Chapter Text
Keith has never been a big eater, simply from habit.
Foster homes, at least the foster homes he’d been placed with, were a lot less concerned with keeping him well-fed and happy, and a lot more concerned with that nice little check that came alongside his fostering paperwork. He’d be fed—most of the time—but it was never anything substantial. He didn’t mind, though. He’d always been small, for his age, and after so many years of eating the bare minimum, he wasn’t sure his stomach would be able to handle anything greater. He never needed a lot of food. One good meal a day, and he’s set.
But something changed, once they made it to space, though Keith isn't sure why. Maybe it was something about the food goo. As dense as it seemed, and despite it being high in nutritional value and healthy calories, it just isn't filling. It doesn't energize him the way it seemed to energize the rest of them. And while Keith could eat two or three helpings at a time without slowing, most of the others had to stomach through just one.
Which means it definitely wasn’t something with the goo, itself—it was something to do with him, specifically. And for what felt like the millionth time in his short, lonely life, Keith was the outlier.
When he realized this—when he realized that he’d be on his third plate, while Shiro or Lance were still on their first—he became self-conscious of it. He’d hold off on seconds until after the team had retired for the night, uncomfortable with how hungry he was becoming and not wanting to draw attention to it. He’d wait for everyone to settle down for the space-equivalent of the evening, and would proceed to raid the kitchen and shovel whatever food he could get into his mouth without getting caught.
At first, he was concerned. He couldn’t afford to put on any unnecessary weight that could slow him down during battle, but his worries turned out to be for naught. If anything, Keith was actively losing weight in space, and he was baffled by that fact the first time he went to button up his pants and they nearly slid down his hips.
Keith had never been big by any means, but he’d always carried a solid bit of muscle on his frame, no matter how fucking scrappy that frame was. Coming to space, all the training he commits himself to, would logically lead to him gaining muscle mass, not losing it, but. Well, the evidence spoke for itself. He was losing muscle mass, and truth be told, there wasn’t a ton there to lose in the first place.
Still, he said nothing. Just pulled his belt a little bit tighter, nicked out a new notch with his knife, and was on his way. And if anyone noticed his collarbones becoming slightly more pronounced, or how bony his elbows were getting—well, no one spoke a word about it. Not to him, anyway, which was just as well. It was embarrassing, to eat the way he was eating, and still come out the other end starving. Like his body was begging for something he just couldn’t fulfill.
He didn’t even consider that it could’ve been related to his recently-discovered alien heritage.
The topic was still sore, to say the least, and Keith had been only human for close to nineteen years. When something odd was happening, his brain didn’t automatically assume oh, yes, that’s the alien in me. If anything, he actively tried to distance himself from that part that, however big or small it might be, made him feel so different from the people around him.
So when his appetite skyrocketed and his weight plummeted, he didn’t even consider that it was due to that part of him. That inhuman part. That Galra part.
And then, one fateful night, Hunk caught him sneaking into the kitchen, and everything went to absolute shit.
Keith had just crept in and made his way to the fridge, starving and tired and a little bit light-headed, if he was being honest, and he is so distracted by the concept of food that he doesn't even notice the figure lingering at the center island. Not until he’d grabbed four containers of leftovers, what passed as an Altean fork, and had turned to take a seat at the counter.
He jerks to a halt, the containers nearly slipping from his arms, and—thankfully—swallowing back what would’ve been a very embarrassing yelp of surprise. He blinks, heart hammering in his ears with the shock of seeing another person, though Hunk, where he sits, just looks… concerned?
“Why aren’t you eating with us anymore?”
Keith opens his mouth, says nothing, and closes it again. Hunk doesn't look angry—he hardly ever did, and the few times Keith had borne witness to Angry Hunk were times he never wanted to relive—but he does look worried, and a little annoyed. Though maybe annoyed isn't the right word, either. Disappointed? Disapproving?
Whatever it is, it sends Keith shifting uneasily on his feet in no time—or maybe that was just the general unsteadiness suffered from his hunger, or that faint touch of dizziness creeping up behind his eyes. He curls his fingers tighter, almost protectively, around the food containers he still held.
“I’ve been eating with you,” he protests, though it sounds weak to his own ears. “You’ve seen me, Hunk—I come to every meal.”
Hunk narrows his eyes, strong arms crossed over his broad chest, and—yeah, that is definitely disapproval in those eyes. “You know what I mean. You’re eating, but you’re not…” he gestures vaguely to the containers. “…eating. You know?”
