Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

War is cruel, Keith knew this, but having no time to mourn was much crueler. 

It was always worse when he woke up, the name on his lips belonging to a gone man. With the same gasp and the same sweat-slick skin, as he heaved deep breathes.

Keith refused to believe it. 

Shiro couldn’t have vanished, not without a trace.

He kicked off the sheets before his pulse could settle and dressed in silence, sneaking out while the Castle was still and sleeping. At the hangar, The Red Lion welcomed him like always, loyal and waiting, engines purring low with anticipation, expecting his arrival.

Keith flew to the debris field again, the place where the last transmission had cut out. Where they’d lost contact with Shiro. The official report said it was a confirmed death, but he didn’t care what the report said. He needed to keep searching.

He scoured the wreckage, day after day. His fingers trembled on the scanner controls, eyes rapidly scanning every twisted shard of metal for what felt like the hundredth time. He repeated Shiro’s name like a prayer, a tether, a refusal to believe in the unimaginable.

“Where are you, Shiro?” he whispered to the stars.

But the stars didn’t answer. Neither did the scanners. Neither did the trail of debris he kept circling like a ritual he couldn’t let die.

He searched, again and again, until the Red Lion’s fuel systems began blinking red. Until even the Red started responding against his controls, as if he, too, had begun to lose his patience with Keith and insisted they go back to the Castle.

Still, there had to be something. Some clue, some sign, somewhere. 

Decidedly, he did his best to stop sleeping, choosing to keep on searching.

Eventually, the Castle had become equally unbearable to tolerate. Their “Are you okay?” and “You don’t look well.” comments deterred him from sticking around too long. 

Everyone watched him with pity as he tried to stuff himself with food, quickly. Hunk would urge him to slow down, but Keith couldn’t. He needed to hurry and go back looking. 

The food made him sick anyways, now that Shiro’s seat at the dining table was left empty

After the third time he throws up, he decides that he doesn't need food either. So, he stops showing up for meal times, entirely.

Allura tried to reach him in her own way. She would leave a plate of food at his door and never scolded him when she found it cold and untouched the next morning.

“You’re not the only one grieving,” she told him once, through his closed door to his quarters. “We all miss him. Deeply.”

He ignored her, because they didn’t. They didn’t even know him. Not in the way he did.

The longer Shiro was gone, the longer the Black Lion remained in his dormant slumber, inactive. It had been days, maybe weeks, who knows, since the lion’s last movement. 

Without Shiro, Voltron couldn’t form.

The insinuations began quietly at first. Whispered conversations without him around. Glances over to his direction. A report he wasn’t meant to read left on the wrong screen. 

A new leader may need to rise.  

They didn’t say it out loud, but they didn’t have to. Keith felt the weight of it settle onto his shoulders with every passing day.

Every second Shiro stayed gone and the Black Lion remained asleep, the more certain it became.

They expect it to be me.

That knowledge curdled into something sharp in his chest. No one seemed to understand that more than anything, Shiro had to come back. Because if he didn’t, it meant Keith had to step into a role that he wasn’t prepared for. It meant facing the truth that maybe Shiro wasn’t ever coming back.

He couldn’t afford to think like that. 

So, he trained, long hours in the simulation room, until his muscles burned and his joints ached. He visualized combat drills that ended with Zarkon’s defeat against his blade. He could imagine his weapon going through the tyrant’s chest, blood on his hands and vengeance carved into his skin.

If Shiro was dead (which he wasn’t, he told himself), then there was only one thing left for Keith to do. End Zarkon and his tyranny. 

Keith stands in the middle of the training deck, panting heavily, the floor littered with busted robot parts. His bayard blade hums faintly as his arms tremble from overexertion. 

He lost count of how many training bots he has taken down. The last one collapses in front of him with a clatter, and he stares down at it, chest heaving. His ribs throb in pain from where it had landed a hit earlier. 

He hadn’t dodged in time. He was surely slowing down. 

Regardless, Keith knew he had to keep going. 

As he raises his arm to start another round, a sudden hand gently pressed against Keith’s shoulder, halting him in place.

“Take a break,” a familiar voice beckons quietly from behind.

Keith didn’t even notice him walk in. His eyes glance over his shoulder. 

Lance stands there, with a hand outstretched, holding a bottle of water.

Keith lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Then, turning away, he nods, slowly lowering his blade down to his side. The bayard shifts into a handheld device.

They sit together against the far wall, backs pressed to cool metal. Keith twists the cap of the water bottle, taking a few careful sips.

Across from him, Lance sits cross-legged, watching. He didn’t say anything at first, only watching him from the side. His brows pinch slightly, concern tightening the corners of his mouth. He chews his bottom lip for a second before he finally speaks.

“I know you’re tired of hearing this,” he starts, voice low, “but I am sorry.”

Keith doesn’t reply, not bothering to even look up.

Lance glances over at him, then continues, his voice softer now. “We all see you’re struggling and honestly, I don’t blame you.”

“Why are you here, Lance?” Keith asks sharply, the words more defensive than intended.

Finally, their gazes meet. 

“I know how you felt about Shiro. You probably still don’t want to admit it. But Keith,” his expression didn’t waver, “it’s okay that you miss him.”

Keith grips the bottle tighter. “Missing him isn’t the problem,” he mutters. 

“No. It’s not only that, is it?” He gave a small, crooked smile. “You don’t just miss him, Keith. You… really did care about him. More than the rest of us could.”

Keith nods without hesitation, looking down at the water bottle in his hands, “Shiro’s all I ever had, for a long time. He means so much to me, more than a brother.”

Shiro felt the closest to home; the one constant in Keith’s life when everything else felt uncertain.

Without him, there was no one else in the universe Keith could call home.

It felt like losing his father all over again.

The same hollow ache, lingering in the spaces of his heart that Keith had convinced himself had healed. The same suffocating level of grief, clinging to every moment Keith found himself wishing Shiro were still here with him.

Keith had survived loss before. He had learned how to carry it, to wear it like armor, and to move on from it, despite how lonely it felt.

But, he couldn’t do it again. Not this time.

Lance studies Keith for a beat longer, fixated in a way that felt just a little too uncomfortable.

His smile falters, just barely. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

Keith stares back at him, a bit confused. He figured Lance already knew how much Shiro meant to Keith, understood the depth of their bond, the way Keith relied on him. 

Yet, there was something about the way Lance looked at him now that didn’t quite look right. 

As if he’d reached a conclusion Keith hadn’t.

Lance lets out a deep sigh, letting his head rest against the wall behind him. He tilts his head slightly to the left, scanning his eyes all over Keith’s face.

“You look terrible,” he says suddenly.

“Thanks,” Keith says flatly.

“I’m being serious, Keith,” Lance insists, tapping a finger against his right knee, gazing up at him more sharply. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

Keith shifts. The bags under his eyes were answer enough.

“You know, Shiro wouldn’t want you to do this to yourself,” Lance says steadily. “You barely sleep, and you haven’t eaten in days. He wouldn’t want you overworking yourself over him. Not like this.”

Keith’s jaw tightens. His fingers curl slightly around the water bottle, tension still brimming in every inch of his body.

“Don’t talk like you’re him,” he mutters, despite himself. 

Lance doesn’t budge. “Yeah, I’m not him,” he counters easily. “But I’m trying.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to.”

“Maybe not,” Lance shrugs. He then stretches his legs out in front of him. “Still, I want to try. That’s something Shiro would do, I think.”

Keith doesn’t respond. Instead, he lets the quiet stretch, hoping (no, expecting) Lance will take the hint and finally leave him alone. More than anything, Lance hates to be ignored.

But Lance stays, seated beside Keith, his gaze drifting up toward the ceiling as if he’s content to sit there forever.

Keith wants to stand, to shove himself back into training, to prove, if only to himself, that he doesn’t need rest, and he definitely doesn’t need any help. But his limbs feel heavier than they should. His body refuses to cooperate, and it feels as if gravity itself is also working against him, pushing down on him.

As their silence continues, he glares ahead, frustrated, determined to keep himself alert. But the longer they sit there, the more his eyelids start to sag, drooping slowly. He tries to blink the tire away. But when he closes his eyes, he struggles to open them back.

He catches himself just before his head falls, jerking upright in a split second.

Carefully, Lance shrugs off his jacket, folds it together into a cushion, and places it on his lap. He gestures toward it in offering. 

“Here,” he says. “Nap.”

Keith frowns. “No, I’m not going to—”

“Ah, ah! It’s not sleeping,” Lance cuts in quickly, before Keith can protest. “It’s just resting your eyes. Big difference! Then you can go back to slicing training bots in half or whatever makes you feel better.”

Keith’s stare narrows, not with anger, but suspicion.  He hated how tempting the offer sounded. And, unfortunately for him, the fatigue has started to sink into his arms and legs.

He scowls, repositioning himself, trying to almost physically move away from the lure of rest. “I’m not stupid,” he grumbles.

Lance quirks an eyebrow. “Saying that doesn’t make you look any less exhausted.”

Keith can only glare back. He’s too tired to find the words to argue.

“Look, I’m not gonna hold you hostage or anything,” Lance says, voice deliberately light. “Just close your eyes for ten minutes. I won’t let you fall asleep.”

His expression is perfectly neutral, but Keith knows there’s something almost too innocent about the way he says it. 

Begrudgingly, he shifts his body, lowering himself closer to the floor. He carefully lays down, moving stiffly, awkwardly, as he wasn’t used to this kind of thing. His head settles onto Lance’s folded jacket, and his body elongates out across the training mat.

Keith stares up at Lance, still glaring. “Ten minutes.”

Lance nods solemnly. “Ten minutes,” he echoes, “I’ll wake you up.”

He’s obviously lying.

However, his body finally concedes to the exhaustion pulling him under.

Keith blearily blinks up at him, his scowl lazy and eyes barely open now. “If you tell anyone about this.”

“I won’t,” Lance promises, lips tugging into a small, reassuring smile.

Before he fully slips into unconsciousness, Keith registers the light, tentative touch of Lance’s long fingers threading through his hair. He combed through it slowly, thumb brushing along his temple, careful, like he didn’t want to startle him.

A hum reaches Keith’s ears, gentle and soothing. The melody isn’t one Keith recognizes, but there’s something tender in it that makes it feel like it’s for him.

The soft fabric beneath his cheek, the steady rhythm of Lance’s breathing beside him, the rhythmic pass of fingertips through his hair. It all melts together, lulling him into something dangerously close to peace.

For the first time in days, his mind quiets. The restless thoughts settle. 

The sorrowful pain in his heart doesn’t go away, but it lessens.

And then, finally, Keith succumbs to sleep.

Keith found himself standing in the hallway outside Lance’s room quite often after that. 

Restless, Keith would wander the empty halls in the quiet hours of the night, unable to sit still with need to do something. And somehow, his steps seemed to lead him to the same door.

Keith would show up, quiet and worn from searching for Shiro, and Lance would already be waiting. He never acted surprised or made a big deal out of it. He’d simply open the door, already in his blue pajamas, and wave Keith inside like he’d been expecting him all along.

There was always a plate of food, warm and waiting for Keith.

Keith would try to protest. ‘I’m not hungry,’ he’d mutter, the lie thin in his throat, but Lance would simply roll his eyes and push the plate into his hands anyway.

If Lance didn’t insist, Keith wouldn’t eat at all.

They’d sit in the low light, on the floor, both sharing a late meal together. Keith would tell him he didn’t need to wait for him to return from his search, that he should have already eaten early with the rest of the team. 

