Archive of Our Own

***

Fog fills the castle’s decontamination chamber from vents overhead and below. It’s heavy, dense enough to be opaque, and so, Shiro doesn’t see Keith’s face as he drops to the floor.

He sees Keith’s arms go slack, dropping to his sides as his shoulders open, loose and unnatural. 

He sees Keith sway forward. Sees Keith’s knees buckle, his body sag, 

“Ke-” 

The cloud descending from above meets the one rising from below just as Shiro hears the smack of paladin armor hitting the metal grate of the floor. “Keith!” 

Tendrils of alien antiseptic cling to Shiro as he wades through the fog to Keith’s last position, just a few paces away. It’s disorienting to not be able to see, but more than that— why isn’t Keith answering him?

“Coran.” Still wearing his own helmet, Shiro comms in to the castle just as his boot makes contact with a body instead of the floor. He pulls away quickly, but the fact that Keith has no reaction to the contact sends a spike of panic through Shiro that wasn’t there before. “Coran! Do you copy?” 

“Hullo, Number One! Is everything, ah, quite alright?” 

Now dropped to his knees, Shiro turns Keith’s body over, rearranging him onto his back. One of Keith’s arms gets stuck under his own weight, and Shiro has to feel around at his shoulder, trying to right the limb without twisting it unnaturally. Then he’s feeling at Keith’s neck for the helmet closure— he can’t take a pulse through the paladin armor. “Keith is unconscious.”

There’s a pause before Coran responds with a question. It’s true that this doesn’t make sense— they’ve just completed a routine supply run and Keith was fine just moments ago. He and Shiro were talking about the supply planet’s ruby red waterfalls; more specifically, about how they reminded Keith of Big Red cream soda, something he told Shiro that his father would occasionally bring home, if he had reason to stop at the gas station after work. A treat. 

Keith is rarely forthright about his childhood so the comment felt like something valuable, sugary sweet as only memories of Red 40 and carbonated high fructose corn syrup can be. At any rate, Shiro took note of it, and the tentative happiness in Keith’s expression as the two of them walked into the decon chamber. He didn’t look like he was feeling bad. 

“Keith,” Shiro repeats again, finally able to pull the helmet off Keith’s head. Without the helmet, Keith’s head lolls back to the floor, unnaturally lax, at a strange angle because of the bulky propulsion system built into the back of the armor. Shiro does his best to support Keith’s head without being able to see anything through the mist. Keith’s body is just a shadow below him. His own helmet feels stifling; sweat is beading at his temples and there’s no respite to be had. Not right now. Shiro presses two fingers to Keith’s trachea and, from there, slides to the carotid, finding his pulse. 

Finding his pulse…

Nothing. Holding his own breath, Shiro pauses for a beat, waiting. Nothing. Nothing. 

Years of basic first aid training impress upon Shiro the need to start CPR immediately. But the American Heart Association and all its representatives did not account for an alien prosthetic and the strength therein. Shiro will crush him— he can’t — 

Wait. 

The prosthetic. He can feel hot and cold and warm, and pressure, and pain, of course pain, but it’s not the same as it used to be. Not the same as real, not as sensitive. Shiro switches hands, tugging his left glove off with his teeth, and then presses his own flesh and blood to Keith’s skin. 

The beat is thin and warbling, but it’s there. Shiro could cry. 

Swearing instead, Shiro shifts on his knees, Keith’s head in his lap, still blind in the fog. “Is there a way to end the decon cycle early? Coran. I need this fog cleared.” 

“Unfortunately not. The cycle runs for no less than 600 ticks and can’t be interrupted. On the bright side of things,” Coran’s voice sounds too strained to be chipper, “You’re already about 250 ticks in. Oh! 251 now.” 

Shiro does the math in his head. That leaves about six minutes, just shy of six minutes, and the room will only start to clear in five. It’s too long. 

He stands. 

Crouching down, he gathers Keith’s limp body in his arms. Even with the addition of the bulky armor, Keith is lighter than he should be. Earth’s sun, so far away now, weighs 4.8 nonillion pounds. That’s thirty zeros behind the numbers; that’s more than the human brain can comprehend. Keith is just as bright, just as anchoring as Sol. How can he be so light in Shiro’s arms? 

Shiro tucks Keith to his chest and traces the perimeter of the small chamber to find the door that the both of them walked through just a few minutes prior. If the decontamination cycle can’t be suspended directly, then he’ll take an alternate route. Obstacles may crop up in multitudes— life has taught him this— but it’s like flying through a storm. The only way out is through. 

In this case, there’s not a storm to get through, but instead a sealed door in an ancient alien castle. Prosthetic fingers might be dull to feel but they are good enough for this: he finds the lip of the door and pulls . 

Somewhere, an alarm goes off, blaring and angry. The metal of the door makes a grating sound as it crumples like tin foil in the square of Shiro’s palm. Holding Keith, he can’t put his full strength into it, but, slowly, the seal peels apart, the crack between door and wall widens, antiseptic fog rushes out into clear castle air. 

“My! That’s one way to do it!” Coran is there, waiting in the hall. While his tone is bright, Shiro doesn’t miss the way his perceptive eyes find Keith’s face and then rise towards Shiro. “The medbay, I think!” 

En route to the medbay, Shiro learns that none of the other paladins are experiencing any issues with their health…but that rules out very little. Shiro and Keith were the only ones who visited the supply planet. Whether this is caused by some environmental contaminate, or some alienborne virus, or something else entirely…the possibilities are infinite. Keith’s labored wheezing rings in his ears. He hangs limp in Shiro’s arms. 

“Are you feeling alright yourself?” 

“Fine.” Shiro answers without thinking, but then realizes that it actually might be worth thinking about his response. It might help figure out what’s wrong with Keith. Too used to ignoring his own body, it takes a moment to tune back in. He tries to focus as he rushes through the castleship’s halls at Coran’s side. The old Altean has a fast gait, even in non-emergent situations. 

“I’m…warm. My heart rate is elevated.” Shiro takes a deep breath, Keith rising against his chest as he does so. There’s a bad taste in his mouth and the dull edge of a headache behind his eyes. His shoulder is aching, his bicep is sore where it meets the prosthetic. Nothing remarkable. “Nothing that can’t be explained by fatigue. And stress.” 

Coran’s look is sympathetic. But they’ve arrived at the medbay and there’s nothing more to say about Shiro— not when Keith is in critical condition. 

Keith is breathing, but each breath is rapid, short, as though he’s forcing the air in and out of his lungs. Keith is breathing, for now . His struggle becomes apparent when Shiro sets him down on the nearest gurney.  As soon as his back touches the surface, the table lights up in that aquamarine blue that seems to be ubiquitous in Altean tech. Holoscreens shimmer into existence with Keith’s vitals as the table does a preliminary scan. Shiro pulls off his own helmet, scrubbing a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes as he watches the screens shift from friendly blue to a dark and angry red, one-by-one. 

“Altean physicians were some of the best and brightest minds in the galaxy,” Coran remarks, but it’s without his usual flair. Shiro just now notices that the buttons on his collar are mismatched, leaving a gap, like he was rushed to fasten it. All of Coran’s attention is on the numerous data that the table is providing regarding Keith. Graphs and lines, symbols that must be numbers ticking out cold, cold truths. “I saw them work miracles in this room, time and time again.” 

Shiro unsnaps one of the glove closures at Keith’s wrist, so he can pull the glove off of Keith’s hand. First one hand, then the other. Keith bites at his fingernails— it’s a habit that he’s always trying to break, with varying success— and, now, bathed in aquamarine and lifeless, Keith’s hands with their stubby nails and torn cuticles look worse for the wear. His nail beds are already blanched, on their way to blue. Shiro’s been on the opposite side of the marvels of modern medicine. It’s not all it’s cut out to be. “I’d rather we didn’t need a miracle, actually.” 

Whether it’s because the vengeful ghosts of past medical oddities don’t appreciate his brand of humor, or simply Shiro’s own rotten luck, that’s the moment in which Keith rapidly destabilizes. His blood pressure bottoms out. The machines let out a horrible droning beep— Keith’s rapid breathing stills to a chilling halt— 

He flatlines. 

Firsthand accounts of panic often cite the idea that the progression of events slow down, as if a person is watching things unfold outside of themself, a slow motion of sorts. Even when facing dire circumstances in his piloting career, Shiro has experienced a kind of calmness in the moment; the mind’s natural response to shutting out background noise takes over in favor of focusing on survival. Shiro does not find that to be the case as he watches Keith’s heart stop in real time. It’s as if frames are missing, seconds plucked out from the sequence of events, leaving him grasping at how fast time is moving with a kind of fruitless, frenzied attention. Coran has a device with a needle and it must be filled with something like epinephrine— Shiro has no idea where it came from; one second he has never laid eyes on it before and the next, the device is in Coran’s hand. Coran presses it at Keith’s neck, of all places, and both of them wince in tandem as the dose releases into Keith’s body with a sickening click.

Keith’s muscles jerk in response, but his heart still isn’t beating. 

“The chest piece!” Coran tells Shiro and Shiro nods, frantic, pressing the closure at either side under Keith’s arms, finding the hinge at his shoulders to lift it over his head. No extra weight on Keith’s chest. Prosthetic or not, Shiro climbs on top of the table to start chest compressions. Shattered ribs are better than dead. 

“I’ll take that miracle now,” Shiro grits out. He’s on the table, one knee on either side of Keith’s hips. The table wobbles as though it will fold under their combined weights, which some part of his brain catalogs as ridiculous, even in his panic. Shouldn’t it be made to hold people bigger than himself? It’s for aliens! Below him, Keith’s lips are turning blue from lack of oxygen. Shiro sets his Galran-made hand on top of his human one, and both of these he positions over Keith’s sternum. He locks his elbows. The prosthetic glows purple as if in anticipation, 

“Stop!” Coran’s hand is tight enough to bruise Shiro’s shoulder. “Stop— look.”

