Archive of Our Own

Keith dreams about the sun going down and the desert around him coming to life in streaks of over-saturated color. The blue and green cacti standing out sharply, flower petals bright pink and honey yellow; the ground glowing red and orange, flecked with warm shadows; the sky a pale white reaching up into dark, dark blue; the horizon clouds a soft lilac, bathed in rich golden light. The entirety of shifting hues is familiar, and warm, and safe. Keith leaves the shack behind, and walks with purpose out into the desert. The hard-packed dirt and loose sand is warm under his bare feet.

There is still a small flare of light peeking over the lip of the world, and it blinks out with no warning. The darkness grows faster than Keith can keep up with.

Something is following him.

It stays at the edge of his sight, and Keith is not even sure that it's there at first. It stands so perfectly still when Keith turns his head to catch its movement that he can't distinguish it from the deepening shadows, reaching like hands across the red ground as the earth turns, slowly, and thrusts him into darkness just when he needs the light the most.

Keith looks away. He keeps walking.

A coyote screams.

It sounds like a baby crying. Or a woman wailing, shrill with grief. It seizes something in his chest that makes him quake. It morphs into a cacophony of voices, rising up together in yips and howls and frenzied cries that draw closer and closer by the second, falling on him like the deluge of a sudden rainstorm over the mountains. Keith knows not to run, because then it will chase him. He knows not to look back, because then it will catch him.

- - He runs. Keith knows his fear is irrational. Coyotes only hunt reptiles or mammals that are smaller than themselves. They're protective of their families, and only worry after strangers that wander too close to their dens. Raw fear digs its teeth into his stomach, anyway. His pulse is a snared rabbit kicking in his chest, his legs weak, his breath sharp and cold as it pierces his lungs. The fear is there, a living thing inside of him, a mawing void that threatens to swallow him whole, fueled by the screams behind him. Keith stumbles down into a gorge, cutting his hands, bruising his feet on the slide and crack of falling rocks, sweat in his eyes, dirt under his nails.

- - He looks back. He trips, and he falls hard on the ground. No breath in his lungs. No cry from his lips. Just his right arm, twisted beneath him - a force that jars the roots of his teeth, a pain that follows him into consciousness.

----

"So, what's up with you?"

It doesn't sound aggressive like it might have a few months ago. It's almost too casual, the way Lance says it without looking at Keith, his head swiveling to survey their surroundings. It immediately puts Keith on edge. He takes a steadying breath and hacks a heavy veil of dead pink flowers out of his way. They're evacuating refugees from Ser Dii, a planet that has been ravaged by the Galra for its resources and then left to its fate - just like the Balmera, and the Tarjeer, and countless others before.

The ground has been crumbling under their feet all day, the voracious plantlife spreading out roots and vines in search of nutrients that simply aren't here anymore. Everything around them is dying, shriveling up like weeds in the desert. This at least makes Keith's job that much easier as he carves a wider path through the wilting mountain pass. They're going to get these people off-planet as soon as they get back to their Lions and the other transport ships. They had to land a good distance away from the village itself because there were still a handful of Galra soldiers hanging around when they arrived, loading the last of their cargo, wrecking and ruining anything they weren't taking with them.

The Paladins hadn't wanted to raise the alarm and get a fleet called down on them. Saving these people had taken precedence over busting a few soldiers heads together, and those soldiers are thankfully long gone by now. There are several other groups of allies and rebels also ferrying refugees to safety at other points around the small planet. It's still going to take them hours to get everyone out, and that's if they move quickly - and there is still no guarantee that the Galra won't return and open a war zone over their heads.

These people only have the clothes on their backs and a handful of possessions; anything that was too heavy to carry was left behind.

And Lance thinks he's acting weird.

Keith brings his sword down through another obstacle, withered branches crunching under his boots as he moves the group forward. He tries evading,

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Lance says, "You've been kinda quiet lately." Keith halts their progress to look at him, and the action alone probably conveys his skepticism. Lance's face is obscured by his helmet - the oxygen levels are too low for them to go without them - and the glint off the glass as he quickly turns his face away shields his expression even more. "I mean, like - quiet er. You seem - I dunno. I was just checking. Making sure everything was alright. With you."

Keith thinks about it. He has been kind of closed off lately, more so than usual.

That weird dream that's plagued him almost every night for weeks now, the shift from surreal dreamscape to terror-filled nightmare, has him unsettled; preoccupied when he has more important things to focus on like his team, and the mission, and building the Coalition. He forgets that he can't just shut down and run on autopilot anymore, can't let somebody else deal with it. He has to be present for almost every conversation, has to consider every option. He can't slink off by himself to spend a few hours just being alone when something is on his mind.

He's not….

He's not used to this.

It's wearing him out, pulling from emotional reserves that Keith doesn't have, and he can't find solace even when he sleeps.

"I'm fine, Lance," is what he says.

He doesn't want to seem weak, like he can't handle it (even though he didn't ask for this responsibility in the first place). It's weird to him that Lance is even asking. Since when does he check up on Keith, of all people? Since when does he care?

"Okay. Sure."

Lance doesn't sound like he believes him, shrugs as if this answer means nothing to him. Keith bites back his irritation and takes it out on the weeds.

----

Keith wakes up in the middle of the night cycle, too shaken up by his dream - by the chase, and the fall, and the shrill strangled cries - to go back to sleep. He's jittery and nervous for what feels like no good reason, and he doesn't want to stay in his room. He doesn't want to be alone. He also doesn't want to be around anyone else….

It's frustrating. And stupid.

So he goes to the training deck, thinking maybe he can work some of this energy off and clear his head, and thinking that he might as well do it now since he won't have the time to do it during the active hours when everyone else wakes up and gets moving around.

The Castle is acting as a transport ship at the moment, so it's packed with people. Most of what Team Voltron has been doing lately is liberating prisoners while the Galra Empire is still biting its own tail in confusion after the debilitating blow they struck to the main fleet months ago. Several commanders have factioned off, unwilling to accept Lotor as their Emperor. The resulting chaos has given Voltron the perfect chance to coordinate with their allies, but it's a slow-going process. There are so many planets and people they haven't reached, it feels like an impossible task to bring them all together, and yet the Coalition of Free People is growing every day.

Keith…..

Keith kind of hates this.

Not the saving people part, obviously. Just. He hates the politicking and the showboating. He hates knowing Lotor is out there and that he's probably up to something, and not having any clue as to what it is. He hates feeling like he's not doing something impactful. And right now he feels like he's beating his head against a wall, trying to tear it down.

The only thing that's cracking is his own skull.

The Q & A panels they've started doing now when they visit new planets are at least going over better than the "Voltron shows" Coran had them putting on. They're not as exciting as the shows - those got weird and uncomfortable for everybody really fast, but in Coran's defense…. he had a brain worm or something. So. They're at least more informative. For most of the Paladins, it's easier to talk to people and answer their questions directly than it is to act and memorize a script.

It's just hard to answer questions when they get a little... personal.

There have been a few issues they've had some difficulty moving past. Mostly, the Paladins that people are expecting are not the Paladins that they get. The line-up is different, and people notice.

Keith puts his sword - puts the black bayard - through one of the gladiator's legs and tries not to think about it.

("Which of you is the Black Paladin?"

It's the first question of the day. The small alien that asks it stands on their long toes to speak into the microphone, even though Coran has bent himself double to accommodate their minute stature. Their large brown eyes blink back and forth between the five Paladins of Voltron and the mismatched colors before landing on Keith, who is noticeably at the center and yet wearing the same red-coded armour that he put on when he first arrived at the Castle of Lions close to a year ago.

"Uh." Keith reluctantly puts his hand in the air. "That would be me, I guess."

Allura gives him a subtle look that clearly says 'Say it with more confidence!' But Keith is already wishing he could sink into the floor so he doesn't have to talk about this, can already feel himself turning inward and wishing this was over, and doesn't pay her any mind. On his right, Lance leaps in, his own hand shooting up, a wide smile in place, "And that would make me the Red Paladin! The name's Lance." He's still wearing blue. The alien tips their head with a frown, finger touching their mouth. Lance turns, unbothered, pointing to his right. "And Princess Allura is - "

"The Blue Paladin," she says, wearing pink to honor the fallen. At least she has a good reason. She glances down the table. "And then on Keith's left we have Pidge - "

"The Green Paladin," Pidge says, popping up their hand, "Obviously. And Hunk - "

"The Yellow Paladin," Hunk says, with a slightly nervous wave and a glance toward the others. He fumbles, because the others all had someone else to pawn the speaking part off on, and he's at the end of the line, "Um. I guess you're probably wondering why some of us are wearing the wrong armour. I mean, it's not wrong exactly, it just doesn't match the Lions they're in right now, so I mean technically they're wrong, but not like wrong, wrong, y'know what I- "

Allura leans forward to take the reigns, "What Hunk is trying to say is that we recently underwent a bit of a shuffle. You see, our original paladin for the Black Lion, Shiro, was...." She goes on to explain how they lost Shiro in the fight against Zarkon - that in landing such a devastating blow to the Empire, it had cost them dearly - and the subsequent swap. She keeps casting furtive glances at Keith, as if thinking he might jump in at any time because it is his place to do so.

He is the Leader of Voltron.

He should be able to speak clearly and honestly.

Keith stares down at his hands, clenched into fists on his knees, and feels like everything is spinning. It's not the first time they've had to talk about Shiro. It still feels like yanking off a bandage too soon and spilling blood all over the floor.

Keith feels like he's given up on the one person in his life who - 

Lance's hand moves under the table and lands on Keith's arm, squeezing firmly.)

Keith lunges at the wrong moment, distracted, unfocused. The gladiator sidesteps him with ease and Keith swings his sword too hard, throws himself off balance. Before he can get his footing, he feels a punch under his ribs - a jolt of electricity that charges through his insides and catches up against his lungs, squeezing his pulse. He blacks out and comes to wheezing on the training room floor, heart kicking in his chest, hugging his side where the staff made contact.