However, Lance insisted he would wait.

Sometimes Keith would talk, in the dark, voice cracking around memories of Shiro and how it felt like losing him all over again. Lance never pushed for more than Keith could give. 

He’d just listen, eyes closed, like he was trying to absorb some of the grief, so Keith didn’t have to carry it alone.

Eventually, after eating together, they’d both find their way to Lance’s bed, collapsing into it without fanfare. Lance never asked why Keith stayed. Keith was grateful for that.

They would share the bed, facing opposite directions, backs turned, and bodies still. But Keith would find himself listening to the gentle cadence of Lance’s breathing as he fell asleep. It helped dull the restless thoughts clawing at the edges of Keith’s mind.

And when they would wake in the morning, arms and legs tangled under the blankets, neither of them said a word about it. Then, a night passes, until Keith found himself repeating the cycle again.

Though, tonight is different.

After their quiet, shared meal, Lance disappears into the corner of his room, rummaging through miscellaneous, personal items, until he comes back, holding a bright yellow, small case in one hand.

He waves it playfully in the air. “Guess what I found?” He says in singsong.

Keith blinks at the cover, then his expression falls in shock. “Kill Bill?”

Lance grins, visibly very proud of himself. “Volume One, baby.”

Reaching out slowly, almost reverently, Keith takes the case into his hands. It was a little worn, the plastic scuffed and edges dulled, but the poster image was unmistakable. 

“How did you even find this?” he asks, in awe.

“From the sketchiest corner of the space mall. You wouldn’t believe the junk from Earth they have down there. Pidge and I like to go visit to see what else they end up having.”

“Why did you get this?” 

“I mean, I wasn’t gonna not get it. You said once you liked Tarantino stuff, right? I figured, you know, it might cheer you up. No big deal.”

“You remembered,” Keith says breathlessly.

Lance shrugs. “It’s not hard to remember. The things you like are few to none. So, it helps that your list is embarrassingly short.”

Keith looks at him for a long moment. A small smile lifts from his lips. 

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Lance says, chest puffed in pride, “Now, hurry in bed. I’m gonna put this disc in, so we can watch it tonight.”

Lance was already preparing his projector, connecting it to the CD player, when Keith finally tells him, “Thanks for doing this. For everything.”

“Yeah,” Lance said softly, his back turned to Keith, “Anytime.”

After Keith sets their dirty plates to the nightstand, Lance angles his projector toward the ceiling. He taps a few buttons on the side of the CD player, and then the Kill Bill menu glows up above them. 

Keith’s already slipped beneath the blankets. He moves onto his side, head propped on one arm, and watches as Lance climbs in beside him. The blanket tugs up just enough for their shoulders to brush.

Lance glances at the screen, then at Keith. “Kill Bill, huh?” He leans back, arms crossed over his chest. “Wonder why we have to kill him.”

Keith smirks, shaking his head slightly. “You’ll see why.”

He wants to elaborate on the thought; however Lance quickly hushes him with a finger to his lips. “Shhh! The movie is starting.”

After taking the time to roll his eyes, Keith sinks further into the mattress, nestling into the space bedside Lance and relaxing.

It didn’t take long before Keith was mouthing the lines under his breath, timing every other line one second ahead of the actual dialogue. He wasn’t trying to show off. The words were like muscle memory, familiar grooves in his brain that hadn't faded even in space.

He knows Lance notices, feeling his gaze glance down at him more than once, but Keith couldn’t seem to find a reason to care. 

The wedding scene hit. Odd tension that leads into absolute horror.

Lance gasps. “He just—! At her wedding?!”

“It gets worse,” Keith supplies. 

Grabbing a pillow from behind his head, Lance hugs it to his chest like it could shield him from the madness on screen. “I thought this was supposed to be a cool action flick!”

“It is,” Keith corrects with a shrug. “A very Tarantino kind of cool.”

The movie continues, gradually pulling Lance in a deep trance. When it came to O-Ren’s backstory, all stark reds and heavy shadows, Lance awes at the animation, the images casting colored light over his open face. The music visibly compelled him.

Keith watches him then, the way his expression shifts throughout O-Ren’s past, from shock, tearful sadness, and then appreciation. It was kind of incredible, seeing the movie again through someone else’s eyes. Someone who felt no shame in showing his reactions.

Then, the infamous foot shot came up, awkwardly framed in obsessive detail.

Lance made a face. “Dude. Why is this taking so long? Can she wiggle her big toe already?”

Keith didn’t even look away. “Yeah, my bad. Tarantino’s got a thing for feet.”

Slowly, Lance turns his head to face him, eyes wide with disgust.

His expression causes Keith to laugh, quiet, sudden, and real. The kind that cracked past the grief that usually sat heavy behind his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says between chuckles, definitely not feeling sorry at all. “It’s kinda his trademark. I think he enjoys adding it in, playing it off like it impacts the storyline.”

Lance groans, flopping back onto the bed like the weight of that knowledge had physically affected him. The scene continues for a while, against Lance’s squirmish movements.

“Normally, I skip this part.”

“Why didn’t you say so?! I would’ve appreciated the warning!”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Keith teases, eyes returning to the ceiling.

When Keith peeks over at him again after some time, he sees that Lance’s smiling too.

He doesn't even notice when he stopped watching the film entirely.

Because somewhere between the Bride regaining her ability to move and the meeting of O-Ren, Keith realizes he’s more entertained by Lance than the movie itself.

Then, the Crazy 88s fight broke out, showcasing fast, brutal choreography, blood spilling and swords clashing loudly. Lance leans forward slightly, visibly tense, yet captivated, as the scene changes to black and white.

“Ohhh man,” he mumbles, “This is insane.”

Then, without any thought, he instinctively reaches out and pulls Keith against him, an arm curling loosely around his shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Keith allows himself to move just enough to rest his head more comfortably against Lance’s chest. He lets the soundtrack of ‘Nobody But Me’ wash over him, staring back towards the film.

When Bill asks the biggest revelation of the film, Lance lets out the most dramatic gasp, his entire body tensing. However, the solemn, western melody of ‘The Lonely Shepherd’ plays louder from the speakers as the screen turns black with ending credits.

Lance quickly turns to look at Keith, utterly gagged, like the twist just knocked the wind out of him. And yet, despite his shock, his arms remain curled around Keith, holding him close, like it might help him process the cinematic betrayal he just witnessed.

Keith doesn’t react, just patiently watches as Lance slowly pieces himself back together, amusement flickering in his gaze.

Lance gestures dramatically toward the ceiling, where the credits continue their slow roll, as if the sheer cinematic excellence deserves a standing ovation.

“Okay,” Lance starts, breaking the silence with a grin, “Why didn’t you tell me that was one of the best movies ever made?”

Keith, still resting on Lance’s chest, lifts his gaze lazily. “You think so?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Lance says, eyes bright. “I mean, it was nuts. Like, genuinely unhinged. But in a good way! And Uma Thurman totally carried! I couldn’t take my eyes off her! Keith. That movie just changed me.”

Keith gives a soft, amused hum. “Favorite part?”

“The entire fight scene with the Crazy 88s. Duh!”

Keith chuckles, eyes falling shut briefly, sleep tempting him. “You’re so dramatic.”

“What about you? Favorite part?”

In his tired state, Keith thinks about all the moments Lance had gotten lost in the movie; the way he leaned forward, wide-eyed, during the opening sequence; how his hand instinctively squeezed Keith’s shoulder when the Bride sliced through her enemies; the gasp when he heard the revelation at the end.

But instead, Keith lies, easily. “The swordsmith scene. I like the pacing in that part.”

Lance sighs, staring back at the ceiling as if he has made peace with the impact of the story, basking in the afterglow of the film.

“I wouldn’t mind watching Volume 2, one day,” Lance offers eventually, shifting slightly but never letting go of Keith. “You know. If you’re down.”

Keith blinks. “With me?”

“Uh, yeah?” Lance voices, like it was obvious. “Who else would I watch it with?”

“Hunk. He’s into movies.”

“Sure,” Lance says with a shrug, “but Hunk falls asleep halfway through anything longer than fifty minutes. You actually stay awake. Don’t tell him I told you that, though.”

Keith didn’t answer right away. He sinks further into the warmth of Lance’s embrace. His chest rises and falls in sync with Lance’s own, the steady rhythm anchoring him more than anything else could these days.

“Okay,” he mumbles eventually, with eyes closed.

“Okay what?”

“I’ll watch the next one with you,”

Instantly, Lance’s smile grows, though Keith didn’t need to see it; he feels it from the slight, quick lift of Lance’s chest beneath him. 

Despite the hole that still lingered deep in his ribs and left behind by Shiro’s absence, Keith allows himself to be held and fall asleep to the quiet hum of the projector cooling down, safe around the arms that don’t let him go.

Shiro was not dead.

Keith had made that perfectly clear to everyone. Over and over. In every meeting, written report, or hushed conversation that tried to push the word "dead" around something they couldn’t prove.

He was missing, and that distinction meant everything to Keith.

So, when the team assembled in the hangar to discover the next leader of Voltron, Keith wanted no part of it. He stood, his arms crossed, eyes downcast. Internally, he hoped that someone, anyone else would be chosen. That the Black Lion would stir for another. 

That the universe, for once, wouldn’t put something else on his shoulders.

The team decided to try, one by one.

By the time it was Lance’ turn, Keith couldn’t watch him finally approach the ship, second to last to attempt awaking the Black Lion.

Please let it be him, Keith thought, biting the inside of his cheek. Let it be Lance.

He tried convincing himself that he wanted this for Lance. That if the Black Lion accepted him, it would mean Lance had grown, ready to step up. Maybe Lance could be the leader Voltron needed right now during Shiro’s absence. Keith wanted to have faith in that outcome.

But deep down, beneath the carefully layered logic and feigned objectivity, the truth sat heavy like a stone in his gut.

Lance isn’t ready.

He tries too hard to be someone he’s not. His heart’s in the right place, sure, but being the leader of Voltron takes more than heart. 

It takes discipline, foresight, and the kind of solitude Lance isn’t used to wearing. Keith knew what leadership demanded, from observing Shiro. It hollows you out.

Still, he selfishly hoped the Black Lion would honor Lance as his chosen pilot.

Because if he was chosen, then Keith wouldn’t have to be the one everyone expected to hold things together when they inevitably shattered. The mere thought of escaping that responsibility was so enticing, Keith’s palms sweated in trepidation.

He didn’t want to lead. Not when the memory of Shiro as the leader of Voltron still lingered like an open wound beneath his armor.

Keith sent a silent plea, not to Lance, but to the Black Lion.

Please. Choose him. Let him be enough.

Unfortunately, the Black Lion remained inert. Unmoved by Lance’s presence.

Hours later, when Lance finally stepped down the ramp, with his head bowed, defeat clinging to his armor, Keith felt everyone on him, expectant and beseeching. 

He considered walking out without trying, until Lance stepped in front of him. 

That stupid, sad, earnest face. It was so unfair.

“You should try,” Lance said softly.

Keith looked down from his gaze. “I don’t want—”

“I know,” Lance interrupted, “But you should still try. For Shiro.”

It wasn’t just a suggestion; it was something Keith needed to hear.

The walk toward the Black Lion felt like a death march. Every step thumped louder in his skull than it did in the hangar.

The cockpit was still, like a shrine left untouched. Keith lowered himself into the pilot seat carefully, his fingers grasping onto the controls.

