Sheith Hell

--

It was supposed to be an easy mission. 

The metal of Keith’s cockpit strains against the vacuum of space. The hydraulics failed half a varga ago. The barometer on the corner of his (cracked) dashboard flashes red for lack of oxygen. 

Keith lets his head loll sideways onto his shoulder. He slouches against his pilot’s chair, unable to lift his arms. The agony of his ribs, damaged when his plane collided with another fighter, has dimmed to a low thrum. He feels oddly detached—like his head’s made of cotton. 

The rubble of blasted ships floats past outside. Keith peels his eyes from the window and down to the working parts of his dashboard. Not for the first time he curses his plane’s lack of a data chip port; the only way to communicate with the Blades as an undercover agent is via microchip. 

He’s going to die out here, and the Red Lion’s location will die with him. 

But Keith doesn’t have to die alone. While he can’t contact the Blade, there’s a comms channel anyone within this quadrant can reach from almost any device. 

With numb fingers Keith fumbles around on the dashboard. It takes him a while to figure out the controls—the plane is a new model—but eventually he toggles a knob and the radio sputters to life. A few more twists and he’s found the right channel.

“—1151.4, home of Earth’s greatest hits and everyone’s favorite DJ—the legendary king of pop himself, Lance McClain, coming to you live from an undisclosed location somewhere off the coast of your wildest dreams.”

Keith groans as much as his cracked ribs will allow. This feels personal now—like the universe has a vendetta against him for some unknown indiscretion. Five DJs on Radio Altea and Keith gets stuck with his least favorite. He’d almost rather die alone to the tinny silence of his battered fighter plane than pass on to another Allura soliloquy. Lance spends more air time on his crush than the pop ballads he’s supposedly famous for.

“I’ve got a lot of great tunes lined up for you tonight—some real Earth bops—but before we get started, I figure I should give you all the chance to request a song or two. So—you long-time listeners know our number. Give us a call, and who knows! Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Get lucky. Keith has performed this song and dance over and over across the span of two years and a whole star system, and he’s never once managed to get Radio Altea on the phone. There are always too many callers, always positioned closer to the station’s receiver than the Blades.

Still. Keith never did know when to quit. 

Keith keys up Radio Altea’s number on his dash, fingers like lead where he drags them across each dial pad. He takes too long, of course. Over the radio, a starstruck alien delivers his request. As per Radio Altea policy, Keith must wait until this caller’s song wraps to phone the station. He might not have survived the lull—his vision starts to go wonky around the song’s bridge—but more than to Lance’s voice, Keith refuses to die to Britney Spears’ “Toxic.”

At last Britney’s voice fades from the radio. Keith’s hand falls limply across his dashboard’s call button. A screechy dial tone echoes through the cockpit. 

Lance’s voice lights up the silence like a firework:

“You’ve reached Radio Altea!”

But the words don’t come from Keith’s speakers.

Keith slumps back against his chair. He’d hoped so dearly that he would be allowed this one small miracle—but the torch has been passed on to someone else. Someone with a better comms connection, no doubt, who hasn’t broken Blade protocol and doomed themselves to an early grave out of sheer, mawkish stupidity.

Keith steels himself for this caller’s request, the soundtrack of his death at the whim of a stranger. But the voice that follows does not belong to a caller:

“Lance! How many times do I have to tell you—the survival of our crew hinges on the regularity and volume at which you play ‘The Sailor’s Hornpipe!’ If you do not play that song back to back before 4:08 solar time today, our chances of being captured by Galra fighters multiplies by one hundred and twenty-five percent!”

It’s Slav, the crew’s technician and resident survivalist. Keith hears Lance wrangle the mic closer to his face as he shouts, “Slav, for the last time: This channel is for callers! If you want to yell about your terrible flute music, you can call me on your comms like a normal person—during a song break!”

“I will not wait for a song break to deliver crucial information on the fate of the known universe—”

But Lance cuts off the line. 

“Sorry, listeners.” Lance’s tone brings to mind a fluffed-up house cat. “You know how Slav gets. Lucky for you all, I have our next caller’s signal on hold right... here.” There’s a click. “You’ve reached Radio Altea; what’s your request?”

Silence. Over Keith’s head, the fuel level light blips over and over. Lance clears his throat. 

“Hello? Anybody there?”

It takes Keith another long beat to register—but Lance’s voice came from his dashboard. His radio. And oh good god—after two years of trial and error, Keith has Radio Altea on the phone. He sits there about a dobosh from death, mind leagues above his body as his tongue moves without conscious permission: 

“Lance?”

“The one and only. What’s your request, stranger?”

What’s his request. Keith has known the answer for years: the song his father used to sing as he fixed them breakfast; the song Keith hums to himself when he’s tired and homesick and no one’s around to hear. He opens his mouth to say “Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5”—

And asks, “Can you put Shiro on?”

Lance snorts. 

“Shiro? Why? Am I not good enough for you or something?”

The world performs another ugly lurch. For lack of time and oxygen, Keith cuts to the chase: 

“I’m dying.”

A pause. Keith stays very still, slouched over with a too-pale hand cupped over his ribs. Lance calls to someone behind him. There’s the creak of Altea’s swivel chair. Then an all-too familiar voice floats down to Keith from the airwaves: 

“Hey. You still with us?”

Shiro. Keith must be already dead, because Shiro is on his comms. 

By some miracle Keith manages a noise of assent. 

“Good. Just hang on a little while longer, all right? We’re tracing your call.”

Keith snorts. Radio Altea could be thousands of lightyears away. What are the chances they’ll reach him before he runs out of oxygen? 

Keith closes his eyes. Shiro’s voice wraps around him like a Mylar blanket: “Are there enemy fighters nearby?”

“No,” Keith croaks. “Rest of the unit... retreated.”

“And how are you hurt?”

“Mmn.” The pain comes and goes like the flickers of an old fire. It almost takes too much strength to swallow, let alone speak. “Ribs. Cracked, maybe. Air supply’s... low.”

“Okay. Just breathe slow and steady. You can sleep if you like; it’ll conserve your remaining oxygen.” A pause. “You’re gonna be all right.”

Keith chuckles. It’s a nice thought. “Just... keep talking?”

And Shiro does. Keith’s not sure what he says, but his tone soothes his ruffled spirit. The last traces of pain wash away on a sunlight tide, and like so many nights before, Keith drifts off to the smooth timbre of Shiro’s voice. 

-

“It’s a beautiful night out, listeners. Back on my home planet... you had to train for decades to get access to a view like this. And even then there were only so many rockets to go around, and so many missions. You had to wrestle with a hundred other astronauts to even land a spot as a deckhand.” Shiro snorts. “Guess you could call me lucky, minus the amputation and constant threat of death. I’ve got a couple songs lined up for you all, and then I’ll open—oh!” He swivels his chair to get a look at Keith as he enters the room. “Hey! Keith. Good; my listeners were asking for you earlier.”

“What?” Keith stops a few feet from Shiro’s chair. “Why?”

“Well, I told everyone you were all right, but they seem to want to hear the news from the man himself.”

Shiro tilts the mic towards Keith. The reality hits Keith like a baseball bat to the frontal cortex: they’re on air. He leaps back like a rabbit caught unawares. It takes all his strength to maintain his human form; his fingernails go claw-like around his sleeves.

Shiro has the grace not to laugh.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you. You don’t have to talk.”

“’S fine.” Keith gargles. “Um…”

He steps up to the soundboard like a soldier might approach a landmine. Pidge had “shown him the ropes” his first day on the Castle Ship; if someone put a blaster to his head he could probably loop a soundbite, but the rest of her spiel flew right over his head. Keith was brought up to read star charts, not EQ levels. 

“Hey,” Keith says to the mic. “I mean, hello. Uh. Listeners. I’m alive. Obviously, I guess.” He tips the mic back towards Shiro. “Sorry.”

