Archive of Our Own

The first time Keith dreams of him, he’s left with a sensation he can’t really shake off. Like the memory of a taste he can’t find the right words to describe.

All he can recall is the upturn of a smile and a laugh — both are warm and kind to the point that shivers course down Keith’s arms.

It’s the faint memory that draws his attention more than anything else. If he could only remember what his face looked like, what emotions that smile held, or the tone of that laughter, he wouldn’t be so fixated on remembering. It’s like barely remembering the tune of a song but not being able to find it and satisfy that itch — and with him, Keith can’t even ask anyone for help.

And the more frantically he tries to reach out and grasp at the dream, at the half-formed memory of the man, it slips through his fingers like fog.

He forces himself to stop thinking about it, while simultaneously hoping to have the same dream and a dreamless sleep.

But that smile and laughter follows him through another night.

And another night.

And another.

(He swears that laughter follows him even when he’s awake, just distant enough to grab his attention while never actually being there)

Another.

(Maybe it’s the lack of sleep that drives this mystery to an obsession — that keeps him awake at night just as much as it pushes him into fitful slumber)

Another.

(He wants to stop dreaming)

Another.

(He never wants to wake)

When Keith meanders down for breakfast after being haunted by his lingering smile for an entire quintant, he slumps in his seat with a groan. The disjointed sleep is wreaking havoc on his body after a quintant of the same restless, dream-filled slumber. He feels like he’s gone through an intensive training session — body sore to the point where even his eyes ache with every other blink.

His father pins him with an inquisitive gaze. “You doing okay, Keith?”

Keith glances up from his empty plate to meet his parents’ gaze. His mother is seated at her position at the head of the table, dressed in a casual Blade suit with a flowing robe draped over her shoulders and cinched at the waist. She looks as regal now as she does when greeting guests of other planets. Whereas his father, with his ragged beard and vintage Earth pajamas, looks to be her exact opposite.

“You don’t look well, kit,” his mother hums in agreement, using a tone as warm as his father’s.

They look at each other, conversation spinning between them in the span of a glance and at a speed far too fast for Keith’s tired mind to follow. “Did you have a nightmare?” His father asks, accent thick in the morning, but the sleepiness has faded from those sharp eyes.

Keith shrugs his shoulders. “Not sure.”

Because it’s as close to the truth as possible.

The nightmare isn’t the warm smile and laugh that haunt his dreams — it’s the struggle of being unable to remember that is the real nightmare.

“Was it about the yergril again?” His mother asks while kicking her feet up on his father’s lap.

His father gives the Empress of Marmora a sickeningly sweet smile over the rim of his coffee cup. He lays a hand on her ankle and gives it a squeeze. They look like the picture of marital bliss as they watch him for any signal that their words ring true.

“We could set up another hunt.” His father suggests with a glint to his eyes that Keith doesn’t like.

“But Keith killed three at last cycle’s hunting festival. Do you think —”

“Seriously?” Keith huffs as he angrily plucks food off the serving trays and onto his plate. “I was literally five when the yergril bit me. I think I’m fine.”

His mother sets down her coffee cup and levels him with a steadfast gaze that is more Empress than mother. “If you’re still having nightmares, it’s something we should consider. Do you —”

“I didn’t have a nightmare!” He snaps as he slams a pair of tongs back onto a platter. A splatter of juice sprays in the air and sprinkles along the petals of the flower centerpiece of their table.

He keeps his gaze on his plate for a dobosh — he doesn’t want to meet their gaze, afraid to find pity or anger or a soft understanding that he doesn’t deserve. With gritted teeth, he tilts his chin up to look at his parents. His mother is leveling him with an ever firmer look, while his father’s gaze has fallen to his mother’s profile.

Her tone is soft, far too gentle for Keith and he ruffles against it, “Keith —”

“Can you just leave it alone?” he whispers as he picks up his fork and knife and cuts his food into tiny pieces. It’s nice to have something to occupy his hands, because it makes it much easier to not look at his parents.

He doesn’t know how to describe what’s been happening. Doesn’t know if he would even want to describe it to his parents. Because if he puts it in words, it sounds so ridiculous and trivial and not something that the prince of Marmora should be worrying himself sick over. He hasn’t felt this fixated on something since puberty made his blood boil, his restlessness unbearable, and his hunger for sparring insatiable.

And for some reason, he would rather go through that puberty talk with his mother and father again before telling them about him.

So Keith keeps his gaze fixed on his plate and bears through the tense silence.

His father hums, a quiet thing that’s meant to catch only his mother’s attention. “Do you think it would help if we held a petting zoo filled with yergril —” He cuts off when Keith glances up from under his bangs with a look that’s as fierce as the Empress’s.

Both his father and mother chuckle at the bad joke.

Keith shakes his head and squeezes his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to laugh along, but a huff of laughter is pushed from his chest with his next exhale. At the sound, the haunting barely-there memory of his laughter and upturned smile floods Keith’s thoughts. And all thoughts of laughter fade.

After another quintant, Keith starts debating asking the palace physician for some sleep aids, because even if he can’t dream of him for a night, he’ll at least be able to get a full night’s rest. And then he wouldn’t be snapping — all bared teeth and bloodlust — at anyone that approaches him too closely.

But when he’s standing outside the physician’s door with his knuckles poised to knock, he can’t bring himself to do it.

He curls into bed that night and doesn’t hope for anything — doesn’t hope to see more of him and doesn’t hope for a dreamless sleep. Doesn’t hope for anything at all. He just closes his eyes and lets his exhaustion pull him into a deep slumber.