“I know you wanted this for me, Shiro,” he whispered, fear curling tight in his throat. “But I’m not you. I can’t lead them, like you.”

Yet, the engine hummed in response, a low, steady purr that sent a tremor through the frame of the ship.

The purple system lights flickered on, bathing him in an eerie, inevitable glow.

“No, please,” Keith beckoned to the Lion.

But the Lion— No, his Lion, refused to listen.

Awakening one by one, panels came to life in his presence, in a seamless, fluid cascade, as if it had just been waiting for him to arrive. 

He felt it in his chest, in his bones; an invisible tether locking him in place.

The Black Lion accepted him.

He’s now the leader of Voltron.

And he had never wanted anything less.

So, now, at the latest hour of night, Keith storms through the hallways of the Castle, each step faster than the last. The corridors blur past him, none of it registering beyond the thrum of rage beating behind his ribs.

His knuckles hit Lance’s door in sharp, frantic knocks. 

The door slides open quicker than he expects, and Lance stands there, blinking in half-surprise and half-sleep, hair messy and hoodie thrown over his usual pajamas.

“Keith?” he asks, voice still thick with sleep. “What’s going—?"

But Keith didn’t let him finish. He crashes forward, pushing his body into Lance’s own, arms wrapping tight around him.

“Hold me,” Keith whispers harshly.

Lance hesitates, caught off guard. “Are you okay? What—?”

“I said hold me,” Keith repeats, sharper this time, voice cracking. “Don’t ask. Just do it.”

At first, Lance’s arms slowly moves around him, gentle and cautious. But then, he wraps Keith in a stronger, tighter hug.

Lance shifts to balance their weight, drawing Keith further inside and allowing the automatic door to slide shut behind them. For a while, they stand there; the only sound is the uneven rise and fall of Keith’s breathing pattern.

“...You wanna sit down?” Lance asks eventually.

Keith shakes his head; face still pressed against his shoulder.

He didn’t respond. Not for a long time. And when he did, his voice was small, too small for someone who’d been handed the new role of leadership.

“Why me?” he murmurs, “I don’t understand.”

“I know,” Lance responds softly. “But maybe, look at it like this. It’s kind of an honor to be chosen, right?”

Keith laughs, dry and bitter. “I didn’t earn this, Lance,” he chokes out, his voice straining. “I’m replacing Shiro. While he’s out there, lost in space, I’m taking what’s rightfully his! It’s not—!”

The sentence cuts off, his throat closing.

As Keith crumbles, Lance continues to hold him up, hugging him still.

After a moment, Lance sighs.

“Okay, I’m gonna say something,” he says carefully, “and you can hate me for it if you want, but I really do mean it.”

Keith doesn’t pull away. He already knows what he’s going to say.

“I’m jealous,” Lance admits, so quietly Keith almost misses it. “I would kill to lead this team. To be seen as worthy like that. But the Black Lion didn’t choose me. And yeah, that sucks. But it means something that you were chosen. That you were seen.”

Keith shakes his head. “I’m not worth half as much as Shiro,” he whispers.

“You’re not Shiro,” Lance says. “But you’re also not supposed to be.”

Loosening his hold on Keith, Lance looks directly into his eyes. He watches him carefully before continuing.

“You will lead differently than him. That’s not a bad thing. It’s just a shift towards a new direction. Maybe the team needs that right now, after losing someone like Shiro. Besides, you have the strength and drive needed to lead us. The Black Lion sees that.”

Keith looks down, staring at the floor, hoping it can swallow them both whole.

“And I know you don’t believe it,” Lance adds regardless, “but I do. I believe in you.”

He didn’t know if Lance should believe in him. He didn’t feel like someone worth putting faith in. But in that moment, held in Lance’s arms, Keith wanted to believe it.

Lotor stood taller than Keith had expected. He had sharp, angular features and silver hair that fell past his shoulders like ribbons of moonlight. His eyes glowed a subtle lavender, and his armor gleamed with an almost regal finesse. 

Keith hated how graceful Lotor carried himself.

There was something in the way he moved, something fluid and magnetic. It reminded Keith of Allura and her enchanting beauty.

It made his blood boil. Lotor wasn't supposed to be elegant. He was the son of a tyrant. An inheritor of his father’s rule and destruction. A threat to the peace Shiro fought hard to protect.

Keith swore to himself, in that moment, that Lotor would not continue the Galran legacy. He would end this before Lotor had the chance to start his reign.

He would kill Lotor.

Lotor’s ship sliced through the void, disappearing into the swirling amber haze of Thayserix.

“Keith,” Pidge’s voice cracked through the comms, static-laced with anxiety, “Whatever you’re planning, don’t chase him into the storm! We don’t know what’s inside. The sensors can’t even get a proper reading on it!”

Keith’s eyes locked on the prince’s retreating ship. He ignored Pidge’s warning. 

The Black Lion surged forward, the force of the acceleration pressing him back into his seat. He led the team cutting into the dense swirl of clouds and thrumming interference. The gas warped color and light into something blinding and broken. 

Behind him, chaos unraveled.

Allura, newly bonded with the Blue Lion, struggled to keep stable flight. The controls fought her with every subtle jerk of the yolk. “Keith—!” she yelled, as the Blue Lion began to shake.

“Allura! You okay?!” Hunk called out, frantic.

“I-I’m trying,” Allura gasped, fighting against the inertia as the Blue Lion’s nose dipped again, caught in the turbulence of Thayserix’s atmosphere. ”Blue’s resisting me! I can’t get her to level out!”

“Hold on!” Hunk shouts, sharply turning the Yellow Lion off course, towards Allura, high speed, “I’m on my way!”

Only Lance and Pidge were left, following behind Keith from their respective Lions.

And up ahead, Lotor was already long gone into the storm.

“Keith!” Lance shouted, steering wide in the Red Lion to avoid a violent surge of gas pressure that rocked the entire field. “This is suicide! You’re going to get us killed!”

“We need to regroup!” Pidge added, her voice rising. “Allura needs help, and Hunk can’t do it alone! Keith, if you go any deeper in there, you’re on your own!”

Keith’s breath hitched. Doubt sliced through his rage like a blade.

A violent shudder passed through Black’s cockpit. Alarms screamed.

Keith’s eyes darted across the console. “Huh—?”

The Black Lion’s systems began to crash, first a warning chime, then a cascade of red flashing alerts. Multiple windows pop up across his screens.

SENSOR FAILURE!!

VISUAL TRACKING LOST!!

NAVIGATION UNSTABLE!!

ERROR! ERROR! ERROR!

Lotor had led him here on purpose.

Grinding his teeth, Keith finally snapped out his trance and opened his comms. “Everyone. We’re pulling back! Help Allura out of there!”

There was hesitation from the team, then a quiet: “Copy that,” from Pidge.

As Keith turned the Black Lion, a ghost of Shiro’s voice echoed in his mind, faint like a memory. “Being a leader means knowing when to fight and when to protect your team.”

Keith had heard those words before. In training. In battle. In the quiet moments between missions when Shiro had looked at him as someone he trusted to one day take his place.

But Shiro wasn’t here anymore.

And Keith wasn’t him.

Now, with the team reassembled aboard the Castle, the hangar lift doors slide open with a hiss, and Keith steps out into the hallway, still in armor, helmet tucked under one arm. 

He doesn’t even take two steps when Lance comes storming toward him.

Before Keith could speak, Lance grabs the front of his armor and slams him into the nearest wall, forearm across his chest. Keith grunts, his back hitting the panel with a metallic bang. 

“The hell is your problem?!” Lance’s voice cracks like a whip, his body visibly tense from restrained fury.

“Lance—!” Hunk shouts, sprinting down the hall. “Dude, stop! Let go of Keith!”

“At the cost of Allura?! Really?” Lance’s laughs, sharp and ugly, as he presses down against Keith. “You were willing to let her crash in there, just for a shot at Lotor? Her life, along with everyone else’s, for what? Revenge? That was your call?”

“You think I don’t know that?” Keith growls, glaring directly right at Lance, meeting his furious expression. “You think I don’t know what was at stake? I was trying to finish the mission right here, right now, so none of us have to keep risking our lives anymore!”

But Lance isn’t letting up. His grip doesn’t loosen, not even when Hunk tries to pull him away from the shoulders.

“We protect each other.” Lance firmly states, his glare unwavering, “You don’t leave a teammate behind, ever. What the hell is a mission without each other?”

“Lance, stop! You’re hurting him!”

Allura runs toward them, eyes wide. Her hand reaches out to gently touch Lance’s arm.

“Please, Lance,” Allura begs, “I assure you Keith was only looking out for the team.”

Lance turns to her; face still flushed with anger. However, when he meets her insistent gaze, the stiffness in his stance relaxes. His fury meets a peace.

The sight of it made something ugly twisted in Keith’s stomach.

His mouth moves before his brain catches up. “You wouldn’t know how to lead anyway.”

“Keith!” Allura gasps.

Lance’s eyes snap back to him, obvious disbelief bleeding into something more dangerous. “What’d you say?” he steely asks.

Keith’s tone sharpens. “If you were in charge, we wouldn’t have even made it this far. We’d be dead already.”

Lance’s expression twists, pushing Keith further into the wall. 

“You don’t get to talk to me about leading,” he mutters, voice raw beneath the anger. “Not when you’re the one who keeps running every damn time things get hard.”

Keith’s jaw clenches, his own frustration flaring like a struck match.

“Look at yourself,” Lance hisses. “You’ve got all this authority handed to you, and the second it gets inconvenient, you throw it away. Like it means nothing. Some chosen leader, you are.”

"Say what you want, I was chosen to lead. Not you." Keith bites out, staring straight into Lance’s eyes. “And if you had the discipline to know your place, if you weren’t so damn desperate for validation, you wouldn’t have embarrassed yourself trying to wake the Black Lion.”

The silence that follows hits harder than any punch.

And for the first time since Lance had shoved him against the wall, Keith regretted opening his mouth. Because the look on Lance’s face wasn’t just anger anymore. 

It was undeniable, pure betrayal. 

Then Lance scoffs, bitter and exhausted, dropping his arm against Keith. 

“Thanks for the reminder, Captain,” he sneers, before walking off down the hall.

Allura stays only for a moment longer, torn between the two of them, before she chooses to follow Lance silently, her expression tearful.

Keith hadn’t moved.

The imprint of Lance’s shove is still fresh on his armor and heavier in his chest. He didn’t dare to look at the others in the room. He intensely stares ahead, as if by sheer will alone, he could undo what had just happened.

Hunk tentatively steps up beside him, the sound of his boots unusually quiet.

“You okay, Keith?” Hunk asks gently

No, he wasn’t okay. However, there wasn’t a single word that could define the pressure that wraps around the pressure crushing his ribs, or the slow-burning shame threading into his spine.

Pidge follows, hovering a step behind Hunk. Her arms are crossed, but more out of uncertainty than attitude. She looks up at Keith with a cautious stare.

“Do you want us to… I don’t know. Help? Maybe… debrief or something?” she offers.

Their eyes found him, but not as the teammate they'd come to rely on. Now, there was a distance in their gaze. Like they were searching for someone familiar and only finding the outline of him instead. 

From their mere expressions, Keith could tell they weren’t sure if they knew him at all. 

And, after everything he had said and done, he wasn’t so sure of himself either.

“Give me a minute,” Keith barely voices, turning away.

As he walks to his quarters, his footsteps are stiff and heavy, as if each one took effort to control. His heart pounded louder and louder, like war drums in his chest.

