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Kolivan had been born under a different name. He’d left said name behind many deca-phoebs ago.
No one cared to know it on the Galra Empire prison ship he resided in. What relevance did it have, when upon each dawn, military defectors like himself were executed. A shot to the back of the head, a body dumped into a nearby black hole or nova star. No honour, no trace. No names upon headstones.
And so, on one such morning, he’d been prepared to lose not only his name, but also his tenuous grasp on existence.
He’d stood in threadbare clothes, closing his eyes as the barrel pressed harshly against his skull.
However, it was not meant to be.
Standing next to him, also about to meet her end, was his general, an elder beyond reproach — a warrior heavily scarred and well respected. The executioner had trembled upon listing her crimes, nervously paused before raising his weapon … And she had taken advantage of his minute hesitation.
She had been one of Zarkon’s most celebrated conquerors, her treachery a massive blow that the Empire could not conceal. Her defection had inspired many others, who were swiftly either cut down or captured, as Kolivan had been.
A rebellion suffocated at its first breath.
She’d been kept alive in that prison for an untold amount of time, as none had wanted her most honourable blood on their pathetic hands. Kolivan had no idea why she’d been selected to die that particular day, but it had been all too evident that still not a single Galra, loyal to Zarkon or not, had wanted to see her dead.
Less than a blink of hesitation, and not only was her would-be executioner dead at her feet, but so, too, was Kolivan’s would-be killer, and two more a moment afterwards.
Beaten and starved as they all were, every single rebel Galra soldier rose up to conquer their captors.
And the instigator, their saviour, died in the ensuing prisoner revolt, saving all of their lives by butchering her way through the enormous ship.
She reached the warden’s hiding place on the bridge, challenging him to single combat. He could only win by summoning his surviving guards to him, which allowed everyone else, including Kolivan, the opportunity to escape — the outcome his general had hoped for, in her wisdom and acceptance of her fate.
Kolivan and his fellow prisoners ensured that General Marmora’s memory lived on.
Not a single member of his unit had survived, and so when a young soldier had asked him his name, he’d said “Kolivan” because he didn’t wish to resurrect his past, even so recently deceased. “Kolivan” as a name held no significance — it had been fairly common in his colony (entirely eradicated after a weak rebellion). The name was considered old-fashioned everywhere else, as the young lad saw fit to inform him. Old-fashioned, all but forgotten.
He led these survivors out past the Empire’s grasp, and had every intention of leaving them to their own lives as soon as they could be sure of safety.
They refused to leave him.
They refused to abandon the peace-loving Galra within the Empire.
They all had blood on their hands and wished to atone. They all had varied stories of betrayal, or torture by druids, or agony over the destruction of civilizations that had once been allied friends.
And a few, a few knew of a secret organization, one without a name, that had been fighting within the Empire for thousands of years … They gave up the coordinates, and Kolivan allowed them to direct their ship towards a secret base between two stars.
The survivors still pleaded. Their voices clamoured, one over the other, and they’d begged him to stay and fight with them. To lead. They knew only that he had served under General Marmora, which had been more than enough to birth the awe in their gazes. To inspire them to die for a greater cause even though they had just barely escaped ignoble, anonymous death.
Kolivan found the clandestine rebellion; there was a name, in fact — they called themselves The Shadow Blades, the groups’ conception and life shrouded entirely in darkness, and their swords tied genetically to their members. Kolivan couldn’t fault them for caution, and he had to admire their longevity; they’d been subverting the Empire for nearly ten thousand deca-phoebs without being eradicated. His group of survivors were the largest batch of new recruits in over a hundred deca-phoebs, and this brought excitement to all involved, particularly once they revealed their experiences as ground troops, lieutenants, and captains.
When his people told the story of General Marmora, The Shadow Blades transformed into The Blade of Marmora, and a far more unified, aggressive stance was taken against the Galra Empire.
As the years went on, many of his fellow survivors turned loyal Blades were lost on missions against the Empire.
Eventually, Kolivan alone remained of that faction.
New recruits, new defectors, appeared at his doorstep seemingly without end — and each one had him feeling beyond his age.