("I know it's a... delicate situation," Allura says, carefully breaching the subject afterwards, "But perhaps we should consider defining our roles more clearly, if only for appearances sake."

She thinks about it some more, while the others shed their guards and armour and get into their nicer formal attire for a meeting with the "more important" people of this planet. Lance is the only one kicked back with his foot propped up on the bench, watching her chew her lip. Keith is trying to get undressed and re-dressed as quickly as possible so he can get out of here. He doesn't want to do this and he doesn't like talking about it. Why can't they just drop it? It's fine if they're not wearing the right colors. Who even cares what everyone else thinks?

"Yeah, I get what you're saying, Allura," Hunk says, "It kinda looks like the whole Lion swap is kinda, I dunno, temporary? It sort of ruins the vibe we're trying to give off that tells people, 'Hey, we know what we're doing, please trust us to save your people.'"

Pidge holds up their chest plate in front of them, turning it over thoughtfully. "We could always redesign the armour. It's perfectly functional as-is, but I mean the aesthetics. We could add an arch or something over the V to symbolize the Coalition and we could incorporate the color pink into the new design as well, since it commemorates the fallen. We can add it to the blue and black armour, or all of them if that's what everybody wants."

"I think that's a pretty neat idea," Lance says, looking at Keith, "What do you think, mullet?"

"Do whatever you want."

Keith picks up his shoes without putting them on, snatches up his jacket from the bench, and forces himself not to run out of the changing room without once looking back. He still hears Allura sigh heavily as the door gusts open, "Keith, we need your input on this. It is important." And hears Pidge huff right as the door closes behind him, "There he goes again, being the Loner and not the Leader.")

Keith lifts his shirt with a trembling hand and rubs at the too-warm place under his ribs. He pulls in a shuddering breath and climbs slowly to his feet, wincing. Turned the voltage up too high. That was dumb. He thought he might need more incentive to keep his attention focused on the exercise, but that was a little too much incentive, and Keith feels like he might pass out again, or throw up, or both.

The gladiator is standing by.

Keith dismisses it and ends the sequence early with a verbal command and limps to the door.

----

Hunk finds him sitting at the kitchen counter, stirring a bowl of food goo with apparent disinterest. He's barely eaten any of it. He doesn't really want it. Keith has a cold compress hidden under his shirt to soothe his aching side, so he doesn't bother sitting up from his hunched position over the bowl when Hunk comes around the counter, looking at him closely. Hunk's knuckles tap against the counter to gain his attention, but Keith isn't in the mood to talk, either.

After a second Hunk asks, "Kinda early to be this spaced out, don't you think, Keith?"

"I've been up awhile," Keith says, like that makes it any better. He gives the goo another turn with his spoon. It only looks more unappetizing than ever, and he pushes the bowl away, dropping his hand to hug the compress against his skin, glad that it's out of sight.

Hunk is frowning.

"Couldn't sleep, huh?"

"Not really."

Maybe Hunk wasn't expecting such an honest answer, and Keith feels weird and guilty for giving him one when Hunk's tone shifts from light to concerned.

"Hey, you okay, man? Is somethin' on your mind?" Hunk asks, and Keith finally looks up, "You've got us all kinda worried. You've been pretty quiet lately."

Keith almost says something then.

This is too much.

("I don't accept this.")

"I… I'm just... not sleeping well. I guess. Sorry."

Hunk seems to take Keith's weak excuse at face value, dismisses his apology with an easy smile and empathetic words as he starts preparing breakfast. Keith doesn't know whether that makes him feel better or worse, but it means that he's off the hook, at least for now. It means he doesn't have to talk about it, and Keith is glad to just be able to listen for a while.

----

Hunk makes him eat something other than goo before he lets Keith leave the kitchen - claiming that it is his civic duty to make sure every person, alien, and mouse on this ship is happily well-fed because, in his own words, "Space is scary enough without being hungry too."

Keith doesn't see the sense in arguing, and it's actually an unexpectedly comforting alternative to the way he was planning on getting through his morning. Watching Hunk fry whatever kind of meat he's passing off as sausage, talking to Hunk about casual things instead of Voltron-related things, having a stomach full of real food and not just nutrient-fuel. It makes Keith feel better. His side eventually stops aching enough for him to discreetly get rid of the cold compress.

Once other people start filing in though, inevitably drawn to the smell of food, Keith slips out, feeling a little hateful about it but not wanting to interact with strangers if he doesn't have to. He feels like he loses steam the further away from the kitchen he gets, and he wanders aimlessly for a while just to avoid high traffic areas as the Castle wakes up.

Eventually, he comes to the lounge.

Keith lays down on the cool floor above the sofa, almost right in front of the door, and hopes to god that no one finds him for a while. He doesn't want to be in his room. He can't focus enough to make any training or exercise worthwhile, and he's honestly a little worried he's going to hurt himself with his own absent-mindedness. He knows he has a million Voltron-Coalition related things that he has to do today, but if he has to look at one more map of their current solar system or go over one more mission strategy he might actually scream.

He doesn't even know that Pidge is in the room until they've been staring at each other over the back of the sofa for several long minutes. Keith just blinks at them. He doesn't even have the energy to be surprised that he didn't notice an entire small person and their computer hardware spread out right in front of him.

Pidge stares at him a moment longer, probably more aware of his state of mind than Keith would like.

They chirp, "What's up, team leader?"

Keith makes a disgruntled noise because he doesn't know how he feels about being called that. It made him feel good the first time Lance said and seemed to mean it ("Roger that, team leader!") , but this whole thing still feels kind of forced to him. It just doesn't feel right, and he knows that it's all him. He misses Shiro - misses the stability of having him here, misses being able to rely on him, misses talking to him when he can't talk to anyone else. Keith feels like he's given up on Shiro by not continuing to search for him, even though he knows in his heart that it's a lost cause...

Maybe that's why he keeps walking out into the desert during his dreams, Keith thinks, kind of numb in the face of the revelation. Maybe that's why he feels so restless and upset afterward. It makes sense. After his dad died, when he was still being shuffled around foster homes, Keith kept dreaming about their house. The rooms were always empty, and kind of dark, but they emanated the same sense of security that he was craving, and he was always crying when he woke up.

Pidge, oblivious to everything but the noise Keith made, grins and says, "Lance may have coined it, but we're all going to use it so you better get used to hearing it."

Keith takes a deep breath and eases out a sigh.

He stares up at the ceiling from his starfish position on the floor.

"Guess it's better than Galra Keith," he admits.

"Is it, though? I think Galra Keith is a classic. Also, that's one of Hunk's, so it doesn't really count. We're talking about Lance. What it is better than, by a huge margin, is Mullet ."

Keith frowns.

"He still calls me that…."

"Yeah." Pidge shrugs. "But I think it's finally evolved beyond making fun of your haircut and morphed into something mildly affectionate, so it's a Second Grade insult, at best."

Keith feels his face warm and frowns harder at the ceiling.

Lance is the opposite of affectionate with him. Maybe that's partly Keith's fault, just like everything else seems to be… He's not approachable like Hunk, or nice like Allura, or fun like Coran, or whatever Pidge is that makes Lance lay his whole weight against them until they snap about personal space and they elbow him in the ribs. He's never pushed Lance away or shrugged him off the few times Lance has touched him, but Lance still doesn't seem inclined to do it often, outside of encouraging Keith to pull himself together before he runs the whole team into the ground.

Keith doesn't know what he's doing wrong there. He knows he could be doing something different aside from being a grumpy mess in general.... (But then, a small voice says, it's probably weird to want him to touch you, anyway - it's weird to want to hold his hand again - so it's better if he doesn't.)

"Why is he like that?" Keith doesn't mean to ask it loud enough for Pidge to hear.

They answer anyway, as if the question is perfectly normal, "Lance is an enigma. Just embrace his quirkiness. Trying to figure him out will only give you a headache."

Keith hums in agreement, and falls back to staring at the ceiling. Thinking about Lance doesn't give him a headache, but it does make Keith feel like he's spinning in an endless circle and just hasn't collapsed from the vertigo yet, like he's waiting on the world to settle. That feeling isn't much better. He's already feeling messed up from the coyote dream and it's potential correlation with him just missing Shiro, missing something familiar and stable and comfortable. So instead Keith traces the light fixtures with his eyes, follows the barely discernible pattern of tiles in between them, and breathes, and tries not to think about Lance, or his dream, or Shiro.

"Okay," Pidge says after a few minutes of relative silence. They turn around, pulling one leg up into the seat and laying an arm on the floor behind the sofa so they can look at Keith directly. "You're brooding or whatever."

"I'm not brooding?"

"Or whatever," Pidge emphasises, waving their hand, "We're not fussing over what to call it, c'mon, Kogane. What's eating you?"

Keith winces at the phrase.

Coyote, he thinks, mulling that over. It would be dumb to say that out loud, so instead he says, "Nothing. Sorry for being weird."

"You're not being weird," Pidge says, a little impatient, "Is something on your mind? You can talk about it if there is. I know I'm not- " Pidge stops, a gesture half-formed in front of them and then pulled back into a fist as they realize what they were about to say. Keith feels it like a knife twisting in his gut. I know I'm not Shiro. Pidge backtracks, nervously looking at their fingernails. "I know I'm probably not who you're used to talking to or whatever. But I'm a pretty good listener! And, obviously, I know how to keep my mouth shut and stay in my lane, unlike Hunk. And I promise not to laugh. Unless it's about Lance, and then I'm going to laugh until I'm sick."

Keith frowns at them, that heat returning to his face, "What?"

"What?" Pidge asks, face perfectly blank.

"Why would it be about Lance?"

Pidge starts a hum that turns into an I dunno and lifts their shoulders, finishes with, "What's it about, then, sulky butt?" As if they can distract him with name-calling.

