wayward red

by fawnface

Summary:

"Truly hideous, those eyes," Om'e murmured, as if to themselves. "May Ahnos accept this offering."

Distantly, Keith was aware that he was crying.

And then he wasn't aware of anything at all.

Notes:

i can't stop critiquing this so just take it

The message from Ciytron 3 was unassuming. 

Allura’s voice echoed over the castle intercom, putting a stop to Keith’s and Lance’s hand-to-hand training. “Paladins, please report to the bridge. Voltron has been requested by a nearby planet. We will be arriving shortly.”

“Aw, man,” Lance groaned, dropping his fists. “I was just about to win, too.” 

Keith raised an eyebrow as he also relaxed out of his fighting stance. “Uh huh.”

“Yeah, I was going to totally sweep you off your feet,” Lance gloated, and he followed after Keith as they made their way to one of the benches by the wall, which was stacked with some towels and water pouches. “You weren’t even gonna see me coming. I was gonna be like, hi-yah!” He mimed a kick at Keith’s knee and karate-chopped the air by his head. “Boom, you’re down.” 

Keith turned to hide his grin as he poked a straw through his water pouch. “Wow, you’re right. You totally would’ve gotten me.” 

“Exactly, glad you understand,” Lance said, and patted Keith’s shoulder. “Now toss me a pouch.” 

Keith chucked one at Lance’s face and burst into laughter as it smacked him right on the nose. Lance squawked and managed to catch it as it fell, and he gaped at Keith in exaggerated outrage. 

Their ribbing continued as they made their way to the bridge, shoving each other back and forth and racing each other down the halls. Lance ended up tripping on his loose shoelace at some point, and Keith laughed so hard he nearly pissed himself. Lance tried to appear mad, hands on his hips and everything, but it only made Keith laugh harder, and in the end they were both giggling as they stumbled through the doors and onto the castleship’s bridge. 

“Oh, good,” Allura said, glancing over her shoulder from her place on the dais. “Welcome, boys.”

“Ew, you’re all sweaty,” Pidge whined as she wrinkled her nose. Her and Hunk were standing before the dais, while Coran and Shiro were scanning through files on what Keith assumed was the planet they had been contacted by. 

“Oh, so sweaty, so sweaty and stinky and gross,” Lance said with a grin. “Wanna smell?” 

“Why would — Lance — don’t you dare —” 

Pidge screeched as Lance ran towards her, his arms open wide. She scrambled behind Hunk, who looked two seconds away from bolting himself. 

“Paladins!” Allura barked. Lance quickly straightened with a cheeky look on his face, and Pidge tentatively stopped cowering behind Hunk. 

“Sorry, princess,” Lance said, although he didn’t look incredibly apologetic. 

Keith did his best to brush aside the soft feeling in his chest, and turned to face Allura. “Is the planet in trouble?”

Allura looked up at the screen, which Keith now noticed featured a small, almost completely white planet. “So far, no. Ciytron 3 is on the very edge of this solar system, and it doesn’t have many natural resources that could be useful to the Galra. Their message was an offer to join the coalition, along with a gathering held in our honor, in exchange for… a gift.” 

“Wait, wait, so they said they would join the coalition, if we let them… give us something?” Hunk asked, a frown on his face. 

“That’s how their message was worded, yes,” Allura said. 

“Did they say what?” Lance asked. 

Allura shook her head. “The people of Ciytron 3 are… hm. According to our research, very… devoted to their god. Many of their gifts include prayers or artifacts with protective qualities. It is possible they want to give some kind of blessing, which we should accept with great respect.” 

“Oh, great,” Pidge mumbled. “Religious nut jobs.” 

Keith pursed his lips, silently agreeing with Pidge. Having grown up in the Texas foster system as an Asian gay kid, he had encountered his fair share of tainted bibles and crosses. No amount of prayers could have erased the sin that spat from those families’ mouths. He still remembered hunching over in claustrophobic pews, the stale wood scent imprinting into his stiff button up shirt, and the pastor’s monotonous voice echoing off the stained glass windows in a way that made him want to cover his ears. He had heard enough thoughts and prayers after his dad died to last a lifetime. 

“There's very little here,” Coran piped up. He continued to swipe through the files at a rapid speed, and Keith watched with amusement as Shiro frantically tried to keep up. “There never was a lot of public records of Ciytron 3’s culture, and there’s been even less since Zarkon came to power. They wisely seem to have kept any news of their planet on the down-low.”

“Who is their god, exactly?” Lance asked.

Allura looked over to Coran, who swiped through a few more files. “They refer to him as Ahnos, God of Protection,” he said. “There’s not much more than that, I’m afraid. They’re a very… introverted crowd.” 

“Insular,” Pidge muttered. 

“Background check is all good,” Shiro said, looking up from his own files. “No Galra ties and no Galra activity near this quadrant. What do you think, Keith?”

Keith startled a little, shrinking slightly as the rest of the team turned to him. Part of him expected Shiro to take up the mantle of leader again, but since coming back around a month ago, he’d given no signs of wanting to. Keith didn’t know how to feel about it, really. Sure, he’d begun to settle into the role of black paladin, had learned to communicate with the team effectively and listen to their advice, specifically with the help of Lance (if he thought too hard about that, he’d spontaneously combust and die, so he won't). But there was still a bug that scratched at the back of his skull, and it set his teeth on edge and made his movements uneven. 

Impulsive. Brash. Rude. Aggressive. Rigid. Unfeeling. Feeling too much.

How can someone like that lead Voltron? 

“We need all the help we can get in this war,” he said, sounding a lot more confident than he felt. “If they want to give us some prayers, we’ll stop by and get some prayers.” 

 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

 

The air was stale with no sign of a breeze, and the color of everything was so desaturated Keith had to blink a few times to make sure it wasn’t his eyesight. There was almost no nature to speak of, the ground white and gray brick that stretched as far as he could see, which led to streets that were lined with buildings made out of more white and gray brick. In front of them sat a rather impressive structure, decorated with spiraling pillars and shimmering glass and an arched entranceway with the biggest doors Keith had ever seen. The city had been built to circle this building, which he assumed to be some kind of church. A group of equally muted colored aliens stood statue-like in front of the building, watching as the team’s shuttle landed in the circular, white and gray brick courtyard in front of the church. 

The stillness of their surroundings and the aliens themselves sent goosebumps running up Keith’s arms. He wanted to climb back into the shuttle and rocket back up to the castleship and hide until this meeting was over. Unfortunately, being the current leader of Voltron meant he had to take the initiative when it came to diplomatic relations. Thanks, Shiro. 

As Keith led his team (sans Coran and Shiro, as the lucky bastards were hanging back on the bridge) away from the transport shuttle and towards the group of aliens waiting for them, he noticed that he didn’t seem to be the only one that was getting the creeps. Lance had his usual charming smile on his face, but his eyes were darting around the courtyard, most likely taking note of any quick exits. 

“Cozy,” he muttered to Keith out of the corner of his mouth. Keith pretended to clear his throat to hide the laugh. 

As they got closer to the group of aliens, the one in front stepped forward. “Voltron,” they said. Their voice was deep and smooth, and their mouth barely moved. The translator in Keith’s ear crackled a little as it adjusted to the foreign tongue. “Welcome to Ciytron 3. We’re so happy to have you.”

“And we’re happy to be here,” Allura said, smiling. She stood at Keith’s left, her usual spot when they greeted new planets. “You have such a beautiful home.” Liar.

The alien bowed, a smile on their face. “It’s a pleasure, Princess Allura. We only wish we had contacted you sooner.” 

The aliens of Ciytron 3 appeared mostly humanoid, with pale, slightly greenish skin of various shades and long silky white hair. Their pupils were slightly wider than the average human’s, giving them an almost bug-like appearance, and their height reached around seven feet. The biggest difference was the second pair of arms that sprouted from their mid torso, long and lanky to match the rest of them. Their clothing was loose and billowy, looping around their bodies like sashes, all in muted shades of white and gray. The only thing that separated the alien in front from the others was the transparent cloth that covered their eyes and was held up by being braided into their hair. They reminded Keith of preying mantises, only less cute. 

“I am known as Om’e,” the alien in front continued with a slight bow of their head. “Please, follow me.” 

The crowd behind them parted as Om’e turned, and they led Voltron up the front steps and through the gigantic doors of the church. As they walked, Keith twisted his head to take in the looming architecture and stained glass, the spiraling designs that twisted up the walls, and the paintings that watched them pass. The paintings depicted scenes that reminded Keith of churches back on Earth, showing images of tragedy and hardship and persecution. Lots of Ciytronians crying, bound hands reaching for the skies, their mouths open in soundless cries. They told a story, and the misery of the scenes was interrupted by a tapestry depicting a shining light bursting out of the ground. It must have saved the Ciytronians from their hardship, for the aliens were now instead smiling and laughing and participating in joyous celebrations. But the shining light was only shown in parts, whether it be a clawed hand or a maiden’s face. Never as a whole. 

The paintings stopped as Om’e turned and led them through a pair of tall doors and into a smaller room. The walls in this room were plain, and in the middle was a long table surrounded by chairs that already seated a couple Ciytronians. Om’e gestured to the table before taking their own seat in the middle.

“Please, sit,” they said. 

Keith and Allura sat across from them, and the others filled in at their sides. Keith felt himself settle a little, with Allura to his left and Lance to his right. It didn’t feel like the eyes from the paintings could reach him here. He let out a quiet breath and forced his attention to the conversation in front of him. 

“We are eternally grateful for your offer to join the coalition,” Allura said. Keith thanked her in his head for taking the reins. 

“You are the defenders of the universe,” Om’e stated. “It is us that are grateful. The Galra have gotten away with too much for too long, and we seek to see their bloodshed returned to them.”

“We wish to end the violence and have the universe return to peace," Allura said. “Despite Voltron’s power, your help will be crucial in this war."

Om’e nodded, a small smile on their thin lips. “I expect nothing less from you, Princess. What are we to expect in this partnership?”

“You will be given a communication crystal with a signal only Voltron and our allies have access to, in the circumstance you are attacked by the Galra and require instant action.” Allura produced a small silver bag and opened it to reveal the shimmering jewel. “We would also plant a small beacon that would cover this quadrant and then some, allowing communication to pass through quicker and allow us to get to you sooner.”

“In exchange for our planet’s resources and aid in battle, correct?” Om’e said. 

“Only what you are able to give,” Keith jumped in. He was trying to be better about that, the whole diplomacy thing. It didn’t look good when the leader of Voltron let everyone else talk for him. “Your safety is our primary concern.”

Om’e’s shielded eyes turned to him, and Keith realized that this was the first time they had actually looked at him. Keith hated looking into other people’s eyes in general, it felt like his own were burning when he tried, but Om’e’s were a cesspool, an abyss, two spiraling black holes with unparalleled darkness.

“Our safety,” they murmured. They had yet to blink. “You are… Voltron’s leader, correct?”

Keith focused on making his face appear open. People usually responded better to that. “I am. My name’s Keith.”

The aliens on either side of Om’e shifted, and then their eyes were locked onto Keith, too. Keith sucked at reading facial expressions, and he didn’t know what their lack of one meant. Did he… say something wrong? God, this was why he left the diplomacy to Allura. 

“You, Keith, pilot the Black Lion?” Om’e continued. “You are Voltron’s head?”

Is that not basically what he just said? “I… Yes.”

That was when Lance jumped in. He brought a hand to Keith’s shoulder and gave him a couple friendly smacks. “Yep! Keithers here is our leader, and he’s a pretty damn good one. Our best pilot by far, there’s no one else who can handle the Black Lion quite like him. You will be well protected with him in that seat, I assure you.” He sent the aliens a beaming smile. “His words ring true from the rest of us, too. Any help you can provide will be much appreciated, but above all, we want to see you and your planet safe.” 

Lance was definitely just trying to butter his image up for the Ciytronians’ sake, but Keith felt a flush building anyway. He hoped the aliens wouldn’t notice. Did their species even blush in the first place? 

Om’e’s eyes had flicked to Lance, and their expression had finally shifted away from complete blankness, but Keith still didn’t know how to read the new one. There was a smile, but it was strange. It reminded Keith of the faces teachers would make when he told them he couldn’t give them a parent’s signature. 

“My apologies,” Om’e said, bowing their head. “I did not intend to imply anything different. I have heard many stories about the new leader of Voltron, and I wanted to put a face to the name.” Their gaze returned to Keith, and it was a different smile this time. Smaller. “Thank you for your words, Black Paladin Keith, and for the consideration of our home.”

“Of course,” Keith said, then after a moment gave a quick bow back. That would show more respect, right? 

Om’e watched him for a few more seconds, then finally moved back to Allura. “We will be honored to accept this partnership, Princess Allura.”

Allura clasped her hands together. “Oh, wonderful!”

The conversation delved into specific actions they would take to cement Ciytron 3 into the coalition, but Keith tuned it out. Lance’s hand had slipped from his shoulder and was now resting against his back, and even though he couldn’t feel it through his armor, the position had him nearly nestled into Lance’s side, who was leaning closer to give his own two cents into the conversation occasionally. Keith saw his profile out of the corner of his eye, saw his mouth moving, and he swallowed as he turned his head away and tried to focus on something else. 

The something else ended up being the gaze of one of the Ciytronians at Om’e’s side. Their hairless brows were furrowed, and their lips were in a tight, thin line. Keith hesitated before he sent them a tentative smile, but it only made their frown deeper. Keith wondered if he was again doing something wrong, and he quickly looked away. He really didn’t want to be the reason their offer was rescinded. 

He clued back into the conversation as Allura passed the communication crystal over, instructing Om’e on how to use it. 

“Your generosity is boundless, Princess Allura,” they said warmly. “As is the rest of Voltron. We thank you endlessly. We wish to have a celebration in your honor, tonight, in our central chamber. I cannot think of a single one of our citizens that would not love to shower you in well-deserved praise personally.” 

“I could use a party,” Pidge said, and she elbowed Allura. “We could use a party.” 

“Who body-snatched Pidge?” Lance quipped. His arm was still around Keith’s back, what the fuck. 

“She wants to study the paintings,” Hunk said, before Pidge could respond. 

“We are thankful for your invitation, and would love to participate in the festivities,” Allura announced, quieting the others down. “We have two others back on our ship, would it be alright if they joined as well?” 

“Of course, Princess,” Om’e said. “A friend of Voltron is a friend of ours.”

“Om’e,” the alien that had been staring Keith down spoke up, then. Their voice was quiet, but there was a layer of urgency through it. “Perhaps we should —”

“Would it be alright if we could dress you in our culture’s attire?” Om’e interrupted, seemingly not hearing them. “It is customary during events such as this. We have some set aside for each paladin specifically, and seeing Voltron representing Ciytron 3 in such a way will do much to add to our peoples’ hope.” 

Keith half expected Lance to burst out into excited squawking. Whenever a planet threw a party in Voltron’s honor, especially if they gave them new fashionable clothing, Lance would go batshit nuts. Without fail, he would show up looking straight off the runway, and Keith would have a hard time remembering anything else about the night. His head was filled with memories of Lance being nothing short of glowing. 

But Lance was silent, now. His arm hadn’t moved, he hadn’t leaned away, and he didn’t make a peep in response to Om’e’s request. Now that Keith thought about it, Lance had hardly reacted to the talk of a celebration, either. Keith sent a puzzled look in his direction, and the only response he got was Lance’s arm undeniably tightening. 

What was in the air of this meeting room? Had Keith gone insane? What was going on? 

Allura, on the other hand, seemed thrilled. Or she was just a good actress. “Oh, that would be lovely! We thank you for your hospitality.” 

“The pleasure is all ours,” Om’e said. “We will be looking forward to tonight. I do hope that you all enjoy yourselves.” They cast their warm smile across the rest of the team. “And, of course, the gift we will grant you during the ceremony. It is quite a splendid one.”

Keith couldn’t help but notice that Om’e’s eyes had passed right over him. 

 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

 

“I didn't think Ciytron 3 would find itself known for hosting parties!” Coran crowed, thoroughly combing his mustache as he stared into a little handheld mirror. “Or that they would be willing to give out their sacred garb!”

