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“It’s gorgeous,” Pidge breathes. Her eyes are sparkling as she gazes out the enormous window, nose pressed flat against the glass. “Wow.”
“A truly rare sight,” Coran agrees, smiling from his position at his control console. “You don’t come across a big ol’ ion storm very often these days. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“I can’t believe it,” Lance agrees. His face is smooshed at the window next to Pidge. “Wow! Look at that!”
Outside the wide windows of the bridge, space is lit up in absolutely stunning colors. Huge clouds of dark purples and orange billow all around them, the unique particles and matter spinning in their celestial, dangerous dance. Violet clouds stream past the windows as the Castle sails through, thrusters slow and steady. Sparks of ice-green lightning flash in the depths of the clouds; the lightning is not unlike a thunderstorm, or so Ulaz has been assured. He does not quite understand, but it is the term Lance continues to use - a “space thunderstorm” - and Ulaz has no wish to cause dissent. Sometimes agreeing with Lance is just easier.
Regardless of terminology, the ion storm is truly a sight to behold. It is, however, by no means an easy passage. The ship shakes as another bolt of “space-lightning” edges too close, just clipping the edge of the ship’s particle barrier.
“You sure this thing is safe?” Hunk asks, uneasily. Keith stands at his side, arms folded tight across his chest as he stares out at the natural phenomenon.
“Nothing to worry about,” Allura reassures him. She stands at her control posts, guiding the ship. Her smile is relaxed, easy. “I’ve flown through several ion storms with my father. This is rather calm.”
A brilliant flash of lightning slams into the particle barrier. The ship jerks, shuddering. This time the Paladins are ready for it, shifting their weight and stances to balance as the ship rolls through the movement. Ulaz’s own footing is secure enough he does not need to re-adjust. Outside, the lightning forks into three perfect strands, illuminating the peak of a swollen orange cloud in perfect, sparkling light.
“Woah,” Hunk and Pidge breathe together.
“Did I not tell you?” Allura asks, smug.
“So cool,” Lance echoes, shaking his head in wonder. His face squeaks against the glass. “Look at that. Keith, are you looking? Your face is kind of grouchy.”
“I’m looking,” Keith assents, and Ulaz almost swears that’s a little smile.
“Can we go out in this?” Pidge cries, wild with excitement. She peels back from the window, leaving a smudgy imprint of her face behind. “Can the Lions handle a space-thunderstorm?”
“Far too dangerous for that, Number Five,” Coran says, snapping his moustache. “The Lions can handle modicums of electricity, but it’s best to wait this one out from in here. If it’s too dangerous, Allura will open up a wormhole and we’ll wormhole away to safety.”
“It will not come to that,” Allura promises. Lightning strikes the barrier again; the ship shudders with a great rumble of engines and machinery, but the particle barrier holds. All around Ulaz the Paladins are relaxing, awed at the universe’s majestic display. It truly is a sight to behold.
“What do you think?” Ulaz murmurs, to the Paladin standing at his side.
That is - he draws breath to do so. But there’s no movement out of his peripheral; no presence whatsoever. Ulaz turns, the words dying on his lips.
Shiro is no longer there.
He was standing by Ulaz when the journey through the clouds first began, but now he is gone. He is not anywhere on the bridge, as a matter of fact. He is not standing behind Coran, not leaning over Hunk and Pidge’s shoulders, not bumping elbows with Keith as he sometimes does. The bridge, while well-illuminated with the radiant light of the space-thunderstorm, is noticeably absent of Ulaz’s black paladin.
Rather than cause alarm, Ulaz quietly excuses himself during the next strike of the green lightning, and goes on the hunt.
Shiro is not terribly hard to find.
He’s sitting up on the secondary observation deck, tucked into a corner of the ragged couch. Every inch of him is curled up on said surface, knees pulled up to his chest and feet resting against the cushions. The space-thunderstorm blossoms out the wide windows ahead of him. His back is to the door.
That is not what gives Ulaz pause. What gives Ulaz pause is that every fiber of Shiro’s posture radiates tension, shoulders up, back tight. He does not react when the door swishes open, when Ulaz’s shadow breaks the light from the hall and stretches long across the floor.
Ulaz approaches, taking care that his footfalls are not silent. Still Shiro does not look up, utterly hunched in on himself on the couch.
A bad sign. Ulaz clears his throat. “Shiro?”
That does it. Shiro jumps, startled. No, not jumps - flinches. His head jerks up, turns over his shoulder.
“Ulaz,” Shiro says, in greeting. His voice is hoarse. There are tear tracks on his cheeks. Still wet, even, catching in the flash of light from outside.
Ulaz’s mind immediately launches to the worst.