Keith knows playing dumb won't work—not with Hunk, who is one of the smartest people on their godforsaken ship of a home—but damned if he doesn't need to try. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hunk rolls his eyes. “Keith, you—you used to eat three plates at every meal, and now you’re barely finishing one. And then I come in here, in the morning, to see every scrap of the leftovers missing from the fridge.”
“You don’t know that that’s me.”
Hunk raises an eyebrow at him, looking pointedly down at the containers Keith is still trying to smuggle away, and back up to meet his eyes. “Right,” he humors, and nods. “You’re right, it could be the other guy trying to bolt out of here with all of this movement’s leftovers in tow.”
And Keith tries — he really does — to seem like that isn't exactly his plan, but Hunk just holds his gaze and frankly, Keith is too hungry to care. He swallows, stepping closer to set all the food out onto the island and sinking into a seat. “Please don’t tell the others.”
Now that he is cooperating, Hunk’s disapproval melts away into his standard, steadfast concern, round face open and genuine. “We’re just—we’re just worried, Keith.”
“You don’t have to be,” he insists, as he opens the first container. “I have it handled.”
“By sneaking around in the middle of the night like this?” Hunk shakes his head. “No, no that’s not right, because you’ve been losing weight. Don’t think I didn’t notice that, by the way.”
Keith winces. He hadn’t realized it’d become that noticeable. He digs his fork into the cherry-colored goo, but doesn't eat any yet, just pushes it around in the container. “I’m fine, Hunk. Relax.”
“Buddy,” Hunk returns, painfully patient, “something’s clearly not right. You’ve been eating more than any of the Castle’s dietary systems would recommend for a single person, and yet you’re still losing weight. I think we need to bring you to the med bay and let Coran run some scans, or something.”
And Keith would’ve protested—he would’ve fought back, denied any need for any kind of special attention—but that dizziness behind his eyes is getting stronger despite him sitting down, and that lightheadedness is congealing into an almost ringing sensation between his ears and, yeah, maybe a trip to the med bay wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
“I—okay.”
“And you know I don’t like to resort to this, but I will come over there and throw you over my shoulder if you even think about—wait, I’m sorry, what?”
Keith lets his fork rest against the rim of the container before leaning back in his seat. He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to make everything stop moving so much. “I said okay,” he murmurs, tired and hurting. “I—I don’t feel too great, Hunk.”
Hunk is pushing himself up from his seat in an instant. “Oh, thank God you admitted it,” he gushes, “because seriously, dude—you look like a little wind would knock you over right about now. C’mon, let’s get you down to medical. I’ll page Coran on the way.”
Keith should have expected nothing less than to watch the entire team bust into the medical bay, not five minutes after Coran himself had vaulted himself through the doors.
He groans as soon as he sees them rushing forward, Shiro the first to crash through the entrance before the doors had even had a chance to slide open automatically. “Keith?” he exhales in a huff, winded and rumpled in loose-fitting pajamas. His hair is disheveled, the pale forelock half plastered to his forehead and half sticking up straight. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
Keith rolls his eyes as the rest of the team gathers inside the room, as well, in various states of mid-slumber disarray. “I’m fine, Mom,” he insists, but even his voice sounds a little weak. Man, he really doesn't need the whole team to see him like this.
Coran, who had just finished running a scan and was reading through some analytics, clears his throat. “Actually, Number Four,” he counters, his normally chipper voice oddly low and concerned, “I’m not so sure you are.”
He blinks. That didn’t sound great. Keith feels his brows draw together as he frowns at the Altean, a knot of concern sinking deep into his stomach. “What?” he asks. “What do you mean?” He was just a little lightheaded. All he needed was to get some food in his system and he’d be fi—
“Well, according to these scans, here—and Pop Pop’s scans are never wrong, you see—it appears as if your body is in an early state of fluulzok.”
The Altean word goes in one ear and out the other. “Uh—what?”
“Oh, right,” Coran chides himself, “you lot don’t know much of Altean health. I believe it is close to what you Earthlings would call...” He pauses, pulls up a new screen, flicks from one page to the next, to the next. “…acidosis?”
“Whoa,” Pidge breathes, because apparently that means something to her, at least. “Acidosis like, ketoacidosis? Seriously?”