“Come on, Keith, come on, you can do it, fight, ” Shiro follows his gaze to find the Altean numbers once again ticking in their intervals on the holoscreens above. It feels as though every single one of Shiro’s muscles is tense, terrified. He holds his breath as the numbers move, telling him that Keith is alive in a language that he doesn’t understand. A moment passes. He hangs onto every changing digit. Impossible to tell if Keith’s heart is beating out a normal rhythm, but it looks as if the dose of epi worked. Relief hits Shiro like a truck. He feels like his body is under three times the magnitude of gravity that it should be. He’s woozy with it. 

“Good boy,” Shiro says, shaky as he crawls off of Keith and drops back down to the floor. He’s lightheaded, he sways. His legs feel numb, like pins and needles, he staggers, but he doesn’t fall. His hand is nothing but tremors as it touches Keith’s arm, his cheek, the top of his head, “That’s my— that’s my Keith, so strong,” 

“Not now, Number One,” Coran brings Shiro back to the present. His grip on Shiro’s arm— too tight— is an indicator that he’s shaken as well, but ever stalwart, he directs Shiro to prep the healing pod. The table lifts with Keith still on top of it, moving him into the pod without disturbing his condition, and Shiro feels sick to his stomach. The labs there were lined with similar pods, unfortunates of every shape and size floating in them. The castle’s healing pods have always reminded him of… no . That’s not what this is. He takes a deep breath, unclenches his hands. Wipes tears from his face. 

The pod seals with a mechanical hiss. Keith looks waxy, still as death, except for the way his hair lifts in the Connection-Liquid that fills the pod and allows him to breathe during treatment. His vitals are stammering over the screens, 

“The treatment interval is set at three varga,” Coran says. He takes out a handkerchief—polka dotted and garish— and dabs over his forehead. As if an afterthought, he then buries his not-insubstantially sized nose in it and blows. His eyes look wet. “Number Four gave me quite the fright just then— not to say that— oh quiznack .” 

Shiro’s attention jerks back to Keith in the pod. The pod which is flashing a warning over the surface of the glass, even as it opens— 

Liquid rushes out of the pod with enough force around his ankles that Shiro nearly trips. 

“Keith!” Shiro catches him as Keith crumbles to the ground, dead weight and dripping. The CL fluid is a solvent made to transport oxygen and it feels like oil on the skin. Slimey. Unnaturally cold. “What happened??” 

There’s nothing to be done, nothing at all that Shiro can do to stop it:

He’s having a seizure. 

Keith’s muscles tighten and twitch, jerking unnaturally. The sound of the paladin armor knocking against the floor as Keith convulses will stay with Shiro forever. Coran’s sharp inhale. They can only watch— 

It’s over as abruptly as it began. Immediately, Shiro gathers Keith back to him, once again taking his pulse. It’s bounding, frantic, faint, 

Coran sloshes through the thick liquid pooling over the floor. He’s muttering something under his breath, and the incessant beeping of the machine hasn’t quieted, but Shiro can only focus on Keith, curled in his arms. His hair is goopy with the CL, matted to his skull. He looks small. He looks sick. Shiro’s heart is in his throat. 

He would do anything to save him. Anything. Shiro does not consider himself to be a violent man; at this moment he’d exchange innumerable lives if it meant saving Keith. He’d light up entire galaxies to save this man. As it is, he’s powerless. His arm tightens around the slim set of Keith’s slack shoulders.  

He feels Keith shudder in his arms. Shiro’s gut drops. Is it happening again, the seizure? “Keith?” 

Shiro holds him. He feels the way the first hacking cough wracks Keith’s body. The way he sucks in a breath. The way it stutters in his lungs, uneven.

Keith’s eyes are glassy when they open— he tries to get up, clearly disoriented. 

“Shh,” Shiro soothes. “Stay still, it’s okay,” 

Keith’s voice is smaller than Shiro has ever heard it. “Dad?” 

Shiro doesn’t have the heart to correct him. “I— it’s okay, Keith.” Shiro rocks him, just slightly, holding Keith against his chest. “I’m here, you’re safe…”

Keith’s eyes fall shut again, 

“Hurts,” he says, voice thin, reedy with pain, 

Shiro’s heart is broken. He doesn’t know what he says then, something inadequate— how can anything be enough— but another coughing fit cuts through Keith’s erratic breathing. 

Shiro looks up to Coran from the floor. “What happened?” he asks again. The healing pods, they’re, they’re supposed to be some kind of miracle, they’re supposed to— 

Coran shakes his head. “His temperature is abnormally high, but even such a reading should not have caused the pod to malfunction.” 

It’s not the answer Shiro would have hoped for. 

As they once again move Keith to the table, he tries to struggle, to escape. But his movements are so weak and so sluggish, it takes no strength at all to hold him still until he tires himself into a miserable kind of sleep. 

With Keith’s condition stable— at least for this exact moment— Coran sends a message to their allies on Olkari.  A small vial of Keith’s blood is collected and loaded into a machine for ‘analyzing.’ Shiro familiarizes himself with the data output that once more hovers in ominous panels above the table. It’s a crash course, to learn these symbols and their meaning, but at least now he knows. Or at least has a working understanding of the vital readouts. He watches the numbers like a man possessed. Listens to Keith’s short, forced breaths. Paces. 

If Keith were here— if Keith were here and awake and well— he might say something wry about patience. He’d say it with a slip of a smile, a smirk in his voice, the lightest press of his hand against Shiro’s shoulder. His eyes would be laughing, that way that they do, because he thinks that he’s the one who blows up and that Shiro is the controlled and steady burn. 

It’s not true.  

Fate’s best friend and kindest ally is time. Some hearty combination of contempt and defiance has largely defined Shiro’s attitude towards his own fate. His illness, his career, his captivity, his role in this war— all of these might have had predetermined ends in some way or another, but Shiro wouldn’t know. Pushing beyond the pre-established endpoint has been hard wired into him by this point, like breathing or piloting the universe’s most powerful weapon in the form of a giant robot cat. Shiro is not a patient man. He hates to wait. He does not and will not wait for fate to take her course. Here, now, for Keith, he waits. What other choice does he have?

The Olkari message back with a standard care guide until they can deduce more specific treatment. From there, Keith’s vitals are under control thanks to a heavy cocktail of meds, all treating symptoms rather than the cause. His breathing is eased through a machine that’s not unlike one of earth’s ventilators. Though not as invasive as intubation, it’s still horrible to take part in. Worse to witness. Unthinkable to leave. 

The hours drip by like the fluid that’s hanging near the glowing hospital bed and slowly tipping into Keith’s arm. Shiro had to rip the black undersuit of the paladin armor from Keith’s wrist to above his elbow for the IV to be inserted under his skin. Blood has never bothered Shiro, but the pearl of red that wells under the bore of the needle as it finds Keith’s vein threatens to turn his stomach. For everything that Shiro has endured, it might as well be that which ruins him. That little drop of blood. Hours later, Shiro is still worrying over it, rearranging the ragged pieces of black undersuit that are left flapping around Keith’s forearm. Shiro has settled into a place at Keith’s side. Close enough to hold his hand, but angled such that he can see the readings on the screens above Keith’s bed. He’s roused out of a dark swirl of ache when the door to the medbay opens. 

Allura is on the other side. 

It must be late at night because the clothes that she’s wearing aren’t like any that Shiro has seen her in before. Loose fitting pants and a light top, and her hair is tied up in a lopsided bun. Curly baby hairs twist out of place, giving her a self-wrought crown. “Shhh,” she intones, tip toeing as she slips into the room. 

Coran had been adamant that the other paladins and the princess not come into contact with either himself or Shiro and Keith. Not until they have the full picture of what caused Keith’s collapse— until then, a full quarantine is imperative. (As it stands, the older man is asleep on a sofa towards the other side of the room. His head is tilted back at a dramatic angle and he’s snoring so loudly that it echoes.) 

But when Shiro whispers: “You’re not supposed to be here,” and Allura smiles at him, close-mouthed and girlish, it feels more like she’s sneaking into a slumber party than a dire emergency.

“It is my castle,” she tells him, voice still low, as she lifts one of the medical tables out of the way to make room for another chair next to Shiro, next to Keith. She pulls both of her legs up when she sits down in it, wrapping her arms around her shins as she regards Keith prone in front of them. Up close, her pajama pants have drawings of little fuzzy animals on them, maybe like bunnies, but not exactly. “And Keith is my paladin,” she says, not lilting anymore, but somber. “As are you. And so it is my duty to take care of you both.” 

“I…appreciate that.” While the sentiment is nice, in a practical sense it doesn’t seem like Allura can do anything about the current situation. She’d be better off in bed, getting rest. Shiro knows that navigating and maintaining the castle takes a toll on her. Not to mention the ineffable burden of saving the known universe. And keeping up princess-ly appearances. 

For now, the eye makeup she normally wears is absent, as are her sparkly earrings. Her natural lashes are so white that they are almost translucent. Barely there at all. She notices Shiro watching her and looks up at him. 

Shiro tilts one shoulder towards her. An unspoken response. 

Her knees drop down as she sits up a little straighter in the chair. He’s surprised by the tenderness with which she reaches out and touches him. Allura is powerful in many, many ways, but her hand is small when it touches his own. She squeezes with a solidness and strength that hardly matches the way it looks. “Could I convince you to let me take over for a little while? So you can sleep? Or eat? Or wash up?” 

“Allura…” It’s true that Shiro is still in his armor. He hasn’t so much as removed his gauntlet or chest piece. The supply run from earlier in the day seems like it happened months ago. But, he can’t leave. 

She lowers her hand, but rather than pull away, she instead dips it under Shiro’s arm so that she can loop around his arm, and hold it close to her chest. Half a hug, but somehow more intimate than the brief embraces they’ve shared before. She’s soft. As her head gently rests against his shoulder, he breathes in the unmistakable scent of her floral perfume. “No, I suppose not,” she murmurs. Without pulling away, she sighs, sinking closer to his side as the measured exhale leaves her. “Shall I stay? Just for company then?” 