And it’s that night that Keith can recall something other than the barely-there memory of him. It’s not much, but it’s more than the whispers of dreams he had before. The first real detail that Keith remembers is the way his stomach flutters at the sight of that smile.

It feels like he’s breaking through the atmosphere on Marmora. Like those moments when the ship loses its weightlessness and the gravity of the planet pulls down so forcefully that his stomach rises into his chest. He’s no longer floating and is now falling towards the surface with a speed that threatens to tear the ship apart — to tear him apart. And just before the ground thrusters kick in to steady out the ship, his heart flutters and his stomach rises up into his lungs. It’s a sensation that contradicts itself, both strangely pleasant and terrifyingly sickening.

But he cannot stop thinking about the faint memory of that smile, even as his stomach swoops with every recollection.

Because it makes it more real than something he can hardly recall.

The next thing he can remember is how his grin leans a little to the right, digging deeper into a sculpted cheek and dimpling. It’s fascinating, because it means his smile isn’t “perfect” per se, but it only serves to make it more beautiful. Like how rotuo trees grow in the forest, stabilizing their thin and fragile branches by bracing against the other trees; it grows like a parasite, but in the spring, it blooms with the most beautiful pink flowers — large and as delicate as the spindly branches, fragrant enough to fill the entire Northern Forest with the scent. Those flowers decorate the tree the rotuo has grown around, decorating it in a way that makes the original imperfect but even more beautiful.

With the memory of his smile, Keith walks through the Northern Forest and enjoys the sight of the blooming rotuo trees. The fallen petals beneath his feet soften his steps, and with each footfall, a plume of fragrance rises into the air. He plucks a flower off a low-hanging branch and carries it back to the palace.

He catches the palace agriculturist in the hallway and stops them. She jumps in response, clutching her books close to her chest — like she’s waiting for Keith to snap and snarl like he has been in for the past few quintants.

Keith hopes that his embarrassed flush doesn’t show through his pale skin, but he asks her how to dry the flower out so that he can keep it from wilting. (a memento to the fluttering sensation that squirms in his gut; a tangible fragment of him).

She doesn’t hide her surprise well, but she sends him off with instructions and a soft smile.

Keith keeps the flower by his beside and remembers him with the flutter in his stomach every time he looks at it.

His laughter is deep and graveled like it’s something well used and familiar. It’s warm, and Keith almost curls back into his covers just to hear it again.

With each night, he becomes more solid in Keith’s mind and something settles within him. The part of him that was clawing and searching and so desperate to grasp ahold of him has calmed enough for Keith to be able to think, to actually get a good night’s sleep.

He can eat breakfast with his parents and hold a conversation that is more than just snarling and dismissive huffs. The palace staff begin to approach him again without tentative smiles on their faces or a defensive stance. His sparring partners are more willing to show up to training, no longer afraid of being the victim of Keith’s unbridled rage.

Everything seems to be falling into place, even the fragments of a man he can barely remember. But even with all the newfound pieces of him, Keith still can’t fully grasp what he looks like. Nor does he have a reason for why he keeps appearing to him in a dream. Why is he haunted by the barely-there memory in the first place?

But now he sleeps with a smile on his face and that same swooping sensation in his stomach — desperate to learn another thing about the man from his dreams.

“Why can’t I remember you?” Keith asks.

“Keith —”

“Please! This is driving me crazy. All I just need to do is remember you, and I’ll —”

But the maid knocking at his door interrupts his dream before he can remember anything else other than the pleasing rumble of his name on the man’s lips.

The first time he remembers the man as a whole, it’s a sight he doesn’t expect.

It’s the memory of a child marching through a creek, footsteps splashing water so high that it soaks his black hair. He holds a stick so far in the sky like he’s pointing at the stars. And he speaks to no one like he’s commanding an expedition rather than just playing pretend in a stream of water that only comes up to his ankles.

He looks like a frail thing, small and pale with hair as dark as night. But maybe his race is just more fragile than the Marmoran and Galrans Keith is accustomed to. He looks similar in features to his father, but with a build far more fragile-looking than the stature of his father who blends in with Marmora men seamlessly.

The boy laughs so loud as he climbs atop a mossy boulder and points that stick to the sky. He says something in a loud voice, in words that Keith can’t understand — muffled by the thick walls of slumber and a language barrier Keith has never had to cross without his translator.

But the second the boy takes a step to dismount, the slippery moss catches his heel and sends him sprawling to the creak below. A large splash follows. His stick drifts down the weak current as the boy takes a moment to register how drenched he is. Water drips off the ends of his hair and the tip of his nose.

Laughter is the only thing that follows.

It’s brilliant, a bright echoing laugh that drowns out the bubbling of the stream and the distant animal calls in the air. His smile is so large, shining and brilliant. The sight of it softens something in Keith’s heart.

Even if the boy before him didn’t have that familiar smile, Keith knows that something within would tell him that this is the man who’s been haunting his dreams.

Keith can’t fight the smile that follows him around throughout the quintant.

Even when he’s knocked to the sparring mats by Regris — who stands over him and gloats with the thrashing of his tail and a pointed smile — it can’t knock the smile off of Keith’s face. Because even in this moment, all he can think of is the young boy who slipped and fell into the creak, and rather than crying, he laughed.

So Keith meets Regris’ gaze and is unable to fight back a chuckle.

“You’re strange today, Prince,” Regris rumbles as he extends a clawed hand and pulls Keith to his feet.

“How?” Keith asks as he dusts off his ass and straightens his shirt, but he already knows the answer.