Shiro snorts. “Hey, you did great. You heard the man, listeners. I didn’t lie to you; we got him to a pod, and he’s all healed up. We have some errands to run, and then we’re going to drop him off with his unit.” Shiro’s finger hovers over a blue key on his computer pad. “Now let’s get back to the radio before I find an excuse to go on another tangent.” 

He keys up the next song. The chair turns. “Hey, Keith. Thanks for coming up.”

“No problem. Didn’t mean to take so long. I, uh. Got lost again.” It’s true. Keith had always pictured the home of Radio Altea as a rinky-dink trade ship. In reality, the “Castle Ship” is like a labyrinth on rocket boosters. 

Shiro rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Sorry; I would’ve come to you, but I wasn’t sure where you’d be.” 

“No problem.”

Shiro lets his hand fall back onto the armrest of his chair. Keith can’t help but follow the line of his metal fingers, bright like liquid silver under the wall lights. He pretends his own fingers don’t twitch at his sides. 

God, he’s hopeless. 

“I wanted to ask you something,” Shiro says. “But you don’t have to answer me.”

Keith shrugs. “Okay. Sure.”

“Why did you ask for me when you called the station?”

Oof. Keith winces. 

“Like I said, you don’t have to answer. It’s fine.”

“No—you can know.” Keith fiddles with the cuff of his sweater. He’d come with one uniform, so the team loaned him some clothes. “I’ve been listening to you guys for a while. And you... your schedule lined up with mine, so when I got done with training you’d be on air. It was...” 

Nice. Comforting. A fixed point in a world where his coworkers sometimes came home in pieces. A soft voice he could fall asleep to, when he was bruised and weak and his mother felt like a stranger.

“...Familiar.” 

An odd thing to say about the voice he chose to die to, maybe, but not a lie at least. Shiro looks like he wants to push—like he knows that’s not the full answer. But he doesn’t. The two hover on the edge of speech until the last song fades from Radio Altea’s computer. Shiro picks at the scraped edge of his armrest. 

“Queue’s about to run out,” he ventures. He gestures to the computer. “You never did pick a song.”

Keith clears his throat. 

“Got any Dolly Parton?”

-

Keith doesn’t ask questions—he knows when something’s above his clearance level. But he sees the tracking software; the training exercises; the meetings behind closed doors; the three locked hangars that radiate cosmic energy. 

It’s obvious that the radio station is like a side gig to these people. 

“It was Lance’s idea.” Hunk crunches on some kind of salad between words. He, Lance, Pidge, and Keith are assembled around the dining room table; Shiro and the two Alteans are away on business. “For stress relief. We found out Zarkon had overrun all the like, fun radio stations with propaganda music—”

“And then Lance wouldn’t shut up about radio pirates for a week.” Pidge flicks a pea at him. Lance glowers. “So Hunk and I worked out a long-distance transmitter.”

“And then Coran found us some kind of Altean coaxial cable. Take the Castle’s bandwidth and multiplex the comms channel, then amplify the signal with the battleship crystal...” Hunk claps his hands together. “Bam! One streamlined quadrant-wide radio broadcast.” 

Keith wonders how much of that last part he was supposed to understand. “Sounds... hard.”

Hunk makes a so-so motion with his hand. “Eh, not really. The really tricky part was masking a signal that big. Don’t want the Galra tracking us down, you know?”

Keith does know. A good Blade weaves through space with all the presence of a desert breeze. Masked signal or no, the very suggestion of a quadrant-wide radio broadcast located at the heart of their operation would give Kolivan a hernia. “You’ve really never been caught?”

“Nah. We got close once when we went to get the Gree—”

But Pidge cuts him off with an elbow to the stomach. Hunk wheezes as she says, “You know, Keith, we have that weekly Monsters and Mana broadcast coming up. You should play a side character or something!”

Keith goes bright red. Lance scoffs at her. “What, we’re letting the emo hitchhiker tag along on our fictional adventures now too?”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind him, Keith. He’s just jealous because you didn’t want to die listening to his voice.”

Lance throws up his hands. “Okay, so maybe I’m a bit hurt! Sue me. What makes me so much worse than Shiro, huh? Am I not calming enough?”

He’s risen from his chair. Hunk plonks him back down with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, bud. You’re kind of more of the—pep talk type?”

“Yeah.” Pidge nods sagely. “Great for motivation. Not so much for dying.”

Lance still looks miffed, so Keith says, “It’s more that I don’t know you as well.”

That earns him an eyebrow-quirk. 

“Right. Because you know Shiro?”

A pause. Keith’s fingers curl a little tighter around his fork. 

“No,” he acquiesces. He turns back to his lunch. “No, I guess I don’t.” 

-

“You said I was familiar...?”

Keith has become enough of a regular visitor for Shiro to rig up a second chair around the soundboard. The two sit together as the song roster ticks down, down, down. They’ll have to pick new music soon.

Keith can feel Shiro’s eyes on him; his own are locked on the floor. He works his tongue over the backs of his teeth. Twice he parts his lips, on the verge of an answer, only to clamp them closed.

At last Shiro puts him out of his misery: “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to talk ab—”

“I kind of made you my friend,” Keith tells him, mostly because he can’t stand the disappointed lilt to Shiro’s tone. “It was stupid, but I—you know. The missions were rough sometimes, and I didn’t really have anyone to talk to.” His face feels like a furnace. He pulls the last part out like a splinter: “It was... nice. To turn on the radio and pretend you were... talking to me, I guess.”

Keith grimaces. He still hasn’t looked up from the floor. 

The chair creaks as Shiro leans forward. Out of the corner of his eye Keith sees him rest his elbows on his knees. He doesn’t make to speak; Keith can’t decide whether the fact should calm or concern him.

The last song of the queue pops up; something upbeat and old—older than Taylor Swift, even. The room changes somehow. The atmosphere becomes warmer—lighter on Keith’s shoulders. There’s another creak from the chair. Shiro’s boots enter Keith’s line of vision.

Keith looks up. Shiro smiles, and his eyes reflect the glow of the wall lights. He holds out his hand; there’s a playful edge to his voice as he asks, “Dance?”

Keith baulks. His heart tumbles down a flight of stairs and lands somewhere at the soles of his shoes. “I, uh,” he says, at a loss. “I don’t know how.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “You can fight, can’t you? Hand to hand.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then you can dance. Come on, I’ll lead.”

Keith stays paralyzed for another long moment. Then his motor functions sprout to life, and he reaches out to grasp Shiro’s hand. It’s the flesh one. 

Shiro hefts Keith up out of his chair. “I’m gonna put my hand on your waist,” he warns. It’s voiced like a question, and Keith bobs his head once. Then there’s a weight on Keith’s side, smooth and cold—the polar opposite of Shiro’s left hand. The song reaches the first chorus line, and they’re off.

At first, Keith steps like he’s afraid to activate a tripwire. But Shiro doesn’t let Keith tread on his feet, and soon he gains confidence. The footwork comes to him like muscle memory; he’s dueled with enough aliens to know how to anticipate Shiro’s movements. Together the two weave a path across the room. 

They carry on at a casual pace for a while. Then the song picks up. The grin widens on Shiro’s face. He moves to grasp both Keith’s hands, and Keith’s world blurs as they enter a kind of pretzel twirl. Shiro laughs; Keith’s heart soars. They lose track of each other’s hands between spins. The two fumble around for each other. Skin brushes skin, and then they slot back together like magnets. Shiro’s hands—both flesh and metal—are solid and sure around Keith’s. 

“See?” Shiro says. “Easy.”

Keith can’t remember the last time he felt this free. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Gym. We had a unit, and then I liked it enough to follow up on it with some studio classes.” Keith’s not sure what most of that means, but when Shiro treats him to another spin, he forgets to care. “Moved on to other things after a while—not a lot of room to practice swing dancing when you’re studying for your FAA test, you know...”

“Looks like you retained a move or two.”