“Yeah, they seemed nicer than I was expecting,” Hunk said. He, like the rest of the paladins, hadn’t bothered changing out of their armor. Their group had returned to the castleship to inform Shiro and Coran about what had transpired, and were now getting ready to head back down as the planet’s (significantly smaller than Earth’s) sun began to dip below the horizon. 

“Still very pastor-like,” Pidge said. She was hunched over on the bridge’s floor, typing something into her computer, as she usually does. “I want to know more about their god, though. The paintings were kinda cool.” 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Lance said from where he was lounging across the red paladin’s station. “This place has nothing on my abuela’s house.” 

Hunk shivered. “Yeah, I really don’t need five figurines of Jesus watching me pee.” 

Lance smirked. “Seven.”

“There’s seven?”

“That’s too many Jesuses,” Keith mumbled, leaning against the side of Lance’s chair. 

Lance turned that shit-eating grin on him. “That’s just in the downstairs bathroom. You should see the dining room. Hunk, do you remember that time when you started to eat before she said grace?”

“Oh, god,” Hunk groaned. 

“Blasphemy,” Pidge snickered. Hunk groaned again. 

“I’m sure the people of Ciytron 3 will understand we aren’t familiar with their customs,” Shiro said as he came up beside Hunk. “Regardless, we should make sure not to do anything that could be seen as offensive. No poking around any sacred artwork unless you were given explicit permission that you can.” He raised his eyebrows at Pidge.

She huffed. “Okay, fine, but you gotta see these paintings. They’re weird, everyone’s drawn like that guy in The Scream.” 

“‘That guy in The Scream’, she says,” Lance said. “‘That guy’ is The Scream.”

Pidge inhaled, probably about to verbally tear Lance’s head off, but a faint beeping from the control panel interrupted her. Allura looked up from where she was scanning through files.

“It’s time to head back down!” she announced. “Everyone ready?”

Keith’s stomach dropped a little. He couldn’t say he was looking forward to this. He never really did enjoy the parties that planets would throw for them, the events being a combination of a sensory nightmare and a stifling spotlight. He was beginning to realize that he would honestly prefer to be anonymous in this war, to put in his all to protect those that needed it without having eyes on him as he did it. He didn’t like when aliens thanked them with gifts and galas, he just wanted them to be alive. 

He also just did not like Ciytron 3, okay? He really didn’t. He thought of Om’e’s eyes, the black voids that they were, and how his inability to read expressions never bothered him more than it did in that meeting room. 

Keith must have zoned out for a second too long and missed whatever conversation wrapped up, and he clued back in once everyone started to get up and make their way to the bridge’s exit. He flapped his hands a few times by his sides as he followed them, the group’s laughter from whatever they were talking about phasing right over him. He didn’t notice when Lance slowed down and sidled next to him until he spoke.

“Hey.” Keith’s head jerked up, meeting Lance’s baby blues. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Keith muttered. Lance was safe, he knew. Talking to him about these kinds of things never failed to make him feel better, even if it was to just share the burden of whatever was wrong with Keith’s head. “This place makes me feel weird.”

Lance exhaled sharply through his teeth. “Yeah, I’m not crazy about it either. And you know how I love my parties. There’s a vibe, and I don’t know what it is, but I don’t really like it.” He glanced at Keith out of the corner of his eye. “They were looking at you strangely. Did you notice that?”

“Is that why you were like that earlier?” Keith asked. He still felt Lance’s arm around him. A part of him missed it, and it made him feel ridiculous. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Lance said, almost cutting Keith off. His tone bode no room for argument. “You did everything right. After they confirmed who you were is when I noticed it.” 

Keith pursed his lips. “I guess I have a reputation.” 

Lance hummed, looking unconvinced. “Not really. A bad one, that is. Unless they have a thing against sick piloting skills?”

An abrupt laugh burst from Keith’s throat, and he elbowed Lance as they walked. Lance was grinning and looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

“On a serious note, though,” he continued. “If at any point you feel uncomfortable and wanna leave, you tell me, okay? How about a safeword?”

Keith swallowed whatever feelings that dragged to the forefront. He could handle joke-cracking Lance easily enough, but this one was harder. It made his brain all scrambled. “I’m not a kid, Lance.”

“Nobody’s too old for a safeword,” Lance said. “I still have one with my mama.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? What is it?”

“Garlic knots,” Lance said, puffing out his chest. “I would text her something like, hey mama, I forgot my garlic knots in the oven, can you get them? And she’d show up ten minutes later, no questions asked.”

“You want our code word to be garlic knots?”

“It doesn’t have to be garlic knots. It could be something, like…” Lance snapped his fingers. “What’s your favorite snack? You have one, right? Please tell me you haven’t been deprived of that, too.” 

Keith rolled his eyes, but his heart wasn’t in it. Already the anxious cloud that had been suffocating his head was dissipating. He thought for a moment, rolling the memories of flavors around on his tongue. “I like licorice.” 

“Hm.” Lance frowned. “Can’t really pretend we left licorice in the oven.” 

“Well, how would they know licorice doesn’t go in the oven?” Keith asked. “Or even what an oven is? Or licorice?”

Lance stared at him for a second, then wordlessly pointed at him. “Alright. Our code word is licorice.”

Keith smiled at the floor, shaking his head fondly. "You're so weird, sometimes."

He held on to Lance's laughter as they boarded the small shuttle and made their way back down to Ciytron 3. It was even more cramped than it had been last time, and Keith was crammed into a corner between Pidge and Lance while Coran excitedly talked about the possibility of ballroom dancing. It was thankfully a quick flight, and Om'e once again greeted them at the entrance to the church, which, now that Keith thought about it, was more like a castle. The alien led them back down the long hallway entrance, the group flanked by a handful of other Ciytronians that some of the team engaged in polite conversation with. The deeper into the building they got, the more crowded it became, as aliens ran around with trays and tables and various kinds of covered pots.

"Your presence has drawn more of a crowd than we were expecting," Om'e said, a sheepish look on their face. "We've had to broaden our menu to accommodate."

They passed the thickest of the bustle and eventually reached an intersection. Om'e led them down one of the side hallways and through a door that opened into a big circular room, its walls lined with tall white doors. Outside each door stood two Ciytronians, their two sets of hands clasped in front of themselves respectfully.

Om'e stepped to the side and motioned the team forward. "We have set up private quarters for each of you to dress in, along with some assistants if you so desire. Provided is your attire and your choosing of face paint and jewelry, and we can assist in a hairstyle of your preference." They smiled warmly as the excited chatter started up. "Please, take your time getting ready. We are beyond overjoyed to have Voltron represent our culture in such a way, and we are honored to decorate you however you wish."

"This is such a gift, truly," Allura gushed, eyes bright. "We thank you immensely."

"Always, Princess," Om'e said, bowing their head.

Keith felt eyes on him, and he glanced to the side to find Lance with his eyebrow raised. Keith raised one back.

Licorice? Lance mouthed. The corner of Keith's lips twitched, and he shook his head. This wasn't something he could see himself getting out of, anyway, not without offending a whole planet worth of people. That wasn't exactly high on his to-do list. Lance squinted at him, but seemed to decide to leave it alone, turning away from their wordless conversation.

Om'e made another sweeping gesture. "Please, approach. Each room has been tailored to each of you specifically." They clasped their hands together in a short bow towards Coran and Shiro. "I apologize for the lack of individuality in your chosen attire, but I do hope it is to your liking regardless."

Keith didn't notice if either of them responded to that, as one of the assistants on his right stepped forward towards him. He did his best to hide his flinch. "Black Paladin Keith, this room has been assigned to you."

With a quick scan around the room, he noted how his teammates were also getting whisked towards their own respective quarters. Ignoring the nervous flutter in his gut, he smiled at the assistant and made his way over. He didn't look back, and he didn't notice Lance's gaze on him before the door clicked shut behind him.

The room was bigger than he thought it was going to be. He didn't know where in the church/castle they were, but there was a wide window that overlooked what could only be described as a stone garden. On the right side of the window was a mirror that stretched to the ceiling, and a long bench took up space against the far wall. In front of one part of the mirror was a small desk covered in what looked like very alien-like containers of makeup and hair supplies, and a stool in front of that. Above the bench hung what Keith assumed was the outfit he was meant to wear, loops of drooping fabric in striking shades of red and black.

Keith reached for the elegant clothing , but someone cleared their throat behind him. He startled and turned, surprised to find that both assistants had followed him in. Going by what Om'e had said, he had assumed he would be alone unless he needed help.

"Oh, um." Keith glanced at the outfit, then at the rows of makeup and jewelry he doubted he would be touching. "I'm… to just put this on, right?"

The assistants stared at him. Slowly, one nodded. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the door.

Keith rubbed his thumb against his palm. Their eyes were so dark. "Okay, so, I'm just gonna, uh. Do that."

The one nodded again. The other didn't move.

He hated this, very much.

"Thank you for the, uh, assistance," he said. "Could I get some privacy, though? To change?"

The one still didn't move, but the other smiled. "Of course."

"Thanks," Keith said, exhaling a breath in relief. He turned back to the clothes and eyed the graceful twists and loops. He wasn't entirely sure how to put it on, but he didn't think it was much different from what the rest of the planet was wearing. He shifted towards it again, then looked over his shoulder.

The assistants were still there. They made no move to leave. Their unblinking dark eyes stared back at him. The one was still smiling.

Licorice, Keith thought. Licorice, licorice, licorice.

"Um," he said.

There was a knock at the door, then, and the assistants stepped to opposite sides as it opened. Om'e smiled at him as they entered, closing the door behind them.

"Hello, Black Paladin Keith," they said, voice saccharine. "Are you settling in well?"

The back of Keith's neck tingled, and he shifted his weight to stand more solidly against the ground. "Yeah, um, your planet's beautiful."

Om'e hummed, their eyes squinting in a smile. It reminded Keith of a theater mask. "Oh, we are so glad you think so, Black Paladin Keith."

Keith glanced at the door, but Om'e's tall stature blocked a path to it completely. "We all think so."

"Yes, indeed, but your opinion is of great importance to us," they said. "You are the leader, of course."

Keith didn't know what this conversation was. He knew he was missing something, something important, but that wasn't really an anomaly when it came to him. Being autistic kind of did that to you. "Well, yeah, but —"

"Black Paladin Keith, I'm curious," Om'e interrupted. "Why you?"

Their face was still twisted into a smile. Keith braced himself for a blow, to run, something. "I'm sorry, why me, what?"

"Why are you leader?" Om'e asked. "Why you, with generations of blood on your hands?"

Keith's chest went cold. "What?"

"Why are you leader?" Om'e repeated. "Why you, with that vile blood that runs in your veins? How have you managed to trick Voltron, trick the princess, so thoroughly? Do you not feel shame? Do you not feel disgust? How have you managed to brainwash the universe's defenders so completely that they've entrusted you with a lion's seat? The head?" Their smile curved downward into a sharp sneer, and they loomed over him with their full, terrifying height. "You are a rot that needs to be cleansed. You are to be a parasite no longer. We will see to Voltron's freedom. This is our gift."

Keith lunged forward, aiming to sprint past Ome's legs. He didn't make it, though, as four pairs of arms grabbed him and slammed him back against the mirror, his head cracking against the glass. He was so focused on Om'e he hadn't noticed the assistants slinking around the room, and they held him, now, his arms pinned to his sides. They were much, much stronger than they looked, and stood firm as he thrashed and kicked. Their double the amount of arms did him no favors.

Om'e approached, and they pulled something out from the folds of their clothing. It was alien in design, but its purpose was unmistakable. A syringe.

Panic flared in Keith's throat. He kept trying to kick at the assistants, but it was useless.

"Om'e, please," he panted. "I don't — you're wrong. The team, they're my family. I have no ulterior motives. I want to save people, I want to free everyone from Galra rule —"

"Sweet lies," Om'e purred. They uncapped the syringe and held it up to the light, the liquid inside glowing a faint yellow, similar in appearance to quintessence. "You may have fooled Voltron, but you cannot fool us."

"I'm not fooling anyone!" Keith snarled. "We're not — I understand being wary of me, but we're not all evil. There's — there are Galra that fight against the empire, that want freedom just as much as everyone else. I've seen it, we all have —"

"One cannot resist their true nature forever." Om'e flicked their wrist, and then there was a hand gripping Keith's hair and yanking his head back violently. Pain shot down his spine and he gasped. He could barely see Om'e anymore, but he could feel them coming closer. "I have lived a long life, young Galra. I have seen it all before. Your kind has stopped surprising me."

Keith tried to kick again, but it was like kicking a rock wall. He felt delicate fingers pull down the neckline of his flight suit, and he tried to wrestle his head away, but the assistant pulled on his hair even harder, causing him to cry out.

"You put up a good act, young Galra," Om'e murmured. "But it's time that you put it to rest."

There was a sharp prick, and an unpleasant, sticky warmth billowed out under the skin of his neck. Blinding pain quickly followed, shooting through his veins like ice. He screamed, and his left arm ripped out of the one assistant's grip and slammed into the face of the other. They yelped in either pain or surprise and fumbled their hold on him, and he took advantage of their momentary lapse and rammed his shoulder into their chest, shoving them against the wall. The other assistant tried to grab him again, but he reared his elbow back and clocked them right in the eye, sending them reeling backwards. They crashed against the desk, the rows of little glass containers tumbling to the floor and smashing into pieces.

Keith pushed himself up against the wall, his knees wobbling, and growled at the shaky image of Om'e in front of him. Their face was passive, if slightly smug, and they watched him from where they stood in front of the door.

"It is fast acting, so I wouldn't bother," they said. "It's been tailored specifically for Galra; your genes truly are fascinating."

Keith tried to take a step forward, but his leg locked before crumbling under his weight. He fell to the floor, mouth open in a desperate gasp, but he couldn't feel any air entering his lungs. His limbs wouldn't move how he told them to, and he scrambled against the floor as he tried to right himself. He was like a marionette with several broken strings.

His eyesight was getting blurry, but he was able to see Om'e crouch down in front of him. They hummed, tilting their head as they studied him. "And already we can see those monstrous features appearing. You hid it well, but your blood reveals the truth."

Drool dripped down Keith's chin, and he gagged, his tongue going numb. Everything was suddenly too bright, blinding, a slight yellow tint taking over his vision. He couldn't feel his skin, he couldn't feel his lungs moving, and his hands dragged uselessly against the floor.

"Truly hideous, those eyes," Om'e murmured, as if to themselves. "May Ahnos accept this offering."

Distantly, Keith was aware that he was crying.

And then he wasn't aware of anything at all.

 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

 

The smell hit Keith first, a sickly sweet rot that clogged the back of his throat. It was sharp, putrid, and acidic, like fruit that had been left out in the hot sun for way too long. His body convulsed around a gag and he nearly choked as he was made suddenly aware of the fact that there was something in his mouth. Keith shot up and spit into his hand, and what felt like pebbles fell off his tongue and into his waiting palm. The taste of blood broke through the remaining numbness in his mouth, and he gagged again. The taste rescinded a little bit after he spat onto the ground a few more times, and then he turned his focus to whatever was in his hand.

At first, he saw nothing. He was in a void of total black, darker than the painted metal of the Black Lion. For a moment, he worried that something had happened to his eyes, but as he blinked against the shadows, forms started to take shape. He saw the vague outline of his hand, what seemed to be dirt and rocks below him, and resting in his palm…

Teeth.

Keith stared. Through the darkness, he could see four pearly white teeth, flecked with blood and vaguely pointed. With his tongue, he carefully felt around his mouth for the gaps they left behind, but there was nothing. Instead, he very nearly cut himself on one of his now, somehow, much larger, much sharper, upper canines.

"What the fuck," he whispered. The darkness suffocated the words.

He couldn't let himself freak out about that, though. He needed to figure out where the hell he was.

Nothing in his surroundings seemed to have reacted to his movement, so he cautiously got to his feet, his legs trembling slightly. Someone had stripped him of his armor, leaving him in only his black flight suit. The air was heavy and thick, and the pungent sweetness of it had his stomach curling and a cold sweat breaking out across his skin. The only sounds he could hear were his own breathing and the faint shifting of stone beneath his feet as he stood. The darkness was near suffocating, but as he strained his eyes to see something, anything, he began to notice a faint yellow tint that slowly brought shapes into focus. It was like he was viewing the world on night vision mode, the brightness getting dialed higher and higher as he waited.

