Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Keith was grumpy.

No—he was way beyond grumpy. He was straight up pissed.

He and Coran had spent the past three hours tucked away in Coran’s study, trying in vain to wield Keith’s magic. When ‘close your eyes and believe in yourself’ didn’t work, the High Mage had even gone so far as to give Keith a crash course on every mode of magic known to Altea. They’d tried alchemy, spell-casting, sigil magic—but by the time they’d exhausted their options, Keith was left with nothing but a headache and a bad attitude.

Nothing was happening, and he was just about ready to tell Coran where he could stick his goddamn magic.

“Try the sigil again.”

“Sure. Because that’s clearly working.”

“It isn’t working because you do not believe it will.” No longer trying to hide his own aggravation, Coran repeated the hand gesture he’d drawn about a hundred times. A streak of luminescence trailed after his fingers, breathtakingly beautiful and serene.

…At least, it had been about three hours ago, but at this point Keith was over it. “Coran—”

“Oh—curse it all, boy! You must have unconsciously modeled our world’s magic off the magic in your own world; therefore you should be able to—”

“Right!” Keith stood so abruptly that the stool he’d been occupying clattered behind him. “Because I was definitely drawing fucking sigils in my sleep!”

“Well perhaps you were!” The High Mage’s fingers closed with finality, and the fluorescent light vanished. “We’ve been through every technique there is, so unless you have another guess as to how you created an entire universe, I suggest you continue to try!”

Exhaustion had run Keith’s voice ragged, and it cracked as he pleaded with the High Mage. “Please, it’s been hours. I’m telling you, it’s not happening. My magic just…isn’t responding.”

If any good at all had come of their agonizing evening, it was that Keith could actually feel his magic now, which was…terrifying, honestly. It was like a living thing in his chest, ebbing and flowing as if anxious to be released. He’d honestly never felt anything like it—certainly not on this scale. The closest he’d ever come to the sensation was the long hours he’d spent writing at his desk, rubbing at his sore chest and wondering how his heartburn had gotten so pain…ful.

Holy shit.

Revived by his new idea, Keith’s eyes widened, and the magic within him surged in agreement. What had a couple hours ago felt like a small, shy tendril was now a roaring wave, eager and urgent. It sent him staggering around Coran’s office like a madman, searching frantically through cluttered desks and workshop tables in search of what he needed.

“Perhaps I may have pushed you too hard,” Coran mumbled drily as he watched Keith uproot his work. “It was certainly not my intention to push you to insanity.”

“Do you have a quill? Paper?”

Coran’s eyebrows furrowed, most likely due to Keith’s manic expression. Keith wasn’t entirely sure he could blame him.

“Whatever for?”

“I wasn’t spell-casting, or mixing potions.” Triumphant in his search, Keith pulled a loose piece of parchment paper from beneath a stack of books and shook it in emphasis. “I was writing.”

He was definitely on to something. The pressure building within his chest grew almost painful, so he moved to massage it as Coran handed him a bottle of ink and a quill.

The High Mage was frowning as he sat across from him. “Could it be that obvious?”

“It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

He couldn’t wait another moment. Keith dipped the quill into its ink bottle and tapped it against the rim as he babbled. “I always used to get this weird feeling in my chest when I wrote. I thought it was just heartburn or something, because how was I supposed to know, right? But I guess—”

“Heartburn?”

“—it was my magic.”

Across the desk, Coran absently twirled his mustache, eyeing Keith’s paper apprehensively. “What will you write?”

“I…don’t know,” Keith realized, blinking at the parchment before him. “I guess it should be something simple, like—”

“Try it on me.”

Startled, Keith turned to gape at the man who’d raised him. “What? No.”

The High Mage opened his mouth to respond, but Keith pressed on.

“Are you crazy? What if something goes wrong? What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t. Just try something simple. A change to my physical appearance, perhaps.”

“Uh…” Simple. Okay. Keith could do simple. What could go wrong?

A lot, dumbass, his brain countered, but Keith’s magic howled with urgency, begging him to take action.

“Okay, okay. What about your hair?”

Reflexively, Coran’s fingers flew to the hair brushing the nape of his neck—a ridiculous, iconic shade of orange, just as Keith had designed it. “My hair?”

“I’ll change it back if it works, I promise,” Keith hastily reassured, already beginning to write. “Just give me a second…”

As the author sat and cast his spell, he wrote, every nerve in his body tingling with magic, the High Mage’s hair turned a startling shade of blue.

Keith gasped as the wave of magic he’d held captive for so long surged out of him, like someone had cast a fishing line into his soul and started reeling it out of his body. It was terrifying, and Keith grasped at his chest as if he could pull the magic back in—

But it was over in a matter of seconds, leaving nothing but relief in its wake.

He wanted to cry.

Clutching the edge of the table, Keith huffed a laugh as he tried to calm his pounding heart. He’d never felt anything like it. He felt as if he’d been carrying a weight his entire life, and now that it had been lifted, he was…free.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, his quill and even Coran forgotten. “That was—”

A panicked shriek tore through the moment, ripping Keith’s gaze away from the parchment and towards…

Oh, shit.

Standing before him and grasping desperately at his own hair was Coran, though not as Keith was used to seeing him. Instead of sporting his signature ginger locks, the High Mage’s hair was now completely blue; an unnatural neon that clashed horrendously with a mustache that was still very orange, as if he’d tried to make a fashion statement and failed miserably.

