Archive of Our Own

"Well," Coran says, grimacing down at the tablet in his hands, "what would you like first? The good news, or the not so good news?"

Keith glowers and fidgets on the infirmary table. He's not in the mood. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," Lance insists as he tries to sneak behind Coran and catch a glimpse of his tablet. "How bad is the bad news, exactly? Is it bad enough that the good news won't make it better? Because if the good news will make it better, then you should definitely—"

"Lance, enough," Shiro says, putting a firm hand on Keith's shoulder before he can jump off the table and strangle Lance. "Just tell us what you know, Coran, and we'll figure out what to do from there."

Coran nods. "Right. So. The good news is, this whole ordeal should be over and done with in about two quintants."

"Ordeal?" Hunk asks, frowning. "Ordeal isn't typically a 'good news' kind of word."

Pidge stands on her tiptoes, also trying to read Coran's tablet. "I think we're dealing with some kind of synthesized airborne toxin, which means depending on how Keith's body reacts to the strain and the rate at which it—"

"Would everyone just shut up and tell me what's going on?" Keith snaps, his shoulders bunching up around his ears. He's lightheaded, uncomfortable, and still embarrassed from the spill he took earlier in the hangar, nearly passing out at the bottom of his lion's ramp. He wants to be back in his room, where it's quiet and he's alone and no one's talking about him like he's a science experiment. At least not within earshot.

Shiro smooths a hand over Keith's shoulder blades. "Give it to us straight, Coran. What are we looking at here?"

"Of course, Number One." Coran fusses with a few more things on the tablet, then sighs and sets it aside. "Pidge was correct in her assumption—"

"Told you," Pidge says with a satisfied smirk.

"—that Keith inhaled an airborne toxin from the Luymian atmosphere, which caused the bout of wooziness he felt when you all arrived back at the castle."

"Okay, wait a minute," Lance says. "We were all down on that planet. If Keith breathed in some weird alien fungus or whatever, so did the rest of us! Are we all infected?"

"Ah! There's another bit of good news. After running a few tests, we've concluded the toxin only activates when it encounters Galran physiology. The rest of you are in the clear!"

"Wonderful," Keith grumbles. "I'm so happy for all of you."

"From what we've gathered," Allura chimes in, scrolling through the test data on her own tablet, "the toxin's purpose is to induce a state of hyper-awareness. An...exaggerated heightening of the senses, if you will."

"Don't the Galra already have, like, crazy-good senses?" Hunk asks. "What's the point of giving them even better ones?"

"It actually makes a lot of sense," Pidge says, straightening her glasses. "The Luymians have a strong aerial defense system, but are vulnerable to close-combat attacks. They must use the toxin as a kind of shield. Whenever the Galra attack, the toxin starts overloading their senses, making it harder for them to focus on fighting."

"Huh. Creative. Weird and horrifying, but creative."

"Is this going to do any lasting damage?" Shiro asks.

"It shouldn't," Allura reassures him. "While potent, the toxin will most likely flush itself out of Keith's system in a little under two of your Earth days. It was devised to act quickly, not to linger."

"What about a pod?"

"The pods won't do much good, I'm afraid. Not with this specialized of an infection."

"Unfortunately you're in for a bit of discomfort, Number Four," Coran says. "Some sensitivity to light and sound, a heightened sense of smell and taste. It'll make you nauseous and give you a weblum of a headache, but not to worry. Time heals all!"

Keith crosses his arms over his chest and hunches further into himself. "Sounds great."

Shiro squeezes his shoulder. "How are you feeling now? Still dizzy?"

"I'm fine."

"I could make you something to eat?" Hunk offers. "I mean, if you're about to get super nauseous for two days, you should probably get something in your stomach now rather than later."

Keith shrugs. "I'm not really hungry."

"When did you eat last?" Shiro asks.

"I don't know. Last night, maybe?"

Shiro frowns. "I think Hunk's right, Keith. You should try and eat something. Better now than when you're not feeling well, right?"

Keith sighs. "Fine," he says, and slinks off the table.

Hunk leads the charge into the kitchen, jabbering with Pidge and Lance about his new food-goo soup recipe, but Keith shoves his hands in his pockets and hangs back, chewing on his lip. Shiro waits for him to catch up, then bumps Keith's shoulder with his own.

"Doing alright?" he asks.

"I'm fine," Keith says, keeping his head bowed low.