“What is the matter?” Ulaz asks urgently. He crosses the room in three large strides, crouching down in front of Shiro immediately. It isn’t enough; even sitting down, Shiro would have to crane his neck up simply to meet Ulaz’s gaze. Ulaz drops to his knees. “Are you injured?”
“No,” Shiro says. He shakes his head, the movement stilted. “No, I’m not.”
The way his hand grips at his prosthetic betrays him. Shiro’s arms are not merely tucked behind his knees; his left hand clutches at the gleaming metal of his right arm, fingers tight and desperate.
Ah.
Slowly, telegraphing every move, Ulaz rises from his knees. The cushions dip beneath his weight as he settles carefully on the couch, leaving bare inches between him and Shiro. Shiro doesn’t look up. Nor does he pull his left hand away from the hated Galra arm.
For a long moment Ulaz says nothing. He sits next to Shiro, steady and present. Calm. The ion storm surrounds their ship on all sides, blooming clouds of darkest purple shot through with shades of vibrant coppers. A patch of clouds flash in the distance, too far to reach them. A brilliant streak of lightning illuminates the clouds to their right - still far - in a bold burst of green.
“Does it hurt?” Ulaz asks, at last.
“Not really,” Shiro murmurs.
Ulaz raises one eyebrow. Shiro sighs.
“A bit,” he relents. Every muscle in his shoulders is tense, a rigid stroke.
Lightning flashes out the broad windows again, this time too close. The ship jolts from the impact, bucking. Ulaz plants one foot on the floor, grounding himself. Next to Ulaz, Shiro flinches.
“Shiro,” Ulaz says.
“Yes, it hurts,” Shiro admits finally, through gritted teeth. His jaw is clenched so hard he’s probably well on the way to giving himself a migraine. His knuckles tighten over his prosthetic.
Ulaz considers. How could an arm made entirely of metal and quintessence still be causing Shiro such pain? The first thing Ulaz had done upon his recovery from the space-pocket-disaster was nullify every single one of Haggar’s “safeguards” left behind in Shiro’s arm. Ulaz had made sure of it himself, painstaking piece by painstaking piece. None of Haggar’s tricks and cruelty remain other than the arm itself. It should not be causing Shiro any more pain.
The ship shudders again. Shiro winces sharply. This time Ulaz is prepared. This time he catches as Shiro’s fingers grip still harder; this time Ulaz is alert, and finally realizes the precise placement of Shiro’s fingers above the metal arm.
Above.
Shiro isn’t holding his prosthetic. He’s gripping what remains of his own arm, the flesh and blood and muscle left behind where his real arm is grafted onto the metal. Where his flesh and veins are fused to the Galra technology through a scientific magic far too complex for basic understanding.
Quintessence might help the prosthetic, at its core. Ulaz’s own enhancements have helped, as well. But there is nothing that can be done for what remains of Shiro’s real, human flesh: nothing for the pain caused by real - not synthetic - nerves and bone.
“Shiro,” Ulaz breathes, horrified.
“It’s silly,” Shiro manages. Outside the windows the clouds continue to roll, emerald-green lightning sparkling in their depths. “On Earth - folks with old bones could predict the weather, kind of. My grandfather’s knee always bothered him when it was about to rain. My other grandfather’s hip knew when it was going to snow. I had an aunt who could accurately time a thunderstorm three miles away just from the twinge of her elbow. I always…I always thought they were being silly.”
“This predictive ability runs in your family?” Ulaz asks, surprised. “I am impressed. What is snow?”
“No, it’s - ” Shiro blinks, startled out of himself. “Seriously?”
“I am assuming it is a pattern of weather,” Ulaz prompts, deliberately.
Shiro shakes his head in disbelief. “Right. Of course you wouldn’t - we’re coming back to that one. What I should say - it’s not like that, with the weather predictions. There isn’t any magic in it. When humans get - when we age, we lose bone mass and density. The - where the joints connect just doesn’t work as well, so they end up aching when the barometric pressure starts changing, like with a storm or if it’s raining. But sometimes - I guess some injuries, too, they don’t -”
A massive bolt of green lightning slams into the particle barrier. The ship rocks as the shields absorb the impact, but hold firm. Shiro hisses through his teeth.
“Your arm,” Ulaz concludes. He needs no further explanation. “It is bothering you, like your elders.”
“I’ll be fine,” Shiro says. His eyes are tight and hard, pinched together. Watering.
“You are not,” Ulaz says, softly. “I know what your pain looks like, Shiro. You do not have to hide it from me. I already know.”
Shiro’s head jerks up. The tear stains on his cheeks are still visible; one unbidden tear travels down his cheek. The tears are evidence enough: evidence of a young man, pushed too far. Evidence of one so weary, exhausted and worn. Evidence of bitter pain, of hurts inflicted that run bone-deep. Too deep.