Keith hesitates, then just goes back to staring at the ceiling again. Pidge keeps watching him over the back of the sofa, their chin propped against their fist. This set-up inexplicably reminds Keith of a therapist's office. Worn leather couches, the sound of a pen scratching against paper; hearing the radio static in the middle of the night about a fire only miles away.

He rolls upright.

Pidge's eyebrows raise expectantly.

Keith isn't used to this. He isn't used to opening up to people. He isn't used to people wanting him to open up to them, and he isn't sure how to start. It's just a weird dream, he thinks, scrambling for any kind of foothold that will make this easier, It's not like it means anything.

Keith opens his mouth.

He's doing this.

"I've been having this - "

The door across the room slides open and Hunk and Lance walk in, absorbed in an open critique of this morning's unconventional breakfast; "I'm just saying, it would be more like a real quesadilla if it didn't have that weird crunch. Like. I feel like they get harder to bite into the further in you get, does that even make sense? By the end it's like eating plastic, it's butchering my gums, man."

"I know," Hunk sighs, "It's that stuff I've been using to make the tortillas with, it's like some kind of microorganism so it's like half alive or something. Like it hardens up as a defense mechanism so predators will leave it alone. I'll have to use something else, but it's the closest thing to masa harina I've been able to find! I feel like the baking part kind of rejuvenates it a little bit..."

"They might make good nachos? I mean. They're smaller, so we could actually eat them before they get all plastic-y and stuff. The cheese is great! I have so been missing queso!"

"Do you guys mind?" Pidge snaps, "We're trying to have a conversation here."

"No." Keith is already on his feet, backing toward the opposite door. "Uh. It's okay, Pidge. I gotta - " His nerves are jarred and he just wants to get out of here, wants to backpedal on this whole opening-up-to-people and talking-about-stuff thing, and here is his chance. He says the first thing that comes to mind,  "I have some training to do. I'll see you guys later."

"Hey! Wait up."

Lance leaps forward from his place at Hunk's side and jogs over to Keith, who is so surprised that he only stares as Lance lifts his hand in a gesture between the two of them, smiles blithely, and says, "Since you're going to the deck, anyway, care to show me some hand-to-hand? I need to work on my close range."

"Your…. bayard is a rifle," Keith says, stupefied.

Lance never wants to train, least of all with Keith. He would complain every time Shiro made it mandatory because they all needed the practice, or Coran paired them up for bonding exercises because half of their communication is squandered on arguing. Now that Keith thinks about it, though…. Last time they got stuck together for an exercise, Lance had winked at him and said, "Looks like it's you and me, Red. Uh. Well. You know what I mean! Let's do this!"

Keith had been so preoccupied by the unexpected sting - Black is great, but he misses Red - that he hadn't really noticed that Lance's usual groans and reluctance to partner with him were mysteriously absent. He enjoys hanging out with Lance (when he's not being an overbearing jerk), and he wants to do it more often than it happens, but Keith never knows how to initiate it without being weird or starting a fight, because that seems to be all Lance usually wants to do with him.

Fight. And be weird.

(Another part of Keith - a quieter part way at the back of his mind, a part that has his heart racing - is screaming. He was just trying not to think about touching Lance.)

Lance pokes him in the forehead.

"What did I just say?" he asks. Keith doesn't realize it's rhetoric and opens his mouth to answer; Lance goes on, prodding, "Show me some of your moves, samurai."

"Samurai is sword fighting," Keith says, unsure of how to proceed with this.

Lance throws his hand up.

"I don't know any famous wrestlers, gimme a break!"

"The Rock," Pidge says, "Hulk Hogan. Stone-Cold Steve Austin."

"Nacho Libre," Hunk jumps in, grinning.

Lance turns and snaps at them, points as if they're both on to something, and then grins at Keith.

"Good answers," he says, "So yes?"

"Uhh. Sure?"

He takes a step toward the door.

"You guys mind if we watch?" Hunk asks, "I totally wanna see Lance get his butt handed to him."

"No!" Lance says, surprising Keith again, first with his fervent dismissal and second by latching onto Keith's arm and steering him away while he frowns over his shoulder at Pidge and Hunk, "This isn't an Event! Dos personas! You guys go geek out over your nerd stuff or something!"

"Fair enough," Pidge says, sounding inexplicably smug as they turn to Hunk, "I don't need help rewiring my computer, but I do want your opinion on this algorithm I've been working on."

"Does it have anything to do with solving my tortilla crisis? Because I'll be honest, that's sort of where my head is right now."

Pidge's indignant laugh is the last thing Keith hears before the door rushes open in front of him and Lance is walking him out into the hall. His hand is like hot iron on Keith's arm and his grip isn't even that strong. It's loose, comfortable, like he does this every day. Keith is sweating. Lance is talking, and Keith only manages to realize this and tune into it right at the end, when Lance is smirking at him, dropping his hand, "...look like you could use a challenge."

Keith scoffs, laughing, "You think you're going to be more of a challenge for me than the gladiator?"

"You might be surprised!"

The way Lance's voice deepens with confidence makes Keith's stomach swoop.

"I doubt it," he says, smirking. 

----

Keith should have known it would be too much to ask for to have anything casual with Lance.

The sparring session goes great up until a certain point. Despite the pins and needles still filling up his side from his early-morning incident, Keith makes Lance eat the mat twice in a row because it would be insulting to go easy on him. Lance manages a tie in the last round by rolling them both out of circle before the count is up, and crows that this is a personal victory. After that they have a brief cool down, during which Lance chatters about nothing in particular just to fill the void and Keith points out some things he could improve on when he has the chance to slip in more than five words.

This is the certain point.

Keith is sweaty and tired, and just starting to get his breath back. He's warm from the exercise, and hungry again. The muscles in his side ache, still a little numb when he rubs it absently. And yet he somehow feels better than he has in weeks. He feels like he could sleep and actually rest for once, even though there's no possibility of him getting away with going back to his room and napping this early in the day when they have so much to get done.

He really shouldn't even be doing this right now, with Lance; can think of about a dozen other things that should take precedence over wrestling.

Still…. Keith feels good.

"So, hey." Lance is looking at his juice packet. He rolls it between his broad hands as if it's more interesting than the words coming out of his mouth, and Keith realizes he's been watching the movement, too, entranced by Lance's long fingers and the knuckles of his hand. He snaps his eyes up, but Lance doesn't seem to have noticed. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something."

"Okay," Keith says.

He takes a drink from his own juice for something to do, trying to match Lance's aloofness while simultaneously noting that Lance actually seems kind of nervous. Keith can feel the tension in his body and mirrors it, pulls his arms in closer, defensively.

"About the whole armour, color-swap thing," Lance says, waving a hand. That tightness in Keith's chest twists into an ache, a hole that opens up inside of him . And then Lance says, "Don't worry about it, alright? About what everyone is saying."

Keith takes several long seconds to process that.

"....What?"

Lance looks at him dead on, quiet and serious and soft around the eyes in a way that Keith has only seen directed at him once or twice before. Lance's eyes are so blue, so bright and intense. It makes Keith want to swallow his tongue, and he reels back slightly.

"Whatever your reasons are for not wanting to wear the Black armour," Lance says steadily, "They're good reasons, Keith. I know everyone kind of got thrown into these new roles out of nowhere, and we're all adjusting to things differently. It's fine if you need more time than the rest of us. I get what Allura and the others mean by wanting to put up a more stable-looking front or whatever, but how you feel is more important than how the rest of the universe sees us."

Keith is dumbfounded, to say the least.

It must show on his face, must become apparent through his extended silence, because Lance's earnest expression shifts into something slightly worried. Lance bites his lip and lifts a hand to his chest, tugging at the front of his sweat-damp shirt as his eyes dart aside.

"I mean. Sorry," Lance says weakly. He forces out a laugh, and Keith's heart spikes like a soda can kicked across the pavement, ricocheting off the inside of his ribs. "I - I guess it's pretty stupid of me to just assume I know how you're feeling and junk. I just - I wanted to - ah…"

"N-no," Keith breaks off when Lance flinches slightly. They're both geared up now. This is awful. Things were just starting to relax between them. He's - Keith is bad at this. But Lance has done that thing again, where he has swept Keith up into his pace. He makes this so… easy. Keith blurts out, "Sorry. I mean. You're right, Lance. Thanks. I just - I guess I just expected something more like…" He moves a fist through the air in a short thrust, drops his voice into something gruffer, "Suck it up, Kogane."

Lance snorts, an almost laugh, his thin eyebrows slanted together.

"Okay. I'm not Iverson."

"I know."

That's just…. Sort of the attitude that Keith has come to expect from people. It's disarming that Lance is the opposite, that lately he's been encouraging Keith to actually take the time to feel whatever it is Keith is feeling. To move at his own pace, because this is something new and frightening.  Lance can't possibly know that Keith has already had so many sudden upheavals in his life…. It's not something you get accustomed to. It's just something that doesn't surprise you anymore, after a while.

Lance's advice is something that Shiro would say, actually - something he has said in the past - and it's unexpected that it comes from Lance, who barely seems to tolerate Keith most days.

Unprompted, out of nowhere. Keith adds, "I punched Iverson in the face once."

That gets a full-blown Reaction from Lance.

His hands flail, space juice flying from the end of his straw. His voice pitches with hysterical delight, "You-hoo, what?!"

"Yeah," Keith says, a little embarrassed.

Embarrassed that he brought it up, that he lost his temper like that to begin with even though it seems like another lifetime ago now - embarrassed that Lance is looking at him like…. That.

Keith looks away.

Lance shoves his arm.

It's meant to be playful, but it's forceful enough that Keith has to catch his hand against the ground to keep from toppling over and his knee jumps out, searching for balance. He bumps it into Lance, who is scooting closer until their hips are touching and leaning in and grinning. One of his long legs tangles up with Keith's and his eyes are bright, scrunching up at the corners.

