Work Text:
Shiro knew he had a fever. He got them often, since his time with the Galra. They’d done something to his immune system and now, every single bug that passed him by got stuck in his ruined sinuses. When he was young, he could stay at home for a day with a bottle of NyQuil and wake up good as new.
He missed being a kid. That lack of responsibility, the lack of worry, the knowledge that no matter what mistakes he made, he’d be fine. He could stay home all day and not worry about the destruction of planets or the death of innocents. Every movement he made now was more important than entire years back on Earth.
The luxury of staying still was not one he could claim, not here, and not now.
The fever could wait.
The Voltron Coalition was heading into its third day of peace talks with Xethorian Dynasty. He didn’t have time for it.
His head spun when he pulled himself out of bed, and after a deep breath, he dragged his feet to the bathroom. The splash of cold water on his face was just enough to convince his eyes to focus on his reflection in the mirror.
His face burned with a pink flush and his eyes were red, dulling the silver to a tired gray. He breathed through his mouth when he was alone, letting him bypass the scar tissue in his face, but today he wouldn’t be able to breathe through his nose if he tried. He shifted his jaw and his ears popped, relieving some of the pressure in his head.
The talks were only scheduled for one more day.
The fever could wait.
The Xethorians were a proud people. They had traditions. They had a lot of traditions. The king spoke of hope to start the day, and then a never ending line of his sons stepped up to say their own piece. Yes, they had a lot of hope. Thank you.
Shiro watched Allura to know when to politely clap.
He wished he’d brought a box of space tissues. Would that be polite? Probably not. The Xethorians were weird. They insisted that all paladins keep their hands above the table at any moment.
It’s their culture, Allura had said.
Allura and Lance did most of the talking, thank god. Keith sat on his right, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the informational pamphlets in front of him. That was a good idea. Shiro did the same.
The letters swam in his vision. He knew the translator chip was trying its best, but he couldn’t figure out where to look. He didn’t know who was talking. He thought he caught the edges of Hunk’s voice, but then Pidge was talking and then someone else. He nodded. They sounded like they knew what was happening.
The paper in front of him changed.
“Shiro?” someone said.
He hummed.
“You just need to sign.”
Oh, that was Allura. He nodded. The pen shook in his hand. He wrote with his right hand. He was right handed, so that made sense. His hand was covered with some weird glove.
Weird.
He passed the paper on. To Keith? Keith caught his eyes when he grabbed the paper. To Keith.
He wondered what he just signed. Hoped it wasn’t too important.
He felt a hand on his arm and jumped. He stifled the yell. Success.
He blinked.
Keith.
“Keith?”
“Shiro,” he said, “are you okay?”
Shiro nodded. “I’m fine.”
“He doesn’t really look fine.”
That was Lance? Definitely Lance.
“I’m okay, Lance.”
“Buddy, I’m over here. That was Hunk.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
“Allura, you’ll be okay at the celebration? I’m taking Shiro back.”
“I’m okay.”
“Shut up.”
“We will be absolutely fine. Take care of him. Lance?”
“Yeah, I’m with you. Feel better, bud.”
A hand slapped his back and Shiro jolted.
“I’m okay.”
Lance laughed.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go to the party too, if that’s okay? I figure we need to make at the very least a majority appearance, and, you know, they had these perfect little tarts day one—“
“I’ve got him, Hunk.”
Shiro closed his eyes. He’d thought they’d been closed before, but now they actually were. He tried to sniffle but the pressure only increased. Ow.
He felt something press against his forehead. Cold. He sighed and pressed into it. He felt the heat leave his body, vibrating atoms in his skin crashing against theirs and slowing it down, cooling his skin.
The hand left and he bit his whimper back.
“Shiro, how long have you been sick?”
Shiro shrugged. “Not sick.”
Keith groaned. “Yeah, I got this.”
Someone tapped his bicep. “Time to go, Shiro.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the party, come on Shiro.”
A hand wrapped around his and he followed up to standing. The world spun. He couldn’t figure out where to look and the table was so close. Standing was hard, if he could just—
Someone grabbed his shoulder.
Oh. So that was up.
“Should I come with?”
“Coran’s still at the castle. We’ll be fine.”
“If you’re sure…”
“It’s fine, Pidge. Go to the party. Have fun.”
“Alright, buzz if you need us.”
Shiro stumbled into the form pulling him forward.
“Keith?” he said.
“What’s up.” Keith sounded hurried. Distracted. Shiro wondered why.
“What if I failed it?”
Keith slowed. “Failed what?”
“The test. Montgomery’s test. I got a 92 on the last one, if I failed it, I’ll have a… B? B average? I’ve never gotten a B, Keith.”
Keith laughed. Shiro pouted. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Halls passed him by. They didn’t look like the garrison halls. They were warmer, the low orange light too soft to belong to that place. Keith was holding his hand. It was weird. He couldn’t feel Keith’s hand. Keith’s hand was always sweaty and sticky and cold. He couldn’t feel it.
He blinked, just for a second, and the scenery changed. Blue.
“It’s blue.”
He turned to look at Keith. Keith looked worried. Shiro realized how much weight he had around Keith’s shoulders. He was heavy, that was too much. He tried to pull back but the handing on his arm kept him in place as they continued down the blue halls.
“Why is the garrison blue?”
“Almost there, Shiro. It’s okay.”
“Okay.” Shiro said.
He watched the walls pass him. He wondered where he was. The garrison wasn’t blue.A door hissed open in front of him and the lights faded up. The lights in that room were yellow. That was a good color. Warm. It wasn’t his room.