As though to prove the point, Shiro pushes Keith forward, turns him around, then yanks him back towards his chest. The two resume their original position, flesh hands clasped together with Shiro’s metal palm on Keith’s hip. The music goes faster and faster. Keith and Shiro orbit around each other, two suns crackling with joy, scorching circles into the air with the clap of their feet. 

Then the song starts to ebb. The tempo winds down. The static charge leaves the air. Like an unplugged record, Keith and Shiro turn once, twice, then ease to a stop. 

Both their chests heave. Keith swipes the bangs out of his eyes. It’s a small thing, but he can see the light leave Shiro’s eyes, bit by bit. The smile on his face takes on a strained edge. 

Back at the soundboard, silence permeates the airwaves.

Keith can count on one hand the times he’s gotten dead air on Radio Altea. It’s common not to hear from the hosts for days at a time—but they always have a backup queue at the ready. Always.

Now there’s nothing. Just radio silence as Shiro stares at Keith, and Keith stares at Shiro. Keith’s heart runs laps around his ribcage. 

Shiro’s flesh fingers twitch between Keith’s. It’s like an electric shock. Keith starts. He steps back, and their fingers disentangle. 

Shiro’s tense smile has become something small and sad. 

“Keith,” he says—so softly, as though not to startle him. “I don’t know what you think you heard. What you think you know. But the person you’ve been listening to on the radio... that’s not me.”

Keith doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. A muscle in Shiro’s neck moves, like he has to force the words out of his throat:

“I know a lot of people turn to this station for hope, so I do my best to honor that expectation. To stay composed. Keep the tone light.” His right hand quivers, and he bunches up his metal fingers. “But honestly? I barely sleep at night. I get nightmares. Flashbacks. That’s why I take the night shift. I’m... scared and I’m so tired and I’m...” He drags his flesh hand over his face. The shadows under his eyes seem darker than before. “I’m not okay, Keith. That person you became friends with—I can’t be that for you. He’s not real.”

Keith’s throat clicks. Heat builds behind his eyes—because for all the hours he’s lain awake and listened to Shiro’s voice, he’s never heard him sound so lost. 

It’s enough to steel his resolve. He gathers up his courage, balls up his fists, and takes a step towards Shiro.

He holds out his hand.

Shiro blinks. He stares at Keith’s hand, eyes wide as a baby owl’s.

Before he can ask, Keith says, “You’re right. This whole time... I never knew the real you. But I want to. So I’m gonna wipe the slate clean and start over, with no preconceptions.” He raises his hand higher for emphasis. “My name’s Keith. I’m a fighter pilot. I like dogs and hippos and I was born in Arizona. And I can’t tell you much more than that for confidentiality reasons.”

There’s a long pause. Overhead, a fan turns on. Then the confused slant to Shiro’s mouth starts to perk up at the corners. He reaches over, almost shyly. For what could be called the first real time that night, Shiro wraps his hand around Keith’s.

The two shake hands. 

“Hello, Keith.” Shiro’s eyes twinkle. “My name’s Takashi, but my friends call me Shiro. I love to fly. I was born in Japan, but my family moved to the States when I was eight. I really miss Kraft mac and cheese. And I can’t tell you much more than that for confidentiality reasons.” He looks down to where his prosthetic hand meets Keith’s. “Also, I was held captive by the Galra Empire for nine months. It’s... a lot, sometimes.” 

Keith offers Shiro his own small smile. They still haven’t let go of each other’s hands. “Nice to meet you, Shiro.”

Shiro beams. He looks at Keith—really looks at him—and Keith’s heart melts.

They stand like that for a second or a day, hands clasped as though to seal a pact. Shiro opens his mouth—

—And the Castle alarm goes off. 

-

By the time Keith was rescued by Radio Altea, he’d been undercover for the Blades for five phoebs. He’d taken up residence amongst a crew of hybrid loyalists and, as per Kolivan’s pleas, done his damnedest to keep his head down. Keith’s directive was simple: follow his Galra unit. Keep his eyes and ears open for the location of the Green, Blue, Red and Black Lions. Report back with any leads. 

And of course, as always—put the mission first. 

Keith had failed to follow that rule then, and as a Galra commander brings a laser blade up to Pidge’s windpipe, he fails to do so now. There’s a great clatter as he and the rest of Radio Altea drop their weapons. 

It was useless anyway. The Castle had been stormed from all sides; their particle barrier could only hold out for so long against a whole fleet, and once the Galra had boarded the Castle—well. Advanced weaponry or not, the eight of them hadn’t stood a chance.

“I warned you this would happen,” Slav bemoans. 

The team pays him no mind. They put up their hands. The Galra commander loosens his grip around the knife at Pidge’s throat, but doesn’t make to step away. 

“Radio Altea,” he greets. Blood flows freely from a cut on his arm, courtesy of Shiro’s prosthetic. “You put up quite a fight for a team of amateurs.”

The hosts don’t dare retaliate. The commander bobs his head, and several officers peel from his ranks. Claws wrench Keith’s arms behind his back. Allura all but snarls as she’s restrained. Shiro flashes her a panicked look—like he knows better than to struggle—and Keith’s heart cracks right down the middle. 

The commander wisely keeps his blade over Pidge’s carotid until the eight of them have been neutralized. Mission accomplished, he pushes Pidge away from his knife. Keith catches her pained glance as she’s wrangled by another soldier; he hears the apology as though she’s spoken aloud.

“Now then,” the commander drawls. “What to do with you all. I know Zarkon will want you alive, but I’m sure we can have some fun before we get back to base...” He scans their lineup. Keith feels like a dish at a buffet table. “Hmm. How about—”

“Yorak?”

The world falls out from under Keith’s feet. 

Horket.

A figure shoulders their way through the crowd, and Keith spasms under his captor’s hands: “By Harkarah! It’s you! You’re alive!”

The commander’s brow furrows. He gestures to Keith with his knife. “You know this human?”

“Oh, he’s not human!” Horket claps his giant hand on Keith’s shoulder, and Keith wishes the floor would swallow him up. “Go on, Yorak; show him!”

Keith doesn’t have much of a choice. He lets his fingernails grow out. His eyesight sharpens as his sclera yellow and his pupils thin. His skin darkens to a cool purple.

Keith can feel his friends’ eyes on him as the dust settles. He refuses to turn to them. He knows what he’ll see on their faces.

Horket makes a gesture like a magician before a completed trick. “See? He’s from our unit. Lost track of him during a dogfight about... what, a phoeb ago now?” The soldiers have stepped away from Keith’s sides, and Horket grasps him by both shoulders. “What happened to you, Yorak? What’re you doing here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Keith snarls, because he could really use some suggestions. 

Horket frowns. “Well, looks to me like you’ve been getting all buddy-buddy with some of this quadrant’s toughest criminals...” 

Keith’s mind flashes to the station’s latest on-air contest, where callers were invited to guess how many “space marshmallows” Lance could fit in his mouth at once. 

Toughest criminals for sure. 

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” There’s an edge of suspicion to Horket’s tone now. 

Keith decides to take a risk. He throws up his hands. “Fine! I’m undercover, you moron! Or at least I was until you yelled out my name and made me change like that!”

“Underc—why?”

Keith is laying railroad tracks down about a foot in front of a speeding locomotive: “You said it yourself! These guys are this quadrant’s toughest criminals. They’ve been broadcasting rebel propaganda for a year now, with quadrant-wide reception.” He fixes Horket with his best Galra glower. “They should be like a light show on our radar, but we still couldn’t catch them until now. Can you imagine what the empire could do with their masking technology? I was gathering intel.”

Shocked silence follows Keith’s outburst. The Galra soldiers don’t seem to know what to make of his story. There’s a tiny, broken noise from the radio crew, weak enough that Keith knows he wouldn’t have been able to hear it outside his Galra form. 

Shiro. Keith wrestles down the urge to cry. 

Horket purses his lips. “I mean. You could’ve just interrogated them. Would’ve been a lot faster.”

“Sure, because I could take on seven fighters by myself.” Keith crosses his arms. “Look, they picked me up after the dogfight. I was wounded. I was making the best out of a bad situation.”