Until Coran of Altea became his ally and liaison to Voltron, the Legendary Defender.
Kolivan couldn’t quite grasp the idea that he was older than a man who had seen the fall of Altea. They were only three deca-phoebs apart, but even so, Coran had fought alongside King Alfor. Had known Zarkon before he’d died in a rift and then returned to terrorize the universe, beginning with his own people.
At the beginning of their alliance, Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe had been one of the most ridiculous men Kolivan had ever met, second only to Slav.
(The longest running bet amongst the Blades concerned who would murder Slav and in what way. Kolivan had almost cashed himself in as the perpetrator before Slav had been captured by the Empire; Kolivan’s almost-downfall occurred during a mission wherein he’d been trapped on a ship with the brilliant scientist. For three movements.)
When the Red and Blue Paladins had disappeared, captured by the Galra Empire and then lost to an unknown fate … Coran had transformed before Kolivan’s eyes.
A glimmer of a soldier beneath the silly engineer’s façade, and Kolivan was reminded that Coran had fought in the first war, or rather, the very beginning of the only war the universe had known for thousands of deca-phoebs.
They worked together to coordinate with the remaining Paladins — to strike at the Empire quickly, to raid every prison transport they could conceivably attack. It had not given them the lost Paladins, but they did regain many operatives. They liberated and reunited families, including that of the Green Paladin. Kolivan had been shocked to discover her brother throughout this retaking and rediscovery of allies; Matt Holt had been fighting amongst one of the many rebel cells they hadn’t received word from in years, as the humans say.
Not long after that, the Holt brother bonded with the Blue Lion, Shirogane was chosen by the Red Lion, and the Princess manned the Black Lion. Voltron defended the universe once more, despite missing two original Paladins.
Even with Voltron in prime condition again, Kolivan did not see any reason to cease their close relationship with the Castle of Lions, or to decrease the intensity of their joint efforts against the Empire. This included bolstering their defences, both in the broad sense, and in the more individualistic.
“I’ve told you already that I have basic hand-to-hand training,” Coran said stubbornly, his hands on his hips. He raised an orange eyebrow as he added, “And while I know you could likely beat me to death with my own leg, I do think I get by just fine, considering that I’m largely piloting the Castle when the others are on mission.”
“The Castle has been breached before,” Kolivan pointed out, not at all dissuaded by Coran’s persistent denials. “You need to be able to defend yourself beyond what little training you have. And I’m not convinced it is so basic as you claim, considering your … history.”
He knew of Coran’s work with the Altean nano-weaponry unit.
They’d shared drinks movements ago, after the Holts had been reunited. Kolivan had been mildly intoxicated, but Coran had been absolutely destroyed. He’d rambled his fair share about the first Paladins, then about Lance, about Keith … About his own history with this war …
Kolivan hadn’t quite remembered all the details of that drunken exchange, but he did recall the unparalleled shock at learning that Coran had been one of the minds behind the Soul’s Wrath disease. Alteans were rumoured to have been the engineers of said plague, but the intel had been lost thousands of deca-phoebs ago …
Irrelevant now, except that it proved Coran had been and could be a devastatingly creative opponent. Kolivan wanted to help the man who had become a friend, yes, but mostly he was curious.
“Well, Kolivan. Let us have a spar right now, and you’ll see for yourself,” Coran said abruptly, still cheerful as he stood up and walked straight out of the debriefing room and towards the training area.
Kolivan followed closely at his side, bemused by the sudden shift. He found an empty sparring chamber and gestured so that Coran would proceed ahead of him.
They stood opposite each other, an oddly hesitant air despite Coran’s bouncing feet. Kolivan took off most of his armour, going down to a basic thin shirt. Coran shrugged, mirroring him, though he hadn’t any armour, simply his engineering garb.
He stroked his mustache and then assumed a rather … horrible beginning pose.
“Ah,” was all Kolivan said. Then he struck.
Coran yelped, falling backwards, but he also lashed out with his leg, catching Kolivan in the ankle. He didn’t quite land the hit hard enough, but Kolivan did stumble, and that was enough for Coran to scramble beyond his reach.
