#heithweek2017

The first few days on the castle-ship had been overwhelming. New people, new routines. His life tossed up in the air, and him only barely holding on, only treading water because he had Shiro again.

It took two days for Keith to realize Hunk was a hugger. When he was happy, he lifted you up and squeezed so hard it seemed something had to burst. When he was sad, he burrowed into you, molding himself like a second skin. When he was excited, it was an arm around the waist; when he was worried, he latched onto the nearest arm. He did it without hesitation, without even really seeming to realize what he was doing. As the cheesy survey his caseworker had made him take would have put it, touch was Hunk’s love language.

And it most certainly was not Keith’s.

At first, Keith had held out hope that it was only with Lance that Hunk was so… clingy. That their long friendship made Hunk more comfortable, more—for lack of a better word—intimate. That it would be different with the other five, who barely knew Hunk at all.

He was wrong.

And Keith being Keith, being the friendless, grumpy, quick-tempered loner he was, had thrown up his walls. It was after one of their early battles, and Hunk was trying to pull everyone in for a group hug. Keith danced back, crossed his arms, and glared at the far wall.

“I don’t like being touched.”

Funny, how clearly he remembered Hunk’s look of puzzlement, the touch of sorrow in his eyes, like something in Keith was broken. Like rejecting a hug was rejecting him. (Keith couldn’t blame him for that; all of Keith’s foster parents had taken it the same way, had tried again and again to coax him into hugs he didn’t want, and always acted so dejected when he’d wriggled away from arms that hovered just above his skin, afraid to touch but still close enough that he could feel them there, an electric charge in the air.)

Keith was pretty sure Shiro had explained it to the others later, when Keith was holed up in his room, barricaded against the others’ sorrow and pity and hurt. Touch-aversion, his caseworker had called it. Most likely related to his other sensory issues. Nothing personal.

Hunk did his best to respect Keith’s boundaries, though Keith could see the way it gnawed at him to hold back. It was the way he took a half a step toward Keith after battle, arms open for a hug, before he remembered. It was the way his eyes burned into the back of Keith’s head when Keith was in a bad mood. It was the way Hunk sometimes fiddled with his gloves when he hung out with Keith, like he had to give his hands something else to do to keep them from spontaneously pulling Keith into a hug.

It was… nice. That Hunk cared enough to hold back. It was a nice change from foster parents who had treated it like a flaw to be polished away by fake smiles and coerced affection. But Hunk’s consideration also made Keith feel guilty as hell. If Shiro was safety, was grounding, why couldn’t Hunk be, too? Why shouldn’t he be, except that Keith was still too scared to find out?

Keith couldn’t pinpoint the day things changed. Maybe it was when they were all separated by the corrupted wormhole, and Keith, alone and aching, had felt the others’ absence like a hand hovering over his back, close enough to make his skin crawl.

Maybe it was after he found out he was part Galra, when Allura was looking at him with thinly-veiled hatred and Keith had to grit his teeth and remind himself that he was a paladin, not a child, and he couldn’t demand that Shiro always be there as a buffer against the rest of the team.

He wasn’t sure he wanted a hug. Maybe he just wanted to want it. He wanted something to sooth the ragged edges inside him, and it struck him that that was just the sort of thing other people fixed with hugs, and he was desperate enough for comfort he almost didn’t care that it had never worked that way for him before.

He was desperate enough for some tangible sign that he was still wanted that when it came time to part ways, Keith threw his arms around Shiro and clung. His guilt rose high to choke him as Shiro hesitated, for just an instant, surprised that Keith—Keith—was hugging him.

Then Shiro’s arms closed around him, and it was the same as it always was with Shiro—warm, but not stifling; tight, but not constricting. There was no hesitation in Shiro’s hug, not like the foster parents whose hugs always telegraphed their uncertainty, their doubts, and their discomfort. Shiro held him, warm, steady, comfortable. A promise spoken through touch, words telegraphed into his bones as Shiro’s arms squeezed tighter.

Deep pressure, Pidge called it, smiling as though that explained everything.

The night before the joint assault with the Blade of Marmora, Keith found Hunk on the bridge, staring out over the forests of Olkarion, his hands curled over his heart like he was trying to keep it from escaping.

“You seem nervous,” Keith said, stepping up beside him.

Hunk glanced down, startled, and attempted a smile. “Yeah. Kinda. Big day tomorrow.”

“Mm.” Keith’s eyes darted sideways, noting the tremble in Hunk’s hands. “We’ll be fine. It’s a solid plan, and we’ll all be there to back each other up.”

“I know.” Hunk bit his lip, meeting Keith’s eyes for a moment before turning away. “That doesn’t mean I’m not still picturing all the ways it could go wrong. I mean, what if the virus doesn’t do what we need it to do? What if Allura can’t hold open a wormhole that size? What if the teludav doesn’t even work? What if Zarkon has some trick up his sleeve we haven’t thought of? What if someone dies? What if--?”

“Hunk,” Keith said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Breathe.”

Hunk did so, though the air wavered on the exhale.

Keith studied him, heart in his throat, then hesitantly spread his arms. “You want a hug?”

Hunk’s head whipped around so fast the tails of his headband smacked him in the nose. “A—what?” Seeming to realize he was gaping, Hunk snapped his mouth shut. “I thought you hated hugs?”

Keith shrugged, looking at his toes. “Yeah, but you don’t,” he said with a nervous little laugh. “I think, considering the circumstances, I can make an exception… Unless--”

He’d just begun to lower his arms, feeling foolish, when Hunk fell against him, his arms engulfing Keith, squeezing the breath from his lungs. For just an instant, Keith panicked, the familiar sense of suffocation clawing at his chest.

Then Hunk breathed in, and Keith’s body automatically copied the motion. It was easy. Easier than he would have expected, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been so scared. Hunk was strong, but he wasn’t careless. His broad arms seemed to envelop Keith, wrapping him up in warmth and gratitude, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer or the sun on his back after a day of hiking the canyons outside the Garrison. It wasn’t entirely pleasant—but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, either.

Keith slowly wrapped his arms around Hunk’s back, easing into the embrace. He could do this. If Hunk could hold back, could abandon the language of touch to communicate his love in a way Keith understood, then it seemed only fair Keith learn to speak Hunk’s language. Maybe not all the time, maybe not always for long, but he could make the effort.

“Thanks, Keith,” Hunk whispered. “I needed this.”