He needs to find Shiro, fast.

Sven.

He stood with confidence at the end of the Altean vessel’s ruined corridor, physically almost identical to Shiro, but cleaner, lighter, unmarred by war or Galra tampering. 

His hair was cropped just like Shiro’s used to be. His stance, his aura, the angle of his jaw; everything was Shiro, only before.

Before the Kerberos mission, or the Galra, or the responsibility of leading the universe that had suddenly landed on his shoulders.

Keith stares. He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t not.

Sven’s expression remains patient, though he’s seemingly amused from the way he leans close to Keith. His accent curls softly around his words. “You alright there, kid? You’ve been looking at me like you want to jump me.”

Startled, Keith rapidly blinks. “Sorry. You just…” He clears his throat, feeling an embarrassed warmth creeping up his neck from getting caught. “You remind me of someone I know.”

Sven raises an eyebrow, curious. “Oh? Someone important?”

Keith nods. “My brother,” he answers softly.

Suddenly, Sven’s teasing expression shifts, something gentler settling in its place. “Huh. Don’t have one of those, myself,” he admits, “But I’m honored.”

And then, he smiles. Just like how Shiro would.

Keith has to look down and away. “Right,” he murmurs.

A thought begins to nag at him. 

In this universe, I never met him.

He wonders if there were versions of himself out there who weren’t shattered by Shiro’s absence. Versions of Keith who had been spared from all of it. Who didn’t have to bear the pressure of a title they hadn’t earned. 

From the corner of his eye, he catches Lance eyeing him.

Their eyes meet for a split second, but quickly, he turns his back to Keith.

The encounter with the Altean forces of this universe spiraled into a pitched battle for control of the multi-dimensional comet. The team fought with everything they had, supported by Sven and the ever-erratic Slav.

The Alteans, once thought to be allies in any reality, revealed themselves to be something else entirely. Not peacekeepers, but ruthless conquerors. 

They wanted the comet. So did Voltron.

The clash nearly tore space apart.

By the time they escaped, bruised and barely intact, and fought their way back into their own dimension, Lotor was already waiting, patiently.

As if he knew the exact second they’d return.

With an easy smile, Lotor plucked the comet from under their grasp with a flourish, without needing to fight for it. He vanished with it before they could even raise their swords.

Keith’s fists clenched, the phantom heat of battle still burning under his skin.

Another failure. Another step behind Lotor. 

Another moment where being Shiro’s replacement didn’t make him anything but inadequate.

This is on me.

Later, in the quiet hum of the Castle's observation deck, Allura sits motionless, framed by the stars. Her reflection stares back at her in the glass, soft, hollowed, and fractured.

Allura sat in the observation deck, staring silently through the glass at the endless black beyond. Her eyes were vacant, brimming wet with a grief no one had seen before.

“I thought…” Her voice cracked. “We, Alteans, were the good ones. The protectors of the universe. We were supposed to be better than the Galra.”

Sitting beside her, Lance gently pulls her into a hug. When he finally safely wraps his arm around her shoulders, she crumples into him like a dam breaking.

Her sobs hit hard, broken by the sad truth of everything she believed turning upside down. Tears soak into his armor as she buries her face in his chest. Lance rocks her gently, whispering quiet reassurances that help her breathe steadier.

Keith watches from the upper deck, unseen but suffocated.

Lance's attention, support, and his care was no longer on him anymore. Keith didn’t deserve it. But it didn’t stop the jealousy from gnawing at his ribcage like burning acid.

He wasn’t angry at Allura or Lance.

He was angry at himself.

Every choice he made seemed to push Lance further away.

Lance no longer looked at him like a rival. Or a friend. Or anything at all. He didn’t challenge his orders. Didn’t banter with him like before. Didn’t open his door during Keith’s difficult nights.

He simply followed orders with clipped nods, obedient and empty.

Like Keith was a complete stranger.

A stranger who happened to be in charge.

Keith turns away from the glass, letting the shadows swallow him as he leaves the deck. He forces the lump forming in his throat down.

Lance quietly comforting Allura reminds him of what he had lost but couldn’t name.

Every footstep echoes like a hollow drum against the shell of the leader Keith was trying to become.

He felt like a little boy pretending to be a man Shiro believed he could be.

Keith finally found him in the still quiet of the damaged Galra ship, half-collapsed, choked with dust. A silhouette at first, hunched and slow-moving in the dim light. 

Then a voice, low, weary, but undeniably familiar.

"Keith?"

Everything inside Keith stilled.

There, standing just beyond the haze, was Shiro.

He looked different. Longer hair, his silver streak wider. A five o’clock shadow lined his jaw. His stare weighed heavier with exhaustion, like the years he’d lost had finally caught up to him all at once. His eyes were still kind, but they were rimmed with dark circles.

Still, it was unmistakably him.

Keith didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The breath caught in his throat, suddenly thick.

His knees buckled before he even knew it, and suddenly he was holding onto Shiro, sobbing into his chest, hands clenched into his jacket like he might vanish again if Keith let go for even a second.

“I never gave up,” Keith choked out, voice cracking against Shiro’s chest. “I never stopped. I knew you were alive. I-I never believed you were gone!”

Shiro winced lightly, wrapping trembling arms around him. “Keith,” he whispered with a worn-out, scratchy chuckle. “You’re crushing me. I can’t breathe.”

Keith only held him tighter.

When they returned to the Castle, Keith practically carried Shiro through the hangar, arm slung over his shoulder. The moment the bay doors opened, silence fell. It only lasted a heartbeat, just long enough for recognition to gradually shake through everyone.

Then the room shattered into emotion.

Hunk was the first to move. 

“Shiroooo!” he wailed, sprinting forward and wrapping both Keith and Shiro in a bear hug from behind, nearly knocking them all over. He sobbed openly, tears streaming down his round cheeks. “You’re okay! I can’t believe it!”

Pidge stood frozen at first, glasses tilted slightly as tears pooled in her eyes. Pulling her glasses off, she began rubbing at her face furiously with her arm. “Sh-Shiro, you’re alive,” she said, voice breaking where she stood.

Allura was speechless, her eyes wide, glassy with disbelief. She pressed a hand over her mouth, lips trembling. “It’s… it’s truly you,” she gasped, tears slipping down her face.

Lance then stepped forward. He looked at Shiro as if seeing a ghost, then blinked rapidly, a tear escaping despite the smile forming at his lips. 

“..You’re back,” he said softly. "I’m glad you’re back.”

Shiro looked up at him from Keith’s shoulder, his eyes heavy but warm. He reached up and ruffled Lance’s hair gently. “Missed you, too, Lance.”

It was small and simple.

But it broke something in Lance. He let out a short, helpless laugh and surged forward, bringing Shiro and Keith in a fierce embrace, pressing his forehead against Shiro’s shoulder as the tears spilled free. “You’re really back,” he voices shakily. 

Hunk sniffled harder, arms looping around everyone. “G-Group hug!” he announced loudly, voice warbled and barely coherent, keeping his arms around the three of them.

Pidge dove in next, jumping and her arms clinging around Hunk’s neck, crying loudly now. Allura urgently followed, wrapping her arms around Lance.

And finally, Coran stepped in quietly, his presence grounding. He wrapped his arms around the outer edge of the group, pulling them all close.

“Careful now,” he murmured, his voice gentle and full of love, soothing the team’s tearful reunion. “Let him breathe and heal, my little Paladins. He’s home now.”

Shiro was back. Alive.

It didn’t feel real. And yet, it was.

At last, he didn’t have to lead anymore.

Voltron had its rightful leader back. And Keith could finally rest, even just a little, knowing he didn’t have to hold the universe together by himself anymore.

Around him, the team held tight. Their laughter and tears mixed freely, unashamed and unrestrained. They were a mess, crying, sniffling, clinging to one another.

They were whole again.

In that fragile, radiant moment, Keith pressed the feeling deep into his heart like a sacred vow. He memorized the warmth of Lance’s arm around his back, the weight of Hunk’s embrace, the comforting pressure of Pidge’s hand on his arm. Allura’s quiet strength. Coran’s unwavering calm. And Shiro’s heartbeat, steady beneath his cheek.

He couldn’t have brought the team together like this. Not the way that Shiro effortlessly does.

But that was completely okay.

It just meant his role was changing.

It was time to let go.

Keith didn’t plan on sneaking out again. He really tried telling himself that he needed to stop.

But plans didn’t matter when his chest was heavy, and his limbs ached from stagnancy. No matter how many training sessions he bulldozed, it only felt like going through the motions while the 

But promises meant little when his body felt like it was itching for motion. When his thoughts spun too loud and the Castle walls felt too small, training helped, but gradually, each session felt like it was leading nowhere.

The Blade of Marmora acted, while he stayed stagnant in place.

So, he stole a pod again.

Kolivan was waiting for him, arm crossed, broad and solid in the darkness. His sharp, yellow eyes locked on Keith the second he stepped out of the pod and his boots hit the ground.

“You’re improving,” Kolivan said. “No one noticed your absence until you were already gone.”

Keith didn’t smile. “That’s the idea.”

The other members of the Blade stood beside Kolivan, their faces hidden, like always. Though, Keith didn’t mind it. He liked how nobody asked questions unless they mattered.

Kolivan did ask one.

“What is your goal with the Blade, Keith Kogane?”

Keith didn’t hesitate.

“To end the Galra’s tyranny. For good.”

Kolivan gave a rare smirk, approving. “Spoken like one of us. Now prove you can fight like one, as well.”

Keith didn’t hesitate. He followed Kolivan and the other Blade members through the dark corridors of their secret base. No unnecessary words were further exchanged.

They stopped before a weapons rack, where Kolivan gestured to a set of armor unlike the others.

Smaller. Sleeker. Custom-fitted for Keith alone.

“You’ve proven your loyalty,” Kolivan voiced. “But loyalty is not enough. You must fight with precision, discipline, and intent.”

Keith reached out, running his fingers over the smooth plating, the subtle insignia of the Blade. 

“This is yours now,” Kolivan continued. “Wear it. And show me that you understand what it means.”

When Keith returned from his impromptu Blade mission, the hangar was no longer cloaked in dim light. It was fully bright, illuminating every detail as he stepped inside.

And at the center of it all, beneath the towering Lion bays, stood Allura.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. If anything, she looked as if she had been expecting this moment.

Her gaze sweeps over him, dropping to his uniform, as she stares at how the Marmora armor hugs his frame and the crest stark against his chest.

“I see you’ve made your loyalties clear,” she states, voice quiet, but pointed.

Keith brushes past her.

But her fingers catch his arm before he can slip away.

He barely shifts beneath the touch. It isn’t rough or forceful, but it holds him; a subtle refusal to let him go just yet.

“I’m done with this conversation,” he says evenly, looking over at her.

He tries again to move, but Allura doesn’t let go.

“You’ve been done with a lot of conversations lately,” she says firmly. “You’re barely with us anymore. And, Voltron can’t form without the Black Lion. We need you with us, Keith.”

“I’m doing what needs to be done,” he insists.

“You mean leaving?”

His eyes narrow. “I mean fighting. The Blade needs me, and they—”

“The Blade isn’t family,” Allura interjects, “Voltron is. We are.”

Keith stiffens, shoulders locking tight.

Allura holds his gaze, unflinching. “You think the Blade will save you in time of need?” she continues, her gaze unwavering. “They’ll use you up, Keith. Those in the Blade die early, fighting until their lives get caught up in war.”

