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“Ha, yeah! ” Keith grins, clutching the controls tighter.
Red purrs around him, charging headfirst as Keith pushes them into an excited cavort. Once again, it had been another successful battle, another win for Team Voltron and universe. In the aftermath, they glide through the stars at whirlwind speeds. Spinning in a way that would border reckless beneath different hands. But not with Keith, not with them. This is an explosive kind of excitement shared between a devoted pilot and their trusted vessel, riding the waves of sharp cutting instinct. As enthralling as it is engaging.
Something sacred, something red.
Darker hues paint the edges of his mind, smear across the walls he had assembled with shaking hands. Paler tones dance over skin and creep into the crevasse the universe had carved through his chest. But past that, at the core, is a fiery red. Bordering lurid. A bold brazen shade that casts everything in sedulous heat, bursting into being each time he and Red took flight. The force of it is always mesmeric, totally consuming.
It had been like this once before. Though of course, not quite the same. The humble stars were different overhead. There was no greater destiny calling him to arms, just a building feeling he couldn’t explain that tugged him deeper into the sand. That was whole galaxies away, where so much was gained and so much was lost. A compelling paradox. The wind scratching the back of his neck familiar, the sand nipping at his face a comfort not an irritation. A horizon dusted with jagged spires he strived to climb. Reach higher, soar higher.
He had convened the splintered shards of his soul, steadfast to the vow etched into the hard line of his lips. Much like the red paladin armour, his red jacket was the symbol of a fight he would never quit until he won, that belligerent battle between himself and the vices the universe skewered his life on.
“Are you finished prancing around up there?” Lance huffs through the comms, stoking something prickly in the process because Keith hears the undertone clear enough. Show off. And of all things, that’s not what Keith is doing. He shouldn’t bite back, he shouldn’t retaliate to the quips. But he already is, Red prowling with him. Falling into a smooth barrel-roll, Keith nudges Red into Blue’s side. It’s playful, yet with enough force to push Lance a fraction out of his mapped trajectory.
“ Hey !” Yeah. Definitely worth it.
“Now we are,” Keith says with a smirk.
Upon returning to the castle, it doesn’t take long for everyone to bid their farewells and head to their rooms. After a long day, rest is calling them in an insistent way. Pressing his eyes shut, Keith leans back on the bed. The breath that fans past his tightened lips hisses. The sound of an engine letting off some steam. It’s enough of a release to make this momentary stasis bearable. Keith seldom succumbs to this crushing fatigue at the end of each day. In war, anything could happen at any time.
Muscles throb in a way that’s satisfying, that often comes after a good battle. Beneath that, something bigger brews. His bones ache. They’re aching in the telltale way they do when Pidge tentatively glances his way and hovers nearby, when Hunk smiles at him with the warmth of a thousand suns, when Lance drops the pretence of rivalry long enough to glimpse at a person rather than a benchmark, when Shiro’s hand clasps his shoulder and squeezes in such a way that steeps resolve, when Allura’s gaze softens into something Keith wouldn’t mind falling into, when Coran begins one of his bizarre whimsical tales, when he’s in the lion.
If Keith really wants to then he can pretend his bones are simply aching. But they aren’t. He knows they are yearning. Feels it. Every piece of him yearns. Whilst being firmly rooted in the present, fighting against colossal forces to keep himself there, the universe tugs him mercilessly elsewhere. It yanks him back, chains him to skin he has shed and shed again but cannot truly escape. Then it shoves him forwards to the precipice of the unknown. And Keith yearns to understand, he yearns to torch the past and set ablaze the future until the surrounding flames grow so big the only place he can be is the present.
He yearns to become and to belong.
Sudden sound from the door has Keith’s eyes flitting over. He sits up, frowning at the sight. Confusion distorts into caution. The doorway is empty. Whilst Keith isn’t expecting any visitors, the fact it opened has to mean someone is there. Or at least, was there long enough to make it open. After all, they were sensitive to motion. Keith reaches for his knife out of instinct. Clasping it tight, he stares down the doorway. His gaze is unwavering, as if the molten steel behind his eyes has the authority to coax anything out hiding.
It doesn’t.