In short order, he had the smaller man pinned beneath him. Coran lacked sufficient force — while the muscles in his arms bulged impressively as he struggled to escape, Kolivan’s bulk was not to be moved.
“See?” Coran sighed out, giving up and slumping back onto the cold mat. “There isn’t much to go on here.”
“You are wrong,” Kolivan countered. “You have speed. You have flexibility. And you have enough strength that, when applied to precise points on your enemy, could bring them down soundly.”
“That isn’t … Really?” Coran seemed embarrassed, based on the flush of his face. “You’re … quite sure about that?”
Kolivan couldn’t understand why he’d be embarrassed by an honest assessment of skill. “Yes,” he said. “I think you have the potential to best me, given enough training.”
That lit a spark in Coran’s eyes.
It took several phoebs, several dozen training sessions and sparring matches whenever they could meet.
Coran had been given rudimentary training, but he had clearly excelled in certain aspects, and moreover, had retained most of it. Kolivan had focused on Coran’s natural inclinations for quick withdrawal attacks, building upon his previous combat experiences, limited though they had been.
The evening after a lengthy meeting on the Castle of Lions, they had retreated to the training room for what had become routine (a welcome routine, familiar and entertaining).
It was on that auspicious day that Coran managed to knock the breath out of Kolivan at last.
The blow to his ribs had been shocking in its strength, and even as Kolivan had been blindsided by Coran’s unexpected power, the smaller man jabbed sharply at the pressure point beneath Kolivan’s left arm. Coran darted back, avoiding retaliation smoothly, and the space between them gave Coran enough room for a running start — he launched himself too quickly for Kolivan to grab, his elbow landing solidly at the tender spot where neck and shoulder met.
Kolivan’s lungs collapsed as he hit the ground. Coran compounded the pain with his full weight landing directly onto Kolivan’s straining ribcage.
The Altean seemed nearly as breathless as Kolivan, his hands braced on Kolivan’s chest for a moment, until he threw them up in the air, crowing between wheezes, “Victory is mine!”
His orange hair had darkened with sweat, sticking to his forehead. With his gleeful grin, he looked every bit the clown he often pretended to be (or actually was at times). Somehow, while no change had occurred in appearance, Coran seemed quite different to Kolivan’s eyes. It nagged him that he couldn’t quite place what had shifted.
“I daresay we’ve earned drinks tonight,” Coran said, his breaths slowing. He slid to sit in a sprawl at Kolivan’s side, his grin shrinking into a small self-satisfied smile. “And I do believe that Serla owes me two hundred gak.”
“It would be helpful if you didn’t encourage the gambling,” Kolivan said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling for the moment. One part of his brain occupied itself with analyzing his and Coran’s interactions for these past few phoebs. “I swear it’s gotten worse, and if I catch one more raw recruit bargaining with his rations for more gak …”
Coran laughed, his head thrown back, one hand falling to his stomach as if to try and contain his merriment. Kolivan couldn’t quite help the smile that formed on his face.
After cleaning up and absconding to Coran’s quarters, they spent the evening conversing over drinks, which had become highly pleasing part of their training regimen. Coran had a seemingly endless trove of anecdotes to share about his childhood, Alfor’s early days as king, and Princess Allura’s formative school-age adventures.
He also had a shocking amount of knowledge on scores of species in the universe, though much of it was out of date. Kolivan did his best to share his own experiences, bringing Coran into the present … But the man knew so much more than Kolivan could hope to correct.
It wasn’t until Kolivan had boarded his ship and departed the Castle of Lions that the quietest part of his mind, having been running calculations unobtrusively that entire evening, came to a rather astonishing conclusion.
Nearly simultaneous with this epiphany came a realization: Kolivan could not and would not compromise his operation with such … personal luxuries.
Though it was far too late to untangle Coran’s life from his own (the man was a valuable ally and more than adequate soldier in the fight against the Galra Empire), he would ensure that neither he nor the Altean sunk any deeper into … this.
Essentially, all that Kolivan needed was to stay the course without allowing any deviations or accelerations.