“That’d be nice,” Shiro says, and finds that he means it. He squeezes her knee. He turns his arm over so that the back of his hand is resting on her lap. She’s got him. Like a lifeline. 

The two of them stay like that for a moment, conversation ebbing away in favor of the quiet kind of breathing that happens slow and regular when the rest of the world is asleep. Over Keith, Shiro watches the digits move and lets himself believe that Keith is improving. It might be true. Time passes. Shiro thinks that Allura may have drifted off too, but then she shifts, changing her hold on his arm. One hand gets stuck into the pocket of her pajama bottoms, and when it emerges, she’s holding a brightly colored square. This, she places in Shiro’s open palm. 

Shiro pulls his hand out of her hold in favor of examining the little square. 

The mystery is soon solved, however, as she pulls out an identical square for herself and immediately turns it over to unwrap it. The brightly colored foil— it’s a cyan— comes off in one piece to reveal what can only be a piece of chocolate. She slides this in her mouth and examines the empty wrapper. 

“‘ Someone is thinking of you right now,’ ” she reads off, tucking the chocolate in her cheek to do so, then turns the paper over and shows him the message written on the inside of the wrapper in Altean while she sucks on the rest. “Hm. Rather ominous.” 

“Could go several ways,” Shiro agrees. Curious, he unwraps his own. Shiro isn’t much of a sweets guy— Keith is the one with the sweet tooth. Back at the Garrison, Shiro made a habit of keeping a bag of peanut M&Ms in his hoverbike caddy, just to see Keith light up at the sight of that telltale yellow bag— but the Altean chocolate is good for what it is. He chews, savoring the creamy artificial sweetness of it while he smooths the wrapper to perfect in his palm. He forgot the way chocolate sticks to teeth: that milky, thirsty feeling that it leaves. “What’s mine?” 

He sticks out his hand and Allura leans forward and immediately balks. “Oh,” she says, pursing her perfect pout and looking elsewhere. “Perhaps…perhaps another?” 

“Allura.” 

Miserable, she nods and clears her throat: “ ‘Grab life with both hands.’ ” 

The laugh that Shiro barks out is so loud that Allura shoves him and the chairs clatter and they both freeze for a moment, terrified that they’ve woken up Coran. They haven’t. He’s still snoring. Panicked, Allura slaps a hand over Shiro’s mouth. From behind it, Shiro is now shaking with silent laughter, the kind of absurd mirth that chokes a person and makes tears well up. Allura is so appalled that her entire face is red, all the way to the points of her ears, and when she sees Shiro unable to speak, she starts laughing too. 

“Shhh,” Shiro warns, barely able to catch his breath. 

“Oh you!!” she hisses, grinning. “Give me that! I’ll get you another.” 

“Absolutely not,” Shiro counters, sticking the little square of foil into one of the hidden pockets of the paladin armor for safekeeping. “This one is mine.” 

“The last one we will save for Keith then,” Allura says. She places a square of chocolate on the edge of Keith’s sickbed with all the regality of a queen knighting her most valued soldier. 

Shiro’s good humor takes on a richer tone. Joy and adoration feel much the same, he’s found. He likes the chocolate but he loves the idea of Keith enjoying it. 

“Though I imagine the message will be lost on him,” Allura mutters. “He’ll simply eat the sweet!” 

Few know or understand that Keith is absurdly sentimental. If the message strikes a chord with him, he’ll save the wrapper for an eternity. Shiro has caught glimpses of the contents of Keith’s belt packs. The contents therein range from strictly utilitarian to wildly maudlin. “He might surprise you,” Shiro says, quiet. 

“Yes?” Allura asks. She looks towards Keith. 

The peak of joy nosedives into its complement of sorrow. Bone deep and just as arresting as the breath stealing laugh, Shiro is struck. The pain is sharp enough that tears well in his throat. He curls inward, pressing a hand over his face as if to hide, but it’s inescapable. “What will I do if he’s not okay?” 

He feels shame as soon as the thought leaves him— and to Allura, no less. Shiro sucks in a breath, steadying himself back to baseline, or at least some semblance of it. But when he looks at Allura, she’s already emotional. “Allura, I’m-” 

“Then you will go on with a piece of yourself missing,” Allura says, answering his question. “And nothing will seem quite as it used to be.” Her mouth downturns, quivering, and she blinks, tears escaping from her bright blue eyes.  

Shiro stands. She folds into his arms. 

“I will not lose another member of my family,” Allura whispers into his chest. “Keith will be okay.” 

It’s a balm, letting the tears fall. Shiro shudders out a sob and she doesn’t ask anything of him, doesn’t demand strength he doesn’t have. She holds him, warm and floral and soft. Sharing sorrow makes it no less heavy, but as it expands it becomes more bearable. He sinks into the chair at Keith’s bedside. Before sitting down next to him again, Allura presses a kiss into Shiro’s temple. 

“Look at us,” she says, brushing wetness from her cheeks. She plops down in the chair next to him. “A couple of nobblemuffs!” 

“My thoughts exactly,” Shiro says. She smiles at him. 

*

The night passes. 

Coran, when he wakes, is not surprised that Allura snuck in to be at Keith’s sickbed. If his grumbling is any indication— “Princess! Should’ve known you’d sneak in, right under my nose! Can’t bear not to pry, just like your father!” — he’s rather proud of her disobedience. 

Keith’s condition is the same. His vitals are looking better than the previous night, but it’s likely from the medication rather than any actual improvement. 

Around 5:30 a.m. by the ship’s timeclock, they get a ping from Olkari. Shiro and Coran stand on either side of Allura as she reads it. 

Her hand lifts to her mouth as she scrolls through the text. “Oh,” she says. 

Shiro’s heart drops. 

Coran places a hand on his back. He’s been reading over Allura’s shoulder. “We couldn’t have known,” 

“Known what, ” Shiro demands. His mind is racing from possibility to possibility, none of them good. Without his consent, his Galran arm activates, violet and terrifying. The Alteans balk at the display, Coran actually stepping in front of Allura, and Shiro feels like sobbing and ripping apart the castle all at once. He’s better than this, he’s better than this, he’s better than this — he doesn’t feel better than this, not when Keith could be— 

It takes all of his self control to tamp it down. One-by-one the units fuse back together, until it is dormant again. He grinds his teeth through the process, grinds out the words again: “Known. What.” 

Coran is the one who breaks the charged silence that follows. “You both took a supplement prior to the supply run, yet?” He pulls up the log from the medbay, scrolling past the documentation of the events from Keith’s collapse to the previous entry. “And before you returned to the castleship?” 

Shiro takes a deep breath, remembering. He frowns. “The 8-C? Yes.” 

‘8-C’ is a shorthand version of ‘acetazlamox’ which is given as a standard pre-med every time that the crew goes planetside. Altean designed, this medication helps the body adjust from the weightlessness of space flight to a planet’s gravity, and, in some cases, can be a huge help in preventing altitude/nadir sickness. 

“Keith and I have both taken it a hundred times before,” Shiro continues, not understanding. 

“Yes, that’s the problem,” Coran nods. “Evidently his Galran biology prevents him from being able to metabolize the drug in the same way that humans or Alteans do. What we’re seeing here is the culmination of many doses. A toxicity. Overdose.” 

The clicking of Keith’s ventilator apparatus seems mocking at this point. This is from medication ? How could they have given him something that hurt him this significantly? Shiro feels hysterical. “Isn’t this an issue that we should have explored prior to ingesting this apparently toxic chemical?” 

As if trying to calm, Allura places her hand on his. “Recall that when we first started using the 8-C, we didn’t know of Keith’s Galran half.” This is true. By all accounts, the supplement was supposed to be beneficial for humans in the same way that it worked in Alteans. And, to be extra safe, they did experiment with a test dose. On Lance. (Shiro remembers that the princess asked and Lance was eager to volunteer.) “By the time Keith found out about his heritage, he had already taken it many times without a problem. How were we to know?” 

“The Olkari have synthesized a reversal agent. We will have it shortly.” Coran says, taking the holoscreen from Allura. 

Shiro asks the only thing that matters: “Is Keith going to be okay?” 

There’s no way to know until they try. 

*

The so-called ‘reversal agent’ is fast acting. 

It’s excruciating to witness. 

Keith regains consciousness almost immediately, but he’s confused, completely disoriented from the fever and the sedatives. The reversal agent makes him nauseous so he immediately throws up. He tries to take the IV out and is scared when Shiro stops him. He’s docile, then agitated, trying to escape. He nuzzles into the coldness of Shiro’s metal hand. He asks for his father again. And again. 

His vitals are improving, but he’s fighting it every step of the way. When Shiro climbs up on the table to hold him still, Keith trembles and cries out. Shiro can only feel like a monster as he holds Keith against his chest and Keith’s hands scramble at Shiro’s arm, he kicks, trying to free himself to escape. He’s so distressed, and so weak at this point, that he tires quickly, wilting against Shiro while tears are still wet on his face. 

Now that they know what to look for, it’s simple to monitor the success of the reversal agent. The amount of 8-C in Keith’s body was fifty times that of a therapeutic dose. It’s a wonder that Keith didn’t show signs of toxicity earlier. 

When Coran delivers that information, all Shiro can do is hold himself together. He feels so angry— a tightness in his chest, a welling of his throat— that this happened to Keith. Keith trusts Shiro so completely, and the others by extension, and here, they’re poisoning him. Shiro feels responsible. He feels betrayed. He feels angry. 

The reversal-agent is fast acting. 

After Keith passes out in Shiro’s arms, his fever finally breaks. His oxygen saturation improves enough for him to breathe on his own. His blood pressure and heart rate normalize. 

“Full recovery may take weeks.” Shiro realizes this as he reads the translation of the Olkari message while Keith finally sleeps more peacefully. Much of it is over his head, but words like ‘multiple organ failure,’ ‘prolonged muscle weakness,’ ‘headache,’ ‘chronic fatigue;’ these are easy enough to understand. It’s imperative that Keith makes a full recovery. His health needs to become their top priority. 

But. 