The prolonged quit is unsettling. Foreboding in a way Keith isn’t sure is fabricated from paranoia or amplified by sharp intuition. This is exactly why he cannot let that yearning escalate. He can’t drop his guard when anomalies like this strike. One time dealing with the malfunctions of the castle had been quite enough of an ordeal. A repeat experience really isn’t something Keith ever wants to go through again. He’s pretty sure the team would agree unanimously. Eyes narrowing, Keith scans the doorway. It’s still empty. Entirely suspicious and amiss. Keith stands, approaching slowly. In his free hand, he summons his bayard handle. In the event of an attack, he’s armed and ready. He has to be.
“Show yourself.”
Silence. Pursing his lips, Keith comes to a halt at the doorway. As he peers outside to the corridor, he finds that empty too. Bayard drawn, Keith grits his teeth. Steels himself, because this is the inevitable moment where something happens. It’s evident he’s being toyed with, hunted by some kind of calculating deceptive enemy he has no choice but to be prepared for. Victory or death is the Galra way, but there is truth to that.
“I said,” pointing the tip of the bayard into the darkness, Keith spins on his heel to survey his blindspot. Yet again, nothing. Nobody. “ Show yourself.”
Then, without warning, there’s a rapid blur of movement to his right. Turning sharply to the source, Keith brings the bayard into position to parry. His knife thrusts forwards to meet the enemy that is - Oh. Ah. Right. Well.
“Uh…” Keith trails off, fumbling for words. His mouth hits a kaleidoscope, vowels and consonants scampering in and out of reach, never settling on a pattern that forms the right shape.
Lowering his knife and deactivating his bayard, Keith blinks in bemusement at the sight. Of all things, he didn’t expect this. Not for a second. Perched on the bed is one of the space mice. The yellow one - Platt, Keith thinks. But he can’t be sure on the names, honestly. He hasn’t spent much time with the mice, nor been formally introduced to them. All he knows, is that the yellow mouse is in his room. For some reason, it’s come to see him. For some reason, instead of spending time with Allura or the other mice, it’s come to him. If anything, that makes Keith feel more cautious than when he didn’t know who was visiting him.
Eyes darting from the doorway to the mouse, Keith splutters on his surprise. Being up close and personal with animals isn’t something he’s really ever done. Whilst Keith greatly enjoyed watching documentaries on earth, reading about animals and studying the local birds with avid interest, he purposefully kept a distance. Enough for the animals to coexist and acknowledge his presence, but not enough to have any meaningful interaction. It worked well, a mutually beneficial agreement.
This, on the other hand, is definitely a first. One Keith has absolutely no idea how to navigate.
“Hi.” Inching closer, he gestures to the bed. His bed. It’s his own bed. “Mind if I sit?”
The mouse nods, as if they’re not in Keith’s room, and Keith chides himself for being such a considerate pushover in this matter. Contrary to popular opinion, he can be polite and courteous whilst remaining direct and firm. Right now, however, that’s hardly working in his favour. He’s yielding to a mouse. If anyone should be asking permission to make themselves comfortable here, then it’s Platt. Absolutely. With a sigh caught between exasperation and bewilderment, Keith sits.
“...Thanks.”
Great. Now he’s thanking the mouse for letting him take a seat on his own bed, apparently. At least he doesn’t have to worry about engaging in painful and pointless smalltalk that doesn’t really serve any purpose besides baiting each party to end the idle conversation first. That has to count for something, surely. The mouse studies him carefully in the stifled silence, as if unsure of whether to get closer or scurry further away from him. After a moment of twitching, it settles for scooting a little bit closer.
The mouse dangles its legs over the edge of the bed, swinging them back and forth. From where Keith is sat, this whole picture is bizarre and inexplicable. But then again, they are in space. They are also fighting an intergalactic war in robot lions that come together to form a giant robot. It’s the plot of dreams every mecha show - that Keith didn’t get much of an opportunity to watch - could have possibly wanted. Space mice included. So really, maybe it isn't that bizarre. Glancing down at the mouse, Keith tilts his head. It doesn’t seem particularly interested in forcing any kind of interaction. But the fact the mouse is here is curious.
