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Chapter Text

“Get up.”

The voice is unfamiliar: this isn't the guard who takes him to the arena, nor the one who deposits him in what the Galra call a medical room. It isn't even Zarkon, and Shiro is surprised; Zarkon occasionally enjoys congratulating Shiro on the money he makes for Galra in the betting pool, or taunting him with the druids' latest abomination. They like to keep Shiro on his toes and money lining their pockets.

Shiro stands painfully – his ankle still smarts from where he'd sprained it and the druids had half-heartedly healed him, and his back cracks in a way that makes the soldier snort.

“Hands.”

Obediently, Shiro proffers his hands through the slot in the door. Handcuffs are clicked on, but he barely notices. The door opens, and he blinks in the bright light.

“This way, Champion.”

He's led through dark, damp corridors until they exit the cell block, but instead of taking Shiro to the druids or a Galra, they enter an area of the ship Shiro's never been in before. It's not as nice as the area in which Zarkon and his high-ranking officials reside; it's dimly-lit, and the doors resemble those of vaults rather than the fashionable sliding doors preferred by Zarkon and his ilk.

But whoever he is being taken to must have the necessary clearance to summon the Champion, and so Shiro tries to reserve judgements.

The soldier grunts suddenly and yanks the chain connected to Shiro's handcuffs, stopping before one of the heavy doors. Though it has the appearance of a vault, the Galra needs only to push the wheel to open the door, and Shiro tenses, unsure what to prepare for but readying himself regardless.

There's a click indicating the detachment of the chain and then Shiro is thrown unceremoniously into the room; he stumbles but remains upright, the metal of the handcuffs cutting painfully into his flesh wrist. The quarters are lavish; they must belong to someone very high-up, to have the kind of luxury that Galra do not care for. Shiro wonders if it is some kind of trick: the location of these chambers suggests someone mid-ranking, and yet the decor indicates someone with a lot of pull.

He counts the minutes, and it is at least half an hour before the room's occupant returns. Shiro has not sat down; he stands tall and straight-backed, and turns to face the door.

“Are you a child?” is the first thing out of his mouth, heedless of possible repercussions.

The Galra in the doorway is small, shorter than all the Galra Shiro has encountered so far – and he has encountered many – shorter even than Shiro himself. The boy is slender, pale; it is as if he is merely diminished. Surely an adult Galra could not be so small.

“No,” comes a hard voice. The Galra removes the headset covering his eyes, and, like the boy's purple hue, his eyes are paler than expected, a soft yellow like candle wax instead of the lamplight harshness of the sun.

“I am Keith, son of General Krolia,” he says, and Shiro connects this boy to the rumours he has heard: a smaller Galra, inferior to his agemates. “I have requested you, Champion.”

Shiro sets his jaw and doesn't say anything.

The Galra – Keith – sets his helmet down on a table and approaches Shiro, chin tilting up the closer he gets in order to meet Shiro's eyes. “Tell me your name.”

“Surely you already know my name.” Shiro is well aware of the betting and gambling of the arena, knows he's made many Galra a lot of money, and it seems inconceivable that the son of a general does not know who Shiro is.

Keith's gaze is hard. “You will tell me.”

“Shirogane.”

It isn't much to give up; after all the Galra have taken, Shiro's name means nothing to him.

His mind turns over and over with questions, carefully assessing the threat Keith makes, the danger he could be in, and most importantly, what a Galra could possibly want with him. It's odd as well, Shiro considers suddenly, that the runt, someone said to be disliked by Emperor Zarkon himself, could ask for the Champion and have his request honoured.

Somehow, Shiro gets a feeling that this runs even deeper than Zarkon, and it makes his skin crawl.

“Champion Shirogane,” Keith says in a lazy drawl. “Your record is most impressive.”

Shiro inclines his head.

“Our Champion,” Keith repeats, and his falsely-admiring voice grates on Shiro's nerves. “Even the Galra admire you. I see why.” He moves closer, and makes to walk around Shiro in a circle, but Shiro turns.

“Stay still,” Keith says.

Shiro's shoulders tense, and he stares down at the little Galra, who stares back with just as much venom in his eyes. Neither of them move.

“Why did you ask for me?” Shiro says, voice hard, drawing himself up to his full height and towering over the Galra runt.

Keith hesitates, and Shiro senses a crack in his facade.

“I am leaving,” Keith says eventually. “Escaping. Defecting. Whatever you would like to call it.” Shiro is shocked enough by the simple admission, but then Keith says, “And I'm taking you with me.”

Shiro has so many questions, but he starts with, “How?”

“Have you heard of Voltron?” Keith asks, and Shiro shakes his head. “It is the most powerful weapon in the universe. It can defeat Zarkon.”

Shiro isn't sure he believes a word, but nods impatiently when Keith seems disinclined to continue. He looks down for a moment, and Shiro wonders briefly how a Galra could possibly turn against their empire, why Keith is telling him this. It’s clear Shiro has no one to tell – no one would believe him if he reported it – but it seems an odd courtesy to inform your victim he’s going to be kidnapped.

“It's made up of five lions,” Keith says finally. “We have one – the red one – and it calls to me.”

“Calls to you?”

Keith pauses again. “It's like a pull,” he explains briefly, clearly not wishing to divulge the truth to Shiro. “I believe I can pilot it out of here. And I will.”

“So what do you need me for?”

“You're the Champion,” Keith says, tone making it clear he thinks Shiro's question is stupid. “Losing you will be a great blow to the Empire; having you stolen from right under their noses.”

“And once we're out of here,” Shiro says, words thick in his throat. “You'll have no more need for me. You'll kill me the first chance you get.”

Keith's eyes narrow. “Would you rather die in here?” he asks, promising nothing and Shiro feels a frisson of fear; surely Keith's non-answer means he has planned to kill Shiro, that his days are numbered. But Shiro feels acceptance too, because Keith is right. Living here, working, fighting, killing for Zarkon, is no existence. He'd rather die with some semblance of freedom – chained to a Galra he may be, but at least it won't be the brutal death in the ring Shiro had imagined for himself.

Keith moves closer suddenly, reaching for Shiro's hands. Shiro jerks back automatically, and Keith gives him a pitying look.

“I can remove your handcuffs,” he says, and produces a key.

Shiro's confused, but he offers his hands, and true to his word, Keith unlocks the cuffs and drops them without care on a side table. Shiro rubs his sore wrists, looking at Keith with suspicion. Keith is staring, fascinated, at Shiro's prosthetic arm.

“I will allow you to consider,” he says, so earnest Shiro could laugh, because it’s clear Keith’s taking him, consent or no consent. “Help yourself to – “ He waves a benevolent hand towards an alcove Shiro hadn’t dared approach when he was alone, but when he steps forward there’s a table laden with food just beyond the wall. It makes Shiro's stomach growl just at the sight of it – it's been months since he's had real food and not just dry rations or the slop they feed prisoners.

Shiro hesitates a moment, considering the possibility of poison, but his attention is caught by Keith rolling his eyes. “Don't be stupid,” he says, and Shiro bites the inside of his cheek to avoid giving a harsh retort. “Eat. I know you're starving.”

This isn't entirely true – Shiro is fed far better than the other prisoners simply due to his prowess in the arena: his captors, ever concerned about his wellbeing, allow gladiators all they need to maintain good health.

It doesn't look like this, though, Shiro thinks, eyeing the food – whole, and real, not blended until it's thin and brown. He gives in and eats eventually, and Keith watches him with an interest that makes him uncomfortable.

Shiro doesn't trust Keith or his grand statements in the slightest. He's still stuck on the idea that a Galra could be a traitor – Shiro doesn't go an hour without hearing a Galra swear allegiance to Zarkon, and the other prisoners say there is no other race so blinded by patriotism in the galaxy.

Besides, even if Keith is serious, there's no way he has the ability to pull this off. They're on the flagship – Zarkon's ship, no doubt stuffed full of his best and most loyal men – and it can't be possible that Keith has gained some kind of following. The longer Shiro thinks, the more he recalls: he has heard of Keith, but never by name – only ‘the runt,' or occasionally ‘the half-breed' – and Keith is not well-liked. Shiro has heard that even Zarkon despises him, and it makes him wonder why the emperor even keeps Keith around at all. Galra are not ones for sentimentality.

Shiro considers, briefly, that this could be a trap. Perhaps Zarkon has grown tired of his favourite toy soldier, and is looking to incriminate Shiro so he has an excuse to execute him.

That isn't right either, Shiro thinks. Galra don't need an excuse to murder the innocent.

Keith could, however, allow them to escape but then turn right back around and hand Shiro to Zarkon, claims of abduction and betrayal on his lips. It would improve Keith's standing with Zarkon for sure.

Too big a risk, Shiro decides. Surely Keith isn't stupid enough to risk his life like that.

Even if he suspends his disbelief that Keith would be able to pull this off, there's still the fact that Shiro is almost certainly going to die at Keith's hands soon after their daring escape.

Which is still better than dying here, Shiro thinks. Once he's evaluated every option, his choice seems clear – the only question is if it is possible.

Shiro eats until he's full, taking full advantage of the lavish spread Keith clearly intended to sweeten the deal, and then he tells Keith of his decision.

Keith doesn't even blink, expression giving nothing away of his reaction. “I am glad you agree,” he says flatly. “I would have taken you whether you agreed or not, but this certainly makes it easier.”

Shiro takes a deep breath and wills himself not to snap, well aware that Keith is likely bluffing and trying to seem more powerful than he really is, to reinforce the imbalance of power that is offset by their size difference.

“However,” Shiro says, and Keith finally meets his gaze, “I don't see how you're going to pull this off. I know you're unpopular and infamous among the Galra.” A muscle jumps in Keith's cheek. “How could you possibly be able to manipulate everything we're going to need to get out?”

Keith doesn't speak for a long moment.

“Well?” Shiro asks, frustrated, and it's like he's flipped a switch.

“I have the power to do it,” Keith insists, suddenly standing up. Shiro stares at him. “I'll show you.”

The next night, all the cell doors spring open at once.

Keith? Shiro wonders. He shrinks back, away from the door, because it won't do any good, it'll just make him a target, get him hurt –

Prisoners race past his door, screaming and yelling first from shock and joy, and then Shiro hears the heavy tread of advancing Galra soldiers and the screams turn sour, panicked, pained.

Shiro presses himself into the corner of his cell and concentrates on breathing and only looks up when a guard pauses in his doorway.

“Smart choice, Champion,” he says, mouth twisting in a cruel smirk, and Shiro raises his chin.

His defiance is short-lived; the close call does not spare him a panic attack, and his sleep is plagued by nightmares and horror and filled with the screams of the suffering innocent.

Keith, Shiro thinks, nausea rising in his throat. It was Keith.

Chapter Text

The doors slide shut behind the Galra who have brought him to Keith's room. Shiro straightens, tugs his hands so the handcuffs don't rub at the sores already lining his wrists, and then he bursts.

“What were you thinking?”

Keith looks up from where he's sprawled in a chair, legs crossed, face pinching in confusion.

“What?”

“I know it was you,” Shiro accuses, and while a small part of him knows Keith could have him beaten for this, a larger part cries at the injustice of all the prisoners who tried blindly to reach freedom.

“Yes,” Keith says slowly. “I said I would show you my influence.”

“People were hurt,” Shiro grits out. Keith blinks.

It occurs to Shiro that Keith truly does not realise what foolish hope he had given the prisoners, the risk he had taken in opening all the doors and exposing them all to the wrath of Galra guards who received vitriol every day, who would take any opportunity to inflict punishment, to be cruel without reservation, to believe themselves justified in doling out retribution.

Keith looks thoughtful for a moment. “No one died.”

Shiro almost laughs. “That's irrelevant. They're suffering now, because of what you've done. Their blood is on your hands.”

“Do you truly care for the other prisoners?” Keith asks, tilting his head. “Are they not the very people you regularly face in the arena?”

Shiro can't hold back his flinch at that, but Keith is right. 

“You have the luxury of choice,” Shiro says roughly, aware as he says it that he's dangerously justifying his own crimes. “You have to think about other people.” Keith raises an eyebrow. “Not just yourself.”

“I don't have to do anything,” Keith says darkly, and he's small, but his presence fills the room as he stands up. “If you want to escape, Shirogane, there will be blood.”

“I know that,” Shiro snaps. “But you didn't need to do this.”

Keith crosses the room and stands in front of Shiro. He's laughably tiny in comparison, but he tilts up his chin and stares at Shiro defiantly. 

“But now you know what I can do,” he says, imploring and threatening all at once. “Do you trust now that I can get us out of here? I have the people and the resources. We can be free.”

Shiro laughs at that. “You've got nice rooms for a prisoner.”

Keith looks abashed. “I did not mean the same kind of prison,” he says darkly. Shiro still finds it hard to sympathise with a pampered, polished Galra while standing in his bedroom in chains, but he supposes there must be some kind of suffering in being a runt, especially for a species valuing strength and physicality as much as the Galra do. 

Keith's still looking at him expectantly, and Shiro sighs and nods. “I believe you,” he says. 

“We can start planning, then,” Keith says, pleased, and he finally walks away from Shiro and sits down, pulling out another chair. “Sit.”

Shiro does not. 

“I came here with two humans,” he says, and Keith looks up, interest piqued, gaze indeterminable. “I'm not agreeing until – “ But he stops. 

What does he want? To bring Sam and Matt with them? To endanger their positions even more? Shiro had survived okay - kind of, he thinks, looking at his metal arm - and he's sure the other two would have too; they aren't stupid, and they were sent to the work camps, not the arena. 

But he won't leave without ensuring their safety, that's for sure. 

“I want to know where they are,” he says. “I want to bring them with us.”

Keith looks at him with pity in his eyes, and openly hesitates. Hope lights in Shiro's chest. 

He's half-expecting a snappish retort, a quick shut-down and another threat to his life to make him comply, but Keith finally says, “I will investigate, for you. I cannot promise more than that, when I don't know where they are.”

Relief floods Shiro, and he takes a deep breath. To be fair, if he were in Keith's position, he isn't sure he wouldn't just outright refuse any more endangerment of his defection; would pay no mind to the wishes of the leverage tagging along with him. 

“Thank you,” Shiro says, and he means it. He takes the seat opposite Keith, and Keith retrieves the key to his handcuffs. 

It's slow going at first. 

Keith has a plan – has been working on it for months, with Shiro only being a loose end he needed to tie up – but Shiro quickly finds issues. 

“You expect me to take out how many soldiers?”

“They will send a troop of eight if you trigger your cell alarm,” Keith says. “It shouldn't go off, as we're unlocking it remotely, but I wish to plan for all outcomes.” He notices Shiro's expression. “Is that a problem?”

“Yes,” Shiro says, and Keith frowns at him. “I could definitely take four, I think, on my own. But eight – “

“I was led to believe you are an accomplished fighter.”

“I am.” Shiro feels shame in taking pride in that. “But I can't do that.”

Keith has access to a wider circle of Galra than Shiro had thought, loyalties obtained through mysterious means Keith refuses to tell him about, and so it should be simple to get Shiro back-up, but –

“They don't want to fight the Empire directly,” Keith says impatiently. 

“What, is that being too much of a traitor?”

“Yes.”

“They'll let me out of my cell, watch me take out their fellow soldiers, but giving me a hand is too far?”

Keith scowls at him. “If all goes well, the alarm shouldn't go off. But,” he says firmly as Shiro opens his mouth to complain, “I will ensure someone is placed to back you up if need be.”

“Fine,” Shiro concedes. The only Galra he has to take out – so far – are two who will be called when he triggers the alarm escaping the gladiator cell block, and then another two further along when he exits the dungeon block as a whole. Then, he'll be alone and exposed in the corridors, forced to rely on Keith's ability to disable cameras and reroute guard rotations.

“From the cell block,” Keith says, clearing his throat, “you will need to memorise directions – “

Shiro has a brief flash of cramming for exams at the Garrison, of reading sentences over and over until he was sure they were burned into the back of his eyelids, until he could practically regurgitate the textbook, and heaves a sigh. Keith's gaze snaps to him.

“Do you have the memory capacity to retain such specific information?” he asks, and it sounds genuine enough, but his lip curls with scorn.

“Yes, thank you,” Shiro says coldly, eyes narrowing. He leans forward and takes the map from Keith without asking, and Keith huffs in irritation.

So it goes. 

Keith sends for him a few times a week, at least – spaced out so as not to arouse suspicion, but often enough that Shiro quickly learns the route to Keith's room, settling the paranoia that comes with being summoned by Zarkon. 

“You are fighting tomorrow,” Keith tells him. 

Shiro glances up from a spaceport chart. “What?”

“In the arena,” Keith says, enunciating the words and rolling his eyes. “There is to be a match.”

“Is it an abomination or someone else?”

He regrets the question when Keith snaps, “Do you think Zarkon gifts me with all the information at his fingertips? I do not know.”

Shiro fiddles with the rations calendar instead, and decides to ask a question he has been burning with for a while. 

“Is he your father?”

Keith goes very still, but is not afraid to look up and meet Shiro's gaze, eyes challenging. “No,” he says finally, and Shiro raises his chin in acknowledgement, ready to drop it. He doesn't want to push Keith into defence mode. “I have no family on this ship.”

Shiro desperately wants to know more, but he knows well enough by now that he can't pry anything from Keith that Keith is not willing to give. He's surprised when Keith offers information on his own; it feels like a shaky attempt at trust, at reciprocity.

“My mother is deployed, far away,” Keith says stiffly. It's as if he's expecting an attack, Shiro thinks, though he hadn't pressed.

“And your father?” Keith's father must be the one with pull, Shiro thinks; there must be a reason Keith is still here – well-fed, well-groomed, privileged and looked after – despite being known to be one of the many banes of Zarkon's life. He knows Keith serves as a soldier, too, but the Empire has gladly disposed of soldiers before. Something is keeping Keith alive.

Shiro didn't think it was possible for Keith to get more tense, but Keith's ears flatten to his skull, lip drawing up to bare his teeth as he hisses. 

“I do not know,” he snaps, and Shiro raises his hands in pseudo-surrender, regretting the question. “You wish to know why Zarkon keeps a runt around, don't you?”

Shiro looks away, ashamed to have pressed at what is clearly a sensitive topic, but Keith continues, voice flat, “Zarkon owes my mother a life debt. He pays it by maintaining me aboard his ship, in his empire.”

Shock is the first reaction Shiro registers, and he blinks at Keith, who tips his chin up defiantly. 

It's almost unbelievable: runt he may be, but surely Keith's life could not be the same worth as Keith's mother saving Zarkon's. Shiro realises, with a bolt of horror, the cost of birthing an undersized weakling, surely a disappointment and embarrassment to the Galra Empire.

“My life for his,” Keith continues, confirming Shiro's suspicions. “Why else would the Galra keep me around?”

He doesn't meet Shiro's eyes, but Shiro doesn't think he could handle it, handle seeing whatever turmoil of grief and anger lurked in Keith's gaze. This must be what has led him to defect, Shiro thinks. A life is a heavy burden to bear, and Keith had unwittingly, unwillingly taken his mother's in exchange for his own. 

Shiro doesn’t dread being hauled from his cell into the arena. He never does, but the advantage of knowing beforehand allows him to calm himself, train harder, think smarter.

I have something to fight for, Shiro thinks in a moment of weakness, but the slip raises the question of what he’s been fighting for all this time. A blind hope for freedom? No. It was something else that made him hone his fighting to an art, made the killing easier and easier each time.

He wins easily – too easily, in the way that makes him suspicious that the next challenge could be his last – and he’s almost glad to see Keith afterwards. Keith waits a while, as after a victory gladiators are fed and groomed accordingly, and Shiro feels fresher and newer than he ever has in Keith’s opulent rooms.

It’s the first time they eat together, and Shiro tries not to stare at the sharp points of Keith’s canines.

“You eat anything I put in front of you,” Keith observes, and Shiro throws him an affronted glare. And they were doing so well. “Why?”

Keith is often unaware of his privilege and of the benefits his status brings him, but, Shiro thinks disbelievingly, Keith can't be blind. 

“Do you think I receive gourmet food every meal?”

But Keith's expression quickly turns stricken, and he rushes to clarify, “No – I only mean, that you don’t seem to have preferences. Do humans eat everything?"

Shiro's pleased – he hadn't really thought Keith could be so ignorant, and his troubled reaction suggests that he actually does listen and absorb when Shiro lectures him on privilege and understanding lives that are harder than his own. 

“Oh,” he acknowledges, and Keith looks relieved that he was not misunderstood. “Uh, no. Humans are so fussy, refuse to eat certain foods, adhere to really specific diets.” Shiro used to be one of these people, but he’s kind of had to put a pin in that.

“Do you?”

“Not anymore.” Shiro wants to change the subject, maybe even tell Keith about human health kicks, but he can’t think of equivalent foods; the majority of Galra fruits and vegetables are large with tough skin that requires peeling or carving.

He touches his chin absently; the druids had been unexpectedly lenient and allowed him to shave with more than just water and a knife, so the skin is smooth and not rubbed raw as usual.

“Your wounds have healed,” Keith notes.

“Wounds? Oh,” Shiro says quickly in realisation. “They’re from shaving – badly.”

“You grow fur on your face?” Keith asks, interested. 

“Yeah, after a few days,” Shiro says, rubbing his jaw self-consciously. Keith mimics the gesture, his expression intrigued. 

“Why do you remove it?”

“Uh,” Shiro says uncertainly, taken aback by Keith's curiosity. “I just prefer to. Not everyone does, but – “

“Aren't all humans like you?” Keith interrupts. 

“No,” Shiro says, frowning, confused now. “Not all Galra are the same, are they?” He almost regrets saying it when Keith's face falls. 

“I of all Galra know that,” he says, and they sit in tense silence until Keith asks, “How do you do it?”

“Here?” Shiro asks, and Keith shrugs. “When I'm offered privileges after a victory, I just ask for a knife. I can do it with just water and a knife if I really need to.” As a gladiator, Shiro gets a faucet and a bucket in his cell – privileges he will never take for granted again.

“That's why you were hurt,” Keith realises, and his hand raises as if he's going to reach for Shiro, to touch the new smoothness of his jaw. Shiro flinches, and Keith drops his hand immediately. “Why do you do it if it hurts?”

“I prefer it,” Shiro says simply. It’s a semblance of normality in a world turned upside down.

“Isn't it just as short as ours?” Keith asks curiously, touching the fine fur on his own jaw. “Why should you bother?”

Shiro almost laughs. “No,” he says. “Ours never stops growing.” Keith's eyes widen comically. 

“Wow,” he says, sounding genuinely awed. 

“It's,” Shiro starts, and then stops. Keith frowns at him. “You've met other species, right?”

The question makes Keith's gaze shift over Shiro's shoulder. “Not many,” he says. “I haven't left the ship much, or interacted with the prisoners. Only when I was younger, but I hardly remember. Why do you ask?”

Keith sounds wary. “You just seem interested in humans,” Shiro says, and he means nothing by it, but Keith stands suddenly, cutlery clanking loudly on his plate and tail lashing the floor.

“And?” he demands. 

“And I wondered if I was the first you'd met.”

Shiro takes another forkful of food, pretending he isn't looking at Keith, but he hears Keith swallow. 

“Of course you are,” Keith says finally, and though he sits down, his ears are still angled backwards, failing to conceal his mood. “Your pathetic race hasn't even developed the technology to leave their solar system.”

Shiro may not know anything substantial about Keith or his past, but he knows Keith gets defensive easily, and pushed further he’ll get spiteful.

He changes the subject. Keith’s already pissy, so Shiro figures he can ask hard-hitting questions without fear of repercussion.

“I’ve been wondering,” he says, “how reliable your plan is.”

Keith stiffens. “It is as reliable as a defection can possibly be.”

“We’re depending on other people a lot.” Keith remains silent. “Are we going to be safe? What if someone tips Zarkon off? What if – “

“I have the contacts,” Keith says through gritted teeth.

“And how many of them will remain loyal once there is a bounty on your head?”

“That’s not for us to worry about.” Shiro raises an eyebrow. “We will be gone by then. I have not told anyone where we’re going.”

Shiro swallows, realising he’s as close to getting information about their destination as he’s ever been. “Where are we going?” he asks, trying to make his voice light, like he doesn’t even care about the answer.

“I am not telling you,” Keith says, like it’s a stupid question – though truth be told, this is what he thinks of most of Shiro’s questions – and Shiro sighs.

It’s a little too late to doubt the person who has Shiro’s fate in their hands, but pessimism is one of the only things Shiro has left at this point. He refrains from sighing again, tries smiling to placate Keith’s disgruntled expression, and picks up his fork.

Chapter Text

“Get up,” comes the guard's voice, predictable by now, and Shiro stands and puts his hands through the door without being asked. It is no hardship to wear handcuffs: Keith always removes them as soon as Shiro arrives, anyway. 

When Shiro exits the cell, he looks up, as he always does. 

It is a different guard. 

Keith has sent the same one, every single time – Shiro had asked, once, and Keith had said that it was someone he trusted.

Shiro thinks nothing of it – he assumes it is difficult to gain and keep allies when power here shifts constantly – but he frowns when they do not take the path leading through the corridor of vault-like doors, and instead enter the elevator that takes them to the higher levels. 

It has been a while since Shiro was last summoned, but he knows he is being taken to Zarkon. His heart beats a frantic pattern against his ribs with every step closer, and too soon his guard is shoving him into a chamber. 