“This isn’t about me!” he argues defensively, “It’s about stopping the Galra and ending this war before it takes any more innocent lives!”

“And how many lives will it take before it takes your own?” she counters, “How many more battles do you have to fight before you realize you’ll just end up being another casualty? You are meant to live, Keith!”

“I don’t need more than that,” Keith insists, looking away from her stare. “If I die helping to stop the Galra, then that’s enough.”

“No, it’s not.” Her voice softens, like she’s trying to reach some deep part of him that had long since retreated. “You want more than that. I know you do.”

“What does that even mean?”

This time, Allura looks away, expression twitching in thought.

“I’ve said too much,” she mumbles.

Keith’s patience snaps. He throws his arm upward, forcing Allura to release him.

“No, say it, Allura,” he demands, challenging. “You clearly want to act like you know me better than I know myself. So, enlighten me, princess. What could I possibly want?”

Allura looks visibly uncomfortable, caught between resisting his rise and saying what she has already committed herself to, or choosing to stay quiet. She hesitates for a moment, but then she takes a measured, deep breath.

“I see the way you look at Lance.”

The hangar might as well have gone airless. 

Keith’s heart stops, then it thuds loudly, slamming against his chest like the force of a blow he hadn’t braced for. A sudden, visceral panic gradually starts to rise inside.

“You’re seeing things.”

“Am I?” Allura presses, stepping closer, gaze piercing into him. “You think I wouldn’t notice? The way you follow him when you don’t even realize you’re doing it? The way your eyes stay on him when he talks?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I see it, Keith” she urges, voice unwavering. “And I think— No, I know. You love him.”

This wasn’t some earth-shattering discovery that changed everything. Keith already long knew he loved Lance.

But Allura had reminded him of something even worse.

That despite the growing space between them, his love for Lance had never faded.

Not even for a second.

Even now, Keith still loves him. That love didn’t dull with distance. It was constant, stubborn, and just as relentless as the way he always found himself looking for Lance, listening for his voice, missing the way they used to be.

God, he missed him.

The worst part? They were still on the same ship together. Still sharing the same air, crossing the same halls, and yet, it felt like Lance was leagues away.

Maybe this unshaken love was something Keith was doomed to carry alone.

“Tell me. If Lance were here right now, standing in my place, and he asked you to stay… Would you?” Allura asks, sincerely.

Keith’s lips part, as his mind reels. He wants to say no, that it wouldn’t make any difference. That Lance had no influence over him and his decisions.

However, the answer is very clear.

If Lance were here, standing in this same spot, looking at Keith with the same pleading eyes and telling him to ‘please, stay.’

Keith would.

He absolutely would.

He’d burn galaxies for him, if he asked. If Lance told him that fighting alongside him was enough, that Keith was enough, he would promise to stay in Voltron. He would assure Lance earnestly and promise not to leave.

But Lance wasn’t here.

Allura was.

Keith slowly exhales, heavy and final.

“I guess we’ll never know,” he mutters, voice flat, controlled, before stepping past her without looking back.

The decision settles in his mind like steel.

He’d wait for Shiro to recover. Wait for the rightful leader to return to the Black Lion.

Then, he’d leave.

Because if Lance wasn’t asking him to stay, then there was nothing left holding him back.

Keith decides he’ll leave the math to Pidge.

Keith doesn’t mind living in the Blade of Mamora base.

His room was small, the kind of small where his thin, low bed was pressed into a corner, with barely enough space to stretch. The walls were bare metal, cold to the touch, and the air always felt dry. 

Oddly enough, it started having him reminisce about the desert cabin.

He remembered the way it stood crooked against the wind, the way dust settled into every crack, and the way his father’s firefighter coat hung near the door long after he was gone. Keith thought of the warmth, the quiet, the open sky, and then the cold of the Galra base would hit him again.

He realizes he hadn’t thought about Earth in a long time.

He wonders if the cabin was still standing.

A rustle across the room pulls him back from his contemplation.

Vrek, his roommate (or rather his assigned partner), sits cross-legged on the floor, polishing his dual blades. His Mamora mask glints faintly, hiding everything but his sharp focus. Then, he pauses.

“You keep looking at that device.”

Keith blinks and looks down. The small, rectangular device sits in the palms of his hands. Sleek, matte-black with faint Galran circuitry visible beneath the surface, only slightly altered by Pidge’s unmistakable touches.

“It’s a comm link,” he offers quietly, “For long-range messages.”

Vrek hums. “To your former team.”

Keith nods, slowly. “Yeah.”

“Why do you keep it?”

Keith remembers how Coran’s hands felt, warm and calloused, when he had pressed the travel bag into Keith’s chest.

“I thought I might catch you before you disappeared,” Coran had said to him, his mustache twitching with a half-smile. “Here, take this.”

Keith gave a slight nod, brow furrowing. “Coran, you didn’t have to do this.”

Coran shook his head. “Nonsense. It’s nothing fancy,” he said briskly. “Just some edible resources that you don’t have to cook over a dying campfire.”

Keith took it, hesitating. “Thanks.”

“I also packed clean clothes,” Coran added. “Mine, actually. I figured you’ve got enough of the warrior gear. Might do you some good to wear something that breathes.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Your clothes?”

“They’re very trendy and stylish. You’ll thank me later.”

That earned a faint smirk from Keith, who nodded and slung the bag over his arm. 

But then Coran held up the last item; a small, flat device that looked almost like a data pad, but Galra tech. Modified.

“I want you to have this.”

Keith glanced at it, brows narrowing. “Coran, I can’t—”

Immediately, Coran took Keith’s hand, pressing the device into his palm. He didn’t let go.

“It’s not just a trinket,” Coran said. “Pidge, the brilliant girl, has been collecting Galra comm links, hijacking and modifying them into… Well, she calls them phones. A personal way to talk, quickly and privately, over long distances, as she had explained to me.”

He tried to offer it back, but Coran’s grip only tightened.

“Truth be told,” Coran went on, “Pidge wasn’t thrilled at the idea of giving you one. Said you were leaving Voltron. Said you’d made your choice.”

Keith’s shoulders stiffened.

“But I told her,” Coran continued, voice catching slightly, “that family doesn’t end when someone walks out a door. Not ours. So I insisted that you needed one. Because whatever else you become out there, you’ll always be one of us.”

Keith looked down at the device. His thumb hovered over the single, smooth button at its center.

“It’s connected to the rest of the team,” Coran explained, reassuringly. “Just one click, and you can talk to anyone. You don’t even have to say anything if you don’t want to. But it’s there. You’ll never be too far from us.”

Keith sighed and shook his head faintly. “I appreciate it, but I really don’t need—”

“You don’t have to use it,” Coran urges, not letting go. “Just promise me you’ll keep it and not to lose it. That’s all I ask.”

There was a mix of pain, hope, and deep affection in Coran’s expression.

Keith’s heart clenched. He closed his fingers around the device and nodded.

“Okay. I promise.”

Coran smiled then, his eyes welling with unshed tears. “Good lad,” he murmured.

Then, without another word, he pulled Keith into an embrace. The warmth of it seeped into his body, into a part of him he hadn’t realized was turning cold.

“Always follow your heart, Keith,” Coran whispered near his ear. “It’s your best compass. It’ll keep you from going astray.”

Keith swallowed hard, nodding into the older man’s shoulder.

“You’re my family,” Coran said, voice thick. “And I haven’t much of that left. So, stay alive out there. Don’t make an old man mourn another.”

Now, in the present, Keith’s fingers tighten around the device in hand.

“It lets me contact them if I want to,” he informs Vrek.

Vrek leans forward slightly. The way he faces down at the device suggests he’s trying to understand how it works, visibly judging how insignificant and small it looks to him.

“You don’t use it ever,” Vrek says eventually. It wasn’t a question.

Keith gives a short, dry chuckle. “No. I don’t.”

“Is there anyone,” Vrek asks, “you would want to call anytime soon?”

Lance. The name came to Keith instantly, like muscle memory. 

He’d be the first person he wanted to call. The person whose voice would probably start with something sarcastic and end with something honest. Someone who’d ask if Keith was eating well. Sleeping alright. If he missed flying with Voltron.

If he missed him.

“There’s no one,” he said finally, voice quiet, but not empty. “Not really.”

Vrek didn’t respond right away. But his head tilts again, slower this time, considering.

Keith tucks the device back in his pocket, sliding it gently, like it was fragile.

“You still carry it.” Vrek notes.

“I made a promise that I would.”

“So, you honor that promise.”

“…Yeah.” Keith’s voice came with the hint of a breath. “Yeah, I do.”

Vrek shifts his focus back to his blades, polishing them once more. “The Blade teaches us to let go of attachments,” he says absentmindedly.

Keith glances up at him. “And do you?”

After a pause, Vrek let out a low, thoughtful breath. “No,” he admits. “Some attachments remain. Whether we want them to or not.”

Keith smiled faintly. “Guess I’m not the only one.”

“No,” Vrek replies. “You are not.”

They sit together in the stillness, until Vrek decidedly puts his blades away to slumber.

Though, Keith remains awake, long after the lights dimmed, and he lays down on his bed in the quiet hum of the Blade’s base, wondering.

If Lance ever thought about calling him, too.

Every masked figure, including Keith, stood at full attention as Kolivan stepped forward.

“There has been movement,” he had begun, eyes scanning the debriefing room. “Our intel confirms a Galra cargo vessel en route to a secure storage facility near the Norenth Quadrant.”

He paused, pressing a projection control at his wrist. A large hologram of the cargo ship appeared above the table, rotating slowly. It looked like a standard freighter, but those with experience knew appearances meant nothing in this war.

“We believe it’s a heavy supply of weaponry. Enough to fuel multiple outposts. Possibly enough for an entire fleet,” Kolivan continued, tone grim. “With the increase in supply vessels over the last few weeks, we can only assume one thing. That the Galra Empire is preparing for something. Whether Zarkon himself is behind it, we do not know. But we will find out."

Keith studied the schematic, taking in every entry point and escape route marked.

“One team,” Kolivan said, “will infiltrate the cargo vessel and release the supply. Set them free from their holds. The second team will remain outside, ready to intercept and receive as many crates as possible before reinforcements are alerted.”

He let his words settle among the Blade members.

"Due to Regris’s death," Kolivan continued, his voice dipping low, "we will remain cautious. But we will not cower. We shall stand behind our creed."

In unison, the Blade chanted, their voices strong. "Knowledge or death."

Keith internalized the words. This is the way.

Kolivan looked at them all, lingering a second longer on Keith. “The mission launches at zero six hundred. Dismissed.”

The operatives turned and began filtering out, murmuring quietly in groups. Plans were already forming, strategies trading between veterans. 

Keith remained in the room, eyes on the projection until it flickered away.

The stealth ship docks silently, its magnetic claws latching onto the hull of the Galra cargo freighter with a dull thud. Fortunately, no alarms are set off during the process.

Under the cover of stealth, Keith’s team infiltrates the Galra cargo ship. 

Disguised, masked, and swift, Keith crouches behind a wall of towering crates with five others, every muscle fiber tense. His team waits in still breath for the signal. 

In the halls, a red emergency beam shines overhead.

“System malfunction in Sector 4-D,” a robotic voice blares. “Deploying diagnostic sentries.”

From around the corner, the familiar clunking of Galra sentry units echo, their metal feet slamming against the ground in perfect rhythm. A squad of them zoom past the crates, weapons drawn, optics flashing crimson as they tore down the corridor toward the triggered fault.