“Okay. I know you probably can’t understand me, but-”
There’s a squeak of protest, indignant and offended. Right. So the mice can understand people, then. Holding up a hand placatingly, Keith continues.
“Sorry, I - I’m sorry,” Platt doesn’t look entirely accepting of his apology. But under no circumstances is Keith grovelling to a mouse. “Alright. Now I know you understand me and not just Allura, is everything okay?”
The mouse’s nose twitches, starting at Keith blankly. It’s clear Platt wants an explanation, not quite getting what Keith is trying to say. Averting his eyes, Keith drags a foot across the floor slowly.
“I just - I mean, most people don’t normally come to me for stuff.” Or anything, really.
It’s not self-depreciative in an intentional way, simply a fact. Keith doesn’t have guests to his room, and he doesn’t expect that from the team either. It’s fine. He can’t begrudge them for not wanting to spend more time with him outside of Voltron. After all, they do spend each and every waking hour together. Keith is acutely aware of how his presence isn’t exactly the most sought out in social situations. On earth and in space. Platt still seems to be missing the point, not giving any response Keith can read. Okay. Best spell this out clearly, then.
“Listen. If something is bothering you, then you should probably go speak with Allura or something. She’ll sort it out.”
Platt nudges into Keith’s side, shaking its head.
“You don’t want to do that?” Keith ventures. Platt shakes its head, which isn’t very helpful. He’s not sure if that's in agreement or disagreement. The next question is one he stumbles over, unsure if he really should ask. There’s every chance of being wrong, of misreading this. Rejection even from a tiny mouse would be far more crushing than he'd care to admit. “You uh, wanna talk to me?"
Enthusiastically, Platt nods. Stumped by that information, Keith watches the mouse smile cheerfully up at him. As far as Keith’s concerned, he has done nothing to gain this mouse’s attention. Ever. Asking more questions however isn’t feasible. As much as Keith would like to know why, it’s just not something he will be able to understand from unintelligible squeaks. Not unlike the chirping of the birds in the shack in the roof. Why did you nest there when I built you a perfectly adequate birdhouse on the other side?
“Ha.” The trace of a smile slips over Keith’s lips. “You kind of remind me of some little guys on earth.”
Out in the desert, there had been a whole range of animals he saw frequently. In the absence of living, nature teemed with life all around him. Whilst he sat on the porch, an empty turbulent void stripped of purpose and belonging, pocket mice scurried across the wood to the homes they had built for themselves. As Keith sunk further into the sand that scratched his skin and irritated moribund flames, scorpions scuttled along the surface with ease. Desert hare burrowed in their burrows, cactus wren nested in his roof. Tiny lizards darted beneath the makeshift furniture; bigger lizards roamed the horizon.
There had been no people out in the middle of the desert where Keith found himself. Just him. But the isolation was lessened a fraction by the constant daily existence of the wildlife around him. He found surprising solace in their journeys, comfort in their relatable struggles. Every day was hinged on a brutal chasm to jump across, a chasm that some days stretched further than Keith thought he could survive. To live or to die.
In the sand, Keith found the kind of solitude that haunts the oldest of men towards the ends of their life. When the crinkles in skin are deep yet hollow, and bones rattle cold with the jarring realisation nothing and nobody can follow to this point. Here, at that point, he found the kind of purgatory souls feared to roam aimlessly forever.
And in that, he adapted.
He secured his survival through sheer grit of will, seared it into the land so it would listen and it would know his presence. Feel it. Respect his presence just as he respected the land in turn. Nature had an honesty to it Keith admired. There was no sugarcoating, no beating around the bush. Each day for the animals in the desert and himself was a fight to keep alive and make it through without succumbing to a mighty force the universe had crafted to be bigger. Stronger. Persistent and patient in the undoing of its prey. Patience yields focus. They were all prey to a larger predator, one that could crush them between its fingers effortlessly.
At first, Keith thought the desert had been his foe, the beast that would devour him whole. Its claws the sharp intensity of the sun that purged his body, leaving him on the precipice of exhaustion. Its teeth the relentless heat biting down on his back, gnawing and chewing through skin. Its lair the barren room he had stumbled into after days of determined walking, its trap the worn couch he collapsed onto.