"You sure? You're pretty quiet."

"Just thinking about how much this is going to suck."

"It's okay to be nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Keith lies. "I just want whatever's going to happen to...happen already. I don't like waiting around."

Shiro pats him on the back. "I know you don't."

In the kitchen, Keith and Shiro take a seat at the counter beside Lance and Pidge, while Hunk scurries around, whistling while he prepares the soup. Keith doesn't join in their idle chatter, but lets it settle over him like a balm. He knows he shouldn't be worried. Coran didn't seem worried. And Keith has lived through far worse than "a bit of discomfort." He'll gut this out and land back on his feet, same as he always does.

Sooner than Keith expected, Hunk produces four bowls of surprisingly edible-looking food-goo soup, tinted only slightly green and smelling strongly of potatoes. "Okay, so, I've been working on this recipe for a while and I think I finally got it just right. Let me know what you think."

Lance leans over and takes a whiff. "Oh my god, Hunk, this smells amazing."

The smell wafts up to Keith, and his stomach gives a little lurch. Could just be the nerves, he thinks, and stirs the soup tentatively. Probably just the nerves.

"Tastes amazing, too!" Lance says around the spoon in his mouth. "You are a culinary genius, my man."

"Wow, Lance is right," Pidge says, "this is delicious."

Keith gives in and takes a bite. He immediately starts hacking, spitting it back into the bowl and coughing violently.

"Whoa!" Lance says. "Are you choking? Is he choking?"

"Oh no," Hunk says, "oh man, my soup's so bad it's killing him."

"Here." Shiro slides Keith a water pouch, which he inhales in a few gulps, and thumps him on the back. "Alright?"

"Yeah," Keith croaks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sorry, it just. It tasted like salt."

"Too salty?" Hunk asks. "Weird. I'm pretty sure I used less salt this time. Should I note that in the recipe?"

"No, I mean. It was...just salt. That's all it tasted like."

"I don't think it's the soup, Hunk," Pidge says. "I think Keith's sense of taste is already acting up. Funny, that's not the first sense I thought would be affected."

"Maybe we can find something a little more bland for you to try," Shiro suggests. He scoots Keith's bowl away, for which Keith is immediately grateful: the smell is beginning to set his stomach churning.

"Oh! How about a smoothie?" Hunk says. "That might go down a little easier."

Keith swallows hard and shakes his head. "That's okay. Like I said, I'm not really hungry."

"We'll have to figure something out, though," Shiro says. "You can't just not eat for two days."

Not eating actually sounds like a pretty great idea to Keith, who swallows again, his jaw tightening at the way his gut suddenly roils. All he can smell is the soup, sharp seasoning and hot milk and starchy food-goo curdling around him. He closes his eyes and clenches a fist. "Can we...maybe stop talking about food now?"

"You don't look so good, mullet," Lance says. "Are you gonna hurl?"

"Uh oh," Hunk says. "If he hurls, I'm gonna hurl."

"Stop saying hurl," Keith grits out between his teeth, acid burning up his throat and saliva flooding his mouth.

"Keith," Shiro says, "are you—"

"Move." Keith shoves at Shiro and stumbles off his chair, frantically charting the most direct path to the sink. "Move move move move."

They all jump out of Keith's way, and he makes it to the sink with only seconds to spare before he's bent over, throwing up bile and remnants of last night's dinner. He takes a deep breath between bouts, but the smell of his own sick coats the inside of his nostrils and he retches again, miserably, into the basin. A cool hand curls over the back of his neck, and he flinches.

"Just me," Shiro says. He runs the tap and replaces his hand with a damp cloth, ties Keith's hair back in a loose ponytail before resting his palm on Keith's forehead. "Get it all up, it's alright."

"Ugh." Keith tries and fails to spit the bitter taste from his mouth. A straw appears to his right, and he takes a long drink, spits it out, takes another, but the taste lingers, rancid and sour.

"All done?" Shiro asks when Keith pushes himself up.

"For now." Keith sweeps a hand over his face. "Gotta get away from that, though, or I won't be."

"Okay, c'mon." Shiro wraps an arm around his shoulders and steers him to the common room, eases him down on the couch. "I'll get you a pillow. Be right back."

Keith shuts his eyes and folds his arms around his stomach. He's always hated being sick, being laid low and vulnerable, but this feels like something else, something more persistent, more precise. His mouth tastes rotten, and he can smell his own sweat, thick and stale. He buries his face in the couch cushion, inhaling its sterile, plasticky scent. It's not good—a headache dances at the edges of his eyes—but it's better.