Regris tosses a bottle of water at him and slumps down on a rolled up mat. He chugs half the water before saying, “Today you’re…” he trails off, and Keith isn’t sure if he’ll find the right word, “...softer.”

Keith pops his hip and crosses his arms. He can’t keep the surprised annoyance off his face. “Oh yeah?” There’s a clear challenge in his tone that Regris picks up on.

“I guess we shall see,” Regris purrs through a smile that is all pointed teeth and cocky confidence.

Keith tosses his water bottle to the side and settles into a familiar fighting stance. Even with the memory of the boy’s joyful smile in his mind, he won’t go easy on Regris after a challenge like this.

Keith tries not to hope that the dreams will be as solid as the last one, because he doesn’t want to be disappointed when they return to fragments that hint of a man he so desperately wants to know. So when he sleeps, body aching from sparring with Regris for far too long today, he curbs his anticipation and prepares for the worst.

But he’s greeted by that same bright smile.

He is a little larger, a little more gangly than expected with limbs that are far too long for him. His teeth are spotted with metal that glints as he smiles. Standing before an archaic spaceship, he presses against the thin railing that surrounds the ship.

“Grandpa, look!” He jumps on his toes as he turns to look at someone behind him while pointing at the ship displayed before them. “It’s the Persephone! I can’t believe we’re here.”

A bony hand with sagging skin rests on the boy’s shoulder. The gesture is affectionate and familiar. “Yeah?” a graveled voice responds, thin and weak but filled with warmth.

“Yeah. I’m going to pilot something like this someday, Grandpa.” He looks at the spaceship with a glint in his eye that Keith recognizes, a burning determination to reach for your dreams. “I’ll explore areas of space that no one has ever seen before.”

His grandfather pulls him against his side and ruffles a hand through his hair. The boy protests and tries to shrug out of the way in order to preserve the gelled “style,” but he wears a smile that is the bright, lopsided one that Keith is familiar with. “Of course you will,” his grandpa confirms, before the boy bounds along to another exhibit in the museum with the same look of peerless wonder in his eyes.

Keith borrows a ship from the palace hub and flies to the orphanage sponsored by the crown. He has fifteen messages from his parents on his communicator, but he silences it as he descends the ramp to see the crowd of kits that have poured from the doors. All of their eyes shine with that same wonder as him.

His outfit is traditional Blade attire with nothing to denote his royal status, but the ship at his back was emblazoned with the royal emblem on the side. So it’s clear that some of them recognize who he is even if he hasn’t made a lot of public appearances, since he has only been considered an adult in the eyes of the country for the couple phoebs since his coming of age.

A Marmoran, not many cycles older than Keith, stands at the door with a look of shock emblazoned on her cheeks. She wears the uniform of one of the childcare workers, her apron stained with various colors and foods. “Your — your highness,” she stutters as she bows in the traditional way of greeting royalty, “why are — to what do we owe this pleasure?”

Keith waves off her formality and gives all the kits a wide smile. He stands on the end of the ramp with his hands on his hips and looks at all of them. Some have snuck up to touch the side of the ship with awestruck expressions on their faces, while others' gazes haven’t left him.

The awed attention is new and a little unnerving, but he shrugs off his nerves and the flush that creeps up the back of his neck.

“Hi everyone,” he says with an awkward smile. “I’m Keith, and I thought it would —” he fights down the sudden squirm of anxiety that rises in his stomach, in a sensation that is so similar to the feeling when he remembers him. Looking at the kits, Keith can see the same wanderlust on their expressions. He clears his throat, points a thumb at the ship, and says, “Who wants a ride?”

The response is a roar of screams and chatter that is boisterous with excitement. The worker’s jaw has completely dropped, and she can’t even begin to rein in the kits as they rush forward. They touch the ship and swarm around Keith’s feet while asking a million questions that Keith struggles to hear, let alone answer.

A kit claws at his pant leg and looks up at him with wide golden eyes and a thumb caught between their pursed lips. Keith can’t help but pick them up and sit them on his hip. “Alright, no pushing as you enter the ship.”

The worker is by his side in a second when the kits begin scrambling up the ramp and into the ship. “Your highness, how — what — but we —”

“I just wanted to give the kits a treat,” is all he says in response before passing the young kit off to her arms and motioning them up the ramp. “Is there anywhere you think we should go. I probably shouldn’t leave the atmosphere, because my mom — because the Empress wouldn’t approve.” He doesn’t think about all of the paperwork that is necessary to perform an act of charity like this, doesn’t want to think of all the unanswered messages on his communicator or the lecture his mother will give him when he gets home.

All Keith can see is him reflected in all of the kits faces as they press their noses to the windows of the ship. And all he wants to do is keep that look of wonder going for as long as possible.

“We just learned about the Aiomopa mountains and the northern forest,” she stutters while her golden eyes remain wide and unblinking.

Keith nods in response before ushering her into the ship and checking that no kits were left outside. He settles into the pilot seat and takes off.

All of the kits giggle and yell at the sensation of flying through the air. When he glances over his shoulder, he watches them point out the windows and talk at a rate that he can’t decipher.

His grin is so large that it aches as he flies them towards the Aiomopa mountain range and over the blooming Northern Forest.

He can hear the childcare worker telling stories to the rapt audience of kits as Keith flies low enough that snow from the mountain tips drifts along the windows and ice gathers on the glass like little snowflakes.

His smile doesn’t leave his lips for the entirety of the trip or after when the kits mob his legs for hugs that make the orphanage worker horrified at the informality. But Keith couldn’t care less for the procedure of royalty as he scrubs a hand through their hair and waves them farewell. His smile doesn’t leave even when his mother lectures him about proper procedure and restricts his access to the port.