Coran’s demeanor grew frenetic as he drew a sigil in the air and summoned a hand mirror, regarding his own reflection with horrified wide eyes.

“Coran…”

“By the Creator!”

“I’m—”

“Keith! Fix it!”

“Shit, I—yes, fuck, I’m sorry. Hold on.”

With trembling hands, Keith fumbled for the quill, dipping it so hastily into the ink that he almost knocked the whole bottle over. “Uh—Though it was clear Coran feared the change to be irreversible,” Keith muttered haltingly, writing so quickly that the words were nearly illegible, “he needn’t have worried long, for he was his normal self again in no time at all.”

This time, Keith looked up quickly enough to watch as the last strands of Coran’s hair changed back to their signature bright, fiery orange.

For a moment that felt like an eternity, neither of them spoke. They simply stared at one another, still caught in the wake of such a vital moment.

“I did it.”

The realization left Keith breathlessly, pulling a half-laugh, half-sob out of his throat. “I did magic.”

“You did it,” the High Mage repeated, stunned and motionless.

“Coran.” Before he even knew what he was doing, Keith had risen to his feet to pull Coran into a hug, ecstatic and buzzing. “We unlocked my magic!”

“We unlocked your magic.” The surprise in Coran’s voice slowly melted into ecstasy. “You did it!”

“I can do magic!”

Something about those words struck Keith like a sack of bricks. He pulled away from Coran’s embrace, opting instead to stare at his own hands, so ordinary and plain.

Yet…

“I can do magic.”

As Keith’s adrenaline faded, so did his jubilation. Doubt crept into its place, followed by a weight in the pit of his stomach far heavier than he’d expected.

He had magic, and he’d unknowingly used it to create a universe where the people he’d dreamt of since he was a child actually existed. He was responsible for their lives, for the outcome of their war, for the fate of their entire world—

“Keith?”

He hadn’t realized he’d been frowning until Coran’s hand landed on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, dear boy. You aren’t alone.”

“I know.” Keith tore his gaze from his hands, folding his arms across his chest as he glanced around the room. It was like he was seeing everything in a new light, like every inanimate object suddenly pulsed with life—the life that Keith had given to them. “It’s just…so much.”

“I can only begin to imagine,” Coran replied. “But you must remember, you only built the structure of our world. The rules, important relationships and events—the plot, so to speak.”

Keith’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah…?”

“But there is much you did not write, much you did not plan. You cannot stand there and tell me that you accounted for centuries of specifics, for thousands of lives and millions of interactions.”

“I…guess I didn’t.”

“Of course not.” Coran gave him a gentle smile. “Our world exists because of you, my boy—that is true. But it also simply exists.”

…Oh.

Huh.

Keith definitely hadn’t thought about it that way.

Yet wasn’t that true of so many religions? There was always a Creator, or several—some sort of divine power that set the world into motion and drove the events that befell it. But within that grand plan, didn’t life always just…happen? It wasn’t as if a divine power dictated every step.

Which meant that Keith…didn’t have to.

“You aren’t responsible for everything,” Coran continued, his voice growing softer. “Our world turns now with or without your help.”

“But…”

“But?”

“Shouldn’t I fix this?” Keith asked, searching Coran’s eyes for an answer. “Isn’t it my responsibility to end the war? I don’t…what if something happens to you? What if the Galra win? What if—”

“They won’t.”

Striding back to his desk, Coran sifted through its drawers until he withdrew a small vial, tipping it into a flask filled with fluorescent pink liquid. “You made us strong, Keith. We will get through this war, with or without your magic.”

“But what if I screw something up? I haven’t even finished the last book, I—”

“And you don’t have to. We will make our own fate.” Coran swirled the flask, squinting through it until the liquid turned lilac. “You’ll fight with us, won’t you? Before you go home?”

Home. Keith wasn’t even sure where that was anymore.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he admitted, tracing the hilt of his sword where it hung off a chair. “I’m Captain of the Guard. I’ve fought for this long; there’s no way I’m turning back now.”

“That brings much comfort to my heart.” Coran strode forward to set the strange lilac flask before Keith. “You are our best warrior, after all.”

“That’s Shiro,” Keith argued. “But I’m not leaving you. Any of you. I caused this mess, I’m sure as shit gonna help clean it up.”

“That is all very well, but that shan’t happen tonight.” With a tone of finality, Coran pushed the flask towards Keith, who recognized it for what it was—a sleeping tonic.

“I don’t need—”

“Nonsense. You forget I raised you, Keith. You’ll be up all night worrying if you don’t take it.”

Keith huffed, reaching for the tonic and downing it with an eye roll. “Happy?”

“Indubitably,” Coran dryly remarked. “Now—in the morning, I suggest we approach your brother and the King.”

“About…?”

“Everything. Your magic, your situation. Your identity as our divine creator.”

Coran prattled on, oblivious to Keith’s mounting horror. “We must entrust this to only a select few, and we must be careful. If the Galra gain knowledge of your powers—”

“No.”

When Coran blinked at him, Keith stood, pushing his chair aside with shaking hands. “Are you insane? I’m not telling my brother that I—and Lance? How the fuck do you think he’ll feel when he finds out?”

“I will admit that it wasn’t easy to hear, but I truly believe that if you give them a chance to understand…”

“No! I said no, Coran. That’s it, we’re done.” If Coran had thought he could sneak this awful conversation in after Keith had taken a sleeping potion, he was sorely mistaken. Even though Keith was beginning to feel as if he were sleep-walking, he stayed his course. “They aren’t you. Lance isn’t you. You know how he feels about magic! I’m not telling the—the man I love that I…that I…”

“Alright, alright.” With a sigh, Coran acquiesced. “We shall do our best to keep it from the King, but your brother—”

“I’ll think about it.” No, he wouldn’t. No one was ever going to know—not if Keith could help it. “Can I go to bed now?”

