Archive of Our Own

Act One

It is hard for Shiro to decide when he fell in love with Allura.

Sometimes, he thinks it was the first moment he saw her, when he was fraying at the seams, a bundle of scrambled memories and scars trying to figure out how to be a man. Other times, he thinks it was the moment he stared at her through the rear hatch of the Galra shuttle, watching her stand like an island of calm in the midst of all the Galra troopers, the ones she sacrificed herself to just to save him.

Maybe there was no one defining moment. Maybe it built, little by little, every day that they fought and lived and worked together.

In the end, it doesn’t matter how exactly he falls in love with her. He just does and it’s… Not a problem, exactly, but a consideration that lurks in the back of his thoughts. He doesn’t plan to do anything about it. They’re in the middle of a war. This isn’t the time for love. And even if it was, he is what he is and she is…. Beyond him.

So he watches her, growing closer and closer to her, his affections deepening with every day and every battle, right up until the Castle takes a terrible hit in battle. The attack blows a hole right through the shield and the central spire. Allura’s scream cuts across the comms, followed by terrible crackling static. Shiro yells in response, his thoughts torn away from the battle, captured by the detritus spreading out from the damaged Castle.

Allura does not answer. Neither does Coran. Lightning rushes through Shiro’s veins, the world hyper-focusing around him. He barely remembers the rest of the battle, though he knows he leaves destruction in his wake, the enemy fleet sundered around him.

He doesn’t care about it as much as he should.

He does not know if Allura is alive or dead. She makes no reply to his calls, not even after the battle is ended. Not even after Black lands in the hangar, and Shiro rushes through the halls of the Castle. He can hear the others asking questions that buzz around his ears like flies, but he doesn’t know what to tell them, not until he reaches the bridge and finds the way barred. A bulkhead fell across the door, the metal collapsed by the attack. Smoke snakes out through cracks in the metal, and Shiro can feel the heat inside the room even from his place in the hall.

He yells, Allura’s name torn from his throat, and reaches for the debris blocking the path. The heat does not affect his Galra arm, and he tears his way through the collapsed metal to reach the bridge, horrified at what he might find, but unable to stop digging.

The bridge is filled with smoke, thick and black. Acrid. Shiro waves his hand in front of his face, coughing. He shouts, “Allura!”

He gets no reply and presses into the room, the smoke stinging his eyes and curling down his throat, into his lungs. He finds Allura in a pile by her station, limp. Shiro grabs her, carrying her out of the room before she can breathe in any more smoke, jerking when Coran pushes past him, into the bridge. Coran yells, “Let me by, I’ll have the fire taken care of in a tick.”

Shiro doesn’t reply. He kneels with Allura in the relatively clean air of the hall, his fingers going to her throat, looking for a pulse while he holds her against his chest, and she coughs, then, curling into him and wheezing for breath. “It’s okay,” he says, senselessly, “it’s alright, just breathe.”

The coughs subside after a moment. She looks up at him, making him suddenly aware of the way he cradles her, and smiles through the ash on her face. She says, her voice hoarse, “You came. I did not think you heard me.”

And something in his chest twists, because he did not hear her. Because apparently she called him for help, and he did not know. Because she could have suffocated on the bridge, alone. The thought is horrifying, made worse by the adrenaline still in his blood and by her closeness. He should let her go.

He should do lots of things.

But he can’t get her scream out of his head. He says, “Of course I came.” He’s always going to come for her. He can’t imagine a situation where he wouldn’t—even if he didn’t hear her call. That realization settles inside his ribs and he is too far gone on adrenaline and fear to think of all the reasons he should put some space between them.

She smiles at him, soft and a bit crookedly. He is painfully aware that his hand is still against her neck. Her face is so close, and in that moment, it is too easy to lean down and kiss her soundly. He tastes ash on her mouth, feeling her freeze for an instant, before she makes a soft sound and kisses him back.

And Coran says, his voice getting rapidly closer, “Well, the fire is taken care of—oh, am I interrupting?”

It’s not like Shiro was going to throw Allura to the floor. She’s still in his arms by the time Coran appears, though Shiro has, at least, managed to stop kissing her. He blinks up at Coran, the last five minutes all crashing down on him at once, and says, “Uh.”

And that is when the others come running down the hall.

#

Mad fear and relief were not the emotions Shiro wanted to feel when he kissed Allura, but maybe he should have expected them. After all, he never intended to kiss her at all. He is too aware of their situation, of all the differences between them, of the reasons he shouldn’t feel the way he feels about her, much less act on those feelings.

But he kissed her. He knows the feel of her mouth. He know that she responded. He cannot un-know any of those things. They cannot be washed away. They will need addressed, but he does not feel up to it, after the battle. He goes back to his room. He gets cleaned up. He stares at the door when someone knocks on it.

For a moment, he tries to convince himself that it could be someone, anyone, besides Allura.

She waits outside his door. Her hair is down, all the way down, not even pulled back from her face. It is still wet, drying even curlier than it usually is. She wears a dress of soft white, with a high waist and a full skirt. She looks up at him, a smile cautiously dancing on her mouth, and asks, “I… can I come in?”

He should tell her no. He shouldn’t be around her, feeling the way he currently does—reckless and barely controlled. He knows that. But he thought she was dead, only an hour ago. He thought she was dead, and he hasn’t repacked all the emotions stirred to wild life by that thought; they still roam around in his head, prickly beasts with claws and teeth. Her presence soothes them, somewhat. He steps aside and says, “Of course.”

She steps into his room and looks around; she has not been in it, before. There is not much to see. She turns back to look at him, and the tips of her ears have reddened. The marks on her cheeks seem brighter than they usually are. She wets her lips and asks, “You are doing well?”

“Yes.” He does not know why they are making small-talk. His heart is racing like he’s in the middle of a fight, and his skin feels oversensitive. She smells nice. Her lips are shiny, darker than they usually are. His mouth is so dry. He says, “You’re okay? After the smoke inhalation, I mean?”

“Coran treated me,” she replies, and Shiro thinks he might scream or vibrate out of his skin, standing there, so close to her, thinking about smoke and her mouth and the way she felt in his arms.

“Good,” he says, inane in the extreme, dragging his gaze up from her mouth, and clearing his throat, trying to focus on something, anything besides kissing her. “Can I get you something to—”

And then she swears, softly, and takes a quick step forward, grabbing two handfuls of his shirt and tugging down while she pushes up. She kisses him in the middle of a word, too hard. He does not even care. He makes a rough sound, tilting his head, and her mouth softens against his, and all of a sudden they are kissing, properly, in the middle of his quarters.