Keith always liked a challenge, understood every step he took pushed back against the world like a dare. And upon spotting the blueprints in the corner of the room the next morning, it had become clear what he had to do. Not just to survive in these conditions, but to live again. To breathe in smoke and breathe out sparks that would ignite the crisp air. Deliverance born from the product of his despair, restitution carved from the serration set into his shoulder blades. Course charted by an energy he was compelled to chase. In the corner of the shack sat salvation - the vehicle that could take him there. It had been unrealised, beckoning him in remnants.
It had to be something Keith chose, something he wanted to craft for himself by his own hands. Something sacred, something red.
And he had done that, he had chosen that and he -
-In his peripheral the mouse leaps up. Startled by the movement, Keith digs his fingers into the bed, trying not to jolt. His body tenses as he tears himself from his thoughts. The yellow mouse lands in his lap, nudging him insistently its head. Right.
“Sorry,” he manages.
Getting swept up into himself is something Keith endeavours not to do. He strives to keep it tucked into corners, a suppression that serves him and everyone else well. They’re not here to reminisce, they’re here to fight a war and put an end to the Galra Empire. Yet still. In the lull of pressing action that comes with the team sleeping, there’s a stasis too large for Keith entirely avoid. He could slice through it with his bayard on the training deck, he could walk until it loses stamina and falls back, he could outdo its persistence with his own brand of perseverance. In fact, he has done these things before. But no matter what, there remains an undertone of evocation he cannot quite shake when the castle grows still this way. The yearning in his bones.
It’s the unwinding of a long day in the desert, the sun slipping off the edge of the horizon. Something sacred, something red.
“Been some time since I thought about it, I guess.”
It has. To such an extent as this. In the height of a war that could not be lost under any circumstances, Keith had pledged his entire being to the cause. He continues to do so, because in the grand scheme of this universe his place is temporary and fleeting. That’s fine. Making it count for something more than himself might not guarantee victory, but any chance is enough.
The mouse crawls closer, tugging at his jacket with insistence. He’s admittedly surprised at the reception, but already knows he doesn’t need to ask. For both of them. Platt isn’t going anywhere just yet. And Keith wants to talk, needs to talk . The mouse seems content to listen. It’s a fitting arrangement. Nodding with animated encouragement, confirming his suspicions, the mouse sits down on Keith’s knee. Huh. Okay then.
“Stuff happened.” Keith clenches a fist. Stuff happened. Well. That's vague, but true. Okay. More than just vague - that’s putting it lightly. However, he’s not entirely comfortable in splaying his entire being out on display to a mouse. Keith winces on the cusp of places he cannot revisit. Iverson’s office. The letter on his desk. Those broadcasts- no. Not now. Shiro is here. That fight is over. “Anyway, I - after that... stuff, I ended up out in the desert.”
Something intangibly profound nestles in the corners of Keith’s eyes at the enthusiasm, brittle enough to snap under the slightest strain. With one hard blink it breaks, prodding uncomfortably at his eyes. The memories fester in the cracks. Though rather than filling the space and breathing sparks into waning flames, it’s all distant now. Worlds away. Looking down at the mouse, who seems curious, Keith’s lips tug upwards a fraction. It’s a counterfeit smile, poorly executed but well timed. Between his lips is something wistful he cannot speak, words weathered by the sheer force of isolation he never really asked for.
In place of words is a low hum. The sound vibrates in his chest. It reminds him of it, of her: the dependable rumbling of an engine ready to chart miles and miles of desert, seeking thrills and demanding answers just as much as him. Just like he and Red, they moved in tandem and soared through every moment. Unyielding. Brilliant. Brave. The lurid brazen red chiselled into his palms, leaving marks wherever he went.
There are things that haunt him about this time. But there are also things that are surprisingly palliative. Raw and real in the best way, not the worst. Constructive, not destructive. Swallowing down another hum, he lets it linger.
“I had a hoverbike out there.”
Boom. There it is. And once the words leave his mouth the ignition roars beneath burning fingers, the gears turn and he’s ploughing ahead without reserve.
“Well, I mean I - I didn’t at first. I built her from scratch. There was a box of parts and some instructions. Seemed like a good thing to put time into. I had to take a few trips to the yard to dig some bits out.”