“Of course. I’ll be awake if you need anything. I need to think.”

“Fuck that. If I’m sleeping, so are you.”

“Keith—”

“Do I need to make you?” Hoping that Coran knew he was teasing, Keith jerked his head towards the parchment and quill sitting abandoned on the desk. “Because I can.”

Scoffing, Coran curled the parchment into a tube and used it to whack at Keith’s shoulder. “Insolent, horrible boy. Be gone, lest you fall asleep on the floor.”

“I’m going, I’m going!” True to his word, Keith made to leave, but not before hesitating at the doorway. “Coran?”

When he had the High Mage’s attention, Keith took a nervous breath. He wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase what he wanted to ask, but he needed to know.

“I’m still…nothing has changed with us, right? Like, I’m still…I’m still…”

“You’re still my Keith. The boy I took under my wing, despite his insolence and his penchant for trouble.” When that coaxed a smile to Keith’s face, Coran’s expression softened. “You’ll always be my son. Nothing will ever change that.”

“Thanks.” Keith hated the hoarseness that’d crept into his voice; hated that the potion coursing through his system had weakened his control over his emotions. “I needed that.”

The smile Coran gave him brimmed with tenderness. “Sleep, Keith. Let your mind be at peace.”

…

When Keith awoke, he could hardly remember how he’d gotten to his bed. He could recall struggling down the castle’s long corridors, barely able to keep his eyes open…

And that was about it. Somehow, his exhausted feet had carried him to bed and into the deepest sleep of his entire life.

Fuck melatonin. This sleep stuff Coran had given him was the shit.

Caught between the waking world and the land of dreams, Keith nuzzled deeper into his pillows. He was sure he’d never been so comfortable in his entire life. Everything was soft and cozy and comfy and warm and happy and he didn’t have a single care in the—

His bedroom door slammed open, nearly giving him a heart attack as he jolted awake, his heart racing from such an abrupt intrusion to his sleep. As he hastily rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he was unsurprised to find Pidge standing in his doorway, grinning like a madman as Hunk towed along behind them.

“WAKE UP, BLADE BOY!” Pidge hollered, as if nearly kicking down his door wasn’t enough to do the trick. “The King needs you in the armory.”

When Keith blinked stupidly, his brain still buffering, Hunk cast him an apologetic grimace.

“We’re sorry,” he said, peering at Keith over Pidge’s shoulder. “We didn’t mean to—”

“I’m not,” Pidge interrupted, their eyes glinting with playful malice.

“Then I’m sorry,” Hunk amended, shoving them in the shoulder, “for Pidge.”

“It’s fine.” Keith yawned as he sat up, resisting the urge to slide back under his bed covers and pretend he wasn’t there. “So what’s—Lance wants me in…?”

“The ar-mo-ry, dumbass,” Pidge kindly reiterated, emphasizing every syllable as if Keith were…well, a dumbass. “Get out of bed.”

Hunk huffed. “Please and thank you, Captain.”

“I prefer ‘dumbass’.”

“Pidge. This is an official summons. Have some decorum.”

“I officially summoned your mom last n—”

“Nope, stop,” Keith sniggered, sliding out of bed to find himself still fully clothed from the day before. He smoothed down his tunic, wincing at his own smell. He probably looked like death, but if Lance needed him, he was there. “I’m going, just quit bickering. You’re like an old married couple.”

“We know,” Hunk sighed.

Pidge retched.

As he stepped into his boots, Keith shot the two of them a teasing grin. “You two gonna be okay while I’m busy? Hunk, blink twice if you need a rescue.”

“Oh, shut up and go, already.” Pidge huffed, arms crossed as they watched Keith struggle to latch his baldric. “I’m still mad you two didn’t invite me out to drink the other night.”

Hunk scowled at them—which on Hunk, was an expression that somehow still looked adorable. “Hey! I asked if you wanted to come—”

“After I put on my night tunic, you dingus! No one wants to go back out when they’re ready for bed!”

“Well on the way home, you said—”

“And that’s Keith’s cue to leave!” Keith announced by way of excusing himself. He stepped around them, lingering in the doorway to salute them before turning to make his way down the hall.

“Try not to kill each other!” he hollered over his shoulder as he broke into a jog.

“Try not to swoon when you see him!” Pidge retorted, leaving the tips of Keith’s ears very, very hot.

Damn them. Damn them both.

…

It wouldn’t have happened if the Prince had been around.

That was all Keith could think, bitter and alone as he blinked up at Dorian Durnemark and his Band of Merry Morons.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the runt of the litter,” Dorian sneered. His foot was pressed unrelentingly into Keith’s chest, trapping him against the muddy ground. “Where’s your knight in shining armor, runt? We hardly ever see you apart.”

Keith scowled.

Lance was away with the King and Queen on his first diplomatic mission. The word ‘diplomatic’ had been one that Keith had never heard until a week ago, and now that he knew what it meant, he rather wished he didn’t. Sure, Lance and his parents were off making nice with the nobles in the neighboring kingdoms—but for Keith, all it meant was that his greatest source of protection was gone, leaving him exposed to the rough mockery of the older knights-in-training.