They may not have weeks. “If there is an attack, if we need to form Voltron—” 

Allura shakes her head. She’s still in her pajamas, like she arrived the night before, and she looks as tired as Shiro feels. “Shiro.” 

It’s Coran who speaks up. “The boy is a paladin of Voltron.” Despite the bags under his eyes and the way his mustache looks less spry than usual, he puffs his chest. “That means something. He’ll have this licked faster than a sprokle can say peckledoo!!” 

“That’s… so helpful.” Shiro rubs the ever deepening line across his forehead. 

“What Coran means is,” Allura gives Coran a good natured smile, “Is that we must simply take things one day at a time.” 

It’s not long before the other paladins are breaking down the door to the medbay. They come in like a color-coded whirlwind: Hunk is giving some long explanation about the 8-C’s mechanism of action and Pidge is interrupting him and Lance is poking at the no-longer-in-use IV bag. Their lighthearted laughing and talking is an absurd contrast with the events of the last twelve varga, one that leaves Shiro feeling uncharacteristically resentful. 

Still, they do mean well. Clearly they were worried. At Keith’s bedside, and feeling protective in front of the other paladins, Shiro holds Keith’s hand as he sleeps. He runs a thumb over Keith’s radial pulse. It’s stronger now, and steady. He thinks that he’s doing a decent job of following the raucous conversation of the room until he jerks awake from nodding off in his chair. 

“That’s the third time you’ve done that,” Pidge remarks. They raise their eyebrows above their glasses. “Go to bed.” 

Keith is stable now, but Shiro still doesn’t feel comfortable leaving him. Especially not with the others. He gathers all the civility he has left: “As much as I would like to sleep in my own bed, I’ll stay with Keith. I’d rather be sure that Keith is alright.”

“Why not both?” Lance stops from where he’s now been making a jenga-style tower out of gauze packets. “Take him with you. Coran, that’s fine right?” 

The team being together seems to have reinvigorated Coran to his usual self: “Why yes! With his current improvement and the marvelous ability of our finely tuned Altean instruments, I think a change of scenery would be quite alright!” 

“Yeah,” Lance agrees. “Plus, the mullet would probably splooge in his pants if he woke up in your bed, it’d be like his favorite wet dr—waahh!” 

Hunk delicately picks Lance up and places a large and loving hand over his entire mouth. “What Lance is saying is, Shiro, it might be good for both of you. Ouch!!! He bit me! Dude!” 

“The oldest trick in the book, my guy,” Lance waggles his eyebrows, still secure in Hunk’s arms. He preens. “Reminder that I’m the youngest in a family of five, and I play to win.” 

The moment devolves from there. Allura asks Lance to define ‘splooge’ and he— red faced— starts stammering at excruciating decibels. And then, everyone is shouting. Shiro’s sour mood darkens further. All this noise can’t be good for Keith. Pidge is right. Better to rest elsewhere. 

Shiro gathers Keith up in his arms. Keith makes a noise, barely audible, but he doesn’t wake. It’s different, then, from the panic of carrying him into the medbay. As Shiro walks the hall to his quarters, pace even so as not to disturb Keith’s rest, he’s thankful for every breath that Keith takes. Every soft inhale, every measured, gentle exhale. Every one is precious. 

*

Shiro is careful as he lays Keith down in his bed. The heart monitor is still visible: now a holoscreen hovering over Shiro’s bed. All of the 8-C has been cleared from his system for hours, and, slowly, all of Keith’s numbers are returning to baseline. Still, Shiro sets the alarm parameters to a very narrow window— if anything at all changes in Keith’s condition, any vital sign out of place, the tech will notify him. 

Even with the alarms set in such a way, Shiro wastes no time in the shower. No luxuriating in the hot water or letting his mind wander, just a utilitarian rinse, reminiscent of his days in a shared Garrison barrack. He does a short version of his everyday shaving routine, barely paying attention. It’s an inevitability then, when he nicks his neck. His heart pounds as the blood wells. He watches it in the mirror. The way the blood drips down his neck. The way it looks on his fingertips as he wipes it away— 

Keith’s blood, the IV, the seizure, the pod, he almost — 

Shiro has to stop and take a breath before he can continue. One metal hand and one human curl against the coldness of the sink. Keith is okay. Keith is okay. 

The evidence is right here: 

In his bed, Keith has turned onto his side when Shiro walks back into the room. Shiro pauses for a moment, drinking in the way peaceful sleep looks on Keith— the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair spreads across Shiro’s pillow. Shiro towels off and gets dressed, just a tee shirt and boxers. He can almost imagine that this is the way it might be if they always shared a bed. If he saw this kind of Keith all the time. As Shiro settles in next to him, he finds that Keith has one of his thumbs tucked inside his mouth. Self soothing. The other hand is curled in, tucked up against his own chest. Shiro brushes his hair out of his face. He lays on his side, facing Keith. The last thing that he sees before he falls asleep is the perfect way that each of Keith’s straight eyelashes crisscross before they fall over his cheeks. 

*

Shiro is a light sleeper. A man can only be abducted by aliens so many times before it disrupts a healthy REM cycle. Combine that with the possibility of training drills or actual attack, and it’s been several years since Shiro slept deeply or for any extended amount of time. But. 

When he wakes up, Keith is gone. Shiro sits up, immediately on edge. In the en suite, he can hear water running. The shower. 

The Altean tech was monitoring Keith’s vitals via a patch on his skin. Right now, the wideset holoscreen displays a single error message— Shiro finds the patch discarded among the sheets as he slides out of bed. He picks it up, smoothing out the delicate tech before tucking it in the storage at the head of the bed. 

“Keith?” He shouldn’t be up just yet. The Olkari physicians predicted that it might be another movement before Keith even felt up to walking on his own. 

Steam drifts from under the bathroom door. Shiro gets close enough to be able to feel the humidity, but he stops. He’s telling himself to be rational and wait when he hears a crash and a thunk.

He cracks the door in time to see Keith— naked and on his ass in the shower, obviously having fallen— throw a bottle of shampoo with as much force as he can muster against the wall. “Fuck!” 

“Keith,” 

“Shiro?” he asks, when he notices someone in the doorway. His voice is a slip of a rasp. Hoarse. Shiro thinks of the way he cried out earlier. The way he gasped for breath. 

“Did you hurt yourself?” Shiro steps over Keith’s discarded clothes as he walks into the tiled room. For the most part, Keith was still in the paladin armor’s undersuit. Now it’s balled up next to the toilet, a puddle of black. Keith’s ever present knife is with his belt in the medbay, strewn over the floor— at least that’s where it was when Shiro last saw it. He wishes he had thought to bring it with him, for Keith. 

The water beats down over Keith, filling in the silence. 

“I had to piss.” Keith says, looking away. “Wanted to shower. Feel like shit.” He puts one hand on either side of the tub and attempts to leverage himself up. He can’t. 

“Let me help you,” Shiro says. More command than an offer. But he waits for Keith’s response. 

Shiro knows first hand how independent Keith is. Every bit of help he’s accepted from Shiro has been fiercely denied at first, begrudgingly accepted, and then repaid ten times over. Shiro retrieves the offending bottle of shampoo— juniberry scented, like most of the body care stocked in the castle— and sets it back into place. 

“I don’t have any clothes on,” Keith says instead of answering. His face and chest are dappled in red, flushed from more just than the hot water. He’s pointedly not looking at Shiro. 

It’s not a ‘no.’ Shiro manages to catch his eye and gives Keith a smile. “Yes, I can see that.” Moving as confidently as he can— because this is not something that Shiro was prepared for either, and he is, afterall, only human— Shiro bends down to wrap his arms around Keith and help him to his feet. He’s thinking mostly that he wants Keith to be safe and to help him, but it would be a lie to say that he didn’t briefly appreciate the fact that Keith has a dark freckle on one of his ass cheeks. Briefly. He inadvertently spots it and immediately catalogs it away. 

As quickly as Keith’s arms wrap around Shiro’s neck, they leave. He detaches himself and stands awkwardly on one side of the tub with his hand braced against the tile to keep balance. With the other he looks like he wants to cover himself, but he doesn’t, so it just hovers, awkward, in a fist at his side. His shoulders are square, his jaw is tight. He’s not looking at Shiro. 

Water now running down his own back, Shiro turns off the harsh beat of the shower and, instead, runs a bath. Rivulets find their way down his neck and soak the collar of his shirt before he can adjust the tap. 

The water rushes into the tub, not too hot, Shiro thinks, and fast enough now that it’s already pooling around Keith’s ankles. Shiro hasn’t actually used this bathtub as a bathtub since living aboard the castleship. It’s difficult to find one deep enough for a man of his size to be comfortable. But for Keith, he’ll make it work. He looks up at Keith— and Keith looks like he is somehow both embarrassed enough to cry and also close to falling asleep— and purposefully keeps his voice steady. Casual. “Temperature okay?” 

A short jerk of his head. 

Satisfied with the way the tub is filling, Shiro stands. Though more lucid than he has been, Keith is obviously still fighting the sedatives. Despite the low light in the bathroom, his pupils are two pinpoints of black when he looks up at Shiro, finally meeting his gaze. Shiro takes Keith by the hand, and touches his waist, guiding him to sit on the side of the tub without slipping. “I’m going to get some towels,” Shiro tells him, just loud enough to be heard over the faucet. He punctuates the statement with a solid squeeze. The touch is grounding. For Keith, he hopes, but for himself too. 

He walks back into the bathroom to see the set of Keith’s lithe shoulders, the delicate and perfect curve of his spine as he sits on the side of the tub. Leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on his thighs, and his head hanging down, he looks bowed with fatigue. His hair is pieced with humidity, swept to one side. Shiro can see the mark that the emergency dose of epinephrine left on his neck. The bruise is already blooming under his skin. Greenish purple. 

“I’ll help you wash,” Shiro offers. 

Keith twists to look at him. The adhesive from the patch he was wearing is still visible. A too-clean line marring the organic way downy hair spreads over his chest. 