The junkyard had become a place Keith frequently visited between investigating the mysteries of the canyon. It lay on the outskirts of civilisation, forgotten. And with it, a whole plane of tools at his disposal. Tinges of fiery frustration ensnare his tongue just at the memory of that place. Being resourceful and making the most of what he had, not just because he had to, Keith had quickly discovered that a vast majority of the stuff there was fine. All it needed was a bit of fixing up and some maintenance.
Anything Keith didn’t find, he managed to make do with racking together spare parts. Fond amusement swirls in his chest. It hadn’t been easy, far from it. Hands had raked through hair, infuriated grunts fell from his lips. But rummaging through piles and piles of abandoned gear, having patience to get it right, had been so very rewarding. Something sacred, something red.
“Putting her together was pretty rough. For a while I wasn’t sure I could get her up and running.” Smoothing a hand over the sheets, Keith strives to remember the smooth gloss finish of the hoverbike. It stings that he can’t. Not exactly. Even the red paint across the lion is different, heavier. The hoverbike had been a big project, one he’s immensely proud of. He’d poured every fibre of resolve into it, devoted himself to bringing the metal to life.
Platt the mouse squeaks. Somehow it’s imploring , and Keith hears a question. A nosy one, prying into as many details as possible. With a breathy laugh, he nods. Tension unwinds as the very same elation Keith felt that day on earth knocks into him.
“Yeah. I got her working. And let me tell you,” grinning, Keith brings up a hand to cut through the air. “She was incredible. The first time I took her out it - it was…” He’d screamed to the sky until his throat grew sore, voice ragged and cracking - every inch of him bleeding raw with exhilaration. Gesturing passionately, Keith’s voice splits open the same way, words picking up speed and spiralling messily. Like the trail of fumes spewing from the exhaust.
“I mean, it’s - I hadn’t even finished the paint! But I was just - it was - we had to get out there. I couldn’t wait any longer just - we had to try.” Pause. A loose smile stretches across his face. “It was pretty good.” Better than good. That’s an understatement and one that puts the hoverbike to complete shame. “No. Awesome. It - it was awesome.”
Keith scoops the mouse into his palm, abruptly standing.
“Sorry,” he blurts. “Yeah. I know I’m not doing a great job describing her but, trust me. She looked good and - and that was before I painted her.” pause, just to catch his breath back from the intensity laced into the speech. “I couldn’t find the right colour. But I - I knew she had to be red because no other colour really worked. I didn’t stop searching to find the right colour.” The rusted metal body served him well for journeys to the caves, charting out the landscape. But it had been missing the final touches of personality. “It must’ve been a few weeks later that it showed up, someone tossed it out.”
Keith isn’t sure exactly how long it had been until the hoverbike’s rebirth. He mapped out the days, logged them meticulously. However, he didn’t number them. The calendar hung on the wall, paper peeling off to reveal each new day. But that’s as far as it went. The work he began out there took precedence over personal conquests. Either way, he had acquired the paint.
That very afternoon, he’d officially given the hoverbike her real wings. With that can of red paint and a bristled brush worse for wear, he’d leant back into the sand and got to work. The drawl of Tom Waits rang out in the background from the stereo player; let’s put a new coat of paint on this lonesome old town… Keith had wriggled beneath the bike to the beat, foot tapping awkwardly and hips swaying in a way counterintuitive to his position but completely natural with the giddy excitement that thrummed in his veins. He had felt cool. The bike had looked cool. The music had been cool.
It had all been so cool.
And despite the silence that shrieked too loud in the night, the solitude that strung his spine into a pyre, there were hours where Keith felt found unexpected peace. There had been days where the gleam in his eyes was bright, an unruly twist of his lips and rapturous hitch of breath as anticipation for a future he seldom indulged seized him by the shoulders and shoved him forwards. He fell into the rhythm, met it head on in a spirited jive. In those moments. there was rhapsody in the static - not melancholy. Tiny constellations of unborn stars burst into being between his ribs. Purgatory transformed into a fleeting paradise. Turmoil uncoiled to make way for nirvana.