Keith's stomach drops, replaced with something warm and liquid.

"Oh, don't hold out on me now, Keith, I have seen you punch a number of our peers in the face, but Iverson? That's Next Level. Is that why you got expelled? I need the details, man!"

"I - I guess," Keith fumbles.

He doesn't really like talking about the Garrison. Shiro was the only one who made those few years bearable for him, was the only reason Keith was there in the first place, and then - Keith latches on to Lance's thoughtless, easy enthusiasm, holds it tightly in his hands.

(This is not something he's great at, but it's something that he wants.)

Unfortunately, Keith doesn't have many details to give. He doesn't even remember what Iverson was yelling about at the time. It could have been any number of things. Keith's attitude, his plummeting grades, wild and blatant misinformation regarding the Kerberos mission. Keith just remembers that he saw red, and he swung, and he left before they could throw him out. He had never wanted to be there anyway. He leaves that part out, obviously - leaves out how scared and angry he was afterward, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.

Lance doesn't let him get bogged down in this.

He claps his hand down on Keith's thigh, making him jolt, and surges to his feet, still laughing, talking animatedly, "Man, that's the best thing I've heard in a while! Wait till I tell Hunk and Pidge!" Lance snickers at this, makes a beckoning motion as he bounces on his toes, "Alright, mullet, let's do this!  Round two! I've got that sweet, sweet validation pumping through me, this next one is mine. And then we can cool off in the pool before we get with Allura about relocating these refugees."

Keith scoffs out a laugh and follows Lance to his feet, that weight inside him lifting up.

----

Okay, so.

It maybe takes Keith an embarrassingly long time to realize that whatever weird feelings he's having toward Lance are not strictly platonic. The lava seeping through his insides whenever Lance does something stupid or funny or smart or sweet - whenever Lance does anything. The sweaty hands and fluttering heartbeat whenever Lance is smiling at him, or standing too close. The impulse to reach out and grab Lance's hand when it's right there. The realization that Lance's scent and Lance's voice are both so soothing now that Keith sleeps better when he's fallen asleep in the lounge watching a movie with him than he does sleeping in his own room, alone.

It's…. Maybe he's just imprinting on Lance. The way a baby duck imprints on the first person it sees after it's born. I'm not a duck, Keith thinks furiously, caught up in the same internal argument he's been having with himself for weeks. 

The truth is, Lance has been so great lately.

Not like he's trying to get under Keith's skin on purpose, or senselessly arguing with him over trivial things. Since the switch, Lance has been supportive and… and stable. He doesn't hesitate to call Keith out when he thinks he's wrong, but he also doesn't look like it kills him to agree when he thinks Keith is right and the latter feels like it's happening more and more often.

It feels…. It feels amazing, honestly.

Lance starts picking up the duties that Keith doesn't have time for, or can't do - like keeping a dialogue open between rebel leaders, and ambassadors from newly freed planets - and Keith stops feeling quite so overwhelmed.

The dream still bothers him, but not as often as before.

It isn't every night.

He still wakes up sometimes with fear clawing up his throat and his arm asleep beneath him, tingling painfully as he gets out of bed and prowls the halls until someone else is awake. It still puts him on edge, and reminds him again that Shiro is gone, as if every waking moment doesn't do that already.

It makes him feel that much worse about his budding feelings of not-just-friendship for Lance.

Ever since his dad died, Shiro is the only one that Keith has gotten close to. And look what happened to Shiro, that awful voice in the back of Keith's mind supplies, look what happened to Dad.

So Keith stomps the feelings down, half out of fear and half out of guilt. He's scared of opening up to people, scared of laying himself bare and having to deal with the rejection he knows is going to follow. He shouldn't feel how he feels about Lance when he knows what Lance wants, when Lance has said it a million times, waxing on and on once someone gets him on the subject of romantic partners. He wants someone funny and smart and beautiful, he wants someone affectionate.

He wants a girl….

Keith isn't any of those things.

And Keith is self-aware enough to know that he isn't what Lance wants, and he's never going to be. He's too… broken, he guesses. He's too closed off. Too distant. Too brooding.

Lance would probably just tease him about it if Keith did say something. Maybe not in a mean way, but just because he can't help it. "Aaw, you have a crush on me? That's so cute, Keith." Keith doesn't think he could bear it. He likes being friends with Lance. He likes the comfortable thing that they're building right now, something fresh and green like new shoots of grass in a prairie after the first spring rain.

So he keeps his mouth shut, and desperately tries to get his body and heart in sync with his mind. It should be easy. Distancing himself from his feelings, and others, is basically second nature anyway.

----

"You're seriously going on another one?"

Lance's tone is startling, to say the least, and Keith looks over with his brow furrowed, pushing his arm into his suit. Not his Paladin flight suit, but the dark purple under armour of the Blade. Lance is standing in the doorway of the changing room with his arms crossed, and his face scrunched into something definitely unhappy, looking at the armour like it's bitten him before and he doesn't want to get too close.

"Yeah?" Keith says, wondering what he's missing, "You were kind of there when I agreed, Lance."

Kolivan had said they were short on operatives for an intelligence gathering mission, and since Keith is lunging for distractions that don't involve Lance, specifically, he was quick to volunteer. It's not like he's avoiding his Paladin duties. Which… okay he kind of is. It's good to be able to get away from all the responsibilities that are still too heavy for him to carry properly. It's good to feel like he's actually doing something, gives him a small simple goal that he can reach.

"I didn't think you were serious," Lance says, gaze shifting to the floor, then around the room.

"Why would I joke about something like that?"

"Because we have a mission, too? Tomorrow?" Lance prompts, impatience finally dipping into his voice like he's been holding it back all this time.

Keith can't help feeling annoyed. He didn't forget.

"It's just escorting some cargo, Lance. You don't need me for that."

"Right. Sure."

He doesn't sound convinced, and Keith is gripped with an unsettling sense of dejavu. He snaps his gauntlet into place with a bit more force than he means to, the noise and motion both too loud. He expects that to be the end of it, for Lance to drop it and just leave, but he doesn't.

After collecting his thoughts while Keith pulls on and fastens the rest of his Marmora armour, Lance shuffles his hands up and down his arms and then drops them. He squares his shoulders.

"We do need you for that, actually," he says it firmly, unwavering as he looks at Keith. Keith hesitates, fastening his blade to his belt. When he doesn't answer, Lance goes on, "Maybe I - maybe I've let you off the hook a lot about doing so much training with the Blade of Marmora because I kind of… No. I totally get why you want to be a part of that. But I feel like you're spending more time running missions for them than you are leading this team. You haven't even really bonded with Black, Keith. Not like I have with Red, and not like Allura has with Blue."

Keith flinches. He doesn't mean to. He's just wound so tight these days, Lance's words feel like an attack, and Keith's body just reacts. It's true that he hasn't bonded with Black the way he should have. He hasn't put in the effort, or the time, and it didn't happen naturally like it did with Red, all at once like a hurricane. He can pilot the Black Lion, and he can feel that they're connected on a base level, but it's not as deep as it should be. It feels like he's treading an always thinning line.

"I just - I feel like maybe you're pulling back," Lance goes on, eyeing Keith warily, "And I don't know if you're doing it on purpose."

"I'm not."

"Not what?" Lance asks, frowning, "Not pulling back? Or not doing it on purpose?"

"Why do you care, Lance?" Keith snaps.

"Why do you think I care, Keith?" Lance snaps back, "You're hurting the team!"

"I didn't ask to be the leader!"

"No one's saying that you did, Keith! But you are! You are the leader! At some point, you have to start acting like it!"

And that's really funny coming from Lance. Goofy, obnoxious Lance. Steady, confident Lance. Telling Keith that he needs to act more mature, that he needs to actually accept this and deal with this instead of running away from it and hoping something will change in his absence. It's infuriating, because Lance is right and Keith knows it. It's just been building up, boiling over while he wasn't watching, and getting hit with his own shortcomings again out of the blue scalds Keith in a way that he can't even process.

He slams his fist down on the bench with a bang that dents the alloy.

"Just leave me alone, Lance!"

It's the volume, or the way Keith's voice gets dragged out of his throat like a snarl, or maybe something else entirely that makes Lance flinch back. His surprise is only momentary. The anger swoops right back in, darkens his face and draws his shoulders up, curling his hands into tight fists.

"Fine!" he snarls back, "If that's what you want, then fine! You deserve to be alone if you're going to act like a jerk and not care about anyone other than yourself!!"

He storms out, the door sliding closed without a sound when a slam would have been more satisfying for everyone, and Keith is trembling with so much pent up anger and despair that his breath keeps coming in too short.

It's suffocating.

----

The facility is much larger than Keith is expecting it to be, though only about half of it seems to be operational. It's stationed on the dark side of a moon orbiting Maxus, a dead planet, smokey and barren, that still retains its orbital pull, located in a sparsely populated sector of the Farberring Rax galaxy. It's on the outskirts of Galra-occupied territory, but opposite the Coalition, so it has neither been liberated or conquered.

Keith has an uneasy feeling settling at the base of his spine from the moment he sees Maxus as they're moving between their shuttle and the ground facility. It looks desolate, half-shrouded in grey debris that trails behind it's slow axis, pulled loose by the lack of atmosphere.

"Another victim of the Komar," the other Blade in training guesses. Keith jams his knife into the utility hatch that they're using as an entry point in the abandoned part of the facility, prying it open one inch at a time until he can squeeze his hand through and force it the rest of the way.

"No," Kolivan says, "Something else happened here."

"What then?" Keith asks, unable to stop himself from turning.

Kolivan's body language is as impassive as ever, the eyes of his face mask an ominous glow in the surrounding darkness.

"That's what we're going to find out."