They couldn’t have been much older than Keith—maybe twelve or thirteen years of age—but they were certainly much bigger, both in stature and muscle mass.

Which meant that when Lance was gone and Shiro was elsewhere and Coran was busy, Keith was usually being pummeled into the dirt.

Just a regular day on the training field.

Grunting, Keith struggled to no avail to escape from beneath Dorian’s foot. “He’s not my knight,” he huffed, pounding Dorian’s leg with his fist, which only made the group of boys behind Dorian snigger. “He’s the Prince, you dimwit.”

The smile fell from Dorian’s face, and the tittering behind him sharply ceased. “What’d you call me, runt?”

Keith’s heart hammered. He knew he shouldn’t engage with this; he really knew he shouldn’t. Shiro had been trying to drill that crap into his head for so long now—all this junk about taking the high road and taking deep breaths and…and…

Well. Shiro wasn’t here. He was off protecting the royals on their stupid. Fucking. Diplomatic mission.

So. Screw it.

“I called you a dimwit,” Keith reiterated, clutching Dorian’s pant leg with trembling fists. “It means stupid, dumb, idiotic. I could have also called you a freckle-faced loser, but that’s—”

Red-hot pain exploded across the side of Keith’s face as Dorian’s fist collided with his cheek, hard enough to split the skin. Keith could feel it, too—the warm trail of liquid trickling down his face.

Somewhere above him, Dorian’s breaths were ragged and angry. “Call me stupid again.”

Keith tried his best to blink up at his tormentor, to look him in the eye, but his vision was swimming. “You’re not stupid.”

“You little fu—” Belatedly realizing what Keith had said, Dorian stuttered to a halt. “Uh…”

Before the guy was forced to do too much thinking—Keith wasn’t a monster, after all—Keith fully threw caution to the wind. “You’re a moron,” he amended.

The second the words left his mouth, Keith was awarded more pain, and something sharp grazed over his tongue.

Damn it. Not again.

Creator be blessed, Shiro was going to be pissed.

With nauseating humiliation, Keith pounded the ground twice with his fist, the castle’s sparring symbol for defeat. It wasn’t like they were sparring—far from it—but Keith was hurt and outnumbered, and if Dorian possessed even a shred of honor, he would let him go.

Fortunately for Keith, it seemed that he did. In an instant, the weight atop his chest finally subsided enough for him to roll over and spit the metallic taste from his mouth—accompanied by one bloodied tooth, which Keith blinked at with stinging eyes.

Damn it.

He shouldn’t have pushed Dorian so hard, shouldn’t have gone so far. What was wrong with him? It wasn’t like Coran wouldn’t notice that he was missing yet another tooth, or Shiro, or…or…

Lance.

What would the Prince say? Would he get that strange look in his eyes and hold Keith’s face as if it were made of glass? Would his voice go gentle as his eyes turned tearful? Would he weep for Keith’s pain?

Or worse yet—would he be disappointed?

Keith’s fingers curled into the dirt as he stared at his stupid, bloody tooth. He wasn’t sure why, but tears pricked at his eyes, falling in thick droplets and indenting the dirt below.

He wasn’t even sure why he was crying. Lance was coming back. He’d return in two weeks time, and everything would be as it was. So why was Keith feeling like this, like a rose without sun?

“Aw, look! The little baby’s crying.”

Keith had no idea who was speaking anymore. His head was pounding, his face was on fire, but all he could think about was the sound of Lance’s laughter, the way his eyes would light up before a joke; the warmth of his hugs, the very same ones that Keith always professed to hate.

What he wouldn’t give for one of Lance’s hugs now.

Someone laughed, and Keith felt the unmistakable press of a knee against his lower back, holding him captive against the ground once again.

His ribs ached.

“You’re a nobody.” That was definitely Dorian’s voice, low and poisonous. “And Nobody’s don’t become knights.”

“I guess you’re out of the running then, right Durneshart?”

That was a voice that Keith didn’t recognize, which was strange, considering he knew every knight trainee. Stranger yet was that the newcomer sounded even younger than Keith, yet there was palpable fear in Dorian’s voice when he responded.

“This isn’t your fight, Gunderson. Screw off.”

Gunderson. He knew that name, right? Wasn’t that one of the castle blacksmiths? The one with the…

Oh.

Oh. What the fuck? What was she doing here?

And why, Creator be blessed, was Dorian Durnemark—son of the great knight Arthur Durnemark—afraid of the blacksmith’s daughter?

Keith had never talked to her, but he could picture her now—tiny and wild, bird’s nest of hair and huge glasses. She was always occupied with something or another, a weapon one day or a trinket the next. Always tinkering, always shut away in the forges. Keith didn’t even think she talked.

He’d apparently been very, very wrong.

“Might not be my fight, but we can definitely change that. Right, Hunk?”

Whoever Hunk was, his response was far more subdued than Gunderson’s boisterous tone, but Keith was pretty sure he heard something that sounded like, “Please, Pidge—not again, I’m gonna be sick.”

“Right!” Gunderson—Pidge—answered for him. “And we’ve been itching to try out our new slingshot model.”

There was a pause, during which Keith could only imagine Pidge was whipping out whatever weapon she was referring to.

“I call it: ‘The Ass-Kicker 2.0.’ Shoots farther, packs a meaner punch—perfect for repelling dickheads who beat up little kids.”

“‘M not a little kid,” Keith tried, but with his face pressed into the dirt, he couldn’t manage much more than a grunt.