Well, that's new, he thought. He had always had good vision when it was dark, being able to see more than other people could, but it was only recently that he began to wonder if it had been a Galra trait the entire time. Whatever Om'e had injected him with seemed to crank that ability to the max.

But why?

Keith couldn't wonder for long, because as his vision continued to brighten, he finally got a good look at his surroundings. It was with a sickening dread that he realized he wasn't standing on rocks at all.

He was standing on bones.

Bones, spread out across the floor, heaped in piles upon piles upon piles. Femurs, rib cages, skulls. Bones that were shattered, cracked, covered in dust and grime and shredded remains of what must have been clothes. Traces of viscera clung to what used to be whole skeletons and leaked pus-like globs and sticky black residue. The suffocating, rotting sweetness of the air, like molding fruit and spoiled milk, hit him properly tenfold, and he tried to jerk away from the sight but was only met with more. More bones, more rotting meat, more remains. His knees hit one of the few vaguely clear areas on the floor as his stomach twisted and sent bile splattering into the dirt. It squeezed everything in him out and then some, until he heaved nothing but spittle.

It was then he saw it. A few feet from his face, completely dented in and the inside covered in dried black flakes, was a helmet. A Galra Empire helmet. Keith heaved again, and now that he was looking for it, they popped out to him easily. A Galra chest plate. A spiky shoulder piece. Forearm armor with the recognizable pink decals.

And there, a small distance away from the first helmet, was a mask, shadowed by bones and a jagged crack down the middle. The Blade of Marmora.

Keith was frozen, hunched over the remains of his last meal. He was vaguely aware of the violent shudders that wracked his body, the chill of horror that penetrated his skin. It felt like two fists were wringing his stomach half to death, but there was nothing else to come up. He was well and truly empty, in every single way.

He needed to move. Now.

Slowly, he got to his feet, and managed to tear his gaze away from the eviscerated graveyard. His eyesight must have finished adjusting to the dark, because his view was properly lit up now, for better or for worse. He was in some kind of wide, circular chamber, the stone walls packed with dirt and crumbling to rubble in some places, with the ceiling in a matching state. Two shadowed tunnels led away from the chamber in separate directions, and the piles of bones had been cleared away from both. As Keith made his way closer, a tendril of fear wiggled down his throat.

Someone was here. Something was here.

Pathways had been dragged through the dirt from feet that had walked them frequently. Keith stared at the prints, because he couldn't call them footprints. The most recent, the clearest, didn't look like feet at all. They were hands, stretched in such a way to be grotesque, but hands nonetheless. They pressed into the dirt with a weight that hinted at a much, much larger size.

Keith swallowed. He didn't want to stay in the chamber, but he also didn't want to travel down either of those tunnels. The smell of pungent rot was making his head spin, though, and he needed to get out before he was sick again. He glanced around the room, trying to see if there was any hint as to how he got there, any kind of opening in the wall or ceiling, but there was nothing. It was either incredibly well hidden, or he was so nauseated he couldn't properly focus. In a last ditch attempt, he shoved his mouth and nose into the crook of his elbow and circled the entirety of the chamber, scanning the wall for something, anything. He stumbled over bones and unidentifiable squishy lumps, and at some point he had to hunch over and dry heave again, with nothing but stomach acid coming out. He forced himself to circle the chamber twice, but he already knew what he was going to find.

Nothing.

Keith found himself back in front of the two tunnels, shuddering, cold sweat clogging his skin, and his mouth bitter and acidic. He needed to get out. He needed to leave. This was clearly a well used room, and he didn't want to be there when the owner came back. He stared at the two tunnels, his brain murky, the pungent aroma of viscera making his head spin and spin and spin. He studied the prints in the dirt. Both paths were well traveled, but as he got closer, he noticed a flash of red leading into the tunnel on the left: a couple droplets of blood, much fresher than anything else in the room, having yet to stiffen and darken into black. From whatever lived down here, or… or from prey.

Keith turned down the right tunnel. Using a finger, he etched a small 'V' into the dirt on the floor before he advanced. He kept his arm covering his face and his footsteps light, his ears straining for any sound of life. The tunnel kept straight for a good few feet before it began to veer towards the right, the walls made of the same blocks of cracked stone. There was an occasional streak of black at chest height, and Keith didn't want to think about the fact that they sometimes looked like fingers.

The farther he walked, the more the scent of decay and rot faded, but as he lowered his arm to take a hesitant breath, the air still smelled like the spoiled sweetness of rotting fruit. The bodily remains thankfully hadn't followed him, and he was finally able to get his thoughts under control. He was underground, that much was certain. Underneath the rot, he could smell the clogging dampness of deep earth and the staleness of a lack of fresh air. The craggy stone reminded him of visuals of abandoned temples, the structure one that could have once been grand. Could he dig through the ceiling? Doubtful. He didn't know how deep underground he was, and he didn't want to risk suffocating on dirt and being buried alive. The entirety of the planet looked like it was covered in stone, anyway. He could almost imagine Lance laughing at the suggestion.

Lance.

Keith stopped walking. Was his team in danger? They couldn't be down here too, could they? They had all gotten separated, stupidly, stupid stupid stupid.

It's been tailored specifically for Galra; your genes truly are fascinating.

No. If Om'e's words were to be trusted at all, then the rest of Voltron was safe. It wasn't them the people of Ciytron 3 hated. Just the Galra. Just Keith.

Was this why they wanted to join the coalition? Was an alliance just a cover to get to Keith?

We will see to Voltron's freedom. This is our gift.

It had been their plan all along.

I should have listened to Lance. Keith squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to take a deep breath, rotting air be damned. He should be up there with them, wearing wonky sashes and braids in his hair, because there's no way Lance would have been able to leave it alone. He should be studying the paintings with Pidge, or learning the culture with Hunk, or being given a pep talk by Shiro in the corner, or watching Allura's back, or being stolen for a waltz by Coran. He should be shoulder-to-shoulder with Lance, listening to him make quips about how fucking weird the people of this planet were, getting a little bit too comfortable at his side and maybe having one drink too many in his hand. Lance would look dashing, he knew, his dark skin striking against the deep blues they no doubt dressed him in. Maybe the alien alcohol would have made Keith's mind slow and his cheeks pink, and he would've dared to ask Lance to dance. Keith didn't know how to dance, but embarrassment was worth it, for the boy in blue. Everything was worth it.

Instead, he was in a pit, an underground maze, filled with rotting corpses and broken bones. A fate that he was in danger of meeting.

Keith blinked the frustrated tears away and resumed walking. He couldn't afford the what-ifs. He couldn't afford to break down. That wasn't what a leader did, and goddammit, he was one, no matter how much he thought he shouldn't be.

He needed to get back to his team. He needed to get back to his family. He refused to die like this.

Keith didn't know how long he traveled, but he eventually reached a T-intersection. He tried to study the tracks again, but neither side gave away anything. He sniffed the air, but that was a dead-end, too. His ears pricked up, though, at the faintest of sounds coming from the left. It hardly reached his ears at all, but it was some kind of… trickling sound.

Water.

Keith squashed the hope in his chest and turned left, etching another 'V' into the dirt as he did so. He would pause every couple of yards to listen, but there was nothing to hear except the trickling, which was steadily growing slightly louder. The farther he went, though, the greater his unease grew. He was traveling much, much farther than he thought he would've needed to, and from where he had been at the intersection, there was no way he should've been able to hear the water.

The teeth, his eyes, now his hearing… What else had Om'e changed about him? Were these things just dormant? The teeth had to have been there already, at least, far up in his gums. He hadn't exactly had frequent access to a dentist while he was being tossed between foster families.

The water was louder. The tunnel took a sharp right turn, and then it opened into another round chamber, identical to the last, except for one major difference: no bodies. The air was almost fresh, if a little stale, still, and the cobblestone even had an occasional vine-y green weed poking out from between the cracks. A majority of the chamber was empty, but across from the tunnel entrance Keith stood in, a part of the wall looked like it had collapsed, with a pile of rubble scattering into the room. More plants grew from the dirt that the chunks of stone had fallen away from, and from there was the source of the water. It was light, but the flow cascaded down the dirt and stone and dripped onto the floor, creating a wide, rippling puddle, the edges stretching out between cracks of stone.

Stepping forward hesitantly, Keith scanned the rest of the room. There were more tunnels that branched off from this chamber, the shadows so dark even his new night vision couldn't penetrate them. The only thing he could hear was the stream.

And then, ever so faintly, a whimper.

Keith froze. He didn't think he was even breathing.

By the pond, one of the lumps of dirt moved. Or, what he thought had been a lump of dirt. It was small, so small, and he took a step forward, then another.

His heart plummeted to the bottom of his ribcage.

It was a child.

A Galra child, curled up in a fetal position. Their dark hair was long and stringy, and one of their fluffy purple ears had gotten completely ripped off, leaving the side of their face matted with blood. Beneath their baggy clothes they were nothing but skin and bones, malnourished to the point of looking dead already. They twitched and shuddered, and every sound they made had them flinching into the dirt.

Keith didn't even think. He was at the kid's side in an instant, carefully rolling them onto their back to scan for further injuries. He felt them jerk away from him at the first touch, but when those glowing yellow eyes met his, they went still. They opened their mouth, but only a croaking squeak came out.

"Shh," Keith whispered, stroking some of their hair out of their face. "You're okay, I got you. I'm not going to hurt you."

A tear streaked down their cheek. With one bony hand, they lifted their shirt to expose their stomach. Just under their ribs, a huge chunk had been taken out of their side, and blood glistened and steadily pooled out from beneath them.

They weren't going to make it.

Their hand shuddered and dropped, and Keith caught it, bringing it to his chest. His throat faltered. "I'm sorry."

The child smiled at him. It was tired.

Keith tugged their shirt back down and straightened it of wrinkles. With his thumb, he cleaned some of the blood off of their face, but the fuzziness of their short fur made it difficult. He kept trying, anyway. He didn't let go of their hand.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The child took a rattling breath, their fingers twitching in his grasp. "Etha."

Keith did his best to smile. "It's nice to meet you, Etha. I'm Keith."

"Keith," they repeated. Their breaths were getting shallower. "You are… You are Voltron."

"Yes," Keith whispered, physically unable to choke out anything louder. "I'm with you, Etha."

Etha's gaze was drifting; he could see it even without the irises. "The rumors said… you were Galra. I'm…" The corners of their lips lifted in another tired smile. "I'm so… happy."

Their chest lifted once, twice, and then was still.

The water continued to drip. The end of Etha's hair floated at the edge of the pond, the movement a slow rhythm. A vine curled into the air by their wrist, somehow alive in this decrepit place. Keith set their arm down, resting it against their chest. With a gentle hand, he lowered their eyelids, blocking out the lifeless yellow, and it looked like they could've been sleeping.

"Goodbye, Etha," he murmured.

It felt wrong, leaving them there, resting against the cracked floor and dirt and growing puddle of their own blood. This wasn't a place a child should be. This wasn't where Etha should rest. But Keith got to his feet, and he knew he couldn't stay. Whatever had killed Etha couldn't have been far. He forced himself to look away from Etha's resting face, and turned to the many tunnels that branched off from the chamber. Keith went still.

There was a face watching him.

Against the darkness of one of the branching tunnels, a white, seemingly floating, humanoid face stared at him, wearing one of the biggest, most stretched, open-mouthed grins he had ever seen and eyes that were darkened by shadow. It was a statue, unmoving, and there was no hint as to anything behind it. But it had not been there before.

Keith glanced toward the nearest tunnel entrance, one to the right of where he had entered and the farthest away from this thing. But before he could even think about moving, a mumbling whisper reached his ears. The implant translator in his ear must not have recognized the language right away, because all he heard for the first few seconds was an unfamiliar alien tongue, the same sounds repeating on loop.

Then it kicked in, and Keith wished it hadn't.

"I smell you." The voice was definitely coming from the face, but its mouth wasn't moving. "I smell you. I smell you. I smell you. I smell you."

Keith swallowed, and he glanced behind him again. The face must have noticed the movement, because the words abruptly changed.

"No. No. Delicious. - static - going? I smell you. So good. They - static - good. I smell you. I smell you. Taste you. Look at you. Beautiful. Taste you."

A sharp, jagged rock sat a few feet from Etha's body, but trying to get it would put him a few feet closer to the face. He hesitated, rapidly scanning the ground for anything else that could be used as a weapon, but everything was too eroded and crumbled. He couldn't tell how big this thing was, or how fast it could move. Running was an option, but he didn't know what was down the closest tunnel, and he couldn't risk being empty handed if it was a dead end or if the thing caught up to him. Maybe if he could get back to the first chamber he could find a bone to use, but it was pretty far away.

He looked at the rock again. It wasn't perfect, but it could cut, and that was all he needed. Before he could second guess himself, he darted forward, hand outstretched, and his fingers had just wrapped around the stone when he realized what a huge, huge mistake he had made.

He hadn't even seen it move. But as Keith grabbed the stone and looked up, it was there. His brain only had a second to register what he was seeing. The first was that the face wasn't smiling anymore. The pallid tone of its skin made it look sickly, and its cheeks were sharp and gaunt. Scattered chunks of black, slimy hair grew out of its scalp, and its neck stretched as long as Keith's entire body and then some. It held itself up on bony arms that were even longer than its neck, and its hands mirrored the prints in the dirt Keith had seen earlier; stretched and grotesque to the point of being almost unrecognizable as hands.

That was as much as Keith was able to process, because in one fluid movement, the thing grabbed his wrist in one of those hands and snapped it to the side so harshly the stone went flying from his grip. A crack reverberated through his teeth, and pain exploded down his forearm. His knees buckled as he screamed, but before he could fall, the thing jerked his arm up above his head and lifted him up off the ground, his legs dangling uselessly. The pulsing agony sent nausea bubbling at the bottom of his throat, and he tried to claw at the hand holding him, but the thing hardly paid it any attention. Its neck continued to stretch as its face got closer and closer to him, and it stared at him with its dark, sunken eyes.

"Fight? Why? Taste you. You are gift. What a gift. They love me. Beautiful. You are beautiful." Its lips smiled, but nothing else on its face moved. "So good. So good. Will treasure you. Take my time. A gift."

His arm hurt, it hurt so bad, and he couldn't think. He grabbed onto the thing's hand and hoisted himself up so that his body weight wasn't pulling on broken bones. He tried to kick at the thing's face, but he hardly even reached its chin. Out of desperation, he dug his shiny new fangs into the gray skin of its wrist.

The next second, he was falling. He hit the ground and immediately scrambled to his feet, cradling his broken arm to his chest, and shot off toward the only tunnel he knew. He didn't have time to try and find the sharp rock or any kind of weapon. He needed to run, he needed to run, he needed to run.

He didn't get far. His left leg was snatched out from under him, and he slammed face-first into the dirt. The impact sent fire shooting down his arm, and he did his best to curl into a protective ball as he was dragged back across the ground.

If spirits were real, Keith seriously hoped that Etha wasn't seeing this. How pathetic.

"Cruel, why?" the thing asked, its face twisted into a cartoonish frown, its lips perfectly still despite the words. "Love you. Mine. Cherish you. A gift. Why cruel?"

"Let me go!" Keith growled. He kicked at the hand holding him, and the thing gave him another sharp yank towards it. Something sharp sliced across his back, but he hardly noticed it as the thing loomed above him.

He was able to see the rest of it, now. Further down its elongated torso, a second pair of arms sprouted from its sides, equally as gaunt and bony as the first. And even further down from there, was its legs. Except, it wasn't using them. They hung behind it uselessly, almost like a tail, and they were so crooked and warped that they hardly resembled legs at all. They were covered in deep, multicolored bruises, and Keith was able to see the outline of bones sharply jutting out from beneath thin, veiny skin.

Its legs were broken, and it looked like they had been for a long, long time. And alongside that realization, Keith had another.

This thing was a Ciytronian.

His mind flashed over paintings and tapestries and a maiden's face and what he had originally thought were claws but were, instead, long, hooked fingers.

Was this… Was this Ahnos?

