#olllie

It’s hard for him to guess how old the child might be. He never spent a lot of time around human children, let alone enough to guess at an alien race’s aging milestones. A few years old, at least. The kid sits up on their own and looks tall enough to almost reach Shiro’s waist, at least with the ears. They’ve got these huge fluffy ears that look far too big for their small head. Their eyes seem too big as well; their pupils dilate and retract with every noise Shiro makes, alternating between slits and saucers as the kid’s interest dwindles and piques. He’d say they’re Galra, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s pretty sure most Galra don’t have pupils, and for the long yellow head… tail… things that the kid has hanging down from under their hair and over their shoulders. Their hands are unusual, too—round and wide with fingers more like stubs.

Shiro hadn’t gotten a great look at the kid’s mother - or at least, he assumes she’s the mother - before she’d set her child down and glanced at Shiro with pleading eyes for one moment, said something in a language he didn’t understand, and then was dragged out by guards.

Her day for a fight. Not his.

“Your momma will be back for you soon,” Shiro tells the kid, and he prays he isn’t lying. This arena takes and takes, and Shiro knows this all too well, but he hopes for the sake of this little kid that today it does not.

In response, he gets a slow blink.

--

By the time Shiro achingly realizes the child’s mother is never coming back, the kid has crossed the cell and is tucked under his arm, sleeping soundly. They’ve eaten a portion of Shiro’s rations, and they still haven’t spoken a word. There’s something inside Shiro’s chest that knows that “if you name it, you’ll get attached” doesn’t matter here. He already knows he’s keeping them.