Zarkon is facing away from him, and Shiro is allowed precious seconds looking out of the window, at the marvel of space flying past them.

He'd always wanted to see the stars, but not like this.

“Champion,” Zarkon says. Almost polite. “Do you know why you're here?”

“No,” Shiro says honestly. He takes a moment to glance around the room – there are no guards. Shiro is handcuffed, it's true, but he's somewhat surprised that Zarkon would allow himself even a potential weakness. 

“Keith,” Zarkon says, slowly, as if tasting the name on his tongue. Shiro's mouth goes dry, and he swallows painfully. When Zarkon turns, he catches Shiro's expression. 

“You know Keith, don't you, Champion?” he says, lip curling.

Shiro's always thought Keith is an odd name for a Galra – there's harshness in the 'K' sound, true, but the rest is malleable, gentle on the tongue. Certainly not representative of Keith himself – Keith is all sharp edges and bared teeth – but Shiro wonders what Galra would give their child, already the runt of the litter, a soft name.

Shiro nods in agreement, too afraid to question him and heart seizing as Zarkon gives him a terrible smile. 

“He's always been a problem,” Zarkon continues conversationally. Shiro knew that much. “A burden. I sent his mother away so she wouldn't be distracted – she is a fine soldier, but one moment of weakness and – “

Zarkon snaps his fingers, and Shiro's shoulders hunch in fear. He wonders why Zarkon would tell him this – if he expects Shiro to tell Keith, or perhaps Zarkon intends to kill him and it doesn't matter what information Shiro receives in his last moments.

Then again, Shiro thinks bitterly, who does he have to tell?

“Keith is too full of hope,” Zarkon says thoughtfully, after a long moment. “I want you to crush that.”

Shiro's heart leaps into his throat, suddenly terrified that Zarkon knows of Keith's plan, but Zarkon continues, “You will fight him in the arena. Do not kill him – I have plans for him.” Zarkon's smile makes Shiro feel sick. “And perhaps next time he requests you, you will not be so much fun.”

Zarkon knows, Shiro realises. Knows that Keith has had Shiro in his quarters, often, but has drawn all the wrong conclusions. 

“I hope I will do you proud,” Shiro says dutifully, though everything in him flinches from the idea. 

“There is no hope,” Zarkon says dismissively, crossing over to a flashing station. Shiro knows their conversation is over. “There is only conviction in your abilities.”

Shiro contemplates whether to tell Keith, but he knows Zarkon will expect him to. It's clearly the reason why Zarkon has continued allowing Keith to remove Shiro from his cell despite being aware of his treachery, and Shiro fears disobeying the emperor. 

Not only does he essentially have orders, but this is crucial for Keith – it will push the plan back by weeks. Keith will need to heal, they’ll both need to heal, and Shiro is unsure how benevolent the druids will be regarding their medical treatment, considering he is a prisoner and Keith is so resented that Zarkon would throw him into the arena with his champion.

Next time Shiro is taken by the familiar guard, he doesn’t wait for Keith to remove his handcuffs before saying, “Zarkon plans for us to fight in the arena.”

He can't be sure, but he thinks Keith goes pale.

“Please sit,” he says, an automatic quality to his voice. Shiro watches his expression carefully, and after a moment Keith seems to shake himself, finally making eye contact.

“He thinks I am becoming arrogant,” Keith says. “Overstepping my bounds, I suppose.”

“He knew you were seeing me,” Shiro says, and Keith closes his eyes for a moment.

“Unfortunate.”

“But he thought we were,” Shiro starts, and he expects Keith to catch his drift, but Keith stares at him, unblinking, and tilts his head to the side. “You know.”

“What?” he asks, and when Shiro deliberates over his answer too long, Keith's eyes narrow. “What is it, Shirogane? It could be important, if he knows anything about our plan, or – “

“He doesn't,” Shiro snaps impatiently. “He thinks we're having sex.”

Keith suddenly goes very purple, eyes widening and lips parting in surprise. 

“Oh,” he says, somewhat weakly, and Shiro realises that Keith's blushing.

“Yeah,” Shiro says, and though he'd given the revelation out of impatience and irritation, he feels a blush crawl up his neck too. “So, uh – the plan is fine.”

“Good,” Keith says quickly. “That's good.”

The silence is agonising. 

“I don't know when our fight will be,” Shiro tries, throat dry, “but I won't be able to avoid hurting you. He wants me to hurt you.”

It shocks Shiro somewhat that he doesn't want to hurt Keith. Keith is in league with his captors, is privileged and spoiled and holds both the key to Shiro's freedom and a threat to Shiro's life, and yet Shiro bears him no ill will. Keith shows signs of trying, of being a better person than what Zarkon has made him; Shiro could almost suspect that Keith is more genuine with him than he has been as a Galra soldier. 

But suspicion is not belief, and Shiro refuses on principle to put his trust in a Galra. 

“You have to do it.” Keith's voice is firm, and his eyes betray no fear or hesitation as he looks at Shiro. “Don't hold back. He will know.”

“Don't go easy on me, either,” Shiro says, and the joke wins him a small smile. 

“I won't.”

Shiro had guessed Keith would be a worthy opponent in the arena. He supposes Keith would have to be, as a runt – no doubt picked on endlessly, an easy target, smaller and weaker than his Galra counterparts and having to fight twice as hard to survive. Keith is a good fighter.

But he isn't as good as Shiro.

Keith screams when Shiro breaks his arm, and it's such a guttural, heart-wrenching sound Shiro has to stop himself from wincing, fights his own compassion rising like blood to the surface.

In the arena, Shiro fights for his life. He does what he has to in order to survive. He ignores the screams and the blood and the gore so he can live.

Here, Shiro knows his purpose is merely to inflict cruelty, used as a weapon to torture someone else on Zarkon's orders, and that makes Shiro hesitate, but he knows he can't back down or everything they've talked about will be for nothing.

It's not even that he likes Keith, because he doesn't – it's just jarring to fight a face he knows; a person he has shared more with than anybody for years. Someone who Shiro is going to rely on, very soon, to keep him alive.

Keith sags to the side, angling his injured arm behind him, eyes narrowing even as he bites his lip hard to hide any other reaction. The crowd is jeering, but Shiro can hardly hear them over the blood rushing in his ears as he swings again, moving to target Keith's broken arm. Keith jumps out of the way faster than Shiro can see, and before he even registers the impact of Keith's tail coming down on his back he's on the floor, all the breath shocked from his lungs as he lands heavily on his stomach.

Shiro rolls over before Keith can go for his back again, launching himself to his feet, grabbing Keith's arm to spin him away and shoving forcefully enough to send Keith to the floor. Keith's cry is shrill and pained, but he drags himself to his feet, raising his hands again. Shiro almost wishes Keith would just concede, just to make this easier for them both, but Keith is far too proud for that.

The crowd jeers as Shiro easily ducks Keith's next strike; Keith staggers from the momentum and Shiro pushes him over again while his back is turned.

I could end this now, Shiro thinks. He could. He could pin Keith for the required ten seconds easily – Keith is stumbling and weak, probably thrown off-balance from the loss of his right arm – and end the fight.

Zarkon had said, “Do not kill him,” but Shiro thinks Zarkon wanted more than a broken arm, and it is in neither his nor Keith's interests to disappoint their emperor.

Keith manages to stand, and Shiro strikes him in the face. There is no sickening crack this time, and Shiro knows he hasn’t broken Keith's nose, but blood gushes from Keith's face, quickly matting the fur there and bringing tears to Keith's eyes.

Shiro stares a moment too long at the horror he has wrought upon Keith, and Keith kicks him in the chest.

The impact to the solar plexus winds Shiro and it gives Keith time to jump him, straddling his waist and hitting him over and over, striking wildly and without precision. Keith has Shiro's wrists in a loose hold, tail lacking the strength of a hand, and it's easy for Shiro to break out when he realises, throwing Keith away from him with the incredible strength of his prosthetic. Blood and the black spots of threatening unconsciousness blind Shiro a moment, but he shakes his head forcefully and locates Keith on his back, whole metres away.

He watches Keith raise a tentative hand to the back of his head; watches as it comes away bloody.

Shiro stands on shaky legs – from strain or from nausea, he isn’t sure – and walks over to Keith, who seems unable or unwilling to get up. Keith's eyes widen at the sight of him. Shiro has seen his battle-worn appearance many times, and it is true that he looks fearsome covered in blood and panting with exertion, eyes bright and searching for his next victim.

It's sickening to realise he uses military-approved fighting techniques in the arena, and Shiro is disgusted with himself even as he secures Keith trapped under him with a hold that had won him many sparring sessions at the Garrison.

Keith's is a body built for speed, not for strength, and so once Shiro has him pinned, it is only a matter of time.

1, 2, 3...

Keith continues squirming, wasting his strength, all elbows and knees that Shiro easily catches.

4, 5, 6...

"You are hurting yourself," Shiro says, almost inaudible, trying desperately not to move his mouth. Keith snarls at him. 

7, 8, 9...

And Keith finally stops struggling, falling lax and letting his head thump back against the floor.

“Well done,” Keith whispers. There is blood spilling from the corner of his lips.

Shiro feels like a monster.

10.

Cheers and screams ring out across the arena, hundreds standing from their seats and praising their Champion, their most accomplished fighter, the nightmare they had created.

Shiro gropes for Keith's unbroken arm and holds it up as much as he is able. Keith's wrist is so skinny in his hand, and it makes Shiro feel ill. The arena is too deep to make out the expressions of the Galra leaders, but Shiro sees Zarkon stand up, can imagine the smug self-satisfaction twisting his face.

It's a blur after that, as it always is: Shiro is dragged from the ring by guards who laugh between themselves and pay no attention to the cargo they carry between them. He does not see what happens to Keith.

The druids are cold, as they always are – in the touch of their hands, in the sterile room and crisp bed Shiro is strapped to – and they find a sprained ankle and broken wrist. Shiro had not noticed either. The only pain he registers is the persistent twinge in his back, and that's been there for months, something Shiro attributes to sleeping on a surface that is as soft and comfortable as gravel.

Shiro is placed in handcuffs and allowed to sit up when the druids have finished their work - they have some odd method that involves a cursory healing and works properly over time, and Shiro wonders how they will set Keith's broken arm.

If they will fix it.

Some time later, Zarkon enters the room, and Shiro sits up straighter.

“Congratulations,” is all he says, and a new wave of guilt washes over Shiro. He has done as he was told, as usual: like a good, obedient Champion. “A satisfying performance.”

Satisfying, Shiro thinks, sickened: he had broken Keith's arm and thrown him around the arena as easily as a rag doll, and it had satisfied Zarkon.

“You did not ignite your arm,” Zarkon adds, disappointed.

“You did not wish me to kill him,” Shiro says coldly, and Zarkon looks pleased.

Keith is quiet when Shiro is brought to his room. Shiro is limping, because his ankle aches as it heals, but nothing pains him as much as the sight of Keith.

His back is ramrod-straight, probably because it hurts in any other position, Shiro thinks, remembering how he had thrown Keith; his arm is in a sling, cradled close to his chest, and his face, God, his face.

“You did well,” Keith says when he sees Shiro looking.

Both his eyes are black; one is swollen shut, and there is dried blood above his eyebrow, a huge and roughly-stitched wound that almost looks as fresh as when Shiro had split it open.

Keith retrieves his folder from the locked cabinet, and when he sets it on the table Shiro's gaze lights on his knuckles, bruised and scabbed and bloody.

It is a deeper red than human. Shiro had thought many times about overthrowing his captors, but he did not want to learn the colour of Galra blood like this.

Spreading papers over the table, Keith opens his mouth to begin, not looking at Shiro, and Shiro says tentatively, “Will you remove my handcuffs?”

Keith hesitates.

It feels like a clean slice through the heart to have lost the trust they had so carefully built; two beings crushed under the Galra and working in reluctant tandem to escape their rule. Shiro brings his hands closer to him, but in the same moment Keith retrieves the key from his pocket and reaches out.

He unlocks them cleanly and quickly, withdrawing back to his side of the table when done, and Shiro foolishly thinks this will be the end of it, that from now they can rebuild on their foundation. Zarkon cannot have destroyed everything; cannot have won.

Keith flinches back violently when Shiro reaches for the glass of water beside him, and Shiro does too, hands going up in automatic surrender.

“Woah – “

“Shut up,” Keith snaps, face twisted in a snarl. “I'm not afraid of you.”

Shiro knows with absolute certainty that this isn't true, but he lowers his eyes from Keith's trembling fingers, feeling sick shame in the bottom of his stomach. The glass is thrust under his nose and Shiro takes it without looking up.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and Keith sniffs.

They speak very little: Shiro is absorbed in making a list of clothing he would like – honestly, anything that isn’t a purple bodysuit would satisfy him – and Keith is annotating a map, one Shiro can’t decipher from upside down.

Shiro only becomes aware of his sweating, his ragged breathing, his racing heart, when Keith asks quietly if there is anything he can do for him.

Anxiety chokes Shiro for a moment – he swallows the dryness and tries again, subtly pressing a hand to his neck to measure his pulse. The pounding begins to slow after a moment of counting, and Shiro manages to meet Keith’s curiously rounded eyes. It makes him look younger, softer; makes Shiro wonder at the fact this creature has his life in its hands, and doesn’t seem inclined to be gentle with it.

He doesn’t want to speak his original thought – Keith isn’t in the mood for games, and Shiro isn’t sure he wants the answer to his question after all.

“Hey,” he says instead. Keith, already looking at him attentively, tilts his head to the side. “I was thinking it could be good to spar together.”

Keith makes a thoughtful noise. “I don’t find fault with practising in simulations.”

“It’s basically a controlled environment, though. Practical experience is the best kind.”

“You were not impressed with my performance?” Keith asks. His voice is without inflection, but Shiro detects a cold edge of anger. “I suppose all must be sub-par to you, our dear Champion. How foolish of me to believe I could ever compare – “

“Stop,” Shiro says, frustrated. He tears his gaze away from Keith's sling. “Everyone has room to improve. Even me.”

“Even you,” Keith scoffs. His wrist jerks as though he were going to cross his arms but remembered he can't.

“You're fast,” Shiro tells him, and he doesn't miss the way Keith's gaze snaps to his. “Faster than me. And you're ambidextrous as well, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

Shiro remembers a time when he would have killed for ambidexterity, and flexes his prosthetic fingers to prevent them from clenching in a fist. Keith’s still angry; Shiro doesn’t want Keith to think he is, too, or they’ll get nowhere.

“Our departure is imminent,” Keith points out. “If we start just after my arm heals… is there any use to such a short period of training?”

“It certainly helps me to train every moment I can,” Shiro says shortly, and Keith looks apologetic. “When do we leave?”

“I can't confirm that,” is the immediate response. Shiro rolls his eyes.

Back in his cell, in the simulated night, Shiro thinks over what Keith had said. Departure imminent; after Keith’s arm has healed – that can’t be long at all, Shiro thinks: weeks at most, maybe even days. Everything he knew about healing processes a year ago has been forgotten; pushed aside in favour of the druids’ magic that is all Shiro knows of medicine now.

It’s a strange feeling to miss having the common cold.

Chapter Text

Shiro doesn’t think about Keith’s face as he’d told him that Sam and Matt were inexplicably gone.

He focuses on the burning in his arms and legs as he does push-up after push-up, ignoring the guards occasionally strolling past the door and making comments.

He doesn’t think about the fact that even Keith was confused, showing Shiro databases that had the Holts logged as prisoners with no location. There’s small comfort in that there’s a bounty on each of their heads; they’ve escaped, somehow. Keith suggested they had been broken out by a rebel group, and seemed genuinely sorry he couldn’t offer more information.

“Can’t you find them?” Shiro asked. He knew his voice is rising in volume, in desperation, and couldn’t do a thing to stop it. “Where could they possibly have gone?”

“There’s a whole galaxy out there,” Keith had said quietly. “And they will not want to be found.”

Shiro collapses after a while, drenched in sweat and pressing his hot cheek to the cold tile of the floor. His limbs tremble when he tries to lift them, and maybe, he decides, it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to just lay here. Just for a little while.

He’s never been one for religion, but swallows his doubts and prays to whoever might be listening that Sam and Matt are okay, safe, alive.

It’s always been too easy to give up, and Shiro lets himself fall, despondent. It’s one thing to not know – to be allowed the luxury of hope – but to be aware that no one knows where they are is too much to bear.

This time, when his cell door springs open, Shiro’s prepared.

He forces himself to step out, heart hammering with tension; this has been a forbidden action for so long, his body wants to betray him.

As soon as he crosses the line – it feels like a static shock, but one that travels his whole body for seconds that feel like years, and Shiro has to bite back a scream. Something’s failed, somewhere along the line – Shiro just hopes it didn’t trigger the full alarm, remembering the threat of a troop of eight Galra.

He allows himself some choice swear words, and continues. He has nowhere to place his trust beside in Keith, after all.

No guards patrol the corridors, and it’s eerily silent without the clanking of batons and the shouts from other gladiators. Every cell Shiro glances into contains the turned back of a sleeping prisoner, and the guilt is so overwhelming Shiro walks faster, suddenly desperate to escape this box of pain and suffering.

It’s unimaginably worse when he passes through a corridor of the general population cells.

There people are awake, and shout, plead, beg as he passes, and Shiro squeezes his eyes shut, skin breaking into goosebumps. It’s colder here, too, and Shiro touches his prosthetic absently and winces from the freezing metal.

The door is open, but as Shiro passes, an alarm starts screeching.

This wasn’t in the plan.

Four guards, he tells himself desperately, igniting his arm and turning in circles to cover all bases. Keith’s words return to him in his panic: “Two are usually posted on the door, and four are sent when you trigger the alarm. But you won’t.”

Shiro scowls at Keith’s over-confidence, and two guards appear in his line of sight. Footsteps behind him confirm his fears, and he pivots, rapidly igniting his arm and striking one guard right in the chest, throwing him far enough away that Shiro can fight the second hand to hand. He catches the gun before the guard can fire, tossing it across the floor, and punches upwards, dislodging the guard’s helmet. The smack of his head on the stone floor is the last movement Shiro sees him make.

A blast whistles over his left shoulder and Shiro ducks to avoid the second shot, turning and running straight at both Galra to catch them off-guard and catching both around the middle, bringing them to the floor. It’s easy enough to knock them both out when they’re at his mercy, and Shiro’s breath comes heavily as he stretches, preparing to run. Something had gone wrong, and all Shiro can do is follow his instructions and hope they were still good.

Leaving the dungeon block behind without a guard at his side is a strange feeling Shiro doesn’t have time to bask in, and he jogs with the mantra of, “Forward, left, left, forward, take a right, and then wait for me,” in his head. A smarting pain makes him look down, and there’s torn fabric and a puncture in his side like a cattle prod was pressed into the skin.

Something to take up with Keith later, Shiro thinks resentfully.

Despite his irritation, it’s a relief to reach the checkpoint and see Keith, helmet obscuring his features, in apparent conversation with four guards. Their backs are to Shiro, and Keith’s shadowed eyes slide over to him before giving an imperceptible nod.

They take them out easily; Shiro’s uncertainty about how well he and Keith will work together is assuaged by the fluidity of their movements. His relief dies as he turns and there’s a blaster pointed square at his forehead.

Shiro’s heart barely has time to jump into his throat before Keith’s tail is slashing the blaster away as he jumps to take the guard down, an elbow to the back of his head knocking him silent and still. Shiro, too, is startled into silence, and he and Keith stare at each other.

“Don’t just stand there,” Keith says impatiently, and then he’s off along the corridor. Shiro follows obediently. “They’ll have caught us on the cameras by now,” Keith continues conversationally, “and they’ll soon figure out it’s us, so – “

“They’ll bring out the big guns,” Shiro mutters, briefly delighted by Keith’s confused look at the idiom.

“Sure,” Keith says, and then he yanks Shiro into a cupboard.

“I have legs,” Shiro complains, and then they get to work. It’s not often Shiro’s allowed to fight with weapons other than his arm, and he falters indecisively for a brief moment before tucking a knife into his belt and picking up a sturdy shield. Keith’s loading various holsters with knives, and Shiro recognises the flash of purple he keeps at his back. He doesn’t have time to wonder if it has sentimental value before Keith’s tugging him out again, throwing Shiro a hooded cape that makes him feel like some kind of knight.

“Wait,” Keith says suddenly, and they duck into an alcove to avoid a patrol of two soldiers, who seem very content to linger and chat in their hallway. “What happened to you?” Keith asks, and his hand hovers over the tiny wound in Shiro’s side.

Shiro knows he should save his frustration for after their escape, but Keith has a talent for innocently skating over his problems in conversation.

“Something happened when I left my cell.”

Realisation registers in Keith’s face. “Ah.”

“You knew?”

“Not quite,” Keith says shiftily. Shiro’s eyes narrow in suspicion. Keith never admits when he’s wrong, of course.

“You know, of all the things that could have gone wrong – “

“Shirogane – “

“ – you botched springing me from my cell? You've done it a hundred times – “

“It isn't as easy as it looks!”

“And yet on the most important night, you trigger the alarm, you give me an electric shock – “

“I didn't personally administer the electric shock,” Keith snaps, and then he pales, hissing, “Shut up, someone's coming.”

“Another success in your brilliant plan,” Shiro hisses back, and then he shuts up, because there's a troop of eight Galra soldiers marching past their alcove, and Shiro doesn't much fancy their chances. One glances back as he and Keith slip down the hall, but all he must see are shadows and the alarm goes untouched.

They reach the hangar without further scuffles, which feels like a small miracle, and Keith fumbles a key card from his pocket and slots it into the door, which doesn’t open.

“Keith.”

“It’s a two-part system,” Keith says. He turns and glares into the camera, which feels like an unnecessary risk, but Keith adds, “My colleague should be assisting us with the remote access – there we go. Hurry up.”

Shiro isn’t sure what he had expected the ‘lion’ to look like, but it exceeds every one of his expectations.

It’s huge, for one thing; Shiro had been prepared for a ship, but this – this is a great metal beast, and he can’t even fathom what it could have been built for. Keith had said it was a weapon, that there were five of them, but it’s incomprehensible.

The lion’s surrounded by some kind of shield, honeycomb pattern scaling near to the very top of the hangar, and Shiro marvels they could bring it in and protect it at all. The hangar is deserted as promised – it’s gamma shift, and not a state of emergency or battle, just as Keith had planned.

Keith’s fiddling with the door, pushing and pulling with the key card on the inner doorframe, but the slot won’t seem to accept it.

“Something’s wrong,” Keith says, and Shiro’s breath catches at the thread of concern in his tone. “It won’t lock – I don’t know why it won’t – “ He taps the side of his helmet, and speaks suddenly in the rough scratch of a Galra dialect. Galra don’t speak often in their own language, and Shiro wonders why; it must be something to do with the oppression of the Empire, something to do with Zarkon’s own values. Keith’s pauses tell Shiro he’s talking to someone, and Shiro swallows his doubts. It has to work. Failure can’t be an option, not now.

“That’ll do,” Keith says eventually. The door slides down three quarters of the way, but seems to be stuck. “It’s basically locked; we don’t have time for this.”

“Let’s go, then,” Shiro says when Keith doesn’t move.

“We can’t,” Keith says, and Shiro closes his eyes for a long moment.

It could be his death, it could be Keith throwing him back to the dogs – but when Shiro opens his eyes, Keith is pressing his hand to the shield, head tipped back to look at the lion, gaze imploring.

“Hey,” Keith says. His tone is different to anything Shiro’s heard from him before; it’s soft, coaxing – the way you’d speak to a pet. “Hey, it’s me – it’s Keith!”

Shiro tries not to laugh, turning his back and watching the door instead. He can hear distant noises, but nothing concerning just yet.

“You called for me, remember?” Irritation is creeping into Keith’s voice, and Shiro reckons it won’t do them any good. “We're connected!"

“Oh my God,” Shiro mutters.

“Come on!” Keith pleads. “You let me in before!”

“We don’t have time for this,” Shiro says in a hiss. He can hear footsteps now.

“Well, she doesn’t want you,” Keith snaps back. “She wants someone competent who can actually get us out of here – “

Something like a roar interrupts Keith’s words, and Shiro whirls around in time to watch the shield power down. The lion crouches, huge metal paws slamming down alarmingly close to them, and opens its mouth.

Keith’s grin shows all his fangs. “I told you,” he crows, patting the metal as he walks forward. “Good kitty!”

Red growls in a rumble that shakes the room, and Shiro laughs as Keith jumps a mile.

Shiro barely has time to wonder if this is really his life before the footsteps get louder and he follows Keith into the lion’s mouth. As it closes behind him, Shiro realises this is the bridge, noting the controls, the chairs.

“It didn't have a second seat before,” Keith says, confused.

“At least the lion made considerations for me,” Shiro says, and then the ship is rocked by blaster fire.

“Let's go!” Keith shouts, throwing himself into the pilot's chair.

“I thought you said you locked the hangar!”

“Apparently not!”

Shiro crashes heavily into his seat, pulling the seatbelt out to strap himself in, but he sees Keith panicking, hands flying over the screens, and the ship seems to be rising.