The thing — Ahnos? — looked almost sad until its face abruptly snapped back into a grotesque smile, and it was such a bizarre, inhuman movement that it snapped Keith out of whatever fog he had been in. He grabbed a handful of loose dirt and pebbles and threw it into the thing's face, and with the momentary distraction, he ripped his leg out of its grip and took off running again.

What did Coran say about Ahnos? The God of Protection? The paintings had him bursting out of the ground, didn't they? None of the Ciytronians they encountered had actually mentioned Ahnos, except — except for Om'e. The memory was fuzzy, but Keith knew Om'e had said Ahnos' name.

But how was any of this supposed to help him now? As far as he could tell, this thing was no god. It knew this maze better than he ever would, he couldn't outrun it, he couldn't hide. Going by the amount of death in the first chamber, this thing has had years of practice catching runaway Galra. Just how many have been sent down here? Were they all meant to be meat?

He heard movement behind him, and he darted to the side, just narrowly avoiding one of those creepy fucking grabbers. Where did he drop the stone? Could that even do anything against this thing? Could it even die?

Fuck. Could it die?

Somewhere behind him, Ahnos made a keening whine. "Run? Why? My gift, nowhere to run. Just us down here."

Keith dared to glance over his shoulder. Ahnos was dragging its mutilated legs after him, that creepy smile still on its face. It was almost leisurely in how it moved, and it tilted its head to keep him in its line of sight.

It was toying with him.

This was proven when he neared one of the tunnels, and suddenly it was there, blocking the way, its head twisted almost upside down as it leered at him. He quickly doubled back towards Etha's body, eyes scanning the ground for anything he could use. What could he use? There was nothing here except for rocks and dirt.

"Gift has hope," he heard its voice sing behind him. "Let go, my gift."

Keith snatched the nearest, biggest stone he could find and whipped around, and Ahnos was hunched over him, staring down at him in glee. He yelled and drove the stone downwards into its splayed out hand, piercing its weird gray skin and drawing blood. There was a hiss above him, and then he was flying backwards, the creature having smacked him away like he was a bug. He skidded across the stone and rolled to his feet, but a sharp pain in his chest staggered his movements. Fuck, did that hit break a rib?

"Cruel!" Ahnos bellowed, its face in an exaggerated pout. It flexed its gnarled fingers and stalked toward him, its head shaking back and forth. "Smell so sweet, but so cruel!"

Keith backed away as it got closer, and he frantically scanned the room for somewhere to run. He held the rock in front of him like a sword and bared his teeth in a snarl, the adrenaline masking the throbbing pain in his bones. Ahnos was smiling at him again, and it was circling, herding him back toward the center of the room. The smile was open and wide, and behind its stained teeth he could see a dark, slimy, writhing tongue, and he realized that it was tasting the air. It was tasting him.

"Nowhere to run," it sang, and he didn't understand how it was speaking. "Have your scent. Will find you. Find you, find you."

"Fuck off!" Keith hissed. He picked up speed, backing up with his eyes locked on to Ahnos as it skittered after him, a weird throaty giggle coming up from its throat. It quickened its pace, and Keith tried to swing his makeshift weapon at it, because this couldn't be it. It couldn't be, but faster than he could blink, Ahnos was in front of him again. Keith slashed at its face and tried to dive between its arms, but one of those hands came up and snatched his broken arm out from where he was cradling it against his chest. It yanked it roughly to the side and Keith's vision went white. The scream ripped itself out of him, and then those fingers were wrapping around him again.

Why? Why was this happening? He had been sparring with Lance just this morning. He was going to watch an Altean documentary with Pidge tomorrow. Hunk had promised him hot cocoa after the party as a reward for getting through it. His feet left the ground, and he scratched helplessly at the rubbery skin that stretched too tightly over protruding bones. He still had to find the Altean board game Allura talked about loving as a child and surprise her with it. He didn't want Coran to lose someone else. He had just gotten Shiro back, again.

I don't want to die.

Family after family after family, none that truly fit, none that truly loved, none that were truly his. They escaped from his hands like smoke, and even though they clogged his lungs and singed his skin, they gave the illusion of warmth, sometimes, and he had forgotten what that could feel like. The illusion of love, the illusion of care. But beneath the curtain of warmth there was the cold, the tight smiles and tight eyes and they both knew he didn't belong. Hot-tempered, weird, shy, brash, loud, not loud enough, strange, creepy, 'special'.

And then Shiro happened. His mentor, his guardian, his brother. The kindness wasn't surface deep, the care, the love; Keith felt it. Shiro never backed away, never ran, not once during the countless meltdowns and shutdowns and eruptions. He showed Keith a home, with the little kitchen and the fluffiest couch and Adam, with his dry humor and twinkling eyes and ability to love Keith just as much as Shiro did.

And now, everyone else. Pidge, Hunk, Allura, Coran. Lance.

Please, I don't want to die.

Pidge kicking her smelly feet up into Keith's face while lounging on the couch, cackling at his yell of disgust. Hunk giving him a ball of yarn to see if it "awakened anything" in him. Allura slowly and painstakingly teaching him both Altean and Galran and getting genuinely excited when he said something correctly. Coran pretending he didn't see Keith sneaking out of an alien ball he was required to attend and pointing others in the wrong direction when asked.

And Lance. The way he sought Keith out after missions to make sure he was okay, framing it as "making sure he still had someone to make fun of", or how he would sneak the food Keith was pressured to eat but didn't like off his plate when he thought he wasn't looking, or how he would drag Keith to every sword shop he found because he knew Keith thought they were cool. The way he would double check Keith's face before touching him, or knew when to jump into conversations when Keith was getting overwhelmed, knew how to rile him up and let loose and laugh. His arm around Keith's back, his hand on his shoulder, their fingers interlocked under a haze of purple. The way his eyes followed Keith across the room and would skirt away when Keith tried to meet them.

Please. I don't want to be alone anymore.

"Beautiful," Ahnos said as it held him up to its face, its smile almost serene. With its other hand, it gently stroked Keith's cheek, the touch soft, like he was a doll. "Tears. Taste lovely, tears. Look lovely on you. My gift."

The hand gripping his waist shifted, and then there was a sharp stab of pain against his stomach. He cried out and looked down, finding that the thing's long, crooked thumbnail had pierced the skin a little under his ribs, and blood started to well up and trickle down his front. That was so going to cause an infection, if he even lived that long.

A rippling, throaty sound came from Ahnos' chest, and it brought Keith closer to its distorted, mask-like face. Horror froze Keith's limbs, and he clumsily tried to kick its head away, tried to hunch his shoulders and block his wound with his good arm, the panic sizzling over his brain, but it didn't matter. Ahnos pulled his arm back and opened its mouth, its tongue long and black and alive, and Keith squeezed his eyes shut.

Hoverbikes. Hot cocoa. Board games. Blue.

A keening scream burst from Ahnos' throat as it threw its head back, its mouth open in a motionless laugh, the edges of its lips pulled up nearly to its beady eyes. "Delicious! My gift, a delicacy! Delicious! Delicious! More! More, more, more!"

Ahnos dragged its thumbnail up his chest, tearing through both flight suit and skin. It held him still with its other hand, and it watched him with that stretched open mouth that was practically salivating. Keith was shaking, and he was flashing hot and cold all over. His arm was killing him, he was ten feet off the ground, and if that tongue touched him again he was going to shut down and then he really was going to die.

Running wasn't an option. His chances in a fight were abysmal. He had to use his mouth.

"Wait," he choked. "Wait, just wait."

Ahnos, surprisingly, actually did. It paused, its thumbnail stopping just under his collarbone. It tilted its head, studying him, its face still stuck in that terrifying expression of utter glee. "Speak? What to say?"

Okay, alright. Keith tried to get his heartbeat under control. "Why — Why do this? Why are you here?"

Ahnos tilted its head in the opposite direction. Keith's blood was running down its hand in thin streams. "Speak in strange tongue. Gift, what say? I do not hear."

Fuck. Keith's brain was whirling. His chest burned. What language did this thing speak? His translator only went one way. What can he say that wouldn't need a translation? He wasn't smart enough for this. The others would be halfway back to the castleship already. Think.

"Are you — You're Ahnos," he said. "Ahnos?"

For a good, long moment, the only thing Keith could hear was his uneven breathing. Ahnos continued to stare at him, his blood continued to drip, and the pain in his arm was turning into a deep throbbing ache. Then, slowly, Ahnos tilted its head until it was center again, and its grotesque smile dipped slightly. Its eyes pinned him in place, and fear spiked in his stomach.

"Ahnos," it murmured.

And then Keith was on the ground. He was slammed so harshly into the dirt that he was surprised he didn't black out. He gasped, but then there was one of those mutated hands clamping down over his jaw and mouth, pressing his lips so tightly against his teeth he was sure that they drew blood. Beady, dark eyes appeared mere inches away from his own, and its face was still twisted in that wide smile, but Keith knew that there was no happiness behind it anymore.

"Ahnos," Ahnos hissed, its voice filled with a sudden hatred. "I remember. Ahnos. Ahnos, I am Ahnos. And you, gift... you are reason for this place."

He tried to claw at the hand covering his mouth, but it was no better than a chihuahua scratching at a tank.

"I am Ahnos," it continued. "Protection, my duty. Protection, my purpose. So why here? Why trapped?" At that, both hands squeezed around his face and chest, and Keith kicked at it in panic, pained tears slipping down his temples. Ahnos didn't seem like it was seeing him anymore. "Savior. Protector. God. God? Then why? In dirt? Gifts given, gifts eaten, is that purpose? To stay here, wait, wait for gifts, for you, gift. Are you why I'm here?" Its eyes sharpened, two beady black dots of anger and hate. "Are you why I'm here? Are you why I'm here? Are you why I'm here? Are you why I'm here?"

Keith tried to snarl, to bite down and rip this thing to shreds, but he knew he couldn't. Ahnos lifted its one hand from his chest and dug its fingernails into his skin, slowly dragging them downwards, slicing through his suit and flesh. Keith screamed, then, and he kicked and hit and clawed but Ahnos only grinned wickedly. Panic clogged his skull and he distantly noticed Ahnos ducking its head down, its tongue sliding out of its mouth, and Keith squeezed his eyes shut so tightly he saw stars.

Hoverbikes. Hot cocoa. Board games. Blue, blue, blue.

Hunk's hands, steady and strong. Pidge's nimble fingers flying over her keyboard. Allura's laugh, like sunlight. The smile lines around Coran's eyes, a whole lifetime of joy. Shiro's warm hugs, comforting and solid. Lance, and his everything.

"Shame," Ahnos rumbled against his stomach. "Delicious. Will be sad to see go." It lifted its head up, its tongue pulling back into its mouth like a snake. There was a streak of Keith's blood on the corner of its lips. One of its fingers that was clamped over his face stroked his cheek gently before its hand moved to the back of his head, and it gripped his hair tightly as it lifted his head up and back far enough that his neck strained uncomfortably.

Ahnos leaned in closer, its stringy, greasy hair hanging limply above him. "Will make this slow."

Its nails sunk deep into Keith's sides, dragging a path through his flesh. Keith tried to scream, but he couldn't really hear his voice anymore. The world was filtered through cracked glass, and he watched as Ahnos stretched its mouth open wider and wider, its jaw snapping and dislocating itself, saliva and blood stringing between its teeth and dripping onto Keith's cheek. It lowered those teeth to his neck, and Keith couldn't even find the energy to look away.

Then Ahnos' face exploded.

 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

 

For a planet of priests, they sure knew how to throw a party.

Of course, it was a monochrome, liminal space-feeling, kind of okay party, but the drinks were pretty good. Lance was only letting himself have one, though. The last time he accidentally got shit-faced at a party, he had to do Pidge's chores for a month because of all the blackmail material he gave her. But it was hardly his fault — humans didn't exactly have the highest tolerance for alien alcohol.

Lance stood by a pillar, sipping what he thought was some kind of cocktail, and tracked the rest of his team with his eyes. He had been one of the last to filter into the room, having taken his time getting all dolled up. He looked pretty dashing, if he could say so himself. He had been dressed in sashes of dark and royal blue, his hair was pushed back and styled, blue and gold makeup lined his eyes, and he even managed to poke through old earring holes a pair of dangling gold gems. Although, his looks weren't really at the forefront of his mind, anymore. They were when he thought a specific someone was going to see them. But that someone wasn't here yet, and he was growing bored. And a little concerned.

Countless Ciytronians milled about, all wearing the same colored drapery, so it wasn't hard to spot Shiro off to the side, chatting with a couple civilians. Despite Om'e saying that they hadn't prepared anything specific for him, he was wearing his own looping sashes in striking shades of black and gray. Lance made his way towards him, holding his drink protectively against his chest and exchanging the occasional greeting with fellow party-goers. He caught a glimpse of Allura and Hunk spinning around on the dance floor, Allura joyously talking about something while Hunk mainly watched his feet, and Lance made a mental note to tease him about the giant blush on his face later.

"Shiro, hey," he said when he reached the man.

"Lance!" Shiro clapped a hand against his back with a smile. "You look great!"

Lance couldn't help but to preen a little. Even after all his time in space, working closely with him, it was hard to not consider Shiro his hero, still. "Not too bad yourself."

Shiro shrugged. Black and white paint accented his eyes, and his hair looked like it had gotten a blowout. "I just let the assistants do what they wanted."

Lance smiled politely and slanted a glance towards their audience, who had been bouncing their attention back and forth between them. "Can I talk to you privately for a second?"

"Of course, bud," Shiro said, and bowed his head in farewell as the Ciytronians waved before leaving. "Everything alright?"

Lance scanned the crowd again, his lips pursed. Pink and yellow twirled at the center of the room, green fluttered around the multiple sculptures on display, Coran in a light blue over by the drinks…

But no red.

"Have you seen Keith at all?" Lance asked, keeping his voice quiet.

Shiro blinked at him, and then he smirked, his eyebrows wiggling. "Oh?"

What. Lance sputtered, waving his hand in front of his face. "No! I mean — not like that!"

Shiro was still wearing that shit-eating grin. "Don't worry, Lance, your secret's safe with me." And then he winked.

Lance was so going to kill Hunk later. He knew his best friend had a loose tongue, and he never learned.

"Jesus, does Keith know?" Lance muttered, glancing over his shoulder. When he turned back to Shiro, though, he looked surprised.

"Wait, really?" Shiro asked, eyes wide.

Lance stared at him. He hardly noticed when someone nudged him slightly as they passed him in the crowd. "Wh — What do you mean, really?"

"I was teasing," Shiro said, still looking like gravity did a 180 on him and he only just noticed. "You like Keith?"

If a sniper domed Lance in the head right now, he would thank them.

"Let's — reverse a little," he choked out. "Have you seen him?"

Still staring at him, Shiro shook his head. "I haven't. You like-like him?"

"Shiro —" Lance dropped his face into his hand. He knew his ears were bright red anyway, though, so it didn't really matter. "You're almost thirty, you can't be saying 'like-like'."

"You have romantic feelings for Keith?"

Lance took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds, then peeked at Shiro through his fingers. "If I answer, can we move on?" At Shiro's nod, he sighed and dropped his hand back down to his side, then downed the rest of his drink. It burned a little in the way alcohol tended to do. "Yes, I have romantic feelings for Keith."

"Since when?" Shiro asked. He seemed to be getting his bearings, finally.

Lance ducked his head, cradling his empty glass. He wanted another drink. "Uh — the Garrison, I guess?"

"The Garrison?" Shiro's eyes were blown wide again.

"I thought we agreed to move on," Lance grumbled.

"Sorry, it's just, surprising, you know?" Shiro leaned back on his heels, staring at Lance with a look of awe. "Wow. You like Keith. This — This explains a lot, actually."

Lance's face was going to be bright red for the rest of his life. "What does that mean?"

"You are aware of the reputation you two have, right?" Shiro asked. "In hindsight, I can definitely see it as you tugging on his pigtails."

"So maybe I wanted his attention, sue me," Lance said, and went to take another sip from his drink before remembering he had finished it. He scowled down at his empty glass and set it on a table next to him. "Tease me about this later, I'm gonna go find him."