Just when Keith’s gotten used to seeing that cute smile in his dreams, he doesn’t get to see it.

The boy is sitting in a white-washed room, surrounded by bleak walls and furniture, snuggled in white sheets and clad in a colorless robe. His face is downturned and focused on his palms. They lay open on his lap, fingers twitching minutely.

Just beyond the bed is a door painted black in shadow. Keith can just barely make out the features of three people just beyond the threshold to the room.

The boy looks older than the one from his last dream. The metal that decorated his teeth is gone and so is the floppy hair that swept across his forehead like a bowl. It’s now cut close to his scalp, like it was shaved and is slowly growing back. His limbs are still gangly but his shoulders have filled out just enough to make the newly gained height a little less awkward. But he looks even thinner and paler than Keith remembers.

And there is no smile.

Just a young boy curling in on himself alone.

Keith reaches out for him, but he knows that he can’t circumvent the wall imposed by the structure of the dream. He just wants to comfort the boy like his smiles have done for him these past few quintant. In all of the dreams, he is just a bundle of brilliant energy that is infectious — that makes Keith do things he wouldn’t normally do, makes Keith want to do things that he has never even considered, makes Keith a better person. But now all Keith wants to do is sit by the boy’s side and take the severe curl out of his shoulders and bring a fraction of that smile to his face.

But Keith is only dreaming, so he has to just watch from the sidelines as the boy buries his face in his hands and cries.

Keith walks through his day in a slight haze and a sickening sensation that sours all of the food he eats. He hopes that the next dream will be better, that he will be smiling once again or that Keith can bridge the distance of the dreams and pull the boy in for a hug or something — anything.

It all feels so foreign, because Keith has never been the one others have gone to for comfort. He is the only Prince of Marmora, a fearsome warrior who would rather throw punches than give hugs.

So he knows nothing of comforting others.

But he wants to do that for him, wants to wipe away his tears and use his punches to fight off all those that take away that brilliant smile.

When he curls into his bed and buries his face into his pillow, he hopes for something better than yesterday.

The boy is wading through the creek from Keith's first solid memory of him. He isn’t wearing that familiar smile, but there is a serenity to his features that Keith never expected to see on the face of someone so young. It’s an expression that has come to peace with what has and what will happen. It’s a resignation, a peace, so strong that it simultaneously strengthens and weakens the sour feeling in his stomach.

With the strong gust of wind, the boy steadies himself against a mossy rock with his left hand — and the wind plays with his empty right sleeve. And this time when he slips and splashes into the creek bed, he doesn’t laugh. He sits there as water soaks the grey of his sweatpants and colors them to a dark charcoal.

His gaze tilts up to the sky, and he lets out a single huff of laughter before a tear crests over his cheek. Followed by another. And another. Until the boy lets out a deafening scream to the heavens — it’s bloody and aching and scraped from his lungs like it was hollowing him out. His left hand grasps at his chest, leaving wet fingerprints across the pale red fabric. He cries out until there is nothing left but the quiet gurgle of the creek and the gentle rustle of wind through the tree leaves.

There’s a soft knock on his door followed by his father’s deep voice, “Keith? Can I come in?”

He only grunts in response, pulling up his blanket to cover his face. Curling in on himself, he wishes it would twist out the sickening sensation that followed him out of the dream.

“You feeling okay, bud? Thazzen said you wouldn’t get out of bed this morning,” he asks as he settles a warm hand on the bundle of blankets Keith is buried beneath. The weight is familiar and comforting, and it makes some of the tension leak out of his muscles.

Keith grumbles in response, voice muffled by the blankets and pillows to a point where it’s completely incomprehensible.

“Bad dream?”

He nods his head, even knowing that his father can’t see due to the bundle of blankets. But words are too thick in his throat and every one that follows sticks and leaves a trail of viscous slime behind. “I know it wasn’t real, but I still feel so,” he gags on the words, sickened to the point that something within him is clawing to get out.

That warm hand settles on his back with an acknowledging hum from his father. “You haven’t had this many bad dreams since…” but his dad doesn’t finish and Keith doesn’t want to put it into words either.

He hasn't had this many bad dreams since his mother went to fight against the Galra in the war that threatened to envelop the entire galaxy. It consumed his childhood and almost stole his mother from him. She was considered missing in action for ten decaphoebs, and Keith was left as the heir apparent who was far too young to inherit his mother’s position. Therefore the Prime Minister, Kolivan, and his father, the prince consort, worked together to manage Marmora until his mother returned victorious from the depths of Diabazzal.

But even when she returned, Keith couldn’t shake the persistent fear that she was dead — it had haunted him for ten cycles, a belief that had found sanctuary in his dreams. And as his coming of age, the dreams had crept back like a reminder that he would have to inherit the throne far too young and bear the burden of the title of youngest Emperor of Marmora.

When she left to fight in the war, he barely knew how to tie his own shoes, and when she returned, he was two decaphoebs away from his coming of age and the crown.

“Yeah,” Keith agrees. His hands curl in the blanket and his eyes go hazy as his mind spirals into the cycles without his mother and a father who was busy managing a war and a planet he was still an alien to. Marmora and Earth were two very different worlds. “I just don’t —”

His father pulls Keith to his side and rubs a steadying hand down his back.

Keith is no longer a child. His coming of age was at the dawn of this new year, almost five decaphoebs ago — he doesn’t need his father to coddle him like he is six cycles old and crying over a nightmare. But he can’t stop himself from leaning into that gentle embrace and slowly swallowing back the feeling of sickness in his stomach.

