thump-thump,thump-thump,thump-thump.

Even more goosebump-inducing than the fire in his chest is the response it gets. Because, startling enough, the feeling is reciprocated.

No words have been said but the thought is there. It comes through in the accidental brushes that turn to lingering caresses. It’s the stretch of an arm thrown over wide shoulders, heads dipped closer as casual words are exchanged. It’s the lack of space as they sit, thighs pressed firmly together and feet idly kicking. It’s the pluck of pink petals out of dark hair, absent-minded, curling in the breeze. It’s the hand pressed against a lower back, feather-light as it guides them closer and onward.

Everything is the same, but different.

Following the date, they are still Lance and Keith, still stubborn and opinionated and more than willing to call each other out, but now—now, they’re more. Keith can talk strategy for restoration while their hands are clasped under the table; can steal a kiss during a spar and, while the other is distracted, sweep his legs right out from underneath him and ensure his victory; can argue the integrity of putting pineapple on pizza for three hours while cuddled under Lance’s arm; and can even sneak the boy into his room when Shiro and his mom are out on call, leaving the door closed and the lights off. He’s allowed to do these things—encouraged, even, if Lance’s pleased as punch looks are anything to go by—to look, to touch, to hold. It’s a recently discovered niche in which they fall into, each eager to explore, and once they find their line, Lance makes a point of tiptoeing it. And Keith—well, Keith can’t find it in himself to complain.

(“Like this,” the Lance of his flashes murmurs to him one night as he gets ready for bed—only for the words to be spoken again three days later as they curl into each other on the beat-up couch in his shack. “I like it like this.”)

Life shapes into something remarkable in the days of after. It becomes a certainty that the flashes had promised and Keith sometimes can’t believe it, that he gets this. Gets this and more. Because not that long ago, he had nothing—he was nothing—scraping by, sneering at everything he couldn’t have just to hide how it hurt to be denied the love he so desperately craved. But that’s the past and though it shapes him, it is not him. He is here, today, and soon, tomorrow too.

Tomorrow and every day that comes after.

In a menagerie of light, meteor showers and space whales, Keith dreams.

Even so long apart, the abyss is a physical thing inside him. It curls inside in the space behind his heart while he sleeps, coveting each heartbeat like a dragon to a horde; time does not exist in this plane and each heart beat, a remembrance to what he has lived through and what he will live through, is too enticing to pass up. It croons out a soft lullaby, asking for one last look.

Keith gives it.

It’s the sand between his toes and lips meeting his own, sun-warm and pliant to the lazy breeze. It’s the hot puff of breath at his neck while frantic hands explore. It’s the ring on his finger and the sip of champagne, glasses clinking in a toast made. It’s the weight of a child on his chest, calm and innocent, snoring lightly as a small hand fists his shirt. It’s the dip of a mattress every night, for the rest of his nights.

Keith wakes up and knows that’s the last flash he’ll ever have.

On the first day of the rest of his life Lance challenges Keith to a race.

It’s not the first time one of them has issued such a dare and it surely won’t be a last, but Keith still treats it like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done. He squares his shoulder and steps up to the plate, toe to toe, staring Lance in the eye as he accepts. It’s like old times, even with the newness between them, rearing up in the deliberate way Lance tilts his head, chin jutting out in that stubborn fashion of his, the crook of his eyebrow and the curl of his lips dangerous in ways Keith is only just getting used to.

Nevertheless, the day finds them back at the loading docks, convincing the Atlas crew to let them borrow another speeder. When Keith has signed the proper paperwork he turns to find Lance already seated on one of the hoverbikes. The red one.

Keith squints and Lance grins, but lets it go with a soft huff. He walks over to the gray bike and hoists himself with little effort, straddling the sleek seat and making himself familiar with the controls.

“Ready?” he asks once he’s done.

“Born ready,” is Lance’s answer.

And, well, Keith can’t let a challenge like that stand.

Without further ado, he revs the engine and shoots down the catwalk. He hears the beginning of a surprised squawk before the wind is boxing his ears, tugging at his hair, chasing away everything until it is just him and the road.

Flying is in his blood. It’s been a part of him since as long as he can remember. It was there when he sat atop his father’s shoulders, arms spread wide and leaning back as far as he dared, staring up, up, up. Fondly, he recalls the way big hands had grasped his tiny ankles and the voice, deep and honest, quoting, Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.

He had been too young to understand the words then, but he thinks he understands them now.

Though the most air he gets this time around is a particularly steep ledge over a slim ravine a quarter of a mile east from Galaxy Garrison property, it still feels the same. Like he’s taking a deep breath for the first time, lungs expanding until he is weightless, free. Free to be who he is, even if that is a boy quick to anger and slow to love.

And Keith likes who he is now. Likes who he can be—with Krolia, with Shiro and the team, with Lance.

In the end, Keith wins the race.

It’s a close call and his heart races at the thought of it. Because Lance is grinning that absurd grin, eyes crinkling with the force of it, and his hair is a mess, windblown and highlighted gold by the sun. The white shirt that clings to him is twisted and Lance makes a halfhearted effort to fix it as he quiets his hoverbike’s engine and starts talking in compensation, mouth moving a mile a minute.

“I almost had you at that last bend,” he is saying, leaning back in his seat so that his torso is one sleek slant. “I shouldn’t have hesitated on the acceleration—I guess I’m just not an adrenaline junkie like you, but hey, now that I know the angle, it’ll be different. So I say we go around again. Two out of three wins. Loser has to help Coran clean the—Keith? Hello? Are you even listening to me?”

It’s not a flash, but it feels like one.

“Keith?” Shoulders rise as Lance angles his head to catch his gaze, honest concern coloring those beautiful eyes. They aren’t that close, hovebikes parked perpendicular to one another, but he swears he can see the universe reflecting in dark navy. Planets colliding and forming, spinning in orbit around a dilated pupil. “Hey, man, what’s wr— ”

“Date me.”

The words are out of his mouth before he has time to really think about them and what they mean.

Lance splutters. “What?”

But now that the idea has been introduced. Keith can’t deny its appeal; to keep what they have, in all its stubborn sincerity and wild attraction, going for as long as they live. Perhaps even further than that. “Date me,” he says again, with more conviction. A pause. “Please. Please date me.”

A moment, then—

“You just have to beat me at everything, don’t you?” Lance starts, loud enough to be considered yelling, but having none of the thunderous anger usually associated with the volume. “Can’t even give me this one thing, can you? Well, the joke’s on you—cause it was going to be great! I had everything planned out and it was going to be the most romantic thing ever! Would’ve blown this disaster out of the water, I’m telling you!” He stands and, uncaring of the wobble it gives under his weight, marches purposefully across the wing of his bike until they’re parallel to one another. One of his hands waves madly about, flying across the entire range of their surroundings before gesturing to Keith himself. “Candles and rose petals everywhere! Hunk was gonna cook something nice and we would’ve danced and—and you were gonna swoon! Straight into my arms! There would’ve been kissing and everything! The whole shebang!”

Keith furrows his eyebrows, lost. “What?”

But Lance blows past his confusion and slumps to the side in an expulsion of energy, mumbling, “God, you’re such a jerk.”

Hands move to grip the front of his shirt, the only warning before the entire weight of his maybe-boyfriend is forced upon him. Keith feels the wisp of eyelashes fluttering against the column of his neck as Lance smooshes his nose into the junction there, mumbling words and noises he can’t hope to translate. He returns the clumsy embrace automatically, winding his arms around the other’s waist and resting his cheek on a soft, brown crown of hair.

“So… yes?”

Lance laughs a watery laugh, deliriously happy, and leans back to stare him straight in the eye, a whirlwind of blue caught in a crystal ball of stars. The grip on his shirt loosens, fingers trailing up his chest until they tease the nape of his neck. “Of course it’s a yes, you absolute loser.”

Keith frowns even as his heart sings, melody erupting into fireworks so loud he might go deaf. “See, it’s stuff like that last part that really mix me up.”

“Oh my gosh, just shut up and kiss me.”

So he does.

Time, like most things in Keith’s life, is something he keeps close.

Pairing:Keith/Lance
Words:12k
Rating:M
Warnings: mild violence
Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

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Keith remembers waking up, slow and unwilling. Remembers rediscovering his body one limb at a time— fingers attached to hands attached to arms— toes attached to feet attached to legs— piecing together gradually until he is something whole. Remembers the raw sensation that follows: hair curling at his mouth and across the slope of his nose, tucked behind his ear; the bunched fabric of his shirt, hiked high over his stomach; a soft huff at his back and the kick of a furry leg to his thigh; and warm air brushing his face. Remembers how time slowed and how he lived it, humming as he burrows deeper into soft sheets, caught snugly between Kosmo and the heat that rolls over his skin, basking in the luxury of this secluded corner of the universe.

Remembers a hand brushing his own.

Eyelids flutter open instantly and he’s met with the vision of starlight embedded into a pair of blue eyes. Like an astronaut who’s lost connection to mankind, he hangs in the great expanse of space and reaches for a world that lies just beyond his reach— one small step for man, says a rusty voice from an even rustier cassette tape, one giant leap for mankind— marveling at the connection he makes. It’s an anchor that draws him back down to the ground just as it has him floating higher, drawn to the promise of not being alone. 

The promise comes in the form of a beaming face centered around a slightly upturned nose.

“Hi,” Lance says, wide awake.

Between them, their fingertips still touch from a moment he’s missed. It is a bridge through the morning haze, leisurely drifting across a sea of sheets, and it has Keith wanting to reach out and intertwine their fingers, lock them together for the rest of forever. Except he hesitates a second too long and the touch withdraws. 

“Hi,” he mirrors, voice gruff with sleep. He blinks, pauses, and blinks again. “Were you watching me sleep?”

Lance gives him an almost shrug, deciding to answer him with his own question, “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

He shakes his head.

Eyes flicker to his hair, taking in what’s got to be the worst bed head Keith’s ever had. How embarrassing, especially when his bedmate’s own shorter hair looks so artfully disheveled. “It was more mumbling than anything else,” he clarifies, as if that’s any better. “Couldn’t really get what you were saying. It was just random words for the most part— sometimes a name.”

It almost feels like he’s missing something with the look Lance shoots him then. It’s… searching, eyes pulled wide as they look straight into his. But when Keith only continues to just stare, he lets out this half sigh-half scoff and throws himself onto his back dramatically. The suddenness of the action makes him bounce and Kosmo, who had undoubtedly snuck in in the middle of the night for a cuddle, huff out in annoyance and move to the foot of the bed. “Wow, okay. I thought maybe you’d be less intense after just waking up, but no, I guess not. You’re just like that, huh?”

“I don’t… mean to be.”

A hand pats his wrist absently. “Nah, it’s cool. I don’t mind it. Plus, you wouldn’t be you if your glare was anything less than catastrophic.”

Warmth spreads where Lance’s palm touches skin, leaving goosebumps rippling in their wake. He imagines them running their course over his chest and down his legs, deliberate and firm and hesitating only when the favor is returned. Distracted, he thinks of them waking in bed together in different circumstances.

Lance yawns.

Keith clears his throat. “What time is it?”

“Time isn’t real,” his friend throws back without missing a beat while reaching for his phone on the stand next to the bed. There’s a small click as he swipes. “It’s still early. Nearly eight, Earth time.”

Keith sits up, smoothing his hair down as he goes. “We’ll be arriving soon.”

Toes nudge against his ankle as Lance stretches, turning on his stomach to hug his pillow close. “Not soon enough if you ask me. Man, I can’t wait to eat some of my mom’s cooking. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried her empanadillas.”

“They must be really good then.”

“Just you wait,” Lance promises with a chuckle. “When things have settled, I’ll have everyone come for dinner and she’ll be over herself trying to feed you until you burst. We’ll have to roll you out of the house when the night is over.”

Once again Keith’s mind wanders. Wanders down a long-winded path, imagining a future where he frequents the McClain home, has a key to the door and a place at the table. It’s a dream he’s frequented since he was a kid, but now it has specifics only desire can attribute to; cuban-styled food and borrowed swim trunks, a russet barn and dusty boots, and people with Lance’s eyes and Lance’s laugh. It’s too easy to match up the points from his flashes to those of this opaque dream.

He smiles down at his hands. “I look forward to it.”

“Yeah, me too.” 

His tone has Keith looking up and he’s not ready for the pensive expression on the other’s face, far-off and aimed in the vague direction of Keith’s collarbone. However, he doesn’t have time to decipher it because then Lance is pushing himself out of bed, sheets trailing after him and his hiked up pant leg. He shuffles over to the dresser and pulls out two shirts, throwing one in Keith’s direction without looking and nailing him in the face.

Life in foster system had been one constant flow of hand-me-downs and, as such, Keith doesn’t miss a beat in exchanging the old shirt he has on for the new one. By the time he finds his jacket, pulled it out from under his space wolf and shrugged it on, Lance is already securing the clasp to the right of his Garrison jacket and adjusting the seams of his pants. He would look completely put together if not for the lack of shoes and Keith’s heart makes a heavy thud in his chest at the sight, going into double time when the boy pulls out a comb and offers it to him; their hands brush for all of a second when he takes it and the tingling sensation stays with him even as he goes through the motions of his morning routine.

“They’ll probably want us all on deck when we land,” Lance is saying. There’s the sound of a cap clicking open and then he’s applying some face cream to the skin under his eyes. “We can stop by your room to get your jacket, but we’ll have to be quick. Allura will have our heads if we aren’t on time and in tip-top order.”

He murmurs his acknowledgement, refusing to tear his attention away from the task at hand and slip into another flash. The teeth of the comb snag onto a particularly large snarl and he tugs harder, clenching his teeth when it stings at the base of his skull. His hair is getting longer, he notes, hair breaking apart by force, and he’ll need a trim soon; he wonders where he can find a pair of scissors.

Seconds later and out of the corner of his eye, he senses Lance pausing in his skincare and mentally prepares himself what whatever comes next.

Lance does not disappoint. “What,” he starts, dramatic-like, “do you think you’re doing?”

Another tug and another snag. “What does it look like? I’m combing my hair.”

“It looks like you’re trying to go bald before the age of forty.” He steeples his fingers and brings them to his lip, sighing deeply. “Keith, my buddy, I know it’s a mullet and the shame of it is finally getting to you but that doesn’t mean you have to pull every follicle of hair out in a twisted attempt at a makeover.”

“It’s fine, Lance. It’s just hair.”

“Just hair, he says,” Lance mutters, sounding exasperated. “Can you believe this guy, Kosmo?”

Keith’s wolf offers only a twitch of the ear at the sound of his name while Keith himself opens his mouth to defend himself, only to snap it shut when Lance crosses the distance between them and invades his personal space like he was born to do it. Their knees knock and the comb is snatched right out of his hands, Lance brandishing the thing almost threateningly when Keith makes to move away.

“I’ve got years of experience doing my sisters and nieces’ hair, so you best buck up and just let me do my magic, alright?”

Mouth dry, Keith nods. ”Alright.”

So Lance reaches out and Keith doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t stop him from palming the back of his head and angling it just so. Doesn’t stop him from parting a section of hair and gently run the comb through it. Doesn’t stop him even when the teeth catch painfully, letting the blue paladin carefully detangle it in a way that his own short hair doesn’t explain. Doesn’t stop him from trading the plastic of the comb for the blunt of fingers as the seconds turn into minutes. Doesn’t stop him— just sits there and lives the moment.

And this is how Keith spends his morning, sitting at the edge of a bed that isn’t his and having his hair brushed by someone other than himself, basking in the comfortable silence until the stars outside shudder and blur, falling back into space as the Atlas makes the last wormhole jump of their journey. The azure of Earth’s stratosphere fills the window pane and in the distance Keith can see the mountains of the Arizona desert, a nudge of nostalgia at the back of his mind, highlighted by the glow of a mechanical lion’s particle barrier that had fallen away by a simple knock. The sight is accompanied by Lance’s sigh as he pauses in his work, hand settling on Keith’s shoulder absently, and says, “There’s something about being back that just feels right.”

There’s the tell-tale burst of energy as a flash hits but… nothing feels different. And Keith, reborn in this new beginning, thinks there may be some truth to that.

Later, after a quick glance at the clock, a muttered curse and a mad scramble out the door when they realize the time and how it had run away from them, Keith will run a hand through his hair and marvel at its softness. 

The Atlas lands and Earth celebrates, welcoming home its heroes with the greatest fanfare it’s rebuilt cities have ever seen. 

The cheers are deafening and nearly has Keith stumbling before he can even touch base with the planet’s soil. It takes them an hour to cross what would normally take them ten minutes, arriving at the launch zone at the Garrison headquarters with people crowding them from every side, eager and bold in the light of peace; their numbers dwindle as crewmembers are dragged into the embrace of their family and friends, framed by tears and smiles and streamers. Strangers wave at them from the windows and balconies of buildings that hadn’t stood there when they had embarked, settled in the once battered world they had left behind, now rebuilt and looking better than new. More than one person sneaks a hug off Keith while plenty more touch his shoulder and pat his back, as if he is Midas and they suffering from gold envy.

In the weeks following their return, the paladins are in high commodity. Everywhere they go, people flock, asking for autographs, selfies and glimpses of the Lions. They are celebrities in every meaning of the sense and Keith doesn’t know how he feels about the new fame, and says as much to the team when they mull it over behind closed doors.

“You saved them from galran reign more times than they can count. Of course they would be grateful,” Allura says, lounging on the couch across from him as she inspects some paperwork for her next meeting. Lance is settled behind her, carefully braiding her hair while the mice watch. “If it’s not hurting anyone, I say let them be as grateful as they want. The paladins before you were quite the legends too— it comes with the occupation.”

“It’s just… weird.”

From her seat on the floor by the princess’ feet, Pidge shuts her laptop and stretches out her feet, toes pressing into the fluff of Kosmo’s back haunches as he chews on one of the many toys gifted to Keith since landing and making one offhand comment of his wolf’s destructive tendencies to a reporter. “My problem is that I’m running out of space in my room to put my medals. I mean, there’s only so many awards you can accept before it gets old. It’s gotten to be so much that we’ve started to melt them down and mold them into collars for Bae-Bae.”

Hunk, summoned by their conversation, leans through the kitchen pass-through. He’s wearing an apron that says, ‘Kiss the Cook,’ and there’s a faded lipstick stain on his cheek where someone had obviously taken the apparel’s word as law. “I donated a bunch of my medals to museums. It seemed like the better option when my mom offered to hang all of them up and give tours to the neighbors, which would be embarrassing.”

“So embarrassing,” Pidge agrees. 

There’s a clatter from the kitchen and then the low murmur of Shiro, followed by the sound of running water and sizzling. Keith watches as Hunk rolls his eyes and retreats from the window, evidently going to clean up whatever mess their disaster of a leader had made. 

“All done,” Lance says and Keith turns to see Allura brushing a hand delicately over her hair which is twisted into a smooth plait down her back. It’s intricate and makes her all the lovelier. The mice squeak in approval, clapping their tiny paws together as Pidge twists in her seat to ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ appreciatively. “How do you like it? Fit for a queen?”

“I love it. Thank you, Lance.” Allura turns and presses a swift kiss to the boy’s cheek, and Keith is caught between the way the braid falls over her shoulder at the motion and the undeniable blush that results from it. It entices a flash, the feel of a chest pressing flushed to his back and lips ghosting over the nape of his neck as he’s pushed into the plush of a mattress, bubbles of laughter erupting from his core when those very same lips blow a raspberry in the sensitive skin there. Thankfully, Allura moves to stand before he can dwell on it longer, picking up her space mice and holoscreen and carefully stepping over Pidge as she makes her way towards the kitchen; she pauses long enough to squeeze Keith’s shoulder on her way by and say, “Times are changing, Keith, and for the better. I say embrace it.”

“Allura’s right, Keith,” he hears Hunk call out from the other room, “We saved the entire universe! People are bound to be impressed! If peace means sacrificing some personal space every once in a while then— woah, woah, woah. Shiro, that’s way too much coconut milk.”

Keith frowns.

Pidge raises her hands and pretends to stretch. “If the attention bugs you so much, you could always start threatening people. I mean, it must’ve worked with that one olkari king before Ryner—we haven’t seen him since you put a knife to his throat.”

Before Keith can even think of a response, Lance is there, swooping in and grabbing the girl underneath the armpits, heaving her onto the couch and in his arms. “You’re such a gremlin,” he tells her. Then, without warning, he licks the side of her face. 

“Ugh!” Pidge tries to push him away but Lance holds fast, hooking his legs around her own so that she’s trapped. “Get your disgusting boy germs away from me!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, does this bother you? My bad. I just thought it was my turn to be insufferable today, especially since you already got a head start.”

Another swipe of tongue to the side of the face and Pidge visibly shivers in disgust. “Okay, okay, okay! I get it! Jeez, I’m sorry!”

As if she had spoken a magical incantation, Lance’s vice grip loosens and the girl all but launches herself away. She trips a bit and shoots the blue paladin a dirty look, pulling the skin under one eye and sticking out her tongue, marching backwards to join the rest in the kitchen. Lance, for his part, looks careless as he leans back into the cushions of the couch, offering Keith a wink.

“You didn’t have to do that. What she said was true.”

Lance just waves his words away. “Every once in a while Pidge needs to be reminded that even smart people can say dumb things.”

Keith folds his arms and sinks further into his seat, mirroring the other boy as he stretches his legs out. “Well… thanks.” His gaze flickers away and back, thinking of Shiro’s advice. “You’ve always got my back no matter what. I really appreciate it— appreciate you.”

“Of course. You know you can always count on me. We’re a team, remember.”

Oddly enough, Keith’s heart starts speeding to a sprint. “I—” He clears his throat minutely. “Yeah, it’ll be weird when I leave for Blade missions and not have you around to watch my back.” The boy’s shoulders stiffen imperceptibly and it’s like they’re back within the exotic colors of the astral plane; it takes less than a second to relive the words they had exchanged over his planned disappearing act in the name of universal restoration. Keith’s stomach clenches painfully and he quickly crosses the space so that he’s seated next to Lance. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I know you think me going with the Blade is running away, but it’s not. I promise it’s not. I really do want to help and they’re my ticket to help so many people. So many.”

Lips part as Lance’s mind processes— both Keith’s decision and sudden closeness— eyes flickering between Keith’s own, and it’s a physical thing, the nervousness that he feels, waiting with bated breath for his right-hand man to pass judgement. Because if he leaves without this blessing, then everything he has worked for will be for nothing.

“You’ll visit, won’t you?”

Relieved, Keith grasps the offered line with enthusiasm. “Of course. I’ve already talked to Kolivan and my mom about it— I’ll have breaks in between assignments to visit you and Earth, to come back home. And we can video call every night while I’m gone, or just text if that’s too much.”

The quickness of the answer surprises the blue paladin and he rears back a fraction of an inch. Something shines in his eyes, addictive and dangerous. It looks an awful lot like hope. “I’d like that, but only if you want—” 

“I want.”

Lance peers at Keith, eyes narrowing in that speculative way of his before they’re widening to saucers when he reads the honesty in his eyes. “You’re serious.”

Keith rubs his thumb over his knuckles. “Well, yeah. You’re, like, my best friend.” 

“Oh,” Lance says, looking pleasantly surprised. “You’re my best friend too.”

The admission does strange things to Keith and he hopes his giddiness isn’t as transparent as it feels when he smiles. Because Lance called him his best friend. This incredible boy, with the power to make a room of strangers into something more— a unit, a team, a family— only armed with some quick wit and a slow-curling smile, wants to be friends with Keith. Keith, who on the cold nights— long nights— hard nights— dreamt with his eyes open and his heart closed, wanting to be pulled in even as he pushed people away. Despite the world and their own rocky start, they’re friends. Best friends.

Keith wants to grab his hand, and so he does. “Yeah?”

Lance doesn’t balk from the touch, instead squeezing his hand in return. “Yeah.”

In that moment, several things come together for Keith. They are pieces to an already solved puzzle, and when he looks at the finished picture he isn’t surprised to find Lance at its center. Because when hasn’t it been Lance?

(“You’re crazy, man,” Lance tells him after he had fallen out of a tree on some alien planet procuring a fruit Pidge had said was near impossible to retrieve, but he’s laughing as he leans down to offer a hand. “Absolutely nuts.”

The sun is eclipsed by the blue paladin’s head, giving him a halo of gold that’s just shy from being blinding. A stray breeze pulls at brown locks, making them curl against sharp cheekbones. The idyllic picture this makes has his stomach churning and Keith doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. In a daze, he accepts the help, heart skipping when he’s pulled to his feet and is, once again, level with blue eyes that crinkle in a smile. Their hands stay clasped longer than strictly necessary, both a bridge and divider of the space between their chests, and it sets his skin on fire.

He finds his voice after a solid half a minute of staring, “Thanks.”

“I don’t think most people would consider that a compliment.” Small chuckles still curl Lance’s lips, swirling in the dimples at his cheeks, and it’s such an endearing look. It’s nearly enough to stifle the disappointment that rises when he takes back his hand. Nearly. “But I guess Keith Kogane isn’t most people, huh?”

The light teasing helps jerk him back to reality. He crosses his arms and asks, “Impressed?” with the best smirk he has on hand.

But Lance doesn’t respond with the usual indignant rebuttal, instead tilting his neck so that he can give this confusing side glance, eyebrows angled and lips pursed. There’s a strange light in his eyes, something Keith’s never seen before. “Maybe a little.”

And, well, okay.

Lance laughs at his expression and nudges his side playfully. “C’mon,” he says, as if this is them— and maybe it is, now. “We better hurry up or we’ll miss the meeting. Allura will have our heads if we’re late.”

Keith nods and goes to follow where the rest of the team disappeared, swallowing the weird jolt in his chest when Lance steps in line with him without question— as if it’s the easiest thing to do, molding to his side like he belongs there. The hall is by no means small, yet they walk close enough that their shoulders brush in every exaggerated gesture Lance makes while picking up the conversation between them.)

The answer to the puzzle is simple. It’s Lance. Always have been and always will be.

“We do make a good team.” 

It’s the words etched into the chambers of his heart, silent and still until their palms touch. Then it’s a quiver followed by a definitive thump-thump. It’s the start and the end. The dawn of a new life, taking its first breath and standing to face the rising sun.

Lance smiles—

Home is whatever you make it to be.

—and Keith smiles back.

It’s late when Keith finds himself hunched over on a metal crate in one of the Garrison’s main hangars, polishing his blade. His shirt is rumpled from the impromptu laps he did around the track and there are the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes. He refuses to sleep.

Notice of his first Blade assignment had been sent out the day before and Keith had been briefed on its parameters in a clipped meeting with Kolivan; two weeks in the Outer Rim with a team of three, delivering supplies to an old, free-floating clinic and helping repair damages done to the structure’s intensive care unit by a band of rogue galran militia days prior. Rumors were that the raiders were still in the quadrant and would need to be dealt with swiftly to ensure no future damage done.

Logically, Keith knows that he will be back in record time. Knows that he has nothing to fear. Earth and his team will still be there when he gets back. Still, it doesn’t stop his mind from racing anxiously to every dead end when he attempts to close his eyes.

He’s just about to consider messaging Lance when there’s the familiar swoosh of the door and he twists around to see Hunk. He’s still dressed in his day clothes, looking to be pulling an all nighter, scrap metal heavy in his arms and a welding kit slung over his shoulder. The look of surprise that crosses his face when he spots Keith tells him that he had expected to be the only night owl up tonight.

“Keith,” the yellow paladin greets amiably despite the late hour, dropping his wares unceremoniously on the floor when he reaches him. “What are you still doing up?”

“I could be asking you the same.”

The hefty boy gestures toward the mess he had just made as he settles next to it, legs criss-crossed. “Some of the I-beams are corroding and need to be replaced, so I thought I’d get started on it before it became a problem.”

Keith’s brows furrow. “At midnight?”

Hunk makes a face and explains, “I downed a couple of energy drinks hours ago to keep me awake for my double shift and now it’s backfiring.” He starts organizing his haul. “What about you?”

“Just having trouble sleeping.” He rubs the jut of his palm in his right eye socket, trying to wipe away the crust clinging there. “I’m leaving in a couple of days and I haven’t been… handling it as well as I thought I would.”

“Aw man, that’s brutal.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Hunk assures.

“Shiro said that same thing.” The older man had wrapped Keith in a crushing side hug when he’d let slip his nerves, getting far too emotional and promising to talk through every emotion Keith had in excruciating detail. Homesickness has never been something he’s known intimately and it’s a little overwhelming— he can only imagine what it’ll feel like when he actually does leave. “But don’t worry, I think I’ve got it under control. I promised Lance I would keep in touch and I’ve already set up his number to connect directly to my handheld rather than have it go through the Blade’s gateway link.”

Hunk snorts. “Good luck with that. He’ll be calling you at all hours of the day.”

“I don’t really mind. It’s… nice, having someone to talk to in between everything— someone who gets it. And Lance is good at filling in the silence when I don’t want to talk, lets me listen and just relax.”

A soft hum. “You guys seem to be getting really close lately.”

Keith can’t seem to keep eye contact. “We’ve always been close. Ever since… you know.”

It’s no small secret that Keith’s leading ability had directly correlated to the blue paladin’s involvement in and aid of Voltron, specifically his near constant presence at the red paladin’s side during meetings and on the warfront. Hunk nods and it is a deliberate motion. “Yeah, of course,” he acquiesces easily, leaning back so that he can fold his arms and press his shoulders to the crate next to him. “But I meant more than right-hand man close. I was actually thinking more on the lines of partners-through-and-through close. Or even doopy-smile-whenever-you-see-each-other close.”

His shoulders hunch up. “That’s not true.”

“Usually you’re all frowny and standoffish, but then you see him and boom, happy Keith. It’s really cute to be honest, especially when you let Lance give you a hug and you, like, melt.”

“I do not— melt.”

“Uh, yeah, you do,” Hunk continues, uncaring what it’s doing to Keith’s temperature. Higher and higher, it goes, until he’s sure he’ll be nothing but ashes by the end of the night. “Everyone notices, dude. Shiro isn’t even subtle about how happy it makes him. He gets all soft and misty-eyed whenever you guys are in your own bubble and, ugh, sometimes it’s just too much.”

Now that he’s thinking back on it, Shiro has been in a lighter mood these past few days, always ruffling Keith’s hair and asking him his plans and if Lance was gonna be there…

The thought that his feelings haven’t been as transparent as he had believed is a bit mortifying and he pushes down the urge to hide his face. Still, he feels the need to explain, to justify. “Okay, yeah, me and Lance are really close. It’s only natural. He helped me through a lot and has been so nice, and I like spending time with him. He’s funny and always saves me a seat at lunch.”

“Wow.”

“Wha—” Keith jerks at the voice speaking right into his ear, nearly falling out of his seat in clumsy fright. It takes only a moment for his frazzled mind to recognize Pidge’s mousy hair and impish smirk, which dissolves into maniacal laughter at his expense in the time it takes his jack-rabbit heart to stutter back to normal. “Pidge! What have I told you about sneaking up on me!”

The girl pushes her glasses up to wipe at the corner of her eyes. “You make it too easy sometimes.”

He knows that Pidge will never let him live this down— for all his time working as a paladin of Voltron and honing his skills with the Blade, Keith is still very much susceptible to jump scares. Their youngest member is a hellion when it comes to anything that could remotely be considered blackmail, archiving anything and everything on one of her many flash drives for later use, and Keith is more than positive that she has a compilation of embarrassing videos and photos for every member of the team.

“Pidge,” Hunk scolds, but it is only half heartedly because he seems to be just as amused by Keith’s surprise as his perpetrator. His unaffected attitude leads Keith to believe that he had probably seen her coming and had decided to let things play out. “We were having a moment.”

The thought makes him spin around and pin his smallest friend with a sharp look, the beginnings of dread pooling in his gut. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to hear your confession for our favorite dumb-dumb,” she says, dashing Keith’s hopes away. “I wanna say I’m surprised, but I’m not. You guys always did act like an old married couple.”

“We never— that wasn’t a confession!”

Pidge squints against the fluorescent lights in an effort to see him better, ignoring the glasses that sit atop her head. “I can’t tell if you actually believe that or if you’re just dumb too. Either way, I’m here to burst your bubble and say that, with the confidence of being the smartest person in the room, that was totally a confession. You just confessed, and about Lance of all people.”

He gapes and when he looks to Hunk for support, he’s betrayed with a simple shrug. “Sorry buddy, but I have to agree with Pidge on this. That sounded pretty much like a confession to me.”

Now, Keith knows he’s got a crush. Knows that Lance is it, the light at the end of the universe and the light that guides him back. Knows all this and some, but is also acutely aware that he hadn’t meant to actively tell his friends all these embarrassing details. Because it’s one thing to have a crush and another to have it spoken aloud by someone else.

And Keith, in all his fighting prowess and nerves of steel, does not take it well.

“That was not a confession. I did not confess.” He stands and they crane their necks to watch him. “And even if I did— which I didn’t— that would imply that I’m ashamed of liking Lance— which I’m not— and that it’s something that could be reciprocated— which it isn’t. Me and Lance are fine with the way things are now, so you can stop your science nerd analysis thing you do. It’s not gonna work.” He moves to walk away but then stomps back. “And just to set the record straight, a confession usually has the word love in it and I didn’t say I loved Lance, so there.”

The duo stare at him in silence for a long, long, long, moment and it takes Keith’s mind that and then some to process what his mouth just said. 

“Oh my god.”

Hunk’s eyebrows rise.

“Oh my god,” he says again, voice cracking.

Pidge’s eyebrows rise.

Keith turns away and cannot leave fast enough. 

Before the door closes behind him he hears Pidge’s mutter of, “Boys are dumb,” and Hunk’s affirming hum.

He leaves Earth in the early morning and the entire team comes to see him off. They each take a turn to hug him goodbye, wishing him luck and safe travels, prolonging the moment as long as they can. Allura makes him promise to contact them if anything goes wrong and Shiro asks if he remembered to pack a toothbrush, Coran turning a bit misty-eyed as he loudly recounts their first meeting and how it led them to this moment, while Pidge and Hunk look on with infuriating smug faces as Lance gives his communicator a final check before deeming it space-travel worthy. 

After that, it’s a matter of stepping away and up the deck of the Black Lion. Of closing the hatch and settling into the pilot seat. Of casting one last glance of his friends through the window and offering a wave. Of grasping the controls and launching himself back into the vastness of space.

And space is… exactly as he remembers.

It’s vast, stretching past millions and millions of parsecs, and Keith is reminded of why he had joined the Garrison so long ago. It’s like he’s six again, sitting in science class and staring up at a holographic Milky Way, wondering about solar flares and tidally locked moons. Imagines escaping gravity and floating past the clouds to sit on Saturn’s ring, lifting a hand to touch the stardust that made him. A day dream turned reality.

Though now, as he watches the blue planet grow smaller and smaller, he can’t help but think— a memory, painted a lovely sunset hue— to the end of the universe and back.

It takes one wormhole jump and thirty-two hours of manual flight through an asteroid belt to arrive at his destination, and then another one and a half to be allowed access to land in one of the clinic’s many ports. Then it’s a matter of navigating the rush of refugee traffic through the hastily patched up corridors, guided by an overworked cat-like alien dressed in a tunic and wimple.

Keith, donned in his Blade armor and sash, works silently and efficiently. Careful to keep out of the way of the medical staff, he and his team— Acxa and her ex-teammates, all tense but trying valiantly to ignore their shared history— move crates of supplies to storage, organizing the syringes and bottles of antiseptics. And when that is done, they move onto menial labor; they buff out scorch marks, reassemble hoverbeds, help move patients, and reseal the tiles that stabilizes the cabin pressure of the compound.

The patients, though initially hesitant because of their very galran apparel, warm up to them, especially when another raider attack comes and Keith’s team takes care of it without any casualties. After that, Keith sits at the bedside of more than one patient, listening intently as they talk about their life before the war, ever hopeful.

(“It feels good,” he tells Lance on his sixth night, hunkered down in the Black Lion’s head and wrapped up in a blanket Coran had stealthily snuck into his pack, communicator cusped in his palms. “It feels like I’m making a difference despite everything.”

“It’s because you are making a difference.” Lance is somewhere outside, sitting in a field, dressed in an oversized sweatshirt that reads VARADERO SWIM TEAM. There’s a telescope set up behind him and if Keith looks close enough he can see the small tuft of hair of his niblings at the bottom right side of the screen, highlighted by the occasional firefly floating by. “You’re out there saving the world, and not even because of some obligation. You’re just a good guy like that.”

“If you say so.” 

“I do say so, and I’m usually right about these things.”

Keith shifts and presses his knees to his chest, turning to stare out the window. These nightly chats always have him feeling vulnerable and he nervously pushes some hair behind his ear to appease the tightness. “None of my previous Blade missions were like this— I knew we were doing good work but everyone was always so… tense,” he tells his friend, a piece of himself chipping off. “It made it hard to sleep sometimes and even though I knew I did the right thing by leaving, I sometimes wished I could go back and stay with you guys at the Castle. But then that would risk us winning the war and…”

“It was a bad time for all of us,” Lance murmurs. “I’m just glad we all made it out alive.”

“Yeah, me too.” He leans his head back and takes one, two, three deep breaths. He wishes he wasn’t alone in the cockpit. “You know, these calls are nice, but it’s nothing compared to actually being back on Earth with you guys. Maybe, next time, you could come with me.”

The boy stares at him. “Maybe I will.”)

By the time his two weeks are up and the clinic is restocked and properly rebuilt, Keith is thinking that he made the right choice to rejoin the Blade. It seems only fair that they do what they can to fix what Zarkon broke, and Keith is willing to be the change he wants to see in the world. He isn’t a powerful alchemist or great king or learned wiseman, but he is a paladin and that’s gotta count for something.

It’s two weeks after he returns to Earth that Lance makes good on his promise for Keith trying his mother’s cooking.

It’s a sunny day in May when him and the rest of the team are invited to the McClain household. They’re introduced as “Leandro’s friends” and are ushered inside by Lance’s father, swept off their feet to meet every sibling and cousin and grandparent of their residential blue paladin. All have kind words to say and a hearty handshake or hug to bestow, Lance’s mother specifically blessing them each with a kiss on the cheek and an earnest, “Make yourselves at home.”

It’s a loud affair, with good food and good company. He and the rest of the team are sat down under an awning set up outside and presented with dish after dish, encouraged to eat till they burst until Lance himself has to intervene and playfully nag at his aunties to leave his friends alone. Somewhere along the way a guitar is pulled out and Lance’s uncle starts strumming a simple melody, murmuring some chorus in spanish as children play an exuberant game of tag.

And at its center, Lance. 

Now, objectively, Keith has always known that Lance is attractive. 

This is not a recent discovery, far from it. He had known of the boy’s good looks the moment he set eyes on him, features coming into acute contrast under the harsh lights of the medical tent as he takes on half the weight of Shiro’s unconscious body. It had been an afterthought of an afterthought, idle but undeniable. 

But now, as he looks at his fellow teammate sitting in between Hunk and Shiro, hand flailing in overexaggerated motions while he narrates a mostly true recountment of one of their more lighthearted missions, it becomes blatantly apparent that the fact had not been fully considered. 

He’s dressed in cuffed jeans and a striped, short-sleeved button up, looking put together enough that Keith feels underdressed in his ripped jeans and black t-shirt. Even when slumping in his seat, arm draped across the back of Shiro’s chair, his expression is open and inviting. The sun streaks through the branches of the old oak tree curling over the back patio, highlighting a crown of brown hair and warm, tan skin that stretches over a sharp jaw and down a long neck. It is a conventional kind of beauty, a universally known truth, spied in the high cheekbones and full lips, pursed in a sly smile that arches thin brows over a sloe-eyed gaze. 

A beauty that draws the eye and keeps it.

Even as he watches, Hunk says something that has Lance throwing his head back in a laugh. It’s an unapologetically loud kind of laugh, a little too high-pitched, the kind that Keith vaguely remembers hearing in the halls of the Garrison and then more clearly in the halls of the castleship, the kind that makes heads turn.

It’s weird, the bubbly feeling he gets in his chest when he looks at Lance. It’s not a new feeling, but the magnitude is surprising. Keith almost expects the force of it to reach Lance, to snag his attention toward his pocket of existence and swivel onto Keith’s pounding heart. He shouldn’t expect anything— they are on two opposite ends of the table, divided by the hussle of a party still going— but Keith still does. It sets him up for disappointment when Lance, who’s gaze had always flickered to Keith when he entered a room, whether it was with a frown in their early cadet days or a smile back on the castleship, doesn’t spare him a single glance.

It’s only when his gaze drifts a bit to the left and he catches the sight of Shiro’s raised eyebrow does Keith realize how intensely he’s staring.

The party goes on for hours. Long enough for Krolia to return from her debriefing with Kolivan and knock on the McClain’s front door bearing a basket filled to the brim with alien fruits and Kosmo in tow, offering Mrs. McClain a pleasant greeting and a request to join the festivities. The presence of his very alien mother brings forth a second wind in the party; people get up to introduce themselves all over again, discussing her upcoming work with the Blade and sampling the exotic fruit to wide degrees of delight. The children, nieces and nephews and little cousins and family friends, surround his space wolf with stars in their eyes, falling over themselves when Keith assures them that Kosmos is perfectly trained and indeed loves belly rubs.

And it’s nice, how happy this makes Keith. Because it just proves that everything they did— every sleepless night passed, every fight survived, and every blistering hardship come and gone— was worth it. Here they are, living to see the fruits of peace. Happy and whole.

They must be more alike that he thought because his mother says as much when they have a moment alone, sitting on the tree swing a little ways off from the rest. The sun is just beginning its slow descent and someone had prematurely switched on the fairy lights that twist around the branches of the tree they gently swing under. 

“It’s almost like a dream come to life,” she tells him, curving her hand around the bend of his elbow. Kosmos breaks away from the children and skips over to the pair, snuffling at their feet and around the trunk of the tree. “During my time undercover I would imagine what it would be like when I returned to you and your father. I would be there to watch you grow up and live the rest of my life with the man I loved.”

Keith remembers his father, sat along that porch step and staring into the distance, light-years away. “I think Dad dreamed of the same thing.”

Wistfulness colors Krolia’s sigh. “Yes, maybe in another life we’ll have it. Though it is hard without him, we must carry on living. War takes much from us, but we must not let it take that.”

Would you change anything? he had asked his mother while in the abyss.

The world had caught its breath in a hitch of silence following the question and his mother, fierce and still foreign, had taken the time to lean forward to press her thumb to his temple. My ship crashing to Earth was the best thing that ever happened to me, she had whispered back. I wouldn’t go back and change it even if I could.

Giggles erupt over the yard and Keith looks over to see Lance and Hunk chasing the kids around the yard, stomping like they’re great, big monsters and tickling anyone who comes too close. When the blue paladin catches his eye, he winks.

“He is gentle,” his mother says.

It’s obvious who she’s referring to as they continue to watch Lance scoop up his niece and proceed to lift her off the ground, pressing obnoxious kisses into the crook of her neck as his nephew clings to his leg, laughing in time with his sister’s. “Yeah,” he agrees lightly, embarrassed by the sincerity of the compliment but unwilling to look away regardless. “I think Dad would’ve liked him.”

Lance’s laugh turns into a surprised squeal when Kosmo suddenly zaps into existence in front of him, large paws pushing at his chest and causing him to topple over with an audible oof. The little boy that still remains standing claps his hands excitedly at the change of events, throwing himself onto the pile to the wolf’s immense pleasure, tail wagging even as Lance groans dramatically.

His mother tilts her face toward the sky, uncharacteristically content, and offers him a small smile, one that makes her eyes shine. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

She never says exactly what it is, but Keith can guess.

A rough hand takes his and Keith turns, watching it rise to a soft mouth and be kissed. Lance, with new wrinkles and graying hair but still looking so handsome, grins at him from over the jut of his knuckles.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Lance says, pressing his cheek into Keith’s palm. “Just love you, is all.”

“So, have you finally decided to stop brooding and do something about your embarrassing crush?”