The Blade of Marmora thrived in the slow, patient execution of its overall mission. If there were anything to be gained (to be rewarded) after said mission was complete (assuming he was alive to see its completion) … Perhaps this could be it.
He smiled as he walked to his rooms after arriving back at his base. What an odd sensation it was — he had never planned for after the war, and now … Well, he had no guarantee of anything, but all the same … It was a pleasant dream.
******
Coran hadn’t anticipated becoming close friends with Kolivan, the stalwart and stern leader of the Blades (or of the biggest faction, he soon learned, as the Blades of Marmora were spread far and wide across the universe, with various leaders). However, that friendship had swiftly become valuable and enjoyable.
Even if Kolivan had become determined to kill Coran until he learned how to fight properly.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, it turned out the Coran did have latent combat abilities. He’d spent most of the war vacillating between Alfor’s side and his work in the nano-tech unit, his initial training only basic at best. He’d been in a few skirmishes, but only incidentally, and all too brief.
Kolivan had discovered an untapped well spring, it seemed. Coran had to seek out the part of his mind that worked entirely based on ruthless probabilities; when he broke their sparring matches down to that emotionless mathematics of war, then, well … He found it all too easy to match Kolivan, blow for blow, though his strategy favoured quick dashes and less brute strength.
“It’s how many Blades fight,” Kolivan told him once. “There’s no shame in choosing the style that best suits your physicality and mindset.”
They typically enjoyed drinks after training (and after in-person debriefings).
Though it seemed, for whatever reason, Kolivan was … busier recently. It was oddly timed — after Coran’s first victory in a spar.
He wasn’t too sure the reason, at first, considering that Kolivan had thus far been straightforward with him in most, if not all, their exchanges. Any obfuscation had mostly been related to Blade missions that didn’t overlap with Voltron’s operations; Coran understood the need for secrecy, and so he never felt the need to pry. Occasionally, they were both playing coy, when they both needed discretion for the sake of key victories. It was an interesting game, but relatively infrequent, particularly now that they trusted each other implicitly. Or so Coran had assumed.
There were long stretches during which he ached for his old friends and family desperately, and now was one of those times.
He’d been a fairly rambunctious youth, and service to the King had only tempered him slightly; the war had pushed him increasingly towards solemnity … However, upon waking ten thousand years into the future, he’d fallen back to his original patterns, familiar behaviours … Mostly as a means of staying sane. It helped that he hadn’t had to bury his entire civilization. Just wake up to the aftermath, long after the universe had largely moved on.
But now … Now he couldn’t be the fool he sometimes truly was, and sometimes that he only played at — not when Lance and Keith were missing.
(They were likely gone, though he permitted himself that dark speculation strictly late at night, in the dark, wherein he wrote a letter to Lance’s family, extoling his heroism, yes, but also his sweetness and his open heart. Keith had no family other than Shiro, who didn’t need a letter from Coran, so he settled for supporting their Black-now-Red Paladin in everything he could, and reminding Shiro that Keith wouldn’t want him to martyr himself at first opportunity.)
Kolivan had become a spot of brightness, one that he hadn’t expected. This lack of time together … It left Coran feeling quite bereft, and eventually, a certain level of suspicious. He read Blade reports, though some were heavily redacted. He knew when certain missions took place, their relative importance and their tentative closing dates. Many of these did not line up with Kolivan’s excuses.
Thus, Coran was forced to act.
The Smythes had always been known for their tenacity, and Coran considered himself tenacious to a fault, even worse than his eldest sister, who had slept in a tree for the better part of a phoeb until their parents had agreed to let her have a helliotish bird as a pet. Loathsome creature — it had pecked a hole into Coran’s hand so huge, he still bore the scar just between his index and thumb.
Point being, Coran could out-stubborn anyone, and that included a Blade of Marmora who was a supposed expert in evasion.
“You sabotaged my ship?” Kolivan stared at him with such incredulity, Coran felt a thrill of pride.