"Hey man, you up for some company?"

Keith opens his eyes to find Hunk in the doorway, holding a small television.

"Uh, sure," he says, and Hunk grins and begins setting up the TV at the front of the room. "But don't you guys have stuff to do?"

"Yeah we do," Lance says, barging in with their video game system bundled in his arms, Pidge and her computer close at his heels, "and it's called kicking Hunk's ass at Killbot Phantasm."

"Unless you wanna play?" Hunk says.

Keith shakes his head. "Go ahead."

They fire up the game and lean back against the couch, controllers in hand. Pidge hoists herself up at Keith's feet, flips her laptop open and starts typing away, lost in her own little world. Keith eyes them all suspiciously. He's not used to having company when he's sick, more familiar with hunkering down in his room and riding it out alone. Having people nearby is weird. But...he doesn't hate it.

"Head up." A warm hand slides under his ear and lifts him, gently, before lowering him back down to a soft, cool surface that smells almost overwhelmingly like Shiro: clean soap, a tang of ozone from his arm, and beneath all that, a hint of dried blood, old but enduring after multiple cleanings. Keith turns and realizes the Shiro-smell is coming not only from the pillow, but from Shiro himself, sitting on the couch with Keith's head in his lap.

Shiro smiles at him. "Okay?" he asks, and lets his arm fall over Keith's waist, loose and comfortable, when Keith nods. "Get some sleep, then."

Keith tries, he really does. But as easily as he identified the scent of Shiro, he can smell the other paladins, too: Hunk's warm aroma of spice and flour and engine grease; Lance's tart, fruity array of lotions and shampoos; the tell-tale funk of a shirt gone too long without laundering from Pidge. It's not the smells themselves that bother him, but their pervasiveness. He can feel them in his head, surrounding him with fog and splintering between his eyes. Each time he gets close to nodding off, the splinter digs deeper.

Shiro starts to rub his back, and that must manage to put him out, because the next thing he knows he's startling awake and rolling reflexively away from Lance's shout of "VICTORY!" below him.

"Guys, quiet," Shiro scolds when Keith groans with awareness, and settles a hand on his stomach. "Hey. How do you feel?"

Keith winces at the tinny video game music whining in his ears. "Can you turn that down?" he rasps, grimacing at the echo of his own voice in his head.

"Sorry, sorry," Hunk says. "Is this better?"

The music softens and goes mute, but more noises rush forward to take its place: the incessant clacking of Pidge's fingers on her keyboard, the static fuzz from the television, the rapid-fire tapping of buttons on Lance's video game controller, the air whistling in and out of Keith's lungs. He shakes his head, trying unsuccessfully to jostle away the clamor.

"Keith?" Shiro asks.

"It's loud."

"What is?"

"Everything. All of it."

"Okay. Hang on." Shiro shifts out from under Keith and sits them both upright. Keith drops his head into his hands, his heartbeat roaring. He hears Shiro whispering to the other paladins and sighs shakily. He didn't expect it to come on this fast.

Shiro helps him to his feet and guides him back to his room, gathers a soft t-shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants and retrieves another pouch of water while Keith changes into them.

"You want me to stay?" Shiro asks as Keith drains the pouch.

Keith shakes his head, handing the water back to Shiro and curling up under the covers. "You don't have to."

"I know. I will, though, if you want me to."

"I'm okay, Shiro. Just tired. There's no reason for you to sit here while I sleep."

"Okay. If you're sure." Shiro tucks the blanket higher around Keith's shoulders. "But come get me if you need anything."

"I will."

Shiro gives him one more encouraging smile; as soon as he leaves, Keith grabs his pillow and pulls it over his head. His room is quieter than the common room, but not by much: he can still hear the hum of the castle's machinery and some perpetual buzzing, not unlike that of a florescent lightbulb back on Earth. The shift and rustle of his own body against the bedsheets is maddening. He takes a deep breath to calm his fraying nerves, and catches a rank whiff of his own unwashed hair, pungent with grease.

He flings the pillow across the room with a frustrated grunt and curls tighter, presses his face against his knees and covers his ears with his hands. The noises tunnel down until they're indistinguishable from the beating of his own heart, hammering against his ribs. It's still far too loud, but more familiar, a part of him at least. He counts his breaths until his pulse slows, and eventually, falls into a restless sleep.