It’s the early afternoon and Keith is spending it wholed up in one of the labs on the Atlas. He’s not doing much, just occupying space and offering his hand to activate any galran technology that Pidge or Hunk are dissembling. Wires and scraps of metal litter the two in a chaotic scene of progress and ingenuity, only slightly cleaner than what he walked in on a mere hour before when he had been lured there by the promise of an upgrade to his recently malfunctioning holoscreen.

“I don’t have a crush,” he denies immediately, only to pause a moment. “And I’m not embarrassed.”
“Well, that makes one of us,” Pidge deadpans as she mercilessly rips out a thick cable from its socket in whatever she holds. The tech makes a pitiful wobbling sound before the lights in it go out and then she’s tossing it his way. “Because I swear, if I have to continue to watch you glare at Lance from across the hall while simultaneously fantasizing about your future three kids and white picket fence in space, I’m going to throw up.”

“I’m not—” He barely manages to catch the thing in time, fumbling with its smooth grooves as he chokes on his own spit, mind catching up to her words. “W—whoa, whoa, whoa. Kids? No one said anything about kids!”

“Yeah, he’s right. Back it up a bit, Pidge.”

“Thank you, Hunk.”

But Hunk ruins the sentiment almost immediately. “If anything I see them with a bunch of cats. And Kosmo too, of course.”

Betrayed, Keith makes to leave. Only Hunk grabs his wrist and pulls him back down— and Keith must be out of his mind because he doesn’t put up a fight, almost like he wants to talk about his severe case of infatuation. Huffing for appearances sake, he crosses his arms and turns to stare at the wall where a new shipment of scaultrite sits, faintly flowing in the low light.

“What I don’t get,” Pidge is saying, “is how you two can see each other every day and still dodge this. It’s not like either of you would say no if the other asked for a date— so just ask and put us all out of our misery.”

“It’s not a sure thing,” Keith argues without thinking. Realizing his own admission and watching his friends’ face contort in glee, he flushes and growls out, “Okay, okay, you win! I like Lance!” The fingers gripping his biceps turn white. “It’s still not gonna help him like me back.”

“Ah, come on. Don’t be like that. You’ve got a lot going for you.” Hunk scooches over and bumps a fist into his shoulder. “You’re surprisingly honest, for one. Funny too. Passionate. Kinda ride or die, but, like, times ten. Not to mention that you’re not too bad to look at— the cool, bad boy with a heart of gold thing you have going is really working in your favor.”

“Oh, uh.” A little embarrassed, Keith stiffly nods. “Thanks.”

Hunk smiles. “No problem.

“This bromance is great and everything, but let’s focus back on the reality of the situation.”

“Reality?”

“Yeah, how Lance is actually a pretty cool dude and you aren’t the only one to notice. If you don’t make your move, then somebody else will.”

“Wait,” he says, voice cracking when her words process and he does a double take. “Who else is making a move on Lance?

“I don’t know— people? The dude is the walking embodiment of an exclamation point and swings every which way, not to mention that the whole paladin of Voltron thing gives him mad points in the boyfriend category.” Pidge scratches her elbow, frowning at the sound it makes. “Theoretically, he’s the perfect bachelor and has a fan club to prove it. Granted, we all have a fan club— Shiro has at least four— but that’s not the point. The point is that he’s a catch and if you ever want to hold his sweaty hand while making googly eyes at each other, then you’re gonna have to get a move on it before someone else does.”

Keith drops his head in his hands just as Hunk, patting his back sympathetically, says, “Well, you’ll have plenty of opportunities tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? What’s tomorrow?”

Pidge levels him with a deadpan expression. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“The Alliance Feast, remember? Delegates from the entire coalition are coming to New Altea so we can sign the official treaty.” At his blank expression, the girl sighs. “Allura has been talking about it for weeks— been stressing over dinner details and what band would play for the reception afterwards. We’ve all gotta go and show our support.”

Now that she’s mentioned it, Keith is sure he remembers hearing about the event from both Allura and Shiro. It would also explain the binder of paperwork the princess has been carrying around the last few times he’s seen her, frowning as she makes edits to it during meals and downtime. He’s been so preoccupied with the flashes and Lance that it blindsided him to the world moving on around him. Feeling like a bad friend, he makes a note to pay more attention to his friends and actually listen to what they’re saying.

Keith rubs his face. “Alright, yeah. I can go and show my face— whatever Allura needs.”

“Don’t forget about the other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“You know, wooing Lance.” Hunk takes a headless robot torso and pretends to dance with it. “You can’t ask him to be your boyfriend without wooing him first. I know Lance and he’s all about romantic gestures.”

“I never said I was going to do that.”

“Yeah, but you want to.”

Pidge squishes her cheeks together. “You want to hold his hand and kiss him.”

“I definitely never said that,” Keith says, eyes narrowed.

“It was implied.”

The duo go back and forth, dissembling androids while they tease him. Keith allows it, simply rolling his eyes when their theories on how tomorrow will go down get more and more outrageous (there won’t be any impromptu flash mobs or evil twins crashing the party no matter how much any of them would like it to actually happen). They talk and his crush takes a back burner, and it’s completely different than when he had told his mother and Shiro; they’re all friends and this is just another part of it. It makes him smile and laugh and feel, well, normal.

Pairing:Keith/Lance
Words:12k
Rating:M
Warnings: mild violence
Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

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The astral plane is a cosmic burn against his skin. Fragile and composed, it breathes a cloud of thought and intent, shining from point to celestial point. Pulsating like something living, it beckons.

In time with the universe, he wakes. A breath, stolen from his concaved chest, shudders at the thrill of slipping past a cage of muscle and bone. Stagnant freedom, watched from eyes already opened and barely aware. A trickle of feeling, counting down the notches of his spine with aching precision until he remembers that the body is his to control.

Then, without prompting, he moves. His hand rises, pressing flat to the mirror of his own existence, trying to find himself. Time cracks and splits and he sees beyond what is linear. Cause and effect, a wave upon space itself, asking who are you? Years regress and years progress, eternal, and he, only a footnote in this bigger story, is unsure of which direction to go. For there are a million paths and a million more endings, a finite choice within infinite possibilities.  

At the end of the universe, he stands, wondering. Wondering of what he left behind and if maybe — just maybe, he could go back. 

But something stops him from turning. A force, omniscient, slipping past his guard and suspending him upon a cross weaved from thorns. It pushes and a third eye opens, tattooed with the glowing marks of a dead culture, waiting to claim what doesn’t belong. Powerless to the touch that drags over him, he cries out; from navel to heart, it cuts, tearing him wide open and letting the fears crawl out. From his body, a chasm forms, and it slithers in, sinking claws into his consciousness with a raspy croon.

Submit, it demands. Submit to me.

A silent cry strikes the barrier of thought as the force presses upon him, a shattering presence. Broken glass punctures, sinking into his flesh; it liquifies and percolates, filling his veins until they burst. All his scars bleed golden, oozing in kindle for the fire that consumes him, burning until he tastes his own ashes. Lightning travels up his legs, straightening his spine with pure electricity that revives the burnt crisp of flesh and mind he has become. His head snaps back, eyes wide and sightless in the feeling, and he lets loose a noise somewhere between a whine and a yell.

He is fire and magma splattered across a dark canvas, specks of gold and white flaring like a string of city lights around his neck. A firestorm, wild and explosive. Embers pop and sizzle, arching high in the swing of a blade, landing with the intent to consume. Distorted and warped, the Red Lion stares from underneath his skin, hot thunder for blood and suns for pupils. 

Anger, once dormant in his chest, wakes. 

His reality cracks like radio static, getting louder and louder until it consumes. A canon, booming, sounds off at the end of a funeral march, leaving only the sizzling ruins of self, corrupted by dark magic and an unforgivable science. He is less than what he was, hollow and despondent and mindless, following the strings that bind him. Transparent and tight, the strings go taut. He flexes.

A sword held in his grasp sings, deadly and craving action.

Something cold touches him and he hisses in surprise. Forced to pull back or suffer frostbite, he stares down the silhouette that shines bright in his split vision, outlined hand still hovering between them. The sight has the strings pulling tighter. 

Kill, the voice inside his head says and he feels the desire burn in his chest. Feels it stain his hands a bloody red with intent, wrapped around the throat of mercy and squeezing until it is no more. The violent thought drives away his sense, making him something wild; a wolf, foaming at the mouth, with slits for eyes and fangs bared. A monster, through and through. 

The silhouette stumbles away, dodging the swing of his sword with a cry of distress. 

But he doesn’t stop— can’t stop, prowling forward and leaving scorched earth in his wake. Another swing, arc wider and accompanied by his own yell, barely missing its mark when his opponent ducks to the left. Step, swipe and stab. It is the mantra of his existence, the only thing worth knowing, fury condensed along the edge of his sword and the blood rushing through his veins. Carnage in the making.

Schwing.

—the blade in his hand is parried.

A sword, accented red, glinting in the cosmic light. It is a threat previously unseen, held in the grip of someone who knows how to use it. Longer than his own blade, its tip skims the ground as its wielder straightens into a fighting stance. A challenge.

Sparks erupt when they clash, metallic tongues hissing, only to quiet again when they separate; choreographed by the notes of war, they dance to its solemn tune. Every step is calculated, careful and precise. One wrong move and the curtain will fall, hefty in the sound of thunderous applause, draped ostentatiously over shut coffins. Falling into each other and in range, they pivot and deflect, graceful only as dancers are, light-footed and sure.

Their swords bisect, sliding until cross-guards meet.

This close he can see his own reflection in the other’s eyes— dark hair curling around a snarling face, a shadow of self shrinking within in a dilating pupil. The sight strums at the strings that guide him, letting out a confusing twang, reminiscent of a time before. It’s not a good feeling, churning uncomfortably at the bottom of his stomach; he wants it gone. 

A twist of his wrist and it has the other’s sword flying.

He kicks out, watching as his opponent’s body falls and rolls across the ground with the force of it. And that should be the last of it, submission given to the victor, but it’s not. For armored arms go to lift themselves up, head rising so clear eyes can look up at him through sweaty bangs, jaw clenched with a stubbornness that has the fire inside him flaring up.

Angry, he stalks forward and stabs the point of his sword into the jut between breastplate and shoulder pad. It draws out a scream of pain, gutted and raw, and he pushes it deeper. Deeper until blood trickles over shining armor and onto the ground, causing red to ripple across its once pristine surface. Deeper still when those eyes look to his, clouded with pain, unbudging as he looms and goes for a chokehold. 

Fingers scramble for purchase, weakening as the moments drag on and he exerts more pressure, twitching in time to the wheeze of air stolen from lungs. 

A leg wraps around him and they roll over, a tangle of limbs. The ground is hard against their backs as they fight for the upper hand, his sword and helmet discarded somewhere along the way, leaving him with nothing but the dirt underneath his nails and the taste of rust in his mouth. They are evenly matched like this, stripped of their names and drenched in their own desperation. It’s a struggle that’s been a long time coming, though he does not know how he knows that, but it sits heavy at the base of his chest.

Clear gems dislodged from the ground follow them in their struggle, cutting into skin left unprotected. One must get underneath them and dig into the other’s wounded shoulder because he shudders violently, losing his grip and surrendering the leverage he held. Victory taken and victory given.

Kill, the voice in his head repeats when he’s got the other pinned down, breathing hard and once again looking at his own image splattered across the canvas of a pupil. His blade is back in his hand, poised at the ready. Kill him.

His world flickers as gloved fingers brush against his ear, making him recoil instinctively, thinking it another attack. Still, it persists, moving until it curls at the back of his neck. Gentler than any of its predecessors, it vibrates with the heavy pound of his heartbeat, taming the monster into a lull of compliance. Small pricks of pressure guide his head down, down, down, until foreheads meet. Then, softly, words he cannot hear are whispered into the sliver of space between them just as a muzzle of a gun is pressed into his stomach.

Seams splitting, he falls apart, the world folding in on itself. It pulls, bends—

To the end of the universe and back.

—and breaks.

Transparent daggers rake against the sheet of ultramarine that makes up this plane, ripping claws of red across a celestial sky. It coerces the fear in his chest to slip out, dripping toxic black through the gap of his ribs. Feeling returns in the form of bruises spanning the entirety of his body and more than one gash peeking out from behind cut cloth and discarded armor. Blood, which had been rushing through his veins with the kick of adrenaline only moments ago, is weeping from wounds sustained, sluggish and steady.

Underneath him, a body shivers, going limp with exhaustion.

It comes to him then, what he’s done— what he nearly did— and a different kind of pain develops. The shock has him dropping his bayard, watching the heat of his fingerprints fade from the hilt as it clatters to the ground, soundless. Something loosens inside him and, suddenly, everything is too much. The air is too thick, time too slow, his suit too tight and the universe too vast; he is a speck, insignificant and powerless, and it is just too much. 

He flings himself back, away from the corpse that almost was and the murderer he almost became, and starts shaking his head. It doesn’t help and he is left there, fists clenched and mind battered, suffocating in silence. For there is something stuck in his chest, a tumbleweed whose thorns pierce and shred and destroy. Like the brittle wood of a dead tree, he snaps and breaks under the pressure, knees failing and leaving him a heap of kindle on the floor. He takes a labored breath and it attempts to spark a dead fire.

“Keith.”

But there is nothing left to burn. Only smoke and ash.

“Keith, look at me.” A touch to the back of his hand and he flinches. “Keith, please.”

A shudder and charred woods crumbles. He follows the line of ash as it scatters in the wind, dark gaze meeting that of blue.

Lance is nearly transparent, a mirror of water that glistens. Shooting stars fly through his veins, pulsing with every heartbeat; they die just as quickly as they are born, dreaming of adventure even as they fall. A look down and he can see beads of constellations knit around his ankles, twinkling like chimes.

A smile, honest and hesitant. “Hey, buddy.”

He makes to move away.

“Wait, no. Don’t do— come back.” Weak willed and feeling numb, Keith lets himself be pulled in. His body falls into the curve of the other boy’s arms; he doesn’t phase through like he imagines he would, but stays firm, properly cradled. His temple is pressed against the cool material of a breastplate and his hand trails down to fall, limp, in his lap. “You’re okay. It’s over now and you’re okay.”

Listeless, he speaks, “I… I almost…”

“Hey, no, no, no. That’s not— you stopped, okay?” Lance shifts awkwardly, shoulder slumped at an odd angle, and then there’s an arm wrapped around him and a hand taking his, soothing the burning touch of corruption. Planet rings circle thin wrists like bangles, matter vibrating when they divided and merged back into one another lazily. “I’m fine, see? Fine and still breathing, all because of you.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

Their faces are close enough that Keith can see the exact moment Lance cracks; the slight tremble of a lower lip, translating in the wobble of his next words. “I know you didn’t. I know you would never— not now, not after everything. We’re a team, remember? And I’m still here— always gonna be here.”

The words are from a long, lost dream and Keith jolts at the memory of them. It causes him to lift his head and stare up at the boy who holds him, to take in everything all at once: the gash that cuts through his left eyebrow, the pinpricks of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his lips part when he breathes. It is a mural of a future passing him by, honest like the flashes promised.

“Oh,” he breathes out in understanding. Relief rushes through him, almost immediately followed by frustration. “Allura was right. I should’ve just let them come.”

The abrupt change in mood startles Lance, tears chased away before they can properly settle. “What?”

“Nothing. I…” To think, that he would have foreseen all this if he had just taken the time to properly dissect his flashes rather than throw them aside out of misguided cynicism. So focused on the future he didn’t believe he deserved, he had forgotten about the present that might become it. “I’m just so dumb. Dumb to think I could…” He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, putting it into disarray. “God, it’s all a mess and I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Not everyone has the answers.”

“Well, I’m—”

“Yeah, you’re not everyone. I know. I’m sure everyone and their mom knows who you are. Keith Kogane. Flying protégée, golden boy of the Garrison and pilot of the Black Lion.” Words go unspoken, an echo of a past they share; two boys, one with a head in the clouds and another with his heart on his sleeve. They lie dormant between the lines, waiting to be heard. “But just because you’ve got all that under your belt doesn’t mean you’re immune to life, and sometimes life is confusing. Sometimes you don’t know what to do or where you fit. It happens, okay? All this just makes you…” Lance pauses. “Makes you human.”

Something new and unfamiliar coils in his chest.

“And that’s fine. You’re allowed to not know,” Lance continues, taking a deep breath. His eyes are clear now, staring intently at Keith. “It sucks— trust me, I know, but life’s like that sometimes. We just gotta push through and hope we find what we’re looking for.”

Keith blinks. “That was— wow, um, pretty wise.” 

Lance looks away and down, readjusting the bend of his knees. “Yeah, well, I had a lot of time to think about this. Life’s kinda slow when you’re stuck in space.”

“Well, thanks… It’s nice to hear, that I’m not alone in all this.”

“No problem, man.”

He frowns at the response. It’s hard to place, but the words, though casual in delivery, seem almost dismissive in nature. As if what Keith said is merely obligation and not fact. “Seriously,” he says, willing him to understand. “I wouldn’t know what I’d do without you. I’d probably be rotting in some alien jail cell halfway across the galaxy if it wasn’t for you.”
“I’m sure you would’ve gotten yourself out eventually.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t need to with you there. I wouldn’t even be in that situation in the first place. You keep me in check when I get out of hand. I have never been… the most logical of people, especially when I get stuck in my head, but you always bring me back to what’s important. So, thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that. That’s just what friends do.” Lance smiles. “And we’re friends.”

Keith smiles back. “Yeah, we are.”

Their surroundings have finally settled into something more tranquil, receding from the violent reds and disturbed yellows into a more manageable spectrum. It soothes the nerves that had been previously fried, realigning synapses and extending sheaths, making every sensation new and goosebump inducing. He tilts his head back, watching the distant skyline sink under the surface of this plane. Up above, two adjacent stars stare back. 

His hands fall to his sides and curl into the seam of his undersuit, feeling the patterns of the stockinette. Slowly, he breathes out. 

Next to him, Lance does the same and says, “This place is crazy, right?”

Keith turns just in time to see his fellow paladin wiggle his fingers in front of his face, eternally fascinated at the way the gesture slows down and leaves a stop-motion shadow trailing after it. Further intrigued, he reaches out to touch Keith; the boy holds himself stone still, lips parting in a sun flare of surprise. Sparks erupt from the place where the pads of his fingers brushed along the crest of a cheek, a blotch of violet. 

“Yeah, it’s… it’s something else. Different than when we project from the lions.” Keith inhales sharply. “I wonder what brought us here.”

“Well, if I had to guess, I’d guess that.”

Keith angles himself to where he points, jerking in surprising when he spots a ball of… somethingfloating in the air a few feet away from them. It’s pitch black, fuzzy at the edges, with tendrils of violet lightning striking the air around it every few seconds. It makes no noise, silent as it bobs between this universe and the next in everlasting limbo, but the way it quivers makes Keith think it’s holding in a scream.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” Lance shifts close enough that their shoulders brush when he shrugs. “It just— came out of you. One minute you were all crazy and attacking me, and the next, this thing popped right out of your chest and you were fine. I’m kinda afraid to touch it. Like, what if it infects me or whatever? I’d rather not fight you again. That was a bit too intense for my tastes.”

Only remembering certain snippets of feelings, albeit in gruesome detail, Keith nods. 

Lance continues, talking through his thoughts. “Maybe this has something to do with the colony and why they’re apples and bananas for Honerva. It could be that they’re brainwashed, like you were. Though if that’s the case, then we should bring it back to the Atlas as a sample. Allura would want to analyze it, to see if it could be reversed.” The boy hums, looking behind and at the great expanse of nothing around them, tapping his fingers against his knee. “We’d have to get out of this place first. Usually, the lions would just bring us back, but I don’t think this place is where we usually go when we connect in Voltron. Maybe it’s a copy that Haggar made.”

“Maybe,” Keith agrees, unconsciously picking at his lip as he thinks it over. “But it won’t be safe on the Atlas, not with it traveling across the universe. Earth won’t be good either, not after the war. Kolivan might have a place for it— an old base possibly, or even one of Lotor’s abandoned labs. I can take it with me when I go.”

A pause, long and stagnant. Then—

“What.” Lance’s voice is flat. 

Keith looks up, confused. “What?”

“You’re… leaving?”

“I mean, yeah. Not now, but someday. Soon, maybe— I don’t know.” It’s been the topic of a few late night talks with his mother, vague as most things dealing with the future are, gaining shape as more time passes. Faster even, when the flashes had intensified and he hadn’t wanted to be taunted by them any longer. “When this war is finally over, someone is going to have to help put the universe back together. And with no leader, the galra are going to need someone to take charge and get them on the right track. A new planet and a new ruling system.”

“And what? That’s gonna be you?”

“No, of course not. I’m just gonna help them get back on their feet. They have to change if they want to be part of Coalition and, well, I was talking with Acxa and—”

“Acxa? You’re gonna run off with Acxa? The girl who tried to kill you— all of us, on more than one occasion? A girl you and Hunk found in some space worm’s stomach? Your ditching us for her? You don’t even know her!”

“I know her enough,” he bites back. “And she’s helped me— us, out. She’s changed. And I’m not ditching you guys for her, okay? I just think that I’ll be more useful out there. It’s not like you guys are gonna need me on Earth once everything is finished. There’s nothing left for me there.”

“Useful? Nothing left? What are you even talking about?”

Not wanting to continue the conversation, Keith makes to get up and stalk away, hissing quietly when his injuries cry out. Lance ignores the implications of the action and follows after him.

“You’re just gonna leave it. Just like that? But Earth… it’s our home— your home.”

He scoffs. “Earth has never been my home. Not like it is to you.”

“So… so you’re running away?”

That has him turning back. “I— that’s not— I’m not running away.”

“Yes, you are. You’re running. Just like you always do. Were you even gonna say goodbye when you left? Or were you just going to leave and maybe see us in a few years?” Keith opens his mouth in rebuttal, but Lance doesn’t let him. The words come pouring out of his mouth, saturating the air between them with wild honesty. “You’re always pulling away, like you’re afraid— and don’t say you aren’t, because you are! And that’s fine, you know? Cause everyone gets scared. But, man, you’ve got to stop letting it decide everything for you.”

A bitter taste enters his mouth, thick enough to lodge his throat when he swallows. Bitter because Keith has never been one to allow fear to rule him. Even from a young age he had learned that the world doesn’t care about boys who are afraid of the dark, for night still falls regardless on whether he wants it to or not, and that if he wanted to get anywhere in life then was going to have to learn to sleep with one eye open.

Lance plants an uninjured hand on his shoulder, trailing high to palm the slope of his neck, and it’s a contradicting action; his fingers are transparent, made up of the stars that surround them, but they feel solid and real, staining his existence a deep purple when he moves the other to hover hesitantly under a padded elbow. “You can try all you want, okay? Put an ocean between us— an universe even— but it won’t work. Won’t work because no matter what you do or think, we’ll be here. Earth… it doesn’t have to mean anything to you, but we— me and the team, we should. Home is what you make it.” Thin brows furrow as blue eyes flicker away, hesitation clear in the way his lower lip is sucked under his front teeth. “You can have your place with us, but I can’t make you want it.”

You can’t give up on yourself, whispers a memory, bruised but hopeful.

“A—And I can’t force you to stay, but I can say that I’d be sad if you don’t. I would miss you.” The fingers at his throat twitch. “We all would.”

Something gets stuck in his throat. “I would miss you too.”

“Then don’t go. Stay, please. Promise you’ll come back home.”

He’s run all his life. It started when he stepped away from the graveyard where his father lies six feet under and he had never stopped. For he makes loneliness into something that can be achieved rather than forced. A self-inflicted exile. 

But lions are meant to be in prides.

The thought has tears springing to his eyes. Unheralded, they come, slipping past the slope of his cheek until they bead together at the point of his chin, dripping when his emotions become too heavy. He sniffles and the sudden sound has Lance’s gaze snapping back to his face, eyes going wide with surprise as he takes in Keith’s blotchy skin and scrunched up nose.

It’s been years since the last time he had let himself cry. Not even when Shiro had first gone missing had Keith wept, merely going hollow when Adam had been presented with the notice by an impartial field officer, crumbling the envelope in misguided anger when he had read the words assumed deadandsorry for your loss. Stone-like, he had become, chipped where the Garrison had stabbed a knife into his back. For there was no kindness spared for little boys who cried or the men they grew up to be. 

Lance’s own chin wobbles. “Keith, no, don’t… don’t cry. You never cry… and, and if you cry then I’m gonna cry. I didn’t mean to make you— and oh god, there I go.” He blinks rapidly and takes some deep, erratic breaths. “It’s okay. We’re good. We’re fine. Just— just let it out.”

So Keith does. He cries for his father, his mother, his brother, and his friends. Cries for himself— both the nine-year old sitting outside of child services as his first foster parents rage about broken windows and the sixteen-year old stumbling through a desert after being kicked out the one place he thought he belonged— for what was and what could have been. Cries for today and the tomorrow he wants after.

The feeling bursts from his chest like a monsoon in a jar, glass cracked and glass shattered. He stands in the middle of it, letting the high winds take him to the distant cliffside with its crumbling rock and rogue waves, looking to the lighthouse that sits atop its crest. A shining beacon, guiding just as a hand curls around his own, tugging to a place just beyond due north.

Eventually, his tears slow down and he shifts out of his bowed posture, blinking away the salt and noticing that his nose is pressed against the sharp turn of a jaw. Brown hair tickles the bridge of his nose, moving away when Lance does, and suddenly he’s looking straight into red-rimmed eyes. A thought, fleeting and inexplicable, crosses his mind, profound in how such a soft oh can have his heart missing a beat. It’s weird and Keith clears his throat awkwardly, knowing that the moment has branded him— them, different than what they were.

Lance blows a raspberry. “Wow, that was intense.”

Keith wipes the fresh tears from his eyes, chuckling weakly. “Yeah… It kinda was.”

“It fine, right? We just had a lot of feelings to let out. Nothing wrong with two dudes crying over some feelings. Totally natural.”

“It’s— yeah, we’re fine. Better than fine, thanks to you.”

This time Lance doesn’t shrug off the praise. Merely nods and watches as Keith attempts to compose himself, shameless of the tear stains that track his own face. It’s an open expression, devoid of the boy’s usual carefully sculpted mask of confidence and revealing the things that lie underneath— a quiet conviction and compassion that melts even the coldest of hearts, alluring in the light of sincerity. Even now as he purses his lips, looking for all he is someone trying to decode a puzzle, face just shy of impassive even as blood drips sluggishly from the cut above his eye.

“You’re hurt,” Keith says stupidly, watching the blood smear when his companion absently goes to wipe it away and blinks in surprise when it comes back stained red. It’s nothing compared to the mess that his shoulder has become, hunched over itself and twitching with every muscle spasm. “You must’ve gotten that when we were…” 

“One of the rocks must have nicked it,” Lance finishes, studiously ignoring how that was most definitely not what Keith was going to say. “It’s fine, though. Doesn’t even hurt.”

He bites his lip. “Looks like it’ll scar.”

Lance gives a small shrug with his uninjured shoulder, as if he doesn’t go to great lengths to keep his skin absolutely flawless with his many moisturizers and exfoliators. As if the new scar and how he got it is inconsequential. As if him and the team don’t notice the way he tenses whenever the gaze of someone snags too long onto the discolored skin of his back. As if it is really all fine, cast aside with a lopsided smile and the words, “I don’t mind. Plus, now we match.”

Keith starts and then settles. He side eyes the other boy, hand automatically coming up to brush against the puckered skin that cuts across his right cheek. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

And then the blue paladin is moving on, doing what he does best— talk. “But you know Hunk is gonna have a field day over this. Encountering a druid and getting trapped in some knock-off astral plane was so not part of the plan— he’s gonna take one look at us and then the next thing you know, we’ll be drowning in I told you so’s. Gosh, it almost makes me not wanna go back.“

“I’m not even sure we can go back,” he murmurs truthfully.

“Yeah, if our usual mumbo jumbo with the lions was gonna work, we’d be out of here already.” He combs through the hair at the back of his head. “We might have to wait for the rest of the team. I hope they’re alright. Who know what they’re going through right now, who they’re up against. At least Hunk and Pidge have each other, but Allura went off by herself.”

Just as the words leave his mouth, there’s a mighty tremble that goes through the ground beneath them. It shakes Keith to his core, separating soul from body for a frightening second, and it’s only because the two are already holding each other that they don’t fall over. He looks up, trying to pinpoint the danger, and feels the breath leave his lungs.

Above them are celestial hands, reaching out. 

They part the clouds like some second coming, ripping the heavens apart with divine rule and showering judgement upon that which lies in the face of its power. It is a saving grace, worshipped just as is feared, and Keith likens the image to those seen in stained glass and carved marble, untouchable in every sense.

“Allura,” Lance whispers and there is a reverence in the name.

But the hands stop just shy of them, hanging as if they’ve reached the end of their string and can go no further. A bridge of space lies between them and salvation, ominous in how it grows dark and empty, stark against the bright sheen of altean magic. A pulse ripples across cosmic skin and then fingers are curling, pushing against the force that keeps them at bay. But there should be nothing capable of such a feat, the plane empty save for the two paladins and—

“The orb,” Keith declares once it connects, already halfway to turning around and forcing Lance to do the same. “It’s stopping her. We’ve gotta get rid of it.”

True to his suspicions, the dark orb has gotten closer during their time of inattentiveness. Shaking like a diseased animal, it floats mere feet away from them, hiding in a nest of dark matter. Desperate, it swallows itself whole, birthing anew from the remains only to fall prey to its own hunger again in an endless cycle of greed.

Almost immediately, he draws his bayard.

“Wait,” Lance says before he can even begin to think about starting an assault, the pressure at his elbow keeping him in place long enough to catch the look in the boy’s eye. Clear and determined. “Together.”

Another stolen heart beat and Keith is nodding.

Lance moves in closer until their breast plates scrape against one another, sliding his hand over Keith’s on the grip of the weapon. Almost immediately, it glows. Glows as its shape changes, molding around their intertwined hands and shifting into something that makes them both draw in a deep breath. A gun, accented black and larger than anything Keith has ever wielded before, activated with a simple touch. Lance’s touch.

It means something, he knows it does.

“Ready?” Lance asks.

“Ready,” Keith answers.

Together they lift the weapon, aiming its wide barrel at the ball of energy. As if sensing their intent and it’s impending doom, the thing starts pulsating. Crackles of black lightning claw at the air, growing berserk even as plasma builds up and light begins to illuminating their profiles. Keith almost shuts his eyes when their fingers squeeze over the trigger and the shot is made, powerful enough that it has their bones vibrating.

But they stand their ground as the shot makes it mark. Dark matter screams as its engulfed, ripped apart piece by piece, until it is no more.

Then Keith knows no more.

Ready?

Eyes meeting across a room, catching, tugging until there is no space between them. Golden lanterns burn, casting a spell that turns porcelain into shining bronze. It embellishes just as it emboldens, issuing a challenge that new hearts seldom refuse; nerves spark when his hand braces at the dip of a spine, giving it weight with a languid roll. A siren’s song, quiet and alluring, grazes the shell of his ear. 

Ready.

When consciousness returns to him, it is a fleeting affliction. 

Cold air pricks his skin; dry, crisp, and filtered enough that it leaves his sinuses stinging. For a wild moment he thinks he’s back on the castleship, with its high ceilings and sloping archways, swathed in brocades and regal paintings, but stumbles back into reality when a delicate hand pushes his hair back and away from his face. He blinks rapidly, mind foggy and lagging, unable to determine his exact whereabouts; his body rebels, heart rate skyrocketing and muscles seizing in a panic just as blind as his eyes. There’s a quiet murmur from somewhere to his right and then the lights piercing his retinas dim, allowing room for his senses to readjust and notice the touch of strong hands to his biceps. The buzz in his head clears incrementally and he blinks Shiro into sight.

Relief settles in the curl of his smile when he sees Keith is awake. “Hey there, bud. You feeling okay?”

“Head hurts,” he answers automatically, mouth numb and slurring the words. 

“Yeah, getting mind controlled by a space witch will do that to you.”

For a moment, Keith doesn’t understand; blissfully ignorant, he squints at his friend, until, finally, it comes to him. Time catches up and fills in the space left empty from exhaustion and morphine, dragging him into the present by the chains of the past. The feel of falling, glowing eyes set in a shadowed face, blood dripping down steel and, finally, a mouth forming his own name.

Alarmed, he sits up straight. “Lance. Where is he?” he demands, voice rising enough to have a nurse pop her head in the doorway. But he refuses to acknowledge the stranger, mind focusing on one fact and one fact only. “We were stuck in the astral plane together, and— we have to go back for him. He’s hurt— I hurt him and… and I need to know that— he, he is… Where is he?”

“Relax,” Shiro soothes, shooing away the nurse with a wave of his robotic arm. “He’s safe— you both are. See for yourself.”

Keith follows the direction of the finger pointing toward his right and feels his body exhale in relief. There, slumped in the seat closest to his bedside, is Lance. Dressed in a standard hospital robe and looking a little worse for wear, the boy is sound asleep, head settled in the crook of one elbow and just barely grazing the edge of Keith’s pillow. Bandages peek out from the collar of his rumpled shirt, disappearing over one shoulder and spotted a faint pink. Three stitches break the streak of his left eyebrow, a permanent reminder.

Movement by his legs catch his attention and Keith looks down only to see Pidge curling tighter against his hip atop of the blankets. Her glasses are skewed and there’s drool clinging to the corner of her mouth, giving her kittenish snores a nasal quality. One of her legs hangs off the edge of the bed where he can just see the back of Hunk’s head, lolled and dead to the world.

Shiro follows his line of sight, sighing out in exasperation and fondness. “Those two been here since you were allowed visitors five days ago. Lance has been off bed rest since yesterday, but he joined the camp out almost immediately. They’ve been driving the staff nuts— Allura too.” He nods to the chairs lining the wall where Allura and Romelle lean against each other, sharing a thin blanket as they sleep. “Still, no one’s willing to say no to the defenders of the universe. Not after they saved all of existence.”

His gaze snaps back to his mentor. Breathless, he asks, “We did it?”

Shiro smiles and it’s like the olden days, carefree and hopeful. “Yeah, we did.”

An exhilarated laugh leaves his lips and he flops back down, careful not to disrupt Pidge as he sinks into the cool comfort of the pillow. He looks at the unassuming ceiling, gray and tiled, and lets himself feel. Feel the relief and the fortune and the euphoria, because, wow, they did it. They really did it. It’s all over, the war is won and they’re still here, alive and together. 

The sun sets today, only to rise again tomorrow.

“Get some rest,” Shiro orders in that brotherly tone of his, chuckling when Romelle lets out a loud snore and Hunk grumbles something incoherent when Pidge accidentally kicks him in her sleep. He pulls the blanket higher over his chest, tucking him in just like his dad used to do. “We’ll all be here when you wake up. I promise.”

Keith believes him. Trusts him so fully that he lets his head tilt to the side and his eyelids slip shut without hesitation. Trusts in the thought of afterso much that he lets his fingers uncurl and smooth over the sheets, finding a home under Lance’s slack hand. 

He dips back to sleep to the sound of Shiro’s thoughtful hum and the deep breathing of his teammates.

It takes the IGF-Atlas two months to make it back to Earth and Keith spends a majority of the time bedridden. He’s prodded and poked by the medical staff, psychoanalyzed by more than one on-call therapist until any remnant of Honerva’s dark touch is brought to light. It’s a necessity that Keith wholly supports, not wanting to lose the control he had fought so hard to reclaim, but as the days turn into weeks and Keith, now coherent and able to stand on his own without getting dizzy, is still prohibited to leave his room in the hospital ward despite no lingering effects being found, it becomes considerably less tolerable.

Left to only his thoughts and the obscure flashes that come and go when they please, things come to a head when Keith decides he can’t take it anymore and just rips out the IVs connecting him to the machines around him. More than one alarm goes off as he stumbles into some scrubs, getting only as far as the hallway before nurses and doctors alike rush him, fussing over his person like he is something fragile and on the verge of collapse. It only serves to frustrate him more. Overly helpful hands try to steer him back to the bed-turned-prison and he fights them the whole way, causing such a scene that it summons Lance from his own room. The boy huffs like a mother hen and Keith huffs right back, their bickering only ending when his legs suddenly give out and he has to be carried back to bed.

His saving grace is his team, who take it upon themselves to ensure that Keith is almost never left alone. Pidge lugs her laptop over and they laugh over the dumb Voltron show, arguing loudly over whose character is more inaccurate. Hunk sneaks in home-cooked food whenever he visits, looking overly suspicious when he dramatically checks the room for bugs before unearthing the tubberware from underneath his shirt. Lance brings sketchbooks and colored pencils, shoving Keith playfully as they play tic-tac-toe and compete in who can draw the other the ugliest. Allura comes bearing news of the ship’s going-ons, braiding his hair in styles he’s assured are peak altean fashion but mostly just look like something a third-graded might do. Shiro comes around with a book or two, teasing him about how easily he melts over the romance subplots. And someone must comm his mother because a few days after he wakes, she’s also there, arms wrapping protectively around him as Kosmo knocks things over in his eagerness to get up on the bed.

It’s then that Keith hears secondhand what happened while he and Lance were trapped in the astral plane. 

Pidge and Hunk tell the story, complete with exaggerated gestures and loud gun noises, of how Team Punk shut down all of Oriande; how the two had found themselves on the temple-ship’s lower deck with a battalion of altean soldiers guarding a crystal-based powerhouse, Hunk keeping them at bay while Pidge snuck by and hacked into the tempe-ship’s mainframe. There’s more to what they tell him, but it includes technological jargon that would only have Keith’s brain splitting open, so he’s happy enough to let them playfully argue over things like, “neuro-headsets” and “Lorenz attractor.”

Then comes Allura’s part.

Legs crossed and hands clasped in her lap, the princess speaks of encountering Honerva at the ship’s nav deck. Her words are tentative when recounting the scene she had stumbled upon: the bodies of misguided alteans sprawled across the floor, drained of life at the expense of the witch’s endeavours, and Honerva herself, crazed and weakened from mind-controlling Keith, standing at the helm as if the dead were wilting flowers in a garden. She tries her best to describe the moment the older altean had split open the world and transported them to the point of existence, struggling to find words when talking about how Honerva had carelessly destroyed universe after universe.

“It was awful,” she tells him. “I could feel them all— so many lives, lost.”

“What happened then?” he asks. “Did you…?”

“No.” She looks off to the side. “She did not die from my hand.”

“Then, how?”

Finally, a smile. “I had help. My father and the paladins of old, trapped within Honerva’s mind but freed once we were beyond the limits of our universe. We attempted to reason with her and we nearly succeeded, but she was so overcome with grief that she would not listen. Not until…” She swallows and the smile is more brittle, but still very much real. “It wasn’t until Lotor, called from Oriande’s core, showed up that she stopped. He convinced her destroying all of existence wouldn’t take away the pain— and that they had not lost each other, not entirely, and could start again.”

Allura absently brushes her lips and Keith can only wonder on what else Lotor had said.

She shakes herself from whatever memory had brought on the wistful moment, reaching out to adjust Lance’s homemade Get Well card and the vase of flowers sitting on his bedside table. A present from Coleen Holt, they look to be a cross between sunflowers and tulips, glittering a fiery orange when the light hits them just so. “None of them could return with me to this universe and I could not ascend with them in good faith, not when I have so much to do here. I had promised to bring peace to this universe and I intend to see it through. My father understood, so we restored what we could and said our goodbyes.”

Sensing there was more left unsaid, Keith sets his hand atop hers. “You’ll see them again.”

Her eyes water a bit as she takes a deep breath and gives him a thankful smile, exhaling a soft, “I will, and I’ll have so much to tell them when I do.”

In the days following Allura makes good on her promise. For as soon as she is able, she takes the restoration effort into her capable hands, spearheading the movement with steely-eyed determination and the hulking figure of Voltron at her back; it is slow progress, carried on the backs of the survivors, but eventually the Coalition expands into a living, breathing network of change. Dignitaries come together, treaties are signed and planets restored. By the time Keith is finally discharged from the hospital ward the gears are already set in motion and he’s left to bask in awe of what she’s done.

But the biggest shock hadn’t come until he turned down one of the ship’s many hallways and had run straight into the princess’s new entourage.

Allura had talked of the colony quite extensively, disclosing her relief when the survivors had stumbled out of Oriande following the fight, shaken from their Honerva-induced haze, and had come to her seeking answers. Answers that led them to follow her aboard the IGF-Atlas, meek-like as they circulate around the very people they had once tried to destroy. course set to the newly reborn planet of Altea, of which was waiting for its lost children and princess to return. A dead civilization, resurrected by magic and shaped by the memories of those who once knew it.

It is for that fact that Coran becomes so important in the time after the fight. He is the last of his kind, a remnant of an old age, and those from the colony hang him among the stars because of it. A treasure cove of knowledge, they flock to him, eager to hear every word, song and anecdote— immortalized with each captivated listener. Never before had Keith seen the older altean so happy, so hopeful. 

Even Romelle, once ostracized, becomes an integral part of the species’ rehabilitation. The universe is different than what it was when the colony first went into hiding hundreds of years ago and she makes it her mission to better accumulate the colony to the changes. She gives them a tour of the ship, starting with a stop at the catrine to try one of Hunk’s many culinary delights; introduces them to the crew, to Acxa and the MFE pilots; sits them down and discloses the fate of planet Olkarion; talks of her adventures with team Voltron and nearly being crushed by a rampaging yalmor; laments about her lost family and gushes about what’s planned for New Altea. Slowly but surely, they find their place.

The alteans recovery brings into glaring detail Keith’s own miscalculation. For in all the time spent thinking about afterand how much he wants it, not once had he considered his actual part in it.

(Late at night he lays in bed, listening to the quiet hum of the ship and his own steady heartbeat, lost in half-formed thoughts of tomorrow. The clock reads late but his mind will not rest, unaccustomed to the stillness of peace and unsure what will become of things if it lasts.

“What do I do now?” he asks the world at large, expecting no answer but frustrated all the same when it doesn’t come.)

The next chapter of his life is coming and coming fast, and so far Keith is stuck looking at a blank page. It’s a problem that his friends don’t seem to have, falling into niches the world has made specifically for them. The alteans have a culture to revive and Shiro has an entire crew to lead, while Hunk, Pidge and Lance have families waiting for them. It makes Keith nervous watching them move on from Voltron so effortlessly, mostly because they had been brought together by a war and had forged something real in the wake of trauma shared, but now that that variable is taken away— what’s to keep them from drifting apart? 

It’s that alarming thought that has him relishing the time spent aboard the Atlas those final weeks, knowing that their time together might come to a close soon and greedily taking all they can give in the time left. Days are spent glued to his friends’ sides, absorbing everything their company can offer, micro-expressions and quirks and all. He commits to memory Pidge’s high-pitched cackle and Hunk’s dubious side-eye, Allura’s luscious hair and Lance’s obnoxious smirk. His friends don’t seem to mind, more than happy to stick around when he asks; Lance in particular seems to enjoy the extended hang outs, smiling whenever he sees him and always with an idea of how to spend the day, like racing their lions to the nearest gas giant of whatever galaxy they reside in or setting up in one of the many observation decks to stargaze. 

He must not be as subtle as he thinks he is because the day before they’re scheduled to reach Earth he returns to the compound he shares with his mother and Shiro, and finds them waiting for him.

“Keith,” Shiro greets and he knows that tone. It’s the we need to talk tone. “Come sit down with us.”

He sits and immediately his mother is leaning over and combing through his hair, clawed hands light in how they detangle and smooth over black strands, pushing it out of his face. It’s one of the few things concerning physical contact that Krolia indulges in, making up for all the years she lost, and Keith lets himself enjoy the gesture.

The two don’t say anything, waiting for Keith to start. He knows it’s pointless to try and deny anything, so he doesn’t. Just gets straight to and ventures a gruff, “You know I love you, right?”

The sentiment is easily returned, no hesitation in breathing love back into his cold body. Simple as shifting to press himself into the crook of his mother’s arm, a shape that is distinctively Keith in nature, and feeling Shiro’s calloused hand rubbing soothing circles over the hunch of his back. It’s a needed reminder of the fact that no matter where he goes, to the farthest corners of the universe and back a million times over, he will always have a place here, with them. Always.