She is alive in his arms, strong and vibrant. She no longer tastes like smoke. Her fingers are soft, brushing against his neck, and his thoughts abandon him, smothered by the memory of her scream, by the way she’d looked wreathed in smoke, limp, by the terror he’d felt when he thought he was too late.

He forgets all the things he knows about loving her. He forgets all good sense.

He threads his fingers back through her hair and kisses her, giving in to what he wants, what he knows he can’t have, not really. She rocks back, after a moment, off of her toes. Her eyes are soft; the glow from her markings, brightened still further, lights the space between them.

And she smiles, so widely it crinkles her eyes in the corners, and she kisses him again, laughing into it. They are both too tired to do much more than that, to, honestly, stay awake for much longer. He kisses her again at his door, when she can no longer resist yawning every other minute.

She looks at him over her shoulder as she walks down the hall, blushing when she finds him watching, and he sinks back into his room, leaning his back against the wall and bending over, bracing his hands on his legs, not sure what the hell he’s doing.

#

Shiro feels like he’s wandered into a dream. Allura smiles at him shyly the next day over breakfast, and he pours milk all over the table, because that is all it takes to distract him beyond his ability to think, apparently. Lance squawks indignantly when the cold liquid splashes into his lap. Pidge laughs at him, and Allura comes over with a rag. Their fingers bump when she tries to help Shiro clean up the mess, and he says, “Hey, hi,” feeling thick-tongued and foolish.

“Hello,” she says back, smiling, and he thinks that he kissed her mouth, a handful of hours ago. He kissed her, and nothing bad happened. And now she is smiling at him, the markings on her cheeks bright. And, after the others leave—exchanging some hissed conversation that Shiro does not care about at all—Allura kisses him again, soft and sweet and he—

He was so sure this was a bad idea. An impossibility. He still is. But. But her fingers brushing against the back of his neck do not feel like a bad idea. The softness of her mouth does not feel like a mistake. They feel right and necessary. Good.

It has been so long since he felt good.

He kisses her back, all of his worries sliding out of his thoughts, overwhelmed by sweetness and relief.

#

For a time, Shiro convinces himself that he was worrying too much, that fear made him unreasonable. Because things are good with Allura. There are no major changes between them, in the aftermath of the kisses. They were already close, friends and comrades. He already trusted her. They already spent a tremendous chunk of their time together.

Now, they simply spend some of that time kissing. Now, he can rest a hand on her back and thread their fingers together when they are alone. Now, he feels comfortable pulling her back against his chest when they manage to snag enough time to rest between their tangling duties. She hums, snuggling into place, her head a comforting weight on his arm, her hair soft against his throat and jaw. He wraps an arm around her waist, and she rests her hand on the back of his, her fingers slotting between his.

It is… it is the most comfort he can remember feeling in an impossible amount of time, and so, perhaps, it is not surprising when he falls asleep. They’ve been working hard, run ragged by both battles and diplomatic missions. And she is so warm. And she smells so nice.

He falls asleep feeling amazing.

His dreams do not reflect that.

#

Shiro dreams of painfully bright lights, jeering voices, and the stink of death. Sweat stings his eyes; blood covers his skin, sticky and gathering coarse sand. Monsters circle him, great beasts that he sees sometimes in his nightmares, but that he can never picture clearly in the waking world. They are humongous, creatures all of claw and tooth. They are vicious and, he understands with the crystal clarity granted by dreams, bent on his destruction.

And he can hear Allura, calling for him, something startled and urgent in her voice.

He snarls at the beasts and butchers them, each movement feeling eerily familiar. He fights them until something hot and wet splatters against his face, until Allura yells his name again. And when he twists around to look at her—she sounds so close—he finds Zarkon standing at his back, instead.

Zarkon is monstrously huge in his armor; his eyes are two yellow stars. His hands end in twisted metal knives. His cloak is blacker than anything Shiro has ever seen and it spreads, slowly covering the rest of the world.

One instant, they stand across from one another, like two statutes, and in the next they are exchanging desperate blows, with no intervening movement. Allura calls for him, and Shiro yells back, wordlessly, every one of his attacks blocked. Zarkon is so fast—strong and hulking. He backhands Shiro in the chest and sends him flying, and when Shiro rolls to his feet, Zarkon is already there, standing over him.

Allura yells once more, and this time Zarkon hears her, too, turning his massive head, his eyes roving across the darkness like beacons. And Shiro cannot allow him to find Allura. He can’t. He takes advantage of the monster’s distraction, launching himself forward, and in the next instant he has Zarkon on the ground, his hands curled, impossibly, around Zarkon’s thick throat.

He will strangle the life from Zarkon. He will end this entire nightmare right here. He will squeeze until there’s no more breath, he will—

Allura wheezes his name, and the world shifts.

Waking is abrupt and unpleasant, disorienting. He is breathing hard, covered in an icy sweat. The floor is hard under his knees. And Allura is beneath him, her hands curled around his wrists, because his hands are around her throat, encircling it completely. He can feel her pulse racing against his palm. He can—

He cries out, ragged, jerking back, his heart pounding so hard that it hurts. Allura rolls onto her side, immediately, coughing. He—

He scrambles to his feet, stumbling enough to reach the bathroom, to curl over the toilet and vomit, the acid burn in his throat not punishment enough for what he did.

“Sh,” Allura says, a second before there is a cool touch on his shoulder. He jerks back from it, from her, and she says, “Sh, Shiro, it’s just me, it’s only me.”

His gut spasms again. Poison pours out of him. He pants around it, fighting the sounds that want to burst out of his throat, shaking his head. “Sh,” she says again, touching his back and then removing her hand when he flinches once more. “I’m right here. I’m right here, let it out.”

He shakes his head and spits. His bones are shaking. He had his hands around her throat. He—he looks up at her, and manages to rasp out, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Sh,” she says, one more time, her eyes worried. “It’s—you didn’t—it was just a bad dream.”

“I hurt you,” he says, because he will never be able to un-see the expression on her face, the way she rolled to the side when he released her. He thinks he might throw up again. “I—why didn’t you stop me?” She could have thrown him off. She could have broken his arms. She should have.

She shrugs. She is kneeling beside him, on the bathroom floor. A princess, kneeling beside him by a toilet filled with vomit. It is wrong, what he’s reduced her to, it’s—

She says, sounding confused, “I wasn’t going to hurt you until it became necessary. I knew you’d wake up. Are… are you alright?”