The commander narrows his eyes. “And did you learn anything useful?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Like how they mask their signal.”

Hell no. “Absolutely.”

The commander gives what Zarkon might call a smile. “Well, then.” He points his squadron back to the Castle entryway, where they’ve strung a bridge from one ship to the other. “Everyone back to their posts. Escort our guests to the hold; feel free to rough them up a little on the way.” He turns to Keith. There are protests and dragged boots as the radio crew are bundled towards the door. “Half-breed. Yorak, was it? Why don’t you show me to your... mm.” He snaps his fingers as he searches for the right word. “Recording booth, I suppose?”

Keith has to pry apart his gritted teeth. He turns on his heel, away from Shiro and his friends. “Sure. This way.”

Footsteps sound against the marble floor. The commander calls back to the crowd of soldiers: “Sloak, Kaut, come with us. Let’s find out how these rebels operate, shall we?”

-

Keith is covered in blood, and only some of it is his own. The metal bridge creaks under his boots as he crosses between the Castle and the main Galra warship.

A soldier passes Keith on his way to the lower levels. He’s dead before he hits the ground.

Keith has undergone enough stealth missions on Galra ships to recognize the layout of your average battle cruiser. His avoidance of high-traffic areas makes the trip longer than he’d prefer, but he’d rather get to the hold slowly than not at all.

At last Keith enters a long, dark hallway. Two cyber-soldiers guard a metal door; they raise their weapons as Keith approaches, but he’s too angry to entertain any further delays. Within seconds the guards are diced husks on the floor. Unhindered now, Keith claps his hand onto the lock pad outside the cell door.

The door slides open, and a slice of light sweeps across the cell. The radio hosts (along with their resident mechanic) are gathered at the very back of the hold. Several scramble to their feet. Lance raises his hand to shield his eyes from the hallway light.

“You need to run,” Keith announces without preamble. He moves to step out of the doorway. “We haven’t got a lot of—”

Shiro sounds dazed: “Keith?” 

“You mean Yorak,” Lance seethes. “You know, I thought your plane looked like a Galra cruiser, and nobody took me seriously—” He stops as he registers Keith’s appearance. “Is that blood?”

“I killed the commander,” Keith says. The words are punctuated by an ominous pitter-patter as blood beads off his shirt. “And the two officers. Once we got to the control room. Then I sent out a distress call over the radio, on loop. We need to get out of here before anyone comes to help—”

“And we should believe you because?”

Keith gestures to his bloody torso. “Why else would I be here? How would any of this benefit me?”

Allura’s glare cuts across the cell. “Why would you help us when you work for the Galra?”

“I don’t,” Keith pleads. “Or, I’m not from the Empire. I work with a rebel organization called the Blade of Marmora. I was undercover with the Galra—”

Hunk cuts him off: “Of course you were.”

“Dammit, I’m serious! I was looking for the Red Lion, and then we got drawn into a battle with a rebel group—and I couldn’t bring myself to fire on them, so I got shot down. That’s why you found me in a Galra ship. That’s why that soldier recognized me.” His voice cracks as he finishes: “I am not from the Empire.”

For what feels like an eternity Keith’s friends stay huddled at the back of the cell. Keith waits at the entryway, fingers wrenched around the doorframe for dear life. 

Then an explosion rocks the ship.

Alarms blare. A terrible, guttural sound erupts up from the bowels of the battleship—the scream of punctured metal. The floor bucks with the force of a second blast, and Keith loses his balance. He topples sideways—

Only to be caught by Shiro’s arms. 

“Everyone, let’s move!” Shiro snaps. Keith has less than a second to recover from the shock of his touch: Allura gives her consent from the back of the cell, and then Shiro’s weight disappears from Keith’s side. As one, the group piles out of the cell. At Keith’s direction they turn towards the far end of the corridor—but as they run, a herd of guards barrel around the corner.

Keith shoves his way to the front of the assembly. 

“There’s an airlock back there,” he shouts over the alarm. He points to a spot along the far wall. “Your suits have boosters, right? I’ll hold them off while you run.”

The team looks torn. Shiro raises his prosthetic, and the hand glows to life like a star. “Go on,” he says. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“You’d better be,” Allura warns. She turns on her heel and ushers the rest of the crew down the hall. Keith doesn’t have time to question Shiro’s decision to stay behind. The guards are on top of them like the crest of a wave. 

If you can fight, you can dance. Turns out the maxim goes both ways. 

There are seven guards; two patrols. It should be a hard fight. But Keith and Shiro are an army unto themselves. They kick and twirl and slash, a wall of hellfire where they push the soldiers back, back, backwards down the hall. It feels routine, almost. Like they were built for this. 

Familiar, Keith had said. He ducks to let Shiro swipe over his head. Shiro swivels to give Keith access to a Galra at his back. It’s all so right that even as Keith fights for his life, he feels at peace.

In what seems like no time at all they’ve cut down the last of their assailants. 

In the aftershocks of another laser blast, Keith whirls on Shiro.

“I’m so sorry,” he pants. “Shiro—I swear. I didn’t mean any of that back there. It wasn’t real. I’m not—I’m not Yorak. I’m—”

“I know.” Shiro shouldn’t be able to look so soft and sweet with robot-guts spattered across his cheek. “You’re Keith. I know. I believe you.” 

“Okay,” Keith says, and he must sound as anguished as he feels, because Shiro reaches out and laces their fingers together. He squeezes and asks over the alarms,

“Did you ever find the Red Lion?”

Keith struggles to make sense of the non sequitur. “Uh. Yes. Actually.”

Shiro laughs. They’re on a Galra cruiser, about to be blown to smithereens by their allies, and Shiro laughs. “This is just too perfect,” he rasps. 

“What do you mean?”

“We know where the Green Lion is, and we have Blue, Yellow and Black already.” Shiro looks like a kid on a carnival ride. “The Red Lion was the last one we had to find!”

Keith’s mind flashes back to the secret hangars full of strange energy. He registers the words as though they come from someone else’s mouth: “Oh my god. You’re...” 

Shiro beams at him. “Welcome to Team Voltron.”

-

Somewhere in the depths of space, a radio station sputters back to life. “The Sailor’s Hornpipe” plays back to back—solemnly, like a belated apology. 

Keith always does—that’s the problem. “Sure.” He makes room on the bench. Shiro emerges from the shadows, white and prim as a calla lily in his formal attire. He takes the spot on the bench beside Keith. His fingers find his coat; he loosens his collar.

Shiro seems to sense Keith isn’t in the mood for conversation. He’s always been aware like that—even before the arena, where his survival hinged on his ability to recognize the enemy’s barest shift of posture; speed; tone. When his opponent would lash out at him, and how. Which guards he could ask for first aid. He’d confessed the particulars to Keith one lonely night back on the Castle. Keith wonders what Shiro must see in him now, with that heightened awareness. Can he read the way his hands curl in his lap? The way his breath comes soft and shallow, like he’s afraid to disturb something sleeping in his chest?

Whatever Shiro gathers he keeps to himself. The bench creaks as he leans back. Keith gets the sense they’re both looking at the same thing: the vacant patch of grass where the Lions once sat.

After a long silence Shiro clears his throat. Keith braces himself. He can hear the words before they’re formed: Why wouldn’t you look at me at dinner? Why did you go off on your own? Why are you still out here after dark?

“Do you ever feel them?” Shiro asks instead.

For a long moment Keith can’t make sense of the question, so thrown off by Shiro’s trajectory. He backpedals and recalls their immediate surroundings. Of course; the Lions.

“Sometimes I think I hear whispers,” Keith concedes. He crosses one foot over the other. “Or maybe that’s not the right word. It’s like something’s brushing up against my mind. And I think—it could be Red. Or deja vu. I can’t tell.”

Keith can almost hear the eyebrow-raise in Shiro’s tone: “Red? Not Black?”

Keith shrugs. “Black and I were never that close.”