“Wait, hold on,” Lance speaks out, holding up a hand to cut them off. “Can someone share with the rest of the class what this ketoacid…thing is?”
“Ketoacidosis,” Pidge supplies, though she moves to scan over the test results at Coran’s shoulder, any ounce of drowsiness gone from her expression, concerned intrigue in its wake. “It’s—it sometimes happens in people with diabetes, or when people get really severe ketosis from diets and stuff. Basically there’s not enough glucose getting to your body tissues to metabolize, so your liver starts making acidic sugars called ketones to feed your brain and your muscles. It can be nasty stuff.” She looks to Coran. “Are you saying Keith’s literally in a state of starvation?”
Coran clicks through a couple of pages, settling on one that was—worryingly enough—full of blinking red stats. “I’m—I’m afraid that that’s what this looks like, yes. His blood protein levels are… all out of whack, as you might say. Plus, it looks like some pretty severe dehydration, as well. I’ve started up an IV to hopefully get some of those levels back up to snuff, but we’ll need to get our boy some proper food if we want him to start feeling better. Fluulzok—I can’t believe it.”
And yeah—all of that just isn't really clicking.
“How?” Keith croaks out, rough. “I’ve—I’ve been eating more than everyone in the Castle combined.”
Coran shakes his head, turning to him with a frown tugging at his mustache. “I’m not sure, my boy. The food that the Castle provides should have all the vitamins and nutrients a person could need. But your iron levels are severely low—that might be accounting for that lightheaded, dizzy feeling you described to me—and your blood glucose levels are almost nonexistent.”
Keith doesn't understand. He’d never consistently eaten this much in his life. How could his body not be taking in energy from any of it?
“Sounds like when you had that weird anemia phase,” Shiro murmurs, and Keith shifts his gaze to him. He’d forgotten all about that. When Coran looks to him, as well, Shiro’s brows draw together. “It’s like—low blood oxygen, technically? But it’s associated with fluctuations in iron levels, since—in humans, at least—iron in your blood helps carry oxygen throughout the body. Something about red blood cells and O2 loading...”
Coran, bless his heart, merely blinks at Shiro like he was speaking another language.
Shiro sighs. “Less iron, less oxygen. When Keith was younger he had some dizzy spells, was cold all the time. Figured his iron levels might be low so we added more red meat and green vegetables to his diet and everything just… worked itself out.”
There is a beat of silence.
Then another.
“Protein,” Allura says quietly, and Keith had almost forgotten she was in the room until she is dragging her hands tiredly over her face. “Oh, Coran—we’re so incredibly dense.”
Coran, too, seems to be putting the same cryptic puzzle together in his own mind. “I can’t believe we didn’t realize—”
Allura groans, shaking her head. “The scans—we should’ve recalibrated them after—”
“We could’ve formulated a new recipe—”
“—can’t even imagine—could’ve become so ill—”
“It would’ve been so simple—”
“—could’ve been avoided—“
“—used to have an entire alternative selection specifically for this reason—”
“—ith, I’m so sorry.”
Keith‘s attention flicks back and forth between the Alteans’ verbal tennis match, not realizing he’d been addressed directly until a handful of ticks later. He blinks at Allura, who's watching him with troubled, and apologetic eyes.
“...for?” he prompts, because really, he didn’t follow that at all.
Allura crosses towards the exam bench he's still perched on, setting a hand down by where his legs dangled over the edge. “Keith,” she sighs, and shakes her head, “the meal supplements that the Castle produces, they’re—they’re primarily composed of an Altean compound called mexis.”
Keith feels his eyebrows draw close. “Is that supposed to mean something, to me?”
Allura chews on the inside of her lip. “Mexis was one of Altea’s principal exports; bland as it may be, it’s incredibly high in vitamins and, when prepared properly, can essentially be used to supplement all Altean dietary needs. That’s why my father designed the Castle of Lions with the ability to manufacture it in large quantities. When you all arrived, I figured that would be fine for all of you, as well—mexis is remarkably similar to the grains on your home planet, albeit with more nutritional value, even some healthy fats, so we… didn’t foresee any issues.”
Skeptically, Keith nods. Made sense so far. “Okay…”
Allura sighs again. “Keith, the—the Galra have certain biological differences that don’t allow their bodies to process mexis. There’s not enough protein to fit their needs as a species, and their digestive systems lack the enzymes needed to properly catalyze the breakdown of the food in order to absorb the nutrients. Whenever we had Galra aboard, before the war, we would supplement a different source for the meals that were mexis-free, and contained much higher levels of protein. Otherwise, we found our guests becoming… horribly ill.”
