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He finds them first.
Crumpled at the seams from a long time stashed away. Breathless, and stale. Still too big like he remembers but too small like he knows now. They go unnoticed, stored somewhere long forgotten, hidden to those who don’t know where to look. But he looks, well, because he’s curious. Because he wants to believe that war can’t wipe all memories, that some places, sentimental crevices of thought, don't corrode over time. And when he does find them, it’s-
ah-
well-
to be exact-
Here’s how it works.
At the end of the thinnest hallway, a small blue screen is pressed in beside a door, completed by a little speaker that goes blip, blip, each time access is allowed. Behind it is a room no more than ten paces deep, and hardly wide enough from wall to wall for the wingspan of an average Altean male.
Space, though portrayed as an endless black, is strikingly luminous. Stars of all sizes, reflections off planets and moons, all make for a brilliant flurry of natural light. The castle was inspired by this unique display, built to showcase the beauty of the universe. As such, the rooms that are meant to be lived in gravitate toward the ship’s outer most edge, and everything else finds itself in the center. The hangars, for example, are lit up only by a cold, synthetic glow. Some spaces have even been left to the dark, like unused washrooms, or utility closets.
Or in this case, old, abandoned storage rooms.
He pulls them from their small compartment in the wall and gives them a shake, watching as dust billows out into the still, recycled air. He looks down, and smiles. Underneath the crusty layer of gray is a vibrant blue, a color he had pinpointed so carefully, had been so excited to find.
He was lazy, back then. Optimistically so. After all, he had only made one pair because he thought he had all the time in the universe to finish the others.
Silence settles heavy in the room as he stares down at the keepsake in his hands. Minutes pass. And then, the silence is broken.
For the first time in over 10,000 years, Coran breaks down.
-
“What do you mean?”
He was 15 when he found out it was never going to happen.
There was a legend his grandfather used to tell him, when he was a child. “Long, long ago,” he would always begin, “in a world so ancient and unlike our own, there lived five brave warriors, and their magnificent beasts.”
Of course, he believed every word of it. Of the adventures they would undergo, the villains they’d face, of their triumph and glory. But most importantly, the young boy admired the innate respect the heroes had for each other, and for their beautiful, feline companions. When he grew up, he was sure he would be just the same.
It was a mythos, naturally, and over time he heard new retellings of the same story. One had said the five were marked with colors, while others theatrically exclaimed they were of a certain species, or gender, or race. Some details stuck, while others did not.
It was not by coincidence that the man who told the story of lions was the man who built the castle of lions.
The project, Voltron they had called it (after the world where the tale took place), began long before Coran’s body made its ascent into adulthood, and would be finished long after his mind caught up with it. But that was okay, he thought, because he was patient, and heroism takes time. He decided to use that time to grow into himself, to find out just who he was outside the pretense of childhood, to become someone who could contribute to his team later down the line.
Was he suave?
Was he brave?
Was he flamboyant? Yes, that one seemed to stick.
“But wait. No. There must be a mistake.”
“I’m sorry, Coran.”
“But this is my fate! I’m meant to be a warrior! A Paladin of Voltron!”
“If there was anything I could do, I would.”
.
“..Is there something wrong with me? If I did something wrong, please-”
“No, no Coran. You’re great. It’s just- please understand. This task is so big. We can’t afford anything less than the best and brightest the universe has to offer.”
Sometimes, fate is a funny thing.
The flamboyance vanished. The bright light faded into a dim and artless glow. It was like the world was playing a trick on him; like a pair of untrained hands had went and pulled the tablecloth out from under his feet and had expected him to stay standing. But he slipped, and shattered on the floor.
Coran was shrinking.
He was aching.
He was falling, further into himself.
-
He inspects his reflection in the monitor. What a funny thing- if he looks close enough, the pinpricks can still be spotted on his earlobes. So even scars as small as these can stand the test of time. He wonders, for a brief moment, if the glowing little pearls can still be slipped through. It’s silly, but he can’t help wanting to try.
“Coran? What are you looking at?”
Allura’s figure teeters at the edge of the screen as she steps into view. He quickly shuts down the device, before pivoting around to face her. “Oh, nothing,” he responds, “just pondering old battle wounds.”
She gives him a funny look, one that has become familiar over the years, but doesn’t say anything. Like second nature, her body slips in next to his, leaning against the control panel of the ship. “Here,” she offers, holding out a cup, “Nunvill. If you’re feeling anything like I do right now, you probably need it.”
He chuckles, the feeling foreign on his tongue, and takes it from her. The first sip tingles at the base of his throat, numbing his senses as it settles into his belly. “How did you know?” He says to Allura, or no one in particular.
She scoots closer and rests her head on his shoulder.
It’s strange, how spending over a millennia in a coma with someone can make you feel so close. Or maybe, he thinks, it’s just that neither of them have anyone else to be close to.
“So what did you think?” She asks.
“Well, they’re certainly going to have to get here faster if you don’t want to wind up with a real severed head.”
She elbows him gently in the side. “I don’t think Zarkon is going to behead me, Coran.”
He smiles. “You’ve got to be prepared for anything, princess.”