“So.” There was a small twang as if someone had tugged a band, and when Pidge spoke again, Keith could hear the grin in her voice. “Do I have any volunteers?”

You’re a maniac, Keith thought, unable to move as he continued to bleed onto the ground. Get out of here!

For a long moment, nothing happened—and then Dorian swore from above Keith, and the weight pinning him down disappeared. “This isn’t over, Gunderson. You’re gonna regret this.”

“Eh. Maybe, maybe not. You take care of that inferiority complex for me, you hear? And tell daddy the Gundersons say hi!”

Keith couldn’t hear much else above the sound of receding footsteps and angry grumbling, but when he felt like he was in the clear, he pushed himself up on shaking wrists—

And immediately collapsed.

Shit. Maybe he was down worse than he’d thought.

“Hey.” Someone—it sounded like Pidge, but Keith’s ears were ringing too loud to be sure—nudged his arm with their boot. “You still alive down there?”

Leave me alone, he wanted to say, but then something hit the ground beside him, and gentle hands were pulling him into a wide lap. “Go easy on him, Pidge. He’s already had to deal with Dorian today.”

A face entered Keith’s view, another one that Keith recalled seeing around the castle. He’d never spoken to this kid, either—but now he at least had a name to put to the kind, shy smile directed towards him.

“Do you think you can stand?”

Creator be blessed. The boy’s face was even sweeter than his smile, like one of Lance’s plush stuffed animals come to life.

Keith pondered the question a moment before reluctantly shaking his head, and Hunk clicked his tongue.

“That’s okay. You lost a lot of blood.”

“Your eye’s all messed up,” Pidge added helpfully, her terrible bird’s nest of hair entering Keith’s vision. “And your cheek is split pretty badly, and—”

“Sheesh, Pidge! He gets it.” Frowning, Hunk retrieved a small pouch from his waistband and pulled the drawstrings open. “You’ll be okay, Keith. I’m gonna put some of this ointment on your face, and then we’ll take you straight to the High Mage.”

Keith’s head was spinning as Hunk withdrew a small bottle and a cloth, but the only thing he could think to ask was, “How do you know my name?”

Off to Keith’s left, Pidge snorted. “You’re kidding, right? Keith Kogane, the royal family’s charge? Everyone knows who you are.”

“You’re the Prince’s best friend,” Hunk added, wincing sympathetically as he dabbed Keith’s cheek with the cloth. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“I’m…we’re…”

Not that close, Keith wanted to say, but the words died in his throat. Lance had referred to Keith as his best friend once before, only a few weeks before he and his parents had left. Yet despite Lance’s reassurances and the King and Queen’s kindness, he still couldn’t fight the subconscious whisper that he was just the royal family’s charity case. Even now, two years after they’d taken him in, Keith was plagued by that insecurity. It was the reason he hesitated to describe Lance as a friend—but he couldn’t deny the way his heart ached with Lance gone.

Lance, the Prince. Lance, Keith’s only…

Keith’s only friend.

The sudden sob that ripped from his throat alarmed both himself and Hunk, whose eyes widened with worry.

“Ohhhh man, did I hurt you?” Hunk fussed, brandishing the cloth in his hand. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I should just—”

“He’s fine, Hunk,” Pidge interrupted. “Just finish up and we’ll get him to the High Mage.”

Please don’t, Keith wanted to plead, but his tears refused to subside. It’ll only make him worry.

Hunk shifted, pulling Keith upright in one fluid motion and settling him against his lap. “Okay, well. Why don’t I stay with him, and you go grab the High Mage?”

“What? Why me?”

“Seriously, Pidge? Do you know how many stairs are in that tower?”

“He might not even be in the tower! Maybe he’s in his office.”

“Great. Then you can run around the castle till you find him. I’m staying with Keith, my bedside manner is way better than yours.”

The sound of their bickering had Keith crying even harder. It gnawed at some part of his heart, a part that strangely missed arguing over nothing, that missed bantering back and forth—because as long as they were arguing, that meant that Lance actually cared about him enough to…

Ugh.

It all connected back to Lance, didn’t it? Everything in Keith’s life brought him back to Lance.

“Oh, nice going! You made him cry even more!”

“Me? You’re the one who—”

“I miss him.”

The words found their way to Keith’s lips on a sob, effectively halting Hunk and Pidge’s argument. Normally, Keith would have been mortified to have the spotlight, especially if he was crying—but he couldn't really think about anything other than Lance.

“I miss him,” he said again, as if saying it a second time would bring the Prince back. They were a measly two words, incapable of conveying all that Keith wanted to say.

I want him to come home. I need him.

Immediately, the expression on Hunk’s face softened. “I know. I don’t know what I would do if Pidge went away for so long.”

“Die, probably,” Pidge grumbled, though the look on her face had also softened to match Hunk’s. She sat with a huff, and then in a move Keith could not have predicted, reached for his hand. “Don’t worry. Durnemark and his dumb friends aren’t gonna get you while he’s gone.”

Just as Keith was about to protest that yes, yes they would, Pidge smirked. “You hang with us, now.”

“They’ve been scared of Pidge since she stabbed Fern in the hand,” Hunk added with a sigh. “We got in so much trouble.”

“You—” Keith sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of a grimy hand as he turned to Pidge. “You stabbed someone?”

“Allegedly. No one actually saw.”

Hunk gave Keith a flat look. “Hi, I’m ‘no one’.”

“Shut up, Hunk.”

Despite the blood drying on his face and the dirt caked beneath his nails, Keith found himself smiling.