A weight sinks into Keith’s gut, low and hot, a little bit like dread, a little bit like shame.
“When we discovered that you were Galra,” Allura continues, though there is thankfully no malice in the Altean’s words, “we should’ve... should’ve considered the possibility that you may not be able to process the Castle’s meals as easily as the others.”
Keith blinks at her, and shifts on his seat. Normally, the fact that the conversation has taken a turn in the hey, don’t forget you’re a half-alien freak direction would’ve put Keith on edge. It would’ve made him drop his gaze and make himself small, because when attention was brought to that particular fact he didn’t want to be seen, but —
Really, he can't spare the energy. He is still dizzy, and nauseous, and he can't believe that apparently all of this is because he’s fucking incompatible with the only food available to them in space for a ninety-five light-year radius.
His gaze flicks to Shiro’s, who looks back at him with understanding dawning in his eyes. “Gluten,” Shiro murmurs, pieces falling together.
Keith makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a grunt. “Fucking figures.”
Allura seems befuddled at their exchange. “So you… knew, about this?”
“No,” Shiro says slowly, almost apologetic, “but Keith’s—even back on Earth, he had certain things that he couldn’t eat without feeling really sick. We figured it was just an allergy.”
Hunk tilts his head, brown eyes intrigued and concerned at the same time. “So you’re saying Keith has some kind of... space Celiac’s disease? Because of the Galra thing?”
“Well, I wouldn’t quite call it a disease,” Coran denies, with a shake of his head. “It’s the natural state of the Galra, to not be able to metabolize mexis. So the fact that Number Four here has run into issues—well, it’s to be expected, I suppose.” He reaches over to pat Keith’s knee, a gesture that strikes Keith as very fatherly. “I only wish we’d realized it could be an issue sooner. I’m sorry we hadn’t thought ahead, my dear boy.”
“ ‘s okay,” Keith mumbles, that uncomfortable heat settling in his stomach again, on the back of his neck. “Not a big deal.”
“It easily could’ve been,” Allura counters him, and shakes her head, glancing towards Coran. “We’ll have to figure out a new formula to program into the Castle’s mainframe, and some kind of alternative for him in the meantime.”
“Perhaps a supplement?” the elder Altean suggests. “There may be something we can add to the goo to accommodate his needs. It wouldn’t take the mexis out, but would get him some proper nutrients… It’ll be difficult to get our hands on actual food at the moment, I’m afraid…”
Keith shrinks into himself. They don't often have access to anything besides the food goo, which is why it's always such a treat to get fresh produce from the planets they liberate. Finding something else for him—and for him specifically—would be difficult to come by, and make a lot of work for them all.
“It’s fine,” he tries to protest, “I’ll be fine with whatever we have—“
“Except,” Allura cuts him off, frowning and displeased, “you won’t. Two more movements like this and you’d likely be comatose. Keith, why didn’t you come to us when you realized there was something wrong? You must have been feeling so ill, for so long now.”
Keith shrugs half-heartedly, keeping his gaze low. “I thought I had it handled.”
Beside him, Shiro lets out a low sigh. “Keith,” he admonishes, “we’ve talked about this.”
Keith presses his lips together tightly. “We’ve never talked about this,” he denies, quiet but sharp. “This is different.”
And Shiro—God, Keith often feels bad that he’d put Shiro through hell as a kid, but it also means that Shiro has learned to read every angle of Keith’s temper, and that is something Keith is indescribably grateful for.
He sighs and places a hand on the table beside Keith’s knees, glancing to the other Paladins quickly. “Hey, guys? You mind giving us a second? Maybe you could go take a look through the pantries, see if there’s anything in there that we can shove down Keith’s throat to keep him from keeling over on us.”
The team doesn't need anything more than that, reading the dismissal clearly. Hunk shoots Keith a forced, too-concerned grin before turning towards the door. “Don’t worry, buddy,” he assures, as the others file out, “we got you. We’re gonna get you some grub you’re not allergic to and get you feeling better in no time, you’ll see.”
Keith does his best to muster up some semblance of a smile. “Thanks, Hunk.”
Hunk smiles again and offers a nod before turning to follow the others.
As the doors slide shut in their wake and he is left with just Shiro at his side, Keith feels his shoulders relax ever-so-slightly. He doesn't like having so many eyes on him, watching him so closely.