“Strap yourself in!” Shiro yells, shouting to be heard above the engine roaring to life, and Keith throws him a frightened look and doesn't move. “For God's sake,” Shiro mutters. He hoists himself out of his chair, artificial gravity and forces playing havoc with how firmly his feet are on the floor, and he has to lean over Keith's lap for the seatbelt, because Keith is still figuring out whatever's happening with the screen and he hisses when Shiro gets in his way.

He yanks the seatbelt over and plugs it in, lifting the other straps from over Keith's head and attaching them too – it's reminiscent of a child's carseat, Shiro thinks absently - and finally lurching back to his chair and buckling himself in and breathing a sigh of relief.

“I can't control it!” Keith shouts suddenly, and the force of shooting into space slams them against their seats.

Shiro stares forward, tries to breathe – it's been a year, a whole year since he's been in space, and the feeling is just as exciting and nauseating as it was the first time and every time since.

There's the sound of further expulsions as Galra ships are deployed, and Shiro grips the armrests and turns his head to look at Keith, whose teeth are gritted as he glares forward at the screens, which flicker and flash as though they're buffering, somehow.

“She doesn't trust me,” Keith bites out. They're still shooting forward, only just outrunning the ships on their tail, but it won't be long until they start shooting.

“She?”

“Red,” Keith answers, and then they both shout in alarm as the floor drops out from beneath them. Shiro watches the first beam fly through space ahead of them as the Galra start shooting.

“You said she called to you!”

“She did!” A shrill alarm begins to blare. “Proximity alarms,” Keith says fearfully, and then his tone returns to the reprimanding, know-it-all one he reserves for Shiro. “It wasn't me that got out of the way just now, Shirogane, it was the lion.”

“They're going to surround us," Shiro says. There's a screen with a star chart showing their position, and behind them lie four purple crosses. Keith says nothing, eyes fixed on the empty space ahead, and Shiro exclaims, "Fire back, do something!”

“They're warming up,” Keith says, and there's real fear in his tone.

Shiro wonders for the first time if his death will come at the hands of Keith’s stupidity rather than Keith’s knife.

Keith grabs what look like twin gearsticks in both hands, and shoves backwards. They’re moving faster now, and Keith shifts suddenly and the lion is twisting and firing, shots coming from its open mouth and taking out two ships almost instantly. Then she’s whirling again, catching a ship between her giant metal jaws and shaking it like a cat would with a toy, splitting it in two. Keith pulls up and around and fires again and again, their more agile ship easily outsmarting the Galra ship and dodging its answering blasts.

When there’s only rubble behind them, Red rumbles and what looks like a portal opens before them in the blink of an eye.

“She wants me to go through there,” Keith says.

“What is that?”

“I think it’s a – a wormhole.”

“But,” Shiro starts, and stops himself before he can naively blurt out, “But wormholes aren’t real.” After all he’s seen – after what he’s doing right now, flying in a ship shaped like a lion with an alien man who claims to have a psychic connection with said ship – well, Shiro doesn’t discount any possibilities anymore.

Keith glances sideways at him. “Witches can create wormholes,” he says, and Shiro’s in no position to question his information. “This ship must be old magic – it’s not Galra.” Red makes a noise that seems to be in agreement. “Alright, Red,” Keith says. “Let’s roll.”

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut out of instinct, but even as he feels the lurch as Red leaps into the portal, there’s no pain, or discomfort, or spaghettification. He opens his eyes hesitantly, and the sight is beautiful, roiling purple and blue tides scattered with stars and planets and nebulae. A glance at Keith shows similar awe, his eyes reflecting and shining the royal colours.

“Wow,” one of them breathes. It’s the only word Shiro can think.

All too soon, they exit the wormhole. Keith manages to pull up a map and star chart, and they quickly find they’re even more in the middle of nowhere than they were before.

“The Empire would’ve been on us immediately,” Keith says. “No way they’re letting us go without a fight.”

A fight, Shiro thinks, a battle, a war. They don’t know the value of what they’ve stolen. Keith had alluded to a nefarious purpose, but it’s a hell of a thing to steal for a joyride.

“We’re all turned around,” Keith says, consulting his maps. “We’re not gonna be able to follow the course and go to the spaceports I planned to. We’re… on our own.”

He sounds lost. Shiro doesn’t know quite how to be a beacon of hope, so he says decisively, “Is there somewhere we can head for?” and hopes having something to focus on will distract Keith from the seemingly doomed nature of their journey.

“There will be other spaceports,” Keith says, latching onto the thread. “We will head for somewhere less populous, more seedy.”

Shiro laughs, and the feeling surprises him. “Can you plot a course on here?” he asks, glancing over at the screens.

“Have no fear,” Keith says. “I’m an excellent pilot.” It would usually sound like a boast, but Shiro is heartened to hear Keith’s confidence in his abilities.

Still, being an excellent pilot does not mean you can fly.

Shiro unstraps himself – Red’s flying at a steady enough pace that he doesn’t feel at risk of injury – and comes to peer over Keith’s shoulder.

“Is that an – asteroid field?” Their route goes directly through it, a glaring red line that seems ominous in itself.

“I could pilot us through an asteroid field,” Keith mutters obstinately, but he pulls up the path he'd originally input to edit it. “And I never said navigation was my strong suit.”

It isn't Shiro's specialty, either, but he still knows enough to not launch them into any celestial bodies. He supposes neither of them have ever had to plan for really long-distance travel; as a soldier, Keith’s role was to be deployed in a fight with a clear role, not tiptoe through space to locate the battlefield. Shiro – well, Shiro was supposed to take them to Kerberos and back, on a course that had been plotted and perfected for months by dozens of specialists.

Keith shifts very slightly to the left, and Shiro realises it is a reluctant concession.

“Is this a friendly planet?” he asks, pointing. It’s marked in green, which is probably a universal positive colour.

“Not to us – the Galra, I mean,” Keith says. “Whatever race created this ship – it can’t have been that long ago, if they still have allies.”

“What does that say?” Shiro asks. He figures they should know, because this one’s in red and flashing rather urgently and Keith isn't as worried as he should be.

“I don't know,” Keith says.

“Reassuring.”

“I’ve never seen this language before.”

“Great.”

Keith’s ear twitches in annoyance. “It is not great.”

Shiro sighs deeply. Keith frowns at him. “Never mind.”

They fiddle and fuss with the route until they’re both happy. Keith finally unbuckles himself, and Shiro flops back into his chair. Since they’re out of imminent danger, Shiro asks, “Do you have my change of clothes?”

“There are packages in the back,” Keith says, and Shiro takes a moment to be bitterly grateful that Keith managed to access Red before their final visit to the hangar. “I marked yours with an ‘S’,” Keith adds, and Shiro finds it mildly endearing that Keith has labelled their packages accordingly.

The trousers are too loose and the shirt too tight, but neither are purple and Shiro's grateful for that, at least. The Galra's obsession with clothes the colour of their fur has always been a mystery, and one that Shiro is glad to be free of.

When Shiro turns, he catches Keith giving him an appraising look, and raises his eyebrows. Keith's ears twitch as he hastily faces the front.

He returns to his seat, tugging down the hem of his shirt as it rides up and exposes a strip of his stomach. It’ll do for now, but Shiro feels exposed, just as he had every day of his imprisonment.

Keith must sense his discomfort, because he sneaks another glance when Shiro isn’t looking and says, “We can buy you proper clothing when we get there.”

“Thanks,” Shiro says gratefully.

They fly in silence a while, and Shiro watches the stars go past. Deep space is as beautiful as the first time he saw it for real, excited to let their ship cruise once he got it on course and pressing himself to the windows like a child as Sam chuckled and called him a rookie.

Despite the comfortable atmosphere, despite the camaraderie, it becomes painfully clear that neither of them sleep after the ordeal. Shiro’s tired, but he’s always tired – he’s gotten used to operating on very little sleep, as there’s usually no warning before he’s yanked out to fight. He’d heard Galra say it was a better test of his abilities, but all it really did was wear him down, day after day, until sleep became a luxury.

As much as Keith holds Shiro’s life in his hands, so Shiro holds Keith’s freedom in his. Shiro knows he’d have the advantage – he could cry abduction and, allowing for some kind of punishment, would probably live to tell the tale before dying in the height of his gladiator career. Defection, on the other hand, you can’t plead ignorance to.

“Look,” Shiro says, watching Keith desperately fight a yawn, “this is stupid. Neither of us are going to be of much use in a fight if we're exhausted.”

The lion rumbles suddenly, and Shiro thinks it might be in agreement.

Keith glares at him, but his attempted intimidation is broken by another yawn. “Fine,” he grits out. “But remember you can't fly this lion without me.”

They swap chairs regardless, and Shiro gazes out at the viewscreen for what feels like hours. The glances he spares for Keith – who looks younger, more innocent in his sleep; tension gone and peace softening his face – are between himself and Red and the galaxy suspended around them.

Chapter Text

The spaceport is like something out of Star Trek. Shiro looks around with wide eyes: there are multiple levels, all kinds of hovercrafts flying around, so many different kinds of people. Keith elbows him with a muttered command to stop staring, and Shiro keeps his eyes on his feet after that.

They’d ‘parked’ the lion on a nearby planetoid, reasoning that, unique as it is, it’d attract too much unwanted attention, and it would be ridiculously easy to identify and report. The spacewalk from the lion to the space station was like none Shiro had ever performed before; the realisation that he wasn’t attached to a cord – being untethered in space was thought to be the biggest liability of the Kerberos mission – set him panicking. Despite knowing there were thrusters in the suits, it was hard to reconcile the idea without wearing the thick jacket of a SAFER. In the end Keith had huffed and grabbed his hand, tugging him through the stars toward the glowing beacon of the port.

Keith had found some kind of uniform stored on board for himself; it was red and white, and matched the general aesthetic of the lion. Theorising about whether the lion’s pilots were the leaders of their species made it easier for Shiro to shrug into his own spacesuit and head out – it was his first EVA since Kerberos, and he hadn’t touched a spacesuit since.

It helps that this one is so alien – not big and clunky like Earth’s attempts at them. It’s similar to the IVA suits in that it’s light and comfortable, but even the IVAs they’d worn for months on end pale in comparison. It fits like a second skin, design belying none of the incredible technology inside – no PLSS, no thick EVA gloves. Even the helmet resembles an actual fishbowl rather than the chunky TV-like Earth version; no CCA required. There’s something akin to a tablet in his left arm, and with it he can decide whether to tune in to or mute Keith, whose suit appears to do everything for him with no set up.

“You did it,” Keith tells him as they touch down.

“I did it,” Shiro says under his breath.

They wait in the specified area for on-foot arrivals, and once gravity and oxygen are returned to the room Keith takes off his helmet. Shiro does the same, albeit nervously.

“You don’t like the suit,” Keith says.

Shiro laughs. “No. Earth ones – they’re so primitive in comparison. I feel like I’m not wearing enough, like I’ll be dehydrated to death at any moment.”

“Humans must look twice the size during space travel,” Keith muses. “Perhaps that’s why you haven’t been conquered yet.”

“Don’t say yet,” Shiro says sharply, and Keith falls silent.

He can’t stop staring, despite Keith’s warning – there’s so much to see, and it occurs to Shiro a little late he hasn’t been outside in an entire year. His whole world had narrowed to a tiny cell, the painfully white medical room, and the gore of the arena. It’s odd to walk freely, and some part of Shiro aches to just run, as far as he can, to feel his legs working and blood pumping in a way he’s been denied for so long.

“Where to?” Shiro asks. It’s almost like a mall, but selling far more dangerous things than heart-shaped sunglasses and doughnuts.

Keith looks twitchy. Shiro doesn’t doubt he has multiple weapons concealed on his person, but with every glance they get, Keith’s lip gets whiter with how hard he’s biting it.

“You’re getting another cloak,” Keith says eventually. Shiro supposes he shouldn’t be too surprised, and he waits mildly as Keith fusses with the fit of it until Shiro’s face is suitably concealed. He misses the exchange of payment, and almost feels like his old self again – fascinated by other worlds, endlessly curious. In all his time with the Galra, he hasn’t observed their form of currency.

Face hidden from everyone’s view, Shiro finds it easier to sneak glances at passers-by, and goes suddenly tense.

“We're too inconspicuous,” he murmurs, feeling eyes on him and pulling his hood down further. “You're Galra and not in uniform, and I'm a human.”

“No one here will have seen a human before,” Keith observes quietly. “You are safer than I am.”

“Put your helmet on,” Shiro says, and breathes easier when Keith instantly obeys, flipping the visor up so he can see.

“There’s a holographic display,” he explains. “I think I’m still tuned into Red.”

They pick up mundane things: food, vessels of water, bigger weapons – guns and their accompanying projectiles. It’s hard to shake himself and realise this is real life, that these things exist, when Shiro can’t stop comparing them to things he’s seen in sci-fi movies.

Keith’s loaded his pack and seems happy with what they’ve procured, and Shiro realises they’re heading to the exit. Suddenly Keith swings around and takes them in the opposite direction, then down a side route sandwiched between two shops, then into a shop whose only product seems to be a large… cow?

Before Shiro can investigate further, Keith’s dragging him out again.

“We’re being followed,” he finally whispers. “Don’t look now – they’re a while behind us yet.”

It had been impossible to miss the Galra presence here – Keith had said it would be nigh impossible to find a safe place to stay, but Shiro hadn’t expected them yet.

Shiro looks when Keith gestures him to, and swallows at the sight of soldiers pushing people aside.

“We can’t leave,” Keith says. “We’d be surrounded in seconds. I think they’re not sure it’s us – or they’d already have sounded the alarm. But they definitely want to take us in.”

“How did they find us already?” Shiro asks when he can breathe again.

Keith stutters a moment, then says, “I don’t know.” It doesn’t quite ring true.

“Make a commotion over there.” Shiro jerks his thumb towards a perfectly innocent fruit stall. “Then come to me.” He loiters in the doorway of a run-down motel and watches as Keith wanders slowly towards the stall, pretending to check prices as he passes. So fast that Shiro only catches a glimpse of his tail curling around the wood, Keith upends one leg of the stall in the direction of the Galra, and in the shouts and blame and chaos that follows, runs back to Shiro’s side and barrels them into the side street.

Keith pants for a moment, hands on his knees, and then he looks up and says, “I think I know how they found us.” He produces something that looks like a tiny USB stick.

“What’s that?” Dread forms in the pit of Shiro’s stomach.

“It’s a cloned credit chip,” Keith says uncomfortably, and Shiro wishes he had never wondered about alien methods of currency.

“Oh, a credit chip, great,” he says, taking it between his finger and thumb and eyeing it. It's purple. “It's Galra? Got your name on it?”

“It does not have my name on it,” Keith snaps, ears flattening to his head. Shiro waits. “It is Galra in origin,” he admits finally.

“Wow, Keith,” Shiro says, voice hard, “you should have told me we were bringing our own personal tracking device.”

Keith's expression goes mulish. “It did not occur to me until now,” he grits out, low and angry.

Shiro bites his lip against a frustrated noise, holding himself with tension that had drained as he regained trust in Keith but now swallows him up, straightening his back, increasing his heart rate, eyes darting over both entrances to the alley. With only a thought his arm begins to heat, and it makes him feel calmer to be poised to attack.

“How did you get it?”

“I had someone – “

“Oh, you had someone,” Shiro says, lengthening the sound until Keith is scowling. “You know, that seemed to be much of your plan. Did you have someone for everything? Are you capable of doing anything yourself?”

Keith recoils, hurt. “I keep you alive,” he snaps, and Shiro is about to scoff and laugh, because it wasn't Keith who brought him safely from his cell to the hangar, but suddenly there is a knife at his throat.

Shiro stays very, very still.

“Humans,” Keith says thoughtfully, his voice soft and deadly. “Quick tempers, slow minds.”

“You don’t know anything about humans,” Shiro grits out. He can feel his pulse pounding in his neck, millimetres from the knife there.

“I know enough about you,” Keith says. Anger passes brightly through his eyes, but it’s gone before Shiro can figure out why. “Remember who I am, Shirogane. Keep our agreement mutually beneficial.”

He takes the knife away and Shiro steps quickly out of Keith’s space.

“Can we say getting more money is your job?” he says. Sounding braver than he feels, he doesn’t wait for an answer before saying, “I’m going to the bar.”

“We have no money,” Keith hisses after him.

“Water’s free back home,” Shiro shoots back, and leaves Keith in the alley.

Luckily, his universal assumption proves correct, and Shiro stares morosely at a glass of water as if it were Jack Daniel’s instead.

He’s aware he’s risked too much – what’s to stop Keith taking the lion and abandoning Shiro here? – but the debt he owes to Keith is staggering, and it seems insanely unfair that Keith can toy with him like this. Perhaps it’s because Shiro himself would never throw a debt in someone’s face, but the real world stings as it always does. Every hand Shiro’s been dealt over the past year was lousy and wound up in his abduction, his imprisonment, being forced to fight for others’ entertainment.

He wonders now if he’ll ever be able to leave it behind.

“Can I buy you a drink?” someone asks, startling him from his reverie, and when Shiro turns toward the voice a man is very much in his personal space.

Shiro stares at him blankly before recognising the situation. The man wants to buy him a drink – is hitting on him.

He puts a hand on Shiro's metal arm, and Shiro's jaw tenses.

“Oh,” is all he can manage. “I, uh, n-no, no thank you – “

He was much smoother back at the Garrison.

“Come on, sweetheart,” says the man. “Live a little.”

“No,” Shiro finally manages to say without stuttering, but the man just laughs.

“No?” he says, and he squeezes Shiro's forearm. “This is nice,” he admires, and Shiro clenches his prosthetic into a fist. “Would love to see the full thing, you know – “

Shiro would be bigger than him if he was standing up, but he's sitting, small and at a disadvantage, and he feels trapped as the man leans in closer to his face, heart racing and starting to panic and – 

“Excuse us,” comes Keith's voice, and there's a loud slam of drinks on the counter. “He's with me.”

Keith shoulders the man out of the way and glares up at him, and their size difference is comical but Keith's baring his teeth in challenge, and the man gives him a slippery smile once he decides this is not a battle he wants to pick.

“My mistake,” he says smoothly, and disappears into the crowd.

It was so simple, Shiro thinks. But he could not manage it himself. 

Keith remains standing over Shiro, and though Shiro's gaze returns shamefully to the counter he can tell Keith is glaring around the bar, flashing challenging eyes at anyone who dares to meet his gaze.

“That was foolish,” Shiro quite reasonably points out, though his heart is slamming hard against his ribs. “Now everyone in this bar knows we're travelling together.”

Keith's ears flatten to his head. “He was making you uncomfortable,” he says shortly, finally sitting down.

He says nothing else, and Shiro is grateful, but his relief does not last long.

Keith had once said that if he really concentrated, he could hear Shiro's heartbeat, and Shiro feels ashamed of his obvious fear, trying to inhale and exhale and calm himself, but he can't, he can't – he couldn't defend himself, was powerless against just one person in a bar when he's fought and beaten and killed so many people, so many abominations – 

“Hey,” Keith says, and he touches Shiro's forearm very gently. It is nothing like the slimy touch of the man. “It's okay, and you're safe.”

His voice is calm, so calm, and Shiro listens. “Breathe in,” Keith says, and Shiro does, “and breathe out,” and Shiro does. The noise of the bar, chatter and the clinking of glasses and the scraping of chairs, fades out until it’s just Keith's voice and Shiro's heartbeat in his ears, slowing as he breathes in, and breathes out, and breathes in, and breathes out.

“There we go,” Keith says softly, when Shiro has sunk to rest his head on his crossed forearms on the counter. “Good.”

Shiro doesn’t know how long he stares into cool darkness, but when he eventually rises Keith’s tapping away at a hologram with one hand and holding a drink with the other, sucking noisily at the straw despite the glass being empty.

“You can have mine,” Shiro says, more to stop the noise rather than out of kindness, but Keith looks up attentively.

“I bought it for you,” he says, and goes back to tapping.

Shiro has vague thoughts of poison or alien allergies, but acquiesces and takes a sip of the alarmingly crimson fizzy drink. It’s somewhat fruity, with an odd tangy aftertaste he can’t quite pin down, but it’s not bad. He asks Keith what it is, but unsurprisingly doesn’t understand the answer.

He finishes the water too, and realises he can’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

Before he can gently prompt Keith, Keith says, “I – apologise. For earlier.”

Shiro can’t decide whether to accept the apology as is or push him further, but Keith continues, “I don’t mean to hold your life over your head. Zarkon,” he swallows audibly, “has done so to me my entire life, and I know what it is to be – trapped. Imprisoned, and in a cycle of owing someone your life thus unable to do anything about their treatment. I never meant to be a captor.”

Shiro realises Keith’s hands are trembling. “Thank you,” he says, but does not reach out. “I – yeah. That’s exactly how it feels.”

Keith bows his head. “There’s nothing I can do about your current reliance on me,” he says. “But you have my word that your lack of cooperation will not come at the cost of your life.”

“I fully intend to cooperate,” Shiro says, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. “You’re right. But you need me too.”

Expression unreadable, Keith raises an eyebrow, but Shiro knows he’s playing dumb.

“I’m your get out of jail free card.”

Keith tilts his head to the side. His eyes are cold, but Shiro doesn’t feel like a lab rat anymore. “You are not wrong.”

“Fine,” Shiro says, and it is. They have the resources to make this work. Shiro will not let himself fall back into Galra hands, into the arena. “Where to now?”

Keeping moving is the key, he knows. They slip from the bar and pinpoint the location of Galra soldiers before moving across the station. Since the chaos of earlier, no one here is looking for them, and Shiro notes with relief the way people’s eyes slide unseeingly over them as they pass.

“Warning,” booms an automated voice over a loudspeaker. They’re moments from the door that will take them into space, moments from relative freedom. “In the interest of public safety, report all sightings of this Galra or alien. Your Emperor Zarkon has placed a bounty upon their heads for the safe return of this Galra and alien. Report all sightings of this animal-shaped ship. Warning: subjects armed and dangerous.”

Shiro turns, and projected onto the ceiling of the station are cowboy-style ‘wanted’ posters, featuring a photo of himself, his full name, various statistics, and the stamp ‘HUMAN’. Useless, Shiro thinks, as surely no one but high-ranking Galra have knowledge of what a human is. Gamblers cared only about his kill record, and he seriously doubts his fame extended outside of the arena.

Then he looks at Keith’s poster.

His full name is Keith Yorak Kogane. He’s 5’10 to Shiro’s 6’2.

He’s half-human.

Chapter Text

“We’ve got to get out of here,” is the only thing Shiro hears clearly. Keith’s voice is hard; his grip on Shiro’s arm is harder.

Shiro follows him in a daze all the way back to Red. He finds himself strapped in and Keith pushing Red faster as they shoot away from the station, which Shiro can see now has a heavy Galra presence, ships circling like sharks. They stick to leaping between asteroids until the station’s out of sight.

It’s not out of mind.

“Keith,” Shiro says softly. He stares at the side of Keith’s face. Keith’s jaw tenses, and he says nothing.

It’s easy to take the attitude now that it was obvious all along – that Shiro knew from the start. Of course he didn’t, he thinks. Who would suspect that Keith was half human, of all things? Sure, he was small, with softer edges, lighter fur, lighter eyes, an inferiority complex the size of Jupiter – but he’s Galra, a Galra soldier residing on the flagship… under Zarkon’s watchful eye…

No wonder Zarkon kept him close.

This means Galra had been to Earth, Shiro realises with horror. There was a day that Earth had been ripe for the taking; a day that humanity could have been wiped out of existence, or enslaved; a day that might have turned Earth into a lifeless husk, sucked dry of its very essence.

It’s too much to think about. Shiro’s thoughts turn back to Keith.

He remembers saying, “You just seem interested in humans”; remembers Keith’s violent, abrupt defence. He remembers Zarkon speaking of Keith’s mother’s ‘moment of weakness’; suspects that Zarkon had decided they would never meet again.

Shiro doesn’t doubt that birthing a runt would be shameful to Galra, but a half-human would surely be an abomination in their eyes.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Keith says, but he sounds like he’s struggling to maintain his grip on their previous dynamic, where nothing was wrong, where Shiro didn’t know his ugly truth. “All you have is context.”

“You’re right,” Shiro says. He speaks softly, as though he might spook Keith despite there being nowhere he can run to. “I just… I don’t really know what to say.” Or how to feel, he thinks.

“That makes two of us.”

They sit in an agonising silence. Keith’s hands are restless on the screens, but Shiro knows full well that nothing needs to be adjusted right now.

“You know, if you ever want to ask me anything – “

“Shut up, Shirogane.”

They land on a desert planet some few hours after leaving the station. Shiro’s raided Keith’s pack for rations and even found real, fresh fruit. They’ve spoken only once, when Shiro asked what a yellow, melon-like fruit was and Keith told him, “It’s probably better if you don’t know.”

Keith touches down a long walk from civilisation, and it’s hot and uncomfortable wearing the spacesuit in such heat. But the air is breathable, and it’s a relief to be free of the helmet. Sunset blooms as they reach the small town, and Shiro stares in awe at the twin suns as they bleed crimson over the horizon.

He puts his hood up at Keith’s insistence, and the bartender is a tall spindly alien with a big smile, putting Shiro at ease. He introduces himself as Rhos, and his enthusiasm is quickly justified as he explains they don’t often get visitors from ‘out of town’.

“Are there other settlements?” Keith asks. He’d scanned the planet with Red and had flagged no other populated areas.