They sit like this for a moment, in comfortable silence, as streams of ever-changing light project themselves across the floor. He wonders how long this is going to last, with untrained children, or if it will last at all.
As if on cue, Allura speaks up again, pulling him from his wandering thoughts. “By the way,” she starts, “Were those? That Lance was wearing- the ones you made me as a kid?” So Allura had recognized them too. He was surprised Lance had found them in the first place.
“Yup,” Coran responds, “But I do like to think my skills have expanded a bit since then.”
She turns her head up to look at him. “What, have you been practicing?”
“Ah, yes, in my infinite spare time.” The laughter of the two Alteans echoes in the empty room.
Before long, it’s silent again. But this time, a pang of grief weighs heavy in the air.
“I miss him, Coran.” Her last words before she goes to bed that night.
“Yes Allura, me too.”
-
A drop of blood found its way to the front of his shirt. It went through easily enough.
It had started with subtle things- like becoming unobtrusive, letting his body detach itself from its natural eccentricity, and fall into a much smaller mindspace. It was his way of rebellion, taking on a personality so much unlike his own that somebody would have to take notice. But the problem with whispering is that people have to be around to listen closely. The production of Voltron was in full throttle, everyone was busy, excited, bustling from left to right. The boy got swept up in the crowd.
So, he let himself drift further still. He stopped talking to his mother, and left eye contact to the better of men. And his room, it became his oasis, somewhere he didn’t have to pretend to be anything but let down.
“You have such pretty hair,” his mother had said to him one evening, at the dinner table. An attempt to reach out, to connect. He shaved half of it off that very night, but couldn’t bring himself to do the rest.
It was a pretense, though. An act for attention. For when his grandfather passed not six months later, Coran wanted anything but for eyes to be on him.
It was the loudest he’d been in ages, when he found out. His voice was ripped raw from his throat.
He had been unruly, sure, but up until that point, Coran had never done anything that hurt. He was afraid of pain. The piercings, however, just seemed right. Barely a week after his grandfather’s death and he couldn’t stop thinking about them, how they’d feel going in, how they’d last. It was the perfect solution, he thought, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
The first one hurt a lot. So did the second. The third one, not so much. And the fourth, years later, he barely felt at all. He tried not to think of it as a metaphor.
“You’re turning into quite the teenage rebel, you know that?”
The deep and familiar voice echoed in the small bathroom. Coran closed off the piercing, and looked up from his spot in the empty bathtub. Alfor was sweaty, and dirty- probably from a hard day of training. He was one of the five chosen, a fact that Coran couldn’t find in his heart to hold against him. Alfor grabbed a towel off the nearby wrack, and came to sit at the edge of the tub.
“Yes, well, you know what they say,” Coran mused as he wiped the blood from his ear, “keep puffing up the same chimney and it might just blow.”
The other boy let out a laugh, at that, and it was golden. “Only you would say something like that.” It was was playful in nature, but said with such a genuine tone that Coran couldn’t help but feel a pleasant warmth rise to his cheeks.
Alfor lifted an eyebrow and leaned from left to right, inspecting the tiny gems on either ear. “They really do look good on you, you know that?” He paused, and stared, and smiled. The dimples creased as his face lit up, and it was infectious.
“Hey, do me next.”
“What?”
“Yeah, come on, it’ll be great.” The boy tied his silver hair up in a ponytail and swung his legs over the side of the tub. Minutes later, they sat facing each other- giggling, knee against knee, as Coran pointed a needle toward Alfor’s lobe.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asked, hesitantly.
“Absolutely,” he responded, with no hesitation at all.
He bit his lip as the needle pushed through.
Coran couldn’t be angry with Alfor, even if he tried.
One hand reached for a towel while the other grabbed the mirror sitting on the back of the toilet. He held it up to his friend’s face. “So what do you think?”
Alfor took little time inspecting it before placing his hand over Coran’s, and pulling him in for a hug. He could feel the other’s grin against his shoulder. “It’s fantastic,” he said, “You’re so talented, Coran.”
His heart sped up at that, though he wished it hadn’t. The embrace lasted longer than it should with a simple friend, until quiet spread over the room and his pulse settled into a slow, contented thrum. Perhaps, he thought.
Alfor giggled.
“What is it?” Coran asked, muffled into his shoulder.
“Oh, nothing.”
He nudged him in the knee. “Oh, don’t do that, let it slip.”
“It’s just- have you ever thought about taking up sewing?”
-
“So I have to ask,” Pidge begins on a quiet evening, as the two run maintenance on the ship, “How come it’s only Lance? You know, that has the on-theme bathrobe and slipper set. Like, I get the castle is magical and all that, but where did those even come from?”
Coran slips. He really must be getting old.
-
He had gotten pretty good at it. Sewing, that is.
After a thousand suns had turned and the last magnificent beast had been built into the sky, five brave warriors emerged to set the world at peace. Strong, brave, compassionate, intelligent, and wise- the traits fell forward in perfect harmony, balancing each other as the first “form Voltron” was uttered from optimistic lips. It was a sight to behold, one that forced envy straight out the door.