His expression looks dull. Shiro is used to Keith’s brightness, or sharpness, or even happiness looking back at him, not this heavy lidded fatigue. There’s no doubt that Keith still feels terrible. Weak, at the very least. He hasn’t eaten. His head probably aches, and his muscles are likely sore. He didn’t even have the strength to stand in the shower— 

Shiro almost lost him. 

Grief and hot, uncomfortable, untenable sorrow rolls over Shiro like a wave in the humidity filled room. His mouth works; he has to swallow before he can speak. His hand clenches in the towel. “Keith. Please let me,” 

Something loosens in Keith’s expression. He nods. 

The water is high enough in the tub that it covers Keith’s stomach once he lowers himself in. Shiro helps him do so, his human hand splayed over Keith’s side to steady him while one of Keith’s hands grips Shiro’s prosthetic. He lets out a quiet hiss as the hot bath rises over his skin. The floral fragrance of it is light, sweet. The room is far from cold, but tendrils of steam are still visible, rising over the water’s surface. 

Keith is tense, looking straight ahead.  Slightly hunched. Jaw clenched like he’s holding his breath. Mouth tight. Hands in fists at his side.  

He’s quiet, but in the way that Keith is quiet— emotion loud enough to fill the room without words. Shiro folds one of the towels to place on the floor at the side of the tub. The Altean design is such that the tap turns off on its own when the bath is at capacity. Without the water running, the room shifts to an echoing silence. 

Kneeling at the side of the tub, Shiro cups his hands to let the water run down Keith’s back, letting him acclimate to the temperature for a moment. Keith’s eyes are closed, but they’re pressed shut too tightly, like the tension in the rest of his body. Shiro touches his back, between Keith’s shoulder blades. He leaves his hand there, splayed over the indent of his spine. 

“Try to relax.” Shiro instructs. 

Keith does, slowly. Shiro can feel the deep breath that Keith takes— his hand rises with the effort, five fingertips steady over Keith’s damp skin. Blueblack eyes find his own. 

“Tilt your head back,” Shiro uses the faucet’s handheld attachment to wet Keith’s hair. Without the volume it has when it’s dry, his hair is longer than Shiro expects, reaching past Keith’s shoulder blades at the longest part. 

The water sloshes as Keith’s hands find the sides of the tub to steady himself. He exhales, a long and shaky sigh, uncertain in the way it quivers. His eyes close. Shiro can see the bob of his adam’s apple as Keith swallows, giving himself over to Shiro’s care. 

Shampoo sounds sticky in Shiro’s palms as he works it into a lather. He’s purposeful as he begins to massage it into Keith’s scalp. Gentle. Firm. 

“Ah-” 

Pain— Shiro stops. With Keith’s hair still entangled around his fingers, he runs his thumb over the area, feeling the bump of a hidden bruise. 

“It hurts,” Shiro notes. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, 

It must have happened when Keith had the febrile seizure and the healing pod malfunctioned. Shiro thought he was fast enough, he thought that he kept Keith’s head from hitting the floor. He thought that the medication they were taking wouldn’t hurt Keith. He thought he was keeping him safe, 

“S’okay,” Keith mumbles. 

It’s okay. 

With shampoo suds making bubbled tracks down to his elbows, Shiro sits back, withdrawing from Keith. 

“It is not okay,” Shiro corrects, sucking in a breath. He swipes the back of a hand across his own face, effectively leaving a trail of suds before he sits back up. His shirt is already soaked. What does it matter? “You’re hurt , Keith.” 

The words come out too sharp and Shiro catches the way Keith’s expression flickers from open back to closed. The way a little line of ache creases between his brows and his mouth wobbles. He ducks his face, chin minutely angled as he turns ever so slightly away—

Keith swallows, 

“No,” Shiro sits back up. “Oh Keith, I didn’t mean—”

Now is not the time. One day Shiro will have to reckon with the fact that Keith forgives him too quickly and follows him too blindly. For now, while Keith is recovering, he needs something gentler than the harsh reality that Shiro is just a man. With plenty of flaws of his own, including a temper. He touches Keith’s shoulder, penitent for his sharpness. Guiding him to sit back up. “I don’t want the soap to get in your eyes.” 

The CL left Keith’s hair matted. It takes time to work the shampoo in between each of his locks; Shiro stays silent as his thumb and forefinger are attentive to the task with muted strength. He’s careful not to pull. 

When satisfied, Shiro traces the delicate widow’s peak of Keith’s hairline with the stream of water, taking care to cup his hand over Keith’s forehead so that the water doesn’t get in his eyes. The hair rinses smooth like a curtain of black silk against Shiro’s hands and Keith’s pallid skin. 

His eyes look heavy. 

Shiro wrings out a washcloth, letting the warm water spread through his fingers before he tucks one corner of it over the crest of Keith’s cheekbone, wiping his face. There must be dried tears there, salt somewhere hidden. Shiro wipes down his neck, his chest, sudsing up the area with the adhesive, patient until the stickiness is removed. 

There’s a thick raised line of tissue, purple red and shiney, over the top of Keith’s right shoulder. It curves and stretches down past his clavicle until it tapers into a point. It’s from the Blade trials, Shiro realizes. He hasn’t seen the injury since it happened. Keith never mentioned that it left a scar. He never talks about it at all, that day, or what it meant. “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” Shiro instructs, voice low, as he rinses over the raised skin of the scar.  

Keith doesn’t answer, but he’s sitting very still. 

He is pliant, docile as Shiro lifts his arms in turn, running the washcloth over him, sending rivulets of water dripping through the grime left on his skin, the lush hair under his arms. The IV left a bruise over his inner forearm; this Shiro tends to by hand, running gentle fingertips over the dried blood until it’s washed away. 

“You still with me?” Shiro asks him, pausing with the washcloth at the small of Keith’s back. He doesn’t want him to pass out from being in the hot bath for so long. 

“Mm.” Keith says. He lets Shiro lift his legs above the surface of the water, first the left and then the right. The noise that he makes when Shiro applies pressure to his instep gives Shiro pause for a different reason. It’s a breath of pleasure, a release of tension, and fuck if the sound doesn’t do something to Shiro. Unable to resist, Shiro rolls his thumb into the ball of Keith’s foot and watches the way Keith melts into the water, sinking into the heady steam. His head tips back, his shoulders drop, he sighs, 

“Dizzy?” Shiro asks, abandoning his hold on Keith’s ankle to touch his cheek. He feels warm, but not feverish, not clammy and disoriented like before. 

Keith nods, blinking up at him. 

Shiro cups water over him, rinsing away the last of the suds. He touches the mechanism to begin to drain the tub. Because it’s alien, the water lifts— the drain is in the ceiling. 

“I’ll never get used to that,” Shiro mutters, unfolding a towel. 

He catches a glimpse of Keith’s slight smile. “Yeah. S’weird.” 

Toweling his hair, Shiro helps him to the side of the tub again. Keith moves as if to stand, but as soon as he gets his legs under him, they collapse. Shiro is there to catch him. He’s trembling with the effort, just the effort of getting to his feet. This has been too much for him. Time to get him back into bed. 

He lifts Keith from there, shushing him when Keith protests. “You’ll fall,” Shiro reasons with him, adjusting Keith against his chest. The protest is mild; Keith is weighed down with fatigue as he slumps in Shiro’s arms. Shiro’s arm fits under the fold of his knees just so— it’s nothing at all to carry him back to the bedroom. 

Keith’s slender thighs part as he sits, naked, on Shiro’s bed. It gives Shiro a view of his soft cock, the perfect way it’s nestled against his balls in dark curls. He’s out of it, hazy from the hot bath and the injury and the lingering dregs of sedative in his blood. Shiro drapes the towel around Keith while he finds clothes for him out of his own closet. 

A pair of shorts and a tee shirt will be fine. It’s not like Shiro’s selection is vast, but he takes the smallest pair of boxers he has, and one of his tightest shirts to give to Keith. Keith’s eyes are heavy lidded. He grips Shiro’s hand— and his fingers are pruney and his grip is weak— teetering as he steps into the shorts. 

“Turn around,” Shiro instructs once his shirt is over Keith’s head. Keith looks vulnerable, once again too small for who he is, as he sits swimming in Shiro’s clothes. He obeys and Shiro carefully lifts his hair out from under the tee shirt collar where it’s caught. Shiro has never combed someone else’s hair, not once in his life, he realizes, retrieving his comb from the bathroom where he keeps it. ‘Start at the ends’ floats to his mind, though where or how he learned such a thing is a mystery. Keith’s hair is thick, the natural wave of it coming out as Shiro makes slow work of getting it untangled. Each curl of hair leaves a wet print on the shirt, just enough moisture there to be distinct. He has a horrible cowlick at the crown of his head, but by then, by the time Shiro reaches that part, Keith is nodding off. 

Shiro takes off his own soaked shirt, tossing it aside where he would normally keep it neatly in the closet hamper with the other clothes that need laundered. He lifts the duvet, arranging it over him as Keith sinks into the bed. Like before, Shiro lays down with him, facing him as Keith lays on his side. 

Keith’s eyes are dark. Glassy and solemn when they find Shiro’s. 

“Shiro…”

“It’s okay, Keith,” Shiro assures him. His own voice sounds strange in his ears. Raw. Tight. He lifts one of his hands, his left, not the prosthetic, and touches lightly at Keith’s hair, as if cupping his ear from hearing anything that might disturb him, stroking his thumb over one of Keith’s dark brows. “It’s okay, go back to sleep for now.” 

He’s alarmed when the glassiness of Keith’s eyes spills over. He’s crying. 

“What’s wrong?” Shiro asks him, sitting up on his elbow. “Are you in pain?” 

Keith shakes his head. Overcome with emotion, he chokes out something else, but it’s more tears than words. “I just,” he swallows, and instead of continuing, presses a hand over his eyes as if to hide. 

“You’re tired,” Shiro nods, understanding. He’s overwhelmed. Keith bows his head, tucking his chin to his chest as he tries to compose himself. Keith coughs out a sob, warm and wet and messy. 