Shiro stares at her. There are reddened marks around her throat. He hurt her. He has no idea how long she yelled at him to stop, to wake up. She— He can’t— He says, ragged, “You shouldn’t be here.” She shouldn’t be around him. She should be somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

She blinks at him, her hands twisting together. She says, “I—why?”

“I hurt you,” he repeats, because that should be obvious, because he left marks around her throat, because he’s unbalanced enough to try to kill her in his sleep, he is every bit the monster he always knew he was, it just—

She snorts a laugh, standing and offering him a hand. “You did not. Come on,” she says, “rinse your mouth. You’ll feel better.”

He wants to tell her to leave, again. But he—he just tried to strangle her. It feels wrong to refuse her anything. So he takes her hand, and she pulls him to his feet, guiding him to the sink, drawing him a glass of water and offering it out. He rinses and spits obediently, and drinks the rest of the liquid.

“Better?” she asks, leaning against the counter, her head cocked to the side. And the worst part is that it is better. His heartrate is slowing. His mouth no longer tastes poisonous. He does not feel so bad. And he should. He hurt her. He looks away from her, placing the cup on the sink.

He says, staring at his hands, “Yes.”

“Good,” she says, touching his arm and then leaning into him, hugging him from behind, her forehead resting against the back of his neck, her hands pressed against his chest. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks him.

“No,” he says, the honesty tearing itself from his throat. He does not want to talk about this, not ever again. He would scrub it from wherever it is stored in his gray matter with a wire brush, if he could.

“Alright,” she says, and he feels her press a kiss he does not deserve against his shoulder. She is so kind. Good to him. Better than he has ever deserved. But he knew that. He’s always known that. He just convinced himself to ignore it, for a while. “Well, it’s very early, if you want to go back to sleep, we—”

“No.” Shiro’s voice cracks. He hates it. But he can’t—he can’t risk hurting her like that. Not ever again. She has to be—he has to protect her. Like he should have done from the beginning. He has to end this, right now, before she can suffer anymore. He takes a bracing breath, and says, “Allura, I think—”

And their comms crackle, informing them of an urgent situation that needs their attention.

ACT TWO

The fight they face is brutal, but at least it is short. Shiro is in the right frame of mind to tear apart some Galra cruisers, but his thoughts are too scattered to effectively plan or strategize. It feels good—better than it should—to destroy all those standing in his path.

It ends too quickly, leaving him with a tight knot in his chest and the taste of vomit still in the back of his throat. He watches the others crawl out of their Lions, and he feels something cold spread out through his gut.

He does not know who he was fooling, indulging his impossible feelings for Allura. He always knew who she was; he always knew what he was. There’s never been a place for him near her, not in the long run. Princesses don’t need killers. They don’t need monsters.

No one does, really. But especially not Allura. She doesn’t deserve to be saddled with him. And he’ll never be able to apologize for the time that he forgot that, but he can at least make sure it doesn’t go any further. He loves her enough to do that, if nothing else.

#

Shiro should go up to the bridge and free Allura right away. He knows that. But he can’t quite make himself do it. He showers off first, and ends up staring at his bed, where Allura fell asleep against him less than a day ago. He ends up staring at the spot on his floor where he knelt over her and choked her.

And then he swallows heavily and goes to her room, before he loses his nerve again.

#

Allura answers her door with a smile. Her hair tumbles down around her shoulders, loose. Beautiful. He can see her cheeks brighten as she looks at him, reaching out for him and drawing him through the door. She looks so good in her long dress, and she says, “You fought well today,” with warmth in her voice. And something automatic and greedy in his chest tempts him into bending when she tilts her face up for a kiss.

He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t; he does.

She kisses him deep and sweet, her arms twining around his neck. And he sinks into it, pulling her closer, because this is the last time he will ever kiss her and—and he wants to remember it, he wants it to last forever. He wants to exist in this moment in time until the world ends. She groans against his mouth, her fingers curling into his shirt, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gathering his strength.

And pulling away.

“Stop. We can’t do this,” Shiro says, his voice some rough, unfamiliar thing.

Allura makes a soft, questioning sound, tilting her head for another kiss, her body pressed all along his. It takes more will-power than he likes to think about to put his hands on her sides and push her back.

She blinks at the sudden space, her hair loose and welcoming, her cheeks glowing. No one else gets to see her like this. He won’t either, after today. It was an honor he shouldn’t have been afforded. She asks, “Why? Are you hurt? Is something wrong?”

Shiro holds the words he rehearsed in the forefront of his thoughts, where they cannot escape, no matter how they try to wriggle away. He knew this wouldn’t be easy. “Yes,” he says, ignoring the voice in the back of his head screaming protests. He takes another step back. “This. This is wrong.”

She draws back and up, just a little, confusion flashing across her features. She asks, “What?”

He grimaces and tries to suppress the expression, wishing now he had not allowed her to pull him into a kiss when he entered her quarters. He did not want to have this conversation with the feel of her lips so close to mind. He says, “Look, we—we can’t keep doing this. We both have responsibilities. We have a war to focus on. This—we have to stop. Doing this.”

Allura stares at him, standing there in a silken dress, the light in her markings dimming to normal levels. She says, quiet, “This has not distracted us from our responsibilities so far.”

And maybe it has not, for her.

But Shiro knows she compromises him. She always has. He has risked far more than would be sane, to ensure her safety. He can’t seem to stop himself, but this, this has to be making it worse. He shakes his head and manages to say nothing, not while pinned in place by her shimmering eyes. He pleads with her to understand with his thoughts, and she must, because she swallows, blinking rapidly and looking to one side. She says, her voice shaky, “I see. Well. I—I respect your decision, of course. And after the war—”

“Allura,” he interrupts, wincing at the slip of her name off of his clumsy tongue. He knows what he has to say. But that makes it no easier. The words stick in his throat, as though fighting to remain unspoken. He masters them with an effort of will, and says, “We can’t—this is—this can’t work. Ever.”

It was never going to work. She was just lonely and heartsick. He doesn’t blame her for falling into this with him, everyone needs some form of comfort in war, and he made himself available. But that doesn’t mean that he fails to see the differences between them, the vast chasm that separates them. That doesn’t change the fact that he can’t be trusted around her. He hurt her.

She says, staring at him, now, her expression going terribly still, “What are you saying?”

He wishes she would take mercy on him and see where this is heading, where it has been heading all along. This was inevitable, this morning proved that, if nothing else. He’s just the one pointing it out. He takes a breath and says, “We—we’re never going to work. You know that.”