Shiro elbows him gently, gesturing for him to scoot over, and Keith obliges willingly. Hopping up to the exam bench beside him, settling in and letting his legs swing off the edge freely, Shiro's toes brush the floor. “So,” he begins, tone oddly casual, “is this a stubborn, too-proud thing, or something else?”
Keith scowls at his knees. “I’m not stubborn.”
“And I’m the princess of Greyza,” Shiro returns without a beat, and despite his discomfort, Keith can't help but roll his eyes. “Seriously,” Shiro continues, tone leveling out into concern, “talk to me. What’s going on?”
Keith shrugs, keeping his gaze low. “Nothing. I just—“ He cuts himself off, voice wavering.
From the corner of his vision, he sees Shiro raise an eyebrow. “You just…?” he prompts.
Keith exhales quickly, fast air through his nose in a huff. “I don’t know,” he concedes, “I just didn’t want it to be a big deal. I was handling it.”
“Keith, Hunk nearly had to carry you to the med bay because you can barely walk. You’re not handling it.”
Keith’s gaze cut to Shiro, defensive. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he bites, “I didn’t realize an increased appetite was cause for fucking alarm, Shiro. How was I supposed to know that Galra can’t process the stupid food goo? Everyone else has been just fine eating it.”
Shiro tilts his head slightly, not seeming offended by Keith’s pointed words. “But you’re not like everyone else.”
“Gee, thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot.”
“Keith—“
“Wait,” he cuts Shiro off, “wait, before you start lecturing me—look, how am I supposed to know this stuff? People keep forgetting that I know nothing about the Galra. None of us do, okay, and the only people here that do know are Allura and Coran, and I would rather throw myself out the airlock than try talking to them about... any of that. Besides, things — ” he breaks off, voice hitching again. Why does he need to talk about this? Why are the words tumbling out before he can stop them? “Things were finally starting to feel normal, again," he rushes out. "I don’t — I don’t like all the attention, Shiro, and that’s all it’s been since the day I did those Trials. I just wanted to handle it, and be done with it, and not make it some big thing.”
Shiro sighs again, shaking his head. “Keith, I know it’s sore. And I’m not trying to be an asshole, alright? But it's time to face this.”
“Says you,” Keith mutters, because Shiro is totally being an asshole.
The older paladin just tightens his lips, jostling his elbow slightly. “I’m just saying you’re right. None of us could’ve known about this. We don’t know much about the Galra, or their physiology, but we should learn. Because not knowing can lead to you getting hurt. Or, apparently, put you in a state of… fuzok?”
“Fluulzok.”
“Ah. Right. That.”
Uncomfortable, that horrifying heat still lingering around his collar, Keith shifts in his seat. “I’ve been just fine all my life not knowing anything about — about them." He stumbles over the word. Galra. "Why would it suddenly start mattering now? It’s not like anything’s changed besides knowing I’m — that I’m —” he breaks off again, voice faltering.
Shiro sighs again into the silence, a quiet, sympathetic kind of thing. “You haven’t been just fine and we both know it.”
A beat passes between them, then, before Shiro lifts an arm in silent invitation. Normally, if they were back home, if Kerberos had never failed, Keith wouldn’t have hesitated to sink into his brother’s side. But this is space. And Shiro’s offered arm is made of metal, not warm flesh. And Keith is part alien. And so he hesitates.
Shiro just rolls his eyes. “C’mon, otouto.”
The gentle prompt and the familiar name is warm in Keith’s chest, and he feels his resolve physically melt away. He huffs a sigh, as if annoyed, but inches closer and slots himself neatly into the open space.
“You’re a sap,” he mumbles unhappily as he does, though the closeness eases his frayed nerves in a way little else ever could. He wonders if it's a body contact thing—Keith has always been a little bit touch-starved, if he is honest with himself—or just a Shiro thing.
“I am,” Shiro agrees, all-too-pleased to get his way, tucking him in close. “And, listen. I get that this probably isn’t the easiest thing for you to talk about.”
Keith snorts, but leans closer into Shiro’s side, careful not to jostle his IV. “Oh no,” he feigns, “it’s my favorite, Shiro. I love talking about it. Finding out I’m not human at nineteen years old is my favorite thing to talk about.”