It fell out of focus.
“Keith? Where are we?”
Something came up out of nowhere, and then he was horizontal. His hands grabbed blindly, finding his blanket. Soft. He pulled it to his chest and hummed. He liked how soft it was, but it was too hot.
“Keith?” he tried again.
Keith sat down next to him, the bed dipping under his weight.
“Yeah, Shiro?”
“Where are we.”
Shiro watched Keith’s hand move to his forehead. It was all his eyes wanted to focus on.
Oh, that was nice. Cool.
“We’re at the castle.”
“The castle?”
“Yeah.”
The hand left. Keith left. Shiro let himself drift.
“The castle…”
His heart jumped, and then so did he. Everything crashed and the blanket tumbled from his grip when he caught himself with his hands.
“Keith!”
More crashing, and then Keith was back at his side, trying to pull him up.
“We need to go. How did you get here? We need to go. We need to go home.”
He clawed at Keith’s arms. They needed to go, why wasn’t Keith moving?
“Shiro!” Keith was too loud. “I need you to look at me!”
Shiro was looking at him, wasn’t he? That was Keith. Keith’s hair was too long. He needed a haircut.
“Keith, you need a haircut.”
“Look at my eyes, Shiro.”
He did. Keith was worried.
Shiro’s eyes wouldn’t stay clear for more than a few seconds at a time. Every time Keith thought he was getting a grip on where they were, he’d get lost somewhere else.
“Shiro,” he said, keeping his words gentle.
Shiro snapped back to him. “Where are we?”
He’d seen Shiro sick before. Shiro was sick much too often, but this was different.
“Shiro, can you see me?”
Shiro smiled, a goofy, tired little thing that reminded Keith of their Smirnoff nights back in the desert.
“Of course I see you, Keith.” Shiro looked over Keith’s face. He pouted. “You look so tired. And old.” His words slurred together.
Shiro brought up his hand, presumably to poke at Keith’s old, old skin. He got stuck in the motion, hand hovering just inches from Keith. He sat captivated by the twitch of his own metal fingers. Keith took advantage of the moment to slip an arm behind Shiro’s shoulders and pull them both back to standing. Keith stumbled under Shiro’s weight, Shiro’s feet refusing to plant themselves on the ground. Keith caught the sheen on Shiro’s forehead, the flush on his cheeks.
His eyes refused to peel themselves away from his hand, fist opening and closing finger by finger. His blinks were slow.
“Keith,” he started, furrowing his eyebrows, “what’s wrong with my hand?”
“Nothing,” Keith’s words tumbled out of his mouth, trying to pull Shiro from his head, “you’re totally fine, just really sick, okay? Don’t look at it. Look at me.”
Shiro didn’t believe him. His breathing sped up. He couldn’t look away. Keith grabbed Shiro’s chin, ready to pull away, but Shiro jumped, choking on a whimper. Keith pulled his hand away as if he’d been burned, but kept Shiro upright.
Shiro’s body shook with the effort of tensing up against Keith’s side. Keith felt Shiro try to push him away; instead he started coughing, a painful, unproductive noise that echoed against the bare walls. Keith could feel Shiro’s weight pulled down by the ship’s gravity and it took every muscle to keep him from falling face first into the metal at their feet. Keith fought the clenching of his jaw.
Shiro was shaking, sweating, and hallucinating. That was bad. All of that was very bad, right? Sleep it off didn’t cover it. Patience yields focus didn’t help much either.
Keith didn’t have a mother’s touch; he didn’t know what a mother’s touch even was, but his hand was a sufficient rough estimate for temperature. He could feel the heat radiating from Shiro’s skin before he made contact.
Hot. Shiro pulled away from the touch with a weak moan. His lips moved but his eyes were closed. Too hot.
“‘m cold, they won’t give me a blanket.”
Cold? “Shiro, you’re not cold and there’s a blanket right here.”
Shiro shook his head. “It’s always too cold.” He shivered.
This was bad. Keith helped Shiro sit on the bed behind them and all but ran to the bathroom to grab the wet towel he’d been on the way to get before Shiro collapsed before. When he got back, Shiro was still sitting up but shivering. Keith fought the urge to push him back onto the bed. Manhandling him was becoming a bad idea, the further Shiro got from reality.
He unstuck the bangs from Shiro’s forehead and replaced them with the cool cloth. Shiro’s eyes fluttered behind his closed eyes and his relieved exhale ground against whatever was gunning up his lungs.
With the breath came another cough, a big rattling thing that shook Shiro’s entire frame. When Keith pulled away the cloth to give Shiro a moment to breathe, he swore he saw steam rising from his skin.
He’d fallen out of his fear, at least, and didn’t seem to be worried about the state of his hand anymore. Keith didn’t want to think about where Shiro was, his mind spinning, unable to latch onto reality, unable to breathe, feeling too hot and too cold at the same time, shivering and sweating, confused—
Keith shuddered and ran a hand up and down Shiro’s back.
“Can you lay down?”
Shiro moans and fell onto his side, not even bothering to pull his legs up. Keith did it for him, doing his best to tuck Shiro in without letting him get too hot. He put the blanket in front of his hands and let Shiro grasp it on his own.
He sat down on the bed and kept up his careful duty of pressing the cold towel to Shiro’s forehead, just like they did in the movies. He brought goo and juice and all the things he thought that moms probably did. He provided Shiro with tissues, and every time he opened his eyes to ask Keith where he was, Keith was sure to remind him that he was safe.