— —

When Keith wakes up, he can barely open his eyes.

He tries, and gasps at the bright wall of light that slams into him. So it's morning, he assumes: the lights in their rooms have automatic sensors that activate during Earth's daytime hours to keep their internal clocks consistent. It's morning, and he's awake, and now his fucking eyes don't work. Fantastic.

He sits up and rubs his face, tries again to pry his eyes open, but the harsh sliver of light between his lids forces them shut after only a few seconds. Morning at the castle also brings with it a cacophony of new sounds, beeps and buzzes and clanks and clatters that make his head spin. He wobbles to his feet, wavers in place for a moment before stumbling for the door. He can't see, can't hear, and he knows if he's going to make it through the day without hurting himself, he needs someone nearby.

But everything is worse in the hallway, magnified outside the shelter of his room. He shudders at the thunderous rumble of the ancient ship settling around them, guarding them from the void. He winces at the blinding blue hues pulsing at his eyelids. He finds the wall with his hand and follows it a few steps before realizing that, without his eyes, he has no idea where he's going.

"Shiro?" he calls weakly, knowing there's a one-in-a-million chance (probably less; Slav would know) that Shiro is close enough to hear him. He tries to remember where his room is situated in the castle's great labyrinth, but between the noise and the light and the returning headache and nausea, he can't focus. He backs up against the wall and slides down to the ground, rests his forehead on his knees and waits. It'll be fine. Someone will come check on him. Someone will find him eventually.

Keith tries to stay still, to stay calm, but with each passing moment the noises get louder, the lights brighter. Pressure tightens like a vice around his head, and the queasy turbulence in his stomach becomes harder to ignore. He groans and covers his ears, desperately wishing he was unconscious again.

He's not sure how long he sits there, shivering in the hallway, before he's surrounded by the overpowering scent of juniberries. It floods his sinuses, sticks in his throat; he leans over and gags.

"Keith?" Allura's voice rattles around him. "Are you alright?"

Keith shakes his head. If he opens his mouth, he's going to puke on the floor. A soft hand touches his shoulder and he sucks in air until he can say, through his teeth, "Get Shiro."

"Allura?" Lance's voice reverberates through Keith's skull. "Is he okay?"

Keith moans and tips over, pressing his forehead to the cool tile.

"I...don't know. I don't think so. Can you stay with him? I'll go find Shiro."

"Of course." Lance's hand replaces Allura's and rubs, vigorously, at Keith's arm. "It's alright, buddy. It's okay."

"Shut up," Keith says. "Please. Please, shut up."

Lance says nothing else, continues to stroke up and down his arm, and Keith feels a swell of gratitude so powerful he sobs, just once. Lance must hear him, though, because he curls protectively over Keith, one arm around his back, and Keith swears, when this is all over, he'll never pick on Lance again.

Hurried footsteps round the corner, and Keith braces himself for more voices.

"Lance?" Shiro asks, breathless with worry. "What happened?"

"Shhh," Lance hisses. He leans Keith against the wall and ushers Shiro away, talks to him in a low voice; Keith appreciates the gesture, though the few feet of distance does little to muffle the sound. "He won't open his eyes and couldn't really handle me talking to him. But I think...Pidge and I have something that might help."

"Let's try it. Thank you, Lance," Shiro says. Keith spaces out to the sound of Lance's retreating footsteps until Shiro's hand on his face startles him back to the present. The light dims on the backs of his eyelids.

"Keith?" Shiro whispers. "Are you with me?"

Keith nods, feeling the shield of Shiro's hand follow his movement.

"Do you want to go back to your room?"

Keith nods again, and a spike of pain jolts through his head. He shudders.

"Easy now." Shiro massages the back of his neck until the trembling dies down. "Want me to carry you?"

Keith does. It would be easier. But he also knows how pathetic he must look, curled in on himself, whining and flinching and spilling weakness from every pore. At some point, he'll need to stop it up, get it together, for the team's sake as much as his own. He opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by Lance's return.

"Got something for you," Lance says, and suddenly, Keith is plunged into total darkness.

His fingers fumble over his face, over soft cloth and elastic. "What..."

"It's my eye mask. Even I can't sleep with these dumb blue lights on all the time."

"And," Pidge says; Keith hadn't even realized she was there, "one pair of noise-cancelling headphones coming right up."