Shiro’s arm tightens slightly, a little too much to be comfortable. Keith takes the gentle scold for what it is, and after a tick, the grip loosens into something gentle once more. “You’re still human,” Shiro assures in a murmur. “You’re just—a little more.”
“A little less, you mean.”
Shiro pulls away at that, just enough to side-eye him. “I’m trying to comfort you," he says, an exasperated big brother in every way, "you little shit.”
“Shiro,” Keith scolds, scandalized. “You can’t just swear at me like that—didn’t you hear that I’m basically dying?”
“Coran hooked you up to an IV, stop being dramatic.” He pauses, then, and the break in the teasing words became oddly heavy. “Look. It might not be easy to talk about, but we can’t just… assume that things that are safe for everyone else are safe for you. I think we’ve been overlooking a lot because up until now you’ve only ever been — well. Human. Right?”
Keith swallows back another sarcastic remark, his mouth weirdly dry. “Except I’m not.“
There is something in Shiro’s eyes, then, when he looks over, something buried deep in charcoal and space, that is deeply worried. “Except you’re not,” he affirms, but his voice is kind. “Not solely, anyway. And, Keith—I know you never wanted any of this, but if we don’t start acknowledging it then it could put your health at risk. Again. And I’ll be damned if I let you sabotage yourself like that.”
“Nothing has changed,” Keith says again, smaller but firm. “It’s not like — you get that nothing’s changed, don’t you?”
“Everything’s changed,” Shiro denies, and it sinks in Keith’s gut like lead. It must show on his face, because quickly Shiro is backtracking, shaking his head. “I don’t mean you. I mean everything that’s happening around you — around all of us.”
At that, Keith stays silent.
“We know more about you now than we ever did on Earth,” Shiro continues. “I think — I think it can be an opportunity, you know? It doesn’t have to be... it’s not a bad thing, Keith.”
“Not a bad thing?” The words leave Keith’s mouth before he can bite down on that terrible crack in his voice. “Shiro, I’m — I’m not human. And the Galra — fuck, they’re about as bad as it gets.”
“They’re just people, Keith. Plenty of bad humans out there, too, you know?”
Keith’s voice gets trapped in his throat on its way out. He can’t make it work.
Shiro is right.
Shiro is wrong.
Shiro doesn't understand.
Shiro softens against him, mechanical thumb running in small circles where his arm still lays across Keith’s shoulders. “Listen. You say you’ve been just fine all your life not knowing, but it’s not true. You know it’s not true, Keith. Please don’t lie to me.”
Keith doesn’t want to lie. Never to Shiro, never like that. He doesn’t say a word.
“Earth was so sheltered," his brother continues, "so isolated. We’re being exposed to things out here that we could never have imagined. We don’t know how anything out here affects any of us — which is why we have to be careful."
"I'm careful," Keith protests weakly.
"You're not."
And Keith can't help but wince.
Shiro continues, tough love oozing through every word. "Every time there’s a new food served, or a new atmosphere to enter, we run scans to make sure nothing’s dangerous. For humans, for Alteans. If we want to keep you safe, Keith, we have to add Galra to that list. It’s not to single you out, it’s to take care of you. And if something feels off —” Shiro’s words are pointed, now, purposeful, admonishing, “— even if the rest of us are fine, you need to tell someone.”
They visited one planet recently with gas in the atmosphere that is toxic to Alteans. Not to humans, though. The rest of the team could go out without a care in the world, but if Allura or Coran had taken one breath of that atmosphere’s air —
They hadn’t even considered whether or not it was safe for Galra. They just got really fucking lucky that it was.
He gets what Shiro means. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.
Keith’s voice is feeble, again, when he finds it. Thin, even to his own ears. “We don’t even know how — how Galra I even am. It could be nothing.”
“We know it’s enough to make the Castle’s food dangerous,” Shiro counters. “You heard Allura and Coran — if you were to just keep eating that goo, expecting it to be enough, it would kill you. If you’re Galra enough for that—”
“—Don’t,” Keith cuts him off, and shuts his eyes. Shakes his head, seeing starbursts behind his eyelids. “Please don’t.”
Shiro, to his credit, doesn’t.
They sit there for a long moment, Shiro’s breath deep and steady at his side, the only sound to fill the med bay. Keith’s mind flicks back to the other paladins, the concern in their eyes — Allura’s apologies.
They’ve all gotten over it, it seems.
The only one who hasn’t is him.