Lance turned and pushed his way through the crowd, stepping around dancing couples and stumbling drunkards. The lighting of the room felt like an office party that was only lit up by the occasional computer, and people blended together in the shadows. He usually loved when aliens threw parties in their honor, taking the chance to hop from dance partner to dance partner, a fun drink in his hand and a flirty quip on his tongue. He let their pretty faces distract him from the one he actually wanted to see, from the person he actually wanted to be dancing with. But it was also a comfort, to look up across the room and see him stationed in a corner with crossed arms, his eyes on their backs protectively.

Those eyes weren't here, now, though, and Lance was starting to feel the stirrings of panic.

There was a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye, and he found Hunk chugging a drink in sparkling hues of pink and purple. The vibrant colors of his sashes contrasted beautifully with the darkness of his skin, and his hair was in a half-up-half-down style and held traces of its natural wave that he usually attacked out with a hairbrush. His cheeks were flushed, and he didn't notice when Lance stopped at his elbow.

"Hunk," he said, and only felt slightly bad when Hunk jolted and nearly spilled his drink.

"Jeez, dude! Don't sneak up on me like that!" he gasped. He, too, had blue and gold paint around his eyes, but in a different pattern than Lance's. He'll give this to the Ciytronians; they really knew their stuff.

"Have you seen Keith?"

Hunk shook his head and finished off his drink, the residue leaving a few sparkles on his lips. "No, I've, uh. I've been dancing pretty much the whole time. Why?"

Lance looked towards the dance floor, but a group of aliens blocked his vision. "I can't find him, and he should've been here by now. I have a bad feeling."

"You always have a bad feeling," a new voice piped up, and Pidge appeared on the other side of Hunk, who jolted again and scowled at her. "You run out of moisturizer and you think fate is out to get you."

"I like to be a little dramatic sometimes, okay, I admit that, but I'm serious this time," Lance stressed.

Pidge hummed, raising an eyebrow. Her outfit was of forest and sage green, and she had less makeup on her face than them, but she still sported little white wings on the corners of her eyes, only slightly hidden behind her glasses. Small braids had been woven into her hair, starting at her temples and circling around to the back in an updo, and it was so charming Lance wished he was in the mindset to coo over it.

"I'm sure he's just getting ready, still. The assistants are probably wrestling with that mane of his, and you know he's fighting them on everything," she said with a snort.

Lance shook his head, frowning, and scanned the crowd again. Besides the spots of color that were his team, it was nothing but a writhing wave of white, white, and more white. Keith would not have taken this long. He would not have wanted the night to drag on any longer than it was already going to. Lance had seen his face: nervous, but resigned. It was a face he made a lot since becoming leader.

Something was wrong. That certainty sank coldly in his stomach like a stone.

As if in response to his thoughts, a beaming light suddenly lit up the front of the room, and the instrumental music that had been playing dwindled to a halt. Chatter ceased, and Lance shared a confused look with the others.

"Voltron!" announced a voice, and Lance recognized it as Om'e's. "Our beloved guests! Please step forward into the light. It is time we grace you with the gift that you deserve."

Hunk mumbled something under his breath and began to push through the crowd, and Lance and Pidge followed closely behind him, taking advantage of his large frame. When they made it through the throng of people, they were near the center of the dance floor, which had been cleared of any previous dancers. Allura and Coran were already there, and Shiro stepped out of the crowd a little ways away from them a moment later. Lance took a second to admire the Ciytronian's work again; Coran looked dashing in his baby blues and blue and white eye makeup, and the pinks Allura was dressed it practically made her glow, along with the spiraling pink and purple paint on her eyes and cheeks and the long, flowing braid down her back.

The team blinked at each other, and there was no Keith.

In front of them all stood Om'e, smiling behind their transparent blindfold thing. They were flanked on either side by the Ciytronians from the meeting, and next to the one on the right was a long wooden box that was tilted slightly backwards, held up by some kind of horizontal trolley. Om'e's hands were clasped together, and once the team turned towards them, they beamed and spread all four of their hands outwards.

"Our beloved Voltron!" they cried. "Our heroes of the universe! Everyone, please show your gratitude for our wonderful warriors!"

The room cheered, the sound nearly deafening. Glasses were raised into the air throughout the crowd, and citizens called out their support and love and thanks. Lance looked around, a little disoriented, and saw a couple of hesitant smiles on the faces of his team. It felt like the ground wasn't solid beneath him, and he knew he should be basking in the praise right now, that his lack of a reaction was intensely out of character for him, but the sharp feeling of wrongness had sunk its teeth into his skin and it wasn't letting go.

Where was Keith?

Beneath the airy drapery of his clothes was the comforting weight of his paladin belt, and with it, his bayard. The uneasiness in his stomach as he had watched Keith enter his private room had him slipping it on when his assistants weren't looking. His mama would always say that he knew things before he realized he did, and to always listen to his gut. The snugness of the belt was a comfort, and it centered his attention back on Om'e.

"Now Voltron," Om'e said once the cheering had died down. "As previously mentioned, we have a gift we are very excited to give you. But before that, it is time that we tell you the story of our god. It is time that you learn of Ahnos." Their gaze was firm but gentle as they dragged it over each member of the team. "Ciytron 3 has not always been free from Galra rule. We no longer carry the memories of torment, but it has not been forgotten. The stories grace our walls, our art, our laws. We will never forget, because our freedom is entirely owed to Ahnos."

There was a whisper in the crowd, but Lance didn't turn around to see who it was. Everything else was silent, every ear straining to hear Om'e's words.

"Centuries ago, Ahnos rose from the ground and slayed the Galra imprisoning us. He broke our shackles and destroyed our bonds, and he returned every second of our misery to the wretched beasts that put us through such cruel suffering. For every drop of blood and broken bone the Galra inflicted on us, he gave back to them tenfold." Om'e closed their eyes and spread their arms again, as if they were about to go in for a hug. "This is why Ahnos is our god. God of protection… and penance.

"After the Galra rot had been cleansed, Ahnos returned to the soil, and we feel his protective eye to this day. But the people of Ciytron 3 refused to let his memory fade from the minds of our tormentors, and we have continued to remind them in his stead." A light from above lit up the wall behind Om'e, revealing a nearly floor-to-ceiling illustration that was painted directly onto the stone. The main focus of the illustration was what seemed to be a Ciytronian, their four arms raised skywards, their head tilted back. Their hair was long and black, and their eyes were gold, and above them rained down figures that were bound with chains, their skin painted purple. Farther above that was the sky and the looming castle that seemed to glow under the spotlight.

You're smart, Lancito. His mama's eyes were warm, her smile the sun. You always know how to use that brain of yours.

The world tilted, yet Lance remained very, very still.

"We honor Ahnos with blessings!" Om'e cried, and another cheer echoed around the room. Lance's ears echoed with static. "The Galra fear Ciytron 3's name! Here, their silver tongues affect our warriors no longer. Here, they are safe from their sweetened words! We have cemented Ahnos' memory into history, we extend his legacy with gifts that the foul Galra will never forget! A gift for Ahnos, a gift for Voltron!" Their smile was wide, their teeth white and gleaming, and they looked at the team with utter glee on their face. "Freedom from a beast!"

"Wait," Pidge breathed, her tone choked with horrified realization.

Suddenly, sharp gasps and screams pierced the air as the crowd surged backwards, party-goers stumbling over themselves. One of the Ciytronians flanking Om'e reached for them in a jerky motion, eyes wide in fear. Om'e stood still, their smile frozen on their face in shock as they stared at the blaster Lance now held in his hands, aimed straight at their chest.

It was completely silent for a few moments in the little bubble on the dance floor. Lance's body trembled, and the corners of his vision were tinted red, but his grip remained solid and still.

He wouldn't miss.

"Where," he said, his voice straining over an eruption, "is Keith."

Om'e's smile twitched, and their eyebrows slowly began to furrow. "Red — Red Paladin, please lower your weapon — "

"Answer the fucking question," Lance growled.

"There is no need for — "

Lance lifted his blaster and fired, sending a plasma bullet straight into the head of the portrait of Ahnos. Bits of stone shattered off the wall and rained down to the floor, and more screams rang out from the crowd as citizens began to push and shove toward the exit. Om'e was shaking, their smile wiped from their face.

Lance lowered his blaster back down to their chest. "The next one has your name on it. Now, where is Keith?"

The Ciytronian that was hovering protectively near Om'e made a threatening step in Lance's direction and pointed a finger at him, but the effect was lost from how badly they were trembling. "You — Your actions have cost you this alliance! Ciytron 3 is withdrawing our agreement to aid Voltron! You are barbaric!"

Lance snorted, and it was a cruel sound. "Don't care."

"You call yourselves heroes?" the Ciytronian squeaked.

"My trigger finger's getting twitchy, Om'e," Lance drawled. To emphasis his words, he lifted his finger and tapped at the trigger.

The Ciytronian opened their mouth, probably to yell something again, but stopped when Om'e held out a hand to them. "Red Paladin," they said, voice weak. "Please understand. We have only ever wished to help you. The Galra are twisted creatures, and they know how to get into your head. They will cause nothing but harm, as that is all they are capable of doing. This Galra that you called your teammate has deceived you, has manipulated you into doing his bidding. He has gained your trust, and he will betray you. We wanted to free you from beneath his rule, and cleanse Voltron of his filthy touch." They brought their hands together as if in prayer, and they stared at Lance pleadingly. "We know it will be hard to come to terms with, but soon you will see. With him gone, your minds will finally be clear, and he will no longer be able to harm you."

There was a strangled sound on Lance's left. "With him — With him gone?" Shiro echoed, his voice cracking. "What did you do? What did you do to him?"

"A blessing," Om'e said. "For Ahnos."

"'Returned to the soil'," Pidge quoted. Her hands were gripping her green sashes so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

Allura was slowly shaking her head, pointed ears pinned back, and was staring at the Ciytronians in horror. "This — This is not what Voltron stands for. We seek an end to the Galra Empire, not the murder of innocents. This is monstrous!"

"Princess, did the Galra hold back when they destroyed your home planet? When they slaughtered your people? Did they show you mercy?" Om'e was getting desperate, their eyes wild. "You of all people should understand! There is no stopping these creatures. They are born of violence and blood, they breathe hatred, they live on fear! Ten thousand years since the destruction of Altea, and countless others have followed it! Ahnos knew the truth. He knew of the evil that resided in their souls. This Galra has been sent to where he belongs, where all of his kind deserve to end up." A crazed smile split their face. "Our Ahnos will see to it."

Multiple things happened very quickly.

Lance shifted his aim lower and pulled the trigger, rage clogging his throat and sizzling in his veins. The shot ripped through Om'e's thigh, and they screamed as they fell to the floor. The Ciytronian next to them lurched forward, but whether it was to rush to Om'e's side or attack Lance, he wasn't sure. They didn't get the chance to do either, as Shiro had sprinted forwards, prosthetic arm glowing with power and teeth bared in a snarl. He slammed into the Ciytronian, and they screamed as his robotic palm seared into their skin. They fell backwards against the wooden box that was propped up next to them, and it creaked as it tipped sideways, crashing into the floor with a splintering crack as its contents tumbled out across the stone.

Paladin armor.

Keith's paladin armor.

A garbled cry ripped out of someone's throat, and it took Lance a second to realize it had been his.

The helmet rolled across the floor and came to a stop at Coran's feet, who looked like he was going to be sick. The others were frozen, staring at the armor scattered before them. It looked like it had been cleaned, and it nearly sparkled in the light. Any sign of its owner had been washed away.

"This — You — " Shiro's arm was glowing brighter, purple electricity crackling between his fingers. There was murder in his eyes as he turned towards Om'e with jerky motions. "What have you done?"

Om'e stared up at him with teary eyes, all four hands clutching at their bleeding and partly-cauterized thigh. "G — Guards. Guards!"

"They're not coming, Om'e."

Lance had forgotten there was another Ciytronian at Om'e's side. Amidst the chaos, they had managed to blend against the background, their form perfectly still. With only a few straggling citizens left that rushed for the exit, their quiet voice was easily heard. Even now they didn't move, and they stared down at Om'e calmly.

"Laenka?" Om'e asked with a shaky voice. "What do you mean?"

"Your guards will be of no help to you here," Laenka said. "They've been properly dealt with."

Lance recognized them. They had been in the room during the initial meeting, and had tried to say something before Om'e interrupted them. Lance had thought it was odd, but he had been more focused on Keith's comfort to think too much about it.

"Dealt with?" Om'e echoed.

The other Ciytronian seemed to catch on faster than Om'e did. They struggled to sit up, one hand clutching the shoulder Shiro had wounded, and they pointed at Laenka accusingly. They sure liked to do that. "Traitor! This is blasphemy of the highest order! May Ahnos doom your soul!"

"It is your story that is blasphemy!" Laenka snapped. They stepped forward, fists clenched at their sides. "Om'e's words are nothing but lies! You worship on a bed of deceit! It is not the Galra you should fear manipulation from, but the very scripture you have based your lives around! Ahnos was no god. He was a child."

"Laenka," Om'e whispered, slowly shaking their head. "You are with the Crooked?"

"We have no name," Laenka said, their back straightening. "We tell the truth. We pray to Ahnos, but not the version that you have twisted. My ancestors knew. He was kind, and warm. He was young, and he was taken from us. Whatever is beneath the soil is Ahnos no longer, and the fates you have doomed countless Galra to are not ones that all of them deserve."

"Galra are Galra!" the other Ciytronian cried. "They live for nothing but cruelty!"

"Children!" Laenka roared. "Children, with fangs that have barely come in! Families that you have torn apart! Innocents that are as much of a victim of the empire as you or I! A paladin of Voltron!"

"We have freed them! He can easily be replaced, and his death will only benefit them! They have been cleansed of the destruction he would have caused. Ahnos has been fed, which is the only good this Galra would've ever — "

BANG.

The Ciytronian fell backward, a gaping, steaming hole in the side of their face. The buzzing static had returned to Lance's head, and he stared as the final twitches of life left the body on the floor. Maybe he should've felt sick, or guilty, or something. But as he watched the corpse go still, he didn't feel any of that. He mostly felt nothing, and it wasn't the nothing that came with being in shock. He knew what that felt like. He just felt nothing. Like he had smacked his hand against a mosquito and wiped the blood off his arm with nothing more than slight annoyance.

"I'm done with this," he said, aiming at Om'e again, who was staring at the Ciytronian's body in horror. "If the next words out of your mouth aren't telling us where Keith is, I'm shooting you, too."

Om'e turned their gaze to him, shaking. Even Laenka had gone silent, their mouth open in shock. Shiro stood over the body, hands still clenched into fists, but he didn't seem to care any more about what just happened than Lance did. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a thread that connected without them even needing to meet each others' eyes: none of this mattered. Only one person's life was of importance right now, and it wasn't the dead alien's on the floor.

"Paladins, these people are misguided," Laenka eventually said, having managed to gather their bearings. "Our planet has been fed lies for centuries. The details have been lost to time, yes, but my family knows the truth. Almost eight thousand years ago, there was a child — "

"Uh, no offense, but I think I speak for everyone when I say we can not give less of a shit." Hunk's words were dripping with passive aggression, and his eyes were like coal. "You're gonna tell us where Keith is, now. If you don't, I'm not gonna stop Lance in whatever he decides to do."

"He's beneath us, isn't he?" Pidge asked, voice small. "Just tell us how to get there."

"I know how," Laenka said, slowly. "But only Om'e can open the door."

Om'e bowed their head over their wounded leg. "I… This goes against everything I —"

"Open this damn door or I'm getting in my lion and blowing it up myself," Lance snapped.

Om'e gaped. "You — You mustn't! Our history has been built into these walls, these stones are aged thousands of years! The loss — "

"Open the door. Now." Allura's voice was deafening, but not in volume. Her Altean markings were glowing, and she stared Om'e down as if they were Zarkon himself. "This is your last chance."

Om'e was clearly fighting a battle in their head, and reason must have finally won out, for they eventually struggled to their feet and limped over to the painted wall. They stared up at it for a moment before they raised their hands, connecting each palm to one of Ahnos', their fingers spread in a mirror image. They mumbled some words Lance couldn't make out, but he did catch "soul" and "forgiveness".