Shiro continues stroking his head, running gentle fingers through the hair that’s not quite dry. “You did good,” Shiro murmurs, grateful for the way that Keith is recovering. The words make Keith suck in a shaky breath and exhale it, uneven, but alive. Shiro is grateful for it. Trembling, Keith’s hand lowers. He looks up at Shiro and Shiro can’t help but repeat himself: “So good. I’m proud of you,” 

Shiro wipes the tears away with his thumb, cupping Keith’s face. He tucks a bit of Keith’s hair behind his ear, keeping his motion slow. Light and slow and gentle, like the way Keith’s breathing is slowly evening out. The midnight blue color of the castleship’s sheets seeps into the rest of the room, coloring the dark. He watches as Keith gradually submits to sleep. His eyes flutter open, unfocused, fall shut again. His breaths are slow and steady and deep, like even if he wants to stay awake his body rebels. He nuzzles into Shiro’s pillow, mouth soft and open, before he opens his eyes again. Ancient engines provide a low and constant thrum, most evident in moments like this: the sinking lull of almost sleep. 

After a moment, Shiro is sure that Keith has finally drifted off. He withdraws his hand. When Keith wakes next, he’ll need something to drink. Maybe food, if he feels like he can stomach it. Shiro moves to get up, 

“Please don’t,” Keith says. Quiet. 

Shiro pauses, waiting— 

“Please don’t leave me,” Keith whispers. 

Keith’s closed eyes press together tightly, but not tightly enough: a tear slips out, wetness gathering at Keith’s nose rather than slipping down his face because of the way his head is resting on Shiro’s pillow.

“I’m here,” Shiro says, abandoning his movement to get up. Instead he reaches out, carefully slipping one of his arms under Keith’s, pulling Keith forward into his chest. Keith goes willingly. He relaxes into Shiro, muscles slack as he presses his face into Shiro’s skin. Shiro slips a hand under his shirt, rubbing his back in a soothing circle. He does that for a long time, slow and regular. He lets the motion become more gradual, until it’s really just a heavy hand holding him close. He feels Keith’s lips part, 

“Love you,” 

The words are quiet, a sigh that escaped as Keith drifted back into sleep. Soft enough that it might have been Shiro’s imagination, if not for the way Keith’s hands skate over his back, curling against Shiro’s skin to find their place. “Love you,” 

Shiro stills. His heart is thudding in his chest and his throat feels watery. 

“Love you too,” Shiro says, kissing the top of Keith’s head. It’s easy to sleep then, with the smell of juniberries and Keith all around him, and his body warm against Shiro’s own. 

*

“Shiro,” 

Again, Shiro does not consider himself to be a heavy sleeper, but the position that he finds himself in proves to be a potent counter argument. At the sound of his name, Shiro stirs, moving to find that one of Keith’s knees is tucked between his legs. His hair is tickling the underside of Shiro’s chin. Shiro smooths it and tilts his head down, taking a peek at the boy against his chest. 

Dark eyes find his, and— for the first time in many hours— Shiro feels something in his chest unclench. His eyes are clear. Red rimmed, but clear. Lucid. Keith has obviously rested and looks much better for it. 

“Someone is knocking at the door,” Keith tells him. And his voice is less broken than before; husky from sleep but less hoarse. His gaze flicks to the door and, sure enough, another knock sounds. 

Shiro is not amused by their wakeup call. “Did you tell them that unless the universe needs a Black Paladin at this exact moment, I am otherwise engaged?” 

Keith shakes his head. His hands are curled up, but with the motion, he flexes them, fanning out his fingers as he wakes. As if involuntarily, his shoulders rise up to his ears and his back arches, he yawns through a stretch. His hips tilt forward into Shiro’s. The motion is innocent, but where it takes Shiro’s mind is not. 

One of Keith’s hands finds a place on Shiro’s chest as he relaxes back into place. It rises when Shiro heaves out a sigh. Better to greet the inevitable head on. 

The room feels cold as Shiro untangles himself from Keith and the warmth of their bed. The door slides open and Coran is on the other side. 

“Hullo Number One!” He bounces, obviously peering into the room behind Shiro. His mustache has returned to its typical sproingy-ness. “The two of you all but disappeared back there, and thus! I’ve come to check in! No news is good news, I’m sure. How’s our boy?” 

Shiro steps to the side. “We both just woke up.” 

Sitting up in bed now, Keith gives Coran a little wave. “Hi?” His hair is wild from going to sleep with it wet, all fluffy and sticking up at odd angles. The collar of Shiro’s shirt dips down and Keith fixes it. He must decide that Coran is waiting on a response because he extrapolates: “I’m alright.” 

“Marvelous!” A bowl and thermos-like object appear as if out of thin air. Coran waltzes into Shiro’s bedroom. “I have just the thing for your continued recovery!” 

Keith blinks as Coran thrusts a bowl of fluorescent green goo into his hands. And plunks the thermos by his side.

“Just chocked full of all the vitamins and nutrients that your frail and currently useless body needs!” Coran declares, adding a spoon to the bowl with a flourish. “Eat up!” 

“Uh.” Keith looks down at the goo and then he looks to Shiro. And back to Coran. “Thank you..?” 

“Of course!” Coran crows, at normal Coran volume (that is to say, loudly). He takes an abrupt seat on the bed next to Keith. He doesn’t give either of them any warning when pulls Keith against him into a hug. Keith squawks, but Coran’s grip is ironclad. The goo sloshes— clearly this sequence of events was not thought out well— but Keith manages not to spill as he holds it up and out of the way. Coran is oblivious to his efforts. Whilst he’s gripping Keith tight around the torso, Coran’s polka dot hanky reappears. Keith looks absolutely terrified at this development. 

“Coran?” Shiro asks. 

Coran blows his nose. He nods. “Just got a bit of feelee dust in my eye, I imagine.” He stows the handkerchief in one of his sleeves. Gives Keith a squeeze before he releases him. Pats him on the back. “All of your pesky damaged organs will be back in shipshape soon, son, don’t you worry!” 

‘Son,’ Keith mouths under his breath, brows furrowed. He squints and looks to the side. ‘Organs?!’ He smooths out his shirt and looks to Shiro. Shiro shakes his head. 

“Well then!” Coran claps his thighs, standing up. “Can’t spend all day blubbing, now can we? Back to work! These uflax converters aren’t going to clean themselves. Make sure to finish your bowl!” 

The exact work he does is a mystery, but Coran does seem to be constantly busy as he hurries around the castle. Shiro doesn’t question it. The Altean takes his leave. 

“That was weird.” Keith mutters, frowning at the door once it slides shut. He spoons some goo into his mouth. 

As strange as Coran is, that was one of his more understandable interactions. “He was worried,” Shiro tries to explain. He sits on the end of the bed, far enough to give Keith some space. “We all were.” It’s impossible to convey the panic that he felt when Keith first collapsed. 

The spoon makes a particular clinking sound as Keith sets it down in the bowl. Strange to think that before arriving on this ship, that exact sound was something that Shiro had never heard before, but now it’s familiar. Strange to think that Shiro knows the sounds of ancient alien tableware. 

“What happened?” Keith asks. He’s looking down into his lap. 

In the moment, Shiro felt every nuance in excruciating detail. The slack of Keith’s mouth as he collapsed. The weight of him in Shiro’s arms. The push and pull of his breaths, the difficulty of them. The bitter smell of the medbay. The way Shiro’s hair kept falling into his eyes and how uncomfortable it was as the sweat dripped down his back and he panicked for Keith. He panicked. 

But as Shiro relates the facts to Keith— the facts, just the facts— it’s all over so quickly. A whole breadth of emotion: despair, and fear, and heart wrenching grief. Overwhelming gratitude at his recovery. And its summation is just minutes long. It feels inadequate. 

“Could you tell when we took the 8-C that it didn’t agree with you? Did it make you feel sick?” Shiro wants to know. Was there a warning that he missed?

Keith frowns. He’s plunking the spoon around the bowl, seesawing it in and out. “Not at first? But then later, yeah. Pretty much every time.” 

“Keith. Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Why didn’t you tell me? 

He shrugs. “I didn’t think it was that bad? You know. Um—” Keith swallows, clearly waffling back and forth on whether to continue. Shiro stays silent and eventually Keith keeps going: “Uh. One time, when I was ten I had a really bad cold.” Keith is moving the goo around in his bowl, not looking at Shiro. “I was always pretty healthy so it was the first time something like that happened after my dad passed. My head hurt and my stomach hurt and I was freezing all day at school.” He’s quiet as he talks. So much so that Shiro leans closer to hear. “When I got home, uh, I guess I was feeling even worse. I ended up throwing up. In the bathroom. I didn’t make a mess. I told Ms. Pat— she was the foster mom at this house— anyways I told Ms. Pat that I was feeling bad and I threw up. And she looked at me and said, ‘Well, what do you expect me to do about it?’” Keith exhales a shaky laugh, remembering. He steals a look at Shiro before casting his eyes back down. “So I guess I figured out that I take care of myself. Kinda shitty for a kid.” 

“Keith.” What the fuck. The anger—not at Keith, but at this horrible woman and all the people who failed Keith in similar ways— comes through in Shiro’s voice. Keith sinks deeper, slouching under Shiro’s gaze. He looks guilty. That is not Shiro’s intention. Shiro pauses, mouth pursed shut, gathering his thoughts. He wants to respond in a way that is neither overly dramatic nor patronizing. “You deserved so much better.” Shiro sets a hand on Keith’s knee. “And. Keith. I hope you don’t think I would have had the same response.” 

“Yeah.” Keith clears his throat. “Yeah. I know. You wouldn’t.” He lifts the spoon to his mouth, eating as if resolute. 

The lights are still low, but as the spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl— Keith always finishes whatever food he’s given— he looks fatigued.  

“What if I tell you how I feel right now?” Keith finally looks up at Shiro. The wry smile doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“How do you feel right now?” Shiro asks in return. 

“Like I got hit by a hoverbike.” Keith holds the lid open with one of his fingers as he takes a long swig from the thermos. He wrinkles his nose. Altean tea. He hates tea. “And then run over. And then thrown off a cliff.” 