----

Later on, Keith remembers that mission in inconsistent parts that are blurred together and frayed along the edges. He remembers the other Blade that was training with him; not a name, or a face, but a voice that was almost as young as Keith, if not younger. He remembers finding prisoners on the base that they hadn't known about. The inhabitants of the dead planet, Maxus, who were being used as fodder in botched experiments for weapons of biological warfare - methods the Galra were falling back on now that the Empire is collapsing in on itself, and the smaller factions are breaking apart.

Keith remembers, vaguely, arguing.

"Shouldn't we be getting these people out of here?"

"That is not our mission objective."

"How is stopping this not our objective?"

"We are just here to gather information. Another team can be sent at a more tactical time to get rid of the facility and liberate the prisoners."

"Most of these people won't be here if we wait!"

Keith remembers his conviction.

Remembers that it dug itself deep into his veins, rooted in his chest until he was burning with it. He's always been emotionally charged. He's always leapt into action without thinking. He has spent months and months and months rescuing innocent people out of the hands of the malevolent and uncaring Galra, but he has not seen so much that it doesn't faze him anymore.

He couldn't just leave them, and a sense of urgency and rage as he watched a couple of emotionless sentries tear a child from their parents arms flooded over his reason.

Maybe it's a weird association to make, all of a sudden.

But working with the Blade reminds Keith of how it used to be when he was in the foster system. Being shuffled from house to house, where faces didn't stick and names didn't matter because none of the people would be in Keith's life long enough to make any kind of impact. That same degree of anonymity is detrimental to the way the Blade functions.

It's something that Keith is used to. It's comforting - in the way that a steadfast routine is comforting, in the way that complacency is comforting. There is no deeply uprooting change looming on the horizon, no drama as long as Keith stays in his lane and does what he's told without complaint or question.

There's just the mission, and that is all that ever matters.

Keith likes having a single-minded direction like that. It's easy to let go and get swept up in the routine. It's what makes working with the Blade so much easier than leading Voltron.

Until it doesn't.

Until his core values kick up against the wall of indifference he tries to force down, until his instincts are screaming at him that this is wrong. This isn't where he wants to be, this isn't what he wants to be doing.

This isn't who he is.

Kolivan has told him time and again that, while he appreciates the help and interest, Keith is not well-suited for the Blades. And this is the poorly timed moment that Keith realizes Kolivan is right, and maybe the old veteran knows more about him than Keith knows about himself.

Keith remembers scuffling with the sentries, then the guards - alone.

He remembers the blow to the head that makes things fuzzy, inconsistent. He remembers the adrenaline that keeps him upright, keeps him moving despite it.

He remembers handing that kid, covered in blood but alive and breathing, back to their crying parents. He remembers starting the fire in the lab. He remembers leading forty-some frightened prisoners down empty, desolate hallways away from the commotion and how his heart was in his throat the whole time; remembers trying to program the escape pod with coordinates and an encrypted distress beacon that their nearest network of Coalition members would be able to pick up on.

He remembers the alarm blaring, flooding the halls with red light, remembers stumbling, and his arm aching, and the unbearable weight of his blade in his hand. He remembers the loud troop of approaching soldiers - that it sounded like thunder breaking over the hills and that it made the ground quake, made him feel sick, and dizzy, and weak - and that he didn't even feel it when his body finally gave out and hit the floor, when his arm crumpled underneath him.

----

Keith wakes up under a bright light, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. His ears are ringing, his head pulsing with the rapid fire of his heartbeat, and the pain is blinding. Keith groans and rolls to get up. Someone says, "Hold him down," and a set of hands pin him to the table. Keith panics, delirious, lashing out with the arm he has free. His fist connects with someone's jaw, knocks them back. Keith cries out at the impact, too, because it sends a needle spray of sharp pain howling through his whole arm, through his shoulder and into his chest.

Keith crumples, cradling his arm in his lap, curling over it, trying to breathe through the tremors of pain. It's broken. He is suddenly, painfully aware that his arm is broken, a throbbing mess instead of a useable limb. How is he going to fight? How is he going to get out of here?

He let himself get captured and now -

A large hand grips Keith's shoulder, pushing him back, and Keith swings his head up.

What else can he do?

Oh.

It's Kolivan.

Keith's vision swims as he processes this. It's Kolivan's heavy hand resting on his shoulder, Kolivan's stoic yellow eyes bearing down on him. Struggling to comprehend what this means, and where he is, Keith slowly turns his head to take in his surroundings. He recognizes the distinct, carved-out rock of the Marmora base's inner rooms, the clear purple elements lining the black walls. It doesn't have the almost-red glow of a Galra battle cruiser, or base. Kolivan must have pulled him out of there, but Keith's hazy mind is having a hard time calming enough to land on the worry and dread he feels concaving his chest, closing his throat.

"The… prisoners…." he finally manages. Everything is shaking. His voice, his breath, his arm, the small movement as he shifts his legs.

The only thing steady is Kolivan's hand on his shoulder.

"Some members of the Coalition picked up their distress signal shortly after our departure. They are all safe and accounted for on Pleinten Nyn."

Keith drops his head, feeling overwhelmed, and that is when Kolivan removes his hand, addressing the one medic that isn't bleeding and clutching at their face as he steps back, "Do what you can for his arm, and see that he gets some rest."

There is a chorus of Yes sirs and then Kolivan is gone. Keith feels like he barely has time to blink before it happens. The second medic is more wary than the first. They take the time to coax Keith's arm away from his body rather than trying to force him to comply, and Keith finally allows them to see it only when he doesn't think he can stand the pain any longer. He's confused, and nervous, and the medic is a stranger, and maybe it's all of these things combined that makes Keith feel like they just wrench his broken bone back into place instead of using the proper care.

He has a concussion, and deep bruising, and fractured ribs, and several lacerations that also need to be treated, and there are no kind words or reassuring touches in the interim.

Keith doesn't know why this bothers him now. Most of his life has been like this. 

After his dad died, all he ever did was close off or lash out at anybody that tried to get to know him, and no one really ever tried that hard. Shiro was the only one who ever looked past all his anger and indifference and saw a sad kid with a lot of potential, who just wanted to belong somewhere, to someone.

…..Now Shiro is gone.

Again.

And Keith feels like he's never going to be able to crawl out from under his shadow, or fall out of his footsteps; feels like he's drowning in the gaping hole in his life that Shiro left behind, and he is never going to be able to fill it a second time.

He feels a fever warming his cheeks and hot tears streaming down his face, and knows it's from the medicine getting packed into the open wound on his arm where the bone busted through. There is a firm grip on his wrist that holds his arm steady as it's splinted, indifferent to his flinching and hissed in breaths. The pain is awful enough that Keith can only dig his fingernails into his thigh, grit his teeth, and try not to scream.

It's enough to make him want, with a sudden clarity that rips through him like a sob that's been held in for too long, to go home.

He's barely aware of the cool bandages being wrapped around his forearm to hold everything together, of the medicine being dabbed at various cuts and scrapes, of the hands letting him go or the drink being held in front of his face. It's more medicine. It tastes the way a raw steak might taste if it were blended with coconut oil. Keith barely chokes it down, and the smell lingers in his throat. He stays seated on the bench until the medic snaps their fingers and the sharp sound in his ear pulls Keith out of his drugged and pain-induced stupor.

"We will prepare a room in the barracks for you, Paladin."

"N-no." Keith doesn't recognize his own voice, slurred and weak. He slips to his feet and is surprised that his legs hold him up at all. He braces his one good hand against the bench when the room suddenly tilts. His other arm hangs uselessly at his side, heavy and throbbing, feeling four times its normal size. "I need - I need to go home."

The medic puts one hand on his shoulder, either to support him or stop him. It's hard to tell. Keith leans into the stability, and then lurches back, hand flailing at the bench for balance.

"That is not advised," the medic says, "You are in no condition to fly. Stay here until you recover."

Keith is shaking his head. He can't form the words, or the full thought anymore. His brain is giving out on him, too. Everything's getting hazy again. Autopilot. The shuttle he brought here will take him back to the Castle if he can't fly it himself. A sudden panic wells up inside of Keith when he moves to step around and a hand blocks his path.

They can't make him stay.

This isn't like before.

They can't make him stay if he wants to leave.

He wants to go home.

The fever and pain are just too much, blurring Keith's memories with the present.

He had been old enough to understand what happened when his dad died. His first night in foster care, he had still cried and wanted to go home. He had tried to leave and they wouldn't let him. He just wanted to be somewhere familiar. He wants to be somewhere safe. He wants to be in his own bed that smells like him and Dad. He wants everything to stop hurting for like five minutes instead of piling on and on until he collapses under the weight of it all.

Some portion of this must have made it past his lips, because the medic is backing off, dropping their hands.

"If that is your wish, then I will inform Kolivan. You will have to wait for clearance."

All Keith hears is that he's going home.

He nods, fumbling to get back into the top half of his flight suit with just one working arm. He can barely move his right arm, and every time he flexes so much as his pinky, needles shoot through his bones, tearing through muscle, setting fire to his nerves, reaching hot into his ribcage to grab at his breath. Forcing it into the tight-fitting sleeve is agony, but Keith bears it without making a sound because he's going home and that's all that matters.

----

Lance just barely scrapes his way through one of the low level training exercises. He hit all his targets within the intended time slot, but overshot into the safe zone, where pretend civilians were taking cover. His breath drags into his lungs. He slams his red bayard into the floor just to have the satisfaction of feeling the impact jar up his arms and reverberate in the vaulted ceiling before it disengages, clattering as it slides away.

It doesn't do anything to alleviate his temper.

The overhead comms click on, and Hunk yawns loudly into the microphone.

"I'm gonna take that as a sign that we're done for the night?"

Lance whirls and thrusts his pointer finger toward the observation deck. "One more!!"

"No," Hunk says, offering no leeway, "C'mon, man, that's enough. Just because Keith's not here doesn't mean you need to keep the training deck warm for him. He'll be back any day now."