It’s this understanding that brings his thoughts back to the place he had just spent the last few hours trying to expel from his mind. It makes him frown into the folds of his mother’s jacket. “I…” he starts, his voice a notch above a whisper, “don’t know what to do.”

They keep quiet, letting him piece together his thoughts, and for that, he’s grateful.

“I’ve never actually thought of what would happen after the war was over. Just kinda assumed that I would move on to the next fight— ‘cause it’s what I’m good at, you know? I mean, I’ve been trying to get as far away from here since I was a kid, looking for answers…” He bites his lip. “Never thought I’d want to stay.”

“Oh, Keith.” Krolia sighs and it doesn’t erase the ache of his invisible scars, but it soothes their phantom touch into something more bearable. If there’s anyone who would understand, it was her. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to remain close to those you love. I would’ve given anything to stay with you and your father all those years ago.”

Shiro’s touches the back of his arm. “No one’s forcing you to leave either. And of course all of us want to remain as close as possible, and we will. We can travel halfway across the galaxy and still come back to each other.”

He inhales deeply, shoving his face further in his mother’s warm embrace. “Lance said something like that too.”

“Lance is a smart guy.”

“Yeah… he is.”

Something touches his ankle and he peers down to see Kosmo shuffling closer, back legs dragging on the ground as he pushes his snout under the buckle of his boots insistently; when the wolf sees Keith looking, he whines and wags his tail. The boy can’t help but smile at his furry friend. A quick pat and the animal is jumping into his lap, shoving his big head under Keith’s chin and forcing both Krolia and Shiro to lean away with a chuckle. And just like that, his stormy disposition is cleared and he’s left to enjoy the sunshine.

The cushions shift as Krolia asks, “What’s got you worrying over this? Did someone say something to you?”

Knowing how overprotective the two can be and to what lengths they would go to keep him happy, Keith hurries to clarify, “No one said anything. It’s me. I’m the one that’s being weird. Please don’t try and strong-arm some poor corporal.”

While Shiro opens his mouth to probably say how he would never do a thing like that, Krolia just shrugs and scratches Kosmo under his chin. The wolf enjoys the attention and closes his eyes in pleasure.

“I’m not sure what exactly happened, but it just hit me— everyone will be going their separate ways. Hunk’s been talking about opening an intergalactic culinary school alongside the coalition, and already has a line of people ready to sign up. The Holts are literally on their way in creating the next generation of defenders. And Lance, Lance could do anything he wanted— the alteans love him and want him as Earth’s ambassador, the Garrison’s practically begging him to teach the new batch of recruits, the Olkari offered him one of their ships to help search for a new planet— whatever he wants.” He takes a breath. “And I know I want to go with the Blades, to help fix what the empire broke. But now… it’s not the only thing I want.”

They lapse into silence again, processing what he said and what he’s left unsaid.

“I know what I want, but I don’t know… how do I get it?” His heart beats fast and if there was any confusion on what exactly they’re talking about before, it’s dispelled by what he says next, “And what if he doesn’t want it too?”

Neither of them seem surprised at his words regardless of the fact he’s never mentioned anything on the topic before. They take it in stride, blinking in unison as he sinks deeper into the couch and tries to hide his face in fluff of Kosmo’s mane.

Eventually, Shiro clears his throat. “Have you tried telling him what you want?”

“No,” he mumbles.

“Well, that might be the first step. You’ll never know if it’s… mutual, not if you don’t try.”

He sighs and clings to blue fur. “It might make things weird.”

“Maybe,” Shiro acquiesce. “Or maybe it’ll make it better.”

“Keith, if this is something you really want, then you should seek it out.” His mother’s gaze is unwavering, intense as it usually is concerning him. “You deserve love as much as anyone else and I know there is a limit to what I can provide for you, but this boy… he would be lucky to have someone as amazing as you as a partner.”

None of them have spoken hisname and Keith’s not sure what that means, or if he’s ready to say it into existence yet. All he knows is that it’s real and his.

“There is nothing to fear in this,” Krolia continues to assure, Shiro nodding along, and there’s no reason not to believe them. Because he knows their history, has seen it— the throes of love, breathtaking and dangerous, whittling to a tragic end before it has even begun— how it took and took and took, and still they survived. “It is a new chapter. One that our time in the abyss foretold and that is something to be celebrated.”

He can see Shiro’s brows furrow in puzzlement and quickly stutters out a, “N-no, no, mom. I don’t think— don’t think that’s it.”

Thankfully, his mother decides not to elaborate and Keith is spared the act of having to explain anything more; he’s already contemplated the flashes and their connection to this new development on more than one occasion, and he’s not about to hash it out now with an audience. One heart-to-heart is enough and they don’t need a round two on this emotional rollercoaster.

“Thanks for listening though.” He snuggles closer to Kosmo, enduring the wet lick to his jaw. “I appreciate you— both of you.”

Shiro and Krolia smile. “We’ll always be here for you. Whenever you need, whatever you need.”

And Keith knows it’s true.

That night, while he sleeps, a flash hits him.

Bedded in an hourglass cradle, time sifts through his fingers and on the wind; it’s the veil of transparent impression following the fall of a blink, infinite as he lets the feeling of it overtake him. Deeper and deeper it takes him, sinking into the unconscious, to a place where he keeps all he holds dear, unlocked and open for the taking.

There, a light. He follows it and walks through the door to a room he doesn’t yet recognize, lit up by the warm glow of a table lamp. Boots lay at the foot of a bed, hidden under the lazy sweep of a shirt hastily thrown, and a flashing tablet sits precariously on the edge of the queen bed. But he ignores it, for something more compelling is spread over gray sheets.

Two bodies, entangled in a private moment. One of which he recognizes.

It’s Keith and it isn’t Keith.

This version of himself doesn’t balk at the contact, but, rather, shifts closer. His hands smooth over a naked chest and broad shoulders, one curling at the nape of his partner’s neck while the other flutters down to reposition a tan arm more securely around his waist. Space between them dwindles into nothing as their lips connect, igniting a fire so bright that Keith feels as if he is embracing the sun.

He watches himself sigh, eyelashes fluttering and softening the once sharp angles of his face, jaw and neck; a stretch and a flower blooms in an ode of love, pale fingers climbing the vine of a muscled back and pressing the blunt of his nails there to keep from falling from that shakespearean balcony. 

Hips arch and bow in an impossibly slow rhythm, rolling to a melody Keith has never danced to before— has only seen on tv or in dark hallways, hidden away from his flushed gaze. But this is different, different than anything he’s ever known. Different because he can feel it, the pressure to his pelvis and mattress against his heels. Different because it’s his body and his moans and his desire painted on the landscape of sheets before him.

It’s different and he’s mesmerized, stepping closer and watching how hands— his hands, gloveless and callused and purposeful— reach down to cup his future lover’s backside, spreading wide to squeeze as much as possible through tight denim and bearing down just as hips twist. A flash of yellow sclera, pupils dilated in primordial arousal, and a bite to brown flesh.

“Keith,” he hears, causing a shiver to slip down his spine. No one has ever said his name like that. “Keith.” Never like that. “Keith.”

The body above his moves, coiling in such a way that tells of a soldier’s dedication and a lover’s experience, muscles twitching as the grinding becomes more profound. A grunt and the rustling of fabric, loud in the wake of a tanned hand sneaking down his front, exploring, searching and— oh.

Heat travels up his spine, flooding his veins and curling his toes. It collects at his chest and rises up, crawling the tendons of his neck and finding a place at the tip of his ears and apples of his cheeks. Bubbles of magma fill the cage of his ribs and he squirms, trying to pop them. They burst and he burns anew.

His earlier dream-memories had all been nondescript, vague scenes of a movie he doesn’t recall watching, viewed through a smudged screen in slow motion. They leave room for the mind to wander, filling in the blanks as he sees fit, and so far Keith has had no problem in leaving it well enough alone.

Because love had always been something of a fantasy for Keith, a boy who grew up running in the hopes someone might catch him, but still too afraid to slow down. It had been his father’s coat, slung over his tiny shoulders just hours before a kitchen fire burnt it to crisps. It had been his mother’s knife, bandaged to hide the truth about his own abandonment. It had been in the eyes of a fellow foster boy, olive green shining emerald when he waved Keith goodbye as he left with his new family. It had been the light laugh of his mentor turned brother, fading away as he joined the stars. It had been a dream better left forgotten.

But not anymore.

For he recognizes the face belonging to the body pressed flush against his. It’s a face that skims the surface of a great many memories. Past, present, and future. It’s pudgy cheeks slimming to sharp edges, glinting in the sun after a hard battle won and a ridiculous challenge issued. It’s the face of a friend.

The confirmation comes in the form of his own mouth parting open, red-kissed and curved in passion, uttering a single word. A single name.

A voice spears through the air and he looks up into dark eyes centered in an angular face; they are dark blue and clash with Keith’s almost immediately, tacking onto him with such vigor that it makes his skin itch.

“Uh, the name’s Lance,” the boy says when questioned, head tilted and eyebrow arched high.

Finally, his heart says, cradled in the hands of another. 

“Hey man,” Lance greets when he opens the door at around one in the morning, casual where Keith is tense. The moment is preceded only by an impromptu text sent fifteen minutes prior when he had had enough of the silence of his empty room, thrown one of Adam’s hand-me-down jackets over his shoulders and had made the journey to the blue paladin’s living quarters. “What’s up?”

“Can I come in?”

A silent nod and he’s stepping through the threshold. The compound is similar to the one he shares with his mother and Shiro, but not. There are personal touches that he does not recognize, jars and potted plants from a place he has never been. There’s a bow window that takes up the entirety of a single wall to his right, framing the sight of infinite space and twin moons, a nest of cushions that looks recently sat upon settled on the ledge there. A couch and two armchairs take up the majority of the main room, worn and angled to face the television sat atop a stand stuffed full with DVDs and books, some with english covers and others with alien ones. Two doors cut into the remaining walls, one leading into a dimly lit hallway and the other into what he believes to be a kitchen. A table already cluttered with paper and odd knick-knacks stands to their far left, chairs pushed out from its undercage; photos span the bulletin board above it, overlapping and showcasing smiling faces in their polarized frames. His own closed-mouth smile peers back at him, framed by his team and the lions in a worn picture pinned right next to a family portrait.

Even this space, so newly made, has the sense of coziness. It reminds him of the glimpses of the house he sees in his flashes and the thought makes his skin buzz because people call this place home and mean it. It’s a reflection of what he has always wanted, authentic and steadfast, a place to belong. To want and be wanted in return.

“Keith,” Lance says at the prolonged silence, gaze steady and clear where the world is not. “Is something going on?”

“No” he says immediately. The lie is bitter and Keith grimaces at the taste of it, feeling foolish for even thinking that this was a good idea. The feeling twists unpleasantly in his stomach and he, in an effort to remedy this, immediately turns to shoulder his way back outside, to leave before being sent away.

“Hey now.” Lance’s voice is soft, contradicting to the solid grip that catches his wrist, effectively stopping his departure; it brings to mind the feeling of a se

Pairing:Keith/Lance
Words:10k
Rating:M
Warnings: mild violence
Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

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In the solitude of the dark, the bodies of the fallen are what guide him. They, garbed in uniform and life’s regrets, stand in salute, nameless in the wake of victory that has yet to come. Kindled by the same fire, they are mirror images of one another, holding insight in one hand and judgement in the other. They turn to face him, asking what he will do— what he is willing to give. All or nothing.

Knowledge or death, they whisper.

It is a secret, tied to the hilt of a blade.

A phantom of resistance that resides in a burning world, twitching fingers tracing over the edge of a blade and the slide of a hood over a faceless body. Shadows rise from the ashes, willing to fight the emblem that’s carved onto their tombstone. One falls and another takes its place. So is the way. So is the world.

Knowledge or death.

He is among their ranks, tense and determined behind the mask he hides behind. Recycled air, taken from the lungs of the parted, filter though, drying the tears he won’t allow anyone to see. It distorts his thoughts, jumbling the words of the universe, breaking apart and reassembling with not a thought of accuracy. Speaking to him in a whisper, stagnant in a blazing inferno of stars.

Knowledge or death.

Pain is the toll he must pay. Payment in the form of pin needles dragging along his spine with the intent to scar, torturing his nerves slowly.

Knowledge or death.

Something wet dribbles down his nose, marking him red in the light of Naxzela. It splatters on the floor, seeping into a crust of hexamite; metal, broken and warped, cradle him in a coffin of sacrifice. The shadow of the universe’s greatest defender looms over him, smoke billowing out of its mechanical eyes even as his own glazes over. Wrangled, his body convulses with the beat of a bomb set to detonate. Tick, boom, and silence.

Thoughts crash against his skull, lifeless in desperation, creating fixtures that threaten to burst. Skin burns, fires of gold seeping into his pores and ravaging his insides, muscles spasming and screaming for salvation. He wants to stop— please, he wants to live— but can’t.

Knowledge or death.

He chooses.

The team comes together on an unassuming Wednesday.

The wind is strong that day and it tugs at the flags hoisted onto the pole outside the base, hooks clanging against metal and thick fabric thrashing. Playing the dry air like a flute, it serenades the miniature dust devils that dance across the desert horizon and over the grounds. People hold onto their hats and portfolios, squinting against the invisible obstacle, cautious of what becomes of unattended papers and their fate as nature’s playthings.

Safely nestled inside the main conference room of the Atlas, Keith sits at the room’s long table, stuffed in a crisp, new uniform and back ramrod straight in an uncomfortable chair. To his left is Lance, hands folded on the tabletop and settled on the report he has yet to open, leaning away and murmuring something into Allura’s ear that has the girl giving a short-lived smile before manicured hands are pushing him away. Down the line is Hunk and Pidge, the former busy shuffling anxiously through high-profile papers while the later watches in utter boredom. At the table’s head is Shiro, head held high as he talks about Galran movement in the Outer Rim, flesh hand pointing at the hologram that rotates slowly in front of him.

Other members of the coalition sit opposite to them, dressed to the nines in flowing robes and thick belts; behind them are an assortment of guards and influentials, proper and focused in a way that makes Keith’s own frown second-rate in comparison.

“We’ll have the Atlas act as headquarters while we make our round across the universe. The Galra Empire has already been broken apart, but we need to make sure that it stays that way,” Shiro is telling them, already twenty minutes into the briefing. “Just like Sendak, countless of generals are striving to gain territory through conquest in an effort to get the throne. If we stop enough of them, it’ll force the rest to step down. It’s asking for a lot, but liberating planets from residual Galran rule should be our first priority.”

“And how will Voltron play a part in this?” asks one of the coalition councilors.

That’s Keith’s cue.

He leans forward. “Whenever we come into contact with a planet that needs liberation, Voltron will be dispatched to target the main center of operations for the Galra. It’ll be heavily guarded and built, so Atlas and coalition weaponry won’t be able to penetrate its fortress. With the rest of the resistance giving cover fire for the first waves of attack, Voltron will make quick work of it and the ion canons that they have stationed around the base. Without their nerve center, they’re as good as dead.”

One of the councilors, a humanoid alien with crosses for pupils and two sets of elvish ears, fiddles with a ring on their clawed finger. “A sound strategy for sure, if not a little elementary. But are we to expect that your human pilots are to be at the head of this operation? Though Earth is home to the paladins, it is greatly behind on many levels— it was only until recently, through altean means no less, that you were even able to produce fighter ships that could withstand travel at sound speed. I think I speak for many of us when I say that it would ease the minds of both our troops and allies to know that more… experienced individuals were guiding us through dilemma.”

A wave of murmurs follows the declaration. From across the room, he can see the team of MFE pilots, hands clasped behind their back and faces carefully blank.

Shiro, ever astute, breaks through the stretched moment. “This mission calls for the best of the best, regardless of station and species— and though Earth hasn’t been in this war very long, we still have as much to risk as the rest of the coalition. The entire universe needs to be put back together and focusing on the who rather than the why isn’t getting anyone anywhere. This is war, people, and we’ve got no room for mistakes. Or egos, for that matter.”

A few individuals still side-eye each other, obviously wanting to say more but unwilling to be the one to actually say it. It leaves things… strained. Both sides, human and alien, seem to want to oversee the upcoming few months; frustrating as it is, pride and the promise of glory are jewels in which people still crave, polished until they blind those that horde them and locked away so that the thieves don’t get robbed themselves. Convincing someone that something is right is one thing but convincing them that they must pay to make it so is another matter altogether.

From behind the paladins Keith can hear Coran hum out some semblance of an opinion and it causes Allura to straighten in her seat. “I’m sure,” she says, face smoothing over in a curtain of political neutrality, “we can all agree that what’s best for the universe is most important. It does not matter who strikes the final blow— as long as the blow is given. We will all reap the rewards when this wretched war is over and peace is back within our grasp.”

Hunk speaks up. “We all want the universe safe, so I don’t think it matters who does what, as long as they do it right.”

“Yeah, what Allura and Hunk say.” Lance leans back, the epitome of lax, the hand dangling over his chair’s arm just barely brushing the back of Keith’s when he shrugs. His voice is clipped, enough so that it would sound rude if not for the charming smile he sends the line of aliens’ way. “Plus, I don’t think this is anyone’s first rodeo. We’ve all been around the block a few times, which makes us all great at what we do. The universe is in safe hands.”

It seems that the blue paladin’s appeal isn’t all talk because his words reach their audience. Two of the councilors nod in understanding and one goes to far as to outright grin at the boy.

From his position at Shiro’s right, Sam Holt coughs into his fist, hiding what looks to be a smile; the look and the man’s scraggly beard contrast directly with the sharp cut of his uniform, flaunting three decorative stripes on the shoulders. He sends a look to his wife across the room, subtle enough that Keith only catches it because he’s already looking. “It’s still a long way to go and there’s still much to finalize.”

Colleen seems to get the message, coming forth with a, “I’m sure the paladins need to look into their own preparations. If everything is to run smoothly when we take off then they’ll need to appraise the lions— Commander Shirogane as well, with the IFG-Atlas. At any rate, they won’t be needed for the following discussion.”

It’s a backdoor to freedom and they take it.

Pidge shoots up from her seat, obviously over the grown-up talk and keen to get back to her lab on the ship; the girl offers her mom and dad a quick side hug before bolting out of the room at a speed that could leave skid marks in the floors. If the council takes offense to her eagerness they do not show it, simply tipping their heads in delayed farewell when the rest of the team rises to follow her.

The doors close behind them, only seconds before Shiro’s hand zooms and catches the back of their youngest teammate’s collar before she turns the corner and out of sight, pulling her back even as she struggles. “Not so fast, Pidge. We still need to talk as a team.”

“Aw, but I was going to test out my flamethrower prototype for my project.” She pushes out her bottom lip and lays on the puppy dog eyes thick, clasping her hands together and looking entirely fifteen. Sweet as sugar. “Can’t we do it later? We’ve already been stuck in that meeting forever.”

The force of the look is enough to have even the toughest of sergeants rethinking their resolve. Shiro, who’s always had a soft spot for the girl, wavers.

But before any call could be made, Lance butts in with a, “Your creepy robot can wait.”

The mirage is instantly broken as Pidge scrunches her face in an unattractive scowl. The girl whirls on the blue paladin and pinches him in the arm, ignoring the boy’s high-pitched squeal and easily dodging the swats he sends her way. “Chip is not creepy! He’s innovative and beautiful; the face of the future! At least, he will be when I actually start building him.”

Keith doesn’t say anything about the matter but he spots the grimaces that the rest of the team try to hide. They had all seen the schematics of their youngest’s new project, detailed notes on dimensions and potential upgrades utilizing all kinds of human and alien tech, and while the science behind it was irrevocably impressive, the superficial designs had been… less appealing. Eyes too big and a nutcracker jaw had left most unsettled at first glance, but no one had had the heart to tell the girl in fear of bursting her bubble of excitement at the prospect of technological advancement.

“Unnerving is what it is,” Lance continues. “Hunk agrees with me. Tell her, Hunk.”

The callout is enough to have everyone’s attention shifting like clockwork, pinning on the bigger boy in question, who shifts at the center of it. “Haha, okay,” he fakes, openly sweating. “Well, you see… I didn’t… I never said it was creepy.”

“Nuh huh. You totally did. You said it had a face only a mother could love.”

“That’s not what I said.” Hunk pointedly looks up and away when Pidge furrows her eyebrows in obvious question. “I said that it was a good thing it was artificial because no mother could love that face. But I never technicallysaid it was creepy.”

The sellout is apparent and Pidge gasps, affronted. Even more so when she looks around for support but finds none, Keith avoiding her piercing gaze along with Shiro and Allura. It’s amazing how such a small person can have them tucking their tails between their legs with only a look.

“I can’t believe this.”

“Well, believe it.” The blue paladin watches her cross her arms and huff loudly. He frowns, throwing a hand over her shoulders. “Oh, c’mon. Pidgey, don’t be like that. We’re just saying that it could use a few adjustments, not that it isn’t great. Add some eyelids and a nose and I’m sure it won’t look like the devil’s greatest mistake.” When he doesn’t get a laugh, he pouts and lets his feet slide, leaning his entire weight onto her tiny frame. “Why don’t you base it off someone? Maybe that’ll make it less creepy.”

That does get a reaction. “Base it on someone?”

“Yeah, you know, draw inspiration from life.” The boy frames his chin between his fingers, teeth sparkling. “I know for a fact that my face would look great on anything.”

Keith catches Allura’s eye and rolls his, face going carefully blank when Lance pivots to catch the reason for the princess’s resulting giggle.

Before any kind of childish argument can break out the door to the conference room swings opens once again, surprising all of them. They watch as the MFE pilots file out of it, quietly bickering amongst one another.

Hunk peers into their faces, asking, “Aw, you guys get kicked out of the meeting too?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” James says the same time Leifsodottir says, “Yes.”

“Sucks to suck,” Lance deadpans, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Keith watches as the the two groups merge into one with little to no effort. Hunk and Kinkade start up a heated discussion about what he thinks is yeast, nearly drowning out the fast-paced chatter about a makeshift mall on the base the girls dive into, all of them smiling wide when Lance and James offer to tag along. Somehow Shiro had managed to angle them in the direction of the deck, the older man sending Keith an amused grin over the heads of their companions, unperturbed by trivial talk and its irrelevance to the world.

Allura grabs his arm. “You should come along too, Keith.”

“Sure,” he agrees without really thinking.

It’s odd, being part of something so… normal. Moving from foster to foster home had left some dubiousness about what identified as run-of-the-mill, but this— this is something else. A war is waging around them, decrepit and bleak, and here they are, acting like things are better than they seem. It’s light, shaving down the weight of their responsibilities, a window into what could be considered as after.

The concept of the future had never been something he looked into— well, not past tomorrow. Not profoundly anyway. From the day he had buried his father it had always been get through today, just get through todayandif you can make today, then you can make tomorrow. It had been a dismal kind of existence, but it had been his; a bushel of nettle he had sown and made his bed in, dreaming of nothing as he slept among prickly blossoms. Lackadaisical stings of the morning sun to wake him, rising to another today.

But things are different now, he supposes. Now he has people to call his own, a life to call his own and maybe even a future to call his own. Well, if he’s to believe the flashes anyway— and maybe he does.

Oh, how he wants to believe it.

Wants that afterjust as much as he wants the now.

(Firelight flickers along the edge of his vision, staining everything a lustrous amber.

A scene of contentment greets him. Plush cushions, fuzzy socks, and the smell of cinnamon. A table filled high with food, steam rising from mugs and one space wolf nosing along the edge of a platter filled with assorted meats. The faces of his team, stretched into snapshots of cheer. Laughter, bright and loud, echoing through the halls of a familiar looking home, cozy and warm against the backdrop of night sky that clings outside the frosted window. His own mother leaning into frame, smile soft and genuine as she offers a wrapped gift.

Happy Birthday, someone says. Here’s to another year.)

A boisterous laugh jostles him back to reality. They’ve arrived at the bridge in the span of his trance, fracturing the quiet that had preceded them, and Keith belatedly blinks at the few crewmembers still lingering around; they salute only once Shiro’s steps forward, more than one starry-eyed gaze sneaking a glance at the junction where his elbow should be.

“Finally!” A voice, nasally and idiosyncratic, speaks from just beyond the raised dais in the middle of the room. “You should have been here two doboshes ago! Ugh! Now I have to recalibrate all my calculations!”

Then a familiar face, whiskered and billed, slides into view. Behind him, Shiro groans.

Slav folds two of his arms, centipede body bending back so he can glare at the group as a whole. His bushy tail quivers behind him, puffing up to twice its normal size and nearly hitting the unsuspecting woman in the navigator’s seat nearby; too worked up, the bytor doesn’t seem to notice. He marches right into their ranks, curving around both Pidge and Allura in a move that make’s Keith’s back ache by just looking.

“Do you know the likelihood of our total annihilation is now that we’ve started two doboshes late? It’s down zero point forty-six percent!” He waves his primary pair of arms in the air and Keith automatically makes to lean out of the way. Bulbous eyes zero in on him, growing bigger when the alien leans in close. A sound mixed between a huff and a chitter is aimed at him. “And will you look at that! You’ve gone and added another variable! It’s going to be one of thoserealities— I can’t believe it! Making my job all the harder!”

A bolt of lightning shoots up his spine. “What.”

But before anything more can be said on the matter, the bytor scurries away. Three of his eight hands pick up a holoscreen from the supply on the table, frantically swiping and scribbling down equations that look like a language of their own. “Now I have to do everything over again! We’re all doomed!”

“Whoa, can you actually see different realities?” Rizavi’s eyes are wide and her hands are clasped eagerly together as she zooms over and peers down at the centipede alien. “That’s so cool.”

Shiro makes a pained expression. “Please, don’t encourage him.”

But it’s already too late. Slav catches wind of the topic and, raising three fingers on three separate arms, begins to lecture on the real magnitude that is the multiverse. It goes on long enough, and to enough depth, that even Coran’s excited smile from over the main console begins to waver; Rizavi herself has begun to look constipated, feelings mirrored in the tortured expressions the rest of the MFE pilots put on behind her. And when Shiro’s eyebrow ticks, Keith expects some kind of impeding explosion.

Yet it never comes. It never comes because Lance is launching himself forward, half sprawled on the staggered console and leaning close to the aggravating alien, chin propped on his upturned palm, and asking, “Okay then, Mr. Smarty Pants. What’s the probability of Shiro being able to bench press Kolivan in this universe?”

Without missing a beat, the alien replies, “Zero point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, one, three, five.”

“And what about where I beat Pidge’s top score in Killbot Phantasm I? How many realities has that?”

“Four hundred and sixty-six trillion, and one.”

Lace whoops while Pidge, easily distracted and a sore loser, loudly demands a recount. It becomes something sort of a game after that. Calling out trifle things and waiting for the theoretical engineer to give a long-winded value, each player getting more and more outrageous in their suggestions as time passes. Even Shiro offers a reality or two.

“Oh, oh, oh! How about Lance being secretly altean?”

“Zero point zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, seven, four, one, three, seven.”

“That’s actually pretty high,” Hunk notes with an interested hum.

“Yes! What about Hunk? There’s got to be some universe out there where Hunk is balmeran and he and Shay have thousands of rock babies!” He grins wickedly at the squeak the bigger boy lets out, flush high on his cheeks and refutations stilted as they spill out of his mouth, but Lance is already moving on. “Oh! Pidge, wouldn’t it be cool if you were an olkari? It would, wouldn’t it?”

Pidge pops up at his elbow, cleaning out her left ear with her pinky. “I don’t know. I could go without the whole one-with-nature thing.”

“Oh, right. That really isn’t your forte, huh? Well, how about unilu? Four arms would be hella cool and, I mean, you’re already a goblin so you’re halfway there anyway.”

The girl flicks a piece of earwax at the blue paladin, who throws himself bodily away to hide behind Hunk. Pidge doesn’t acknowledge their twin expressions of disgust when it lands on the main screen of console or when she absently wipes her finger on her thigh. “Coding would be much easier if I had two extra hands.”

“Wish we could visit that reality. Then we could all hang out and be aliens together. That’d be so awesome.”

“How would that be any different than right now?” Keith asks, not understanding the hype.

Lance rolls his eyes and starts to answer before his mind zips to another train of thought. His hand goes flying, not-so-accidentally hitting the red paladin in the chest, but he blatantly ignores Keith’s muttered ‘ow’ in favor of whipping back to face the rest of the group. “Oh! I got another one! Is there a reality where I’m not plagued by Keith’s greasy mullet?”

This time Slav makes no hesitation. “No.”

Lance erupts into laughter, dramatic and over the top like this is the greatest joke he’s ever heard, and Keith feels himself scowling. Still, he’d rather have the teasing than hear the alien complain about their statistical failures and his lucky range of terahertz. It’s a blessing when the console lights up and a notification flits across the screen telling them of the teludav’s online status. Slav, having unconsciously purged the almost mental breakdown from his mind, perks up and scurries over to his designated chair at the helm, sparing them not another glance.

“Rachel is the same way when she’s nervous,” Lance says casually as Slav proceeds to calibrate the machine, answering a question nobody asked, head angled Keith’s way even though he’s talking to the room at large. “She would go through every bad outcome in her head until she psyched herself out— only way to snap her out of it was to distract her with something else until, eventually, she forgot what she was so worried about. Though she was more of a history junkie than anything else, so probability and statistics are kinda a stretch for me, but, hey, whatever works.”

A miniscule flash hits him. Not-there-fingers reach to fit between his own fisted ones, unwinding the tension and rubbing a soothing circle into the jut of his thumb. It’s casually intimate, learned in behavior and habitual in nature. A blink-and-you-miss-it moment.

“Alright, alright.” Shiro interrupts. “Let’s get back on track. What’s the status on the lions? They were pretty beat up during Sendak’s siege.”

Coran peers between Slav’s second and third arm, combing a thumb over his mustache. “Most of the repairs are finished. We’re just waiting for the upgrade on the Blue Lion’s sonar and to fix one of the Yellow Lion’s hind paws, which is still bent a fifteenth of a degree too far inward. It won’t take more than a week, I reckon.”

“That gives us just enough time to assemble the rest of the coalition one last time. If we cross paths with Haggar, we’ll have to make a stand and give it everything we’ve got. Prepare for a long journey ahead.” He turns to Keith and the team, and he can feel himself standing straighter with the attention; the older man notices and smiles. “One more thing. It’s our last few nights on Earth and we’ve got a long journey ahead of us, so I’m ordering you all to take some time for yourselves. Be with the ones you love.”

The days following are filled with goodbyes.

All around the base, people cling to those they hold dear. Impartial to rank— commanders or cargo pilots, stripped of everything in the face of sacrifice— it sweeps over, all encompassing. Tears are shed, hugs are given, and promises are made. Every lingering touch and whispered word is a herald for what’s to come. A final farewell, stamped with a military seal of approval.

For the most part Keith sticks to the sidelines. He’s well-versed in the art of goodbyes, but, for once, doesn’t have any to give. Everyone who’s anyone is leaving with him. His team, his mother, his wolf. All of them, keeping within reach.

Krolia and Kolivan will be joining them on the Atlas for the first quarter of their trek back into space, setting up a relief unit aboard the ship before they go looking for the remaining members of the Blade that might still be alive. It’s something Keith has always known would happen. Loyalty to their own, something that runs deep in his own veins, have guided them this far and will continue to guide them even further. And if that loyalty takes them away from Keith for a while, then so be it. It is a consolation though, knowing they’re capable to face whatever comes their way and only a call away should Keith need them.

It’s these reasons that Keith forgoes the goodbyes and instead finds himself sitting atop the Black Lion’s head with his space wolf for company, watching the sun set on what could be one of his last days on Earth.

He’s sits in silence for ten minutes before Kosmo’s head is swiveling behind them, ears perked. Seconds later Keith can hear someone clambering out of the open hatch behind him, footsteps bringing them closer until the body belonging to them drops into the place beside him. A quick look and he’s looking into ocean eyes.

“Man, you can be a real hard guy to find when you wanna be,” Lance says, kicking his legs over the ledge. He angles his face up. “You watching the sunset?”

“Yeah…” He sighs, returning his gaze to the horizon. “It might be awhile before we get to see it again.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna really miss this place.”

Looking at the golden touch of the clouds draped over the shoulders of the distant mountains, Keith can’t help but agree. They’ve seen their fair share of planets, each one more extraordinary than the last. Some with floating islands, waterfalls of citrine dripping over the edge and straight to oblivion. Others with fields of colossal blossoms opening under the light of twin moons, humming as they start their migration to the fire pits of the planet’s core. All of it, strange and wonderful and breathtaking, things beyond anything he could hope to imagine, and yet— nothing could hold a candle to the wonders of an Earthen sunset.

“You know,” Lance starts, voice melting under the fading light, “when I was younger, I always wanted to live among the stars. But now, I’m not so sure.”

Keith tilts his head until his temple presses against his knee, tracing the other’s gilded profile. “Having second thoughts?” he teases.

“More like just thoughts in general. Just, I don’t know, sometimes I wonder if I’m really cut out for this kind of stuff. I mean, who would’ve thought I’d be one of the guys saving the universe— me, some kid from Cuba. It’s just… sometimes it doesn’t feel real.”

The solemn tone is an arrowhead to the soft underbelly of the beast that beats in his chest. He’s familiar with the consuming self-doubt that rises in low times and doesn’t want Lance— kind and always with a shoulder to lean on Lance— to feel like he’s anything less than what he is: essential and important and wanted.

“Am I hearing this correctly? You, Lance McClain, are saying you don’t think you’re fit for space exploration. Are you okay? Coming down with that space flu, are you?”

His friend cracks a grin. “Nah, man. No space flu here. Didn’t you hear? I’m a Cuban boy, and we’ve got immune systems made of steel.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I was worried for a second there, because the Lance I know should never doubt whether he’s cut out for this stuff. Saving the universe is in the name.” He leans back onto his hands. “That’s how we’re gonna win this war. With the Lance that’s the paladin of the Red Lion. The Lance that’s always got my back. And the Lance that knows exactly who is and what he’s got to offer.”

He thinks about a distant memory, of two lost boys finding each other in the depths of a planet made of storms. Thinks about drifting through the fog, full of regret and self-doubt, and looking up into the luminous eyes of the Red Lion, a beacon of certainty in a world full of misgivings. Remembers admitting a mistake and having it cupped in the hands of the boy next to him, offered back with an olive branch growing amidst the roots of his palm.

A shoulder knocks into his. “Thanks, Keith.”

He knocks it back. “Anytime.”

They go back to watching the sunset, a comfortable silence settling nicely between them. Minute by minute, the sun lowers itself down into the cradle of night. A sheet of stars follows, twinkling in a lullaby the moon croons, silvery and sweet. It becomes a waltz across the sky, in perpetuum, so close that he feels like he can reach out and join them. To walk among them until he reaches the fold of the skyline, take that final step and fall off the precipice. The final distance.

“To the end of the universe,” he murmurs absently.

“And back.”

Keith turns his head. “What?”

“To the end of the universe and back,” Lance repeats, the faded glow of the sunset caressing his face and coloring it gold, softening the edges until he’s his own miniature sun. It takes half a minute of Keith not responding for the other boy to continue, gaze detaching itself from the sight before them almost reluctantly and meeting his own, aiming to blind. “What’s the point in going if you don’t have anywhere to come back to?”

And Keith doesn’t have an answer for that, not one that’s true anyway. For Keith had always wanted more than what he was given, always looking ahead in hopes that it’ll distract him from what he’s left behind. First it had been the thrill of adventure, then a desperate search for a mother thought gone and now— now, it’s to keep safe what he’s made.

“To the end of the universe and back,” Keith finally says, quiet and thoughtful.

It sounds like a promise.

“Be safe,” his mother tells him that night when he returns to the apartment, cosmic wolf curling around her calves. The moonlight bounces off the luxite of the blade she presses into his palm, catching every groove of the weapon, alien and familiar. Not a goodbye, but a blessing and a plea. “Be safe and come back to me.”

To the end of the universe and back, he thinks as they hug, willing the words to be true.

By the time they’re to embark, the entirety of the base has congregated together to see them off. They fill up the Atlas launch bay, watching the group make their way to the lions seated at the ship’s base; a gradient murmur rises to existence upon their appearance, getting louder and louder the closer they get. People start waving and soon there are flashes of pictures being taken, documented for all of time. It’s wild and overwhelming, and Keith nearly stumbles in his footing.

“Woah,” Hunk murmurs.

The bigger boy looks a bit green when Keith glaces over, shoulders hunching up to his ears in partial embarrassment as he offers a hesitant wave to a little balmeran sitting atop its parents’ shoulders. At his elbow, Pidge appears fascinated, excitedly pointing out the drones that seem to be filming the procession. At Keith’s other side, Lance, always comfortable in the spotlight, preens at the attention, giving the crowd his best smile— all pearly whites and boyish dimples— and signature finger guns. Ahead of the four, both Shiro and Allura take it all in stride, exuding authority and grace as they nod to those screaming their names.

They make it to the stage assembled in front of the circle of lions without a hitch, walking past the line of officials already situated, dressed in medals of value and pressed suits. It must make for an impressive image because the drones fly lower and there are the rapid snaps of photographs being taken, the slew of them broadcasted on the large holoscreens facings the crowds. The cheers become thunderous as Allura takes the podium, looking for all she is a queen about to address her subjects.

The cosmos take a deep breath, waiting for her to speak.

“My father once told me that belief was the cornerstone of life. That to believe in something greater meant to push yourself higher to reach it. Each and every one of us has this power. To strive forward and achieve what we believe, what we dream— it is only a matter of will.” The altean’s kaleidoscope eyes sweeps over the masses, aiming to making a connection to all those who look back. “Today, we all have the same belief. To end this war. To see what lies beyond this strife and sorrow, and to form anew from its ashes.”

Keith looks to the faces in the crowd, watches them open up, sunlit and hopeful, blooming under the words of a princess with no crown. It’s awe-inspiring.

“Do not fear to take that step towards change, for it is within your grasp. The power we hold together is great and it will lead us to a new era. An aeon of peace.”

There’s an old truth to the words, the sound of them ringing across centuries and centuries of history Keith hasn’t lived through and can only catch a glimpse of through the dusty windows of crumbling libraries. Empires and kingdoms alike collapse and fall to those words, reborn anew by the same mercy.

“We will succeed,” Allura continues, voice powerful and full of conviction. “This war has been going on for a millennium and, for some, it is all you have known. But I’m here to say that it’s not always going to be like this. I have known peace and I promise that it can be like that again. It’s worth the pain. It’s worth standing back up and fighting. And that’s what we are going to do now. Fight for our lives and those who we return to, so that everyone may know peace as I did. We will fight, we will win and we will return— for the good of the universe.”

A roar of approval explodes at her words, spirited and deafening. It propels them forward, stepping onto the docking platform and holding their heads high in a deep-rooted hope for triumph.

Minutes later, the IGF-Atlas is launched and with it, the universe’s last hope.

It takes time but, one by one, the Galra Empire’s hold on the universe slackens. Planets, shackled by the oppression of a dictator, are freed, allowed to step back into the light. Their inhabitants, tear-eyed and bruised, thank them with what little they have to give; words of gratitude and medals of honor, immortalized in lore and statue. A depiction of heroes, armor sullied in the effort of liberation and dented in the face of suns now free to shine, digging into the soft flesh of those salvaged from the wreckage and those too late to save.

It’s tiring work, one that leaves bones aching and minds hollow. Still, they don’t quit. Fight the galra, aid the people and take to the sky. On to the next, rinse and repeat.

When they aren’t liberating planets, they spend their time walking the halls of the Atlas, going through the motions in such a way that it’s reminiscent to life aboard the castleship before its destruction. Time goes in cycles between operations, alternating from urgent to lethargic at a moment’s notice. It’s the high strung tension of a warship charging an ion cannon, orders made and orders followed, abated only by the notification of threat neutralized and the sighs of relief that follow. It’s the slow drawl of the days in-between, following the routine of social interactions dictated by close proximity; lounging in the common rooms, doodling on the backside of old reports and making calls back to Earth, a bizarre show of normalcy.

His world grows. Strangers become acquaintances and acquaintances become friends, becoming more commonplace as time passes and battles are won.

He learns the names of the rest of the MFE pilots and gets a scope of their personalities, finds that they aren’t so bad as he initially thought. Ryan never goes anywhere without his camera and always has an opinion on the pick for movie nights. Nadia is an adrenaline junkie and likes to show off that she can do a black flip from a standstill position. Ina can beatbox and might actually be one of the funniest people Keith has ever met. Even James seems to have become less hostile in the past years, keeping the hard put harmony whenever they cross paths; not once does he offer an apology for the trouble he caused Keith when they were young but, nonetheless, it seems that they’ve come to some sort of silent agreement.

Another change is the near constant presence of Lance’s oldest sister, Veronica. A central component of command among the Atlas, the woman is almost as high a rank as Shiro and walks through the halls with a certain air around her that reflects it. She’s small, shorter when standing next to the lean form of her brother, brisk in her speech and utterly composed in everything else. More often than not, he sees her giving orders or analyzing battle plans, eyes zeroing in on anything and everything, ready to dissect. Only when in the company of her brother does the professional front come down entirely, smoothing over strict frowns and furrowed eyes until a semblance of a person shines through.

(Like now, after yet another meeting with the crew on operation progress and Keith takes a second to wait for Shiro, leaning against the wall and only half listening as his friend finishes discussing the particulars on a medical unit planetside. Opposite to him are the two siblings, talking; as he watches the younger says something, hands flailing dramatically, and the reaction is near immediate. Veronica shoves her brother and does this thing, where her cheeks rise and her eyes crinkle in a open-mouthed smile— and ah, now Keith knows where Lance gets it from.)

It’s because their group is ever growing that, when there’s no meetings scheduled and no planet in need of saving, they’ll come together and chill. Sometimes they’ll have dinner and do a game night, dividing into teams and arguing passionately over whether it’s fair for the mice to play charades when Allura can practically read their thoughts. Other times they have movie nights, crowded around the giant holoscreen in the captain’s quarters, munching on popcorn and cocooned in blankets, only to wake up the next morning with mussed up hair and drool drying on their chins.

It’s a far cry from what Keith thought his life would be like, cruising through deep space and fighting in a thousand year old war alongside the very people who threw him into it. To have found something out of nothing.

If only thirteen year old Keith could see him now. Maybe then he’d be a little more patient knowing that something good came from all the pain.

Birthed from the planet’s core, all he knows is fire. Every thought, incinerated, leaving only ash and a hollow husk. Curled in on himself, quivering in the aftershocks of violence, he hopes for salvation. A means to end the agony, forever extinguished.

A miracle, then. Nebulous hands, burning upon exposure, reaching for him just as a voice says, I’m still here.

It is a promise made.

Always gonna be here.

It is a promise kept.

They don’t catch a trace of Haggar until four months into their mission.

By then they are well-versed in policing the vast expanse of space. Violence may still slink around the corners, but it no longer rules the universe, collapsing under the force of the will of their allies. The planets they encounter no longer tremble under the fury of the galra sigil, but fight back, answering the call that echoes across light years. Where Voltron is a beacon of hope, the Atlas is a promise of a future; for Voltron may fight and bleed to give the people their freedom, it is the Atlas and all its assets bestowed that allows them the power to wield it.

Even with all its power and history, Voltron is not needed like it used to be. The paladins themselves barely have much to do as it is, going into battles that are over before they even begin. It seems that the universe doesn’t need much defending anymore.

Which leads to no argument when they receive intel about the altean witch’s whereabouts in the outskirts of the sector they’re in and decide to pursue.

Allura, in particular, is eager to get things rolling. The princess throws herself into the preparation, listening to reports and triangulating coordinates that might give more incite to what’s to come. Night after night she stays up, looking through the star maps and murmuring in an ancient language that only a handful of people still possess the knowledge to understand; no matter how much Keith and the rest of the team prods, she refuses to let up, shaking her head when they mention rest and insisting that some things are just more important.