They hurt.
Ulaz could not help him when Shiro’s hand was taken. He was a spectator, trapped by circumstances of his own. Regardless, that Shiro has suffered so much is Ulaz’s fault. That Shiro suffers even now -
No. This is a promise Ulaz has since made, and a promise he will keep. Ulaz could not stop Shiro’s pain then, but he can do this much now.
“I will ask the Princess to create a wormhole immediately,” Ulaz decides.
“No!” Shiro’s hand shoots out, catching Ulaz as he rises. Ulaz startles, surprised. Shiro’s grip is firm, his gaze rock-solid and hard. Determined, despite his exhaustion and weary pain. “No. Don’t tell her.”
“There is no need for you to endure this,” Ulaz begins.
“The others were so excited,” Shiro says, right over him, “They wanted to see this so badly. It is beautiful. Even if it - it’s stunning. Isn’t it? What do you think?”
Outside the storm billows, constant and all-encompassing. The Castle rises over a cloud, sails through a wave of deepest blue-violet. An explorer, a brave speck of white in an endless, majestic sea.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” Shiro says. His voice is quiet; his eyes are turned to the window, though his hand remains on Ulaz’s wrist. “When I was in school, before I went up to space for the first time. Saturn’s rings, Jupiter’s gas pockets - all of that was fine, but this…? This is what I wanted. This is what I dreamed of.”
“Your species is prophetic as well?” Ulaz queries.
It works. Shiro laughs. It’s a small sound, the slightest quirk of his lips. It’s enough. “No. It’s a figure of speech. I wasn’t dreaming of space storms, exactly, but I was…I…”
He gestures wordlessly towards the window. Glimmers of distant lightning glint off the palm, shine against his Galra thumb. Shimmer against his wrist.
“I did want this,” Shiro says, vulnerable and earnest. His gaze is reflective and soft. “To see new things. To be the first. To go where no one has gone before, to explore…”
“You dreamed of this,” Ulaz summarizes, quietly. “I understand.”
“I did,” Shiro agrees. He swallows. Sparks of green flash in the distance, lighting up the observation deck and painting Shiro’s face in shadows of amber and violet stars. Ulaz cannot look away. “The others - we might never see something like this ever again. I’m not taking it away from them.”
He is correct, of course. Rarity of the storm aside, Shiro is the last person Ulaz needs to remind that they’re still at war.
“Their happiness is worth your own discomfort?” Ulaz asks, instead.
“Yes,” Shiro insists. “It’s not that bad.”
Lightning strikes outside, close. The particle barrier illuminates with the blow; Shiro shudders, yet again. His fingers dig reflexively into Ulaz’s bicep.
So be it.
Ulaz says nothing, merely folds his legs underneath him and sits fully on the couch. He does not dislodge Shiro’s grip on his arm, but - after a moment - carefully covers Shiro’s hand with his own. Shiro’s hand, strong and calloused and scarred, is still so small beneath Ulaz’s own palm.
“I am sorry,” Ulaz says, sincerely. Shiro’s head whips to him, surprised. “I am sorry that as a result of my actions, you have to endure this prophetic pain.”
Shiro laughs, a startled snicker bursting from his lips. He ducks his head briefly, hair shaking into his eyes.
“You weren’t there,” he says, laying his right hand atop Ulaz’s own. It’s a unique mix of flesh on metal: Shiro’s hand on Ulaz’s, which still covers Shiro’s natural hand, which is still pressed into Ulaz’s arm. Ulaz’s knee is touching Shiro’s thigh, where Shiro’s finally - finally - relaxed. Just a little. Just enough. “I don’t remember a lot, but I remember that much. I don’t blame you.”
“Your species constantly apologizes for elements outside of your control,” Ulaz counters, immediate but not sharp. “Is this not the same?”
Shiro flushes, heat racing to his cheeks. “It’s not your fault.”
“Be that as it may, I still apologize,” Ulaz says. His hand tightens ever so slightly over Shiro’s; slight, because Ulaz knows his own strength. Shiro is strong, yes, but claws are still sharp. “Allow me to make amends.”
“You already have,” Shiro says, honest. “Many times.”
This is an argument they have had before: a conversation worn like well-thumbed pages in a book.
The storm drifts outside, a murmur and a risk. The castle sails, protected and on guard. They are not through by a long shot, but are perhaps near enough that Ulaz can see the end.
“I shall sit with you then,” Ulaz says, simply. “If you would have me?”
Shiro smiles for the first time all afternoon. A rare sight; a revel.
“I would,” Shiro says, and allows Ulaz to settle in.