"This is not about Keith!!" Lance shrieks, embarrassed and annoyed because it is about Keith. It's about Keith being a stubborn, reckless jerk. It's about Keith not caring about this team. It's about Keith - stupid, selfish, perfect, emotionally-stunted Keith - trying to ditch out on him again. "I need to do better than this!! Just one more!"

"Lance," Hunk sighs, "You already beat your personal best like an hour ago and it's just gone downhill from there. Time to call it a day, bud. We'll get a snack, and some sleep, and you can go for it again in the morning after breakfast."

Lance pulls in a deep breath, still holding in all that tension and frustration, squeezing his fists. Then he sighs, and let's some of it go. It's dumb to be mad at Hunk when he's got a point. Lance just doesn't like hearing it. He rubs his forehead and breathes for a few seconds, sorting himself out so he doesn't say more awful stuff to people he cares about.

The past two days, that's been eating him up.

It does not help that Keith hasn't checked in with them.

"Okay, fine," he finally says, looking up at the viewing window. He can just barely see Hunk through the tinted glass. "Sorry for being so snappy, Hunk."

"It's all good," Hunk says, because he's great, "Meet up in the kitchen?"

"No, I'll go with you now. I'll just shower later."

Lance plucks at the front of his shirt to sniff, wishing he had bothered changing into his armour so he didn't have to wash his clothes, too. Sweat is cooling on his skin and making his hair curl. His appetite is bigger than his desire to be clean at the moment, and he doesn't stink (unlike some people who work out, he knows how to utilize a stick of deodorant), so Lance picks up his bayard and his jacket from the bench at the end of the room and he meets Hunk in the corridor.

They barely get two steps before Pidge pipes up through the overhead PA system, "Hey, I need you guys to do something for me."

Lance lifts his head, frowning in the vague direction of Pidge's voice.

"Isn't it a little late to be making requests?"

Pidge ignores him, "Keith's back. You guys are closer to the hanger, I want you to go check on him."

"Okay," Hunk says, instantly worried as he shares a look with Lance, "Why? What's up?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing? But he let the autopilot send the Castle a docking request instead of doing it himself. It just seemed…. Off. He normally let's us know when he's on his way back from the Blade of Marmora."

Lance doesn't need to hear anything more than that. He takes off at a jog, barely aware of Hunk hurrying to follow him. By the time they reach the hanger doors and Lance punches the button to open them, he is really regretting the strenuous workout he just put himself through, his muscles aching in protest even as he pushes through the doors and runs to the newly-docked pod. Lance jogs to a stop beside it, craning his neck to see into the cockpit.

It's open, and it's empty.

Chest heaving, he spins to survey the hanger, but there is no sign of Keith.

"It was this one right?" He turns toward Hunk. "What? What are you staring at?"

Hunk points at Lance's feet. Lance glances down, then around, taking a staggering step backward. He stares. And then he stoops down to pick up the object cast in shadow, lying half underneath the pod, forgotten. It's Keith's knife. The same knife that is always strapped to his lower back, or in his hand - the same knife that Lance has never seen just lying idly around without Keith. Lance struggles to comprehend what he's seeing, closing his fist around the hilt.

"Pidge," he barks, lifting his gaze, "Where's Keith?"

There's a tense pause before Pidge answers, "What?"

"Keith. Where is he?"

"He's not in the hanger?"

"No."

"Hang on," Pidge says shortly, "I'm pulling up the surveillance footage."

"Wake up Coran and Allura. Something's wrong."

Lance paces around the pod while he waits to be sure he isn't missing anything else; climbs up into the cockpit and pokes at the controls, only to discover that the autopilot is on. Something anxious settles in his stomach, pounds through his veins.

Since when does Keith ever use the autopilot?

"Maybe we're - maybe we're overthinking this," Hunk says suddenly, "Maybe he was just tired and, y'know. He dropped his knife, and we - we missed him. On the way."

He suggests this, knowing full-well that they took the most direct path here - and if Keith had gone to his room, or the changing room shower, or the kitchen, just like he always does when he gets back from a mission with the Blades, they would have seen him.

Pidge's voice sounds overhead, "He's in the hanger."

"We're in the hanger, Pidge! Where!"

"No, the Lions' hanger. He went to the Black Lion. It - he doesn't look so good, Lance. Coran is going to prep a healing pod and Allura and I are both heading down."

There's a soft noise as the audio cuts off. Lance vaults down from the shuttle, the impact jarring up his knees and shaking into his stomach as he sticks the landing and leaps right into a run. There's an elevator linking the shuttle hanger to the Lions. Lance smashes the button and holds the door impatiently for Hunk to catch up. It takes three minutes to get from one hanger to the other; a short elevator ride, a sprint down a long corridor, another door blocking his path.

It feels like too long for Lance.

When he bursts into the Lion's hanger, Black's chin is resting on the floor and Keith is nowhere in sight.

"Open up!" Lance yells before he even reaches her, "Is he in there?"

There is no hesitation in the Black Lion's movements as she opens her jaws to let him in. Lance's heart is in his throat, the edges of the sheath of Keith's knife biting into his palm as he pounds up the ramp and into the cockpit, jumping through the door the second there is space for him to fit through. He's in such a hurry, gaze focused dead ahead, that he trips over something sprawled across the doorway. Keith's knife clatters away. Lance catches himself hard on his hands, but his overworked muscles give out and send him slamming into the floor.

Lance groans, his breath punching out.

He pushes himself up, scowling over his shoulder.

It's Keith.

Keith is lying face down on the floor, his right arm crumpled awkwardly beneath him. Lance's stomach drops. He scrambles up, "Keith!" He grabs Keith by the shoulders and turns him over, easing his weight off the arm when he notices the weird shape underneath the tight-fitted flight suit. The pieces of armour that normally accompany it are missing - the chest plate, and the arm guards - but his right arm is bulkier than normal, too stiff and cold through the material when Lance gropes along his forearm.

It feels like a brace or something.

Keith groans softly, unconscious, his eyebrows knitted together in pain. He makes a weak attempt to tug his injured arm away, and Lance relaxes his hold, hand moving to Keith's elbow so that his forearm rests along the top of Lance's. Lance starts plucking at his wrist, looking for the seam between his gloves at the suit, and scrutinizes Keith's face.

He's flushed with fever, cheeks cherry red, and sweating. There is a dark, swollen bruise on the side of his forehead, hidden under his bangs.

Hunk comes thundering up to the door and doubles over against his knees, desperately sucking air into his aching lungs, "Oh my god. You're so fast, dude.... What's… what's wrong…? What's goin' on?"

"I dunno," Lance says, leaning over Keith. He shakes his shoulder, gently. "Keith? Can you hear me? I need you to wake up, buddy."

Keith barely even stirs. He makes a noise when Lance moves him, his face tightening in pain. He tries subconsciously to turn away or pull his arm back from where Lance is still cradling it loosely, murmuring words that Lance can't make out.

"What's wrong with his arm?" Hunk asks anxiously.

"I don't know, Hunk!" Lance glances around, spots Keith's knife, and points. "Bring me that."

Hunk steps carefully around them to retrieve the knife, while Lance works Keith's glove off. Keith's hand is swollen, and so is his arm - so swollen that Lance can barely squeeze two fingers into the seam at his wrist. He's trying not to jostle Keith so much, but it's difficult to do with only two hands, and one holding his arm steady. When Hunk brings the knife, Lance has to relinquish his hold on Keith's arm, letting it rest on the slow rise and fall of Keith's stomach.

"Be careful, dude," Hunk says when he realizes what Lance is going to do, "That thing is sharp!"

"I know, but I've got to get this off him," Lance mutters, pulling the wrist of Keith's suit up as far as he can.

It's cut into Keith's skin, leaving a deep red indent. Lance puts the tip of the blade between his two fingers, feels the first jump as the sturdy material gives immediately, and slices a neat line from the wrist to the elbow, freeing Keith's arm from the tight encasement. Lance doesn't think he's imagining the way Keith seems to relax a bit once the suit is cut away.

He sets the knife aside and gently picks up Keith's arm again. There is a brace. His skin is red, and too warm when Lance rests his palm over it, and there is a sweet-smelling paste packed into what looks like an open wound beneath the splints and bandages.

Lance feels sick looking at it.

"Oh, man," Hunk says softly, "Should I go get one of those gurneys? I don't think we should move him too much. We don't know what else is broken, y'know?"

"Yeah. Good idea."

"Okay. Alright. I'll be right back."

Lance's mind is racing as Hunk hurries off and leaves him sitting on his knees beside Keith, holding Keith's broken arm between his hands and listening to the faint, strained sounds of Keith's breathing. He doesn't understand how Keith is here when he's obviously been badly injured, and treated. The Blades - Kolivan - shouldn't have let him just leave like this.

It at least explains why the shuttle was on autopilot. Keith couldn't have flown it, even if he'd wanted to. Why didn't he call? They would have come to get him. They wouldn't have just left him there if he was hurt and wanted to come home. The Blades obviously don't have healing pods. They could have brought him home and stuck him in one and he'd be good as new in a couple of hours, instead of lying here in pain like this.

Lance turns his head, looking around the cockpit.

He notices for the first time that it's not dark or quiet in here. The interior lights are on, casting a dim purple glow over them, and there is a humming under Lance's skin, a pressure on the back of his skull that prickles down his spine once he gives it some attention. It's comforting. It eases his nerves to know that Black is awake and aware of Keith's state, and that the Lion is worried about him, too.

She just lost one Paladin. She doesn't want to lose another.

Why did Keith come here, of all places?

Keith turns his head and groans.

Lance jumps.

"Keith."

Keith opens his eyes. They're dark and unfocused, and Lance can tell right away that Keith can't see him clearly, or isn't in the right state of mind. He tries to move his arm and his breath hitches. Lance holds it steady, dropping one hand to touch his shoulder.

"Hey, man. Take it easy, okay?"