Results are garnered when, on the day before they’re set to mobilize, the altean wakes from her comatose state.

From the moment her eyes snap open, bedlam ensues. An alarm goes off in the middle of breakfast and people go running— medical hands, scientists, lieutenants, paladins and everyone in between. Everyone wants to know the answer to the biggest question of this age: who is this mysterious altean and why was she found at the heart of a Sincline Mech. Allura is the first to arrive, Romelle the second, running ahead of Keith and pushing past the nurses on hand and kneeling next to the shaking form splayed over pristine bed sheets.

It takes a few minutes but eventually emerald eyes focus, zipping from corner to corner until they stick onto the two at her bedside, taking in their pointed ears and colorful marks and Coran standing just behind. The whole room holds their breath as she takes a moment to process, silent in the wake of the hand she raises, trembling, to graze across Allura’s cheek. A moment passes, extending the length of forever and then—

“Ah!” Allura cries out.

—like a whip cracking, fingers are gripping the princess’s chin and pulling it closer. Nails dig into flesh, carving angry, red lines down once flawless skin.

“Traitors,” the girl hisses.

More than one person lurches forward to intervene, but Allura rips herself away before anything else could be done. Her brows furrow, confusion and anger twisting her lips as she glares at the hand that marked her.

“We are not traitors,” Romelle says, leaning forward despite what had just transpired and catching the eye of the altean. “It’s me, Romelle. Don’t you recognize me, Luka? It’s been a long time, but you used to play with my brother when we were younger. Brandor, remember?”

“A traitor with a name is still a traitor nonetheless. Do not think forgiveness will be given just because you once walked among us.”

“But we are not traitors,” Allura insists. “We have done nothing to deserve such a title. It is you who were found in Sincline Mech, trying to destroy Earth, unprovoked.”

The altean— Luka, curls her lip in distaste. “Earth harbors traitors to our kind. It is offense enough.”

“We are not here to cause more strife, but to stop a war. You see, I am—”

“I know who you are. You are Allura of Old Altea, the princess who slept on while we suffered.” She sneers in the face of their shock, twisting on the bed until she’s all but spitting in the face of a once-ruler. “Empress Honerva has told us all about you. She warned us about your lies. Warned us about your delusions of peace, how you defile what you preach. How it was you who cut Lotor down when he trusted you most, when all he sought for was to save us. Save us when you couldn’t— when you wouldn’t.”

Allura stumbles back as if struck. It’s a low blow and they all know it; know that Allura may say the past is the past when it comes to the galran prince, but that this is a would hastily stitched. A wound now split wide open. “You do not know the whole story. Lotor was using our kind, using me. He was not the man we thought he was. He did not even tell me of your existence. If I had known then—”

“You would have done nothing! Nothing!” Luka jerks forward, as if to attack, and two men on medical standby step forward to restrain her. She fights them, glaring at the two alteans before her with such venom that it is a miracle they do not fall to the floor. “You would have left us to die, just as you did with the rest of our people. Just as you did with Lotor. You think yourself a Life Giver, but you hold no such power, and when the fates come crashing down, it is you who will find yourself cut down. Cut down by the very blade you wield.”

Keith sees the words cut deep, sees his friend flinch.

Then the altean does try to attack, breaking free of the humans that restrain her and swinging a fist that promises retribution. It’s only the quick reaction of Coran, growing two feet in the span of seconds, that catches it before it can land; Allura blinks in delayed astonishment, eyes glazed over as they watch the girl get tackled back onto the bed, thrashing like a wild animal. Watches as a nurse raises a syringe filled with transparent liquid to her neck, needle piercing pale skin, and her eyes roll back, body slumping in an unconscious heap. Watches as Romelle scurries forward, hands fluttering nervously and unsure what to do, desperate to help— can only stare and watch as the body is carried away to some undisclosed location as people rush about, talking about heart rates and induced comas, followed by the bark of orders for others to get back to their scheduled duties.

Only when the room has cleared and none of the alteans have moved, does Keith venture closer. “Allura,” he says as soft as he can muster, eyeing the princess and the white-knuckled clutch of her fists. “You okay?”

His voice must break through whatever plane she drifts in, because she deliberately untenses, looking back at him. “Hm? Yes, I’m— it’s fine. I just hadn’t realized… that they harbored such hostility for me.”

She blinks rapidly, attempting to banish the tears they all see collecting at the corner of her eyes.

Granite cracks as Coran returns back to the living world. He turns back to the princess, shrinking to his original size, a dangerous look flashing in his eyes. It’s times like this that Keith has to remind himself that this man, eccentric and over the top as he is, has seen more of this universe than any one of them. That he has advised kings and queens, long gone, a relic of a time past this system and the next. That there are empires younger than the years etched into his face.

“It is not your fault, princess,” the older man assures, kneeling down so that they are eye level. His gloved hand takes hers, guiding it slowly to her face, hovering over the marks that linger. “They do not know any better. Let the Life Givers guide us, we will save them and teach them what it truly means to be altean.”

The words bring forth a small smile. Her fingertips glow a faint pink, sealing over the scratches and leaving not even a scar. “You’re right, Coran. This just makes it more imperative that we win this war and defeat Honerva, to heal what she has wrought. For our people.”

Romelle joins them, looking upset but trying hard to be otherwise. “We’ll just have to show them the truth.”

Lance puts a hand on his hip. “Yeah, but first we have to find them. We know where Honerva was four quintants ago, but that’s worth nothing if we don’t know which way she was headed. No clues on what she’s doing either. And I don’t think our new friend is going to be telling us anytime soon.”

“Oh.” Something bright returns to Allura’s eyes. “Maybe she won’t have to.”

“Princess?” Shiro questions.

But she’s already standing, pushing past them and towards the doors the unconscious altean had been carried through, shoulders set to a determined line and earrings glinting in the light as she disappears. Coran and Romelle are quick to follow her, leaving behind the five humans in a state of bewilderment and slow uptake. Yet, before they can even think to move, the door locks with a final click, making the decision for them and leaving them with nothing to do but wait.

Wait until, nearly half an hour later, Allura comes out.

They bumble in the suddenness of it, chins dipping out of their upturned palms and cracking against the table, straightening right out of their seat. Boredom replaced with attentiveness at the blink of an eye. In the seconds it takes for the door to close shut behind her, Keith catches a glimpse of Coran, Romelle and nurses hunched over the form of Luka, head lolling to the side and eyes still glowing in the aftereffects of Allura’s power. It reminds him of their little experiment concerning his flashes and he idly wonders the extent of the altean princess’s capability, whether its as infinite as space itself.

“It’s worse than we thought,” Allura tells them, voice grave. “Honerva means to do more than conquer this universe. She means to destroy it.”

“You can’t be serious.” Hunk says, hands gripping onto Lance’s shirt. “Oh my gosh, you’re serious. Can she even do that?”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “Better yet. How does she plan to do that?”

“Luka did not know the specifics behind it, just the end result. It seems as if they’ve been led to believe that if they help Honerva succeed then they will be transported to another reality, one where Altea does not fall and they are reunited with their loved ones. But, in truth, it will only lead to oblivion of all universes that exist in this plane and the next.”

“We have to stop her.”

“Agreed.” Allura doesn’t look at anyone, instead keeps her eyes unwaveringly forward. “It’s time to make our move,” she says, voice hard. “We’re taking the fight to Honerva.”

“I don’t know about this guys…”

Keith breathes deeply through his nose, forcing his eye to stop twitching as the yellow paladin says the very phrase he’s been repeating for the last three hours since leaving their solar system via wormhole. The comms are open for convenience’s sake, protocol dictating that their distance from the Atlas be monitored through the simplest means and updates be given every hour on the hour.

“We’ve been through this, Hunk. We’re sticking with the plan.”

“Yeah, I know… but it’s not much of a plan, is it? Just, like, doesn’t it feel a bit too risky to be venturing inside her flying temple-thingy without our lions. Like, am I the only one who thinks that’s crazy? I can’t be the only one who thinks that’s crazy.”

Allura’s screen pops up on his monitor. “No one’s arguing over the precariousness of the plan, but the lions simply can’t fit inside the castle of Oriande and the situation calls for immediate action. And think it of this way, if our lions aren’t able to get it, then neither can her Sincline ships. It’ll be an even playing field— maybe even in our favor because she doesn’t know we’re coming.”

Their destination comes into view just as Pidge pipes up with some nonsensical statistics; Maserith, fourth planet closest to this system’s gas giant. Swathed with purples and yellows, a single, translucent ring circles it. Two moons orbit close by, one with a crack so large it runs the length of the object’s circumference; Keith stares at it when they pass it by, watching as a chuck of mass breaks off and disintegrates. No fighter ships appear when they breach the atmosphere, everything remaining quiet as they descend, the lions’ systems picking up no unusual activity. Clouds fade into mist and landmasses become sharper, the lush of forests and mountain ranges there to greet them, bigger and more violaceous than that of Earth.

Roosting at the base of the nearest mountain to their northwestern side, is Honerva’s ship.

Allura breathes out loudly, sounding reverent in that ageless way of hers. Oriande, the lathe of heaven, must shimmer and shine like the Altea of the princess’s memories, bursting with life cut too short. A whisper of what was and what would have been.  

Keith eyes it suspiciously. “Pidge, initiate stealth mode.”

“On it.”

They complete their descent without a hitch, maneuvering their lions behind a graded slope and leaving them behind with force fields activated. Their speeders are fast, zipping under the cover of the forest’s edge until they reach the temple-ship’s barrier. Crystals of lilac levitate in pairs around the perimeter, pulsing every few seconds in an obvious show of altean alchemy.

It takes Allura a minute to defuse them, quintessence draining from the gems as they fall to the ground. Then it is only a matter of sneaking through one of the back entryways, following the princess as she guides them past ancient inscriptions carved into crumbling marble and the pink vines that crawl along their age-old spines. Lanterns of blue and purple blink into life as they pass, illuminating their drawn weapons and the winding path of the labyrinth they’ve stepped in. Careful of being caught by bullheaded scouts that may or may not lurk around corners they stick close to the walls, steps careful and ears open.

Eventually, they come to a crossroads and the target on Pidge’s scanner flickers and splits. “There’s a sudden surge of energy botching up my system. It’s coming from three separate chambers in the temple.” A few taps at the screen at her wrist. “I can pinpoint their locations, but not what’s actually happening inside.”

Allura looks down the tunnel they’re facing. “Honerva must have started whatever she means to do. We must hurry. This planet won’t survive this much concentrated quintessence, let alone the universe.”

“We’ll have to split up,” Keith tells them, split second decision considered and made. “We can’t be sure which chamber Honerva is in, so we’ll have to check them all. Allura, you keep going down this tunnel. Hunk and Pidge, you go to the right. Lance, you’re with me.”

The boy doesn’t bat an eyelash, merely nods and steps closer to his side. Their youngest member mutters something about informing the Atlas, but doesn’t questions the order. Hunk, however, still doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “I still don’t think…”

“Be sure to comm if you find her.” Allura says over he shoulder, already disappearing down her designated path.

The finger the yellow paladin was holding up falls and he blows out a loud breath through his nose, frowning at the obvious dismissal. “Does no one remember last time you guys didn’t listen to me? Cause I do. Rolo and Nyma? Nearly stole the Blue Lion? Ring any bells, anyone?”

“How can we forget when you constantly bring it up,” Lance grumbles.

Knowing the truth to the statement and the way his friend had yet to let them all live down the misjudgement of character in their first few months as paladins, Keith elects not to comment on how it had worked in their favor in the end, giving them two new allies and intel on rebel activity. Instead, he takes the time clap the burly boy on the shoulder, tilting his head in order accommodate the height difference between the two. “Hey, relax, it’ll work out. This isn’t like last time. We’re different people than we were back then, and we’re ready for whatever Honerva throws at us. This is just something we have to do. Trust me.”

Hunk worries his lip. “Yeah, okay.”

Then he’s following Pidge with only one or two looks back, footsteps growing faint until they disappear altogether.

Keith doesn’t waste any time, turning to Lance and finding him already looking back; blue eyes giving him a quick once over, catching momentarily on his sword before snapping to his face in the span of a second, serious and cool through his visor. A steady presence, waiting to follow his lead and watch his back.

Together, they make their way down the ominous hall, shadowed in the unknown and the uncontrolled. Years of experience guide them, keeping their heart rates low and their minds alert, muscle memory bowing their backs and clenching their stomachs, at the ready for even the slightest inclination of trouble. They are soft flesh and wired nerves, molded by battles fought and allies lost, soldiers of the universe’s making, marching to right a wrong and fix what is broken.

Sound travels low, prowling down the corridor as they get closer and closer towards the temple’s center. In the distance, they can hear the walls coming to life; the fwoosh of a door being opened, the padding of footsteps and the muffled static of voices. They exchange a look and Lance sharply turns the next corner, blaster raised. He fires once, twice, three times. Then two bodies are slumping against the wall and a security drone is broken on the floor. Past hangars and crypts, filled with altean artifacts and technology, they go. Sidestepping altean guards when they can and knocking them out cold when they can’t. Systematic, they comb through the maze until, finally, they come to its end.

The slim path expands into a bigger pocket of space, lined with colossal thrones and god-like statues sitting upon their seats. The ceiling is slanted, light filtering through painted panes and casting dramatic landscapes across impassive faces. A glass prism sits idyllically at the room’s center, surrounded by a garden of juniberries. In front of them a ledge that overlooks the large room, draped with banners bearing a symbol they’ve seen on the castleship’s ballroom. Altea’s royal insignia.

“Pretty,” Lance comments. “A little over the top, but… pretty.”

Keith peers over the edge, pulling back almost immediately when he spots movement. Another, more cautious look has him pinpointing eight guards.

A quick glance sees Lance, eyes steely under brows pinched in utter focus.

Without hesitation, he jumps.

His knees bend as he falls, body instinctively knowing that a straight impact at this height and speed will surely kill him. But there is no scratch of fear, only confidence when he activates his jetpack seconds before it becomes dangerous. A jostle as gravity meets resistance and the anchor that had so urgently pulled at him is gone. No longer falling, but flying.

The guards don’t see him coming, jerking to surprised attention when he lands in their midst and sweeps his leg in a low kick. They’re sent sprawling, weapons clattering to the floor, but Keith doesn’t let them gather their wits, launching himself at the closest one. Another swift kick and an elbow to the face downs them both, and he throws the dead weight of one at the remaining guards who rush from the other side of the room. These altean guards have never seen war, not like Keith has, and, as such, they stumble. A misstep, a tick of hesitation at the look he levels their way, small but enough to give him an advantage as he spins around them and slashes at the bend of their exposed wrists. Disarmed, they are easy pickings, falling unconscious with a swift round of punches.

Lance jumps down from the railing, sparing not a look at the bodies he had sniped while Keith’s back had been turned. “You good?”

He nods and readjusts his grip on his bayard, hands sweaty underneath the gloves. “Yeah.”

“Good. Cause the last guy I sniped had a keycard. I think it opens to the inner chamber over there.” He nods to the door at the other end of the room, altean runes scrawled across its arch. “This is the only corridor with any guards stationed at it. Honerva may be a delusional space witch looking to destroy all of reality, but I’m betting paranoia is running through her like crazy— crazy enough to put all her security unit in the one place she needs it.”

Keith catches his meaning. “Whatever’s through there is important.”

“Yeaup, and I’m thinking—”

But Keith never hears the rest, because suddenly the heavens rip apart. There’s a screech, beast-like, and they turn, limbs heavy with lead and time they don’t have, to see a shadow rise from the dark. The yellow eyes of a witch glow just as foreign words are uttered, runes of magic dripping into the air and crystalizing, real and powerful.

Keith sees the barrel of Lance’s blaster rise just as the edge of his sword does the same, the familiar hum of the weapon’s charge growing louder through the slow pace of time. Blue energy builds at its tip— ready, aim and fire. He follows the shot, knees bending and body lurching forward in a deadly arc. The sound of his own heart doubles as he rushes forward and toward the figure, feet steady and sure even as they leave solid ground

Dual scream rips out of their lungs, harmonizing into one and reaching its zenith as the floor beneath them grows dark, crumbling into nothingness. Desperate, two boys look to each other, eyes wide and hands reaching. One step and—

To the end of the universe, Lance says in the light of a dying sun, and back.

—they fall.

Pairing:Keith/Lance
Words:11.5k
Rating:M
Warnings: mild violence, (minor) implicit sexual content, anxious thoughts
Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm 

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

READ IT ON AO3

The flashes grow more intense.

At first, they had been an inconvenience. A flash here and a flash there, arbitrary like flipping open a book to a random page. Aimless in its intent of stealing Keith’s time but an ambitious thief nonetheless, sifting through his cove of memories and hoping to strike gold amongst desert sand and bruised knuckles. Both passages of time, locked away in a tilting hourglass and behind porcelain skin, they are fleeting in thought and consequence.

That is, until they decide to stay.

Then it becomes a problem.

A problem he can’t fix because the scenes played out are narrated by some omniscient being, unreliable with its knack for embellishing the color of the sky and the clouds that ride the breeze, and wholly unwilling to take criticism. For somewhere between leaving the quantum abyss and stepping foot on Earth soil the universe had decided that Keith’s story was far from over and needed to be told. What had been weekly is now daily. Streams of them, disjointed and vague, bobbing in the shallow depth of his foremind. It takes over, dissolving reality in a current call to a life that couldn’t be his.

One minute he has his hand on the doorknob to Shiro’s apartment, twisting, and the next he is walking into a stranger’s home, steps faltering at the tinkle of wind chimes and the sight of Kosmo curled up on a plush armchair, fast asleep. Past the backdrop of the muted television is the sound of running water and soft humming, running lackadaisical fingertips over the threadbare rug under his feet and the bookcase bursting with scrapbooks and bent paperbacks. Gossamer drapes sway in a draft let through the open windows, refracting the sunlight through their soft lens. He squints, blinded, and—

A face shrouded in light, beaming with happiness. Welcome home, Keith.

—he’s standing in the middle of Shiro’s apartment, not knowing when or how long he’d been standing there.

The walls are pale and the furniture minimalist. It’s a bit too pristine for Keith’s taste, everything in a place and a place for everything. For someone like Shiro, who’s always needed to have everything beyond flawless to justify his own dream in the face of a chronic illness, the space is perfect, but Keith is cut from a different cloth. Worn and rough to the touch, he expects the world around him to reflect the same. Brief as it was, he misses the flash and nearly wishes it real.

“You okay?” Shiro is asking, turned completely in his seat at the kitchen island and staring at Keith, reading glasses slipping down his nose; they look suspiciously like Adam’s but Keith isn’t going to say anything about that. “You kinda spaced-out a bit there.”

“Uh, yeah,” he responds quickly, throat dry. He rubs at his eyes with the jut of his palm, willing the vision away for good. “I just”—a deep breath, even and slow—“forgot about… something. It’ll come to me eventually.”

“If you say so.” But the older man doesn’t look entirely sure, frowning that frown he does whenever Keith says something particularly dismal about his past. Thankfully, he seems to understand Keith well enough to know better than to delve deeper— yet. “Did you wanna get started on the security detail for the coalition conference? The Unilu are sending a party next week and want to know if Voltron will be there to escort them out of their solar system…”

Constantly standing at the cusp of something almost real, Keith waits to be pushed over the edge.

It gets tougher to keep things under wrap with the flashes manifesting whenever they like. Most of the time he can blame the lapse in concentration on fatigue or even mishearing, but Keith knows that people are starting to catch wind that something is— not wrong, per say, but that something is definitely going on. Keith is not known for his inability to focus, but, rather, his to inability to stop.

“People are getting suspicious,” Allura tells him the third night in a row he had snuck into her room on the Atlas. Scattered around her are countless scrolls, brittle to the touch and written in a language he can’t read. Her mice lay about; Chuchule hidden in the curl of white hair, Platt napping under the makeshift tent of a book and Plachu and Chulatt lounging on Keith’s knee. “You could be a little more tactful in how you go about things.”

Having already heard the complaint more than once, Keith simply rolls his eyes and focuses on the translator in his hands. It’s slow compared to the almost instant reaction time of those that had been on the castleship, but it’s progress nonetheless. “Yeah, well, it won’t matter once we figure out what’s going on with me. So if you could focus on reading and doing just that, that’d be great.”

Allura huffs up a storm but does what’s asked of her.

It’s a little easier having someone else know, Keith must admit. Makes him feel less like he’s drowning and more like he’s treading deep water. With Allura around and in the loop, Keith doesn’t have to pretend when a flash hits him, scrambling up a dumb excuse or making a hasty retreat. She merely sits next to him, hand on his arm and leaning in, and waits for it to pass. There is no pressure of secrecy when it is done, just a smile he haltingly returns and a murmur for them to get back to work; not that that stops him from keeping to himself anyway (though Allura has made her opinion on that blatantly clear), but the thought is still there.

As if sensing his want of confidentiality and purposefully scorning it, the device in his hand beeps, causing them both to jerk to attention. Match found, reads the screen and Keith nearly topples over a pile of dusty books in his haste to get the scroll he had been translating into the princess’s hands, upsetting the mice. Allura is just as eager, ripping it from his grasp and shoving her nose into it, going cross-eyed as she reads its faded ink.

“What does it say?” he asks impatiently.

Allura doesn’t answer immediately, instead unrolling it further and frowning in her effort to make sense of the words bared in front of her. After a solid minute of reading her eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Wow,” she murmurs in wonder. “To think that all this knowledge was at my fingertips this entire time. How foolish of me not to delve into the archives sooner.”

“Well?”

“First off, we were right in thinking that there might be a connection to what’s happening to you and Oriande. The translator worked and this scroll details the supposed creation of the realm.” Her eyes start glittering, wide like full moons. “It’s a realm, did you know that? Not another dimension like we originally thought. There’s a difference: a dimension can exist in a limited amount of space, but realms exist in all of them. How fascinating.”

“I know this is all great and awesome for you, but can we focus here? What does it say about the abyss?” Allura doesn’t so much as twitch. “Allura. Hey— what does it say?”

Almost reluctantly, she looks up and away. But when they are finally level with each other once more her face takes on a specific expression, the one where she talks science and alchemy and diplomacy. Perceptive and fierce. It’s one of calculation.

Out of pure instinct, Keith leans away from it. “What is it?

“You haven’t come into contact with pure quintessence recently, have you?”

“Uh, no.”

“How about during your time in the abyss?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so or you don’t know so.”

The way she beats around the bush causes a spark of annoyance to run through him. “I’m not sure if you know this, princess, but I lived on the back of a giant, space whale and you don’t just find vats of pure quintessence lying around. I’m sure if there was any, we would know about it.”

Another eye sparkle, as if she’d been waiting for Keith to say as much. “Speaking of ‘we,’ how does your mother fair with the visions? Are they more taxing with her age? Do they happen just as often as your own? It’s possible that the visions are connected through you both, through familial relation. Maybe we could ask and compare experiences between the two.”

Keith twitches. “Ah, no, she doesn’t get them anymore. They stopped a few days after we arrived on the castleship.” He looks away, wincing against the guilt that ravages his insides when he recalls her relief when telling him of the news. She had been so happy and Keith hadn’t wanted to ruin it, so much so that the lie had rolled off his tongue without a moment’s thought. “She actually doesn’t know that I still get them. I haven’t… well, I haven’t told her.”

Her brows turns downward. “Keith.”

Keith shakes off the chide, clearing his throat. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to know, not when we finally have this.” He gestures to the scroll still held loosely in her hands. “You said there’s a connection, right? And that it’s got something to do with quintessence, I’m guessing.”

Allura looks as if she wants to talk more about Keith and his choices in life, but doesn’t know how to continue without upsetting Keith himself. Eventually, she sighs and nods, laying out the scroll between them and placing her ever-compliant mice at the corners as paperweights of sorts. They squeak up at them, watching Allura’s perfectly manicured finger trace a line. “It says here that realms are tied directly to the quintessence that makes up the world. It is the beginning of what was and what is and what shall be. The quantum abyss is a precursor to even that. From it or another like it, Oriande was made and from that, our universe. Just as I was tied to Oriande, it seems you are tied to the abyss.”

“But… why me?”

She tilts her head in thought. “Only selected Alteans can enter Oriande, a criteria held by what the Life Givers hold true. But the abyss is older and run by more… archaic principles. You are the first galra-human hybrid in existence, something never before seen in this universe or that of another, so perhaps it is your physiology. Maybe the fact is making you susceptible to the flashes in a way full-breeds and other species are not. Kinship in the form of novelty. It would explain why you are so sensitive to quintessence too.”

He nods. “Back when— before all this and Voltron was even a thing— I was able to find Blue. At first, it was just a feeling, but then it turned into some kind of obsession. I always thought I was going crazy, you know, chasing after some obscure cave drawings, but then we actually found her and…”

“It became real.”

“Yeah.”

She must notice something in his tone, because she leans into him and smiles. “It’s a good thing you trusted your instincts. Without it, we might have never met and the universe would be a much different place.”

“Yeah,” he says again. “You’re right. I’d rather deal with this than never meet any of you.”

Allura brings her hand to her heart, mimicked by the mice, all obviously touched at his words, and Keith flushes in embarrassment. He’s gotten better at conveying his feelings since being launched into space, but the action of voicing them still causes his stomach to flip erratically. It’s ridiculous, he knows, because they’ve had enough group hugs and heartfelt reunions to sufficiently define themselves as the makeshift family he’s always wanted, but the abandonment of his past has a way of following him into the prospect of his future and it’s a battle he’s raging even today.

“So,” he says louder than necessary, “let’s get back to… this.”

Allura clears her throat. “Yes, well, if we are to assume that you are still linked to the quantum abyss despite leaving its bounds and that link is quintessence based then it would stand to reason that quintessence might be the solution.”

“I don’t follow.”

Her hand cups his own. “I want to induce a vision.”

It’s not what he was expecting and he says as much. “You want to— the flashes aren’t something I can control, Allura. They just happen.”

“You forget that I study alchemy and, though my knowledge is nowhere near complete, I am one of the leading experts on quintessence in this universe. If there is anyone who can guide you through a vision, it is me. I am a Chosen of Oriande.” Seeing his reluctance, she takes on a quieter tone, almost pleading. “Keith, let me try, please. This is all I can think of and I want to help. Something obviously went wrong when you and your mother breached the quantum abyss, and these visions could be attempts to realign what has been broken. If guided we could delve what they mean to fix and bring an end to this madness all the quicker.”

It’s the eagerness that does him in. Selfless in intent and utterly devoted to do the right thing, Allura is at the ready to prove herself in any way possible. Willing to give everything and more, guileless, she offers an upturned palm, putting the choice in his hands.

Hesitantly, he takes it. “Fine, but if anything goes south, you pull back immediately.”

“On my honor,” she promises.

When her other hand settles on top of their clasped ones he does his best not to jerk away, spying the faint glow that emanates from the princess just as a low hum vibrates the air around them. Reminiscent of how his friend’s eyes blazed with power when she had cradled a husk of a man and brought life to it, he doesn’t dare look up, fearful of what the act might induce— days, weeks, all of it lost in the possibility of a single moment. So he lowers his gaze to his knees, outlining the definite wrinkles that pull at the fabric of his pants and letting Allura take the lead, riding the wave as she dives into the caverns of his psyche.

There is no fight against the intrusion, Keith allowing her to tread deeper as he floats upon its deceivingly shallow surface. She dips a finger into the water that fills his mind, studying the ripples it makes with avid interest. A breeze of energy passes and he breathes deeply with it, eyes fluttering closed as something bubbles deep inside him.

At first it is a tentative thing, a mere whisper floating along the outskirts of thought. But then Allura pushes and it reacts, creeping ever closer; a shudder and it crystallizes into something real, a reflection of self. The apparition, colored red like a dying sunset, stares him down, face blank and hand spread over the transparent barrier that lies between them. Voiceless words channel through the connection and Keith, still aware of the projection of Allura at his back, goes to echo the gesture. Fingertips touch and—

—a flash, blinding light that rolls down the inverted buttes of his irises and tightens the coils of every muscle. Pupils dilate, widening until they are a chasmic gateway to the soul.

He falls and it is a timeless motion.

Like Icarus to the sun, he aims too high and burns upon exposure. Once gliding on vitreous wings, they shatter and break, condemning him to fall eternally. Images fly past him, telling of scenes already passed and yet to come. They are solar flares, arching high above the scope of his vision, assembling into a life that lies far beyond his ability.

Hands that are not his own stretch farther than he can reach. Stained a divine pink, they spread wide and seize at the images, pulling them inward. A pulse of quintessences and then his axis is tilting. For there is no up and down, no left and right, no back and forth. Simply a directionless force, reticent and resolute. Transcendental impressions, waiting to be acted upon. Ever waiting. Waiting for creation, for aspiration, for vitalization, for—

—a field of flowers, white tablecloth and champagne glasses, an altar christened with tuxedos and vows—

—the heat of a fire raging, plumes of smoke rising from the ashes of a stranger’s home, clouds over the tombstone of a father buried—

—the roar of a lion—

—the weightlessness of falling, golden eyes in the shadows, a sword cutting through the air, the slumped form of a body in armor—

—a warm hand clasped in his own, golden ring glinting in the morning sun—

—absolution.

He resurfaces, gasping.

The world snaps back into place. Gone is the rush of predetermined destiny, leaving only the barren truth of now. He is back within the thrumming walls of the Atlas, surrounded by dusty tomes and military grade furniture, time resuming its reign and taxing him heavily as he regains control over his own breathing.

“We,” he pants, sweat already cooling at his neck, “are never doing that again.”

Allura is no better. She has her hands curled on the back of her thighs, leaning forward as if she can’t even support the weight of her own thoughts. The mice chitter worryingly, pawing at her ankles and wrists, only quieting when her altean marks flicker with residual magic and then die out. “Agreed.”

Phantom hands intertwined with his just as lips ghost over the corner of his mouth and Keith jolts to attention, muscles spasming as he catches the tail ends of the flash fading into the air. Head still aching and heart running a mile a minute, Keith forces himself to his feet.

The movement causes Allura to stir. “Where are you going?”

“Bed,” he says quickly. He feels ready to crawl out of his skin. “It’s late and I’m tired.”

She pushes herself to her knees. “But we haven’t yet determined the purpose behind what we saw together. If we are to believe that these are preeminent visions, then some of those images were your future. We may be able to use them to our advantage.”

The thought of delving deeper into what just transpired is nauseating. Some of the images had been nondescript enough for them to ignore, while others were in excruciating detail. There’s no way either of them had missed the significance behind some of the scenes, like the altar or wedding bands, and he dreads the questions that’s going to be asked of him

“There isn’t much to talk about. It didn’t give us anything to stop it or the war with, so.” He shrugs, hoping she’ll drop it.

Of course, it isn’t that easy. Allura thrives off knowledge and Keith is a treasure chest of hastily kept secrets just waiting to be plundered.

“I wouldn’t say that we didn’t gain nothing from it…” Her eyelids lower with her brows, giving him a side-eye that’s reminiscent of Hunk when he spies fresh gossip, only worsening when the mice begin to reenact some romantic shtick on the floor. Her voice is coy and has the impression of a cat that’s just got the cream. “Some of those visions were… quite telling. You have a bright future ahead of you, wouldn’t you say?”

Heat rushes to his face.

“Come now. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. This war won’t last forever and when it ends we’ll be free to live out our lives, finding the happiness we so rightfully deserve. If that means finding another to live it with, then I hope we are all as lucky as you.”

Keith’s stomach flips. Mouth suddenly dry, he tries to think of something to say but can’t; trapped in the confines of his throat, they stay.

Love had always been a fickle thing for Keith, an almost affair that leads to heartbreak and broken promises. It’s something he can’t control. It rears its head in the most unlikely of places; in deep space, in between bubbling laughter and gunfire, a something settling behind his breastbone, refusing to disappear even as the years pass. It takes many forms, sliding along the cradle of his mother’s arms or curving with the brotherly hair ruffle Shiro bestows, easy to swallow because they are things he has always yearned.

But what the flashes depict… it is a love that runs deeper. A cluster of stars tied with a cosmic ring of infatuation, born in an instant and lasting an eternity.

His shoulders hunch and his fists clench, contorting in the equivalent of a full body grimace. “Yeah, well, it’s just… whatever.”

Allura frowns. “Are you not pleased with what you saw?”

And how does he even begin to explain? Explain the concern, the trepidation, because nothing is set in stone and letting himself hope is one step away from being let down.

For the flashes hadn’t really been a choice, not in this fold of time. In them he is stuck between yesterday and tomorrow, walking into a fate that might be deprived from him; he’s seen so much, flashes that blind him to what can be and what really is, painting him gray with longing. It’s years, months, week, days, seconds down the line, a tropical illusion amidst a desert of truth, blurry and just beyond reach. Tantalizing but deadly, because what he wants isn’t what he gets. And that’s the thing that hurts the most, the uncertainty.

Not that Allura would understand, he realizes. Love had never been in short supply for the princess, lavished onto her by a father, mother and kingdom. And he doesn’t blame her for that— would never compare the love she deserves to the love he lacks—but it still leaves him crippled.

So he takes a breath and clears his face of all emotion. “It’s late. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He ignores her shocked face as he leaves, feeling the pinch in his temple and twist in his gut. Bitterness is an all-encompassing thing, but he runs from it all the same.

“Dad?” an eight-year old Keith asks on a summer night long past. “Why did mom leave us?”

Crickets chirp among the blooming cacti, loud in the stillness of the desert. Dust coats his boots and clothes from their hike into the canyon that day, rough against his skin but warm against the cold air that whistles over the dry grass. Faintly, from inside the shack, he could hear the low hum of the refrigerator. The moon, yellow and waxing crescent, hovers low over the distant horizon, highlighting the rugged features of his father’s face and throwing his nicked eyebrow in direct relief.

An ashen gaze is pulled from the heavens back to earth.

“Your mother,” his father starts with that smile he always gets when speaking about the woman he loved, soft and sad and wistful, “left to protect us— to protect you. She couldn’t stay, not if it meant putting us in harm’s way, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t with us now. She’s up there, somewhere far beyond, looking at the stars and thinking of us just like we’re thinking of her. And it might be tomorrow or next week or even next year, but she’ll be with us again. Some day.”

It’s the same answer he always gives and just like all the times before, Keith doesn’t believe it.

Keith fools himself into thinking that the world wouldn’t catch up to him. Thinks himself so far ahead and with time to let the dust settle that when things do come crashing down it’s like a hammer to glass. A shatter so abrupt that it cracks him wide open.

It starts with a thinly veiled interrogation from Shiro on the Friday following his talk with Allura, stuff packed with good intentions and gentle probes. A you okay there, champ? here and a how about we go out for lunch today and talk? there, slipping past the bitten lip of concern. And when he ultimately declines, it shifts to blatant coddling. Helpful hands and calm words, aiming to guide and resolve, but only succeeding in bringing the thoughts inside his head to a steady boil. Enough so that Keith not-so-subtly excuses himself from the apartment and heads to the training facilities on the Atlas.

It’s early and his class doesn’t start until another ten minutes and, as a result, he doesn’t see any of his students when he swipes his keycard to enter. Which is fine with Keith, because he’d rather not have to force out some half-baked nicety between people he barely knows. However, the thought is torn in two when he realizes that he recognizes a face doing drills with a kendo stick at one of the mats.

“Lance?” he calls out without thinking, loud with surprise, drawing the attention of said boy along with the few bodies that are already stationed at the machines.

Quickly and ignoring the stares that follow him, he makes his way to his teammate. The mat sinks slightly when he steps on it, putting him at the same level with the boy when he straightens from the fighting stance he had been practicing. He looks to have been there a while, sleeveless shirt sticking to his sides and stretching the width of his chest as he takes deep breaths, face flushed from exertion.

The blue paladin doesn’t appear at all surprised to see him, leaning onto the stick as he pushes his hair back. There are earbuds hanging from his collar, playing some muted pop song that he doesn’t recognize. “Hey, buddy, fancy seeing you here.”

But Keith doesn’t register the banter-in-motion. “What’re you doing here?” he asks, abrupt and rude.

The teasing smile on Lance’s face dims slowly and it’s a painful thing to watch, more so when he realizes belatedly it was his doing. “Training,” the boy explains, scratching his neck and taking a quick sweep of the area before returning to him. “I, uh, missed my evening session yesterday and didn’t want to fall behind, so here I am.”

“I didn’t know you trained.” Rude again. Why can’t he stop?

A flash of annoyance. “Well, I do.”

Keith backpedals momentarily. Tries to remind himself that Lance hasn’t done anything to deserve to bear the brunt of his frustrations. “Yeah, of course, I… sorry.”

Lance purses his lips, passing quick judgement. Eventually, he shrugs and loosens the slope of his shoulders. “It’s all cool. I don’t exactly make a point to live here like you do. Hear you took up a class teaching dudes how to karate chop bad guys. How’s that going for ya?”

“It’s going.”

That brings a smile back to the other boy’s face and Keith feels the cool water of relief run through his body when he lets out a small laugh. Not everything is entirely hopeless, it seems. “Sounds riveting. I might just stick around and watch.”

There’s an unspoken challenge that Keith can’t quite decipher, but before he can even ask there’s the familiar swishof the door to the training room opening, a gaggle of his students filing through, dressed in sweats and activewear. Hunk is with them, shouldering his own pack and chatting amiably with two girls, one dark-haired with glasses and the other blonde and freckled. Rizavi and Leifsdottir, if Keith remembers their names correctly.

Keith takes a step, then stops.

Seeing his hesitation, Lance punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Go on. I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

So Keith goes, passing by Hunk on his way and sharing a wave.

Back into the routine of things he acknowledges his students, waits for them to line up, guides them through some basic stretches, and finally starts demonstrating their first move. It’s one he learned during his time with the Blades, efficient when needing to get out of a sticky situation. Duck, lunge and roll. Simple and easy to be coupled with other maneuvers, best in close quarter situations.

Pairs are made and Keith walks among them, stepping in and adjusting stances whenever he sees the need, but watching for the most part. His students take his offered advice seriously, fine-tuning their movements accordingly and only ever needing one or two demonstrations until they get it right. It’s impressive and entirely reflective of what he’s read from their files, all picked from the cream of the crop with the scores to prove it.

However, it’s not twenty-five minutes into the class, just as Kinkade executes a perfect lunge, rolling out of Leifsdottir’s surprisingly aggressive assault, that Keith gets distracted.

Amidst the flurry of fists and grunts, he spies Lance and Hunk. There’s nothing exceptionally ostentatious about the pair that rightly explains the way his gaze is caught so suddenly; they follow the basic pattern for a spar, circling and engaging at appropriate intervals, unassuming in how they exchange blows and playful words. Nothing to justify why he ignores his students and instead focuses on how Hunk’s burly left arm swings in an arc so wide that Lance has to duck out of the way or be gifted a black eye, the lanky boy slipping back into range with his fists at the ready in a decent boxing stance. Nothing but his own prying eyes to blame, ensnared onto the the sharp angle of shoulder blades as Lance twists into a kick that catches the bigger boy straight into the gut.

He chalks it up to his own restlessness. It’s been a while since he’s allowed himself to do anything outside the Garrison’s work-out regimen, too busy with restoration of Earth and his classes, and his body longs for the familiarity of close combat. To hold a sword in his hand once more, to feel that extension of self, pointed and dangerous and in control. In the throes of gunfire, a soldier, first and foremost, falling back on instinct alone.

Idly, he wonders if Lance would say yes to a spare if he asked.

“—tch out!”

Pain erupts in the back of his head, sudden and sharp. A noise between a grunt and a yelp erupt from his mouth, skewed as he attempts to twist himself and face the attack, only to trip over his own treacherous feet; the weight of it strikes him down, jaw smashing to the floor, unforgiving.

There’s a flurry of activity around him, voice rising in shock. Distantly, he feels more than one set of hands make to touch him, gripping his biceps and shoulders, and haul him onto his back. White spots dance in his vision, floating just above the harsh lights of the room and the fuzzy outlines of the people that crowd him, flickering in and out of existence as he tries to get a hold of his bearings.

A few seconds of dazed existence and he can actively decipher the muffled noise into words.

“Hey, is he gonna be alright?”

“Wow, Curtis. I can’t believe you just drop kicked a paladin of Voltron.”

“That looked like it hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear! It was an accident! I didn’t see him and— and who just stands in the middle of a sparring zone? Plus, Jason did the move way too fast and I couldn’t stop my spin in time!”

Another voice, lowered in an effort to soothe. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m sure you didn’t meant it— no one’s blaming you, okay? Breathe. Just give him some space, yeah?” A little louder. “All of you, back up and give him some space. Back to your drills. Hunk, could you…?”

They must follow the order because things go quieter. Quiet enough for Keith to focus on his breathing and the throb that pulses at the back of his neck, wincing when he feels a faint touch to the tender area. He groans deep in his throat and shifts uncomfortably on his tail bone, forcing his eyes to open and squint past the pain until the world sharpens into clarity.  

Front and center is Lance, brows furrowed in worry. “You okay, man?”

He offers a hand and Keith takes it, sitting up. The immediate rush of blood to his head makes him dizzy and he sways just a bit, fingers tightening around Lance’s even as his other hand rises to prod at his temple.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I didn’t actually see it but apparently you took a mean one to the head. Caught you when you weren’t looking— just a good ol’ heel to the face. Judging from the size of Curtis’ feet, I’m betting it’ll bruise.” Lance looks to him, frowning. “You need an ice pack? I can run and get one. Or I can take you to the infirmary myself. I know I joke about your mullet, but not even bad helmet hair can stop a concussion.”

The infirmary is the last place Keith wants to end up. The risk of being found out and having his flashes the focus of scrutiny is too high and Keith would rather suffer possible head trauma than deal with that. Not to mention the unbearable mothering Shiro would dote onto him once he realized his worry was justified, accumulative tenfold by his own mother once she heard of the news herself.

“Yeah, no, I just zoned out for a second— totally my fault. Just need to walk it off.”

“Are you sure?”

Slightly disoriented and a bit bruised, but nothing a good rest couldn’t fix. He’s seen worse, been through worse, and can take care of his own. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“I don’t know, you’ve been lookin’ a bit scruffy the past few days. Me and Hunk were just talking about how maybe something bad is rolling through the base, like the space flu or yalmor pox— I’m not sure the second one actually exists but Coran didn’t technically say no when we asked, so…” He shrugs, like it’s water down his back.

“I’m fine, really.”

“I really wouldn’t mind going with you. We can catch up while we get you checked up.”

He’s not sure what exactly, but something about that has his hackles rising in defense. Maybe it’s the fact that Lance is so obviously pushing something he doesn’t want. It’s insignificant and well-meaning, but Keith has been living in a constant state of anxiety for the past couple of weeks, strained under the pressure of the flashes and keeping them locked away, and the words eat away at his fortitude. He can’t even pinpoint the reason this moment is the breaking factor— can’t even explain the fuddled mess of thoughts prior to the embarrassing kick in the head or why the pressure of Lance’s hand in his feels too much. Doesn’t know why and hates it.

“I’mfine, Lance.” he snaps prematurely, biting his tongue by accident and tasting copper. Lets the taste fuel him, push him past what he knows to be right. “Why are you asking? Did Shiro put you up to this? Is this why you’re really here? God, I already told him—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up.” Lance looks taken aback, palms outward in a gesture of surrender. “Shiro didn’t say anything to me. This is me asking all on my own, okay? No need to bite my head off.”

Keith breathes hard, looks away, and attempts to get up. He can feel Lance watching him, struggling to get his feet underneath him, eyes narrowed as he makes no move to aid his clumsy limbs; it’s a look that sticks, seeping into his pores. Tension, high and thick, fills the space between them, but Keith, for once, doesn’t rise to the bait. Lance, unfortunately, has never been one to let things go.

“Why would Shiro need to talk to me about you anyways? Is there something I should know?”

“No.” Finally, he makes it to his feet, knees popping in protest. The ache in his head is worse when standing, but he ignores it. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Lance rises too and pushes forward in a way that is solely them, challenge-like, close enough that Keith can see the speckles of brown in his eyes and feel his breath when he speaks. “Does it have something to do with how you and Allura are hanging out every night?”