“There are pirates,” Rhos says reluctantly. Shiro supposes that isn’t good for business.

“With no water?” he asks automatically, and he could kick himself when Keith glares at him and Rhos gives him an odd look.

“They travel in zeppelins,” he explains nevertheless. “Where did you say you were from?”

“He didn’t,” Keith says, just as Shiro says, “A water planet.”

They retreat to a booth and order drinks and hot food, and Shiro eats too fast and prays he doesn’t get hiccups in front of Keith. It was something akin to curry, but he supposes he’ll never know or understand what the ‘meat’ was. Finding life on other planets seems like a dream until it happens and you realise you’ll never know everything.

Clasping mugs of an indiscernible liquid Rhos had recommended, Shiro feels at peace for the first time since their escape.

Naturally, this is when things go south.

Shiro sees someone enter the inn in his peripheral vision and immediately tenses, something telling him this is bad news; they move slowly and deliberately, and Shiro reaches for Keith's arm.

Before he can do so, the alien draws a blaster and yells, “Everybody get down!”

Keith's ears twitch, and within seconds he yanks Shiro with him to the floor.

“Keith,” Shiro hisses, affronted.

“We are keeping a low profile,” Keith hisses back.

The alien stalks through the bar, and Shiro hears whimpers of fear as he passes patrons, making his way to the bar, where he proceeds to put the blaster to Rhos' forehead. Shiro inhales sharply, and Keith grabs his arm.

“Everything you've got,” growls the alien, and Shiro winces as Rhos moves to do so, pleading for his life.

“We have to do something,” he whispers to Keith.

“Low profile,” murmurs Keith.

“We could – “

“Yes, and we don't have to.” Keith's expression is hard.

“I'm not just standing by and letting this happen,” Shiro says. Not anymore, he thinks, and stands up. Keith snarls, but stands up beside him. A united front. Shiro can appreciate that.

The shooter turns to them, a mocking smile upon his lips that only deepens upon seeing Keith.

“A little Galra!” he says in delight, and only Shiro hears the growl in Keith's throat. “Do you want to play a game, little one?”

Keith curses him loudly in Galra and moves away from Shiro, and Shiro realises he’s providing a distraction. The shooter’s eyes dart wildly back to Shiro as he reaches slowly for the blaster Keith had made him take when they left Red. Shiro’s grateful for that now.

“Don’t you move!”

Shiro raises his hands and looks hard at Keith.

“I’ve got something better than credits,” Keith says quickly. “You ever heard of Aldebaran crystals? I was gonna put them through the black market, but – “

The man points his blaster at Keith instead. Shiro swallows and grasps his own gun, raising it slowly to attract less attention.

“I want them,” says the man. “And maybe I won’t turn you in.”

Fuck.

Shiro doesn’t hesitate a second longer before shooting him between the eyes. He discovers a second later than his blaster was on stun, but there’s no time to fear his willingness to kill when Rhos is rushing over and clasping his hands, blaster and all.

“I could never thank you enough,” Rhos babbles. “I can offer you a room, bath, free of charge – “

Keith begins shaking his head, and Rhos rushes to continue, “Please, I insist.”

"Come on," Shiro says softly, touching Keith’s arm. A real bed and a hot bath sounds a lot better than a cold night spent on Red’s floor. Lions don’t come equipped with heating, that’s for damn sure.

“Very well,” Keith says stiffly.

“Only,” Rhos says hesitantly, “you don’t really have any Aldebaran crystals, do you? I won’t have them in my establishment.”

Keith laughs, a real laugh, and Shiro smiles too. “No, of course not. I promise we won’t darken your doorstep.”

It’s only a small room, fitted with a bunk bed and tub with a communal bathroom down the hall, but it looks more like home than Shiro’s seen in a long time.

He still feels jumpy, telling Keith, “You can have the first bath,” so he doesn’t have to focus on anything just yet. He takes the blaster from his belt and puts it on the bedside table.

Shiro averts his eyes as Keith strips, tossing his clothes to the floor without care or modesty. He sinks into the hot water with an indecent moan, and Shiro feels his cheeks heat. Keith doesn't take long, and Shiro stares deliberately into space the other side of the room to avoid looking at his tail, slung over the side of the bath in an oddly endearing way.

“Would you mind?” Keith asks, and Shiro accidentally looks at him before he realises Keith can’t reach his towel.

He fetches it without incident, studiously not looking at Keith, though he does jump when Keith flicks his wet tail at him.

“That’s gross, Keith.”

Looser and more relaxed than Shiro’s ever seen him, Keith yawns before rinsing the bath with a jug and turning a tap to run it again. He takes bottom bunk without discussion, and Shiro supposes he wants to be battle-ready, to be prepared if anything comes through the door. He would’ve preferred to sleep there for the same reasons, but not enough to fight over it.

Shiro isn’t sure if Keith is asleep as he bathes; sometimes he swears Keith’s looking at him, and other times his eyes are closed, and Keith alternates between inane statements about the soft bed and peeling wallpaper and ignoring Shiro’s replies.

Shiro wants to take a while, to enjoy it, but too long used to perfunctory washes and being as fast as possible means he’s out in no time, wrapping a towel around his waist and sitting on the windowsill. The suns have well and truly set, now, and Shiro looks out over the endless sand.

“Is it alright if I turn the light out?” he whispers. He’d finally located pyjama-ish clothing in Keith’s pack and was shockingly ready to collapse in a real bed.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Keith whispers.

Shiro turns the light off, rolling his eyes. Keith stirs, and when Shiro glances over his eyes are shining in the dark. They’ve not yet had a proper ‘night’, and he’s considering whether it would be weird to wish Keith goodnight when Keith says, “I expect you have questions.”

It’s the most blatant invitation Shiro could get.

“You’re half-human,” is all Shiro says, tentative.

Keith would usually make fun of Shiro for his self-evident statements, so it’s concerning when Keith simply says, “Yes. My father is human.” Shiro can't see his face in the shadow, but he can see Keith's hands, fingers knotted together and paling with tension.

“I thought you were a runt,” Shiro adds, light tone taking the sting from the words, and Keith snorts humourlessly.

“Still a valid observation.”

Shiro waits a moment for Keith to offer more, but when no response is forthcoming he swings himself up into the upper bunk. He settles in the blankets, uncomfortable on even this flat, sad excuse for a mattress, because it's still too much; still too soft.

He wants to know more – wants to ask when the Galra came to Earth, how Keith's existence is possible – but he doesn't press.

Just as Shiro turns and readies himself to sleep, Keith's voice comes to him in the darkness.

“I don’t know the full story,” he says. “But my mother, Krolia, was posted to Earth. The Galra think there is something there we want – it’s classified. They think she found it, but they cannot be sure. The only thing she brought back was – me.”

No doubt a poor replacement for whatever the Galra were searching for, Shiro thinks. He wonders at Krolia’s nerve, but then remembers the life debt.

“Honour is quite meaningless between Galra. There is honour in killing a particular target, or enemy of the Empire, but it is rarely upheld between individuals. Krolia was lucky that Zarkon remembers the old ways.”

“The old ways?”

“Our home planet was destroyed ten thousand years ago – according to Zarkon.”

“Zarkon’s ten thousand years old?” Shiro asks, shocked.

“Apparently,” Keith says. He sounds sceptical. “Though history is written by the victors.”

Shiro’s simultaneously glad and regretful that he can’t see Keith’s face, pressing, “And your mother?”

“I never knew her.” Shiro is struck by the quiet, careful quality of Keith's voice; it is not shame, but a caution somehow, as though Shiro of all people would judge him. “She was sent away in disgrace for bringing back a – an abomination. But I know she is alive. I know her name.”

“Are we going to find her?” Shiro asks. He finds himself whispering again, like the question is too dangerous to say aloud.

Keith laughs, a small, horrible sound. “No,” he says, and then, “Not yet. One day, I will. I’ve always promised her that. I knew I couldn’t live under Zarkon forever – a bird in a gilded cage, a laughingstock, a lightning rod.”

His voice is unsteady, and Shiro wonders if Keith has ever told anyone the full story, if he has ever had anyone to tell.

Shiro makes his decision.

“What are you doing?” Keith asks defensively, sitting up when Shiro climbs down from his bunk. “Shiro?”

He tenses as Shiro sits beside him, and completely freezes when Shiro puts his arms around him.

“Shiro,” he says weakly, but he leans into it, face dropping to Shiro's neck and exhaling trembling breaths there. His hand comes to clutch at Shiro's shoulder, and Shiro holds him tighter.

“It's okay,” Shiro says, very softly. He moves one hand to the nape of Keith's neck, fingers gently stroking his hair. “You're safe now. You never have to go back.”

“I know that,” Keith says, scornful of Shiro pointing out the obvious as usual, but he grips tighter. “I just,” he says, quieter, “I feel like I owe him.”

“Hey, no,” Shiro interrupts, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “You don't owe Zarkon anything. He didn't give you a childhood, a home, a life. All he did was keep you alive. You don't owe him anything for that.”

“He kept me alive at great personal cost – “

“No – “

“ – at a time when the popular opinion was that I should be – removed.”

“Jesus, Keith,” Shiro says with feeling. “You don't owe him a damn thing. Keeping someone alive isn't a favour.”

Keith looks at him suddenly, and Shiro thinks back to their conversation at the spaceport. It already seems so long ago, but everything feels different under cover of darkness.

“It was no burden to Zarkon to keep you alive,” Shiro says. “He's an emperor.” Something strange comes into Keith's face, and Shiro repeats, “You aren't a burden.”

“You will forgive me for finding that difficult to believe,” Keith says stiffly, but the tension has drained from his posture, and he tucks his face back against Shiro’s neck.

Shiro has no idea how long they sit like that, but eventually Keith pulls away, whispering, “Goodnight, Shiro,” and curling up with his back to the room. Shiro knows for a fact Keith will turn over as soon as he’s gone, ever watchful of the door, and leaves him alone, standing from the bed.

The gleam of Keith’s eyes follow him up the ladder, though, and then Shiro has the ceiling for company.

Despite his hopes, it’s not the best night of sleep Shiro’s ever had.

The mattress was too soft, the room too warm, and Shiro is impossibly irritated when Keith chirps that he slept like a baby.

“Breakfast?” Shiro asks hopefully instead.

He gets an honest to God egg for breakfast, which more than makes up for a night of tossing and turning. Keith is amused by Shiro’s enthusiasm, and all in all it looks like they’re heading for a far more pleasant day than yesterday. Rhos is distant, sunny demeanour replaced by something watchful and wary, but Shiro doesn’t think to be worried until a flurry of small children flood the inn screaming about Galra.

Keith looks sharply at Shiro, and then his stony gaze turns on Rhos, who’s secured himself behind the bar, blaster in hand – but he’s not pointing it at the door.

“Keith, don’t,” Shiro says urgently. Keith’s rising from his seat, hand going to his glowing knife, eyes colder than Shiro’s seen in days.

“I knew we shouldn’t have stayed here.”

“It’s too late for that now,” Shiro says. Rhos’ hand is trembling, and Shiro knows he won’t hurt Keith, but that doesn’t change the fact that, “We need to get out of here.”

“Fine,” Keith says finally, and stalks out of the door. Shiro doesn’t look back as he hurriedly follows.

The warning had come early – the first Galra ship has only just breached the atmosphere. Shiro realises they only have the clothes on their backs, Keith’s various hidden knives, and – Shiro fumbles in the jacket he's wearing over his spacesuit and produces the strip of cross-shaped metal.

He hasn’t tried it himself yet, but Keith had shown him, so Shiro gives the handle a vigorous shake and the shield springs to life, energy crackling as it unfolds. He can only assume it works.

Not far away, the ship has landed, and small shapes emerge. Shiro looks around wildly.

Keith is facing the desert, hands outstretched to the sky. Shiro can't see his face, but he suspects Keith's eyes are closed, and curses him as he runs over and angles the shield to cover both of them.

“We have maybe three minutes," Shiro warns, eyes on the door of the inn as the Galra stride inside. Patrons are rushing out, and Shiro can hear their panicked shouting even from their relatively high position. “You’re calling Red, right?”

Keith hushes him, and Shiro rolls his eyes, keeps watching.

“They're coming,” Shiro says suddenly. The Galra are impossible to miss, tall and broad with guns longer than Shiro's arm, and they immediately start running for the dune, long loping strides that Shiro reckons will reach them in less than two minutes. “Keith,” he says, looking back at him, and Keith's brow is furrowed as he concentrates. “Keith!”

“I am aware, now shut up,” Keith hisses. “You have no idea how hard – “

“Just concentrate,” Shiro says, and Keith huffs angrily at his hypocrisy. “And remember we don't have our blasters.”

“Motivational,” Keith mutters. It's then that Shiro sees Red, risen high into the sky and visibly searching for them, and he breathes a sigh of relief they aren't quite entitled to yet.

The first blaster is fired when Red spots them; Shiro buckles from the impact and grips the handle tighter, pressing himself back to back with Keith, who almost stumbles but catches them in time.

“Please,” Keith is whispering, “please, please, hurry – “ and Shiro takes the shot better this time with Keith to brace himself against, holding onto the shield for dear life and praying that the engines he can hear are Red's and not the advance of a Galra ship.

The shield's holographic display flashes with the continued assault, and as Shiro looks down in horror it turns orange, clearly weakening, and the roar of engines gets louder and louder until whatever ship is approaching must be right above them. 

“Give me your hand,” Keith shouts suddenly, hardly audible over the noise, and Shiro does it without thinking, yelling in alarm when Keith yanks him upwards and suddenly they're miles and miles above the planet's surface, Red's mouth still perilously open and giving Shiro an excellent view of how close he is to falling to his death. Keith pulls him again and then they're collapsing on the floor, clutching at each other and scrambling away from the open door to a fatal drop.

“There’ll be more,” Keith says, struggling to his feet. The gravity stabilises as he makes it upright, and he nearly goes over again. “What do you reckon?”

“They’ll never stop chasing us,” Shiro says after a moment, throwing himself into his own seat. “Do you think maybe – we should hide instead?”

“Where?” Keith asks. He’s flying Red in a straight line over the horizon; focusing on putting distance between them and the Galra, for now.

“Weren’t there rock formations on the surface?” Shiro asks, remembering the terrain map they’d studied. “Caves, maybe?”

“We can check them out,” Keith says, and veers round, bringing up their location. They travel in silence for a minute. Red shows other Galra ships entering the atmosphere, and Shiro bites the inside of his cheek.

“So stupid,” Keith mutters suddenly. “I knew we shouldn’t have stayed, I knew – “

“Rhos was probably scared,” Shiro defends. He doesn't blame the guy, in all honesty: the Galra empire holds sway over the entire galaxy. Shiro would not put a stranger's small kindness over his own life, either.

“You know he betrayed us,” Keith says hotly. “It is dangerous to allow ourselves to trust people. I thought you of all people would know this.”

“He's only human,” Shiro says gently, and all the anger drains from Keith's expression.

He turns away to fiddle with the course display, ensuring Keith’s navigation is on track, and he doesn't realise his mistake until Keith blurts out, "He was not human.”

Shiro blinks, embarrassed at his slip.

“He was – Perothian, a native,” Keith continues behind him, sounding nervous. Perhaps he is afraid Shiro is losing his mind.

“It's a human saying,” Shiro says, eager to change the subject. “Sorry.”

Keith stands and ventures closer, and Shiro can feel the warmth of him at his shoulder.

“What does it mean?” Keith asks, so quietly Shiro hardly hears him.

“Only human?” Shiro repeats. Keith doesn't say anything. “Well, it means – it means you can make mistakes. We're all subject to our own motivations, so only human – it's like, it's okay to make mistakes or do things wrong, because there's always different things driving us.”

Keith hums in acknowledgment, and his expression is thoughtful as he returns to the pilot seat.

The natural rock formations are breathtaking, rippling shades of sunset colours, and Shiro wishes they had time to appreciate them. It’s the kind of place he’d like to take a day trip to: spend all day wandering the sights, taking photos, buying an overpriced chunk of rock in the gift shop to take home.

Keith sends Red scouting, and Shiro watches her leap into the sky with a sense of foreboding. He’d lost the argument about keeping her close, as the rocks were impenetrable to their scans and therefore probably the Galra’s scans as well.

There’s some satisfaction in that he was right – there are caves, and they explore inside some, largely sticking to the entrances and watchful for any animals that might be lurking.

Keith’s strangely silent, his expression thoughtful, so Shiro waits, knowing Keith will either come out with it or won’t; there’s no pushing him.

“Last night,” Keith starts hesitantly, then changes tack. “I have to tell you something. Where we’re going.” He takes a breath. “I – I want to find my father.”

Shiro doesn’t dare hope; it’s the last thing he’d expected Keith to say. “Your human father?”

“Yes.” Keith looks nervous, gaze darting over Shiro’s face like he’s trying to take a reading. “The Galra have nothing on him, so they have not found him on Terra.”

“You’re taking me to Earth?” Shiro asks, voice cracking.

“Well, well, well,” drawls a third voice. “What do we have here?”

Chapter Text

Keith’s eyes look beyond Shiro, and Shiro goes to turn, but there’s suddenly a hand on his shoulder. He freezes.

“Don’t move.”

“Sendak,” Keith grits out, and the name sends a bolt of fear through Shiro.

They’d never met, but there’d always been talk – among the guards, among the gladiators – that Shiro would fight him one day. That when Shiro’s time was up, he’d be dispatched by Sendak – they’d give a good fight, and no one would be disappointed with how the Champion met his end.

“Son of Krolia,” Sendak says, and he sounds like he’s smiling. Keith’s ears flatten to his head, not even afforded the respect of his given name.

Shiro thinks fast. They must have been tracked here. Sendak cannot be alone – when Shiro concentrates, he hears the slight shift of impatient bodies, and looks up to track Keith’s eyes. Keith sees him looking, and deliberately shifts his gaze once, twice, thrice. Three, then. Shiro knows Keith can take them.

That leaves him with Sendak.

They stand in silence, Sendak’s hand still heavy on Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro can hear a buzzing noise just behind him. He can’t identify it, but images and sounds spring to his mind unbidden – the bone saw he’d been under in Haggar’s lab the night before he woke up without his arm; the buzz of sharp objects close to his skin; the chanting of unfamiliar words and bright purple light behind his eyelids. His limbs start to tremble. Not now, Shiro thinks.

His eyes snap back to Keith, whose knife is suddenly in his hand.

“Careful, runt,” Sendak says, and something sharp presses into Shiro’s pulse. “I’d hate to harm your precious pet.”

“He is not my pet,” Keith snaps, and Shiro pleads with his eyes for Keith to stay focused. His dignity is not worth their lives.

“Of course.” Sendak’s voice is slippery, lost in a smirk. “You wished to pick a new master, didn’t you?”

Keith lunges forward, and Sendak throws Shiro to the side but Keith’s knife finds its mark in the neck of one of the soldiers. As the others lurch forward, Sendak takes too long deciding which of them is the bigger threat.

Shiro’s arm is ignited with a thought, and he leaps for Sendak’s neck. Sendak bats him away like a mosquito, and it is then Shiro sees his arm, glowing just as his own but enormous and clawed, energy trembling on a string and allowing Sendak to propel his fist across the cave and knock Keith off his feet.

Shiro is suspended in horror for a long moment, but Keith shrieks in pain and Shiro comes back to himself and swipes for Sendak again, arm hissing with power and cutting a clean slice in the shell of Sendak’s breastplate.

“Too bad you didn’t stick around for the upgrade,” Sendak calls, and Shiro hits the wall with a hideous crack as Sendak throws him again, movements unpredictable and size difference laughable.

Too aware that Sendak could crumple him like a ball of paper, Shiro snarls and runs for him again, jumping off the back of a Galra soldier and succeeding in scoring a crackling fissure in Sendak’s impossibly advanced arm.

Keith is down to one soldier, blade moving faster than the eye can see, and Sendak matches Shiro hit for hit, neither of them landing a blow but Shiro feels like he’s boiling over, fear and anger bubbling below the surface.

Sendak stops hitting back, and Shiro braces himself, licking blood from his lips. Across the room, Keith’s tail is wrapped around the soldier’s neck, wildly stabbing behind at Keith as Keith patiently blocks every move.

The buzzing noise starts up again, but louder, all around them, and Shiro breaks.

“Red!” Keith’s yelling, over and over, his hands at his temples.

Shiro’s mind is on fire, but he charges his arm and punches upwards, hoping it to be a final blow but Sendak’s fist meets his in an explosion of force and energy that shakes the cave, rock crumbling to the ground around them as they both fall. The buzz of saws, the sound of blades displacing the air around them – they’re in Shiro’s head, and he sees Sendak get up but cannot do the same.

Haggar moves closer, smiling when she sees he’s awake. She greets him in a low, mocking tone, and the Champion struggles. Only one of his wrists is bound – only one of his wrists is still attached to him. The vibration of equipment is unending, splitting him open; Shiro glances down and doesn’t know if he hallucinates or sees the deep V of an autopsy scar, doesn’t know if he dreams or remembers the creak of his ribs being prised open.

“I have a gift for you,” Haggar says, her smile nauseating, the bone saw laughing at the man upon the table. “Are you ready to become a legend?”

Shiro feels raw, mind split open, one hand clutching his head and the other held limp in Sendak’s unforgiving fist. Keith is screaming for him now, voice coming closer, but Sendak tosses him like a rag doll and he falls silent, and Shiro cannot lift his head to look.

“If they could see you now,” Sendak says. There is pity in his voice. “Their beloved Champion, never more than an Emperor’s plaything, dead in my hands at long last. They will cheer for your defeat, just as they cheered for your victory.”

I’m going to die, Shiro thinks, but he can’t attach any emotion to the words. It is nothing more than a realisation. His eyes are half-closed as Sendak’s grip tightens on his wrist.

“No!” Keith shouts. “Don’t, Sendak – “

“This doesn’t belong to you,” Sendak says darkly.

There’s the sickening sound of something breaking, snapping, cracking – and then Shiro cannot feel his arm.

Keith howls.

There are broken wires spitting electricity, broken veins spitting blood. 

Shiro remains where he has been left, limbs twisted like a doll, and he absently registers Keith leaping over him in a hellish blur; Keith plunging his hands into the glowing breach in Sendak’s arm and pulling; the inhuman sound that leaves Sendak’s mouth.

“No druids around to repair you, Champion,” Sendak says. He is limping, and burning, and crackling with energy, but even as Keith growls, standing over Shiro’s body, Sendak’s posture is straight, his sick grin the smile of a victor. “Rest assured, we will pick up the pieces once more.”

Shiro coughs, an awful rasping sound, and though Keith's eyes dart to him, he follows Sendak from the cave. Shiro sees Keith draw his knife before he vanishes from sight, and then there is the thud of a body hitting the ground.

A tear leaks from Shiro's eye as he strains to see past the mouth of the cave, horror beating his heart against his ribs. If he wasn't trying to convince himself of his own sanity by hyper-focusing on Keith, he might have missed the deep crimson of arterial spray splattered over Keith's shoulder.

Keith had cut Sendak's throat from behind. He had killed without honour.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro rasps when Keith returns to his side. The fingers Keith holds to his neck to check his pulse are trembling.

“It’s not your fault,” he says desperately, and Shiro manages a dry chuckle. “There was nothing you could do.”

“I was out of my head,” Shiro admits, almost talking to himself. “I should have been focused.”

“Shiro,” Keith says, voice heartbreakingly soft. “You’re only human.”

Inexplicably, it makes Shiro smile.

It’s probably not a pretty sight – is probably full of blood and slightly maniacal with his slipping hold on consciousness – but Keith smiles helplessly in response, moving his fingers to Shiro’s cheek.

Shiro’s mind stumbles over what medical knowledge Keith is trying to gain before realising it’s just a touch, a comforting gesture.

You’re not alone, Keith’s eyes say. Shiro can’t hear him anymore.

His vision slides sideways into nothingness, and then he cannot see at all.

Shiro wakes in semi-darkness, shadows and cobwebs strung across the high ceiling, metal beams lining the walls. There are hands on him, but after blinking the fuzz from his eyes Shiro knows he's safe.

“Shiro,” Keith says, naked shock and relief in his tone. The bandages slip from his fingers, and Shiro registers soft material and tape at his neck, wrist, calf. “I – how are you feeling? It’s been – “

“How long have I been out?” There are shackles hanging loose from the sides of the bed, and the sight makes his heart jump into his throat.

“A day,” Keith says. There are dark, dark circles under his eyes. Shiro thinks to make a joke about Keith being his nurse, but the next sombre look Keith throws him stops that thought in its tracks. “I – I thought you wouldn’t make it.”

His gaze darts involuntarily to Shiro’s right arm, and Shiro goes cold all over as the memories return.

“Blanket,” Keith says stupidly, and hurries out of the room.

Shiro would have appreciated knowing where they are, if they’re safe, how they eluded the Galra and escaped the planet, but he’s been out for a day. Close to 24 hours of Keith fearing for his life, tending to wounds he didn’t know if Shiro would live long enough to heal from, keeping them safe from Galra detection.

Keith could have left him behind, Shiro realises.

They’re both wounded, both carrying huge targets on their backs – Keith could have left him there and let the Galra return to collect him, could have lessened the burden, could have left Shiro as bait and put more distance between himself and the Empire.

But he didn’t.