Just a little.

“You two are idiots,” he informed them, hoping that they knew what he was really trying to say.

You two are awesome.

…Thank you.

A grin spread across Pidge’s face as she extended a hand. “Then welcome to the club, idiot.”

“I don’t like this,” Hunk muttered. “Can’t we just call each other—I don’t know, something less mean?”

“Nah.” Pidge stood, dusting her hands off onto her knees. “Now can we please get out of here?”

Hunk grumbled as he stood and helped Keith to his feet. His head was still spinning, and he was still hurting…everywhere, but something about the moment was deeply soothing, as if for the first time since Lance had left, Keith was actually safe.

Protected.

Cared for.

It’s called friendship, his brain clarified. Idiot.

Pulling Keith’s arm carefully over his shoulder, Hunk cleared his throat. “You know, we definitely aren’t the Prince, but…we’ll be your friends, if you’ll have us.”

Even as Pidge retched, shoving Hunk in the shoulder and almost sending them all toppling to the ground, a decision solidified in Keith’s heart.

Yeah.

Friends.

…

When Keith pushed open the armory’s heavy wooden door, it was to find Lance scowling over a desk brimming with maps.

The moment he saw Keith, some of the exhaustion left the King’s eyes, though he still looked like Keith had felt last night. Miserable, and like he’d been cooped up looking at maps for hours.

By the Crea—well, him—Lance needed a break.

Keith couldn’t give him that, so the best he could do was playfully raise an eyebrow as he crossed his arms and reclined against the door frame.

“You sent Pidge to wake me up? Seriously?”

Lance broke into a grin—a delightful little thing, made all the more lovely as it chased away the worried lines etched into his face. “I sent Hunk, too.”

“Yeah? And what was Hunk gonna do?”

“I don’t know! Chaperone, I guess?”

“Chaperone?”

“I thought he’d balance them out!”

“Pidge literally kicked my door open.”

“I just asked them to wake you up!” It was so good to see Lance laugh, such a relief after months of repelling attacks and after…after Iron Hill. “I didn’t know they’d be weird about it.”

“You didn’t know they’d be weird about it” Keith echoed, shaking his head and scoffing as he strolled towards an empty stool. “You hear yourself, right, Majesty?”

“You—okay, yeah. But shut up.” In a very un-kingly manner, Lance stuck out his tongue. “I’m not the one who slept for fourteen hours.”

“I—what?”

“Keith.” Lance sniggered, the maps beneath his palms momentarily forgotten. “It’s almost time for dinner, you dolt.”

“You’re the dolt,” Keith grumbled, helping himself to a seat. “I thought you’d be happy that I finally got some sleep.”

Lance’s expression softened, and he reached across the table to squeeze Keith’s hand. “Of course I am. Why do you think I let you sleep all day? It’s not like I like doing this stuff on my own.”

When Keith winced apologetically, Lance held up a hand. “It’s okay,” he continued. “Point is, I know those sleeping potions can be pretty intense. Coran figured we should let it wear off.”

Keith’s blood went cold. “You talked to Coran? What’d he say?”

“Just that you finally caved and asked him for help. He said you practically sleep-walked back to your room.”

“Oh, yeah,” Keith responded, relieved that Lance hadn’t said, ‘Oh hey by the way, he also mentioned that you’re from another universe but you’re also from ours which you created with MAGIC which by the way I despise.’

Instead, the King beamed at him, the line of his brows happy and content. “Thank you,” he murmured, “for taking care of yourself. Seriously. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

That had Keith’s insides melting into a stupid, gooey mess, washing away any lingering worry in an instant. He reached forward, scooping Lance’s hand off the table and bending forward to kiss his knuckles. “You’re not going to. I’m yours till the end, Sire.”

His tone of voice had been too gentle, too tender. He watched Lance’s throat bob as he swallowed, his eyes filled with wanting as they searched Keith’s.

And then:

“You make it really hard not to kiss you when you say things like that.”

…Whoa.

Okay.

Yeah.

Pump the fucking breaks. Just—stop. Right fucking there.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

This wasn’t how Keith had envisioned it, all those nights mapping out the plot to The Magic Within. This was uncharted fucking territory, unwritten script—and more than that, it was…it was…

It was totally unconscionable.

How could Keith kiss him now, knowing that Lance only stood here because Keith had touched pen to paper? Knowing that only a week ago, Keith hadn’t even thought Lance to be real?

How could he do that to him?

His hesitation must have been displayed across his face, because Lance’s throat bobbed once more before the hope in his expression dimmed. As if waking from a trance, he blinked rapidly and turned back to the maps beneath his fingers, but Keith didn’t miss the hurt that flashed through his eyes.

“Anyways,” Lance muttered, clearing his throat. “We need to talk about our expedition.”

Feeling like a total asshole, Keith ripped his eyes away from Lance’s face. “Right. Uh—I think Shiro should—”

“Stay here, yes.” Lance’s voice had gone all formal and business again, all King-ly. “Your duty may be to me, but Shiro’s is to the throne. He’ll stay here to watch over Allura.”

A part of Keith wanted to apologize for fucking things up, wanted to pull Lance into a kiss and tell him everything—but that would just open a can of worms that Keith was desperately trying to keep shut. Instead he nodded, schooling his demeanor to match Lance’s.

“Good call.”

“You’ll bring your team. Make sure we have Dunmore, Grove, the Sloane twins, Durnemark…”

“Townsend?”

“Townsend, yes, definitely. And go ahead and bring Geoffers, too.”