His father gives him a comforting pat on the shoulder and urges Keith to come to lunch. After a noncommittal answer, Keith is left alone once again.

He knows that he is banned from the port for a couple more quintants, but he grabs his own personal speeder and takes to the skies. With the controls beneath his palms and the ship responding to every minute movement, Keith feels that sensation within him settle. All of his attention is narrowed to the sky in front of him and the distant stars that surround Marmora.

Even with his focus so easily distracted, Keith gives the Galra-claimed space a wide berth, not willing to chance an intergalactic incident over some dream.

And when exhaustion weighs on him too heavily, Keith settles the speeder into a clearing in the northern forest — unable to go home and face his parents and the dreams and memories that saturate his room.

He curls up in the pilot seat and hopes that another dream of him will settle the sickening sensation.

The first thing Keith sees is a boy not much older than the one from the last dream, but there’s a fullness to his build and face that looks good on him. He looks far healthier than the boy who sat in that hospital bed all alone with gangly arms too long and thin for his body. His jaw has sharpened into that familiar shape that easily highlights the curl of that lopsided smile.

“I just don’t see why you have to go,” a fierce voice cuts and draws his attention to a woman who looks so similar to him. Her black hair has started to go grey, but now it only highlights the strands around her face. With the beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and around her usually smiling mouth, she almost looks too young to be his mother.

“Mom,” he begins in a voice that has deepened from the last memory, raspy and similar in tone to his grandfather’s. But in the edges of his words hold an exasperation and a fondness as he continues, “you know why I have to go.”

Her face crumples and dissolves into tears. She hunches in on herself as her words come out watery, “I know. I know, but it just doesn’t seem fair. It’s not even your battle, so why are they making you — just for a new arm — it shouldn’t — you shouldn’t —” her words are swallowed by sobs.

He places a tender hand on her shoulder before drawing her in for a hug. She buries her face into his shirt in order to hide her tears. He has grown a lot taller and broader since the first solid memory Keith has, but curled over the form of his mother with silent tears carving trails down his face, he looks far too small.

It’s obvious where he is going and why.

If he is of similar age to Keith, this dream probably during the spread of the Galran War of Oppression from their quadrant to threaten the entire galaxy. The Marmorans held the Galra at bay for hundreds of decaphoebs, but with the crowning of Emperor Zarkon and his Altean Alchemist wife, the war expanded into something even the fiercest of Blades couldn’t handle alone.

He was probably living on one of the minor planets threatened by the war and was being recruited by a larger power. The deal was probably medical care or an advanced prosthesis or access to free education or a better job or money; some of these planets would offer anything in order to increase their numbers or provide cannon fodder for their troops to come home safe.

Keith grinds his teeth at the thought of all of these young warriors being exploited. When Keith took his speeder to the forefront of the war and shot down Galran fighters, it was his decision. It was always his choice to risk his own life, and it wasn’t because of some coercive tactic in order to get more soldiers.

In a flash and shudder of the dream, they’ve changed outfits and he stands before a commercial transport ship. He gives her a gentle smile as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll come back, Mom.”

“You better.” She sniffles as she straightens his jacket with trembling hands “You promised.”

With one last smile and hug, he boards the ship and settles into a seat in a passenger car. They break atmosphere and the ship shudders around them, but while most of the other passengers are holding onto their seats, he looks out the window at all of the stars that fill the sky as they ascend.

Keith can’t help but think of the dream he saw, of the boy who pointed at the ancient spaceship and claimed that he would explore the stars. He was going to reach the stars, but not in the way that he hoped.

“Did Marmora recruit off-world soldiers during the war?” Keith asks in a tone far too clipped for the morning. His gaze narrows on his parents, watching as they place their forks down full of food.

“We did. We opened the Trials to any who wished to take them, Marmoran or not.” His mother confirms as she leans against the table and tilts her head to the side. She’s regarding him without words, looking for the reason for his question and his curt tone.

Keith hums as he stabs at the meat with a force that threatens to crack his plate. “Did we recruit by offering any benefits like money or medical treatment or education?”

“Yes, we did. Where are all of these questions coming from, Kit?”

He ignores her question and pushes forward, “And what of the soldiers that died in battle. Did their families see any of those promised benefits? Any recompense for fighting for our planet?”

That question makes both his parents pause. And their silence is all the answer he needs.

“Okay.” Keith stands and pushes in his chair so forcefully that it knocks over his father’s glass.

“Keith —”

“I’ll speak to Kolivan and the treasurer to get something sorted out.” Keith snaps as he marches towards the door.

“Wait, Keith —”

But he doesn’t listen as he practically sprints through the castle and pounds on Kolivan’s office door. The Prime Minister regards him with a raised eyebrow and honest surprise in the slight widening of his eyes.

Without asking for permission, Keith passes by Kolivan and settles in the seat across from his desk. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Alright.” Kolivan chuckles slightly as he closes his door and sits back at his desk chair. He straightens some papers before lacing his fingers together and leveling Keith with an inquisitive look. “Is it something about the orphanage or —”

“No,” Keith cuts him off before getting straight to the point. “I want to establish a new law or memorial fund for all of the fallen soldiers who were promised compensation for fighting for Marmora. The Empress said their families didn’t receive anything.”

He ignores the surprise that colors Kolivan’s features or the way he doesn’t take notes and rebuttals with a series of questions. But some things have been settled after a volley of sharp-edged inquiries. At one point, Keith is ready to throw his hands up in the air and just command Kolivan to figure it out — but every time he almost rises to his feet, his face appears in Keith’s mind.