She takes a step towards him, then, and he jerks back, because if she touches him it will crumble his resolve. His determination is already cracking, just from the look on her face. This is for the best. For both of them. She cannot tie herself to him. It’s madness to even consider the idea. And he—he won’t be able to take it, later, when she realizes what he’s already seen. He does not want her future pity.

She freezes, her expression cracking for one brief moment. She says, quietly, “You don’t mean that.” She sounds like she’s pleading.

He grits his teeth against her expression, swallowing. “I do,” he says.

“No.” She shakes her head, reaching towards him, beseeching, her eyes wide and open. “No, this is—if you are upset about earlier, I understand. If it is something else I did, I will—I will—just tell me. I love you, please—”

“No,” he says, rougher than he meant to. Because she can’t—she can’t love him. Not really. She might love the person she thinks he is, but he knows the truth of his soul. He has to stay away from her, for her sake. And she will convince him not to, in another breath. And it will be for the worst, it will be a mistake. “No,” he repeats, watching her expression go terribly still. “This is over. You’re a princess. And I’m... Princesses and men like me… don’t. They just don’t.”

For a moment she stares at him, and he thinks she will protest again. But something shutters behind her eyes, instead. She draws her shoulders back and tilts her chin up. Her bearing changes, as though the mention of her station demands perfect posture. Any trace of emotion disappears from her face, as though it never was.

“I see,” she says, and her voice is chilly and serene as the morning after winter’s first snow. “Very well, then. I suppose I will see you in the morning.”

Something cold and cruel twists in Shiro’s gut. He says, wincing, “Allura—”

“Princess,” she corrects, not cruel, but as cold as ice. “That is my title.”

“Of course,” he agrees, trying to be grateful for the new boundary. It is what he wanted. What he’d wanted. It is for the best. It is. “Princess. Are you—”

“You are dismissed, Paladin,” she says, her expression impassive as a painting, the marks on her cheeks abnormally pale. The redness of her mouth, still marked by the kiss, jars him. She waves a hand and her door slides open, as blatant a signal to leave as Shiro had ever received.

He nods, swallowing the bitter saliva flooding his mouth. He walks out of the room, still feeling her mouth on his, and the door slides shut before he can turn to look back.

And it is done.

And he should feel relief.

He feels that he might throw up again.

#

Shiro made the right choice. The logical choice. The responsible choice. The safe choice. He keeps repeating that, through the long walk away from Allura’s quarters and back to his own. For some reason, it does not stop the faint tremor in his hands, or the ache in his chest.

He sits on his bed; it’s all he can manage to do, he feels like someone cut all of his strings. He leans over and puts his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. The day feels like it lasted twenty years, like it went by in the blink of an eye. And it isn’t even over.

He looks sideways, and the impression of their bodies from the previous night is still frozen in his blankets. His eyes burn. He did the right thing. The necessary thing. The thing that will keep Allura safe. The thing that will keep him safe. He did.

He reaches out and presses his hand down against the blankets where she laid, and sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, hard, until the point that it hurts and then past that.

#

Shiro does not sleep that night. The tight band of pressure around his ribs, the way Allura looked at him when she said she loved him, they keep him awake. He scrubs his face the next morning and goes out to breakfast, not sure what to expect.

Allura does not look angry when he sees her. She does not look… much of anything. Her hair is pulled back tightly, and she nods a greeting to him when he walks into the common room. And other than that, they do not speak. They do not speak at all, over the coming days, unless it is to do with the mission, and then their conversations are achingly polite.

“Look,” Lance says, a week after Shiro does the right then, pulling Shiro aside in the corridor after a very professional meeting with Allura. He talks quiet and fast. “I don’t know where you’d find them, but she likes shiny things, okay, in case you forgot, so, you know, that’s probably a good place to start.”

“Start what?” Shiro asks, painfully tired and confused. He hasn’t slept well. Not since they—since he ended things. His bed feels wrong, now.

Lance boggles at him. “Apologizing for whatever you did,” he hisses, freezing when Allura walks out of the bridge. He huddles behind Shiro. He couldn’t have picked a better hiding spot. Allura doesn’t look at him anymore. Not unless she has to. And even then, her gaze usually stays somewhere to the left of his shoulders. “Seriously,” Lance continues, once she is gone, “shiny things and, I don’t know, flowers? Maybe?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shiro lies, wondering how much the others know. He’d thought they were fairly discreet. They’d tried to be, anyway.

Lance scoffs. “Oh, really,” he says, “you have somehow failed to notice how she’s super upset whenever you’re around now? Even Keith noticed, man. And he didn’t notice when Pidge dyed her hair green for like… two days.”

Shiro stares at him for a moment. Allura does not seem overly upset. And even if she is a bit unhappy… That won’t last. It’ll pass, once she realizes Shiro was right. He says, pulling away and walking down the hall, “Its fine.”

“Its fine,” Lance says, mockingly, following him with his arms crossed. “Man, I hate to break it to you, but it is not fine.”

Shiro is tired of this conversation. He doesn’t need to explain to anyone else why he made the decision he did. It was the right call. Everyone will realize that, sooner or later. He says, curt, “I’ll take that into consideration.” And Lance falls back, grumbling something uncomplimentary under his breath.

#

Things are not fine. Shiro has to concede that, as time goes by. He tells himself that it will be someday, but Allura won’t talk to him and the aching knot in his chest does not disappear. It does not even ease.

They do all the things they used to do. They fight and they make alliances. They eat and sleep and train. And everything feels off, strange. Uncomfortable. He and Allura no longer share long conversations, the way they did before he kissed her. She no longer looks to him for aid.

He forgets himself, once and only once, steadying her after an explosion rocks the Castle, and she says, without looking at him, “Do not ever touch me again.”

Shiro jerks his hand off of her, the pain in her voice clawing through his chest like an animal. She does not even look at him, her lips pressed together tightly. She does not say anything else. She rarely does to him, any longer.

It is what he wanted; it is nothing at all that he’d wanted. He thought he was fixing things, but nothing seems bettered at all. Allura’s markings remain dim. Dark circles make homes under her eyes. She stops smiling. The pit in the bottom of Shiro’s stomach deepens, because of course he failed in this, too. He’s made a habit of letting her down.

He has to fix things, somehow.

That knowledge eats at him as he walks around with a weight in the bottom of his gut and a vice around his chest that never eases. Everything is broken now, and he must find a way to undo the breaking of it. He’d been so sure staying with her was a mistake; staying apart seems to be even worse.