Then the door opened. There was a deep rumbling, gears shifting and groaning, and the painted wall slowly ascended, Om'e's fingers dragging against the stone until they met open air. Before them were stone stairs that led downwards into darkness, and the air was thick with staleness and soil.

Om'e lowered themselves to the floor, shoulders slumped and head hung low. "Laenka knows the rest."

Lance should be afraid. Afraid of the dark, afraid of the underground, afraid of whatever monster that was lurking in the shadows. And he was, somewhat. But the bigger part of him wanted to sprint down those steps without a single look back, the only thought on his mind being to get Keith out. It could be miles underground with a thousand monsters, and Lance would still find himself on those steps, going down, down, down.

Shiro spoke the words before Lance could. "Suit up, team. Let's get our boy back."

 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

 

It took them six minutes to get to the bottom of the stairs. Lance counted every second.

Om'e had been left on the floor, guarded by a new group of Ciytronians that were apparently "the Crooked". None of them wore the usual sashes the people of Ciytron 3 were expected to wear, instead donning outfits that resembled martial artists'. Laenka had assured the team that they will make sure the door stays open for their return, saying that their people's dream was to see "the downfall of the lies", and that this was the first step to doing that. Or whatever the fuck, Lance really didn't care. Coran was staying with them for extra assurance, a blaster tucked into his belt just in case. Lance's last view of him was him cradling Keith's helmet to his chest, a deep sorrow aging him far past his actual years.

Laenka led them as they walked, some kind of floating orb hovering above their hand that glowed a soft blue hue. It sent stark shadows skittering along the walls, which only got deeper the farther they went. The cyan lighting from their helmets added to the blue color over everything, and it made Lance feel like he was underwater. Their footsteps echoed against the stone eerily.

"What is Ahnos?" Pidge asked, breaking the silence.

"He was no god nor deity," Laenka answered, voice somber. "He was born with a genetic mutation, and under Galra suppression, people were desperate. They thought it was a sign. When he was old enough, they took him, used magic to… to twist him. It made him strong, yes, but it cost him his soul. He destroyed the Galra ruthlessly, and afraid of their own creation, the Ciytronians responsible trapped him underground in the temple of old, which hadn't seen life since long before the Galra Empire. Ahnos died that day. Whatever is down here now, it is Ahnos no longer."

"Why feed him?" Allura asked. "These… rituals, why have them at all? If they were so afraid, why has he been turned into such a powerful figure?"

Laenka hummed. "I can only assume it was out of guilt. He did save us from our imprisonment and scared the Galra away from our sector completely. Perhaps even those Ciytronians thought it was too cruel to leave him to die."

"He should definitely be dead though, anyway, right? How long do you guys live?" Hunk asked.

Laenka huffed a laugh. "Definitely not eight thousand years. It is simply another anomaly that sums up the creation of this creature. Magic that should have never been used exists in it still, prolonging its suffering. I don't know what would happen if we stopped feeding it, if that would finally kill it. I can only hope."

"How do you know it's not dead already? How big is this temple? Maybe the Galra you've sent down here just… get lost?" There was obvious hope in Hunk's voice.

They were coming up on a sudden end in the tunnel, a stone wall barring their path. Laenka slowed to a stop in front of it and turned to face the team. "This first room will answer your question. I suggest you seal your helmets, and prepare yourselves." They paused, and their shoulders slumped slightly. "I… am sorry if this mission is in vain. I sincerely hope it is not."

"You could've stopped this from happening in the first place," Lance said coldly. They were the first words he'd spoken since before Om'e opened the door.

Laenka looked at him, their expression sad. "I did not know how Om'e had planned to take the Black Paladin, but I accept the blame regardless. I should have acted a long time ago."

"Well, it's ending today," Shiro said. "We're ready."

Laenka bowed, then lifted the fabric at their neck to cover their mouth and nose. Their voice was muffled when they said, "I will stay here to keep the door open, and to make sure the creature does not escape. I wish you luck." At that, they turned around and pressed one of the stones inward, causing the wall to rumble as it slowly began to lower.

Prepare yourselves. What a disgusting understatement.

The wall was about halfway down when the smell hit him. Even with his helmet sealed, the air filters in his suit couldn't entirely block out the wave of sour milk and rotten meat. It clogged his throat and made him dizzy, and as he reeled backward, he saw his teammates reacting just as badly as he was. Hunk's legs buckled and Allura wrapped an arm around him to support him, and she had a hand covering the bottom half of her helmet as if it would do anything. Pidge was gagging somewhere behind him, and Shiro was bracing himself as if he was about to be attacked.

The wall fully lowered, and Lance wanted to throw up.

"Stars above…" Allura whispered.

The beams from their helmet lights lit up a graveyard. Hundreds of thousands of bodies in multiple stages of decomposition littered the circular room's floor in heaping piles, bones and skulls and pieces of Galra armor sticking out while wearing dried strings of viscera. The stone and dirt floor was swallowed by the black tar of old blood and the endless splintered pieces of rib cages and femurs and spines. Corpses that looked shredded, ripped apart, shucked clean or half eaten, littered with rot and decay, stacked on top of even more bodies that had been absolutely destroyed, stacked on top of bones and bones and even more bones.

"I'm gonna be sick," Hunk choked out, before he did just that. Lance only hoped he had remembered to unseal his helmet.

Lance was gripping his gun so hard he couldn't feel his hands. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, and nearly astral-projected when his foot sunk down into something squishy. His eyes rapidly darted around the room, looking for something, anything, that would tell him whether Keith was one of the bodies in this room or not. He passed soldiers of the empire, he passed bodies with tails, he passed civilian clothing that was so caked in black that they were nearly unrecognizable.

He heard a cry to his left and spun around to find Shiro standing over a body, and his heart almost stopped before he realized what exactly had gotten Shiro's attention. The body was too decayed to identify, but attached to their face was a Blade of Marmora mask. They had seen Keith wear an identical one more than enough times.

"It's not him," Lance said quickly. He watched as Shiro took a slow breath. "It's not him."

Faint beams of light danced across the room as the team spread out among the piles, desperately scanning the faces of every corpse and hoping they wouldn't find who they were looking for. Twice more Lance heard someone lose control of their lunch, and it was the thought of unsealing his helmet and exposing himself fully to the putrid air that helped him keep an iron lock over his own stomach.

It was Pidge that eventually broke the tense silence through the comms. "He's not here."

Lance swallowed, and he felt the buzzing in his mind start to swell. Relief, that Keith wasn't a dead body in this room. Fear, that he might still be a dead body somewhere else.

"Everyone, my location, now," Allura ordered. "I found tunnels."

The fear spiked as Lance quickly made his way over, doing his best to not step on any of the bodies more than necessary. It was kind of hard with the entire floor being nothing but bone. Against the far wall were two identical openings, the dirt before them very clearly well traveled by something much larger than the average humanoid. Shiro was crouched in front of the one on the left, and when Lance and the others reached him and Allura, he stood up and faced them.

"We need to split up," he said, and pointed down the left tunnel. "Someone that had been bleeding took this path recently. It might've been Keith, it might not have been Keith. I don't want to risk the whole team choosing the wrong one and costing time that he might not have. Pidge, Hunk, you're with me. I want both sides to have a long range weapon, so Lance, you and Allura take the right. Does anyone have a better suggestion?"

Hunk's bayard flashed into his canon, and he hefted it up against his hip. "With you, Shiro." Everyone nodded in agreement.

"Alright." Shiro's expression shuttered for a second, and he met Lance's eyes. For the briefest moment, he wasn't Shiro, former leader of Voltron, head of the pack, rushing into battle with determination and strength at his back. He was just Takashi, an older brother terrified of losing the boy he watched and helped grow up. He was just Takashi, barely holding on against the tsunami that was the possibility of his baby brother being dead.

Lance hid his own fear behind his teeth and gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It probably looked as threaded together as Shiro's own mask did. "We're gonna find him."

Shiro held his gaze for another moment. "Alright." Then he turned and disappeared down the left tunnel, Hunk and Pidge at his heels.

"We are," Allura said, and Lance had to blink a few times before facing her. She rested a hand against his, and he realized that his shaking had become evident. "This is Keith we're talking about. You know how stubborn he is."

"God, don't I." Lance tried to sound light-hearted, but he could feel the corners of his lips twisting downward without his consent, and his voice sounded a little too wobbly. "He's probably kicking ass and — and being all cool, waiting for us to — to find him, and, um…"

"We're going to," Allura stressed. "Lance? We're going to find him."

Lance inhaled sharply. Fuck, why was this happening now? If he cried, he wouldn't even be able to wipe the tears away. They were going to find Keith, they had to, because his brain couldn't even process the alternative. It couldn't happen, because then a part of Lance would break apart and he would never be able to get it back. It would die down here, with the countless souls lost to time, bound to a boy made of fire. Lance had never known how to not follow in Keith's footsteps, and how fitting would it be, for even if Lance left this place without him, he wouldn't truly. He wouldn't know how. He wouldn't want to.

It was then he saw it. There, leading into their tunnel on the right, was an etching in the dirt that wasn't made from footsteps. It was small but jagged, not looking for attention but recognizable to those that knew. A sharp 'V', with the top corners spiked inward. Something that Lance had doodled himself countless times out of utter boredom.

Voltron.

"Allura," Lance gasped.

"What? What's wrong?"

Lance didn't answer. His feet were already moving, and he launched himself past her and down the tunnel, his heels digging into the soil. His heart was jack hammering against his lungs, and he was only distantly aware of Allura sprinting after him.

"Lance!" she cried. "What is it?"

Lance couldn't find the breath to answer her. It was a coin toss over whether the blood had been Keith's, but if it wasn't, Keith would have chosen the right, of course he would. Blood meant a hunt, and he was prey down here.

All too soon did they come to an intersection, and Lance slid to a stop, his head on a swivel as he looked for another sign. Both directions looked identical, so Keith wouldn't have chosen based on that. His suit wasn't picking up noise from either, and while the clogging scent from the first room had faded somewhat, it was definitely still present.

Allura came to a stop next to him and studied the two paths. "Lance —"

"A 'V', look for a 'V'," Lance said, and dropped to his knees to get a closer look at the dirt. The light from his helmet exaggerated the shadows of every corner, and his sharp spike of hope was dangerously close to plummeting into frustration. "There was 'V' in the dirt, look for Voltron."

"Look for — " Allura cut herself off, and she dropped down next to him, peering down at a spot to his left. "Lance."

A quick glance confirmed it — another 'V', leading them left. He shot off running again, this time with Allura quick on his heels.

They ran, and ran, and ran, and Lance's entire body pulsed with his heartbeat, and it was the only thing he was aware of anymore. They sometimes passed a smear of black against the wall and all Lance saw was Keith's crooked grin, the splatter of freckles across his shoulders, his slightly pointed ears, how he would lean on anything and everything. The way he lit up when he saw Lance, snaggletooth on full display, the warm and raspy tones of his voice and how Lance could listen to it for hours. His strong hands, his sturdy back, his jaw his cheeks his eyes and Lance couldn't lose him he couldn't lose him he couldn't. It was stupid to hide, to pretend, to lie, to not hold on with everything he had, to act like a single touch wouldn't unravel him completely. Lance couldn't lose him, he couldn't lose Keith, Keith.

They entered the chamber. He saw the thing, the horrible, twisted, cruel thing, and Keith, Keith, Keith. And he didn't think. He didn't need to.

Lance aimed at the creature's face, and fired.

 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

 

All Keith was aware of for a few seconds was blood. Dark, warm, and viscous, and he barely remembered to close his eyes in time before it covered him like rain. An ear-piercing shriek sounded above him, layered over itself like echoes in a cave, and the grip in his hair disappeared. Another shot, and Ahnos' jagged nails ripped out of his torso, the shrieking joined by a deep, rumbling gurgle. Keith blindly scrambled away in the opposite direction, every movement a fist tightening around his ribcage.

There were sounds of a fight behind him, more shots being fired and yelled words he couldn't make out. The ground shook under Ahnos' weight, and Keith didn't know what was going on, and he tried to wipe the blood away from his eyes, but there was so much. He spit out what had managed to slip between his lips and stood up on shaky legs, but the all-consuming pain in his chest had him hunching over again. Before he could fall back down to the ground, however, someone was grabbing him. His panic exploded like a flare and he tried to rip himself out of their grip, his good hand forming a weak fist.

"No!" he cried. "Let go! Let go!"

"Keith, stop!" Keith was pulled against their chest, his fist halted harmlessly between them. "It's — it's me, you're okay."

Through his blood-soaked bangs, Keith could see wide eyes, dark skin, and blue. Underneath the overwhelming scents of dirt and blood and death, there was a single thread of salt from the sea. Keith wasn't sure if he had died already, and his brain was simply showing him a reality that would help the passing be easier. But the Lance in front of him was solid, and he had his arms around Keith, holding him up from the blood streaked floor.

Lance (actual, real, living, not-made-up Lance) rested his forehead against Keith's, not caring about the blood that smeared across the glass of his closed visor. "God, you're alive."

If this was just his brain, Keith hoped it wouldn't end soon. "Lance…?"

Another scream from Ahnos, and Lance pulled Keith to his side, and Keith was able to blink away enough blood to see him aim with his blaster and fire. Keith's head was ringing from the keening siren coming from Ahnos' throat, filled with anger and pain. A flash of blue had him look up, and he saw Allura practically lassoing Ahnos with her whip. She swung its head around, and Keith realized that Ahnos' entire lower jaw was gone. Its tongue swung in the air as it thrashed, and it tried to grab for Allura with one of its distorted hands, but she was able to swing her whip to wrap its arm up, too.

"No! No!" it screamed. "Cruel! Cruel!"

"Where are you hurt?" he heard Lance demand. He was leading Keith away from the fight, and kept firing shots at Ahnos while he held Keith to his side with his other hand, using himself as a shield.

"My — my right arm's broken," Keith gritted out, "and my ribs are either fractured or broken, too. It clawed up my chest pretty good, but I can't really — I'm too numb to feel it."

Ahnos swiped one of its free hands at Allura and she narrowly dodged it, sliding to a stop near the pool. Keith saw her glance to her side and freeze for a second, and Keith remembered Etha, little Etha, their blood staining the soil. Ahnos didn't let Allura linger and swiped at her again, and she used the opportunity to catch that arm in her whip and yank, causing it to stumble. Lance took advantage of its vulnerability and opened fire on its side, the blaster bullets searing open wounds into its skin.

"Everyone, our coordinates!" Keith heard Allura shout into her comms.

Lance was backing them up towards the tunnels, but Keith dug his heels into the ground. "No, we can't —"

Lance flashed a look at him, and he felt the fire behind it. "We're getting you out of here."

"I can fight!"

The speed at which Lance snapped his head towards him nearly had Keith wincing. "The fuck you mean, you can fight? You can't stand up straight!"

"We can't leave Allura!" Keith tried to push past Lance, but he stood firm. "Lance."

Lance pulled up a holoscreen over his wrist and mumbled something in Spanish. Keith was able to see that it was a map showing the locations of the team, and the little green, yellow, and purple dots were clustered in the top left corner. Blue and pink were in the bottom right. Lance repeated what Keith figured was a curse word and aimed his blaster again, firing more shots as Allura danced around Ahnos' struggling form. "You're not fighting."

Keith felt a growl rise in his throat. "The others are too far away. Allura won't be able to evade forever, we can't leave her."

"We aren't leaving her. But you're not fighting." Lance turned toward him again, and the expression on his face killed Keith's next words before they even touched his tongue. His eyes were wide, and he stared at Keith pleadingly. "Just stay here, please, Keith."

Keith blinked away more blood. "But —"

A grating scream shook the ground, and they both watched in horror as Ahnos ripped free of Allura's whip. Its neck craned like an owl's and it slammed its hand down over her, knocking her over and trapping her to the ground. Keith heard her let out a shout, and instinct had him break into a sprint. An immediate, crushing pain in his chest caused him to double over, and he felt Lance pull him backwards and set him against the wall before he took off across the cavern.