Once the corridor looks clear from both ends, Keith and his unit move. They dash down the halls, like shadows in motion. 

Keith falls a few paces behind, narrowly avoiding detection when two Galra soldiers come around the corner. Flattening himself against the wall, he activates stealth mode, exhaling silently as the soldiers sprint past him.

He rounds the corridor, finally reaching where the rest of his team had started to wait for him, standing in front of two bulk doors. He slows to a stop just outside the unguarded entrance and raises his wrist.

A small, blue projection casts upward from his vambrace, showcasing the map Kolivan had embedded. A blinking dot flashes just right up ahead from where Keith stood.

His eyes flick towards the access panel beside the doors. A scanner awaits input. 

Keith pulls the stolen Galra ID band from his belt and straps it over his glove, holding it out.

Green.

The automatic, heavy doors slide open.

Keith’s stomach turns. Inside were ten towering crates standing before him, stacked in pairs. Their metal exteriors bore the Galra crest. 

There was an extreme amount of firepower in the hands of the Galra empire. 

He takes a step forward, pulse spiking. This is just on one ship.

Fury rises in his chest like fire in dry grass.

Behind him, the rest of the infiltration team filter in, spreading out throughout the room. 

One member, Pollux, tells him, “Systems are still scrambled. They won’t know we were ever here.”

Keith turns to them, eyes sharp. “Then let’s make sure this hurts.”

Quickly, Pollux and Keith dart to the farthest stack. Kieth reaches for the tethered cables anchoring the crates down, and yanks, hard. When the locks don’t give way immediately, he growls through his grit, pushing up with all his weight.

“Keith, left side!” one of the operatives barks, already unclipping their own stack.

“I got it!” Keith tightly responds, sweat already forming beneath his mask.

Finally, the clips come off, and he hurriedly pivots to another crate on the left, hands fumbling with the latch mechanism before releasing it with a hard snap. The ropes went slack. The crates groan under their own weight.

Once every crate was released, their eyes gaze up toward the dispatch hatch overhead.

A Blade member runs toward the control panel along the far wall, closest to the entrance doors. Their fingers fly across the dispatch system’s ancient keys, then they slam their palm onto the central button.

A sharp hiss of hydraulics fills the bay as the dispatch platform below them begins to vibrate. Then, a massive hatch at the back of the ship groans open, revealing space beyond. 

Waiting just outside in their stealth cruiser, Kolivan and his team were ready to retrieve the goods.

One by one, crates lifted from the platform and dropped down to the waiting ship below with a resounding clang. 

Keith turned toward the exchange. “That’s four! Keep it going—!”

Crack.

The sound was soft, but unmistakable. 

He turns just in time to see Pollux collapse with a heavy thud; neck bent at a grotesque angle. Standing over the lifeless body was a Galra general clad in reinforced obsidian armor, tall and broad with deep violet skin and brutal golden eyes. 

He lifted a clawed gauntlet gleaming with blood.

“There are traitors aboard!” the Galra general roars, voice thundering through the bay like a war drum. “Eliminate them!”

Galra sentry bots emerge with mechanical screeches, their red optics lighting up like flames. They opened fire instantly.

“Cover!” shouts Vrek, grabbing Keith’s shoulder and yanking him behind the remaining crates.

He lands hard, an edge of a box jamming into his ribs. Sparks fly as plasma blasts tore through the air above his head. 

From beside him, Vrek groans, hit in the leg, and clutching the bleeding wound at his abdomen.

Keith pants hard, clutching the hilt of his blade. His pulse thunders in his ears. The former rage transitions into guilt-ridden panic.

He looks down at the blade in his hand. His reflection stares back from the polished metal.

Focus. You trained for this.

Breathe.

Keith inhales. 

Then leapt from behind cover.

The sentries target him instantly, their beams tearing through the air where he’d just been. 

Keith moves fast, slipping between the lasers like a phantom, his blade cutting through steel with brutal precision, slashing through robots, one by one in quick succession.

One rogue robot lunges at him. He pivots mid-run, leaning sharply just enough to send the machine hurtling forward into empty space, its trajectory thrown off for a fraction of a second.

With a sharp shink, his blade found its mark, right through the base of its neck.

Before the bot can collapse, Keith pushes forward, using the momentum, spinning into his next strike. His blade carves through another sentry’s chest clean, sending an eruption of sparks cascading through the air like fireworks.

He lands in a crouch, only for a relentless sentry to tackle him from the side.

They slam into the ground with a crash. Keith winces in pain, struggling beneath the bot’s mass as it raises its arm to strike.

“No,” he growls.

He presses the center of his blade’s handle. Instantly, the blade elongates into a full-length sword. He twists his body and drives the sword upward.

Keith’s blade skewers through the robot’s head in one final, releasing a satisfying sound of crushed metal and short-circuiting sparks. The sentry’s body goes slack, dropping down beside him with a hollow thud. 

However, just as one falls, another rises. Another sentry bot jumps from above, claws outstretched, ready to pin Keith to the floor like prey.

It’s too late to dodge. Keith braces for the impact.

CRACK!

A whip of green light flies through the air, coiling around the sentry’s torso and yanking it mid-fall. The rope flings the robot to the other side of the room with a violent slam against the bulkhead, sparks bursting as its circuits fail instantly.

“Hey! Are you okay?!”

The familiar voice strikes something in his chest.

Keith’s eyes meet Pidge, in her green armor, green bayard in whip form, wild brown curls tied back beneath a helmet. She stands there panting, whip flickering with residual energy. 

“Can you get up?” She urges once more, shouting. “We’re here to help!”

She doesn’t recognize him through his mask.

He opens his mouth to respond, but—

“Pidge, look out!!” Hunk’s voice booms across the chaos.

Pidge pivots out instinctively, just in time to dodge a plasma blade aimed at her side. She drops low, readying her whip to counterattack the sentry unit coming up towards her. 

But before she could counter, a blur of blue light surges beside her.

From behind Pidge, Allura’s bayard transforms into a whip of radiant blue and lashes out, catching the bot by the neck and yanking it off balance. She throws down onto the ground.

Back-to-back, Pidge glances over her shoulder and gives a quick smile. “Thanks, Princess.”

Allura smirks slightly. “I’ve got your back.”

Keith rises to his feet slowly, taking it all in; the sight of Team Voltron tearing through the chaos like a coordinated storm. 

Hunk, now standing near the entrance, powers up his shoulder-mounted cannon. “Everyone, step back!” he shouts.

The cannon lights up with golden light before releasing a barrage of rapid-fire plasma shots. The blasts cut through the incoming swarm of sentry bots, exploding in small bursts across the corridor. The ground trembles from the force.

Keith shields his eyes from the blast radius, then sharply turns to the far end of the bay, where he catches Shiro charging toward the Galra general, arm glowing with black energy. 

The Galra general snarls, pulling a serrated blade from his belt, armor shifting into full combat form. Their weapons clashed with a thunderous clang, echoing through the chamber.

“You won’t leave this ship alive, Paladin,” the general growls.

“Funny,” Shiro counters tightly, gripping the general’s arm and driving his glowing fist into his side. “I was going to say the same thing to you.”

They clash in a relentless storm of movement, neither yielding nor gaining ground.

Every forceful strike of Shiro’s prosthetic is met with the sparking resistance of the Galra’s blade, relentlessly keeping things even between them.

Through the open comms in Keith’s ear, Kolivan’s voice rang through the noise.

“Voltron has arrived. Assistance is confirmed. They will hold the Galra forces back. All Blade operatives retreat to the extraction point immediately. That’s an order.”

Keith’s hand tightens around his blade. He glances toward the remaining crates; three left. Then to Pidge and Allura, now shoulder to shoulder fending off more sentries. To Hunk, still covering the doors. To Shiro, locked in deadly combat.

He shouldn’t have to worry. They had it covered.

Without another word, the Blade members sprint toward the open dispatch bay. The metal grating thunders beneath their boots. The wind from the pressurized exit howls into the void of space. 

Hurriedly, Keith rushes back to Vrek from behind the crates. Vrek had gone unconscious, from the blood lost, but Keith nevertheless grabbed and carried him over to the jumping point.

Hovering beyond the edge, their retrieval ship, sleek and now visible, awaits.

One by one, Blade operatives dove into the freefall, disappearing into the ship’s safety netting system that caught them midair. 

“Here,” Keith strains to voice over to another, bigger Blade operative, catching their attention with the body of Vrek, “Take him. I believe he’s still alive!”

Nodding, the Blade member straps Vrek over his shoulders, before jumping off.

Only two remain now. 

Keith steps forward, ready to leap. He turns back to face his operative—

—and halts.

Beyond the collapsed crates and dying sparks, Lance stands mid-duel, his movements fast and desperate, trying to keep up with the sentry’s brutal attacks. He grips the Red Lion’s bayard in sword form, swinging hard, clashing violently against the robot’s jagged metal weapon.

The sentry’s strikes come heavier now, faster, forcing Lance back, step by step. His grip slips, his stance falters.

Then it happens.

A vicious downward blow collides against Lance’s sword. The impact rips the bayard from his grasp, sending it skidding across the floor, spinning out of reach.

Vulnerable, Lance staggers back, chest rising and falling in ragged pants as the robot raises its blade for the final strike.

“What are you doing—!” the Blade operative shouts at him, his voice swallowed by the roaring winds.

But Keith’s already gone.

He bolts through the bay, past crates and sparking wires, with his hand already gripping around the hilt of his own blade.

The sentry's weapon descends on Lance.

Until Keith’s sword finally meets the robot’s mid-strike. Sharp steel screeches as the two weapons ground together in a battle of strength. Keith’s teeth grit behind the mask, muscles burning as he pushes forward, forcing the sentry to step back from Lance.

The bot adjusts instantly, recalibrating, its jagged blade whirring as it lunges again, swinging in a brutal arc.

Keith pivots low, just barely dodging the slash, feeling the wind of the strike graze past him.

Another attack comes, faster and more precise.

He ducks, twisting at the last second. The bot’s blade cuts through empty space.

Keith counters, his sword colliding against the sentry’s weapon, locking them together again in a brutal struggle for control.

A growl rips through his throat as he throws his shoulder into the clash, pushing hard with the intention to overpower.

With a burst of strength, he sends the robot stumbling back, its guard entirely open.

Keith refuses to hesitate.

With a roar, he surges forward, driving his sword straight through the robot’s core. 

Sparks exploded around him as the sentry convulses, arms jerking, then shuddering to the floor with a final crash.

Keith stands over the broken bot, his chest heaving. He tries to steady his breath, the end of his blade trembling slightly from the force of his strike. 

Behind him, Lance exhales, long and shaky. “W-Woah. That was way too close.”

When Keith turns around to face him, Lance offers a tired, but grateful smile on his face from inside his helmet.

“Thanks, man,” Lance says gingerly. “You really saved my ass there.”

Keith doesn’t respond.

He just stood there, stuck in place.

It had been months . And yet seeing Lance now, standing right in front of him, Keith’s heart nearly split open with the utter relief.

Lance tilts his head slowly, eyebrows furrowing.

“…Wait a second.”

His eyes linger on Keith’s faceplate, narrowing slightly as he tries to study him.

“Keith?”

Then, Kolivan’s voice cuts through his earpiece, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

“Keith! Fall back now! That’s an order!”

Without a word, Keith turns and runs, his boots pounding on the deck.

“Wait—!”