His chest pinches tightly and it’s an oddly familiar feeling.

It furrows his eyes and thins his lips. Hard like stone he becomes. “Let me rephrase that. It’s nothing that concerns you.”

A pause.

Then, “Ah, okay. I see.”

It doesn’t immediately process that he’s said something wrong. It’s not until the other boy makes a face, scrunched up and twisted like he’s just sucked a lemon, that he’s even aware that something could go so wrong. But it could and it does. For there’s definitely something wrong about the quiet chuckle that comes out of Lance’s mouth, too much like the gurgling end of a drowning man.

Lance rocks onto his heels and shakes his head in this genuinely uncomfortable manner. Usually, the close proximity of the blue paladin wouldn’t phase him, as used to it as he is by their constant squabbling, but something about the other’s face— the hard angle of his eyebrows maybe, or even the pressed line of his mouth— puts him off kilter. It’s enough to have his mind stutter to a confusing stop.

“I don’t know why I thought…” The boy looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes and somehow making Keith feel like there’s miles between them. A deep breath, “Fine.” Then he straightens and smiles something self-deprecating, gaze sharp enough to cut glass, walking past him so abruptly that their shoulders knock together. “Look alive, Team Leader. Your class is waiting for your orders.”

Keith stumbles, turning with the move so as to watch Lance head toward his gear and pack everything away. Watches him mutter something to Hunk and the other gym goers, hiking his bag over his shoulder and head straight to the door. Watches Hunks casts one, last worried glance over at him before following his best friend, door sliding shut with a quiet swish.

Watches him leave.

Hidden under a blanket of shooting stars, he lets himself fall— in body, in mind, and in love. Arms of the sea cradle him, lifting him above the surf when the dark depth threatens to drown. Glistening, ever bright, it leans in close and presses a secret into his skin.

You can have your place, a starlit ocean whispers, but first you must want it.

It’s Hunk who finally corners him the next day, appearing just after Keith returns from an afternoon jog around the base with Kosmo, exhausted as he leans against the wall for support and unable to escape. For he is a wanted man, running from the many and the few, desperate to succumb to his own self-inflicted wounds. Lips cracked and throat parched, he swallows the sticky saliva that coats his mouth with increasing discomfort, watching his friend walk toward him from under the curtain of sweaty bangs.

Kosmo has no qualms about the company, wagging his tail when he gets a ruffle of the ears and a piece of jerky from the the boy’s stash of snacks. It’s betrayal in the most truest sense.

“Hi,” Hunk says, taking a seat on the ground next to him.

Keith gives him a small nod, using his towel to wipe away the sweat clinging to his heated skin. “Hey.”

“You have a nice run?”

“Yeah, it was good.”

“That’s good.”

It’s quiet between them. Keith bent over his folded knees, still catching his breath, and Hunk just sitting, staring straight forward. There is no pressure in the silence, the yellow paladin’s easygoing nature lulling any and all tension just with his mere presence. Though, like all things in Keith’s life, it’s only a matter of time before it breaks.

“I talked to Lance.”

And there it is.

It may be selfish, but Keith doesn’t want to have this conversation. Doesn’t want to be here, in this moment, in this position. Doesn’t want to play this game of telephone with his teammates. Doesn’t want to be the reason this problem exists.

“How… how is he?”

“He’s a bit upset. Wouldn’t really tell me all of it and got really quiet when I pushed, but I think he’s more frustrated that it took such an ugly turn than anything else. Probably wasn’t expecting you to be so… you.” Something about it doesn’t sit well. Hunk shouldn’t be the one saying this— it should be coming directly from the source, from someone else, from Lance. “He did promised to behave, so that’s something.”

Internal dissent parts his lips. “He doesn’t have to… It’s not his fault, not really. I’ve just got— a lot going on, okay?”

“Figured as much. Still would’ve been helpful to know though.”

He lets out a frustrated huff. “It’s my stuff and I don’t want to…”

Hunk hums.

“Plus, you know how he can be.”

Another pause and it’s nice, to have someone there that just gets it. Keith has never been one for words, has never excelled in stringing thought into something more concise. Not like Shiro or Hunk or Lance. And the world doesn’t care for boys like that, like Keith, who would bite the hand that feeds him.

“Look…” Hunk starts and Keith feels it like a kick in the gut. “Lance is one of my best friends. He’s the reason I went to the Garrison in the first place— begged me for weeks to register with him, saying that I was too smart to waste it by staying on the islands. Always been like that, in case you were wondering. Loud, pushy and full of opinions.” He chuckles, the sound peeters off into a tired sigh. “I’m only saying this because I know sometimes he can be… a lot, especially with the rocky start you two had. But he’s a good guy, I promise. He’s just— sometimes he’s got these ideas of himself and everybody else that don’t really represent reality, and it makes him… sensitive to things.”

“Are you saying Lance is sensitive to me?”

Hunk gives a pointed side-eye. “Lance has always cared what you think of him.”

Keith frowns and shifts so that his ankles cross, wrapping his arms around his shins and wiggling his toes until Kosmo growls softly at him. He had known that people had envied his intuitive skill in piloting, no one being discreet about the words they said to his face and behind his back, and maybe he had distanced himself because of it. But it hadn’t matter, not when he had Shiro. Not when he could count on his friend-turned-brother to have his back, to listen when he talked, and to inspire him when the rest of the world let him down. To think that someone out there— and Lance of all people— had been admiring him in that same light, looking at his retreating figure and wishing for just a single glance back.

“You’re a hard guy to read, Keith, and an even harder guy to impress.”

He winces. “I don’t mean to come across that way. You guys have nothing to prove to me.”

“Lance doesn’t see it that way. You guys have always had this— thing, and well, old habits are hard to break, I guess.” He shrugs and Keith sways with the force of the motion. “We’ve spent a lot of time together up in space. Got to really know one another. But I think sometimes we forget that we aren’t all the same and experience everything differently.”

Keith thinks of Allura and his flashes. How something so anxiety-inducing for him had been celebrated.

“I’m not asking you to share your life story or for you to apologize, cause I know that you didn’t ask for that made-up rivalry or whatever it is you’re going though right now, and it’s not your fault that Lance feels like this. It sucks that you’re in the cross-fire and I would change it if I could, but this is just something he has to figure out himself and until then— if you could just lay low for awhile.” He must see his responding grimace because his tone gets a bit frantic, evidently distressed at the thought of distressing Keith. “I don’t mean it like that, I promise. Just— like, you know, not do anything in retaliation. Even if he starts it.”

He remembers Lance in the beginning, unreasonable and needlessly challenging, and dreads returning to it.

“Yeah,” he still says. “I’ll keep out of it.”

Hunk sighs in relief. “Thanks, Keith. You’re a good friend.”

Keith gets a pat on the back and then the yellow paladin is leaving, back to his family and Shay and the rest of the resistance. Kosmo whines a little, obviously missing the company he’s gotten so used to during their long travel back to Earth, but settles down when he pets his flank. In a move that forces Keith’s knees apart, the large wolf settles his head in his lap, ears alert and eyes focused on his face.

“I thought things would be easier when we returned,” he tells the wolf quietly, knowing the animal doesn’t have the answers to his problems. “But things are all mixed up now. I kinda wish we had stayed in space— everything was so much more simpler.”

Kosmos licks the pad of his thumb.

“Thanks buddy.” Keith smiles, fond when a bushy tail thumps against the floor. “Lance probably just needs some space. I’m sure this will blow over soon.”

It doesn’t blow over soon like everyone says, not even within the next few days. It gets worse, slowly and deliberately, enough so that he starts resorting to desperate measures. First and foremost, avoiding Lance.

It’s not the most mature thing he’s done and there is no denying the nauseating shame that comes to a boil in his stomach, but Keith doesn’t know what else to do. Usually, if there had been a problem between him and another student back before Voltron, Keith would force it into the light and hash it out right then and there. But this is different, feels different, because Lance isn’t just some vague face roaming the halls anymore; he can’t just swing a fist and call the score settled, not if he wants to retain what they’ve made together. Friendship with Lance— with the entire team, really— is something he cherishes and has grown accustomed to, leaving him reeling without its easy grace and sincere intentions.

No more secret smiles or casual arms draped over his shoulder. No more thoughtful water bottles found by his practice gear or dumb challenges over who can finish the warm-up sprints first. No more playful banter or dumb puns.

Instead, he gets to watch as Lance stands to leave a room he just entered or purse his lips in a frown when he can’t, folding his arms and looking anywhere but at him. There are no heated arguments, no snippy comebacks, or even quips at his expense. Lance doesn’t speak to him at all and it’s that much worse, Keith decides. The silence is a pike between them, glaringly obvious to their friends and anyone who remotely knows the two of them, killing conversations and moods dead in their presence.

It’s nothing like Hunk said it would be and he can see the other boy sending the blue paladin concern looks throughout the days, always ignored and always brushed off when confronted. This puts Keith even more on edge and he falters in his next move, wanting to take action and wanting to keep the peace. Because if even Hunk doesn’t know what to do, then what hope does Keith have?

So Keith does the one thing he knows how. He ignores it, pushing forward and past with a single-minded focus, training in the hours not spent sleeping or teaching his class. He pretends that Lance isn’t there, forcing his eyes to glaze over his stooped form and to keep away when the silence starts to become too suffocating.

It’s unhealthy, he knows, but it’s familiar.

Strangely, while Lance makes himself scarce, it’s Axca who takes his place.

The half-galra, now working alongside the MFE pilots, seems to have worked her way around the Garrison Galaxy base. He sees her around constantly. Roaming the hallways of the Atlas, lingering outside the tech labs, sitting alone in the canteen, unloading fresh shipments of scaultrite at the landing docks. She’s everywhere, always aware and looking up to meet his questioning gaze with a twitch of the lips and sharp nod.

She starts joining Keith in his workout sessions, quiet as she greets him and focuses on the weights she lifts. There is no exchange of words, just the muted thuds of metal meeting polyester and their huffs of breath— and it helps, surprisingly enough. It helps to have someone there. He never says why he’s there so often and she never asks; no burning judgement or well-intended advice, just two people existing within proximity. It’s the understanding of two outcasts, bonded through blood shed, allies lost, and debts repaid.

Eventually, they start sparring together and it’s a breath of fresh air. Axca is a challenging adversary, quick and rational as she parries his blade and aims a short jab at his left side that’ll definite bruise. It reminds him of his time with the Blade, learning to use the weapon of his birthright and parrying the strikes of his fellow Marmorites when they practiced. It didn’t leave a lot of room to talk, but it did leave him stronger.

People come to watch them, sometimes. Peering through windows and beyond door frames, individuals of every kind of life and species watch them. The gazes of many tack onto their forms, ever curious of them and the Galra empire they supposedly represent. Keith ignores it to the best of his ability. Axca, for her part, appears to not notice their accumulating audience, focused solely on the fight at hand, sliding through the forms with ease and deadly precision acclimated with experience. She matches Keith’s every swing, expects every lunge, and parries every strike.

Shiro stops by whenever he’s not busy, watching with thinly veiled pride and offering constructive criticism on how to better their form. Pidge and Hunk visit too but only so that the former can sass them from the sidelines, ignoring the scandalized looks received when she cups her hands against her mouth and makes an obnoxious farting noise whenever Keith takes a hard tumble. Romelle likes to come with his mother, cheering when Keith gets in a particularly impressive hit. Only once does Allura show up, giving a beatific smile to those present before wiping the floor of both Keith and Axca in a record breaking minute and forty-two seconds.

It would almost be as if nothing was wrong if not for the blatant absence of a certain blue paladin.

And it isn’t as if Lance is indisposed. He’ll see the boy walking with Matt and his new alien girlfriend or the princess somewhere, obviously on break from his duties, matching their strides like he used to do with Keith.

It always brings forth a particular memory. The universe’s last chance drifting, five nobodies linked together by the arms of necessity, crusted with frost and one hysterical outburst away from splintering. Overcome by thoughts once locked away, slipping to the forefront with an edge that promises fracture, they are exiled, launched out of the mouth of a deity. Desperate, afraid and wishing to be swallowed whole.

Like cosmic dust, they float aimlessly in a sea of stars. Insignificant and dwarfed by the extensive scope of space, they are paladins without a righteous cause. Run through by their own failures, self-inflicted and refusing to heal, hoping that no one sees that they are less than what they are; but the damage is done and they pounce on one another, exploiting weakness in the name of preservation.

Maybe you should have stayed away, and it’s sharp canines digging into the vulnerable flesh of his jugular. A snarl, vibrating with malice intent, and he is left in pieces. Broken.

It hurts like nothing has hurt before, but he takes the pain and makes it his. Braces himself for a fight, brandishing sword and teeth just to survive. A thousand moons light the sky and he howls to every one, bristling under their pretense of companionship, knowing he does not belong.

For he is a wolf in a lion’s den, desperate and alone.

And when he’s pushed himself past his limits and is a moment from collapsing, can no longer stand the sight of the empty space beside him, he retreats to the stillness of solitude. Shoulders hunched and muscles aching, he makes his way to the Black Lion; the large cat lets him in easily, silent and solemn in the wake of leadership.

It’s a week into his self-isolation, things change.

The Garrison officials are gearing up for some big symposium, puffing out their chests and marching down the hallways with self-crowned importance oozing from every salute. It causes a rippling effect across the base, because suddenly more and more coalition ships are descending into the stratosphere by the day, bringing with them convoys of resistance fighters and the idea that soon their way of life will be no more; it seems everyone everywhere has things to do and no time to do it. It’s hectic and loud and everything Keith hates.

Hates it so much that he retreats to the library on the Atlas. Pristine as most new things are, the grand room is filled wall to wall with journals and tomes and star maps from planets all across the universe. Shelves run perpendicular to the main entrance, broken only by the holo-database that sits in the room’s center, organized and tended to by small drones. Humans and aliens walk through the scaled-down labyrinth, chatting quietly to themselves and the crisp pages they turn, nearly overshadowed by the low hum of the AI librarian cataloging new arrivals.

Settled in a tight-spaced alcove on the second floor, Keith finds himself curled on one of the many spherical chairs with a holoscreen held loosely in his grasp. It pings with the notification of newly received messages, but they go ignored as he stares listlessly at the open email, text glaring in the lamp light.

Mandatory team meeting, the screen reads. It’s time to end this war for good.

The quiet of the library is in direct contrast to the loud buzz in his ears. Only the books are privy to how his thumb runs anxiously over the side of his knuckle, the only indicator of the turmoil that churns inside. Though Keith was never one to let his things like feelings of doubt stop him from doing what he wanted, the storm inside his chest does put a damper on his resolve, binding his muscles in transparent chains that left him paralyzed at the very thought of seeing the face of the person he’d been actively avoiding for days. Forced through shared responsibility, this meeting would bring the two together in close proximity and Keith doesn’t know if the world would survive such a collision.

It’s then that a voice, distinctively feminine, breaks through his internalized frenzy.

“Can you believe how things turned out?” the bodiless being says from just beyond the nearest shelf. Close enough that it has Keith looking up sharply, turning off his holoscreen like he’s got something to hide, and leaning slightly out of his seat to get a look at the person who’s disturbed his bubble of privacy. “It’s wild, isn’t?”

“So wild,” another voice agrees, accompanied by a bob of blonde hair through the spines of Puig encyclopedias. “I wonder how it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, what do you think set them apart?” Another flash of hair, cinched in a high ponytail and a bright red bow. “Those cadets. Why do you think it was them that got launched into space and not some actual pilots.”

“Professor Shirogane was with them too, you know.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean. Plus, he was already MIA when it happened. Which, totally sketch, by the way.”

It takes a long moment for Keith to connect the dots and realize that the strangers are talking about him— him and his team. There’s some irony to it, he thinks, that the Paladins of Voltron, legendary defenders of the universe and wielders of the most powerful weapon seen in this world and the next, can be reduced to something so juvenile as hearsay. Brows furrowing at such a distracting thought, he shifts so that he’s facing away from the pair, ears perked despite the voice in his head advising against it.

A third person is talking now, a boy. “Didn’t you have fighter class with them, before? What were they like?”

There’s the shuffle of books being taken off the shelf, opened, flipped through and returned. ”Well, Kogane didn’t talk much, though he got caught in a few fights. But that was before he started his private lessons with Professor Shirogane.” A huff of thinly veiled glee, slightly muffled like it was being pressed against the back of a hand. “No one knows what they did, but that didn’t stop people from guessing.”

“No way,” the first girl gasps, scandalous.

“My roommate says that she would see them go on rides outside of Garrison grounds— wouldn’t return until after hours sometimes”

“They are pretty close…” someone else Keith can’t see murmurs. “But wasn’t Professor Shirogane getting married to Professor West? Full offense to Kogane, but I wouldn’t even hesitate dropping him for a taste of Professor West, or even Shirogane for that matter. Have you guys seen the size of his arms?”

A low rumble of agreement follows the declaration and Keith makes a face in disgust. It was hard to see the two men in such a light since he had been thirteen at the time and had been privy to their shamelessly domestic habits. There was no going back once he’s seen Shiro nearly burn down the kitchen trying to make premade lasagna and Adam’s arm blindly grasping outside the bathroom door for toilet paper he himself had forgotten to replenish.

“Okay, okay, so Kogane is just emo and a charity case. But what about the rest? I hear McClain was a cargo pilot, and he still got chosen as a Paladin. Garrett too, only a mechanic. If I was some sentient space robot, I’d at least pick a batch of decent pilots and not some wannabes.”

“You’re just salty it wasn’t you. Plus, Garrett is the sweetest guy out there. Same with McClain. Cute too.”

A bark of laughter. “Now who’s projecting?”

There’s the sound of a hand meeting skin and someone’s half-hearted squawk. “You know that’s not what I meant. He’s way too annoying and high maintenance for me. Don’t you see him always in the other paladins’ business? No thank you.”

Vwoop. The librarian materializes next to the group, outside of the shelves and directly in Keith’s line of sight, causing everyone to jump in sight and at least one book to be knocked over. “If you’re going to be disruptive,” the pixelated voice tells them, humanoid in shape and colored a neon blue, “then I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

The group, scolded, leaves with not another word, the watchful eye of the AI following them before it too flickers out of existence and Keith is left alone once more.

He sits there for a long time. Long enough that his legs start cramping badly and the occupants of the room start to thin, going quiet and solemn like the only way inked pages can. It leaves room for thought, chaotic and introspective, fixated on the idea of life and what it means to share it. To stand at the edge of an infinitely large gorge, look to the other side, and actually cross it.

There are no bridges in space, nor is there a concept of time and what it means to lose it, and Keith is suddenly hit with understanding of what’s been taken away from him.

A hand on his shoulder startles a gasp out of him. He looks up through his bangs and meets the gaze of the blue paladin, steady and clear like a lake. They stand in the shadow of the Black Lion, waiting to crown a leader.

It’s the start of something new.

A transition from Lance and Keith, neck and necktoLance and Keith, back to back. A partnership of equals, pushing to the pull and rising to the fall. Where one falters, the other is there to take the slack. It’s the sound of a pistol charging a mere second before a soldier’s blade can meet its mark. It’s the sight of Red’s hull in the middle of a rolling maneuver, shredding through the fighter jets tailing him with one swipe of a massive paw. It’s the hands tugging at his forearm, accompanying exasperated words for him to put down the holoscreen and join the team for movie night. It’s the solemn I respect the Black Lion’s choice, loyalty given wholly and irrevocably.

It’s them.

It’s purely by chance that he runs into Lance later that day, seated at an antique piano pushed to the corner of an empty room in the Garrison’s north building. He’s not in his armor or usual get-up and it throws Keith off, blinking in muted surprise at the sight of a short-sleeved hoodie and dark jeans when the boy turns to face the door he had just barged through. Dark navy meets gray obsidian, painting a thunderstorm on the canvas of the moment.

Keith stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Lance responds out of reflex, tone polite even with the tension that vibrates between them. “What’re you doing here?”

There’s no backlash at his presence so Keith takes a chance and finishes walking into the room until he is standing right at the piano’s bulky edge. A quick glance around reveals the room’s roots as a recreation center, complete with a three piece couch, television set, and foosball table; it’s unfamiliar like most things that are vaguely related to community are, unfrequented in his past because of their breeding grounds for possible social interaction. It’s almost uncomfortable to be there, out of place as he feels, especially so when seeing how natural the blue paladin looks framed by the domesticity of the late afternoon sun. So uncomfortable that he fixes his gaze resolutely on Lance’s hands, slender fingers still poised atop of the keys and at the ready to continue what Keith had rudely interrupted.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano.”

Keith must have done that thing were he goes too long without blinking again because Lance squirms a little in his seat, retracting his hands and hiding them in his lap. “Oh, uh, yeah. My mom’s a big fan of Einaudi and, well, you know how it goes. First it’s one piece for her birthday and then another for mother’s day and then boom, you’re stuck in lessons every Saturday afternoon while everyone else kicks it at the beach.”

Inhibited curiosity stirs within him, rolling with the image of a young boy whose feet don’t even touch the floor, practicing his scales just to see his mother smile. It brings forth a longing that Keith hardly ever feels nowadays, one where it is his own juvenile self that bashfully holds out a newly-drawn picture of his family to his mother, happy and not torn away from him by war. A cycle ensues, one where curiosity turns to longing to jealousy to acceptance and back again, endless like the thrum of a piano string.

Lance opens his mouth, as if to say something to fill the space between them, but suddenly thinks better of it and presses his lips tightly together.

“What?” he

Pairing:Keith/Lance
Words:8.5k
Rating: M
Warnings: mild violence
Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough… the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn’t put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

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Time, like most things in Keith’s life, has always been a luxury he never could afford.

It passes him by when he sits on the roof of his third foster home, knees skinned and wide-eyed, yearning for a place among the stars. It slows down when he’s seated in a cockpit, knuckles curled over the smooth leather of the controls, ever pliant to his direction. Every blink, every beat, every stride— he survives each second, waiting for the next with bated breath and clenched fists. He abides by its rules, taking his cue and going through the motions, hoping beyond hope that there’s something at the end of this long tunnel.

Time is different in the quantum abyss. Different in that it is a house guest, coming and going as it pleases. It visits Keith, embracing him like a long, lost friend, gifting him its presence and exchanging stories of a past he doesn’t remember and a future he doesn’t know.

It shows him things. Things that go far beyond the cluster of neutron stars that surround him, expanding into the Blue Lion’s shield and his father’s smile, mirrored in the eyes of his newly found mother. It colors the fur of his wolf, bounding along the stretch of a beach he’s never seen, sand shifting under his feet as he walks through a footpath framed by tropical leaves. Some of them are secondhand images, the rocking of his mother’s arms and the curd taste of vrepit sa, and others, the stinging bite of a glowing hand aimed at his heart and the sweet laughter of his team over a distant fire, are scenes he lives and relives, over and over again.

“It’s coming,” his mother says, eyes snapping to him and finding his own already looking back.

The dark stars awake, exhaling life into this corner of the universe, casting them into its shadow of light. It stretches and stretches and stretches, fingers exploring Keith, running a thumb over his lips and down his chest. It closes his eyes with a kiss, promising secrets in return for his time.

Keith gives it.

Water surges up to grasp his ankle, wet fingers running up and down his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Grains of sand shift underneath him, following the curves of the shore and his body. Something warm and thrumming with life presses against his side, nestled under his chin and tickling his nose. It smells like citrus, vibrant and alive.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice, low-pitched and rolling with the distant sound of waves.

“Hey,” Keith says back automatically.

“I’m glad you stayed.” A hand weighs heavy over his stomach, skimming over his chest and up his neck, aiming to brush through damp hair. A hum vibrates his throat, brazen in its pleasure over the intimate act. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

He does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

It lingers, seeping deep into his skin and fitting itself into the tight space between his ribs. Unable to wedge his fingers through the cracks and pull it from his chest, he lets it stay, breathing around the radiation it emanates. With every heartbeat it contaminates his existence, slinking into his bones and voice, bouncing off warped pieces of organic debris whenever he walks or talks.

He has started calling them flashes. Flashes of light. Flashes of time. Flashes of life.

They happen in ambiguous intervals, gripping his mind on a whim and refusing to let go until he submits to its desires. When he walks the waking world it flares up, a rush of wind and the weightlessness of falling, and when he drifts off to sleep it slinks past the curtain of his eyelids, phantom limbs clinging to him and his own voice yelling shut up and trust me.

He watches his mother slow to a stop in front of him, eyes glazing over in a far off look. Her hands suddenly go lax and the crate of supplies in her hands slips, and it is only the quick reflexes of their newly acquired Altean companion that saves it from this planet’s abnormal gravitational pull. Her body goes rigid just as her face goes slack, a paradox of existence that reflects in the yellow of her eyes, neon in the absolute darkness of space.

Careful, he makes to touch her elbow. “Mom?”

Like a flick of a switch, she returns. Her eyes snap to him, wild and fierce, brows angled in an expression that he’s seen in the mirror. The stillness around her recedes and recognition shines through.

“Keith.” It’s soft, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”

He nods, taking her hand. “I’m here.”

They don’t say much about it, but both are aware of the threads that link them together. His father had tied the first knot, linking them by blood, and the Blades, through trials of forbearance, had secured the second. Now the flashes anchor them, a single point, absolute in a world full of variables.

So they stick together, stepping back into a world governed by time, following its orders to march along a linear plane, and letting the vacuum of space seal them into an Altean pod, depressurizing and locking the abyss’ byproducts into their lungs. They watch silently as the pod’s navigation system leads them to a castleship made by a dead king, crumbling under the weight of a friend turned traitor; all it takes is a snap, betrayal in the name of good, and the world is tilting off its axis, spinning faster and faster as Voltron fights its own twisted image. Time passes and passes, skipping a stone over a great lake of stars— skipping one, two, three.

And for Keith, it is nothing. He has watched time fly by for two years, hardening his skin and broadening his shoulders; he has lived days as short as an hour and as long as a week, inhaling in the dawn and exhaling the dusk. It is just another moment in the sea of many.

It is nothing, until it’s not.

Without warning the large expanse of space is too loud, too vast, too much. Life on the back of the celestial whale had been muted, a peaceful isolation that he doesn’t appreciate until it’s taken away from him. Reality comes crashing down like a clash of swords, sparks jumping as metal slides against metal, aiming to slice and dissect. Warships surround them, clouding the atmosphere of Earth in a timeline never considered; hysteria crawls along the edges of their voice and wistfulness in their sighs, in time to the ominous beeps of their oxygen levels.

And he takes the mantle of leader once again, wearing the Black Lion’s pelt like a second skin. The others step up beside him with not a blink of vacillation, following him whilst totally unaware to how much he’s changed. The weight of it is heavy and some days he feels out of place, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He tries his best to stitch himself back into their lives, but his fingers fumble with disuse, hypothetical needle pricking him and staining his work with blood.

And the flashes, they persists, trying to convince him of a life that isn’t his.

For as long as Keith can remember, he’s known he was different. A temper that flares like molten fire and a talent that could have him flying, upwards and onwards, across the night sky. He’s been nothing but problematic his whole life— it starts with him climbing out the window of his first foster home and getting caught by the local sheriff stealing canned beans from the general store down the street, and ends with him getting lost in the stars he shot for. He is a boy conceived in the throes of chance, bred for the taint of war, and suspended in the cockpit of space. Wild and detached. Endlessly adrift, searching for a reason to bleed.

But the flashes say different. They tell a story filled with rising suns, holoscreen calls and a family found.

He doesn’t know what to believe, but he knows what he wants.

A ribbon of moonlight cast over the crest of a nose, highlighting pools of navy, zoetic like a cradle of stars. It comes with a feeling, timid but yearning. A seed, newly planted, breaching the surface and stretching towards the light.

He extends a hand—

Home.

—and grasps nothing.

~

Life on Earth after is nothing like life on Earth before.

The world had been cotton-edged when he first woke after the battle, fuzzy in a disorienting way that makes his nerves buzz and eyelashes flutter in the rays of new day’s sun; shapes sway in a colorful charade that eventually merge together to form the familiar faces of those important to him. Aches cramp up his muscles, a distant throb that a doctor had affirmed would heal with time. Time spent restlessly laying in bed as he listens to what his mother and Kolivan have to report about the state of the universe. Medical staff skitters around the two, unable to meet either of the Galrans’ gazes when they talk about newly found Blades and high-profile rebel groups taking back what was stolen from them. It keeps Keith grounded, hand buried in the soft mane of his wolf, anchoring him to the now.

A week and he’s deem fit for discharge, walking out of the hospital ward with his mother at his side and his bayard at his belt, ready to be thrown back into the fight— only to find out that there are none left.

The damage done to Earth is glaringly obvious the moment he steps a foot outside. Scorch marks burn into runways while decimated and overturned vehicles alike litter its path, fritzing wires and broken glass giving a simple stroll a dangerous edge. Buildings sag in their seats, missing chunks out of their sides where lazer blasts had struck true, left unprotected by a rudimentary particle shield and humankind’s own inexperience. The people appear even worse for wear, faces drawn and ashen; military persons walk with purpose around the ruin, uniforms ripped and weapons drawn, towing away rubble and guiding lost-looking refugees.

The planet is grieving and they are only a fraction of its whole, attempting to pick up its pieces.

(“It reminds me of Daibazaal,” Kolivan had said to him one early morning while they wait for the rest of the base to wake. The sunrise paints over his usually harsh features, softening the puckered skin of his scar and the hard ridge of his brow. “From what your Blue Paladin had divulged, Earth had shined like our planet once did, before the comet brought it crumbling to its knees.”

Keith had paused, head tilted. “Were you there— when it happened?”

“No.” A deep breath, pained but strong. “It was many decapheebs ago. However, the story has been passed down through our ancestors. Every Galra know the story of our planet’s end. It is the reason we still fight today.”

A blink and he was a ghost looking over his mother’s shoulder, down at the blade that’s placed in her calloused palm. The moment weighs heavily in his mind, a burden given and a duty shouldered, taken on by oath of blood. A figure looms over, the shadow of a beast tamed by war; they have many titles, many names, but Keith knows only one. Father, a young Krolia whispers, kneeling in the decaying relics of an empire, what do we fight for?

To the west, the Black Lion overlooked its pride. “Let us hope Earth does not make the same mistake.”)

It takes two months to finish cleanup, even with the help of the Lions. Sterilized by war, the Galaxy Garrison is a mere extension of the surrounding desert; a man-made mountain turned canyon, draining of hubris. Rebuilding what Sendak destroyed will take time, a currency that inflates in periods of trouble, dragging down the empty pockets of the castaways of strife. It’s a costly endeavor and even with contact of whatever remains of the coalition, it might not be enough.

Leaders and followers alike swarm him with this fact, pulsing in a beat that’s deleterious to his sanity; they want control and they want knowledge, demanding it from where he stands on the dais they put him on. It’s frustrating, how they try to tie him down; he pulls against the rope, a runaway searching for freedom. He had found it in the cockpit of the Red Lion, accelerating until they were one and the same, a bullet shooting out of a pistol, piercing an alien planet’s stratosphere in a blaze of condensed water and Altean alchemy. It had felt right back then, rivers of clouds buffeting armored plates with the intent of inching his ribs apart and grasping for his heart, trying to reclaim what rightfully belonged to the stars. Faster, he would chant, impatient now that the universe is spread out at his feet, faster, faster, faster.

Now there are responsibilities that go beyond him, all under the jurisdiction of Voltron’s astronomical shadow, and he is only one of the five gateways to that power.

Someone must say something to their superiors because he is put in charge of a new training regiment for the MFE recruits, a precaution turned requirement. It’s Shiro who first mentions it, sitting at Keith’s bedside with a bouquet of flowers Keith doesn’t bother asking about. His new arm levitates just below where the junction of an elbow should be, glowing faintly under the fluorescent lights of the room, soothing the scarring warlords have carved into him. The request ends with a robotic hand on his shoulder and, “I wouldn’t ask of it if I didn’t think you could do it.”

So Keith agrees. A nod and he’s in charge of Earth’s only space infantry, renewed and steadfast. A last defense to a planet on the edge of collapse.

“At ease,” comes Commander Iverson’s stark direction. Keith looks on as Garrison recruits shift to parade rest, gaze unwavering forward even as the red paladin walks through their numbers. Lieutenants, sporting bands of valor on their shoulders, march behind him, the precise clips of their steps barricading any option of retreat. “This is Cadet Kogane and he will be heading this operation.”

A few eyes flicker to Keith.

“You have been trained for space exploration, not in militant strategy, and you’ll need guidance beyond what Earth can provide you. Kogane has more than enough experience in the area— his time with both Voltron and the Blade of Marmora will give us an edge that our normal combat routines lack. You few have proven your worth in paving the way for what could become the norm in the Garrison’s combatant regiment, so I expect not to be disappointed.”

A brisk salute that even Keith reciprocates and the commander about faces, leaving.

Once the door slides shut behind him and his entourage, all eyes of the room snap back to Keith and he tries not to bend at the weight of them. Like a brick to the temple, it hits him. Whatever they take away from this experience could either save them or damn them. It’s a lot, being the deciding factor of life or death. What if he forgets something? What if it’s not enough? What if—

Someone clears their throat.

Awaiting his order, the recruits are lined up along the perimeter of the room, varying in age, color and body type. A few of the faces he vaguely recognizes, abstract characteristics he remembers passing him by in these very same halls years prior. A scatter of freckles and straight-cut bangs. Dreads and a chiseled face caught in a blank expression. Straight-edged glasses and petite hands. Light brown hair and a pointedly unimpressed frown…

He takes a step forward, shoulders back like and head high, thinking of Allura as she pilots the Castle of Lions and Shiro as he walks up a docking ramp. “We’ll be starting tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred hours. All training equipment will be provided, so come ready to work. Dismissed.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, birthed from the terseness of his words, but all it takes is for Keith to raise his eyebrows and they are saluting back and filing out of the room. A few send him looks over their shoulders, whispering to each other, but he ignores them. Ignores them until the last of them are gone, leaving only Keith.

“You know,” a familiar voice starts just as he’s about to leave himself. “When they first said that you had come back, I didn’t really believe them.”

Keith turns.

“But,” James continues, standing just outside the perimeter of the mat, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exactly the same, bangs sweeping over the arch of his left eyebrow and a thin upper lip curling in a smirk. “Here you are. I’m not surprised, not really, but god, it makes me angry. You really had to prove you were better than the rest and get caught up in some galactic war, huh?”

Annoyed by the silent undertone of those words, Keith rudely asks, “Did you need something?”

The boy’s eyebrow ticks, but his face is composed mere seconds later. Without any fanfare, a small holoscreen is slipping out the folds of a bag and thrust into his hands; marked with the Garrison’s logo and having no pass code, it opens to a desposity of files, each with a military photo and a corresponding list of statistics. The detail put into it is superlative, giving a number of categories that range from dexterity to psychological analysis. Every member of the class is noted within the digital archive, with maybe the exception of Keith himself.

“Thought you might need something to base your regiment on. I don’t want this to be a complete waste of time and I’m betting you don’t either. Think of this as a peace offering.” When Keith doesn’t say anything, James’ eyes narrow. “It’s not that hard to understand. You want to defeat the Galra and I want to keep Earth safe— two goals with the same outcome. We don’t have to be friends or anything, but it’ll be in both of our best interest to put our difference aside and work together for once.”

Keith considers it. A mutual cooperation doesn’t sound completely terrible, but still something doesn’t feel right. Something that the other had said…

“What do you mean? Two goals with the same outcome. We both want Earth safe.”

“Keith,” the other says and it’s a shock, how his own name can be said in such a way that it makes him want to flinch. Pity had never been an easy pill to swallow. “We both know that you never cared for anything permanent.”

Rust coats the curved blade twisting in his gut and he stumbles back, unprepared for the pain that follows.

Unaffected, James nods and shoulders his bag. “See you tomorrow.”

The exchange ends just as it quickly as it begins, leaving Keith unhinged. He feels called out— for what, he doesn’t know—but it had him being pushed under the scope, magnified and focused to unimaginable degrees, only to find the results wanting. His body vibrates, buzzing for talk, for action, for something.

It takes only a thought for his bayard to materialize and form its commonplace sword. It takes another thought to realize that he can’t find solace here; there are no gladiators to battle against, no programmed levels to best, and no invisible mazes to run through. The Galaxy Garrison might be leading humanity into a new age, but it still lacks the basic commodities Keith had taken for granted on the castleship. His grip tightens and then loosen, weapon dematerializing.

He looks down at the holoscreen.

His own face, young and sporting a split lip, glares back at him.

Past the memory, his reflection sits. Two sides of a coin, forged in the fires beneath this planet’s crust but branded by a long-dead star’s radiation. Somewhere along a comet’s tail as it passed through this solar system, a divergence was made. It’s two feet planted on the ground but a gaze to the sky. It’s the alien blood that runs through his human veins. It’s a blade underneath his pillow. It’s the controls of the universe’s strongest weapon in his blistering grip. It’s what do we fight for? and who better than the very best?

Earth may be different, but so is Keith.

When his father passes away, Keith loses the ability to build a home. Instead, he builds bridges. He keeps to the space in-between, never taking that final step for fear of falling. Suspended in a loop, kicking up dust as he follows the skyline in search of an elusive end. Something that he can call his.

Keith makes bridges he can’t cross.

Like all things, life goes on.

A semblance of normality settles over Earth and its residents, putting together the pieces of what was torn apart. Buildings rise from the ground and people with them. Families, diminished in size and changed through trauma, attempt to flower from their recently upturned roots. Routines are revived as society takes its first breath through the trailing smoke of funeral pyres, looking less to survive and more to live.

At Shiro’s urgence, Keith and Krolia do the same and move into his apartment on Garrison grounds.

The space feels empty despite its modern furnishing and newly-stocked kitchen, but the two don’t mind, finding that it’s a better alternative to a dusty, old shack that holds too many painful memories. Not that their new home doesn’t have its own ghosts, for something still lingers of the man that smiles at them from the many photographs littered around the place. And though Shiro doesn’t say anything about it, it’s hard to ignore the wistfully sad look that overtakes him when Kosmo finds a set of keys between the cushions or an extra pair of glasses on the kitchen counter. Nonetheless, he doesn’t relocate to the captain’s quarters on the Atlas, keeping to his humble abode with its somber memories.

It takes not even an hour to transfer what little belongings they have from the Black Lion and try to fill up the space, conjuring a future in what remains of the past. Day by day they live, trying hard not to stumble.

Everyday, he wakes and does what’s needed of him. He’s showers and trains and teaches and salutes, habitual as he fits himself into a mold. There are no complaints, not when he leaves no room for them, mouth downturned in an impressive frown. It’s tedious, but Keith bears it, knowing that it is in this niche which he is most useful.

He doesn’t see the rest of the team as often as he’d like, what with their busy schedules, but there are glimpses; a passing smile as a lieutenant escorts Allura and Coran into a another conference and a quick greeting from the Holt siblings before they’re off, fumbling with a treasure trove of blueprints they carry, tempered by the side-hug Hunk bestows and fist bump Lance gives before the both of them are being called by their families.

Keith tries not to feel hurt by how easily they drift apart.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Shiro tells him over breakfast, somehow knowing exactly what is wrong despite Keith having not said a word on the matter. “There’s just a lot going on. Everyone’s still trying to find their balance.”

Keith just crosses his arms and shrugs noncommittally, pretending he doesn’t realize how petulant he must look. “It’s fine,” he says. “They can do whatever they want.”

“Keith, you’re allowed to care.”

The other’s tone, gentle and supportive, has Keith unwinding the knots in his muscles with a sigh. He looks to his friend and then away, fixing his gaze to the group of students huddled together under a tree in the Garrison’s main quad. One of them says something he can’t hear and the rest erupt into laughter. “Yeah, I know.”

“Things will work themselves out, just you wait. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And like about most things, Shiro is right.

As days pass, so does the madness. Walking through the barracks of the Garrison is still weird, but it gets easier to ignore the whispers that follow his form, snagging onto his borrowed clothes, tracing the outline of his scar and burrowing deep into his pores. The walls don’t press upon him as much, sparing his lungs a great deal of effort when it comes time speak, and the polite murmurs of paladin from men and woman twice his age no longer makes his skin crawl. It becomes commonplace to cut through the base and see the lions, behemoths in their own right, sitting in the shadow of the human-altean hybrid Atlas; all silent observers to the going-ons of the base and the people that call it home.

People congregate, fulfilling the genetic deep need for interaction during mealtimes in the cantine, talk bubbling into something casual and among individuals made close by circumstance, stark against the backdrop of wreckage that still sits outside their windows. Faces become more familiar in that distant sort of way, crossing his path frequently enough to garner a nod in greeting or a vocal acknowledgement; it’s almost similar to time at the Garrison before Voltron, but different in that the attention is based on earnest admiration over his actions rather than grudging revere over his skill.

It’s then that the team comes back together.

Pidge is the first, dropping herself into the seat across from him as he eats breakfast, already halfway through a conversation she expects Keith to participate in. “I just don’t understand how an entire military base could be so stupid. It’s a wonder things ran so smoothly without me before now.” A huff and then, belatedly, “Hi, Keith”

“Hi,” he says past the initial surprise, followed almost immediately by small, pleased smile that he hides behind his hand. “What’s got you in such a mood?”

“Oh, nothing!” The girl stabs at her hashbrowns, cutting with vengeance, and he remembers her doing the same to the food goo back at the castle. “It’s just that everyone in the technical department has their heads shoved so far up their butts that it’s a miracle they can see the tabs on their computers! Can you imagine thinking that a single-sideband modulation is enough to broadcast a signal from one solar system to another? Absolutely crazy.”

He opens his mouth to try an attempt at consoling, but is interrupted by a tray heaped with food nudging against his own and a sturdy body is pressing up against his side.

“What’s crazy,” Hunk begins around a full mouth, brandishing his spork like a baton, sending a glop of oatmeal to the floor and to splatter on a passing figure’s shoes, “is how you think a double-modulation is necessary at all. You’re just salty that people are agreeing with me. We didn’t need it for the castle in deep space and we don’t need now. Like, think about it, what would we even— oh, hey Keith.”

“Hi.”

Ignoring the spluttering Pidge undergoes at his previous words, Hunk turns to fully face the red paladin and it’s just like it was before, easy. As if it hasn’t been weeks since they last had a real conversation and only hours. “Haven’t seen you around. That class of yours keeping you busy?”

Keith shrugs. “I guess. Depends on the day.”

“Yeah, I feel that. Sometimes I’m so busy that I feel overwhelmed, and other times I have so much free time that I don’t even know what to do with myself.” It’s a tell of their time together in space that Hunk doesn’t press him for details on his class, for which Keith is thankful. “They have me and my dad working on the coiling of the Atlas’s main inductors. It’s slow work cause of the size of them, but we’re getting there. Hopefully it’ll stop the Atlas from shutting down secondary functions when in full mecha-mode. Then it’s straight to work on altering the zero gravity chambers.”

Pidge pouts. “Man, I’m so jealous. You get to work on the Atlas while I’m stuck teaching idiots basic coding back at home base.” She cups her chin, elbow nearly in her mashed potatoes, and sighs dreamily. “What I wouldn’t give to see what’s hiding in that ship’s mainframe.”

“Hey, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be— most of what we do is test out the system.” He lets out a gruff noise from the back of his throat, a cross between a scoff and whine. “It’s so annoying because we have get clearance for every one we do, which is a lot. Ever since they set up a connection between Atlas and that robobeast, things have been on edge. I mean, I totally get it — no one wants to be responsible for the termination of Earth’s only connection to the universe, but, still, it makes my job just that much harder. Dad’s going crazy over it and the limitations of what we can do. Clearance and all that, you know.”

Keith pats the boy on the bicep. “That suck, big man. Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s whatever.” But he sends Keith a smile before perking up considerable. A sparkle that Keith recognizes shines in the dark brown of his eyes. “But it does mean that whenever something does slip through the clearance, I’m the first to know.”

Pide, the youngest and most susceptible to the yellow paladin’s gossiping ways, cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Hunk nods enthusiastically. “Her pod is a few doors down from the engine room. People are always going in and out.”