Minutes pass, and Keith doesn’t return, but Shiro doesn’t hold it against him – Keith must have barely slept, fraught with fear and stress while taking care of Shiro. He deserves an eternity to himself, let alone five minutes.

It takes another five minutes before Shiro can summon the courage to look at his arm.

Sendak hadn’t broken it off, not completely. There are glowing purple chasms running the length of it, split open and bleeding energy, and twisted plumes of darkness flow from the cracks like open flames.

It’s at an angle, and Shiro sees for the first time the healed stump of his flesh arm, uneven and discoloured with scar tissue. The damage appears to be magical, and Shiro can’t make sense of it, but he knows it’s bad. He can’t feel the arm at all, and any attempts to move it puts painful pressure on the remaining flesh.

Shiro feels his first sense of dread; how can he learn to live as an amputee surrounded by such danger? He has to fight, has to survive – and what can he do without his prosthetic? What is he without his arm?

Keith returns with a blanket, grey and rough and much more uncomfortable than being a little cold, but Shiro still doesn’t tell Keith that his shiver had been totally unrelated to the temperature.

“Thank you,” he says, and Keith laughs.

Shiro stares at him. Keith looks shocked himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, blinking hard. Gaze drawn by the movement, Shiro notices his eyes are a little red. “I’m – I’m so tired. I was so worried.”

“Sit down,” Shiro says, because Keith is swaying.

“Thought I was the doctor here,” Keith says, but he does perch on the stool at Shiro’s left, slouching immediately and putting his head in his hands. “You’re not okay,” Keith says, and Shiro might be offended if it wasn’t for how clearly the words hurt Keith. “I still need to – “

“It can wait.”

“It can’t.” Keith raises his head. “The quintessence – the magic,” he hastily corrects at Shiro’s questioning glance, “it’s poisoning you.”

Shiro has to look away, screwing his face up against the sudden tears burning in his eyes. Keith touches his arm, saying what words can’t.

“You have to remove it, then?” Shiro asks, foolish hope twisting his tone into a question, speaking about his arm as though it is a tumour. It’s easy to say, Shiro thinks, but when it comes to it he has no idea how to feel. He imagines Keith with a saw in his hand, and nausea rises hot and fierce in his throat.

He vomits over the side of the bed. Keith clucks like a sympathetic mother and rushes to fetch a cloth, and Shiro rolls onto his back and shuts his eyes, unsure if it’s fever or embarrassment bringing unbearable heat to his face.

Keith returns and Shiro wants to protest and do it himself, not sure if he’s comfortable with their partnership expanding in this intimate way, but his limbs are lead and he only has three of them. Keith presses the back of his hand to Shiro’s forehead, measuring the temperature, and then he smooths Shiro’s hair, nurturing in a way Shiro has not experienced for years.

“I do not have a thermometer,” Keith says, worried.

“I’ll tell you when I start hallucinating.”

“That’s not funny,” Keith says, but when Shiro opens his eyes Keith’s lips are twitching.

Now that Shiro’s awake and functioning, though, Keith seems to relax. He props Shiro up with a collection of limp pillows and they drink water in silence. Keith’s posture is looser, the furrow between his eyebrows lessened, and Shiro feels it safe to ask, “Where are we?”

“This is a mining colony,” Keith says tentatively, and Shiro’s chest goes tight. “Their technology is not very advanced, and though there are soldiers, they are sparse. I do not believe us to be in danger. We will leave before the occupation of this warehouse becomes suspicious.”

“Red?”

“In the main storage facility. We are in one of the rooms intended for habitation. The medical room. Their supplies are few, but I do not need – “ He breaks off, but he has already incriminated himself.

“You don’t need medical supplies,” Shiro says hollowly, “for what?”

“I cannot perform the procedure today,” Keith says. He sounds – frightened. Of Shiro? “I haven’t been entirely truthful with you.”

The image of Keith with a saw flashes behind his eyelids. “What?”

“I’m not a soldier,” Keith admits. There are tears in his eyes as he looks Shiro over. “I was trained with the druids.”

Shiro cannot reconcile the druids he has known – their painfully white cleanliness; their probing fingers; Haggar’s scientific curiosity mutated into lack of regard for living beings – with Keith, whose caution and mercy and empathy exceeds expectation.

Keith has humanity: not something Shiro would ever associate with the druids.

“Zarkon would not have me fight with his people,” Keith says quietly. “My heritage made me a ticking time bomb – who knew when I would turn?”

Shiro can barely comprehend the logic – Keith, raised among Galra, would never align himself with a species he had no knowledge of. His treatment as less than Galra would have pushed him to fight harder, prove himself loyal – he could have been the perfect soldier.

Instead, Shiro sees that Zarkon has only pushed Keith into Earth’s welcoming arms, and has made himself a formidable enemy.

“They were fools,” he tells Keith, and means it.

Keith acknowledges the statement with a slight nod. His eyes are on Shiro’s arm.

“I can fix it.” Shiro opens his mouth, and Keith rushes to interrupt, “It will not be perfect. Haggar’s magic is dark, twisted; something I could never match. But it will function until – “

“Until?”

“I don’t know.” Shiro swallows. “This is not a permanent solution.”

First order of business is sleep, and though Shiro buzzes restlessly with the knowledge his arm is broken, poisoning him, he’s reassured when Keith drags a second mattress into the room, bunking down among scratchy grey blankets. “To keep an eye on you,” Keith says defensively.

The thought occurs to Shiro that this could be an elaborate hallucination, planted by Haggar or his own traitorous brain, and so Keith falls asleep long before him. He catalogues the unconscious twitch of Keith’s tail and the flicking of his ears; Shiro's attention to detail is born of desperation to ensure this is real, that he couldn’t fabricate every tiny element of Keith’s troubled sleep.

Still, when Keith murmurs his name, Shiro does not trust his ears.

He drifts from an uneasy doze at a touch to his shoulder, and wakes to see Keith, still in his sleeping clothes.

“The plant life on this moon is hardly abundant,” Keith says without preamble, “but I need you to drink this.”

“Okay,” Shiro mumbles. It tastes like death warmed over, which he supposes is how he looks, too. He yawns, and something in his jaw cracks. “Am I getting dressed?” Keith’s already perched beside him, on the right, examining his prosthetic with a clinician’s touch.

“I need unrestricted access,” Keith says, and Shiro reluctantly kicks away the blanket and shivers, bare-chested. It must be early in the morning, it wasn’t this cold yesterday – but then again, Shiro thinks ruefully, he was feverish yesterday. Keith touches what remains of his right arm, and Shiro flinches away.

"Is it painful?" Keith asks softly.

Shiro nods, and steels himself. "I deserve it," he says hollowly. Too much time to think was always a danger, and Shiro's mind is caught on Keith killing to defend him. "Do you know how many people, innocent people, I hurt with that arm?" Keith swallows, gaze darting away. "I don't either," Shiro says. It hits him as he says it: the destruction he's caused, the lives he's ended, the devastation he's wrought - this is his retribution. Haggar's magic is unnatural - Keith had said so himself - and it's only fair that Shiro be punished, too.

After all, she may have given him the arm, but it was he who chose what to do with it.

"You cannot change the past," Keith says after a long moment. "Please, let me do this for you."

“Is it going to hurt?” he asks, feeling small and scared in the face of what’s going to happen, whether he deserves it or not.

Keith takes a deep breath, and Shiro fears he won’t like the answer. “Do you trust me?” Keith asks instead.

Shiro takes a moment before he replies aloud, but the realisation had been instantaneous. “With my life,” he says, and Keith bites his lip.

When Shiro looks at his arm, the next day and all the days following, he doesn’t think of being strapped to a table, of nerves and muscle tearing and screaming and screaming and watching as they fitted alien metal to the grisly mess of what used to be a flesh and blood arm.

He thinks of Keith numbing his arm before he begins, watching Keith’s hands glow as he whispers alien words to himself, watching his arm – metal, solid – knit itself back together. Keith’s magic is green, healing and good, so different to storms and flares of purple, and it makes Shiro think of Earth, of green fields and forests and the nature he never appreciated while he had it, but now misses more than anything.

He remembers pain, but before it could overtake him Keith’s fingers were at his temple, whispering, “Sleep,” and Shiro knows no pain as he falls into dreamless unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Keith’s sitting on his back, Shiro’s arm twisted up behind his shoulder blades.

“Again,” Keith says. Shiro growls at him.

“It’s your tail,” he says crossly. “You always strike me right across the back of the knees. It gets me every time.”

“Counter it.”

“Not all Galra have tails.” There is too much hope in his voice for a man who has been brought down eighteen out of twenty times. “Maybe you could – not use it.”

“Maybe you could stop using your left leg,” Keith suggests, and Shiro winces.

“Got it.”

“Besides,” Keith says, “there are always those who do, and you must be prepared.”

Shiro wriggles, and Keith stands up and offers him a hand.

“You can do this, Shirogane,” he says, gentler. “You have done it before, and you will again.”

Shiro stretches, cracking his back. He doesn’t put voice to his thoughts – that last time, the knowledge that it was adaptation or death was enough to push him to become a better gladiator, to become acquainted with the alien metal that served as his right arm or suffer eternal defeat.

Now, the lack of an immediate threat has made him lazy, and he despises it. Shiro knows he had defined himself by the arena for too long, but now – his failures at Keith’s hands are crushing him, social agony and physical humiliation rolled into one.

“I can’t,” he says, and it hurts. “Can’t you… I don’t know.”

“I cannot help,” Keith says, not unkindly. “It needs you. You need to learn each other.”

Shiro exhales in frustration. “Help me understand,” he says. “We don’t have magic; we can’t just feel things.”

Keith wrinkles his nose, the concept of no magic seeming as impossible to him as magic does to Shiro. “It is like training with a new weapon. You learn the fit of it in your hand; how far it reaches; how much pressure to exert. You get used to it. And that only comes with time.”

Weapon, Shiro repeats in his mind, and it’s like a stone has dropped into his stomach.

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “Let’s try again.”

In other ways, Shiro feels that Keith’s hands have made him righteous. Keith has erased the blight and corruption: Haggar’s last gift. It’s a fresh start, a blank slate – Shiro knows he can never truly erase the savagery of his past, but he feels cleansed. Now, it is his choices that shape his future, and there’s vast power in the ability to do good.

He loses track of the days; it feels like a week, when in actuality Red informs them it has only been three days. Shiro still struggles, his arm sometimes responding late or disobeying him completely, but the occasions become fewer, and the day he pins Keith ten times in a row is the day Keith breaks out a tiny bottle of something alarmingly blue and shockingly potent.

“I could have done with this before,” Shiro manages, coughing. “Like, the day we escaped, before the surgery – “

“I was saving it for a special occasion,” Keith enunciates.

They’re sat on Keith’s mattress, thighs touching and elbows knocking, but neither of them make an attempt to move. Shiro’s never fallen to alcohol so quickly in his life: it seems that within minutes he’s lost control of words and limbs.

Keith wriggles under the arm Shiro’s slung around his shoulder, but doesn’t shrug him off.

“You’re heavy,” he complains.

“Am not.” Shiro stares at the thin fur on Keith’s face and wonders how it feels.

“Are too,” Keith retorts, and he turns so quickly Shiro doesn’t have time to look away.

Their faces are nearly close enough to touch. Shiro swallows, and it’s loud in the sudden silence.

Keith’s eyes are soft and buttery yellow; his blinks are slow and catlike. His head tilts imperceptibly to one side. Shiro feels the whisper of Keith’s breath against his lips.

The gas lantern gives one last flicker and goes out. Shiro feels more than hears Keith’s sigh, and then the warmth beside him is gone. Squinting in the dim light provided by twin moons, Shiro sees Keith jump to his feet.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t think we should be playing with fire.”

Despite Shiro’s misgivings, Keith relights the lantern. He leaves space between them when he sits down.

Shiro wakes to yelling.

He groans, rubbing his face. His head is pounding, tongue thick and throat dry. It’s been a long time since he’s had a hangover, and Shiro is pleased to declare this is one aspect of Earth life he did not miss.

There’s a glass of water on the floor beside his hospital bed, and Shiro drinks it gratefully, pretending not to see the grey dust particles floating on the surface.

When he makes his way into the warehouse, Keith’s banging his fists on Red’s honeycomb shield. Shiro stares, astounded – it hasn’t been all that long since they first broke out, but the sight of such blatant magic is incredible.

It takes him a moment to realise this is a bad sign.

“Please!” Keith shouts. Red crouches and roars at him. She lowers the shield, but as Keith takes a step forward, she launches into the sky, swiftly breaking through the atmosphere and disappearing from sight. Keith growls in frustration.

“What the fuck,” Shiro says flatly. Food, water, shelter, transport – gone in seconds, presumably because of Keith’s whims and attitude.

Keith groans again at the sight of him. “Little gods,” he says, and Shiro’s immediately intrigued by the implication of alien religion, but then Keith grits out, “Red apparently has a job to do,” and Shiro realises they have much bigger problems.

Problems which are, evidently, Keith’s fault.

“A job? So she’ll be back?”

“It’s not like that,” Keith says, exhaling loudly. “There’s something she wants – needs to do, and I said no, we have a purpose of our own, and she – she got angry.”

“Angry?” 

Keith gives him a look, but skips the snarky comment. “She thinks her thing is more important. And I said no. And now – I don’t know if she’ll come back.”

Anxiety forms cold and hard in Shiro’s chest, and it’s hard to breathe around it. “What?” he says, though he understands perfectly: they’re stuck here.

“It felt like just a tantrum,” Keith offers, but his neutral expression is strained.

Shiro swallows hard. “Right,” he says. Anger and anxiety isn’t productive, he tells himself, and though his anger dissolves at the sight of Keith’s equally downtrodden expression, panic claws at his chest, getting a foothold in his rib cage and kicking out, making his heart hammer painfully. It’s almost enough to dispel his hangover.

“We’re just gonna have to hunker down,” Keith says firmly. He steps closer, hand reaching out, but Shiro turns away, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Keith says, and Shiro hears the thud of his boot on the ground as he retreats. “It was never going to be easy.”

“Sure,” Shiro snaps. How many times has Keith told him that? “But we had a plan. We had Red. What do we have now?”

“We have each other,” Keith says quietly behind him, and Shiro snorts in disgust.

It’s early morning and the cold bites into his skin, but Shiro warms up quickly, stretching his muscles, running track on the limited site. His prosthetic doesn’t seem to like the cold. Shiro’s easily frustrated, already wound tight but gritting his teeth against the delay his arm is experiencing.

Keith comes outside eventually, beginning to stretch and sneaking hopeful glances at Shiro, but Shiro goes inside.

He turns away from the empty space where Red lay. Then, just one step into their bedroom, there’s the barrel of a gun at his forehead.

Shiro doesn’t even have time to yell for Keith before cloth is stuffed into his mouth, his hands are dragged behind his back, and something heavy hits the back of his head.

Light is shone directly into his eyes.

“Cut it out,” Shiro mutters. “Don’t Galra get hangovers too?”

“I don’t think so,” someone says, voice high and feminine and definitely not Keith’s, and Shiro’s eyes snap open. It’s pitch black, and the flashlight is off.

“Bastards,” comes another voice, lower.

Shiro waits, expecting a punchline regarding Keith’s birth, but when nothing comes, he makes a bigger effort to look around, willing his eyes to adjust.

“You didn’t take off his blindfold, dummy,” someone says, and then there’s nothing but light, bright and burning and Shiro groans.

He blinks hard, gradually discerning a sea of faces. Keith isn’t among them.

“Keith?”

“What kind of name is that?”

Shiro bites the inside of the cheek. “Who are you? What do you want?” With Red gone, and their captors apparently unaware of Keith and Shiro’s identities, Shiro can’t imagine what they’ve been kidnapped for.

He can only hope they’re still on the same planet. He can only hope he’s still within Keith’s reach.

“Pirates, duh.” The alien speaking – the owner of the high-pitched voice – looks like the ocean, covered in roiling waves of green and white. “I’m Lars.” He points at the one next to him: someone who looks similar enough as to be related, and someone wearing a sick grin. “This is Mars.”

Shiro almost says Nice to meet you on reflex, and stops himself just in time. His wrists are bound in front of him with rope, and not very tightly – it would rub his flesh raw, but Shiro reckons he could escape. As Lars leans forward, it occurs to Shiro that he could probably knock Lars out, but he’s just one in a close-packed group of seven. His ankles are bound too, and without his hands free, Shiro realises that for now, he’s stuck.

“Did you find a Galra?” he asks. It’s a risk to expose Keith – if he hasn’t also been captured, Shiro could be dooming both of them – but even staring down inexperienced captors, Shiro would rather have Keith at his side.

“Only a little one,” someone else says. “Is he your kid or something?”

Consumed with relief, Shiro bites back an irritated response.

“No, idiot – this one is pink,” Lars says. He fixes Shiro with mismatched eyes, and for the first time, Shiro feels a sense of foreboding. “Where are your supplies?”

Pirates, of the kind Rhos had described, Shiro realises. What luck, to have been captured by surely the only people who had no idea they were holding the highest-valued criminals in the galaxy.

“We lost them,” Shiro says truthfully.

“Bullshit,” Mars says. Shiro realises she’s the owner of the deeper voice. “Look at you both, with your fancy spacesuits. They don’t come cheap.”

Honesty is the best policy. “We stole them.”

Mars rolls her three eyes. “Well, you must have been eating. You, not the Galra. And what’s with the fancy arm?”

“I made it,” Keith says. His voice comes from somewhere behind Shiro, and it’s fuzzy and faint, like he’s been drugged. Shiro twists in his chair, but Lars grips his chin, forcing him to face forward. “I’m gonna get our lion,” Keith continues, and Shiro shuts his eyes. Perhaps they are doomed after all. “And then you’re gonna be dead.”

“The lion,” Mars says under her breath. Shiro keeps his eyes shut. He’s close enough to feel Lars’ breath as he speaks; close enough to hear every word.

“We can’t let him summon that thing,” Lars mutters. “They’ll flatten us. We’ll have nothing to bring back, and then Trex will kill us.”

“Red,” Keith calls out, his voice adopting a singsong tone. “Red!”

Shiro opens his mouth, but not soon enough: Lars straightens up and turns to the biggest of his group, who edges out of Shiro’s vision. “Knock that one out, he’s dangerous.”

“No!” Shiro yells, but the single syllable is accompanied by a sickening crack.

“I hope you’ll be more helpful later,” Mars says. “Don’t go anywhere.”

As the crew troop out of the door, Shiro hangs his head, forcing his body to relax until he’s sure all eyes are off him.

The cell is dank and stale but has no windows as far as Shiro can see; the door lacks bars as well, and it’s a surprising blessing to be completely out of sight.

“Keith,” Shiro hisses as many times as he dares. Nearly alone in the room, the word bounces off the walls, driving Shiro a little mad even though they’ve barely begun.

He starts with the facts. He can assume Keith has been drugged: the syrupy way his words clung together was chilling from someone so adamant about getting his point across first time. Keith’s somewhere behind him, but whether he’s tied to a chair as Shiro is or shackled to the wall remains to be seen. Either way, Shiro can easily break him free. Their problem lies in escaping this dwelling as a whole: it could be a maze.

“Keith,” he tries again. This time, he receives a murmur in return, a sleepy sound that gives Shiro hope. “If you can hear me, I’m getting us out of here.”

Shiro ignites his arm.

Rather, Shiro intends to ignite his arm, but the metal in question evidently decides today is not the day.

“God damn it.”

Keith says something, but it’s lost among Shiro cursing himself out.

“What?”

“Blasphemy,” Keith mutters.

Shiro exhales. If he can get Keith lucid, keep him talking, they have a chance.

“Didn’t take you for a religious man.”

Keith clears his throat. “I’m not.”

“Huh,” Shiro says, unable to think of anything else to say.

“Goodnight,” Keith says.

“No,” Shiro says. “Don’t fall asleep, Keith, come on – “

He gets no answer. Keith doesn’t respond to pleading or coaxing or indignant shouting, and Shiro gives up for a while, his only movement the occasional attempt to ignite his arm.

With no way to tell time, trapped in an admittedly spacious but dark, damp cell, Shiro regresses. The methodical footsteps outside belong to Galra soldiers; Keith’s muffled noises belong to fellow gladiators, tossing and turning on their stone floors; Shiro’s spacesuit, colour disguised by dim lighting, becomes his purple bodysuit.

Someone bangs on the door before opening it, and Shiro almost lifts his hands for the handcuffs before he remembers where he is.

It’s Lars, bearing water pouches. He drops one unceremoniously in Shiro’s lap and kicks the other toward Keith.

“Thanks,” Shiro says gruffly.

“You have an hour,” Lars says, and in the short time since Shiro last saw him, his tone has become withdrawn. What Mars had alluded to must be true; they must be working to a deadline. Shiro doesn’t doubt that he and Keith were the only beings worth robbing on the colony.

When the door shuts behind Lars, Keith’s voice comes uncertainly. “Shiro?”

“Keith,” Shiro says, closing his eyes for a long moment in relief. “Are you okay? They hit you pretty hard.” The thought makes his hands clench into fists, and he forces himself to relax.

“Fine,” Keith says. “An hour until what?”

“They want our resources.” Shiro wishes he could see Keith. “They don’t even know who we are, they don’t want Red – I think they’re just after food and water and weapons. Seems to be a kind of gang.”

“I assume they took our weapons?” Keith asks, and Shiro makes a noise of assent. “How’s your arm?”

Shiro bites his lip, glancing at the offending metal. “Not responding.” He’s met with silence. “Keith?”

“Thinking.” Shiro hears him shifting and suppresses a sigh, studying his flesh wrist, rubbed raw with struggling against his bonds. He doesn’t bother warning Keith against trying the same.

“How long do you think they'll hold us after they realise we don’t have what they want?” Shiro asks. He knows Keith doesn't know, having been unconscious and gleaning even less information than Shiro had, and isn't really looking for an answer – just to fill the unbearable silence that stifles him like his old cell.

Keith snorts. “This dungeon has never held a Galra.” He sounds confident, and Shiro is curious despite himself, straining to turn in his chair.

“What do you mean by that?”

Suddenly Keith is standing in front of him with a grin that shows all his sharp little teeth. “They still use rope,” he says. Shiro’s gaze tracks over Keith slowly: a crust of blood suggests a head wound; his suit is dusty and dirty from the floor but appears to be intact.

Keith kneels and lifts Shiro's bound hands to his mouth, and Shiro jerks away.

“W-What are you doing?”

Keith scowls at him. “How do you think I escaped?”

They stare at each other.

“Well?” Keith says crossly. “They'll be back soon. Do you want to escape or not?”

Shiro averts his eyes, but it’s only a moment or two before his hands are free, and Keith’s rubbing feeling back into his wrist.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, and turns away before Shiro can see his face. “Is your arm definitely out of action?”

Shiro tries again. The crackle of sensation he receives feels more like something dying than something coming to life. He nods.

“Right,” Keith says authoritatively. “We’ll rush them when they next come in.”

“And once we’re out?” They need weapons. They need a way out. They need Red.

“We’ll think of something.”

It’s less than reassuring, Shiro thinks grimly, but it’s all they’ve got.

Chapter Text

Shiro made Keith take the chair. He’d examined the head wound, but it wasn’t deep, and Keith wasn’t showing signs of a concussion.

Both Lars and Mars come to collect their due, and by then Shiro’s in the chair, rope wound but not tied around his hands. Keith’s task is to look tormented, something he’s pulling off rather too well.

“Get help,” Shiro urges when they enter. “I think he’s dying.”

Lars and Mars exchange a glance, and Shiro senses their fear. He’d been right that they needed him and Keith, but it brings him no satisfaction.

Both aliens approach Keith; both turn their back on Shiro. Shiro spares a moment to reflect on just how inexperienced and foolish these would-be pirates are – and then he jumps up and grabs Lars, taking advantage of Lars’ brief confusion and immobility to drag him backwards. He easily ducks Lars’ wild swing, gathering his wrists in one hand and swiping the knife from Lars’ belt with the other.

He brings the knife to Lars’ throat just as Keith brings Mars to the floor. He’s on her back, twisting her arm up in a position Shiro has conceded to Keith many times and knows from experience is painful and inescapable.

“So,” Keith says, barely out of breath, “how about we talk terms?”

“Sounds good,” Lars says. His voice is steady; another time, Shiro might have been impressed, but he knows Lars is trying not to move his throat. His sister is silent, her expression mulish.

Keith twists her arm further, and Shiro winces, starting, “Keith – “

“You can tell me later,” Keith says in a measured tone.

Shiro presses on regardless. “Stop it,” he says. “There’s nothing stopping us walking out of here.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mars says. Keith snarls.

They tie the pair up with the ill-fated rope and extract directions from them. Shiro balks at the idea of just leaving them here, but Keith says dismissively, “People will come for them,” and they exit into a dim hallway. Footsteps approach in the distance.

Keith hesitates in the doorway.

“We go right,” Shiro says.

“Inventory is left.”

“We’ve got our suits.” Helmets can be replaced. Their lives can’t. “We’re wasting time.”

“I’m not leaving without my knife,” Keith hisses, and with that he takes off in the opposite direction.

Shiro rolls his eyes and sends up a prayer for whoever’s listening.