So after several varga, Keith realizes he has put something into motion.

“I will bring this up to the Empress, but you know that the majority of the budget for this will come out of your allowance?” Kolivan asks in a way that sets Keith’s teeth on edge.

What does he need a new blade or jewels or fancy dinners or a lavish party for when soldiers who had fallen in battle after volunteering to fight for their planet weren’t paid any respect?

“Yeah, I know.” He settles Kolivan with a gaze that burns far too similar to the Empress’, but it only brings a soft smile to the Prime Minister’s face.

Keith falls asleep a little easier that night, only to be greeted by a voice that is as familiar as it is unfamiliar.

“Hi.”

It takes Keith a moment to realize it’s the same voice that haunted his dreams in the beginning. He turns on his foot and is met with that brilliant smile.

But rather than it being on the face of a young boy or a gangly teenager or a war-torn soldier, it decorates the sharp features of a man. He’s far too handsome, even for a dream, something that his subconscious could only think of in a fit of hormones and too many issues of Galactic Heroes Illustrated.

He looks both different and the same as every interaction that Keith’s seen. There’s a new scar that bisects his nose, pearlescent and raised and long-since healed. A white forelock dips into his vision, almost obscuring those bright grey eyes. And the prosthesis on his right arm is new, larger to fit his build that is so significantly changed from the gangly teenager Keith was becoming accustomed to.

“Hi,” Keith breathes, unsure if the man is really talking to him or if this is another isolated scene he can’t interfere with.

“I’m Shiro,” the man says as he gestures to himself, muscles straining even from the smallest motion. It makes a flush burn at Keith’s cheeks because Shiro is far too broad and muscular to be anything other than a model from a sex-driven magazine.

“Keith,” he stumbles out, and the sound of his name on Shiro’s lips makes a shiver course up Keith’s spine — like he’s settled into warm water and his muscles have released all of their tension, a kind of familiar sinking sensation that envelopes his body.

Shiro nods stiffly before scratching at his neck. “Where do —”

But before he can say anything else, Keith is shocked out of sleep. Sweat clings to his skin and his breath runs raggedly out of his lungs. He doesn’t know what woke him, but it feels like something has shattered in his chest — something he can’t even identify or hope to put back together.

Keith growls and buries his head back in the pillow, but he doesn’t dream of Shiro again that night.

And Shiro doesn’t come back to his dreams.

Not in a haunting smile or a distant laugh or the memories of him growing up. Not in that gravely voice and the tender way he spoke Keith’s name. There’s not even a hint of him.

Keith has an even harder time sleeping, restless and dreamless and hoping for something he can’t even describe to anyone else. It’s the same as it was in the beginning, but this time there’s no one to greet him in his dreams.

This time, he’s alone.

But the world around him keeps moving, even while Keith’s mind is fixated on a place beyond dreams.

Kolivan approaches him several more times to discuss Keith’s newest reform, with asinine questions that Keith can barely avoid rolling his eyes over — what should it be titled? Is Keith willing to attend the announcement ceremony? Is there a particular way he wants to roll out the reform, since there’s no way that they can provide the total sum of the promised rewards all at once if they didn’t want to empty the treasury? Is Keith prepared to meet with the families of fallen soldiers for publicity? Should the memorial of the fallen soldiers be raised in granite or luxite or a million other options? When does he have time for his ceremonial attire fitting? Would he be willing to speak at the Intergalactic Peace Summit when he attends?

That last question catches Keith off guard with his spoon hovering inches from his mouth. The bite of huuw drops off his spoon and splatters onto his plate. His gaze darts past his father and mother to look at Kolivan standing by the edge of the table, holding a tablet and regarding him with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” The word is thin as Keith wheezes.

“The Intergalactic Peace Summit?” Kolivan confirms while inconspicuously glancing at the Empress. “The Empress has attended every decaphoeb since the end of the war, Kit. It’s to establish —”

“No, I know what the Summit is for. What I don’t understand is why you’re asking about me speaking there.” Keith’s eyes settle on his mother, narrowing as he watches her composed expression. “I haven’t even been asked if I wanted to attend.”

His mother sets down her coffee cup with the elegance of royalty and a trained Blade. She interlaces her fingers and rests them on the edge of the table. “I thought it was time that you attended.”

“No.”

“You’re not a kit anymore, Keith. You’re finally of age, and it’s time for you to participate in the politics of Marmora.” Her tone leaves no room for negotiation. “I will leave speaking at the Summit up to you, but your attendance is not up for discussion.”

Keith jumps up from the table and marches out of the dining room without another word.

It’s been two quintants, and Keith is still feeling just as reluctant to attend the Summit as he was when he was first ordered by the Empress of Marmora. Maybe it’s been the lack of sleep or the lack of Shiro in his dreams. Maybe it’s the fact that he’ll finally have to acknowledge his birthright in front of the entire galaxy.

“If you’re still not feeling well, you don’t have to go to the Intergalactic Peace Summit,” his dad mentions when they leave dinner, while his mother is escorted back to her office by Kolivan and the knowledge of an urgent matter. “I know your mother is really set on you going, but if you’re not well enough to go, I can talk to her.”

Keith’s immediate response is to use this as an excuse to avoid going to the Peace Summit. He knows that it’ll just be another political meeting where people talk out of their asses and brag about useless accomplishments. And to make matters worse: 1) he's officially an adult now and will be expected to participate in discussions while being mature enough not to scoff or call assholes out on their bullshit, and 2) it’ll be hosted on Atlea.

Most of his colleagues have talked about the planet of Altea as if it’s a beautiful dream, crafted from bright colors and sunlight and wealth, while others use it as an example that sin exploits the wealthy.