He wets his lips, ducks his face, lets his head drop slowly to rest on the slant of Shiro’s chest beside him. Shiro’s arm — metal, mechanical, Galra — whirs quietly with its cybernetics, cool to the touch.
“I know you’re right,” he murmurs after a while, keeping his eyes shut. He feels the wetness there, lets them burn. “I’m not — I’m not trying to be difficult about it.”
“I know,” Shiro answers, not missing a beat. “God, Keith, I know. I can’t imagine what this has all been like, for you.”
He hesitates a long while. The words press on his mind, aching and naked. He is stripped so raw. “Do you — do you think this is why?” he asks, and his voice is smaller than he wants it to be, uncertain and young. He lifts a hand, swipes at his eyes. “Why I’ve always been so — wrong? Is this it?”
Shiro’s breath leaves him sharp and quick and all at once. “Jesus, Keith,” he mourns into the exhale, “you’re not wrong. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“How can you sit here and just — believe that? You honestly do, don’t you? Even after everything we’ve learned?”
“What we’ve learned,” Shiro says, patient as ever, “is that you don’t need to suffer needlessly, Keith.”
When he doesn’t respond, a doubtful huff of air catching through his throat, Shiro shifts against him, lifts a hand to his hair.
“We can do this together, okay? You’re right when you say that nothing’s changed. But now we know more. So maybe things don’t have to stay the same. Maybe we can make things better, right?"
"Better," Keith echoes, the word cracking with disbelief. "None of this is better, Shiro."
"It is. I know you may not see it right now, Keith, but we can — we can keep you healthy, keep you safe. It’s like — if we’d known, you know, from the start, maybe you wouldn’t have ever gotten to that anemic point." He tries for a smile. "Fuck, it could’ve saved you a hell of a lot of Pepto Bismol, right? All those issues with gluten?”
And Keith is so tired. Too tired, really, to continue fighting back. “That really did suck,” he murmurs, leaning back into the touch.
“I know. But now we know what it was. And things will be better for you because of it.”
Keith makes a small noise, an almost hum under Shiro’s ministrations. “I don’t know how you can be so sure of all of this,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “After everything the Galra did to you —”
“The Empire, Keith. Not the Galra.”
“Whatever. Same thing.”
“It was a Galra who saved my life, if you remember. Freed me.” Another hum from Keith, a quiet acknowledgment. “You’ve saved me,” Shiro continues. “A couple of times, now, actually, and you’re Galra.”
Keith sighs. “You’re grasping at straws.”
“You’re being stubborn again.”
“I just — ” And there it was, that terrible, infuriating warble in his voice, back in full-force. He tries to tamp it down. “I hate this. I did those Trials because I wanted answers, but I’m — I’ve never been more confused in my fucking life, Shiro. All it did was give me more questions.”
”I know,” Shiro murmurs, and rests his head down, cheek pressed to Keith’s hair. “And we’ll face those together too, okay? But you have to — you have to let me in, Keith. You have to let us in.”
And Shiro’s always had the right keys at the right time, picking his way through every one of Keith’s carefully placed defenses. Opening every lock in sight, waltzing into the light and dark corners of Keith’s life alike and making himself right at home. He’s never waited for permission.
Or maybe, the thing about Shiro, is that he’s always waited. Maybe Keith didn’t realize, back then, how desperate he’d been for someone to see him through all those barred windows, but maybe Shiro’s always just met him where he was at, with whatever he was ready for.
“We just want to take care of you, Keith.”
And he wets his lips, fights back the urge to cry all over Shiro’s shirt at the words.
Is he ready for this?
The ideas crash through his mind like a tsunami. It's too much, it's all too much, but then he thinks about Hunk threatening to haul him down to the medical bay, wanting so badly to help and so, so worried —
— and he finds himself nodding before the thoughts are even coherent, before they make any kind of sense in his brain.
“Okay,” he says quietly, and swallows. And then again, firmer, because it bears repeating. He's never been one to do things halfway. “Okay.”
And he’s not sure that he’s ready for it, to be cared for like that. To be on the receiving end of so much attention. Not really, not in the way he’s seen it pour out of the team, love for each other forceful and bright like plumes of spring-warmed wind.
But he's spent a lifetime yearning for things he could never have — connection, closeness, care, family — and maybe this —
— maybe this can be it.
Maybe things can be better.
”Okay?” Shiro says against him, and Keith nods again, eyes burning, burning, burning.
“Okay.”