Flamboyant did not make it to the list. It did, however, make it other places.
It wasn’t easy being the ambassador of Voltron, but Coran managed.
At first it had been awkward, finding presence in a team already so full of charisma. But Coran was never one to back down, was sure that if he was going to do this, he was going to do this right. He had sworn to himself, the night after the position had been offered, that he would be the best ambassador the five had ever seen.
He went on missions to find any missing parts, talked at length with other planets to ensure alliance, and cooked all meals for the young paladins (much to their dismay). He acted as helmsman and advisor, mentor and friend. And soon, whenever anyone needed to call on Voltron, Coran was the first they’d turn to. It left him with a smile on his face. It left him with little spare time.
But when creativity hit, it hit hard.
They weren’t children, anymore; he hadn’t seen it coming till the day that it arrived. And the package it arrived in, well- she was beautiful. All silky white hair and young bare feet, and eyes that shot daggers into the universe before it even had a chance to fight back. Allura was a fierce spirit, a leader, even in her first years of life. It didn’t surprise him that she was chosen as one of the five not moments after she took in her first breath.
Blue, he thought, when he saw her eyes.
First came the little booties. Perfect for indoor lounging, on those days when rocks came scorching from the sky, trapping everyone to the confines of their home. Then the bathrobe, then the pants, because what’s the point in having slippers if they don’t match your frocks? He was so sure she would love them, when the time came for her to become a defender of the universe. He was almost finished with the last piece in the set.
“What are you making there?” a voice rung in through the doorway. Alfor stepped into the room, daughter in arms. He let her down to the ground.
“Lemmi see, lemmi see!” Allura squealed. She ran over and climbed into Coran’s lap.
“Careful,” he said, “I’ve got a sharp needle in my hand. I could poke you and you might very well deflate!”
She giggled, at that, and he handed her a slipper.
Her father spoke up. “You made sleepwear? For your sister?”
The twinge only stung a little, now, enough that he could ignore it. Just like the subtle scar on Alfor’s right ear.
“Actually, they’re for Allura. When she gets older, of course.”
Upon discovering this, the young child had demanded to try the garments on. They were far too big for her, of course, but seemed to suit the fearless leader nonetheless. She ran bombarding around the room in her new clothes, bursting with mixed exclamations of new and ancient yore. A brave paladin, she called herself, and she was.
When you grow up with someone, find your way through tens and twenties and further on, you develop rituals- little signals of affection to remind each other that you care. They are wonderful, and reassuring. But it doesn’t mean that they hurt any less. Alfor came to sit by Coran’s side, and gave him a kiss, just above his ear. “Thank you,” he said. Coran did the same, but hesitantly. It had always been this way.
“Allura,” Alfor spoke again, “what do you say to your uncle?”
“Thank you, uncle Coran!”
-
“No. Way. These exist? I thought Lance just willed his into reality.” Hunk’s voice is the first to sound through the empty dining room, surprised and more than a little delighted. He stumbles, still fighting off sleep, over to the edge of his seat. Sprawled on the back of the chair is the very bathrobe he had seen on his companion, but this time, in an unmistakable shade of yellow. He picks it up.
The door slides open, and in comes Pidge, destined to have a similar reaction. Then Shiro, and Keith- one by one each paladin files into the room, to find bathrobes, pajamas, slippers, each tailored to their own unique color and size.
Coran peeks his head out of the kitchen. “Ah, you’re all here!” he says, “Excellent. I made breakfast.” He waddles out with a steaming pot of goo, and begins to set the table.
“Okay, so. I knew this place was magic, but- isn’t this stretching it a bit?” Pidge sleepily scratches her head, a thin line drawn between her eyebrows.
Keith wears the same expression, but doesn’t say anything. He just stares, bewildered, at the items on his seat.
After a moment of pure astonishment from the young paladins, it finally clicks. Shiro is the first to speak up. “Coran- did you make these for us?”
They all look at him. A tick passes, and Coran responds. “Well, you know, you’re the defenders of the universe now, it’s about time you start dressing like it.”
Too shocked to believe this is even happening, the room breaks out into a fit of amazed laughter. Words get thrown around, like “Since when did you know how to sew?” and “I was wondering where all that wasted talent in cooking went.” Hunk says that one, giving him a strong but loving pat on the back.
“But wait,” Keith begins, flustered, “how come Lance gets two?”
“Because I’m the best.”
“No you aren’t. Shut up for a second, will you?”
“You shut up!”
In the midst of the arguing, Allura walks into the room. “What’s all this?” she asks.
Coran sees her, and he smiles- big and genuine and happy for the first time in many years. “Because the ones you have now-” he winks at her, “-were meant for someone else.”
She turns bright red faster than you can say quiznack, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that Coran hasn’t seen in a very, very long time.
10,000 years and the twinge isn’t gone. 10,000 years, and his heart still aches for something that is long since lost to the wind and ash.
But one can only grieve for so long.
She looks at him then, from across the room, through the booming chaos of five brave warriors, young and eager and full of love. The words ‘thank you,’ form on her lips. And in turn, Coran whispers, ‘of course.’
He doesn’t hesitate this time.