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Shiro knows fear. Intimately.
His first real encounter with it happened when he was seven and all alone in a white hospital room while his parents talked to a doctor just outside tightly closed door. His mother was crying.
But it wasn't her muffled sobs that had Shiro absolutely terrified; it was the fact that he couldn’t move his right leg. It was still there, he knew, still attached to his body, because the pain coursing through it was excruciating. It resonated everywhere, from one nerve end to another, like a dull echo that couldn't be silenced even by the bitter pill the doctor had given him before ushering his parents outside, out of Shiro's earshot. Leaving him motionless and afraid.
Back then, he didn’t yet understand how familiar that feeling would become over the years. How the fear of it—of being paralysed, of not being able to movemovemove—would never really go away despite the constancy.
No, it would follow him all the way to the Garrison, to the simulators and the missions, to Adam. The person who would offer him everything but would eventually have enough of not getting the same in return, just as Shiro feared—knew?—he would.
Yet Shiro doesn’t regret, any of it. If he could go back, he would still love Adam, and he would still choose Kerberos. Even knowing what would happen after.
It was only when he was alone, in his bunk aboard the ship bound to Kerberos, that the fear would sink in—fear that he’s made the wrong choice. That screaming possibility of what if. What if Adam had been right. What if Shiro had been wrong. What if this mission was going to fail because of him, because of his condition.
What if he was never meant to chase the stars after all.
He would count his breaths then, one at a time. Recite Milky Way constellations in his mind. Flex every muscle in his body to make sure it was still working. That it wasn’t failing every single person depending on him.
In the morning, Matt and Sam would wake up bright and early, chattering about plans and calculations over sweet and bitter coffee, and excitement would replace doubt. All three of them looking out the window, at the endless wonder that surrounded them. Childhood dreams of deep space finally close enough to reach.
And then, Kerberos. The Galra. The pit.
The Champion.
Shiro doesn’t remember much of that time; doesn’t really want to, either. It’s something dark that sits heavy in the deepest corner of his soul, and he knows it’s never going to leave. Which is okay, because he’s learned to live with that. Just as he’s learned to live with so many other things.
What he refuses to live without is Keith.
It isn’t a revelation—it’s a vicious truth that he simply hasn’t acknowledged before. But as the sky erupts in flames and the lifeless form of the Black lion plummets towards the earth, as the ringing in Shiro's ears reaches deafening silence, it is the only clear thought in the vortex of feelings and fears.
Keith!
Somewhere, Iverson is barking orders. MFE fighters are dispatched immediately to get the Paladins, Allura being top priority as the Blue lion sinks deeper into the sea with each passing moment. Someone is shaking Shiro by the shoulders, their voice frantic.
"Captain? Captain, can you get us back online?" Coran's words penetrate the thick veil clouding Shiro's vision, but it is his gaze that shatters it completely—unflinching, despite the terror that must be eating through his heart. Shiro’s own seems to have stopped altogether. "We only have four fighters."
And five lions.
"Griffin," he orders through comms, hoarse, "we'll take Black. You guys get the rest."
It's selfish, he knows it is, but the chorus of "Yes, captain!" still follows without question. So Shiro gets the Atlas back on its feet and doesn't think, doesn’t listen to the worried whispers of his crew, doesn't allow the terrifying what if, because there's no way, no way Keith is—
No. Not here, not now, not Keith.
Not after everything. Not before they even got a chance to—
Black lies deathly still on its side, exposed, all lights off, just outside Garrison grounds. Shiro runs. Faster than he's ever run before.
Not fast enough.
The cockpit door opens slowly, soundlessly, and Shiro sends a heartfelt thank you through the faint lingering bond he still shares with the lion that purrs weakly in response. Sand and wind are ruthless in their rage, their howls haunting, but inside the cockpit, it is dark and cool and still. Too still.
"Keith?"
The blood registers first. So much of it, coming from a wound Shiro can't see behind messy black hair, shiny and wet at the temple. The left side of Keith's helmet is cracked open, pieces of broken glass digging into his cheek. He's as lifeless as his lion.
"Keith! "
With clumsy trembling fingers, Shiro unzips the black suit underneath white armour, searching for a pulse. The seconds feel like an eternity. Is this the cost of saving the Earth?
The one both Keith and he would pay without hesitation. Without reservations.
But maybe not today, Shiro thinks, almost choking on a relieved sob as he finds Keith's heart beating strong and steady under his fingertips. Not today.
-
Keith sleeps. So do the rest of the Paladins. All of them alive, all of them whole. In the privacy of his room, Shiro allows himself a moment to breathe, in and out, in and out. Then he straightens his uniform, wipes away the exhaustion off his face with the back of his palm, and meets Iverson in the conference room where more and more alien representatives are already gathering.
Ship after ship arrive on Earth every day, seeking refuge and offering help. Amidst the endless sea of introductions and newly-forged alliances, Krolia and Kolivan appear with a handful of Blades. “This isn’t all of them,” Kolivan assures. He looks stronger, better. Once more the unwavering, dangerous leader. “Others are already back on the mission.” Krolia simply smiles; softly, like she would at her son.