And Keith, though never one to dip into the rumors that run their course through the base, can’t deny the curiosity that spikes at the mention of the mysterious girl found at the apex of the robobeast’s heart. “Is she awake?”

“Not that I know.”

“Do they know why she was in the robobeast at least? Why it attacked Earth? Who sent it?”

“Not sure, but Romelle did say that she looked familiar, so she might be from the colony— though it’s already been so long since she left that she can’t be for sure. Still, how many colonies of Alteans are there in the universe? I’m guessing whoever took them is the one behind all this.”

That’s been the hook to a great many theories over the subject, Keith’s included. By this point, it isn’t of a matter of what but a matter of why. The reason behind the attack that nearly cost Earth everything is still a well-kept secret and will probably remain so until the Altean girl wakes from her self-induced hypersleep.

“I can’t believe this,” a voice declares loudly from Keith’s right, startling him and drawing the attention of not only their huddled group but that of the tables surrounding them as well. “We have our first ever gossiping circle as a team and I’m the last to be invited.”

It’s Lance, because of course it is. Standing tall and casual, hands on his hips and lips pursed in the usual fashion, the boy cuts a vibrant figure against the pale backdrop of the facility.

At his side, stands a girl.

“Oh yeah, this is my sister, Rachel. Everyone, Rachel. Rachel, everyone,” he introduces— unnecessarily, it would seem, because anyone would have to be blind not to notice the similarities between the two. The resemblance is uncanny. Both sport long limbs and the same sun-kissed skin, clear of any blemishes or imperfections. When she smiles in greeting, dimples appear in the apple of both cheeks, eyebrows arching in a familiar grin that has even Pidge casting a second glance. “But seriously, are you guys gossiping without me? How rude— you know I live for the drama.”

Hunk, the only person capable, chuckles. “We’re just talking about that new Altean girl.”

In unison, the newcomers shove their way into seats on either side of Pidge, tilting forward with matching expressions of intrigue. Keith quells the urge to lean back in response, sharing a look with the girl unfortunate to be squished between them.

“The one they found in that thing you guys fought?” Rachel asks, voice pitched high with excitement and flowing with the same lilt as her brother’s. “Everyone’s saying that she was in league with that Sendak guy.”

Pidge makes a pained face. “Better not let Allura hear that. She’ll freak.”

“Yeah, she’s already stressed enough as it is,” Lance says quietly, eyes soft in the way it always is when concerning the princess. “We don’t wanna make it worse.”

“Yeah, best just to stick with our assignments. I’ve seen how crazy stressed Romelle is lately. With Allura working with the new admiral, it’s up to her and Coran to try and find  where the colony has gone. There weren’t any new leads last time I asked.” Hunk licks the back of his utensil, eyes flickering across the cantine and stopping at various individuals, be they civilian or military. “I hope nothing else goes wrong. We’re kinda sitting ducks as it is.”

“Kolivan is doing his best to reunite what’s left of the coalition. Once that’s reinstated, I’m sure everything else will fall back into place.” Keith, says, trying his hand at reassurance. “Try not to sweat it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

After that, the topics digress into something lighter. They exchange stories, recounting first meetings and divulging in embarrassing mess-ups, laughing when they all start to one-up  each other and the anecdotes get more and more outrageous. It seems like both Lance and Rachel have an endless cache of embarrassing stories to tell and it doesn’t take long until Keith’s smothering a laugh into the sleeve of his uniform.

Eventually, the morning sun rises high into the noon hours and the obligations of the world start calling them. It’s too soon when Hunk’s pager goes off, signaling the end of his breakfast and their time together. Lance whines and Keith secretly wants to do the same when Pidge joins the engineer when he collects his belongings and gets up, trying to convince them to stay. But it’s all for nought because all it takes is another beep from the pager and they’re gone, promising to make time for another group meal even as they wave goodbye.

“So,” Rachel starts once it’s just the three of them, pushing her brother until she’s seated directly in from of Keith rather than diagonally. “You’re the famous Keith Kogane I’ve heard so much about.”

Unsure what her tone means, Keith proceeds with caution. “Yeah…”

“Is it true that you sucker punched Iverson and got expelled?”

“Ray,” Lance hisses.

But the girl is shameless, instead leaning forward, chin propped on her steepled fingers. She eyes him and sends a wicked grin his way, sharp like shrapnel. “I just wanna know if all the rumors are true. Iverson didn’t always have only one good eye and what I hear is that you’re the reason behind it. How about it? Are you up to the hype or is my baby brother a liar?”

“Baby brother,” Lance scoffs, offended. “We’re only—”

“Yeah, I took Iverson’s eye out.”

The sibling squabble stops before it can start, and Keith’s left with two very different expression angled his way; while Lance’s jaw drops in surprise, his sister’s drops in uncontained glee.

“He wouldn’t tell me the truth about Shiro. No one would,” he clarifies, focusing more on Lance and his utterly stupefied face. Honestly, he had thought this had been common knowledge after he left, spread through the student grapevine, and it feels odd talking about it now. It was so long ago and explaining why he did what he did feels like an out of body experience. “You know… back when everyone still thought the Kerberos crew was MIA. I was just really frustrated and well, Iverson was there and… yeah.”

“Oh my god,” Rachel says in the stunned silence that follows. “Oh my god, you’re exactly like Lance says. Unbelievable.”

Now, Keith has never really cared about what’s been thought of him by his peers. It had never mattered before. But he can’t deny his curiosity as he watched the blue paladin shoot his sister a look of utter betrayal, as if this interaction breached some unspoken contact. He wonders what his teammate had to say about him and if it differs to what would be said of him now.

Another side-eye, slow and sly, is thrown his way, accompanied by the rise of a signature eyebrow and smirk. The girl tips on her elbows, chin raised and closer than he normally lets strangers be. “You really are all that, huh. I guess I can see the hype.”

They have the same eyes, Keith thinks idly, a blue so dark it looks black

Then all he can see is brown curls and feel lips pressing to the apple of his right cheek. Across from him, Lance splutters, hands flailing as he says something in rapid Spanish, embarrassed on Keith’s behalf. Her responding giggle fills up Keith’s personal bubble until she moves away, nonplussed as she stands and responds back in kind before giving her brother a kiss on the cheek too. Another Lance-ish grin and she’s skipping away, ponytail swishing with the movement.

It takes a minute or so for Lance to reboot, flush receding. “Sorry about that. Rachel thinks anyone with fancy hair is fair game.”

The ghost of fingers skims along his cheek, tucking a long strand of hair behind his ear, and Keith fights against the urge to chase after the miniscule flash. Instead, he clenches his fists and stares hard at the other boy’s forehead. “She thinks my hair is fancy?”

Lance bristles suddenly. “Don’t get any ideas, Mullet.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” A pause, filled with the talk of others, and then Lance is glancing over at him, lips quirked just enough to entice an excited flip of Keith’s stomach. “You wanna take the lions out for a spin? First one to the Atlantic wins.”

And isn’t that the bulk of it? Their relationship, two opposing forces that revolve around one another, waiting for that precise moment to either clash or conjoin. Lance, who fits so easily into people’s lives—seemingly without any effort at all too— sneaking his way into Keith’s, uncaring of the tight squeeze. It’s contradictive, how they can butt heads one moment and then share a smile the next.

Nevertheless, he has the intention to accept the offer, because it’s been a while since anything has got his heart racing and there’s nothing that does the job better than flying. Every intention to pipe up a witty remark just to see Lance react and then take a running head start to the lion hangars while the other boy was distracted thinking of a suitable comeback. It’s second nature, the push and—

—pull of hands around his stomach, secured tight as he guides a hoverbike faster. The wind is strong and merciless as it snags at his hair, coming loose from the strap of the goggles he wears and curling erratically at his temples. The body seated behind him presses flush against him, chest to back and legs straddling warm leather, while a chin juts over his shoulder and a smile skims over the shell of his ear.

There is no destination, just a direction, always forward and never back. Forever forward, on and on and on. It’s nice and he’s happy, filled with content and a desire for it to never end.

“—kay? Keith?”

Like a whip, he snaps back. Gone is the upward sweep of handlebars, the press of palms against the base of his ribs, the wind buffeting his face— all the tell-tale signs of a joyride, shared with a someone who he can’t put a face to. In its place, the distinctive rush of a crowded canteen.

It takes a moment for him to recognize that he’s been asked a question and a moment more to realize that he has to answer.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” The lie rolls off his tongue without a hitch, floating in the air and saturating the atmosphere with its flimsy misdirection. It’s starting to become difficult to keep his breathing steady. “Actually, I just remembered that I have to pick up some equipment for my class tomorrow. Can we do a rain check on the race?”

Lance blinks. “Oh, um, yeah. That’s totally— of course. Next time then.”

“Next time,” he agrees, distracted. Then his body is on autopilot, knees unbending and back straightening as he stands, the eyes of the many digging into the back of his skull. He leaves before anyone can notice the way his fists clench, knuckles going white, holding back a dam of memories that aren’t his. He doesn’t look back.

By the time his class starts two hours later Keith has mostly calmed down. It’s time spent doing cardio drills, working up a sweat until all he can focus on is the burning sensation in his muscles and the accelerated beat of his heart. It leaves no room for anything else, narrowing the world into a single point, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

His students must notice how on edge he still must be, because when they walk in and he’s adding another ten pounds to his already maxed out barbell, not one advises against it. Even James, who always seems to have something to say, keeps quiet and simply nods when he brusquely instructs the lot of them to pick up a staff and pair up. They leave him be, though not without the judgmental look or two as they pass his station by.

But, in the end, it’s not enough.

Not enough because even as he lays there, shirt plastered to his skin and the cushion of the bench molding to the trembling slopes of his shoulders and back, the flash somehow sneaks back. It hides in plain sight, stalking the length of his arms and tensing as they push the bar up and away from his chest, locking his elbows in a strain that isn’t healthy. Hides until he’s holding his breath, trembling under the weight and a second to utter collapse, only to surprise him with a reveal of phantom hands, transparent and long, following raised veins to the bony bend of his wrist.

Carefully, as if they were real, the hands run a thumb over his pulse, applying pressure until Keith feels like jumping out of his skin. A beat, loud and clear, reverberates through his body. It makes him want to let go and be held. But the weight of the bar nearly chokes him at the thought, recoiling in the suddenness of it all, and has the ghostly hands evaporating in a puff of smoke. Gone just as quick as they came, and he’s left with a bursting chest, gasping for breath.

No one notices his blunder, but it shakes Keith all the same.

Keith asks Allura about the flashes.

It takes a while, not because he’s gearing up to bring the topic forward, but because Allura is a hard person to catch in the months following the battle for Earth. It seems like everyone everywhere wants the princess’s focus, grabbing her outside of conference rooms and tailing behind her in hallways, proposals and questions alike dripping from their lips. It’s progress, imperative for the success of human and Altean kind alike, Keith knows, but still inconvenient when he’s tracking her down for a private moment.

But Keith is nothing if not determined, forgoing pinging her comm and scheduling time in favor of simply cornering her as she’s leaving the base headquarters after a meeting he saw her walk into an hour prior. He glares as the entourage that follows her, daring them to do anything other than watch as he grabs his friend by the arm and spirits her away.

“Keith,” she greets with a muted smile, following him down the outside corridor and to the south quad where a lone bench sits under a yellow palo verde. “To what do I owe the surprise? How are you?”

But Keith has no time for such pleasantries. Now that the moment has arrived, to finally receive an answer to an immortal question, he can’t focus on anything else. Making sure there’s no one within hearing distance, he makes his stand, feet shoulder width apart and arms crossed. “I need your help,” he tells her without preamble, pushing all the frustration from the last few days, weeks, months into his words. “Something’s wrong with me.”

The change is immediate. Pale eyebrows furrow and dainty shoulders square, kaleidoscope eyes zoning on him with intensity that matches a burning nova in the woes of death. “Tell me.”

So he does.

She doesn’t interrupt him when he speaks, merely sits there, ankles crossed and hands clasped delicately in her lap, and listens. Listens as he recaps his time in the quantum abyss. Listen as he recounts how the dark stars rose and set infinitely, blurring time in its most basic sense. Listens as he talks about the flashes, how they take over in the absence of sense. Listens to his frustrations at its perseverance, to its unyielding hold on his life. Listens to his want of its end.

“And this has been going on since you returned from the abyss?” she asks when he’s done.

He slumps next to her. “Yeah, and it’s only gotten worse since we returned to Earth.”

It’s quiet between them. Keith spends it anxiously rubbing his thumb over the jut of his knuckles, waiting to be reassured. Because if anyone can solve this, it’s Allura. Allura, one of the few remaining relics of the Old World, is a medium by which the universe communicates through. Whatever has happened to bring him to this moment must follow some precedent, something to pursue and procure.

“My people believed time was an limitless thing,” Allura begins after Keith has rubbed his skin raw, voice even and slow. “Something that the Life Givers had bestowed upon us in the age of chaos. Only those who knew the ancient art of alchemy could hope to understand its ubiquitous attributes. Some, like my father, even got close— discovering a source of energy that went beyond the simple science known previously.”

“Quintessence.”

Allura nods. “A substance with the highest known energy per unit volume in the universe. It has the power to alter and warp reality, creating rifts that might otherwise not exist. We saw as such with General Hira and her immoral troops.”

He remembers. The fight for the trans-reality comet and its precious ore, wanted by those who wanted peace in every reality, but only accomplished in tearing it apart. He also knows that the subject is still a sore one for the Altean, a reflection of what could have been if things had been different.

“It’s thought that quintessence ties us to this world. That it is merely a means of creation, not the origin of it. It’s something to be harnessed, like with the Lions and your bayards— but you can’t have power without limitations. You need something to counter it, to maintain it…” She clears her throat. “I believe that the abyss may be a pocket of what used to be the beginning of our universe. A pocket that doesn’t follow the natural order of time and instead uses quintessence to warp it, existing in an almost limbo state. Trying to balance between past and present. But in all honesty, this is only a guess. I’ve never heard of anything like this, from my father or Coran otherwise.”

The information is a welcomed addition to the nothing Keith already knows, but it’s not a solution and he’s says as much.

Her eyes flicker downward. “No,” she says quietly, “I suppose it’s not.”

“But there is a way to stop this, right? Something you can do?”

The girl hesitates.

And doesn’t that just get his temper going. The girl who should have the answers, silent in the face of the question. “You don’t have anything,” he accuses just shy of harsh, breathing hard through his nose. “Nothing to help me?”

Allura covers his hand with her smaller one, flinching when he jerks away from the touch. “Keith, it’ll be alright. I’m sure we can figure this out. Together, with the help of the team—”

“Oh no, we are not telling the others about this.”

“What? Why not? I’m sure they would want to know.”

“If I tell them then I’m going to have to tell them what I’m seeing and…” Anxiety curls at the points of his ribs, unbridled and uncalled for, when he thinks about the flashes and what they might means. The thought of such private scenes translating from mind to reality, of being spoken into existence, is too much for him to handle. “I can’t— I refuse to do that.”

“I’m sure no one will judge you for what you see. Whatever it is, we don’t yet know if it’ll even come true. If you’ll just—”

“No, Allura.”

They stare at each other, stubbornly trying to convince the other to have their way. It doesn’t last long because he knows that Allura’s moral compass won’t allow her to do anything in disagreeance to his own well-being and that forcing him to do this will bring her in direct contradiction with such Altean ideologies; she looks away first, frowning in such a manner that it cracks her symmetrical face, and the win goes to him.

“Alright,” she agrees grudgingly. “I won’t tell the rest of the team, but,” she adds quickly when she catches him letting out a breath, “you’ll come to me if they start getting worse. Of course, I’ll be looking into any surviving Altean archives to see if I can find anything that might explain this phenomenon, but any changes at all and I’m the first to know. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They shake on it, like its some big business deal.

“And am I allowed to ask what the visions entail?”

She looks to be genuinely curious and it elicits a fight or flight response in him, not that he acts on either of them. But it still has him tensing abruptly, boots scraping against the dirt in a involuntary twitch.

“No,” he says and that’s the last of it.

Until it’s not.

Here’s a little something I wrote for a one-shot I had planned but will never finish. Basically, after the war, Keith goes back to space with his mom to help the Galra get their shit together, while Lance decides to stay on Earth with his family. They are both head-over-asses for each other, pining like dumb 13-year olds, but have yet to actually vocalize said feelings. It was just a lot of fluff.

But, yeah, here is their reunion of sorts, Keith comes back just in time to go the birthday party of Lance’s youngest niece, Sophie. Enjoy.

“Aren’t you coming?”

“In a little bit,” he says, reaching over to ruffle his nephew’s hair. The laugh, light and bright, that bubbles out of Sylvio’s mouth as he tries to dodge the offending hand brings a smile to Lance’s face. He pushes the boy in the direction of the door. “Go on and take the cake out, yeah? Luis will want to start soon and Sophie has to be spaghetti free before then.”

Sylvio nods eagerly, picking up the giant container of part supplies and carefully waddling out the door and down the slope toward the canopy.

The screen door hasn’t even closed all the way before Lance is turning to the little girl in his arms, hitching her higher. “Alright, princess, let’s clean you up.”

He hums while he works, lulling Sophie into complacency with a song that his mother would sing to him before bed when he was younger; it works, the toddler foregoing any tantrums and watching him wipe down her arms and hands with a moist towelette. Though she does start squirming when he switches his attention to her face, making disgruntled noises when his dips the cloth over her mouth and chin. Amused, he mirrors her expression as she wrinkles her nose when he gets the hint of snot inching out of her left nostril.

Someone takes a deep breath behind him.

Lance is already turning, half laugh pinching his cheeks into a smile. “Don’t tell me you need help unpacking the cake— oh.”

He stops because it’s not Sylvio standing there.

It’s Keith.

Keith, tall and pale skinned, who looks fresh and warm in a flannel and band tee, an unfairly good centerpiece to the backdrop of his home. Keith, whose dark hair curls in the aftertaste of more than one salty breeze and whose face sports a trail of love bites from the sun across pronounced cheekbones. Keith, who he hasn’t seen in heaven knows how long, but still makes Lance’s heart skip a beat or two at the mere sight of him.

Lance blinks, momentarily surprised. “Hey.”

His voice must snap the boy out of whatever spell he’s been stuck in, because he does this small shake of the head, eyelashes fluttering. He adjusts his shirt and steps forward into the cluttered kitchen, hovering awkwardly in the space beside Lance.

“Hey.”

There is no way to stop the pleased smile unfurling across his face. “You made it.”

Keith nods. “I did.”

There’s a pause in which Keith shifts from one foot to the other, eyes looking anywhere but Lance— the sink, the curtains, his shoes. It’s only a displeased gurgle from his other side that Lance shakes himself awake, back to reality and away from the way sunlight streams through the window and catches on thick eyelashes.

“Oh, sorry, I almost forgot to introduce you!” Lance twists and juts out his hip, making a show of bouncing the toddler in his arms. “This is Sophie, the girl of the hour— Miss Birthday Girl, herself.”

Sophie curls a few fingers around his ear and leans into him, chubby cheeks and pouty lips on full display. Shyly, she peeks at the newcomer.

“She’s cute.”

“The cutest,” Lance agrees wholeheartedly, tickling the girl under the chin and grinning when she laughs, likening the sound to bells. “Cutest niece ever— but don’t tell Nadia that or I’ll be downgraded to second favorite uncle, and I cannot let Marco win. But yeaup, now she’s the whopping age of four and already has the world wrapped around her little finger. They grow up so fast.”

“She has your eyes.”

Lance stops. He doesn’t mean to, but the words are unprecedented in their forthcoming and leave him no time to school his reaction. Their eyes meet, and once it happens, he can’t seem to break away. Liquid obsidian mixes with sea blue, dissociating until there is nothing to distinguish the two; it is the paint of the universe, swirling into stars as it hits canvas.

“And your smile,” Keith adds because he wants Lance to self combust, not a shred embarrassed at the things he’s saying- the truths he’s divulging. “You guys have the same smile.”

His brain stutters and takes the time to rerouter itself, skipping over fried wires and flustered gears. “Well, technically, they’re my grandma’s eyes, but, yeah, she, uh— she does.” He clears his throat, finding a lump of some indescribable emotion clogging it. “Though I don’t know about the smile. Sure we both have dimples and I floss regularly, but that’s… it’s nothing to brag about.”

“I like your smile.” A first. “I think it’s nice.”

Heat rises to his cheeks. “Oh, um, thanks.”

There’s a swell in noise from outside, the clunk of the gate and the crow of welcome of new arrivals. He hears a scolding from his aunt, spinning into a row of laughter after the sound of something big falling and a loud cry of a seagull.

“I like your laugh,” Lance blurts out before he can help himself.

Keith looks downright surprised. He does this thing where he blinks rapidly and inches his head back, frowning, and it takes Lance a moment to realize he wasn’t fishing for a compliment in return. “My laugh?”

“Yeah, it’s…” His mouth is dry and his palms sweaty. “I like hearing it.”

And wonders upon wonders, Keith flushes. It creeps up from his chest and colors the entirety of his face, a pink hue that reminds Lance of sunsets during spring. The thought gets him going again and then they are just two boys awkwardly standing in a kitchen, glowing bright red and refusing to look each other in the eye. Eventually it becomes too much and Lance makes himself focus on the toddler in his arms, clearing his throat way too loudly and shifting until she’s better situated in his arms.

“Well, we, ah, better head out there. Can’t really start the party without the girl of honor.” He makes to grab Sophie’s bag, but Keith sees and quickly snatches it from where it’s hung on the chair. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“No, it’s fine. I can get it.”

“I don’t want to make you—”

“Lance,” Keith says and they make direct eye contact this time around. “You’re not making me do anything. I want to do this. I want to be here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

This time, they share a smile.

A/N:A scene I wrote for a fic a lifetime ago, but never posted. I give you ‘we were raiding my neighbors garden and got caught and, oh shit, is that a pitchfork?! run!!!!’

Lance’s head snaps up, alert. “What?”

“I said that there’s some guy over there,” Pidge tells him, pointing. She’s dressed band tshirt and his sister’s overalls, and he can see a thin sheen of sweet on her top lip from where she squats in his neighbors strawberry patch. “I think he’s trying to say something- he looks pretty angry and wow, is that a pitchfork? I didn’t think people still used those. How twentieth century.”

Rachel meets his gaze from across the patch and, even after light years of distance and an intergalactic war, Lance is happy to know they are on the same page. He feels his cheeks rise in an all encompassing smile, one that is mirrored in the feminine face across from him, and together they shoot to their feet.

“Last one to the car—”

“—is a rotten egg.”

Then, without a second’s hesitation, he reaches down and hauls Keith up, legs already moving forward. Caught off guard, his friend stumbles a few steps and drops most of his haul in the precious time it takes to establish his balance once more. Instinct and experience of battles fought together have the paler boy automatically extending his strides to match Lance’s, following his lead with no other prompting than the loose grip around his wrist.

Lance spies his sister all but pluck Pidge from the ground and sprint off in the opposite direction.

And now, it’s a race.

He guides the two of them around the line of strawberries and down a clear pathway framed by saplings. He dodges between the skinny trunks, only half careful of the branches that scrape against exposed skin, and gives a small tug on the hand he holds captive when he catches sight of the red barn to their left. They veer toward it, taking shelter in the shadow of some hay bales.

“What’s the plan?”

The words are hot on his jaw and Lance has to stamp down the instinct to lean away. In retrospect, Keith isn’t all the close, but the sun is really glaring down today and Lance can feel the sweat collecting at the nape of his neck. He shoves the other boy’s face away.

“Okay. First of all, breath mint— ever heard of it, Keith?”

Keith smacks his hand away and scrunches his eyebrows, looking offended. “My breath doesn’t stink.”

“Oh, yes it does. Smells just like that one time Coran ripped one in the dining hall.” Lance taps a finger to his nose. “I swear, I lost all sense of smell for a solid week.”

Keith looks like he doesn’t know whether to be angry or amused, the twitch of his mouth a possible sign of either. Eventually he settles on the later, a soft puff of laughter leaving him, and nudges Lance’s shoulder with his own. “I’ve been using your toothpaste, so if my breath smells like alien farts, then so does yours too.”

Lance ponders the corner he has unwittingly backed himself into, pursing his lips while he side eyes the other boy. “Touché, Mullethead. Touché.”

Keith looks pleased at the small victory, so, of course, Lance does what he does best and blows right past it.

“Alright, Coran’s flatulence and my great taste in toothpaste aside, we still gotta head to the stables. There’s a break in the fence there where my cousin Rufus and his best friend accidentally crashed into it with his hover bike— or, er, at least, it was there when I was home last.”

“Lance,” Keith deadpans, “that was years ago.”

“Yeah, I know, okay? But I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas, Mr. Doubtful.”

“I would, but, in case you haven’t noticed, I have absolutely no clue where we are. Or why even stopped, for that matter.” He pauses. “Why did we stop?”

“Oh, that’s easy. It’s because Old Man Jack has some hired help who’re probably moseying about somewhere close by and they’re, like, the biggest snitches in history,” Lance explains, peeking over the nearest bundle of straw. “I mean, I don’t blame them. For what he’s paying, I’d sell my own sister out.”

Keith shakes his head. “You would not.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I wouldn’t,” he admits, only partially surprised at the certainty in the other’s tone. “But it’s nice to think about how rich I would be if I did.”

Keith makes to say something, only to stop when footsteps sound out behind them. They both spin around to face the farmhand that had somehow sneaked under their radar.

There’s a moment where neither parties say or do anything, too surprised with the sight of the other. It’s almost comedic, Lance thinks, liking the stare off to countless scenes he’s seen in countless movies over the years; he wonders if now would be an appropriate time to utter a mind blowing one liner.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be here!”

Too late.

Lance, always one with a plan, straightens out of his suspicious looking crouch, scratching at the back of his burning neck and laughing awkwardly. “Well, you see, we were just—”

Without a second thought, he grabs Keith’s hand and sprints down the way they came.

He can hear Keith’s laughter behind him, abrupt and loud and staccato, and can feel the muscles in his arm go taunt when the boy twists to look over their shoulders to watch the farmhand disappear from view. Lance has to tug him a few times, guiding them around the barn and more south, to where he remembers the crack in the fence to be- and lo and behold, when he finally catches sight of the end of the property, there’s a despondent looking break in the wooden pikes.

He lets go of Keith’s hand then, trusting him to keep up, and uses the momentum of his swinging hands to push him harder, faster. Keith doesn’t disappoint, sticking to his side like glue, no matter how narrow the path is or how abrupt a turn he makes. And it sets his heart hammering, quick and hard against the cage of his chest; he loves it, this concept of no matter how hard he pulls, there will be an equal push returned. Like twin shooting stars, they fly over the land in an escapade of shining freedom.

When they finally come to the edge of the property and are able to see the fence (a chunk of its top layer broken and missing), Lance lets out a loud laugh, crazy with exhilaration. Pumping his legs faster, he lengthens his strides as far as he can. Wind rushes past him, tugging at his hair and boxing his ears. Slowly, he pulls ahead of Keith, casting a winning smile over his shoulder and feeling utterly invincible.

With fluidity that comes from years of experience, Lance confidently jumps and bypasses the fence. He lands in a crouch, hearing the thumpof another pair of feet making contact with the ground a second behind, and sets off again.

They sprint down the road, circling around the fenced property that had just cut across, and, just as his uncle’s car comes into view, Lance spots two forms squeezing through the fence a distance away. His burning lungs protest as he pushes forward the last remaining feet, watching his sister do the same.

They collide into the hood of the car, scorching metal biting through his shirt and along his palms, pressing in harder when Keith staggers against him, hand spread wide against his lower back. Still, the pain is worth it when compared to the bright feeling bursting from his chest.

“Ha! We win!” he crows, peeling himself from the vehicle and enthusiastically pumping a fist in the air. He twirls and does a little jig.

“What?” Pidge huffs as she finally joins them, hands resting on her knees as she catches her breath. “No way! It was a tie!”

“Nope!” Lance straightens, feeling the victory settle pleasantly in his chest. “Was totally here first.”

Rachel has a very different opinion on the matter and says it, loudly. Lance is nothing if not stubborn and refuses to budge on his call, even taking time to rub it into the girls’ faces. Pidge pushes him and uses his moment of imbalance to slip into shotgun; usually Lance would complain and throw the biggest fit about the concept of ‘dibs,’ but the young paladin is laughing and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

So he slides into the back, Keith winning the mini scuffle to claim the window seat; Lance lets this loss go too, secretly happy to be next to the groceries and planning to sneak a few snacks in before they get home, and focuses on what’s important—  being better than Rachel. “We definitely won.”

“You’re out of your mind,” his sister argues, reaching back to smack him. After a moment and a conspiratorial smile, Pidge turns in her seat and joins in.

“Hey! Stop that! Mercy, mercy, mercy!” He shies away from the abuse, pressing close to the grocery bags and then to Keith in an effort to get away. It’s all in vain because no matter where he goes their hands follow, relentless in their goal to bruise every part of him. “Keith! Keith, buddy, help me out!”

But the other boy merely raises his hands in a shrug of helplessness, trying to suppress a tiny smile that pulls at his mouth.

Lance gasps. “You’re siding with them?”

“I’m not siding with anyone.”

But Lance goes on as if he doesn’t hear him. “Siding with the enemy— that’s cruel, man. And I thought we had a good thing going? All that bonding and whatnot.” He shakes his head and lets out a fake sigh, reaching over and nonchalantly shoving Pidge back in her seat as his sister starts the engine and plows down the dirt road. “You think you know a guy.”

As punishment, Lance refuses to move back to his seat and makes sure his so-called ‘friend’ has as little room as possible (not that there was much to begin with), squished against the car door even after the attacks stop. When they make a tight turn, he throws himself with it; there are some vague threats and muttered cursing, but Lance just laughs and resolutely stays plastered to Keith’s side.

They take the long route back home.

The wind whooshesas they speed down the road, trees and street signs becoming colorful blurs stretching along the horizon. The bags next to him start flapping and a few loose leaf napkins jump from their place in the ashtray and fly out the window. The sun shines through the window, rays chanting a song of goosebump inducing warmth. The radio plays a song Lance doesn’t recognize, but it is nice in its beat and he grins in the feeling of it all.

A/N: I had an entire fic where the space gang returned to Earth and Lance gets to find himself, insecurities and all, and realize that he’s good enough. It was about 30k of pure character development and it was so close to being done, but now, with season 7 out and existing… it just died. I’m talking full on murder here.

Still, the writing isn’t half bad, so I guess I’ll just post a piece of it here.

Lance is woken up in the middle of the by a soft voice whispering his name.

Having not instituted his usual gear of headphones and soothing music, he is easily susceptible to the sound. Hands that belong to a world beyond his sleeping conscious grip his mind with a suddenness that has him jerking awake. For a moment that lasts forever, a surge of panic colors his entire existence, filling him with a raw energy that pushes his body to act- to fight, to run, to survive- even before he can gather his bearings.

It takes only a moment to realize that he isn’t in any immediate danger, body relaxing when he is no longer running for his life through the dark halls of alien warships, but, rather, safely nestled in the comforting confines of his childhood home. He slumps back onto the bed, taking deep breathes as he tries to manage his hammering heart.

“Lance?” The voice comes again, no longer clouded by distorted fears.

Somehow he gets his eyes to open and squints into the darkness of night that hangs over his room. His gaze catches Keith’s silhouette across the room, face hidden by his bangs and unmoving in slumber, and lingers for a moment longer than necessary before moving on. It doesn’t take long for him to find the cause of his abrupt awakening.

“Nadia,” he groans into his pillow, “it’s, like, one in the morning- go back to bed.”

Instead of listening to him and leaving like any good niece would, she resolutely stays where she is. Her fingers twist and pull at his sheets, and she shuffles from one foot to the other in nervousness that he can feel.

“I can’t sleep.”

He knows what happens next. It is so routine that Lance is surprised that he expected his first night back home to be one without disturbances. Detailed memories of nights long past come back to him, reminding of nightly routines and little cousins who cry over small things like dead flowers and broken toys.

So, he sighs and lifts himself partially onto his elbows, forcing his eyes to open further and focus on the small body leaning against his bed. “Bad dream?”

She nods.

“The usual? Or different?”

“Different,” she whispers, eyes flickering over her shoulder before returning to him. “There were giant monsters hiding in the microwave.”

The blinds on the windows are up and the moon, an ever present third party, shines bright in the sky, pale light slipping into the room and caressing their profiles. The air is quiet and slow, an efficient tool in the attempt to seduce the older boy back to the word of dreams. His body, still reeling to the heavy drug of sleep, doesn’t want to move, but Lance is anything if not determined and pushes until he is sitting upright. Slowly, he reaches over and lifts the little girl into his lap; she goes willingly, pressing her cheek to his bicep and snuggling as close as she can possibly get.

It’s times like these that Lance remembers the time before the space program, before the blank gap of memory. He reminiscences about the simple life, where he would wake up knowing what was what and his place in it, his biggest worries being whether or not he would pass Geometry and making sure he didn’t embarrass himself in front of a cute girl. As if it was yesterday, he remembers the day he left for the academy, hugging his family goodbye with a smile and a promise to better the world for them. And it’s a promise he has always meant to keep- still intends to keep, determined to change the world so that people like his sister can smile and laugh and enjoy life. It’s all he’s ever wanted, (their) happiness.

When she looks up, eyes as big as plates, he eases a sleepy smile across his face. “Why were they hiding in the microwave?”

His plan works- his niece blinks and relaxes her grip on his nightshirt, momentarily forgetting her fear in favor of the puzzle he’s given her. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” he pauses to yawn, “if you had to guess, what would you say?”

Nadia picks at her lip, a habit that his sister-in-law has tried desperately to break, and scrunches her nose in thought. Lance forces himself to be patient, valiantly fighting off the desire to slump back under the covers while he waits. Eventually, he’s rewarded with a little ‘oh’ of discovery.

“A tea party.”

Lance doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course. I mean, who doesn’t like tea parties?”

“No one,” she chirps. “Tea parties are fun.”

He presses his lips to the crown of her head. “See, there’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re just a couple of dudes enjoying some good tea- probably some of those mini cakes too, you know the ones.”

She does, her eyes lighting up at the topic of food. “I like mama’s the best, cause she makes them with mango filling.”

“Totally. So, how about we go to bed now and ask Lisa to make some in the morning? That sounds good, yeah?”

Nadia nods eagerly, letting him ease them into a laying position. She turns over so that she’s facing him, chin tucked against his armpit; she is soft against him and it brings into the light the lack of physical contact he’s endured these past years. He swallows, folding his arm around her back and running his fingers through the moonlight bleached ends of her pigtails. God, he missed this. How did he ever live without-

“Your feet are cold,” he suddenly hisses, sucking a sharp breath when said limbs press against his stomach in an effort to steal his warmth. Instinctively, he tries to move away, deeper into the haven of his blankets. “What did you do? Stick them in the freezer before you came here?”

His niece giggles at the jape and it is like sunshine dappling on a leaf, light and filling him with weightlessness of a nice, summer’s day; it cracks his annoyed outer shell, facetious as it was to begin with, and has him voicing no dispute when she follows his retreat and wiggles closer, somehow managing to sneak her feet under his thigh. Lance sighs, resigned to his fate.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he says, shushing her with an affectionate tug of her ear before closing his eyes with the fullest intent of sleeping through the next decade. “Just go to sleep already.”

Nadia giggles again, though it melts into a yawn halfway through. She shifts a bit more, finally finding a position that suits her, and he feels her breath whisper a song on his collarbone. The melody of their breathing evens out and his mind wanders, the noise of the world fading into the background. Strangely enough, he finds himself floating in space, watching the stars shine and the asteroids rolls across the black expanse, a gentle rhythm of the universe that-

“Lance?”

Air exits through his nose loudly. He keeps his eyes closed. “Yeah, Nadia?”

A short pause, then, “Sweet dreams.”

He pretends the words don’t make him smile- or, at least, he tries to, but it is hard to smother it, even in the dark. “Sweet dreams, Nadia. Now, sleep- we can talk in the morning.”

His words are enough to satisfy her and soon, like a spring breeze, she easily slips into the niche of sleep.

Lance lets himself relax, thinking of tinkling laughter among the stars and astronauts who dream of home. He hums a soft tune, waiting.

It’s not a minute later when he hears the door creak open again and the light padding of feet making their way to his bedside. This time Lance doesn’t even try to fight it, instead wordlessly lifting up his covers in silent invitation. Sylvio doesn’t hesitate in climbing over Nadia to his favorite position on Lance’s other side, tucked against his ribs like a budding flower.

Lance snuggles deeper into his mattress, curling his arms around his cuddle buddies, and finally let’s sleep take hold.

Ratings:G

Summary: Lance is a Cuban pop star starting to gain popularity in the United States and Keith is a two-time award winning actor. The rising popularity has them both cast in the upcoming blockbuster, Voltron: Legendary Defender, playing rivals to lovers amidst a Sci-Fi thriller. The public seems to think that they’re a match made it heaven, labeling them ‘Hollywood’s Hottest Couple.’

Too bad they hate each other’s guts.

Warnings:None

Here’s my writing contribution for the @voltronbigbang. I might make it into a full on multi-chapter fic, so we’ll see. You can find it on AO3, here!

Lance takes to fame like a fish to water.

The flashing of camera lights and screams of adoring fans- all of it, a paradise of Lance’s own making. He thrives in the attention, basking in the confidence it instills. What used to be something of dreams is now a mind-blowing reality; once upon a lifetime ago, he was just a simple boy from Cuba singing acoustic covers for spare change on a dingy corner and now- well, now he does the same thing, but in front of thousands.

It sparks something within Lance, a desire. A desire to be heard, to be seen, to be known. And for someone who thrives off the validation of others, the resulting attention is welcomed with open arms. Because when he’s on the stage, singing and having the world listening on the edge of their seats, he feels bigger than it all. Feels like what he’s been telling himself all this time- of I’m the bestandI can do it, I can make it- is actually true when half the world agrees with him.

Which makes Keith Kogane all the more frustrating.

Not only does the actor not instantly recognize him when they meet at the gala hosted by the ever prestigious Altean Studios, but even when he does connect his face for that of the one plastered on millions of billboards worldwide, he doesn’t even have the decency to look impressed.

It shouldn’t be as insulting as it is, but Lance finds a way.

Somehow, despite walking in the same circle of peers and friends, the two have never met in person, but Lance would be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t know of the actor. No one can turn on their television without seeing those wide, obsidian eyes and oval face, framed by the universe’s most terrible haircut, expression varying for whatever character and scene he’s playing. He’s won awards for his work, nonplussed in his acceptance and natural talent, enough so that it has Lance twisting in jealousy and maybe a little admiration.

He had thought that the feeling had been mutual, that his celebrity crush hadn’t been a projection of transparent hope. But now, with Kogane’s blank face giving him a once over before turning away, Lance thinks maybe it might’ve been all in his head.

So he’s left standing by the bar, face flushed in embarrassment with the sting of rejection he hasn’t felt for a long time. Not since he was twelve and playing for empty rooms.

But Lance wouldn’t be Lance if he let’s this snag trip him so close to the finish line. So he takes the time to fix the collar of his blazer and run a nervous hand over his gelled hair while other gala goers laugh and talk and enjoy the night. He allows himself one despondent moment, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed, before shaking himself and forcing a smirk. It’s the face of a star.

It seems the world needs a reminder.

~

He plays show after show after show, putting his soul into his music. He doesn’t rest until his songs reach the top of the charts, played on every radio station to the point of obnoxiousness. And when Lance finally takes his talent to the next level, when his lyrics are on the tip of everyone’s tongue and voice echoing through ever pair of headphones, he gets a phone call from his manager excitedly telling him that she has a casting director on the other line inquiring about his appearance in an upcoming movie. It’s a big step and Lance is unashamed in his response time, the “YES” a near yell and scaring his cat right off the kitchen counter.

And that’s how he lands the part of some big franchise he knows nothing about, but is eager to join.

Maybe it’s the thought of branching out, flexing his skills and broadening his horizons. Maybe it’s the thought of retribution, of proving to the haters that he’s more than just a pretty face and mediocre voice. Maybe it’s all the time he spent with Pidge and Hunk, nerds in their own right, spent fantasizing of a world well beyond this one. Whatever it is, something about a sci-fi, action-thriller screamed award-winning, drawing him in before he’d even glanced at the plot. He’d always wanted to go to space and what was space without stars.

As expected, Pidge and Hunk are ecstatic about the role. They pester him with questions, screaming up a storm when he answers to the best of his knowledge, pulling out comics and action figures alike while they spout nonsense about things like alternate universes and continuity errors.

“Who are you playing? Is it the lead? Oh my god, it’s the lead isn’t it?” Hunk practically crushes Lance in his excitement, lifting him up and spinning him. He sounds close to tears, even as a smile breaks his face in half. “My best friend! In Voltron! Oh, this is a dream come true!”

Pidge is more dramatic in her excitement. “If you mess this up, I swear, we’re disowning you as our friend.”

Lance can’t help but laugh at that.

~

He takes acting lessons, learns how to fake cry and how to keep his expression steady even when his friends are making truly hideous faces at him from on the other side of the studio. It’s progressive and Lance feels better for it, ego rising with the compliments sent his way about his technique and aptitude for the work.

It’s counterintuitive of him, but, as he moves up in his career, he makes of point of keeping tabs on Keith’s. Ever since that embarrassing meeting, he’s labeled the man as the one to beat. A rival among the most talented.

But the universe must want a good laugh, because it’s only when Lance starts to resent the actor that he begins to see him everywhere. It’s a manner of utter coincidence that they seem to frequent the same joints and only start to run into each other once it’s the last thing Lance wants to happen. The feeling must be reciprocated this time around, because where Lance balks at the near collision of bodies around a innocent looking corner downtown, Keith looks near livid; the other man stops just short of growling when he runs into Lance three consecutive days in a row at the gym they both hold memberships for and then frowning profusely over a steaming cup of coffee from a cafe near Lance’s apartment a week later.

Lance tries not to think too much on it, shrugging it off each chance meeting with the assurance that things move on and soon enough life will get tired of shoving them together.

Or, at least, he hopes so.

~

It three weeks later that reality proves him wrong.

A single blip of his phone alerts him to a text from Hunk and with it, a screenshot. A screenshot of Voltron’s cast listing to be exact. And Lance, poor, unsuspecting Lance, nearly chokes on his drink when he takes a look, jerking in his seat and gasping for breath when his eyes zero in on the headshot of his supposed co-star. There, typed in an official looking font and positioned in the space above Lance’s, is a familiar name.

Keith Kogane.

With the remains of his jasmine milk tea dribbling down his chin, Lance curses his luck. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Chapter Title: Simple Existence

Summary: Planet Earth has been colonized by the Souls, a parasitic, alien race that wipes the minds of their hosts and takes on their lives. Most of mankind have been erased, but a few still live in hiding, struggling to survive. Lance knows this because he was one once- that is, until he is captured by Seekers and a Soul implanted in his body.

But were does the Soul begin and Lance end.

Read it on FFandAO3!

•Previous• Next •

The first thing they know is darkness.

It is an all encompassing kind of darkness, one that envelops, but doesn’t smother. It is simply a fact. A truth of existence. Many things, they find, come to them like that- no process of creation or explanation, just existence. They just are. Things like self, of presence and recognition and I think, therefore I am.

It is a great surprise when the small space of existence they inhabit takes a turn and expands. One moment they are floating there, content to walk alongside the dark for the rest of forever, and the next they are stumbling through a doorway into the light. It burns, the bright spots that twinkle and shine through the void, but it is a good kind of burn, a beautiful kind.

Stars, a voiceless whisper echoes in the space they occupy and, belatedly, they realize it comes from within. They are stars.

The thought snags onto something new and they, curious beyond measure, tread closer, following a path that rises to meet their imaginary footfalls; it leads them to a stretch of transparent impressions and sensations, a pool of memory. Thinking nothing of its abrupt arrival and unorthodox placement, they kneel in the warm sand at its edge, peering into its reflective surface.

A face stares back.