He’s seen it, of course. Every time they’ve lost their weapons, Keith’s knife doesn’t leave him; Shiro gets the impression it stays on his person at all times, wouldn’t be surprised if Keith sleeps with it. It’s gleaming silver, with a gem in the hilt etched with a symbol. It fits with Shiro’s experience of Galra magic, and beyond the factors of ‘glowing’ and ‘purple’ – there’s something in Keith’s attachment to it, almost as though it’s an extension of himself. He fights with it as though he was born to.

Either way, Keith’s actions aren’t abnormal. For this reason, Shiro runs after him.

The storeroom is mercifully unguarded. Shiro arrives to Keith’s knife safely tucked in his belt and the man himself rifling through an impressive array of weapons.

“Here’s your helmet,” Keith says, tossing it to him. “They even kept our crappy shield, but you can grab a new one. Actually, grab two.”

He doesn’t suggest a blaster, a sword, a knife – and for that, Shiro is grateful.

The sounds of activity move closer all the time, and Shiro diverts his restless attention between Keith’s leisurely looting and the door.

“For God’s sake,” he says eventually, moving closer to look over Keith’s shoulder. His pack must be full by now.

“I’m coming,” Keith snaps. He pivots angrily, and Shiro watches his expression move from obstinate to shocked in a fraction of a second as he stumbles forward and catches himself on Shiro’s chest.

“Sorry,” they blurt out at the same time. There’s something too observant in Keith’s piercing gaze. Shiro swallows.

As luck would have it, the sounds of a door being rammed down reaches their ears, and Shiro doesn’t have time to issue an I told you so before Keith’s darting around him and telling him to follow.

They fly past the door of their cell, catching a glimpse of fewer people than they had expected, and Shiro braces himself for a fight; the alarm must have been sounded by now. It’s at a fork in the passage that they reach the commotion. It only takes a glance to decide their next actions.

Shiro takes the left. He clenches his fist repeatedly as he nears the clamour, and to his shock, his arm flares to life.

“Great timing,” he mutters, and rounds another corner only to stop a bullet with the palm of his hand.

“You!” someone shouts, and Shiro would raise a sarcastic salute if he wasn’t battered with more fire, having to duck quickly into an alcove.

The location brings to mind his and Keith’s escape from the Galra flagship, and it brings a small smile to Shiro’s lips before he swings out of cover and activates the shield.

Crouched behind it, he watches the aliens confer on their next move – there’s only four total: three armed, one carrying a shield big enough to cover two people. Shiro presses forward, close to the ground so no one shoots his legs, advancing close enough that one of the aliens armed with a blaster breaks from the group and makes to grab his shield.

Shiro deactivates it in a flash, causing her to stumble forward, hand closing around nothing. He stays behind her, wary of backup fire, and slashes the blaster out of her hand. Moving backwards, he draws her further from her group; she makes a cutting motion with her hand and the others stop attacking.

She wants to take him alone. She’ll pay for her arrogance.

He quickly notices she relies on speed, not strength or brute force – just like Keith, who Shiro trained with for weeks and then defeated in a fair fight.

She lands strong hits at first, darting around and away from Shiro, but it only takes one wrong step for Shiro to move faster and sweep her legs out from under her.

Shiro eyes the blaster, just out of reach, but fire rains over his head and he ducks, preparing to face both remaining armed aliens at once. He activates the shield again, halting blasts from one with his hand and trying to concentrate taking attacks on the shield: his arm could fail him again, and it could prove fatal.

When Shiro looks up next, three aliens unconscious on the floor around him, the fourth has disappeared.

He continues down the long hallway, holding the now-amber shield ahead of him, and comes upon another scuffle. When he glances back, two paths have converged; when he looks up, he can see light. This must be the exit. He expects to find Keith. The gaggle of aliens ahead are shielded, and Keith would not have left Shiro more fighting to deal with.

Shiro is correct, in a way.

Someone sees him and screams. The bulk of the group run in the opposite direction; Shiro is left with six, which is too many to comfortably take, but he looks again at Keith, immobile and curled in on himself, and thinks taking down six will be just fine.

They’re watching Shiro to see what he’ll do next.

Shiro advances fast, faster than they were expecting: they back up, real fear written across their faces, trembling hands fumbling for blasters. He reaches Keith and kneels beside him, quickly noting evidence of a blaster hit, thankfully on stun. Keith’s pulse is steady and strong. Shiro steps over him.

“He was trying to contact someone,” he hears.

Red, Shiro thinks. He looks at Keith, still and lifeless, and lets the fear and anger build until his body hums with it, until he feels like he might spill over, and he tries to reach out.

It feels stupid, pretending at telepathy; almost like when he was a kid, trying to be a wizard, or a Jedi. However, it helps to be out of his head as they take heavy fire, the pirates firing haphazardly with little consideration for Keith, who’s already out of action and can’t fight back, but then there’s a bright spark that Shiro instinctively knows is Red’s presence.

He tries to communicate that they’re underground, that Keith is injured, that he’s the best she’s got right now, but it’s like thinking through molasses, slow and sticky and nigh impossible.

Shiro’s conscious of his fighting style becoming rough, dirty, brutal, but can’t bring himself to care, gritting his teeth against the image of Keith struck down and using it as fuel, bringing down one and then two and then three and then he’s standing amongst a pile of bodies, not knowing whether they are dead or merely unconscious. It’s difficult to care about that either.

He holds tighter to that awareness of Red, her presence getting brighter and brighter as he crouches beside Keith and begins trying to rouse him for the second time in 24 hours. It’s easier to concentrate now, and Shiro counts on whatever alien magic the lion was created with to hone in on his location, on Keith, and prays that Red will accept him as she does Keith. He can’t see a way out of here otherwise.

Keith’s woozy, eyes and mouth twitching when Shiro speaks to him. Shiro scoops him up and moves closer to the light filtering through the distant door. Shadows shift beyond the bars, and Shiro shifts Keith in his arms so he can still handle a blaster.

Something hits the roof of the structure like a battering ram.

Dust falls to the floor in fine sheets, and Shiro braces himself. The door is flung open when he’s mere metres away, but the people blocking it seem to care less about Shiro than they do the unknown entity.

“You,” someone calls. It’s only been a short time since his imprisonment, but Shiro’s become accustomed to being called by his name, and he bristles, finger on the trigger.

“Me,” he says, challenging.

The building’s hit again. One of the two aliens screams and at the same moment, Shiro feels Red, blinks and sees through her eyes for a moment, feels her urgency and fury and protective instinct, and blinks again to feel the ground shaking.

“Call off your beast!”

Shiro backs up as they advance, cradling Keith’s head with one hand as he ducks to avoid the onslaught of rubble. “She’s more of a friend, actually,” he shouts over the noise. He clutches Keith close and prays Red won’t bring the roof down on them, calculating his chance of slipping past the aliens, blasters and all.

He takes it at a run after the next hit, shouldering them aside and bursting from the door into bright beautiful light, shading his eyes to gaze up at Red, who hangs in the air like an angel.

People are spilling from the structure like ants as Shiro staggers into Red’s mouth, laying Keith in the second seat and taking the pilot’s seat for himself. He panics for a moment at the controls, a daunting sight for a pilot who could fly every ship he’d ever sat in, but Red lifts off on her own as she had when they’d escaped from the flagship.

Shiro couldn’t begin to approximate where they should head to, where is safe, where is subtle – so he lets Red take them into space while he takes Keith into the more spacious cargo hold. It’s a relief to see their boxes of supplies, and Shiro locates medical supplies with little difficulty.

A blaster shot looks enough like a burn for Shiro to treat it as one. He removes the hard shells of Keith’s uniform and belt, unzipping the bodysuit beneath just enough to get at Keith’s stomach. Shiro treats him as clinically as he’s able, cooling the blistering area with water pouches, spreading soothing gel over it and ignoring the hard muscles underneath the fur.

It’s when he’s securing a loose bandage over the burn that Keith stirs, mouth opening but no words coming out.

“Keith,” Shiro says, only a little frantic, and Keith’s eyelids flutter. “That’s it, come on, wake up.”

“I am – wake,” Keith mumbles. His eyes open, blurry and unfocused.

“Good,” Shiro says, checking his pulse. Keith jerks away from the touch, which can only be a good sign.

“Shiro?”

“Yeah.” Shiro finishes taping the bandage and decides not to attempt to zip Keith back up; it could hurt him, and now Keith’s finally awake he’ll have a better idea of what he can manage. “Come on, you’re doing so well.”

“My side,” Keith says. It’s more of a rasp. Shiro holds his head up, but Keith insists on holding the water pouch himself.

“Blaster on stun.” Keith tosses the pouch aside. “I’ve treated it like a burn.” Shiro helps him sit up fully and Keith winces, hand going to his side immediately.

“And there was me thinking humans were so primitive,” he says.

“Just a burn,” Shiro says, more chipper than he feels. “Shame we don’t have any aloe.”

“You’ll have to show me,” Keith mutters, and it hits Shiro all over again they’re going to Earth. First Sendak, then his injury, then the pirates, had driven their future from his mind.

“I will,” he says, throat dry.

Keith manages to stand on his own and goes to the front, leaving Shiro to put away the supplies he’d opened. He hangs back for a couple minutes, wondering if Keith wants some time to himself, but Keith calls, “Are you coming?” and Shiro does as he’s bid.

He slides into the second seat. Keith’s zipped up his bodysuit but hasn’t bothered with his breastplate and belt. Without them, he looks even smaller: Shiro sneaks glances at Keith’s broad shoulders and tiny waist, heart beating faster. It feels illicit, like Shiro is somehow betraying their trusted partnership.

Somewhere along the way, Keith had become hard to look away from.

“We don’t have enough rations to make it to Earth,” Keith says, pragmatic as always. “I would suggest we steal them in bulk rather than as we go. It would be foolish to expose ourselves multiple times.”

“Right,” Shiro says. His mind is caught on the word expose, and he forces himself to focus. “I assume you know a place.”

“No,” Keith says thoughtfully. “I don’t think we can risk a Galra warehouse,” he continues, and Shiro doesn’t miss Keith’s significant glance at his prosthetic. “Storehouses we can find anywhere, but I would suggest our best option would to be locate one close to a Class M planet.” He pauses. “We could do with a rest.”

“A holiday,” Shiro echoes. The thought of a holiday with Keith is strangely welcome, though Shiro knows it won’t be for long. Then they’ll be on Earth – and Shiro can’t bear to entertain the thought; not yet. “And I’m sorry, where was that?”

“A habitable planet,” Keith explains, “where carbon-based life forms can exist and, generally, flourish.”

Shiro dozes off for a while – he has no idea how long he’s been awake, but what with their capture and the addition of caring for Keith through two harrowing situations, he’s exhausted – and when Keith shakes him awake, it’s to the sight of a nebula.

“I thought you might like to see it,” Keith says, almost shy.

Shiro gazes out in pure awe. Going through the wormhole had produced gorgeous royal blues and purples, but this nebula has earthen tones, greens and golds and oranges. Haloes of golden gas and emerald green dust twist and turn, chasing their tails in brilliant sprays of colour. The orange burns throughout, twisting through the background and foreground in disarray that looked more like art than the furthest reaches of the universe.

“It’s beautiful,” Shiro breathes. When he turns, Keith’s looking at him.

“Yes,” he says.

Less than a day later, they touch down on a Class N planet. Suits and helmets are absolutely necessary, both for access to oxygen and temperature control. The warehouse they’re heading to exists within one of the many orbs on the surface: huge globes of a material that repels the toxic atmosphere, housing pockets of civilisation all over the planet.

Shiro stands up as they approach the surface. “Keith,” he starts, wary of rehashing the same argument but more concerned than he’d like to admit, “I can do this on my own.”

“I know,” Keith says simply. When they touch down, he stands and grabs his helmet. Shiro notices for the first time how Keith’s large ears are folded in two when his helmet’s on, the ends pressed flat to his cheeks. “But you don’t need to.”

Red delivers them onto the surface and Shiro watches Keith carefully, but if Keith’s hurting, he doesn’t show it. Shiro can just make out a structure in the distance, something that both rises from the earth and descends from the sky. The exposed land is thick with clouds and gas, and he can hardly see Keith next to him.

They activate their thrusters and leap forward in great strides, arriving at the entrance in no time. Red had brought them as close as she could without risking detection.

“No guards?” Shiro asks. Keith’s a little ahead of him, examining the doors.

“Either on the inside or they don’t bother at all. I don’t think there’s much of anything to steal in the first place.”

Shiro feels a pang of guilt and forces himself to think of Earth instead. They have blasters, Keith has his knife – but this is no place for a firefight. The last thing they want is to draw attention to themselves. It’s enough of a risk to appear together at all – as Keith had once said, few had seen a human before, but many knew the face of Zarkon’s ward.

Once inside, Keith takes off his helmet and Shiro follows suit. The air is a little too stale and tastes recycled, just like it had on Zarkon’s ship. They walk a little further before coming upon civilisation, and once there, Shiro realises they stick out like a sore thumb in their spacesuits.

Despite curious glances, the people seem content to let them pass through. Shiro asks cautiously whether it would be safer to put their helmets back on to talk privately, but Keith dismisses this.

“We’ll be fine,” he says, which isn’t very encouraging, but Shiro trusts Keith’s expertise over his own lack of experience. Said lack of experience is in both stealing and in travelling to different planets, but Shiro feels out of his depth regarding either.

The armed presence increases the further north they go. Shiro notes the increasing appearance of blasters in a murmur. He learns from Keith that the planet is run by warring gangs, stockpiling reserves of rations or weapons or water, trading reluctantly for the purpose of survival.

“And you thought this was the safest place to get what we need?”

“I said we needed stores close to a Class M planet.” Keith points upwards, where through the thick globe Shiro can just make out a point glowing brighter than the other stars.

Further on, civilisation trickles to a halt. A retail park looms before them. Shiro’s anxiety is reassured somewhat by the fact that regular citizens are here too, carrying bags and boxes of shopping. They don’t get second glances, now, easily fitting in as part of the flood. Keith takes Shiro’s hand and tugs him forward.

“That looks like a dead-end,” Shiro says flatly.

Keith makes a face. “It is.”

“Leading to the warehouse?”

“Yes.”

If we’re caught down there, Shiro thinks, we’re dead. It may be an alleyway on a fairly populous road, but one step in the wrong direction would set off alarm bells.

They take turns staking it out. The guard changes on the hour, with a lull of two to five minutes between shifts: what Shiro would call human error.

To be fair, the factions must expect their enemies to arrive with guns blazing.

“He’s going in,” Keith mutters beside him. “Let’s go.”

“Stay here,” Shiro says, half-pleading. He didn't miss the way Keith’s hand flew to his side as he stood up.

“No.” Keith scowls at him. “We’re losing time.”

“Fine,” Shiro concedes reluctantly, because Keith is right, and they weave among the crowd, crossing the road and approaching the entrance. Their only issue lies in the lightning bolt-shaped path; there’s a corner they’ll have to turn.

No one pays attention to them straying from the road, and it’s only when they reach the corner that Keith freezes, ears perking up.

“Someone’s coming.”

“How many?”

“Two, or three, maybe…” Keith tilts his head. “Shiro, if we get in a fight, it’ll be hard to get out of here.”

There’s no way to explain their presence here. They can’t call for Red. They should avoid fighting at all costs.

There is something, Shiro thinks suddenly, but he doesn’t want to – not like this, it isn’t fair, they haven’t even talked about it –

“Shiro?” Keith’s frustrated. “We could take them, but – “

Shiro makes a split-second decision.

Keith gasps as Shiro shoves him up against the wall, and Shiro isn’t even sure if Keith hears him hiss, “Shut up,” and, “Follow my lead,” tugging at Keith’s collar and ducking his head to Keith’s neck.

He arches, hard, squirming against Shiro’s weight and undoubtedly irritated at the undignified cover. Shiro grabs one of Keith’s hands and pins it against the wall for good measure, hesitates before kissing Keith’s neck and jaw and hears men approaching, voices growing louder.

“Shiro,” Keith breathes and Shiro feels a sense of foreboding: in this position, only Keith can see the danger they’re in, and his pulse is thudding fast and scared under Shiro’s lips.

“Sorry,” Shiro whispers.

Keith’s free hand comes up to clutch at Shiro’s back and Shiro imagines what it’d be like if this were real, if he really did have Keith pressed against the wall in an alley to kiss and touch as he pleased, and the thought makes unwelcome heat flare in his belly. Shiro hears a laugh that doesn’t belong to either of them; hears a wolf-whistle and thinks holy shit, maybe it worked.

He presses their cheeks together and whispers in Keith’s ear, “Are they gone yet?” He can’t hear anything now, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe.

Keith hesitates for a long moment and Shiro braces himself, but then Keith murmurs, “No.”

“Bastards,” Shiro mutters, and moves to the other side so Keith will have a better view, but Keith turns his head and – oh.

He catches Shiro's lips in a kiss, pressing forward soft and unsure before Shiro gets a hold of himself and kisses back, firmer, fingers curling into Keith’s hair. He hadn’t wanted to risk going so far and making Keith uncomfortable, but Keith initiated it and so Shiro feels fine with sliding his tongue into Keith’s mouth, putting on a better show.

He feels a hot flash of need as Keith responds, letting Shiro lick into him and curl one hand around the back of his neck, thumb stroking the fur there as their tongues roll together. Keith makes a soft noise and Shiro shudders as heat settles low in his stomach, but then Keith pushes him away.

“They’re gone,” he says, out of breath, and Shiro turns quickly, relieved when he sees both ends of the alley are clear.

“Thank God.” He steps back further, giving Keith his space. Keith’s touching his lip, throat bobbing as he swallows. When they make eye contact, it’s electric.

Shiro blames his thudding heart on the high-risk situation. It still isn’t quite safe to sneak among towering shelves of crates and packages. Keith seems to know exactly what he’s looking for, requesting Shiro give him a boost to reach a box that looks no different from the other hundreds.

Keith’s so light, even with most of his weight pressing down on Shiro’s hands. He’s holding the shelves like rungs of a ladder and Shiro shifts constantly, only holding one foot but also responsible for Keith’s balance.

“Okay,” Keith says. It echoes despite his whisper and Shiro winces, looking left and right before reaching up to help Keith down. “Let’s go.”

They get some second glances on the way out, but there is no suspicion: Shiro reads amusement and the dark curl of mockery in their expressions, and feels suddenly sheepish. If Keith notices them, he doesn’t mention it.

“How far to the planet?” Shiro asks. It’s a relief to be free of the glass-like globe; it made Shiro feel like he was under an enormous microscope, stuck in a fishbowl to be poked and prodded at.

“Hours at most.” His tone is jovial. Shiro wonders if this is what Keith’s optimism sounds like.

Their way back to Red is slower: Keith’s limited by the weight of his pack, and Shiro pauses to keep pace with him despite Keith encouraging him to go on ahead. The thick mass of the clouds surrounding them is somewhat menacing. It isn’t like Mars, or Kerberos – here Shiro feels suffocated, as though if he were by himself he might disappear.

Returning to Red is something of a homecoming, despite them not having been away all that long. They breathe twin sighs of relief.

“One planet left,” Shiro says, almost to himself. Keith goes still beside him.

“Yes,” he says, as though it hadn’t occurred to him. Perhaps it hadn’t. Keith had never disclosed just how long he had been planning his defection, but he had always seemed impatient, like the perilous jailbreak was only the very last step before freedom. Now, on the road, it appears that Keith hadn’t quite believed he’d get this far.

“We’re almost there,” Shiro says quietly. Keith doesn’t scold him for stating the obvious, or for having too much hope.

“Yes,” Keith says again. “We’ve come far, Shirogane.” Shiro looks up at the use of his full name, but Keith’s smile is warm and tentative.

Shiro’s glad he didn’t kiss Keith when he was drunk. He would have wasted it; risked forgetting the next morning. This way, he has the memory without the cost of their bond. It’s painfully selfish, but Shiro clings to it, thinking only of his luck.

Too quickly, the atmosphere is one of affection, and Shiro lowers his head to hide his flushed cheeks. Keith pushes forward and leaves the planet behind.

Chapter Text

The planet’s name is Cyfle.

According to Red, at least – Keith says the Galra have named it something else, and puzzles again at the foreign language Red’s system appears in.

“No one else has the technological capability,” he says earnestly. “The Galra either crush adversaries or take innovations for their own. It must mean something that Zarkon kept Red despite the shield. She’d never have let him in.”

Keith’s confidence in his bond with Red is heartening. Shiro pores over the same strange words, but linguistics and code were never his strong point and he’s forced to give up. Keith talks at length to Red, both out loud and in his head, and still reports that she won’t tell him a thing.

“I don’t see how I can discover it for myself,” he says, exasperated.

“A starting point, maybe?” Shiro flicks through the directory of planets – Keith recognises some names but not all – and searches for his own solar system. He looks for Sol, Terra, Earth, even Kerberos – but there’s nothing.

Then again, he thinks, perhaps no entries are better than being listed as an enemy.

“I don’t even have that,” Keith says miserably. “Her system’s half-outdated and half-unintelligible.”

“At least we have maps,” Shiro consoles him. Maps don’t require a language if you have a basic understanding of navigation, and he’s grateful for this fact the longer their journey in space stretches. He used to have nightmares about being lost in space, cut from his tether and floating free in a prison of slowly decreasing oxygen supply.

“Yeah,” Keith says, his tone denoting a shrug.

Cyfle is sparsely populated, consisting of desert-like land and large spreads of water. It’s easy to find somewhere in the middle of nowhere; it’s nice to have Red close by, instead of hiding her away from prying eyes.

They arrive in the planet’s daytime and their first venture outside is scorching and unpleasant, so they spend the day in Red as well. Shiro coaxes Keith away from the frustration of Red’s system, and Keith teaches him to play a Galra game eerily similar to chess as they break open the stolen rations. Shiro’s guilt is assuaged somewhat by the fact they’re vastly superior to Galra rations, and even to the food he’s subsisted on for the past year. It makes his longing for home cooking a little less vivid, for now.

“Shiro,” Keith says suddenly. Shiro looks up in concern, fingers hesitating over the move he was about to make.

“What?”

“Blackmail.”

“What?” Shiro asks again. Perhaps he ought to have paid closer attention to Keith’s head wound.

“Red’s withholding information,” Keith explains, eyes lit up in comprehension at last, “because she wants to do her job. I think everything would make sense if we just – let her.”

Shiro pushes down the fear he feels at discussing this where Red can hear them.

“It’s not unfair,” he says slowly. Perhaps not blackmail – but definitely an ‘eye for an eye’ situation. “Zarkon kept her trapped and we’ve dragged her all over the galaxy. She’s probably waited long enough.”

They exchange a guilty look, and it’s Keith who finally proffers, “I – I still want to go to Earth.”

“Me too,” Shiro says, relieved. He’s reassured by the fact Red remains on the ground rather than taking their conversation as tacit permission to leave, wondering enviously if Keith’s bond with her means as much to her as it does to Keith.

After the suns set, Cyfle’s air is fresh and cool. Red assumes a sleeping position and they use their thrusters to reach her back, her metal freezing but warming up in time. Shiro barely notices. The sky is full of stars above them, a tapestry of potential, and Keith shifts a little closer to him.

“Shiro,” he whispers, so quiet even though it's just the two of them. “What's Earth like?”

Shiro stares into space that holds none of the constellations he recognises, and feels a loss he has not allowed himself to feel since capture.

He looks down instead, at the long expanse of dry, yellow grass, at the rough texture of the plants, at the strange armour of the wood-like structures standing in formation around the flora.

“Green,” he says. “Green and full of life, and blue and filled with water.”

“Terra must be life itself.”

Keith's tone is one of wonder, and Shiro looks sidelong at him, heart aching and longing. Someone with blood from two worlds, who has never known either of them.

He tries harder for Keith, despite the pain of recalling the planet he lost. “It’s a contradiction,” he says. “Immeasurable things to see. Billions of people, all living in different ways. There are forests, jungles, countryside, cities, deserts – seven continents, all different.” He can’t quite put it into words and hums in frustration, thinking.

“I’ve never seen many of those,” Keith says. “I grew up on the ship.”

“Christ,” Shiro says quietly. He wonders how many Galra are the same, professing loyalty to their empire because they have never known or seen any other life.

“I was never picked for field missions, either,” Keith continues. He gives Shiro a wry smile. “No idea why.”

“It’s so sheltered,” Shiro muses aloud, and wonders for the first time if their expansive tour of planets has been new to Keith, too.

“It is.” Keith lowers his voice again, and after a lengthy pause says, “I hope to see Earth.”

“You will.”

“I would assume not many humans are purple.”

“None,” Shiro says, smiling. “But we’ll find a way.”

“Perhaps,” Keith says with little faith. Shiro squeezes his shoulder.

“We will.”

“Very well,” Keith concedes, a smile in his voice. “What do you hope for when we return to Earth?”

The question stops Shiro short. His smile fades, as does Keith’s when he notices.

“Shiro?” he asks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – “

“No, it’s alright,” Shiro says thoughtfully. His thoughts of Earth have been only dreams and nightmares for so long, he suddenly understands Keith’s reticence to speak his hopes aloud. “I’m – I’m scared.” Keith’s silence strengthens his resolve. “I’ve seen so much. So many alien races; unimaginable technology; unbelievable medicine. I’m scared that going back to Earth will feel like stepping backwards in time.”

“Your technology is not primitive,” Keith says, an apparent compliment. “When you were captured – Zarkon was disgusted, true, but I spoke to the engineers. You are disadvantaged only because you lack magic.”