Keith nodded, tapping his fingers against the table. “Are we keeping this small, then?”

“The smaller, the better. We don’t need to attract any unwanted attention.”

“Right.”

The two were silent for a long moment, and Keith let his eyes wander over craggy mountain ranges and twisting rivers—features of maps that he himself had designed, in another reality. It felt surreal looking at them now, as if New York and James and Randy were just a far-off dream.

“I think Hunk and Pidge should sit this one out.”

Snapping out of his reverie, Keith turned to look at Lance. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. This is a stealth mission.”

“Not really their thing,” Keith smirked, though he quickly sobered at the faraway look on Lance’s face.

“...Lance?”

“Hmm?”

“Are…” God, he felt so stupid asking this, after he’d essentially rejected Lance’s kiss. He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

Are we okay?

“Yeah,” Lance sighed, coming back to himself. “It’s just…Coran wants to come.”

Keith’s stomach curdled with dread. “What?”

“I don’t know. I told him we didn’t need him for this, but he’s just been relentless.”

“So…” Keith swallowed. “You told him no, right?”

“I couldn’t. He’s been driving me crazy about it. Keeps saying we need him there in case we run into the Galra.”

Shit. This was bad.

It wasn’t like Keith thought Coran would willingly spill his secret, but having him and Lance in close proximity certainly wasn’t going to do shit for Keith’s nerves.

“I don’t understand,” he argued, still clinging to the hope that this decision could be reversed. “We’ve fought the Galra just fine without mages in the past. We don’t need a magic-user there! If anything, won’t that amount of quintessence just draw unwanted…”

Attention, Keith had been about to say, but the word ground to a halt.

You’re a magic user now, moron.

Oh. Suddenly, Keith understood Coran’s push for extra protection.

Although the Galra were dark mages, they were in tune with quintessence in a way that many practitioners of light magic just…weren’t. As High Mage, Coran had access to that unique ability. If one look at Keith’s quintessence had sent Coran into a spiral, what was going to happen when the enemy discovered Keith’s true identity?

And worse yet; what would happen if they got their hands on Keith and his magic?

Shit. So much for a fucking stealth mission. With Keith on this expedition, the damn thing was as good as sabotaged, and Keith was as good as dead or captured.

Oblivious to Keith’s terrible realization, Lance groaned. “It would draw way too much attention,” he grumbled in agreement with Keith’s earlier sentiment. “Magic complicates everything. The fewer magic-users we bring, the better. You know the Galra are drawn to magic like dogs to a scent.”

Keith could only nod.

Tell him! a part of him begged. Keith thought maybe it was the part of him that had grown up without magic, the part that had grown up a fighter within these very castle walls. You have to warn him!

And still another part of him reared its head, a part that had only just found Lance and was desperately afraid of losing him.

You can’t. You’ll lose him for good.

Torn by a heart at war with itself, Keith could only stand there as Lance rambled on.

“Ugh. He knows how I feel about magic. But I can’t even say no to him, because he seemed so sure he needed to be there, you know? Like, I’m not gonna ignore that. If something happens and he isn’t there, I’ll never hear the damned end of it. Creator above, that man is persistent.”

“Yeah,” Keith weakly replied, wincing when Lance swore. “I know.”

Finished with his rant, Lance turned back to Keith. For a moment, his eyes searched Keith’s face, and then he sighed, seeming to come to a decision. “There is another thing.”

“Yeah?”

“He…recommended you stay behind.”

Oh. Holy fuck. Had Coran given him a way out? A plausible excuse to stay?

“Yeah?” Keith hedged. “Why?”

“He said that maybe after Iron Hill you might need more time to…you know. Rest. Recuperate. Process. I promised him I’d give you the option to sit this one out.”

Just when Keith thought he was in the clear, Lance grasped his hand over the table.

“Look, Keith—if you need a break, I understand. Seriously, I do, you know I do. I want you to be okay, I just…” He swallowed thickly. “You’re my guy in the field, you know? And this mission is pretty high risk. If there’s any way you can be there, I think…I think I need you.”

Shit.

Logically, Keith had options, he knew he did. He could stay safe within the castle while the man he loved risked his life; or he could explain why he’d be a danger to the mission, thereby throwing away years of friendship for the secret that burned in his heart.

But was that really a viable route? Telling Lance the truth would ruin everything. All the years that he’d devoted to this fight would have been for nothing, because Keith knew Lance.

And if Lance knew about Keith?

It would turn his world upside down, and Keith couldn’t do that to him. He wouldn’t.

So…yes. He technically had options.

But looking into eyes he’d loved since he was a child, he really, really didn’t.

“I’m going with you,” he breathed, turning his hand to lace his fingers through Lance’s. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

Lance’s shoulders sagged with relief, though guilt swam in his eyes as he gave Keith’s hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I feel so selfish.”

“Don’t.” In a moment of passion—perhaps it was his own niggling guilt, or perhaps it was the fevered loyalty that beat in his heart—Keith sank to one knee, gripping Lance’s hand tightly in his own. “I pledged my life to serve you, to walk beside you. Not only as your knight, but as your friend.”

There was so much more Keith wanted to say, like I’d follow you to the ends of the Earth and I created all this for you, but instead he leaned forward to kiss the hand of his King. “Fighting beside you isn’t a duty, Lance. It’s an honor.”

With a sharp inhale, Lance pulled Keith to his feet. For a moment, it looked almost as if he was going to try to kiss him again—but then he merely nodded.