It is familiar in the same way their existence is undeniable. Sharp eyes, colored with the water’s touch, and a stubborn chin, continuing up to meld into an even sharper jaw, paint a picture that directly coincides with the memories that float in the water, moving with the ripples that arise with conscious thought. They are scenes of a long, lost dream, one that they recognize as theirs, but cannot place. It goes like this: a child standing at a distant shoreline, looking to the sky; the soft texture of feathers and a bird perching on a thin wrist cooing out a musical tune; the scorching touch of asphalt on bare feet; two warm hand cupping their face and a soft brush of lips onto their forehead; the jingle of chimes in the morning breeze; a loaf of bread, fresh out of the oven, hot and smelling of home.

Instinctively, they try to reach out- to hold, to touch, to feel- only to realize that they can’t. Another discovery is made, the idea of limits.

It’s odd, not having full access to what is rightfully theirs, but it does help bring to attention more aspects of their existence. The senses- touch, sight, smell, hearing, taste- they are all there. Already they can pinpoint small details of their surroundings; no longer are they a floating speck amongst a mysterious abyss, but something physical that could feel and be felt in return. Now there is experience that can connect with those tantalizing memories. The feel of stiff sheets running over naked thighs, the taste of mint, the smell of stale air, the quiet whisper of breath rushing past parted lips.

It is about this time that a voice, distinctively feminine in nature and not their own, breaks the internal inspection. “Everything is in order?”

Language, a string of words passing through his head. Each syllable is dissected, pulled apart and put back together almost instantaneously, translated from deep thought and even deeper emotion. A piece to a complex puzzle, one of two known to him, created by ancestors long gone, but not forgotten; it sticks to the roof of his mouth, cradled between his teeth, waiting to be made real and passed on.

“Yes, Healer,” a different voice responds, nearly shocking them into movement because of its closeness. “All eight hundred and twenty seven points are latched to their designated niche along the spinal cord. Nerve control is synced perfectly and the sensory functions are working at an optimal ninety-six point zero one percent.”

“Excellent,” says the first voice. “Now all there is to do is wait for them to get associated with their new body.”

A body, they have a body. Slowly, sensation seeps in, puncturing arteries and flowing through veins. A heartbeat, steady and strong, thumps against the cage of their ribs. Amazed of what it represents, they push to the very edge of their consciousness, following the strum of life as it circulates their entire system and discovering exciting things like organs and muscles and bones.

“It will be a difficult transition, especially with this being their first.”

“They will find their way,” the first answers with surety. Then, a soft huff. “Do you not remember your own first life?”

“Of course, and what excitement it was! Have I ever told you? I was born during an eclipse of the Dolphin world’s third moon, during its singing festival, and my pod had let the calves join!” They sigh, wistful in nature. “For all the better- I do not think I would take well to these human bodies without any experience. Such emotion so early on would no doubt leave me dazed.”

There’s a hum of agreement and the two drift off in a comfortable silence. It’s eventually broken by a question.

“What will we call them?”

The woman doesn’t speak for a long time, thinking. “We have a name on file for the host. It will be suitable until they choose a new name for themselves.” A short pause, broken by the rustling of papers. “Of course, they may end up assuming the host’s identity- it is not unusual for those beginning their first life.”

There’s a touch to what they know to be their face, a soft trail of knuckles from temple to chin. But they ignore the sensation, focusing on the words spoken. A name? They have a name.

“I think Lance is a fine name.”

Ah, yes, there it is. Lance.

The single syllable word sounds strong and right and him and oh, gender, what a concept. It’s strange and arbitrary, but he accepts it without question, taking it on like one would a coat. It goes hand in hand with his name, newly discovered and proudly received, and he wants to say it aloud, wants to hear it for himself.

“Ah, did you hear that? They are already attempting at vocal communication. The sedation must be wearing off. It is only a matter of time til-”

A loud noise, muffled but demanding to be heard. The rustling of fabric, footsteps against a hard floor and the creak of a door, raucous in the quiet room. Whispered conversation, just failing in its attempt to be discreet. A pause.

“Who is it?”

“It’s the Seeker again, Healer. She says she won’t leave until she speaks with the new arrival.”

A loud exhale of breath. A sigh. “Let her in- she won’t be satisfied until she’s seen them. And while I entertain our… guest, could you prepare the orientation video and pamphlets? It’s been a while since we’ve had a first life here and I want everything to go perfectly.”

“Of course, Healer.”

The soft click of a door being opened and closed. A quiet exit, followed by a loud entry.

“For someone of your Calling, your hospitality could use some work,” says a new voice, high and raspy and across from the first woman’s. Weirdly, he’s remind of the sharp points of a raven’s talon. “You’ve kept me waiting.”

“Apologies, Seeker. We have no protocols set in place for such a circumstance.”

Someone hums, unsatisfied, but unwilling to say more on the matter. “And the new arrival? How much longer until they become responsive?”

“Whenever they are ready. They deserve the time to manage the situation however they find most comfortable- it’s a disorienting process, to start one’s first life in an experienced host. There must be a lot to take in. Doubly so when taken account of the condition the host was received- at death’s door in an attempt of escape.”

“We are a resilient species. They will pull through.”

“Nevertheless, I hear it was quite a fall. Fractured the spine near the aorta and punctured both lungs. It’s a miracle the body survived the trip to me.” A sniff and the sound of papers being collected and straightened again. “He’s a local too, so it’s quite a mystery why he was so close to the edge. Surely he would know of the dangers.”

Without warning, his back arches off the table, muscles itching to get him away from the phantom pain that sneaks through his guard. It brings forth a memory, distorted with the fear of a past life; a scream, the feeling of weightlessness, and the agonizing snap of the silence that follows. He fights the feeling, pushing it to the back of his mind until his body relaxes once more.

“See? The body remembers, even if the mind does not.”

A tense silence, and then, “We did not lead him over the edge.”

“Of course not, Seeker, I would never think that. I just wonder if the infection of humanity has touched those who take on your profession,” his Healer mused, her voice curdling with veiled disfavor. The tone surprises him, the accusation hidden in the polite delivery almost making it seem as if the two were… arguing. “Does the violence you willingly participate in act as a lingering temperament of your body’s? Or is it your own?”

Righteous fury colors the second’s tone. “We do not choose violence- we face it. And it’s a good thing we do, for our utopia would collapse on itself if some of us weren’t strong enough to face the unpleasantness.”

“One day, I think, your Calling will be obsolete.”

“The naivety of your statement lies on the bed.”

“One human boy, alone and unarmed. Quite the threat to our utopia.”

The obvious sarcasm in the last sentence must not sit well with the Seeker, for she breathes out heavily. A hiss. “The problem lies in their simple existence. Where did he come from? How did he appear in the middle of Viñales Valley, an area long since civilized with Souls, seas away from any rebel activity? Was he really alone?”

Still trying to break the surface of consciousness, he belatedly realized that he was the subject of the conversation at present. And now that he was aware of the fact, a few words caught his attention. Soulandhuman. There was a clear-cut difference between the two, a connotation his mind could not deduce. Idly, he wonders which applies to him.

“That isn’t my problem. My job is to help this Soul adapt to their new host as seamlessly as possible.” Oh, so he is a Soul. How wonderful. How curious. How startling. How…contingent? He wonders if that’s all there is to it. “Besides, hospitals are a place of recovery, not discovery. So I suggest you leave the questioning to when they are more habituated within both body and society.”

Tapping along the surface he lays on, impatient and quick. “I simply wish to find the truth. To ensure peace.”

“Eight days ago, you and your fellow Seekers were armed with killing weapons, hunting this body down. Was that done for peace?”

“You know just as I do that those weapons are for our own safety. Humans are violent by nature and don’t hesitate to attack our kind. They would pull the trigger and kill us all if they had the chance.”

His right index finger twitches.

“You speak as if we are at war.”

“To what remains of the human race, we are.” His body reacts to the words, heavy in their meaning. Beside the bed he lies on, a machine beeps along with the sudden increase in his heartbeat. The two individuals, far too tangled in their conversation, don’t notice. “It will be for the best if the entire race is exterminated.”

A moment of empty time, created by the powerful statement the Seeker had uttered. It left time for his body to relax and his mind to stretch. There were details missing, details that were pertinent to his existence and persona, and he scrambled to find them.

What he found was the line. The blurry line that separated him and him, where heavy flesh met ethereal nerves. There is a difference between the two, one under his possession and the other under his control; it’s strange, for he can recognize himself secured snuggly under his own skin, long appendages digging into synapses upon synapses. It begs the question of self. What body did Lance belong to?

He searches deep, trying to find a time when the line didn’t exist, but can’t. As far as he looked, to the foggy memories of his first breath and then to what he had thought to be his last, he’s always been there.

He was Lance and Lance was… him?

Wait, no. That wasn’t right, was it? He is a Soul, that part was clear in the distinction of his antennae stretching far along the vertebral column of his body; they were separate, but connected. A paradox in its most physical sense. And the body was Lance and Lance, Lance was- is human. He is human. But he’s not.

Something unpleasant buzzes in the space of his thoughts and it takes a moment to realize that he is frustrated. He doesn’t like it, wants it gone. Wants to move past it and see the answers for himself.

And just like that, a call and response, his eyes are fluttering open.

Light, bright and painful, greets his eagerness; it takes him by surprise and he squeezes his eyes shut. He stays like that for a few moments, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing as his lids twitch. Slowly, he inches them open again, eyelashes kept low to act as a canopy of shade. Soon, sight becomes a tangible thing.

With growing confidence, his mind fixates on the shapes and colors his eyes are seeing, taking the time to click things into focus and distinguish what they are. Ceiling tiles, blindingly white with speckles of gray, consume most of his vision, their pattern broken by the long strip of lights keeping the room out of darkness. The room itself is average enough,  walls colored a soothing blue and being the owner of multiple framed pictures featuring medical statistics and inspiring quotes over a shot of beautiful landscape. Cabinets, as unassuming as the counter and sink it hangs over, line the wall next to the door, leaving room for the single bed he lays on. Two figures lean over him, both female and more interesting in appearance. One is distinctively older, silver hair pinned in a tight bun, while the other sports chestnut hair twisted in a complex braid.

“Hello,” the younger woman says.

“Hello,” comes the automatic reply and oh, what a sensation. Vibrations from deep in his throat make sound- so unique, so thrilling, so complex. He wonders what else he can do.

She shuffles closer. “Do you need assistance sitting up?”

He shakes his head, amazed at the simple action. “No, I wish to try on my own.”

“Very good,” his Healer says, and Lance has the distinct idea that she is proud. “Take your time.”

It takes little effort for him to rise to a sitting position. Long limbs, knitted together with nerves and muscles, follow his every command, easily flexing and stretching in ways he never thought possible; one moment he is thinking it and the next his body is moving, stomach muscles clenching as his torso straightens and arms move to brace against the thin mattress. Simple. Natural.

“And how do you feel?”

How does he feel? He doesn’t even know where to begin to answer that question.

There are a great many things he feels. He feels the sheets underneath him, the shirt that brushes his chest with every breath, the breeze of the fan on his back. He can also feel the excitement coursing his veins, frantic when he wiggles his toes and takes in a breath- it’s all so new and strange and amazing.

“Fine,” is the watered down version. He looks down at his hand, watches how the tendons pull when he spreads his fingers wide and how the skin wrinkles when the hand closes into a loose fist. There is strength hidden there. “Though I have so many questions.”

A manicured hand is placed on his bicep, a gesture of support and comfort, and he looks up into the kid face of his Healer. She has wide brown eyes, accented by white eyeshadow, and smells of lavender. “You will get your answers. I am your assigned Healer, Trigel, and will be with you every step of the way.”

“Thank you,” he says, sincere.

Someone clears their throat, stealing his attention. The Seeker is shorter than what he expected, with sharp features and strange, red markings lying underneath her almond shaped eyes. Her skin is darker than his own, showing wrinkles at the crease of her mouth where she frowns at him. For some reason, the sight of her makes him want to duck under the covers.

Ignoring the stray thought, he offers a hand. “Hello.”

One of her eyes twitch, but she takes his hand nonetheless, grip stone-like. When she speaks, it is with a clipped tone, “My name is Haggar and I am the Seeker assigned to your case.”

He recalls her words and takes a guess on what her words mean. “You’re trying to find out where I- my body, came from.”

“That is correct. The main reason for your insertion in such a host was in the hopes to procure information about its origins. If you remember anything of substance or-” Haggar spares his Healer a glance “-need help adjusting, do not hesitate to call us. We are here to help.”

Though the concern runs flat, it is easy enough to pull his lips up in a small smile, knowing how his dimples make the expression all the more genuine. He deems it rude and unnecessary to point out that her explanation for his mere existence makes him uncomfortable and that he doesn’t particularly find himself eager to take her on her offer, and so doesn’t mention it. “I will keep that in mind, Seeker. Thank you.”

Taking the cue that the meeting is over, he stands. The two other Souls follow suit, a ripple of movement in an otherwise motionless room. His Healer offers guidance to his temporary boarding off site, of which he accepts graciously. She starts to lead him from the room, but is stopped by the Seeker’s voice.

“Oh, and Lance?”

He turns to look over his shoulder, hand already braced on the door handle. The Seeker is still standing, her clothing crisp and without a single wrinkle. Skin stretches uncomfortably as Haggar smiles.

“Welcome to Earth.”

Life on Earth is perfect.

Lance learns this almost as soon as he takes a step out the door of the hospital five hours after his insertion. The sun, a great, big ball of gas that this planet orbits, shines brightly above, causing goosebumps to erupt along the length on his arms in the most exhilarating feeling. A breeze, cool and fresh, playfully tugs at his hair, guiding his gaze to the long palms that sprout along every street and frame every Moorish building. There is a low buzz of sound that envelops him, a song with many verses, all sung to the bustle of life; the drum of laughter, the warble of cars, the trill of gossip, and the chime of music.

It’s full, bursting with soul and Lance feels like he’s coming home.

Something sweet and colorful fizzes in his chest, bubbling over in a delicious laugh.

“I know, right?” A voices says from beside him and he turns to smile at the Healer’s assistant, who had introduced herself as Plaxum, eager and bright and kind enough to take him to the resort he’ll be staying at until he finds a permanent place to stay. Her turquoise hair matches that of the sky. “Out of all the worlds I’ve lived on, Earth is by far my favorite.”

“I can believe that.”

And he can. After all he had learned in the past hour, fidgeting in a stiff chair and trying to suppress his questions while his Healer talked him through the mindblowing existence of their race and the worlds they have colonized, this is the one truth he will accept without question. No other planet compared to that of Earth; not Blind World with its bat-like hosts and their singing woods, nor Fire World with its violent ecosystems, and not even Mist World with its crystal castles and stormy mountain ranges. Despite his quickly, biasedly made opinion, he had shown a certain avidity in learning about these places, a deep rooted need for adventure and love for the stars spurring him forward.

Plaxum laughs. “Wait until your next life. The other worlds have their charms and, who knows, maybe you’ll be convinced otherwise.”

Lance hums noncommittally.

Truthfully, Lance can’t imagine living anywhere else. Sure, he had wanted to see the stars, to explore the great expanse of space, but he had always entertained the idea with the promise of returning to Earth once he was done. The idea of space exploration is completely viable now, but only with the Souls’ concomitant of transferring hosts. It’s uncomfortable thinking about waking up one day and being someplace new, of being someone new. Lance had always belonged to Earth and the sentiment doesn’t change with the presence of a Soul under his skin.

He follows the girl down the walkway and towards the parked car waiting for them. The interior smells of pine and the leather seats squeak whenever he shifts, the middle-aged driver giving him a cheerful grin when they make eye contact through the rearview mirror. The drive is pleasant, Plaxum going on to make small talk with the man as Lance rolls down his window and leans his head out, wind buffeting his face as he takes in the sights in real time.

Palm trees shoot from the ground every few feet, reaching for the sky with their canopy of branches, leaning over traditional and modern buildings alike. The traffic is mild and people shuffle through the streets, giving him a tease of Havana life; a gaggle of children throwing a ball around what looks to be a schoolyard, two women peering into the window of a specialty shop, and a family of tourists taking pictures in front of a bronze statue. A small plaza breaks through the streets and he smiles when he sees a band playing in the kiosk at its center. And when they pause at a light, Lance takes the chance to peer over the sidewalk’s bustle of bodies, spotting a couple dancing a quickstep to the lively music.

They look to be having fun, flushed cheeks and hair whipping behind them as they spin, and he watches their bodies move and the way their audience claps and has the sudden impulse to join them. The taller woman dips her partner, laughing when a heeled foot kicks into the air dramatically.

The sight plucks strangely at his heart strings.

There must be a break in the conversation, because Plaxum speaks, startling him into bumping his head against the window pane. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way these bodies feel and show their emotions. It’s so strong, stronger than any other host we’ve inhabited, but delicate at the same time. Like, did you know that humans fought over who could love who? Can you imagine that- putting limitations on what you feel simply because a selected few disagreed with it?”

A memory flits across his consciousness. In it a fifteen year old Lance watches fireworks next to a boy with curly, blonde hair and brown eyes, shoulders pressed together and pinkies touching in the shadows of the summer night; the warm ambience is tempered with another, this one more raw in nature as cutting words are thrown his way as he walks home from school, head down and shoulders hunched. Shy smiles exchanged for rough shoves

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he looks away from the couple just as one leans in for a kiss, and tries to go for casual as he says, “No, I can’t.”

“Yeah, everything’s better now.” Plaxum says it in such a way that Lance is inclined to believe her, though he doesn’t look back at the happy couple.

It takes only a few more minutes before they reach their destination: a resort. It looks to be eight stories high, with an extravagant looking driveway next to it and an even more extravagant pool on its other side. A castle in all but name, it looks more fit for royalty than Lance and his hospital scrubs. When they stop at the entrance, a valet runs up to open his door, giving a kilowatt smile.

Lance gapes. “Wow.”

Both Plaxum and their driver notice, laughing at his expense. He would feel embarrassed if it wasn’t for the kind way they go about it.

“C’mon,” Plaxum says as she pushes him forward, “you’re going to freak when you see your room.”

With a parting wave to their driver, the two follow the bellhop into the building. It takes everything in Lance not to swoon, because wow. He has never stayed anywhere this nice before; the squeaky staircase of his parents’ house and the bland walls of his Garrison dorm have nothing on the high ceilings and gaudy chandeliers of Cuba’s National Resort. It almost feels like a dream.

“Are all first lifes housed here?” he asks.

“Not all, no. Most them stay in the hospital’s ward wing. An exception was made for you, because, well, you are a special case,” she tells him. “Those under the Seekers’ jurisdiction stay here, so as to not undergo any additional stress beside what the case they’re involved in might provide.”

He draws his eyes away from the front desk and the pretty blonde that had handed them a keycard with a practiced welcome, brows furrowed. “Case? How am I- how is one human important enough to warrant such scrutiny from the Seekers?”

Plaxum shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. The Seekers thought the human was important, so he must be.”

The thought doesn’t settle well with Lance, but he doesn’t express it, letting the topic drop as the girl guides him to the elevator. Though while they rise to a pleasant tune of music and the girl’s accompanying hum, he searches his mind for anything that could be the reason behind the Seekers’ interest and finds… nothing. Nothing out of the usual- no criminal misdemeanors, no highly classified secrets and no dubious decisions made on the fly. Just the average memories of a boy from Cuba.

They finally arrive to his room and Plaxum bounces excitedly on her heels as Lance swipes them in. Unsurprisingly, his room is just as extra as the rest of the resort, big and extravagant and smelling of jasmine. Within seconds of entry he’s throwing himself onto the queen bed pushed against the farthest wall, soaking in the feeling of cool sheets sweeping over warm skin. The entire wall to his right is made of glass, overlooking a balcony and the beach.

“It’s amazing, right?”

“So amazing, I can’t even believe it’s real.“

Plaxum claps her hands together. “Healer Trigel will be so pleased to hear that.”

He nuzzles further into the sheets, sighing contently. “Yes, please tell her thank you for me. You all have been so nice to me and I’ve hardly done anything to deserve it.”

“Kindness isn’t deserved, it is given.” The words are offered with a complete sense of sincerity, leaving Lance overwhelmed. He wants to say something equally as profound in return, but his guide is already continuing on. “But I’ve got one more thing to give you before I go.”

Lance opens his mouth to ask, but is interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Puzzled at the expected look Plaxum throws his way, nearly smothered by the smile threatening to take over her face, he goes to open it-

-only to freeze when he sees who’s on the other side.

For he knows that face, knows that face like he knows his own- better, even. It is the face that colors his memories, splatters along his past like the freckles that stretch over the bridge of a button nose. Long, wavy hair, pinned in a half-bun with strands framing an oval face, flutters with the breeze from the open window, bringing with it a scent so nostalgic that Lance’s knees nearly give out.

“Mama?” he whispers, afraid that if he speaks too loudly, then whatever spell that has been cast over the moment will break. That the person in front of him will disperse in a puff of smoke and hopeful wishing.

But no, the glamour solidifies into reality and a voice, melodic like a harp, says, “Hello, son.”

That’s all he needs to hear for his body to launch itself across the chasmic distance that separates them and within his mother’s arms. He’s a full head taller, but he fits against her like a puzzle piece, creating a picture of sureness.

It seems like a lifetime ago since he’s hugged his mother, the memory of their last encounter foggy with confusion and self-proclaimed tragedy. But Lance knows better now, looking up into the face of the woman who raised him, that the glow of the Soul behind her brown eyes is nothing to fear. It’s different than what his memories describe, but so is everything else after he’s woken up. Different doesn’t necessarily mean bad and Lance has always been known to roll with the punches.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you, my little astronaut,” his mother says after an indiscernible amount of time and he melts on the spot. A fingertip touches the corner of his eye, damp with unshed tears. “But it seems you went off, found the stars, and become one yourself while you were gone.”

It takes a moment to realize what she means. Slowly, he reaches up and swipes under her eyes, knowing his own shine just as bright.

He remembers the circumstance of his insertion: living on the run, the threat of being caught, the weightless of falling, and the all consuming black afterwards. First and foremost, he remembers the fear of being taken and erased, but can’t find it in himself to understand the reason behind it. “Does that make you happy? That I was found?”

There is no hesitation. “Of course. With you back, we can finally be a family again.”

He likes the sound of that.

“Everyone will be so pleased to see you- we’ve all been hoping for the day of your arrival. And maybe after you’ve finished all this business with the Seekers, you’ll come back home?”

The intrinsic need to please her has his head bobbing in a agreement long before the words leave his mouth. “Yes, as soon as possible.”

“Wonderful,” she says, sounding like she means it. She makes to step away and toward the door Lance doesn’t remember stepping away from- neither does he remember when they had been given the privacy of Plaxum’s quiet exit. “But, for now, I’ll leave you to get settled in. It’s been a long day and you must be tired.”

He is tired, Lance realizes. It’s eerie how as soon as it’s been suggested, the tell-tale signs of exhaustion starts to seep into his bones. Though the sun doesn’t set for a another few hours, it already feels like the day is over; the excitement and wonder over his new life has leveled into something more manageable, leaving him spent and ready for a break.

His mother must understand, because she gives him this smile. “It’ll take some time, but you’ll begin to get more intune with your body’s needs and limits. Rest now and we’ll talk again soon.”

“Tomorrow?” he asks hopefully.

A hand cradles his cheek. “And every day after.”

Satisfied with the promise, he mumbles, “Love you, Mama.”

She blinks owlishly at him, obviously surprised at his readiness to pass on the sentiment. It scares him for a half a moment, thinking that maybe they are too different now and forever more, but then her face is relaxing into something soft, fingers curling around his ear as a thumb strokes down his face. It’s natural. “I love you too.”

She gives him a kiss and another hug before she leaves, and Lance would be lying if he said he didn’t lean into the touch.

And just like that, he’s alone.

It’s a startling notion, solitude. It’s only him. Though the world keeps moving beyond the four walls of his room, the space he occupies is stilted. There is something raw about it. A sense of helplessness that threatens to overcome him, brewing to a boil as he continues to stand there with his arms loose at his sides and only his breath to keep him company. With no one there to watch and guide him, he’s at a lost on what he should do- how he should act or who he should be.

He wrinkles his nose, uncomfortable at the indiscernible shift, and he forcefully wills the thoughts away. Those worries are for another day. For now, all he’s going to think about is that bed and him in it.

With that, he wastes no time in stepping out of his shoes and under those plush covers. The mattress swallows him, molding to him like a cloud, and it’s futile to fight off the dip of his eyelids after that.

So he doesn’t.

A/N: New the fandom, but not the angst. AO3

The story goes likes this.

Jim Lake Jr. is given the power of the cosmos and told to use it.

Amidst the crumbled demise of his predecessor, an amulet, and within its clockwork of iron and magic are the lives of the many, stone flesh and glowing crystals hidden far beneath the earth’s crust like a well-kept secret. And he, who is not yet a man, takes on the mantle like one takes on their fears- with trembling hands and squared shoulders, a breath away from running, but pretending to have courage. For that’s what heroes do, they stand up to their fears and fight for what is right.

And Jim, a child playing warrior, fights.

He fights with twin daggers drawn, the curve of their blades made out of deadly moonlight and a million expectations, poised for battle. But every battle feels like a war and every war feels like an eternity, a plunge into a pit that has no bottom. And falling, he finds, is a scary thing- a terrible mixture of the uncontrollable and the unknown. For the caverns of Trollmarket, though lit with crystals of power and old, are painted black with mysteries and enemies alike and he has fallen right through its door, lost like Alice and contradictous like Gynt.

It’s a intimidating thing, to be the hero of this story. He remembers learning about heroes in school; remembers reading about Heracles and his twelve labors, Horus and his all-seeing eye, and of Quetzalcoatl and his feathered scales. Conquerors, demigods, and martyrs alike. They rise above history and legend, timeless.

He wonders how his story will be told- wonders how it will end.

In truth, Jim had always wished for adventure outside the doldrums of Arcadia. It had been a guilty desire, a secret he had buried deep inside himself and only let out once daylight was his to command. Though now that he has it, the adventure and the power and the amulet, he’s not sure if it’s worth the trouble.

Blinky had told him once, fear is just the precursor to valor, and he keeps that with him now. He repeats it like a mantra, over and over and over again, desperation strumming along every taut line as Kilahead Bridge collapses and he is left buried under its rubble. Strive and triumph over fear, that is what it means to be a hero.

But no, that’s wrong. Breathing in the ruin and muscles aching, he learns the truth. It doesn’t matter how much he fights, for no amount of courage can save him. A hero- a hero in its truest sense- isn’t made by happy endings, but of tragedies. Tragedies that are heavy in their burden upon his person, bowing his back and breaking his spirit.

Young Atlas, Strickler had called him, unwittingly sealing his fate. A hero with a thousand faces, anguish carved in every expression, cracking under the pressure. It is too much and he, frightened and broken beyond repair, can’t bear it any longer. So he doesn’t.

And so Jim, with the weight of the world on his shoulders, falls.

Chapter Title: Life Lived, Life Lost

Summary:  Planet Earth has been colonized by the Souls, a parasitic, alien race that wipes the minds of their hosts and takes on their lives. Most of mankind have been erased, but a few still live in hiding, struggling to survive. Lance knows this because he was one once- that is, until he is captured by Seekers and a Soul implanted in his body.

But were does the Soul begin and Lance end.

Read it on FFand AO3!

•Next•

Lance is born on a sunny day in July.

The time reads 2:48, but Lance has no conception of time and what it means to have it. In fact, there is very little Lance understands.

Beyond the distinction of dark and light, nothing sticks long enough to permit deep thought. Both his mind and body are new to this world, not yet accustomed nor learned in the ways of living, and it is only thanks to intrinsic feeling alone that he takes his first breath of air- a shuddering thing that has the room at large breathing their own sigh of relief. But even that reaction, rooted in love for him and hope for the life he has yet to live, is too much to handle. It is sudden and loud and new, and Lance, as small as he is, can’t even think to understand, so Lance does the only thing he knows how.

He cries.

He cries and cries and cries. He cries until his lungs burn and that makes him cry some more. It’s exhausting work, being unhappy. For all that he’s been alive- a whopping three minutes and seventeen seconds- he finds that he doesn’t like this feeling. He wants something else. Something more. Something better.

A touch brushes across his cheek, piercing wail hiccuping in surprise as his eyes squint open to the best of their ability. A blob comes into somewhat focus, accompanying the muffled sound that sweeps in a waltz around him, a faint murmur of sorts. It’s… nice. He likes this, he decides then and there, he likes this very much. It soothes him, pushing away the unknown until this is all feels. Contentment. And it’s then, swaddled up in blankets and the loving curve of his mother’s arms, that he slips into his first sleep.

And so it begins.

When Lance is one, he takes his first steps.

He has an audience, his parents and older siblings cheering him on as he stands and grabs onto the edge of the their lumpy couch for balance. They clap their hands and pat the hardwood floor in a melody with no rhythm, aiming for his attention as they call his name with eagerness that gets his heart beating fast. He smiles and leans forward, wanting to be where they are and moving to make that desire a reality.

His feet are unsteady and he wobbles, but it is a step nonetheless. Then he makes a second and third, and even a fourth after that.

The path leads straight to his mother’s arms, stumbling into the plush softness of her stomach. He giggles when arms wrap around him and a flurry of kisses are pressed against his face and neck. His family erupts in a cacophony of sound, exuberant voices and loud laughter.

And so it goes.

When Lance is two, he gets sick.

He doesn’t remember much, just the bleary concept of being too warm and uncomfortable in his own skin. When he sleeps, it is fitfully, tossing and turning in the blankets he’s cocooned in. It is hard to breathe and crying makes it worse, blinding his crusty eyes as he sniffles and coughs.

“Shh,” his mother shushes when he makes a protesting noise at the spoonful of medicine given to him, thick and smelling of bubblegum. “I know it tastes bad, but you need it. Don’t you want to get better?”

He does. However, the fact doesn’t stifle his discomfort. But he suffers through it, swallowing down the pink sludge with a grimace and quieting under the cool hands stroking his cheeks and the voice humming out a familiar lullaby. It’s a long night and when morning comes, sun breaching over the horizon and into his bedroom window, he’s broken out into a fever.

It takes one visit to the doctor, two injections and eight days of rest for him to get better.

And so it goes.

When Lance is three, he learns how to dance.

It is his sister that ultimately teaches him. She sways and skips around the kitchen, singing a pop song as she prepares for the school day ahead, and Lance watches from his high chair, intrigued.

“I want some satisfaction, take me to the stars, just like ooohhh!” his sister sings into the spoon she’s holding, performing for an audience of one. The beat picks up almost immediately and she bounces with it, punching the air and bringing a leg up in a high kick that nearly takes out the trash can. “I wanna cut through the clouds, break the ceiling!”

Without thought, Lance starts to flail his body in imitation.

“Oh ho ho, look at you- so cute.” she coos when she sees him, grinning when he kicks out his feet and pats at the side of his seat, nearly upturning his sippy cup in his enthusiasm. “It’s a good beat, huh? Makes you want to move, huh? How about it, Lance? You wanna dance with your super cool, super awesome sister?”

She takes his continued bouncing as an affirmation and then, in a matter of seconds, he is being scooped up and swung around. Lance laughs, flapping his hands and shaking his knees, growing more excited when his sister resumes her singing at a significantly louder volume. Then she’s jutting her shoulders from side to side and bringing him closer, blowing a raspberry onto his cheek with such vigor that it momentarily drowns out the music coming from the radio.

And so it goes.

When Lance is four, he wants to be a fish.

Even at such a young age, Lance’s head is a power house of imagination. He dreams like the best of them, imagining a world where he has gills and dolphins for friends. It’s fun and sometimes, with his hand firmly grasped in his mother’s and the breeze playfully mussing up his hair, he truly feels like its real.

And how could it not be?

For the beach is a great expanse of white sand and clear water, magical in how it becomes the stage to his adventures, beckoning to him like a long, lost friend. And he answers that call, breaking away from where his family makes camp and sprinting to the water’s edge, squealing in delight when the tide meets him halfway, foam and salt drenching his calves. It feels like a world waiting to be discovered, from the colorful coral reefs to the islands sleeping in the distance.

It feels like home.

And so it goes.

When Lance is five, he’s afraid of the dark.

More often that he’d like to confess, his mother finds him cowering under the bed at night, clutching his favorite toy, a stuffed shark, to his chest as he cries at the ghastly faces that sneer at him from the shadows; it takes only a gentle touch for Lance to crawl out and into her open arms. She hugs him then, bringing him close to her chest, and murmurs sweet nothings in his ear. It soothes him, her warmth, filling him with a fire that doesn’t burn, but, rather, shines.

“What’s the matter, baby?” she asks, stroking his hair.

He merely shakes his head and snuggles closer, eyes blind with tears. It’s always the same. An impression of a figure hunched at the foot of his bed, long claws curling around the wood and hissing something that sounds like his name. Then a touch at his wrist, ash and soot flaking from its skin and staining his sheets.

But she, ever so gently, pries his small fists away from his eyes and kisses his tears away. She speaks then, of the world beyond this one. Of how all he has to do it look up- and she points then, to the glow in the dark constellations smiling down at him from the room’s ceiling- and there won’t be anything to fear, because there can’t be anything scary in the shadows if there are none.

And then, she says it. The words that changes everything. Changes him.

“Whenever you’re afraid, just look up, okay? Look at the stars.” she tells him, brushing his hair out of his face. “They’ll always be there for you.”

“Stars?” He sniffs, pulling back slightly and looking into her face almost quizzically. Curiosity overcomes misery.

His mother grabs onto the tether line immediately, nodding fervently as she leans forward and tickles his tummy. “Mhm, that’s right, stars. And you know what else?” She pauses, leaning even closer so that their foreheads are touching and he could see the sparkle in her eyes. “They aren’t just up in the sky- they’re everywhere. We’re all made up of stars. Even you.”

She tweaks his ear playfully at that, smiling at the giggle it produced, and kisses his temple

“I’m made out of stars,” five year-old him whispers, voice filling with awe. He likes the way it sounded coming off his tongue; it feels right, natural, like it was meant to be said aloud.

He repeats the statement over and over again, fascinated.

“What about Mr. Foamy?” he also asks, shoving the shark into her face to ensure she knows exactly who they are talking about. “Is he made out of stars too?”

His mother smiles, “I don’t see why he shouldn’t be.”

He’s pleased at that, proudly petting the head of the stuffed animal. Then he crawls out of his mother’s arms, dragging his faithful companion with him by the tail, and under the covers. Nestled there, previous sadness long gone and forgotten, he lets his mother tuck him in, smiling up at her when she kisses him goodnight.

“My little astronaut,” his mother calls Lance then, fond smile adorning her face. It’s the last thing he sees before drifting off, into a world of magic before unseen.

Dreams filled with asteroid belts and celestial creatures that sing and breathe in lunar eclipses, lighting a world of uncharted wonder and fortune, are there to greet him. This world holds his heart, bursting from an imagination that holds no bounds. It expands and expands until he is bursting at his seams, a whirlwind of shooting stars.

And so it goes.

When Lance is six, he saves the world.

It’s a warm afternoon and the world has shrunk down to the building blocks and stuffed animals splayed over his grandparents’ carpeted floor. His grandfather, donning a masquerade mask and black scarf, stomps around the living room, roaring for destruction and world domination. But it is not Lance’s grandfather, no. It is a monster, taller than the clouds and unrivaled in power.

But Lance is young and unafraid. With his favorite blanket draped across his shoulders, the edges tied off at the front of his throat with his sister’s hair clip, and a pair of water pistols gifted to him last Christmas, he makes his stand. Pow, pow, pow go his weapons of justice, nailing his enemy right in the heart. And with a loud wail and jerky movements his grandfather dramatically clutches his chest and slumps to the ground, defeated.

His grandmother cheers from her place on the couch, tapping his knitting needles in applause. “Hurray! My hero!”

And so it goes.

When Lance is seven, his father leaves.

It’s in the middle of the night and he wakes up to the sound of thousands of water droplets pelting their roof and thunder shaking their walls. Lightning strikes, distorting the usually welcomed rainfall into something loud and scary. He scrambles out of bed, calling for his mother.

She meets him in the hallway.

He doesn’t think much about how she’s still dressed in yesterday’s clothes and looking far more awake than someone should at such an ungodly hour. He doesn’t think about anything besides the comforting presence she oozes as she scoops him up in her arms and cradles him to her chest, whispering soothing words.

At his request she takes the both of them to her room, where the monsters of his fears can’t get to him, to spend the rest of the night.

“Where’s dad?” Because the room is empty and the covers are haphazardly strewn across the mattress, and he’s not there. Not where he’s supposed to be.

His mother goes unnaturally still, looking like those statues at the museum his brother had taken him to last week. He doesn’t like how her face, which usually reminds him of flowers and sunshine when she smiles, looks tired and drawn.

“Not here… Daddy had to go.”

He’s shocked. “What? Why? Where did he go?”

She sits on the edge of her bed, head angled away and staring at the pictures settled on her bedside table. Lance can just spot one sporting their family, all laughing as they celebrate the coming of fall in a pile of yellow leaves, in the dark. A ring sits at the base of the frame, catching what little light there is. Lightning flashes.

“I don’t know where he went, honey.”

“When will he be back?”

A long exhale has her looking back at him, eyes sad. “I don’t know.”

Lance wants to cry- and does so.

“Oh, sweetie, no, shh- it’s okay, it’ll be okay. It’ll be okay because… because Daddy went to go save the world. He didn’t leave because he wanted to, but because he had to, so, you see, he couldn’t stay here- not when the world needs him,” his mother says thickly to him as means of explanation, smoothing a calloused hand over his hair. Lance isn’t old enough to know if she is lying or not. “Just like the world will need you, Lance, when you’re big and strong. Because, well, everyone has their place in the world and… and sometimes it takes you away from the people you love.”

Pouty lips pull down in a frown, trembling. He wants to ask- to know- but something inside him tells him that even his mother, the nicest and smartest and most beautiful person in the whole wide world, doesn’t know the answer to his simple question of why. That this is one bad dream that she can’t hug away. So, he sniffs and bravely fights the tears until they stop, rubbing his nose against the pillow covers and burrowing deeper into their own cocoon of sheets and whispers.

“I’m never gonna leave you, Mama,” he tells her solemnly, taking a small finger and crossing it over his chest like she had taught him. “Never ever.”

She smiles and wipes at her eyes, pressing a loving kiss to his forehead. Then they are laying down, side by side; he curls into her and takes two of her fingers in his smaller hand and holds on tight. She pulls a thin blanket over them and in the silence that follows Lance can still hear the sound of the storm outside.

He tells his mother so and her eyes do that thing where they shine and sparkle and she asks if he wants to hear a bedtime story. The answering nod has her bringing their clasped hands to her mouth as lips press against his knuckles.

Then she starts talking of worlds far beyond the horizon, where the sun shines and kingdoms of old dominate the land. Words spin into tales of dragonlords and their charges, of princes who fight for honor and justice, and of princesses who dance with fairies and sing to flowers. Her voice caresses him as he slips into a deep sleep, breathing steady and heart full, lulling him into this world where anything is possible.

And so it goes.

When Lance is eight, he meets Hunk.

It’s a Thursday and Lance is sitting alone by the broken fountain in his school’s courtyard, eating his packed lunch as he watches the birds twitter and tweet in the bushes before him. He’s offering a piece of crust to a small finch when a shadow slips over them and, looking up, has him spying a chubby boy his age with dark brown hair and a smile that crinkles his eyes in its intensity. He isn’t in Lance’s class, but the one next door.

“Hello,” he says, unsure and cautious.

“Hi,” the boy returns, eyes flickering toward the bird tearing up the forgotten piece of bread and back to Lance. “Is anybody sitting here?”

His head swivels around as blue eyes make a sweep of his surroundings. The courtyard is still as empty as it was when he had first sat down. He looks back at the other boy, brows furrowed.

“No…”

The boy nods and, without further ado, sits down. The birds flutter away, scared by the newly arrived body taking over their previously designated space. A lunchbox is taken out of a beaten sack and opened, showcasing a meal similar to Lance’s own, but more ornate. The boy starts to eat, seemingly oblivious to the eyes still trained on him.

“I’m Lance,” he says after a few moments.

“Hunk.”

The response doesn’t leave much room for conversation to follow, but, thankfully, Lance has never been one to subjugate to social awkwardness. His sister describes it as his ‘inability to shut up,’ though Lance has never seen this as something to be ashamed of. Case and point: “I like your name. It sounds cool.”

The bigger boy shrinks into himself at the honest words, shoulders coming up to hug his ears as he shoves whatever is in his hand- it looks like a tangerine, orange and freshly peeled- into his mouth. “Thanks,” he pushes past the citrus. “Yours too.”

Lance nods and takes a bit of his sandwich, legs tapping a fast rhythm against the concrete as he sneaks glances to the side. This goes on for a while- long enough for Lance to finish his sandwich and half of his pudding cup, until, finally, the silence becomes too much for him. “You’re new,” he blurts out, watching as the other boy jumps at the sudden volume, “and probably don’t have any friends yet and… and my mama always says that friends are forever and you look nice- so, so we should be friends. Best friends.”

Hunk blinks, then grins this grin and it feels like the start of something great. “Okay.”

And so it goes.

When Lance is nine, he decides he wants to see the stars.

The revelation isn’t a big one, but a reverberating one. It comes on a warm, summer night as he and Hunk and their families are enjoying the tail end of a beach day. Hunk is inspecting the marshmallow he holds over the flame of the fire pit they’re huddled around, muttering about the perfect ratio of crisp to gooiness. One of his cousins is playing some soft pop through the speaker of their phone and his grandparents are swaying in a slow dance by the shore. Somewhere behind him, his mother lets out a soft laugh.

Lance, pleasantly content, leans back in his seat in the sand and looks up into the night sky. The stars stare back, twinkling with the secrets of the universe.

All it takes is one stray thought- of I wonder and I wish- and he’s gone, heart hooked by constellations and following the tug that leads him crashing into a sea of shimmering stardust.

And so it goes.

When Lance is ten, his mother remarries.

The house is a flurry of movement and last minute preparations. People he doesn’t know speed around him, carrying chairs and flowers and ribbons from one place to another, all wearing that same black and white uniform. Occasionally he’ll see one of his siblings or his aunt, dressed to the nines in pressed tuxes and flowy dresses, only to watch them disappear around a corner after a quick talk with a waiter or fastidious fix of a vase.

After a while he gets up from his spot at the bottom of the stairs, not even the act of people watching able to fight off his boredom, and trudges up them, trying to ignore the uncomfortable itch at the back of his neck every time the stiff collar of his suit brushes against it. Unconsciously, he makes his way to his mother’s room, peeking inside.

Despite it being her wedding day, his mother is sans her flock of bridesmaids and the only one in the room, facing the tall mirror at its center. He watches as she fiddles with her hair, makeup, and dress. Watches as she turns to the side and inspects herself, wrinkling her nose before leaning back in to apply another coat of lipstick. Watches the sunlight streaming through the open window hit the teardrop earrings she wears.

“Oh,” his mother says when she finally spots him. The length of her dress bunches up when she turns and Lance enters, meeting her halfway when she steps away from her reflection and bends down to inspect his suit. After a brief inspection she licks a thumb and brings it to the corner of his mouth, trying to wipe the dirt he knows isn’t there. “Aw, my little astronaut, look at you. So handsome.”

“Mama,” he whines, because he’s old enough to know that this is embarrassing. “Stop, no- don’t.”

His mother laughs and it sounds like bells, and it has him going soft and pliant, remaining where he is when she moves to fix his tie, clipping it to his shirt and smoothing it down. The prolonged closeness has him inspecting her dress, gaze trailing after the swirling patterns of white lace that looks curiously like what he remembers seeing his grandma practice at the kitchen table. The gossamer veil cinched to her high bun falls like a waterfall over her shoulder and feels soft when he reaches up to touch it.

“You look pretty,” he tells her honestly, hoping to see her smile linger.

It works. The rouge covering his mother’s lips make her teeth appear whiter, so bright and warm that the stars would be jealous if they were capable of such feelings. “Do you really think so?”