Instead of relaxing, Keith becomes more agitated. It hurts to move, so he stops trying to curl up after the first feeble attempts, blinking up at Lance like he's in a daze, like he doesn't understand. His fever is bad. He's in a lot of pain. He's breathing hard and ragged, and he's shaking and whimpering, and Lance doesn't know what to do to calm him down or make him understand that he's safe. When Keith squeezes his eyes closed, a thick tear slips out, streaking down his face, disappearing into the damp curl of hair at his temple.

It totally breaks Lance's heart.

"Hey," he says again, voice tight in his throat, "Keith."

Keith's voice busts out of him, like he's choking on it.

"I don't… I don't wanna be alone, Shiro…."

Lance feels like he's been doused in cold water.

Keith mumbles it again, a broken mantra. I don't wanna be alone. I-I don't wanna be alone.

Lance squeezes Keith's shoulder to stop his own hands from shaking. He knows Keith is an orphan - everyone knew, even if no one ever asked him about it. He knows Keith is still sad and confused and angry, and that he misses Shiro the most out of everyone on the team because Shiro was the only family Keith had. Lance knows what missing the people you care about feels like. He misses his family, and every day he spends in space away from them, he misses them more.

But he at least has the solace of knowing he'll get to see them again, when they go back to Earth.

Keith doesn't even have that.

Lance should never have let his hurt feelings take a hold of his temper the other day. He should never have said what he did to Keith, because no one deserves to be alone.

Lance is dimly aware of voices and fast-approaching footsteps. He doesn't know what else to do. Keith is crying, and scared, and lonely, and out of his head, and Lance does the only thing he can think of to make it better. He let's go of Keith's arm and leans over to hug him tightly, his face pressing into the fold of the hood of Keith's suit, into his sweaty hair.

Keith makes a small, confused noise. His arm jumps in between them, probably aching under Lance's weight, but Lance doesn't let go.

"Keith," he says thickly, "You're not alone. You've got us. Me, and Hunk, and Pidge, and Allura and Coran." Lance doesn't know if it's the words or just his voice making it through, but Keith slowly relaxes underneath him; stops shaking, stops breathing so hard. His good hand comes up clumsily to lay on Lance's shoulder, gripping into his shirt. "You're not alone. Okay?"

Keith voice is faint, even in Lance's ear.

"Okay…"

----

When Keith wakes up, it takes him a while to figure out where he is. His head is foggy and he doesn't immediately recognize the blank white ceiling and blue highlights edging the room until he turns his head slightly, rolling it on the pillow, and spots Pidge sitting at the foot of his bed. They aren't paying attention to him, pecking away at their laptop with one hand and chewing their nails on the other. Keith remembers chewing his own nails when he was little; his dad brushing his hand away from his mouth when he noticed, and telling him, "Don't be doin' that."

Pidge jumps, and Keith realizes he said it out loud.

Their laptop sails to the floor and Pidge tumbles after it, startled, just barely saving it. They sigh with relief, folded on their knees on the floor with the laptop cradled haphazardly in their arms, close to their chest.

"God," Pidge gasps, irritated, whirling around, "Would you - "

They stop and look at him, and nearly drop the laptop again in their haste to set it down on the bedside table as they leap to their feet. "KEITH! Oh my god!" Pidge lands on top of him with their arms wide open, and Keith is crushed into a tiny but powerful hug before he even knows what's happening. He grunts in surprise, and then hisses in pain, tensing up. His arm throbs at his side, and his chest burns with a deep ache. Pidge climbs off of him just as quickly, sitting back on their knees.

They take their glasses off and scrub their face with their sleeve, and by the time they drop their arm, they're scowling again. Pidge swats him, hard and unrepentant, and even though the blow lands on his good arm, Keith flinches, trying to find the energy to sit up and escape.

He's so tired. Why does everything hurt?

"Don't scare us like that!" Pidge says, trying to push him back down, "And don't get up! You need to stay in bed for a while and rest."

"What's.... going on?" he asks.

He doesn't fight it, and lays back down. It really hurts to move - it hurts to even breathe.

"We were hoping you could tell us," Pidge says, appraising him now with a worried expression, "Hang on, Coran gave me some medicine for you. It might make you sleepy again, but it should help with the pain. Your arm is broken. We put it in a cast. And your ribs are all bruised, too, but they're not broken or anything. Does your head hurt? I should tell Coran and the others you're awake, but I'll give you this first. You've been out of it for three days, you really had us worried!"

They jump up while they're talking, too fast for Keith to keep up. There's a packet of water on the bedside table. Pidge grabs this, and a small glass with a cap on it that is full of pink liquid, with little blue marks on the side to measure it.

"Oh, you do need to sit up for this, I guess. Let me help! Don't move your arm too much!"

Pidge puts the medicine and water back down in a hurry when Keith starts to sit up in his own, pushing with his good arm. The other is basically useless, heavy and throbbing, and Keith carefully moves it into his lap when Pidge has him propped up comfortably against the pillows and the wall. Sitting up eases some of the pressure in his chest, and allows Keith to look at his arm. The cast encloses it from wrist to elbow, a bright red color with white, something soft like cotton, poking out underneath.

It hurts when he moves his fingers and wrist a bit, just to see if he can.

"Here," Pidge says, holding the medicine out to him.

Keith stares at it, remembering an awful taste and a too-rich smell that makes his mouth water in a bad way, that makes his stomach turn over.

"I don't want it."

Pidge lowers it slightly. "Why not? It's just pain medicine. Do you need something else?"

"No," Keith says.

"You kind of look like you're going to throw up…."

Keith takes a deep breath instead of answering, because he feels like he's going to throw up. He stares down at his cast, pulling the cool air into his lungs and easing it back out again. A bunch of memories start smashing together at the front of his skull, jumbled and noisy - a high-traffic area during rush hour - a hurricane of emotions that has his head spinning. He hears Pidge hum, sees them drop into a crouch beside the bed in his peripheral vision and hears a soft pop and a rustling sound.

Pidge's hot little hands land on the back of Keith's, pushing a cold compress into his hand.

Keith hadn't noticed the heat building up in his body, and just holding that is an instant relief. He squeezes it, lifts it to press it against his face, the back of his neck, and sighs.

Pidge also has the trashcan handy as they stand beside his bed.

After sitting with his face buried in the cold gel-filled pack for several long minutes, after focusing solely on each breath as he pulls it in and lets it out, Keith feels a little better. He lowers the compress to his lap and looks at Pidge, feeling unreasonably drained.

"Thanks, Pidge…."

"No problem. You okay now?"

"I think so."

"Do you want your medicine now? I can give you something citrusy to drink instead of the water, it might settle your stomach."

"Sure."

Keith notices the small, portable cooler this time when Pidge opens it, replacing the packet of water on the table with a different one. The silver seam around the clear packet has a stripe of yellow instead of blue, indicating the flavor. Sipping it does settle his stomach, and when Keith no longer feels threatened by the encroaching wave of nausea, he takes the medicine Pidge offers him. He can't decide what it tastes like, but it's not as bad as he's expecting - something gently spicy like red gum - and Keith is glad for it. There is no denying that his arm hurts. It almost makes him want to cry.

Despite all his fights and reckless behavior, he's never broken a bone before.

It sucks.

He's having a hard time trying to piece his scattered memories together. He doesn't know how he got back to the Castle. He feels like he had a weird dream, but whatever it was eludes him. Maybe when his head stops hurting along with the rest of him, he'll remember it better.

Keith looks down at his arm, barely comprehending it.

"Why… why a cast?" he asks.

Pidge glances up from where they're typing on their communicator, now, sitting on the edge of the bed with their legs folded underneath them.

"We couldn't put you in a healing pod," Pidge says, an odd mixture of concern and excitement lighting up their face as they set the orange comm aside, "The Blades treated your injuries before they sent you back to us - Lance and Allura are still fuming about that, by the way. The two of them are pretty scary, they yelled at Kolivan for a good ten minutes before he got the chance to tell us what happened."

Keith blanches at that. He remembers wanting to leave, but not what was so urgent about it. He could have recovered just fine at the base, without needlessly upsetting everyone...

"Anyway, the stuff they used on your arm, it's a paste made from a plant called bekka. It helps regrow muscle tissue, mend bones, stuff like that. It works quickly. But once it's applied it's hard to remove without like, literally scraping the whole layer of epidermis off until the area is healed. Plus it doesn't interact well with extremely cold temperatures. So the cast was our only option. You're gonna be stuck in it for a while. Coran said maybe just a week or two, depending on how your body reacts to the bekka.

"Kolivan apologized. He said you were very upset and they couldn't convince you to stay, and he thought it would be better to just let you go. He doesn't - he doesn't know you very well. He didn't realize just how messed up you were until Lance and Allura told him. He also said you… kind of went AWOL on your mission. And he said you saved a bunch of people."

Keith listens carefully, keeping very still while Pidge talks. He remembers the mission. ...Sort of. He remembers arguing with Kolivan, but he doesn't remember when. It's just a hazy suggestion that sits on his mind, making him feel guilty, and a little ashamed. He should have listened to Kolivan instead of doing…. Whatever he did to get himself injured like this….

Keith feels kind of dazed.

He decides that's the pain medicine taking effect, and that just going back to sleep might help, when the door slides open.

Hunk, Lance, Allura, and Coran all flood in, their relief and excitement obvious as they converge on him, talking all at once. Keith stares, holding his broken arm close to his stomach, feeling overwhelmed. He doesn't remember the fight he had with Lance before his mission until he sees him, and all his hurt feelings and frustrations come boiling back to the surface, barely muted under the dulled pain and the haze the medicine causes. He doesn't answer any of them when they ask how he's feeling. He doesn't move when Coran places a cool hand against his forehead.

His silence prompts more than one unhappy glance.

"I gave him that medicine," Pidge says, sounding worried, "I think he's just tired."