Something squishy presses against his ears and, miraculously, the world goes silent. Keith tilts his head back, his relief so palpable he can taste it. "Thank you. God, thank you guys."

The next few minutes pass in a haze. They help him back to his room, sit him on the bed and hover in the doorway. Keith can't hear what they're saying. It's wonderful. Before long, the bed dips beside him, and a hand pats his knee before shifting one headphone slightly off his ear.

"Better?" Shiro asks quietly.

"Yeah," Keith breathes. "A lot."

"Good. I think you might be through the worst of it, kiddo." Shiro ruffles his hair. "Think you can go back to sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Want me to stay?"

Keith no longer has the energy to refuse. "If you...I mean, just so I can...just in case I-I can't see and I need—"

"Of course, Keith." Shiro nudges the headphones back into place and pulls Keith down to the bed, tucking him into his side. Keith nuzzles his face into Shiro's shoulder and lays in the dark, the blessed quiet, until he can feel the soft rumble of Shiro's chest under his hand—from talking, or humming, or snoring, he's not sure. It doesn't matter. It lulls him to sleep.

— —

Keith dreams about needles.

He dreams he's lying on the infirmary table in his Garrison uniform, one sleeve torn up to the elbow. Coran looms over him.

"What's wrong with me?" Keith asks.

"Just about everything, I'm afraid," Coran replies, and that seems right to Keith. "But we can't know for sure until we run the tests."

"How many are there?"

"As many as it takes."

"Will it hurt?"

"Oh yes," Coran says.

Keith blinks up at the red ceiling, the red sky. He feels the first needle slide into his arm. "But then you'll know, right? You'll know what's wrong with me."

"We just might."

Tears slide down the sides of Keith's face, drip into his ears, as the second needle pushes in. He's lying on the couch in his shack in the desert, and loneliness settles over him like a heavy blanket.

"Where's Shiro?" he asks.

"You can't be here and have him too," Coran says. "You know that."

After the third and fourth needle, Keith stops counting. Alien voices surround him in the dark, speaking languages he can't understand. Something—many somethings—crawl across his skin. He needs to fight them, but his limbs weigh him down, refusing to move.

"Keith," his father's voice says in his ear. "Stop fighting."

"Keith," Shiro's voice says in his ear. "Let go."

But they're not real. He can't have them. Not here.

"Keith, wake up."

Keith flails awake into darkness, his legs trapped, tangled up in the sheets. He yells out something unintelligible, and fingers wrap around his wrist. The skin there feels paper thin, hot and tender and rubbed raw. Something's wrong. He tries to yank his arm away, but the hold tightens.

"Keith. Keith. Calm down, it's alright," Shiro says, too close, too loud. Hands tug at the blankets around Keith's waist. "Settle down, it's okay. You fell out of bed. It's just me. Let me help."

Keith holds himself as still as he can while Shiro unwraps him. As soon as he's free, he scampers back against the wall and slumps, panting, his arms hanging limp at his sides. The sensation of pins and needles ripples across his body, and his neck chafes beneath the collar of his t-shirt and around the edges of the eye mask. He rubs his fingers against his palms, and tiny pinpricks alight at the tips.

"Keith?" Shiro puts a hand on Keith's arm, and it feels like sandpaper on his skin.

"Fuck," Keith mutters, shrugging out from under Shiro's hand, "fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Hey. Talk to me. What's going on?" Shiro touches the side of Keith's neck; it stings like a fresh scratch.

Keith fights the impulse to push him away. "Hurts," he says, a tight knot of anxiety coiling in his chest. He wants to scream. He's going to cry.

"What hurts?"

"My...skin."

"Oh," Shiro breathes, yanking his hand away as quickly as if he's been shocked. "Oh, Keith."

A lump builds in Keith's throat at the defeat in Shiro's voice, and a tear slips out from under the eye mask, scalding down his cheek. He wipes it away, but it still singes, burns. He sobs and tugs at his hair, yelping at the spiky pressure along his scalp.

"Don't," Shiro pleads, sounding pained. "Hold still, just, just let me think. Do you...here, do you want the headphones back?"

Keith shakes his head. If he can't see Shiro, and can't feel him, he at least needs to be able to hear him.

"Keith, listen. I think...I think it might be best if we sedate you. Just until—"

"No," Keith chokes out, panic bubbling at the memory of his dream and his useless body pinned to the table. He can't be sedated, not when he can't see, can't fight, not when every sound and touch that should anchor him sets him further adrift. How would he pull himself back? What if he couldn't?