But no easy solution presents itself. He can’t seem to get her in the same room long enough to even begin to explain and apologize. She won’t look at him. And he knows it is deserved, but… But that makes it no less frustrating.

He is exhausted and worn thin by the constant grind of regret and his inability to figure out how to address the issue by the time Coran sees fit to send them to De’en.

#

De’en is a verdant planet located close, relatively, to Earth. It is huddled against the edges of the universe, just beyond the outer reach of the Galra Empire. It is a beautiful place, overgrown with massive techno-organic trees that house buildings with curved walls and wide windows, all colored in shades of pink and blue, as yet untouched by the war.

The De’enians are tall humanoids, largely green-skinned, hairless; Hunk says they’re actually plants, but they have eyes and mouths. No noses or ears, though. They are not so strange looking, compared to some of the aliens Voltron has come across. They are roughly human-shaped, though many of them have varying numbers of limbs or fingers; perhaps the extras are grown with age.

Shiro doubts they will get the chance to find out. Negotiations aren’t going particularly well, which is a disappointment. The De’enians control two star systems from their beautiful home world. Their ships are fast and self-regenerating. They would make tremendous allies.

Their neutrality poses something of a problem on that front.

“Our people do not take part in conflicts,” the De’enian ruler, High-Leader Ertreian, says, from their seat on their organic throne, looking down upon Allura. They are a deeper green than any of the other De’enians, with shiny purple eyes. They wear no crown, but a cloak covered in vine-like designs hangs around them, fanning across the ground, obscuring their body entirely. Their voice is slow and deep.

“An admirable choice,” Allura says, standing at the head of their group, clad in her diplomatic garb, her hair loose down her back, heavy and thick, distracting. She does not wear it thus very much anymore. She doesn’t have the opportunity. The last time Shiro saw it left wild kicks at the back of his thoughts and he shoves those memories aside. “But the Galra do not respect such decisions.”

High-Leader Ertreian does not seem to have eyelids. None of the De’enians do. The High-Leader says, unblinking, “The Galra are not the ones who have come to us with talk of war.”

“Not yet,” Allura says, “but they will. And when they do, they will not request an audience.”

“So you have said,” the De’enian who seems to be serving as advisor to King Ertreian says. This one is tall and, well, the descriptor willowy just keeps putting itself forward in Shiro’s mind. The advisor is pale green and their head is covered with something that looks like yellow moss. They were called Ulthpard, and they have not wiped the sneer off of their face in all the time Shiro has seen them. “And so we have heard from others. But they have never troubled us before.”

“They have never been this desperate before,” Allura replies. “We are making progress against them, and they are doing whatever they can to stop us. We have received intelligence that they plan to target your people and have your ships, one way or another.”

High-Leader Ertreian stares Allura for a long moment and then cocks their head to the side. They say, “Show me this intelligence.”

And something terrible and heavy twists in Shiro’s stomach. It does not lessen as the discussions moves forward, not even when the High-Leader goes to present what they have said to the parliament of the planet.

#

“The parliament found your arguments persuasive,” High-Leader Ertreian says, stepping out of the council chambers the group had not been welcomed into. Beyond the doors, Shiro can see dozens of the De’enians, all of them clad in beautiful robes, talking amongst themselves. Their voices are pleasant, especially when they speak in large groups.

“I am pleased to hear it. Does this mean we can continue our talks?” Allura asks, smiling up at High-Leader Ertreian, all evidence of the anxiety that had her pacing around the corridor wiped now from her expression.

“Indeed,” High-Leader Ertreian says. They do not smile in return. De’enian faces don’t seem capable of it, but the High-Leader’s eyes brighten. It could be a smile, or a threat display, for all Shiro knows. Certainly, Shiro’s knuckles itch when High-Leader Ertreian offers Allura an arm and continues, “Perhaps we could dine, first? Your people must be hungry.”

“Your thoughtfulness is very kind,” Allura says, fitting her hand into the curve of Ertreian’s arm and allowing them to lead her down the hall. Shiro ignores the throbbing ache from his jaw, looking away before it becomes anything more than that.

He finds Ertreian’s majordomo—Ulthpard—glaring after Allura and the King, and feels the creeping sense of dread in his gut increase.

#

Allura and Ertreian spend the entire meal speaking with one another. Shiro is too far away to hear what they say. Once, Allura would have simply assumed he would have the seat beside her. But that day is gone. He made sure of that. He watches her talk, and curls his fingers more tightly around the fork in his grip.

After the meal is finished, Ertreian guides Allura to one side and leans down to have a soft-spoken conversation with her, one that has her hand curling by her side. Shiro stiffens, walking over to them because things are strange right now, between him and Allura, but it is still and will always be his responsibility to protect her.

“Everything alright here?” he asks, and Ertreian gives him a curious look. Allura glances towards him, her shoulders drawing straighter.

“Of course,” she says, so chilly that her breath should frost in the air. “High-Leader Ertreian and I have further issues to discuss. Voltron’s Paladins are not required for the rest of the evening, so take the others back to the Castle.”

Something sharp shifts in Shiro’s gut, cutting through his organs. He takes another step closer, closer than he’s been to Allura in a month, and says, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Allura tilts her chin up higher. She manages to look down the line of her nose without meeting his eyes, as she fits her hand against Ertreian’s arm. She says, “I will contact you with any news. You are dismissed.” And she turns. And she walks away, out into the night air, while Shiro fights the urge to run after her. He stares, instead.

So he sees it, when she glances over her shoulder, just once, before the doors close behind her.

Her markings are almost bone white.

“What was that about?” Hunk asks, a moment later, appearing at Shiro’s elbow.

“Politics,” Shiro says, unable to shake the feeling of dread in his chest. “Come on. We’re going back to the Castle.”

Shiro ends up back in his quarters, staring at the wall across from his bed, trying not to think about Allura—trying not to think about anything. He passes the night that way. He barely sleeps anymore.

#

Shiro is on the bridge the next morning when Allura contacts them. It is early, but he has been lingering around for some time, unable to think of doing anything else by the time they receive her transmission.

She is not wearing the dress he last saw her in. Instead, she is clad in a dress of white and gold. It shimmers around her, leaving her arms bare and revealing the pink markings on her skin. The bodice is dark gold, the sides of the skirt full and white, and the fabric in front of her long legs is sheer. All of it is finely patterned with vines and tiny flowers. “I have good news,” Allura says. “High-Leader Ertreian and I have come to an agreement.”