“Ready your men. We leave in five days.”

…

“You are many things, Keith Kogane. But I’d never have taken you for a fool.”

Keith sighed, lifting his foot off the grinding pedal and watching the stone wheel spin to a stop. The smithery had been so peaceful right until then—just Keith and his sword and the screech of stone against metal.

Calming. Thought free. Coran-free.

“I’m not changing my mind.”

“I told you that it is essential to keep your powers hidden,” the High Mage hissed, striding into Keith’s eyeline in an attempt to pull his attention away from the newly sharpened edge of his sword. “And what do you do? You make plans to wander into Galra-infested territory! I even gave His Majesty an excuse on your behalf, and you went ahead and—”

“I swore fealty to him, didn’t I?” Keith stood as anger overtook him, though he wasn’t entirely sure why he was angry at all. “I’m the King’s right hand, first and foremost.”

“Keith.” Coran was angry, too—although Keith suspected that it was a front for fear. “You are our Divine Creator, first and foremost. You are the reason for the very breath in our lungs. If the Galra find out who you are, what you’re capable of—”

“They’re going to eventually, Coran!” Frustrated, Keith smacked the edge of the wheel. “I told you last night, I’m in this till the end. Sooner or later, I have to fight, and they’re gonna know.”

“I realize that,” Coran responded, almost patronizingly patient. “But for the sake of leverage, it would be wise to delay that discovery as long as we can.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Oh, till when? Next week’s battle? This is war, Coran. They’re going to find out.”

“Then by that very logic, wouldn’t it be wise to entrust this information to the King?!”

Whatever retort was waiting at the tip of Keith’s tongue suddenly disintegrated into nothingness, destroyed by that single argument. It was something Keith hadn’t considered, but something so obvious and terrible that the thought of it nearly made him sick.

If the Galra were eventually going to find out, then so was Lance.

But no—that wasn’t necessarily true, was it? Lance couldn’t read quintessence, and it wasn’t like the Galra were going to tell him. What were the odds that word of Keith’s magic would reach Lance’s ears while they were swinging swords and chopping off heads?

“Maybe I’d like to delay that discovery,” Keith murmured, the fight leaving him as he met Coran’s eyes. “Please, Coran. I’ve never asked you for much, have I?”

The High Mage blew out a breath. “Well, no, but—but this? Our world is at stake, and you wish for me to hide this crucial piece of information from my King? You ask too much of me, Keith.”

“I know.” Keith stood, his voice softening as he slid his sword into its scabbard. “But you and I both know what’ll happen if Lance finds out.”

Coran hesitated, and then swallowed. “Perhaps we can—“

“We need a sound mind to rule,” Keith asserted, validated when Coran’s lips pulled into a thin line.

Good. That meant he agreed, and moreover, that Keith was right.

“This will destroy Lance’s entire perception of reality,” he pressed. “It’ll sabotage the entire war.”

At long last, the High Mage nodded, though the movement was slow and reluctant. “Very well. I still assert that your presence on this expedition is foolhardy, but a king in crisis is worse still.”

“Exactly.”

“However, I shall still accompany you.”

Groaning, Keith briefly shut his eyes in an attempt to soothe his throbbing temple. “Coran, you tell me that my magic is dangerous enough, and you want to add yours?”

“Precisely. Your magic is dangerous enough. Adding mine to this expedition will be like adding a drop of water to the sea. There is no extra risk.”

Keith ran a hand through his hair as the fight left his shoulders. “I…guess that makes sense,” he reluctantly admitted.

“I need to be there, my boy. If this task goes sour, a practiced mage will be of good use.”

“You’re right.” For a moment, Keith turned their conversation over, worrying at his lip before asking, “Am I making a mistake?”

“That isn’t for me to say.”

“Right.” Keith huffed a humorless laugh. “Time will tell, I guess.”

In an instant, Coran’s stern expression softened, and he pulled Keith against him. “Oh, darling boy. You misunderstand. What I mean to say is: I cannot school your heart, nor would I ever wish to.”

Pulling away, Coran grasped Keith’s shoulders. “You’re torn between two lives, wrestling with two selves that vie for attention. But I suspect there is a singularity that binds both versions of you at the seams.”

Even before Coran continued, Keith’s thoughts had already gravitated to the answer, to the one thing he knew to be true between this world and the other.

“You’ve loved him in both lives, haven’t you? Even when you thought him to be a figment of your imagination.”

“Yes.” The admission left him as no more than a whisper. “I always wished he was real.”

“And in this world, he is,” Coran murmured, his eyes twinkling as he gave Keith a small shake. “Don’t you see? The magic of your very being sings for him; far be it from me to dissuade your heart.”

“He was my first character,” Keith murmured, unable to look Coran in the eyes. “Even in that world, he was my first friend. This all started because of him, I…I made all of this for him.”

For a long moment, Coran was silent—and it was only in that silence that Keith noticed the glint of tears in his eyes.

“And how, my son,” he began, his voice brimming with emotion, “could I or anyone else deter a love like that? You’ve built mountains for this boy, willed lakes and rivers and countless creatures—an entire world—into existence. Your duty is to your heart, Keith, and as your guardian, as…”

Coran cleared his throat. “As your father, my duty is to you. I will stand by you, as long as you feel that what you choose is right.”

Unsure how to express the gratitude and love lodged in his throat, Keith nodded. “I’ll make you proud,” he finally managed, grasping Coran’s forearms as if that might cement the promise. “I swear.”

“You already do, Keith. You already do.”