"Stay!" he yelled over his shoulder. The bigger part of Keith wanted to run after him, injuries be damned, but he couldn't breathe enough to even yell back. He slumped against the wall and slid to the floor, every breath a raging fire through his lungs. He watched as Lance shot at Ahnos' face, and the creature screamed again and tried to reach for him, too. Its wounds must have been slowing it down, as it looked almost sluggish with its movements, and it wobbled as Lance darted around it easily. There was a loud snap and Ahnos ripped its hand off of where it had been holding Allura down, one of its fingers dangling in a way that was very clearly broken. Allura stood up and summoned her whip again, her expression one to kill. Her Altean super-strength, Keith assumed.

Using the wall to support himself, Keith struggled to his feet, sweat breaking out across his skin. The sound of blaster fire filled the room, and he squinted through the wave of dizziness at the pink and blue figures barely dodging Ahnos' attacks. With the adrenaline fading, he was becoming increasingly aware of just how much everything hurt. His arm hurt, his chest hurt, his ribs hurt. He took a step toward the fight and wobbled, his vision warping like a funhouse mirror. His heart was between his ears and his chest felt cold, and when he looked down he was soaked in a lot more blood than he had thought.

"Lance…?" Keith tried to say, and he was sure he said it, because he heard it, but it didn't sound like it had come from him. He touched his chest and furrowed his brows at what felt like strips of thick wet paper. His movements felt awkward, like he was made of rubber, and his heart was beating so loud and fast he was sure it couldn't actually be from him. He didn't know when he had fallen back to the ground, but he was down there, now. Which was probably good, because he was sure he was going to throw up.

Someone was shouting something, but it was getting drowned out by a disarming whisper that shouldn't have been as loud as it was. Keith tried to look up, his head rolling along his shoulders like a bowling ball, and saw blurs of white, yellow, and green joining the chaos, and that was good, he thought. That was good, right? Blue was running towards him, that had to be good. Blue was good. Blue was safe.

"Keith!"

"Me," Keith mumbled.

Lance dropped down next to him and pressed a hand over his chest, and maybe Keith should've been concerned over the fact that he didn't even feel it. "Jesus, holy shit, is this all yours?"

"Whas' mine?" Keith asked. Lance looked scared. "Sorry."

"Sorry? Why are you apologizing?" There was yelling behind them, orders being thrown around the room, but Lance positioned himself so Keith couldn't see.

They were down here because of him. Keith tried to take a deep breath, but all he tasted was blood and dirt. He was supposed to be their leader, their head, and because of him they were down here fighting a monster. They were taking on a battle he should've been able to handle himself. What kind of shit leader does that? He does.

"Keith, that's bullshit," Lance spit.

"Oh," Keith said.

Lance's hand was still pressed against his chest, and it was steadily being stained red. "We're not down here because of you, we're down here for you, because a group of aliens are fucked in the head and decided to live their lives dedicated to being creepy as shit. You're Keith, our Keith, and you're stupid if you think we would leave you to fight this shit alone. You don't have to fight anything alone again." Lance's eyes were molten, and he stared Keith down as if daring him to look away first. "Do you get it? I'll follow you anywhere, you indomitable cockroach. You can burrow to Hell to fight the devil and I would be right behind you."

Keith's mouth felt clammy. His tongue didn't feel like it belonged behind his teeth. "I don't wanna fight the devil."

"Good, I would prefer it if you didn't." Lance glanced over his shoulder. "I'm gonna pick you up now, 'kay?"

Keith fought to keep his balance as he nodded. "I think I'm bleeding out."

"Dios."

It was as Lance was scooping Keith into his arms when Ahnos remembered that he existed. Lance flickered out of view for a few seconds with the rest of Keith's vision, and when he came back, Lance was clutching him tightly to his chest and bracing himself against the echoing overlap of a thousand animals letting out blood curdling screams. Keith squinted against the noise over Lance's shoulder to find Ahnos pinned to the ground, Allura's whip binding it and the rest of the team using their weight to hold it down. Its own blood was smeared across its face and its hair was tangled around its tongue, and its beady eyes were locked on Keith as if they were the only two in the room.

"Gift," it hissed. "Mine."

Keith felt the fear of prey in his bones. "Lance -- licorice."

Lance's legs moved before he seemed aware of it, and he staggered forward a few steps towards the tunnel before breaking out into a sprint. Ahnos roared and ripped free of Allura's bindings, flinging Hunk and Shiro off and causing Pidge to grip onto its neck for dear life. The pounding of Lance's feet into the dirt sent ripples of nausea throughout Keith's body, and he groaned as he tilted sideways before correcting too far into the side of his neck. Ahnos' clawed fingers dug into the dirt as it dragged itself after them, its tongue flapping through the air and its blood scattering from it like a wet dog. Its weight seemed to make the ground shake, and it crashed into the walls at every turn in the path, sending dirt raining down over them.

"Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!" Keith both heard and felt its words, in beat with his pounding heart. "I smelt you! I tasted you! For me! My gift, mine! Mine, mine, mine!"

"This thing's crazy!" Pidge shouted from her place on its neck. She tried to summon her bayard, but quickly gave up after nearly losing her grip on Ahnos. Allura's whip was still wrapped around one of its arms, and Keith could barely make out her getting dragged along behind it like the world's worst jet ski.

Keith didn't know how long Lance had been running, but he was definitely missing chunks of time when Lance sharply pivoted right. His breath was hot against Keith's ear, and Keith lost the fight with gravity and dropped his head against his shoulder, letting his eyes slip shut. Everything was cold, everything was heavy, everything was sticky and it hurt. He couldn't tell his fingers apart and tried to hold on to Lance's armored collar, but he just felt himself flop uselessly. His world shrunk to Lance's arms, the coolness of the armor against his cheek, the scent of his fear and sweat. Was it normal to smell that? Keith didn't think so, but he didn't think he had much longer to wonder. He felt cold. Why did he feel so cold?

Lance stumbled, his arms tightening around Keith. The air was made of rot. A new voice was shouting for them, and he could hear Lance cursing with every harsh exhale. Keith didn't want to look away from his face, but he was losing feeling, now. His hand was slipping, and it was hard to keep his head up. It would be easier to let it rest, wouldn't it? In the arms of his right hand man, the love he was never going to utter, the boy he could never quite read. Keith breathed Lance's name into his neck, the only thing he had strength to do anymore. The selfish part of him wanted it to stain Lance's skin long after Keith was gone.

I was here. I existed. I didn't die in the dirt alone. I died in warmth, instead.

And then, light.

The cacophony of noise had Keith forcing his eyes open, and he didn't remember when he had closed them. Shapes surrounded them, but Keith couldn't see too much before they were blotted out by Lance curling around him protectively. He was shouting something, his voice shot and broken, and Keith stared. Lance's eyes looked like stars, painted in gold and blue swirls, a mini constellation decorating his skin. He was beautiful.

As if in slow-mo, Keith watched as Ahnos burst out of the shadows behind them, its skin sickly in the light and its blood staining its chest black. One of its hands was reaching for him before it faltered, its entire body jerking to a stop in what seemed to be shock. Through layers of muffled water, Keith heard its rapid breathing rip through its lungs, heard the thunderous yelling of panicked voices, and he watched as Ahnos raised its head in what could only be described as confused awe. Its face went slack, and its beady eyes blinked dazedly. The glittering reflections of stained glass danced across its face, and it turned its head to follow them, the centuries of shadows and darkness staying suspended behind it.

Slowly, Ahnos looked back towards Keith. It blinked again. Keith didn't know what it might have been trying to say.

A flash of green light shot through the air, slicing through Ahnos' throat, and the life in those beady black eyes went dead.

Unconsciousness pulled Keith back under before the creature hit the ground.

 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

 

The pods had always caused his breathing to tighten, but after waking up in one two days after leaving Ciytron 3, he had probably the worst panic attack of his life. Coran had to sedate him, and he woke up again a few hours later in his room with Shiro hunched over his bed, looking as if a truck had backed into him twice. He held on to Keith's hand like it was the only thing keeping him in one piece.

Shiro didn't tell Keith much about what had happened after they rushed him back to the castleship, the mere mention of the planet darkening his face like murky water. The alliance was off even with the changing of leadership and a formal apology from the people. With their supposed god dead on the floor in the middle of their sacred building, it was a little hard to remain faithful to the legend. His brother's face kept growing tighter and tighter the more he tried to fill him in, and Keith pretended to be tired to get him to stop. Shiro left him to sleep, but with the night cycle lights dimming, Keith was wide awake.

The darkness didn't feel like danger, but it didn't feel safe anymore, either.

Standing in the bathroom, Keith stared at his reflection. The substance Om'e had injected him with had shown up in the pod's scans, some kind of twisted version of quintessence with a focus on Galra DNA. It had pretty much turned him into a beacon for Ahnos to latch onto, a giant glowing neon sign broadcasting his location from any point within the tunnels. Not everything it had enhanced was permanent, but some of it was. His eyesight had almost gone back to normal, the yellow-tinted night vision fading back to what he was used to. The whites of his eyes held a strange new glow, but he wasn't sure if it would continue to fade or not. He wasn't sure about the hearing, either. Whether he was twitchy and hyper-sensitive to any little noise due to the lingering fear or to the substance, he couldn't yet tell. He was going to have to get used to the teeth, at least. Along with the canines, a second set of incisors poked out higher up in his gums, the points going up and out rather than down. They weren't long enough to prevent him from closing his mouth, but they still felt strange. The most glaring physical differences, though, were his ears and skin. The cartilage in his ears stretched into small tips, the ends poking out through his hair and the shape very much not human. As for his skin…

Keith flexed his arm, watching the tiger-like purple markings ripple over the muscle. He swallowed, tilting his head to see the markings on his neck shift with the movement as they trailed over his jaw and circled his cheeks. They were a light lavender, the edges soft and blurring in with his paler skin, and some were splotchy in certain areas, as if they weren't yet sure if they wanted to fully come through or not. He felt like a tie-dye T-shirt, a child's careless hands staining him wrong. He wanted to step into the shower and scrub himself clean until he bled, but instead he crossed the floor of his room and stepped into the foggy darkness of the castleship hallway.

The air was cold, a biting chill that scratched against the back of his neck. Keith crossed his arms as he walked, eyeing every shadow that leered at him out of the corner of his vision. He tried to focus on his breathing, but his lungs felt tight. The ceiling was too low. The walls were closer than they had been a second ago. Keith walked faster and he knew there was something behind him, crawling after him out of his room, his scent in its throat, and he broke into a run, his bare feet pounding against (stone, dirt, the warm blood of a Galran child) the castleship floor.

I'm going insane, he thought. It's going to catch me, echoed back. No no no no no.

A pair of double doors whooshed open, and he stumbled into a wide room with a vast sea of stars beaming down at him. His heart clawed at the inside of his ribcage as he slowed, and he realized he was at the bridge. The stars twinkled at him, sitting proudly among the night sky, very much not under stones and rocks and dirt. They watched him as he struggled to breathe, his hands grasping at the front of his shirt. The material stuck to his body like glue and brushed against his skin like knives and he wanted it off but then he would be cold and it would feel like he was bleeding out all over again.

The air around him was suddenly too open but the shadows of the hallway were too suffocating, and he dropped down onto his back and spread his arms across the floor. The equal pressure from beneath him settled something in his gut, and he took his first stable breath since looking in the mirror.

Focus, he heard Shiro's voice say.

Keith dragged his fingers across the floor, finding comfort in the rigid structure of the tile. There was no dirt, or stones, or bones. Just reinforced Altean metal, the grooves under his palms predictable and routine. The stars hadn't moved, still twinkling in their places against the sky.

Had Ahnos remembered stars? Keith's lips twisted. He didn't know what emotion that thought dragged up. The thing was dead, so it was a pointless thought to have.

"You making snow angels?"

Keith flinched, but the tension in his muscles eased when he saw Lance getting up from his place on the stairs. The usual cocky grin was on his face, and he kept his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants as he swaggered over to Keith.

Oh, god. Had he been there the whole time? Keith brought his hands to his chest, immediately mourning the loss of the metal against his palms. "What are you doing here?"

Lance came to a stop above him and shrugged, looking out at the vast expanse of space. "Couldn't sleep. I like to sit out here, sometimes. Best view in the castle."

Keith's eyes lingered on the cut of his jaw, the splattering of freckles across his cheeks. "I guess."

Lance turned back to him and grinned. There was something a little too tight about it. "Good to have you back, samurai."

"Why couldn't you sleep?" Keith asked as he sat up. He stared at Lance's face, at the droopiness of his eyelids, and thought that the blueish light of the castle almost made him look sickly.

"Ah, you know," Lance huffed and plopped down next to Keith, throwing his legs out like a little kid.

Keith waited to see if he would continue, but it didn't seem like he was going to. "What… What do I know?"

Lance was looking out into space again, but the corner of his lips quirked up. "'S just a figure of speech."

Keith frowned, the all-too-familiar feeling that he was missing something pricking at his brain. "But I don't know?"

"Why can't you sleep?" Lance asked instead of answering.

Hesitating, Keith looked down at his arms. The purple patterns looked starker in this lighting. He ran a thumb across one of them, but it didn't feel any different from the rest of his skin. "You know." He tried to make it sound snarky, but it fell out a little too warbled to pass.

Lance stayed silent. Keith chewed on his bottom lip, mindful of the fangs. He looked out at the stars again, at the cold, incomprehensibility of outer space. He remembered Allura first telling them about quintessence, about cosmic dust, and the comfort he found in the thought of everything being connected. Every tiny spec of an organism had something in common with every other thing in existence, and it made him feel both incredibly small and entirely engulfed at the same time. It was the most he had ever felt not other. He was cosmic dust. He was made of the same thing as everyone else.

It was hard to remember that now, though. Not only did he feel more other than he ever had in his life, he looked other, too. It wasn't something he could hide by staying quiet, by keeping his head down, his hands hanging still by his sides. He had become a flashing sign further announcing that he was special, the word spat out like the insult everyone intended it to be. Keith Kogane, star pilot, prodigy, genius, a problem, different, wrong, freak. Galra. Other.

A soft touch against his collarbone jerked him out of his downward spiral. Keith ripped his gaze away from the night sky to see Lance looking at him carefully, one arm extended and his fingers hovering just against his skin. When Keith didn't pull away, Lance lowered his gaze and traced something just above Keith's shirt collar. The touch was electric, and Keith wasn't able to fully stop the shiver that shot through his body.

"Lance?" he breathed.

Lance's thumb dragged over his collarbone and ever so slightly dipped under the neckline of his shirt. Keith dug his fingernails into his arms. "They scarred."

"They…? Oh." Keith pressed against his chest through his shirt, and even through the material he was able to feel the faint ridges left behind from Ahnos' jagged nails. He followed them down to his naval before they came to a stop. "Wow."

Lance pulled his hand away, and Keith felt a little pathetic over how badly he didn't want him to. "You don't feel them?"

Keith shrugged. "Not really." They were the least of his problems, anyway. But why was Lance's expression turning sour over them, and not anything else Keith was now sporting?

Lance mumbled something in Spanish under his breath. All of team Voltron had translators in their ears, as Allura and Coran most definitely did not speak English, but the devices still hadn't learned how to separate different Earth languages. They lumped everything under "Earth language" and didn't bother translating any Spanish that Lance said to the others (except for the Alteans), which he quite enjoyed taking advantage of. Keith was usually able to recognize a few words, but he didn't know what they meant, and he was still trying to muster up the courage to ask Pidge to find him an English-to-Spanish dictionary.

All that to say, Keith stared at Lance blankly as Lance rubbed a hand over his face in frustration and muttered to himself. He was glaring at the scars poking out from under Keith's shirt like they personally insulted him.

"What?" Keith asked. "What's your problem?"

"My prob —" Lance huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Jesus, Keith, you look like a well-used cutting board because that thing tried to rip you open. That's my problem."

Frowning, Keith adjusted his shirt collar, hiding the scars from Lance's burning blue eyes. There was an ache building in the back of his throat as he tried to view Lance's expression as anything except disgust. "I'm not making you look at them if they gross you out that badly."

Lance's eyebrows shot up, and for once he seemed at a loss for words. He floundered for a few seconds, his mouth opening with nothing coming out. "They don't gross me out! What?"