He ran a thumb over the raised circular scar of his right hand and grinned unrepentantly. “I certainly did. There is a key piece missing from your engine. I know for a fact you have no urgent business to take care of today. The lines are open if anything unexpected does come up, but I’m afraid, my friend, that there’s no escape. No one is here but you and I, and I’ve locked down all the hangers, just as an added precaution.”
Kolivan stood awkwardly in the doorway to the observation deck, seemingly at a loss.
Coran poured himself another glass of Yujin wine and leaned back in his chair, playing at nonchalance, and likely failing miserably, as he couldn’t help chortling at his own cleverness.
When his glass rested at half-full, Kolivan finally let the door slide shut and took his seat across from Coran again, this time with a distinctly unhappy look on his face. “This isn’t the time for childish pranks, Coran.”
“Actually, so long as no one’s life is at stake, I see no reason not to indulge.” Coran lifted his nearly empty glass up in the air. “Long live childish jokes, japes, and jiggity-jonnorings!”
“Sometimes I think you’re completely inventing these Altean words,” Kolivan said absently, one hand rubbing at his jawline. “Well, you’ve successfully detained me. Will you tell me why?”
“You know why,” Coran said, his smile and good humour vanishing all at once. Kolivan sat straight up in his chair, painfully attentive. “I don’t appreciate it when a good friend lies to me. Even more so when it’s in the middle of a war. We need to maintain solid and trustworthy communications, you know this, but also, I need you to be my friend.”
“I am your friend,” Kolivan said softly. “And I have not lied to you in any way that would jeopardize our efforts.”
“No, perhaps not, but if you insist on maintaining your deceptions, then it will make it quite difficult for me to parse out the moment when you may, inevitably, take it one lie too far.” Coran put the now empty glass down onto the table. “Tell me why you felt the need to … put distance between us.”
“It’s entirely my own business.” The answer was prompt and unfeeling.
“It’s mine as well, since it's impacting me.” Coran stared at Kolivan, watching every nuance in his fairly impassive mien. He’d become rather adept at catching the smallest tells in the Galra man, though right now everything was closed off as though they had just met.
“Coran, please, enough. What we have is highly beneficial to the war, we can’t risk—” Kolivan’s mouth shut suddenly, a muscle jumping in his cheek, and he went on as though he hadn’t stopped at all. “This operation. It’s vital.”
Coran’s head tilted, his eyes narrowing. Something tickled the back of his mind, a fantastical little whisper that had become rather familiar these last few phoebs — it often caused a flush to rise in his cheeks, and he twirled his mustache nervously for a moment, gathering his courage.
“Did I … offend you?” Coran took in a deep, steadying breath while Kolivan took a turn cocking his head to one side. “If you did notice that I … Well, it’s simple enough to resolve. You don’t need to hide away from me. You could’ve told me that my admiration was unwelcome, and that would have been enough. Really, I’m not that juvenile, though I can be moderately ridiculous on most days.” He lapsed into more casual speech, winking joyfully even as a part of him fractured a little.
Kolivan stared, saying nothing, his mouth parted.
Coran rushed to fill the silence. “I will never mention it again. I’ll do my best to keep the blushing under control, but, really, most of it is out of my control, since you’re … Rather impressive, and the like. But I’ve kept everything else under wraps, fantastically, I would say, since I didn’t even fully realize it myself until … I don’t even know, but not more than a movement or two ago? Point being—”
“You, stop.” Kolivan stuttered to a halt, and it was so unlike him to be this flustered twice in as many minutes, that Coran did stop. He nervously drummed his fingers on the table’s edge, and Kolivan’s eyes tracked the movement before he started laughing a little. “That’s the rhythm to Grollnoth’s Bawdy Shanties. I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I remember most things you teach me, in case you haven’t noticed. I have an excellent memory,” Coran informed him.
“You do. You also are a formidable warrior with an even more formidable mind. You’ve become one of my closest friends and allies, and you’ve provided me with the perfect opening to deny anything is happening …” Kolivan reached up with one hand to massage his chin. “But I can’t. I can’t because you’re impossible.”