Nature had given him the reigns to ascend higher than his heartbreak. The hoverbike had given him the means to dive into chaos, pluck out the fiery resolve and mould it into something powerful. Something entirely his own, entirely for himself. Something sacred, something red. The knife strapped to his back, the hoverbike growling beneath him - it had been the most fulfilling kind of fruition.
“When I finished her, we - I …” Ducking his head, a raspy laugh catches in his throat. The mouse squeaks impatiently, shuffling in his palm. It wants to know more. Wetting his lips with his tongue, Keith grins. It’s a good memory, a good place. “There was this song. Back on earth.” Pride and Joy. Stevie Ray Vaughan. “When she was done for real, it came on the radio.” Just once, the stars had aligned and granted Keith an amusing coincidence too good to pass up. He threw himself into it without hesitation. “So I…I sang it to her.”
Keith begins to sway in spite of himself. Maybe it’s silly. It doesn’t matter. Whilst reminiscing is dangerous, something he never does, right now he finds himself back there kicking up sand with his energetic movements. Fingers snapping with the beat, hips swishing. The hoverbike gleaming in the evening orange sun, the music blaring out from the porch. Smooth slick guitar lines cascade through his mind, the bluesy rock backdrop fills him with warmth. He’d spun past the hoverbike, patting the body fondly. She’s my sweet little thing, she’s my pride and joy.
“The recording he… well. He sang the song better than me,” Keith admits to the mouse, feet twisting awkwardly on a move that isn’t quite a dance but far from a normal step. Words are fluid, falling far quicker than they ought to. “I uh, I - this guy he could really, you know… he could- he could just do it he could - he could do that thing and just-”
Clearing his throat, Keith breaks out into a spontaneous raspy falsetto. I love my baby, heart and soul! The mouse is delighted, bouncing in his palm. Keith bites down on his lip when realisation settles in yeah he’s singing to a mouse. Embarrassment that would threat to turn his cheeks the red of the hoverbike can’t touch him here. Whilst singing is a very private thing he does, not at all performative or in front of others, the song has wound itself into his bloodstream. The beat is his pulse. Organic. Electric. All encompassing. Before he can stop himself, another line tears itself from his mouth, filling the room with the melody. Mirth tickles his throat.
I love my baby, she’s long and lean! Leaning towards the mouse, Keith bops its head with a budding smirk. You mess with her, you’ll see a man getting mean. The mouse cheers and Keith flicks a leg behind the other. She’s my sweet little thing, she’s my pride and joy! The hoverbike had caught the sunlight as he awkwardly danced around it, glowing at the praise gushing from him. She’s my sweet little baby!
“You know.” Keith shrugs. “Like that. But better. Way better. I was - I was just trying to show you how… the way it goes.”
The song was perfect, is still perfect for that day. Keith hasn’t longed for music this way since being up here in space. But his body is rocking with that low drum kick, the funky walking bassline traveling up his fingers and setting him ablaze with rabid - probably ridiculous - nostalgia. The guitar glides across his lips. He can’t resist mapping it out under his breath, accented tuneless rasp.
“She - it’s true,” Keith explains between a rather obscure shuffle he’s broken into. His sentences meander, direct but ebbing from fiery imperatives. That bike really had been his pride and joy. And just for that one song, he had expressed it in the most senseless way. Stick with her until the end of time! She’s my sweet little thing- “It made sense to have some kind of… celebration when all that hard work paid off.”
And just as fast and sweeping as the memory had surged to the forefront of his mind, it begins to ebb away. The hoverbike darts languidly from reach. Keith doesn’t chase after it, or try to pry it back into his hands. He’s content to let it fall into places he knows he shouldn’t - can’t - follow. Not anymore. Maybe not ever again. Voice softening, Keith traces the melody absently for what could be a final time. She’s my pride and joy…
Then it’s gone.
Setting Platt down, Keith blinks. The mouse is currently looking at him with an awestruck expression, almost as if he hung every single moon in the sky. As if he’d just delivered the most stellar show. Eyes widen. Realisation. This time round embarrassment really does linger and grow into something uncomfortably hot across his skin. That just happened. Oh. Oh. He really just did that. In front of a mouse. There is no security in unwinding, vulnerability a terrifying kind of exposure.