When he looks up at his father with an agreement on his lips, he catches the sincere worry in his father’s gaze. It’s a look that’s been following him around since his mother’s disappearance and has only intensified since the start of his dreams. “I’m feeling much better now.” He bumps his shoulder against his father’s. “I haven’t had a nightmare in a few phoebs”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?” Keith prompts when his father’s agreement leaves something hanging in the air.

His father scratches at his neck and says, “You always seem to be daydreaming or thinking of something else, and even though you won't tell us what’s going on, I wanted to make sure that you knew we would try to understand no matter what.”

Something catches in Keith’s throat, a tightly balled emotion lodging just beneath his tonsils and so difficult to swallow down. “Thanks, Dad, but I’m really doing okay.”

A warm hand settles on Keith’s shoulder, and he leans into his father’s touch.

He wishes it was that simple. But since he first dreamed of that smile, nothing has been simple.

Keith pulls at the collar of his ceremonial uniform. It’s heavier and more ornately decorated than their traditional Blade attire, and this is the first time that he’s worn the collar that circles around his neck and crosses his chest to tie at his waist, denoting that he is finally of age. He feels suffocated, by the formality of his clothing and the event beginning around him.

He shoots his mother a glare from beneath his bangs. With every moment leading up to this event, Keith wishes that he had taken his father’s offer to refuse to attend.

She had put some kind of gel on his hair to try to tame it, but within five doboshes it had completely lost its hold — much to her annoyance and Keith’s satisfaction. He wasn’t some prim prince.

Marmorans are warriors of the finest caliber with blades of sharpened luxite and senses honed from thousands of battles. They are the planet that held the Galra at bay for so long. They are Blades.

Their uniforms are black, a stark difference against the glittering white opulence of Altea and the colorful ambassadors wearing their best.

He can see the intimidation on the faces of other ambassadors that line the Altean reception hall. Their conversations pause or drift off as their eyes catch on the Marmora contingent as they walk up the aisle and towards the meeting room.

But rather than their attention feeling awkward, Keith preens beneath their respect, admiration, and trepidation. His shoulders straighten, and he can hear Kolivan chuckle behind him. When he glances at his mother out of the corner of his eye, he can see her stifling a smile.

Two Altean soldiers on either side of the meeting room doors quickly open it as they approach — because no one would want to get on the bad side of the Marmoran Empress, Prince, and Prime Minister.

The room holds the same grandeur that all of Altea has.

All of the tables, built and labeled for the ambassadors and contingents, are arranged in a semicircle on a gradual slope surrounding the front of the room so that all in attendance can see the presenter without difficulty. It’s a practical design that is embellished with the finest materials: the tables are embedded with the latest technology and translator devices while being lined in gold and glittering beneath the illuminated crystal chandeliers.

The overflowing luxury sets Keith's teeth on edge. It’s nothing like the crisp minimalism of Marmora, the harsh weather dictates that energy and resources are used for necessities rather than all of this.

But he can’t deny that this kind of decoration suits the boy from his dreams. Shiro belongs among this kind of opulence. That smile is the most rare treasure Keith has ever admired.

The thought sours his mood even more.

(He hasn’t seen that smile in movements).

A small group of Alteans gather on the platform at the front of the room. One pushes up their glasses while shifting the holo-projection from a map of the universe to one that highlights the members of the Coalition. Another leans against the shorter one, while talking loudly and enunciating their words with their hands. Before them stands the Altean Princess, dressed rather modestly compared to the room, but still undeniably regal: her starlight hair is spun up in a bun at the nape of her neck with tendrils left loose to frame her face and highlight the crown that decorates her brow; her dark skin glimmers beneath the crystal chandeliers and the pink markings beneath her eyes glow as she laughs.

Keith feels undressed compared to her.

He pulls on his collar again as he glances at the last person standing at the front of the room. His back is to the door, so Keith can only see the way his suit strains against his broad shoulders and defines the muscles of his back and arms. He stands at least a head taller than the others of his party, but he doesn’t curl his shoulders or try to make himself smaller in order to seem less intimidating — but the way he carries himself seems to soften the natural strength of his stance.

“Keith,” his mother begins as she pauses by a section of the curved desks, “it’s time to take our seat.”

“Always prompt, Krolia,” Kolivan chuckles as he slides into his seat on the far side of Krolia.

“I don’t know how the Alteans put up with how chatty some of these Coalition ambassadors are,” she grumbles as she rubs at her temples. “The invitation clearly states that we are to begin at four, Galactic Standard Time.” She slips into her seat and motions to the one left open next to the aisle that is clearly marked for Keith.

Kolivan gives Keith a look that most would think is impassive, but by the subtle lift of the corner of his lips, it’s obvious to Keith that the Prime Minister is holding back a smile. “Perhaps they haven’t changed their clocks.”

His mother crosses her arms and slumps in her chair. It’s nice to see her acting like this during the conference; normally, she conforms to the Blade motto of “knowledge or death” and keeps her emotions in check in order to gather the most intel from her conversation partners. Maybe his father had something to do with his mother’s relaxed approach to the meeting.

If only she could’ve been relaxed in the area of their outfits.

Keith coughs behind his hand to avoid a huff of laughter as he walks to his seat.

They’ve been positioned close to the front, probably in order to encourage them to join in the conversation as new members of the Coalition. They’re close enough that Keith can catch fragments of the conversation from those gathered in the front of the room. Close enough, so that when the tall man turns around, Keith can see his face in detail.

Keith’s hand slips off the back of his seat as he meets familiar grey eyes.