Was that ... an invitation? A declaration? Coran couldn't quite find his words. He cleared his throat several times over. "Do you mean ..." He gestured at himself. "This isn't just me? Also, you find this, me, the Altean engineer ... appealing?"
“Aesthetics are hardly a priority for me,” Kolivan informed him plainly, and then a deep, violet hue arose in his cheeks. “Though … You may not have noticed, but your musculature was already fairly developed when we began sparring, and now it has become … Well. The point stands. You, Coran, are quite impossibly alluring in all ways, and now we find ourselves in this situation.”
“Must you call it a ‘situation’?” Coran asked, feeling a little less flattered, his eyebrows furrowing.
“What would be your desired term?” Kolivan sat back, seeming quite perplexed with himself.
“Perhaps a relationship?” Coran set about refilling his glass and pouring one for Kolivan as well. He gently pushed it towards the Galra, carefully avoiding brushing against his skin as Kolivan reached for the wine. Coran dipped his head once. “If you’re amenable to that, I would very much like to call it our relationship. Formalized. In addition to our friendship.”
Kolivan sipped from his glass, and then laughed down into it. “I cannot believe how quickly you’ve defeated me.”
“I wouldn’t call it defeat,” Coran said, unable to hold back a smug little grin. “It more resembles a … semi-forced re-evaluation.”
“Coran, you do understand my concerns, don’t you?” Kolivan said after another pause.
“Naturally.” Coran swirled his drink around, watching the liquid whirl once he’d stopped. “In fact, what was I going to suggest was a compromise of sorts.”
“A compromise? Haven’t you already accomplished your goal?” The Galra commander looked up inquisitively, both eyebrows rising obviously. He must be starting to feel the effects of his drink.
“I don’t want you to feel unequal or forced, for all that I’m teasingly implying as much,” Coran said quickly. “I truly want us to be … happy, but I know that the war must come first.” He placed his hand on the table, sliding it palm-side down towards the halfway point. “We continue as we have these last phoebs, only with the understanding that you and I are now … What we are. That is, in a relationship.”
“You … don’t want anything to change?” Kolivan put down his now drained glass and mirrored the position of Coran’s hand, though still without touching.
“Only in so far as what we know to be true,” Coran told him with a somewhat wistful air. “All I propose is that we are no longer subject to any other interested parties. That we are wholly reserved for one another in that aspect. Otherwise … we can proceed as we did before you decided avoiding me was the solution to our predicament.”
Kolivan rolled his eyes, which was a delightful sight. “You speak as if I were the misbehaving youth, when you just took apart my ship’s engine to strand me here. And all but locked me in.”
“I removed one part, and if you truly needed or wanted to leave, you could have expressed as much, except you tend to prefer huffing silently rather than … Hm, well, it seems we’re perfect for each other, considering our mutual childish streak.” Coran winked. “Do you agree with me, then?”
“That we are mutually childish? I refuse to answer.” Kolivan smiled, slow and careful. “But yes, I do agree to your terms, except …”
Coran waited, and then startled, as Kolivan slid his hand over the final minimal distance separating their fingers. He only brushed against them, staring down and then up into Coran’s eyes.
“We will have meetings that … are not related to the war. Only at those meetings can we … discuss or act upon our relationship.”
Several doboshes went by as Coran processed those words. He hadn’t expected Kolivan to give him even what little he’d suggested. “You’re saying … you want more than what I’ve offered?”
“Yes,” Kolivan answered simply. He appeared to lose tension in his shoulders while simultaneously gaining a crease between his eyebrows that spoke of anxiety. “It isn’t fair of me to reserve your whole attention without … without at least offering a little of myself in return. It won’t be much, or often, and any time there is urgent Blade business, I may have to abandon our plans without notice—”
“Kolivan, I have been in this war since before you were born, never mind that you’ve got a few deca-phoebs on me,” Coran interjected with a slowly blooming smile. “I, also, may have to go long stretches with no communication, as Voltron is needed across the universe. There will be no resentment on my side for what is necessary.”
Kolivan’s smile was small, but Coran found it one of his most sincere expressions, and quite lovely in its rarity. “In that case, if there are no further objections or stipulations—”
“It’s a relationship, not a diplomatic arrangement,” Coran said with a wink.