Lance’s voice sounds strained, confused, and desperate, but Keith doesn’t bother to look back this time.

He reaches the edge of the dispatch bay and launches himself into open space. The Blade’s ship rises below him, catching him in a levitation field and pulling him inside.

The ship seals behind him. Cold air blasts his hot, sweaty skin as he taps off his mask, panting hard.

Kolivan stands in front of him, expression furious. Beside him, the other Blade members glance at Keith, some with concern, others with frustration.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” Kolivan voices, “You jeopardized the extraction protocol.”

“I had to,” Keith tries to explain, still catching his breath. “Lance was—”

Kolivan raises a hand. “We are not Voltron, Keith. We are the Blade. Personal attachments are not mission priority.”

Keith presses his lips down thinly, glaring at the floor.

“If you wish to rejoin your friends in Voltron, you may do so. But not in the middle of an active mission," Kolivan voices sternly, "You either commit to the Blade of Marmora or leave it behind.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Kolivan's voice softens. Not by much, but enough to show he’s offering Keith a choice, and not punishment.

“Well?” he asks. “Do you wish to return to them?”

The image of Lance’s face, surprised and grateful, flashes through his mind.

He thinks of Coran. Allura. Pidge. Hunk. Shiro.

Then of Regris. Of the crates. Of what was still out there in the dark.

“No,” Keith answers, honestly. “Not yet.”

“Then you remain with us,” Kolivan said. “Prepare for debrief.”

Keith looks down in his hands, the mask still gripped in his fist. 

The Blade of Mamora is where he belongs.

He activates the mask back on, sealing himself within the identity he has chosen. 

There was no turning back. Not yet.

The return to base was quiet. Not the kind of quiet born from peace, but the kind carved out from over-exhaustion. The Blade of Marmora moved like ghosts through the darkened corridors, their footsteps dull against the metal floors, armor scuffed and boots heavy with grit. 

Another mission complete. Another Galra outpost was dismantled. Another flicker of resistance passed like a flame between calloused hands.

Keith walked near the front of the group, his shoulders stiff beneath the weight of his half-shed cloak. Dust clung to the creases in his suit, smoke still clinging faintly to the fabric. The objective was achieved.

He should’ve felt something like satisfaction. Instead, all he felt was tired.

Victories these days didn’t feel like celebrations. They felt like obligations.

Just as some of the members began to drift toward shared quarters, Kolivan’s voice boomed loudly.

“Debrief. Mandatory.”

Groans were muffled behind masks. Though, no one tried to argue.

Keith didn’t either. He adjusted the strap on his blade and fell in step with the others, heading toward the debriefing chamber with the slow, reluctant rhythm of soldiers too used to marching.

The room itself was dim and clinical, lined with cold-lit consoles and a central display screen that hummed faintly in standby. One by one, the Blade operatives filed in, their silence a language all its own, disciplined enough not to complain.

Keith stood at the back, arms crossed, his posture guarded. He hadn’t even bothered wiping the smudge of black across his cheek, the one from an explosion too close for comfort. His breath had finally evened out, but his mind hadn't caught up.

He didn’t expect anything different from this debrief. A recap, a few stats, another mission queued for the next rotation.

Then the screen came alive, in the center of the room, indicating an intercepting broadcast.

A sharp chime rang, followed by the static shimmer of an incoming transmission. The static cleared into vibrant color, the familiar sigil of Voltron rotating on-screen with pomp and gleam.

Keith’s expression barely shifted, but he could see his Blade operatives around him stare at the screen with muted curiosity, watching the propaganda.

A dramatic swell of music resounded off the walls of the room. Then, the visuals shifted into a spectacular segment of the Paladins in action, underneath a grand display of light and with a live studio audience.

Hunk’s scene passed. Pidge’s segment drew a few raised brows. Then came the acrobatics.

Descending from above like a star descending onto the stage, Lance spun in an effortless grace and glittering confidence. He twisted through the air on a long silk rope, with the perfect blend of beauty and strength. The audience in the video roared with delight.

But in the room with the Blade, they were stiffly quiet.

“Cut it,” Kolivan commanded.

Yet, the Blade members did not move. They saw the way Lance’s armored body looked just right, along with the confident set of his shoulders and that captivating, bright boyish grin.

It wasn’t just Lance performing; it was Lance being seen. 

And everyone around Keith saw him.

Keith felt his jaw tighten.

“I said cut it,” Kolivan roared, annoyed.

Quickly, the screen turned black.

Keith doesn’t remember a single thing that was discussed in that debrief meeting. Words came and went, but none of it stuck.

When Kolivan dismissed the Blade to their quarters, Keith only stirred when a fellow Blade tapped his shoulder, a subtle cue to leave. He nodded once before following the others out.

Hours passed.

His mission report had been filed, every detail accounted for with precise efficiency. His weapons had been cleaned and checked, the familiar routine grounding him, even as his mind remained distant.

While Vrek slept soundly a few feet away, under a thin thermal blanket, Keith laid there, rigid, staring up at the ceiling.

He couldn’t sleep.

The scene from earlier replayed in his mind like a broken loop. Lance descending in effortless grace and movement. The way every Blade operative had openly stared at him through the screen, with his legs split in the air.

Jealousy wasn’t the right word. It was a deep want, aching and clawing in his chest, raging to be released.

Lance’s presence still pulled at him, even now, even with galaxies between them.

His breath was sharp when he finally stood abruptly, throwing off his blanket. 

He slips into his boots, careful not to wake Vrek, and ducks out of the room, moving silently down the hall, then out into the biting air of the planet's weather. The cold slices through his suit, sharp enough to keep him alert, yet not enough to push him back inside.

He pulls out the communicator. His fingers swipe against the screen, nervously.

Contact: LANCE

The name stares back at him like a daring taunt, thumb hovering it.

He’s probably asleep.

He probably doesn’t want to talk right now.

He probably hates you.

With a breath that came out more like a shudder, he presses the call button.

One ring. Two. Thr— 

“...Hello?”

Keith stills. 

Lance’s voice is groggy, half-lost in sleep, carrying the kind of coziness that comes from being woken unexpectedly.

He tries to articulate words, but no sound follows.

“Hello?” Lance calls out again, more alert now.

Before his brain can catch up to his heart, his finger presses down on the end call button, cutting the line instantly.

God, why had he done that?

The cold air seemed suddenly ten times colder, biting at his skin like a punishment. His breath forms clouds in the frigid air, but he barely notices against the roaring winds.

Suddenly, the communicator buzzes violently, nearly slipping through his fingers and forcing him to fumble to catch it before it lands in the thin layer of snow. 

His heartbeat leaps up his throat as he reads the screen.

Incoming Call: LANCE

Lance wasn’t letting him run from this.

Keith wants to let it ring, but the volume of the sound echoes, loud enough to carry and pull attention from the sleeping Blade members stationed back at base.

He jabs the answer button, pressing the communicator tighter to his ear after.

“Why did you call me?” he hisses, voice hushed and strained, like maybe keeping his volume low would somehow make this whole situation less awful.

“You called me first!” Lance shoots back, just as hushed, but pointed. “Why did you call me?!”

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Keith lied, voice strained.

“Oh really? You accidentally hit three buttons and my name? Really hard to believe, Keith.”

Keith grits his teeth. “Shut up, it was a mistake.”

There’s a pause, long enough for Keith to feel how dumb that sounded.

Lance sighs through the line. "Okay, cool. If this was some accidental call or whatever, that’s fine, but I’m gonna hang up now and—"

"Don’t," Keith says, too quickly.

Waiting for Lance to answer, Keith nervously shifts his weight, snow crunching lightly beneath his boots.

Then he picks up Lance’s voice, quieter.

“Okay. I won’t.”

God, this was so much worse than he anticipated

He expected the line to cut off at any second. For Lance to change his mind, decide it was too late to deal with this. But, with every minute that passes, Lance stays on the line, waiting.

Keith has no idea what to say. He stands there, wind tugging at his cloak, the communicator warm in his hand. He then gazes up at the sky above the base, clouds tinged with violet, stars peeking through the cloudy haze.

He can hear Lance breathing. Moving, maybe shifting under his sheets.

“I saw the promo,” Keith finally admits.

“Really?”

Keith nods before realizing Lance can’t see him. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think the Blade watched stuff like that.”

“We don’t.”

“Then how’d you see it?”

“It aired through our communication system,” he informs steadily, “In the debriefing room.”

Lance hums, shifting. Keith can picture Lance half-sitting up, arm propped against the mattress, brows furrowed as he processed that information.

“The broadcast played all that way from there?” Lance echoes, the surprise evident in his voice. “Like voluntarily? You guys actually sat through that?”

“Involuntarily, actually. Kolivan made them cut it.”

A beat.

Then, Lance snorts. “Yeah, I bet he did,” he says, amusement laced in his tone. 

Keith hates how his chest squeezes at the smallest sound.

He clears his throat, but Lance speaks up first.

“Why’d you call me, Keith?”

The words weren’t accusing or demanding.

They were curious.

Keith peers out at the stretch of ice and rock ahead, his brain scrambling for any answer that wasn’t the truth.

“I needed to—” He stops, licking his lips, mind blanking. “—check in.”

“Check in? Since when do you ‘check in’?”

Keith didn’t. He never had before. He wasn’t the kind of person who reached out and talked for the sake of talking.

He can hear the shift in Lance’s voice becoming increasingly awake. In a way that meant he wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon.

“Well, I’m glad you saw it,” Lance says earnestly, filling in the space between them. “It means you’re still alive. Somewhere.”

Keith’s chest twisted. “I’m glad I saw it too. It means… you all are alive, as well.”

The line was silent. No fabric rustling this time. No breath. Keith held his own.

“I know we kinda left on bad terms,” Lance mumbles, his voice hesitant, like he’s trying not to push too far. “And I know I said some stupid things to you back then. I—yeah. I was being an idiot. So... I’m sorry about that, Keith.”

Keith’s gaze drops for a moment, before he nods towards the snow. “Yeah. Me too. I’m sorry for what I said to you. I really didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t wrong.”

“Lance.”

“Okay, okay! I forgive you,” Lance blurts out, hurriedly trying to quell Keith’s guilt.

Keith breathes through his nose, the cold air sharp in his lungs. “I’m really sorry, I—” He hesitates, swallowing. “I really regret hurting you, Lance. I mean it.”

Lance doesn’t respond immediately, then his voice comes steadier. “I appreciate that... But honestly? Even after how we left things, I still hoped you were doing okay. Each and every day. If that helps settle your conscience.”

“It does,” Keith responds softly. “I hoped the same for you.”

Lance shifts on the other end, the faint rustle of fabric audible through the receiver. “You know... I didn’t expect you to call me. Like, ever.”

Keith scoffs, shaking his head despite knowing Lance can’t see him. “I didn’t plan to.”

“But you did.”

“Yeah. I did.”

Lance breathes out, slow and measured. 

“I think about it sometimes,” he further pushes.

“Think about what?”

“How different things would’ve been if you hadn’t left. If I’d handled things better.”

“It wasn’t you,” Keith insists, “I was the problem.”

However, Lance huffs out a half-laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe, but I wasn’t exactly helpful either. It made sense why you left. I probably would have too.”

“Don’t think like that,” Keith states firmly, the grip around his communicator tightening, “My decision to leave was on my own accord.”

“I just keep wondering if there was anything I could’ve done. For you to not leave.”

The memory of Allura flashing his mind. Yet, Keith refuses to mention it.