He would know those eyes anywhere. They’ve haunted him for so long in his dreams.

Those familiar lips have parted in shock, before tumbling into that familiar — heart-rending, stomach-swooping, flutter-inducing — smile.

Keith had doubted himself so many times that Shiro actually didn’t exist. That it was just some figment that his imagination had crafted in order to cope with puberty and raging hormones — because no one that perfect could exist.

But here he was — standing before Keith — with a look of shock coloring those beautiful features. The features that Keith had memorized in the haze of dreams, fragments that he had seen grow and change and transform into the beautiful man before him. A man he feels like he knows so well, even without ever having spoken.

“It’s you,” Keith breathes.

“It’s you,” Shiro answers in a tone just as breathless.

There’s a strange quality to Shiro’s voice, how it echoes in the nearly-empty room and how it cracks around the last syllable and how it doesn’t have that same faded edge of his dreams.

Shiro is standing before him, looking even more beautiful in person than in his dreams. His hair is effortlessly tousled. His suit is pressed to perfection, a testament to Earth rather than the fashionable Altean garments or a practical spacesuit. Shiro huffs a laugh that rings through Keith’s mind with a thousand memories, and with that exhale, his shoulders tremble and strain the suit across his broad chest.

Keith’s mouth dries. All words fail. He’s not even sure what he would say even if he could form words. But he can’t stop the pull that tugs him from the bottom of his rib cage towards Shiro.

Keith takes a couple of stumbling steps forward until he is standing at the edge of the platform and gazing up at Shiro’s face. His neck cramps from the amount he has to tilt his chin back in order to hold Shiro’s gaze — but Keith doesn’t dare look away.

“I didn’t think you were real.” Keith’s words are whispered, lungs unable to draw in enough air to and throat unwilling to speak at a normal volume in case it vanquishes this dream.

He takes another step forward, only to stumble against the edge of the platform.

A familiar metal hand grabs ahold of him and keeps him upright. Even the cool texture of the metal and polymer fingertips feels familiar against Keith’s palm as he’s guided up onto the platform.

He can feel the gaze of his mother and Kolivan on his back, but he doesn’t have the words to explain what is happening. It feels too much like a dream, but this is unlike any dream he’s had with Shiro.

His heart is pounding in his chest at a pace that should concern him.

Shiro begins to withdraw his hand, but Keith clamps down on his grasp and uses it to close the distance between them.

“I thought you were just a dream. Allura said —” Shiro begins, but is immediately cut off when Keith places gentle fingertips against his cheek.

The desire to prove that Shiro is real drives Keith to press his palm against that warm skin. In the dreams, he could never bridge that gap — never reach out and actually touch Shiro. But now, everything about the man before him feels so natural, like it was something that Keith had always known.

He can feel Shiro swallow beneath his palm.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, and a shiver courses down Keith’s spine at the sound of his name on Shiro’s lips. His laugh is warm and tinged with tears, “You’re real.”

“Yeah,” Keith exhales wetly, unable to think of any other words.

Shiro turns his face into Keith’s palm and drags his lips across delicate skin. The touch threatens to sear Keith’s skin as those lips purse and press and barely-there peck to the middle of his palm. Shiro closes his eyes and whispers, lips moving against Keith’s calloused skin, “This feels like another dream.”

“Better than a dream. I could never touch you in the dreams,” Keith says softly, unable to take a moment to feel embarrassed at the confession when Shiro’s arms are wrapping around his waist.

The prosthesis is a firm weight around Keith’s hips, holding him tightly as Shiro’s flesh hand settles like searing heat at the base of his spine. The grasp is firm, unveiling, and Keith allows himself to rest in the comfort of it.

“I — I looked everywhere for you, but I couldn’t find you. And after the dreams stopped, I thought —” Shiro’s hold tightens, and Keith braces his free hand against the firmness of Shiro’s chest.

He’s sure that there are whispers of conversation, of confusion, floating around them. His mom’s inquisitive glare lingers just beyond his awareness. All of his attention is focused on Shiro.

“I didn’t think you could be real.”

“What?” Shiro laughs, smile kicking up and dimpling one cheek.

Keith fights the blush that burns in his cheeks. “You seemed too perfect to be real.”

Shiro’s laughter is full, shaking his stomach and vibrating every part of Keith that’s pressed against him. Using the grip on Keith’s hips, Shiro lifts him into the air and twirls them in a circle.

A yelp of delight sounds from Keith, only to be quickly followed by a playful giggle.

With his toes barely touching the ground, Shiro’s nose brushes against his. His breath catches in his chest. If he were to press forward just a little bit, he could close the gap and see what it would be like to kiss the smile that haunted his dreams for phoebs.

“Keith,” Shiro says like it’s a revelation, like it’s a blessing to say, “can I kiss you?”

The question tastes so sweet on Shiro’s lips as Keith closes the distance as his answer.

“Wow,” he exhales, breath fanning across Keith’s lips.

Keith chuckles and kisses Shiro once again, hoping to shock another whisper of praise out of him.

He kicks his feet up in the air and winds his arms around Shiro’s neck. He can practically taste the memories the dreams had shown Shiro on his lips — he knows that this kiss means so much more than a mere gesture of affection: it shows how much they know each other.

But all of those dreams were just fragments of the real Shiro before him.

And that alone won’t be enough.

Keith is determined to learn all that he can about Shiro, even if it means attending every Intergalactic Peace Summit. Even if it means becoming accustomed to Altea’s opulence and excess. Even if it means never dreaming of him again.

It’ll be worth it as long as he can wake up beside him.