"You used all your considerable diplomatic aptitude to both explain and negotiate terms," Kolivan said while gesturing at the bottle between them. "I know you did it deliberately."
Coran smoothed down his mustache while nodding. “I did use some skills of mine for comfort’s sake, but let’s not be so formal any longer, yes? Do you want this and can you allow yourself to have it? I’ll take anything you offer, in whatever amount you can.”
“We have an accord,” Kolivan finished, indulging in another eye roll. “And you, Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, are ridiculous. But ... thank you. For seeing what I could not.”
Coran risked sliding his fingers to partially cover Kolivan’s. The purple skin beneath his was warm, soft, but also interrupted by various scars and burns. Coran knew if he turned that hand over, there would be sword callouses and even more scars. He appreciated each and every mark for what it meant — that Kolivan continued to stand against the Empire that birthed him. That Kolivan would not easily fall in battle. If Coran had a touch of heated curiosity as to how those scars and callouses would feel against larger swathes of his own skin … Well, it was no longer a shameful secret nor a distant fantasy.
Kolivan coughed abruptly, and Coran jumped a little in his seat, tilting his head questioningly. The taller Galra man grinned sharply, and it caused Coran’s heart to stutter in his chest.
“That look … You’ve been causing me all sorts of trouble with that look, and damn you for it. It would do me a world of good if you could stop certain thoughts from appearing so obviously across your face.”
Coran’s own grin took over, dark and unapologetic. “You shouldn’t have told me that. Yet one more weapon to add to my arsenal for the next time we spar.”
Kolivan snorted, a small huff of amusement that brought Coran far more joy than anything else had since they’d had their awkward separation. “The next time we spar shall be an exercise in restraint for us both. I welcome the challenge.”
The heat sparked and flickered, and Coran didn’t stymie it in the slightest. Instead, his skin tingled pleasantly, and he knew his gaze had grown darker, for all that he kept his voice light. “That’ll be an interesting dimension adhered to our lessons. Hm. May the best man win.”
“It’s a moot point, isn’t it?” Kolivan said, sliding his hand away from Coran’s, even as his foot snuck closer to his, just out of sight. “Whoever loses, we both win in the end.”
Coran threw his head back in joyous mirth, and Kolivan joined him with a low rumbling chuckle. They were both rather tipsy from the heavy wine, and both caught up in the fresh, sparkling delight that was this unnamed union before them … Coran stood up before he could slip and give in all too soon. He’d waited this long. He could stand to draw it out a little longer …
“Come, I’ll give you back your crankshaft. Do you know how to reinstall it?”
Kolivan stood up, following closely behind Coran. “I think I’ll say no. I’d rather see how a true professional reassembles an engine.”
Coran paused mid-step, turning to arch an eyebrow at Kolivan. The Blade’s face remained perfectly impassive, not a single twitch of muscle or glint in his eyes. Coran shrugged, keeping his mouth in a neutral position. “Certainly.”
And if he stripped of his light coat and rolled up his sleeves despite the Castle’s perfectly moderate temperature, it was only because Kolivan knew exactly what Coran was up to, and the Galra man even encouraged it with deliberately bad advice on engine assemblage. They delayed Kolivan’s departure by a varga, during which they discussed a few nonsensical topics aside from engineering.
As he warmed even further to Kolivan’s presence, Coran realized that this precipice he’d flung himself from had a very long fall …
If the war permitted, it would be a soft landing, but if not …
In either case, he’d already jumped. The fall itself currently felt like flying — he could allow himself the dreams, now, could envision the various marvellous things he might see and feel on the way down.
This war had already taken so much more from him than he could have ever imagined in his darkest nightmares … That he and Kolivan would find each other amidst this chaos … Coran hadn’t quite lost all his optimism, for all that he kept losing so much. He would try and be wise, try and not put all his faith and hope for his own happiness on this one risk … But, he’d also do his best to keep Kolivan smiling like this, laughing even, for as long as the Blade Commander would allow him to do so.
******