“Yeah?” Pidge says, frowning at the screen. “So, we’re getting the ships then?”

“And crews to fly them,” Allura says. There are circles under her eyes, and the markings on her cheeks are as pale as Shiro has ever seen them. Her hair is pinned up carefully, done in what looks like dozens of intricate braids. A crown sits atop her hair, so delicate it resembles spun starlight.

“That’s great,” Shiro says, trying to make his voice sound normal. It shouldn’t be as difficult as it is.

“What changed their minds?” Hunk asks, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Shiro heard him talking with Pidge, late into the night, about the organic engines used by the De’enians.

Allura pauses, her hands going momentarily still, before she takes a breath and lifts her chin, and just that movement is enough to raise the hairs on the back of Shiro’s neck. “Their aid,” Allura says, her tone formal, “was one of the conditions for our marriage.”

There is silence for a heartbeat. And then Shiro asks, through numb lips, “What?”

Act Three

Shiro feels like he’s going to throw up. Allura looks in his general direction, her expression flat, her eyes shuttered. She says, “The arrangements were made last night. I will return to the Castle once the ceremony is complete. It should be within the varga. De’enian weddings do not take long, and I understand preparations are nearly complete.”

“Excuse me,” Lance blurts, waving his hands, “but what the hell? This is moving a little fast, isn’t it?” Shiro has to agree. This is all happening with the kind of quickness that Shiro associates most closely with his nightmares.

Allura’s expression does not change. She says, “We do not have the luxury of time. Not with the Galra’s attacks growing ever more desperate. We need the De’enian ships; the De’enian parliament does not feel comfortable offering them without a… secure arrangement that they understand.”

Pidge says, into the silence hanging around them, “A—what? This is crazy. You don’t need to marry someone for their army. We would never want you to do that.” The others make faint sounds of agreement. Shiro can’t join them. His throat feels full of concrete.

This can’t be happening.

Allura adjusts the fall of her skirt. The colors in the dress, white and dark gold, suit her. But the marks on her cheeks are so pale. No one else seems to notice. She says, tilting her chin up and looking at them with eyes that are completely blank, “I am a princess. This is the kind of match I was meant for. I will rejoin you when it is done.”

And she ends the transmission. And Shiro swallows convulsively, his teeth clenched together so hard it hurts and his mechanical hand making a groaning noise of protest.

For a moment, Shiro stares at the blank space where Allura used to be. And then he turns on his heel, heading for the door, his head full of static and the pounding of his pulse. “She’s not responding to my transmissions,” Pidge says, as Shiro reaches the door, and then, “hey, where are you going?”

“To stop this,” Shiro barks over his shoulder, because—because it is all he can think to do. Because he—because Allura can’t just marry some guy she met a day ago because she thinks it’s her duty. Because— He knows he has other reasons, but his head is all static, his heart is beating too fast for him to think. He’s been trying to find some way to fix this.

Now he is out of time. He has to act now, plan or no. He has to get to her. “Find out where this is happening. Send me the information.”

“Oh, thank God,” Lance says, in the instant before Shiro is too far away to hear him, “I thought I was going to have to crash this wedding there for a second.”

#

Shiro slides into the cockpit with his heart in his throat, his blood surging the way it does before a battle. He imagines that Black responds unusually quickly, when he grips the controls and shoots out of the Castle. De’en is a beautiful gem below him; he hates everything about it immensely. He should have never left Allura there alone. He should have never left Allura alone at all.

The universe seems set on making sure he understands that.

“Hey, Shiro,” Hunk’s voice crackles over the comm, “We found something called the sacred plateau. Pidge thinks that’s probably where the, uh, the ceremony is taking place.”

“Send me the coordinates,” Shiro snaps.

“Already done, man. Good luck.” Shiro flicks the comm closed, looking at the information they transmitted. The sacred plateau is close to the main city where they spent their time. And it is currently full of life-signs. There must be a thousand De’enians there. More.

But there would be. There will be civilians and guards, at the wedding of a High-Leader. They should be easy enough to get around.

He pushes Black faster, punching down through the atmosphere until he has a visual on the sacred plateau—which appears not to be a plateau at all. It is a large open space, but it slopes severely upward at one end before leveling out again. It is immense and packed full of De’enians, all of them clad in jewel-toned fabric. Banners encircle the entirety of the plateau, shifting colors as they are whipped by the wind.

The raised area is not so full. Only a handful of De’enians stand there, including the High-Leader. And Allura stands in their midst, glittering like gold in the wan light of the rising suns.

Allura and High-Leader Ertreian stand under an arch of gems that is held aloft by some kind of translucent metal. High-Leader Ertreian is reaching for Allura’s hands. Shiro sees all of this, in the instant before he passes over their heads, and Allura looks up, the wind stirring her skirts.

Shiro sets Black down hard, harder than he should, but his heart is beating too fast for anything else. There’s barely enough room for the massive Lion. He feels over-hot. Sweat gathers beneath his armor. He feels ready for a fight. Ready to scream. He races down the steps, out of Black, into the perfect morning.

For a moment, everything seems to crystalize, freezing into place. The gems above and around Allura catch the weak light of the suns, painting rainbows onto her hair and the white of her dress. The screens back on the Castle did not do justice to the dress. It is incredibly ornate. It… might be alive. He’s never seen her wear something with a neckline that dipped so low. The gold of the fabric almost glows against her skin. Her chin is up. Her eyes are distant.

One of Allura’s hands is half-extended towards High-Leader Ertreian, who stares at Shiro, mouth slightly agape. Ulthpard stands near the High-Leader, looking equally as stunned, and, beneath that, deeply unhappy. There are a handful of other people on the high plateau, all dressed in exquisite fabrics, all staring at Shiro. A pair, to one side, are holding machines that just scream camera.

Shiro cannot bring himself to care about them at all.

“You look beautiful,” Shiro says, the words snatched out of his throat before he can bite them back behind his teeth. She does, clad in her long gown. The suns are rising behind her shoulders, shining on her hair. She looks more like a goddess than a queen. But she always has.

And she looks past him with flat eyes. She asks, “What are you doing here?”

He’s not entirely sure. Adrenaline and something like instinct brought him this far. And it looks as though they will bring him further. He says, “Stopping this.”