Who still doesn’t wake.
It was foolish, perhaps, to think he would just because his hospital room is no longer empty. But Shiro isn’t above hope, even for miracles.
Not when the rest of the Paladins open their eyes slowly, one by one, to the smiling faces and warm embraces of their loved ones. The sight alone fills Shiro’s heart with a feeling so severe, it threatens to burst out of his chest. And makes delivering the memorial speech slightly easier, even more of an honour.
It’s strange, really. How he looks in the mirror but doesn’t find Takashi Shirogane in the reflection. Gone is the golden boy his parents used to gush about so very proudly and sincerely. Lost in the vast darkness of the universe.
But for whatever reason, people still listen to him. So, Shiro speaks.
And lets himself grieve.
-
After, Shiro goes to Keith. Exhausted, drained and unsure. Perhaps, in some ways, to hide. He’s done it before, when Adam walked away for the very last time. Keith let him in without question, allowed him to take most of the space on the tiny twin bed while he sat leaning against the wall, and offered comfort for Shiro to grab so selfishly, so shamelessly.
They talked about Kerberos then. About distant stars and planets, galaxies beyond their reach. About co-piloting the most badass ship on Earth one day. Softly, well into the morning hours, until Shiro fell into a dreamless oblivion.
Tonight, the only noise in Keith’s hospital room is the low steady hum of the monitors no longer hooked to a pale arm and the slight creak of a bench seat as Krolia turns to look. In the moonlight that spills through the half-open blinds, she looks like a mirage. Shiro knows she hasn't left Keith's side even once.
He joins her on the uncomfortable bench by the window, where they've been keeping watch every night. Offers her canned tea from the vending machine down the hallway that she for some alien reason finds actually tasty. From the foot of the bed, Kosmo raises his head in a greeting, whining low in distress. The nurses aren't pleased with his presence, but there's little they can do against a space wolf who's not only loyal to a fault but who can also teleport. Shiro reaches out to pet him behind the ears. "No Kolivan tonight?"
"Blade business. He left after Keith fell back asleep." Shiro whips around to face Krolia. Chin propped on one raised knee, eyes inhumanly bright, she smiles knowingly, faintly. So much like Keith Shiro's heart aches. "During your speech. For an hour or so."
The relief is like a flood—unstoppable, overwhelming. He knew Keith would make it, didn't have a single doubt about Keith's ability and sheer will to survive , but even so, even with the doctor's countless reassurances...
"Thank God."
Krolia snorts. "God had nothing to do with his stubbornness."
"Makes one wonder where he gets it from, doesn't it?"
"Certainly not from me," she says, despite both of them knowing it for the lie it is. Shiro will never meet Keith's father, but he's spent enough time with his mother to know how uncannily alike they are. Both in looks and in manners. It's something truly precious, given their painful history.
"Then why does Kolivan's face do this scary twisty thing every time he's reminded whose son I am?"
Shiro's eyes shoot up, breath catching in his throat as they meet that gorgeous, familiar mix of blue and purple and grey that can't possibly be anything but otherworldly. That Shiro hasn't seen in days. That can only be—"Keith!"
Laying on the bed with his head tilted to the side, blinking blearily, Keith is smiling. "Hey, you." It's soft and it's raspy but it's so Keith that for a moment, Shiro has absolutely no idea what to do. Except smile back, stupidly joyous. Or maybe just stupid.
Krolia stands up smoothly, like a feline. "Kolivan just needs a vacation." She places a tender kiss on Keith's bandaged forehead, ruffles his hair with all the affection he's been missing most of his life. "And Kosmo needs a walk."
Dutifully, Kosmo does follow Krolia out of the room. But even the wolf somehow lacks any semblance of subtlety.
Maybe because both Shiro and Keith are long past it.
"How are you feeling?" Shiro asks, sitting down beside Keith and taking the space so willingly shared. On the pristine white sheets, his hand finds Keith's, squeezes it gently.
"Like I've been out for a week? Mom filled me in. Said the others are okay." Because of course his first thoughts were of his team.
"Hunk broke a few ribs and Lance his left hand but they're awake, already raising hell. Pidge with clutches is an absolute riot. Allura's mostly weirded out about hospital food."
There are several cuts on Keith's left cheek, from where the broken pieces of his helmet had pierced the skin. They're not deep enough to scar and mostly healed already, but still, Shiro reaches out to trace them. Shivers, when Keith leans into the touch—he's never been afraid of the Galran arm, either.
No, that has always been me.
"Shiro?"
"Mm?"
"When was the last time you slept?"
"Depends on what counts as sleep." There's been meetings, politics, debriefings. People to meet and to introduce. Strategies to be decided on. Ships and lions to be repaired.
And during the night, there's been Keith. So terrifyingly still, so terrifyingly pale. But miraculously, still breathing. Still alive.
Helplessly, Shiro envelops Keith in some sort of an embrace, face buried between Keith's neck and shoulder. The skin there is warm, and smells of clean soap and something herbal. But it is Keith's arms curling around Shiro's shoulders in return—so easily, so naturally—that cause Shiro's voice to hitch as he whispers, "I'm so glad you're okay."