“That good, huh?” Shiro collects the dishes from him, thereby relieving Keith of the obligation to drink the tea. He hands him a hydration pouch instead. He’ll check the doctor notes to see if Keith is due for another dose of pain reliever. 

Keith sips at it with one hand, the other picking at a stray thread on Shiro’s duvet. “Yeah. Anyways. All that. Sounds like a lot. Thanks for helping me, Shiro.” He swallows, head bowed. “And for the…stuff afterwards too.” 

‘A lot’ doesn’t begin to describe it. And ‘the stuff afterwards’ is an awkward way to reference the fact that Shiro gave him a bath. “Of course, Keith. Anything I could do to help.” Keith shuffles the blankets and pillows around, clearly embarrassed. Shiro knows Keith well enough to recognize when he’s shutting down. He needs time to process. “Do you want me to help you back to your own room?” 

“Oh.” Keith sits up. Looks around as if just realizing that he’s been in Shiro’s quarters. 

“I’m sure sleep in your own bed sounds good right now.”  

“Yeah.” Keith scoots to the edge of the bed until his bare feet are on the floor. Shiro’s shorts are loose on his hips. They ride up his thighs; Keit makes a half-hearted attempt at pushing them back down. “I can leave.” 

He’s ungainly as he stands up. More like a wobbling newborn deer than Keith Kogane. Shiro moves to help him, but Keith’s sharp inhale at the feel of Shiro’s hand at the small of his back gives him pause. He doesn’t touch. 

Still, he walks with Keith in arm’s reach for the few steps down the hall to his room. Shiro hasn’t been keeping track of time, but it’s late on the ship. The other paladins are asleep. The windows which line the corridors of the ancient ship are shuttered closed against the constant black surrounding them. Keith’s tentative steps smack out a stunted melody in the silent hallway. 

His room is dark when the door slides open. Shiro turns on the light just in time to see Keith faceplant into the bed. 

“Are you alright?” 

Keith gives him a thumbs up. “M’good.” 

“I’m not convinced.” Shiro smiles as Keith rolls over and repeats the same, less muffled. “Okay, better.” 

“My stuff!” Keith sits up when he sees his belt and knife sitting atop the storage cubby at the head of his bed. A small square of chocolate is in its brightly colored wrapper next to them. 

“Allura.” Shiro notes. She must have delivered them to Keith’s room some time earlier after talking with the paladins. 

“Those guys were there too?” Keith asks. He’s picked up the chocolate to inspect it, but it’s obvious that the short walk has exhausted him. He puts it down and blinks up at Shiro. 

“Keith. Of course. They were worried about you.” Shiro thinks of the chaos of the paladins in the medbay. “In their own way.” He clears his throat. “You have your datapad,” Shiro tells him, making sure that it’s within reach. “Message me if you need anything. Anything at all.” 

Keith nods. 

“I’ll come by in the morning to see how you’re feeling.” Shiro promises. 

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Thanks, Shiro.” 

Shiro hates to leave him, but Keith needs rest and he can’t be self-centered. It’s better for Keith if he can rest undisturbed. But when Shiro returns to his own room, he’s greeted with the memory of Keith curled up in Shiro’s bed and sucking on his fingers for comfort, and Shiro feels that he left his heart down the hall. 

*

Recovery is slow. 

Keith has a virtual meeting with the Olkari physicians to discuss his treatment plan and talk to them about any questions he may have. Shiro is there in the background, watching as Keith scrapes at the busted cuticle on his ring finger with his thumb, giving the doctors one or two word responses. No eye contact. The cuticle bleeds, he sticks the finger in his mouth, the meeting is over. 

But— despite his reluctance to chat with the doctors— Keith is perfectly adherent to the recommendations they send over for recovery. Surprisingly so. He doesn’t insist on training. He doesn’t sneak out to Red’s hangar. Shiro half expects to find him collapsed in a corridor somewhere, determined to do things on his own, but everytime he walks into Keith’s room, he finds Keith sitting in a nest of pillows with a datapad on his lap. “Shiro. Hey,” he says, unmistakably happy when he sees that it’s Shiro who is darkening his door. 

“How are you feeling?” Shiro asks him. 

Keith shrugs. “Pretty okay.” He lifts the datapad from his lap. “D’you wanna watch something with me?” 

Also surprising: It took little to no time for Keith to become obsessed with an Altean sitcom. It has 283 episodes, all told. Keith seems to be aiming to make an impressive dent in that number. “I don’t think Joran should’ve gone with Kimul to the bloxa event,” Keith mutters to himself while Shiro toes off his boots to get comfortable. Keith pokes the screen. “It just made everything complicated. And Neeli is a lying piece of shit.” 

Shiro settles into the spot Keith makes for him on the bed. It’s warm, like Keith’s skin when the two of them bump forearms while arranging the blanket over their laps. “Is this okay?” Shiro asks. Keith is close at his side. Pressed against him at the hip and all the way down their legs as  they stretch out over the bed. 

“I’ll start the episode over,” Keith says, nodding in response. “This is a good one.” 

If it is or isn’t a ‘good one’ is completely incomprehensible to Shiro. There’s a huge cast of characters and Keith might know them all, but Shiro has no idea if Kimul is dating Joran or Neeli and what bearing their relationship has to the wacky B plot. But when the laugh track plays, and Keith’s low chuckle is alongside it, he can’t find himself too concerned. It feels significant, the way Keith is sinking into Shiro’s side. The weight of him as he adjusts closer still. The way Shiro can see Keith’s hands quiet instead of fidgeting, the way his breathing evens out and his head rests against Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro moves slowly, careful not to wake Keith as he runs his fingers through Keith’s hair. The swelling from the bruise on the back of his head is gone. Shiro smooths down his cowlick, listening to Keith’s soft breaths. 

“Kinda fell asleep,” Keith admits, straightening up when the twangy ending song plays over the credits. He clears the huskiness from his voice, but doesn’t make any effort to move out of the circle of Shiro’s arm. He looks up towards Shiro, face smooshed against Shiro’s chest, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Next one?” 

They do watch the next one. And the next. Shiro is equal parts impressed and horrified when he finds out that Keith finishes six seasons of the show before he’s deemed well enough to return to normal activity. 

Voracious consumption of trash tv aside, Shiro isn’t the only one who’s relieved when the red lion finally joins the team again: 

“Hey dude!! Good to see you out here!!” Hunk’s genuine happiness radiates through the comm screens as Keith joins the other lions for training drills. 

Pidge is less effusive in their welcome, but: “Check your particle driver. I upgraded it.” 

“Woah, really?” Keith disappears from the screen for a moment while he ducks under the console to check out his new tech. “Sweet!! Thanks, Pidge!” 

“Do you even remember where the throttle is?” Lance sneers, gangly as he kicks back to sit sideways in his seat. “You’ve been snoozing for so long— lemme know if you need any pointers.” 

Keith’s ship zings out of view in a blaze of light. He comes back into range with a beautiful dive, so riotous in execution that Shiro is immediately itching to see if Black could do the same. 

“What was that, Lance?” Keith taps the side of his helmet, grinning. “Sorry. Didn’t catch what you said.” 

“You!” 

Shiro interrupts Lance’s sputtering before the blue paladin can goad Keith into outright confrontation. “Alright team.” Here’s something he’s been waiting to say: “Form Voltron!” 

*

After the team finishes with drills for the day, Allura finds Shiro in Black’s hangar. She does so under the pretense of asking about the training, but Shiro is thinking about her assertion that it’s her duty to check in on her paladins. Maybe she’s been making rounds like this all along and he’s simply failed to notice. Also, based on the questions she asks him— which he’s all too happy to answer (once a teacher, always a teacher) — he’s beginning to get the impression that Allura would like to try her own hand at piloting. He’d love to see her at the helm of one of the lions one day. 

“Shiro!!” Keith strides into the hangar, helmet in hand. His cheeks are flushed and pieces of hair are sticking to his forehead with perspiration. He closes the last few paces between them with a jog. 

“Keith.” Shiro can’t help but smile. 

“Lovely to see you looking so much better,” Allura chimes in. “How are you feeling?” 

“Good.” Keith nods. He remembers: “Oh yeah. Thank you for the chocolate, Princess Allura.” 

Allura’s earrings shimmer as she tilts her head to one side, gracious in her response. “A very small thing, but I’m glad that you enjoyed it.” A tilt of mischief creeps into her glossy smile. “Did you keep the foil, by chance?” 

“Yeah,” Keith nods, looking down to go through one of the packs at his hips. 

As he does so, Shiro shoots Allura a pointed ‘ told you so ’ look. She rolls her eyes. (A gesture which she absolutely picked up from cohabiting with humans.)  

Keith flattens out the brightly colored piece of foil and holds it out for Allura to translate:

“‘ Get lost on purpose.’ ” She reads. “Hm.” 

Keith squints. “Huh?” 

“Not the best advice for intrepid space travelers.” Shiro muses. “On the other hand,” he winks at Allura, “It could be worse. Mine said:” 

“Absolutely not!” Allura proclaims, interrupting him. “No. Absolutely not!”  

“Allura,” Shiro is just twisting the blade now, “How cruel of you to cut me off . Just like—” 

“Augh!” Allura snatches the foil wrapper. “You!” 

Keith is wide-eyed at her reaction. He looks up at Shiro and Shiro winks at him too. 

“Both of you!” Allura decides. “Just terrible.” She touches Keith on the arm. (Keith looks at her hand and back at her.) “Once again, I’m so happy that you’re feeling better. For now, I really must see if Coran has finished with the uflax line. Until dinner time then!” 

Keith appears baffled by this entire exchange. Allura’s heels clack over the ground as she takes her leave. 

“Are we lost?” Keith asks, frowning at the exit through which Allura just flounced. “Doesn’t the princess have special navigation stuff for the castle? Did I miss something?” 

“You did not.” Shiro confirms. He takes off his own helmet. There’s an entire cool down procedure he could do with Black, but he’ll save it for another time. “Walk with me back to my room?” 