He can hear the murmuring of the crowd at his words. The acoustics of this place carry his voice well. He’s aware of the way they are all beginning to stir, of the guards suddenly taking an interest in what’s going on. He’s aware that the people with the camera look ready to explode from excitement. It’s just that none of that matters. Not with Allura staring at him, her hand still partially extended towards High-Leader Ertreian.

Shiro takes a daring step forward, glad he is not wearing his helmet. She should see his face for this. It feels important that she can see his face, even as he struggles to find the words that must come next. “Don’t marry him.”

Sound ripples out around them. The beautiful, silken banners surrounding the crowd snap in the air, like harnessed rainbows. Those guards are getting much closer, and they are incredibly large. Some of them are covered in thorns.

“What is the meaning of this?” High-Leader Ertreian asks, reaching for Allura’s hand more forcefully. Allura takes a sharp step back from them, her arm curling up towards her chest. Mad, heady relief breaks in Shiro’s chest, though it is not as though she moved towards him.

Instead, she says, chilly and regal, “You are out of your place.”

And Shiro knows that. He knows that better than anything else. He has been out of his place for so long that he no longer remembers where it is. But that—he can’t let that stop him. The regret in his gut coils tighter, made heavier by the weight of his fear. He says, “Don’t do this.”

She looks in his direction, to her favorite spot near his shoulder. “I must. The alliance must be secured,” she says, and he sees then that she will not back away from this. Not just because he asks. It is tied to her duty, now. It will require something massive to move her from this. It will requires something immense to fix what he broke. He knew that already. His heart races. “Now, please, you are making a scene, and—”

“Allura,” he interrupts, and her name feels strange his mouth. Hearing it startles her, snaps her eyes to his. He can see her inhale sharply as she finally gives him her attention. And he thinks that she loved him, once. She loved him. And he loves her, may whatever gods there are forgive him. He loves her and he can’t just stand aside and watch her do this. If something massive is required to stop this, to possibly fix things, then he will provide it.

“Allura,” Shiro repeats, licking his lips, his legs carrying him forward, until he hesitates by Black’s paw, his entire focus captured by the flare of her eyes and the way her fingers curl into the material over her heart. He swallows, his heart pounding in his ears, and says, the words gravel-rough, “Don’t do this. Please. I love you.”

He says it knowing she has every right to laugh at him, to tilt up her chin, to throw back every word he said when he was busy making one of the worst mistakes of his life. He’ll take it, if she does. And then he’ll grab her and get her out of here. But inside his chest there is the mad hope that it won’t come to that.

“You dare even suggest—” Ulthpard starts, their intrusion into Shiro’s world unwelcome. They cut off, anyway, when Allura takes one halting step towards Shiro.

“You said we were a mistake,” she says, her voice ragged, her expression something other than calm for the first time in so long. “If you—if you love me, why did you say that?” He can hear her voice shaking and hates the unsteadiness he put there.

He swallows, hard. He says, “I thought… shit.” He scrubs at his face, dragging his hand back through his hair. There is a part of him that is horrified at where they are having this conversation. But if this is what it takes to get her out of here, to prevent this marriage, to fix what he broke, he will bare all his mistakes to however many thousands of strangers want to hear them. “I was stupid,” he says.

She makes a soft sound. Her face twists. Her eyes shine, tears clinging to her lashes. “That’s not an answer,” she says. “I—I know I did something wrong, but I don’t—I don’t know what it was. I don’t understand what’s changed.”

The pain in his chest is sudden and unexpected, sharp. He jerks towards her, because if she has thought, even for an instant, that this was her fault, then he does not know how to deal with it.

Ulthpard makes a flat, indignant sound, barely heard. Shiro’s breath snags even as he moves towards Allura, because he does not know what else to do. “Guards!” someone yells, but Shiro does not care about them, not at all. He’ll fight everyone in this field. He’ll fight everyone on this planet. Let them come. They have no idea what he’s capable of.

Reaching Allura makes the entire thing feel real in a way it had not, previously. She does not move, either towards him or away from him. She seems frozen. He catches her hands, trying to capture her gaze. When she looks to the side, he touches her chin, tilting her face up, finally, finally, getting her to meet his eyes.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says, low and fierce. “It—this wasn’t your fault.”

Her expression cracks, terribly. Her eyes shine wetly and no, oh, no. She says, “Then why? I don’t—I have tried to determine what happened, what made you leave me, and I cannot, I cannot—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, gutted, leaning down and resting his forehead against hers, gathering additional regrets. He brushes his thumb over her cheek, his heart breaking more when she pushes into the touch. “I thought—I wanted things to be better. For you.”

She barks a flat laugh and says, “They were not.”

The words are like a knife in his back. He does not understand how they can be true, but he wants them to be. He says, “I—Allura, I hurt you.”

She shakes her head. “That was not your fault. I do not hold you to blame for where your dreams take you. My people understand injuries to the soul and mind.”

She makes it sound so easy. And he knows he might be working at cross-purposes to himself by arguing—he does not want her to decide that he’s so right that she might as well marry the king. But he can’t take advantage of her again. He has to—she has to at least know what he is.

He says, “You don’t understand. I’m—the Galra, they, look what they did to me, and—and this is just what you can see, I’m, my head is—it’s not great. I’ve done things. Terrible things. And you, you’re magic, Allura. You’re magic.” He’s breathing hard by the time he finishes. He can’t meet her eyes.

“Shiro,” she says, quietly, cupping his cheek. “Shiro.” She kisses his jaw, and he shivers, his heart jerking arrhythmically in his chest. “Shiro, no.” And then she kisses his mouth, and he breaks, pulling her closer, needing her closer, needing to taste her belief, her refutation of everything he said, however undeserved it is.

He catches her close, wondering how he ever thought he was going to walk away from her, how he ever even entertained the idea of not traveling through life beside her. After a moment, too soon, she pulls back, possibly because the yelling around them is getting louder.

“What,” Ulthpard interrupts, a sudden unwelcome presence near Shiro’s elbow, “exactly is going on here? Take your hands off of High-Leader Ertreian’s betrothed at once. Princess,” they sneer, distaste dripping off of their voice, “I must insist that you return to the altar. The sun are moving out of alignment and—”

Shiro does not currently have the will-power to deal with this. Not with Allura in his arms again, not with the memory of their kiss singing in his bones. He shifts Allura, pushing her towards Black. He needs to get her out of here. He needs to get them both out of here. The crowd appears to have been momentarily stunned, save for the camera people, who appear ready to ascend to a higher plane of existence from sheer excitement, but that won’t last forever. It is already wearing off.