He could've lost Keith; just like that, he could have lost him.
"Sorry I worried you."
Shiro laughs, the sound just a tad muffled. "Payback for all the times I've worried you?"
"I'm not that petty."
You're not petty at all, Shiro thinks but doesn't say. Just like he doesn't say how incredibly proud he is, how humbled and awed by everything Keith's done, not just here on Earth, but back in space, for Shiro. How he's truly become everything Shiro knew he would, one day.
He doesn't because now is not the time.
And maybe that's foolish of him. He, of all of people, should know how fleeting time is, how quickly and unexpectedly it can be taken away. One day you could have it all, and the next, no sacrifice is too big.
Which is exactly why he spends the next few moments saying nothing at all, simply holding Keith tightly in his arms. Reassuring himself that they're both still here. That they can have this. Tomorrow, there will be more meetings, more disagreements, more politics Shiro hates with every fiber of his being. But tonight…
Keith shifts a little, moving further to one side of the bed. Shiro raises his head, question ready, but Keith pulls him even closer instead, until Shiro is laying down too, under the thin blanket, with Keith so close Shiro can feel his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.
"Sleep, Takashi."
It's quiet, just like the night—just like the whole world around them. It's soft, and unhurried, just like Keith's fingers combing through Shiro's hair.
He wakes only briefly sometime during the night, when Kosmo teleports back into the room and settles between the two of them at the foot of the bed. His weight is warm and heavy, and Shiro closes his eyes feeling more at peace than he has in a long, long time.
-
"You know he loves you, don't you," Krolia tells him one evening, after they bid their goodnights to Keith. True to her words, it isn't a question.
Shiro nods anyway.
They're just outside the hospital wing, where the desert air is dry and already cool. It’s familiar, too, permanent traces of fuel and machine oil something Shiro has always associated with this place. With home.
Is it, still? Now that the uniform doesn’t fit him quite the same, and the room he’s been assigned isn’t really his, and the people he’s known half his life look like strangers. Older, wearier. Those few of them who are still alive.
Or has home become not a place but a person? After everything that’s happened, after everything they’ve lost and everything they’ve gained, only one thing has stayed constant through every jagged piece of Shiro’s memory. Only one person.
Maybe now the smell of home is freshly sharpened luxite, and weird Altean shampoo, and worn leather of a bright red jacket. Maybe now home is something he could keep.
Krolia’s hand is heavy but gentle on his shoulder. “It’s a gift, Shiro. You get to decide what to do with it.”
-
Keith's insistent, mildly offended claims of being totally fine go ignored for days and the universe learns the hard way that if there is one thing all Paladins of Voltron suck at, it's being bedridden and bored.
Shiro uses that time to work twice as hard, not exactly out of guilt but definitely wincing internally at the few old favours he's had to call in. They're minor, in the grand scheme of things, but they're also personal and more of a want than a need. Or maybe it's both, and not just for him.
The look on Keith's face when he spots two hoverbikes parked just outside the gates is worth every doubt, and every teasing smirk Shiro's had to endure after explaining the situation. Particularly from the Holts. Though Iverson's solid five minutes of judgemental silence weren't much better.
"Captain Shirogane," Keith says, running his palms along old scratched metal with tender care and near reverence, and Shiro pretends he isn't blushing, "are you breaking even more rules? What would the people say?"
Shiro's mouth feels impossibly dry. He isn't good—at any of this, really. Never has been. Always had other priorities to focus on.
But strangely, he isn't scared. Not of this. Not of them.
Even though the sun is barely up, and no one is around, and he's just broken Keith out of the hospital. Along with god knows how many other protocols.
"Shiro?" Keith asks, suddenly timid.
In the pale early morning sunlight, against the hazy backdrop of the desert, he is nothing short of breathtaking. From the messy hair rumpled in the wind and the black t-shirt a size too small, to the stark scar he doesn't blame anyone for.
Shiro's heart breaks, just a little.
Slowly, surely, bravely—at long last, he leans over the battered seat of an old hoverbike and feels Keith's lips part on a gasp against his own. The world doesn't stop, the air doesn't leave Shiro's lungs in a rushed whoosh , because this is not a freefall, and Keith's hands are holding Shiro close by the lapels of his jackets. His mouth kissing Shiro's like he's been waiting, all this time, too afraid—too Keith—to ever ask, content with what he has, and what Shiro is willing to give.
When they part, it doesn't feel like an end, nor like a beginning. It feels sweet, and it feels right.
Gently, Shiro places a pair of goggles over Keith's eyes, so impossibly soft and wide with wonder. His fingers linger on the warm skin of high cheekbones dusted with pretty pink, tracing lines they've never been allowed to touch before. Reveling in it. "Think you can beat me?"
The grin that splits Keith's face is as challenging as ever. "Bring it on, old timer."
And when he dives off a cliff in a perfect, heart-stopping move shown to him just once, an eternity ago, Shiro's heart soars as he follows.
Laughing.