“Sure,” Keith agrees. 

He falls into place at Shiro’s side. 

As they walk to the barracks, the silence between them is comfortable. It’s a relief, even, after the colorful banter between the younger paladins today and the pressure of leading the team alone for the past couple weeks. With Keith, that pressure is lessened. Shiro hadn’t realized just how much until it was overwhelmingly apparent. 

From the moment that Keith collapsed, until now, Shiro has experienced a barrage of emotion. Panic and horror. Anxiety and its dark underbelly, the lingering remains of the trauma that made it. Anger. Guilt. A kind of violent tenderness, felt so acutely that it was impossible to deny. As evident and physical as a knot in his throat making it difficult to swallow. Or the tremor in his hands as he held onto Keith in every way he could. 

He held on. 

And Keith held onto him too, at his most vulnerable. 

The two of them step inside Shiro’s room, Keith following him inside as comfortable as anything. He shucks off his boots and lines them up next to the door, Garrison regulation style. His helmet gets set down too. He sits down on Shiro’s bed, letting out a sigh. 

“Tired?” Shiro asks him. It’s been awhile since Keith had a full day’s worth of training. 

Keith shakes his head, then takes it back. He shrugs. “A little? Mostly just glad to be back to normal. Or. I guess. As normal as ever?” 

“I’m not sure that I know the meaning of the word.” Shiro admits. 

Keith laughs, uninhibited. The loud one where the smile flashes across his face, and he’s open mouthed, enough for Shiro to see the metal fillings in his back molars. The reaction is short lived, but the happiness doesn’t completely leave his mouth. It tucks in at the corners, and lights up the pretty apples of his cheeks. He’s lackadaisical, the way he’s sitting sprawled in Shiro’s bed. The line of his shoulders is relaxed. 

He feels safe. 

The thought occurs to Shiro: a piercing twist of crystal clear focus when he feels like he’s been flying blind. It’s a revelation that shouldn’t be a revelation and somehow that’s the thing about it that tears Shiro apart. Keith feels safe with him. Despite anything that Shiro might have done, or failed to do, Keith finds security in his arms. He can be that for Keith, like Keith has been for him. If given the chance, he will always be that for Keith. 

“Keith.” 

“Huh?” Keith looks up at him from where he’s sitting on Shiro’s bed. 

“I want to kiss you.” Shiro doesn’t miss the way Keith reacts at the words. The flush of his cheeks, the softness of Keith’s mouth as it parts in surprise. Maybe it came out of nowhere. Maybe Keith has been waiting for him to catch up. Shiro is direct: “Can I?” 

“Yeah.” He’s nodding, somehow bold and hesitating both. “Yeah, that’s— yeah.” 

The gloves of the paladin armor aren't meant for something like this. Shiro tugs them off, folding the pair in his belt before he continues. His heart is beating so fast, thrill and anticipation and nerves lighting up his blood. He is gentle as he cups the back of Keith’s head and leans down. Slow. Certain. His mouth finds Keith’s, and Shiro lingers, holding that precious contact for one heartbeat, two. Another. Another. 

He draws away. Straightens up. 

“Shiro,” Keith breathes. Not moving. His eyes are closed, dark eyelashes a shadow over his cheeks. Impossible not to kiss him again. 

“Relax your mouth,” Shiro instructs, sinking down to the bed to sit beside him. “Just relax.” He kisses him. 

“Sorry, I—” 

“Don’t apologize,” Shiro mouths against Keith’s lower lip, nose against his face. He rubs a thumb at the nape of Keith’s neck and feels the way Keith’s mouth drops open, how he inhales Shiro’s words. “Never apologize when I get to do this.” 

The soft sound that Keith lets out as he shifts forward— 

Shiro feels the way Keith’s hands are resting on his shoulders, fingertips curling over the top of the broad chestpiece of the paladin armor. Keith is almost in his lap now, body half pressed against Shiro’s as he chases Shiro’s mouth. He kisses too hungry for it, too heartrendingly genuine. There’s no artfulness with Keith and there’s none here either. Just sincerity. 

It makes it that much more arresting when he gasps sharply as Shiro’s hand finds his hip. “Steady, Keith.” Shiro says it like he’s giving a flying lesson. He’s said it before, but not like this.

The thought must occur to both of them at the same time because Keith huffs out a laugh. He pulls back and he’s grinning. His face is flushed and his lips are already glossy when he wets them. “Keeping her steady, sir,” Keith quips, touching Shiro’s hand where it rests against him. He moves Shiro’s hand, sliding it upwards, dragging it along the pebbly surface of the paladin’s black undersuit. 

“Your chest piece,” Shiro whispers, hushed. He’s slow as he presses the closure at either side under Keith’s arms, finding the hinge at his shoulders to lift it over his head. It catches on his hair, a few dark wispy strands find their way into the joints, but Shiro is careful to untangle it so as not to pull. Keith takes a deep breath as the weight of it is lifted away. 

Keith peels off his own gloves, tossing them aside as Shiro shucks off the black paladin armor for himself. He grins at Shiro, maybe self conscious, as he touches the collar of the undersuit, wordlessly asking if he should continue. 

Shiro nods, helping him with the task. He wants to go slow with Keith. He wants not to rush, not this— he helps slip Keith’s arms out of the suit so that it’s left hanging around his waist. “That’s enough,” Shiro says, not sharp, but firm. “Not yet.” Keith nods up at him, a nervous smile crossing his face. 

But Keith’s smile drops away as Shiro slides that same hand to the small of his back. Keith’s skin is downy and soft under his fingers; Shiro finds the dimples on either side of Keith’s spine, perfect indentation for his hand to stroke as he kisses Keith more thoroughly. Keith’s hips lift, pressing into Shiro. It’s charming, it’s a surprise, how hard he is already. Aching from no more than just Shiro’s attention. 

Keith is flushed, hot skin underneath him as Shiro pins him to the bed. Calloused hands with tattered fingernails find Shiro’s face, fingertips ghosting along his jawline like the suggestion of touch rather than the touch itself. Shiro takes one of them in his own and presses his lips firmly against the pads of Keith’s fingers. And then his mouth into Keith’s palm. Keith is whole, and here. Keith is safe with him. 

“Do you know how scared I was, Keith?” Shiro asks him, sitting up on one elbow, holding Keith’s gaze. There’s a burning intensity in the trust that he finds there. Shiro ducks his face, pressing open mouthed into the harsh line of puckered skin that cuts Keith’s shoulder. He kisses the scar. He kisses his neck, below Keith’s ear. “How scared I was to lose you?” This, now, here, is a different kind of fear. This terrifies him; it’s beyond his control. “I need you.” 

“Ah—” Shiro feels the way Keith’s body jerks, the abrupt release of tension. He huffs out a breath, a short forced breath against Shiro’s, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open. “I—” He presses his lips together, jaw tight. His chest heaves. 

He came. It takes Shiro a moment to decipher the redness in Keith’s face and the way he’s pointedly looking away. He swallows. Shiro kisses him as distraction, mouth loose and sloppy and slow against Keith until the embarrassment is forgotten and Keith is once again in the moment with him. 

“Shiro,” Keith says, hands wide and solid over Shiro’s back. “I—”

Shiro grinds his hips in a filthy suggestion. “You can come, baby, it’s okay.” He’s hard now too and the motion makes him groan. 

“I—” Keith looks up at Shiro, pupils now pulled fat with lust. He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to. I wanna last.” He runs a hand down Shiro’s bare chest, biting his lip. Over Shiro’s abs. Further down, until he’s squeezing Shiro’s cock through the dark fabric that he’s tenting. 

“I want what you want,” Shiro says, voice low. 

“Help me with these, then,” Keith decides, trying to wiggle out of the tight leggings of the undersuit. One suit leg gets stuck around his ankle. Shiro untangles it, aware of the way Keith is watching him. He has a hand around his cock, holding himself. Just his thumb stroking over the cockhead. 

The suit untangled and pushed to the side, it gets balled up to blend into the midnight colored sheets, and Shiro has a hand wrapped around one of Keith’s ankles. It shouldn’t be this small. Delicate enough that his whole hand wraps around it. Shiro presses the thumb of his other hand, hard, into Keith’s instep. 

He moans , arching before he sinks boneless into the sheets. “ Shi -ro,” 

Shiro replaces his thumb with his mouth, kissing the bottom of his foot, pressing a tongue between Keith’s curled toes. He slides a hand over Keith’s shin, passing over the dark hair until it’s standing up out of place. 

He wants Keith to feel safe here, to feel utterly at home in Shiro’s devotion. As it is, he has a hand pressed against his forehead, covering his eyes. Teeth pressing into his lip. Shiro works at his other foot and Keith’s mouth works around his name, gasping through a “Fuck!” 

Keith falls silent as Shiro kisses up his legs. Touches, hand splayed loving and wide over Keith’s ribs. Mouths over his heaving chest, teasing over one nipple, kissing into the hair over his stomach. Keith is quiet, but in the way that Keith is quiet. So loud. Pre dribbles over the cum from before and his chest is blotched and red. His hands are trembling when they touch Shiro’s hair as Shiro gets his mouth around Keith’s cock. He swallows him down, Keith’s curls against his face. Keith’s thighs tremble, too, on either side of Shiro’s head. He comes again, this time down Shiro’s throat. 

There are tears on Keith’s face when Shiro sits up. Not from heartbreak, not from exhaustion, but release. Good tears. Shiro uses his thumb to gather them, one hand cupped around Keith’s face. 

The wetness stays in his dark lashes, even as Keith sits up to reach him. He kisses him with fervor. He wraps a hand around Shiro, stroking him to completion with single minded focus. 

Shiro gasps, curling into Keith’s shoulder as he comes. Keith holds him through it, and afterwards. His breath is warm on Shiro’s temple, kissing him there. 

Shiro lifts his head to look at Keith. Keith is steady as he looks back, eyes closing with gentle happiness as Shiro brushes the hair out of his face. 

***