He nods. “You look pretty- pretty and happy.”

Brown eyes melt and then she’s pulling him into a hug that he doesn’t hesitate to return, uncaring of the pearl necklace that digs into the underside of his chin or the starkingly cool temperature of her hands. She smells like cinnamon and hairspray. When she speaks, it’s with a shaky breath and a prick of wetness at his temple, “I am happy, baby. So, so happy.”

And so it goes.

When Lance is eleven, he becomes an uncle.

It happens on a day like any other, ordinary until it is not.

It’s a call late in the night and waking up to his mother bursting in his room with a jacket in one hand and her car keys in the other. It’s a mad rush to the local hospital and demanding answers from a standby nurse, all the while still dressed in his pajamas and kitty slippers. It’s waiting for what feels like an eternity and casting glances at the double doors across the room every few seconds. It’s jumping out of his seat when his sister’s husband finally appears and cheering when he smiles and says, “It’s a boy.”

It’s his mother curling an arm around his waist just as his sister, sweaty and smiling, asks him, “Do you want to hold him?”

And even with nervousness curling low in his gut, Lance nods.

“Careful with his head,” his mother says, reaching over to help shift the bundle into the crook of  his arms. “Bring him closer and- good, just like that.”

“He’s so small,” he whispers when he can find his voice. It’s filled with wonder. “He looks like a potato.”

His sister huffs out a laugh along with the rest of his family and strokes the side of his nephew’s face, curling around his tiny ear and down the short length of his jaw. “He kinda does, doesn’t he? A cute potato though.”

“The cutest potato,” Lance agrees.

The baby in his arms gurgles, shifting in its wrap to stretch in accordance to the yawn that pulls those pink lips. A button nose wrinkles and Lance, fearing his new charge will start crying, quickly hums a short tune. It works, the newborn quieting almost immediately. Lance watches him for a long moment, keeping the soft lullaby going even as eyelids slip shut and breath goes even. Then, with great care, he leans down to deposit a kiss atop the sleeping baby’s head.

And so it goes.

When Lance is twelve, he breaks his wrist.

It starts off with Hunk saying that the distance between their makeshift treehouse and the balcony of his room is too far to be jumped and Lance disagreeing. It continues with a foolhardy attempt to show off and then a panicked yell when he misses the branch. It ends with Hunk crying and Lance in a cast for six weeks.

And so it goes.

When Lance is thirteen, he gets his first crush.

Her name is Gwen and her family is vacationing in Varadero. He’s getting some groceries for his mother when he, quite literally, runs into her in the produce section. She’s holding a basket that nearly tips over when they collide; he juggles the two cantaloupes in one hand, offering a steady hand and an apology. Though he eventually trips over both his feet and words when he finally looks up and makes eye contact with the prettiest girl he’s ever met.

She has red, curly hair that’s pinned into two buns on top of her head and a splatter of freckles across her cheeks. She giggles at his lames jokes and it makes his stomach do flips when she immediately accepts his stuttered offer to go on a date.

They see a movie and take a stroll through the nicer part of town, shoulders bumping and tongues tied as they share flustered glances. But, as dates go, it’s the best (only) he’s had. And, on the way home, when he scourges enough courage to try and hold her hand, she returns the touch with a smile that lights up the world.

Two weeks and four dates later he introduces her to his mother, apprehensive.

But the two seem to be birds of the same feather, made of the same material- kindness and love- and he has nothing to worry about. His mother looks at them, fingers knitted and shoulders touching, and smiles this smile that has her looking years younger; the lines that carve her face in exhaustion soften into something beautiful. She squeezes Gwen’s hands and offers an honest welcome, leaning over to press a light kiss to Lance’s temple.

Hunk and his siblings teases him profusely about it, but Lance takes it all in stride. He laughs at their well-meant japes and returns them in kind, never once denying the sickening sweet feeling he gets when Gwen sends him that secret smile of hers when they aren’t looking. It’s nice and Lance wishes life could stay like this forever.

But it doesn’t.

Summer comes to a close like always and though Lance knew it was coming, he isn’t prepared. He goes to sees her off, his older brother volunteering to drive her and her family to the airport in polite accordance. The two of them squeeze into the back of the car with all the luggage, listening the music, thumb wrestling, and doing an overall good job at ignoring their upcoming separation.

However, reality comes crashing back with the sound of suitcase wheels running over waxed floors and a digitized voice speaking over the intercom. With her parents waiting just beyond the checkpoint, Gwen turns to him and deposits a chaste kiss on his cheek.“I’ll miss you, Lance.”

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Same- I mean, I-I’ll miss you too.”

She smiles and he clings to it, trying to carve it into his memory. But then she’s walking away, leaving him for a place where he can’t follow, and it stings so much that he’s unable to move for a long while. Not until his brother gently nudges his side and offers a gentle smile, arm thrown over his shoulder to guide him back to the car, back home.

And so it goes.

When Lance is fourteen, his grandmother falls and doesn’t get up.

The two of them are having their weekly knitting session in the living room. He is talking of the latest trouble he and Hunk had gotten into and how ‘it’s not my faulty we accidentally stole someone’s cat during my swim meet,’ and she is quietly chuckling as her needles work, shaping yarn into a pair of mittens.

She’s reaching for her basket of supplies when she stills, lips pulling into a strange frown.

“Grandma, what’s wrong?” he asks when he notices her expression. She doesn’t answer and he’s just about to pull the basket closer when she abruptly leans forward in her seat. His heart jerks and plummets into his stomach when she grasps for the side table blindly and misses, falling to her knees. He rushes to her. “Grandma!”

He’s raising his voice, calling for someone, anyone, to help and it’s no one’s surprise when it’s his mother that comes rushing through the door, followed closely by his brother. They both go wide eyed as they take in the situation, gasping along with Lance when his grandmother slumps in his arms, hand clutching her chest.

Then it’s a whirlwind of activity; his brother shoves into the room, kneeling down and reaching two fingers to check for a pulse, sounding frantic when it comes back weak and yells for someone to call for an ambulance. Within minutes the room fills with the bodies of family members, neighbors and EMTs alike, surrounding his grandmother like adoring fans as she’s lifted and strapped onto a gurdy. Only his mother is allowed in the ambulance.

The whole extended family is there, filling the waiting room to the brim with anxious worry and quiet talk. The restlessness comes to a halt when a doctor walks out of the double doors, body aimed their way. More than one body is jumping out of their seats and rushing towards him; his voice rises with the rest, talking over one another in their haste for information and good news. It’s his mother that finally gets through and asks the question that will make them or break them.

“How is she?”

But the doctor sighs and offers his condolences, lips moving so slowly that Lance can’t even begin to comprehend their meaning.

The world stops and Lance’s mind goes blank as he becomes numb. So numb that he doesn’t even twitch when his sister covers her mouth and lets out a low whimper, turning into the arms of her husband. Or when his little nieces and nephews loudly ask what’s going on, not understanding why their father buries his face in his hands and starts to cry. Or even when his mother’s once jolly face (so much like another’s, though aged and wrinkled) morphs into a statue, all hard lines and clenched jaw as she helps his distressed grandfather into a seat. Numb.

He stares listlessly at the white walls, staying motionless even as the doctor excuses himself and his family shuffles to the sided in a limp cloud of despair. People move about him, some shouldering him as they pass in their urgency, completely unaware that the sky is falling and the ground is breaking underneath him- oblivious to the fact that his universe is unraveling apart. And it’s amidst a crumbling world, where heaven and earth had collided in one disastrous battle and left him damaged and bloodstained, that Lance starts to cry. There, standing in that generic waiting room with its upholstered chairs and fake plants, the tears fall. Hot and shameful, they come and don’t stop for a long while.

A week later, a funeral is held.

And so it goes.

When Lance is fifteen, he pilots his first plane.

It takes three months for his uncle to teach him the conceptual side of things and then two more to convince his mother that allowing him in a cockpit wasn’t an absolutely terrible idea. But he’s resourceful and stubborn and maybe even a little aggravating, and his mother caves under the promise that he doesn’t go up alone. Lance counts it as a victory.

And so finds himself sitting in a cockpit and looking over the throttle controls and altitude indicator, hands eagerly reaching for the centre stick as he waits for his uncle to settle in the seat behind him. The rest of his family looks on from a few hundred feet away and he can see the anxious frown his mother wears through the tint of his goggles; he smiles big and waves, hoping his excitement will catch. It does, if only minimally.

But then the engine roars to life and he’s off.

He wobbles a little on the ascent, unaccustomed to the give the real experience provides over virtual simulations, and at one point his uncle has to reach forward and adjust the rudder, but it doesn’t matter because Lance is flying. His unbridled laugh gets catches on the wind streaming past him as he relishes the feeling of freedom.

And so it goes.

When Lance is sixteen, he gets accepted into the Garrison.

The letter comes in the mail in early January, folded and sealed in a crisp, white envelope, his name printed neatly on its front and two international stamps stuck to its corner. It’s the most bland looking thing in all the world, but Lance still screams when he sees it.

The high pitched sounds has his mother rushing into the room, wearing a frilly, pink apron and holding a frying pan like a baseball bat. “What! What! What’s happening? Are the curtains on fire again? Did someone break in?”

She visibly deflates when she sees it’s just Lance in the room and no threat of attackers or burglars in sight. The kitchen appliance-turned-weapon is lowered, only to be raised once more, but now in a threatening manner toward his person. His mother’s scowl is a fearsome thing. “What have I told you about scaring me like that? Just because I’m old enough to start getting gray hairs, doesn’t mean I want speed up the process. And another thing- oh.” Her eyes flicker to the paper clutched tightly in his grasp. He can see her mind connecting the dots. “Is that…?”

He nods.

“And?”

Lance shakes his head, trying to disperse the anxious feeling that returns with her inquiry. The envelope crinkles when his grip tightens further. “I… haven’t opened it yet.”

“Well, what are you waiting for- the Spanish Inquisition? Rip it open and let’s see!”

Lance does what’s told of him. His hands shake slightly as he carefully tears the seal open and pulls out the single, folded sheet of paper housed inside. With his mother watching him closely and a deep breath, he unfolds the letter and starts to read. And when he finishes it, he reads it again. And once more after that.

“Well?” his mother asks.

His blinding smiles is an answer all in itself and she screams out a happy laugh, pulling him into a tight hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” his mother says, depositing a kiss to his temple. “My little astronaut, you’re going to be a star.”

And so it goes.

When Lance is seventeen, Earth is invaded.

He flies home for the weekend to celebrate his niece’s sixth birthday, eager to feel the sea breeze on his face and his mother’s arms around him. He expects a warm and loud welcome, for his little cousins to be playing tag out in the lawn and his sister giggling over her phone and his stepfather singing along to the radio as he grills. But it’s different this time around, because his cousins aren’t playing tag out in the lawn and his sister isn’t giggling over her phone and his stepfather isn’t singing along to the radio as he grills. It’s quiet and muted and it shakes him to his core.

Because it’s not his family that greets him, but complete strangers. Strangers that wear his family’s faces.

“Mama?” he whispers when he’s lost on what else to do and there are no stars to look up to. His voice cracks into something small and vulnerable when the strange light reflecting in his brother’s eyes and the eerie look on his aunt’s face scares him into being five again.

“Hello, son,” his mother’s voice greets him and Lance winces. Her smile is the same one he’s known all his life, but there is something in the way her eyes crinkle and it’s wrong, all wrong. She steps forward, arms open to embrace him. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

Automatically, he takes a step back and stumbles into a wall, clutching his hands to his chest as he curls deep into himself. He’s shaking his head, tears begging to prick at the corner of his eyes. “Mama, please, no…”

But it’s not his mother. Not anymore.

Lance runs.

And so it goes.

Lance dies on a sunny day in July.

The time reads 10:17 and Lance thinks of the conception of time and what it means to lose it. In fact, that is all he thinks about.

It is there, at the bottom of a ravine and staring at the distant edge he hadn’t seen coming, that Lance ponders over his life and tries to pinpoint where it all went wrong. The Seekers that had been chasing him are nowhere to be seen and that scares him, scares him enough that even the stars, invisible in the morning light, can’t console him; his body won’t move and breathing is becoming difficult, a wrangled mess of what he used to be, and he knows that he couldn’t run even if he wanted. After a while, when the blood starts to fill his lungs and a deadly black colors the edge of his vision, he stops thinking and does the only thing he knows how.

He cries.

He cries for humanity, erased before they can leave their mark. He cries for his family, for his mother and cousins and siblings, and wonders if he’ll get to see them again. He cries for himself, a boy with so much to do and no time to do it. He cries for the opportunities lost and the regrets gained, for the could be’s and the should have’s. He cries because he never fell in love, never traveled the world, never got to see the stars.

He cries because he doesn’t want to die.

But life is a fickle thing and his begins to slow down, draining out of him with every stuttering heartbeat and prolonged blink. And Lance tries to fight it, he really does, but he can’t feel his legs and the warmth of the day is fading into a long lost dream. It’s slow and frightening and inevitable. It’s life.

And so it ends.

Pairing: Keith/Lance

Words: 1191

Chapters: 1/1

“Please, Keith. Where is your heart?”

He doesn’t respond- doesn’t know how. But that doesn’t stop him from reaching that point of enlightenment. For it stares him straight in the face. The light… it holds a heart- his heart. Stolen from him, right out of his chest.

He wants it back.

Notes: Here it is! My @klance-exchange gift for @ssuppositiouss! One of your prompt ideas was to “place them [klance] in the universe of another story (but not a crossover)” and, well, when I saw your tumblr theme, I just couldn’t resist! Kingdom Hearts is one of my favorite games and I thrive on angst, so voila!

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Darkness. From it, entire worlds are born.

It is a universal truth. A standard in which all of creation adheres to, strumming to the same beat across each plane of existence. And what an existence it is. A sudden rush, like an undertow of primitive feeling, and then, suddenly, he is there.

Entity is a shocking thing, abrupt and unstable. Everlasting in its newness, but limiting in its physical constrictions. For a mind is nothing without a body and his is unresponsive, refusing to listen to the intrinsic feelings and desires that run their course. But it is there nonetheless, a solid mass that floats within weightless waters, bobbing, up and down. A sea made of wispy smoke and concentrated ash, filling his lungs with failed dreams and forgotten promises alike- aiming to drown, dissolve, and devour.

But he fights the pull. He is stronger, stronger than those hiding in the tide of shadows that swarms around him, and he wins. The dark sea jerks away from his transcendental touch, shivering at the power that hides within him; he presses further and they bow in submission, an army at his disposal.

It’s amidst this exhibit of force that he spots it.

A light.

A light that shines through the darkness, a beacon to his brief existence. With it comes the notion of warmth, a bonfire within a storm that he hadn’t realized he’d been braving. His form trembles at the conceived loss and he automatically makes a move to reach for that unknown paradise, but only earns a small twitch of his fingers for his effort. For all his strength, the dark waters still sway him, lulling him into something catatonic with hoarse whispers and tainted lullabies.

The compulsion to grab hold of that light and never let go is severe. To latch on, dig into his claws into its soft flesh and and squeeze until that intoxicating warmth bleeds into him. To make it his and his alone. No, he decides then and there, it must be his. No one else craved for it the way he did.

As if sensing his lurking desire, the light trembles, pulsing erratically. Every beat has him viciously clawing at the barrier of his conscious, begging for a taste.

“Keith?” the light says. “Is that you, buddy?”

Oh, what a sound. He has never heard such a thing like it. A song of the cosmos, beautiful and holy. He rocks onto the back of his heels, sucking in a hiss, overwhelmed.

“Pidge, isn’t there, I don’t know, some spell you can do to fix this?”

“Hey, I may be the Royal Magician, but even I can’t bring someone back from the darkness.” The owner of these words is smaller, thus weaker, than the rest. In their grasp lays a lengthy weapon of sorts, something that sparks dangerously when even stranger words are uttered.

The sea behind him grows nervous at the show of magic. They convulse, rolling over one another and whispering threats of attack, like a wave set to crash along the world’s shore, mighty and explosive.

Paranoia rushes through him. If the swarm strikes, then what happens to his light? Does it stand and fight? A show of razored teeth and sharp fins. Does it run? Like the sun setting behind a watery horizon. Does it disappear? Gone in a moment like ocean spray.

No. Not his light; he wouldn’t let that happen. His mouth opens and a sound comes out, all broken glass and wounded animal, warding off those who wish to take his light- his prize.

“The Heartless, they’re being held back…” His knuckles gently slide against the ground as he slumps forward even further. “Do you think… maybe… maybe Keith recognizes us?”

“He’s a Heartless, Lance. He doesn’t have any memories to recognize.”

“But,” the voice trembles and his head slips to one side, trying to decipher the sentiment behind the empyrean sounds. “But we can’t just leave him like this. I can’t just leave him like this.”

“Well, there isn’t much we can d- woah, hey! Lance, don’t!” The call is louder than anything he has heard before and he shrinks back, tensing in preparation for an attack; the swarm shifts restlessly, held in check only by his primordial interest. But the light doesn’t seem bothered by the warning, instead creeping forward- closer and closer and ever closer.

“Keith,” comes the voice, high and melodic and a hair’s breadth away, and when he looks up to finally glimpse the body that goes with it, something stirs within him. For another sea surges to greets him, this one vastly different from the abyss he’s birthed from; a surf of stars swirl in twin crystal balls, colored blue- so very, unapologetically blue- and holding the world in their depth, capturing him within their celestial gaze. “Keith, buddy, can you hear me?”

But he is lost among the undertow, never to return.

The figure kneels and now he can see how it shines from within, pulsing with divine light and begging to be corrupted by his wicked touch. “We’ll figure this out, okay? Don’t you worry- we’ll get you back to normal somehow. We’ll get your heart back, wherever it is.”

Heart? What is…?

“Keith, if you can hear me, please, tell me… Where’s your heart?“

A tanned limb rises and braces against its chest, where the warmth and brightness was the most intense. He tries to mimic the motion, wanting to make that connection, but can’t. His fingers brush against only air, nails tracing the edge of the hole making its home at his center.

"Please, Keith. Where is your heart?”

He doesn’t respond- doesn’t know how. But that doesn’t stop him from reaching that point of enlightenment. For it stares him straight in the face. The light… it holds a heart- his heart. Stolen from him, right out of his chest.

He wants it back.

The air changes, full and electrifying. A storm brews and spills over, surging into his limbs and helping him stand to his full height. The light watches him, mouth open and eyes wide, that beautiful voice rising in a gasp that curls in the empty space where his heart used to be. The two figures behind the light tense and make to rush forward, but the swarm of shadows rise from the earth to block their path.

His hand comes up to point toward the light accusingly.

“Keith? What are you- hey, no, stop.” The light flickers in fear. “I know you’re in there. Snap out of it.”

But he doesn’t listen.

And only when he finally takes back his heart, amidst writhing shadows and dead stares, with the light dimmed and a bruised body pressed firmly against his own, motionless, does he realize the truth. That though darkness may mother creation, it does not sustain it. For all he has left- a heart, broken and ravaged- he is still hungry.

Pairing: Keith/Lance
Words: 2584
Chapters: 1/1

“I- I think I love you.”

Keith freezes.

It takes a moment for Lance to figure out what’s happened- what he’s said- and Keith watches as his boyfriend startles violently, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. They stare at each other, the air tense in a different sense than what it’s been for the last few minutes. It’s something close to awkward and Keith would run if not for the compromising position they’re in- naked and in the midst of sex.

Read it on AO3!

The doors of his room haven’t even slid all the way shut when Lance throws himself at Keith.

There’s the solid thump of twin helmets falling to the floor, kicked to the corner and out of the way by clumsy feet. The inconvenient bulk of their armor is easy to ignore, especially when gloved hands make their way to Keith’s hair, bunching it up and brushing it away from his face. It feels nice and he pushes forward in response, his own hands spread over a firm stomach and the sweet dip of a back; he is too eager and the knee he braces between Lance’s thighs has them stumbling back into the side wall.

Lance grunts at the collision, but welcomes Keith’s weight nonetheless, body arching to the touch in a fashion that goes straight to his groin. Then it’s a familiar dance they move to- back and forth, push and pull, inhale and exhale. It’s a sharp tug on his hair and a quick nip on his bottom lip, nails scraping down and down and down. It’s a grope to his boyfriend’s backside and a low groan of pleasure slipping past the seal of their lips, hips rocking. It’s trailing kisses down the elegant column of a neck and a flower of bruised purple blooming where his tongue lingers, tasting sweat and ash and cinnamon.

“I was worried,” Lance says to the room at large, breathy voice slicing through the loaded silence with such suddenness that Keith breaks away to look at him. His eyes are hooded, but blazing with liquid fire that cools just as it burns.  “During the mission… I was…”

He doesn’t finish, but Keith knows. Keith knows because even tucked away as they are, away from danger and responsibility, it’s still fresh in his mind. The searing heat of an ion cannon clipping his lion’s shoulder and the rush of weightlessness as he fell, pulled into a nearby gas giant’s gravity. The feeling of being helpless of his own demise- so chilling, so abrupt, so inevitable.

The thought of it ending- he imagines drawing his last breath and fading into the background of the lost- is too much and his grip on his boyfriend tightens involuntarily.

“But you’re okay. You’re here- with me,” Lance murmurs, lashes fluttering. A thumb sweeps across Keith’s temple, grounding him to the here and now. “You’re okay.”

Keith swallows past the mysterious lump in his throat. “Yeah, I am. It’s… I’m okay.”

The recycled air of the ship is cool against the sweaty skin at the back of his neck, a medium that makes them- the moment, real. He tilts his chin up a fraction of an inch and Lance responds accordingly, kissing him hard. Keith opens up to him, allowing the tongue to slip into his mouth and explore every corner with expertise and familiarity that breeds satisfaction.

Then it’s a scramble to peel off their suits, hands fumbling with the latches of chest plates and rumpled fabric. They nearly take a tumble when the back of Lance’s knees hit the bed and he flounders for balance, automatically reaching for Keith just as he’s lifting a leg to kick off his boots; they’re only saved by his quick reflexes, hand braced against the bed’s roof. Unconcerned, Lance mutters something in Spanish and reaches behind Keith to unzip his suit, causing goosebumps to rise along his exposed flesh at the brush of cool air. It’s tough with only one hand available and the distraction of soft lips moving against his own, but Keith manages to return the favor and peel black spandex from brown skin, letting it fall to the floor.

A quick shove and Lance is bouncing onto the mattress, neck tilting up so that he can watch Keith crawl on top of him and accept the kiss he bestows. Urging him to scoot further up the bed, he settles himself comfortably, bent legs on either side of sharp hips and skin sailing over skin in beautiful friction. Another point of pressure and Lance is leaning all the way back, body pliant to Keith’s guidance and charge of the situation. It’s no secret that Lance likes to be pushed around in bed.

Keith takes a moment to appreciate the view, the graceful stretch of a torso and lithe limbs, sinew of muscles reacting to the whispers of touch he imparts upon every inch granted to him, and swollen lips glossy with spit. It’s a beautiful sight, one that Keith never gets tired of seeing- and never will.

So, there’s no surprise when he grabs the other’s face in between his hands and, back bowed like a votary commencing worship, pushes their bodies infinitely closer. The resulting friction is everything. They revel in the feeling, gasping into each other’s mouths and trading damp puffs of air while they continue to rub against each other, each trying to gain the upper hand and make the other crack first. Lance cheats and sneaks a hand between them, taking hold of his dick and jerking until Keith starts dripping precum and swears colorfully; which is fine, because Keith gets him back on the next grind, rolling slowly and with enough force that Lance throws his head back with a drawn out moan- only to cut off abruptly when Keith bites down on his neck. It’s not long until they’re itching for more, to reach the zenith of the moment and fall over its edge, burning in a flare of raw stimulus.

It’s hard to tear himself away from Lance and the pretty noises he’s making, but Keith deems it wroth it when his blind patting at the wall opens a compartment to their left. It takes a few tries, because his boyfriend is nothing if not distracting, but eventually he procures a strip of condoms and off-white tube of lubricant- both acquired after an embarrassing trip to a trading outpost that involved a visit to an intergalactic brothel, of which Keith had threatened outright murder if Lance- who was still laughing uncontrollably even as they returned to their lions- ever told a soul what may or may not have happened behind those walls. Still, wounded dignity aside, it’s got nothing against the feeling of his own slicked fingers entering himself.

Lance makes a small noise in the back of his throat, neck craning to see, and only quiets when Keith starts up a shallow thrust. The stretch is good, better than good actually, but he wants to make it better, so he takes one of Lance’s hands from where it’s gripping the sheets and brings it to his face, tilting his head so that his cheek rests in the curve of his palm.

Lance swallows and it’s a loud thing.

Encouraged, Keith adds another finger and pushes back onto the probing digits, chest heaving as he twists them just so. The movement puts him up close and personal to Lance’s arousal, just as stiff and insistent as his own. He barely fights off the urge to touch himself, knowing he won’t last as long as he wants if he does so, and focuses on Lance’s face, open and flushed, instead, watching through half-lidded eyes as he licks his lips; the attention is gratifying, even more so when, without breaking eye contact, Lance’s free hand runs up his leg to curl around his thigh, squeezing.

He braces a hand on Lance’s chest, rising higher on his knees to better chase down his desire. The hand cupping his face remains where it is, thumb brushing over the swell of his bottom lip until it becomes too much and he gives it a small nip.

“Lance,” he finally breathes, voice broken. His fingers brush against his walls just right and his eyes flutter shut, his lover’s name turning into a drawn out moan.

Lance sits up abruptly and Keith nearly loses his balance, having to shift forward so that their chest brush with every inhale. Filed nails scrape softly against his jaw, moving down his throat with the same languid intent as the hand smoothing over his backside, pausing where Keith works himself. There’s a shudder of breath when their fingers touch inside his stretched hole, slick with sweat and lube; he can feel the bump of knuckles graze along his walls as Lance curls his long fingers, spreading him open. A strangled sound escapes him, and soon he’s going crazy with the stimulation. Lance must share his desire for more because then he’s suddenly empty and he whines something needy, twitching when he hears the rip of plastic and feels Lance’s tip at his entrance. He has time to comprehend dilated pupils surrounded by a thin ring of blue and a reverent whisper of his own name before he’s gloriously full once more.

He throws his head back at the sting of pleasurable pain. Lance murmurs something he can’t hear beyond the white noise pulsing in his ears, but it doesn’t matter because the hands curling at his waist and neck are gentle, and lips are then pecking apologies onto his eyelids, cheeks and nose.

Gray sheets stick to their skin, tangling underneath and in between their legs, rustling with every drive forward. Keith’s breathing becomes labored as the rocking evolves into something more carnal.

They collide in a whirlwind of stardust, compressed into a single moment so profound it’s hard to distinguish where one ends and the other begins. Keith keens when Lance adjusts, leaning partially back on a hand braced on the mattress, and white spots erupt across his vision momentarily, pulled along a string of constellations that ties them together until it’s a wonder they were ever separate to begin with. They move in tandem, rolling like an asteroid in the waves of deep space.

He lifts his hips and twists them on the drop down, unable to stop the zealous groan of pleasure it elicits.

“Keith. Keith. Keith,” Lance suddenly gasps. “I- I think I love you.”

Keith freezes.

It takes a moment for Lance to figure out what’s happened- what he’s said- and Keith watches as his boyfriend startles violently, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. They stare at each other, the air tense in a different sense than what it’s been for the last few minutes. It’s something close to awkward and Keith would run if not for the compromising position they’re in- naked and in the midst of sex.

He opens his mouth, only for the words to get caught in his throat.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Lance assures him hurriedly, wincing at whatever expression makes itself known on Keith’s face. “I didn’t say it because- if you don’t- can’t- it wasn’t to bully you into anything. It was just- the truth.”

His chest aches, and it’s something Keith can’t put a name to; it makes him both queasy and happy, and he doesn’t know whether or not he likes it. This is a bridge they have yet to cross, yet to consider, and it can break just as easily as it can hold; it’s entirely in Keith’s hands and it’s a daunting power to have. So he makes a decision.

“Say it again.”

Lance starts, surprised, but must see something in Keith’s eyes because he grows solemn a moment later, eyes unwavering even as he says, “I love you, Keith.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

A kiss lingers at the corner of his mouth, breathing warmth into him where space cannot, while their rhythm starts up once more, steady and deep. “Again.”

“I love you,” Lance says, more fervent as he pushes forward with a singular focus- to smother Keith with every burning touch and honest declaration. Every thrust is a resounding clap of thunder of the storm they brave together, growing louder and louder until it’s all they can hear. “I love you, I love you, I- oh, fuck- I love you. I love you so much, it- it hurts.Oh god, do I love you.”

The arm around his waist flexes, helping to lift him and eventually driving them to hit that sweet spot. Keith cries out, feeling raw and hysterical and loved. Lance harmonizes with him, hot air hitting his face as they climb to that higher place together.

“I,ha, love you, Keith Kogane. I love you.” The words are spoken of their own accord, making Keith’s toes curl. “I love you to the end of the universe and back.”

His insides burn, magma bubbling to the surface and erupting in a shower of fireworks. He comes with a silent scream that coats Lance’s chest, working himself through it with enough gusto that it’s near painful. Lance is not far behind, riding out the wave with one, two, three thrusts.

They fall back onto the sheets when it’s done, completely spent. With limbs feeling like lead and the static ringing in his ears beginning to die down, he lets himself just lay there; the pillows against his cheek are cool to the touch and from this angle he can watch Lance catch his breath, all parted lips and heaving chest. The dimmed lights of the room cast a turquoise glow to brown skin and Keith isn’t strong enough to stop himself from reaching across the minimal space between them and trailing a finger along a sharp jaw.

“Did you mean it?” he asks in the limbo of silence that reigns, watching as Lance turns his head to face him, cheeks flushed from exertion. It almost doesn’t come out, the question, but he pushes through on sheer will alone, because he has to know. “What you said. Did you mean it?”

Blue eyes go incredibly soft. “Of course I did. I really do love you, Keith.”

Keith’s insides squirm pleasantly and he chokes on his own spit.

Lance takes the reaction badly, inching his head back with a nervous grimace. “Do… do you not want me to say it? I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable I can-”

“No,” he says too quickly and flushes. “No, it- it’s fine. I don’t mind, really. It’s just, uh…”

“Hey,” Lance thankfully interrupts, curled index finger brushing his cheek and the hair sticking to it. “You don’t need to say it back- it’s okay, honest.”

That’s not the problem. The problem is that Keith wants to say it, but can’t. The words aren’t forming properly, catching at the back of his throat and constricting on its aspiration for freedom. I love you just isn’t in his vocabulary- a cipher he hasn’t decoded, a chapter he hasn’t read, a sky he hasn’t flown. It’s a bold step forward on a path they walk together, a tug in the direction of absolution and promise, and Keith is afraid he might trip.

So, instead, he says with utter sincerity, “I would cross the entire universe for you.”

Which is the same thing, right?

Lance seems to think so, because he smiles this smile, with squinty eyes and dimples pinching each cheek, and, wow, Keith is gone. Gone because Lance is staring at himwith that look and the thought alone makes him feel a tick away from becoming ash and being swept away by a stray breeze. But, Lance anchors him there, solidifying his presence into something both sturdy and brittle with those three simple words whispered against his lips.

When Lance kisses him, Keith thinks it won’t be long until he can say it back.

Title: Mute Apparatus

Summary: Silence is its own form of communication.

Part 1•Part 2•Part 3 • Part 4

It isn’t often that the Hamada brothers fought.

Argue and bicker? Sometimes. A quick disagreement here and a small tussle there? Sure. Exasperated lectures and annoyed quips? Of course. But an uncensored, unadulterated fight? Rarely.

The fact of the matter is Hiro and Tadashi, by definition, get along. Their Aunt Cass has a great number of stress induced complaints- disassembled drones scattered across the living room floor, Mochi and his rocket boots stuck in a tree monthly, grease stains on her favorite pillow, the toilet seat left up for the third time in a week- but never this. The brothers are thick as thieves, sharing living space and secrets alike with concerning ease. Maybe it has something to do with their situation and the loss of their parents; they cling to each other like it is all they have left, as if a single glance away will result in two dwindling into one.

Which leaves Hiro in quite a predicament where he is now, locked away in their room as Tadashi paces outside, calling through the door in a voice mixed with anger, exhaustion, and worry.

“Hiro…” His brother’s voice slips through the cracks of the door, threatening to break the younger’s stubborn resolve. “Let me in- we can talk about this…”

But Hiro doesn’t want to make amends, doesn’t want his anger and frustration to be soothed by the reasonable words his brother will spin. So he takes out his hearing aids, silencing his brother and the temptation to reconcile.

The resulting silence is deafening, so to speak, and Hiro almost stumbles when he yanks them out of his ears. But he quickly regains his balance and angrily throws the tech, watching it hit, with perfect aim, an old engineering book, bent with age and use, before plopping onto the shelf underneath it. Tension is strung high in his muscles as he crosses and uncrosses his arms, pacing a small portion of his room with quick steps; he no longer hears the sounds he speaks aloud, a jumbled mess they likely are.

In a try at expulsion of the coiled fire that twists his insides, the preteen angrily kicks at his bedpost, only to yelp in pain when the wooden frame stands far firmer than his easily bruised flesh.

He sits down on his bed and nurses his battle wound, massaging his foot. The pain lingers though, pulsing every time Hiro applies too much pressure to the area. Eventually he sets it back on the ground, pointedly ignoring the throbbing. For a while he stares at the limb, gaze eventually drifting to the floor boards and the pattern they run across the room.

He bows his head, forehead resting on his knees as he lets out a deep breath. It’s during this moment, where he doesn’t know what to feel, that he notices it. A prickle of skin, goosebumps rising in response. A tingling sensation at the back of his head and neck, unusual in how it calls for action. Hiro looks up and behind him, only to be greeted with the sight of a large, blinking marshmallow standing across the room from him.

Baymax.

The robot lifts an arm and waves in his usual greeting, automatic voice lost somewhere in the space between him and Hiro’s ears. The boy blinks owlishly, both surprised and confused at the robot’s sudden appearance. There is a minute where Baymax repeats his little wave and Hiro just stares, uncomprehending.

Baymax blinks.

Hiro blinks back.

Then Baymax is shuffling towards the boy, halting just outside of his comfort zone. Hiro angles his head up to look straight into the robot’s face, thinking idly to himself that the looming height would be intimidating if not for the uncanny resemblance to a certain Pillsbury Doughboy.

The robot’s upper torso lights up, bringing forth two horizontal rows of emojis with a range of expressions and numbers accordingly. A puddy finger points at the screen as the face looks somehow imploringly at Hiro. And when brown eyes flicker blankly between the screen and the robot’s face, the gesture is repeated. The nursebot doesn’t move beyond that, but Hiro has the feeling that he is missing something; another point at the screen concretes the idea and Hiro, with years of experience of public schooling and teachers unfamiliar with his situation, feels that a question is being repeated. The boy shakes his head at that discovery, habitually pointing to his ears.

Baymax cocks his oval head.

For reasons that Hiro can’t even begin to understand, this annoys him. He had finally gotten rid of his brother and now his dumb project was going to be taking his place as residential mother hen. Honestly, he just wanted to be alone. Would Hiro ever catch a break?

In an effort in ignoring his problems, the boy slumps to the floor and scoots across the floor until his back hits the wall between his desk and bed. Though it is all for naught because the robot follows him, curvy exterior pushing obnoxiously against his chair, causing it to roll off towards the door, and blocking out a great deal of the light filtering through the window.

<Go away.> he orders, aiming to kick the tubby stomach. <I’m not in the mood.>

There, there. Baymax’s screen displays just where his heel connect with synthetic covering, the letters rising from the bottom. Undeterred by the abuse, a large, four fingered hand pats him on the head. It will be alright.

Hiro jerks back. <You can understand me?>

I am fluent in many languages, including, but not limited to, those that communicate through nonverbal cues. The robot’s inflatable form jiggles as he settles on the floor next to Hiro, somehow finding room in the cramped space while still in a position for Hiro to see his screen and the words that appear there. It is one of the first codes to be uploaded into my system. Though I have since added to it, cataloging what I have observed and gathered from my time activated.

<Tadashi…> The boy pauses, fingers poised up and waiting for the next word. <Did Tadashi really do that?>

Yes. He also programmed an alternative for those who do not know how to read or those who do not wish to. Baymax informs him as the screen splits in two, written words still appearing in time with the robot’s on one side while the other brings up a well edited video of familiar hands sighing. If you prefer the second method, I am able t-

<No,> he declares, suddenly angry at seeing Tadashi, even if it’s only his hands. He doesn’t want the video to zoom out and show his brother’s infuriatingly sincere face- a high possibility if certain words and distinctions between are to be signed. <The first one.>

Another quirk of the head. I detect irritation and frustration in your tone. What seems to be the problem? Is there any way I can assist?

He crosses his arms and pushes himself further into the corner, jaw tense as he bitterly mutters, <I don’t want to talk about it.>

But Baymax isn’t someone easily deterred. He’s a robot on a mission. Studies have shown that talking to other individuals about you problems helps relieve stress and eases the mind. A list of statistics pops up on the screen, numbers and charts and graphs color coordinated and organized to a fault. Excess stress and anxiety has been proven to cause a deterioration of health and a shortened lifespan. Talking to me would be in your best interest, especially if you do not wish to consult with a person of a more immediate familial relation.

The statistical display go unnoticed by the boy. Instead he turns his head to the side and down, gazing at where the sheets tuck themselves under the mattress and thinking. It goes like this for a few moments and he picks at his lower lip, hesitant.

I have been programmed to be an efficient and insightful listener. Baymax insists, ever patient.

Hiro almost smiles, but stops before it has the chance of fully forming, and visibly deflates, sighing just as he gives in. <Me and Tadashi got into an argument.> He pauses, waiting for a response, but, true to his word, Baymax doesn’t speak. Merely listens. <It’s stupid, honestly. He had promised to take me to the exhibit on hydraulics that being hosted in the city’s science center, like, forever ago, and now he’s flaking out. Says he’s too tired and that we’ll go another time, but we can’t. It’s only for two more weekends and, ugh, it’s always about school with him. School this and school that. I’m tired of hearing of that lame school and he just… he never has time for me anymore.>

He hasn’t signed so much in a long time and his fingers ache in a pleasant way.

<Wish he would just take a day off and, I don’t know, actually hang out with me. I mean, he hangs out with me anyway, but even that is full of school and his nerd friends and-> Here, the boy makes a particular face. <-saving the world.>

With the words finally communicated, Hiro feels almost empty. The fight is gone and he is left discontent with how the day has gone, maybe even a little regretful.

Hiro, the robot starts in that matter-of-fact way, optical lenses fluttering shut in an almost human gesture of ease. It is by my understanding that you are used to a daily routine in which you have unlimited access to your brother and now that this is no longer the case- of which he has other priorities that aren’t centered around you- you feel abandoned.

The boy scoffs. <That’s ridiculous. I can’t feel abandoned when Tadashi is literally right out the door.>

But Baymax carries on as if he hadn’t spoken. This is quite natural. Many younger siblings experience this when those they look up to start to move on and, as stated in many Best-Selling parental guides across the nation, ‘leave the nest.’ But do not be discouraged, because you must know that your brother loves you and would never intentionally cause you any distress. It based on that care for you that my existence is even possible.

Oh.

When put so eloquently like that, Hiro feels the air around him lighten to something more bearable. Suddenly, he is clambering over his companion, elbows and knees sinking into the robot’s form, and reaching for something on the lowest shelf to their left. He lowers himself just as quickly and fiddles with whatever is in his hands; when he’s done he settles closely against Baymax’s warm side, hearing aids nestled snuggly in his ears.

“There is no need for your auditory aids,” Baymax says, both vocally and not. “I am completely capable of continuing my care of you without the use of spoken communication.”

Hiro looks down, mumbling, “It… It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Baymax is silent for a moment, watching as the boy traces imaginary designs on his hand, eliciting a sound as dry skin rubs against vinyl. Then, “If that is what puts you at ease, I will acquiesce. Your health and comfort are my main priority.”

Hiro smiles, slight gap in his front teeth on proud display. “Thanks Baymax… you know-” He looks up from under his lashes. “-for everything.”

“You are my patient,” the nursebot explains simply.

A lollipop is pulled out of thin air, appearing magically between inflated fingers, and offered. Hiro perks up, eyes alight with childish delight, immediately snatching the candy and popping it in his mouth. Boy and robot stretch into a companionable silence, far different (in an exceedingly good way) than the lack of noise the removal of his hearing aids provided.

“Well, now we’re also friends, okay.” Hiro declares to the robot, propping a leg onto the other’s and leaning back comfortably as he sucks on the candy. “Which means that now we have to hang out- like, all the time.”

“If that is what will make me a better healthcare companion, I see no reason why I cannot fulfill your request.”

“Awesome,” he says, biting into his treat, “then we can-”

“However, I must insist that you reconcile with Tadashi before any thought of recreation activities can be considered.”

Hiro frowns. “Now?”

“It would be best.”

Still, he balks at the idea. Gosh, where would he even begin? Does he apologize? Does he let Tadashi talk first? And, ugh, he couldn’t even remember half of what Baymax had said concerning the actual issue and his diagnosis of it, and that had been only minutes ago. He gnaws on the candy stick and asks, “You’ll come with me?”

Baymax’s shutters close in an imitation of a smile. “Of course.”

And, well, that’s a start.

A/N: A klance drabble, because boys will be boys.

“This is awesome.”

Keith breathes hard through his nose, inching back so he can look his boyfriend in the eye. They’re tucked away in some bushes, messing around when they’re supposed to be pulling weeds for his mom, and Lance is the picture of frazzled underneath him, cheeks flushed, hair a crow’s nest and parted lips glossy with spit.

“What?” he asks, because it’s just like Lance to want to talk during heated moments like this.

“I said, this is awesome.” A bony knee knocks against his hip before the leg attached to it rises and wraps around him, muscles contracting to pull them closer together. “Cause it is- really awesome. Like, the awesome-est.”

Lance’s jacket is slipping off one shoulder, pulling at his shirt and exposing the sharp line of a collarbone. Keith takes advantage of this and ducks down to place a sloppy kiss on the skin there, lips trailing upwards when he feels the pulse under his fingertips jump. Encouraged, he nibbles on the lobe of his ear, having one of his hands drift down to press into a fresh bruise on the jut of a hipbone.

The body underneath him twitches. “B-best thing to ever happen to me and oh s-shit, do that again- yeaup, you’re literally the greatest. I’m so, so, so glad we’re together.”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Keith goes back to attack the boy’s mouth, trying to hide the fact that his face is quickly becoming a tomato. It’s all in vain though, because Lance laughs this laugh through the kiss, all breathy like a case of the hiccups, and it has Keith’s insides twisting pleasantly. “You’re so embarrassing.”

Lance doesn’t listen. “Aw, look at you,” he says with a long drawl on the first syllable. Fingers entangle with the ends of his hair, twirling- it feels good and Keith never wants him to stop. “You’re so cute when you blush.”

“Just shut up and kiss me again.”

“I will, I will. Don’t get your mullet in a twist. Wait, hold on- there’s a rock digging into my back…” A few leaves rustle when Lance wiggles underneath him, stomach arching up and brushing against his in an effort to find a more comfortable position. Their belt buckles clink together. “There we go- oh, nope, I can still feel it.”

“For the love of-” Keith snakes an arm around the tan boy’s waist and lifts, leaning back until he’s sitting with a gorgeous boy firmly in his lap. The new position puts Lance slightly higher, but that’s nothing a good crane of the neck can’t fix, and it allows Keith the prime opportunity of grabbing a handful of his boyfriend’s ass and squeezing to his heart’s content.

“Ah,” Lance says when he jerks up and elicits a wonderful collision of hips, the sound harmonizing with the hitched breath that whistles pass Keith’s teeth. “Ah, ah, ah.”

He does it again, harder, and feels Lance’s legs spasm on either side of him. Hands trail up his arms and knit around his neck, pulling them even closer; Keith goes willingly, swallowing a moan when sharp hips dip down to meet his own on the next grind.

And, okay, Lance is right. It is pretty awesome.