It was clear Keith had said something wrong. That ache was getting stronger, and he hunched his shoulders and tucked himself into his knees, a necessary barrier to hold himself together. "Then — Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what? How did you get… Keith." Lance reached a hand out, but stopped when Keith pulled away. "Keith, they don't gross me out. I promise. They… they make me sad."

Keith wasn't sure what sound he would make if he opened his mouth, but he tried anyway. "Why?"

Lance certainly looked sad. He looked broken, and Keith was feeling a lot of things very strongly. Those burning eyes were taking him in, Lance dragging them over every inch as if Keith was something he wanted to remember, somehow. "Oh, mi vida…"

"What does that mean?" Keith whispered. The ache was painful, now, and it wouldn't let out anything louder.

Instead of answering, Lance lifted a hand to Keith's face, cupping his cheek gently. It was soft, really soft, even with the slight roughness of his calluses from using his gun. He stroked the skin under Keith's eye, catching some of the tears that were building and had yet to fall.

"They hurt you," Lance said quietly. "I thought… I thought you were going to die. I thought we hadn't been fast enough, that you were already going to be gone by the time we…" He swallowed, and Keith felt his hand tremble slightly. "I wasn't fast enough to stop that thing from touching you. I wasn't smart enough to realize what was happening in the first place."

"No — No, why are you — Stop blaming yourself." Keith pulled away from that gentle touch and got to his feet, and it felt like ripping off a limb. But Lance couldn't be saying those things. Keith was the one that failed. He failed all of them. He was the head of this godforsaken team, and he had let them down too many times. "This was my mistake, not yours. I'm the leader, it's my responsibility to recognize the danger and take precautions, and I didn't. I — I fucked up, again. I put you all at risk."

"Cut the shit, Keith, no you didn't," Lance said as he jumped up and stepped into Keith's space. "You were their target, not us, and I should've done a better job watching your back. I knew something was off, but I didn't do anything. I didn't do shit, and you almost died."

"Don't coddle me," Keith warned.

Lance huffed a laugh. "When have I ever coddled you? I'm the first to call you out when you're being an ass. Right now, you're just being stupid. None of this was your fault."

"It wasn't your fault, either!" Keith didn't mean for it to come out as a shout, but it did. "Maybe it wasn't anybody's fault, but I should've been better! A better leader, a better fighter, a better person! I should've been able to see, but I didn't! I never can! The staring, the weird questions, I just thought — I thought it was me being — wrong, again. I'm always wrong. I read someone wrong, I say something wrong, I do something wrong, I don't know how to get it right. I don't know how to not be hated just for — just for being. I was used to it, all of it, I've had twenty fucking years of it. But now it's putting everyone in danger, and I can't — I can't be wrong anymore. I don't… I don't want to be wrong anymore. I…"

The floor was spinning beneath Keith's feet, and he didn't know where he was going with this. Suddenly he was seven, standing in the living room, unable to move because his dad had repositioned the couch, and it wasn't in the right place anymore. Then he was thirteen, and his foster brother had tossed his sweatshirt onto the floor and he couldn't touch it without feeling dirty. Then he was sixteen, and someone was laughing in his face because of something he had said, but he wasn't trying to be funny and he didn't know why they had hate in their grin. Then he was nineteen, covered in bruises and holding the only thing he had of his mother as an alien told him what exactly his blood was made of, and the feeling of different-other-wrong cemented itself into his soul.

A rot.

"Maybe… Maybe they were right," Keith whispered.

The stars watched them silently. The lighting made the room feel sick. Keith stared down at his hands, and they looked sharper than they had been before. Pale and bruised, scars across his knuckles, streaks of mottled purple bleeding into his veins. What kind of person had hands like these?

"When I was eleven, my teacher taped my mouth shut," Lance said.

Keith's head shot up. "What…?"

"She called me up to the front of the class," he continued, "and said that I needed to learn how to be silent. That nobody wanted to hear my voice as much as I did. So she taped my mouth shut, and had me stand next to her desk for five minutes to show the rest of the class what my punishment was. Then she sent me back to my seat and I spent the rest of the period like that."

"Lance," Keith murmured, but he didn't know what he was going to say.

"Eleven years old, undiagnosed ADHD, little ol' Lancey Lance, sinking into his chair as everyone in that room laughed at him, trying not to cry and failing miserably." Lance tilted his head, an eyebrow raised. "What would you have told him?"

Keith hesitated. "Lance, I know what you're trying to do."

"What would you have told him?" Lance repeated.

Keith bit into his lip until he tasted blood. He could feel himself trembling. His eyelids fluttered, and he saw him, eleven year old Lance, hunched over in his seat, masking tape covering his mouth. He was too small for his shirt, his shoulders too bony, and tears rimmed his eyes and flushed his cheeks. Shame, confusion, anger, and hurt wafted off of him like smoke. Keith could feel himself in that room, could hear the distant laughter of his classmates, the stinging words from the teacher behind him. Lance's feet probably couldn't even reach the floor, yet.

"I…" Keith whispered. "I would've told him… I'm sorry."

Little Lance looked up at him, and then it wasn't Lance anymore. Keith stared down at himself, standing in the middle of that living room, the top of his head hardly reaching Keith's waist. He knew his dad was somewhere in this memory, assuring him that it was okay, he could put the couch back, that they could go get ice cream, anything to get little Keith to pull his hands away from his ears and for the tears to stop. Keith saw his life stretch out before this little boy, every awful thing that would hurt him an inevitability.

"And that… he didn't deserve it."

Little Keith stared back, his small fingers tangling in his hair. One of his dad's old flannels hung from his shoulders, the smell a familiar comfort. He was so, so small. Keith could see the parts of him that weren't right, like a picture on a wall that was ever so slightly tilted, not enough to be obvious but enough that, when looking at it, you knew something was off. His pupils weren't the right shape, the bruises on his legs weren't the right color, the number of teeth in his mouth was higher than it should've been. A meltdown over something that didn't fucking matter, tears coating his cheeks over something mundane and stupid. But he was a child, barely seven, and so small that Keith's brain couldn't wrap around the fact that that had been him, once.

Keith tried to see Lance again, the little boy shrinking under the weight of a classroom's vitriol. "You didn't deserve that, Lance."

Lance was studying him, his eyebrows furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because —" Keith ground his teeth together and crossed his arms, turning his face away. "Stop trying to therapy-talk me right now."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lance cross his arms, too. Stubborn shit. Keith snuck a glance at his face, but it was scarily blank. It was hard to tell when Lance was angry, sometimes. He had a habit of overdramatizing every little thing to the point his reactions looked cartoonish, but he also had his moments of complete stillness with a storm behind his eyes. In the early days of Voltron, Keith was near constantly losing his mind, not knowing if he was able to call Lance a friend or not. He wasn't able to tell just how much truth was laced with his insults, and how much of it was just friendly teasing, like Shiro said. It was harder when Keith realized that the flutter in his stomach wasn't just from talking to someone new, and he had to figure out how to manage that while Lance had his fun flirting with every other thing that moved.

Then Shiro went missing, again, and Lance was there to pick up the pieces of Keith that had shattered apart. He became his stability, his voice of reason, and was a walking, shit-talking reminder that Keith needed to step the hell up, and was right there behind him as he did. Keith had disappointed many, many people, and Lance had become someone he didn't want to let down.

Keith's nails dug so hard into his skin he half expected to draw blood. "They said I was a… a rot."

He saw Lance's own hands tighten around his crossed arms. His whole being was wound so tightly, Keith half excepted him to snap like a rubber band.

"I tell myself that being Galra doesn't change who I am, and that I know who I am," Keith continued, the words like sandpaper on his tongue. "And that me being — that everything else I have is, whatever, I guess. I don't need people to like me, I'm pretty used to them not, but I guess I wasn't…" He swallowed, trying to hold back the wave that would render him incapable of saying anything else. "I wasn't prepared for them wanting me dead. And when I was down there, I was angry, I wanted to live, but there was a part of me that… that thought it might be… better. To die."

It was quiet, and he could hear the faint sounds of the castleship, of Lance's breathing.

"Om'e said one couldn't resist their true nature forever. You know more than anyone how much of an asshole I am. I'm impulsive, I'm rude, I'm hot-headed, I'm mean. I fight like I'm going to die tomorrow. Even fucking Zarkon could see it. What if I… what if I do something really bad? What if I really hurt someone?" It was getting a little hard to breathe. "I've been nothing but a problem to everyone in my life. Maybe it would be better — safer — if I… wasn't there to be one, anymore."

"Don't say that."

Lance's voice was so strained that it had Keith finally look up. Lance was glaring at him with such intensity Keith almost took a step back, and his eyes were red and glistening with unshed tears. There was so much tension in his frame that he was shaking, like rattling windows holding back a hurricane.

"You are a fucking asshole," he spit. "You're so fucking rude, and impulsive, and mean. But don't you fucking dare —" He stepped forward and jabbed a finger so hard into Keith's chest that he stumbled. "Don't you — You don't get to decide that. You don't get to — to leave us. You are not a monster, and you're not going to become a monster, because you're Keith, stupid, hot-headed, talented, amazing Keith, and your heart is three times the size of anyone else's I've ever met. You care about people so fucking much, and it's so painfully obvious despite how much you pretend you don't. You're Keith, you're Galra, you're autistic, you're a fucking douche bag —" Lance shoved him, but there wasn't a lot of strength behind it, and Keith caught his hands and held them there. Lance was breathing heavily, and he gripped onto Keith like a lifeline. "Don't you fucking talk like that. You can't fucking talk like that."

"Okay," Keith whispered.

"If you died down there, I would've —" Lance worked his jaw, his lips faint of color, and a few tears were making their way down his cheeks. "Everyone was ready to burn that planet to the ground, do you understand? Shiro almost killed one of them. I — I did. Shot them right in the face. And no one cared, no one gave a shit, because you were in danger, and that was all that mattered. Do you understand?" Lance's fingers tangled with Keith's shirt collar, his pulse rapid firing against Keith's thumbs. "Keith, do you understand?"

Keith was an ocean, the creaking wood of a ship's deck, the chaos of the sea salt spray. "You killed someone?"

"A piece of shit," Lance spat, "preaching about your death like it was the second coming of Christ. That was a monster. I don't regret it, and I would do it again, and again, because they hurt you." His eyes fell down to where Keith's scars were definitely back on display. "They tried to kill you, and they were happy about it. They said it like we should've — we should've been grateful."

"Their gift," Keith murmured. "It was their gift to Voltron."

"No," Lance breathed, shaking his head, his gaze not leaving Keith's sternum. "You're our gift, Keith." Then he leaned forward, and pressed his lips gently against the scars stretching over Keith's collarbone.

The first time Keith rode a hoverbike, he had launched off a hill in the sand and soared so high it felt like he would never touch the ground again. The wind had ripped at his hair and clothes and his stomach had been forgotten somewhere below him, and for that brief moment, he was flying. The sun had been setting and the sky was painted with purple and orange, and Keith was able to see himself up there with the stars.

With Lance's lips against his skin, he felt like he was in the sky, again. He grabbed Lance's shoulders and just held on, the air in his lungs trapped somewhere below his heart. Every vein caught fire and burned, his body a supernova about to explode, and he trembled when Lance's lips moved with his words.

"You asked why I couldn't sleep." Keith felt more than heard Lance speak. "It's because every time I close my eyes, I see you covered in blood and dying. You were dying, Keith, and I almost wasn't fast enough." His mouth began to trail up the side of Keith's neck, a ghost of a touch, and Keith squeezed his eyes shut against the frenzied swell in his chest. "And I realized that I can't — I can't do this without you. I don't want to do this without you. I want to follow you for the rest of our lives, if you'll let me." Those lips dragged over Keith's jaw, and when he opened his eyes, Lance was looking at him, into him, and he was so, so close. "Will you… will you let me?"

Keith didn't need to think about it. It wasn't what he was really known for, anyway. His answer required no words, and he melted into Lance with reverence, his hands clutching at his back and pulling him impossibly closer. Lance kissed him like Keith was the ambrosia to his starvation, hungry and heated but gentle, still, and Keith didn't know how he could ever feel cold again. His body buzzed with every brush of contact, and he felt drunk, light-headed, and so full of warmth he was going to explode. Lance's hands traveled down his chest and grabbed him by the waist, keeping him flush against him, his breath hot against Keith's skin and their lips moving against each other with urgency. Keith's fingers tangled in Lance's hair, and he inhaled the sea salt scent of his shampoo and wanted to get lost in it forever.

"There is nothing," Lance breathed between kisses, his lips dragging across Keith's, "nothing, wrong with you." He locked their mouths together, deep and toe-curling, and one of his hands pushed up beneath Keith's shirt, trailing over the scarred ridges Ahnos had left behind. Keith's knees felt weak, and he gasped against Lance's tongue. Keith was physically stronger, but right then, nothing felt safer than Lance's arms.

"I thought of you," Keith murmured after they parted, their lips still caressing from the closeness. "Down there. About how, if things were different, I could've… I could've danced with you."

Lance pressed another deep kiss against his lips, languid and lingering. "You still can."

Keith smiled against him and hummed. "I can?"

Lance rested his forehead against Keith's, his fingers trailing across the scars on his stomach. "I wanted to dance with you, too." He huffed a laugh, and Keith liked the feeling of his lips curling upwards. "I wanted you to see me all dressed up and pretty. I'm still pissed that you didn't."

"I saw your eyes," Keith said. He brought his hands around to cup Lance's cheeks, and he brushed his thumbs over where the painted stars had been. "You were beautiful."

Another kiss, and another, and another. "I wanted to braid your hair," Lance whispered. He brought his hand out from under Keith's shirt and gently clasped one of Keith's hands, holding it out to the side. He began to sway, and a few shuffling footsteps started to move them across the floor. "Tie it off with a little red bow. Maybe some flowers, too."

"No flowers on Ciytron 3," Keith chuckled, following Lance's movements.

"Then I'd make some out of ribbon." Another kiss, hardly any pressure, but lovely all the same. "I wouldn't have been able to take my eyes off of you."

Keith brushed their noses together, and he smiled at Lance's tired but giddy grin. "I wouldn't have wanted you to." Another kiss, soft and slow, Lance's hands gentle and warm against him. "I'm sorry for scaring you."

"I should be used to it by now." Lance pulled away slightly to better meet Keith's eyes, an eyebrow raised. "You're gonna give me gray hair, Kogane."

"Ladies do like a silver fox," Keith said.

Lance laughed, and Keith wanted to know what it tasted like. A bolt of joy shot through him when he realized that he could, and so he captured Lance's lips again, both of them smiling against each other. Keith could kiss the boy in blue's laughter for the rest of his life, and every second he would only be craving more.

Lance pulled away again, but he didn't go far. Their movements slowed as he pulled Keith's hand up and pressed a kiss against the purple streaks on his forearm, and Keith's breath caught somewhere in his ribs.

"Show these off," Lance muttered against his skin. "You look hot as fuck."

Keith flushed and turned his face away. "Lance…"

"I'm serious. Do you think I'm not serious?" Lance looked up at him, his cheek pressing against Keith's arm. "Keith, amor, you're so stupidly attractive, it pisses me off. These markings are sick and make you look even cooler than you already do. Show them off, at least for my sake, please and thank you."

The heat in Keith's face could melt ice. He studied the markings, the lavender streaks of paint that now decorated this vessel he called his body. They were Galra, undoubtedly so, but that… that was okay. Because he was Galra, and that was okay, too. He was Keith, and Keith was Galra, Keith was autistic, Keith was hot-headed and impulsive and talented and kind. And Keith was loved.

He smiled, an alive and giddy thing, and said, "I know what that word means." He cupped Lance's face and pulled him back up, pressing his lips against his and grinning all the while.

"I… meant it," Lance murmured in between breaths. "Everything. You're a pain in my ass, but I... I want you in my life. For a long ass time. Is that… Is that okay?"

Keith felt like the sky. "Yeah. I love you. Is that okay?"

Lance pulled them back into dancing, spinning and twirling beneath the stars, his beaming smile brighter than all of them combined. "Sweetheart, that's more than okay."

Notes:

this is a bizarre love letter to my own journey with being autistic. this little red guy has my whole heart.

i'm on tumblr @ fawnstera :]