“I’m afraid the wedding is off,” Allura says, and there is some heaviness gone from her voice, some weight Shiro had gotten used to.

“You cannot—that is not your decision.” Ulthpard sputters, taking a quick step forward. Shiro squares up; it’s an automatic response. His nerves are all on fire. He came here ready to fight, and his willingness to do whatever needs done has only increased in the last minute.

“No?” Allura asks, her voice remarkably cool once more. “And whose do you suppose it is?”

Ulthpard opens their mouth, and is interrupted by High-Leader Ertreian, still standing, looking slightly lost, at the altar. “Let them go, Ulthpard.”

“But, your highness,” Ulthpard says, turning around, anguish in their expression. “She is to be your wife.”

High-Leader Ertreian sighs, finally stepping away from the altar, moving towards them as the entirety of the crowd watches them. The High-Leader says, “No, it seems she is not.”

“Your highness—” Ulthpard’s words cut off, abruptly, when the High-Leader reaches out and touches their shoulder.

“They love one another,” Ertreian says.

“That is not relevant,” Ulthpard says, looking away. The sides of their throat flush to dark purple.

High-Leader Ertreian stares down and something in their expression softens. The High-Leader says, something thoughtful in their tone, “Perhaps it should be.” And they nod across at Shiro. Shiro inclines his head back. It’s all he can bring himself to do. There is still a large part of him that would very much like to punch the High-Leader in the face.

“Perhaps we can speak later,” Allura says.

High-Leader Ertreian’s expression is soft and distracted. They say, “Perhaps,” and that is better than Shiro thought they would get. “You should go, now.”

Shiro nods, and, indeed, he can feel the growing uncertainty of the crowd. Ulthpard is not the only one thrown by this turn of events, and Shiro doubts the others will be so easy for High-Leader Ertreian to soothe. Shiro keeps a hand on Allura’s back all the way into Black, listening to Ulthpard saying, “But… but the ceremony?”

The last thing Shiro hears, before Black’s hatch closes, is Ertreian’s voice as they say, “Yes. Perhaps you and I should talk about the ceremony.”

#

The flight back to the Castle feels like a dream. No one contacts them over the comms. Shiro is beginning to realize that they probably saw everything. That camera crew had to be transmitting somewhere, after all, and there are two tech geniuses in the Castle.

And the adrenaline in his blood, whatever mad desperation got him through the last few minutes, is guttering out. For a moment, he stares forward, tightening his hands on the controls, his breathing going ragged. Allura reaches out, then, and squeezes his shoulder; some of the lightning in his head grounds out through her.

He takes a steady breath.

He brings them home.

The others are all waiting in the hangar. Coran stands at the front of the group, his expression tight and his face bone-pale. Allura winces beside Shiro, and he reaches out and takes her hand. He’s wanted to, for so long. And if they are doing this, really doing this, well. He is tired of resisting the things he wants.

Coran says, “Princess,” with blades in his voice. And then his mouth twists and he throws himself forward, pulling her into a tight hug. “You look beautiful,” he says, against her hair, “but do not ever do that again.”

“Alright,” Allura says, patting Coran’s back until he pulls back. “I will try not to.”

“Good,” Coran says, sniffing just a little. “Now, the rest of you lot, clear out of here. Come on, chop chop, I’m sure you all have somewhere better to be!”

Shiro feels more gratitude towards Coran in that moment than he ever has before. He is not up for dealing with… whatever the others need. They’re all close to vibrating out of their skins and Shiro, well. He needs to talk to Allura, off camera, away from thousands of other people, before he talks to anyone else.

Coran herds the others from the room, Hunk yelling, as they go, “Oh, hey, congratulations, though!”

And then they are alone. Shiro is still holding Allura’s hand. The hangar is cool and quiet. He finds that he, abruptly, has no idea what to do next. He did not plan for this. For any of this. He just took one necessary action after the next, but those have run out.

Allura sighs quietly and squeezes his hand. She asks, gesturing at her hair, “Will you help me with this? I’m not even sure how they did it.”

“Sure, yes,” Shiro says, relieved for a path forward. “Of course.”

#

They end up in Allura’s room, a knot of anxiety forming in Shiro’s chest as she shuts the door. Last time he was here, things… did not go well.

Allura moves deeper into the room, sitting on the edge of her bed. She reaches up and removes the shimmering crown, setting it aside. She is wearing the dress she was going to marry another person in. It is beautiful. There is a part of Shiro that would like to tear it to shreds. She looks up at him. “Shiro?”

Her voice draws him in. He stands beside her, looking down at the ornate design of the braids. He is not sure entirely where to start. The braids look so delicate and his fingers aren’t—they are scarred. Damaged. Made to fight. He can’t imagine doing this without hurting her. But she asked him to. So he takes a breath and reaches out, tracing one braid around to where it is pinned into place near the nape of her neck.

He pulls loose the pin, carefully, and she takes a shaky little breath.

He undoes the braids, loosening them, her hair slowly freed to fall around her shoulders, brushing the markings there that slowly, slowly start to glow. By the time he finishes, he feels almost drowsy, heavy-limbed. Peaceful. He combs his fingers back through all the mess of her hair, standing in front of her, and she glances up at him with half-lidded eyes.

She tugs on his wrist, and he bends, bracing one hand on the bed by her hip. Her hand fits against his jaw. Her breath brushes against his mouth. And then he is kissing her. It is soft and brief, and when it ends he does not go far. She brushes her nose against his, her thumb sweeping back and forth over his cheek. Her eyes are pressed shut.

She says, “I—I know I am not worthy of this. You are… so brave and true and kind, after everything. You give so much. And I am—nothing, really. I have no people. I have no home. I have nothing to offer you. All I am good for is fighting Zarkon, and I am not even effective at that, I—”

“No,” Shiro interrupts, when his tongue shakes free of the shock of what she is saying. “Allura, that’s not, none of that is true.”

She opens her eyes again. Her fingers squeeze tight around his arm. She says, “It is how I feel. It is why I—I said nothing. Before you kissed me. Though I loved you for so long. I—”

He kisses her again. It is strange and horrifying, to hear all of his fears reshaped into hers, to know that he must have contributed to them. It is one more regret. But he is fixing those. All of them. One way or another. “I’m sorry,” he says, against her mouth. “I’m sorry, I love you.”

He loves her. And it has changed nothing about their situation, not really. He is still damaged. There is still so much wrong with him. He is not enough for her. But he will have to find a way to be. Because he will not part from her again. Not if she does not wish it.

He is hers.

He always has been.