“You unlocked her teleportation power. I’d say that makes you pretty close.” Shiro sounds like he’s on the edge of a chuckle—like they’re back at Garrison, and Keith’s a raggedy cadet who doesn’t know how to take a compliment. But Keith not some stupid kid anymore, and he needs Shiro to understand.

“It wasn’t like that,” Keith presses. “We did what we had to do, because you asked me to or because you weren’t there. We didn’t fit like Red and I did.” He pauses. “I don’t think we would’ve worked at all. At least not at first. But we had…you in common. And that was enough.”

Keith dares to turn to Shiro. He hasn’t had the stomach to really look at him since that glimpse on the landing pad; Keith can’t see the light behind his eyes and pretend he’s not still head over heels.  

Those eyes—warm brown now, not grey—are full of confusion now. Keith doesn’t know what’s there to misunderstand. He flew Black for Shiro. Black let him because they shared a common goal: to keep the team safe. To keep Shiro safe.

“Keith,” Shiro begins. He’s braced to continue, but then something odd comes down over his face. Suspicion, maybe. Keith’s about to ask him what’s wrong when he feels a prick at the back of his neck. He reaches back to scratch the skin and brushes up against—

Shit.

“Shiro,” Keith warns. Already his voice feels cottony—distant like it’s coming out of someone else’s mouth. He reaches for the handle of the bench; his fingers slide right off the metal. Shiro, with his larger muscle mass, has a bit more time to react. He uses the last of his strength to call for help. His voice is slurred and far too weak to pass the central square.

The last thing Keith sees before he passes out is Shiro’s left hand, straining to catch Keith as he crumples.

He’s not wearing a wedding ring.  

Keith wakes to white walls and a nasty kink in his neck.

He groans. The zipper of his coat is digging into his ribs. The lights overhead stain dots into his retinas; he squints up against the glare, then lolls his head to one side. His eyes find Shiro, still unconscious where he lies curled on the stone floor.

“Shiro,” Keith manages. His mouth feels dry and fuzzy. He lurches up against the floor and drags himself to his side. “Shiro.”

Keith sees the moment Shiro wakes, but only because he knows what to look for. It’s a minute thing: a strain of muscle. The way his lashes flutter against his cheek, like he has to work to keep his eyes closed. The barest hiss of breath.

It’s another habit picked up from the cells. The Galra guards were less likely to lash out at sleeping prisoners. Keith wishes he could say Shiro’s fears are unfounded, but given the circumstances they’re all too applicable.

Keith leans down. He presses his forehead to Shiro’s shoulder—an excuse to speak to him under the guise of a relieved gesture.

“We’re in some kind of cellar,” he murmurs. The air tastes like dust and things that live underground. “There aren’t any windows. There’s a steel door on one side.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can make out a familiar black sphere. “And an old camera in one corner.”

Shiro breathes out, barely enough to shift his chest. “They may give us more time if they think I’m asleep.” The words are practically spoken into the floor.

Keith takes stock of the situation. Shiro’s right; they don’t know their captor’s intentions. It would be wise to delay their meeting for as long as possible.

So Keith squares his shoulders. He lifts his head slowly, then scoots closer to Shiro on the floor. He crosses his legs.

Time passes. Besides the static whine of an empty room, there’s no sound. Keith’s limbs are sluggish; he feels his neck for the nick where the dart got him. He thinks he puzzles out a hole, but he’s not sure. He wonders how long he’ll have to wait before he gets his strength back. In his current state he estimates he could take out your average civilian, but trained fighters would pose a serious threat. Keith grimaces. He’s confident they’ll make it out of here—they’ve survived far worse situations—but he’s furious to have let them both be captured so easily.

Keith hears footsteps far sooner than he’d like. His muscles almost feel weaker after a long rest. Beside him, Shiro stirs on the floor.

“Lubos,” Shiro whispers.

Keith’s mind flashes to Olkarion. He grunts an affirmative. He didn’t think the situation was bad enough to warrant a reaction like that one, but he trusts Shiro. There’s always something to be said for the element of surprise.

Keith winds himself up in anticipation, like a lioness shifting her hackles before the pounce. Shiro moves his hand ever so slightly, to provide leverage in hoisting himself up from the floor. The footsteps grow louder, then stop once they reach the other side of the door—there are several sets. Four, Keith guesses. Maybe more.

This is going to be difficult.  

Shiro’s fingers dig into the floor.

Ready? he almost hears.

Keith lets out a long breath. Ready.

Someone mumbles a password. The steel door opens. Keith lunges to his feet; Shiro is a blur of motion at his side. In an instant Keith connects with the alien at the head of the assembly. He ducks, driving an elbow into their stomach. The alien has time to choke on a gasp before Keith’s arm clamps around their windpipe.

“Stay back,” Keith warns, as he drags his victim backwards. Shiro has cleared a path for him, a second captor unconscious at his feet. Keith doesn’t have time to take stock of Shiro’s physical state, but his own legs have begun to quake with strain. He prays his enemy’s eyes will stay on their captured comrade’s face. “I’m not like the rest of Voltron. I don’t have their kind of reservations…”

To drive the point hope, Keith clenches his arm tighter around his victim’s neck. The alien gurgles.

Another alien tilts their neck. With three eyes and an elongated gray form, they radiate a kind of sinister aloofness.

“Please, Paladins,” they say, like Keith doesn’t have their companion by the throat. “I’d rather not do this the hard way.”

“You haven’t given us much of a choice,” Shiro growls. A post-war update left his prosthetic weaponless, but as a blunt instrument it still holds potential. Shiro raises it in a way that says he’s comfortable smashing in some faces.

The alien isn’t moved. “You may kill them,” they say. “In fact, you may kill all of us. I won’t stop you.” Under Keith’s arm, the alien scrambles for purchase. “However, before you proceed—I’d like to bring something to your attention.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. The alien takes his silence for permission: “Tell me, Shiro. You stand strong and proud; our tranquilizer has long since worn off. So why, pray tell, are your friends’ legs shaking?”

Keith’s stomach drops. He feels Shiro’s gaze fall to his feet—back up his body to track the hitch of his arm.

The alien continues: “It seems to me, given his lighter stature, your friend should have recovered from the sedative faster than you, not slower.”

Shiro’s voice is dangerous in a way Keith’s never heard before. The words grate across Keith’s skin:

“What did you do to him.”

The alien either doesn’t recognize the mortal danger they’re in or elects to ignore it. “His dart contained a slow-acting poison as well as a sedative. You may choose to dispatch of us, but our doors are voice-activated and three venks thick. It is highly unlikely you will reach the surface in time to resuscitate him.”

“And you have the antidote.”

“Clearly.”

Shiro grits his teeth. For a long moment he does nothing; Keith watches as a muscle jumps in his upper arm. Then he lowers his prosthetic.

“What do you want.”

Keith’s grip loosens around the alien’s neck. “Shiro. They’re bluffing.”

“We don’t know that.”

“They could’ve pretended to say a password earlier. There’s no way these people could afford that kind of security when they couldn’t even manage a good security camera—”

“I’m not taking that risk.”

Keith stiffens. Shiro’s eyes are hard and bright. They’ve been otherworldly since his return from the astral plane, shifting day by day in tiny, impossible increments, and now they’re burning like molten crystal.

“What do you want?” Shiro repeats. “The war is over. I’ve retired—Keith works with the relief effort. What could you possibly have to gain from us?”

“The location of the Voltron Lions, of course.”

‘Of course’ indeed. Keith resists the urge to groan. “We don’t know where they are,” he snaps. “They took off one night and no one’s seen them since.”

He surprises himself by the hurt in his tone. It’s the second time today he’s been confronted with their severed bonds. It’s an uncomfortable reality—that after years of soul-deep contact, the Lions have elected to shut their Paladins out forever.

The war is over, so we hardly need each other anymore. The same applies to the Paladins. There’s a reason they only meet up once a year. What were they all, when they weren’t necessary to each other’s survival? Certainly not a family. Maybe not even close friends.