"You do need rest," Coran says to Keith, drawing back his hand, "After all this excitement. Are you feeling any pain? Keith? There's no need to put up a brave front about it, I need to know so I can adjust your dosage if you are. It's a bit tricky getting it just right."

Keith doesn't know why he can't talk all of a sudden.

This is too much, and he wants to be alone.

"I'm fine," he says, wanting them to leave, and then feeling bad for it, "....Sorry."

The others glance at each other. This doesn't seem to ease their minds at all. Allura is the one who looks at him and asks softly, "For what?"

Keith doesn't know what she's talking about. "What?"

"What are you apologizing for?"

Oh. He shouldn't have said that out loud.

"Keith," Hunk says, looking upset, "Dude, you don't have to be sorry. We're just glad you're okay, man, like. Seriously. We'll - we'll clear out and let you get some rest, okay? Do you want one of us to stay with you 'til you - ?" Keith is shaking his head. Hunk looks even sadder, and Keith feels even guiltier. "No? Okay. Um."

"I'll stay a minute," Lance says, decisive and quiet.

The others meet his steady gaze and file out quickly after that, telling Keith to feel better and to call if he needs them. Then it's just Lance standing at his bedside, looking at the closed door, while Keith drags the tips of his fingers along the slight grooves in the plaster of the cast. The gentle reverberations make his arm ache, but it distracts him from how confused and upset he is all of a sudden.

Now that everyone is gone, it's quiet.

Silence has never bothered him before. It shouldn't bother him now.

"I'm sorry, Keith."

Keith's hand stops moving. His fingers feel numb.

Lance isn't looking at him, twisting his hands together in front of him. Keith follows every restless movement with his eyes and his heart beats funny in his chest, easing one ache and creating another.

"Maybe now's not a good time," Lance goes on, directing his words to any random corner of the room, "I know you're dealing with a lot of stuff right now. I just wanted to apologize for what I said to you the other day. When I called you selfish for the way you've been acting, and said you…. deserved to be alone…. That was awful, and I was…. upset... and I didn't mean it."

Keith doesn't know what to say.

"It's… okay."

"No, it's not, Keith." Lance finally looks up at him. The anger is there, darkening his blue eyes, but it's not directed at Keith. "We're... we're friends. Right?"

Hearing that, Keith jolts.

The thing is…. He's never had a lot of friends.

He was always awkward and quiet, even before. Keith has no idea what it's like to be able to confide in someone who is his equal. And whatever this is, with Lance - this gravitating toward each other thing, this playful banter thing, this eating meals together and hanging out even when they don't have to thing, this leaning on each other thing - this constantly shifting toward something that Keith can't name thing…

Keith doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't know how to act.

His head hurts.

"Keith," Lance says, pleadingly.

"I don't - " Keith stops himself, starts again. He squeezes his cast, sees Lance's eyes drop to it before leaping back up to lock with his. Keith can't control that, just like he can't control the way his voice is shaking or the way heat is flooding his eyes. The only thing he's ever been able to control is who he lets in - pulling back first so they can't push him away - and he feels that control slipping too. It's terrifying. "I don't know what to do. About any of this…. It's just…. A lot, and - " He gasps, trying to get a handle on this. "I don't…. Know what to do, Lance. I don't know what to do."

"Okay," Lance says, "Okay. It's okay."

Two quick steps bring him to the bed. His knee sinks into the mattress and his arms circle Keith's shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. Another tight hug. A vague memory that this is familiar has Keith raising his good arm and latching onto the back of Lance's shirt, has understanding and acceptance releasing the tension in his shoulders, for the first time in a long time.

Lance says, "Dude. Nobody expects you to be able to do all this alone. You hear me? That's - that's the whole point of having a team, Keith. That's the whole point of having friends. We're here for you. Not just for Voltron stuff, for all the other stuff, too. If it's too much, just tell us. Tell me. We'll figure it out together."

Lance squeezes him. The pressure hurts a little, but Keith doesn't want him to let go, hot tears sliding down his cheeks. He presses his face into Lance's shoulder and heaves out a breath that he feels like he's been holding in for so long.

He doesn't realize he's nodded off until Lance is pulling back and the movement reaches Keith through a dense fog. The pain medicine has kicked in in earnest. Keith can only tell it's been several minutes because he feels stiff and heavy, can barely open his eyes. Lance helps Keith ease back down and get under the blanket, rubbing his bicep once Keith is settled on his side with his broken arm propped up on a pillow. He sees Lance pick up his comm, sees him sit on the floor with his back against the bedside table.

This is what he wanted, Keith's fuzzy brain reminds him just as he slips into blissful unconsciousness. He watches the side of Lance's face as his thumbs move across the keypad, the slight pinch of his eyebrows; breathes in the smooth scent of Lance's body lotion because it lingers on his clothes and hands.

He wanted to come home.

----

----

"Twenty dobashes!" Coran announces, poking his head into the changing room to see how Keith is fairing with the new mobility he has, "Need any assistance, Number Four?"

Keith snaps his gauntlet into place over his wrist, staring down at it.

"I'm good, Coran. Thanks."

He pulls his hand into a fist, checking the tightness of his glove. It's been almost a month since he broke his arm, and it's healed perfectly, more or less, thanks to the bekka. It still swells up sometimes when he uses it too much, but he knows that will pass with time and patience, as long as he doesn't over do it.

Emergency situations notwithstanding - when he had to pilot his Lion and fight through the pain of simply gripping the controls, when he was thankful for his ambidexterity the few times he had to lead his team on the ground and hold his sword for hours - having to take a step back from missions, and training, and doing a lot of things in general, has given Keith some much needed perspective. Needing help just to perform normal, everyday tasks has made asking for help a little easier.

It's allowed him to see that the others don't care about him just because he is the Leader, or just because he is integral to the team.

(When he confides in this to Lance, he laughs, "Should have broken your arm sooner, mullet.")

He's made more of an effort to get close to Black, remembering all of Shiro's talk about trust being so important and thinking, wryly, that maybe he does have a lot in common with her. The first thing he did when he sat down was apologize, and he received a wash of understanding almost immediately. It's hard to lose someone that you love. It's hard to not hold onto the memory of a person, to realize that you're not forgetting them just because you go on living.

Coran draws him back to the present by placing a hand on his shoulder.

"The new armour looks good!" he says encouragingly, and Keith turns his head to give himself an assessing look in the full length mirror. He lifts his hand, gaze dropping to his chest, where the black V strikes cleanly across white and fades into a rich pink color that deepens in the center. Coran adds, "A bit heavier than the others, I imagine."

It takes Keith a moment to grasp what he's saying.

"I think I can handle it," he says, offering up a small smile.

Coran beams back and claps him on the shoulder, steering Keith toward the door. The others are already gathered in the hall. Pidge is crouched against the wall, finger moving over a tablet screen that glares off the lenses of their glasses. Hunk is standing over them, his hands on his hips as he watches whatever their doing. Keith thinks for a moment that it's work, and then he hears a chirping tune, followed by an explosion sound and gasps and groans from both of them.

Lance is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, grinning.

"How did you get such a high score, Lance?" Pidge demands, shooting a hurried glance at the time before restarting the level of their game.

Lance soaks it up, preening, "Mad skills."

He looks good in red. Keith doesn't tell him that; doesn't want to hear the smug, "I make it look good," that he knows will follow because he's struggling not to smile just thinking about it - the confident movement of Lance's shoulders and hips, the curl of his smile. Keith wants to stay focused, so he stays silent.

Lance looks at him, though, eyes sweeping from Keith's head to his feet and then up again; lingering on his chest, and then his eyes; and it's a lost cause.

Keith feels that familiar swoop in the pit of his stomach and presses his mouth into a thin line.

See something you like? is on the tip of his tongue. Allura saves him from embarrassing himself as she comes striding down the hall, arm in arm with their alien hostesses. Yemens have about six narrow arms a piece and stand a head taller than the princess, and Allura looks perfectly at ease leading the two delegates toward them. Her blue armour is striking in the bright light, and the cool color, faded to pink at the chest just like Keith's and everyone else's, suits her perfectly in a way the full color of grieving did not.

"Are we ready?" Allura asks.

The others look at Keith expectantly, and he answers with no lingering hesitation, squaring his shoulders.

"Let's go."

----

Keith dreams about the desert.

The drop in temperature as the sun goes down behind the low flat hills; the sky stretching into dark velvet behind him as he faces the setting sun, painted red and orange and bright pink, bleeding into softer blue as it reaches up, around, high over his head. He can't see any stars. He thinks that's odd. The sky is clear and bursting with color, but there are no small pinpricks of light shining through, no moon hazy and dim hanging low in the sky. Just a wash of deep, endless blue.

Keith is standing inside the shack, facing the door with one hand on the handle and his back to the open room. The sense that he has been here before is creeping into his chest, one cold fingertip at a time. Dim red light streaming through the windows, dust settling on the floor and furniture. Everything is exactly where he left it. He knows if he turns toward the stereo he'll see his dad, knows if he hesitates that Red will roar for him.

- - Keith turns, and he is standing outside. It's twilight, the barest hint of color sitting on the horizon, and everything is bathed in hues of black and blue and rich purple.

- - Keith hesitates, and instead of a roar that echoes in his soul, he hears a scream.

Coyote, his dream mind supplies. He recognizes the sound, even at a distance, turning his head. Aside from crickets and owls, they were the only thing out there calling into the night, answering each other's pleas for companionship.

He hears Shiro's voice, sounding like he's far away; feels a hand resting on his shoulder in a familiar gesture; "Don't give up on yourself, Keith." Darkness falls, but this time it isn't frightening or eery, choked with ominous hues. It is calm, still and quiet as if time has settled, compacted into a single moment that expands into infinity. Stars blink to life overhead in a thin veil of constellations, in a kaleidoscope of colors. Keith can't name any of them, but he knows them by heart.

The Earth turns, and the stars spin into a blur of thin neon lines.