Shiro almost laughs. “Reassuring.”

“It is,” Keith insists. “Humans have always used technology to bridge that gap. You have told me that much.”

“You’re not wrong.” Shiro hesitates. “But I’m going to go home and look at our militaries, our artillery, our spacecraft that can’t go further than our solar system, and wonder what would happen if the Galra come.”

“The Galra have no interest in you.”

“Not yet.”

“Shiro,” Keith says haltingly, “you aren’t responsible for your entire species.” Shiro opens his mouth to argue and Keith continues, quieter, “Just as I am not responsible for mine.”

“You’re right,” Shiro says, exhausted suddenly. “You’re right.”

He comes down from Red, leaving Keith alone with the stars, and goes inside. Fed up with spacesuits, Shiro changes into his sleep-shirt and leggings and gets the idea to make a fire. He ignores the voice in his head that says fire is magic, too.

Shiro painstakingly toils at it until it lights, crackling quietly at first and then glowing brighter and brighter. The fire isn’t quite orange and yellow, tending more towards green and yellow, but for once Shiro doesn’t try to puzzle it out.

When Keith returns, having also shed his suit in favour of comfortable pyjamas, he offers Shiro a cushion and blanket. It feels like an apology, though Keith has nothing to apologise for.

“Thank you,” Shiro says. He still waits for Keith to move first, watching Keith spread his blanket on the ground and lie down, pillowing his head on a cushion. Shiro spreads out his blanket too but remains sitting up, occasionally poking the fire.

He isn’t surprised when Keith falls asleep, gradually curling in on himself in an amusingly feline way. It’s almost a relief to be finally alone: Shiro’s learned to love Keith’s company, but living in each other’s pockets for weeks is overbearing no matter the person.

Shiro’s thoughts return to Earth. At first, he thinks about showing Keith Earth – because he would like to, complications be damned. He doesn’t know where Keith thinks he’ll find his father – doubts Keith knows himself, other than co-ordinates – but every corner of Earth has something to give. Keith, looking to connect with a whole half of his identity he’s never known, will be thrilled wherever they land. Back home, Shiro had forgotten how to find the beauty in ordinary things, but after his time away and with Keith by his side, he thinks he’d love to marvel over beaches, skyscrapers, rich history and richer mythology. To show Keith the stars he loves; teach him the constellations.

Shiro’s thoughts are quick to slide back into pessimism, however.

Earth is his time capsule. Little will have changed, really – he and Matt and Sam will be presumed dead; the Garrison will be poring over their mission to see what went wrong and then preparing to send another. They won’t know of the Galra, of the thousand alien races, of Red, of an empire looming over the galaxy they haven’t yet explored.

Shiro doesn’t know what to tell them.

He imagines himself walking into the Garrison and attempting to explain where he’s been, what he’s done. Explaining Keith. Shiro would fight tooth and nail not to be separated, but he can’t help imagining Keith undergoing an examination not dissimilar to how Haggar had investigated him, probed every part of his being and decided what to keep and what to throw away.

Shiro’s almost surprised at the fierceness of his feelings. No matter his decision; no matter what he and Keith’s father decide to do with the power of their knowledge – Shiro will not lose Keith.

Unwelcome thoughts of being thrown into a psychiatric facility by Iverson are tempered by the very existence of Keith’s father, however. A man, a human man who had discovered and even created alien life, but kept it to himself. Keith and Shiro are similar in age; Shiro couldn’t imagine any country keeping it to themselves for over two decades. Something would have leaked.

“Shiro?”

He turns, stirred from his thoughts, watching Keith blink himself awake. “Hey.”

Keith yawns, wide and unattractive and baring every single one of his huge sharp teeth, and it's the most beautiful thing Shiro's ever seen.

“I was dreaming about you.” Light from the fire catches and dances in Keith's eyes.

Shiro laughs. “What was I doing?”

“You were kissing me,” Keith says slowly. Shiro's heart jumps into his throat: they're going to talk about it.

Sooner than he had expected – but it’s true they’re running out of time.

“Did you hate it?”

Keith's lips twitch into a hesitant smile. “No,” he says, finally looking back at Shiro, and Shiro fights not to wring his hands nervously. “I liked it.”

All that time to think – yet Shiro doesn't know where to go from here. They stare at each other, Keith propping his head on his elbow and Shiro opposite him, the fire flickering between them.

“Okay,” Shiro says lamely.

He inhales sharply when Keith starts getting up, moving around the fire until he's next to Shiro, and then they sit and watch the glowing flames together. Shiro's heart is beating out of his chest, hyper-aware of Keith close to him, close enough that he can hear Keith's steady exhales and the whisper of movement.

“Shiro,” Keith murmurs suddenly, and when Shiro turns, they're almost nose to nose. Keith's kneeling, leaning forward so their faces are close, and Shiro's whole body trembles on a knife-edge, suspended in time and space as Keith's gaze flickers down to his lips and golden eyes blink slowly.

“Did you like it?” Keith asks softly, and it takes Shiro a moment to realise what he's referring to.

That kiss. Pressing Keith against the wall; kissing him long and deep like something out of his dreams; the soft noise Keith had made before he pushed Shiro away.

Shiro studies Keith's face, the swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip, the darkened purple hue of his cheeks, and decides he doesn't want to regret a second.

“Yes,” he says, just as gently, and in the split-second where Keith's eyes widen and his lips part, Shiro turns towards him. He takes Keith's face in his hands and kisses him – no disguises, or ploys: just them, kissing in the light of the fire.

Keith's eyes are already open when Shiro pulls back – not to breathe, but to measure Keith's reaction – and his expression is astonished and pleased and Shiro can't help but smile.

“Did you hate it?” he asks when Keith does nothing but stare.

“No,” Keith breathes, and kisses him again.

For the first time, Shiro lets himself feel: lets their bond overwhelm him, lets his protective feelings turn into hands on Keith’s back, holding the two of them together. Keith licks into his mouth and Shiro lets him, cupping the back of Keith’s neck as Keith’s hands fist in his shirt, greedily pulling him closer.

“Shiro,” he gasps when they break apart, but it isn't for long: Shiro kisses him short and sweet then moves to his neck, kissing along Keith's jaw and giddily feeling the way Keith submits, tilting his chin up high as Shiro presses long kisses against his neck, not enough to mark but enough to discover Keith is sensitive here.

Keith's hands wind into his hair and pull, hard, yanking Shiro impatiently back up to kiss him, and Shiro runs his hands over Keith’s body, rubbing Keith's waist with his thumbs and feeling him shudder.

When they pull back, flushed and panting, Keith's hands go quickly to his utility belt and Shiro thinks woah but it's the only thing Keith unhooks and discards, tossing it a safe distance away before climbing into Shiro's lap.

“Hey there,” Shiro says, suddenly shy, and Keith grins and kisses him again, both hands on Shiro's face as Shiro's hands go to his hips. Keith leans his weight forward until Shiro falls on his back with Keith straddling him and kissing him like he never wants to stop.

Shiro moves a hand to Keith's shoulder and another to his waist, and Keith gasps when he flips them over, expression going stubborn for half a second before he starts wriggling. Shiro has to bite his lip against a moan when Keith inadvertently brushes where he's getting hard, inevitable from kissing and having Keith in his lap and then writhing under him like this, but Keith doesn't seem to notice.

Keith pulls his hair to make Shiro kiss him again, parting his lips and letting Shiro lick into his mouth, and while he's distracted Keith moves his hands, one to Shiro's waist and the other to his shoulder –

Shiro laughs as he's put on his back again, Keith smirking above him.

“Stop that,” Shiro says, smiling and moving his hands to Keith's waist, admitting defeat. “This isn't a battle.”

“If it was, I would win,” Keith says, and then grinds down hard against Shiro, tearing a moan from both of them.

Shiro hadn't wanted to push – he'd felt that they were both hard, but panicked. This isn't the best time, best place – they've only just resolved the kiss situation, for God's sake, and Shiro didn't want to go too far too fast.

Somehow, he gets the feeling Keith has no problem with going fast.

Keith's eyes go glazed as he rolls his hips again, and Shiro strokes his waist. “Is this okay?”

“It feels so good,” Keith breathes, and Shiro bites his lip, wondering for the first time if Keith is new to this, inexperienced. How new, though –

“Have you ever done this before?” Shiro asks, letting his grip tighten and forcing Keith to stop moving so he can think straight.

“No,” Keith says, and he doesn't sound ashamed: merely stating a fact. He laughs, self-deprecating but not self-conscious as he says, “Who do you think would have – with me?”

Shiro releases Keith's hips and Keith grinds down, movements sloppy and unfocused, just looking for the most friction.

“You kissed me first, too,” Keith says, a little smirk upturning his lips, and Shiro wishes he could reach to kiss Keith now, the knowledge of being Keith's first sweeping through him in a haze of desire.

“God,” Shiro breathes, staring up at Keith, and Keith's expression softens as he looks at him. Keith had initiated the kiss, Shiro remembers, and it assuages his guilt a little that Keith's first kiss hadn't been under completely false pretenses. “I'm sorry,” Shiro says despite this, and Keith scowls at him.

“I kissed you,” he reminds Shiro. “I chose you.”

“Come here,” Shiro says breathlessly, and Keith breaks into a smug smile.

“You like that,” he accuses, smile widening as Shiro blushes. “You – oh!”

Shiro flips them over easily, grabbing Keith's wrists and pinning them above his head and grinding his hips down in one quick movement, and Keith tips his head back and moans, long and loud and unabashed.

“And you like it when I pin you down,” Shiro points out, delighted when Keith's cheeks darken too.

“Shut up,” he gasps, squirming beautifully under Shiro's hands, and Shiro lowers his head to Keith's neck, nuzzling against his jaw. Keith's already panting, and he sighs a rushed exhale when Shiro starts sucking a mark, then more, hands wandering under the hem of Keith's shirt.

Satisfied with the darkening marks littering Keith's neck and collarbone, Shiro moves to bite the point of Keith's ear, earning him a strangled moan. “Like that, huh,” Shiro teases.

“They're s-sensitive,” Keith stammers. Shiro reaches up and thumbs the point, dipping back down to kiss him as Keith gasps into his mouth.

Keith makes incredible noises as Shiro rubs his ear, pinching the tip between his fingers, and Shiro adjusts so he can lean on his elbows and get at the other one and admires Keith's face, crumpled in pleasure and chin tipped up high to lean into the touch as much as possible.

“Sensitive,” Shiro murmurs, and Keith sighs his name and it's everything he wanted to hear.

“Touch me,” Keith begs, and Shiro grinds down where he can feel Keith pressed hard against him and Keith closes his eyes helplessly. He's so responsive, and Shiro loves it, moving his fingers from Keith's ear to rub over his nipple – Keith cries out and Shiro makes a note to explore that, later – and then trailing further down, pushing Keith's shirt up to touch the happy trail of darker fur, and finally slipping lower and rubbing over where Keith's cock is straining his leggings.

“You're a tease,” Keith says breathlessly, and Shiro grins at him.

“I just like touching you,” he says, falsely innocent, and Keith groans and tips his head back again when Shiro sits up a little and hooks his fingers into Keith's waistband, drawing his leggings down until he can pull them over the arches of Keith's feet and toss them away.

Then there's a couple minutes of fumbling where Keith sits up and eagerly strips his shirt off and waits for Shiro to get out of all his clothes too, because fuck, we're really doing this, and Keith laughs when Shiro gets stuck in his shirt, too hasty.

This time when Shiro presses close, there's nothing between them.

He can't help but look down – and he doesn't know what he expected but Keith's cock is the same as his own, long and a little curved and begging for Shiro's hand around it, and it's the same purple flesh as the palms of Keith's hands and the soles of his feet, not alien in any discernible way.

When he glances back to Keith, Keith looks a little uncertain, but he nods when Shiro asks, “Can I touch you?” spreading his legs wider in a blatant invitation that makes Shiro blush.

Keith bites his lip when Shiro takes him in hand, head tipping back and a strangled noise catching in his throat, and Shiro kisses his jaw.

“How's that feel?” he asks, watching Keith's face as he strokes slow and firm, just barely teasing a press of his thumb to Keith's vein.

“Oh – it's so much better when it's someone else,” Keith says breathlessly, and Shiro thinks he might die if Keith reminds him again that this is his first, his first, his first.

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, and Keith nods, his fingers curling into Shiro's arms. Shiro picks up the pace a little, brushes his thumb over the head and Keith whimpers, pre-come starting to leak onto his stomach. “You like that, baby?”

“Yes,” Keith says, and he looks like he's struggling to keep his eyes open. “It's so good, so good – “

Shiro doesn't expect Keith to last long, and so he smirks as he speeds up, moving faster and squeezing on the upstroke and Keith starts panting for breath, grip on Shiro tightening to the point of pain before he moans long and low and comes all over himself, dripping onto Shiro's hand.

Keith's eyes go dark all over again when Shiro raises his hand to his mouth and licks it clean.

This time Shiro doesn't stop Keith pushing him over onto his back, smiling as Keith pins one of his hands above his head. Keith doesn't hesitate when he wraps his fingers around Shiro's cock, and Shiro moans helplessly, back arching off the ground.

“Is it good?” Keith asks, and his voice is breathless and enticing but still anxious, needing to please, and Shiro nods quickly to reassure him, swearing when Keith cautiously rubs his thumb over the head.

“You're doing so good,” he says, and Keith's eyes go wide and dark and – oh. “So good for me, baby,” Shiro adds, and yeah, Keith definitely likes that. When Shiro glances down, Keith's getting hard again, and Shiro takes him in hand and helps him along, stroking until Keith's hard and hot in his hand. It could be a Galra thing, Shiro reasons, or maybe Keith really is this eager for him.

He pushes Keith's hand away next, moving to encircle both their cocks with his fingers and Keith cries out at the feeling, hips bucking into Shiro's touch. Shiro can feel the way Keith's fingers curl into the ground beside his head, watching his face pinch with pleasure, and suddenly he's a lot closer than he thought he was, gasping and clenching his muscles tight in an effort not to come even as he quickens his pace, making sure to rub at Keith's vein with his thumb, wanting Keith to come first.

Keith's eyes are unerringly fixed on his, soft and burning all at once, and Shiro gives a cry of surprise when Keith says, hoarse and low, “I want you to come for me, Shiro.”

Hearing those words, the way Keith tasted his name in his mouth – it tips Shiro over now, shivers overtaking his body as he comes harder than he had since – well, ever.

He's somewhat aware of Keith's name spilling mindlessly from his lips and moves his hand faster, squeezes like he had before until Keith moans even higher, prettier, and comes, back arching until all Shiro can focus on is the baring of his throat, his neck covered in Shiro's marks – as it should be, he thinks, blindly possessive.

Shiro reaches up and slides his hands over Keith's shoulders, the back of his neck, encouraging Keith down to collapse on his chest. Keith buries his face in Shiro's neck and makes a contented noise, and then he goes so still Shiro thinks he's fallen asleep.

“Hey,” he says softly. Keith doesn't stir, and Shiro hates to move him but their stomachs are going tacky with come, so he strokes Keith's hair, petting the nape of his neck until Keith purrs and weakly leans into it.

“We should go to bed,” Shiro says quietly, and Keith hums in agreement but doesn't move, so Shiro rubs his back. “I can't carry you unless you get up,” he warns, and Keith gives him a sleepy smile and finally shifts, rolling off Shiro and onto his back on the blanket.

Shiro feels invulnerable, untouchable as he stands on shaky legs, gaze dragging over the length of Keith's body in his disheveled sprawl and closed eyes. His blood still feels like it's thrumming, satisfaction pooling dark in his belly, and Shiro considers their options briefly before grabbing his blanket. He rubs the worst of it off himself and cleans Keith more carefully, hiding his smile at Keith's soft sigh.

There'll be time to think their new circumstances through tomorrow.

They've no idea what could be roaming the plains, so Shiro stares at Red with his hands on his hips and whispers pleas until she grumbles and opens her mouth, letting him carry Keith in. Shiro overestimates his trembling limbs post-orgasm and staggers inside, laying Keith as gently as he can in the pilot seat and reclining it so he doesn't have to wake him.

Shiro's eyelids are heavy, but he dutifully puts out the fire and he's stumbling when he finally returns, mind still heady with orgasm and watching Keith fall apart.

His seat reclines as soon as he collapses into it, and he mumbles, “Thanks, Red.”

Chapter Text

Not a lot changes.

They get up in the morning and brush their teeth side by side and breakfast on Galra rations – they’re rationing the rations, which is a level of irony Shiro doesn’t want to contemplate. Keith slides into the cockpit with a sigh, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he opens up the navigation system. He draws his knife from his belt. Shiro blinks in surprise.

“What are you doing?”

Keith gives him an odd look, as though Shiro is the one behaving strangely. “My father’s co-ordinates,” he says. “My mother – I assume it was my mother – carved them into my knife.”

Shiro’s never really had cause to use the word ingenious before, but he thinks it now. He wonders about security – Zarkon must have inspected the knife before he allowed Keith to keep it – but his thoughts are rendered redundant when Keith whispers something in Galra and the knife glows purple. Moving closer, Shiro can see the numbers scrawled along it.

“It responds only to me,” Keith says, pre-empting Shiro’s questions. He hesitates. “I have to believe that my mother meant me to find him.”

“Why wouldn’t she lead you to her instead?”

“Soldiers are constantly on the move.” Keith’s had a lifetime to mull this over, Shiro thinks. Of course he has thought of everything. “Humans aren’t going anywhere fast.”

Shiro laughs. It’s the easiest thing in the world to slide an arm around Keith’s waist, a little thrill going through him when Keith leans into it.

“How do you know it’s Earth?”

“Zarkon never let me forget that my father is human,” Keith says. He laughs: a false, dry chuckle. “In fact, the day you were captured, Zarkon told me he had brought me a gift.”

Shiro’s heart freezes at the thought: that he, Sam and Matt had been abducted as a joke, as something with which to prod the most vulnerable in the Galra ranks.

“No,” Keith says hurriedly, watching Shiro’s face, “that – that isn’t why you were taken. I don’t know what the Galra wanted with Kerberos. But it was not you.”

“Okay,” Shiro says. Keith finds his hand and squeezes it.

“I avoided you,” he says. “I did not want to associate with you, because then Zarkon would have more to hold over my head. I did not want to keep the company of humans.”

“Look at you now,” Shiro says weakly. He can’t help thinking that if Keith had taken an interest, he would know where Sam and Matt are now. What’s done is done, but Shiro is reminded that Colleen and Katie Holt remain on Earth, waiting for news of their family that Shiro cannot provide.

“Then you were the only one left,” Keith continues. “I realised I was losing my bargaining chips.” Shiro winces, pulling away, but Keith holds tighter. “I am sorry,” he says genuinely. “I think we will be better placed to find them with – with help.”

They shouldn’t bank everything on Keith’s father, or on Earth’s help – but with no other option, Shiro tries to be optimistic.

“We’ll see when we get there,” he says guardedly, and then, forcing positivity into his voice, “Do you know where we’re going?”

Keith shakes his head. “I only have co-ordinates, and Red has no knowledge of your solar system.”

“Could you ask Red to… connect to another database?” Shiro would much prefer not to go in blind: humans may have made great strides regarding peace, but there remain places that could land them in a sticky situation.

A presumed-dead cyborg pilot, a purple alien, and an enormous metal lion run by magic would take some explaining.

Keith scoffs as Red immediately presents him with what appears to be a search engine. “All I had to do was ask,” he says, half in frustration and half in wonder.

“Can it be traced?” Shiro asks. Keith opens a blank screen and types for a few minutes. His words appear in Galra, but the default language is still a mystery.

“No,” he concludes. “I’ve made it secure.”

“I think what I’ve really learned from my time in space,” Shiro muses, “is that I should’ve taken more of an interest in coding and programming.”

Keith gives him a small smile. “It is useful.” He turns back to the search engine and types what Shiro can recognise as Galra numbers.

“You know the co-ordinates off by heart,” he realises.

“Yes.” Keith hands him the knife without taking his eyes off the screen. “It is better to check, however. I don’t want to take us to…”

When Shiro realises the cause of Keith’s hesitation, he hastily supplies, “Mercury.”

“Inhospitable?”

“Very.”

It takes Keith a few minutes more to find what he’s looking for; Shiro suspects that Red assists him with translation. “The United States of America,” Keith announces, immensely proud of himself.

“Can you show me where?”

Keith brings up a map. It’s satellite imagery and poor quality, and assuages Shiro’s fears about someone studying Earth: this is a catalogue, nothing more. Keith points, and Shiro takes a moment to recall his knowledge of the states.

He goes cold.

“Arizona,” he says, and Keith gazes curiously at the picture. “That’s where the Garrison is.”

“Your military,” Keith says confidently, clearly having gleaned this from Shiro’s prior descriptions.

“No,” Shiro says. Keith’s face falls. “Sort of. Primarily, it’s the American space exploration programme.” He can tell from Keith’s expression that the military and space exploration arms of the Galra Empire are one and the same. “Not somewhere we want to be caught unawares,” Shiro tries instead.

“You don’t have a planetwide space programme?”

“No.”

“Humans and their petty rivalries,” Keith mutters, tapping away until he brings up navigation again. “If you tackled the universe as one unit, you would surely be unstoppable.”

Shiro shrugs. “You’d think so,” he says uncomfortably. “How long is the flight? Is a wormhole out of the question?”

“I didn’t make Red do that,” Keith says, worried. “And she could have just been responding to the danger we were in. I don’t want to ask too much of her.”

Shiro nods, very aware of their diverging missions. “Keith,” he says suddenly, “what if Zarkon follows you to Earth?”

Keith hesitates, but his voice remains steady. “He will not,” he says. “The resources expended would be too much, especially after… Sendak.” His jaw tenses. “There is something else they must pour energy into.”

“What?”

“I did not have the clearance. But we are small fish in comparison. I believe, despite our experiences so far, that Zarkon is unconcerned about my defection. He knows we do not have the resources to launch a rebellion.”

It’ll do for now. It’s foolish to entertain the idea of a future where he and Keith could liberate the galaxy, but Shiro thinks about it nonetheless.

Keith plots a course. With Red’s speed and abilities, it seems they’ll get there in just a few days. Heart in his throat, Shiro thinks harder about what he’s going to say to the relevant people – first, Keith’s father, and then…

Well. They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it. Shiro wonders if Keith’s father has maintained hope all these years of his son returning to him.

Keith remains in the cockpit, unwilling to waste time when they’ve had a day to recuperate already. Shiro busies himself with unpacking what’s left of their supplies, turning over items in his hands and remembering all those lists they’d made; thinking of Keith meticulously packing boxes and smuggling them into Red’s hangar. It can’t have been safe, he thinks, what with Red lowering her shield for Keith and no one else, but then again Keith was focused on the monumental task ahead. Risking being caught speaking to a technology he did not understand was surely safer than actually piloting her away.

There are more blankets than they ever could have needed. Shiro thinks again of Keith’s inexperience, his feigned confidence regarding the defection. Before they left and despite his endless questions, Shiro had never suspected Keith wasn’t in control.

He makes them a bed, piling blankets and cushions until it no longer feels like he’s lying on the floor. Keith comes back after a while, raising his eyebrows at Shiro’s relaxed position.

“Is this what you’ve been doing the whole time?”

Shiro could point out that he’s organised their rations, water pouches and other necessities, but he elects to grin smugly instead. “Made a bed.”

“I see,” Keith says. He’s blushing, just a little, but Shiro doesn’t call him out on what are clearly unsavoury thoughts.

“We can stop breaking our backs in the pilot chairs,” he says. Red rumbles in complaint, and he pats the floor. “I’m sorry, Red, but it’s true.”

Keith favours him with a fond smile before returning to the front. Lacking a simulated day and night, he pilots for far longer than he ought to, and he looks to be close to falling asleep when Shiro returns up front.

“Hey,” Shiro says, touching his shoulder. “If there’s somewhere we can land, I think you ought to sleep.”

He expects Keith to argue, but Keith’s sleepy agreement speaks to his exhaustion. Keith sets Red down on a roaming planetoid and then comes to join Shiro.

Shiro’s already changed, lying on his back and reading a book. It’s in Galra, but it’s non-fiction and contains pictures of scientific phenomena, so Shiro contents himself with puzzling out the captions. It takes him a moment to notice Keith’s awkward hesitation, and only another moment more before he abandons the book.

“Come here,” he says, moving onto his side and patting the space beside him. It’s as wide as a double bed, so Keith wouldn’t have encroached on Shiro’s space, but – oh, Shiro thinks, realising the problem, Keith doesn’t know how close he’s allowed. Keith slides in beside him, and lies stiffly on his back before turning on his side to face Shiro.

Shiro meant a little closer than that, so he closes the distance himself, pressing a soft kiss to Keith’s lips. It’s the first time they’ve kissed since last night, and Shiro feels the tingle of it all the way down his spine.

“I have to turn over,” Keith says apologetically.

“Alright,” Shiro says. “Is it okay if I hold you?”

It takes some more manoeuvring but eventually Shiro holds Keith in his arms, spooned up close behind him.

“Goodnight,” Keith whispers.

“Goodnight,” Shiro says. He kisses Keith’s hair, breathes in the sweet scent of him, and falls asleep faster than he has in months.