The alien takes some time to ponder Keith’s answer. Finally they turn to Shiro. “It seems your friend has chosen the path of martyrdom. Will you let him die?”

“Keith’s telling the truth.” Shiro has lowered his walls enough to broadcast his authenticity—enough for some desperation to peek through the cracks. “The Lions woke us up one night and flew away. The war ended, and we didn’t need them anymore, so they left and they didn’t tell us where they went.”

“We’ll see,” the alien sighs. By now Keith’s arm has slipped from their friend’s neck; they clutch at their throat and stagger away. “I estimate you have another varga or so before the poison stops his heart. It will be a painful death.”

“For fuck’s sake—what do I have to do to convince you I’m not lying?” Shiro’s hands are fists at his sides. The alien he knocked out stirs on the floor. “Scan my mind, put me in a suspension chamber, torture me—I don’t care. I’m telling you, I don’t know where they are.”

Keith’s heart lurches. “Shiro—”

“One varga,” the alien reminds them. The door slides open; the assembly forms a loose procession and makes to leave. One goes to collect the alien on the floor. “You may want to act sooner rather than later.”

Shiro looks like he has some choice words to share with the lot of them, but knows they’ll fall on deaf ears. His glare follows them like a spectre as they go to collect their fallen colleague. They enter the hall; an alien murmurs the same password as before, and the door glides closed behind them.

The two once-Paladins are left alone.

Keith’s legs are barely dry twigs under his weight. He moves to sit down before they can crumple. The cold seeps up from the floor, right through his clothes. Goose-pimples rise on his arms.  

“Shiro,” Keith says lowly. He lets the name sit for a while, then continues: “If you ever try to offer yourself up like that again, like you’d somehow be doing me a favor—”

“They let us see their faces,” Shiro says dully. “They don’t plan on letting us live.”

“Yeah, maybe, but—”

“It’s probably for the best they don’t believe us; if they really thought we had nothing to offer they’d kill us straight away. Our best shot it to stall as long as possible—“

“Shiro.”

Shiro looks at him then—really looks at him, and those eyes are back to how Keith remembers, full of light and a billion questions. Keith props his hands on his knees and leans forward.

“Don’t,” he repeats, voice steely, “you ever. Try to sacrifice yourself for me like that again. Understand?”

Shiro stands stock still. He seems to analyze Keith’s tone, and he frowns. Out of the blue, Keith registers the fact that he’s still wearing his white formal coat and shirt. It feels ridiculous, given the situation. At least the last time they were taken prisoner they were dressed for the occasion.

Whether because Shiro follows his gaze or by coincidence, Shiro rolls up his coat sleeves. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and sips a deep breath in through his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs at last. He sounds like he means it.

Keith deflates a little where he sits. He reaches down and closes his hand around his ankle; he can feel himself shaking.

“What time do you think it is?” he asks.

Shiro looks away. “Hard to say. If these guys are anywhere near smart they’d have moved us across town at least. To load us into a pod or shuttle, then transport us here…I’d guess we were out for a couple hours.” He pinches the lining of one pocket. “Keith.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you in any pain?”

“A little,” Keith admits, because Shiro would call his bluff otherwise. “I’ve got a headache. And it’s like…something’s pressing down on my chest.”

Shiro does turn to him then. He speaks the words like he has to force them out: “You have to tell me when it gets bad so I can call them in.”

“You know I have to hold out longer than that,” Keith protests, quiet but firm. “They probably don’t even have an antidote.”

A distraught expression flickers across Shiro’s face, gone before Keith can blink and replaced with that determined mask. He crosses to Keith, sitting before him on the floor. He places his hand over Keith’s on his ankle.

“It doesn’t matter,” he assures him, squeezing lightly. Keith represses a shudder. “When I left, I told Pidge I’d be back once I found you. They’ll come looking for us.”

Keith doesn’t have the strength to disagree. His eyes find Shiro’s hand where it rests atop his. He studies the lines of his naked ring finger.

He almost asks.

Time starts to slip after that.

The drug advances slowly at first, then gains traction. The pain creeps out from the center of Keith’s chest, a thousand matches burning him up from the inside. At some point he finds himself coiled on the floor, only dimly aware of his own limbs as he rakes at his chest. Hands reach out to capture his wrists, but Keith wrenches away.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasps. He’s conscious enough to feel ashamed as tears prick his eyes. “Would you just stay the fuck away from me!”

He swears he can feel Shiro recoil. His shock and hurt radiate through Keith’s body. Keith curls away from the barrage. He fists his hands over his ears like he can block Shiro out—squeezes his eyes shut.

“Every time I leave,” he chokes out. The tears catch on his chin. “Every goddamn time I think I’ve moved on—” Pain rips up his chest, and he chokes on a breath. “Dammit. God dammit, you pull me right back in. I’m so fucking tired…” He digs clutches the skin around his ear. “I’m so fucking tired! Why won’t you just get out of my head!”

Static, white hot and buzzing like a mass of New Altea insects. The ghost of Shiro’s voice penetrates the deluge, but Keith can’t make out the words. His fingers are Galran claws; he can feel blood under the nails where he drives them into his temples. Shiro’s voice gets louder and louder. He sounds hoarse—wrecked—as he calls to their captors:

Help please you have to help him please he’s going to die you have to do something I’ll tell you whatever you want please youcan’tdothisyoucan’tIcan’tlosehimplease—

Somewhere, a droplet strikes the crystal surface of a lake.

Keith is standing somewhere empty and endlessly vast. It’s dark as space in all directions. He has on his casual getup; a red hoodie with black jeans. The kind of thing he wears around the house whenever the Blade forces him to take a shore leave.

It’s totally still. Keith raises one hand. He shakes his fingers. He feels no resistance; no brush of air against his skin. This place has no atmosphere.

Keith stills his motions. He lowers his hand.

In the absence of any outside stimuli, Keith is acutely aware of his bodily functions. He feels his veins pulsate with the beat of his heart, from his neck down to his toes. His lungs expand, stirring his chest and shoulders, then deflate. His bangs tickle the skin of his face. Keith lets out a deep breath, and the air brushes his lower lip.

Is he dead? Keith’s hands wander up to his chest. He feels around, like he expects to find blood or singed skin. Nothing.

It occurs to Keith that he should feel frightened, but something about this darkness comforts him. He reaches to the back of his mind out of habit, and shocks himself when he knocks against a familiar presence.

Keith’s voice cracks around the word:

“Red?”

“Keith. Come on. Come on. Come back to me…”

Keith stirs. The pain returns with his awareness, but only as a pale echo. He stiffens, then winces at the soreness of his limbs. There are arms around him, cradling him to a warm chest. He feels more than hears someone’s breath hitch.

“There you are. Thank god. Thank god…”

“Shiro?” Keith slurs out. His tongue is as leaden as his body. He forces his eyes open; his first sight is the texture of Shiro’s shirt where he’s turned against his chest. Keith tilts his chin enough to see Shiro’s face; He’s in shadow where he’s bent over him, haloed by the overhead lights. Keith can make out a shaky smile on his face.

“Back with us?” he prompts gently.  

Keith grimaces. “The hell…happened?”

A watery chuckle.

“You were drugged, buddy.”

“Right…” Keith takes stock of the situation. He’s bone-tired, but the haze of pain has lifted. He can feel the cool press of Shiro’s prosthetic where his hand braces his shoulder. He’s curled over Shiro’s lap, supported by the crook of his flesh arm. Keith allows himself to slump against Shiro’s chest—to surrender to the pull of Shiro’s presence. Under the musk of the underground he smells like sun-baked cloth.

“We’re not dead,” Keith observes.

“No.”

“Did I…” Keith’s brow furrows. “What did I say to you?”

Keith swears Shiro’s fingers tense on his shoulder. “What? When?”

“Don’t play dumb. When I was under. I can’t remember now, but I know I said something stupid.”