“I—” Lance breathes in sharply, like he was cutting himself off before he could say something reckless.

“What?” Keith urges.

A pause.

Then, quieter, almost gone from the roaring winds. “I miss you.”

The way he says it feels heavier than it should’ve been. Lance must’ve felt it too.

Abruptly, hastily, Lance backpedals.

“I-I mean!” He starts, tripping over himself in his rush to take it back. “The team misses you! Like, a lot! And me—yeah, obviously, I miss you too, but not in, like, a weird way or anything! Just in a totally normal ex-team member way! Like, you know! Because everyone misses you! It’s not a wild concept or whatever! It’s normal! Completely normal!”

Keith could let it go. Allow Lance to go back on his word and have the moment slip between them like all the other things they never got to say.

Instead, he says, “I miss you too.”

Faintly, Keith hears Lance exhale, and there was something familiar in that breath.

The kind of breath that carried a smile.

Keith had never hated being away from Lance more than he did in that moment.

Somewhere, light-years apart, Lance smiles.

And even though Keith couldn’t see it, reach out, or hold onto it.

He felt it.

After that first call, it became a routine.

Keith hadn’t planned on it. In fact, he’d expected the two of them to settle back into the distance again the next day. He thought Lance would want to pretend it never happened. He hoped he did, if only to keep things simple.

Though, on the next available night he had, Keith stepped outside under the stars with nothing but the icy wind and his own thoughts gnawing at him. 

His hand moved on its own. Reached for the communicator. And there it was: Lance’s contact, glowing faintly on the screen like it had been waiting for him too.

He called. Lance answered.

And then they did it again the next free night. And the next.

Always at the late hours. Voices pitched low, like they were sharing secrets.

Sometimes they talked for five minutes, just to say goodnight or check in. Sometimes it stretched into the early hours of the morning, the hush of Lance’s voice weaving through static as he rambled about whatever had filled his day; training sessions, ridiculous Altean food substitutes, one of Hunk’s new hobby phases. 

Keith listened more than he spoke, but Lance never seemed to mind. And when Keith did talk, Lance listened like every word mattered.

It didn’t matter what they talked about. The calls weren’t about conversation.

They were about presence.

A presence Keith hadn’t realized he’d been starving for.

Naturally, someone started to notice.

“Keith.”

Kolivan’s voice pulls him aside just as he tries slipping through the corridor. 

“Yes?” Keith responds, trying not to sound caught red-handed.

“I’ve been told you’re leaving the base at night. Frequently.”

Keith straightens. “I’ve been taking walks. Surveying the area. Active duty.”

Kolivan’s gaze narrows, suspiciously. “Alone. On a hostile planet.”

“I can handle myself.”

“This is a strategic command post,” Kolivan states evenly, “I need to know where my officers are, especially when they vanish for hours during the scheduled sleep cycle.”

Keith feels his face burn. What the hell was he supposed to say? 

I sneak out so I can whisper into my communicator like some lovesick idiot?

“I can’t sleep at night. That’s all.”

Kolivan stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment. 

Then, surprisingly, he nods.

“Be careful, Keith,” Kolivan commands, before turning his back.

No further questions. No reprimand.

Still, Keith felt the pressure of the warning as he ducks out later that next night, communicator in hand, breath fogging in the cold.

Lance picks up by the second ring, his face lighting up on the small screen; messy hair, relaxed shoulders, and an easy grin already tugging at his mouth.

“Hey. You sure are sneaky. Though I bet Kolivan’s already onto you.”

A few weeks ago, Keith had no idea the communicators could do more than voice transmission. It was Lance who casually mentioned it during one of their calls, joking that he couldn’t believe Keith was too scared to show his face.

When Keith asked what he meant, Lance had patiently walked him through the settings, narrating the steps in real time until Keith eventually got it to work. 

The screen had lit up, and Lance’s face appeared for the first time; real, present, bright-eyed. Keith had almost sighed out loud from the mere sight. 

Since then, they’d never gone back to audio-only. Every call now was face to face.

Keith grimaces, adjusting the screen to keep Lance in frame. “He is.”

Lance chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he leans closer to the camera, like that would make his teasing hit harder. “Ohh, Keith’s in trouble,” he sing-songs stupidly.

“I’m serious,” Keith voices sharply, glancing over his shoulder as if Kolivan might emerge from the shadows at any moment, “We’re not supposed to have direct communications with anyone outside the Blade.”

Lance’s face shifts in the screen, eyes half-lidded from wherever he was curled up (a blanket probably), bunched around his shoulders, head propped lazily on one hand.

"You know, I don’t plan on letting go of these calls anytime soon,” he says, his voice lower now, in a way that pulls at Keith’s heart.

The faintest hint of a smile tugs at Keith’s lips. “Never said you had to.”

Lance smiles back, but his gaze looks up from the screen, like he was internally debating something, turning it over in his mind. 

“You know, this is kinda your fault,” Lance muses, fingers playing absentmindedly with the edge of his blanket. “You’re the one who keeps calling me.”

Keith huffs. “And you’re the one who keeps picking up.”

Lance tilts his head, playful. “So, am I supposed to ignore you, then?”

“I’m not here to tell you what to do.” Keith starts, his gaze lingering over Lance’s neck, “But, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Lance lets out a quiet chuckle. “Woah, man. Do you talk to all the former Voltron members like this? I almost feel flattered.”

Keith’s brow furrows, thrown off.

“You know…” Lance continues, drawing out the words, fingers now playing with the ends of his hair. “Late night calls. Whispering all cool and mysterious. Flirting in the dark.”

Keith makes a face. “I’m not flirting.”

“You make me feel like I’m the only one from Voltron who you call.”

“You’re the only person I call,” Keith says plainly.

Keith watches as Lance’s face freezes, and for a second Keith thinks it’s their connection acting up again. But, before Keith can check on his settings, Lance’s mouth falls open. 

“Wait, huh?! What about Shiro?”

Keith shrugs. “So? What about him?”

“So?!” Lance practically squeaks, then lowers his voice quickly. “Dude, do you hear yourself? You were devastated when Shiro was gone. Like, full-on heartbreaking levels of despair. You missed him more than anything in the world! And now you’re telling me you haven’t even called him? Like, at all?”

Keith purses his lips, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “We don’t check in on each other like that. Our relationship is... different.”

A beat. Lance’s voice drops slightly, hesitant, like he was carefully figuring something out. “But, don’t you want it to be more? You know, more romantic?”

“What?” Keith asks flatly.

“I mean—” Lance inhales sharply, now fully awake, face twisting. “I thought—well—you told me back in the training room that you care for him more than just a brother. Months ago. Remember?”

Keith blinks at the screen. “I meant like a father figure.”

Awkward, stretched silence.

“Lance?”

Then a soft cough from Lance. “Y-Yeah, no. I totally knew that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“What? Yes, I did!”

“Lance.”

Lance groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, fine! I didn’t! But, c’mon, man! It added up at the time! You were obsessed with finding him! What was I supposed to think?! Plus, Shiro does come across like someone I’d think would be, you know, your type.”

“My type?” Keith sighs deeply, “Lance. Are you still trying to be my wingman?”

Lance waves his hands dramatically, voice rising with each word. “Hey, hey, don’t ‘Lance’ me! Just listen, okay? Shiro’s reliable, head-focused, patient, and basically everything you'd want in a partner! Like, he’s literally the perfect ‘the tragic hero that’s impossibly cool’ type! And don’t even start denying it, because I know what I saw!”

Keith narrows his eyes. “What did you see?”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe the way you practically had hearts in your eyes looking at Sven?!” Lance exclaims. “Like, full-on ‘soft stare, wistful gaze’ levels of looking! And yeah, yeah, I know, ‘he just looked like Shiro, nothing more, blah blah,’ but Keith, do you hear yourself?! You’re telling me you weren’t affected by seeing Shiro’s doppelgänger? Because I remember that moment vividly, and trust me, dude, you looked in love!”

“I assure you, I don’t look at Shiro like that. That’s gross.” he says plainly.

Lance moans dramatically, like he had just lived through some horrible revelation. He avoids looking directly at Keith through the screen. “Okay, fine, my bad. Whatever. I thought I knew who you loved. But, sure, I guessed wrong.”

A soft shuffle emits on the other end, the sound of Lance pacing. Slippers on floor. Restless movement paired with hesitant silence. 

Keith could almost feel Lance’s mind working, the question hovering on his lips but not quite spoken.

Who do you love, then?

The question never comes.

“You know…” Lance voices carefully, slowing his steps like he was edging toward something without fully committing. “You’re kinda picky. Like, ridiculously picky.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “And?”

Lance releases a breathy laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know. It really makes me wonder what kind of person would actually meet your standards.” He pauses, then adds, “If anyone does.”

“It’s not like I have some impossible list of requirements.”

He shoots Keith a look. “Yeah? Okay. So, what is it, then?”

“What is what?”

“Your type.” Lance presses, arms crossed now, like he wasn’t going to let Keith sidestep this completely. “C’mon, I know you have one. I’m not that dumb.”

Keith huffs, gaze flickering away for a second, debating whether or not he should even answer. “I don’t know. Someone who—” He mulls over it, “Gets me, I guess.”

“Gets you how?”

Keith glances back at the screen, meeting Lance’s stare. He expects Lance to have a stupid, teasing grin on his face, eager to make fun of him.

However, Lance simply waits for him to finish, patient and still.

Keith swallows, staring directly into Lance’s eyes. “Someone who knows when to push and when to just be there. Who keeps up with me. Who makes things feel different.”

Lance didn’t say anything at first.

Then, slower now, more deliberate: “That’s oddly vague.”

Clicking his teeth, Keith ignores the way his pulse felt just a little uneven. “It’s not.”

Again, he assumes Lance will poke fun at his reaction, teasing him about how abstract and nonsensical his type sounds like.

Lance doesn’t bother to mention it at all.

Instead, he says lightly, “Anyway, you should consider calling the others. You know. Platonically, of course. I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

Keith considers it. “Yeah. Maybe. Next time.”

“Why not now?” Lance asks, looking over to the side, off-screen, “Pidge is probably still up. Here, I can head over to her room, right now.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“C’mon. You could—!”

“That would mean letting this call go.”

The line went still on Lance's end.

“Actually, nevermind, I should probably get off,” Keith says hurriedly, trying to push down the embarrassment warming his face despite the chilly air. He chooses to look back at the Blade base, just so Lance can't catch a glimpse of his redden face.

“Do you want to?”

“I should.”

“I’m not asking what you should do, Keith. What do you want to do?

Keith’s grip clenches slightly around the edge of his screen, gaze settling back on Lance.

“I should,” he repeated, quieter this time, like saying it again might make it easier. It didn’t.

“Not what I’m asking,” Lance echoes back.

Running a hand through his hair, Keith sighs, “I don’t know.”

“Stay on the line, then.” Lance supplies easily.

“Huh?”

Lance shrugs, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I mean, you don’t know if you want to end the call, right? So don’t.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Sure, it is." Lance grins, lazy and warm. "We’re both here, and neither of us is going anywhere just yet. Sounds like staying to me.”

Keith doesn’t answer right away.

Something about the way Lance says it, like choosing what he wants over what he should is the easiest thing in the world.

Then, without overthinking it, he nods. “Okay.”

He’s never done this before. Never had someone to call just to talk. Someone who stayed up late for him. Who showed up on the screen with a crooked smile and didn’t ask for anything more than his time.

He wonders if this was what true friendship felt like.