Days pass in moments. Shiro watches the world go by – asteroids, planets, stars. It’s more precious a gift that Shiro has ever known to experience outer space in this way; he’s a world away from watching the stars in chains. He worries about stagnating, about he and Keith rubbing each other the wrong way living in such confined quarters, but Keith’s hard-learned patience is evident in every calm de-escalation. They haven’t had a big argument; they have yet to banish each other to the metaphorical couch.

And okay, it helps that they fool around in Red a lot. Shiro figures that if she was against it, she wouldn’t fly so steady.

His boredom is predictable, however. Keith’s novels can only ever be picture-books to Shiro, there’s only so many times he can rearrange their possessions, and with Keith busy piloting, there are few ways for Shiro to entertain himself.

He places a hand on Keith’s thigh. Keith glances at it for only a second, and Shiro’s somewhat offended.

“Don’t pout,” Keith says, eyes on the galaxy ahead of him.

“You wound me.”

“You are too easily wounded, Shirogane,” Keith says, but he lets Shiro pull him into a kiss. It’s almost the end of their day, after all, and it weighs heavily on Shiro’s mind how close they are to Earth. Their little world is in danger; comfortable domestic habits on Red will soon be tossed aside in favour of a new way of life.

“When I used to oversee students,” Shiro begins, voice low, “some of them would fool around in the simulators.”

“Oh?”

“And do you know,” Shiro slides his hand a little higher, and Keith swallows, “they crashed. Every single time.”

“I’m not falling for it,” Keith warns him. Shiro leans in to kiss his neck. Keith sets Red down soon after and climbs into Shiro’s lap.

Shiro holds him close, hands possessive on Keith’s ass but lips and tongue gentle, letting Keith lead. As he raises his hands, he brushes Keith’s tail and Keith makes a shocked noise that’s a little too close to a moan.

“Huh,” Shiro murmurs. When he draws back to look at Keith, Keith’s biting his lip, gaze somewhere over Shiro’s left shoulder. “That sensitive too?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Shiro repeats, sliding his hand down again. Keith’s suit is in the way, but a light touch has Keith’s claws curling into Shiro’s shoulders. Wrapping his hand around Keith’s tail earns him a cry and Shiro rubs all the way to the base, up and down motions like he does on Keith’s cock.

Keith’s panting, curling inwards until his forehead’s pressed to Shiro’s shoulder, grip so tight Shiro thinks he might have bruises later. “Stop,” Keith says suddenly, and Shiro does.

“Everything okay?”

“Bed,” Keith says, and he’s off Shiro’s lap and into the cargo hold faster than it takes Shiro to blink and wonder at the treasure trove he’s just unlocked.

Keith’s already naked when Shiro comes in, reclined on the bed. The seductive nature of the position is apparently lost on Keith, because he glances up innocently enough when Shiro swallows audibly.

Despite Keith’s apparent need, cock tight against his stomach, he’s content to wait as Shiro shuffles inelegantly out of his suit and tosses it away. He moves close and Keith kisses him hard, all eager tongue and eager hands sliding over Shiro’s back. Shiro sighs his name and feels Keith’s thighs fall open beneath him; he grinds into the space there, cocks sliding together with a heady sensation, and Keith wraps his legs around Shiro’s waist.

Shiro pulls back just a little, sucking Keith’s bottom lip, and Keith writhes in a way that feels unbelievably good and gasps, “I want your fingers.”

Shiro’s mind goes utterly blank. Perhaps Keith thinks Shiro doesn’t understand, because he continues, “Inside me, please – “

“We don’t have any lube,” Shiro forces himself to say, because God, he wants that, but if they don’t have anything to prepare Keith, there’s no way he’ll agree.

“We do,” Keith interrupts. “I brought some.”

Shiro stares at him in awe. Keith’s blushing hard – it’s difficult to tell under the fur, but Shiro is something of an expert by now.

Keith arches his back suddenly, stretching to reach the pockets of his belt abandoned some distance away, and Shiro admires the long, taut line of Keith's body, putting a hand on Keith's stomach to make him gasp.

His eyes are dark when he finally fumbles the lube into Shiro's hand, and Shiro strokes Keith's stomach with his thumb, watching him bite his lip.

“Move up a bit,” Shiro says quietly.

“Okay,” Keith says. He sounds nervous.

Shiro lets him get comfortable first, heat pooling in his belly as Keith situates himself on his back and lets his legs fall open, pressing a hand to his mouth as Shiro pushes a pillow under his hips and crawls over him again.

“You look nervous,” Shiro tries cautiously.

Keith’s face pinches in frustration. Shiro braces himself for a dig, but Keith glances away instead. “I want to,” he says meekly, “it's just – it's new.”

Shiro reassures himself that they don't have to go past fingering, after all, and it helps him breathe a little easier. He'll give Keith whatever he wants, whatever he asks for.

He flicks open the lube, slicking up his fingers, and Keith swallows as Shiro moves down the bed.

“Are you sure?” Shiro asks, just to be certain, and he knows it's okay when Keith's wary expression is replaced with a glare.

“Yes,” he says firmly, and Shiro slides his hand over Keith's thigh, awed as Keith's legs spread further for him.

He frowns as he rubs against Keith's hole: it's a little slick, a little open already, and when the first finger slides in with no resistance he looks to Keith, who's blushing.

“Planned this, did you?” Shiro says slowly, and Keith smiles down at him. It’s true that Shiro initiated this particular encounter, but – he thinks suddenly of Keith’s long absence earlier in the day, and goes beet-red.

“I just wanted to make sure I was ready,” Keith says, falsely innocent. “Only,” he pauses to suck in a breath as Shiro presses deeper, “only the first finger – “

“God, you're so good,” Shiro says admiringly, and Keith makes a soft noise as Shiro sinks in all the way, clenching around his finger and making Shiro dizzily wonder what Keith would feel like clenching around his cock. He starts rubbing in slow circles, thrusting in and out, eyes on Keith to monitor how he's taking it.

Keith's back arches, his legs shake – it's everything Shiro had imagined and more, and he rubs in increasingly wider circles, watching Keith’s mouth work soundlessly.

“More,” Keith says eventually, and he's breathless but it's clearly an order. “More, Shiro, I want – “

“So greedy,” Shiro says softly, and Keith moans as Shiro tests a second finger against his hole, rubbing gently until he can slide it inside, keeping it in circular motions. Shiro feels it the first time Keith rocks down against him, listening to Keith's shocked moan and smiling to himself.

He keeps doing it, greedily fucking himself on Shiro's fingers, and Shiro splays his hand between Keith's hipbones, stopping the incessant movement. Keith's groan of frustration is gorgeous, and Shiro grins as Keith glares down at him.

Then he concentrates, determined to find out if Galra have a prostate – if Keith has one, being half-human – and when he finds the bundle of nerves and Keith cries out, he can't hold back his smug smile.

“Shiro,” Keith whines, and Shiro watches clawed fingers curl tightly into the sheets, watches the way Keith shifts as he tries to roll his hips down. “Shiro,” Keith says again when Shiro pauses, demanding, “Don't stop.”

“You like that?” Shiro teases, and Keith glares at him again, unable to move or thrust down on Shiro's fingers the way he's aching to.

Shiro curls his fingers, brushing them so gently against Keith's prostate that the noise that leaves Keith is soft and desperate, his face crumpling from the agony of teasing.

“Can you take three?” Shiro murmurs, and Keith nods far too quickly but Shiro believes him nevertheless, watching Keith's flushed chest heave, his thighs tremble as Shiro slides in a third.

He's careful at first, slow movements probing and stretching and making sure it doesn't hurt, and when he brushes Keith's prostate again Keith flings an arm above his head, gripping the blankets so tightly Shiro's afraid they’ll tear.

Shiro moves faster when Keith moans for it, fucking Keith with his fingers hard and fast and groaning when Keith clenches tight around him, gasping, “Shiro, I'm going to, I'm gonna – “

Keith's trying to hold on, stomach muscles tense and his arms taut as bowstrings, and Shiro strokes Keith's hip with his other hand and whispers, “Yeah, come on, come for me,” and Keith wails, drawing his legs close to his chest as he comes.

He clenches almost unbearably tight around Shiro's fingers and Shiro can't help wanting to feel that around his cock, wanting to fuck Keith until he comes untouched, again.

“Shiro,” Keith pants, and his mouth is wet and open and pretty and needs kissing, so Shiro moves and –

“No, please,” Keith begs, and a whimper leaves his throat as Shiro withdraws his fingers, Keith squeezing so hard around them Shiro can't help moaning.

“I don't want it to be too much,” Shiro says hesitantly, and Keith sighs his name.

“Please,” he begs. “I want you inside me.”

Shiro has to bite his lip hard not to moan, and Keith kisses him. “Everything will change tomorrow,” he says, low and pleading, and Shiro winces; it's true a lot of things could go wrong, and even if things go to plan, if they find Keith's father, they'll be set on a new course. “Please, I want to have you.”

“God, Keith,” Shiro says, exhaling. “I want you too.”

And then long legs are wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, spreading open and Shiro looks down and imagines sinking into that tight heat, feeling the greedy clutch of Keith's body around his cock.

“Yes,” Keith breathes, seeing his change in expression. “Shiro,” he starts, and hums a moan when Shiro guides the head of his cock to Keith's hole, slowly.

“I got you,” Shiro murmurs, and as he starts pressing inside Keith's head tips back so far he's hardly touching the pillow, an overwhelmed noise growing in his throat. “Shh,” Shiro hushes, stroking Keith's hair back from his forehead, stopping halfway even though it almost hurts to do so.

“I can take it,” Keith pants, and he squeezes his legs around Shiro's waist, pulling him deeper and wrenching moans from them both.

“Okay,” Shiro says hesitantly, and he continues pushing in, and it's harder than anything he's known to go slowly, to sink instead of fuck into such tight heat, but it only takes one glance at Keith's expression, caught between pleasure and pain, to still him.

“Don't move,” Keith manages when he bottoms out, and Shiro searches his face in concern. It's so hard to stay still, so hard when Keith is flexing and tightening around him even as he begs Shiro not to move, and Shiro takes a deep breath and releases it slowly.

“Does it hurt?” he asks. He reckons it would kill him to pull out now, but if he spots the slightest indication of pain –

Keith laughs and Shiro frowns at him. “No,” Keith says, smiling. “If you move I think – I think I'll come.”

That makes it really hard not to move, not to make Keith fall apart, but Shiro's cock twitches and he sees it in how Keith's face crumples.

They wait a moment longer, and Shiro watches Keith carefully, watches the flutter of his eyelashes and the wrinkling of his nose until Keith takes a breath that sounds like the beginning.

Keith's hands slide over his back until his fingers are curling into Shiro's shoulders, gripping tightly, eyes sure and heated and fixed on Shiro's. “Are all humans as big as you?” Keith asks, his smile on the edge of wicked.

Shiro stammers for a moment, embarrassed; he's always been conscious of his size, hopes now he isn't hurting Keith, searching for a way to answer the question that doesn't make him sound like an asshole but also isn't lying.

“No,” he settles on, cheeks burning red, and Keith laughs at him, moving one hand to thumb over Shiro's cheekbone.

Shiro means to say something else, ask if Keith's okay, but his voice caves into a deep moan when Keith clenches around him, tight heat just begging for Shiro to fuck into, until Keith's writhing and trembling and begging for him.

Keith's giving him a questioning look, and Shiro blushes at his filthy thoughts despite being inside him.

“You can move,” Keith says, and something changes when they lock eyes; something darker passes between them, and Keith grips hard when Shiro starts to withdraw. Keith’s breath leaves him in a whine and Shiro thrusts back in, shallow at first but growing deeper as he gauges how much Keith can handle.

Keith's so noisy, little noises leaving him on every thrust and Shiro has to slow his pace just to calm himself down, dangerously close to the edge just from watching, listening to him.

He's a sight as well, lithe body taut with one arm above his head and his back arching, head tossed to the side and expression twisted in pleasure, but now Keith opens his eyes warily.

“Please,” he says, clearly thinking Shiro wants him to ask for it, but no, Shiro thinks ruefully, he just can't control himself around Keith. “Shiro, come on,” Keith continues, a little smirk edging onto his face, “harder.”

Shiro's hips give an involuntary jerk, cock twitching even as he helplessly tries to hold on to some semblance of control.

“Harder,” Keith repeats breathily, and it's more of a demand as he teases his claws against Shiro's shoulder, presses his tail hard against Shiro's back. The fur tickles, and Shiro shudders and thrusts forward despite himself. “Shiro,” Keith sighs, locking his legs around him and squeezing, pulling him deeper, “yes, come on – “

Shiro's helpless to obey.

Keith gets louder, louder, louder, and Shiro spares a moment of relief that there’s no one to hear them. He doubts he’d care much anyway, truthfully, fucking Keith harder until Keith’s almost sobbing with it. Shiro’s struggling to hold on himself, helpless noises pulled from his mouth because Keith's so hot, so tight around him and the way he's clenching and writhing is almost too much to bear.

“Shiro,” Keith wails, and he comes without making a move to touch himself and Shiro watches his face, the way he squeezes his eyes shut like it would be too much to watch as well as feel; the scrunching of his nose Shiro can't help but find cute despite the circumstances.

He slows down, considerate of how Keith must be getting sensitive, but Keith digs his heels into Shiro’s back in complaint, whimpering, “Don't stop, don't stop,” and Shiro bites his lip and keeps going, chasing his own release. Keith’s impossibly tight around him, still flexing his muscles even as he turns his face against the pillow, breath hitching on little moans.

Shiro realises he’s close all at once, unbearable heat collecting behind his navel and he feels like a spring waiting to snap, hips stuttering when Keith raises a hand to his cheek.

“Shiro,” is all Keith says and Shiro cries out and finally lets go, mind stuck on Keith’s hoarse voice and the claws raising scratches on his back.

They breathe as one, Shiro’s weight pressing Keith down and Keith’s fingers tracing shapes on his shoulders. He pulls out as gently as he can but Keith whines, eyes pinching shut. Shiro checks inside him for damage, ruthlessly tamping down on his flicker of arousal when Keith sighs a moan, and then rolls onto his back beside Keith, chest heaving.

After a moment, Keith props himself up on his elbow. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

Shiro, conscious of confusing or embarrassing Keith, just smiles at him. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I want to,” Keith says, leaning over and kissing Shiro sweetly on the mouth.

They remain in bed a minute longer. Shiro cards his fingers absently through Keith’s hair, eyes tracing every feature on Keith’s face.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re beautiful,” leaves Shiro’s mouth before he can filter it, and he’s delighted when Keith blushes.

“I’m going to wash,” Keith says, untangling his legs from the blanket. “Do you need anything?”

Shiro shakes his head. This time, he keeps his thoughts to himself: that he’s got everything he needs right here.

It’s more bittersweet than anything Shiro’s ever known to see Earth on the viewscreen.

There’d been similar swells of emotion when they passed Pluto, Jupiter, Mars – but now Shiro’s gazing out at his home after being displaced for over a year. Earth is so blue, frothing with whirls of white cloud, land masses peeking out underneath. Earth seen from space is always Earth seen for the first time, Shiro thinks. He can hardly bear to look away.

Keith’s knuckles are pale where he’s gripping the gear sticks, his eyes wide as though to take in everything he can.

“You’re sure Red won’t be detected?” Shiro asks. They’re approaching the atmosphere. He’s never felt so afraid yet simultaneously elated.

“I can only hope,” Keith tells him.

Shiro doesn’t understand Red’s re-entry procedures. She’s slowing now, he can tell, but doesn’t appear to be heating up as they fly through the atmosphere: a combination of magic and science far too advanced for him to understand. Land hurtles towards them and Shiro clutches his seatbelt closer, controlling his breathing as best he can.

For all their speed, the last descent feels slower. Shiro watches Red’s paws extend in front of her; she’ll land on her feet, as she always does.

Red touches down smoothly in the desert and neither of them move.

“Keith?” Shiro asks quietly.

Keith's hands are trembling on the controls. He looks out of the viewscreen, eyes restless and searching the emptiness of the desert for – something.

Shiro searches too. It’s then that he notices an unassuming cabin perched among the sand. It’s of a decent size, if a little worn. There’s a quaint porch with a rocking chair. There’s no vehicle outside.

“Yes,” Keith says weakly.

They exit Red together, sans helmets, and Shiro is surprised but pleased when Keith takes his hand, the two of them crossing the desert as one and heading for the shack.

Shiro takes deep breaths of air and just the simple act of breathing brings tears to his eyes. Air that isn’t stale and recycled, air rich in oxygen, and it hits Shiro all over again that this is his planet, after over a year of absence in places humans would likely never find again in his lifetime. This is his planet.

“I like this desert,” Keith says conversationally. Shiro detects the tremble in his voice.

“I’m not a big fan,” he says honestly. Keith looks like he’s trying to remember something.

“Do you like – forests?” he asks. “Jungles? Countryside? Cities?”

“Cities,” Shiro allows, thinking of Tokyo. “I like the noise, the people.” Used to. He doesn’t know if he would now.

“It’s quiet here,” Keith says. Shiro wonders whether a lifetime surrounded by Galra and bustle and war has made Keith the sort of person who’d like to retire to the countryside.

They reach the cabin before long. Keith’s pace slows. Shiro doesn’t rush him and keeps his eyes ahead, hoping against hope that Keith won’t be broken if his father isn’t here. The lack of vehicle suggests to Shiro that the neglected cabin isn’t occupied; he braces himself for the crushing weight of Keith’s disappointment.

Keith hesitates behind Shiro when they reach the door. Shiro waits.

“Can you do it?” Keith whispers eventually. Shiro squeezes his hand and knocks.

They wait.

Shiro knocks again, heart already heavy. When he glances at Keith, Keith’s jaw is set and his eyes hard, but for all his cold appearances, he’s holding tightly to Shiro’s hand.

“I don’t think,” Shiro starts, and Keith nods beside him. He already knows, too. “You wanna go in?”

“Yes,” Keith says without hesitation, reaching for the door handle. It’s unlocked.

Shiro doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s homely: there’s a sofa and a coffee table, and if not for the fine layer of dust coating every surface, it could almost seem that Keith’s father will appear any moment now.

Keith lets go of his hand and Shiro remains in the doorway, watching him approach the papers and posters on the wall with some curiosity. A corkboard covers most of the wall opposite the sofa in lieu of a television: red string connects photos and drawings and dozens of post-it notes swaying gently in the breeze.

Shiro shuts the door behind him. Keith’s wandered further into the cabin, ignoring the corkboard in favour of searching for any sign of his father. Shiro’s just approaching the board when Keith calls to him from the bedroom.

“Look.” When he’s sure of Shiro’s full attention, Keith holds out a wallet. “I don’t understand.”

Heath Kogane, Shiro reads on the driver’s license. Krolia had given Keith his father’s surname. The photo of Heath bears a painful resemblance to Keith: it’s in the eyes. The address given is Arizona. There’s nothing else of interest in the wallet, merely receipts and various loyalty cards, but when Shiro flips it open fully, a photo falls to the floor.

Keith crouches and snatches it up before Shiro can react. “Oh,” he says quietly.

Shiro replaces the driver’s license, straightening every card and replacing the wallet on the bedside table where Keith appears to have found it. Before he can enquire what Keith has found, Keith puts the photo face-up in his palm.

It’s the first time Shiro has seen a baby Galra. They are rare, he knows – a viciously protected commodity, the future of the empire. Zarkon would not have housed any on his ship.

The baby is the size of a human infant, something Shiro knows would have been cause for concern from the very moment of Keith’s birth. He’s curled up, scratch-mitts covering his hands, though Shiro can see at least one claw poking from the glove already. The baby’s tail is in his mouth, eyes half-closed in an evident giggle; fur going every which way and one ear inside-out. There’s an adult hand in the picture, that of a Galra: purple with long fingers and sheathed claws, her palm on Keith’s belly.

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro says. He doesn’t know what else to say. It’s evidence of a life Keith has been denied: one where he has two loving parents and a happy home. Now, Shiro isn’t even sure if Keith has one parent. Heath appears to be gone, and Krolia has long been lost to him.

“He’s gone,” Keith says, tone sharp with finality but eyes helpless as he turns to Shiro. “Why did we come here?” He doesn’t pause for Shiro to reply. “It’s a waste. I’ve gained nothing; I have everything to lose. Shiro…”

“We have each other,” Shiro says firmly. Keith accepts his hug with limp limbs, tucking his head into Shiro’s neck and loosing one, solitary sob. “We can learn about him, Keith, and we’ll know what to do next.”

“Will we?” Keith murmurs: more of a statement than a question.

Shiro brings Keith into the lounge area and seats him on the sofa. Keith lists to the side, eyes staring without seeing at the corkboard. Shiro’s heart aches to leave him, but he goes into the kitchen and takes inventory of Heath’s cupboards. The more he learns, the more obvious it is that Heath didn’t leave by choice. Everything is as he left it, as though he had just slipped out to buy milk.

Things improve as the day wears on; Keith’s eyes lose their haunted look and he takes an interest in Shiro’s explorations of the cabin. Shiro spends hours reading every note and observing every sketch and photo Heath had pinned to the corkboard. It seems he could feel something out in the desert; that something was drawing him out there. Shiro wonders if he ever found it. He wonders if it’s the same thing he can feel now, a tug concentrated just behind his ribcage.

He jumps when Keith sidles up behind him.

“Found anything?” Keith’s arms slide around his waist. “Your sun is setting.”

“This can wait,” Shiro says, shifting and kissing Keith’s forehead. “Your first Earth sunset will be something special.”

They sit on the porch, legs crossed and knees knocking. The sky is streaked crimson and amber and rose pink, the sun a glowing halo sinking and bleeding over the horizon. Of all the sunsets he’s seen, this is still Shiro’s favourite.

“It’s beautiful,” Keith says. Shiro wonders if Krolia and Heath had ever sat in this exact spot and watched the sunset together, and the thought makes his breath catch painfully in his throat.

“Yeah,” Shiro says.

“Tell me what you found.”

Shiro hesitates, but Keith’s face is earnest and open. “Your dad was looking for something,” he says. “He’s got co-ordinates, and star charts, and – not all the notes are in his handwriting.”

Keith’s hand finds Shiro’s. “I suppose we don’t know how long he’s been gone,” he says quietly.

It makes Shiro hurt to think of it: that Heath had died shortly after losing his love and their child, left alone on Earth with unutterable knowledge. But the water still worked, and the generator out back wasn’t dead – the place was dusty, not falling apart.

Before long, they’re sitting in the dark, stars beginning to pepper the sky. Under cover of night, they move Red closer to the caves and rock formations further south in the hopes that she won’t be spotted. It’s Keith who treks back and forth carrying supplies, and Shiro finds sheets in a cupboard and makes up the bed.

It’s hard to realise that from now, everything will be more difficult. The loss of Keith’s father makes Shiro feel like he’s missed a step on the stairs, too hasty to move onwards and upwards and failing to consider how he’ll get there. But there’s nothing they can do tonight, and he ventures out to find Keith.

“I can do it,” Keith says, a bite to his voice.

“Let me help,” Shiro says quietly. Keith’s eyes soften.

“If you insist,” he says, pressing the box into Shiro’s hands and bending to pick up another. “These are the last ones.”

“No Earth cuisine for us tonight, then,” Shiro says, half a smile on his lips as they set off.

“Our loss.”

“Hey,” Shiro says, affronted. “I’m willing to bet you’d love steak.”

“We will have to find out,” Keith says. When they reach the cabin, Shiro props the door open with his foot and Keith shuffles in, dumping his box on top of the others. By the time Shiro’s come in and closed the door, Keith’s in the bedroom getting changed.

Shiro figures that if no one’s broken in by now, no one will tonight, and leaves the door as it is. It’d be one unlucky person who broke into his and Keith’s house, that’s for sure.

He blows out the candles in the living room and returns to Keith, gladly shucking his suit in favour of comfortable pyjamas. Keith’s firmly ensconced in the duvet but he permits Shiro entry, cuddling up close and winding his tail around Shiro’s ankle.

It strikes a different tone, curled under warm sheets in the light of the moon, and Shiro feels brave enough to say, “I’m sorry about your father.”

Keith swallows, nodding in acknowledgement. “I was prepared for this eventuality,” he tells Shiro. “But it hurts, all the same.”

“I know,” Shiro says. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about his own parents, but the loss doesn’t sting like it ought to. It’s difficult to miss people you’ve never known, after all, and the lack has never given Shiro pause or pain. If it weren’t for Keith’s fabled mother, he could call himself an orphan, too – but Shiro does not define anyone by what they lack.

“What are you thinking about?” Keith asks. When his ear twitches, it tickles against Shiro’s forehead, pressed close as they are. Shiro doesn’t want to talk about his ancestry: there’s a reason they’re here, in the present.

“You said Red called to you,” he says quietly, touching their fingers together. “It sounds crazy but – I think there’s something calling to me, too.”

“On Earth?”

“No.” If Shiro concentrates, he can feel it: distant, but strong. “Out there.”

Keith shifts so he can see out of their tiny window. They can just make out the stars. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he says. “Red wants to show us something. Or take us somewhere. But it’s out there, too.”

Shiro wonders if they’re being called to a higher purpose; if Red is enlisting them in her mission, after indulging Keith’s whims since his defection. But it can wait, he thinks, pulling Keith closer.

“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Keith says softly.

Tomorrow, Shiro thinks. The first day of the rest of their lives.