Keith doesn’t know why, but the arm under his head starts to shift. He can tell Shiro means to move away. On their own volition Keith’s fingers fist around the fabric of Shiro’s shirt.

Shiro looks up. Keith stares back, pinned by his gaze. He flounders, shocked by his own transparency.

“Sorry,” he chokes out.

“It’s okay.” Shiro’s arm resettles beneath his head. “I just figured you’d want some space.”

“No, it’s…fine.” He hates that he needs this right now, but he’s not strong enough to resist the comfort of Shiro’s touch. “Did you uh. Tell them?”

“Yes.” Shiro turns his head, and for the first time Keith registers a third presence in the room. “Though they weren’t exactly satisfied with my answer.”

The alien from before meets Keith’s eyes, posture ramrod straight where they sit poised on a small metal stool against the other wall. “We decided it would be wise to cross-check your friend’s answer,” they explain. “I’m here to make sure he doesn’t tell you what he told me. I estimate you have a few more minutes before any symptoms manifest.”

Keith’s blood runs cold. The world beyond him, Shiro and the alien falls away.

Horror grips him by the throat and squeezes.

“You—”

“You may continue to stall as long as you like,” the alien steamrolls on, unbothered. “But now that you’re acquainted with the effects of our poison, I doubt you’ll want to dawdle. Tell me where the Lions are, and if your answer matches your friend’s, I’ll administer the antidote and let you both go.”

“Like hell you will,” Keith snarled. The terror has given way to rage. His limbs are too heavy to move, but he makes sure he’s turned towards the alien when his pupils narrow to Galra slits. “You’re not going to let us live after we’ve seen your faces.”

“You presume we care whether we are recognized by the authorities.” The alien gesture vaguely with their hand. “No matter. Leave your friend to die or confess the location of the Lions, whatever you believe. It’s your choice.”

Keith clamps his teeth together tight enough to hurt. He registers the tiny tick of Shiro’s metal finger—the barest brush against his shoulder.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Right. Time to stall.

“Our friends will find you,” Keith warns. He struggles to divide his attention between the alien’s bored eyes and the rhythm of Shiro’s finger. “They’ll have noticed we’re gone by now.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Short tap. Long tap. Short tap. “But they have little hope of finding you, Paladin. We built our facility several teraths beneath a common shed. There’s no evidence to suggest a place like this even exists.”

Tap-tap.

Keith scoffs. “You don’t think Voltron has technology that can scan for this kind of hideout?”

Short tap. Two long taps. One short tap.

“That requires your Paladin friends to know what to look for. I estimate we have several vargas at least before they uncover the entrance, and by then we’ll have finished our business.”

Shiro starts the next letter, but Keith lifts one leaden hand to still Shiro’s finger. He can finish the word for him.

--- .-. .. .- -.

‘Orian.’ Oriande.

It’s as good a place as any to tell the enemy. A holy place made for Alteans, ripe with ancient magic, would seem like the perfect Lion destination—at least to someone whose knowledge of Oriande was restricted to soldiers’ recounts of the ‘ten millennium war.’

Keith doesn’t plan on giving the alien their answer. But at least he has the option.

He returns his gaze to Shiro. It’s unusual to see him from his angle, wrapped up against his chest. Looking up at him, Keith is reminded just how broad he is. It’s such a stupid thought to be having in the middle of a hostage situation that Keith has to stifle a laugh. Perhaps he’s on the verge of hysterics.

“Are you feeling okay?” he begins, once he’s mustered up the scraps of his sanity.

Shiro lets out a breath. “Fine so far. Just—weak.”

“How long since they…?”

“Only a couple minutes.”

“Good,” Keith says. “Then we have some time.”

Keith swears he feels Shiro’s heartbeat quicken where his head rests against his chest.  “Keith, listen,” Shiro says. His voice is a low rumble. “I want you to hold off as long as you can before giving them your answer.”

“Shiro—”

“No, Keith. You said it yourself; they have no reason to keep us alive once we’ve given them what they want. We need to take our time with this one.” His eyes are steely. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “This isn’t about me giving myself up. This is about both of us getting out of here alive. All right?”

Keith grits his teeth. The two stare each other down.

Keith won’t put Shiro through hell like that. He won’t stand by and let him hurt when there’s an antidote right there.

But—

“Fine.”

He’ll at least give him his word. Because Shiro’s right. This is their best bet. They can’t count on the aliens to keep them alive; they have to stall long enough for the Paladins to find them, or for…

Keith’s eyes widen.

Red.

The memory hits Keith like a train. He sees that dark place; feels the cool air wrapped around his body. He opens his mouth, but Shiro beats him to the punch:

“I want to say something while I’m still…cognizant.” His grip shifts on Keith’s shoulder. “You may have, uh. Noticed the lack of ring?”

Keith blinks. “Um. Yeah. But—”

“I got divorced,” Shiro explains, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Oh.”

“About six months ago.”

Keith wrangles the words out of his throat, helplessly derailed: “I’m…Shiro.” He pauses. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was never going to work out. I think I always knew that, deep down.”

“Oh.” Keith’s really not great at this. “Shiro, about when I was—”

“I’m in love with you, Keith.”

Keith goes rigid. Shiro mirrors his stillness, but with poise. If not for his spiked heart rate—the way his fingers twitch where they dig into his shoulder—Keith would buy the facade.

“Sorry,” Shiro says. “I can feel the drug kicking in, so I’m rushing. I’m in love with you, and I’ve been in love with you for years, but I didn’t really realize until the astral plane and then by the time I woke up…there was no time. We were at war. And things were—bad, Keith. For me. Mentally. I didn’t have time to sit down and process what had happened, and everything just kept building up inside of me until by the end of the war—I just couldn’t take it anymore. I shut down. I slammed the door on that part of my life instead of sorting through all the…uh, clutter. The trauma.

“I buried everything. Everything I associated with my capture or my time in the astral plane. I didn’t want to retire. I didn’t love Curtis—not really. But Curtis only knew me as the commander of the Atlas. He couldn’t read me like you did. It was easier to pretend I was fine around him. So for a while I just lived this lie where I was the perfect commander and everything was okay. And then finally one night I had this—awful panic attack, and Curtis calmed me down and took me into the kitchen and we had tea, and he asked me what I really wanted. And I told him I was in love with you. And he took it very well, considering the circumstances…and we uh. Filed a divorce.”

Keith is pretty sure his heart stopped a full minute ago. He sits there, riveted but only processing Shiro’s words at a cursory level, paralyzed by disbelief.

Shiro just plows on: “I didn’t call you because honestly, I didn’t want to talk to you about it until I was ready to tell you how I felt. I was going to tell you tonight actually, after dinner—but, um. This.” He removed his hand for a moment to gesture at the room. “I’m sorry I have to do it under these circumstances, Keith. If it makes any difference.”

“It’s okay,” Keith wheezes.

“If we make it out of here, I have some uh…some therapy appointments lined up. I was given something for the anxiety. We’re not sure if it’s working, but it takes a couple weeks to kick in and—”

Keith doesn’t even register the moment he lunges forward. He blinks, and suddenly his arms are around Shiro’s back.

Shiro doesn’t move. Keith’s body aches from the strain—he has to latch his fingers into the back of Shiro’s shirt to keep himself upright—but he sits there, bracketed between Shiro’s legs, and holds him as closely as his limbs will allow.

Keith is aware of the alien’s gaze on his back, but he refuses to acknowledge their presence.

“Shiro,” he says, dazed. He hides his face against his shoulder. “Shiro…”

Somewhere along the line Shiro had started to shake. His hands spasm once, then clench around Keith’s back like he’s afraid he’ll pull away. He wraps him ever closer, and the breath that rattles out of him sounds suspiciously like a sob.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

“The hell for?”