Bringing a hand to his face, Keith purses his lips. Platt squeaks excitedly, repeating the main refrain of the song. That has Keith’s stomach lurching unpleasantly. Mortified, he crouches by the bed.
“No, no. You can’t do that! Sing any other song you want. Just not that one, got it?” The mouse looks up at him with an oscar-award winning performance of sadness Keith doesn't believe for a second.
“I’m - oh come on! This is serious!” Of all things, Keith does not want the incessant poking and prodding that will come with anyone discovering that he can hold a tune. Yet alone the context behind it. Perhaps giving into the memory was a mistake, especially in front of Platt. The mouse folds its arms, glaring at Keith. Obviously, it isn’t very happy with his request. Frustration building, Keith mirrors the mouse. Arms folding, he tilts his head head with a challenge. Platt isn’t fazed, repeating squeaking out the melody.
“Please.” Keith implores, desperation seeping into his voice. With an exaggerated sigh, Platt slumps. Visibly, the mouse deflates. Then comes a nod of reluctant agreement. Relieved by the compliance, whilst remaining a little suspicious, Keith stands. “Thanks.”
And that’s that.
Or rather, Keith thought it was the end. He’s foolish enough to believe Platt’s excitement over the song won’t turn into something insatiable.
But it does.
------
Months pass. Missions pass. The war goes on. Voltron goes on. Today, the team have returned to the castle after a long gruelling training session on a nearby planet. Coran had driven the paladins hard, pushed them through all kinds of obstacles in what he hoped would prepare them in facing Zarkon. Keith honestly isn’t surprised to find it’s just he and Allura on the bridge. Shiro must be running over some kind of strategic-training regimen with Coran. Keith isn’t sure about the whereabouts of the others. But they’re certainly not here. And honestly, he’s glad for that because when Allura begins humming as they fall into a slow cruise, Keith finds himself stumbling. An indignant noise slips past his lips before he can press them shut. His feet trip over obstacles that aren’t even there as he falters in regathering his composure. What. No. No way. He didn’t hear that right. He can't have.
Noticing his flustered movements, Allura quirks a brow from the control panel.
“Keith, is something the matter?” she asks. Concern grows in her eyes, attention trained on Keith. There’s a streak of red across her cheeks, revealing she’s equally as flustered about the situation - only for different reasons. Apparently, she didn’t seem to register he was also in the room.
“No.” Yes. “I just... wondered what you were singing.” Allura was singing the song, that song. Allura knows the song.
It’s definitely the song. Pride and joy - Stevie Ray Vaughan.
“Oh,” tucking a strand behind her ear, Allura gives a small smile. “Platt taught it to me. It’s quite delightful, don’t you think?”
“Mhm.” His voice is strangled, jumping octaves.
Hands grow clammy, eyes skating from her face to the ground. Well. Keith calculates the quickest escape route. Unfortunately, Allura is standing between him and the door. Opening the airlock will do no good here, either.
“Though I think I would much prefer to hear your rendition over Platt’s,” Allura admits with a wry smile. Eyes snapping up to Allura, Keith struggles to process that. What. Shortly after comes a wink that is far too conspicuous. Deliberately so. It has Keith gawking, staring in open shock at the impossible situation. For the life of him, he can’t find a single adequate response to this. Princess Allura is teasing him. Platt must have told her about the song, the singing, the dance- god.
“I -I should - I mean, I have to…” Gesturing to the door, Keith darts past Allura and makes a hasty retreat.
That night, Keith declares his room a mouse-free zone. Or more specifically, a Platt-free zone. Another bonding moment bites the dust.
He also finds himself in Red’s hangar that night, offering a far more jaunty rendition in the absence of prying eyes. Because if the hoverbike was his pride and joy on earth, then Red absolutely is his pride and joy in space. Purpose reignited, fire daring to blaze further.
Nobody has to know that his voice cracks on the second line , footwork aimless in direction but passionate in intent. Nobody has to know he messes up the words or that he struggles to keep rhythm without recreating the drums and guitar between each phrase. Just like Keith will never know Red recorded the whole thing.
After all, it’s always been something sacred.
Something red.