"I know, I know it's overwhelming," Shiro says. "But you don't have to suffer through this. I'll be with you the whole time, I'll make sure—"

"No," Keith snarls, pressing back into the wall. "I can't fucking...no, just, no, I don't want to Shiro, don't, please don't—"

"Hey. Hey hey hey, it's okay. I won't, Keith, I promise, nothing you don't want, okay? Easy, easy."

Keith feels the feather-light brush of Shiro's knuckles down his spine. It prickles, itches a little, but it doesn't hurt. Not enough for Keith to care.

"Is this okay?"

Keith nods, though he knows it won't be for long. It'll get worse, just like the tastes and smells and sounds and lights have, and he won't be able to stand it much longer. He won't be able to stand Shiro, or any of them, and for once in his stupid, miserable life, he can't bear the thought of being alone. A desperate tangle of dread snags at his heart. Maybe he should let Shiro sedate him, his own terror be damned. Maybe he should just suck it up like he always does, like he always could before they all softened his sharp edges. He had those edges for a reason. He can't push through without them.

"Is there anything I can do?" Shiro asks helplessly.

Keith gathers the courage to ask Shiro to put him under when something grumbles, low, at the back of his mind. Almost a growl. Almost a purr. Red?

The Red Lion bowls him over with a wave of frustration and worry. She's angry. She's furious at whatever is hurting her paladin. Keith sees an image of her curled around him, snarling at the shadows of his pain, snapping at them with her teeth.

You can't, Red. You can't chase this away. It's inside me.

Red scoffs and shows him an image of her cockpit, the pilot chair illuminated in soft red light. She rumbles through him, comforting and insistent. She feels his hesitation, and shows him the castle corridors leading to her hangar, snuffling impatiently.

"Oh," Keith says.

"Keith?"

"Can you," Keith swallows, straightens, "can you take me to my lion?"

"Your lion? Keith, you can't possibly—"

"She wants to help me. I think she can."

"Oh. Oh. Okay. Yeah, okay." Shiro helps Keith up as quickly and delicately as he can, though Keith can't keep from flinching at the thorny pressure bearing down wherever Shiro touches him. Shiro's hand hovers, uncertain, over his back, his arm, before he wraps a single finger around one of Keith's and tugs. "Ready?"

Keith nods, and they set out for the hangar. The closer they get, the more Keith settles, the tendrils of anxiety inside him loosening, breaking apart. He reaches up, pushes the mask off his eyes. The lights are bright, but not blinding. The noises are loud, but farther away. Shiro's finger is a tiny pinch against his own. By the time they reach Red, the ramp already descending, Keith is breathing deeply, heartbeat steady in his chest.

"I'm sorry," Shiro says as they climb into the cockpit. "I'm sorry I didn't think of this sooner, I didn't realize—"

"Neither did I," Keith says. "It's not your fault, Shiro. We didn't know."

"I didn't know they could do something like this," Shiro says, more awestruck now than remorseful. "That they could...heal us."

"I don't she's healing me, exactly. I think she's...sheltering me."

Shiro lowers Keith into the pilot chair, and he sighs. His eyes still feel tight, dilated, but the headache is already receding. Warmth envelops him, and he relaxes into the invisible embrace.

"You look better," Shiro says, his voice muffled, like he's standing outside a bubble.

"Hmmm." Now that his world has gone softer, lighter, Keith can't ignore the weight of his exhaustion. He leans his head back, yawns, and blinks at Shiro, his eyelids heavy, his whole body sinking into the seat. "Feel better."

"I'm glad." Shiro leans forward and swipes his thumb over Keith's cheek—Keith only partially registers the tears of relief and fatigue spilling from his eyes—then presses a quick peck to Keith's forehead, leaving a pleasant tingle in its wake. "I'll let you get some sleep."

"Stay," Keith says, sure and simple. "I want you to stay."

Shiro smiles. "Okay," he says, and perches on the arm of the chair, slides a hand across Keith's shoulders and pulls him close. "I'm not going anywhere."

Keith settles in against Shiro's side and drifts off to the scent of soap and metal, the taste of warm cinnamon and spice, the gentle sound of purring, and the solid anchor of Shiro's hand.

When he dreams, he dreams of candlelight, and nothing more.