“I pushed you away. For so long…”

“Shiro,” Keith scolds. “It wasn’t just you. I ran away. I blamed you for the way I felt about you and I fled to the opposite end of the galaxy just to avoid talking to you about it. It was beyond shitty of me—”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay! I knew you were hurting and I ran. I could’ve—”

“You’ve done more than enough for me,” Shiro presses. The tremors have gotten worse. He coaxes Keith back from the embrace, only enough to cup his face between his hands. He seems to brace himself, then dips his head so their foreheads touch.

“It wasn’t your job to take care of me when I wasn’t even ready to ask for help,” he says. “I didn’t want anything to do with anyone anyway.”

The tremor from Shiro’s fingers resonates against Keith’s skin. He covers his hands with his own. Shiro’s eyes close; his head dips further. His cowlick tickles Keith’s forehead.  

Keith curls his fingers into the space between Shiro’s.

“We’re getting out of here,” he promises. “You remember that question you asked tonight? Back in the courtyard?”

The pain’s getting bad; Keith can tell. Shiro grips Keith’s hands like he’s his last tether to reality.

“Yes,” he manages.

“Yeah, well—my answer’s changed.”

Shiro’s breath shifts.

“You…when?”

“When I was out,” Keith says. “She came back.”

A whine escapes Shiro’s throat. He convulses; Keith catches him as he falls forward.

“I don’t—”

“It’s okay,” he promises. He stuffs down his own panic. “Just a little longer. Just hang on a little longer.”

Keith can’t support Shiro’s weight for long, so he guides them both down onto the floor. He loops one arm around his back, the other pinned between their chests, still closed around Shiro’s flesh hand. Shiro grits his teeth against the pain. He’s turned his face into the crook of Keith’s neck; ragged breaths skitter across his skin. Shiro’s practically shaking apart under Keith's hands—the words trip out of him all at once:

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”

“Shiro,” Keith pleads, over the litany. “It’s okay. Whatever you’re apologizing for—I forgive you. I forgive you, I promise. I love you too, please—”

But Shiro won’t be consoled. The recitation goes on, an endless stream of apologies and confessions, muffled by Keith’s shirt as he turns his face against his shoulder.

I love you, I love you, I’m sorry…

Keith can only reassure him over and over—I love you too, I love you, you did nothing wrong, I forgive you—and run his fingers through his short hair as his body strains against the poison. He’s a live wire; every word out of Shiro’s mouth cuts a new line down Keith’s center. The word claws up his throat—the magic word that could bring them the antidote:

Oriande, Oriande, Oriande…

Keith’s an elastic band ready to snap. He can feel his resolve teeter on the verge of collapse. He opens his mouth and—

A roar splits the air.

It must be floors away, but the sound echoes through Keith’s core like he’s right at Red’s feet. An explosion rocks the facility. Then a second, deeper roar rises out of the destruction.

Keith’s arms latch tighter around Shiro’s back. He hears the alien’s chair topple over as they race for the door.

“Shiro!” he shouts to him, over the racket upstairs. He doubts Shiro can hear him, but he tells him anyway: “She’s here! Your Lion is here!”

Their beds are placed next to each other at the hospital.

It’s been a while since Keith’s last doctor’s visit. Back with Voltron, life was a constant cycle of pods and hospitals. He’d gotten used to the chrome color schemes and chemical smells. Even now, lightyears from Earth, the papery texture of the sheets—the stillness of the air—feels nostalgic to him. It’s almost like he’s gone back in time, to when he woke up that day after the Garrison’s last stand.

It’s unsettling.

Keith shrugs up against his pillows, testing his strength. His arms hold his weight. Keith pushes down the sheets and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“You awake?” he murmurs to Shiro’s bed.  

He knows the answer, of course. Shiro confirms with a small noise. He’s on his back, his eyes closed—though he peeks one open at Keith as he approaches.

“Hey,” he scolds, but there’s a tired smile on his face. “Pretty sure the doctor ordered you to stay in bed.”

Keith doesn’t dignify that with a response. Shiro’s mattress makes a ‘foomph’ sound where he sits down, close enough to grab Shiro’s hand. He looks to Shiro for permission; Shiro’s smile widens. He entwines their fingers.

They rest like that for a while, fingers knitted between them. It’s the first time they’ve been alone since they arrived—no nurses or Paladins to distract from what they learned underground. Moonlight turns the room silver. A gentle presence thrums at the back of Keith’s mind; the Lions are parked outside. Keith gets the sense they’ll stand guard until he and Shiro have fully recovered. The thought soothes his anxious spirit. He sends another thank-you down to Red where she lays beside Black at the base of the building. She gives the omnipresent cat-equivalent of an eye roll—but a purr tickles the back of his head.

“They didn’t abandon us,” Shiro muses, like he can sense the exchange. “They just went away for a while.”

Keith doesn’t know how to respond. He squeezes Shiro’s hand.

Shiro phrases his next point like a question: “Pidge says they had to cut through the door with a phaser-blade.”

“Mn. They were terrified…”

“Still were today.”

Keith nods. The hospital clothes feel too thin on his skin; he misses the hug of his coat. “I, um. It’s stupid. But I’d almost started to think…”

Silence descends on the hospital room. Keith swallows.

“I was surprised,” he finishes lamely.

Shiro slips his fingers from Keith’s. He raises the sheet.

The tension seeps from Keith’s shoulders. He sinks down onto the bed. The mattress creaks as he shuffles closer to Shiro; Shiro brings the sheet down over their torsos. He drapes his arm around Keith’s back.

After a moment Shiro murmurs, “Maybe after everything—they just needed some time. To be gone.”

Keith’s mind flashes back to the look of panic on the Paladins’ faces; the way they’d crowded their hospital room for hours after the doctors cleared them for any traces of poison. In the now he searches Shiro’s face. His gaze lands on the scar across his nose. Shiro’s eyes are bright as ever, even with his back to the window. They’re a warm color today; an umber that reminds Keith of canyon shadows.

Slow enough for Shiro to flinch back, Keith reaches out a hand. His fingers brush Shiro’s cheek, then settle along the line of his jaw. The muscles of Shiro’s throat contract as he swallows. He watches with wide eyes as Keith brushes closer, closer—stock still, like he expects to spook Keith with any sudden movements.

In the barest graze of lips, Keith kisses him. He doesn’t draw back right away. He lingers there with their lips a hair’s breadth apart, feeling the whisper of Shiro’s breath. When he pulls back, Shiro’s eyes are closed, like he wants to preserve the memory of their kiss.

He’s such a dork. Keith doesn’t bother to stifle a delighted chuckle.

Shiro blinks open his eyes. “What?” He asks, bashful.

Keith loves him so much. “You,” he says simply. He moves forward. Shiro meets him halfway this time; his lips capture Keith’s. He’s warm and soft, and somehow amidst the hospital chemicals he still smells like the Arizona summer.

Keith is the luckiest man in the universe.

The two break apart slowly. This time Keith’s the one who has to take a second to open his eyes. He finds his voice:

“I love you.”

Shiro looks at him with what can only be described as total adoration. It knocks the wind out of him.

“I love you too,” Shiro says. The certainty drains from his face a moment later: “But—you should know. I’m…”

He pauses. A gust of wind rattles the window.

Keith doesn’t push. Shiro seems to search the room for answers, then decides on, “This won’t be easy. I’ve got a lot to work through.”

“I know. It’s okay.” Keith offers him a small smile. “I’ve got some things I need to…address, too. It’ll be tough.” He wraps his fingers around Shiro’s wrist. He feels his pulse. “But we’re us. We’ll be okay.”

A wobbly smile returns to Shiro’s face. He cranes his neck and presses a kiss to Keith’s forehead—Keith hopes the dark room hides his blush. Shiro uses his arm to tug him closer, then rests his chin atop his crown.

“Sleep,” he says.

Keith scoffs at him, but he can already feel the pull of the mattress beneath him—the protective weight of Shiro’s arm over his shoulder like a security blanket. He shuffles his arms until he’s comfortable, then slumps back under his embrace.

“G’night Shiro,” he pushes out, past the curtain of near-sleep.

Shiro’s fingers come up to comb through his hair.

“Good night, Keith.”